February 26, 2008 – 12:31 am (GMT +5:30) – Chennai, India – Don’t Lick the Stamps
I think this first picture encapsulates for me the real difficulty about a foreign culture. It is n’t the fact that there are difference. It is the fact that you never know when one of these differences is going to sneak up behind and smack you a good one. It’s like an ill kept road, of which there are plenty over here, a hole in a road isn’t that big of a problem as long as you see it coming. If you see it coming you swerve around it and keep going, just another day beneath the bright yellow sun. If you don’t see it coming, well that’s a different story. Thankfully Dave knows the steps pretty well and I haven’t yet hit anything hard enough to seriously slow me down (I am speaking figuratively here I don’t do any actual driving in India). But there have been a few bumps along the way.
For example, today I went to the post office. For the most part this was really one of the easiest things I have done on my own since leaving the United States. I went down stairs and asked a rickshaw driver to take me to a post office. Despite the fact that this guy spoke little to no English he had no problem understanding “Post Office” and off we went. Once there it was just like home. The same long slow moving line. The same dull lethargic looking workers, going about their jobs at their own pace. No big deal. You wait in line, occupying your thoughts wondering what would happen if Billy the Kid jumped in with his guns blazing and yelled, “This is a stick up.” Finally you get to the counter, the lady asks you all the question that you have just written out on the form, weighs the package, and gives you a price. But here is where the known and unknown begin to split. What I’m used to – I pay and walk away, they stick the stamps on and throw it in a bin. What actually happened, I gave her the money, she handed me the stamps and the package back. So okay no big deal I just lick these little stamps and stick them on. Only it’s not working. I licked but they wouldn’t stick. I licked them again, didn’t help. So finally I asked the lady. And she points to a little jar of sticky stuff sitting there on the counter. So now I’m that American who was trying to lick the stamps. Just another crazy American. I do however realize this isn’t so much a cultural difference as an age one, and that those of you who have a few years on me may have known from the start that licking these little ones would do no good. I however did not.
There are many other example of this. Like when I wanted to go to the grocery store. How do you convey grocery store to a man who doesn’t speak English. The word grocery he didn’t understand. So I tried Food market, okay that he understood, or at least I thought he did. Instead I end up at a store that sells only vegetables. Fresh and delicious vegetables to be sure, I have been eating fresh tomatoes in everything since, but since I was trying primarily for milk and eggs . . .
This brings us back to the numbered tree, the photo at the top of the page that I started with. I saw these the very first time I was out of the city. They are all over the place. I was a little curious, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t really think of any reasonable explanation for numbering trees. All along the roads 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 . . . and then they would start over again. Sometimes black and white like the picture, sometimes other colors. Even if I had thought of some reasonable explanation, it would not have been the correct one. The trees are numbered because, hey, if you are going to make rum inside a tree, you have to keep track of which tree it was and how long it’s been in there. Rum is the word that Pastor D. Paul used, but I think he just meant some type of alcohol. I certainly didn’t see that one coming. Like a sugar maple this tree is full of a delicious liquid, just don’t feed it to minors.
One final example that has a more immediate impact on my own life: If you wanted to say buy the newest gadget, an Ipod or a $500 phone that has it all, no problem. Every latest electronic dohickey is available hardly without even looking. When it comes to stationary too, there are whole stores full of nothing but paper: printer paper, colored paper, lined paper, little blocks of paper that sit on your table where they are always in the way, but never actually there when someone calls with a message. School supplies as well abound, notebooks, rulers, planners, backpacks, folders, pens, pencils, take you pick. But ask an Indian about index cards, and you get the crazy American look. Such a simple thing, and yet over here they don’t exist. You can eat at Pizza Hut, but you can’t buy an index card. At lest not that I have been able to find, and I have made a pretty thorough search.
That is of course what it means to be immersed in a different culture. They just do things differently. It can be a challenge to readjust, but it certainly is a very rewarding experience. I’d just like to finish with one final piece of advice. If an Indian is honking his horn at you in traffic, don’t get annoyed. Its just what they do. He could mean, “get out of my way you slow and obnoxious American.” But just as easily he might be saying, “Hey how are you, I haven’t used my horn in 5 or 6 minutes and I was beginning to forget what it sounded like, nice day isn’t it.”
That’s all for now. Keep me in your prayers, you are all in mine.
May the Lord’s blessing be as thick and deep as I hear the snow is back home.
In Christ,
Matthew Ude