At five 'o' clock in the morning, when the first of two alarm clocks followed by a wake-up call (we were taking no chances) sounded, I was already awake. I hadn't slept much, even after climbing into David's bed; I was still chilly, and my complimentary Emirates socks had long since bunched around my ankles like small, sagging inner tubes. I threw back the covers and swung my feet onto the floor between the two beds. I wiggled my toes around inside my sinking socks, and added
real stockings, long and soft and snug to my hypothesis of what went on in first class. I tossed them into the garbage can, then donned the one clean pair--snow-white and never-before-worn--I had in my overnight bag and slipped into the new pair of shoes I had (sort-of) bribed myself out of the house with two days earlier. This was the day my feet would step onto Ethiopian soil for the first time, would touch the land I planned to give my soul to, would carry my waiting heart and empty arms to the place where my daughter and my future and one marvelous moment that would end all the wanting waited.
After a quick meal, during which David ate pancakes and I watched incessantly for the first sign of our shuttle, we were on our way to the airport. Dubai was still shrouded in a dusty fog, and the temperature was nearing one hundred degrees when the shuttle deposited us on the same granite curb from whence it had whisked us away twelve hours earlier. Walking to Gate 227 was like walking through Scottsdale Fashion Square on steroids; we could hardly maneuver ourselves and our bags through the maze of kiosks selling designer makeup and Italian handbags to what seemed like an absurd number of Botoxed people for so early in the morning. All the seats at Gate 227 were occupied, so I sat down at a nearby coffee shop and waited while David ordered us each a pastry. Before long, Betsy appeared with a new acquaintance, Alex, who was from Australia and bound for a Ugandan orphanage via Ethiopia. The four of us visited over coffee until it was time to board the plane that would carry us to Africa.
Our ride
David and I weren't seated together on the flight to Ethiopia, which was okay because the time to talk about our adoption had passed; we had talked about it every day for the past thirteen months and had said everything there was to say about the day when all the talking would come to fruition. Instead, I sat alone and reveled in the feel of the jet's rumble on the soles of my feet. I watched the screen at the front of the cabin as it updated our location every few minutes, waiting for the moment we would officially fly into African air. I ignored the entertainment system--this day felt too sacred for distractions--and glanced frequently at the picture sitting on my lap, the picture with the crease marks and the dogeared corners that I had carried everywhere since the day we had gotten our referral, the picture of the sober, saucer-eyed baby girl who I was finally going to touch in real life.
I'm coming, I whispered to her. When it looked like our plane was nearly situated over Egypt, I unearthed my iPod from inside my purse and started my Africa playlist. "Hello, Mother Africa" played while I continued to stare at Tariknesh's photo and the water beneath us gave way to African soil. I looked out my window at the bright white haze and thought about David, sitting fifteen rows behind me on the opposite side of the plane.
We're here, I whispered to him.
Bole International Airport was dim and dilapidated. Banks of weakly glowing light bulbs hung from stark, exposed metal rafters and gave off a thin, cold light that was mostly lost before it landed. There were few employees and even fewer passengers; it looked like most of our fellow travelers would be continuing to Uganda. David and I bid Betsy goodbye and good luck, went through Immigration, exchanged dollars for birr, then handed our passports to a beautiful woman sitting inside a Plexiglas cubicle. We waited while she stamped them, and when she handed us our visas I decided to try out my Amharic. "Amesegenallo," I ventured. There was a flicker of recognition in the woman's eyes, and her face broke into a wide, warm smile. She tipped her head back and laughed loudly, then offered me a wink. I had butchered her language, but I could tell she wasn't laughing
at me--she was being nice.
"Amesegenallo," the woman replied while looking straight into my eyes, still smiling; she was everything I had dreamed the Ethiopian people would turn out to be, everything I had been told but hesitated to believe they would turn out to be. I left her station feeling buoyant, light on my feet, and walked toward the airport exit confident that it was, after all, okay to be American in Ethiopia, that I would not, after all, be hated by virtue of George Bush's mistakes or the EPA's failures or a reputation that preceded and established me as trivial, materialistic, over-indulged, and ungrateful. Things were looking up. David and I stepped through the glass exit and scanned the small crowd for someone holding a sign with our last name on it. We spotted it easily, and recognized the man bearing it as
Sintayehu, our agency's lawyer and our legal proxy in Ethiopia, the man who had gone to court in our stead on the day Tariknesh was deemed our daughter. When we introduced ourselves, Sintayehu proved abrupt and seemingly uninterested in knowing us. He beckoning for us to follow behind him and another man, our driver, as they strode toward an old green Land Cruiser parked near a lamp post. Our driver said nothing and regarded us with thinly-disguised contempt. Sintayehu summoned a group of boys from a nearby curb and gestured toward David's and my suitcases, which the boys promptly scrambled to load into the back of the Land Cruiser. I climbed inside feeling like the quintessential ugly American; the look on David's face told me we were both digesting the same reality: it was not, after all, okay to be American in Ethiopia.
After an uncomfortably silent but short drive, we turned onto a dirt street that skirted a wet, green field where people were sleeping on blankets, tarps, and pieces of cardboard; where boys tended small herds of urban livestock; and where women armed with plastic cups and empty cartons filled plastic grocery bags with water from a ditch. I stared in horror, quite certain we had driven onto the pages of a National Geographic article on human
desperation. Before I could digest the sight of it, the field passed out of sight and we turned onto a paved residential street and stopped in front of a black and white gate, which was quickly opened by two men leaning against a nearby tree trunk. Once open, the gates revealed a red tiled courtyard and the old hotel that serves as the orphanage guest house. I was immediately taken aback: the place was charming, with a red brick facade and white-railed balconies and an illuminated neon purple welcome sign above the arched main entry--it was not at all what I had prepared myself for. Inside, we were greeted warmly by the desk clerk, a man named Solomon, who gestured for David and me to sit down on the lobby couch and then proceeded to ask us about our family back home, our travels so far, and our imminent date with destiny. Slowly but surely, I began to relax as Solomon talked and laughed and smiled and listened, doing his best to live up to the glowing sign above his door. Maybe it was, after all, okay to be American in Ethiopia.
The orphanage guest house
After a bit of unpacking, David and I met a small group of adoptive parents from France who were the only other guests at the hotel, and we all took our seats at umbrella'd tables on an outdoor patio, where the cook was about to serve lunch. Given my food poisoning phobia, I had planned on eating as little as possible in Ethiopia, but the lack of other diners present made it problematic to decline food--and food there was: garden salad with homemade avocado dressing; bread with spiced
lab cheese and homemade salsa; rice; grilled potatoes, chicken, and fish; and fried bananas for dessert. I ate it all, nervously. The cook, whose name we learned was Wendi, strolled from table to table exchanging pleasantries and accepting compliments with a humble nod and a smile while other members of the guest house staff cleared away dishes between courses and delivered drinks and were even conscientious enough to open my bottled water in front of me, a simple kindness that likely saved me hours' worth of anxiety. After lunch, David and I witnessed our first coffee ceremony (
a traditional and foundational part of Ethiopian culture), and experienced our first taste of hand-ground, unfiltered Ethiopian coffee. For the second time in one afternoon, I was pleasantly surprised; it was smooth and delicious.
Grinding the coffee
Pouring the coffee
After lunch, David and I were approached by a man who introduced himself as Tesfaye and said he was our driver. Relief surged through my body at the sight of the shy but friendly smile and the freely offered handshake standing in front of me; I had assumed the man who deposited us at the gate and drove away without a word would be our driver indefinitely. Soon David and I found ourselves in the backseat of another Land Cruiser as Tesfaye negotiated his way through the seemingly lawless traffic of Addis Ababa toward SOS Enfants Ethiopie, the (French) orphanage where Tariknesh lived and waited. We approached the orphanage from a muddy road bordered on one side by the corrugated tin walls of the orphanage grounds. The branches of a giant pink hibiscus tree spilled over the top of the wall, and moss crept along its stone foundation. At the far end of the wall stood a blue metal gate. It was neglected in comparison to the last gate we'd encountered; no one stood outside waiting to sweep it open as we approached, and it was muddied with the comings and goings of vehicles in a way that reminded anyone passing through that this was a transient place, a place where no one ever came and stayed for good.
Just outside the orphanage grounds
Inside the orphanage grounds, David and I were led to a visiting room with three couches, a chair, and rows of shelves displaying local hand-made pottery, textiles, and wooden carvings. Half a dozen inflated red balloons were scattered around the room, remnants of another family's happiness. We were told to wait, and that a nanny would bring Tariknesh as soon as she was ready. I have no idea how long we sat in that room, staring out the open door at a group of boys playing hop scotch in the parking lot, watching the hibiscus blossoms tremble each time a drop of rain fell from petal to pavement. At one point, a small boy, probably three-years-old, ran into the room hollering, "Hello! Hello!" and grabbed David's hand and then mine, shaking both vigorously while smiling widely. He claimed a red balloon and raced back toward the hopscotch group with it clutched tightly against his body. He reminded me of Holden, who was sleeping warmly in the bottom bunk-bed at Granny and Papa's house, except this boy had no grandparents with warm bunk-beds--only a red balloon and a twenty-five percent chance of one day joining a family of his own. At another point, David had to use the restroom and was escorted past the playroom, where, upon seeing an unfamiliar white man, kids rushed toward him and banged on the glass as he passed and one girl cried, "Papa, Papa! Are you my father?"
After what could have been ten minutes or just as easily an hour, two women appeared in the open doorway. One of them was holding a baby, my baby, who looked only vaguely like the picture I had seen of her but whose eyes and ears were unmistakable. David and I immediately stood up, not because either of us planned to scoop Tariknesh out of her nanny's arms right that very second, but because there are certain chapters of life that simply can't be written sitting down, certain moments that command the respect of a silent but standing ovation. My heart pounded and fluttered and generally stumbled around inside me, but my feet carried me reliably over the worn, wrinkled carpet as David and I crossed the final five-or-six steps' worth of distance standing between ourselves and our future. The two women introduced themselves as Tariknesh's nanny and her pediatrician, and the nanny held Tariknesh while she looked us over for the first time. Her brow was furrowed in what I now know is a worried expression, her lips were pursed tightly, and she sat very still. She blinked slowly several times with long, curvy eyelashes I know suspect had been curled, and her gaze lapped from David and me to the pediatrician and back again. When it became apparent that Tariknesh would not melt down at the sight of us, I was invited to hold her, and I lifted her eagerly into my arms, my empty, waiting arms, and buried my face in her curls, which smelled like rain. The women left us, and David and I were finally alone with our daughter, who felt soft and warm and wonderful against my body.
Taking her into my arms
The worried look
Tariknesh's worry deepened at the departure of her nanny, but she didn't cry; I took this as an indication of her resiliency but later came to understand it as a silent manifestation of her resignation to being passed around (all told, she and the babies on her floor shared eight nannies), and an indication of her general reluctance to cry. The first hour David and I spent with Tariknesh passed quickly. She let both of us hold her but never unpursed her lips or unfurrowed her brow or looked at us with eyes that betrayed anything lighter than the deepest concern. She cried once and it was unlike anything I had ever heard before, a pathetic, un-exercised whimper that rasped, halting and hushed, from her body like the protests of a rusted wind-chime. She never smiled. We showed her pictures of Connor and Holden and of home, and she chose a shot of her nursery to hold onto. When an hour had passed, the same nanny who had brought Tariknesh to the visitors' room came unceremoniously to collect her, and David and I stood in the doorway watching our daughter's expressionless face grow smaller and smaller as she, with her picture of home in hand, was transferred back to her place inside the orphanage.
Saying goodbye
Meeting Tariknesh was nothing like giving birth to Connor or Holden. There were no extended family members gathered around, no neighbors bearing casseroles, no peach-colored roses at my bedside, no perfectly peaceful baby, no untempered elation. Instead, there were people sleeping in fields and women with children huddled under bridges as it rained. There was a man with no legs who looked at me and simply said, "please." There were goats and cattle in the streets. There were child beggars and women with firewood tied to their backs and no shoes on their feet. There were farmers selling corn and oranges out of dented wheelbarrows and five-gallon buckets. There was a man drinking water from a puddle. There was, in my mind, the imminent threat of food poisoning and possible panic. There was a foreign country, and an orphanage with two hundred motherless children. There was a baby girl with an identification number stitched onto all of her clothing, who had already been alone a long time, who found no solace in our arms. There was a nanny who took her away from us for her own good. There was awe and gratitude and happiness, but also fear and worry and sadness. There was wonder, but no peace.
Despite all this, by the time my feet climbed the stairs to room 201 at the orphanage guest house that night, David and I had become parents by virtue of the same crowning moment that had made us parents twice before: we had held our daughter for the first time.
