Ethiopia 2

Random thoughts….I was amused in Sierra Leone to see a billboard along the roads: Hug kids at home and Belt them in the car. It is generally quite acceptable to hit one’s children and shops sell whips like any other commodity. A few years ago when I was cycling for a charity in Uganda, we were careering down a hill and there was a school on the other side of one of the bends. To a group of children who had never seen so many white-skinned cyclists with women included do such a mad thing, it was quite an experience. The kids poured out of the school and ran down to the road to cheer and just enjoy the unexpected spectacle. However, the teachers had had their discipline thwarted and this could not be. They ran after the kids with very long whips (my father used to have such a 5ft long rhinoceros-hide whip and I think similar ones used to be used in the prisons to execute punishments) and began to beat them with energy for leaving the classes. When will they (the people in Africa, I mean) have the confidence to relax and turn such an event into a lesson?
After no visible anti–aids/HIV posters in the Saharan Muslim countries, the first large poster I saw as I entered Togo was an Anti-Aids one in the Immigration hut. These have been visible in all the other West African countries I have been to and the other day, whilst visiting a church on the outskirts of Addis, there was a long queue of ordinary men, women and children. I asked what it was about and was told that there is a feeding station and that these people were Aids/HIV positive patients being given free meals. I find that Aids is freely talked about, although I am sure the stigma still persists in many communities. Here in Ethiopia the rate is about 2% of the population.
Another poster which caught my eye in Addis and which I had translated, said: Remember! Female Genital Mutilation is illegal. Have respect. In a country where it is still widely practiced, I am not so sure about the efficacy of this law. I have become friendly with an Anthropologist (wonderful lady in her 70s) who has seen many actual female circumcisions. She assures me that it is as much part of the local customs as is the circumcision of men. And she has spoken to men who have slept with both circumcised and uncircumcised women and they do not find a difference in the pleasures the women get. But it is a traditional custom and I am ambivalent about just walking in and telling people to stop it. There seems to be resentment against Western interference. Difficult. It is like saying to us; “No more Easter Bunnies or Father Xmas”.
I went to a hospital, but could not enter although I looked into the very clean/sterile wards. This is a special hospital for women who suffer from fistula (OK I did not know what it meant either…) and is quite famous. Had a long chat to the sister in charge and will make an appointment to interview the staff and see the premises another day. It is sad that it is necessary, but wonderful to know that it exists for women who have generally been pregnant too early in life so that their bodies were not mature enough to accept the process of childbirth. This has resulted in the bladder or bowel being damaged and leakage occurring. One of the original doctors there is still operating in her 80s! I mentioned this hospital to an American nurse who is staying down the corridor from me. She was fascinated as she had never come across it in her profession. It really is a disease of a society where women are ‘exploited’.


ADDIS DIARIES

To give a picture of what my life is like now that I am static and not traveling so much, I have decided to keep a diary for a day or two. Some days it will be; ‘Went to work; went back to room’. And other days, I might have thoughts and describe the adventures which are very much part of my daily life here in Addis. It will certainly not be in the wonderful language of Mr. Bloom or Virginia Woolf’s flowing prose, but will, I hope, reflect the things that could happen to any visitor. This could be you, of course.

Sunday 17th September (Dafur Day)

Spent a lazy morning in bed reading a gentle book about a family living in Calcutta. The son has returned to his parents with his small son after a divorce in the USA. Nothing happens. This reminded me of the holidays I had with my parents in SA when both Ingrid and Francis were toddlers. Time went by and nothing happened. Bliss! It also highlighted for me the fact that Ingrid will not have that feeling of ‘home’ which my parents gave me when she stays with me. But she has it with Pete’s parents who are extremely homely and welcoming.
One of Ethiopia’s main exports is honey. Breakfast was a buttered roll with delicious real honey and yoghurt…on the balcony overlooking the car-parking area. The Orthodox Church services are broadcast all morning, but another noise which was new, was the chatter of people polishing and cleaning cars downstairs. Seven gleaming white vehicles (two stretch motors and Cadillac included) were being cleaned and festooned with ribbons and flowers. The wedding season is upon us and the car-hire company has 12 vehicles parked there. After the fasting season in August until the New Year on 7th September, we had the Graduation ceremonies. For two weeks, newly qualified graduates would be walking about in their black gowns and mortar boards, holding bunches of colourful artificial flowers (on sale outside the restaurants) and the restaurants would be packed with proud relatives and friends. But now it is the wedding season, as no-one wants to get married during the fasting month. On the dot at 9am the vehicles moved out of the parking lot. Later in the afternoon, as I was walking up Churchill Avenue, the main north-south road, a few of these wedding processions drove past. People were waving bunches of flowers and hanging out of the windows with loud hooting coming from the cars. The front car would have a video cameraman ‘taped’ to the roof and he would be taking pictures of the excited procession. Except that these recorders for posterity looked decidedly miserable. We had just had two very hard downpours and the poor cameramen were huddled under makeshift plastic covers or just thoroughly wet.
My toothbrush broke in my hand. It was a sentimental moment as I had bought it with a tube of paste in Ghana. That country was so over-the-top about its religion, that the toothpaste was called ‘PRAY’. Later I bought a replacement toothbrush at a small stall without testing it. Made in China, it has a handle that is so flexible that one cannot direct it onto the teeth. But at 1 Birr, I should have known, although I wonder why they manufacture and export these things that do not work. A shopkeeper, from whom I had bought a few items over the weeks and with whom I enjoy spending time, assured me that Chinese products are getting better. When he travels regularly to Dubai to get his stock, buyers are ever more frequently shown better quality stuff next to the famed tatty imitations seen all over Africa.
I packed my bathing costume, bottle of water and book. The Ghion Hotel is about two miles down the road and the sun was warm.
Tried a new café for coffee and cake and they charged me ‘ferenge’ prices; 5 Birr for a cake! Still very cheap though, so although I might sound outraged, I take it as it comes. Just to remind one, coffee originally came from Ethiopia and is still of the best and a major export. The Italian occupation (1936-41), was not successful because, contrary to what Mussolini had hoped, the Italians themselves did not want to settle in this country. The country was not developed as a result and there are Ethiopians who still wish the Italians had remained because they look longingly over the Eritrean border at where that country flourishes. However, the main legacy of this period is the cafes. Coffee (or tea) and cake is part of life here and I thoroughly support the custom!
Churchill Avenue is the broadest (6 lanes) of the major roads in Addis and divides the city. I often walk down this road and am always confronted by the beggars and homeless occupants of the quiet side-roads. At any time of the day one can see bodies just lying on the road, asleep. It looks like one of those horrible war-photos of slain people, although these are alive and just soaking the warmth of the tar road before having to find shelter during the afternoon downpour. In my early days here, when I asked someone where Churchill Avenue was, they would often be confused because they do not really know roads by their names. So they would direct me to the nearest church (geddit?). But the road-naming is very confusing in any case. My original hotel road has now acquired its third name within a few years and it depends on the age of the map, or where road signs have been placed or left, whether one in on Jomo Kenyatta, Haile Selassie or Ras Makonnen. Most of the roads have now been given the names of African countries because this is the diplomatic headquarters for Africa.
My route took me past my ‘friends’ at the small shops which sell coffins and funeral ephemera. Friendly waves and ‘come in’ signs greeted me. I spent some time there once admiring the soft velvet covers, the gaudily printed cotton ones, the intricately carved wooden and plastic-coated varieties. These coffins are amazingly colourful and the insides very comfortable. Shops selling a certain type of item cluster near each other and this is how I got to know that part of Addis shop-life.
Children were kicking a ball in a side-street and when it came in my direction, I kicked it back. A young man walked up to me and accompanied me down the road. “I liked the way you returned that ball” he said. “Are you interested in football?” I knew Chelsea was playing Liverpool and Arsenal, Man. United later that day. The young man told me that they would be showing the matches on the big screen in the square at the end of Churchill Ave. Meskel Square is where all the big celebrations take place and I could see that young and old men were already streaming toward it. Some had girlfriends in tow. My informant spoke very good English because he had been one of the SOS Village boys. This organization runs homes, schools, workshops and so on for orphans. As usual, he gave me his name and telephone number.
Further down the road another young man joined me. His was a sadder story. He came from the countryside and had been a student at the university a few years ago. At some stage a person (now a minister in the present government) had arranged for some of the students to come together for a ‘meeting’ and the police had then rounded them into vans and taken them to prison. He was first accused of anti-government propaganda three months later. Repeated prosecutions with no evidence finally ended with his release after 1yr and 11 months in detention. As his poor parents could not afford the costs of sending him back to university, he is now drifting… We were accosted by young men selling tickets for the screening of the football matches. 3Birr each. I was tempted, but already the clouds were forming as I turned in to the Ghion Hotel which is Government-owned. It is delightfully old and has a romantic feel about it. It is ideal for unpretentious International Conferences and I had been there a few times to get information. I was expecting something at Reception, but nothing awaited me. Then I was told that the person I need to contact is actually in his office and we had a chat and I explained what I required. Good, I could pick it up on Tuesday when I was in the area. “Would you like some tea or coffee?” But I declined as I wanted to swim. It was also a pleasure to find out that I could change money in this Hotel Bank as I had been told that the Sheraton is the only place. One always needs to consult a lot of people before really knowing what the situation is! I left for the swimming pool area. Watching the families enjoying the pools and children’s rides, I decided that I was too late to really enjoy the swimming. Clouds were forming too quickly and I felt sorry for the packed Square of football fans who would soon be soaked.
Back on the road, I crossed over to a row of shops and restaurants where I had eaten before. Just as I settled in, the rains came. This time they were more prolonged and after my Injera and wat (mutton stew), I passed the time while the rain persisted, with two cups of tea. Had started to read ‘The bookseller of Kabul’, so, as usual, never bored. Lunch = 12 Birr.
Further up the road, I visited one of the few supermarkets in the area. Bought 500gm yoghurt, 2 bread rolls, 500gm cheese, 2L water, a cucumber and lettuce. 33 Birr.
Across the road from the supermarket I had earlier noticed a mimosa tree tumbling out of the gardens of the French School. It was in full bloom and I could not resist ‘stealing’ some of these lovely sprigs of yellow puff-balls. The name, Addis Ababa means ‘the New Flower’ and refers to queen Taitu’s vision of these flowers when she decided to establish a town here in the foothills of the Entoto Mountains. Today Addis is more famed for its eucalyptus trees. Shortly after being established just over 100 years ago, the king started to plant these quick-growing Australian trees to supply fire and building wood for the expanding population. They cover all the surrounding hills as well as open spaces in town. There is a strict embargo on the gathering of wood. Women are members of the Wood-Gatherers’ Union and their work is efficiently controlled. They are not allowed to pick or cut off any wood and can only gather fallen branches. So one travels past these immaculately cleared forests and sees the women stagger downhill with enormous bundles of firewood, bent double under their weight. Anywhere else in Africa it would be carried on the head, but here in Addis I have not seen any head-carrying. And there is none of the frenetic selling through taxi/bus windows or on the sides of the road. There are individual sellers, but they are generally static. Mostly little boys and girls run around trying to sell packets of tissue paper or chewing gum.
As I neared the top of the road I was enthusiastically greeted by a pottery-seller. He had been hounding me for weeks and I had steadfastly refused to buy any of the lovely black pottery ware (“My mother makes them”). In the end I had succumbed as it was too beautiful to ignore. The coffee pot is pure design and a very pleasing shape on my chest of drawers next to a vase of flowers. I can lie in bed and get pleasure from the combination. I also bought three ‘dishes’ of varying size and they soon contained fruit and pencils, paper, pillboxes and the like. All very satisfying. However, the coffee pot has a rounded base and I did not realize it at the time. This was a good opportunity to buy one of the cloth rolls made especially for the hot pot to rest on. A bit of banter about him selling me a dud and we made the transaction at his asking price. When one gets to be familiar with someone it is more difficult to bargain.
I turned into Gen. Wingate Road. How many Ethiopians know anything about the man? I had never heard about him, but he was the British commander who routed the Italians in 1941 and thus restored Ethiopia to independence from colonizers once again. Although so many of the other streets have changed their names, Churchill and Wingate are still important to the Ethiopians. I recently read a tome about the Italian occupation and its author is probably the best-informed person to do so. At least his credentials are impressive. It helped me understand the reasons and consequences and also to be able to counteract some of the claims Ethiopians make against the Italians. The most frequently voiced argument it that, when Gen. Grazziani, who was in charge of the occupation, was injured during an assassination attempt, he took his revenge and killed 30,000 Ethiopians. The author says it was between 3-4,000 people.
Passed a bar and was amazed at how full to overflowing it already was and the Chelsea/Liverpool match would only start I an hour’s time. At a hotel near my own, I again investigated the situation. Every spare place taken up. I decided to wait for the Arsenal game. After all, I live near their grounds and am traditionally a fan as a result. And of course Francis grew up as a devoted fan. All along the road I had been bantering with the respective fans and stood out clearly for my team. So support was necessary.
In my hotel room, I did a bit of reading, had something to eat and wrote a few postcards. Then off to see the Arsenal v Manchester United game. It was an hour before kickoff, but I managed to just squeeze in after paying my 3 Birr. I stood at the divide between the tented Billiard Room where about 130 people were squashed in and the main hall where there were at least twice as many supporters. The two normal-size TVs were full of sporting news. Being a woman with a white skin really can be advantageous and after a short while a man waved me towards himself where he was against the furthest wall and I struggled across legs and bodies to get where he had cleared a space for me. The room has one window, but as non-paying fans could peep through it at the screen, the window was closed and I anxiously watched the rising condensation on the panes as the game progressed. For good reason I thought of Health and Safety Regulations in the UK and the small open spaces provided for the slaves in the Slave-Forts along the West coast of Africa. There thousands died of suffocation before they had a chance to be shipped off. However, for the next over two hours, apart from standing for the half-time break and madly jumping about and being hugged, doing high fives and shaking hands when Arsenal scored the only goal of the match, I was physically immobilized. My credit was high as I live near the grounds and of course my team won!
We streamed out of the rooms and I returned to the main building of my hotel where I could order a pot of tea and watch TV. Athletics this time. And for somebody who knows nothing about sport, it was quite a sporty evening!

Monday 18th September

Rahel and Hilda in the HFHE Office

The walk down Mundy Street to the office of Habitat for Humanity Ethiopia is quite a treacherous undertaking. It is not one of the original main streets in Addis and was tarred only much later. But it is narrow, steep and the traffic is heavy. An important bridge down Wingate Street has been damaged and out of action for weeks. This is not likely to be repaired in the near future and as a result the traffic on Mundy is even worse than usual. One would not mind it so much if it was not for the fact that Addis vehicle owners have never heard of clean oil filters or whatever one needs to allow a vehicle to operate efficiently and each vehicle spews out the most awful black soot. On both sides of the road are deep cement gutters and the space between them and the tar is minimal with stones and puddles impeding any straight progress. One is constantly hopping from the road onto wet grass and stones and then back when a car needs to pass. I have to negotiate this road every day and it is quite a nightmare!

Work, if this is what writing my blog means, is very pleasant. At the moment the National Director is in South Africa at a conference and there have been other pressures on the relevant people in the office, so that I am unable to continue with what I have been doing. Approval of the Manual and Leaflet proposals has to be sought and I have to be patient. They have therefore said that I might as well do my blog.
I brought salad stuff and cheese for our lunch. Rahel and I often share a meal like this as we are the only ones in this room. Melkan, the cleaning lady, makes the tea and coffee and does cooking for people. We just ask her to go and buy fresh bread rolls if we need some. At first I really disliked the idea of having to have to ask her, as I am perfectly capable of doing it myself, but it is regarded as her duty and one does not interfere. Melkan is am obsessive cleaner and the wooden floors are constantly washed and polished by her sliding on them with old woolly rags under her shoes. She made a lovely salad and only then did Rahel tell us that it had been decided that it is ‘staff luncheon day’. We piled into the office vehicle and went to the famous old restaurant where one can have baths in the naturally warm spring water. And a massage if necessary. I am determined to indulge…Outside are tables and umbrellas and I can imagine that the place is very popular in the summer. It is Government-owned and the drilling machine, from which drilling I assume they are trying to get another hot spring, has been idle or desolately pumping for weeks. Govt. employees are poorly paid and do not see the necessity to work hard. The food is traditional and one goes to the back of the building to wash hands before eating. Six of us sat around a vast platter of Injera on which the waitress emptied various dishes of meat and vegetables. It always looks very attractive, but within no time, the different foods have merged and the eating process when one tears off pieces of Injera to wrap around a piece of food, has made a complete mess of the whole plate. But I was once assured that this is the way they like to eat: all mixed up.
After work I walked down the road towards the Hilton Hotel. But first a coffee and cake. OK, I am getting fat again… This was a new café and as I waited to be served, a woman spoke to me in perfect English. She is the daughter of the owner and works for UNICEF and was rushing off to an examination. But our short conversation elicited an exchange of names and addresses. She went off and her mother had a chat and then a young man who had been listening, joined in. It was a spirited political discussion (he does not think knowledge of history is important) and I had to cut it short to get to the hotel on time. But every Monday from now onwards, I shall have my coffee and cake there.
Monday evenings at 7pm is the time for the Addis Ababa Bridge Club. They have been meeting in the Hilton Hotel for over thirty years. Because numbers have dwindled and the hotel wants to keep the club there, they give us reduced-price drinks and provide a wonderful spread of food and snacks for nothing. The last time I was there, before the New Year Celebrations interrupted the flow, we were only two tables. This time, there were three, which seems to be the norm. The members are ex-pats; French, Italian, Indian, British. I asked if Ethiopians ever came and they remembered one who came years ago and who subsequently went to live abroad. The Indian chairman who gives me a lift back after play stops at about 11pm, says he has been in Addis for over thirty years but is still regarded as an incomer. Reminds me of the Yorkshire Dales where Dick and I bought a run-down property in 1971 and despite the fact that we were involved in the village, we were/are still always regarded as incomers. The waste of left-over food disturbs me. The waiter said they just throw it away. So I asked for a ‘doggy bag’ and took it back to the hotel where the security men at the gate were delighted to have pieces of tasty meat. Ditto for the reception where I collect my key and then the security men who sit outside my building. They finished it and the next day I was still hailed as a hero with many ‘thanks’ being said. The security men by the side of my building always amuse me. At night they take up a position on two very broken plastic chairs and do not seem to move after that. The one is huddled behind a vast blanket and only his eyes can be seen and the other one has a thick parka with padded hood into which his head shrinks. As I go past, we always exchange pleasantries and they then retreat into their warmth.
Good to see that the breadcrumbs I had left out that morning had all been pecked away by the birds. I do not know names, but pigeons and sparrows are joined by some very colourful garden varieties. At the office, the security men have virtually tamed the wild birds which they feed in the entrance courtyard. Some eat off their hands and there is a particular pigeon which is quite a character. The other day I watched him sit on a pole, completely exposed but oblivious to the tremendous downpour of rain soaking through him.
The rainy season should be coming to an end within a fortnight, I have been assured.

Tuesday 19th September

Margaret had emailed that she might be coming over between 10th -18th October. So it is now a good opportunity to start investigating the tentative prices and options for a tour of the historic sites in northern Ethiopia. That is where the ancient civilization of Axum had its centre with the most amazing stelae (the second tallest was taken by the Italians and has now been returned) and the incredible Orthodox Churches which are carved out of stone, can be seen. I do not think anyone can imagine what they are like unless one actually sees them. Then there are the amazing 17th century stone castles in Gondar and the still-inhabited monasteries dotted on islands in Lake Tana where the Blue Nile has its origins and its gorge can be admired (had it been in America, it would be teaming with restaurants and helicopter pads). All to be seen and explored!
There are two travel agents in the hotel environs and I had decided one was good enough, so went to them very early and chatted to the manager who gave me different options to consider, depending on the time we will have available. He was in a hurry and offered to give me a lift, so we jumped into one of the very comfortable 4x4 vehicles with their driver-guide. The manager had a meeting with the minister of Tourism in the Sheraton Hotel. Then I realized why my appointment for that morning with the Tourism Director at the school for Tourism, had been postponed. She was at this meeting too. The driver then dropped me off at the Ghion Hotel to collect the ‘conference information’ I had been promised as well as to get some money. The latter was an easy matter and I safely tucked the 500$ worth of Birr into my rucsac. The information I had requested was not at the reception desk as promised, but I finally tracked down the Banqueting Manager where he was having breakfast. This time, after getting the piece of paper with not-very-detailed-information (how on earth do they ever run conferences?!) I agreed to a cup of coffee and we could finally relax in each other’s company.
Afterwards, the official Government tourist agency which I visited was not very impressive with their prices and I did not think would be any more efficient than the private one I had seen that morning. But they advertise themselves as the ‘best’. What I did learn though, is that the local airline has two prices; one for residents and an exorbitant one for tourists. There are great distances between the sites and I need to work out whether we travel by road or fly.
During my flight to Addis from Sierra Leone, I had read in the in-flight magazine about a ruined church carved out of stone which is in a remote area far from roads. It is one of the furthest south of these intriguing churches and is about two hours’ walk from Addis. I hope to visit it with Felik on one of our Saturday exploratory walks, so went to the airline office to get a copy of the magazine. They kindly obliged and I could finally get to work!
My work on the Manual has been approved by two managers here. They did not want to change or correct anything and seemed pleased with what I had written. Maybe I should have put in a deliberate mistake to see if it would be picked up. I am suspicious when something is approved without corrections… It now awaits the National Director’s approval.
After work, there was just enough time to walk up the hill towards the Alliance Françoise buildings. Felik and I had explored the place the previous Saturday and I had already looked at their cultural program. They present regular art exhibitions, shows, films and theatre for adults and children. Most of these activities have an English base or subtitles. Their monthly booklet is well-produced and one can have delicious food at the cafeteria which is set amongst lovely gardens. The gardener will be having an open day soon and will conduct one around it. What a contrast to the British Council building! No gardens, not very informed staff, no cultural activities and just a café in the internet/TV/newspaper area. Enough comparison! It was time for a film of a delicious modern French farce. Utterly absorbing and in the closing minutes, there was a brilliant cameo performance by Hugh Grant. I was happy.
It was dark and I asked a man emerging from the theatre if I could walk with him towards Churchill Ave. He introduced himself as a professor and talked about his engraving work and imminent (when he gets a visa) departure for Canada and then a job in a small town in Wales (Llan something or other). But as we talked and he went on, I began to wonder…? He said, “I British Citizen” in his broken English and then said he could not speak French. He gave me his email address (what’s new?!) and I agreed to be in touch. Something did not quite gel.
Walking alone back to the hotel, I was very pleased to realize that I am beginning to be recognized and accepted. It would mean more protection in these dark streets where young men gather and can be intimidating. The men jokingly called at me ‘Manchester United!’ and awaited my return with ‘Arsenal!”
In need of sustenance, I decided to eat in the hotel. What they call a ‘mixed grill’ really is a huge plate-full of meat of all kinds; some more tough than others. I missed the taste and texture of a sausage though.
The TV was showing the opening speeches at the United Nations Assembly. Talking about the UN and AU forces in Dafur, reminded me of the airport in Accra. I was following a group of about 80 Ghanaians in jeans and ordinary clothes who were being escorted up to the last gate, by gun-wielding soldiers. I asked what it was all about and was told that they were AU soldiers on their way to do a year’s peacekeeping in Dafur. They were calm and at ease with themselves. What a contrast to the same scenario about 18 months ago at Shannon Airport. I had been to Ann’s cottage on the west coast of Ireland for a weekend and we were waiting for our flight to be called. The departure lounge was crowded with USA soldiers in their desert fatigues returning to Iraq after a two-week break with their families. They had been through it all in Iraq and were reflecting the anxiety and fear of their return. After kissing goodbye and wondering whether, at least knowing that some of them will not return alive, the air was filled with their unsettled state. I did not like it.

Enough of this ‘diary’ business. Following another’s life can become very boring for others. If you were interested, you now have an idea of how my days are spent…. Adieu!