So, I just listened, a smile of recognition on my face, to how she met him at her parents’ café and how, despite her vow to leave the village life for a promising future, she could not resist this fellow who “would do things for her”. Maybe he drove her to a spot to watch the sunset on the Caspian Sea, or kept the best catch of the day for her. He pleases her. It made me think about what a woman needs from a man. In a different part of the world, the same desires remain in women in their youth: the longing to be loved, to see places, to play an important role. When, or if, it turns out differently, one regrets, accepts, or tries to change one’s mind.
Perhaps over-sensitive to cultural differences, I did not dare to ask her about finishing her education and her future role in his family. Was I afraid to be proven right, that the world was going to lose this girl to a submissive role? Perhaps while preparing meals together, I could have mentioned some of my so-called ‘modern’ ideas on the equality of men and women. Perhaps I could have tried to convince her that she could easily earn a good living in the booming city, and that her fisherman would make a great stay-at-home dad. She would laugh out loud, and silently mock me; I certainly am not living this example.
Unaware of my mind wrestling, Nurgul meanwhile contemplated how to pickle the boiled fish or cook the sheep for her future father-in-law and brother-in-law at the engagement party. Knowing she was going to be part of something big, she daydreamed, thinking of the moment she would be unveiled by her closest companions, who will walk her in before her husband, her parents and hundreds of their guests. She will look stunning in her traditional wedding dress and pointed hat with white fur; her hair extended to braids down to her hips and her skin fair as mid-winter. (Poor Nurgul has been wearing suffocating clothes for four hot months, in order to have the fairest skin possible). Her groom will stare at her solemnly, just as she will not smile on this most beautiful day of her life. What would everybody think if she looked happy to leave her house and move to another family?
At Kazakh weddings, sometimes the Master of Ceremonies will invite the couple for a game that predicts the harmony of the future household. They pair up with their backs to each other and have to answer questions as they take a step forward: questions such as, “who will drive the car, who will cook, who will light the barbecue, who will get up at night for the baby, who will earn money?”
Hesitations, double steps or no steps will be met with amused cheers. If I were to play such a game about roles with my husband, we would walk out of the room on each other. Our roles are constantly changing and renegotiated.
As the big day approaches, Nurgul and her fisherman-friend have plenty on their minds. She will soon receive her dowry jewelry, and then they will have to make more family visits; prepare two weddings; book the restaurant (the only one in the village), the dancers, the Michael Jackson act and the dombra player; find two dresses (a Kazakh embroidered dress and a big white one) and make pickles and jams until dawn from donated fruits and vegetables.
My husband and I will attend one of her weddings with at least 200 other guests for a full night of eating, vodka drinking, speeches and entertainment. Attending a wedding is always a good time for some contemplation, but this young girl has confronted me just by telling her story. After all, I have found similar beliefs and universal truths about love and marriage in Kazakhstan and the Netherlands. One thing I particularly respect about the Kazakh culture is this: love and marriage are not taken lightly and they know how to mark the occasion by throwing a once in a lifetime celebration!
Dromophobia
by Laura McLean
The transition to my new Kazakh lifestyle had been relatively smooth. I was so pleased with myself for adapting so quickly, considering I knew next to nothing about the country before I moved here. I had been expecting my adjustment to a Kazakh lifestyle to be an emotional rollercoaster with culture shock and homesickness. Over time, I realized that there was only one thing that stood between me and a comfortable, happy life in Kazakhstan. It wasn’t the language barrier, or the strange new foods, or any of the other anxieties that I’d had prior to moving. It was the streets of Almaty that caused me the greatest stress.
My first memorable car ride was on my first day of teaching, when a driver from the school came to pick me up from my apartment on the edge of the city. I cringed as he weaved in and out of the lanes, honking the horn as often and as absent-mindedly as one might use a turn-signal. I realized quickly that the lines painted to divide the lanes of traffic were merely a suggestion, as many people straddled them until they had decided which path was moving faster. A road with two lanes therefore held more than enough room for three lanes of traffic. Other vehicles changed lanes without so much as a sideways glance, veering towards our car and nearly making contact. I was convinced I was going to die in a fiery blaze before I even got to see the campus of the school I’d be working at. Meanwhile, the driver was happily sharing his English vocabulary with me.
“Sobaka, dog,” he said, pointing to a dog outside, and I nodded as I tried to unclench my jaw enough to smile.
Future car rides were no less traumatic. Every morning he came to pick me up, and every evening he took me home, and all the while I was clinging to the handle of the door and pumping an invisible brake on the passenger side of the car. I did not want to die. Still, it was a comfort to have someone from the school help me to and from work every day. Unfortunately, this luxury was not to last. I had been warned that, once introduced to the bus system, I would either be taking a bus or cabbing it to school. I dreaded the idea of being left to fend for myself on these busy streets. I did not believe I would be able to recognize my stop from a bus, and I certainly was not ready to take a gypsy-cab.
Gypsy-cabs are unauthorized taxis. Anyone with a car can be a gypsy-cab; they simply need to choose a fare and negotiate a price and destination. When I first heard about this, I thought it sounded very close to what I would consider hitch-hiking. Since hitch-hiking is illegal in Canada, I had never flagged down a stranger’s vehicle and crawled into their back seat. I did not want my first time to be in Kazakhstan, of all places. However, I was assured repeatedly that this was the way Kazakhs got from Point A to Point B, and I was determined to avoid looking like a prissy Westerner. When the time came for me to hail my first cab, I was beyond nervous. I had been given all the advice I needed to survive my first trip, and now it was time to put this into action. The ladies at the school had given me the ‘golden rules to gypsy-cabbing’:
“Don’t get into a car with two men, that’s trouble. Negotiate the price before you get into the car, but don’t pay him until after you get there. Pay in exact change, or you won’t get any money back. And whatever you do… don’t get in the car with a woman driver.”
I have since broken each of these rules at one time or another, and lived to tell the tale. But that first time I followed the Gypsy-Cab Rules to the letter. I hailed my first driver, told him the name of the intersection I lived on, and held up five fingers to tell him I would pay 500 tenge. He nodded, and I climbed into the seatbelt-deprived backseat, waiting for my adventure to begin. He drove off at lightning speed, and I watched out the window, hoping to see a landmark of some kind that would assure me I was not being kidnapped. Not surprisingly, I didn’t have a clue where we were headed. He tried to carry out a conversation with me as we drove, and I repeated my only Russian phrase at that point, “Ia ne ponimayu!” [“I don’t understand!”] He eventually gave up, and only the sound of Russian techno music and honking cars were left to keep us entertained. I got out of the car, pleased with myself for having braved the stranger’s vehicle.
As time went on, I realized that gypsy-cabs were not something to be feared, but a really amazing social opportunity. After a while, when I had started taking Russian lessons, I realized that these cabs gave me the chance to practise the language, and to learn a few things about Kazakhstan as well.
On one of my rides downtown, my driver was a charming elderly ma
n who wanted to know everything about Canada. He teased me because I don’t play ice hockey; I only like to watch it. He told me that simply wasn’t good enough. He asked, sincerely, if I had an American passport. I told him that Canada has its own passport, and he found that fascinating. I knew right away that this was going to be a cultural exchange, in which we both learned something new about the other’s country.
From there, the ride also became a bit of a language lesson for both of us. He spoke enough English to say, “My name is…” and, “I am from Almaty.” He asked if English was the official language in Canada, and I informed him that we spoke French as well. He broke out into his only French phrase: “Merci!”
“Merci, merci beaucoup!” he continued before asking, puzzled, “Shto ‘beaucoup’?” [“What is beaucoup?”]
I told him the Russian translation, and he was so excited with his new word.
“Laura, I love you beaucoup!” he yelled out. He was having a ball, and I spent the majority of the ride in fits of laughter. I didn’t understand the conversation entirely, but from what I did understand, he had invited me to his house so his wife could cook beshbarmak for me. I told him I was on the way to see friends, and he seemed genuinely disappointed.
The best part of the ride was when he answered his phone, and I heard my name amidst the Kazakh babble. He then passed his phone to me and a voice on the other end said, “’Allo! Laura, ’allo!” I said hello into the phone, and the person on the other end said, “’Allo”, and then I sat there in silence, wondering what I was expected to say next. I wasn’t sure whom I was even talking to! I burst out laughing, and handed the phone back. This was a great game for him. He grabbed the phone, carried on in Kazakh, and again I heard my name.
On the way out of the door, I shook his hand and told him that it was very nice to meet him. He gave me a peck on the hand, and I laughed to think how this type of cab ride would never happen in Canada. I have never been introduced to the driver’s friends over the phone, let alone invited to his house for a home-cooked meal. It was amazing how, after a short 20 minutes in this man’s car, I felt like I had made a friend.
I quickly discovered that a fixation of cab drivers in Kazakhstan is marital status. Many conversations have started with the driver asking me where I am from, if I like living in Almaty, and whether or not I am married with children. Initially, I would try and carry out the conversation as honestly as possible, but as I still cannot explain myself completely, it is sometimes easier to lie a little.
One man was determined to discover the underlying reason why I was not married. He asked me if I had a husband, and I gave him what I had been told was the acceptable answer.
“Not yet!” I replied.
He asked me if I had a boyfriend.
“Not yet!” I confessed, again.
He raised his eyebrows at me in the rearview mirror, trying to figure out the reason for my lack of commitment at the ripe old age of 23. He thought of a possibility.
“Lesbian?” he asked me.
I informed him in Russian, as best as I could, that I was not a lesbian, but he remained curious. From what I could determine, he then asked me, “You marry a woman?”
I was unsure if this was a question directed at my culture as a whole, or at me, as an individual. I tried to clarify his question, so he rephrased.
“You have a wife?”
I told him I did not, and he raised his eyebrows at me again in the mirror. It was clear that I was not giving him answers that he liked, so he started back at the beginning of the conversation.
“Where is your boyfriend?” he asked me in Russian. I sighed deeply.
“China,” I told him. “My boyfriend is in China.”
He smiled and nodded, and I knew that this fake international romance was more acceptable than being willingly and openly single.
Since this ride, I have discovered that a more effective way of redirecting the conversation is to ask about the driver’s family instead. Many wallets have been whipped out to show me pictures of families. I have heard stories about the brother who moved overseas, and the daughter who is fluent in English. The pride to be had in having a family is contagious, and I soon find myself discussing my parents and siblings back home as well.
Since my initial months in Kazakhstan, my fear of driving these streets has decreased greatly. The truth is, that something that initially caused me so much grief is now one of my favourite things about living here. I can see the roads for the organized chaos that they truly are, and the absence of fear has allowed me to see each gypsy-cab trip as an opportunity. Nearly every ride I have taken with a total stranger has been an experience. We’ve learned things about each other’s cultures, shared stories and laughter, and exchanged the whole-hearted and honest words, “Ochen pryatno… nice to meet you!”
The Magic Dvor
by Laura Kennedy
In Almaty, the courtyard (dvor in Russian) is the center of social life for the apartment block. Ours is unlike most in the leafy former capital: once used for parking, it is not much more than a stark concrete space. When we debated moving into the building almost three years ago, I viewed the dvor as a distinct liability. There is neither grass nor trees. A small playground structure stands off in one corner, dwarfed by the 16-storey towers that surround it. The center is punctuated by a few wooden benches; small flower boxes dot the perimeter in an attempt to lend seasonal color to an otherwise dreary setting.
And yet I soon learned that our courtyard may not be much to look at, but the vibrant life that is lived in the dvor and the joy it gives to the children who play there, be they Kazakh, Russian or American, cannot be rivaled.
The new arrivals
I first noticed our dvor was special when we brought our girls to see the new apartment. Stepping through the gate, we were almost immediately approached by curious, friendly children. Who were these new girls? Did they speak Russian and most important, were they ready to play? Our previous place, one of the new, so-called ‘elite’ buildings, with its manicured garden, fountain and draconian security, had been nothing like this.
Once we had moved into our new building, we started to notice the pattern of life in the dvor. During the day, the lack of shade can make it unbearably hot, particularly in summer. On school days only a few mothers and grandmothers wander out with baby carriages. But by the time evening rush hour in Almaty nears its peak, our dvor comes alive with activity. Toddlers negotiate their first steps while dodging scooters and bouncing balls. In the center, the little girls hold court with their bicycles, deciding who will chase and be chased today. The bigger girls, already leggy and showing universal signs of ‘teenage attitude’, are playing word games, sketching chalk portraits on the asphalt, talking about friendships. On the benches, nannies keep one eye on their charges while exchanging small talk in Russian and increasingly, in Kazakh. Brothers and fathers read the paper patiently while their little ones beg for just a few more minutes of playtime before going in for dinner.
In the corner of the dvor nearest my entryway, a mob of boys of all ages engages in a joyous romp with a football. These are the boys whom I encounter most evenings after work. They invariably hamper my entrance to the building, but I don’t mind. Their laughter and positive energy take the edge off a stressful workday.
Playing inconspicuously among these children, who are mostly Kazakh but with a few Russians and other nationalities of the Kazakhstani melting pot, are my two American daughters. They play games that seem much like those of my own childhood in the US, but with a Central Asian twist and Russian names like klassi (hopscotch), pryatki (hide-and-seek) and svetafor (red light, green light; literally ‘traffic lights’). In the dvor our girls are learning a vocabulary that cannot be taught in a classroom.
Most evenings and weekends, when the weather is good, the apartment intercom rings with a steady stream of kids calling our girls out to play. They jump with excitement at the sound of the bell, each hoping that the call will be
for her. Then begins the ritual of grabbing the bicycles, cries of, “Wait for me!”, shoes, a jacket, an object for show-and-tell, or some other novelty to take outside.
Parents returning home from a hard day’s work are treated to a celebrity welcome in our dvor. Waving from the top of the slide, whizzing by on scooters, bicycles and skateboards, we hear: “Zdravsvuite!” [“Hello!”], “Privet!” [“Hi!”] and even the occasional, “Hello!” from those who know we are American. Then inevitably, “Veedut lee Amely i Fya?” [“Will Amelie and Fia come out?”]
The dvor is a magnet for kids from the small, neighboring apartment buildings. The bespectacled Ablai, a kind and gregarious nine-year-old, can regularly be seen squeezing through the gates to our courtyard, usually with his younger mischievous brother in tow. A still younger brother follows, with the nanny bringing up the rear. These kids have no playground of their own, so they cross the driveway to ours. No one seems to mind – the more the merrier.
Though most of the time we are just another family in the building, sometimes there is no escaping our American roots. When spring arrived during our first year in the dvor, we decided to take out our baseball mitts for a game of catch. We were soon surrounded by curious kids, all wanting a turn to try on the glove and play. The next trip home we bought some extra gloves to expand the game. Trips back to the States for holidays also mean bringing back to Kazakhstan ‘exotic’ American favorites like candy canes or root beer barrels. The girls are eager to introduce these to the kids in the dvor.
Drinking Camel's Milk in the Yurt – Expat Stories From Kazakhstan Page 5