One from Dad

Right now I'm feeling extremely frustrated and disappointed. I just spent hours, literally hours, drafting a lengthy, detiled post, and when I went to publish it, poof, it disappeared. Apparently the wireless connection had expired or something. I really can't believe it. Below is what I had saved before we went to dinner tonight, a small sampling. I'll post it to salvage something of the offering I had attempted to make to the blog. I don't have the poop to revise it or add more at this time. Nighty night.

Papa Scott


Truthfully, I haven't the foggiest idea of where to begin, so this might read at times like a stream of consciousness, or maybe not. Like I said, I don't know where to begin.

Pacifique is beautiful. Right now he's sleeping in a basinet on top of a table next to me as I write. Ariah sits next to him playing games on the I Touch her uncle lent us for the trip (hi Toph). The weather here is lovely, sunny and warm, though the pool at our motel is unheated and nearly unbearable to stay in for more than a few minutes.

I had a remarkable experience yesterday evening. We needed to return Pacifique to the orphangage, within walking distance from our motel, by 5:30. We checked into our room at 4:45, and Jaya had promised Ariah she would swim with her that afternoon. The reached an agreement that I would return Pacifique while the two of them swam so that we could honor the return time and then get to dinner. I bundled up the little guy, cradled him in my right arm, slipped his baby bag over my shoulder and set off. It must have been rush hour judging by the car traffic and the mass numbers of pedestrians walking the sidewalks. (This ain't rural Vermont by a long shot!) People, people, people everywhere! Here and there, among thousands, I spot another person with white skin, but I'm a little white buoy on a beautiful black sea. I'm pretty certain that I caught the gaze, no penetrating stare, of about 3,000 Rwandans--maybe more--on that walk. Here I am, a single white man walking the streets of Kigali with a baby in his arms. I have no idea what the role of the father is in this culture; I haven't seen any with babies. Of course that only means that I haven't seen them. Some people in their cars honked at me, grinned tooth baring grins, gave me the thumbs up. Others just stared, expressionless. I tried to say "hello" to everyone. That minimized some of the awkwardness I felt in being stared at. I quickly embraced the fact that these people were curious of me. No one gave even the slightest hint of aggression or disqust, though I did wonder if they felt that way about me. The truth is, according to our lawyer and driver, is that they are overjoyed, grateful and in awe of the fact that an American is taking one of their own into a home in the States. This morning, in front of the court building (I'll talk more about that in a minute), a number of women came up to us, speaking their native tongue, smiling brightly and ooing and awing over Pacifique. Everyone, these women included, who finds the courage or feels the desire to talk with us also mentions Ariah. "Oh, are you the sister? You happy, now you have baby brother." It's nice to hear, though I think it overwhelms Ariah; she just kind of grins and partially averts her eyes. (Remember what I said about stream of consciousness)