Buch lesen: «I Didn’t Do It For You: How the World Used and Abused a Small African Nation»

CHAPTER 1 The City Above the Clouds

‘That thin air had a dream-like texture, matching the porcelain-blue of the sky, with every breath and every glance he took in a deep anaesthetising tranquillity.’

Lost Horizon, James Hilton

Whenever I land in Asmara, a novel read in adolescence comes to mind. It tells the story of a small plane whose pilot turns hijacker. Crash-landing in a remote part of the Himalayas, he dies of his injuries before he can explain his bizarre actions to the dazed passengers. They emerge from the wreckage to be greeted by a wizened old monk, who leads them to a citadel hidden above the peaks, a secret city whose existence has never been recorded on any map. They are welcomed to Shangri-La, where, breathing the chill air that wafts from the glaciers and surveying the world from a tremendous height, they begin reassessing their lives with the same calm detachment and cosmic clarity as the monks. But as time goes by, they learn they must make a terrible choice. They can stay in Shangri-La and live forever, for their hosts have discovered something approaching the secret of eternal youth. Or they can plunge back into the hurly-burly of the life they knew and eventually die as ordinary mortals, grubbing around down on the plains.

Flying in from Cairo, where even during an early-morning stopover the air blasts radiator-hot through the open aircraft door, one always has the sense of landing in a capital located where, by rights, it has no place to be.

Even in the satellite photos Eritrea, a knobbly elongated triangle lying atop Ethiopia, its giant neighbour to the south, seems an inhospitable destination, a landscape still too raw for human habitation. The route the planes follow takes you over mile upon relentless mile of dun-coloured desolation, made beautiful only by the turquoise fringe where sand meets sea; a beauty that you know would evaporate if ever you ventured down to sea level to brave the suffocating heat. A spray of islands, the Dahlak, shows only the faintest dusting of green. The rolling coastal sands, which show up from outer space as a strip of pearly-pink, run from the port of Massawa north-west to the border of Sudan. To the south-east, where a long, thin finger of land points towards Djibouti, the rock turns a forbidding black. Volcanic lava flows have created a landscape grimmer than the surface of the moon. This is the infamous Danakil Depression, said to be the hottest place on earth, where summer temperatures touch heights feared by even the whippet-thin Afar tribesmen. Behind this flat coastal strip, the land billows up to form a magnificent escarpment, the ripples of hills deepening into jagged waves of dark rock, a giant crumple of mountain creased by empty ravines and bone-dry river beds. It is only in the triangle’s western corner, where Eritrean territory juts and bulges into northern Ethiopia, that rivers – the Gash and the Barka – flow all year round. Here in the western lowlands, the gradient finally levels off, wrinkles smooth away and the arid sands cede to the deep green that spells rain, the shade of trees, the blessing of crops.

But it is not the bleakness, but the altitude that makes Asmara’s location as improbable as that of Shangri-La. The Italians who colonized Eritrea at the tail end of the 19th century fled the stifling heat of the Red Sea by heading into the ether, up towards the kebessa, or central highlands. Coming in to land on the wide Hamasien plateau, there is none of the familiar routine of diving through a carpet of white fug to emerge in another, greyer reality. Defying the laws of gravity, planes bound for Asmara certainly go up, but to passengers aboard they barely seem to bother coming down. You hardly have time to register the neat concentric rings – like worm’s trails – left by farmers’ terracing, the rust-coloured plain, the long white scratches of roads, before the wheels hit the ground. At 7,600 ft – a mile and a half high – the capital lies at the same heady altitude as many of Europe’s lower ski stations. The crisp mountain air is so thin, landing pilots must slam on their brakes and then keep them, shrieking, in place, to prevent their aircraft overshooting the runway. Take-offs seem to go on forever, as the accelerating plane lumbers down the tarmac in search of air resistance, finally achieving just enough friction for the rules of aerodynamics to kick in before it careers into the long grass.

Go to the edge of the escarpment, on the outskirts of town, and you will find yourself on the lip of an abyss. You are at eye level with eagles that launch themselves like suicides into the void, leaping into a blue haze into which mountain peaks, far-off valleys and distant sea all blur. At this altitude, only the most boisterous clouds succeed in rising high enough to drift over the city. Pinned down by gravity, they form instead a sulky cumulus eiderdown that barely shoulders the horizon. So for much of the year, the sky above Asmara is clear blue – a delicate cornflower merging into a deep indigo that holds out the promise of outer space. In Western cities at night, the orange glow of street lamps washes out the stars. Asmara, where hotels issue rooms with 20-watt bulbs to keep overheads down, gives out so little light that the reclining crescent moon seems almost within reach at the bottom of the street, and the constellations glisten in your upturned face. When you fly out of the capital in the dark, it feels as though you have quit the earth to soar, like some half-bird, half-man creature from Greek mythology, straight into the Milky Way itself.

With so little between you and the sun, the light possesses an alpine sharpness, so bright it almost hurts, chapping lips and creasing faces. While you shiver in the underlying chill, your skin tans at breakneck speed. Locals handle the contrast in temperatures with a practised twitch of their white cotton shawls, while the outsider finds himself neurotically dressing and undressing as he moves from icy shade to scorching sun and back again. At midday, when the light beats so strongly it numbs the senses, colours are washed away, and the world becomes an over-exposed landscape of black and white. On the street, people become dark silhouettes: here an old woman, wrapped in a shemmah, hides below an umbrella, there a student walks in a familiar Eritrean attitude, exercise book brandished before him to shield his eyes. The light is so white it seems to etch the thinnest of black borders around everyday objects and carve their mark upon the retina, like a nuclear flash outlining a body against a wall.

Up on the plateau, lungs must labour a little to pump enough oxygen into the bloodstream. New arrivals tend to find that alcohol rushes disconcertingly quickly to the head. Down a few of the local Melotti beers here and you can stagger to bed as drunk as if you’d worked your way through a couple of bottles of wine. When combined with the constant awareness of the vertiginous fall on the outskirts of town, the rarefied air, some say, lends itself to a certain giddiness in temperament. ‘We’re at 2,500 metres and it’s my belief that those 2,500 metres have a lot to answer for,’ a Swiss expatriate told me, struggling to explain a national hot-headedness, a tendency to quick reactions and extreme measures. ‘The lack of oxygen, it has an effect on people’s brains. Maybe people here go a little bit crazy.’

Asmara itself is a giant monument to colonial folly. When it came to architecture, the Italians simply lost their heads. Outside the capital, the slopes are dotted with modest stone shacks and grass-roofed rondavels. But in Asmara, pride of Benito Mussolini’s short-lived second Roman empire, the architects of the 1930s unleashed the full, incongruous force of their Modernistic creativity.¹ Their cinemas were Art Deco palaces built for the worship of the glamorous gods of Hollywood, their streamlined apartment blocks paid tribute to the twin cult of speed and technological progress. Fascism’s architects designed petrol stations that looked like aircraft in mid-flight and office blocks that resembled space rockets surging into orbit. With port-hole windows and jutting prows, their factories conjured up visions of vast ocean liners cresting the waves, their shopping arcades curved around hillocks like locomotives shrieking round a turn.

These days, the vigorous designs have lost their clean-cut certainty. The pastel-coloured buildings, painted in the soft apricot, pink and pistachio tones of melting Neapolitan ice cream, are shabby, plaster peeling in great scabs from their exteriors. Red-eyed pigeons coo above broken water pipes and the rusted persiane shutters hang akilter in their grooves. Nonetheless, draped in billowing blankets of bougainvillea, scattered with red-blossomed flamboyants, doused in the purple petals of the jacaranda, Asmara is undoubtedly the most beautiful capital on the continent.

Its beauty has a sombre tinge, for it has been premised on tragedy. No enlightened conservationist ever set out to preserve Asmara from the over-excited developers who spoiled downtown Nairobi or turned Lagos into a tangled mess of motorways and bridges in the 1970s. Conflict kept Asmara locked in time, creating in the process an accidental architectural treasure. While entrepreneurs with more money than sense ripped the hearts out of other colonial African cities, the economic stagnation that came with Eritrea’s long war of secession against Ethiopia proved more effective than any neighbourhood campaign ever could at preserving Asmara’s pure lines.

Such stultification has bestowed a Toy Town dinkiness upon the capital, the city that time forgot. On my first visit, I felt as though I had walked into a world in which my Italian grandfather would have felt completely at home, an Italy I had only ever glimpsed in family photo albums, because it has ceased to exist in Europe. Perhaps the nostalgia of that borrowed memory went some way to explaining the sudden happiness that gripped me whenever I returned, as tangible as the aroma of berbere spices permeating the streets. The Fiat 500 bubble car, known affectionately as the Topolino, might have disappeared from Rome’s streets, but it still bowled valiantly – if rather slowly – along Asmara’s avenues. Asmarinos drove museum pieces not because they were admirers of classic cars but because, for decades, no new cars were imported. Every Asmara café served the same stubby brown bottles of unlabelled beer. Since expensive foreign lagers rarely reached these parts, why bother identifying the only brand in town? In the little barber shops old men wearing the same pinched Borsalino hats and woollen waistcoats that once hung in my grandfather’s closet exposed their jugulars to cut-throat razors, while their friends perched gossiping behind them. The term ‘blue-collar’ has become such an intellectual abstraction in the West, it gave me a jolt to see that workmen in Eritrea actually wore blue overalls. As for the white-collar business suits displayed in tailors’ dusty windows, they were as quaintly old-fashioned as the hand-painted shop signs, with their approximate, impressionistic English: ‘Fruit and Vagatables’, ‘Pinut Butter’, ‘Lubricunt’, ‘Draiving School’, ‘Computer Crush Course’.

Those who travel around Africa will be familiar with the mental game of ‘Spot the Colonial Inheritance’. Is that Angolan secretary’s failure to process your paperwork the result of Mediterranean inertia, fostered by the Portuguese, or a symptom of the bureaucratic obfuscation cultivated by a Marxist government? Is the bombast of a West African leader a legacy of a French love of words, or a modern version of the traditional African village palaver? Which colonial master left the deeper psychological mark: Britain, France, Portugal or Belgium? There are places where the colonial past seems to have left only the most cosmetic of traces on a resilient local culture, and places where the wounds inflicted seem beyond repair. In the river city of Kisangani, where I saw destitute Congolese camping in the mouldering villa built for the ruthless explorer Henry Stanley, rooms intended for pianos and chandeliers holding scores of families who washed out of buckets, I had a sense of a host body rejecting a badly-applied graft. White man’s culture had been imposed with such bullying force, its buildings had never appeared to uncomprehending locals more than meaningless hulks, as surreal and totemic as the motorbike helmet Che Guevara once saw being proudly sported by a tribal chieftain in the equatorial forest. In Eritrea, the opposite seems the case: the graft has taken – so well, indeed, that the new skin has acquired a lustre all its own. ‘So you’re half Italian, are you?’ Eritreans say when I mention my parentage. ‘Then half of you belongs here.’ At weekends, the plains around Asmara are dotted with groups of cyclists in indecently tight shorts who whiz past grazing goats: the Italians left behind one of their favourite sports. The twittering swallows dive-bombing the steps of the Catholic church of Our Lady of the Rosary, whose bells compete for attention with the muezzin’s call and prayers from the Orthodox cathedral, would not look out of place swooping over a honey-coloured Tuscan piazza. When schoolgirls tumble out of school they wear grembiulini, the coloured aprons once ubiquitous in Italian playgrounds. At the marble-countered bars, where bottles of Eritrean versions of Campari, Fernet Branca, Martini and Pernod form a stained-glass display, hissing Gaggia machines pour out cappuccinos and espressos so strong they are little more than a brown dab at the bottom of a doll’s cup. ‘Come stai?’ one coffee-drinker asks another, ‘Andiamo, andiamo,’ call the ticket touts at the bus station, ‘Va bene, dopo,’ shrugs the unsuccessful beggar (‘All right, later’) and little children scream ‘’Tilian, tilian’ (‘Italian’) – followed by a hopeful ‘bishcotti’ (‘bishcuits’) – at the sight of an unfamiliar face, whether Japanese, Indian or American.

Whether one is watching the evening passeggiata along Asmara’s Liberation Avenue, when hundreds of dark-haired youths stroll arm-in-arm past gaggles of marriageable girls, eyes meeting flirtatiously across the gender divide; or observing the Sunday ritual in which bourgeois Eritrean families, bearing little cakes and little girls – each fantastically ribboned and ruched – pay each other formal visits, it’s impossible to view these as alien colonial rituals. Maybe it was the similarity between the Eritrean mountains and the rugged landscape of the mezzogiorno, or maybe the fact that so many southern Italians, Arab blood coursing through their veins, are actually as dark as Eritreans. But the colony never felt quite as unremittingly foreign to the Italians as Nigeria did to the British, Mali to the French or Namibia to the Germans. Something here gelled, and the number of light-skinned meticci (half-castes) left behind by the Italians is abiding evidence of that affinity.

Which is not to suggest that this liaison is a source of simple congratulation. Quite the opposite. Eritreans flare up like matches when they talk about the abuses perpetrated during the Fascist years, when they were expected to step into the gutter rather than sully a pavement on which a white man walked. ‘If you did the slightest thing wrong, an Italian would give you a good kicking,’ one of the white-haired Borsalino-wearers recalls, his eyes alight with remembered fury. But this is the most ambivalent of hostilities. Eritreans remember the racism of the Italians. But they know that what makes their country different from Ethiopia, their one-time master to the south, what made it impossible for Eritrea to accept her allotted role as just another Ethiopian province, is rooted in that colonial occupation which changed everything, forever. The Italian years are, simultaneously and confusingly, both an object of complacent pride and deep, righteous anger. ‘Italy left us with the best industrial infrastructure in the world. Our workers were so well-educated and advanced, they ran everything down in Ethiopia,’ Eritreans will boast, only to complain, in the next breath, that Fascism’s educational policies kept them ignorant and backward, stripped of dignity. ‘Fourth grade, fourth grade. Our fathers were only allowed four years of education!’ So central is the Italian experience to both Eritrea and Ethiopia’s sense of identity, to how each nation measures itself against the other, that during the war of independence the mere act of eating pasta, Eritrean President Isaias Afwerki once revealed, became a cause of friction between his rebel fighters and their guerrilla allies in northern Ethiopia, a dietary choice laden with politically-incendiary perceptions of superiority and inferiority.²

But the history that obsesses Eritrea is rather more recent. Once, on a visit to Cuba, I was fascinated to see, displayed at the national museum with a reverence usually reserved for religious icons, Che Guevara’s asthma inhaler and a pizza truck that had been raked with bullets during a clash between Castro’s men and government troops. Before my eyes, mundane objects were becoming sanctified, events from the still-recent past spun into the stuff of timeless legend. I had never visited a country that seemed so in thrall to its own foundation story. But then, that was before I went to Eritrea.

Arriving in 1996 to write a country survey for the Financial Times, I became intrigued by the extent to which Eritrea’s war of independence had been woven into the fabric of thought and language. The underdog had won in Eritrea, confounding the smug predictions of political analysts in both the capitalist West and communist East, and the vocabulary itself provided a clue as to why outsiders had got it so wrong. A lot of concepts here came with huge, if invisible, capital letters. There was the Armed Struggle, as the 30-year guerrilla campaign launched in the early 1960s against Ethiopian rule was universally known. There was the Front or the Movement, both ways of referring to the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF), the rebel group that eventually emerged as main challenger. There was the Field, or the Sahel – the sun-blasted region bordering Sudan where the EPLF turned soft civilians into hard warriors. There were the Fighters or tegadelti, the men and women who fought for the Movement, and the Martyrs, Fighters who did not live long enough to witness victory. There was the Strategic Withdrawal, not to be confused with retreat (Eritreans never retreat) – that testing moment in 1977 when the EPLF, facing a crushing onslaught by a Soviet-backed Ethiopian army, pulled back into the mountains. Above all, there was the Liberation and its conjugations (‘I was Liberated’, ‘We Liberated Asmara’, ‘This hotel was Liberated’), the glorious day in 1991 when Ethiopian troops rolled out and Eritrea finally became master of its fate. The street names being introduced by the new government: Liberation Avenue, Heroes Street, Revolution Avenue, Knowledge Street were part of the same phenomenon. The language itself left precious little room for a critical distance between speaker and subject, no gap where scepticism could crystallize.