April 15, 2013: Part Two--"Hello, Madame..."

Sharon finally turns to a street vendor and asks him for help. He shoos off the boys and Sharon and I make a break for it. Still trailed by the boys, I find myself wishing I hadn’t brought anything. The fewer things you have, the fewer things you have to lose. We finally get to After 10. Sharon asks if I want to sit outside on the patio or inside the restaurant.

“Inside,” I anxiously say.

I settle down on a bench by the window; strap Herbert, Javier, and Jemma together; and, back-pack carry-on still on my back, cower in a corner behind a table and chairs. I’m terrified! It only gets worse when I realize that I am being studied very intently by a man across the room. He gets up, paces a bit, sits back down, gets up, paces a bit…all while staring at me. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe, I tell myself as he comes closer. I try to nonchalantly slide a chair out to block me and my stuff in.  

He approaches and says, “Hello, Madame.” I nod back but just about jump out of my skin when he reaches toward me and glances his hand against my thigh as he pulls something out from under the bench I am sitting on. “Sorry, sorry, Madame,” he says again and then I realize that I have positioned myself next to the photo printer. He’s merely trying to print off some pictures he’s taken! Talk about relieved! It’s still a bit awkward when he offers to take my picture, but he more or less moves on when I don’t acquiesce. 

A lady sits down at the table nearest to me, and I decide to try to start off a conversation—success! We chuckle at my little freak-out and it helps pass the time. Unfortunately, she soon has to leave. It’s been over 20 minutes and Uncle Chris still hasn’t arrived. On a note, I overhear a conversation between two men at a nearby table: “I like her, but she’s Seventh-day Adventist. I mean really Seventh-day Adventist”—what a hoot!

Over half an hour from when Sharon drops me off, Uncle Chris finally arrives and I am incredibly relieved to see him. The children outside clearly recognize him and I’m able to pick out “Uncle Chris” in the otherwise utterly foreign Bemba. Even though they respect him, one of the boys tries to grab at the suitcase. Finally, all my stuff is loaded and I’m seated in Uncle Chris’s car. I feel bad not rolling the window down to chat with the kids, but frankly I am just too overwhelmed.

We chat as we make our way down the road and I find out that in the midst of the noise of the funeral (not the reserved contemplative type of ceremony that I am used to), he hadn’t heard my texts come through. The first thing he heard from me was when I was in Kitwe. As the kilometers pass by, I’m surprised to find out that Cibusa House is located quite a ways from the city. A good 20 minutes away. Once we turn off the highway, the roads get progressively dustier and more pitted with potholes. The surroundings, though, are gorgeous—brilliant bougainvillea, grass post-rainy-season-shoulder-high, blue skies, yellow flowers, and the occasional chitenge clad figure carrying sugar cane or a large sack atop her head.

We make a right, go down the road a bit, make a left into a drive-way, and stop at a large gate. On the wall to the right is a sign that says: “Cibusa House—The Family That Cares.” We’re here—home for the next 2 ½ months!