Tuesday 21 February 2012

Freddy, Teddy, Gnome!

These past couple of winters it seems that we have spent a LOT of time with Freddy (our VW) and our mechanics.  Freddy does not enjoy the sudden plummet to -30 temperatures and it always takes several visits to the doctor to sort out what's wrong and to make him better.  But standing around with our friendly mechanics, I'm always thankful that we have found some that we not only trust, but who also treat us with respect.  There was a time when we used to dread having to take the car for even the most minor of check-ups or routine oil changes.  Trying to find a good mechanic that you can develop a relationship with is hard enough in your own language, culture and country, but in Kazakhstan,....

Back when we first started driving a car here we were some of the very few women behind the wheel, and as far as we could figure, the ONLY women who took their car to the mechanics.  Not that it was culturally inappropriate or taboo, it just wasn't necessary and didn't happen.  When we wandered into a new garage, we felt like we drew a lot of attention,.. and yet at the same time it was hard to get anyone's attention.  The latter because that's just the way things go here; if you want some one in the 'service' industry to assist you, it is up to you to command their attention.  You must say the first words.  If you're lucky, they'll acknowledge you shortly after that and perhaps even make eye contact.  Regardless, you must seize the moment and quickly say whatever it is that needs to be said to have your needs addressed before someone else with a louder voice or clearer Russian diverts their attention. 

So, walking into an unknown 'service' centre, into a new bastion of men who are simultaneously aware of you, and yet not paying attention to you requires several deep breaths before opening the heavy steel door that guards their kingdom.  More often than not, when we finally managed to secure someone's attention we were treated with smirks and sniggers that made us feel as if "oil change" was a dirty phrase! 

Of course, there was the one time early on in my car-Russian vocabulary days, when I boldly stated in no uncertain terms that:
     "whenever I step on the baby chicken, it squeals"...
 I think I realised my mistake only a few seconds after it came out of my mouth, and after all, is it my fault that clutch and baby chicken sound so similar to a novice russian speaker??? but the damage was done, and the guy we were talking to decided we were idiots that he had no hope of understanding and passed us off to someone else, who passed us off to someone else... the upshot of that visit was that we never went back there again!

With experiences like these, I was so thankful when we stumbled across Teddy and the Gnome.  We had bought a new battery for our LADA, and the guy behind the counter had been unusually helpful so we decided to ask him for a mechanic he recommended.  Good move!  He gave us the name of the owner of "the best mechanics" in town, and we walked in, armed with real weapons!  Asking to see the owner by name and patrynomic commands immediate respect - you must be somebody!  We explained we had been directed by an acquaintance of his (name and patrynomic) and VOILA! instant obligation to assist!  He passed us on to one of his mechanics, and we have never looked back since.  Teddy (nicknamed by us, because he's a bit of a teddy bear) and the Gnome (nicknamed by the other mechanics, because, well, he DOES look like a gnome!) treated us with respect from the very start.  They patiently listened to us as we tried to explain various squeaks, squeals, rattles and bangs, and worked hard to translate our Russian into concepts they could understand. 

Much has changed since those early days of me driving and floundering with the Russian language.  Where there used to be a handful of rusty old LADA's rattling down the main street, it is now bumper to bumper PRADOs, LandCruisers and the occasional Humvee.  Half of these are driven by women, many of whom take their cars to the mechanics themselves.  My Russian has improved, but sometimes I'm the one that needs to work hard to translate the Russian into concepts I can understand!  Take for instance something I heard last winter while we tried to get our "we-don't-get-this-cold-in-Germany" VW to behave.

Initial, on-the-spot, internal translation:
     "You may have a problem with the valve of the single man not moving properly - you may need to replace him"

What they really meant, figured out at home with my online dictionary, wikipedia and much linguistic wrestling to make the words fit the context:
     "You may have a problem with the idle speed air valve, you may need to replace it"

Who knew - the Russian words for idle and bachelor are from the same root! :)

Saturday 11 February 2012

Bittersweet birthdays

The Revolutionary turned 20 this week.  Last week I asked her about how she would celebrate. 

"I probably won't do anything.  I'll just wish myself Happy Birthday, like I wished myself Happy New Year as I sat all by myself at midnight on Dec 31."  Bravado mixed with self-pity.  I know that tone.  I think I've used it myself on more than one occasion.

"Well," I proffered, "we can at least have tea together on the day, can't we?  I want to make you a cake."   But that was where we left it.

The day arrived and I sent a congratulatory text message in the morning.  I finally heard from her in the middle of the afternoon and before I knew it, I was hosting her and 5 friends for dinner.  When I caught the birthday girl alone for a few minutes, I asked her how her day had been.  She said she had had a great day.  All day.  Except when she first woke up.

"I cried.  I don't know why, but I cried". 

I don't know why she cried either, but I feel like I can sense it.    A complex mix of joy and pain.  The celebration of birth infused with the pain of being abandoned.  But birthdays aren't just about marking that day you were born, they also mark annual growth.  How much more bittersweet then is the joy of being 'all-growed' up but not having a mum, not even a memory of one, to be proud of you?

Saturday 4 February 2012

The metamorphosis of houseflies and hedgehogs

Last night I had our two girls , the brave and fiesty orphan from my last post, and her graduate program-mate, over for the evening.  When they were living under our care, they concurrently experienced their first major crisis in their independent lives.  They had bravely set off on the long bus ride to their former residential college to collect their bank passbooks, returned jubilant from their successful adventure, only to have their excitement squashed by discovering that they no longer had possession of these precious books.   I wrote to a friend at the time:
     "... one went into hedgehog "curl up in a ball and cry mode" and the other went into housefly "flit about" mode - and neither had or have any clue as to how to cope with the crisis and figure out any actions to take.   I coaxed the hedgehog out of her ball for a few minutes, and got the housefly to sit still for a few minutes and we had a little chat for a while... The hedgehog at one point said that maybe "god gave and god took away", so I said, "Well, maybe.  If that's the case, then maybe you could ask him to give it back".  So they said they'd like to try that, and the housefly, after asking a few questions about how she could talk to God, came out with a very touching and conversational prayer.  After that, the hedgehog became more action oriented and was ready to do something about finding her book, while the housefly became paralyzed with I'm-no-good, life-is-no-good, what's-the-point-of-anything-pity.  After a couple of days of agony for the both of them, the bank books were found back at the college, in the spot where they had absent-mindedly put them down while being given a couple of items of clothing from a house-mother."

Their characters remain as distinct as they ever were, but over the past year they have matured immensely.  The brave and fiesty house-fly is as impulsive and intense as ever, but her intense emotions are now focused on the fate of the "Detdomskii".  Recently she bumped into a former class-mate of hers who passed on news of others.  "So-and-so is selling herself, as is this other one." 

I know both "so-and-so" and "this other one", and this news was painful enough to me, but to my girls the pain goes deeper.  Not only did they grow up with these other girls, but in the back of their minds is the thought: "That could have been me". 

"It's not right!" the fiesty one, now christened by me The Revolutionary, fiercely vented.  "The detdomskii haven't been brought up well.  The "bringer-uppers" (literal translation of the Russian for house-mother) aren't doing their jobs.  They say "Be quiet, sit still, clean this, do that", but they don't tell us about important things, and how to live.  The teachers, they teach us abcd, but nothing about how to get a job and keep it.  The detdomskii leave and aren't ready to live in the world.  I've been thinking about the detdomskii a lot lately.  We need to help them."

The hedgehog, now christened by me The Philosopher, inserted her own thoughts on the matter.  "But you can't help people that don't want help.  They have to want it first.  And they have to want to help themselves."

A bit later, as it usually does, the topic of their mothers came up.  The Revolutionary gave voice to her usual discourse that she wouldn't live with her mother if she found her and discovered she was rich. "But if she was poor, or sick, I would help her.  BUT..." and this is where the monologue took a new turn from her usual recitation.  "I will NEVER forgive her."  The Philosopher was immediately anxious to say something, but was unable to get a word in edge-wise for several minutes.  Finally she found a break in the one-way conversation: "You can't go through life with unforgiveness like that.  We have to forgive.  As for me, I'm just glad I'm alive, and I thank my mother, at least for that."

The whole evening was punctuated with moments that I wish I had captured on video, if for nothing else than to show our future graduates snippets of the wisdom they had to share about practical everyday living.  "Did you know it tells you on the box of (long-life) milk that you have to keep it in the fridge after opening?" marveled The Revolutionary.  "Detdomskii need to know these things!"