So, one of the other things I like about driving in Ethiopia is stopping for a drink and some food in the restaurants and cafes we pass (if I’m honest, most things in my life can be made pleasurable by the addition of food!). We’ve driven from Lalibela to Addis via Dessie or Bahir Dar so many times we have our regular places now. This one in Gynt, where L and I sat waiting for the tires to be mended, does particularly good tibs (strips of meat cooked in spices).
We’d finished our portion of tibs and had started on Ab’s by the time he came back to the café – minus the tire still being mended. They were working on it, replacing the inner tube, or something along those lines. Doing something to ensure we could continue driving safely, anyway.
By the time they’d finished, and we were able to continue driving, it was getting dark and there was no way we wanted to drive the four hours to Bahir Dar. Driving in rural Ethiopia in the dark is dangerous – people say it’s because of the shiftas (bandits) that can strike, but I’d be more worried about stray cattle – or even people – wandering in the road and us not being able to stop in time.
Apparently you’re more likely to die from a car accident whilst visiting Africa than you are from an illness or by being eaten by a big animal (I just know I’d be the exception to that rule). When I lived in Addis, I didn’t think Ethiopian driving was that bad – slightly frantic, maybe, and enough to make my Ethiopian friends returning to Addis think twice before driving a car, but not too bad. However, since I’ve moved to Lalibela, we’re always having near misses where a lorry has come bombing round the corner on the wrong side of the road (you’re supposed to drive on the right, guys) or someone has decided to run across the road at the last minute (the four hours where there were no cars coming and the road was completely clear obviously wasn’t a convenient time).
Anyway, whatever the more pressing danger, we decided to drive for around 2 hours and stay the night in a town before leaving early in the morning to drive the remaining few hours to Bahir Dar.
Normally staying in the hotels is also a great part of driving cross country. They’re nothing fancy, but we’ve found some nice ones, and it’s an adventure – finding a good one, arguing about whether I pay franaji price or Abesha price, settling in, trying out the restaurant (if there is one), all of that stuff.
God, these ones were terrible though. I turned down the first hotel we looked at due to the fact that the shared toilet was so revolting you could smell it from three floors down. The other hotel wasn’t much better, but at least the toilet didn’t smell quite so bad. My bedroom didn’t have a light bulb, so if I wanted to read I had to sit in the corridor, and the door only opened from the outside so Ab had to come and let me out when we left in the morning, but we were so tired by that point we took it. Well that, and there were no other options.
The hotel was just so miserable. It’s not the money that’s needed – it doesn’t matter if the hotel is scruffy or bare or whatever, but it’s the sheer lack of interest and care that makes it all so depressing. It’s the little things; rubbish all over the floor, bins not emptied, dirty toilet, all of that stuff. It would take so little effort.
Still, Ab told me that the majority of trade used to be the soldiers who were based here, so presumably they didn’t really care about light bulbs and clean toilets?!
We all got a reasonably good sleep, though, and we set off at 6am the next morning, just as the sun had risen. The road was less bumpy than before, so I managed to doze off as we sped past the people perched outside their houses making coffee, and kids taking the cattle and sheep to the river for water.
Of course, every time any of us heard a strange sound, we would turn the radio off and stick our head out the window, trying to hear if there was a leak in the tire … but we managed to get to Bahir Dar without any more flat tires, and even made really good time. I’ve still never been quite so relieved as when we had a complete new set of tires fitted.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Driving
We went to the school on Thursday to show one of visitors around and for me to drop off some paperwork to the teachers. As soon as I got out of the car I could hear an ominous – and loud – hissing noise. I called Ab over and he said the tire – our last tire – had been slashed by a rock (not an uncommon situation on the road on the school).
We’ve needed new tires for a while, but for various reasons too complicated to go into now, the last few services have been cancelled. So we are now recycling the last set of tires and constantly trying to repair dodgy ones. It’s not an ideal situation – in fact it’s very far from ideal.
So, we were stuck at the school (an hour’s drive from the office) with three options: we use a slashed tire to get home, we fit a really, really old and battered one … or we do an 8 hour walk home up winding mountain roads in the blistering sun.
I wasn’t worried – we would work it out, we always do – but understandably Ab was not happy and stomped around a bit, before deciding that the slashed tire was actually the safest one to use. So he mended it using the chewing gum we’d bought on the way to the school and a piece of stick. I was very impressed – and it got us back to Lalibela in one piece!
But the tires really, really were on their last legs, so we gave the Directors in the UK a call and organised to go to the nearest place you can buy a set of tires – a good 8 hour drive away.
So, with 4 patched up tires on the car, and 6 slightly dodgier ones slung in the trailer of the car, we started on the long drive.
Driving in Ethiopia is always a real experience – and it’s one I love. My boss always looks at me in horror when I say I’d rather drive the two days to Addis instead of flying, but it’s true! Admittedly, it’s a lot quicker and more comfortable to fly from place to place; Ethiopia’s roads are often so unsurfaced and bumpy that you require a tight seat belt to stop yourself flying out of your seat, and a good sports bra to stop painful damage being inflicted on your body.
However, the beauty you see when you drive is often something you miss if you fly from one tourist spot to another – incredible sunrises and sunsets, huge mountains that suddenly drop into low rivers, tiny villages perched on the edge of cliffs, and astonishing views across miles and miles of countryside.
And then the details: the rusted shell of a tank left over from the fighting during the end Derg; the old stone bridge with the tiny carved roses; the women washing clothes at the end of the river, draping them over the rocks to dry, the villages with the lush green sugar cane fields, a stark contrast from the dust and parched trees of Lalibela. You don’t see that if you fly.
Driving also means stopping in villages where you are possibly the most exciting thing they have seen all week, and people seem to come from miles around to hide behind a gate post and peer shyly at the outsiders, or – if you are an adult – sit at the next table and stare blatantly while you finish your cigarette. (Staring is not considered rude in Ethiopia)
This is especially true if you have to stop and change a tire on a road going through a tiny village, as we did. About 4 hours into our journey, yet another old tire gave up with a final gasp and Ab had to start searching through the rest of the tires to find a replacement. Within seconds, barefoot children had run down the steep mud embankment from their house to the road, and were crowding round the car as Ab slid underneath it and began to jack it up. A few minutes later, men appeared from their respective houses or work, and stood leaning on wooden sticks, watching closely.
I generated a lot of excitement – as I usually do – simply by being white, but also by helping Ab unload the tires from the back of the car. I’ve noticed that Ethiopians tend to get a bit panicky when they see faranji women doing physical work (a tip: got something like a bookcase which needs to be moved around 100 metres, and although you’ve been asking for months, nobody’s done it? Start moving it yourself – within minutes, men will arrive from everywhere to take it from you and finish the job). However, these children just gaped open mouthed at me. Presumably, the only vehicles with faranjis they’ve seen are tour cars, and it’s unlikely the tour guides or drivers would allow their customers to help them, even if they wanted to.
I’d like to say that I then went ahead and helped Ab change the tire, but I have less idea about how to change a tire than I do about the intricacies of quantum physics. So I stood with the children and L, our visitor, and admired everyone’s hair and jewellery, while we practised our tiny amounts of each other’s language. Ab, meanwhile, was sweating and grunting as he – successfully – changed the tire.
The men wanted a lift to the next town, but Ab said he couldn’t risk having any more weight on the car, and we left again with just the three of us. Of course, this didn’t protect us from another flat, and about an hour later, another tire dissolved into a heap. By this point Ab was beyond grumpy, and for L and I the novelty of standing around while another village chatted to us or asked for lifts was wearing off a little. Luckily, we were only a little way from a reasonably sized town with a tire repair station, and so we limped our way there and handed over our poor, broken tires for plasters and bandages and whatever else they thought appropriate.
In a rare optimistic mood, I was sure they would be able to work miracles, and so L and I retired to a little café to wait …and wait, and wait, and wait ….
To be continued …
We’ve needed new tires for a while, but for various reasons too complicated to go into now, the last few services have been cancelled. So we are now recycling the last set of tires and constantly trying to repair dodgy ones. It’s not an ideal situation – in fact it’s very far from ideal.
So, we were stuck at the school (an hour’s drive from the office) with three options: we use a slashed tire to get home, we fit a really, really old and battered one … or we do an 8 hour walk home up winding mountain roads in the blistering sun.
I wasn’t worried – we would work it out, we always do – but understandably Ab was not happy and stomped around a bit, before deciding that the slashed tire was actually the safest one to use. So he mended it using the chewing gum we’d bought on the way to the school and a piece of stick. I was very impressed – and it got us back to Lalibela in one piece!
But the tires really, really were on their last legs, so we gave the Directors in the UK a call and organised to go to the nearest place you can buy a set of tires – a good 8 hour drive away.
So, with 4 patched up tires on the car, and 6 slightly dodgier ones slung in the trailer of the car, we started on the long drive.
Driving in Ethiopia is always a real experience – and it’s one I love. My boss always looks at me in horror when I say I’d rather drive the two days to Addis instead of flying, but it’s true! Admittedly, it’s a lot quicker and more comfortable to fly from place to place; Ethiopia’s roads are often so unsurfaced and bumpy that you require a tight seat belt to stop yourself flying out of your seat, and a good sports bra to stop painful damage being inflicted on your body.
However, the beauty you see when you drive is often something you miss if you fly from one tourist spot to another – incredible sunrises and sunsets, huge mountains that suddenly drop into low rivers, tiny villages perched on the edge of cliffs, and astonishing views across miles and miles of countryside.
And then the details: the rusted shell of a tank left over from the fighting during the end Derg; the old stone bridge with the tiny carved roses; the women washing clothes at the end of the river, draping them over the rocks to dry, the villages with the lush green sugar cane fields, a stark contrast from the dust and parched trees of Lalibela. You don’t see that if you fly.
Driving also means stopping in villages where you are possibly the most exciting thing they have seen all week, and people seem to come from miles around to hide behind a gate post and peer shyly at the outsiders, or – if you are an adult – sit at the next table and stare blatantly while you finish your cigarette. (Staring is not considered rude in Ethiopia)
This is especially true if you have to stop and change a tire on a road going through a tiny village, as we did. About 4 hours into our journey, yet another old tire gave up with a final gasp and Ab had to start searching through the rest of the tires to find a replacement. Within seconds, barefoot children had run down the steep mud embankment from their house to the road, and were crowding round the car as Ab slid underneath it and began to jack it up. A few minutes later, men appeared from their respective houses or work, and stood leaning on wooden sticks, watching closely.
I generated a lot of excitement – as I usually do – simply by being white, but also by helping Ab unload the tires from the back of the car. I’ve noticed that Ethiopians tend to get a bit panicky when they see faranji women doing physical work (a tip: got something like a bookcase which needs to be moved around 100 metres, and although you’ve been asking for months, nobody’s done it? Start moving it yourself – within minutes, men will arrive from everywhere to take it from you and finish the job). However, these children just gaped open mouthed at me. Presumably, the only vehicles with faranjis they’ve seen are tour cars, and it’s unlikely the tour guides or drivers would allow their customers to help them, even if they wanted to.
I’d like to say that I then went ahead and helped Ab change the tire, but I have less idea about how to change a tire than I do about the intricacies of quantum physics. So I stood with the children and L, our visitor, and admired everyone’s hair and jewellery, while we practised our tiny amounts of each other’s language. Ab, meanwhile, was sweating and grunting as he – successfully – changed the tire.
The men wanted a lift to the next town, but Ab said he couldn’t risk having any more weight on the car, and we left again with just the three of us. Of course, this didn’t protect us from another flat, and about an hour later, another tire dissolved into a heap. By this point Ab was beyond grumpy, and for L and I the novelty of standing around while another village chatted to us or asked for lifts was wearing off a little. Luckily, we were only a little way from a reasonably sized town with a tire repair station, and so we limped our way there and handed over our poor, broken tires for plasters and bandages and whatever else they thought appropriate.
In a rare optimistic mood, I was sure they would be able to work miracles, and so L and I retired to a little café to wait …and wait, and wait, and wait ….
To be continued …
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
1st June 2009
It’s a long time since I’ve been out dancing – in fact, the last time was probably when I went to Harlem Jazz in Addis with U. Okay, so last night I wasn’t exactly bopping away to Justin Timberlake, but there was definitely dancing and a lot of laughter, which is the mark of a good night out for me!
We had visitors to the Project this weekend and on Sunday I decided to take them for some traditional ‘tej’, which is a kind of Ethiopian wine made with honey. There is a great Tej bar in Lalibela where you can drink Tej while traditional Ethiopian singers make up witty songs about everyone in the bar (which of course I can’t understand, so I am constantly hassling Ab to translate so I know what the hell is going on!).
I’ve been there quite a few times but normally it’s just two or three of us and we sit and play cards. Last night there were 6 of us to start with – one of whom had never been to see any kind of Ethiopian dancing or singing, let alone tasted tej! – and we were soon joined by two of the Project’s teachers. Because there was no power, everyone had decided coming out was much more fun that staying in, and the bar was packed. Even the staff of the local airline office were there, possibly on some kind of work outing!
It started innocently enough, with one ‘tej’ each. Tej is an aquired taste – I had one friend say that if it was the only alcohol left in England she would be teetotal! – but I like it. Here it’s served in a choice of three strengths (soft, medium or strong) and I like the weakest version as it’s so sweet. Ab and I stuck to that, but the others went for Strong.
Soon the musicians came over and started singing and dancing for us. Now, these musicians once sang to me that I was “not very thin, but not that fat either, so it’s not too bad” (charming!) so I’m often a little wary of their songs. However, this time they definitely played it the right way by singing that in a beauty competition in the bar, I would win “55 – nil”. This is a good way to guarantee a tip from me!
Then the dancing started. The best known type of dancing in Ethiopia is the ‘shoulder dancing’. It’s literally wiggling your shoulders – which you think sounds really easy and not very impressive, but you’d be wrong on both counts. One of the great unanswered questions of Ethiopia, in my opinion, is how Ethiopians can make their shoulders dance almost entirely independently of their body – it’s a fantastic sight. Another question is how do they make what is essentially a fairly silly dance look so attractive? I swear, I have seen a woman do the shoulder dance in such a seductive way that even I started getting hot under the collar! And I could watch happily watch the men dance for hours …
We had six Ethiopians and 2 faranjis (including me!) in our party, and the dance skill level was directly proportionate to the number of consecutive years spent in Ethiopia … and the level of enthusiasm was directly proportionate to the amount of tej the dancer had drunk. We all had a good go though!
We all danced a lot, drank a lot, and laughed a lot until we were the last people left in the tej bar – we’d even outlasted the power cut! The musicians came and sat with us, and the guy played the Masinko (a traditional Ethiopian instrument which reminds me a little of the banjo) for us. Sadly, he was unable to grant M’s request that he play some Billy Joel songs, but the music he played was beautiful!
When we were finally kicked out of the bar we all piled into the car and trundled up the hill. I had then had the fun of getting one of the visitors up the many, many stairs to my house – not so easy when someone is drunk and not walking in a straight line! I held firmly onto their hand, and nobody fell down the mountain, which was a bonus.
It was a lot of fun, and it’s not often I get the opportunity to be so social. We also provided the locals of Lalibela with some entertainment when we attempted Ethiopian dancing!
Funny, though – or maybe not – that my favourite part of the night was when L and I sat on the wooden veranda outside my house at midnight, looking out onto the dark and sleeping Lalibela, listening to Angie Stone on the Ipod.
We had visitors to the Project this weekend and on Sunday I decided to take them for some traditional ‘tej’, which is a kind of Ethiopian wine made with honey. There is a great Tej bar in Lalibela where you can drink Tej while traditional Ethiopian singers make up witty songs about everyone in the bar (which of course I can’t understand, so I am constantly hassling Ab to translate so I know what the hell is going on!).
I’ve been there quite a few times but normally it’s just two or three of us and we sit and play cards. Last night there were 6 of us to start with – one of whom had never been to see any kind of Ethiopian dancing or singing, let alone tasted tej! – and we were soon joined by two of the Project’s teachers. Because there was no power, everyone had decided coming out was much more fun that staying in, and the bar was packed. Even the staff of the local airline office were there, possibly on some kind of work outing!
It started innocently enough, with one ‘tej’ each. Tej is an aquired taste – I had one friend say that if it was the only alcohol left in England she would be teetotal! – but I like it. Here it’s served in a choice of three strengths (soft, medium or strong) and I like the weakest version as it’s so sweet. Ab and I stuck to that, but the others went for Strong.
Soon the musicians came over and started singing and dancing for us. Now, these musicians once sang to me that I was “not very thin, but not that fat either, so it’s not too bad” (charming!) so I’m often a little wary of their songs. However, this time they definitely played it the right way by singing that in a beauty competition in the bar, I would win “55 – nil”. This is a good way to guarantee a tip from me!
Then the dancing started. The best known type of dancing in Ethiopia is the ‘shoulder dancing’. It’s literally wiggling your shoulders – which you think sounds really easy and not very impressive, but you’d be wrong on both counts. One of the great unanswered questions of Ethiopia, in my opinion, is how Ethiopians can make their shoulders dance almost entirely independently of their body – it’s a fantastic sight. Another question is how do they make what is essentially a fairly silly dance look so attractive? I swear, I have seen a woman do the shoulder dance in such a seductive way that even I started getting hot under the collar! And I could watch happily watch the men dance for hours …
We had six Ethiopians and 2 faranjis (including me!) in our party, and the dance skill level was directly proportionate to the number of consecutive years spent in Ethiopia … and the level of enthusiasm was directly proportionate to the amount of tej the dancer had drunk. We all had a good go though!
We all danced a lot, drank a lot, and laughed a lot until we were the last people left in the tej bar – we’d even outlasted the power cut! The musicians came and sat with us, and the guy played the Masinko (a traditional Ethiopian instrument which reminds me a little of the banjo) for us. Sadly, he was unable to grant M’s request that he play some Billy Joel songs, but the music he played was beautiful!
When we were finally kicked out of the bar we all piled into the car and trundled up the hill. I had then had the fun of getting one of the visitors up the many, many stairs to my house – not so easy when someone is drunk and not walking in a straight line! I held firmly onto their hand, and nobody fell down the mountain, which was a bonus.
It was a lot of fun, and it’s not often I get the opportunity to be so social. We also provided the locals of Lalibela with some entertainment when we attempted Ethiopian dancing!
Funny, though – or maybe not – that my favourite part of the night was when L and I sat on the wooden veranda outside my house at midnight, looking out onto the dark and sleeping Lalibela, listening to Angie Stone on the Ipod.
Monday, 1 June 2009
23rd May 2009
I’m so ashamed of the British Parliament right now. And I’m a little ashamed of myself, too.
A few days before the expenses scandal broke (Google it!), A and I were printing off the anti-corruption information that all government offices display, to put on our notice board in the office. A said ‘I have a stupid question …’ which is the way we often start conversations about each other’s cultures, “Is there corruption in the UK?”
I, in my infinite wisdom, said yes there is, but it’s a different kind of corruption. It’s more about vested interests and directing contracts to friends who are going to repay the favour in other ways – corruption, but a more subtle form. I told him workers there don't often slip public money into their pockets, or demand extra payment for doing something which is their normal job, or claim expenses for three day meetings when they were only away for one day. It happens sometimes, but it’s not a normal, ‘across the board’ thing.
Ha!
I must confess, I have tried to write this blog post in a way that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot who believes corruption only happens in developing countries and ‘nothing like that happens in my country’. But I was unsuccessful – because sometimes I am the idiot who thinks that ‘nothing like that happens in my country’. This was one of those times.
So apparently, claiming public money for things like houses you don’t actually live in (MPs) and accepting money to draft legislation in a certain way (House of Lords – yes, I’d forgotten about them) IS quite normal in the UK. And that makes me both furious and ashamed.
When we talked about it afterwards, A did point out that at least there was some outrage from press and the public about it in the UK. Here, it’s just accepted as normal - inevitable even. His words, not mine, but that’s certainly been my experience while talking to other Ethiopians here.
This certainly doesn’t excuse my (clearly undeserved) sense of moral superiority. That’s been well and truly smashed now, and so it should be. How can anyone from the UK berate another country’s government for using public money for personal gain when it’s so publicly apparent that’s exactly what they are doing? They’re going to be – rightly – told to get their own house in order first!
(Of course, none of this excuses the actions of the corrupt workers in any country – just because it’s happening in Britain doesn’t mean that it happening in India, or Nigeria, or Ethiopia is any more acceptable.)
A letter in a weekly magazine I get sent to me echoed my thoughts perfectly: a man who lives and works in DRC said that the donor community there works closely with the local governments to implore them to stop the corruption for the social and economic growth of the country. The actions of the UK government have not only betrayed the British tax payer, but have also damaged the credibility of organisations working in these countries. And it’s certainly not the ‘fat cats’ of any country that are affected because of this – it’s the normal people paying taxes and getting on with their lives that suffer.
A few days before the expenses scandal broke (Google it!), A and I were printing off the anti-corruption information that all government offices display, to put on our notice board in the office. A said ‘I have a stupid question …’ which is the way we often start conversations about each other’s cultures, “Is there corruption in the UK?”
I, in my infinite wisdom, said yes there is, but it’s a different kind of corruption. It’s more about vested interests and directing contracts to friends who are going to repay the favour in other ways – corruption, but a more subtle form. I told him workers there don't often slip public money into their pockets, or demand extra payment for doing something which is their normal job, or claim expenses for three day meetings when they were only away for one day. It happens sometimes, but it’s not a normal, ‘across the board’ thing.
Ha!
I must confess, I have tried to write this blog post in a way that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot who believes corruption only happens in developing countries and ‘nothing like that happens in my country’. But I was unsuccessful – because sometimes I am the idiot who thinks that ‘nothing like that happens in my country’. This was one of those times.
So apparently, claiming public money for things like houses you don’t actually live in (MPs) and accepting money to draft legislation in a certain way (House of Lords – yes, I’d forgotten about them) IS quite normal in the UK. And that makes me both furious and ashamed.
When we talked about it afterwards, A did point out that at least there was some outrage from press and the public about it in the UK. Here, it’s just accepted as normal - inevitable even. His words, not mine, but that’s certainly been my experience while talking to other Ethiopians here.
This certainly doesn’t excuse my (clearly undeserved) sense of moral superiority. That’s been well and truly smashed now, and so it should be. How can anyone from the UK berate another country’s government for using public money for personal gain when it’s so publicly apparent that’s exactly what they are doing? They’re going to be – rightly – told to get their own house in order first!
(Of course, none of this excuses the actions of the corrupt workers in any country – just because it’s happening in Britain doesn’t mean that it happening in India, or Nigeria, or Ethiopia is any more acceptable.)
A letter in a weekly magazine I get sent to me echoed my thoughts perfectly: a man who lives and works in DRC said that the donor community there works closely with the local governments to implore them to stop the corruption for the social and economic growth of the country. The actions of the UK government have not only betrayed the British tax payer, but have also damaged the credibility of organisations working in these countries. And it’s certainly not the ‘fat cats’ of any country that are affected because of this – it’s the normal people paying taxes and getting on with their lives that suffer.
22nd May 2009
I’m sick today (no idea why – I only had potatoes for dinner last night and surely even I can’t get sick from potatoes?!) and so have spent the whole day lying on the sofa (or in the bathroom …) feeling sorry for myself.
God bless A and Ab who brought Ambo (Ethiopian fizzy water – the best fizzy water in the world, beats Perrier any day!) and biscuits to settle my stomach.
The reason I bring this up is that Ab bought me a packet of Bourbons, and I’m intrigued, because all the biscuits were back to front. The two bits of biscuit in the Bourbon sandwich are upside down, so the rounded edge which you normally find on the outside of the biscuit are the sides stuck together with the chocolate cream.
No big deal (it certainly didn’t spoil my enjoyment of them!), I’m just wondering. Is it a particular Ethiopian preference? A cultural thing?!
I have to get out more…
God bless A and Ab who brought Ambo (Ethiopian fizzy water – the best fizzy water in the world, beats Perrier any day!) and biscuits to settle my stomach.
The reason I bring this up is that Ab bought me a packet of Bourbons, and I’m intrigued, because all the biscuits were back to front. The two bits of biscuit in the Bourbon sandwich are upside down, so the rounded edge which you normally find on the outside of the biscuit are the sides stuck together with the chocolate cream.
No big deal (it certainly didn’t spoil my enjoyment of them!), I’m just wondering. Is it a particular Ethiopian preference? A cultural thing?!
I have to get out more…
Thursday, 28 May 2009
19th May 2009
‘What do you actually do all day?’ is a question I’m often asked (it’s a question I often ask myself). I do many things: some of which were on my original job description, most of which I enjoy, and a good number of which – I hope – are useful.
I originally came to work for this NGO as a complement to a volunteer already here who had worked with the first two teachers to set up a curriculum (within the limits of the Ethiopian curriculum), was providing basic training for the teachers on lesson planning etc, and overseeing the general running of the school. I was coming to introduce ‘active learning’, extra curricula activities, and to use my dance, drama and ‘alternative education’ background to help the students develop skills such as teamwork and communication, and to raise confidence. I was also going to work with the teachers to move away from ‘rote learning’.
It didn’t quite work out like that! The other volunteer has left, and although I am still doing everything said above, I am also in charge of the general admin and day to day running of the school. That means I monitor attendance, observe classes, manage the teachers, oversee the delivering of the curriculum, liase with the local government and provide the relevant reports to the people who ask.
I also assist the Project Manager and the Directors by being a bank signatory, preparing accounts, assisting with the construction plan and staff management.
So my days are generally filled with a variety of different things, both based in the office in the town and in the school outside. Sometimes – when there is power, preferably! – I’m in the office writing reports, planning lessons or training, collating the teacher’s daily attendance reports, and I’ve spent the last few weeks creating, with the Directors, a ‘Staff Handbook’ and financial policy and procedures.
Around twice or three times a week I am at the school either working with the students, meeting with the teachers or parent’s committee, running training sessions, or sorting resources. Once a week, I sit down with Ab and we talk to the students, creating files of basic personal information about them so we can personalise learning and fulfil our child protection responsibilities.
It’s being in the classroom I enjoy most. Although I sometimes find the teacher training daunting, it’s really great when I see them using the activities in their own teaching practice, and I can see the effect on the children’s learning.
Then of course there are the children themselves, and working with them is the bit I enjoy most – both in the classroom and out! We took a load of bubble mixture to the school this week and spent a happy 15 minutes seeing who could blow the most bubbles, running across the compound after them, and laughing hysterically – and that includes the staff and the teachers!
I also enjoy the office management side of it – co-ordinating information, setting down policies and procedures, keeping records … and just generally indulging my control freakish tendencies!
I was lucky that my job before I left the UK was so diverse – with some great mentors - and I developed a range of skills I didn’t think I was ever going to use. How wrong I was!
I originally came to work for this NGO as a complement to a volunteer already here who had worked with the first two teachers to set up a curriculum (within the limits of the Ethiopian curriculum), was providing basic training for the teachers on lesson planning etc, and overseeing the general running of the school. I was coming to introduce ‘active learning’, extra curricula activities, and to use my dance, drama and ‘alternative education’ background to help the students develop skills such as teamwork and communication, and to raise confidence. I was also going to work with the teachers to move away from ‘rote learning’.
It didn’t quite work out like that! The other volunteer has left, and although I am still doing everything said above, I am also in charge of the general admin and day to day running of the school. That means I monitor attendance, observe classes, manage the teachers, oversee the delivering of the curriculum, liase with the local government and provide the relevant reports to the people who ask.
I also assist the Project Manager and the Directors by being a bank signatory, preparing accounts, assisting with the construction plan and staff management.
So my days are generally filled with a variety of different things, both based in the office in the town and in the school outside. Sometimes – when there is power, preferably! – I’m in the office writing reports, planning lessons or training, collating the teacher’s daily attendance reports, and I’ve spent the last few weeks creating, with the Directors, a ‘Staff Handbook’ and financial policy and procedures.
Around twice or three times a week I am at the school either working with the students, meeting with the teachers or parent’s committee, running training sessions, or sorting resources. Once a week, I sit down with Ab and we talk to the students, creating files of basic personal information about them so we can personalise learning and fulfil our child protection responsibilities.
It’s being in the classroom I enjoy most. Although I sometimes find the teacher training daunting, it’s really great when I see them using the activities in their own teaching practice, and I can see the effect on the children’s learning.
Then of course there are the children themselves, and working with them is the bit I enjoy most – both in the classroom and out! We took a load of bubble mixture to the school this week and spent a happy 15 minutes seeing who could blow the most bubbles, running across the compound after them, and laughing hysterically – and that includes the staff and the teachers!
I also enjoy the office management side of it – co-ordinating information, setting down policies and procedures, keeping records … and just generally indulging my control freakish tendencies!
I was lucky that my job before I left the UK was so diverse – with some great mentors - and I developed a range of skills I didn’t think I was ever going to use. How wrong I was!
17th May 2009
One day last week, Ab was working with the labourers building the new school building, when a Priest and a few other men from the local community came across the compound. They were all very drunk, and the Priest told the workers – all from the local community – to stop work as it was a Saints Day and work was forbidden.
Ab is a very knowledgeable and observant Orthodox Christian, and knew very well it wasn’t a Holy day. However, the Church Priests are highly respected by all walks of life in Ethiopia (and in many other countries), but especially in the rural areas where they are in charge of the calendar and informing the community when it’s a Holy Day or when it’s a general holiday. So understandably the workers followed the Priest’s orders and stopped work.
Ab went to the Kebele (local council) and they confirmed that it was a working day and not a Saints Day. He even got written confirmation from one of the senior Priests from the town. Ab spoke to the local Priest who, obviously still drunk, told him he could stop the workers any time he wanted and kept repeating ‘it’s our religion!’ – to which Ab pointed out it’s his religion too!
As it was, the Kebele organised for the workers to return to work, and the incident was sorted. I only mention it here because we had a meeting with our parent’s committee today, and I just knew that this situation was something that was going to come up … probably in among the list of the rest of things that the Project do badly.
Often, going into meetings here (not just with the Parents Committee) feels like going into battle. The Project is always in the wrong – there’s always a problem with the construction, or we’ve employed the wrong people from the community, or we’re not providing the things they think we should provide, or we should be building a health centre as well as a school, or the classroom is too big, or the wrong shape, or built in the wrong place or whatever. It sometimes feels like we are just invited there to listen to a litany of complaints.
In one memorable meeting, A actually said in exasperation ‘do you think we could one day come into a meeting when you don’t spend two hours telling us how terrible we are?’
Of course, some complaints are justified – and the local community are the ones with the superior knowledge, from how to get rid of termites, to who in the community has the appropriate skills, to which quality materials are best for the building – but mostly it’s problems that have already been dealt with, or completely random issues where nobody can explain why this particular thing is a problem. It’s just something to say.
After being here for a while, and talking to various people, I understand a bit more about this.
Firstly, I’m not sure communication about what the organisation was going to do was particularly clear in its first year, and there are still problems now, to be honest. Suggestions, hopes and aims mentioned carelessly in general conversations are taken as promises, and obviously when the project doesn’t deliver, it’s then seen as a betrayal. This is something that we know we need to get better at dealing with.
There is also the fact that, rightly or wrongly, the majority of Ethiopians in areas such as the one we work in are very familiar with big NGOs and International Aid Agencies and the unspoken assumptions that go with them. In their experience, NGOs and Aid Agencies have huge budgets and will generally provide a ‘package’ of aid – water irrigation, education, health centre, support for micro credit organisations etc. This organisation is tiny, set up by individuals, and reliant on private donors and fundraising, which means it isn’t going to be providing the Agriculture centre they want, or building a Health Centre – at least not in the next 5 years! This organisation is not the norm where NGOs are concerned, and I think they feel we are withholding money (we’re not!).
The head man of the regional government (who is great – possibly one of the busiest men I’ve met, but always finds time for everyone and is well respected) explained to me there is an assumption that everyone in the community should benefit personally (in monetary terms) from the presence of an NGO. In some people’s opinion, this is an assumption which is encouraged by existing NGO practices, but, again, it’s not how we do things. Obviously, the work the organisation does is of personal benefit to a lot of people (workers, etc) but we don’t hand out allowances to everyone, or anything like that. It’s a perception and – again – communication issue.
Generally, though, our Parents Committee members are great. M and A are brilliant at helping to bridge these communication divides between the community and the Project, and W is the one who always organises everyone to look after the construction and to make sure there’s enough water to mix the cement. The other members of the parents committee are not always so visible (in fact, I haven’t even met 4 of them).
So back to where I started – the issue with the Priest, who is also a member of the Parents committee. The three of us – Ab, A and I – went into the meeting with dread, knowing that it would come up, and sure that it would be our fault somehow.
Sure enough, towards the end of the meeting, the Priest launched into a monologue explaining how the Project is a problem in the community, how it is disrespectful towards the Orthodox religion and how the local workers are made to work even on Saints Days. None of this is true, and it makes me angry and sad to listen to someone running down the staff – most of whom are very religious themselves, and wouldn’t dream of not observing the religious requirements. However, I have learnt from experience to keep out of discussions like this – I wasn’t there, after all – so I stayed silent.
To our relief, the rest of the Parents Committee at the meeting put him straight and refused to agree with his accusations. They pointed out that he had been very drunk, and he’d stopped the work for no reason as it wasn’t a religious holiday – not only disrupting the progress of the project, but also denying the local workers their opportunity to be earning a daily wage.
The Priest refused to accept this and there was an angry exchange in Amharic which was too fast for me to follow. I spent a few moments being utterly confused, as all the angry words were being directed to A, until Ab reminded me that all comments in the meeting are directed to the chair (A), even if they are meant in response to another member of the meeting. Another piece of meeting etiquette I’ve learnt!
Eventually we moved on from this subject and spent some time organising the upcoming parent’s day, discussing strategies to deal with falling attendance and asking advice on when best to collect stone to fit in with the farming calendar (if we drive the lorry around the community to collect stone at the wrong time of the year, we run the risk of damaging crops). All the while, the Priest sat with his arms folded and refused to engage with the rest of the meeting.
I’m constantly thankful (as are the community, I’m sure!) that I’m not the one who deals with most of the community liaison and engagement in this context (Ab does this brilliantly). There are so many cultural perceptions and baggage (from both sides) to untangle before you can begin to work productively, and clashes of understanding and interests are inevitable.
However, even without the issue of the Priest and his drunken interference, this was probably the most productive meeting we’ve had for a long time – and I confess, there was a slightly victorious feeling on the way home in the car.
Ab is a very knowledgeable and observant Orthodox Christian, and knew very well it wasn’t a Holy day. However, the Church Priests are highly respected by all walks of life in Ethiopia (and in many other countries), but especially in the rural areas where they are in charge of the calendar and informing the community when it’s a Holy Day or when it’s a general holiday. So understandably the workers followed the Priest’s orders and stopped work.
Ab went to the Kebele (local council) and they confirmed that it was a working day and not a Saints Day. He even got written confirmation from one of the senior Priests from the town. Ab spoke to the local Priest who, obviously still drunk, told him he could stop the workers any time he wanted and kept repeating ‘it’s our religion!’ – to which Ab pointed out it’s his religion too!
As it was, the Kebele organised for the workers to return to work, and the incident was sorted. I only mention it here because we had a meeting with our parent’s committee today, and I just knew that this situation was something that was going to come up … probably in among the list of the rest of things that the Project do badly.
Often, going into meetings here (not just with the Parents Committee) feels like going into battle. The Project is always in the wrong – there’s always a problem with the construction, or we’ve employed the wrong people from the community, or we’re not providing the things they think we should provide, or we should be building a health centre as well as a school, or the classroom is too big, or the wrong shape, or built in the wrong place or whatever. It sometimes feels like we are just invited there to listen to a litany of complaints.
In one memorable meeting, A actually said in exasperation ‘do you think we could one day come into a meeting when you don’t spend two hours telling us how terrible we are?’
Of course, some complaints are justified – and the local community are the ones with the superior knowledge, from how to get rid of termites, to who in the community has the appropriate skills, to which quality materials are best for the building – but mostly it’s problems that have already been dealt with, or completely random issues where nobody can explain why this particular thing is a problem. It’s just something to say.
After being here for a while, and talking to various people, I understand a bit more about this.
Firstly, I’m not sure communication about what the organisation was going to do was particularly clear in its first year, and there are still problems now, to be honest. Suggestions, hopes and aims mentioned carelessly in general conversations are taken as promises, and obviously when the project doesn’t deliver, it’s then seen as a betrayal. This is something that we know we need to get better at dealing with.
There is also the fact that, rightly or wrongly, the majority of Ethiopians in areas such as the one we work in are very familiar with big NGOs and International Aid Agencies and the unspoken assumptions that go with them. In their experience, NGOs and Aid Agencies have huge budgets and will generally provide a ‘package’ of aid – water irrigation, education, health centre, support for micro credit organisations etc. This organisation is tiny, set up by individuals, and reliant on private donors and fundraising, which means it isn’t going to be providing the Agriculture centre they want, or building a Health Centre – at least not in the next 5 years! This organisation is not the norm where NGOs are concerned, and I think they feel we are withholding money (we’re not!).
The head man of the regional government (who is great – possibly one of the busiest men I’ve met, but always finds time for everyone and is well respected) explained to me there is an assumption that everyone in the community should benefit personally (in monetary terms) from the presence of an NGO. In some people’s opinion, this is an assumption which is encouraged by existing NGO practices, but, again, it’s not how we do things. Obviously, the work the organisation does is of personal benefit to a lot of people (workers, etc) but we don’t hand out allowances to everyone, or anything like that. It’s a perception and – again – communication issue.
Generally, though, our Parents Committee members are great. M and A are brilliant at helping to bridge these communication divides between the community and the Project, and W is the one who always organises everyone to look after the construction and to make sure there’s enough water to mix the cement. The other members of the parents committee are not always so visible (in fact, I haven’t even met 4 of them).
So back to where I started – the issue with the Priest, who is also a member of the Parents committee. The three of us – Ab, A and I – went into the meeting with dread, knowing that it would come up, and sure that it would be our fault somehow.
Sure enough, towards the end of the meeting, the Priest launched into a monologue explaining how the Project is a problem in the community, how it is disrespectful towards the Orthodox religion and how the local workers are made to work even on Saints Days. None of this is true, and it makes me angry and sad to listen to someone running down the staff – most of whom are very religious themselves, and wouldn’t dream of not observing the religious requirements. However, I have learnt from experience to keep out of discussions like this – I wasn’t there, after all – so I stayed silent.
To our relief, the rest of the Parents Committee at the meeting put him straight and refused to agree with his accusations. They pointed out that he had been very drunk, and he’d stopped the work for no reason as it wasn’t a religious holiday – not only disrupting the progress of the project, but also denying the local workers their opportunity to be earning a daily wage.
The Priest refused to accept this and there was an angry exchange in Amharic which was too fast for me to follow. I spent a few moments being utterly confused, as all the angry words were being directed to A, until Ab reminded me that all comments in the meeting are directed to the chair (A), even if they are meant in response to another member of the meeting. Another piece of meeting etiquette I’ve learnt!
Eventually we moved on from this subject and spent some time organising the upcoming parent’s day, discussing strategies to deal with falling attendance and asking advice on when best to collect stone to fit in with the farming calendar (if we drive the lorry around the community to collect stone at the wrong time of the year, we run the risk of damaging crops). All the while, the Priest sat with his arms folded and refused to engage with the rest of the meeting.
I’m constantly thankful (as are the community, I’m sure!) that I’m not the one who deals with most of the community liaison and engagement in this context (Ab does this brilliantly). There are so many cultural perceptions and baggage (from both sides) to untangle before you can begin to work productively, and clashes of understanding and interests are inevitable.
However, even without the issue of the Priest and his drunken interference, this was probably the most productive meeting we’ve had for a long time – and I confess, there was a slightly victorious feeling on the way home in the car.
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