A Different Kind of Culture Shock

Last week, I went for the first time to the school librarian’s house. She is a good colleague and friend. We share many of the same incompetencies (swimming, driving, whistling) and one great passion (books). And other than swapping book recommendations and bad day stories, our interactions generally revolve around her trying to feed me or find me a “suitable boy” (She even lent me a book by the title, followed by Born Confused about an Indian girl from Jersey who falls in love with an NYU boy- what she was suggesting, I have no idea . . .when her husband heard of her plans he made me a fictitious J Date profile which initially inspired my anger and then a good laugh). While the afternoon early childhood program (my baby) at the school gets off to a glacial start, I head into the library after lunch and assist her in her various duties. So I spend a lot of time with her. Her husband has frequently acted as a default chauffeur, a task he gladly undertakes for the pleasure of watching me (and capturing on film) struggle to open the sliding minivan door against the steep slope of my driveway. I also taught her niece, and frequently take yoga class with her father-in-law. I have been the recipient of many plastic containers of Indian food left over from family gatherings and Indian clothes that she thinks I’ll fit into. But oddly, I have never been inside her house, where she lives in addition to her husband and baby, her in-laws and the niece who spends so much time there she might as well live there.
Last week the niece moved with her mother to Malawi and I wanted to say goodbye to if not a favorite student, certainly one of my biggest fans. This happened to coincide with a night I was meeting her neighbor, to discuss plans to travel to Namibia later this month. I thought it would be fairly simple to pop in, say hello, say goodbye and head next door to pore over Lonely Planet guides.

It was dark and raining, there were no streetlights and the taxi had no headlights. My homemade map was fairly useless under these conditions, but once the driver realized that I figured out he had no clue where we were going and that he didn’t understand a word I was saying, he grabbed my map, and while steering the index finger of his left hand studied it upside down, nodding and swerving all over the road. I snatched my map back from him and he drove me to Leseli Flats, a compound inhabited mainly by expats. This was not my destination and I started saying “dirt road” over and over again. I pointed at the road we were on “good road, good road,” and “Please, I want a bad road. With dirt and rocks.” Miraculously we got there, and their dog didn’t eat me as I ran up the rain-soaked driveway.

I told them I could only stay about ten minutes, which was more than enough time to rile up the 2 year old daughter and 4 year old niece by doing absolutely nothing but being there. Of course, the first thing I was asked as I got in the door was if I ate dinner. It was about 9 o’ clock, so of course I had. I emphasized that this dinner was very big and recently consumed when I saw the food-pushing gleam in the eyes of the women of the house. “Good,” I was told as various cookies and crackers were shoved at me. When I gathered my things at the predetermined 10 minutes after arrival, I was told, “We are making you some vegetarian food. It will be ready in about 15 minutes.”

At this point, I was very late for my next meeting. And the women kept going back and forth to the kitchen doing something that looked elaborate. So I continued to rile up the children and fret about the time. The husband, sensing my White Rabbit of Wonderland anxiety, suggested we call the neighbor over to eat with me but the women stamped their feet and said there would not be enough food. He agreed and turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, he’s Indian, he’ll understand that we have to feed you before we let you go.” And before I knew what was happening, he had called him up and asked for my impending lateness to be excused. The phone was handed to me and a voice not at all amused on the other end asked how much longer I’d be. I posed this question to my captors and as a chorus of “15 minutes” rang out, I cupped the receiver and said, “Ten minutes. Max.” At last the tablecloth on the coffee table was changed, the table shoved toward me and bowls and pots and plates of food were carried out. There were dosas and chutneys, some bread that looked like Ethiopian injera, various vegetables and an entire melon. Twelve different dishes in all. They looked at me expectantly. As I waited for the others to sit down, they said, “Eat, eat!” “I’ll wait for you,” I told them. They shook their heads at me and cast identical looks my way that said, “Poor, dumb American.” “We have already eaten.”