Zanzibar!

"Never go on trips with anyone you do not love."--Ernest Hemingway

A crab...and a coconut crab.  Sorry, I couldn't help it.

"Shawn and I almost got divorced at the airport," Rachelle told me once we'd arrived at the beach house.

I know, I know.  I shouldn't gossip, but this is a good story, so I've modified their names.

Rachelle and Shawn were happily married with four darling children under the age of six.  They lived in Africa too, so we arranged to meet them in Zanzibar for a vacation extravaganza.  For fun we invited my parents and Eric's sister Lo Lo to join in the chaos (seven kids!).  But back to Rachelle's story...

It was nearly midnight when they were checking in for their flights.  For those of you who haven't traveled internationally with small children at midnight, let me tell you, it is miserable.  There isn't any contraption that enables you to safely transport four passed-out kids and their luggage through the airport and immigration.

At the ticket counter Rachelle found out that Shawn made a huge mistake when he booked the tickets. She was on the midnight flight with the three boys, and he was scheduled to travel with their little girl on another day.  That's when  Rachelle, who is nearly unflappable, lost her mind. Fortunately the ticket agent, sensing an emergency, was able to squeeze the entire family on the same flight that night.  Thanks be to God.

Zanzibar Red Colobus Monkey

Oddly enough our family managed to scrape up some drama as well.

We arrived at the Lusaka airport, checked in, and waited to board our plane.  When the gate agent asked for our tickets and passports, he also demanded our yellow fever vaccination cards.  We totally had those--only they were at home, and it was too late to get them.

"I'm sorry.  Tanzania won't let people in who are from countries with yellow fever."

"Ah, but we are Americans," I pleaded, "and we've been vaccinated, I promise!"

"How long have you been in Zambia?" he asked.

"3 years..." I said.

"Absolutely not."

Alex and Isaac were devastated.  The next flight out wasn't for a few days.

But, again, I've lived here for three years.  I know that when a door closes, a window can be pried open for a few hundred dollars.

"These are good for 10 years," the gate agent told us and handed us our duplicate yellow fever cards.

But we made it to Zanzibar, and the island didn't disappoint us.  Most residents are Muslim, and we arrived at the very end of Ramadan.  The streets were packed with men and women buying food and fancy clothing for Eid al-Fitr, the big party celebrating the end of fasting.

Mr. Clean selling stuff at the market 

When Auntie Lo Lo arrived, she looked frazzled.  She'd made it all the way from Oregon to Zanzibar, but her luggage was lost somewhere in between.  "Don't worry, we'll deliver your bags to your lodge," the airline assured her.  Lo Lo rolled her eyes.

Let the record show that Eric and I told her the bags would come...and come they did.  Sure, some of her valuables were missing, but at least she had a change of underwear and her toothbrush.

One-stop shopping at the market

We snorkeled. We toured spice farms.  We played in the soft white sand.   It was all fun-and-games until my mother's elbow swelled up to the size of a soft ball.  Zanzibar is exotic, but not the place to be if your body goes into septic shock.  

Shawn, the same guy who nearly abandoned his wife and three boys at the airport, called his surgeon father.  "Get some Tetracycline, and she should feel better in a day."

Small problem:  there are no pharmacies in rural Zanzibar.   We asked the cook at our house to ask around the village for the antibiotics.  Sure enough, within the hour, there was a guy with a bag of prescription drugs.  My mom got what she needed, and as I write this post, she is alive and well.

Spice tour finds

Obligatory cow-on-city-street photo

"Nice racks, beautiful butt & smoking hot legs." Thanks Tennessee for your inappropriate shirts.

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Carved door frame in Stone Town

On our last day, we took a soap-making class in Stone Town.  Again, great fun until Oliver creamed his shorts. Thankfully the shop had a small bathroom, so he and I scurried off to clean up.

Best soap ever.

The bathroom had a toilet, but lacked running water, soap, and a garbage bin. This may be TMI*...but let's just say that I wasn't going to be taking his undies home with us, so I folded them and hid them under the sink. Yes, I feel a little bad about this, but you'd probably do the same thing.

I then sent Eric on a mission to find some antibiotics.  Fortunately Stone Town has a pharmacy.

Imagine.  Oliver can't swallow a pill, so we needed to crush the meds, mix with juice, pour into a syringe, and shoot the concoction down his gullet.  The problem was my hands were far from clean, and with the lack of soap and water I was hesitant to mix the drugs. 

Then I remembered something:  We were taking a soap-making class!  I plunged my hand into the soap mixture, scrubbed furiously and rinsed with bottled water.  

As I write this post, Oliver, too, is alive and well.  

But, in closing, I'd like to reflect on why Ernest Hemingway would say to only travel with people you love.  It's obvious:   It's because nobody has to die.  The end.

Mama collecting seaweed

*Too much information

Sunday Snot Suckers

"Love is like a booger, you pick and pick at it. Then when you get it, you wonder how to get rid of it." --Mae West

Oliver woke me up last night with one swollen cheek and a gooey green nose.  Fantastic, I thought. There's nothing I like better than going to the hospital on the weekend.

Eric and I took small child to ONE OF THE BEST HOSPITALS in Lusaka. That is key to this story. (If you are a worry wart, please chill.  We have great medical evacuation insurance.)

Before we even saw the doctor, Eric snapped this photo of the wall in the waiting room hallway.

Ok, super sleuths...what's missing?

Then I found this poster in the restroom.  My favorite is the last illustration of how NOT to use the toilet. This means someone has actually done this.

Don't worry.  Oliver has never vomited IN the toilet at this hospital.  

The doctor poked and prodded Oliver's mouth to see what the problem was.  Then he prescribed antibiotics.  Oliver didn't say much during the whole examination except, "Fox."  Which was kind of awkward, because he still can't say the "s" sound.  I assured the doctor that Oliver just LOVES "Fantastic Mr. Fox", but I don't think he believed me.

The doctor told us to keep an eye on the infection.  Then he added, "One of you needs to suck the mucus out his nose."

Eric turned to me and asked, "We DO have one of those nose suckers, don't we?"

"Yes," I assured him.  Finding it may be a challenge.

"Actually," the doctor interjected, "The best way to clean it is for you to suck his nose with your mouth."

"Ha, your joking, right?"  Eric asked.

"No, seriously.  That way you can feel when you've got it all out."

I gagged and thought, Oliver's nose can fall off before I'm sticking my mouth there. Do you have any idea how toxic that small child is?

Don't worry, Oliver's nose will be fine.  Right now Eric is scouring Lusaka for an industrial vacuum cleaner.

Anniversary Adventures

South Africans love their warning signs.

"How can I see clearly what's wrong with someone else, and then look at myself as though I'm standing in front of a fogged mirror?"  --Jarod Kintz

I thought Eric would burst a blood vessel at the Johannesburg airport.  Our flight was boarding in minutes and the ticket agent wouldn't check his bike until he paid the extra transport fee.

"But your website says that bikes are free," he protested.

"Yes, but not during this time," she replied.

Eric groaned.  "What do you mean, 'this time?' Seriously?  How am I supposed to know when you arbitrarily change the rules?"

"Sir," the agent said, "I do not control the policy."

 I urged my spouse to give up the fight and pay the $35.

"Fine!" he shouted.  "I'll pay the stupid fee."  He pulled out his wallet.

"Sir.  I can't take your money.  You'll need to go over there to pay, and bring me back the receipt."  She pointed to a long cashier's line.

Eric stormed over to the line and barked at me to watch his bike, which I did, because I didn't want to stand next to Mr. Cranky Pants.

Of course, the cashier didn't have a clue how to find the bike fee in her computer system.  She called a supervisor and they searched together.  Eric rocked back and forth with fury.  When they gave him the receipt he stomped back to the ticket agent.  She issued us a tag and told us that since the bag was over-sized luggage, we'd need to take it to a different part of the airport to check it.  She added, "Wow.  I don't think you'll have time to do that and make your flight."

And that's when Eric melted down.  One of the airport staff finally stepped in and offered to take the bike to the drop off location, so we could get on our plane.  Which we did.

I was convinced that his bike would never show up in Cape Town.  That would be a problem, because the purpose of the trip was to ride in the 109 km Cape Argus Cycle Tour--something we'd been training for months to do.

A dark cloud hung over Eric's head for the entire flight, which irritated me.  Seriously?  You are going to let a dysfunctional airport ruin our anniversary?  How immature.

When we touched down in Cape Town, our eyes widened.  We marveled at the ocean, the tall shiny buildings, and the functioning traffic lights.  We grabbed our luggage (no bike, ha*!), checked into our hotel and ate dinner.

Then we headed to the hospital.  Yes, the hospital, because I had scheduled a sleep study for myself.  I mean, why enjoy a nice hotel when you can sleep in a crappy hospital bed with electrodes super-glued to your head?

And this is the point of the story when things fell apart for me...the one who held the moral high ground at the airport when my husband was losing his mind.

The sleep study was a disaster. Not only did I NOT sleep, the machine malfunctioned and didn't get any data.  At 5 am the nurse rubbed acetone into my scalp and pulled out the electrodes.  "Sarah, I will make sure the hospital doesn't charge you for last night.  Ok, Sarah?  You can come back tonight and we'll try again. They can't charge you for a study that didn't work, Sarah.  That wouldn't be right, Sarah."  She babbled on and on.

I fumed. I rocked back and forth.  I wanted to scream, "For crying out loud you crazy woman, SHUT UP!"

When Eric picked me up I burst into tears.  "I can't do another one.  I can't."  And my husband's response? Kindness.  He didn't tell me to pull it together and stop blowing things out of proportion.

The sleep doctor, while apologetic, said that he couldn't help me until he had proper data, and "Could I please come that evening?" Me and my bad attitude reluctantly agreed, under the condition that Nurse Nut-job wouldn't be there.

I'm glad I went, because I slept that night,  and they got the data, and the doctor discovered my sleep disorder: my legs like to dance all night long.

The rest of the time we enjoyed the magical city.

Vineyards

Mountains

Seas

One day we took the cable car up Table Mountain and planned to hike down. That plan changed once we heard the stories about people blowing out their knees.  We didn't want to risk a sprained ankle before the big bike race, so we purchased tickets for the cable car.

I am a Rock Hyrax 

We saw several of these cute marmot-type creatures.  One guy told me that it was related to the elephant.  I laughed and said something like, "I may be American, but I ain't stupid."

Today I checked the Rock Hyrax Wikipedia page, and this is what it says:

The closest living relatives to hyraxes are the modern-day elephants and sirenians.

This means that we can no longer trust Wikipedia.

As soon as we stepped into the cable car line, the power went out.  Apparently the government started rolling blackouts that day to save energy.

But no worries, folks.  Table Mountain had a back up plan:  a generator.  Sadly, but not surprisingly, it overheated after 20 minutes.  We sat on the top of the mountain for hours and hours and hours.

I'm sure they got lots of feedback.

At least we wouldn't be the first to die on Table Mountain

When the power popped on and the cable cars whizzed into motion, one thousand people cheered.  

We wrapped up our anniversary trip with the Cape Argus Cycle Tour with 35,000 other riders.  That day (of course) the winds picked up to 80 kpm.   Cycling up and down Chapman's Peak was an exhilarating ride to say the least.

And, just like that, our 12th Anniversary Adventure was over, and it was time to head back home.

When we checked in at the airport, the agent informed us that we had to pay an extra baggage fee in addition to TWO bike transport fees. Oh, and she weighed our carry-on bags and found them to be overweight.

Since Eric was so kind to me after my sleep study debacle, I won't throw him under the bus here.

Let's just say, however, that from here on out, I'm slipping Eric a Xanax when we fly anywhere together.








*Eric's bike arrived safely on the following flight.

Goodbye, Baby

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.  –Elie Wiesel

An infant named Loveness died on Tuesday.  She was four months old, and she was almost our daughter.

We met her when she was 11 days old.  We’d been in contact with an orphanage director who told us that she was available for adoption.  We immediately hopped in our car and drove four hours to make it happen.

We met the Aunt who brought Loveness to the orphanage.  For hours she had dripped sugar water from a plastic sack into Loveness’s mouth, because she didn’t have any milk.  When they finally arrived at the orphanage, Loveness sucked down a bottle of warm formula.

When I met sweet Loveness,   I held her on my chest.  That little spit-fire of a girl lifted her head up and looked around.  She was healthy, despite a rough start in life.

We took the Aunt to the social welfare office and waited in the car while the she talked to the social worker. The social worker, who was convinced that the Aunt was trafficking the baby, tried to make her confess to the crime.  But the Aunt held firm, and the social worker conceded, “Fine.  But you need a letter from the headman [who reports to the chief] in your village giving permission to release the baby for adoption.  And…you will all need to meet with me in my office next week.”

The next step was to get the letter from the headman.  We drove two-hours until we reached her village.  Soon we were surrounded by Loveness’s extended family, who were puzzled by our arrival.

Writing the letter

The family discussed letting us adopt the baby and they agreed that this was the best option for her.  The headman spoke fluent English and crafted a letter officially releasing the baby to us.  My favorite moment was when we showed them iPhone video of our children chasing each other on their scooters.  They laughed and laughed.  It seemed like a perfect fit.

With letter in hand, we returned to our hotel and then back to Lusaka.  We arranged to meet everyone again at the social welfare office in a few days.

But tragedy struck the family once again—another relative died—so they postponed the social welfare meeting so they could sort out funeral arrangements.

And it was at the funeral that Loveness’s adoption plan came unraveled.  The funeral attendees discussed the implications of adoption and what so-and-so would think if they found out.  As the headman later told us, “It threw us upside down.”

The family revoked their permission, even though no one was able to take Loveness into their home.  The headman assured us he’d come and collect her one day--when she was 3 or 4 years old.  Until then, she would remain at the orphanage.

Of course this broke our hearts, but there was nothing we could do about it.

Do I think we could have prevented this tragedy?  I don’t know for sure, but one study indicates babies are absolutely better off living with their mothers in prison than living in an orphanage. 

Author Maia Szalavitz wrote a great post here about the dangers of orphanages.   

 “But how could simply being in an orphanage kill a baby? Basically, they die from lack of love. When an infant falls below the threshold of physical affection needed to stimulate the production of growth hormone and the immune system, his body starts shutting down.”

I wish more than anything that we could have brought Loveness home. And, God forbid, if she had died anyway—despite being loved and cherished—at least our arms could have ushered her to heaven. 

Baby Loveness, I’m sorry your biological mother and father were not able to care for you. That is a hardship. I’m sorry that you died before you had a chance to live.  That is a tragedy.

But the fact that you were denied a family of your own...well, that is an injustice.

Rest in peace, sweet child. 

Malawi Road Trip

 Fake-ation: a vacation with children--Eric Showell

Lake Malawi

Well, another Showell Family Adventure is in the books. To shake up the 15-hour drive to Malawi this time, I decided that this was the week to potty-train Oliver.  Every ½ hour or so, Eric would pull and we’d hop out and do our business.  Within seconds a vacant field would fill with wide-eyed children watching the "mazungus" drop their drawers.  This used to embarrass me, however now I’d rather expose my backside to people than pit vipers.  Besides, it makes me smile to think of the stories shared around the village campfires that evening.

We filled our days with snorkeling and swimming and sand. 

Even Oliver went snorkeling with us, except without the snorkel 

The fish in the lake.  No fish were harmed for this photo.

Best seat in the boat.

During the in-between-times we looked at creepy crawly things under Isaac’s microscope.

I found this smashed lizard under the couch.  Jackpot!

The mother of all snails.

What my kids actually did

On our last day, Oliver woke up with a mild fever.  While we loaded the car, I asked Alex to help him eat at the breakfast buffet.  Mere minutes after I left them, Alex came running out to me.  “Oliver has barfed all over the place.  There is a woman helping him clean up, but you should come.”  Oliver is programmed to empty the contents of his stomach randomly and without warning.  It keeps things  exciting, to say the least. 

What does the cow say?

On the way back from Malawi we drove up through the mountains.  It is such a gorgeous drive and there is a quaint pottery place in Dedza that sells real cheesecake.  Africa is filled with cheesecake knock-offs—but these phonies are only gelantinous, no-bake, nasty-crap concoctions.  So when you find honest-to-goodness-real cheesecake—you stop and eat it.

Why did the cows cross the road?  To get to the UDDER side.

Since this town lures people with dessert, the police have set up multiple speed traps to get a cut of the action.  The first time we got pulled over, Eric paid the fine.  No bargaining.  No pleading.  He just handed over our last $12 and we went on our way. 

Bird Island

The second time, Eric wasn’t a happy camper.  When he normally contests an infraction, he turns on his charm and the police let him go—probably because he has entertained them.  That Eric was missing-in-action.  I walked over to the radar gun station and asked the officer how the radar gun worked.  Some common tricks are to set up a radar gun that doesn’t even turn on, or to display the speed of a different vehicle.  The cop was delighted to show me.  “You see, you point it at the car and push this button.  There.  He is going 62.  He is speeding.”

“How interesting,” I replied.  “What about that truck?”  The cop aimed the gun—and sure enough the truck was going at least 30 kilometers over the speed limit.  “Are you going to pull him over?” I asked.  “No,” he said.  “We don’t have an officer on that side of the [2-lane] road.”  Hmm…I suspected that the cops knew who would have money—but that is just a hunch. Sad thing is that we were out of Malawi kwacha, so we were a bad choice.

We didn't ask what these creepy guys wanted

But we know the secret to getting out of most tickets:    Cops don’t like to waste [their own] time.  They want to pull people over, collect money, and move on to the next victim. If a driver is willing to sit and wait for 20 minutes, then officers will let you go, because you are costing them money.  That is what we did, and sure enough—we were released. 

Fish eagle

This, however, soured Eric’s attitude, so on the THIRD time we were pulled over—and by then we knew it was a little bogus—I was worried that Eric might explode.  He wasn’t in the mood for another waiting game, so I saved the day with my quick thinking.

I made use of Oliver-- the little-barfer.  Fortunately he was passed out in my arms and looked near-death.  Don’t be concerned, he always looks like this when he sleeps—all floppy and snoring like a drunk sailor.    

“Sir,” I said to the officer, “My child is sick.  He has a fever and he vomited this morning.  Do you know where a local clinic is?”  I asked this knowing full well that he didn’t need to go to the clinic, but for the record…it wasn’t a lie.  It was code for, “My son may have 'malaria', so you wouldn't give us a ticket, would you?”

The officer looked Oliver and said, “There is a hospital down the road.  You need to get that baby to the hospital now.  Go!” I thanked the officer and gave Eric a high five when we were out of sight. 

Sadly the three speed-traps delayed us too much to make lunch at our favorite spot in Lilongwe—by 7 minutes. I thought Eric was going to cry when his dream of peri-peri prawns was dashed.  We tried several other restaurants, but none accepted credit.  Finally he plopped us down at one place and stormed off to find an ATM machine.  After five machines, he found one that worked….and, --shocker! --it had a long line….Because it was the ONLY stinking machine THAT WORKED! 

When Eric got back, we threw food in his general direction and waited until he stopped snarling to approach him.  The calories calmed his frazzled nerves, and soon we were on the road again—this time to the border.

Oliver was wearing a diaper at this point of the journey, because all of us suffer when there is a potty accident in the car.  Besides, I was tired of throwing perfectly good (but soiled) outfits out the window.  While we filled out immigration paperwork Oliver explored the small lobby.  Alex and Isaac are learning how to fill out their own paperwork which [sort of] helps the process, wait, scratch that.  In between the “Mom, when does my passport expire?” and “What is my nationality?” I peeked up to check on Oliver.  He was squirming uncomfortably.  Then his saggy diaper surrendered the fight and shot out from his pant leg—right there on the immigration floor.  I’d like to say that no one noticed it, but come on, we are a walking circus—and were the only white people in the room. This was clearly my child who had deposited this nasty package. I picked up the offending item and smiled at the line of women staring at me.  “I know,” I smiled. “I live a glamorous life, don’t I?”

We got over the border and to the hotel.  We had a good meal and a great night sleep.   We were all in much better moods and ready for final 7-hour leg home. 

And this is the point of the story when I could reveal one of my husband’s issues that nearly justified murder. But I won’t, because he has admitted that he is wrong and I am right, so I’m letting it go.  I mean, why ruin memories of a fabulous trip to Malawi with complaints of his unwillingness to buy snacks when there is a grocery store nearby in a country with ZERO rest stops or stores selling anything to eat for 7 hours?  Yes sirree…I’m taking the moral high ground and not bringing it up. 

Now if you’ll excuse me while I take a nap.  I need to recover from my vacation.

 m