My work has given me a collection of insights into animal behaviour that few others have dared — or cared — to dwell on. I know why the whistling rat whistles; that yellow mongooses have a penchant for tuna pasta; and how wet gelada fur smells.

In the past year, I have also gained insights into human society and psyche. I have learned the hard way that no one can speed up the bureaucracy of Africa, that minutes can pass more slowly than days when you are missing someone, and that my mood is surprisingly susceptible to lack of sunlight and electrical lighting.

I have said this before and I say it again — I love my job! I love the contrasts, and the mental and physical challenges. I get to play around with animals, ask any question that comes to me, read for hours and days on end, write and argue endlessly. And because I live in a holiday destination, all sorts of foreigners turn up on my doorstep — some of them rich and famous. What more could I possibly want?

I want a life. I have the overwhelming desire for the ordinary, the mundane. I want it all — a job I love and a normal life. That, in itself, is not a unique desire, of course. It just seems as though field biology poses some unique barriers to this dream. Every time I am out in the field, working, I put my 'real' life on hold. Now, at the age of 31, that gives me pause.

Some ambitions have always lurked in the back of my mind, and being out here in the chilly highlands of Ethiopia has certainly sharpened my desire to attain them. Specifically, I want to have a field site where I can run amok and uncover all the secrets of animal and human cognition. (May reality not put a damper on this modest dream!) Even more specifically, this ideal field site has to be close to home, simply to enable me to have a home. My work will allow me to conduct research, lecture, publish papers, write a novel, watch movies, have children, a garden and a telescope to marvel at the constellations on a quiet night. Clearly I subscribe to the advice of the anonymous wise man who said: “Those who strive to reach the stars aim too low ...”

The real dilemma is how I get there from here. I want to start planning for it all right now, I want to feel like I'm taking positive steps towards it instead of treading water. My impatience could give me the wrong attitude. I could rant and rave over the next year, as I continue my field research, about being unable to learn from people — mentors and idols — who seem to have everything worked out. I could despair that my remote location makes me unable to search for advice or ideas online, or network with those in the know. I could feel that my future is on hold as I struggle to start our recalcitrant four-wheel drive every morning.

I hope I will prove to be a little wiser than that. My focus should be on the novelty and joys of my current work, while retaining my vision of the future. The work I do right now has already taken me beyond what I was as an eager PhD student. I have learned, for example, a surprising amount about management — managing myself, my colleagues and schedules — and about practical problem-solving and long-term planning. Even though I spend most of my time alone, I have met such a diverse menagerie of people that I now have a visceral understanding of the pitfalls of intercultural misunderstanding. This means I am acquiring practical skills in running a research operation.

If I can see this through, I will become well-versed in the machinations of research, not just the ideas inherent in the science. That should take me a few steps closer to my ultimate goal. If I'm lucky, one day I will have that field site where I can do thrilling research without giving up on a life back home.

The happiest discovery I have made in the past year, however, is that enthusiasm remains the universal language that transcends barriers and gets things done, sometimes in miraculous ways. Enthusiasm is something I have plenty of to spare. And I am coming round to seeing my dad's latest pronouncement as a blessing, not a curse. After listening to my complaints about fieldwork and isolation, he said simply: “My child, you will never be able to give it up — you're just too much of a sucker for research.”