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In my very first blog I had mentioned how last summer, working at Hesed House (the homeless shelter) had changed my life and that perhaps my success was going into it without much expectations, just trying to show up in the moment.

Well, this summer was equally impactful and influential in my life. And boy, did Costa Rica humble me, challenge me, and push me.

Even when I was tired, even when I was feeling insecure, even when I did not want to, I had to talk and listen to Spanish in order to communicate with host parents (although my host brother did lend me a hand at times translating).

And although still far from perfect, I am so delighted to be able to recognise how much my Spanish has indeed improved (particularly my listening!).

And I am beyond proud of myself (if I am totally frank) for actually trying to put myself out there even when I felt too overwhelmed to talk to be in the presence of my host family’s extended family and friends (although I admit I was way more shy in the beginning).

Wow am I grateful to my host family, program director, and friends who have guided and been with me for the past two months.

When it comes to culture, I have thought about it so much during my time in Costa Rica, I am well aware I would be quite a task to share everything.

The one thing I will like to touch on is whether having judgements regarding cultural differences was indeed unhelpful or somehow “bad.”

I admit I still do not necessary have an answer to this, but I do have some thoughts. Of course, balancing cultural similarities and differences is important in not being too polarising or minimising, but I think that it can be healthy to have some levels of judgements.

Although having judgements can be a risky business as it can invite prejudice and feelings of superiority, I think it is possible to have judgements to assess your own preferences than to judge which culture is “better” or “worse.”

I also would like this to be taken with a grain of salt as I also think that understanding your preferences can be helpful, but also restrictive in how are preferences are dynamic, not static as people.

Moreover, that judgements are much more useful when actively analysed and thought through than quick on the stop interpretations (refer to the DIVE exercise).

All in all, I am excited to see how my opinions about this and cultural approaches in general will continue to evolve throughout my life.

But for now, I will continue to show up and take in the moment.

The biggest critical incidence I have experienced in Guatemala has been my journey on the chicken bus. I have heard a couple explanations for this name: that actual chickens are transported on the bus from time-to-time and that people are packed onto the bus like chickens. While I cannot attest to the former, I can certainly confirm the latter.

At this point I would call myself somewhat of a seasoned veteran, as I take the bus each day from my host family’s house in Alotenango to my Spanish school in Antigua and back (a 25-30 minute ride each way). However, I remember my first time on the chicken bus vividly. It was the morning after I had arrived to my host family very late the night before. My host mom walked me to the busy street in front of the apartment complex where I lived and showed me where to stand before heading back inside. I knew what the buses looked like from my last trip to Guate (they are retired school buses from the U.S. which are painted vibrant colors and decked out to resemble almost an amusement park ride) and my host mom had told me they cost 5 quetzales (about 0.75 cents). There were no established bus stops but she told me that a bus would come every 15 minutes or so.

Unfortunately on my first trip I didn’t realize that I had to flag down the bus to get it to stop. I believe 1-2 buses passed by before one finally noticed me waiting and pulled over for me to get on. A man hanging out the door called for me to enter (who I would later learn is the “co-piloto” or “ayudante”). When I entered the bus I assumed like in the U.S. there would be a terminal to pay in the front but I didn’t see any place for payment or a ticket and the driver didn’t acknowledge me and started driving while I was still walking up the steps. I grabbed the railing to maintain my balance and turned towards the back of the bus to look for a seat. Surprisingly I was met with about 50 pairs of eyes staring back at me. The bus was full the the brim. Each row was so full that the aisle in between had completely disappeared. I tried to contain my shock and squeezed behind the driver gripping to the rail. Even more to my surprise, several more passengers boarded in subsequent stops, pushing past me and towards the back to fill in spaces that I couldn’t see but apparently existed.

About halfway through the ride, the ayudante made his way through the entire bus, squeezing in between the passengers packed like, well, like chickens. He somehow knew who had paid already and who had not and reached out expectantly for 5 quetzales from each person, expertly keeping the bills in a crisp stack in order in one hand while gripping the ceiling rail and pulling himself with force through the crowd.

Chicken bus chofers and ayudantes operate privately and are not part of an official public transit system in Guatemala, yet the fill this gap for daily commuters who don’t have a car or moto. While there are occasional inefficiencies in the system for riders (overpacked buses, irregular schedules, and manic driving), the chofers and ayudantes are in the business of making the most profit out of each ride and the fuller the buss the fuller their wallets. While Guatemalan’s accept the system, there is a noticeable effort by most folks to practice politeness, make room, share space, hold babies and backs for one another and offer help in calling for a stop. Riding the bus is a community effort and everyone recognizes it.

While I have occasionally felt overheated, anxious, squished, and stressed on the chicken bus, I find comfort in remembering that all of the passengers, like me, are just trying to get to their homes, schools, and jobs. While certainly less comfortable than riding the bus in my hometown of Seattle, I have enjoyed getting into the rhythm of the chicken bus and feeling more and more like a local each day picking up little things each time to improve the experience like having exactly 5 quetzales so the ayudante doesn’t have to ruffle through his bills for change, using the overhead rack for my backpack when there is room to sit underneath and keep an eye on it, staying towards the front on my ride home since my stop is one of the first ones, and more.

One of the first cultural differences I noticed in Ecuador was how children are raised, perhaps most obvious while I spent an afternoon and evening at a local park with my host family watching soccer matches. After my 3 year absence in Paute, my host nephew, born days after my last departure, had grown so much bigger than I anticipated. While shy and hesitant to talk at first, we spent the evening sharing some salchipapas and kicking a soccer ball around. As the day progressed and the sun went down, I couldn’t help but notice that my host nephew was not the only child running around the park, even as the night stretched on – we were out until close to 11 pm watching and playing soccer, and kids seemed to run around us with reckless abandon, presumably with parents nearby.

However, parents didn’t seem to be stressed about their children in these public settings, as there seemed to be a deep trust in the park and greater Paute community that they would look after their neighbors. The cliche of “It takes a village” seemed to be internalized by everyone around. I couldn’t help but reflect on my own childhood, growing up walking to school, but watching parental decisions like this slowly fall out of favor with the general public. The highly individualized community that I had grown accustomed to in the US did not translate to my new setting, as individualism consistently surrendered to the needs of the community.

Upon further reflection of my day of soccer, it also illuminated the cultural differences in their view of scheduling, time, and the future. The day began and ended with no plan or timetable, we would find dinner when we felt like it, and everything was flexible. While this initially was extremely frustrating as I lacked the language skills to understand this attitude, I soon learned to embrace and enjoy it, knowing that once classes started, I would not have the opportunity to spend days like this.

And after being equipped with the language to describe cultural differences through the SLA program, I can now begin to verbalize what my draw was to Latin America. In a strange way, Paute feels like the neighborhood that my parents grew up in or the American community of the past that is celebrated and coveted in pop culture through media like Stranger Things. While grateful for the immense freedom, choice, and individuality that is afforded by American culture, I discovered new cultural norms that nourished parts of me that I did not know existed.

My time in Ireland is coming to an end. After nearly three months in this country, and two weeks of cultural immersion in the Gaeltacht, I feel I’ve gained a decent understanding of how the Irish culture functions. The differences between Irish and American cultures are subtle; there is a reason why it is so easy for Americans to visit Ireland and vice versa. The fact that many Americans come from Irish heritage certainly plays no small part in this cultural understanding, too.

That said, there are some metrics where Ireland has different attitudes than I was used to. For one, Ireland has a very low power distance, meaning that hierarchy is generally established for convenience and those higher on the totem pole are easily accessible. Leaders aren’t worshiped; they’re respected, and only when they’ve earned it. This could be seen in my workplace over the summer months, where managers and employees would frequently converse on equal footing, even going out for meals and drinks as peers. In my language classes, too, my teachers often offer to buy me a drink at the Ríleán, a behaviour I would not expect in an American school. Those in positions of power speak quite casually, and there’s a general understanding that everyone is human.

Secondly, the Irish have a different concept of time. Each night at my language program, there is an evening event scheduled for 8pm. Each night, that event did not start until 8:15 at the earliest. In the grand scheme of things, 15 minutes does not make a big difference. However, I was raised to expect scheduled events to start at the time they were scheduled for, and it took me a bit to adjust to “Irish Time,” as I’ve often heard it referred to.

Overall, though, I’ve found that Ireland is not so different from the States. I think it is important to remember that cultures are made up of individuals, and any cultural observation is a huge generalization. People do not think or act as a collective; we each have access to our own consciousness, and our own consciousness only. Perhaps that’s just my American individualism speaking, though.

I’ve had a wonderful time here. My language skills have improved immensely; my confidence and understanding in conversations has increased ten-fold, and I’ve made some lovely friends to continue speaking Irish with after I go home. I’m incredibly grateful for this opportunity, and I will hold Gleann Fhinne in my heart forever. Beidh mé ar áis, lá éigin…