My Neighbors
There are a lot of young men who hang out in the stairwell of my apartment building. Here are some of my encounters with them.
Shortly after I first moved in, I walked past two of them sitting on the curb outside the entrance. After I passed, they called to my back, in English, "Hello Tom." I turned around, smiled, and said, in Kazakh, that my name was Ryan and not Tom. I could still hear them laughing as I climbed the stairs, and a minute later they knocked on my door, wanting to get to know me. This is how we met.
I ran into them once in the store down the street. I bought them some beers, and we sat on a picnic table outside our apartment building to drink them and chat. I didn't understand much of what they say, because their speech is 75% slang, but the mood was friendly. Up came an older man with a white beard, and everyone greets him warmly. He asks one of the young men for a cigarette, and the young man suddenly starts furiously yelling and cursing at him, and the old man yells and curses back. It turns out that the old man is his father, and this is just how they talk to each other. The old man produces a bottle of vodka and a single plastic cup, and pours it full of vodka. He hands it to me. I can't drink all of this, I say. No, no, we'll take turns, they say, they just don't have any other cups. We pass it around. Soon the young men disperse and the old man talks about the evils of war and the beauty of Ukranian poetry. I learn a derogatory slang term for Ukranians, which the old man applies to himself, and then launches into an epic in Ukranian.
Another day, I pass the old man, Dydya Kolya, and some other older men on my way to work in the morning. They are drinking at a picnic table. They greet me, and I come up to say hi. We chat. One of the quiet ones suddenly grabs my sleeve forcefully. "Whrre you frum?" he slurs. "I am from America." "Letss talk." "I have to go to work." "Nnnoo, your gonna stay here antalk to me." "Really, I have to go." The man is still holding my sleeve, and is now staring me full in the face, all hurt and anger. "Let him go," says Dyadya Kolya hesitantly. I free my sleeve, say goodbye, and go to school.
Whenever I pass them in the stairwell, they pressure me to have a shot of vodka with them. If I don't have anything else to do, which is rare, I will. Then we talk. One time, they they told me their nicknames. Dyadya Kolya's son is called "little bird". "What should my nickname be," I ask. "We'll call you 'calm' (tikho)", they say. "Because we like to go out and make noise and get in fights, but you're calm." "But we behave well in the stairwell," one of them, named Rulan, corrects. "Have you been to Russia?" he asks me. Yes, I say. "You won't find a better-behaved group of people hanging out in a stairwell in all of the former Soviet Union," he tells me.
One night I come home to find Little Bird sleeping outside on the stoop, next to a large dark water stain.
I was tired when I came back from the Uralsk language camp. (That was the Russian Border guard incident trip.) On the second floor, a group of the young men was drinking. I greeted them, and they invited me to drink with them. "No, I'm tired." "Why are you tired," they asked. "I just got back from a trip," I said. "Well, you have to drink," said one of them. "No, I don't want to, thank you." I tried to walk past them, and one of them moved to stand in my way. "You will have a drink," he said. "I'm sorry, but I said I won't have a drink, and I won't have a drink," I said. He said, "that's what you think." "C'mon, have a drink," say the others. "Don't be angry, but I won't," I said. I tried to walk around again, and again the young man moved in my way. "You will have a drink," he said. "I won't," I said. "Let him go," said Little Bird. "What is your name," I asked the man standing in my way. "Mereke," he said. "You don't even remember my name?" "I am not going to have a drink. Please don't be angry." And I took him by both shoulders and moved him around so I could get past. He doesn't show any reaction, and I move on up the stairs. "See you later!" says Little Bird.
Little Bird once asked to borrow 500 tenge. "I'll pay it back right away," he said. "As a friend, I need this money, I have a date." I gave it to him, and he thanked me. The next time I saw him a week later, he said he would pay me soon. "It's very uncomfortable for me to owe you money. Don't worry, I'll pay you!" He never mentioned it again, and never paid it back. Two months later, I came home at 10pm, and he was sitting on the stoop with a friend. "How are you?" I asked. "Terrible. I have a terrible hangover." "It's ten o'clock at night," I remarked. "I was drinking all morning," he said. "If only I had some money!" His friend said, "If I had money, I would give it to you, you know that." An awkward pause. Suddenly, Little Bird leaps up and runs to throw up in the trash bin. He comes back and squats with his head in his arms. "Well, I hope you get better," I said. "I will never be better again," he tells me.
Coming home once, two young men who I recognize but have never really talked to greeted me. "Do you have any money?" they asked. "Not anything extra, sorry." "Give us fifty tenge." "Sorry, man, I really can't." We go back and forth for a while. Finally, one of them says, "Do you want us to die, or what?" "You're going to die from fifty tenge?" I ask. An awkward silence. "Well, see you later," one of them says. The other adds, cheerfully, "Don't be offended!"
Shortly after I first moved in, I walked past two of them sitting on the curb outside the entrance. After I passed, they called to my back, in English, "Hello Tom." I turned around, smiled, and said, in Kazakh, that my name was Ryan and not Tom. I could still hear them laughing as I climbed the stairs, and a minute later they knocked on my door, wanting to get to know me. This is how we met.
I ran into them once in the store down the street. I bought them some beers, and we sat on a picnic table outside our apartment building to drink them and chat. I didn't understand much of what they say, because their speech is 75% slang, but the mood was friendly. Up came an older man with a white beard, and everyone greets him warmly. He asks one of the young men for a cigarette, and the young man suddenly starts furiously yelling and cursing at him, and the old man yells and curses back. It turns out that the old man is his father, and this is just how they talk to each other. The old man produces a bottle of vodka and a single plastic cup, and pours it full of vodka. He hands it to me. I can't drink all of this, I say. No, no, we'll take turns, they say, they just don't have any other cups. We pass it around. Soon the young men disperse and the old man talks about the evils of war and the beauty of Ukranian poetry. I learn a derogatory slang term for Ukranians, which the old man applies to himself, and then launches into an epic in Ukranian.
Another day, I pass the old man, Dydya Kolya, and some other older men on my way to work in the morning. They are drinking at a picnic table. They greet me, and I come up to say hi. We chat. One of the quiet ones suddenly grabs my sleeve forcefully. "Whrre you frum?" he slurs. "I am from America." "Letss talk." "I have to go to work." "Nnnoo, your gonna stay here antalk to me." "Really, I have to go." The man is still holding my sleeve, and is now staring me full in the face, all hurt and anger. "Let him go," says Dyadya Kolya hesitantly. I free my sleeve, say goodbye, and go to school.
Whenever I pass them in the stairwell, they pressure me to have a shot of vodka with them. If I don't have anything else to do, which is rare, I will. Then we talk. One time, they they told me their nicknames. Dyadya Kolya's son is called "little bird". "What should my nickname be," I ask. "We'll call you 'calm' (tikho)", they say. "Because we like to go out and make noise and get in fights, but you're calm." "But we behave well in the stairwell," one of them, named Rulan, corrects. "Have you been to Russia?" he asks me. Yes, I say. "You won't find a better-behaved group of people hanging out in a stairwell in all of the former Soviet Union," he tells me.
One night I come home to find Little Bird sleeping outside on the stoop, next to a large dark water stain.
I was tired when I came back from the Uralsk language camp. (That was the Russian Border guard incident trip.) On the second floor, a group of the young men was drinking. I greeted them, and they invited me to drink with them. "No, I'm tired." "Why are you tired," they asked. "I just got back from a trip," I said. "Well, you have to drink," said one of them. "No, I don't want to, thank you." I tried to walk past them, and one of them moved to stand in my way. "You will have a drink," he said. "I'm sorry, but I said I won't have a drink, and I won't have a drink," I said. He said, "that's what you think." "C'mon, have a drink," say the others. "Don't be angry, but I won't," I said. I tried to walk around again, and again the young man moved in my way. "You will have a drink," he said. "I won't," I said. "Let him go," said Little Bird. "What is your name," I asked the man standing in my way. "Mereke," he said. "You don't even remember my name?" "I am not going to have a drink. Please don't be angry." And I took him by both shoulders and moved him around so I could get past. He doesn't show any reaction, and I move on up the stairs. "See you later!" says Little Bird.
Little Bird once asked to borrow 500 tenge. "I'll pay it back right away," he said. "As a friend, I need this money, I have a date." I gave it to him, and he thanked me. The next time I saw him a week later, he said he would pay me soon. "It's very uncomfortable for me to owe you money. Don't worry, I'll pay you!" He never mentioned it again, and never paid it back. Two months later, I came home at 10pm, and he was sitting on the stoop with a friend. "How are you?" I asked. "Terrible. I have a terrible hangover." "It's ten o'clock at night," I remarked. "I was drinking all morning," he said. "If only I had some money!" His friend said, "If I had money, I would give it to you, you know that." An awkward pause. Suddenly, Little Bird leaps up and runs to throw up in the trash bin. He comes back and squats with his head in his arms. "Well, I hope you get better," I said. "I will never be better again," he tells me.
Coming home once, two young men who I recognize but have never really talked to greeted me. "Do you have any money?" they asked. "Not anything extra, sorry." "Give us fifty tenge." "Sorry, man, I really can't." We go back and forth for a while. Finally, one of them says, "Do you want us to die, or what?" "You're going to die from fifty tenge?" I ask. An awkward silence. "Well, see you later," one of them says. The other adds, cheerfully, "Don't be offended!"
2 Comments:
Oh, Ryan --
One of these days, you're going to puncture one of my lungs, after I laugh so hard from the things that go on in your daily life. I remember Bizarro World well, and I miss it. I'm having last-minute trepidation about Peace Corps though, due to the fact that really, I think I'm looking to escape responsibility and rootedness. What do you think
By the way, Merry Christmas! I was just back in Illinois for a few days. It was cold. And flat. I hope your Christmas was as delightful as can be. I'd love to hear about a Kazakh new year, when you get the chance...
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