How Does a Nomad Stay at Home?

“Why are you here?”

We should be used to this question— it’s the sticky existential query that pops up regularly since coronavirus has put us all at a standstill. Uncertainty is high. The search for purpose plagues me daily. What is it all for?

However, this time it wasn’t me, but a particularly perplexed British border agent who wondered whether or not we had a right to exist. From behind a large plexiglass screen, he wanted to know, understandably, why on earth our family had chosen to travel to Bonny ol’ England at a time like this.

Well, after more contiguous mask-wearing than I’ve ever done in my life, navigating multiple airports without ever coming within two meters of anyone, and being awake for longer than I care to think about, I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking strategically when responding.

In a too-bad-I-didn’t-think-this-through-knee-jerk response, I said,

“Travel.”

Wrong answer.

It’s usually a safe bet. In fact, in my personal experience, that deliciously vague answer has placated dozens of border agents in various countries, representing every hemisphere on earth. However, all of those examples had the benefit of originating in a time when unnecessary travel hadn’t been banned. But now our answer was basically in line with admitting to biological terrorism.

The Agent raised an eyebrow to look at us more closely. Our three children suddenly appeared to him as little germ-ridden grenades (pull off the mask to activate). We gave them a gentle nudge and discreetly shoved them behind the big yellow line.

“Not ‘travel’ per se, but to ‘live’ for a little while.”

“Oh, you can’t live here.”

Sigh

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Where were you when the US State Department issued a Level 3 Travel Warning, recommending that US citizens not travel abroad?

We were already abroad and grappled with how to respond to such a recommendation. We considered returning to the US, but that would require traveling, precisely what was being advised against.

So we stayed put. We nestled ourselves into Cambodia as best we could. We found local markets and stores for all of our needs. We created daily routines inside or temporary Khmer home to turn our worldschool back into a homeschool. We made friends with neighbors—while maintaining appropriate distances, of course. And we were happy.

But we also needed to leave because as nomads you can’t stay in the same place forever. Put another way; if you stay in the same place forever, you’re not a nomad. And if you’re not a nomad, then you have a home somewhere. But as much as we are grateful for our experiences in Cambodia, it’s isn’t our home. Which means we had to move, which means we had to choose a place to which to go. And we chose England.

That was probably more than our British border agent needed to hear.

I now remembered the short but incomplete answer that we’d practiced ahead of time:

“Our visa in Cambodia expired. The government there is promising extensions, but the rules are unclear. We needed to leave.”

We were getting there, but his apprehension was still palpable.

How do you stay at home when you don’t have a home?

Shortly after recommending against going abroad, the State Department upgraded the Travel Warning to Level 4. This proclamation included an order for all US citizens to return home, which begged the question—as did the truly flabbergasted border agent—why we weren’t returning to the United States.

I’ve come to appreciate that there are two components to what makes a home. The first is a physical location in which you dwell, hopefully, appointed with some of the various and sundry artifacts of being human—conveniences like your favorite blender and mementos like souvenirs from favorite trips. The second is an area situated amidst familiarity, perhaps with a favorite coffee shop down the street, with neighbors that you wave at apathetically while driving away, and with luck, friends and family aplenty.

So when the State Department suggested that we return to the US and stay at home, it created something of a quandary for us. We don’t have a physical location: a house or apartment in America; we carry the first component of home with us in our five backpacks. The second component, that of a setting surrounded by friends and family and the like, has been taken from all of us. At this point, no one has a favorite coffee shop, and no one can visit their family and friends as they would like. So returning home became a vague and unactionable direction.

What do you mean by ‘unnecessary travel’?

Here is the long answer I would have liked to explore with Mr. Border Agent over a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit:

We have two family credos that we recite in alternation before meals. One is about gratitude for all that we have—our health, the beauty that surrounds us, and the love of our friends and family. It also has us give thanks for the opportunity to create our destiny.

The second is our Travel Credo, created while on the road and intended to remind us of our quest: to explore the world inside and outside ourselves to learn to live more thoughtfully. We shed our belongings and uprooted a year ago for a reason. For us, travel is necessary.

Though frustratingly polite, Mr. Border Agent was not projecting the impression that he had any hidden desire to philosophize with us—never mind that he started our conversation with an existential query. And so we summarized, or paraphrased, or dodged… whatever you want to call it.

“Mr. Border Agent, Sir, we have come to the United Kingdom to shelter in place until we can safely travel again.”

Bingo.

After verifying our expected local address, confirming that we had adequate means to avoid becoming leeches on the system, and quizzing us on social distancing requirements he let us in.

We can do nothing more than be eternally grateful to Cambodia and England for agreeing—no matter how hesitantly—to be our temporary homes.