karamoja part 2

it began here.  and most of it happened here. in the car.  hours and hours in the car- for a short morning meeting, in a very far away place.  a place from another time- another world- a parallel universe.

notice not just the adorable child, but the car seat, the new dress (thanks katie!),  the car,  the automatic windows.  this is just the beginning of the differences - the time machine like differences we were all about to experience. 

it was a 10 hour trip, mostly on dirt roads. not your john denver-ish country dirt roads, but massively pot-holed, thick mud in active rain, stuck immobilized truck- get out and spend 20 minutes assessing which path off road to take, washed out bridges with naked men bathing in the overflowing river- type dirt roads.  i tried to capture it on film- but you can't really appreciate it.

there was much in these hours besides bumps.  the people were rich in color - the same dark black of the earth they worked- like they had emerged from it- like they were part of it- in a real and lasting way.  they were draped with large colorful robes.  they were barefoot, but they walked with their heads held up so tall and high and straight that they didn't need shoes.

my mind was full.  what is poverty?  is it shoelessness? is it carrying sticks on your head and going miles for water? or is it how you feel inside? is it growing up being stared at and asked over and over why you have a white mother?

and we were stared at. everywhere. by everyone.
at first i felt like a movie star.  i thought my hair must have looked great:). but then we were asked in native tongue, what we were doing carrying a karamojong child.

when we finally got to matany the closest town to the village, we gathered crowds.  everyone had  heard the story- that muzungus were coming to the village.

unfortunately there was no advanced booking, and the main inn in town was full, so we stayed in 'God's grace' guest house.

the courtyard

rosie checking out the couryard

"mom, go home now?" she asked.
not yet rosie.  we are off to the village- to find out.  to find out from a tribe you've never met- but who you share your genes with- where home will be- what home will be- what will become of you.
so we ate peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast with cold instant coffee and got back on the road.

this road/ path- our car filled with the village elders guiding us through the fields.  it all felt so biblical and ancient.  dusty roads, cattle with yokes, wells, washing down in the river- and then the meeting with rosies grandmother- was like the prodigal son coming home. she ran out to meet us, fell on her knees, raised up her hands and prayed loudly thanking God that she was seeing her grand daughter again. this child who was lost, thought to be dead, was now standing before her.

i wanted to cry as i knelt there, holding her elbow and her grandbaby and not understanding a word of her speech but feeling what was in it and behind it- thanks and love.
we followed her down the path to her encampment- rosie looking mildly terrified and clinging for reassurance as people tried to pluck her from my arms.

 













inside the hut, mike, rose and i sat on the guest of honor cowhide with a full audience of eager listeners outside the door.  the village elders and the translator sat on stools and the grand mother sat beside me on the floor.  they all began to speak.  it was surreal.

i had a moment. 
this is your life i thought, one of the good parts. soak it in. BE in it.  don't freak. don't cry.  live this national geographic moment. smell the cowhide you're sitting on, feel the rough walls of mud, look at the light coming from the edge of the thatching. hear the sounds of this slurry foreign language. don't let it go. remain open. choose this. this is what is being brought to you. 


in the hour we sat in that hut, that home that was so removed from cars seats and plumbing and nickelodeon and juice boxes and books, i felt the world grow small.  i thought of all the missionary films i'd seen, the national geographic pictures i'd studied, the things i'd read in college on culture- and it all seemed funny.  yes i could see the differences- more in how we think than how we live- but i could also see the similarities in how we feel, and love, and remember. and i wondered what was best? i wondered if i'd ever know.  

we came hoping for resolution and a plan for rose and for our family.  we came with our western ideas of time and planning and preparedness and 'what if's' and possible scenarios.  we were met with a desire for relationship, with a lack of concern about the future, with a sense of 'be here now' because that is how life is lived.

was there a conclusion?
i think this is it.

for now. 
we are their very pale, far away clan members to whom they've entrusted their child.  it's the openest of all open adoptions.  we will bring her to our village- the one in mukono and the one in america, and we will bring her back to their village too.  she will continue to become a part of our family- and we will become a part of their tribe.  and over time and visits, trust will grow. we will wait and they will wait and we will be patient and build relationships and have faith and try to become a little more african in our thinking as hopefully they become a bit more western in theirs.  rose might never be an african american- but she will always, in someway be a muzungu- karamajong.

'yes rosie, we can go home.'