The Amazing Adventures of Kyrgyzstan and Col

Chapter Two: Girl From The North Country

2007-10-31T18:22:00.000+06:00

I should have written long ago, but these last few months have eluded even the most dedicated writer in me. I can’t believe it’s nearly November. Just yesterday it seemed like school had ended for the summer. June, July and August flew by without me blinking an eye. My trip back for the wedding probably played a significant role in breaking the time up. And then my parents came in late August, and it happened again. Before I knew it, it was mid-September, and school was starting. This time, however, I didn’t have to show up at the crack of dawn everyday to give English lessons. My school had planned on having a replacement volunteer, and therefore, pretty much left me out of the schedule. I periodically popped in to give tutoring lessons to other English teachers and the occasional enthusiastic village pupil. I took the opportunity to travel down to the southern oblasts as well. Another PCV and I flew down from Bishkek and traveled to the land of Uzbek walnut forest fairies and dined on raison and apricot “plov,” the national rice dish of Central Asia.

For my faithful readers, whom I have no doubt let down, here’s a quick recap:

She-She and Lar-Bear Meet K-Stan
Sheila: “I’m so scared of the neighborhood dogs! I’ve been holding it in ALL-NIGHT!”
Colleen: “Mom, just get up. I’ll take you to the outhouse.”
See, life does come full-circle.

Ortega, Marshall and the Tolkien-like Walnut Forest Incident
Colleen: “Where are we?”
Amy: “Is this the walnut forest?”
Colleen: “I don’t know. Should we ask that guy over in the tree there?”
Amy: “Oh, yeah, we’ll just go ask that guy in that walnut tree, surround by a bunch of other trees, if this is the forest.”
Colleen: “This probably is a forest… but where are all the walnut forest fairies then?”
Amy: “I know. I thought they’d be everywhere.”
We got lost for a little while longer, found our Uzbek Walnut Forest Fairy and then drank tea with him.

It’s now October 29, 2007. And that’s crazy. Today I had my last meal with my Apa and Ata. I stopped by this afternoon because I had a bunch things to leave with them. On the 20-minute walk from my cottage to their home, a man and his horse and wagon pulled over for me and let me hitch a ride. On the way over, another man got on and asked who I was and why I was riding on his wagon. The man answered, “She’s Syrtbek and Satkyn’s oldest daughter. Don’t you know that? She’s going there, and we’re taking her.” That made me happy.

Then on the way home I stopped by the bridge I helped facilitate and made sure its wood hadn’t been ransacked. Everything is where it should be. Nearly eight months later and it still provides the safe travel of over 1,000 inhabitants… and most baby carriages. I walked back and forth one time and then turned around to head home. A little girl ran over from her yard and asked me how I was doing. I told her I was well, and that I hoped she was studying hard or something like that; it was as motivating as an After-School Special. She said she was, and then asked me what any 10-year-old Kyrgyz girl asks the village American during autumn, “Miss. Colleen, will you not eat an apple?” I told her that I had some already (thanks to Apa), but that I was thankful nevertheless. She smiled and said, “Oh, of course.” Like it’s somehow not uncommon to be carrying apples around.

Then a little ways down the dirt road a van pulled over and asked me in Kyrgyz where Ak-Kochkor Village. Now this might not seem like a big deal to you, but it’s huge. Trust me. See, I’m white, in case you didn’t know. And most of the time, white people only speak Russian, so I’m sort of a big deal, if you know what I mean. But the only people who know that I speak Kyrgyz are the locals I interact with on a daily basis in the village, not some strange, van-driving-man who doesn’t know where the sister-village of Jety-Oguz is located. He just saw me, accepted that he was “lost” and asked me if I knew where it was. I told him alright, in Kyrgyz, and it was wonderful.

I’m sure gonna miss this little land.

But only the good things. I’m overjoyed that it’s human nature to forget the bad things.

Last week I went running and haven’t been able to motivate myself to go out again. A 4th-grade boy flagged me down to say hello in the middle of my 45-minute run, and I stopped to be polite because I thought it might be the last time I ever get to see him. He rehearsed the traditional greetings and then went in for the handshake. I gave it to him. And then he went in for the hug. I thought, “What the heck? It’s just a little boy.” Yeah, no, I was wrong about that. He went for the full-wrap-around and then squeezed my butt. Both cheeks. I started to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, then I just got pissed, told him that he couldn’t do that and that I was offended and that he was a bad boy. He stood there in awe, pretended like he hadn’t done anything, and then I ran away. Being molested by a child is something no one should ever have to experience. It’s kinda hilarious and kinda ‘effed up.

All my projects are done. I almost feel like I helped a little. They tell PCVS that most of us will leave our host countries and feel like we took away a lot more that we ever gave. It's true.

Water Works.

My room is sparse. I gave away most of my things, and it feels amazing. A person really doesn’t need that much to live. In my possession, I now have:

1 sweater
1 blazer
2 hats
2 scarves
2 pair jeans
2 t-shirts
2 pair socks
3 tank tops
3 pair of undergarment sets
3 journals, a pen and pencil
1 laptop, camera and iPod
12 dvds
5 books
Makeup and perfume
Jewelry
Toothbrush, paste and floss
Lotion and deodorant
Tylenol, Advil and Pepto
Flintstones and Flax vitamins
2 pair glasses
4 pair shoes
1 wallet with KGS and USD
1 large backpack
1 US passport
1 one-way plane ticket
And a picture of my siblings

See you soon.

I just got a text message informing me that my Vietnam Visa arrived this afternoon in Bishkek. This is big news. I’m headed to ‘Nam!

Oh, and I bought a cow for my host family. Her name is Kalinka.

Holy Cow!

Part VI: The Freefall; Chapter One: It's Beginning To Get To Me

2007-07-15T12:13:00.000+06:00

I probably should have written something while I was home, but in all honesty, I ran out of time. I forgot how go-go-go life can be in The States. I finally understand why America is infested with weight problems, both heavy and light. Then there’s me, the neurotic exerciser/calorie-counting/sweet-toothed/beer-drinking one.

I’m fairly certain I started pissing people off around Beer Three at Wrigley Field when I made some side comment on how I should drink slower or grab a diet pop because of all the “empty calories,” 140 to be exact. When I got the “shut the 'eff' up” stare from my dear friend Sara, I knew it was time to get another hotdog and a round of Old Style for the group. Go Cubbies!

Is this even making any sense? I’ll backtrack.

I think I alluded to being a bit nervous to go home this summer in my last post. And it’s all mainly because two years have gone by and I really haven’t seen or spoken with anyone. Plus, after three weeks at home, inundated by the comforts of suburbia, I knew I’d have to board another plane and fly once again halfway around the world. But, friendship called, and I wouldn’t have missed standing beside my friend Kristen as she declared her unending love for a Farm Boy.

Anyway, shortly after landing, I quickly got over any shred of anxiety I may have possessed. I credit the first two minutes of walking through my family’s front door, holding $70 worth of BBQ ribs, when each of my four brothers kissed me on the cheek and informed me that they wouldn’t be able to stick around for dinner because the Doobie Brothers were performing at Ravinia Festival. I suppose it was comforting in an odd way. My family is my family no matter how many Sunday masses and brunches I’ve missed since I’ve been gone.

So Sheila and I improvised and called up a few of her girlfriends instead. I mean, seriously, who would argue spending time with 50-year-old house moms upon return to America? My friends would eventually make it over, but until then it was Col and the gang, sipping wine and chomping on pork. There was a lot of love.

And other feelings. I felt love from those who’ve givin’ it all along, hurt from those who said they would but haven’t, and surprised thankfulness from those who showed up because they wanted to. My heart lies somewhere in limbo, not quite sure which way to feel. I’m ok with that.

I gotta admit though, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care. All my 103 girls called or came into town to see me, and then there was the Whispering Oaks crew, too. But the thing that bothers me most is that while I’m a bit disappointed a few people let me down, I almost, almost, don’t feel anything at all. I wish I could be one of those people who throw worry and annoyance away like a quarter you toss into the toll booth and never miss again, but I’m not. I hold on too long. But the good thing is, this whole thing was like a resurrection of sorts and allowed me to see how many wonderful people are still around.

Anyway, Sheila (Oh, hold on. A clarification: I do not, nor have I ever, called my mother by her first name, to her face. Sometimes I do in writing or when I am speaking of her, but it ends there. Doing so helps me remember that she is an extraordinary individual with feelings and a past and a personality that cannot be forced into a box labeled “Mom.” She is, in fact, Sheila. And I mean no disrespect. The opposite really.) thought it’d be a good idea to remodel our upstairs while I was home. “Colleen, there is NEVER a good time,” was her response when I asked, “But why now?” And so, yes, I slept on my bed, with my sister, in the middle of my room like an island for four nights, while our bedrooms where being repainted and torn apart. The Pistachio I grew to abhor is now replaced with a subtle Restoration Hardware Butter Cream. It’s really quite nice.

My mom cried when our first family dinner finally took place. I guess it was the first time in over two years when all her babies were under one roof, sober or not. In order to document the few weeks, she hired Fitzgerald’s Photography to take a picture that, if we’re lucky, will make it onto a Christmas card by the winter of 2010. In matching crisp white shirts and blue jeans with flip flops we posed for less than 20 minutes in a public Lake Forest park. Upon completion, my dad informed us that we had dinner reservations at the local Italian restaurant, immediately afterward. There was to be no changing of clothes. So in typical Marshall Fashion, we walked in a single-file line around town, into the restaurant, where THANK GOD, people were too immersed at gawking at Vince Vaughn and his two LFHS buddies to barely notice us. Until we sat down, of course, and the lady next to our table, commented on how nice we all looked. A few easy cracks at us and a bottle of wine later, we walked out, doggie bags in hand, out of Francesca’s forever. We have the photo to prove it.

Instead of writing anymore, I’m just gonna list off some highlights:
-Medieval Times and the Black and White Knight giving me “the eye” and his rose, plus Dance, Dance Revolution
-My willingness to go to not one, but two baseball games at Wrigley Field
-Lempke's dinner date at Buffo’s
-Clark and her mother Carol, and the road trip heard round the world
-McNamara and (drunk) friends
-My little French friend and her visit to America from lands known as “Ohio”
-Field and her return trips in from NYC
-Jones and the eating of my Egg Harbor scraps in last minute fashion
-Beach Ticket with Hughes
-Mani and Pedi
-Solo road trip to Michigan for K&G’s wedding 2007
-My Dance Partner
-Christmas Card 2007/2008
-Blueberries and 100% whole wheat English Muffins
-Bratwursts and BBQs
-The Lantern, on Karaoke Night, with Over-21 Siblings Marshall
-iPod Shuffle and the Apple Store incident(s)
-Brunch and lunch with Grandmas
-Whoo Hoo for fillings! And the hour drive to the Southside Dentist
-Face planting at the Wiener Circle in classy Col-Col Fashion
-Wax on, Wax off
-J.Date, Abs of Steel, Dawson and Co. and The Columbian at Corcoran’s
-Meeting the Farm; Isn’t everyone in love with a Suburban Girl?
-July 3rd and LFHS reunion in all its glory at Chicago Yacht Club and subsequent bars
-Semi-safe Public Transportation, with Seatbelts!
-Target, twice

So, yeah, America sure is the Land of Plenty. More on my views about this later. See you in four months. Or not.

And now, the wise words of Snow Patrol.
Chasing Cars
We’ll do it all, everything, on our own. We don’t need anything, or anyone. If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me, and just forget the world? I don’t quite know, how to say, how I feel.
Shut Your Eyes
When the worrying starts to hurt and the world feels like graves of dirt, just close your eyes until you can imagine this place, yeah, our secret space at will.
It’s Beginning To Get To Me
I want something that’s purer than the water, like we were. It’s nothing now, ineloquence and anger are all we have. Like Saturn’s rings an icy loop around me, too hard to hold. Lash out first, at all the things we don’t like, or understand. And it's beginning to get to me, that I know more of the stars and sea than I do of what’s in your head... Are you beginning to get my point?
You Could Be Happy
You could be happy, I won’t know, but you weren’t happy, the day I watched you go. And all the things that I wish I had not said, are played in loops till it's madness in my head. Is it too late to remind you how we were? ... Do the things that you always wanted to, without me there to hold you back, don’t think, just do. More than anything I want to see you, take a glorious bite out of the whole world.

Chapter Sixteen: "Everyday's an endless stream of cigarettes and magazines"

2007-06-13T15:48:00.000+06:00

I guess that's normal for life though, here in Kyrgyzstan. Good thing I'm homeward bound.

I haven't written much in a while. This is mainly due to the fact that my laptop died on me yet again. And frankly, writing in an Internet cafe, what I'm doing RIGHT NOW, is really no fun at all. I like to sit and ponder and reflect and copy, cut and paste, and edit some more before I upload anything. Not to mention, all the on-screen instructions are in Russian, which means, most of the time, I'm just guessing.

"You must know that there is nothing higher, or stronger, or sounder, or more useful afterwards in life, than some good memory, especially a memory from childhood, from the parental home. You hear a lot said about your education, yet some such beautiful, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best eduation. If a man stores up many such memories to take into life, then he is saved for his whole life. And even if only one good memory remains with us in our hearts, that alone may serve some day for our salvation."

-The Brothers Karamazov.

"There were many, many fine reasons not to go, but attempting to climb Everest is an intrinsically irrational act-- a triumph of desire over sensibility. Any person who would seriously consider it is almost by definition beyond the sway of reasoned argument."

-J. Krakauer.

One thumb up for llamas!

My "From Having Nothing to Everything (or visa versa) in Under a Day" Playlist:

Call You Home- Breaking Laces

Home- Michael Buble

Wish You Well- Bernard Fanning

I Miss You- Incubus

I'll See You There- Charlie Schaller

Wish You Were Here-Ryan Adams

Mama I'm Coming Home- Ozzy Osbourne

Hard To Concentrate- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Samson- Regina Spektor

Call Me On Your Way Back Home- Ryan Adams

Short and sweet. I'd like to say it suits me quite well. No need to over-analyze. Sometimes I just like songs for no particular reason.

Also, never in my life have I felt so fortunate to come home. I think having the opportunity to come back to Kyrgyzstan might have something to do with it, too. I'm lucky.

And: Crystal Light single-serving packets are my new favorite anything.

Chapter Fifteen: Super Duper Birthday Week

2007-05-13T11:29:00.000+06:00

I like these people. Just as they are.

By the time we made it to the park's center, all the Russian photo booth lawns were closed up for the day. We had to make do with what we had.

Chapter Fourteen: Cotillion

2007-04-15T12:22:00.000+06:00

This past week was no doubt my emergence, or I suppose reemergence, into society. If I can get away with this metaphor, I'd just like to say how great a Debutante I made. For the winter months, I spent my time locked up, bundled up, tucked into my sheets, and only went outside my cottage to teach class or quickly get into a taxi that would take me the 20-kilometers to Karakol in order to check my e-mail once a week.

That's all been changed.

I bought a bike in Bishek to get my rear in gear for summer. And having this expensive contraption forces me to ride a few times a week for 60-minutes, rather than sit in the backseat of some rusty, old Lada, where I'd have to pay the hefty fee of 50 entire cents. The villagers think I'm nuts, but I'd rather be a heart-healthy wackjob than a miserable one.

So with the bike and helmet and the park I found to run around and around in, everyone from my 4th graders to the solitary Russian babushka in Jety-Oguz now believes "The American" has slowly lost her mind.

But I wouldn't have it any other way.

This kid is so money, and he doesn't even know it. I took this photo at the Russian orphanage I visited on Easter. Thanks to U.S. donations a group of us got to dye and hide eggs for the kids. A few of them ate their first Peeps ever. It. Was. Sweet.

Now I really have to get going and finish this SPA grant proposal that's due on Wednesday. Hopefully, with funds from Peace Corps and USAID, I'll be able to get some decent books, boards and technology for the local teachers and students at my school. As of last week, my Partnership project has taken some pretty big strides in replacing the Soviet-Era water system in a neighboring village, which will, come summer, bring daily water to over 100 people. Below is a photo of what the kashar people now look like as they go down to fetch water from the few select wells.

Chapter Thirteen: Spring Forward

2007-03-22T17:17:00.000+06:00

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"
Wordsworth (1807)

Chapter Twelve: Safety and Security

2007-02-27T14:28:00.000+06:00

Before I forget, I just wanted to get it down.

My dad called me the other night, and when I told him that I was already asleep because I had to get up early for my appointment at the U.S. Embassy, he asked me to take a picture to document the experience.

I agreed like any loyal daughter would.

As I was going through security and the embassy's metal detectors, the guard asked if I had a cell phone and/or camera in my bag. I responded that I did, so she asked me to take them out, or hand my bag over, where it would be safe in Embassy storage. Without a qualm, I gave her my big, orange bag and went on my merry way.

I spent about two hours in the embassy's library, gathering research for a potential book grant I will write soon. On my way out, I grabbed my bag and took my phone and camera out. While I knew taking pictures IN the embassy was against protocol, I wasn't 100% certain what the ground rules were once I was standing in the car parking lot. As a compromise to my uncertainty, I took my phone out in one hand and began texting. In the other, I turned my camera on and quickly snapped a shot of the front building, making sure to the US flag and sign was in the photo. When it was done, I turned it off, slipped it into my pocket, and continued walking out of the embassy lot. Within seconds, and I mean, seconds, a big, Russian security guard man was out the door, chasing me down, yelling, "Excuse me, excuse me!"

I knew right then and there that I had broken a rule that, in fairness to me, was not clearly stated. Anywhere. But politely, I responded, "Yes? Is there a problem?"

"Yes, big problem. You cannot take photo of embassy. Please delete photo."

"Ummm, OK. I'm sorry. I was unaware that I wasn't allowed to take a picture."

"Yes. Excuse me. It is safety and security. Let me see camera."

"Sir, I deleted it. It is gone."

"Excuse me, excuse me. OK."

"I'm sorry. "

And then, with my head in utter, embarrassed shame, and a fake smile across my face, I walked out of the gates forever.

So in short, Dad, there is now no photographic evidence of my short, lovely visit to the U.S. Embassy. I'll be back to village life in no time, where no one has any issues with me taking their picture.

Chapter Eleven: Case of the Mondays

2007-02-22T16:02:00.000+06:00

February 19, 2007

No further meetings were called. In fact, they never had another conversation—not one—about whether they ought or ought not to head home. Sentimentalists might say they were home, but it wasn’t as simple as that. Cynics might deride them for wallowing in the romance of exile, but it wasn’t that simple, either. The door to novelty is always slightly ajar: many pass it by with barely a glance, some peek inside but choose not to enter, others dash in and dash out again; while a few, drawn by curiosity, boredom, rebellion, or circumstance, venture in so deep or wander around in there so long that they can never find their way back out. Villa Incognito

I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think about writing all the time. What I will, what I should, what I probably shouldn’t, what I can’t and what I eventually do write about. It’s just that when it comes time to actually sitting down, opening Word and getting my thoughts on to the computer screen, I constantly find something else to occupy my time. Lately, everything including The Sopranos on DVD comes before my rhetoric. It’s such a shame; especially for someone who just might, if she’s lucky, find herself doing this whole silly, occasionally vain, yet absolutely beautiful, artistic thing for a living.

In this world that God (or Mother Nature) created, it is always hazard and novelty—hazard and novelty—which assert themselves, thereby rendering notions of fixity absurd. Incongruously enough, however, when we allow ourselves to fully accept uncertainty, to embrace and cultivate it even, then we actually can begin to feel within ourselves the presence of an Absolute. The person who cannot welcome ambiguity cannot welcome God.

I suppose I’ve grown so accustomed to life here in Jety-Oguz that writing about what now seems to me a banal existence, lacks exigency. A fellow PCV said to me the other day that he likes living in Kyrgyzstan as a volunteer because everything he does, even the smallest thing, is exciting. I suppose he’s right, but that excitement, that zeal, at least to me, has become so mundane, I forget what it feels like to be able to get things done without the plethora of impediments that await me. Even a simple trip to the post office turns into an ordeal: trudging through the unpaved roads, veering out of animal traffic, responding to 19,234 “hellos” in a strange foreign tongue and having to wait in a non-existent line system, only to find out that no, the package that I’ve been waiting on for months is still not here. Although it’s always different, in a sense, I’ve been doing the same thing, everyday for the last year and a half. And frankly, I’m tired. I’m finding myself more often than not, looking forward to the day when I’ll be home, alone in my car, driving to the bank, free from the inevitable obstacles and am able to grab a tuna melt at the local sandwich shop without interruptions in record time. Ah, I don’t know, I’m just down in the dumps. This too shall pass.

I think what I want and what I need is simply for winter to come to an end. This is the winter of my discontent. A part of me feels bad about not embracing the now and praying that the snow will magically melt overnight, when, at this very moment, a good friend of mine is serving in Micronesia, sweating because he’s simply alive and fending off mosquitoes from his already swollen feet. He didn’t get winter; he didn’t get snow. But here I am complaining, and I get to experience all four seasons. The same seasons, however more severe, that I’ve had and known since I was a little girl, growing up on the north shore of Chicago. Despite all that, every ounce in my soul is ready for spring, for school to come to an end, for summer in Kyrgyzstan, the beer tent in Karakol, the waterfall hike past the resort, my first and probably last trip to the southern oblasts, the completion of my secondary projects.

I know no one likes a complainer, and if you were anywhere within physical reach of me, I’d gladly accept a slap on the cheek, but it seems that everyone else in Central Asia has already put away their Sorels and embraced the changing of the seasons. Why Kyrgyzstan’s south shore wont give winter up is beyond me, but that, along with my school’s vice principal forcing double groups on to my already delinquentesque students, is the icing on a rather depressing excuse for a cake.

Come March, the weather will warm and the roads will be infested with “bat kak,” pronounced “butt cock,” which is the Kyrgyz word for “mud.” The random holidays will call for early dismissal, parties during school hours and potato planting sessions. Before I know it, the year will be over, and if I get replaced by a K-15, my life as an English teacher as well. Since I see no good reason to leave this country early and have always valued seeing things I start through to the end, I’ll be here till my K-13 group’s Completion of Service (COS) in November. I just need this school year to end. Soon. Or at least a student or two to finally catch on and apply what I’ve been trying to teach them since the beginning.

All of them, Goldwire. All of them. No particular god gets to preside over bullshit, or else they’d fight among themselves for the privilege. The gods tolerate the human race for no other reason than our talent for bullshit. It’s the only thing about us that doesn’t bore them to tears.

What about love? Dickie thought to yell back. What about our capacity for love? But by then the door had swung shut behind him.

I just read Tom Robbin’s Villa Incognito, and while I found his writing to be fairly erratic, it was delightfully imaginative, overflowing with truthful metaphors for the human race. Reading and finishing that book were the best part of my week. And so I’ve decided to sporadically, and if for no other reason than because I like the way he strings words together, share a bit with you.

The brighter the mind gleams, the softer the silence of the eventual no-mind, just as the overturned bucket that was once brimming seems so much emptier than the bucket that never held milk in the first place. Thanks for filling my little pail.

-------------------

My parents called my cell this morning before school. It was the Sheila and Larry Pep-Talk Special. When they asked me why I hadn’t updated my blog since the Thailand sessions, I informed them that in fact I had just finished a new entry, but that it would now come as no surprise to them because everything I had just said in the last ten minutes was its content. They responded, and I admit quite brashly, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” Words to live by.

Tomorrow I head into Karakol to get a move on things. I have a final farewell dinner with our country director, who has come to the lake for one of his periodic visits. Then I’m off to Bishkek to attend the K-13 Man’s Day/Improvised Mid-Service Training (MST) this weekend. Next week I hope to gain entry into the US Embassy to get some research done for a grant I plan to write for school textbooks, and on Tuesday night I will partake in the World Wise School’s conference call, where I will speak to a group of high school students from Hinsdale, Illinois, and hopefully clarify that Borat, contrary to popular belief, does not live in this Central Asian country. Da Vai! Kettik! Vamanos! Let’s go!

Chapter Ten: The Edge of Reason

2007-01-19T16:30:00.000+06:00

I’m not sure if I wrote anything for the month of December. If that’s the case, it’s a first for me. I’m sorry; this is long overdue. Photos to come.

White Elephant.

I took my first winter fall this afternoon. It was a quick up-down-up, but nonetheless, I have the stain on my jeans to prove it. After classes this morning, I decided to take a walk to O-Kochcor to visit my host-family and deliver some souvenirs I picked up from Thailand. I had two big bags in my hands and lost my footing. It was embarrassing. I had to give myself a pep talk to get my confidence back. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s that no one in this entire country feels the need to shovel freshly fallen snow before it begins to melt, turn to ice and then accumulate as the winter progresses. Really, it’s amazing there aren’t more shattered hips. What’s up, Mom?!?

Speaking of She-She. I met the parents along with my sister, Brigid, in Bangkok over New Year’s. My school gave me two weeks off for the holidays, and since I was here last year, I didn’t feel so bad leaving them on their own to bring in 2007. I flew to Thailand via Almaty, Kazakhstan, to Delhi, India, where I waited 18 hours for my connecting flight to Bangkok. Not fun. And of course, it wasn’t until my return trip back through that I realized I could make a $40 down payment in the Sheraton Welcome Lounge and sit on comfy sofas and eat and drink all I wanted, for as long as I wanted. But that’s all in the past, so I won’t dwell on my idiocy. Eventually I made it to my destination, two days before my family would be there, so I took it upon myself to indulge in as many Western amenities I could find in that part of southeast Asia; namely, 7-Eleven, Starbucks and Cinemax movie theaters. Sipping my Slurpie in one hand, my latte in the other, I watched The Holiday with three other foreigners and some very eager Thai teenagers. Before that, I went to the enormous mall across the street, thinking it was crucial to buy a cute, sparkly New Year’s outfit, even though I had zero plans and would in fact not be kissing anyone as the ball dropped. Hours later, I made it out of the six-storied building, just in time to take in the outdoor festivities. And by “taking in the festivities” I mean walking along the main street, perusing the local food stands, but buying nothing but Thai beer and mango in a bag, listening to the live music and thinking to myself that I miss my family and all my friends, being all alone in this new city. Now don’t be mistaken, there are few things I love more than discovering a new city, but doing it in a language I didn’t know and anticipating the arrival of family I hadn’t seen for almost a year in a half, put a twist on things I hadn’t anticipated. The joy of anything celebratory soon died down for me, so I went back up to my hotel room, watched a special on TV about some Buddhist monk living and teaching in NYC, drank Singha Beer and went to bed early.

Central City.

Actually, I remember thinking I wasn’t missing all that much by not being outside during the countdown because, to my surprise, Central City died down before 12:00, no music, no people. I was woken up by what I thought were fireworks at around midnight, so I got up and out of bed, walked over to my window and looked out to watch the show, but there was absolutely nothing in the night air, so I closed the drapes and crawled back into my comfy, expensive covers. When I woke up, an American couple asked me if I had heard anything else about the bombings. When I told them that I had no idea what they were talking about, they informed me that nine went off around Bangkok, and that’s why no one was outside celebrating. Ahhhhh. And to think, I thought all that Asian New Year stuff was all talk. I bet had the president allowed the celebration to continue as planned, it would have been quite the party. As history would have it, I missed nothing. I’m not gonna lie though, I almost stayed inside the hotel after I heard the news, but after some self-contemplation, I decided I wasn’t about to let politics stand in my way. So off to Chinatown it was for me. It ended up being an entire affair, the usual, getting lost, finding myself in Little India, having to take a Tuk-Tuk (three-wheeled, no-door vehicle) to Monk’s Bowl Village and then a taxi back to my central hotel. You’d think that after all this traveling on my own my sense of direction would develop just the slightest, but no. I remain a compass moron. But a moron who isn’t afraid to ask for help.

Tuk-Tuk.

“If I could start again, a million miles away, I would keep myself, I would find a way.”
Johnny Cash, Hurt

That’s a good song. I know he didn’t write it, but still. He’s a legend and I’m not, and I know I haven’t lived a life as full or as spiritually tormented as Mr. Cash, but I’d like to think that by the time I’m ready to leave this place, this world, I’ll feel the same way about myself.

The two and a half days by myself were actually very enjoyable. After all the outdoor stuff, I pretty much just stayed inside and ran and ran on the treadmills because I knew that this would be my only opportunity to run and workout without being stared, pointed and whistled at for the next five months. It was awesome. I’m one of those people who actually like working out inside on a machine because it keeps track of everything. And as an added bonus, the machines at the Hyatt Hotel had a built in television, so it didn’t even faze me when I ended up running an extra two miles. Nothing else mattered except the end of the MTV revenge and prank program I was watching. It was the episode where the dude has his room all packed up in Saran Wrap. It had me fixated. Is MTV eligible for the Emmys?

At 1:00 AM on the 3rd, my family walked through the Hyatt Hotel doors, where I was waiting patiently in the lobby. Actually my heart was beating abnormally fast for the previous two hours, and I almost gave myself an anxiety attacked wondering what they were going to say or not say about and to me. My thoughts and self-doubts were completely unfounded, but it’s really difficult anticipating the arrival of someone whose opinion you care about and haven’t seen in a long time. So many crazy thoughts run through your head, it’s insane. But then again, maybe that’s just me. Eh.

In Kyrgyz Garb.

We took in Bangkok for three days, flew to Chiang Mai (which my parents would not stop referring to as “Ching May”), and then to Puket Island, where we stayed on Nai Yang Beach just southwest of the airport. In Bangkok, we hit up all the regular tourist places, including the Grand Palace and Temples, where we got rejected at first for being inappropriately dressed, bought souvenirs at the floating market, got physically abused during a traditional Thai massage and walked over the famous River Kwai, which was built by WWII POWs.

Reclining Buddha.

Chiang Mai was some more Buddhist temples, ancient ruins, an elephant ride and a monkey farm, all while traveling place to place on a three-seat Tuk-Tuk. I’d rather not talk about it in much detail, but the four of us decided to give the whole massage thing another go. Everyone except for me got out of the aromatherapy spa without any mild sexual abuse. The elephants were a lot more fun and talented.

Not Dumbo.

Puket was pure relaxation in the sun, swimming, snorkeling, boating and exploring James Bond Island.

007.

Due to my father’s high, but not unreasonable expectations, we got moved to the Presidential Suite at the Indigo Pearl Hotel for no added charge. High Five for polite complaints! And I’m pretty sure my mom got flashed by a 60-year-old German woman at the hotel pool. When she asked my dad, who was sitting to her right whether that was the case, he replied, “Yep, it appears so.”

The King.

It was overcast for two days, which prevented me from getting melanoma, but since I’ve been living in Siberia, the would-be burns were almost welcomed. My mom was not surprisingly happy about all that. My body, on the other hand, went into complete shock when I started actually eating healthy food like fruits and vegetables and fish. And I didn’t even care. If only for the food, Thailand is worth the trip. All the pineapple, coconut, shrimp, lobster and curry your body can handle. I should have taken pictures or something for a keepsake. Wait, I did take a picture of the room service banana split I ordered, and my sister told me that’s something only fat kids do. I deleted it.

Me and Coconut McGee.

On the 12th, my family got up at 4:00 AM and said goodbye to me. It was weird and short, but then not that weird at all. I was like, “Thanks, see you in 5 months for the wedding.” And that was that. My flight left later in the afternoon, and when I landed in Almaty, everything was surreal. It seemed like everything I had just experienced was a dream, and I was just waking up. I wasn’t sad or anything because I have things to do and finish here in Kyrgyzstan, but it really was such a gift to have been able to take that break, spend time with people I love, learn about a new place and culture and then come back. That’s the secret: you have to come back to understand it all.

Chapter Nine: News From Home

2006-11-29T15:34:00.000+06:00

“I feel sometimes as if I were a child who opens its eyes on the world once and sees amazing things it will never know any names for and then has to close its eyes again. I know this is all mere apparition compared to what awaits us, but it is only lovelier for that. There is a human beauty in it.”

Marilynne Robinson, Gilead

That except was chosen by my sister, Brigid, as the first paragraph of an article she wrote for The Daily Iowan. I attended a lecture of Robinson’s during the Spring Literary Festival at Ohio University during 2005. She was one of my favorites. A complete nutcase, but a favorite.

My dad sent me a large packet of Brigid’s articles, and I just spent the last hour or so going through them. In mid-October the stud interviewed Michael Chabon (the author of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay). I guess she’s some hotshot reporter now and knows people who know people who know Chabon’s numbers. I wish I could remain apathetic about it, but I find myself possessing animus towards her. It’s silly because I’m at an antipodal point on the earth from where she is this very moment.

I’m studying for the GRE, which I plan to take sometime in February. If I use esoteric vocabulary, it is merely an attempt to put my ambitious studying to practice. All I ask is that you don’t mock me. I’ll even allow acrimonious comments to be posted if I use a new word erroneously.

Who am I kidding? I’m an altruist, and I couldn’t be more proud of my little sis. Maybe when Kyrgyzstan is all said and done, pending I desire a job in news media, she’ll be amicable and put in a good word.

Next week: The B’s!

Chapter Eight: Have Pictures!

2006-11-19T10:48:00.000+06:00

They're not Lazy Boys, but still.

So I hang out with dudes.

Is what I did here wrong?

Chapter Seven: Red Afternoon

2006-11-10T16:03:00.000+06:00

Late October and Early November 2006

So maybe it was the line in Love Actually when the wife of the guy who was having a pseudo-affair said that Joni Mitchell was the woman who taught “his cold-hearted British wife to feel,” but lately, I’ve been craving me some “Case of You.” This admitted, on the phone the other night, I asked my dad to send me her Blue album in the mail. He called this morning to double-check that he got the right one.

Dad: “Col, you wanted Carole King, right?”
Me: “What? No. I told you Joni Mitchell. Her Blue, B-L-U-E album.”
Dad: “Oh, well I guess I’m out 24 bucks then. Just ignore the contents of this next package. I mailed it yesterday. Oddly though, I’m sort of relieved. I was wondering what the heck you wanted with that Carole King crap.”
Me: “Well, thanks anyway.”
Dad: “Yeah, well now you got every one of Carole King’s Greatest Hits if you ever feel the need to listen to them.”

I can hardly wait.

In the last two weeks I got to speak to my grandparents, my older brother, four close friends and my parents on the phone. I also got confirmation that the parental units as well as my little sister will be meeting me in Bangkok, Thailand, in early January. Of course this is pending Kyrgyz Concepts can successfully scrounge up a roundtrip ticket from Tashkent, Uzbekistan, to the Land of the Thai. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, I read somewhere that the ending stan really just means land. So Kyrgyzstan? You guessed it, “The Land of the Kyrgyz.” I’m oozing knowledge.

On Halloween I patiently tried to teach my 7th graders the concept of dressing up in costumes. When I taught them the grammar point for the day and told them to complete the sentence, “My costume is a _____,” the girls all drew prom dresses and the boys drew three-piece suits. When I asked one of the boys if that was his Halloween costume he said, “Yes, I am George Bush. I have a costume.” That’s when I remembered that the word in Russian for suit is costume. Basically, I told the kids that on the 31st, little children in America dress up in formal wear, and go house to house asking for candy. I feel a little silly. Oops.

On the 4th, my first (second if you count PST) host family invited 80 relatives over for my host sister’s wedding reception party, lasting an entire 24 hours. Twenty-four hours of dancing to Kyrgyz-techno, drinking black tea, taking shots of vodka and eating freshly backyard slaughtered cow meat soaked in soggy noodles. Mmmm. Jealous yet? All joking aside, it was great to see my host sister again. I guess if I have to compare the experience to something back home, it was almost like I was the Maid of Honor. I’m sure it has something to do with my being American and all, but people were making a big deal about me. But most of the evening and into the morning, I was just paranoid that my sub-par language level would be found out, and I’d be shunned. That never happened. If anything, the toast I gave, followed my serenade of Aladdin’s "A Whole New World" was a welcomed surprise. I can hardly believe it myself, but when the overly friendly and touchy-feely uncle told me that the meal couldn’t end without me singing to Aidena, I felt compelled to sing the first song that came to mind. I realize it’s a little pathetic that the first song I could think of was a Disney classic, but at least it’s a good one, no? I think it’s safe to say the fact that I was the only one who understood what I was saying was a plus. Because, as any one of my friends are all to aware, I can’t carry a tune, let alone one without music in the background to drown out my voice. Towards the end, the lyrics got a little fuzzy, so when I couldn’t remember anymore versus, I slowly faded out, they applauded politely and then thanked me for the effort. Maybe next time I’ll sing something from Beauty and the Beast.

I also got the finger from a five-year-old. But not because of my song choice. I’m still not really sure why he flipped me off. I like to tell myself that he was just a little cranky. Or hungry.

At about 4:00 PM the following afternoon, the family decided to say their goodbyes and pack the truck up with all their new gifts. It’s a Kyrgyz custom for the wife’s family to fully furnish the newlyweds home as best they can, and then send it all away with the new couple after the reception. And I must say, it all was a bit impressive. My Apa and Ata were saving since March to provide carpets, trunks, pillows, blankets and sofas for the newlyweds, Rustam and Aidena. Tushucks galore. Ever since I laid eyes on the national carpet, shurdock, I’ve wanted to purchase one for myself. And with all this wedding furniture hoopla, I felt the spirit move me, so placed an order with another volunteer’s handicraft NGO. It should be finished and ready for pickup come December, so maybe I’ll drag it to Thailand with me and make Papa Marshall bring the goods back to the States. Sounds like a plan.

With Halloween and the wedding celebration behind me, I now find myself saying goodbye to a lot of my friends. The K-12 group (Kyrgyzstan’s 12th group of volunteers) is leaving, returning home or traveling the world before new obligations call and they are summoned back and have to move on with their lives, find a job, a school or a love. I’m really going to miss them. Good, good people. And to think, a year ago, I had no idea any of them existed. They helped change my life in some of the smallest ways. Ways I’m sure I’m not even aware of yet.

Volunteers are funny people. I have a feeling not all of us are like the crowd that signed up in the 1960s after President Kennedy’s call. A few of us idealists, of course. Some of us wanderers, escapists, enthusiasts. Some of us don’t really know what we want from life, some of us are driven with the utmost passion to succeed. Befriending people, people that I probably might never have been drawn to without the convenience that the Peace Corps experience provides, has been a good thing. I suppose I’d like to think that what I’m doing now isn’t because I’m running away or existing apart from any sort of reality, but is rather a stage in my life, simply preparing me for my next step. If any of us are lucky, maybe we’ll find someone who’d want to go and do it all with us.

And just because...

Tori Amos, Silent All These Years

For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one’s own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.
M. Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was— I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the wood of the old hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.
J. Kerouac, On the Road

Rilo Kiley, Spectacular Views

Chapter Six: Oh, a Rose, Oh?

2006-10-05T00:19:00.000+06:00

September 23, 2006

I’m starving. Like actually starving. Today is the first day of the Islamic holiday Ramadan, or as the cool Kyrgyz speaking folks say, Orozo. And I’m participating in it. Well, sort of. It’s a lot like Lent in the way followers “give up” something, in the hopes that when they are tempted by it, they refrain, reflecting on the Lord and his sacrifice(s). In Ramadan, however, a believer doesn’t just give up one thing, they give up a lot of things: food from sunrise until sunset, alcohol, drugs (including cigarettes), relations, and then a bunch of other stuff is done in addition like cleaning one’s body and reciting the Koran. I have a slight feeling my participation the affair is a sacrilege, but I’m using this next month as a self-cleansing blah blah blah.

This morning I got up just in time to down a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee (Just remembered caffeine is a drug as well, oops). It wasn’t sufficient. It’s 6:21 PM now, and I am waiting for the sun to set. I’m making Curried Vegetable Couscous. I have the entire meal ready and waiting to be prepared over my solitary electric burner. I’ll be drinking green tea, and a lot of it, in an attempt to wean myself of my mud-like, black as the night coffee fixation.

It’s getting darker outside. I am getting pumped. I feel like I should read a passage in the New Testament or The Art of Happiness or something.

Does my candle burn at both ends? The other day, I recalled a time during high school when I was in a tête-à-tête with my US History teacher and he told me that I was burning my candle at both ends. That was years ago, and he didn’t end it with, “But ah my foes, and oh my friends, it gives a lovely light.” If I am correct, it was more or less, “It will not last the night, and by the time your 20, you’ll be on one form or another of Prozac.” It was really touching.

In all seriousness, I think I am just losing my mind. I need food.

October 1, 2006

It’s a new month. One week has gone by, and while I am cheating by drinking coffee on a daily basis, I am still fasting during daylight hours. Oh, and that Veggie Couscous I made last me for the entire week. Sanitary? Not so sure. Delicious? Definitely. Good for me. My meat is thawing.

October 5, 2006

Yesterday I picked apples in my backyard. It was fun. But I got yelled at because I was aggressively taking them from the tree and throwing them into the bucket without their stems.

It's late. But I just wanted to say:

“I am my own sandman tonight. Goodnight! Goodnight, all you infuriatingly uncommunicative people.”
RHTRB,C

Chapter Five: Birinchi Juma

2006-09-08T14:41:00.000+06:00

September 4, 2006

Today was my first full-day teaching this year. On Saturday afternoon, I went to Bishkek to say farewell to R., and then in the morning I got right back in another cab heading home, in what was perhaps the most mentally taxing taxi ride. Ever. The driver I eventually agreed on a price with lied to me and told me that there were already three other passengers in his car, waiting for one more passenger to be on our way. I settled early in the taxi selection process because at a quarter to 9 in the morning, the bus/taxi station is still entirely overwhelming. It takes an insane amount of willpower to remain aloof, treating all the drivers as, more or less, annoying flies. They see a non-Kyrgyz or Russian-looking person and assume that he or she is a tourist, and then as a result, assume they can then proceed to swarm and practically force them into the nearest stick shift Audi or Soviet-era Lada, ripping the said person ridiculously off with the fare, claiming that gas prices are “so high.” It really just comes down to stamina in the end, for both the driver and the passenger. The passenger cannot give in too easily, and the driver has to be persistent, or else he (and it is always a he) risks losing the traveler to his counterparts. It’s a tough game. But then again, so is life. Sheila would tell me to “knock it off, stop complaining and accept that life isn’t fair.”

I should have just kept this all to myself and dwelt more on the fact that R. isn’t going to be here anymore, and that the whole reason I went through the blessed affair was because she became such a good friend of mine this past year, and going with her to Bishkek was only an extension of what friendship entails. If I were to be honest, I’d have to admit that when I signed up for this whole PC business, I didn’t have any intention of making friends with other volunteers. It just didn’t cross my mind. So I suppose I look at the relationships I’ve made with other PCVs as added bonuses to this experience. And if nothing else, I now have a good reason to go through with my Tour de Pacific, starting in Seattle, Washington, making my way down to Portland, Oregon, and on and on South on Route 101. Surrounding myself with West Coasters, however involuntary it was, and their not-so Mid-Westerness, has indeed sparked my interest. I’m just saying.

But going back to dwelling on the negative, my fun game went on for another two hours as we waited for his, inevitably, empty car to fill up. Finally around 11:00 AM, we departed the capital, only to have to change a flat tire an hour into our trip. The man in the Audi’s backseat, who needless to say, started his drinking day off a tad too early or ended it a bit too late, was another bonus to my day’s awesomeness. At about 5:00 PM, we dawdled into Karakol, where I had to catch a connecting taxi to my village, some 20 minutes away. Inescapably, I was exhausted by the time my key went through my front door’s lock. I went to bed, woke up semi-earlier than I would normally in order to pretty myself, drank some French-pressed coffee, and at the last minute, changed from my dark jeans to a pair of black slacks (wow, I said “slacks”) so that my students would respect me more or something, where I then proceeded to leave my cute little house and head to school, arriving before the 8:00 AM bell. When I got to school, I immediately sensed the lack of urgency, and therefore took my time trying to read the cursive Cyrillic, deciphering my schedule. Only Monday and Tuesday’s classes were scheduled. Two classes today and four more tomorrow. All in all it was an uneventful day, save for the moving back in of all my teaching materials. Thanks to the World Wide Schools Program, I’ve somehow scrounged up quite a bit of supplies, so with hope, I’ll put them to use and make my lessons a tad more interesting than last year’s.

It’s nighttime now, and I can’t stop thinking about how I’m so many hours ahead of you. Like when I’m thinking about heading to bed (I’d say around 6 or 7:00 PM), you’re all just getting up. It’s been practically a year and I’m still amazed the time difference. I think time differences are going to be one of those things that I’m an eternal a kid about. And I’m fine with that. “Ooh, I’m in the future. I know what’s going to happen…” You know, things like that.

I’m back in my little house, and it’s freezing. I swear, the moment the calendar hit September 1st, the weather did a 180 like that, overnight.

I mentioned to She-She the other night that I was going to go dry for the next three months. She said that she’d do it too. When I mentioned it to B.P. over the Habitat for Humanity week, she bet me 5 com (the equivalent of about 12.5 cents) that I couldn’t do it. She was right. When I found out that my mom had a few the other night during her surprise 28th wedding anniversary party, I allowed myself one colimocho (red wine and coke) for R’s Last Supper. Hey, if Jesus rejoiced with those in his inner circle when he was saying goodbye and all that, I thought it was OK for me this one time too. Unlike the rest of the partygoers (all four of us), I stopped at the one, but because I bet on it, I promise to pay B.P. the 5 com I lost fair and square. Hold me to it.

I realize that 5 com, to all you high rollers, might not sound like a whole lot, but it’s a bus ride within city limits. No matter which Kyrgyz city you might find yourself. (I wanted to use an exclamation point there, but I couldn’t do it. What’s wrong with me?)

In other news regarding things my mother and I are trying to do simultaneously, my exercise plan fails each day. It might have something to do with the one shower a week bit, but I can’t be sure. What I do know is that, it got me thinking about the Nordic Trek that resides in my parent’s bedroom back in good ol’ LF. If you were to take a Marshall Home Tour, you might not even realize this once famous contraption is in fact there, but when it’s not being used as closet place for clothes from the dry cleaner or as a prop for my dad’s golf clubs, you’d be certain to see it. All early 90s worth.

X. diagnosed me with Irritable Leg Syndrome the other day. I told her that when I lay down for the night, my legs have a really hard time calming down. I have, on more than one occasion, had to get up and out of the (un)comforts of bed, to stretch for 20 minutes or so. I’m sure it is my body’s way of telling me it needs to be more physically active and what not. If I could only find a way to box the Nordic Trek and have it sent to Kyrgyzstan, I’d be set. I would put 5 com down on the fact that it hasn’t been used in the past 12 months. They’d hardly miss it. And I could use the pocket change.

September 7, 2006

OH. MY. GOD. While I’ve been spending the last hour or so editing this new post, I almost burned down this little house I’ve been bragging about. I was heating up water in a plastic bucket to do some dirty dishes later tonight, and I totally forgot about it. I bought this thing that needs to be plugged in and then placed into a full bucket of water in order to heat it up. It’s really sketchy, I’m not denying that, but everyone uses it. They just don’t forget about it like me. It takes about 10 minutes or so to heat the entire bucket, and I must have had it going for 45 minutes. Embarrassing story cut short, I might be inhaling toxic fumes from the bucket’s plastic right now. Must. Fix. Mistake.

One more thing, I went to have dinner at my Apa’s house earlier tonight. I happened to have my cell phone on me at the time, so I offered it to her to call her daughter, my sister, who was bride-napped a while back, and say hello. It was no big deal, really, but it was such a nice scene to behold. Mother, daughter, random American, all smiling because there was so much happiness in the air. My Ata poked his head around the corner whispering, not unlike my own American father, to my Apa, for her to say hello for him. I successfully flagged him over and made my Apa hand the phone over to him, so that he could do it himself. From what I know, that was the first time in six months that he’s heard his only daughter’s voice and she his. After dinner, when my Apa was walking me down the street, back to my new place, she told me that although this was a really hard first week of school for her, today was a good day. I know it’s simple, but she had a good day. That makes me happy. It was a good one.

Take care.

Chapter Four: Fall Over

2006-09-02T16:04:00.000+06:00

You know, I've been sitting here at the computer for over half an hour, trying to upload this summer's pictures, but the Peace Corps' computers aren't agreeing with me. I'm getting frustrated.

I came into the capital this afternoon to help and to say goodbye to a friend who's leaving Kyrgyzstan for good. Friday was my first day of school, but I didn't make it. You might be thinking that I'm a horrible person, but you'd be wrong. I told my director ahead of time. I was busy building houses. I'll be there first thing Monday morning. I promise.

Proof... Um, I was taking the picture.

Today is my dad's birthday. Yesterday was my parent's wedding anniversary. I'll try to call them sometime today, but I might not get through. If this is the case, congratulations. Just because you don't hear my voice on the other end of the phone, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about you.

On an unrelated note, I'm, in a way, obsessed with Ben Lee's Birthday Song.

Fall is here. Yay.

Chapter Three: August and Everything After

2006-08-19T12:31:00.001+06:00

August 6, 2006

I’m listening to the Counting Crows’ Holiday in Spain. It’s a musically beautiful song. If you can get past Adam Duritz’ whinny voice, that is. I dig it. Anyway, I’m in my new compound. I just ate my first cooked dinner by myself. I even opened a bottle of white wine I got from a bike/wine tour J. and I took in Vienna. While I do miss my previous Kyrgyz family, I’m a lot more comfortable on my own, here. I have to do a quick recap of Part II, III and III.5 of my European Adventures, so here goes: Wait, let me paint a picture for you as to what I look like and what I’m doing this moment.

A twenty something female, dressed like she came in after a long day spent on southern California’s shores, wearing Hawaiian-print board shorts with disheveled long wavy hair, sits on her cherry red bed, covered in blankets a blind Kyrgyz grandmother could have made. She is happy. She is alone. But she doesn’t feel so if she doesn’t think about it. She doesn’t think about it. She has just eaten her fill of tomatoes and green peppers steamed with olive oil, cheese slices and a hardboiled egg. She washed it down with a glass of white wine, straight from the Viennese countryside. With the amenities of 21st century technology, she is writing on her laptop, listening to late 90s rock tunes. Her cell phone just rang. It is her mother calling on a sunny summer Sunday in Chicago. She is overcome with emotion as she answers, happy to be in her new place, aware that she hasn’t seen her beautiful mother for almost a year. She misses her tremendously. She has become her. She won’t say a thing about that.

Whew... moving on. And so I begin with Part II.

Vienna with J.
- Went on a bike and wine tasting countryside tour
- Saw The 3rd Man and then reenacted the famous Orson Wells entrance scene, sans feline
- Attended the Vienna Film Festival: Horror Shows
- Drank the Original King of Beers
- Jumped on a very large trampoline
- Discovered another foreign city without the help of locals

Innsbruck with brother S.
- Saw the high jump that was used during one of the winter Olympics… or something
- Went to a zoo and saw bear and wolves and an eagle and a group of Japanese tourists
- Did an Irish Car Bomb at a local Irish pub
- Proceeded to speak in an Irish accent for the rest of the evening
- Decided to go get some gelato across the border

Across the border with the same cat.
- Ate gelato
- Took another international train ride
- Bought a leather coat. That was dumb. And expensive. Crap.
- Went to the Leonardo da Vinci museum… BTW, that’s not what it’s called.
- Saw some Michelangelo. And because S. was so generous with his time, got to see the replica of the David instead of the real thing.
- Ran into another K-13 PCV outside a football jersey shop

I really like my brother. He's something special.

Anyway, I’m back in Jety-Oguz now. Things are changing. People are leaving. People are not coming back. My best friend from as long back as I can remember received a wedding proposal. I have a jump rope.

Later this week I’ll head to my school, talk with my director, paint my classroom white and eventually organize the Darian Book Aide library collection that was sent to me. Things need to start getting done.

August 8, 2006

I’m in my room, jumping rope. And I’m fairly certain that the little boys are spying on me. I just finished a bottle of vodka with Bakut, my host-father/brother, and Tokton, my host-mother/sister, and her sister and her husband. It may sound like I drink a lot; this is not the case. Don't worry about it, I was just present for the last drops in the bottle. My Kyrgyz was pretty sweet though. I ate too many calories, so I am working out to burn them off before I hit the hay.

And no, I don’t know when I got so cool.

August 16, 2006

Time is flying. I have about two weeks left of my summer vacation, then it’s on to my first full-year of teaching the hopefully enthusiastic students of Jety-Oguz village. I’ve been painting the school and doing random repairs along side other teachers, but tomorrow I’ll focus mainly on my own room. I have books and posters and all sorts of goodies to add to my cage.

I spent this past weekend in Bishkek, celebrating birthdays and going-aways and excuses to go dancing at The Golden Bull, Bishkek’s finest dancing establishment. As much as it’s nice to take a break and just be with other Americans, I need to be back in my village home, doing things like walking to the well to fetch water and doing laundry by hand. Bishkek is a strange, strange place. And to be honest, whenever I go there, I find people stir up drama just so that there’s something to do and talk about the next day. God love us, but enough is enough.

The new volunteers are finally in country. Because I was on my European escapades during their site-visits, I only met one of them. It was in random passing, and as far as I could tell, it wasn’t the girl that I heard packed a penguin costume and wore it during staging. I don’t care what you say, penguin costumes are funny.

Anyway, I welcomed the first visitors to stay in my new place the other night. I took them hiking in the mountains back where I live. We walked the entire way up to the waterfall, and then back to my compound, where my host-family was not awaiting our arrival with the Kyrgyz national dish and tushiks for their sleep. I had to give them my hummus and peanut butter and strip the covers from my bed so that they had something upon which to sleep. I just rewrote that sentence so that it didn’t end in a preposition. All in all, it was well worth the side sauce sacrificing.

I think I could just continue to write about how strange it feels to still be in Kyrgyzstan, but I’m not sure that’s what you all want to read about. I can’t help but think about it every single day. It’s a weird phenomena: Wanting to be home with all you champs, but then consciously deciding not to leave because there are still things to be done here. I hate wanting to be in two places at once. It’s even weirder to know that I have little over a year before I get to come home for good as well. I know it would be cool of me to surprise you, but turns out I’m not that cool. I have a very important wedding to attend on June 23rd, 2007, so I will be back in the hood for a brief stint next summer, pending the world doesn’t end before then. Look out because I’m in the market for a hot date to walk me around... That's also pending I get a "Plus One". Oh, and just so you know, I’ve become quite the dancer. I’ve spent countless boring hours teaching myself how to get jiggy wit it. If anything, Kyrgyzstan has given me that.

I know it’s going to go fast, and that you guys probably don’t really miss me all that much, but know that not a single day goes by where I don’t think about what and who I left behind. Maybe I’m just being paranoid that by the time I do get back to the States, you’ll all be indifferent to me. Maybe I need to listen to some Ryan Adams to really get me going.

“I’m all alone now, I can do as I please.
I don’t feel like doing much of anything…
Please do not let me go. Please do not let me go.”

One of my new host-sisters just came in to give me some apricot nuts. Who knew that you could eat the fruit and then with a hammer crack open the seed and inside is a tasty nut? I had no clue. She asked me whether she could borrow a magazine and then asked me if I could teach her to sing sometime. I had to ask her five times just to be sure that’s what she was asking. Apparently she heard me singing along to iTunes and thought (God help her) that I was really good. I had to explain that she had it all wrong and that in fact I am what English speakers refer to as “tone-deaf” and that I really am not the lady she wants to be taking voice lessons from. She insisted that I was incorrect, and that no matter what I say, she wants to practice singing along to the radio with me sometime. She has no idea what she’s in for.

I should really take the time now to write some emails. I owe people.

Pictures to come. Now I have to eat meat on a stick.

Chapter Two: Soviet-Era Station Wagons

2006-07-15T19:28:00.000+06:00

Renwick - Marshall 2K6. Damn.

My week in Sofia is coming to an end, but a new one in Austria will begin soon. Time went by so fast. It's weird how even though people need a rest and a vacation sometimes, I feel a little strange having left Krygyzstan and my service for a few weeks to travel around Europe. A part of me feels silly for feeling this way. Instead of actually writing anything, here's a list. Lists were a good idea.

- Saw Superman at a theater with popcorn, Diet Coke and beer.
- Walked the city alone and got lost but found my way home, reading Cyrillic.

- Ate McDonald's. Twice.
- Attended a 3-day Bulgarian "Woodstock," but only for a day and night.

- Spent significant time at a coffee shop, reading and drinking.
- Took an inter-Bulgarian train ride.

- Went to a local's birthday party.
- Left the comforts of city life, and ventured off outside Sofia for a day trip.

- Hung out with an Austrian, an Australian, an Italian, some Germans and a bunch of Bulgarians, all of whom could speak fluent English. Even the Australian.
- Pushed the Berlin Wall over.

And that's a wrap. See you when I see you, friend.

Up, up and away.

Part V: Chapter One: Oh, the places you'll go.

2006-07-10T20:09:00.000+06:00

From the living room of H. Renwick's, I sit and write this post. It wasn't weird to see her again at all. I'm like that with my friends, and it's a good thing because I do such a poor job communicating with them as it is. It was like I was talking to her on the phone and then had an incoming call on the other line, took it, leaving her on call-waiting, and then clicked back 10 months later. I'm her 12th guest to visit. If anything, that says a lot about the cat she is.

The time difference from Kyrgyzstan is 6 hours, but I refuse to give into my exhaustion. I almost made it last night, but fell asleep before the final outcome of Italy versus France. It's been strange living abroad and being immersed into cultures that actually care about football... I mean, soccer.

Anyway, I've decided to post some pictures since I don't have to pay by the minute. Sofia is a great city. I just can't speak the language.

This is not Sofia. This is my village home. Dig it.

My humble abode. Jety-Oguz.

Istanbul. View from the top.

Matching Lacoste polos are the latest rage on a morning in Turkey.

Fastfood nation. This is the first burger I've had in a long, long time.

When I have the time, I'll compile new pictures from my week here.

Bounce.

Chapter Sixteen: If someone steals your Chaco, Let. It. Go.

2006-07-08T17:14:00.000+06:00

...or your new 200 com yellow beach towel, or your irreplacable sleeping bag cover.

This is where it all went down.

But that's neither here nor there. Except for there.

What I really want to say is that today is the last day that I'll be away from people I up and left 10 months ago. Well, at least three of them. Lucky bastards.

As a result of my endeavors, I'll be starting a new part to this wonderfully amazing story soon.

Plus, the K-14s are on their way as we speak to this grand republic, so it's only fitting.

Aight, I'm off to eat dinner, repack my bag, and then board a flight to Istanbul where I'll enjoy the advantage of a 14-hour layover and day visa. Then it's off to Sofia for a week and Vienna soon thereafter.

Enjoy yourselves because I will be.

Chapter Fifteen: Do it for the Fat Lady

2006-06-22T11:49:00.000+06:00

Apple replaced my broken PowerBook with an upgraded, brand new MacBook. It has a camera on it. It's sweet. And you know what, I'm sweet.

I also got my camera back, so now I can take pictures of all the breathtakingly beautiful sights here in Kyrgyzstan. There's a whole lot of them too.

Now all I lack is music, which has definitely not been an enjoyable experience, but I'll be sure to get some tunes from some other suckers in the near future.

Well, what's new? I talked to my host-sister on the phone last week and told her I'd come visit and drop some books off for her. She's going through quite the transition, so anything I can do to make her days better, I'm all for it. I finally ended up visiting her this past weekend, and it wasn't as fun as the first time I went to see her, right after the "wedding."

I've grown accustomed to locals asking me to take them to America with me when I go home, but when someone I consider to be a friend asks that, it's not really the same thing. You can't just brush it off with a laugh because then it's a serious request. A request the people actually believe is possible. Without going into too much detail about how I feel about that, I just wanted to say that with each day, I understand just how good we have it in the States and how much we are still viewed as a country "where your dreams can come true." I know, I know, that sounds lame, but people still think all things are possible in America. They see one movie and claim that Chicago is a place with guns and gangsters, but they still want to come. Maybe it has to do with the paved, asphalt streets. As cruel as our media sources make the US out to be, the truth is, people continue to bang down the doors to come on in. It breaks my heart when I talk with the locals about living here and experiencing their culture, knowing that chances are, they won't get the opportunity to do the same in the red, white and blue. But that's enough of that.

Two weeks ago, I went up to Cholpon-Ata, which is on the north shore of the lake. After running into one of my 4th graders on the street, me and a sweet, sweet group of 7, let the good times roll. We took in some sights. Green pastures, wild horses and rainbows. I was also fairly certain that I saw a leprechaun at the end of the rainbow, right next to the pot of gold.

I'm not funny anymore. I'm sorry. Here's what I'm talking about though.

Ordinary people. Lenin stayed behind.

Sight for sore eyes.

Pot o' Gold.

I'm going to start to write again, I just need some more practice.

Oh, I'm also moving out of my host-family's place at the end of July, when I get back from Europe. It's nothing against my family, it's just that I need to get out on my own and start doing things. I've been extremely fortunate with the whole host-family experience, I really can't complain in terms of their personalities and genuine care for me. These guys are my Kyrgyz family, for sure. I'll just be moving across the village onto another family's property, but in my own little compound house. Since I wasn't planning on ever moving out, I of course spent all the readjustment allowance Peace Corps gave us 6 months ago, so it looks like I'll have to drop a hefty sum of my monthly living allowance on new appliances, so that I can live and cook on my own. My sensitive stomach has never quite gotten accustomed to the daily use of oil in everything, so I have a feeling I'll be eating a lot of granola and tomatoes once I'm incharge of what goes into my body. I've changed. I never, ever ate tomatoes in the States. I simply just can't stand the texture, so on the rare occasion I'd eat one, someone would have to hide it in the middle of some sandwich, disguised by other foods or serve it really, really warm, so that the actual tomato was all soft and not, well, like an actual tomato.

And now, a yurt.

"Like a dream, a flash of lightening, or a cloud
So should one consider all compounded things."

Chapter Fourteen: 'Keking It.

2006-05-31T13:08:00.000+06:00

This is me reporting from the capital city. Like the weather, things are clear. It's been a nice, calm few days filled with medical appointments, dental exams and administrative meetings, oh my.

I'm milking my stay with another PCV. Now that school is out for summer, I might just have to stay and do program research till the end of the week. I have to swing by the US embassy and get information on textbooks or something.

Anyway, the weather is amazing. We're basically on the same latitudinal plane as Chicago, so we've got the whole four season thing going on. I'm planning on hitting up the valleys for some summer hiking, but that would require walking, and PCMO told me to limit that, if at all possible.

So I made this list of summer goals because I'm still a huge nerd and write down both short-term and long-term goals. This so-called list of mine was discovered last night and read aloud for a good laugh. Apparently, I actually put swimming and hiking and fishing on the list, and because I have already accomplished 2 out of the 3, a black pen was taken to the page and the tasks crossed off. I think that's normal though. As is writing myself post-it notes, encouraging me to "keep reading" and "speak slower."

Eh, if others get one laugh out of my silly ways, I'll keep doing it. Slowly, I'm losing my mind. Sadly, I'm OK with that.

And get this. In the span of one month, my laptop, iPod and digital camera all failed on me and had to be sent back to the US. I got a call at the crack of dawn this morning, telling me that Apple has agreed to mail me a brand new, updated Powerbook because it was "lost in transit." Until then, I am sans technology.

Oh, so without revealing too much information about my summer whereabouts, I admit to finally purchasing my summer travel flights to Sofia, Bulgaria, and Vienna, Austria. I'm really, really excited. I just hope the people I'm visiting don't ditch me and leave me to fend off the European villains. I may have been raised on Chicago's northshore, but I'm a little village girl now, and big, scary cities frighten me.

Here's me and a bunch of cows on my way fishing. I'm on the phone with She-She Marshall.

Chapter Thirteen: 13 going on 23

2006-05-16T10:13:00.000+06:00

I'm in the city for 2.2 this morning, doing things.

I just went to the post office and mailed two very odd packages to two very odd friends. And it was kimbat... that's expensive in Kyrgyz.

Even if the post office lady was trying to rip me off, I still heart the Kyrgyz.

...and these lovely, Asian-Americans.

Chapter Twelve: Oh, hi, Oh

2006-05-08T16:39:00.000+06:00

So other PCVs are getting hits on their blogs from soon to be K-14 volunteers. I can't believe the next group is already coming in. I know it's three months earlier than our group actually came to country, but still.

In case you wanted to know, time here does go by really fast. And I mean that in a really slow, fast way.

All deliberate speed- Lately you've been comtemplating.
Is this real or is this fading?
What brought you here in the first place?
Everyone around us screams
It's got to be and it's got to hit you.
Well, you and me, well we can change the world.

Mae "All Deliberate Speed"

Chapter Eleven: Edumacation

2006-04-30T12:28:00.000+06:00

On an educational note, I wanted to express my feelings towards our rayon's English festival held this past week. Me and three other PCVs were the judges of about 35 schools or so from Tuesday through Thursday. While my school and the other PCVs' schools all finished towards the top in regards to their grasp of the English language, many schools provided plenty of entertainment that made the hours and days fly by and on other occassions pass like a camel in the desert. If I never hear the songs "We Shall Overcome" and "My Friends are Your Friends and Your Friends are My Friends" ever again, I shall die a happy lady and have overcome.

But I should admit that many schools and individual students impressed me with their fluency of one of the more challenging languages in the world. The enthusiasm and willingness to get on stage in front of peers and judges was impressive. If there's anything to say about the people of Kyrgyzstan, they sure "dance like no one is watching."

Oh, and a friend of the family, who I'll refer to as M.B.H., came through BIG TIME, sending me an "M Bag" full of educational materials. I'm talking real ESL textbooks and workbooks and wall art. The hours I've been spending worrying about what to teach and how to present the topics have been signifincantly reduced to simply minutes. I am in awe of educators in this part of the world, or really anywhere I guess, who lack adequate books and materials to use in the classroom.

Now if I could just get my students to retain the knowledge and come on a regular basis, I'd be a pro.

This is my classroom. They really like that blue paint.

And this is me, The Educator.

Chapter Ten: OK, you're right.

2006-04-28T11:53:00.000+06:00

Camping last week, while a good decision has been the direct cooralation of what Sheila would call post-nasal drip and intense blowing of the nose. I think taking not one but two Benadryls last night on the other hand, was not such a good decision. All morning I've felt as if in a haze. And I don't even have allergies.

On my way back home after camping in Cholpon-Ata, which entailed singing Disney classics over a struggling fire, I rode the Kyrgyz version of America's finest nation-wide bus travel company, Greyhound. The major difference I'll say is that here in Krgyzstan, you never run out of seats. Well you do, but that doesn't stop the driver from pulling over to the side of the rode, and letting everyone and their donkey come on in. I wanted to die. My saving grace were my headphones and the ironwill I possessed to keep my eyes closed, pretending I was lying in a hammock on the southern shore of somewhere beautiful.

I made it back to Karakol, and despite the blisters on the back of my heels from hiking, I walked up to the bazaar and got in the last cab available back to my village. Anticipating a quiet drive back to the J.O., I was surpised when I was attacked with the game 20 Questions by the Apa sitting beside me in the back seat. Within minutes of finding out where and what I studied in university and where my family orginates from, she all but destroyed any shred of self-confidence I possessed, telling me that I didn't read enough, and that if I ever wanted to be a journalist, I better start soon. Maybe if I had been able to argue in my mother tongue, I would have been able to express that in fact I can and do read. And while it may be hard to believe, I have heard of John Steinbeck and read Russian literature. And just because my family comes from Ireland, that does not mean that I am obligated to know and have read every Irish author in the history of mankind. She told me I wasn't a patriot. Whatever that means.

It's a good thing the parental units knew enough to give me a call later that night, reinstilling my confidence. I guess it's ok and normal for not everyone I meet to treat me like a goddess. I can live with that.

Now that the weather is getting nice, my students are opting out of school more frequently. I only had one lesson this morning, but no one came, so instead I sat at my desk, studying my Kyrgyz. I was learning how to say, "I can play volleyball, but I don't want to." Complex sentences. Tomorrow is my rayon's volleyball tournament, but I'm not really feeling it. I'd rather hit up the fields and help plant potatoes.

I wanted to post random pictures, but there's two, now three, other PCVS over my shoulder, waiting for me to finish this, so that we can all grab something to eat.

Hope things are well with you all. I send my love.

Chapter Nine: Poof!

2006-04-13T17:06:00.000+06:00

There’s no easy way to put this, so I’ll just throw it on out there.

My sister got herself married, kidnapped, however you want to say it, two Sundays ago.

Yeah. That’s what I said.

But word has it that the guy was her boyfriend, so I'm not suppossed to be too scared for her. She told me before that she really liked this one, so I'll try to be happy for her. It's just that I don't know when I'm going to be able to see her again.

I have to tell you, I actually am pretty bummed about it because now it’s just me and the boys, and I have a sneaking suspicion that to make things easier on my apa, I’m going to have to pick up the slack around the house.

See, I guess when Aidena’s husband’s family came over on Sunday and handed over the “bride price” and my ata accepted the money, it was official. I’m not really sure how it all went down, but I’ll give you the play-by-play I have in my head.

Friday: Aidena comes home from university.

Saturday: I wake up to the sound of Aidena cleaning the house like mad. I participate out of obligation. There’s sweeping and dish washing and clothes cleaning and the whole 9 yards. My apa comes home from Bishkek to a clean home and a meal of plov, ready to be eaten as a family. I suspect nothing.

Sunday: I leisurely get up and find out that my apa and ata went to the city for a day at the bazaar. When they get home my apa comes up to me, crying, and tells me that Aidena left. She is not coming home anymore. This is not her home. She has a husband now.

“Whaaaa?”

Yeah, there were tears and awkward hugs and about an hour of me hiding in my room, scared to make conversation. Eventually my ata called me out to tell me that soccer was playing on TV. As if nothing happened, he expected me to plop a squat and enjoy the match. I tried to. I really did. That lasted for about 20 minutes. When he got up, I got up, and I returned back to my room. Then a few hours later, I was called out to help make borsock. I was confused. My apa switched from mother-whose-daughter-just-got-kidnapped to mother-who-needs-to-throw-a-party-for-her-wedded-daughter. Within a few hours, everything was ready, guests were arriving, and I was trying my best to not be the center of attention. I had to drink tea with the groom’s male relatives. It may have been the most uncomfortable 2 hours of my life. Anyway, I randomly retreated back to my room, like the hermit I have become, but would emerge sporadically, playing the role of “fun foreigner.”

Monday: I went to bed around 2:00 a.m., but the party had just begun. Occasionally, I’d hear the voice of a familiar relative, but I’d just turn over in my bed, waiting for the party to die down. It never did. At 11:00 the following morning, I come out of my room wearing the exact same outfit I went to bed in, only to be welcomed by 20 new faces, mostly neighbors and children. This went on for the entire day.

At about 6:00 in the evening, I finally decided that it was time for me to put my party hat on and really celebrate. This was a bad decision. I cannot for the life of me hold my vodka. I just can’t. I am a shame to Russians and Kyrgyz everywhere.

All that celebrating and I still don’t have Aidena back.

This was taken a while ago before my first Siberian winter. She's the one on the left. And that's not me next to her in case you thought it was.

Anyway, I taught school this week. It’s the 4th quarter, and there’s only two months of school left until summer vacation. Then I am “off” for three months. When summer is up, I will have been in country for an entire year. Already I have had a hard time accepting the reality that almost a year has gone by since I graduated college. I can’t even believe it.

Right now the neighborhood kids are playing a game where they pass a ball around in a circle, hitting it like a volleyball. They play this game every night for about two and half hours. It’s right outside my bedroom window, so I can hear everything. Only sometimes do I get the desire to run out there like I’m seven and play along with them. As of yet, I haven’t joined in the fun, but I sense the day emerging.

My mom sent a soccer ball from home, so I occasionally play “Who Can Score 5 Goals First” with Beknazar. He’s 11. I’m better at kicking than he is, but I let him win sometimes. I think he thinks he’s better than me, and that bothers me, so maybe I’ll up the ante, and put him back in his place.

American music plays all day, everyday on this one radio station my family listens to. It’s really hard getting through a meal when all I hear is, “My lovely lady lump. My hump, my bump, my lovely lady lump.”

Oh, and I should also mention that Angelina Jolie is a huge success here. Not in terms of her acting or humanitarian work, but just the reality that her dome-piece is on the bottle of some cheap, red wine. Actually, I don’t even know if people know who she is, but I got a good kick out of it anyway. There she was, lips everywhere.

I’m in Bishkek now on medical. Nothing serious, just a knee thing. My computer is broken-broken, so I have to get that mailed home via FedEx or DHL while I’m here. My mom and I were actually on a 3-way phone conversation with the guy at Apple while I was at some Russian restaurant last week. Since I’ve been in-country, that was the yuppiest I have felt. But I’m still not a Cubs fan, so no worries.

Chapter Eight: Because I Can

2006-03-31T15:42:00.000+06:00

I didn't actually write anything of substance, but I thought it best to post this ridiculous picture.

The Kyrgyz make fun of me for smiling and saying "cheese" when the camera clicks, so I thought I'd try and immerse myself into the local culture.

I think I took it too far.

Chapter Seven: Well, that's something.

2006-03-18T13:23:00.000+06:00

I just got back from the nation’s capital. I spent the week there with the other K-13s, attending our In-Service Training seminar, which entailed language lessons (somebody moved up a notch after the LPI!) and sitting in on sessions about culture, safety and security and most importantly grant writing and secondary projects. If you’ve never been to Bishkek, which I would place a hefty bet on, you should know that Bishkek is not Kyrgyzstan. I mean, it is, but compared to the village life, which I prefer, it has everything you would or could or couldn’t ever dream of. I spent pretty much all of the money that I wasn’t able to burn in the village, which was a lot, on Lebanese, Chinese and German food. I drank an actual Stella beer and had somewhat dry, red wine. I flushed a toilet. I took a bath, even if it did involve a plastic bag to plug up the drain. I went to the opera. I bought 6 new movies (Derailed, New World, King Kong, In Her Shoes, Oliver Twist and Flight Plan). Before I left, I decided that me leaving did have its perks. Being gone for an extended amount of time would allow for me to have a hay day at the movie rental once I got back. I know it’s sort of sad in a loser sense to admit, but I actually consider myself to be more than just acquaintances with the people behind the counter at my rental store. I don’t even get embarrassed about going there are 5 in the afternoon on a Friday and watching a movie before I go out, if I go out, at night. The lady told me that when she sees me next she’d have her favorite films from the time I was MIA available for me. But thanks to what I like to call “advanced technology,” I have current picks within reach, however expensive, even if the 6th one’s free here in the Kyrgyz Republic.

I’ll admit it was nice to get out of the village and see “old” friends and catch up on the last 3 months, but I’m now a village girl and happy to be home. It was nice to walk in my room and see a gift from the family from the 8th of March (Women’s Day). I couldn’t read the note because it was in Kyrgyz cursive, and as it is, I can barely read cursive in English. I think I embarrassed my host-sister by having her dictate it to me. They gave me a bag. I think the group consensus is that my American, hiking-style side bag is too big for village life. Also waiting for me was another letter or 2 from a friend, an amazing scrapbook letter thing from the one and only A.G.C., which included just what I needed: a sleazy celebrity news/style magazine called Life & Style weekly. I’ve never heard of it, which scares me. Americans are losing their minds. I may or may not be as well. Just so you know, I’m a changed woman. While my friends know me well enough to know that I love the crap, and therefore sincerely appreciate when I get celeb gossip in the mail, I have to confess, if the Spirit moves me, I no longer read articles about relationships and/or babies. It’s just not right. As a result, I am a little shady as to what went down with Nick and Jessica and all I know about Britney and Kevin’s baby is that he’s not a very cute baby. And I only know that because the picture was on the cover. I’m not at the admirable phase of my maturity to shun them completely, but as of a month ago, I at least feel bad about reading them. I’m practically a new person.

Oh, so what I wanted to say was that getting all this tangible love in the mail made me sad. Reading the stuff makes me want to hop on the next plane home and just sit and be with you. I hope you sort of understand why I have been lackadaisical in regards to updating my blog and writing quality letters. I do it, but it really makes me sad. I think that’s normal though, so I’m not going to lose sleep over it or reconsider my choices, but actually sitting down and getting my thoughts and feelings down on paper or virtual paper, is emotionally draining. So those of you who’ve gotten something from me, know that it hurt my heart to do it. But it still hurts more to read the letters from you.

“How’d you learn to cry on demand? Cry on demand. Why would you want to? Just close your eyes and think of me. Cry on demand. Teach me if you want to. No, you don’t have to. Just close my eyes and think of you.”

After the week, despite reactions that surfaced from reading mail from the States, I concluded that I was sort of made for this whole experience. While I might never be the best thing to happen to the Kyrgyz educational system, being here, coming back to my home in Jety-Oguz, I was filled with genuine excitement. Sitting in the marshrutka, driving into Karakol, I realized that I want to be here. And that says a lot because I cannot stand the tight-quarters of the bumping up and down marshrutka ride. But I want to get things done. I have all these plans in my head of what I think needs to be done, and I think it’s going to be a real test of my character to see if I can accomplish them with the help of other people, local people. I can see myself trying to take it all upon myself, and I might actually be able to do it, but I think that the sustainability of the projects will be jeopardized if I go about my goals that way. I really hope that I can in a way rally the troops and get people excited about helping the community. I think it could be really easy to just get the PC experience without really doing anything. But I don’t want to do that. So I’m an idealist, what of it? We’ll see if my spirit gets crushed. I sure hope not. My running and sometimes offensive mouth is just a front for my sensitive heart.

In the span of 9 days, I successfully offended 4 people, and had to apologize 4 different times. I really should work on that.

People are mostly good. I think. Even if ones I respect or am supposed to respect let me down.

I thought I had my spring break next week, but it looks like I was partially wrong. I guess it starts next week, but we still have classes. This means that I have more time to log my students’ grades into the grading book. For months the teachers I split with have been hounding me to write in it. Little do they know the book terrifies me, almost as much as the neighborhood dogs. Whenever they ask me to fill it out, I use the same excuse: “I don’t have a blue pen.” And if the book is in black, then I switch it up by saying, “I don’t have a black pen.” It’s worked every time. But now it’s crunch time, and I have to get on it. I’ve been keeping track on a daily basis as to attendance and participation, so I have a general idea, but the journal is in cursive and I haven’t taught myself yet. Plus, if you’ve ever seen my handwriting, you are familiar that it’s somewhat reminiscent of a 4th grade boy in a rush for recess. There’s a good possibility that they’ll think less of me. My 3rd graders write more legibly than I ever will. It’s a humbling reality.

Maybe if I can launch my secondary projects soon and get the ball rolling, I’ll earn their respect back. As of now, my plans are to complete a pre-school in the next town over. There’s no way for the younger kids to get to the existing school during the winter months, and with growing population and an already available building, I think it’s a realistic project. My other idea of funding a heating system for the existing school is, according to the village mayor, my first project to get underway. I have to do some research and see how much it’s really going to cost. The mayor gave me an estimate of about the same price as a Hummer H2, but I have an inclination that it might not cost as much. What I know for sure is that trying to teach effectively and have my students retain information during my first Siberian winter was close to impossible. And if the kids aren’t learning, then what’s the point? I was fortunate enough to travel down to Naryn last month and meet up with a language teacher at a school in the city, and when I walked into the building about the same size as my school in Jety-Oguz, my first observation was that the entire building was heated, the kids and teachers had their coats off, and the learning environment was how it should be. I really hope I can help give that to the people of my village.

Being gone for just over a week, it seemed like people actually missed me. It was cute. The village marshrutka guy pulled over and told me to get in and he’d drive me home. And then without saying a word, the people already on, started talking about me as if I wasn’t there, complementing me and letting everyone who didn’t know already that I was the volunteer and a teacher at the school. Then they proceeded announcing where and with whom I live. The Kyrgyz know everything about everyone. I’m sure they all know that I started running again, even though I avoid crowds by getting up early. And while I might only see three people throughout the entire 30 minutes or so, word spreads like wildfire.

I finally finished The Brothers Karamasov. I told myself that I wasn’t allowed to read or even pick up another novel until I completed it. It worked. I sat down, pencil in hand, and housed that epic in 2 days. It was actually a fantastic book.

“There are souls that in their narrowness blame the whole world. But overwhelm such a soul with mercy, give it love, and it will curse what it has done, for there are so many germs of good in it.”

I got to get my hands on Crime and Punishment stat. My new favorite book though is The Sirens of Titan by Vonnegut. There’s this part near the end where Malachi Constant is speaking with Salo about the need for humans to have purposes, reflecting on his life and eventual loving relationship with Beatrice that I think is key to our functioning in this crazy world and at least trying to make it the way it was supposed to be in the beginning before we went and f-ed it all up. He says, “It took us that long to realize that a purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.” I might fail 100% as an English teacher, I might not be able to secure the necessary funding for my projects, but I hope that at least I can love, even if I don’t want to, the people that are around me. And by “around,” I don’t just mean those in Kyrgyzstan.

“If I am a stranger now to you, I will always be.”

Chapter Six: ?

2006-02-12T12:07:00.000+06:00

I have no idea what "chapter" this is. I hope I was correct. If not I'll have to edit, and that takes too long. Just know that this is in fact a posting straight from the internet cafe. Everything that you are reading has not been edited or carefully thought over. None of it. I am just writing to a) say hello and b) explain that the reason it appears I have been lazy in regard to blogging is because my laptop stopped working again. I have to wait for Global Express to express those discs again.

Anyway, not much has been going on here in Kyrgyzstan. I finally sent the first letter to my World Wide Schools teaching partner. I think the whole idea of educating both students in the US and mine in Jety Oguz of one another is a great idea. I'd be willing to do this with more of you.

The warm weather is around the corner, and just when I thought it was safe to put away the YakTracks, a half foot of snow fell on the great, booming city of Karakol. It made skiing this weekend a blast, even though I really thought I was going to die out there on the mountain's peak during an intense wind storm. It doesn't sound scary at all anymore, so I'm not going to even try. But know that I was on the verge of tears, fearful of getting buried in an avalanche. That would have sucked. I'd like to think of myself tougher than I am, but in the face of helplessness, I'm weak.

I'm going to spend the latter half of this week down in Naryn participating in some sort of Diversity Week. It should be fun seeing old friends. And I'm diverse, right?

I should get on my way and walk the 20 minutes to the bazaar and catch a cab back to my village. I have a big week of valentine's cards to distribute and books to read. I just finished Dave Egger's "You Shall Know Our Velocity," and when it was finished, I couldn't help but wonder why it had taken me almost 3 years to actually sit down and read it. It was great in the I-really-am-starting-to-like-his-use-of-the-exclamation-mark kind of way, and not just because it felt like I had stolen a childhood friend's older brother's journal and was reading it in private.

It's weird that I've been here for 5 months.

Chapter Five: This is the New Year

2006-01-21T15:21:00.000+06:00

Good to be in the city. I probably should have come in yesterday, but I didn't. Decided to lie low for the night and catch up on some important letter writing. But it didn't happen. I finished this book I was reading and tried to edit some of this post, but my computer over-heated and scared me.

I'm playing hockey tomorrow. I brought my skates and everything. There is absolutely no excuse now for playing bad or falling. None.

Sorry it has taken me so long to get new stuff up. Here's what I came up with. And sorry for ending that sentence (and any others) with a preposition.

I've been at this Internet cafe for too long. Gotta go.

14 January 2006

So… I had too much time at the Internet café the other day and too much money burning a hole in my pocket, so I decided to spend both by surfing the web, catching up on old news via the Chicago Tribune and stalking friends and friends of friends. Below is something I stole and then completed on my own accord later, strictly in terms of my service. Sometimes a girl just needs to fill the gap in time by doing pointless, but utterly exciting, self-obsessed/reflective activities. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

I’m Going To Make My Students Do This Exercise, Too...

I live: in a village called Jety-Oguz, in a country called Kyrgyzstan.

I work: at a school without electricity.

I talk: and people try hard to understand me.

I wish: I was fluent already.

I enjoy: the sun over the snow-capped mountains in the morning.

I look: like I don’t belong here.

I find: if I walk to the bazaar before 5, I can always get a cab home before dark.

I smell: a lot better after my weekly banya.

I hide: my clean underwear in my room, instead of outside on the line to dry.

I walk: around town with my headphones on and feel guilty for owning an iPod.

I write: so that people won’t forget me.

I see: that poverty has many different faces.

I sing: in front of my students, even though I can’t carry a tune.

I laugh: when the Kyrgyz pronouce “village” like “willage.”

I can: see myself completing my service.

I watch: American movies with my family, dubbed in Russian.

I learn: how to be a teacher everyday.

I dream: that I get violently ill sometimes, and it scares me.

I want: my students to want to be in school.

I cry: when I remember that the White Sox won the World Series… and I missed it.

I burnt: a cranberry peppermint-scented candle the other night that my mom sent.

I read: an e-mail from my friend today that said Angelina is pregant with Brad’s baby.

Current read: The Brothers Karamozov, A Generous Orthodoxy and Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.

I love: that there are 58 of us in the same boat, serving in 58 different ways.

I sometimes: get mistaken as a Russian.

I hurt: my little brother Kevin and my sister’s feelings the most for coming here.

I fear: relationships changing.

I hope: people come visit me.

I broke: a piece of chalk the other day in class and swore.

I eat: way too many carbohydrates.

I quit: running because the people stare at me.

I drink: bad, Russian beer on the weekends.

I save: every card and letter that’s been sent my way.

I hug: people even when it makes me uncomfortable.

I play: poker with the PCVs in Karakol and lose.

I miss: trashy magazines, ranch dressing and indoor plumbing.

I hold: on too long.

I forgive: people who said they’d write but haven’t.

I drive: nothing, at least for the next two years.

I have: yet to put sugar in my chai.

I don't: want to get Avian Bird Flu.

I made: coffee cake on Christmas morning.

I believe: in doing things, not just talking about them.

I owe: my host-family 2000 com each month.

I feel: bad for leaving the people I love.

I know: they support me.

I wonder: what they’re doing right now.

15 January 2006

“I’ve gotta rush away,” she said, “been to Boston before. Anyway, this change I’ve been feeling, doesn’t make the rain fall. No big difference as these days, just the same walkaways. Some day I’m gonna stay, but not today.”

I really like the Counting Crows. I got up this morning at a leisurely pace. I’ve been doing lesson plans since 10:30. It’s now 2:04.

I’m pretty excited for this week of classes. I think I would like teaching more if it weren’t so cold and my schedule wasn’t spaced out so much. I think if I start another sentence with “I,” people might start to think I’m a moron. The significant time gaps are what wear me out by 4 in the afternoon. If I had my lessons back to back, I would be a better teacher. Sitting around and complaining to myself about the fact that there is no heat and my classroom has its back to the sun, is getting me nowhere. And I don’t even care if I have six Newsweek magazines to get me through.

I haven’t posted anything for two weeks. I haven’t been particularly busy or anything, I just didn’t feel like writing on my computer. Journaling for my own enjoyment, on the other hand, was accomplished.

Over break I went skiing again. Like actually skiing-skiing, not boarding. I haven’t gone in over 2 years, so that mere fact made it that much more exciting. Just like riding a bike. The first time down I was totally pizza wedging, but after one run, I found my groove and braved the highest run and moguls. There were 6 of us, and by afternoon we befriended the owner of the mountain’s son. He’s a mixture of everything. Greek, Persian, Russian, Ukrainian and whatever else. And he speaks nearly perfect English. He took us to the backside of the mountain to explore, and this is when N. thought it would be a good idea to ski where there was no path. Up to our chests in snow, literally rolling down the mountain was his idea of a good time. When I was clearly about to start crying, he’d look over at me and say, “You’ve got to be tough, Colleen. You can be tough. I’ve seen you be tough. Be tough.” And so I was tough. Forty-five minutes later, we made it down alive. I fear had we taken any longer, cannibalism may have surfaced in the face of survival of the fittest.

Even though skiing roughly costs $20, I get “paid” in com, so in reality I can’t really afford to go every weekend. N. Brought his own skis, and I’m beginning to wish I did too. I’d save big bucks and be able to buy that Russian fur hat my dad has been harassing me to invest in.

The third quarter of classes started on Thursday. I should have dedicated more time to lesson plans over break because I feel I was somewhat under prepared for the two days I taught last week. I did tongue twisters for pronunciation practice and then tried to get my students to grasp the concept of “sometimes, always and never.” The most challenging part of teaching so far has been trying to decipher my students’ levels. My 5th graders are more fluent than my 9th graders, but then again I have 2, 9th graders who understand me, and so 98% of them just sit in their chairs with a blank look of confusion for 30 minutes. My lessons are supposed to be 45 minutes long, but no one comes on time and lately the bell has been ringing prematurely.

I was so bummed the other day when the cafeteria was closed during my 2-hour break. One of the teachers handed me two letters from America, and instead of reading them over a cup of chai like I was hoping, I had to read both in the icebox, which is my classroom.

My host family told me that I only have a month and a half longer of the brutal cold. I think they were sick of my complaining, so they busted out the calendar and pointed to January and February and then mimicked the act of shivering. When they pointed to March, they relaxed and said, “Juloo,” warm. Then this morning, my Apa told me that in Siberia the temperature is like 30 degrees colder than it is here. I got the clue. No more complaints.

Let’s see… so last week I finished Little Green Men, American Taboo, Fahrenheit 451 and This Is Not Civilization. I started reading 1984, and I have yet to finish The Brothers Karamazov. For some reason when I start reading a book that succeeds 400 pages, I struggle immensely to complete it. This morning, however, I read a whole 20 pages. Alyosha’s Elder just died. Tear.

I finally bought a pair of Kyrgyz sweatpants. The dudes wear them at all hours of the day, and now I get to, too. They’re actually a good pair of fake Adidas. Even the spelling is correct. The other day in class I noticed one of my students jackets read, “Adidac.” And that’s funny because in Cyrillic the letter “C” makes the same sound as the English “S.” Oops.

I don’t think Pat McGee gets enough credit.

“As I lay here in bed, your smile fills my head...
If I could get away, I’d be there in a day. You’d be wearing that smile I haven’t seen for a while…
Check the mail just hoping to find, another note from you would ease my mind…
I can picture you now, standing outside your house...
Long for the day when there’s no goodbyes. Wish I could see you, I’d wipe the tears from your eyes, tell you everything’s all right, lay down, say to you, “Goodnight.”

I made a phone call from my cell phone last week to America. It was definitely a stupid move, but at least I had the pleasure of waking Becky up in the middle of the night. She told me later, via Facebook, that she had to check her phone 3 times the following morning to make sure it wasn’t a dream. The two minutes I actually talked to her drained about 200 units from my phone. Then to top it off, I got a harsh e-mail from my brother Sean on his birthday, asking me why I hadn’t called to wish him a “good one” on his 21st. Little does he know, I took a taxi into town on Saturday the 14th (the evening of his 13th) and called his phone. Birthday Boy didn’t answer, so I had to leave a message instead. I think he forgets that only 1/3 of the villagers in Jety-Oguz actually have working telephones, and for me to call the US from my phone is not just foolish but ridiculously expensive. Happy Birthday, Brother. When I get home, I’ll buy you a drink.

How cool is this? He’s studying in Austria this summer, and my friend Heather is still going to be in Bulgaria, researching child prostitution. So I was thinking, it would be silly of me not to take some vacation days and go visit them. I know I have to get through the rest of the school year, but the thought of seeing two people I think the world of, is just so damn exciting.

Sorry for saying “damn,” Dad.

Oh, and last weekend I spoke to my parents on the phone. They call almost every Sunday night. My dad actually said, “So it’s pretty cool that I got a shout-out on your blog, but I see that Mom gets more than I do. That’s OK, I guess.” What’s this? My parents are measuring my love for them via Blogger? I think that might the lamest thing I have ever heard. Already I get crap from other volunteers for even having this excuse for writing in the first place. Whenever I decide to leave the other PCVs for whatever reason, one of them never fails to say something along the lines of, “Hey, Colleen, are you going to update your blog? You better, you’re audience is waiting.” Little do they know, it’s the truth. Right?

So what if it is just my parents.

16 January 2006

My dad sent me the World Series 2005 on DVD. I wasn’t even aware that it was possible to actually buy it, but there it was, sitting there at the bottom of the box I picked up from the post office earlier this afternoon. I just finished watching it. I cried throughout the entire production. Maybe I was just releasing built-up emotion, but there’s something to say about good baseball: It can bring a person to tears. I’m a sucker for smart boys, a nice, hot cup of black coffee and amazing sport’s feats. If you ever want to steal my heart, it’s a pretty safe bet taking me to a baseball game.

True Love. True Story.

I couldn’t help but laugh as I got caught in rush hour traffic, walking home from school. Cows everywhere.

I spent all day yesterday preparing lesson plans for this week. The most challenging part I think is remembering what my students know and don’t know. I must have gone through 300 note cards, writing the English translation of certain Kyrgyz words. I hope they’re effective.

I took my Christmas decorations down last night. It was a little sad, but I got over it quickly, realizing that it never actually felt much like the holidays anyway. I guess I did get three recent presents in the mail, and to top it off, they were all wrapped, so that did help with my Holiday Spirit. A pair of “What’s your sign?” pajamas from my Godmother, the book Snow Flower and the Secret Fan from my Aunt Julie and the Macally Podwave for my iPod from my little brother Timmy. He wrote the cutest note ever, spreading goodwill.

Twenty children’s books were sent to me in English, and I just spent the last half hour reading stories with Bekoo, my little host-brother (Enee). I miss being a littler girl, sitting in my mother’s lap, reading The Berenstain Bears. Sometimes I forget that I’m 22 and doing that would be really weird.

I’m cold.

17 January 2006

I don’t know if you even noticed, but I added another sub-heading to the site. I feel like a sucker for writing it. So much for my $30,000 a year education at one of the finest journalism schools in the nation and the four years I spent learning, exercising and appreciating our First Amendment. My professors would be ashamed of me. If I said, “They made me do it,” would that erase your rapidly decreasing impression of me? (See: 2006 Handbook for Volunteers, 39.)

I remembered today that there were a few things I put-off for “another day.” In addition to the obvious heading incident, my list of New Year’s Resolutions, which fronts as my long-term and short-term goal setting also was abandoned. My dad and my college coach always told me putting goals in writing is the first step in accomplishing them. In case you care, here’s what I came up with.

Short-Term:
1. Learn pronunciations of Russian numbers up to 1,000.
2. Complete actual, daily lesson plans for the month of January.
3. Use my students’ names more in class.
4. Find a way to stay warmer in school.
5. Carry on a descent conversation with Kyrgyz teachers in hall, “lounge” or on the street.
6. Give the post office ladies sweets.
7. Tell my Apa politely that I can’t eat her soup anymore because it makes me sick.
8. Write hand-written letters to my recommenders and World Wide Schools teaching partner.
9. Meet with counterpart to establish needs of school and/or community, new hours and clubs.
10. Get through an entire episode of that one, ridiculous Brazilian soap opera, dubbed in Russian.

Long-Term:
1. Complete actual, daily lesson plans on a monthly basis.
2. Pass Advanced on IST Kyrgyz LPI, and then Advanced-High by MST.
3. Be able to address Russian-speaking people at the bazaar, instead of avoiding their booths.
4. Finish The Brothers Karamasov this year.
5. When the weather gets warmer, find a good running route and then run at least 3Xs a week.
6. Win a round of poker.
7. Go horse-trekking from Osh to Naryn with PST group (and whoever else is game) over summer.
8. Play hockey and go skiing until ice and snow melts.
9. Share more. Give things away freely. Be OK with less.
10. Accept the reality that the public banya is just that: public.
11. Send Kyrgyz traditionals to friends and family (remember birthdays), including pop-culture notebooks.
12. Stop fearing the skittish dogs.
13. Learn to cook a Kyrgyz meal.
14. Teach an American meal to host-sister and/or Apa.
15. Get grant(s) for school and/or community.
16. Sleep in a yurt.
17. Help student(s) pass Olympiad, etc.
18. Convince Kyrgyz that drinking cold water and sitting on cold concrete is OK.
19. Visit every Oblast PC will allow.
20. Catch a Kyrgyz fish.

18 January 2006

On my walk back from school this afternoon, I passed two teenage girls in the street, who stopped me to have what they would call a “stimulating” conversation. It went, word-for-word like this:

Girl 1: Good evening.
Girl 2: Good evening. [At this point, I was in utter shock because for the first time, someone used the proper greeting for the precise time of day… For weeks, all I’ve heard has been, “Good morning, Dear Teacher!”]
Me: Good evening. How are you?
Girl 1: I am fine, thank you. How are you?
Me: I’m well.
Girl 2: Let us get acquainted.
Me: Ooooooook. [Here I should make it clear that I was in literally stopped in my tracks, listening to the words coming out of their mouths.]
Girl 1: My name is Dinara.
Me: My name is Colleen.
Girl 2: My name is Aidai.
Girl 1: Nice to meet you.
Me: Nice to meet you too.
Girl 2: Where are you from?
Me: I am from Chicago.
Girl 1: Is it very beautiful in Chicago?
Me: Of course. But it is a big city.
Girl 1: A what?
Me: A BIG CITY. NO MOUNTAINS.
Girl 1: Oh. How old are you?
Me: I am 22.
Girl 1: I am 17.
Girl 2: I am 17. How long will you be living in our Kyrgyzstan?
Me: I will be living here for two years.
Girl 2: We like you.
Me: Thank you. Who is your English teacher?
Girl 1: Darhangul Eje.
Me: Ah, I think she has the best students. Your English is very good.
Girl 2: Excuse me. Repeat, please.
Me: I said, “I think she has the best students. Your English is very good.”
Girl 2: Oh, thank you.
Girl 1: Goodbye. So long. See you tomorrow.
Girl 2: So long.

Wow, I’m almost certain the writers of their English books would be so proud had they had the opportunity to eavesdrop.

I think I’ll go do some sit-ups. If I had my field hockey stick, I’d work on my ball handling. A soccer ball sits on my closet shelf, waiting to be used come spring. I’m such a little kid. I’m kind of excited to play with my students when the weather gets warmer, but I’m a little scared that my actions will be frowned down up by my colleagues. Almost every teacher is over 40, which means I’m most likely their children’s teacher. And the teachers that are closer to my age are all married and pregnant. Here lies my dilemma. The students are used to the Soviet style of education, meaning the teacher is strict and the students obey. So not the style I am accustomed to. So chances are I might lose my students’ respect by playing games with them, but then again, I might gain it for treating them like real people. We’ll see. I’m game.

“Dear Chicago, … I got something to confess… Life’s gotten simple since, I think about you all the time, it’s strange and hard to deal… Nothing breathes here in the cold…”
Ryan Adams, “Dear Chicago”

19 January 2006

I still have to teach one more class this afternoon, but for the time being I’m home. For the first time really, my Ata was not home to greet me for tea during my lunch break. It was kind of sad. I left school after secondary ended and walked home with one of my 9th graders, fully anticipating the smile and daily greeting of, “Kizim, kandai?” My girl, how are you? But he was nowhere to be seen, so I had to eat cold rice and drink tea all by my lonesome. Since no one was home, I actually sneaked some apricot jam, which I think the family is saving for when guests come over uninvited and some raspberry jam as well for my tea because one of the teachers said it would cure my cold. It’s not that I believe her; it’s just that raspberry jam sounded so good. I bought a jar as a Christmas present for my Apa, so with a few minutes search, I found my treasure, poured a spoonful into my cup and went on my way. Fruity goodness.

I caught myself pulling an “Office Space” the other day, trying to escape school before I could be seen. I feel bad about this, I do. But I knew a particular teacher was going to ask me to share her 5th grade class, meaning she’d take half and I would take the other. Thing is, I had 6 lessons that day, and wasn’t about to take on another one, one that wasn’t my responsibility in the first place. Maybe, and chances are had she asked me politely a day in advance, I would have agreed, but this two-minutes-before-the-bell-rings crap, is not happening with me. I made it out without a hitch, unlike Peter Gallagher, the film’s protagonist.

I am constantly debating with myself whether I should draw the line somewhere, or just not have one and serve these people fully. Daily my patience and servitude is tested with phrases such as:

1. “Cover this class for me, and don’t tell anyone.”
2. “You let me use your classroom, don’t tell anyone.”
3. “We share lesson now, don’t tell anyone.”
4. “Oh, you free now? Teach this class now, I’m busy.”
5. “I go to Karakol now. Take the grade book and teach this class. Don’t tell."

My mom would tell me I’m being a grump. I am. But truth is, I’m here for my students, and if I am constantly being dragged into the lives of other teachers’ students, I’m spreading myself thin. It’s hard enough as it is, remembering my 100 or so students’ names. Altinbek, Anarbek, Myranbek, who? And I’m also here to make these teachers better, bringing American styles and fresh, new ideas to the classroom. But this should be done in an organized fashion with meetings and everything. Maybe it’s the devil on my shoulder, telling me that I’m enabling them by covering for them, but thing is, most of these favors are things they should be doing themselves. I should have a servant heart. Why don’t I have a servant heart? Where is it? Where can I get one?

I’m listening to Avril Lavigne now. Let’s see what she has to say. I’m going to type the next thing she sings.

“I don’t know how I feel tomorrow. I don’t know what to say. Tomorrow is a different day. Hey yeah, hey yeah. Hey yeah, hey yeah. And I know I’m not ready. Hey yeah, hey yeah. Hey yeah, hey yeah, maybe tomorrow. Hey yeah, hey yeah. Hey yeah, hey yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m not ready. Hey yeah, hey yeah. Hey yeah, hey yeah, maybe tomorrow. And I want too believe when you tell me that it’ll be ok. Yeah I try to believe you, not today. Tomorrow it may change.”

Ahhh, the wisdom.

I think I’ll go drink of cup of Nescafe coffee, before I head back to school.

Looks like I wont have to wait until tomorrow to see what will happen. There’s something about my 3rd graders that make life so much better. They’re so darn cute. When I went back to school for my final lesson of the day, 4th G, I was welcomed by the hall monitor who told me that Gulzat, the teacher I split with, was too busy to teach her class, so it was my responsibility to take on 40, 10-year-olds. At first I was apprehensive, but the second I walked in the door, I was greeted with, “Good afternoon, Miss Colleen!” It was a nice way to start the lesson, so I began to warm-up to the situation. And then 20 minutes in, I looked over, out the window, and saw five of my 3rd graders, lined up across a beam, looking into my class, sucking on suckers and waving to me. When the bell rang, there they were once again, waiting outside my door, only to walk side by side with me back home. As they were speaking to me, all I could think about was the future and what they’re going to be like in 2 years. Would their English be good? Would I be sad to say goodbye? Weird, I know, but that’s what was going through my mind. I’ll take a picture of them next week during one of my fun activities, so you can get a picture of just how awesome they are.

Until then, I heart you.

Chapter Four: Spotlight on Christmas

2006-01-02T10:02:00.000+06:00

2 January 2006

I came into town this morning to check my e-mail, send some out, take a much needed banya and to try and find J. The cell phone service in the county this weekend has been crap, so all attempts to reach her and invite her to the post-New Year lunch celebration at my home were utter failures. If I can manage to locate her before noon, I’ll consider myself a success.

There’s a reason I didn’t go into too much detail in terms of Christmas and New Year’s. Actually, I just re-read everything, and even though my writing kind of sucks, I did a pretty good job, but there’s more. Since I never got a chance to complete my “Month of October,” I’ve decided to lump those 31 days into just Halloween and then combine the major American holidays up to today and do an “Ode to Holidays in Kyrgyzstan” type thing. Hold tight. It might be interesting. Might not. It might just be pictures.

1 January 2006

Authentic

Wow, it’s 2006. I got a text message that toasted to “rabid dogs, open manholes and crappy firecrackers.” Including friendly people, that pretty much sums Kyrgyzstan up. Happy New Year, everyone.

At midnight, I had to give a toast over champagne. I think I mumbled something along the lines of, “To giving toasts in English and the hope that maybe next year I’ll be speaking in Kyrgyz.” It was short and sweet, and then I was quickly ushered out of the house to help set off firecrackers. For someone who’d much rather watch than participate in this specific event, it was kinda fun, even if I feared losing a limb the entire time.

Before the final countdown, my “siblings” made me bundle up and go outside for and I quote, “a walk.” Ignorantly and enthusiastically I acquiesced, following the clan of three. Next thing I know, I’m being shoved down onto a miniature sleigh and pulled rather swiftly on the snow-covered path, around the block, over the bridge and then down the hill. I really don’t’ care that I was hanging out with an 11-year-old and the neighborhood kids either. It was so fun. I can’t remember the last time I went for an authentic sleigh ride.

Today was spent entertaining my ata’s family members and eating horse meat. It was delicious, and I didn’t have any issues whatsoever about eating Seabiscuit.

When the party ended, we all helped clean things up, but the boys, being boys, managed to knock over the tree and break two ornaments. I was just walking out of my room when it happened, and glancing at my apa’s face, I could tell she was waiting to get angry with them but it was a bit ackward with me being in the line if fire. I took her steadfast glare as a hint to very obviously retreat back into my sanctuary. She then let loose. I guess it was nice to at least hear her express any emotion other than sheer joy. She’s an incredible person, and it’s hard not to be happy with her around. I was beginning to doubt whether she was real or not, but thank God, she took care of that. My worries are now flushed, or I should say, thrown down the outhouse hole.

31 December 2005

It’s New Years’ Eve, and I’ve been in my pajamas for the entire day. It’s been marvelous. I decided to stay in Jety Oguz for the celebration and really soak it all in as authentically as I can.

I helped make borsock and some other bread creation. It’s hard to believe that bread only reached Kyrgyz tables in the 19th century. I’ve been oddly thirsty the whole day. And now I have a sore throat.

I watched Seabiscuit with the family this afternoon in English. After that, they made me sit in front of the television all day, watching Russian singers try to sound good. All I wanted to do was finished this Christopher Buckley novel, but I kept getting interrupted and dragged back into my host family’s social scene.

This is the first night in four days where we’re not leaving the house to go eat vast amounts of food at a neighbor’s home. I look forward to not feeling ill by the time I go to bed.

29 December 2005

It’s Thursday night, and I am getting ready to go guesting again. My family here loves to party. I like that they include me, even if it means I have to stuff my face full of carbohydrates for four hours straight and down shots of vodka.

The other day I was having an identity crisis, wondering what I was doing here. I’ll leave it to Dave to solve my issues.

“I am who I am, who I am, well who am I requesting some enlightenment? Could I have been anyone other than me? And then I sing and dance, play for you tonight, the thrill of it all, dark clouds may hang on me sometimes, but I work it out, and then I look up at the sky, my mouth is open wide, lick and taste. What’s
the use of worrying? What’s the use of hurrying? Turn, turn we almost become dizzy.”
Dave Matthews “Dancing Nancies”

27 December 2005

As far as I know, my winter break has started. I was told to leave school around 12:30 this afternoon, before my last scheduled class. I guess that’s how they do things around here. Another thing that’s most likely unique to these parts, is taking shots in the middle of the school day. The Ajays and Baekes were going to town on a few bottles before noon.

People are always sneaking me fruit. It’s so unexpected. At least once a day either a student or fellow teacher whispers to me and then hands over an apple or orange. Looking over my left shoulder, I can see my collection is building quite rapidly. It’s like a mini holiday fruit basket from one roofing company to the next. I should start eating them. I need the fiber.

I got two letters today. One of the teachers/vice principals/janitors called me over to his desk. I would have put some money down in the anticipation of more fruit, but I didn’t have any coms on me at the time. It’s a good thing, because as he opened his top drawer, I spotted the letters sitting right on top. He gave them to me and sent me on my way. I guess that means the post office lady figured he’d see me later that day before I had a chance to swing by. It’s definitely a different way to do the mail, but it works.

This past weekend, I went up to Karakol to celebrate Christmas with the volunteers in the area. On Saturday, J and N and I went up the mountain to board and ski. While the snow and mountain itself was awesome, I quickly found that the resort most definitely does not cater to the snowboarder. Next time, I’ll be skiing. I learned my lesson, three bruises, a half an hour in chest-deep snow and countless sore muscles later. As shocked as I was, the problem was in going up, not in going down the mountain. If I had the pocket change, I’d invest in chairlifts, because a 20-minute T-bar ride up to the top of the Ala Too mountain range has left me aching for days. It’s not that I want to complain, but being locked in by both my bindings and straining my arms so as to stay connected to the malicious device was plain brutal. If I can’t be with my family for the holidays, the mountain, however, was where I’d want to be, despite the possibility of not being able to bare children anymore.

If I can’t have my coffee and pastries the way I like to buy them in the States, then by God, I’ll just make them myself. And that’s exactly what I did on Christmas morning. I got up and went to the bazaar and bought everything I needed to make my first batch of homemade coffee cake. And it was good.

I stopped by the Russian Orthodox church while waiting for the store to open, but it scared me a little, so I peaced out of there rather quickly. I was already 45 minutes late, and due to the slight difference in the Orthodox calendar, they weren’t celebrating Christmas either, so I didn’t feel that bad leaving baby Jesus out in the manager all alone on his birthday.

Later we had a bunch of other people over to enjoy the holiday and a phenomenal roast. I made everyone suffer by cooking my self-proclaimed “famous” rice pudding and listen to two of my Christmas albums. No one wanted to join in for the group sing-a-long like I had hoped, so I quietly hummed along solo and ate the pudding straight from the bowl.

When I got home, my host family had made a sweet Christmas meal for me and invited some friends over to meet me and congratulate me on my country’s holiday. It was really nice. They even bought a mini Christmas tree and put it up a week early so that I could have it around. Their New Year’s is a lot like the commercialized version of our Christmas, so on the 31st, the festivities here in Kyrgyzstan will begin. They’ve got Santa Claus and the whole shebang. Well, not Christmas lights Chevy Chase style, but enough decorations to recognize the similarities.

The Magic Hat

"But don't forget that what kept them aflow
Floating through the desert doesn't take a boat, no
Don't forget that what kept them above is unconditional love

And, you can measure it in blood, you can measure it in mud
Let us say for these twelve days, put the measuring away
Cause it's Christmas, and the spotlight's shining on Christmas"
-Rufus Wainwright "Spotlight on Christmas"-

Chapter Three: Christmas in Kyrgyzstan

2005-12-23T14:10:00.000+06:00

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...

2005-12-16T13:17:00.000+06:00

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

2005-12-11T13:34:00.000+06:00

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

2005-12-11T13:18:00.000+06:00

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

2005-12-11T13:11:00.000+06:00

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

Chapter Ten: T minus 3 days

2005-11-28T09:51:00.000+06:00

I'm about to transistion yet again. On the first of December, I leave the comforts of Kegeti and swear in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV). Like I said before, I'm moving to the southshore of the lake. I'll be the only PCV in my village, but there will be some others close by. I'd label myself "nervous but excited." So maybe "anxious" is better.

I'm kinda bummed to be leaving all my friends, as well as my host-family, but my new one seems ok. It's so strange knowing that if things go as planned, I'll probably be living with them for 2 years.

I was on the phone will She-She last night, and I asked her what I was doing here. She responded, "Well, Col, you're volunteering." There's nothing like a mother to say it like it is.

So Saturday night was Guljakan's 45th birthday. I helped make borsok (fried dough)and this Kyrgyz potato salad thing. Apparantly, I dice too big.

I'm in Tokmok right now, about to go to the bazaar and buy my host family a going away gift. The day of the birthday party, a chicken got into the house when I accidentally left the door open to go fill up my water distiller. When I told my Apa about it, she went to fetch it, but in the process, the little creature wacked two of the flower vases with its wings, and they broke into little pieces on the floor. Maybe I'll look into getting replacements.

So my computer is fixed, but I ended up losing all of my information, like iTunes songs, pictures and Word documents. If you feel the Spirit move you, let it groove you, and mail me a photo of yourself or something. Being the genius I am, I also left all my hard copies of my pictures on the flight from JFK to Istanbul. So basically, some random Turkish dude is walking around the world with pictures of me and all of you. Either that, or an Delta Airlines stewardess.

All my love.

Chapter Nine: A River Runs Through It

2005-11-15T11:45:00.000+06:00

It's been a while since I've posted anything, and I blame that largely on the reality that the Start-Up disc my brother sent me via air mail was not sufficient. Another three weeks, and I should be smooth sailing. That, and I'm purchasing a cell phone at the Osh Bazaar this weekend.

Anyway, I got back from my permanant site visit to Jety-Oguz on the South Shore of Lake Issyk Kul on Sunday. Although I was exhausted, I was welcomed back warmly by my host-mother who made me walk to the public banya with her, and for 40 com, I enjoyed a nice sauna-type experience, only to be busted in on not once, but twice, by Apa herself. I guess she could hear me through the metal door, cursing the scolding hot water that wouldn't turn off and continued to overflow on to the banya floor, splashing every which way, burning my frail body. Thanks, Apa.

So like I said, I was on my visit to the Lake to meet my new family, school director and English-speaking counterpart. All in all, I think it's going to be a challenging next three months, transitioning yet again, but come spring, the flowers will be out, the snow will be melted and my Kyrgyz will be oh so much better. I'm sure it didn't help that I was reading The Catcher in the Rye for the 10,000th time on my trip as well. Talk about a downer. A good one, but a downer. On a positive note, there's a river that runs through my village. Looks like I'm in the market for a new pole, too.

I have stories.

But not now.

Now, I have my new address:

Kyrgyz Republic
Issyk Kul Oblast
Jety-Oguz Rayon
Jety-Oguz Village
722418
Marshall Colleen (Volunteer)

Oh, and I got a creepy phone call last night from some Uzbek chick who got my local number in Kegeti from "a friend" because she heard that there was some girl named Miss Colleen from Chicago living in Kyrgyzstan. I thought it was a joke, but she denied it, apoligized and then hung up the phone. My mom called me three minutes later. There was no apparant connection.

Chapter Eight: The Calm Before the Storm

2005-10-31T15:46:00.000+06:00

I got two packages today, both from She-She, with one including the start-up disc for my computer, so expect big things soon.

I just took my first language test, which entailed a conversation with 3 language and cross-cultural teachers. I had the exciting task of decribing my Kyrgyz family, givng directions from my school to my house and then buying water and Twix from the local store. If there were grades, I bet I got a "Satisfactory."

I'm about to go home, fix my laptop and write and write and write.

I've been doing the pen and paper thing for weeks, and while I do find it satisfying, my hands are weak and my hand-writing is pitiful. I did, however, mangage to write some letters, even though, technically, they haven't been mailed yet and may or may not be sitting in my bag right now.

I got a call from my dad last night, and sort of got emotional. I like him a lot, even if he canceled his season tickets for the White Sox the same year they swept the World Series.

I wish I had some mechanical pencils.

2005-10-15T17:22:00.000+06:00

First things first, this is not an official post. Hence, the no title.

1. My address here is:
Colleen Marshall
97 Lenina Street, RUPS
Mailbox #23
722140, Kant City
Kyrgyz Republic

(or Kyrgyzstan, whatever)

(They say you can write the address in reverse, but it doesnt really matter. Also, this is my temporary address until December, so remeber it takes 2-4 weeks for a package to get to me depending on when it's sent. AND, it will most likely be stripped search and things may or may not get to me. I recommend insuring and doing a good job at packaging and tapeing. You might want to hide some stuff in a creative manner. The postal people are just mean).

Oh, and if you send me stuff, words, whatever, I promise to write you back individually. Thanks.

2. My email is cmmarshall@mac.com

3. My computer is broken. And by "broken" I mean, I cannot remember my name and password to log on, so I cant write sweet, sweet posts because sitting in an Internet cafe and attempting to be creative takes time and money. Time is money, and money and time I lack.

4. I do run out here. It involves shoes, pants, rocks and a good arm to throw such rocks at the rabid dogs.

5. The Chicago White Sox are the best team in Major League baseball, and I am going to miss them win the World Series. Jump on the bandwagon and cheer for my black and white. Everyone's doing it.

6. I am 11 hours ahead of Central Standard Time.

Chapter Seven: "Naryn"

2005-10-06T15:24:00.000+06:00

I need all of you to know that I am not intentionally not responding to your emails and comments. My computer is being lame and the Internet in this country is definitely subpar. I cannot read any emails through .mac or aol, so basically I have no idea who or if anyone has actually tried to contact me.

I'm in Naryn right now, which is a city in the middle of the country, closer to China, visiting a PCV for a few days. This is the most mountainous and coldest region of the county, but it's beautiful.

Really, I am pretty upset about this whole email/broken computer/Internet thing. When I finally get to a good Internet cafe and can check my emails, I will write back as soon as possible. I was told (while too late) that maybe I should look into getting a yahoo, gmail or hotmail account instead. If I do that, I'll post my new account on here. Spread the word.

Oh, yeah, and I cant actually view my own blog or anyone else's, so let me know what's going on with you. Break out the old pen and paper and send me news the old fashion way. It'll take three weeks, but I'm worth it right?

Chapter 6: The Russians Are Coming

2005-09-27T16:54:00.000+06:00

September 24, 2005, continued September 26, 2005

I’ve been up since 5:45 AM. The pit hole is my new best friend. Forget the tree.

Anyway, my big goal for the day was to ask my host family whether I could do my laundry. After that experience, it has become clear that I’ve definitely have taken life in the States for granted. Having to wait a week to wash my clothes and bathe are just two of the rather drastic changes I have had to make. Never mind having to walk through the house, out the back door, through the corn field, around the chickens to get to the hole in the ground, in order to relieve myself.
My body misses porcelin.

[Break for 2 days]

Anyway, two days later, and two special pills from the doctor swallowed, I feel better.

I opened up my Jiff peanut butter and it’s making me miss home. I’m listening to Ben Lee’s “Awake is the New Sleep,” and it’s making me happy. And I have the house to myself for the next 10 minutes. It’s like when I’m home in Lake Forest and everyone is gone and if I wanted to I could run through the house naked and it wouldn’t matter, even though I’d never do it.

Wanna know what’s funny? My host mother, Gulgalkin, told me on the first day that I could call her Apa to make things easier, since really, trying to pronounce her name is in fact a challenge, so I acquiesced. It wasn’t until a few days later that I found out it translates as “Mommy.” I don’t even call Sheila “Mommy.” Maybe when I get back I will.

So turns out Americans are famous here in Kyrgyzstan. I walk down the street and people literally stare. I bet this is how Jennifer Aniston feels all the time. Or Rosie O’Donnell at that.

Is it bad that I’ve already had like 10 tablespoons of peanut butter? If you read this and like to eat peanut butter, send me some. Seriously. A little, tiny one will suffice. Sometimes (and by “sometimes” I mean all the time), the food here makes me sick. Peanut butter is familiar. Familiar, although not necessary and always good, is in this case excellent.

I’m finally reading The Brothers Karamazov. I think having some background with Russian literature is a good bonus. Is good bonus repetitive? Anyway, I have this awesome plan for when I’m teaching and the students are getting out of control to give them what was coined not by me “further education.” This “further education” is going to be a passage from some book or philosopher that I’ve read or am currently reading, and I’m going to make them rewrite the English translation as punishment. I think I’ll choose a couple passages in The Brothers Karamazov as this “further education” and kill two birds with one stone—force them to learn more English and get a quick lesson in famous Russian literature.

So a bunch of the PCVs and I are going to get this book-trade underway in a short while, but I have some close friends from back home and school who read, too. If I could I would email or call each one of you and ask you personally to send me a good book that you’ve just read or think I’d like or think that I should read and send it to me. No? Please. It would mean the world. And that says a lot, considering if you looked at a globe and pointed to where you were at, and then went halfway around it, I’d be there.

Oh, one more thing. I felt human this morning. I was beginning to wonder, but this morning I got sad. And not sad in a bad way, but sad like I realize I’m not going to see you guys for a while sad. I barely got through today’s first language lesson to top it off. See, there is this mirror right in front of me on the wall, and if I look directly in front of myself, I see my reflection. It’s not like I really wanted to look at myself, but sometimes I couldn’t help it, and when I did, I saw myself, and I looked sad, so it made me feel even sadder. I had to really focus on my work to get the feelings suppressed, and it was hard. But I did it. After lunch, I had a couple laughs and got over it and then shared what happened with some of my classmates and then it was all good. Tasiana (Ta-Shauna) decided that we should all get together and have a good cry sometime soon, but before we did so, we had to make a pact to stay tough, never give in and don’t turn back… or something motivational like that.

I think I should review some more Kyrgyz. Just smiling and saying “hello” and “thank you,” can only get me so much further. A part of me was super upset about not learning Russian for these first three months of Pre-Service Training, but I’m over it. This culture is Kyrgyz through and through, and while many, if not all, of the people can speak Russian, it means a whole lot more when I speak to them in their native tongue. Granted, Russian may be more helpful when this is all said and done, but for these next two years, I’m here, in Kyrgyzstan. I’ve decided relationships are the most important aspect of being a human, and relating in a personal way with language is a good first step. Plus, when else in my life will I get to have extensive language lessons in a nomadic language such as Kyrgyz? Riiiight. So, I’ll have to pick up Russian on my own. I have a dictionary to start, so that should help.

A big giant wink and a kiss from Kyrgyzstan.

Chapter Five: For Real

2005-09-24T15:16:00.000+06:00

September 22, 2005
9:25 P.M. Kegety, Kyrgyzstan

I’m sitting here, in my 5-room house in the village of Kegeti, typing on my brand new Mac computer. Something about this just doesn’t seem right. Some have. Others have not.

Oh, and I'm listening to Nickel Creek’s “Nickel Creek” album right now.

It’s Day Three here in Kegeti, and I couldn’t be happier. Technically, I’ve been gone for 9 days, but most of that was traveling. The land is beautiful, the mountains enormous and the people generous.

Last night my host brothers amused me by letting me watch their neighborhood judo club and play ping-pong. Who would have thought the Kyrgyz people like ping-pong? My younger brother, Zalkar, beat me at a mad game of chess last night before dinner, which we ate at 10.

I got really sick my first night here, woke up at 10, thinking it was the new day, and couldn’t hold my vomit in, so ended up puking in my plastic toiletry bag. In order to dispense of the blackberry jam vomit, I had to carry it through the house, show my hose sister (who I had only met two hours beforehand) and run outside to do it all over again. I got sick about 5 more times that night, but today I felt great.

Until after lunch.

For the past week, we have been learning about the Kyrgyz culture, language and how to teach. I must admit, I was a bit nervous knowing that I would have to teach a bunch of kids English, but after today’s lessons, I feel ready, and it’s only the third day.

It hit me today how important education really is. I know I’m teaching English and most of the students will grow up, take over the family farm and only use their English the next time a Peace Corps volunteer comes parading through their village, but that’s not the point. Jeff, our PST (pre-service training) coordinator, told us today about all his experiences teaching overseas. He just said this one sentence, and I don’t really remember it verbatim, but he took this kid aside who was being a troublemaker and not taking school seriously, approached him and said, “Why don’t you want to better yourself?”

And it’s really that simple.

Education is bettering oneself. You may not be the brightest crayon in the box or even use the education you learn in one class, but taking something and pouring yourself into it molds you. Education is a means to an end. It is structure that so many lack. It provides role models to emulate. It demands excellence, but doesn’t turn its back if excellence isn’t reached.

If I can make these kids (who, BTW, I just found out are ages 11-15) feel better about themselves about anything even once, then I’ll be happy.

Really, I’m lost. I’m confused. I’m clueless, but I’m excited about what lies ahead. These next three months are preparation for the next two years, so I’m going to use this time to prepare and assimilate into the native culture.

Without even trying, tonight my host mother invited me “Guesting” with some of her friends from the neighborhood. This is when a bunch of people get together to eat a meal, cheer over Vodka (or in my case, two sips of red wine), and friendship and Kyrgyz culture. When I walked out of our house with Apa (host mother), I didn’t know where we were going, but I just went along. We got to a house, after I got stared at by every person we passed along the stone and cow dung covered road, I took off my shoes before entering and walked into a room with 10 other Kyrgyz women staring and smiling back at me, insisting that I sit at the head of the table and shove my face with bread and tea. Thank God two of my LCFs (Language and Cross-Cultural instructors) were there who can speak English, who would translate to me that the women were praising me for me being me. I guess. I don’t know. Twenty minutes later, we left and that was that. Free food. Pakmat [Rakmat] (Thank you).

OK, my counter top water distiller needs attendance. In the words of Dave Matthews, “Don’t drink the water.” It’ll get you sick and then send you outside to your favorite tree to throw up all night. I know from experience, it you know what I mean. Eh? Eh?

Chapter Four: Tokmok

2005-09-24T14:42:00.000+06:00

I'm in Tokmok, and I had this whole thing written on my flash drive that I was going to share with all of you, but the computer is being weird, so you'll have to wait. Just know, that I am here, doing well, living with a wonderful Kyrgyz family and learnding a lot.

Stay tuned.

Chapter Three: "Cheesesteakes"

2005-09-16T08:14:00.000+06:00

I'm in Philadelphia, and before we got here there was this big upheavel as to who and when and where and why and how we were all going to get some Philly Cheesesteakes before our first meeting. We never got them.

And by "we," I mean, K13, the group of 66 that is going with me to Kyrgyzstan on September 16th. Tomorrow.

I won't be around the computers for quite some time, so this is it until I get there.

Tonight is my last night in America for 27 months.

I need to sleep, but I think pizza is more important.

Farewell.

Chapter Two: "Save 10%"

2005-09-11T06:30:00.000+06:00

A three months ago the man at the Barnes and Noble bookstore near my house asked me as I purchased "The Brothers Karamazov," whether I wanted to become a Barnes and Noble card member, save 10% off the purchase and then all subsequent purchases throughout the year for a small fee of $25. I brushed him off, said, "No thanks," and maybe even something along the lines of, "I'm moving out of the country for a while, so it wont make a lot of sense."

I am officially a moron.

I have gone to Barnes and Noble probably twenty times since that conversation and now own another 15 books. I bet that with all the money I spent and not saved an additional 10% on, I could have bought a small country... or fed a family of five for a week down in Mississippi.

To top it off, it hit me as I swiped my credit card one last time that I could have given my Barnes and Noble card to a family member or a friend as a gift or something. Chances are they would check for IDs or something, but still.

Well, at least I now have my Russian-English/English-Russian dictionaries, an atlas, some workbooks, Dostoevsky and... Christopher Moore.

If I can't leave you with anything tangible, I leave you with some of Fyodor's existential friends:

"Here, then, awaiting our study, lies man's authentic "being"-- stretching the whole length of his past. Man is what has happened to him, what he has done. Other things might have happened to him or have been done to him, but what did in fact happen to him and was done by him, this constitutes a relentless trajectory of experiences that he carries on his back as the vagabond his bundle of all he possesses. Man is a substantial emigrant on a pilgrimage of being, and it is accordingly meaningless to set limits to what he is capable of being."
-Ortega

"For, believe me, the secret of the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment of existence is: to live dangerously!"
-Nietzsche

Next time the Barnes and Noble guy asks whether I want to buy the card, I'm doing it. I'm dangerous.

Part I: Chapter One "Say Cheese"

2005-09-08T15:24:00.000+06:00

So I decided to post a picture of myself up on the Yahoo Groups website where all the other K13s and I can communicate with one another before we fly on out to Philly and then to Kyrgyzstan. I had trouble choosing a photo to use because, after all, these are still first impressions...

Well, also because I am extremely indecisive when it comes to, well, making decisions.

Anyway, I chose this one that was taken in San Sebastian, Spain, over the winter. I was eating a magdalena (Spanish cupcake) that my host father would insist I bring with me on every single weekend trip. He'd make a trip to the local bakery each Thursday, so that I could take at least four with me each time. I think the photo does the cupcakes justice... no?

What follows is a list of the ones that didn't make the cut.

But, oh, they were so close...

My middle name is Tommy Lee

Walk a mile in my shoes

I used to be Mexican

Garden State, anyone?

Kiss me, I'm Irish

B-A-N-A-N-A-S

That's a candid shot, folks

OK, enough of the narcissism. I'm going to Barnes and Noble to get some books.

P.S. I decided to write this blog as if it were a novel. I've always had a thing for memoirs.

Introduction

2005-08-27T07:13:00.000+06:00

I'm not new to this, but I have decided to start fresh, being that I am about to embark on my next big adventure.

For the record, I have not read The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon. I both like the title and it was sitting on my bedroom floor this morning when it occured to me that I should begin a new blog.

Thus, I begin.

I have joined to Peace Corps and will be leaving on the 14th of September, 2005, and shall return on the 9th of December, 2007. Mark your calendars.

They have me teaching English to high schoolers in the Kyrgyz Republic, aka Kyrgyzstan. This should be interesting. To be honest, I never pictured myself a teacher, but I surrounded myself with enough of them in college to have a clue. These "Secondary Activities" are really what excite me. I'm hoping to do something creative. We'll see.

Anyway, I've decided to give this website address to all my family and close friends since most of them have asked me to "keep them updated." I figure, if I continue to do this, I've done my part, so that when I get back I won't have to spend conversation after conversation letting everyone know "how it went." Two years is a while to try and summarize.

Here's my mailing address if you ever feel like sending me anything. Remember, you have to put it in a cardboard box, and wrap it again with brown paper and maybe even use some tape. I hear there are issues with the post offices.

Kyrgyz Republic
722140, Kant City
Mailbox#23
97 Lenina Street, RUPS
Colleen Marshall

Peace.