I Didn’t Do It For You: How the World Used and Abused a Small African Nation. Michela Wrong

the work single-handed. ‘There is not a dog here with whom one can hold an intellectual discussion,’ he complained in a letter to his daughter.¹⁶ It was a lonely, heady experience, bound to encourage delusions of grandeur. ‘At times, unfortunately,’ he confessed to his diary, ‘I feel it would not be too arrogant to say, adapting the words of Louis 14th, “I am the colony”.’¹⁷

      The longer he stayed, the more convinced he became that the success of this monumental project hinged on one key element. He knew Eritrea had gold, fish stocks in abundance and river valleys capable of producing coffee and grain, cotton and sisal. But as long as a rickety mule track was the only way of scaling the mountains separating hinterland from sea, Eritrea would remain forever cut off from the African continent, its ports idle, its administration reliant on government subsidies. Only a railroad could unlock the riches of the plateau and – beyond it – the markets of Abyssinia and Sudan. It was the one explicit undertaking Martini had sought in exchange for his loyal service during his final conversation with King Umberto. ‘Without a railway joining Massawa with the highlands, nothing good, lasting or productive will ever come from Eritrea,’ he told the monarch. ‘Rest assured,’ the King had promised. ‘The railway will be built.’¹⁸

      The close of the 19th century was the golden era of African railways. Flinging their sleepers and coal-eating locomotives across savannah and jungle, the colonial powers sent a blunt message to the locals: progress was unstoppable. The railroad was both an instrument of war, depositing troops armed with machine guns within range of their spear-carrying enemies, and an instrument of commercial penetration, bringing the ivory, minerals and spices at the continent’s heart to market, opening the interior to land-hungry farmers and hopeful miners. Cecil Rhodes dreamt of one that would run from Cape to Cairo, the explorer Henry Stanley, nicknamed ‘Breaker of Rocks’, was building one which would link Leopoldville to the sea, the British were braving man-eating lions to connect Uganda with the Swahili coast. Railways were the equivalent of today’s national airlines – no African colony worth its salt could be without one.

      Martini did not intend to be left out, although he knew Eritrea’s topography made this a uniquely demanding challenge. When Martini arrived, the Italian army had already laid 28 km of track to the town of Saati, carrying troops to fight Ras Alula. But the work had been carried out in such haste, it all needed to be redone. There were drawings to be sketched, sites visited, contracts put out to tender and strikes to be settled. It all fell to Martini, acutely aware that Italy’s colonial rivals were establishing their own trade routes into the interior, with France and Britain vying for control of a railway that would link Djibouti with Addis Ababa. ‘The railway means peace, both inside and outside our borders, and huge savings on the budget,’ he told his diary, time and again. Despite the King’s promise, winning the funding did not prove easy. Having sent Martini out with orders to cut spending, Rome did not take kindly to constant requests for money. He would waste months peppering the Foreign Ministry with telegrams, winning his bosses round to the railroad’s merits, only to see the government fall and a new set of ministers take office, who all had to be persuaded afresh. The railway, fretted Martini, ‘would be the only really effective remedy to many – perhaps all – of the colony’s ills. But in Rome they do not want to know.’¹⁹

      He assembled a small army of 1,100 Eritrean labourers and 200 Italian overseers for the backbreaking and dangerous work, hacking and blasting through the rock, building stations and water-storage vaults as the railroad inched forwards. Struggling to master the technical minutiae of rail engineering, Martini found himself acting as peacemaker between irate private contractors and his abrasive head of works, Francesco Schupfer, a stickler for detail capable of forcing a company caught using sub-standard materials to knock down a stretch of earthworks and start again. ‘Perhaps he is too rough, but he is a gentleman,’ Martini pondered, intervening yet again to smooth ruffled feathers. ‘He is hated by everyone, but very dear to me.’²⁰ When Britain raised the possibility of connecting Sudan’s rail network to the Eritrean line – a move that would have turned Massawa into eastern Sudan’s conduit to the sea – Martini was almost beside himself with excitement. ‘This is a matter of life and death, either the railway reaches as far as Sabderat or we must leave Eritrea,’ he pronounced.²¹ Just when his plans looked set in concrete, Rome began wondering – in a reflection of the changing technological times – whether it might not be better off investing in a highway to Gonder and Addis Ababa instead.

      Despite all the telegrams and discussions, the stops and starts, the track slowly edged its way up to Asmara. By 1904, the crews had reached Ghinda, by 1911, four years after Martini had returned to Italy, it had reached Asmara. The final heave up the mountain proved the trickiest. Even today, old men living in Shegriny (‘the difficult place’), remember the dispute that lent their hamlet its name, as a father-and-son engineering team squabbled over the best route to take, each retiring to sulk in his tent before the precipitous route along ‘Devil’s Gate’ – little more than a narrow cliff ledge looking out over nothingness – was finally agreed.

      The single most expensive public project undertaken by the Italians in Eritrea, Martini’s railway was emblematic of his rule. Its construction marked the time when Eritrea, exposed to Western influences and endowed with the infrastructure of a modern industrial state, started down a path that would lead its citizens further and further away from their neighbours in feudal Abyssinia. Yet, as far as Martini was concerned, this gathering sense of national identity was almost an accidental by-product. Like so many colonial Big Men, he was haunted by the need to tame the landscape, to carve his initials into Eritrea’s very rocks. Literally hammering the nuts and bolts of a nation into place, he was more interested in the mechanical structures taking shape than what was going on in the heads of his African subjects. This colony was being created for Italy’s sake and if much of what he did improved life for Eritreans, it was motivated by an understanding of what was in Rome’s long-term interests, not altruism. No one could accuse Martini of remaining aloof – he toured constantly, setting up his marquee under the trees and receiving subjects whose customs he recorded in his diary. He knew the ways of the lowland Kunama and the nomadic rhythms of the Rashaida. But these were more the contacts of a deity with his worshippers than a parliamentarian with his constituents. This was the interest a lepidopterist shows in his butterfly collection – cool, distant and with a touch of deadly chloroform.

      The approach is at its clearest when Martini writes about the two areas in which intimate contact between the races was possible: sex and education. Racial segregation had been practised in the colony since its inception. In Asmara, Eritreans were confined to the stinking warren of dwellings around the markets, while the Europeans, whose most prominent members donned white tie and tails to attend Martini’s balls, lived in villas on the south side of the main street. Public transport was also segregated: Eritreans would have to wait another half-century to share the novel experience of using a bus’s front door. But the races still mingled far more than the prudish Martini felt comfortable with. He disapproved of prostitutes, but was also repelled by the widespread phenomenon of madamismo, in which Italian officials took Eritrean women as concubines, setting up house together. The practice, he warned, raised a truly ghastly prospect. ‘A black man must not cuckold a white man. So a white man must not place himself in a position where he can be cuckolded by a native.’²² If the offspring of such unsavoury unions were abandoned, it would bring shame upon ‘the dominant race’; if decently reared, it could ruin the Italian official concerned. Either outcome was to be deplored, so the entire situation was best avoided. It was an attempt at social engineering that enjoyed almost no success. By 1935, Asmara’s 3,500 Italians had produced 1,000 meticci, evidence of a healthy level of interbreeding. Скачать книгу