Shortly afterwards, a neighbour came in and gestured that I should go outside. I followed dutifully, thinking perhaps I would get a nice cool glass of water. I was mistaken. The woman took out a large bunch of birch leaves (veniki), told me to bend over and proceeded to beat the back of me furiously. The front side was, needless to say, even more painful. Once this was over I was sent outside and she duly threw a bucket of ice-cold water over me. I screamed at first, but then started to feel the blood rushing to my skin, which made me feel full of energy! Although the build-up wasn’t particularly pleasant, the feeling afterwards was incredible. I went straight back in for another go at this amazing process. Reading up on the experience later, I found that it seems to have numerous health benefits, including an increase in heart activity leading to an increase of endorphins – something I was not surprised to hear.
Remembering my love of this Russian institution, I had searched out the Astana city banya, a five-storey building with male and female baths, to enjoy all those health benefits. In true Soviet style, there was a tiny cashier window at which to buy tickets and the obligatory employee stamping the entry tickets. I was given a sheet and flip-flops and I headed to the changing rooms. Inside were women of all ages, walking around with birch leaves (many also covered in the leaves) and carrying all kinds of toiletries.
I entered the hammam with hot stones first, where massages were being carried out, before moving on to the Finnish and Turkish saunas and a large plunge pool. No one seemed to be using their leaves – until I entered the washroom. This was a huge hall with taps and bowls and showers, where women were scrubbing, cleaning, showering, chatting and, of course, slapping themselves with their birch leaves! After spending three hours of many rounds of the hot-and-cold treatment, I exited into the freezing early evening feeling warm. I was positively glowing.
By mid-March the temperatures in Astana hit the dizzy heights of 1° Celsius and, when the sun is shining, the city looks quite beautiful in places. During another of my walks through the park – and its complicated pathways – to the gym, I heard a swishing sound behind me, coming closer and closer. A man on skis shot past me, and I realised that I had wandered onto the ski track, which loops its way through the park. Despite having lived next to the mountains for two years in Almaty, I had little interest in skiing. My classroom had had a picture-perfect view of the snow-capped peaks and, although I was happy to look at them, I had never felt the need to go skiing (unlike my flatmate, who had regularly gone snowboarding). I did go up to the main ski resort on one occasion, purely to say I had visited it and to get some fresh air.
I had been skiing once, many years ago, when the dry ski slope first opened in Plymouth, England. I remember not enjoying it in the slightest! The next attempt was in Finland, where I spent the day cross-country skiing in Rovaniemi, in the Arctic Circle. As there were few slopes, I had enjoyed skiing through the fresh white countryside, watching the reindeer that roamed the forests.
The cross-country track in Astana’s park piqued my curiosity and I decided to give it a go. I would take advantage of the blue sky and warmer temperatures to once more strap on a pair of skis. I found a ski rental shop in the big hotel in the park and, at £3 an hour to hire equipment, it seemed good value for money (and not too much to waste if I didn’t enjoy the experience). Once I had hired the shoes and skis, I took them outside and placed the skis on the track. I then proceeded to spend the next 10 minutes trying to clip my shoes into the skis.
There were a number of people out on the track. They, of course, made it look simple (very much like people do when ice skating, another winter sport that I have never taken to!) I managed to eventually clip my shoes in, push off along the flat icy track, and promptly fall over. I am not clear on what causes one to lose balance when it is flat and you are not moving at great speed, but it happened a number of times, until I got used to the sensation of propelling myself along using the sticks and skis.
The course is kilometres long and is protected by trees, which helps you to forget that you are in the centre of a city. At the end of the hour, although I was cold and sore, I realised I had enjoyed myself. I felt I might have found a winter sport that I was able do! This discovery also added to my list of things one could do in the sub-zero winter temperatures of the second coldest capital in the world!
The Universal Language of Music
by Antonio Monreale
A song throws wide for you the world as open door, A song floats dust to earth’s own dust with mourning voice, A song walks close at hand whenever we rejoice, Pay every song due heed, and treasure it therefore. – Abay Kunanbayuli, 19th-century Kazakh poet, composer and philosopher
“You absolutely must come with us to the concert this evening,” the internal communications officer said firmly.
It was the spring of 2006 in Atyrau, and I was on my monthly business trip to the city – an event I suspect was dreaded as much as loved by my colleagues, due to the hard work and long hours expected of us, as well as the continuous push for feedback and innovation. That night a traditional music concert was being sponsored by the company I worked for.
Young artists from the renowned Kazakh National Academy of Music in Astana would be performing, with traditional string instruments – such as the dombra and kobyz – and a variety of wind and percussion instruments making up the orchestra. Traditional Kazakh music has a rich history, and many of the melodies are treasures from nomadic oral folklore: epic and historical poems, fairytales and legends, proverbs and riddles that have been transferred from generation to generation… oral art, you might say.
The unexpected invitation appealed to me. I was reminded of my visits many years ago to the Barbican and the National Theatre festivals in London, that European city of multiculturalism, where I used to immerse myself in the music, enjoying the company of the eccentric habitués in the audience. I love music, and, despite a long and hard day, I felt I could not miss this experience.
Arriving at the Atyrau Drama Theatre, I was surprised to find no queue at the booking office. In about three minutes I was seated in the second row, next to my enthusiastic invitee, and the room began to fill up.
“X and Y did not come and hence you are the only senior manager in the audience,” she said, then continued with a tranquil smile, “therefore you have to carry out the closing speech.” Incredulous but trapped by duty, I had to accept the task as a token of appreciation for the invitation.
The concert lasted an hour. It was an intense experience, partly due to the heady music and partly due to my concern at having to make a speech without having done any preparation. During the concert I tried to find inspiration for my speech in the events around me: the orchestra’s young and more senior members, the gestures of the conductor, the silence of the audience and the music itself. Melodic and soothing, then fast and rhythmic, then deep and solemn, the music led my emotions in a dance.
In the notes of the (to me, unfamiliar) traditional music, executed masterfully by the orchestra, I found fragments of familiar melodies and tunes. I was immediately struck by the idea that the music itself possibly contained, even was a code for, common human experiences and pursuits; that it might represent a set of universal emotions, a shared dignity and love.
I reflected on the diverse histories, cultures, origins and demographics of the audience, unexpectedly united that evening in that room, at that concert in Atyrau. I felt the powerful effect of the music on all of us. I observed the musicians, in their beautiful and colorful costumes, absorbed in their music sheets, yet alert to the gestures of the conductor. I watched them from the trepidation of the first note to the precision of the last, to the humble smiles at each round of applause. I realized that music is the simplest but highest expression of the human soul and spirit. Together with all the other arts, it embraces all cultures in a civilization often distracted by apparent differences, prejudices and daunting modern day life.
At the end of the show an interpreter accompani
ed me on stage, where a microphone was waiting for us. Pausing at intervals to give the interpreter time to translate, I told the audience where I was from and shared some of the reflections I had had during the concert. I shared the idea that artistic expression, and music in particular, spontaneously unites human experiences.
“Diverse cultures meet naturally through music with a common if mysterious understanding of it,” I concluded after my stage companion’s firm but kindly nod had signaled I should wrap up. I saluted the members of the orchestra and the conductor, and they silently moved through the back door of the stage in an orderly fashion. The interpreter descended the small steps just before me while the hall emptied. I was making my way down the steps when an elegant elderly man approached me, a smile on his face. After a short and polite exchange, the man spoke to me, slowly, in English.
“Thank you for this evening,” he said. “I am content. When I was younger I was akim [mayor] for this region. Now I am an old man and you are all young and things are changing fast. My daughter works for your company, and I am very proud of that.”
“Thank you,” I replied with a warm handshake. I was as surprised and touched by that brief conversation as I had been by the evening that preceded it. The power of music had indeed brought people – and generations – together that evening. We were all reminded that it is the simple and spontaneous things that unite people.
Kazakh Legend on the Origin of Poetry and Music*
In ancient times none of the nations on the earth knew poetry and music. Life without poems was like a widow, life without music was barren. People did not laugh, holidays were not celebrated. Nature was sad and still: forests were silent, brooks didn’t babble and birds didn’t sing. At that time only the Heavens possessed the power of songs.
One day, a beautiful, mysterious and magical song decided to leave her home and explore the four corners of the Universe. Maybe she was tired of being of no use in the Heavens, maybe she just wanted to experience the wide steppe. Maybe she felt sorry for the Creation below and wanted to give it the gift of song, of delight and joy.
Depending on her mood, the song either flew low, or she shot upwards, high into an inaccessible sky. Those who were blessed with hearing her melodies and verses learned them by heart. Where she flew higher, people below heard only fragments. Some lands heard nothing at all … It is said that the song flew low over the Kazakh Steppe – and therein lies the secret to the richness of Kazakh poetry and music.
* Based on translation at http://musicheritage.nlrk.kz
Tea with Natasha
by Nina Buonaiuto
My teaching assistant, Irina, introduced me to Natasha one December day, and my husband and I hired her to be our housekeeper that same afternoon. Irina grew up with Natasha’s daughter and has referred to Natasha as her second mother. I felt an instant bond with Natasha for reasons I can’t really explain, other than to say she has a twinkle and a deep intelligence in her dark blue eyes. She shakes her head disapprovingly at my inability to clean the dirty rings off my husband’s collar and yells at me to take off my shoes when I run through the house, something that would annoy me if it were anyone but her. I hate getting scolded in the playground for not dressing my threeyear-old daughter, Sadie, warmly enough, but when it comes from her I recognise it as care rather than judgment.
I don’t speak Russian and Natasha doesn’t speak English. We use the few words we both know and fill in the spaces with gestures and pictures drawn on scraps of paper. Our conversations often end with giggles and resigned hand gestures of, “Okay, forget it.” Sometimes she comes over with a new word. She offered the word ‘friend’ to Sadie the other day, in a gesture of goodwill that made Sadie look up briefly with recognition. She brought me the word ‘learn’ and attached it to the gesture of steering a car to explain that she is learning how to drive. But mostly we just talk in our own languages, hoping the other will understand anyway.
She brings Sadie a piece of candy every time she comes, and sometimes, small toys and trinkets. She has given us a pumpkin and homemade raspberry jam and brings us baked treats occasionally. Having her work for us is like having a really helpful mother around.
She invited us to have tea at her house last week. We walked there together with Sadie in the stroller. It only took 10 minutes, but as we crossed the street, we walked back in time to a different generation, a different country and culture, and into the life of a whole different breed of person. A hardier breed, knowledgeable in things I’m afraid my generation has lost, and exposed to a harder way of life.
Her neighborhood has potholes in the paved areas and mud puddles in the exposed dirt. The trees are older and greener than on my street and the people all move with that determined walk that suggests destination. The houses are mostly two-storey concrete and surrounded by tall fences and walls. I heard dogs barking and smelled coal fires. This neighborhood clings nervously onto a stretch of land that is being engulfed by the glittering new buildings of Astana. Across the street there are two, 30-foot-high televisions out of which glow the scenes of the modern age. Surrounding this old neighborhood are the bridges and super highways of a rapidly expanding capital city.
Natasha unlocked the heavy iron gate for us, and held back her barking dog while I quickly wheeled the stroller down a side path of her house to the backyard, glancing over my shoulder at the large, shaggy dog straining against her grip. Her backyard had several outbuildings and gardens. Dirt paths separated the areas of yard and were swept so clean even the rocks looked organized. The garden mounds were evenly spaced and ready for the fragrant tomato starts that were already growing in her hot house. The grape vines were trimmed and tied to a tall fence. Her cherry trees were in blossom and filled with droning bees. There was a skinny new apple tree, carefully protected under a tarp, and squash vines already snaking around the roots. The skyscrapers and city streets of Astana quickly ceased to exist in her backyard. We lingered outside naming things in Russian and English, while Sadie petted the mangy cat.
To get inside we climbed down a wooden set of narrow steps to a basement, where I recognized the boots that Natasha had worn to my house in the mud season, now carefully cleaned and sitting neatly side by side. Then we made a sharp left and climbed back up an even narrower set of steps, through a trapdoor, into the house. Natasha carried Sadie, happy for the excuse to hold her. Sadie is often very reserved around her, suspicious of her inability to understand what she is saying.
Her house was the indoor version of her yard and garden. Everything was old, but meticulously cared for and clean. The linoleum was a mismatched, old-fashioned pattern and her heavy, white enamel sink and taps looked antique. Everything that was old and frayed was carefully covered and mended. Everything that should have been stained with age was scrubbed clean. The antique-looking gas stove was a stark contrast to the electric range in my modern apartment. There was a peaceful feeling in her house, a feeling that people had really lived here and had appreciated and taken care of their possessions, a feeling of self-reliance. These are not people who buy things they don’t need, or throw things away just because they’re old. These are people that embodied the green lifestyle before it was ever born, or ever hip, in the Western world. I imagined her at night, carefully cleaning the kitchen and pruning her houseplants, mixing dough for pastries, squinting through her glasses as she sews. She is a busy woman, in constant motion, moving until she lies down to sleep. I thought about how we had hired this woman to clean for us and was conscious of how quickly the dynamics of our relationship had changed when I stepped into her house.
She offered us blynys, thin pancakes folded into triangles and arranged into a circular pattern on a plate. She poured homemade cherry jam into small, flowered, enamel bowls and demonstrated how to dip our blynys into it. Her dented electric kettle had the fabric wrapped cord I’ve seen on old appliances from my parent’s generation. She poured us tea and carefully added cool water to Sadie’s cup.
“I love te
a at Natasha’s house!” said Sadie, with her mouth full of blynys and cherry jam. I tried really hard to translate that accurately, with the arms crossed over chest, love symbol, and the word chai for tea and dom for house, some of the few words I know.
Without language, there was time to sit and observe in the comfortable silences that we shared. I marveled at her skills and the knowledge evident in the antique sewing machine and baskets of sewing tools, in her well-kept house and plants and perfect baked goods; evident too in the ceremony with which she made tea, making a really strong brew first and then adding hot water. I sat under the most perfect lemon tree I have ever seen, filled with lemons starting to ripen. I imagined the paths of our separate and very different lives, converging towards each other, towards this unusual and unlikely afternoon tea party.
She showed me pictures of her family and in gestures and a few words, I learned that she and her husband had met in Astana and had been married for 25 years. When they met she was a seamstress and he drove a train. Her husband had died of lung cancer, a month before I met her, a fact that I had learned from Irina, but had pretended not to know. She told me herself one day with the help of Google translator and gestures. It turned out to be his birthday that day, the day after Sadie’s.
Drinking Camel's Milk in the Yurt – Expat Stories From Kazakhstan Page 7