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November 20, 2002

3 babushkas

ëBAA-bushkaí, not ëba-BOOSH-kaí. Thatís the first thing you learn about them. Americans pronounce it wrong ñ the stress is on the first syllable, not the middle one. Babushka is Russian for grandmother, or just any old crone. Baba Yaga is a famous babushka of Russian legend, an ancient hag who ate fat little children for breakfast.

Whether they were Kazak or Russian, the babuskas always shared several commonalities. They all wore colorless wool coats with a gaily-printed scarf to keep their head warm. It gave the impression of a desert cactus in bloom, and no less prickly. These women were the matriarchs of the household, women who could carry forty pounds of potatoes in each hand. You didnít mess with them.

Somehow babushkas had the power to bend space and time to fit their massive girth into tight spaces. I believe they learned this trick in the monastery where they transformed from beautiful Soviet maidens into bent and warty cactus-women. Wielding their potato bags as battering rams, they could board a bus that any American worth his five-foot radius of personal space would pass up. Unfortunates barring their way would receive a vicious poke to the solar plexus as baba weaved her way through the can of sardines to the sole open seat on the bus. When baba was coming your way, you had better move quickly. I called this fighting style ìbabu-fuî.

In winter the babuskas would wear booties of pressed felt somewhat resembling featureless grey moonboots. The material never seemed to absorb moisture, even in the snow. The booties had no waterproofing, but never appeared to be soaked. I figured the babuskaís feet were so calloused that they didnít conduct heat very well, thus keeping their feet warm within the booties. The footgear merely concealed babuskaís cloven hooves.

But babuskas were the glue of every soviet household. Men died early due to cirrhosis or lung cancer. Years of heavy drinking and chain smoking took its toll on most Soviet men, and the disproportionate number of aging women to men was telling. If the men still lived, they were generally worthless additions to the household, going on drinking binges for days, or passed out in the streets on Soviet or military holidays. It was expected that babuska feed and care for the children and grandchildren. Unless babuska was lucky enough to have surviving and functionally alchoholic husband, little was expected of dyedushka.

During my language and cultural training in Kazakstan for Peace Corps, I spotted a very old babushka pacing slowly between apartment buildings. In each hand was a cane used for balance. She appeared to be looking for something on the ground. Her booties were worn down in several places, her dress mere tatters. Every so often a younger person would intercept her path and accidentally drop a ten- or twenty-tenge bill on the ground. No longer a Soviet republic, the Kazak social security system was nonexistent. Babuska was too proud to ask for help, so she ëlookedí for money on the ground.

Waiting for the bus in my central Kazakstan town of Karaganda, Iíd often see the Dog Lady walk by. This babuska was surrounded by a pack of severely interbred poodles. Sisters had been mated with brothers, aunts with nephews, with horrifying results. The dogs were bug-eyed, snaggle-toothed, and often lame. However, babuska was able to teach them tricks to perform for money. The dogs subsisted on the meat scraps they were forced to perform for, donated by the local butcher shop. Baba would get three of them to rear up and dance. Those of us waiting for the bus would give her money for the performance.

The milk in the state-run grocery store was always sour. Kazaks didnít mind this, but I preferred my dairy fresh. One ethnic Kazak babushka always sold her milk at the end of my apartment building. I knew her milk passed through fewer filthy hands, so I bought it from her. The fat content of her cow's milk was also wonderfully high, and I was getting skinny. You could feel the oil on your lips after eating the morning cerial. She had probably been selling her milk for years on the street judging by the leathery texture of her swarthy face. Her coat was green, her scarf a vibrant scarlet, another cactus grown from the infertile Kazak soil.

Posted by jimbo at November 20, 2002 11:14 AM

Comments

Posted by: kiri at November 20, 2002 10:14 AM

Posted by: tom at November 20, 2002 11:28 PM

Posted by: Rob at November 21, 2002 10:47 AM