Massawa is sleeping

I finally had enough of waiting in Asmara and decided to head down to the coast at Massawa.

On the bus on the way down we stop halfway and some Cubanas join us on the bus - standing for the second half of the journey. I overhear them speaking in Spanish and so I start up a conversation. They are here for their compulsory service - you have to go and work overseas before you can practice as a doctor in Cuba. They are not the thinnest woman in the world and are suffering from the heat, one of them says to me "I leave in September and I will be happy if I never think of Africa again". (I suddenly think of a global pecking order - Cuba is poor but Eritrea is even lower on the list) Somehow despite their measly salaries and the complete lack of food they have somehow managed to maintain their voluptuous figures which fill out the tight trackies and jeans they have on in true Latina style.

I arrive in the mainland part of Massawa and then take a mini-van across the causeways, past the tank monument, to Massawa proper. It is hard to believe that during the 1930's the Italians turned the port in to the busiest in East Africa, building on a rich and mixed architectural heritage from the various peoples who have lived and traded here, including Egyptian, Turkish, Arabs and Portuguese. Sadly during Eritrea's fight for independence the Ethiopians bombed Massawa to bits (as revenge for the rebels seizing control of the town from the Ethiopians) and this is what you see today. Many buildings lie in ruins - huge holes in their roofs, bulging walls sometimes more horizontal then vertical and piles of concrete rubble strewn all about. During the short period of peace after independence some big shiny hotels were built on the shore but they are now all closed as the restarting of hostilities has almost killed all tourism in Eritrea.

I wandered about in the ruins and managed to find a hotel that had a room - the building was a huge three storey 1930's construction, which at its peak must have had thirty or forty rooms - it now had three. All the rest were boarded up, the roof have caved in across a couple, a stairway had fallen down, and everything is covered in a think layer of dust. The owner has managed to salvage a few rooms with the creative use of plywood, but even these are barely habitable. The other three hotels I have seen are all exactly the same, once grand but now falling down, a few others are completely closed.

I finally manage to get in the water and go for a swim. The water is incredibly refreshing, as it washes away the sweat that 40 degree plus temperatures have generated. There is no beach, and their is no one swimming. The water is clear but stays shallow for as far as I can swim out. It starts to get late and the hills in the background start glowing a soft red, hence the Red Sea.

On my way back from the swim I am walking along the street and a car slows and the window slowly slides down and I fill a rush of cold, air-conditioned air.
The driver asks me if I want a ride and I explain I am just walking around. He is surprised that I am a tourist in Eritrea, and clearly wants to talk. I tell him,
"It is very quiet here, Massawa is sleeping"
"It is because of the war", he replies
"The war is finished", I say
"No, no. War with fighting is good, it finishes. War with words is bad, it never finishes", he corrects me.
I ask him where can I find something to eat and he tells me where the best (only ?) fish in town is served before biding me farewell and driving off.

When I return to my hotel I find that it is full with guests, about 10 or 15 high school students from Dekemhare have showed up for the long weekend. They are finishing school in the next week and preparing themselves for what most call hell by drinking as much as they can over the weekend. All students who want to study after high school in Eritrea are sent away to a huge camp in the desert where they all live together for a year being brainwashed. It is hot, conditions are harsh and by all reports it is very hellish. Those who don't want to or can't study are sent to an even worse place for their education. The look in the eyes of these young people, a mixture of fear, dread, frustration and dire need to squeeze some small enjoyment out of life was very disturbing. They stay up all night drinking, listening to loud music and dancing - I can't begrudge their last chance at a little enjoyment. They are still going at six am when I get up to go for a swim. Again, I swim alone.

I spend two more days in Massawa and don't see another tourist. A few other students are in town but for a long weekend it is very very quiet. I wonder what it is like during the week. My dream of taking a boat across to Yemen is completely dashed, I can't imagine the last time a boat sailed out of this harbour.

I head back to the mainland to the bus station which is easy to find because next to it sits a huge Andronov cargo plane. I imagine that the Ethiopians left town so quickly that they didn't have a chance to get this behemoth off the ground. It has been turned it to a restaurant, but in a country with very little food there was no sign of even a menu let alone a meal. I get on the bus to leave Massawa feeling like I am leaving the twilight zone.