Lost in Time: Exploring Massawa's Ottoman Architecture and Colonial Past

Massawa's Old Town feels like stepping through a portal into the 16th century. Built primarily from coral blocks harvested from the nearby sea, the Ottoman architecture here has survived centuries of change, albeit sometimes just barely. I spent my first morning wandering the narrow, winding streets where ornate wooden doors—many adorned with intricate carvings—punctuate whitewashed facades.

The former Bank of Italy building stands as perhaps the most impressive example of this architectural fusion, with its coral stone construction topped by distinctly Ottoman flourishes. I found myself reaching for my pocket sketchbook repeatedly, trying to capture the geometric patterns that adorned doorways and windows.

As temperatures climbed toward midday, I ducked into the shade of the historic Imperial Palace. Though largely in ruins now, this once-grand structure speaks to Massawa's importance as a trading hub between Africa and the Arabian Peninsula. A local elder named Haile approached as I photographed the remains, offering to share stories passed down through generations about the Ottoman rulers who once walked these halls. These unplanned encounters often become the most meaningful parts of travel—I've found that a smile and genuine curiosity can open doors closed to typical tourists.

What makes Massawa truly unique is its extensive use of coral as a building material. Unlike any other architectural tradition I've encountered in my travels, the buildings here have a symbiotic relationship with the sea itself. The coral blocks—cut from reefs centuries ago before we understood their ecological importance—create naturally insulated structures that remain cool despite the punishing Red Sea heat.

I spent an afternoon with my compact binoculars examining the facades of buildings along the waterfront, where you can clearly see embedded shells, fossilized marine life, and the porous texture of the coral. The Bank of Italy building exemplifies this tradition at its finest, with massive coral blocks forming its imposing structure.

The technique involves cutting coral into blocks, allowing it to dry and harden through exposure to air, then setting it with a mortar made from crushed coral and lime. What results is a building material perfectly adapted to the local climate—naturally cooling, durable against salt air, and with a distinctive texture that catches the light beautifully at sunrise and sunset.

I found myself wondering about the sustainability implications of such architecture. While historically ingenious, it's a sobering reminder of how human ingenuity sometimes comes at an environmental cost—something I often discuss with my ESL students when exploring cultural practices around the world.

Walking through Massawa is like reading a history book written in architecture. The Italian colonial period (1890-1941) left an indelible mark on the cityscape, with fascist-era administrative buildings standing in stark contrast to the older Ottoman structures. I spent my second day exploring this complicated legacy, starting at the former Governor's Palace.

The rationalist style of Italian colonial architecture—with its imposing symmetry and stripped-down classical elements—speaks to the fascist ideology that drove Italy's colonial ambitions. Yet there's an undeniable beauty in some of these buildings, particularly in how they adapted Mediterranean design principles to the harsh Red Sea climate with features like deep verandas and high ceilings.

I had brought my travel guidebook which provided crucial historical context often missing from the minimal signage around town. The Italian legacy extends beyond architecture to Massawa's café culture—I found several small establishments still serving espresso in the Italian tradition, though with a distinctly Eritrean twist.

In one such café, I met an elderly man named Ibrahim who recounted stories passed down from his grandfather about life under Italian rule. These conversations reveal the nuanced reality of colonial history—how cultural exchange occurred even within deeply unequal power structures. As an educator, I find these personal narratives invaluable for understanding history beyond textbook accounts.

Massawa's identity as a port city cannot be overstated—it has been the primary reason for the city's existence for centuries. On my final day, I explored the bustling port district where the architectural timeline of the city continues into the modern era.

I woke before dawn, camera in hand, to capture the fishing boats returning with their morning catch. The port area offers a different kind of historical experience—one that's alive and continuing rather than preserved in architectural amber. Fishermen mend nets using techniques passed down through generations while cargo ships from across the world dock alongside traditional wooden vessels.

The market adjacent to the port becomes a symphony of commerce by mid-morning. I wandered through stalls selling everything from fresh fish to imported electronics, practicing my rudimentary Tigrinya with patient vendors. My travel water bottle proved invaluable in the intense heat—Massawa can reach scorching temperatures even in winter months.

What fascinated me most was how the port functions as a cultural crossroads. In a single morning, I heard conversations in Tigrinya, Arabic, Italian, and various Indian languages—evidence of the trade networks that have defined Massawa for centuries. The port district embodies what I love most about travel: those liminal spaces where cultures don't just meet but blend together in organic, ever-evolving ways.

Near the customs house, I discovered a small bookshop with a collection of historical photographs showing Massawa through different periods. The owner, noticing my interest, brought out family albums showing the city before the destruction of the independence war—a poignant reminder of how much has been lost but also how resilient this remarkable place remains.

Staying in Massawa presents an interesting challenge for the budget-conscious traveler. The city's tourism infrastructure remains limited, but this limitation becomes part of its charm. I chose the modest Dahlak Hotel, a converted Italian-era building that offers simple rooms with high ceilings and those architectural details you simply won't find in modern constructions.

The hotel lacks luxury amenities, but my room's balcony overlooked a quiet courtyard where bougainvillea climbed weathered coral walls—a setting straight from a Graham Greene novel. At around $30 per night, it represented excellent value while providing an authentic experience of the city's architectural heritage.

My travel sleep mask proved essential as early morning light floods through the shuttered windows—a small item that makes a big difference when adapting to new environments. Similarly, my portable door lock gave peace of mind in a building with charming but antiquated security features.

For those seeking even more budget-friendly options, several family-run guesthouses in the Ottoman Quarter offer rooms for as little as $15-20 per night. What these lack in amenities they make up for in location and cultural immersion. I spent one night at such an establishment, where the owner's mother prepared traditional Eritrean breakfast served in the central courtyard—an experience no luxury hotel could match.

Regardless of where you stay, the real luxury in Massawa is waking up surrounded by layers of history, with the call to prayer and the sounds of the port creating a soundtrack unlike anywhere else I've visited.