The happiest people on earth
I spent most of the flight to Kampala in tears. I tried to hide it by staring out the window, but it didn’t help. I looked down at Sudan, with its endless red sand and the footpaths slicing across the horizon. I tried to watch movies. I watched Juno and laughed a little, but when it ended I wanted to cry again.
Eventually, the red earth turned to a stunning green. Instead of flying over the desert, we appeared to be flying over the world’s brightest forest of broccoli florets. And then we were there. We got off the plane and it was immediately hotter and more humid than Addis. We stood on the tarmac and T reminded me that Kampala airport is the same place where the Israeli hostages were taken. I looked around and said, “Yes! And look how GREEN it is!”
We went inside to go through immigration, and T suddenly noticed that he didn’t have enough money for our visas. Online, it had said the visas were $10 apiece less than he had. But we had no money, so we waited in line anyway.
I realized pretty early on that Ugandans are even nicer than Ethiopians. By that, I mean they are much friendlier. Ethiopians are very quietly friendly, raising their eyebrows as a greeting. Ugandans are all smiles and teeth. Thank God, because otherwise we might have been in trouble. Our immigration agent was completely unfazed by our situation, and smiled at T and told him to go through customs to the ATM and get some more money and bring it back. Hang on, WHAT? I’ve seen a lot of immigration agents, but none of them ever told me (or T) to go on through the airport to get some more money.
And so I waited. And waited. And waited. And T didn’t come back. Eventually, the immigration man turned to me and told me I should go through and find him. EH?! I didn’t stop to question whether he had lost his mind, but I did ask if he wanted my passport in exchange. No, he said, waving me through.
Thus, I liked Uganda immediately.
What I did not like about Uganda was our guidebook, the Bradt guide to Uganda. Suckity suck suck, man. It was wrong about everything. It told us about hotels that did not exist, or were in the wrong places, or were likely never even built. Virtually everything it said was wrong. Nonetheless, we managed to find a lovely Chinese hotel (I’m starting to wonder if the Chinese see Africa as one giant colony), with a Chinese restaurant and very firm beds.
Kampala is a very modern, clean, pretty city. It has all kinds of international restaurants and bars, and it seemed worlds away from Addis. We spent a day or two walking around, eating Indian food, and sleeping. There was a lot of sleeping.
The best explanation I have is that leaving Ethiopia sucked every last ounce of energy from our bodies, and we had to recover. For a number of days. While watching cable. And getting full body (and I mean full body) massages by large Ugandan ladies at the nearby club. And marveling at the cheerfulness of all the Ugandans, who didn’t seem to mind that we looked like we had been hit by trucks and were wan and kind of grumpy. They smiled anyway.
Ethiopia
I’m not sure if I’m the kind of person who believes in fate or destiny.
If I was, I would tell you that I was destined to go to Ethiopia. That Ethiopia would change everything. That Ethiopia was part of my soul. And for something like that to happen, it must have been predestined.
When I was nine, I had a little fundraising group to help the famine victims in Ethiopia. When T was about the same age, his aunt went to Ethiopia, all by herself. She came back with a painting of three drummers, which T asked for when she died. It is the only piece of art he has and he paid a lot of money to get it beautifully framed. All this was before we decided to go. And you could argue that these were factors in our decision to go, but they really weren’t. We went because I sponsored a little boy at AHOPE and it seemed like a wonderful place to volunteer.
Which, of course, it was.
On the flight to Addis, I cried when I looked out the window. I was moved, for a reason I could not explain, and even though I had never been to Africa and was terrified out of my mind, I knew everything would be okay.
Which, of course, it was.
Here’s the deal: everyone deserves a family. The kids at AHOPE definitely do, and they shouldn’t be punished for having a completely treatable disease they inherited. And despite being alone in the world and having nothing and being “sick”, they showed me how to live. AHOPE is their home and their family. They play and work and fight and laugh as hard as any other children I have ever seen. But unlike the other kids I’ve seen, these kids only want to be loved. They don’t bitch about Nintendo games or Barbie dolls. They play on a broken basketball net or with rocks and marbles, and they never complain. They share each other’s clothes without arguing. They never say life isn’t fair, even though it’s true and is within their rights. Instead, they hug each other and me, and they laugh and they cry and they go on.
There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t think of those kids. Sometimes I laugh, and sometimes I cry. Because even though they don’t complain about how the world isn’t fair, I know it’s not, and it makes me furious and sad. I want all of these kids to know what it is to have a family. I want them to be loved and adored and treasured they way they should be. And right now, they are loved, don’t get me wrong. Living at AHOPE is the next best thing to having a family, but I can’t help wanting more for them than that.
Everything is different now. Things that used to seem really important to me are trivial. The stock market is in the tank? At least I have a husband and a family who loves me. I’m having a hard time finding freelance work? At least I can pay for food and rent. I fell down the front steps of my house? I live in a country where I have access to and the means to pay for some of the best medical care in the world.
I think Gelila was right when she said God sent us to AHOPE. I think going to Ethiopia was something I was meant to do. And I’m still not sure I believe in destiny or fate, but I know that AHOPE is where I belonged and I have never felt as loved, or loved as much as I did there.
Ciao, AHOPE
On the evening of our last day in town, we go to our goodbye party. We had been given a choice of having it at the little or big compound, and we chose the big one. I’m standing in the yard talking to an adoptive mother when the kids come and drag me inside. I’m okay, I think. I’m not going to lose it.
Or not. I sit there surrounded by the boys, watching them play with my tape recorder, and I’m pretty sure I can hold it together. Then the kids start saying goodbye. Surprise says that he just wants us to know that they love us and will miss us, and I’m off. Some people have a pretty cry. I do not. I have the world’s ugliest cry. I cry all the time–at Oprah, or commercials, or when I’m talking about something particularly sentimental–but this is particularly bad. Snot flying everywhere, big ugly red face, covered in tears.
I always knew it was going to be hard to leave. I had no idea it would be this hard. I love these children in a way I can’t explain. I didn’t know them two months ago, but now that I do, I can’t imagine my life without them. They are the smartest, funniest, sweetest kids I know and I love them all. I don’t know how I am going to get on the plane.
I eventually regain control, and we have a nice time listening to the adults say goodbye (Gelila tells us that God brought us to AHOPE, and I’m not sure I disagree), and then we eat candy. Sometime along the way, it starts to rain, and we use that as an excuse to stay longer, because we can’t bring ourselves to leave. The power goes out, and rain is pouring down.
When it’s finally time to go, I say goodbye to each one and tell them I love them. By the time I get to the end, I am so happy that there is no light, because my face is swollen from tears. I kiss the big boys and tell them goodbye, and a couple of them are crying too. We stagger home, exhausted and sad, and sit for a while in the silent, dark house.
We go to little AHOPE the next morning and a bunch of the older kids are there, ready to go to the doctor’s. I keep it together a little better this time, and just end up kissing them all over and over and saying goodbye. This time, the nannies start to cry, and one of them grabs me and holds me tightly, whispering to me in Amharic. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I know what she means.
It’s almost a relief when the taxi comes to get us. We sit silently in the cab, and then again in the airport. I take out the tape recorder and listen to the kids’ messages in the departure lounge. “Goodbye, Allie and Tim. We love you” over and over again. I love them too–so, so much.
The last days
On our penultimate day in Addis, I insist to T that I am going to paint the base coat for the older kids’ compound. Waah, waaah, he doesn’t want to do it because it will take too long and there is no way we will finish it in time and he doesn’t want to leave it half finished for M when she comes back from London. Like the good wife I am, I ignore him and go to paint it myself.
When I get there, I am greeted by about six of the kids who are home from school. They climb all over me to get to the brushes and the paint, and at first, I tell them no. The last time I let them paint, it was pandemonium, so this time they have to help me clean the walls and sweep the floors and all the other crap jobs. It takes about 20 minutes before I realize that this plan will not work. Soon, I have about 15 painters, and 5 other kids doing the crap. I make them put on trash bags over their clothes so we don’t get in trouble with the nannies, and they’re off. Dangling off ladders, stepping on each other, breaking furniture…but getting most of the paint on the walls and not on the floor.
By the time T gets there, the room is nearly done and it looks fantastic. It’s a sunny shade of yellow that covers the previously dirty walls, and it looks like a whole new place. The kids love it too, and as we move the furniture back into place and check out our hard work, we are very self-impressed. And we are not impressed with lazy T, who didn’t think we could get it done. It’s a nice feeling, sharing this pride with the kids who are so happy about the chance to make their home better. I really wish we could paint the mural and the individual bedrooms, but we’re leaving soon.
That night is Kate’s last night in town, so we plan to go to the Castelli Restaurant, a fancy place in town where ANGELINA AND BRAD ONCE ATE. (I’m pretty sure that’s actually written on a plaque there somewhere.) We go with Elias, Kate’s friend from work, and we actually make it to the restaurant, but it’s closed. The rest of the night is a comedy of errors as we try to find Serenade, the other fancy ferenge restaurant. Elias’ brother shows up to drive us, and we spend about half an hour in the street while poor Elias and his brother try to figure out where it is. Then Elias’ brother ditches his girlfriend somewhere so he can drive us to the restaurant, and we all squish in. None of us has any idea where it is, and the Lonely Planet is no help when none of the streets is marked. At one point, we are bumping along a dirt road in the dark, and Elias’ brother snorts, “China.” We all laugh; it’s funny to blame China for the paving of the roads! As we say in my family, someone must be blamed.
We never make it to Serenade and end up at a bar where we have dinner. We get a taxi home and say goodbye to Kate and Elias, and stagger home, exhausted. After all, ONE OF US painted all day.
