The Amazing Adventures of Kyrgyzstan and Col

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

posted by C @ 1:11 PM