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My parents met in Papua New Guinea while working on a copper mine. Not something that I’m particularly proud of, but if this is the confessions page I’d better start with that. You know the sort - Dad was in heavy construction, built roads and airports and water treatment plants and the family occasionally left the comforts of home to live near his projects in the jungle of Indonesia or Africa and stayed home while he was off to the more dangerous (less family friendly) parts of the world � Saudi Arabia, Cambodia, the Gulf after the war ... So, I had the travel bug from early on but mainly knew that I had to help out. Volunteer is the key word here people.


But I would do things differently. Oh, yes. Balance out the crimes of the father so to speak. He was in old school construction. You may have read a report or two about the pure destruction left in their path. OK, maybe a little dramatic. But really, there was no concept of participatory processes, of asking the community what they wanted, throughout the ‘50’s to ‘80’s. No concept of putting yourself out for the benefit of the community. Of all the countries in all the worlds this man has lived, he wouldn’t even know how to swear in anything other than English. And don’t get me started on the environmental problems left for the people to deal with. I have nightmares about them. So bad that as an old man (which he is now), my father, the man who used to run over “hippies” for fun in the ‘70s, even said “Yeah, well … we didn’t think about the state of the river as we pumped tons of soot into it.” Or of the people who would have to use it for bathing, drinking, cleaning for generations to come? “We probably could’ve done things differently, but we just didn’t know.” That being said, they did honestly think they were helping out. Get some clothes on those people and give them a job and all the problems will be solved.


So, needless to say, I came over here with every intention of being the Queen of Cultural Appropriateness. That’s part of what it’s all about in the end. But … and here it comes … it’s really difficult to be culturally appropriate all the time. And tiring. I can’t handle more than a week of it in one go and I need to come home to my room and just roll around in inappropriateness (figuratively people). And that’s just after dhal baat in the village.


What do you do when you just don’t agree with certain aspects? As a woman and a feminist and a human rights activist, yet desperately trying to be culturally appropriate, do I have to just be quiet and smile through it? At what point can I just stand up and say I’ve had enough? When I’m invited over to someone’s house and served by their 10 year old slave? Ah, man! That’s just wrong, but I really like that family and don’t want to insult them. What to do?


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Luckily I’m working at a women’s rights organization (ABC/Nepal) and it’s filled with strong, amazing Nepali women so I do know that there are lots of things they speak up about. Like prescribed gender roles, domestic violence, favouring boys etc. There are hundreds of people out there who are trying to stop child labour. But still … to wear the crown of cultural appropriateness, I may have to rethink those conversations about things like homosexuality, boyfriends, and staying out late.





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