WRITING PROMPT RESPONSE

Home is Where my Bag Is

Feelings and memories of a modern nomad

Home. Such a common word. Such an often used word. But yet such a powerful word. For those who are free to leave home. But also for those who are confined in their homes.

Home means a lot to me. It’s where I was born. And grew up. Where I ended up living for most of my life. So far. But home is also so much more. Home is a feeling of where I feel loved.

Home is my backpack. Sometimes a tent. Home is country. And another one. Home is where I build connections. And new friendships. Home is where I made memories. Memories I would never exchange for anything in life.

My version of home is way less attached to the material part and meaning of the word. It doesn’t necessarily refer to a house. Or a city. Or a country by all means.

The meaning of home, for me as a traveler in some sort of a modern nomad, is wide. It’s about feelings. Social connections. And love. Home is where my partner and best friend, my now husband is. Wherever he is, I feel at home.

Home to me is everywhere I build up memories. Home is where I made friends. Where I connected with locals and where I built a community around myself. Home is where I lived my life. Or part of my life.

Home is where I am happy.

My birthplace

I didn’t move much in my first two decades of life. I did travel, yes. On countless family holidays climbing the Alps and swimming in the Adriatic sea. But I always had the same home to return to.

We only moved once. When I was four years old. We moved a couple of streets down from the old flat. To a new flat. A place where I walked to alone as a four-year-old. Maybe a bit controversial today, but back then it was safe.

And I still have my permanent residency in the same town I was born in. The place I grew up in and learned all the necessary skills for life. Also, the ones that prepared me to travel across Africa. Alone as a woman.

My parents still live in the same flat. Where the mortgage is now paid off. And I still have my room in this home. With all my childhood memories. The same bed from when I moved out of the toddler’s crib. The same pictures I made when I was a teenager. With all the postcards I put on my old, wooden cupboard collected from friends traveling the world.

This is still my home. The home I will always return to. When I come back from my travels abroad. Or adventurous life. Looking for some peace and quiet. And loving memories.

The place I learned to ski

It might sound weird to you that I mention this place. But I’ve spent for 20 years each winter one week in a small quaint town in the alps. I learned to ski over there. Just after I managed to stand up straight.

I learned to build a snowman. I learned to dig out our car once it was snowed in. I learned to push my dad’s car on ice. To get it in the parking lot. I learned to put on snow chains. And I learned to drive myself. On snow. And icy roads.

I learned what happens when you lose traction with the car. And slide over the ice. Driving down a mountain pass. While the whole family is in the car. I learned why there are barriers on the side of the road. And that they do stop you from sliding down the steep cliff. If you weren’t driving too fast. Which I wasn’t.

In this snowy winter village, I got bored as a teenager. Knowing every tree, every hill, every place I could jump off. On the slopes. I needed a new challenge. And learned to snowboard. In the same skiing area.

I sledded down the mountain with my grandma. I built her a sledding slope. When there wasn’t enough snow. I walked with my other grandma along the endless hiking trails in the snow.

I built countless igloos. And snowmen. Built bars made out of snow. And served Glühwein (hot wine, typical for apres ski parties) to my parents.

I was in this place when I came the first time into contact with death. When we got the call my grandpa had passed away. I was there. In this very town. And ended up racing up and down on the skies the entire day. In my ways of trying to make him come back. And to deal with grief.

You see why I called this place my home too. Because I made lots of memories. I experienced a lot. Learned a lot. I grew. As a skier. A snowboarder. A winter lover. And as a person.

This is also where I went hiking in snowshoes for the first time. And where my husband saw snow for the first time in his life. In this way, it is now also a special place for him. I’m taking him with me to this home of mine. So it’s one of his now too.

Transilvania, Romania

It’s where my roots come from. Where my parents are born. And met each other. It’s where they lived during socialism. And where they escaped from in 1990.

I’ve only been there on a few visits of several weeks over the years. But I still always feel connected to it. The town my dad, and the town my mom grew up in. The countryside. The laid-back lifestyle. The smiles of the locals.

I’d often refer to being from Romania. Simply because there are German behaviors I wouldn’t want to identify with. Together with getting taught in school how bad we are as Germans with all the damage done in history, they pushed us down. A generation who doesn’t even know people who served in the second war. They taught us we cannot be proud of being German.

However, this education system made me ashamed of being German, and let me say proudly my roots are somewhere else.

And this is a place I yet have to take my husband to. And will. To show him the beauty of Romania. Its countryside. Its castles and history. The simplicity of life. And where my roots come from.

Ghana

Yeah, I jumped a bit. In time but in place too. With 21 I left both of these other two homes behind. Far behind. And flew across the ocean. To another continent.

In an attempt of freeing myself, I decided to explore another culture. A different lifestyle. And a new home.

I lived in Ghana for a few months. When I first stepped into the house of my host parents they said “this is now your home”. In the same sentence as introducing their children to me as my new brother and sisters.

And it became very quickly my new home. The clay hut. A yard surrounded by mud walls turned into my new center of life. I slept on a single mattress on the floor under the African sky filled with stars.

Chickens would walk over me in the morning and guinea fowls were flying over my head waking me up at 4 a.m. by their very annoying croaking. But I somehow missed it once I left the place.

This is where I had daily bucket showers. I washed my clothes by hand and learned from my new sister how to do it properly.

I was teaching children English and Maths. Sometimes also how to brush their teeth, why not to eat their only pencil, and how to clean a wound properly. Or anything parents would usually teach their children. Because most of these children didn’t have parents anymore.

I was working in a school with no means and resources. Or teachers. I used rocks, grass, and the single tree standing in the field to explain what I had on the agenda each day.

But I wasn’t just teaching during my time in Ghana. I also was a student. I learned so much. I learned so much about the simplicity of life. What really matters. And what happiness is.

I learned what it means when children don’t come to school because they are hungry. I learned what real hospitality means when you have nothing but give everything.

And before this is getting too long I am promising I will write another article about my life and the lessons I learned in Ghana.

My new home

As I refer to it often. My second home today is Namibia. The country in Africa I settled down in. The country I fell in love with its landscapes, wildlife, its sheer vastness, and a lifestyle I lived for.

And the place I fell in love with my husband.

This is where I made most of my memories in my early twenties. When I really grew up. Or learned how to stay young and be happy. How to live your life away from societies and their expectations on how we are supposed to live and what we are supposed to do.

And as I promised my mother-in-law: it’s the home I will always come back to.

Because I made connections here. I made friends. Friends who became family. Friends who are always there for you. Friends who lend you a car without hesitation. Friends who drive halfway across the country if you break down.

And friends who simply know what it means to be there for someone. Because of those connections, those friendships like in no other place, that is why this will always stay my home.

I am not Namibian by blood. But definitely with my heart.

My backpack

And while I was talking so far only about places and countries there are more things which represent home to me.

While I was living in Ghana and the following months of travel across the African continent, I didn’t have many belongings with me. I had one backpack. A decent hiking backpack that followed me everywhere.

If I stayed in a run-down hostel, slept on a mattress on the floor, or in a cottage on the beach. The backpack was the only thing I was familiar with. And the only thing that was always by my side.

My backpack is my home when I’m on the road.

I’ve hiked in the alps several times. For a few days in a row. Or on day trips. This backpack was always with me. Sometimes heavy on my shoulders. A relief when I could put it down. But still, my loyal companion never let me down.

I recently even did a snowshoe expedition with it. My backpack carried the snowboard up. I carried the backpack while boarding down the mountain again.

My backpack has been my home for many months. Or even years. The only constant I had in my life. Together with the belongings, I moved from country to country. Changing weather. Changing landscapes. Different people and cultures. New places to stay in. And sleep. But what stayed the same. And always followed me — was my backpack.

A rooftop tent

It only came recently into my life but I spend already weeks sleeping, reading, writing, and simply being in it. The rooftop tent of our newly purchased car back in Namibia. My other home.

When I need to get away from the city life (which is nothing like city life you know) then we pack the car and head out into the wilderness. With our “home” in the car, or let’s say on top of it, we sleep well wherever we decide to stay.

If on the riverbank where hippos and crocodiles live, next to a lake where mosquitoes come in flocks, or in the vastness of the desert where scorpions, snakes, and other animals are alive — we always feel safe in our tent.

I love going on road trips. Because I love being in nature. But even more, do I love going on trips with the home with me. A little bit of comfort and the given flexibility this home offers is enough for me to be happy.

My partner and husband

And last but not least there is one more person representing home to me. And that is my partner, best friend, and now also husband.

Over the last few years, we’ve been living and working together 24/7. And surprisingly, we haven’t killed each other yet. Despite sitting on top of each other (in a metaphorical sense) we’ve survived and actually thrived in those small places together.

We learned how to give each other room, as much as a tent, small flat, or room does allow. We learned how to push and be proud of rather than compete against each other at work. This is important since we’re in the same business doing the same jobs.

Final words

So here I am. In a new home. The tiny little fairytale village in the heart of Germany. Our new home. Because home is wherever we move to for the season. Or a few weeks. I don’t need much or long to call a place my home.

As long as I got my backpack with me. Or my tent. And definitely my partner in crime. Then I’m fine.

And home.

Because home is wherever my bags are.

Read more about my stories on “home”…

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Anne Bonfert is a traveler. Photographer. Writer. Teacher. Skydiving instructor. Adventure enthusiast. Nature lover. And fell in love with the African continent.