The other traveller

The travellers:

First there’s me, and you’re reading about me here.

Then there’s L, and you can get her take on things at http://twoweeksaway.wordpress.com/

We’ve also got a third companion, at least for another few days. Mum.

When Mum passed away in May, one of the things we felt would be a good idea would be to scatter some of her ashes in Snowdonia, Wales. She used to go there for family vacations when she was young, and talked lots about the area, and how when she revisited about 10 years ago it hadn’t changed from the way she remembered it. The place meant a lot to her, and as L and I would be not too far away at Christmas, we took on the job.

I’ve learnt a lot about transporting ashes in the last few months. To get them sent from one part of Australia to another, use Australia Post registered mail. To take them overseas, the paperwork includes having the certificate of cremation, the death certificate, as well as making sure the ashes are sealed well in a decent looking receptacle. So far we haven’t had any problems taking them on planes and through customs with this paperwork, safely stowed in my hand luggage.

For the first few days, I made sure I was always carrying Mum, my laptop, and my passports. After doing my knee at Volubilis, I still carried my passport and laptop, but the extra kg of Mum was a bit unwieldy. She still travelled in the car with us every day, and when flying was back in the hand luggage, but she’s been in my large backpack, missing out on such fun as the camel ride.

It’s possibly the weirdest thing I’ve done, travelled with certified human remains. In some ways it’s just part of marking the end of the year that I’ve had. I’m not sure if I really think she’s there or not — though my hunch is that I’m just anthromorphising that box in my luggage. It’s neat that she’s travelling with us, seeing Morocco, and now back in the land of her birth. But it’s also sad, that this is the final coming home. I’m not big on the whole theological/cosmological debate, just trying to makes sense of what I think and feel. Regardless of personal beliefs, there’s a whole lot of symbolic metaphor in this, and now we’re in England this comes into my thoughts more. In some ways the anthromorphising has turned into wishing, I wish she was here, to be in England, at Christmas. To have one last big turkey with all the trimmings, and hear the bells of the late night church services.

Instead I’m here, wishing she was here. Wandering around the country where she was born, and will never see again.

Mum loved putting on the big English spread for Christmas, she would have loved to be here.

Merry Christmas mum.