Beggars

There are few things more striking that you’ll find when spending any time in Ethiopia than the sheer amount of people living rough on the streets. Back home we have more than any so-called ‘developed’ society should have, but in Ethiopia beggars are notable not only by their numbers but also by their variety. I have almost certainly seen female or elderly homeless people back in the UK, but I can’t remember where or when – at home they are nearly always men. I think and hope that the reason I don’t see elderly homeless people in the UK is because at a certain stage, social care takes over, and, for the time being, there are refuges for women.

People living on the streets here are male and female, from the cradle to the grave – often literally - there are homeless at every stage of life. Many, mostly boys, live their entire lives on the street. By adolescence many show signs of developing mental illness. I have seen no grown men living on the street here who aren’t severely mentally ill or drug dependent. Most are both.

Skeletally thin, these men seem all but lost. They refuse offers of food. When not chewing chat many wander the streets, their clothes hanging off in raged strips of assorted fabric, not faintly aware of being fully exposed.

A man with grotesquely swollen lips indiscriminately eating rubbish from the gutter, laughing. Another sitting stark naked for hours on end in a skip being picked through by dogs and goats. A skeleton wrapped in dark brown skin and rags lying in the gutter at the bus station as commuters jostle past one another, drifting through their morning routine. These things don’t shock me anymore but they’ll never leave me.

People

The label ‘beggars’ reflects in some measure how they are perceived and treated here in Ethiopia and in the UK. I was once admonished by a friend with words to the effect of “he’s just going to spend it on drink” for giving 50p to a man sitting wrapped in a sleeping bag next to an ATM in Belfast. We were just about to go into a club to spend the money on drink ourselves. The man was right there, well within earshot. I doubt my friend knew - in saying this, I doubt he cared.

We use words in this way when we, consciously or not, want to replace or qualify someone’s personhood – their humanity – into a special or different category. Something deviant, other, or entirely alien, and it’s always pejorative.  Loosely, you can do this by turning the adjective describing the person into the noun representing the human – encompassing the whole of their identity. Think:

A gay man           -              A gay.

Of course, like anything in language, like most things really, no rule holds for all cases. Think:

A Pakistani          -              A Paki*.

To call someone ‘a Pakistani’ is to frame them primarily in terms of their nationality, but it isn’t necessarily pejorative. My friend’s attitude wasn’t an aberration. It’s entirely normal and almost everybody does it. It’s an attitude that reflects this ‘othering’ of a marginalised population of people. You’ll never hear this construction of the identity of someone powerful or successful other than in a light-hearted way,  not even when they are being criticised. I can’t even think of a nickname with the slightest chance of sticking to rich people. There probably are some for powerful women.

My point is that in language and in action they are treated like something other or less than human. The logic would seem to be that ‘they are suffering, therefore they deserve to be marginalised’.

Beggars and choosers

Everybody chooses. It just happens that often the choice is between difficult to distinguish bad options. A homeless person might ‘choose’ this life, in that their choice might be between homelessness and, for example; physical or mental abuse, crime, or any of a long list of awful things 

that they find less preferable to homelessness.

Many of East Africa’s homeless people find themselves in this position because their lives have been ruined by clumsy forms of ‘development’. Enclosing common land and creating enormous arable farms benefits those who come to own the land, which is almost always a very small number of people who become incredibly wealthy. When those people who once lived there try to bring their animals onto land that was once free for them to use, cowherds are beaten, imprisoned, given ludicrous fines they couldn’t possibly pay. In desperation, people come to towns where they might find a job. They rarely can. Landing a job as a security guard in an expat compound is about the best many can hope to achieve. In Ethiopia this usually pays about £30 a month, but very few can land regular work. Most hang around car park areas to blag 20 birr (60p) for an hour’s work watching cars.

Maybe some people end up on the streets because their families rejected them for being drunk, addicted, violent. Maybe a lot of them do. Are you going to assess a human being on the basis of a set of media-filtered assumptions?

*I’ve had people say to me, with a completely straight face, that it’s ok to say ‘Paki’ because you can say an ‘Afghan’ or a ‘Tajik’.

Cycling in Dire Dawa

I'm a bit of a cycling enthusiast, some might even say "total beard", hence I couldn't settle in Dire Dawa for long without buying a bicycle. The choice is fairly limited to any of a few variations on one theme. That theme being "poorly, designed, horribly built, incredibly heavy Chinese bikes seemingly made from cast iron and lead". Throughout east Africa, you can see some very good-looking old Chinese-made Phoenix bikes. Proper old-style upright steel brutes, often with two top-tubes to cope with the ridiculous loads they often carry. In a nice touch, the brand name is usually cut into the big chainring. Unfortunately, my desire for daft novelties couldn't be fulfilled, so I just bought the same bike all the locals ride. 

It's vaguely fascinating when you experience something that is such a perfect storm of bad design. For example - the saddle is considerably broader and softer than that on my racing bike back home, yet is somehow vastly less comfortable. The bearings in the low-grip plastic pedals must be hexagonal in profile given the noise they make with each stroke - a plus is that pedestrians can hear me coming day or night, saving them the trouble of looking, which they never do anyway. The grips on the handlebars could be used to saw wood and two of the three chainrings seem to be purely decorative. 

 - and yet - 

The behemoth. Rear tyre came apart after a month.
Was made partly from cotton.

Confirming my cycling beardliness I was literally* chuckling with joy to be able to zip around on this monster. In addition, the fact that I'd already been well-versed in the dismal standards of driving in Ethiopia, and still would cycle around confirmed that I didn't really care much so long as I could cycle. Like many parts of my bike, the mirrors on most vehicles seem to be decorative, when at all present. Most tuk-tuks/bajaj are pretty well bashed up. 

I quickly noticed something strange though. Despite the standard of driving, cyclists are treated reasonably well. Any feelings that drivers are being dangerous or ignorant are no more frequent than in the UK. Taking into account the fact that you have to anticipate any vehicle moving off without checking their blind spot - which can affect everyone - it really isn't as much of a stress as you'd expect. In fact, I've found that generally it's just as easy to cycle here as in the UK. The hassle from drivers is always good-natured if a bit exasperating - hoofing it up a hill in 30-degree heat, I'm not often able to hold an inter-lingual semi-conversation with a tuk-tuk driver. 

So this left me with the question - why, in a country whose standards of driving are so low, is it arguably easier for me to cycle in the UK, where, to get a licence at least, you need to show yourself at least capable of driving responsibly? Where the police are considerably more mobile and better equipped?

The first thing I could think of is that most every driver has been in that position. The bicycle is a great means of empowerment, a cheap, agile and easy to maintain form of transport available to all but the very poorest. In the UK, cycling is often marginalised - cast as a childish way to mess around by folks like Jeremy Clarkson (spit). Those who refuse or can't afford to drive are marginalised not just in rhetoric but in government transport policy - with billions poured into roads and parking, whilst public transport fares skyrocket and funding for cycling infrastructure remains tokenistic. 

The other is incredibly simple - regression to the mean. All drivers are human beings after all, and the dominant behaviour of nearly all motorists once they have their licence seems to be to do whatever they can so long as they have a reasonable expectation of getting away with it. The manner in which they treat other road users hinges on their personal disposition rather than bureaucratic procedures. If this is true, then the difference between British and Ethiopian motorists lies in their ability to empathise with cyclists, to know what it's like to be 'that guy', and the total lack of snobbery because of this. 

The fact that, almost without regard to the circumstances, you go straight to prison for six years if you kill someone whilst driving is probably a factor as well. 

*I don't say 'literally' unless I mean 'literally'.

Food, culture and other stuff

Six months and I've scarcely learned any Amharic beyond simple pleasantries. Fair, it's a tough language and I work almost entirely with English speakers, so if I can order food and a couple of beers then I'm getting along alright ("hulet biya afellegalu"). Surprisingly, in between occasional games of Petanque and some cheap classes, I've improved my French a great deal more. At least they speak it in more than one country, he said, trying not to sound disdainful. 

Typical of a lapsed fat kid, I have learned quite a lot about food and some of the most enjoyable food you can find in Dire Dawa is on the street. It's a mix of traditional Ethiopian, middle-eastern, and one dish which seems to be cobbled together simply to get the best taste from the cheapest ingredients. My phrasing belies the fact that this - enkulal ba dinich/አንኩላል ባ  ድኒች  - tastes incredible. 

Enkulal ba dinich

Literally 'eggs with potato', this slightly odd combination of eggs, potato, lentils, kidney beans, chillies, onions, a little oil and lime juice is really delicious. Served with crusty bread and sweet spiced tea, you'll damn well have your carbs on board for 10 birr/$0.50 for a big plate of it.

It's pretty humble stuff, but these little street-stalls provide a nice place for locals to catch up and relax as they come back to life in the evenings, having sweltered through another 37-degree afternoon. Something about eating the way locals do adds to the self-congratulatory sense of authenticity. You may be able to get a really nice steak with vegetables for $3.50, but sitting in an air-conditioned hotel does sometimes feel a little hollow. The air conditioning helps, obviously, but on the street you'll quickly forget about the heat which in the evenings is generally quite pleasant. It's hard to reconcile the weirdly artificial feeling of sitting in an air-conditioned lobby eating steak when just outside the gates are children barefoot in rags living on the street, where often the closest thing they have to parents is the older girls who maintain some kind of order. 

The street stalls in Legahare, part of the Muslim district, are compelling and a great place to people watch. It's not only in the architecture that you realise that Islam is one of the main cultural bridges that brings such a vast diversity to east Africa. The architecture is a mix of French, Turkish, standard East African and Yemeni Arab. With just a short while here you'll be able to pick out several distinct languages spoken simultaneously, often within the same conversation - Amharic with it's distinct ejectives, Somali and Arabic with the deep glottals, the lively rhythm of Oromifa* and the solitary French phrase often yelled at white folks; "Bonjour! Ca-va?".

Part of it could be down to the nearby city of Harar. Supposedly the fourth holiest city in Islam, it once formed the centre of a powerful regional kingdom in it's own right, and still draws Muslim pilgrims and tourists of all kinds into the region. It's basically the only thing worth seeing for miles around, but very much worth seeing. 

Baklava/Baqlawa.

The middle-eastern influence abounds in the excellent Baklava they serve here. It's like a dessert lasagne of sorts - layers upon layers of filo pastry stuffed with crumbled peanuts and pistachios, soaked in syrup or honey. All down the Muslim district, shops like al-Hashimi sweets ply Baklava, plum cakes and excellent dates, much to the delight of the city's few dentists. I brush at least twice a day, I've heard what the dentists are like.

Fuul

A really tasty breakfast for $0.50 has to be fuul, a spicy bean stew cooked over charcoal. Again, you can find this almost anywhere and they serve it with surprisingly good soft white bread. They fry boiled fava bean mush in oil with a lot of berbere, a mix of different hot spices. When it's done, they top it with chopped chillies and red onion. See it off with some ludicrously sweet tea and you're well set until lunch. Locals are often a little taken aback on seeing a westerner eating at such a modest place. They look as though to ask why you would eat there and not have your cook make it for you at home, or to eat in the 'fancy' hotel. Well, I don't have a cook and the hotels leave that hollow feeling whilst charging three times as much, so that's that. 

Not so widely available in Dire Dawa is breakfast fetira. Fried unleavened bread that crumbles slightly. The fetira guy cooks it up over a vigorous fire in an old oil drum while you wait. Mix it up with honey and fresh yoghurt and you aren't going to miss cornflakes too much. Especially since a box costs nearly $10. Dinner fetira is all over the place though. At dinnertime they cook it with egg, onions, tomato and pepper, chopped to bits with a cleaver and in an unexpected move, usually topped with banana and ketchup. I take the banana separately, thanks. 

Suitably enough, considering that Ethiopia is perhaps most famous across the world for famine and much less so for it's food, is the fact that all of this is as nothing compared to that which Ethiopia is almost as famous for. That's the coffee. Buna seems to be what makes Ethiopians tick and in my six months here so far, I don't think I've once been more than five minutes from a cup. Again, you can go to the cafes if you want, and be served a sour, brutally strong attempt at an espresso that leaves black marks on your lips and fingers, or you can drop by one of the little stalls lining most streets and be served the smooth coffee typical of Ethiopia. The beans are roasted fresh throughout the day over charcoal, onto which the buna ladies sprinkle incense. It's served in a tiny china cup, normally filled half with sugar before you get it, so if you're not into incredibly sweet coffee, make sure you say so. The locals around you will be bemused when you ask for "tinnish sekwar/sekwar yelleu" (a little sugar/no sugar), but the coffee still tastes great. Again the spirit of authenticity, set and setting, probably propels this along a bit - often you'll be perched on a little stool of goat skin stretched across a wooden frame, whilst the air fills with the warm smell of roasting coffee and the sweet pungency of incense. The fact that the coffee you're drinking was probably grown not an hour's drive away helps too. 

The beans are roasted fresh throughout the day over charcoal, onto which the buna ladies sprinkle incense. It's served in a tiny china cup, normally filed half with sugar before you get it, so if you're not into incredibly sweet coffee, make sure you say so. The locals around you will be bemused, when you ask for "tinnish sekwar/sekwar yelleu" (a little sugar/no sugar), but the coffee still tastes great. Again the spirit of authenticity, set and setting, probably propels this along a bit - often you'll be perched on a little stool of goat skin stretched across a wooden frame. The fact that the coffee you're drinking was probably grown not an hour's drive away helps too. 

An honourable mention must go to the samosas. For 1 birr/5 cents, it's a tasty snack between lunch and dinner, usually filled with lentils or potato and a fair bit of chilli. You carry them in re-purposed old newspaper, which considering that I've eaten from Turkish, Georgian, American and British newspapers, might indicate the regard most Ethiopians have for their press. This could be down to the government's questionable policies to the media, or that mere fact that literacy is around 43%. Bombalino, ubiquitous deep-friend pastry doughnuts are also served for breakfast. They're ok, though not even a patch on fuul.

The street stalls do, of course, serve injera, dishes based on the divisive Ethiopian sour pancake. I'll skirt over this because unless you're here on a very tight budget, you're much better trying injera in a proper restaurant. It's a weird enough taste and texture for westerners without skimping and going for the cheap stuff which normally uses lots of wheat in place of the more expensive teff flour which usually leaves it drier. I'll cover injera in more depth some other time.

*Oromifa can often be quite easy to read. The phrase "Rift Valley University" written in Oromifa is "Yooniiversitii Riiftii Vaali"

A bunch of photos of things.

Just before I came out here, I was generously given a rather nice camera, one that far outstrips my ability. With the help of some local friends I'm starting to understand about 5% of the features of a digital SLR. Here's what I've got.

Weaver birds build their nests in less than a day using bits of grass, string, and most things that are longer than they are wide. This is a female.

Bright gold with purple and red faces, Male  of this species of Weaver birds are much more visible. Various species are found all over Africa and Asia.

Weaver Bird nests.

A view from the hill of the Muslim Quarter of Dire Dawa. Low down, the architecture is very Arabic and Turkic influenced. Minarets everywhere.

And looking up into the poor neighbourhoods, built on an improbable gradient.

Brother and sister. Show the slightest hint of a camera and you've got a plague of kids.

Another sister.

Leading to another sub-village on the outskirts, every resident walks this slab every day, hence it is incredibly polished. I dread to think what it's like when it rains. Unsurprisingly the locals had no trouble at all

The Muslim quarter. That's the mosque you see on the Wikipedia article for Dire Dawa.

A plague. These kids walk  unshod over rough, sharp stones and don't even notice.

Wind blows in dust from the surrounding savannah, so the sunset looks pretty dramatic.

The village on the hill.

The street.

More of the Turkish-Arabic style architecture which has almost everywhere fallen into disrepair. This is the door into someone's house.

Dr Dire

Hi to everyone (anyone) out there. Sorry it’s taken so long to get this going. I’ve been in Dire Dawa for a week now. To give you some context, it’s the second largest city in Ethiopia, a paltry 330,000 people and it’s strange, as African towns go. It was built by the French as a stopover from the port city of Djibouti. Hence, in addition to the odd colonial building, the streets are about 50% cobbled, a nice break from the dust, pitted tarmac, dust and dust of most African streets. They still throw rubbish on the ground without a care.

This is a welcome break from Addis though where we stayed for a week. There is tons to do in Addis, it’s colourful, not too hot (think nice British Summer every day, including rain), but your lungs are in stiff competition for oxygen with the cars and trucks covering the roads, maybe something to do with the altitude – 2,200m – leaving stairs a bit of a challenge, but I’m too stubborn to use a lift. I’ll say more about Addis when I go back.

As for Dire Dawa, in contrast to that constant ‘Capital City’ effect of people being relatively unfriendly*, you can’t go for a walk without folk bombarding you with “HEY FARANJI”, “Hello, how ah yoo!”, “What is yu-a name!”. They aren’t messing about or taking the mick, most people want to meet you and have a halting inter-lingual chat. Little handshake, some pleasantries and you’ve made a friend of sorts. This may have something to do with the fact that it really isn’t much of a tourist town and foreigners are more of a novelty. The Bradt guide pretty much writes it off. As a tourist, there’s not much to keep you going for more than a day or two, but it seems pretty decent to work in. Get a camera out and the friendly effect doubles.

Again, compared to Addis, there are virtually no cars. Plenty of trucks on their way through, but Dire Dawans get about almost exclusively with Bajaj (aka Tuktuk) – picture above. It’s like a Vespa scooter mixed with a car and there are hundreds of them. At any moment, five of them are usually competing for two Bajaj worth of road space. Hauling goods – Bajaj won’t manage that, no for that you need a horse and cart, or a camel.

I’m quietly impressed at the lack of crap on the roads.

Nice way to sign off my first post.

Peace.

*This is not to say that Addis is unfriendly, more that DD is hyper-friendly.