The Involuntary Sojourner

by S. P. Tenhoff

  The author was subsequently contacted by the U.S. Department of State and asked to provide consultation in the case. This presented an exciting and unprecedented opportunity: although the author had interviewed and evaluated a large number of involuntary sojourners while conducting previous research, this always occurred following the return to home countries, at which point the subjects, it was found, retained only “dreamlike” fragments of the episodes. The Gandarvan government allowed the author access to L, at the time being detained pending resolution of her case, on the condition that he accept responsibility for her care until her return to the United States. (One must note briefly here the evident relief with which this responsibility was transferred; the local doctors, including several “experts” in atypical psychosis, appeared to be completely unfamiliar with ISS. The various diagnostic reports provided to the author were useful only insofar as they offered particularly dramatic examples of the need for greater education regarding the syndrome.)

  ENTRY 1

  So Victor’s asked me to keep this journal. He said it’ll be useful in his research into in-between people. I want to help—Victor’s very persuasive in his sort of weirdly intense way, sorry Victor I know you’ll be reading this but you asked me to tell the truth—I want to help but I don’t think there’s anything “in-between” about my situation. I’m here. Here being Gandarva, they tell me. It’s not like I’m in between countries. Here I am. In this room provided by the Gandarvan government, who keep telling me I’m not under arrest even though I can’t leave. They keep using the word “policy” and smiling. A guy from the U.S. consulate or embassy or someplace came today. He was smiling too. Everybody’s smiling. Not as in trying-not-to-laugh smiling, but as in . . . As in what? Even Victor smiles at me all the time. Everybody’s so happy for me, like I’ve just been given an award. So this U.S. consulate or embassy guy comes in. He wants me to call him Tom. He looks a little young to be a diplomat. He’s wearing a traditional pulcha, rows of bright triangles alternating with upside-down triangles, he’s even got the knot at his hip tied the right way. He tells me this is the first case in this country so it’s still a little thorny, that’s his word, thorny, which makes me think, what about this other word “policy” that keeps getting thrown around, if there’s a policy in place why the thorns? But he says he’s confident, what with international precedent, that this case, my case, can be cleared up and I can return home soon.

  Home?

  The reader’s attention is directed to L’s knowledge in the above entry regarding specific details of traditional Gandarvan clothing; this appears to be symptomatic of the Kalvan Effect (so named by other researchers, one is quick to point out; in the author’s view the effect should rightfully have been given Takahashi’s name to honor his brilliant and pioneering work in the subject). The phenomenon, peculiar to the involuntary sojourner, can be described as “unexplained familiarity . . . with previously unknown elements of the host culture” (Kalvan, 2008, 73). In short, involuntary sojourners know things they have no apparent way of knowing, without the slightest idea as to how they came to possess this knowledge.

  (As the informed reader will no doubt already be aware, the Kalvan Effect is not to be confused with the so-called “Kalvan Affect.” The author recalls vividly his first encounter with the term, in a 2009 Pflogg monograph. This was no innocuous typographical error, one discovered with incredulity upon further reading; it was, rather, an attack: concocted by Pflogg, the term reflected his assertion, without the tiniest scrap of supporting evidence, that any claimed “magical” knowledge constitutes an act, an affectation [therefore “Affect”], essentially premeditated falsification, the sojourner having in fact obtained the pertinent information regarding the target culture in advance. This argument, modified later to include “inadvertent falsification” [Pflogg, 2010, 45], i.e., the drawing on information in fact learned but later forgotten, having been buried in the subconscious, has been more than adequately refuted elsewhere [see Kalvan, 2011] and will therefore not be addressed in this article except to reiterate that the nature and extent of the involuntary sojourner’s knowledge, whether sociolinguistic, geographic, or other, far exceeds what would be possible if the subject had simply conducted surreptitious research prior to travel. Is it even worth mentioning that the term “Kalvan Affect” additionally constitutes a baseless and puerile attack upon the author himself, suggesting either deliberate exaggeration of the phenomenon for professional advancement or, at the very least, credulousness, a case of “taking a subject’s claims at face value without adequate corroboration or independent verification” [Pflogg, 2009, 53]?)

  To return to the above journal entry, L’s suspicion toward those attempting to help her has not been reported in other cases and may reflect preexisting individual cognitive style (i.e., her “personality”) rather than being symptomatic of ISS post-loop behavioral shift. While the author cannot presume to speak for the others involved in this case, the author himself was, as should be clear, simply employing a well-established prosocial display signal (viz., “smiling”) in an effort to reassure the subject and alleviate the altogether understandable stress engendered by her predicament (see, for instance, Moynihan et al., 1999, for a study of the efficacy of positive facial expression in crisis tension relief).

  ENTRY 2

  There’s a window in my room. No bars or anything, but on the other hand it can’t be opened either. I’m standing with my hands against the glass when Tom bounces in, all spry and dapper in a blue suit. Hi, he says.

  Hi.

  Not thinking of jumping, are you? he says, smile increasing fractionally for contrast.

  I point out that there’s no way to open it, and that the glass looks like it’s at least five centimeters thick. Inches, I mean. Two inches thick.

  When did I ever use the metric system?

  Outside the window is a view of a hill. I recognize it, even though I shouldn’t. Go over the top of the hill and there’s the place where they have the Saturday market under a tilting network of tarps and rusted poles, half-bald ribby dogs weaving in their perpetual loops through stalls full of hand-carved good-luck charms, plastic toys made in China, fish hanging from strings, knockoff electronic goods, tolten in varying stages of decay. I shouldn’t know any of this either. I’ve never been there.

  I want to ask Tom where his pulcha is. And then I want to tell him that nobody wears pulchas anymore and that he looked ridiculous, but the truth is he looks more ridiculous in his fancy blue suit. He looks like a boy on his first job interview.

  Good news, he says: the authorities have decided to let you leave this room. You can stay at the consulate. I guess that means the thorns have all been picked out of the policy, I say. Nicely put, Tom says, but he’s not smiling anymore. He tells me I can move freely within the city until the matter is resolved and I’m allowed to return home. How long will that be? Oh, shouldn’t be long, Tom says. Professor Kalvan has agreed to assist in my case. Which I guess means escort. Guard. So much for “moving freely.” Oh well. At least I’ll be out of this room.

  L was subsequently relocated to the U.S. consulate while awaiting the final resolution of her case including the issuance of travel documents.

  ENTRY 3

  Victor gives me a test. He says it’s used to “measure readjustment in sojourners” after they arrive in a foreign country. He doesn’t leave while I take the test, which makes me nervous. And he wears this cologne . . . (Sorry Victor.) He won’t explain the test. Or he says he’ll explain the test questions if I can’t understand them but that I’m on my own as far as answering . . .

  The results of the Fochner-Kline Intercultural Adaptation Survey referenced above indicated self-construal redefinition within the normal parameters observed in voluntary sojourners following transition from home to host culture. No indicators of psychiatric morbidity resulting from adaptation failure were present. Assimilation anxiety was a negl
igible 0.07. The subject’s integrative orientation score, however, ordinarily associated with field independence and robust acculturation potential in voluntary sojourners, was an unexpectedly high 44.3. The author does not wear cologne. The comment may represent (a) phantom olfactory input, which would constitute a new characteristic of the condition meriting future study; (b) masked aggression toward the researcher, possibly due to psychological stress related to test-taking; or (c) unusual sensitivity to the author’s inoffensive musk aftershave lotion.

  ENTRY 4

  Victor’s sitting across from me on a chair in the consulate. He asks me if I remember being in the department store. He looks tired and excited at the same time. Of course I remember. He asks me if I remember making figure eights through the aisles. No. Do I remember anything before that? No. Booking the flight to this country? Getting on the plane? Arriving here? No, no, and no.

  I tell him I need fresh air. Not that it’s exactly fresh out there. Some places stink worse than others, though. The stink is familiar, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Stink is stink, right?

  I go through alleys. Down streets. Up hills. It’s not like I know where I’m going. I just . . . People stare from doorways, windows. They don’t recognize me. Well, why should they? I don’t know what I mean. Victor’s finding it hard to keep up. Are you leading me somewhere or trying to ditch me? he asks irritably, sweaty and out of breath.

  Neither one, I say. I keep walking.

  What’s it like? he says behind me.

  What’s what like?

  He jogs to catch up, backpack jiggling and jouncing.

  This. His hand waves around, at the side of a building, at sun on sidewalk. Knowing . . . (He’s really out of breath.)

  I don’t know anything. I’m just walking, I say. And that’s what I do—I walk. After a minute I hear him behind me, swearing softly to himself, jingling and jouncing.

  It is necessary to interject here; despite L’s comments to the contrary, her movements displayed clear purpose and evident knowledge of her at times labyrinthine surroundings. The author, frankly, ended up completely lost; L, however, after completing a tour of commonplace objects and buildings which she stopped to study intently, was able, without apparent effort, to find a way back to the consulate (the author following as best he could) via a circuitous path through back streets, over rubble, across footbridges, past the inverted gold cups of temple domes, without once consulting map or digital navigation device.

  ENTRY 5

  I live in A—— with my sister. My older sister K——. Who must be wondering what the hell is going on. Along with everyone else in my family. They’ve been contacted, Tom tells me. But not by me. Not yet. I’ve finally been allowed to make calls, but I haven’t gotten to it yet. I’m waiting for (illegible) . . . (Author’s note: The previous sentence was written and then erased, but remained visible on the page, and is therefore being recorded here.)

  I’m twenty-seven years old. I graduated from A—— State with a major in economics, don’t ask me why. I’ve been working for the last two years as a temp at an operations research firm, again don’t ask why. I’ve never been to Gandarva before. Never studied the language or anything. Until now it was a name, a place on a map. I didn’t even know about the earthquake here until Tom told me all about it in gory detail.

  There. Satisfied, Victor? No amnesia. That’s who I am, that’s where I’m from. Except for the one thing I put in there that isn’t true. Just to fuck with you. Consider it a puzzle. Or a gift. Just don’t consider it a symptom of involuntary sojourning or whatever you call it.

  One must at this point raise the possibility that the entries are designed not to enlighten the researcher but rather to frustrate any attempt to understand the phenomenon under consideration. As seen above, at least some of the comments appear to be indicative of withholding, if not intentional misleading, and seem calculated to irritate or perhaps even enrage the author, to force him to abandon his neutral stance and fall into the mire of intersubjectivity. L’s obstructive behavior may suggest negative transference, normally encountered in the psychiatrist/patient dyad, but not without precedent in researcher/subject relations (Kilgatten, 1978; Pool, 1985). In any event, it is clear that L is making every effort to further obscure a subject which can already seem unfathomable, which, at times apparently and delusively near, proceeds to move away ever more quickly the more one pursues it . . . What is the real internal state of the involuntary sojourner? One is confronted by the limits of self-reporting, of qualitative research in general, when attempting to capture, or rather grasp, or rather understand this subject, difficult enough to penetrate without willful (and one might almost be inclined to say malicious) obfuscation on L’s part . . .

  The author observes at times an expression on her face . . . She notices herself being observed. The author attempts a smile; since reading her comment regarding smiling, however, the author has found himself becoming so self-conscious that the smile may well have the qualities of muscles being pulled mechanically into place or even of a grimace. We face one another, L with her undefinable expression and the author with his smile which no longer feels consistent with anything Moynihan et al. have advocated as efficacious in crisis tension relief . . .

  ENTRY 6

  I lead Victor to a restaurant. I’m craving bujya. An old woman shows us to a table. Once we’re seated Victor asks me if I’m aware of the fact that I’ve just spoken to her in Gandarvan. I ask him what he’s talking about. He nods, holds his palm out in front of me, pulls notebook out of backpack and starts scribbling . . .

  Then he seems to remember that he has a recorder with him and asks if he can record our conversation.

  What conversation? I ask.

  What I mean is, assuming we . . . Our dinner conversation, he says. If it’s all right.

  It’s not all right, I say. We’re here to eat. Now look at your menu.

  You don’t eat it that way, I tell him when the food comes. You tear the pakla leaf with your left hand before scooping up the rice. I’m expecting him to be embarrassed, which he should be, but he sits up straight and asks if I know how I know that. I learned it from a waiter in a Gandarvan restaurant, I say. Back in the U.S. Don’t get too excited, I say. He looks disappointed.

  But I found it really embarrassing, I tell him. Which I don’t think I would have in America.

  He looks doubtful.

  You’re being kind, he says. But this is research. Don’t throw me any bones, please.

  Sorry, I say. And we don’t talk about it anymore. Victor sits there brooding, or something. Not touching his food. He doesn’t look so good.

  But hey Victor? I really did find it embarrassing. Maybe that’s something for you, something you can use.

  The author watched L dine with gusto and, one assumes, impeccable table manners (as the above entry makes clear, the author is apparently unfit to judge the niceties of Gandarvan etiquette); then, having unfortunately lost his appetite, excused himself. As of this writing, the day after the above entry, the author has been experiencing for a week gastrointestinal discomfort together with a general malaise and intermittent low-grade fever, denoting either a microbial infection or, conceivably, a somatic condition caused by the unexpected challenges arising from the current research. The author has, however, avoided seeking medical care, due to (1) doubts regarding the level of care in this country; and (2) fears that any required hospitalization might interrupt his research. In any event, as the informed reader will know, the field of cross-cultural studies is littered with firsthand accounts of the difficulties faced by sojourners encountering the bewildering variety of seatless (and often alarmingly unsanitary) toilet facilities found in “non-Western” host cultures. It is only through direct experience, however, that one fully comprehends the often-described gratitude experienced upon opening a restroom door and being greeted by that familiar a
nd previously unappreciated porcelain sign of home. Once seated, one wishes, almost, to remain there . . .

  On the restroom’s opposite wall was a painting. Goddesses, or bodhisattvas, or possibly angels, or in any case spiritual beings of some sort, a dozen of them, floated above a lily-spotted pond. Some held the slender stalks of flowers in slender fingers; others, flowerless, displayed instead flames burning on upheld palms. They had no legs, or perhaps their legs were folded beneath flowing dresses that might also have been blue-green tails. They floated there in the middle of the painting, above lily pads and below mottled sky, gold-silhouetted, smirking at one another in a collusion of ecstasy.

  The author reached down to his ankled trousers, fished in a pocket, found his keys, rose, shuffled across the tiled floor, and, scraping away at the paint, etched a cartoon thought bubble so that it floated there too, over one of the shining heads. Inside the bubble, the author scratched the words IN BETWEEN. Keys were returned to pocket, removed again; at the bottom of the painting, in the right corner, the author scrawled PFLOGG.

  ENTRY 7

  So my case has been “resolved.” I can go home. Victor asked me if I was homesick. We were at the Saturday market.

  Are you asking that in your professional capacity? I said.

  He seemed confused by the question. He stood there, turning a half-ripe mango in his hands.

  I mean, is that part of your research?

  I was curious, he said. Homesickness is an expected part of the sojourn experience.

  With us too? I said.

  Us? . . . You mean involuntary sojourners?