Going Home

Travelling home from the south is disconcerting. For weeks you are immersed in a life out there, and then you have to leave it behind from one moment to the next. You end up on three planes, going from a nice, cool place, to tropical Buenos Aires, on to Madrid and back to chilly Amsterdam. Some of the time you drag along two backpacks, one with all your camera gear, one with everything else.

You start your day having to say goodbye to all the people you've travelled with, in this case a group of Australians. You finish your last jobs, you pack your last stuff and then you have to say goodbye to the people you worked with so closely for the past three weeks, which is hard.

Arriving at Ushuaia airport I meet up with some of the guests from the last trip, always strange after just having said goodbye. I spend some time with an Australian father and son, Richard and Ryan, who are very good company. We are on the same flight. I sleep all the way through the flight, so I miss out on the glass of wine Richard wants to offer me.

From Buenos Aires I end up on the De Gerlache flight. There is a group of Belgians around who have just been south on the Polar Star. I see some of them clutching the book I'm reading too, Adrien de Gerlaches "Fifteen Months in the Antarctic". There is a real living De Gerlache on the plane too, though I can't pick him out. And again, I sleep through the entire flight, waking up close to Madrid mid morning. A quick change at Madrid airport, and on to Amsterdam. And yes, I sleep through that flight too.

At Schiphol I walk towards the baggage reclaim area, and see a familiar back and hear a familiar voice. It's Jan, the expedition leader on the Multanovskiy we succeeded. He is on his way south again, to join the Molchanov on a trip into the Weddell Sea. We exchange the latest gossip and are on our way again. It's a nice homecoming.

Then onto a train, a tram, trying to find the tram ticket and my keys. It all feels unfamiliar, suddenly I need to find my money again, I have to buy some food at the airport so I can cook a meal again. Putting my key in the lock at home alerts my neighbour who welcomes me from the top of the stairs. She tells me about the plane crash at Schiphol earlier in the day. I noticed nothing at the airport itself, and my plane came in on time. And then I'm home. I find three months of mail waiting for me, tax forms, invoices and a pile of Christmas cards.