I’m going home. It’s a feeling of relief. So much so, that I sigh when I say it out loud. I have lived in this wonderfully blessed country now for nearly 6 years, but my heart is still in South Africa. It is still “home”.
So, for me, this trip is annual, like going to the dentist, doing your taxes, updating your resume. It’s budgeted, expected, planned, non-negotiable. Stripped of the niceties of “holiday”.
I can already taste the dry bright light, flat open accents and shock of interminging vibrant cultures.
I want a slice of melktert.
I pack as if I am going off into the jungle in India. It’s emotional. An exercise in futility. Ridiculous assortments, hoarded American candy, books as heavy as treetrunks. An extra suitcase gaping with hope. Cape Town trinkets and treasures, koeksisters and You Magazines. A bit of home. But return is a line of data on my ticket I am ignoring. Denial.
I am so eager, I slip to the edge of my seat with wanting. Impatience. But wary too. Going home is always dangerous as I will not want to return. This trip is a topping up of family, and work. I plan to stamp the bruised blue colour of the rippling sea under the window into my memory. And my face into the little heart of my niece. With the peace of being back under the wing, I expect the flow of writing to be cathartic and easy. We shall see. Internet is spotty, and difficult, like a diva. The African sun will tempt me to come out and play. The drumbeat, like breathing, a calling to rendezvous under a glittering night sky. And the cicadas and crickets playing catch in the grass will lull me to sleep.
I am not enthralled about leaving Alan alone for so long. We are a team, and do better together.
But this 36 hour journey is a guilty gift I cannot refuse.
