"Yes, but where is the shishlik?" Andy asked patiently. After all, Andy reasoned, the crowd perched over sliced cucumbers and plates of white cheese laid out on the long banquet table had been invited to a bar-be-que.

"Shishlik is meat put on long skewers and grilled over glowing charcoal." came the patient answer.

"Yes, but where is it?" Andy persisted. He compared the search for clear answers to a party game at which an ordinary activity is revealed as a sequence of non-descript statements, phrase by phrase read from a rolled up piece of paper. Except that bridging the language barrier is no party game.

"Ok, so you need to order a padlock for the pharmacy door. How does the padlock get to be fixed to the doors?" Ruslan once more brought his arms together and imitated a padlock clicking into place. When Andy finally dragged Ruslan, and Movsar, the despairing interpreter, to a door and used paperclips to demonstrate the engineering problem, he was rewarded with a puzzled look and told that without a bracket, of course, the padlock would be useless.

Often what the speaker is saying is perhaps not what the listener wants to hear.

I've got a translation program, and in one sense the translations it produces are often better than what can be produced by our trained interpreters. Except interpreting is not about being able to imitate a speaking dictionary. It is about understanding what the speaker wants to say and what the listener needs to hear. That shouldn't be too hard, especially for someone that has worked with the foreigner for a while. Then again, more often than not, what the speaker is saying is perhaps not what the listener wants to hear.

Mostly it simply reflects a different way of problem analysis and problem solving. But one interpreter whom I admire in particular, works for the head of a large foreign aid agency. Again and again I attend meetings at which, as if by miracle, this foreigner's coarse demands and declarations (meaning mine) are delivered as gracious requests and informative comments to the official hosting the gathering. Ah, the power of language.

In my time here, I have known quite a few aid workers who have discovered a substantial affinity with the Caucasians, which grew on them after spending some time here. In a different way from Africa, for instance, there are a lot of characteristics that make working with people from this particular cultural background a rich and rewarding experience for us Europeans. But it nevertheless takes persistence to build enough bridges over the cultural fissures that still exist. And language is only one of them.

The Providers of Life-giving Sustenance

But only language is insufficient to communicate essential notions. And on a typically busy day, I do not really need to communicate with Lyuba and Tamara beyond a simple exchange of practical details.

But to acknowledge these two as providers of life sustaining nourishment is a way of paying respect that cannot be substituted with the right phrase, no matter how correct it is. And respect is something highly valued in this community. Being politically correct and buttering my own sandwiches would translate into insult and not be welcomed as a sign of respect. Understanding the symbolism of action goes hand in hand with learning to communicate.

And if I do not succeed in building bridges to lovely Lyuba and Tamara, can I really pretend to achieve "obshe yazik," that is the "same language" and real understanding, with supposedly more significant interlocutors?

Seeking Common Ground

In the past we would celebrate accordingly, for such occasions deserved to reflect the deep bond people here have with the land they called their own by seeking a forest stream or lake in the mountain foot hills. But for "security reasons" we had decided it not safe to do as tradition would dictate and preferred the confinement of our office-cum-residence.

It was a busy Saturday, nevertheless, and in the end I had to break up a long meeting at the UN with the apology that a barbecue was waiting for me, but if anybody cared to come along, they would be welcome. Well, they all did.

From the outset it was clear that internationals and locals felt uneasy mixing. So I challenged them, fished out a bottle of that awful sparkling wine Johnathan had given me for my birthday and offered it to anybody who could discover the most interesting detail about any of our local staff. I then repeated the challenge to our local staff with respect to the foreign visitors. Sultan came to the call and immediately toasted all the visitors. Mind you, it was indeed curious how quickly he found himself alongside Maria, that blonde Polish aid worker.

The evening passed and became a reunion of old, and new, friends. Busy talk enveloped the long table. But as I scanned the crowd, I could see that relaxation had brought together those that could reaffirm their own experiences by sharing them with those of same background: the foreigners at one end, and the locals at the other.

But the bottle of sparkling never got won ..