Every time a plane safely lands in Europe, there is almost always an eruption of applause so common, that I have grown to expect it. I turn the sound up on my iPod and wait as the applause moves in waves around the cabin. I'm not sure if the applause is in response to a belief that it's a miracle when a plane lands safely or just a greater appreciation for the work of the airplane pilots and crew, but either way I find it peculiar and a little obnoxious. However, on this particular trip, there was merely a brief and unimpressive applause scattered among a few rare seats. Maybe Kazakhs don't hold the same traditions as Europeans? However, there are a few things which I found quite reliable about my return to Kazakhstan.
After leaving the plane in the Almaty airport, all of the passengers are almost immediately filtered down two flights of stairs (no escalators) and into one large room for "Passport Control". Having just been through a handful of these in the past few weeks, I knew the drill: Have your passport out and ready, be prepared to answer some questions about your vacation, stand in line for a few minutes. And now just minutes after my arrival at 5:15am, I found myself in this non-descript room instantly thrown back into my Kazakhstan reality. As I tried to find the most promising line, to get through this situation as quickly as possible, I remembered that there aren't generally lines in this country -- more like suggestions. I stood in what started out as a line, and before long it morphed into something more closely resembling a huddle. People were coming into the group from all sides. In the three weeks I had been away I had nearly forgotten how to throw elbows and stand my ground and I was forced, very quickly, to relearn these habits. No one smiled. No one apologized for stepping on your feet or slyly nudging you out of the way.
I waited in this "huddle" for 37 minutes before I made it to the counter with my passport. Once there, I was not asked the usual series of questions. The Kazakh man behind the glass simply pointed up at the small camera above his head. I stared. He then took out a stamp, pounded it against the page of my passport and handed me an immigration card to begin filling out. As I quickly scribbled my name, he became impatient and waved for my attention. Pulling the piece of paper away from me he stamped it in disgust and slid it back under the glass. Now, nearly certain that my luggage had been circling the belt for at least a half an hour , I walked over and found unsurprisingly, two solitary pieces of luggage sitting upon the belt. Mine, of course, not among them. I waited, watching those two pieces travel around the track for a minute or two before I noticed a heap of suitcases and duffel bags on the floor near the conveyor belt. Sure enough, I dug mine out from among them.
Suitcase in hand, I prepared myself for the inevitable taxi negotiation. This part, unlike the others, I had known would be a part of my return to Kazakhstan. I didn't expect the delay caused by the hoard of friends and family essentially blocking the exit to the baggage claim, each and every passenger being forced to weave a path through the masses just to get out on to the street. From all sides men are yelling, "Taxi, devochka (girl)! Taxi!" Finally escaping through those front doors I set my sights on the group of taxi drivers negotiating rides. The first of whom, blatantly laughed in my face when I suggested 1500 tenge as an appropriate price for a cab across town. The second, accepted. I don't know what exactly I was expecting, but as we walked through the parking lot towards his car I kept hesitating in front of all of the vehicles I thought might be his. I was shocked when he opened the trunk to his once-blue wreck of a car. No more Mercedes-Benz or Volvos for me, I suppose. After loading my bag into the car and fumbling to find the seatbelt in the backseat, before remembering that seatbelts were a shot in the dark here, the driver told me to wait 5-10 minutes while he went to smoke with his friends. I rolled my eyes and he seemed concerned. As I prepared myself for a long wait in the back of this smelly beaten-up vehicle, I decided I simply wasn't in the mood. I began to get out of the car, telling him that I would find another driver. Alarmed at losing his passenger, he insisted that he could smoke later, we should definitely get on the road.
It took us another 15 minutes just to travel the 50 meters to the parking attendants, the cars all following the same pattern as the huddles at Passport Control. Once my driver made it to the window, he managed to convince the attendant that he couldn't pay now (he didn't have the money), but that he would be back in 30 minutes and he would pay then. I was snickering under my breath in the backseat, eagerly anticipating the response from the attendant. What an absurd suggestion! There's a system. I was shocked, when the parking attendant hesitated and then simply nodded and opened the gate. I'll have to remember that one for next time... :)
Finally, we were on the road. I began to imagine the soft comfortable couch in the Peace Corps lounge, just 20 minutes away now. As I pictured myself curling up with a blanket and sleeping off these miserable first hours in Kazakhstan our car swerved softly off the road and into a gas station. Oh yes, how could I have forgotten? Buses, taxis, marshrutkas, they all simply stop and fill up when the tank is empty. Another 6 or 7 minute delay, and at last we truly were on the last leg of our journey to the office. Besides the incessant talking and blabbing from my driver who, learning that I was American, now wanted to be best friends and eat beshbarmak together, the ride was really quite pleasant. There were very few cars on the road at such an early hour and I watched as everything began to feel a little familiar. All of these little houses with their green or aqua blue gates. The masses of stray dogs wandering the streets in packs. One pothole after another until I was convinced that the shocks were absolutely destroyed. A couple of closed roads due to "construction" and about 30 minutes later we finally arrived in front of the Peace Corps Office in Almaty. Being buzzed through the front gate was like returning to a sanctuary. Granted, a sanctuary I was entirely convinced I wanted to be visiting, but a sanctuary from this morning nonetheless.
Returning to Kazakhstan after three weeks away, was almost like arriving in Kazakhstan for the very first time, simply more educated and less jet-lagged. As opposed to everything looking exotic and foreign, it all looked vaguely familiar and yet seemed as though I was seeing it all with fresh new eyes. Eyes that were less inclined to be impressed. Less inclined to feel awed. After waking up from my 5 hour nap in the Peace Corps Office, I quite honestly couldn't imagine how the next (and last) 15 months of my service were going to be even remotely enjoyable. I unwillingly dragged myself away from the office and onto a marshrutka at the bus station. I refused to use the barbaric toilets at the rest stop. And yet, somehow, as I unlocked the gate to my place in Merke, I was instantly overcome with a feeling of familiarity and comfort. I dropped my bags and climbed through the hole in the fence to my neighbors' yard to retrieve the keys to my house. The amazing Russian family next door greeted me with happiness and smiles, knowing instantly that I must be exhausted from my travels and insisting that I go immediately home and rest. We would catch up tomorrow and I could tell them all about it later. They completely understood. I wasn't forced to drink chai completely delirious or sit and make small talk after three weeks without speaking a word of Russian. I returned home, to a house that had been cleaned before I left and looked after while I was away and I felt almost happy to be "home".
This first week in Kazakhstan has presented its share of challenges: I was assigned 9 lessons on the first day of school, I had 18 hours to recover from my jetlag before the first bell ceremony at 9am, I have had 8am lessons every day this week, I was scheduled for Saturday classes (which is not something I have had to experience in Kazakhstan so far), two of the worst classes at my school were dumped on me, and my counterpart currently lives and works outside of Almaty as a TCF for the new PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees). I can't lie and say that every moment of every day is a joy to spend in Kazakhstan and that I never dream about being somewhere (almost anywhere) else. I can say that I'll be here for COS next November and that despite all of its quirks and traditions, Kazakhstan is the place that I currently call home.
These are the pictures from our school's First Bell Ceremony, September 1, 2009.
The "Seniors" (that's what we'd call them in America). Here, 11th Formers.
I would say Freshman, but they're only 9. The new babies of the school, our 5th Formers.
It wouldn't be Kazakhstan without some kind of concert.
Oh, and yes... the French Maid outfits (aka Special Occassion Attire).
The Senior girls wear these to graduation and other special events during the year.
Let me tell you, the first time I saw a Kazakh girl wearing one of these (it was at a cafe on graduation day this year), I nearly died. I politely asked one of my best students if I could take a picture. She was honored. Thank you Batima.
