Good Times and Translating Mishaps

The parental visit is coming to a close already, only a few short days left. So far it has been a charmed visit -- things I was worried about came together, the weather has been cooperating nicely (rain turned to sun when we went to the beach but the heat wave in Almaty or 100+ temperatures broke into showers just in time), and the inhabitants of my adopted country have stepped up spectacularly. My parents have been treated to every sort of fried, boiled, or baked dough, lots of tasty bits from various animals, and a wide range of fresh melons, berries, and veggies from the garden, the farm, and the woods. We waved hello to Russia accross the border and today are less than 3 hours from Kyrgystan.

As far as translation, I just want to tell one story. Then I'll be out of Internet time.

I was trying to explain the organic food movement to my host mother, as explained by my parents, first thing in the morning over dishes of berries and fried delicacies. I was searching for a way to explain, and remembered reading ingredient boxes -- there was some word that was a cognate, but was it conservative or preservative? The latter seemed to make more sense, so I put it through a Russian accent and continued. It was only when my host mom asked me why I kept saying that word that I realized my mistake. After laughing to myself for a minute, I explained to my parents why she was confused. After all, why would anyone in their right mind want to put condoms in food in the first place?

I'll tell you about all the English words I've forgotten some other time. Suffice to say that my mom said, "Booze" and I stared at her. After searching my brain for logical associations (bows?) I had to admit: "I don't understand what that word means," translating a phrase I often say in Russian. They kindly gave me synonyms, and the word came back, but that was a very, very, very disconcerting moment.

More later if I get my act together!

Love,
Nora

Meet the Parents

Hey y’all,

I had a moment yesterday when I checked my email for the first time in weeks and realized that I had completely failed to notice the passing of July 4^th, Independence Day. Where was I on that day? Oh, that’s right; I was participating in a pentathlon-like competition in Pavlodar, a collection of events originally put together by Soviet youth groups in the 1930’s (according to my informants, at any rate). I had a blast doing things I’ve never competed in before in my life: rifle shooting, 100m swim, 100m dash, 2km run, and the ever popular grenade toss (?!). According to a complicated chart, every event earned points out of 100 for your overall score and for the team. Strangely, my best events were shooting and the grenade toss (not a real grenade, of course, just a wooden replica, but still). And equally surprising, our team improved on an 11^th place result last year to take the top prize among village entrants. Wahoo!

The summer has been a series of such adventures so far. I’ve done some rough riding on backcountry roads through the Altai Mountains to visit the extended family of a Kazakh friend. I’ve swum and fished in the Irtish River in multiple locations, starting at its alpine headwaters.
Done lots of cooking for my host family – when they ask me to cook, it’s their fault if they get unusual foods like stir fry, fresh tomato and basil sauce, and bread pudding.

And now the biggest adventure of the summer is about to begin – my parents are supposed to arrive in Kazakhstan in a few short hours. I’m currently sitting in an apartment in Astana, the relatively new capital of Kazakhstan, visiting the son and wife of my village neighbors. If everything goes according to plans, this should be a theme of the next two weeks with my American family – that is, being taken care of by a network of Kazakhstani friends and family all across the country. I was met in Pavlodar by a PC volunteer and was taken to the train by his local girlfriend, then was met this morning in Astana and promptly whipped away to the apartment. My host family is planning a side trip, relatives of my counterpart are helping to arrange our train tickets, and my former host family wants to show us Almaty just before my parents board the plane back home. Real Kazakhstani hospitality and the wonderful thing is they aren’t just doing this because we’re Americans, though that certainly helps. They would do all this for their own daughter, friend, or obscure relative. We just happen to make things a bit more complicated and exciting.

I am still in shock that I will see my parents today; I can’t quite believe this is happening. It’s been almost exactly 11 months since I boarded that plane in Minneapolis. We’ve kept in touch remarkably well, they call often and are wonderful about keeping me stocked with news and books (they often alert me to political changes in Kazakhstan that our Russia-based television channels don’t report). But still, there is simply no paper equivalent for hugs.

On a side note, it's funny, but my best correspondents over the past year have all been women – I cannot say enough thanks for the letters, books, chocolates, school supplies, etc. But men friends and relatives? Don’t feel you have to maintain the stereotypes, go ahead and send me some word of your continued existence. I know you have email, at the very least.

I’m off to wander the sites of the city and check out the Western style grocery store down the block. Wish us luck as we navigate, pray for quick jet lag acclimation for my folks and a quick tongue for me – there’s going to be a lot of translating!

Love,
Nora