I Didn’t Do It For You: How the World Used and Abused a Small African Nation. Michela Wrong

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       CHAPTER 1 The City Above the Clouds

      â€˜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 СКАЧАТЬ