Just found this post I wrote but didn’t publish during the pandemic in 2020 when I was feeling rather disgruntled and displaced…and have decided to publish it now, as it is a funny record of an unfunny time and how I felt:

“You’re too colonized!” said the hippy to the flatmate, as she threw her out of the house. Obviously the hippy likes living to the beat of her own drum, is not embedded fully in the “system” and enjoys a bit of good old freedom.

Now if it’s one thing I (sometimes) thank my parents for, it’s not taking an interest in my post-teenage future or career and leaving me to carve my own crooked path, spin my own wonky web and lay in my own uncomfortable nest. Which has led me to have quite an interesting life (most of the time). This lifestyle led me to flock together with freaks of a feather in far flung lands. People who lived and worked seasonally, following the sun and jobs around the globe. This broadened our minds and lined our pockets so we could continue the cycle.

My last and longest stint was living amongst the Bedouin tribes of the South Sinai. These ex-nomads of the desert live the simple life, where the most important things in life are hospitality, respect, generosity, community and living in tune with nature. Living amongst them really resounded with me, and being part of this community was maybe what my wandering soul had been searching for.

Spin the clock ten years forward, a global pandemic breaks out, the world goes mad, and I get caught out in the midst of all the confusion whilst on a six week holiday to New Zealand. Overnight I lose my tourism business, my partner, my cats and my home in Egypt as the freaky global situation forces me to stay put. Life in limbo-land had begun! With my one backpack full of clothes, I am officially a refugee in my own country. My life has been greatly reduced.

As the worldwide situation changes daily, it has become tough to make any plans about whether or not it would be a good idea to go back to my home in Egypt. I am living one day at a time, and a year after arriving in NZ, I am still staying with friends. I took on a tourism job for the summer, (although I promise I am making plans to get out of this fickle industry!) When tourists (other kiwis) ask me about my job, I feel compelled to tell them I don’t usually live here, I am just stuck for the time being. You know, just to tune them in. They insist on mentioning how lucky I am/we are to be in NZ with the whole global Corona palaver. What they don’t understand is I have just lost “life as I know it” so I wouldn’t care if I was in Timbuktu, I am pissed off and finding my way again and trying to recreate my life. Which I will, I am a survivor, all I ask for is a bit of understanding. Most normal people have not been greatly affected by this situation, unless they happen to have some kids in Aussie, which is not really a big deal, IMHO.

As for me, working in international tourism, I know a huge number of people across the planet who have been displaced, left broke and/or unemployed by Covid,or forced into weird situations. It’s no tea party, believe me. And although my life flipped overnight, people still insist on saying “But you must be so happy to be in NZ!” I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but that’s a bit like your house burning down and someone telling you “At least you still have your car to sleep in!” Yeah….nah.

Anyway, where am I going with all this…? I am trying to work out why it feels so weird being back in NZ after so many years. I guess I have become too “Bedouinized” – and that really suited me. All that simple life stuff – sleeping under the stars, making do and repurposing things (eg using an old can as a teapot on an open fire), having 24/7 access to a community I can call on any time for a cup of tea and gossip around the fire, sitting on the ground, being close to nature…not living the material life. So being back in a wealthy capitalistic world is just… strange!

The capitalistic “thing” became enlighteningly obvious to me when we were stuck in the level 4 lockdown right after the pandemic sent us all scampering indoors. Reluctantly bowing to the fact that “I ain’t goin’ nowhere for a while”, I realized one thing: I need a set of wheels. You can’t live in NZ and be carless, or you’d be forever stuck in your 10km corona radius. I decided amongst myself that all the rental car companies would have superfluous vehicles to flick off (or leave to rust), at a good price. I emailed several of them and secured a Wicked van for $1700 – yup, something I could even sleep in, yeeha! Wicked is a brand not many people are impressed with because of the rude expressions sprayed across them. Mine was on the tame side – I WISH I FELT AS GOOD AS I LOOKED – but I decided to delete it anyway and spray painted out the mural. Two cans of turquoise paint later, I had a coloured van, and would be heading back up to Nelson /Tasman asap. Besides, all the hippies had colourful vans up that way last time I looked (BTW I am not a hippy, nor do I smell like one), so I would just blend in. NOT. I found that the whole district had been flooded with the grey-hair brigade, hippies had moved further away, and I was the only one with a bright turquoise van, and anytime I parked in a road I could feel the vibe that people feared….oh no! It’s a freedom camper!! I wasn’t camping at all, but it seems all these well-heeled oldies lived in fear of anything out of place in their retiree heaven.

I missed Egypt. I missed the little acts of kindness I experienced every day, I missed eating my food with my fingers, sitting on the floor, sleeping outside and hanging out, crossed legged around the fire with nomads. I also strangely missed my “stuff” (belongings back in Egypt) as I only had one bag of clothes and wasn’t equipped for the oncoming winter. It’s been a strange process “letting go” of all my meager belongings, not knowing if I’ll ever see them again. I felt like an Indian Sadhu, you know the type – those naked, long-bearded guys that hang out in caves and have relinquished ALL material belongings. Not that I minded, but people are judgemental in the West, when you are dressed inappropriately for the weather/occasion. I was torn between not really being bothered about fitting into someone else’s box AND wanting to fit in and be normal. Eugh.

Being normal – now there’s a scary thought! They say you are the sum total of the 5 people you hang out with the most. I felt like I had lost my tribe, and was not that inspired by my immediate homosapiens. My best buddy was a dog, because we liked doing the simple things together – walking/swimming at the beach, watching the sunrise/set, checking out the stars, and we didn’t mind getting dirty. After 10 years (or more) of being who I wanted to be, I could feel the pressures of society gradually trying to reign me in again and slot me back into a hole. I was undergoing a normalization process. No more eating with my fingers, sitting on the floor, sleeping outside. I was expected to use a fork n knife, sleep in a bed and use the couch. But I don’t want to keep up with the Joneses and all their cookie-cutter friends.

The second winter came and I had to find some more work. A friend put me onto a sheep shearer, and I did a brief stint with a shearing gang, rousing sheep (that’s right, rousing, not arousing) – gathering the fleece up as it was shorn off, at lightening pace. That was an experience – long days on far flung farms, watching sheep get bullied. Then I got a couple of days a week packing pears in packhouse. The amount of shit jobs for shit money in NZ is mind-boggling. Anyway, that didn’t even pay the bills, but I learnt a bit about pears and built up some muscles. It’s fairly mindless, so I had lots of time to think all day. Or just tune out. Or muse about the fact I had spent all those years gathering skills, learning languages to end up….packing pears. (#pooemoji). If you don’t laugh, you cry.

So where to from here….who knows…needs must….and in the end…. I must be me. Stay tuned.