This is story #30 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
30. Holidays and Mini-Breaks in Southern Rhodesia
“I don’t need to go away to appreciate my own home. I don’t need a change of scene, either! Why do you want all that hassle?” my father would ask my mother. To him, holidays were a gimmick, a publicity stunt, a waste of time and energy, entailing hard work and stress, and costing money. He held this opinion to his dying day.
Yes, it was true. He didn’t need a holiday, and, from the age of 14 or so, I had always known it. Give him a non-fiction book about one of his numerous hobbies, provide him with a place to tinker or to pursue said hobbies, and he was happy to stay at home forever. He was never that much into socializing, either. He loved all of us, and adored my mother, but he was really a loner, happy with his own company. He was never bored.
My mother disagreed with my father. Every now and again, I could hear her saying to my father that the family needed to go away somewhere “for a break”. My father groaned, as he contemplated the inevitable: my mother was probably planning another long road trip to the beach in Beira, Mozambique, 350 miles away over lumpy roads, not that this latter worried him. He didn’t like beach holidays, though.
“Mini-Breaks”, however, were met with less resistance on his part. My father didn’t object if we went away for a weekend to Lake McIlwaine (now called Lake Chivero), a water reservoir covering thousands of acres and providing water for the city of Salisbury. “Lake Mac”, as we called it, was easy to reach. It was in the Hunyani Hills about twenty miles from Salisbury, on good roads. It was cheap to stay there, and we children weren’t under our parents’ feet since we played with other children there for the weekend.
