The departure lounge at Heathrow Airport pulses with the frenetic energy of travellers embarking on journeys unknown. Amidst the throngs of people I stand, my mother’s parting words hovering in the air like a delicate promise on the breeze.

“Have you got your rash cream?”

My name? Dominic Blakeley. Twenty years young, and on the brink of my very first overseas expedition, destined for the enchanting city of Cape Town, South Africa. My friends fondly dub me an eclectic blend of all the characters from The Inbetweeners rolled into one, which might suggest a great sense of humour. But today, my mother’s concern permeates the very air I breathe.

“Mum, we’re in the busiest airport in the world, there are people bustling about in every conceivable direction, and you are asking about my…” I mouth the words “rash cream.” My mother, a quintessential Englishwoman, still wears her hair in the bouffant style of Margaret Thatcher in her prime. And to add to the Englishness, her name happens to be Mary.

“I’m only asking…”

Dad stands in solidarity beside her, his voice an echo of her maternal trepidation. “Your mother’s only asking, son.” His fashion sense leaves much to be desired, and today he sports the same outdated Christmas jumper Mum gifted him years ago, oblivious to the fact that it’s the middle of August.

“Just keep your voice down. Jeez Louise.”

“Who’s Louise?” Mum asks predictably.

“No one, it’s just an expression. Look, I’m gonna be absolutely fine, mum. Like, proper fine.”

Mum’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

“Give me a hug, darling.”

We embrace, that fleeting moment of emotional connection that transcends words. Dad hovers on the periphery, then awkwardly joins in, culminating in a cringe-worthy three-way hug. It’s moments like these that drive home my need––no, desire––for this adventure. Not only is this my inaugural trip overseas, but it also marks my flying the nest I’ve known all my life. True, it’s merely a three-month sojourn, but three months apart from the comforting embrace of Mum and Dad is akin to sprouting wings and learning to fly.

In a way, I suppose I am.

Despite my being twenty, I could easily pass for a thirty-year-old, courtesy of my thinning blond and receding hairline. I’m hoping this trip might bestow upon me a confidence and cool stories to regale future romantic interests with.

My escape from the three-way hug signals the commencement of my journey.

“Bye, guys.”

“Make sure you stay in touch, dear. At least once a day,” Mum pleads.

“WhatsApp, Mum. I’ve told you.”

“Please check in with her, son,” Dad implores. “You wouldn’t want your mother to worry.”

With a final wave, I stride purposefully toward the security checkpoint. An attractive woman stands ready to inspect my passport.

“Thank you. Enjoy your flight.”

“Th…Thh…thhh…” I detect the concerned glances of Mum and Dad. “Thhh…thhhannk…yo…yo…you!”

Ah, and did I mention my stutter? Yes, you should probably acquaint yourself with that idiosyncrasy. And, incidentally, I also like to talk a lot. I know, not exactly a winning peas and potatoes combo.

Mum and Dad stand sentinel, their expressions a mix of pride and lingering apprehension, as I venture through security.

So, why Cape Town? Why three months? Well, I’ve just completed a gruelling two-year marketing course, and have emerged from the academic cocoon, ready to spread my wings in the job market. But here’s the twist: I can’t get a job. It’s not for lack of trying, mind you. I’ve unleashed a relentless onslaught of job applications, a barrage of CVs that have been catapulted across the digital realm to at least fifty different entry-level positions. Yet, despite my best efforts, the job hunt has been nothing short of an epic saga, complete with dragons (read: rejection letters) at every turn.

Three times––just three––I managed to secure an interview. Hope flared like a matchstick in a dark room, only to be promptly extinguished. Each interview yielded the same refrain, a cruel and unrelenting chorus: “You need experience, dear applicant.” It’s the kind of catch-22 situation that could make even Joseph Heller do a double-take. How can one gain experience if no benevolent soul is willing to bestow it upon them? It’s a conundrum wrapped in a riddle, a puzzle that even the most astute genius would struggle to untangle.

So, what’s a job-hungry, experience-starved graduate to do? Well, the only path I saw to circumvent this impenetrable fortress was to embark on an internship. But not just any internship, mind you. I opted for the grandiose version—abroad. Yes, my friends, I decided to combine the pursuit of professional growth with a healthy dose of wanderlust. Three months of my life were committed to an NPO, which, for the uninitiated, stands for Not-For-Profit. The organisation in question? African Influence. They specialise in running volunteer tourism programs, a noble endeavour that tugs at the heartstrings of socially conscious wanderers like me.

My mission? To embark on a digital marketing and social media management internship, all while potentially dabbling in some good old-fashioned volunteer work. It’s a blend of professional development and global exploration, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to dive headfirst into this adventure.