Office Politics

There's a German bumper sticker from the 1980s 'Alle Menschen sind Auslaender. Fast ueberall.' Everyone's a foreigner almost everywhere in the world.'  I've been thinking this week about cultural differences in offices I've worked in.

Based in the London outpost of a German embassy university advice centre, only two of the six staff were German, but we had all lived in Germany and worked bilingually. It felt German through and through. We even had a German government auditor in to check that our filing system complied with the German government Dewey decimal system, so a document filed in London could theoretically be located immediately by a new arrival from Bonn.  We typed on German keyboards and used the formal 'Sie' with colleagues we'd worked with for years, 'Frau K, ob Sie..' Mrs K, would you be so kind as to?'  And on Fridays, when Bonn Head Office finished work at 2pm, we'd shut up shop early and finish the week with cream cakes and high quality coffee from china crockery. Kaffee und Kuchen. A 1030 am glass of sherry on the red letter day when Margaret Thatcher, never a great advocate of strong UK German relations, resigned. Those were the days.  Working life never really reached those heady heights again.

In small consultancy business start-up in metropolitan Wales we bonded during those early days when we had no desks, phonelines or clients and mobile phones hadn't yet been invented. Greggs pasties and team meetings often over egg and chips at the local greasy spoon.  Outreach business advice to imperilled rural firms in Angelsey by public transport in those days before I had my driving licence:  slipping into my slingbacks before client meetings after an uphill trudge from the train station that truly was only a telegraph pole, not even a phonebox to call a taxi, in the Angelsey rain, again. Late night midnight oil proposal writing.  My intensive early morning Welsh course where we learnt to address council meetings appropriately 'annwyl cyfeirion...'  Hwyl and high spirits.

Brussels life, in a swish office where we wrote letters in 9 EU working languages, and spoke five of them in meetings depending on whom you were chatting with. Dutch or English for the Flemish admin staff, polished French and subjunctives for the director, Spanish for the Cool Crowd, - at its coolest with Latin American accents, Danish or Swedish for the interesting sounding high level discussions which I couldn't follow.  Bises or handshake, one way of determining nationality from afar.  French, Belgians, Italians, Spanish kiss, Dutch, Germans, Scandanavians shake hands. Two kisses (French) or three (Belgian)? 

How the Scandanavians would enter an office with an urgent & important request, and politely wait for the interminable personal gossip to grind to a halt 20 minutes later:  their assumption, if you're talking about it in work time, it can only be work, and therefore should be allowed to continue without interruption to its conclusion, even if its function is not immediately evident.  How space was made for lunch, no matter how frantic the pace, - a proper lunch, with soup, main course and salad. How wine at lunch time would  never be frowned upon.  How pastries, not biscuits, were the appropriate accompaniment to coffee. And how, when I worked for six months in the Italian sister office, cappuccino was only drunk after 10 am by one anglophone new consultant, to hoots of derision from all others.  Seemingly a bit like ordering 'buttered toast with marmite, cut into soldiers, please' in a high class breakfast meeting. Not done here, grown ups drink espressos after a passing early morning frailty.

And in Kenyan BigCorporate, I start to realise the similarities and oddities in all the other places I've worked. Kindly BigBoss welcomed me to the company by taking me for a true African lunch of goat, ugali maizemeal and greens.  And, in true African style, your family matters, and I've been introduced to both his wife and his son.  What till now I've taken for granted & suddenly isn't there: no stationery cupboard, with paper, pens, maybe even a secret stache of post-its and new unchewed pencils with nice sharp points. Here its bring your own supplies. Bring your own flash drive. Bring your own biro, workbook and phone.  One landline to the office of four.  One computer in the department of ten networked with the printer.  Internet access for managers only.

Friendly, competent colleagues, clear commitment to corporate social responsibility, but startling for an outsider to Kenyan corporate life, a weekly day of prayer.  A desire to win shouldn't surprise anywhere in the corporate world, but BigCorporate puts its money where its mouth is. All staff selected for the high prestige intercompany athletics were seconded for a month to the preparatory camp, with professional coaches to hone their game.  They won, hands down. 

And as a newcomer the things I don't know how to interpret. Is it a typical Kenyan architectural design flaw or well designed security measure, that there are no buttons to select your floor from inside the lift?  Could be either. Lack the data to analyse it. Just don't run for the lift as its departing, don't absentmindedly continue chatting to your friend as you enter. Stop, look, press button, and only then enter the lift indicated, or you end up, yet again, whizzing past your floor, on, up to the top floor with seemingly no means to redress or return.