This headline dominated the last page of the latest edition of The Tajik Times, the local weekly paper, proving that Canada Post's reputation for service is known all over the world.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Landlady's Brother
I’ve discovered there are certain universal truths that exist no matter where you are on the globe: taxi drivers are the biggest con artists, politicians love playing power games and landlords will do anything to avoid spending money. I’ve now been in my flat on Chekhov Street (named after the writer, presumably, not the ensign on Star Trek) for almost a month. I moved in rather quickly upon arrival, as my temporary digs were costing me $40 a night and I hate to bleed money. The flat seemed pleasant enough upon first inspection, though the frilly and fragrant boudoir of a bedroom hinted that the last occupant was likely a chain-smoking lady of the evening. The rest of the apartment was fine, though the windowless holes in the stairwell lent new meaning to the term “open air concept” and promised that the building would offer little protection against the extremes of any season. Regardless of these reservations, I anted up my first month’s rent in US dollars, the unofficial currency of choice here in Tajikistan, and moved in.
One month on, I’ve learned that acting in haste results in something other than leisurely repentance. A power cut on a Saturday evening was an annoyance at first, but I had been warned that such losses were common in Tajikistan, so I grimly accepted it until I looked out my window and saw every other building on my block lit up with a cheery glow against the approaching gloom. Things became a bit more urgent when I opened the door of my flat and found my stairwell also basking in light. As much as I appreciate having a unique apartment, I hadn’t counted on being the only one in my building with optional electricity. And here is where the fun began, as complaining to one’s landlady becomes a real test of linguistic acrobatics when one doesn’t share a language with her. Thankfully, one of my office mates with a solid grasp of Russian was willing to make the call on my behalf. When word came back that nothing could be done until the next morning, I cursed under my breath, put on all of the fleeces I could find and rolled myself up in Miss Kitty’s duvet for the night. The next morning, as promised, the landlady arrived with her electrician in tow, who also happened to be her brother. Supervising a team of individuals who appeared more interested in me than in the wiring, he nevertheless managed to get the lights back on, so I thanked them and counted myself lucky.
Until the following week.
That’s when I noticed hot water starting to stream into my bathtub. Not a huge flow, but a steady drip that promised worse if left unrepaired. Again, a phone call to the landlady through a helpful office mate resulted in a promise that a visit was in the near future. But while electricity failures rate high on a landlady’s scale of urgency, a hot water leak is a bit less concerning, apparently. So, three days later, she arrived with her plumber, who is also her electrician and brother. I greeted them again, as they were becoming the most regular guests in my flat, and the brother set about to fix the leak. I had every confidence in him after his deft handling of my power loss, but it soon became apparent that he had skipped class on the plumbing days of his handyman school. Asking for a wrench, he sent his sister downstairs to fetch it, leaving the two of us alone for a few minutes. And this is where things took a turn for the bizarre.
Knowing I couldn’t speak Russian or Tajik, he started an impromptu game of Charades to communicate with me. He began by running his fingers around his face and tracing out what looked like the letter “M” over his head. “You want to take a shower?” I asked, “You’re sad, maybe?” I’m terrible at Charades, even more so when the person doesn’t understand my guesses, but apparently I was so far off the mark that even he sensed I was in the wrong ballpark. But he kept doing the motions, so I kept guessing. “You like birds, no, wait, you believe in angels, no, you’ve just escaped from a mental institution?”. Shaking his head vigourously after each wrong answer, he finally gave up and said one of the few English words he knew, “ Woe-man”. Oh, man, I thought. This didn't clear things up at all. Hoping he was asking me if I liked women and not if I needed to be fixed up with one, I nodded my head and smiled. Pointing to the floor, he appeared to be asking if I had a partner here, so I shook my head and explained in my best Tarzan-speak: “No woman here. Woman Holland”. That’s probably not how Kristel would prefer to be introduced, but at this point, simplicity was the key. The word “Holland” proved a puzzler to him, though, so he shook his head and said, “Woe-man” again, pointing at the door. With a sinking feeling, I realized that he was trying to set me up with his sister, so I smiled and shook my head, hoping he would take that as a sign of my lack of understanding, rather than a rejection of his flesh and blood. Thankfully, at that moment, his sister reappeared with the wrench and he could get a start on bashing my faucet off the wall.
After twenty minutes or so, the tap had clearly been defeated and hung at a nifty forty-five degree angle, exposing a gaping hole in the wall. Through the hole, a flow of water now gushed into my tub, no longer impeded by the pesky plumbing. Looking at me, my new friend shrugged his shoulders, and even I could guess what that meant. Shutting off the water, he left his sister to try to straighten up the remains of my bathroom while we stood out in the hallway. Safely out of sight of his sister, the Charades again started, with him pointing at my bedroom and resting his head on his hands to indicate sleep and then pointing at the bathroom where his sister continued to work away. At that point, I knew that I was having my chain pulled, though I’m not sure that particular action would have translated properly into Tajik had I demonstrated it for him. So, I laughed at him and said “Nyet spasiba” and hoped that his sister would reappear soon to rescue me. Promising to return the next day to finish the job, the two of them left me to enjoy my waterless apartment.
And waterless it stayed, for the next four days, though the landlady and her brother did show up during that time to check in, as if paying a visit to an incarcerated relative. It wasn’t until the leak deepened and spread down into the flat below me that something was finally done. Arriving at my door somewhat out of breath on Saturday night, the landlady pointed to the floor and said “Up”, which entirely confused me. I assumed the direction of her pointing was more accurate than her description, so I followed her downstairs to survey the damage. And the water had indeed spread to the ceiling of the bathroom and kitchen of the downstairs flat, with my new neighbour glaring at me as though I had filled my tub to overflowing and gone out for the day. I made empathetic noises that I hoped would mean the same in Tajik and we returned to my flat to try to complete the repairs. The landlady’s brother arrived soon after, and I didn’t need pantomime to understand that he had been properly chewed out by his sister. Promising to return the next day to finish the job, he once again left, this time shutting off the water to half of the building to prevent further damage. And he was true to his word, arriving promptly on Sunday morning to finally return the faucet to its rightful place on the bathroom wall. By this time, the novelty of trying to communicate with me, whether through Charades or not, had clearly been played out, and we only exchanged the most perfunctory of greetings and thank yous before he left. But I didn’t feel slighted. Given the state of this flat, I suspect that there will be plenty of opportunities for us to talk again in the near future.
One month on, I’ve learned that acting in haste results in something other than leisurely repentance. A power cut on a Saturday evening was an annoyance at first, but I had been warned that such losses were common in Tajikistan, so I grimly accepted it until I looked out my window and saw every other building on my block lit up with a cheery glow against the approaching gloom. Things became a bit more urgent when I opened the door of my flat and found my stairwell also basking in light. As much as I appreciate having a unique apartment, I hadn’t counted on being the only one in my building with optional electricity. And here is where the fun began, as complaining to one’s landlady becomes a real test of linguistic acrobatics when one doesn’t share a language with her. Thankfully, one of my office mates with a solid grasp of Russian was willing to make the call on my behalf. When word came back that nothing could be done until the next morning, I cursed under my breath, put on all of the fleeces I could find and rolled myself up in Miss Kitty’s duvet for the night. The next morning, as promised, the landlady arrived with her electrician in tow, who also happened to be her brother. Supervising a team of individuals who appeared more interested in me than in the wiring, he nevertheless managed to get the lights back on, so I thanked them and counted myself lucky.
Until the following week.
That’s when I noticed hot water starting to stream into my bathtub. Not a huge flow, but a steady drip that promised worse if left unrepaired. Again, a phone call to the landlady through a helpful office mate resulted in a promise that a visit was in the near future. But while electricity failures rate high on a landlady’s scale of urgency, a hot water leak is a bit less concerning, apparently. So, three days later, she arrived with her plumber, who is also her electrician and brother. I greeted them again, as they were becoming the most regular guests in my flat, and the brother set about to fix the leak. I had every confidence in him after his deft handling of my power loss, but it soon became apparent that he had skipped class on the plumbing days of his handyman school. Asking for a wrench, he sent his sister downstairs to fetch it, leaving the two of us alone for a few minutes. And this is where things took a turn for the bizarre.
Knowing I couldn’t speak Russian or Tajik, he started an impromptu game of Charades to communicate with me. He began by running his fingers around his face and tracing out what looked like the letter “M” over his head. “You want to take a shower?” I asked, “You’re sad, maybe?” I’m terrible at Charades, even more so when the person doesn’t understand my guesses, but apparently I was so far off the mark that even he sensed I was in the wrong ballpark. But he kept doing the motions, so I kept guessing. “You like birds, no, wait, you believe in angels, no, you’ve just escaped from a mental institution?”. Shaking his head vigourously after each wrong answer, he finally gave up and said one of the few English words he knew, “ Woe-man”. Oh, man, I thought. This didn't clear things up at all. Hoping he was asking me if I liked women and not if I needed to be fixed up with one, I nodded my head and smiled. Pointing to the floor, he appeared to be asking if I had a partner here, so I shook my head and explained in my best Tarzan-speak: “No woman here. Woman Holland”. That’s probably not how Kristel would prefer to be introduced, but at this point, simplicity was the key. The word “Holland” proved a puzzler to him, though, so he shook his head and said, “Woe-man” again, pointing at the door. With a sinking feeling, I realized that he was trying to set me up with his sister, so I smiled and shook my head, hoping he would take that as a sign of my lack of understanding, rather than a rejection of his flesh and blood. Thankfully, at that moment, his sister reappeared with the wrench and he could get a start on bashing my faucet off the wall.
After twenty minutes or so, the tap had clearly been defeated and hung at a nifty forty-five degree angle, exposing a gaping hole in the wall. Through the hole, a flow of water now gushed into my tub, no longer impeded by the pesky plumbing. Looking at me, my new friend shrugged his shoulders, and even I could guess what that meant. Shutting off the water, he left his sister to try to straighten up the remains of my bathroom while we stood out in the hallway. Safely out of sight of his sister, the Charades again started, with him pointing at my bedroom and resting his head on his hands to indicate sleep and then pointing at the bathroom where his sister continued to work away. At that point, I knew that I was having my chain pulled, though I’m not sure that particular action would have translated properly into Tajik had I demonstrated it for him. So, I laughed at him and said “Nyet spasiba” and hoped that his sister would reappear soon to rescue me. Promising to return the next day to finish the job, the two of them left me to enjoy my waterless apartment.
And waterless it stayed, for the next four days, though the landlady and her brother did show up during that time to check in, as if paying a visit to an incarcerated relative. It wasn’t until the leak deepened and spread down into the flat below me that something was finally done. Arriving at my door somewhat out of breath on Saturday night, the landlady pointed to the floor and said “Up”, which entirely confused me. I assumed the direction of her pointing was more accurate than her description, so I followed her downstairs to survey the damage. And the water had indeed spread to the ceiling of the bathroom and kitchen of the downstairs flat, with my new neighbour glaring at me as though I had filled my tub to overflowing and gone out for the day. I made empathetic noises that I hoped would mean the same in Tajik and we returned to my flat to try to complete the repairs. The landlady’s brother arrived soon after, and I didn’t need pantomime to understand that he had been properly chewed out by his sister. Promising to return the next day to finish the job, he once again left, this time shutting off the water to half of the building to prevent further damage. And he was true to his word, arriving promptly on Sunday morning to finally return the faucet to its rightful place on the bathroom wall. By this time, the novelty of trying to communicate with me, whether through Charades or not, had clearly been played out, and we only exchanged the most perfunctory of greetings and thank yous before he left. But I didn’t feel slighted. Given the state of this flat, I suspect that there will be plenty of opportunities for us to talk again in the near future.
The Varzob Valley
Located a short 20-minute drive outside of Dushanbe, the Varzob Valley is a favourite location for expats looking to enjoy a hike. With a new group of friends from VSO, I set out to explore it on a brilliant Sunday afternoon.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
NEXT STOP....TAJIKISTAN!!!
So, the winter season is now here in Bangladesh – the sun is shining and the temperatures are perfect during the day and night. What better time to pack up and move to one of the coldest places on Earth?
Yes, the Canuck Amuck is moving to Tajikistan in the dead of winter (hopefully, that phrase won’t come back to haunt me). And no, Tajikistan is not the country where Borat hails from, so please keep your “Sexy Time” jokes to yourself. Tajikistan is a former Soviet state in Central Asia that is bordered by China to the east, Uzbekistan to the west, Kyrgyzstan to the north and the-country-that-shall-not-be-named-for-fear-of-traumatizing-my-mother to the south.
The reason I’m heading to Tajikistan at the beginning of January is to take on a position with the Children’s Legal Centre, a UK human rights NGO. I will be acting as a Policy Advisor for their Girls’ Support Services project in Tajikistan. The Girls’ Support Service is a nation-wide, multi-purpose support service that responds to the complex needs of girls who have been, or are at risk of being, subject to sexual abuse, exploitation or trafficking in Tajikistan. The project will be delivered over three years (I’m there for one) in 10 regions of Tajikistan, including the capital, Dushanbe, where the centre will be based. The project will be implemented with the Children’s Legal Centre as the lead agency, partnered locally by the Child Rights Centre, and the State Committee on Women and Family Affairs. For more on the Children’s Legal Centre and the Girls’ Support Service project, check out their website at: http://www.childrenslegalcentre.com.
As Policy Advisor, I’ll be leading a Policy Development Team that will focus on developing the legislative and policy framework to embed the Girls’ Support Service into the national child protection system, among other things.
Not sure at this point whether I will continue with the Canuck Amuck blog from the Tajikistan, but if I do decide to write some more tales, I’ll be sure to let you all know. Until then, take care, everyone!
Yes, the Canuck Amuck is moving to Tajikistan in the dead of winter (hopefully, that phrase won’t come back to haunt me). And no, Tajikistan is not the country where Borat hails from, so please keep your “Sexy Time” jokes to yourself. Tajikistan is a former Soviet state in Central Asia that is bordered by China to the east, Uzbekistan to the west, Kyrgyzstan to the north and the-country-that-shall-not-be-named-for-fear-of-traumatizing-my-mother to the south.
The reason I’m heading to Tajikistan at the beginning of January is to take on a position with the Children’s Legal Centre, a UK human rights NGO. I will be acting as a Policy Advisor for their Girls’ Support Services project in Tajikistan. The Girls’ Support Service is a nation-wide, multi-purpose support service that responds to the complex needs of girls who have been, or are at risk of being, subject to sexual abuse, exploitation or trafficking in Tajikistan. The project will be delivered over three years (I’m there for one) in 10 regions of Tajikistan, including the capital, Dushanbe, where the centre will be based. The project will be implemented with the Children’s Legal Centre as the lead agency, partnered locally by the Child Rights Centre, and the State Committee on Women and Family Affairs. For more on the Children’s Legal Centre and the Girls’ Support Service project, check out their website at: http://www.childrenslegalcentre.com.
As Policy Advisor, I’ll be leading a Policy Development Team that will focus on developing the legislative and policy framework to embed the Girls’ Support Service into the national child protection system, among other things.
Not sure at this point whether I will continue with the Canuck Amuck blog from the Tajikistan, but if I do decide to write some more tales, I’ll be sure to let you all know. Until then, take care, everyone!
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The Way The Fortune Cookie Crumbles
So much for my career as the next Michael Ondaatje. In June, with the help of my friend, Ron, I submitted an entry to Geist magazine, a Canadian publication focused on writing and photography. The theme of the contest was "fortune cookies" and people were invited to send their best story, poem, rant, etc. that matched this topic. The word limit was capped at 500, but otherwise, there were no restrictions. The list of winners was published this week, and sadly, my name wasn't there. But I hate to let anything go to waste, so, in the green spirit of reusing and recycling, here is my entry:
That’s the Way the Proposal Crumbles
I’m nervous. I reach into my pocket for the tenth time to make sure the ring is still there. “Take it easy, Norman,” I mutter to myself as I walk along East Hastings Street. I know everything will work out perfectly tonight, but the pessimist in me still delights in sowing doubt. As if on cue, a light rain starts to fall, and I hurry to reach Leung’s before the downpour.
Ducking inside the restaurant, the familiar smell of garlic reaches me immediately, and I begin to relax a bit. I had told Amy to meet me here at seven, so I still have plenty of time to check that everything is ready. I speak to the manager on duty, and he assures me that my special surprise has been prepared and will be delivered as planned. He wishes me luck with a wink and motions for one of the waiters to take me to a table by the window. I pass the time watching people dodge the raindrops.
Amy arrives ten minutes later, looking a bit harried from her battle with the rain. I wave at her and she joins me at the table. After commiserating about the weather, we order our food and a bottle of red to celebrate the end of another work week. The meal is delicious, and we get caught up on today’s gossip from our respective offices. We linger over our bottle of wine and debate whether we want dessert. The rain has all but disappeared, so we decide to make a run for it. I ask for the cheque, and it arrives with the customary fortune cookies. The waiter gives me the slightest of nods, and I pass the cookie on the right to Amy. As I pretend to busy myself with getting my wallet out, I keep my eyes on Amy as she opens the cookie and pulls out her fortune. My hand goes into my pocket to retrieve the ring as she reads the message written there. Her brow furrows and she glances up at me. “What the hell kind of fortune is this?” she asks as she passes me the slip of paper. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I take the piece of paper and read the very elegant script:
No man wants to marry you.
I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing. “Can I borrow a pen, honey?” I ask Amy, whose look of confusion has grown to one of irritation by this time. She hands me the pen impatiently and asks me what I’m going to do. Carefully filling in the missing “r”, I pass the message back to her. As she reads it for a second time, I pull the ring out of my pocket and get down on one knee beside the table. This time, there is no confusion, and she takes a deep breath as I propose to her.
That’s the Way the Proposal Crumbles
I’m nervous. I reach into my pocket for the tenth time to make sure the ring is still there. “Take it easy, Norman,” I mutter to myself as I walk along East Hastings Street. I know everything will work out perfectly tonight, but the pessimist in me still delights in sowing doubt. As if on cue, a light rain starts to fall, and I hurry to reach Leung’s before the downpour.
Ducking inside the restaurant, the familiar smell of garlic reaches me immediately, and I begin to relax a bit. I had told Amy to meet me here at seven, so I still have plenty of time to check that everything is ready. I speak to the manager on duty, and he assures me that my special surprise has been prepared and will be delivered as planned. He wishes me luck with a wink and motions for one of the waiters to take me to a table by the window. I pass the time watching people dodge the raindrops.
Amy arrives ten minutes later, looking a bit harried from her battle with the rain. I wave at her and she joins me at the table. After commiserating about the weather, we order our food and a bottle of red to celebrate the end of another work week. The meal is delicious, and we get caught up on today’s gossip from our respective offices. We linger over our bottle of wine and debate whether we want dessert. The rain has all but disappeared, so we decide to make a run for it. I ask for the cheque, and it arrives with the customary fortune cookies. The waiter gives me the slightest of nods, and I pass the cookie on the right to Amy. As I pretend to busy myself with getting my wallet out, I keep my eyes on Amy as she opens the cookie and pulls out her fortune. My hand goes into my pocket to retrieve the ring as she reads the message written there. Her brow furrows and she glances up at me. “What the hell kind of fortune is this?” she asks as she passes me the slip of paper. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I take the piece of paper and read the very elegant script:
No man wants to marry you.
I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing. “Can I borrow a pen, honey?” I ask Amy, whose look of confusion has grown to one of irritation by this time. She hands me the pen impatiently and asks me what I’m going to do. Carefully filling in the missing “r”, I pass the message back to her. As she reads it for a second time, I pull the ring out of my pocket and get down on one knee beside the table. This time, there is no confusion, and she takes a deep breath as I propose to her.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Back to the Bizarre
Some places deserve a return visit. After our trip to Cox's Bazar in March, Kristel and I thought we likely wouldn't be back for another look. But the opportunity to visit some of YPSA's projects in the area, coupled with the chance to go with our friend, Carrie, who had never been to the Bazar, convinced us to make another trip to the coast. Here are some of the best pictures from our weekend there.
Our trip had a bit of a rocky start. An hour into the journey, the passenger sitting next to Carrie spontaneously erupted and vomited his breakfast all over himself and the floor around him. In order to keep to their timetable, the bus driver and attendant opted to wait until our scheduled stop an hour later to clean up the mess. To keep the smell from causing them to join in on the barf-a-rama, most people opted to cover their noses and hope that our stop was coming up soon.
So much for the welcome mat. I believe the motto for the Bangladeshi Boy Scouts is "Be Prepared.......To Be Obnoxious".
Kristel and Carrie at the beach in Cox's Bazar. Reputed to have the longest sea beach in the world, Cox's Bazar is the holiday destination of choice for many Bangladeshis.
Swimming at Cox's Bazar requires a bit of an adjustment to Western expectations regarding beach wear. In order to respect local custom (and avoid causing a stampede of Bangladeshi men), Kristel and Carrie did what all women here do when they go swimming - they took to the waves with all of their clothes on.
But even fully clothed, two bideshi women swimming in the ocean will always attract more than a little attention. Here, Carrie poses with a few of her admirers, most of whom were far more interested in looking at her than at the camera.
One of our roommates at the guesthouse where we stayed. Though the picture makes it seem rather huge, this gecko was actually smaller than my finger.
On our second day in Cox's Bazar, we set out for the island of Maheskhali, about 6 kilometres off the coast. Our plan for the day was to visit some of YPSA's projects on the island, including a training centre and some of the cyclone shelters that had been built there. To get to the island, we first had to take a somewhat leaky rowboat (whose fragrance suggested that its previous passengers had been recently deceased fish) out to a speedboat that navigated its way out of the harbour and then crashed its way through the open ocean at speeds not seen since Relic hung up his cap on the Beachcombers. While we sat in our smelly dory, we attracted the attention of these kids who were rightly mystified by what we were doing there.
Fishermen unloading their early morning catch at Kastura ghat.
A fishing boat makes its way out of the harbour at Kastura ghat.
Carrie speaking with some of the villagers next to a cyclone shelter. Because Maheskhali is an island, its residents are particularly at risk from cyclones and other severe weather that regularly strike the Bay of Bengal.
A shopkeeper proudly shows off one of his prizes - dried salmon. We decided to pass on buying it from him, fearing it might cause another vomit explosion among our fellow travellers if we took it onboard with us on the return bus to Chittagong.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
A New Career?
My Law School class celebrated its 15th reunion this weekend in Halifax. Since I'm on the other side of the world, the reunion committee kindly asked me to participate by sending a video message to be shared with those who could attend. Have a look at the result. And don't worry, no one was harmed in the making of this video.
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