It probably wasn't really a "humdinger," but gosh it feels like one when you're somewhat stranded in a foreign culture and all you can say is "hello" and "thank you" and that just doesn't get you very far. Ironically, we talked about culture shock this morning at New Teacher Orientation (Yes. That in itself is SHOCKING, since I've only been going to school for, oh, my whole life! Can't believe that I actually start teaching in a week . . . but that's a whole post in itself. . .). It's one thing to say "these are the reasons for culture shock, and these are the symptoms, and these are the remedies," but it's an entirely different thing to be present and waking and living and sleeping in culture shock. So because I'm having a rough, culture shock-y day, I'm going to vent about the things that I'm finding very disagreeable at the moment:
Friday: I tried to get cash out of the ATM. Both times that I inserted my card, the machine told me, quite politely I might add, that it could not complete the requested transaction at the moment. No problem. I'm learning (or think I'm learning) to deal with NOTHING working like I think it will or should. I'll just get money later, right? Except that it charged my card BOTH times. Okay. No problem. I'll call the bank and tell them there's been a mistake and everything will be fine. Except it's not, because I've now discovered I have no idea how to use the phone to place calls that aren't already programmed into my cell phone. I have a number the length of a football field with a bunch of 0s and 1s and 2s and every other number under the sun, and I can't dial out. And when I do try, I get a message in French (a language I also can only say "hello" and "thank you" in), so it's uterly futile to try to get ahold of anyone. I try deleting numbers, still get the same message, and hang up disusted with my current situation. *Update: I did eventually get ahold of someone who told me how to call, and I was informed the money would return to my account at the end of 30 days. Great.
Sunday: Being sick in another culture is AWFUL! Not only do I have no idea where to buy drugs (I haven't had to buy them when I'm healthy at the grocery store. . .), I don't have mom or a dear friend to run out for me and buy me a giant box of tissues or chicken noodle soup or whatever else I may want. And of course the heat REALLY is so very comfortable and conducive to sleeping when you already have a giant headache and are sweating profusely. That's right gentlemen, girls sweat!
Monday: This is actually a couple-day frustration, but it culminated today. I bought fabric this weekend, beautiful, beautiful fabric, and was uber excited about it. Of course, when the shopkeeper showed me the price, I had a mild heart attack, but my math skills weren't sharp that day, and he used a calculator, so of course he had to be right, right?! I didn't question it; I just gave him the money. Word to the wise: ALWAYS question. He did give me back a few Durhams (the currency here), and I was totally confused, but figured he was being nice and giving me a tiny price cut because it was so expensive. Come to find out 24 hours later, the price was in Ryals, which I don't completely understand, but apparently they're like half of a Durham. Which means I paid almost double the price he had originally quoted us! ANGER! Well, I went back to try to get my money, but of course it was my word against his, and he swore he wouldn't have charged me double and I swore I knew exactly how much I had given him. I got some back, but the point is: This wouldn't have happend in the U.S.! Why? Because they have things like receipts, and cash registers that count the money and record how much should be in the system at the end of the day, and they also have U.S. dollars that I totally understand.
So, sure when I write about it the stories don't seem so bad, but when you're stressed about figuring lesson plans out for the next week (did I just say next week???!!!), and trying to figure out how to walk to place X without getting lost, and what you'll say if you do get lost since you can't ask for directions, and whether you reallly need to go to the store or you can get buy with the fruit you have in the fridge because you don't really want to walk to the store alone, and you don't want to have to meet anyone because you can't have a decent conversation, and it's hot out so you don't want to have to be modestly dressed so it's easier to stay inside. . . . then the stories seem like the most horrible things in the world. Our HR person says "get over it" when deal with culture shock, but I don't want to get over it. I want to fight and kick and scream, and so that's why I'm telling you about it--because I'm a whiney American baby who will get over it eventually, but doesn't want to just yet.
Oh, how I wish I could snuggle up with Mary, or Beka, or Kathryn, or Jacque and watch one of a thousand movies avaible on the elusive-to-Morocco Netflix, and hear them whisper that everything's okay. But I can't, so instead I want to buy a plane ticket to. . . Antarctica???. . . because I'm sure I wouldn't have ANY culture shock there. . .