Doublethink - "to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them..." (George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty Four)
These past couple of weeks I have had a good dose of doublethink! First there was the sudden appearance of the "officious commandant" at one of the institutions I go to sporadically to visit an adult orphan who has been deemed incapable of independent living.
"Who have you come as?" she demanded. "Only relatives can visit".
When I pointed out that, being an orphan, my friend didn't have any relatives to visit her, her answer was:
"I know she's an orphan, that's why she's here. Only relatives can visit!"
Then there was the cafe my friend and I stopped in to the other day after a huge craving for a hamburger. The hamburger was, as I expected, NOT satisfying, but it was probably all worth it for my next installment of doublethink. We seated ourselves and then noticed that all around us people were smoking and there were ash trays on every table as far as the eye could see. Calling the waiter over we asked where the non-smoking section was.
"There is no non-smoking section" she explained.
We thought that a bit much, especially given that according to the law, smoking is not even allowed in cafes and restaurants.
"So what about that sign?" we asked, pointing at the large NO SMOKING ALLOWED signs posted at regular intervals along the walls.
"No smoking allowed. That's the law. That's why we don't have a special non-smoking section".
{shrug}
I guess all cafes are smoke free, its just that some are more smoke-free than others!
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Monday, 5 March 2012
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! :)
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! :)
Monday, 16 January 2012
"Hussein says"... a great way to learn Russian verbs
Some of my best russian lessons have been had while watching, waiting and often participating in the fixing of bumps, bangs, scrapes and general wear and tear of Nadya the LADA and Freddy the VW.
Back in Nadya's day there was the time we were having her brakes seen to. I was in the hoisted up car (not so unusual here), being commanded by a guy named Hussein (quite unusual for here, hence why I remember his name) and was responsible for pressing, holding, pumping and letting go of the brake pedal. They say total physical response is a great way to learn a language, especially verbs, and I would have to agree. I think however, that the words might not have stuck so well, if it wasn't for the fact that I was then able to use 3 of the 4 of them in teaching computer skills to our Tumdi 9th graders.
Before that fun hour spent in a barely heated, dimly lit, exhaust and smoke-filled garage, pressing, holding, and letting go of the brake pedal, I had resorted to a lot of sound effects in my first efforts to teach basic mouse manipulation skills to computer illiterate teens who gripped those mouse-s with steel trap-like grips.
"Just {click} this button once. No {click}. No! Make it sound like this! {click}"
"Ok, to make this window bigger, first you need to {click} but keep it {cliccckkkkkkked}..."
Nope. There's just no way to make a "press and hold" sound with you tongue. I didn't even get to the "let go of the button" sound. The kids were probably just as frustrated as I was. Perhaps they should be called sound in-effects!
However, after repeated reinforcement with Hussein and the brake pedal, I was a master at these 3 russian verbs.
"Just press once. Good"
"Ok, now press and hold,... good, and now let go."
Ahhh,.... the victory of using words... now I know what a talking toddler feels like!
It's just a shame that all my car mechanic words can't be as useful. Thanks to a recent adventure with the gas pedal on Freddy, I learnt the russian word for throttle - for the space of about a week. At the time, I checked my online dictionary and found that unfortunately I can't use it to say to little G, or any other graduate who is acting up: "I could throttle you!!!" (lovingly of course)
Pity. I suspect it would have been a helpful way to reinforce my new vocab addition. Instead, the word has been relegated to the "might recognize it, but can't reproduce it" drawer of my brain.
Back in Nadya's day there was the time we were having her brakes seen to. I was in the hoisted up car (not so unusual here), being commanded by a guy named Hussein (quite unusual for here, hence why I remember his name) and was responsible for pressing, holding, pumping and letting go of the brake pedal. They say total physical response is a great way to learn a language, especially verbs, and I would have to agree. I think however, that the words might not have stuck so well, if it wasn't for the fact that I was then able to use 3 of the 4 of them in teaching computer skills to our Tumdi 9th graders.
Before that fun hour spent in a barely heated, dimly lit, exhaust and smoke-filled garage, pressing, holding, and letting go of the brake pedal, I had resorted to a lot of sound effects in my first efforts to teach basic mouse manipulation skills to computer illiterate teens who gripped those mouse-s with steel trap-like grips.
"Just {click} this button once. No {click}. No! Make it sound like this! {click}"
"Ok, to make this window bigger, first you need to {click} but keep it {cliccckkkkkkked}..."
Nope. There's just no way to make a "press and hold" sound with you tongue. I didn't even get to the "let go of the button" sound. The kids were probably just as frustrated as I was. Perhaps they should be called sound in-effects!
However, after repeated reinforcement with Hussein and the brake pedal, I was a master at these 3 russian verbs.
"Just press once. Good"
"Ok, now press and hold,... good, and now let go."
Ahhh,.... the victory of using words... now I know what a talking toddler feels like!
It's just a shame that all my car mechanic words can't be as useful. Thanks to a recent adventure with the gas pedal on Freddy, I learnt the russian word for throttle - for the space of about a week. At the time, I checked my online dictionary and found that unfortunately I can't use it to say to little G, or any other graduate who is acting up: "I could throttle you!!!" (lovingly of course)
Pity. I suspect it would have been a helpful way to reinforce my new vocab addition. Instead, the word has been relegated to the "might recognize it, but can't reproduce it" drawer of my brain.
Saturday, 17 December 2011
Queen Victoria and the accordion
In holiday seasons like these, my thoughts often drift towards home and the gatherings of family and friends. Our previous flat was very quiet – which was nice, but it also meant that I never heard evidence of others around me enjoying the camaraderie of holidays in the home. Last night was the start of a 4-day weekend celebrating the 20th anniversary of Kazakhstan’s independence. The living room above where I am currently camped had a crowd of people over, including many children with happy little feet, and there was laughter, boisterous conversation and let’s-see-who-can-jump-off-the-highest-piece-of-furniture games. Pretending I was at home among the chaos of my large family, I was finally able to trick myself into drifting off to sleep. I was just at that crucial tipping point between wakefulness and sleep when I was jolted awake by an extra-ordinary noise from above. An accordion? Really? But it’s midnight!
Yes. An accordion, belting out what I can only describe as a Russian polka complete with obligatory foot stomping. Then came the melancholic slow verse where a roomful of very enthusiastic, but non-musical singers joined in. Even though I wasn’t there, I could see their faces. The far off look in their eye as they were transported to another time, a time of war and famine and general hardship, but a time that was better because it was in their youth. Reveling in suffering, enjoying the deep emotion of an awareness of being alive; a mix of heart–thumping joy and gut-wrenching sorrow that the Russian culture does so well. I don’t quite know how to describe it. Perhaps this language of the “stiff upper lippers” is ill-equipped to do so. But there must be a Slavic ancestor or two in my blood, because I was able to lie there and wallow in the pathos. At least, for a few rounds of verses and choruses! As the clock rolled past 1:00, however, the part of my blood-line that I share with Queen Victoria took over. "We were not amused."
Yes. An accordion, belting out what I can only describe as a Russian polka complete with obligatory foot stomping. Then came the melancholic slow verse where a roomful of very enthusiastic, but non-musical singers joined in. Even though I wasn’t there, I could see their faces. The far off look in their eye as they were transported to another time, a time of war and famine and general hardship, but a time that was better because it was in their youth. Reveling in suffering, enjoying the deep emotion of an awareness of being alive; a mix of heart–thumping joy and gut-wrenching sorrow that the Russian culture does so well. I don’t quite know how to describe it. Perhaps this language of the “stiff upper lippers” is ill-equipped to do so. But there must be a Slavic ancestor or two in my blood, because I was able to lie there and wallow in the pathos. At least, for a few rounds of verses and choruses! As the clock rolled past 1:00, however, the part of my blood-line that I share with Queen Victoria took over. "We were not amused."
Sunday, 24 February 2008
Bruised butts and (not-so) blind banya buddies...
While being a glasses-wearer provides some degree of (falsely) perceived modesty in the banya, (hey if I can't see, no one else can see me right?) I'm not totally blind. So in these winter months I can't help but notice that *everyone* has these two bruises on their butt cheeks... curious. Does it mean everyone is falling on the smoothly polished ice-walks that cover this harsh cold city? No. Today I discovered the real cause of these pain-marked derrieres.
Sitting in the scrub room with my banya buddy, she mentions that it is really hard to sit at the moment because she had the flu. Hmm... sounds odd? No not really. You see here people are obsessed with the Уколь. Injections are the Be All and End All of home and hospital medical care. Got a sore back? Take an injection. Got a headache? Get an injection. Got anemia? A needle will fix it. Got the flu? Injection, injection, injection... And what is in these injections one might ask? Well, my colleague was kind enough to find out for me several years ago when she accidentally got punched in the nose while swimming laps at a local swimming pool.
(Thankfully she had the presence of mind to get out of the pool before she passed out, but to her dismay, was unable to get to her towel. When aroused from her blacked out state by smelling salts waved under her nose she was disturbed by the thought of the unsightliness of her body hugging wet bathing suit...)
As a precaution she went to see a doctor who immediately diagnosed swelling on the brain and informed her she would have to spend a week at the hospital doing nothing but lying down with her eyes closed. This did not sit well with her and she fought to be allowed to oversee her own restful care in her own home. Reluctantly they let her leave, but not before giving her instructions on the medicine she needed to buy from the pharmacy.
Not wanting to completely dismiss the medical advice here, she bought this medicine and the syringes required to inject it and as I looked on, proceeded to stab her upper leg and administer the magical potion. Unfortunately for her, but much to my amusement, she hit a nerve as she did it and for the next 10 minutes her leg spasmed out of control.
This was enough for her to do some further research into the drug she was administering and was suitably expletively outraged to discover it was merely a tylenol equivalent...
Since then I have heard of many people here who have had to have injections - and I'm fairly certain that they are mostly pain killers. But when you try and say "there's a pill format that is much easier..." they won't believe you.
And so... people with the flu walk around with bruised butts. And as for my colleague - her nose is a little more crooked than it was before, but she survived the week, despite not taking her injections and despite using her eyes and walking around.
Sitting in the scrub room with my banya buddy, she mentions that it is really hard to sit at the moment because she had the flu. Hmm... sounds odd? No not really. You see here people are obsessed with the Уколь. Injections are the Be All and End All of home and hospital medical care. Got a sore back? Take an injection. Got a headache? Get an injection. Got anemia? A needle will fix it. Got the flu? Injection, injection, injection... And what is in these injections one might ask? Well, my colleague was kind enough to find out for me several years ago when she accidentally got punched in the nose while swimming laps at a local swimming pool.
(Thankfully she had the presence of mind to get out of the pool before she passed out, but to her dismay, was unable to get to her towel. When aroused from her blacked out state by smelling salts waved under her nose she was disturbed by the thought of the unsightliness of her body hugging wet bathing suit...)
As a precaution she went to see a doctor who immediately diagnosed swelling on the brain and informed her she would have to spend a week at the hospital doing nothing but lying down with her eyes closed. This did not sit well with her and she fought to be allowed to oversee her own restful care in her own home. Reluctantly they let her leave, but not before giving her instructions on the medicine she needed to buy from the pharmacy.
Not wanting to completely dismiss the medical advice here, she bought this medicine and the syringes required to inject it and as I looked on, proceeded to stab her upper leg and administer the magical potion. Unfortunately for her, but much to my amusement, she hit a nerve as she did it and for the next 10 minutes her leg spasmed out of control.
This was enough for her to do some further research into the drug she was administering and was suitably expletively outraged to discover it was merely a tylenol equivalent...
Since then I have heard of many people here who have had to have injections - and I'm fairly certain that they are mostly pain killers. But when you try and say "there's a pill format that is much easier..." they won't believe you.
And so... people with the flu walk around with bruised butts. And as for my colleague - her nose is a little more crooked than it was before, but she survived the week, despite not taking her injections and despite using her eyes and walking around.
Tuesday, 14 August 2007
You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours... or something like that!
So I was sitting in the banya with my friend. We had just been in the sauna room and were now sitting out in the cooler change room, covered with face mask goop. The banya is possibly one of my favourite places to be in Kazakhstan. There's nothing quite like sitting (naked) next to a good friend, either in companionable silence, or baring your soul while sweat is gushing out of every pore. As the toxins leave your body, so does the pent up stress. I don't know what it is - possibly the lack of clothing - but in the banya you can say things you just can't say anywhere else. There's an element of vulnerability and trust that just doesn't exist outside the steam-filled walls!
So we were sitting there in companionable silence when one of the other woman in the room began talking to whoever would listen. She bemoaned the fact that her son was still not married "How can this be when he is such a good boy?" she asked with overly dramatic wide eyes. Casting them over the handful of women in the room, she finally rested their gaze on me. "Девушка - you're not busy right now? Good. You can rub this honey on me."
I've been in the banya enough to know that this is a perfectly reasonable request to make of a stranger. I've even applied honey to various rough patches of my skin and seen how, combined with a good steaming session, it can turn elbows and heels soft and beautiful. I've just never had the privilege of scrubbing someone else with the sugary grit until this day. Following my usual habit of "fitting in", I wordlessly rose and proceeded to spread honey all over her back. But not even my oft-repeated silent mantra "just be like a local, just be like a local" could make me go further down than the small of her back - even though I know she is expecting me to continue on to her buttocks! While my mind is occupied with the absolute absurdity of the situation, and how I could possibly ever explain it anyone outside of Kaz, her mouth is still yapping away and I find that I am half listening to her. "Ahh, девушка, this is good is it not? You are such a fine young girl. It's so hard to find a good girl these days. How will I ever find one for my son. I need to find him a wife that will be a comfort to me in my old age. Sometimes a daughter-in-law can be better than a son, yes? But only if you find the right one. I need to find one like you who will look after me like this for the rest of my life..." On and on, her voice, as sickly sweet as the honey I'm rubbing into her skin, glides over the drum beat of my internal chanting "be like a local, be like a local" It's become a bit of a game for me here - seeing how long I can be anywhere before someone pegs me as an иностранка, one of my least favourite russian words.
Finally - its over. Or so I think.
"Thank you so much, now turn around..."
And so I found myself being vigourously scrubbed with honey - and she being a local, had no problems reaching all the way down below the small of my back... and all the while she is exhorting the merits of her poor unmarried son...
And, so steamed, scrubbed, detoxified and pure, I left the banya, once again thinking "once you get over the 'this is NOT normal in my culture' thoughts, it is really quite a wonderful experience!"
So we were sitting there in companionable silence when one of the other woman in the room began talking to whoever would listen. She bemoaned the fact that her son was still not married "How can this be when he is such a good boy?" she asked with overly dramatic wide eyes. Casting them over the handful of women in the room, she finally rested their gaze on me. "Девушка - you're not busy right now? Good. You can rub this honey on me."
I've been in the banya enough to know that this is a perfectly reasonable request to make of a stranger. I've even applied honey to various rough patches of my skin and seen how, combined with a good steaming session, it can turn elbows and heels soft and beautiful. I've just never had the privilege of scrubbing someone else with the sugary grit until this day. Following my usual habit of "fitting in", I wordlessly rose and proceeded to spread honey all over her back. But not even my oft-repeated silent mantra "just be like a local, just be like a local" could make me go further down than the small of her back - even though I know she is expecting me to continue on to her buttocks! While my mind is occupied with the absolute absurdity of the situation, and how I could possibly ever explain it anyone outside of Kaz, her mouth is still yapping away and I find that I am half listening to her. "Ahh, девушка, this is good is it not? You are such a fine young girl. It's so hard to find a good girl these days. How will I ever find one for my son. I need to find him a wife that will be a comfort to me in my old age. Sometimes a daughter-in-law can be better than a son, yes? But only if you find the right one. I need to find one like you who will look after me like this for the rest of my life..." On and on, her voice, as sickly sweet as the honey I'm rubbing into her skin, glides over the drum beat of my internal chanting "be like a local, be like a local" It's become a bit of a game for me here - seeing how long I can be anywhere before someone pegs me as an иностранка, one of my least favourite russian words.
Finally - its over. Or so I think.
"Thank you so much, now turn around..."
And so I found myself being vigourously scrubbed with honey - and she being a local, had no problems reaching all the way down below the small of my back... and all the while she is exhorting the merits of her poor unmarried son...
And, so steamed, scrubbed, detoxified and pure, I left the banya, once again thinking "once you get over the 'this is NOT normal in my culture' thoughts, it is really quite a wonderful experience!"
Saturday, 14 July 2007
Grand opening... Мы открылись...
As I wander around this wild west town on the steppes of Kazakhstan, I am constantly amazed at the number of new businesses springing up. When the remont has finished, without fail, they all put up some kind of sign indicating they are open. "Мы открылись!" Some are large fancy canvas banners, some are small hand written post-it notes and of course, some fall in between those two extremes. What surprises me about this is that they are never advertising that something NEW has opened. It's always the same old, same old. A cafe, a bank, a building supply store, an automatic gaming casino. Where's the imagination? The innovation?
Perhaps anyone reading this might wonder the same thing about this blog. Yet another blog with someone else's ramblings? Where's the imagination? The innovation?
I'm asking the same things myself.
We'll see.
Perhaps anyone reading this might wonder the same thing about this blog. Yet another blog with someone else's ramblings? Where's the imagination? The innovation?
I'm asking the same things myself.
We'll see.
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