This is the second part of a two-part culture guide. To read Part I, click here.

The Senegalese village of Ethiolo may only have 500 residents, but the unique lifestyle and customs of the Bassari people here could take years to understand. Continue to learn a little about life in Ethiolo from these images…

Life moves a little slower out in the Senegalese village of Ethiolo. The general pace lulls some visitors into thinking that not a lot goes on in these parts, aside from tea drinking and long conversations. But I’m learning that although life here moves slower, it moves constantly.

All day people work out in their fields, prepare meals, carry water, repair huts, walk to the market, visit sick neighbors and more. ‘Work time’ and ‘personal time’ flow seamlessly together in days full of activity, from sunup to sundown. But these activities aren’t exactly optional—many Bassari families in Ethiolo depend on the food they farm to survive, and their community structure is built on relationships that are nurtured by lingering visits between neighbors.

The village chief and one of his grandsons

I’m not sure if I’d cut it as a Bassari. But luckily, my friend Tatiana and her host family are helping me learn the ropes.

Have a look at some of the day-to-day happenings of village life.

This is the first part of a two-part culture guide. To read Part II, click here.

I sat cross-legged on an embroidered cushion on the floor, watching as dish after dish filled the mat in the center of the room. Within minutes, the mat held chicken, rice with peanuts, fried potatoes, flat bread, cucumber and tomato salad, pickled eggplants and yogurt.

I winced as each plate hit the floor. This was gonna be rough. But when a local family invites you for an afternoon, “visit and lunch,” code for feast, you go. At least I had the foresight not to eat the entire day preceding the visit…and the foresight to wear my stretchy pants.

My hosts started by giving me two plates. Then they filled them while I frantically waved my hands knowing that to be polite, I would need to at least go for seconds after clearing what I was served. I worked through my food diligently, but every time a spot cleared, they just piled more on.

In the Middle East, the traditional way of eating is to sit around the floor on cushions such as these.

I dropped every card I could think of: I’m a little sick today, I’m foreign, I had a big breakfast, I don’t want to get fat. Upon hearing the last one they said, “No no! The rice has no oil! No problem!”

I’m not sure about the soundness of that nutritional advice.

Whenever I find myself in these situations, I pat my belly and make the best, “I’m full and uncomfortable” face I can. But the concerned response remains the same:

Ok, so not ALL Jordanian food is so different from ours…

“It’s ok. Slowly slowly. Wait a minute, then eat some more.”

What is this, a long distance race? That’s the impression I get. In fact, there’s a popular Arabic phrase that means, “Even when you’re full, you can always take 40 bites.”

Also not sound nutrition.

Food As Love

I’ve visited quite a few “feeding” cultures; the cultures where no matter what you say or how you protest, they are bound to feed you more than you need. But I have never experienced anything like eating Jordanian style.

I should have known. The night that Rami and his wife, Zena, picked me up from the airport they asked, “Are you hungry?”

“No, no,” I assured them, “I’ve been sitting down in planes for 20 hours, just eating. I’m fine.”

A confused look passed between them.

My host family, cooking potatoes on the heater in the house!

“Laura,” Rami said, taking on a very serious tone, “in Jordan, people going to ask you three times if you want something to eat. By the third time, you must say yes.”

And so it began.

It’s not like the food is bad—in fact, I love it! Flat breads, rice, hummus, falafel, stuffed grape leaves, cheese, olives, yogurt…it’s just the amount that’s hard to take—especially as a visitor. A month in Jordan is testing the durability of my stomach and my jeans.

But feeding someone here isn’t all about nourishment—it’s an expression of love. It says, “Hey, I worked all day boiling water, shelling peanuts, stirring pots and chopping vegetables for you. I love you a whole chicken, a pound of rice and three cups of yogurt’s worth.”

Some of my favorite moments with my host family happen in the evening when Nourhan and Amjad (the mom and dad) sit down in front of the news, cut up fruit or roast potatoes and castor nuts on the heater and feed them to their kids and me. It’s not because we’re hungry. It’s just an outpouring of their care.

Just Go With It

I’m guilty of participating in the feeding frenzy as well.

Last week, I spent a few days helping with the hospitality side of an event for the organization I’m learning about. I made regular rounds through the waiting room with juice boxes and funky-tasting little cakes that people consistently received with, “yslamo edek,” or “bless your hands.”

Every once in awhile, someone gently placed their hand on their heart and regretfully declined my offer. I couldn’t help but try again…and insist…and maybe try a third time. I wanted them to feel welcomed!

Here is the overwhelming breakfast my host mom gave me one morning.

Most people continued to take juice boxes and cakes, but I realized later that many of them just stashed them away in pockets and handbags. They knew how to play the game. They might not have been hungry or thirsty, but they honored my gesture. It was more about my feelings than their own.

I’ve been trying to follow their example.

Sometimes I must eat breakfast twice. I always drink at least five cups of tea and coffee per day. I’ve accepted the fact that if someone around me stops for a snack, I must snack as well by default.

But that’s how it works here, and I’ve made some good friends by just going with it…or sometimes pretending I already ate.

Jordan travel advisory: walk as much as you can, and pack big pants.

The other day I had a brilliant idea.

“I have so many potential connections scattered around East Africa,” I thought. “What if I were to visit all of them in some huge whirlwind tour?  Northern Kenya, Uganda, South Sudan, Rwanda, Tanzania… It could be really cool. And what if I did the whole trip… by motorcycle???”

The more I thought about it, the more it got me excited.  It wouldn’t happen until spring of 2012 at the earliest, but the idea wouldn’t leave my head.

There was only one problem with this brilliant plan.  I had no idea how to ride a motorcycle.  That is, until last week.

Our sweet ride.

On a trip to rural Kenya with Pastor Fred, I had the chance to learn.  While visiting his childhood home, his elementary school and his in-laws, Fred suggested that we hire a motorcycle to make transportation a bit easier.

And he let me drive…

—

Needless to say, we survived.  It wasn’t pretty, but we both lived to see another day.

Through my inaugural experience as a hard-core biker, I learned several important lessons which I now want to pass on to you.

The next time you find yourself learning to ride a motorcycle in rural Kenya, you can refer to this culture guide for some invaluable advice. 

So here it is… 5 tips on learning to ride a motorcycle in rural Kenya.

Tip #1 – Get a state-of-the-art hog to ride

If you want to really learn, you’ve got to start with a powerful machine to learn on.

Oh yeah… four stroke engine, shiny old-fashioned kick-starter, broken speedometer, classically rusted exhaust pipe and balding tires.  I think I gained honorary membership to Hell’s Angels just for getting the thing to start!

The first “road” I drove on.

Cruising past crowds of onlookers at our top speed of 40mph, I could easily interpret the bewildered looks on everyone’s faces.  It was envy.

Tip #2 – Smooth roads are for sissies

My first half an hour of riding was down a treacherous dirt road that looked more like a dried up riverbed than an actual street.  Boulders the size of cows were scattered across our path.  Actual cows were scattered across our path.

You think keeping the clutch, gear shifter, accelerometer, hand brake and foot brake straight is tough, try doing that while careening down a narrow dirt path, dodging old ladies and car-sized potholes while tree branches slap you in the face.

I know what was going through the minds of the farmers we passed as they saw the look of genuine horror and panic on my face… “That guy is scared to death about how cool he looks right now.”

Tip #3 – Find a faithful riding companion

When Pastor Fred agreed to be my first passenger, I don’t think he knew quite what he was in for.

Pastor Fred, contemplating the meaning of life after a day fraught with near-death experiences.

The first time we came to a speed bump, I forgot how to slow down while downshifting.  The result was an epic launch in which we both hurled into the air, only to have the motorcycle die the moment we hit the ground.

Most passengers would have been frightened by such a skillfully done motocross move, but Pastor Fred just laughed and encouraged me to keep going.

Nevertheless, at the end of the day I could see that my phenomenal skills had taken their toll on Fred.  After getting off the motorcycle, he had a twinkle in his eye that spoke of a fresh lease on life.  While praying for dinner that night, I could tell that his faith in God’s protection had increased ten-fold over the course of the day.

Tip #4 – Don’t be afraid to stick it to the man

At one point during our journey, we were stopped by a police officer standing in the middle of the road.

“Excuse me. Do you have a license to drive that motorcycle here?” he asked me.

“Um, not really. I’m just learning.  My host thought it would be ok,” I said, bravely pointing back to Pastor Fred and placing all of the blame on him.

The policeman shook his head. “This is dangerous to you. This is dangerous to him.  This is dangerous to everyone!” he said in a stern voice.

Visiting Pastor Fred’s in-laws. At least they weren’t too frightened of my helmet hair.

“Um… I’m sorry?” I said.

All of a sudden, the policeman smiled. “No, it’s ok,” he said with a chuckle. “Fred called me earlier to say you’d be coming by.   You can keep going.  Have a good day!”

I laughed nervously and said “Ok. See you later…”

I struggled to start the motorcycle again, using the kick starter over and over while a giant bus crept past us on the right.  Despite the fact that all was well again, it was a painfully awkward situation.

Once we finally got rolling again I smiled, confident that I was above the law.  Yeah! You got nothin’ on me, coppers! (Is that something we outlaws are supposed to say? Not sure…)

Tip #5 – Don’t forget to take in the view!

Driving between towns was amazing.  While on the nicely paved roads (meaning that I only had to swerve into the other lane to dodge gaping holes occasionally), I got to take a look around.

Rural Kenya is beautiful!

Rolling hills, beautiful farmland, a swiftly flowing river… Rural Kenya is gorgeous!

Of course, when giant oncoming semi trucks swerve into your lane to miss potholes on their side, belching exhaust and kicking up dust like furious death beasts hell-bent on your destruction, it’s best to keep your eyes on the road.

But despite these regular heart-stopping moments of life-flashing-before-my-eyes panic, the view was really quite nice!

—

In the end, despite being sore from head to toe at the end of the day and despite having a pretty severe case of “helmet hair,” my first motorcycle “lesson” went off without a hitch.  Not a single crash. Not a single dead cow.

I’d call that a pretty successful first day, wouldn’t you?

Ride on!!!

Modesty isn’t exactly my thing.

Don’t get me wrong! I generally like to keep it classy when it comes to fashion, but 12 years of adhering to private school dress codes has left me a little rebellious.

When I got to college, I pierced my nose and tattooed a butterfly on my right foot. I also bought every colorfully patterned sundress at Forever 21 and decided—at least for myself—that leggings are indeed pants.

Freedom! Individuality! Self-expression!

I could finally just be Jocelyn, and I loved it.

Some Things Never Change

Needless to say, I was a little shocked and disappointed when I read through Tanari’s “smart, casual” dress code the first morning of my summer internship. I left my nonexistent power suit at home.

Setting a new personal record, I managed to break the dress code within 48 hours.

Blazers serve as a sleek addition to any wardrobe.

However, this time I wasn’t issued a detention. Rather, I wasn’t allowed to eat lunch.

In my defense, my dress wasn’t really that short. Let’s just say I would feel comfortable going to church and then eating lunch with my Grandpa afterwards while wearing it. But it does fall a bit above the knee which I embarrassingly learned is a strict Nairobi “no-no!”

After a three hour-long afternoon meeting, I walked with my coworkers next door to Daystar University where we typically eat lunch in the cafeteria. As I approached the metal gate, several guards stepped out to secure the perimeter. The head guard moved towards me and held up his hand.

Not entirely understanding what was going on, I tried to walk past him.

“No.” He stopped me.

“Ummm…”

“You know why,” he said.

I looked down at my bare knees and slowly turned to take the “Walk of Shame” back to the office. Luckily, the rest of the Tanari staff—realizing what had happened—quickly consoled me by suggesting we find a different place to eat.

For the first time in my life, a dress code breach elicited genuine guilt. Something deeper was happening.

An Unexpected Entanglement

The day before I left for World Next Door summer internship training in Indianapolis, a dear friend gave me God’s Missionary by Amy Carmichael. My friend disclaimed the gift with, “You’re probably not going to like it.” And she was right.

Scarves are definitely in during this “chilly” season.

Alright. It’s not that I don’t like the book—I’m definitely reading it. But it is that it’s convictingly conservative in the way I’m being challenged to admit that everything Miss Carmichael writes is true—even though I don’t necessarily agree with it.

For example, I wasn’t exactly overjoyed a few days after my fashion faux-pa to read in the section on “Entanglements” the quote,

“Dead to the world and its applause

To all the customs, fashions, laws,

Of those who hate the humbling Cross.”

But I experienced an unanticipated change of heart a few sentences later when I read, “And if He asks us to change our ways even in this, for His sake and for the sake of those whom we might help if we cared more for Him…shall we not do it?”

Modern Modesty

I never expected Kenyans to be so conservative. Word on the street is that on Friday nights fashion becomes a little more liberal, but as a whole, both Christians and non-Christians alike take pride in maintaining a modest appearance. In fact, I’ve only seen three other pairs of knees since I’ve been here—not that I’m counting…

But it isn’t just appearances that are modest in Kenya—it’s conversations and actions as well. Mostly everybody I’ve had the pleasure to meet minds their own business. They quietly do their work. They calmly eat their food. They patiently wait for the next available bus or matatu.

Pretty in pink!

I suppose that’s the thing about living in a collectivist culture. While each individual is still unique—contributing what only they can for the benefit of not only themselves but also everyone around them—the point is not standing alone as individuals but standing together as each other.

One of the things that first endeared me to the mission of Tanari—creating connected communities—was the following quote featured on the right-hand sidebar of their homepage:

“I am because we are.” –John Mbiti

Maybe that’s what Amy was getting at.

Caring for Jesus

The past few weeks, I’ve spent some time in serious thought reconsidering my “knee”d (Haha! Get it?) for unique rebellion.

My conclusion: I like Jesus more than I like my knees—and I happen to have great ones!

So as I add the upper half of my legs to the list of body parts I won’t be seeing again until August (along with my belly button and shoulders), I take comfort knowing that even in something as silly as this, I’m—in a ridiculously strange way—caring for my neighbor but also caring for my Jesus.

Only 31 days left…

The other day I found myself in an intense staring contest with a quail.

It was dead, of course.  And fried.  And part of my lunch.  But that didn’t change the fact that its vacant eyes were staring up at me, unblinking; a steady reminder that even in death the bird had a deep and abiding contempt for my species.

If dead quails could speak, this one would be saying, “How dare you?”

While I was contemplating my own role in the demise of this majestic creature, someone suggested I take a bite. Because I always say yes, I picked up a piece with the head still attached, ripped off a bit of meat from the neck and chewed.

It tasted like chicken.  It felt like murder.

When I was offered some dried fruit in a random village shack, of course I couldn’t refuse!

A Picky Eater

So here’s the real question: how in the world was I able to eat deep fried quail neck in Cambodia without barfing all over the wall?  Or for that matter, how did I even work up the courage to take a bite?

I mean, I used to be a super-picky eater.  Six years ago I couldn’t eat anything with a bone still on it, much less a face!  Brussels sprouts made me nauseous.  Seafood made me gag.

Let’s just say I didn’t have a very discerning palate.  If a restaurant served Italian food, I ordered pizza.  If it served American food, I ordered a hamburger.  End of story.

So how did I get from that point to last week, where I swallowed a spicy Mekong river snail (one of the most vile-tasting things I’ve ever eaten) with a smile?

Culinary empathy helped me take at least a few bites of tarantula. Yes, the ones on my shirt are alive. But no, the one I ate was dead.

Embracing Culinary Empathy

Well I didn’t know the answer until a few days ago…

Because I am not naturally adventurous or iron-stomached, I’ve had to draw on a different skill to get me through these culinary challenges.  Something that isn’t usually associated with cuisine…

And no, I’m not referring to my ravishingly handsome physique.   I’m talking about empathy.

You see, I’m usually a pretty empathetic person.  I am aware of the feelings of others, able to put myself in their shoes and see the world from their perspective.  Frankly, it’s one of the reasons I’m doing World Next Door in the first place.

The other day, as I was debriefing my most recent culinary exploits with my parents, I put two and two together and realized how empathy plays a role in my eating.

“Whenever I have to eat something weird,” I told them, “I just remind myself that people here eat this.  That this is normal to them.”  Looking at the weird food from their perspective, suddenly it doesn’t seem quite so revolting.

This, for example, is how I was able to take my first few bites of tarantula…

Voluntarily

The coolest thing about all of this, however, is that it has begun to expand.  Now it is more than simply saying “yes” when weird foods are put in front of me.  To my own surprise, I’ve begun to try new things voluntarily...

After spending the night on the floor of a one-room house (more on that in a future article), I was served a breakfast of porridge with chunks of liver in it. Although my culinary empathy was going full-blast at the time, I still thought as I took my first bite, “Oh please let this be chocolate, oh please let this be chocolate…”

I recently took a five hour bus ride from Phnom Penh to Battambang.  At about 10am, the bus stopped at a rest area for a few minutes.  Being the only white guy around, and not knowing what bus-stop etiquette is in these parts, I had to watch what everyone else was doing and simply follow along.

“Ok, looks like everyone is walking over to the toilets… Yep, I can handle that.  Flushing the urinal with a ladle from a nearby basin?  Ok… And now everybody is walking over and buying noodles and some sort of soup.  Hmm, well I am hungry…”

As I walked up to buy some noodles, my older, more practical self began to protest.  “Uh oh.  Those veggies were washed with unclean water… She just touched those noodles with her bare hands!  What exactly are those round, stringy things floating in the soup?”

I was about to walk away when my culinary empathy kicked in.  I looked around, saw a ton of other people eating noodles and realized, “If they are all eating them, how bad can they be?”

I paid for the noodles, took my bowl to a nearby table and started chowin’ down with a pair of chopsticks.

I am finally able to show my food who’s boss. I’m looking at you, rice…

It turns out, they were delicious.

More Interesting

Between my India and Cambodia trips, I spent a day hanging out in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.  Having absolutely no idea where to eat lunch, I let my culinary empathy be my guide.  I wandered through crowds of people in KL’s Chinatown, eventually winding back through a dark, crowded alleyway market.

In the back of the alley was a tiny stall selling something called curry laska.  There were a ton of people eating there, so I just went for it and ordered a bowl, laughing about how far I have come over the last few years.

As I ate, I realized that pointing to the first thing on the menu in a back alley restaurant in a city far from home may not be quite as safe as ordering a hamburger at McDonald’s…

…but it sure makes life more interesting!

Let’s face it.  I’m no stranger to being a minority… and no, I’m not talking about my last name.  Or the fact that I played French horn in high school (oh yeah… babe magnet). 

What I mean is that I’ve spent a lot of time traveling in developing countries around the world. And because of my skin color (somewhere between light tan and Nordic cave-dweller white), I tend to stand out.

I’ve been stared at, laughed at, stared at, pointed at and stared at.

But over time, I’ve come to realize that not all the stares are simply because of my skin.  Here in Haiti, for example, blans do a lot of really weird things… “Why is he rubbing white cream all over his arms?”  “Why is he taking little plastic discs out of his eyes?”  “Why is he talking in that weird gibberish language instead of Creole?”

Combine all that with my own lack of understanding when it comes to cultural norms and customs, and you can see where the potential for misunderstanding creeps in.

That’s why I’ve created a handy 5 step guide to being blan in a Haitian tent village.  The next time you find yourself at the receiving end of a bunch of confused stares in a developing country, perhaps this will help you know what to do…

If only all the kids here gave me smiles…

Enjoy!

Step #1:  Face it.  You do look a bit like a ghost.

Ok, so it came as a bit of a surprise the first time a Haitian child shrieked in terror at the sight of me.  I’m usually pretty good with kids! 

But as we sat outside our tent one evening and a toddler walking by with his mother screamed and grabbed onto her legs for dear life, I realized that something was up.

Looking at it from the little one’s perspective though, I was a strange new person, my pale face was illuminated by someone else’s swaying flashlight and I did have a headlamp beaming like a monstrous third eye on my forehead.

On top of that, it probably didn’t help that I spoke in a scary weird alien-language he had never heard of (i.e. English)… “Gloorp!  Freoz neex law, fuumach?  Nexh, plorg wtawn!  (Translation: “Hi! How are you, buddy?  No, don’t run away!”)

All that to say, if you’re staying in a tent village miles from the next nearest white person, do your best to meet the little ones during the day…

The filthy stream I jumped across (rather than be carried by my interpreter!).

Step #2:  Swallow your pride

Haitians seem to really care about my well being.  Usually, this manifests itself in wonderful hospitality.  But sometimes the things they do for me make me wonder who exactly they think I am.  Very often I just have to swallow my pride and move on.

For example, one person showed me how to put a toilet seat down (“Gee, thanks…”).  Another began telling me to watch out for every rock or obstacle in the road after I briefly stumbled on a piece of rubble (“Oh, yeah.  Thanks.  I didn’t see that gaping hole in the road up ahead”). 

And then there was the time we had to cross the sewage-filled stream to get to Denis’ old home.  We approached the edge of the embankment, looked down and noticed that the water level was higher than usual.  We wouldn’t be able to walk across the stones usually jutting up from the water.

After a few moments of silence, Denis said, “I’ll carry you.”  To which I replied, “No way!”, climbed down to the stream and jumped across the water.

Hanging out with some guys in a tent camp. Early in the morning and you can already see the ocean of sweat forming on my shirt.

Ok, so maybe sometimes your pride might be just a bit too hard to swallow…

Step #3: Plan on sweating… a lot.

I’ve never sweat as much as I have on this trip.  Daytime.  Nighttime.  It doesn’t seem to matter. 

In the heat of the noonday sun, with temperatures reaching well over 100 degrees, I have regularly been drenched head to toe by my sweat.  When my shirts finally dry, they’re covered in streaks of salt.  At night, in our 90 degree tent, I wake up to flip my pillow around from the hot, wet side to the cool, wet side. 

I mean, I think we can pretty much scientifically conclude that male sweat does not release attractive pheromones, because if it did, I would have all the ladies in the Western hemisphere lined up for a sniff.

All that to say, plan on getting a few raised eyebrows when your Haitian hosts are calmly remarking, “It’s getting rather warm, wouldn’t you say?” and you’re dripping like an uber-nerdy sweat-beast from the planet Perspirotron 5.

Which brings us to the next step…

Step #4: Don’t drink the water.  Or… Spend several years traveling to third world countries until your stomach laughs in the face of intestinal parasites.  Either one will work.

Trying to take cover from the heat in the early afternoon. My options: in the sun with a breeze or in the shade with no breeze. Pretty much a lose-lose situation.

When I first started travelling, I took all the standard advice literally.  I kept my mouth tightly closed in the shower, I awkwardly brushed my teeth with a giant Nalgene in one hand, and I even avoided eating vegetables that could have been washed in the local water supply.

Nowadays, however, my attitude toward water is a bit more relaxed.  When I’m sweating and parched (see Step #3), I don’t always have time to go looking for a bottle of Perrier.

Since coming to Haiti, I’ve taken swigs from a random hand-pump in the village of Chambrun, sucked down water from a ton of small plastic bags (pulled, I should add, from grungy sacks resting on top of the heads of random water sellers on the street) and once politely drank from a cup of water offered to me that could have come from anywhere.

Somehow, miraculously, I’m still perfectly healthy.

And besides, whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, right?*

I may stand out when I’m with the Dazmas, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel perfectly at home!

*Well, I guess unless it causes me to be violently ill, bedridden for a month and moaning in agony as my intestines try to eat their way out… That probably wouldn’t make me stronger.

Step #5: Just go with the flow

The fact is, if you’re a blan in the middle of a Haitian tent village, you’re going to stand out.  You’re going to be weird.  You’re going to be the butt of a whole lot of jokes that you’ll never understand.

But as long as you’re willing to be flexible and to just go with the flow, you’ll make it through the experience in one piece… that is, unless your sweat glands die of exhaustion and fall out of your body.

But you know what?  For a life-changing experience like this, I’d gladly take that chance…

Okay, so maybe the title is a little misleading.

Coming from the girl who still gets turned around in the city where she’s lived for twenty years, I suppose “expert” is a little strong.

Zhytomyr is the perfect size city for walking, a convenient and healthy (not to mention free!) mode of transportation.

But I’m turning over a new leaf. After years of obliviously following people and expecting them to get me to my destination, I’m taking a new step. And what better place to learn than a foreign country?

Here are the three things I’ve learned to keep myself from taking a forty-five minute shortcut home from the mall ever again.

Buy a map.

Let’s be honest, when was the last time you used a map? And no, GPS doesn’t count. Other than the map to get me around Disney World or to find the food court in the mall, I don’t believe I’ve ever used one.

Recognizing letters in the street names (my attempt at reading) can come in handy. That is, if you can find a street sign.

Try to find a map that isn’t too crowded and busy, making it hard to read and very distracting. Mark where you are staying and other key locations that you’ll be travelling to and from and write down their addresses. Also make sure you know the size of the city compared to the scale of the map, otherwise “turn left in two blocks” will turn into your daily workout and a nice tour of the side of the city you’ve never seen before.

Mark out the important places on the map so that if all else fails, you can stare blankly and point.

The most important things to figure out are where you are on the map and what direction you are heading. Unless you’re one of those mystical non-humans who can instantly know that they’re facing north northwest and walking to a house on the east side of the road and that the wind is blowing in with a southwestern current (hint: not me), then orienting yourself is your number one priority. Otherwise, you’ll learn very quickly that…

It’s okay to wander.

Whether it’s a wrong turn or just a half-mile detour to find one of the three street signs in the city, it’s completely acceptable to do a bit of harmless wandering. Yes, it’s slightly embarrassing to walk past a group of people four times with your map out, smiling sheepishly each time. But it is better than convincing yourself that you remember seeing that statue somewhere, right?

Generally, it isn’t more than 15 or 20 hryvnia ($2 or $3) to take a taxi anywhere around the city.

And while it may sound like a scene right out of Taken, asking for directions is usually okay. Just try not to walk up to the smarmy man standing in the shadows of the alley while loudly pronouncing to the world that you’re a lost American. Usually, nice looking people on the street can be trusted to at least point you in the right direction, if you’ll believe them.

Memorize the public transportation system.

You know people are going to ask why you’re an hour late when you live twenty minutes away, so you might as well blame it on traffic or something other than your lack of directional capabilities.

Public transportation is great for two things: a little rest from walking and people watching.

Learn the routes of the different transportation throughout the city. Buses, trams, and trolleys all have numbers and run various courses from one end to the other. They aren’t very expensive and they provide a great opportunity for people watching and expanding your vocabulary (in ways that Rosetta Stone could never do). Not only do you learn the hip street slang, but you actually get a real life look at the culture and the way the people and society work.

And if you don’t want to get yelled at by a babushka on the trolley, make sure you give up your seat for any mother and child that need one. Oops.

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Now that you’ve taken a lesson from this modern day Magellan, there’s just one more thing to remember: never admit that you’re lost.

Before coming to Ukraine people often asked me, “Where will you live?” When I explained that I would live with a host family the next question was always, “Will they speak English?” I confidently assured them that yes, at least one person in my home would speak English.

Good thing Barry told us to be flexible.  As it turns out, my host family does not speak English. Not even a little.

At first the idea of living with strangers who don’t speak English intimidated me. Then I met Pastor Peter and Vera. Now I am an expert in the art of communicating sans speech. In fact, living with my hosts is one of the highlights of my trip. So enjoy a few tips on me.

My host, Pastor Peter, sharing God's love with village children.

1. Relax. After getting over the initial shock of my situation, I reminded myself to relax. Not being able to communicate via words really isn’t as big of a deal as you might think. It probably won’t result in an untimely death or an earth shattering catastrophe (though I have wondered if perhaps I should learn the words for fire, run, and help).

2. Shut up. Next remember that speaking louder and more slowly will not increase the odds of being understood. If they don’t speak English and you don’t speak Ukrainian, no amount of slowing down your speech will change this. It’s better to revert to a silent stare down than to a screaming match.

Even if I can't speak a word, I am always fed delicious food.

3. Point. Pointing is an art form I have begun to master. Often what needs to be said can be demonstrated through pointing at objects in the vicinity. However, sometimes pointing results in confusion. I have accidentally asked for salt not sugar, and indicated I would be home at 7 not 8.

4. Just agree! This has become my new motto. Once I mastered the simple words for no, yes, please, and thank you I realized it’s really just best to say yes. If you agree with whatever is going on, things tend to go much more smoothly. Disagreeing requires an explanation and a revision of plans. This is virtually impossible and proves more frustrating than just saying yes. Use caution though. I once unintentionally agreed that I was dating the guy next to me.

5. Laugh often! I frequently laugh at myself. There are so many moments I have no idea what is going on. Sometimes I even look incredibly foolish because I misunderstand the situation. One time I stayed overnight at a home without a translator. I think I was told to remove my clothes, put on a robe, and wash my feet. Honestly though, I had no idea what was going on. I did my best and laughed at myself as I stood in a tub of water wearing a stranger’s robe.

Hearing God's Word in two languages is a powerful testimony of His universal love.

6. Be creative! I discovered that if you really feel starved for conversation, you can always find someone –or something– to talk to. For example, I named a spider in my bathroom Bob. Whenever I got lonely I found Bob and had a good old chat. Of course eventually I had to kill him, but you get the idea.

7. Witness God’s love. The biggest lesson I have learned living here is that God’s love surpasses all language barriers. Pastor Peter and Vera (my hosts) are quite possibly the sweetest, most hospitable couple I have ever met. Although we don’t speak the same language, every day they communicate God’s love to me. When Vera gives me a big hug goodbye every morning and prays over me, and when Pastor Peter sings me songs on the way to MTU, I feel God’s love.

I hope one day you too find yourself in a situation where no one speaks your language. Remember to relax, be creative, and enjoy a few laughs on yourself.

As a foreigner in a new land, you have endless opportunities to experience new things. But one that you’ll never forget is dinnertime.

Perhaps the greatest culinary delight of this country is the coffee that is offered at all times of the day.

Here in Ukraine, you get to indulge in the best and most delicious cuisine in the country – the homemade kind. Here is a little advice on how to be the best guest you can be (which is actually code for eating the food).

There has to be a catch, right? Wrong. Unless you count the elastic pants you’ll most definitely need to pull out for the occasion.

Start slow

I know that bowl of borscht is staring you down, but take a deep breath and pace yourself. You’ve got a ways to go, and if you want to make it to your third round of dessert (a.k.a heaven), don’t inhale your first four courses.

Bread plays many important roles in a Ukrainian meal, whether it’s with soup at dinner or butter and cheese at breakfast.

Ukrainian meals aren’t just a quick drive-thru, eat-in-your-car dinner. Here, it’s a time of eating, chatting and relaxing all in equal amount. Everyone sits around for coffee or tea afterwards, conveniently leaving a time to digest and regain your breath before you have to leave.

Learn the technique

I’ve noticed that there is a certain method for effectively transporting borscht (beet soup) from the bowl to the mouth. Here are a few tips:

These spoons legitimately cut eating time in half.

1. Posture – Similar to ‘taco neck,’ the borscht posture requires a hunched over stance, allowing the mouth to be as close to the bowl as possible. Women have found a prettier, more feminine version of this, but I can only seem to imitate the men – elbows on the table in full concentration.

2. Spoon – This native Ukrainian soup is usually served with a large spoon, which of course, I am tempted to fill to the brim. This is not always wise because splashing and spilling will inevitably occur. Rather, try filling a comfortable mouthful, able to be ingested with minimal slurping.

3. Accessories – Sour cream goes with borscht like macaroni noodles go with chili (Oh wait, must be an Indiana thing). Always take at least one spoonful and mix it into the broth for a nice creamy flavor. Bread is almost always served at mealtime and with borscht, it takes on an interesting role. Instead of dipping and soaking like I initially did (Silly American), try taking a bite of bread after a spoonful of soup. The same effect occurs, just without looking at gross, soggy bread as it drips all the way to your mouth.

If you can master the art of the national food, you’re one step closer to becoming a true Ukrainian. After that, drink some kefir (fermented milk) and you’re good to go.

Take a little of everything

Ukrainian diets consist largely of what is in season. Luckily the summer means delicious fruits and vegetables!

And when I say ‘little’ I really do mean it. I’ve heard it said time and time again, “I won’t believe that you like it unless you take more.” Make sure you’ve left room for seconds so as to be the best guest you can be.

Nothing will make your host happier than to see you enjoy their food, so even when you think you can’t fit another bite, suck it up and do it anyway.

And last but not least…

45-degree angle

Try to get the best seat in the house – one that reclines.

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Now that you’ve got all the advice you need on how to be a guest in a Ukrainian home, it’s time to take it a step further. Try being a Ukrainian host for your own guests and let’s bring some pride back to the American dinner party.