The Packing List Was Clearly Written By A Competent Adult

One of the stranger aspects of preparing for Zambia is the way ordinary life and extraordinary life keep colliding with one another.

On Tuesday afternoon I was drafting committee papers and dealing with planning matters at work. By Tuesday evening I was reading a document explaining the importance of water purification tablets, culturally appropriate clothing and the different types of plug socket used in Zambia. A few hours later I was emptying cupboards trying to remember whether I already owned a power bank.

Preparation, it turns out, is rarely glamorous.

When people hear that you're travelling to southern Africa to volunteer, they tend to picture the big moments. The flight. The arrival. The work itself. Perhaps a dramatic montage set to uplifting music.

The reality is rather more administrative.

There are forms to complete, vaccinations to organise, insurance documents to read and enough emails to suggest that volunteering is, at least in part, a branch of project management.

Looking for a power bank. Found Christmas decorations, a sleeping bag and a mystery cable.

The reason I’m currently sat in a cupboard searching through boxes is because an email arrived today containing the official packing list.

The trip is now starting to feel very real.

The packing list itself is excellent. It has clearly been assembled by experienced people who understand exactly what volunteers need and exactly how little common sense some of us occasionally display.

It notes that evenings can be surprisingly cold during the Zambian winter, which came as something of a surprise to somebody whose mental image of Africa consists largely of sunshine.

It covers everything from clothing and weather conditions to medication restrictions, travel adaptors and cultural expectations. It advises volunteers to bring practical footwear, insect repellent, reusable water bottles, waterproof clothing, a dry bag and a head torch.

A head torch.

The sort of item owned by people who say things like "I'll just grab my head torch" and then immediately know where it is.

Meanwhile I was trying to work out whether I owned enough underwear to survive three weeks abroad.

Not whether I had packed it.

Whether I owned it.

The more I read, the more convinced I became that the document had been written for somebody I shall call Volunteer Handbook Steve.

Volunteer Handbook Steve is an impressive individual. He owns practical footwear. He understands hydration. His cables are neatly organised. His passport is always exactly where it should be. He knows what quick-dry clothing is and may even have opinions about moisture-wicking fabrics.

Volunteer Handbook Steve is ready for adventure.

Actual Steve recently spent ten minutes looking for a torch before realising he was using the torch function on his phone to search for it. This is the same man who has, on more than one occasion, searched the house for his glasses before discovering they were already on his face.

I trust you can see the problem.

Still, there was something oddly exciting about reading through the list.

For months, Zambia has existed largely as an idea.

It has been fundraising pages, travel arrangements, vaccination appointments and conversations with friends and colleagues. It has been a countdown ticking steadily away in the background while ordinary life carried on around it.

Now there are things to buy.

Things to pack.

Things to remember.

The abstract is becoming tangible.

I remember experiencing something similar before travelling to South Africa in 2016 to volunteer on a rural healthcare and HIV education project. That journey marked ten years since my HIV diagnosis and, like this one, began with a great deal of planning and a persistent suspicion that I had forgotten something important.

South Africa, 2016. Proof that I eventually found everything I needed.

Looking back now, I couldn't tell you what was in my suitcase.

I couldn't tell you what shoes I packed, whether I brought enough T-shirts or what sort of bag I carried through the airport.

What I remember are the people.

I remember conversations in places I never expected to visit, communities that welcomed complete strangers with extraordinary generosity and moments that changed how I saw the world and my place within it.

I remember laughter.

I remember the sense of perspective.

I remember being reminded that kindness is universal.

None of those things appeared on the packing list.

That is probably the useful lesson hidden somewhere amongst the travel adaptors, insect repellent and practical footwear. Preparation matters, of course. Turning up with the correct medication and sufficient underwear is undoubtedly preferable to the alternative.

But the things that stay with us are rarely the things we pack.

For now, however, there is still a head torch to locate, a dry bag to acquire, a growing collection of lists to work through and what can only be described as an ongoing review of the pants situation.

Somewhere between Volunteer Handbook Steve and Actual Steve, preparations for Zambia are slowly taking shape.