The strangest week
on Jonchards in Kenya (Kenya), 30/Jul/2012 14:50, 34 days ago
Memories of our final week overseas, written from an aeroplane:Altitude: 40,004ftSpeed: 565mphLocation: somewhere over Turkey.Packing up, saying goodbyeThe leaving party is great– friends, drinks, karaoke and dancing.  People came from all over Kenya to wish us well.  What wonderful people, a fantastic year.  Take care, good luck.  But by 2am I am sick of saying goodbye.  I’m done with this now, it’s too sad, can’t we just click our fingers and be home? We visit my colleagues.  They are so glad I came to Kenya, and sad I go.You take a little piece of my heart with you, Helen.  Kenya will always be your second home.We sell our belongings, but we give much more away.  Young Kenyan colleagues squeal over our stuff, not believing their luck.  We trek across the city, bus after bus, to sort, register, buy and visit.  It gets so functional that I realise too late this is my last time in town, my final matatu.We pack and repack.  We gather, we divide and arrange.  The flat becomes less and less full.  Our UK friends expect us home, our Kenyan friends give us large wooden items with their very best wishes.  I wish I was just on a plane now.Our final evening is friends, curry and laughs.  I bust out my Swahili one last time, and we walk through our neighbourhood sighing deeply, feeling so temporary it’s like we don’t exist.  We’re transparent.Final dayUp at dawn, we awake to the realisation that we are 25% over our weight limit with only a few hours to spare.  Having given or sold every household item - including the kettle– we go in search of coffee and breakfast, and sit in the café, trying to work out the luggage puzzle. What follows is a few heightened hours of snapping at each other and trying to work out what to leave, as the minutes tick by.   The task finally– finally! – complete we have barely 5 minutes left in our empty flat, looking once again as it did when we arrived: like a prison cell. No time for sentimentality, the taxi arrives and takes us to a friend who is at work, and we leave 20kgs of possessions with her… through the kindness of others we hope to be reunited with it all.  Make it to the airport in time, to be told our luggage is still over, so departure-hall repacking begins.  We wear a lot more layers and stuff even more things into our bulging hand luggage, and hold our breaths as….our luggage is… accepted!!  Halleluyah!Barely friends after a long morning of sniping, Dan and I bemoan our complete lack of cash to buy drinking water in the terminal.  My stress-high bottoms out, and I feel thirsty, so very tired and sad.  My back aches from all the lifting, all day, and I fight back tears at everything that is happening.  I don’t feel ready to go.  One final humiliation as my hand luggage is judged to contain weapons thanks to the unsuitable last-minute (heavy) additions.  I’m forced to check my unsecured hand luggage and arrive though the gate with the more precious possessions in my arms, too scared they won’t arrive the other side.  I’m holding my pyjamas in my hands, sobbing, as people turn to stare.  I feel utterly rootless: homeless and upset.We arrive at our seats to find luxury, hot towels and an on-demand entertainment system.  We cry a little together as the place takes off, friends again, then watch a dystopian film which adds to the strange luxury and our feelings of loss.  A few hours later a wall of hot air greets us as we step out into a Dubai night.  It’s the night before Ramadan, and we’re here to visit my brother on our way back to the UK.Dubai Dubai’s Terminal 3 is shiny, dramatic and enormous.  It feels like we’ve just landed on Mars.  I imagine that Oz is lurking somewhere, behind a curtain, pulling the strings of this brave new world.  We collect (all!) our luggage in an arrivals hall that could double as a deep-space film set and are met by my smiling brother, shiny shoes fresh from a party.  It’s Thursday night and the start of the weekend in the Islamic world.Dubai continues to bamboozle us over the next few days.  My fourth time out to see him here, I am never more shocked than this time.  Fresh from 12 months in East Africa, we stare and stare at the shiny buildings, perfect roads, tall buildings and empty streets.  Everything is so clean.  So clean.  The toilets have seats, toilet paper and hand cream boasting‘jojoba oil’. Summertime in the Middle East exists in an oven that no-one can escape from, only in the blessed relief of air conditioning, cars and buildings are our refuge from 37 degrees at night, 40 in the day.  This means the streets are empty, like a toy-town.  Muslims adhere to daylight fasting, and we adhere to the rules of respect.  It’s hotter than hell itself, but no drinking or eating in public. But behind closed doors, the food is incredible, all the things we’ve missed, and the metro is the future, and the world’s tallest building gleams in the sun like a granite rock face we once saw in Yosemite: record-breaking, inspiring awe in both of us.We try and put our shock on hold and enjoy everything.  My brother is a wonderful host and we meet new people and swim under an unending blue sky.  We cross the border to Oman and see dolphins swimming up close.  But at the end of each day we just need to close our eyes and escape it all, too much, too much. And then, after four short days, it’s time to fly to London.One final adventureWe pack as best we can, praying to the luggage gods to see us right this time.  I can barely lift my carry-on, that’s part of the plan.  But as we cruise in my brother’s car back to the airport, something is suddenly very wrong. All power cuts out and we freewheel to a halt on the highway.  Jumping out to push it into a safer spot, I realise the sun will be our biggest problem.  No power means no A/C and so we stand in the sweltering shade to figure a plan.  Once again, the minutes tick down to our flight.  Where are we?  Which intersection is this?  Will our faces melt off in the searing heat?  Will we make our flight?  No time left for dignity, we flag down a pick-up truck; our looks of distress not a performance.  We explain exactly how much luggage we have– we are late for our flight!  He will help us, but his passenger looks horrified.  The last time I see my brother he’s sheltering next to a tree, waiting for rescue.  We hope he doesn’t have to wait too long for Recovery.The minutes in which our driver chooses to drop his passenger off first, and then drive us to the airport are some of the longest I’ve experienced.  His English is a challenge, where are we?  Do you know the way?  Do you know how far we are away?  How many minutes?  We arrive in departures as our flight is actually boarding so its all big rush rush run run.  Once again we struggle to shed our stress levels and realise too late that we’re actually, finally, returning to the UK… we’re already in the air.  And here comes the hot towels.****************We’re going home.  How are we supposed to feel?  What does 'ready' feel like?  I don’t know.  I’m tired again and sad and feel weird.  How long is it since we felt normal?  How long since we felt relaxed? Was that really only a week ago?  How will it feel to be back in the UK?  Will it feel like home?  Only one way to find out.  Two hours til we land.  See you on the other side.