My Journey to Becoming a Father, Part 1 of 5

This is a lightly edited transcription of a journal I kept while adopting my son in Colombia back in 1993.

6/26/93
The beginning of our trip to Bogotá to adopt our first child. Minneapolis to Miami flight uneventful. Five hour layover in Miami. While waiting for the flight to Bogotá, met several Colombian high school students returning after 10 months with U.S. families. Nice kids. Avianca flight full of Colombians, not sure but we may have been the only norteamericanos on board. Sat next to a very nice Colombian man (Ferni??) who gave us much useful advice and later helped us through customs. Picked up at the airport by the son of our Minnesota Children's Home Society representative's assistant. He had no problem picking us out of the crowd. He drove us to our hotel (Residencias Paris) in the Chicó district of north Bogotá. We’re not in Kansas anymore.

6/27/93
One day to get acclimated in more ways than one. We felt somewhat prepared but luckily there's a woman from Wisconsin who's been here a few weeks and is showing us the ropes. Rita speaks passable Spanish having spent three and a half months in Guatemala adopting her first son in 1982. She's down here adopting two girls, 7 and 8 years old, who have been severely abused.

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The 7,800 foot elevation takes its toll quickly, a nasty headache and lightheadedness. Walking six blocks to the store is a major effort.

6/28
The big day. Our representative Isabel Romero drives us to the Ayudame orphanage where we wait for a short period of time that seems endless. We sign lots of papers. Eventually they bring in Nathaniel Miguel who's as cute as a bug's ear. How cute is a bug's ear? Tears flow. Nathaniel is very quiet, the people at the orphanage call him calm. All the babies at the orphanage get bronchitis or bronchial pneumonia which is not too surprising when we notice that everyone on the staff is smoking, often when standing in front of Fumar Prohibidar signs. We take Miguel back to the hotel where he is amazingly quiet for a few hours. When he decides to get vocal, he makes up for lost time. Mary and I quickly find that we are not yet experts with formula and diapers.

6/29/93
Our first meeting with Carlos, the best taxi driver on the planet. The man is worth his weight in gold. We drive to ICBF, the Colombian government children's welfare agency where we're asked questions about our intentions. Our lawyer has two competent looking bodyguards with large bulges in their jackets. She may some day be First Lady - her husband is the former director of the Colombian equivalent of the FBI and he has his eyes on the Presidential Palace.

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As we drive around it quickly becomes obvious that the middle class is very small. Grinding poverty and affluence exist side by side. Street vendors eeking out survival wages and kids sitting on the corner sniffing glue are not seen by the occupants of the Mercedes with tinted glass that drives by. There are police and soldiers everywhere; M-14's and submachine guns are common. We have been warned not to speak to them - even a buenas dias may make them suspicious that you are tying to distract them.
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After driving us around for three hours Carlos only charges us 7,500 pesos. At the current exchange rate of 776 to the dollar, I don't see how he can do it. The two thousand pesos tip I gave was way too small for all his work.
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The food included in the cost of our room is served family style and is muy delisioso. Several other families are here adopting - from Wisconsin and France as of today, a Norwegian couple left for the airport yesterday.

6/30 (Night of the Long Knives)
Took a trip to go shopping today, went to Exito, the Bogotá equivalent of Walmart. Except Walmarts don't have armed guards at the gates who use long-armed mirrors to inspect to the undersides of cars for explosives.

1 July
Went to Ayudame to to get written permission to take a four day trip to La Rochela, a resort in La Vega, about 70 kilometers northwest of Bogotá. One of the reasons to go into the country is to help Nathaniel Miguel's lungs clear up for a few days, away from the pollution of Bogotá. We treated him today for scabies, caused by mites, relatively rare in the States but common in developing countries. I walked about nine blocks to a one hour photo shop and dropped off film to be developed using my as of yet minimal Spanish. On the way back I realized that I was not carrying my passport or any other identification. Not a smart move.

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Walking across a street here can be quite risky. The drivers are all certifiably insane and in Colombia pedestrians do not appear to have the right of way. If you get hit maybe it's legally your own fault? Drivers seem to rarely look for pedestrians, let alone slow down for them. Even crossing at an intersection with a green light is a roll of the dice unless you are very careful.

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