Wombat’s Packing- list for Down- South

It is Wombat’s favourite kind of weather tonight though not the best for lazing out in the yard or cleaning the swimming pool. Dark, heavy clouds and lightning always gives this marsupial the feeling of hot chocolate and happy tunes; it was therefore not a radical idea when Wombat decided he wanted to make a short road-trip --- not next week or tomorrow, but on this very rainy day! Nine o’clock in the night makes it feasible to reach the south slopes for some wine-tasting and early supper.

And so, whistling a sound in symphony with the percussion of the pitter-patter raindrops, Wombat sat down to plan for the down- south trip. He got out his maps and happily took out a note pad to do a packing list. It is also his favorite part of the trip.“Am I going to stay two nights or three? Umbrella… pepper spray, one set of pyjamas and overalls” The outing planned on this fateful evening is not Wombat’s first time down south and most definitely the only place he goes on short holidays. Wombat does not go on long trips. What might be remarkable to some of us is that he also stops at the same gasoline station to replenish his snack pack—tussocky “snow grass”, visits the same winery and sleeps at “The Burrow” bed and breakfast. If Wombat had saved his first packing list from all the four years of trips down- South, he would have conserved a lot of planning. But like the many of us who don't keep our packing lists the moment we load our overnight bags into the car boot, he is sore about left- over memories lying about on the kitchen table when he returns from a vacation. It helps, too, that Wombat likes to make lists.

But quite suddenly in a matter of these few minutes, Wombat was interrupted by three timid taps on the timber door. This has never happened before in his years of list-making. He looked up with furrowed brows and reluctantly got up from his stool to get the door. “Yes?” Irritation stretched across his handsome furry face.
“Why… I was wondering if there are vacancies in your motel at this time of the year.” A fellow wombat in a wet yellow raincoat stood in the doorway. “I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come up here from the western plateaus.
Wombat snorted, ‘That’s a coincidence; not the best in terms of timing.” He hesitated, ‘Come in, and we’ll see if we can work something out.’
Wombat let Yellow Raincoat Wombat into the living space. The latter took in the warm fireplace and table where the packing list laid complete.
‘I can house- sit for you while you are gone.’
‘Why, it’s very nice of you to offer, it’s not my normal practice to host someone without being here. That's if new occupants arrive…’
‘Now, now, with your permission, I have a place to stay, and you wouldn’t have to worry about intruders. It’s a perfect arrangement.’
Wombat adjusted his tortoise-shell spectacles absent-mindedly, ‘How long do you plan to be here?’ He perused his list, peered into his suitcase, and back to his list to double-check.
‘For as long as is needed.’
So it was agreed between the two. Wombat set off into the night, his red haversack swung onto his back, the packing list tucked, forgotten, in one of the compartments.

In three and a half hours, Wombat had arrived at the gasoline station; consumed only partially the “snow grass” by the time he reached the winery, which was two hours earlier than expected, and decided to do a check- in first at the ‘Bed and Breakfast’.
“Hello, Juno?” Wombat jangled the bells at the front counter. “Is anyone back there? The reception area felt quiet and still. In spite of the warm fire and familiar smell of onion and root soup, there was not a soul and animalistic movement in sight. He circled the counter, went into the waiting room and surveyed the dining area: no cook at the stove, no southern hairy-nosed wombat who usually did the cleaning. The place was spotless. And vacated. Wombat searched the counter cupboards for his room key; he banged the doors close and jangled the other keys in the hope of rousing someone. When no one came, he dropped his haversack off in room 299 (the room he always sleeps in). It was only two in the morning and Wombat was beginning to feel the strains of the travel. He can visit the winery tomorrow when Juno, the cook, the southern hairy-nosed wombat, and whoever is supposed to be here, turns up. And whoever who is not --- like that wombat in his splendid yellow raincoat, remains in his rightful place. Just like I am meant to be here. With that thought hazy in mind, Wombat fell into a deep sleep.

After what it seemed to be a one- and- a- half dreamscapes later, Wombat was woken up by the same jangle of the counter bell he had attempted earlier on. How many hours ago was that? He leapt off the bed and scampered to the reception. A rabbit couple stood waiting.
‘We would like to check in, please.”
‘Oh. I’m not…’
‘Please, we’re really tired.’ And they did look tired. With their wind-blown furs, anyone could have mistaken them for wild country hares.
‘Alright. Mm. Do write your names and address in here--- he drew out the guest book that he’d often seen Juno use before. ‘And erm, mode of payment?’
‘Credit.’
His next performance of administration was a beauty to watch. In no time at all, he’d found room keys, helped with luggage and sat the grateful rabbits down to a warm meal of carrot soup. After they’d retired to their rooms, and he’d scarcely a moment to sit down, he was yet greeted by another group of guests.

Since the employees of “The Burrow” continued their no-show for the next day, the day after, and then a week, Wombat never got to the winery. He stepped out only to do the garden and clean the outdoor thai-style iacuzzi. Juno, the cook and the southern hairy-nosed wombat did not return to his mind because Wombat managed everything himself, like second nature. He never got round to cleaning his own room until he had finished the house-keeping for the rest of the rooms. By this time, the holiday season in the south had finally finished its five-week period. Room 229 had managed to look rather lived-in and different from the other hotel rooms. It had the distinct smell of Wombat even if he is a relatively clean marsupial. To his room, he brought no food to eat, maybe only a glass of water and some videos to pass the early mornings. Today, he detected a mild, mould-like smell from a part of his room. It came from a red haversack that looked familiar. But of course it was familiar--- it was his. But he had forgotten about it and the left-over ‘snow grass’ that had by this time become ‘tussocky algae’. ‘And what’s this?’ Wombat drew out a folded piece of paper. ‘wombat’s packing- list for down-south… how long have I been planning for this and never got the chance for it!’ It was a complete list after-all, and the red haversack was packed as detailed.
1. umbrella
2. pepper spray
3. overalls
4. two t-shirts
5. pyjamas
6. torch-light

And so, Wombat packed and locked up room 229, left the key at the counter, and left “The Burrow”, the first time in two months. Also, two months since he left the lodge with the timber doors.

He reached “Hason Hedge” in good time, and was happy to see that it owned a winery and ‘snow grass factory’. It was also raining--- Wombat’s favourite kind of weather. He unfolded his umbrella from the haversack as he waited at the outdoor reception where another wombat in a yellow raincoat was being attended to.
‘So, how long do you plan to stay?’ he heard Hason the hare ask the wombat.
‘Oh. Not long. I’ll just be here a day or two before heading up to my own lodge. I own a holiday place too, you know, just like yours. It’s just that, I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come down here.’ He turned around to Wombat with a grin, droplets of water from his yellow hood meandering down his furry face ‘it’s a fantastic place here, isn’t it?’

Wombat concurred. It was going to be a great holiday. Before he got back to “The Burrows”.