Living in a touristy place has its advantages. Many people think it worthwhile to detour from the famed cities of the Silk Road to visit Nukus because of the Savitsky Museum. Most of them arrive by tour bus in groups led by a tour guide, but some brave souls prefer exploring on their own. Greta hovered on the extreme side of the adventurous scale. I ran into her, or more precisely into her bike, one sunny Saturday in October. The bike with all its accessories, including sizeable saddlebags, screamed to onlookers, ‘I belong to a serious long-haul biker.’ It was propped against the wall of a small café and really stood out in the Nukus landscape of bicycles manufactured under the Soviet regime.
I entered the café and had no difficulty locating the owner of the bike. Her blond hair and more bike gear on the floor by the table were a dead giveaway. We started to chat, and soon I learned that Greta started her journey in Germany and initially was hoping to reach South Korea. Unfortunately, it was the year when the COVID restrictions for travel were only slowly being lifted in some parts of Asia and, because of some formidable bureaucratic obstacles, she had to curtail her dream. We ended up treating her to dinner the following day, which gave us the chance to listen to her recounting some interesting parts of her trip.
“Hi, I can’t help overhearing English,” was how we met Mark. Dave and I were having lunch in our favorite small café facing the museum when he approached us. Initially he sat several tables away but, after the introductions were made, he joined us at our table. Mark was a recently retired Brit with the goal of seeing as much of Central Asia as his budget allowed. “Brexit has really ruined my plan to roam Europe freely,” was his main grief.
Having spent his career mostly abroad teaching, we had a few things to talk about.
The conversation would have been even more enjoyable if he actually included me in it, instead of spending most of his time looking directly at Dave. It was only when he asked me to pass him some napkins that he would make eye contact. As an ex-teacher, he really should know better. ‘He is either gay or very chauvinistic,’ crossed my mind, and I mused further; ‘What a poor teacher and presenter he must have made.’ Everybody knows that Rule Number 2 of any decent presenter is to make regular eye contact with everyone in attendance, not just your friend in the front row. Rule Number 1, of course, is to make sure to wear something outrageous that will detract the audience’s attention from your stammer.
But Mark’s information about Kyrgyzstan and our tips what to see in Nukus led to us arranging to meet again the following day, this time for a light meal. I am a consummate teacher. Not because I like to lecture, but because I do want to help people become better versions of themselves. And how can you do that if you don’t even know what your shortcomings are? And that’s where I, as opposed to many who find it too hard to cross that invisible line, come into play. But, as my grandma used to invoke, ‘The route to hell is paved with good intentions.’
Mark was not a total stranger. We had met twice, we had even shared a meal. He was a semi-stranger. Not to offend his male pride, I even went to such length as telling him what was on my mind in private. After our meal, when we said our final goodbyes and Dave and I started walking away, I pretended that I remembered something and I turned to Dave, “Just keep walking, I’ll be right with you.” A few steps back, I faced Mark again. “You know Mark, I really enjoyed meeting you, but there is one thing I want to share with you. And believe me that I am putting myself out there because I just want to help you. You probably don’t even realize it, but you should know that when you talked to us, you were looking at Dave for perhaps 80 percent of the time. That’s a lot. In fact, you looked at me only when you asked for something. Please, understand that I am telling you this because you may not even be aware of it. But it made me feel a bit left out. It’s just something for you to think about.” He looked at me, a bit taken aback, saying “Oh, I didn’t know. Ok.” And that was the last time we saw Mark.
Two weeks later, Dave received an email from him stating that we would not be seeing him again because ‘Your wife told me off.’
“What?” was my initial disbelieving reaction. “Ohh, good riddance! With such papyrus thin skin, he should be careful around sharp objects,” I sighed. Too bad my advice was not taken in the spirit it was given. Would I put myself out there like this again, trying to help others improve? I think so. We are all social animals, and the ability to communicate is a privilege we sometimes don’t use to its full potential. How many misunderstandings, or even tragedies, could have been avoided if only people had made their positions crystal clear to others.
The second time I met this special breed of girls who dare to bike long distances alone was in the Czech Republic. While spending summers in our village, one of my favorite activities is a walk along the road through the enchanted forest, the land of Terabithia. I can never tire of walking under the canopy of majestic oaks and linden that witnessed couriers of Marie Thérèse, the empress of the Austro-Hungarian empire, hurrying between the capitals. It was under one of these oaks that, one summer, Dadu and I encountered a girl sitting propped against a tree eating her snack. The bike that rested by her was a solid work machine groaning under the weight of a tent and saddle bags. The girl appeared to be in her late twenties with brown hair and a trusting smile. “That’s unusual,” I commented to Dadu while passing the girl. “Yes, I wonder where she is going on that bike. I would say that it’s gonna rain within an hour.” We didn’t get very far. True to thinking like sisters, after just a few steps, we turned to one another almost simultaneously and said, “Let’s find out.” Nicole was from the Netherlands, heading further East. After we chatted with her for a while to assure ourselves that she was not a serial killer disguised as a biker, we invited her to spend the night at our place. The evening was spent with her telling us about different encounters she had had during her journey, and was fun and well worth taking the chance with a stranger.
“Wait, I need to take a break,” Dadu stopped by the same majestic oak under which we had found Nicole several summers earlier and doubled over, panting. This time I knew what to expect and started patting her back right away.
The first time this had happened we were walking up a steep hill that leads to our house. When I am not lugging bags of groceries I appreciate its location, as we will never have to worry about floods. But that afternoon I hated our location. Dadu is in great shape so, when she doubled over, I was caught unprepared. “My chest hurts. I need to get rid of some gas.”
“Is that a silent and deadly one, or loud and harmless?” I responded. When she didn’t even smile, I knew we had a problem.
“It’s trapped in my chest, need to get rid of it,” Dadu continued panting.
“Should I pat you on the back?” was all I could think of. After her weak nod I began pounding her back like it’s done to a baby to induce a burp. She burped like a sailor and was good for the rest of the day.
Dadu doesn’t have a gall bladder, and eating fatty things often triggers weird reactions. If I could get ten bucks for every time I told her during summers past to ‘lay off the ice cream my dear,’ I would be rich. Yes, it used to be a dollar, but inflation has long put an end to that idea. It’s not easy to separate my sister from her ice cream. As every summer, she arrived armed with antiacids and blissful ignorance about the inner workings of her own body.
Being a person with a vivid imagination, the scariest episode in the series of these painful pat and burp attacks happened during our last swim together in our local pond. When Dadu said she did not feel well, we were not too far from the shore. She treaded water a bit to calm down and then we headed slowly back, with me lamely assuring her that all would be well and that, in the worst-case scenario because we were so close to the shore, I could easily drag her to it. Once on the shore we repeated the activity. I pounded on her back till she finally burped and then all was well.
But after that she decided not to push her luck, and refused to go for another swim. I was quietly relieved because, while I would never tell her to stop enjoying our swims, the thought that she could experience again the same symptoms while in deep water was terrifying. It is one thing to be patting someone on the back and another to be performing CPR. Do I even know how to do that? I kept wondering. When was the last refresher course I took? If I can’t remember when, then my knowledge is probably past the expiry date.
That summer will be remembered as the summer of ‘burp and carry on.’ As soon as Dadu returned to Nova Scotia, she had a series of blood tests performed. The results confirmed what had been right under our noses. From them, it became evident that Dadu had suffered a mild heart attack while in Czechland. Luckily, this story has a happy ending. Dadu was immediately fitted with a stent and, a few days after that, she was already able to walk her usual distances. No burping involved.