Today at KEH-1

What is life, but a collection of memories to be cherished in the dead of night and whispered around campfires to the expanse above? If the stars could speak, what memories could they return to humanity? The past lies fragmented beneath our feet and etched in the stars above.

Written during the 2016 field season

Knysna, South Africa

The stars are already gone, layers of mist hovering over dark ripples, creeping from the rocky curves to the estuary. Grey softened to black, mixing with the amber glow of man made light. Inside, figures stirred, wrapping themselves in layers as they prepare to face the cold. Kettles bubble, coffee ready to ease our transition to awareness. As light sharpens the edges of the ancient cliffs, green-brown fynbos tangled against the sky, we begin the daily task of packing both vehicles. Our breath clouds the air as packs and equipment are removed from the flats, last minute lunches rushed forward as we gather, the trailer hooked up, mental checklists reviewed and heads counted. Quieter now, we circle, newly risen sun bright on heavy jackets. Assignments are handed out : 8 excavators, 3 gunners, 1 recorder, and 3 lab techs.

Five minutes later, we are packed in the vehicles. The first is an 11 seat van, square and white, a rental the size of a small bus. The other, a durable, sexy Toyota Fortuner, owned by the project. In the front seat, our assistant director and another member of senior staff debate briefly among themselves before asking the crewmembers stuffed in the backseats if anyone needs coffee today.

Like they had to ask.

The petrol station, on the edge of the lagoon between the derelict railroad and vibrant waterfront, is an all purpose stop, offering petrol, airtime, ATMs, and an assortment of delectable consumables: namely coffee, coke, and numerous forms of chocolate. In the morning, before school, before work, despite the chill air (or perhaps because of it), the parking lot is a revolving door for the steady stream of vehicles. The explorer parks parallel to the petrol tanks, shadowed by the overhang, its extended trailer longer than the available parking. Nearby, a pickup waits for the refueling to finish, truck bed crowded with silent workers, layers of wraps the only protection against the morning chill. A smartly dressed child skips across the pavement next to a suit clad man, clean, new clothes a sharp contrast to the laborers' coveralls.

Soon the explorer departs, joining the stream of vehicles traversing the city. The traffic grows more dense on the outskirts, an officer directing cars through an intersection marked by lines of traffic cones. Turning through the mass of cars, we fly towards the heads. The lagoon is golden now, glinting in the sunlight. The road begins to climb, ducking under trees as it winds up the steep ground. Filling the arboreal gaps are the glass porches and stone walls of million dollar homes.

The road slopes down, terminating in a parking lot at the base of the cliff. Coffee in hand, we begin unloading, separating equipment into piles, untangling bungees and cursing the wind that screams through the gap in the towering stone, piercing our bundled forms.

 

The trail is a constantly shifting arena of rock and earth. Cobblestone beaches give way to dense fynbos, branches threatening to catch tripod legs. Jagged slabs of red sandstone are thrust at sharp angles from the earth, set against pounding waves. Waves fill the space between with tidal pools, surface like glass. We dance across the uneven surfaces, leaping from one point to the next; or step cautiously, images of an emergency room visit haunting us. The trails climbs steeply, clinging to the side of the cliff, fynbos disguising the true nature of the drop inches away. Green brush overhangs the trail, turning our hike into an  adventure until we break free, crossing rock and squeezing past boulders. The cliff at our right comes forward, terminating in the ocean. Cobbles spill into the hissing waves, daunting cliffs rising ahead.

We stop, lining the packs against the narrow trail, and peel off layers of clothes. One person climbs the ledge, clipping the safety rope to their harness. Below, hikers line up, packs in hand. Another person climbs the slope, hiking the steep curve of the trail, navigating damp sandbags, to the lower ledge of the outer staircase. Pausing, they toss down a second rope for the climbers, packs reacquired, as a precaution against slick mud and sheer cliff.

KEH-1 contains a deposit meters thick, the outer edge of which is framed by a staircase of sandbags, bringing the climbers to the top of the deposit. From the back of the cave, the table and equipment are carried out. Packs are opened, the contents distributed. Gunners rush to set tripods and guns (archaeology slang for the total stations). Excavators claim buckets, sorting through dig kits as they duck shots from the gunner's resection (whereby the gunner measures the distance from the gun to 3 known points, and uses this data to provide a highly accurate location of the gun).

Suddenly the activity stills, like a heavy wind fading to a breeze. Excavators are huddled by their quads, chatting quietly, or listening to music. The recorder sits at the table, making notes on the tablet and organizing paperwork. Gunners wait on the narrow staircase by their guns, ready for shots. Below, a wall of dense fynbos hides the cliff, ending in massive slabs of rock pounded by waves. The Indian ocean fills the horizon, blending with the sky. In one day, a dozen shades of blue and green will cross the waters. The sky, too, will change: clouds forming and dissipating endlessly. In either direction stretch endless cliffs, lined with giant boulders protruding from rough water. Cargo ships move sedately across the horizon, while smaller craft skid across the water, occupants searching for whales. A keen-eyed gunner might spot dolphins, whales, seal, or the elusive form of the endangered sea otter.

The quads sink lower, as sediments are removed and artifacts plotted.

The recorder officially calls tea at 9:45, prompting a stampede to the table. Tea time is an excuse to relax, converse, and apply caffeinated beverages or cookies. As we warm up and enjoy the scenery, blood flows back into cramped limbs. The sugar provides a boost after the strenuous hike.

Lunch at a nearby site is traditionally called at 12:30. At KEH-1, hunger overrules tradition, and lunch is at noon. Lunch in hand, we gather on the edge of the slope, above the excavation. Several people head down the cliff, to eat among the rocks and pounding waves.

As the day continues, the bags of sediment continue to grow. These contain all the non-anthropogenic material removed from a lot, or portion of a stratigraphic layer within a quad (1 meter by 1 meter square). Weighed and rubber banded, they await removal from site and eventual sieving.

The gunners are busy now, constantly cycling through the rote "shooting" "taken" "scan." Notes grow as the shot count rises, gunners competitively comparing their numbers. Traffic increases on the excavators’ ledge and outer staircase. Photographic records are taken and logged, the only visual of the past before it is removed, context preserved in the details of notes and film.

Some days, the day ends in a rush, a hundred tasks piling up, waiting to be accomplished. Others, time passes slowly, the steady beat of waves the archaeological metronome. We begin packing, carrying buckets to the back of the cave, piling tools in boxes, spreading tarp over the quads. The guns are wiped clean, sensitive equipment packed. Recording equipment stowed. The checklist is rapidly completed, items quickly claimed by their carriers as packs are assembled. Soon a line forms on the exterior staircase, archaeologists waiting their turn to make the steep decent.

One last check--and we are gone. The sky is no longer blue, but a mix of vibrant hues, a new glory every evening. The packs are heavier now, weighed down by bags of sediment. The lunchbox is lighter. At the vehicles, we shed the weight with relief, loading the electronics and soft packs in the back of the van, frames and tools in the trailer, and collapse on the grass.

On the ride out, the windows are down and the music is up. As we descend into the basin, we catch a glimpse of the city. The peaks are folded around the estuary, gold in the fading sunlight.

Later, after everything is unpacked and stowed, we gather, cold drinks in hand, inside. The walls shield us from the chill air and now-dark sky. Excited now, revived by food and drink, the topics we discuss are as diverse as our crew. Soon, we will walk back to the flats, to work or sleep or relax. Soon, the night will end and day begin again. Soon, before we realize it, the field season will end, sandbags covering site, artifacts and equipment packed, and each of us on a bus or car or plane to our homes.

Perhaps we'll look back one day, and forget the blisters, the exhaustion, and the headaches, and remember only the fellowship of friends and the beauty of this piece of the world.

Survey on the St. Blaze Trail

25 June, 2017

Mosselbaai, South Africa

            I woke to the incessant beeping of my watch. Fumbling for my wrist, it took a moment to realize that the portable heater, giver of the best night’s sleep I’d had in the last week, was silent.

            7 am was a bit later than I’d intended to rise, but it was Sunday. I contemplated returning to slumber, but that never worked and I did have goals for the day. Hauling the faded, comfortable hoodie over my head, I stepped out of the room, wondering why all the lights were off, although I could hear someone in the front room.

            It wasn’t until I tried the bathroom light that the truth finally penetrated my sleep fogged brain: load shedding, the deliberate turning off of grids to ease the electricity load, had returned to Mosselbaai.

            Now wide awake, I headed for the main room. Those of us awake had a quick meeting and decided that we would drink the coffee, before it got cold (this didn’t quite work, but we tried). Next, our committee brainstormed a breakfast braai. We’ve never done a braai for breakfast, but it sounded better than cold leftovers or untoasted bread.

            Given how cold the house was, we cleared the kitchen braaipit of various random items which shouldn’t be burned. As soon as we finished this task, and stepped outside to bring in the wood, we discovered how warm it was outside. Ten minutes later our fire was lit, with a glorious view of the sunrise.

            While sipping rapidly cooling coffee, we compared notes on our sore bodies. I’m never sure which one bothers my back and neck more—lab duty (hunched over a laptop), or carrying heavy packs to site. Either way, yoga was in order.

Photo credit: Val Contreras

            As breakfast began cooking and others rising for the day, we discussed our plans. Most of us were supposed to hike the St. Blaze Trail from Pinnacle Point to Mosselbaai. After some discussion, eggs, and potatoes, we all got ready for this hike. Despite several trips here, I (or anyone else in our group) had hiked the trail. Every time I had plans to go, something would arise to prevent the trip. Naturally, I was excited.

           

            Our first stop was the famous Pinnacle Point caves, not currently under excavation, but with recent enough history that I had briefly participated in the excavation of 5-6. The climb down involved a slick, steep wooden ramp. The view was amazing. I've never hiked it at this time of day. During the field season, we climbed these stairs at the crack of dawn, and made our return trip shortly before sunset.

            At the beach, the remnants of a whale, beached in the early months of this year. Only the skull, a handful of vertebrae, and two giant ribs remained. Lacking a properly sized scale, Val and I improvised; using a measurement we call “the Hannah”.

Photo Credit: Val Contreras

            Dr. C gave us a brief talk on the significance and archaeology of the sites. The giant tarp covers PP 5-6, a Middle Pleistocene site. Recently, they added poster (photo below) which sums up the discoveries at PP13B, an adjacent cave, with evidence for the earliest use of marine resources and pigments (ochre).

           

            The St. Blaze trail winds around the coast, clinging to the side of the cliff. Brush and fynbos filled the landscape between multi-million dollar homes and the clipped, bright grass of the golf course. We stopped for lunch on the peak of a cliff, watching the crashing waves and blended sky and ocean.

            The dry brown vegetation turned swiftly to a field of dusty ground, ash and blackened trees scattered across its seemingly lifeless surface. After a moment, Dr C announced that we should take this opportunity to survey. Forcing one’s way through the vegetation is difficult, and this bare stretch made the probability of finding archaeological material more likely.

            Following a few false lithics, we found a probable core and definite flakes, all of which were from the Middle Stone Age. After photographing them, we returned them to the ground. It’s illegal to remove cultural materials without a permit, and our permit does not extend to Mosselbaai (or even outside of our cave in Knysna). These and similar stone tools can be found in South Africa, but please don't take them.

            As I was scanning the ground, I spotted the distinctive morphology of a dassie (rock hyrax) dentition. The unfortunate beast had gotten caught by the flames, and heavily charred bone was scattered across the landscape. Since this was not archaeological, we collected it for comparative analysis. This was complicated, because the bones are extremely fragile at this point (the fire consumes the collagen (protein) and leaves the hydroxyapatite (mineral), removing the flexible property of bone). We ended up removing a chunk of earth, to separate back in lab.

            The burned area stretched for at least a kilometer. We combed the area, discovering more bones and lithics, and discovering a fair number of both. Then, I discovered a gold mine.

            Not literally. What I first mistook for spent shells were actually coins, splintering into a multitude of layers. They all appear to have a central point where the metal gave way, exploding out from the surface as the coin expanded. Many have a blue-grey sheen with hints of the original color.  

            We regrouped, following the trail again. Or someplace the trail was supposed to be, when Dr. C let out a panicked shriek and leapt several feet in the air, dancing to avoid the frantically squirming snake under her feet. I yelled too, scrambling back to try to avoid potentially venomous encounters. The snake went one way and stopped, tightly clenched, trying the motionless trick which had hidden it so well before. However, we weren’t fooled by that one twice. We came close enough for photos, which may prove that the snake was more scared than we were, because it tried to keep up the illusion of invisibility.

            The rest of the trip proved uneventful. I think we all felt that last kilometer. However, once we returned, the sun was shining, the power wasn’t on, and I found a good book while my comrades planned D&D characters.

            We finished the day with a trip to Café Gannet, and then the archaeologist's version of Netflix and chill: Scrubs and stickers.

Aftermath: The Knysna fire

19 June, 2017
Knysna, South Africa

The first thing we noticed was empty space, bereft of vegetation, brown barren patches. Closer to the road, the burnt hulls of arboreal life were a stark contrast to the green leaves clinging tenaciously to their trunks. Patches of ash littered the scorched earth.

The road was undamaged. It dove down into the Knysna basin, skirting the estuary. Roofless buildings with half collapsed frames haunt the landscape. As we crossed the bridge, we got a full view of the Knysna heads, brown and barren. Slowly we drove through town, staring in quiet shock at the burnt landscape, blackened vines clinging to stone walls.

This is my third field season in Knysna. The jewel of the garden route, it boasts clear skies and calm lagoon, surrounded by a ring of mountains. Multi-million (USD) homes crowd the peaks and sides, affording a view of the beauty.

The location has been used by Homo sapiens for thousands of years, a fact that drew us; the scientists, students, curious: thirsty for knowledge. Knysna was our home, at least for six weeks of the year, and we feel a keen sense of interest in it.

We made it to the parking lot near our site without incident. As we headed toward the beach, walking across the lawn and down the flight of stairs, we suddenly realized that the stairs weren't there any more, just a series of descending platforms.

Wandering down the muddy embankment adjacent to the stairs, we crossed the cobbles and made our way through the brush. At first, the fire damage appeared minimal: a blackened bush here, skeletal trees on top of the cliff, the faint scent of smoke. Suddenly, the brush before us and alongside us were charred, patches of brown, unhealthy but alive, leaves mingled with the remains of their less lucky neighbors.

            The cave appeared intact, sandbags clinging to the slope where we had carefully placed them on the last day onsite. The slope to the cave, usually featuring a staircase and rope, was slippery and treacherous. As we slowly climbed, hand over hand, pausing briefly to survey the crashing waves or fynbos, we noticed the burnt vegetation. The sandbags, perfect from a distance, were pocketed with small holes, the edges of which had been seared. Fortunately, whether through a combination of concreted sand or the damp coast, none had truly burst into flame. However, it was sobering to realize how close the fire had come.

            A new layer of sediment had accumulated on top of our tracks, undisturbed except for the meandering footsteps of a bird. Nature moves quickly to reclaim its own.

            On the way out, we stopped to stare at the western head, before making our way through the brush to the car.

            Knysna is deceptively busy, the organized chaos masking the recent wounds. Some of these still gaped: the crumbling houses, burnt walls, ashy vegetation. We stopped by the lodges that are our regular accommodation. The hills surrounding it were usually picture perfect, wooden lodges overlooking the calm estuary. Now, they were mostly destroyed, one house remaining while its neighbor had vanished. Above us, men worked to repair the roof. Swathes of grass were equally flammable, blackened through the braai pits and around the pool. Naomi and I wandered around, noting the melted hunk of fiberglass, but not paying any particular notice until her daughter pointed out “Wasn’t that our kayak?”

            On weekends, and warm weather (or clear skies) pending, we would take turns paddling the boat around the arm of the estuary next to our flats. Dr. C. has put a notice in our circular dictating the conditions under which we may do this (a.k.a. sans alcohol), prompting some of our crew to ask for the story behind this edict. Fortunately, there isn’t one. The most exciting thing which has happened was an ill fated voyage which sank in the shallows (no one was harmed). Many of us have fond memories of the kayak, and felt its loss keenly, even as we learned more about the homes destroyed, and people displaced.  

            The proprietor came to speak to us, telling us of the terrible day, and how his family and holdings only just managed to survive. He pointed out the post which was burned through on the bottom, which was only smothered through Frikkie’s quick actions. He described how the fire came from the hill to his lodge in only four minutes, how all that was left of a house which had sold for 8 million only the year before were the cement posts towering over the trees. He also promised that it would all be repaired before we arrived to stay in two weeks.

            The restaurant we spend four nights a week at survived; the house next door was destroyed. A lot of things have changed. For those of us, who don’t have roots in Knysna, briefly putting down our feet for weeks or months, will probably never understand the depth of their loss. But we hope that our presence this season provides more encouragement than difficulties.

First Braai

“Can we have a braai?’

To be fair, those were not the first words out of my mouth upon seeing our site director. By bus, train, or giant van, six more people had just arrived in Mosselbaai to work in the lab before starting our full season out in Knysna. I had moved my residence from a local backpacker to the third story of a sprawling house. The view from the porch included most of the town, the bay, the mountains, and an expanse of shivering blue Indian Ocean and paler blue sky. The kitchen, unlike most places we’d previously stayed in, had sufficient room for multiple individuals to work. Additionally, a braai was a strict tradition among the SACP4 crews, and a great way to get to know other archaeologists.

The weather, since my arrival ten days prior, had been a balmy temperature, causing mass exodus from the chilly lab during tea breaks. Unlike previous winters (when I learned to braai so I could hold the space next to the warm fire and theoretically not freeze), it was perfect for relaxing on the deck, sipping a drink and eating the South African foods we’ve come to crave.

No one protested too strongly.

            As word spread around the other crew, it quickly became apparent that our braai needed to be spectacular, or at least worthy of mention in future seasons. The view alone should have been sufficient to warrant awe, however, the view was only the backdrop to the dinner.  

            As we have two vegetarians on our crew, our fare was focused less on the numerous types of meat one can acquire from any self respecting SA market. Corn, squash, tomatoes, mushrooms, onion, and peppers were foiled or buttered or skewered. Someone who loves baking offered to make brownies with cookie dough icing, an opportunity we leapt eagerly at and from then on made excuses to help out in the kitchen, hoping for a chance to helpfully rid the cook of any leftovers (notice our dedication to helping).

            Never one to pass up on an excuse to consume dairy, we decided to supplement the vegetables with macaroni and cheese. At some point or another it was further decided that we also needed an avocado salad, but that might have been overkill.

            But you wish to hear about meat. While shopping, we discovered that, due to the recent holiday, most delicious items were sold out. After some discussion and musing, we picked out the main courses (for the carnivores in our midst). Meat is especially important at a braai, and successful meat braaimasters appear to hold high places of honor on the crews. Given that we had volunteered to host, it was crucial to our success that we decide on the perfect combinations of flesh.

            At first glance, the lamb chops and boerwurst appeared sufficient. However, as we made our way to the long glass case, displaying fresh, probably fresh, and who the heck knows how long it’s been there meat, we happened to discover a new food: biltong steak. After some negotiating, this became our main course. Following further negotiating, I succeeded in convincing our site director that we should purchase chicken skewers, and with no convincing we got bacon wrapped skewers.

            Armed with a plethora of food, we ventured out onto the deck. It was difficult to take in the view, mostly because we had to keep an eye on the fire, in order to foster a strong bank of coals. For a six pm dinner, we had to light the fire by four.

            ….except that we didn’t have matches. Who forgets matches at a cookout? Luckily, we have some awesome neighbors (Thanks, Vleesbaai crew!)

            It was time to kick back, relax and try not to become too charred while turning the food. Right on schedule, and after most of the vibrant hues had faded, the dark rim of mountains framing the bay fading into the dark sky, our guests arrived. Chairs lined the edge of the deck, overlooking the shining lights. Food appeared, along with a few bottles of wine and peartizer, a non alcoholic SA specialty. It became chilly, but warmer by the flames.

            Later, following more food than we could eat, hours of conversation both serious and lighthearted, tours of the property, and several bags of firewood; we began to clear away the stacks of dishes, packing the leftovers as our guests wandered down the stairs and away.

            We’ll call this one a success.

An Ounce of Logistics is worth a Pound of Panic

13 June, 2017

Mosselbaai, South Africa

Traveling has a certain reputation for being an exhausting and potentially confusing experience, particularly when flying across multiple continents. The savvy (or, the experienced) traveler prepares for the potential host of problems part of air transport. Unfortunately, this presents an excellent opportunity for unpredicted problems, generally for a sleep deprived individual to solve in rapid succession.

I only had a single mishap on this trip, which I shall understand to mean that I’ve finally figured out how to travel internationally, or at some point this will all blow up in my face.

Travel via airplane can be a leisurely, relaxing experience, to an exotic location, with good food, drinks, and rest. Unless, one of these things comes into play:

1)    Flying economy

2)    Flying with more than the allotted amount of luggage,

3)    Flying with expensive or delicate equipment

4)    Flying as a student, researcher, or similar capacity, in which case all of the above may apply.

Planning a trip comes in stages. For this trip, I was committed almost by the end of our 2016 field season (i.e. the time we spend on site, excavating/in lab). My search for a ticket was delayed, because I still had to make a decision on grad school. After I made a decision, I could then look at the logistics of early arrival.

            One of the benefits of this trip is the shorter duration, and (mostly) singular destination. I’m starting classes in August, which curtails any possibility of wandering off to Southeast Asia or east Africa again. Theoretically, this should result in my needing/packing less luggage, right?

            Actually, I think it ended up about the same (in terms of bulk). I just became smarter about how I packed it. Occasionally, I’ve taken my backpacking backpack, but this doesn’t have a lot of space and it difficult to live out of (I need to unpack it to find things). I have also taken my duffel bag around the world, but even its small-ish space becomes heavy when full of books. So I have stuck upon an ingenious method, used by global travelers: I purchased a rolling suitcase.

            And borrowed my dad’s rolling duffel bag, and then borrowed another one from my sister. Armed with these, I was ready to begin sorting through piles of clothes and deciding what comes with.

            What did I do, throw everything in a pile to pack? Yeah, it all has to be packed for the move anyway!

            Last season, I limited myself to two books, reading another dozen off the kindle app. This year, I have 3 textbooks, 4 notebooks (full of notes), and at least 4 novels in addition to the ones on my kindle. I figure I can practice cramming for the semester during those insanely long flights.

            I also made the mistake last year bringing of minimal electronics—which might not have been a problem, except that most of my duties required working with programs not supported by a tablet! Additionally, the power cord—which cannot be purchased in South Africa—died (this made uploading documents to graduate programs difficult). Oops. In retrospect, it’s not a great idea to put all your files on one hard drive. So, this year, I have brought laptop, tablet, phone, and extras of everything, including 3 earbuds, one pair of which has already given up the ghost.

            But I still had space left. At this point, my site director gave me several additional items, including the ranger, which is an extremely durable handheld computer, casually mentioning the cost. of this device 

            I immediately began planning how I could duck tape the backpack to me, preferably using a whole roll of tape. Security might be an issue, but it probably wouldn’t be much worse sleeping with the bulky pack than airplane seats in the first place.

            Packed, ticket in hand, I was ready to navigate the world of airlines, security, and sleep deprived individuals. My biggest complication was an 18 hour layover in JFK airport, NYC. Last year, I had 12 hours in London, which meant I hung out at a museum. Which I could probably blame for my sleep deprived arrival in Cape Town and subsequent stress. Fortunately, when you travel as often as I do, you have friends in many places. This is one of the benefits of travel: meeting and getting to know so many different people.  I think, at the end of my life, I will be able to look back and see that my life was better because I know they existed, and know them, whether we met each other only for a moment, or become lifelong friends.

            At this point, I’m arriving in South Africa for the fifth time. Last year was a season of mishaps, from mixing up my arrival dates (and having to repurchase a bus ticket from Cape Town to Mosselbaai), to messing up my visa, (and having to change my departing flight), and finally, leaving my backpack in the taxi. After a considerable amount of panic and some serious sleuthing skills on the part of the hostel staff, it was returned. In retrospect, all of these could have been avoided, by paying better attention to dates or where my belongings are.

            Of course, some things can’t be predicted. I made it to cape town, was given a visa without a second glance, and took an Uber to the backpacker. I totally had this….right? However, after going to bed, my phone updated/reset or generally malfunctioned, ending up in a different time zone, and the alarm was no longer on Cape Town time. It’s problematic to wake up for a 6am bus at 6:45. I checked out of my room, called a taxi. I even had cash on hand. Then I glanced at the clock on the dashboard, which read 7am. I was certainly to late for my bus, and had just missed the next (and, as far as I knew, the last round of buses for the day, at least until 6pm). My technological dilemma required me to try something new: purchasing a ticket at the counter instead of online. I had ask three different companies before I found one with a morning route (we are discouraged from taking the bus that arrives at midnight, for obvious reasons). In the end, I left Cape Town three hours after I was supposed to, travelled a slightly different route to my destination, and arrived only two hours after my original bus.

            I must say, I’m fairly impressed by the potential to take a later bus, especially if me (and my phone) are recovering from jetlag. I’ll remember that one.

            It’s strange and exciting and familiar and disorienting to have returned. It’s home in a lot of ways, but every time the place has changed. People have changed. Or maybe it's just my perception that is changing, as I learn more about them. Perhaps this is the best part of travel, diving deeper into the water after skimming the surface.