An Unpaved Journey

By Cynthia K.

An unpaved, narrow, dirt road was before us. It almost appeared a walking path in the middle of a wooded forest. I was sitting in the second seat back, my new child in tow, in a four-wheel-drive Land Rover. On one side was another couple with their child, and Gurma, the area coordinator, on the other. Nancy, my friend, was in the front passenger seat while Mulatte, our driver, steered us over the bumps. Nancy was filming, her video camera jerking up and down. My heart racing, I could feel myself short of breath, but on autopilot.

Suddenly our vehicle stopped and several people appeared at the side of the car. Gurma was out before I knew it and others began to follow. The crowd continued to grow. Gurma motioned to me to come. Nancy was fidgeting with her video camera. I was hesitating, waiting for her to film the first moments. I realized Gurma was telling me that my daughter's birth mother was walking toward the Land Rover. I jumped out with my child in the snugli, looking back, worried about Nancy's readiness. My heart was pounding in anticipation. I realized I wasn't quite in the moment, focusing on the video instead of the encounter with the birth mother. There she was, suddenly facing me. She reached out with her arms to offer a warm hug. It was a greeting I could never have anticipated. She squeezed my body, with my daughter in the middle. I was almost unaware of the now larger crowd, which surrounded us. I felt her frail arms squeeze and release, then squeeze again and release again. Each time I thought she was letting go, she held on again. It was a moment in time that seemed surreal. Was this event actually taking place? Was I really in this remote region of Ethiopia meeting the birth mother of my new child?

We were led up a small incline to sit on a bench next to the birth mom. She gathered the rest of her children to sit next to her on the bench. Gurma was present, along with another interpreter kneeling on the ground in front of us. The birth mother does not speak Amharic, the national language, but another language of which I don't know the name, hence the two interpreters. I sat frozen, realizing I left my notes in the car, anxious to know everything and yet unable to have any clarity about what question to ask. I managed to blurt out my first question, which I believe was the ages of the children. I continued to move from there without any order or continuity so it seemed. I felt overwhelmed with emotion. Excitement, joy, sadness, fear all clouded my cognitive ability. It was as if I was swimming underwater, eyes open, attempting to see the color of the sky. It was all a haze. Each moment was going by quickly, and my body was moving in slow motion. I recall offering the birth mother her birth daughter. I unlatched the snugli and both of us managed to release her from the harness. She held her and kissed her. Although she seemed happy to hold her birth child, her stoic appearance didn't waiver. I continued to feel lost, not knowing what to ask or where to begin. I just wanted to inhale the information by osmosis. I know I asked questions. They seemed to come in fits and starts. I remember asking a series of questions, "What would you wish for her? Is there anything your children want to say to her?" I asked about medical history, pregnancy and birth, the father's cancer, etc. Fortunately, Nancy stood videotaping most of our visit since my memory would have failed five minutes after the experience.

At one point I ran to the car to gather gifts as well as my list of questions. I began to hand out toys and school supplies for the children. One of my daughter's birth brothers was making attempts to figure out the kaleidoscope. I reached over and demonstrated how it worked. After the gifts were distributed I handed the birth mother a gift-wrapped tube of hand lotion. I then realized I also had a gift for her to remember her daughter. I decided to untie the silver gift bag and open the purple box, so perfectly wrapped, and offer her the bracelet as a memory of her youngest child. I wanted her to have a symbol of her daughter, one that gave her the knowledge she would be loved and cared for as if she were my own birth child. I wanted her to have something of her daughter. I placed the bracelet around her wrist. Just then Gurma explained that the bracelet, now on her wrist, was to remember her birth child. I was so grateful he told her without any of my prodding as if he read my mind. I felt such deep gratitude for her willingness to meet me and talk with me. I kept looking at the other children trying to see the resemblance to my daughter. Their wide-eyed faces covered in dust and flies stared back at me with curiosity. What was I doing taking this baby from them? Was I really giving her a better life? "I must be", I thought, taking her from this abject poverty. Those were just some of the thoughts going through my mind. "Her birth mother must be hurting so much" was another passing thought. I rattled off the rest of my questions on the list and eventually sat silently. I know there was more I wanted to know, but what? I wished to live there for a month to know the reality of their lives, partly so I could impart this experience to my daughter, but also to know myself what she was losing. Her biological family could not be replaced. Of course I will give her all I have to offer, but that is not the same.

I asked to see their home. I was led up to one round hut. It was explained that the family was living in her birth father's brother's (paternal uncle) family's home. The mud hut was very small for one adult and five children. It was completely dark with very little inside. I was struck by its lack of food, cooking utensils or much of anything. There was green and white cloth for sleeping, and three clay pots. "Five children sleep in here along with their mother?" I wondered. Here I was taking her to America to live in what seemed now like a mansion.

After a look around the first hut we were led to the second mud hut. In this hut there was a screen when entering. In this hut there were two cows, one of which I remember introducing to my daughter. There was a large piece of cowhide, and under that, dried banana leaves. This was for sleeping. There was a small wooden stool six inches high or so, a vessel for collecting milk, and three pots in a fireplace. "This hut was a better one," Gurma explained. This hut belonged to the brother-in-law. I had seen areas of abject poverty in Guatemala and Nepal. This wasn't a shock to me. But this was different. This was where my child would live if she were not adopted, if her birth mother did not give her up.

Top