Gondar to Axum: The 2nd Worst Bus Journey

The bus trip from Gondar to Axum was the kind of horror journey Martha Gellhorn would have appreciated.

We were up at 4:30 in the morning to get to the bus station for 5:30. Our bus route would take us North from Gondar to Shire and Shire to Axum. Axum, way up in the north of the Tigray region, was the first capital of Ethiopia. The ruins of the Queen of Sheba’s castle is there and the Ark of Covenant is allegedly hidden away in a small chapel (1).

The bus station, shrouded in darkness, was a cacophony of shuffling feet and disembodied shouting. We were directed towards a green and beige local bus with seats designed for children. It looked like it may have been one of the first school buses ever to exist. Aggressive luggage porters tugged at our bags and extracted a tidy fee to throw the bags up on to the top of the bus. We sat in the too-small, uncomfortable seats for close to an hour while the bus filled up; buses in Ethiopia don’t leave until they are full. The air was stale and smelled of khat. The man in front of us had several ropes of garlic and kept spitting on the floor. I spotted a young man bringing a live chicken on board, carrying it upside down by its feet, and more than one person had a rifle on them. Another man a few rows ahead was turned around in his seat and staring at us with wide unblinking eyes.

It was going to be a long day.

“We’re not heroic like the great travellers but all the same we amateurs are a pretty tough breed. No matter how horrendous the last journey we never give up hope for the next one, God knows why.”

– Martha Gellhorn, Travels with Myself and Another

Finally, the bus was full enough and we got moving. The overflow passengers sat on buckets in the aisle. The sun rose up over the mountains as we drove away from Gondar. A man a couple rows back hummed, loudly and atonally like a wannabe Bob Dylan, the same tune for the first two hours of the journey. When the driver put the stereo on, he only got louder. The same CD played on a loop for the 10 hours it took to get from Gondar to Shire. The bus drove slowly through the mountains, carefully navigating past the usual farm animals and around switchbacks and potholes and fallen rocks. It was a beautiful road, even though the scenery was somewhat marred by the carcasses of other buses rolled over on their sides, windows blown out, in ravines beside the highway. It was dusty, hot and uncomfortable. It was impossible to sleep – the seats didn’t come up far enough to be able to rest our heads on. We didn’t stop for a break for hours; we avoided drinking any water for as long as we could and nibbled on cookies. A child soiled herself and her parents deftly cleaned her up with a scarf and dropped the mess out of the window.

The landscape began to change as we approached the Tigray region. The chiselled escarpments of the Simien range subsided into swaths of arid flatlands dotted with dusty red sandstone and limestone mountains. Camels appeared, loping along the highway and across parched fields.

We went through a military check-point when we crossed the official threshold into Tigray. Soldiers climbed on top of the bus and rifled through the luggage. Male passengers had to deboard and go into a small building to get their IDs checked. The old people, children, women and farenjis were allowed to stay on the bus. I took the opportunity to go for a swift bathroom break. There were four other farenjis on the bus; I made eye contact with the Dutch couple as they wordlessly followed me out to the side of the road. The scorching heat pressed down on us. Trash collected in the shallow ditch beside the road. Their faces mirrored my state of mind: faraway looks in their eyes, mouths set in a grim line.

As we got closer to Shire, we drove by the Mai Aini refugee camp, one of the largest refugee camps in the country that houses thousands of Eritreans. Despite the recent peace brokered between Ethiopia and Eritrea, Eritreans are in limbo and their safety, should they return to their country, is far from certain; the draconian political climate of ” repression, indefinite conscription and economic hardship”(2) remains the same. Along the flat desert highway lies evenly spaced rows of uniform buildings, with corrugated metal roofs and rocks placed on top. I could only see a handful of people. It was a glaring departure from the usual cheek by jowl, colourful and bustling Ethiopian houses.

In Shire, we were gratefully released from the bus and deposited into a dusty bus station with more shouting and corralling towards a minibus to Axum; another two hours of driving. After all that, it wasn’t even the worst bus trip we took in Ethiopia – that honour goes to the horror journey between Mekelle and Lalibela at Genna; a story for another day.

My first impression of Axum was of inviting, wide cobblestone streets lined with palm trees and sidewalk cafes. As the minibus pulled over, there was a woman standing on some concrete steps and screaming. The man she was screaming at tore off down the street. A group of men chased him, caught him and frog-marched him on the sidewalk towards wherever they were taking him. It was New Year’s Eve. We went for dinner and straight to bed.






(1) https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/keepers-of-the-lost-ark-179998820/

(2) https://africanarguments.org/2019/01/15/ethiopia-border-open-why-eritrea-sudan-fleeing/ and https://www.newsdeeply.com/refugees/community/2018/08/16/fear-dampens-hope-among-eritrean-refugees-in-ethiopia




Simien Mountains and the Beast-Ape

Cool Facts about the Simien Mountains:

  • Also called the Roof of Africa, the highest peak is Ras Dejen at 4,533 m.
  • Simien means “north” in Amharic and “south” in Ge’ez. When Axum was the capital of Ethiopia, the range was to the south. When the capital moved and the language changed, so did the meaning of the name.
  • The range was created between 40 and 25 million years ago before the Rift Valley was a thing.
  • The majority of the Simien Mountains is the detritus of a shield volcano. Basaltic lava piled up over the existing sandstone and limestone, which was pushed up and around by volcanic activity and then eroded by the elements over time, carved out like so many marbled chess pieces.
  • Wildlife found in the Ethiopian highlands: Abyssinian wolf, Walia ibex, gelada or bleeding-heart monkey, and lots of terrifying, prehistoric-looking birds: giant pied crows, thick-billed ravens and creepy vultures.
  • Gelada monkeys only live in the Simien mountains. Often called baboons (but aren’t), they are the only living members of the genus Theropithecus, which comes from the Greek: beast-ape.
simien mountain park ethiopia
Simien Mountain escarpment

We hired a 4×4 jeep and a driver from our hotel for an excursion into the Simien Mountains. I have an injured knee, wonky arthritic joints and I don’t like hiking, so it was only a day trip for us. My joints were already in a state from being crammed on buses for so many hours, but I hoped a little bit of a nature walk might do me some good.

donkeys carrying wood on the way to market from Gondar

Bright and early in the morning, again, we set out in the jeep. It was Market Day so there were loads of donkeys plodding along, weighted down with all manner of things: teff, wood, huge sacks of grain and sugar cane. Getting out of Gondar was an obstacle course of donkeys, pedestrians, potholes, vans and trucks and cars and bajajs.

We stopped along the way a couple of times to take pictures and each time, children ran up to ask for money and say hi to the faranjis. Our driver made fun of me for being wrapped up in a hoodie and scarf, even though I’m Canadian and no one else was cold and it’s Sub-Saharan Africa. What can I say? I’m a bad Canadian.

It was a three-hour drive to Debark, where we paid the entrance fee and picked up a guide and a scout. The guide was young and brimming with energy. We learned later that it was his first day. The scout was our protective detail. He sat in the back of the jeep, rifle slung across his lap, chewing khat. The three men filled the jeep with chatter. Road conditions declined considerably when we entered the park; our driver called it the “African massage”.

Once in the park, we were dropped off to walk for a couple of hours along the table top of the escarpment, winding through the alpine forest, and looking out into the valley of dusty taupe and muted greens and blues. Bumblebees like tiny fuzzy 747s zoomed around in Acacia trees. White Abyssinian wild roses and indigo globe thistles were in full bloom. The scout walked behind us, and I spent all day trying to figure out a way to lose him so I could go pee in the bushes. In the end, I was in such a rush, I nearly sat down in a bramble of thistles. Do not recommend.

simien mountain valley vista
Simien valley

Gelada monkeys are the only monkeys I’ve ever met that aren’t jerks. We found two troupes and each time, they completely ignored us. They busied themselves, grunting and squealing, with digging around in and eating grass. They have little leathery faces, shaggy red-gold hair and diamond-shaped bald patches on their chests. For males, the patch denotes where they are in the pecking order with the alphas having bright red patches and low-status boys with light pink patches. In the females, the shade of red indicates where they are in their estrus cycle. The full-grown males looked like miniature lions.

After lunch, we went for a quick walk to a waterfall, down a rolling hill and over a terribly narrow stone bridge. We emerged into a little clearing on the lip of a bowl-shaped section of the scarp that looked like it had been scooped out with an ice cream scooper. A skinny waterfall shot out from the opposite side, glittering with rainbow spumes. A huge thick-billed raven waddled out from the underbrush and just about scared the pants off me. Aptly named, it had a tremendous beak, shiny obsidian feathers and a white patch on the back of its head. It shuffled around, found a good spot and then launched itself into the caldera, gliding in wide, lazy circles with the vultures, all dark smudges against the rock face.

thick-billed raven about to take flight off cliff side with waterfall in the background

two women posing with simien mountain valley in background

The Camelot of Africa

North of Bahir Dar at over 2000 meters above sea level, Gondar is the next stop on the historical circuit and the gateway to the Simien Mountains. According to Google Maps, it’s about a three-hour drive from Bahir Dar. Naturally, it took us over six hours by minibus. During which someone ate and threw up a bunch of bananas and a jerrycan of petrol spilled all over the back seats. It was one of the better bus journeys we had in Ethiopia.

The historical crux of Gondar is Fasil Ghebbi, the so-called Camelot of Africa, a walled-off compound of royal ruins that would not look out of place on a movie set or rolling European countryside. The wall is 900-metres long and contains the well-preserved outer structures of palaces, a banquet hall, a library, churches, lion cages and other ancillary royal buildings. The construction of which was heavily influenced by the Portuguese, who were hanging around Ethiopia at the time. One of the most delightful things about travelling through Ethiopia is that each place is completely different from the one before and it’s always a surprise.

Gondar was the capital of Ethiopia from 1636 to 1855 and home to a series of Solomonic Emperors and one Empress from Fasilides to Iyasu II. The Solomonic dynasty traces its ancestry back to the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon. The dynasty ruled Ethiopia from 1270 until 1974 when Haile Selassie was deposed during a coup d’etat.

African camelot
Fasilides was Emperor from 1632 to 1667. He came to Gondar in 1636 and at first, camped underneath a sprawling tree while he scouted the area for the best spot to build his castle. He built his castle, established Gondar as the capital, and also started the construction of lots of churches; eventually, there would be forty-four churches in Gondar.


fasilides castle
Fasilides’ Castle


empress mentewab castle.jpg
Empress Mentewab’s castle. Mentewab was Queen regent for 30 years. She was crowned co-rulers with her young son Isayu II after her husband died in 1730. Our guide told us that she was shunned by the rest of the royal family for her “common” lineage and suspected Roman Catholic leanings. Also, he said, she did a lot to support and foster the education of Ethiopian women. She was one of the most powerful women in Ethiopian history.


old lion cages
Cages for the royal pet lions


church saved by bees
In 1888, the Sudanese army invaded the city and burned all of the churches in Gondar except for this one. Local lore holds that a colony of angry bees protected the church and warded off the marauders.


fasilides bath
Fasilides’ Bath. During Timkat (January 19th), it’s filled up with water and people jump into the pool in their clothes, to celebrate the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan river.


banyan trees
Banyan trees invading Fasilides’ Bath


After a few hours of wandering around Fasil Ghebbi, taking a quick bajaj ride to Fasilides’ Bath and so much information pouring out of the guide that I couldn’t possibly absorb it all, we were done with the educational part of our day. We went for lunch at an open-air restaurant next to the tree that Fasilides used as a camp when he first arrived in Gonder. The guide had told us that the tree was used to hold court proceedings and convicted criminals were hung from its branches. Now, the tree provides dappled shade and a quiet place to sit.

gondar court tree
Law & Order Tree



The Blue Nile

My daydream of a nice, relaxing holiday where I got to sleep in and have leisurely mornings with fresh fruit drinks and coffee was not to be.

As it turns out, the buses in Ethiopia leave early. Ridiculously early. To catch our bus to Bahir Dar, we had to get up at 3:30 am to make it to the bus station for 4:30 am, to wait around for another hour for the bus to get going. And by ‘bus station’ I mean parking lot in Meskel Square, next to the Red Terror Museum. The road to the Meskel Square was dark and empty; the parking lot where all the outgoing buses were parked was a traffic jam of honking taxis and people wearing white cotton floating around in the dark like ghosts. We didn’t have time for coffee, which proved to be a good thing since bathroom breaks were to be few and far between. As far as buses go, this one wasn’t terrible. The seats were decent, we had snacks, we got a lunch break and they played music and movies. It would be, by far, the best bus we took in Ethiopia.

We left Addis and drove into rolling hills and farmland just as the sun lifted off the horizon; fingers of pink and orange stretched in all directions. Acacia trees like giant leafy umbrellas stood amongst the fields of teff. Teff is the tiny grain that is used to make injera, the spongy, slightly sour bread that serves as plates and cutlery for Ethiopian food. It was harvest season, and people were out in the fields, crouching down in the billowy golden teff with a scythe, cutting it down bit by bit. Piles of cut grass were heaped up in rows and then combined into bales. I saw a few women carrying giant bales of teff on their heads; it looked as though the bales had sprouted legs and were walking themselves to market. As the morning unspooled, farmlands morphed into busy villages of clay, cow dung and straw houses with thatched roofs. Children walked to school, books in hand, in their powder blue and parrot green uniforms. Women hauled plastic containers of water on their backs. Villages gave way to a steep decline into the Nile river valley. We crossed the river and climbed the other side. There were donkeys everywhere. The bus frequently had to stop and wait for a donkey or three to amble out of the way. Or to navigate a pothole. Hours passed this way. The Ethiopian countryside looked just like I imagined, only it felt surreal to actually be there; it might’ve all been a dream.

We arrived in Bahir Dar at around 4:30 pm. A swarm of touts, guides and bajaj (Ethiopian tuk-tuks) drivers surrounded us when we disembarked. We had arranged a pick up from the bus station with the hotel, so when a smiling guy greeted us and said he was from the hotel, we followed. He took us to the right hotel, but we found out later he did not work there. He was trying to get us to book a tour with him. Perhaps he would have been the better one to go with.

Bahir Dar is full of waving palm trees and mosquitoes. Blue and white bajajs zipped around palm-lined streets and Lake Tana, the source of the Blue Nile river, glittered in the sun. We went up to a lookout point to watch the sunset over the lake and the river that winds from it like a great blue snake. The blue of the sky meets the blue of the water and the landscape was a meditation on the color blue.

“The world is blue at its edges and in its depths. This blue is the light that got lost. […] This light that does not touch us, does not travel the whole distance, the light that gets lost, gives us the beauty of the world, so much of which is in the color blue.”

Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

Blue Nile river and Lake Tana in the distance
A study in blue: a view of the Blue Nile and Lake Tana in the distance


The next day we went on a full day tour of Lake Tana and the Blue Nile Falls, arranged through our hotel. In the morning, we were ushered onto a long wooden boat with a shade covering and puttered out onto the lake. Lake Tana is vast, edged with papyrus reeds, coffee plants and lush forest, its soft blue water ripples like silk. We visited two monasteries on richly wooded islands in the middle of the lake. Birds twittered from the trees and incense hung heavy in the air. The monasteries, round buildings with layers like Russian nesting dolls, perched in amongst the trees. Inside the first layer, vibrant religious paintings covered the circular walls from floor to ceiling. Men dressed all in white sat outside the building in a group; low, rhythmic chanting drifted up and mingled with birdsong. A guide was explaining the finer details of the paintings to a group of hushed tourists when a fracas broke out in the treetops just outside. The group abandoned the lesson to watch a troupe of monkeys fight with a flock of birds. I thought I saw the guide rolling his eyes. The pathway to one of the monasteries was lined with vendors selling crosses, small paintings and coffee. They called, “Look! Look! Looking is free!” as we passed. When we returned to the edge of the lake, we sat at one of the coffee vendors and had a little teacup of freshly brewed coffee and looked out over the lake, studying the rocks in case they were actually hippos.


On the way back, we stopped in a reedy part of the lake and waited for the hippos. A purple-brown, bulbous head popped up out of the water with a splash and dove under again and again. A baby hippo poked his head out of the water, waggled its little ears and disappeared. We left too soon; I could have watched the hippos playing peekaboo for ages.

As we stepped off the boat, the tour organizer and a minivan were waiting for us. The tour organizer impatiently ushered us into the van with a group of other tourists and sent us on our way. He’d said it was a quick, one hour drive to the Blue Nile Falls and we’d have more than enough time to get there, see the falls and return before it got dark. And that might have worked out, however, along the way, one of the tires burst. The driver swapped it for a spare and we were on our way again. Briefly. Until the same tire burst again. And this time, there was no spare. We were stranded. A group of children ran out and thronged us, all smiles and giggles and requests for money. We loitered by the side of the road for a while until it became apparent that if we wanted to get to the falls that day, we were going to have to do it ourselves.

Mini van with popped tire by the side of the road



A passing bus was flagged down and half of the group squeezed their way in. The rest of us waited for the next one, hoping there’d be more room. There was not, but we stuffed ourselves inside anyway, pressed into the crush like play-doh into a plastic mould. I should have gone to the bathroom before we left.

Worries over how we’d know where to get off were assuaged when the bus terminated at the back end of a little town and people helpfully pointed us to the ticket office for the falls. After paying the entrance fee and acquiring a guide and an armed guard, we walked through farmer’s fields towards the little boat that would take us across the river, stopping to sample little gold fruit from a kumquat tree. People were loading long stalks of sugar cane onto donkeys and the children were chewing on broken off pieces and jumping around, all hopped up on sugar. The sun dipped low in the sky; twilight approached.

Finally, we crested a hill and descended into the soggy, marshy green slope that faced the falls. It was dry season and most of the falls were diverted into the hydroelectric dam, so the falls were only at about 15% of the wet season volume. Still impressive, though; curtains of water rushing into a wide swath of lush, misty, muddy valley, awash in the soft golden light of the gloaming.

We made it back to the little town just as night fell, and met the idling replacement minibus that took us, without incident, back to Bahir Dar.

blue nile falls in lush valley
Blue Nile Falls


Lost Luggage & The Missing Links

The Vancouver airport was seasonally festive. A man dressed as Santa was driven around in an airport trolley by a woman in an elf costume. He ho-ho-ho’ed at all the travellers, stopping for photos and hugging the children. A woman stood in front of a microphone crooning Christmas tunes. Most people were going to spend the holidays with family. Some were probably escaping the celebrations to go and relax on a beach somewhere, perhaps Hawaii or Mexico. I was going to spend three weeks in Ethiopia with my friend Kate. We were trading in our version of Christmas for Ethiopian Ganna. Leaving the cold and dark of the North for the sun and warmth of sub-Saharan Africa.

It is a very long flight from Vancouver to Addis Ababa. The first leg of the journey, Vancouver to Frankfurt, arches up and over the Arctic circle to reach Europe. During car trips through the Rocky Mountains when I was a child, I would imagine that I was a giant and I was running atop the mountain peaks alongside the car. I still do that on airplanes. I imagine that I’m running through British Columbia right up to the edge of the Northwest Territories; taking a big flying leap off the coast of Greenland to the shores of Norway; playing hopscotch over Europe, the Middle East and North Africa.

I arrived at the Addis Ababa airport late at night, a full 24 hours after I’d left Vancouver,  exhausted, discombobulated, excited. Stepping into the chaos of the arrivals hall felt like an odd sort of homecoming. The ghosts of trips past floated through my mind. Outside the airport doors, people were shivering and wearing bulky coats. It was a pleasantly cool evening, for someone who’d come from the city of freezing rain. The air was dry and heavy with dust.

Kate arrived early the next morning. Her luggage did not arrive with her. Another casualty of Ethiopian Airlines. They encourage you to fly into the country on Ethiopian Airlines with a substantial discount on domestic flights once you’re there. But they often lose your luggage. They assured her it would come in on the next flight.

Our hotel was in Bole, an affluent neighbourhood of Addis next to the airport; we could see the airport from one window of our room. A small children’s carnival twirled and twittered from another window. The first item on our agenda was to go see Lucy the Missing Link at the National Museum of Ethiopia. The city was overwhelming at first. It was hot and teeming with people and noise. I’d forgotten what it was like being in a place where you stick out from the crowd and attract a lot of stares and comments and attention. It reminded me of India: a kaleidoscope of humanity, loud and vibrant.

Mini carnival in Bole, Addis Ababa
Mini carnival in Bole, Addis Ababa


The National Museum of Ethiopia is quite unassuming for a place that houses the fossils of human ancestry. The basement, where the Lucy replicas are displayed, is dim and dusty and has a chill in the air. There are a collection of glass cases with various animal fossils, like pigs, monkeys, horses, rhinos and giraffes. Some of complete skulls or skeletons but most are just pieces, fragments of skulls, femurs and teeth. The detritus of millennia.

Lucy is presented with little fanfare, another glass case of fragments like all the others. There are two replicas: an upright completed skeleton in one case and another, replicas of the 40% of the skeleton that was recovered, lying there like an unfinished puzzle. The real fossils are safely tucked away in the recesses of the museum.

Lucy, so named for the song ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ that was playing in the camp during the dig, is also called Dinkinesh which means “you are marvellous” in Amharic. She was found in 1974 in the Awash Valley in the Afar Triangle, part of the Great Rift Valley in northern Ethiopia. The Afar Triangle is where the earliest hominin fossils were found, known as the cradle of human evolution. Lucy is 3.2 million years old, belonging to the species Australopithecus afarensis and one of the oldest known ancestors of the human species. There is evidence that she walked upright on her two feet; possibly, she lived in the trees. She is small, the size of a young child, and in the upright replica, her face is lifted upwards, as though when she died, she was looking up at the stars.

Standing Lucy skeleton in the National Museum of Ethiopia
Standing Lucy skeleton display in the National Museum of Ethiopia in Addis

There are other hominin fossils that I hadn’t heard of before. Selam (peace in Amharic), also called “Lucy’s baby” or “the first child”, is a three-year-old girl hominin of the species Australopithecus afarensis, discovered in the Afar Depression, a few miles from where Lucy was found. She is 3.3 million years old, older than Lucy.

And there is Ardi, of the species Ardipithecus ramidus; another tiny human-ish female. She is 4.4 million years old and was also found in the Awash Valley. She was found in 1994, but her significance wasn’t revealed in scientific literature until 2009. Her remains suggest that humans underwent another evolutionary stage more than a million years before Lucy existed. There is evidence that she was both bipedal and quadrupedal when in the trees. I don’t know much about archeology, but it’s interesting that Lucy is still the main evolutionary celebrity when Ardi and Selam are also clearly important links in our history.


The following day, when repeated phone calls to the lost luggage department of the airport proved to be fruitless, we went back to the airport to see if Kate would have more luck in person. Much easier than anticipated, we snaked through the airport into the baggage claim unnoticed. Kate’s bag was lying on the floor next to a pile of other person-less luggage. She picked up her bag, looked around to see if anyone would object or comment, and when no one did, we walked back out of the airport and into the chaos.

After The Accidental Nomad

This blog used to be called The Accidental Nomad and it was the second iteration of travel blogs that I kept during my wandering years. I stopped writing entries when I decided to compile my disjointed little stories into one long story, which eventually was just long enough to call a book. I spent about a million hours editing and rewriting and thinking to myself, “good grief, this is just rubbish, isn’t it?”

And then, this summer, my pet project was taken on by Garreteer Press and it’s going to be published next year. It’s going to be a real book! I still can’t believe it.

blur book stack books bookshelves
Photo by Janko Ferlic on Pexels.com

So what have I been doing in the meantime? When my visa ran out in the United Kingdom, I left Oxford and went to New Zealand, stayed a few months, and then returned home to Canada in the cold, dark winter. Stellar timing on my part. I rented an apartment in Vancouver where I don’t have to share a kitchen and I can horde books and watch the seasons cycle from my balcony.

I didn’t stop travelling, though. In the spring of last year, I joined my sister in Panama and we travelled through Central America together for three weeks. And I’ve got a trip to Ethiopia coming up over the holidays. But things are different now. My trips are shorter. I’m spending more time with my family, whether they like it or not. Instead of abandoning my home like a hermit crab and scuttling in and out of a series of questionable hostels, I’m settled in Vancouver. More or less.

So I’m jumping back into blogging! I’ll be writing about travel, of course, and about what’s going on in the world: politics, news and the international development landscape.

Existential Migration

Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach Teach Abroad Blog Carnival, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe.The host for this month is Sharon Couzens. I’ll be posting a new ESL related article to this blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you’d like to contribute to next month’s Blog Carnival, please get in touch with Dean at dean@reachtoteachrecruiting.com, and he’ll let you know how you can start participating!

Read the rest of the entries over on Sharon’s blog: TEFL Tips


“The feeling of home arises from specific interactions with our surroundings that could potentially occur anywhere, at any time.” 

– Greg Madison


Travel is a sort of adolescence, an exploration of self and your relationship to the world. You test boundaries, explore preferences, and differentiate yourself from the place you come from. You build an individual understanding of the world, away from the constrictions and patterns of regular life.

Travel for long enough, and you begin to find the familiar in the foreign. You become accustomed to the rise and fall of languages you can’t understand, like listening to a new song over and over, such that when you return to a country where your native language is spoken, it is strange and somewhat intrusive to understand the conversations of strangers.

Greg Madison, a psychologist from Canada who lives in the UK, studies people who live abroad and coined the term Existential Migration. He defines this way of living as “a chosen attempt to express something fundamental about existence by leaving one’s homeland and becoming a foreigner”. Among this population, he says, there is a marked preference for the strange and foreign over familiar or conventional routines. It follows that a new definition of home is required for these existential migrants, one that lies in experiences and interactions rather than a specific geographical place. As Pico Iyer would say, a piece of soul rather than a piece of soil.


My Evolution of Home

The first time I returned home from travelling, it felt like putting on an old pair of jeans that had been crumpled and forgotten in the back of my closet. Familiar but ill-fitting. I brimmed with stories and experiences and the new love glow that comes with discovering a passion. But, at the same time, I felt oddly bereft and unmoored. There was a fissure now, between me and home.

The second time I came home, I knew that it would be temporary, and that allowed me to enjoy the time I had just for what it was. After two years abroad, my identity had become inexorably intertwined with being the foreigner. Even at home, I felt like a foreigner now. I embraced it, and wrapped myself in the feeling of being alien in my own country. And yet, I felt like I was between countries, like being between jobs or houses. I didn’t have much of a home anywhere, just a collection of memories, a weird Australian-Canadian pigeon English, and dreams that were sometimes in Spanish. In my heart, I knew that the change was irrevocable; I’d never be the same.

Reconnecting with childhood friends no longer left me unmoored, rather we delighted in the different paths that each of our lives were on. They listened to my travel stories, and I played with their kids and celebrated their career milestones. Our separateness was not an apartness, but a growing alongside, like the branches of a tree reaching into different parts of the sky.

In India, I explored the art of doing nothing, of sitting in silence and plumbing the space between breaths. And I discovered a new sense of home, stronger than any other, that was curled up within me and accessible any time, anywhere. I started to feel at home in sections of time and shades of emotion. I thought about all the places I’d been and discovered that I’ve been collecting homes all over the world: The caravan I lived in for five months in the outback, the friends I had for only two days in Turkey, the chai I shared with a rickshaw driver outside Varanasi, the sisterhood I found in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan and the convent in India, my vagabond family at yoga school in Rishikesh, the weekend I spent with my mother in my birth country, Singapore. Far from homelessness, I live in abundance.

I’ve moved to the UK now. I’m sort of hanging up my travelling shoes: getting a job and a place to live and shelves upon which to put my three holey tee shirts; all that regular life stuff. While the transition has been challenging — arriving in Oxford from India was like returning to Earth from Mars — I’m thrilled to be putting down some roots, albeit shallow ones. It’s comforting to know that all I need to go home is a quiet space and the sound of my own breath.

The only constant in life is change. No matter which path you are on, your concept of home will change and evolve as you do. The older we get, the more experiences we have, the more we realize that home isn’t a concrete concept, it is something that we create in ourselves and in our interactions with the world.