Ahmednagar, India
Finally, my persistent schedule is catching up to me. Overworked and under slept, I am beginning to feel the effects of repetition. I have a sense of isolation, of being trapped in a country where I do not speak the language, where I do not blend in, where I do not fit the norms. It is not as if I am hidden from view, rather quite the opposite, I am trapped in the vast openness by the stares, by the constant greetings, by the curiosity of those around me. “Hello” … “Name?” … “What country?”
Perhaps words such as “isolation” and “trapped” are hyperbole. For I chose to come overseas, and as I may board a plane to come just as quickly may I board one to leave. In no way, shape or form, do I regret my decision to travel. The risks and the faith required to remove myself from the comforts of home have been duly rewarded; the self-discovery and global awareness I have grasped while travelling cannot be understated. An appreciation of my circumstances has come to the forefront of my mind; the comprehension of my inequitable endowment, of my country’s relative evolution, which are easily overlooked when your gaze does not extend beyond its borders.
Regardless, I have come to disdain the battles fought with rickshaw-walas, the constant inquisitiveness of most passers-by, the comments muttered in Hindi, when I am still in the room and all the underlying assumptions of these actions. My frustration with these and other seemingly minor offences has grown in the last number of weeks, as has their ubiquity. I find myself retreating from my initial enthusiasm. I have begun to make rash judgements about the individuals who surround me, finding it difficult to engage sincerely and to forgive unperceivable sins. However in doing so, I recognize my hypocrisy that, I too, am guilty of committing to fact narrow-minded assumptions.
I sense that sentiments such as these are normal; they arise with the ebb and flow of any winding, indeterminate travel. My frustrations are not unique, my actions not exceptional. Perhaps they are also part of the intoxicant of exploration, for in these moments of anguish, there may be just as many discoveries, as in those that are sublime.
Finally, my persistent schedule is catching up to me. Overworked and under slept, I am beginning to feel the effects of repetition. I have a sense of isolation, of being trapped in a country where I do not speak the language, where I do not blend in, where I do not fit the norms. It is not as if I am hidden from view, rather quite the opposite, I am trapped in the vast openness by the stares, by the constant greetings, by the curiosity of those around me. “Hello” … “Name?” … “What country?”
Perhaps words such as “isolation” and “trapped” are hyperbole. For I chose to come overseas, and as I may board a plane to come just as quickly may I board one to leave. In no way, shape or form, do I regret my decision to travel. The risks and the faith required to remove myself from the comforts of home have been duly rewarded; the self-discovery and global awareness I have grasped while travelling cannot be understated. An appreciation of my circumstances has come to the forefront of my mind; the comprehension of my inequitable endowment, of my country’s relative evolution, which are easily overlooked when your gaze does not extend beyond its borders.
Regardless, I have come to disdain the battles fought with rickshaw-walas, the constant inquisitiveness of most passers-by, the comments muttered in Hindi, when I am still in the room and all the underlying assumptions of these actions. My frustration with these and other seemingly minor offences has grown in the last number of weeks, as has their ubiquity. I find myself retreating from my initial enthusiasm. I have begun to make rash judgements about the individuals who surround me, finding it difficult to engage sincerely and to forgive unperceivable sins. However in doing so, I recognize my hypocrisy that, I too, am guilty of committing to fact narrow-minded assumptions.
I sense that sentiments such as these are normal; they arise with the ebb and flow of any winding, indeterminate travel. My frustrations are not unique, my actions not exceptional. Perhaps they are also part of the intoxicant of exploration, for in these moments of anguish, there may be just as many discoveries, as in those that are sublime.
1 comment:
Jack
You write your pain with sincerity and beauty. I'm sorry you're feeling culture shock; I felt it too, living in China in the early 1990s. Just draw on your compassion for those around you and know that it will pass.
And remember, a middle finger means nothing to them and a lot to you if they don't know what it means.
Peace.
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