Crazy days

Do you know the feeling of being in the wrong film? This feeling that something is wrong with the world around you? That it can't be your own doings alone that got you into the situation you are in?

I am just returning from a conference in Oxford, and though the conference was great, with interesting people, exciting topics and inspiring discussions, the last two days were a pure disaster.

It all started on Friday morning. Or no, let me wind back. It actually already started on Sunday evening when I tried to plug in my laptop and realized that the power cable burned once again (thanks to the irregular and unpredictable power supply in Kabul). That not enough, I realized that my pts (outlook) file iwas full, but the only way I could access it and delete files from it is by opening my outlook on my computer. Which I couldn't, until Wednesday, when I finally managed to get a power supply cable.

But since computer problems aren't really anything new to me (they are the only constant parameter during all my work related travels), the last two days had some disasters of new scale ready for me. Lets wind forward to Friday morning again, when I woke up with a slight headache and a blurred memory of our previous nights' discussions around life saving and threatening issues, which were pured down with just a bit too much of cheap wine. Because I had a slight headache, I didn't particularly worry when my colleague from Afghanistan who joined me for the conference didn't appear at breakfast. Even once the sessions started and she still wasn't around, I didn't worry too much but rather let myself induldge by a presentation about indicators (don't we all love them?)

But when it got cloase to eleven am, and she was still not seen, I did get a bit concerned. Somehow I managed to cleaner to open the door of her room, and what I found was deeply troubling. Her keys left on the table, her travel bag with few cloths of little value underneath the table, but other than that, void. At lunch time I had to leave for Heathrow, trying to catch my plane to dubai. Still no trace of her. I winded back the last few days, and slowly the consciousness creeped into me that she might have decided to "dive under", realizing a dream that many Afghans dream: to leave Afghanistan forever, for good. But why choose a free ride on the back of my organization (and my own hard work to get her the visa for this conference?). I travelled to the airport, disappointed and desillusioned with everything. Could I blame her for taking what many Afghans are longing for? For a life elsewhere? I stared out of the window, thinking that I might see her somewhere. But I didnt. There were just faces of strangers passing by the windows of our bus. Her departure did not make sense as much as it did make sense. I imagined her walking down the stairs of our Hotel, early in the morning, before everybody left for breakfast. Did she smile? Feel guilty? Did she wonder what I would think once I realize that she is gone?

Completely trapped in thoughts around living here or there, I didnt immediately notice when the girl at the check in counter took a strange look at the two pieces of my pass port. Blame on me, it had fallen apart just few days before I left for Oxford, and since I had managed to talk my way through the immigration in Dubai on my way to the conference, I had expected the same thing to happen on my way back. But no, not so this time. The girl, without even asking me (bitch!) called her supervisor, who again called Dubai, to confirm that they would not accept me with a passport that is broken into two pieces. And Dubai confirmed! So there I was, suddenly without valid travel documents! I felt like crying (I actually did cry) hoping that my tears would be felt by the immigration officers in Dubai. At nine pm, when the last plane for Dubai had left, my hopes had vanished. But realizing that tears wont get me out of this mess, a plan in my head had taken shape: Superglue! I got myself booked on a plane for Saturday (for free, at least the tears weren't completely vasted...) and spend the night at a colleagues house. Today I made it again to the airport. With a different outfit, hoping that they wouldn't recognize me. And somehow, it worked out. I succesfully hided my trembling hands when handing over the pass port to the guy at Heathrow immigration. I relaxed for five hours on the plane. Before, when passing through the Dubai immigration, I got nervous when the girl kind of looked one second too long at my passport. Superglue is great, but it does have limits and if somebody would add a bit of force to my pass port, it would certainly fall apart again. But I managed to get throug. Now I am in the arrivals hall, waiting for few hours before moving on to the next terminal to check in on my Kabul flight.

I am tired, but the happenings of the last two days make it difficult for me to sleep. It's these moments when I am just wondering about my life. I recently listened to the beatles song "a long and winding road" and exactly that's what it seems to be. Long and winding. Winding it forward and backward, it often doesn't make sense to me, but I guess at the end of the day, everything has a meaning in life. For one thing is sure, getting over the fact that my colleague has left without a trace, but with with our - unknowing - support, will take me some time to get over with, and finding the right meaning in it will take me a very long time.