By Vic Howard, introduced by Claire Buss

Often, when we think of ourselves, we believe we are the ‘norm’. It can be quite surprising to discover that, actually, our way of doing things clashes with everyone else. Regular contributor Vic Howard shares an experience of culture clash from his life, looking at both ends of the spectrum. By being more aware of ourselves within our community, I’m sure we too could notice and embrace cultural differences which can enrich our life experience and inspire our writing. 

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The year was late 1969. My wife and I had been back a year or two, after getting married in Sweden, and were struggling to survive in Barking. I had left my well-paid job in advertising before leaving for Sweden and was trying to make money however I honestly could. I had an old Ford Transit van and started advertising my services for small removals. I had a few jobs and was about to start off for one of them when the van broke down. Catastrophe!

I had seen a similar van to mine parked outside a house two streets away and decided I’d ask if I could borrow it to rescue me in distress, so I rang the doorbell. I was surprised when a brown face opened the door. I had made my move and couldn’t go back, so I told my story and asked if I could possibly borrow the vehicle. There was no answer. The man simply took the keys to the van from his pocket and handed them to me. I took them, used the van and returned them with thanks and was refused any chance of paying for the service.

When I got home, my wife Kristina said, “We must ask them for dinner one evening.” She was a civilised Swede and didn’t know we Cockneys were not usually that formal, but I went back and made my invitation.

The day arrived and Mr Singh, I have no memory of his true ethnic roots or name, arrived with his wife: a sparkling personality adorned in a fantastic sari. We learned later she had originated in Darjeeling. We had a great evening learning about each other, which was returned when we were invited back for a curry. Don’t forget, this was 1969 and curry was foreign food we had never tasted! It was always hot and dangerous – or so we thought. Naturally, I said I didn’t want anything too hot, etc and was assured it would be mild. Madras curry, made properly, is not just mild. It is incredibly delicious.

We were beginning to get to know the Singhs a little better. They’d come from Uganda. Having realised which way the wind was blowing in Uganda under Idi Amin, they had made an early getaway before he later ejected all Asians, of which there were many. In Uganda, the Asians were the experts in the rag trade, which at that time in London was governed by an earlier immigrant group: the Jews. Our Singhs were in the process of moving into the business in London and were having some success. We told each other our stories and the photo albums came out, showing the marriage of our new friends.  I innocently asked, “What sort of hotel was it where you were married?” It was an enormous, grandiose building with a long colonnade at the front. “Oh, that’s my father’s house,” he said, which probably explained why the groom had arrived at the wedding on a white horse. No doubt it had been an arranged marriage; Mrs Singh having been imported from Darjeeling, which is in Sikkim, northern India, as the most suitable wife for what appeared to be a near-prince. Further explanation was obviously required. I can’t remember the details, but the family was obviously important in Uganda, which was probably why they were being targeted by Idi Amin.

Mrs Singh had been used to having servants and was unused to housework or running a family. On arriving in Barking, she wanted to show that she was a good wife, so decided she would wash one of her husband’s shirts in the washing machine. She put the shirt in the machine and followed it in with a whole packet of washing powder. You can imagine the result and we had great fun hearing the tale being told. Culture shocks come in many guises, but this was one we had never dreamed of.

We knew the family for a brief period because we were ourselves in the process of selling up and moving to Somerset to begin a new life. Our friendship included one memorable outing to Southend with our joint children: two of theirs and our first. Kristina had bought an old Chesterfield sofa that was placed sideways across the back of the Thames van, facing backwards. Mrs Singh sat there regally in her magnificent sari, together with Kristina and the kids. She had a wardrobe full of saris she once showed Kristina and helped her try on. Somewhere I have pictures of us all sitting on the sand with Mrs Singh looking completely out of place but unconcerned and brightening Southend in a whole new way. We may look different, but we are all just people underneath. The Singhs could well have behaved in an off-putting regal manner but couldn’t have been more natural and friendly. I wish we could have known them longer.

After a five-year stay in Somerset, family circumstances changed and we had to move back to Sweden, where I learned what it was like to be foreign. Foreign immigrants to Sweden were often called svartskalle, which means blackheads, while Swedes, of course, are thought to be mainly blonde, which they’re not. These days, I ought to be called gråskalle, due to the lack of colour! In Stockholm, it didn’t matter much when I worked in the post office sorting room with 28 other nationalities speaking 13 languages. We were all ignorant svartskalle and the graffiti on the lavatory walls, written in bad Swedish, was often corrected in red pencil by visiting Swedes. I found one of these ignoramuses sitting in the restaurant one day translating a text from Spanish to Italian. His native languages were French and Arabic. He’d learned bad English on a boat crossing the Atlantic and made passing comments in Swedish to the waitresses. The hidden talent in that sorting room was remarkable and wasted. There was an American Ivy League Classics scholar avoiding the Vietnam war, a Dutch mathematician, assorted nationals from a dozen or so countries. Men whose home countries were bitter enemies of each other worked happily in harmony. There was never any argument. We were just people under the skin. I, a Cockney from London, sorted letter B alongside a cowboy from Texas, who thought a tray of beans the best food in the world.

Life got serious for me when I moved back to Sweden with my family and started living in a small town. It didn’t matter that I was 37, been working for 20 years, was a father of two and had even acquired a few useful qualifications along the way. I was still an ignorant foreigner who probably got off the boat yesterday. Being English helps a bit, since most Swedes speak some (though not those over 60 in small towns). The educated ones want to practice their English and don’t realise that you desperately want to learn Swedish. The working men imagine you must be an expert on football, which I’m not and find boring. Nor do I enjoy shooting anything on four legs. I was more interested in the creative arts. Integration wasn’t easy.

After several failed ventures,  in desperation I set up a translating and copywriting business because that was one area I might find work. I’d been writing articles for a Swedish Foreign Office export magazine. Occasionally, I would be given marketing material from small businesspeople, who employed their wives or daughters as translators. They couldn’t see why they should pay me money for doing the same job, so rarely employed me. Some larger Swedish industries use English as their company language (concernspråk) and issue a dictionary of the words that should be used. I always refused to use it. There is an odd belief among Swedes who are fluent in English, that they understand English better than the English do themselves. They don’t realise that every different area, social group, trade or business in England has its own vocabulary.

All advertising people speak English, and I was convinced they would not want me. However, sensible Swedish ad-men and women knew that there is a difference between knowing a language and knowing a culture. There were plenty of translators who wrote nonsense for the agencies. I spoke the ad-man’s language, and we got on well and I did well. I always spoke Swedish but only ever wrote English. Sometimes I would receive work from local council employees, who would send me their efforts in English and asked me to check it over. When I sent it back with a price tag and a request that they write in Swedish, so that I would know what they were trying to say, they got uppish and told me how many years they had studied at university. Often, they sent their own versions to the printer. I was just that English foreigner who lived up the road and didn’t understand his mother tongue; but, thanks to the fax machine and, later, the Internet, I was able to work from home, with Swedish ad-agencies and major industries all over the country and did so for 15 years before retiring.

Why is man so stupid not to realise that we are all the same underneath our various skins and bad accents? We all have value and could enrich each other if we just stopped believing we are better and they are a danger?

Hopefully, Super General Artificial Intelligence, SGAI, will one day rescue us from ourselves. I do hope so.

(c) Vic Howard, 2025

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