Moving Your Family Abroad Part 1

This is the first in what I hope will be several blog posts about the challenges and triumphs of moving a family to an overseas assignment.

On Christmas Day, 1985 my wife, our two young daughters and I had lived on a small Eastern Caribbean island for three weeks. Given the specialness of the day, we did what most Canadians would do: we went to the beach. 

The white sand beaches were almost deserted and the water was warm. Our two and a half and four and a half year old water babies were happy.

While I have since experienced the conflicting emotions that go with being a trailing spouse, at the time I was the one whose future job prospects depended on a successful transition for my family from life in Canada to life on a tourist island where I would be traveling for one third of my working life and my wife and children would be left to find their way in the new environment.

Surprisingly, everything worked out.  

While there were a few small challenges, none of us experienced any medical emergencies, financial disasters or car accidents. The tenants we’d found to rent our house back home stayed for the full three years we were away. We learned how to drive a car with the steering wheel on the right side, my wife found decent schools for the girls and we made friends.

For many adults, the arrival of the Christmas holidays brings with it loneliness, alienation and stress. And that’s when they’re in their home environments. That first Christmas away from home, ensconced in our little tropical paradise, we experienced all three.

While the NGO I worked for had chosen a house that was big enough to also serve as my office— when we arrived, it had only rudimentary furniture.  We had beds, a small couch and a kitchen with a propane stove and an electric refrigerator. It took us a week or two to discover that the oven and one of the burners didn’t work, that ‘pipe water’ from the city supply was more theoretical concept than reality and that we’d be dependent on rain for our water supply.

The cockroaches were huge and a little too friendly. The herds of pigs and cows that daily meandered through our yard would continue their ruminant ways until our land lord built a fence.

So we did the only sensible thing: we invited my mother-in-law to join us. She arrived a week or two before Christmas and provided a support for all of us. She was resilient, resourceful and positive. She was company for my wife when I was off the island and safe, intelligent and loving company for the children. She loved spending hours coloring with the kids.

That Christmas our tree was a thorn bush collected from the dry hillside around our house and decorated with lights.  Our little television sat on a cardboard box. Among the best things that Christmas was the cable TV with CNN, Cinemax and ESPN. This was a really big deal for people who had lived in the hills north of Ottawa where cable TV had not yet arrived.

Obligations

On my last trip to Morocco I spent time in Casablanca and Rabat.

My time in Casablanca was stressful, as I had to ask a university fisheries scientist to give back the money my organization had granted him, as he had not fulfilled the terms of his research project.

The Rabat part of my tirp was much more pleasant, as I spent time visiting Morocco’s main government sponsored fisheries research organization. My host was the director and his hospitality was generous. He and a colleague entertained me at lunch—in a restaurant with a branch in Montreal—and in his home for dinner, where I met a visiting official from the European Commission. I was introduced to his wife, who served us dinner but didn’t join us.

My host’s choice of a restaurant with a branch in Montreal and the invitation to his home were not coincidental.  Over the course of the evening, which featured a delicious couscous accompanied by an excellent  Moroccan red wine,  my host mentioned that his wife and children would be visiting Montreal during the summer months and  he’d   be grateful if he could give her my phone number.  I gave him the numbers and, a couple of months later, after arriving in Montreal, his wife called.

I took her call and said I was busy.

Once again, what was bred in the bone came out:  I responded in the manner of my culture—and to be sure, my gender.  I did not reciprocate the hospitality that had been shown to me over the course of a two day official visit to Rabat. (Please be assured dear reader, I matured and acquired a few social skills.)  Thinking about my behavior during that mission to Morocco still embarrasses me.

Once again, the explanation is both straight forward, as noted above, and complex, as outlined below.

We are all--every one of us –part of a sticky web of relationships, reciprocal arrangements—dyads, triads, pentangular connections and even Escher like structures. These arrangements confer obligations and expectations upon us even before we master the lingua franca of our existence. By the time we understand them---and some of us never do—it’s too late. 

Often it seems that we can’t separate ourselves from the cultural roots that anchor us. Creating and nurturing interpersonal relationships and networks of people is part of our emotional DNA. The labyrinthine system of interlocking relationships we are all part of reminds me of a line from the Eagles’ song, Hotel California:  “…you can check out any time you like but you can never leave.”  

Compared to other national groups, Americans, Canadians, Brits and Germans— the first and last of which are considered  the most individualistic—the rest of the world’s cultures put a great deal of effort into creating relationships, practicing social reciprocity and managing obligations.

In most of the world, Asia, Africa and Latin American for example, the process goes way beyond ensuring that you reciprocate a dinner invitation or a kids’ play date and it also involves avoiding creating obligations for people who may not be able to afford reciprocation. I live in southern New England, the home of Yankee Individualism and self sufficiency. Going it alone is a time-honored tradition in these parts.

Meeting, creating and managing personal obligations, be they at work or at home, is a highly choreographed dance, the steps to which all  culture-crossing travelers would do well to learn and practice.

Time In a Bottle

Early in my career in international affairs I made an appointment to meet a government official in a West African country.  I had no problem arranging the meeting over the telephone, and a few minutes before the agreed time I arrived, presented my business card and was shown where to sit.  After waiting thirty minutes, I left.  Looking back on that incident still makes me feel uneasy.

How could I have been so rude?

The answer is both simple and complex. 

The simple part is that I was young, impatient and inexperienced.  The more complex interpretation of my behavior can be summed up by the aphorism “what’s bred in the bone will out”. Like most North Americans, I’m hard wired to react the way I did. (I’m sure there are gender issues lurking in there somewhere as well.)  My sense of time and the manner in which I interact with it forms part of my cultural heritage.  Time sense is an integral part of everyone’s cultural heritage.

Anthropologist Edward T. Hall put it very well in his excellent book  The Dance of Life: The Other Dimension of Time  (Anchor Books, 1984) when he wrote that  people are both tied together and isolated by “…invisible threads of rhythm and hidden walls of time”

For the people of Africa and many parts of Asia, along with most of the rest of the developing world, time is like a river.  It flows continuously and one’s family, friends and colleagues are all part of the stream. Life is about going with the flow and taking things as they come.  There is always time for family and friends who may be in need—regardless of whether seeing to them impinges on work schedules or other commitments.  People who experience time in this way are called polychromic.

For North Americans, and Northern Europeans, time is like a firefly caught in a bottle—it attracts and holds our attention.  It can be studied, chopped up, reassembled and reorganized.  It is a tradable good: we can earn it, save it consume it and waste it. Our friends, family and colleagues are all subject to the vagaries of our penchant for managing this scarce commodity. People who experience time in this way are called monochronic.

Being polychromic or monochromic about time represents only one facet of a complex part of ourselves and our societies. In most cultures there are dozens of other factors shaping the way in which people relate to time.

In some countries, non-payment of wages—particularly to public servants—remains an all too common reason for the late arrival or non-appearance of officials. They’re not in their offices because they may be working at their other job—the one that allows them to pay the bills and put food on the table. The African and Asian commitment to the family, usually to an extended family—one of among many family and social obligations that in North America have evolved away from a collectivist approach toward a more individual concept— is another mediating factor that, if misunderstood by a visitor, can lead to frustration and a negative assessment about how non western cultures manage time.

It is more than just a little ironic that in preparing this blog post I am to a large extent limited by the language and concepts of my essentially monochronic self.  In talking about how Africans and Asians manage their time I am putting a North American time obsessed frame around their reality.  On the other hand, it’s often said that gaining an awareness of a problem can in some cases represent the first step in understanding it. And although it’s always advisable to approach the resolution of cross cultural differences carefully and with tact, in the case of time sense, recognizing or identifying the differences between you and your hosts can be a very big step in the right direction.

Among the most common strategies for recognizing that one’s sense of time may not be like that of a colleague or friend is to ask whether the appointment just made should be interpreted using , for example, ‘African Time’,’ American Time,’ ‘Canadian Time’ or ‘Indian Time.’ It’s an approach that when used with people with whom one is comfortable, instantly communicates a mutual awareness of the fact that the people involved view time differently and should, therefore, build-in accommodations.

Using Local Transportation and the Moto Taxis of Cotonou, Bénin

During a three week working visit to the Kilimanjaro region of Tanzania I was driving in a car borrowed from a colleague when, half way through a roundabout in the city of Arusha, a man leaned out his driver side window and shouted “you’re on the wrong side!”  Sure enough, I was.

I was driving a car with a British style right hand drive. Roundabouts can be tricky during those first few days of driving ‘on the other side.’ I started paying closer attention and returned the car to my colleague unscathed. 

Traveling on a budget in developing countries usually means using what is euphemistically called ‘local transportation’; read ‘cheap’ or inexpensive.  Cheap local transport can mean a route taxi—usually a crowded four door sedan that’ll stop when you wave, a mini bus with giant speakers playing Bob Marley, or if you’re in South Asia, a three wheeled covered taxi featuring a knowledgeable driver and a lot of blue smoke.

Are these forms of transportation dangerous?   My experience suggests they’re not.

That said, public transportation in many developing countries can be uncomfortable for women due to the extremely misogynistic attitudes of some men.  Driving yourself—whether on two wheels or four—can also be tricky due to the local drivers’ tendency to ignore basic rules of the road. Common sense and caution should guide a traveler’s transportation choices.

As the short piece that follows will suggest, ‘local transport’ need not be synonymous with boring, uninteresting or expensive.

The article reproduced below was originally published in the now defunct Canadian magazine African Access. The piece was featured in the magazine’s “Travel Stories From Our Readers” section.

The Moto-Taxis of Cotonou

By Jamieson Campbell

Waiting for a light to change at an intersection in Cotonou, Benin is an assault on the senses.

The sight and smell of blue tinted smoke from mopeds and motorcycle taxis lined up seven abreast in a flying wedge of a hundred or so leaves a lasting impression. The changing traffic signal sets off a flurry of  movement and a cloud of smoke as everyone rushes into the intersection accompanied by the ring-a-ding-ding  of a hundred two stroke engines storming off together.

And in the middle of it all--out front, on the sides, at the back--are the men in yellow shirts. These are the moto-taxis, motorcycle taxis, of Cotonou.

Cotonou is the largest city in Benin, a small West African country sandwiched between Togo and Nigeria. Like its sister cities in the region, Cotonou has traffic jams. The main roads at eight A.M., noon and four P.M. look like organized chaos.  In a very real sense, the yellow-shirted gentlemen on motorcycles are traffic busters: they're able to thread their way through even the most densely packed traffic jams.

Most of the moto-taxi operators have fifty or ninety CC bikes. The main reason for the popularity of these small motorcycles is the modest capital cost of acquiring and operating one.  Both gasoline and service, from minor tune-up to engine job, can be had for relatively low cost from itinerant mechanics who set up shop under the shade of a tree or the side of the road.

I was introduced to the moto-taxis by an African colleague who had come to my hotel to accompany me to a meeting on the other side of town. He suggested I try a ride on a moto-taxi and I agreed.

This is where I have to reveal my true colors and admit that I'm a motorcycle enthusiast. I tour Canada and the United States on a big motorcycle. I always wear my helmet; I've taken several safety courses; and I take care to ensure that my bike is in good mechanical condition.

So what am I doing, perched helmetless on the back of a tiny motorcycle, cruising through the dusty streets of a small West African city, dodging cars and trucks, and competing for space at intersections?  Having fun, of course--and getting there.

I've been using moto-taxis to get around town, day and night, for over three years, now. These young men have earned my confidence. And although they haven't known it, I've spent most of every ride trying to find fault with the way they drive. It's been a disappointing exercise.

These fellows are solid. They have good habits: they're careful about moving in and out of traffic (they do shoulder checks); they're courteous with one another and with other vehicles; and they have full control of their motorcycles--even when navigating with a passenger down streets of deep sand.

Now, these single passenger vehicles with no trunk space are obviously not the best choice for the ride from the airport to your hotel. And they might be of limited utility if your event requires you to be dressed formally. But if you're traveling solo and you have an urge to add a little spice to your day, then taking a ride with one of these young men is one way to boldly get to where ever you're going. Let your senses take a ride on the wild side--Cotonou style.

Must Visitors Always Respect the Hierarchy of the Cultures They Visit? Part 2

Thinking about this incident can still turn my cheeks red.

My Béninois host and I had just concluded a meeting during which we had reviewed progress and discussed issues related to a project my agency had funded at the Port of Cotonou. (Bénin is a small West African country sandwiched between Togo and Nigeria)  My host, a friendly and most hospitable man, told me a previous commitment would prevent him from driving me to the airport but that he would try to get there in time to see me off.

Early that evening I took a taxi to the airport, found the Air France check-in and got in line behind two African travelers. As promised, my host soon walked through the main doors and waved. As he approached he grabbed my suitcase and said “What are you doing here?” and moved me and my suitcase to the front of the line, leaving the two African travelers where they were. I was deeply embarrassed and protested mildly but ended up staying where he put me.

A few years later I heard a conference presenter say that people posted to foreign countries often come to accept many of the quirky aspects of their host cultures. She also said that there would be things expatriates would never be able to accept no matter how long they lived in their adopted country.

Did my host’s actions qualify as a quirky local custom?   Could that little scene be construed as an example of local hospitality?  Were his actions based on his interpretation of my status, or was he acting out of a sense of his own place in the socio economic hierarchy of his culture?

These are important and challenging questions that should perhaps have been more prominent in my mind at the time. One thing I am certain of—and I knew it then--by not protesting more forcefully or moving myself back to where I’d been standing, I acquiesced.  

I welcome your comments.

Must Visitors Always Respect the Hierarchy of the Cultures They Visit? Part 1

During the early 1990s I travelled to Lagos, Nigeria to meet the head of a regional organization with which my Canadian donor organization was about to ink a three year, million dollar project.  Although the focus of project activities would be at the Port of Cotonou, Bénin, the co-sponsoring organization was headquartered in Lagos.

I arrived mid evening on a flight from Europe and encountered my first snag:  a customs officer said that I would have to pay import duty or surrender my laptop. I opted to leave the computer at the airport for the night and sort it out with the help of my host the following day. (There’ll be more about this in a future post about West African airports.)

My host had sent his driver to meet me. By the time I emerged from customs and immigration it was much later than either of us had anticipated. I was collected in the morning by the same driver and my host. It took my host about five minutes to spring the computer. We spent the rest of the morning talking about the project, went to lunch with senior members of the organization and worked until mid afternoon on project related issues.

In the car on the way back from lunch I leaned forward from the back seat and thanked the driver for his hard work and having stayed up late waiting for me the night before. Seconds after settling back in my seat my host spoke to me in French—a language he knew I spoke. His message was: “don’t praise my driver.”  His approach seemed harsh to me, though I said that of course I would respect his wishes.  It left me feeling like I’d been reprimanded and the rest of the car ride was made in silence.

My host was a well educated, very well travelled, experienced international public servant who interacted with regional as well as international organizations all over the world. A Gambian citizen, he had lived in Lagos for a number of years.

By that point in my career in the foreign aid business I’d been working and traveling for nearly ten years.  Interacting with drivers, secretaries, administrative assistants, security guards and gardeners is something I always made a point of doing.  

Had I brought my North American penchant for praising and thanking people directly into a culture where relationships between managers and their subordinates were governed by a rigid hierarchy?  Had my host felt that I was undermining his authority; or was the incident in the back of the Mercedes mostly about my host’s relationship with his subordinate? 

I guess the safest type of advice to offer someone who anticipates having to deal with this type of situation is to tread carefully, observe the way people relate to each other and avoid alienating your hosts and/or coworkers.  Let the nonverbals speak to you.

Does working, living or just plain communicating with people of other cultures require a person to submerge their core beliefs?

Then there’s the equality thing.

I’m someone who habitually kicks against barriers raised by people who wish to limit the economic, political and educational mobility of others.

I welcome your comments.

Welcome to TIRG Blog...There is No App for That

Welcome to TIRG Blog…There is No APP for That.

Communicating across cultures sometimes seems like a strange landscape, littered with cultural and communication bogs, bottomless wells, impenetrable thickets and poisonous plants.  Yet we all manage to thrive in our inter-cultural marriages, go to work, interact with colleagues and friends from other countries and get by—more or less.

The name of my blog arose from my belief that it is not currently possible to consult an iPhone or Android application that will guide one through the sometimes bumpy terrain of cross cultural communication. (It would be really cool, though, to be able to open an app like the NY Times Cooking App (cooking.nytimes.com) and choose a recipe for negotiating working hours in Korea or time off in Japan, or learning how to manage domestic help in India or on a Caribbean island).

It remains one of the ironies of our time that in a world filled with very sophisticated  pocket computers, really cool cell phone apps and web pages that can translate themselves, our personal software—our knowledge, perceptions,  spoken languages, attitudes, written and oral communication skills— remain relatively under-developed and prone to misconstrual.

I plan to use this blog to share some of my experiences of crossing cultures and to reflect on issues related to communicating, interacting and working with people of other cultures. Future topics will include discussions of issues that can arise while living, working or traveling in a country other than your own as well as issues related to welcoming visitors from other countries to your home or workplace.

TIRG stands for The InterCultural Research Group.  We are a consulting company that specializes in helping people learn how to communicate across cultures. Established in Ottawa, Canada in 1997, TIRG is currently completing its eighteenth year.

Our clients are people who are preparing for working visits to developing countries  for periods of between six weeks and two years.  People we have worked with include groups of college undergraduates heading out for six weeks of agricultural work in the tropics and high school students preparing for dancing and drumming workshops in West Africa to experienced teachers on sabbatical and retired couples preparing for two year postings as technical and policy advisors and trainers. We have also provided on-arrival briefings for Indian computer nerds and African economists undertaking twelve week study tours of Canada and the US.

As noted in the profile section of this page, I am Jamieson Campbell, the owner and principal consultant of the InterCultural Research Group. Assisted by team members, I design our workshops and other learning and teaching materials.

I welcome your comments.  While I am open to a good discussion— critical or otherwise— I will not publish comments that I deem to be inappropriate due to the use of offensive language, extreme views or racial, ethnic or gender bias. That said, I plan to be as inclusive as I can be. I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

The InterCultural Research Group’s web page is currently being remodeled. I’m hoping to have it ready to publish within three or four weeks. When it’s ready it will be linked to this blog.

Thanks for stopping by. See you next time.