We drive through Kazakhstan, away from the border. Through the right window the grasslands roll away to the horizon. Burned golden, it reminds me of home. As long as I don't turn my head and look out to the south where brown mountains reach up to fat white clouds. There are still pockets of snow up there, which doesn't seem right as, once again, the hot wind burns my nostrils and stings my eyes.
Some one on the truck has bought something that smells like spicy, hot chai and my craving for a Melbourne cafe and my hands wrapped around a hot tea mug while the cold creeps down my collar is intense.
It is only the second time I have felt homesick for my wide brown land since I left in May.
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