Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Mood Swings
Morning Moods
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I wake up at 5.30. There's no water so I take a bucketful from the barrel and squat in a wide, shallow bowl, soaping my body then rinsing using a small plastic jug. My bath.
Before I start to wash I light the kerosene burner for tea; eight wicks around a central column just big enough for the kettle, with a wheel control to raise and lower the wicks. The smell of burning kerosene wafts through the house. When I finish my wash the kettle is boiled so I tip a small quantity of leaves into the strainer and pour through them into a little glass cup. In Eritrea I generally drink my tea weak without milk or sugar so I pour half a cup through the leaves then top up with plain water.
The water from the wash joins the old dish-water from yesterday in the 'dirty' bucket. I'll use this to flush the toilet. The bucket stinks: I will clean it out with bleach one day soon.
While the tea cools to drinking temperature I visit the shop next door to the compound to see if there's any bread today. I'm in luck and return with two fresh rolls. I squat on my favourite stool -- very roughly cut wooden stumps slotted together and upholstered with twine -- and chop a couple of bananas into the open rolls, then spread a thin layer of jam to complete the meal.
Sitting outside my rooms, on the verandah. Dust has swirled whirlpool patterns that overlay the black and white stars of the tiles. Through the rough, corroded cement circles decorating the verandah wall I can see the emaciated back of Mama Gabriella's forsaken puppy. The poor thing is underfed and brutally treated; a plaything for her little nephew who pulls the dog about while the other members of the family kick it if it comes near. Rosina, Mama Gabriella's daughter, has left it here because it barks at evryone in her compound. I've tried to explain that it barks at them because they kick it but she ignored me. It is sick with hunger but refuses any food I offer it. Ticks hang bloated from its fur.
Over the wall I can see the chickens pecking fussily for tidbits and insects. One of the chickens is sick and sits just moving its beak, opening and closing silently it looks like it is gasping for air. The three ducks wander from one side of the compound to the other and back again, the two females langourously pursued by the male, his ugly red-blotched head waving in seduction. Meanwhile the wind brings dust, spinning into a haze. The sun is a liquid mirage beyond the hills.
The Neem tree in the next-door compound is full of rich leaves and the yellow smudge of weaver birds. They fill the air with their coarse song; the sound of a finger rubbed along a stretched balloon. Beyond, a donkey brays desperately. Like a baby's cry, it's impossible to ignore and heartbreaking to hear. The occasional cockerel competes with the early morning call of the delivery van that brings rocks to a neighbour's new wall. When the rocks are unloaded the ground shakes and thunder fills the air.
The smell of the morning is the smell of smoke and dust. Dung rises up on the warming air and mingles with burning charcoal. Coffee is a major part of the culture here but, unlike in Europe, it is not a morning habit. Coffee and the accompanying incense and popcorn are midday and evening smells.
Hafti Gabriella is up and about, heating charcoal to start on the day's cooking. Her little girl Fedehawit calls over to me, "Gabn! Gabn!" and I wave back. I'm sure she knows how to pronounce my name properly. She nurtures her cuteness like the commodity it is.
I'm reading a book, but actually I'm watching the sights, listening to the sounds and picking up the smells. Breakfast finished and teeth cleaned, I pack up for work and set off on my bike with a smile on my face.
The Neem Tree
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The Neem tree was imported from its native India. It is becoming very popular on this continent for several reasons. It is an evergreen and grow quickly and vigorously despite the poor soil and dry, hot climate. It produces a natural insecticide that is said to disturb the nervous systems and inhibit the growth of insects, most importantly the mosquito. It might well work because we have had very few mosquitos on my compound and there's a Neem tree growing next door.
Finally, and most importantly, it is reputed to have amazing medical properties. The leaves, fruit, seeds, bark and roots are said to cure ailments such as psoriasis, lesions, blood poisoning, elephantiasis, caries, most sexually transmitted diseases, cancer, stomach disorders, diarrhoea and dysentry. It is used extensively in traditional ayurvedic medicine in India and there is research published in Eritrea to encourage its use.
One use that is discouraged but widespread is among prostitutes. Parts of the tree are mashed down and taken by women who have become pregnant. In this form and quantity, it is a powerful poison and encourages the abortion of the foetus. It is a fine judgement however, because too much can also kill the mother. Even the "right" amount carries a big risk and will make the woman very sick.
One of my friends tells me that abortion is illegal in Eritrea except where the life of the mother is threatened. Many women, not just prostitutes, risk their lives with a potion from the Neem tree.
Liberation Weekend
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Liberation Weekend. 21st to 24th May. The biggest party of the year.
I'm going to Asmara on Friday afternoon. Thursday night, Isak invites me round for coffee. I'm grateful because the compound is filling up with clucking women. They have all gathered to make injera and other food for the next day, when they will mourn the passing of Mama Gabriella's son. Gabriella is in America visiting other relatives at the moment (I love the thought of her wandering around the beaches and shopping malls of California -- her only English before she left was "Thankee") so it is down to her daughter Rosina to organise the commemoration of the day that he died in the border conflict in 2000. Clucking women, burning charcoal, boisterous children. It's too much to bear after a day at the school so I am happy to go for a little peace and quiet at Isak's. Isak comes to collect me. He's been to celebrate the first birthday of a friend's child (it is rare to celebrate birthdays beyond the first. Jo theorises that it's because the first year is the most dangerous that its completion is celebrated). I ask him is he has eaten, intending to cook for myself if he has -- but he says that he hasn't had any food since lunchtime. We sit chatting over coffee for a few hours. By the time it gets to about 9 o'clock I'm very hungry but it is then that Isak tells me that Barhed is too tired to cook tonight. He has eaten enough for the day. But I bloody well haven't! I don't mind that they don't feed me, I just wish I'd known earlier! I hasten home with a runble in my belly.
When I get to the house after weaving through the clucking women I put on some water and start boiling some pasta. Just when it's ready Rosina knocks on my door with some zigni and injera. So the pasta is redundant now. The zigni knocks my socks off with its heat and I go to bed with a sore stomach.
I wake up with a sore stomach and get ready for work. Rosina knocks again and offers more zigni for breakfast. I can't face all that spice so early in the morning so I lie that I've already eaten. So I leave for work hungry and with indigestion.
In the afternoon more zigni is plied upon me, as well as dlot. I really don't like dlot so I pick at tiny pieces until the others around the table finish the plate. At the same time I sip tiny drops of foul soupy sewa. I leave about 1 o'clock with more stomach-ache.
After giving up on the buses and trying for ages to hitch a lift, I finally get to Asmara about 6pm and meet Jo in Vittorio's coffee bar. The main street, Liberation Avenue, is closed to traffic and people are just starting to pluck up courage to walk on the tarmac. Every shop and business has an Eritrean flag mounted outside. Mosy of the windows have stencilled messages of congratulation. There's the expectant air of an approaching party.
We book into the Freedom pension, appropriately enough thenweave through the back streets to the Sun Pizzeria for a doughy but delicious slice.
Coming out back onto Liberation Avenue in the dark and the street is now full of people. Walking up the road we come across a stage. A male singer performs Tigrinya songs while a bog crowd watches. At the front of the crowd people are dancing in the shoulder-shrugging, foot-shuffling Tigrinya style. The stage is invaded from time to time by fans who stuff Nakfas down the singer's top. He manages to ignore them completely. Next up is another singer and his band, accompanied by a group of dancers. This music is much more lively and inventive, with a flavour of the music further south in the continent. I think it might be Kunama, but I'm not sure. They all wear white skirts and their bodies are much more mobile than the jerky Tigrinyans. This time members of the audience jump onto the stage to dance with the performers, dodging the bouncer who tries her best to manhandle them off again. It's the chaotic cebration of all the best concerts and Jo and I are having a great time. It's a little odd that, although the crowd are really enjoying themselves, there is no clapping between numbers. People clap along with songs but it is rare for people to clap in appreciation here. Clapping is usually used to get attention in cafes or bars so perhaps that is why.
Walking a little further through the crowd we come across VSOs Brendan, Adrienne and Danny so we head off to the City Park for a beer. New Asmara Stout. It's not much like any stout that I know and I suspect that it's just the normal lager with added colour and flavouring but I quite like the burnt caramel taste.
Adi Qala
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The next day we get on the bus to Adi Qala. This is a small town about 5 Km inside the Temporary Security Zone, so only about 20 Km from the Ethiopian border.
We book into the Gash Hotel, a couple of blocks off the main road. It's a nice place: the rooms line up on one side of a courtyard, most of which is taking up by a huge hole where construction is being carried out, but there is seating nearer the bar that is shaded by a promiscuous passion fruit vine, green new fruit in abundance with the occasional ripe yellow globe showing through the thick foliage. Passion fruit is not native to Eritrea but this is a welcome sight in a land usually restricted to the beles cactus (prickly pear) and guava trees. The staff are friendly too. "John" shows us our room then asks when we'll want a shower so he can turn the water on.
We walk down the main road and continue out of town for about 20 minutes, past a U.N. encampment; a deserted town of tents. We reach the edge of the escarpment. Here the land drops away sharply into a deep valley that opens out onto the plains and hills that form the border between the two quarreling countries. The road continues down into the valley, zigzagging dizzyingly until it reaches the floor then running parallel with the dry river bed. This road used to carry trade and traffic between Eritrea and Ethiopia. Now there is a solitary bus heading for the border villages. Mist shrouds the road about halfway into the distance and the mountains beyond are pale ghosts.
I heard a story about the river bed. An Eritrean decided to escape the country. He travelled to Adi Qala and then walked to the Italian Mausoleum. He knew that a river marked the boundary between Eritrea and Ethiopia. Looking out from the escarpment he could see a river and a village just beyond so he made his way down the slope very carefully. Once at the bottom he checked along the dry river bed for soldiers. When he was sure there were none he ran across the river bed and up the slope to the other side. He walked casually into the village he had seen. When he came across a villager he explained with glee how he had managed to escape from Eritrea and asked if he could be taken to the local official. The man grabbed him and called the police, who carted him away to prison. He'd got the wrong river: the river that marks the boundary is further off in the distance.
While we are enjoying the view a boy of about 17 joins us. Sami is his name. Sami speaks very good English for a boy of his grade and he is very careful to pronounce the words correctly. He's a pleasant guy and it's nice to while away the time chatting with him.
We drop our stuff at the Gash and head off to the Tourist Hotel for a beer and a couple of games of cards -- another leafy courtyard and a cheery atmosphere -- then we return to the Gash where John tells us he has saved some pasta. I'd asked earlier if they had any so he saved some for when we got back. A nice guy.
Next day we get up fairly early to walk the 6 Km or so to the Italian Mausoleum. Branching right from the main road we trudge along bare open farmland. This is probably the most boring landscape I've seen in this country: scrubby fields with occasional rocks and very rare trees over completely flat land. Ahead we can see a rise. When we get there we climb the path to enter a small village and beyond the village we can see the Mausoleum. One of the village kids wants us to give him some Nakfa to open the padlock on the gate but it's not the mausoleum that we're here to see. To the left of the mausoleumis the edge of the world. An almost sheer drop down onto the valley floor. Lokking across, we can see a wide open plain framed in the background by the high hills of Ethiopia. It's lovely and very impressive. A couple of shepherd men squat talking as they look out over the view.
The kid who asked for the money comes up to us with his friends, a big bunch. Jo shows them the binoculars we're using. The money kid is the biggest and the boss of thebunch so he gets first turn. He's rapt. He can't believe how thay bring things closer and stares and stares in fascination, turning the binoculars the wrong way round and laughing at the effect. Then he lets the other kids play. The binoculars get passed around the whole gang, girls last when they finally pluck up the courage to join in. They all handle the binoculars very carefully and ensure that everyone gets a turn. It's a real pleasure to watch.
Finally, we get up and, after meeting the boss kid's adult brother and giving him a go, we say goodbye to the children. Further down the track from the village some more kids join us. These are different. They are demanding and irritating and keep asking us for my water or Jo's biscuits. At first we talk to them but they start to get on our nerves so we carry on walking and ignore their shouts. Now they are getting very boisterous. One of the kids deliberately knocks the bottle out of my hand, twice. After telling them to stop we move on. But now they are starting to throw stones. It's common in this country to throw a stone to get someone's attention so I assume that is what they are doing. But then the stones start arriving higher and more frequently. The little buggers are throwing stones AT us! Twice we turn around and shout at them . They back off, but only far enough so that we can't catch them. We have to put up with hurtling stones until we reach a the curve in the path where people are loading up with water. They wouldn't dare throw stones with Eritrean adults around.
On the bus at a little past midday for a surprising simple return to Asmara.
Celebrations in Asmara
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Asmara is noisy. There are loudspeakers posted along the length of Liberation Avenue blaring out Dimtsi Hafash (the national radio station). We book back into the Freedom Pension then head out for some food. The plan is to have a little drink then eat at the Blue Nile restaurant, one of my favourite places in Asmara. As we reach Liberation Avenue, we can see that the streets are lined with crowds of people. The road is cordoned off and there's a parade passing by. Colourful floats pass us in a full-on carnival. There are ethnic dancers and musicians, whole football teams kicking balls around the road, peopl in wheelchairs that have been made up to look like road diggers, floats sponsored by Eritrean companies and the ubiquitous Coca Cola. From time to time a group marches by shooting fireworks from sticks they are carrying that must surely be illegal in Britain. With the lights strung across the lampposts glittering, the whole thing is a very enjoyable spectacle and we stop and start along the way to the Blue Nile as things catch our eyes.
Next day is Liberation Day itself. Modern Snack Bar for a breakfast of yoghurt and honey for Jo and Ricotta and honey for me. While we are in there and huge shadow passes across the street outside and an almighty boom announces the passing of a fighter jet very, very close to the ground. We learn later that the jet was dropping congratulatory leaflets over the city. (One did the same in Keren and nearly hit a telegraph wire). Wander round the city, take in a photo exhibition and take a few photos of our own then meet up with a few people at Bar Royale. Moving on from there, Jo and I are joined by Greg from Adi Teklezan and we sit in the sheltered verandah of "Joe's Bar" playing Scrabble and drinking the new beer. A man comes up to us in the bar and announces that he is drunk because Eritrea is free. We congratulate him and he moves on, smiling.
Change of Plan
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Jo and I have talked. We've talked and talked and talked. Neither of us is enjoying their placement nor do we think that what we are doing is of much benefit to ourselves or the country. That is not to say that the program here is a waste of time, just that there are problems and I personally would feel that the only reason to stay would be to continue this lifestyle. I don't think it would be very ethical to stay just to prolong my holiday in Eritrea and Jo and I both want to get on with building our life together in England.
And so, briefly, we have decided to leave. We will be returning to England soon.
Now it is difficult. All the good things fade into the background, all the bad things come to the fore. I can't help dwelling on the irritating aspects of the country: the cat-calls from the kids, stone throwing, bureaucracy, the tendency for Eritreans to say anything to keep you happy or fob you off, even if it's an outright lie, the out-and-out fight to get onto a bus that has spaces for everyone, people barging in front of me while I'm asking for something in a shop, the smell of shit everywhere, the vicious treatment of animals, the abysmal service in cafes and restaurants. All of these things have always irritated me. Most of them I could ignore when I had in mind that I would be living here for two years. Now, however, I am thinking about life away from Eritrea and away from all that and I can't wait. All those things now loom over every day and I can't ignore them any more. So each day is a real chore now. The journey to the school is a gauntlet to be run, each new encounter with an Eritrean tenses me up as I prepare for the usual inane questions in poor English about the "condition" (nobody amongst us ex-pats has figured out if that means the weather, the environment, the people, the dispute with Ethiopia, or something else). It wears you down having to reply several times in slow, simple English to the same dull questions. (Alright, I should have learnt more Tigrigna.)
These things have always been there, and every country has its equivalent annoyances (in England, for example: rain, strangers not talking to you, consumerism, up-their-own-arse Londoners). It's just that I'll soon be leaving and I feel a little guilty about it and this is one way for my mind to justify the decision. It's the right decision for other reasons, not the irritations I've mentioned, but they help my head feel more comfortable.
Mariam Dearit
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On the 29th May the festival of Mariam Dearit is held at the baobab tree shrine. The night bfore, Isak asks me if I want to help him slaughter a goat but I decline: I'm worried that I might not do it swiftly enough or correctly and cause the animal to suffer. Instead, I drink coffee then eat the blood and some dlot before going to bed. I get up early for a Saturday morning to walk down and take a look.
Keren is full of people. The cafes are frantic and there are minibuses everywhere to ferry people to the shrine. Larger buses pass through carrying pilgrims from other towns and villages. The air is thick with exhaust fumes and sweat.
I follow the crowd along the road leading to the shrine. When we get close to the gate, the crowd thickens, coagulating around stalls selling kitsch religious posters. These are beyond gaudy. Primary colours and a cartoon aesthetic combine to hilarious effect. All of them are terribly painted but some tip over into genius. As well as the icon stalls, there are others. Young boys collect bets against a spinning number wheel and attract the largest crowds while priests charge one Nacfa for a kiss of their hand and a blessing. They stand in the sun shaded by gilded umbrellas looking upright, regal and disdainful of the crowd pushing around them.
Inside the gate a guard checks all the Eritreans' bags but waves me through. I'm feeling facetious so I pointedly walk up to him and offer my bag for him to check. I could be a terrorist too you know.
The crowd opens out into the space and cool of the line of trees and grass that leads down to the shrine. People are sitting picnicking and chatting or milling about amiably. Isak, Barhed and Isak's mother, Oqba, are among them. Closer to the tree the crowd congeals again around the statue of the Madonna. The statue is entirely black. Not African in its features, in fact it is a typical representation in all its caucasian serenity in black resin or stone. Not for the first time I wonder that even here there is never a hint of Africa or the Middle East in Mary's features. She is a cultural import, just like Coca Cola only less popular. Hands from the crowd reach out to stroke the effigy.
Behind the statue and its crowd another, larger group is gathered at the entrance of the baobab. A man is standing on a platform passing around a mesherefet (a circular mat of woven grass, the smaller versions are used to fan the charcoal burner -- the fournello -- that heats the jebena). Onto this mat people from the crowd place money and boxes of candles.
Behind the tree is the partial construction of the new church. Only the chapel is completed while scaffolding and tarpauling extend the structure across the width of the area. Underneath this there are two devotions taking place. On the left, furthest from the chapel, coptic priests stand in a circle chanting. They pull intricate wooden crosses out of their pockets from time to time and kiss them. The chant moves around the circle, the next priest starting before the previous one has finished, overlapping and harmonising, while the faithful look on or stand listening with eyes closed. At regular intervals the chant stops and a muttered "amen" ripples through the congregation. At the other end, in the chapel there is a choir of teenage children. They are singing sweetly, accompanied by traditional instruments in front of neat rows of solemn devotees. Behind them the garish fetishes of the chapel scream for attention of their own under a rainbow of Christmas lights.
Outside there is more music under the shade of the tree. It comes from a man playing a wata. The wata is a diamond-shaped box attached to a wooden arm with a cross-piece at the end. A single string is stretched from the cross-piece to the base of the box and the musician is furiously scraping this with a bow as his fingers trip up and down the arm. He produces surprisingly complex music from such a simple instrument, a little like an Irish jig, and his efforts are rewarded by the nacfas that admirers plaster on his face. I can't bring myself to lick a nacfa so I stuff a note into his collar instead while he studiously avoids eye contact and continues to play.
The Madonna has disappeared and the crowd starts to flow, forming a double ring around the main space, along the line of the trees. A procession starts along the track formed by the trees and the crowd. Each Catholic church around Keren has sent representatives who chant, dance and bang drums as their group moves along the route. They are all uniformed in some way, most soberly dressed in plain colours. Many of them sing solemnly then suddenly burst into rapture as the drummer at their head jumps about beating a heavy rhythm. There are nuns too, and small children in traditional dress. The most colourful are the Nara girls; red and gold dresses set off by the complex colourful bead patterns in their hair. The priests come next in their white robes trimmed with gold, carrying ornate sigils of office such as incense burners and filigree staffs. In the middle of the priests, carried on a plush platform and shaded by several of the gilded parasols is the statue of the Virgin, looking compassionate but unimpressed by all the attention, perhaps even a little patronising (if that is a the correct word for such a career mother).
Following the priests are the local dignitaries, from the Mayor of Keren down. Ironically, most of these VIPs are muslim. In fact it is encouraging to see the three major religions of Eritrea joining up in this way.
Three times around the crowd they march and dance and chant. Few people move from the crowd in that time and it is impossible to leave the inner circle where I find myself. After the third time, the ring breaks up and we make our way home. Back to the town to meet Jo and Greg then on to Isak and Barhed's to eat the rest of the goat he slaughtered the night before.
Next day, Jo and I are round at Nigusse's house for a lunch invitation. (Nigusse is a teacher at the Secondary School who I am helping to learn to teach I.T.) He lays on an impressive spread; sewa, injera, chicken in silsi with hard-boiled eggs (a rare delicacy here, surpisingly considering that most compounds keep chickens, and absolutely delicious). By the time we leave, our stomachs are full and our hearts are happy after a fun, lively conversation with Nigusse, his brother and sister, and their mother.
The weekend has been a timely reminder of how effortlessly generous Eritrean people can be, and an antidote to the worm of resentment that was wriggling about in my gut.
A different type of worm is wriggling about in Jo's gut. She is suffering from diarrhoea and stays in Keren for the next few days, firstly because she feels unwell then because the bus service is overloaded by the crowds of people leaving Keren to return to their homes.
Stoned
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It's not just the kids from the villages that throw stones. A barbecue at Brendan and Adrienne's in Asmara on Saturday night. Wine, sausages, beer, steaks, gin and kebede (a cordial made from soaking flower petals in water), Brendan and Adrienne's wedding music selection (they got married just before they started VSO two years back) and a vibrant mix of VSOs, Eritrean colleagues and friends, and other NGOs.
Later in the evening, the drinks have started to take over and the dancing has kicked in. Eritrean shoulder shrugging and Western awkward hip-jiggling. Until a big crash gets everyone's attention. Somebody picks up the object that had been thrown: a stone as big as a fist that hit the bars across the window of one of the rooms. It must have just missed several people, if it had hit someone it would have hurt them seriously. After peering over the wall next door and looking along the roof we can see no-one so we continue dancing.
Two more stones come over that evening. Despite looking next door and searching outside the compound we don't manage to find the culprits and finally the party fizzles out. The Eritreans amongst us apologise and try to explain that this isn't typical of their country. The rest of us know that and reassure them. In any case it is late and we have all had enough to drink and enough of a good time. Cowardly vandals haven't spoilt our fun.
But they have got me diving back into my own resentful thoughts.
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I wake up at 5.30. There's no water so I take a bucketful from the barrel and squat in a wide, shallow bowl, soaping my body then rinsing using a small plastic jug. My bath.
Before I start to wash I light the kerosene burner for tea; eight wicks around a central column just big enough for the kettle, with a wheel control to raise and lower the wicks. The smell of burning kerosene wafts through the house. When I finish my wash the kettle is boiled so I tip a small quantity of leaves into the strainer and pour through them into a little glass cup. In Eritrea I generally drink my tea weak without milk or sugar so I pour half a cup through the leaves then top up with plain water.
The water from the wash joins the old dish-water from yesterday in the 'dirty' bucket. I'll use this to flush the toilet. The bucket stinks: I will clean it out with bleach one day soon.
While the tea cools to drinking temperature I visit the shop next door to the compound to see if there's any bread today. I'm in luck and return with two fresh rolls. I squat on my favourite stool -- very roughly cut wooden stumps slotted together and upholstered with twine -- and chop a couple of bananas into the open rolls, then spread a thin layer of jam to complete the meal.
Sitting outside my rooms, on the verandah. Dust has swirled whirlpool patterns that overlay the black and white stars of the tiles. Through the rough, corroded cement circles decorating the verandah wall I can see the emaciated back of Mama Gabriella's forsaken puppy. The poor thing is underfed and brutally treated; a plaything for her little nephew who pulls the dog about while the other members of the family kick it if it comes near. Rosina, Mama Gabriella's daughter, has left it here because it barks at evryone in her compound. I've tried to explain that it barks at them because they kick it but she ignored me. It is sick with hunger but refuses any food I offer it. Ticks hang bloated from its fur.
Over the wall I can see the chickens pecking fussily for tidbits and insects. One of the chickens is sick and sits just moving its beak, opening and closing silently it looks like it is gasping for air. The three ducks wander from one side of the compound to the other and back again, the two females langourously pursued by the male, his ugly red-blotched head waving in seduction. Meanwhile the wind brings dust, spinning into a haze. The sun is a liquid mirage beyond the hills.
The Neem tree in the next-door compound is full of rich leaves and the yellow smudge of weaver birds. They fill the air with their coarse song; the sound of a finger rubbed along a stretched balloon. Beyond, a donkey brays desperately. Like a baby's cry, it's impossible to ignore and heartbreaking to hear. The occasional cockerel competes with the early morning call of the delivery van that brings rocks to a neighbour's new wall. When the rocks are unloaded the ground shakes and thunder fills the air.
The smell of the morning is the smell of smoke and dust. Dung rises up on the warming air and mingles with burning charcoal. Coffee is a major part of the culture here but, unlike in Europe, it is not a morning habit. Coffee and the accompanying incense and popcorn are midday and evening smells.
Hafti Gabriella is up and about, heating charcoal to start on the day's cooking. Her little girl Fedehawit calls over to me, "Gabn! Gabn!" and I wave back. I'm sure she knows how to pronounce my name properly. She nurtures her cuteness like the commodity it is.
I'm reading a book, but actually I'm watching the sights, listening to the sounds and picking up the smells. Breakfast finished and teeth cleaned, I pack up for work and set off on my bike with a smile on my face.
The Neem Tree
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The Neem tree was imported from its native India. It is becoming very popular on this continent for several reasons. It is an evergreen and grow quickly and vigorously despite the poor soil and dry, hot climate. It produces a natural insecticide that is said to disturb the nervous systems and inhibit the growth of insects, most importantly the mosquito. It might well work because we have had very few mosquitos on my compound and there's a Neem tree growing next door.
Finally, and most importantly, it is reputed to have amazing medical properties. The leaves, fruit, seeds, bark and roots are said to cure ailments such as psoriasis, lesions, blood poisoning, elephantiasis, caries, most sexually transmitted diseases, cancer, stomach disorders, diarrhoea and dysentry. It is used extensively in traditional ayurvedic medicine in India and there is research published in Eritrea to encourage its use.
One use that is discouraged but widespread is among prostitutes. Parts of the tree are mashed down and taken by women who have become pregnant. In this form and quantity, it is a powerful poison and encourages the abortion of the foetus. It is a fine judgement however, because too much can also kill the mother. Even the "right" amount carries a big risk and will make the woman very sick.
One of my friends tells me that abortion is illegal in Eritrea except where the life of the mother is threatened. Many women, not just prostitutes, risk their lives with a potion from the Neem tree.
Liberation Weekend
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Liberation Weekend. 21st to 24th May. The biggest party of the year.
I'm going to Asmara on Friday afternoon. Thursday night, Isak invites me round for coffee. I'm grateful because the compound is filling up with clucking women. They have all gathered to make injera and other food for the next day, when they will mourn the passing of Mama Gabriella's son. Gabriella is in America visiting other relatives at the moment (I love the thought of her wandering around the beaches and shopping malls of California -- her only English before she left was "Thankee") so it is down to her daughter Rosina to organise the commemoration of the day that he died in the border conflict in 2000. Clucking women, burning charcoal, boisterous children. It's too much to bear after a day at the school so I am happy to go for a little peace and quiet at Isak's. Isak comes to collect me. He's been to celebrate the first birthday of a friend's child (it is rare to celebrate birthdays beyond the first. Jo theorises that it's because the first year is the most dangerous that its completion is celebrated). I ask him is he has eaten, intending to cook for myself if he has -- but he says that he hasn't had any food since lunchtime. We sit chatting over coffee for a few hours. By the time it gets to about 9 o'clock I'm very hungry but it is then that Isak tells me that Barhed is too tired to cook tonight. He has eaten enough for the day. But I bloody well haven't! I don't mind that they don't feed me, I just wish I'd known earlier! I hasten home with a runble in my belly.
When I get to the house after weaving through the clucking women I put on some water and start boiling some pasta. Just when it's ready Rosina knocks on my door with some zigni and injera. So the pasta is redundant now. The zigni knocks my socks off with its heat and I go to bed with a sore stomach.
I wake up with a sore stomach and get ready for work. Rosina knocks again and offers more zigni for breakfast. I can't face all that spice so early in the morning so I lie that I've already eaten. So I leave for work hungry and with indigestion.
In the afternoon more zigni is plied upon me, as well as dlot. I really don't like dlot so I pick at tiny pieces until the others around the table finish the plate. At the same time I sip tiny drops of foul soupy sewa. I leave about 1 o'clock with more stomach-ache.
After giving up on the buses and trying for ages to hitch a lift, I finally get to Asmara about 6pm and meet Jo in Vittorio's coffee bar. The main street, Liberation Avenue, is closed to traffic and people are just starting to pluck up courage to walk on the tarmac. Every shop and business has an Eritrean flag mounted outside. Mosy of the windows have stencilled messages of congratulation. There's the expectant air of an approaching party.
We book into the Freedom pension, appropriately enough thenweave through the back streets to the Sun Pizzeria for a doughy but delicious slice.
Coming out back onto Liberation Avenue in the dark and the street is now full of people. Walking up the road we come across a stage. A male singer performs Tigrinya songs while a bog crowd watches. At the front of the crowd people are dancing in the shoulder-shrugging, foot-shuffling Tigrinya style. The stage is invaded from time to time by fans who stuff Nakfas down the singer's top. He manages to ignore them completely. Next up is another singer and his band, accompanied by a group of dancers. This music is much more lively and inventive, with a flavour of the music further south in the continent. I think it might be Kunama, but I'm not sure. They all wear white skirts and their bodies are much more mobile than the jerky Tigrinyans. This time members of the audience jump onto the stage to dance with the performers, dodging the bouncer who tries her best to manhandle them off again. It's the chaotic cebration of all the best concerts and Jo and I are having a great time. It's a little odd that, although the crowd are really enjoying themselves, there is no clapping between numbers. People clap along with songs but it is rare for people to clap in appreciation here. Clapping is usually used to get attention in cafes or bars so perhaps that is why.
Walking a little further through the crowd we come across VSOs Brendan, Adrienne and Danny so we head off to the City Park for a beer. New Asmara Stout. It's not much like any stout that I know and I suspect that it's just the normal lager with added colour and flavouring but I quite like the burnt caramel taste.
Adi Qala
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The next day we get on the bus to Adi Qala. This is a small town about 5 Km inside the Temporary Security Zone, so only about 20 Km from the Ethiopian border.
We book into the Gash Hotel, a couple of blocks off the main road. It's a nice place: the rooms line up on one side of a courtyard, most of which is taking up by a huge hole where construction is being carried out, but there is seating nearer the bar that is shaded by a promiscuous passion fruit vine, green new fruit in abundance with the occasional ripe yellow globe showing through the thick foliage. Passion fruit is not native to Eritrea but this is a welcome sight in a land usually restricted to the beles cactus (prickly pear) and guava trees. The staff are friendly too. "John" shows us our room then asks when we'll want a shower so he can turn the water on.
We walk down the main road and continue out of town for about 20 minutes, past a U.N. encampment; a deserted town of tents. We reach the edge of the escarpment. Here the land drops away sharply into a deep valley that opens out onto the plains and hills that form the border between the two quarreling countries. The road continues down into the valley, zigzagging dizzyingly until it reaches the floor then running parallel with the dry river bed. This road used to carry trade and traffic between Eritrea and Ethiopia. Now there is a solitary bus heading for the border villages. Mist shrouds the road about halfway into the distance and the mountains beyond are pale ghosts.
I heard a story about the river bed. An Eritrean decided to escape the country. He travelled to Adi Qala and then walked to the Italian Mausoleum. He knew that a river marked the boundary between Eritrea and Ethiopia. Looking out from the escarpment he could see a river and a village just beyond so he made his way down the slope very carefully. Once at the bottom he checked along the dry river bed for soldiers. When he was sure there were none he ran across the river bed and up the slope to the other side. He walked casually into the village he had seen. When he came across a villager he explained with glee how he had managed to escape from Eritrea and asked if he could be taken to the local official. The man grabbed him and called the police, who carted him away to prison. He'd got the wrong river: the river that marks the boundary is further off in the distance.
While we are enjoying the view a boy of about 17 joins us. Sami is his name. Sami speaks very good English for a boy of his grade and he is very careful to pronounce the words correctly. He's a pleasant guy and it's nice to while away the time chatting with him.
We drop our stuff at the Gash and head off to the Tourist Hotel for a beer and a couple of games of cards -- another leafy courtyard and a cheery atmosphere -- then we return to the Gash where John tells us he has saved some pasta. I'd asked earlier if they had any so he saved some for when we got back. A nice guy.
Next day we get up fairly early to walk the 6 Km or so to the Italian Mausoleum. Branching right from the main road we trudge along bare open farmland. This is probably the most boring landscape I've seen in this country: scrubby fields with occasional rocks and very rare trees over completely flat land. Ahead we can see a rise. When we get there we climb the path to enter a small village and beyond the village we can see the Mausoleum. One of the village kids wants us to give him some Nakfa to open the padlock on the gate but it's not the mausoleum that we're here to see. To the left of the mausoleumis the edge of the world. An almost sheer drop down onto the valley floor. Lokking across, we can see a wide open plain framed in the background by the high hills of Ethiopia. It's lovely and very impressive. A couple of shepherd men squat talking as they look out over the view.
The kid who asked for the money comes up to us with his friends, a big bunch. Jo shows them the binoculars we're using. The money kid is the biggest and the boss of thebunch so he gets first turn. He's rapt. He can't believe how thay bring things closer and stares and stares in fascination, turning the binoculars the wrong way round and laughing at the effect. Then he lets the other kids play. The binoculars get passed around the whole gang, girls last when they finally pluck up the courage to join in. They all handle the binoculars very carefully and ensure that everyone gets a turn. It's a real pleasure to watch.
Finally, we get up and, after meeting the boss kid's adult brother and giving him a go, we say goodbye to the children. Further down the track from the village some more kids join us. These are different. They are demanding and irritating and keep asking us for my water or Jo's biscuits. At first we talk to them but they start to get on our nerves so we carry on walking and ignore their shouts. Now they are getting very boisterous. One of the kids deliberately knocks the bottle out of my hand, twice. After telling them to stop we move on. But now they are starting to throw stones. It's common in this country to throw a stone to get someone's attention so I assume that is what they are doing. But then the stones start arriving higher and more frequently. The little buggers are throwing stones AT us! Twice we turn around and shout at them . They back off, but only far enough so that we can't catch them. We have to put up with hurtling stones until we reach a the curve in the path where people are loading up with water. They wouldn't dare throw stones with Eritrean adults around.
On the bus at a little past midday for a surprising simple return to Asmara.
Celebrations in Asmara
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Asmara is noisy. There are loudspeakers posted along the length of Liberation Avenue blaring out Dimtsi Hafash (the national radio station). We book back into the Freedom Pension then head out for some food. The plan is to have a little drink then eat at the Blue Nile restaurant, one of my favourite places in Asmara. As we reach Liberation Avenue, we can see that the streets are lined with crowds of people. The road is cordoned off and there's a parade passing by. Colourful floats pass us in a full-on carnival. There are ethnic dancers and musicians, whole football teams kicking balls around the road, peopl in wheelchairs that have been made up to look like road diggers, floats sponsored by Eritrean companies and the ubiquitous Coca Cola. From time to time a group marches by shooting fireworks from sticks they are carrying that must surely be illegal in Britain. With the lights strung across the lampposts glittering, the whole thing is a very enjoyable spectacle and we stop and start along the way to the Blue Nile as things catch our eyes.
Next day is Liberation Day itself. Modern Snack Bar for a breakfast of yoghurt and honey for Jo and Ricotta and honey for me. While we are in there and huge shadow passes across the street outside and an almighty boom announces the passing of a fighter jet very, very close to the ground. We learn later that the jet was dropping congratulatory leaflets over the city. (One did the same in Keren and nearly hit a telegraph wire). Wander round the city, take in a photo exhibition and take a few photos of our own then meet up with a few people at Bar Royale. Moving on from there, Jo and I are joined by Greg from Adi Teklezan and we sit in the sheltered verandah of "Joe's Bar" playing Scrabble and drinking the new beer. A man comes up to us in the bar and announces that he is drunk because Eritrea is free. We congratulate him and he moves on, smiling.
Change of Plan
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Jo and I have talked. We've talked and talked and talked. Neither of us is enjoying their placement nor do we think that what we are doing is of much benefit to ourselves or the country. That is not to say that the program here is a waste of time, just that there are problems and I personally would feel that the only reason to stay would be to continue this lifestyle. I don't think it would be very ethical to stay just to prolong my holiday in Eritrea and Jo and I both want to get on with building our life together in England.
And so, briefly, we have decided to leave. We will be returning to England soon.
Now it is difficult. All the good things fade into the background, all the bad things come to the fore. I can't help dwelling on the irritating aspects of the country: the cat-calls from the kids, stone throwing, bureaucracy, the tendency for Eritreans to say anything to keep you happy or fob you off, even if it's an outright lie, the out-and-out fight to get onto a bus that has spaces for everyone, people barging in front of me while I'm asking for something in a shop, the smell of shit everywhere, the vicious treatment of animals, the abysmal service in cafes and restaurants. All of these things have always irritated me. Most of them I could ignore when I had in mind that I would be living here for two years. Now, however, I am thinking about life away from Eritrea and away from all that and I can't wait. All those things now loom over every day and I can't ignore them any more. So each day is a real chore now. The journey to the school is a gauntlet to be run, each new encounter with an Eritrean tenses me up as I prepare for the usual inane questions in poor English about the "condition" (nobody amongst us ex-pats has figured out if that means the weather, the environment, the people, the dispute with Ethiopia, or something else). It wears you down having to reply several times in slow, simple English to the same dull questions. (Alright, I should have learnt more Tigrigna.)
These things have always been there, and every country has its equivalent annoyances (in England, for example: rain, strangers not talking to you, consumerism, up-their-own-arse Londoners). It's just that I'll soon be leaving and I feel a little guilty about it and this is one way for my mind to justify the decision. It's the right decision for other reasons, not the irritations I've mentioned, but they help my head feel more comfortable.
Mariam Dearit
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On the 29th May the festival of Mariam Dearit is held at the baobab tree shrine. The night bfore, Isak asks me if I want to help him slaughter a goat but I decline: I'm worried that I might not do it swiftly enough or correctly and cause the animal to suffer. Instead, I drink coffee then eat the blood and some dlot before going to bed. I get up early for a Saturday morning to walk down and take a look.
Keren is full of people. The cafes are frantic and there are minibuses everywhere to ferry people to the shrine. Larger buses pass through carrying pilgrims from other towns and villages. The air is thick with exhaust fumes and sweat.
I follow the crowd along the road leading to the shrine. When we get close to the gate, the crowd thickens, coagulating around stalls selling kitsch religious posters. These are beyond gaudy. Primary colours and a cartoon aesthetic combine to hilarious effect. All of them are terribly painted but some tip over into genius. As well as the icon stalls, there are others. Young boys collect bets against a spinning number wheel and attract the largest crowds while priests charge one Nacfa for a kiss of their hand and a blessing. They stand in the sun shaded by gilded umbrellas looking upright, regal and disdainful of the crowd pushing around them.
Inside the gate a guard checks all the Eritreans' bags but waves me through. I'm feeling facetious so I pointedly walk up to him and offer my bag for him to check. I could be a terrorist too you know.
The crowd opens out into the space and cool of the line of trees and grass that leads down to the shrine. People are sitting picnicking and chatting or milling about amiably. Isak, Barhed and Isak's mother, Oqba, are among them. Closer to the tree the crowd congeals again around the statue of the Madonna. The statue is entirely black. Not African in its features, in fact it is a typical representation in all its caucasian serenity in black resin or stone. Not for the first time I wonder that even here there is never a hint of Africa or the Middle East in Mary's features. She is a cultural import, just like Coca Cola only less popular. Hands from the crowd reach out to stroke the effigy.
Behind the statue and its crowd another, larger group is gathered at the entrance of the baobab. A man is standing on a platform passing around a mesherefet (a circular mat of woven grass, the smaller versions are used to fan the charcoal burner -- the fournello -- that heats the jebena). Onto this mat people from the crowd place money and boxes of candles.
Behind the tree is the partial construction of the new church. Only the chapel is completed while scaffolding and tarpauling extend the structure across the width of the area. Underneath this there are two devotions taking place. On the left, furthest from the chapel, coptic priests stand in a circle chanting. They pull intricate wooden crosses out of their pockets from time to time and kiss them. The chant moves around the circle, the next priest starting before the previous one has finished, overlapping and harmonising, while the faithful look on or stand listening with eyes closed. At regular intervals the chant stops and a muttered "amen" ripples through the congregation. At the other end, in the chapel there is a choir of teenage children. They are singing sweetly, accompanied by traditional instruments in front of neat rows of solemn devotees. Behind them the garish fetishes of the chapel scream for attention of their own under a rainbow of Christmas lights.
Outside there is more music under the shade of the tree. It comes from a man playing a wata. The wata is a diamond-shaped box attached to a wooden arm with a cross-piece at the end. A single string is stretched from the cross-piece to the base of the box and the musician is furiously scraping this with a bow as his fingers trip up and down the arm. He produces surprisingly complex music from such a simple instrument, a little like an Irish jig, and his efforts are rewarded by the nacfas that admirers plaster on his face. I can't bring myself to lick a nacfa so I stuff a note into his collar instead while he studiously avoids eye contact and continues to play.
The Madonna has disappeared and the crowd starts to flow, forming a double ring around the main space, along the line of the trees. A procession starts along the track formed by the trees and the crowd. Each Catholic church around Keren has sent representatives who chant, dance and bang drums as their group moves along the route. They are all uniformed in some way, most soberly dressed in plain colours. Many of them sing solemnly then suddenly burst into rapture as the drummer at their head jumps about beating a heavy rhythm. There are nuns too, and small children in traditional dress. The most colourful are the Nara girls; red and gold dresses set off by the complex colourful bead patterns in their hair. The priests come next in their white robes trimmed with gold, carrying ornate sigils of office such as incense burners and filigree staffs. In the middle of the priests, carried on a plush platform and shaded by several of the gilded parasols is the statue of the Virgin, looking compassionate but unimpressed by all the attention, perhaps even a little patronising (if that is a the correct word for such a career mother).
Following the priests are the local dignitaries, from the Mayor of Keren down. Ironically, most of these VIPs are muslim. In fact it is encouraging to see the three major religions of Eritrea joining up in this way.
Three times around the crowd they march and dance and chant. Few people move from the crowd in that time and it is impossible to leave the inner circle where I find myself. After the third time, the ring breaks up and we make our way home. Back to the town to meet Jo and Greg then on to Isak and Barhed's to eat the rest of the goat he slaughtered the night before.
Next day, Jo and I are round at Nigusse's house for a lunch invitation. (Nigusse is a teacher at the Secondary School who I am helping to learn to teach I.T.) He lays on an impressive spread; sewa, injera, chicken in silsi with hard-boiled eggs (a rare delicacy here, surpisingly considering that most compounds keep chickens, and absolutely delicious). By the time we leave, our stomachs are full and our hearts are happy after a fun, lively conversation with Nigusse, his brother and sister, and their mother.
The weekend has been a timely reminder of how effortlessly generous Eritrean people can be, and an antidote to the worm of resentment that was wriggling about in my gut.
A different type of worm is wriggling about in Jo's gut. She is suffering from diarrhoea and stays in Keren for the next few days, firstly because she feels unwell then because the bus service is overloaded by the crowds of people leaving Keren to return to their homes.
Stoned
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It's not just the kids from the villages that throw stones. A barbecue at Brendan and Adrienne's in Asmara on Saturday night. Wine, sausages, beer, steaks, gin and kebede (a cordial made from soaking flower petals in water), Brendan and Adrienne's wedding music selection (they got married just before they started VSO two years back) and a vibrant mix of VSOs, Eritrean colleagues and friends, and other NGOs.
Later in the evening, the drinks have started to take over and the dancing has kicked in. Eritrean shoulder shrugging and Western awkward hip-jiggling. Until a big crash gets everyone's attention. Somebody picks up the object that had been thrown: a stone as big as a fist that hit the bars across the window of one of the rooms. It must have just missed several people, if it had hit someone it would have hurt them seriously. After peering over the wall next door and looking along the roof we can see no-one so we continue dancing.
Two more stones come over that evening. Despite looking next door and searching outside the compound we don't manage to find the culprits and finally the party fizzles out. The Eritreans amongst us apologise and try to explain that this isn't typical of their country. The rest of us know that and reassure them. In any case it is late and we have all had enough to drink and enough of a good time. Cowardly vandals haven't spoilt our fun.
But they have got me diving back into my own resentful thoughts.
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