Chapter Three: Christmas in Kyrgyzstan
We'll see how my first time away from a Marshall Family Christmas goes...
Oh, and I've been trying to upload pictures, but it hasn't been working. Maybe it will this time, maybe not.
Merry Christmas, guys.
22 December 2005
The Kyrgyz crack me up. It was a huge mistake to leave my journal home today. I just may have had my most entertaining day in country thus far. I’ll try my best to recap.
I woke up this morning, “brewed” myself some 8 O’clock coffee, and headed off to school to meet my counterpart, so that we could hop in a cab together and drive to Kyzyl Suu and get acquainted with the educational headquarters in my region. Half an hour ride down, ten minutes in the city and another thirty minutes back, I only missed teaching two of my classes. But on a Thursday, when my day seems like it will never end, that’s huge.
While the possibility excited for me to be back in time to teach 9A, I decided to take my time, go to the outhouse, and leisurely stroll back into school. After finishing my lesson plan for the day in the teacher’s lounge, I grabbed a cup of tea and some deep fried goodness in the cafeteria by myself. I don’t know what it is about seeing someone of authority in another setting, but when my students caught a glimpse of me sipping away, they all but ignored me and went on their merry way… until I decided to embarrass them and shout from across the room, “Good morning!” and then I waved, long and hard. You better believe they waved back.
I decided to teach myself some Russian between lessons. I got as far as counting to ten, hello, what is this?, and thank you. And one of the other teachers, instead of trying small talk with me, corrected my pronunciation. I tried to showoff my newfound education to my fourth graders. They got a kick out of it.
On my way back home I saw all a bunch of people, and it hit me how odd I must be for these guys. First of all, men and women don’t really make eye contact when passing one another on the road, so I try to follow cultural norms…for the most part. I know I stick out, so a part of me thinks I should just forget the norms and go all out, representing the overconfident American. As a common courtesy, I only do this sometimes, picking and choosing my subjects thoughtfully, mainly older women and students I recognize from school. These are the ones I look in the eye, making them just a little uneasy. Sometimes I bring out the big guns and get the friendly smile rocking too. This afternoon, however, I chucked the norms, approaching a group of 20-something guys head-on. Instead of looking down at my feet, careful not to slip on the ice, I held my head high, waiting for them to be the first to flinch and look away. I must have met my match because one of the dudes looked right at me, smiled, and then proceeded to ask me questions I couldn’t answer. It was glorious.
Approaching my house, I passed the neighbors and caught sight of the horse. It was just chilling, standing there, its head two inches from the door, waiting to be let in. I’d hate to be a horse.
Someone ticked me off today. When I got back to school and went up to my room to take a break, and you know, blow my nose, a teacher was conducting a lesson with about five of the advanced-speaking girls right there in my classroom. She actually had the nerve to use my own personal Post-It notes for things like explaining the difference between “who” and “whom.” I couldn’t believe it. I looked in, made my observations and quickly shut the door. I know I shouldn't let things like that get to me. I'm working on it. But if I hand-out any more pieces of chalk and Post-Its, I fear I'll be conducting lessons by writing on my students' backs with my fingers.
The other day I handed out candy to the students who participated in Identify Any English Words By Listening To This One Christmas Song game. Word spread like mono in a co-ed freshman college dorm, and next thing I knew I found myself giving the last of my Lifesavers to the same teacher for a “teaching activity” and her daughter. Call me crazy, but small objects in the mouth of an infant, regardess of name, are anything but a lifesaver.
In casual conversation the Kyrgyz on the south shore use the plural form of you when speaking to just one, solitary person. I didn’t catch on until this afternoon when my host brother ask me if I was going back to school for a lesson later. In translation he said, “So are you guys going back to school?” I looked at him, pointed to myself, looked over my shoulder, just in case there was someone else in the room I hadn’t noticed and said, “Me?” He nodded. So, “Just me?” “Yes, you guys.” I nodded and just said that I had a lesson later, and I just came home for an hour to get some things. I think that satisfied him because he just dipped his bread into some jam and started eating again.
Is it bad that I’m already on the fourth disc of Alias? I know I should pace myself, but it’s just too entertaining.
21 December 2005
I brought my iPod and speakers into class today for the purpose of sharing some American culture. I made all my students listen to Harry Connick Jr.’s version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” about 25 times in the span of 40 minutes. While I am fairly confident not one student understood a single word from the Christmas classic, I did come to the conclusion that I have failed 100% in my “attempt to flee the Man and his inevitable 9 to 5.”
I feel like I should be digging a ditch somewhere in Africa. Instead, I find myself waking up to my travel alarm clock everyday, getting dressed in business casual attire, and walking the 15 minutes to my current place of employment.
I realize this next statement will make me sound like a dude, but I’m going to say it anyway. Handy work, like fixing things or mowing a lawn or tuning a bike, makes me really happy. I always watched those Home Fixer-Upper shows and thought, “I could totally do that.” I mean, if a couple of Ty Pennington’s pink t-shirt wearing hunnies can hack it on a show like Trading Spaces, I know I could too.
It’s not that I don’t get satisfaction from teaching. Lord knows some of those kids are super cute and there’s something entirely amazing about watching a kid try his or her hardest to understand something. Or witnessing a kid shine above his classmates in an activity he didn’t grasp one day before. Or maybe just the feeling one can get from having a really crappy day with adults and then being walked all the way home with a pack of 9-year-olds. There’s also the moment when going around the room, checking homework, when the little runt that pissed you off a day earlier, slips a piece of hard candy into your coat pocket, a smile beaming from ear to ear, exposing the same cherry flavored piece you now have too. These are good things. These are the little things that can easily go undetected, but these are the things that make what I’m doing here worthwhile.
While I know this, I really can’t wait for summer and my secondary projects. Yes, I want to be the best teacher I can be while I’m here, but in the long run, I want to do a lot. “A lot” meaning, things that bring me joy while I’m doing it. Like ditching a ditch.
The other day I caught myself standing back, watching a couple of 11th grade boys hang up my world map and the one of the United States I brought from home. I lugged those babies all around Kyrgyzstan, only to be instructing a 17-year-old to move it “a little higher on the right.” I should have finished the job I started and hammed those suckers right in. Instead, I feigned helplessness and thanked my new friends. That could have been the start of something beautiful.
Kyrgyzstan has Married With Children and America’s Funniest Videos (AFV) playing nightly. While the dubbed Russian is comically satisfactory, quiet English can be detected if the volume is turned up high enough. But there’s some other dude hosting, and I don’t even think he was a casual acquaintance of Danny Tanner or Joey. How rude!
19 December 2005
Yesterday I was invited to my Ata’s youngest sister’s house for a lunch/early dinner. It’s on the outskirts of Karakol and the same home my host sister stays in during the week. The sister/aunt may be one of the prettiest Kyrgyz women I’ve seen. She was really nice too but gave me a really odd gift. Before she handed it over, she was rummaging through some drawers, and five minutes later she busted out two boxes. She gave one to me and one to her niece who was there with me. It’s an acrylic painted dog dressed like a woman, which serves the purposes of kitchen utensil holder and endless topic of conversation. The dog has a place, right in its back, holding a wooden spatula, fork and spoon, and an eggbeater. It just might be the most interesting/semi-frightening gift I have ever received.
Today after school one of the teachers told me that I had two packages waiting for me at the post office. My Apa rounded up Beknazar my host brother and made him walk there with me to help with the carrying. My mother managed to pay $80 in shipping and handling costs to send 5 tic-tac-toe boards, two decks of cards, some children’s books and Season 4 of Alias.
I pretty much almost burned my house down this afternoon. I had three things plugged into the outlet thingy when I was told on more than one occasion only to use two at a time. I was only heating water and keeping myself warm, but I guess that was asking for too much. I thought I smelled burning plastic, but it didn’t faze me as many a people burn it on a daily basis here anyway. Bekoo, as he’s known around this neck of the woods, knocked on my door and asked if I smelled anything funny. I nodded, and then to please his curiosity did a quick one-over. It didn’t kill the cat, but it was then that I noticed the wall outlet was fried. Oops. Needless to say, I quickly unplugged everything, lit a candle, opened the doors and sprayed some lemon air freshener throughout the house. My Apa was home before the stench wore off so I had some ‘splaing to do!
So I got this letter from my dad and a couple Christmas CDs. I haven’t really cried since I’ve left home, but today he managed to win some tears as I finished his letter and then as he instructed, listened to Track 2 off this one Irish Christmas album he sent. I know I’m a daddy’s girl, and I’m comfortable with it. He’s the best.
17 December 2005
It’s Saturday night and I have Season One of Scrubs.
Today at the Karakol Bazaar, I got made of for speaking Kyrgyz by two Russian women selling me floresant socks.
I waited an hour and a half for a marshrutka to take me three kilometers from where I needed to be.
I came home and did my laundry. The last time I did a load was in the Issyk Kul hotel bathtub. It took me two hours. My hands are starting to fall off.
Right now I am trimming my fingernails. I read this book yesterday called Letters From a Nut. In it, this guy named Ted L. Nancy writes all these random places and businesses and asks for absurd things, all of which are made-up. In this one letter, he wrote Cooperstown, the Baseball Hall of Fame, and said that one time he delivered room service to Mickey Mantle, and when he wasn’t looking, Nancy took the remnants of the toenails Mantle had clipped minutes before. He wanted to donate them to Cooperstown through Topps, one of the major trading card companies. Topps actually wrote back, saying that if he took a picture and documented the condition they were in, they’d look into it.
I just ate half a tube of paprika Pringles. Paprika Pringles make me think of Spain. I shared a tube with some cats this one time over a nice bottle of red wine. It was so classy, the bottle actually just said, “Vino Tinto.” No other name or anything. That’s like a can of pop just saying “Pop.” Every time I pop, I can’t stop.
Chapter Two: I just waited 20 minutes to post this...
16 December 2005
I think posting from most recent date first is best. I'm in Karakol this afternoon with C-Belle. We have a plan to hit up Zum and check out the basement's supply of fishing gear. I don't think we could get any cooler.
15 December 2005
I finished Holidays on Ice. I take it back. Sedaris’ imagination is more messed up than it is awesome. The first chapter was by far the most hilarious. Dead babies in dryers and the theme of “Christmas means giving until it bleeds,” are not, on the other hand, my cup of tea.
But you know what is? Black tea. I’m still a coffee girl, black, no cream, no sugar, but tea has really been a nice substitute for the time being. I brought a French-press and a bag of hazelnut grinds from home, but that will only last me so long.
I finally sat down and read the World Series magazine my parents sent me. I have to admit, it brought tears to my eyes at 2:30 this afternoon. I don’t know what it is about baseball, but I love it. I pretty much love everything about it. Even the designated hitter.
I wrote three e-mails today to three good people. Well one of them was to five people, but collectively those five make an amazing person. I’ll leave it at that.
“As pretty as a song, a song could ever be, like Christmas in the river, without a bow or Christmas tree, this afternoon with you was something like a letter, the kind that someone writes but never sends, and when you look at me like that, I know someday it’s gonna end, and when you get old, I bet you miss your friends.”
-- Ryan Adams “Friends” --11 December 2005
14 December 2005
I passed out last night around 6 PM. I woke up at 11 and thought it was the new day. When I got home from school, I had the worst headache ever, so like all chemically dependent Americans, I downed 2 extra-strength Tylenols, Target brand, 1 Benadryl and began to read some Dostoevsky. Within 20 minutes I was out.
When I woke up for good this morning, my Apa told me that she knocked on my door for tea around 8. All I know for sure was that I woke up starving and ate a load of potatoes. There’s nothing quite like a Kyrgyz meal during winter. Meat and potatoes. Then some more meat and potatoes. Some pasta, and then more potatoes.
When I was getting dressed this morning, I looked at my closet door and saw my Advent calendar, quickly remembering that during my haze, I forgot to open yesterday’s box. I don’t know what it is, but getting to open two boxes is somehow better than one. Even without chocolate. No matter how old you are.
I always think “Narrow Escape” by Ray LaMontagne is Ryan Adams when it first comes on. Always.
Against my Apa’s orders I went to school today. The children need me. Well, that’s what I tell myself anyway. I was feeling fine really, but that didn’t stop the herd of teachers from coming up to me throughout the day, asking about my health. The Kyrgyz think tea solves everything. I’ve had about ten cups today.
Wednesdays are my roughest days. Yesterday I was in the crankiest mood ever that I actually had to take a time-out and pray to God to calm me down and give me patience. It worked. When I went to school this morning, I was determined to remain optimistic and an enthusiastic teacher. Because who wants to sit in a class with a lame-ass teacher? It wasn’t really my fault that yesterday sucked so much. One of the younger teachers must have asked me for 4 favors within 3 hours. I realize I’m here as a volunteer, and by definition, according to my Microsoft Word dictionary, a volunteer is somebody who does something, especially something undesirable, without being forced to do it; however, on a day when I felt like crap, was working in a icebox, and students were knocking on my door every 5 seconds and asking me over and over again whether they could come in and touch everything I had in the room, those 4 favors were a lot to ask. And that was only Tuesday. But today, Wednesday, things went well. Until I looked at my schedule in the teachers’ lounge and realized I have exactly the same amount of classes tomorrow.
I started reading David Sedaris’ Holiday on Ice during my break this afternoon. That’s some good stuff. One of the K-12s lent me his Sedaris collection. I plan to keep it indefinitely.
“I had two people say that to me today, “I’m going to have you fired.” Go ahead, be my guest. I’m wearing a green velvet costume; it doesn’t get any worse than this. Who do these people think they are?” (34).
The power went out about 10 minutes ago. I am fairly certain it was my fault. I was distilling water and warming my room with not only my PC heater, but the extra one my host-family left in my room. Oops. When I unplugged one of the heaters, the power came back.I spent the weekend in Kyzyl Cyy doing things with the other PCVs. Officially, we were conducting “a warden weekend,” gathering each other’s information, and doing other responsible stuff. I like Kyzyl Cyy. It seems bigger than Jety Oguz, but not in a bad way. They have two bazaars. We have none. We had dinner at a café, and as far as I know, we don’t have one of those either.
I’m in a village that’s small enough to give you the feel that once you spend enough time here, you’ll feel like you belong to a large family. I’m also close enough to the bigger city, so that if I need to escape, check my e-mail, buy something clutch, I’m taken care of. Being the only volunteer in my village, and the second one ever, depending on how you look at it, I’m lucky as well. I get to sort of pave my way.
When my time is up here, I hope to look back and see the road I’m making. I imagine it to be quite curvy with some detours, but from one end, the other end can still be seen. I have visions. I have goals.
One of the Karakol volunteers made fun of me because I said that I didn’t want to give grades or homework. He said something like, “Ahh, I can see it’s all about the kids.” I understand what he’s saying; it’s just that grades don’t really reflect anything, especially if in the end they’re changed anyway. And as far as homework goes, a lot of these kids wont do it, and if they do, it’s probably going to be wrong. I’d then have to spend the next class going over the homework, and these classes are short enough as it is. If someone says something, maybe I’ll look into it, but I like my style. Granted it’s new, but I like it. Right now I am more concerned with learning the names and faces of my students and where they stand in terms of their English levels. Once I have these down, then I’ll expand my lesson plans. I think I’ll write up a test and make them do a fill-in-the-blank type thing. I always liked that stuff. Wait, or did I hate it? I can’t recall.
13 December 2005
Last night I read The Alchemist instead of watching the film. That book is amazing. C-Belle lent it to me and said it was the deciding factor in her pursuit to join the Peace Corps. I wish I had read it in Spanish first. Some things are just better that way. To me, Spanish is poetry.
“But the sheep had taught him something more important: that there was a language in the world that everyone understood, a language the boy had used throughout the time he was trying to improve things at the shop. It was the language of enthusiasm, of things accomplished with love and purpose, and as part of a search for something believed in and desired. Tangier was no longer a strange city, and he felt that, just as he had conquered this place, he could conquer the world” (75).
“He still had some doubts about the decision he had made. But he was able to understand one thing: making a decision was only the beginning of things. When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision” (82).
“He watched the hawks as they drifted on the wind. Although their flight appeared to have no pattern, it made a certain kind of sense to the boy. It was just that he couldn’t grasp what it meant. He followed the movement of the birds, trying to read something into it. Maybe these desert birds could explain to him the meaning of love without ownership” (119).
“You old sorcerer,” the boy shouted up to the sky, “You knew the whole story. You even left a bit of gold at the monastery so I could get back to the church. The monk laughed when he saw me come back in taters. Couldn’t you have saved me from that?”
“No,” he heard a voice say. “If I had told you, you wouldn’t have seen the Pyramids. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” (197)
Between my 9th A and 3rd G class, I came home and watched Kill Bill V. 2. Quentin Tarantino can really make an amazingly f-ed up movie.
12 December 2005
Today I got up and was supposed to teach three classes. I taught my first one, and then another teacher asked me to cover for her, so I did. My counter-part walked in halfway. I silently rejoiced, knowing that I’ll finally have one of those, too. After that class, and a short tea break, I taught my 7th graders and was ready to teach my 8th graders, but no one showed up. Turned out, today was duty-day, meaning the boys got to go home and the girls had to stay to mop the halls and clean their classroom. No one told me. I was sort of pissed because I had planned this whole lesson on “The Avian Bird Flu,” but I only have the 8th graders once a week, so it looks like that’ll have to wait for another 7 days. Luckily, I got to teach it to my 5a and 7v class. It went well. I don’t think they quite understood the severity of the situation if the virus spreads between humans. I didn’t want to scare them or anything, but we were warned by PC to take care of ourselves, and part of that is making sure my students don’t come to class ill. I told them to do things like wash their hands frequently, cook their eggs and chicken thoroughly, and not to play or sleep in the chicken coup. It sounds like I’m joking, but many of the families make their money off of poultry and other various agricultural products, so the possibilities exist. I just hope they don’t run home and tell their parents that the American told them to slaughter all their animals. For the record, I told them to do the exact things I plan on doing, which I hope are the exact same things all of you plan to do, regardless of where on this crazy planet you are now.
I think we all should read Albert Camus’ The Plague again if anything does happen. Death is inevitable. Relax. Do something about it. Or not.
After school, I was bombarded with about 15 11th grade girls, asking me all sorts of questions off-campus. It was the best mix of English-Kyrgyz ever. I’m coining it Englyz. Wait, that sounds too much like English. Maybe Kyrglish is better. Any takers?
So after 20-Questions, I made my way to the local post office to check my mail. Before I got to the door, one of the postal ladies stopped me and asked me if I had my passport. Damn. Back home. She told me to bring it tomorrow, I guess for logistical reasons. Fine by me. So yeah, no letters or anything. I have to get on that and write some more.
But I have Kill Bill Volume II. The letters will have to wait.
Oh, and I got text messages from two people. Only one of you signed your name. And as far as the other dude, I’m pretty sure it was Smoot. “There is snow here, but players and catchers report on Feb. 14th!!! That’s soon!!” If I’m wrong, sorry. But who else would text me ½ around the world just to tell me:
A) There is snow
B) Baseball’s preseason is starting in two months
?
Just remember, if you bother to send me a text, know that I can’t text you back, but I am getting them. And they’re free. Hit me up. Sign your name, bi-otch.
Part IV: Back To Your Regularly Scheduled Program
What exists below this post is my honest attempt to play catch-up and type most of my journal entries up until this point, so that you all will have a better picture as to what I’ve actually been up to. So many things have happened over the last 3 months, it’s hard to even begin, but I’m gonna try. You'll have to excuse "The Month of October." In the words of Sheila, "I haven't gotten that far."
I truly value the friendships I’ve made over the years and want to keep you all updated. My biggest fear, as I shared with my friend N the other day was that while I’m experiencing all these new things, so are all of you. And chances are, no matter how much or how little we communicate over these next 24 months and afterwards, there is still going to be this gap-in-time where we will never fully understand one another. I may never hear about specific moments in your lives, which will change you, form you and mold you. For all I know, I could come back in two years and not have a thing in common with some of you anymore. That thought terrifies me. Thus, I will do my best from here on out to “be” in your lives. I hope you feel the same about me.
"All I can see is black and white and white and pink with blades of blue that lay between the words I think on a page I was meaning to send...
You I couldn't tell if it bring my heart the way I wanted when I started writing this letter to you.
If I could you know I would just hold your hand and you'd understand..."
-Wilco “I’m The [Wo]Man Who Loves You”-
Part III: Long December
3 December 2005
“You aint cool unless…”
I woke up this morning in my new bed in a full-body sweat. I had had a nightmare. First of all, I don’t ever recall my dreams, but this one was one of those dreams when I was already half-awake. It was bad. A little background information, I mailed a package home to the US last week. It had some Christmas gifts and letters and stuff for my family. I made a big stink at the post office in front of the Russian ladies because they weren’t going to mail it for me because a) they didn’t have the proper package covering paper and b) I had provided my own box, one I had recycled from a package I had received. I started freaking out, explaining in English, that I needed to get this package mailed ASAP because I knew it would take around 4 weeks to get home. Finally, I offered to pay upfront, one day before they were supposedly getting the “proper package covering paper” and just leave my package there overnight for them to self-address and send on its way. I also had to open the box for them and make an inventory list, which included:
1. 5 kalpocks
2. 1 pair of slippers
3. 1 headscarf
4. 1 felt eyeglass case
5. 2 letters
6. 1 pair of earrings
7. 1 ornament
I told them I’d be back in five days or so when I made a trip back to Tokmok, so they acquiesced for the small fee of 240 com. When I returned some 5 days later, the Russian lady looked at me and nodded, saying through the look on her face that the package was mailed successfully and I could finally relax.
And I did relax. Until this morning.
In my dream I, for some reason, got the package mailed back to me after it had spent some time in the mail-traveling world. And this made complete sense to me. I am not sure whether my family got the package or not, but regardless, it was back to me. When I looked at it, I could see that the Russian ladies never put the “proper package covering paper” on, and the only thing that was holding it together were the five pieces of duct tape I had put on previously. Oh, and I should mention that one of the other volunteers, who I’m actually not even that close with, asked me to mail his laptop computer to the States in my package for him, and then have my family mail it to his family. This never really happened, and I don’t even know if he really has a laptop, but in dreams anything goes. I guess he felt that the kalpocks would be a good deterrence from some of the postage workers who’ve been stealing some of our possessions in-route. Anyway, when I opened the package, from what I can recall, this is what I found:
1. 1 sheet of Styrofoam ghosts
2. 2 bouncy balls
Those are the only two possessions that I can remember now, but when I opened the box, all I could do was drop the “f” bomb. I marched my way back to the Tokmok post office, screamed at the women behind the counter, and they just stared back at me, saying nothing. It didn’t occur to me at the time to demand my 240 com back, but now that I am awake, I think that would have been a good addition to my ranting. Anyway, it was now up to me to get back to the volunteer who had me mail his laptop, and when I got to him, all I could manage was an “I’m sorry.”
OK, that is all I can really remember, so before I start making things up to make my dream seem more real and vivid, I’ll end there. Being here for almost three months, now you know some of the trials and tribulations we PCVs encounter. I’ve heard, fortunately, that the PCVs on The Lake don’t really have any issues with the mail, so hopefully, that will be the one and only nightmare I experience.
But, knowing Kyrgyzstan, I bet I have another one about a herd of cows are something trampling me.
4 December 2005
“Like the Rivers”
My family is off to the Karakol bazaar, and I’m home with my cindeem for the day. Over chai this morning, she asked me if I had a boyfriend, a rather common question among the Kyrgyz.
NOTE: I am listening to my iPod on shuffle right now, and Hanson’s “Lost Without Each Other” just came on…. Goodtimes. Those boys still got it, Mmmmmmmmm bop.
So, I explained to her that I tell Kyrgyz dudes I have one, because then they leave me be, unless they continue to pry, and then I have to say that he is in America, and then they say, “America? Well, he’s there, you’re here. You need a Kyrgyz boyfriend.” For a traditionally conservative society, I’m finding this to be the main topic of conversation. I cannot tell you how many women have described their “smart, good-looking, hardworking sons” to me, and then gone on to tell me that they are in the market for a pretty, little wife. Sounds appealing. Anyway, so she laughed, and then I told her that I really don’t have one. I think she understood. She speaks English, kinda. Our conversations are a mix of Russian, Kyrgyz and English. When I asked her if she had one, she smiled and said timidly that she did. Big surprise. Everyone in Kyrgyzstan has a boy/girlfriend. The best part of it, you ask? They keep it a secret from their families… most of the time. In this case, she said that her parents and brothers knew, and when I expressed my shock, she told me that it was because she “will be married soon.” WHAT?!?! She’s eighteen, for crying out loud. That was the same age Macaulay Culkin was when he married that one chick. We all saw how that ended... I mean, that’s younger than my sister back home. I realize it’s legal and all that, but still. 18! So, you’re probably thinking, young-love, right? Try again. The guy is 25. And a doctor. Find me a 25-year-old doctor, and I’d have a hard time saying no. The only thing I could muster was a “Wow, in English we say ‘Congratulations.’” Then I added “Good luck” for kicks. Apparently the date is set for around Christmas. I hope it’s not on the 25th, but if it is, I’ll have to spread myself thin. I’m hoping the Americans around The Lake will get together. Already I’ve started listening to my Christmas music collection, which consists of Johnny Cash and Harry Connick, Jr. If I listen to it too long, I start to cry. And we can’t be having any of that around here.
I really should be studying my Kyrgyz and I think I just may, but what I really want to do is walk down to the Jety-Oguz river and check things out. Come spring, I’m all over that piece. But, I’m not quite ready to venture out on my own. My family told me to “es al” today, which means to relax. I don’t have the Kyrgyz alphabet at my fingertips, so you’re going to have to settle for the phonetic version of things.
I already straightened my hair, cleaned my nails and took a baby wipe bath. Maybe I will just study. Tomorrow I may or may not have to teach. I’d prepare, but I don’t know where to start.
So it’s 6:08, and it’s already dark outside. While I spent a good portion of my day “es al”ing like I was supposed to, which entailed reading The Joy Luck Club, studying Kyrgyz, importing my recent photos and writing new entries from past dates, I actually did make a trip out to check out the Jety Oguz river. My sister and her friend took me along and informed me that most fishermen go up to the resort to fish. I’m already excited.
Sometime around 4 I’d say, it struck me how odd it really is that I’m here. I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided to join the Peace Corps. I must have been out of my mind. It’s not that I’m not having fun or don’t think that what I’m doing is important, it’s that I just left everyone I love back home. When I studied abroad in Spain, I thought three months was a while to be gone, but this is two years! I rarely use the exclamation point, so that’s saying something.
Last night I met a K-11 who is going back to the States in about a week. I was trying to put myself in his shoes, and really grasp the feeling of knowing I’m about to leave a country that two years ago I knew close to nothing about, moved there freely, poured myself into my service, only to hop back on a plane, back to normalcy, comfort, everything I once knew. And then, have to also, somehow, bring everything I learned, gained, lost and left in Kyrgyzstan back to America. It’s a strange thing moving anywhere really, but as my friend Heather, who’s now living in Bulgaria, once told me, “I don’t think the human soul was ever meant to leave or go very far from where we came from.” But here I am, and there she is. Oh, the choices we make.
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of
human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers…
-Langston Hughes
5 December 2005
“Lost in Translation”
My parents called later last night around 10. The cell phone cut-out like 35 minutes into our conversation, and they didn’t call back. They may have tried, but it didn’t go through. As I sat there waiting for the phone to ring, all I could think about was how I didn’t ask them how they were doing. I had a disgusting feeling in my stomach, a realization of my self-centeredness. If I could redo that conversation, I would have asked about them about themselves first. Instead, I have to live with the fact that the conversation ended with “No, send my black, digital watch, Mom.” Thousands of miles away from home and I’m still the materialistic daughter. Bummer.
I taught my first English lesson this morning in my new school. The class was 5A. I had about 15 students, eager to learn, and stumbling over my Kyrgyz, I managed to get through the lesson with introductions. I also tried instilling some classroom rules, but I don’t think my students grasped the concept. But I only have four:
1. Come to my class (on time, and that’s the American concept of time, of course)
2. Try— Speak in English first (for the record, I am not Russian, and just because I’m white, it doesn’t mean I can speak Russian, so don’t even try)
3. Do honest work (if I catch you cheating, you’re done, and I don’t want to hear anything about a “collective society”)
4. Respect each other (this includes, but is not limited to, not speaking while I’m speaking or anyone else for that matter)
Nice and simple. One of the PCVs I met told us that she made her class do an honor code. When she asked them why it was important and what would happen if they broke it, they responded, “We will become your enemy.” She never gave them that explanation, but after translation and whatnot, that’s what they understood. Hilarious.
Anyway, I ended up teaching two other classes today, and I got my own room. Sometime later this week, I’ll decorate it like teachers in the US do during the summer before any of the students are around. I have two maps, a paper American flag, some magazines and a box of markers. This should be interesting.
I got access to the school’s library today. Most of the time it is locked up with a huge metal padlock thingy, but today, I was VIP and got backstage. I got my classes’ books, which by the looks of them, it appears that getting new books will be one of my secondary projects.
Here’s an excerpt from the 9A book:
“In winter 1988 in a little town Bowlder, Kolarado State, USA people gathered for discussing ecological problems. The building of the Ecological Centre was made off glass. The snow-covered mountains with pine forests surrounded the Centre. The people who gathered in the hall were ministers, congressmen, scientists and journalists. They had come there from different parts of the world for a serious talk on the future of our planet. At that moment three deer came out of the forest, came up to the glass windows and stopped, looking at the people inside. The moment was full of importance. Nature seemed to have sent the animals tell the people: we are here but our future is in your hands.
When the conference opened the statement was as follows: We, people, have come to an ecological problem. The situation is very serious. We must act all together” (52-53).
You better believe the situation is serious. Those spelling and grammar errors are legit. Or perhaps you prefer:
“There are now 15 Union Republics in the USSR. In its history the Soviet Union has shown the whole world an example of the policy of equality, friendship and brotherhood among peoples of different nationalities headed by Lenin’s great Party” (30).
So they’re a bit dated. That’s all I’m saying. Well, that, and I’m now in the market for some English-language books.
7 December 2005
I feel like I just won the jackpot. See, I came to Jety-Oguz thinking that there was going to be packages galore at the post office. I was wrong. The first day I got here, I was told there wasn’t anything there, but that didn’t stop me from going back everyday during my break. Day and after day (it hasn’t even been a week yet), there was nothing, but today, oh, yes, today, I had two waiting for me. Both from my mom, and to top it off, there was a letter from my friend Sara, back in Denver, Colorado. Good times all around. She included a picture from New Year’s 2004, I think. Yeah, that was the same night I stole a cab from my senior year English “British Literature” teacher, fell over three motorcycles and almost got in a fight with a 250 lbs man. Thanks for the memories, Spaz.
Anyway, so the packages from my mom included the basic school and toiletry supplies, but there was also my favorite candy of all-time. Grapefruit slices from Sweets in Lake Forest. Nothing beats them. Nothing. For around $5.00 a bag, you better believe they’re worth it. I can tell my parents had a hay-day with the packages, too. See, this is the first Christmas ever in our home when not all 8 of us are going to be together. It’s a huge deal that I’m not there. A part of me thinks my youngest brother Kevin will never forgive me for it, even when I’m back in 2007. So yeah, Christmas is big in our house. In the secular and the religious sense of the holiday. The package had a mini nativity scene, a mini Christmas tree with lights already on, a package of mini ornaments, a pack of Christmas colored tic tacs, 2 packages of candy canes and 4 wrapped packages I haven’t opened yet that say things like “To: Colleen From: Baby Jesus,” “To: Colleen Baby, From: Santa Mama and Santa Daddy Pops,” “Dear Littlest Angel Colleen, Love: Dad,” and “To: Colleen Honey, From: Santa Daddy and Mommy.” My sister also included 31 CDs for me to put on iTunes. Right now I’m listening to Ryan Adams “The Hardest Part.”
Hmmm, I’m debating whether to just open the presents now… I feel like I’m 10 again, holding the package up to my right ear and shaking with both hands, trying to decipher the treasure inside. The problem is, there’s no one’s here to stop me.
Today I taught all day. It’s only the 3rd day of classes and already I feel burned out. I had to keep reminding myself that I’m not really teaching that much, there’s nothing I can do about the darkness or the fact that my counterpart, the only person who can speak sufficient English, is severely ill, and that these first few weeks before winter break are just assessments. Hakuna Matata.
I should be doing lesson plans. But it’s just not that appealing when the curriculum instructs me to use the books. I have to be feeling creative, and right now, all I want to be doing is this. Writing on my computer and importing songs.
I had two teachers for my 3rd and 4th grade classrooms observe today. I wanted to shoot myself. Both of these women have more experience than me in the actual classroom; I just have the ideas and the skills. While I realize this, that doesn’t make my first few lessons any better than theirs. I don’t know what they were expecting from me, but I just stuck to introductions, greetings and tried to teach the lesson straight from the book. It didn’t really work out, seeing that the 9 and 10-year-olds responded in Russian, and I was trying to teach them American and British units of time. Teaching the concept of telling time to American kids is a challenge in and of itself. I remember I was so bad at it, I had to stay inside for an entire week’s recess period until I grasped the concept.
Peace Corps told us to give it time, expect the unexpected. The fact that I was on the teaching schedule this week, and the reality that I was teaching more than just secondary education was most definitely unexpected. I shall give it time.
8 December 2005
I cheated. I totally just opened up a package, took out the sweater, put it on, and then rewrapped the empty box. Good as new. Empty, but good as new. Right now I’ve got Christmas carols on and the whole bit. My mini tree and the ornaments are up. Christmas in Kyrgyzstan. I might not “be home for Christmas,” but by golly, I’m gonna be jolly. I’m also eating a candy cane.
Today was a better than yesterday. I felt like I taught 8 lessons, when I really only taught 5 (well, 6 if you count the one I did voluntarily for the enthusiastic students who I don’t actually have on my schedule, but who begged me to teach them English). I guess it’s nice to know that I’m wanted, and fairly popular… I have to admit, I’m a bit embarrassed by all the attention, but I totally signed autographs the other day. At first I said no, that signing autographs was weird, and that I’m not Brittney Spears. But they wouldn’t take no for an answer. I suppose I could have yelled at them, slammed my door shut, locked them out, but I don’t think that would have been a good move on my first day/week ever as a teacher. And so, about 15 students now have my John Hancock. I’m sure in a week when all the hype wears off, they’re families will put that very same piece of paper to use in the outhouse.
9 December 2005
I woke up today to the vibrating of my cell phone. Oh, I just found out that I can get messages on my phone for free from all of you really easily.
Follow these instructions:
1. Go to http://smsgate.bitel.kg/
2. scroll down as the site is in Russian
3. At the bottom of the screen there is a menu bar, look for SMS
4. Click on it
5. Put my number 170267 in the Number box and type in a message
6. Press the button on left which is Russian for send
I can’t wait to here from you.
So, yeah, vibrating cell phone. My program manager called to tell me that she was stopping by my house for a site visit. She said 5 minutes, but it was more like 2. It was nice to see her and have her translate some issues I was having with my Apa. After chai and nan (tea and bread), the PC SUV took me to school. Curb-side service.
Today I only had one class, 9 G, and it was at 11:05. Man, those kids are good. I really like my 9th graders. I thought that I’d like teaching the younger ones more, but I don’t really. I mean, the boys are annoying and throw notes up to me in the middle of class that say things like, “I lave you!!! Askat.” but they’re not so bad. Yes, their English (especially their spelling) could be better, but that’s why I’m there. Today we learned what a verb is and yesterday, nouns. I made them write one sentence, using just one noun and one verb, but 75% of the class wrote things like, “I like to go school.” I think we’re going to have to learn about the articles a, an, and the first. We’’ll see how that goes. Fellow teachers, unite, and send me an e-mail or something on classroom activities. You have formal education in this. This is me, asking for help.
It’s 3:08 in the afternoon, and I have nothing to do. I think I’ll do my lesson plans for next week, because tomorrow and Sunday, I’m going into town to hang out with the other PCVs. My mom sent me the Chicago White Sox 2005 World Champions “A Celebration 88 Years in the Making” magazine. Maybe I’ll read that now and imagine what it was like to watch the games play-by-play. I wish Sports Center or something sold the games on DVD, so that those who didn’t see a game, or in my case, all of them, could watch. That would be the best idea ever.
So it’s a bunch of hours later. I spent the day making a huge wall-sized version of the English Alphabet. Once I figure out a way to get it to stay put, I will consider myself a success.
All in all, I’d say it was a productive day.
Part II: November Rain
6 November 2005
This afternoon my Apa told me to follow her. That I did. I was under the impression that we were going to some sort of wedding celebration. She was doing some intense charades with her hands, gesturing to the wedding finger and whatnot. I’ve never been to a Kyrgyz wedding anything, so I was kind of nervous, and at the time I was wearing jeans. While they were “dark jeans from the Gap,” I didn’t think they’d be appropriate for a wedding, but Apa said I looked fine, so I didn’t change. We waited for two of her lady friends, and when they finally showed up, we walked a couple blocks down to another house in the neighborhood. Mind you, I was terribly confused, but soon ushered into the house, and then into another room. This is where is hit me. I was witnessing the aftermath of a bride kidnapping.
It wasn’t as scary as it sounds really.
Basically, it was a girl behind a white curtain with like 100 head scarves hung from the curtain. She emerged as we entered, and then we all greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. I was so confused, I managed a “congratulations” and a weak handshake.
Granted, I couldn’t tell whether this girl (about my age) was happy or not. She could have been the groom’s girlfriend for all I know, but there was no way to tell. In this society, while some people marry their significant other (even though “dating” is sort of frowned upon anyway), others (men) pick someone that they think will be a good fit, and then just take them. The girl gets some time to think about the decision, but most of the time, she consents and then immediately becomes a part of the man’s family.
Personally, I know two women that were kidnapped. One of them was kidnapped by her boyfriend, and so it was more of a “kidnapping-wink-wink,” while the other one was pretty much the opposite. Till this day she has only spoken about it on rare occasions, but she shared it with me and some friends because we were discussing my incident at the said house. She ended up refusing to marry the guy, and life moved on, but even after 25 years, she still isn’t really over the offense. I realize that there are going to be cultural differences during my time here, but this is something that consensual or not, I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with.
I thought the girl was going to cry, but then my Apa made her smile over a shot of vodka. That was the only smile I saw her muster the entire time. I thought I was going to cry. The mother-in-law, however, couldn’t have looked happier. After all, her son has been married off, and now she has someone to replace her around the house. I guess if I had been the household manager for the last 40 years, I’d be pretty happy to be relieved of duties too. Later, I found out that the bride is supposed to hide her happiness (if in fact she is happy). I’ll admit, I don’t understand this part at all. So who knows?
All I know is that if some dude tried to kidnap me, I’d tell him that he’d better think long and hard before he really wanted me as a wife. He’d have to pour his own tea.
9 November 2005
Day 1: Jety Oguz
Today is my first day with my new host-family. I’m just visiting for a few days. Last night the group was all at the Issyk Kul Hotel. I don’t know what it is about 60 PCVs under the same roof, but things happen.
I’m not saying bad things. Just things.
A few of us went out to eat at some Indian restaurant. Halfway through my meal I looked over and spotted two American-looking guys. And I now know how annoying it can be when people just come up to me because I’m American and think they have the right to engage in a conversation, no matter what I’m doing. So, I didn’t think is was really necessary to introduce ourselves, but one of us didn’t really care about any of that, so turned around and said something like, “Hey, where are you from?
Blank, bored stares followed.
Finally, “Um, I’m from Maine, he’s from Chicago.”
I begin to listen more intently. And then join in on the fun.
“Chicago? I’m from Chicago.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’m not from Chicago-Chicago.”
“Me either.”
“Oh, where?”
“Lake Forest.”
“I’m from Deerfield. Do you know ________?”
“Get out! Totally, I played hockey with her.”
“Oh, I went to Stanford with her and dated one of her best friends.”
“That’s nuts. Don’t you think?”
“Not really. The more time you spend over seas, the smaller the world gets. You’ll see.”
Ass.
OK, he may have had a point, but he was kind of a chotch.
I mean, come on, I’m in Kyrgyzstan for crying out loud, not London. We live like 10 miles from one another. That’s something.
10 November 2005
Day 2: Jety Oguz
I woke up after sleeping from 9:00 PM until 8:00 AM. Yesterday was the longest trip ever. Sometimes I get carsick, and yesterday I was most definitely carsick. Try to picture me in a bouncing marshrutka (an old, large van-type ride). Anyway, I think I made a really good impression in front of my school director and counterpart. I “got sick” like 8 times on the way down to Jety Oguz. And thanks to a leaky plastic bag, had to change my pants halfway through the ride. I switched jeans, rolled the ones I was wearing earlier and put them onto the ground. But in the hustle and bustle of things, ended up leaving them on the van. I’m mad. Those were my “these are just dark enough, so that if I wear them to teach, no one will notice jeans.” Boo. And this morning, I still feel a bit weak.
So I’m the 8th English teacher at my new school. There are some 109 teachers. Big. I think. So, as I was being introduced to the other teachers earlier today on my visit to the school, one of the younger English teachers approached me. She’s a 22-year-old, like me, and a first-year teacher. Right away I was thinking, “Score, someone that I can relate with,” and then she told me that she has been married for four years and has a one-year-old. We’re practically the same person.
I guess from 1998-2000, there was another volunteer named Leslie, who lived in this village. I wouldn’t be surprised if I continue to hear about her until the close of my service. The Kyrgyz remember everything. As part of her secondary project she got a shipload of books sent from America. I spotted The Boxcar Children, so I’ll have to find a way to top that.
I was told that I’d be teaching 20 hours/week, 5a (4 hours), 6b (3 hours), 7b (3 hours), 8a (2 hours), 9a (2 hours) and 9g (2 hours) and then some with the 3rd and 4th graders. That’s all in addition to the clubs I have to start. I realize it not as much as some of you “real teachers” back in the States, but I’m a volunteer and here for the “experience,” so leave me be. I’m not really sure how this is all going to work out, but I better have my own classroom. The last thing I want to be feeling like is that I’m just filling-in as a substitute.
It’s a good thing I like myself. I’m going to be busy and spending a lot of time in my room, seeing that I’m the only volunteer in my village. The others are close, some 20 minutes to an hour away. With the sun going down around 5:30, I’m beginning to feel like I did when I was a sophomore in high school. I’d wake up and go to school before it was light for one of the many clubs I was in, and then go home after basketball practice when the sun had already gone down. Talk about depressing. But Kyrgyzstan is different, and I know that.
Man, PC didn’t give us any water for this visit, and I’m thirsty. I’m not really sure how the Kyrgyz survive on just chai. I have yet to see a person pour a glass of ice-cold water and gulp it down like we do so often in the States. Tasiana’s host-father, “Bala Jon,” told her, “One time I drank cold water, and I almost died.” I guess that explains it. They’re just looking out for their wellbeing. All I know is that I need my 8, 8 ounce glasses a day, or else I might die. Granted I take three times as many trips to the outhouse.
Ah ha, that explains it.
For lunch today I went to a “Death Party” with my counterpart and director. I guess the librarian’s husband died 40 days ago, and so a big party was held in honor of his life. I have never seen so much tea, bread or besh-barmak. I was pulled into a room with 12 other Kyrgyz women, while the men walked around with the washing hands buckets, reciting the Koran. For a follower of Christ, I must admit, I’m a convincing Muslim. My “Omen” is stellar. Don’t tell anyone, but I have ½ a lamb chop and some rice chunks sitting in my bad right now, a gift from the party. Yum.
Oh, and my new Apa saw my puke bag from the marshrutka, picked it up because she thought it was just a regular plastic bag, and when she realized what it was, she quickly put it down. I’m fairly certain she thought it was urine since at that point all I was throwing up was bile. Great, now I’m the volunteer who pees in a little red plastic bag from the bazaar and keeps it. I bet Leslie never did that.
Songs of the Moment:
Ben Harper “Walk Away”
Ben Lee “Apple Candy”
Cathie Ryan “Lights of San Francisco”
Jewel “Near You Always”
Lyle Lovett “Nobody Knows Me”
Ryan Adams “My Sweet Carolina”
Vince Pierri “Track 4”
The Weakerthans “Left and Leaving”
Ben Harper “How Many Miles Must We March”
Wilco “Jesus, Etc.”
11 November 2005
Day 3: Jety Oguz
Before I forget, on the car ride back to Jety Oguz from Karakol, the closest “big” city in my Oblast (state-type thing), I heard Bobby McFarrin’s “Don’t Worry Be Happy.” I’m sure he’d be pissed about that. I heard that when he came to play in Athens, Ohio, people were shouting for him to play it, and he got all mad because that hit was just some random studio piece he came up with while he was recording his real music. And to think, none of the music he prides is being played in Kyrgyzstan, only his one-hit wonder. I’d tell him to just be happy.
Anyway, after sitting in two English classes today, I went to Karakol, about 15 minutes away, with Ainura, my English-speaking counter-part. For losing my jeans and getting sick in front of my new employers, I punished myself and forced myself to wear my black heels all day. I have blisters. I got a lot of e-mails today from people I didn’t expect. Those are the best.
I’ve decided today that I’m naturally more comfortable in a city setting. Walking around Karakol, I felt more confident than in my new village. I’m sure in time that will change, but there’s something unnerving about knowing no one, and having them all know about me. At least in the city, no one knows anyone, and everyone’s ok with that. And then, the best part is when you see someone you know when you’re in a city, and then the world all of a sudden hugs you and it isn’t as lonely.
12 November 2005
Day 4: Jety Oguz
I went to my school unexpectedly for two hours this morning. I was wearing jeans, and I felt like a real tool. No one wears jeans to school here. No one except me.
My director, Chinara, and my counter-part, Ainura, took me up to the “resort” this afternoon. I’ll take their word that the summer is a much better time to go up and spend time there. I did, however, see a little girl trying to sled on 1” of packable snow, and then I bought some wild honey from a Russian family who lives up in the mountains.
When I got home, my family had already begun partying. From noon until after midnight, the accordion and the komuz (the Kyrgyz national instrument) was played, and my Apa’s brothers were belting out Kyrgyz songs from the top of their lungs. I had to take it easy on the vodka, so I stuck to red wine. There was this little guy, maybe three, who was walking around the table, looking for sparkling water. His mom was watching, and when he found a glass that looked like water, he asked her, “Mom, is this vodka? It looks like vodka.” When she told him it was water, he brought it up to his nose, smelled it, and when he was convinced of it’s purity, he drank it. It was hilarious. So the family gathering I experienced, reminded me of my mom’s side, plus musical instruments. For the most part, I am fairly confident now that Jety Oguz will work itself out. They made me sing the “Happy Birthday” song for them, even though I cant carry a tune and it wasn’t anyone’s birthday. As a thoughtful gesture, I added the “How old are you now?” verse, too.
13 November 2005
Day 5: Jety Oguz
I’m on my way back to Kegeti now. My trip to finally meet the people I’ll be spending the next two years with wasn’t so bad after all.
Is it terrible that instead of taking it all in and reflecting, all I can think about it what the kids from Laguna Beach are up to right now?
Oh, and get this: An hour into the trip this morning, we pulled over to pick up some more passengers, and during the short break, I spotted the orange marshrutka that took me to Jety Oguz four days ago. I ran out of the van, knocked on the window and asked the driver whether he had found a pair of dark pants the other day. He smiled and went around to the other side of the vehicle, opened the door, pulled out my jeans and handed them to me.
“If a body find a body coming through the rye.”
19 November 2005
I spent the day at a one-year-old’s birthday party. In Kyrgyz culture, the first birthday is actually a big deal. Family comes in from the furthest oblasts, begins early, eats lots, slaughters a sheep, drinks and toasts over vodka, runs a race and finishes late.
I felt sort of out of place, but not really. It was like I was back in the 4th grade when I would hang out with my Filipino friend, Sam, and go to all the benefits her mother, aunt and uncle would participate in through the Filipino doctor associations. I knew at that time that I was the only white person in a crowd full of Asian doctors and their children, but I was accepted right away, so it wasn’t a detriment to my wellbeing. This party was sort of like that.
So there was this woman at the party that thought she was awesome. She came in, fur coat and everything, strutting her stuff. When she spotted me, she looked at me, and said something like, “I can speak English. I will be your translator today.” I thought, “What the hell? Fine by me.” All of a sudden I became her best friend. Later she asked me if I was going to participate in the race. The race? Yeah, that’s what I said.
When a baby turns one, they tie his legs together with rope, so that he can’t really move. And then willing participants go to a starting point, and on the ready, set, go call, they all race to the baby. The first person to the finish line gets the knife and then has to cut the rope, freeing the child, symbolizing the baby’s first steps. Anyway, the boys ran first and my little brother, Zalkar, won. They then called the women to the line, and I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to shine on the athletic field, or asphalt road, so in my Danskos, one size too big, I stepped up to the challenge and ran like the wind.
I knew that I had a good chance of winning, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. But after I started racing, I could tell that I held first place comfortably; however, there was a 48-year-old over my right shoulder, close behind. For a moment, I contemplated slowing down, letting the Kyrgyz win. After all, it was their family party. Who was I to just waltz in there, put everyone to shame, take home the prizes and the pride?
Colleen, that’s who.
It only took me about five more seconds to come to my senses and finish the race on top. I couldn’t let myself lose, even if it was the “right thing to do.” I think I would have kicked myself if let a woman, almost my mother’s age, win.
For winning, I was awarded my first Kyrgyz teacup set and a bottle of Amaretto. Everyone congratulated me by pointing to the bottle and saying, “Wine!” When I told them it wasn’t wine, they responded, “OK, fine…. Cognac then.”
So, yeah, I won a bottle of Cognac.
Want some served in a teacup?
30 November 2005
This is my first post after successfully waiting approximately 3 months since my computer broke and I had to erase and reinstall everything. This is also my final night during Pre-Service Training in my humble village of Kegeti. I still don’t know whether it’s spelled with an “i” or a “y,” but I’m sticking with the “i.”
My Apa came into my room earlier this afternoon, and she asked me if this was my last night in her home. When I told her, yes, she got tears in her eyes and hugged me. If I don’t shed a tear, I’m going to feel like a real ass. She’s been so good to me, except for the minor disagreements over bathing and the few times she sent me off to Tokmok’s Hub days without a bag lunch. I realize I’m 22 and could easily make my own lunch—we all know Sheila stopped making my lunches in the 2nd grade—but this thing with these Kyrgyz is, well, they do things for you, so you cant really go off on your own, under their roof and do what you need to do. It’s not a bad thing; I’m just saying it like it is.
Long story, short, I’m going to miss these guys. I might not cry or whatever girls do, but inside I feel. My heart is not, contrary to popular belief, black like the night.
Speaking of the night. Kyrgyz nights rock. I thought looking up at the sky from the “Bobcat Head,” in the middle of my field hockey field, one night during my freshman year of college was cool. This, I tell you, is better. Never in my life have I seen the stars as clear. I’m sure some of it has to do with the reality that I’m physically closer to them, but I think a lot of it is that they don’t have streetlights like we do. Power outages, or “Cvet Jok,” as my village mates refer to them as, is a rather common occurrence. Last night, for example, I had to pack in the freezing cold, with the only help of a candle that was down to its last wick and wax.
So about that vase incident.
It dropped so low—in my Regard—
I heard it hit the Ground--
And go to pieces on the Stones
At the bottom of my Mind—
Yet blamed the Fate that flung it—less
Than I denounced Myself,
For entertaining Plated Wares
Upon My Silver Shelf
-Emily Dickenson
I was feeling sort of bad about it because my LCF told me that some Kyrgyz believe in the superstition that broken things on one’s birthday will bring back luck for the coming year. Five minutes after “the incident,” my Apa was crying. Whether or not my Apa’s tears were in direct correlation with the superstition and the vase, my heart was breaking, so I invested in a new, much prettier vase than the orange creamsicle one she was sporting before. 200 com, without flowers. In addition, I gave my host-brother, Z, my harmonica, or “mouth harp” as they say in musician circles. I got some photos developed from my camera and gave them a few as well. Being the narcassist I am, I gave them a picture of just me in front of the Kegeti Waterfall. I hope they kiss it goodnight every night. Or not.
Anyway, what’s done is done. Tomorrow we head to Tokmok for the swearing-in, and then to Bishkek for the night, before Kyrgyzstan’s 59 newest volunteers say goodbye to one another and head in a taxi or bus to our permanent sites.
I’m practically a local.
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
-Robert Frost
