Not So Much...

I used to have this mental picture of evacuation and let me tell you, it was far too sunny.  I used to picture myself walking elegantly down the hallway of an airport like someone out of a movie – disheveled and tired, but effortlessly beautiful.  My small bag would pull behind me easily (unlike the ridiculous loads of luggage we usually travel with) while I strode alongside my ruggedly handsome husband.  We would hide away in some little bungalow on a beach somewhere and wait for the craziness to die down before we would return to the valiant efforts we make in life, or to our home country complete with a hero’s welcome. 

Not so much…

A few events in our time in the country have shocked me back into the reality of what evacuation is/looks like.

When we had been in the country for a month or two we had our first “scare”. There had been a time of relative unrest in the capital city, but all of the attacks were far from our little neighborhood and out of the scope of our naïve little minds that were focused on learning language and culture.  One morning however, we began to get nervous.  Right after we had gotten out of bed, there was a loud boom that shook the windows and the floor of our house.  Wide-eyed we looked at each other and tried to make excuses.  Fifteen minutes later, another boom shook us again.  For an hour and a half this went on every few minutes. 

We were freaked!

A went out to talk with the chowkidar and I started throwing stuff in bags.  I was certain that the world was crashing down around us and I wanted out of there!  The glamorous mental picture of evacuation was far far from my mind! 

We were told by the chowkidar after he got more information that it was actually just an exercise to detonate landmines and explosives done by the army. “just a routine thing done in the mountains, not a big deal at all,” he chuckled. Right…

Then, a year later, when we were in our own blissful ignorance a.k.a. Lal, we had a situation that almost warranted evacuating. It had nothing to do with our current surroundings or situation, but more of a country-wide scenario. (Later we found out that it fizzled out to be nothing in the end.)  Because I was not necessarily healthy in Lal, I was begging and pleading with God to allow it to turn into a full-blown mess so I could get out of there. 

The glamorous picture again sprang to mind and tempted and teased…until I got a grip. And realized that I had frizzy hair, hillbilly clothes that smelled like smoke and manure, constant diahrrea and fleas…not exactly material for a glamorous exit!.

My husband helped slap me back into reality (not literally…he isn’t like that) when he reminded me of what all happens if we leave and our project stops. 

And it wasn’t pretty.

Once again, I felt a little like Jonah, trying to run from what God wanted me to be about.  Just because it was hard, I felt I was justified in finding an out.  And just because I was miserable, I stopped caring about the people around me. 

See, the thing is, if it gets bad enough that we have to evacuate, our local staff and neighbors and friends are stuck here to pick up the pieces and try to continue to survive in this place. They can’t leave when the going gets tough, or when they are tired, etc.

Two weeks ago we actually did have to evacuate. The beginning of the week was tense and the end of the week brought security issues as well that caused us to need to leave.  Even though nothing much came out of the situation and we are back now, it was enough to quell once and for all my visions of dramatic and glamorous evacuations. 

The situation could have been a lot worse, but it still sucked.  We were all exhausted and sick, none of us slept, we were grubby and mooching off of wonderfully generous friends.  We missed home and our beds and our routine. And yes, we pouted about it, dangit! 

I found myself feeling very very guilty as every reference to us being refugees made me think of real ones and we were SO far from that.  Twice in the capital city (on the day that it rained so hard the streets were covered in 1 ½ feet of water) we drove by a small cluster of tents, surrounded by trash and puddles of muddy water.  Real refugees. The lump in my throat stuck for a long time as I thought about how hard life has to be for them.  They have no pilots to pull them out when the going gets tough, they don’t have generous friends to take them in.  Their baby gets sick and will most likely die instead of having the possibility of good health care.  Their floors are covered in the mud that creeps in from the outside.  The stench of smoke and rotting garbage permeates their clothes and skin and lives. 

I have it so easy. I am not a refugee…just a whiner.

I was reminded once again that I have nothing to complain about in this place and my current state. Perspective is a beautiful, though somewhat painful thing.  The glamorous images of evacuation have been replaced with the reality…and it makes me want to stay just where I am.