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.