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Themes, Threads, & Thoughts

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.

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Metaphorical Language, Culture, and Personal Space (Module #4)

While studying in Yerevan, I signed up for a gym. While I was using the squat rack, I noticed a few people standing very close to me while I performed my exercises. While I wasn’t hogging the squat rack, I generally do around 5 working sets of squats per workout, which can take a while. I was concerned that they had been waiting for me to finish for a while, so I rushed through my remaining sets. After completing my squats and moving on to my other exercises, I looked back and realized that no one was using the squat rack. People had just been minding their business, doing their exercises, or loitering on their phone (albeit very close to me). 

 I was admittedly annoyed with their proximity and that I felt rushed, but also felt a bit silly for feeling pressured. Similar circumstances have happened to me on a few occasions in Yerevan. Classmates have also brought up how close people get to them in public. In America, such proximity would usually signal that one wanted to be noticed. If I stood that close to someone trying to work out in America, I would expect them to have some words with me. Drawing from the Iceberg metaphor, physical proximity to others in public or busy spaces seems to be one of those unspoken norms which we take for granted.

While I wouldn’t claim to know the reason why Armenians are comfortable being close to strangers in public, I suspect it has something to do with the traditional multi-generational families in Armenia and more communal living practices. Armenia has a population of around 3 million people. Over one million live in Yerevan. Further, Armenian families are often multigenerational. Many people still live in large, soviet-era apartment buildings we Americans pejoratively call “commie blocks.” Simply, I think people in Yerevan are much more used to living and being close to others than Americans. Although even my Armenian professor has remarked that she often feels like people stand much too close to her!

Like I previously did on canvas, I will refer to the onion metaphor. On the surface, people are comfortable being within close physical proximity of each other. When one peels back the layers, this comfortability with proximity reveals a deeper aspect of the culture–the centrality of a strong and multigenerational family and more communal living practices.

After a few weeks, I got more used to people’s proximity to me, it and it no longer distracted me from my work in the gym. Ultimately, I learned not to stress or create problems that haven’t surfaced. If there is an issue, people will generally tell you directly.

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Memories of Departure

I remember sitting in the Warsaw airport. My layover was just long enough to get bored waiting in the airport, but just too short to feel like I could spend time in town and make it through security in time to board my flight. I tried to make the most of my layover by reviewing the Russian textbook I used last year and reading Bournoutian’s A Concise History of the Armenian People. I also tried to listen in on conversations in Polish. Other than a few simple sentences, I didn’t have much luck with understanding what people were saying. To me, the structure of sentences or patterns of speech seemed similar to Russian, but there were plenty of times where I was completely lost.

The Warsaw airport intrigued me. The color scheme and architecture seemed unlike any I had seen in an American Airport. I was surprised how simple aesthetic choices made it apparent to me that I was no longer home. I was amused by the indoor smoking boxes. If I recall correctly, they weren’t entirely sealed off. They sold cigarettes on the flights, but smoking was still not permitted on board.

I had a memorable and slightly uncomfortable experience waiting for my flight to Yerevan: I was at my gate as soon as it was available for my flight. I sat and continued to read Bournoutian’s A Concise History of the Armenian People. It’s a decent-sized book and is the colors of the Armenian flag. After around an hour of reading, I noticed that many people at my gate kept glancing at me. I also noticed that the people I had originally been sitting with were no longer at my gate. I checked the screen above the jet way and realized that my gate had changed. I was now sitting at the gate for a flight to Baku, Azerbaijan. What are the odds?

While no one said anything to me and I felt completely safe, I found the experience rather awkward. The war is so recent, and small skirmishes still occur along the borders of Armenia and Azerbaijan. I wondered how open people would be to talking about the war in Armenia.  From my experience, Russians are generally comfortable asking direct questions and talking about serious political or religious topics that Americans like to avoid in “polite company.” I wondered if Armenians would be similar in this regard. I hoped to find a balance between being curious and open,and respecting people’s boundaries regarding sensitive topics.

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The Chicken Bus

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.