There is a great place for coffee and to buy bread in Addis and as Saturday morning shopping trips always involve going to more than one location, we usually combine the two. There is a young waiter at the bakery/café who likes to try out his English and has obviously been encouraged to engage with the customers.

On this occasion, as it was near to lunch time we wanted to order a pastry each. We had learnt from experience not to select an item listed in the menu but rather enquire what the café actually has available. Our waiter listed about six choices and assured us that what we ordered was “very good”.  Our pastries arrived (the coffee came later) and were indeed very tasty. Our attentive waiter checked that we agreed that they were good, then flushed with success told us that “the chocolate meringue pie would have been a better choice as it was much nicer!” Not quite what we were expecting but we really appreciated his efforts and promised to sample this new recommendation on another occasion

A teaching assistant was telling me about her sister who had given birth to a baby boy last week. With my western cultural roots I enquired what name had been chosen. She explained that the baby would not be named for the first month. Cultural practice dictates that friends and family will visit during that month and make suggestions, and it is from this pool of ideas that the new parents will select their preference. A member of the office staff joined us and mentioned that as both her and her husband worked at Bingham they had decided to choose the names of their children themselves as they had learnt that foreigners do this, but admitted that it conflicted with their culture. I guess it depends on the names that the family and friends may suggest! I have recently come across a delightful western child called Malina. I’ll let you google the medical meaning of this (slightly different spelling, same pronunciation).

The Y’Tesfye Birhan girls have not been far from our thoughts during this rainy season as we could only imagine how two of the girls who live under a tarpaulin structure manage in a down pour. We were destined to find out first hand. The plan was to take shiro (local food), oil, coffee and sugar to these homes and check how the families were coping. Just as we'd left the heavens opened.

 The rain had eased a little when we reached our destination though. I cautiously stepped out of the van onto the mud and avoided a pair of sheep’s horns (recently removed by the look of them) and many small rivulets of water flowing over the orange mud. Local people were sheltering where they could and the haunting sound of a priest in the Orthodox Church chanting repetitively added to the atmosphere. Initially we knocked on the wrong door as the group of dwellings crowded together that we had arrived at, all looked very similar. Then we found China, one of our girls. She met us with a big smile and led us to the right location. We ducked under washing lines and took great care where we walked on the uneven slippery mud underfoot. She eagerly held back a frayed blue piece of cloth in the doorway so we could step down inside the plastic and tarpaulin dwelling and meet her mum. There were no chairs, just cloth covered boxes against the wall and on one box in pride of place was a faded plastic flower arrangement. You could see the sky through the holes in the walls. Five of us squeezed inside along with China, her mum and three brothers and sisters (none of the children were wearing shoes). All greeted us with hand-shakes and kisses.  One of the younger children who stood close to me kept catching my eye and smiling while he curiously stroked my knee. The family assured us that they were all well but Mum explained that the government are likely to knock down their dwelling to make way for the new road and they don’t know where they can go. They have been living in the present location for eight years which makes the prospect more disturbing. The husband and father of two of the children apparently goes out each day to try to get some work but hasn’t a regular job. They accepted our gifts graciously.

Yetemwork another of our girls lived next door but the dwelling was not so neat. We were invited in and greeted with five kisses on alternate cheeks again. Wood was burning on a charcoal burner for warmth, but the smoke was stifling and made our eyes sting. I had to step over the fire to find standing room. When I looked behind me on an iron bed stead (without a mattress), but covered with pieces of grubby cloth was the youngest child of possibly eighteen months who was fast asleep. An old metal bowl was stuffed between the end of the bed and the plastic wall to prevent him or her slipping down the gap. The only decoration I saw was a paper picture of Jesus presumably from the Orthodox Church nearby, pinned to the plastic wall. Again our gifts were accepted with thanks to God, but Mum asked if we could get some more plastic or tarpaulin to prevent the rain seeping in. So we all went outside to assess the amount required. They assured us that others would help them put it in place and then add the rocks needed to keep the new roof secure.

Having said goodbye we retraced our steps towards the van, passing other children standing shivering and wearing thin, tatty clothing. Mostly they just wanted to shake our hands and one said “Hi”.

As we began our journey back we sat in shell shocked silence processing what we’d witnessed. Our gifts seemed so futile when faced with the scale of the need. By the time we’d reached Bingham however, we’d resolved to visit five of the other girls, where the home location was roughly known. Somehow doing something however small, was much better than returning to the comfort of our apartments and doing nothing.