On Friday,  as I lowered the back door of the aircraft, turned and reversed down the steps onto the tarmac,  I felt cool dry April afternoon air swirl around me and lift my spirits. I had come home.  Home to Southern mountains,  to prospects of winter frost,  to Trout,  and good coffee. I had left behind sticky Mozambique,  with it’s potholes,  humidity,  train ambushes and sugarcane.  I had left behind Tanzania’s red earth rivers,  it’s bribes and mosquitoes.  I had left behind Lusaka’s dust,  incomplete buildings,  and broken machinery.  We had retreated to the place with good freeways,  neatly laid