Internet, Kaida? (Internet, Where?)

September 23, 2010

Wow! Five weeks and still no internet… I can't believe it! In case
anyone is wondering, yes, it is possible to go this long without the
loverly internet machine… just extremely difficult. I don't miss the
whole facebook addiction, or checking my email three times a day.
Actually, it's kinda nice that I don't have to worry about missing
some really important memo from a professor or a boss because minimal
contact is par for the course here. But I do miss that communication
with my friends at home. I miss hearing about the little things in
their lives, how crazy parking can be or about that weird professor
who refuses to button his shirt all the way. I have no idea what is
going on at home. It's tough.

I think I remember one of my history books talking about this thing
called snail mail from the 20th Century. Maybe I will try to
rediscover the art of penmanship. That or smoke signals.

How Cold Are We Talking?

September 17, 2010

It's Mid-September and Kazakhstan is getting colder. I wish I could
tell you what "colder" means, but my village doesn't have a bank that
flashes the time and temperature on a sign out front. Now that I
think of it, my village doesn't even have a bank. We have two
schools, a post office, a make-shift first aid clinic, two mosques,
and a couple corner stores. It sounds like a lot… but that's a total
inventory of my village. Throw in a couple houses and some stray dogs
and you've got it!

Anyway, this cold-factor has really put a damper on my shower
situation! Once a week, my host family heats up the "moncha" (shower
room) and we can take bucket-baths with hot water. However, to get to
my "shower" I have to trek across the yard and down a little hill. It
really hasn't been a problem so far. But tonight I took a wonderfully
relaxing "shower," only to step out into the chill of the evening.
It's September. Probably too soon to start worrying about being cold…
but as people pull out there winter jackets and fur caps, I do get a
little nervous about what's in store for me and how in the heck I'm
going to make that hike back from the shower when it gets to -20 in a
few months.

The Milk Mission

September 6, 2010

Three weeks ago, I did not know a single Kazakh word. Today, I am a
talking machine. However, I only know about fifty words, so I repeat
them over and over again. "Hello!" "How are you?" "My name is Anne!"
"Hello!"

These phrases are great, but on occasion, I need to use more words
than just, "I am an American, from Missouri." Then I'm up a creek.
That was the case last Friday.

My host mom asked me to go to the corner store for some milk. I walked
into the shop with a big smile on my face, glad to have a mission. As
I looked around, the smile faded. Where was the milk?

The shop-owner asked if I needed help. Umm, yes. I searched my
vocabulary. "I am a Peace Corps Volunteer…" "I have a little sister…"
"I like to run…" Somehow, none of those were gonna get me the milk.
Then I had an ah-ha moment.

"CYbIK, Kaida?" I blurted out.

He looked at me quizzically and showed me to a refrigerator of sodas.
Oops. Wrong word. I did some quick brainstorming and came up
empty-handed, but I still needed to find the milk. That was my
special mission.

I put my fingers up to my head to symbolize horns and I said, "Moooo."
Then I pantomimed milking a cow. The storekeeper bent over laughing.
"CYT! Moo!" He said between laughs. He repeated my gestures to his
fellow shopkeeper, then to everyone else in the store. There were
laughs all around.

I left a few minutes later, milk in hand. Mission Accomplished
(though unorthodoxly!)

When you barely know more than an infant, you use any tools you have…
including making a fool of youself!

In the end, my host mom got her milk, everyone got a good laugh, and I
made a new friend.

Thank goodness I grew up in a charades-playing family!

Blue Jeans= Blue Hands

August 28, 2010

So, I did laundry for the first time since leaving the US… now I know
how spoiled I have been my whole life. Not only did my mom do my
laundry for me until college, but once I was in college, I still had
the luxury of a washing machine. Not anymore.

My host mom took me out by the chicken coop and showed me how to fill
a bucket with hot water and another with rainwater. She went back to
the porch. I started scrubbing. She started laughing. To say the
least, it may take a few weeks before I'm an expert.

This hand washing business takes a lot more personal time, but I
really got to know my clothes better. For instance, I've had this
pair of Houston jeans for about a year. I love them. They are dark
blue and fit just right. They've gone through the wash dozens of times
and never caused any problems. Well, I guess they're more sensitive
than I realized. When I put them in my soapy bucket, suddenly the
liquid looked like the water traps at a putt putt course. You know
the kind: super-fake blue. I ignored it and kept scrubbing. The
jeans bled blue and shortly thereafter, I turned into a smurf. My
favorite jeans. I thought I knew every inch of them. But apparently,
they were hiding a large vat of ink in the seams.

Note to self: next time, save jeans for the end of the wash… they
make the water (and yourself) unbearably blue.

The Dining Ordeal

Hey All! I just found internet for the first time 6 weeks!! I'm gonna
try to put up posts that I wrote weeks ago, but I can't actually
access blogspot, so hopefully this works... if not, email me. Also,
tell me if the format posts weird! Raxmet! ("Thank you" in Kazakh!)

August 25, 2010

Mom, you would be so proud of my manners. When I sit down to eat
dinner, I keep my elbows off the table and hands in my lap. And I
never use that boarder-house reach you warned me about. The only
problem is that doesn't fly in my neck of the woods!

As it turns out, it is common courtesy in K-stan to keep both hands on
the table while eating. It means you aren't hiding anything from your
companions. The elbows sneak up to keep those hands company. And
that proper American table setting it took me nearly a decade to learn
has been thrown out the window. Everyone eats from common bowls and
dishes, so plates aren't necessary, just spoons and forks. Actually,
it is kinda cool. There are way fewer dishes and you only eat what
you want. Less food waste. Good thinking!

When I got to Kazakhstan, I knew to expect some differences in the
cuisine, but I had no idea how all-encompassing the experience would
be. My first two nights here, dinner was a three-hour eating
marathon. Had I known in advance, I would have started training
months ago! Teatime, appetizers, soups, rice and pastas, followed by
more desserts. You think you are done when your host mother dismisses
you to your bedroom. But twenty minutes later your host brother shows
up at the door with his broken English saying: "Come. Eat meat."
Then it's meat with pasta, meat in soup, meat alone. Horse meat, cow
meat, some meat you don't even want to know about. And to wash it
down? Camel milk. (Think soured yogurt.) Then, maybe you can retire
for the night, but most likely, you will have dessert again.

Seeing twenty-five people gather around the table to eat, laugh, and
"do life" together is a remarkable experience. You crowd together,
leaning closer on the table and reaching over one another to scoop out
one more spoonful of homemade raspberry jam. Kids are wiggling in and
out, and tea is being passed down the assembly line. Even an
outsider, who doesn't know a lick of Kazakh, suddenly feels welcome
because this place has some strong reminders of home!