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!