Thirsty

The night before we left Loki I became aware of a growing sense of emotion, something between anxiety and sadness, eclipsing the edges of my excitement but always in the periphery of my heart’s sight. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was or why it was there but I felt it. But as we crawled in bed that night and I snuggled away from the sagging mosquito net and deeper into Bryan’s arms (one of his favorite things about crappy nets) I realized that a year had passed since I had been to North Africa. A year had passed since I had seen those faces, held those hands, tasted those flavors and heard those sounds. I was returning to somewhere that was home for over two years but had been jerked out under my feet in the confused rush of one strange night. And now I was getting ready to go back. Bryan had been back twice already and I had lived vicariously through so many of his reunions and rediscoveries. But this was my first time back. And like so many of the sweetest things in life, this return caused a twinge of something less definable than mere happiness. 

We landed on the wide airstrip now full on UN bulldozers and WFP planes. I lowered my heavy self gingerly down the ladder and stepped into the brown dust. Refugee women carrying bags of food walked across the airstrip on their way back from the camps and kids waved at Annabelle from mounds of dirt in the near distance. The last time I stood in this place I was jostling a four month old while a kind-eyed woman told me that the home we had just left behind was bombed ten minutes after we left the ground. But I decided to reign in those memories for the moment and just took sweet heavy sips of my surroundings, resisting the urge to guzzle. 

It’s difficult to know what to say, I feel both so parched for words and yet drowning in them. I find myself wanting just to describe little pieces of the world around me, as though they better speak to the story I want to tell. 

There is a broad plain behind our compound that is flooded with chai-colored water and full of naked children, their bodies like wet obsidian in the sun. They laugh and splash in the warm water, and I heard them once shriek “Antanov! Antanov!” and then dive for cover from the pretend shadows of the real planes that drove many of them from their homes. 

Apparently thirty minutes before we arrived, our very pregnant neighbor rushing to get home doubled over on the path in front of our house, squatted in the grass and pushed her baby out of her body. When help quickly came the baby boy was gently picked clean of dry leaves and carried home in a basin next to his wet placenta. Even now I can occasionally hear healthy newborn cries from the hut across the way.    

On our first evening here Annabelle, (“Hana”), and I took a walk down the road and were quickly engulfed in curious children. I stepped back and just watched as Annabelle nonchalantly shared her collection of pebbles with the kids. They traded her green pods of small beans. And then to peals of shocked laughter my bold daughter began touching everyone’s belly buttons, one by one, (most of which will already exposed, though not all) and proclaiming proudly “Button!” A couple of the kids exclaimed, “She knows Arabic?” and I had to laugh too. Buton is the Arabic word for stomach.  

On a personal  level, it’s amazing the things that feel “homey.” I forgot how much I enjoy bathing from a bucket under the stars with my husband every night. I love looking through the steam of whatever I am cooking and seeing deep into every direction - kids playing in a puddle, women carrying firewood home on their heads, drowsy goats resting in some patchy shade. I love lingering early morning breakfasts that smell of sweet tea and passing smoke, the one meal of the day during which I am not sweating. I love long messy greetings with groups of people, inquiries into family and health braided over and under lots of thank yous to God.

I’ve also been reminded of all the things I don’t like about this life, mostly superficial. The cones of bugs that swarm around the little islands of lights over our heads are claustrophobic in the evening and I hate the fine sheen of mud that repellant leaves on my dirty skin at the end of the day. It’s hot, not even as hot as it will get but still oppressive to my Nairobi weakened system. And the drop latrine. I’m not going to lie, this private-minded seven-month pregnant lady is struggling a bit with the tin outhouse full of flies shared by six other adults and, purportedly, a rat. I have confirmed you can’t squat, poop, balance and cry at the same time, at least not pregnant.

The tears have come in more than just the toilet. Even with the natural pacing that comes with pregnancy and toddlerhood - the 45 minute walk into the camp has been delayed until little girl’s naps naps and Mama’s energy levels align, and settling into life rhythms, even just temporary ones, has been time-consuming with solar panels and gas cookers to set up, mosquito nets to string and boxes to unpack – but even with this, I have still felt overwhelmed at times. One moment it’s the trying to remove the live bug from my husband’s ear while my toddler panics in the background (you would think I would be the person least traumatized by that incident, wouldn’t you?) Another moment it’s hearing hauntingly familiar songs from another lifetime trilled out in a hot church building. In these moments I felt overcome. And I have cried.

There is so much to soak in here. And it’s hard to pace yourself when you are so thirsty.