Scratch

Last night in the shower I was hit with an unexpected bout of cultural vertigo. I had bent over under the shower head pounding out almost-too-hot water to scrub the city off of my feet when I noticed a thin scratch on the inside of my ankle. Nearly healed but still raised and pink, it was half-hidden under a swath of raspberry lather. I had forgotten all about the scratch but seeing it again caused a flurry of ripples on the still surface of my heart. I remembered exactly when I got it. About two weeks ago three women carrying heavy loads of firewood home had stopped to rest under a tree outside our fence. Our guard had taken a pitcher of water out to them and had come back with word that they wanted to see the khawaja baby. I had time to kill so I went outside with Annabelle and sat down on the long rough tree roots and watched them pass my daughter between them. We had the most normal conversation. How's your family? How are your kids? How many do you have? How far away is your house? Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the pleasant kind of talk that you can sometimes have with strangers. While we chatted goats grazed on the hill behind us and our guard plucked out wiry tunes on his robaba that hovered hesitantly in the still air. Five or six boys loped by like a pack of hunting dogs, shiny and clean from a bath in the gulley full of brown rain water. I rummaged around in my brain for misplaced Arabic words and they chatted to each other every once in a while in their shared mother tongue. When we ran out of things to say we just sat under the tree and looked at the baby. Eventually the sun was low enough on the horizon that the hungriest mosquitoes were braving their way out, so we rose to go our separate ways. But when I stood up I stepped back into one of the loads of firewood and gashed my ankle on a rough splinter. It didn't hurt that badly and I had forgotten all about it until last night. But standing on a tile floor in a bathroom cloudy with steam, it was weird to see that mark on my ankle and remember the day I got it. I was reminded of a day and a place that felt so very far away and yet amazingly, were as close as unhealed skin. There is a line in a Maya Angelou poem about someone waking from a dream of a walk by the sea and reaching down to find sand in their pockets. I felt like that last night. Like I had dreamed of another home and woken up with it's scars on my skin.

We're in Nairobi. Again. We were supposed to be here at this point anyway. We have a conference to attend in a few days. But we left North Africa a week early after news (rumors? stories? reports?) of more soldiers, more airplanes, more artillery, more threats reached a point that we felt like it was time to go, for now anyway. Our prayer is that things will be fine for us to go back in a week or so. After all, nothing has happened in our state as of yet. Of the three "contested areas" one has been razed to the ground and the other is being inundated with bombs. But our state hasn't been touched. Does this mean nothing will ever happen? Does this mean it's only a matter of time? Who knows. My biggest fear is that this wretched anticipation of nothingness will linger on for weeks and months leaving us in perpetual uncertainty.

I hate how far away that place feels when I am here. Missing there terribly and enjoying here thoroughly rub against each other like bare feet in too-small shoes leaving me feeling chaffed.

Hill

I’ve been moody this week. I was elated to be home again, so happy over nothing in particular that I was bound to feel sad over nothing in particular before too long (there is some twisted logic in there somewhere). The past couple of days I have been irritable for no good reason, giving things like swarms of flies or rotten fruit far more credit than they are due. I think a part of me hates to admit that political uncertainty could really stress me out subconsciously. I’d rather be absurdly annoyed at bugs and bananas then sensibly scared that bombs might start falling, however remote that possibility. (Though for the record nothing has happened or appears likely to happen anytime soon. We are perfectly safe.)    

It has finally started raining, which is something to be happy about. The heat crescendoed on Tuesday, smothering us with low white hot clouds before finally boiling itself into a dark mass and rolling over us like a blessed tidal wave. The thunder sounded like it was cracking the mountains wide open and the hail was like gunfire on our tin roof. The wind blew basins and barrels off of our back porch and the towels we shoved under our front door did little to hold back the flood of rain. Our tanks under the gutters were full in minutes then poured over into the muddy rivers cutting across the yard. What only hours earlier would have been a treasure to hoard greedily was suddenly nothing more than a swamp of muddy puddles to walk around in big rain boots. It’s amazing how quickly things can change.            

This week we have lots of little girls from the neighborhood stop by to visit Annabelle. I will be reading a book on the couch or clearing off the table after lunch and hear a noise outside that gets my attention. Three or four little faces and accompanying pairs of hands will be pressed through our loose bamboo fence curiously peering into our open door and windows. I usually ask them what they what they want though I already know. “Jena” they say. Baby. If Annabelle is awake I will take her outside to meet her fan club. It’s like she is some enchanted forest creature I have caught that everyone wants to see for themselves to make sure she is real. They touch her and can’t stop giggling at how white her skin is against theirs. But then again when I hand her off into a pair of strong little hands I realize that in other ways she is the most normal thing in the world to these girls. They gently bounce and jostle her like they do their own little sisters. They count her toes and pet the soft fuzz on her head. They make all sorts of silly faces to try and get her to smile. Every little girl loves babies. I am lucky these ones love mine.

Last night Abigail and I hiked the hill behind our house. I know our neighbors thought we must be out of our ever-loving minds to leave the baby with the man of the house and tromp up a vertical incline in long skirts just for the heck of it, but we really didn’t care. It just seemed like the thing to do in the moment. The climb up really isn’t so bad. There are a few places you have to use all four limbs to hoist yourself over a rock but it is mostly just a really steep ten minute walk. At the top we inspected the old fox holes dug during the war and pointed out landmarks in town. We stood still and tried to soak up the view but even though the hill isn’t that big, the sheer immensity of the landscape below is astounding from that height. This country just seems to stretch on forever in every direction. It was beautiful. We took a couple of pictures and then started back down. Now, I am not sure if I had just forgotten how incredibly difficult the hike back down actually is or if some mysterious force of erosion had made it significantly worse but we spent the following 45 minutes laughing hysterically and in genuine fear as we inched our way down the loose rocky slope on our rear-ends, trying not to flash the group of obnoxious little boys who had (understandably) gathered at the base of the hill to prepare for the impending tumble of the two crazy white women. I will spare you the details, but let’s just say we finally arrived home safely though covered in dirt and ash and with a few new bruises to share. However, we were also much happier than when we had left. In fact, I think the moral of the story is, in the face of life’s great stresses there really is nothing better than wetting your pants laughing while doing something stupid with your sister.     

Liminality

I thought Annabelle would be napping as I write this. She usually is at this time of the morning.  Her bed is in the tent where she is safe from the flies and the cool breeze blows through open mesh windows on three sides. But she is feeling social (read “stubborn”), preferring to lay on my lap and talk to me about the lizard she sees on the wall behind me or the boys on the hill outside she can hear calling to each other.

It is so good to be home. I’ve probably said this before but coming back here from Kenya always feels like waking up from a long dream about another world. It feels like stepping back into real life while the details of the dream world grow hazier with each passing moment of wakefulness. Of course, that’s what it feels like when I leave this place too. I am always passing from one world to the next. Both real and both dreams.

Things have felt incredibly normal since we have been back - just as they have always been in the past two years. The market still has the same vegetables in the same stalls run by the same people. There are still more goats and pigs on the road than cars. Water is still a huge problem for everyone. In fact one of the only things that seems to have changed a whole lot as far as our daily lives are concerned is Annabelle. People have been so excited to meet her. In five days close to a dozen people have stopped by to greet and bless her, pulling her out of my arms eagerly to bounce and pet while she just stares back with her baby owl eyes. She is quite the novelty, the only khawaja baby most people have ever seen. They laugh at how white her skin is against theirs and most seem to think she looks just like Bryan. When we took her to town a few days ago we were scolded for bringing her out in the heat and one lady sternly instructed me on how to properly hold a baby (“Don’t you know how to hold her correctly?”). But the cook at our favorite restaurant left for a neighboring shop in the middle of our meal and returned with a soft yellow blanket and two cotton bibs, his gift for the “new person”. And at our favorite tea shop a man nearby bought our drinks and the tea lady herself rocked Annabelle and said, “This is our baby. All of ours.” I have a blessed child.

But the liminality of my life, the inbetweeness and not-yet-but-maybeness, lingers on. Our next door neighbors informed us last night that all the personnel in their organization are “temporarily relocating” (“evacuation” is a four letter word around here) for an unknown period of time. With them goes some good friends, a source of political info and rumors, a connection with kindred spirits and, quite possibly, our internet connection. It’s a bit early yet to know what this means for us. We are talking, listening, praying and preparing. Life couldn’t seem more normal and yet all that could change in a heartbeat. It’s weird to think of how different my life could look in the course of just a week. When we crawled in bed last night Bryan asked me how I was feeling and I found it hard to separate one emotion from another. There were spatterings of fear and hope, excitement and uncertainty. But maybe the biggest one was disappointment. Or the fear of disappointment rather. I don’t want to be foolish and I don’t want to be in danger or put those I love in danger. But I really, really don’t want to leave either.

I got up early and went for a run this morning. I am not a morning runner. I never have been. We’ll see whether or not I turn out to be one. It usually makes me puke up my empty early-morning stomach. But an early-morning baby and the gift she has left around my mid-section has inspired me to a change of nature, so I left her cooing in bed with her Papa this morning and set off on the trail that runs along the base of the mountain. It was so cool, almost chilly. Wet clouds stuck to the tops of the hills like damp cotton, torturously close to the parched earth but like every other morning this week, offering nothing more than a cruel sprinkle. I only passed a few huts on the trail and saw very few people. A little boy with sleepy eyes waved as I passed his house and a woman in the distance carried buckets to someplace that still has water. I heard someone in the distance chopping firewood for a breakfast fire but could never see them. While I ran I thought about how much I would miss this running trail. How much I would miss my house and my tent, my neighbors and my hill. It would be so unbelievably disappointing. But I realized as I ran, that I don’t really have a right to that word. But I was running past the houses of people who probably do. Disappointing is not having a satellite phone to call in a plane to get you out of trouble. Disappointing is not having a vehicle (of sorts) to drive out of town in if trouble comes to you. Disappointing is not having another home somewhere safer than this that you can always return to and a dark blue passport to get you there. Disappointing is not being safe because of either the color of your skin or the language you speak or the political party you belong to. That’s disappointing.  

I didn’t lose my cookies on the trail this morning so maybe I’ll keep up the new habit. It still hasn’t rained though. The world is still cold and dry and expectant, waiting for something to change.                

Jamila

When we were here in Lokichoggio two years ago, we met a couple that I have often thought about even though our time together was incredibly brief. They are memorable for several reasons. First of all, he was German, she was Brazilian and even though their English was weighed down with heavy accents, it was all they had to speak to each other. They had met working in different development projects here in Loki, fallen in love, had one whirlwind wedding in Germany, another in Brazil, then moved back to Kenya to keep working in a place and for a people they both loved. Call me a romantic, but I thought that was really cool. But, that isn't why I still remember them so vividly after only one short chat over a cup of tea. I remember them so well because when we met them, they had just had a baby girl. She was just a few months old at the time, with serious grey-green eyes. Her name was Jamila, Arabic for beautiful. I don't remember either of her parents names, but I remember hers. I thought it was beautiful. I thought she was beautiful. At the time, meeting this random international family in the middle of godforsaken Lokichoggio was very meaningful to me. I was in the middle of moving to a place equally dry and thorny and babies were already looming on the horizon of my consciousness. Seeing a couple raising a tiny baby a good plane-ride away from vaccinations and grandparents, and doing it happily, meant something to me. It gave me hope.

Today Abigail, Annabelle and I walked to church with our hosts. Though only mid-morning, it was already blazing hot and Annabelle protested mildly from underneath the kanga I had her covered in. As I hoisted her higher up on my shoulder I pondered whether or not I had made the right decision to heed the baby sunscreen bottle's instructions and not slather it on her under-six-month skin. In the past seven weeks I have heard my own words ringing in my ears over and over again: Of course we are going to raise our baby in North Africa. We want to share our life and the world with our child. But it took less than seven weeks for me to realize that I am not immune to the fears that come with "sharing the world," no matter how much I would like to believe that I am. The world has sunburn and tuberculosis and soldiers as well as language and spices and music. You can't have one without the other, even if you want to. I was thinking about these things as we walked to church this morning.

Annabelle slept through most of the church service, oblivious to the flies and the little girl who had crawled under our bench to sit next to me and stroke her toes. But towards the end of the service she woke up and started fussing. I slipped out the back door and stood in the square of sandy shade under the tin awning bouncing my sweaty baby. As we bounced we watched a group of children playing nearby. The kids were trying to balance on top of big stones forming path markers around the church and were walking drunkenly over the stones until their giggles knocked them off. Among the dozen children, one little girl in particular caught my attention. She was babbling Turkana words with the rest of the children but was fairer and had a head full of loose brown curls. She was wearing a pink checkered dress and was barefoot. When she turned I noticed her big, very playful grey-green eyes. After the service was over I followed the little girl up to her mother who I recognized from two years ago (though I still don't know her name). I introduced myself and, a little awkwardly, explained something of what meeting their family two years ago had meant to me. Then I introduced them to the baby I am taking back to North Africa with me.

In the end, I am not sure how fully the Brazilian mother understood me, at least not all my words anyway. But she never stopped smiling at me and said Annabelle's name in such a gorgeous Portuguese accent that I almost didn't care what she was hearing. But whether or not she understood my words, I think she understood my heart. As her daughter ran off to play again she said, "My children are happy. They are very happy here." And I said thank you. Happy goes a really long way.                      

Lokichoggio

Two years ago, I spent several afternoons sitting on this screened-in porch in desolate Lokichoggio. I sat here, watching gangly go-away birds hop through the thorns of huge acacia trees in the sandy yard, and pondered what shape my life was about to take. All my earthly belongings were stashed away in trunks stored at the airstrip only a couple kilometers away, waiting to be loaded up on a little chartered airplane heading North. This guesthouse in Lokichoggio was a decompression chamber of sorts, a place to wait out limbo, a layover between worlds.

I am here again. Both in Lokichoggio and in limbo. Yesterday Bryan flew out on another little chartered plane headed North loaded down with a fuselage full of more earthly belongings miraculously necessitated by ten pounds of little girl. We were supposed to be with him - me, Annabelle and my sister Abigail who is spending her university summer break with us. But as we packed up our bags to finally head home after six long, wonderful, busy weeks of bringing Annabelle into the world (and getting her birth certificate, passport and vaccinations...) politics up North were simmering. Almost overnight news articles, phone calls and rumors all bubbled to the surface bringing with them phrases like, "forceful disarmament", "border disputes", "troop movements" and "ready to die for our freedom". In both ominous yet unreliable rumors and sterile yet trustworthy news sources, June 1st was cited as the big day. The day Northern forces were meant to "disarm" Southern troops in our area. The day after we were meant to arrive back home.

After much discussion, prayer, research and yes, a couple tears, we decided that Bryan would fly in and join our colleagues on the ground in assessing the situation. Best case, all of this will fizzle into mere hype or stalemate as it has done in the past and he will work on making the house a bit more habitable (i.e. solar panels set back up, hole in tent that thieves cut patched up, sand dunes in kitchen swept out) and after about a week we will fly up and join him. Worst case, this turns out to be the beginning of what the world has pessimistically predicted and he will have a few days to lock down the house for a longer stay out before coming out to join us again.

So I am sitting on a screened-in porch in Lokichoggio, in-between worlds again, and feeling a plethora of things. Lonely for my husband who I hate being away from. Worried about him while he is up North in a crazy time. Jealous that he is going to have amazing adventures without me. Guilty for thinking of political turmoil in terms of "amazing adventures." Homesick for a home I have been away from too long. Grateful for a sister helping out with a new baby.
Limbo. It's where I am right now.

Picture Thief

I rarely have good pictures.

At big events, memorable occasions or even just regular ol' happy days I am not the one with the camera. I am not gifted enough to be able to soak up my surroundings and photographically document it at the same time; I guess I just feel like the picture could either never do the occasion justice or is not worth sacrificing a moment of the experience to begin with. At sweet times in my life I like to just sit back and savor the tastes, smells, feelings and images and just treasure the pictures in my mind. (So the moral of the story is I end up being the bum who borrows someone else's great shots.)

I feel like that has been the case with my blogging for the past month. About half a dozen times I have sacrificed a much-needed shower or cat nap to sit down and try to write about these past five weeks. But I have either been completely unable to locate any words that come close to depicting everything I have seen and experienced and felt, or, as is more often the case, a hungry cry or sociable coo from the other room leads me to abandon the computer in a happy heartbeat.

So I sit here now not really knowing what to say. I want to tell you about the night she was born, about the pain and exhilaration, the fear and the joy. I want to tell you about those first few nights, about the bone-numbing exhaustion that everyone tells you is coming though you never fully believe them until it does and the sheer wonder of sustaining a hungry little life with your own body. I want to tell you about how beautiful she is and how every day we change our minds about whose eyes she has and what color that fuzzy stuff on her head will turn out to be. I want to tell you about the deepest contentment and nostalgic intimacy that comes with sharing parenthood with the love of your life. I want to tell you about how terrified and humbled I am to be responsible for a human life anywhere in this world, much less in the corner of this fascinating planet that we find ourselves in now. I want to tell you how I felt when she smiled at me this morning - not an accidental gas smile but an open-mouthed, squinty-eyed, full faced I-love-you smile.

I want to tell you about all these things but I am not sure if the words even exist. If they do then I have been unable to find them. Hopefully soon I will regain enough misguided confidence to audaciously attempt to describe these things and all the other new undescribables that I suspect are in my future. But until then I am going to be a bum and just steal someone else's pictures again. Someone is calling me from the other room...

     

Happy

I feel like I have fallen off the face of the planet and woken up to find myself back in the middle of busy civilization.
Our computer had an unnexpected coronary and died without warning about a week before we left North Africa leaving me feeling completely disconncted from so many of you. So now, after two guiltily delightful weeks away from email, Facebook, news and blogs, I am sitting overwhelmed again by digital information in a tiny internet cafe in Nairobi. It is always a little odd to be reminded of how endlessly the riotous worlds of coffee shops and supermarkets go on whether or not I am in them. Overnight the sound of hornbills and little boys playing soccer outside my bamboo fence have been replaced with traffic horns and the click of high heels of pavement. The parched 100+ degrees has been soaked up by a perfect 75 degrees of cool greeness and the miles of dramatically vast grassland dotted only by mud huts and distant mountains has been swallowed up by skyscrapers and neon lights.
 It's not a bad change. I slurped the dregs of my milkshake from lunch shamelessly and blissfully curled up under chilly blankets last night. At eight and a half months pregnant running water and an endless supply of green vegetables makes me very, very happy. It just always feels a little odd at first. 
So we are settling in to life in the big city for a while. This morning the doctor told us that Annabelle is lying exactly like she should be as she gets ready to make her grand debut in a few weeks. We couldn't have asked for a smoother pregnancy and are so very thankful.
At the hospital this morning I saw two new mothers in long robes pushing babies only hours old in wheeled baissonettes down the hallway. The babies were pink and wrinkled and squinty eyed. The mothers were exhausted and proud and happy. And as we passed I said congratulations and then started to cry. Because really, what else can you do when you are terrified, elated, overwhelmed, impatient and excited beyond your ability to express it. You cry a little (at least I do) and then you laugh and thank God from the bottom of your heart and ask for a little help.
I am so happy.