Another Manic Monday

After a fairly typical weekend of socializing and exploring – an art gallery where two of us did not come away empty handed – a museum where we saw the world’s oldest human remains – its back to work on a rather untypical Monday morning.

The early morning taxi ride over to Concern takes us round the new city ring road, which Eshetu tells us was – or rather is, as its not completed yet – being built by the Chinese. I wonder if this is another old argument resolved after the fall of the communist regime from the 1970s and the severing of those ties. I assume ‘being built’ to mean that China provided funding, and wonder – perhaps a little cynically – what the pay back is for all the generous donors that are at work in this country. Maybe my limited knowledge and memories of EU, IMF and other international organizations’ condition bound donations colours my judgment. I really hope lessons have been learned and things have changed since those days when aid was truly a double edged sword that sometimes reached the target it was intended for and sometimes ended up financing a war or in the private offshore bank account of some greedy unethical ruler or international dealer – and the finger points in all directions in the latter case.

This comes to mind particularly because the level of development going on around this city is quite astounding against the backdrop of poverty, patchy social services, homelessness and limited opportunity. Books have been written on the subject, including ‘Geldof in Africa’ serendipitously found in the Devonport Second Hand Bookstore just before I left, and subsequently ‘devoured’ on the plane. There is a lot of experience to learn from, suggestions of of corruption at both ends of deals and some excellent recommendations contained. The Commission for Africa Report titled 'Our Common Interest' (2005) found on a later visit to the same shop takes this a step further with representation from a number of African states as well as ‘donor’ countries and organizations. (Another serendipitous moment and a typo turned this into rog(ue)anizations – I like the term and believe it could stick!). While I applaud the effort of the governments and individuals involved, my one concern is that the word ‘should’ occurs way too many times without any reference to how the value shifts will happen to make ‘should’ into ‘how to’, ‘when’ and by ‘whom.’

The paragraph above offers a one sided view of a society that has some real strengths and positives. What I described above is the side that needs attention.

Thought streams are interrupted as we reach our destination. The Concern National HQ in the capital is like the regional one in Kombolche - a modest compound of small portable buildings clustered behind a barbed wire topped wall and high gates. A rather different interpretation of the village compounds viewed a few days ago on the journey back to Addis.


We are ushered straight through the maze of workplaces into a small private office similar to the one occupied by Regional Director Ato Endalamaw. The National Director is welcoming, a serious man who is well informed of our purpose as we were told he would be. There is no debate about him signing our MoU on Concern’s behalf, it is indeed a formality and our final prize is awarded without fuss or ceremony. A simple signature, a stamp on paper accompanied by the advice that we need to have every page of the document endorsed by all signatories. Another small hurdle we could have done with knowing about earlier, but better late than never. I have confidence that it can be achieved.

As I write this and reflect on earlier events, it seems to me that when we hand over the ambulance might be time enough and good opportunity to complete this task. There has been such public discussion of the intentions and acknowledgment of the terms that no one is likely to deviate from them according to the cultural mores that I have witnessed and had explained in these past days. Somehow it all seems absolutely honest and plausible; there is no hint of any deception. A couple of times we have been advised to negotiate in a certain way, or to alter the terms of our agreement to avoid a situation where people might simply agree at the time, then do something different after we have gone. This advice has pointed to terms or conditions that we need to know are unreasonable in the local context, rather than opportunities for people to feather their own nests once the donor’s back is turned. Direct interaction with life is how Bob Geldof described his experience in Africa, and although this situation is quite different to the context of his comment, I feel the same rule applies here. No one is aiming to do anything other than improve on a bad situation and we are able, without fuss or confusion, to work together across cultural boundaries to serve this purpose.

Advice on funds transfer and duty free import of vehicles are further important details we pick up here and later at the Toyota dealership. The experience of the people we talk to is like gold. We need to know that the value of the duty free vehicle must not be more than 10% of the total value of the project it is gifted to or the concession will not be granted. We also need to know that delivery of the vehicle at this time may take four to six months from the date of the order and payment of 50% deposit. At one point the assumption hovers that we might be handing this amount over today. I really wish we could, but know that in front of us now is the task of raising the entire cost of a new long wheel base Land Cruiser - about UK20,000 - cif Addis Ababa.

The process of signing and the discussion complete, we gain some more local experience waiting outside the gate for our transport. There is a busy local market with a labyrinth of alleys forming a maze around a square. Clothes, household goods, meat, vegetables, music, travel goods all have their designated lanes. It’s a wonder that so many traders of similar goods can co-exist and survive. I bargain not too seriously for some traditional white cotton woven shawls with decorative borders as a substitute for a style I cannot seem to identify or find. The man in Degan whose wife is being treated for TB wore a gorgeous deep green woven shawl of a kind I would love to find. No one can tell me its origins or where one can be found.


After the fifth stallholder digging out pieces of fabric from the lower end of huge piles, I feel obliged to buy some of a different kind to repay the trouble of looking.

There is a bus stop across the road from where we are standing waiting for the taxi and watching people come and go is a sight I could study for hours. Its also an opportunity for discrete use of my camera which proves to be just as capable for shooting video clips as stills.


Music is blaring out from a shop, there is traffic noise, including blaring car horns and bleating from herds of goats being shunted down the road.

Sam is on the phone (again) and I use the opportunity to grab some short video clips of life passing by on the street.

Two men hold the front hooves of a sheep that is walking on its back legs like a child between its parents, though presumably to a rather different fate.

Again I appreciate the discretion of a long zoom lens, though at one point two young men spot my camera, look me in the face and in easy to understand gestures, ask me to take their picture. Naturally I oblige, and this not being a tourist spot, they ask for nothing in return.


Another opportunity grabbed is a picture titled ‘Taxi crumbs’ by Sam. The fleets of blue and white Lada taxis look like they have been in service for a very long time. Probably they have, as the brand is suggestive of communist nation affiliations of the 1970s. One has dropped a wheel in the middle of an intersection and is about to be towed away, but not before my shutter button captures its plight.


The interlude ends when our slightly aged green and yellow Toyota cab (as opposed to the vast majority of blue and white Lada) transport arrives to take us back to base. Now we are on a countdown to 5am when it will come again to deliver us back to the airport.

A comment on local hospitality

Senor Marco
The Italian occupation of Ethiopia from 1936 – 41 has more lasting effects than a now rather shabby chic hotel in the capital, some decent and some badly in need of maintenance roads, and a beautiful station at each end (I have to assume the same exists at the far end) of the railway line to the coast across the border in Djibouti. Djibouti is an interesting phenomenon. Since the border conflict with Eritrea has cut Ethiopian access to all seaports on the Red Sea Coast, this small independent nation state has provided the crossing point in either direction. I wonder if the conflict was suspended just long enough for this to be established so economic activity could continue. That would seem to be a very practical and civilized way to manage a dispute – make sure business can continue first, and then carry on the struggle.



But putting aside an issue that is far from trivial as this attempt at humorous comment might suggest, we come across another consequence of the occupation that is really not surprising but intriguing nonetheless. The Cunninghams have many friends in this place, and among them are a mixed race Ethiopian / Italian couple. Both sets of parents crossed the ethnic line in marriage and these are two of hundreds, or possibly thousands - I don’t know the numbers - of the offspring of these romantic matches. When the occupation ended, the back from exile Emperor made the strategic and pacifying gesture of inviting all Italians resident in Ethiopia to stay and become citizens. It was a smart move as the period of occupation had seen much investment and development across the country. Many took up the offer, and it is easy to imagine why. If the choice was between a war torn country with a fascist dictator leaning on the side of an unpalatable Nazi regime in Germany or a currently peaceful and relatively stable developing country in the historic heart of Africa, the choice must have been an easy one. Many stayed, and so along with the legacy of a tribe of Ethiopian Jews now returned from exile to Israel, there is a solid streak of the Italian gene pool in Ethiopia, including the cultural character that comes with that. It’s well blended now by three generations of residence, intermarriage and citizenship. My treat is to meet some of the people and experience the blend.

Senor Marco is probably somewhere around 50 years old. His wife looks slightly younger, though maybe about the same. His looks and body language are pure Italian although his skin is a little darker and his hair a little curlier. She is similar, but for the long straight black hair. Her classic looks are easilye recognizable southern Italian. Napoli would be my guess. Again a shade or two darker in complexion than an ‘undiluted’ Italian. Their hospitality is an excellent blend of the two cultures, summed up by the menu we are treated to for dinner at their house. Antipasto with a touch more chilli than usual. Fresh pasta with rich tomato sauce followed by the ubiquitous njera and spicy wat, fresh white bread rolls before njera, and salad on the side. The tablecloth is gingham; the language moves seamlessly between English, presumably for our benefit, Italian between each other and Amharic with the house staff. The little dog has an Italian name and lies on guard inside the door of a typical 1940s style African colonial house. Locked gates, high fences masked from view by lush tropical plants, some of the latter giving evidence that it hasn’t rained much lately. Inside is a cool bungalow style dwelling with beautiful timber floors showing the blemishes of mature age, large shady rooms comfortably furnished with style that is made to last.

This house is not the one described but is of similar style without the high wall.

This has not yet become the quick disposable consumer society I so despair of back home, so I can at least harbour a probably vain hope that it never will. At the moment nothing is wasted. Things that even I, who tries to respect the planet, would throw away find useful purpose here. I’ve witnessed the same in other countries where reuse and recycle are equally valid and sometimes more accessible options. I used to think this was pure necessity and a developing country thing, but a recent trip to Singapore blew that idea out of the water. Developing it may be, but not in the sense of impoverished neighbours! Senor Marco’s business is a good example. He runs an air conditioning installation and service company with clients among the major hotels and commercial operators. Service and repair are a significant part of what he does, rather than rip out and replace which has become so unnecessarily common elsewhere. Spare parts and regular services; remember those days before throw it away and start again become the common process?

The story of the Italian occupation and its aftermath provide another avenue of curiosity for me to explore. A visit to local bookstores (NOT the local branch of the international chain bookstore that seems to exist in every capital city on the planet) is on my list of things do to after business is complete on Monday. I hope to find some treasure chest of words that will elaborate this piece of the history puzzle and more. Perspective is important, and I don’t only want to explore this place from an outsider’s perspective, either personally or through the written word. Travelling with people that know the country in a different, and in this case intimate, way acts as an excellent experiential guide to just how different perspectives can be, and what lies beneath the surface of every situation. I find the comparison of culture to an iceberg a fair one. I hope to find something to provide more depth of insight than my own above the surface view.

Back in Addis

Back in the city we split off and go our separate ways – for a short while anyway.

Sam and I have opted for the centrally located Ras Hotel; rooms with variable views, a building with history and more than a touch of now slightly shabby elegance. The Ras was built in 1939 during the Italian occupation and the European style overlaid on African culture is easily identifiable. Stylish stucco exterior, magnificent marble staircase, mosaic tiled bathrooms, rich native timber on high vaulted ceilings (the main dining room), a large terrace café and intimate themed dining rooms, all for the same price (150 Birr or NZ$30 including an all you can eat breakfast buffet) as the less central and (sorry) rather less stylish though perfectly serviceable local experience of the Lido. The stuffed lion mentioned in an earlier posting adds the final touch of character. The term shabby chic could have been invented here!








Ron and Maria are in their usual spot at the Mission Hostel, where original elegance has not been allowed to fade one iota. It is a large white colonial style complex with cool, comfortable basic rooms, spacious dining and sitting rooms and incredibly interesting company behind imposing locked and guarded iron gates. It’s like walking into a different universe.

Outside is a busy, dusty, chaotic intersection with a fairly large population living under tarpaulins that slope six feet long and three feet down to the ground from where they are fixed to the wall. The impression is of a blue plastic human cocoon from which the homeless poor emerge every morning and return at night after scavenging, begging, shining shoes or whatever else they do to survive in this harsh city existence. Inside is calm, cool and definitely civilized, dinner is served at long tables where conversation turns to the benevolence of retired and volunteering Americans with professions that can really make a difference here. I’m sure not all the guests are American, just the ones that happen to be at our table on these few days where paths cross seemingly unplanned and unexpectedly.

Andrew has booked the comparative luxury of the Ghion Hotel for himself and Lorraine thinking that on her first visit to Africa and Ethiopia, she might like a bit of more accustomed comfort after the differences of our rural stop. There are certainly extremes in this city. The Ghion is not in the same class as the marble clad opulence of the Sheriton, but it is a beautiful place. Set in acres of landscaped garden with swimming pool (extremely cold I believe!), a range of buildings neatly incorporated into the design and a grand foyer with all the usual trappings of bars, restaurants and shopping arcades. It reminds me of visits to the Intercontinental and International Casino in Nairobi many years ago. The distance in time diminished by the fact that I have few intervening experiences of such opulence to compare. A quick price check reveals phone card rental at rates three to four times what Sam paid through local contacts. Takes a lot to run a place like the Ghion I guess, and people who stay there can afford to pay the multiplied by four rates ofbasic places like the Lido or Tekle's in Kombolche.

After checking out everyone’s accommodation options and checking in to our own, we retire for showers and quick changes then reconvene at the Old Milk House for dinner.


It is Andrew’s birthday in a few days, so the family celebration is tonight. His kids are planning their own surprise for when he gets home on the actual day. The first night Sam and I arrived we went to the Old Milk House. Maybe partly due to the effects of the 57 hour and five time zone journey, but partly I’m sure to the odd familiarity of the scene we walked into, I felt like I was in a pub in some strange English city watching a typical Friday night scene play out. Looking out the window told me I was not, as 100,000 people were packed in and around Meskel Square for the Meskel (Orthodox Christian) celebrations. A blanket of frankincense smoke covered the city with music and singing drifting with it. Tonight there are no lights or bonfires, but its still party mood in the obviously popular bar. Its noisy as before and we contribute our own lively conversation to the buzz. A good time is had by all as they say.

Tomorrow (Saturday) is a day off and for meeting old friends as none of the business we have can be done til Monday. Andrew and Lorraine leave for home early on Sunday morning. Sam and I were due to leave on Monday but have delayed our flights back to London by a day as we have to go to Concern HQ to finally finalize the MoU for the ambulance and get a price quote from Toyota Moenco so we know how much cash we have to raise. But for now, we can spend a couple of days exploring this fascinating city we are in, and that I have landed in so unexpectedly.

Back to Addis

Kombolche to Addis, Friday 5th October
We are ready for an early start on the morning of our departure and although the usual minor chaos reigns, we aim to get back before dark. Farewell breakfast at Tekle is enjoyed with a strange sense of slight relief mixed with determination and something else that’s hard to define but could be somewhere on a continuum to despair. The poverty and lack of opportunity witnessed over the past ten days gets through to me in ways that are quite disturbing. Believing that we are all responsible for this ongoing disaster and that the affluent world knows – on some level – and chooses to ignore for the most part, is getting close to what I think disturbs me the most.

The world knows how to solve most if not all of these problems. The solutions are very simple on one level, and the collective ‘we’ can well afford them. But we choose instead to over indulge in our own well furnished corners of the world, to be greedy and selfish with our consumer choice priorities and turn a blind eye to what is happening somewhere in the world that we don’t have to witness every day, or on a personal level. Reflecting on this to try and write about makes me realize that maybe disgust mingled with abandoned responsibility is more like what I am feeling.

The trip back is no shorter than the one up – naturally enough – though it doesn’t get affected by the common phenomenon that makes it feel like it is. I start of sitting in the back and end up with a huge headache same as the one I had on the drive up. The diesel fumes from a faulty exhaust are probably the cause so I move to the front and sit beside an open window. The conversation with Ron in the back up to this point had touched on many interesting topics, his faith – which I do not share but respect enormously – particularly in the way he and Maria appear to live it every moment of their lives. Their life in the Cheleka Valley in the 1960s and 70s and some of the hard times they lived through then. Great droughts, famine, people on the move in search of food and deaths through epidemics. It was not all bad times though naturally enough these are the ones that stick in mind. He is a good story teller and I a keen listener.


The experience of revisiting the stunning scenery on the drive up to the tunnel and back to the capital on the other side has more depth than the first impression. I know what life is like for the people in the rustic looking village compounds and walking alongside the road with the necessities of life on their backs. I can see the difference in the crops that tell which areas have rain and which ones don’t. The shops, clinics and amenities in the busy towns of Debre Berhan and Debre Sina stand out from the stark peace, sparse population and lack of services that has become so evident in the countryside and smaller towns. The pace of life is far from being the only difference.


A few attempts to capture pictures to illustrate the story I know I mean to tell provide breaks in the mood of reflection; the man, the ox and the hand plough, the grown up child carrying the comparatively huge water container and the walled rural compound against a backdrop of fields and mountains in hundreds of shades of green and brown.







The driver is clearly keen to get home as he isn’t sparing the horses - or bothering about the slight inconvenience of blind S-bends on poorly maintained roads in the rush to overtake wheezing old buses on the winding uphill sections of the road. The road is busy today as dozens of busloads of pilgrims are returning from a major event somewhere in the north. At one point he is racing another minibus driver. Sam pulls him up and tells him to slow down – we want to get back alive, not end up roof down in a ditch. We count seven buses stuck in impossible to recover positions in ditches and gullies off the side of the road. The picture of what happens after the crash is chilling. No emergency calls, no fleets of ambulances, no clean hospital beds and suitably qualified nursing or medical staff. We have seen a couple of groups of people carrying someone wrapped and tied onto makeshift stretchers walking into towns. A bus crash would need an awful lot of carriers and these have happened miles from the nearest towns. Each time Sam tells him to cool it he does for the next ten miles or so.

We make good time anyway, until traffic jams on the outskirts of Addis bring us to a halt at the same spot we were delayed at a police checkpoint on the way out. Welcome back to civilization!