The Science of Digging

Or, How to Adapt to a New Culture.
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I wanted to experience village life fully. The rains had started, though just barely, but we were not yet in school. My family was going to dig, and I wanted to help too. At my insistence, Maama let me tag along to "help," much the same way that I sometimes used to allow the "help" of my youngest cousins in Grandma's kitchen. That first day, we were tilling the earth between our banana plants, using hoes to turn the soil. At first, I didn't really know what to do. Maama showed me where to dig, and I watched for a bit to see what she and my sisters were doing. After watching for a bit, I started digging. At first, and for a few days, it was hard work [not that it isn't now, but my muscles have grown more accustomed to working]. I had to pay attention to where and how I was digging. I wasn't yet used to the sun, having only been in Africa for three weeks, so I had to take frequent breaks and drink a lot of water. My arms were reminding me that they were used to working in an office, not a field. And that first day, I forgot that I had work gloves from MCC, and it only took an hour for the blisters to form and break on my hands. The next time, I remembered my gloves, and eventually, the painful blisters began to develop protective callouses [though, since my ventures to the gardens are rare, I still always wear my gloves when using the hoe].
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Slowly, and after a few days, I developed a rhythm. But even after I started to feel that I had the hang of what I was doing and what was expected of me, my sisters still offered frequent correction and criticism. Why are you digging there? Why aren't you digging deeper? Why are you digging so deep? Why didn't you dig over there? Why are you letting the dirt pile up like that? I quickly realised that such questions really mean, You shouldn't do it like that! At times, I'd feel annoyed and a bit frustrated with their questions--why didn't you tell me that before I started, I sometimes wanted to ask. The answer was simple, though--they hadn't told me because they assumed I already knew, or because it was so natural that they hadn't even thought about it. It was humbling, too, to be (re)learning such tasks under the instruction of a twelve year old.
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But I bit my tongue and reminded myself to appreciate her lessons. And as I learned more and grew accustomed to the work, I was able to work longer and faster, with fewer critiques. Sometimes when we went to the garden, the work would be different--shallower digging with the hoe, or using our hands to pull weeds among the g nuts (peanuts). Each new task brought new lessons to learn, but I was learning faster now, still taking my cues from my observations of others and the occasional "why?"
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Digging affords a lot of time to think. Now that school is in session, I can only dig on Saturdays, and even then, my social calendar makes it a somehow rare event. But when I do get to go to the garden, I generally appreciate the change in pace, the chance to stretch my muscles and let my mind wander away from the tasks of teaching classes and tutoring illiterate students. One day a couple months ago, as I was digging, it occured to me that the process of learning to dig is like that of the scientific method, which is itself a good metaphor for acculturation. [And just in case you wondered, this reflection happened spontaneously, which might say quite a bit about the subject matter and metaphor genre my brain prefers.]
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The scientific method, which children are taught from a young age in US schools, is the process (whether formal or informal) by which scientists transform observations into cohesive theories about the way the world works. All of you use this method every day as you learn new things, though you are rarely aware of it [just as I would say that everyone is a theologian, also, everyone is also a scientist].
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It begins with an observation: I see my sister digging a certain way. Then a hypothesis, a guess about why or how what I have observed is happening: this must be the correct way to dig. Next I design and implement an experiment based on my hypothesis: I try to dig the same way that she is digging. The experiment yields data, information which can be used to determine the validity of my hypothesis: my sister asks "why" or tells me to do something else. This data is used to adapt my hypothesis and design a new experiment: now I know that those are cassava leaves, so I won't dig so deep around their plants. The process continues--hypothesis, experiment, data. Slowly, I develop a theory about the nature and cause of my initial observation: this is the correct way to dig. But like all good theories, even this one is always open for further refining and clarification when data arises to prove it in need of modification.
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And just as learning to dig follows the scientific method, however unconsciously, so does the process of adapting to a new culture and learning a new language. The cultural learner, like the scientist, is ever observant, watching and listening to how the native people act and speak, and then trying to do the same. Advice, correction, questions, and amusement help to adapt the new behaviours. And slowly, but surely, the persistent learner begins to speak the language and adapt to the culture. She develops a theory, constantly being refined, of how to live and work as a muganda rather than a muzungu.
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But like learning to dig, this process of acculturation can at times be tiring, frustrating, and downright painful.
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In the beginning, everything is new and nothing feels natural. The learner is often (and quickly) tired from all there is to learn. Just as digging leads to sore muscles, so can constant observation and hypothesising (whether conscious or not) lead to mental and physical exhaustion. But even as muscles slowly adapt to their new responsibilities, so does the cultural new-comer slowly lose the need for constant obervation. Life begins to feel natural, to have a rhythm.
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And just as the continual criticism and challenge of something new can make digging an incredibly frustrating task at times, so can the process of acculturation become a likewise frustrating task. The realisation that one no longer knows the correct way to speak, to eat, to dress, to work, even to sit--such a realisation can be overwhelming and frustrating. Further, it can sometimes be difficult and feel humiliating to learn these lessons so often from children much younger than oneself. But the same attitude of learning, humility, and gratitude which goes a long way toward learning how to dig, also smoothes the path of cultural learning. And if one persists in spite of the frustration, eventually it fades and one comes to consider once foreign behaviours natural and comfortable.
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Finally, though the bruises and scrapes of acculturation may not bleed and sting as those of physical labor, they can be just as painful. Gender roles, understandings of personal property, cultural differences, confrontations with poverty and suffering, questions of respect, authority, and discipline--all can rub wounds as raw as the blisters of hands unaccustomed to digging. But eventually, with continued exposure and attempts to understand and love, callouses bring protection and the learner remembers to wear gloves. Certain beliefs are held more loosely or, at least, defended less passionately. One learns not to take personally the critiques and different attitudes of others. And as one seeks to love and understand, the injuries come less frequently.