Cultural Adaptation

The other night another volunteer and I were bicycling back from the pool in the silky dusk, trying hard to get home to our flats before dark or as we have heard it called “the bandit hour”. I had my head lamp on and confidently pulled out onto a busy street and starting pedaling fast when all of a sudden from behind me she screamed “Oh my god we are on the wrong side of the road”, I panicked and pulled over because of course we were on the wrong side of the road for both of our home countries, but it was the right side for Guyana. So after two months of acclimatization the WRONG side of the road now feels like the right side of the road and apparently I have adapted. We had a good laugh at ourselves. This episode got me to thinking about how quickly and in what ways we do assimilate and what things remain strong cultural challenges.
So how have I adapted in two months of living in a very foreign culture as a highly visible minority? First and foremost I have adapted to customs of dress and greeting. I know to always greet people with the formal “good marning”, “good aftanoon”, or “good evenin”. It’s amazing to me how hard it is has been to turn off the automatic “hello” I am so used to offering. I now know that dress codes are taken seriously, any manner of dress that shows my legs or shoulders will solicit comments, and that wearing my hear down is tantamount to “take me now”.
I also have learned that if I don’t respond verbally to the thousands of offers of goods being sold, taxis offered, bus drivers stopping for me and the constant cries of “ya shoppin baby” I’m not being rude. And that to transverse through the streets successfully you must be aggressive, you must cycle with confidence and use your hands, feet, bicycle bell and voice. The alarming level of noise and the crazy jungle traffic I found so intimidating now just seems normal and I have learned the maze of side streets, which roads to avoid at all costs, and not to underestimate the speed of horses. Despite constant repairs issues and two minor bike accidents (avoiding horses and a street side machete sharpening) cycling is still the best method of transport by far and I have learned to carry all manner of things by watching the locals. By the way I have affectionately named my bike “Deathtrap”. In a moment of hilarity I recently lent it to another VSO who without knowing my bikes name, was on her for less than five minutes before she called out “my God this things a death trap”… So she is aptly named.
For safety I know to tie my bags inside my basket in case it gets grabbed, and link my purse over the handle bars for the same reason. I don’t walk and talk on the cel phone, I always take taxis at night and I carry my keys, some cash and my ID card in a separate pocket just in case my bag gets cut right off my arm and stolen. I have gotten used to locking and unlocking the five padlocks gates to my flat and know that every time I lock up my bike that I may well come back and she will be gone… although this might be a blessing in disguise.
I also know that along with the ubiquitous water, flashlight, sunscreen and bug spray that you need to carry an umbrella with you at all times, and have even found myself popping it open to shade myself from the hottest days just like a local even though I still feel little ridiculous doing so. I also carry flip flops in case of torrential downpours. They don’t wear boots, but it is perfectly acceptable to wear a shower cap on your head to protect your hair from rain, yes while walking around out in public! I also carry a book everywhere I go as just you never know when you might have to wait an hour or two. Speaking of waiting I have learned that a trip to the bank or post office necessitates taking half a day off work and I am slowly making my way through Tolstoy’s masterpiece “War and Peace’ (TRULY!) while I wait patiently in the behemoth line ups and through the officious yet rather hilarious procedures that always seem to involve Santa Claus size ledgers and two or three clerks to be completed. I have learned what day is the best for topping up my cel phone to get “free time in the free zone” (insert annoying jingle music here) and laugh to think I am paying more to NOT use my cel phone in Canada than I do to use one here. I know nothing much will be open Sunday except church and not to expect anything to start at the stated time, and that “jest now” can mean something will take five minutes or… never. Power outages are to be expected at work or home anytime and “War and Peace” and the flashlight then both come in handy.
I know what subjects to avoid discussing with locals, which ones will be of interest and can follow some fast Creole conversations now if I pay great attention. I love the accent and it’s an odd experience to be the one who is apparently difficult to understand, an example being I recently asked a co-worker who had brought her adorable daughter to work how long it took to plait her daughter’s hair in the morning, I even consciously used the Guyanese term “plait” instead of “braid”…and she answered “I just have the 3 girls”… I repeated my question, this time much slower…and then she answered “no just girls, not boys, just the 3 girls”. I decided to let it go at that point and said “how nice 3 girls”! I have learned to really appreciate how direct the Guyanese are in conversation. I was sharing a minor concern with a Guyanese friend and she got exasperated with me and said..”damn it gal just come out and say it...you are just too damn polite and diplomatic..I’m Guyanese..we are direct..so just say it” This kind of directness makes some of the street commentary you overhear more understandable and even culturally acceptable. They just calls it as they sees it, so hence terms such as “fat boy” “white girl” “blondie”…etc. The best example of this is of a lovely redhead Australian VSO who was infamously called “white man belly sweat” on his first day in country.
I am slowly adapting to living and working in a very different culture. The unfamiliar experience of being a minority, a foreigner, the one whose ways are wrong and are suspect is at times overwhelming. I have had people tell me to put a slip on, put my hair up, to cycle on the other side of the road, and grab for my bag, and offer all kinds of sincere and kind drive by advice. I have had children gingerly touch my skin apparently in awe at how pale it is and one woman was so shocked to find out that I wasn’t wearing a wig she had to pull my hair repeatedly to believe it was real. I have been called all manner of things and have come to realize that when people call me names they don’t mean to be racist when they yell out “hey whitey” or sexist when they call out “hey baby”..I now know it is just normal behavior here, and well I do stand out. I have also learned which comments are the truly derogatory ones and thankfully they are heard very infrequently. So now instead of being intimidated I often will just wave or smile back no matter what I’m called as what do we all do when we see someone different – we stare right? Most Guyanese I have met besides being direct are curious, fun loving, open, gracious and if asked will offer you good frank advice. Most have treated this foreigner well and I have experienced them making allowances, being understanding and reaching out to me….at work now they are even beginning to tease me – ask me things like have I tried the BBQ’d rat, after my semi hysterical display of fear when a rat was found in the garbage at work.
I think to advance global understanding everyone should live as a minority at some point in their lives to understand just how hard and humbling it can be, how unfamiliar a life can be to what you are used to, how values so different from your own can be discussed in front of you and you know you have to shut the f up…as your values are not better, they are just different. When we can let go of that judgment we will be rewarded when we find each other’s common ground, break down through the stereotypes we have been taught about another culture and understand our shared humanity.