Turns out the six other adopting families staying with us at the guest house received their referrals from the same region south of Addis Ababa. So, Sunday was to be a prearranged day for all families to make the 3+ hr trip down south to the town of Hosaina to meet the families giving their children up for adoption.
We all had had a few days to learn a bit about Ethiopian culture. It is strong and beautiful. Their love for children is especially striking. It is a common view that care of a child is the responsibility not only of the family, but of everyone. This love was evident in the care center staff, and the community at large. Although many families struggle to make ends meet, and may not have material wealth that we take for granted in the States, their children grow up in close communities that are rich in family support and love.
It is a heavy thought to wonder what are circumstances that force a family to the conclusion that one or more of their children must be given away for adoption. Of course the main driving factor is poverty, a severe poverty, a kind of poverty where there is not enough food available to get into everyones mouth. A kind of poverty where many of the children are presented to the Hosaina center in so badly malnourished state, they are bordering on death. Add to that, either the shame of a child out of wedlock, or rape....well, you get the idea. Living conditions that we stateside would never see. So it was with a bit of trepidation we made plans to travel to the region of our children's birthing place. Christy and I considered not make the trip as we were told there would be no parents to meet because Ali had been abandoned. But, we felt the trip would be a way to respect my new son's heritage. And I am really glad we went.
The pilgrimage south started at 5 AM. After a bit of a restless night, we loaded up as a caravan of Landcruisers and head out into dark of night. A half hour in of travel, a faint glow started on the horizon. Under the developing sun rise, the figs trees made picturesque silhouettes on the horizon.
Going south we pressed through dusty town after town, that sprawled in the dried, roadside mud.
In between, were the mud hut dwellings of the subsistence farmers. Most of these families must grow enough food for their families for the whole year. Their wealth is in the harvest, as the land can never be 'owned' by a family, for it is leased from the government. A year of drought can tip a family's fine line between survival and starvation.
In rural Ethiopia things are a little different than in the US. More wealthy families have the option to move things by donkey. These carts run at 1 dp (donkey power). Less fortunate folks must carry their goods on their back. These are items are either to sell at the market, or returning with necessities for the family (water/fuel/food).
Plumbing is in erratic water units of 2 JPD (jugs per donkey).
Cattle, goats, donkeys, and random stray dogs made for sporadic road blocks.
Near our destination, where the newly paved road gave way to dirt, we observed a communal laundry system. The more fortunate had access to wells. But, more often than not, the local river bed was multi-source drinking water, clothes wash, and water for their animals.
Many of the adopting families were told that they would have birth parents to meet. Although Christy and I were along for the ride, so to speak, we had a surprise waiting for us at the adoption outpost clinic center. They told us they had located the woman who had found Ali and she was there to speak to us. Her name was Birke. A mother of 3 children, teenage to fully grown.
Ethiopia has 8 major ethnic groups. Birke is of oromo ethnicity and did not speak the common language of nation, Amharic. Thus to communicate with her, we had to speak through two interpreters, one for English to Amharic, then one for Amharic to Welayta. Things inevitably got lost in translation. A couple of times the story has been translated and there are disparities, but the common thread is Ali was abandoned at a well by a girl who gave the infant to Birke to hold for a moment while she went to fetch something. The girl never returned. Birke sought assistance from a catholic mission nearby, and with their help took care of the child for 3 days. Birke had to go back home to care for her sick daughter, which was the reason she came to the catholic mission in the first place. Ali was then turned over to the police who took him to the adoption outpost clinic. The police official who received the Ali was also the Amharic to Welayta interpreter for us. He is pictured on the right of Christy.
After asking and answering of questions, the sharing of information and photos, the adoptive and biological families were ushered into a room for a candle passing ceremony. Prayers were made, then the candles were lighted by the birth parents and given to their respective adoptive family. This was an intensely emotional moment. The birth parents, overcoming their pride, their fears of social recrimination, had made a very tough decision. To do what was in the best interest of their children. Perhaps in many cases, a decision that was of life over death. Many of the birth parents breaking into tears, speaking good will and fortune towards the children, and then passing the candle to the adopting parents.
These families had made the ultimate sacrifice, and to meet them, if just for a few hours, was an honor for us all. We, the receivers of this gift, were all in awe. We felt their loss, their hope. The responsibility to our new children magnified.
Heading back to Addis Ababa, we made a road side stop at the dwelling of a family whom the adoption center had arranged for us to visit. They allowed us to glimpse into what their daily lives were like. This hut, like many of the ones we had seen on the drive out, was surrounded by a few acres of soil where the family grew the crops they needed to feed themselves, and hopefully, a bit more to sell at the market.
In this structure, stayed husband, wife, and 4 children, assorted animals (donkey, goat or two, and maybe a cow). Their meals cooked over a small dung fire.
Shortly after arriving swarms of children from neighboring dwellings joined the occupants children outside to ham it up for a photo op.
Families were usually large usually out of necessity to ensure family survival. While education is a priority in Ethiopia, it is difficult for rural families to survive without the help of all family members. It was not uncommon to see small children tending cattle, harvesting hay or struggling under heavy loads of fire-wood.
It was difficult to see children, no more than 4 or 5 years old, struggling and working so hard. Undoubtedly, a difficult life by American standards.
It all starts with the green bean. In the unroasted state, beans can keep for months without going off in flavor . These are added to the pan and put over a high heat source.
First things start rather slowly. The moisture of the washed beans sizzles off and then not much happens. Stirring the beans constantly the roasting starts to kick in. You know you are reaching completion when the beans start to smoke in the pan.
The roasted beans are set aside to cool.
then the pot is put to flame and water inside boiled. While waiting for boil, the beans are ground into powder with an innovative mortar and pestle made of scrap-iron pounding bar and a hollowed-out ingot of wood.
The grind is put to the hot water and brought to a gentle simmer. While this is happening, a powerful pine incence is burned.
Then comes ultimate pleasure, the taste of fresh.....and I mean FRESH! brewed coffee.
Buna, ....Buna, .....Buna, .....Buna, ......Buna.
