Samovars and Shashlik: Gems of an Overseas Adventure

By Janice N Mau

Hilarious, challenging and heart-warming. Enjoy the personal adventures of two Australian volunteers, living and working in the former Soviet State of Kazakhstan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Mar 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452513065

Janice N Mau

Born in New Zealand, Jan emigrated to Australia in the early 1980's and became an Australian citizen. She lives on acreage in the Granite Belt of Queensland with her husband Pete. Family live in Ipswich area. Being an avid writer, she has written articles for bulletins and brochures, short stories, poems and such all her life but is now a committed fulltime Writer. Her first book Samovars and Shashlik was published in 2014. She currently has other books in progress. Having lived a life full of hilarious adventures, challenges and dramas she likes to draw on these experiences, weaving them in to her writing in her own style and lacing them with humor. Jan is a member of the Stanthorpe Writers Group and is a member of the Stanthorpe Chamber of Commerce.

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Copyright © 2014 Janice N Mau.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-1305-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-1306-5 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 02/25/2014

For Pete

Life is always an adventure with you.

No other gods are like you; only you work miracles.

Psalm 86, The Bible

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Chapter 1 - Dare to volunteer

Chapter 2 - On your marks, get set!

Chapter 3 - Arrivals

Chapter 4 - Hello Almaty

Chapter 5 - Buses, Bra’s and Bazaars

Chapter 6 - R is for Relocation

Chapter 7 - Eta normalna

Chapter 8 - Snaffled!

Chapter 9 - Give us the gist

Chapter 10 - Mice and Miracles!

Chapter 11 - Things get a little crazy!

Chapter 12 - Back in the city

Chapter 13 - Furballs and Fireworks

Chapter 14 - Bullfights and Catzilla!

Chapter 15 - Changes in the wind

Chapter 16 - Gamarjoba’, Georgia.

Chapter 17 - The best laid plans

Epilogue

Afterword

Acknowledgements

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Graphic 1 - Winter in the rehab centre.

Graphic 2 - Our room, The Hilton

Graphic 3 - Preparing food.

Graphic 4 - The kazan

Graphic 5 - Shashlik

Graphic 6 - Pete above first lake at Kulsai

Graphic 7 - Kindergarten children at play

Graphic 8 - Three Generations on the Steppe.

Graphic 9 - Three and half thousand metres above sea level.

Graphic 10 - Preparing the evening meal.

Graphic 11 - Raw beginnings in Tbilisi, Georgia

Graphic 12 - Favourite Artwork in Tbilisi, Georgia

AUTHOR’S NOTE

O ur years spent overseas as Volunteers were incredibly full and looking back we marvel. Did we really do all that? At times it seems like a dream.

It’s not possible to include everything in my book so I’ve wandered through our memories like wandering through an Aladdin’s Cave. Some memory gems I’ve picked up in handfuls, enjoying them briefly before letting them trickle through my fingers. Other gems, I have held up to the light in order to examine them more closely. It’s been a fascinating exercise, reliving those crazy adventures as well as the not so crazy ones.

I’ll be referring to the faith-based rehabilitation organisation we worked with as The Program, and will not be using names for sensitivity and confidentiality issues.

This book is not about The Program as such, it is a light-hearted walk through our own personal experiences as Volunteers living and working in Central Asia followed by a time in Tbilisi, Georgia.

I hope you enjoy wandering through our memories with us,

Blessings,

Janice Mau

T he empty cement-block building was set well back from the street. Brown paper was taped to the inside of the large dust covered plate-glass windows. Chain and padlock sealed the heavy entrance doors.

We were standing quietly in the shadows, watching street activity in the distance. The sun was hot. The shadows cool.

Our contact had agreed to meet us at 1 pm. It was now 1:10. We didn’t know who he was or what he would look like. We’d simply responded to a phone number in a single line ad on a Tbilisi website.

Our car was parked down a side street a couple of blocks away.

Footsteps sounded. A tall, lean man in scruffy blue jeans, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a grubby zip-front jacket stepped round the corner of the building.

He nodded, greeting us in Georgian. "Gamarjoba."

He mentioned the item we were after.

"Diakh" we responded. (Our knowledge of the Georgian language was limited but we knew enough to get by.)

He indicated with his hand that we were to follow him behind the building. He strode ahead purposefully, head down, shoulders hunched, hands still in his jacket pockets. We had to move quickly to keep up.

We were led down a broken cement driveway to the rubbish strewn rear of two tall grey apartment blocks before ducking through an opening and beginning a climb up worn stairs. Garish graffiti decorated the walls. Rusty railings leaned precariously.

Nobody knew where we were.

We didn’t know where we were.

We silently trailed him up two floors. The building was clearly abandoned. Dust and rubble filled shadowed corners. Faint sounds of the city wafted in, drifting up the stairs in muted murmurs.

I braced myself. It was just possible that we’d placed ourselves in a high risk situation. I ran some scenarios through my head. Then decided I’d rather not.

Finally our contact stopped at a doorway. Beyond him, we could see an accumulation of building materials, junk, odds and ends. It was clearly a hoarding place. We wound our way through the maze of materials, following close behind him.

Our guide suddenly stopped and waved us forward. We found ourselves in a tiny corner that held a small wooden table at which sat a couple of worn wooden chairs. One of them was occupied by a burly bloke with a shaved head. Hands the size of meat platters clutched a newspaper. Nearby was a chipped ceramic sink, a solitary brass tap hovering, anticipating possible use. A bare light-bulb clung forlornly to a frayed cord that looped across the grey cement ceiling.

Our contact was now standing behind us, blocking the only way out.

Burly put down his newspaper and cracked a smile. (That’s if you could call it a smile. Blocks of granite aren’t known for their sunny dispositions.)

I glanced over at Pete. He was keeping his eyes on the bloke sitting at the table. I turned slightly so I could keep the other guy in my peripheral vision. I don’t like surprises.

Had we made a terrible mistake? Were our kids going to get ransom demands? Would our demise be quick and painless? Or slow and…?

Pushing between us our contact went over to a cardboard box sitting on the floor. He bent down and lifted out a sizeable silver plated object, placing it carefully on the wooden table. Standing to one side, he gestured toward the object.

Samovar! Electric! You try.

Pete and I both heaved palpable sighs of relief. No mugging. No sudden appearance of Mafia favoured M1911A handguns for nefarious purposes.

Our contact filled a jug with water and poured it into the samovar. Burly plugged the samovar into a nearby power-point dangling out of the wall. As we stood round watching, bubbles began to form.

Good samovar. You like?

I nodded. "Da! Da!"(Now I reverted to Russian.)

One hundred American dollars he said, smiling. (His English was excellent when it came to talking money.)

Considering where we were, Pete wasn’t going to quibble. He handed over the cash.

Our new friend unplugged and emptied the samovar, then wiped it down before carefully replacing it in the cardboard box.

You American? they asked.

Australian.

Ah, Australian. Good people. You like Georgia?

We nodded enthusiastically. "Da! Da! We like Georgia! It is a good country."

They both beamed at us. We shook their hands and thanked them for the samovar.

You very welcome.

Pete and I left to a chorus of Nakvamdis and Dasvidanya.

Operation Samovar complete.

As we sat in our car later, watching pedestrians pass by, we seriously wondered if we were gutsy or just plain nuts.

We had followed a total stranger down a back alley and into an abandoned building. Why?

So I could realise my life-long dream of owning a traditional Russian tea kettle, a Samovar!

What on earth had led us to this?

I let my mind drift back.

CHAPTER 1

DARE TO VOLUNTEER

I n 2004 my husband Pete and I were enjoying lazy, hazy days. We certainly didn’t have any thoughts of disturbing our comfortable life style.

We were living with our married children in the booming metropolis of Ipswich, Queensland. Doing the rounds, so to speak. (We’d moved up from Victoria some time back.)

Pete had a great job as a logistics manager in a sizeable company. I was out of the work force and enjoying my family and friends. We were involved in a terrific family church in Ipswich. Life was pretty good.

Sometime during 2004 our son announced to us that he was going overseas with a team from our church.

Where are you going?

Kazakhstan.

We were impressed. The team would be visiting The Program, a faith-based humanitarian work which specialised in residential drug and alcohol rehabilitation. (See Author’s Note.)

The team’s visit to The Program certainly proved to be a deeply memorable one. They returned with colourful accounts of life in The Program and places they’d visited. Our son loved his time there. We loved the new enthusiasm for life he returned with.

Our Pastor began a series of messages focusing on having the courage to take steps of faith, follow dreams, that sort of thing. These messages got our attention. They niggled at us. Pete and I began to look at our comfortable lifestyle and wonder if there was something more we could be doing.

We did what we usually do, we asked our God about it. We prayed that He would give us clear hints if there was something specific He had in mind.

(We had no doubt that if our God wanted us to do something particular He would give us the enabling power to do it.)

Throughout the following months Kazakhstan began cropping up all over the place. We’d turn on the News, pick up a magazine. Lo and behold there would be an article mentioning Kazakhstan. I remember sitting down to watch a rental movie and the opening scene was a prison installation somewhere in Kazakhstan.

At every turn we were being confronted with the place. Talk about flag waving. God has His ways of getting our attention and he doesn’t need supernatural bells and whistles to do it!

The year 2005 came waltzing in with bells on and all the usual festivities.

We were visiting friends one night and they began sharing with us about the two year stint they’d done on board a ship belonging to a humanitarian organisation that delivers goods and assistance to places in crisis. As we watched their personal video, listened to their stories, Pete and I were inspired.

Could we do something like that?

I remember feeling a fluttering in my spirit as if wings were stirring. It was either that or the Hungarian salami, olives and red wine I’d had.

Easter 2005 was upon us. We decided to go camping at Imbil with family and friends. There was an Endurance horse-riding event on and Pete wanted to go. He’d done Endurance riding when we lived in Victoria. After loading the trusty old Toyota Land-Cruiser, we headed off.

Once set up in the paddock at the venue, we settled into camp chairs and relaxed. Conversations kept coming round to volunteer work and missions trips. Then it morphed into:

What are you and Pete going to do with your lives?

It was pointed out that Pete and I were foot-loose, fancy-free, no debts, didn’t own real estate, nothing chaining us to the floor. (Sometimes God uses your family and friends to get a point across or nudge you into action.)

On the Sunday we decided to walk to the top of the local lookout point. Once we actually arrived, huffing and puffing (it was a really steep walk), we crammed around the timber picnic table. Conversation continued. So did the subject of volunteer work and missions trips.

Pete was sitting at the end of the table not saying much. When we all get gabbling it’s pretty hard for anyone else to get a word in. Finally, when we paused to draw in oxygen, Pete slapped his knee and said:

That’s it. I’ve decided. We’ll go!

Silence. (Even the proverbial cricket stopped chirping.)

Then the questions fired up.

Go where?

When?

How long?

Pete’s response was direct and certain.

Kazakhstan! We’ll go and work in The Program for one year.

My lower jaw hit the top of the picnic table. The magpie who’d been listening overhead fell out of the tree. The world stopped spinning, nature held its breath. One second, two seconds—we found our voices, nature noisily exhaled and the planet cranked up again.

So did the questions.

What’ll you do there?

I don’t know. Help with vocational training, renovation work?

Amazing! Pete had always stated that all he wanted was land, a shed house