Culture shock. Part 1
In the past 6 months, I’ve experienced two international moves, a short-term rental in the homeland where my task was to support the boy to pass his IB diploma; Surrendering a role I loved; A close family member’s death and funeral; Bed hopping in England; Tenants moving out of our property ; Putting the house on the market; Dealing with incompetent estate-agents; Taking the house off the market; Removing/throwing out items and repacking a storeroom after a rat party-infestation; Refreshing, repainting, cleaning and sorting the house; Finding and supporting new tenants; Packing away a life; repacking for a new life. All the while being accompanied in all endeavors by our family dog, Monty.
Part of my Intercultural Communications Masters degree meant studying both culture shock and reverse culture shock but there is no textbook in the world that prepares you for this level of change.
We were in Barbados for five and a half years. Known for being a “great place to go on holiday” on arriving, I wasn’t prepared for all the classic stages of culture shock; the newness and novel nature of being somewhere different but similar, followed quickly by the need to sleep for long hours of day and night; the growing anger and disgust at some of the attitudinal and behavioural differences, much unexpected on an island so reliant on tourism; the futile attempts to make changes to improve the community; the gradual acceptance of societal norms; grief and reluctance to say goodbye.
But it was so much more than this – the island was a place of security and sanctuary during the pandemic. Led by a communicative and charismatic Prime Minister, Mia Mottley, inhabitants were kept well informed of the context of decisions, even when such decisions were unpopular. Once airspace was closed down – the repatriation effort on this is a blog post on its own – the people who were left had chosen to be there, or belonged on island, and the shift towards connectedness became palpable. Almost, without exception, compliance was close to 100% whether it be mask wearing, specific days and times to go to the supermarket (based on the initial of your last name) and not leaving your home cartilage (for an initial 6 weeks). Although somewhat claustrophobic, as adherence was so high, there was a strong moral tolerance borne by all. This temporary burst of community-spirited socialism and kindness enabled resilience, positive mental health and survival so I’m truly grateful that we lived through this period on ‘De Rock’ as a family.
Of course, it’s the people who make the place and we become close to a wildly diverse group of billionaires, millionaires, musicians, golfers, dog lovers and fun folks. Barbados brings out our not-so- latent hedonism. Rum runs through the veins as much as blood and we are never far away from the next gathering or party or bonding chats and conversation. I have mixed feelings for the actual place but I cry for the people I leave behind.
We say goodbye to the Caribbean at the end of February and fly first to England, for 10 days. I’m unclear if this is reverse culture shock, sadness about parting with dear friends, or the clear division, politically, morally, economically or socially created by 13 years of economic mismanagement, avarice, lies, corruption and greed, but this place no longer feels like home. I become wary of engaging in deeper conversation beyond pleasantries- every day brings a new political scandal, a new division created and stoked by all kinds of media, in particular the rabid press owned by billionaires who neither live nor pay tax in this country. It feels like the stuffing has been kicked out of England, it’s certainly much changed and it doesn’t take much to see individuals and their thin-skinned lack of tolerance emerging. Of numerous examples I’ll cite one – at a petrol station in Southampton, I fill my car and pay. I don’t have sat-nav in the hire car so pull out my phone to confirm my onward journey. Given my destination is already pre-programmed, this takes less than a minute. During this time, a large Ford Ranger truck reverses in front of me, blocking me in. I beep my horn and a large, bald man tears out of the truck and using the most foul and colourful language tells me in his own inimitable way to be quiet and that as I was obviously using my phone I deserve to wait. I show him my sat-nav screen and he hurls yet more verbal abuse, in particular sharing his thoughts about my gender. He scares me into silence and as I depart he uses threatening, abusive gestures towards me. No one intervenes.
So we head northwards to Scotland, to my own kind, and I spend 4 months eating all the chocolates and sweeties, baked goods, pies, bread, black puddings, haggis and meats of my childhood. Despite all the walking, I gain yet more weight but the tasty morsels are doing more than satisfying my appetite, they are feeding my soul. And this isn’t talked about in the academic books – the coping mechanisms of dealing with reverse culture shock. Familiar food, re-purchasing familiar knick-knacks, drinking childhood drinks ( hello ‘Cremola Foam’), listening to traditional music, going to places you would avoid if you lived in country. Chasing nostalgia and connection as if it’s a drug. It’s all normal.
The suitcases get packed, unpacked, repacked once more, the traveling with a dog stress cranks up again, the short temper re-emerges as the adrenaline-fueled, organising stress, seeps, drips and pours into all waking and sleeping time. This is not the time for partners or husbands to disappear but invariably he finds some excuse or some way of becoming invisible, indisposed, busy doing ‘important’ other (away-from) activity.
The conveyor belt of travel takes over and total submission is required. Landing 11 hours later and going through all the normal palaver of immigration and customs, luggage collection and finding the driver, and I’m launched back into the newness and discovery of a familiar, yet different, place; the Mother country of the Mother continent: South Africa.
So my plan as I hunt for my next role, is to become the experiment – to observe the shifts in emotions, observations, instances and experiences and to recount these here as a record of one individuals response to culture shock. Let’s see what happens…
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These articles bring to mind a charming animated Disney Pixar movie which I watched on a plane last year.
So it’s interesting to move forward 40 years to find Roscoe’s generation being inspired by Bowie and wondering who the old geezer wearing the Granddad jumper is in the video.
On British Royalty, we agree that Queen Elizabeth and Princess Diana are likely to be remembered for their actions and enacting change. Our jury is out on Prince Charles. Driving past the still half-mast American flag (we presume due to the recent death of 41, President Bush) we talk about those American Presidents still living and dead and mull on those who are memorable or not. We deduce that those who were firsts or created long-lasting change are remembered, those who served and chartered a steady course, less so. This is equally true of British Prime Ministers; Blair, Cameron, May will disappear into a historical timeline, Churchill, Pitt, George, possibly Thatcher, Atlee and even Chamberlain stand out. Of business leaders, I think Gates will be remembered for his philanthropy and determination to rid the world of polio, malaria and other curable diseases, much more than him co-founding Microsoft. Will future generations remember Buffett, Zuckerberg, Branson, Dyson or Jobs? Or the GE titan, Jack Welsh?
An organisation led by a leader who knows where they fit in the bigger picture, who they are, why they are there and why they want to achieve their goals is much more likely to succeed in the longer term than those solely looking for enhanced Total Shareholder Earnings and quarterly profit growth. The sustainable long-term health and viability of an organisation and the success of its Leader should never be measured on financial performance and metrics alone.
This time of year, encouraging change is good business for those of us in the business of change. You will find your inbox and social media accounts littered by offers of helping you shift your mindset, your waistline and some of your bank balance.
For example, “I can’t drive for a few weeks and Craig needs to go away for work, can you come and be my driver on these dates”? My lovely friend Karen, did not hesitate, despite living a busy life 200 miles away. It took mouth cancer surgery to not comment on her driving my car; if I’d had a tongue to bite, it would have been an even bigger mess than my new, surgically created, tongue.
Three years on, mine are visible but are now an essential part of who I am and frankly I don’t give an XXX what others may think. Three years ago, I never would have believed that I would be so comfortable in my own skin. My wise girlfriend Haydee, shared ” scars are tattoos with better stories”. These days I am an avid storyteller.
And never lie to a child about your diagnosis. I thought I was protecting him when I lied that people get better from this cancer and it was nothing to worry about. 15 months later I had to tell him that Charlie had died, leaving his mate, Tyler, without a Mummy. I will always remember his reaction and his face on hearing this news. Now he’s a teenager, I know I disappoint him on a more regular basis but unlike other parents, I know when disappointing my child began.
I went back to work, way, way, too early with a brain like a jellied eel and a memory bank of mush. I turned up to a meeting with my new Exec Director and found myself stuck in one of Dr Who’s time loops, repeating what I’d just said over and over again. I kept waiting for my synapses to fire up but they were away on extended holiday. This was neither good for my confidence, nor my soul. Give yourself time to heal; mentally, physically and emotionally. Otherwise you could end up back in another operating theatre 6 months later, like I did.
To be able to make people listen, to have them laugh and cry and feel and most importantly check their mouths, is an immense privilege. I have honed my speaking ability, my presentation skills, my writing platform and my ability to laugh at myself.
On my own was a much scarier, lonelier proposition, particularly the time when I had developed potentially serious symptoms many hundreds of miles away. The sense of distance and vulnerability created by leaving my support network in the UK has diminished over time, after all, I know what it takes to get back to Mr B if I need to.
Did anyone watch the 
The ugly truth is I’ve enabled this child to be solely focused on his pleasure and play. His contribution to the smooth running of the household is negligible. He is my adored little prince and up to this week I’ve been pressed into service running around picking up the dirty clothes, making the sleepover beds, changing the sleepover beds as different friends come and stay, making vat-sized quantities of pasta and crepes; washing, drying and putting away dishes only to do it all over again about 30 minutes later as teenage boys seem to have bottomless hungry stomachs. The Lesner article and Jo’s challenge conjure up a massive magnifying glass that makes me squirm. For although he is much-loved and adored, I am raising a lazy boy-man that no women in her right mind would ever want to become shackled to. A boy-man with latent but emerging social stereotypical thinking about the role of women. I have to take responsibility as a Mother to make sure my son goes out into the world as a fully functioning, contributing and supportive adult. A male able to positively contribute to society with little prejudice and judgement, who sees alternative genders as equal. A man who is sensitive to the needs of others and willing to co-partner, co-parent, co-create.
However, his burgeoning interest in girls means we need to step up our efforts to have him recognise that women are so much more than visual distractions in a day full of “boring” academia. It’s difficult in a place like Barbados where daily wear consists of few scraps of cloth and much shaking of booty. Here, local girls are queens of sexual suggestion and promise. Their role model, Rihanna, is much admired and adored.
Always I am reminded that these are the experiences which will make my boy an empathetic, loving man. I know that these challenging times are what shapes him – not the surf lessons , the football or golf, the paddle boarding or sunset dog walking. It’s the tough stuff; finding your place and way at the new school; being open with your emotions and asking for help; dealing with name calling from insecure older boys; knowing who to trust and who to avoid; managing tricky situations. And through all of this, I see glimpses of the man he’s going to become and I am heartened. This boy-child is already dealing with transitions that many adults would struggle with and he’s doing so with openness and grace, with humility and patience, through tears and laughter. I know, even if he doesn’t yet, that he will be a well-balanced, fabulous human being. That each tricky situation builds his character and generates more inner resilience. These life skills cannot be taught in a classroom, they must be lived.
As mentors, parents, life coaches or guides, we best serve by acknowledging difficult experiences and talking about what can be learned for next time; by listening – not judging, shouting nor fixing. By standing by with the belay, ready to break the fall, not stop it from happening.
through the door barrier. To wear it requires a mindset of curiousity “how can I make this better today?” I am aware that my enthusiasm is not for all. In some ways I am lucky to have missed the steady slow demise of these past few months; lucky to have learned new coping techniques for dealing with change outside of my control; lucky to know what’s important, what’s transient and what’s downright trivial in comparison.
Whether its company takeovers, redundancies, ending relationships, reviewing education options or even the current interminable Brexit/Brexin debate in the UK, it all creates inevitable change. Our choice is how we choose to face this, how we move on, recognising that there are days when this is easier than others. Let’s face it, even the more perfect souls have down days too.
I avoid the phone. I don’t invite myself round for coffee or invite friends over for wine or gin and chat. I’m conscious of people having to ask me to repeat what I’ve said. The word ‘pardon’ or phrases like “excuse me”, “say again” or “I didn’t quite catch that” have taken on ridiculous proportions in my head. For someone who has much to say, it’s really frustrating that I can’t speak too long without jaw pain, tiredness and the inevitable slurring. On days where I’m being kind to myself and more mindful, I remember that I’m learning to improve my listening, to use my NLP to look at the structure of the conversation, not the content. But there are days where I beat myself hard, where I push to enunciate more, to exercise more, to say more, socialise more, be more ‘normal’. And the price is a lack of energy, increased levels of pain, a heightened sense of self-consciousness and greater irritability and tiredness.
My desire to take action, to get over this, to move on, burns fierce-bright. My good days tease my down days with possibilities that achingly remain just out of reach. I know I will get there, I just don’t know when.
While working for 
Fuelled by beyond-clever boffins used to being at the cutting edge of what was possible, the transformation potential was spine-tinglingly exciting. Tapping into our collective knowledge and skills and using our pioneer pride and sense of corporate history and culture, we embarked on a challenging business transformation campaign. 
Part of this was learning to adopt out of the box thinking to achieve non linear results. Results which would result in us jumping the normal trajectory of performance.
These are then modulated according to its software programme and played back to my tissues. Essentially, SCENAR uses my own internal body signals, scanning and re-transmitting these many times a second. It ‘evolves’ a new signal pattern for the disordered tissues, the machine literally entering into an information dialogue with my body. During the treatment, new frequencies and energy patterns are established, which in turn become fresh input signals, to be further modified. When it is combed over my skin the damaged tissue shows up as being sticky. So it rests on the sticky skin, beeping and communicating with me using frequencies beyond layman’s comprehension.
He decides to match my belief with his own. We agree I come off all meds and I rely solely on the SCENAR. A victory! Eastern belief over Western medicine.
I’m playing one of my sing-a-long playlists, everything from Joni Mitchell, Nick Drake, Gram Parsons, Emmylou Harris, Carly Simon, James, Taylor, Fleetwood Mac through to John Legend, Bruno Mars, Phil Phillips, Coldplay and even Johnny Cash singing the Old Rugged Cross – my Nana used to sing this as a soloist in church and I still remember sitting in a hard wooden pew listening to her voice soar while silently
as the pubs had closed, we would stand importantly at the front of the pulpit
and trill 
And without the ability to hold the notes, my ability to let go in the music is diminishing. It’s fine being the funny guy – Craig and Roscoe roll around laughing as I try to get the tune out- but inside it hurts.
There is much to be said for the routine of habit.
I own my behaviour or as Roscoe often says “you only own your own self”.
The need, the habit of attaching self-worth to the work, has shifted.