We Are All Hobos
On Being Homeward Bound
The Swahili word for white person is Mzungo, which literally means “one who wanders aimlessly.” I can just imagine a tribe of 19th century East Africans shaking their heads as a Portuguese man with a three-pointed hat stumbles upon their village with the sole purpose of “exploring.” The image of the aimless wanderer is a persona I have often embodied over the past year as I stroll through boisterous farmers’ markets (known simply as “markets” by the rest of the world…) or resplendent golden pagodas. But I now believe all travelers are, in fact, united in a pursuit of that is far from aimless. We all want to find our way home.
Now this may sound strange coming from the pen of someone who walked away from his house, job, and coffeemaker to buy a one way ticket to an unknown continent, but I posit that finding my way home was the goal all along. The first part of finding one’s way is the implicit intention of most traveling. Finding one’s way through the train station in Saigon. Finding one’s spiritual path in an ashram in India. Finding one’s newfound love for Nepali Dal Bhat. But setting out to travel the world with the ultimate goal of finding home has taken a finish line for me to truly understand.
As of yesterday, there is a plane ticket from Cape Town to San Francisco with my name on it. There is now an end in sight to this unscripted adventure of mine. But, the more I reflect on the prospect of returning, the more I’ve come to realize that I’ve been homeward bound all along. In my mind, we are all hobos — bound to our homes whether or not they are defined with an address. In the last year, I have found home on a wicker mat on the floor of an Indonesian mud hut and in the silky sheets of a five-star Bangkok hotel. I’ve found home in a two minute Skype conversation with my mother before the connection was lost and in the living room of a Nepali tea house where the warmth of the fire was the only common language. This whole time, I’ve been trying on others’ eyes for size, and seeing what I can take home with me.
TS Elliot once said, “and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know that place for the first time.” Finding home means finding warmth in all that is familiar and wonder in all that is foreign — not just inside a soft duvet cover or the walls of an intricate mosque. Home is in the safety of a roof, the flavors of a bite, and the ease of a smile. Home will always reside in our hearts. Perhaps it takes myriad miles of aimlessly wandering to remember where we left it.
