So, it’s been five weeks. Five really long weeks and I so want to be home. But, I’m not and that kind of thinking doesn’t gel with the “roll with it” attitude that I’ve committed to. So, to put myself in a better mood, I’m going to relate this funny story that just happened about four minutes ago.

I was in the kitchen, sitting at the counter tryng to do a little bit of catch-up email for work. Mgazi wandered into the bedroom. I hear her pick up the guesthouse phone and say, “Halloo?”

There was a pause and then she said, “Ngiyaphila (I’m fine)” as though someone had asked her, “How are you?” Then she prattled on for a couple of minutes.

It occurred to me that this would be a cute session to record on my iphone but I knew if I went into the bedroom she would stop her pretend conversation. So I picked up the phone in the kitchen to see if I could hear her and possibly record her that way.

Imagine my surprise when I found that there was a person on the other end of the line, actually talking with her! I started laughing, Mgazi started laughing, the mystery person started laughing. Mgazi said “Bye bye!” and so did mystery person and they both hung up.

I wonder who she called. More importantly, I wonder if the call was long distance.

I’ve since unplugged the phone, but it hasn’t stopped her from periodically going in there, picking up the receiver, “Halloo?” Her phone sessions are shorter, though. I’m assuming that this is because she tires of keeping up both ends of the conversation.

——

Oh gosh, oh gosh… you are NEVER going to believe it. During the time I typed the above, Mgazi has had perhaps four or five pretend phone conversations with the unplugged phone. And so I think, you know, I’m going to go take a photograph of her talking on the phone to put up with this blog. SO, I’m rummaging through my bag looking for my camera and I hear a tentative knock on the door. (This just happened, literally 30 seconds after I typed the last line to my blog entry.) I opened the door to find a staff worker who seemed to be embarrassed to be there. He says to me “they say, downstairs, to stop letting your child play with the phone.” Then he bows, and walks away.

I’m abashed, because here I am about to encourage her to play with the phone so I can get a pic and  apparently the phone connection was still intact! So, the conversations weren’t shorter because  Mgazi got bored of talking to herself, it was that whoever was on the other end was sick and tired of talking to her!

The petrol pump between our cottage and the fire.

Something exciting happened three nights ago. There was a fire. In and of itself, that’s not so exciting. Fires happen here all the time. Every day I see at least a dozen or so in the miles surrounding town. Farmers burn patches of land in order to make it more fertile.

But this fire was special because it happened about 50 yards from my cottage! I guess that someone’s intentional fire got out of control, or there was a stray spark or something, but at about 3 am, three nights ago, the property next to this one had a pretty raging brush fire.

Embers. Still burning two days after the fire.

The staff here has their own water system for just such emergencies, but the water pressure was dismal and the dousing was only just a dribble. (I’ve been told that the nearby swimming pool is an integral part of the back-up plan.) Boys from a neighboring carepoint came to help as the fire was getting uncomfortably close to a Petrol Pump that is stationed between my cottage and the edge of the property.

Guests even poured out of their lodging to beat at the flames to keep them back.  Finally, amid lots of shouting and alarms, the local fire brigade arrived.

Or at least, that’s what I’m told.  Mgazi and I slept through the whole thing.

You know those documentaries on Africa where some person walks into a village, an orphanage, a hospital, whatever, and they are inundated with children? They are SWAMPED by children? MOBBED by children?

Well it doesn’t just happen in the movies, folks.

Today, when I went to see Luyanda/Mgazi I innocently pulled out my camera. I had used it twice in front of the children and there had been mild interest. I don’t know what was in the water, but when those kids saw the camera I became the most popular thing since… I don’t know… is sliced bread popular in Africa?

“Take my photo, take my photo,” and older girl said. The younger ones just looked up at me and grinned, “CHEEEEEEEESE!” and jostled each other out of the way as they fought for maximum positioning.

After I snapped a couple pics the mayhem began. These kids know a thing or two. They know about instant gratification. They know that you can see the picture you just took on the back of the camera. And they ALL wanted a peek!

I had children tugging on my sleeve, crawling up my leg, straddling my shoulders. I only slightly exaggerate. It got to the point where I grabbed an older kid who spoke English and begged, “tell me how to say ‘back off’ in your language!” Of course, the only reason I could reach him was because he was sitting on my head! Even little two-year old Luyanda was pushing people back. She seemed better equipped at handling the onslaught than I.

But I can’t complain. Even with the lack of oxygen that is the natural effect of being buried by wet, dirty, terribly excited children, I still loved it.

And the day was capped off with an entirely sweet note. Luyanda giggled. And it was because of me.

Day 9 of my trip. The day I met my daughter.

A good good day.

Shortly after my mom and I arrived at the orphanage, which is made up of the main living quarters and a recreation center which has rooms for different age levels, we were led to the living room where a gaggle of children sat quietly. Some were at a low table, some on the floor, one was in a highchair and several sat on caregivers’ laps. None of them uttered so much as a peep.

My heart was pounding. Would I know which one she was? Her? No, not her, Luyanda has fuller cheeks. Her? Nope, that’s a boy! Wait, is that a boy? No matter. Her? Well, maybe…

Someone said something to the children that I couldn’t understand and Luyanda separated herself from the rest and slowly, cautiously walked up to us. She was scared. She stood in front of me with her chin pressed to her chest. I bent down and slowly took her hand. She placed her palm on mine. She seemed to be studying our hands and I couldn’t help but wonder what particulars held her interest. Was it the difference in size? The difference in color? She didn’t look up. She didn’t smile.

After a short while, I gently placed her in my lap. Still, she kept her chin pushed into her chest. Different people mildly chided her… “look up, this is your new mother!” She didn’t look up. “Say hello, your mother came to see you.” She didn’t speak.

I felt for her. She was so frightened.

Luyanda and her make (mother), Maureen

Mom and I stayed for probably an hour and a half. Luyanda smiled twice. Once when mom picked her up, and once when Maureen, the woman in charge, nuzzled and tickled her. Right then, her face was a sunbeam and I felt for the first time that I was seeing my future child.

She and I had our moments. She played with my hair. She took out my earring. She slowly got semi-comfortable. She leaned against me almost as though she wanted to see how much of her could touch how much of me. She was very concerned that her fingers were as intertwined with mine as possible.

Two things greatly held her interest. 1) My camera… she likes to push buttons. 2) The family album I brought along. It’s got photos of me, Russell, and Zaffy and every few pages is a picture of her that I got from the agency. I felt bad taking the album back from her at the end of the visit. I could tell she didn’t want me to, but she didn’t fuss. She was very compliant. I would have left it, but she wasn’t the only child who loved it and I was afraid neither of us would ever see it again.

Luyanda is less than thrilled here.

Just before we left, Pastor, our facilitator, asked her where her mother was. He wanted to see if she would indicate that I was her mother. All while looking down to the dirt, Luyanda tilted her head past me (I was standing right in front of her) toward the orphanage main building. It was an awful lot for her little brain to take in.

For me, it was surreal.

As we were driving back to the guesthouse Pastor told me that the children were good at teaching each other. He said, “Tonight, all the children will have a forum. They will talk to Luyanda about her new mother and how she will soon be leaving them, just as other brothers and sisters had done before.”

Here is something interesting. The people and children at the orphanage do not call her Luyanda. She has a nickname. It’s Mgazi (MM GA ZEE with the stress on the middle syllable). It’s a praise surname. I’m guessing at the spelling. Two people have spelled it for me two different ways.

I’ve gotten permission to visit Luyanda as often as I like until she comes back with me to the guesthouse. So, Mom and I went back yesterday. I was nervous. Would she look at me this time? Would I maybe be able to get her to smile?

As Pastor drove up the drive, we saw perhaps a half dozen children playing in the yard. Again, I feared I wouldn’t recognize her. Once I was reasonably confident that she wasn’t outside, another, more awful thought snuck up on me. What if she didn’t come out? What if she didn’t want to see me? What if the kids held their forum and Luyanda announced, “Actually, she’s not what I’m looking for… I’ll wait for the next one.”

I was feeling small and unsure and helpless, when her stout little self appeared in the doorway. She looked up. Saw me. And ran into my arms.