All posts by Claire

About Claire

Wandering (and wondering) development professional and aspiring aid worker. Contact me on anticipationofwonder[at]gmail[dot]com

Thinking about packing

Admin, Gear
I hate packing. I hate packing because I’m scared I’ll leave something behind. And what if it gets cold? And what if I suddenly need to dress up for some reason and I don’t have heels? What about shoes? I’m pretty sure that I want to take my boots but should I also have takkies? And what if I suddenly wake up one morning and feel like wearing a dress?
These thoughts swirl and whirl and gnaw at me from the moment I start thinking about packing. Nothing like this has every happened to me. I’ve travelled a lot, on various kinds of trips and I don’t think there has ever been a time when I’ve used everything in my suitcase and wanted more. I really hate it. Without fail, at least once during the packing process, I’ll throw my hands up in the air and decide it’s not worth it and I’m staying home instead!
Of course, I know rationally that I love travelling, so I push through and I’m always much calmer once the packing is done. So where does this irrational hatred of packing come from? I suppose it is possible that I project all my worries about the rest of the trip onto packing. Any unspoken fears about plane crashes or violence or terror attacks, any low-level anxiety that travelling might be lonely or the trip won’t live up to my expectations are projected onto packing.
And then comes the moment where nothing fits or I’ve forgotten to pack toiletries or it all fits comfortable but the bag is too heavy to lift. I have another little terror – of luggage being overweight for a flight. It’s never actually happened but it bothers me whenever any travel might possibly involve a plane. But not enough to make me pack less because there is the other thing about having forgotten something I might need. And so it goes around and around. Even when I’m just going to visit my sister for a week and so can probably borrow anything I’ve forgotten.
Ultimately, it is probably functional and maybe even efficient to hate packing rather than, say, being terrified of flying. I love planes, adore trains, like buses; I sleep fairly comfortably in just about any environment and I have grown to enjoy new and unusual tastes and textures (provided they’re not still moving). If anything is going to make me panicky, I’d rather it was the packing.
It still sucks though. I’m roughly a week away from heading to Namibia and this time I’m attempting to pack far in advance so that the trauma is all gone by the time I leave. We’ll see how that works out. Maybe it’ll be the solution. Maybe I’ll have a minor panic the night before I go and unpack everything and start again. Personally, I wouldn’t put money on the former. Maybe I’ll just have to get used to the fact that hating packing is the necessary evil that lets me get on my way and explore the wonderful world beyond my door.

I hate packing. I hate packing because I’m scared I’ll leave something behind. And what if it gets cold? And what if I suddenly need to dress up for some reason and I don’t have heels? What about shoes? I’m pretty sure that I want to take my boots but should I also have takkies? And what if I suddenly wake up one morning and feel like wearing a dress?

These thoughts swirl and whirl and gnaw at me from the moment I start thinking about packing. Nothing like this has every happened to me. I’ve travelled a lot, on various kinds of trips and I don’t think there has ever been a time when I’ve used everything in my suitcase and wanted more. I really hate it. Without fail, at least once during the packing process, I’ll throw my hands up in the air and decide it’s not worth it and I’m staying home instead!

Of course, I know rationally that I love travelling, so I push through and I’m always much calmer once the packing is done. So where does this irrational hatred of packing come from? I suppose it is possible that I project all my worries about the rest of the trip onto packing. Any unspoken fears about plane crashes or violence or terror attacks, any low-level anxiety that travelling might be lonely or the trip won’t live up to my expectations are projected onto packing.

And then comes the moment where nothing fits or I’ve forgotten to pack toiletries or it all fits comfortable but the bag is too heavy to lift. I have another little terror – of luggage being overweight for a flight. It’s never actually happened but it bothers me whenever any travel might possibly involve a plane. But not enough to make me pack less because there is the other thing about having forgotten something I might need. And so it goes around and around. Even when I’m just going to visit my sister for a week and so can probably borrow anything I’ve forgotten.

Ultimately, it is probably functional and maybe even efficient to hate packing rather than, say, being terrified of flying. I love planes, adore trains, like buses; I sleep fairly comfortably in just about any environment and I have grown to enjoy new and unusual tastes and textures (provided they’re not still moving). If anything is going to make me panicky, I’d rather it was the packing.

It still sucks though. I’m roughly a week away from heading to Namibia and this time I’m attempting to pack far in advance so that the trauma is all gone by the time I leave. We’ll see how that works out. Maybe it’ll be the solution. Maybe I’ll have a minor panic the night before I go and unpack everything and start again. Personally, I wouldn’t put money on the former. Maybe I’ll just have to get used to the fact that hating packing is the necessary evil that lets me get on my way and explore the wonderful world beyond my door.

A castle and a train

Cape Town, trains and train stations,

Monday did not start well. I was rudely dragged from lazy dozing by a phone-call moving my late-afternoon meeting. Bang went a morning spent with my mother and sister and a visit to my grandmother. The miserable mood stayed with me as I dragged myself out of bed and got ready. It stayed until that magical moment when the train started moving and the station fell slowly away behind me. What is it about the clackety-clack of a train that makes a small part of my soul thrill with anticipation? I take a deep breath and settle back and feel a calm, gentle happiness settle over me. Just like that moment on a plane when the wheels leave the runway.

It’s raining when I arrive. It’s a chilly (for November), overcast day, with raindrops streaming across the windows as we pull into the busy transportation hub that is Cape Town station. Avoiding rushing commuters, hawkers and a strange man trying to talk to me as I crossed the road, I head for St George’s Mall.

The pedestrian mall is bustling with different people. The vegetable seller offers “Weigh-less Avos! Weigh-less…” It’s one of my favourite places in the Cape. The cosmopolitan heart of cosmopolitan Cape Town. People of every country, colour and creed wander and saunter and rush along. I stop for a moment outside the Wimpy and breathe in the cool, damp air.

After a quick breakfast, I head off to the Castle of Good Hope. The city feels like a city today. Some days, Cape Town feels like a tourist attraction or a living post card. Today, on this grey Monday morning, it feels gritty and busy and tired. And then I turn, at the bus stop and across the busy square is Cape Town’s beautiful city hall, Table Mountain rising, a perfect backdrop, against the cloudy sky.

The bulk of the Castle stands to the left. I have less than an hour before I need to be back at the station to navigate the somewhat unpredictable (and unfamiliar) train schedule. Not nearly enough time to see all of the “oldest building in South Africa“. I don’t care. I’ve decided not to be put off doing things because of limited time any longer – better half an hour immersed in fascinating history than time wasted wandering restlessly from shop to shop.

I wish I’d had more time. I’ve visited the Castle before – many years ago as a child – but all I really remember is the dark dungeon. I didn’t even make it as far as the dungeon this time. I did spend a delightful half an hour wandering up twisting stone stairs and past the bell tower and enjoying the sense of the past and incredible views from the bastions. The rain had stopped and the clouds drifting over the edge of the mountain were backlit by sunlight. Walking along a passage, the white-washed walls thick and uneven, I came upon a glass window onto an ancient armoury – did you know they made bricks in the early Cape because they couldn’t risk the sparks from a stone floor?

On the way back to the station, I looked up into the huge glass windows along the side of the station. Reflected there was the cable-car slowly descending from the top cable-station. I had a moment of mad desire to throw it all in and go up the mountain for the day. With a sigh, I let the moment pass and rushed to catch my train, leaving the other for another day, hoping, through  “knowing how way leads on to way”, that some day soon I shall be back.

Out to lunch

Cape Town, trains and train stations, ,

Cavendish Square is a strange place. A place of clichés. At a table near me sit two young women – obviously varsity friends from the snatches of conversation drifting across to me – discussing Stellenbosch and reminiscing over their wine. They get so caught up in their catch-up that they completely forget to look at the menu and send the waiter away to give them more time to decide. I find myself wondering if they’re wives. The place is full of women in designer outfits, some with small children. Ladies who lunch. Sometimes several generations all at once. In between them, the occasional guy dressed for work: a geek here, a business suit there.

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