Peace Out

November 27, 2011

 

Well ladies and gentlemen, I have truly heart-breaking news for you: Peace Corps Kazakhstan is suspending its program in this country.  As a volunteer this means I am leaving my Kazakh village and going home to the United States. The decision was well deliberated by a committee in Washington, but the news was startling and devastating for me as a volunteer.

 

The past 15 months in Kazakhstan have been full of challenges, but those challenges yielded returns higher than I'd have thought possible. I have made wonderful friends, worked with remarkable students and teachers, and was just starting to understand this place and culture I've learned to call home- if only for a while. 

 

My homecoming is earlier than planned and I am still a bit shell-shocked by the whole thing.  Goodbyes will be abrupt and I can't fully comprehend how I can say "thank you" to my community for all the hospitality and love they have shown me.  Of course, it will be wonderful to see my family, especially in time for the holidays, but most volunteers have 3 months to physically and emotionally prepare for this sort of departure.  We have exponentially less time to digest it here in KZ.  And perhaps worst of all, the Peace Corps Staff must walk away from jobs and posts where many have served for a decade.  Prayers, thoughts, juju, whatever you believe in, would be much appreciated.

 

 

I'm not sure what to conclude with, perhaps because I feel no conclusion myself.  But I just wanted to let you know, with a tear in my eye.  It's been a wild ride and worth every minute.

Umm… Not the skill I was expecting

November 5, 2011

I knew I had it in me… I'm a fighter, not a lover!  My student's father is a general outdoors man and he and one of my teacher friends have taken it upon themselves to host me as if I were Queen Elizabeth herself, showing me all the best of Kazakhstan.

 

This is the same guy who took me fishing and now wants me to try my hand at hunting.  In addition to all that, he's a boxing champion in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan.  I like to mess with this guy, so when he asks me about hunting, I ask: "Agai (sir), when are you gonna teach me to be a champion boxer?"  Of course, it's a joke on two levels.  One: I don't really want to fight anyone and everyone here knows me as being all smiles all the time. Two: Girls don't really box that often.  So I ask him and everyone starts to laugh.

 

Last week I ran into "my coach" in the school cafeteria.  The usual conversation ensued:

-       "Anne, when are we going fishing again?  Wanna go hunting."

-       "Sure, I'll go hunting, agai.  But more importantly, when are you teaching me to box?"

-       "How about tomorrow at 5 o'clock?"

 

I almost died.  Uh… sure.  I can't be all talk, right?  So Thursday evening, at 5 o'clock I showed up at the sports school.  For an hour I practiced sparing, jabbing, and some foot shuffling technique with about 20 ten-year-olds.  They left, and I got another hour of self-defense training.  I can't say I'm really a fan of boxing to box, but I am a fan of knowing how to protect myself. Best of all- I love being in a gym and working out with a coach and everything.  Today, it was hard to pull my sweater off because my arms were so sore. 

 

Most volunteers learn a new skill while they're in Peace Corps. I never expected my skill would be boxing.

Do I Settle for Jack-O-Squash?

October 30, 2011

 

In my neck of the woods it's a little tricky to find a good old-fashioned pumpkin.  Most are about the size of a cantaloupe and you're really in the money if you can find one that's orange rather than green.  But this is Halloween, so you've gotta carve something. 

 

At the bazaar, I asked the lady: "Do you have any pumpkins?" She showed me a squash.  I asked another saleswoman to no avail.  After wandering the bazaar I was prepared to buy a stout squash and call it a Jack-O-Squash.  But then I saw it… the most beautiful pumpkin I've seen in ages (or since 2009) It looked like Bert from Sesame Street and was dull orange- but orange none the less.  I bought it. 

 

Back at home, a friend and I tried to cut into the thing, but remember the two days of snow we've had?  Well the darn thing was frozen.  

 

No problem… we shall overcome.  I decided to de-thaw it in my toaster oven.  It was too big. (Really, it's like, 15 inches tall and 10 inches in diameter.)

 

Next step: turn on the gas stove.  We roasted the poor pumpkin like a marshmallow for about five minutes before a knife would pass through its flesh.  It was slow going, but maybe that added to the adventure.  After 2 hours we have a beautiful ORANGE pumpkin to greet the abundance of trick-or-treaters who will rush to my door!

PS- I'm trying to attacha picture... would someone email me to tell me if it works?

Bar-down the hatches… it’s winter

October 29, 2011

I'm considering hibernation this winter.  Yesterday it snowed about 4 inches. Today there is a snowy ice/rain blend coming down.  Add to the madness that heating has yet to be installed in my house. You can see why it's hard to crawl out of bed… ever.  I sleep in tights and a stocking-cap in addition to my usual pajamas, socks, and hoodie.  Once I don this ever-so-stylish attire, I crawl under a sheet, two fleece blankets, a quilt and a two-inch thick wool blanket.  Actually, I feel perfectly comfortable in the 6-by-3 foot haven that is my bed, but the workmen better get here soon because as it stands, I refuse to do any work that cannot be done from this little fort I've constructed.

Magical Mystery Tour

October 9, 2011

 

I have a social event planner in the form of a village English teacher.  At least once a month, she has some outlandish idea that she pitches to me. This month's craziness: a fishing trip. 

 

Why is that crazy, you ask?  Well, Missouri may be "where the rivers run" but I've relocated myself to the steppe of a "-stan." This isn't exactly Oceans of Fun. But sure. Lauren always told me "Anything's possible if you only believe," so let's go fishing.

 

The date was set and today we were to actualize our plan. My friend and three middle-aged men picked me up and we high-tailed it into the steppe… away from the mountains and the most promising water sources.  We sailed past villages and fields in a soviet-style Volvo, until we came to what looked like a small cornfield. 

 

Sure enough, if you weave through the stalks, you'll find a little lake/pond: a tiny menagerie tucked behind a forgotten village. I was impressed. But it got better.

 

The fish weren't biting in this oasis, so the men told me: "Anne, let's go. We'll find a better place."  Past some cattails we ventured back into open steppe.  The only thing I saw, besides "flat" was a telephone line accompanying a supposed road in the distance. I had to stop and laugh at my situation. Here we were, fishing poles in hand, walking into the arid plains in search of a "better place." 

 

The men wove around a bit, stopped, and lowered their lines into what looked like a ditch several meters from where I stood musing. (My thoughts: "Are you kidding boys?  Where's the water?") We got closer and I ate my words.  That was no little ditch.  Sure, it may have only been six feet wide, but it was eight feet deep and a stream jetted across the muddy bed.  What do you know… they found water after all.

 

We fished for several hours. Some of our fishing holes were obvious.  Others, I'm certain, were manifestations from a divine being. A questionable inflatable boat appeared like magic from one of the men's rice-sacks, and of course, the day was complete with home-made soup (made right there in the field), salads and sweets, and Kazakh tea-time as the sun and moon completed their changing of the guards.

 

Then the headlights of the car sliced through the darkness as we wove past sleeping villages and windswept fields before parking at my gate.  The men shuffled through the trunk and produced a plastic sack with two of my fish inside- still wiggling a little. "Anne, you know how to clean a fish, right?"  Ummm… no, sorry.  Don't think we covered that in 7^th grade Home-Ec. I told them to keep it… that I live alone and it'd really be better if they shared Nemo & Company with their own families.  They would hear nothing of it and stuffed the bag into my hands. 

 

It would be easy to think that this day was an invention of my imagination. A lovely dream, perhaps.  But then I hear a rustling noise and I am reminded of how very real it was by the seizuring sack of scales sitting on my kitchen table.

 

It seems as though today is the day I'll teach myself how to cook a fish.

Let's Trade Rules for Eyeliner and Mud

October 8, 2011

 

I tell everyone about my super-stellar students.  They are all wonderful.  They are all thoughtful.  They are all the funniest and "bestest" kids in the world.  That is true.  They also happen to be some of the least-prepared kids in the world.

 

They come to class without their uniforms on. The bell rings. The lesson begins and the students listen.  So far so good, right? Right.

The vice principal pokes her head in.  "Saulie, where is your school tie? Go home and get it." There goes my best student.  She won't be back for another 2 class periods. 

 

English carries on and when we get to the new material I stop and verbally remind my students, "Guys, take out your notebooks. Write down today's date.  Write 'Present Perfect Continuous Tense' and the following rule…"

 

Then comes my favorite part of the class: "I don't have a notebook." (Are you kidding?!?! This is school. What's in your backpack?) Someone finds paper for the wayward scholar while some other jokester joins the chorus: "I don't have a pen." And so the class goes: Interruptions and hiccups as learning is foiled.

 

Not if I can help it.

 

Last week, Azamat was sitting idly while Zhingis wrote the grammar rule using their  "joint-ownership pen." No getting out of this one Azamat. I threw him my pen.  The one with the big maroon flower on top (anti-theft protection). "Write." He studied it very closely, then put it down. With an elkish groan he stated: "I can't write with this." I thought he was objecting to the girly flower before he appended his statement. "It's black.  School rules say we only write with blue pens."

 

It was my turn to groan.  Azamat is right.  The principal insists all writing be done in blue ink.  Once again, a student sits in class, silent.  He doesn't write the grammar rule, he won't learn the vocab words.  All because we don't have an extra blue pen for him.

 

We all know I love rules, but some days I want to throw in the towel and say, "Forget it. You can write with eyeliner and mud if you want, just take some darn notes!"

A Full Hour

September 23, 2011

 

Note: Banya = steam room where you bathe once a week (sometimes private, sometimes public)

 

Last week I was visiting my friends after school and the man of the house heated the banya for me.  This is a rare treat for a Thursday night, but I took advantage of the opportunity. Twenty minutes later I emerged from the steam room feeling refreshed and squeaky-clean.  I went to the kitchen for tea and Kadir (man of the house) looked completely astonished.  "Anne, you don't understand what it means to banya!" I told him of course I understood.  Before I was dirty and now I was clean.

 

Kadir is a wonderful man and a good friend, but I think I mortally offended him.  For the next hour, he lectured me and laughed at my antics. "Banya means to relax.  You sit. You enjoy the steam. You sweat. THEN you clean… and then you sit some more." He told me a true banya takes at least an hour.  A great banya takes 2-3 hours.  I looked at him a little befuddled.  I knew the reaction to my next question, but I had to ask: "Kadir, what in the heck do you do in a banya for 2 hours?  I get bored after 10 minutes!" His response: "Oh you Americans.  Always trying to DO something.  In the banya, you just sit.  You don't think, you don't do, you just sit."

 

This week I went back to their house.  Again, Kadir heated the banya for me.  He laughed as I approached.  "Okay Anne, forty minutes. Go.  Don't DO anything." 

 

I was resolved to sit for a full hour. I had my whole list of thoughts backlogged and a set of daydreams on stand-by.  I went in and took a seat.  I sat and I sat and I sat.  When I was good and sweaty and my list was expired, I moved into the pre-wash phase.  I started scrubbing at a week's worth of dirt and grime as the steam crept lower down the ceiling.  It was getting pretty hot and I stepped into the changing room for a breather.  At that point, curiosity got the better of me. I peaked at my watch lying on the bench.

 

Ten minutes. TEN LOUSY MINUTES!!! What in the heck was I supposed to do in a banya for the next fifty minutes of my life?!?!  How do they do this?  I can't even sit for a quarter of an hour!  I went back in total disbelief.  I sat. I sat. It was really stinking hot- not to mention humid. My eyes burned from the steam and no matter how much cold water I poured on myself, it just didn't help. Determined to stay for my full hour, I sought refuge on the cool cement floor.  Really, I felt like I was trying to escape from a burning building.  The firefighters always say to stay low to the ground, right?  Well, I made certain that my head was never more than a meter above the earth.

 

After fifty-two minutes I surrendered.  Some customs are a little harder to adjust to than others.  A full hour of just sitting? Really?!?

Pranking

September 20, 2011

 

Ah yes! At this very moment I am being pranked by my neighborhood boys.  They run up to my house, knock on the front gate, and run away just as they think I'm approaching.  The best part is, these third and fourth graders think they invented the hit-and-run method.  They jet down the street on their bikes as if I'm totally clueless of the culprits.

 

I bet they'd never know what hit 'em if I just happened to start catapulting rocks over the top of the gate.  

Change of Heart

September 13, 2011

 

This just in: I LOVE CATS!!!!!

 

I never thought I would say that.  Never.  Felines have always been "just okay" to me. They have a snooty personality about them and they seem so… prissy.  You can't take a cat to the park, or expect it to protect you from intruders.  More often than not, they run away from your guests rather than going up to wag their tails at someone's feet.  Owning a cat seemed like it would just me a mutual coexistence.  Why would I buy food for something that would give me nothing in return?

 

For the past two days I've heard a rattling around my house. And Miti- my landlady's cat who has an affinity for my home- has been pawing around my cupboards more than usual.  At lunch she actually lunged into the cupboards uninvited… twice.  I threw her out and resolved to hate that cat for as long as humanly possible- it lasted two minutes.

 

Just fifteen minutes ago, I heard the rattling again.  Usually, it's at night, but it's mid day now.  I stopped my lesson planning and sat quiet as a mouse. Wouldn't you know it, the rattling WAS a mouse!

 

I ran to the door and opened it.  Miti was waiting- loyal as any dog I've ever met.  "Miti- get your butt in here!"

 

I showed her to the cupboard. Let me tell you, that girl's a pro.  I moved the food out. And before I could shift the glasses more than an inch, she was in, out, and at the door.  She turned to smile at me- mouse between her jaws. Mission accomplished.

 

So to the feline species: I owe you an apology.  I was not just in my assessment of your character.  From now on, I will appreciate you a little more.

The Big-C

September 11, 2011

 

Last week I was invited to a circumcision party. That's a new one.  I've been to weddings and birthdays and "Giving-the-Girl-to-Her-Fiancée's-Family parties" but somehow I made it a full year without an invite to a circumcision party.  Of course, I accepted.

 

The party started at 8PM, and an outside source told me circumcisions happen at 5PM in the Muslim tradition. When I saw the four-year-old running around playing with his friends as they popped balloons at 7:30PM, I thought "Oh, that went well.  Maybe they took care of his business a few weeks ago and are just now able to celebrate."

 

I was naive. 

 

Poor Diaz disappeared for a while around the 9 o'clock hour before the DJ announced that it was time to meet the man of the hour.  In came Diaz, perched on a palate being carried on two men's shoulders like Cleopatra.  He was in his full Kazakh dress: a beautiful white sequined linen shirt with a matching jacket and trousers, and a white fur hat, which drooped down just enough to shadow, but by no means hide, the steady stream of tears this pitiable boy was sobbing.  Sure enough, he had just been taken into the back room to become a real Muslim man.

 

I felt so… I don't know.  I stood there clapping to welcome him, like the other fifty or so partygoers, and I didn't know if I wanted to cry for him or if I was proud of him.  That little boy just became a man… and I got to be there for the transformation, oddly enough.

 

Never expected that from my Peace Corps experience.

First Bell

September 1, 2011

Today was the first day of school in all of Kazakhstan. It'll be my
second year teaching, but I've been moved to a new school two villages
over. I woke up early to make the morning commute, but somehow I got a
little carried away doing my newly washed hair. I looked at the clock
and it was 8:20… Shoot! The bus leaves in 20 minutes and I still have
to hike to the bus station!

I grabbed my things, rushed out the door, and jetted to the main road.
Two hundred meters from the bus station, I saw the village bus pass
by. "Son of a Nutcracker! I missed the bus!" It felt like I was in
the first grade again. Day One and I was already late for school!

Confused and with my tail between my legs, I approached one of the
loitering taxi drivers. "Sir, is there any chance there will be
another Koogershin bus passing through in the near future?" (Fingers
crossed.)

His finger directed me across the street where I saw a long blue bus
resting behind a tree. Checking my watch, I darted across the street
where the bus driver was checking the engine gauges.

8:42AM. "Sir, does your bus go to Koogershin?" "Yep." "Great. When do
you leave?" "Now." I climbed on the bus to join the one other
passenger as the bus driver asked, "You the American?"

"Yes, sir. That's me."

"Okay, good. We can go then. They told me not to leave without you."

Turns out the whole village knew I was coming… and that maybe I'd need
a little help catching the bus.

My New Favorite Holiday

August 30, 2011

Aite: A Muslim holiday to celebrate the end of Ramadan. Muslims have
been fasting for 30 days, and now, to celebrate, they spend three days
going house to house talking to friends and eating a ton of food.
(With no disrespect intended, it reminds me of Halloween for adults.
You walk around and can go into anyone's house that has the front gate
open. You ask them for tea, not candy, and you talk for a bit before
moving on to the next house.)

Yesterday I spent the entire afternoon at a friend's house cooking… or
watching her cook, to be more accurate. She told me some traditions
and I picked up on a few other things just from chatting with
neighbors and friends. The most important thing I learned was that
you have three days to visit seven friends' houses and wish them a
happy holiday.

I wanted to integrate, so that became my goal. Except, oh snap! I
only got one day of holiday before work began again. Seven houses, One
day. Could I do it?

The sun rose this morning and I was hesitant. I spent an hour at my
house just working up the guts to show up at a home unannounced. We
don't DO that in the States. I couldn't just show up at a house
uninvited and ask them to serve me tea and put their work and family
aside to chat with me. Sounds kinda rude, right?

Well, don't hold your breath because I did it. I went to the first
house, sat for tea and got a meal out of the deal as well. Then I
walked down the street and saw another friend/acquaintance's gate
open. I stepped inside. Oh the look on her face. "Anne! You came!
I'm so glad! Come in, come in!! Sit down, drink tea! [Implied: eat
more food!]" We chatted and she brought me up-to-date on her life
while I told her about news from the school. Then I stood up, thanked
her, and moved a little further down the road.

This went on all day. With each house I got a little more relaxed
about just showing up, until ELEVEN, count them: ELEVEN houses later,
I practically rolled back to my own home totally content. Seven
houses in three days? Meh, I demolished that goal. I stepped out of
my comfort zone and adopted a totally new cultural custom. In return,
I learned a little more about my neighbors, and I think I showed them,
just by showing up, how much they really mean to me.

Down the road, if you're ever passing by and you see my gate open,
poke your head in. We can have a cup of tea over veggies and sweets!

I'm Getting There

August 19, 2011

 

Back in March I went to a Peace Corps conference in Almaty.  We were all feeling pretty discouraged after a long winter and the usual slumps.  They asked us what we would have to do to make us feel like our service was truly "a success."  I gave it some serious thought and responded: "When I can walk down the street and greet my neighbors, asking about their families and how work is going, when I can have real conversations with people about their lives, and have them do the same for me, then I will feel like I've done something good in Kazakhstan." 

 

I stand behind that answer.  Teaching is important, as are the teacher trainings, English clubs and language acquisition, but for me, it's nothing if I don't take the time to get to know my community and share a bit of my life with them. 

 

For exactly one year now, that is what I've been striving for.

 

It's awkward.  I never know who gets a kiss on the cheek and who gets a head nod as we pass. I'm always at a loss for words and am frequently met with blank stares or "um-hmm" when the answer should be "I went to the bazaar."  More often than not, I have to ask people to repeat their sentences, or I run out of conversation topics.  But I plow through.  Sometimes it pays off.

 

In one of my endless trips to the post office (don't get me started), two of my favorite "post office uncles" invited me to pull up a chair.  I was on a mission, but I figured, "What the heck?!" and settled in for a few minutes.  Later, I was passing the school and poked my head in to see if any English teachers were there. They weren't, but a teacher I vaguely knew was.  We stopped to compare notes about our summers.  On the street, I bumped into a friend and we talked about her summer job and how things went with my summer camps.

 

As I walked away, covering the last leg of my journey home, a wide grin stretched across my face. I just joined the man-show at the post office. I chatted with acquaintances at school, and a friend stopped me on the street. I'm getting there. 

“Chaperone”

August 16, 2011

 

Just like most 20-something-year-olds, I know I'm not a kid anymore, but I never feel like I'm filling the shoes of an adult either.  Or I didn't.  Then there was a pivotal incident when I realized, "Holy poop, I'm the one in charge!" 

 

My "holy poop" moment was on a hike in Southern Kazakhstan. Two volunteers and I took seventeen school kids camping in the mountains five hours from civilization and two hours from cell phone service.  Heaven knows what we were thinking.  Sure, we had a local teacher, an old man, and a bus driver tagging along, but they slept in the afternoons while our 13 to 16-year-olds went berserk. 

 

On Wednesday we trekked out of camp with ten of our most rambunctious students. We were speaking English and telling stories from childhood as we lunged up the side of a mountain.  Everything was great.  But the next thing I knew, I caught a glimpse of Nursultan, Abu, and Akelbek one ridge over and scampering over the face of a cliff. Within a span of five seconds my heart jilted in concern for their safety, then immediately went to what I would tell their parents when their boys came home in caskets. 

 

It hit me: This wasn't just a thoughtless romp up the mountain with some friends.  It wasn't just me being bold on some narrow ledges.  I was the one ensuring survival.  Thirty-four parents were trusting me to return their kids in one piece. Apparently, three of our boys needed a little extra guidance.

 

Jennie, our best disciplinarian, darted across the cliff while I surveyed a safe-ish path and Clara found a route for the less daring (or more sensible) students. We conquered the mountain, then we trail blazed our return.  Everyone made it back to camp with all limbs intact.  The only change in pulse came from the three 20-something-year-old chaperones.  Our mutual consensus: It's way more fun to be foolish when you're not in charge.

Mary Poppins Bag: Fail

August 3, 2011

 

When you are a teacher in the Peace Corps, summer means you morph from teacher to camp counselor.  You pack a gym bag and disappear for weeks at a time, shipping yourself across the country in trains, taxis, and stuffy busses. 

 

I've always been a little hesitant about showing up to take care of complete strangers with no tricks up my sleeve.  Thus, I've made a habit of turning that gym bag into a Mary Poppins bag.  It comes complete with a deck of cards, crayons, and a few homemade paper activities that will fit in a folder and give me an extra couple hours of security during child care.

 

Going to my mountain camp, this bag-o-fun proved pretty useless. The first morning, the English lesson was all about baseball.  Somehow cards and crayons didn't do justice to America's Favorite Pastime.  I did what I could to amuse them before we dismissed for lunch.

 

Later in the day, I stepped out of my room only to see a handful of 8^th graders standing in the field.  "Come on Anne, we're gonna play baseball!"  In my head I was thinking, "Well that's interesting.  We don't have a baseball.  Or a bat.  As the matter of fact, all we have is a Frisbee."  Clearly, I underestimate Kazakh resourcefulness.

 

In the heat of the day, we converted a grove of trees into bases.  The Frisbee turned into a strange breed of baseball bat. And wouldn't you know it, our native Kazakh apples became baseballs.  It wasn't exactly Busch Stadium, but even Stan the Man had to start somewhere. 

 

Who knows, maybe my lack of bat inspired a few more kids to take interest in the next sporting wave to sweeps the nation!

A Homecoming

July 28, 2011

 

I'm baaa-aaack.  So, I took a month long hiatus.  I left my village to help with summer camps and visit friends. Then I rounded out the month with a much-anticipated family vacation.  My Dad called it the "Siege of Paris."  All Flakers came to the city from a different angle (North, South, East, and West, we covered them all!). Total chaos and total bliss!  There are some things that can never be replaced and the love and comfort of family is one of them.

 

Anyways, back to business… I'm blogging about Kazakhstan.  In case you didn't know this, France is a pretty well-to-do place.  I flushed my toilet paper down the toilet and everything!  Then I came back to Kazakhstan and remembered that I joined the Peace Corps. Things aren't quite the same.

 

My plane landed at 7AM and I was glad to be back in a country where I spoke the language as I hitched a taxi to the bus station.  Perfect timing! The bus was almost full and ready to pull out, so I wouldn't have to wait to hours to begin the trek home. The bad news: There was only one seat left. In the very back row. Good news: It was cheap. Seven bucks for a seven hour bus ride. 

 

I tossed my oversized-bag under the bus and made my way to the long bench in the back. Lucky for me, I was dead-tired from traveling. Otherwise, I would have been insanely aware of the two portly men on either side of me, obviously unaware that their tickets paid for one seat, not one-and-a-half.  I rested my head on the seat in front of me (the one with a babushka leaning her seat back as far as it would go… until it hit my knees) and drifted off as best I could.

 

Things went well from about 9:30 to noon.  I slept.  Then the sun turned the bus into a toaster-oven.  Forty degrees Celsius.  No air-conditioner.  No windows.  We did have two ceiling vents, but there was a woman on board with an infant and she insisted the wind was bad for her baby's health. (But heat strokes aren't an issue? Okay.) So the oven door stayed closed.

 

After five more hours in broil mode, I bid farewell to that bus, and made my way home.

 

First thing's first, go to the water pump outside and get fresh water.  Nope, scratch that, the water isn't working today.  Use the reserve water under the kitchen table.

 

Next, unload the bag and plug in an almost-dead cell phone.  No, you can cross that off too.  The electricity is out.

 

Okay, well, some things are solid. Use a dust rag and broom to wipe a month of grime from my house.  Then use the gas-burner to eat a meager egg-and-yogurt dinner. 

 

Last, make time to laugh at yourself. This isn't Paris, and it's not convenient.  But this is exactly what I signed up for, and I can definitely be happy here.

 

Lessons in Life

June 19, 2011

 

I consider myself many things, but "domestic" isn't really a title I can boast. However, last week I moved out of my host family's home and into a teacher's guesthouse.  That means it is now my responsibility to cook and clean and generally care for myself like a big girl.  Oh boy… this is gonna be a bit of a challenge.  In a week alone, this is what I've learned:

 

1. Milk goes sour in 2 days time if you don't have a refrigerator.
2. Pasta noodles are darn cheep, but apricots taste way better.
3. You can't bake cookies on a stove (I don't have a working oven either.)
4. It's a really good thing my mom taught me to fry a chicken starting with the whole chicken because I'll probably never find frozen chicken breasts at the bazaar- but I have some rudimentary knowledge of how to cut the thing whole.
5. If you cook with garlic, it keeps flies out of your house at night.
6. When they don't have the correct change at the shop, they will give you boxes of matches to make up the difference.  I LOVE THIS!!!  When you use a gas stove, matches are infinitely valuable!

 

All this and it's only been a week… good gracious! Think of where I'll be in a year!

Eyebrows

June 11, 2011

 

I saw a two-year-old at the bus stop who had a faint blue line drawn across the bridge of her nose between her eyebrows.  Her mom didn't seem concerned, and had no desire to clean her daughter's face.  After seeing my inquiring eyes, my friend gave me a crash course in Uzbek culture.  Apparently, the blue ink stimulates hair growth. 

 

Wait a minute, a blue line drawn between your eyebrows to stimulate hair growth?  That's gonna give you a UNIBROW!!! 

 

Part two of the lesson: To Uzbeks, thick unibrows are a symbol that God smiles upon you.

 

Well, that's new!

Uzbek Immersion

June 10, 2011

 

Bet you didn't expect to see that blog title, huh? Probably thinking, "Wait, I thought Anne was in Kazakhstan?!?!"  Well, you are right, I'm still here. But in the summer, if you're an education volunteer, you pretty much scatter to the four winds to lead summer camps.  This week I landed in a town in South Kazakhstan with a huge Uzbek population.  Seriously, I feel like I left the country!

 

Uzbek and Kazakh culture are closely related, but there are obviously gonna be some differences.  Uzbek houses are kinda like Spanish haciendas:  The house is divided into several compounds and they all open into one main courtyard.  In the courtyard there is an elevated platform with a roof… maybe like a simplified gazebo, except not at all.  Anyways, people eat and sleep on the platform in the summer when it's too hot to be inside.  I love that!

 

Just like Kazakhs, Uzbek people are enormously hospitable.  Even though I'm not from this neck of the woods, I managed to get an invite to an Uzbek wedding.  The party started with an open house at the groom's house. Many times, the whole ceremony is at the house and people congregate in the courtyard. But for this wedding, we went to a reception hall after the house party.  When the bride and groom arrived, four men blew ten-foot trumpets with some choreographed movement.  There was a microphone to amplify the noise, but I have no idea why they did that.  I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be deaf for the rest of the day. 

 

After the bridal party entered, the wedding was pretty standard: Eat, dance, eat, eat, dance, give a toast, dance, eat.  There were fewer toasts than I've seen at my Kazakh parties (as in, I didn't have to give one.  Bummer J), and the music was definitely not Kazakh.  It would probably take a few months for me to master Uzbek wedding dancing if that's the music they play every time!  But it was an awesome experience.

 

Southern Kazakhstan has a lot of Kazakh pride, but if you move around a bit, you manage to find little pockets of diversity that you would never expect.

Haiku

May 24, 2011

 

A year or three ago, my family was on vacation and my mom told us every girl could pick one activity and the whole family would participate.  We were all adult-ish people by this time, but I don't think it ever crossed our minds that we were strategizing vacation just like we did when we were eight.

 

The suggestions were all pretty standard until Corri proposed that we all compose haikus.  I remember thinking that sounded like a far cry from fun.  Good thing I didn't complain out loud because I would have had to insert my foot in my mouth.  It was hilarious and wonderful. 

 

Since that time, the occasional opportunity has presented itself in which the only way to fully express myself has been through those 17 syllables of verse.  This is my Shakespearean masterpiece for the night:

 

Midnight Run

 

Phone falls in outhouse

Three parts scatter in the dark

Searching hands feel pee.

Outhouse

May 21, 2011

 

You know, I thought the outhouse thing would really bug me.  The idea of tramping across the yard at midnight in the dead of winter was less-than-appealing.  Plus, having to squat and balance over a vat of fecal matter sounded like a recipe for disaster.

 

These past nine months I've realized that those concerns are pretty trivial.  Middle-of-the-night potty runs can generally be prevented with some strategic tea restrictions.  As for balancing… okay, that still provides reason for caution.  But I trust moldy scaffoldings a lot more these days.

 

What I'm having a little trouble adjusting to is walking the length of the yard, saying "hello" to all my neighbors and students working in their gardens as I venture toward the lavatory.  For some reason it feels a little strange to pause for a chat with Mrs. Smith and little Johnny while I do the potty dance. 

 

Nothing like advertising all your bodily functions.

Best. News. Ever.

May 15, 2011

 

It's been getting a little toasty in southern Kazakhstan these days.  The thermometer is topping off in the 80s and 90s.  I have absolutely no complaints about that.  I love the heat.  The issue is my clothing.  I live with a pretty conservative older couple in a rural village.  They are convinced that if I don't wear a jacket in 70-degree weather, I'll probably die. Not to mention they are always telling me about village scandal or some girl's supposedly skanky behavior- following it up with "But not our Anne!  She would never do something like that."  No pressure or anything, right?!

 

When the temperature broke 90, I started sweating bullets, but I remained true to my long pants. 

 

Well, today I was washing my clothes and I felt like I'd die of a heat stroke.  Seriously, the only thing to do was sit in the house and read a book until the sun went down.  It was just me in the back yard, scrubbing away at my clothes.  In a moment of desperation I decided to ditch my concern for honor.  I hiked up my pants around my thighs, creating makeshift shorts.

 

About that time, Beisikul (host mom) came back from the outhouse.  She looked at me and kinda scrunched her nose.

 

"Anne…" Here it comes. "…you need shorts!"

 

If the heat didn't kill me, I'm pretty sure that news about did.  Holy Kamolie!  I can wear shorts here?!?!  Praise the Lord! 

 

I did a little dance by the washbasin then ran to my room for some much needed relief!  Oh my dear shorts, I've never loved you so much!

“Devlenye”

May 8, 2011

 

Let me tell you something interesting about language acquisition:

 

When you learn a language through immersion, the words you learn fastest are those that are most useful to you in daily life. 

 

Last week, I came to work and they told me one of my coworkers was in the hospital.  When I asked what was wrong, the English speaker hesitated and told me she didn't know how to say "devlenye" in English.  Without missing a beat I respond: "High blood pressure."  Then I caught myself, and what had just happened. It made me laugh, but in a sad way.  I learned the word "devlenye" out of necessity.  This is the third person in two months that I've seen go to the hospital for high blood pressure.  Sure, loads of people have "devlenye" at home, but it doesn't mandate a hospital stay most of the time, does it? Here, it is as much a part of daily life as the standardized tests prep at school and spring-cleaning at home.

 

Living in Kazakhstan, I need to know how to say, "I'm full," and "thank you." "I don't know" was an important addition to my vocabulary. "Electricity" has proven quite helpful. And yes, even "high blood pressure" is unfortunately useful in my day-to-day conversations.

The Parade

May 2, 2011

 

Happy Unity Day Everyone! Actually, it was yesterday, but since the holiday fell on a Sunday, we get Monday off as well.  I have a newfound respect for two-day weekends seeing as I normally only get one day a week.

 

To celebrate the holiday I went to what was potentially the strangest parade of my life. For pretty much every state holiday, there is a concert in the center of town.  My village actually has an outdoor stage permanently constructed in the town square.  All the traffic from the "highway," which is our Main Street, is diverted through the neighborhoods as people flock to the square for the concert at 10AM… which really means 10:30 or 11AM. 

 

I joined the crowd and when I got there I noticed no one was actually standing in the square like they usually do.  They would walk all around the edge of the center, but it was like there was an equally charged magnet repelling everyone from that spot.  I was confused.  Then without any announcement, my host mother pulled me to the street.  Suddenly people were lining both sides of the street and there was a cluster of men walking down the road.  They wore regular street clothes and carried a banner as they walked straight-faced, not waving or acknowledging the crowed.  Meanwhile, the crowd didn't cheer or wave back.  We just stared at them.  They walked the equivalent of two city blocks and evaporated into the crowd.  Then the next group came.  They were stoic.  We were stoic.  Yet, everyone gave them their complete attention.  This repeated itself for about ten "floats" (aka- groups of people walking down the street) before the parade ended.  Then the concert began and people started mingling in the street again.

 

Like so many things in Kazakhstan, it was "an experience." 

The Calendar Says It's Easter

April 30, 2011

 

I told myself I would write about Easter at some point, but I'm not really sure what to say.  Holy week in Kazakhstan was simply a set of days on a calendar.  They are marked in my planner, but other than that, they receive no recognition in a Muslim country.  It was a little odd going through the week.  I know this is a really important season in my faith, but the spirit of anticipation is absolutely zero in the community.

 

I woke up Easter Sunday feeling sad and a little bit guilty at my lack of enthusiasm.  This is only the biggest day on the Christian calendar and I can barely bring myself to consciously remember the holiday for a full morning.  Needless to say, there is a reason you practice faith in a community.

 

As I got out of bed, I committed to consciously remembering the sacrifices of the season for a whole day. I had almost forgotten that promise as I walked into the kitchen.  But there, sitting on the table was a plate of colorful eggs-one with a sticker of an angle and Jesus.  Who knew about Easter, and how did they get the supplies to make these vividly colored eggs?  I didn't tell anyone about this holiday or our traditions, yet somehow the Easter Bunny made a trip to Kazakhstan. 

 

As it turns out, a neighboring family is Russian Orthodox.  There is a small group of them in my village and they practice their faith rather quietly.  (I'm not sure they even have a building or weekly meetings.) But every year on Easter, they prepare baskets of eggs, cakes, and cookies and take them around to their neighbors. 

 

I don't know if they were thinking of me specifically when they brought those eggs to my door, but seeing them on the kitchen table was a little miracle for my spirit- which had otherwise been celebrating Holy Week alone.

A Pot of Tea

April 23, 2011

 

A school principal once asked me what I liked about Kazakhstan.  Within seconds I answered, "tea." He looked surprised, and maybe my response seemed a little snide at first. But if you've grown up in a tea-drinking culture, I think sometimes it's easy to overlook what tea really entails. It is a part of every phase of your day and life.  So when I say I love tea, it is not that I particularly care for the leaves you put in the teapot or the scalding sensation of liquid assaulting my tongue.  I mean I love the whole culture that has been permeated by tea.

 

I love seeing neighbors in the street and being invited in for tea.  I love coming home after a long day at work and pausing for a cup of tea.  I love, love, LOVE sitting down with friends and talking over a cup of tea.  To me, tea is a sign of hospitality, a calming moment, and a gesture of friendship.

 

Last week, I was sitting with some young teachers at lunch.  We have seen each other in the halls for months, but we never talked until yesterday.  To be honest, I wasn't sure they liked me, but I didn't want to eat alone, so I asked to join them.  In true Kazakh style, they welcomed me whole-heartedly.  As the conversation unfolded, I was amazed at my good fortune to be sitting with these people.  Their faces will never show it in the halls of the school, but they are filled with good spirits and a genuine energy.  Lunch ended but the conversation carried on as we poured more tea.

 

What started as a "get to know you" session turned into young women telling me life stories.  I heard about dating and what it's like to be a daughter-in-law in Kazakhstan. They told me about abusive husbands and being single moms.  We talked about dreams for the future and the struggles that come in getting to those dreams.  I only just met these women, but as we drained the teapot they shared their stories- some joyful, others tragic.

 

Over and over, I continue to be amazed at how much you can learn simply by listening.  And I can't say "thank you" enough to these women for their company and friendship, and for sharing a pot of tea.

A Surreal Life, as Usual

April 17, 2011

 

It's Sunday, the one day we don't have school… but my alarm rings at 7:20 and I question if it's really worth it… it is.  I've gotta hit the street before the Sunday bazaar-crowd starts their migration to the market.  If I wait too long, I'll draw unwanted attention. "Is that a girl? Running? Why?" I crawl out of bed, promising myself an afternoon nap.

 

Lunch rolls around, I eat alone, then sneak off to my room to start cleaning.  I wipe down all counter space- still alarmed by the dust buildup.  The outside comes in with more ferocity in Kazakhstan than at home- probably because the windows are always open and the streets are paved with dirt.

 

Five o'clock: I take the two year old out for a walk- a meager effort to wear her out before a non-existent bedtime.  We see a man ride past on a camel. I'm dumbfounded.  Why isn't anyone stopping to stare?  There's a man on a Bactrian trotting right alongside the 80's style cars as they put down Main Street.

 

The toddler refuses to walk another step twenty minutes from home… so in addition to some cardio, I get an arm workout today.

 

At 7:30 I settle into a chair by my window to use the fading light for a rare treat: a New York Times dated February 28^th.  Ah yes, real news!  As the sun dips lower into the mountains, I read about Libyan rebels, a new approach to White House fitness, and the fresh look for the Oscars.

 

Another lulling Sunday and it's life as usual, yet everything feels so surreal.

 

Crisco Reunion

April 9, 2011

 

When I was ten years old my uncle caught me sitting beside the couch with a jar of Crisco and the sugar bowl.  I was taking Crisco out by the spoonful and rolling it in the sugar before popping the tasty morsel into my mouth.  His immediate response: "Do your parents know you do that?  You're gonna die of a clogged artery."  His prophesy of death petrified me and I gave up one of the hydrogenated world's best treats.

 

Well, Kazakhstan is a magical land where childhood dreams come true.  At my Kazakh tutor's house, there is a beautiful oiled butter mixture that regularly makes an appearance at the lunch table. (That is butter that has been whipped in oil.) For three months, I've watched them take tablespoons of this oiled-butter and lump it on a breadcrumb then dip it in sugar.  Genius!! This is even better than Crisco!  Straight butter, rolled in oil, and dipped in sugar.  Why didn't I think of that in my years of recklessness?! Each week I watch and one part of me gets a little grossed out while the other part of me is tempted to pick up a bread scrap alongside the best of them.

 

Seven months in, I decided the time has come.  I dipped my bread in the butter-oil and took a double dose of sugar. Delicious!  This is really what everyone wants to do back home, but their conscience (or their doctor) won't let them. 

 

No fears, I'm still taking care of myself, but you can only say "no" to so many things on the table before you're just being rude.  So for two years, I'm giving in to my childhood dream.  As my father told me: "When in Rome…" 

Living Large

March 27, 2011

 

I have great news:  I just took my first shower in 5 months…  AND the shower had hot water… AND there is soap in the bathroom sink.  These are the joys of traveling to the "big city" for a training conference!

Outdoor Classroom

March 24, 2011

 

The weather turned warm about 4 days ago and ever since then I've been gazing longingly at the kids playing in the schoolyard, on the street, and out in the fields. 

 

I think there is an unwritten rule that once you turn 15, you are mandatorially excused from sports. Since I'm past that threshold, I sit painfully green with envy.  "Why am I stuck in a skirt and blouse while they run and laugh in their little rubber boots?"

 

Bottom line: I'm sick of playing grown-up all the time… I wanna steal that soccer ball and score my own goal!

 

Well, today I re-wrote the rules.  My 5^th grade neighbor was out playing with her little sister.  She greeted me as I walked passed and I sneakily weaseled my way into a game of catch.  Other kids drifted into the street and catch turned to volleyball, which evolved into soccer and basketball (an empty vodka bottle marked the free throw line). 

 

The day's street games drew a little more attention than usual… probably because of the 23-year-old teacher passing the ball as if she we just another 5^th grader.  But they can stare if they want.  This was highly educational.  All the neighbor kids are now fluent in English.

 

"GOAL!"

Some Stuff from the Closet

March 13, 2011

 

One of my fellow English teachers is writing a new curriculum for her 6^th graders and she invited me to her house for lunch and then we were going to work on her "Author's Work" (or her "Crazy Work" as we fondly call it!)

 

I was running a little behind leaving the house at noon, so I quickly rummaged through my belongings trying to find some small gift for my hostess.  The best I could come up with was a deck of "Missouri Playing Cards" and a few pieces of chocolate.  I threw it in some scraps of tissue paper I'd saved from Christmas and called it a gift. 

 

We ate lunch and finished her Crazy Work, then her son (my 8^th grade student) peeked into the room with the cards in hand. 

 

"Miss Flaker, do you know any games?" he asked in anticipation. Ha, do I know games?!? Of course I know card games!  I taught them Speed, Slap Jack, War, ERS, and Spoons. 

 

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, the family sat around the table playing cards, laughing, and singing chants about who was the champion.  And for a few brief hours, they let me be a part of their family.

 

My gift was a mere trinket I dug out of a forgotten suitcase, but they may have been the best gift I've ever given. (And it certainly gave me even more in return.)

Keep It Simple

March 7, 2011

 

March 1^st was Peace Corps' 50^th Anniversary. To celebrate, people hosted House Parties around the world. In Kazakhstan, we did "House Parties" Kazakh style.  In other words, we had teatime at our worksites.

 

"Tea" really means "meal without meat" (and sometimes there is meat.) 

 

We all know what a phenomenal cook I am (*ahem, sarcasm*) so this was a promising endeavor. In an effort to keep it low-key (and spare myself from any kitchen catastrophes), I decided to make pasta salad as one of the "American" dishes.  Easy, right?  I googled: "Simple pasta salad" to find a Kazakhstan-friendly recipe and these are the kind of ingredients I came up with:

 

"New and zesty pasta salad," "frozen vegetables," "dried oregano," "Wishbone Italian dressing," "Bermuda onion."

 

What in the world?!?!  I live in a village in KAZAKHSTAN.  Please tell me, where will I find frozen vegetables, Italian dressing, or a Bermuda onion? (whatever that is!)

 

I decided to do my own thing.  Pasta, vegetables, and herbs.  Done.   Not exactly what cooks.com had in mind, but I think it did the trick.  Tasted like pasta salad to me. 

A Puzzling Bus Stop

February 17, 2011

 

In honor of Black History Month, my English Club reenacted the Montgomery Bus Boycott of 1955.  I thought it was fool-proof American history, but even this history lesson had a way of making itself Kazakh.

 

The stage was set.  There was a bus complete with a driver and segregated passengers.  My 7^th grade police officers were standing ready in the wings.  As the narrator read the story, he paused to let the actors catch up.  "Rosa Parks was tired after work. She got on the bus and took a seat."  Pause.

 

I looked at our Rosa.  Her arm was flailing and she was pointing along with some of the other soon-to-be-passengers.  I didn't understand what the confusion was about.  Then they boarded the bus as if nothing was wrong.  I was puzzled, but they seemed to have it together, so I went with it.

 

It wasn't until the next "bus stop" when the white passengers got on that I realized what was happening.  Again, the soon-to-be-passengers flailed their arms and started pointing.  Then it struck me: They are hailing a bus Kazakh-style.  Put out your arm and point your finger.  Otherwise the bus won't stop.

 

I smiled to myself.  In all my directorial genius, it never even occurred to me that they don't have formal bus stops in Kulan.  My little actors were doing such a thorough job they even made sure the bus knew where to pull over for new passengers.  So yes, Kazakhstan has revealed a little known fact: Rosa Parks hitchhiked her way to that legendary bus ride.

My Best Student

February 9, 2011

 

My best student is a 1-year-old.  Her name is Aidana, to be exact, and she lives with me.  If I've written or talked to you, I'm sure you've heard me mention her.  She is a live-in playtime-pal and she never fails to make me giggle.

 

When we play, I speak English.  She doesn't talk anyways, so it doesn't make a difference. Why not use the language I'm more comfortable with, right?

 

I guess she has picked up a thing or two.  Now she wags her finger and says "No, no!" when she knows she's doing something wrong, just like I wag my finger at her. 

 

What really made me smile was story time tonight.  Her grandma told me they were toddling down the street this afternoon and anytime someone passed Aidana would raise her palm and say, "Hullo!"

 

If I ever have doubts about the sustainability of my work, I can just look at Aidana and know that long after I'm gone, she will be teaching the neighbors English, one "hullo" at a time.

A Recipe for Success

January 27, 2011

 

I found the key to a successful English club. 

 

Last week I twisted my 9^th graders' arms to come to my English club.  At first, enthusiasm was tepid, but when they walked in an the boys saw some of the pretty girls from a neighboring village suddenly even my least motivated learners were eager to show off their fluency.  Everyone was chatty and left in a twitter.

 

This week, the pretty girls didn't come.  No one tried to show off their English skills and my dear 9^th grade students were some of the first out the door.  After all, what's the point in English club if you can't get the chica's digits?

 

Well, I learned my lesson. If you want an active club, first invite the pretty girls.  If they come, the 9^th grade boys will follow and suddenly what used to be a lackluster gathering has evolved into one electrifying English party. 

 

It's nice to know some things are universal.  Teenage boys, for example. J  

The Zoo

January 24, 2011

 

I now know what it feels like to be a monkey in the zoo.  The family I live with owns a little shop that was built right off the kitchen.  Day and night people tap on the door asking for bread, milk, and cigarettes.  Well, tonight as I sat down for a glass of milk a new request echoed through the shop and into the kitchen: "We came to see the American." Of course, my ever-hospitable host mother let them in!!!  Apkie (Auntie), we don't know these people!  Why did you just let them in your house?!

 

I sat and I was a good little monkey.  I ate my banana, did a few tricks, and answered their questions with a polite smile.  After twenty minutes, they were on their way. Then the monkey got to go back to her room to plan tomorrow's lessons.

 

It's fun being in the zoo, and at least I'm a monkey- an exhibit people actually want to see.  That's much better than being a lizard in the reptile house where everyone just walks by and doesn't notice. But after hours it's nice when the visitors go home.  

Ay Carramba, I’m Turning Kazakh!

January 21, 2011

 

What a day.  It was "go, go, go" the whole time.  Teach classes, lead English club, lead another club, teach an Adult Learning Class, teach more students. Go home.  Whew! 

 

I was so tense the whole time just trying to fit everything in.  Publicly, I probably handled it with poise.  But inside, I was strung out and one step away from loosing it. 

 

When I finally walked into my house, I shrugged off my coat and let my bag lay where it fell.  I didn't have energy to do a single thing.  Not even reading a book or listening to music sounded appealing.  All I wanted to do was sit down and drink tea. Wait, drink tea?!? Since when is that a way to unwind? Since I came to Kazakhstan, that's when.

 

I sat and drank tea with Besikul and amazingly, all the day's stress was washed away.

To Me, It’s an Adventure…

January 16, 2011

 

For the past five months I've told you about my exotic adventures abroad.  I'm sure plenty more of those will follow, but my day today gave me a startling reality check.

 

Last week my friend's mom was in a car accident.  For the driver of the car, it was fatal.  My friend's mom was hospitalized and I visited her today.  For someone who is young and healthy, two years here can seem like a glorious expedition.  But today I set foot in a dirty, poorly lit hospital.  The doors to each room were flimsy and people popped their heads in randomly.  My friend's mom did not have a hospital gown.  She wore her own clothes.  And a broken leg was suspended in the air using a coat rack and a rusted piece of machinery acting as a counter-weight.  Heating and cooling was unreliable and I wondered at the professional status of the people in the scrubs.

 

I've heard (and voiced) plenty of complaints about the sterile hospital environment in America.  But today I longed to see fluorescent lights and smell that chemical-clean hospital aroma.  The thermostat is set at a comfortable 68 degrees and each patient has access to every modern convenience the 21^st century can provide.

 

For two years, I'm living out an amazing adventure here.  I observe and partake in all sorts of cultural eccentricities.  Then I can go back to the life I know and to which I'm well accustomed.  But for most people, this isn't like a movie where you ogle over the extraordinary contrast, then walk out of the theater.  This is life. 

All Bark? I Think Not!

January 7, 2011

 

Today I pulled out my running shoes and hit the streets. Running in Kazakhstan is always an experience.   You see, in the land of sheep and horses, dogs are just one more thing that wanders freely across the terrain. They appear out of nowhere, bark like grizzly bears, and if you're running, they are quick to become your shadow.

 

Generally, the pups are harmless.  I just turn into the Pied Piper of Kulan by the time I complete my circuit. Super!  Like I'm not already attracting enough attention as the "Running American."  Let's add a pack of canines. 

 

I guess I picked the wrong street today.  As my shoes carried me past a seemingly quiet cluster of houses a mid-sized mutt and a petite Pomeranian-looking thing came lunging at me from under a fence.  The mutt was all bark, but that darn Pomeranian had a set of chompers on him.  I tried to ignore him, but he got my sweatpants. Twice!  Why is it always the little ones that cause problems? 

 

Next time, I'm running with a rock.  Pomeranian, stand guard… this is war.

Silky Smooth New Year!

December 31, 2010

 

I gave in.  After four months of roughing it, I bought a hair straightener. It was a tough decision.  I'm in the Peace Corps, so I'm supposed to be living in huts and walking eight miles to school, up-hill both ways, in one thousand degree heat. Therefore, it only makes sense that I would wear hemp sandals and let my hair flow wavy in the breeze. But since I live in a heated concrete house, and since I take a taxi two miles through snow and ice across the edge of the steppe to get to work, I figure I'm violating every other rule of Peace Corps.  Thus, my Christmas gift to myself was spending fourteen dollars on a flatiron. 

 

It made its inaugural appearance on the night of the office's New Year's party.  For one night, it was almost like I was home.  I washed my hair, put on an almost-American (though maybe too short for Kazakhstan) dress.  Royal blue, not black.  I did my makeup how I wanted- skip the lipstick. And put on heals rather than knee-high boots.  Then, just like ice turns these pot-hole-ridden roads into smooth glass, that lovely cosmetic corrector turned my frizz into silky locks.

 

There are no words to describe my delight… pure heaven! I felt like a new me.  Or maybe I just felt like the old me, but in Kazakhstan.