Neither the Destination, nor the Journey

I was born Here. That’s what I was repeatedly being told. Also, I lived Here because Here was best for everything. Primarily because the schools were really good. Of course, Elsewhere, it was warmer, nicer, cheaper, more colourful, and definitely more exciting, more interesting. Elsewhere was, in one word, better. That is what my parents kept saying, in words and pictures. As their parents had said and done before. Moving Elsewhere, that was escape and freedom. Here? Here is a purgatory worth enduring. You just had to be patient. Until it was too late, of course. 

My grandparents had gone there. Better still, they had lived there, Elsewhere. From Dijon to Katanga. On to Bordeaux, off to Cameroon, and back to Katanga. Each time, they settled like cacti, with only enough roots to thrive, until the next stop, always ready to pick up sticks. Sedentary nomads. The only true residence was the family. Until they came back to live Here. Back to the South of France. For a reason. Or another. They could never truly remember, they claimed. It had been obvious at the time, important – that’s all. They showed their daughters around Europe in 2 months, and then stayed on the French Riviera for 6. This is how you live Here, they told the family. So, they ended up Here. And they let the roots grow, reality get dusty, life ossified, and them mummified. 

Elsewhere always becomes Here eventually. How fast depends entirely on you. 

My parents stayed Here. They did not simply grow roots, they dug concrete foundations. They lived the dream: an apartment, a bigger one, and finally the ideal pavilion. With a garden. Elsewhere was more beautiful, they knew. My mother had lived there. My father was going there for months on end, building papermills. Even that seemed more exciting than riding the 431-bus to Buzenval. Over there the sun always shone, the birds always sang. That’s why we kept some of them in a cage to cover the noise of reality. People there spoke ancient and melodious languages, the streets a continuous performance. Traditions and beliefs seemed outlandish, and yet more believable. That is how it sounded like. That is how it looked like on the pictures. Only, my father would never take us there. Possibly could not. Probably because Elsewhere would then just become Here.

Elsewhere never needs to be explained, quantified, rationalised to be better. It just needs to not be Here. 

To me, Elsewhere is always uncomfortable at first, awkward, odd, strange. I lived in Africa, India, the UK, Belgium and Singapore. Your first thought: “that is not what we do Here”. Until it all becomes normal, and Here creeps up on you. As long as the novelty persists, you hope that this will be It – that elusive Here that is as good as, better even, than Elsewhere. And then it melts away. On the never-ending scorecard of life, there is no perfect location. Everything is an equation. The experiment has never failed. Maybe my grandparents had the gist of it: it is not Where that matters, it is Who. At least that is how they lived, how they recorded it, showed and told it. My grandparents Elsewhere, their Here, were never truly locations. Yes, the locations had been great. But the heart of it? People. The family. 

Living in a circumstantial laager: did it snidely influence me? 

To keep the eternal motion going, my grandparents ended up creating a self-sustaining time trap, for all to join them in their eternity. They literally built a shrine, an orrery of artefacts, photos, movies, … Maybe they did not realise it? Although I strongly doubt that. They conjured a vortex, not through altars and hidden chambers, but by piling up everything randomly, endlessly. And we are kept digging, assembling, guessing the meaning of it. Trying to make sense of it. Maybe there is none. My grandparents got sucked into the vortex themselves. Time stood still the moment they came back from Africa. They used to travel to distant countries every other year. Once in Claviers, South of France, they never moved out. They never moved. Tethered to the time trap. 

You get stuck Here for reasonable, logical reasons. It always starts as a temporary state transition: you stay Here until the kids, until the dog, until the insurance … Logics. Until there is really none any more, not really.

It is a fight against comfort, excuses, instincts, biology, and history to keep the momentum. You can only get evermore tired. Life slowly bleeds speed. What was an elegant blur spinning at supersonic speed, first slows down, and underlying motifs, pictures, cracks and defaults start to be revealed. They become sharper and sharper, until you cannot see the movie anymore, only the individual frames. The colourful narrative slowly freezes over, the story dispelled. And the shiny spinning top topples, momentum gone for good. It now lies on its side, its vibrant elegance a distant memory. 

And when you reach Elsewhere, it will always eventually become some other Here – just somewhere else. 

The only possibility then is to enjoy that moment in-between. That moment in-between is not a process, nor a journey, and the destination does not have to change much either. It is just a temporary reprieve. There is only that fleeting moment you are neither Here nor Elsewhere, both remaining on their horizon, when time and space are suspended. You leave the certainty of what you know behind, and what expects you on arrival is for a moment an irrelevant blur. You fade from the mainstream reality. Time and place will re-appear soon enough, as soon as the doors open. Your journey elsewhere will start in that new Here you chose, when actions and choices have consequences. Meanwhile, that moment is yours, the only one truly yours maybe. You are you, standing (or sitting, or lying) between Past and Future, free of both.  

That suspended moment between Here and Elsewhere beats both the destination. And the journey. 

I know my father thought so too. That is maybe why he never took any of us to any of his Elsewhere’s. There would forever be names of cities wrapped in jungles and mists: Kota Bahru, Jogighopa, Bien Hoa. These places were to my father what Panda, Likasi, was to my mother. Places they had once lived. But the true mementoes my father kept, said it all: airline toiletry bags, ashtrays, masks and luggage tags. These were the true memories worth keeping, the true moments of bliss. Business Class Paris – Saïgon, 1978. Never spoken of, but always remembered. 

That precious time in-between, the only time you truly are. In the age of exploration, Elsewhere could be the sheer unknown, the Heart of Darkness. Today in the age of travel, it is but a step away. And the entire world seems on the move, for the latest must-be experience, economic mirages or cultural will-o’-wisp. 

The entire world is on the move to reach Elsewhere. But what when Elsewhere becomes Here? 

---

Follow on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok