Melkam Gabicha – Happy Wedding
Why write about another wedding? It’s not quite “if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all”, but there are certainly common themes, indeed many of them can be seen in the Western wedding. However, Tewabech’s wedding, the subject of our last blog, was a city wedding. Our second of “the season” was very much a country celebration.

Our hosts were the family we stayed with near Debre Markos a year ago (see Mulusew’s story https://ethioepic.wordpress.com/2014/05/). Tariku, the youngest of the 10 siblings, had surprised them by announcing his plan to marry. It is Tariku who will eventually take over the family farm; his bride comes from a house away across the fields. According to his brothers – Mulusew, our guard, and his older brother Asamene – Tariku was a star pupil at school, but decided against further education in order to continue his life in this familiar environment.

We arrived at around 10.00 a.m. after a four-hour drive and, after a tramp across the fields, were of course immediately offered food and drink, home-made ale “tela”, locally grown vegetable dishes, freshly barbecued meat, and the essential injera. We watched a steady stream of neighbours and family file in carrying every sort of container (baskets, sacks, the traditional clay pots, etc.), all with something for the wedding feast. Groups of women with long sticks stirred great vats and cauldrons on open fires outside the house. An ox had been slaughtered, and it was the job of the men, wielding their long knives, to reduce it to its constituent parts.

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The previous evening, the family had built a large overflow reception area a little way from the house. With a frame of newly sawn eucalyptus and eucalyptus branches spread around the roof and walls, it smelt beautiful. The floor was strewn with grasses and more eucalyptus trunks on the ground provided makeshift benches. We learned that family and neighbours had danced here into the small hours the night before, the start of three days and nights of Baccanalian celebration, well lubricated from apparently bottomless barrels of tela.

The most remarkable aspect of the wedding was the singing and dancing. Anybody who has spent time in Ethiopia will be aware of the enormous role of song and dance in this culture. Ethiopian TV consists largely of news and documentary programmes, interspersed with long sequences of dancing and singing from different parts of the country. Every region has its own traditions, which you can sample by spending an evening at a “cultural” restaurant or club here in town.

At this wedding, however, the roots of this tradition were very apparent. With nothing but the individual human voice and a single drum to beat out the rhythm, the dancers generate an energy and a sense of enjoyment that are palpable. A single singer would take up what we were told was a traditional wedding song, the drum would pick up the beat, and suddenly the mass of people crammed into the house’s main room would be moving as one. Then, the mass would move apart to create a space in the centre, the rhythm of the song and drum would become more frenetic, and a pair of dancers – usually of the same sex – would engage in what can only be described as a frenzied, pulsating competitive dance-off, ending only when the singers and drummer changed the rhythm to revert to the slower and gentler pace of the beginning. Then the process would begin again, with new pairs of dancers. It was a uniquely Ethiopian atmosphere, yet at the same time a reminder that, distinctive as it is, Ethiopia is a part of Africa.

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Outside the house, in the meantime, the groom and his best man Mulusew had brought the cows in from the field, and were preparing for the main event. Those not involved in food preparation, or singing and dancing in the house, were relaxing in the reception shelter knocking back tela from metal and plastic drinking cups.

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Then, at some hidden signal, groups began to move to the house, blowing hunting horns to announce their arrival. This was the cue for the groom and his entourage to go to the bride’s home. Although we were told it was “just over there” (for people perfectly accustomed to walking 20 km to market, most places are “just over there”), it turned out to be across a (not totally) dry river bed, then a good hike across the plateau, carved with deep crevice like ditches. Not ideal for somebody wearing totally unsuitable party sandals.

The walk was punctuated with bouts of horn blowing – a reference to the old tradition of announcing to the bride’s family that the groom was coming to fetch her – and occasional halts for more singing and dancing. Adding to the impressiveness of our group were the three horses, richly decorated with scarlet bridles and saddles, which were ridden round and round the party as we made our way across the fields. A quarter of a mile from the house, emissaries were sent ahead to announce our arrival. Once given the signal, our party moved forward, sticks held high to show we meant business. This raiding theme continued on arrival at the house as a mock battle took place at the door, with attackers overcoming defenders and the bride escorted out on the arm of the groom.

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Here too, a temporary shelter of eucalyptus had been erected next to the house, where we sat down to begin another session of tela and injera. Events were further complicated by the fact that not just one, but two weddings were being held here, Tariku’s and that of his wife’s uncle, who had not yet arrived but would be driving in with his new bride following a city wedding. Time in Ethiopia is, as you may have gathered, a somewhat elastic concept, and it was a long wait… When the second wedding party arrived, this time in honking cars and buses, there ensued a bout of good-natured, competitive singing and dancing between the two groups, before the new couple took their seats. It was a fascinating juxtaposition of immemorial and modern Ethiopia: one bridal party in simple clothes and modest accoutrements, the second in full city regalia, matching bridesmaids, white wedding dress, elaborate hairdos…

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By the time we had eaten again and it was time for Tariku to escort his bride to her new home, it was dark, but this did nothing to cramp the style of our companions, who stopped along the way for more dancing, singing and horn blowing, while the two of us picked our way gingerly across the fields and ravines by the light of a mobile phone torch. Back at the groom’s house, another night of eating, drinking, singing and dancing was about to begin. By then it was time for us to hitch a lift to the local town, Debre Markos and a comfortable hotel bed. No stamina…

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What made this wedding stand out was the sense of an entire community coming together to celebrate a rite of passage. Of course, a wedding is by definition such a rite, but few convey such a sense of sharing and mutual effort and improvisation. There was nothing here brought in from outside (apart from ourselves and our cameras) – clothes were mostly everyday wear, whilst the food, drink and entertainment were all homegrown, the contributions of people bringing what they had or could make, or simply their enthusiasm for celebration..

A final note, it was fascinating to see how the customs of city weddings – despite the introduction of certain Western customs, notably the “meringue” wedding dress – have been derived from country customs. The rural horse and hunting horns have been exchanged for cars and klaxons. Both types of wedding require two venues, the bride’s house and the groom’s, so that the age-old symbolism of the transfer of the girl’s allegiance can be enacted, even in the less clear-cut context of urban life.
Thanks to Mulusew and family for inviting us to the celebrations and letting us tell the story.

Three weddings in eight days and as I write on a Tuesday evening I can still hear singing, dancing and partying outside, the final stages of another local wedding! Ethiopians really know how to party!

The first of our three weddings was our home help Tewabech, who announced about three months ago that she and her boyfriend Tibebu were getting married. The wedding would take place on the first Sunday after Ethiopian Easter, called “Fasika”. This period is wedding “high season”, which follows the Ethiopian Orthodox Church’s 56 days of Lent, during which no animal products are consumed until Easter Sunday. Everyone wants their wedding as soon as possible after this, when they can eat meat again… a lot of meat.

Tewabech comes from the countryside about four hours from here, but she and her boyfriend both now live in Bahir Dar. So managing a wedding which involves two families so far apart needed thinking through. Traditionally, part of the wedding takes place at the bride’s house another part at the groom’s and finally the two families come together. Given that Tewabech spends so much time at our house, it seemed reasonable to offer it as her family’s base, which she happily accepted.

Even though we’ve been to two Ethiopian weddings before, we didn’t know what to expect, as the traditions vary according to the context – rural or town – and means. We had a broad idea of what might happen, but given that our grasp of the Amharic language is not good enough to follow conversations, every day brought surprises. Tewabech had written us an excellent plan for the wedding day itself, but omitted to mention some significant details, such as how many days the wedding would last!

Anyway, over to them for the planning, it was their day. We had been in England until two days before the wedding and arrived back full of nervous apprehension and excitement. The excitement was quickly shattered. Tibebu’s close cousin – who lived in the same compound and was himself due to marry his pregnant girlfriend the week after – had been killed in a car accident that morning. Worse still, another cousin had drowned two weeks earlier, and this new death had occurred on a drive to return some things from that first funeral. We know these things can happen anywhere, but they really seem very raw here.

At that point we didn’t know if the wedding would go ahead, as it fell within the first days of mourning. We didn’t see Tibebu, but Tewabech seemed very down. At best, the more lively elements of the celebration of the rite of passage, like dancing, music and the photograph party, seemed unlikely. In the end, the wedding went ahead, and things gradually relaxed as time went on. As the plans changed and adjusted, we got little briefing, so had more surprises – but that was going to be the case whatever happened.

Saturday was prep, and our unsociable dog Nala escorted off to her alternative “holiday” residence for the duration (thank you Emily). Tewabech’s parents and family arrived from the country to stay with us (bringing a wonderful gift of fresh honeycomb!). Chopping and cooking went on for most of the day – and much of the night. Lurching from sleep at 3 am on the morning of the wedding, we found Tewabech and her bridesmaids in the courtyard, crouched Macbeth-like around huge cauldrons that bubbled over open fires in the courtyard – all night cooking on the night before your wedding! At a rough count, there were 12 additional people including Tewabech staying in the house that night. Yards at both houses were prepared, with tarpaulins or sheets strung up for shade, along with banners and balloons for decoration and the floor strewn with grasses. Despite the sad circumstances, the groom’s family had made their compound welcoming.

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Sunday was the wedding, with make-up, hairdos, dressing and cooking being the major part of the activities at the “bride’s house”, as well as making sure the “tela” – the local home brew – was ready.

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Future husband arrived around midday with his friends in honking minibuses bedecked car. Under normal circumstances, this would have been preceded by much singing, dancing and drinking at his house, but the atmosphere had been muted in deference to the death.

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Arrival at the bride’s brought a change in tempo and it was clearly the job of all guests to dance, sing and be as rowdy as possible. Rings were exchanged and vows made, with blessings by the priest. Food and drink until mid-afternoon when about half the party clambered back into the vehicles. That is a big part of the celebration, to drive in convoy with horns blaring and little apparent thought for safety. It looked like the whole town was out, with so many weddings. At one point, our convoy stopped on one side of the dual carriageway – the main road from Addis to the north, something like the equivalent of the M1 in the UK – and bride, groom and entourage danced around the vehicles for a few minutes. Unfazed, the other traffic simply swapped carriageways, heading into the oncoming traffic. Then, we crossed the Abay River (the Nile), which greeted us with the sight of a pod of hippos from the bridge, and drove down a narrow lane to a park where a small green area had been hired for celebration and photographs.

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Again photographs, a traditional azmari musician and more dancing until dark. The photographs tell much of the story but it’s impossible to capture the atmosphere of the dancing and singing. The music comes just from simple voice (people take turns at leading) which everyone seems to know how to respond to, with the rhythm set by a drum or backing by the stringed masinko.

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The next day, Monday, most guests were invited to the groom’s house for lunch, where the two sets of parents met for the first time during the wedding. There was an exchange of gifts, with Tewabech’s parents bringing two hundredweight sacks of teff, the grain for the famous national staple injera, transported from their house in the country. During lunch, Tibebu mentioned that there would be another party at our house that evening, a little affair of 15 or so, gesturing to a sheep tethered in the corner of his compound, destined to be the main dish for the evening’s banquet – a present from the groom’s family to the bride’s family. The 15 turned out to be nearer 50. The bridal party arrived to much horn blowing preceded by the sheep, which was duly slaughtered on the threshold. I wasn’t expecting that and shot off to avoid witnessing it. Within an hour, it passed from bleat to plate. Again, singing and dancing etc! For those who have seen Ethiopian dancing, you’ll be able to imagine the scenes with “dance-offs”, mostly between same-sex partners. Amazing. One day this should make a “Strictly Special”!

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Finally on Tuesday we were invited to a coffee ceremony at the groom’s house, just close friends of the groom and helpers. Nala the dog was at last allowed to return home.

We just about managed to keep on top of things and had good help from Tewabech, the groom and their friends, especially Asamene – our guard Mulusew’s brother – who took on everything from furniture delivery to yard decoration to video recording.

The wedding drew quite a lot of foreign (ferengi) interest and support too. Other volunteers who know Tewabech (Hannah, Crawford and Katie) made a special trip from the UK to enjoy the celebrations. Also, our previous visitors from the UK who’ve met Tewabech wanted to hear all about the wedding, and it was partly the questions generated by my sharing “the story” and photos with them that made me get on and put this blog together. Finally, thank you Tewabech and Tibebu for letting us tell your story and show your photographs.

Well we’ve missed a few months on the blog and that’s been down to me winding up my VSO work. I actually finished mid January, but a UK trip and other things since then have put us back.
The last few months before that were pleasantly hectic. I’ve been working on a project which came out of the school visits I started making about a year ago. I was asked to find out how schools were getting on with their in-service teacher training (CPD – continuous professional development), in other words all the stuff of staff meetings, INSET days and the like.
My colleague Abeba joined me and our findings were mixed. Any assumptions I might have made about similarities between my own CPD back in the UK and what happens here were frequently wide of the mark.
On the positives we found that most schools did a great job involving all the stakeholders in agreeing priorities (including parents, the community and pupils). Next, priorities from the top (government) were incorporated and a plan prepared – similar to the UK. All fine so far. The next stage was different. The CPD was usually carried out by the subject department (and these are primary schools), and the staff were generally put into groups of 4/5 who seemed to be more or less told to go away and “get on with it”, with little further guidance on how to use their compulsory two hours of CPD per week. What were they supposed to do?
When you bear in mind that five years ago 85% of Ethiopians lived more than 15kms away from a tarmac road, it’s clear that access to useful resources isn’t easy. When I ask my office colleagues where the teachers are supposed to get resources from to implement their ideas, they tell me they can use libraries. The books I’ve seen in school libraries are typically dusty O-level physics books, not necessarily handy when you’ve been asked to improve student behaviour management in your class of nine-year-olds.
My own CPD in the UK started like many other teachers there, buying a monthly copy of “Child Education” or “Junior Ed”. Doing a topic on “dinosaurs”, for example, you had pictures, information, poems and ideas for your topics. In fact, Child Ed is still going with its original publisher, Scholastic, whose numerous books have been the bibles of primary school teachers for decades. Today, it is an active and inviting website, so with the click of a button teachers can find downloadable resources on any subject and any area they want to improve.
I also look back on the amazing courses I was fortunate to go on. There was the RSA diploma in Information Technology, which ran over two years with weekly afternoon/evening sessions at Reading College and numerous in-depth assignments, both written and practical. There was the 20-day maths course at Bognor College, some nine months of learning with inspiring course leaders who transformed my understanding of maths teaching. Alongside this were numerous other courses and conferences led by the local authority and colleagues at school.
So how can a country in which schools often cannot even afford to provide a teacher with a notebook deliver effective CPD?
Many teachers here will tell you that CPD is irrelevant to them, but that they are supposed to do two hours a week (and there is scope for improvement!). There were pockets of good practice, but overall our findings were discouraging. Most teachers have a negative attitude to CPD, partly because there are no incentives and they say it’s boring. CPD approaches frequently lack variety and interest and there are few appropriate resource materials available. In addition there are not many good “role model” teachers in schools who others can base their practice on. I could go on…
So, with a fairly dismal list of findings, what next? With staff from the REB (Regional Education Bureau), I decided to plan and prepare some CPD addressing the negatives. The lack of CPD resource materials was a key thing, as well as the negative attitude, and no money – it had to cost virtually nothing! After much reading and searching I found some CPD modules written by previous VSO volunteers, addressing exactly these problems. One of them was focused on maths and I was able to adapt it for our purposes.
The emphasis was on teaching using materials that can be found locally. Not a new idea, but since teachers here often feel neglected, they needed some encouragement. I wanted our work to fit in with their normal weekly CPD sessions rather than to pull people out of schools on full-day courses which would have created all sorts of hassle, such as cover for the class and payments for travel and meals. Also, I wanted to give them a chance to work with teachers in other schools and to “share experience”. Most schools here have a morning shift and an afternoon shift, alternating half the school week by week. That meant switching the CPD sessions between morning and afternoon every week, so as not to clash with the teaching time, and also matching schools which follow the same cycle. Working with the education offices and with a small grant from VSO, I came up with a plan.
So I spent the autumn term leading CPD sessions in the chosen schools. We made resources, modelled activities using home-made materials, followed up on how things went, evaluated activities, discussed how to overcome difficulties, shared successes, etc. Part of the aim was to overcome the idea that CPD is only talking about solving problems and show that it can also be practical and active as well.

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Lesson observations to see how the teachers put the CPD into practice came towards the end. The classroom environment was usually dusty, with broken windows the norm, and I don’t think I’ve ever been in a class where a pigeon didn’t pop in at some point. However, one of my biggest thrills was seeing a class of 50 eight-year-olds learning about capacity, working in groups, handling, pouring and filling containers themselves, predicting outcomes, using containers the students had each brought from home. This lesson ticked all the boxes! Another 1st Grade class with an amazingly lively teacher had a class of disadvantaged students ages ranging from 7-14, many of whom were new to education because they had been living on the street or were orphans. One school has a hearing impaired unit (always excellent for visual resources), another a unit for visually impaired students. Overall, although the teachers were worried that using active methods and resources would cause disruption, the behavior management was excellent – and it was clear the students knew their times tables well!

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It’s important to say that I couldn’t have done any of this work without valuable support and co-operation from the Regional and City Education Offices, which released staff to join me. The benefit of this was twofold: from my point of view, it gave me somebody who could translate when necessary and point out why things happen in a certain way locally; and it gave them an opportunity to see the program content and use it as a CPD model themselves.
We finished with a small Exhibition and experience-sharing session where we could showcase everything we’d done. Staff from the Regional and City office CPD teams came, as well as teachers from other schools, who because of limited space and time had not been able to be included in the program. The teachers demonstrated how they use their home-made materials to improve their maths teaching and were presented with well-earned certificates confirming their participation and attendance.

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All in all, I was very happy with the way it went, and most importantly so were the teachers. With very little outlay we did a lot, attendance was excellent and the teachers motivated. As I write in February, and although I officially finished VSO in January, I’m still working with those schools and doing some of the tidying up jobs and finishing off work which will help complete the project and help them to continue teaching in the same way. Thanks to the teachers, students and all staff for their involvement and enthusiasm and for pictures I have used.
The views expressed in this blog are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of VSO.

Almost exactly 2 years ago, I (John) wrote a blog post about what I was then up to in Mekelle, working with a small, local “civil society association” dedicated to helping the mentally ill (https://ethioepic.wordpress.com/2012/10/31/diary-of-an-appendage/). Unfortunately, that venture did not end happily, for reasons too complex to explain here (let’s say that I was perhaps naive, and it turned out that the lure of ferenji money proved too powerful for one of the main players involved).
However, one good outcome was that I formed a strong relationship with four people involved in the association, and we decided to attack the problem from the other end, by setting up a business that would, once it became profitable, be able to provide funding for the treatment of mental illness, and in the meantime would create a number of what in NGO parlance are called “secure livelihoods”, both for my partners and for the employees of the business.
One day in the future, should the business prove successful and profitable, I will no doubt be found pontificating about our prescience, our business acumen, our intuitive grasp of investment opportunities… If that happens, feel free to remind me of the reality. Despite fast development and the ubiquity of things like mobile phones, Ethiopia is not yet a consumer society, except in pockets of the bigger cities. In fact, 85% of its population are still subsistence farmers, with small plots of land and a handful of livestock. Because of the size of the human population, those small plots and handfuls of animals add up to the largest cattle stock in Africa. So when you’re looking to set up a business here, there’s no point fantasising about the kind of niche consumer product that keeps the Dragons occupied in their Den. Agriculture is the way to go.
Mekelle is Ethiopia’s second-largest city, up from around 180,000 when we arrived to nearly a quarter of a million people now. It has a growing middle class, which is starting to look for products that we take for granted, like pasteurised milk, butter, cheese and yoghurt, which are currently brought from Addis Ababa 800 km away and are therefore expensive. So when my partners and I sat down under the avocado tree in our garden 26 months ago, we decided – in the course of a five-minute high-level summit meeting (you see: acumen, prescience, careful planning and all that) – that we would become dairy producers.
Our first step in this direction, in December 2012, was to buy a herd of 20 dairy cows, housed at the time in a small, cramped cowshed within the urban fabric of Mekelle. Though of mixed breed, the animals were part Friesian, with a relatively high milk yield by Ethiopian standards, though not sufficient to keep the Archers afloat. With advice from a dairy specialist, we identified local feed products that could be used to enhance milk yields. We bought a horse and cart, and delivered the raw milk to cafes and hotels around the city, where it is mostly used in macchiato coffee drunk as hot milk with sugar and a sprinkling of local spice.
Though the cowshed was small and dark, and the cows unable to go outside, the place had a certain charm. In the traditional manner, the dung was collected and spread out across the small paddock to dry and then subsequently sold as fuel for the injera ovens. Hay was brought by donkey from the feed market, where I hid in the background as my partners did the negotiation, to avoid inflated ferenji prices.

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The longer term plan was more ambitious. We set up a joint-venture PLC, quite a complex process in a country where most small companies are still sole proprietorships. In the case of PLCs with foreign involvement, a minimum investment in US dollars is required in order to obtain an investment licence.
We applied for agricultural land in Adi Gudem, a village 35 km to the south of Mekelle on the main road to Addis, where the municipal council is keen to attract investors. In September 2013, we were granted a 2.5 hectare plot, on the edge of the village, neighbouring an existing dairy operation whose owner plans to raise a hundred cows.

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We immediately began building, and by January this year (2014) things were taking shape and we were pleased with the progress.

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By April we were able to move the herd from the city into a modern cowshed in Adi Gudem, where the cows had the opportunity to move around in the open, rather than being permanently confined in semidarkness. As well as a small office block, a second large building was erected to house the milk pasteurisation and cheese processing plant which is the next phase of the operation. Since equipment of this kind is unavailable in Ethiopia, it will be imported. At present, the milking is done by hand, but we also plan to bring in mechanical milking equipment.

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In July this year, the land was ploughed in the old-fashioned way (a team of oxen, a wooden plough with a metal ploughshare), and sown with Canadian wheat, alfalfa, pigeon pea, cowpea and other kinds of cattle fodder, ready for the annual rains.

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By September, the usually brown, parched and stony land was alive with green crops and flowers.

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In October, two men with hand scythes harvested the wheat. The grain will be sold and the straw used as cattle feed.
Not everything is being done in the traditional way. Instead of being collected and dried for burning, the manure will soon be channelled through a biogas plant, which will convert it to dry fertiliser for the land, while the gas is used to generate electricity for the milking shed.

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Without going too far into the business complexities of dairy farming in Ethiopia, the big problem is the supply chain, i.e. getting raw milk to a processing plant from many scattered smallholders. We plan to work with the local milk co-operative, with our dairy farmer neighbour and also to expand our own herd to 60 animals.
It is a long way from where we started, and not what I imagined myself doing when we first came here. We will be leaving Ethiopia soon, but the farm will bring us back, and my four partners, Azmara, Gebremedhin, Girmay and Micheale, will carry on the work. If all goes well, by this time next year, AJGG Dairy Products plc will be supplying the huge demand on the Mekelle market for pasteurised milk, cheese, butter and yoghurt.

It is also a long way from the image of Ethiopia that many Westerners still carry with them, since the day almost exactly 30 years ago when the BBC broadcast the first television reports of a devastating famine in Ethiopia, prompting a huge international response, including the Live Aid concert in aid of victims, unforgettably fronted by Bob (give me your f***ing money) Geldof. One of our close friends here, Mitiku, survived the famine as a small boy and recalled his experiences on this blog in June 2013 (https://ethioepic.wordpress.com/2013/06/17/mitikus-story/).
Now, Ethiopia has systems in place to prevent the worst effects of drought through its “food security” programme. It is developing fast, for both good and ill, with the target of becoming a “middle income country” by 2025. Perhaps we may play some small part in that process. We have not lost sight of our original goal, but for the present the objective is that of any young business, to survive and grow.

The Mursi
The second of the southern tribes we visited were the Mursi. Compared to the Hamer (see previous blog), who number around 30,000, the Mursi population is very small, around 5000. Their way of life and existence, along with those of other small tribes in the area, are under direct threat from the construction of the huge Gibe III hydroelectric dam, upstream on the Omo River, due to be completed this year, which will deprive them of the annual flood waters on which they depend. The Lower Omo Basin where they live will be planted with sugar, and within a few years it seems inevitable that this culture will be extinct, or simply “museified” as a tourist spectacle. Thirty years ago, these people had no idea that they were part of Ethiopia, had no knowledge of money or the modern world. Now development is about to roll over them, as it continues to do inexorably all around the world. To see them while their way of life is still a reality, albeit altered by tourism and politics, is a privilege, though one occasionally tinged with queasiness and unease.

The Mursi was the group that – on the basis of previous travellers’ tales – we were most chary of meeting. We were told that they have embraced their own self-commodification with the greatest enthusiasm, not just agreeing to be photographed for money, but demanding it, often aggressively. And while elsewhere in Ethiopia, the going rate for a photograph, though negotiable, is usually one or two birr, the starting price for the Mursi is 5 birr, payable not in the smelly, faded, crumpled and often carefully mended bills that are happily accepted elsewhere in Ethiopia, but in brand-new notes, only obtainable in exchange for dollars at the last bank before entering the South Omo region… so after a trip to the bank we picked up our guide and were off.

The drive took us across dusty plains and lush mountains before returning to more dusty plains carved by surprisingly full rivers. We passed through agricultural lands where simple ox-pulled hand ploughs are the nearest you get to a machine, cattle and carts the other road users (spot the lady driver!) – and the occasional roadside café (and why did the guinea fowl cross the road?). Throughout this region we saw children providing entertainment for drivers in the hope of cash returns. Bizarre but energetic dancing and stilt walking were particular favourites!

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While the warnings of Mursi financial expectations proved to be true, we were relieved that our human interactions with them were quite friendly, for which we in large part have our guide to thank. On this occasion he was a lad in a baseball cap who looked as if he should still be in school, and appeared to fall asleep the moment he got into our vehicle. However, he came into his own once we arrived at the village, giving us the excellent advice to put cameras away and walk around, just observing and listening. We were taken directly to meet the chief of the village, a large, somewhat intimidating but surprisingly youthful figure, whom we found talking with his advisers and chewing on a piece of barbecued meat, near a smouldering fire on which lay a charred ox skull. He welcomed us courteously, though we declined his offer of a spare rib to chew on. Mitiku, in particular, seemed to establish a friendly relationship, since the chief, unusually, spoke some Amharic.

The male rite of passage among the Mursi is a face-to-face battle with wooden poles, around two metres long, which are held near the base with the aim hitting one’s opponent with the shaft (never the point) hard enough to knock him over, something like the quarterstaff fights immortalized in the legends of Robin Hood. For young Mursi males, these ceremonial duelling sessions between men from different local groups, are an opportunity to impress unmarried girls. We didn’t see one of these contests and don’t know if tourists are invited to observe, as we had had the opportunity to do at the “Hamer” bull jumping.

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Apropos of the queasiness we mentioned, you may not have heard of the Mursi, but you will probably have seen photos of their best-known cultural practice – the “lip plates” worn by the women. Around the age of 15, girls will have a small incision made in their lower lip, held open by a small plug. Gradually, larger and larger plates are inserted to stretch the skin, until in some cases plates with a diameter of up to 6 inches can be worn. While a plated lip exerts a certain weird aesthetic fascination, the sight of the unplated skin, left hanging or apparently stretched over the back of the head for convenience, is an all too vivid reminder of thinginess of mortal flesh. We heard 2 stories about why lip plates are worn – needless to say, both about attraction. The first is to beautify – the bigger the lip plate, the better the dowry at marriage. The second – the opposite – to uglify – to put off would-be adulterers or slave traders. The anthropological consensus, however, is that, like many other traditions (neck tie, anyone?), it evolved through cultural transmission, becoming hypertrophied in the process. Unlike other disfigurements carried out in the name of culture or religion, it seems that the lip plate is not a requirement, and we were told that, as their contact with the outside world increases and they become aware that their appearance is not universally admired, many Mursi girls today are choosing not to undergo the procedure. Seeing them in town, away from their villages, they looked a sorry sight to us with their lower lips dangling emptily.

Both men and women of the Mursi tribe also have their bodies decorated with elaborate, swirling patterns of scarring, made with thorns, this time more of a wince than a cringe… So we enjoyed a casual walk around the village, which was a relief, but when it came to photographs the Mursi adopted formal poses. They appeared to have formed their own ideas about which photographs would go down well. The men formed a line leaning on their duelling sticks and the women, often amazingly decorated, stood face on frequently with children at their breasts, posing with and without their lip-plates. Nobody smiled but who does when sporting the ultimate in body art? They knew exactly who had taken whose photo, so reimbursement was dealt with efficiently. Despite the lack of opportunity to capture a more informal record of the people and context, this was – at least in retrospect – another fascinating encounter with the radically “other”.

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If you would like to know more about the Mursi, there is an excellent Oxford University website: http://www.mursi.org/.

The views expressed in this blog are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of VSO.

All the “travel” blogs we have done up to now have been about the North of Ethiopia, partly because that is where we live, and partly because there is so much to see – with its two and a half millennia of first pagan, then Christian, civilisation – which differs most markedly from the common perception of Africa.

However, 18 months ago, we made a trip to the Ethiopian South, specifically the “South Omo” area, which is still inhabited by pastoralists who have more in common with the other nomadic and semi-nomadic tribes of East Africa like the Kenyan Masai than with the settled populations of northern Ethiopia. Of course, they are not untouched by the modern world: apart from tourists like ourselves, they are the object of government policies of “sedentarisation” – a neutral way of describing the attempt to make them part of the ‘developmental state’ through education and modernisation. Nonetheless, the different tribes in this area have retained unique cultures and ways of life, though these have inevitably evolved and adapted in response to both tourism and political action.

One of the reasons we have waited so long to talk about the trip is that there is a certain discomfort in what might be described as the voyeuristic nature of tourism here. The object of the visit is not the great monuments to human aspiration and religious belief, like the stelae of Axum, the sunken chapels of Lalibela or the rock-hewn mountaintop churches of the Gheralta. The reason you visit the tribal areas is to see the people, get a glimpse of their culture and photograph them, at times in exchange for money.

That said, looking back at the photographs 18 months on, is to be reminded of a remarkable experience. We travelled with an Ethiopian friend from Mekelle, Mitiku (see previous blog, “Mitiku’s Story”). Apart from the pleasure of his company, Mitiku speaks several Ethiopian languages and is also an anthropologist by profession, so we hoped that he would help us out with both some of the linguistic difficulties and with scholarly insight. We also naively thought that by having an Ethiopian with us, we would feel less “foreign” and closer to the people who are also Ethiopian, albeit with a totally different culture. That didn’t happen, as he was presumed to be our guide, rather than one of our party!

The Hamer
We “visited” three groups: the Hamer, the Mursi and the Karo. This posting will be about the Hamer (or Hamar) people. As Google will (or rather won’t) show you, there is not much information to be had about their history or origins, although some scholars link them directly with early Egyptian civilisation. As tourists, our main encounter with them was through the spectacle for which they are best known, the rite of passage for young men called the “bull jumping” ceremony. Since the photographs speak for themselves, what follows is just some background to what they show.

This ceremony traditionally takes place between late February and early April, but we witnessed it in January. Maybe it has become a kind of movable feast, adjusted to the presence of tourists. In any case, it is a three-day ceremony through which every young man of the tribe must pass in order to become marriageable. The third day is the most spectacular, not to say disturbing.

Although the culmination of the ceremony is the “bull jumping”, it is undoubtedly the preliminaries, dominated by female relatives of the “jumper”, which are the most dramatic and unsettling. A group of these women dance and sing and blow horns, then approach the young men – friends or relatives of the male protagonist – and taunt them into whipping them. As you can see from the pictures, this is no token flogging, but violent and physically damaging, carried out with flexible sticks like willow wands or birches on bare skin that causes deep bleeding gashes. The overwhelming impression is that the males inflicting the damage are reluctant, and it is the women, who drink heavily before and during the event, presumably to anaesthetise themselves and release their inhibitions, who dominate the show and invite the violence by their mockery. We were subsequently told that the women involved are unable to move or get up for days or weeks after each ceremony, but they carry the scars as a mark of pride… and inevitably some of the lash marks become septic. Bear in mind too that the women will subject themselves to this at numerous bull jumpings as the various men in the family prove themselves eligible for marriage. Each man jumps the bulls just once, as long as he succeeds. If not, the challenge is repeated.

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After perhaps two hours of dancing, singing, drinking, horn blowing and scourging, the whole group, participants, witnesses and onlookers, moves to the open space where the bull jumping is to take place. Here we had our first glimpse of the future groom, identifiable by a very loose hair style, and fairly morose expression. We learnt that this is the typical style of the bull jumper. The protagonist’s male entourage gather around him for the ritual disrobing, which is hidden from the spectators. The bulls are lined up and held, in our case perhaps eight of them side-by-side, but we were told it can be more. Naked, the young man runs towards the line up, using the first animal, a smaller calf, as a sort of springboard step, runs along the backs of the animals, jumps down, and repeats the process several times. Again, we were told that some run the bulls eight or ten times, but our guy – with a nervous sullen expression – confined himself to a modest four.

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As with many traditions in nonliterate cultures, the explanation of the origins of this ceremony is sketchy at best. I suppose that the bull jumping speaks for itself: a difficult and potentially dangerous task which demonstrates that the boy is ready to take up the duties of a man, perhaps as fighter or hunter… As for the whipping of the women, we were told that it demonstrates that the man comes from strong stock. The sense of physical and sexual aggression that the women seemed at times to express towards the male tourists, as well as the taunting of their own young men, would suggest that, in the past at least, the Hamer women would not have been content to stay home when there was fighting or hunting to be done. On the other hand, although they were clearly aware of our presence, this in no way had the feeling of a spectacle staged for the rich foreigners. A few years down the road, perhaps, that is what it may become. We asked if they minded a Western audience like us witnessing this. Apparently not, the fee we paid for being there goes to future groom’s family for which they are very happy.

Of course, there is more to Hamer life than rites of passage and scourged backs. We also visited a couple local markets, which were an interesting contrast. The first clearly had a largely tourist focus, with bare-breasted girls and unsmiling young men posing (for money).

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The second, in Dimeka, something between a small town and a sprawling village, where the Hamer come to sell their goods and, as will be apparent from the photographs, hang out, had a more “authentic” feel… This time too, many were clearly there to pose, but now for each other. Many of the women, with braided hair dyed with ochre and resin in the typical Hamer style, wore polo shirts ornamented with shell necklaces and a kind of skirt made out of bright cloth. Others still wore the traditional kudu antelope skin garments. A few wore close-fitting, hollowed out gourds on their heads, somewhat resembling a 1930s crash helmet. The young men carried ornately carved wooden headrests (presumably a legacy of a nomadic existence, but still used as pillows and stools). Done up to the nines with colourful bands on their heads, arms and ankles, “muscle shirts” and VERY short cloth tunics, they had something of the look of Greek or Roman warriors.

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Apart from the people, it was interesting to see the products on sale or in use in the market. As well as foodstuffs of all kinds, traditional containers such as gourds and clay pots, which have largely disappeared from the North, continue in regular use here, alongside more modern artefacts, such as the ubiquitous Ethiopian yellow jerrycan.
The views expressed in this blog are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of VSO.

Guards

One of the conditions of being a VSO volunteer, if you live in individual house rather than on a compound with Ethiopian families, is that we employ a guard. Their living conditions and functions are varied. Most buildings and building sites have guards, who stand duty all night and often carry guns (anyone who has previously been in the military has a right to own one). However, the regime for the private guards in VSO houses is a little more flexible and guns are, I suspect, a rarity. Depending on the house, their living quarters may consist of anything from a leaky tin shack, more like a garden shed, to the relatively smart, purpose-built rendered and painted concrete guardhouse in our present place in Bahir Dar, complete with electricity and access to a hot shower. Usually, guards have a day job, if they can find one, so their role is to be around at night, in case anything should happen, and everything else is a matter of negotiation and adaptation…

Gebrexavier, the guard at our old house in Mekelle, was a stopgap found by our landlord Ephrem when we moved in. Ephrem never really approved of him, possibly because of his obvious, though hotly denied, fondness for tela, the local homebrewed beer, but we never had the heart to succumb to the frequent encouragement to find someone more reliable. Gebre… – try saying his full name after a drink – was admittedly somewhat ineffective in his primary role; in fact he could have slept for Ethiopia. On our return from evenings out, we would be reassured to hear the steady snores emanating from his room. On the other hand, when sober and awake, he was helpful and mostly cheerful, though we both got riled by his obvious belief that all remarks and questions should be addressed exclusively to “Mister John”…

In town

Bahir Dar is different. We have Mulusew. Mulusew is in his early to mid-20s (the lack of precision is down to the rarity of birth certificates in Ethiopia). He started working as a VSO guard for Dr Ed, who arrived in the same cohort as us, three years ago, then for another VSO couple, and we were lucky enough to “inherit” him. Endlessly helpful, endlessly resourceful, he is the ultimate Mr Fixit. Anything we need or want, however ludicrously ferenji, he will find if it is to be found anywhere in Bahir Dar.

But Mulusew is not destined to be a guard for long, we hope. When he began working with VSOs, he spoke almost no English; now he speaks it fluently. He runs a small business here in the town, a PlayStation bet (bet means house in Amharic), originally set up with his brother using some capital from VSO volunteers. At weekends, he is at the university, taking a four-year course in accountancy. He has just passed the driving test to become a bajaj (tuk-tuk) driver, which he sees as the first step in a future larger business. Activity starts at 6 am most mornings, when he can be seen working out in the makeshift gym in the garden. Ethiopia is not an easy place for entrepreneurial activity, but we think that he has the resourcefulness, flexibility and energy to succeed…

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In the country

However, Mulusew is not from the city. One of 10 children (six boys and four girls), he grew up on a farm outside a small town 250 km south-east of here, Debre Markos. We were lucky enough to be invited to his family home for the great Fasika (Easter) festival, when Ethiopian Christians break their 56 day fast. Mulusew had rustled up a pickup truck to take us there – our spare mattress and luggage went in the open flatbed. We drove around town for an hour or so, picking up and dropping off passengers in an apparently random fashion. At the last stop, the luggage was joined by two live sheep, destined for the Fasika pot, and we finally hit the open road.

A few miles outside Debre Markos, we pulled over. One of Mulusew’s brothers was waiting there with a pair of donkeys to take the luggage (now overlaid with a delicate filigree of ovine excrement) and mattress up to the farm, a 4 km walk away.

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We went on into the town to meet his mother, who had taken vegetables to sell in the market 10 kms away, all carried barefoot, cross-country, in a basket on her back. While Mulusew went in search of her, we hung around, feeling like weeds at a horticultural show, observing and being observed. The must have accessory here was a sheep. Though Debre Markos is in the same region as Bahir Dar, it has a much more traditional feel, and there was even something of the Ethiopian South in the colour of the dress and appearance of some of the people.

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A bajaj (tuk-tuk) took us back out of town and across the fields, dropping us about 20 minutes walk from the family farm, with mother, still barefoot and still with a basket on her back. Inevitably – for anyone familiar with Ethiopian hospitality – within minutes of our arrival, we were sitting in front of a delicious bayanetu (a collation of vegetable dishes laid out on a tray of injera), cooked and served by Mulusew’s teenage sister. She is at school in the town, and usually lives there with an older sister, a teacher, but was back for the holiday, much of which she spent in a continuous round of coffee making, cooking, water fetching and washing up…..

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The house is a solid building of mud and straw, with a large living room, a bedroom and two separate but adjoining structures where the cattle spend the night. A low-level seating shelf, moulded into the wall and spread with goatskins, runs all around the living room. There is similar seating on the outside at the front of the house. The third room in the house is a storeroom, containing great jars of tela and massive clay grain storage hoppers. Although the Ethiopian countryside is crisscrossed with pylons, poles and power cables, a constant irritation to the would-be landscape photographer, electricity remains a rarity in rural houses, and Mulusew’s family still rely on the ubiquitous charcoal stoves. The kitchen is housed in a separate building across the yard The coffee ceremony, an absolute constant of Ethiopian life, be it in a traditional rural house, an urban “compound” or a modern condominium, was continuously on the go throughout our stay. The family are fortunate in being just a few yards from a stream, so in the dry season, fetching water is not the struggle it is in many places. In the rainy season, however, when the stream turns into a muddy torrent, there is a long hike to a spring further up in the hills…

After eating, Mulusew disappeared into the undergrowth with a shovel, and 15 minutes later we were introduced to the newly constructed shintabet, (loo) in a suitably secluded spot, complete with arboreal handgrips in deference to dodgy ferenji knees! Mulusew and his father then took us on a tour of the land. Easter comes near the end of the dry season, and the ox ploughing had already been done, ready for the sowing of tef, the grain, unique to Ethiopia, used to make their staple injera. There were also tomatoes growing, mangoes, coffee and even an apple tree…

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The second day of our stay was Easter Sunday. As we breakfasted on the egg sandwich Mulusew cooked for us, we were acutely aware of the sheep tied up next to us, in front of the house. Although most Ethiopian Orthodox Christians, if they can afford it, slaughter a sheep for Fasika, in the countryside the act seems to have as much a ritualistic as an alimentary significance (Mulusew told us that his family would probably only eat meat two or three times a year). The slaughter took place in the house, attended by other members of the extended family, Mulusew’s mother’s sister with her family, and his older brother with his. The animal’s throat was cut and it was allowed to bleed out over the earthen floor. Mulusew’s father threw a glass of araki, the home-made local liquor, to mix with the blood, a gesture reminiscent of the pre-Christian libation to the gods… The dying was slow and, for us at least, not comfortable to watch. After it was over, the animal was skinned and butchered, and part of it served up as tibs (barbecued pieces) with injera – from bleat to plate in less than an hour. All of us then walked on to the farms of the other two families, where the same process was repeated each time, though we excused ourselves for the first part of the proceedings.

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Queasiness (and animal empathy) aside, it was a privilege and a pleasure to be able to spend Fasika with Mulusew’s family. The rural and urban worlds are different here in a way that has long ceased to be the case in the developed world, and Ethiopia is still 85% rural. The luggage we brought for a three-day stay contained more personal belongings than you would find in the entire household. The rhythms of life are still set by the sun and by the seasons. The small children still live lives of almost complete freedom from constraint. Mulusew’s parents and wider family treated us with the openhanded hospitality that we have found elsewhere in Ethiopia, but this time in the countryside. Of course, as Mulusew told us, this was an easy time: with the upcoming rains, the wide green meadows turn into quagmires; harvest time brings backbreaking work, often through the night…

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The gap between the countryside and the cities is not so much one of space as of time. For Mulusew (and the two of his brothers who also live in Bahir Dar), the four hour drive to the family home is also a journey into an earlier century. Thanks to Mulusew (and family) for sharing your story – and your Easter!
The views expressed in this blog are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of VSO.

My work on CPD as Continuous Professional Development Advisor to the Region takes me out of the comforts of home and office here in Bahir Bar from time to time. We visit schools and find out how they are getting on developing teachers’ skills. Not an easy task when resources (even enough to buy a notebook) are in short supply and communications limited.

My last trip took me east, back towards the Rift valley to towns midway between Addis and Mekelle, about 8 hours drive from here. I was joined by my young colleague Abeba, who recently joined our team. We shared the interviewing of several key staff at a number of schools. As it happened our trip took us back to the village where she spent her childhood and her own primary school was on our “to visit” list. I was able to see both village and school during the trip as well as hear about her childhood, education and family life.

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After our work at her school, we dropped in at the family house a couple of times; these visits moved us into a different world. Whilst John and I have lived in Ethiopia 2 ½ years, it is rare to have a reason to go to into one of the very rural houses. We usually only see the outsides as we drive by. In Bahir Dar, we have a comfortable house, and neighbours and work colleagues also have pleasant houses with relatively easy access to water, electricity and a reasonable level of sanitation. Abeba’s family has none of that.

The house is traditionally built with local materials. People in the country live with very little. Chattels are at a minimum and you wonder quite why or if we in the west need so many different things. You wonder if people in rural Ethiopia have the desire to acquire different things or whether an equilibrium been achieved. There is no need for knives and forks as the food is designed to be eaten easily with fingers. There’s no need for numerous plates and bowls as meals are served on large communal dishes, and so on. Inside the house, the mud walls are shaped to form beds and shelves, so little furniture is needed.

Hard work is very apparent though. The ploughing is done with a hand plough pulled by two oxen. All washing is done by hand, though this village has a tap nearby, so access to water is easier than in many places. Coffee preparation is given great respect, with all the equipment ready to hand, to be served up in one those special coffee cups.

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A great feature of Ethiopian life is the way they always seem to be ready to serve up a delicious meal at any time of day. This is with few shops nearby and those there are have a very limited selection of goods available. Home grown grain, pulses, spices and vegetables are the answer. I thought I’d be able to buy a bunch of bananas to contribute to our meal, but couldn’t find those locally either. We ate outside and were soon joined by groups of children, to have a look at the foreigner! Abeba wanted time with her family so I was then left wondering if instead of just being watched I could do something more entertaining. Several rounds of “If you’re happy and you know it” … meant we could both name one or two body parts in our respective languages quite soon, but my mispronunciation of “ear” as “chicken” caused hilarity. Later, they entertained me with a little show where they demonstrated their Ethiopian dancing skills.

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But, how did Abeba move from exactly the same childhood as these children to one with a job in the regional education office at only 34. A complete contrast of lifestyle from one generation to the next. This is her story and Education was key.

There were and still are gaps in the Ethiopian education system, although it has developed hugely since the “Education for All” programme was set up just over 20 years ago. Primary schools start at Grade 1 (age 7) and run to Grade 8 (age 14). Frequently schools are only able to provide classes up to Grade 4 (age 11) – there simply aren’t the facilities, buildings or funding for staff. Many areas have no secondary schools. If a student from a rural area wants to continue, they frequently find rooms in town and fend for themselves during the week. Some walk for as long as 6 hours on Sunday afternoons to get to school and have the 6 hour return on Fridays.

Abeba went to the local village school we visited until Grade 4. Because the educational infrastructure was incomplete, her education was disjointed. Her school finished when students were 11. Luckily, an uncle had moved away to a town where the school provided education for the next academic year. The family agreed that she should live with him to have another year of school, even though the town was about 6 hours drive away (on today’s good roads). In those days it would have taken much longer. A year later, a school nearer to home had been built. Again this was too far to travel on a daily basis so she stayed with another member of the family until the end of Primary school (Grade 8). For many girls this would have been the end of their schooling and the family would have started looking for a potential husband. Girls are frequently married at this age and younger, and although the legal minimum age for men and women to marry is now 18, many girls are still illegally married well under-age. In the Amhara region, almost 50 percent of girls are married by age 15.

This presented another crossroads – marry, work or continue education. There was no local Secondary school (it starts at 14), but someone else from the family now lived in Bahir Dar, where we live now, so she moved here and in fact went to the Secondary school next door to our office. I won’t write here about the contrast to the UK system, but whilst UK parents sometimes move to make sure they have a good school for their child, at least schools exist up the minimum leaving age wherever you live.

Abeba is now 34. She has near perfect English, a first Degree from Addis Ababa University in Educational Psychology, a four year course which took 5 years because of a student uprising where she, like many other students, was expelled for a year as punishment. She also has a second degree in Vocational and Educational Management, which she obtained whilst expecting her son.

The contrast between the two worlds is huge. Whilst her father’s family had one brother to take over the land, no one from the next generation will follow in his footsteps. Abeba has brothers and sisters and thinks that maybe one of her sisters will return to the village, but that is not certain. One regret is that Abeba’s son,aged 4, will probably never stay with the family in the village. She feels town life and country life are too far apart for him to adjust from one to the other. In just one generation a lifestyle which has existed for centuries and continues in much of the country is lost in this family.

Many factors influence the move from country to town, but education and “development” play a part, which at times makes those of us here with that as our goal uncomfortable with the consequence. As communication of all sorts develops maybe the cycle we have seen in the west might continue – the initial move to town and back to the country. Whatever the future, it was for me a privilege to share a small part of this lifestyle whilst it survives. And thanks to Abeba for sharing her story.

The views expressed in this blog are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of VSO.

We have just come back from a three-week trip to the UK, to the great delight in particular of Nala the dog, who was clearly feeling neglected. One of the things we immediately noticed on our return, in this spring season, is the presence of birdsong, something that we missed in England, partly of course because windows and doors tended to be shut in the colder weather , but also because of the prevalence of man-made sound. On top of that, we have heard that there is a negative feedback between noise pollution and birdsong in the industrial world: birds can’t hear each other sing, which reduces their mating opportunities, which reduces their number, which reduces birdsong…

I believe I may have mentioned that, here too, the Ethiopian church does make a substantial contribution to the acoustic ambience, but nevertheless our garden in Bahir Dar is at present a sounding chamber of twitters, tweets, hoots, squawks, coos, croaks, chirrups and cheeps. The one big tree we have is currently home to weaver birds (in full construction mode), speckled mouse birds, sunbirds and bee eaters, with the odd visit perhaps from a paradise flycatcher. From overhead, we hear the cry of the kites and the keening of fish eagles. A pair of wire-tailed swallows is nesting in the eaves of the house.

One of the lesser-known facts about Ethiopia, except perhaps for dedicated twitchers, is that it is host to some 700 species of birds and home to perhaps 70 endemic species (i.e. species only found here or in the Horn of Africa). Now we are not dedicated twitchers and, until we came here, took what might be called a dilettante’s interest. However, we have been lucky, both in Mekelle and Bahir Dar, to live in houses with gardens and trees, with the result that we have been able to satisfy much of our burgeoning interest in the feathered community from the comfort of a recliner, without having to put down our G&T for longer than required to take a photograph. Nevertheless, you will have gathered that we have done a certain amount of travelling around the country, thereby extending our avian experience beyond the comfort of our backyards. Now unless you are an ornithologist, the most obviously striking thing about birds is their appearance, which means that I will try to keep my tendency to verbosity to a minimum and let you enjoy the photographs, with just a little bit of background. I’m afraid we tend to overlook the LBJs** in favour of the bigger, brighter and easier to identity.

First, the garden birds, here at home in Bahir Dar:

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Bahir Dar stands on the edge of Ethiopia’s biggest lake, Lake Tana, close to 100 km long. The edges of the lake stretch into wetlands and water meadows, which attract birds as they do everywhere in the world. One of our favourite trips is to take a boat on the lake, at dawn or dusk, then cruise into the opening of the Blue Nile (yes, one half of the great Nile starts here at Lake Tana, joining the White Nile in Sudan) to visit the hippos, and then nose gently into the narrow waterways where the birds nest and go about their business.
The first time we came to Bahir Dar, two years ago, we were lucky enough to meet Hailu, a boatman who knows all the birds of the lake (and their English names, though we were initially puzzled by the “Super Winged Goose” until we found Plectropterus gambensis – the “Spur-Winged Goose” – in the bird book. Hailu has become a friend we always call on to take us out. On Barbara’s birthday this year, she elected for a 5am start, meeting him before dawn (now that is commitment – on birthdays, we tend to see sunrise from the other end) for a boat/birding trip, and we were rewarded by sightings of three different kinds of kingfisher, including a first for us, the giant kingfisher. Lucky Ant and Liz (hello Toulouse!) were with us for that venture, where we also saw a monitor lizard (about 4 feet long) sunning itself in the early morning warmth.

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A week later, at Timkat (see previous blog) Hailu invited us to his home for lunch. He told us about his friendship with an English ornithologist, a frequent visitor to Bahir Dar, and his trip to the UK at the latter’s invitation. As an African, he joked, he had to go to England to see his first lion (at Longleat).

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Of course, you don’t have to go out on the lake to see the birds. They are everywhere around it. Among the pleasures in Bahir Dar is to sit at a lakeshore restaurant or cafe and watch the pelicans, spot pied kingfishers and feel the cool breeze that flows off the lake.
Apart from Hailu, we have encountered another local with a deep interest in the birdlife. At a Lodge by a crater lake south-east of Addis, we came across a wonderful book called Birds of Lake Tana Area. On our return, Barbara contacted the author Shimelis, who happens to live in Bahir Dar and lecture at the university here. She met him and now we have our own signed copy. Photos around Bahir Dar next:

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Wherever you go in Ethiopia, whether in places famed for their wildlife and landscape like the Simien Mountains, Awash National Park or the crater lakes of Debre Zeit, or simply out in the countryside where Barbara’s work has taken her, the natural world and its birdlife are ever present.

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*Since, as stated above, we are but dilettantes of the ornithological world, some of our identifications may be inaccurate, and we welcome any comments or corrections.
** LBJs: nothing to do with a former US president: little brown jobbies, i.e. nondescript birds.

We promised you a second dose, after Genna (Christmas) in Lalibela, now Timkat (Epiphany) in Gonder. Timkat celebrates Christ’s baptism by John the Baptist in the River Jordan. As one might expect, baptism – the first step on the lifelong road to eternal bliss or unending agony – is a rite for which the Ethiopian Orthodox Church has its own rules. For example, a boy child is baptised after 40 days, a girl after 80 days. Given the historical high levels of child mortality, it makes you wonder about the gender imbalance in the netherworld. (To the best of my knowledge, there is no limbo here, not official Catholic doctrine but a concept invented by some theologians to relieve the discomfort of condemning unbaptised infants to eternal damnation on the grounds of the original sin of Eve and Adam, something felt by many to be outrageous even by the lights of the most generous theodicy…)
Anyway, I digress… If Genna in Lalibela was a sober and, at times, moving and awe-inspiring experience, Timkat in Gonder has more of a carnival feel. The hotels are full and prices high, so we were lucky to be offered a free bed by a generous fellow VSO (thank you Fiona), whilst others laid on an evening party (thanks John and Heather). The celebrations continue over three days, though we were present only for two (for further details, see Wikipedia).
On the Saturday (January 18) the town’s many churches held processions through the town. We watched with assorted volunteers, including about 20 young Peace Corps who had travelled in from their various scattered and remote locations. One lived on the procession route, and kindly offered us a strategic wall with a grandstand view, which we shared with other families from her compound.

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The usual constellations of men in gilded and colourful frocks, under umbrellas of rococo splendour, accompanied the tabots (replicas of the ark of the covenant, the tablets of stone bearing the 10 Commandments given to Moses by God, the original of which is purportedly in Aksum, having been stolen from Jerusalem by Menelik I, illegitimate son of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba), the one day in the year when these hallowed objects are removed from the secrecy of the holy of holies in their various churches and paraded before the faithful. The procession is slow, since the tabots and their priestly attendants move forwards on red carpets, which have to be rolled up as the pageant passes, carried to the front by runners, and re-laid.

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As with Lalibela at Christmas, Gonder at Timkat has a main event, the celebration that everyone comes to see, and some to take part in. And once again, it meant sacrificing sleep, this time with a 4 am start on the Sunday morning. A well-organised VSO couple (John and Heather from Canada) had laid on a minibus to take us to the venue, a place called Fasilides Bath, which is best described by photographs. For 50 weeks in the year, this sunken space is bare earth, but in the week before Timkat it is filled, ready for the re-enactment of the baptism (possibly explaining why taps in people’s houses and apartments mysteriously run dry from mid-January onwards).
At one end of the pool was a wooden stand of tiered seating, a grandstand embarrassingly restricted to VIPs, ferenjis and their guides, while the other spectators and participants perched precariously in the ancient trees or on the crumbling stone walls. After the obligatory 2 hours of waiting while the security forces waited for VIPs, we found ourselves seated about as perfectly as one could imagine, in the central axis of the pool. From our new viewpoint, and with the arrival of dawn, we could see the ranks of berobed clerics and congregations ringing the baths, not to mention priestly hands raised high in devotion to Apple, Nokia and the ecclesiastical selfie.

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The two hours had been filled with the usual Ge’ez chanting and swaying, though unusually interspersed with some appreciated English language commentary on the meaning of Epiphany. Gradually, we became aware of figures in particularly exquisite robes, carrying the great gold cross of Gonder and the traditional thurible, approaching the water and sitting on the steps. At the same time, crowds of young men in swimming trunks/underwear gathered around the sides of the pool, one even high up in the branches of the tree overhanging the pool. As the chanting rose to a climax, the man in blue (Bishop of Gonder) teasingly brought his cross ever closer to the surface of the water. Not sure what the penalty for a false start in this particular race is – excommunication, damnation? – but one lad came close to incurring it. Finally, gold lightly touched the surface of the pool, transforming it into holy water and ending the suspense…, though not for the boy in the tree waiting for a space to clear below him, crossing himself repeatedly.
This plunge into the pool is an almost exclusively masculine activity, at least for habesha. We have it on good authority that, for women, swimming is perceived as indecent. A few girls sat on the steps, splashing the newly sacralised water over themselves. However, there is nothing in the rulebook about ferenji females, and a few of our new-found Peace Corps friends from the day before took the plunge, though decorously attired for reasons of cultural sensitivity. Whilst the brave and hardy continued to survive the freezing water, many dispersed and for us back for a much overdue breakfast.

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