Crank Calling in Africa

So, it’s been five weeks. Five really long weeks and I so want to be home. But, I’m not and that kind of thinking doesn’t gel with the “roll with it” attitude that I’ve committed to. So, to put myself in a better mood, I’m going to relate this funny story that just happened about four minutes ago.

I was in the kitchen, sitting at the counter tryng to do a little bit of catch-up email for work. Luyanda wandered into the bedroom. I hear her pick up the guesthouse phone and say, “Halloo?”

There was a pause and then she said, “Ngiyaphila (I’m fine)” as though someone had asked her, “How are you?” Then she prattled on for a couple of minutes.

It occurred to me that this would be a cute session to record on my iphone but I knew if I went into the bedroom she would stop her pretend conversation. So I picked up the phone in the kitchen to see if I could hear her and possibly record her that way.

Imagine my surprise when I found that there was a person on the other end of the line, actually talking with her! I started laughing, Luyanda started laughing, the mystery person started laughing. Luyanda said “Bye bye!” and so did mystery person and they both hung up.

I wonder who she called. More importantly, I wonder if the call was long distance.

I’ve since unplugged the phone, but it hasn’t stopped her from periodically going in there, picking up the receiver, “Halloo?” Her phone sessions are shorter, though. I’m assuming that this is because she tires of keeping up both ends of the conversation.

------

Oh gosh, oh gosh… you are NEVER going to believe it. During the time I typed the above, Luyanda has had perhaps four or five pretend phone conversations with the unplugged phone. And so I think, you know, I’m going to go take a photograph of her talking on the phone to put up with this blog. SO, I’m rummaging through my bag looking for my camera and I hear a tentative knock on the door. (This just happened, literally 30 seconds after I typed the last line to my blog entry.) I opened the door to find a staff worker who seemed to be embarrassed to be there. He says to me “they say, downstairs, to stop letting children play with the phone.” Then he bows, and walks away.

I’m abashed, because here I am about to encourage her to play with the phone so I can get a pic and  apparently the phone connection was still intact! So, the conversations weren't shorter because  Luyanda got bored of talking to herself, it was that whoever she was talking to was sick and tired of talking to her!

Where's the Fire?

Something exciting happened three nights ago. There was a fire. In and of itself, that’s not so exciting. Fires happen here all the time. Every day I see at least a dozen or so in the miles surrounding town. Farmers burn patches of land in order to make it more fertile.

But this fire was special because it happened about 50 yards from my cottage! I guess that someone’s intentional fire got out of control, or there was a stray spark or something, but at about 3 am, three nights ago, the property next to this one had a pretty raging brush fire.


The staff here has their own water system for just such emergencies, but the water pressure was dismal and the dousing was only just a dribble. (I’ve been told that the nearby swimming pool is an integral part of the back-up plan.) Boys from a neighboring carepoint came to help as the fire was getting uncomfortably close to a Petrol Pump that is stationed between my cottage and the edge of the property.

Guests even poured out of their lodging to beat at the flames to keep them back.  Finally, amid lots of shouting and alarms, the local fire brigade arrived.

Or at least, that’s what I’m told.  Luyanda and I slept through the whole thing.

(Photos of smoking embers two days after the fire.)

Did I Hear You Correctly?

I'm sorry. Did you just ask me if I'm adopting because I can't get pregnant?

Written Friday Morning, Posted Saturday Night

So, I’ve chronicled my technology woes: couldn’t find adapters; power cord on Mac not working; power cord on Mac working; no internet; slow internet; no internet.

I’ve been in the midst of a no-internet period and it really dampens my spirits. Having no easy access to my family, friends, and work simply brings me down. I have a harder time staying positive and my sparkling personality has a hazy sheen. Even Pastor has noticed.

Four days ago, we lost internet again, and yesterday it popped back up. I spent 2 hours answering about 15 work emails.

This is why it took 2 hours:

Load email in browser (45 seconds, wait expectantly)

322 emails… gre-at.

Open first email (30 seconds, wait patiently)

Read it (15 seconds. Eek! Urgent response needed!)

Ht reply (30 seconds, mind wanders)

Darn, who was it I’m replying to? (30 seconds is a long time when you are just sitting there.)

Hit back button (10 seconds)

Oh yeah, it's the President of my Board, wouldn’t want to forget him, heh heh. Hit forward button (10 seconds)

Write response (34 seconds – short and sweet)

Hit send (60 seconds, staring at the ceiling, practicing my multiplication tables)

Return to inbox (30 seconds)

Open second email…

You get my drift? It’s infuriating. But not as infuriating as not having any connectivity at all. So, I was happy to have it back. But this morning, it’s gone again.

I can’t even post this blog entry.

Not-So-Obvious Rules for Surviving an Adoption in Africa

So, I’m only about halfway through the adventure that I’ve dubbed “Bringing Home Luyanda” but I think I’ve learned a few important things already. So, I humbly, and somewhat proudly, present some of the

Not-So-Obvious Rules for Surviving an Adoption in Africa


Note: These rules may seem obvious, but if they are so obvious, then why did I only think of 3 out of the 9 before I got here?


1) Bring presents – the smallest gesture is super appreciated here. Okay, not the smallest… the 3-pack of chocolate covered macadamia nuts is too small. But a relatively small gift, like the can that has at least 12 nuts inside, can work wonders. Bring more than you think you will need. It gives me a funny feeling in my stomach when I find myself debating if some new person I’m about to meet is nut-worthy.

2) Don’t count on the Internet – It’s funky, unpredictable, and SLOW… at my current guesthouse I am not able to Skype with any consistency. It was agonizing trying to introduce Luyanda to Russell and Zaffron for the first time. All she and I could see were faceless stop-motion blobs that spoke stilted non-words like “hi…. yanda… ant wait… to… eet you.” I bet she's super excited to meet daddy now!

3) Get an International plan for your phone - I counted on Skype… now I don’t talk to my family nearly as much as I had hoped. And this has made things harder emotionally for me and for them.

4) Don’t count on the ATM – It might be because I’m using a debit card, but I can’t get cash! I got what I brought with me and it better last.

5) Don’t bring just one credit card – I brought three and each has been turned down at least once (and I did call ahead).

6) Learn some of the language –

a. Greetings - People (store clerks, bank tellers) are constantly laughing at me as I practice on them… but they also remember me the next time I come in to do business. And I think they appreciate that I try.

b. Phrases your children will use – I can’t tell if Luyanda is saying she’s thirsty, hungry, sleepy, or she has to pee… it’s an important distinction that would make mothering a whole lot less frustrating if I had practiced ahead of time. “Thula phela, sisi… Don’t cry, honey. Mommy thought you wanted a drink, I’m sorry you wet your pants.”

7) Be humble – Some people have mixed feelings about foreigners taking “their” children away. I can’t say I blame them.

8) Don’t be surprised when other people pick up your children – Oh it happens, and it happens a lot. And it can be quite disconcerting. (Talk to me later, I’ve got a whopper of a story that I don’t dare put on the blog! One of my less stellar "mothering" moments, but entertaining all the same.)

9) Expect the Unexpected – Such a trite little rule that is literally impossible to accomplish, but try anyway. No matter how many books you poured over, how many experts you consulted, how many returning families you grilled, you will get taken by surprise during this adventure. I’d bet my last box of Mac Nuts on it.

The Roller Coaster Metaphor Just Doesn't Cut It

First, I apologize for not posting in a while. I had a few days where I saw a lot of sad things and I just didn’t feel like posting. I like posting the happy, frustrating, and funny, not the sad. And lately, I’ve been encountering a lot of sad.

There is a little boy at the orphanage. I’ll call him V. He’s amazing. He smiles constantly. Without fail, he greets the cars, opening the doors before the car hasn’t even come to a complete stop. He’ll take whatever you’ve brought and run it into the house. If you’ve come empty handed (shame on you), he’ll take your hand and take you into the house instead. He’s awesome, a breath of fresh air.

He’s mute.

And that makes me so mad!

Besides being the orphanage’s exceptional doorman, he loves to ride this plastic motorcycle that is too small for him. He rides it around and around and around the concrete and dirt yard. I arrive at the orphanage a different time each day and every single day, at some point during my visit, V will abandon the group of kids doing whatever they’re doing to go ride this plastic toy.

I took me several days to realize that V wasn’t actually “riding” the motorcycle -- he was dragging it. One of the back wheels was mangled and would no longer rotate. I thought about the effort this must have taken. He puts his whole weight on the thing, then uses his legs to push it forward a few inches, repositions, and then starts the whole process all over. All with the same gigantic smile plastered on his face.

On that particular day, I didn’t feel like rushing home to post my observations. And I’ve had a few days just like that, where the joy and sadness intermingle in a way that I don’t feel I can articulate.

So, that’s why I haven’t been writing. And, of course, because I now have a two-year old occupying my time! Yep… she’s with me! She’s with me! I can’t believe it but she’s with me! (And she doesn’t care for it one bit when I’m on the computer.)

I got the surprise news on Wednesday morning that I could bring Luyanda “home” on Wednesday afternoon. Problem was I was also scheduled to move from my suite to the cottage (where I’ll be staying for the duration) and the cottage wasn’t ready. And, there was one particular place I wanted to visit on my own, without Mgazi… the hospital where she was abandoned.

And I went there before I picked her up. And it broke my heart.

But I don’t feel like it would be right to post my visit to the hospital on this blog. Even though it was my morning… meaning, I’m the one who experienced the visit, it still seems like Luyanda’s story. Perhaps she wouldn’t want me to broadcast details of her upbringing that she may someday feel unresolved about. Blogs sometimes feel personal, and they are, to a certain extent. But they are in no way intimate. You are indeed, telling a story to anybody and everybody who happens to wander into the room. This story has elements that in some ways I wish I never knew.

So, let’s move on to the more joyful part of my day! Bringing Mgazi “home!” I keep putting “home” in quotes because until she sets foot in our house in Hawaii, with her sister and her father right there with us, she’s not yet “home” to me.

After the unsettling visit to the hospital, I had a hurried move between the suite and the cottage. Between my mom and I, we had four suitcases when we arrived. Two were filled with personal items for ourselves and Luy. Two were filled with items for the children at the orphanage. Those items were delivered. Mom has already left… so why is it that it took four people and eight trips to the car to move what should have been one suitcase worth of stuff to the cottage? I honestly do not know.

But it was frantic and it was cold and I was anxious and sad and astounded (really, where did I get all of this STUFF?) all at the same time.

An aside: I’ve referred more than once to this trip as a roller coaster ride. I need a new metaphor. First, roller coasters are predictable… even if you’ve never ridden a particular coaster before, you can still get a general feel for the ride while you are waiting in line.  Second, you are only doing one thing at a time when on a roller coaster. You are:

• slogging up the hill, with trepidation or anticipation
  
• teetering on the very peak of a hill, thinking, why did I think this was a good idea? OR, alternatively, Wow this is AWESOME!!
• speeding down the hill,screaming in terror or joyfully throwing your hands in the air
• hitting the bottom dip, trying to catch your breath, having just lost your scream to the wind, only to have to gather your wits, regroup, and do it all over again.

This experience isn’t anything like that. In this experience, you are doing all of those things, feeling all of those things, ALL AT THE SAME TIME. It’s exhausting.

So, here I am, freezing cold, wanting to cry from both sadness and joy, and trying not to jiggle the Pepsi Light as I transfer it to the car… nothing worse than flat pop in a foreign country, this I know.

I want to believe that I’m really going to go get her… bring her home… live happily ever after, but I’m wary. At the same time, I thought it was a good sign that the day was September 9th. Russell will have to verify, but I think we met on September 9^th, also, way back in 1994. (Another aside: Before we married, Russell made quite a big deal about wanting to wait 12 years before having children. We waited 10 before having Zaffron. Now, 14 years have passed to get child number 2! If you average that out… 12 years, on the nose! You’re welcome, Honey.)

When I arrived at the orphanage, everyone was inside. V wasn’t running up to the car ready to escort me in. And he wasn’t in the yard, riding the new motorcylce Pastor and I brought him the day before. It was just too cold! The kids were all in one small bedroom just hanging out. Luyanda greeted me warmly. I tried for the umpteenth time to get her to talk to me. She has never said a word directly to me. I think it has become a game. I’ll tickle her and jiggle her, while asking, “How are you? How are you?” in a silly, sing-song voice. And she’ll just stare back at me, holding back giggles. I’ll keep going, “Say I’m fine! I’m fine!” And at that point, where I’m begging her to tell me she’s fine, she’ll laugh and laugh. Today was no different. She just cackled in response to my cajoling and tickles. I think she thinks my attempts at her language are funny.

She was all smiles and cuddles until I started to change her clothes. She got very quiet and she resembled the Luyanda I met on day one more than the giggly kid I had gotten to know over the last few days. She was nervous. Something was up.

We stayed for about ½ an hour, asking last minute questions, saying goodbye to the kids. Luyanda never smiled. Mgazi wouldn’t even look at the camera during some hastily arranged group shots. 

Finally, after a teary farewell (on Maureen’s and my part) we drove off. Luyanda seemed sad looking out the car window, silently waving her little hand, so I nuzzled her neck and gave her a little jiggle and tried our standard game.

 “How are you? How are you?”

This time, and I’m so thankful for this, she said in a tiny little voice, “I’m fine” BEFORE she broke into a fit of giggles.

And that broke the silence. She’s been talking ever since. Of course,  I can’t understand a word she’s saying.

Every once in a while, I think I recognize something… “something something somethingJESUS! Something something HALLELUJAH! Something something BANANA!”

It’s music to my ears!

Personal Space? What Personal Space?

You know those documentaries on Africa where some person walks into a village, an orphanage, a hospital, whatever, and they are inundated with children? They are SWAMPED by children? MOBBED by children?

Well it doesn't just happen in the movies, folks.

Today, when I went to see Luyanda/Mgazi I innocently pulled out my camera. I had used it twice in front of the children and there had been mild interest. I don't know what was in the water, but when those kids saw the camera I became the most popular thing since... I don't know... is sliced bread popular in Africa?

"Take my photo, take my photo," and older girl said. The younger ones just looked up at me and grinned, "CHEEEEEEEESE!" and jostled each other out of the way as they fought for maximum positioning.

After I snapped a couple pics the mayhem began. These kids know a thing or two. They know about instant gratification. They know that you can see the picture you just took on the back of the camera. And they ALL wanted a peek!

I had children tugging on my sleeve, crawling up my leg, straddling my shoulders. I only slightly exaggerate. It got to the point where I grabbed an older kid who spoke English and begged, "tell me how to say 'back off' in your language!" Of course, the only reason I could reach him was because he was sitting on my head! Even little two-year old Luyanda was pushing people back. She seemed better equipped at handling the onslaught than I.

But I can't complain. Even with the lack of oxygen that is the natural effect of being buried by wet, dirty, terribly excited children, I still loved it.

And the day was capped off with an entirely sweet note. Luyanda giggled. And it was because of me.

Meeting Mgazi

Thursday, September 3, 2009. Day 9 of my trip. The day I met my daughter.

A good good day.

Shortly after my mom and I arrived at the orphanage, which is made up of the main living quarters and a recreation center which has rooms for different age levels, we were led to the living room where a gaggle of children sat quietly. Some were at a low table, some on the floor, one was in a highchair and several sat on caregiver’s laps.  None of them uttered so much as a peep.

My heart was pounding. Would I know which one she was? Her? No, not her, Luyanda has fuller cheeks. Her? Nope, that’s a boy! Wait, is that a boy? No matter. Her? Well, maybe…

Someone said something to the children that I couldn’t understand and Luyanda separated herself from the rest and slowly, cautiously walked up to us. She was scared. She stood in front of me with her chin pressed to her chest. I bent down and slowly took her hand. She placed her palm on mine. She seemed to be studying our hands and I couldn’t help but wonder what particulars held her interest. Was it the difference in size? The difference in color? She didn’t look up. She didn’t smile.

After a short while, I gently placed her in my lap. Still, she kept her chin pushed into her chest. Different people mildly chided her… “look up, this is your new mother!” She didn’t look up. “Say hello, your mother came to see you.” She didn’t speak.

I felt for her. She was so frightened.

Mom and I stayed for probably an hour and a half. Luyanda smiled twice. Once when mom picked her up, and once when Maureen, the woman in charge, nuzzled and tickled her. Right then, her face was a sunbeam and I felt for the first time that I was seeing my future child.

She and I had our moments. She played with my hair. She took out my earring. She slowly got semi-comfortable. She leaned against me almost as though she wanted to see how much of her could touch how much of me. She was very concerned that her fingers were as intertwined with mine as possible.

Two things greatly held her interest. 1) My camera… she likes to push buttons. 2) The family album I brought along. It’s got photos of me, Russell, and Zaffy and every few pages is a picture of her that I got from the agency. I felt bad taking the album back from her at the end of the visit. I could tell she didn’t want me to, but she didn’t fuss. She was very compliant. I would have left it, but she wasn’t the only child who loved it and I was afraid neither of us would ever see it again.

Just before we left, Pastor asked her where her mother was. All while looking down to the dirt, Luyanda tilted her head toward the orphanage main building. I was standing right in front of her. It was an awful lot for her little brain to take in.

For me, it was surreal.

As we were driving back to the guesthouse Pastor told me that the children were good at teaching each other. He said, “Tonight, all the children will have a forum. They will talk to Luyanda about her new mother and how she will soon be leaving them, just as other brothers and sisters had done before.”

Here is something interesting. The people and children at the orphanage do not call her Luyanda. She has a nickname. It’s Mgazi (MM GA ZEE with the stress on the middle syllable). It’s a take on her last name. I’m guessing at the spelling. Two people have spelled it for me two different ways. It’s quite possible that it’s never been written down.

I’ve gotten permission to visit Luyanda as often as I like until she comes back with me to the guesthouse. So, Mom and I went back yesterday. I was nervous. Would she look at me this time? Would I maybe be able to get her to smile?

As Pastor drove up the drive, we saw perhaps a half dozen children playing in the yard. Again, I feared I wouldn’t recognize her. Once I was reasonably confident that she wasn’t outside, another, more awful thought snuck up on me. What if she didn’t come out? What if she didn’t want to see me? What if the kids held their forum and Luyanda announced, “Actually, she’s not what I’m looking for… I’ll wait for the next one.”

I was feeling small and unsure and helpless, when her stout little self appeared in the doorway. She looked up. Saw me. And ran into my arms.

Surely, Game Park Lions Only Eat One Visitor at a Time

So, it’s been a couple of days since I’ve last written. (Stop grumbling, Julie, I’m back! *smile*)

On Wednesday, Mom and I went to one of the larger Game Reserves for a Game Drive in a real, authentic Game Drive Jeep. And we were lucky enough to see four of the Big Five. We saw a gorgeous male lion, lots of Rhinos (with babies), several elephants (with babies),  and a Buffalo. We would have reached the magic number if we had seen a leopard, but no such luck. But lots of other animals came our way, hippos, a ton of impala, kudu (WHICH IS HUGE, I swear I think the one we saw was bigger than a moose), and giraffes, mom’s favorite.

All the men in our jeep wanted to see the lions, so we looked for them first. Before we entered the lion section,  our guide, named Africa, hopped out to secure a super-gigantic silver rifle to the front of the jeep.  It occurred to me that I would prefer that the gun be kept in the jeep with us, but I’m no expert in the art of protection against hungry lions. If we got attacked and he wanted to scramble across the hood after the gun, so be it. He’d make a good target for the hungry beast and the rest of us could safely cower in the back. Surely game park lions only eat one visitor (or guide) at a time.

Happily, the lion we did see seemed quite satiated -- he barely blinked acknowledgement  of our existence. And it was a good thing too. I later learned that the super-gigantic silver gun was actually a super-gigantic silver jack, in case we blew a tire.

Dude, Where's My Cow?

Things do not always go as planned.  I didn't meet Luyanda today. Extremely disappointing but I'm rolling with it.

Mom and I spent today getting acquainted with the local mall. So, I don't have much to report. But I did learn something fun a few days ago that I haven't mentioned yet. This country tows cows. If a cow wanders away from wherever it's supposed to be (I believe this is a regular occurrence... we see dozens a day grazing by the sides of the roads), it gets collected and taken to the cow impound. If the owner doesn't collect his cow in the time alloted, it gets auctioned off.

It's cowpitalism.

HA HA HA -----  sorry.

A sad thing did happen today. We were eating pizza at the mall today when an elderly woman approached and began talking to Pastor.  She was asking us for money. Her child had died recently and she didn't have the money to bury him or her. She had brought documentation with her -- a mortuary notice that said her child had died on August 25th. Cause of death: long illness.

Pants are not Required in the Constitution

Pastor picked us up early Monday morning to go to the Reed Dance.

I had invited Pastor’s family along, so there were six of us: Mom & me, Pastor, his wife, Siphiwe, and his two children Nokuphila (6 years old) and Siphamandla (3 years old). These were the best behaved children on the planet. We were in the car for hours and they never once whined or complained.

The drive there was uneventful, except that I got a surprise language lesson when we drove past some boys who enthusiastically yelled at the car. I learned the word for “white people.”

It ended up that we were way too early for the celebration, which began at two o’clock, so we went to a nearby game reserve. This was a smaller place, and it was hot hot hot. But it was also a lot of fun spotting the zebras, impala, warthogs, and crocodiles. The kids were loving it. We even saw the rare crocolog. (This is an animal that I personally discovered and named on a trip to Belize. It’s a stealth beast that floats just below the surface of the water. It disguises itself as a crocodile but is much more dangerous in that it brings deep and bitter disappointment every time you encounter one.)*

It was a lovely (and hot) morning and I wasn’t unhappy at all that we were hours early for our original plans.

Our Reed Dance experience began just outside the parking lot. We were walking past a couple of vendors selling a variety of things when one approached me and tugged on my pants. “Where’s your skirt?” she says. My mom was slightly behind me and was being asked the same by another woman. “I didn’t wear a skirt,” I said. “Well, they are not going to let you in without a skirt. Do you have one in your car? No? I’ll sell you one right here.”

I had just seen other females (not locals) walking past these vendors and they weren’t wearing skirts. I smelled the distinct scent of scam. If you recall, it was a mere 8 days ago that I got hustled at the airport. I wasn’t all that eager for a repeat performance. But I wasn’t sure. I worried that maybe I was wrong we were going to have to turn around and disappoint Pastor’s kids who had been good all day long, just because Mom and I were wearing trousers.

Pastor stepped up and he and the vendor exchanged a few words that I didn’t catch. The woman said, “You don’t have to believe me. Those other people didn’t believe me. They are going to be turned back at the gate. If you don’t believe me, ask that police officer behind you.” We all looked at the police officer, then back at Pastor. He said, “ok, but I think I’ll ask THAT one,” pointing to a different guy, just in case the vendor and cop were in cahoots.

Well, it turns out that women can’t attend the Reed Dance unless they are wearing a skirt. Mom and I both purchased a lovely sarong-type thing from a very smug vendor. We wrapped them around our waists (over our pants with the pant legs still showing) and this seemed to satisfy everybody. Except Pastor. He spent a couple of minutes muttering as we trudged up the hill to the entrance. I didn’t catch everything he said, but I did hear the words “setup” and “pants aren’t required in the Constitution.” He wasn't the only one annoyed. Those trouser-clad Europeans who had declined the vendors services? We saw them huffing down the hill. They had waited in line only to be turned back at the top, just like the woman had predicted. Oh well. No worries. What’s a few bucks for a good story?

The Reed Dance was amazing. There were dozens and dozens of groups of girls there to dance for the celebration. They came from villages all over the country and even a few from neighboring countries. I had read in the paper that there were more girls this year than last and last year there were more than 100,000 maidens participating. I hope my pictures can convey the sheer magnitude of the thing.

All of the girls at the event were signing, but a select group was up front with a microphone. It would have been perfect except we were sitting right next to a loud speaker and the accompanying instrument of choice is a whistle. Thankfully, mom refrained from pulling out her hot pink ear plugs. (Yes, Cori, for some reason, mom carries her earplugs with her.)

For the most part, the girls stayed with their village groups. But often you would see groups of girls 4 or 5 crossing the field to join their buddies. How they found them I’ll never know. But towards the end, after a couple of hours, we started to see very young children, 3 or 4 years old, being led by the hand by slightly older girls, maybe 8 or 9. It dawned on Mom and me that these little ones had to use the potty.

It was a fantastic day and I felt so privileged to be able to spend it with Pastor’s family. I told him that he had given me a gift: three more friends in this country.

* Belize was not the only trip where I never saw the animal I went looking for. My friend Kerry and I spent two weeks in Nepal. After four days, our original search for the elusive white Bengal tiger became the search for the elusive clean toilet.