I could make a long list of all the ways Nepal is different from any other place I’ve been on earth. But a list would be ineffectual. How can the words traffic, cows, dogs, monkeys, mountains, modern three-story concrete houses and wooden houses a thousand years old, temples, stupas, prayer flags, holy men and holy music, fruit carts, markets, and squatting toilets, ever shock the senses in the way that stepping out onto a Kathmandu street can?

When I first arrived in Nepal, even the descent of the plane offered a view unlike any other. The snowy caps of the Himalayas winked at us in the morning sun through the plane window. We had finally arrived after forty hours of travel, and I was half delirious with lower back pain and lack of sleep. The only thing I needed to tip me over the edge was the heat exhaustion I experienced in the baggage claim.  

It felt as if the humid monsoon weather was trying to kill me.

Another difference I quickly discovered was the lack of AC in most private and public buildings. I was beginning to feel like a ‘soft’ American who couldn’t handle the heat.  Finally, my husband fished the massive suitcases from the carousel, and my 4’10” mother-in-law scooped my arm into hers and propped me up as we walked to the car.

All I wanted to do was sleep, but I was astounded by the traffic. The streets were swarming with cars, buses, taxis, bicycles, motorbikes, and pedestrians moving at a crawling pace. Car exhaust filled the road in dark plumes of smoke. At first, I wanted to close my eyes: Cars were taking left turns across three lanes of traffic without a stoplight. But despite the chaos, the vehicles danced to some unknown rhythm with every small piece perfectly timed. Traffic flowed like water, each vehicle moving to fill the tiny space left by the other. Right outside my window, close enough to touch, sat a whole family on a motorbike. The father nearly straddled the handlebars and on the back sat two young children, looking curiously at me.

We arrived home at our family’s three-story concrete home, painted an eye-catching blue. Family and friends warmly welcomed us in. Curious neighborhood children came to visit, show off their dance moves, and receive sweets from abroad. The house was abuzz with old reunions for my husband, and for me, all new meetings. Only half-listening to the stream of unknown Nepali and Maithili words, I relaxed into the couch.

I sat marveling at how welcome I felt, even though I understood only about twenty percent of what was happening at any time.

Finally, the night wound down and I could drag myself to bed. But even this was foreign to me. I wrestled with the mosquito net, feeling the nagging pain in my back as I crawled inside. The crickets chirped as I sweated in the unceasing heat. Somewhere out in the night, street dogs growled and barked in the darkness.

My experience of culture shock is not all that unique. I imagine it was the same for my husband when he first arrived in the U.S. What surprised me was that despite four years of preparation for this trip, time to learn about the culture and learn a few words in the language, I was still culture-shocked. But I’ve come to believe that it isn’t something we can really prepare for. 

The big difference can be learned—the language, the land, the culture, the animals. But it is the little differences that have the greatest impact. Suddenly not knowing how to make yourself a meal, to get to a place across the city, or even to use the toilet is incredibly humbling. It leaves you feeling a bit like a child again, dependent on others to show you the way things are done.

As uncomfortable as it may be to feel so dependent, so vulnerable, it is an opportunity too. How often do our routines get so wholly disrupted? How often do we see a totally different way to complete a mundane task? How often do we get to be astounded?

And it is an opportunity to allow others to welcome us, as well as to be generous and loving, and to share the most beautiful and intimate parts of their lives with us.

I could make a long list of all the ways Nepal is different from where I am from. But I could make an even longer list of all the ways it is the same: the love of a mother for her children, a close-knit community coming together, curious children, generosity, and heartfelt devotion, to name a few.