The Wait

The Wait

It’s possible that by the time I finish writing this post Jaya and Ariah will have arrived back at the motel with the “To Whom It May Concern Letter” letter in hand. If so, in a matter of a day or three we’re flying to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia for the second leg of this three-legged run. It’s also possible that the opposite will be true. We don’t know, and if you haven’t gathered by now that business proceedings in Africa have a vastly different nature than they do in the States, I’ll tell you that they do.

(So it didn’t happen today. The girls just returned. The file hasn’t even reached the desk of the woman who reviews it. Twice today the secretary instructed Jaya to come back, the second time, tomorrow. Ahh, but the Minister won’t be in the office tomorrow, so maybe we’ll have it on Thursday. If only! If only they understood what it has taken us (geez) to get to this point, maybe then they would shout, “Give me that file. Let me sign it! Allow these people to unify the links. Let them return home.” And I also hear the gentle, reassuring voice: this will happen when its natural course rounds the bend and glides over that one rightful stone. Be patient. All in good time.)

The language differences, even between English as a first and second language speakers, present significant communication difficulties, and the bureaucracy here seems to me to be considerably less efficient, organized and streamlined that what I’ve experienced in the States. You know, that good ol’ expeditious bureaucracy. I don’t know if my judgment above is ethnocentric or not, but based on experiences it at least appears true.

Yesterday (Monday) we delivered all of our documents to the Ministry of Family and Gender, including our request for the “To Whom It May Concern” letter/cover page, our ticket out of this country (this one’s for you Paul Morgan) with the “lad.” It was a fortuitous delivery in that everybody involved with generating this most precious letter was crammed into a small, bare bones office, including the Minister herself. They all greeted us warmly, even one whom Jaya found rather challenging last year. The Minister held Pacifique, so did the other woman. We presented them with gifts from our homeland: maple syrup, maple candies and the beautiful ceramic creations of our supportive friends and neighbors, Nick and Diane (Rising Meadow Pottery—hey guys, I really wanted to work in the pitch; it’s the least I can do). But equally as important to us flying out of here soon, this letter permits us to keep Pacifique with us at all times. The more time we spend with Pacifique, the more challenging it is to return him to the orphanage each night no later than 5:30. Logistically, it’s a slight hassle, but emotionally it feels sad; it tugs at my heartstrings. Jaya would likely elaborate with more than just sad, but that’s how it feels to me. Our desire is to care for, hold, and nurture Pacifique 24 hours a day. That will happen soon, and if soon is tonight, we’ll rejoice. (Not tonight)

The sisters at the orphanage are always gracious and smiling, and I have no doubt that their manner is genuine. They follow the mission of Mother Teresa. Same garb! The outside grounds, inside the perimeter walls, are clean. Someone tends a vegetable garden in one portion of the courtyard. The Swiss chard, collards, kale, lettuce, onions, etc. look healthy, damage free and green. I’m not certain if the kids eat from this bounty. I’m a little puzzled by the smell that greets me each time I enter through the gate and toward that garden. My guess is pesticide, maybe to stave off the swarms of mosquito “bugs” inside the orphanage. I seem to recall that smell one 4th of July when the field underneath where the fireworks display was going to erupt was saturated with a chemical agent designed to stifle the unprecedented invasion of the winged suckers who spawned outside the city of Denver one summer. Maybe I’m incorrect in my assumption, but it just has that synthetic odor. What are they to do? There are hundreds are children in there, maybe thousands for all I know. Someone told us last night that the current statistics claim 850,000 orphaned children in this small country alone.

Two mornings ago I walked down to the orphanage to pick up Paci and had to walk around the back of the building. When I rounded the corner I was immediately swarmed by, I don’t know, 15 toddlers. Each one ran up to me with outstretched arms, “Daddy, Daddy,” clung to my pants and shirt, and held on for much of my walk toward the one child I can help right now. Frankly, I was a little concerned about having them all clutch and cling to me. Many of them were dirty. Snot ran down from their noses into their mouths. Their eyes watered. Open sores stood out like a raspberry floating in a boat of chocolate. I felt desensitized, a robot on singular mission. In that back yard fifty other toddlers stood two feet tall and stared at me with either hopeful or vacant eyes. I walked down the dark hallway, opened the door to Pacifique’s room, the baby room, where thirty babies reclined in thirty cribs, some wailing, some staring off into space and others sucking from a bottle. A nurse handed me Pacifique, and I turned around and repeated the same march through humanity that had united me with me son. I could try and describe the conditions, the smells, the lack of light in more detail, but I don’t want to. I know that the sisters run as nurturing, loving and comfortable home as they can given the monumental task set before them. The regular staff and volunteers from around the world, as far as I can tell, do their loving best as well. But regardless of all of the goodness behind those walls, it really does appear to be “a hard knock life.”

We continue to wait. That means poolside mostly. It’s sunny and warm (80’s) here everyday. Rwanda is in its dry season which apparently means no rain—nada—from the beginning of June until the beginning of September. So as we wait, we’re the beneficiaries of sun rays. And we understand that our Vermont family and friends are currently shriveling from so much rain. Might as well make another Annie reference, “that sun will come ooooooout tomorrow…” We’ll do what we can to change the weather patterns with our return.

Over and out. And love, love, love!

Papa Scott