Children of Dreams, An Adoption Memoir (2 page)

I could see myself the next morning missing my plane because I stayed at the wrong hotel. I could picture in my head trying to explain to the airlines that I needed to catch a later flight. The adoption agency would be upset with me. My contact person would be at the airport to pick me up and I wouldn’t be on the plane. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

One of the men asked for what I thought was my address. I pulled out my checkbook and gave him a deposit slip. After handing him the slip of paper, I panicked. Why would I give my personal address to somebody that I didn’t know? All they wanted was the address of the motel.

After several minutes, the man grabbed my suitcases and motioned for me to get back into the taxi. We took off and drove around again for another thirty minutes before arriving at the “real” Europa Inn.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was now 1:00 in the morning and my flight would be leaving at 5:30 a.m. Exhausted, I checked into the hotel. The hotel attendant, who spoke English well, assured me I was only a few minutes from the airport.

I finally made it up to my room. After stacking my luggage against the wall, I pulled out a nightgown and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, but tripped over the uneven ledge. I writhed in pain grasping my toe, agonizing over how I would do the adoption if it was broken.

After a few minutes of a deep massage, I assured myself that it was not broken and a hot shower would fix everything. Later, I tried to imagine what my next day would be like. In just a few hours I would be boarding the plane to fly to Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal.

I closed my eyes and prayed, “Dear Lord, please be with me. Please take away my fear, and keep my dad alive until I return home. Please let nothing happen that could keep me from adopting Manisha.”

I had come too far to have something unforeseen stop me. I fell asleep from exhaustion only to be jarred awake just a few hours later.

“Fasten your seat belts,” the pilot announced. The no-smoking sign flashed on and the plane engines roared. Soon we would be landing in Kathmandu. My eyes teared up and burned from the lack of sleep. I couldn’t believe it was possible to fly so far and still be on the same planet.

After we landed and I exited the plane, I felt as though I had been transported to another world. Huge mountains dotted the countryside. It was a beautiful day, bordering on hot but not unpleasantly so. I took a deep breath as I walked down the tarmac. Cows were lounging between the runways. Old tattered signs marked the entrance to the airport written in a scribble I couldn’t read. I was prompted by a young woman showing us the way to customs. No one spoke English. The airport was noisy, crowded, and sweaty.

I felt humanity pressing against me as the surge of passengers from my plane all headed in the same direction. There was a putrid stench in the air—a mixture of unpleasant odors, like an open dumpster that hadn’t been emptied for several weeks.

After showing my paperwork and having my passport stamped, I joined another long line of people headed to baggage claims. I stood on my tiptoes to peer over the dark heads and mass of ebony-complexioned travelers. My blonde hair and fair skin made me look like an anomaly. A couple of European or American men toting backpacks were in front. Their masculine build and rough clothes marked them as serious mountain climbers.

Nepal lies between India and China. The country has long been known for its majestic, high mountains and waterfalls that cascade over the rugged terrain. Climbers traveled to Nepal from all over the world to undertake one of the most arduous climbs imaginable, risking their lives to stand atop the world’s highest mountain. I hoped to get a picture of Mount Everest as a souvenir.

After I retrieved my bags, I headed toward the front entrance to look for Ankit, my contact person. An Evangelical Christian and pastor in Nepal, he often heard about orphaned children, especially little girls, who had little status in Hindu culture. His desire was to place them in Christian homes in the United States, Canada, and Europe.

People crowded the entrance and I wondered how I would ever find him in the sea of faces. Hastily-written signs shot up everywhere. In the commotion, I looked for a blue and white one that said the name of the adoption agency. I finally saw Ankit and waved my hand. He came over and helped me with my bags, putting them into a waiting taxi. After I was in the taxi, Ankit hopped on his motorcycle and we took off.

As we pulled away from the airport, I was glad to leave behind the discombobulating noise of airplanes, cabs, and travelers. After two days of being airborne, I felt relieved to be on solid ground. We frequently stopped for cows as they stubbornly refused to move and blocked the cab. The countryside was painted in them; most looked emaciated and old. Cows were worshipped and not eaten in Nepal.

The huge mountains surrounding us spoke of unparalleled beauty. Garbage and other debris thrown out of passing cars that reflected in the sunlight were stashed in disheveled piles along the sides of the road. Children in old, torn clothes watched as we drove by. I tried to imagine what Manisha, my daughter-to-be, would look like.

“There is the hospital,” the taxicab driver said in broken English. He pointed out several other buildings as we went along. I could hardly focus on what he was saying as my mind jumped to what lay ahead. My heart was racing, excited to be here.

After endless turns and one-lane roads, we arrived at the hotel where twelve other adoptive families had stayed. The desk worker recognized us when we entered the hotel lobby.

The Bleu was a plain, four-story, tan-colored brick building in the downtown political district of Kathmandu. A black and white TV played in the small foyer. The floor was well worn and the wall had several coats of cracked paint. Ankit translated for me as I checked in and helped me carry my luggage up the three flights of stairs to my room. There was no elevator.

“After you have a chance to get settled in,” he said, “I will meet you downstairs in the lobby in about thirty minutes.” Having studied at a Bible College in the Southeastern United States, he spoke English well. “Bring your documents with you,” he added, as he closed the door behind him.

After checking out my room, I took my six sets of documents back downstairs and waited for him to return. A few minutes later, he arrived on his motorcycle.

“We need to go to the U.S. Embassy to drop off some paperwork.”

I glanced at his motorcycle and stared back at him. I looked down at my new blue skirt and black heels. I didn’t want to picture myself riding on a motorcycle with someone I hardly knew dressed in my Sunday attire. I had ridden on a motorcycle only once before in Bermuda many years earlier. What if I dropped the notebook containing all the adoption papers, or worse, fell off?

Sensing my concern, he said, “We can rent another taxi, but we’ll be doing a lot of traveling in Kathmandu and it will get expensive.”

I reluctantly hopped on the back, maneuvering my skirt so it wouldn’t clog up the engine. I stuck the heavy black binder between us and wrapped my arms around his waist as tightly as I could. He revved up the engine and we took off down the clogged streets of Kathmandu.

Most people rode on bikes, but every conceivable type of wheeled transport could be seen. Many of the roads were dirt or gravel, and the air was thick with dust. The Nepalis wore scarves and face covers over their nostrils to keep from inhaling the dirt. I didn’t have one.

When I arrived back at the Bleu Hotel after our excursion to the U.S. Embassy, my blue skirt was covered in road grime. My skin stung from the debris hurled from the motorcycle and I could taste muck on my lips. The odorous smell of Nepal was now on me. I was repelled and overwhelmed at the same time. I had only been here a few hours and I was already thinking about when I could leave.

One of my suitcases was filled with an assortment of things I had brought to an American family serving as missionaries. The Reeses had been in Kathmandu for quite some time. The mother was a physician, and their children ranged in age from six to twelve. They had called and wanted to know when they could stop by the hotel. The only way they received items from America was when someone brought them. Most mail would not arrive without being pilfered. It had been six months since they had received any packages.

I unloaded my suitcase, wishing I could meet Manisha. Was she in the city? Ankit said we wouldn’t be able to see her until tomorrow.

Scattered among the Reeses’ things were gifts for Manisha, including a pink doll, Play-Doh, blocks, a yellow toy telephone, and a stuffed dog that made noise when I pushed in his nose. I had also brought a few clothes, some big and some small since I didn’t know her size. They were clean and unsoiled by the Nepali air.

The Reeses called and said they would be over in a few minutes. I gathered their things and walked down to the hotel lobby. A short time later they arrived and I was surprised to see three blonde-haired, fair-skinned children show up on bicycles with their father. I wondered how they could seem so American when they lived in such a different culture.

They were excited to receive the gifts. As we sat and chatted in the lobby, an American-looking man walked in with a Nepali girl. I found out he was from Canada and was making plans to return home.

“I got my phone call from India,” he explained. “We waited a week. That was the last thing we needed to finish her adoption. We have been here a month.”

I felt a twinge of jealousy that they were done and I was just starting. I couldn’t imagine being in Nepal for a whole month.

The little girl uttered a few words in Nepali.

“What did she say?” I asked.

The motel attendant said, “She called her father an uncle.”

Everyone laughed and I relaxed a little.

“How old is she?”

“She’s two,” her father said.

I tried to imagine how big Manisha would be compared to her.

“When are you leaving?”

“We are leaving on Tuesday.”

So soon; few people spoke English here so my time in Nepal would be lonely. It was reassuring to see that his adoption went through. I hoped mine would be the same. We visited for a few more minutes until the Reeses had to leave.

“I hope to see you again,” I told them.

“We’ll have you over for an American meal one night,” they promised, “and you won’t have to worry about the food.”

I could look forward to that. I asked them for tips on good restaurants. I had been warned: Don’t eat salads, don’t eat meat, don’t eat vegetables, and don’t eat fruit unless it’s contained in a peel.

As I left the Bleu Hotel and took my first walk in Kathmandu, I tried to take in the world that opened before my eyes. Poor, dirty, spiritually dark, and oppressive for women, it was a place where hope seemed nonexistent. It was hard for me to believe that my daughter would come from here.

Nepal, home to so many children who would never make it to their fifth birthday; who lived in severe poverty and suffered from lack of nutrition and disease; children who had little hope of ever knowing what it would be like to have a full belly at night or a chance to live life to the fullest. Perhaps most dared to not even dream.

In a country thousands of miles away from my home in Gainesville, Florida, most knew nothing of the God I loved and worshipped. Nepal, a world apart and a world within my heart, the two would be linked forever.

Never again would my heart not skip a beat and my ears not perk up when I heard the name Nepal mentioned in the news. Never again would my mind not be drawn back to these days when I walked its darkened streets.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts

Isaiah 55:8

I exited the Bleu Hotel, walked a few blocks, and turned left to explore a couple of streets I had not seen. I was careful not to stray too far for fear of becoming lost. Each road looked the same, lined with small, open air bazaars on each side, with people selling their wares. The tourist trade from Europe and the Middle East helped families eke out a small living. Beautiful silver jewelry hung in the open air along with marionettes used for religious rites.

As the evening drew near, the Nepalis dumped their garbage out along the streets, and the starving cows, now becoming a familiar sight to me, foraged for food from the leftovers. I vacillated between wanting to rub and protect my sleep-deprived eyes from the dirt in the air to not wanting to miss anything, no matter how gross or unsightly. Fascination with the strangeness of the culture whet my appetite to see more.

With shoulder length, wavy, blonde hair and fair skin, I was as much a curiosity to the Nepalis as they were to me. Questioning eyes stared back at me. I represented wealth and money. Shop owners wanted rupees from me to feed their children. Every few minutes a Nepali man would wave at me as if to say, “Come here and buy something.”

Nepal is the forty-eighth poorest country in the world. Out of a population of eighteen million, six million drink water we wouldn’t give to our dogs. Four years later, I would find out what drinking contaminated water could do to a seven-year old child. Trying to ignore the stares, I picked up my pace to find a suitable restaurant.

After a while, all the eating establishments began to look the same and I arbitrarily picked one that seemed friendly. A small sign outside the restaurant written in Nepali displayed their menu. I knew I wouldn’t be ordering a hamburger.