Mascara a wreck, I drove myself 500 km east to Knysna, a pretty town on the Indian Ocean that I'm smitten with. I booked myself into a Backpacker's and am chilling here for the final three days of my stay in South Africa. I'm calling it my Reflection Time. On Thursday morning it's 250 km further east to Port Elizabeth to catch the first of my series of return flights.
This weekend, I'll be in Canada. (I can write it down, but I cannot believe it.)
I look forward to seeing my family and friends, to sleeping in my own bed, to hearing Canadian accents and fine-tuning my own. I'm excited for my first Dr. Pepper, Reese Peanut Butter Cup, and trip to Tim Horton's.
But I'm losing something profoundly important to me - my adopted homeland. I have favourite things here, too. Savannah Drys. Lime milkshakes. Vida e Cafe.
I don't want to let go. I want to always know the sounds of eleven different languages being spoken on the streets. The feel of the fine white sand between my fingers at the Clifton beaches. The sight of Table Mountain, resolutely guarding the Mother City.
Ironically, what I love most about South Africa is also what is most worrisome - how young the country is. The history and the future are side by side. It means that new developments are exciting and significant. But new countries are also volatile. I'd like to return here within 5 years. But I look at Kenya and wonder whether I can promise that I'll do so. South Africa's aching beauty in landscape and people - what I love second-most - either reflects or mocks the future, I don't yet know.
I've been able to do and see much more in Africa than I'd ever expected. I've learned more about myself than I expected to. I'm ready to get a life-size tatoo of the continent to pay it tribute to the outstanding experiences it has given me. But I think my nose piercing will give my parents enough of a fright.
I'm going to write a final entry on my blog from Canada. And I'll revive it again, ideally, within 5 years, when I find my way back.
