So when I was twelve years old, my father and I went to Guyana, South America. He had been doing some ministry down there (not the awful, racist kind of ministry. The nice kind for churches that already exist.) for years and I had always been dying to go and finally I got my chance when he took some students down for education reasons.

Everything had gone fairly smoothly, excluding a layover in Trinidad. It was our second day and all eight of us piled into the back of our friend's pickup and started driving somewhere, I think to go swimming.
Our driver stops for a few minutes to talk to someone on the side of the road, and while we're waiting this man in the neighboring house starts looking at us. He has a machete in his hand, but that wasn't at all unusual in the area. No one thought much of it until we started driving again. He began to sprint after us, waving the machete over his head. We all start to be a little uneasy, but we're in a moving vehicle so there's that. Unfortunately, the driver slows down, eventually coming to a stop. The man with the machete keeps on coming and we're all just like...shit. Shit shit shit. He finally reaches us. He walks right past the bed of the truck to the driver. They talk for a few minutes. I can't hear them, or perhaps I can't understand them. My memory is foggy. Then we start driving again. The people in the back of the pickup truck ask the driver (who is American, but has lived in Guyana for ages), and he laughs at us for being freaked out. Apparently the guy was just trying to get our driver's attention. They knew each other already.

It's pretty much the only time I've experienced culture shock. I'm a pretty chill person and, at least when I'm traveling, I'm pretty much down for whatever is thrown at me. But holy shit, that was wild.