I HAD TO go to Africa to learn how to make popcorn the old-fashioned way.

Exactly one year ago, I added the stovetop method to my popping repertoire. I remember the day. I was walking the rain-soaked streets of Grahamstown, South Africa, during a three-month exploration of the southern part of the African continent. My friend Brian, a local business owner and Grahamstown resident, suggested that we get the proper culinary accompaniment for our rented videos.

"But you don’t have a microwave," I said.

"We don’t need one," he replied, striding into the supermarket and toward the snack-food aisle.

"So you have a popper?" I asked.

My question stopped Brian in his tracks.

"You are such an American," he said, and, without explanation, proceeded to buy a bag of kernels. It wasn’t even Jiffy Pop.

Later, while pouring the corn into an oil-coated pot and watching the white puffs explode from beneath the lid, I learned a lesson that would carry me through nine countries during the next six months: as an American, I should leave certain assumptions within the confines of my own country, where they belong. In fact, some of my assumptions made me look downright arrogant, an accusation that would be flung in my direction countless times during my travels.

In my experience one day at the Balinese post office, though, I think my attitude was justified. Please understand: by the time I arrived in Ubud, Bali, I had already had plenty of practice roughing it. I actually requested a room with no hot water when I checked into my guest house — saving me a whopping 50 cents a night, which went toward my Balinese beer fund. But though I was accustomed to various forms of local adaptation, I wasn't prepared for the casual corruption that greeted me at the national post office, where militant-looking postal workers were more than happy to quote me the Balinese equivalent of $35 per box to send home my batik fabric and coconut-shell wineglasses. Imagine my surprise the next day when, after the boxes were packed, addressed, and ready to be shipped, the price had risen to $50 each.

"Yesterday it was $35," I said, producing the piece of paper with the postal worker’s clearly printed estimate. My fit of exasperation might have gotten results at home, but it didn’t work here. "Ah, that was yesterday," said the worker, happily writing usa on my box and making it obvious that I was to pay the inflated price or risk having my boxes sent straight to the family of the man overcharging me. That day, along with my packages, I shipped home my willingness to identify myself as an American who likes to shop.

Bali and South Africa weren’t the only places that opened my eyes to an array of cultural differences. In Japan, I committed the ultimate Asian faux pas of stepping onto a tatami mat wearing shoes. In Thailand, I wore a sleeveless shirt to tour the royal family’s summer home. Clearly, many Westerners before me had done the same thing: I was handed a blue cotton shirt — which I rented for $1 — with elbow-length sleeves.

It was in Cambodia, however, where I was most struck by my unexamined assumptions. For months I had assessed how I measured up as an American overseas: was I following the right customs? Was I offending any of my hosts? Did I double check the math and tip enough on my bar tab? One night, during dinner in the home of a Cambodian family, I dropped rice on my skirt. Meals in traditional Cambodian homes have a wonderful, almost ceremonial feel: the oldest member at the meal takes a bite first and the other guests wait, then begin eating in order, from oldest to youngest. Rice is always served, and a Cambodian dropping rice from his or her spoon is about as common as an American spending several leisurely hours eating breakfast. When the rice splattered on my skirt, the Cambodians looked at me with horror, which they tried to mask with plastered-on smiles. The next night I was invited to sit cross-legged during dinner — a marked departure from the customary perch-on-the-knees stance. My hosts must have figured I might as well be comfortable while eating like a heathen.

The family had another custom that wouldn’t last five minutes in the average American household: saving any unpleasant conversation until the end of the meal, in the belief that if upsetting things are discussed before eating, you’re so full of emotion that there’s no room for food. So after making a mess of my meal, I turned to the subject of my departure from Cambodia. This was exciting for me — I had visions of returning home with tales of harrowing moto rides and conversations with monks — but not so for my Cambodian friends. To them I was a relatively patient English teacher and one of their few connections to America — a place they dreamed of going. And, mistakenly, I’d even let it slip that at home I lived alone in a two-bedroom condo. Yet the members of this five-sibling family, who slept in two rooms, smiled, served me more rice, and listened. It wasn’t until I headed for the airport that the biggest difference between myself and my Cambodian friends became all too apparent. The Cambodians, even when faced with a culturally awkward American, were sad to see me go.

I miss eating with a family that appreciates every morsel of food — I seem to be spilling food right and left now that I’m home. But although I treasure the memories of my experiences abroad, I have to admit I’m back to making microwave popcorn.

Christie Taylor can be reached at annactaylor@msn.com

Issue Date: December 6 - 13, 2001

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