Photos: author

My only experience of life in a Xhosa village is of a walk with a friendly woman in the Transkei, who took us back down to the beach, along a thorny, dense thicketed path. We had gotten lost on our attempted hike, and were trying to make it back to our seaside hostel, The Kraal, without walking shoes.

She walked the entire path without any shoes either, but I didn’t see her flinch. This experience gave me a profound respect for the rural Xhosa lifestyle and attitude. After all it’s a similar upbringing the revered Nelson Mandela would have had in the village of Qunu, which is also part of the former Transkei.

Xhosa, or IsiXhosa, is one of South Africa’s eleven official languages, and is predominantly spoken in the Eastern Cape region, including the former Transkei and Ciskei areas, where Mandela and former president Thabo Mbeki were born. According to South Africa Info 17.6% of the country speaks Xhosa.

Xhosa culture is typically represented in the rural areas of the Ciskei and Transkei, where herds of cattle sleep unperturbed on the quiet beaches and ladies grind maize on concrete next to turquoise painted rondavels, or thatched huts.

In the rural areas traditional ceremonies are still practiced, including the rite of passage into manhood by young men, who leave their villages for a certain time and undergo circumcision. After this ceremony they wear ochre-coloured clay on their faces to signify that they have undergone initiation. Mandela describes his own initiation ceremony in his autobiography, The Long Walk to Freedom.

However, migrant labor has also lead to an urban representation of Xhosa culture, which is largely characterized by the idiosyncrasies of township life, including a community spirit and social gatherings such as chisa nyama (literally “hot meat”, or barbeque, also known as braai), which is eaten together with pap (porridge).

Unfortunately, the nature of South Africa’s past, and the diversity of its population has prevented linguistic assimilation to a large degree. Even people like myself, who have spent their entire lives in the country, still don’t understand all the languages spoken around them.

Xhosa, like the other eleven official South African languages, has been influenced and shaped by hundreds of years of migration, colonialism, apartheid and the discrepancy between rural and urban life. As a result of previous apartheid legislation, areas like the former Ciskei and Transkei were declared “independent” states in an effort to isolate ethnic groups.

However, this “independence” also created a lack of infrastructure and high levels of unemployment, which means that many people from these areas have left for cities like Cape Town to look for work. More and more people in South African cities like Cape Town speak Xhosa, and so the need for people to learn the language in these areas has increased.

There are several language schools that specialize in Xhosa instruction, such as Xhosa Fundis in Woodstock, Cape Town, which offers an intensive six-week course- with ample time to practice Xhosa’s characteristic “clicks.”

Apart from classroom instruction, and online learning, other language schools, such as Ubuntu Bridge offer what they call Xhosa Culture Tours, and Language Immersion Opportunities. These can be a one-night stay in a Xhosa home in the informal settlement of Khayelitsha, or an extended stay in traditional Xhosa village in the rural Transkei or Ciskei for up to 10 days.

Both Xhosa Fundis and Ubuntu Bridge also offer corporate or team building packages, which cater to adult learners in an organizational context. Language schools like these also make an effort to introduce aspects of Xhosa culture, such as the difference between life in the rural areas, or ezilaleni, and in the “townships”, or elokshini.

You can try to study via CD’s, books and classes that will teach you the grammatical nuances, because like any other language Xhosa is complex. According to the UCLA Language Materials Project there are also several dialects of Xhosa, which include Ngqika, Gcaleka, Mfengu, Thembu, Bomvana and Mpomdomise.

Or, as I experienced while trying to learn Spanish with only a phrasebook in South America, another way to study Xhosa is to take a hands-on approach. One way of doing this would be to get involved in the local community outreach, by volunteering to teach at understaffed schools in the Cape Town area or in the rural areas of the Eastern Cape.

There are numerous volunteer organizations that operate within these areas; however, SHAWCO which is based at the University of Cape Town (UCT), is one of the better-known ones. The organization is run by students who volunteer to assist learners in the surrounding township areas, so it offers an ideal opportunity to improve your Xhosa language skills.

Whether you take an academic or immersion approach, I think learning Xhosa, and any one of the other eleven official languages, is a valuable skill and one that I, as an English-speaking South African, hope to acquire myself. I feel that growing up in a segregated country has limited my experience of life in my own country: something I hope to change.

Photo: unojofuerte

If you’re planning on working or volunteering in the fields of human rights, development, education or politics in the region, Spanish will get you by, but nothing will open doors like acquaintance with the local indigenous dialect. Many of these languages involve a way of thinking and looking at the world vastly different from that of Spanish, and an inadequate understanding of these differences necessarily inhibits communication.

The Aymaras in Bolivia, for example, approach logic in a completely different fashion , assigning values of “true”, “false” or “uncertain” to each statement. Unlike in Spanish or English, they are able to logically derive conclusions from uncertain premises in a mental leap completely beyond the capabilities of those accustomed to thinking like a European.

Beyond the practical benefits of increased understanding or deeper cultural travel, these languages pose a fascinating study of the human capacity for language and provide a unique mental exercise for those already comfortable with European languages.

While hundreds of the languages in the region are in danger of dying out, or are spoken by so few people that your reasons for learning would have to be pretty specific, many governments are beginning to make at least token efforts towards the preservation of some of the major languages in the region. Here’s where you can learn the big three and why you might want to.

Quechua

Famous as the language of the Incan empire, although it actually predated them, Quechua is still spoken by around 8.5 million speakers across Brazil, Bolivia, Argentina, Ecuador, Colombia, and, of course, Peru, where it is the second official language. While in reality a language family, with several dialects and languages, some mutually intelligible, some not, a good place to start is with the Quechua of Cusco or Bolivia. Highly similar to each other, together they have the greatest number of speakers, and the small amount of surviving literature and theater of the Incas is in this dialect.

Quechua is quite easy to learn. It’s entirely regular, with no adjective agreements or indefinite/definite articles, although you’ll have to wrap your head around a totally unfamiliar vocabulary and a few extra sounds. The most challenging, and fascinating, aspect of the language is its system of evidentials. Each sentence must be qualified by what your source is for that piece of information, and how much you’re willing to commit to it being true – whether you saw it with your own eyes, heard it from a reliable source, are inferring or speculating. If only they’d introduce something like that on the Internet.

Photo: Sabor Digital

Where to Learn Quechua

Cusco or Bolivia are the best places to learn. Keep in mind the Bolivian regions around La Paz and Lake Titicaca are Aymara-speaking, so if you’re keen on Quechua you should base yourself in or around Sucre, Cochabamba or Potosí. Many Spanish schools also offer Quechua, or you can track down private lessons – expect to pay between US $3-4 per hour (possibly less in Bolivia).

Aymara

When the linguist Ludovico Bertonio was studying Aymara in the early 17th century, he became convinced the language was too perfect to have developed naturally – that it’s remarkably regular pronunciation, extraordinary fertility and articulateness, and its ability to handle abstract concepts could only be the work of gifted creators.

Many also argue that some form of Aymara was the so-called “secret language” of the Incas, used for private communications between the elite, while the empire at large spoke Quechua.

Whether you subscribe to that theory or not, Aymara is a fascinating language, not only for the mind-bending logical structure mentioned in the introduction, but also for the sheer fact it managed to survive to still be spoken by over 2 million people today in Bolivia and the adjacent regions of Peru, Argentina and Chile. When the Spanish arrived, they tolerated the use of Quechua as a kind of lingua franca between their Indian workers while suppressing the use of other indigenous languages, and most of this century was characterised by hispanization programs which sought to “unify the nation” of many South American countries under the common tongue of Spanish. Despite all this, and despite its total lack of a dictionary or literature, Aymara lives, and the Bolivian government now caters to speakers with radio programs and official language status.

Where to Learn Aymara

Again, the Spanish schools are a good place to begin – stick to the Lake Titicaca region in southern Peru and Bolivia, or head to La Paz.

Guaraní

Paraguayan Guaraní is unique as the only indigenous language in South America which is also spoken by non-indigenous people as their mother tongue. The first of the South American indigenous languages to be awarded official status in 1992, Guaraní is now spoken by 95% of Paraguayans, most bilingual with Spanish, although the indigenous tongue tends to occupy a more rural, informal, intimate space. Textbooks tend to be printed in both languages, bilingual education is gaining strength, newspapers have Guaraní editions, and many politicians are Guaraní speaking. Even Paraguayan Spanish contains a large number of Guaraní loan words.

For those planning an extended stay in the area, Guaraní is an indispensable window into a more personal sphere of Paraguayan life.

Where to Learn Guaraní

Nearly 5 million people across Paraguay, Bolivia, Argentina and Brazil speak some form of Guaraní, however, varieties may be mutually unintelligible so it’s vital to consider where you plan to use it most. For Paraguayan Gauraní, many of Asunción’s Spanish schools also offer courses in Guaraní.

Community Connection

Looking to meet other travelers, language learners and expats based in South America? Check out Matador Travel’s South America page.

Photo: e³°°°

When my husband and I decided to move to Japan, we faced a hard decision about our cat. Should he come or should he stay? At the time, bringing him seemed difficult. There were too many other details to consider and we couldn’t face the extra paperwork. I left him with a trusted relative for safekeeping.

Now, I regret that decision. After all, I adopted him from an animal shelter and made a lifetime vow to care for him. Leaving him, I broke a serious promise.

Since moving, I have met other expats who have successfully moved their pets overseas. They agree there are benefits to undergoing the complex process. The first advantage is that your pet is with you, which may be (depending on age and other factors) the animal’s best interest. You maintain the relationship and don’t have to worry about your animal’s care in your absence. It’s also comforting to have a familiar “friend” as you adjust to a new lifestyle.

The downside is that the process can be expensive and stressful. In addition, it may prove difficult to find appropriate housing or vet facilities near your new home.

If you are considering moving your pet overseas, here are some basic guidelines to follow.

1. Check with the Consulate

Rules vary greatly in different countries regarding the import of animals, and these regulations often depend on your country of origin. First, determine if you can bring your pet at all. In some countries, certain species of dog and cat are accepted, while others are not.

For a preliminary idea of a country’s regulations, refer to Petrelocation.com, although information on this site is general only. Refer to the country’s consulate for recent official requirements.

2. Assess the Living Environment Abroad

Contact a local person and ask questions about the community. Do apartment and house rentals accept pets? Are vet facilities available? Is animal care affordable? In Japan, a friend of mine with a dog revealed that vet clinics in our area are extremely busy, and it’s hard to get an appointment.

Are there kennels where you can leave your pet while you’re away? What’s the local attitude towards pets? Are many people suspicious of black cats, for example?

Photo: someToast

3. Come up with a Timeline

To import a pet, most countries require a stringent sequence of medical tests. The timing of each stage is extremely important, and failure to adhere exactly may result in headaches and extra costs.

Satisfying the requirements to bring an animal to Japan takes at least six months. A dog or cat must have a microchip, rabies vaccinations, and blood tests at prescribed stages. There is also a 180-day waiting period after the blood tests before the animal is allowed entry without quarantine.

4. Meet with the Vet

Schedule an appointment with a vet experienced in preparing animals for overseas travel. That person may already be familiar with the procedures, which lightens your burden to ensure they are done properly.

Discuss your pet’s overall health and age as well as potential problems with moving abroad.

5. Contact Airlines

Airlines have different regulations for transporting animals internationally. Contact a representative directly to clarify specific issues or concerns.

It’s also important to know that rules for transporting your pet may change at different stops on the travel itinerary. For example, one set of rules may be in place for flying your dog from Los Angeles to Tokyo, but once in Japan, the rules may be different from Tokyo to Okinawa.

6. Find a Pet Carrier

Ensure you have the proper animal carrier for an international flight. Many airlines require the carrier to be approved by the International Air Transport Association (IATA). In some cases, you may be able to rent one directly from the airline. In any case, an airline representative can explain exact dimensions needed based on the species and size of your animal. You should expect to pay considerable transport, handling and holding fees.

7. Focus on the Details

Once you start the complicated process of expatriating your pet, follow the directions exactly. Don’t remain confused by a requirement; speak to someone who can clarify. The consequence of making a mistake, even a small one, can be costly and frustrating.

Another friend in Japan told me she had problems clearing her cat at customs because one signature on her documentation was signed in the wrong color ink! She faced an expensive quarantine for $100 US a day until the matter was settled.

Keep multiple copies of the documentation. Set aside money for unexpected fees and problems you might encounter along the way. Finally, have a backup plan in the event you can’t move your pet as planned.

Additional Resources

Pet travel.com, Independent Pet and Animal Transportation, Jetpets, and World Pet Travel can provide more information about moving your pet overseas, including pet relocation services.

Community Connection

Have you ever moved overseas with a pet? Share your experiences and tips in the comment section.

For more about traveling with animals, check out How Emotional Support Animals are Changing Air Travel over at Matador Change.

Photos: author

I came to Rishikesh to relax, to write, to bathe in the Ganga, to be left alone. It’s exactly as easy as I remember it being when I first came five years ago–the heart of the “banana pancake trail.”

Rishikesh is listed on the back cover of Lonely Planet as the yoga capital of the world. Unsurprisingly, there are foreigners everywhere, and Ayurvedic apothecaries, massage centers, Nutella, Sai Baba-branded incense, chillums.

Didi’s East-West Café and Little Buddha Restaurant offer avocado lassis, cinnamon rolls, homemade kombucha. Eggs, toast, and weak Turkish coffee are available together in a set as ‘Israeli breakfast number two.’ These things are, I think, meant to seem familiar and comforting to foreigners; but it’s hard to pinpoint exactly where they’re native to. Tourists who met and talked philosophy over lukewarm beer in other cities run into each other here again.

Every day I indulge myself in an Americano in air-conditioned Café Coffee Day. There are big windows in the front that look out across the street at the local jeep stand. People stare in at the mostly foreign customers, sipping our expensive coffees and magenta-colored frozen mocktails.

I imagine we look comfortable, entitled, ignoring the world outside of our glassed-in interior. I have an odd sense of guilt at being here. It’s almost too easy. I get caught in this trap of equating struggle with valor, with worth. As though by choosing to stay here I’ve temporarily checked out of India.

I keep thinking about a question someone asked me when I was here three months ago for the Kumbh. Ben, a Canadian tourist who’d also gone to Haridwar for the big bathing day, had heard that my friend Neel was fluent in Hindi and quite knowledgeable about Hinduism and North Indian culture. Ben wanted to know what was “more authentic” about my experience of the Kumbh because I was with Neel. The question startled me; I had no idea what to say. But how fitting, to ask such a thing here.

Photos: author

A silk merchant in Banaras once told me about attending a family wedding in Mumbai. It was a lavish, modern affair; the tikkas, normally made from sandalwood powder, were made instead of the dust of pearls. Out of all the male guests, the silk merchant was the only one in kurta pajama; the rest wore three-piece suits. Everyone wanted to talk to him, listen to his stories told through paan¬-stained teeth.

They were delighted: here, in Mumbai, a pakka Banarasi! Indians, too, cling to a vision of the real.

What and where is this pure, pious embodiment of Indianness that we are searching for? If it exists, so must its opposite. Before I came, an acquaintance sent me an email suggesting some possible destinations. He mentioned Pune, but warned in capital letters: “It’s NOT INDIA.”

Yes, India is changing. But if Rishikesh, Pune, and the pinstriped Mumbai businessmen aren’t Indian, what are they? Are we willing to relegate them to being as countryless as the banana pancake? The truth is, one of the things that defines India for me is how fluidly, how comfortably seeming contradictions coexist here–in her landscapes, her experiences, her people–until they no longer appear antithetical.

Here in Rishikesh, I read the Hindustan Times over my Americano. Today’s cover shows a girl in profile sitting on a raised platform. Her eye makeup is heavy and she’s wearing mounds of red silk and a garland of marigolds around her neck. The caption explains: She is a fifteen year old living goddess, revered as an incarnation of Kali. Before her kneels another girl wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The goddess is blessing her. Both girls have just passed the high school leaving certificate exam; the goddess is the first sitting deity to ever do so. Her success in the exam “[has set] her on course for a career in banking” after she retires when she reaches puberty.

Every day I go to the beginner’s yoga class at the ashram where I’m staying. One night I get drunk with my teacher, Praveen, and he tells me it’s only an ashram in name. He refers to the owner as “fatty man.” Sometimes no one else shows up for class. When it’s just the two of us, he doesn’t touch the threshold of the room and then put his hand to his chest when he enters. He doesn’t ask me to finish the session with Om chanting like usual. I could feel disillusioned when another batch of students appears the next day and again he has us sing shanti shanti shanti, but I don’t.

Seven years ago Praveen left the business world, or, if you prefer, renounced it. He lived in the forest with his guru, practicing eight hours a day, eating enough to satisfy only three quarters of his hunger. He missed his motorcycle, his cell phone. His friends and his parents distanced themselves.

When he was young, they took him to hear famous babas lecture on the right path, the holy way. Now they want to know how he’s going to make money, if he’s serious when he says he won’t get married. These days he eats finger chips and oils his hair, and he has another scooter–its model name is ‘Pleasure.’ He likes telling stories about the discotheques he went to back when he was “commercial.” I’m still getting more flexible every day.

I spend another comfortable night at my fake ashram, the banker becomes a yogi, the goddess becomes a banker. Today she doles out blessings; tomorrow, pin codes and deposit receipts.

Should I be disappointed? She shares the HT cover with a story on a new three billion dollar international airport terminal and another about the recent slew of so-called “honor killings” in metropolitan Delhi. Authenticity doesn’t sound so pretty now. But it sure is shocking, it sure is different.

In the morning, I start thinking about going back to Banaras. But I won’t make any decisions before I’ve had my Americano.

Feature photo: sara~Photo: bonnie-brown

During our first-day introductions, I listened intently as my classmate spoke in Spanish, hoping her accent wouldn’t be as good as mine. That’s just the kind of person I become in a classroom. The corners of my mouth turned upward as I heard echoes of an unidentifiable Western European language in her otherwise solid Spanish. My smile disappeared, however, as she explained that she was from Switzerland, where multilingualism was the norm. I couldn’t tell whether her accent was French or German because she spoke both, as well as English and Spanish. Although she may have ciphoned some of the air from my temporarily inflated ego, she reinforced my decision to continue working on my Spanish even though I finished my last college Spanish class five years earlier.

I’ve never understood why so many people who excel in a language in high school or college slam the brakes on their journey before reaching the final destination of full fluency. Perhaps cultural narcissism keeps many Americans from realizing how beneficial bilingualism is. I’m a typically ego-centric American in many ways, but I’ve always looked forward to the day when I can call myself truly fluent in Spanish. One key step in that path was my recent five-week series of classes in Mexico City, where I discovered some do’s and don’ts that aided my quest for fluency.

1. Make Mistakes

My experience at International House began as many language-school first days do: with a short written quiz and a conversation in the target language, both meant to determine at which level the student should begin. That first conversation included an important question: the coordinator wanted to know what my goals were. My priority remained clear throughout my trip: to make mistakes.

It sounds weird, but I knew that if I could become more comfortable making a fool out of myself, I’d make some major strides forward. I didn’t want to chicken out and revert to English when interacting with a bilingual person. I wanted to actually learn from my mistakes, which had always been difficult for me. To learn from the mistake, you have to focus on the positive possibility and not the negative present (or the fact that the person next to you is mastering language number four).

Almost halfway into my trip I was feeling much steadier linguistically and culturally. I was comfortable getting around my neighborhood, riding the metro, dealing with laundry, and tipping people. However, I completely misunderstood someone every single day. This was as aggravating to me as restubbing a toe, but I’d remind myself learning from my mistakes was the point. Besides, mistakes or faux pas often lead to some sort of new, beneficial realization.

Mexico City, Photo: author

2. Let the Teachers Teach

The youngest of my three teachers at the school was the most entertaining and the most frustrating, mostly because she challenged me to avoid the path of least resistance. She often complimented me on my level but urged me to look up synonyms for words and phrases. “Buscar, buscar, buscar,” she would say, encouraging me to befriend a thesaurus and “search, search, search” for new ways to express myself. “With a language as rich as Spanish,” she said, “there’s no excuse to keep repeating the same words.” At my level, I was able to explain myself fairly easily, but to become truly fluent I’d need to master the nuances of the language and continue expanding my vocabulary.

Toward the end of one class that I had been enjoying, I got awfully defensive. After immediately snapping, I stopped arguing, listened, thought about it and realized her point was correct. Yes, I was overusing the transition es que (“it’s just that”) and, yes, it really does suggest that one is trying to make an excuse for some behavior, which was not exactly what I was trying to convey. At the advanced level it’s easy to stick with words and phrases that are comfortable and sound colloquial, but it’s a trap. “Buscar, buscar, buscar,” I thought.

3. Know Who the Boss Is

At a language school, the teacher is the teacher, but the student is the boss, the one paying for the service. Most schools make this fairly clear, especially during the first class, when a good teacher will ask what the students wants to focus on. I fell into the trap at one point, finding myself dreading completing another set of exercises. Then I suggested we shift focus to conversation for the rest of the class. Not only did my mood immediately lift, but I learned more because I was more engaged. Learning in a classroom as an adult sometimes presents fluctuating power struggles, but those who can allow themselves to be guided while remaining in control of the overall experience gain the most.

4. Don’t Limit Learning to the Classroom

As much as I took away from the classes, I probably learned an equal amount from informal teachers, from taxi drivers to waiters to random passersby. I would try to eavesdrop while enjoying my many cafés con leche at coffee shops, chat with the guesthouse owner about my day (and, ocassionally, my grievances with the language teacher), make small talk when purchasing items and even offer to help struggling tourists communicate with locals.

Another reason to embrace learning opportunities outside of the classroom: A teacher is not mistake-proof and is just one of many voices. It’s important to take what your teacher says seriously and not get defensive or argumentative, but if you’re surprised by what he or she is telling you, check with others, with informal teachers you meet every day. After all, why else would you immerse yourself in a culture that speaks the language you’re trying to master if not to take full advantage of the classroom that extends beyond four walls?

Community Connection

To read more about language learning, check out 7 Tips for Learning a Foreign Language on the Road, 10 Steps for Becoming Fluent in Less Than Six Months, and Matador’s Language Learning Focus Page.

This essay is published in partnership with CEA (Cultural Experiences Abroad). If you’re looking to have your own experience, check out their recommended programs.

1. Florence architecture , Photo: Rosino

2. Reading on fountain steps, Photo: Alaskan Dude

3. Italian sliced deli meat platter with olives, Photo: Alaskan Dude

4. Homes with flowers by the Arno River, Photo: Pasujoba

5. Street performer, Photo: McPig

6. View from outside the city, Photo: McPig

7. Aerial view, Photo: Carlo Alcos

8. Evening cafe snack, Photo: McPig

9. Street side cafe, Photo: McPig

10. Rubbing the stomach of Little Bacchus is said to bring good luck, Photo: Alaskan Dude

11. Funky shoes for sale, Photo: Alaskan Dude

12. Deli offerings, Photo: Alaskan Dude

13. Live music in the square, Photo: Rosino

14. One of many, many statues in Florence. Photo: Carlo Alcos

15. Eating gelato with both hands, Photo: Alaskan Dude

16. Italian cafe snack, Photo: McPig

17. The city by night, Photo: McPig

18. Street art in Florence, Photo: smokeonit

19. Shops at Ponte Vecchio, Photo: Gimli_36

20. Florence at sunset, Photo: Chi King

Community Connection

Planning on studying abroad in Florence? Check out Matador’s Green Guide to Florence and the Italy Focus Page.

Feature photo: boyke bader Photo: Brian Giesen

“Learn Indonesian? What for? The only words you need to know are terus, berhenti and putar balik. Continue, stop, and turn around,” said my expat colleagues between snickers and high fives. “You know, for the taxi drivers.”

I could have lived in the expat bubble by eating in restaurants, hiring an English-speaking maid and hanging out with ‘my’ kind, but I wanted to be able to eat at roadside stalls and order without pointing. I wanted to have conversations with taxi drivers beyond “continue, stop, turn around.” I wanted to understand the jokes my Indonesian colleagues forwarded to each other, and I wanted to be able to speak to a certain cute girl in customer service.

When I first went to Indonesia in mid 2005, I had not expected to need (far less to want) to learn the local language. Like many Indians, I had been brought up to believe that all “educated” people speak English. The only other country I had visited previously was Malaysia, where English enjoys a similar status.

It was hard for me to imagine someone with a university education unable to speak English and to not be ashamed of the fact. I was surprised to walk into fancy restaurants and top hotels and to not be addressed in English. This reduced status of English was new and fascinating; my understanding of the world had taken a severe wallop.

I bought a couple of Bahasa books and found some online vocabulary and grammar exercises. My first goal was to learn the numbers, ask the cost of things, understand the response and pay the right amount.

Photo: boyke bader

I met this goal quickly, and I thought, “This language is easy! There are no verb tenses, no strict rules on word order and not even plurals.” In most cases you just repeat the word and it becomes a plural. Slowly I learned enough to try and talk about inane stuff with my co-workers, and avoid ordering genteng (roof tiles) instead of kentang (potatoes) at a restaurant.

I was arrogant and (probably) insufferable, and thought myself better than my expat colleagues for making an effort. I boasted about having “learned” the language in two months. I would pre-plan conversations and prepare sentences beforehand to show off my Bahasa skills. Things went fine for a while, but pre-planned conversations can only go so far. Indonesians have no qualms bursting out in laughter when a foreigner makes a mistake in Bahasa. I reached a point where I could communicate in many everyday situations, but I couldn’t make out a single word when people spoke to each other in Indonesian.

The truth became clear to me when one day, after I had had enough of the laughter and bit back, one of my local friends quipped, “I’m sorry, but you sound too much like an airport announcement.”

“Or a newsreader,” another chimed in.

I had always assumed that I couldn’t understand Indonesians because they spoke faster when speaking to each other, but that was not the case. A German intern who had moved to Indonesia after four semesters of studying the language back home explained to me that difference between textbook Indonesian and colloquial Indonesian is massive.

Speakers add suffixes, drop suffixes, and use words not found in a dictionary. Words are often shortened, sudah becomes udah or even just dah, and the word lagi is used in a hundred different contexts. Anda, kamu, lu, bapak, ibu, mas, mbak, saudara and kau are all different forms of the pronoun “you,” yet while anda is supposed to be acceptable in all situations you will rarely hear it spoken between two Indonesians in an everyday conversation.

Indonesian turned out to be a lot more complicated than I originally thought.

I gave up on my language study books and started reading Indonesian blogs, tuned in to the trendy FM stations and filled my MP3 player with Indonesian songs. While I couldn’t tear myself away from my favorite English TV shows, I started watching Indonesian shows every now and then. I wasn’t making any tangible progress, but I felt I was doing my best to “immerse” myself.

Photo: jensen_chua

Things started changing when one of my colleagues invited me to be the fourth player in a doubles tennis match. He was the quiet guy at work and I never expected to have much contact with him out of the office, but he turned out to be a very knowledgeable and encouraging guy with the patience of a mountain and opinions on everything. He was also like a human auto-complete. While I struggled for the right word, he’d come up with suggestions that sometimes fit, and sometimes led me to form ridiculous sentences that sounded correct but ended up meaning something I hadn’t even remotely intended. Either way, I was learning.

Earlier the same month I was introduced to a law student who had no patience for English. We got along immediately, but communication between us was painfully slow and full of misunderstandings. Nevertheless, I was determined to communicate in Bahasa. Sometimes I’d have to break off mid-sentence to look up a word in a dictionary. Progress was rapid, though and within a few weeks I needed the dictionary less frequently during our conversations.

By using the language with friends and colleagues, I was making rapid progress, and after a while I didn’t even realize how far I had come. One day I went over to a friend’s place and a show called “Empat Mata” (Four Eyes) was on. I was able to understand a lot, and I even got some of the jokes.

By 2007, life had settled into a routine and I was itching for more. I wanted to expand my social circle and learn something new. I searched for a class that was close to home and had convenient timings. I found a French class. I was quite confident in Indonesian, but learning a new language through one that I had just learned seemed a bit intimidating. Feeling both nervousness and excitement, I signed up. It would be the ultimate test!

When I walked into the institute the evening of the first class, my would-be classmates were all gathered in the café outside the classroom, getting to know each other. There was one other foreigner, an Italian who worked for the UN and wanted to prepare for his next assignment in Geneva. We were all talking in Indonesian, and he was mentioning how impressed he was with Jakarta’s skyline. The word for skyline, however, escaped him, and he looked around for help. None was forthcoming.

“Garis langit?” I offered hesitantly, making a literal translation.

“Ohhh garis langit,” the group nodded.

I beamed. I knew then that I would get by.

Community Connection

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All photos: Mary Richardson

At the time, I was thrilled by the opportunity. I had lived abroad in several countries as a single person, and this move presented a brand new experience. We’d be braving the world as a team.

I imagined that we’d take language classes and eat exotic foods. We’d entertain all our Japanese friends. We’d travel and have adventures to tell our children someday.

What I never imagined was my new role as the “trailing spouse.” The term refers to a person who follows his or her partner to another place, often a foreign country. Taking on that role was harder than I ever thought.

After two years in Japan, I’ve revised many expectations about expat marriage. While I certainly would never trade this time, I have been challenged in unexpected ways.

If you are planning a move abroad as an expat couple, you’ve probably already considered the basic difficulties of culture shock and homesickness. But for the trailing spouse, there are other less obvious issues to consider.

Dependence

The first year, I felt like I was stranded on a deserted island with my husband, and I don’t mean in a romantic movie kind of way.

Living far away from home, it’s natural to turn to each other to fulfill a variety of needs. It’s also easy to underestimate how long it takes to make friends and feel comfortable. In our case, we felt limited by Japanese cultural and language barriers for some time, which restricted our social outlets. As a result, we spent too much time in our own insulated cocoon.

But my husband had the simple advantage of going to a job everyday, offering him benefits I didn’t share. His days had structure, he made friends at work, and he maintained his professional identity.

In my case, I was financially, socially, and emotionally reliant on him.

This dependence was surprising given that I had lived abroad before. I was certainly no stranger to culture shock and lifestyle differences. I had expected them, but I hadn’t considered the difficulty of adjusting to a new country as an “accessory” without my own purpose for living there.

Loss of Job Identity

A 2008 study conducted by the Permits Foundation indicated that only 35% of surveyed trailing spouses work during their expatriation despite having prior careers. What’s more, the lack of satisfying job opportunity often affects self-esteem.

In my own case, this rang true. I desperately missed my former identity. At home, I had taught English classes at a university. I enjoyed the academic interaction with students and colleagues. I had been self-sufficient and proud of my work accomplishments.

I also missed earning my own money. I assumed that finding a job would be easy, as there seemed to be no shortage of ESL teacher positions. The reality, however, was that there were few jobs that matched my experience, education, and salary expectations. I had worked my way up the ropes in my former life, and in Japan it felt like I was starting from scratch.

Too Much Time

Before moving, I fantasized about how I would spend my free time. However, I soon discovered that “transition” time when you’re unemployed is not exactly a vacation. Rather than liberating, it’s stressful and lonely.

I had too much time to dwell on frustrations. Many days lacked focus. I remember a tense period that first year when my husband would come home from work wanting to talk about events of his day. When he asked me about mine, I resentfully felt like I had nothing to tell him.

Eventually, I did find satisfying outlets for my time, but it took longer than expected.

Different Lifestyle Approaches

Finally, to my surprise, my husband and I discovered that we didn’t want to experience life abroad in the same way.

Of course, we’ve both enjoyed the food, the sights, and travel, but our desire to “integrate” has differed fundamentally. I’ve taken language classes and karate lessons, made Japanese friends, and tried to connect in a meaningful way.

My husband hasn’t shown the same interest. Part of the reason is that his work schedule doesn’t offer the same time. But he also admitted he’s less motivated to put himself in those situations. He’s content socializing with other expats and being removed from the local experience. He’s less willing to go off the usual path.

As a result, I have experienced much of Japan on my own, and not as the harmonious team that I imagined.

In one sense, I’ve developed a great deal of confidence, but I’m also the one in the marriage who does all the “engaging” with the Japanese world. I order the food in restaurants, make the phone calls, and deal with the repairmen. I’ve taken on dealing with most of nitty-gritty details about living abroad.

Self-reinvention

Despite the stresses, the greatest positive aspect of being a trailing spouse is that we are given the chance for self-enrichment and reinvention.

If you’ve ever dreamed of escaping your current job and pursuing a different career path, there are certainly means to do that abroad. I know expat spouses who are getting Masters degrees online and honing skills through volunteering and part-time job opportunities. I know several trailing spouses who turned their photography and personal blog hobbies into viable income.

In my case, I have developed Japanese language and cooking skills. I’ve made new friends with local women and other expats. I’ve taken advantage of traveling and learning about the history and culture of Asia. Finally, I’ve embarked on a new path of being a tour guide and freelance writer.

Tips for surviving the first year as a trailing spouse:

1.Be realistic about how long it takes to feel comfortable in a foreign country. Don’t take things too seriously for at least 6 months.

2.Learn the local transportation system as soon as possible so that you’re not stuck at home alone while your spouse is working.

3. Join an expat women’s (or men’s) group to meet others with shared experiences

4. Join a local women’s group to make friends with area insiders.

5. If you’re not working, incorporate structure into your day through exercise, hobbies, or volunteering.

6. Be prepared for working for less pay at a lower skill level.

7. Develop other interests you’ve always wanted to pursue.

8. Understand that your spouse is adjusting to a new work environment and faces unique pressures.

9. Utilize online sources like Expat Women, Expat Arrivals, and Expat Exchange.

Community Connection

What challenges have you faced as part of an expat couple, as either the working or trailing spouse? How did you resolve them?

For more about expat life and travel in Japan, check out Matador’s Japan Focus Guide.

Feature photo: themanwithsalthair Photo: Camden Luxford

It’s blisteringly hot and I huddle under Gabriel’s hoodie, longing for home, for a bottle of luxuriously thick 60+ factor sunblock, for ice-cream. Below us, richly costumed dancers the size of chess pieces move in precise geometric patterns about the central faux-stone platform. The ruins of Sacsayhuamán provide a stately backdrop. Further below is the city of Cusco, and to our right are golden-green rolling Andean hills.

The Inca, the emperor from which an entire culture drew its name, and his high priest speak at length in Quechua, striding about their stone platform with arms spread. The script in front of me tells me it’s the “coca ritual,” but I’m tired of the incomprehensible speeches and let my attention wander to the people around me.

The woman in front is full of vivid energy, threateningly waving a bag of rubbish at the child in front of her every time he stands up, turning to offer us some of her fruit, laughing long and loud. To our right is a more serious, middle-aged señora, in the colourful, voluminous skirt favoured by Andean women, her long dark hair in two joined braids. Her energy has obviously been sapped by the long wait. I overhear her grumpily informing someone who is infringing on her space that she has been here since 5 am.

This is Inti Raymi: a grand festival stitched together in 1944 from colorful scraps left by Incan historians, archeological finds and the contemporary rituals of indigenous communities. It was one of the four most important of the Incan celebrations carried out in Cusco – the center of the Empire and the navel of the world. Taking place on the winter solstice, when the Sun God is furthest from his children, it celebrated the origin myth of the Incas, gave thanks for a good harvest, and pleaded with the Sun to return and ensure the continued fertility of the Earth.

Then the Spanish arrived. In 1572 Viceroy Francisco de Toledo declared the festival pagan and contrary to the Catholic faith and absolutely prohibited its practice.

Photo: endlesstrail

Today it has surged once again to become the second biggest festival in South America, second only to Brazil’s Carnival. More than 150,000 foreign and local tourists descend on Cusco each year, most paying US$80 for a reserved seat in the grandstands closest to the action.

We sit on the rocky outcrop above the performance space, having arrived at 8:30 am to find around 100 people already there. We dozed, chatted and made sandwiches as we watched the crowd grow over the course of hours. Now, with the performance in full swing there are thousands of people pressing in on all sides; they are mostly local indigenous families but with a handful of foreigners mixed in. Vendors are hawking everything from hats to potato crisps to pollo al horno, and the warm smell of sweat and greasy chicken hangs over the crowd. An enthusiastic young man to our left gets us all involved in an erratic Mexican wave as the hour draws nearer and the excitement peaks. It feels like a football match.

Those with reserved seats trickle into place with minutes to spare. At 1:30 pm a steady drumbeat fills, and a procession of stately Incan nobles begin to descend from the ruins to the wide open space at our feet.

Earlier I’d asked Gabriel why the tradition had been revived. “Turismo, supongo,” he’d scoffed. And it is, no doubt, a grand source of income for a city that has come to thrive on the tourist dollar. But as I sit among throngs of locals who had waited hours in the hot sun and now proceed to yell and hurl rubbish at those who dared to stand and block the view, I wonder if it’s so simple.

Nobody pretends Inti Raymi possesses even a scrap of authenticity. It is an evocation of a long-dead past, but a past that defines the Peruvian national identity to an almost unimaginable extent. Cynical travellers seeking the elusive “authentic” may deride the celebration as a targeted tourist trap, calculated to extract as many dollars from foreign pockets as possible; but the truth is more complex.

The reinvocation of the Festival of the Sun rode in on the wave of indigenismo of early 20th century Peru, a time when the intellectual elite of Cusco seized the indigenous cause seeking to lift them out of lives of miserable servitude, to “reawaken their consciousness,” remind them of their rich cultural heritage and the peaks they had reached in the Empire of the Incas – the Children of the Sun.

Over time, this identity was claimed for all Peruvians, the great Incan heritage was embraced by European descendents and mestizos (those of mixed heritage) alike, and the social struggle for the rights of indigenous communities subordinated to the project of nation building, of establishing a national identity and culture.

Admittedly, tourism was not far from the minds of Dr. Humberto Vidal Unda and the other organizers of the revived Inti Raymi. Cusco was visualised as the center of “Peruvianness,” as a living museum which would draw tourists from all over the world. This vision was closely backed up by government funds for the necessary infrastructure.

Photo: Jessie Reader

The indigenistas of 1940s Cusco were on to something, it would seem. Despite a drop in tourism this year, the streets of Cusco have been full. As we sip a cold beer in a friend’s store just below Sacsayhuamán after the simulated llama sacrifice and close of festivities, we watch tens of thousands of people from all over the world descending into the city ahead of us. Tourism is the lifeblood of the city, as many discovered this year during the tense months following the Machu Picchu disaster when tourism dried up almost completely and everybody feared for their job.

Inti Raymi contrasts dramatically with the earthy, difficult and brutally chaotic celebration that is Qoyllur Rit’i. I’m tempted to place Inti Raymi to one side, consider it an aberration in the “real” cultural experiences I’m having; but that would be too easy. Overt manipulation of national identity discomforts me, and the depressing reality is that many of the indigenous people in nearby communities can’t afford to attend a celebration flocked to by people who live halfway around the world. But the Incan heritage of Peru is rich, unique, and worth preservation. Who am I, as an outsider, to dismiss this preservation as crass, inappropriate or “inauthentic”? Some would argue that whatever the motivation behind its original impetus, the force and meaning of this celebration to local communities provides an important counterbalance to the homogenising forces of globalization. The people around me on the hill buy ice-cream and question one another about the meaning behind the on-stage endeavours, watching a manufactured version of a distant past; but it’s their past and should not be dismissed.

What disheartens me most, whatever side of the debate I choose, is not for whom Inti Raymi was recreated, or the value of its continued celebration, but the powerlessness of the indigenous people it is supposed to represent. Trod into the earth by the Spanish Conquest, it was regenerated for them, not by them, by an intellectual middle-class of European or mixed-blood descent, who saw in its practice a chance to romanticize and mythologize their own history and identity. They may or may not, as individuals, value the preservation of this aspect of their culture; what bothers me is that they are not in control of this preservation, that in the face of inflated prices for grandstand seats and allegedly politicized selection of actors to portray the most important roles, power is still firmly out of their hands.

These days, the living remnants of Incan culture watch the celebrations from the hillside, an $80 grandstand ticket an unimaginable luxury.

Community Connection

What do you think, does tourism aid in the preservation of culture or distort it?

For more on this topic, check out Sarah Menkedick’s Tourism and the “Preservation” of Culture: A Rebuttal.