Leaving home for home

So the anti-poaching guys are back, camping next to my bathroom with their rifles…

As annoying as it is (they use the bathroom which currently has all my laundry hanging up – my mother always taught me that leaving your underwear in view of strangers was rude but I don’t want to pack wet clothes) I’m kind of glad – a trip without them yelling “KNOCK KNOCK!” at my front door would be so not right…

I’ve begun my routine of getting ready to go home – defrosting the freezer, packing up my lizard room (this takes the better part of a day, the rest of the cleaning and packing takes a couple of hours), walking to my favourite places without taking a camera – to make sure that I work hard to remember the place and the emotions and the feeling of the hot wind and the dust on my face, the gravelly sand road underfoot, the weird grunting of the wildebeest (once I thought it was a certain lecturer) feel more real than usual when I’m doing the ‘lasts’.

Other things include setting aside the cleanest and nicest outfit I have for the drive home, as well as doing a proper hair condition and scrubbing myself all shiny. I paint my toenails, use an extra layer of moisturiser, wait until the last second to pack my mouthwash… so that I can sit in a car for five hours. Weird I know.

There’s also the packing – it has to go in stages as each piece of equipment is used for the last time. The last time that syringe is used, the last time for the treadmill, the cooler box, the callipers, the funky expensive machinery and so on.

And with all the ceremony, I finally just throw it all in the car, lock the door and leave without looking back. Until I realise  forgot something and have to turn around and go back…