Five years in a foreign land. Four people set out. Two go on, becoming three for a while. Only one completes the journey.
After five years working in the southern African kingdom of Lesotho, I felt it was time to leave.
In 1964 I’d had to cancel a planned trans-Africa trip; political upheavals had wrecked my intended scheme to come home from Aden (now in the Yemen) to England via east, central and west Africa.
Ten years on, I was once again keen to try an overland route back to the UK. Initially I was not alone this time. It would succeed, even if changes had to be made along the way, and one personal relationship proved too difficult to maintain.
I’d like to say that this was also a rite of passage journey, but that took at least another thirty-three years to complete – one I am trying to come to terms with even now.
If life is a journey, not a destination, then these six months by car, bus, boat and train were just an excursion along the way. But, despite what I experienced on this six month itinerary, it was a trip I have never regretted making. If only there were a less optimistic word than serendipity.