Culture Shock

Having overcome the trepidation of my seemingly illusory departure and twenty odd hours worth of flying I eventually touched down in Guadalajara for the very first time. This was in many senses a first, it was the first time I had travelled overseas by myself, it was the first time I would be doing exchange and it was the first time I could test my language skills in a country where Spanish was the native tongue.

For me, culture shock is a cumulative notion, a combination of small events, occurrences, encounters and the like that each steadily erodes your sense of security and self-confidence. But that is not to say that its effects are entirely negative, the process of re-establishing your own sense of place in a foreign land is a highly valuable and rewarding skill, something that inevitably fills you with the knowledge that you can adapt in the most abstract of places.

The first of these encounters came shortly after I stumbled out of the arrivals gate in Guadalajara, through the airport-typical swarm of those waiting for loved ones and past the row of those leaning out over their desks, calling loudly, reaching violently trying to place me on their bus or in their taxi. When I approached the taxi desk armed with the address of my hostel and presented it to the clerk, after a quick glance he directed his stare back at me and made some kind of noise that had the inclination of a question but the meaning of which had clearly been lost on me, I looked back bemused. There was a short stand off and thankfully someone behind me in the line stepped forward to offer some ‘translation’ and I was shortly on my way. But rather than this being a moment about me almost not finding my hostel, it represented a little bit more, I had been studying Spanish for two years at university, I knew all of the tenses, my vocabulary was ok, but in reality I had only been sitting in a classroom, with a teacher unthreateningly guiding me through an artificial language experience, something that was not truly representative of the environment of a native speaking country. The reality was clear, the gap between theoretical learning of a language and practical application is enormous and I had just taken my first step in bridging that gap. No doubt it was going to take some work, thankfully I had the next four and a half months to work on it. The key was clearly, not to be overwhelmed, not to feel dejected or stupid, to have no fear. I would like to meet the person who has learned a language without making mistakes constantly along the way, but in reality I don’t think that person exists.

After making my way from the airport and sliding somewhat nervously into a taxi I was off on my way to the heart of the city and the ride there was to provide my second experience that contributed to my unavoidable culture shock. There were any number of factors that made the ride significant, the semi-psychotic way in which the taxi driver manoeuvred us through the swarm of traffic, the clear blue sky and brilliant sun in the middle of winter or the continued language barrier, which thankfully I was already slowly starting to overcome. But what relegated each of these experiences into obscurity was the poverty that surrounded me in every direction. In hindsight it should not have been so surprising, the areas surrounding airports are never the most distinguished or developed but nevertheless it provides your first impression of a city when you arrive and something that helps to shape and form your expectations. We were very much in the slums, small and dishevelled shacks, walls of mud and corrugated iron, barely standing, each almost leaning on its neighbour for support, privacy and independence between each all but abandoned. Unavoidably my mind wandered, is this what it is all going to be like? Are these the type of places where I will be living? I had tried my very best to arrive without expectations and to allow myself to experience and develop my own impressions rather than be informed by those of others who had been and experienced before me.

Doubts, nerves and unwarranted fears were quickly abated, half an hour later as we navigated our way towards the centre of town the slums were overcome quickly by the types of towering development and grandiose properties that someone from Melbourne would be more readily accustomed. Shortly after, the suburban landscape gave way to the very heart of the city centre, towering churches, halls and museums of colonial architectural magnificence. And so it was, my impressions of slums and poverty had been overcome, vanquished by the presence of cultural richness that would prove to guide and permeate my experiences in the coming weeks, most particularly in my studies of Mexican history. The key now was finding and utilising a key in order to immerse myself in this new country and culture, into the life of the native citizens, going beyond the superficiality of the tourist path 

Pre-departure

The application process for exchange inevitably results in a steady ebbing and flowing of a range of emotions. When you combine the mountain of paper work, the inevitable insecurities about leaving the familiarity of home, the unknown of whether you will in fact be going, you can feel emotionally sapped, a spent force before you have even received your confirmation. This is the state of perpetual uncertainty in which you live until that small envelope arrives, dotted with black ink, which, when you read with a steady eye, informs your future and what will form the next few months of your life. So it was for me, the months of irrational doubt, of questioning my own capacity for exploration were all washed away by a tide of exaltation when I could finally say, with complete and utter conviction, with the most satisfying sincerity, that yes I have been accepted and yes I will be going on exchange to Mexico.

For me, my acceptance came reasonably late, around November and in fact I had already purchased my tickets in a vain of optimism or potential stupidity, call it what you will. Regardless, the last few weeks before departure brought a greater sense of security in that at least I knew where I was going to be and to some extent what I was going to be doing for the next few months. The last few weeks were undeniably different, there was a greater satisfaction in spending time with friends and family, appreciating time together, not taking anything for granted, with the knowledge that the comfort and security of home was soon to be left behind, a speck on horizon. It was as if everything familiar was illuminated in a fresh light and revealed for what it was, truly great. The rhythm of day-to-day life had lost its banality and suddenly life at home seemed harder to leave. But this was no time to feel sentimental, it was time to head off, time to pack away those things that mum tells you that you’ll need and you reject purely on principle and curse yourself later when you’re asking all your friends for a band aid and some antiseptic to treat that strange bite that seems to be infected halfway down your leg. With your pack full and your clothes the cleanest they will be until you step back in the front door some months later, it’s time to head to the airport.

Despite my feelings of independence, of great confidence in what I was about to do, there is nothing that quite prepares you for that moment at the airport, in the shadow of those departure gates, those cold metallic ones that reach from floor to ceiling without pause and swallow you up once you step through them. You make your way by the different groups of families, each group isolated from the next, but inwardly bound by a deep emotion that can often be heard and seen without effort. And so, as I turned to say the inevitable goodbye, there was, unavoidably, the welling of tears in my eyes, but this was the first of many moments that pressure your emotions and sentimentalities, but are an inevitable part of going on an adventure.

I turned, walked through the gates, and was ready for my next stop…Mexico.