Original text can be found here.<\/a><\/p>\nBy the time the plane taxied into Bucharest I had a raging headache. The journey had taken two days with long stopovers in Singapore, Bombay and Zurich, and now I felt nauseated and my legs were swollen.<\/p>\n
The Bucharest airport was in stark contrast to the bustling neon-lit and glitzy Singapore one. My immediate impression was, \u201cIs this a very large public convenience?\u201d Gun-toting soldiers paraded through the bullet-ridden concrete building, and I felt shocked and removed from a world I had left.<\/p>\n
I went through the motions of following passengers, dreary and jaded, with Bryan\u2019s words ringing in my head, \u201cTry and bring back a bright-eyed little girl,\u201d and\u00a0 lovable brown-eyed, brown-skinned Tristan pleading, \u201cCan you get me a bruvver my size?\u201d<\/p>\n
It was arranged that a Romanian interpreter would meet me at the airport, find me accommodation and take me to the orphanages.\u00a0 Everything appeared either grey or black \u2013 passengers, airport staff, and the heavy atmosphere of the relics of communism.<\/p>\n
\u201cNew Zealand.\u201d\u00a0 A large placard waved in the air like a beacon.
\n\u201cThat\u2019s me,\u201d I shouted. \u201cSpeak English?\u201d\u00a0 He did.
\n\u201cI have your Kiwi friends here,\u201d he slurred in a nasally American accent. And in that strange colourless world I wrapped my arms around every New Zealander who had come to the airport to welcome me.
\n\u201cI don\u2019t know you, but I love ya all,\u201d I laughed.\u00a0 \u201cHow\u2019s it going?\u00a0 Got your babies yet?\u201d
\nThey all had, and were booked to go home now that New Zealand authorities agreed that the adoption laws were compatible with Romania.<\/p>\n
The Kiwis suggested I come back with them.\u00a0 They were all holed up in the same hotel for mutual support and companionship.
\n\u201cAm I staying there?\u201d I asked uncertainly.
\n\u201cNoo, noo,\u201d laughed Cristian, the interpreter.\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou stay with my friends.\u00a0 They have an apartment near the railway station and there\u2019s another Kiwi there.\u201d<\/p>\n
Cristian flagged down a taxi and we zigzagged our way to the other side of town before reaching a concrete block of flats, stark and plain, against a backdrop of ornamental sparsely-leafed trees where stray cats foraged in rubbish bins.\u00a0 We clambered up the stairwell, unlit and unfriendly, with Cristian gasping, \u201cWhat you have in this bag? Money?\u201d and he laughed like a hyena.<\/p>\n
He tapped on a door at the end of a long corridor.\u00a0 It was like a secret signal. Other doors down the passageway opened and quietly closed again. Two swarthy people peeked through a peephole, and said, \u201cAaah, Cristian.\u201d They opened the door and embraced him.\u00a0 It all felt so remote and foreign.
\n\u201cHello,\u201d greeted a woman, red-headed and freckled.\u00a0\u00a0 The Kiwi accent threw me, and suddenly I was thrust in a familiar world with unfamiliar surroundings.
\nShe was sitting on a couch flicking through a wad of documents.
\n\u201cAdopting too?\u201d I asked.
\n\u201cYes, but not having much luck at the moment.\u201d
\n\u201cOh?\u201d\u00a0\u00a0 I was disappointed.
\n\u201cThe place is swarming with Americans, and Irish, and now Kiwis,\u201d she added with a chuckle.<\/p>\n
Our new hosts stood awkwardly, waiting for us to finish our conversation in English. Dorina and Vlad.\u00a0 Their apartment was the size of a modern New Zealand kitchen, comprising a bedroom, compact bathroom, lounge and narrow kitchenette. The door from the lounge opened immediately into the bedroom, just large enough for a double bed and wardrobe.
\n\u201cYou sleep there with her,\u201d Dorina pointed into the poky room. \u201cTen dollars a night, American.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m not a lezzie,\u201d I whispered aside to the red-head called Flossie.
\n\u201cMe either,\u201d she replied.
\nI asked Dorina, \u201cWhere do you sleep?\u201d
\nShe patted the drab-brown draylon settee. \u201cFor now I sleep here. When you\u2019ve gone I sleep there,\u201d and she pointed to our bedroom.<\/p>\n
Our interpreter, Cristian, collected us in a taxi the next day, asking, \u201cDo you like my friends? Now we go to the market to buy flowers and chocolates and then we go visit an orphanage nearby. I take some people there before. Okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
Flossie wanted to come. She had been captivated by a little girl with pale strawberry-blonde hair and brown eyes but on further investigation the child was not available for adoption. Some parents placed their children in an orphanage, hoping to reclaim them at a later stage. In reality, poverty and family problems meant many children spent their childhood graduating from one orphanage to another according to their age. Many were simply taken to the orphanage and abandoned.<\/p>\n
The tyrannical dictator, Ceausescu, aspired to increase the population of his empire from 23 million to 30 million by the year 2000, and ordered\u00a0 families to bear at least five children. Since contraceptives were unavailable, a glut of unwanted children was dumped into cheerless institutions.<\/p>\n
We were ushered into an old building with a crumbling ornate fa\u00e7ade, wrought-iron gates and overgrown gardens where stout white-coated women leaned passively against gloomy walls, smoking or scowling.\u00a0 Cristian spoke animatedly to a doctor who was shuffling papers in a shabby office. She grabbed the flowers and chocolates we\u2019d brought and pointed down a long sunless corridor.<\/p>\n
I remembered images of toddlers gazing from their prison cots, but was nevertheless deeply shocked. The orphanage reeked of decay, mingled with the odours of urine, cleaning fluid and boiled cabbage. Exquisite-looking babies lay in metal cots, side by side, unresponsive, like lifeless dolls dressed in worn greyed clothing. Toddlers made no eye contact but sat in their cots mindlessly rocking, some banging their heads repetitively against the bars.\u00a0 It was just what we\u2019d all seen on TV. Worse.<\/p>\n
Speechless, Flossie and I followed Cristian into a room for older children where obese, .bored-looking caretakers in butcher coats sauntered around, disengaged emotionally from their charges. \u201cMama! Mama!\u201d squealed the children, arms outstretched, rushing towards us.<\/p>\n
Cristian sneered. \u201cThey say that to everyone. They don\u2019t know what it means.\u201d\u00a0 Flossie and I glanced at each other in bewilderment.\u00a0 Barely out of his teens, our interpreter was an enigma. He was passionate about his country, but hated it. He felt sorry for the children, but they didn\u2019t affect him. It was too big a problem. We gently closed the nursery doors leading into the corridor, a huge lump in our throats.<\/p>\n
Another room held 20 small boys, dressed in regulation blue-and-white-striped pyjamas, two to a bed.\u00a0\u00a0 Several arched their necks in mild interest but, when the staff barked at them, they fell back into a state of fear, rocking and sucking their thumbs. It was mid-morning, and Cristian had heard that some orphanages kept their charges sedated and in bed for most of the day to make them sleepy and docile.<\/p>\n
In the spartan concrete kitchen with its cracked tiling, women in scarves and faded print frocks tended to cauldrons of soup that hissed cabbagy steam.\u00a0 Dumpy women with hairy legs swished rags around the institutional toilet block housing rows of cracked basins and a jumble of tin potties next to rusty wringers and enormous tubs. The building was poorly lit.\u00a0 Cristian explained light bulbs were hard to find on the black market.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet\u2019s get out of here,\u201d pleaded Flossie. \u201cI feel sick.\u201d She meant sick-at-heart, like me.<\/p>\n
We had made contact with a doctor who lived in a northern town, and who had agreed to help us find a child. Dr Florina\u2019s home was a typical apartment in a concrete block. \u201cYou stay here.\u00a0 My husband and I stay with my mother. I will help find a child for you, but we must do this quick.\u201d And she fed us marmaliga, the traditional yellowy maize-meal omelette.<\/p>\n
The next day the doctor and her husband called for us after she\u2019d visited a friend who could translate our documents into Romanian for the court.
\n\u201cTake a notebook and write down what child you like,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
The forbidding institution stood back from the main road, flanked by trees in autumn hues. Dr Florina was greeted at the orphanage with familiar deference as we clambered up the myriad steps. Wails of crying babies tore through the concrete walls. Glass doors led into rooms crammed with cots.
\n\u201cOh. They\u2019re all so adorable.\u201d
\n\u201cWhich one you like?\u00a0 Write it down.\u201d But we found that impossible. In the fourth room I was drawn to identical twin girls, eight months old with black curly ringlets and emaciated bodies.<\/p>\n
\u201cNow choose a boy,\u201d coaxed Dr. Florina, and the darlingest boy stood up in his cot and reached out. His name was Costel, and when I picked up the damp year-old baby and drew him to me, his lips brushed against my face.\u00a0 He had a vivacity and appeal that was lacking in the pathetic inert babies scattered throughout the dormitories.
\n\u201cHow many names have you written down, Flossie?\u201d
\n\u201cIt\u2019s too hard.\u00a0 It doesn\u2019t feel right.\u201d
\n\u201cI know, I know. We could love any of these babies.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCome,\u201d said Dr. Florina bossily, drawing heavily on a cigarette. \u201cI have a migraine,\u201d and she led us to a tiny cluttered room where files spilled out of walled shelves. Flossie and I each held our breath while the doctor flipped through the notes of the babies. Many she dismissed, saying, \u201cToo far out in the country,\u201d \u201cFather in the military,\u201d \u201c Mother too simple,\u201d and\u00a0 once practically spat in disgust, \u201cGypsy name.\u201d
\n\u201cI don\u2019t mind a gypsy baby,\u201d I assured her, but she looked at me with contempt.
\n\u201cWhat about a baby for me?\u201d asked Flossie.
\n\u201cI have a nice boy for you. We visit him this afternoon,\u201d replied the doctor confidently.<\/p>\n
Dr Florina drowned her headache with a tot of whisky before her patient spouse drove us along potholed roads. At a hospital, tiny Sorin was produced, the darling of the ward, fussed over and pampered by several staff.
\n\u201cSee, you like this boy!\u201d exclaimed Dr Florina triumphantly as Flossie reached out for him, her face flushed with excitement.
\nA nurse aide in a white coat undressed the baby from the waist down. \u201cSee, he is normal.\u201d
\n\u201cHe is perfect,\u201d Flossie wept, and she gulped when I declared, \u201cThat baby looks like you.\u201d
\n\u201cDon\u2019t cry, lady,\u201d implored the doctor.\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHe is nice boy,\u201d and she chucked the startled baby under the chin affectionately.<\/p>\n
Now that we had found the children we really wanted, Dr Florina\u2019s task was to visit the parents and see if they agreed to their children being adopted.\u00a0 She was busy at the hospital and would have to juggle her time between us and her patients.<\/p>\n
Several days passed. We filled in time exploring the town before the doctor tapped on the apartment door. She bowled in like a nervous canon ball, frowning and puffing on a pungent cigarette.
\n\u201cGood news, lady. Family of the twins has given their consent.\u201d\u00a0 She had travelled to an outlying village and plodded through muddy ruts to locate the twins\u2019 home. It was a one- room shack with a mud floor. The unwed parents had six other children and worked in the fields.\u00a0 The twins had been premature,\u00a0 each weighing less than 1.5 kilos at birth.<\/p>\n
I jumped up and down with joy, thanked her profusely, and eagerly quizzed her.
\n\u201cBe quiet lady,\u201d she snapped. \u201cI\u2019m thinking.\u201d<\/p>\n
Next day she and her husband turned up to collect rope baskets.\u00a0 They were venturing into the country to buy wine and vegetables.
\n\u201cSee me,\u201d she began, which, in her quaint English meant \u2018listen to me.\u2019 That boy on your list,\u201d she addressed me. \u201cThe mother has given her consent.\u201d
\n\u201cWhich baby was that?\u201d\u00a0 I had written down names of several baby boys.
\nShe looked at her notes. \u201cHis name is Bogdan.\u201d
\n\u201cOh.\u00a0 So his mother agreed to his adoption?\u201d
\n\u201cDa, da. Yes. She doesn\u2019t want him.\u201d
\n\u201cWhy?\u201d
\n\u201cShe is a student.\u00a0 His father is in prison for deflowering a lady.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat about Costel, the baby who kissed me?\u201d I asked.
\n\u201cPooh, the parents are gypsy.\u00a0 They said no.\u201d I wondered if this was the truth.\u00a0 Dr Florina had objected strongly anytime we cooed into a cot at a suspiciously brown face. \u201cGypsy! Pooh!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about my boy?\u201d asked Flossie anxiously.
\n\u201cMother a schoolgirl. Disappeared. I have to investigate further,\u201d and she whirled out in a cloud of smoke saying, \u201cKeep door locked.\u00a0\u00a0 And don\u2019t answer phone.\u201d<\/p>\n
Flossie and I became virtual prisoners, only venturing out to buy food at the market, afraid we would miss news of the babies we had begun to bond with in our hearts.
\n\u201cAre you visiting tomorrow?\u201d I\u2019d ask the doctor, but she\u2019d snap, \u201cBe quiet lady. You ask too many questions. You keep her in line,\u201d she\u2019d urge Flossie, who\u2019d return an understanding wink. \u201cThis is very difficult situation. Lots of spies. Dangerous. Could lose my job.\u201d<\/p>\n
Now we really felt trapped in a tiny dark apartment where the greatest thrills were wondering when the water would be turned on, and swatting cockroaches. We hoped she would give us a time when she\u2019d visit so we could go to the market and gaze at shops to fill in the long days. We were anxious for any news of our babies.<\/p>\n
Although forbidden to use the phone, we couldn\u2019t resist a persistent ring one night.\u00a0 It was Bryan calling to see how we were faring.
\n\u201cI\u2019ve got three babies on the go, definite permission for a baby boy and possibly twin girls.\u201d
\nBryan\u2019s distorted voice echoed back, saying the situation was messy in New Zealand with reports of Kiwis being stranded and adoptions having ceased.
\n\u201cRubbish,\u201d I\u00a0 snorted. \u201cFull steam ahead. Love and kisses,\u201d and the phone went dead.<\/p>\n
One evening we had come back from town, having spent the day looking for non-existent toilet paper and feeling contrite because a policeman had bawled at Flossie for running in the middle of the road. We were trying to find our way home but kept going in a loop. The footpath had a spiky fence and we couldn\u2019t understand how to cross the road. An overhead concrete pillar bore an \u2018M\u2019 sign. Flossie had a hunch it stood for \u2018Mens\u2019
\n\u201cWe can\u2019t go in there,\u201d I agreed. \u201cWe\u2019ll have to keep walking around these buildings and see if we can find a way out.\u201d\u00a0 But we were puzzled by waves of people stepping underground beneath the M sign.
\n\u201cMust be good public urinals,\u201d I reflected.
\n\u201cOh stuff it,\u201d snapped Flossie in exasperation, and leapt over the fence.<\/p>\n
A policeman, directing the traffic in the middle of the highway, waved his arms frantically. He blew violently on his whistle as wandering vehicles barped. Flossie disappeared into a seething mass of workers returning home while I hiked a tortuous roundabout, locating her at the edge of a tram track, munching on a crusty loaf. We found that M stood for Metro.<\/p>\n
Dr Florina was waiting for us at her flat. \u201cYou are bad naughty ladies,\u201d she scolded, and thrust our papers on the bed. \u201cI can\u2019t help you any more.<\/p>\n
We were dumbfounded. Had a spy seen Flossie leaping the barrier and followed us home and reported us to the police?
\n\u201cWhat have we done?\u201d I asked.
\n\u201cWhat have we done?\u201d she mimicked sarcastically, curling her mouth up. \u201cYou bad ladies go to town without my permission and go blab, blab, blab and see me, you get me into trouble.\u201d
\n\u201cWe haven\u2019t spoken to anyone,\u201d I cried.\u00a0 \u201cWe don\u2019t know anyone to speak to.\u201d
\nDr Florina looked at us suspiciously for several seconds. She relit a cigarette and the air hung heavily with gloom and distrust. \u201cIs this the truth, ladies?\u201d
\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d we assured her
\n\u201cSee me,\u201d she continued.\u00a0 \u201cLots of bad people around.\u00a0 They see me helping you ladies and I might lose my job.\u201d
\n\u201cBut you\u2019ve helped other people before,\u201d I reminded her.
\nThe doctor\u2019s face clouded with fury. \u201cYou keep this lady quiet!\u201d she shouted at Flossie once again.\u00a0 \u201cYou know nothing. You don\u2019t know how things work here.\u201d
\n\u201cSorry,\u201d I murmured. \u201cYou\u2019re right.\u00a0 It\u2019s just that we see other couples adopting and Romanians are helping them. Are they getting into trouble?\u201d
\n\u201cBe quiet, lady,\u201d the doctor snapped angrily.
\nFlossie gave me a cautionary look. \u201dWhat is the problem?\u201d she gently asked the doctor, who produced a Romanian newspaper.
\n\u201cThis,\u201d and she pointed her pudgy fingers to an article reporting an American couple who had paid megabucks for a Romanian baby. Another article reported some Americans were returning their adopted babies.
\n\u201cThat\u2019s terrible,\u201d I cried.\u00a0 \u201cWe have come a long way from New Zealand. We would never do that.\u201d
\n\u201dOkay, okay.\u201d The doctor frowned deeply and smoked her pungent cigarette in noisy short bursts.
\n\u201cSee me,\u201d she said at last, addressing me. \u201cThe judge has seen your documents and is suspicious. He asks why these people want more children? They have many children in family and they live on a farm. Maybe these are bad persons wanting more children for their slaves!\u2019\u201d
\n\u201cNo, no, that\u2019s untrue,\u201d I cried. \u201cWe love children. There are no slaves in New Zealand.\u201d
\n\u201cI know, lady. This is a little bit wrong man. Don\u2019t worry, I will find a way.\u201d<\/p>\n
The doctor\u2019s husband, immune to the explosive drama, fiddled with the knobs on the television set, turning up the volume every time his wife ranted.
\n\u201cWe are very grateful to you,\u201d Flossie soothed. \u201cWe know you are doing your best and it is hard for you. We will be patient.\u201d
\n\u201cYou are a kind person.\u201d The doctor drew on her cigarette. She spoke rapidly to her spouse who nodded \u201cDa, da, da\u201d, and turned up the TV volume again.\u00a0 \u201cI will find a way.\u00a0 But look at this.\u201d<\/p>\n
We peered at an angry red cyst growing under her plump armpit. \u201cYou see the trouble I go to for you ladies.\u00a0 It is too much stress.\u00a0 I can\u2019t help any more people from your country after this.\u201d
\nShe\u2019s a doctor, I thought. Can\u2019t she diagnose herself?<\/p>\n
Again Flossie soothed and comforted her before the volatile woman grabbed her spouse, peered through the peephole and quickly opened the door, leaving behind a drift of smoke and two rattled Kiwis.
\nVery early the next morning there was an urgent tap on the door. \u201cGet up. Get out of here!\u201d Florina cried. \u201cYou can\u2019t stay here. Too dangerous.\u00a0 Don\u2019t talk, lady. Get packed quick.\u201d<\/p>\n
Flummoxed, we gathered our belongings and slid into a waiting taxi. The drive to the outskirts of town revealed a modern set of apartment blocks.\u00a0 \u201cYou stay here where I can keep an eye on you. And no telephone,\u201d she warned.<\/p>\n
The adoption process was slow and fraught with difficulties\u00a0 If Dr Florina didn\u2019t show up for days, we fretted and wondered if anything was happening. One day we disobeyed her.\u00a0 Flossie answered the telephone which was ringing persistently.\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s for you,\u201d she said.
\n\u201cMe? Nobody knows we\u2019re here, except Bryan, and I told him not to ring. Do you think it\u2019s a spy trying to stop us adopting?\u201d\u00a0 Hesitantly, I answered it.
\n\u201cIs that you, Jonquil?\u00a0 It\u2019s your cousin here.\u00a0 Joanna.\u00a0 Your cousin from England.\u201d
\n\u201cJoanna!\u201d I squealed.\u00a0 \u201cI haven\u2019t seen you in over 20 years.\u00a0 Where are you?\u201d
\n\u201cBucharest.\u00a0 I heard via the grapevine you were in Romania and I\u2019ve been searching for you for 10 days. My plane is booked to go home in a couple of days.\u201d
\n\u201cDon\u2019t go,\u201d I cried.\u00a0 \u201cI want to see you.\u00a0 I want to see someone normal.\u201d
\nJoanna took the first flight up and, at the apartment, she unloaded her suitcase filled with little luxuries for us, meanwhile explaining how she tracked us down.\u00a0 She had contacts in Europa-Assistance in London and they had helped.<\/p>\n
Joanna\u2019s arrival was heaven-sent. She thought it ridiculous we couldn\u2019t see our chosen babies while waiting for our court date. Since she was fluent in French and Italian, she jollied Dr Florina who had a smattering of French, but she admitted the morose doctor\u2019s French was as bad as her English and could see how misunderstandings might arise. At the orphanage, the surly director accepted the flowers and chocolates and kissed Joanna\u2019s hand.\u00a0 Flossie and I raised our hands expectantly for the traditional greeting, but let them fall to our sides when he didn\u2019t show the same interest.\u00a0 Joanna told the director she had flown all the way from England to see the twins, and, since he found her so charming, he agreed to let us see the babies.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis one is Ioana and this is Vasilica, and you can be god-mother,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd I am going to name Ioana after you. It means Joanna in English.\u201d<\/p>\n
Back at the flat we raised our glasses and toasted each other. \u201cTo your success,\u201d Joanna said, before flying back home to England.<\/p>\n
The lawyer we\u2019d hired to act independently insisted through an interpreter that I should drop the idea of adopting Bogdan. He was the year-old baby boy on my list whose mother was a student and whose father was in jail.\u00a0 Nobody wanted him. He wasn\u2019t particularly appealing and he had a turned-in eye.
\n\u201cForget about him,\u201d said the lawyer.
\nIt would jeopardise adopting the twins. It would look bad taking three babies home. And, besides, he added, he wouldn\u2019t go to court for us unless we went on holiday with him.
\nWe gasped. What blackmail!\u00a0 But we were glad we went. It was all above-board and we loved the scenery, monasteries and glimpses into a world that was centuries old.\u00a0 He got American dollars and we saw his country.<\/p>\n
When we returned to our flat, the lawyer and Dr Florina spoke animatedly together. They repeated their earlier concerns.
\n\u201cWe cannot imaginate (sic) you travelling to New Zealand with three babies. Give up the boy or the twins.\u00a0 Better chance in court.\u201d<\/p>\n
It was a terrible choice to make. Three children who were destined to a life in an orphanage. It was like a select abortion. I dithered. I loved them all. They could all be part of our family. How could I make the court understand that I was not a person with ulterior motives? There was talk about slave labour on rubber plantations and recruiting African children in Malaysia. I was appalled. We came from a civilised country.\u00a0\u00a0 Everyone in New Zealand knew about the orphaned children in Romania and a few of us had travelled thousands of miles to give a child a family. Nothing sinister.<\/p>\n
\u201cDa, da, lady,\u201d snapped Dr. Florina. \u201cYes, I think you are good persons. But the court has some wrong persons,\u201d and she shrugged dismissively. \u201cShoosh. Now be quiet, ladies,\u201d and she turned up the volume of the black-and-white TV. She and her husband, the lawyer and interpreter and apartment owners cheered and applauded Romanian dissidents on the evening news. The room filled with spirals of smoke, and when I offered a bottle of whisky \u201cto all you kind people who want to help us,\u201d it became a party. A morbid German soap opera with Romanian subtitles flashed on the screen, and once again we were shushed into submission while everyone watched in wide-eyed suspense.<\/p>\n
I felt the court system was moving too slowly. Dr Florina would flap her arms when I asked, \u201cWhen is my court date?\u201d\u00a0 The apartment was comfortable, but I felt like the fish in a glass bowl that stood on the sideboard.\u00a0 I\u2019d close my eyes and imagine myself alighting from the plane at Nelson airport, my arms filled with the tiny twins, and Bryan walking out to the tarmac to greet me.<\/p>\n
After the social report had been typed up on the twins\u2019 parents, a court date was set. I was in a state of nervous agitation, waiting several hours in the court foyer for our names to be called. The lawyer had left early in the morning to fetch the parents from their village in his unreliable Dacia. The peasant couple looked hungry and bewildered but greeted me warmly. We sat on a wall heater, sharing bread and biscuits I had brought along. They snatched my photo album, scrutinising and talking animatedly.\u00a0\u00a0 I pulled out some photos and the mother grabbed my hand and kissed it.<\/p>\n
The court scene was sombre and austere. The \u2018presidente,\u2019 two judges and a prosecutor, sat at one end of the long polished table, looking impressive in black robes and white cravats. We all rose and my non-English speaking lawyer presented my case with his nephew translating. The \u2018presidente\u2019 asked numerous questions about life in New Zealand, poring over my photos, admonishing the couple for their unwed state, and suddenly we were ushered out of the courtroom.
\n\u201cWhat happened?\u201d\u00a0 I asked.
\n\u201cThe babies are yours,\u201d replied the interpreter. Magic words. I didn\u2019t know whether to laugh or cry.<\/p>\n
Flossie and I had made a deal. We would stay and support each other, but her adoption was proving more complex. We didn\u2019t know if this was the Romanian way or whether we were being strung along to part with our American dollars. We filled in our days visiting our babies in the orphanage, badgering our lawyer and sending telegrams to our husbands as we were running out of money.<\/p>\n
Cousin Joanna sent a telegram from London. I was on her mind. Would I like her to return to Romania to help me in the last stages?\u00a0 I would.\u00a0 Oh how I would.<\/p>\n
Finally Flossie had a court date and it would be plain sailing for her from now on. Bryan was urging me to come home and, since my documents were typed and translated, I flew to Bucharest with the tiny twins to complete the final part of the adoption and book my flight home.<\/p>\n
I hadn\u2019t realized how drained and emotional I\u2019d become after I\u2019d settled back in Dorina\u2019s apartment. I felt guilty leaving Flossie behind to fend for herself and sobbed with tiredness. The twin girls needed three-hourly feeds and I especially worried about the smaller one, Ioana. She mewed, fretted and arched her back when held. I still had difficulty telling them apart and it was only at bath-time I could see a slight difference \u2013 but I still got their passport photos mixed up in the end. Dorina\u2019s mother-in-law had connections to the Red Cross and was able to find me suitable tinned baby milk powder. The orphanage had given me powdered milk from a foreign country but no-one was able to help me translate it, so I diluted it too much. No wonder the poor babies cried and felt hungry for a couple of days, leaving me feeling guilty and inadequate.<\/p>\n
Now I was trapped in a tiny room, sharing my bed with needy infants and constantly at their beck and call. I tried to visualise my other children at 10 months. At that age they would have been crawling, pulling themselves up, uttering the odd word and contemplating their first step.\u00a0 These babies were like newborns.\u00a0 They couldn\u2019t roll over, they couldn\u2019t hold on to a bottle to feed themselves and their high-pitched crying unnerved me. I didn\u2019t know how to respond.\u00a0 I\u2019d hold each in my arms, willing them to stay alive so Bryan could see them.<\/p>\n
When Cousin Joanna said she was on the next flight out to Romania, Dorina offered to babysit. Her husband Vlad and I hired a taxi and rattled down the wide boulevard to the airport.\u00a0 The plane was hours late and another hour was lost looking for her luggage.
\n\u201cI bought lots of little knick-knacks for the babies,\u201d she cried, \u201cand all my things are in there too.\u201d The luggage had mistakenly gone to China, so until it turned up we shared clothes and a toothbrush.<\/p>\n
I bought two light aluminum pushchairs on the black market, so Joanna and I wheeled the twins around the busy streets of Bucharest until they screamed with exhaustion and our feet throbbed. Finally they were issued with new birth certificates and passports and it was time to make homeward plans.
\nBooking a return flight was tortuous. The Swiss Air office was busy and all the flights were booked a week in advance.
\n\u201cI\u2019ve been nine weeks here,\u201d I wept. \u201cI just want to go home.\u00a0 I can\u2019t stay here a minute longer.\u201d
\nBryan had rung earlier that morning, saying it was about time I came home and asking what the hold up was.
\n\u201cJust had a thought, Cuz,\u201d Joanna announced. \u201cSwiss Air has no seats for a week going via Singapore.\u00a0 Why can\u2019t they re-route you through the States?\u00a0 Let\u2019s ask.\u201d
\n\u201cBrilliant,\u201d I exclaimed. My brain was so fuzzed up with all the emotion and stuff I\u2019d been through, I wasn\u2019t thinking clearly.\u00a0 \u201cLet\u2019s do it the Romanian way.\u201d
\n\u201cHow?\u201d
\n\u201cWatch me,\u201d and I darted up to the nearest street vendor and bought a bottle of whisky.<\/p>\n
Instantly the bejewelled travel agent confirmed. \u201cYou have good luck. You can fly out this afternoon.\u201d I whimpered with excitement. Travelling Catholic nuns, who had peered into the twins\u2019 pushchairs earlier in the travel agency, crossed their hearts and sent up a heartfelt blessing.<\/p>\n
The babies and I flew into Bonn after a stopover in Zurich, as it was vital to get entry visas at the New Zealand embassy. That evening I disembarked with the babies, not knowing where to go.
\n\u201cThere\u2019s a trade fair in Bonn,\u201d explained the air hostesses, \u201cand it will be very difficult to find accommodation.\u201d
\n\u201cHelp me,\u201d I implored, and they looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and disgust.<\/p>\n
A taxi was hailed. Luckily the driver spoke a smattering of English. I was exhausted, the babies were mewing and I just wanted to get the uncertainty over. \u201cI\u2019ll give you 20 American dollars if you can find me a place to stay the night.\u201d
\n\u201cForty,\u201d he demanded.
\n\u201cThirty.\u201d
\n\u201cOkay, lady, where you from?\u201d<\/p>\n
For an hour we toured the city while he darted in and out of hotels in the heavy rain. He became my protector and took over my immediate worries. Finally he found me a seedy hotel where the rates were exorbitant.\u00a0 I counted my money and had just enough for three nights but not enough for food.<\/p>\n
It was difficult being trapped in the cheerless room. I couldn\u2019t leave the babies so I existed on powdered chocolate milk and stale rolls, waiting for word to come through from the embassy that visas had been granted for the twins to enter New Zealand.<\/p>\n
Cousin Joanna phoned, miraculously tracking me down to my hotel room, and she confirmed a niggling worry. \u201cThe ticketing agent made a mistake, she didn\u2019t allow for the international date line.\u00a0 You\u2019re a day out!\u201d And my stress levels rose again.
\n\u201cDon\u2019t worry, Cuz, I\u2019ll get it all sorted from this end.\u201d And she did.<\/p>\n
The plane was late arriving in Los Angeles and I missed my connection to New Zealand.
\nSo I did what most normal women would do.\u00a0 I collapsed in a heap and sobbed.\u00a0 The Swiss Air staff were sympathetic.
\n\u201cDon\u2019t worry, madam.\u00a0 We\u2019ll put you up for the night in a good hotel and book you on the next flight out tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n
I perked up, and, clutching a baby under each arm, hopped on a shuttle bus to a luxurious hotel. \u201cNow this is the lifestyle to which I could become accustomed,\u201d I told my new baby daughters. I made myself at home in the plush room, ordering room service when the whim took me, but I was puzzled by two TV sets.\u00a0 One said \u2018Pay TV.\u2019 What did that mean?\u00a0 Since I couldn\u2019t sleep, I flicked on that set. Up popped a porn movie. My eyes nearly shot out of my head. \u201cThis is too rude for you, little darlings,\u201d I cooed to my precious girls. I switched off the TV before warming up their bottles, feeding and changing them and tucking them back into the king-size luxurious bed.<\/p>\n
The next day I was deeply embarrassed when checking out at the hotel reception desk. I handed in my keys and complimentary vouchers and started out the foyer door.
\n\u201cOh, madam,\u201d the desk clerk called. \u201cYou owe $6.95.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat for?\u201d\u00a0 I didn\u2019t have any American dollars left.
\n\u201cThe video.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat video?\u201d
\n\u201cThe porn movie you watched last night on Pay TV.\u201d
\nI blushed deeply. \u201cLook,\u201d I stuttered.\u00a0 \u201cLook, it wasn\u2019t me who watched it.\u201d
\nOther people at the counter glanced sideways at me. I pointed to my innocent babies lying in their twin pushchair.\u00a0 \u201cThey watched it!\u201d
\n\u201cAll right, madam,\u201d sighed the clerk, shaking his head in disbelief. \u201cI\u2019ll just charge it to Swiss Air.\u201d<\/p>\n
The flight was long and crowded. The bubbly air hostesses, on hearing the babies had come from Romania, invited me into their kitchen-cabin on the overnight haul. The plane lights were dimmed and while lumpy passengers slept with their heads tossed back in awkward repose, I fascinated the staff with my adventures. \u201cReally?\u201d they howled. \u201cWow.\u201d Their open demeanour and twangy American accents made me feel safe.
\nBut what would it feel like seeing Bryan again?\u00a0 Would I feel nervous? Estranged? Or would it be like a happy-ever-after movie ending?<\/p>\n
When we arrived at Auckland airport after a midnight stopover in Hawaii, customs asked, \u201cAny food to declare?\u201d
\n\u201cTinned baby milk.\u201d
\nThe twins and I were set apart from other passengers while ground staff did a thorough check. \u201cIt\u2019s not cocaine,\u201d I insisted, but they kept me waiting while sniffer dogs eyed me suspiciously.
\n\u201cI\u2019ll miss my plane,\u201d I cried to my sister-in-law who had taken a day off work to meet me. And with only minutes to spare I raced to the next terminal and made the connecting flight to Wellington. Two of Bryan\u2019s brothers and nephews were there to welcome us. In the hubbub I failed to notice the minutes ticking by for the last leg of the journey.<\/p>\n
Suddenly I heard a plane revving up. I tore down the corridor frantically, the pushchairs becoming almost air-borne, and ran out onto the airstrip.
\n\u201cWe were waiting for you, Mrs. Graham,\u201d greeted the cheery pilot as I boarded the tiny plane to Nelson. Only in New Zealand, I thought.<\/p>\n
My babies cried and I was choking back tears of suppressed excitement on seeing the lush green hills and sparkling mountains, and hearing a familiar language in a place where people smiled. I\u2019d spent nine weeks away in a world totally different from anything that many Kiwis would encounter in a lifetime.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan I help you carry one of those darling babies off the plane?\u201d a passenger offered as we began taxiing down the runway.
\n\u201cNo! Please don\u2019t!\u00a0 I\u2019ll manage, thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wanted to live out the fantasy that had sustained me when everything felt hopeless. That I would walk out with a baby in each arm, and that Bryan would walk out onto the tarmac too, his arms outstretched and beaming. And that is exactly what happened.<\/p>\n
\u00a9 Jonquil Graham
\nRepublished with kind permission from the author from \u2018How many planes to get me? Nine children adopted into a NZ family\u2019.
\n<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Extract from \u2018How many planes to get me?\u2019 by Jonquil Graham Original text can be found here. By the time the plane taxied into Bucharest I had a raging headache. The journey had taken two days with long stopovers in Singapore, Bombay and Zurich, and now I felt nauseated and my legs were swollen.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[23,13],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/old.againstchildtrafficking.org\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/154"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/old.againstchildtrafficking.org\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/old.againstchildtrafficking.org\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/old.againstchildtrafficking.org\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/old.againstchildtrafficking.org\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=154"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/old.againstchildtrafficking.org\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/154\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/old.againstchildtrafficking.org\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=154"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/old.againstchildtrafficking.org\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=154"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/old.againstchildtrafficking.org\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=154"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}