The ship rattled and clinked all around me, keeping the warm ocean breeze out. A warm breeze I had not felt since I was 14 years old.
That was 12 years ago now, and the memories I had of home had grown warmer and warmer during my time away. They had grown inside me a dreamy fondness. A longing which I had never felt before.
Perhaps you can never truly appreciate where you have been until you have left.
At least I thought that was the case.
I had been woken by the heralding of gulls. They sang a tune that I had not heard for so so long. Calling out to me. Welcoming me.
The long journey home has been a tough one. Motion sickness was all around. The sticky and guttural sounds of vomit pierced the cabin walls to become stuck in my ears. Just like the raspy cries of ill babies and children did. They were the last hurdles before home. Hurdles that could not be seen down the long darkened isles that flanked the cabins. Yet they only felt inches away from me. Especially in the depths of this ship's echoing bowels. Especially during the nights when the sea threw our vessel from side to side, from back to front. Especially when the cold and black night threw itself down on us.
But I had made it through. Outside the cabin window was calm and quiet waters, warm and bright daylight.
I begin making my way up top. To feel the wind, smell the Pacific, see my homeland. The place I had been waiting so long and travelled so far to see.
The laboured movement and voices of other passengers, remind me of how journeys like this one are often hard on people, and hard on families. In fact, most of the families on board could not muster a greeting, nor a word, whenever I would pass them in the hallways of this ropey vessel. Sometimes, when eyes met mine, all that could be offered was a simple slither of a nod. More often nothing. Just a cautious glance from weary eyes. Eyes that had seen things they had not expected. Things that weighed so thick and so heavy on so many pacific spirits. Things that are preferred to be forgotten.
I see tired people. I see worn down families. With the ship about to dock, they all achingly drag heavy bags and heavy lives off, and out from under their bunks. Their different journeys and happenings in the west, have given them soft and meek voices. Voices with quiet identity and quiet purpose. One's that can only grow louder and less broken with strong community and time, which they will find here. At home.
I reach the end of the corridor and swing the doors with the small porthole windows open.
The bright and clear sunlight washes over me, causing me to shield my eyes for a moment. Just a moment. There it is. This is what I have been waiting for. Homeland.
Yet somehow, I am not feeling the feelings I was expecting. In fact I do not feel anything at all.
This is my home. This is the place I am from. The place I have missed for so long.
Something is different. Something has changed.
Towering blocks of foreign concrete line the beaches. These white monsters have shimmering windows that reflect away our vast blue sky. They echo the white bodies with reflecting eyes that I see beaching themselves and clogging up our ancient shores. These alien totems have invaded my home. Our home. They have turned our sacred land into car-parks, fake chlorine filled lagoons and manicured knolls for golf courses.
The ill feelings from the ship return. They run through me like those powerful jumbo jet engines.
I have returned home, and not returned home.
Families depart the ship. They do not even look up. Do not see where they are. Their heavy luggage and heavy hearts weigh their heads down. Weigh their hearts down. Where I am shocked, they are sad. Already broken.
This is the place where I once grew up, and this is also the place where I boarded a ship to get away from.
My heart is replaced by 5 star hotels. My soul is replaced by room service.
My home is filled with strangers.
My home is here. It is no longer here.
That was 12 years ago now, and the memories I had of home had grown warmer and warmer during my time away. They had grown inside me a dreamy fondness. A longing which I had never felt before.
Perhaps you can never truly appreciate where you have been until you have left.
At least I thought that was the case.
I had been woken by the heralding of gulls. They sang a tune that I had not heard for so so long. Calling out to me. Welcoming me.
The long journey home has been a tough one. Motion sickness was all around. The sticky and guttural sounds of vomit pierced the cabin walls to become stuck in my ears. Just like the raspy cries of ill babies and children did. They were the last hurdles before home. Hurdles that could not be seen down the long darkened isles that flanked the cabins. Yet they only felt inches away from me. Especially in the depths of this ship's echoing bowels. Especially during the nights when the sea threw our vessel from side to side, from back to front. Especially when the cold and black night threw itself down on us.
But I had made it through. Outside the cabin window was calm and quiet waters, warm and bright daylight.
I begin making my way up top. To feel the wind, smell the Pacific, see my homeland. The place I had been waiting so long and travelled so far to see.
The laboured movement and voices of other passengers, remind me of how journeys like this one are often hard on people, and hard on families. In fact, most of the families on board could not muster a greeting, nor a word, whenever I would pass them in the hallways of this ropey vessel. Sometimes, when eyes met mine, all that could be offered was a simple slither of a nod. More often nothing. Just a cautious glance from weary eyes. Eyes that had seen things they had not expected. Things that weighed so thick and so heavy on so many pacific spirits. Things that are preferred to be forgotten.
I see tired people. I see worn down families. With the ship about to dock, they all achingly drag heavy bags and heavy lives off, and out from under their bunks. Their different journeys and happenings in the west, have given them soft and meek voices. Voices with quiet identity and quiet purpose. One's that can only grow louder and less broken with strong community and time, which they will find here. At home.
I reach the end of the corridor and swing the doors with the small porthole windows open.
The bright and clear sunlight washes over me, causing me to shield my eyes for a moment. Just a moment. There it is. This is what I have been waiting for. Homeland.
Yet somehow, I am not feeling the feelings I was expecting. In fact I do not feel anything at all.
This is my home. This is the place I am from. The place I have missed for so long.
Something is different. Something has changed.
Towering blocks of foreign concrete line the beaches. These white monsters have shimmering windows that reflect away our vast blue sky. They echo the white bodies with reflecting eyes that I see beaching themselves and clogging up our ancient shores. These alien totems have invaded my home. Our home. They have turned our sacred land into car-parks, fake chlorine filled lagoons and manicured knolls for golf courses.
The ill feelings from the ship return. They run through me like those powerful jumbo jet engines.
I have returned home, and not returned home.
Families depart the ship. They do not even look up. Do not see where they are. Their heavy luggage and heavy hearts weigh their heads down. Weigh their hearts down. Where I am shocked, they are sad. Already broken.
This is the place where I once grew up, and this is also the place where I boarded a ship to get away from.
My heart is replaced by 5 star hotels. My soul is replaced by room service.
My home is filled with strangers.
My home is here. It is no longer here.
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