Chapter One – The City Above the Clouds
‘That thin air had a dream-like texture, matching the porcelainblue of the
sky, with every breath and every glance he took in a deep anaesthetising
tranquillity.’ Lost Horizons, 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
blasted radiator-hot through the open aircraft door, one always had the sense of
landing in a capital locate where, by rights, it had 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, mach 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, show 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 tarmac. 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 …
(Continues…)
Excerpted from I Didn’t Do It for You by Michela
Wrong Excerpted by permission.
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