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*
Well, I guess I've locked myself in to this course now, so fine ... 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". However, 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 it's 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 sprinkling cocaine onto his soba noodles.
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 here, 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 huge shapka* towering about nine inches over 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 are always full and a little chaotic, and The Great Commute offers memorable vignettes of life in KZ's former capital.
The Commute 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 disobedient 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 criticised the Australian government 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.
Or, 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 a gritty German or Scandinavian 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 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 the most exhilirated I'd felt 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 an uncomprehending "Shto?" ("What?") and I translated, 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 right there in that car, right there at that moment, fumbling for the words to translate a request that was clearly going to be followed for no more than five polite seconds. So this was where my life had thus far led me; how random, and how fabulous!
I know this may sound a little 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 an outlying former-Soviet city 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 ...
LATER POSTSCRIPT
Ooh, isn't this exciting? Don't think I've never had a later postscript before!
Just wanted to say how thrilled I am to know that my little rants have prompted some true creativity. My good friend Mr Benji, of the electronic band Freefall, recently sent me their new composition 'Shapka Deathride', inspired by the entry you've just read. It's great! Thank you, Benji ... I feel flattered )))
* 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.
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*
Well, I guess I've locked myself in to this course now, so fine ... 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". However, 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 it's 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 sprinkling cocaine onto his soba noodles.
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 here, 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 huge shapka* towering about nine inches over 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 are always full and a little chaotic, and The Great Commute offers memorable vignettes of life in KZ's former capital.
The Commute 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 disobedient 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 criticised the Australian government 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.
Or, 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 a gritty German or Scandinavian 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 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 the most exhilirated I'd felt 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 an uncomprehending "Shto?" ("What?") and I translated, 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 right there in that car, right there at that moment, fumbling for the words to translate a request that was clearly going to be followed for no more than five polite seconds. So this was where my life had thus far led me; how random, and how fabulous!
I know this may sound a little 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 an outlying former-Soviet city 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 ...
LATER POSTSCRIPT
Ooh, isn't this exciting? Don't think I've never had a later postscript before!
Just wanted to say how thrilled I am to know that my little rants have prompted some true creativity. My good friend Mr Benji, of the electronic band Freefall, recently sent me their new composition 'Shapka Deathride', inspired by the entry you've just read. It's great! Thank you, Benji ... I feel flattered )))
* 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.
heheh it's been a while since I'd thought of this story - one of my favourites!
ReplyDeleteCheers
Benji