Signs we have been in Bosnia for a loooong time and there may be some readjustment required before entry back into the UK:
1. When the traffic lights go green, my first instinct is now to hoot the horn, then to put the car in gear.
2. Pedestrians, what are they? (in my defence, if you take the definition of safe driving to be driving in a way that people expect you to, then stopping to let pedestrians cross the road does constitute dangerous driving as people will go into the back of you).
3. When I look out of the window and see some metal poles in the garden opposite, my first thought isn't ooo, look, football goalposts, it is oooo, look, a place to bash carpets.
4. It's 6pm. I've just decided to make the boys burgers for dinner, but we have no mince or buns. But that's ok, because we can nip round the corner to the butcher (open every day until 7pm) and then wander along just a little further to a bakers (open everyday until 10pm). On the way back I'll stop at the little local store to pick up some fresh tomatoes and free range eggs from the chickens in their backyard (open every day until 10pm). Total walking time for the entire round trip. 5 minutes. Total cost, not very much at all. England is going to come as a shock. I'm dreading Tesco's and the thought of the local convenience store veg there is making me feel a bit sick.
5. A no-smoking table? What's that?
6. A coffee in a cafe can last a good 90 minutes. Possibly longer.
7. Activities and meeting up with friends are to be arranged no earlier than the previous day. Any earlier, and the other person will just forget anyway. I've learnt to look at my week, stretching before me with nothing arranged at all and not be scared. I'm a little worried if I look at a week with many activities planned, I'm going to go into controlled chaotic panic.
8. Everything can be mended, fixed, put back together. Throw nothing away. If nothing else then the boys can play with it outside.
9. An obsession with cleaning windows has taken hold. The Bosnians are forever hanging out of high towers to ensure their windows are sparkling. It's quite nice, particularly when compared to the greasy smeared efforts of our house in the UK.
10. On learning that we have to go and see a Bosnian ministry, our first thought is now 'who do we know who might be able to help us' rather than just heading over with hope in our hearts and confidence in the system.
Signs that I will never be a Bosnian however long I stay
1. I do believe that sljivavica (plum brandy, the national drink) is not fit for human consumption. I am now ducking for cover as the Bosnians recoil in horror and start proceedings for our instant deportation.
2. My Bosnian is torture for the listener. But they seem to understand much better when I put on my best James Bond villain accent. Then I have no problems. Well except for the attack of the giggles as I imagine myself a karate chopping, leather wearing, sleek black bob sporting, kick ass kind of girl.
3. I can't wear jeans that tight. I just can't.
4. Dumping rubbish, especially in the parks and areas of beauty is just not acceptable. Smashing bottles all over the place isn't remotely amusing either.
5. I can't take the ticks. The season has started. I now spend my evenings grooming the dog and extracting them from her fur. They are disgusting creatures and meet their doom in a glass of sljivavica (see point 1).
6. When I say no chocolate for the kids, I really mean please don't give them any chocolate. Feeding them sugar out of the sugar bowl isn't acceptable either. Particularly when one has already been car sick that day and we've got a bit of a drive home.
7. I have no idea if food will be served when we go to visit someone. I've lost count of the number of times we've been served up an enormous meal, with multiple courses when all I was expecting was a coffee.
8. I like set meal times. Breakfast at the beginning of the day. Lunch after some morning activities. Dinner when it is getting dark. I have no idea when the Bosnians eat their meals, but it certainly isn't the same schedule as mine!
9. I like my children to go to bed by 8pm at the latest. By 8pm I have had enough of them, and they have had enough of me. Plus I want to have a bath in peace. The thought of them still being up at 10pm and later makes me feel a tad teary.
10. Playgrounds are good things. Playgrounds that are open are better. Playgrounds that aren't built on the thickest gloopiest mud imaginable are better still. Playgrounds with all of these and without nails sticking out of the equipment are best of all. My boys are going to be in seventh heaven when they get back and see their first playground since November. Come to think of it, so will I.
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As you can see by the post, we are not sitting on a flight from Belgrade as was looking likely next week. The boys and I are coming back on Tuesday instead. I'm looking forward to the flight as much as the thought of searching for a bracelet in a bucket of vomit. To get me in the mood of flying with two small children I'm off to read the flying with kids carnival put together by Mellow Mummy. And then I'm stick my head in the sand about moving for a bit longer.
Showing posts with label bosnian children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bosnian children. Show all posts
Friday, 26 March 2010
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Cultural Confusions part 1: The Bosnian Grannys and me.
Being an English family in Tuzla we are fairly conspicuous. There aren't very many English families in Tuzla. In fact, I think it is just us. As such, there isn't a big expat circle to become a part of. Whilst this does occasionally make things more difficult, on the whole I prefer it this way. It meant that I didn't have any options, I had to get stuck in and involved in Bosnian life and this has, by and large, been wonderful. Bemusing most of the time, but pretty fun.
In particular it has bought me into regular contact with that very specific breed of Bosnian, the Granny. The Bosnian Granny (henceforth known as the BG) is a force to be reckoned with, particularly in any queue in the post office. Generally fairly sturdy and well wrapped up whatever the weather, nothing escapes her beady eye. Absolutely nothing. If there was ever to be a World Championships in gossip, the BG would win. Hands down. The rest of us, skilled as we may think we are in being able to pass on information about other people, are mere amateurs, school children in comparison. The BGs talk about everything, from the clothes you wear, to the time you go to bed, the behaviour of your children, to how they don't like to gossip but..., to how often you throw out your rubbish. There is nothing they don't know. We are obvious targets to speculate about and apparently they are fascinated by us. But I know that we are far from the only people being discussed, so it doesn't really bother me that much. They are enormously generous, always asking us over, stuffing us with food, never letting us go home without a bottle of homemade grape juice, some cake, a bit of pie and no doubt then analysing in detail how well my boys ate their food, our manners and how different we are.
I come into contact with the BGs a lot. Bosnian culture remains very family orientated. Many people continue to live at the same place as their parents/in laws after they get married, the Bosnians simply building another apartment as another story on top of their houses. Sometimes I envy this; the family all gets together for a coffee in the morning; aunts, uncles, other children all pitch in together for a big melee of people to hang out with. There's always someone around. What it does mean though is that the BG is often very actively involved in childcare, whilst the Mums go out to work. So the nursery gates are full of BGs gathered to chitchat whilst waiting for their grandchildren. They always involve me in their conversations; I don't often have much of an idea what they are talking about. They then pick up their immaculately dressed grandchild, who trots over straight away, leaving me chasing my two far from immaculate boys, trying to hold one down whilst getting boots on the other and stopping them from dismantling the climbing frame. The BG, who fully subscribes to the point of view that it takes a village to raise a child, has no qualms in stepping in to tell my two off (inevitably leading to tears, my boys not totally comfortable with being grabbed by a woman they have never met before and on the receiving end of a sharp volley of Bosnian). It took me a while to get over the 'leave my children alone' impulse - the English just don't tend to interfere like that. I have had to learn to not take it personally and the boys have learnt that if they run around in the supermarket, a BG will get on their case.
The BG's always have their children wrapped up warmly in layer upon layer of clothes, to me they look absolutely boiling. Mine are fully wrapped up at the moment, it is deep winter after all. But once in warms up, I don't tuck their tops into their trousers and they wear as few layers as I can get away with; my washing machine stuggles enough with the laundry pile as it is. The BGs look on at my boys in horror. 'That child is naked' one BG memorably hissed at me. 'Which child?' I wondered? Mine was the only child in the vicinity. His top wasn't tucked in. Ah, that will be my child then.
Then there is the chocolate issue. No BG is ever to be found without a bar of chocolate hidden in her bag, to be bought out whenever in contact with any children. My two, for who chocolate is a rare treat, love this aspect of Bosnian culture. They are present in a flash, suddenly all beautifully behaved, looking like little angels and waiting to be given the next sugar laden candy. Being the one who then has to deal with the inevitable sugar rush and less than angelic manic behaviour that will always follow, I'm less of a fan of this custom. However, I recently had a 'eureka' moment of understand finally realising that this chocolate thing is just a part of the BG assessment of my parenting. Usually in these situations I become very English and end up muttering something like 'gosh, thanks, how generous', wait until the BG is out of sight and then confiscate the enormous bar of chocolate from the boys sticky, sugary hands. I now realise that the correct response is to say, even insist, to the BG that the boys are not to be given chocolate and prevent the kids (despite protestations from the BG to the contrary) from laying their little paws on it. I only realised this the other day, when one particular BG who is a right terror for dishing out the candy and therefore adored by my boys, happened to bring her own grandson along. He was offered chocolate. She didn't let him have any. They offered again, she took it away. There was no way that this BG was going to let any chocolate anywhere near her precious boy's hopeful mouth. 'It isn't good for him' she offered to me as an explanation, leaving me spluttering and open mouthed in shock.
Ah hah, I thought, now I get it. So now there's a bar of chocolate that has taken up residence permanently in my pocket for the next time I meet them. I'll make sure the little boy gets some. I might even stop him running around the supermarket and untuck his top whilst I'm at it. Heh heh heh.
In particular it has bought me into regular contact with that very specific breed of Bosnian, the Granny. The Bosnian Granny (henceforth known as the BG) is a force to be reckoned with, particularly in any queue in the post office. Generally fairly sturdy and well wrapped up whatever the weather, nothing escapes her beady eye. Absolutely nothing. If there was ever to be a World Championships in gossip, the BG would win. Hands down. The rest of us, skilled as we may think we are in being able to pass on information about other people, are mere amateurs, school children in comparison. The BGs talk about everything, from the clothes you wear, to the time you go to bed, the behaviour of your children, to how they don't like to gossip but..., to how often you throw out your rubbish. There is nothing they don't know. We are obvious targets to speculate about and apparently they are fascinated by us. But I know that we are far from the only people being discussed, so it doesn't really bother me that much. They are enormously generous, always asking us over, stuffing us with food, never letting us go home without a bottle of homemade grape juice, some cake, a bit of pie and no doubt then analysing in detail how well my boys ate their food, our manners and how different we are.
I come into contact with the BGs a lot. Bosnian culture remains very family orientated. Many people continue to live at the same place as their parents/in laws after they get married, the Bosnians simply building another apartment as another story on top of their houses. Sometimes I envy this; the family all gets together for a coffee in the morning; aunts, uncles, other children all pitch in together for a big melee of people to hang out with. There's always someone around. What it does mean though is that the BG is often very actively involved in childcare, whilst the Mums go out to work. So the nursery gates are full of BGs gathered to chitchat whilst waiting for their grandchildren. They always involve me in their conversations; I don't often have much of an idea what they are talking about. They then pick up their immaculately dressed grandchild, who trots over straight away, leaving me chasing my two far from immaculate boys, trying to hold one down whilst getting boots on the other and stopping them from dismantling the climbing frame. The BG, who fully subscribes to the point of view that it takes a village to raise a child, has no qualms in stepping in to tell my two off (inevitably leading to tears, my boys not totally comfortable with being grabbed by a woman they have never met before and on the receiving end of a sharp volley of Bosnian). It took me a while to get over the 'leave my children alone' impulse - the English just don't tend to interfere like that. I have had to learn to not take it personally and the boys have learnt that if they run around in the supermarket, a BG will get on their case.
The BG's always have their children wrapped up warmly in layer upon layer of clothes, to me they look absolutely boiling. Mine are fully wrapped up at the moment, it is deep winter after all. But once in warms up, I don't tuck their tops into their trousers and they wear as few layers as I can get away with; my washing machine stuggles enough with the laundry pile as it is. The BGs look on at my boys in horror. 'That child is naked' one BG memorably hissed at me. 'Which child?' I wondered? Mine was the only child in the vicinity. His top wasn't tucked in. Ah, that will be my child then.
Then there is the chocolate issue. No BG is ever to be found without a bar of chocolate hidden in her bag, to be bought out whenever in contact with any children. My two, for who chocolate is a rare treat, love this aspect of Bosnian culture. They are present in a flash, suddenly all beautifully behaved, looking like little angels and waiting to be given the next sugar laden candy. Being the one who then has to deal with the inevitable sugar rush and less than angelic manic behaviour that will always follow, I'm less of a fan of this custom. However, I recently had a 'eureka' moment of understand finally realising that this chocolate thing is just a part of the BG assessment of my parenting. Usually in these situations I become very English and end up muttering something like 'gosh, thanks, how generous', wait until the BG is out of sight and then confiscate the enormous bar of chocolate from the boys sticky, sugary hands. I now realise that the correct response is to say, even insist, to the BG that the boys are not to be given chocolate and prevent the kids (despite protestations from the BG to the contrary) from laying their little paws on it. I only realised this the other day, when one particular BG who is a right terror for dishing out the candy and therefore adored by my boys, happened to bring her own grandson along. He was offered chocolate. She didn't let him have any. They offered again, she took it away. There was no way that this BG was going to let any chocolate anywhere near her precious boy's hopeful mouth. 'It isn't good for him' she offered to me as an explanation, leaving me spluttering and open mouthed in shock.
Ah hah, I thought, now I get it. So now there's a bar of chocolate that has taken up residence permanently in my pocket for the next time I meet them. I'll make sure the little boy gets some. I might even stop him running around the supermarket and untuck his top whilst I'm at it. Heh heh heh.
Monday, 25 January 2010
There are toys and then there are toys
One of the blogs that I always enjoy reading is Big Beluga Baby. Gail is a mum of 3 (soon to be 4) living in Almaty in Kazakhstan. She came back to the UK recently to await the birth of her baby and has been writing some brilliant posts about coming back to England from somewhere like Kazakhstan. One that I enjoyed the most recently was about the levels of health and safety in the UK, particularly regarding toys (and do go and have a read of it here as it is worth it).
It wasn't until we came to Bosnia that I realised how good the quality of the toys are in the UK. For all the warnings about small parts being a choking hazard or toys being flammable, fundamentally the toys are good, won't fall apart immediately and there is a strong legal system which prevents dodgy toys from being widely distributed.
The situation isn't like that here. There are obviously toy shops that sell excellent toys with well known brands easily available. But Lego is expensive at the best of times, add the Bosnian import taxes to that price and it becomes eye wateringly expensive. The average Bosnian income is some 800KM (£300) a month; you can see that most people actually can't afford to buy this type of toy.
So there are the other toy shops, which sell cheaper stuff, but of dubious quality (at best) and often downright dangerous. It makes me so cross, it sometimes seems that there is some big toy maker out there looking at the toys they have in their stock room that are either rubbish or wouldn't pass the health and safety guidelines of the EU and wondering what to do with them. I wonder if they look around and see Bosnia and think - I know what we'll do, we'll send them there, they'll never notice. I'm sure Bosnia has laws to ensure the standards of their toys, but am equally sure these can be easily bypassed. What really gets my goat though is that those Bosnians who can't afford to buy the quality stuff have to buy the substandard toys and that just isn't right. You shouldn't have to be made to buy safety in toys.
To give you an idea of the what I'm talking about I did a quick inventory of the new toys that have entered the household since Christmas to highlight how the toys are dangerous or simply just aren't fit for purpose. It might be helpful to add that at this point, not even a month after Christmas and a mere 3 DAYS after Luke's birthday, not a single present remains fully intact.
1. Electrical Car - present for Luke's birthday on Thursday, already broken. Wires hanging out and circuit board clearly visible.
2. Ben Ten Gun (this is Bosnia, all small boys are given guns, English middle class sensibilities notwithstanding). A laser like light which would definitely damage an eye - so strong that we can see its light on the wall of a house a good 30m away.
(yes, that light on the wall has been through a balloon and is still that concentrated, scary huh?)
3. A train set (interestingly marketed as a Ben Ten train set but clearly Ben Ten actually has nothing to with it apart from being plastered all over the box). The train is only capable of moving on straight bits of track, such a shame that the only tracks that were supplied are curved.
4. Remote Controlled Car which requires batteries. Sadly, a bit of moulded plastic makes it impossible to open the battery compartment so the batteries cannot be put into the car.
5. A gun - (see what I mean about the gun thing?) and when the gun is fired sparks fly out of the gun. Not intentionally either.
6. Two Pirate ships, complete with pirates. They are such perfect replicas of a pirate ship that the keel has not been modified to take into account that it will be played with out of the water, and as such the boats cannot actually stand up on their own. This can, with patience, be sorted out with all forms of plasticine on the base which means the boat will stand up as long as you are gentle with it, not a hope in this household. Here's a picture of one of the boats, plasticine and all (and yes the delicate bit at the front of the boat has snapped off and has a nail sticking out of it).
(You are not dreaming. It really does say 'World Govt' on the sails of this pirate boat. Tickles me every time. Actually there is another sail on which it also says 'World Govt' but it has broken off and I couldn't make it stay on for the millisecond I needed to take the photo.)
By being able to implement strong health and safety laws means that the UK has safe toys. The rule of law isn't so strong in Bosnia, which leads to toy makers being able to dump unsafe and dangerous toys here. As usual, the people most affected are those who can't afford to make the choice to buy safety. Doesn't that just make you seethe?
(PS - for an idea of how toys should be made head over to the Great Toy Guide which has some great toy reviews - and these toys will be made properly and if they do collapse easily will be highlighted by their real life mummy reviewers).
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
**@%%&&!
One of my least favourite things about some Bosnian parents is their propensity to think that teaching their children to swear is funny. Now, I'm no angel on the swearing front, I try to contain my expletives to 'oh blast' or 'ffffffffiddle dee dee!' and similar, but occasionally the ability to stop my mouth moving before the words come out goes missing. I do try hard not to swear in front of my children as I do not think children swearing is in the slightest way funny, cute or amusing.
Most of the time the Bosnian children swearing doesn't really impact me. I mean I can swear a bit in Bosnian, but most of the insults just form a part of the series of sounds that I don't understand. But when Adam comes back from nursery and suddenly yells at Luke 'eat my pooo-see', I suddenly have a problem on my hands.
Luckily for me (and much like Nappy Valley Girl's boys) he is in a real toilet humour phase so has developed this particular insult to be 'eat my poo'. I'm less fussed about this, it is something he could have come up with on his own and as we have discovered that the only way to get him to eat Spag Bol is to tell him that it is made up of worms covered with worm poo, I can see why he is thinking the way he is. I've had a few conversations with him about not saying nasty things to other people, but keen to not draw attention to this particular phrase I'm ignoring it completely and hoping it will soon be forgotten.
I am interested to know though what others have done to stop their children from swearing, and also from any Bosnians who might be able to clarify whether I'm right in thinking that some people think it is funny to teach children to swear and whether they also like to teach them to swear in English.
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And a late shout out for people wanting to check the latest British Mummy Bloggers Carnival - it went up last week over at A Mother's Ramblings, if you haven't already been over there, then skip over to check out the stories from the parenting front line.
Most of the time the Bosnian children swearing doesn't really impact me. I mean I can swear a bit in Bosnian, but most of the insults just form a part of the series of sounds that I don't understand. But when Adam comes back from nursery and suddenly yells at Luke 'eat my pooo-see', I suddenly have a problem on my hands.
Luckily for me (and much like Nappy Valley Girl's boys) he is in a real toilet humour phase so has developed this particular insult to be 'eat my poo'. I'm less fussed about this, it is something he could have come up with on his own and as we have discovered that the only way to get him to eat Spag Bol is to tell him that it is made up of worms covered with worm poo, I can see why he is thinking the way he is. I've had a few conversations with him about not saying nasty things to other people, but keen to not draw attention to this particular phrase I'm ignoring it completely and hoping it will soon be forgotten.
I am interested to know though what others have done to stop their children from swearing, and also from any Bosnians who might be able to clarify whether I'm right in thinking that some people think it is funny to teach children to swear and whether they also like to teach them to swear in English.
*******************
And a late shout out for people wanting to check the latest British Mummy Bloggers Carnival - it went up last week over at A Mother's Ramblings, if you haven't already been over there, then skip over to check out the stories from the parenting front line.
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