Friday, April 30, 2004
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.
(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.
Comments:
Post a Comment
