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.