W
hen visiting another culture, adopting its customs and values can be beneficial, even if they do not align with your own. I’ve found that respecting who you visit will result in their respecting you back — at least partly, if not completely. This flexibility may increase your safety as you move through someone else’s home, or it may turn into an invitation to a local wedding, for example.
I’ll explain. In 2011, I found myself in a lesser-known area of Eastern Peru. My partner and I were in the middle of a three-year-long driving quest across South America. We rented an apartment for a month in the town of Oxapampa, a few hours up the road from Pozuzo.
Austrian farmers had settled in this valley in the 1850s, which gave the area a European influence. For my white, male American partner and me — a young Dutch woman — this seemed to open up the community to our presence in a different way than in most remote towns, where a white Westerner is more often treated as a means to income or an intruder. We felt a sense of safety, as people would let me take products with a promise to come back and pay later, and rental bikes didn’t have locks because they wouldn’t get stolen. The food reminded me of home, and people were warm and welcoming, sometimes even addressing me in German with the assumption I had come to visit family.
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Our apartment opened into a family compound courtyard with some plants and chickens. Over time, we got to know the family members and, one day, we were invited to a family wedding. We understood this to be an exceptional honor.
On the day of the wedding, I had gone for a bike ride in the valley and arrived when the Pachamanca dinner was being prepared. I walked into the family’s apartment and saw the men sitting around a table in the center of the room, and the women all lined up on benches that hugged the corners. My partner had already arrived and was sitting at the table. There was an open chair next to him, so I asked the groom’s father if I could sit there, and he enthusiastically said yes. But the second my bum touched the seat, my partner leaned over and whispered in English, “I don’t think you should sit here.”
Even though my partner and I were both sensitive to doing the right thing by the cultural standards, I was livid at his response. After all, I had asked the host and was approved to join the men at the table!
So I stayed put and defiantly participated in the very entertaining habit of sharing beer in Peru. Basically, a large bottle and one cup are handed around from right to left. You receive the bottle from the man to your right after he’s poured into the cup, then clink the bottle and cup to each other and say “salud.” Then he knocks back the beer and hands you the cup. You pour, then pass the bottle to the left. You toast, drink, and hand over the cup. This continues until the bottle is empty, at which point it will simply be replaced until people start falling over.
All the while, I was formulating my response to my partner for when we got back to our room. How dare he tell me I can’t sit with the men? The Peruvian men had accepted me at their table, and the white North American one denies me this place? I’d spent nearly two years in Latin America up to that point, and the one person I needed to be on my side in this macho culture just turned on me.
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When it was time to do dishes, the women all moved to the kitchen, and I wondered if I should show solidarity with them and help. But I stayed put at the table so as not to confuse the dynamics even more. Also, I didn’t feel like doing dishes — especially if being a woman was a prerequisite for doing so.
Suffice to say my partner and I had quite the argument that night. I realize now that he was concerned about how it reflected on him and his masculinity within the group — an important thing for security. To this day, I am torn about what was right for the situation.
We made great efforts to blend into Latin America. I covered my shoulders and wore pants in the mountain regions. Tank tops and shorts were only seen along the coast. Even in the jungle, women tended to wear jeans, so I would do the same and sweat. My partner knew how to approach and respond to men — and be respected — which was a skill in its own right. We stood out regardless, but adopted whatever the local dress, communication style, and slang were. I always let the men speak until I was asked about. “Who is your woman?” was the most common opening to be let into any conversation, which usually started between my partner and a local man. This never bothered me — it was their way, so it was my way too.
I like to think the local people appreciated our efforts to do things the way they did them. However, when there was an opening to showcase independence, I took it. I did a lot of solo traveling, and I think that meant something to the women who saw it. Often, women would ask how old I was, if I had a husband, and if I had any children. The more conservative the area was, the more I felt judged for my lifestyle by some of their responses. “How can you be 23 without a husband or children? You’re a failure of a woman.”
Still, I don’t regret setting aside my comfort or emancipated values for those years. I was invited into their towns and their homes, and I was a good guest. I learned their language when passing remote areas where only Spanish, Pidgin, or Quechua were spoken. Some people didn’t like who I was, what I did, or how I looked. But that’s going to be the case anywhere, isn’t it?
Sometimes, navigating gender expectations means evolving to fit in; at other times, it means demanding acceptance for who you are. Both are valid and perhaps even necessary ways to build a more equal society.
Regardless of customs, learning a language and adopting the ways of your locale will allow you to tap into the next experience — to access the next level of culture. If you care about those experiences, it takes work. In my opinion, the rewards are worth it.
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