By Ron Cheong
News Americas, TORONTO, Canada, Sat. June 6, 2026: It always happens right around February. You are standing outside in Toronto, London, or New York, shoveling six inches of grey, slushy snow off your driveway while the wind chill threatens to freeze your ears solid. Your back hurts, your boots are wet, and a sudden, desperate thought flashes through your mind: Why am I doing this? How about moving “back home?”
You go inside, log onto the internet, and start browsing real estate listings back home. You see photos of lush green land and wrap-around verandas. You close your eyes and make a solemn vow: “That is it. We are packing up. We are buying a piece of land, building a house, and moving back for good.”
It is the ultimate diaspora dream. We imagine ourselves living a stress-free, Facebook-ready lifestyle. In this dream, we wake up early to the sound of tropical birds chirping, stroll into the backyard to pick the sweetest mangoes from a tree heavy with fruit, and spend our afternoons sipping cold coconut water on the porch while a cool breeze blows away all our foreign anxieties.
It is a beautiful illusion. It is also a complete fantasy.
The reality check begins the exact second you step off the plane. You walk out of the air-conditioned cabin and are immediately hit by a wall of humidity so thick it feels like a punch in the chest. Within three minutes, your neatly pressed shirt is glued to your back.
And then, there are the local residents you forgot to account for: the wildlife.
For reasons unknown to science, local mosquitoes can smell foreign blood from a mile away. To them, a returning diaspora member isn’t a long-lost cousin – you are a walking, talking, five-star buffet. But it’s not just the mosquitoes. You can uncap a two-litre bottle of Coke, walk into the living room for a second, and return to the kitchen to find a lizard has beaten you to it and is happily swimming laps in the last remains of your cola (true story).
Even your daily routine becomes an exercise in survival. You try to dress down, put on your slippers, and blend in like the real local folk that you are. It doesn’t work. The taxi drivers can spot your “foreign walk” from a mile away and will instantly hail you out, doubling the fare before you even open your mouth.
If you try to make a phone call to get something done and launch straight into business, you will be met with icy silence. You forgot the cardinal rule: you must say “Good morning” or “Good afternoon” first, or the conversation is over before it begins.
As for bureaucracy? Forget about it. We get so used to the hyper-speed, automated efficiency of the global North that we forget the golden rule of life back home: things take time. If you need to visit a government office or a bank, prepare for a grueling five-hour lineup. You will need three different forms of identification, a mountain of patience, and a stack of documents requiring numerous official stamps. Everything operates on the relaxed timeline of “just now.”
Even a simple commute can scare you out of your wits. You hop into a minibus, only to find yourself trapped in a speeding rocket ship with music blaring so loud your teeth rattle, praying you make it to your destination in one piece. You look out the window and see a donkey cart or a horse-drawn cart casually moving along the side of the road – a stark contrast to the chaos.
And when the weather turns, it really turns. The heavy tropical rain falls so hard that it feels like “one drop can fill a bucket.” The downpour brings an immediate flood, forcing you to run out and buy heavy-duty mud boots just to cross the street.
Yet, despite the chaos, the illusion never truly dies because the beautiful moments are unmatched.
When that heavy rain hits, you get to lie in bed and listen to the lovely, calming sound of rain dancing on a zinc sheet roof. It is a sound that instantly floods your mind with sweet childhood memories, a comfort you can never buy abroad.
The dream of coconut water actually comes true. You end up drinking gallons of it, so much so that you and the coconut vendor become personal friends. He starts “watching your back” and saving the best ones just for you.
You get to experience real nature. You travel by boat on massive, powerful rivers that make the little creeks they call “rivers” in North America look like puddles. You get to satisfy your deep cravings, eating proper pepper pot, and feeling absolute delight when you see your favorite spot, Shanta’s, is still open and still making the best dhal Puri after all these years.
The cold, distant culture of the North melts away. You find yourself standing in the supermarket line, “gaffing” with the cashier like she is an old childhood friend you haven’t seen in years.
Best of all, you get to escape the madness by sitting on the seawall. You gaze out into the endless ocean, enjoying the cool Atlantic breeze, taking in how things have changed. Today, the seawall is alive with vendors selling ice-cold drinks and smoky, perfect BBQ chicken.
We might complain bitterly about the heat, the lines, and the bugs when we are home. We might fly right back to our heated apartments when the vacation is over. But the very next time the winter slush hits our boots, we will open up those real estate websites all over again. After all, a little bit of flooding and a swimming lizard are a small price to pay for a culture that wraps you up like family.
Dedicated to the resilient diaspora community – the barrel packers, the winter-survivors, and the dreamers. May your suitcases always clear customs safely, your accent never get too foreign, and your longing for home always keep you warm.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Ron Cheong is a frequent political commentator and columnist whose recent work focuses on international relations, economic resilience, and Caribbean-American affairs. He is a community activist and dedicated volunteer with extensive international banking experience. Now residing in Toronto, Canada, he is a fellow of the Institute of Canadian Bankers and holds a Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Toronto.
