Friday, April 30, 2004
Five-nakfa Trees
On the back of the five-nakfa note is a monochrome picture of an enormous tree. The trunk is relatively short and supports a huge, wide, deep canopy of leaves. In its gnarled body and full , rounded symmetry it resembles an oak, stretched laterally. It is unlike any of the usual trees in this country; the scraggly baobabs that look as if they are waving their roots in the air and the cactus-like candelabra trees predominate.
Just on the outskirts of Segeneiti is where the five-nakfa tree can be found. In fact, as well as the original on which the pictire is based, there are several others, placed evenly-apart in a field of grass. The last one before the town clasps onto the rocky slope at the side of the road, the wind and weather and sheer effort of clinging to its precarious position have carved a lifetime into the knots and whorls of the trunk, like the pinched pulled and beaten face of an old man.
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Just on the outskirts of Segeneiti is where the five-nakfa tree can be found. In fact, as well as the original on which the pictire is based, there are several others, placed evenly-apart in a field of grass. The last one before the town clasps onto the rocky slope at the side of the road, the wind and weather and sheer effort of clinging to its precarious position have carved a lifetime into the knots and whorls of the trunk, like the pinched pulled and beaten face of an old man.
Trip to Qohaito
The Easter weekend. This year the orthodox Easter coincides with the Western tradition, so Good Friday is on 9th April for everyone in Eritrea. (The disadvantage is that there is only one holiday.) So no school on Friday. There should be school on Monday but very few students or teachers are likely to turn up because they'll all be dotted around the country visiting family.
(Teachers are lucky if they are posted close to their family village or town. Many of those in Keren come from villages in Zoba Maekel, the region around Asmara, or even right at the other end of the country. They generally don't get a choice where they are placed until they have been teaching for a long time. As the years go by, teachers tend to get placed closer and closer to the ultimate prize: Asmara, having started when newly-qualified in a tiny village up a mountain somewhere very remote. I'm hoping to buck the trend by moving from a major town to just such a tiny village. Many people consider me insane.)
We too -- Jo and I -- are on the move. We've succeeded in getting permits to visit the architectural ruins on the plain of Qohaito.This is quite a feat: I had to ask my director (head of the school) who wrote me a letter to take to the local Zoba (regional) office of the Ministry of Education. They gave me another letter to take to the central MoE office in Asmara, who told me to come back in a week. When I returned the next week, I took the completed letter over to the National Museum to get the permit to visit the ruins. But the secretary wasn't there, so I was told to come back at 9.30 the next day when she would definitely be there. She wasn't, and wouldn't be back until the afternoon. I needed to get back to Keren, so I couldn't come back that day. Instead, I found myself in Asmara the following Monday so I went in once more. The secretary was there but ... the director wasn't, and it is he who signs the permit. Eventually, I gave up and handed my letter over to Jo who, because she was in Asmara all week for work, managed to finally get the permits from the museum.
Eritrea is focussing on tourism as a major future source of income.
So we're in Asmara, having spent a tranquil night in Shimangus Lalai. We're in bustling Asmara, scouting around the bus station for the bus to Adi Keih -- the nearest town to Qohaito. "Yelen", as they say in Tigrinia (say it in a Welsh accent and you've pretty much got it): there is none. Moreover, there is a big queue of people waiting for the bus if it does turn up. Queueing is rare in this country so when you see a queue it usually means there is a serious problem. After a bit of discussion we decide to try to hitch.
We end up walking about 10 km out of town before we come to a suitable spot to hitch from. A truck stops for us and the driver offers to take us to Decamhare, about 40 km into the 120 km trip to Adi Keih. We accept, even though he asks us for 15 Nakfa each. We are grateful to be on our way out of Asmara.
When we get to Adi Keih we stop for a quick beer in the first bar we see. It's not a friendly place. The waitress is reluctant to get out of her seat to ask us what we would like and the people at the tables stare at me and Jo for the whole time we are there. It's livened up by a madman / drunkard who gyrates madly around in front of the bar, singing to himself. There are no buses at the station here either, so we try to hitch once more. This time we strike really lucky: a UNDP (UN Development Project) four-by-four that zips through to Adi Keih, stopping for five minutes at Segeneiti for business. (Segeneiti is where the five-nakfa trees reside.) We get there well before dark, which we certainly didn't expect, and for free this time.
So we end up at the Sami Hotel. A bit of a grand name: it's a pension really. Comfortable enough, and the people are friendly, but there is just one outside wash basin which has no plumbing (the water runs straight onto the floor) and a view of the backs of men pissing into the squat toilet. There is a toilet with a door but none of the men bother to close it if they go there. The Sami Hotel was the third place we tried. We looked up the first and second choice in the Bradt guide. First choice was the Adi Keih Hotel, which was closed down, second choice was the Qohaito Hotel, which looked like it had been burnt out: window frames resting against the wall, jagged singed edges where they had been set into the stone.
Next day we head round to Nick and Sarah's house to meet Brendan and Adrienne, and their friend who will guide us. They turn up late -- but no matter -- and Brendan is not with them. He's gone off with another friend to drive up the road to the site. We're walking. So off we go.
Down to the other end of town then straight on. We cross farmland and a small river then start to make our way up the steep side of the valley. Trudging up the hillside is very hard work, and the sun beats down in its midday intensity. But it is fun. There is a camaraderie amongst us as we pass over the pink stone. Scattered amogst the pink are stones of many colours, some striped, others mottled, an amazing diversity of minerals blinking in the sunlight. Embedded in the pink are large rocks. They lurch out of the clay, polished with a liquid silver sheen. We move on to the next stage: a far steeper climb to the top.
At the top sits the village of Safira. It is peopled by Sahoe, about whom I know almost nothing. There is a mosque, no church that I can see. We meet with the official guide and sit for a coca and some bread in the tea shack cum shop. Then we move off with the guide's boy assistant onto the Qohaito plain to see the archaeological ruins.
Inside a wire-mesh fence stand the remains of ... well ... something or other. They are the remnants of a pre-Axumite civilisation (Axum was the ancient empire that straddled Eritrea and Ethiopia); four standing columns of stone and six more lying broken across the rubble. The boy guide picks up a fragment of pottery to show us then drops it nonchalently where he stands. He then takes us over to a patch of grass beside the standing columns and invites us to jump up and down. There is a hollow under the grass that booms softly as we jump. The boy cannot tell us what it was used for. In fact, while standing among such ancient structures is thought-provoking, nobody knows anything much about them so the boy has little to tell us.
Across the plain are other ruins, said to be part of the same settlement which must have covered the whole of the plain. Beyond the plain is the giddying escarpment that drops down to the Red Sea. Unfortunately, the clouds are low this afternoon and all we can see is a curtain of white.
After the disappointment of the ruins we move down to another small village across the plain. From there, we meet up with the adult guide and he takes us to see the cave paintings. The plain falls away sharply into a gorge. The gorge has a prehistoric air about it. It is extremely steep and deep, gouged out of the earth and carpeted with trees and vegetation. I wouldn't be surprised to see a pteradactyl swooping down in the valley below. I stand on a ledge and look down into a primeval world.
We tread carefully along the narrow path that leads us down the side of the hill; a sheer face to our left and a sheer drop to our right. After a short time, we come to the paintings. A large mass of rock overhangs a clearing. On the rock face are painted herds of cattle, deer and camel. Men with spears corral them in their groups. The paintings are primitive, stone-age. Earth colours of red, brown and black depict sketchy, formulaic representations. The sense of wonder at seeing such incredibly old artefacts still intact and recognisable is complemented by their stunning location. This was truly worth coming for, unlike the pillars.
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(Teachers are lucky if they are posted close to their family village or town. Many of those in Keren come from villages in Zoba Maekel, the region around Asmara, or even right at the other end of the country. They generally don't get a choice where they are placed until they have been teaching for a long time. As the years go by, teachers tend to get placed closer and closer to the ultimate prize: Asmara, having started when newly-qualified in a tiny village up a mountain somewhere very remote. I'm hoping to buck the trend by moving from a major town to just such a tiny village. Many people consider me insane.)
We too -- Jo and I -- are on the move. We've succeeded in getting permits to visit the architectural ruins on the plain of Qohaito.This is quite a feat: I had to ask my director (head of the school) who wrote me a letter to take to the local Zoba (regional) office of the Ministry of Education. They gave me another letter to take to the central MoE office in Asmara, who told me to come back in a week. When I returned the next week, I took the completed letter over to the National Museum to get the permit to visit the ruins. But the secretary wasn't there, so I was told to come back at 9.30 the next day when she would definitely be there. She wasn't, and wouldn't be back until the afternoon. I needed to get back to Keren, so I couldn't come back that day. Instead, I found myself in Asmara the following Monday so I went in once more. The secretary was there but ... the director wasn't, and it is he who signs the permit. Eventually, I gave up and handed my letter over to Jo who, because she was in Asmara all week for work, managed to finally get the permits from the museum.
Eritrea is focussing on tourism as a major future source of income.
So we're in Asmara, having spent a tranquil night in Shimangus Lalai. We're in bustling Asmara, scouting around the bus station for the bus to Adi Keih -- the nearest town to Qohaito. "Yelen", as they say in Tigrinia (say it in a Welsh accent and you've pretty much got it): there is none. Moreover, there is a big queue of people waiting for the bus if it does turn up. Queueing is rare in this country so when you see a queue it usually means there is a serious problem. After a bit of discussion we decide to try to hitch.
We end up walking about 10 km out of town before we come to a suitable spot to hitch from. A truck stops for us and the driver offers to take us to Decamhare, about 40 km into the 120 km trip to Adi Keih. We accept, even though he asks us for 15 Nakfa each. We are grateful to be on our way out of Asmara.
When we get to Adi Keih we stop for a quick beer in the first bar we see. It's not a friendly place. The waitress is reluctant to get out of her seat to ask us what we would like and the people at the tables stare at me and Jo for the whole time we are there. It's livened up by a madman / drunkard who gyrates madly around in front of the bar, singing to himself. There are no buses at the station here either, so we try to hitch once more. This time we strike really lucky: a UNDP (UN Development Project) four-by-four that zips through to Adi Keih, stopping for five minutes at Segeneiti for business. (Segeneiti is where the five-nakfa trees reside.) We get there well before dark, which we certainly didn't expect, and for free this time.
So we end up at the Sami Hotel. A bit of a grand name: it's a pension really. Comfortable enough, and the people are friendly, but there is just one outside wash basin which has no plumbing (the water runs straight onto the floor) and a view of the backs of men pissing into the squat toilet. There is a toilet with a door but none of the men bother to close it if they go there. The Sami Hotel was the third place we tried. We looked up the first and second choice in the Bradt guide. First choice was the Adi Keih Hotel, which was closed down, second choice was the Qohaito Hotel, which looked like it had been burnt out: window frames resting against the wall, jagged singed edges where they had been set into the stone.
Next day we head round to Nick and Sarah's house to meet Brendan and Adrienne, and their friend who will guide us. They turn up late -- but no matter -- and Brendan is not with them. He's gone off with another friend to drive up the road to the site. We're walking. So off we go.
Down to the other end of town then straight on. We cross farmland and a small river then start to make our way up the steep side of the valley. Trudging up the hillside is very hard work, and the sun beats down in its midday intensity. But it is fun. There is a camaraderie amongst us as we pass over the pink stone. Scattered amogst the pink are stones of many colours, some striped, others mottled, an amazing diversity of minerals blinking in the sunlight. Embedded in the pink are large rocks. They lurch out of the clay, polished with a liquid silver sheen. We move on to the next stage: a far steeper climb to the top.
At the top sits the village of Safira. It is peopled by Sahoe, about whom I know almost nothing. There is a mosque, no church that I can see. We meet with the official guide and sit for a coca and some bread in the tea shack cum shop. Then we move off with the guide's boy assistant onto the Qohaito plain to see the archaeological ruins.
Inside a wire-mesh fence stand the remains of ... well ... something or other. They are the remnants of a pre-Axumite civilisation (Axum was the ancient empire that straddled Eritrea and Ethiopia); four standing columns of stone and six more lying broken across the rubble. The boy guide picks up a fragment of pottery to show us then drops it nonchalently where he stands. He then takes us over to a patch of grass beside the standing columns and invites us to jump up and down. There is a hollow under the grass that booms softly as we jump. The boy cannot tell us what it was used for. In fact, while standing among such ancient structures is thought-provoking, nobody knows anything much about them so the boy has little to tell us.
Across the plain are other ruins, said to be part of the same settlement which must have covered the whole of the plain. Beyond the plain is the giddying escarpment that drops down to the Red Sea. Unfortunately, the clouds are low this afternoon and all we can see is a curtain of white.
After the disappointment of the ruins we move down to another small village across the plain. From there, we meet up with the adult guide and he takes us to see the cave paintings. The plain falls away sharply into a gorge. The gorge has a prehistoric air about it. It is extremely steep and deep, gouged out of the earth and carpeted with trees and vegetation. I wouldn't be surprised to see a pteradactyl swooping down in the valley below. I stand on a ledge and look down into a primeval world.
We tread carefully along the narrow path that leads us down the side of the hill; a sheer face to our left and a sheer drop to our right. After a short time, we come to the paintings. A large mass of rock overhangs a clearing. On the rock face are painted herds of cattle, deer and camel. Men with spears corral them in their groups. The paintings are primitive, stone-age. Earth colours of red, brown and black depict sketchy, formulaic representations. The sense of wonder at seeing such incredibly old artefacts still intact and recognisable is complemented by their stunning location. This was truly worth coming for, unlike the pillars.
The Bed
Jo wants a new bed. For guests. She turns up unexpectedly one Friday evening in Keren and catches Isak, his brother Kesete and I downing beers at Bar Elen.
The plan is this: we scout the town the next day to buy a bed and a mattress then bus back to Shimangus Lalai with them both. The logic is that it is actually easier to get a bed onto the bus from Keren than from Asmara because the latter is no more than a minibus.
So we buy the bed and mattress and head on our way, after negotiating a price for carriage. Along the way, it starts to rain and the driver very helpfully stops to take the mattress off the top and into the bus to keep it dry.
By the time we get to Serejeka, there is a serious storm threatening. Thunder and lightening crash in the north-east and the storm is approaching fast.
Jo and I take hold of the bed, mattress on top, and start the mile or so up to Shimangus Lalai. We are both laughing hysterically: we are carrying a large metal frame along and open track while an electrical storm speeds our way and fork lightening crashes a few hundred yards away. This is the kind of thing you read about. This is the kind of thing that merits a Darwin award for death by stupidity.
Needless to say we made it safely.
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The plan is this: we scout the town the next day to buy a bed and a mattress then bus back to Shimangus Lalai with them both. The logic is that it is actually easier to get a bed onto the bus from Keren than from Asmara because the latter is no more than a minibus.
So we buy the bed and mattress and head on our way, after negotiating a price for carriage. Along the way, it starts to rain and the driver very helpfully stops to take the mattress off the top and into the bus to keep it dry.
By the time we get to Serejeka, there is a serious storm threatening. Thunder and lightening crash in the north-east and the storm is approaching fast.
Jo and I take hold of the bed, mattress on top, and start the mile or so up to Shimangus Lalai. We are both laughing hysterically: we are carrying a large metal frame along and open track while an electrical storm speeds our way and fork lightening crashes a few hundred yards away. This is the kind of thing you read about. This is the kind of thing that merits a Darwin award for death by stupidity.
Needless to say we made it safely.
Searching for Utopia
Searching for Utopia
--------------------
I hope to change my placement next year. This year has been a failure in many ways, and I have become sceptical about the worth of teaching computing in Eritrea. I'm eager to move away from the secondary school in Keren to a fresh start and no more computers. I hope to find a small village to live the simple life and teach English in. So I spent a couple of weeks visiting prospective places around Anseba (the region that Keren lies in) and Maekel (the region around Asmara).
Mealdi
------
This is a small Tigre village in Anseba, about two hours' walk from the big village of Adi Tekelezan (itself straddling the Asmara - Keren road, about 40Km from Asmara). It is the only Tigre village in the area, being surrounded by Tigrinya settlements. There is a bit of bad feeling because the village has been located by the government in a valley that was previously farmed by the neighbouring villages. Now many people feel that their land has been taken from them.
The plan is that I make a visit to the junior school in Adi Tekelezan to get directions to Mealdi. The teachers are friendly, and I'm invited for a coca and fata before setting off in the direction they show me.
(Fata: bread broken up into yoghurt and silsi -- the spicy chili, tomato and onion sauce that forms the staple diet here.)
It's impossible to get more than halfway to Mealdi by vehicle, so I don't even try. I set off on foot.
The sun is beating down, although it's cooler here than in Keren. The road, and then the path that shortcuts across it, take me down into a bowl of a valley, ringed with terracing and smeared with the coarse tan of tilled earth. There are trees lining the river itself, which trickles steadily -- an unusual sight in such an arid country. I cross a small procession of stepping stones bridging the water and climb up the other side of the bowl. As I climb, the brown gives way to pink dust and clay. More terracing here, and I find myself on a rosy cone of a hill, ringed with olive trees. They crouch like old men bent against the prevailing winds, only revealing their fruit as I get up close. The olives look healthy but unripe, the fruit still forming: little cups that will eventually seal over.
Walking around the hill, following the line of the olive trees, I spot my landmark: a ridge smeared in white. I head for the ridge but, in the process, lose the path. Trying to keep the ridge in my sights, I climb up the terracing, following the thin tracks made by shepherds and their charges. I'm hoping that, when I get to the top of the ridge, I'll look down and see Mealdi nestling in a valley. On the way up I spot a hare bounding close to me, and a huge fat locust. The locust is not what I'd expected. I'd expected an ugly creature, reflecting the scorn it attracts through the corruption of its features. Locusts are universally reviled, I expected their physical appearance to be a factor. But this one is beautiful. As big as a robin, with crimson wings, in fact at first I mistake it for a bird. But the green and red stripes ringing a plump, fleshy abdomen reveal an insect, albeit a startling one. While I watch it lazily buzz across the thin grass and rock, I'm awed by its boldess and horrified by the thought of one bumping into me. When they swarm, these things must bruise like hell.
The path was the wrong one. There is a valley, a very beautiful valley. But there is no Mealdi. It's the wrong ridge.
I've been trekking for about two hours now. I walk along what seems to be a small track, searching for another likely ridge, but I can't see any. Eventually I give up, but now I've lost the path back to Adi Tekelezan. I can see the town in the distance, but I have no idea how to get to it. There is a river in the way, and I can't see where the bridge crosses it.
I try several tracks but none of them leads where I want to go, and all of them eventually fade into dead ends. Eventually I decide to break the primary rule of travel in Eritrea: leave the path and head atright down into the valley, cutting straight through the lines of terracing. This is potential mine country but I reason that if its farmed then the mines must have gone by now. I hope I'm right.
I make it down to the side of the river, and find a well-used path. Along the path are a couple of village girls, leading a flock of sheep. There is also a pack of dogs guarding the livestock. As I approach, the dogs perceive a threat. The whole pack runs at me, snarling and barking viciously. At moments like this, with adrenaline pumping into my system, I am surprised at how clearly I analyse the situation. The dogs are aggressive because they are doing their job. They think I'm a threat to the sheep they are protecting. I need to demonstrate that I'm no threat. So I turn ninety degrees and start to walk up the slope, away from the path and the procession of sheep. The dogs stop on the path. They mill about, watching me warily as I skirt around along the slope. When I judge that I'm far enough away from the flock, I descend back down to the path. By now, the dogs are just glancing over at me occasionally, to make sure I don't try to return.
By now, I can see the path to the bridge and my way back to Adi Tekelezan. After about four hours of trekking, I return to the town, having completely failed to visit Mealdi but convinced that I wouldn't want to live there anyway: it's a beautiful part of the country but the village is too remote.
Tseazega
--------
A few kilometres from Asmara, along a tarmac road, is the village of Tseada Kristyan. It is a large village with lots of square new-style buidilngs and very littel character. A few kilometres beyond that is the village of Tseazega. Tseazega is a long, dull trek along a road deep in fine dust. The landscape is dull, flat and dotted with army tents. Only when very near the village does greenery appear around a small stream and lake. I meet some students on the way, and they lead me across a small stretch of farmland, up the leftmost of two hills to the village.
The village is large. It sprawls over the hill, a mix of new-style square blocks and traditional hidmos. There are no compounds, each house is open to the tracks that run between, except for occasional lines of stones marking a boundary of territory. The residents look at me bemusedly, the kids shout the usual "Tilian". I'm pleased to see that they get told off by the adults though, who all greet me warmly and with respect. This is the big contrast between village and town life: people are more friendly and open in villages.
The school is fairly new. The rooms are in good shape and the teachers seem happy. The school is junior and elementary, fairly large for its type. There is a library but it has never been used since it was built, even though it is full of books. Sadly, in this country, it is common for well-meaning philanthropists or NGOs to build libraries that never get used because of the lack of a librarian. People are happy to accept a new building but reluctant to pay a small wage or give a lower teaching load to one of the teachers to manage it. So this library, like many others in Eritrea, remains locked.
The teachers are a nice bunch, and the director and vice-director are hospitable and seem keen to have me there. Tseazega is definitely a potential place for next year. The only drawback is that the village is in the dullest landscape I've come across in Eritrea. In a country full of amazing mountains, valleys and views over plains, this area is flat, dusty and empty.
Hadish Adi: From Eden to Oz
---------------------------
"Hadish Adi" means "New Village / Town" in English. It's not new any more. It is a very small village about and hour and a half walk West of Elabored, which is 45 minutes by bus from Keren, towards Asmara. The village sits halfway up a hillside. It used to lie in the valley below but moved up out of reach of the malarial mosquitos that plague the valley, hence "Hadish Adi".
I get the bus to Eden, the large village that abuts the huge Elabored farm estate. From there, I walk alongside the purple and orange bushes that mark the boundary of the estate until I am almost at their end, then I turn right onto a dusty track. This area is greener than possibly any other part of Zoba Anseba. Irrigation encourages trees and bush as well as the crops, and birds flit about the sky. I spot what seems to be a kingfisher: squat body with an oversized head and dagger of a beak. (Later, having spotted another while out walking with Jo and looking it up I realize it's a little bee-eater.) Starlings and canaries gather in troupes; shimmering two-tone and pastel boldness mingling.
After passing under a rail bridge, relic of the defunct system that once took people from Massawa through Asmara to Keren, the trail splits and I take a left fork to follow a small river bed into drier land. Then, crossing a small stream of flowing water, the path curves to the left and rises as it follows the contour of a large hill. On top of the hill is an arrangement of stones. I can't tell if they were put there by hand or by nature; they are piled wide at the base then diminishing in a parabolic curve to a single large stone balancing at the top. It looks like a gust of wind could prove fatal to anyone walking underneath.
Around the other side of the hill, I can see Hadish Adi in the distance. It looks like Oz, hovering indistinctly in my middle vision. It seems to be close. I walk towards it, down into a steep valley and across a wide, dry river bed, then up the other side. When I get to the top, I realise that the village is further away than I'd thought: I have to cross another valley before I've reached the right hill. It really is like Oz. Finally, exhausted, I make it.
I'm grateful for the offer of jebena from the director, the only staff member at the school because it is lunchtime and the teachers all escape to Eden. I half expect to find him sitting behind a huge megaphone like the wizard himself, but he's actually an ordinary, likeable guy who's enthusiastic about his work and the school. Another small school, another remote village of hidmos. It's lovely but, again, too far to trek. By the time I make it back to Keren, hitching a lift from Elabored, I'm completely exhausted.
Azien
-----
This one's to the East of the Asmara road. This time, I go by bus. The bus leaves from Asmara itself and turns off just before Embaderho to bounce and jolt along a rough track. It takes us past a lake and some kind of processing plant -- industrial country.
Azien is right on the ridge of the Eastern escarpment. Behind the village is a dramatic drop down to the Northern Red Sea plains. The location is fantastic. However ...
I reach the village to find out that only a handful of teachers are there because the previous day was the local "nigdet" (saint's day) and so no students and hardly any teachers have bothered to turn up. So, after a quick look around the deserted school grounds, the vice-director takes me up the track for a drink. When we get there, he ignores my protestations and ends up buying me three beers. Eritrean hospitality. While we down the beers, I ask him about the village.
"Do the teachers ever visit the village?"
"Not often, they stay in the school grounds mostly."
"Can I visit the village?"
"I wouldn't. There are police there at the moment. With guns. We heard shooting earlier."
Apparently, a bunch of people got pissed up on sewa the day before and started a fight with people from a neighbouring village.
"Does this happen often?"
"About once a month. There is strong rivalry between several of the local villages and the young men often cause arguments in an attempt to prove themselves."
That's Azien crossed off the list then.
I get the bus back after a lengthy wait. One of the teachers helps me cram into an intensely crowded bus. As I get pushed in, one of the men on the bus kicks at a kid, forcing him off the bus to make room for me. My mind works slowly at times like this. I'm fretting about what to do when the door shuts and the bus starts to move off. From my cramped viewpoint between a press of bodies, I can see the poor kid looking dolefully at the departing bus. I wish I had had the presence of mind to react more quickly.
Gule'e
------
About 16Km along the Massawa road from Asmara there is a large cafe, commanding an amazing view over the mountains and onto the Northern Red Sea plains. Starting to the left of the cafe and curling around and down into the valley way below is a sandy, gravelly path. It curves around the side of a hill then snakes down to the valley floor. There, the path manders towards another large hill at the base of which sits the tiny village of Gule'e.
Gule'e is another Tigre settlement. Perhaps a couple of hundred paople inhabit rough stone shacks within open compounds that are marked out by lines of stones set in the earth. Small bunches of kids stare silently from their own compounds as I pass, then follow and flow together with more kids like droplets down a window pane until I am being watched by a pool made up of most of the kids in the village. They are still completely silent, even when I offer a "kemey?". The adults are curious and polite, offering nods and mumbles in return for my greetings. No smiles, but smiles for strangers are a rarity in this country.
Down a track from the village is the local junior and elementary school. It hosts about 500 students across both schools, and maybe a dozen teachers. Half of the teachers are there when I arrive, and thy're a friendly bunch. The director is there and he offers me first injera, but I've eaten so I decline, then chai. We sit around and chat: him, me and a bunch of the others teachers. One -- Mohammed -- is especially chatty and friendly and his English is good so we get on very well.
After chai, the director takes me around the school. It is in fairly good condition and there are some new buildings being constructed: more classrooms because they will be teaching an extra grade next year. Then we move up to the village and, after meeting the local village administrator (a government official who doesn't seem to know what to do when he meets me, so decides he should write my name in a book -- until he is stopped by the director who says it's not necessary), we sit in a small shop with a coca and a cigarette.
I'm getting good vibes about this village. The landscape is breathtaking: clouds rolling over the plains just visible beyond impressive mountains, trees playing host to a symphony of birds. The school and the teachers seem pleasant (in particular, the school is small), and the locals seem friendly, if a bit wary. I leave Gule'e promising to come back and visit even if I don't wirk there next year, and thinking that I have probably made my choice.
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I hope to change my placement next year. This year has been a failure in many ways, and I have become sceptical about the worth of teaching computing in Eritrea. I'm eager to move away from the secondary school in Keren to a fresh start and no more computers. I hope to find a small village to live the simple life and teach English in. So I spent a couple of weeks visiting prospective places around Anseba (the region that Keren lies in) and Maekel (the region around Asmara).
Mealdi
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This is a small Tigre village in Anseba, about two hours' walk from the big village of Adi Tekelezan (itself straddling the Asmara - Keren road, about 40Km from Asmara). It is the only Tigre village in the area, being surrounded by Tigrinya settlements. There is a bit of bad feeling because the village has been located by the government in a valley that was previously farmed by the neighbouring villages. Now many people feel that their land has been taken from them.
The plan is that I make a visit to the junior school in Adi Tekelezan to get directions to Mealdi. The teachers are friendly, and I'm invited for a coca and fata before setting off in the direction they show me.
(Fata: bread broken up into yoghurt and silsi -- the spicy chili, tomato and onion sauce that forms the staple diet here.)
It's impossible to get more than halfway to Mealdi by vehicle, so I don't even try. I set off on foot.
The sun is beating down, although it's cooler here than in Keren. The road, and then the path that shortcuts across it, take me down into a bowl of a valley, ringed with terracing and smeared with the coarse tan of tilled earth. There are trees lining the river itself, which trickles steadily -- an unusual sight in such an arid country. I cross a small procession of stepping stones bridging the water and climb up the other side of the bowl. As I climb, the brown gives way to pink dust and clay. More terracing here, and I find myself on a rosy cone of a hill, ringed with olive trees. They crouch like old men bent against the prevailing winds, only revealing their fruit as I get up close. The olives look healthy but unripe, the fruit still forming: little cups that will eventually seal over.
Walking around the hill, following the line of the olive trees, I spot my landmark: a ridge smeared in white. I head for the ridge but, in the process, lose the path. Trying to keep the ridge in my sights, I climb up the terracing, following the thin tracks made by shepherds and their charges. I'm hoping that, when I get to the top of the ridge, I'll look down and see Mealdi nestling in a valley. On the way up I spot a hare bounding close to me, and a huge fat locust. The locust is not what I'd expected. I'd expected an ugly creature, reflecting the scorn it attracts through the corruption of its features. Locusts are universally reviled, I expected their physical appearance to be a factor. But this one is beautiful. As big as a robin, with crimson wings, in fact at first I mistake it for a bird. But the green and red stripes ringing a plump, fleshy abdomen reveal an insect, albeit a startling one. While I watch it lazily buzz across the thin grass and rock, I'm awed by its boldess and horrified by the thought of one bumping into me. When they swarm, these things must bruise like hell.
The path was the wrong one. There is a valley, a very beautiful valley. But there is no Mealdi. It's the wrong ridge.
I've been trekking for about two hours now. I walk along what seems to be a small track, searching for another likely ridge, but I can't see any. Eventually I give up, but now I've lost the path back to Adi Tekelezan. I can see the town in the distance, but I have no idea how to get to it. There is a river in the way, and I can't see where the bridge crosses it.
I try several tracks but none of them leads where I want to go, and all of them eventually fade into dead ends. Eventually I decide to break the primary rule of travel in Eritrea: leave the path and head atright down into the valley, cutting straight through the lines of terracing. This is potential mine country but I reason that if its farmed then the mines must have gone by now. I hope I'm right.
I make it down to the side of the river, and find a well-used path. Along the path are a couple of village girls, leading a flock of sheep. There is also a pack of dogs guarding the livestock. As I approach, the dogs perceive a threat. The whole pack runs at me, snarling and barking viciously. At moments like this, with adrenaline pumping into my system, I am surprised at how clearly I analyse the situation. The dogs are aggressive because they are doing their job. They think I'm a threat to the sheep they are protecting. I need to demonstrate that I'm no threat. So I turn ninety degrees and start to walk up the slope, away from the path and the procession of sheep. The dogs stop on the path. They mill about, watching me warily as I skirt around along the slope. When I judge that I'm far enough away from the flock, I descend back down to the path. By now, the dogs are just glancing over at me occasionally, to make sure I don't try to return.
By now, I can see the path to the bridge and my way back to Adi Tekelezan. After about four hours of trekking, I return to the town, having completely failed to visit Mealdi but convinced that I wouldn't want to live there anyway: it's a beautiful part of the country but the village is too remote.
Tseazega
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A few kilometres from Asmara, along a tarmac road, is the village of Tseada Kristyan. It is a large village with lots of square new-style buidilngs and very littel character. A few kilometres beyond that is the village of Tseazega. Tseazega is a long, dull trek along a road deep in fine dust. The landscape is dull, flat and dotted with army tents. Only when very near the village does greenery appear around a small stream and lake. I meet some students on the way, and they lead me across a small stretch of farmland, up the leftmost of two hills to the village.
The village is large. It sprawls over the hill, a mix of new-style square blocks and traditional hidmos. There are no compounds, each house is open to the tracks that run between, except for occasional lines of stones marking a boundary of territory. The residents look at me bemusedly, the kids shout the usual "Tilian". I'm pleased to see that they get told off by the adults though, who all greet me warmly and with respect. This is the big contrast between village and town life: people are more friendly and open in villages.
The school is fairly new. The rooms are in good shape and the teachers seem happy. The school is junior and elementary, fairly large for its type. There is a library but it has never been used since it was built, even though it is full of books. Sadly, in this country, it is common for well-meaning philanthropists or NGOs to build libraries that never get used because of the lack of a librarian. People are happy to accept a new building but reluctant to pay a small wage or give a lower teaching load to one of the teachers to manage it. So this library, like many others in Eritrea, remains locked.
The teachers are a nice bunch, and the director and vice-director are hospitable and seem keen to have me there. Tseazega is definitely a potential place for next year. The only drawback is that the village is in the dullest landscape I've come across in Eritrea. In a country full of amazing mountains, valleys and views over plains, this area is flat, dusty and empty.
Hadish Adi: From Eden to Oz
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"Hadish Adi" means "New Village / Town" in English. It's not new any more. It is a very small village about and hour and a half walk West of Elabored, which is 45 minutes by bus from Keren, towards Asmara. The village sits halfway up a hillside. It used to lie in the valley below but moved up out of reach of the malarial mosquitos that plague the valley, hence "Hadish Adi".
I get the bus to Eden, the large village that abuts the huge Elabored farm estate. From there, I walk alongside the purple and orange bushes that mark the boundary of the estate until I am almost at their end, then I turn right onto a dusty track. This area is greener than possibly any other part of Zoba Anseba. Irrigation encourages trees and bush as well as the crops, and birds flit about the sky. I spot what seems to be a kingfisher: squat body with an oversized head and dagger of a beak. (Later, having spotted another while out walking with Jo and looking it up I realize it's a little bee-eater.) Starlings and canaries gather in troupes; shimmering two-tone and pastel boldness mingling.
After passing under a rail bridge, relic of the defunct system that once took people from Massawa through Asmara to Keren, the trail splits and I take a left fork to follow a small river bed into drier land. Then, crossing a small stream of flowing water, the path curves to the left and rises as it follows the contour of a large hill. On top of the hill is an arrangement of stones. I can't tell if they were put there by hand or by nature; they are piled wide at the base then diminishing in a parabolic curve to a single large stone balancing at the top. It looks like a gust of wind could prove fatal to anyone walking underneath.
Around the other side of the hill, I can see Hadish Adi in the distance. It looks like Oz, hovering indistinctly in my middle vision. It seems to be close. I walk towards it, down into a steep valley and across a wide, dry river bed, then up the other side. When I get to the top, I realise that the village is further away than I'd thought: I have to cross another valley before I've reached the right hill. It really is like Oz. Finally, exhausted, I make it.
I'm grateful for the offer of jebena from the director, the only staff member at the school because it is lunchtime and the teachers all escape to Eden. I half expect to find him sitting behind a huge megaphone like the wizard himself, but he's actually an ordinary, likeable guy who's enthusiastic about his work and the school. Another small school, another remote village of hidmos. It's lovely but, again, too far to trek. By the time I make it back to Keren, hitching a lift from Elabored, I'm completely exhausted.
Azien
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This one's to the East of the Asmara road. This time, I go by bus. The bus leaves from Asmara itself and turns off just before Embaderho to bounce and jolt along a rough track. It takes us past a lake and some kind of processing plant -- industrial country.
Azien is right on the ridge of the Eastern escarpment. Behind the village is a dramatic drop down to the Northern Red Sea plains. The location is fantastic. However ...
I reach the village to find out that only a handful of teachers are there because the previous day was the local "nigdet" (saint's day) and so no students and hardly any teachers have bothered to turn up. So, after a quick look around the deserted school grounds, the vice-director takes me up the track for a drink. When we get there, he ignores my protestations and ends up buying me three beers. Eritrean hospitality. While we down the beers, I ask him about the village.
"Do the teachers ever visit the village?"
"Not often, they stay in the school grounds mostly."
"Can I visit the village?"
"I wouldn't. There are police there at the moment. With guns. We heard shooting earlier."
Apparently, a bunch of people got pissed up on sewa the day before and started a fight with people from a neighbouring village.
"Does this happen often?"
"About once a month. There is strong rivalry between several of the local villages and the young men often cause arguments in an attempt to prove themselves."
That's Azien crossed off the list then.
I get the bus back after a lengthy wait. One of the teachers helps me cram into an intensely crowded bus. As I get pushed in, one of the men on the bus kicks at a kid, forcing him off the bus to make room for me. My mind works slowly at times like this. I'm fretting about what to do when the door shuts and the bus starts to move off. From my cramped viewpoint between a press of bodies, I can see the poor kid looking dolefully at the departing bus. I wish I had had the presence of mind to react more quickly.
Gule'e
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About 16Km along the Massawa road from Asmara there is a large cafe, commanding an amazing view over the mountains and onto the Northern Red Sea plains. Starting to the left of the cafe and curling around and down into the valley way below is a sandy, gravelly path. It curves around the side of a hill then snakes down to the valley floor. There, the path manders towards another large hill at the base of which sits the tiny village of Gule'e.
Gule'e is another Tigre settlement. Perhaps a couple of hundred paople inhabit rough stone shacks within open compounds that are marked out by lines of stones set in the earth. Small bunches of kids stare silently from their own compounds as I pass, then follow and flow together with more kids like droplets down a window pane until I am being watched by a pool made up of most of the kids in the village. They are still completely silent, even when I offer a "kemey?". The adults are curious and polite, offering nods and mumbles in return for my greetings. No smiles, but smiles for strangers are a rarity in this country.
Down a track from the village is the local junior and elementary school. It hosts about 500 students across both schools, and maybe a dozen teachers. Half of the teachers are there when I arrive, and thy're a friendly bunch. The director is there and he offers me first injera, but I've eaten so I decline, then chai. We sit around and chat: him, me and a bunch of the others teachers. One -- Mohammed -- is especially chatty and friendly and his English is good so we get on very well.
After chai, the director takes me around the school. It is in fairly good condition and there are some new buildings being constructed: more classrooms because they will be teaching an extra grade next year. Then we move up to the village and, after meeting the local village administrator (a government official who doesn't seem to know what to do when he meets me, so decides he should write my name in a book -- until he is stopped by the director who says it's not necessary), we sit in a small shop with a coca and a cigarette.
I'm getting good vibes about this village. The landscape is breathtaking: clouds rolling over the plains just visible beyond impressive mountains, trees playing host to a symphony of birds. The school and the teachers seem pleasant (in particular, the school is small), and the locals seem friendly, if a bit wary. I leave Gule'e promising to come back and visit even if I don't wirk there next year, and thinking that I have probably made my choice.
