Return Trip

It was the water bottle that did me in.  You know how, in modern airports, you can't bring your water through security, you have to pour it all out and get new water in the terminal to bring on the plane?  Well, it's like in Africa, they have to be as modern as other airports, but they have to twist things around to make themselves unique, and in the process they defeat the entire point but they are still stubborn and bureaucratic about it, and just stand there staring at your repeating their stupid rules.  In this case, no one cared about water going into the airport, at either the preliminary security station nor the main security check where you would expect a security check.  But at the last minute, when you are walking into the pre-boarding area at the gate, there is an extra security gate, with no signs or information or anything, but they tell you to throw away your water.  Which means no water whatsoever in the plane.  As though the water they are selling in the terminal is loaded with whatever bombs people can make out of water, or for that matter, that they want people wandering around with those water-bombs in the airport terminal at all.  I protested, and the guy brought over his superior, who repeated the same words mildly and stared vaguely behind my ear, which is the African way of having a passive argument.  I said "what am I supposed to do?" which is the African arguing way of not letting them be passive any more, but they didn't take the bait and just kept staring.  They brought over a third person to be unhelpful, though.  After a while, one of them said that if the water had a seal, it would be okay, which as far as I could tell he made up on the spot to appear agreeable, although of course it could be airport policy -- who knows, as the airport policy is not posted any where.  The water bottle in question had about four sips taken out of it and had cost me 160 Kenyan shillings, and of course we wouldn't have taken four sips if we had known about this so-called airport policy.  I pointed out that other airports all over the world do not randomly take your water away when you are boarding the plane.  One of the guards said calmly that they were not any other airport, and they did not follow any other policy, they were Boma Jaipa airport (or whatever the name is) and that is their policy.  Obviously, duh!  (Those last were not technically words, but very clear.)

I am generally an incredibly non-confrontational person.  As in, if I even think about saying something rude, I start to cry and have to go away in private and think about it the rest of the afternoon.  I'm losing it in Africa, I really am -- my sanity or my Type 9-ness, I'm not sure which.  Although less healthy Type 9's are known for being passive aggressive, and maybe that includes violently throwing your water bottle at the trash can as you walk away.  I didn't actually throw it at a human being, which would be more on the aggressive side.  Actually, come to think of it, it probably IS passive aggressive, because that is what they are experts at around here, and they all expertly ignored me.


The trip back to Uganda technically went smoothly.  There were no lines to check in or go through security, we found our gate, the flight was on time and the bathrooms functioning, I got American dollars for the Ugandan visas, I found a toy that I had promised Emerson for good-shopping-behavior in the terminal, I even had time to get a couple Kenyan souvenirs.  (It takes some searching to find Kenyan souvenirs that are not exactly the same things as Ugandan souvenirs, except maybe there is a different country name painted on it.  In fact, the terminal was full of general east-African souvenirs with every possible East African country name painted on it, just in case you wanted to feel specific to a whole bunch of places.)  Most importantly, the Ugandan customs official laughed and joked with Emerson, and didn't make any kind of fuss about putting the new stamps in our passports.  This was quite a concern, because not only have I heard a lot of airport-official horror stories by this point, the customs official on the way out did not like all my visa extensions, and delayed me for quite some time even thought I was just trying to LEAVE the country.  It is quite certain that she would not have let me back in.  So the trip went smoothly.

But I was so tired.  I actually got more sleep in Kenya than I usually do at home, so there was no physical reason to feel so exhausted, but it was one of those days when I felt like everything was through a fog and my limbs were moving in syrup.  I think it was the fact of returning to Uganda.  The closer we got, the more tired I became, just in anticipation.


The few days in Kenya were such a treat.  Of course it was nice to not have to worry about fixing meals or doing laundry or worrying about paperwork, but the vacation-y-ness wasn't the main thing.  It was so rejuvenating to see something new and think about something new and do something new!  With three children in the suburbs, I am so confined.  I am either at home, doing the same-ol' at home things, or I am doing necessary errands... and with all the children out of school, those errands are gut-wrenchingly tiring and stressful.  It was so nice mentally to think about different shaped buildings, and how the history of the two countries had created such different realities in such geographical proximity, and listen to cheesy stories about elephants, knowing that I had absolutely no connection to the elephants and I wasn't going to come back again or show it to someone else or where I would stand next time, and basically just have NOTHING TO DO with the stupid elephants except to stand there and watch them.  That was refreshing.

And it was refreshing to be a one-child mama again.  It's more than just the number of children, it's that Emerson and I have a rhythm, we understand each other.  There is no question that I have spent more time alone with Emerson than anyone else in the world, since I was his age and spending that much time with my own mother.  (Three weeks older than he is now, my sister was born and that intimacy changed into something new, too.)  Going around Nairobi together was familiar like going around Kampala was a few months ago, a routine that we knew, the excitement and exploration that we remembered, and that we both enjoy.  But there are years of memories like that; Emerson and I have done a lot of traveling alone together.  So it was like settling in with an old friend, to be with my son the way I remembered being with my son.  It was a treat.  But more than that, it was fine; it was normal; it was enough.


The pilot forgot to ask my opinion, but as far as I was concerned, that plane could have kept on flying.  We could have gone right over east Africa and headed back home.  There was nothing I needed to stop for in Uganda; nothing that was so important that I wanted to head down into this morass again.

Almost as often as people try and convince me that the baby I'm carrying isn't actually my baby, they tell me what a saint I am for helping out other people's babies.  That's not true either; people adopt for selfish reasons: they want to dress a girl in pretty clothes or play baseball with a boy or show that they are a unique and open-minded family, whatever it is.  I feel like my decision to adopt has some selfless and loving reasons in it, but it certainly has a lot of selfishness too.


Going back to Kampala this December was not selfish.  I sat there, content with my son and the special bond we shared, and I thought that there wasn't anything in Uganda that would make me, personally, more happy than NOT being in Uganda any more.


And of course, the plane went on, and we got off, and we're back in our apartment in Konge, and I know that's the right decision to make and I wouldn't make a different one.  That was the feeling of a moment, not of a lifetime.  So we went back home, and the girls didn't want to look at me, and our routine was all broken up, and we were all tired, so it was a really exhausting afternoon and evening and they were all crazy difficult, and I yelled at them, more than once.  I never used to yell, never ever.  It wasn't self control, I never felt like yelling.  I felt like walking away when things (and children) got too frustrating -- and I still do, for that matter, but apparently months of not being able to walk away for even a moment has uncovered the yelling-part of me.  My toolbox of parenting ideas has apparently tipped over and everything has fallen out... and don't you dare give me suggestions, or I'll probably end up yelling at you, too!  The only thing left seems to be to imagine the plane flying off, off and away over Africa, leaving it behind.... But no matter how I felt, I have made too many promises to the girls to even acutualy consider not fulfilling my promises to them, and coming back as soon as possible.   I wouldn't really leave.
         

But I want to stop feeling so angry.  And I really want to get out of here.