The Rest of the Story

I have nothing to do with this post.

Yesterday Alex sabotaged my social life.  One minute everything was fine.  Then it was, "Mommy, my tummy really hurts."  Finally it was, "I'm going to throw up!"  

I responded with a compassionate, "Don't you dare hurl in my car!"  

I pulled over and Alex deposited the contents of her stomach in a hotel garden.  I smiled at the surprised gardener, then quickly ushered my daughter into the car and back home.  She spent the rest of the evening spooning the barf bowl and watching cartoons.

Her stomach flu meant, however, that I was under house arrest, and my afternoon baking club and dinner party were canceled.   Eric's been in Mozambique all week, so I covet time with grown-ups.  Instead, I stayed up late sewing seat cushion covers by myself.  Yes, cushion covers.  Good Friday night fun in Zambia.

This morning came way too early.  The boys were up at five, and despite the "Do Not Disturb!" sign on my door, they made me crawl out of bed because, "We are so hungry, Mommy."  

I had no energy, so I drank a pot of coffee.   Since no one had vomited in 12 hours, we piled in the car and went to the monthly market at the Dutch Reformed Church.  I figured it would be a distraction for an hour or two.

And it was. Then it was more than a distraction...it was wonderful!  We met friends from school, work, and our neighborhood.  For the first time Lusaka felt like home to me; I could feel roots starting to grow.

Then three kids with Down syndrome walked by.  Two were identical twins, which is so incredibly rare. All three are adopted by an American couple who run a ministry for special needs children.  (Yes, we're having dinner on Wednesday.)

But that isn't even the best part of the story!

Living with this couple is another American woman.  She adopted a Zambian baby from House of Moses.  When I visited this orphanage in November, I remember meeting a toddler diagnosed with Autism.  My heart ached for him:  No one will ever adopt this child.

Ha! Oh, me of little faith.  This woman adopted that little guy in December.  In the time since he's been home, he's progressed marvelously.  He's even walking.  And his mama is madly in love with him.

I love seeing stories like this unfold.  

It's Not You, It's Me...

Sausages!

"If we are devoted to the cause of humanity, we shall soon be crushed and broken-hearted, for we shall often meet with more ingratitude from men than we would from a dog; but if our motive is love to God, no ingratitude can hinder us from serving our fellow men." --Oswald Chambers

I spent all morning making high-protein granola bars for the special-needs group.  Since the kids probably don't get much more than nshima (corn porridge), veggies, and the occasional caterpillar; I figured the kids would enjoy the snacks and juice boxes.  


...But no kids showed up...even though the group told me specifically to come yesterday.  Instead, the group's board members met me in the dirt courtyard.


We stared at each other.   I was just dropping by to say hi.  They thought I had an an elaborate agenda.  It. Was. Awkward.  


I gave the group my food items.  They thanked me, but it was like a Christmas gift you hoped was an X-Box, but turned out to be tube socks.  Finally the secretary said what everyone was thinking, "I thought you were going to connect us to some funders."  Translation:  We thought you were going to give us a big fat check.


I asked for some clarification on their plans.  They want to buy a plot of land, build a center for special-needs children, hire qualified teachers and physical therapists, pay for medical care for everyone, purchase a vehicle, and on and on.  I applauded them for their vision, but when I asked them how they planned to fund this, they said, "We want to make and sell sausage.  We need $3,500 for a sausage machine from South Africa."


I love micro-enterprise projects, because enabling commerce is more sustainable than charity.  Teach a man to fish.  Then teach him how to sell his fish, so he can buy bricks for a house. 


But sausage?  Seriously?  There is no refrigeration or a sanitary place for this endeavor.  They'd be selling tubes of E.coli to their neighbors.  That's hardly a get-rich-quick scheme.  


I asked to see some of the proposals they'd written.  A polite "no."  I asked how they'd spend the sausage profits.  "We'll decide as a group."  I asked them for a budget.  A plan.  Anything.  


They just wanted my money.  


This stung.  I said, "Goodbye", and "We'll be in touch," gathered my three children, and walked back to my car.  


The irony is that I've been in their shoes.  I've written countless proposals to foundations.   I've thought many times, "You are rich.  Just give us your money, and don't ask so many questions.  We know what we are doing."    I realize now that a) being rich is relative, and b) funders want to be connected to their projects...much like a marriage.  


So after some thought, I've decided that I need to break up with this group*, which is probably easier said than done.  Thank goodness for Caller ID!


I'm not discouraged, however.  There are many more fish in the sea... including four organizations within 1/2 mile of my home.


*I am working with an American doctor to get treatment for Baby Joseph with the blisters.  

Car Problems

"Yep, that's a wheel..."

Flat tires are no big deal if you have a spare, a jack, and a person who can fix it.  I had two out of the three.  I tried to recruit my French class members to hoist up my car, but they politely declined.

So I called Eric, and my knight in shining armor rescued me.  He brought his jack and got started.  (I might break a nail...)  When he struggled to remove the hub cap, a employee from the school grabbed the tire iron from him and took over.  

Speaking of cars...Eric got pulled over the other day for making an illegal turn in front of the police station.  The cop yelled at him, "You!  You are guilty of breaking the law!  Pull over here."

Eric replied, "I'm so very glad that you pulled me over.  You see, my phone was stolen, and I was just on the way to the police station to file a report.  I wasn't sure where to go."

The cop responded graciously, "Oh, in that case, park right over there and you can go inside and make your report."

As a side note, making a police report is free.  However, as my Zambian friends confirmed, it is common for the station to be "out of paper" and unable to write down anything unless you make a "donation" of $4-5.  This is an annoyance for a lost cell phone, but a huge issue of you are a penniless victim of domestic violence.

This time the officers managed to have paper when Eric arrived.  After he finished he hopped into his car as was able to leave without a ticket.

Alex's Braids and Extensions

This only took six hours!

True Love

Today's photo of Isaac and his true love.

Entertaining Ourselves

Alex & Isaac and Pauline & Alice

The ball sailed over the cinderblock wall just in time.  Isaac and Alex were whining about lacking stuff to do, and there it was:  a sign that other kids were a ball's-throw away.


A few seconds later two heads popped up.  I cautioned them not to touch the electric fence.  They nodded and asked for the ball back, and my kids obliged.


Alex, my kid who hates to waste a friendship opportunity, decided to write the girls a letter. "But how can I deliver my message to them?" she asked.


Attaching the message to string wouldn't work, because we don't have any.  And I don't have the faintest idea where one might purchase such item.  (I do know, however, where to get live chickens and cinderblocks.)

But we do have empty plastic Easter eggs, which make excellent projectile missiles and can be easily lobbed over the wall by one of my children.


After an afternoon of exchange, Alex has a collection questions and answers scribbled out on strips of construction paper.  


One of them reads:  "Alex, can you keep a secret?  If you can, I can tell you who I really am."


Alex may be able to keep a secret, but if it makes for a good story, you can bet it'll be on the Showell Update.  I'll keep you posted!

Birthday Faux Pas

How many men does it take to do a Braai?

Cultural misunderstandings are inevitable, but I sure didn't see this one coming. 

Last Saturday I invited my French class over for my birthday.  The class chose a suitable time, I made invitations, and everyone seemed excited.  The day of the party, however, none of my female classmates came.  I was surprised.  

My friend "Skinny G" chatted with my French teacher and got the inside scoop:

If you host a party, Zambians expect you to provide everything. Potlucks are a foreign concept.  My classmates panicked when I asked them to bring a side dish.  They wondered what they could possibly prepare that would complement my American menu. 

Not only that, but the host is obligated to pay roundtrip transportation for all of his guests.  

"Who could possibly afford to host a party here then?" Skinny G asked.   

I agree, however I understand that if you are on a tight budget, shelling out $4 for bus fare can be tough.

Despite this little hiccup, the rest of us had a splendid time together.  Eric had us all play "Two Truths and a Lie," which turned out to be a fun ice breaker considering we had guests from Zambia, Nigeria, South Africa, Senegal, and Canada.  

It won't surprise me, however, if I find out that we offended someone with that game.  

Probably those Canadians...

Chasing Wild Geese

Me in Lusaka 

Finding the Social Services office this morning was an epic quest.  No, come to think of it, more like fool's errand, and guess who was the fool?

I should have known something was up when the social worker couldn't even give me directions to her office.  

"Do you know where (random landmark) is?" she asked me.

"No," I replied.

"How about (other random landmark)?" 

"Uh, nope. Can you just give me cross streets?"  I had a map, so I should have been able to find anything.

"Yes...but the problem is that the entire area is under construction, so the main road is closed."  

She finally asked me if I knew where the West Police Station was.  I said yes, which was a total lie.  I figured, however, that I could check online and get an address. 

That was my mistake.  I'm spoiled from living in Seattle where everything is online.

I knew generally where I should go, so Oliver and I set out.  We drove around for about an hour and after much hullaballoo found the social worker hidden in Room 7 (doors not marked) in the Social Services building (not marked), behind the "Boma Courts" (marked with a different name).  

Here' s the icing:   The social worker told me that to start the foster/adoption process, I'd need to email her the following documents:  Our IDs and our homestudy from the US.   I gritted my teeth, smiled politely and silenced the angry thoughts in my head.  Seriously?  You couldn't have just told me this over the phone?

This errand made me late for French class.  But you know what?  My annoyance melted once I stepped into the classroom.  Seems conjugating verbs is good medicine for a wild goose chase.

Special Needs Club

"So, what are you going to do for us?"--Mother of a special needs child in Zambia

When baby Joseph was born, the midwife noticed a small pimple on his arm and mentioned it to his parents.  Little did they know, his dad tells me, that this was only the beginning.

Joseph is four years old and covered in mysterious blisters.  When his sister took off his pants to show me his legs, Joseph clenched his dad's hands and cried out in pain.  Indeed, not one part of his body is lesion or pain free.

As I took these photos, I wanted desperately to excuse myself and sob.   I couldn't leave though.  I, the white "Mzungu", was their guest of honor and supposed to help them.  I think they expected me to snap my fingers so money and healing would rain from the heavens.  

There were two boys in wheelchairs.  One mute boy. A few children with cerebral palsy.  

But it was little Joseph who broke my heart.  

Charity, the director of the organization, told me her dream of opening a school for these children.  She has a few ideas to generate income.  She is passionate about making sure these kids are valued and given a decent shot at life.

For now this rag-tag group of 20 gather together to sing and dance in the dirt.

I'm not sure what the next step is supposed to be.  I'm not even sure I want to be involved.  

Then again, I wouldn't have signed up to parent a child with Down syndrome, but God dropped Oliver into my life anyway.  And I fell in love with the little rascal.  Although he's on my list right now, because he drained about a gallon of water from the dispenser all over the kitchen floor. 

King Oliver and his BFF Elizabeth