Adapting to a new culture

By DAVID EPPS
Contributing Writer

As anyone who has visited or settled into a new culture knows, it isn’t always an easy experience. I’m not entirely a novice to international travel. In the past ten years, I’ve traveled to Canada, Ireland, The Netherlands, Kenya, Uganda, and, a few weeks ago, Mexico.

My wife and I recently traveled to San Francisco, Mexico for a wonderful seven days of much-needed vacation. San Francisco, known as “San Pancho” to the locals, is on the Pacific coast in southwestern central Mexico. On the latitude line, it’s a bit below Cuba and right in line with Hawaii. It’s an extremely beautiful place but it’s hot in San Pancho in late July and early August.

One Saturday afternoon it was 106 degrees and one of the first things I had to learn was to cooperate with the climate. In fact, when we deplaned on the Mexican tarmac, it was like stepping into a furnace. “Hotlanta” isn’t all that hot after all, I discovered. Sweating in this kind of heat isn’t an embarrassment — it’s a necessity for survival.

We rented a Volkswagen Jetta and soon had other cultural conflicts. I am accustomed to renting cars with full gas tanks. “Just bring it back with the same amount of gas!” smiled the cheery attendant at the Budget Car Rental as we drove off. After about two miles, I found to my great distress that the fuel indicator was sitting below empty! After frantically searching for and finding a gas station, we proceeded to our destination with a full tank.

After about a half hour we spied something that looked suspiciously like a military check point. Sure enough, a Mexican military unit had set up a blockade across the four lanes of traffic and young soldiers sporting automatic assault weapons were stopping all the cars. I rolled down the window and the soldier asked me a question. My Spanish is less than fluent. I did take Spanish I in the ninth grade but got distracted by a girl and, after making a “B” the first six weeks, had to make 103 on the final exam to pass for the year. I made a 37 and wound up in summer school wishing I had paid un poco attention to the girl and mucho attention to Spanish the previous year. The soldier asked the question a second time. Finally, in broken English, he asked if we had any fruit in the car. We didn’t so he waved us through. “Priest Shot in Mexico for Possession of Bananas,” was the thought that ran through my head as we gratefully drove away.

I kept a lookout for police cars remembering that someone on the airplane advised us that, if we were stopped by the police for anything, we should offer the officers a bribe of 100 or 200 pesos ($10 or $20 US) to forget the whole thing. Talk about a cultural conflict! I serve as a police chaplain and am currently certified law enforcement in Georgia and the idea of offering a bribe just goes against my grain. I decided, however, that if we were in that situation I would ask if I “could just pay the officer the fine of 100 or 200 pesos directly.” You say tomato, I say …

In the United States, if we wish to turn left, we turn on our left turn signal. In Mexico, if you turn on the left turn signal, it means that it’s clear to pass and any car behind you is free to go around you as long as the signal is on. That little cultural conflict almost turned nasty on a two lane road near San Francisco.

As previously mentioned, it was hot in southwestern central Mexico but, still, one likes a hot shower after a long flight and a sweaty one-hour drive, especially after nearly being crashed into by cars passing on the left and soldiers ready to shoot at the first sign of a contraband avocado. But, no matter how long I waited, the water at the place we stayed just would not get hot. Still, in this heat, a cold shower wasn’t all that bad, but, when I had to take the cold shower the next morning as well, I complained. It was then I discovered that the big “C” on the water faucet didn’t stand for “cold.” It stood for “caliente,” the Spanish word for “hot.” The “F,” on the faucet which I had turned on for twenty minutes in a vain attempt to get hot water stood for “frio,” which is the Spanish word for “cold.”

But I did finally get something right. I discovered that one of the most important things you can say in a Mexican restaurant, or any other establishment, is, “Donde es el bano?” or “Where is the men’s room?” What you don’t want to do is be a man and ask the waitress, “Donde es la bana?” That, of course, is “Where is the ladies room?” Don’t ask me how I know.

The whole experience has taught me to be much more understanding and compassionate toward those who come to the Deep South from different cultures. Especially toward those foreigners from the North who don’t know how to pronounce “Y’all,” and ask, “Can you tell me where to find a grit bush?”