After the rain continued...

After being fed on delicious fresh papaya, a soup bowl EACH full of delicious local honey to eat neat with a spoon(!!) and given a huge bag of locally grown (D-licious) bananas to take away, we jump back in the transport ready to leave – in good time for our next appointment, despite the unscheduled pause to appreciate the rain and really take in the environment.

Classes end and the kids come running out to do what seems to be the accepted treatment of strangers i.e. stare. The best photo opportunity of the day came out of this, as I had time to study the amazing creative hairstyles, the uniformly shabby clothes and the stunningly expressive faces without feeling like an intruder. I wonder what they are thinking about, starting so intensely at the ferengi. My own thoughts are: how varied the features that point to the different ethnic groups that have arrived here over the course of a long recorded history that predates the biblical era (a few are tall, most are short, light and dark skinned, fine featured, Arabian looking - but more on that later - particularly after I've read a bit of local history); how open the expressions; how photogenic the faces and how curious the habit of starting, though I am doing the same, perhaps with a different (photographer's) intent. I do wonder if a group of kids of my own race would seem as captivating - I would surely find as much variety there. Many of these look like old souls in young bodies.

The drive back to Degan is a little more silent and seat gripping after the rain. No cause for concern though, with a highly experienced driver, who incidentally rates amongst the healthiest physiques I have seen since my arrival. Its gratifying to see someone who looks like he gets to enjoy food and has enough to eat. We only slide sideways on muddy bends a couple of times, and are at least 5 metres away from the edge of the canyon at the time! It is still a relief to pick our way back across the river bed and up the steep bank that means we are only five minutes away from Degan town centre. This is not the actual river crossing but it gives an idea of the terrain.


It feels good to be arriving on time, even though our lateness has been graciously accepted on all other occasions. We still haven’t managed to deliver the gifts to the high school, despite carrying the heavy green bag full of books, laptop and camera back and forth every day and even unpacking it on one occasion. The deputy principal is in the company for lunch today and seems quite content about matters.


I am pleased to be donating an older but excellent digital camera to the school, as he seems enthusiastic about operating one. Still and video cams are handed around for people to have a go.


There is quite a gathering and everyone else sits quietly observing the fast while we are served another traditional and fairly extravagant meal. Fresh salad of lettuce, tomatoes and peppers -books and GPs warn travellers not to eat this but I’ve been ‘risking it’ since we arrived at Tekle’s with no ill effects so far - traditional chilli rich meat stew and njera, the staple sorghum pancake that is served at every meal. This is made from mashila – the crop that features in the video as susceptible to pests. I have seen this time that some of it will end up as cattle feed because the rain doesn’t come at the time its needed to ripen. The difference between healthy yellow heads and dry, colourless ones is strikingly obvious. There is also a fairly high risk of crop disease.

The meal is followed by delicious coffee served in the traditional way - ground in a mortar and pestle, heated over charcoal in small earthenware pots and served in tiny cups, strong and black with sugar. There is a different name for the first, second and third pours. More water is added each time and the pot reheated. Three is enough to keep anyone going for the rest of the day! Its so tempting to drink more because its such delicious coffee.

After coffee, a large bag of gifts appears and we are all indulged with beautiful traditional gifts, woven shawls, Ethiopian Millenium tshirts and traditional cotton outfits. Much posing for pictures intervenes before our next stop at the Health Centre.


(Here is one for those who wanted proof I was there). Looks like the high school will miss out again today. I try not to panic about this. Tomorrow is planned to be our last day in Degan and the MoU for the ambulance is still the top priority of the trip. I have learned to trust in things working and will not be disappointed.

After the rain

Girar Amba School
The rain finally stops so we can get on with the purpose of the visit and hopefully back on schedule. It is a lesson in patience and appreciation to sit and watch / listen to the rain that is so desperately needed. Our priority this morning is getting through a busy schedule and back to Degan on time. This 30 minute unscheduled pause prompts me to reflect on the significance of an event that is all too common, taken for granted and even unwelcome where I live. Here, it determines whether the previous year’s work on ploughing, planting and tending is going to bear fruit (pardon the cheesy expression!), and defines the prospects for the entire community for the next. More than a mildly inconvenient and unplanned variation to a day’s program of events! I’m grateful for the time for this reflection, and can't help thinking that the timing is perfect. Long enough to stop and think, short enough to make the schedule.

The purpose of the visit is to see progress on a classroom building project that the DESTA Project helped to fund. There is an element of courtesy call and indication of continuing support – even if it isn't the current top priority. The small size of the project is comforting. It seems manageable.

The project was delayed because a building boom in the capital resulted in a massive increase in the price of cement. The economics of supply and demand are not complex here. Extra funds had to be raised by the community and the work is now progressing.

The facilities are basic, but the buildings are sound and, most importantly, durable. The methods are also basic, labour intensive with some materials sourced locally. The foundations are methodically placed river stones – of which there are plenty, though I wouldn’t like the job of transporting them here - fixed in place with cement. The concrete blocks are made on site. The cement store is displayed as a prized possession. The builders are onsite every day until the job is complete. No juggling of schedules or delays once the job has started!

The existing buildings tell stories. The gray block walls are painted with Roman and Amharic alphabets, digestive system, animal species and maps.

Quite different to the orderly, unadorned institutional walls I am used to seeing. I love this idea, and can see that lessons in the school grounds would be a welcome break from indoors on a hot but breezy day. The insides are stark, sometimes crowded and rather uninspiring. Unlike the natural, rural setting of the hills and lush tropical growth. This is higher ground than Degan and clearly it gets more rain.

The most inspiring sights and sounds are the kids. Little kids who will grow into small adults, as my own race did not so long ago because of poor nutrition. Little kids sitting on a blue tarpaulin on the dirt floor of their classroom with a multi-coloured pile of plastic shoes at the door.



There is no furniture for the youngest ones. Although it would be easy and cheap to source, getting it here would be either expensive or a challenge. Possibly both. Boys on one side girls on the other – though the majority in the youngest group are boys. Not so in the higher grade. Rote learning English sentences in grades 1 and 2, writing Roman and Amharic scripts, studying science on the outside walls of their school. This is a glimpse of the past and the future in the same frame.

The Ethiopian Jewish emigrants we met at the Lido in Addis looked nostalgic watching video of these classrooms captured on an earlier trip. They have travelled a long way from there, and so, most likely, will most of these kids. The chances are that some will end up running the country, others abroad as part of the diaspora or moving into the city. Recent trends show a major shift to city living. Views on the streets show adjusting can be difficult in the absence of community or government support. No one starves in the village, but the shift is common as countries develop from subsistence farming economics to industrial or something else.


Statistics show this to be the case in Ethiopia. I wonder what this school and community will be like in another 10 or 20 years. I imagine the airport at Kombolche will be redeveloped as a major gateway to the north. Its got a perfect location, just needs a paved runaway and a half decent terminal building. A bridge over the Cheleka River and a road to Girar Amba would transform the place – for better and worse in different ways.

Another hectic day

Wednesday 3rd October

Kombolche - Girar Amba - Degan - Kombolche

Time dependent on someone else this morning – Ato Hashim, the Head of the Regional Education Department – to get up to Girar Amba and back to Degan in time for lunch, which the community has arranged, and is to be followed by 'a presentation.' Of what I am not sure at the start.

We will then make a formal visit to the Degan Health Centre and are once more scheduled to present the donated items to the high school. Finally we will collect Shemeles, the elected community leader, Eshetu the Health Centre Director and Mohammed Hassan our main local contact and get back to Kombolche in time to catch the Concern Office to discuss and finalize revisions to the MOU.

Sounds like a fairly impossible schedule, and we have the questionable benefit of knowing that in the same situation a year ago, Sam waited 3 hours to be picked up. It’s hard to fit everything into the schedule in the short time available – without adding the complicating factor of relying on someone else, who is also relying on someone else, i.e. the Concern pool vehicle and driver, to get started. There is no sense of impatience though, as being in the flow has seen us through like a well oiled and turbo charged engine thus far, and does not take Wednesdays off as far as I know.

Pick up time is 9am and when this doesn’t happen, I use the opportunity of waiting time to take my camera walkabout to capture some of the hotel environment. The woman who does the washing and resident guard puppies are particularly photogenic,





Watching the foot traffic at the end of the drive keeps me well entertained until the lift arrives – some of it looks positively biblical.



We are staying at the 3-star (my own context relevant rating) Tekle’s Hotel. Before the revolution Tekle’s was sited at Kombolche town's main roundabout at the end of the road to Bati that we travel along as far as Degan every day. Some gorgeous old pictures still decorate the dining room walls. Tekle’s managed to survive the sweep of nationalization during the 'socialist' regime that took power in the 1970s. A restaurant, bar and kitchens were added to three large bungalows - my guess is these were built during the Italian occupation - in a pretty sloping garden site at the edge of town in the 1980s. It’s a popular place with tourists and our booking has been misunderstood. After the first night, our basic but decent en suite rooms have to be vacated to accommodate a stream of what seems to be mainly Dutch tourists. Ron and Maria have a good size and easy access en suite room which we all end up using. Lorraine and Andrew have size and easy access to shared facilities. Sam and I have the necessary mozzie net and bed but little else. At least we are all in the same hotel with a restaurant for the duration of our stay thanks to some string pulling by the manager.



No pictures of the shared squat loo and (cold) shower are included. I didn't linger for fear of becoming prey for the resident mozzies and the memory is reminder enough.

We finally got underway about 10am in a much more comfortable vehicle than the minibus we hired for the trip – this Concern Land Cruiser has suspension as well as a ‘no fire arms’ sticker on the window.


The vehicle and the sign both begin to make sense at our destination, one of Degan High School’s feeder Primaries at Girar Amba. The village is small and seems barely accessible even after the minimal amount of rainfall since our arrival in the area. In an earlier video clip, the regional head of education Woizero (sp?) Wahad described it quite naturally as three hours walk from Degan, and that is no easy stroll. The route winds across a currently passable river-bed where a wide expanse of washed stones tells of wetter times. Along the edge of a not too deep but still dangerous to fall in canyon, up a rather muddy hill then around some steep and stony S bends. The country is stunning here with higher peaks painted on the horizon and healthy crops showing exactly why people choose to cope with the inconvenience of the location.

Round the final bend, the low roofs of single story buildings spaced around a clearing announce our arrival at the school. Local chiefs walk around with machine guns casually slung over shoulders and towering above the tiny figures spilling out of classrooms to inspect the visitors.

At one point, the guns are checked in with the mother of the house where we shelter from the rain that seems to follow us around. It is scarce and very welcome. She places the weapons casually on the bed under a mosquito net as if for protection. The house is basic, mud walls and tin roof. The by now familiar smell of these materials in the wet assaults my senses. I guess the senses become accustomed, though I am pleased not to be experiencing this for the first time in the height of the summer heat. I fear I might embarrass myself.

News is out (the bright side)

Another baby in the house is more fortunate – older already and past those initial vulnerable stages – her mother is alive and well and her (large) family can feed and care well for her. So its not all bad news – just too much of it in some quarters.


It was her work during the 1960s/70s that led to Maria Cunningham being known as the ‘mother of Degan’. The ‘rules’ were that every mission station had to have a school and a clinic attached. I’m not sure if this was ‘mission control’ ruling or Ethiopian government, but will ask for clarification on this. Anyway, the upshot was the founding of Degan School and a small clinic that people travled for many miles to get to. As a qualified, experienced and relatively well equipped midwife. Maria saved the lives of many mothers and babies in similar circumstances. Not to suggest she had ideal working conditions or 100% survival rate, but she was a good step ahead of the traditional pre, post and neo natal care game in what was then a very remote and undeveloped rural area. It is still a whole day’s journey by road from the capital, 20 kilometres from the nearest town and 70 from the nearest major hospital.


The situation is improving all the time, the people are creative and resourceful, but the government has limited resources and a huge country to bring into the 21st century (which started here on September 11th 2007 according to the Gregorian calendar which Ethiopia does not follow). This is one of hundreds if not thousands of small population centres that have to be served. Census figures soon to be released are expected to show an overall population moving towards 80 million spread over a land area of 1.1M km2.

While there is a significant drift of population from rural areas into the cities, (the percentage has almost doubled over the past 30 years) it is estimated that 84% still live in rural areas. The drift to cities gives rise to a different set of problems as the industrialized world knows from experience, and the visible mix of abject poverty, rapid development and affluence in the capital bears witness. Perhaps familiarity breeds indifference or something less dismissive but equally powerless. To the unfamiliar and observant eye, it appears tragic.


But back to the country for now. There are still three more eventful days to report on before we head back to Addis Ababa (meaning new flower) to conclude our business, and I feel I need to balance some of the gloomy aspects with what is really beautiful here, and full of hope and potential. There is much on this side of the scale. Beautiful, caring people with simple, meaningful and fulfilling lives in which nothing is extravagant or wasted. A powerful sense of community that I hope doesn’t fall victim to the ravages of industrialization. This is what allows us to connect with the politics and dynamics of the community and know how to work effectively within it. All of the group except myself speak the language and have lived here long enough to have a good grounding in the culture. Their relationships are clearly established and involve total trust and respect on both sides. For up to date knowledge, insights and depth of understanding of the situation we are currently working in, this is essential, and thankfully available. Herein may lie one of many differences between the DESTA Project and major aid organizations. They work on a different scale and probably don’t have this kind of history as the basis for local initiatives, though clearly they have resources, economies pf scale and bigger picture perspectives. My thought is that a model could still be derived from the DESTA initiative and replicated in other areas. Initial suggestion of this doesn’t go down too well. Perhaps the concept is too new to the listeners. It’s interesting being a first timer and observer and I’m happy for my ideas to be shelved if that is the best place for them. This sense of community seems strong enough to survive anything, but then it probably seemed that way in pre-industrial countries everywhere. It seems well worth focused effort to defend and preserve.



The final point I’d like to make on this day is that the people are incredibly beautiful. Africa is such a vast continent with many races and religions. By reputation, this area, Ethiopia, Sudan and perhaps more so Somalia, has the most beautiful women in the continent, if not the world. Would you agree?


The end of the day is a trip back to Kombolche in time to catch the Concern office where we pick a copy of the MOU with comments from the person allocated to the task of drawing it up in the first place. A few changes need to be made before it goes up for final discussion, and, hopefully, signing.

The news is out

At some point I will put up a picture of me in response to those readers who clearly want evidence that I was actually there. For now I continue to offer more interesting views :-)

The days are going to be split up from now on as it seems fair to describe my way with words as 'prolific' and so much was packed into each day.

Monday 1st October

The best laid plans were blown off course first thing this morning after a call to the Head of Concern in Kombolche to schedule a meeting at his earliest convenience. His experience of well targeted aid work and local capacity development mean he is well placed to advise us on the terms and potential pitfalls of the MoU. His convenience turns out to be right now (i.e. 9am Monday) or not til Wednesday evening. Given that we only have until Thursday or Friday and there is much to be discussed and digested before then, now is definitely the best option so everything else gets shifted back a level of priority. This includes the promised visit to Degan High School at 10am (4am Ethiopian time), and the first of what is to become a daily rescheduling until we finally get time to complete our business there on Thursday. The very heavy green shoulder bag with books, computer and camera is brought in, carried round and taken home each day until then.

Arriving in Degan on the second day, the news of our arrival has clearly traveled. We are surrounded by people from the moment we touch down. Some are curious, some helpful and others blatantly hopeful. They know from experience that when the Cunninghams arrive, if help is needed and humanly possible, it will probably be forthcoming. From this point on, no one in our party has to carry their own bag or do more than look in the direction of something we need.

Despite it being Ramadan in this predominantly Moslem area, we are invited to lunch and treated generously to a delicious meal of chilli flavoured meat and rolled up portions of sorghum bread.. The staple food is a kind of sorghum that we have seen growing along many roadsides and on seemingly impossibly steep hillsides. It is a tall long leaved crop that looks similar to corn except for the grain yielding head at the top of the plant. This crop is vulnerable to inadequate rainfall and pests and may yet end up as cattle feed. It is just about ready for harvest but needs some serious rain to get it properly ripe. It hasn’t rained in a while so time is becoming the other dependent variable in this life sustaining equation.

When ripe, the grain is ground and made into a large flat pancake then rolled up and dipped in meat or vegetable sauce, mostly cooked up with beri beri, a delicious and ubiquitous Ethiopian chilli sauce. The raw ingredients for that have become ridiculously expensive this year for reasons yet to be explained.


After lunch and traditionally served (DELICIOUS) Ethiopian coffee, Ron asks if he can do a reading and prayer with Sam translating into Amharic.



I learn afterwards that there is a small group of ‘believers’ in Degan, and understand the reason for the gathering in the house that day. There are people present who I know are unwell and hungry for reasons unrelated to their religion, but expressions tell that today they are able to forget their suffering and know joy and love. I don’t have to be a believer in this sense to know that this is Christianity at its best and in practice. It wasn't like this where I grew up!


The recently widowed man is one of those gathered in the house today. He brings a gift of sugar cane-like plant stalks that we chew and discard for the cattle. His way of offering what he has to say thank you for caring. It is good to see him looking calm and obviously a part of the community that looks after its own. Happy would be too much to ask in the circumstances but better is good enough.


The second 'miracle' is that it starts pouring with wet, wonderful rain as soon as the prayers are over and we prepare to leave the house. I pause to wonder who is calling the shots, but only momentarily as there are many other great shots not to be missed.


I am a little surprised to hear the hope expressed that God will take the youngest child of the widower quickly, but fully understand that a weeks old baby’s already challenged chance of survival is much reduced without a mother. My hope is that he survives, though I have no idea if this serves my own interests or his.

Kombolche - Degan day 1

Sunday September 30th

The trip started in earnest today. We left Kombolche for Degan about 10am after the by now habitual pantomime of a continental breakfast consisting of any or all of the following: half full pots of delayed delivery coffee, lashings of bread and divine smoky flavored honey – smoke is used to get the bees out of the hives so honey can be collected. Had some fun speculating what the smoke might originate from. The top vote went to Marlboro Lights! It could be something much worse (e.g. kerosene) but is probably not and tastes delicious anyway. Easily on par with NZ Manuka which is surely food for the Gods! Much-delayed omelettes - getting tired of eggs yet? - I gave up on them two days ago even though they are doubtless free range and organic without the need to deviate from standard production methods. A quick Cunningham family traditional pit stop at a roof top terrace café presented an opportunity to eat gi-normous pastries for morning tea and take some clandestine street shots with the long zoom lens.


I am still reluctant to produce my camera in uninvited places, so the 18X optical zoom on my recently acquired Olympus is great to hide behind.




The road to Degan winds uphill on the right edge of a town that rests in a broad valley beyond which foothills rear up to higher peaks. It has at least quadrupled in size since Ron and Maria were first posted to this area in the 1960s. A first hand account of thousands of people converging on the town then moving off again in all directions in search of food during times of famine is sobering to say the least. There has been an airport – or rather an air field - here for years but for some reason flights are suspended for the time being. One story is because the grass runway gets too soft to land even small planes on during the rainy season. A possibly more authoritative view is that Ethiopian Airlines no longer owns the small aircraft that could operate economically on routes to low volume destinations and land on s short grassy strip. I can see a major provincial airport here in future but yet. Past the old Italian military fuel depot – now a major facility serving the wider area – still well guarded by young, casually behaved but seriously armed men in blue uniforms. A customs post is strategically placed close by to stop illegal trade in smuggled goods coming down from the north. Potholes, slips and all, this is still the main road north from the capital to a border that is currently closed. The border dispute with Eritrea yet to be solved after many years conflict and mutual expulsion of citizens back to their respective sides. The road runs along the side of a beautiful lush valley, we pass many people walking – by far the most common form of transport for shorter distances - moving goats and cattle, riding in overcrowded buses with goats strapped to the roof rack. Round mud houses framed from long timber posts harvested from the thousands of Eucalypts imported by a former ruler with wads of dung as filler. The Eucalyptus is hardy, no invasion of native species here, but a fast growing sturdy timber that seems oblivious to the unreliable rainfall that plagues so many edible and native crops. Growing up in Australia clearly has some advantages :-)

The bridges stand out – tall, solid stone sculptures with now uneven surfaces – a tunnel here a viaduct there. All remnants of the 1930s/40s Italian occupation but welcome nonetheless as the essential means of carrying traffic that doesn’t move on foot, even though it remains a minority.

Hard to conceive but somehow easy to understand that the lush productive conditions in this valley so close to our final destination do not continue for the 20 or so kms that would make such a difference to the drier lowland area of Degan. But we know that they don’t. This is one of the challenges we aim to help overcome.

Another family favorite pitstop takes us walking down by the river where the boys used to swim and a group of youngsters are doing washing crouched down on the large river stones. We gain the usual following, it seems strangers are to be followed closely and observed in this country. Not threatening but something I’d like to understand. Maybe I’ll get the chance to ask, but my total lack of language has me reliant on Sam, and he is much in demand for more important discussions than mine, which are fueled by curiosity, not life sustaining matters.

Back at the minibus another small crowd is gathering. Someone has realized this is the Cunningham family and memories are pouring out amidst hugs and obvious displays of deep emotional connection. One old man remembers the awful storm that blew down a house being built for the mission. Sam was in the house with another small boy and is the only one that survived. Elders now gone are remembered and expressions tell of the love and esteem these people earned when they lived here. Glistening eyes and effusive displays of affection speak volumes. I itch to take pictures but don’t intrude to ask if its ok and satisfy myself with one shot of a beautiful young girl whose father gave consent. Stories exchanged and we move on again with two of the men taking a ride into Degan. Another reminder for me of the privilege of traveling with this family of wonderful people.


Our arrival in Degan doesn’t go unnoticed for long. Small children chirp to the tune that Mama Maria has come back. People come running to take her hands, lead her up the path, welcome here with the three – nine way kisses. Hands are kissed and right shoulders touched. Not sure of the protocol but I follow the lead of the ones who know. A slow procession up to Mohammed Hassan’s house, past the water bore and the queue of yellow plastic containers that wait until its opened at 5pm – then only for an hour. We see the water run in progress on our way back to the bus at going home time. Very small children sometimes carry these containers strapped to their backs. It seems to be a job for children and teenagers. Its one time to be grateful for plastic that replaced the old style earthenware pots



From the house we go on a guided tour of the school, which starts term tomorrow after a two month summer break. Most of the teachers come from outside the area and go home when they have the opportunity.



At the grain store that is funded by various outside agencies we inspect tools used to dig irrigation trenches and fumigate weevil infested beans. The satellite dishes stand out amongst the traditional timber and cow poo houses.


The sad sights of the day are the clinic, which is actually in great shape and much developed since a year ago. We meet one of the three staff, a clinical nurse who trained for two years but doesn’t specialize in midwifery, much as she would like to, the training is only available in Addis and expensive for fees and living expenses. A man with a small child of maybe two or three drooping limply to sleep on his shoulders has been following us for much of the time. Another, healthier child of maybe four is following at his side. He says nothing but looks concerned and intently at us and I see a 1 Birr note in his hand. Later, once he has come quietly into the conversation, we learn his wife is ill, TB, and they have moved close the clinic so she can undergo the six months treatment that is thankfully available. But the family is destitute. They moved from their home to come here, had to rent a house and beg food and support from the community. In the quiet behind the scenes way this is done, money to pay the rent for the remaining four months of their stay and a little bit more for food is handed over. The grand total is NZ$60. Another man with a huge black umbrella, a tiny baby on his shoulder and a toddler at his side walks aimlessly around. His wife died in childbirth 15 days ago and although he has a house and is a small farmer, he now has no wife and three young children to support. He looks disturbed, restless and lost. More money is passed over, NZ$40 for the meantime. Questions will be asked about what else he needs – clothes for the baby, milk, help with something else. This is the second death of a mother in child birth we have come across in less than a day. The statistics still seem to hover around three or four deaths every month. This is why a memorandum of understanding (MOU) for use an ambulance is top priority for this visit. Then its up to us to raise the funds and make the donation. If these women could get in to the Health Centre for basic treatment or travel 20-70 kilometres to hospital, their deaths could easily be avoided.


Back in Kombolche we eat dinner in a crowded restaurant and stay up late discussing how to manage the MOU discussions, distribute the clothes we brought and add up the funds we all have for small contributions and how they will be spent. Hit the sack exhausted and straight on til morning.