The big trip. I had decided. I was going there as a traveller, and not a designer.

While waiting to board the flight to Addis Ababa, there was very little to do, apart from reading my Bradt's travel guide to Ethiopia. Lying next to my seat was this magazine. It got me wondering whether vanity is a product of the west, or if it is a part and parcel of lives around the world. How would it be in Ethiopia? Would they have similar magazines at their airports? Certainly the people out there cannot find sanity in vanity. Or will they? I wanted to find out.

At day break, when I woke up for the breakfast, I checked if everything was alright with the right wing. It was and so I proceeded to look down below. I saw Mars. The captain said we were just crossing over to western Ethiopia from Sudan. The canali strewn terrain showed signs of a millennia of erosion by ancient streams and rivers. But it showed absolutely no signs of life. If this is what Ethiopia offers its people, they certainly cannot trust hope, I thought.

Despite the 10 hour journey, I was feeling rather fresh. Since you travel across at the most 3 time zones, when flying from Europe to Africa, or vice versa, there is no opportunity for a jet lag to set in. I was preparing for a long, hard day of road trip to Konso, by stuffing up all that the breakfast had to offer. The inflight food was good. Nothing Ethiopian though.

We were supposed to be following the route of the Blue Nile into Ethiopia, but I could see no river, nor any signs of water. It was the dry season, and I had read that this branch of the Nile discharges its maximum volume at the peak of the wet seasons in Ethiopia. I was hoping to get a glimpse of Lake Tana, the source of the Blue Nile, but unfortunately I was sitting on the other side of the aeroplane. Then I began searching for some signs of life.

With an hour for our ETA, the terrain below began to transform dramatically. I saw the first green. Rectangular green. Human life, finally. I saw some streams and rivers, perhaps the Blue Nile itself, or its tributaries. Massive areas of farmland came into view. And they went on for mile after mile. Food for thought. This was no subsistence farming.

Ethiopia is said to have invested heavily in industrialised agriculture after the droughts in 1980s, with the aid from the west, and with its own efforts. Down below was the proof. But do these farms feed the Ethiopians? Or was it feeding the people of Saudi Arabia, India or China? I did not know. What I did know was that there is no excuse for the Ethiopia's starving population.

We were flying about 6000 metres over the western flatlands, and I could make out the distinct patterns in the irrigated land cultivated using machines. Here, they mostly grow cash crops, like coffee, sugarcane and cotton, which is not something you can feed a nation with. But nevertheless they are export commodities.

On the other hand, the average person in Ethiopia, who is essentially dependent on subsistence farming, has no direct access to water, irrigation and machines. The land he tills is seldom geometrically divided or fertile. Why? My answers were a day away, perhaps.

The flight landed on time at Bole International Airport in Addis Ababa. I directly stepped into the hired Four Wheel Drive (4WD) and started the day long journey to Karat-Konso. Well, not directly, but after an hour long wait in the queue to get my visa stamped. First sign of the close resemblance of Ethiopia to India, I thought.

Though I had avoided any preconditions and prejudice about Ethiopia, and Africa in general, I was still apprehensive about the quality of life out there. I was aware of the life of the underprivileged in India, and I presumed the life in Ethiopia to be worse.

I was mistaken. Ethiopia is very much like rural India. The terrain, the soil, the climate, the people, the culture, the idiosyncrasies, the infrastructure, and even the auto rickshaws, cows, dogs and hustlers, all seemed to connect with India. This meant I could connect with the people and place much easily than I had expected. So much so, that I felt I was travelling around in rural India. It presented a mystery of sorts, and I began to wonder if it had more to it than the Pangaea. Or the expanding earth.

Roads are the arteries of the nation, fostering development where ever they go. Most of the roads we drove on were asphalt ones. Significantly more than those mentioned in the Bradt guide which was published in 2009. Good progress.

The road development appears to have expanded radially from Addis Ababa, the touristic routes first, followed by the remaining ones. Karat-Konso is about 675 km south of Addis, and it may take a few more years before the entire stretch has tarmac. When this does happen, it may (and probably will) strip the region of its heritage and independence.

About 15% of the roads we drove on were dirt and gravel ones, with some stretches laden with massive stones. The worst bit was between Yebelo and Konso, which, as I remember, we traversed at around 01.00 hours. We lost our way once. A complete arsemare, that journey. Not to mention the dust and pollution that we were subjected to. Four years of Swedish quarantine washed away in a matter of hours.

The electricity pylons almost always followed the road. Which one came first? The road I suppose. There were villages all along the road, from Addis Ababa-Awasa-Shashemene-Agere Maryam, gradually dispersing then onwards, from Yebelo-Konso. This was not the case on the other route from Konso-Arba Minch-Sodo-Hossaina-Butajira-Addis Ababa, where the communities were far apart. Says a lot about the land, and water availability.

The we I have been mentioning above is Mehboob, the driver, and I. He understood bare minimum English, but we devised a way of communication as the journey progressed. Mono syllables accompanied by hand signs. It worked well. Sometimes.

The vehicle was a Toyota Hillux, with really worn out tyres. This did not prevent Steve McQueen Mehboob from pushing the pedal to the metal. It was as if we were in the Dakar rally, screaming along, at times drifting on the dirt. Real life NFS. I sat in the rear seat, on the other side of the driver, just in case we had a head on. We had a few close calls. I told him to slow down a few times, but I guess he wanted to test my mettle. I let him be.

He couldn't bullit me in the end, and we reached just fine. But only after 20 odd hours.

As I mentioned earlier, the 4WD was in a good shape. But not its tyres. We had a total of 8 punctures - 3 onwards, and 5 on the way back. At one point we were out of the spare as well (near Hossaina).

It was like a piss-stop, each time a tyre blew out. I wandered around, took some photographs, took a piss, and helped Mehboob with whatever he wanted me too. The tyre thing didn't amuse me at all. The worst of all, number 3, was at some unknown location, in the middle of a national park, at around 23.00 hours. And to be honest, I was scared to step out of the car, as it appeared that we were in the savannah. Lions? I was glad to have carried a good torch with me. I thought I could fight off lions with my powerful torch, and so I stepped out. I did not take a piss. I wished I was back home in Sweden. But I never complained.

A lot of tyre punctures meant that Mehboob had got very good at fixing them. Just under 6 minutes. At times we had a puncture on a good piece of asphalt road. It made me look closely at the tyres and tubing, and it quickly became obvious that despite the sad state of the tyres themselves, it were dubious tubes that were the culprit.

I had expected that Mehboob would know how to manage driving with worn out tyres. Unfortunately, he seemed indifferent towards them. With simple words and signs, I tried explaining him the reason for the tyre bursts. Sun-road-hot surface-high speed-hot tyre-expand-bad tube-burst-GOMA!. I do not know if the word goma stands for tyre or puncture, but it made us both smile.

After some explaining, I felt I had convinced Mehboob to drive slowly, to minimise the tyre damage. I had pointed it on the speedometer, drive no faster than 60 km/h until we reach the next village and manage to get the tube fixed. It worked for a while, he was maintaining exactly 60. But as soon as I nodded off, he was back to being McQueen. Until the next goma, which woke me up!

At the tyre repair shop in the next village, I tried understanding how these guys went about fixing the tyre tubes. Logistics are poor throughout the country, and often the tyre repair shops were under equipped. The seemingly new tyres lying around were of the Addis Tyre brand, and these were the ones used by our vehicle as well. Was it the case of poor quality control? Or poor roads? Or poor driving? When I look at the photograph aside, of a tyre which was used for about two-three years, I begin to suspect the quality of materials and manufacturing, and to some extent, the driving. The roads have been improving rapidly over the past couple of years.

Local manufacturing initiatives are of crucial importance to my project. If these establishments have mediocre quality control, which I fear they do, like with any other developing nation, any aspiring local production initiatives will be in dire straits.

This does not stop with tyres out here. There used to be a massive second hand market here. Although I disagree with the act of passing used things to the poor, I appreciate the full exploitation of a product's life. Now the markets are flooded with new, cheap things. If everyday things are made cheap at the expense of the quality of design, materials and manufacturing, the developing world will have to face an environmental and logistical nightmare in the near future. The signs are appearing.

Ethiopia boast of an unique terrain and climate, quite different from the rest of the sub-Saharan Africa. The region from Addis Ababa to Konso is nestled around and between the East African Rift Valley, which spans from Somalia to Mozambique. If geologists are correct, this rift is slowly pulling apart, creating new land between it. There are several dormant volcanoes and few peaks towering above 4000m here. The temperature was around 24-26˚C at noon and between 12-16˚C at night. Despite being high up, there was significant moisture in the air, as the wet season was approaching quickly. And since it got chilly at night, by the morning there was dew settled on good conducting surfaces. It was cooler in Addis than in Konso. Wind was strong at both places.

The average elevation above the sea level in this region is around 1500m, and it experiences an Afro-Alpine climate throughout the year. The valley is also home to eight massive lakes. Plenty of sunshine and plenty of rain, coupled with a rich, fertile land, should make this place the food basket of Africa. Unfortunately, it is not. Another puzzle to solve.

This was my home for five nights. Started by Alex McCausland, this quaint little lodge is about a kilometre and half from the Konso village centre, on the road to Arba Minch. I had arrived at this place at around 02.45 hours on the morning of 1 February. It had rained a little and the earth smelt pristine. Without any electricity around, I had trouble peeing, but very little sleeping.

That morning I spent some time wandering about, admiring what was being done. Alex talked me through the permaculture stuff and the administration of the place, while showing me around. Met the local staff as well as the international volunteers and interns working there.

Travellers slept in these traditional, mushroom like tukuls at the lodge. They were well kept. The roof was thatched with dried grass and and the walls were made of mud. There were two windows. The pot at the apex tied together the grass and prevented rain from seeping in. The diameter was about 4m, with a floor space of roughly 12.5sq.m. More than enough room for a decent sized bed, a side table and breathing space. Besides, the conical roof meant a large open area above my head. It was like at first sight.

The shape and form of the tukul was of special interest to me as I had focused much of my pre-trip project conceptualisation on geodesic domes. The tukul appeared to be a close approximation of a spherical polyhedra - the icosahedron. I spent some time studying the structure and understanding its pros and cons.

Despite the modest interiors, it was really a cozy place to sink in and relax. It was neither too warm, nor too cool inside. At night though, it did get chilly, even when I had closed shut all the windows. I was not carrying a blanket and so I slept with my jacket on.

The mosquito net looked precarious. But I was graced with no mosquito presence during my entire stay, so it did not matter. A few moths did get in the room at night, but they disappeared as soon as I switched off the lamps. A few massive spiders were doing their rounds. I hate insects (and arachnids), but the spiders kept the flies at bay. So they were cool.

Here is a walkthrough -

I had a 40 litre Northface backpack to fit everything in and I had no plans of carrying any additional luggage. First, I stuffed in the undergarments - pants, tees and socks - 4 pairs each. Second to go in was a long-sleeve cotton shirt. This was all the clothing that I carried. I wore a long-sleeve cotton tee shirt, a long-sleeve Merino wool light parka (to cover the hands and neck from the sun, insects and mosquitoes), a tri-climate Fjällräven jacket with a million pockets and a water resistant Fjällräven trouser with another million pockets. A baseball cap for the brain, which, in hindsight, should have been replaced by a bucket/panama hat, as my ears were roasted in the midday sun. And last but not the least, a sturdy pair of high-top trekking shoes - absolutely crucial.

The two million pockets were extremey useful. I had mapped a purpose for each. My passport, tickets, money and wallet were always on me, split among the inside pockets of the jacket. The photocopies of these were distributed in the jacket and trouser pockets, and one in the backpack. My late iPhone and my home keys were in the top jacket pockets, the ones inaccessible to pickpockets. I carried three maps - a massive one of the entire Horn of Africa in detail, one of the routes from Addis to Konso, and a satellite map of Konso region. These, along with a pocket notebook, were in my trouser pockets. A magnetic compass, LED lion fighting torch, regular earplugs, bandaids and few tissues went into the lower jacket pockets, accessible at ease. I had chosen to wear spectacles and left the contacts at home. Brilliant choice.

The backpack had to fit in a few more things. A football and pump (a geodesic dome for the kids) went at the very bottom. Toiletries (2 50ml bottles of all purpose shampoo nicked from hotels in Sweden, a toilet paper roll, toothbrush and paste, comb, deodorant stick, and mygg stick) and electronics (multi-region adapter, iPhone charger and camera charger) all went in a nice pouch. Then went in a micro fibre fast drying towel, followed by 4 high calorie flapjacks, 2 twix bars and 2 snickers bars. Then tucked in 4 plastic bags for trash, used clothes and backup. Last to go in was the Nikon D60 camera with its bag, which had a spare 4Gb SD card, a diary, a permanent-ink pen and a lint free wipe.

I carried a 1.6l aluminium water canister and the Bradt's Guide to Ethiopia in the outer pockets of the pack.

The roof of the tukul was a piece of art, engineering and skill. Sadly, all the roofs I checked out looked just the same. I reckon this is due to the master apprentice model prevalent in most of the developing world. Like father like son. Like mother like daughter. Whereas, in the industrialised world, the sons and the daughters were left at their own devices once machines took over manufacturing and production, ready to question and open for innovation.

Most designed things I saw out in rural Ethiopia haven't really evolved for generations. And the troublesome thought is that it did not bother any of the locals. The roof, for example, is a fine framework for evolving the design. But now due to the lack of the raw materials, and ease of availability of tin roofs, the locals were moving away from the design heritage, without trying to innovate upon the existing framework.

Give me a clean bog and a clean shower, and I'm a well chuffed traveller. There is nothing more I would normally expect.

The natural, compost toilet(s) at the Strawberry Fields Eco Lodge was a pleasant surprise after seeing some disturbing restrooms along the way. It was clean and uncannily fresh.

The fact that I have very little to write about the toilet itself, speaks highly of the relaxed experience - the sign of a bog that does its job. This had left me at my own devices, to think and plan the days ahead. Design wise though, I did see a lot of room for evolution, and particularly for replication - reproducing a sanitised environment for the locals. The structure needed a bit of stiffning as well. I was not sure at this point if I would choose to focus on compost-toilet design as a prospect for my thesis, but now I'm glad I have. The toilet is a rich environment for enforcing proper sanitation, educating people about hygiene and for creating a social hub of sorts. Also I understood that wood has natural anti-bacterial properties, and is more effective than say, plastics and metals in controlling the growth of bacterial cultures. Not so sure about viruses though.

I had read about such compost toilets erected along the the expressways in Sweden, and after returning back, I have decided to try and pay a visit to one such site.

As you may have noticed, I'm a bit of fan of toilets. Good toilets. It is the place where I can concentrate and think creatively with relative ease. The toilets at Strawberry Fields were one of the best I have ever sat on. There is nothing quite like a fresh breeze on a battered arse, I thought. Move over porcelain throne.

By covering the fresh offerings with hay and ash, the toilet could combat smell, flies and sustain the decomposition process. I was not sure about what effect the separation of the urine from the faeces would have on the entire process, and I made a note about it in the diary.

Simple set of instructions to keep the toilet functioning as it should were pinned to the door. When you closed the door while inside, these were right in front of you. A good place to present a good hygiene dogma? Certainly a place for experimenting with behavioural change.

The identity and information design needed a bit of work, to make it more palatable for the locals, as well as the foreigners. So did the overall design. If the locals want western pleasures, toilets would be a good place to start with.

The same could be said about the showers, I was happy showering under them. I used the cold ones, and they did spray chilly water once the top, warmed up layer of water was used up. But nevertheless, they were very refreshing. As always, the design had a room for improvement, especially for the drainage system, as I would want to resolve the brackish, grey water before it is delivered to the plants outside.

Before the trip, I had very little understanding of what permaculture is. As I spent time around Strawberry Fields, the principles of permaculture started becoming apparent. With whatever I had comprehended in the six days, I was pretty sure that the entire 'toilet and shower' complex needed a restructuring and relocation, in order to make them more effective as components of a permaculture community.

One of the reasons the toilets and showers were offsite, in some sense, was because of health and hygiene issues, and because the more sensitive food plants, required unadulterated water. This presents another opportunity of system-industrial design.

The entire water system at Strawberry Fields was quite segregated for several reasons. Yet, to make this system a cyclic and closed loop one, the water system, among others needed a rethink, and probably a redesign. Cost was obviously a hindrance. But often, good design solutions are good, because they circumvent financial constraints. I have taken up the challenge.

I was also looking for alternative cleaning agents, like neem leaves, juniper berries, moringa (local poor man's spinach), local alcohol, for subsistuting the need for manufactured soaps and detergents to wash hands. I shook hands with about a hundred kids and adults while travelling, and honestly, I doubted if they had ever washed them. In the dry seasons, the situation resulting from lack of hygiene was not so obvious, as it would have been in the wet seasons. So I went along shaking hands, making friends with people and germs alike. Now, even though I had assumed that these peoples hands were supposed to be a breeding ground for bacteria, and perhaps resourcefulness, I have had evidence of neither.

Nevertheless, I realised that whatever I choose to do with sanitation, it has to be a built-in, abstract mechanism. I need to get under the skin, like mister Skinner.

A nice piece of innovationeering was this compost water heater, which could heat a barrel of water to upto 60˚C, I think. Although this was not the first time some one had tried using the exothermic decomposition of mulch to generate heat, it was nevertheless a cool alternative to heat up the shower water out at Strawberry Fields.

Just as I saw it, and Alex explained to me what it was, I thought I could design the shit out of it. And perhaps I will, in the near future. Little innovations like these were all around the field. But they did not seem to inspire the locals.

Injera, a pancake made from the sour, fermented batter of Tef, a cereal grown across Ethiopia, happens to be the die-hard favourite of the nation. They eat it with different sauces - meat and veggie ones. It did not go well with my taste buds. I could have it once, with the mildly spicy sauce, but no more. In short, McDonalds can McDonaldlise injera. A bad news for the locals, I would say, as they appeared to eat nothing but this injera, night and day, all their life. They did have some other delicacies, but they were occasional or seasonal. Humble people, humble food.

I did love the Fetira, an arabic wheat flour pancake, shallow fried, served with either honey or eggs. I devoured this thing night and day, to be at par with the locals. Although, no flame control on the firewood stove meant, I often got a burnt one, if I was not the first guest to order food. Another designer thought. Eh eh.

The showers, and more importantly, the toilets at the lodge were fantastic. So I had no problem with the food, or the humble kitchen. There was soot everywhere. Something had to be done about the firewood, to protect the land, and thus the people, and their health. The constant strong breeze meant incomplete combustion, and hence the soot.

Cooking oil was not hard to find. Nor was beeswax. Both are good fuels. In fact, beeswax is at par with propane, when it comes to the heat of combustion [kJ/g]. Cotton is grown aplenty, so wicks cannot be a problem. The designer was coming alive. I had to subdue him for few more days. But the fantastic fresh coffee and the sweet fetira with honey, along with the neat bog, was ruining it all.

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All things around us tell a story. Money is no exception. After spending eight days in Ethiopia, I had observed how money exchanged hands, with interest. Be it at a road side eatery, a tyre repair shack, the lodge where I stayed, a bank, and even a posh diner in Addis, the money said something priceless.

The lower denomination notes (1, 5 and 10 Birr) bear the sign of stagnant times, the smell of sweat of toiling farmers and labourers, the taste of the land and dirt, the feel of worn out leather, and the aura of happiness. The higher denomination notes (20, 50 and 100 Birr), are crisp and new like the nation’s tender few, the ruling class, slowly eating their way into the rural heart. A common villager in Konso could do without money, or at the least, with very little money, and yet be well fed and well kept.