a start.

Wednesday, 13 July

we step off the plane. it's late. it's hot. it's so very African, even from here.

I've prepped everyone for this: for the long queue, for the visa-luggage-money sequence, for the muggy stickiness and the tiredness. I didn't prep them for my cranky exhaustion (though...they all know me, and praise God, they are all more patient than I am). nor did I anticipate my impulse to run ahead of everyone in order to hug Susan. they handled it like champs, though.

I told them about the taxi ride, the visa fee, the exchange rate. I didn't tell them a Somali family would try to cut in front of us, and that I would let them, and that the immigration officer would verbally harass them and that my mama bear instinct would kick in and that I would end up clenching my fists and gritting my teeth and trying not to yell, or cry. but my team- my friends, oh- seemed relatively unfazed by this. probably because they've met me before.

racism is alive and well in this tired, broken world, and it seems that it's best NOT to address it when you're running on no sleep, and when no one cares anyway.

I reconcile myself to the situation by this compromise: I politely cut the queue, greet the official in Swahili, and recommend he find a fellow employee and ask them to help with 'crowd control'. this seems, I point out, more effective than his trying to multi-task from behind his desk. (and by multitask I mean 'occasionally look up from his work to yell at the Somali man.) he politely ignores me. I politely step back into line. Kimberly and I pass the time by staring openly at the Somali woman's henna, which beautifully covers her arms and her feet. her husband is busy juggling visas and paperwork at the desk. her mother is standing by her side.

I project a lot, and I assume a lot of this family: that they are escaping from hell. that they are entering purgatory. that they will spend a lot of time being treated poorly here in Kenya.

make no mistake: Kenyans are a wonderfully accepting and hospitable people. there's good reason for me to feel so at home there. but Somalis, for whatever reason, seem to be destined to live a difficult life. I can only pray they are, somehow, someday, rewarded for their trials here.


but, oh, I digress.

after hours (okay, hour) in line, we finally go downstairs to get our luggage. and then we finally stand in line to change our money. and I finally can take it no more, and I leave my friends behind to rush outside and into Susan's arms.

people stare.

after everyone has changed money, we pile into two waiting taxis and head home. home, to Susan's apartment complex, where Lindsay and I will share 'my' room, and the other four members of our team- Angie and Kimberly, Pete and Keith- will share another apartment. we pay the taxis and make quick introductions and shove our luggage into respective living rooms and head to bed, because it is late, and because we've been traveling for 24 hours.

'you're great', Pete tells me. I assume he means, 'it's pretty fun to see you look so happy- happier than I've seen you in a really long time.'