“I miss the donkeys!” … A lesson on culture shock

Walking slowly down the cleanly buffed halls of the Georgetown Mall, I felt myself slowly drowning, gasping for breath, in a rising flood of merchandise, advertisements and messages. Scantily-clad posters of artificially manufactured, starved and busty Victoria’s Secret models, jewellery stores selling massive shiny rocks, bright neon lights, slogans and logos all assailed me – assaulting each of my senses.

And all I could think as my heart beat nervously in my chest and my brain struggled to process this absurd onslaught of messages was, “Help! Someone, please! Where are the donkeys? I just want the donkeys!” I was longing, inexplicably for the crowded, dusty streets of Kabul, where donkeys, money changers, crippled mine victims begging for “bakhshish” (charitable gifts of money) and man-pulled wooden carts all join in the chaos of rush-hour traffic. The chaos of an American mall was simply too much – too clean, too organized, too bright and too demanding.

I suppose my friend Chris was right when he said that culture shock is not so much the obvious differences. It is not my not needing to wear a scarf, for instance (though I did take a double take a few times on the way out of a house when I realized I was lacking my chadur). Instead, the more difficult culture shock involves one’s constant semi-conscious evaluation of and adjustments to unspoken norms, rules and behaviours.

Reverse culture shock, usually far more difficult and painful, is more like an old pair of jeans that no longer fit. Perhaps they have shrunk in the wash of time that has passed in one’s absence or perhaps one has grown too big for them. In either case, these norms and rules which once fit so perfectly are suddenly uncomfortable and unnatural, leaving one to suck in and pull tight so as not to be revealed as being totally naked and ill-equipped in one’s own “home” culture.

After five weeks away and having generally succeeded in pulling my Western jeans on, I have returned to Kabul and am again having to readjust. I am reminding myself again not to look men in the eye, not to laugh too loudly in public, to dress appropriately and to take time to ask the long series of questions about one’s health and family that make up a proper Afghan greeting. I am reacquainting myself with dust and dirt, with a few hours of municipal power daily, with cold showers and the challenges of transportation. My tongue is relearning its way around the Afghan language. And as much as some of these things leave me a little frustrated, I mostly find myself happy to be back. Not yet quite comfortable in these cultural clothes, but grateful to once again see the donkeys.