Travel Journal, 32

My first memory crossing an international border eludes me. As I understand the tale, my mother and father carried my baby self aboard a plane and into Canada. They tell me that during the plane ride I became, shall we say, violently explosive. I apparently went through most of my clothing during that one trip. Since then, I have crossed international borders dozens of times. The experience continues to be adventurous. However, I am proud to say that I have not had a similar gastrointestinal event—not yet anyway.

Crossing an international border is almost a religious rite. Whenever I step onto foreign soil, I stop for a moment and mentally mark the event.

I am here.

I am no longer where I was.

Right now, my life is different.

For the traveling visitor, differences in culture, time, food, and simple daily life clearly reveal themselves. In some lands, stores don’t open until almost noon. Some places don’t eat dinner until 10:00 p.m. Some people talk constantly, others never so. One group prays five times a day like clockwork. Another group goes to mass every morning. Some gestures are rude. Other gestures seem rude to us, but not to the people around us.

My wife and I walked into the small, sunlit cement room. Two border guards accompanied us to the desk of their superior. We were crossing from Myanmar into Thailand. (Some minor issue occurred during the crossing, but was easily resolve with our visit to the border guard. But this story is not about the problems, it’s about cultural differences.) Our guard escort handed his boss our passports and he began perusing them. He sat at a low desk with a low chair. He suddenly looked up and made a muffled comment. I leaned in to try and understand him. I eventually squatted down on my haunches, to his level. Immediately, everybody in the room rushed to me and earnestly implored me to stand up. Everybody was saying no, no, no and shaking their heads. One of the guards hurriedly presented us with chairs. We eventually cleared up the issue and were on our way.

I found out later that squatting down in that manner was offensive and eluded to a certain, shall we say, toileting motion. I’ve squatted down so often that it’s mindless and second nature.

Around a campfire.

Looking at books on the lowest shelf.

Talking to a toddler.

Every difference is clear. But the cultural differences that I rarely ever pick up on are my own. It is easy to think that everyone else is different. But thinking that I may be the different one catches me off guard. But we all have differences. Simply recognizing those differences and respecting the culture is the first step to softening those borders. For in finding our differences, we better know our similarities.  

anthony forrest