The first three weeks of summer vacation, I spent in Sweden, Holland and France.  On July 5th, 2008, I left Paris, alone, and flew to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, via Dubai, United Arab Emirates.  The Dubai Airport is the size of a small city.  I think one could live there if necessary, with grocery, clothing, and pharmacy stores, banks, bathrooms, rest areas, and fast food all under the biggest roof you’ve ever seen.  To imagine that they are enlarging this to what looks like double the size is a difficult task.  I rode in a bus shuttle for almost ½ hour to get from the tarmac to the terminal.  The road system in the airport reminded me of driving through Boston in the afternoon, and this was at 1:00 am!  Seriously – a small city is no exaggeration.  On the return flight, I had to sleep on the hard marble floor in this airport, as all the sleeping chairs were taken for the night.  I don’t hesitate to say that there were THOUSANDS of people hustling around this airport all night long. And I use the term “sleep” loosely, as I dozed on and off hoping no one would steal my bags I was using as pillows and protection from the rock-hard floor.

Once in Addis, I experienced the culture shock of landing in a developing country, not unlike my experience in Rwanda in Dec. 2006.  At first glance, there were soldiers with guns in the airport, people dressed in western clothing topped with traditional shawls and scarves, Muslim and Christian women wearing scarves on their heads, beat-up old taxis everywhere, a city skyline with few skyscrapers, and, of course, I am the minority white person getting stared down wherever I go.  Luckily, I was meeting with a group of Selamta volunteers, and a taxi was sent to bring me to the hotel, otherwise I would have had to immediately engage in negotiating my first taxi fare – not a good idea your first five minutes in a strange land.  Foreigners are known to pay double until they “learn the system”.

So I joined my group on July 6th at the government hotel, The Ghion, in downtown Addis Ababa.  This is an average hotel, at best, with lousy food, sporadic hot water, a don’t –drink-the-water feeling, dial-up internet that is totally unreliable and painfully slow, no elevators, and maid service that walks into your room unannounced and without knocking.  The beds weren’t too bad, though, especially after staying in many different European countries for the prior 3 weeks, sleeping on very hard, futon-like thin mattresses; not so good for the arthritic back. Although this was not the most desirable place to hang out, especially for three weeks, these “inconveniences” were put into perspective right quick as soon as I ventured out into the world of Ethiopia.

What was Addis like?  Fascinating, very polluted, crowded, poverty-stricken, extremely busy, overrun by taxis and buses, unusual, and interesting.  It was fascinating to see such an underdeveloped country infiltrated by cheap, western-attire style clothing booths (not “stores” in our sense of the word).  The pollution from all vehicles without emissions regulations was atrocious, and it made it very difficult to breathe when stopped at traffic lights.  Black smoke was everywhere, and at times it felt like my lungs wanted to shut down and just not breathe because the very idea was so toxic in that situation.  The crowds of people were endless, with people, goats, and cattle, all herding down the streets right in the center of the city.  Poverty-stricken, homeless people were everywhere one could look; sleeping on the streets during the day for their safety, awake at night to protect themselves.  Emaciated breast-feeding mothers clinging to their skinny, malnourished babies approached the cars at traffic lights begging for food or money.  Children were the most common beggars, and handicapped people dragged themselves in the streets reaching up for help from anyone who cared; without wheelchairs and sometimes crutches, there was no help for those with deformed legs, feet, or bodies.  The extent of poverty and the concurrent results hit me square between the eyes in every direction of the compass rose.  That overwhelming, in-your-gut-grab-your-heart internal seizure was occurring again.  Welcome to the Developing World.



My first ride to Selamta was a bit surprising, taking about ½ hour to get there.  The traffic was heavy, stop-and-go, with excessive pollution from vehicles.  The sights were phenomenal as we drove through the city.  Herds of goats and even cattle were driven along the sidewalks, taking shortcuts when available along the muddy, trashed-filled rivers.  Beggars sat on torn soiled blankets, many of them women with small children and infants held close to them, with hopelessness scarred on their faces.  Handicapped people, a few with makeshift crutches but most without any assistive aids, were scattered throughout the city, pulling themselves alongside cars, reaching up for coins or food.  Large public transport buses and countless taxis made up the majority of vehicles on the roads. 

Surprising to me after visiting Rwanda was how western everything looked – and I don’t mean “cowboy” western.  Most of the regular stores in the city were small boutiques with lots of clothing outside the shops on racks.  They were filled with cheap clothes from China, many of them flaunting the more risqué look of modern western cultures – low-cut t-shirts, tight jeans, flashy colors, and lots of glitter and rhinestone-studded attire.  This is very counter-culture to what I saw around me. The majority of people wore western clothes topped with traditional shawls, blankets, and scarves wrapped around their heads, shoulders and bodies, but the clothes were modest and covered them well. Seems that only upper class Ethiopians were buying the “fancy” clothes and suits, and they stuck out like shiny sore thumbs in the crowds, over-dressed with spiked high-heel shoes and too much gold and glitter. 

As we made a sharp right turn that became very familiar during this trip, the scenery changed some.  We were entering Betel, also spelled Bethel in places, the middle-class neighborhood in which Selamta is located.  A high, relatively clean waterfall plummeted down rocks at a speed conducive to bathing, laundering, and gathering.   Many people were standing in the falls showering and scrubbing, including mothers bathing their children.  It was ok to be naked in public for the purpose of cleaning oneself. Laundry was laid to dry, covering the rocks colorfully and in wonderful patterns, and some people gathered water for drinking in various containers and jerry cans.  The sight of all of this community “life” made me feel happy inside.  Clean water gives life in so many ways, and can be the center of community survival. 

Further into the district, in one area, were disturbing sights and smells.  A strong, pungent, rather disgusting odor wafted into the taxi, and I looked curiously to find the source.  And, unfortunately, I found it – dead goats – their heads and legs, more specifically, lined up in a row on the side of the road, in the mud.  Yup – they were for sale.  And the poor still-living goats were huddled in a mass a few feet away, heads towards the center, scared almost to death, and rightfully so.  They knew their destiny was to become goat’s head soup, or more likely, goat wat (stew). Some things are worse than death itself, and I think anticipating one’s own death has to be one of them.  That’s enough about that, as I feel nauseated just remembering.

The way-cool things about Betel?  For one thing, we passed the Fistula Clinic – the only one in Ethiopia, I believe (more about this later). And there was something homogenous but diverse, chaotic but “safe,” and upper class but very messy about this place.  It was a living, breathing oxymoron everywhere I looked.  There was construction everywhere, but lousy, uncared-for roads.  There were taxis and cars, but far more horse-drawn garis trotting up and down the streets than automobiles.  The homes were walled and gated, and each gate was its own design and color.  These were fancy and looked expensive, yet many of the attached walls surrounding the home compounds were made of corrugated steel roofing, often beat-up and jaggedly placed on the uneven, muddy soil.  Cows, goats, donkeys, and dogs of all ages and sizes roamed the streets and vacant lots, eating whatever they could find.  People herded entire flocks and herds of some of these animals, included donkeys loaded to the hilt, up the center of the main street while buses and vans honked furiously at them, threatening them to move or be crushed.  This community was a plethora of sights and sounds, smells and curiosities.   I was told it was middle-class, and expensive to live in Betel, and people commuted long distances into the city to work in order to live here.  Wow.  Middle class neighborhoods here sure look different than middle class neighborhoods back home!  Welcome to Betel, home of Selamta!

Finally, we pull into “The Office,” meaning the headquarters for Selamta business and the sleeping quarters for the Ambassadors from the US.  Ambassadors are (mostly) young people, ages 18-24, who volunteer to work at Selamta Children’s Family Homes for a period of time ranging from 1-6 months. They pay for their own upkeep, and for their own tickets to and from Ethiopia.  They sleep at “the office” and eat with the kids in one of their eight homes in Betel.  There were too many Ambassadors there at this time, and it was determined that these eight young adults taxed the water and septic systems too greatly.  There would have to be a limit of four Ambassadors at any given time in the future.  These volunteers worked and played with the kids, helped the moms with chores, tutored the kids, helped teach English in the summer school program, and took on projects like painting the rooms and houses, creating a soccer field, or making a new garden or terrace. They were very helpful, friendly, and enthusiastic.  I really enjoyed meeting them and eating dinner with them out in the city.

Finally, we got to visit all of the Selamta homes that ODW helped to create.  There are seven permanent homes, and the Selamta Children’s Center.  Each home has 7-8 children, one mom, and an auntie. Sibling groups are kept together when they are placed in homes, and one of the hired moms also had a very young child of her own living with her.   The Center is much larger, and housed 21 children at the time.  Children begin their Selamta journey here, and, as they are stabilized and more funds are secured to rent and create new homes, they are placed in “families.”  The homes were all about equal in size and condition, and all were furnished with the same big-flowered couches and chairs with fancy doilies on the armrests, a large dining room table and chairs, a TV and VCR, bookshelves and family photos. There were bunk beds for the children, each with good blankets and a 4” mattress on which to sleep.  All of the homes were clean and bustling with activity.  And the best part?  I have never been hugged and kissed so many times by so many strangers in all my life combined!  Every single child, regardless of their age (2-18), and every single adult, be they director, accountant, guard, auntie, friend, or mother, hugged and kissed and welcomed each one of our group of seven traveling ladies at each and every home.  I felt more welcomed then the first warm day in spring, the first robin in Vermont or the last day of school before summer.  I was never so impressed before.

Betel has water 3 days per week, and electricity more often but sporadically.  Which three days did they have water?  Whichever three days the water supply was available, and at whatever time that was.  It could come on at 3:00 am, and disappear at dinner time, or vice versa.  Toilets don’t flush for days sometimes, and showers run dry while everyone just stays dirty.  Each house has a storage tank, and the Center needed several with so many people living there.  And this was rainy season and a middle class neighborhood!  Can you even imagine the majority of poor neighborhoods, and then imagine them in dry season?

I finally got to meet the 10 year old I sponsor, Henok.  He is sweet, and grateful, and thrilled to meet me.  He struggles to speak English to communicate with me, and understands more than he can say.  No one told him I was coming, so he was more surprised than I expected.  He had been told he had a different US sponsor, but that older couple never wrote to him or sent gifts, so HCF decided to make me the sponsor of Henok.  I am one lucky woman, as I believe he is an extremely special young man, gifted in the social graces, intelligence, and on the soccer field.  Not to mention he has the sweetest smile and face I’ve ever laid eyes on – so humble and gracious.  We took many pictures together, as well as with his friends, and I look forward to returning to Ethiopia someday just to spend time with him again.