Boozy Blues

Blue is my favourite colour (well, mostly. Selecting just one of many options isn't something I do, therefore it depends on what day it is and how I'm feeling as to whether the 'favourite favourite' is blue, green, cerise etc.) Let's stick with blue for now, otherwise this wouldn't be much of a story.

A strong believer in allowing serendipity to choose whenever possible, the sparkly aquamarine nail polish hidden in the salon basket was the perfect colour for my pre-beach pedicure. Proving the point, said polish's name was Beach Bum Blu. Exactly right! See:

Tell me that isn't a perfect match! A week in Diani's balmy, fragrant air and lolling in translucent turquoise waters was restorative beyond words and to be truthful, there was a sulky dropped lip when Him Outdoors called time and said we had to return to Nairobi.  

Buying wine in Kenya is difficult at the best of times, thrice so when the Beach-less Blues cling and the lip remains stubbornly drooped. The little supermarket liquor outlet, the size of my bathroom at home, presented the usual conundrum - which overpriced plonk to choose? Hold on, what is that sapphire glow at the back of the Chardonnay shelf? Has someone misfiled the Bombay? 

No, it is indeed Chardonnay. A blue Chardonnay, Alma Azul Blue Soul, matching my still-Beach-Bum'd toes and memories of that gorgeous Indian ocean. A must-have gem of aquamarine delight was just what the doctor ordered for Blue Monday. 

This tale of cerulean delight has further twists. I showed off my deliciously blue purchase on Facebook and was surprised to get a note from my London-based cousin whom I haven't seen for decades. This wine she must have, it's the perfect match for her corporate brand and would make the ideal client gift. Can she get it in London? Does it taste good? 

Fancy that. She lives in the centre of the universe and my treasure is a revelation to her! Yup, I reckon she'll find a case or two of Spanish vinho somewhere in her city. Hold on, her mother is right at this minute holidaying at their summer house in Spain, about 20 miles from the Alma winery in Almeria. Dear aunt was alerted that a shopping expedition was called for but before heading out, tasting had to be done and no better person than yours truly and her friend and neighbour to take one for the team. We'll drink the blue stuff!

Even the cork is blue!

We took it seriously, I promise. Tasting portions were poured and we sat back, lips smacking, sniffing and swirling. "It's so fruity, mango?" wine ignoramus posited. "Apricots," declared Maria. Definitely. We sipped and mused, refilled to muse some more and in a trice, the beautiful bottle was bare. Can't be, we were just having a tasting!  

We agreed that we'll have to try the Alma Azul sparkling wine we saw in another wine shop, there really is no point in doing a half job. 

Isn't it amazing that in a teeny Nairobi supermarket wineshop we have unearthed a novelty wine made a few miles from where my aunt summers? And found the perfect corporate gift for my cosmopolitan cousin on the other side of the world? 

Living in Africa is a permanent lucky dip. Around every corner there is something interesting and astonishing. Life is never boring and while 'blue' is often associated with sadness or depression, for me it is tranquil, the colour of sea, sky and my soul; simply my favourite colour of all. This week.

PS - our tasting notes, in case you stumble across a bottle of Alma Azul Blue Soul Chardonnay:

Strong apricot nose and initial palate. Easy drinking, high novelty value. If reasonable low price a definite wine for casual quaffing. Great corporate or novelty gift. If higher end price , not worth keeping in the cellar. We enjoyed but at the price point here, many better options of quality wine. Xxx

Treehouse Fear Factor

Him Outdoors and I are taking a beach break in heavenly Diani on the Mombasa south coast. A working holiday, I hasten to add. Plenty of hard graft going on from my beach lounger... kind of!

Keeping it real (and in budget!) our accommodation is a backpackers but Stilts is no common or garden establishment - we are living in a treehouse!  (see www.stiltsdianibeach.com) 

Life in a canopy is simply marvellous. Sykes monkeys defiantly glare from their eye-level branch, patiently waiting for us to vacate our veranda so that they can move in on the off chance we've carelessly left any food outside. The pesky blighters made off with our treasured hoard of Jacobs coffee which apparently wasn't to their taste as they scattered it everywhere. Flipping waste!

It may be (probably is!) my imagination but the air above the trees seems richer in oxygen and the rippling birdsong clearer. Every evening we are visited by a bushbaby which lands on the thatched roof with a heavy thump then crawls down the rafters to pause a while on the veranda railing. Sweet thing.

Of course, paradise usually has a snake and the novelty and excitement of living amongst the treetops is tempered by my fear of heights. On a scale of 1 - 10 in terms of fear factor, a solid 9.9. We may only be 3 metres up but add my 1.73m to the top of a ladder and the forward pull when I have to go down is sickening. 

Back in our early days, HO thought my wading streams rather than stride over the wee bridges rather quaint, until we had to cross a disused railway bridge one fine day.

He strode manfully ahead, wheeling his bike then turned to see where I was. Precisely midway and frozen like Lot's wife. Trying to negotiate a wider than usual gap where sleepers had fallen through, I'd looked down into the lazy waters of the Magalies River 20m below and turned to stone in a nanosecond. Chuckles, coercion and impatience became real concern as HO began to realise that this was much more than a personality quirk. Sheer terror fixed me some 50m from either bank and nothing he offered was going to budge this woman. No, I wasn't going to hold his hand and absolutely NOT was he going to carry me across - that would take my feet off solid ground AND raise me even higher! I squeakily suggested a helicopter (ok, I was panicking!) but eventually, cutting a long halt short, the ignominious sight of his beloved clutching a rusty railway line to her chest and slithering across the bridge on her belly proved to him for eternity that taking my feet off solid ground was not a good idea!

So, back to Diani and great excitement about a treehouse that I clearly didn't think through very well. Up I clambered, chattering like a Sykes but, what goes up must come down and this is what I faced:

Probably nothing to you and it's pretty unimpressive in the photos but in real life, this was like standing right at the top of the Eiffel Tower with gravity's claws wrapped around my neck pulling me frantically forward.

It's painful how slowly I mooch down every morning, with a white-knuckle death grip in real danger of crushing the handrails. The planning that goes into ensuring I ascend and descend as few times as possible is laughable!

Still, it's not all bad and we've extended our stay twice, not wanting to leave this treasure of a spot. Vertigo has stood down from Defcon 1 to Defcon 2 and while I'll never be happy at the top of those stairs, I'm sure reaching the bottom rung a little faster now!

48 Hours in Kigali Part Two - Inspire

If Africa was a body Rwanda would lie just below the heart, quite apt, we think, for a country that crashed into the bowels of Dante's 7th circle yet found the courage to climb, hand over hand, back to the surface.

'Courage' is deliberately used here; the essence of courage is undertaking an overwhelming difficulty or pain, driven by a cause worthy of the struggle. Rwanda's national animal, the leopard, signifies ferocity, the Great Watcher and courage. The country is all this for sure.

Squeaky clean streets in Kigali

It must be tiresome for Rwandans to have their tourist industry zoomed in on the inky blackness of their darkest hour; centuries of culture and life overshadowed by 100 days. Yet with calm and graceful patience, the horror is quietly acknowledged and spoken of. "There is more to Rwanda than genocide and gorillas!" exclaimed a Western aid worker. She is right, but first, the elephant in the room has to be confronted and passed.

During our 48-hour visit, we continually asked the same question of ourselves and other tourists. "How did Rwandans manage to move forward and reach this platform of quiet serenity, law and order?" Our eventual theory was that the nation was so broken and destroyed, they willingly followed a strong leadership determined to rebond and rebuild. Traumatised and exhausted, they placed their faith and trust in a government that had fought and shed blood to end the holocaust. 

Signs like this abound in Kigali

Still, on a visceral level, when the machetes and clubs stopped swinging and gunfire died down, what possessed the terrified Tutsis to trust enough to emerge from hiding? How did the Hutu find the courage to stop turning their faces away from the slaughter around them, or to put their pangas down and to re-assimilate themselves into a semblance of society and community? There is a leap of faith there that beggars my understanding.

This was neighbour against neighbour. Godparents handed over their godchildren, priests their parishioners, families their in-laws, patients their doctors, teachers their students to be massacred. The cat's cradle of close connections was tightly knotted; it's completely inexplicable that the bonds of love, respect and friendship could be dissolved so harshly. How does a nation put that behind them to reknit those relationships?

Ranulph Fiennes' The Secret Hunters is the best explanation of how a genocide can happen within a nation that I've ever read. A clever play on human nature is all it takes. First, you isolate Group B, refer to them as vermin (rats, cockroaches) to diminish their humanity. Tell Group A how they are superior and all the woes they suffer (or imagine they suffer) can be laid at the door of Group B. Then you insert slivers of fear into Group A - it is their duty to inform on / report their neighbours. Dire consequences for their own families await those in Group A who don't prove their loyalty to the state. Stage set, let the action begin.

Somehow, the little country in the heart of Africa stopped its own genocide. Then it began to rebuild and repair. A huge part of this surely lies in the Kigali Genocide Memorial, a no-holds-barred unravelling of the slaughter centuries before it actually began. Six years after the genocide, Kigali City Council began to build the shell of this memorial. Only six years! Such emotional maturity is staggering.

The Campaign Against Genocide museum provides a detailed plan of the Rwandan Patriotic Front's campaign to halt the madness. While told with some understandable jingoistic braggadocio, the end result is undeniable. This clean, safe, orderly, united, proud and thriving nation is a shining beacon of healing and forgiveness to Africa and the world.

Patriotic fervour in the campaign memorial - soldiers protect babies (the future), fallen comrades, women (mothers of the nation) all the while staring far ahead into the future.

There is a somewhat Disneylandish feel to the eerily clean and law-abiding city which seems to be run along the lines of a military camp with unquestioned precision. Perhaps this stern paternalistic rule helped the rebuilding process; citizens meekly followed and obeyed, terrified by what they and their neighbours were capable of and only too happy to be directed into line. 

Solar powered advertising on street litter recycling bins

Whatever the mix of ingredients in the Rwandan cake, you will frequently hear "There are no more Hutu or Tutsi, we are all Rwandan." Ethnicity has bowed out to proud nationalism. Viva.

Rwanda today is a wonderful place to visit and next time, we'll leave the city and tour the lakes and hills. Meanwhile, we urge you to support Rwanda whenever you can. Gorilla trekking? Coffee? Flying anywhere? Go Rwanda! Not just because they are a small country with few natural resources to offer the world, but because WE need to hold this African story close at heart and support its success. The deaths of one million people have produced possible solutions to many issues confronting other countries as well, If only our politicians and soapbox shriekers would listen.

Meanwhile, why not follow https://www.facebook.com/RwandaTheHeartOfAfrica/? Incredible photographs of this magnificent country mingle with inspiring stories about the day to day business and happenings. It's my feel-good read when News24 has me throwing my phone across the room!

48 Hours in Kigali Part One - Anger

Him Outdoors and I spent an emotionally traumatic 48 hours in Kigali last weekend, visiting both the Kigali Genocide Memorial and the Campaign Against Genocide Museum. Afterwards, he carried his shock and anger internally while I was prone to sudden tearful outbreaks which he patiently pointed out were fruitless; nothing could be changed or anyone saved. Tears water what was and what could have been, our challenge is to take what we have seen and nurture a path of change.

This piece has been very difficult to type, although I've recited numerous superb drafts of brilliant prose over the past few sleepless nights. Regrettably, all the clever words disappear into thin air with sunrise but this is my way of paying respect to Rwandans both then and now because, although this part is Anger, part 2 is Inspire. The Rwanda Genocide of 1994 is a heavy coin with one side deathly dark, the other a beacon of shining light that brightens humanity.

Fascinated by the Holocaust since my early teens, having visited Dachau in Germany and Vad Yashem in Israel and devoured literature and movies about the genocides in Europe and Rwanda; I believed myself bulletproof and tough enough to cope with Kigali. 

Him Outdoors and I followed our usual museum pattern on arrival, each roaming independently at our own pace. The memorial is astoundingly well laid out, beginning right at the beginning, before European colonisation and drawing visitors deeper and deeper towards the darkness of 1994. The blow by blow account of a well planned, prepared and actioned slaughter is clinical in its precision and thoroughness. The images moved, but didn't shock; who among us hasn't seen visuals of horror-filled trenches and corpses caught forever in agonised death throes? Our screens are overladen with ghastly scenes shot live in Syria and we have armoured ourselves to view others' agony with a certain amount of disconnect. 

But then there it was on the wall - the kick-in-the-belly Genocide Fax sent 3 months before the horror began by United Nations Assistance Mission In Rwanda (UNAMIR) Commander Lt-Gen Romeo Dallaire to Head of UN Peacekeeping Mission Kofi Annan. And the UN reply refusing permission to raid the arms caches or to send the requested 5500 UN troops. Further, instructing Dallaire to pass what he had learnt from the informant directly to the Rwandan head of state, the man planning a genocide. The informant, known only as Jean-Phillipe, disappeared never to be heard of again. Unlike Kofi Annan, who went on to greater things at the UN. 

Alongside were details of the $12 million arms deal between a French arms manufacturer (a deal guaranteed by the French government) and the Rwandan government. A government blatantly attending peace talks in Arusha and declaring on their arrival home that the peace agreement meant nothing, it was just 'piles of paper' and openly boasting of what they would do to the Tutsi after the accord was signed.   

Reading this documentation of historical fact in a museum hit home harder than any press reports had done. Staggering back to lean heavily against the cool wall, overcome with a nausea-induced heatwave and frantically wondering where the closest restroom was, my mind grappled to deal with the bald facts. It was preventable. The world knew. They allowed a genocide to happen, not in another time when ignorance or lack of information could be blamed. Twenty-four years ago.

HO has an uncanny ability to identify a crisis point. From nowhere, a hand pressed my shoulder - "are you ok?" I was incoherent but the bile subsided. Move on, barely taking in the halls following because the cacophony of bellowing anger in my head was blinding.

Fury blazed so hotly that I walked straight through the other genocides covered on the second floor. At least two of them, along with Rwanda, occurred after the UN adopted Resolution 260 on 9th December 1948 - Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide. Syria, naturally, being an ongoing genocide hasn't quite made it to museum status yet. 

Breaking point was yet to come. I sat for a while composing my thoughts before entering the Childrens' Hall, called Lost Tomorrows. Now the 100 bloody days in 1994 were narrowed down to a dozen or so photographs of happy, smiling children and babies and descriptions of their favourite things to do and to eat. And how they died. Tears stung as I was introduced first to Francine and Bernadin, aged 17. David Mugiraneza, around the corner, delivered the knock out punch. Little David, aged 10, who loved football and making people laugh and wanted to be a doctor. David, whose last words before being tortured to death were "UNAMIR will come for us."

Too much. Much, much too much. Torture is an age-old method of gaining information; who tortures a 10-year old? But that anguish was nothing compared to the tsunami of grief wrought by the trust and faith a small boy had in the foreign peacekeepers, unaware that they had been ordered to stand by and do nothing. I collapsed into a sobbing heap in the corner, absolutely overcome with shame. Why has France not been hauled before the International Court for aiding and abetting a genocide? Why did Kofi Annan not fall on his sword in shame, the shrill screams of hundreds of thousands of butchered people ringing in his ears?

A few weeks ago a friend and I were given a thorough tour of the UN in Nairobi, and properly drilled (and grilled) about how the UN is for everyone and we should all participate in suggesting solutions to world problems. George, our guide, admitted that the innocence and intentions of a world exhausted by two cataclysmic wars within 30 years has hamstrung the UN of recent times, where national interests supercede international morality and peace. The UN is incapable of preventing catastrophe and its efforts to adapt procedures to deal with this new world are too slow.

Cambodia, Bosnia, Rwanda and Syria will happen again and again until we, the people, start playing stronger roles in our governments' international policies. Thabo Mbeki's 'An African solution for an African problem' always resonated with me. Not regarding the solution he was pushing for that particular problem, but because Africa is our home. Fifty-four countries and thousands of languages notwithstanding, this is our land and our welfare. No one understands Africa and Africans better than us, even when we aren't getting on or understanding each other at all. 

The African Union has always been a blip somewhere in the outerspace of my consciousness but now, pushed by the lessons of Rwanda 1994, I intend to find out more about it and pay attention to what it is doing. There are lives at stake, yours and mine and, more importantly, our children. We cannot be so focused on what is happening in our hometown that we allow millions of people to die horribly in our neighbourhood. 

"When they said 'never again' after the Holocaust, was it meant for some people and not for others?" Apuilan Kabahin, Kigali Genocide Memorial

The Human Landing Strip

Soooo, Him Outdoors is outta town for a few days and I'm free to temporarily rearrange some details at Chez Hippy Hollow to suit moi while his back is turned. Excellent!

First to be dispensed with is the nightly mosquito net ritual. I can't bear the thing, finding it difficult to sleep in a cage no matter how ethereal and gauzy. HO can't sleep without one and it's a non-negotiable T & C in our home when he's here. To be fair, he is a veritable mozzie magnet, drawing them his way and while I'm the type O blood and the only potential (if absolutely bloody impossible now!) preggy person on the list below, I have a fair idea which boxes he ticks and working out isn't one of them! Let's just leave it as his wonderful aura, shall we?

Night 1 went like this:

23h12 - climb into the king sized bed. Claimed the middle and ALL the duvet. Smiled smugly at the neatly drawn back mozzie net. Life is good.

23h14 - Clumsy Cat performed her unique 4-paw landing, completely amazed that she is on the bed. Neither cat has managed to penetrate the folds of netting held firmly on the floor around the bed with weighted hems so this is a treat. And by the way, that expensive mattress that gives you a solid night's sleep even when the tiger climbs alongside - rhubarb. Our 3kg clunker cat sets up a bounce of note.

23h15 - despite having the build of a Massey-Ferguson tractor, Anushka is a cat with paranormal stealth. She discovers the bed is open and available but arrives so lightly I'm unaware of her presence until she brushes my arm with her tail.

23h16 - happy cat sleeping noises from the bottom of the bed while I stretch out to claim every corner for myself. Bliss

23h17 - the rising tempo of a mosquito on it's short final landing approach signals that the blasted insects were waiting, hovering somewhere in the hopes that tonight would be their night. 

23h20 - a squadron of mosquitos de Havilland would be proud of perform a series of descending circuits towards their target, my ear.

23h21 - flinging back the duvet, I grumpily tug at the satin ribbons holding the net and zip up the voluminous tent. Not happy.

23h22 - give my pillow a sulky punch and settle down again.

23h25 - NO! A single combat mozzie is trapped inside the net and decides to fight the Battle of Britain alone. All night. Have you ever tried to evict a single mosquito? Impossible. Sleep out of the question, I entertain myself with memories of a naked HO wielding a pair of underpants and chasing down the irritating buggers, before he upgraded to one of those electric tennis racquet zapper things.

The sticking point is, though, that HO has been proved right about the net and the blasted mozzies have ganged up on the opposing side! 

It's Raining, It's Pouring

And how! The Long Rains have shown their teeth since they arrived late on the 28th February. They were initially very welcome because the Short Rains of late 2017 failed to materialise, making Nairobi a dust bowl. Everything had a gritty feel and whether the water had washed clothes or bodies, it ended up the same shade of African earth... 

Naturally, this being Africa and Africa never doing anything by halves, the first two weeks of March suffered devastating downpours, flooded streets and fields, collapsed bridges and the Rift Valley cracked a little further, right across the Nakuru road and through houses innocently straddling the well hidden fracture.

The rains eased to the occasional drizzle and we felt the season was probably behind us when we scooted down to South Africa for two weeks. Wrong on so many levels, the heavens opened the minute we left and the deluge hasn't stopped. Yet again, open pieces of land resemble rice paddies, whole sections of road are under water, fast gushing streams splash where pavements should be and the mud, oh the mud. Glutinous, sticky, red gloop clings to everything it touches, filling tyre treads and making even Pugly, our little 4x4 Rav, slide to and fro. I've rapidly learned two things - wear wellies 'tween house and car and tread carefully; never be further than a rapid hand grasp away from something solid to cling on to. This mud not only sucks the shoes off your feet, it is a gelatinous ice rink of slipperiness. And it simply will not come off, it has to be painstakingly dug out of shoes and tyres.

We heard over the weekend that the rains are set to last another six weeks, a full month longer than usual. It's not all rain, though. The sun comes out to play quite frequently, making everything steam gently and for a few hours we can bask in the pleasure that only sunlight on your face and arms can bring. Then, pow, the heavens open again.

Him Outdoors' latest project is building an outdoor covered area which is a work in progress and still lacks a roof therefore social engagements at home are tricky to say the least. Friday afternoon and Saturday blazed warm and bright and we felt confident enough to invite our next door neighbours round for sundowners. Playing safe, we set out the chairs and snacks very last minute when we thought we could get away with a garden event. We'd no sooner all sat down then we were gathering snacks, drinks, chairs and ourselves, galloping to the teeny covered veranda we have as the Rain Gods blessed our gathering with intermittent sprinkles.

An hour later another guest arrived and we felt brave enough to try the garden again as the skies were clear, which lasted long enough for us to set everything up before doing the rain fandango yet again. This time, it didn't ease for hours and when sundowners (ha, ha, ha) drew to an end at about 21h30, we had four people facing instant immersion in the dash from our front door to theirs. "Make a gate in the fence between your door and mine!" Emma suggested. In the meantime, we settled for an umbrella relay. Christina went first, then tossed the brollie back over the fence along with one of hers for the next lot of runners. Shrieks of 'watch the mud at the gate' competed with the drumming of heavy rain on the mabati (corrugated iron) roofs. 

Bless the rains down in Africa goes the song and for sure, rain is always welcome here for those in solid houses with a sturdy roof. How the poor street vendors in Karen keep smiling as they brave the wet, desperately draping their goods with pieces of plastic and dashing through puddles to take their wares to customers sitting warm and dry in their cars I do not know. As always, the cheerful, uncomplaining resilience of Africans leaves me warm and fuzzy and I will not for a moment complain about my ruined suede shoes or squelchy, mud covered feet.

Little Treasures Lighting Up Our Lives

I don't altogether agree with Robert Louis Stevenson that "to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive", although in my experience months of research, planning and anticipation adds tremendously to the overall enjoyment of a longed for adventure or experience. To the point, in fact, that on the morning of departure I am often physically sick, clutching grimly to the porcelain toilet bowl as the enormity of achieving a dream and the realisation that the day has actually arrived slaps me on the chops with nauseating force. Carried away in blissful planning and preparation, somewhere along the path I forgot that there was actually a point to it all and usually discover at Zero Hour that I am terrified by the entire thing.

Not, of course, that any of the amazing adventures have ever disappointed, far from it, but the mental engagement and emotional investment is a huge part of actualising the dream process and is at least as much fun as the adventure itself.

But not all treasured experiences are the result of lengthy budgeting and preparation. The shiniest pinprick stars in my firmament arrived unexpectedly, thanks, perhaps, to a malfunction of some type, or being in the wrong place at the right time, adding immense awe and wonder at the sheer happenstance of it all.

Thursday last delivered one such joy to Him Outdoors and I. Late afternoon began with the regular, hum drum supermarket visit which, in our case, most often ends with a drink on the way home. Deciding to share the love and forgo our usual, wonderful, Italian haunt at The Hub and not overly excited by the other possibilities HO came up with a doozy - Asmara, the Eritrean restaurant midway between the supermarket and home and the closest restaurant to where we live which we've been planning to visit come payday. One day. Why not drop in for a beer and a G n T and see what's what?

If you've read any of these blogs, you'll know by now that HO and I are extremely, well, diverse in so many things and our arrival at Asmara opened that crack again. HO, in the driver's seat, pulled up to the front door, glanced in and announced that this wasn't his sort of place nor what he had in mind for sundowners. Moi, in a post shopping state of heightened irritability, was having none of it, especially as we were obviously the only customers and James, bless his waiter heart, had rushed through the portals to welcome us and proudly show off the extensive menu. Insisting that we were here, this was a recce, all experiences count, I hopped out leaving HO to find parking and followed James for his offered tour of the establishment.

By the time HO stomped in, James and I had explored the upper level, checked out the private dining room and surveyed the wall of wines. HO joined us in time for the tour of the bar, lower level, outside dining and grounds. We settled upstairs and sat back to gratefully slurp at a Tusker baridi and an icy G n T. 

Delighted to have patrons, James, with his impish chuckle and dancing eyes, popped upstairs with the regularity of an efficient metronome, upsold us on a rather pricey bottle of Australian Shiraz, delivered a charcoal burner and insisted that 'it is very cold in Karen at night. You need to be warm.' No suffering on his watch, then. Try as he might, and he did try very hard in the most charming way, none of the dishes he described swayed us to stay on for dinner. Not that night, anyway.

Leaving HO to settle up and drawn by an enticing aroma in the foyer, I found myself intrigued by the little tableau. A beautiful woman in white was sitting in front of a well-dressed table while one of the waiters sat on a stool alongside rattling who knew what in a small pan over a jiko (tiny charcoal burning stove). Sensing my curiosity, they waved me over and invited me to try my hand at coffee bean roasting because that was what they were up to. Needing no arm twisting, I sat down and began to gently shake and toss the aromatic beans while simultaneously giving Marta the 3rd degree, quickly discovering that:

- she was from Ethiopia, living in Nairobi and working in reception for her uncle, Asmara's owner

- the gorgeous little jiko, square instead of the usual round, was from Ethiopia

- Ethiopians ALWAYS have a cookie or popcorn (?!) with their coffee, and drink about 10 cups a day

- all Ethiopian women have to learn how to roast beans, cook chicken stew and make perfect njera. Not only to avoid shaming their husbands and in laws, but for their own pride and self respect too.

- Every household, no matter how rural, will make each cup of coffee from scratch, roasting sufficient beans at a time for the required number of cups

- her pride in her culture is such that she volunteered to sit in the Asmara foyer every night, sharing her traditions with anyone interested enough.

-Marta was impressively patient with my endless and ignorant questions; she insisted that our experience be as authentic as possible. Right down to setting a small burner on the tray with coals from the jiko which she sprinkled with frankincense, wafting the fumes over the coffee to add to the overall indulgence.

HO, who had resigned himself to a long wait, sat patiently across the room catching up on his news feed, until the dinky little coffee servings tempted him to find his own cow-hide stool and join us. James, in the meantime, was delighted that we were still there and did his bit too, fetching samples of njera from the kitchen for us to try and saying that when we came for dinner he'd walk us right through the perfect Eritrean dining experience.

We left walking on air, completely taken with what we'd learnt and experienced - the people and the ceremony of drinking our favourite beverage with respect and honour. Hearts light with joy and awe, we vowed then and there that dinner at Asmara is on the cards sooner rather than later and as Marta has assured us that we'll find her there any evening, we'll pause a while to enjoy her gentle company and simply wonderful coffee. Life is full of little treasures, it's important to take a moment and embrace them.