Interpret This! - Part 2

Interpret This! - The story continues...

Drawing on my fine command of the English language, I said nothing.

~ Robert Benchley　(1889 - 1945)

How often I’ve blithely opened my mouth and inserted my foot … sometimes both! Friends, family, neighbors—all have laughingly understood as I scrambled to remove shoe leather from my teeth. One of the first things I learned when I started working with USAID, however, was that you’d better not count on that same understanding when you’re a guest in another’s homeland. For that reason, I quickly realized the value of shutting my mouth and deferring to my interpreter. Many is the time a translator saved me from causing a minor international incident (or … at the very least … receiving a "here’s your hat and don’t let the door hit you in the back as you leave")!

In Part One of Interpret This!, I described the foibles of my interpreters. These character "flaws" actually made me feel more comfortable as I could relate person-to-person rather than feel intimidated by their bilingual talents and cultural know-how. In Part Two, though, I’d like to show how these same people, despite the little traits that make them endearingly human, accomplished vastly important tasks that made my job possible.

The interpreter that first comes to mind is the irrepressible Lala, my Uzbek interpreter. A 22-year-old, ambitious former exchange student to the United States, Lala had enthusiastically adapted to and adopted American customs, food, and dress. Her fiancé, Uktam, the 24-year-old project manager on this USAID Farmer to Farmer project, withstood many small verbal jabs from Lala about her superior grasp of Western culture. (Although Uktam usually ignored her jibes, I did overhear him mutter that Lala owed her job on this project to his presence as project manager!) In actuality, both young people were well-educated, organized, and professional. The twenty-plus Uzbek farmers and their wives who attended the two-week Cooperative Development training respected Uktam’s knowledge and skill. His English, from a two-week exchange stint in the States, was proficient enough for me to understand him comfortably. Nonetheless, Lala made sure she was always on hand during training sessions to translate during my conversations with farmers before and after meetings.

One morning, Uktam, Lala, and I were scheduled to join three carloads of farmers in a visit to a vacant vegetable processing facility, a prospective site for the new farm cooperative we were trying to establish. 8 o’clock arrived and so did everyone—everyone, that is, except Lala. Uktam and I split up to look for her; my search yielded results. There was Lala, in the office playing computer poker! Ahhh… I chuckled to myself. Little Lala is asserting her independence from the traditional subservience expected of women in Uzbek culture. When she saw me, she closed the game, logged off, and happily joined me in our walk to the car.

After touring the facility, we met with members of the cooperative to take the next step in establishing their democratic venture: the election of a Board of Directors. Try as I might, I couldn’t seem to convince my friends from Uzbekistan of the need to elect a representative from each of the ten family villages for this important role. Arrgghhh! Luckily, Lala and Uktam pulled me aside with two of the older men in the group for a "meeting of the minds." It was then that I learned that, in the Muslim world of Uzbekistan, election of officers is not an option. According to tradition, the oldest man in each family village automatically represents the village. Period. One small tweak in the democratic process, I guess.

I was to learn another valuable "don’t forget you’re not in the States" lesson in the Ukraine. Toward the end of an assignment, I invited the local office staff of about six to a customary dinner/night on the town as a token of my gratitude for their help on the project. Strangely, no one accepted my invitation … at least until I clarified that I would be paying the bill! Imagine my surprise when 22 people showed up that night at the small restaurant tavern I’d reserved. Caesar, my interpreter and a retired police officer, explained that this "generous" response to my invitation was common practice. If questioned, Caesar said the staff would simply say they’d misunderstood that the invitation hadn’t included family members. Fortunately, USAID’s budget included such "misunderstandings"!

A more serious misunderstanding, however, followed as I was approached by two local policemen after dinner. (Most public gatherings in the Ukraine require the presence of law enforcement.) Initially, their questions stemmed merely from curiosity … or so I thought … as the men asked about police salaries in the United States and the size of bribes Americans would pay to settle a traffic ticket. Then, however, they asked to see my passport and visa, which they knew were safely housed in the U.S. Embassy in Kiev. Because I couldn’t produce the documents, the men charged me with failure to properly reserve the banquet room, a "crime" that justified arrest and time in jail. I could escape my fate, they explained, by providing them with a sum of money for their trouble. Before too many drops of sweat beaded my brow my trusty interpreter came to the rescue! His stern, terse threat to report them to the authorities had the greedy officers making a hasty exit. Hail, Caesar!

The Eastern Europe "Triple Crown" of interpreter rescues occurred in Serbia. My interpreter in Novi-Sad (near the city of Belgrade) was Agnija, a bright, petite, 19-year-old female whose full-time job was working at a secondary boarding school that educated girls ages 12 through 15. As my project in Serbia spanned a school break and since the school was located near the USAID office, Agnija was available and eager to help. My initial impression, I must admit, wasn’t all that favorable. Agnija seemed obsessed with maintaining her attractive appearance and with the possibility that I carried a bag of pills. (Agnija’s translating services, it seems, had been primarily for women volunteers who, she explained, invariably carried large baggies filled with pill bottles.)

My estimation of Agnija didn’t improve when we made a farm visitation, where she refused to enter the small barn for fear cows would bite her or their waste would soil her shoes. The farmer and I finally coaxed her into being photographed atop a tractor—an "Agnija the Tractor Driver" memento for her scrapbook. (Part of the deal for her acquiescence was a thorough cleansing of the steering wheel and seat before she ascended!)

With these experiences in mind, I couldn’t help but think that our next stop would be more to Agnija’s liking—a gigantic shopping center. Impressed by the immensity of the store, I whipped out my camera to take a picture of its 28 checkout lanes. Immediately, a security guard appeared at my side, brandishing a pistol and demanding that I surrender my camera! (Apparently sabotage and corruption is rife in Serbia, so my behavior was highly suspect.) Like a cavalry officer minus the bugle, Agnija rushed to the rescue, pointing a finger in the guard’s face and shouting sternly. How dare he offend an American tourist? The guard holstered his weapon and meekly returned to his position at the store exit. I kept my camera.

A final rescue—this time in Africa—bears repeating. Returning from an assignment, I decided to utilize a long layover in Cairo to tour the famous pyramids of Egypt. My highly qualified interpreter was none other than an Egyptologist and author of a book on Egyptian history. In addition to his translating skills, Abasi was a licensed guard with a pistol discreetly holstered beneath his shirt. (The presence of the gun, in addition to his muscular build and soft-spoken, Steven Seagal-like voice, made me feel very safe.) Anxious to be photographed while sitting on a camel, I paid its owner twenty dollars for the privilege. (Would you believe he charged me an additional twenty dollars to dismount?) An elderly man positioned near a pyramid apparently appreciated the photo shoot as he motioned for me to join him. He suggested that I take his picture with the pyramid in the background and he’d do the same for me. He posed, I snapped, I posed, he snapped. He then demanded twenty dollars for the return of my camera! Disgruntled, I offered him five. At this point, he got noisy, shaking his fist in my face and demanding the full twenty. My apprehension growing in direct proportion to the volume of the man’s voice, I almost wept in relief when Abasi appeared at my side. Swiftly, he extricated my camera from the man’s grip and sent him on his way. The twenty dollars in question found its way into Abasi’s hand as a tip at day’s end.

Male, female. Muscular, slender. Seasoned, young. It seems help comes in all different forms. In my case, I’ll never again underestimate the power of "a little help from a friend."

 

by Everil Quist, International Agri-business Consultant

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Everil Quist - President & CEO of QuistSpeaks, LLC

"Enjoy this story about the noble peoples of third world countries.  I've truly enjoyed working with them and have many heartwarming and entertaining stories to tell. 

I enjoy sharing my adventures with my audiences, where I feel I am truly 'Creating Positive Change'."

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“Everil Quist delivers with knowledge, humor and compassion.  His trials and tribulations during his stints in Former Soviet Union countries impart the difficulties and perseverance these dynamic people have to overcome—difficulties we seldom experience here in America.”

-Virginia Dessart, N2 Area Governor, District 35, Toastmasters International