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

America or Bust

Don't let the smile fool you:  this is a dirty, rotten child.

"You have to change those diapers every day.  When those directions on the side of the Pampers box say, 'Holds 6-12 pounds' they're not kidding!"  --Jeff Foxworthy

If at all possible, don't travel overseas with young children.  I have done it, and I'm still recovering.  

Oliver and I departed for America at midnight, which meant that he'd passed out well before we'd even reached the security checkpoint, so I got to lug his 40-pound corpse and all of our carry-ons.  As I removed his shoes to place in the scanner, one of the Zambian staff shook her head and scolded me, "You should have brought a chitenge for that child."  In other words, I should have brought a large piece of fabric so I could have strapped my child to my back instead of carrying him in my arms.   

 No, I should have left this child at home, because little did I know that it was only going to get worse. 

The day before our flight, Oliver went to the doctor, because he had pharyingitis and a sinus infection.  The doctor loaded him up with antibiotics and steroids, so we wouldn't have any breathing issues on the flight.  Unfortunately those drugs wreaked havoc on his intestines. 

I won't be too graphic, but let's just say that within an hour after takeoff, there was an explosion in Oliver's seat.  Such was the damage that I notified the flight attendant. "Um, you may want to burn this blanket...this pillow...and uh, this whole seat."  
  
I threw away his other outfit, and put on his CANADA t-shirt.  We were a walking disaster, and America sure didn’t need us for ambassadors.

After two 10-hour flights and a 5-hour layover in Amsterdam, we arrived in our homeland.  A couple days later, still struggling with jet lag, I gave a speech for my father's Rotary club. 

"Just make it short and FUNNY," was the official request. 

"No problemo.  There are plenty of funny things about Zambia," I told myself.  What I should have done was decline... AND left Oliver at home. 
 
The venue was dinner at a golf club.  

While enjoying our meal, Oliver creamed his shorts.  As I escorted him to the ladies' room I scolded myself for not bringing a diaper bag.  For crying out loud, I’ve had at least one child in diapers for nine years! When will I learn? (My money is on NEVER at this point.)
 
Fortunately the ladies room had a courtesy basket filled with feminine supplies.  With MacGyver-like efficiency I affixed three Maxi pads into Oliver’s shorts and headed back to dinner like it was no big deal. 
 
I mean, what was the chance that he’d have another blow-out before my speech was finished?
 

Wait for it…

Yeah, there was a 100% chance, and this time it was a full disaster. 
 
I thought about fashioning a toilet paper toga for Oliver, but Grandma rescued me us.  She rushed him home, and I stepped on stage for my stand-up comedy debut. 

 “I live in Zambia,” I said.  "It’s the size of Texas.  There are 13.5 million people and 40,000 hippos."   I gave a few facts before I attempted my first joke.  

 "And, this may be hard to believe, but there are a whole bunch of black people there," I said and waited for laughter.

Crickets.  That is, until someone asked, "Well, what did you expect?"

I was sure that my audience had a sense of humor, so I tried again. 

"Actually there are a few people who are white.  They have a skin condition called albinism which is a medical disorder where they lack pigment in their skin," I explained.
 

Which person has albinism?

I was poking fun at my own melatonin deficiencies, but my audience only felt pity for the other woman.  People actually said, "Aww." 

But why stop at two failed jokes when you could have yet another opportunity to be misunderstood?  I pressed on ahead. 

"Speaking of people with no color, Zambia has a white Vice-President.  This is pretty incredible considering Zambia was a nation that was colonized by the British."   

"Yeah," my dad told me later, "I suspect that your audience thought you were saying that Zambia is great, BECAUSE there is a white person in government."  (Which, for the record, was NOT my point.) 

At this point in my speech I knew that I wouldn't cut it as a comedian, so I put up a photo of that same child who had made my life so difficult during the past few days.
 

I call them "Thing 1" and "Thing 2"

This is Oliver with his best friend in the world, Daniel.

"Why am I in Zambia?" I asked my audience.  "Here is why: Daniel's mom died in childbirth.  The woman who adopted him has herself lost two children to preventable diseases. This is a kid who has so much potential.  I want to see Zambia become a country where Oliver's best friend has access to excellent education and awesome medical care.  Thank you very much, and good night." 

That's how I ended it, and boy, was I happy to see Eric, Isaac and Alexandra when they flew in a few days later.  I was sure that my speech and sickness was behind me. 

Little did I know that the stomach flu and strep throat were coming down the pike.

Stupid Is as Stupid Does

"And far be it from me to ever let my common sense get in the way of my stupidity. I say we press on.” ― Sherrilyn Kenyon, Infinity

"How are you going to tell this story without making me look bad?" Eric asked as we drove away from Zambian immigration.  He knew that this blog post was imminent and begged for mercy.

I thought for a moment and graciously responded, "The truth is, Eric, all of us do dumb things. In fact, I think each person is allowed 1000 Stupid Points a year."

"Ok...," he said.

"Remember when, today, you made fun of me, because I couldn't pump the sunblock out of the bottle, so I unscrewed the lid and wiped the straw over my arm?"  I asked.

"Yeah, that was something else.  All you had to do was turn the head in the direction of the arrow that was printed on the top of the head and...voilà! It's like a magic pump!" Eric grinned.

"Yeah," I said.  "That was worth 1 Stupid Point.  Me?  I like to use my points one or two at a time."

He nodded.

"You?  You like to blow them all at once. Don't get me wrong.  I'm ever-so-grateful, because I needed some  blogging material."

"Oh.  Good point."

So without further ado...this blog post is dedicated to my handsome and very intelligent husband:

*****************************************************************************

Oliver and Aunt Lisa in the Safari Truck

Eric's sister Lisa is visiting Zambia.  To punish ourselves celebrate, we piled into the car and headed down to Victoria Falls.  Oliver didn't appreciate Victoria's cold deluge, and I didn't appreciate slipping-on-my-bum on Knife's Edge bridge while holding my screaming toddler.  Come on Zambia...let's de-slime the bridges, so people don't have to break a hip while viewing one of the Natural Wonders of the World.  

Happy family at the top of Victoria Falls

But I digress...

The following day we crossed the border to Botswana and safaried by boat and car.  

Sorry...but another digression...

Message for safari knuckleheads:  NOBODY cares what you've seen on previous safaris.  I don't care if you've seen a 5-legged giraffe doing the Macarena...don't bother mentioning it on a my safari. 

A common one-upmanship conversation goes like this:

Person A:  It was SSSSSSSOOOOOOOO amazing.  We saw a lion!
Person B:  Really?  That's great.  I remember when we saw a whole lion family wrestling with each other.  I'll never forget how cute the newborn cubs were.
Person C:  Lions are nice, but the most spectacular thing I've ever seen was a leopard  making a kill while giving birth.  

Don't get me wrong: lion cubs are adorable.

The worst time to hear this conversation is on a safari when all the animals are hiding, except the troop of baboons, which--let's be honest--are the sewer rats of the safari world.

That day our safari was rather uneventful, with two exceptions:

1) The dung beetles.  They are fascinating little creatures.

I think we ran over this little lady with our truck.

2) The horny elephant.  And by "horny" I don't mean a rhino.  I'm talking about the, "Mommy, why does that elephant have 5 legs?" horny.  

The 5-legged elephant

After the safari, the Showells breezed through Botswana immigration and headed to Zambian immigration.  This particular border crossing is mayhem wrapped in chaos with a side of nonsense. There are semi-trucks and street vendors, armed guards and money changers.   If you are not used to it, it is sensory overload.  Add in three kids and you can understand why Eric didn't want to wait in the line with everybody else.

So he grabbed someone to help expedite the process.  The kids and I went to our car and waited.

And waited.  And waited.  Then our "expeditor" came out and asked if I had accidentally grabbed Lisa's passport, because it was missing.  I checked my bags.  Nope.  Not with us.

A few minutes later Lisa came out to the car.  She was shaking with anger.  "They've lost my passport," she said and tears spilled down her cheeks.  

By this time, I'd become BFFs with the money changers.  I told Lisa not to worry, but she was having none of it.  She was convinced that she'd never get out of Zambia.  Even the money changers told her to calm down.  "Don't worry, Madam.  Don't worry..."

"How can they lose my passport?  This is ridiculous!" she yelled back at them.

"I don't know.  Just have a little faith.  They'll find your passport," I said.  The Zambian men outside my car nodded.  They wanted her to calm down just as much as I did.

"In fact," I added, "I'm going to pray to Jesus that we find this passport."  I said a quick prayer, and the Zambians emphatically their "Amens!"

Lisa muttered, "Eric better not have my passport in his pocket..."

Less than a minute later Eric was back at the car.  

"Did they find it?"  I asked.

"Yes, but here's the problem..."he started.

"Where was my passport?" Lisa interrupted.  

"In my back pocket.  And the guy from immigration is really really angry and wants us to apologize," he said.

Then the LIVID immigration official appeared at my window.  Eric hadn't yelled or behaved inappropriately, but the tense situation made the immigration official lose face and people had assumed that he'd done something crooked, when, in fact, he had just been doing his job.  

Eric apologized.  Lisa apologized.  I apologized.  

And with that and a huge smile, the man let us go on our merry way.

That's how Eric spent his Stupid Points and how Lisa earned her African wings.  Funny thing is, she won't put her passport down and keeps talking about "not missing her flight."

Ah, Africa.  You never disappoint me.  

 

Licensed to Drive

My first traffic ticket in my life!

"It was harder to get my driver's license than to get pregnant and give birth."--Julie Bowen

I got a traffic ticket a few months back, because I got caught breaking the law.*

It started with a harebrained idea to avoid a police checkpoint, because I knew they'd ask for my driver's license.   I do have a legal USA driver's license, but Zambian law states (somewhere) that you must get a Zambian license within three months.  Considering it had been nearly 1 1/2 years and I still didn't have one, I'd  be fined (and rightly so).  Granted...I could have lied.  I could have told the officer that I'd only been in Zambia for 2 months and HE WOULDN'T HAVE KNOWN.

But I didn't lie, because it is wrong to lie, and my children and my PARENTS were with me.  That's when I made a U-turn before the roadblock and avoided the whole situation completely.

Come to find out, that's illegal and WAY worse than lacking a Zambian driver's license.  The officer in the unmarked police car scolded me and fined me $100 for "dangerous driving".

Just then my friend Megan drove by us.  I flagged her down, because she's bragged about getting pulled over twenty-something times and never paying a fine.  I asked her to work some of her magic.

She tried all of the tricks in the book:  explaining that we were going to an orphanage (which was true), pleading in the local language, and telling them that we'd pay our fine at the police station later.  The officer smiled and said, "I'm sorry, I'll have to impound your car until you pay the fine."

Then came the ever-so-subtle question:  How much are you willing to pay?

This is the cue to slip the officer $10.  Which, to be completely honest, I'd have been delighted to do.

"I'm sorry, we are Christians.  We don't pay bribes," Megan apologized.  And that's when my ticket went from $10 back to $100.

"Ok, then give me $50," he said and issued us the official receipt.

Megan chipped in $10, we paid the fine and got the heck out of there. 

This nonsense encouraged me to buck up and get my license.  The dilemma was my provisional license was expired, so I needed special authorization for my temporary license.  Seems straightforward, but there is no straightforward in Zambia. 

This is the actual prayer I prayed as we walked into one of the obscure branches of the Department of Licensing:

"God, please give us a female officer who is in a good mood today and will forgive us for our trespasses and issue us a driver's license for no penalty." 

He answered my prayer to a T and Eric and I went home with our temporary driver's licences. A few weeks later I got my final license (which was at a 4th DOL location in Lusaka.  Sheesh...talk about the mother of all scavenger hunts to get something done. Just saying...)

I now carry my Zambian license like a badge of honor. You can imagine my disappointment when I'd passed through several police checkpoints over the following weeks, and not a single officer asked to see it.

One day I'd had enough, so I begged an officer to please, please, please ask to see my license, because I was dying to show it to someone.  She smiled and obliged. 

She then thanked me and let me go on my merry way.





*One day I'll write about the 3 times I've been mistakenly pulled over for "speeding". 

South Luangwa

Yes?

"Never fear quarrels, but seek hazardous adventures." --Alexander Dumas

Alexander Dumas speaks the Showell language, that's for sure.  Our latest "hazardous adventure" included loading my parents, kids, husband, and me into the car for a 10-hour trip to South Luangwa National Park*.

I mean, what could be more quarrel-inducing than being confined in a small space with the following?

• a 4-year old who sure-as-heck wasn't going to sit still for more than 5-minutes;
• a driver (ahem, Eric) who refused to pull over, because all of the trucks he had passed would overtake us; and
• a set of grandparents hacking up some sort of TB/pneumonia/bronchitis-like plague (courtesy of my siblings in America!).

It's all about the journey...Or is it?

When we reached our destination the weather was a cool 108 degrees F.  The fans in our chalet made it feel like 106.  I would have given away my 4-year old for some air conditioning. 

(Should you find yourself in this situation, I have some advice:   wrap yourself in a soaking wet sheet and sleep next to the fan.  It works wonders.)  

During the day we stayed submerged in the pool.   That was no easy feat, because hundreds of wasps buzzed around the edges.  My mom and I declared a holy war on the little buggers, but we failed to make a dent in their population.  Thank goodness my kids aren't allergic to bees, because everyone got stung.

On day two all of my kids spiked fevers, and Oliver threw up several times.   "I surrender!" I cried and furiously waved my figurative white flag.  

Fortunately I wasn't able to go home, because I would have missed these gems:   

1) Wild animals walking though our camp.  The only boundary separating our chalet from the National Park was a river--that was nearly dried up.  In other words, wild animals wandered right by us.

It's exhilarating to find an elephant meandering next to the pool.  I've never seen swimmers evacuate the water so quickly!

A visitor to our chalet

On Isaac's 7th birthday, a giraffe paid him a visit.

Isaac and his birthday visitor

One of these bad boys came for a night visit.

2) Safari drives.  My highlight was seeing my first leopard. Our guide found her resting her weary bones in a pile of dung.  "Alice" was a mother of young cubs.  She had stowed them somewhere so she could catch a few minutes of shut-eye before her evening hunt.  A mother's work is never done.

Sweet dreams.

We found this LEOPARD meters away from this spot on the river where we drank sundowners.  Why, yes, we did exit our vehicles and admire the view, and, amazingly, we lived to tell.  

Killer view.

3) Touring Tribal Textiles.  This shop, employing 90 people with living wages, creates gorgeous batiks. 

Tribal Banner

Here's a quick tutorial on the entire process.

Step 1: Using a flour paste, make a design on the fabric.

Flour paste design

Step 2:  Allow the paste to dry.

Step 3: Match paint colors to swatches by mixing primary colors and black/white.  

Fabric paint

Step 4: Paint the textile.

An artist at work.

Step 5: After paint has dried, scrape off and discard the dried paste.

Scrape.  Scrape. Scrape.

Step 6. Cure textile in oven.

At the end of many hours of work you will have a gorgeous piece like this.

Bed spread.  I can't imagine how many hours this took.

I have to admit, I missed the animals when we got back to Lusaka, and it was sad to say goodbye to my folks.  After a hazardous adventure in the scorching dry heat, my mom promised herself that she wouldn't complain about Seattle's rain when she returned home.

She lasted five days.

*South Luangwa National Park in eastern Zambia, the southernmost of three national parks in the valley of the Luangwa River, is a world-renowned wildlife haven. (Wikipedia)