The End

This is my last day in South Africa, and by extension the last day of my five-month adventure. I've been putting off writing about it, mainly because a big part of me doesn't want it to end. I don't know what it'll be like at home. I wonder if I'll be different. This has definitely been the best year of my life. This has definitely changed me (hopefully for the better). It's funny, I've been saying a lot of goodbyes over the past half a year, but this is as painful a goodbye as any of them. Goodbye to the countdowns to flights, goodbye to the packing and repacking of suitcases, goodbye to meeting so many people and leaving them almost instantaneously. It's a lifestyle and it gets under your skin.

So here it is, the complete and total list of what I have learnt this year, in the hope that I'm ever-so-slightly wiser than once I was:

1. People are complicated. They're messy and wonderful and interesting and they are the most important part of any trip.

2. If you want something badly, you can make it happen. I know, cliche central. But it happened for me and I'm proud of it.

3. There are many many many beautiful places in the world. And dangnabbit it's our duty to explore them.

4. Baggage allowances are bullshit.

5. Being on your own is good for you sometimes. It can help you figure stuff out.

6. Dogs are the same all over the world.

7. Tearful white girls in clubs are the same all over the world.

8. A sense of humour is crucial.

9. Adventure is everywhere. It's not about where you are, but what you make it.

10. Never ever ever fail to appreciate good food. Ever. Don't do it.

That's it. My top 10 wisdoms. Use them well.

And now it's time to go home. Climb into that big silver bird and fly. I don't know what the next bit will be like. I don't know what this blog will be like. But rest assured:

This isn't the last.

Paying respects

It takes us a stupidly long time to find Madiba's house. The satnav leads us on endless loops and turns and for a while we drive frustratedly through identical streets lined with stern-looking government buildings. Eventually we find the crowds of cars, guided to a parking space by an over-enthusiastic guy in a fluorescent vest. Following the crowds along the street that leads to the house was a little like entering into a fairground or parade, with hawkers selling Mandela shirts, keyrings and caps, and people of all ages ambling in groups. There are portable toilets and someone is selling boerwors rolls. I suppose life goes on. People can't afford not to capitalise.

At the end of the road is a big group of people, all standing in a circle around three women in headdresses and brightly coloured outfits. The women are calling out and chanting, their strong voices punctuating the hot midday air - "Viva Mandela viva!" The crowd responds, claps and whoops and repeats their words. The women burst into song and the deep, soulful harmonies that South Africans do so well resound through the throngs. The crowds join in; I can hear my cousin singing beside me. I wish I knew the words. I stand quietly in the midst of this powerful, joyous mourning.

Behind the crowds are the flowers, piles and piles of them. Candles melted into each other, flags moulded into the crush, letters and poems and artwork scattered like emotional debris across a great mound of flowers. There are tributes from every country and community, from Israeli flags stuck in candles to a sign of thanks from the City of London Anti-Apartheid Group. It's been ten days since his death and so many of the flowers are rotting, giving off a raw, earthy smell. I see an old man run his sleeve across his eyes and blink back the rest of his tears. There are parents gently leading their children between the flowers, explaining to their wide eyes the legacy before them. The voices of the women and the crowds soar above it all.

It's completely South African, I can't help but think. An emotional heaping of grief and wild energy, mourning and exaltation, the love of hundreds of thousands of people combined. It's not perfect and it's far from pristine, but it's so full of life. It's full of hope.

What a cliche to say that he lives on in the hearts of his people.
But how true it is.  

A door opens

So guess who just got accepted into her journalism course?

This woman. Oh yeah.

And so the next chapter begins.

One Week Left

Here's a chance to analyse my dreams.

Dream 1: I am visiting Indonesia when a tsunami hits and I have to try to sneak on to a refugee bus that is taking me to Cape Town (apparently my subconscious is geographically challenged).

Dream 2: My cousin's wedding back home is cancelled and I am told I can't go home, not now and not ever and I urgently need to contact my parents to let them know.

Basically, my untrained eye says that the inner Anna workings are freaking the hell out over the concept of THE RETURN. Like a bad sequel. Anna's Life 2.
Because 5 months may not seem like a long time to the seasoned among you, but to me it is one of the longest, biggest and most overwhelming periods of my life. And a big chunk of me is peeing a little with joy at the thought of seeing my family and friends and dogs and house and job and all, and another chunk is excited for university and another is hanging onto this trip by the pant legs and screaming 'NO NO NO DON'T MAKE ME GO HOME EVER'. It terrifies me that after going home, after wedding and family and all, I won't have thing after thing after thing to be excited about, no dates of flights or jumps into the unknown. I will only have life. And that is too big a thing to think about in one go.

And I find out if I'm accepted into my journalism course in a few days.

And I had a sliver of an idea of my dream job, and it isn't eating food. It's this. Travel writing. Or writing about interesting things in weird places. And eating exotic food.

And somehow, going home is the scariest part of all.

Crowds

This is a pleasant bubble to be in.  "Rage" or "vac" is the week in December when almost every graduated teenager in South Africa flock to various beachy locations to drink themselves into celebratory stupors. We're staying in a pretty shmancy hotel on the beach in Umhlanga, Durban and almost all of it has been taken over by teenagers.  I feel desperately for the poor clueless families who decided to vacation here.  There's pounding music at all hours and at any given time you can hear a far away chorus of "shots shots shots!" Also,  every meal is pretty much a burger. It's fun.  It's intoxicating. People are generally nice and I'm the token exotic feature ("Oh you're Anna from Australia!") And at night there's always the "doof doof doof" of bass thumping through your stomach and free drinks from friendly bartenders. We sweat in crowded taxis on the way to Balito and get covered in mud in packed moshpits.
Got to go - shots at Hooters in five.