It's All Parrot to Me
When we talk about cultural competence, there's the unspoken assumption that, no matter which cultures we're encountering, the shared experience of being human can help bridge the gaps in understanding. That sounds good on paper, but sometimes I wonder what clues we really use.
In 2004, we visited Peru, and spent a week at a lodge in the Amazon jungle. The staff at this lodge ran an informal animal rehab. center. Whenever they would go to Iquitos for supplies for the lodge, they would visit the live-animal section of the outdoor market; buy animals that seemed ill or injured; bring them to the lodge and nurse them back to health; then release them. Many of the former "patients" returned to the lodge periodically for the snacks left out for them; and some of the visitors would interact with the guests, as well as the staff they were used to.
Right away, I was taken with three species of parrots that spent a lot of time at the lodge: a small blue-green one ("Margarita"); a medium-sized green one ("Pedro"); and a scarlet macaw aptly named "Chico Malo" (Bad Boy) because he liked to bite people for no apparent reason. Margarita lived full time at the lodge, because her wings had been clipped before the staff rescued her, so she couldn't fly. Pedro and Chico Malo came and went as they pleased; but Pedro usually showed up shortly after we got up in the mornings, and when we returned from excursions; and he and Margarita were always willing to hop up on my arm or shoulder to ride around for awhile. I enjoyed their attention and they apparently liked the way I stroked their feathers.
But Chico Malo fascinated me the most, and whenever he was on the perch by the lodge "entrance" (boat landing), I would stand just out of beak reach, watch him intently, and talk to him.
By the second day, Chico Malo had taken an interest in me. If I was sitting in one of the open areas of the lodge, he'd fly in from the surrounding jungle, land next to my feet, and immediately try to bite my toes. I'd jerk my feet out of the way, and Chico Malo would walk or hop to the new "bite zone" and try again. He'd play this "keep away" game for as long as I stayed put. In return, I would live dangerously and try to touch his wings or back, ready to snatch my fingers out of reach of his powerful beak when he'd turn to bite me (as I knew he would).
On day 3, Chico Malo decided to let me touch him briefly before he'd try to bite me. He also seemed to be jealous, now, of my attention to Margarita and Pedro: if they were sitting either next to me or on me, Chico Malo would come swooping out of nowhere and the other birds would scatter as Chico Malo dived for a choice biting position; and our "keep-away" game would commence.
Day 4, Chico Malo let me stroke the top of his head. I must've found a "sweet spot", because he'd close his eyes and droop his head for a minute. Then, as if remembering himself, he'd suddenly jerk his head up and try to bite my hand. I never trusted him completely, so always managed to pull my hand away in time. Chico Malo could've easily followed through on his lunge and taken a serious chunk out of me; but apparently didn't want to. We played this higher-stakes keep-away throughout the day, and the staff and my traveling companions watched and laughed and made fun of me; but I didn't care.
Even Pedro, Margarita and the "returnee" monkeys started gathering around (at a safe distance) to watch Chico Malo and me do our routine.
The fifth day was our last. Chico Malo knew something was up and let me stroke his head longer than usual before snapping at my hand; but then he suddenly hopped to the ground and lunged for my ankle. As soon as he missed, he stalked off a few feet flying out into the jungle. I didn't see him again, even though we didn't leave the lodge until several hours later.
During the long trip home, I thought about the development of my interaction with Chico Malo, and started to wonder if he'd "seduced me" into a macaw mating ritual at which I failed miserably because I didn't know the signals and behavior patterns. His near-miss bites reminded me of how the boys in my elementary school classes would show their affection for their favorite female classmates by (relatively) gently hitting or shoving us. Maybe scratching Chico Malo's head was too intimate a gesture from me when I wasn't going to "go any further". I don't know anything about birds - and certainly not about the very intelligent parrots. I just figured most living creatures like to be touched in ways that feel good; and parrot feathers felt good to me.
What does my "affair" with Chico Malo have to do with OT practice? Well, that experience made me pay closer attention to my interactions with clients from cultures overtly different from my own. Whatever I might think is "basic human-ness" might not really be as common a ground as I assumed from which to build rapport, understanding and trust. Chico Malo taught me that I should not only ask questions I hadn't thought of before, but ask familiar ones differently.