In a small village in Chile, where a majority of the inhabitants speak Mapudungun, the native language of the Mapuche people, my mind effortlessly, eagerly, mutes the buzz of spoken conversation and voices soon give way to other sounds–shrill chirps and the soft flutter of wings, the squeal of angry tires on asphalt and the steady mechanic pulse of engines and machines. I notice the people walking next to me, their shoulders stooped from the weight of their weekly groceries, their bodies swathed in brightly colored fabrics that scratch my bare arms as they shuffle past. I am overwhelmed by my senses, which became heightened the second I stopped processing what was being spoken, and everything seems to move in slow motion. I can smell the small wilted jasmine on the pavement and the putrid stench of sewage and drek from the landfill on the outskirts of town; I can feel the muggy air, feel the beads of water stick to my arms, my t-shirt clinging to my skin.
Although I am fluent in Spanish, I am a complete stranger to Mapudungun. On my trips through Chile I often passed through small villages that were largely indigenous, which meant I could not rely on spoken language to interact with people. So I paid close attention to nonverbal cues like voice modulation, eye contact, and body language to make sense of what went on because those were the only things I understood.
I’ve found this skill to be incredibly important. Not only does it make me quite popular at intimate parties–I’m talking about my rad charades skills here–but it’s taught me a lot about empathy, perception, and social bonding. After returning from my travels in South America I thought it’d be a long time before I’d get to appreciate that connection, that mutual understanding between two people who communicate effectively without having to say a word, again.
Then a couple weeks ago my friend invited me over to his place for a family barbecue. Over the years I had heard bits and pieces about them, but apart from meeting his siblings and a cousin or two they had largely remained a mystery. Needless to say I jumped at the opportunity to make new friends and bond over food and drinks (my favorite type of bonding!).
He warned me that I’d probably feel a little awkward being there since they mostly spoke to each other in Vietnamese (this was especially true among his parents, uncles and aunts, less so among his cousins). Fueled by genuine curiosity about his family–and perhaps more importantly the idea that it’d kinda sorta be like traveling again (it had been 10 months since I had really traveled…I was desperate and my wanderlust demanded some sort of gratification)–the prospect of spending an evening being the odd one out didn’t bother me.
And you know what? I had a great time. We ate some yummy food (my friend’s sister had made tasty spring rolls and his cousins had grilled delicious meats), drank stuff and enjoyed each other’s company.
As it got cooler we arranged ourselves around the bonfire. It was here, during frequent lulls in the conversation and occasional calls for “another round of drinks!”, that I felt for the first time in months that feeling of being lost yet grounded at the same time. My brain, numb to the unfamiliar sounds of Vietnamese, began picking up on other clues to try to infer what was being said.
Many of my observations focused on social codes and cues. I paid particular attention to how my friend’s family signaled their acceptance of me as a viable member of the group. I noticed that as the night wore on they became more comfortable with my being there because they would “code-switch”, shift between Vietnamese and English, more often in an attempt to include me in the conversation. This could have been out of politeness, but I’ve gathered from similar experiences that if the group wants you there, they’ll make an active effort to involve you in whatever it is they’re doing.
Alcohol, a common facilitator of social bonding, also played a small role in their recognition of me as a friend (as opposed to a stranger). For example, I poured the first drink for myself but after that a cousin would fill my glass and invite me to drink with him. I realize that the culture of drinking differs across societies and generations, and what the family members demonstrated may again be nothing more than politeness, but I saw it as their way of signaling that I was being included.
Was I out of my comfort zone? Hell yeah. But if traveling has taught me anything it’s this: I don’t want to live a life where I’m not pushing boundaries or breaking down the walls that keep people away from getting to know me; I want to be okay with feeling a little uncomfortable or awkward in new situations; life is supposed to be messy and confusing and nobody really has shit figured out in their 20’s no matter what your high school counselors tell you and even if they do that’s okay you rock anyway. So yay! to having new experiences without having to travel very far and yay! to learning more about how (differently) you see the world when you shut up for a couple of hours. I guess my high school counselors were right about one thing: actions can speak louder than words.
