The end of the beginning... or the beginning of the end

So. It all began apparently very innocuously, with The Man complaining to his brother about the state of the country - a favourite topic with all South Africans, but especially for those with ex-pat brothers. And then said brother - sitting pretty in Denmark - says, equally innocuously, why don't you try New Zealand? It's beautiful, there are great mountain biking trails there, and it was the backdrop for the Lord of the Rings. And so it started.

The first time Willem mentioned moving abroad to me, I laughed indulgently and dismissed the idea immediately. But Willem is a sly dog. He knows all about subtlety and insinuation, about attrition and allusion, cunning and craftiness, guile and - on my part - gullibility. He'd casually throw attractive facts about NZ into the conversation; he'd leave gorgeously photographed tourist guides on the coffee table; he'd rent DVDs filmed in New Zealand and make sure I knew where that magnificent landscape could be found. He'd show me stats about how the weather was not THAT bad, about how the earthquakes weren't THAT hazardous, about the great outdoor life and sporting culture, about how NZ's global peace index rated 4th in the world. When I complained about the cost of private school fees, he'd happen to mention that New Zealand's (public, virtually free) education was rated 7th in the world; when I wearied of the provocations of working in private practice he'd just happen to find a spot in the conversation for the abundance of psychology posts in New Zealand, which did not require taking suicide calls on Sunday nights or dealing with medical aids that ran out after March of each year. He'd point out the myriad of half-day posts designed for working mothers, the family-friendly kiwi culture, the opportunities for further training and specialisation, the red carpet rolled out for psychologists in a country that appreciates the need for tertiary health care.

So what can a girl do? I was seduced by sweet talk (er, not for the first time...). Of course, like most of us, I am familiar with the disillusionment that follows seduction, but, like most of us, I am a sucker for the thrill of new discovery, despite strongly suspecting that I will regret it in the morning. Seduction and emigration are not that different. It is so easy to slide into it, so easy to just take that one more step... and then it's too late, and you're rollercoasting on a ride that you can't get off of, but you're not sure that you want to because you're simultaneously terrified and exhiliarated and paralysed and mobilised and confused and focused all at once. It was such a quiet acceleration from 'just' registering with the NZ Psychologists Board and 'just' filling in an online Expression of Interest Form to getting a job and buying airplane tickets. The South Africans have only one word for it: bliksem. (Actually, there is another, but this is a family blog.)

So today I find myself teetering on the edge of the world, about to tumble into a black hole that could timewarp me to another universe or wipe me out completely. Some of the simplest things to do have been the hardest: selling our raw wood-and-skin drums and untreated wicker furniture, parting with old books and favourite pot plants (some of which have accompanied me since student days), forcing our children to let go of at least some of their numerous toys, finding a home for our cats and - topping the charts - meeting my first and only newborn nephew Finn for the first and almost the last time in a long while. The first goodbyes took me by surprise: a month ago, friends from afar on an annual visit to town reminded me that this was the last time we'd meet. The scheduled goodbyes are proving no easier - we refused to make speeches at our Family Farewell lunch today, but that didn't stop the tears from threatening an impromptu appearance when it was time to collect the empty platters and head on home.

Yet on and on the rollercoaster hurtles. Tomorrow we start sorting the boxes of stuff that have accumulated in our spare room; next week I close my practice, part with my cats and host a Bilbo-esque bonfire farewell for friends and colleagues; in two weeks' time I'll be living out of a suitcase in preparation for the trip eastwards. Living in the moment mixes in a psychadelic swirl with visions of the future. Memories of childhood rituals, invoked by last-time lunches with my cousins and sessions of sorting and filing old photographs, eddy and whirl with diaphanous images of reunions in a foreign home (what an oxymoron!) and family photographs yet-to-be. Some of my friends tell me they could not do what I've done; others have already done it. My journey is that of an approximate 175 million migrants currently living in the world - hardly unique. Yet to myself and my children, and those closest to us, it is a journey taken for the first time: an adventure into the frontiers of time and space and humanity, where everything is unknown, despite the aids that technology and information and wisdom can provide.

And I suppose that is what makes our journey so attractive: in this world where everything has been done, and where every discovery becomes so quickly jaded; where we long for instant gratification, quick fixes and the American sitcom 'happily ever after', this is an adventure that doesn't end when we turn off the TV or drain the sauvignon blanc. It doesn't end once we land in the home we've only ever seen in the Lord of the Rings. It doesn't even begin there. It is ongoing, as it has always been: only now, we are acutely aware of it, like that first gasp of air after being underwater too long.

And what a breath it is. As Bilbo Baggins says, on that penultimate journey of his,
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

Penny