Arrival

It's hard not to compare this country, and our experience here, with India. Well, forget it - I am going to. It's too similar and yet not. One thing is certain, I felt comfortable and happy and excited arriving here, being back in an environment so unlike our orderly Western world, seeing the little shacks by the side of the road held together by sheet metal, the colors, the people walking in the streets, the livestock, the random wares for sale, the holes in the sidewalks. The airport is large and organized, a lovely discrepancy to Bangalore when we first got there (they since built a new one which likely is a bit more impressive than the noisy crowded terminal we saw in 2003). Visas are no problem, and the line of Westerners and Ethiopians alike moves fairly quickly. Other couples are here for babies... but I am tongue tied when it comes to sharing our own story. It is as yet a bit unreal. I don't feel any more compelled to participate in the discussion about Ethiopian wines and beers picked out in a guide book though, either.

The laywer and the program coordinator are both there to greet us, and we easily find them - I am pleased to see the signs they're holding up. We get shuffled to the waiting car and whisked off to the guest house. The drivers are polite, considerate, and communicate with each other - instead of wildly clogging up the intersection. They honk, but they do so truly to warn each other when they are passing. Admittedly, there is far less traffic, the noisy two-stroke engines conspicuously absent, no motor cycles. Presumably there is also less of a middle class. Most of the vehicles are taxis, either communal vans or passenger cars. All painted white and blue, all using their indicators, all slowing down for each other, waving each other on. No dogs, either - amazing. No howling at night, no honking, the only "disturbance" we hear the next day is the chanting from midnight mass - it's Orthodox Easter, and the churches broadcast their service just like the mosques do.

By daylight, taking our first tentative steps outside the compound while the couple we're sharing the apartment with is visiting their baby we find that the smell, too is absent - even though the sewers are just as open, and there is still garbage. We walk around conscious that we're sticking out like a sore thumb, trying out this new country. Everyone is wearing a strand of grass around their forehead; we conclude it must be a symbol for the crown of thorns worn by Jesus on his day of suffering. The grass is for sale everywhere by the side of the road, big bushels of it, fresh and green, brightening the landscape, next to the sacks of char coal and the usual plentitude of cheap goods. People walk around holding chickens (or a hen, in local parlance) by their feet along with various other items, the Addis poor man's Easter feast. We later see our own for sale by the side of the road - vast herds of sheep, ready for slaughter. There was bleating underneath our window all night, and the next day we return from our walk to watch the butchering in the courtyard using the simplest of methods, performed by the guard.

“Mami” is generic

To say that I was nervous about meeting the girls is an understatement. On our first full day in the country no less, hardly conscious of where we where, yet anxiously sitting around and waiting out the hours that needed to pass before we would get into Yohannes' blue and white taxi. I refused to call him "Joanie", once I heard the lawyer pronounce his name in Amharic. It seemed somewhat of an insult, smacking of colonialism (which the Ethiopians successfully fought off, twice). Besides, Yohannes sounds rather familiar to me as a German, so melodious to the ear, so strong and steady. "Bible names" the deeply Orthodox Ethiopians call it, which also results in such initially amusing labels as "Hosanna Bakery", "Amen Pharmacy" or "Halleluja Clothing". On the other hand, we've been mulling over this notion of giving the girls an "American" name too - after reading in someone's blog that adopted children often desire one, to blend in and to celebrate their new beginning. One of many things where there is no one right answer.

In the end, the meeting was less awkward than I had feared. Biftu has a nice and friendly courtyard, at the time of our first visit flooded with sunlight. Our eyes were of course scanning the group of children as we stepped in - but we needed a little help pointing out our little ones. The staff brought chairs for us to sit while all the children crowded around, and served us coffee, prepared via the traditional ceremony, with espresso style cups sitting on a two-tiered carved wooden tray, a brazier with incense, the clay pot boiling over silently glowing charcoal, all of it done over an area of a few square feet strewn with fresh grass. Then they made the girls come over to sit on our laps and kiss us... which set off 1 1/2 hours of playing and hugging and kissing - by all the kids! It was easier because they had all their buddies around and the attention wasn't all focused on just us and them.

I was a little shocked to hear the older girl call me “mami” - and was convinced she had been instructed to do so. It made me feel like I was being shown trust that I had done nothing to deserve yet. I was trying to quickly finish my coffee so I could hug the girls, once again feeling that such intimacy needed to be earned first. Conscious that all eyes were on us, and that we were there under some very specific circumstances that likely demanded a certain behavior (rather than, say, as benefactors of the orphanage, or volunteers aiding in their efforts to meet the children's needs - we've all seen the pictures), we soon got the toys and the photo album out - a great diversion that allowed the children to variously scatter and crowd around. Bless Ted's heart for suggesting balls, we were quickly engaged in throwing and kicking the ball around, which allowed us in turn to focus on the interaction with "our" children.

Later I was holding Beti's hand and running up and down the courtyard with her, quickly gathering a line of other children. Both Beti and her sister are great runners - I was happy to see them so steady on their feet, first relief at motor skills intact. When lifting up Bamu, I noticed a certain limpness under the arms, no engagement of the muscles. Something to build, but I am not worried about it, given the resources we have at home. Other children at the foster home gave the same impression. Maybe it's an age thing too - being new at this mum business, I have a lot to learn. I am smiling at the recollection of how we did some counting, putting one foot in front of the other, and accompanying each step with a chorus of voices in call and response fashion - reminiscent of that school in India that we had stumbled upon during our first Himalayan trek where Ted recorded a similar experience.

When we returned on Monday, the baby had been sleeping at Toukul, delaying our arrival at Biftu for almost an hour which meant the skies had clouded over by the time we arrived and the children were tired and hungry. It made no sense why we would not have gone in the morning given the other couple's appointment was in the afternoon - one of many moments where we were faced with a decision to simply nod our agreement to what we were being told and not question the arrangements, in our typical Western need to control. I left there feeling less upbeat than on Saturday. Maybe it was the toys, the play dough didn't work as well to integrate as the coloring and sticker books the previous time. Beti clearly felt a sense of ownership though - she grabbed the cup and was doling out portions of the sticky mass to her friends. I hopelessly tried to get creative, the best I could do was show her how to roll it on a smooth surface. Yordanos proudly showed me his cross, quickly copied by many other children. Beti struggled as much as me to shape something meaningful - I was clearly no help.

"Mami" is generic, as it turns out - Nanny Helen got the same epithet. When I later told our new friends about this the wife confirmed it, relating stories of adoptive mothers being shocked and feeling betrayed when children pointed to people in photos calling them the same thing. One less thing I need to worry about now that I know.

Easter in Addis

Ted as the oldest male in the group gets to cut the bread. Ethiopian style, making the sign of the cross with the knife first. When I was growing up in Germany, we used to do the same thing. The loaves are just about the same size, too - big round hunks. This one is doughier, almost sweet, having a shiny quality to it as though made with lots of butter. We also get toast - 2 nice white slices. We're eating hesitatingly - there is lots more to come. The lamb is served on the traditional injera, quite familiar by now. We tear off chunks and wrap the meat in it that was cooking over the open fire just a little while ago, in a big round cast iron dish that also serves to do the laundry. We get two servings, tasting very similar; the second one seemed to be ground, possibly inerts. I'm a little worried about all the grease although my stomach so far has been cooperating remarkably well given our usual diet of greens and grains. It definitely tastes best with a bottle of St George, and I'm glad to see the guest house staff and agency personnel make no difference between men and women in this regard.

When all four of us ventured out earlier today we couldn't help but notice the many cafes in the Piassa that seemed to be doing a brisk business selling cake. One in particular seemed to be popular, people were literaly streaming out of the doors, big boxes in hand. Not having much else to do, we stepped in and settled down for a couple cappuccinos - bless the Italians that left their culinary legacy behind even if they never did manage to conquer this country. The Ethiopians are proud of this fact - theirs is pretty much the only country in Africa that never got colonized. They had their share of imperialist battles, to be sure (for reference, review "A History of Ethiopia" by Harold G Marcus), and plenty of internal strife, intrigues and palace coups - but at least successfully defended their independence against the many outsiders that were willing to lay claim to the gold and slave trade. A few days later we completed our culinary excursion to the Mediterannean by having lunch at a Pizza parlor, where our young friend had the time of her life with a huge plate of spaghetti and I got an early lesson in dealing with kids and food.

Our day in Court

Day 4 we peaked. The accumulated stress, the waiting around, the dependency on the driver for everything, the inability to plan - these things are taking their toll on us. Ironically, today we went to court and were simply told that "they are yours for good". The judge was a Muslim woman, with a simple black dress and head scarf. My paranoia about what to wear was mis-placed - plenty of other couples in jeans and shirt. The Germans wore the fancy suits of course. Good news, though, about there being an Ethiopian adoptive community in Germany, should we ever decide to move there.

Federal High Court, Bole Branch. A room full of white people, all there for the same reason. Bizarre, to say the least. Surreal. The procedure itself simple - a few questions, and we were done. Waiting for two hours was probably more trying. Our lawyer had stepped out after a while, leaving me to ponder how I would ever know that our case was being called, given I could not make out the pattern. As it turned out, the orphanage manager and her right-hand man soon appeared on the scene, two comforting, familiar, friendly faces. The face I likely won't forget is that of a small Ethiopian woman, being ushered out after presumably signing a relinquishment document. What might be going on in the minds and hearts of these mothers, coming in from the country, faced with a lawyer and a judge and a high court authority, giving up their children? A smattering of doubt will always remain, even though the orphanage manager assured us later that the mum in our case was "happy" to do so.

Has it sunk in yet? No. Even today, after the other couple had their court date, it feels no different - our biggest question now is when we'll be able to make it to Funyam Bira, supposedly the birth place of Beti and Bamu, and still the place of residence of their mother, considering our lawyer advised us to wait until we have our visas from the US Embassy, lest Mr Jeffries should find fault with the visit. Sure, I can see that there could be a perception of impropriety, and that the lawyer is a bit uncomfortable with leaving us out of his sight.

Nonetheless, it's a bit of a disappointment - it seemed so easy and straighforward, the personnel at Biftu so helpful. Classical case of not being able to assume or reason, and of the futility of plans - initially the laywer seemed reluctanct, indicating he needed to get permission from the US. What seemed a question of our personal security at first the next day became a matter of the agency covering their butts - and we were fully expecting to have to sign some sort of waiver indicating we were acting outside their explicit direction. Still two days later it turns out it was a matter of propriety and in our own interest to wait, in order not to jeopardize the rest of the proceedings even though the children now legally are ours. Whether something new had transpired in the meantime, the story simply changed, or something got lost in translation remains anyone's guess. I do know that I was probably on my most alert in the lawyer's office that afternoon, clearly understanding every word of this message. We're here to complete the mission, as Ted says, and won't do anything to jeopardize it.

All this is important for the kids. I want to find out as much as possible, and yet when I have the opportunity, it's hard to know what else to ask about without appearing aggressive. Every single piece of information will prove helpful down the road when they are trying to figure out where they came from. Their tribe, for example, would be huge. The region points to Oromo, and the orphanage manager confirmed it. But somehow I want to still go there and talk to the locals. Knowing the locacation they came from - although there was some confusion around this too which the orphanage staff thankfully cleared up fairly quickly - is a big piece of the puzzle. Once we realized how far and remote it is from Addis - it begged the question as to how the mum could have possibly made her way all the way to the capital, much less known about Biftu. As it turns out, Biftu has an outreach project there - but that raises only more questions. Did they take the children? Or did the mum initiate the move?

On our last visit we were told that "the police dropped them off". African English being what it is, often reduced to statements framed as questions, and even those limited to simple nouns and verbs, devoid of such superfluous and confusing things as prepositions which of course eliminates any subtleties, we are not sure if this meant that "often" or "in general" children are dropped off by the police (a fact corroberated by Melissa Fay Greene in her book "There is no Me without You"), or that our two little girls in particular had, in fact, been brought to the orphanage by law enforcement. If the latter - how did they come to be in the custody of the police to begin with? You can see how quickly the story unravels - and how many questions will remain unanswered, at least for the time being. The possibility of a private investigation remains as an option for down the road.

Are you counting your money

Governments, Embassies, Agencies and other such instituions and persons involved in the international adoption trade seem to have made a sport of complicating things. About a week before we left, the US Embassy in Addis changed their procedures - you can now file the I600, which allows you to immigrate children, when travelling for court. According to the information we received, this also applies to the I864w, and the DS-230. Well... not so fast. First, the notary at a well known Oregon Bank refused to notarize our signatures, because these are government documents. His colleague at another branch amazingly had no issues with this. Next, at least Part I of the DS230 needs to be signed by the lawyer, not the adoptive parent - a little different from what we had been told. Luckily we travelled with plenty of copies - both signed and unsigned, remembering the lessons from India. But the crowning glory of beaurocractic achievement was our greeting at the Addis Embassy - what are you doing here?

As it turns out, they didn't want our money - and neither did they accept our I600 or anything else. There is a very conscious throttling of effort going on - the intake is limited to one specific day a week for each agency. As to how the fee for the visa was to be paid, if the I600 has to wait for the proper intake day which in turn requires a formal adoption decree, passports, birth certificates and other such things that take time after court, but still has to be filed prior to the visa appointment, that of course is not the government's problem as we were vociferously assured. You'd think that the authorities in the so-called Third World would be giving you problems - but passing Ethiopian court was a breeze. Conversely, it seems to be the petty US beaurocrats with their hardship assignments and SUV's driving south on the week-ends that are intent on making your life miserable.

The long and short of it was that we needed to leave the cash with the lawyer, to be paid on our behalf when submitting the I600 and all the accompanying documents. You'd think that's pretty straightforward. As we found out, an African laywer is not that interested in hauling hundreds of US dollars around. Where to keep it - not safe at the office, not safe at the house, definitely not safe at the bank (where it is likely to lose value - and presumably would pose a problem with record keeping since it is not his income). Reluctantly, he agreed. A case witout precedent, a piece of adoption history in the making.

China invades

Now what. We had passed court, and got turned down at the Embassy. We had tried to arrange a trip to Harer to see the girl's mother and were told politely but firmly no. There was still talk of "bringing the woman to Addis" but we were no longer interested - for the same reason we agreed it didn't make sense to press our case of going there. We tried to fly to Lalibela to see a piece of history - 11th century churches, hewn straight from the rock - but wouldn't be able to return in time to catch our flight back to Frankfurt. Never mind the hiking boots that were weighing down my luggage, waiting for a trekking opportunity. The last thing we wanted was more of the same: cooped up at the guest house, hanging around our fellow PAP's, idly passing the time between breakfast, lunch and dinner. The travel agency owned and operated by a Chicago native offered a solution: a 2-day drive south, through the Great Rift Valley, along a number of lakes with wildlife and birds.

[more to come]