Roots Revisited

Earlier this week I pondered my British/Viking/Himalayan roots, and how there seems to be a genetic personality that underlies what I enjoy.

Yes, those are my roots, but for over a hundred years, my roots have also plunged deep into African soil. My ancestors arrived with the 1820 settlers, and have basically not left the continent since.

My father's family was raised in Rhodesia (southern & northern, as the work decreed). Mom's family hung around Southern Africa.

Once you've lived in Africa, even just for a short while, the dust settles into your feet and you can't shake it. Forever your soul beats with its rythms and basks in its heat (unless you're in the Cape where your soul is more likely to shiver in the cold and be blown away by the south-easter wind....).

When I think of leaving this continent to wander as a stranger on another, it feels like I'd be leaving home. Home always has its problems and family members don't get along sometimes, but it's still home.

Growing up in Zimbabwe, the sound of cicadas and the dust-seared heat between thorn trees still sits on me like a familiar blanket, one well-worn and loved. Devil-thorns may prick at my soles as I wander this land, but its contours are as familiar to me as the ridges on my fingertips.

Those African roots are found in the way I talk (mixing Afrikaans and English with words from other home languages, all in the same sentance). They're found in the landscapes I seek out when my mind needs a holiday. They're found in my love of vast spaces and wild things.

I may have been "transplanted" here from a European heritage long ago, but this is where my roots have their nourishment.