Baltic Barriers

by Lee Wall (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Lithuania

December has started and Kaunas is experiencing its first snowfall of the year. With the knowledge that the Christmas market starts tomorrow, I feel confident that I can stay in the warm for today, instead of trapse out into the cold. I am in the common room of my hostel. Although usually hostels are full of energy, and people, ‘low season’ in Lithuania is not an understatement; there are only me and three others sitting around the television. One thing I have taken for granted is the use of a certain international language, of which I am fortunately fluent in, when speaking to others. However, as in Latvia and elsewhere in Lithuania, relying on my native tongue has put me in a pickle. These three are Ukrainian and speak Ukrainian and Russian. Luckily, one, Pav, also speaks broken English and is keen to practice, so tries to translate the Russian show into English. Little does he know, I am following the plot without any knowledge of Russian; The Voice: Russian is very similar to The Voice: UK. An older lady shuffles in and sits down next to me. With wrinkled skin and grey, receding hair, she could be anywhere from sixty to eighty years old. She spends a few minutes glancing between the television and me, before asking a question. “Вы мальчик или девочка?” I have no knowledge of Russian, a language which, as we are in Lithuania, she expects me to understand fluently. To her confusion, I stare blankly back at her. She thinks I did not hear her, so she repeats herself. “Вы мальчик или девочка?” I am 5’8, not muscular, and without facial hair. These factors help explain the translation when Pav offers a translation. “She say, ‘Are you boy or girl’.” The Russian lady realises that I have no knowledge of Russian and utilises our unfortunate new, partially bilingual friend as a translator. Her next question is immediate and translated back to me. “Why you don’t know Russian?” I stumble as I consider my answer. Why haven’t I bothered to learn, at least a little, Lithuanian and Russian? My Duolingo Spanish streak does not help here. How would my grandparents react if they began to speak with a young person who could not reply in English? I must reply with something. I tell Pav to tell her that I just didn’t have time to learn the languages of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. Unfortunately, despite my hope she would let this slide, she knows I dodged, not answered, her question. She repeats the same question. I fumble a little more, but she seems to have lost interest to this line of questioning. This time, it’s my turn to ask a question. I tell Pav my question, he sighs, and asks my question. He asks her if she can speak Lithuanian. She cannot, so I direct a follow-up to discover why. Although born in Lithuania to Lithuanian parents, she was bought up with Russian rule, in an environment where Russian language was encouraged and a sense of ‘Lithuanian’ forbidden. Then, as an adult under Soviet control, she had work, a place to live, and food on her table. Since then, her quality of life has deteriorated and, no matter the real reason, she blames independence. It is an unusual take, one that I, nor Pav by the look on his face, had heard before. I suppose there are two sides to every event. By this point, I had spoken to many Estonian, Latvian, and Lithuanian people and the responses were all in support of independence. The nearby Devil’s Museum, depicting Stalin walking across a wasteland of his own creation, puts the former Soviet leader in the ‘devil’ category. Her response was different and unexpected. I decide not to mention this here. Travel is about learning about people and their diverse opinions, not bringing people to my, or the popular, ‘side’. The conversation simmers. She walks over to the fridge and brings a plate over; shares sausage and cheese with me, Pav, and the other two Ukrainians still in the common room; and we continue to watch The Voice: Russia.