Homesickness and the African Market, Jo’burg
05/24/10
Boxie-boo said nothing was wrong.
It was a sight that needed no explanation, no words. There she was, my one and only Boxie-boo, laying on her side with her body wrapped in blankets, arms gripping a pillow, stomach vibrating from the release of emotion.
She awoke with that peculiar lump in her throat, the sense of wrong we all know, the feeling of drifting without connection, where we are left lovesick reaching for what is so readily remembered and feared to be forgotten.
I sat beside her, rubbed her back and kissed her cheek.
She was cuddled in a ball, tears dropping from her eyes, searching for that powerful word, the one syllable that is always spoken from the human spirit; the place of unreserved actions and a binding affection that stays with us for our entire lives. She was searching for her undressed rehearsal room. Her magic spot. The feeling of pure belonging. The refugee’s constant dream in a long war.
She was searching for home.
It was funny to think that home was the one place I was so eager to leave, then the farther away we traveled, the more it became the place I longed for most. Home is more than just a place of family and friends, it is a place of sure hearts, the tenderness of comfort without any fear of real judgement or effort to fit in. To simply belong is to be home.
At times throughout the trip, I knew she had been torn between longing for the familiar, while aching to explore the foreign and peculiar. I was too. Yet, the more we traveled, the more I realized that homesickness was often the result of not exploring enough, of sitting still, of lonely thoughts and misplaced fears, of worrying what you’ve left behind has also left you behind, yet nothing is farther from the truth. Home is always waiting for you.
Each time I travel, the strangest thing has always been to return and realize little to nothing has changed.
There is no hurt more than the loss of family, no enemy more destructive than heartache, no evil more devastating than loneliness - it is this mix batch of emotion that is felt with homesickness.
It starts with a pin prick of pain, moving to days that hit deeper than a penetrating sword, leaving us with that gasping, out-touch feeling with oversensitive senses: A blindness with open eyes. A defness with thundering ear drums. Cold body in beaming heat. For all the new experiences, it is the familiar - the strong voice of a father, the hug of mom, the sight of a room that is uniquely your’s, a sibling’s teasing, a friend’s support - that is the most dramatic in its unchanging melody and can never be forgotten.
I knew if she stayed in bed it would only get worse. Homesickness works in this way, the opposite of disease. Where illness is fought with rest, homesickness grows.
I cleaned the tears from her face. She again told me nothing was wrong. I begged her to come with Choppa-chaw and I to Johannesburg’s African Market, but she was unmoved, content to live in discontent. She began to raise her voice, yelling that she was fine and that she wanted to be left alone. I stayed. She continued to tell me to leave. Eventually, though I did not want to, I obliged. I knew, though she would never admit it, there was a jealousy, a misplaced-anger towards me, as I was lucky to have my mother visit us on our around the world trip.
On route to the market, we passed black gardeners and black nannies, while white people drove by the giant walled houses in BMWs, Audis and even the occasional Ferrari and Maserati - signs to me that said the apartheid was only over in government, not in economic or social standing. Mandela’s government did guarantee equality of freedoms, but the blacks are at least a 100 years from equality of conditions. I told my mom about the challenges of being just the two of us most of the time, of longing for friends and family, missing certain types of food and the comfort of our own beds. Together we tried to figure out ways we could cheer up Boxie-boo.
At the market - and since Choppa-chaw could bring back three bags with no extra charge - we bartered hard. I reached a new record of talking down a mask - something I collect while traveling - from 1,200 Rand to 150, which comes to show how absurd prices are raised to try to fool tourists. We searched for things for family and friends back home, same as we did in Zimbabwe, constantly harassed by people trying to coax us into their shop or to check out their stand.
We returned to the Backpacker Ritz to find Boxie-boo resting on the grass, still alone, reading a book under the warmth of the midday sun. I bought her a bracelette - something she collects while traveling - and a can of cherry blossom flavoured body lotion, while Choppa-chaw bought her a beautiful orange, leopard print scarf. We then headed to a local mall with Italian food that reminded her of home. We cheered her up and reminded her that home is not something to feel sad for, but excited, as the more days we were away, the sooner we were set to return to our families and friends.
Instead of being away, I thought of our trip as a long route home and this brought me a sense of serenity. In the end, there is no happiness more powerful than the feeling of heading home.
That’s all for now.
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