The Stamp Seller

Today we had to ask Olga where to buy envelopes for mailing letters. We thought we could buy at the post office but couldn't remember what we'd seen there. She looked surprised and said simply "Kazpost," confirming our guess.

So at lunchtime, when Vladimir asked where to ("to home?" "doe dohm?") we asked for Kazpost. His reply was a question which we didn't understand, but which seemed to mean "which one?" Uh...

No matter. After a few seconds of confusion he reached for his cell phone and called Olga. Then he dropped us off at the only post office we knew about, the one on the main street (Bukar Chirau) near our apartment.

I went to the Valyuta at the back of the post office and exchanged some dollars for tenge. Then we headed for the stamp stall. Along with stamps it had a variety of envelopes.

Bobi asked "Amerike?" The man behind the counter had the chubby but well-groomed appearance of a Bavarian clock maker, and a quiet, gentle demeanor to match. He pointed to the Avion envelopes and began explaining that "A" on the stamps meant "150 Tenge". Like so many others here he didn't mind that our Russian skills were almost non-existent.

Bobi moved over to the stamp display case, said "Poshawlsta (Please)," and began pointing. For the next ten or fifteen minutes the old clockmaker showed us his wares with great patience and not a little pride. He would use one- or two-word phrases to convey something about the images on the stamps and, somehow, we were able to figure out what he was saying. During most of the exhibition another customer stood patiently behind us, waiting for her turn.

This way of doing business -- turning out all of the drawers to find everything that might match the customer's request -- seems pretty common here. We've seen it in the baby store ("Mickey House"), where a woman unwrapped a huge assortment of little shirts for Bobi. And we've seen it in a school supply stall where we tried to find stationery without any lines. First Bobi pointed to a notebook of graph paper, and we tried the phrase "nye lin-ya". The lady reached under the desk and brought out horizontally-lined notebook paper. Again we tried the phrase, with different emphasis: "NYE lin-ya." She brought out some blank paper. "Da! Spasiba." We'd found what we wanted and thought we were done. But she began rummaging through the display cases and shelves, bringing out four or five different kinds of blank-paper pads.

As we neared the end of the stamp exhibition, our helper inquired shyly what we were doing in Karaganda. "Rabotaiyou?" I know that word: he wants to know if we're working here! "Turist," answered Bobi.

Eventually we finished, and the clockmaker pulled out a set of stamp-handling tweezers. Absorbed in his task, he delicately gathered up Bobi's selection, pausing occasionally to count out the amounts and add them on a desk calculator.

Once everything was totalled Bobi paid and said thank you. Then the clockmaker looked up toward me, one of the few times he had made eye contact with either of us during the entire exchange, and shook my hand with a big smile.

This seemed odd; almost the entire business exchange had been between Bobi and the old man. I'd stood to the side making occasional comments to her and calling out words in English when I thought I understood something he had said.

There must be an etiquette in male/female interaction here which I don't yet understand. The old man wasn't being chauvinist; he was just happy to have helped us. (He was quite unlike the guy at City Market for whom Bobi had held the door a day or two earlier. That man had smiled, made an "O-ho" noise, bowed a little, and walked through the door saying something that included the words "man", "woman", "Russia" and "Amerike".)

This exchange with the stamp-seller left us feeling especially warm and fuzzy. The feeling lasted until we got to the front door, where we realized we'd forgotten to buy stamps for the postcards.