Eritrea : between wars
I went to Eritrea twice—in 1995 & 1996. This was a few years after it achieved independence. It was also a few years before it went back to war with Ethiopia over a useless colonial-era border dispute. In this brief moment between tragedy and disaster, Eritrea was a beacon of light in Africa. It seemed destined to blossom under a new brand of leadership emerging in the wake of the Cold War. Democracy and human rights were sure to flourish. This was Eritrea's time.
For me, as a young idealist, my experiences in this Red Sea sliver were fantastic. The people were so proud of their hard-won freedom. It radiated on their faces, it shown in the way they held their heads high. In retrospect, that time was utterly unique. Everyone who was there at the time, whether local or foreign, could feel the optimism. The future seemed so bright. Indeed, the mid-90s were Eritrea's all-too-brief moment in the sun. May it soon return.
Asmara - art deco capital city
Asmara, the high-elevation capital of Eritrea, bears the distinctive marks of its colonial planners, the Italians. Tree-lined avenues with broad promenades for evening strolls and curb-side cafes make for a pleasant and relaxed atmosphere. The Italians are long-gone, shrugged off during World War II, but their cuisine, their espresso machines, and their architectural sensibilities remain. I'm still quite nostalgic about the wonderful times I spent there, if only because it was a place brimming with confidence, allowing people to show the best of themselves.
What I mean is that, during the evenings when my buddy Samson and I would mosey up and down Independence Avenue—the broad thoroughfare in the middle of the city—everyone greeted everybody and took the time to chat for a spell. It was unhurried, genuine and warm. It was as if everybody was still basking in the glow of their achievement of liberation, nodding to each other in recognition that they had done it. It was an incredible vibe, nothing I had ever witnessed before (especially not in Ethiopia where everyone seemed so miserable).
My days, as a consequence, were unhurried as well. I made friends with a guy, Samson, who lived with his mother in the same building I stayed at. My hostel cost me a whopping $1 per night. Since Samson was my age and lived on the floor below, he got me acquainted with the city. We cruised around greeting friends, watching old B-grade movies at the cinema across the street, buying gelati from street vendors, tucking into a local treat called fata, and chilling at the pizza restaurants and cafes. He introduced me to lots of people, some who remain friends to this day.
When Samson was busy at work at the Francescana Printing Press (of the massive Catholic Church on Independence Avenue), I often spent my time at the University of Eritrea. It was a rather small institution, still struggling to get to its feet in some ways, but the students and professors had an energy about them. They seemed to sense that this was an era of possibility. I was able to chat with the students, many of whom spoke excellent English, and some of the professors of literature. Eritrea was just beginning to develop a national literature of its own so I read as much as I could.
I also splurged and paid the $5 per month for a gym membership. The gym consisted of a medium-sized room lined with mirrors and littered with vehicle spares on a cold concrete floor. Actually, the whole idea was ingenious. The owner had welded together tractor cogs onto bars to make barbells and dumbells. He also used them as weights for pulley machines for doing various "pull-down" exercises.
Almost everyday I spent some time with Samson and his mother in their flat. Though she couldn't speak English, Samson facilitated conversations and introduced me to Amharic and Tigrinya, the other languages that they spoke. (Samson's father is Italian, thus they could also speak some of that too.) One of the cool things about Ethio-Eritrean hospitality is the famed "coffee ceremony" which involves the long slow brew of fresh dark coffee.
Samson's mother made coffee everyday, inspiring conversation through the relaxed mood that would overcome us. She started by taking fresh coffee beans, roasting them over a small coal fire in a pan, then grinding them up and putting it in a kettle with hot water added later.
She'd let the coffee brew for awhile, then stuff the spout with a dense clump of tiny branches, so as to filter the grounds out when she poured the strong hot shots into thimble glasses. She sweetened it ahead of time, making it delicious from the first sip. The coffee ceremony is easily one of the greatest cultural inventions in the world!
Massawa - Red Sea jewel
The trip from Asmara to Massawa on the Red Sea is a perilous and twisty rapid descent down an escarpment to the coastal desert. Trucks litter the ravines next to the cliff-edged road. But what a pleasant surprise when you get there. Little islands connected by causeways make up residential Massawa, with lovely beaches stretching beyond on both sides. Both times I went I stayed on the main island in a little hostel of sort. There was a vibey night life centered around modest cafes and restaurants. It had yet to become much of a tourist destination though.
But the area surrounding Massawa can be fairly unforgiving for the unprepared. Most of the locals were Muslims who eked out a meager existence with their camels near water wells.
They were settled groups, however, not nomadic, as their proximity to the Massawa ensured that supplies were always available. Sadly, the mosque (shown here) was badly damaged during the war because the Ethiopian jets used it as a target for establishing the range and accuracy of their weapons. Bullet-holes riddle the structure.
Nakfa - Frontlines of the Liberation
I travelled as much as I could around the countryside to places like Karen, Agordatti, and Nakfa. This last place achieved national fame as the frontline of the liberation war where intense battles were fought and where a fascinating guerilla community developed. (The Eritrean currency, which was formerly the Ethiopian birr, is called the nakfa in memory of its legendary history.)
According to journalists and former fighters, the hills and valleys around Nakfa hid numerous bunkers where schools, hospitals, and small-scale industries operated. It was even here that Ethiopian prisoners-of-war were actually taught how to read and write by their Eritrean captors! This bestowal of literacy on the peasant fighters by the Eritreans is said to have helped sapped the will of the Ethiopian conscripts called up by Mengistu to fight them. Many claim that the rival fighters often became friends while the politicians remained enemies.
In the mid-90s, these heroic stories of sacrifice, valor, and generosity were already becoming legends, lore for the next generation to chew on. Foreigners like me ate it up. In Nakfa, I visited these underground hospitals, schools, and factories, astounded by the ingenuity that these people had shown during their 30 year war.
But from what I read today and hear from friends in Eritrea, the glory days of liberation fighting have been forgotten due to the ceaseless border war that is wasting the country's youth and energy. However, I do feel privileged to have been able to visit the country during its brief moment in the sun.
