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.