Eritrea

December 22, 2006

At 1500 hours UTM our position was 14 05 N 042 07 E. We are heading north and sailing about 25 miles off the coast of Eritrea. All well on board.

later...

In the wee hours of the morning, we had skirted the African coast north of Djibouti and were approaching the Bab el Mandeb - the "Straits of Sorrows". This is a narrow passage that separates the Red Sea from the Indian Ocean. All of the commercial shipping that trades in the Red Sea, or that passes through the Suez canal, is squeezed into this passage. For traffic control, there are designated northbound and southbound "sea-lanes". Unlike freeway lanes, there are no painted lines or concrete separation barriers and DoodleBug needed to cross both lanes at right angles, in order to be on the right hand side of the northbound lane. The radar was choked with images of freighters passing in both directions, the land masses that straddled the straits, plus the assorted islands and navigation markers adding clutter and confusion to the picture. Feeling somewhat like a turtle crossing a freeway, we picked our moment and drove forwards under sail and engine. We had planned to arrive at dawn and make the passage in daylight but "things" don't always work out. We were faced with "heaving to" for several hours, or using the favorable tidal flow to our advantage and trusting to the electronics to guide us through. We plumped for the latter. A fast approaching freighter did not respond to my repeated hails on the VHF and then began flashing a strobe at us as a warning. I wanted to yell, "Asshoooolllee!!" at him but there was no secure or legal means of communication available and I am pretty sure he did not hear my voice from the cockpit. Once in the lane, everything settled down and we shot through the straits, under sail and with the assistance of a couple of knots of current. As dawn came, we passed the Hanish Islands, a group of stark volcanic cones with basalt and ash flows. They provided sharply contrasting colors against the sea and the haze. The winds began to increase and we were soon surfing down steep, sharp waves with 26 knots of wind from the rear and DoodleBug attempting to broach every minute or so. The waves had breaking tops and these conditions were predicted in none of the several contradictory weather forecasts we had garnered. By early afternoon, the winds had dropped to just under 20 knots and the waves began to die a little. We crossed over the shipping lanes to the South Massawa Channel and continued to sail north through our second night, about 15 miles or so offshore. Just after dusk, the new moon set in an orange "Cheshire Cat" grin, leaving just the light of the stars. We have seen no local shipping and no shore lights, just the radar image of large freighters as they pass to our east. We are headed to the port of Massawa in Eritrea but would arrive at dusk tomorrow if we try a direct approach. They don't like "after daylight" port entries, so we will probably seek to anchor in nearby "Port Smythe" for the night, before heading over to Massawa on the morning of Christmas Eve . At 2330 hours UTM on 12/22/2006, our position is 14 44.4 N 041 17.2 E.

December 23, 2006

The shipping had thinned out as we sailed on a course that follows the western coast of the Red Sea. The big boys are making a direct run for Suez and are now passing us, several miles to the east. At around 0400 hours, I noticed a small radar reflection of an object we were overhauling and that was also moving along our route. With the binoculars, I found a single bluish light and decided I was looking at the LED mast light of a sailing vessel. I hailed "SV Carita" on the VHF and found myself again talking to Jens, the Danish single-hander. He had left Uligamu (Maldives) within minutes of DoodleBug and had bypassed Salalah and Djibouti, preferring instead to put in at Aden in Yemen. We chatted for a while and vowed to meet up in Massawa. We had been sailing with poled Genoa, main and mizzen, with the wind off our stern but at 0630 hours, the wind speed dropped and we went to motor. The day was warm and with the wind still from the stern but almost matching our forward speed, it felt windless and stifling in the cockpit. We passed through a line of a half dozen pelicans that were just floating on the Red Sea, with perhaps a quarter mile spacing. Strange sight! We could readily identify even the distant birds with their distinctive, prehistoric beak. Dolphins visited us on several occasions and these were dark grey on light grey, smaller and with a longer beak than the dolphins we have been seeing in the Indian Ocean. They are always fun visitors and their playful exuberance, provides a welcome interlude.

The Massawa authorities do not allow a night entrance to their harbor, thus our destination for today is some 30 miles short of Massawa at "Port Smyth". Port Smyth is a reef anchorage on the west side of Shumma Island. We were arriving at 1630 hours, bad light for reef spotting, as well as being just after high tide. The chart showed leading markers to take you through the reef pass and markers on both sides of the entrance. The six year old cruising guide noted that the back leading marker was very hard to see, the front marker had been broken down and the reef markers were absent. We hoped that these had been repaired in the past several years. When we arrived we saw that the cruising guide was accurate. By using the cursor on the electronic chart plotter, we were able to get an instantaneous display of the bearing to the leading markers and then by using our binoculars with a built in compass, we were able to spot both markers. The sea was flat and as we motored slowly towards the island, there was no sign of either reef or reef passage. We had both markers lined up perfectly and we glided slowly in, turned towards our chosen anchorage spot and then anchored. As far as we could tell visually, we were still in the middle of the Red Sea but without waves or swell. At 1700 hours local time (1400 hours UTM) our position was at anchor at 15 32.2 N 039 59.5 E.You will note that we are a half mile east of the fortieth meridian east of Greenwich. This means that DoodleBug has just passed the two thirds point of our circumnavigation!

December 24, 2006

This morning at 0650 hours, we used our GPS track to reverse our course out of the reef harbor, where we had spent the night. There was little wind and the water was still and flat. Just as the previous night, it was an eerie feeling to exit a reef pass, without any visual sign of its existence. That is, other than the swell that became apparent once we had cleared the reef entrance. We had woken up to rain showers and the rain began again in earnest as we headed towards Massawa. An hour later the wind had swung to the NNW and was blowing at over 20 knots. Within minutes we had a seaway of short, sharp, eight foot breaking waves and the rain was pouring down and blanking out the radar. We drove almost directly into the headwind for an hour and a half, before we rounded a reef and were able to turn the engine off and sail close hauled, with sheets of water over the bow, all the way up to the Port of Massawa. We are being educated as to the weather patterns of the Red Sea.

We entered the harbor and attempted to tie up to the dock wall as instructed. The wind was blowing us onto the dock from the beam and we came to rest against a huge rubber ships fender, protected by our own fenders. Annette went ashore and found no cleats or other means of tying us up fore and aft, anywhere within reach. We powered back off the dock and moored alongside a tugboat, trying desperately to reduce the amount of black tire marks against our hull, again with the use of lots of fenders. The Port Captain had me fill out a form and then told me that the Immigration would not be back until 1400 hours. It was 1230. We also needed to see the Security people but they would not be in until tomorrow. In fact, the latter were the only group of officials who actually required us to come to the dock. We powered off the tugboat against the wind and headed for the inner harbor in order to anchor.

As we headed for this part of the harbor, we could see the bombed out buildings and sunken ships all around us and we zigzagged through the wrecks. This bomb damage was from the various wars with Ethiopia in 1990 and 1999. SV Carita was already at anchorage and we maneuvered between fishing boats until we found a clear spot and dropped the hook. Massawa! Arrived at 1230 hours local time and anchored at 15 36.7 N 039 27.8 E. No sign of Santa Claus.

December 25, 2006

Yesterday we had met Jens at the dock and wandered together around the deserted dock facilities, until about an hour later we located the Immigration officer. Annette believed he had been sleeping in his office and had simply locked and bolted his door. He stamped our passports and then laboriously filled our arrival cards for us, a task we could have completed ourselves in about 30 seconds. I noticed on the walls of his office were bar-graph charts, showing the number of yachts that had called here for the past several years. The peak months were March and April, when perhaps 80 yachts had stopped in each of the past two years. For all other months of the year, the average number of boats per month was three. Some months had no arrivals. We had seen no other cruisers in Djibouti and Jens had seen five boats in Aden, all heading the other direction. The Immigration official issued us gate passes to leave and re-enter the Port and we decided we needed to check out the town and see if we could find supper ashore. One of the officials we had spoken to had recommended the "Red Sea Hotel". "Very nice hotel. Very nice restaurant". We walked out of the dock gates and past a line of buildings with multiple dirty and skewed signs advertising "Bar". There were groups of men sitting around on plastic chairs, drinking glasses of tea and quite a few girls standing around. If you ever wanted to imagine a "Sailor's Dive" in a foreign port, this was it. The people were friendly and responded to our wishes for "Merry Christmas", although they stared with curiosity at the only three foreigners in Massawa. We walked across a causeway joining the port to another body of land and where we could see modern looking buildings in the distance. We were surprised at the amount of obvious bomb damage to the buildings in the vicinity of the port. The undamaged buildings had a Spanish/Moorish look to them rather than Italian (Eritrea was colonized by Italy in 1890). Before the Italians, the Turks had invaded and this had been part of the Ottoman Empire since the 16th century. It is true that many of the buildings looked dirty and run down enough to be 150 years old but, I doubt that they dated to this period. We followed directions and arrived at the Red Sea Hotel, where I ate the third worst hamburger I have ever eaten in my life. (The winner is still in Las Vegas, New Mexico). The local beer was good. It was cold, tasty and cost 90 cents per bottle at inflated hotel prices.

This morning we again made the pilgrimage to the dock to meet the Security officials, who had been absent at our arrival. They were nowhere to be found and neither was the Port Captain. The Port was even more desolate and deserted than the previous day, if that were possible. We walked around the "Old town", along packed dirt streets, and looked in all of the small stores. I suspect that you could have found just about anything in this part of town but you would have had to really explore for it. Annette gave three small children pieces of candy. A few minutes later, we rounded a corner into an open square and a herd of small children were running towards us led by the urchins who had already received her largesse. We escaped and ate breakfast at "Mike's" cafe near the port and negotiated with him to get laundry done. Mike's English was excellent and he was a useful source of local information. Next door was an internet cafe, which was jammed full of users. I think they were all writing e-mails that began, "Hello, I am the widow of former Minster of Defense, General Mbotu and who died leaving 80 million dollars in his bank account. If you would.....". Inside the store it was hot and buzzing with flies. I checked a couple of sites but the response time was glacial. Jens tried to send a single e-mail to his parents and gave up in disgust after half an hour.

That evening we set off again in search of Christmas Dinner. Mike had recommended the "Beach Hotel" and we wandered up and down the area of town where we had found the "Red Sea Hotel", receiving conflicting directions from the different people we asked. Finally, we asked a taxi driver and negotiated a price of 150 Nakfas (about US$10) to take us there. It turned out to be five miles away and we were stunned at the roads we took. Through slums, industrial areas, agricultural areas, across broad wadis and along straight empty roads looping over empty dunes. Where were we going? Mike's careless wave had indicated walking distance. Was this still Eritrea? Eventually we slowed to a compound with a militarily style barrier across the road. This was the Beach Hotel. Annette asked the taxi to wait, while she asked at the abandoned looking reception if the restaurant was open. "No! No restaurant." "What?" "OK, wait, I ask". Five minutes of negotiation and the consensus was, yes, they had a bar and a restaurant and they were both open. Next the bar was open but the restaurant did not open for another twenty minutes. No problem, we will get a beer in the bar. I ordered two beers for Jen and I and Annette wanted a Sprite. Manuel from Fawlty Towers might have been Eritrean in another life. "Do you have Sprite, 7-Up or lemonade?". He held up a bottle of water. "How about Coca-Cola?". "No". We opened up the refrigerators ourselves and looked inside. The choice was water or beer. "OK, three beers".

The restaurant magically was "open" a few minutes later. The tables were nicely laid out with tablecloths, napkins and silverware. We got the music turned off and the ceiling fans turned on. None of the other guests were inconvenienced by these actions, since there weren't any other guests. The waitress brought two impressive looking menus over. I had quizzed Mike earlier about food and had determined that the two staples are fish and pasta. I ordered the grilled fish. Jens and Annette then proceeded to go through the menu selecting various delicious sounding dishes, to which the response was always the same, "We don't have that". "Three grilled fishes?" "OK". Annette then asked if she could have a side order of spaghetti. A smile. "Yes we have that". The flies were persistent and abundant but nevertheless the grilled fish was nicely cooked and tasty. This was by far the best meal we have eaten in Eritrea. We ordered three Cappuccinos from the menu, expecting to be turned down and were pleasantly surprised to receive them. The taxi driver returned forty five minutes later than requested but nevertheless found his way back through the darkened roads and streets to the port. Christmas in Massawa.

December 26, 2006

After two days of hanging around an empty and deserted port, we are to have a busy day. First, we are to check in with "security" this morning. We find the security office open and the Port Security officer there welcomes us in to his office and politely inquires as to what he can do for us. I explain that we have been told to see him this morning. "OK, you have seen me". We chatted for a while. He has a son living in Ohio. I then brought to his attention that yesterday, Christmas afternoon, we had returned to the port, shown our passports and gate passes to the guard and began to walk across the tarmac towards the edge of the dock. The guard who had just admitted us, then began to shout at us. He told us to, "Get out! Port closed!". Annette had walked towards the dock pointing at our dinghy, when he grabbed her by the arm and shoved her. I explained that in our culture, you can shout, you can shove me if you want but, you never lay your hands on a woman. He was mortified at our complaint but said that the soldiers they use for guards are ignorant and they have little control over them.

As we were leaving his office, we were beckoned by the man in the next office. The sign on his door read, "Safety and Training". He offered us candy and insisted on fixing tea for us while we chatted. His office was liberally covered with hand-made posters containing quotations from the Bible. He was very pleasant man, obviously a devout Christian, and seemed bored and lonely. Next was a call to the Immigration Office, directly outside of the Port gates. The officer here insisted that we return to the Port Immigration office and retrieve the landing cards the official had completed upon our arrival two days earlier. Okaaay. We re-entered the port, found the Port Immigration office open but without the official who had been there at our arrival. The two men within spoke almost no English and looked confused. We rummaged around in their office, found the landing cards, waved them at them with smiles and vague arm gestures and headed out of the door. Try that in Dallas Airport Immigration! Back to the other office and the official announced that we needed a photocopy of our passports. I produced them. And a photograph each. From my back-pack, I produced two sheets of passport photographs, a pair of scissors, and proceeded to snip out two passport sized photos of Annette and I. "Those are computer photographs!", he exclaimed, "No good!". I insisted that these photographs were obtained from the Passport Office of the United States of America. They always use a digital camera there and that is the way they are (utter bullshit of course!). A grudging "OK". He asked me what we would be doing in Eritrea. I said we planned to visit Asmara. "Where is your permit for Asmara?". I said, "First visa, then permit". "Ah yes, you know everything". I wasn't aware that Eritreans were familiar with sarcasm. He had seemed to have become more annoyed, each time he had asked for something and we had produced it. As though he was hoping he could give us more of a run-around.

An hour later we had our visas and sat at Mike's cafe, where we collected Annette's laundry and negotiated a price with a local taxi driver to take us to Asmara and return. Next was a ride in the "People's Taxi", a mini-bus crammed beyond imagination with human bodies, over to the "Ministry of Tourism" office. Here we asked for the Asmara permit and also for a permit to buy diesel. We waited for twenty minutes or so and then the young man, who spoke excellent English, indicated that the boss-man was out. We left copies of our passports with him and he assured us that we could collect the permit, or send someone to get it, later that afternoon. We walked back towards the port and about fifty yards beyond the place where we had caught a taxi on Christmas Day to take us to the "Beach Hotel", we found the "Beach Restaurant". Just a few more paces on Christmas Day and we would have saved ourselves a five mile taxi ride but then we would have missed that part of the adventure.

At the Beach Restaurant, we enjoyed lunch on the second floor of the hotel, looking out over the port basin with DoodleBug and Carita moored in front, center of our view. Annette chatted to a lady searching for the rest room (the power had gone out and there were no lights). The lady was "Ms. Aster Tesfai" and she is "Asset and Operations Manager" for the Houston Housing Authority. She is originally from Eritrea but now lives in Houston and has a son studying medicine at Baylor. Her brother (?) introduced himself and gave us his phone number in case we ever had problems in Massawa. Later that afternoon we were back at the Ministry of Tourism office to pick up our permit to go to Asmara in the morning. After we arrived at the office, the young man began to fill out an elaborate form with three copies, carbon paper, and details on both sides. By the time he had finished this, the boss had left again and was not there to sign it. The young man promised that it would be ready for us to pick up at 0800 hours tomorrow morning on our way out of town. Insh'allah.

December 27, 2006

Our taxi met us in the morning as promised and we stopped by Mike's cafe to pick him up. Together we headed back to the Ministry of Tourism office to pick up the promised transit permit to Asmara. Thirty minutes later, we had the permit and also a hand written letter on a piece of paper torn from a notebook and stamped with the Ministry of Tourism seal. We walked to the adjacent building and a few offices later, the permit was signed by the Chief of Security for the Massawa area. We then drove to a third building, containing the Ministry of Transportation. A couple of offices later, a large, bored looking man, empathically tells us, "No diesel! Diesel finished! That program is over! You must go back to the Ministry of Tourism". He added a long letter by hand to our scrap of notepaper. Signed it. Sealed it with the Ministry seal and then folded and stapled it, so we couldn't read the contents. We dropped off Mike, who suggested that we see the Ministry of Tourism in the capital at Asmara. At last we headed out of Massawa, for a 72 mile drive to the Eritrean capital of Asmara. Asmara was founded some 700 years ago but today's modern city with it's wide boulevards, was a result of the Italian colonization in the first half of the twentieth century. The drive began at sea level of course and turned inland, towards the tall mountains we could see. Almost immediately, we were stopped by a military checkpoint. Our taxi driver took out transit permits and followed a soldier to a "hut" made from a shipping container. The other soldiers lounged.

Some held the end of a scrubby nylon rope with a few gray rags tied to the middle and stretched across a couple of 55 gallon drums - the "barrier". All vehicles were stopped, so we did not feel singled out but we were certainly scrutinized carefully. After about ten minutes, we were off again (probably checking us out by accessing the Interpol databank on their "Blackberry" wi-fi terminals). At this altitude, the terrain was windswept sand and gravel, almost no sign of agriculture but with long camel trains, tied nose to tail and loaded with the exotic goods of the orient. The geology showed evidence of volcanism, with deeply colored ash flows, basalt, and weathered lava mixed in with the gravel. Asmara is at an altitude of 7,500 feet - slightly higher than Santa Fe. The geology was changing as we climbed, with tortured and steeply dipping sedimentary rocks becoming the norm.

There were now fields under cultivation and it was becoming cooler. Many of the hills were terraced and had a large villa and stone church tucked away behind steep walls on the ridgetops, looking distinctly fortified. We could see that the terraces were broken down in many places and the loose stacked stone walls supporting them had collapsed. There was little sign of repairs being made on the agricultural front. The road however was well surfaced, two lane, and wound along precipitous drops offs, without a guard rail. At one point, we passed groups of people standing in the road, peering over the drop off. Our driver later confirmed that a car with four passengers, including a father and his two sons, had just gone over the edge and all occupants killed.

We were stopped again by the military to check our permit just outside the town of Ghinda and again on the outskirts of Asmara, before plunging into the traffic of the city of over a half million.

Our first stop was at the Ministry of Tourism, where we were told that the program to sell diesel to tourists had finished and we must get a permit from the "Government Garage". Another office and here the man in charge was so important, he looked like he had just stepped off the golf course. He lounged sideways across his chair and desk, without making eye contact with us. About thirty minutes later, with much sighing and exasperated gestures, several peremptory calls to his secretaries, and lots of form stamping, he gave us a permit to buy 100 liters of diesel. (I had requested 300 liters. We normally carry about 1,000 liters and are fortunately well supplied at the moment). Finally we are at our hotel, the "Concorde". It is downtown, tucked away, clean, comfortable, has TV, shower etc., is decorated but definitely not 5 star. At US$16 per night there is little cause to complain. We asked at the front desk for a good Italian restaurant, where we could get "pizza". We are directed to a small restaurant about fifty yards along the street called the "Sun Pizza Parlor and Fast Food". The Sun cafe was delightful inside and looked like a "Shakeys" pizza parlor from the 60's - for those readers old enough to remember. Annette admired the paintings on the wall and was told that the artist was the owner's son, who is presently in London pursuing a degree in Fine Arts. Annette wanted to know if the artist had a web-site and had work for sale. The artist's mother and owner of the restaurant said her "other" son could answer our questions. Twenty minutes later, the "second" son arrived. His English was excellent. Seven years ago he entered the Eritrean military for his 18 months of national service and is still enlisted. He is working as a Visual Basic programmer on a Windows XP platform. He is just about to begin a project in the "Java" programming language and I assured him that it really sucks and is like going back in time twenty years. We mentioned that every family in Eritrea seems to have other family members in the USA, Canada, or Europe. We spoke of meeting Houstonian Ms. Aster Tesfai at the Beach Restaurant in Massawa two days before. "I know her, is she here?" We said she was leaving to return to the USA and that her brother (?) had given us his card. He blinked in astonishment. "I know him too, he is married to my cousin."

December 28, 2006

This morning we asked at the hotel front desk if there were guided tours of Asmara. We were advised that such did not exist but that any taxi driver could provide us with a city tour. I explained that I needed a taxi driver with good English and who knew the tourist sites. The guy behind the desk disappeared and about five minutes later a taxi driver showed up. I explained that we wanted to see the most significant tourist sites, that we did not know Asmara, and would rely upon his expertise. We negotiated an hourly rate for the taxi. All was agreed. We climbed into the taxi and the driver turned to us and said, "Where do you want to go?".

I had purchased a city map and began to read the names of places that had a camera picture next to them. We first visited the "Mai Jah Jah". This turned out to be a water garden with cascading ponds (Mai Jah Jah means "water turned back"). Unfortunately there was no water and all was dry. Annette asked, "May I take a photograph?" His reply was,"Yes, you don't". During our city drive, we visited the major cathedrals and mosques of the city and even found a synagogue. It was locked up tightly and we were told that there are no Jewish people in Asmara.

We continued our tour of the various sites around the city but the driver was no help with commentary, so we left the cab at the central downtown marketplace. This sprawling marketplace was extremely tidy compared to other places we had visited. The usual smells of untreated sewage and rotting food were completely absent. In fact the streets were uniformly tidy with no trash. The stores showed clean and attractive displays of goods and were decorated for Christmas Season, both within and without. The throngs of people on the streets seemed happy and friendly. There were bars, restaurants, cafes and coffee shops. Many of the men were wearing suits and the waitresses in the larger cafes were in uniform. The streets did have a few beggars but the city seemed very cosmopolitan with late model yellow taxis everywhere, some girls in traditional Moslem garb but many wearing tight fitting jeans and tee-shirts. Asmara could easily be taken for a town somewhere in Southern Europe.

Back at the hotel, we chatted to a gentleman we met sitting in the central courtyard. His name is Fiorito who escapes from an Italian winter to Asmara for three months of each year. I borrowed his "Lonely Planet" guide to see if any of the 5 star hotels here accept credit cards. They don't. Fiorito is an engaging and voluble companion and as we were talking, he suddenly suggested that we go to lunch together. His English is so, so - but much better than my Italian. After three years of working in an office with three Italians, I only learned to swear. We communicated in a mixture of English, French, Spanish and Italian with a sprinkle of Arabic. We had lunch at an Italian restaurant he knew and had a really delicious lasagna. On our return towards our hotel, Fiorito stopped the taxi near a housing area and proceeded to knock on the door of one of the homes. A lady answered the door and invited us in. Annette and I were more than slightly confused. It transpired that the Eritrean lady is the sister of one of Fiorito's best friends and he had called her previously by telephone. She introduced herself as Yodit Abraham. She had been expecting us and graciously performed a formal Eritrean coffee ceremony for our benefit. She kneeled gracefully, fanned charcoal in a small brazier and proceeded to roast coffee beans in a pan over the charcoal. When the beans had roasted, she removed a few coals and sprinkled them with Eritrean frankincense, to perfume the room. She ground the beans in a small hand mill and added these to a terra cotta retort. This then had water added and was placed on the coals to boil. Each time the retort boiled, she removed it briefly from the heat and replaced it. Finally she poured the coffee into small cups with sugar added. The mouth of the retort had a horsehair plug to prevent egress of the coffee grounds. More water was added to the grounds, the coffee re-brewed and our cups filled three times. During her ceremony, we sat in her beautifully decorated home and snacked on the array of cakes, peanuts, candy and the like that filled the table before us. By this time we got up to leave, we were so stuffed with food, we could barely waddle back to the hotel. Nevertheless, we were determined to make a supreme effort to join Fiorito at a traditional Eritrean restaurant that evening.

The Eritrean taxis do not operate in the evenings and we walked the few miles to the Restaurant, through the back streets and neighborhoods.

Although it was dark at this time, there were children playing soccer in the street near the few street lights and, for the darker streets, Fiorito used a flashlight. Our supper destination was the restaurant "San Francisco" near the church of same name. The restaurant was in a large ranch home that was decorated with an eclectic mixture of iconic religious art and African artifacts. The wait staff were all women in formal Eritrean traditional dress and the food for the evening was another impossible array of chicken, goat, beef, vegetables, garbanzo bean dips, salad and breads, served "family" style. Fiorito had ordered two traditional Eritrean alcoholic drinks that were served in large glass bottles. The first was mead, made from just fermented honey and water. This looked and tasted like it contained oranges but we were assured that it did not. It was quite tasty and contrasted sharply with the second drink. This was mud brown and tasted awful. We managed a sip but noticed that Fiorito was not even drinking his. He then admitted that he didn't like it. Duh! The food was tasty, with exotic spices but the meats were tougher than our spoiled western tastes are used to. A wonderful experience and a great finale to our Asmara visit.

December 29, 2006

A breakfast of Cappuccino, tea, and pastries at a local cafe and we met our taxi driver as promised for the return trip to Massawa. It was overcast, rainy, and misty as we headed back dowthe tortuous hairpins towards the lower levels. The same military checkpoints but the soldiers seemed listless and uninterested in our documents. The only traffic heading towards Massawa were camel and donkey trains laden with their unknown burdens. The traffic towards us were occasional truck loads of troops. Our driver postulated that these were garrison troops moving to relieve others. This seemed very likely, as the nearby Ethiopian / Somalian conflict would be more mechanized. At some places on the highway, the mist reduced the visibility to less than 50 yards and the driver slowed and proceeded carefully. At mid-way, we saw our first "road-kill", a coyote sized wild African dog. A live animal appeared out of the mist and then trotted off as quietly as it had arrived. Perhaps two or three miles further along the empty road, we came upon a family of large gray Baboons, foraging near the roadside. They did not seem alarmed by our appearance and watched us carefully. We were later told that they could be fed bananas and would approach the vehicle to take them. Exciting.

We were soon back in the depressing environs of Massawa and found DoodleBug waiting patiently for us. In the afternoon, we met with Mike to discuss picking up our diesel. He suggested that we leave the diesel cans in his cafe and take a mini-bus over to the gas station. I asked if we could just telephone the gas station. He said, "Yes" and climbed into the mini-bus. After a brief tour of two deserted gas stations and following several conversations with local residents, he announced that there was no diesel in Massawa. They were expecting a delivery tonight - so maybe diesel tomorrow.

December 30, 2006

Again I asked Mike, if we could just telephone the gas stations to see if they had diesel. Again he said, "Yes" and climbed into a mini-bus. No diesel in Massawa. Not entirely true. The Agip station has diesel but the pump is broken. They are expecting a mechanic to come from Asmara within a few days. Our crisis is obvious. We have already changed dollars to Eritrean currency to pay for the non-existent diesel. The obvious yachtie solution! We will spend the money on beer! We tell Mike to forget the diesel and he promises to locate the beer. In the afternoon, we rode the crammed mini-bus to the market in the next village, where Annette bought a variety of fresh vegetables.

She tried to buy bread but there was none to be had. We toured the deserted port trying to locate the Security, Port Control or Immigration officers. No luck. We finally found the Immigration officer by hammering on the door of his office until he appeared. He insisted that he would provide us with our clearance document in the morning, no earlier than 0700 hours and that we must come to the dock with our vessels (Jens had looked after DoodleBug during our visit to Asmara and S/V Carita was also leaving). We insisted that their dock was dangerous for sailing vessels and he finally relented and agreed we could anchor just off the dock and transport him back and forth by dinghy.

The beer showed up as promised and we schlepped three cases of bottles back to DoodleBug. This was the only time the port gate guards got excited at the goods we were exporting but they had been such assholes, we were not generous and provided no gifts.

As we dinghied back to Doodlebug loaded down with beer, the reason for the long lines of moored and deserted fishing trawlers was now obvious. They have no diesel.

December 31, 2006

We had set the alarm last night and awoke at 0500 hours to prepare DoodleBug for departure. The Port Immigration Officer had agreed that we could anchor just off the main cargo dock and that we would meet him there promptly at 0700 hours. The agreed plan was I would then transport him by dinghy to SV Carita, to inspect same for stowaways and have him issue a departure certificate. We would then repeat the procedure with SV DoodleBug. At 0630 hours we raised anchor from the inner harbor and re-anchored as agreed. At 0700 hours, Mike showed up on his bicycle to wish us farewell. No sign of the Immigration officer. At 0740 hours I dinghied ashore, walked the half mile over to his office and beat on the locked door. A muffled "huh" issued from within. Five minutes later, a tousled and sleepy Immigration Officer emerged. He made various excuses but he was obviously chagrined to be caught asleep. A little earlier, I had asked Mike what kind of salaries these various officials were paid. Mike said that the military draftees make about 400 Nakfa per month (about US$22/month) but an official like the Immigration Officer might make about 700 Nakfa per month (less than US$40/month). By now I had realized that the man lived in his office. The reason he took so long to answer the door, was the time it took him to roll up and hide his bedding and put on his uniform. He owned a wrist watch but no alarm clock.

By 0830 hours we had been inspected for stowaways, had our certificate in hand and set sail. The wind was in the northwest and blowing at up to 18 knots with a steep and short, six foot chop, sending spray sweeping across the deck. After two tacks, the wind began to drop in intensity and we eased into an anchorage about 25 miles north of Massawa, at Harat Island. SV Carita arrived shortly after and Jens joined us on DoodleBug for a wonderful supper of pork chops, potatoes, onions and tomato salad, followed by plum pudding and custard, all washed down with liberal quantities of beer. This and a champagne toast, made a fine end to 2006. We are currently anchored at 16 02.0 N 039 27.2 E.