contrasts

First, I want to thank everyone who's reading all this, especially those who take a moment to comment on your own thoughts, either here in the comments area, or in your emails to me. It's good to know I'm not just talking to myself. Truth is, I'm doing this for all of us - trying to show you what I saw, and also processing the whole experience and trying to integrate it into my new sense of "normal". Thanks for helping me do all this. This is a long entry today. You might want to go make a cup of tea or something before to read it...
~~~

After Rick and I had been in Ethiopia for ten days, we went back to Addis Ababa (pronounced AH-dis AH-ba-ba, not ah-BA-ba) to meet the rest of our group at the airport. We went over early because Marta and Deme had asked us to. We were so honored and touched that they wanted to spend time with us, and it would not have been as good an experience without all that time they shared with us. We didn't know most of the twenty-odd others in the Cunningham Foundation's group, but we were technically part of that group, so it was time to connect and continue the trip on a different scale. Marta and Deme had left for the states a few days earlier, and we were now hanging out with Helen, who runs a tight ship at Project Mercy in Marta's absence. She's a bit of a "Sarge" when things need to be done, but when she thinks nobody's looking, she's a real hoot to pal around with. Shhhh.... don't tell. I don't want to blow her cover.

The three hour drive to Addis (usually how locals refer to the city) was a beautiful tapestry of landscapes, farms, mountains, people, and animals. The road is in pretty good shape, and the regular drivers know exactly where all the potholes are, so there's a lot of weaving and dodging, but little slowing down. Most of the time we were in open countryside, but there are several little towns along the way, filled with the usual living obstacles. Our amazing drivers would slow only a little bit, and beeping the horn in communication, they'd zip through the "traffic" in no time. I'm still amazed that we never even came close to hitting anyone, including all those aloof little goats, meandering along with cars and buses, as if they owned the road...







After our time in rural Ethiopia, Addis Ababa was a complete jolt. The traffic is insane. There are zillions of cars and buses all zipping along in clouds of dust and diesel fumes, ignoring the lines in the road, and anything resembling driving rules. There's a constant beep-beeping from all directions, not out of anger, but just a friendly way of saying "hey! I'm here, two inches from your bumper". City drivers also have to deal with city herds of cattle. There are still animals all over the roads, but here the herders walk along with them while talking on cell phones. I remember years ago, thinking that Rome had crazy traffic. Addis makes that look like a buggy ride in the park. I think Ethiopians must be the best drivers in the world. We saw only one minor fender bender the whole time. I'm usually a very nervous passenger when I'm at home, but for some reason I was completely calm and comfortable there. I even gave up on digging long forgotten seat belts from under the seats. I figured the Universe was not going to take me all the way to Ethiopia to kill me in a traffic accident...





Much of Addis is a crumbling mess, but there's also a lot of construction going on, and in some places, a lot of money on display.







The group arrived from the states late in the evening, and after all the collecting of luggage and making their way through customs, we loaded into several vehicles and drove to the Ararat Hotel for a late dinner before bed. Rick and I had driven to Addis with Helen, and three of the full-time volunteer teachers at Project Mercy, Scott, Kaitlyn, and Abbey. Helen had a nice break from the action at her own home in Addis, and the rest of us stayed at Marta and Deme's, leaving the others at the hotel. The house has a long history, being taken by the communists in the 70's and then somehow, miraculously, Marta and Deme got it back many years later. Marta says it's not their house - it's God's house. So they share it very graciously with many visitors. Still, we felt a little bit special, knowing we'd been given the best room of all. It sure beat any hotel we might have stayed in (except maybe the Sheraton, but as you'll see, that was way out of reach...)





The next day was a the busiest day of my entire life. Really. It felt like we lived a year in one day. We started out with a visit to a library Noel and Tammy Cunningham are big supporters of. They'd brought along books, and we had some nice time visiting with and reading to the kids. These kids are some of the lucky ones. They get to go to school, and now they have a growing library of books in English. Like kids anywhere, they have big dreams for their futures. And because they have support and education, they might just do more than herd goats when they grow up.










Our next stop was for lunch at the Sheraton - a place so out of character for the rest of what we'd seen, I think we were all a little shocked by it. Sure, it was beautiful, and we had a lovely, delicious, safe lunch... but I think most of us felt like there was something ethically wrong with a place like that plopped in the middle of all the surrounding poverty.








They were beginning to decorate for Christmas, although it's not celebrated there in the same frantic, commercial way we do it here. I loved the twisted little Santa scene on the lawn...



After our feast of expensive food and opulence overload, lulled into a comfort zone we thought we'd left at home, we piled back into vans and Land Rovers, and whizzed back into the streets of Addis, winding into the outskirts, and to the gates of the Mother Teresa Orphanage. The sign on the gate said that absolutely no photographs could be taken, and we later found out that it was because someone had used photos of the place and the kids online for their own purposes, falsely claiming to be raising money for the orphanage. The things I saw there are carved deep into my mind, and it's hard to tell you about it now. This was the most emotional part of the entire trip, so difficult that some of the group left the tour and waited outside... This might have been the place I had feared coming to, back when I said I thought Africa would break my heart. It did get broken that day. Broken wide open. But what also happens if we allow it, is the light flows in through the cracks, filling all the dark, scared spaces with hope and joy and love.

The Mother Teresa Orphanage is filled to the brim with 450 happy, well tended, well fed kids. The ones who are old enough to go to school have clean uniforms, and they scamper around the grounds, curious about visitors, just like in any school full of American kids. The difference is, these are all AIDS Orphans, and 95 percent of them are HIV positive themselves. Johnson & Johnson donates the medications they need, and so now most of them will thrive and survive into adulthood. This creates a new set of problems, as they'll have to assimilate into the "real world" at some point, with job skills and awareness of their medical needs and responsibilities to others they interact with. They know about their illness. They're educated about it, and never made to feel like they've done something wrong. Still, the rest of the world will not be so kind and tolerant. I worry about what these kids will face once they're "out there". I didn't take this picture, as I respected the "no photos" rule. But I found it online, to show you who these kids are. Regular kids. Not freaks. Not dangerous. Just regular, loving kids.



The first stop on the tour was the baby room. There were maybe ten little babies in cribs, all in fragile health, all with IVs in their necks, and all crying and reaching for us to pick them up. We were told not to pick them up, so as not to disturb the IVs, which could have been dangerous to us as well as the babies. But it ripped my heart right out of my chest to stand there so helpless. I rubbed one little girl's tummy and muttered stupid "shh, shh, it's OK" sounds to her. But she kept crying and reaching for me, and all I could do was tell her - or myself - I was so, so sorry, and leave the room with the rest of the group.

We all walked dazed through the halls, and began to catch our breath. Older kids began to catch up with us, and before long, every adult in our group was holding at least one little hand and attempting to chat with the little smiling person attached to it. We saw dorms and tiny bunk beds pushed right up against each other to make room for them all. We saw the dining room and the movie room with a bed sheet pinned to the wall as a screen. We saw classrooms and answered typical questions from kids just learning to speak English - What is your name? How old are you? Where are you from? And then we went to the preschool room...

We were instantly surrounded by tiny, adorable people. They tugged at our clothes and laughed and chattered in Amharic. One pee-wee girl, about two years old, reached her arms to me and said, "Up". Some English words are more useful than others. I scooped her up and she snuggled into my shoulder, holding out a treasure in her baby fist. It was a small stick. A toy I suppose, as I didn't see any actual toys scattered around. I took it from her hand and stuck in in my pocket, afraid she might choke on it.

Another two year old at my feet was trying to pick up a younger girl, and toppled her onto her head, on the hard floor. I sat right down on the floor, still holding the one I had picked up, and grabbed the one who had fallen. The other kids swarmed around us, patting her back and trying to soothe her, but she had a huge bump forming on her head and she just cried and cried and cried. I managed to stand up, holding two kids now, and found a staff member to hand the injured one over to. She needed ice on her head, but I knew there was no such luxury as ice in a place like this.

It was clear that the kids were clean and fed and had what they needed physically, but what stayed with me for the rest of the day, and stays with me still, is that they don't have enough love. There just aren't enough people to come and hold them and sit with them and love them. I can see why people adopt after visiting a place like that. I know that's not for me and Rick, but I can't stop thinking about the need for love we all share. And I can't stop wondering what I can do to make a difference, someplace, anyplace. I still have the stick I took from the little girl. I hold it and cry and still manage to feel some hope. After all, those kids have a place and people who care for them. At least they have that...

The last stop on any good tour is the Gift Shop. The orphanage has a weaving program for older students, teaching them a skill they can use to earn money when they're out on their own one day. They weave beautiful scarves of cotton and silk, and the money collected is put in savings accounts for the weavers - a nest egg to get them started when thy leave the orphanage. I bought several, and you can buy them too, on the Cunningham Foundation's website.

Phew... still with me? There was one more stop in this endless day. I was feeling kind of sick, from my malaria pills, diesel fumes, and emotional exhaustion, so I didn't participate the way I might have on any other day, but it was still a wonderful experience.

An American doctor named Rick Hodes invited us to dinner at his home in Addis - along with his 18 adopted children. He has developed a surgery for a particular type of spinal deformity that's common in Ethiopia, and travels often to do operations. From what I gathered, many of his adopted kids were once his patients. They all live together in a modest house and compound, and everyone seemed to be an important part of the team. The place was bubbling with energy and love.







We crammed into the living room, and the men were offered hats to wear, from a silly assortment reserved for Friday evenings in the oddly Jewish household. We all stood and held hands in a room-sized circle that spread into the dining room, and Dr. Rick led the prayers of Shabbat, and finally a sing-along version of If I Had a Hammer. Teen aged kids served mugs of soup, plates of bread, and platter after platter of Ethiopian foods, along with cans of beer, and bottles of orange soda. Still feeling queasy, I sat in a corner and watched most of the action from a distance. I wandered outside later to visit the gate keeper, a very nice man who spends his time between gate openings embroidering pillows with gorgeous colorful scenes from Hebrew stories. He sells them to visitors for only $20 - nothing to us, but a fortune to most Ethiopians. Yes, of course I bought one. And then, thankfully, it was time to go back to our assorted lodgings and get some rest.

Those of us who were staying at Marta and Deme's opted out of the next morning's activities, and later in the day we all drove back to Yetebon. I remember thinking - I just want to go home, but I didn't mean home to Taos, I meant home to Project Mercy.

knitting

Part of my packing list included yarn. Lots of yarn. I'm a so-so knitter, and always have a project going while I'm at home, so it made sense to me that I wouldn't want "idle hands" while traveling either. All that time on airplanes, and free time in the evenings at Project Mercy, with no TV, no martinis, sometimes even no electricity. I knew I'd need something to occupy myself with. I had a big idea just before we left, to make felted bags and sell them on my website, keeping enough money for more yarn, and donating the rest to Project Mercy. It was sort a vague, morphing idea, but I went to the beautiful Taos Sunflower yarn shop in Arroyo Seco, and stocked up on Lamb's Pride wool yarns in all sorts of colors. I packed as much of it as I could, around other heavier items, and had a bag already in progress in my carry-on.

I knitted all the way across the Atlantic, and from Rome to Addis Ababa. I'm not a fast knitter, so I was still working on the bag as I wandered around the compound a few days later. I had stopped on my way to the Bead Room to chat with Kaitlyn, one of the American volunteers who is there for nine months with another young one, Abbey. They're both just out of high school, and are there teaching English in the school before they go off to college. Great girls. Kaityln was sitting on the ground with a lot of kids and adults, sorting beans that had been harvested the day before. There had been some late rains, which was not good, and ruined some of the crops. Every last bean had to be sorted from the rotted ones. Every bean is important in that part of the world.

I stooped down to see what they were up to, and one of the kids held up her arm, showing me the pink yarn "bracelet" I had tied on her wrist the day before. I knew I was in trouble the instant I did that, and sure enough, within seconds, there was a line of kids holding out their wrists for me to tie a bit of twisted pink yarn on. I got to tying, sitting there on the dirt, in the sun, surrounded by beans and kids. Adults started to get interested too, and one pink string at a time, I decorated fifty or sixty smiling people. Boys too. There are no gender biased color hang-ups. Bright pink was good for everyone.





At some point in all this, someone noticed the half finished knitted bag I was carrying around in my yarn bag. I pulled it out, along with the pattern, and explained what I was doing. It was becoming pretty huge, which is what you have to do with felted wool things, so they can shrink and fuzz up nicely after you're done knitting them. Alameetoo (spelled kind of phonetically), the new House Mom, took the bag from me, and started knitting on it while I continued to tie pink yarn on wrists. She's a terrific knitter, and even though she has no English at all, she took one look at the picture on the pattern, and knew just what I was up to.




When Marta saw the bag, she also took it from my hands and started knitting. Suddenly we had a group project going. It was understood that anyone who could knit would work on the bag with me. It was wonderful. And when I told Marta my plan for making and selling the bags for Project Mercy, the wheels in her head immediately started whirling. She thought it would be great to teach people to knit within the compound, and have them all making bags, which they could then send to me to sell. Even more suddenly than I'd started a cheery little one-bag group project, it seemed I'd started a new business for Project Mercy.



Serendipitously, there were other knitters in the big Cunningham Foundation group, and they were busy teaching kids to knit with fat yarn and jumbo needles. Everywhere I went, there were little groups of people sitting around with sticks and string. Even the Bead Room became a knitting room, with Julia dropping in to visit, some of the girls working on my bag (and later, another bag), and even Alex picking up where he'd left off as a kid, when his mom had taught him to knit. Knitting is not just for girls. It was once considered a very manly sport. In fact, it's believed that knitting actually started with men. So no teasing Alex. He's just cooler than most of the guys you know.







When my bag was finally the size of a pillow case, it was time to felt it.



At home, I would just throw it into the washing machine, set it on a long, hot wash cycle, and wander off to do something else. But in Ethiopia, it had to be done by hand. I had a couple of the Bead Girls round up a wash tub for me. We filled it with hot water, and a little Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap, sat in the shade with it and started scrubbing. Abera joined Alfya, Hana, and me, and we splashed and scrubbed and talked for about an hour. It wasn't speedy and efficient, like we're used to here, but it was a lot more fun.




The final step was to shape the now thick and fuzzy felted bag into its final form. I borrowed a dinner plate from the dining room, stuffed it in the round bottom of the bag, and balanced it on a clothesline post to dry in the sun.





And finally, many days, many hands, and many miles from where I'd started it, the bag was finished. I showed it off at dinner the next night, as we huddled around a little indoor "heater", filled with hot coals.




Back at home, I decorated this bag with beads and an old, worn Ethiopian Orthodox cross I bought for its intricacy and beauty, not for its religious symbolism. This bag is mine. But I think there will be more, made by me, or by the many hands at Project Mercy. It will be fun to see where this Bag Project goes from here. Once I figure out some logistical details with Marta, I'll start the search for great yarn at a great price. All you knitters out there, keep your eyes and ears open. I might need some help with this!

the road to butajira

The town of Butajira is the closest place to the compound to shop, check email, have a beer, be in the Big World... It's about 6 miles away, and the road is... challenging. It's dusty and rutted from the donkey/horse carts that are the second most common form of transportation. Most people walk. There are always people walking on the road, along with cattle, donkeys, goats, and sheep. There are very few dogs. People don't have pets, as every animal has to have a job, a purpose, a place in helping to support the family. Animals often live inside the thatched huts the humans live in because they're valuable and need to be protected. Animals are like bank accounts. You don't leave them outside in the yard at night. As a result, there is an ongoing problem with tuberculosis, from all that crowding of people and animals and cooking fires into small, poorly ventilated huts, or tucals. Yes, they really live in those.



But back to the road to Butajira. On market day, Friday, the road is crowded with people, carts, and animals for several miles on either side of town. We didn't actually go to the market... Something we didn't tell anyone before we left was there was a security alert sent out by the US Embassy in Addis Ababa. There had been some arrests of terrorist leaders, and there was still concern that Americans might be targets... We were told not to travel in large groups, and to stay out of public gatherings. We never felt any danger of any sort, but at first we were nervous because everything was so foreign and strange. We also knew that if we told anyone here about the alert, we'd only cause worry, and there was no way we were going to cancel our trip. So anyway - no trip to the market, just to be safe. Just being on the road that day was pretty amazing...



Butajira itself was unbelievable at first. Dusty crowded streets are lined with tiny shops, in varying sorts of sheds, built of anything available, including lots of scrap wood and tin. Things for sale are piled outside the shops, and displayed from every available perch. Most everything you might need is there, but you have to go all over town to find it. And of course, the ever-present farm animals roam the streets with the people. There are more cars in the town than out in the countryside, so you have to be careful to stay out of the way. The road is shared, but the cars do not slow down for anyone. Get out of the way, or get hit.





I made a trip to town one day with Marta and fourteen of the House Kids. They needed shoes. Unlike here, where we go to a mall or Target or a big shoe store, we had to prowl around to find a couple of tiny shops that looked to have a good selection of shoes in the window. Paulos, the driver, knew where to look, so he scouted out the shoe shops with Marta while I waited in the van with the kids. Even though Marta and Deme are well known and loved in the area, they still preferred not to draw too much attention to the pack of kids... and probably to me also. I was a little nervous sitting there in the street, feeling responsible for this herd of children, but unable to talk to them very well, or to anyone else for that matter. At one point a crazy man stepped up to the open sliding door of the van, and yammered on about something or other. Street kids began to gather around him, blocking us into the van, and when I asked "my kids" what the guy was saying, they only looked blank, and said - different language. Oh great. I was thinking I was going to have to deck the guy and would probably end up in an Ethiopian jail for assaulting a local. But eventually he gave up on us and wandered off, the street kids tailing along with him. One of the older boys in the van jumped up and slammed the van door shut. We were all a little spooked at that point, and we waited there in the heat until Marta and Paulos returned to usher us into the shoe shop.



Inside the tiny, closet-sized shop, someone brought two plastic chairs for Marta and me. We sat opposite each other while the kids took turns trying on shoes from a small pile on the floor. The shop girl handed them a pre-used, crinkly plastic bag to use as a sock, and had them stand on a small rug to protect the shoes. We'd look at all the bare feet, guess the size, and have them try on anything that looked like a possibility. The kids would go to Marta for a foot squeeze and fit check, and then to me for a follow up consultation.




Marta even tried on my shoes, and we both commented on how we'd like to "fill each other's shoes". I just love Marta. Every minute spent with her was a gift. I don't think I could ever begin to fill shoes like hers...



We didn't have much luck finding shoes for the kids though. After a lot of trying on, we were only able to fit five of them. They have such wide feet from being barefoot or in flip-flops most of the time. Marta tries to keep everyone supplied with one pair of good sneaker-type shoes, but even having them is a problem. If they wear them all the time, they wear out too quickly, and their feet also become too used to the shoes, making them too "soft" to go barefoot when necessary.

The kids were just great. Well behaved and happy to be there. Nine of the fourteen went home disappointed, with no new shoes, but there wasn't a peep of complaint from any of them. They're still in their flip-flops, or ripped up imitation Crocs, or barefoot, and they'll wait patiently until the next chance for shoe shopping comes along... I'm sitting here thinking about my wonderful Keen's, perfect for my own wide feet, and sturdy enough to handle the rocky, uneven volcanic terrain of Ethiopia. I wonder how we can get a truckload of Keen's shipped to those kids...

After shoe shopping, Marta took me to another little shop to look for scarves and shawls. We left the kids standing outside the van, and when I worried about leaving them there alone, Marta said - Nobody wants to take children here. They're always trying to give them to us! I bought a couple of shawls, and wore one almost all the time I was in Ethiopia. Not only did it make me feel like I "blended in" a little bit, it was very practical. The light gauzy material kept the sun off my skin, and the dust out of my hair and nose.

On another trip to Butajira, we slowed at the bridge across the river, to see what "laundry day" looked like. It was also bathing day, with naked kids splashing in the water. Lots of kids came to the car to say hello and have their pictures taken. They know all about digital cameras, and love to see themselves the minute you snap the photo.








So many stories from "the road to Butajira"... Rick and I were with Marta one day, and an elderly Muslim man came to the car window. Marta knew him, and asked me if I had "1 birr" to loan her for him. I only had a 10 birr note, the equivalent of about one dollar, and handed it over, asking that it be a gift from me to the man. Marta explained that while she encourages people to earn their livings and not to beg, this man had no family and no one to help him. She has a soft spot for children and old people, and she got tears in her eyes when I offered that little bit of money. She said it would feed him for a week, and that I would be blessed by him for my generous gift. Wow... Really makes me think...

On my last visit to Butajira, I sat on the steps outside a funky little falling-down shack that housed one of many "internet cafes" in town. I was waiting for Helen, who kept tabs on us after Marta and Deme left for the states. She finished her email business inside while I sat there watching people go by. The difference this time was nobody was watching me. I took this as a huge compliment, and a sign that I was beginning to blend in a little bit, and to somehow put of a "comfortable vibe" that made me less of a tourist, and more like the people I was with. On two different occasions, Marta and one of the drivers had told me I "looked Ethiopian". Something about my features, if not my skin color. This was another huge compliment, since Ethiopians are very beautiful people. When Helen came out of the cafe, I told her how happy I was to have been more or less ignored by the locals. She smiled and said something like, Yes, you're beginning to belong here...

inside the compound

The Project Mercy Compound is an oasis in the middle of a very difficult and challenging part of the world. Yetebon, Ethiopia is the name of the surrounding area, but it's not even on the map. Butajira is the nearest town, about 6 miles away on the worst little dirt road imaginable. The local people are dirt poor - literally, and I'll go into that more later. But inside the compound walls things are clean and cared for, everyone has enough to eat, and there's a constant bustle of activity. Everyone helps, and everyone is busy, productive, and friendly.

In only twelve years, Marta and Deme have taken on, and completed, an astonishing number of projects. The school is central to the daily life of the place, with about 70 "house kids", many of them orphans, living in the compound, and over 1,000 more who come from the surrounding area each day. Some of them walk two hours from their homes on the mountainsides. Education is valued because there isn't room for everyone them to attend, and the two meals that come with a day at school are a big draw too. Marta tries to choose one child from each family who applies, in hopes that the rest of the family will benefit from that one student's education, sometimes being introduced to the basics of proper sanitation, hand washing, and family planning for the first time - things that are so normal to us.

Watching the kids line up for school in the morning is wonderful. They mill around for a few minutes as they arrive through the gate, and are always eager and curious to chat with visitors and show of their English language skills. They know two key questions - What is your name? and How old are you? The average life expectancy there is about 48 years, so they never believed me when I told them my real age - 51 is ancient. I finally started telling them I was 10, and they'd laugh and shake their heads, saying, No.... you're.... 27! Gotta love that.

While the kids are in school, others are busy making beads and bracelets, weaving baskets, embroidering, doing woodwork and metalwork, gardening, tending cattle and sheep, cooking, doing laundry by hand... the list goes on and on. Then just outside the compound is a clean, modern hospital, a huge worship center, and a big new high school under construction.

I know I'm repeating myself a little bit. Jet lag is a beast, and I'm not getting nearly enough sleep. But I do want to give you a relatively clear idea of what life is like at Project Mercy. Here are some favorite pictures of compound life. Later I'll take you "outside".