A strange silence. Chatter, laughter, listening – gone. No more planning of meals. No more writing bedtime notes. And no more sharing a fire with friends and new acquaintances. It’s over.
Except, that is, for memories, and images. Oh, and finalising the export of the artefacts. That’s tomorrow’s chore.
Tonight, I’ve been invited to join a group of 15 British students and their teachers for dinner. They’ve been trekking across Zambia, learning self-reliance, and sharing.
The kitchen is buzzing, but not with our crew. [Our bags of half-used spices, oil and onions need clearing, another chore for tomorrow.] The students were here a few weeks ago, taking turns cooking. Not enough pans. Burnt rice. Stress all ‘round. Never mind. Everyone’s polite, supportive of the smoky slop. We watched, our plates full, garlic bread on the side, and felt sorry.
Just one of many fresh memories.
Night’s like this remind me of how little we can know of the past. Rhythms of day-to-day life vanish in an instant. And memories fade over generations. Our job is to take the long view. Set aside the intimate, focus on the blur of decisions that got us here. Technology is our pathway.
Memories from the final week:
Taking samples for dating and environmental analysis:
The ‘sexy point’ – not my name for this Middle Stone Age tool found in the sand scarp.
And where we threatened to throw Damien, more than once…