Abstract
A few years ago, on a research trip to East Africa, I met a young man from my home town of Brisbane. Slightly sheepish at the implausible coincidence of our meeting, I struggled to say something that would be of relevance to both of us. ‘Nice place,’ I hesitantly opined of Brisbane. ‘Nah, shithole,’ he tersely said and, sensing that the conversation was at an end, I turned back to my Kenyan delicacy, spaghetti. The interchange reminded me of two things: first, it is always more difficult to leave home behind you than you think; and second, your home is not the same home as anybody else's.
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