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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At 5 yrs old, I sit on the school bus trying to work out how to be first off when the bus grinds to its stop in our village. I can then sprint home before James, that tubby, ginger-headed, bigger boy catches me and makes good on his taunts to “bash my face in”. It takes about four months for the slow anger inside to build to a crescendo and one memorable moment when I get off the bus and turn to face him, shrugging my satchel off my shoulders and standing square up to him. Children of all ages crowd around us chanting “Fight! Fight”! James lifts his fists, does a wee dance on his toes and bobs me squarely on the nose, upon which blood spurts out and I start to cry. Everyone runs off and I wander home looking for comfort and care. But I make friends because of my courage and James leaves me alone after this.
In High school, I discover how evil and vindictive the female form can be; enduring 4 years of prolonged bullying, name calling and nastiness. I don’t respond, I hang out with the non-cool girls who take comfort in the fact that they’re not the ones being picked on. Just as before, there is no sympathy at home, instead a mistaken belief that bullying toughens you up. Ironically not having familial support, care or back up has a greater impact on my fortitude than the bullying does.
