In the summer of 2009 I made a plan to go backpacking for two months, gain some much needed inspiration and return to the country of my birth to make a more important life-plan. I should have known better. I should have known that there was a microbial urge to move. I should have known that I would find a world far more intoxicating than the ‘home’ I left behind. If I really took the time to think, I could have seen that migrations were already happening.
Even though I was only ‘home’ for nine months it was supposed to resemble stability: madly in love, masters degree in hand, and innumerable possibilities for whatever museum wanted to employ me. My notions of home were soon to contain a 40liter backpack, a camera, and a computer. These possessions have swollen and shrunk according to my movements and necessity. To be fair, I possess many more things than I need but my world is still contained in two 23kg bags.
Prepping for another whirlwind of flights, continents, and fun, confirms that I am, in fact, a New Age nomad. We are a particular breed, evolved from a different tangent to the desert wanders and oceanic traders. We are a people with no permanent abode, sometimes searching, forever roaming. We covet knowledge and experience over things.
Our prayers are not for trade winds but for three empty seats to sleep on for an overnight flight. We regularly arrive at airport check-in counters and assess which airline employee we can charm to accept our overweight luggage. Once we land, we get frustrated with automated bus or train ticketing systems in languages we can’t decipher. Personally, I prefer a cheerful taxi driver who tries to overcharge me. He usually reduces the fee after telling me about his four children, lovely wife, and local delicacies. I guess I’ve perfected the ‘interested tourist discount’.
When the New Age nomad arrives at an unfamiliar destination we draw on all our street smarts to judge: Am I in danger? Can I communicate in a common language or do I need to stumble through my own gestured versions of “food” “toilet” “how much”? I always try to learn a bit of the lingo and generally laugh at the global adaptations of the English language, mostly on food menus. If in Uganda, please be careful not to order the Kandahar Special, she might not be exactly what you wanted.
We enjoy the respite of oases along our regular routes. London contains a particularly lovely flat just off the Portobello Road. Every time I ring the doorbell of my former transitional home I know I will be greeted with a fresh cup-a-tea, a soft loving cat and a woman who inspires through her inborn stillness. Oases become mini-homes, not to dissimilar to the bomas constructed by African pastoralists. The general kit to contain home in rural settings for this New Age nomad is a tent, hammock, sleeping bag, and snacks.
Throughout our years we tend to love many friends yet struggle to find lasting love in companions. This is grown out of our staunch commitment to being noncommittal. In maintaining our movements we are only occasionally available for something more than fleeting bliss. Insanely selfish, the New Age nomad does not contain the baggage of our forbearers: no families to feed or business to maintain. Although we do sometimes stand in yet another doorway, bags packed, and wonder where all our camels have gone.
It’s now over three years since I made that two-month plan. Seasonal living is what I like to call it: perennial paths that bloom with individual choice. These choices take us exactly where we need to be in any given moment; they allow us to, without reservation, BE. Some ask if I get time to pause with all this nomadic living. Yes. Whether consumed by urban grit or pristine nature, I do. In those moments I find the stillness I’ve been looking for; I witness the suffering most don’t want to see; I allow the rays of sun from a new day to rest on my eyelashes before the next blink.
There are occasions where being is not enough to pay for flights and we have to work, or other times when life demands a change. For me, one of those nagging life issues arrives in the form of identity expiry. The contents of my US existence are contained in a closet, two bankcards, a passport, driving license, and my voter registration. Except for the closet, everything will expire between September 2012 and March 2013. If I do let it all expire that means I will have to hug my British passport tight, only withdraw money from a Pound account, and vote in a political system that I hardly understand. No thanks! I like being a bit mixed up – it provides more options.
The pot is simmering for this little nomad’s next set of movements. Online bookings demand credit card payments that plan to take me from Entebbe to London, via Nairobi. London to New York direct! From New York to Florida, unless I get tripped up in some other kind of adventure. Finally, as the frost sets in come January, I’ll cruise back to equatorial living in Uganda. The sun will kiss my skin again, the earth will stain my feet red, and Africa will be home once more.
karablackmore 