Arrival in Asmara
Asmara’s airport is disarmingly confusing on arrival, but instinct proved useful. I guessed—correctly—that I would need the visa office, clutching my letter of introduction while waiting outside with two fellow passengers from the flight: a Russian woman and an American woman travelling together. We were all approved without fuss and emerged into the arrivals area, where I immediately recognised Philemon, my local fixer. A quick Google search before departure had ensured I knew exactly who I was looking for.
I stayed at the Crystal Hotel, which, along with a handful of others, seems to host most foreign visitors. We are a particular kind of traveller—those willing to embrace a country with virtually no internet and architecture that appears frozen in time. Many buildings remain exactly as they were when constructed during Italian rule in the 1930s, an era that left Eritrea with one of the most intact collections of modernist architecture in the world. That charm, however, comes with realities: temperamental plumbing, power limitations and cold showers. Fortunately, Crystal Hotel's plumbing was good and the restaurant provided excellent meals and coffee.
28 February – Asmara City Tour
Asmara is unlike any other African capital I have visited. In 2017 it was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, recognised for its remarkably intact collection of modernist and Art Deco architecture—much of it dating from the Italian colonial period of the 1930s. Walking through the city often feels like stepping into a carefully preserved time capsule.
We began the day at a café that was once a cinema and is now used primarily for screening football matches. The space was filled mostly with men drinking coffee, a serious and social ritual in Asmara. Coffee culture here is exceptional, and the macchiato—slightly different from the Australian version—is consistently excellent.
From there, Simon took me to Medeber Market, Asmara’s famed recycling and upcycling hub. The air was thick with the smell of burning metal and spices, and the atmosphere was intense rather than theatrical. Piles of discarded metal, rubber, wood, and plastic surrounded us as men worked in rhythmic coordination, hammering and welding in near synchrony.
Medeber was once a caravan trade post in pre-colonial times and later became part of Asmara’s redesign under Italian architect Odoardo Cavagnari in the early 1900s. From the outset, it functioned as a centre of reinvention. High import costs during the colonial era meant that local craftspeople turned scrap into ovens, tools, bicycles, furniture, and kitchenware. That tradition continues today: oil drums become stoves, car frames become shovels, melted containers become cooking pots.
The welders themselves are iconic, wearing handmade protective masks constructed from cardboard, plastic, and whatever materials are available. One of the most recognisable products of the market is the shida—sandals made from old tyres. These were so important during the war for independence that a large statue dedicated to them stands elsewhere in the city.
Tucked into one section of the market is a spice area, where electric mills grind ingredients into fragrant blends, including berbere, the backbone of Eritrean cuisine. Artists sell scarves, bags, clay coffee pots, and religious icons, reinforcing the sense that Medeber is not a tourist attraction but a living, working ecosystem.
We also visited Enda Mariam Orthodox Cathedral, notable for its beautiful stained-glass windows and a particularly intriguing feature: a pair of large stones suspended by ropes, once used as bells before metal bells became common. It was a simple but evocative reminder of how traditions adapt to available materials. Enda Mariam Orthodox Cathedral is the primary, iconic Eritrean Orthodox Tewahedo church in Asmara, constructed between 1938 and 1939, it features a unique blend of Italian modernist, Art Deco, and traditional Tigrinya architecture, often noted for its "tukul" style towers and 1950s mosaics.
No visit to Asmara would be complete without seeing the Fiat Tagliero Building, a striking piece of Futurist Art Deco architecture that looks more like an aeroplane than a service station. With its dramatic concrete wings extending unsupported on either side, it remains one of the city’s most iconic structures and a powerful symbol of Asmara’s architectural identity.
In a more unexpected turn, we stopped at a bowling alley, where locals not only bowl but also gather to play PlayStation games against one another. In Australia, this kind of gaming would usually happen at home; in Eritrea, it is a social activity, done collectively and in public spaces. This seemed emblematic of the broader culture—communal, outward-facing, and relational.
We visited another café—La Dolce Vita, a name echoed across many buildings in Eritrea, a lingering trace of Italian influence. There, we met Deanna, a friend of Simon’s who runs an internet café—yes, they are very much still a thing here. With limited personal internet access, these cafés remain important social and practical hubs.
A visit to a local bookshop surprised me most of all. The shelves were filled with books published in and about Eritrea—history, politics, memoirs, and fiction. Even Australian author Thomas Keneally has written about the country; his novel Towards Asmara sat quietly among the collection. In a place often described as isolated, the literary output felt quietly defiant.
That evening, I dined with Simon (my guide), Millionaire (his cousin and, without question, the superior driver), and Philemon. We paid for our own meals and I learned the art of eating injera—the teff-based flatbread used to scoop up lentils, vegetables, and sauces with the right hand. Teff is a tiny, ancient gluten-free grain originating from Ethiopia and Eritrea, often recognized as the world's smallest cereal grain (roughly the size of a poppy seed). Known for its high protein, fiber, and iron content, it is a staple crop with an earthy, nutty flavor. Teff is versatile, used in flour for injera bread, but also in porridge, or as a porridge-like porridge, and it comes in white to red-brown varieties.Simon and Milllionaire seemed surprised that I enjoyed it. The tart taste suited my taste buds and I enjoyed being able to eat vegetables again.
Asmara, for all its architectural beauty, is not frozen in time. It is lived in, negotiated daily, and shaped by necessity. Its charm lies not just in its buildings, but in how people continue to gather, create, read, drink coffee, and make meaning together.
29–30 February – Massawa and the Red Sea
We travelled to Massawa, following a road that runs parallel to a now-disused railway line. Once, steam trains transported Asmara’s residents down to the coast for weekends by the sea—a story preserved in faded tourism posters still hanging in hotel corridors.
On arrival, we learned that we had just missed a festival at the local cathedral. Even so, that evening the bridge connecting the two parts of the city was illuminated with neon lights, and it seemed as though the entire town had poured out to walk across it. Families, couples, children—everyone moving together in an unhurried tide. In the Western world, that kind of collective walking and celebration usually only occurs on New Year’s Eve.
The following night, after being driven everywhere, I asked Simon if we could walk across the bridge instead. The decorative lights had disappeared, but the atmosphere remained—soft, communal, and quietly joyful. We met up again with Christopher Kugler-Niklas, a German traveller we had first encountered in Asmara. Christopher has published a book about his trek along Spain’s Camino de Santiago and was staying in one of Massawa’s wonderfully atmospheric old hotels, which we later visited. He had needed transport from Asmara, and Simon had instantly provided the name of a reliable taxi driver. Problem solved. This happened repeatedly—Simon seemed to know everyone.
We dined together that evening, exchanging travel stories as the city settled into the warm coastal night.
On the journey to Massawa, we also encountered a bicycle race in progress. It felt almost surreal: competitive cyclists in bright lycra, race numbers pinned neatly to their backs, pedalling hard along a narrow road shared with cars, trucks, goats, camels, and the occasional donkey cart. It looked chaotic—and dangerous—but somehow Eritrea made it work. The contrast was striking and oddly poetic: modern sport unfolding amid timeless rural life. Just another layer of the journey.
Massawa itself is a city of haunting beauty. Its old town resembles a forgotten corner of Rome, built from coral stone, with structures dating back not only to the Italian colonial era but earlier still. Many buildings remain unrestored, bearing visible scars from the war with Ethiopia—a conflict during which an estimated 50,000 innocent civilians, many of them women and children, lost their lives. The damage remains, not hidden or erased, but folded into the city’s everyday existence.
On the 30th, we took a boat to one of the Dahlak Islands, snorkelling in warm, clear water. Lunch was simple and perfect: freshly cooked fish, white bread rolls, and bananas. On the return journey, an Italian family requested an extra snorkelling stop—thankfully. It turned out to be the highlight of the day, with far richer marine life than earlier sites.
31 January – Asmara, Unexpected Joy
Back in Asmara, the day’s highlight was entirely unplanned: a wedding. Simon explained that weddings often take place in a particular area, so we wandered over and were warmly welcomed into a marquee filled with music, colour, and celebration.
I wish I’d known we were attending a wedding. I was dressed in a baggy T-shirt and pants with a hole in the back, surrounded by impeccably dressed guests. No one cared. I was ushered onto the dance floor, photographed with the wedding party, and treated as an honoured guest. I couldn’t help but wonder: could this happen in Australia? A scruffy stranger welcomed so completely, without suspicion or hesitation?
1–2 February – Keren
The road to Keren introduced me to a new driving rhythm. Goats, camels, and Brahman cattle roam freely, which explained Millionaire’s steady speed of 40 km/h. Sensible, if occasionally frustrating—especially when the “air conditioning” consisted entirely of open windows.
One morning, we visited Keren’s camel market, a fascinating and deeply practical place. A single camel can sell for around USD $1,000—more than many people in Keren would earn in an entire year. The animals stood patiently amid dust and negotiation, their value obvious to everyone present.
Keren felt markedly different from the capital. It is home to several ethnic groups, including the Tigre, often seen wearing white robes and carrying sticks. Over our time there, we visited churches and mosques (from the outside), and navigated streets shared equally by donkeys, bicycles, children, and pedestrians. Movement here is slow and communal; driving fast would feel almost disrespectful.
One of the highlights was climbing the spiral staircase at Hotel Keren, which led to the best views over the city—especially at sunset. Once you descend, you end up in the bar, making it the perfect place for a local beer. Out the front, an original and wonderfully faded “Drink Fanta Orange” sign hangs like a relic from another era.
By evening, the bar had become a gathering point: Italian tourists, diplomats, the American and Russian travellers, and our various guides—all converging as if by unspoken agreement.
On our second night, two teenage boys—possibly brothers—approached me shyly and asked if they could take a selfie with me. I happily obliged, and it gave me the chance to take one with them as well. I usually ask permission before taking photographs, and this felt like a small moment of mutual curiosity. I wondered what they made of my appearance; Westerners, especially with blonde hair, must seem like an oddity here. Whatever they thought, the interaction was warm, respectful, and memorable.
3–5 February – Adi-Keyh, Kohaito, and the Highlands
For the next stage of the journey, I was joined by a new guide, Mekonen—known to everyone as Moky. From Adi-Keyh, we travelled into one of Eritrea’s most archaeologically rich regions, an area scattered with ancient sites including Kohaito, Tekondae, Hishmele, Keskese, Der’a, Aba-Selama, and Mealewya.
At Kohaito, we were joined by a local guide named Ibrahim, who walked me through the ruins and along the edge of a vast canyon. According to archaeological studies, Kohaito is believed to be the ancient town of Koloe, mentioned by the Egyptian geographer Claudius Ptolemy in the 2nd century AD. Records suggest it was still flourishing in the 6th century before vanishing suddenly, much like the ancient ports of Adulis and Metera.
Perched at an altitude of around 2,700 metres, Kohaito may once have served as a summer retreat for wealthy merchants from nearby towns. Traces of cultivated land between the ruins suggest it was once a kind of garden city. The site is enormous—about 15 kilometres long and 2.5 kilometres wide—and astonishingly, as much as 80–90% of it remains unexcavated.
Walking along the canyon’s edge was both terrifying and exhilarating. The drop is sudden and dramatic, the views vast and humbling. Far below, terraced fields and a seemingly inaccessible Saho settlement clung to the landscape. The surrounding mountains stretched endlessly, with Mount Embasoira—Eritrea’s highest peak—rising to the south.
The rock art scattered along the canyon walls stopped me in my tracks. The figures and markings immediately reminded me of the First Nations paintings I had seen in Kakadu National Park the previous September—another place where ancient stories are etched into stone, quietly enduring.
Among Kohaito’s most significant ruins is the Temple of Mariam Wakiro, built on a raised rectangular platform and long referred to locally as the “abode of the prestigious one.” It may have been an early Christian church—or possibly a pre-Christian temple. Nearby lies the so-called Egyptian Tomb (Meqabir Ghibtsi), discovered in 1894. Rectangular and imposing, it faces east over the Hedamo River and contains two striking flower-shaped crosses carved into its inner walls.
Perhaps Kohaito’s most remarkable structure is Safira Dam, a beautifully constructed stone cistern dating back to around the 1st century AD—or possibly earlier. Built from massive rectangular stone blocks, it has supplied water to local Saho communities for nearly a thousand years. Inside the dam are inscriptions in ancient Ge’ez—79 words in total—the longest such text yet discovered.
Seeing these places made modern time feel almost irrelevant.
Accommodation in this region was basic and challenging: unreliable plumbing, very limited water, a rock-hard bed, and intermittent electricity. But there was a power point, and that felt like a small luxury.
On the return journey from Adi-Keyh toward Asmara, Moky insisted we stop at one final landmark: a giant sycamore fig tree, its vast canopy spreading out like a living monument. This tree appears on Eritrea’s 5-nakfa note, and standing beneath it, I understood why. For generations, such trees have served as meeting places—where elders gather, disputes are settled, news is shared, and shade is offered to travellers. It is not simply a tree but a symbol of continuity, shelter, and community.
After days of ruins, canyons, and ancient stone, the tree felt quietly grounding—a reminder that history here is not only preserved in temples and dams, but also in living things that continue to serve the people around them.
The return journey to Asmara was eventful. A well-intentioned attempt on my part to adjust the air settings resulted in (according to Moky) burning rubber under the bonnet. Fortunately this occurred in a small village otherwise we could have been in quite a remote area with rarely any vehicles passing. We had picked up a local female hitchhiker and she assisted in putting out the fire. Locals stopped immediately to help. No one wanted payment. One man eventually accepted money only after it was discreetly dropped from the window as we drove off.
Moky said it was a miracle that it occurred in a village; ‘This happens to me all the time”. Coincidence, I countered. Either way, we were safe, the car made it back to Asmara and I knew I was safe to make my flight out of the country the next day.
Reflections on Eritrea
Eritrea is not just a destination for country-counters. Europeans return here. Italians come back repeatedly. I met writers, diplomats, and seasoned travellers.
There is free healthcare and education. Highly educated people—engineers, lawyers, doctors—often find themselves underemployed. Many women of my age were freedom fighters in the 1990s, some still bearing physical scars. National service is universal and accepted, shaped by a history of conflict and constant vigilance.
Life here proves that society can function without constant connectivity. Sewing machines are pedal-powered. Cars from the 1980s remain in service. Markets thrive. People help each other instinctively.
And perhaps most tellingly, despite material hardship, I never felt harassed. No begging. No aggression. That contrast became striking only after arriving in Djibouti.
Final Thoughts
Eritrea is complex, contradictory, and deeply human. It is a place where time feels suspended, where hospitality is instinctive, and where dignity persists despite constraint. It challenges assumptions about progress, comfort, and freedom—and leaves you thinking long after you’ve left.
And perhaps that is the mark of meaningful travel.
Create Your Own Website With Webador