Picture this. I am sitting in a chapa. A chapa is a minibus taxi of sorts that Mozambicans use for public transportation, used to link sites anywhere from fifteen minutes to eight hours apart. These are fifteen-passenger vans, but their minimum capacity in Mozambique hovers around 21 and I am fairly sure you can fit thirty poor souls in there at the same time, no problem. So I am sitting in a chapa, bored and frustrated waiting for it to leave. I’m in one of the seats that’s not actually a seat; rather I am sitting in the crack between the actual seat and the one that folds out, uncomfortable to say the least. It is already really hot inside, and reeks of sweat and humanity. In the seat next to me sits a local woman. She has the more comfortable seat, that’s for sure, but seems to be pretty much sitting on my lap. Her hand might even be resting on my knee, because it’s more comfortable there. Our skin is sticking together with sweat, and as much as I squirm away, I cannot even get half an inch of personal space. As if I was not already uncomfortable enough, then she pulls out her breast to start nursing her baby right there in my seat. The heat is scorching, but she is keeping the window closed, keeping me from my precious fresh air. I sit there, squished, sweaty, smelly, feeling just so wronged by this woman in the seat next to me. How dare she be all up in my space like this?? Can she not tell I am uncomfortable?? Why is she keeping the window closed?? My frustration builds and builds until I am almost ready to scream at this complete stranger sitting next to me.
Then we switch the scene to her perspective. She has climbed into the chapa, ready to go home after shopping for her children. She has her baby with her, which is inevitable but a challenge, constantly crying and demanding her attention, leaving her tired and ready to get home. She climbs into the chapa and sits down next to the window, choosing to leave it closed because the baby seems cold, and to avoid the harassment of the street merchants hawking their goods through the windows. Soon after, a white girl climbs into the chapa and wedges herself into the seat next to her. English, maybe American. The girl doesn’t acknowledge her, doesn’t smile or say hi. How rude. She begins to nurse her baby, which is normal in any situation in Mozambique. The girl looks at her with a death stare, constantly moving and squirming away even though there is no place to go—the chapa is crowded—making the woman feel uncomfortable: she has done nothing wrong. The girl doesn’t acknowledge her, and the woman notices the wrinkles and dirt on the girl’s clothes, a cultural faux pas. She begins to get frustrated with this unaccommodating foreigner next to her, who won’t even give her the time of day.
This is the kind of thing that happens, albeit unintentionally, every day. And who is right? Who is wrong? No one is. And this is the immense beauty and overpowering frustration of cultural exchange. No matter what you do, no matter how much you learn, there will be things that bother you, things that seem rude or uncalled for when the simple fact of the matter is, they are just different. Every day I find myself frustrated with little things that are normal here, just because they are so far removed from what I have grown used to in my culture. But even worse, is knowing that every day I unwillingly offend, or put off, or simply perplex someone, because of my different cultural behaviors that more often than not I am unaware of.
Some people begin to assimilate into their host country culture fully; others tend to skim the surface. There is no right or wrong answer. Cultural differences are the things that on good days make you smile big and remark at the wonder of getting to know a land so different than your own… and on bad days, make you want to scream and cry if just ONE more little kid yells “mulungu” at you. Good or bad days, though, it is an interesting ride… and you feel yourself growing and getting stretched in ways you maybe never would have experienced otherwise.
Besides the personal growth yadda yadda yadda, another good thing to come out of this is appreciation and realization of American culture. I have said many times, that I didn’t think America really had a culture. And being at a school like UCLA where so many people come from all over the world, I often found myself jealous of their cultures and resenting my American-ness. I tried to connect with my Middle Eastern heritage, studying Arabic and specializing in Middle Eastern studies as part of my Development Studies major. But that didn’t really change anything. I was just American. Boring. But America is a country of immigrants, and somehow we have managed to forge our own unique cultural identity in this crazy mash-up of peoples and languages and traditions. But perhaps you need to be removed from America to recognize what our culture is, both the good and the bad. For example, you might not notice Americans´ preoccupation with “personal space” (a foreign concept in many other lands), or the importance of expressing things like “please” and “thank you” verbally. You might not notice that unlike many other places, Americans don’t ask each other how they slept, or (often) ask about each others health and families each time they see each other. It has been fun recognizing what American culture is, and what parts of me have been shaped by living in the States. I am also compiling in my head, a list of things America does really well. This is really fun to bring up when people from other countries are talking crap about America. Here are some of the ones we have so far:
–customer service
–free water in restaurants
–high quality napkins
–happy hour
Okay that’s just a few but I would like to hear YOURS. What does America do well?
Sorry this is a random blog and a bit all over the place, I just wanted to share a little bit about what I am learning about cultural exchange. I guess culture is one of those things like many others where the more you learn, the more you realize you don’t know or understand. And perhaps you never will… but that’s okay. You take what lessons you can and keep your eyes open to the intricacy—and the beauty—of our differences. And you may learn that across the world, people are more alike than you thought.
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Political correctness. I’m not going to debate whether or not USA is more/less racist than other countries, but at least there’s an understanding that they are certain terminology you just shouldn’t say. Sets the tone for a more civil debate.