Packing

I had no idea that packing for a year-long, plane-free odyssey could feel like prepping for the Olympics—except with fewer sequins and more socks. Every item sparked a debate—would it be worth lugging across borders? My backpack loomed ominously, empty but already heavy with expectation. After a trial run on safari in South Africa, I’d discovered that top-loading backpacks devour essentials like toothbrushes, never to be seen again. Determined to retain some dignity, I upgraded to one that zipped open like a suitcase—then quickly exchanged it for a taller model because, well, genetics had gifted me generously in height.
The wardrobe strategy was tactical survivalism meets fashion pragmatism: a reversible dress for occasional elegance, board shorts doubling as gym gear, merino tops that magically resisted odours, and layers stacked like tiers of wedding cake. My makeup kit shrank dramatically, now squeezed into a pencil-case-sized pouch holding foundation, mascara, and lipstick—just enough to ensure I didn’t emerge from a bush looking entirely feral when we wandered into civilization for dinner.
Toiletries were crammed into a lunch-box alongside phone chargers, the iPad, and our beloved portable coffee grinder, an item Pete declared “essential” with unwavering conviction. As photographers, we juggled the additional weight of cameras, lenses, a tripod, and a tiny point-and-shoot reserved strictly for “happy snaps.”
Amid this whirlwind, a wise friend quipped, “Don’t worry about changing clothes; just change cities.” The advice felt wonderfully Zen—until I found myself at midnight, staring at three pairs of socks, deeply unsure if that was brave minimalism or reckless optimism.
Finally, I knelt beside the stuffed backpack, wrestling its zipper closed with a desperate sit-and-bounce manoeuvre, hoping it wouldn’t explode dramatically mid-journey. Because tomorrow morning—ready or not—we’d step into the unknown.