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We hold certain cultural norms inviolate, assuming that the entire of humanity must believe as we do. The taboo against staring is one of these. I first ran across this cultural difference decades ago in India. A long hard stare at something or someone is not considered impolite or aggressive. In fact, staring at something that strikes your interest sounds pretty reasonable on the surface. But when you’re the object of that gaze, and you’ve grown up in our western society, these hard looks can make one twitchy.

Rwanda is turning out to be one such culture. Here the hard stare is coupled with another phenomenon, smile rationing. History has taught Rwandans to be wary. Smiles are not handed out willy-nilly to all-comers who happen to catch your eye on the street. The people of Rwanda do smile, but those smiles must be earned. Stella sharing polaroids with her subjects, my stumbling attempts to speak Kinyarwanda, Jen bargaining for an avocado, these have earned us happy faces and smiles.

So our first weeks, as we nervously learned to negotiate Kigali, was a time of hard stares and uncomfortable walks through the city. But now we’ve learned the secret. With just a word or two, Muraho, Amakuru, the stares dissolve and the faces open up, curious, friendly, proud. It’s then that we see the true faces of Rwanda.

Throughout Asia there is little regard for classifying certain food as a “breakfast food”. Food is food, it’s eaten anytime. Grilled fish to start your day in Japan, curry in Thailand, fried noodles in Indonesia; dim  sum, baozi, jok. There are no rules, except one, it’s not a meal unless rice is served. Three times a day rice. Fried, red, sticky, puffed or porridge, steamed in bamboo, eaten with fingers, chopsticks or spoons, off plates or banana leaves. Rice, rice, rice.

Having been forced to endure its endless permutations, the kids are absolutely sick of rice. I’m sure I overheard them whispering in the dark about a rice revolt.

So we were surprised at how eager they were to help harvest some on our recent farmstay. Jen and I chose to ignore the muttered “die rice, die” that accompanied the swing of their sickles.

Outside the small village of Tetebatu, on the southern slope of an 11,000 foot volcano, we five shared a mosquito net and a thatched hut.

It sounds awful, it was anything but. The interior of Lombok is a different world from the touristed beaches that ring the island. In the rice paddies we traded the sounds of whining mopeds and incessant street  vendors for geckos and tree frogs. Pet homing pigeons with whistles around their necks were released each evening adding to the gentle soundscape of the village. The only constant to remind us we were on the same island, the call to prayer. Card games, star gazing, chicken chasing, the slow rhythm of the village was a nice reminder that boredom is actually a luxury.

”We don’t really know what we’re doing. We’re just making it up as we go.”- Jen speaking about our lifestyle at a luncheon for foreign volunteers.

On the surface that sentiment sounds reckless and irresponsible. But if we waited until we had all the answers, we’d still be sitting at home in Texas, shackled to a mortage. Accepting uncertainty is what frees us, it is our ethos…

It is also an ethos that finds humor in punishing us. Our recent transfer through Singapore is a perfect example. With a 16 hour layover, most of which would be spent at a friend’s pool party, we really didn’t need much out of a hotel, just a place to lay our heads for a few hours.

That the taxi driver didn’t believe there was a hotel at the address we gave him should of been a warning sign. On arrival his doubt made more sense. The hotel sign hung above a narrow door wedged between a welding supply house and a shop for industrial cleaners, in an area more apt to offer forklift parts than a turn-down service. But it was eleven at night, the door was open, so we soldiered on.

Up a dim flight of steps and into a cloud of blue smoke. Three Chinese men sat at a plastic table chain smoking and wondering why the Griswalds were dragging duffle bags into their living room. We quickly realized we had booked our stay at a hostel catering to Chinese workers. Unable to afford Singapore rent, these laborers rent a bunk and a locker (4-6 per room) and share a common kitchen, bathroom, and sitting area.

Fortunately our crew was large enough to warrant our own dorm. Of course we had to pass through another dorm to get to it. Past men whose only private space is half of a bunk bed, janitorial and lawn service uniforms hanging at the ends. A lesson for the kids, not everybody gets 3 bedrooms and a garage.

We are learning. We are picking up a few lessons about family travel and road schooling. For instance, we now know that changing countries often brings gastric-upset. And since the twins are at an age where farting on each other’s pillow is considered comedic genius, we now have a no-reckless-farting policy. ByersWithoutBorders is only allowed to pass gas on a toilet until further notice. Like the hostel, another hard-learned lesson.

We know to collect all the air sickness bags after every flight, since Stella can get motion sick from Discovery’s Shark Week.

We know that Isabelle needs space, Jen needs sleep, and Lily craves meat. We know that during our first days in a country I’ll be ripped off multiple times (in India I once paid $10 US to have my ears cleaned).

And after two trips to Bhutan, we now know the best way to recover from the high Himalaya is to beeline to sea level and the equator, and Indonesia has both. Its time for the big thaw.

Osho once said that the present is not part of time. Unlike the past or the future it has no duration. How long is the present? How many minutes, how many breaths? When we first arrived in Bhutan our present moments stretched out to the horizon and threatened to trample us in an never ending march of cold breathless misery. But now that we’ve boarded our flight to Singapore it’s different. The past two months feel like a runaway cart on a steep hill, each present moment coming in quicker and quicker succession, speed and momentum building until our Bhutan-life is a time lapse memory. Like watching video of a flower blooming in 10 seconds. Happiness does that, it shortens the present.

Two months sounds like a long time. It’s long enough to buy dish soap twice. It’s long enough to have a favorite vegetable stall, to learn a shortcut or two. It’s long enough to get into a comfortable rhythm, living not visiting.

Two months is long enough to settle into a place, and for that place to settle into you. Isabelle has adopted the affirmative head wobble so common in South Asia. All three children have stopped playing store, and now play immigration (complete with pretend work permits and route documents).

But is two months long enough to cause long-term change? For our efforts in Bhutan to take root and continue without us?

Last week we were interviewed by the Bhutan Broadcasting Service for a piece on the culture of volunteerism. I tried to make the point that volunteering is a two-way street. That I am sure we’ve gained more than we’ve given.

Living and working in Bhutan strips away a lot of life’s clutter. Real priorities become glaringly apparent, as things you thought so important fall aside. Life starts to feel lighter, less serious, but richer. Family walks become the day’s most important event.

Our Bhutan experience has forced our family to overcome adversity together (often in the form of nausea and diarrhea). We’ve become a stronger team.

I just hope that two months is long enough for the change I see in my family to be permanent.