9 August 2014. Home, at long last. After 43 days and 15 cities in Eastern Europe and Turkey. After 22 days, 10 cities and 4 villages in Iran. Some of the take-homes - camel-hair carpets, sugar crystals, Saffron and Pistachio from Iran, boxes of Baklava, Turkish delights, (cracked) ceramic bowls from Istanbul, walnut babies from Hungary, a neighing unicorn (Sparkles) from Krakow, an amber bracelet from Poland, gifts from hosts including a Lithuanian shot glass and a book of Hafez’s Persian poetry, a Go-Pro (which has served me well), a Open’er festival T-shirt, dog-eared post-cards from everywhere, pebbles and rocks from the mountains of Slovakia to the beaches of Greece to the ancient grounds of the Persepolis… And some less delightful ones - well worn-out muddy shoes, scars from kayaking in Vienna, sore shoulders from backpacking everywhere, and a newly-formed tummy due to an overdose of dumplings, goulash, and kebabs. But the most meaningful take-homes are ALWAYS THE INTANGIBLE. It is crawling on the pavements in Budapest/falling asleep in a swimming pool and waking up the next morning and stumbling into a 12,000-big Jewish conference It is breaking into an abandoned army fort in Gdynia It is the frantic dive into the murky lake and the misery hour at a police station in Vienna It is discussing the daily dichotomies and fascinating dualities with our Iranian hosts It is spending 5 hours on a bumpy train at the bicycle cabin/hobo-ing it it out on the floor with our backpacks It is whipping up meals from beef fried rice to meatballs all over It is getting screamed at/scammed by taxi drivers, while talking to others about his prisoners-of-war experience in Iraq It is plotting to run away from overbearing and creepy hosts It is meeting and trusting random strangers It is conversations with an Iranian playwright about broken childhoods, politics, painting and the idea of God It is having to speak copious amounts of Mandarin after 4 years of non-practice It is talking to an 81-year old tribesman/goat shepherd in the mountains before showering with well water It is devouring sheep’s tongue and cheek at 4am It is getting geeky revelations visiting Darius/Xerxes/Esther’s tomb in the sweltering heat of 50 degrees It is the connections transcending age, culture, religion, and ethnicity It is the conversations from comfortable to controversial, It is the non-replicable experiences, from breathtaking to traumatizing But these don’t just make up good memories, a colourful Instagram collection, or a pretty photo album. They culminate to form the ultimate take-home from travel: TAKING IT HOME. These thought-provoking, crazily mind-blowing, stunningly eye-opening and unexpectedly heart-warming moments aren’t supposed to be viewed nostalgically, but as launch pads. They don’t mark the end of a journey; they mark the start of a continuous highway of questioning norms re-discovering prejudices and stereotypes. Taking it home means internalizing these narratives; it means retelling these stories; it means an ongoing discussion and debate about a whole new set of issues put on the table…. Taking it home means processing encounters and emotions so intense that I don’t even know how to begin…. Taking it home means the arduously tedious yet incredibly rewarding activity of ruminating over bits of conversation, epiphanies, and distilling view points… Taking it home means investing the dearth of cultural capital gained traversing the world and planting seeds into hearts and minds around you Taking it home means being physically removed from the growing regularity of motion and change, and adjusting to the rather jarring notion of stagnation and familiarity. Taking it home means trying to fit an oddly-shaped block into a square hole, and how that is going to happen Taking it home also means understanding what it means to be home, particularly on 9th of August. AND WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE HOME? Is it the bittersweet tug-of-war between the wistfulness of leaving a familiar strangeness and the excitement of returning to a strange familiarity? Is it the erratic fluctuation of time while traveling – feeling it contract at one fleeting moment, and yet desiring impatiently for it to pass more quickly at other times? Is it feeling secretly proud of the fact that while a significant bulk of passengers onboard were tourists exploring a new land, I was a resident returning home? Is it the welcoming sounds of Singlish even as the flight departed, its intonations so detectably comforting even in the ‘Queen’s English’ that the stewardesses put on? Is it Daddy, holding ten beautiful sunflowers, who woke up at 4am just to welcome me home with a huge hug at the airport? Is it our 5am breakfast over Kaya toast, soft boiled eggs, and a good teh & kopii to usher in this special day? It is. Home is. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SINGAPORE. You’re my people, my home. And you’ve been missed. “So when people leave, I’ve learned the secret: let them. Because, most of the time, they have to. Let them walk away and go places. Let them have adventures in the wild without you. Let them travel the world and explore life beyond a horizon that you exist in. And know, deep down, that heroes aren’t qualified by their capacity to stay but by their decision to return - The Staying Philosophy (Everyday Isa)
Posted on: Sat, 09 Aug 2014 08:59:12 +0000
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