In 1997 I stepped sideways out of my life for six months and went to Burma to teach English in a Catholic convent. Why? Because two nuns I knew asked me, and I said yes.
Today I dug out the diaries I wrote back then and I've been revisiting my experiences. Strange times. I lived in Lashio, in the northeast of Burma - a remote town in a remote country. Most weeks I was the only Westerner around - which seemed kind of cool for a day or two, but ultimately left me feeling quite isolated. And while it's surprisingly easy to get used to living by candlelight, with no running water, it turned out to be much harder to cope with being suddenly immersed in a religious life when, as I noted at the time, "I'm not a Catholic (not even a Christian, though I daren't tell anyone here - they'd all go into prayer overdrive for my lost soul)."
Of course, I had some wonderful experiences along the way, and met with great kindness and generosity at all times (which, given the poverty most people lived in, could sometimes be profoundly humbling). I shared many laughs with my students, made many friends. But I always felt different, always an outsider, always a long way from home.
This retrospection has been brought on because I want to remind myself what it's like to try and adapt to living in an entirely different culture (a much bigger leap than, say, being a Briton in America). More on this tomorrow...
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