welcoming committee

Yesterday was the first time I sailed into Africa. I've flown in to meet up with the ship for the past two years, going through the rigamarole of airport security and baggage claim, the sticky drive to the port to finally walk up the gangway. Yesterday was different.

As we sailed in to the port, I heard the sound of trumpets, too faint to make out a tune. We passed the familiar canoes, at least one fisherman in each invariably bailing out the water while another stood to wave to the Yovos lined up at the railing. The water was aqua under an overcast sky and the Togolese flag flew proudly from the tugboats.

As we drew closer to the dock, the indistinct sounds from the band took on shape until I could pick out trumpets and trombones and maybe even a tuba. They were waiting for us on the end of the dock, playing African worship songs and drumming until I thought they would break their sticks. The women waved handkerchiefs wildly in the air and everyone was dancing the unashamed dances of the truly joyful.

As we pulled alongside our berth, they walked with us up the dock, shouting and waving and welcoming us to our new home. They joined up with another, much larger group, one with twice the drums and even more dance moves. My shoulders were warm in the sun and I was sweating through my shirt and I couldn't stop dancing with them, my cheeks hurting from the smile I couldn't stop.

Later, much later, when the sun was almost down, the dock was deserted. The drummers had long ago piled into their buses and the marching band had marched off to rest their tired lips. I was waiting in line for dinner when a friend caught my eye. There's a baby on the dock. Needing no further encouragement, I ran out into the sticky air to find Francois.

He's very small, our Francois; he'll be two months old on the nineteenth, and he weighs a little over five pounds. Huddled around him was a much smaller welcoming committee than the one before. No drums, no fancy clothes, no dancing. Just a mama, a grandma and a little baby, all skin and bones, his lip and palate split wide, his future hanging in the balance. With them was a nurse, who I later learned works at the orphanage where Francois' mama was planning to leave him. She didn't want a broken baby, but the someone had heard that the ship was coming, convinced her that there was another way.

I took him in my arms, his little scrawny legs hanging out the bottom of the damp piece of cloth he was wrapped in. I buried my nose in the cloud of his hair, black and curly and softer than anything I've felt before, and I breathed deep before handing him over to our feeding program nurse who was going to be overseeing his care.

I wanted the drums, then. I wanted the handkerchiefs waving in the air and the ladies dancing in their finest African clothes. I wanted the whole world to know that here on our dock, a mama was choosing life for her baby. But they just climbed into a Land Rover in the gathering dusk, heading to the off-ship house where he'll stay until the wards are open.

And like that, it has begun. Welcome to Togo.