After a whole eight weeks of having to pump one breast or the other for cracked nipples, I put my pump away two weeks ago and was able to live a normal life - baby in her baby bjorn, feeding as I went about my day to day. I thought I had the baby breastfeeding nailed at last, and she seemed happy enough on it.
But the other night, she slept through and so I had an excess of milk following a missed feed during the dark hours. And instead of staying home and making sure that I properly emptied the boobs and taking it easy for one more day adapting to a new routine, I hit the road early and started my errands. Four hours later, most of the errands achieved, I had started to feel a bit dodgy, so I went home and had a cup of tea.
By 5pm I had a red boob and the instant mastitis-feeling of being knocked over by a bus. It really is startling how quickly a dodgy boob can render a person absolutely useless, and how absolutely awful you feel with a tiny blocked milk duct!
I was feeling quite hard done by, knowing that the reason for this blockage was partly my own refusal to listen to my body (which I rarely do), but mainly because the baby had slept thru the night, which was surely a reason for jubilant celebration, and not for lying on the sofa under a blanket, shivering with fever and feeling like pants.
A quick trip to the surgery for some antibiotics, followed by intensive hot and cold compresses in the middle of the night saw a dramatic recovery by morning. Hopefully this is the last time there will be problems as I am running out of patience with feeding, if it is going to strike me down with fever every 3 weeks or so. But the baby looks so good on her diet of mother's milk that I know I will battle through any future bouts. She is just the right size for her age, has a terrific complexion, doesn't vomit or have wind or get colic, sleeps all night and is frankly, a joy to have around. She is alert, chatty and smiles on request! Altogether a good little package, which makes me feel quite guilty about my moody complaining when I discovered I was pregnant with her in the first place, which if you are interested, you can read about here
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Bad Dog Day
Monday mornings usually sees me on a power walk up the river behind the house (the site of the infamous pack of wild dogs that keep me awake most nights and live at the bottom of my garden - you can read some of the numerous posts I made on this subject before I gave up here and here (there are others but you will need to browse)). This Monday was no exception, and the boss's girlfriend and I briskly made our way up the river chatting about all sorts of interesting things.
She has two fantastic golden retrievers. One is quite aged and has a slight labradorean-hippy limp, the other is younger and trots along happily. The dogs have their own special places that they like to get into the river and have a drink and cool off, and it is a nice routine for everyone involved. All the way up and down the pathway, we meet people we see all the time. Some are friends and we might stop and have a short chat. Others are dog-walking buddies - the people you see every day but don't know at all, so are given a cheery "Straast-voy-che (Hello)" and on we go.
This Monday, however, was a very sad dog-walking day. We had gone about a kilometer (for anyone reading from Almaty who has managed to get past the Kazakh internet censors (boo hiss), we were just past the Kok Tobe Supermarket at the next bridge) when we saw a small crowd of people stopped, and a man dragging away an absolutely massive dog, with a rope, up a steep mud and rock bank where a footpath has been worn down to the newly-surfaced river-side walk. There was also a very sad looking Korean man wearing a white plastic baseball cap, and some other local people standing a little way away on a bridge.
We walked up, not really suspecting anything was amiss, but commenting on the sheer enormity of the dog which was being dragged away. And it was only when we came really close up that we saw that the sad-looking Korean man's small, black and brown yappy dog (a real pet, who always wears a special harness-type lead), was lying in the mud on the side of the path, mauled and dead, eyes staring, blood on its lips. We stopped in horror, and then realised that the small group of people had obviously witnessed the attack on this tiny dog by the huge beast that had now disappeared. Everyone was clearly pretty shocked, talking in hushed tones. Noone knew what to do, or what to say to the owner of the dead dog. It was tragic. The owner was really upset. He crouched down and gently stroked his beloved pet while we all looked on, feeling terrible for him. It was really sad.
Later, on the way back, we passed the owner again. He was crouched on his haunches, Asian-style, under a tree next to the river, sobbing and sobbing. We went over to comfort him a little and he was just crying. He had blood on the arm of his jacket and dog hair on the front where I guess he had been carrying his dead pet (which was no longer with him - I did wonder for a second if he had just chucked it in the river to dispose of it, but then decided probably not. But even now, I slightly wonder - the Kazakh approach to waste disposal is FAR from what I would consider satisfactory). We asked him if he was planning to report the attack to the police, but he shook his head in a resigned fashion - what use would that be to his dead pup? I felt so sorry for him, he looked absolutely broken.
I have already seen one of these dogs in Kazakhstan. When I was able to regularly hike (life before 4 kids!) we did a fantastic walk one day up past the Kumbel hotel in the National Park which contains Big Almaty Lake and on the way down we passed a guy who looked like he had walked here from Afghanistan. He was black-haired and black-bearded, wearing rough, dirty clothes, carrying a sleeping mat on top of a small, efficient-looking back-pack. He looked like he lived in the mountains, a real shepherd/mercenary/outlaw or something. In one hand he held a piece of rope which was tied around the neck of the biggest dog I have ever seen. It must have weighed about 90 kilos. It was an absolutely gigantic, huge member of the canine race. Its shoulders were probably 1.4m high, its head was the size of a car tyre. He had to restrain the dog as we walked by, and as I looked over it uttered one of the most menacing growls, and all us Almaty housewives on our Monday morning stomp through the hills nearly wet ourselves in fright and scurried past!
It was only when I told the story of the sad Korean man to my husband, that he said, "Yes, that would probably be an Anatolian Karabash,". I was quite surprised that he knew the technical name of a rare, fighting dog, but then he reminded me that we had once been to see a girl that we had both known at university when she was living in Rhu on the west coast of Scotland. We were living in Glasgow at the time and Rhu was not far, so, having exhausted the novelties of the Glasgow night life for a while, we decided to go and get drunk somewhere else for a change and went to Rhu for a night. At this time in our lives, a standard Saturday night out would include drinking enough at the pub to be really quite smashed, then going back to a mate's house to drink some more. And this is what we did in Rhu.
After meeting our university friend and her latest boyfriend in their local, we then staggered back to her place. Her boyfriend was a bit older than she was, and had knocked about a bit. I can't remember what he was doing at the time, but he had already tried out quite a few trades and was clearly much more worldly than we were. Frankly speaking, he was dodgy as hell. One of his 'hobbies' was fighting dogs, and he owned a beast of a dog, which he called an Anatolian Karabash. To be fair, he had warned us that the dog was large, and not very good tempered, but nothing could prepare you to meet a dog like that in someone's house. The beast was kept chained and permanently muzzled when unfamiliar people were present. It more or less filled the hall way of their small Scottish cottage. It had a coat on it like a fur and absolutely huge paws. I remember having to pass it by myself on the way to the loo, late at night and in a seriously inebriated state. But being a bit of a wally sometimes, I thought I would say hello. The dog was already looking at me, so I crouched down and in my most friendly voice-for-animals said 'hello' which was a bit like saying that a Great White Shark is cute. From deep in its chest came the most frightening growl I have ever heard. I looked deep into its eyes and saw no sign of understanding there. They were the wildest pair of eyes I can remember seeing in real life, and just thought to myself, "Right, that is one wild animal that will attack me for sure if I do anything other than leave this spot immediately," and lurched off into the loo, to sit there in shock wondering why anyone would want a killing machine as a pet.
It was the owner of this dog who told us that these dogs were basically not completely trainable. They were bred over years, initially as shepherd dogs for people in the mountains of Afghanistan, Pakistan and other inhospitable remote places where bears, wolves and other wild beasts abound. But then during the Afghanistan/Russian conflict, the Afghans apparently bred these dogs and let them loose in the mountains. Noone knows how many Russian soldiers were killed by them, but the numbers are thought to be significant. These are huge, lightning-quick dogs that are not afraid of wolves. A small yappy dog off its leash would be like the equivalent of an elevenses kit kat to this dog. And there is one of them living within a kilometer of us, with an owner who cannot keep it under control. It has certainly made me think twice about letting the girls go too far ahead on their bikes when we are walking there. Scary.
I have been looking up the pictures of these dogs on the internet, but have not found a proper image for the particular one I saw. However, the kinds of things that do come up have titles like: Kurdish Kangal Dog Pulls a 4.5ton tractor, Anatolian Shepherd/Dane Play fighting, and this amazing you tube clip which is backed with "metal" music of the World's Strongest dog - watch it and you will get the idea! Click here for scary dog video!
She has two fantastic golden retrievers. One is quite aged and has a slight labradorean-hippy limp, the other is younger and trots along happily. The dogs have their own special places that they like to get into the river and have a drink and cool off, and it is a nice routine for everyone involved. All the way up and down the pathway, we meet people we see all the time. Some are friends and we might stop and have a short chat. Others are dog-walking buddies - the people you see every day but don't know at all, so are given a cheery "Straast-voy-che (Hello)" and on we go.
This Monday, however, was a very sad dog-walking day. We had gone about a kilometer (for anyone reading from Almaty who has managed to get past the Kazakh internet censors (boo hiss), we were just past the Kok Tobe Supermarket at the next bridge) when we saw a small crowd of people stopped, and a man dragging away an absolutely massive dog, with a rope, up a steep mud and rock bank where a footpath has been worn down to the newly-surfaced river-side walk. There was also a very sad looking Korean man wearing a white plastic baseball cap, and some other local people standing a little way away on a bridge.
We walked up, not really suspecting anything was amiss, but commenting on the sheer enormity of the dog which was being dragged away. And it was only when we came really close up that we saw that the sad-looking Korean man's small, black and brown yappy dog (a real pet, who always wears a special harness-type lead), was lying in the mud on the side of the path, mauled and dead, eyes staring, blood on its lips. We stopped in horror, and then realised that the small group of people had obviously witnessed the attack on this tiny dog by the huge beast that had now disappeared. Everyone was clearly pretty shocked, talking in hushed tones. Noone knew what to do, or what to say to the owner of the dead dog. It was tragic. The owner was really upset. He crouched down and gently stroked his beloved pet while we all looked on, feeling terrible for him. It was really sad.
Later, on the way back, we passed the owner again. He was crouched on his haunches, Asian-style, under a tree next to the river, sobbing and sobbing. We went over to comfort him a little and he was just crying. He had blood on the arm of his jacket and dog hair on the front where I guess he had been carrying his dead pet (which was no longer with him - I did wonder for a second if he had just chucked it in the river to dispose of it, but then decided probably not. But even now, I slightly wonder - the Kazakh approach to waste disposal is FAR from what I would consider satisfactory). We asked him if he was planning to report the attack to the police, but he shook his head in a resigned fashion - what use would that be to his dead pup? I felt so sorry for him, he looked absolutely broken.
I have already seen one of these dogs in Kazakhstan. When I was able to regularly hike (life before 4 kids!) we did a fantastic walk one day up past the Kumbel hotel in the National Park which contains Big Almaty Lake and on the way down we passed a guy who looked like he had walked here from Afghanistan. He was black-haired and black-bearded, wearing rough, dirty clothes, carrying a sleeping mat on top of a small, efficient-looking back-pack. He looked like he lived in the mountains, a real shepherd/mercenary/outlaw or something. In one hand he held a piece of rope which was tied around the neck of the biggest dog I have ever seen. It must have weighed about 90 kilos. It was an absolutely gigantic, huge member of the canine race. Its shoulders were probably 1.4m high, its head was the size of a car tyre. He had to restrain the dog as we walked by, and as I looked over it uttered one of the most menacing growls, and all us Almaty housewives on our Monday morning stomp through the hills nearly wet ourselves in fright and scurried past!
It was only when I told the story of the sad Korean man to my husband, that he said, "Yes, that would probably be an Anatolian Karabash,". I was quite surprised that he knew the technical name of a rare, fighting dog, but then he reminded me that we had once been to see a girl that we had both known at university when she was living in Rhu on the west coast of Scotland. We were living in Glasgow at the time and Rhu was not far, so, having exhausted the novelties of the Glasgow night life for a while, we decided to go and get drunk somewhere else for a change and went to Rhu for a night. At this time in our lives, a standard Saturday night out would include drinking enough at the pub to be really quite smashed, then going back to a mate's house to drink some more. And this is what we did in Rhu.
After meeting our university friend and her latest boyfriend in their local, we then staggered back to her place. Her boyfriend was a bit older than she was, and had knocked about a bit. I can't remember what he was doing at the time, but he had already tried out quite a few trades and was clearly much more worldly than we were. Frankly speaking, he was dodgy as hell. One of his 'hobbies' was fighting dogs, and he owned a beast of a dog, which he called an Anatolian Karabash. To be fair, he had warned us that the dog was large, and not very good tempered, but nothing could prepare you to meet a dog like that in someone's house. The beast was kept chained and permanently muzzled when unfamiliar people were present. It more or less filled the hall way of their small Scottish cottage. It had a coat on it like a fur and absolutely huge paws. I remember having to pass it by myself on the way to the loo, late at night and in a seriously inebriated state. But being a bit of a wally sometimes, I thought I would say hello. The dog was already looking at me, so I crouched down and in my most friendly voice-for-animals said 'hello' which was a bit like saying that a Great White Shark is cute. From deep in its chest came the most frightening growl I have ever heard. I looked deep into its eyes and saw no sign of understanding there. They were the wildest pair of eyes I can remember seeing in real life, and just thought to myself, "Right, that is one wild animal that will attack me for sure if I do anything other than leave this spot immediately," and lurched off into the loo, to sit there in shock wondering why anyone would want a killing machine as a pet.
It was the owner of this dog who told us that these dogs were basically not completely trainable. They were bred over years, initially as shepherd dogs for people in the mountains of Afghanistan, Pakistan and other inhospitable remote places where bears, wolves and other wild beasts abound. But then during the Afghanistan/Russian conflict, the Afghans apparently bred these dogs and let them loose in the mountains. Noone knows how many Russian soldiers were killed by them, but the numbers are thought to be significant. These are huge, lightning-quick dogs that are not afraid of wolves. A small yappy dog off its leash would be like the equivalent of an elevenses kit kat to this dog. And there is one of them living within a kilometer of us, with an owner who cannot keep it under control. It has certainly made me think twice about letting the girls go too far ahead on their bikes when we are walking there. Scary.
I have been looking up the pictures of these dogs on the internet, but have not found a proper image for the particular one I saw. However, the kinds of things that do come up have titles like: Kurdish Kangal Dog Pulls a 4.5ton tractor, Anatolian Shepherd/Dane Play fighting, and this amazing you tube clip which is backed with "metal" music of the World's Strongest dog - watch it and you will get the idea! Click here for scary dog video!
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Giving up capital i's
I am typing this with one hand, the first time i have been able to get onto my blog in weeks (boo the kazakh internet censors and the crappy internet service here, although admittedly the weeks are flying and I do seem to be a tad short of idle hours in which to blog away to my heart's content). The baby is firmly attached to me feeding, right hand is occupied holding her. Although she is the fourth babe, I thank the god of breasts that mine are not yet so saggy that i can rest her on my lap and type two-handed, but clearly some compromise on speed and accuracy may occur which is why i have decided to give up on capital i's for the time being.
Friday, 23 April 2010
Dodging bullets and red plastic flashing wands
I absolutely love that after the government has shut down Blogger in kazakhstan, little ole me has managed to download some software that avoids this. It gives me an enormous sense of self-satisfaction, but equally, unfortunately reminds me that big brother is out there, and that big bully powers that be could actually really mess with our lives if they so chose. And so I had better be careful about what I say.
One thing that we were discussing the other day was how do people who do jobs that everyone mostly hates, cope with it. My husband works in audit. These guys are not exactly the most loved creatures on earth, and he has certainly been on the end of some hate vibes in his time. But actually, businesses have to be audited for a reason, and he tries to make these things happen in the least painful way possible for his clients - that way they get more referred consultancy work as well, ha ha ha. I don't think of auditing as being nearly as bad as, say, traffic warden. Or awkward beaurocrat who refuses to help you through the red tape. Or the person at the airport who insists on charging you for being half a kilo over your weight allowance, or the lady who worked for ServisAir and who once actually caused me and my toddler to miss our flight because she was so darned awkward.
Which brings me onto our local constabulary here in Almaty. Life has dramatically improved for us foreigners who are forced to drive around with yellow license plates on our cars (thus quickly identifying us as fast payers of "fines"). Previously, there would be a traffic policeman stationed every 500 metres or so around the city, stopping cars at random and extracting "fines" from the drivers. They have the right here to stop you for no reason. They can then demand to see the numerous bits of paper that you are legally required to carry with you in your car at all times. Some of these have to be renewed every month. There are approximately five documents which you must be able to show, we have a kind of plastic multi-pocket folder in which to display these things.
Policemen tend to be rather disappointed if you produce all the documents and they are all correct. They will usually ask for some kind of "fine" anyway, as previously mentioned in my posts here and here, and you really have to brave it out not to pay a fine. If you have transgressed and you do not have the required documents, then you will be truly fined. This, it seems, is best paid on the spot, no questions asked, no receipt required. If you do not do this in cash, then they confiscate your documents entirely and you have to go and find your way around a police station and then probably pay a "fine" to someone there to get your documents back, as well as a "fine" for your traffic-related sin. All very onerous if you come from a place where the vast majority of policemen are not bent.
And so, in a rather roundabout way, I am about to get onto what I meant to say. In about August last year, the Mayor of Almaty decreed that the traffic police could not stand on the side of the road and flag people down. This dramatically improved my state of mind when driving. It was such a relief not to have some guy with a red flashing wand, pulling me over at every opportunity to pay "fines". Instead, said the Mayor, the police would only be able to patrol the streets in their cars.
Cue: about 1000 extra police cars on the roads - it must have been boom time for the car dealers and the paint shops. And since it is now less easy to make a living from being a traffic cop, the fines that are dished out from the patrol cars are much higher than previously expected by the guys on the streets. The hit rate is lower so the cost has gone up. What previously might have cost you 2000 tenge (approx 14 dollars) will now cost you 5000 (approx 30). But, of course, you have to pay less of them altogether. Does this make it better than before? Certainly yes, in terms of day to day hassle. In terms of monetary cost, probably not!
Anyway, as we drove along to our new golf club the other day, we noticed as usual that the traffic flow was erratic to say the least. Everyone driving as fast as they possibly can in between the speed cameras, and then dramatically slowing down every time a police car hones into view. The behaviour is that of school kids playing up a crap teacher - you know, the kinds of teachers who end up with things stuck to the backs of their jackets because they are so unaware of what is going on behind them in class?
And the police here wear these huge, outrageously large hats (I will try to take a surreptitious photo in the next few days to show you), which makes them first of all, extremely easy to spot from a distance if you happen to be scanning the side of the road for trouble, and secondly, all the more tragic.
And as we drove along we were ruminating on what would make you decide to get a job in a role where a) everyone hates you and b) noone cares that you are there, in fact, they wish you weren't and c) when you do interact with your public and they sound like they are treating you respectfully, underneath it all they are really probably hating your guts.
And, how sad is it for a country when its law enforcement officers cause this kind of diatribe? (Answer, in case you had not guessed: very sad indeed). More on this later....
One thing that we were discussing the other day was how do people who do jobs that everyone mostly hates, cope with it. My husband works in audit. These guys are not exactly the most loved creatures on earth, and he has certainly been on the end of some hate vibes in his time. But actually, businesses have to be audited for a reason, and he tries to make these things happen in the least painful way possible for his clients - that way they get more referred consultancy work as well, ha ha ha. I don't think of auditing as being nearly as bad as, say, traffic warden. Or awkward beaurocrat who refuses to help you through the red tape. Or the person at the airport who insists on charging you for being half a kilo over your weight allowance, or the lady who worked for ServisAir and who once actually caused me and my toddler to miss our flight because she was so darned awkward.
Which brings me onto our local constabulary here in Almaty. Life has dramatically improved for us foreigners who are forced to drive around with yellow license plates on our cars (thus quickly identifying us as fast payers of "fines"). Previously, there would be a traffic policeman stationed every 500 metres or so around the city, stopping cars at random and extracting "fines" from the drivers. They have the right here to stop you for no reason. They can then demand to see the numerous bits of paper that you are legally required to carry with you in your car at all times. Some of these have to be renewed every month. There are approximately five documents which you must be able to show, we have a kind of plastic multi-pocket folder in which to display these things.
Policemen tend to be rather disappointed if you produce all the documents and they are all correct. They will usually ask for some kind of "fine" anyway, as previously mentioned in my posts here and here, and you really have to brave it out not to pay a fine. If you have transgressed and you do not have the required documents, then you will be truly fined. This, it seems, is best paid on the spot, no questions asked, no receipt required. If you do not do this in cash, then they confiscate your documents entirely and you have to go and find your way around a police station and then probably pay a "fine" to someone there to get your documents back, as well as a "fine" for your traffic-related sin. All very onerous if you come from a place where the vast majority of policemen are not bent.
And so, in a rather roundabout way, I am about to get onto what I meant to say. In about August last year, the Mayor of Almaty decreed that the traffic police could not stand on the side of the road and flag people down. This dramatically improved my state of mind when driving. It was such a relief not to have some guy with a red flashing wand, pulling me over at every opportunity to pay "fines". Instead, said the Mayor, the police would only be able to patrol the streets in their cars.
Cue: about 1000 extra police cars on the roads - it must have been boom time for the car dealers and the paint shops. And since it is now less easy to make a living from being a traffic cop, the fines that are dished out from the patrol cars are much higher than previously expected by the guys on the streets. The hit rate is lower so the cost has gone up. What previously might have cost you 2000 tenge (approx 14 dollars) will now cost you 5000 (approx 30). But, of course, you have to pay less of them altogether. Does this make it better than before? Certainly yes, in terms of day to day hassle. In terms of monetary cost, probably not!
Anyway, as we drove along to our new golf club the other day, we noticed as usual that the traffic flow was erratic to say the least. Everyone driving as fast as they possibly can in between the speed cameras, and then dramatically slowing down every time a police car hones into view. The behaviour is that of school kids playing up a crap teacher - you know, the kinds of teachers who end up with things stuck to the backs of their jackets because they are so unaware of what is going on behind them in class?
And the police here wear these huge, outrageously large hats (I will try to take a surreptitious photo in the next few days to show you), which makes them first of all, extremely easy to spot from a distance if you happen to be scanning the side of the road for trouble, and secondly, all the more tragic.
And as we drove along we were ruminating on what would make you decide to get a job in a role where a) everyone hates you and b) noone cares that you are there, in fact, they wish you weren't and c) when you do interact with your public and they sound like they are treating you respectfully, underneath it all they are really probably hating your guts.
And, how sad is it for a country when its law enforcement officers cause this kind of diatribe? (Answer, in case you had not guessed: very sad indeed). More on this later....
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Adaptation to life as six
For those readers who have popped over to BBB expecting an interesting anecdote, you had better come back in a couple of days. The last few have been too hectic for me to blog, and so I am once again writing things down more to remember them for my own benefit and because my memory is worse than shit right now, than to recount a wickedly hilarious tale, or solemn, thought-provoking idea. Sorry! Will try to become more of an interesting person again soon, but for the time being I am an over-tired new mum, adapting to life with a new baby and three other people around and also to being back in this strange corner of the world.
The baby is now seven weeks old. She slept last night for 11 hours. It is great that she seems pretty content with life, but is behaving so easily that both husband and I have at times been slightly worried that there is something wrong with her. She does cry if she is hungry and stuff, but most of the time she is just happy to be around, waggles her fingers and looks around (mainly to the right). The smiles have started, and I must say, are heart-meltingly cute, as are the gurgles and baby talk that accompanies them.
Our toddler is a dynamo – constant talking, constant movement and a worrying tendency towards control freak! Ha ha. She has always been pretty seriously into self preservation and has never liked to take risks which is a relief after our second child who is a total nutter and has no idea. Having the next one be so careful about everything is quite a contrast. However, since I am quite slap dash, having to deal with a little girl who screeches “It’s not right” incessantly if one thread of her cotton socks is not exactly aligned on her foot is quite a trial at times. Though when she insists on putting the lego away herself before she gets out another toy I do not complain! I am currently trying to persuade her to use the loo since I object to having to buy two sizes of nappy and frankly find it depressing to have a production-line set up for nappy changing with one small, one big waiting to have their arses wiped. The toddler is easily capable, but has developed a fear of falling into the bowl and is plain refusing to cooperate. She will occasionally go if in the presence of younger children that she wants to show off to, but as a favour to mum and dad she is not interested.
Older kids are back at school so the house is pretty quiet for the days. I am trying to be more organized and get supper prepared in advance, organize my shopping better, waste less food and generally run a tight ship. And I have finally started to deal with the numerous boxes of stored items that I never really properly unpacked when we moved to Kazakhstan and which are now mentally taunting me with their disorganized state. I have isolated these boxes in one room now, and next week, I will impose my will on them and throw away a ton of clutter. Hurrah!
It has been quite a mental adjustment coming back to the Stan, and re-entering expat life after such a long stint in the UK. I feel as though I am starting all over again. It is one thing having a few weeks away in the summer, but having been away for so long, and having settled into such a comfortable little corner of the world with the family for weeks on end, the Kaz world feels distinctly odd. This is probably because it is pretty, darned, freakishly odd! Things here work in their own special ways.
I am already dreading the summer exodus of numerous people, followed by the autumn “friend-shopping” weeks. Lots of people will leave this year, there will be those we expect, those who have been keeping it secret and who suddenly up sticks and head off, and those whose circumstances suddenly change and have a mad panic to get out. I know my eldest daughter will be losing at least one very good friend, and possibly two. She does not know this yet. The second daughter will be bereft if one of her mates goes – they might, we don’t know yet. And I haven’t counted up yet, but there are a couple of people who I suspect might be off, and it just doesn’t bear thinking about.
I keep promising to improve my Russian and it is slowly increasing in vocabulary and style since coming back (it is much worse than when I left). I have used my text book a couple of times while breastfeeding, but more often than not, I forget to bring it with me when I sit down to feed, and it sits and taunts me from the other side of the room. Our fantastic nanny is doing her best to get the toddler to respond in Russian as well, and is much better at talking out loud to narrate every action, but it will take time and the toddler is resisting at the moment. She has taken to using a “baby” voice for many communications which is a bad sign – she is pissed off at the lesser attention she gets because of the new baby, and also slightly annoyed that her nanny doesn’t understand her every word – the only person who does is me, and that is a pure function of time spent in her company for the last two years.
The only way to create a "normal" life here will be if I can master Russian language, and so I am trying to start a Russian language "baby" group with a friend who is Russian and generally re-double my efforts at more than just "getting by" in the local lingo. Watch this space...
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Desperation Breeds Success or Big Beluga Sneaks Past Censors
The authorities here in Kazakhstan have decided that the best way to avoid people writing horrid things about their nasty, corrupt habits is to block the free flow of information by censoring what is published on the internet.
Imagine my dismay upon returning to Kazakhstan to find that my blog was blocked, and access to all other blogs using Blogger were also unavailable. I hoped for a few days that the people who were telling me this terrible news were just doing something stupid on their computers, but they were right. And good old Reuters has now added some more information about it here.
The reason for the censorship, I heard, was that some guy, who has already fled the country, was apparently uploading lots of incriminating and highly detailed information about the ruling family's finances onto the web, which did not cast the powers that be in a very favourable light. They did not like this. And as a result, approximately four million users of the internet in Kazakhstan have had their right to roam freely on the World Wide Web assaulted with a crude blocking mechanism.
I do not wish to find that my husband's visa is not renewed as a result of what I write on this blog, so I will not elaborate on some of the juicier rumours of corruption and dictatorship that I have heard since coming to live here. But it makes my blood boil that the authorities can do this. It is creepy to think that the government is snooping so openly about on the internet, and a crime against democracy that this action has been taken. Our internet speed is incredibly slow here, and the blooming servers here stop working abut 10 times a day anyway, so we already put up with a lot of crap just to be on line. When they start telling us what we can and can't look at on the web, it really wrankles (rankles? wrangles? What is that word anyway????).
So after a day of downloading various bits and bobs, I am now using a proxy server to open and edit my blog. I hope it continues to work. I must admit to a certain delight in having been able to get around this annoying blockage by myself. I think I may also even be able to download Dr Who as a result of my travails which would be utterly amazing, and will surely earn me a term's worth of hard work from my eldest daughter if I use an episode a week to encourage her scholarly efforts!
Imagine my dismay upon returning to Kazakhstan to find that my blog was blocked, and access to all other blogs using Blogger were also unavailable. I hoped for a few days that the people who were telling me this terrible news were just doing something stupid on their computers, but they were right. And good old Reuters has now added some more information about it here.
The reason for the censorship, I heard, was that some guy, who has already fled the country, was apparently uploading lots of incriminating and highly detailed information about the ruling family's finances onto the web, which did not cast the powers that be in a very favourable light. They did not like this. And as a result, approximately four million users of the internet in Kazakhstan have had their right to roam freely on the World Wide Web assaulted with a crude blocking mechanism.
I do not wish to find that my husband's visa is not renewed as a result of what I write on this blog, so I will not elaborate on some of the juicier rumours of corruption and dictatorship that I have heard since coming to live here. But it makes my blood boil that the authorities can do this. It is creepy to think that the government is snooping so openly about on the internet, and a crime against democracy that this action has been taken. Our internet speed is incredibly slow here, and the blooming servers here stop working abut 10 times a day anyway, so we already put up with a lot of crap just to be on line. When they start telling us what we can and can't look at on the web, it really wrankles (rankles? wrangles? What is that word anyway????).
So after a day of downloading various bits and bobs, I am now using a proxy server to open and edit my blog. I hope it continues to work. I must admit to a certain delight in having been able to get around this annoying blockage by myself. I think I may also even be able to download Dr Who as a result of my travails which would be utterly amazing, and will surely earn me a term's worth of hard work from my eldest daughter if I use an episode a week to encourage her scholarly efforts!
Saturday, 3 April 2010
The Beloved V Dub'ya
Last Easter Sunday we enjoyed a boozy lamb roast lunch with various friends. It was a fun fun day - lots of red wine, a huge Easter Egg hunt for the kids, and by the end of the day and the fourth or fifth bottle of claret it had become apparent that we 'needed' to buy ourselves a vintage camper van. Within a month, we had found and purchased said item, the era of our family having our own wheels in the UK was born as we took to the motorway at 50mph in the "Custard Cruiser" (of which I will post a picture when I have worked out how to disguise the reg plate).
And our first summer of love was fantastic - we cruised up to Scotland, over to Newcastle, ferried into Holland, Amsterdam, Belgium, Epernay, Paris, Brittany and home. The Custard Cruiser rocked! We loved it: camping, driving, going to the beach, putting our pop top up in pouring rain and making cheese on toast rescuing numerous wet British National Trust days out.
But VW Campers are surely fair weather friends! They do NOT like winter, or damp. They are especially not fond of warmish sea mists, spring drizzle, being stored in a barn without a de-humidifier.
Coming back in the dark, cold, damp month of January I went to get Custard from its storage point in deepest, darkest Dorset. It did not want to start. We fiddled about with WD40 oil spray, pushed the motor out of the shed into the sun light to try and dry the motor out. Eventually, jump started the motor off my Dad's car and he took it round the block, before driving it back to Bournemouth.
The van still rocks - this is for sure. When Custard is going, there is no more relaxing a vehicle to drive. You cannot drive too fast, you never get thrown around when cornering (because you can never take a corner too fast), it is comfortable and fun, with lots of space and storage for beachy items like spades, buckets, wind breaks and lots of other fab additions: golf clubs, ping pong sets, skateboards, roller blades, tarpaulins, dijon mustard (you never know when this will come in handy), spare wellies etc.
But it just doesn't always start these days. There is apparently a "knack" to it, according to my husband. This is a knack I have just not managed to pick up, and have instead become adept at bending over a nine-month pregnant bump and more recently, extremely tender tits, to clip the jump leads onto the battery and then jump the beast into life off another car. Our toddler now shrieks with excitement every time the camper starts, shouting "Custard started! Custard started!", then whooping with delight and performing a mini-victory dance while holding both thumbs up with a triumphal air!
And our first summer of love was fantastic - we cruised up to Scotland, over to Newcastle, ferried into Holland, Amsterdam, Belgium, Epernay, Paris, Brittany and home. The Custard Cruiser rocked! We loved it: camping, driving, going to the beach, putting our pop top up in pouring rain and making cheese on toast rescuing numerous wet British National Trust days out.
But VW Campers are surely fair weather friends! They do NOT like winter, or damp. They are especially not fond of warmish sea mists, spring drizzle, being stored in a barn without a de-humidifier.
Coming back in the dark, cold, damp month of January I went to get Custard from its storage point in deepest, darkest Dorset. It did not want to start. We fiddled about with WD40 oil spray, pushed the motor out of the shed into the sun light to try and dry the motor out. Eventually, jump started the motor off my Dad's car and he took it round the block, before driving it back to Bournemouth.
The van still rocks - this is for sure. When Custard is going, there is no more relaxing a vehicle to drive. You cannot drive too fast, you never get thrown around when cornering (because you can never take a corner too fast), it is comfortable and fun, with lots of space and storage for beachy items like spades, buckets, wind breaks and lots of other fab additions: golf clubs, ping pong sets, skateboards, roller blades, tarpaulins, dijon mustard (you never know when this will come in handy), spare wellies etc.
But it just doesn't always start these days. There is apparently a "knack" to it, according to my husband. This is a knack I have just not managed to pick up, and have instead become adept at bending over a nine-month pregnant bump and more recently, extremely tender tits, to clip the jump leads onto the battery and then jump the beast into life off another car. Our toddler now shrieks with excitement every time the camper starts, shouting "Custard started! Custard started!", then whooping with delight and performing a mini-victory dance while holding both thumbs up with a triumphal air!
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