It's filthy cold here in Moscow, maybe that's the reason I'm writing not as regularly as I should. Mid-March already, but it looks like mid-January. On days like those we're having now, the lucky ones who happened to be there, can't help but envy the folks who live in the lively and hospitable town of Asmara with the best climate I have ever experienced.

In my days it never exceeded plus 25-26C in summer and never got lower than plus 18C in winter. If I were a sort of poetic character I'd write "I close my eyes and imagine sitting in a clean and neat bar sipping bunna (coffee) and loving the whole of the universe". Actually Ethiopian or Eritrean coffee belongs to my best memories of the country. And no wonder the girls count high in the list.

It's quite possible there are more beautiful women in other parts of the world. But I would never forget the pretty creatures named Almaz or Alganesh. The latter is being strange name for me. As little as I understand Tigrinnya, the meaning is "she is a bed". For a bar whore it sounds professional. Here I must submit a claim. The local women in early 1980s showed reluctance in doing blow jobs. The only time I managed to persuade an old acquaintance of mine (an Almaz) to provide me one, she charged 50 Birr (the name of the local currency under Col. Mengistu, although many people still used the term Dollar). For a regular intercourse one paid 10 Birr plus 10 for a room in a pension. According to the then black market exchange rate that made it about USD 6.

Once after a long bar crawl we stopped at The Blue Nile for a nightcap. The lady in charge of the place said she could provide white girls at the price 100 Birr (USD 30) "a piece". We decided we'd better opt for the locals. The only demand, beside good looks was big tits. On the whole, I guess she managed to meet the demand. It was like a black big tits beauty contest, which all parties enjoyed. As I wrote before, we used to regularly patronize The Blue Nile, although its location was not a suitable one. Just across the square, in an apartment block, lived the Russian Air Force security guys (kind of military police with a focus on political matters) who spent most of their time smoking on the balcony with good command over the area. Thus we had to use the side door.

Actually, I never met, say, an Italian woman in Asmara save for a jewelry shopkeeper. She and her husband owned a shop where Russian military personnel and their wives bought gold chains, rings, earrings, etc. Silver and ivory held 2nd and 3rd positions. The stuff came from Italy, where the couple traveled to once in two to three months. One of duties laid upon fellow interpreters was the torture to accompany senior officers' wives during their shopping expeditions. At first, I took it too seriously, but later I allowed them to bargain as long as they could endure, and that was almost endless, and hide in a bar nearby drinking beer or coffee, smoking and watching store entrance waiting for exhausted but happy ladies to appear.

Among the biggest values in revolutionary Ethiopia and Eritrea were glass bottles. That's why we never bought Gin in bottles. We'd poured the sacred liquid into plastic 20 litre jerry-cans. That was also more convenient for transportation as the stuff was to be delivered to the comrades in the fields suffering of thirst. That was a monthly ritual. A representative was sent to Asmara to get salaries for the whole team, food rations and GIN !!! Upon his arrival all service activities stopped for three days at least. Consumption of industrial quantities of gin lasted day and night. In order to get money for buying the stuff we sold food extras. A 5 to six man strong team wasn't able to make complete use of some 200-Kg of flour, similar weight of sugar, etc. The senior officers' majors to colonels preferred to go to sell all that themselves. I wasn't a career soldier and believed that such commerce had not much to do with an officer's dignity. My confidant was a gallant soldier of Ethiopian revolution a Private named Abraham, a driver who drove a Russian ZIL-130 truck. When I was the one to bring money, food and gin to my comrades, I asked Abraham to sell the extras. His commission was ten per cent. I don't know how much he managed to save over his ten per cent but he always returned me enough money to buy some 20 litres of gin, fresh vegetables, cheese and the like to treat the guys.

Tomatoes, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, etc. were usually bought at vegetable market which was located between Christian and Muslim parts of the town. The traders there mastered enough of Russian, although I knew the names of fruit and vegetables in Amharic. I happened to meet an ignorant guy once. He was selling plums, when I asked him for Amharic or Tigrean word for it, he answered, Sym yellem, which means "No name".

Whenever we traveled back by the road via Keren we always stopped at Elaberet. There were vast orange plantations, and those were the most delicious oranges I ever tasted. But the journeys by the road have been considered rather dangerous, although I never heard of any incidents. More often we flew planes, mainly old American Douglas machines. Less often Canadian Twin Otter or Russian Mi-8 helicopters.

That's it for now. Hope to hear from you again soon.

Regards,

Sergei