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.

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.

After the funeral, we’re walking over to see the big kids. I have my Indian scarf over my head, and as I am walking down the hill to AHOPE, a little boy walks up to me and says “KONJO!” FINALLY! I AM BEAUTIFUL! I smile at him and say thank you, and then poke T in the ribs, saying, “Did you hear that? I am konjoooooooooooo!”

The next day, T and I are sitting in a restaurant in an attempt to get out of the pouring rain outside. We’re using the free (and fast) wireless, and I check my email. I get the following email from Leather Cap:

Hi there,
Allie how are you doing and your husband (the lucky one) coz you are beautiful.
How is M and your other friend would you pls pass my greeting.
Hope I will see you all befor they leave Ethiopia.
All the best.

DID YOU READ THAT? I AM BEAUTIFUL! I pass the message along to T, who rolls his eyes and grunts something about people who wear leather caps having no idea about what’s attractive. Then, the waitress comes over with my Coca, and when I smile at her, she too tells me I am konjo.

I am on fire, baby! I am irresistable to men, women and children alike! I am adored by millions!

And then, we go to see the big kids. We tramp through the rain and mud, and when we get to the gate, one of the kids opens the door and points at us. Koshasha! Dirty! No, kid. BEE-YOO-TI-FUL. Get me?

Then I am sitting with the girls on the stairs as they braid my hair. “Ooooooh,” they say. “You have MANY grey hairs!” My heart stops beating. How many do I have? They start to count. “One…two….three!” I contemplate breaking their legs for giving me a near heart attack, but decide against it because I am so relieved that many = 3.

Then, I am invited into the girls’ room. Finally, I am allowed into the inner sanctum! I sit in a wooden chair for hours as they pull and tug and twist my hair. Boys reach in through the window, yanking my hair out to braid it. The girls do innumerable braids, but virtually every time when I hopefully ask, “konjo?”, they wrinkle their little noses and take it all out to do again.

Ah, well. 24 hours of being beautiful isn’t bad, right?

The night before we left Gondar, we checked with the guys at the hostel about when we needed to leave to get to the airport on time. An hour before the flight, they said. Sure, we asked? Yes, they said, authoritatively. But in the morning, when we are all half-dressed and bathed, we suddenly hear banging on our doors. TIME TO GO! the guys yell. GO NOW, OR YOU WILL BE LATE! It turns out that the guys at the hotel are big liars, and we are all muttering about this when we get in the taxi and they pat the back of the car as we drive away.

Despite being hustled into the car earlier than we expected and listening to the hostel guys yell as us like cattle, we find that our flight to Lalibela is ON TIME. And we are allowed on! So on we get, with the Chinese tour group who are now smiling at us like old friends. The flight to Lalibela is surprisingly smooth, and I spend most of the time looking out the window at the flat, cracked, ochre-colored earth below.

As riveting as I find the world from the plane, I find it even more spectacular when we get in the van to the hotel. The area around Lalibela is like another planet. The red earth spreads far into the distance, where the horizon is lined by jagged mountains.  We climb higher and higher into the desert; all four of us staring out the window at the bleak landscape outside. It is harsh and barren and completely stunning. I have never seen anyplace like it.

The hotel is even better than the one in Gondar. It is new and clean and the rooms are big enough to leave on the floor and still walk around. We have hot showers ALL THE TIME, and the beds are clean and big enough for two whole people. M and Kate even get a room with twin beds. There is a little store and a small restaurant, and a view over the valley below. The only downside is that it is at the exact opposite end of town from the churches.

We decide to walk up toward the churches, so we start up the hill, which seems neverending. As usual, as we walk through, we are accosted by a big group of boys. They are young and endearing, and one tells M he is collecting foreign money as a competition for school. He has the biggest collection! M dutifully gives him all her foreign change and he runs away, only to come back a few minutes later with a necklace for her. His name means Happiness, the same as her favorite kid at AHOPE, and she is smitten. (Later on, we discover that the kids all ask for money this way, and that they then try to sell it to trade it to foreigners for birr, but at least M got a necklace out of the deal.)

Of course, the churches are closed by the time we get there, so we end up looking for a place to eat. We wander through town and stop to have coffee at a restaurant perched on the edge of a big cliff, overlooking the churches and the valley. I am crabby from low blood sugar, and the other three laugh at me as I hate everything and drink my coffee. They are evil and must be destroyed.

On the way down, we’re surrounded by a bunch of kids. There is one little girl who attaches herself to Kate, and walks through town with her, clutching her hand. Her name is the same as our Princess at AHOPE, and she is about four years old. We turn the corner on our way back to the hotel, and Kate gives her a whistle when she says goodbye. The little girl runs off down the road, and we can hear the whistle squeaking even after we can’t see her anymore.

We get back to the hotel and decide to have dinner at the hotel across the street. Kate and M and T have some beer (I can’t, because I am a big allergic loser) and eventually, Kate gets very tipsy. The tipsiness coincides with the arrival of the Chinese tour group, complete with Ethiopian tour guide. Kate, M and I have been commenting on the tour guide’s cuteness for days, and think him cute even with his leather newsboy cap. T disagrees and mocks us all. The more beer Kate has, the more she loves the tour guide, but she is convinced that he has a crush on me, which makes me think she has had way too much to drink. When I go to the bathroom, I run into him outside, and he introduces himself and asks about my husband. Suddenly, I think Kate might be right and I am oddly pleased by the thought that young Ethiopian men clad in leather hats find me attractive. T is less pleased, as it means he will be hearing about how hot I am for months to come (which is an appropriate punishment for making me listen to years of how gay men find him attractive).

We manage to stagger out of the restaurant and into bed and the next morning, the girls and T are not feeling pretty. We all drink coffee and eat pastries and wander around looking for an artist’s shop. We find it in a tukul which we would never have looked at twice, were it not for Lonely Planet. The artist has sold his works to many famous people, including Princess Anne, with whom he has a photo. We each buy a painting, despite the fact that T is loudly complaining about buying more stuff that he will have to carry (I artfully tune him out).

And then we head back up the hill to buy our tickets and find a tour guide. We pass the same man who told us the churches were closed the day before, and are alarmed when it looks like he’s taking off his pants for T. Unfortunately, he is not trying to exchange guiding services for sexual favors; he is merely showing T his £20 note from the Bank of Scotland, which is in his jeans which are under his guide uniform. How disappointing.

It starts to rain as we begin our tour of the churches, but even the rain can’t diminish them. The churches are carved out of the earth, which means they lie below ground, surrounded by rock and stone and dirt. There are 13 churches, mostly built during the 12th and 13th centuries, by lots of people over a long time (check out that historical accuracy). They’re fascinating in a way that European cathedrals aren’t. Instead of being enormous and ornate and gloriously beautiful, they’re simple and mostly plain, but the work that has gone into them has to be equal to the work on the European churches. They are carved out of the ground, for God’s sake! (No pun intended there.)

We walked through some, and T got to go into a special man church (Ethiopia seems to have a lot of churches banning girls), but he took pictures so we could see what it looks like. In one, we ask the priest if we can take his picture, and he nods, putting on a pair of sunglasses as he swings his incense from side to side. We all try not to giggle as he does this. At St George’s Church, they are preparing for St George’s Day the following day, and the whole area is full of somber chanting and singing, which makes the whole experience that much more ethereal.

Our tour guide asks if his family can join us for the latter part of the tour, and we say yes. Soon, we are joined by a family with two little boys, who are completely hilarious. They are mostly disinterested in the tour, and as time goes on, increasingly interested in performing for us. After we walk through the tunnel called hell (where I take a tourist shot of Kate, M and T pretending to be in Hades), we arrive at the last church and the boys are about to explode with energy. I take a picture of them, which ends up being appropriately blurry because they can’t sit still.

At the end of the tour, our guide sends us up a back way through town, and we walk down quiet paths and tukuls overlooking the valley. When we get close to our restaurant, a gang of kids comes up to us and wants to speak to us. Of course, I end up taking their picture, and they ask for my email address, which is the MO of most of the kids in town. Wherever we go in Lalibela, we are accosted by children asking for our email addresses so that we can send them books for school.

We have dinner at a restaurant that has a sign saying “recommended by ferenge” outside. We walk inside the restaurant, which looks like someone’s living room. The locals clear out so we can have a table, and they bring us some pizza for dinner. I’m not sure whether it’s comforting or disturbing to be served pizza in a restaurant in northern Ethiopia, but we eat it anyway, listening to the rain fall on the roof and ruing the fact that we have to leave.

So we finally end up on a flight to Bahir Dar, on a plane that’s about the size of a matchbox. I end up sitting next to a man in his mid-40s, who doesn’t speak to me until we’re descending and the plane is bouncing up and down in a rather terrifying manner. He starts talking to me about Bahir Dar and how beautiful it is, and how it is hot. I ask him what he does, and he whispers, ‘I am in the army.”  I yell, “EH?” and make him repeat it about 17 times, until I can hear him over the plane’s motor. When I tell him that I will tell T to wear sunscreen so he doesn’t burn, the man reaches over to stroke my arm. “Your skin is pale,” he says. “My skin is like chocolate.” I smile at him, thinking how if I was in America and some dude did that, I would be jumping out the window, with or without a parachute. It seems much more appropriate on a tiny plane above the deserts of Ethiopia.

When we get there, we’re all standing around the baggage claim, waiting for our bags. There don’t appear to be any taxis, and as I am walking out the front door, a man sitting on the wall yells to me, “We are waiting for you!” But he is holding a sign for a hotel I don’t know, and I stand there like a confused dog, trying to figure out how he knows me, until I realize he just wants our business. We end up getting a ride into town with him and his friends, though, and they pitch us their guiding skills. Bahir Dar is the most beautiful city in Africa, after Cape Town, they say. They’re friendly and funny, and we think we’ll go with them tomorrow.

We get to the hotel, which is actually more like a motel, which is actually more like a roach palace. We end up with two rooms without bathrooms because they didn’t answer the phone when we tried make reservations. The beds are tiny, with old, musty bedspreads, and the squat toilets are some of the worst I have seen on this trip (blood spattered Shanghai squat withstanding). But we’re starving, and our guidebook says the food at this hotel is some of the best in Ethiopia. And they’re right. They bring us a steaming bowl of shiro, which we scarf down with local beer. It is %$#@ing good. Quite possibly the best shiro any of us has had.

After we shovel down the shiro, we walk around. Bahir Dar is pretty, but I can’t imagine it compares to Cape Town. It’s on the shores of Lake Tana, the biggest lake in Ethiopia. The streets are wide boulevards, with bright blooming trees on the sides. It’s a quiet place, and people seem to stare at us more than in Addis, but it could be that we are three ferenge girls with one ferenge man. We start to joke about being T’s wives, and wonder if the people staring think the same thing. For dinner, we stop at a pub and have more beer, but ultimately decide we need some more of that shiro. So it’s back to the hotel, where we chow down some more and then jump into bed with our eyes closed. In the morning, we are upgraded to rooms with ensuite showers, but ours doesn’t work.

One of the first people we met at the hotel was a tiny employee who said he could organize a tour of the monasteries on the lake. We dodged him, the way we dodged the guys who drove us into town, saying we would think about it. In the morning (as we are eating shiro AGAIN), we don’t see him, so we think maybe he forgot. Instead, we end up talking to a lanky young guy sitting at the table next to us. He says he will take us on a tour, and since no one else is around, we agree. His rates sound crazy, but it’s Ethiopian Easter, and we can afford it–we just don’t want to pay it. But we say yes anyway, and as soon as we do, the driver shows up. He takes our no gracefully, and wishes us luck. As we are walking out the door of the hotel with Yilnikal, the world’s most expensive tour guide, the little dude from the hotel shows up. He freaks out about us going with Yilnikal, chasing us down the road and telling us that he is not trustworthy. When we tell him how much we are paying, his head almost flies off and he really loses it. Eventually, we tell him thank you, but we have already told Yilnikal we will go with him.

But Yilnikal can’t find a boat. And so we stand around for about an hour while he calls people, and yells to people from the shores of the river, and we contemplate going back to the tiny dude at the hotel or finding the driver somehow. Eventually, he finds one, though, and we all get in. The lake is pretty, and we motor across until we get to the first island, with a bunch of monasteries on it.

The monasteries are basically big tukuls, with shockingly bright murals on the walls inside. The painting is electric–much brighter than anything else in the dusty brown area. But after a while, they all start to look alike. I take picture after picture of Jesus and saints and Mary and hope the color will come through in the prints. Every time we exit a monastery, we are surrounded by locals selling trinkets, and every time we see them, we say no.
Finally, Yilnikal takes us to lunch at his friend’s house. It is a one-room house without electricity. We sit on a bench and watch as his friend’s poor mother and sister rush around and cook for us. Yilnikal and his friends give us homemade beer and gin, and we sip it carefully. Halfway through the meal, he raises his eyebrows and tells us that he will knock $25 off the price of the tour if we do a shot of gin. Done. Kate chugs that baby like it’s water and he stares at her with pure love in his eyes. He says he will knock another $25 off, cutting the price in half, if she does another one. I think he was still making the offer when she took the glass and threw it back. Thank God for the strong livers of the young.

As we eat our injera with wat, Yilnikal and his friends chow down on a big ole raw steak. They hack into it with a rusty knife, and then rip pieces of flesh off with their hands, as if it’s a beautiful filet mignon. They offer us some, but raw meat is even less appealing than homemade gin, so we say no. Kate may be brave, but she’s not stupid, and eating that after she drank the gin could make her throw up, in which case she would forfeit the whole deal.

We made our way through the woods (very carefully, because Yilnikal’s deal was contingent on Kate not walking into trees) and some kids run up and hold our hands on the walk. We end up going to a couple more islands, including one that was a nunnery. T is allowed on the island for some reason, but we three girls are not allowed onto the one remaining men’s island. And no, I am not bitter about that (big lie).

When we get back to town, we pay Yilnikal $50 and tell him we’ll meet up with him later. We skip off, congratulating Kate on her tremendous drinking skills, and head back to the hotel. We hang out there for a while and are just on our way to get a non-shiro dinner when he cruises back in with his friend. They take us to dinner at a local restaurant (where the shiro is no match for the Bahir Dar Hotel), and then to a club. After dinner, we walk down the wide street, and Yilnikal tells me he has a secret. He loves Kate. Shocker. Will I help him get together with her? I tell him she has a boyfriend in America, but he doesn’t care. IT IS LOVE! SHE IS THE ONE FOR HIM! We keep walking down the street, with him whispering his ‘mister’ (Amharic for secret) and Kate looking suspiciously back at us. He tells me his plan–he will get a hotel room at the hotel, and he will invite her to speak to him, and she will be unable to resist his charms! I say, sure, try it, knowing Kate will never go for it.

He brings us to a tiny, tiny bar crammed full of people. We are the only white people there, and the place is full of sweaty, happy locals dancing to Ethiopian music. The room is about 15×15′ and there is barely room to stand, let alone dance. And so, we are all soaking wet and laughing and pressed up against other (which I am pretty sure was Yilnikal’s plan). There is a tiny child behind the counter who stares at us, wide-eyed. When we try to speak to her, she cries. It is the kind of scene we would never have found without a local and it makes Yilnikal’s inflated rates all worth it.

On the way home, he makes his move. T, M and I all walk back together, and he walks with Kate. We hear snippets of their conversation; mostly her saying things like, “No, I really don’t want to go to a room with you,” and “Yeah, I’m not going to sleep with you,” very loudly. We make it back to the hotel where Kate sleeps with M and Yilnikal promises to meet us in the morning to take us to the airport.

On Ethiopian Good Friday, we head over to the little compound, where there are kids everywhere. Kids climbing the walls, kids running around, kids sitting in chairs. Sneaky 1 is sitting with a bunch of the little kids like a big brother, Sweet Girl is posing for pictures with me, and the little kids are just running amok. For the holiday, there is a drama group coming to perform for the kids, so there are rows of chairs set up in the yard. Eventually, we all sit down to watch the performance. I sit next to Sneaky 2, who keeps giving me crazy looks and teasing me, and I try to get him to quiet down and watch.

After the performance, the kids each get presents. The presents are in no way fair. Some kids get really cool stuff; others get cheap plastic toys. The Charmer runs over, thrilled beyond belief, and holds up a bag of chips. “Look! Mexas!” he cries. He is so excited about his snack that he rubs his tummy and says, “Yum yum yum,” the way we do when we play Ten Little Speckled Frogs. You would have thought he won the lottery. Other kids, like Sneaky 2, are not thrilled, looking enviously at the others, and I wonder why they didn’t all just get the same thing. For kids who have to little, it seems unfair to give more to some than others. After the presents, there is a spontaneous gathering in the corner of the yard. We go see what it is, and it’s The Belly, The Boss and New Girl, having a race between two buckets. They are supposed to fill their cup from one bucket, walk it to the other and dump the water in, and then do it again until they finish. The Cuddler gets overly excited and drinks the water. Everyone laughs, and she cries. The Belly wins the race, though I’m still unsure what it was he did to win.

We leave the little compound, with the piles of chickens for dinner, and go to the big compound that night for church. T, M and I end up in different vans. I am in one with all boys, which is fine with me. I sit in the back row with the older boys, telling them about our trip and teaching them how to say things like “Go away” in Chinese and thank you in Thai. For the entire ride, I hold hands with Sneaky 1 and I consider the fact that a 12-year-old boy in America wouldn’t be caught dead holding hands with an old lady like me for a half hour. When we get to the church, the boys run between and and T, trading insults. I teach them how to say go away in Chinese, and they run over to tell him. He teaches them how to say crazy lady in sign language, and they run back over to tell me. This goes on until we have exhausted the silly things we know to say in various languages, and we have to go inside.

In the church, I sit between Surprise, one of the oldest boys at AHOPE, and two little girls. On the other side of the little girls is an older boy who makes an endless array of hysterical faces at me. I sit, with my arms around Surprise and the girls, and I think about how this is the happiest moment I have ever had in a church. Surprise has only recently started talking to me, and he has become one of my favorite kids. He is 13 and has been at AHOPE since about 2000. He is quiet and sweet and I love him. The girls are both about 10, and they are naughty. They whisper to me about the staff, telling me who they like and who they don’t, and when I mention the people they don’t like, they roll their eyes back in their heads and become highly dramatic in their disapproval. It is very difficult not to laugh. At the same time, the other boy, the Joker, sticks out his tongue and wiggles his eyebrows like a maniac, which makes it even harder to keep calm.

The service is neverending, and the kids and I start counting down the songs and prayers. We look down the aisle at T, who is now holding hands with Sneaky 1 (again, what American 12-y/o would ever hold hands with a man in public?! I love Ethiopia), surrounded by a bunch of other boys.

Halfway through the service, about 3/4 of the kids suddenly start whispering in Amharic and walk to the back of the church. It startles me, and brings me back to reality. These kids have HIV. They have to take medication. They are so healthy looking and so energetic that it’s tough to remember that they’re “sick”. The realization hits me hard. I’m sitting alone, waiting for them to come back, and I suddenly want to punch something, which would be wildly inappropriate in a church. The anger passes when they file back in, scooch back under my arms, and continue where we left off, whispering about how we will all be 800 years old by the time we leave.

On the way home, I am in the van with M and Surprise, and he asks if he can play M’s iPod with my portable speakers. We say sure, and then look at each other with horror when we realize what he’s going to play. He turns on Avril Lavigne’s song, Girlfriend. If it was the radio version, it wouldn’t be a big deal but it’s the unedited version in which she says a number of delightful words that the kids all know. And we’re in the van with Tigist, the highly religious nurse. So M starts talking REALLY LOUDLY to Tigist while I scramble over to Surprise to try to get him to turn down the song, just as Avril is yelling about being a motherf*cking princess. Surprise raises his eyebrows in fake horror as she says it, and I snatch the speakers away from him. Maybe this is why the Orthodox religion doesn’t allow secular music.

The next day, we come to little AHOPE and find that more of the kids are sick. They are feverish, tired and clearly miserable. We’re not sure what’s up or what it is, but the poor guys are not doing too well. The nannies are in the process of clearing out the nursery to use as a quarantine room, which I don’t think is such a great sign.

Kate has the day off from work, so she, M and I go over to big AHOPE to paint the classroom. We buy the paint and accoutrements at Home Depot, and pop in a shared taxi to go down the road. When we get to big AHOPE, kids start to appear out of the woodwork. First two, then three, then about eight. We pile all the furniture in the middle of the room and start trying to paint the walls. Of course, the kids all want to help, so we let them. This is perhaps not our best idea. They put the rollers down on their desks, spray paint all over their clothes and the floor, and let paint drip down the windows. Eventually, I hand over my roller so that I can follow behind them and clean up.

When we’re finished, the room is a Caribbean turquoise and it looks infinitely better than the scummy white walls we painted over. We clear the kids out of the room, and they all cluster around the classroom, listening to M’s iPod and playing Avril Lavigne over and over. Kate is horrified by the state of the floor, and she kneels down on the floor to scrub the paint away, even though the floor is completely filthy. She scrubs madly until we drag her away, kicking and screaming and crying, “I missed the corner!”.

The kids are so delighted by the new walls and the furniture that we sorted through that they volunteer to clean up. Sneaky leads the kids in sorting through the crap on the bookshelves, as I separate the broken desks from the working ones, and M and Kate re-hang the maps and blackboards. Without being asked, the kids sort through the papers, their little foreheads wrinkled with concentration, until it’s all done. The room looks beautiful, and I want to hug all the kids for trying so hard to make the room nice.

Afterwards, we go home and bathe and relax for a little while before program. We walk back to big AHOPE, thinking we’re getting there just in time for the Good Friday festivities. Instead, we bust in just in time for the program to end. We’re given cokes and candy like all the kids, and we sit for a few minutes as they finish the singing and praying. Then we all check out the classroom and admire our handiwork. I give my tape recorder to the kids, and they all run around talking into it (usually yelling about how I am crazy, and they are not, and singing songs. On the way home, a bunch of the kids are in the van with us, so that they can take a tour of the city at night. We all cram in and they sing songs into the tape recorder until we get out and the van takes off into the night, full of children climbing all over the seats.