It’s late here, in Addis Ababa, and now is a good time to process a very rich day. Even with jet-lag taking me out for 3 hours in the afternoon, it’s been such a good first day in Ethiopia. An important day of meaningful interaction, and a question.
There are my moments for today:
-In the morning, we’re walking by an overpass close to home, seeing skinny men and women lying still in dilapidated shelters made of plastic bags, piled rocks, and cardboard. Blue and white vans crowd the sideroads, and men hang out of the vans calling street names and collecting fares from the mass of people crowding around the vans, and then crowding into them. We stuff into the back of the van, and it smells just like Bangladesh. It's so much like Bangladesh.
-The van stops in a parking lot and we pile out to wait on the others. They’re supposed to meet us soon, but as we wait there’s a soccer game going on in the parking lot. They notice us, and begin to stare. Then, one by one, they introduce themselves, and we just connect. Someone kicks the soccer ball to me, and it’s game time in Chacos. Get it get it.
-It's nighttime in Addis, and the minibuses are still nudging through the sidestreets, calling out destinations to the crowds. I'm standing on the sidewalk by the overpass, and I see a big brown man moving towards me, shoulder tucked for collision, and boom, there’s Andrew Haverly. We stand by the overpass, staring at each other and saying “This is so strange, and good.” I get in a van taxi with him and hitch a ride to his house for dinner. Hearing Andrew tell of his Chinese intimidation (side story: some Ethiopians consider all Chinese/seemingly Chinese men to be Jackie Chan. All have ass-kicking aptitude, and are dangerous folk. Some, according to local myth, can kick 4 people at once, and punch 6 gangsters in the time it takes a stick to drop. They consider Andrew a Chinese man, although he is Filipino, so he’s basically a boss.) I step inside the Haverly’s Ethiopian home, and see little Jackson stomping around the room with his arms in the air, eating Craisins and causing a ruckumbuckus. And it's their home, and I'm at home with my friends in Addis Ababa.
-I spent 5 minutes roasting the perfect marshmallow over the bonfire outside the Cherokee house. I take the Ethiopian crackers and off-brand orange-chocolate and make a sticky, delicious s’more. I sit on the grass by the fire, telling stories before bed (or not bed. I’m a blogging vampire) and enjoying the company of the legit people in the group I’ve only known for a day, but feel very connected to.
And then, there was the orphanage at Asco, for children infected with HIV. About three hours in the morning. The best three hours of the day, the most intense three hours of the day. I won't forget.
-We reach the door of the orphanage. It’s a big red door, and on it is written “Missionaries of Charity, Blessed Teresa’s Home.” We open the door and go through, coming to a sloping hill on which is built the massive complex. There’s a school, a clinic, dorms and other functional buildings, and little play huts surrounded by fields. Beyond the complex is a sprawling shantytown, looking like a quilt of different colored corrugated metal roofs. And there, at the bottom of the hill on an old, rusty playground, are the kids. The see our Asco veteran, Rob (6 foot something studly man), first, and then notice the rest of us. And then, it’s like we get charged with some crazy magnetism of affection or attention or something, because these kids charge up to meet us and then cling to us. Every open space on a limb is claimed by little hands and little legs wrapping around.
And you look down at the children clinging to you and it’s in their faces. It’s in their eyes. It’s a need to be touched, to be loved through touch. And something bubbles in the black of their eyes when you hold their hand. We spin on the carousel and swung on the monkey bars. They say "strong strong" and do stunts off the playground--jumping, pulling, hanging, whatever--and look to you for a response. And when you smile, they smile, raising their little eyebrows over and over ( "I see you" in Ethiopian body language). We play chase and chuck rocks at walls and pieces of wood. They fold little windmills from paper and place them on the tips dried grass, bite the grass, then sprint and the windmills spin with them. And then my favorite game—we recruit a small army, Me, a little boy named Enoch, and two others, and pick long grass for weapons. We sneak around the complex, spying on some secret, imaginary someone, hitting the deck and heading for the hills and laughing at our imaginary game. And then, the clinic with the babies. Little children, their faces scabbed and pocked, standing on their thin twig legs and leaning against you. Their golden brown faces, and their eyes--you can’t communicate with words, but you just stare into their eyes for minutes, seeing the bright white rectangles of the sky windows reflecting in their big, black, beautiful eyes, and see them smile back. You feel their little hands around you in a gentle hug, and you think that's why you're there.
And then it's “Ciao.” Goodbye. Time to leave. And those children you’ve connected with will stay. And your head is pounding as hug goodbye, but they're numb to it. Then its up the steps and to the top of the slope and you look back to wave at the children, and they aren’t looking at you anymore. And you think, “what did I do here.”
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