Traveling Home

Sort of working my way backwards through the trip we just returned from. Seems kind of weird, actually, calling it a “trip.” Another 4,000 km in a pickup truck around South Africa – 4 weeks, 4 different provinces, doing basic trainings of health professionals – just seems deserves a better moniker than a “trip.”

But, hey, you are what you are, I suppose.

Anyhow, working backwards.

Was a great trip. We’re pretty blessed, I must say, because all the traveling Lorena and I have done, even these last few years with one little boy now another, we seem to have a pretty fair run of getting back home, putting our bags down, and at some reasonably close point to arriving, sitting at the table, maybe a nice vino open, saying “wow, that was a really great trip.”

So, once again. Thankful for that.

The flight back from Johannesburg was just about as nice as could be. We feel pretty lucky to have rediscovered the non-stop from Atlanta to Jo’burg on Delta. Rather, I should say, Delta has rediscovered it, as for awhile they weren’t flying to Jo’burg at all from Atlanta, much less the non-stop. Were going through Dakar. For awhile just refueling there, then, obviously, making it its own travelable connection. You could get on and off in Dakar, connect through there to places, that sort of thing.

We always just stayed on, of course, and continued on to Jo’burg. Which was rather nasty, actually, the middle of the night stopping in Dakar, where “security” (really, a bunch of youngish-appearing workers, really surly, no smiles there) would board to plane and proceed to just about tear it apart. Pull up every seat cushion, take down every bag from the overhead. You had to be standing at your seat when they came by, be there to identify your things. I don’t know what would happen if you weren’t. Perhaps they’d be seized.

Always had a menacing air to it. Would wake up the boys, then there’d more surly creatures about. Lorena and I certainly didn’t enjoy it. And sometimes the “layover” would stretch beyond the usual hour. Made us late coming back to Atlanta once, we almost missed our connection. Had to gallop breakneck through the airport, running furiously, begging a worn-out, didn’t-I-just-travel-18 hours-Sebastian to keep up, buddy, ultimately having to bribe him with a chocolate bar if he did. Kid remembered it, too, this time, and summarily cited me for a chocolate bar for making it well to our connection Sunday, even though we were well ahead of time and it was a comfortable stroll.

At least the boy has a sense of tradition.

In any event, the non-stop Atlanta- Jo’burg is back now, and we were pleasantly surprised when we left for Jo’burg in June that this was the case. Had been expecting the Dakar dirge. Sweet serendipity.

First time Lorena and I went to Africa, on our epic 2004 Malawi-Zambia adventure, the whetting of our appetite for the Great Continent, we had the non-stop. Figured we’d always be able to travel that way, which I laugh about now, so many buses through London, slogs through Paris (replete with vomiting Sebas after last summer’s Romania trip), and wary hours in Dakar later.

We set-up for this return nicely, having learned a few things as we’ve gained travel experience – particularly with small children – I think.

No last-minute dashes up the N3 this time, blazing through the highveld, sweating out making the airport on time. Who needs that sort of stress.

Slid up to Jo’burg after finishing in Qwa Qwa on Friday. Made good time, no stops after Harrismith, into Sandton before 5. Checked in at our favorite Sandton hotel (OK, we’ve only stayed there twice – February and now – but what was I saying about tradition – we can be creatures of habit, and Lorena and I have noticed the little guys like it that way), the City Lodge on Katherine Street, and rolled on over to our favorite Jo’burg mall – Sandton City.

I really like Sandton City. Not much of a mall guy historically, but give me a leisurely walk with Lorena around North Park or Sandton City or Mimosa Mall in Bloemfontein and I’m pretty happy these days.

Window shopped a bit, then walked out into the early evening on Mandela Square, one of Sandton City’s nicest places. A generous plaza surrounded by nice restaurants and a very fashionable hotel, the square is dominated by a large statue of Nelson Mandela. When we lived in Lesotho, Sebastian always referred to the great man as “Ntate Mandela,” and I think I may have commented before how proud I was of him when at the tender age of a little over 2, in the Paris airport he saw Mandela being interviewed on television and, remembering this statue in Jo’burg he had played around and under so much (we enjoyed visiting Mandela Square even then while living in Lesotho), he exclaimed to the shock of the surrounding crowd (how’s a little American kid know him?), and his mother's and my great pride, “Look, Dada, there’s Ntate Mandela!”

The air was cool, and I’d just gotten an e-mail from one of my Houston colleagues about what a sauna we were about to return to, so I enjoyed the comfortable breeze all the more. While holding Oscar for Lorena to feed him, so enjoying just sitting there on a step, holding him and the moment, savoring the placid feel of the Square and the night and watching Sebas – always the quick friend-maker – run around with an abuti and another kid, making circles around the fountain and trying (not?) to fall in.

Lorena decided on Pappas, and we headed up to one of our favorite restaurants there for a nice Greek meal. Fantastic resinated Greek white wine that was a new one for us (Restana). Their tasty salad and calamari. Wonderful evening.

Traditional saunter over to Executive Books to pick up some items, then back to the hotel.

Nice relaxed breakfast the next morning, then an interesting repacking of all our paper and boxes from the trainings. Had a few boxes to leave behind, so hope the City Lodge will have us back again next month.

Got a few things the next day at Sandton City, plenty of time for the final repacking, and early arrival out to the airport. For which I had been sweating out for days returning the truck with the little gift in the side of unmentionable origin. Beware those that consider themselves cute and graceful (more (much) later…).

Turned the truck in. Went rather well, all things considered. Maybe too well, as I again sweat out the credit card statement and what Avis may have in store for me.

Early in line, one of the first to be checked in. Almost crushed by the overloaded luggage cart on the way to check-in, but, hey, another Jo’burg tradition for us, and we’re a month with two little kids, so we have a few things!

Tried not to crack the new striped-nose mascara, and did pretty well with that. Lorena got the guys through their nappy change and bathroom run (not synchronized, tradition again for our kids), one of the least painless of check-ins. We make it to the back, survive the scanner (always the worst for us), nobody tries to take Oscar’s formula away or make Lorena drink it (London calling…), and to top it off we get a great table in the much-better-than-average restaurant to wait for the flight.

By the gate, Oscar discovers the moving sidewalk, and we take some funny video of him running up and down it and trying not to fall. Sebas rides to his heart’s content – at one point I look over at one of them and there he is, sitting cross-legged, reading a book, content to be carried along.

Boys do great on the plane. We figure a way to keep Sebas away from Madagascar 2, his watching again 10 times of which (the way over) may have been Lorena and my biggest fear heading into the flight – who wants to hear for weeks again about Gloria’s bum?

He and Oscar sleep a bit. Serendipity again when they bring out a bassinet for Oscar and low and behold he’s able to be wedged into it. So funny at one point seeing him wake up, sit up, rip open the Velcro webbing covering him, and try and crawl out, looking much like the baby emerging from an egg we kid Sebas about (and he still half believes – did you lay an egg, Mommy?).

Atlanta-Houston, Oscar wigged again, just as in February, at one point crawling under the seat in front of us and getting stuck.

But, hey, by then we were practically home.

Ride waiting for us at Hobby. Home before noon.

Pictures dropped off and back the same day. Nice Mexican lunch from Taquito.

As promised, Sebas got out “all his dinosaurs.” And actually let little brother play with some of them.

Got our shopping done, a little dinner, then crashed into bed.

Wow, really about as good as we could have expected, if not better. Who says 10,000 mile / 24 hour trips from below the equator on the other side of the world are such bad things.

Wait, you say we’re doing it again in a couple weeks?

Yowza.

Better figure out how to avoid Madagascar 2 again…

Jet-lag Oscar

About 4 this morning I finally gave up. The wriggling, squirming creature next to me under the covers had finally triumphed. Again.

But today it was earlier than usual.

Actually, he’d been awake for a couple hours. But with Oscar, you see, sometimes the paci works wonders. Find it. Stick it in the mouth. He’ll probably roll over and give you a little more time. Maybe even go back to sleep for the rest of the night.

But sometimes not. Definitely not when he’s jet-lagged like this morning.

Lorena and I have seen this creature before. Last March, when we returned from our last month of driving around South Africa and Lesotho - 5,000 km of trainings, a little vacation, and a whole lot of dust and sun and scenery to open your mouth wide and hold it there – we saw this guy. And his brother, too, that time, while this time thankfully sleeping in a bit.

Jet-lag Oscar. Up early and at your service.

You win, buddy. Dada’s up.

Actually, was about to get up anyway, time for the morning workout.

Scooped the fellow up and took him downstairs. To his playpen. Worked the last time pretty well.

That, however, was a wee bit younger Oscar. Amazing the difference 4 months makes. That Oscar could barely crawl. This one can not only walk, but run. And climb, and even jump on a bed a little, if you want to call it that.

This was a different Oscar.

Lorena calls him “colocho” – curly-head – and, indeed, his hair does have a precious natural curl to it. Its also a barometer of sorts, curly as a Q in the Houston humidity, almost straight with some curls along the forehead in the frigid, dry Free State from which we’d just returned.

Hence, the jet-lag.

This morning he was uber-colocho, all wild-ase frizz and curls, and those crazy baby eyes you see when they’re angry or surprised or, say, just haven’t gotten enough sleep. As when its almost noon on their body clocks, but someone’s dragged them back across a bunch of time zones.

The eyes, the hair. And not at all about to stay quietly in the playpen.

Waited a few minutes for me to get started working out, then as I was doing crunches on the floor next to the pen, out came the toys. Literally. One after another. Dropped, flung, propelled I don’t know how, out they were coming.

Right on top of me.

With every crunch, another rattle or block or little brontosaurus would rain down on me, and above me would stand a smiling, laughing, gap-toothed, crazy haired Oscar, having quite a ball.

Couldn’t last forever, I surmised. He’ll have to run out of toys.

Which he did.

But he didn’t run out of feet or legs, and certainly not out of the clueless notions that must fill his head at times, none more so than the grand idea of, hey, let’s climb out of the playpen.

No kidding. There he was. Hands grabbing the rails, feet digging into the mesh. Making progress, little by little, up the side of the pen, grunting and struggling and giving it his all.

Oscar’s really good at that. Like Sebastian at that age, he’s a go-getter, really determined, likes to do what he likes to do.

He’s fast, very strong for his age, and can climb like kudzu.

That’s not his problem.

Its what to do when he reaches the top that sometimes tricks him up.

I’m looking at the brick floor below, looking at the Oscar scaling the pen side, thinking we’ve been here before.

Dateline Clarens. Late February ’09. The Tolle family about to return from the last South Africa trip. All safe and sound and about to tuck into the Maluti Mountain Lodge for a rest and a nice meal and final chill-out in the cool highland air the last night of a great month before returning to Houston and work and humidity.

We’re unloading our things, the grill inside smelling good, the soft Free State breeze blowing by. Success, a long trip over and much accomplished.
Bags on the pavement. Oscar in his coche. All is well.

About to strap him in. Wait, what’s that, Sebas. Look at what?

Then a sickening thud, a dull smack and cracking sound, like a melon being dropped. Immediately a cry.

It was Oscar. Unstrapped by his distracted Dada, he’d stood up in his coche, tasted freedom, and made a go for it over the edge.

Right onto his head.

Pick him up. He’s screaming. Mommies is screaming. Sebas, screaming.

There’s a gash from eyebrow to crown. Just, luckily, about a half-a-millimeter from fully breaking the skin.

Felt the bones. All intact.

Moving everything. Babbling. Consolable.

Ultimately, much worry later (where to go if we’d really needed help? Not a scanner in the area, Jo’burg or Bloem hours away, darkness had fallen. Local care? Come on. I’d just been training in the province, had just heard from the docs in Bethlehem, an otherwise sizeable town half-an-hour away, how little they had to work with there. Gulp. Prayers. So happy Oscar did so well so fast and was obviously OK…), he was fine.

So there we were again. Oscar about to get to the top, this time much higher, and with nary a plan for how to get down except that down he was going. Freedom. I’m out of this pen.

Hard red bricks below.

No, no, no buddy. Redirect. Here’s one of Sebas’ books. Please don’t tear it, chew it, or let him know I loaned it to you.

Down he goes. Good thing he loves reading like his brother.

Back to working out I go. Well, at least we’ll have fun doing “race cooings” around the neighborhood when I run in a bit.

And how I love race-cooings. Started with Sebas when he was much smaller. Even back in Dallas before we set off for the wild blue yonder we used to enjoy it. When we returned from Lesotho, he was into Cars in a major way. So he was the race driver and I, I guess, the car, and he narrated the race as we sped around the neighborhood south of Rice.

Round the corner. Seba, Dada, yeah! Here comes the finish line. Race cooings!
It was a blast. I ran hard, pushed, and he called the race.

One of those things you wish you’d done more, then you look around and your little guy no longer fits in the cooing, and wouldn’t be interested in doing it anymore even if he did.

But, fortunately, there’s another little boy in the house. And he still likes race cooings as much (well, maybe almost) as his Dada.

Jet-lagged and awake? Ok, great! We’ll get to do race cooings.

Get my shoes on, ready to go.

Oil up the cooing. Push it into the room.

Reach down into the playpen to get the little terror who’d been begging out all morning.

Zzzzzzzzzz.

Sleeping, wouldn’t you know it. Had to run by myself.

Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. No cliché, I mean it.

Jet-lag Oscar, he sticks around awhile. We’ll see what time he starts poking me tomorrow morning…

Birthdays

10 March 2009

Well, by the date on this, one thing is clear: I’m forty now.

Forty. 40. The big 4-0.

As Sebas told me the other day after thinking about it for a moment, “Dada, that’s a really old number.”

Thanks, pal…

Of course, he had thought I was going to be 5. Yep, five. Well, he had just turned 4, and he knew my birthday was coming up next, and, obviously, I’m older than him.

So must have been turning 5. But when I told him, no, 40 – well…

And so it is. But its been great so far. I’d say I don’t feel a day older than 18, and, really, it’d be true. I don’t. Never have. Still do just about everything I did then. Probably, weirdly, in better shape now. Definitely run faster…

And I’m very, very, very thankful for that.

Actually, and of course, have a lot to be thankful for.

Pretty much starts and stops with the 3 magical creatures I live with. But also family, and some really good, longstanding friends.

That was on display over the weekend. Lorena (again!), with her amiga Rosann, pulled off a really great surprise party over at John and Rosann’s place. Was supposed to be the famous “80s party” we had always heard about. But turns out was my party. With 80s regalia (Run DMC shirt for me, Lorena smashing in a true blue 80s outfit, complete with shiny zipper and fish net gloves. Evidently, she’s always wanted to dress up like that. Hmmm…).

Door opens, and there is standing Kousik, Mrugesh and Neena (and cute 3 y.o.), Dennis, all my family, Heidi and Meg and husbands from BIPAI, Dave and Christine Mora.

Wow. Shocking, when you don’t expect to see something like that.

But what fun. All the BIPAI folks ended up coming. Even Edith. And Mom got to meet her as well as one of her idols – Mark. Really nice for everyone to come.

And really great catching up with everyone we hadn’t seen in awhile. Just had a rip, roaring blast. One of those nights you wish would never end.

Roaming around the neighborhood at 3AM with Dennis looking for Camy’s car…
Oh yeah, that’s another story. When I get over the $200 its cost us (so far), maybe I’ll write about it (or just ask John)…

The next AM it was minus an hour for the (darn) time change. Then on to Seba’s zoo party. Tough. But also great. Fantastic, gentle party, with all the nicest kids from his school. Who needs blank-ing pump it up. Give me the zoo…

Nice Sunday with all the family, last night with James and Julie, John and Rosann. With just coming off of major jet lag after a month in Africa, we’re pretty tired (plus GI bug for Lorena, Oscar and me…). But so much fun.

Then, this morning, my actual birthday.

Have been thinking a lot about my 30th. Was the perfect birthday. Was in Honduras on a mission trip. Woke up in the Garifuna area, worked all day in Santa Fe. Nobody even knew it was my birthday, much less my 30th. No family or friends could call me and razz me.

The work I loved in a place I loved.

It was perfect.

Today. Houston. Just another day, getting ready to go to work.

Hmmm… Was this how I had imagined my 40th?

Actually, had been planning for awhile to have all of us go off somewhere exotic, celebrate it in style, way out there in the world somewhere. Like Lorena’s 30th, when we were in Thessaloniki (awesome – one of the greatest dinners and post-dinner walks of all time…).

But then, no, up came the chance to do the Africa month, so sort of traded that for having my 40th here in Houston.

Oh well, but was a good trade. Last month was incredibly special.

So - ho hum - the long-anticipated 40th in Houston...

But then the surprise party.

Phenomenal.

And the nice weekend.

Really great.

Good night with the brothers last night.

Hmmm. Pretty great.

This morning: brushing my teeth, just about to run out the door to work.

Same as always…

But then I hear the little feet coming up the stairs.

Odd, Sebas never does that in the morning. He’s downstairs with Mommies, getting ready.

I hear him get to the top stair.

Then start singing:

“Happy birthday to you.”

“Happy birthday to you.”

“Happy birthday, Dear Dada. Happy birthday to you.”

Tonight, it will just be the four of us. Get off a little early from work. Pick-up Sebas. Get Lorena for her work-out. Sebas and Oscar and I hanging out at Rice. Maybe a little coffee shop afterwards. Store run. Make up some fajitas. Turn in early and get some rest.

And to think, I thought I already knew what a perfect birthday was…

My last birthday and Moving into 2228 North last year...

Found these from last year. Hard to believe we've been there that long...

10 March 2008

Great birthday so far. Got caught in a big rain and wind storm walking home from Ben Taub for lunch with Lorena and Sebas. Just got blasted. Soaking wet, shoes probably ruined. Beautiful multi-color umbrella just torn up. Had to laugh. Nice lunch with my crew. Got to play a little with Sebas. He told us tonight he wants to wait until it gets dark, “then we can get into a rocket ship and go up into the stars, look at the planets.” Maybe we will! Going to look at a few houses tomorrow. Criteria: yard for Sebas to play in, washer/dryer for Mommies, more space in general would be nice.

1 May 2008

So we found the house, and a very nice one. 2228 North. Sebas already knows the address by heart. He has been missing “#1” some, but after I explained to him that you never lose an old place you live, you just gain a new one, he has brightened up about it. That and the fact that his “road” and most of his cars and toys have made it over. He now proudly says he has three houses – Lesotho, Dryden, and North, but Lesotho is “home.” Its funny, he only says that to me, not to Mommies, but he’s been adament about it since we moved here. He’s been hearing us talk about Dallas, and sometimes says he has 4 houses, but I doubt he really remembers Eagle Trail. Although being re-united with a lot of his old “baby” toys from there may be doing it.

Wow. 4 houses. I think 765 Westwood in Saint Louis was my official 4th, not counting college living. And I was 26. Bears is 3, and already on his 4th…

We had a spectacular “fight” the other night. First night in the neighborhood, and I was making him go home on his bike as it was getting dark out. Had just dumped him off the bike a minute before, accidentally, and I think this had him fired up.

“Dada, Dada, Dada. Wait, Dada. Wait just a minute,” backing the bike and me up. “No, Seba, let’s get going.”
“Dada, I am SO mad. And this is… SO sad!”
I just had to break out laughing, little guy standing there hands on hips scolding me on the sidewalk. Welcome to the neighborhood.

This morning, something else funny:

“Does Seba have two hands? Does Seba have two feet?”

So many funny things he says, I wish I could write them all down.

He’s blues-ing a bit, I think from the pressure of being in a tough school all day 5 days a week, at his young age. May re-think that after the baby gets here and things get stable, but in a lot of ways its been good for him, keeps him from overwhelming Mommies, and I do think he on the whole likes it.

But he REALLY wants and needs someone or more, all his own, to play with. He wants to interact with everyone, to play with every kid he sees on the playground, in that one on one way he had with Nina in Lesotho, but hasn’t had since. That’s probably his greatest unmet need at the moment, and the source of what I feel is a sadness he is carrying around right now.

The old Seba can’t help but shine through, but its weighted down lately.

Quick note to remember – how much I love, and he loves, those walks around the block at Dryden. He asked for one as we were clearing out the other day, a quick sneak around the block, and then back to see Mommies. Gave me a besito after an ame’ – really a precious moment.

When Sebastian turned 3...

Wrote this shortly after Sebas turned 3...

6 March 2008

I’m telling you, pal, you ran your way out of being 2. Like you just couldn’t wait to be 3. We finished up at the bookstore in Georgetown, and you started pushing your cooing. Running up Pennsylvania Avenue. You’re so fast, Sebas. Dada had to run to keep up with you. Mommies was toting Oscar in the tummy, of course, so we stopped from time-to-time to let her catch-up. You didn’t want my hand on your shoulder. You had to run free yourself. You ran all the way to George Washington University Hospital, until the road ran out. Got you some T-shirts to sleep in since we left your PJs at home. Then you ran back to the hotel. What a beautiful day. You ran up and down H street between New Hampshire and 25th, back and forth, pushing your cooing, dodging people, checking out Mommies, red cooing you were.

What a great little trip to Washington that was. Had your birthday with me and Mommies and Nancy at Bistro Francais. She gave you bubbles and you’ve been playing with them all day today, Mommies tells me. You slept through dinner, then woke up in the cooing on the way back to the hotel.

We played and read books. You so love to read. “Read me a book,” you say. “Play with me, Dada.”

We play a lot of games, usually where you “push me down,” then proceed to jump on me. We “fight.” I do you “upside down monkey.”

Looks too rough to Mommies, and to grandmommy and granddaddy. But you love it, and I love it. Even Bum of the Face, a game from Lesotho that almost got you killed one night over there when you did it to Mommies and she flung you up in the air instictively. You were heading off that tall bed we slept in over there, straight for that rock hard cold floor. Somehow I was able to reach over the bed and catch you, halfway down. You’ve never Bum-on-the-face’d Mommies ever again, needless to say.

In Lesotho I used to give you a bath most every night. You’d play and swim in the tub. I let you do it even though the water wasn’t the cleanest, so much you loved it. Would try to keep you from drinking that sometimes green-with-chlorine stuff. Could only get you out by playing Nora Jones “Don’t know why…”

You knew all the words. I remember you singing it to me one beautiful day shourtly after you turned two. You were in the pack riding on my back like we did in Africa. Up in Golden Gate, way out by the vulture restaurant. We were up there with Tony and Greg, and all the Jesuit boys, and your sometimes-buddy Ella. Walking back to the car from a great hike where we looked over the edge all the way to the far Draks. I remember trying to watch my step on the rocks so we wouldn’t fall, and you singing Don’t know why, softly, the words just a little bit your own.

Like I have so many times these first 3 years, Sebas, right then I wished time would stop, that you’d always be 2, and up on my back, and us walking along that ridge in Golden Gate.

5,000 km and a month in a truck...

When we put this trip on the schedule, it didn’t seem like such an epic. We’d be going to South Africa – our first time back together since leaving Lesotho – to do a week of training in one of our old haunts, Bloemfontein. Get a week off the following week to do some traveling in South Africa, probably try and stop by Lesotho to say hello to everyone. Just a couple weeks. Nice and simple.

Well, as they often do, things changed. And next thing we knew, we had both trainings – Rustenberg and Bloemfontein – then our week off, then to Lesotho to cover for a whole week. That would be a month!

Exciting, and somewhat daunting with two little boys. But, still, we’d traveled a lot. This would just be a long one. No big deal.

As the time approached to leave, its seemed daily like a bigger and bigger deal. February comes faster on the heels of Christmas than I appreciated back in the fall when we were making the original plans for this. And Christmas in Africa, as we knew, tends to be a time of relaxation, where not a lot business-wise gets done.

Which is great, when you’re there and get to enjoy it. There’s a sort of black hole from early December to mid-January, where anything not wrapped up at the beginning slides all the way to the end.

And definitely did with getting the Trainings together. Before we knew it it was mid-January, we were leaving in a couple of weeks, and the Trainings were nowhere near ready. I was working mainly with a couple of colleagues in Botswana – Dwight and Ryan – plus my colleague here, Heidi. And we were working hard. Really hard. From getting in touch with our EGPAF sponsors, to finding out for sure if we were really doing the trainings, to realizing how far things had progressed in the field since BIPAI last updated its Advanced trainings.

Wow. A lot of work. And all in just a couple of weeks.

We worked like dogs, and just seemed to get it all together. Not a lot of time for planning on the family end.

It would all fall together, right? A 3 year old, an 8 month old, Lorena and me. A month on the road in South Africa and Lesotho. No problem, right? Just do it!

Well, we did.

And it was amazing.

In the end, it really was 5,000 km. In a white Nissan double cab pick-up truck. Lorena and I up front, Sebas in the back on the right, Oscar on the left.

Those were the positions. From Joburg to Rustenberg. Out to Pilanesberg and crazy fun Sun City. Through rain so hard we could barely see (and keep the truck on the road) and the rolling (and rolling and rolling and rolling) open spaces of the Free State. All around Bloemfontein (and around and around, trying to leave town when our week there was up). Back to Mimosa Mall and the really good Thai food we like there! To the Waterfront, so new and fancy. From Kroonstad to Polokwane without getting out of the truck (ouch – sorry, bum!). To magical Kruger and all up and down that phenomenal place, Sebas on the Seba-hump (or Lorena’s lap or mine..). Three feet from two male lions, crossing the road in front of us. Trapped by elephants and buffalo.

To the end of the road at Pafuri.

Back to Lesotho and wonderful reunion. Clarens, more Free State.

All over and around that beautiful country.

Us and the boys. A month in a truck.

Really incredible. Changed our perspectives on a lot of things, I think. Or maybe just reminded us who we are.

Much to tell. And hope to in the entries that follow.

Mike
3/3/09 (Happy Birthday, Sebastian!)

One very long day

So I said I'd write from time-to-time about some of the experiences from our year+ in Lesotho. We'd been there just a short while when Lorena got the call to go back to the United States for her naturalization ceremony (yay!, but great timing INS...). While she was in Dallas, Sebastian got awfully sick. There were lot of long days that month, but this was the longest...

Scarcely a month since we’d left the United States, there we were, my 18-month old son and I, searching for the tourist office in the Bloemfontein bus station, precious seconds ticking off the clock. I thought back to our goodbyes in Texas – this wasn’t exactly what my parents had warned would happen to us, but it wasn’t far off.

And what a time for my wife to be away – back in the States for her naturalization. All the years we’d gone through her citizenship process together. We’d asked them to move the date up to before we left the country. But that logic didn’t mesh with Immigration bureaucracy. So mommy was back home.

It was nearing 5PM, and the office was sure to close any minute. We were about as lost as lost can be, exhausted, reasonably filthy, a sad sight to see.

And my son was really sick.

Typically a robust picture of health, Sebastian had been stricken first with viral symptoms – a fever, some congestion, a bit of vomiting. But things had taken a turn for the worse the day before, when his fever wouldn’t come down, and he started having trouble walking. When that night he became unable to stand, I called my neighbor in panic. A fellow American expat physician, working as I was with the Pediatric AIDS Corps (Baylor International Pediatric AIDS Initiative) in Lesotho, she came to the house and looked Sebastian over. Probably just a viral illness, a bit more aggressive than typical, but we both felt he needed to get to the hospital. The nearest one well-equipped was over the border in South Africa’s Free State, a two hour drive to Bloemfontein.

Feeling it not safe to make the journey in the dark, we waited until daybreak. One thing after another slowed us down, and it was early afternoon before we were able to get a ride.

We’d been to Bloemfontein a couple of times already on short weekend shopping trips, stocking up on the sorts of things needed by a family with a one-year old relocating to Lesotho. I’d seen many guest houses and lodges, even a few hotels. It would be easy finding a place. My director in Lesotho had called a colleague in Bloemfontein. He had a busy schedule, but would see Sebastian in the casualty department after he finished his day, sometime around 7PM. We’d find a place to put up, in case he wasn’t admitted, then make our way over to see the doctor.

I knew nothing at the time of the fanatical hold in which rugby holds the South African nation, particularly the denizens of the Free State. Evidently, there was a major Cheetahs (the local professional team) match the next day, and every accommodation was fully booked. A big match, too, at the state university.

I’d learn to scour the calendar in the future, watching for such times, planning our family outings to the Mimosa Mall around them.

But I hadn’t learned that at this point, so Sebastian and I trudged from lodge to lodge, receiving the polite “sorry, but no” at each. Many curious scratches of the head – didn’t I know about the game?

Finally, I think the combination of Sebastian’s pitiful face and my desperation egged a proprietor to make a kind suggestion. Look, there’s nowhere to stay in town. But there’s a tourist office in the bus station. Be careful walking over there, but perhaps they can help you out. Sometimes a lodge will call in late with an open room. Its worth a look.

But where was that office? We’d made three rounds of the station, and it just had to be closing time soon. My heart was sinking, thinking of a possible nighttime ride back to Lesotho. Or worse.

We decided to go down to the basement. A light radiated from behind some construction materials and we approached. Poked our heads in, and there it was.

But, indeed, it was closing time. Halfway between her desk and the door as we walked in, handbag in grasp, an older lady with a stern disposition looked over the top of her spectacles at us.

Can I help you sirs?

I’m so sorry, I know you’re about to close, but…

I told her the story. And she looked at Sebastian.

Please have a seat. Let’s see what we can find.

I can’t say that I understand Afrikaans, but I think I caught enough of a very long conversation between this very sweet woman and the party on the other end. She begged, she cajoled, she reassured the other woman we’d be fit as guests. And the little boy, you just have to see him…

Its done, she said. One of the lodges has a room in the back. It’s a very small room, they use it for their visiting family. But you can have it for tonight.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, and I picked up Sebastian to leave.

No, she said, snatching Sebastian, I’ll take you myself.

And she did. The room was perfect, all we needed. We’d be set for the night.

She smiled as she walked off, then conversed with the lodge owner. They both looked at us shaking their heads and shrugging. Poor little boy, his father has taken him so far from home…

The hospital was a short walk, and we made it to casualty just as the clock ticked 7. Doctor would soon be here, the nurse said, let’s get you checked in.

Strangely, as the day had gone along, Sebastian had been slowly getting better (of course, your child always does when you make a daylong trip across the Free State and almost end up sleeping rough). He was smiling, and wanting to play. The nurse had to settle him down.

About 8 o’clock, the doctor walked in the room. He was clearly tired, at the end of a long day. But he couldn’t have been nicer, or more thorough with Sebastian.

He took a full history, examined him head-to-toe. Sebastian had a bit of residual wobbliness, and had just broken out in a fine, red rash, seemingly as we were sitting there.

Baby measles, he told me, roseola. We see an aggressive strain here, worse than you see in the States. Sometimes with a meningitic or almost encephalititic picture, as Sebastian had had. Occasionally have to admit children to the hospital with it. But your son will be well in a couple of days.

We’ll let you go home. Do you have somewhere to stay? Good to hear.

Bring him by my office in the morning for another check. If he’s better, you can go back to Lesotho.

He took a minute to ask about the condition of the medical profession in the States. Many of his colleagues were there now, and in Canada, Australia, and the UK.

He nodded affirmingly as I went over some of the good and the bad. We’re having our troubles here, too, he said. Things aren’t as they used to be.

He told me about all he and his colleagues, the ones still in Bloemfontein, do in their daily work – lecturing at the medical school, taking turns covering as attending on the extensive public services in town, keeping up their private practices.

Its getting tougher each year to do, he said. There are more and more changes being imposed, new policies, concerns over the quality of education new physicians are receiving.

Then he smiled – what can we do? He stood up to leave. The nurse brought Sebastian’s clothes and wished us good night.

What about a bill?

Nobody had asked me for anything. There had been no papers to fill-out, no forms to sign, no impression of one or more credit cards taken. I’d just used a room at the casualty department, and an hour of a nurse’s and doctor’s time. It was nearly 9PM.
No worries, he told me. You’re coming by the office tomorrow. You can settle up then.

By this time, in the States, I would have forfeited every last piece of my personal identifying information, and at least a couple of forms of payment. Whatever “co-pay” I would have owed on my insurance would have been collected prior to seeing the doctor, and not necessarily politely.

And if I had no insurance, I wonder if I would have gotten anywhere near this far. Quite frankly, most of my countrymen in such straits don’t.

The nurse smiled, then went back to work. And the doctor, finally, headed home.

I dressed Sebastian quietly, somewhat embarrassed. Happy he was fine, but more than a wee bit melancholy.

As we rush into the future, our medical systems and culture increasingly distancing patient and physician, with all we feel we’re gaining with standardization and quality assurance, reams and reams of rules and regulations, mountains of paperwork, and dictates for seemingly everything – with all we think we’re gaining, how much, indeed, have we lost?

When was the last time I’d seen a patient examined before their method of payment?

When was the last time I, personally, had so cheerfully and thoroughly evaluated a patient, without regard to time, much less agreed to meet at 8 o’clock after a long day?

How many of my colleagues back home would have seen Sebastian like this, on a handshake promise of being paid? How many times had I done something similar?

And never mind how would lost travelers, particularly foreigners like us, be treated back home? Our reputation for friendliness and open arms – pride of our schoolteachers when we were kids – seems just another distant childhood memory.

Alas, we left the hospital and returned to our room. In the morning, after checking-in with the doctor, we went to the airport to catch a flight to Johannesburg.

Mommy was coming home!

Epilogue

Sebastian and I became rugby fans, and even now, back in the States, still are. We root over the internet for the Free State Cheetahs, and, I must disclose, even snuck into a British bar here in Houston (the only place we could find the game on) to watch the World Cup Final recently.

Sitting quietly in the back, trying hard to keep our celebration unnoticed, I raised a beer, and he a chocolate milk, technically to the Springboks, but, really, to the doctor who became my son’s pediatrician, and nursed him through a more serious hospitalization a few months later.

To the people of Bloemfontein who took care of us when we were in need.

To hospitality and gentle manners.

And to a way of taking care of patients that lives on, having found a way, for the moment, of eluding extinction.