An Improbable Guide to Survival

It’s so hard to say where this story began, or should begin. To explain why I would drop a stable/happy life for the unknown, I first have to explain why it wasn’t so stable/happy and that takes this story way back to New Year 2019. Maybe I don’t explain the why for now and just explain the what. What the hell is all this nonsensical rambling about?

I quit my job, gave up my Amsterdam apartment, then packed up my life quite literally (into a 32kg suitcase that the lady at the bag drop-off begrudgingly allowed and labelled HEAVY) before boarding a flight to Johannesburg. At hearing this, some people are impressed, others terrified, some concerned and others envious. Hindsight is a beautiful thing but I’m still coming to terms with my own set of emotions, given where I find myself now...

Allow yourself to relive my journey, so I may then explain exactly what I’m doing and how I’m doing it. The real story. I want to completely cut the bullsh*t and let people in on how I fumble through this crazy notion we call life. Spoiler: I don’t have it all figured out.

In the final month before my departure, I had nothing prepared. My to-do list was much longer than the one I’d set myself before I moved to Amsterdam and with good reason – I had far fewer ends to tie and ties to sever when I left England.

Making things easy for myself has never come naturally to me. I’m sure plenty of people have textbook psychology answers to explain my behaviour: the reason why I just love leaving things to the last minute and mounting on the pressure; what makes me dive into a spontaneous action with little-to-no regard for the consequences; how I seek dangerous situations and tease the minds of psychopaths to test their patience. There are plenty of things about myself that scare me – but these are also the things that I admire in myself. I’m not fearless by any means. I do, however, try my best to face my fears.

Strange really, that when I initially came up with the idea to take some time off South Africa, before hopefully moving to Costa Rica to teach English, it had nothing to do with facing a fear. I’ll admit now that the thing that propelled the idea into the first physical part of a plan (a one-way plane ticket) was partly, if not wholly, heartbreak. I stand by the fact that I’m a ballsy lady and I’m pretty sure anyone who knows me well enough would vouch the same. That said, I’m also very good at running away: running away, with particular expertise in running from unhappiness.

Perhaps the real reason why I was so unprepared for the move this time is because the kind of unhappiness I was running from, when I first put wheels into motion, is of such a fragile nature and I always knew that. When I had been unhappy in London and made the leap to the Netherlands, I had been unhappy for too long. Depressed and lonely, I wanted out of my job, out of the lifestyle, out of everything. My sadness had roots that needed tearing up so I could start over, but heartache? Heartache is fickle, you see. I felt so positive at the moment I booked the plane ticket to SA because it was exactly what I needed, at that moment. I needed to be sure something new, exciting, some kind of change was around the corner (or in four months from that point) to ease the pain and sadness I was feeling in the present. Without any real hesitation, I committed to a fairly drastic ‘plan’ and began to run when actually there was nothing chasing me. Digging up my roots wasn’t necessary this time. I was simply driven by the pain of unrequited love.

It comes down to this. I’ve never been one for sensibility and timings. I go with my gut and I do as I please, as selfish as that has often been projected. Usually though, when I set my mind to something potentially life-changing, I plan meticulously in my own head and occasionally across several notebooks. The issue arose this time because I’m not entirely sure I took my own plan seriously until about a month before I left. Outlined vaguely was the image of my friend René and I somewhere in Kruger on a wild adventure and then the next scene in my mind I’m on a beach in Costa Rica.

A month before my flight and reality was sinking in. No savings. No sub-tenant for my room. No travel insurance, no vaccinations, no accommodation, no job, no completed TEFL, no clue what was about to happen after 21st September.

Exciting, no?

You might be relieved to know that in the three weeks that followed, I ticked off a few things from my list. Actually that’s a lie. I ticked off the ‘get vaccinations’ part of my list. Did I mention I only really get things done under immense pressure? Well the pressure was now on.

★★★

Monday. I woke up late-morning, destroyed from the night before (we were celebrating my last ever night shift at the bar, so I made my way home in a stupor). Excitedly, I should have been getting ready and heading out to my own leaving drinks – a pub crawl – but I spent two hours in bed, on Facebook, messaging potential replacement-chickas for subletting my room. After arranging two house viewings for the following day, I proceeded to get drunk and to then get completely sh*t faced. It was a fun Monday.

★★★

Tuesday. I woke up late-morning, destroyed from the day before. No real surprises there. Two house viewings and one discussion with my housemates later, I offered my room to one of the girls that very evening. Gotta love a housing crisis; it really is true that you can find a replacement for your room in Amsterdam in no time at all – it’s being the house-hunter that’s the challenge.

Happily another item checked off the list: sub-tenant, check!

★★★

Wednesday. Three days ‘til D-Day. Feeling slightly less anxious for a heartbeat, after finding someone to take my room, it dawned on me that I hadn’t spoken to René about the trip in a little while. We’d both been crazy busy and never actually made the time to arrange anything solid. With less than 100 hours before boarding, I figured we should probably touch base about my looming arrival. I messaged her a few questions, like: ‘are you able to meet me when I land in Jo’burg?’

I know what you’re thinking. How could I be about to jet across to South Africa, with no accommodation booked and no plan for day one? The thought had crossed my mind and I was beginning to freak out a little. Nevertheless, I distracted myself with the gargantuan task of packing every possession I wanted to keep and tossing the rest aside for charity.

Wednesday evening I needed to get out of the house; it had been a long, tough day of decision making and culling some of my favourite outfits. Reaching acceptance that stilettos and sequinned jackets probably aren't worthy of 'safari chic' status from a pragmatic stance, I needed to clear my head. So I headed out with my laptop to the lobby bar of my second home (the Hilton where I worked). From there I hastily arranged travel insurance (check) and still awaiting a reply from René, decided to book myself a hotel room for night one of my trip, just incase: the room had a free cancellation policy, so it couldn’t hurt.

★★★

Thursday. Truthfully the most unproductive day of my week. I endured one of the worst work shifts of my time and everyone on the team needed a drink at the end of the day. Several drinks and a good old rant later, I made my way home and grabbed one final beer before bed. Still no reply from René.

★★★

Friday. F*!k, I fly tomorrow. Unuttered words slapped my brain wide awake. Rolling over to check my phone, a fear of my mine was about to manifest itself. René had replied. She can’t meet me at the airport. She can’t meet me the following week either. The worst part of all? All of this is due to my lack of communication. I don’t know if I thought I’d sent some kind of telepathic signal to my friend, but suddenly it was hitting me that I’d never made it clear to her what it was I was doing. Had I told her I’d quit my job? Did she know I was coming to visit her indefinitely? When we’d talked about me coming to South Africa over a month ago, we didn’t iron out the details, more just chatted in hypotheticals of ‘it’s gonna be so much fun’. I freaked out horribly. I felt sick to my stomach at what I’d let unravel. Dumbfounded by the chaos I was giving rise to, I left two desperate voice messages that finally informed René of the wonderful mess I’d made. All I could do for now was head to work and try to enjoy my last ever shift; fortunately that wasn’t hard thanks to some of my favourite coworkers and my incredible ability to shirk responsibilities.

At the end of my shift I checked my phone and slowly the tension began to lift from my body as I played René’s response.

I cannot emphasise enough how much of an angel this girl is. Despite my complete lack of consideration for her plans, she accepted mine like it was no inconvenience at all. Immediately she walked me through some ideas for my stay and assured me that we would work out a mission for my homeless ass together. Pivotal moments like this are exactly why I’m grateful every day of my life for the friends I keep. We FaceTimed and my mood was fully turned around. Composed and excited, I joined my bro Maarten for one final catch up and some farewell drinks. Panic subsided and sentiment set in. I was really going to miss this place. It was all real, all happening and for the first time I could honestly say I was happy with my decision.

★★★

Saturday. D-Day. Scrambling together the final few items that needed packing, I felt oddly calm given the nausea I’d felt all week. The call with René the night before had given me a lot of faith. In fact the worst feeling to overcome was the bereavement I felt when at the last minute I realised I absolutely could not fit my beloved cowboy boots into any of my, already bursting at the seams, luggage. People say that letting go of material possessions is a freeing experience both physically and mentally. I beg to disagree; I mourned those my boots.

After missioning to the airport – huge shout out to my housemate for the ride because there is no way my 32kg suitcase was making it there via public transport – I anxiously queued at the bag drop-off. I travel a lot and airports feel more like train stations to me than anything else, but I hadn’t taken a long haul flight in years. Not only that but I’d not once taken an indirect flight since I was a kid. In hindsight, it seems so silly that I could get worked up below the surface over a small unfamiliarity, but at the time it all seemed a little scary. My mind tormented itself with all the possibilities of what might go wrong. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had to check in luggage. Travelling light had become my style. I smiled nervously as the scales just kept going up. Over 40kg of crap – hilarious to think I’d culled more than half of my things! They even made me check-in my bulging hand luggage, which I’d specifically crammed with a couple of weeks worth of supplies should my suitcase get lost in transit. Thankfully I didn’t have to collect my luggage at the transfer in Cairo; I just had to pray all of my luggage would make it to JNB…

Boarding pass in hand, I made my way through security and straight to McDonalds for a pre-flight fix. It was then, at the very moment I wanted to pay in cash with the few euros I hadn’t exchanged, that I registered I hadn’t removed my purse from the hand luggage. Brilliant. Time to board.

To be continued...