Military Review

2 language barrier, or "I would know Arabic, would read Khayyam"

In one of the previous tales, I already mentioned our attitude towards the Arabic language. I would like to return to this issue again, more precisely, to the consequences of this issue.

The boy Vasya served in our company. Though his name was different on his passport, but everyone called him Vasya, and he himself presented this when he met. Vasya was Azer (under this word I do not want to say anything offensive, just a brief nationality) and a Muslim, and also a very good friend and a brave warrior.

- Vasya, how do you shoot yours?

- Yes, you ohrenel? What are their own! You give me yours, for each of you I will put these companies.

And it was not bluster, I personally believed him as myself. Well, Vasya is fluent in Azerbaijani and understood Turkish. Languages ​​are related. And in preparation for the rotation, he stupidly mowed and honestly slept in the language lessons, being absolutely sure that he would not have problems with this language on the mission. The company officer was also pleased with the gift of fate in the form of Vasya, an additional company translator and a connoisseur of Muslim traditions, and pinned great hopes on him.

Well, Muslim Vasya was the one yet. However, we have half of such Christians, which must be confessed. He was a young man who had long been Russified and who grew up in the modern world, who ate pork stew, lard and drank with us on a par. True, once, when the priest consecrated us before sending, he asked, a little embarrassed, to cover him from the holy water. We pushed him into the back row, he sat down and we covered him from drops. It is unlikely that any of us then thought about respect for another faith or even about some similar nonsense such as tolerance. We just helped a friend, that's all. That was our friend Vasya. Although why was, and remains so, health to him and his family, happiness to his two twins.

And now on the topic. On the mission, Vasya's self-confidence has evaporated along with our hopes. It turned out that what he knew and understood was Farsi, and here everyone speaks Arabic. And the traditions of Islam differ not only within the state, but also within the province and even the city. Here is such an incident. So we had to experience the subtleties of communication with the local population. And slowly the service went. Patrols, convoys, roadblocks, arrests and stripping, confiscation weapons (which seemed to be larger than the population) and local disassembly. And so every day, we were lost in numbers and days, we were tired and fell from our feet, but no one ever complained. I, at least, did not hear.

And here is another inspection of a nameless aul. We already knew the rules and traditions a little bit, and the search was carried out in accordance with these. We arrived, dismounted, took the aul in the ring with the beterers, found the elder and agreed to inspect, offered to surrender illegal weapons and ammunition, hand out militants, warned about the consequences. Together with him they walked through the shacks, if possible, going to the female half. Behaved respectfully. By the way, we, Slavs (Poles, Slovaks), differed from some colleagues in the coalition precisely in their relationship to the local ones. I think that this is one of the main reasons for the small number of victims on our part. We understood HOW to behave, unlike Amers. Their search was like a hurricane, they came, shot without a reason, all on the ground indiscriminately. Looking at them, I understood the Arabs, and their dislike for the Pindos. Although in dealing with us the same amers were quite normal and courteous people.

Vasya walked between the houses, looking into the cracks of the fences. At some point I lost sight of him, and now, when I was about to look for him, he emerged from the shack with two Chinese AKs and a package of horns to them.

- Fu, damn it, hid in the car. I ask him: "There is a force (weapon)." And he shook his head, and then the gun priper. In the meantime, he went after him, I lured a car in his yard. I would have left one machine for him, but not hell to deceive. Both took. But the gun left, do not shoot cockroaches.

Vasya, satisfied with himself, checked the AC for discharging and threw them at the feet of KPVTeshnik.

We climbed onto the armor and he added in a low voice:

- And I gave him a pendal and removed the penalty.

- How is it, grandmothers? “Everyone looked accusingly at Vasya.”

- Yes, I, absolutely scumbag! In, look. “He pulled a flat green sealed bottle from under his armor. - In the evening buhn?

- What is it like?

- A jester knows, stood in the fridge.

Arriving at the base, we in the canteen gathered snack and opened on the occasion of a hidden can of tushnyak. It was decided this way: we will find an Arab translator, ask what we have in mind if everything is OK - buhn. If not, throw it out. They did not take into account that the translator went home for the night. Before 22: 00 went in circles, nobody went to bed. The squad suspected something was wrong:

“Well, why aren't we sleeping, tomorrow morning at the checkpoints.”

We looked at each other - maybe take a share. Oleg is a normal guy. Everyone glanced at Vasya - his bottle. Vasya sighed and sat down to the platoon:

- Listen, Oleg, there is such a thing ...

Five minutes later, Oleg was in the know and was already examining the bubble with knowledge. In Arabic, it was written in gold letters on the background of a camel caravan in the desert. Usually everything was dubbed in English, but here he was absent. The only clear and promising inscription is the% sign next to Arabic numerals (by the way, the numbers we call Arabic, 1,2,3, turned out to be not). Someone started a phrase book, and the platoon officer turned the numbers into degrees:

- 37.

All whistled, for local swill almost poison. And for us, the bare fake. Oleg made a radical decision:

“It's useless to take it from you.” One dick still nadybayu. You can not risk it either - that I will be for the commander. Therefore, I drink first, gram 100, smoke, wait half an hour, tell how it stuck. Seryoga, he is to our medical orderly, is ready to wash the stomach in case of anything.

Oleg opened the bottle, sniffed the contents. He handed it to others, everyone agreed that it smelled of alcohol. Having poured a glass, the platoon slowly drank it. At the same time, his face changed its expression several times - from joy to disgust. Having lowered an empty glass, he refused bread baked with stewed meat, arguing at the same time:

- For the purity of the experiment.

They went out, lit up. Feeling the importance of the moment and the views directed at him, Oleg thoughtfully looked into the night sky and into his inner world:

- SchA, schA. The taste of a cigarette, like after vodka, is normal. Burned too similar. Somehow in the stomach hard. But there is no colic. It already pleases. It seems puta.

And so half an hour of comments with long pauses of cigarette puffs. We sat on pins and needles. You do not think that one alcote gathered. No, well, there was some excitement to do something that is not possible in the army. Besides the first time here. For example, I at this point did not drink for four months exactly.

Finally, Oleg, I looked into the depths of mine for the last time and I made a brief verdict:

- Can.

All rushed into the place. Almost a liter went quickly, for a maximum of 40 minutes, without a smoke break. Spilled 3 times. With unaccustomed to all quickly unhappy, snack almost did not eat. The taste of the liquor was still. Some golimy diluted moonshine with an incomprehensible gasoline flavor. Fu, an abomination. After the first, I shuddered, but I did not refuse the second. They went out for a smoke, stood, chatted in low tones and went to bed. Oleg commander will put us. Lying in the beds, they remembered a couple of jokes and somehow, all quietly fell asleep.

The next morning I woke up with a forgotten taste of kaki in my mouth. Went to brush my teeth. There already stood like me and diligently rubbed my teeth. Everyone smiled slyly and asked each other how each other felt. My head almost did not hurt, and I was ready to serve. We gathered before the instruction on the bench in the smoking room. Someone with the prospect of talking about the upcoming birthday, and where you can break through yesterday's drink to celebrate it. Came translator Isa. It seems that one I saw how Vasya called him to the post and showed him an empty bottle. Isa looked at her, carefully read the label, asked someone about the interlocutor. After listening to the answer, he looked at us in the smoking room and smiled at his whole mouth, and began to explain something. I saw the face of Vasya changing, listening to the translator. Puzzled, it looked stupid. Vasya cut off Isa in mid-sentence and pulled him by the hand to us:

- Guys, there is such a thing ... Explain, Isa, kid.

Isa examined us carefully.

- Did you drink it yesterday? - with a slight accent asked us a former colonel of the now defunct army Isa Abdul.

We nodded together:

- Yeah. What is it, Isa?

My head was hammered by the thought of the aftertaste of yesterday's liquor — gasoline, and there was tetraethyl lead (anti-knock), and there — hello, impotence. I shuddered. Oh, no, in the morning everything was fine - the wigwam was standing. Isa smiled at 32 tooth:

- Yes, I think nothing, you will not feel bad. This medicine is for animals at home, so that the worms from the priests come out.

Everyone did not immediately catch up with what was happening. Worms out of priests? Che for bullshit. Someone thought out loud:


The next second, everyone laughed. I had a tantrum. I looked at Vasin smiling hare, and could not stop. Isa waved his hand at us and went about his business. He did not tell anyone about our drinking. Well done, with the concept of a man. Still, the Novorossiysk military school left a mark on it.

PS I have already voiced the moral: learn languages, they will be useful. I do not know how anyone, but I still have no worms. So the remedy worked.
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  1. vlad0
    vlad0 25 November 2013 11: 05
    Still, Khayyam wrote in Farsi. those. in Persian, not Arabic!
    1. Military79
      25 November 2013 20: 38
      I read "Rubai" at school and, somehow, did not intersect with Khayyam. Yes, and, to my own shame, I have little knowledge of the writers of Central Asia. Do I remember Gamzatov or folk Nasredin, and that is thanks to the school.
      And for the blunder in the title, I'm sorry, it just spun in the language after the previous story.
  2. ImPerts
    ImPerts 3 December 2013 13: 13
    Here the native was surprised. I don’t know what he thought. I can assume that the guys decided to drive the shaitan out of the armored personnel carriers)))