Re-entry.

Water. Glasses and glasses of cold ice water. I drink one glass, it’s not enough. I need more. I drink two more glasses and feel the cold water going down my throat and into my arms, legs, and stomach. Romantic images of water cascading down ice, bubbles from the impact, an unquenchable thirst.

I wake up, open my eyes and try to figure out where I am. I’m in a sleeping bag, on an air mattress, in a room with *hard wood floors and *soft sunshine pouring in from floor to ceiling *windows. The sunlight isn’t hot blinding yellow, the windows aren’t tiny with bars across them, the floors are wood, not concrete. In the corner are a suitcase, two backpacks, and an army bag I recognize.

I’m at Stefan and Amy’s house in London.

Stefan is a dear old friend of mine from archaeology who I always visit when I'm in the UK, and he and his fiance Amy came to visit me in Ghana just before I left for South Africa. Anyone who meets in Ghana becomes instantly close as you will see eachother at your worsts -- not having running water to flush the toilets after all three of us were suffering from e.coli, visits to a Ghanaian hospital that lacked proper toilet facilities to cope with our e.coli infections, being attacked in Accra their first 5 minutes in Ghana -- so people naturally form close bonds when meeting under development conditions. Stefy and Amy picked me on Saturday from heathrow after I had been in transit since Thursday, but I still found it easy to galvanise enough energy to sample some the variety of alcohols available in this great country of pubs.

I don’t actually remember going to bed last night, but I did manage to make it to my bed, even putting on my pjs before falling asleep. What time is it? What time did I go to bed? I notice my finger nails are yellow and remember going to a curry house for dinner. The curry was delicious, and I managed to finish Amy’s plate too. We didn’t mean to drink very much yesterday. I think we started at 4pm at the English pub where we drank beer and they served garlic mayo with their chips. Mmmm, chips!

A thought occurs to me: how is my head going to feel when I sit up? I continue to tally up the total alcohol consumption of our evening. We drank 2 rounds at the pub, came home and Amy made white Russians with soy milk. We had bought *soy milk at a store to make *pancakes, and I’d never had a white Russian before so we thought we’d capitalise on the soy milk and make those as well. Amy and I drank a bottle of red wine, and I think that’s when we went for curry, where we drank more beer, and back to the house for – Tequila! Tequila is my death. Then on to the white wine while we watched Shaun of the Dead.

I sit up and try to size up how I feel. I…think…I’m…fine? How can this be? I never drink more than two drinks in a day or I’m shattered the next morning. But wait – I’m not in Africa anymore!

Other signs that I’m not in Africa anymore come from the kitchen where Stefan and Amy have a *selection of teas. In fact, there are choices everywhere. There’s curry, and actual stores rather than vendors on the sides of roads, and varying temperatures in tap water, and there *is tap water, and electricity, and hair dryers. These are all things I also enjoyed in South Africa, but, most importantly, England is cold. So I can accidentally drink irresponsibly again, and wake the next morning without the pounding reminder of the debauchery of the night before.

Welcome back to the temperate world!