On going away, and coming home...

People often ask me "Where is home?"

This is an interesting question, and one without a simple answer. In fact, there are many places I refer to as "home": my apartment in Paris; my parents' home in London; England in general; on occasion, simply the place I happen to be staying during any given trip. Rarely nowadays do I refer to Zimbabwe as "home", despite it being the country of my birth and citizenship, and the place where I have spent the longest portion of my life. 

Shashani Reservoir, near Plumtree, Zimbabwe

It has largely been a conscious decision on my part to distance myself from Zimbabwe, and this is for two reasons. The first: leaving my childhood home, which I loved deeply, to explore distant horizons was not easy. It is often said, by people who have lived or visited there, that Africa gets under your skin. It is desperately hard to leave, and even harder to stay away. It tugs on you, and will inevitably draw you back. For me, being happy in my new life far, far away meant doing my best to close the door, in an attempt to dull the inevitable cries of Zimbabwe calling me home. 

I hear it most on the edge of day: as the sun sets, or on a crisp misty morning...

The second was never intended. Had Zimbabwe remained the way it had been when I was growing up, staying away for as long as I have would have been impossible. But it hasn't. Without dwelling on politics, when you have a president who declares, on national television, that you are an enemy of the only state to which you have ever belonged, simply because of the colour of your skin; when you watch the devastating effects of inflation at a rate of several million percent, and an estimated unemployment rate topping 90 percent; when you watch your parents, who have worked incredibly hard their whole lives, have to start virtually from scratch to rebuild a nest egg decimated by inflation, in a foreign land and in their mid-forties, the rose-tinted glasses very quickly break, and turning your back on your childhood home becomes much, much easier. Sensible, even.

So I usually respond to the question by saying, "Home is where my stuff is": a generic, ill-defined place where I rest my head and store my essentials. And I'm normally quite comfortable with this dynamic description of what I always thought should be a static concept. Ordinarily, this is far removed from the "home … where the heart is." My nearest and dearest friends and family are spread over six distinct land masses comprising four separate continents and more countries than I care to count. 

For this reason, I have often envied those who, despite being well-travelled, have managed to maintain some sort of home base, which has retained some level of constancy throughout their lives, and which contains a higher concentration of loved ones.

Despite my frequent travels, for much of this year I have had an overwhelming hankering to go "away": another poorly-defined concept. It was puzzling. I am not prone to bouts of discontent: I feel incredibly fortunate in my life, and appreciate both where I am and all the many amazing places I get to explore. I had no clue what I was looking for, or where I wanted to go, but I knew that this place -- "away" -- existed somewhere, and it was nowhere near the place in which I found myself. 

I posed myself a variety of hypotheticals, trying to discover this mysterious "away"-land that I was seeking. It became clear that it was not a city such as Rome or Vienna, places that have been on my list seemingly forever. A friend and I discussed some sort of beach holiday, where we could spend time in the sun and enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. This idea came close, but wasn't quite right. I even considered that "away" might mean Zimbabwe, a place which both warms and saddens me every time I visit, and not in equal measure…

Away...

I write to you now from Cargèse, on the immensely beautiful island of Corsica. I arrived in thunderstorms, and will depart under a blanket of clouds, but I can still say that this is one of the most spectacular places I have had the good fortune to travel to. This is how places should be. This is "away": in nature, untouched, surrounded by sea and mountains… where walking to the village for dinner involves hiking up a hill on a rocky dirt path under a roof of trees and creepers, with small, nondescript animals rustling in the bushes. It is a place that is good for my soul… peaceful, reviving, invigorating, and yet relaxing. The restorative powers of the sun, sea, sand and surroundings cannot be put into words. And the night sky… the breathtaking night sky! While it can never match, for me, the sky under which I grew up, it is all the same a sight to behold. 

Idyllic, untouched...

Is my concept of "away", now, inextricably tied to the home I grew up in, and the childhood holidays, surrounded by untouched nature, that I so enjoyed? Perhaps. In fact, likely. I've been thinking about this a lot in the last two weeks. I'll never get Africa out of my system… it's in my heart, and a part of who I am. My recent desire to be "away", and my experience of this beautiful part of the world, have reminded me greatly of who I am at my core, and of where my peace lies. It's sometimes easier to hide from that than to open yourself to it… easier to close the door than to miss what once was and no longer is.

But, for all my envy of those for whom the definition of home has been more static, I would take these brief moments of "away" -- with all the nostalgia they bring with them --  than change any part of the winding road that has been my life. 

Farewell, lovely Corsica...