Unquestionably, when you move to a different country, leaving the comforts and predictability of your home behind, you will have some strange and sometimes funny experiences. Quite often, Dave and I are prone to mishaps by our puppy-like eagerness to try something new. Combine that with a never-ending desire to get a good deal and you have a recipe for disaster. That’s how we ended up with a kilo of dried eggplant, which Dave mistakenly took for what would otherwise be much more expensive dried mushrooms. “What are we going to do with all this eggplant? I asked after we figured out what the mysterious dry stuff was that did not taste like mushrooms. “We’ll find a way,” Dave shrugged. And we did. You can hide almost anything in a casserole. I have had my own share of purchases I’d rather forget. It’s my firm opinion that no matter what language is being used, the package designer of shampoos and hair conditioners should not rely on language only to distinguish the two products. That way I could have avoided treating my still dirty hair to two doses of hair conditioner.
But the most embarrassing mistaken identity incident was when I purchased a nice big box of frozen jumbo shrimps. “Look at the size of these babies,” I said to Dave. “And they were so inexpensive. It Toronto that would cost five times that,” I concluded proudly. “Hm, they look a bit funny,” Dave scrutinized the content of the package through a small transparent opening. “The color is a bit strange.” In retrospect, being well aware that Uzbekistan is a double landlocked country and, thus, nowhere near any source of shrimps should have given me pause before counting my savings. Of course the color was strange. My purchase turned out to be a box of fake shrimps, with their look richly enhanced by artificial coloring, made from whatever seafood leftovers the manufacturer could find lying around.
In my defense, I have never seen anything like that. Given the chance I would say to the manufacturer, if you have to disguise your product, you probably should not be making it. Or at least, not for human consumption. Maybe it would serve a better purpose as a toy or prop in a biology class.
Most of our mishaps in Uzbekistan are greatly mitigated by our sense of humour and the fact that Uzbeks are kind when dealing with foreigners. Where else in the world could I go to the store without any receipt, two days after the purchase and say in my halting Russian, “my inept husband did it again. I asked him to buy yogurt and he brought home two giant bars of butter instead. Can I return them please?” And they did. And with a smile and a knowing nod to the universal incompetence of shopping husbands.
Of course, I am not naïve enough to believe that all Uzbeks are kind and understanding. But, in my limited experience, they do seem to be thoughtful in their interactions. Or is it just because I don’t understand the language? No, their actions and body language speak for themselves. A few months back Dave and I were returning to Nukus. Our trip to Tashkent was enjoyable but tiring. I sat in my seat hoping to close my eyes and relax on the flight. It was not to be. The seat next to me was occupied by a woman in her early twenties dressed in jeans and a pretty sweater. I noticed the sweater because it was olive green, which is my favourite colour. I paid more attention to her sweater than to her until the moment when she reached to the lady who sat in the row in front of us. Earlier, before I sat down, I had noticed that the slightly older woman sitting in front of us traveled with an infant and a toddler. The toddler had been fussy from the start and I resigned myself to not getting any rest. On the sight of them, I remember thinking, where are my earplugs when I need them? My neighbor tapped on the woman’s shoulder and they exchanged a few words. They must be sisters, I thought. In no time at all my young neighbour was holding the toddler, talking to her, calming her, entertaining her. She kept the child for the entire trip.
Halfway through the flight, we struck a conversation during which I learned to my astonishment that the two women were not related at all! In fact, they had not met prior to the flight. “So you are just taking care of the child for her?” I asked amazed. “Yes, she is traveling with two children. She needed help,” she responded as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I felt a pang of shame remembering my thought of earplugs. But not for very long. We are all different, I told myself. I realize that, as an excuse, that is quite lame, but it works for me. I would be perfectly happy to carry a very heavy bag for the woman with two children, just not the baby itself. The bags don’t have high piercing voices. I am sure I would offer my help, just in a different capacity, I assured myself.
We all have different strengths and weaknesses, and we all exercise different coping strategies when dealing with stress or depression. Take my sister Dadu. When she is in a bit of a funk, she turns to watching war movies. The sadder they are the better. If the war hero loses his leg and, consequently, his sweetheart, then her mission is accomplished. She finishes the movie, wipes away her tears and she feels much better. Her own problems are all but forgotten, and her happy disposition is restored. Dadu doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. Her choice has nothing to do with her being heartless and reveling in misfortunes of others. The sad movie just gives her a different perspective on her own issues. When I feel blue, I watch a carefully selected collection of short funny videos. My favorite one is a talking dog. The owner of the dog starts by telling him how he went to a store and bought some meat and sausage. The video is extremely well done. The dog’s expressions and the actual movement of his jaw match the dog’s voice in an uncanny way as he reacts to all the good news. His ears perk up, his nose twitches, and his jaws move as he responds, “Sausages? Really?” The owner continues building up his hopes; “And then I picked up some bacon.” And so it goes on with the owner naming all the goodies the dog loves, with the dog responding appropriately. The climax comes when the owner finishes by telling his furry buddy, “… and then I gave it all to the cat.” And the poor dog goes all whiny and weepy after that announcement. It is so funny that I laugh aloud. It almost always cheers me up.
But when, on a rare occasion, it does fail to improve my mood, I have another card up my sleeve. It’s called laugh yoga. I got introduced to this ridiculous-sounding exercise when I was teaching for a large school board in Canada. At the beginning of each year all the teachers attended a conference with various workshops. Some were more forgettable than others, but laugh yoga stayed with me. The premise of it is that, no matter how low a person feels, if she forces herself to start laughing then eventually the unnatural laughter will turn into the real thing. It works more often than one would expect. But, of course, nothing has a hundred percent success rate. If even laugh yoga doesn’t work, then I curl myself into a tiny ball, which is not easy considering my large frame, and get ready to die. So far, it never happened. After being in this state of readiness for a few minutes with nothing happening I unfold myself, get up and start going about my usual business.
Nukus school has cameras everywhere. It is a dormitory school, so this is not particularly surprising. The halls of the section that has teacher accommodations have cameras as well. I sometimes wonder if anyone gets a good laugh watching me walking down the hall, heading for the Monday morning class. That is the time when I start laughing to myself, energizing myself, exercising my face muscles with fake smiles. But that’s the beauty of it. Physiology works in mysterious ways. What starts as fake turns into the real thing before I enter the classroom. After all, Mondays are just as hard for my students. They don’t deserve to see a dispirited, disinterested teacher. Sometimes we just have to fake it to make it.