Rendered mute by my linguistic failure at both French and Malagasy, I check out of the 'Manoir Rude' Hotel, head hung in shame and take the battered BMW taxi to the airport, absently observing the hazy-busy streets through the cracked screen. Arriving at departures with two hours until my alleged flight I check in to find my flight has been moved to past midday. I retreat to a hard orange plastic chair to ponder my extended wait. A wave of airport insecurity searches me, unzipping the compartments of my freedom and free-will: the spoilt western choice to leave everything and be here. Alone, in the busy departure area, I reflect on the recent months; handing in my notice, leaving my job, friends and salary behind. The exhilarating free-fall of being able to choose anywhere in the world to explore. The frustration of preparations. I feel streamline, just myself and a bag, untied from all the other crap which clogs life up. I feel brilliantly and frighteningly liberated. I wriggle around on the uncomfortable orange seat and watch the lives unfold around me.
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