11.02.2008: transit therapy

Part 2: Timely reminders (a.k.a. killer headwear)

Ok, so what was I saying? Oh yes: down and dejected in a foreign land blah-de-blah, but preparing to say something upbeat about the whole situation.

*rolls eyes*

I guess I've locked myself in to this course now, so let's continue with it. What I'm about to tell you fits loosely under the heading of "When badness happens, try to do something life-affirming". But a lot of people seem to associate this word life-affirming with things like going on meditation weekends, reading inspirational literature, having friends around for dinner, spoiling yourself with hot oils etc. etc. ... basically all the 'feelgood' stuff. Personally (at least for the purposes of this rather silly blog entry) I'm opting for a more literal interpretation of the term. I say that, when life has you by the wrinklies, the best thing to do is something which affirms

    a) that you are, in fact, alive;
    b) that being alive is a LOT different (and preferable) to the alternative; and
    c) that the line between them is easy enough to cross, so you might as well make the most of being on this side of it while you can.

That might not seem hugely innovative, but it's a new idea for me - or at least one that's been percolating in my brain for years but has only just become coherent. It all fell into place about three weeks ago, via an affirmation technique which I can't guarantee will work for anyone else, but which I encourage you all to try anyway for the sheer demented fun of it. It's quite simple, and a lot better for your heart-rate than chanting "I am a unique and special human being" until the logical bits of your brain are too numb to argue. Here's what you do:

First, take yourself off to an outpost of the former Soviet Union, where the traffic conditions are as about as sane as a Japanese Advertising Executive. Second, after a quiet drink with some colleagues, step out onto the road and hail a taxi to take you home. (A brief memory-jog: this will mean a private car, since official taxis are few and far between, and not to be trusted anyway.)

Third, to maximise your pleasure - or your terror, depending on whether or not you enjoy dicing with death as much as the next person - ensure that your taxi is an old Lada being driven by a tall, lanky and not overly sane-looking Russian guy in his mid-20s, with a shapka* towering about nine inches above his head. Agree a price with his surly front-seat passenger, climb in the back and hold on. You're about to get a timely reminder that your corporeal, non-dead status really does matter to you.

To give you some background on how I came to discover this wonderful form of therapy: in Almaty, getting from A to B is a much more significant part of daily life than it has been in the other cities I've lived in. I work in three different schools, and have to go to and fro by whatever means possible. It's a city perpetually on the move; roads and pavements are always full, and The Great Commute offers memorable vignettes of life in KZ's former capital. It can make you angry - as when ticket machines were installed on trolleybuses last month, and conductors stood next to their new toys bellowing instructions at passengers as though they were recalcitrant prisoners in a forced labour camp. It can make you smile - like the taxi ride I had about six weeks ago, during which my middle-aged driver and his travel companion gently castigated my native country for refusing Almaty Zoo's request to have a kangaroo delivered to Kazakhstan. It can disturb you - as when, while sitting on another trolleybus one day, I was roused from my thoughts by the *thud* of another passenger falling from her seat and hitting the floor, head first and unconscious. And it can even open doors (the metaphorical kind) - as when you get a driver who's interested in learning English and he/she asks you for private lessons. Finally, on occasion it can be completely 'normal', dull and uneventful. You just never know.

Anyway, back to my Russian driver. This guy could've walked straight off the set of an edgy German or Danish drug-culture flick. Impossibly thin, grungy leather jacket, wild look in his eyes, he balanced a cigarette skilfully on his bottom lip as we roared through the streets of Almaty, occasionally swerving to avoid potholes and other moving vehicles. I could see he was approaching this real-life situation the way teenaged boys approach a game of Grand Theft Auto - not so much with safety in mind as with the thrill of the ride.

Sharing the taxi with me was a French Canadian teacher (and fellow beret-wearing freak**) called Nico. Now, I have to tell you that this man is no shrinking violet; he's the only person I know who's brave enough to actually ride a frikkin' bicycle in Almaty, and he continues to do so even after having been hit by a car once already. Still, as the Orthodox religious icons dangling from Shapka Man's rear-view mirror swayed wildly to and fro, I could see that Nico was nervous. And rightly so - we were quite possibly going to die.

Meanwhile, and completely unexpectedly, yours truly found himself absolutely relishing this manic death-ride. Nought-to-lose, recently skewered in the emotional nethers, squished into a tiny uncomfortable metal box and blasted by hot air and terrible pop music, I was feeling genuine exhiliration for the first time in ages. It was, in a word, awesome.

At one point, the rightly-concerned Nico put an arm on our driver's shoulder and said (in English) "Hey man, slow down!". The driver responded with a confused "Shto?" ("What?") and I translated, meanwhile trying not to burst out laughing at the whole situation. Suddenly I felt that my decision to reject the normal lifestyle of a western 30-something man - the one where he basically acquires his own domicile with matching mortgage, fills it with plush chairs and works hard on becoming pointlessly affluent, suburban and sedentary - had been the best decision I'd ever made. Because ... because ... well, because of a dozen reasons, but all of them summed up by the fact that I was here in this car right now, fumbling for the words to translate a request that was clearly going to be followed for no more than about five polite seconds. So this was where my life thus far had lead me; how fabulously random!

I know this is going to sound condescending, but as we continued our Petit Prix I just had to think to myself "You know, I feel SO sorry for anyone who's never been catapulted through the slums of a former-Soviet outpost by a chain-smoking, shapka-wearing Russian stick figure in a creaky old Lada!" In other words, I was having the life-affirming moment. I realised that, if I died in this car, it would be better than having stayed at home with my plush chairs. And if I didn't, that meant I could take the less-travelled road a little further. Or something like that, anyway.

Of course, there are limits to what one 15-minute ride in a taxi can do for you, and before long I was back in the doldrums ... though not quite as far down as I had been before. Luckily I had my flatmate Scott to commiserate with. He'd been enduring a pretty awful time himself throughout January, and both of us had found the week-long New Year holiday (when the school had closed) a strangely depressing time. As a result, both of us were heading into 2008 feeling deflated and uninspired.

As we talked about how to claw ourselves out of this ditch, the idea of 'transit therapy' began to surface (though we didn't name it at the time - I did that later). Scott started talking about taking a break from KZ, meeting up with friends in other places and taking some 'real' time off. I don't remember the exact moment when it happened, but before long we'd pretty much decided to take our next cue from King Arthur's Knights of The Round Table (or at least from The Monty Python versions of same). We'd decided, in short to "Run away! Run away!"

Lucky we did, really, or I'd have no topic for Part Three of this ridiculous ramble.

To be continued even more ...

EPILOGUE

Ooh, isn't this exciting? I've never had an epilogue before!

Just wanted to say that, in actual fact, the sources of angst I keep referring to are now in the past. Things are more or less on the upswing in Almaty, and I'm planning to stay at least until July (whereas two or three weeks ago, that was seriously in doubt). Being in quite a different headspace now, it's a little difficult to reconstruct the exact motives that lead me to my present situation, but obviously the "Run Away!" instinct played a part. Consciously or otherwise, I realised that some Transit Therapy was needed - and so, I think, did Mr Scott. In any case, recent events have certainly shown that when things are at their grimmest, the 'bounce back' can take you to some strange places.

No doubt that's at least part of the reason why I'm not writing to you from my usual rickety desk in Almaty. Instead, as I type this, I'm sitting in Sheremetyevo Terminal C, looking out over the tarmac in the last place I thought I'd be any time soon - namely, my old home town of Moscow.

Weird old thing, life ... don't you think?

* Shapka: those furry hats you've seen either
    a) in documentary footage about Russia/The USSR; or
    b) in James Bond films; or
    c) in Russia or the former USSR itself, if you've been there.

**Now that I think of it, there was some great headwear in the Lada that night! We must've looked pretty damn stylish to passers-by - at least from the neck up.