Secrets of the Steppe IV: The Sociolinguistics of Washing your Hair

By Unknown author - Souvenir programme for South Pacific, p. 6, Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Year Abroad student Eve Mayes returns to her column on the weird and wonderful of Kazakhstan with her musings on the cultural differences that define human communication.

Right now, sitting in Gatwick Airport North Terminal, about to embark on the second half of my year in Kazakhstan, I find myself reflecting on the few weeks of holiday spent at home in England. Admittedly, after 4 months in Astana, this was a simultaneously comforting and surreal experience.

I put this confusing combination down to the phenomenon of reverse culture-shock. I had been totally prepared for the regular version; between my DoS, the MMLL Faculty and my own common sense, I had been made plenty aware that I was about to burst the ‘Cambridge bubble’ with the Year Abroad equivalent of a scimitar sword. Having confronted and embraced the differences, I had been naturally looking forward to a few weeks off over the festive period. What I was not prepared for was feeling eerily slightly out of place in my hometown when I returned.

I don’t claim that I’ve somehow adopted Kazakh cultural identity – I’m still very conscious of my Britishness – but there were a few moments where previously mundane things made me feel oddly displaced. For example, when I first returned, I popped to Boots to get some shampoo. At the checkout, the cashier asked me if I had a loyalty card (fine) and if I’d like a receipt (standard). It was then, while the receipt was printing, that she asked me how my day was going, and I froze. After a few seconds of gawking like a deer in headlights, my very deep English subconscious kicked in and I remembered how to respond appropriately.

As I left, I blinked at myself in horror at what I can only imagine came across as rudeness. The thing is, I had simply not been expecting the question and couldn’t respond on auto-pilot as one usually does in their native language. It took me a few minutes to realise what had happened: I’d tuned into the social norms of my host country, and I will admit to feeling a little smug at this. Less smugly, I realised this was probably just an internalisation of my desperation to seem less painfully foreign whilst abroad.

You see, in my local chemist in Astana, the first two practical enquiries were also standard, I was used to them. What I had lost custom to, was the British tendency towards small-talk and polite (but insincere) chit-chat. This encounter made me realise, though, that despite my having studied Russian for years and on many occasions having had explained to me the fact that Russian speakers aren’t rude – “it’s just their culture” - I had, for whatever reason, always taken this with a pinch of salt and never quite appreciated the depth of the cultural misunderstanding. For this I apologise.

Having found attentive and caring friends beyond the post-Soviet boundary, who adopted a warm attitude towards me far quicker than is acceptable in British culture, it became obvious that our perception of ‘rudeness’ is not only a result of our very specific social customs, it is also inaccurate. There’s simply a much clearer boundary between professional or service relationships and genuine ones.

There are plenty of other theories on why Russian speakers can present themselves as generally non-smiling, curt and scary. From fighting for your share in Soviet times to mistrust of strangers during times of political oppression and spying - the reasoning essentially can be reduced to: it’s just part of their (linguistic and historical) culture. Unfortunately, I’m not sure these explanations are well-publicised, and thus they don’t help foreigners to automatically empathise with Russian speakers.

Hoping to leave a chip in this socio-cultural wall, I often deliver a certain old-as-time Russian proverb to my baffled British friends: “смех без причины - признак дурачины”. This roughly translates to “smiling for no reason at all is the sign of a total fool” and I hope that my cultural chisel occasionally manages to make a dent in the misunderstanding.

Amusingly, Kazakhs find Brits’ chirpiness as off-putting as we find their sternness. It was this cultural boundary that shocked me into silence in Boots. I’m absolutely certain that as I step back into the Steppe on the other side of this flight, I’ll feel myself firmly back on the British side of that boundary. At least this time, I’m expecting it. I hope the next time you bump into a cultural wall, this story will help you to approach it differently, and maybe you’ll find your own chisel.