Cell phones, DVDs, and computers are on the march, and continue to reach people further and further from industrial hubs and the centers of power. This often results in some strange cultural train wrecks as many poorer countries vault entirely over 20th century technology to embrace the latest gadgets. A few years ago, when I had the good fortune to spend a year painting in rural India, I spent a lot of time riding around on my bicycle (I had a manly pink, yellow, and silver "Hercules" brand bike-its only anti-theft device was that it was so heavy, nobody could lift it) and visiting small villages near my rented room. Because of the incredible hospitality of the people living in this part West Bengal, I would often be gone for many days-hopping from house to house, until I would find myself far out in the hinterlands. These are places where the fields are still plowed with oxen, and children would touch my white skin to see if I was a ghost. I was out in the middle of nowhere on one of these trips when I came across an Internet cafe in a rice patty. The cafe consisted of a brand new computer on a plastic table with 3 plastic chairs, a small thatched roof supported by four bamboo poles, and one man, shocked to see a foreigner on the world's ugliest bicycle. To my surprise, the Internet connection was faster than the computers I had used when I visited Calcutta a few weeks before, and I was done with my small job in no time. But, in grand Indian style, the proprietor of the Internet cafe and I struck up a conversation and spent several hours sipping hot milky tea and solving the world's problems. I found myself in another odd situation a few years later in South Africa. This took place during my first visit to Mma Seitsang's home in the Spring of 2003. She was my friend, supervisor, and guide to traditional medicine during the three years that I lived in the Northwest Province (for background info-please read the essay entitled "About The South Africa Series" on the right hand side of this site.) We were sitting in her dining room (very grandmotherly and formal with a curio cabinet and lace doilies) having an evening cup of tea. There was a knock on the door, and 30 nearly naked children trouped in. They were fresh from traditional dance practice. The boys wore short fur aprons and fur hats. The girls wore skirts made from shredded plastic bags with strings of beads across their chests. The children had never spoken to a white person before, and had fun practicing their English, crawling on me like a jungle gym, and petting my arm hair, like you would stroke a cat. After a few minutes of this, Mma Seitsang told them to sit down and be quiet. The kids had come to watch a made-for-T.V. version of Robinson Crusoe. It quickly became clear to me that this movie owes more to Indiana Jones and The Three Stooges than anything Daniel Defoe ever wrote. And I became a more than a little uncomfortable as I watched Robinson beat Friday and pick fights with dark skinned natives dressed not unlike my new friends, but the irony of the situation seemed completely lost on them. They laughed long and hard as Crusoe concocted elaborate Rube Goldberg-style weapons that catapulted his victims high in the air. They cheered and clapped as the white castaway conquered the island single-handed. When the movie was over, the kids patted my arms a few more times and left, and Mma Seitsang and I had another cup of tea (any common thread here?) before turning in. Was I the only one to notice the strange relationship between the movie and its audience, or were they just too polite to mention it? I still don't know. I would love to hear your stories of strange cultural collisions. Please, post a comment telling me all about it. Today's picture is another one that I started while I was visiting Mma Rabotapi's traditional healer school (See South Africa # 2.)
No comments:
Post a Comment