Culture shock – the fatigue of the mind

 Disclaimer: the below contains information that is yet to be proven scientifically.

Culture shock is an experience similar to muscle fatigue. We know what causes it: similarly to aching muscles, culture shock emerges when you do something you’ve never done before, or at least for a very long time. For instance, travel to a different country, different continent, different culture. In these cases, it isn’t the quads or biceps that are being worked extra, but parts of our brains. By default, it’s a pleasant activity: it feels refreshing to shake up those lazy cells a bit. This is the time when you marvel at the odd signs on billboards, at the red buses driving on the wrong side of the road, the unknown yet good-looking pastries, when you stare at seas, mountains, cities, plains with awe.

Then, just like muscles when they are overworked, the head starts feeling discomfort. Wall climbing is fun for only so long, after which you’d like to ease the ache of the muscles; similarly, the fascinating new environment can easily become exhausting. All that novelty starts to get irritating, and you wish that everything worked the way you’re used to it, so you can get some rest.

Culture shock isn’t only that it’s always summer and you have to drive on the wrong side, that there isn’t running water, sometimes not even electricity. It’s also a culture shock feature when nobody tells you which door to use to get on the bus, do you have to hail it down, can you pay with bills or do you need half a kilo of coins to buy your ticket.

It’s part of culture shock to not know if your latte is indeed called latte, or it has some odd local name, one that could translate to upside down, broken, Russian, or creamy coffee. When you have to do a full tap dance performance in the bathroom to figure out whether the faucet works on sensors requiring movement, voice, or the appropriate facial expression.

Culture shock isn’t only when you get yelled at on the street “Muzungu”. It’s also when the bus driver addresses everybody getting on the bus as “darling”, and those getting off only get spared because they use the back door. It’s when all your professors are referred to by their first name. When the cashier asks you how you are but doesn’t wait for the answer – they would have the time though, since part of culture shock is not understanding the local coins and taking forever fishing out the right amount from your wallet.

Culture shock isn’t only when you’re in a place you don’t speak the language of. It’s also when you’re somewhere you in principle should be able to, yet you have no idea what the neighbour said although they were visibly very excited about it.

Culture shock isn’t only the unknown and suspicious fruits on the local market. It’s also having to learn where the market even is, which store is cheaper, what that fruit is, which garbage bin is for recycling paper. That what they call a tram is really a cable car. Or what they call a cable car is really a tram. How big are the beds, and in what order you have to pile up the utterly confusing system of pillows and blankets, which also have names that have nothing to do with “pillow” and “blanket”. To learn whether life stops on Sundays, or on the contrary, everything can be scheduled for any hour of any day.

Culture shock is like sore muscles. It fades away after a while if you keep working the same muscles. But if you mix up your workout routine, and move into a new environment, all that training was for nothing, body and mind notice the change immediately. If you jump around between tropical and concrete jungles, better to accept that some soreness will be permanently present. Sometimes in the head, other times in other body parts.

 

(The original article appears here.)

No longer under the mosquito net

It doesn't take Sherlock to figure it out, so most of you probably know already that the notes from under the mosquito net have been suspended for an indefinite period. (In accordance with an old agreement with Yannis, the use of the terms forever, never, always, ever, is to be avoided if possible.)

Even after two years, I considered myself a rookie, and sometimes had to remind myself that it was no longer an acceptable excuse, even if I've never been to Tango Bar on a Saturday or in Cocos on a Friday night.

I somehow realized I knew more than what I gave myself credit for when, during the last month, I got to host two (real) newcomers, and suddenly had to look at the world with their eyes. And remember the (frightened, wide open) eyes I had when I arrived. And recalling the people who marked my first day ("You won't last 6 months here" guy, whom I wanted to send a postcard to when I hit December 6, except I neither knew nor cared about his location at the time, and "You'll be fine" guy, who probably saved a good number of tears for me, and whom I wanted to marry after that for a few weeks, out of sheer gratitude), I knew that I wanted to be optimistic yet realistic, and show them that Goma being what it is, it takes time to feel comfortable, but after that one very quickly may feel at ease.

I believe that any two years at any location, if looked at as one chunk, would show changes in anybody's life, character, thoughts. It's not location or profession-specific, even if some places and some jobs are more intense at times.

Nonetheless, I have to say, looking at it as one chunk, that these two years have given me the professional boost I wasn't sure I was looking for. I left that chair behind that messy desk of mine with more confidence, and, more doubts. This I believe to be fertile soil for progress. If the "only" result I walk away with is the feeling that I like what I do and that I'm good at what I do, that's already huge.

And there is, of course, a lot more. In my line of work it's quite hard to separate work from personal, because the people are the work, and this must especially be true in a field location, where the people you work with are pretty much all you have (with the refreshing exceptions of Benoit and Aleks). This can get tricky as you know more and more people in different capacities, and sometimes you feel you know too much and can tell very little.

But it is so worth it! What Goma took away in terms of safety, stress, inefficiency, bureaucracy, it gave back – and much more – in people. People in all colours and shapes and stories, people I liked or didn't, but who always gave me the freedom to decide for myself, people who – often without knowing – pointed out my own weaknesses or strengths, or showed me a direction I'd never thought I'd be going. People, who, I know, won't be all with me for the rest of the journey. But some will. And even those who won't, have put something in my baggage.

I've been back to Hungary for 3 weeks now. I'm still in the phase when I think nobody really understands my experience, which partially is true, in the sense that none of us will ever be able to fully understand any experience of any other of us – that's just being different humans. But it's not entirely true, because there are people who have experienced something similar and could relate, if I tried. But I haven't. Part of me doesn't want to be understood. I want to be special. I want to make a point of belonging to a different tribe, and unless you've been in Goma when I was, sorry, your tribe isn't mine.

Childish, I know. It will pass, I know. Probably part of the Repatriated Expat Blues.

Which I'm treating with the Passing By method – not staying too long in a familiar place, but moving on the next unknown. In a week I'll be in the not so United Kingdom, studying business psychology. Something I probably wouldn't have done without the lessons learnt and missed during the past two years. Where that will get me after is again something that time will tell. I deal with the future when it gets here.

Till it happens to you

It comes up every time a large number of people die a violent, senseless death: why do we care more about Paris (Nice, Brussels, etc) than we care about Istanbul, Baghdad, Beirut, etc. The debate heats up and includes comments that question, albeit rhetorically, when we will see a #prayforBeni post.

Thing is, we won't. And the explanation, I think, is rather simple. We care about whom and what we know. I'm no expert on the matters of the human mind, other than the fact that I have one, but I think it's difficult to relate, especially emotionally, to something abstract. Places we've never been to, people we don't know, are abstract. How many people you had to account for at the Istanbul airport that day? Maybe the occasional traveling one, who was, by the way, in transit, relatively far from the actual trouble. How many you had to worry for in Brussels? I, for about a dozen. That's when it hit closest. And although I have nobody in Nice, it is a weird feeling to picture that promenade where we were strolling with Shari and it was so damn cold, in a state of sheer panic.

The rest remains abstract, unreal; Beni most of all.

I'm not trying to excuse the way we act and react, but I think it's the main reason. And the way we consume news and information these days – you choose the channels you follow, and most probably your friends are from a similar culture so they will care about the same things and you get somewhat stuck in the same circle, with the same news focusing on the same region, geographical or cultural.

The solution? I doubt there is one, but love thy neighbour sounds like a good start. Get to know people from Beirut, Baghdad, Istanbul, from places and cultures initially foreign for you. They will stop being abstract, and you will be able to relate more.

Then you can worry about more people in more places when something happens, because all of a sudden it's not something remote, but it's happening, even if indirectly, to you. Then you understand, the bell always tolls for you.

I know my kingdom awaits

Home is not a place. I suspect I've known it for a while; I've had and keep having many homes, some are in places I've always only been a visitor, and I'm slowly recognizing that home, in fact, is not a geographical term.

The house you grew up in and never left is of course a home. But very few of us have that house still, and even fewer of us have never left it. For those of us who did leave, and returned to either the house or ourselves being in a changed state, the search for home is on ever since.

Good news: once given up on the idea of „the one” home, we can see that homes are everywhere.

Home is in any city where you don't need a hotel room. Where you can cook, because you know where to find all the devices in the kitchen, even if it's not yours. Where you bump into people you know on the street. Where you find your way without a map, relying on landmarks more than street names. Home is where you know your reference points, literal and figurative, even if they keep changing. At home, you know where you are.

Home is people, too. Conversations where you can say what you think without being judged for it, debates where you can disagree without dismissing the others' opinions. It's inside jokes and terrible puns, and if you’re doing it right, it's also comments that would sound awfully un-PC in any other context. At home you dare to make those jokes because you know that they know what you mean and what you don't mean. Home is where you feel you belong – a feeling our band of gypsies is so eagerly after.

Home is time. Time you spent somewhere, a period of your life that has been instrumental in your personal development. Important in becoming who you are today; or in building who you will be tomorrow. In short, home is where you know who you are, and its geographical location is but a stage decor.

Home, they say, is where the heart is. Now that's good news, considering that your heart, in the vast majority of the cases, stays within your body. Meaning that your heart is wherever you are. Meaning that your home can be anywhere you go. you carry it in your heart, and you're never without it

Ultimately, we're a bunch of emotional superheros

I had to say goodbye to four people today only. And to a few others in the past weeks. Not the "I'm driving you to the airport, or worse, dropping you off at the border" type of goodbye, but the "I'm going on holidays and by the time I come back you won't be here" kind, which is pretends to be a little easier because it allows denial about the fact that it's indeed a goodbye.

I know that Christian would ask, before I could even make a sad face, "But Kata, what did you expect?", and that Anders would tell me that "people come and go". Except that I explained to both of them several times that I am fully aware of life being just like this, and I didn't expect anything else, so they wouldn't actually have to say any of it. 

This time around I'm actually on a positive note: I'm happy for having met them, and quite excited about seeing them again in a probably confusingly first-world setup. Or in a familiar mission environment; one never knows.

However, the beauty of the experience together, and the perspective of a next one doesn't make the actual departure day much easier. It's like staying up all night talking with your flatmates about life and love and David Bowie and belly dancing and tattoos and friendships that fade away and second chances and adoption, and then having to go to work the next day. Was it a great night? Oh yes it was. Do you feel like a zombie? Oh yes you do. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Does it make you feel any less of a zombie? Not really. Would you do it again? Without a shadow of a doubt. Knowing full well that it would leave you feel like a zombie for a while. 

Couple of naps/weeks later you will still remember how comfortable, deeply connected, blessed and grateful you felt for having somebody listen to your often ridiculous relationship drama and highly inconsistent political views, whereas the zombie day will seem  a proof of your inner strength - see, I could go through a day without sleep! 

This is how goodbyes should feel. I'm damn lucky for the days they were around, and I'm a total badass for getting through the day they left.

TL;DR: Still very happy!

The Tshukudu Movie Club came back from its winter sleep that night. Admittedly, the winter sleep was induced by my antisocial tendencies, topped up with kazi mingi (brush up on your swahili for that one).

But then Benoit came back from where he was, and Habibi came back from where he was, and even Ponyito was home, and then German decided to take a nap on our sofa, pretending he was participating, so Movie Nights were definitely back.

On top of that, we (Benoit) offered the Oscar-winner foreign language film of 2015, which happens to be Hungarian. Not a very cheerful one, but certainly one with a very unique point of view. One of the many things I enjoy about this otherwise surreal life setup is that I get to proudly show around things „my people” have made and done. Including the ball point pen and the Rubik cube.

And there, in the living room, between guacamole and Danish (?) brie cheese, I just realized that it was an anniversary. I'm a terribly nostalgic person, I remember what I was wearing when I first met somebody important, or that I was buying mango juice with the Chief when I realized I was missing somebody, so it's somewhat normal that I remember that it was the 7^th June when I arrived to this mission. I remember how I was explaining to the immigration officer at the Entebbe airport that I don't need a visa because I will be working for the United Nations, how utterly bizarre it sounded, and how disappointed she was that she couldn't make me pay for it.

Accounts of those first days can be read here  and here , and although you could follow the last two (2!! TWO!) years through this blog, I'm not sure it can really reflect just how far I've come. 

Professionally, which is important, since no longer enjoying anything at work was the primary reason for quitting the old job, but ironically, coming here made me see just how much I learned on the old job. And how important it is to call it quits when it's time.

Personally, too – I figure everybody is changing , and while „maturity” isn't necessarily the adjective that comes to mind when you're talking about a person who is excited about the trampoline in her sister's garden, there is certainly personal development to be noted. Development not in the sense that what was before needed fixing, but development in the sense that exposure and time makes all experiences richer. I'm not saying I'm afraid of fewer things now, but maybe of different things, and I'm more open-minded towards my fears. And a lot more confident about the few things I know. And the many things I have an opinion about. I don't fear Game of Thrones debates, because I have about as much of a chance at being right, as does anybody else. Even Marcello.

Important to note that this personal development or discovery or epiphany is not necessarily location-specific. I'm sure the lovely breeze of North Kivu has done me good, but I think most credit needs to go to all the amazingly weird people I've met here. Again, I don't think that North Kivu is the only place to meet amazingly weird people. We are everywhere. I'm just particularly lucky about this specific set of weirdos, because they are, just like The Animal Parties, happily aware of their own weirdness. And embrace it.

These lovely weirdos have - if unknowingly – helped me a lot in my learning to let go exercise.  I've counted 7 (seven!) flatmates in the last two years, and all of them have been a blessing - one way or another. The movie nights have almost completely changed its audience, but it hasn't changed its nature - depressing and disturbing movies (almost) every Tuesday. 

I am a rather clingy, please-don't-leave-me, together forever kinda girl. It is known. But my Goma-weirdos come and go faster than I could change my hair colour, and there is nothing I can do about it. And this, ultimately, is a great lesson. Not to say I have been a model student all along, but somewhere in the past two years I learned to appreciate the moments we have, and mope a little less over the ones we can no longer have. 

There are more specific lessons I've benefited from as well. One of the many great things about my line of work is that I get to meet all kinds of professions. And since they think they depend on me (they don't), they tend to be a little more sociable. I get to ask questions, and learn about what they do – and they do some really cool stuff, and come from places I never heard of before (and definitely couldn't have placed on a map), and have very different life experiences. And a story. Everybody has a story!

I love stories. And cheese. I get them both here. What else can I ask for?

From Goma, with pis and love

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