When travelling is in your blood

My earliest personal memory of travelling was visiting Swaziland.

Image courtesy stockxchnge.com

There is an age-old question about whether your likes and dislikes are the result of nature or nurture. Most people attribute it to nature, but I think it’s a balance of both.

My appreciation of jazz and classical music stems from my Dad constantly playing this music in our home. So that’s definitely nurture. My love of books is a direct result of regular visits to the library as a child. The same can be said for my love of travel. I was born in Cape Town.

My parents chose to move showing early signs of their wanderlust. My grandmother often teasingly called them gypsies because it seemed they were constantly going somewhere. In fact, I’m told that at one point they considered emigrating to the Netherlands.

I also almost ended up being one of the many South Africans in Australia. Travelling was our thing. That a Eurotrip in 1976 was one of the highlights of my Dad’s life is testament to this.

My earliest personal memory of travelling was visiting Swaziland. While my peers were spending their holidays playing in the streets and lapping up cable TV (which we didn’t have) my parents spent their cash on trips to Swaziland.

I’m one of the few people I know who had a passport at the age of two. My memories of Swaziland are hazy. I enjoy reminiscing by paging through the albums of photos that my parents have stowed away when I visit home. I remember being intrigued by the different currency with the image of a man with sticks poking out of the side of his head. I also found the squiggly shape of the coins interesting. I remember that no visit was complete without a day at the hot springs where you could get the most delicious fresh guava juice I had ever had.

One of the lingering, if not traumatic, memories I have of Swaziland is going for a guided horse ride and being taken through a thorn tree. I had scratches on my face for the rest of my holiday.

I also remember those little coin purses hanging around necks with Swaziland engraved on them. Quality leather goods and markets with an abundance of fresh fruit.

We visited Swaziland frequently when I was younger and I never really got why my parents loved going there so much. Maybe it was the easiest place to get to for that abroad experience?

My parents’ home is filled with collections of books on a variety of topics that my dad smuggled in from Swaziland at a time when literature and other things were heavily censored. I chuckled when he told me that the government officials at the border at the time were more interested in the people with girly mags.

It made me see my parents in a different light – as rebel travellers. It also made me understand where my love for travel came from.

The stamps in my first passport and pictures of two-year-old me speak volumes.