Aunty Mango

Number 70 on my bucket list is to “meet a relative for the first time,” which sounds simple enough right? I mean, somebody gets up the duff and pops out a kiddo, boom! Tick! Hello new rello! Well, being that most of my immediate family is past (or passing) their breeding primes, even at the time I originally wrote my list, I pretty quickly began to realise that this mission might be a toughie. In fact, in many ways, this was and is a goal very much out of my hands – fate, this is on you dude!

Yeah, fate, it certainly does have these weirdo plans at times!?

You see, I think it was about four years ago now that I received this completely rando Facebook message from a lady in Latvia saying that she thought we were related (FYI, which all my family does originate from Latvia – we’re Vikings I tell ya, haha). So yep, I was pretty stoked to get this original message, especially as it turned out to be true, we are related.

This lady is my grandmother’s (on my mum’s side), her sister’s daughter. So, in technical terms, this lady is my second cousin, or something like that – and obviously still living in Latvia. I actually remember meeting her mum (my grandmother’s sister) when I was about ten, this was when she came to Australia to visit, which I’m thinking would’ve been in the very late 80s.

Over my lifetime I’ve met quite a few relatives from Latvia, most being from my dad’s side, and all being extremely good looking, haha. Nah, but this is something I do always joke about, that Latvian’s are this uber sexy race of people. Shit, Google it, it’s true. In fact, we have the highest number per capita of supermodels in the world – bloody hell, dunno why I missed out!

Silly boofhead, ha!

Still, that’s right, back to meeting all my good looking relatives (haha).

I’ve always found it to be a bit awkward and hard because of the language barrier, like especially the older generations of Latvian’s I’ve met, almost none of them have spoken English. Or, they’re had this broken three word dialect – beer, whiskey, Balsams. It was just lucky that both mum and dad have always spoke perfect Latvian, I always had these in-built translators.

Not speaking at least some Latvian, it’s actually something that I do regret in life, never learning to speak my ancestor’s tongue. Dunno, it feels like it has a spiritual significance. I know Moana gets it – Motunui! You’re welcome!

Anyways, back to this whole Aunty Mango story…

So, we met online those four years back, which honestly, it never once crossed my mind that we might meet. Also, little did I know that she was using Google translate to communicate with me. Very clever. Very sneaky, haha.

Then, slowly, as she began connecting with some of my other family members (which, this new family member was this super cool novel discovery), however, most of us lot are bloody hopeless and can’t string two Latvian words together to save us. Shite (this) and piragi (a yummy Latvian snack) is at least the extent of my vocab. So, potentially the language barrier was shaping up to be this awkward hard thing again, something that I really didn’t want to happen. I was super curious about this lady – her life, past, location and family.

Super Ives to the rescue… yeah, once again, lucky my in-built translator dad was here to save the day. Actually, dad is pretty much the only one of us Aussie noobs who can still fluently speak the language. So, dad and aunty started chatting over the phone (nb: as this lady is more so dad’s age, it felt weird calling her cousin, so I stuck with aunty), and very soon these international phone buds became good mates. I don’t know much about their conversations, but for dad anyway, I was really happy that’d he’d now found a friend that re-connected him with his heritage and the homeland.

Sapuvušus banānus šņaucu sava prieka pēc. Traki.

The older I get, the more important this stuff has become to me. Like I’d give my left freakin’ arm to go to Latvia, to walk the same streets as my ancestors. I reckon it would be eye-opening beyond words; truly life-changing. Yeah, for anyone who has an immigrant past (no matter how many generations this goes back), I believe experiencing this connection is a must do. We all come from somewhere hey.

Anyhow, over the next few years dad kept in touch with “aunty,” chatting quite regularly. I never said much to dad but I loved this, especially when he’d tell me about my extended family over in the Baltics and all their happenings. I’d get routine updates actually. Very cool. And one other thing I particularly loved, one of my rellos over there is a fair dinkum blacksmith, and he posted over some of these fancy handmade candlesticks n’ stuff. Definitely some of the prized possessions that I display in my apartment.

Oh look, let’s get right to it hey! So, about six or so months ago dad told me that “aunty” was going to make the hella’ mission, the near-on thirty hour flight over to Oz, then that she was going to stay for three months. In fact, she was going to stay at dad’s house too. So awesome.

Haha, dad the in-built interpreter, hotel and tour guide. He loved it.

Far out though, during this three month stay (which has now just recently come to an end), blimey they covered some miles. The grey nomads doing the grey nomad thing. I was so happy for them too, “Team Daddy Latvia,” and I was always being sent photos of their explorations. It was lovely to feel like I was even that little part of their adventures – and I was especially stoked when they sent me selfies from the Big Lobster in Robe, S.A. I’m obsessed with these cheesy roadside attractions, always have been.

Still, rambles and “diamond hands baby” stories aside (apparently aunty was a total tin-ass when it came to gambling), but really the whole point to this story is that I surely did get to meet a relative for the first time. I met my second cousin Aunty Mango. She was kind, classy, polite, blah and um er, it might sound a bit weird but she was extremely gracious. Or, maybe a better way to put it, she had an aura of grace about her. It was lovely to be around. She really did feel like family.

Lielais omārs man lika pamest pokera automātus un spēlēt loto tikai sestdienas izlozē, lai veicas, zaudētāji. Haha.

Okay, I’m only learning!

And now to the question that I’m sure is on the tip of your lips, why call her Aunty Mango?

Well, it was bloody unbelievable, nah it was a flat out phenomenon; but I facetime call dad most nights, and throughout aunty’s three month stay, whenever I’d call she’d always be eating a mango. No kidding. Whether they were at dad’s house or at some obscure hotel in Echuca, aunty was like this portable mango disposal unit. Cute. Bizarre. Which, apparently, in part, this is because mangoes in Latvia are nothing like what we get over here. They struggle to grow over there because of the cold climate, so they’re often imported (from other parts of Europe which also have sub-standard growing conditions), they’re then often picked and packed green, and subsequently they have bugger all taste. No wonder aunty went so nuts; Australia has rich, juicey mango gold. We’re super lucky.

I love these type of contrasts, whether it be from a product or food, even from a festival or vibe. I know from my own experiences overseas, living within different cultures is a truly magical thing. Or, haha, yeah, like seeing all these extremely good looking people dress up in traditional costumes, sometimes dancing around fire pits, then celebrating things like the winter solstice. Whoa, cliché Latvia extremo. So, why not chuck in some amber jewellery and woollen mittens as well.

In fact, it’s so nice meeting people from foreign lands, as this is when you truly do get to move beyond the quintessential and cliché. Even with a “dad interpreter” and an aunty speaking broken English, you get to see a different side of the world, a different side of humanity. Differing perspectives are a beautiful thing.

I also got to learn a lot about “me.”

You’re a legend Aunty Mango. Tick! See you back here in September.

Liela mīlestība.