Leaving Las Vegas

The use of two languages presented several opportunities for misunderstanding. One of those situations occurred on a cold winter morning in the middle of nowhere. One icy February weekend, I decided to visit a fellow volunteer. His site was the last stop on a desolate road that led to…some other country. The busses were unreliable, infrequent, and loaded with an assortment of people, potatoes, sheep, chickens, and the occasional Peace Corps volunteer. I will always remember standing in the frigid morning air, waiting for my only chance to get back. When the bus arrived, it was packed. I was resigned to stand for the two-hour journey. There was the slim chance that several passengers would get off at another town midway – a Dante-esque Purgatory of sorts. That is what I was thinking about while being supported by at least four other passengers in the rear of the bus on this very early, very cold, very crowded, and very hung-over Sunday morning.
When the bus stopped, a sense of dread always followed. Why are we stopping? Is the bus broken? Have the police stopped us? Is there an accident? A sick passenger? Or worse, are we picking up MORE people? Then I saw them, three young men. Three very loud, very drunk men, pushing their way onto the bus – not out of rudeness mind you. The pushing was simply a matter of physics. They were getting on and sheer force was the only way they could displace those of us already standing in the aisle. As they entered the bus, the tallest one looked directly at me and said something. He said it loudly. He said it clearly. This is what I heard: “Ya loobloo teebyeh!” Now, I knew enough basic Russian to know that it meant I love you. In a slurred, and somewhat distorted dialect of drunk Russian, he said that he loved me. He shouted it. Now, I did not recognize this man. In fact, he didn’t even resemble anyone I knew. Furthermore, he didn’t say those endearing words with the facial expression one would expect. Oh, and the fact that I am a male – and was one at the time – added to the confusion. As he kept repeating this mantra, I could tell he was growing more and more agitated. His friends appeared to tighten their grip on his shoulders and their attempts to calm him intensified. I imagine my subdued grin and obvious bewilderment did not improve his demeanor. He looked like he wanted to kill me. That’s when the volunteer next to me clarified things. “He doesn’t love you, dude. He wants to KILL you! Oobloo, not loobloo.” Ah yes, the distinction was now clear. One simple consonant sound was about to turn our relationship upside down. Now I understood the drunk man’s facial expression and all of its subtext. Now I felt the sense of fear and helplessness that he was hoping to instill in me. Oh God! You are a funny son-of-a-bitch!