Lost message from the Hot Place
It occurred to me that it was a year ago. I figured it was time to go through my paperwork, do some sorting out. And I found a blog entry that I wrote in pencil on the back of an envelope. I decided not to post it, but I guess I kept it for a reason. I have resisted the temptation to edit retrospectively.
Sitting in the departure lounge in Capital City airport, premenstrual, illegally hungover, still trying to make sense of what's happening and still (mostly) failing.
I have a data-free data stick, and a data-free laptop. I still don't know if these will be taken off me. In my check-in luggage there is a data-free flip video recorder (this one of the heartbreaking bits as I had some great videos of local staff) and my camera, from which I have deleted any photos with people on them.
I still have my phone, but some people have had these taken too - and I still hadn't got round to backing my numbers up so I have copied them all out longhand across six pages of my notebook. We have rediscovered longhand, these last few days.
There are other dazed looking NGO workers scattered round the departure lounge. We stand out a mile.
Across the way, there is a fat African man in a pale suit. He is sitting in that way some men sit, legs wide apart, taking up maximum space. He has earphones in and he's singing along, off key and really pretty loud, to Amazing Grace.
There are signs all down the road to the airport bearing huge photos of the President with slogans like "wise and strongly determined".
This can of lemon drink tastes really, really weird.