the real kaz

Bakersfield

2010-11-22T17:35:00.000-08:00

OK, so I'm living in Bakersfield now, in Dodgers land, boo. Not much else is new, just surviving still. And I'm not a blonde anymore - a brunette struggling to get by. Oh well, at least I still have great friends, etc. I get to go home for Thanksgiving tomorrow and Christmas eventually. Go me!

New blog!

2010-11-20T11:11:00.000-08:00

I finally created a new blog! http://jamielmorris.blogspot.com/2010/11/new-blog.html There it is.

Jamie

2010-07-10T20:32:00.001-07:00

http://www.metacritic.com/

2010

2010-01-06T02:55:00.000-08:00

2010. As my friend Sagar said, "My New's Years Resolution for 2010 is to move to America".

I've been a bad blogger the past few months. Here's a quick recap:

Counterpart moved back to Merke. I am now teaching in the mornings and tutoring after lunch. Excellent schedule.

Spent Thanksgiving and Christmas in Taraz with the Newbies (new volunteers who arrived in Kaz in August). Made pumpkin pie, Morris rolls, etc. AND my first turkey.

MST (Mid Service Training). All the Kaz 20 volunteers reunited in Almaty for a PC conference. Saw friendly old faces.

Thailand. Thailand. Thailand. Spent 10 days in Thailand with three other Peace Corps Volunteers (Corinne, Nick and Andy). Spent the first four days exploring Northern Thailand (Chiang Mai Province) - riding elephants, averaging 4 Thai meals a day, drinking delicious Thai beer, bamboo rafting down a river, "hiking" through the jungle and seeing waterfalls. Spent the last 5 days on an island (Koh Samed) doing absolutely nothing. Woke up early in the mornings and went for a run (until I got terrible blisters) then I started swimming (in the ocean!) in the mornings. Sat on a beach reading, throwing a frisbee, eating, playing cards, and doing nothing productive whatsoever all day long.

Returned to Merke. Celebrated the New Year with good friends (Sagar and AC - who returned from America earlier this fall) and rang it in together with the Russian neighbors.

Currently on Winter Break from schools until January 9th. Have split my time between Merke and Taraz with nothing on the agenda but movies and friends.

Kreshenya is on January 19th. For which I plan to head north to the city of Petropavlovsk to partake in an old Russian Orthodox tradition: jumping into a frozen river in Kazakh Siberia.

I've got lots of things to say and a little more time to say them, so look forward to hearing from me soon. In the mean time, Thailand pictures are posted on Facebook (you can email me for a link).

xoxo j

Wanted: Motivation

2009-10-13T07:20:00.000-07:00

I've been a little stumped with the blog posts lately (as you may well have noticed). Having been in Kazakhstan a year already, things are sometimes seeming less exciting and less unfamiliar. But, our new volunteers will soon be shipped off to their permanent sites and it reminds me that this was all once very new and different. There was a time when it seemed like there were too many details to record and every little moment was an adventure. Basically, I'm having a bit of writer's block and am finding it hard to remember what people back home might (or might not) be interested in hearing about. I need fresh eyes. :)

So, I decided to write to you, dear readers, for some motivation. Ask me questions. Anything you'd like, from mundane to the complex. Whatever you find yourself hoping to read about when you visit this blog, ask me. I'd love to have some new topics to write about. And with a year's experience under my belt, I feel almost qualified to talk about them.

*I suppose this will also serve as a little test to see if anyone is still reading this blog? :)

In My Future Life...

2009-10-01T06:21:00.000-07:00

Warning: This post is going to be about my students again. :)

My students are not known for their writing skills, and last year instead of tackling this problem head on, I just followed my counterpart's lead and steered clear of nearly any and all writing assignments. This year, I have a lot more flexibility in the classroom (as you saw with the Pirates lesson plan) and so I've decided to slowly approach the task of improving their writing.

I started my 7th grade students out with a poem. I gave them the line prompts and they just had to finish the thoughts. The poem was titled "In My Future Life". Some of the things they came up with were absolutely priceless. I decided to include a few to give a better idea of what working with Kazakhstanian students in the English classroom can be like. (I haven't omitted spelling errors, these are original works of art).

In my future life,
I'd like to be a ghost,
I'd like to fryghten people
And go cemetery
Please

In my future life,
I'd like to be a pirat
I'd like to whistle a song
Then stolen a treasure
And run at the yaght
Please ban all fish from ocean.

In my future life,
I'd like to be a skeleton
I'd like to eat people
And steal treasures
Then jump around my island
Please ban all lions from Saturn.

In my future life,
I'd like to be hungry worm
I'd like to dance in the box
And I'd like to drink wine
Then kiss a turtle
Please ban all seagull from Jakarta

In my future life,
I'd like to be a martian
I'd like to dance
And jump, jump, jump
Then drink a sea of milk
Please ban all people from earth.

And my personal favorite...

In my future life
I'd like to be a zombie
I'd like to crazy
And eat people
Then sleep.
Please give me to play with baby's.

Despite the obvious errors, I can't help but be terribly proud of these kids.

More pictures from Culture Holiday

2009-09-25T08:50:00.000-07:00

My favorite 11th grade class.

My favorite 10th grade class.

These ones made me think of nuns. Or Sister Act, more specifically. Especially when they were dancing...

You could just see the concentration in these little boys' eyes when they danced.

Cultural Holiday at School No. 39

2009-09-25T08:22:00.000-07:00

We had some sort of holiday this week at my school. Basically every homeroom class was given a nationality (found in Kazakhstan) and they had to prepare some sort of presentation around that nationality. It actually reminded me a lot of the Culture Presentations we did during my Global and Cultural Awareness Week. Except the costumes were fantastic and the performances were a little more dance-focused. I spent two hours (during the break between morning and afternoon sessions) watching the different classes perform and was even asked to be an extra in one presentation. It was long and my feet were tired after standing that long, but it was totally worth it.

Daniar (we would call him Daniel in America) is one of the sweetest little boys at my school. He also participated in my Summer Camp.

Little boys and their capes... (this was Germany I believe)

The Russian 5th grade class. They were Ukraine.

All the little 5th graders. SO cute.

Pirates (пираты)

2009-09-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

written September 16, 2009

It's the end of the third week of school and I still don't have a permanent schedule. I am told what my day's schedule will be at approximately 1:30pm the day before. This is not uncommon for Kazakhstan. The administration takes the month of September to get organized and the teachers scramble about making do in the mean time. More importantly than the teacher not having a reliable schedule is the fact that none of the English classes have books. Aparently this is also something that takes the month of September to coordinate. For anyone who has ever taught students before, I'm sure you can imagine how difficult it is for a teacher to plan lessons without a book and with less than 24 hours notice as to which classes will be taught.

As a result, for the past three weeks I have been making up lesson plans using the internet, my own creativity or any other resource I have available. This week, running low on ideas, I came across a lesson theme online that I thought might be of interest for my 7th form students. The theme? Pirates. I found a song online (The Pirate Song) and pulled the Pittsburg Pirate logo off the internet. After learning new vocabulary words (like peg leg), and listening to The Pirate Song, I showed them the Pittsburg Pirate logo and told them that for the last 10 minutes of class, their job was to design a NEW logo for the baseball team and that we would vote on the winner (and that person would receive a 5 for the day - this is the equivalent of an A+).

I thought you might like to see what my students came up with...

What? No Water?

2009-09-16T06:40:00.000-07:00

written September 10, 2009

So, I'm a procrastinator by nature. Honestly, I blame my brother. He always excelled at procrastinating when we lived at home together and I immediately understood that this was a way of life that I needed to adopt. It didn't take long before I, too, excelled in the art of procrastination. In Davis, 90% of my essays were started and completed the morning they were due and I always seemed to get away with it.

Since arriving back on the farm I've gladly welcomed my procrastinating ways back into my daily life. Dishes? I'll do them in the morning. Cleaning the floors? Eh, I'll wear socks. I can clean the floors on Thursday. Bathing? My hair doesn't start to look greasy until after 2.5 days. I'll boil water when I absolutely have to. Well, I believe the time has come for my lesson to be taught.

Yesterday afternoon, a mere 24 hours before Joe is planning to arrive in Merke, I decided it was probably about time to clean those floors and the few dishes left over from breakfast. I went out to the pump and began pumping. It took me a minute before I realized nothing was coming out of the pump. At first, I assumed I must just be doing it wrong (as if the past 5 months hasn't been lesson enough) but quickly realized that no, indeed something was terribly wrong. Every time I pulled and pushed the pump the darn thing only yielded air. I ran over to my neighbor's house to play the "stupid American" card, but she was still at work.

So, now I've got dirty floors, I'm feeding Kairu bottled water and the dirty dishes keep piling up. Not to mention the fact that I am now a day past my greasy hair limit and haven't gotten a run in for 3 days. It's a really bizarre feeling to realize that you don't have access to water. Suppose I'm going to have to stock up on gallon bottles of water at the local магазин (shop) that or start carrying buckets to and from a neighbor's water pump...

I'm sorry I procrastinate. I know I won't change my ways, but I would really love some water right about now! :)

I Rescued A Dog From Kazakhstan Today

2009-09-07T10:12:00.000-07:00

I had been planning to temporarily adopt a puppy. Saltanat's dog had a litter of seven puppies two months ago and she asked if I'd like to keep one of them at my house until I moved back to America. This sounded great for a number of reasons, the main one being that I get bored and puppies are cute! I had planned to pick the puppy up from Saltanat's after my trip to Sweden. However, when I made my way over there the puppy was much less excited about me than I was about her. She was the last of the litter left and she had seen all of her brothers and sisters shipped off. When Saltanat even tried to approach her she ran screaming and crying into the garden. We spent 20 minutes trying to catch the puppy and everytime we got close she sounded as though someone had stepped on her - yelping and squealing.

After 20 minutes, I was feeling pretty unwanted and Saltanat was pretty tired. She told me she would try and catch the dog and bring it to my house whenever she caught it. Well, a week passed and no dog showed up at my front door. I had resigned myself to the fact that the puppy and I were not meant to be, but made jokes about how the puppy had no idea how good she would have had it if she had simply wanted to be loved by me.

(Enter Fate)

After a trip to the "white house" (the toilets at our school), Saltanat, Dinara (the other amazing new and young English teacher) and I came across an adorable little puppy on the school grounds. I crouched down and called him to me and he came galloping across the path up to my legs. He wasn't afraid of me at all. Saltanat eyed me (knowing full well what I was thinking). I asked her if the puppy was a stray and she asked the groundskeeper (who was standing nearby). Sure enough, he had no home. Saltanat and Dinara encouraged me to adopt him and I decided that when my lessons were finished I would think about taking this dog home with me.

I spent one entire lesson just looking out the window for the puppy. I was terrified he was going to run off and I wouldn't be able to take him home. After the lesson, I told Saltanat that I must go look for 'my' puppy. I had already claimed him, apparantly. When I got outside a bunch of 7th or 8th grade boys were working in the yard (something they have to do in Kazakhstan). The puppy was just wandering around them, trying to be one of the boys. I walked excitedly over to him and pet him furiously. The boys got very excited about the puppy and started asking me to translate things about him in Russian. He's black. He's a boy. etc. Then they started picking on him, as Kazakh boys like to do. I was discussing with the groundskeeper that I wanted to take the puppy home after classes. The boys literally began tossing the puppy around and kicking him when I wasn't looking. I scolded them and decided right then and there that the puppy was coming home with me.

And so, I have provided a home for this adorable homeless puppy. It took me a day (and an hour-long Skype conversation with Sarah) but I finally named him. Kairu (kai-roo). It means "little black one" in Kenyan and while it may be a little peculiar, I just couldn't escape the name. He's going to be one cultured little puppy, let me tell you. He's already learning both English and Russian ('come' in English, and the equivalent of 'no, stop that!' in Russian) and he has a Kenyan name and could one day visit America? :)

I'll try not to let this blog turn into the Kairu Chronicles, but he IS providing me with much entertainment and a lot more chores around the house. I no longer come home and spend hours watching movies or reading books. Now, I've got to feed the dog, make sure he doesn't have any fleas, potty-train and (when I get my hands on a collar/leash) take him for walks. If only he were a little older, I could start training him to run with me. :) Kairu is a very welcome addition to The Farm - at least until the Hubers come back and we have to worry about allergies...

Isn't he adorable?

After his first bath, which he did NOT like very much.

Debbie and Paul sent dog treats for Norbert, but since he ran away... the new puppy says Thank You!

And then, off to play...

Kazakhstan from another perspective...

2009-09-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note here. As I've mentioned before, there are plenty of Peace Corps volunteers with blogs similar to mine which I try to keep listed on the right hand column of this page. Recently, of note, my friend Hotard (Michael is his first name) received some very special visitors. His mom and brother from Georgia came out to Kazakhstan for a week-long visit. His mom has written a guest blog entry on his blog which accesses Kazakhstan from a very different perspective than what I can provide right now. Her opinions are probably very similar to what anyone from America would experience upon visiting this country for the first time. I strongly suggest that you all check it out - it's a very real experience of a week in our lives.

I also have the blogs of friends and family who aren't in the Peace Corps because although they may not be living in Kazakhstan, I like to think they're doing some pretty cool things and/or have entertaining and interesting things to say about life outside of Kazakhstan.

And, if you haven't figured this out already, internet is up and running and very easily accessible at the moment, so I hope to keep the flurry of blog posts coming (at least until I get too bogged down in my job as an English teacher to keep up).

Welcome to Kazakhstan, Take 2

2009-09-05T00:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Tree of Life

2009-09-04T07:48:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday Mom and Baby Blastic!

I think we all needed a happy day...

Paul and Debbie just welcomed Orion Patrick into the world on September 4, 2009.

And my Mom celebrated her 35th (?) birthday on September 3.

"Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation. For they are us, our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life." - Albert Einstein.

xoxo Grandma Morris

In other news... Happy Birthday Lauren! (Who just came and traveled with me in Sweden and Denmark), It's a popular couple of days for birthdays it seems...

Cary, Me, Lauren and Megan at the Brett Dennen, Colbie Caillat, John Mayer concert last summer.

Home Swede Home

2009-09-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

written August 30, 2009

Scandinavian trip in a nutshell: Incredible. There is far too much to say about the last three weeks of my life to fit it all into a manageable and still entertaining blog post. Over the past three weeks I experienced nearly every emotion known to man. Happy. Sad. Overwhelmed. Angry. Peaceful. Excited. The list goes on. It took me a while to recognize, but Kazakhstan had hardened me. I stepped off that plane in Stockholm with a different outlook on life than I had a year ago and with really no clue how to manage it.

The Cliff Notes version of my trip to Scandinavia:

Toured an old Swedish castle, took an evening jazz cruise in Stockholm, stood in a 14th century Swedish church in the countryside watching my best friend from college marry the man of her dreams, got stuck in a rain storm on a canal cruise in Copenhagen, sat in the backseat of a car with two great friends from America watching the Swedish countryside flying by, stood in an Ice Bar with flip-flops, a parka and winter gloves drinking a cocktail served out of a block of ice on a bar also made entirely of ice, saw the Copenhagen skyline flying by beneath my feet from an amusement park ride at Tivoli, had a traditional Danish meal with two remarkably hospitable Danish friends, buried my face in laundry fresh out of the dryer, made new friends in Stockholm who did a great job of convincing me that Sweden should be the next destination for my life, sat in a one-room cottage with 20 other wedding guests singing 'Oh When The Saints' to the tunes of an amazing trumpet and guitar player, got upgraded to Business Class and ate chocolate chip ice cream and fried gambas (prawns, bet you didn't know that) on a bed of mango, bell pepper and coconut salad, watched the latest Harry Potter (in English!) in a real movie theater, ate Thai, Indian, Italian, Japanese and Mexican cuisines not to mention approximately 7 or 8 hamburgers/chicken burgers, spent several mornings running around a lake on winding forest paths listening to amazing music and breathing fresh air, took several hot baths with absolutely no shame when my hands and feet were long beyond pruny.

Some of my expectations for this trip were absolutely shattered and others were far beyond what I could have expected. Unfortunately, for me, this wasn't just a vacation to Scandinavia like it would have been two years ago. The whole experience turned out to be as much about me being a Peace Corps Volunteer as it was being a tourist. Separating my life in Central Asia from this experience proved nearly impossible. Nothing in my life is certain right now, nothing except these 27 months spent serving in the country of Kazakhstan. When you spend 12 months of your life experiencing and adapting to very little that resembles ‘normal’ it’s hard, I found, to instantaneously bring yourself back to the ‘real world’ and not bring a lot of that baggage with you.

A friend of mine commented that it seemed as though I was incapable of being in a conversation that didn't revolve around my life in Kazakhstan. At first, of course, I was shocked and appalled. And of course, I hope there was bit of exaggeration in the claim, but, the more I thought about it, I realized that he probably has a point. I spent a lot of time in my head these past three weeks and it was impossible to deny the fact that Kazakhstan, if absolutely nothing else, has changed my daily realities. When almost every aspect of a once-familiar life begins to feel foreign, I suppose one option is to resort to talking about things that you are familiar with – for me, Kazakhstan. I've changed in a lot of little (and some not-so-little) ways since I left California last August. Some of them, like this, seem to be the temporary, consequences-of-the-job type that I hope to correct or overcome during this experience, or in its aftermath. Others, I hope will stick with me for a long time to come.

Of course I didn’t spend the entire time imprisoned by my own overactive thoughts. It’s a bold claim, but under the circumstances, I think it’s reasonably safe to say that this trip to Scandinavia was by far the most amazing vacation I’ve been on. Leaving Stockholm was one of the hardest things I’ve had to force myself to do in quite some time, and returning to Kazakhstan has definitely presented it’s share of challenges (but, more on those later). Now it’s just letting my family and friends in California try to convince me that when this is all said and done that I should be heading home and not to Sweden…

Matt & Lauren in Kalmar, Sweden (that's our hotel in the back)

Copenhagen Canal Cruise

The Tivoli Gardens ride that made me realize I'm not 14 anymore.

Happiness.

(For you Tracy - always complaining about how there aren't any pictures of me)

Stockholm. The Archipelago.

Bridesmaids drive to Sandviken for the wedding!

(This is the only picture I have because my battery died...)

Stockholm's Absolut Ice Bar. Brrr..

A Fresh Look

2009-08-08T03:32:00.000-07:00

I've packed my bags. I've cleaned the house. I've given the keys to the landlord. I've traveled to Almaty. I've said most of my goodbyes. I've checked in for my flight. It's official. I'm leaving Kazakhstan in less than 15 hours.

I tried to make these final memories of Kazakhstan ones that were full of joy and laughter. Hosting most of my favorite volunteers at "The Farm" for the past 3 weeks single-handedly accomplished that goal. We spent three solid weeks playing cards, drinking beer, eating extraordinary food (jambalaya, pizza, hamburgers, cabbage-wrapped meatballs, eggplant parmesan, chicken fajitas, etc.) and playing games with my students for a few hours every day. We made watermelon lemonade and spent an afternoon picnicing in the mountains by the river (the same river that nearly took poor Andy's life as he absentmindedly lounged in the rapids). We pumped water and burned trash. We traveled to Almaty together and drank coffee and tea at the American-owned cafe and ate dinner at Pizza Hut. Basically, I just wrapped up the best three weeks of my service thus far in Kazakhstan. The timing couldn't have been better.

I'll be celebrating 1 year of service in the Peace Corps on August 21st - the day we arrived in Kazakhstan last year. It's been an emotional, adventurous, mind-blowing experience so far and I'm not even halfway done. Leaving the country is bound to have its challenges - I currently live a life that has very few similarities to anything that I was once familiar with. The extravagances and luxuries of a "civilized" world will be unfamiliar, if nothing else. Coming back to Kazakhstan after three weeks out of the country (spent with some of my favorite people on this planet) will be challenging to say the least. But, after the last three weeks in Kazakhstan, I've got fresh memories of how absolutely amazing this experience can be at times.

So what's my official take on this Peace Corps experience? Would I do it again? Am I glad I'm here? Do I think I'll stay for the rest of my 27-month term? Heck yes! Kazakhstan sucks sometimes. Cold and lonely winters are hard to survive. Students who don't want to learn are hard to teach. Accepting local customs drives you crazy sometimes. Learning to throw elbows to be recognized or respected is frustrating. Eating food you don't like stinks. And then sometimes, Kazakhstan is amazing. Picking strawberries with your neighbors. Making someone laugh, in Russian. Learning how little one actually needs in life. Passing goats, cows, horses, donkeys, chickens AND dogs in a single 10-minute walk to school. Hearing your students' English improving. This has been the most difficult year of my life, hands down, but I'd do it again in a second. So, for all of these reasons and so many more, I plan to come back to Kazakhstan in three weeks ready to start a new and more challenging school year.

I'll be teaching all of my courses solo for the first portion of this new school year, as my counterpart was granted an awesome opportunity to work within the Peace Corps organization here in Almaty training the new Peace Corps Trainees (arriving from America at the end of August). This has a lot of perks - finally being able to stop cheating in the classroom, forcing my students to really speak English and not rely on a translator - but it also has a lot of potential drawbacks. For one, my counterpart is very respected by our students, discipline has never been an issue in any of my classes. I will now be solely responsible for disciplining my 17 and 18-year old students :/ as well as every other class I teach. I will also be putting in more hours in the classroom to make up for the reduced English teaching staff (from 3 teachers to 2). I've also started planning some potential secondary projects for the upcoming year with fellow volunteers. And, I'm considering training for a marathon in Southern Russia next summer (try to keep off the winter weight this year). Nick, Corinne, Andy and I are hoping to travel to Thailand this December to celebrate the holidays in a slightly more tropical locale.

So, when I return to Kazakhstan I will have 12 of my 27 months completed, but the spirits are still high. My insanely busy and active summer has rejuvenated me for the school year. And everyone swears that the second year just flies by...

14 days until... Sweden!

2009-07-24T21:59:00.001-07:00

Reasons I'm Looking Forward to Sweden (in no particular order):

- Normal-sized people (not feeling like a giant in midget country)
- Cami's Swedish countryside wedding
- Seafood (like from an actual body of water!)
- Long Showers
- Feeling clean
- Friends from America
- Pedicures
- Not speaking Russian
- Attractive people (no more gold teeth, please)
- The Beach!
- Beer that isn't Kazakh or Russian (AKA - delicious)
- Shopping (somewhere other than the local market)
- Running water
- Celebrating ONE YEAR (in a place where I can actually enjoy myself)
- Conversations with Cami
- No 20+ hour train rides
- A nightlife that doesn't involve creepy Kazakh men

The list is really pretty endless, but I've got to stop somewhere...

...14 days!!!

Facebook

2009-07-17T10:08:00.000-07:00

I finally gave up trying to find a photo website that could handle Kazakhstan's internet speed. Looks like Facebook is going to be the best option for awhile. I've uploaded a handful of albums to Facebook.

Check them out.

If you don't have access to Facebook, I can always email the links to the albums, but didn't want to bombard anyone unnecessarily with emails. Just let me know.

xoxo

No Gas For Me

2009-06-04T21:45:00.000-07:00

written May 27, 2009

Kazakhstan can shut off your gas when they feel like it. And not just your gas, but your entire block's gas. I'm not sure exactly how they notify everyone that their gas is going to be shut off for the day - probably sky writing in Kazakh because I was certainly not informed.

I had finally gotten my act together, now that school is over, and invited my counterpart and Saltanat (the young English teacher I work with) and their families over for Pizza Night tonight. I've been bragging about my pizza making skills for months now and by Kazakh standards I have waited way too long to invite my first guests over for an appreciative dinner at the new place.

I did most of my shopping yesterday and then made one last run to the bazaar this afternoon to pick up the rest of the ingredients for my dinner party. I came home and began preparing the dough for pizza and apple pie (yup! That's right - I'm making my first apple pie in Kazakhstan) and decided to get some water boiled for the inevitable hourde of dishes I was going to have. When I went to light my stove, nothing lit up. I tried almost an entire box of matches in all different sorts of manners, but nothing worked.

To display my initial American ignorance... the first thought that went to my head was that maybe I had forgotten to turn off the gas switch last night after making disastrous sugar cookies and that I had used up all of the gas. I recognized instantly how ridiculously idiotic that sounded. I remembered that I have an oven in my banya - don't ask, I still haven't figured out why the thing is there, just gotta have the chai even in the banya?. But, I decided to see if it would light - you know, establish the source of the problem. No luck there either. I was twisting all sorts of pipes all over the place and trying to see if something had fallen apart in my sleep (it's a very old house - totally possible), but no luck anywhere, I even followed the piping out to it's source on the side of my house (getting snagged on some bushes in the process, embarassing).

I finally walked over to my landlord's house next door and explained that my gas wasn't working and asked if his was working. He smiled and said that the city had turned off our gas and that it was supposed to start working again in the evening. When I asked him if he knew what time (I'm expecting my guests around 5-6pm) he clearly misunderstood me and just repeated the initial statement. On a side note, sometimes I think that it's really not me who is the idiot in some of these conversations. I smiled and thanked him. He made some joke about how it was really inconvenient (not all of which I understood) and I came back to make some disappointing phone calls.

So, now I've got all of the ingredients for a delicious dinner and no way to actually cook any of it. It would be fine if I were having a Salad Party - which believe me would be a real eye-opener for this culture, but unfortunately everything I was planning on serving requires a flame. In America, I'd just head to a local restaurant with some friends, but here... well I guess I could always go to a cafe alone? That's sad. Maybe my counterpart will feed me dinner tonight...

Internet

2009-06-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

It's official... I now have internet at my house. Still working out some minor kinks (currently borrowing neighbors' computer instead of my laptop) so Sykpe isn't quite set up yet...

Will keep you posted. Look forward to many more picture updates and other goodies!

Additional Reading

2009-05-25T23:44:00.001-07:00

So, my PCV friends are actually fairly talented writers themselves (3 of my closest friends are actually English majors as well). The week in Merke has been written up by a couple of other friends as well as myself, and they might have explained it better, as they actually have internet and can write gracefully instead of hurriedly and spastically.

Drew wrote about Merke's culture camp. And Nick wrote about our epic run-in with the Police on our first trip to the mountains. Check 'em out. (Sidebar. Drew and The Hubers)

Happy Reading!

The Cow Story

2009-05-25T23:38:00.001-07:00

written May 30, 2009

My counterpart, Symbat, owns a cow. Normally I don't even realize that the cow is there because she keeps it tied up in the "barn" in her backyard. Sometimes the cow will moo when she's hungry, but other than that you could really very easily forget that the cow existed. Well, now that it is Spring, the cow is allowed to roam around the yard eating the weeds and greens growing in the yard. Symbat's two dogs don't like this very much. As soon as the cow steps foot on the paved portion of the yard these two little pipsqueak dogs go running up to her feet are barking incessantly. It's quite hysterical because the cow is not remotely phased by their presence considering that with one step she could kill either of them. I think the dogs also realize this, but they have to keep up their image as "tough dogs" so they bark anyways, but they run away if the cow starts to move towards them - in fact, one time Strielka peed, ran between my legs and continued her little barks from her new safe position.

Well one day I was sitting in their sunroom listening to my ipod on our lunch break and I saw the cow start charging for the front gate. I ran out to see what she was chasing only to see that the front gate had swung open in the wind and the cow was actually running for her freedom. I had to call my counterpart out of the house and explain that the cow had run into the street. She couldn't understand why I didn't stop it... Hmmm. Well, for one, it's a cow charging at something, I don't care how valuable the cow is, I'm not about to step in front of that moving mass. And two, I was relaxing in the other room, not cow-sitting. But it provided me with my first (of a now handful) experience corraling an animal. Symbat called a man who works at a shop down the road and he came out and joined me, Symbat, and her neighbor's son. It took about 5-10 minutes, but eventually we guided the stubborn cow back into the yard.

It was at this point that I learned that Symbat's "cow" is not actually a cow. It's a calf that is just a year old. This explains her periodic jumping - no joke, a calf can and does actually jump! - and generally adolescent behavior. Sometimes she'll just start running frantically around the yard for no apparent reason. Unfortunately, as a result my counterpart's onion crop has been destroyed - nothing can withstand the weight of a cow landing on top of it repeatedly. It's definitely a cow with some personality.

But, the better story was yet to come. Another day, on our lunch break from school, my counterpart was preparing lunch in the summer kitchen and I was reading a book inside the house when I heard my counterpart start yelling at me. She was shouting my name over and over, but I couldn't understand what she needed. I got up and began moving to the door to find out what she needed. When I turned the corner into the front room I found myself standing face to face with the calf! I almost peed myself. My counterpart put her head against the window and explained that I needed to get the cow out of the house. Not exactly sure what protocal was for chasing a cow out of your home, I decided that noise was probably the best option. I spread my arms wide and began stamping my feet on the ground and moving towards the cow. Eventually I startled her (I mean, really, it was a very disturbing sight) and she turned around. Then I just had to run her out of the house and back into the yard. It took a little coaxing but I managed to get her out. I felt very proud - and this time it was definitely not my fault!

Another, of many, life lessons learned whilst in the Peace Corps that I had never dreamed of.

Summer, Summer, Summer!

2009-05-25T23:37:00.002-07:00

written May 26, 2009

The last day of school in Kazakhstan (nationwide) is May 25th - and that is more of a graduation ceremony than anything. Which means that as of yesterday at about 11:00am, I don't have to write lesson plans or discipline my students for the next three months! As Peace Corps Volunteers, one of our main assignments is to integrate into our communities here at site. In order to ensure that we aren't abandoning our communities here during the summer, we are required to log at least 30 days in site. But for the other two months we are free to travel to other volunteers' sites and participate in language camps, sports camps or whatever other activities our creative volunteers come up with.

I would be lying if I didn't admit that I and my fellow Education volunteers have been looking forward to May 25th for a very long time. Especially during the harsh winter, many of us acquired the personal goal of just making it to May 25th. The next three months are rumored to be some of the easiest months in service, and I plan to spend them quite delightfully.

My first, and most exciting day of my Peace Corps service thus far falls on June 2nd, when my old friend Kevin arrives for a three week visit here in Kazakhstan. He's spent the last five months traveling around this half of the world (including, Australia, New Zealand, Indonesia, Vietnam, Cambodia and India - to name a few) and finally arrives in Kazakhstan at the beginning of June. He will be the first truly familiar face I will have seen since I left California back on August 16, 2008. We're going to hit a few of the "hot spots" here in Kazakhstan as well as participate in some fellow PCV's summer activities before he leaves again on June 22nd. After he leaves, I'm attending a Baseball Camp at a nearby village in my oblast (maybe equivalent to a County in the states?), and then later in July a Russian Language Camp up in North Kazakhstan. I'm also planning a summer camp here in Merke in late July, after which I head to the Almaty International Airport!

I'm finally leaving the country of Kazakhstan on August 9, 2009 just short of one year after my arrival here in country. I'm heading to Scandinavia for three weeks to celebrate Cami's (college roommate and friend extraordinaire) wedding in the Swedish countryside. Some other PCVs are also making their big exits this summer. I have one friend who is heading back to America, a couple others to nearby countries such as Thailand and Turkey, one couple is heading to England for a few weeks. But, I couldn't miss Cami's wedding for the world. And, to be quite honest, Scandinavia doesn't exactly sound like a terrible place for my first escape. It all worked out quite perfectly.

As a result, this means that I won't be heading back to America this summer, and to be quite honest probably not at all during my two-year service. This is due to a combination of factors, really. First and foremost, coming back to America is a very challenging experience for a lot of Peace Corps Volunteers. Getting a taste of the states mid-service is bittersweet, and many volunteers find themselves not wanting to come back to country. Secondly, Kazakhstan is a huge country and I feel there is a lot here to see (probably more of the interestingly bizarre variety than the stunningly beautiful). Lastly, it's expensive to travel. And last I checked, my current "salary" is less than $4000 a year, almost all of which goes to actual living expenses here at site.

So, I apologize for the weddings, graduations and births that I am going to have to miss (or already have - Congratulations Chris & Jill, and Lailah!), but more time in country means more blogging, which is all you really cared about anyways right? So here's to the start of what I hope to be an outstanding summer here in Kazakhstan (and Scandinavia)...

An Excuse to Celebrate Cinco de Mayo

2009-05-25T23:37:00.001-07:00

written May 25, 2009

I officially planned, organized, hosted and completed my first solo secondary project here in Peace Corps Kazakhstan. I organized a Global and Cultural Awareness Week here in Merke for the students of my school, with the help of my counterpart Symbat. We invited 7 of my PCV friends to help with the execution of everything and I am happy to report that it all went off without a hitch! It really energized me as a volunteer - showing me what exactly we are capable of doing for the communities here in Kazakhstan and how much our students and teachers enjoy participating in our events.

The general overview for the week was that each PCV chose a country or region of focus and prepared a 15-20 minute presentation (all in English) to present in small groups, to over 50 eighth through tenth graders at my school. In addition, each volunteer was assigned a core group of 7-8 students to work with daily on an end of the week school-wide presentation associated with their country (things like skits, songs, dances, etc.). Between the eight of us, we focused on 7 cultures - Panama, Colombia, Southern USA, Asia (Korea), India, Africa (Ghana), and Ireland. Each core group came up with a slogan for their group, including "East or West, Asia is the Best!", "U-S-A, All The Way!". and "Crazy Colombia" and these slogans were chanted during our daily olympic events.

We had organized games from other countries (and some that are just plain fun - i.e. capture the flag) and had the countries compete against each other for the last hour of every day. Surprisingly, Africa was not even remotely a contender, the USA didn't walk about with any gold medals, and India was actually hanging tough for a considerable amount of time (despite their "Mathletes" reputation), and most shocking of all, the winner of the 2009 Merke Olympic Games was Ireland of all places - unintentionally breaking cultural stereotypes left and right.

In addition to a highly successful week of cultural education and fun, we had the added bonus of having most of our afternoons off to simply hang around the farm with some of our closest friends here in Kazakhstan. The eight of us ate some of the best food I've had here in Kazakhstan that week. We had our resident 5-star chef, Andy Park, in attendance (PCV in Zhalagash) who was highly responsible for the outstanding cuisine during the week. And Sagar had brought with him a duffel bag full of Indian food ingredients and made us one of the most outstanding home cooked Indian meals I've ever had - and that's taking into account the fact that everything was so delicious spicy people were sweating buckets at the dinner table and I actually had to make myself go outside and throw up because my body was experiencing flavor overload. (Try living on boiled meat and potatoes for nine months and then sitting down to Indian food - ahh!)

And considering that the Cinco de Mayo fell in the middle of the week, we took the opportunity to put together a full Mexican feast that evening. Cheese enchiladas, tacos, beans, mexican rice and tequila. Other meals included spaghetti and meatballs, pizza, Mexican leftovers, among others.

So, all in all, I re-energized myself as a volunteer and as an American during my friends' extended stay here in Merke. We even managed to make it up to the mountains twice! (More on that later...)

All Roosters Should Be Killed

2009-05-25T23:35:00.000-07:00

written May 25, 2009

My landlord (who happens to live in the house next door) has all of the animals that my house is designed to have - cows, chickens, dogs, cats (well those are the only animals I have seen so far, but who's to say there aren't more). They were initially all generally well-behaved so I didn't have a problem with them. In fact, I didn't even know the cow existed until I went over there the other day for chai and walked into the wrong door and found myself standing face to face with one. This is impressive considering the problems I have already experienced with cows in the past month or so. I met the chickens on the day I moved in, because well, they were wandering around my yard. It was actually slightly disappointing to find out they were my neighbors because for at least an hour I thought they belonged to me. Now, why anyone would want to actually own four chickens is probably a question most of you are asking yourselves, but for me it just added to the ambiance of my new abode. I mean, who has chickens just wandering around their yard in America (well suburban America)? Not too many people. I thought it might be cool? You know, they could huddle around my feet as I pumped water every day and make me smile when I looked out my kitchen window and saw them just passing by on their afternoon stroll through the yard. Maybe I'd seen too many children's movies set on a farm?

After about four days of living with the occassional chicken visitors (my landlady and I have an opening in our fence which the chickens pass through whenever they feel like it) I was less enthused by their presence than I had originally anticipated. They were kind of loud (the one rooster at least) and really quite ugly. One of the chickens had this long scrawny hairless neck that gave me the goosebumps if I looked at it too closely. My visitors (who experienced all of these little excitements on the farm with me for the first week) complained that Kazakh chickens make a terrible sound. To be completely honest, I wasn't accustomed to listening to chickens in California so I can't be sure that they have different accents over here in Kazakhstan, but it's nice to pretend that things are just worse here because it's well... Kazakhstan. But, I was pretty wrapped up in hosting my visitors and the Global Awareness Conference so I didn't pay too much attention to the daily vocals of the neighbors farm animals.

As soon as my last houseguest left the farm, things changed. I was being woken up by the horrible ugly rooster at 6:30 every morning and he would annoy me as I made breakfast, lunch and dinner. Roosters don't crow once when the sun rises and then shut up for 24 hours - one of the many things I have learned from this Peace Corps experience that I hadn't expected. In fact, they crow all day long and I'm convinced that this particular rooster crowed more just when he began to really get on my nerves. And to the credit of my volunteer friends, I have to admit that he definitely started to sound very peculiar (as though maybe something was wrong with his vocal chords - or maybe it was just the Kazakh accent). The only relief was when I was able to escape to my school for classes everyday, but when I got home they were waiting for me. The four of them tromping around like they owned the place and talking their little heads off...

Well that seems like an appropriate transition for my rooster story here. You may have noticed that I switched to the past tense when talking about my chicken visitors. That's because after about a week alone with my chickens they stopped annoying me. In fact, I didn't even notice their presence anymore. I figured that the farm life was simply growing on me and that I had mastered co-habiting with my new farm animal friends. That Sunday afternoon my landlady came over and insisted that I come relax outdoors on such a beautiful day with her, her daughter and a neighbor friend. I was tired of studying Russian and looking for a chance to get to know the neighbors better so I obliged. It was during our time outside gossiping about all of the other neighbors that my landlady revealed some new news. Turns out the chickens had been beheaded on Saturday morning. All four of them. Now, I didn't know the word "beheaded" in Russian - and in fact, still don't, I have got to look that one up - but she was kind enough to do a little charades act for me.

Now, I had a sneaking suspicion that I was going to like my landlady the first time that I met her, but this news absolutely solidified our new friendship. She killed the chickens! I found myself so relieved that I wasn't going to be woken up at the oddest hours in the morning and have to see their hideous faces out my kitchen window. The best part about the beheading story, and the only reason she actually brought it up, was that when one of the chickens was beheaded, the cat ran up and snatched the head and ran off with it. Now, I can't be sure what kind of fun those two had together, but I can only imagine it was frighteningly inappropriate. As for my new life sans chickens...

Turns out the neighbor on the other side has got a damn rooster too. And, if I'm being completely honest with myself, it's entirely possible that he was the one waking me up every morning and I had just assumed it was the rooster that I saw wandering around my yard. Because, this new rooster is my personal alarm clock. He lives right outside my bedroom window and he starts the slow and steady process of pissing me off every day starting at 6:30 in the morning. Here's to hoping for another hungry neighbor...

Home Sweet Home

2009-05-17T23:08:00.000-07:00

written May 18, 2009

After the disastrous and stressful house hunting, my search has finally (at least temporarily) come to an end. I moved into my new place on the 1st of May, just hours before my first guests starting arriving. We originally rented the place just for the week that the other volunteers were here, but after some talking with the landlady, we convinced them to let me stay here until the house sells (it's been for sale for two years with no luck - here's to hoping for continued bad luck for the next 18 months).

So, the house. It's been lovingly nicknamed "The Farm" by my PCV guests, and quite honestly I think the name suits it. However, they also mentioned that it would make an excellent setting for a horror film (which I unfortunately can't disagree with). A long time ago, whoever lived here clearly had their own animal farm housed on the grounds - there are chicken coups and every other kind of farm animal structure you could imagine in my yard. In fact, I even get the frequent chicken visitors from next door during the morning, day and night. Most of these farm structures, I don't even come near unless I'm searching for dry wood. Dry wood? That's for my very own banya (Kazakh sauna, much less luxurious that you are probably imagining) which we spent the first day on the farm cleaning and prepping for it's first use.

My guests helped me dig my trash pit (welcome to the world of trash burning), start a compost pile and attempted to start a garden in my huge "former" garden - an area of my yard that is so overgrown I haven't even really attempted to fix it up. My next door neighbor did point out the green onions that are growing there though, and now I find any excuse to add green onions to my meals... would it be fair to say that I'm living off the land? I'm hoping to get out there this summer and get something started, or at least clear out an area for picnics or something - it's huge. We'll see...

As for other amenities, I have gas and electricity (yay!) but no water. I have a pump in my yard that is my wonderful source of water from the mountains (which are exactly 6 km from my front door). At first, and for any and all American guests, the water pumping is a very exciting thing. I've learned to take advantage of this and let anyone who has an interest in pumping satisfy their desires. Because now that I'm doing it on my own several times a day, it's beginning to lose it's excitement. But, it feels more like that Peace Corps experience I was expecting when I filled out my application and wrote all of those essays. I also don't have a refrigerator, which I'm planning on using my alloted Peace Corps "Settling-In Allowance" to purchase, if this place starts to feel semi-permanent.

I've got enough furniture for two and a half of the five rooms, plus a table and chair for the kitchen. Since my friends have left and we are no longer using the floor in one of the rooms for sleeping space, I've closed off the back two unfurnished rooms to make the place feel less large and empty. I have two small beds in "the bedroom" and a fold out couch in the... well I have no idea what it's called. Right now it's the laundry room, but it's probably more equivalent to something like a living room? Point is, there is plenty of sleeping space for at least nine guests... The door's always open.

I'm finally cooking for myself, meeting the neighbors and enjoying life without beshbarmak and crappy Russian TV shows, not to mention the occasional grandma's nudity. All of my years of camping have really paid off, learning how to start a fire (banya skills), how to make a sink out of two buckets, hanging everything on a clothesline and playing cards all day and night were a huge asset to my week hosting eight or nine volunteers. Life on The Farm is exactly what I was looking for out of Peace Corps... an adventure. And heck, I'm going to be so scrappy and resourceful when I get back to California you won't even know what to do with me.

As my friend Andy was pumping water for the banya, Hotard and Jenn were out trying to clear a space for my garden, and Sagar was carrying buckets of water to and from the banya, I think Sagar put it best when he asked, "Exactly how many years into the past do you think we have travelled?"

Strielka (stree-el-ka)

2009-04-27T00:28:00.000-07:00

written April 22, 2009

I have a puppy! OK, well not really, it's technically my counterpart's dog, but if she loves me the most doesn't that sort of make her mine? This puppy has currently hit her really awkward (dare I say, ugly) stage, where her paws are practically the size of her head and her cute fluffy puppy fur is not longer quite so cute, not nearly as fluffy and considering that dogs in Kazakhstan don't get washed, she's becoming quite dirty and scruffy. But, I kind of love her anyways.

She hasn't quite yet gained control of her bladder so every time she sees me she just starts wagging her tail and peeing uncontrollably. I've convinced myself that it's endearing. She's not afraid of humans yet so I still get to pet her (the first dog I've actually been able to touch in Kazakhstan). Admittedly, I have to run to the water spout to wash my hands afterwards because, well even though I love her, she's still insanely dirty.

My counterpart's husband named her Strielka (which means arrow in Russian - because when she was a puppy she had a little arrowhead shaped white patch on her forehead). Unfortunately, that patch is barely visable now, making the name kind of pointless, but I like it anyways. I let her break the rules, like putting her paws inside the kitchen, even though my counterpart would give her a good whooping if she saw it. I'm secretly trying to maintain favorite status - which is really hard to do considering I'm not the one who feeds her.

I forget how great pets are sometimes...

Sausages

2009-04-27T00:27:00.002-07:00

written April 22, 2009

It's hard to encapsulate the food here in Kazakhstan quite perfectly, especially because new things keep coming out of the woodworks. Like the sausage I made with my counterpart on Saturday. Until I move out on my own, I've accepted that I have relatively no control over what I eat in this country (with the exception of the few apples and bananas I buy every couple of weeks because I just miss fruits and veggies so much). So, on Saturday when my counterpart asked me if I'd like to have sausage for dinner, I knew that I didn't really have a say in the matter. Honestly, I figured this meant that we would just go to the magazin and buy one of those bologna logs and fry it up in a pan with a bunch of oil and some potatoes - it's kind of a staple here. Little did I know that we were going to make the sausage from scratch!

Now, all I pictured was some factory (probably from a Mr. Rogers episode) where there are these long thin casings being pumped with ground beef and then tied off at the ends. You throw a couple of those suckers on a Weber and we're talking good old Sunday BBQ. Well, nothing is quite so simple here in Kazakhstan. First thing that tipped me off was the giant plate of "meat" she brought out from the summer kitchen. As she shoved these hunks of well, not your delicious supermarket steaks, into the meat grinder, I watched this gooey (slightly bloody?) paste squishing out the other end. I tried to maintain my perfectly pleasant expression, but my counterpart saw right through it. She laughed at my distorted face and told me that I didn't have to watch - get back to peeling those onions. It was only a few minutes later that I learned why our sausage meat had looked so, well, unappetizing - it was sheep liver, kidneys and here's the kicker... heart! Mmm...

Now, you'd think that's the worst of it, but what you're not realizing is that this is Kazakhstan. That's rarely ever the case. Symbat, my counterpart, came back again from the summer kitchen carrying a large mixing bowl. What she pulled out of that bowl made my stomach churn. The question I had failed to ask myself was what we were going to use for that long thin casing I had seen Mr. Rogers' friends filling with tasty Grade - A beef. Maybe I'm naive, or maybe I just like my store-bought chicken apple sausages, but intestine?! Really? Yup, we were going to be filling a sheep's intestine (albeit the same sheep that provided us with the filling) with his own kidney, heart and liver. I'm the kind of person that doesn't generally like eating meat off a bone (unless it's legitimate BBQ ribs) and I pick through chicken meat to find the breast meat because I don't really like the dark stuff. Basically, I'm pretty particular when it comes to the meat I eat in the states - I eat it and enjoy it, but it's got to look pretty. This was the furthest thing from pretty I could imagine. So, I let my counterpart do the stuffing and I ran into the other room to get my camera.

She stuffed the intestine, sewed off the end with some purple thread (a nice touch, I thought) and set it to boil on the stove. Although I had eaten, and actually enjoyed, kidney a couple of weeks ago, I've never been able to stomach liver. I told my counterpart this, in a desperate attempt to get out of eating this homemade sausage (not to mention heart), so she set me to peeling a handful of potatoes (in the event that I wouldn't like the sausage). I was relieved that there was a back-up, this I believe was due largely in part to the fact that my counterpart is more or less fluent in English. Had I been in one of my other host families I certainly would have had much more trouble explaining my reservations about the sausages. Although, on the flip side, I don't know the Russian or Kazakh words for liver, heart, kidney or intestine, so maybe the whole experience would have been less painful. You'll be happy to know that I'm still actively integrating into my community, so I did in fact try some of the sausage, although my counterpart was kind enough to peel off the intestine before she put it on my plate. The verdict: I still like my chicken apple sausage from Whole Foods, but I didn't find myself running to the outhouse either.

All of the products used in producing this sausage came from a sheep which was bought live at the bazaar over the weekend and slaughtered in my counterpart's backyard. Unfortunately, I was in Taraz celebrating Easter so I didn't get to witness the slaughtering, but they promised me that next winter they'll invite me over for the horse slaughtering. Yippee!! Oh, and the sheep head is currently chilling in the fridge in the summer kitchen. See if that doesn't give you some creepy dreams...

House Hunting

2009-04-27T00:27:00.001-07:00

written April 22, 2009

Where's House Hunters when I need them? I've spent the last four months looking for a place to move in May (when my mandatory six-month host family stay has ended). The anticipation of moving out on our own has gotten many a PCV through some rough times. I know at least two volunteers who have an active countdown going with May 1st as the most exciting day of their Peace Corps service thus far.

You might not understand why we want to live on our own so badly, and quite honestly not every PCV does move out. For most of us, one of the largest motivating factors is food. While it's been fun to get a rich cultural experience, eating beshbarmak (which is simply boiled meat - usually horse - boiled lasagna-esque noodles, onions, a couple of (that's right) boiled potatoes, and a lot of oil) and baursak (fried dough) and plov (rice and meat and carrots), we miss our vegetables and salads and basically good old American home cooking. I often dream about the day I can make chocolate chip cookies and fruit salad, not to mention cutting up some tomatoes and cucumbers every once in a while, an apple a day for breakfast would be simply heaven. All this and the opportunity to listen to American music (that is not Celine Dion or The Pussycat Dolls) and invite other Americans over on occasion. Needless to say, after nearly nine months of cultural exposure (and for some of us not so fortunate volunteers, over-exposure - yea there are some exhibitionist host families out there) we're ready to mix it up a little.

Unfortunately for me, this process has not been as easy as my counterpart had anticipated. I've now seen over nine places and there are a few things I know for certain - I will not have an indoor toilet and I will not have a shower for the rest of my 18 months of service. Surprisingly, however, these things have not really been an issue for me. The issues that have arisen in our house hunting have been much more of the "she's American, therefore, she's rich" variety. I have now had three places lined up for me, moving dates established and decorating plans laid out in my head, all of which have fallen through because they started thinking about the fact that I was American and how they could probably get more money out of me. One landlady actually went so far as to say, "Anyone who would leave America and work in another country without pay, is absolutely wealthy - there is no other explanation. We shall triple the rent, no discussion". There have been the obvious emotional battles, finding myself "volunteering" my time to work in this country, teaching their students English, working extra hours for those who want extra English language exposure, swallowing their beshbarmak on a weekly basis, only to feel completely underappreciated by the community at large.

But ultimately, I work with some really great locals and my students (usually) are awesome, and I'm growing to enjoy living and working in this crazy country. So, I've been grinning and bearing it all, getting back on the horse (which will certainly be dinner at some point down the road) and continuing my search. The problem here is that there isn't such a thing as Craigslist or Newspaper Ads for people who want to rent their apartments. The only way to find a place in Merke is to ask all of your friends, who in turn ask all of their friends, and just hope that somewhere along the line something pops up. We're still asking and still looking...

I still have hope that soon (preferably in the next two weeks or so) I will have a place to make my chocolate chip cookies and host my American visitors. In the mean time it's more cultural exposure and boiled foods.

Spring has Sprung!

2009-04-27T00:25:00.000-07:00

written April 22, 2009

Kazakhstan is green. For the past four or five months Kazakhstan has been very white. The snow started melting in March and now the whole steppe is covered in this lush, bright green color. The trees are starting to bud and flowers are starting to bloom - and Kazakhstan is apparently known for its tulips (rumor has it tulips are from Kazakhstan) which I didn't realize until I saw a huge field of bright red tulips.

In California, where the sun shines year round except for a week of rain here or there, you don't really see the seasons, but after a cold, white winter (and comparatively one of the mildest in Kazakhstan) the changing of the seasons is so apparent. The mountains are still covered in snow, making the whole landscape that much more picturesque.

In a country that started to feel very bleak and cold in the winter, things are definitely starting to look much more promising for the Spring. We were told that PCVs just have to make it through the winter and then everything starts to look and feel a lot better, and quite honestly if the sun starts shining and the rain lets up a little bit, I'm going to be one happy PCV. Chances are that will only last for a month, and then the intense Southern summer heat will burn off all this beautiful green and I'll be praying for the rain and snow again. But, I get to spend the hottest month of that, celebrating my friend's wedding in the Swedish countryside and the rest of the summer trying to travel around to cooler areas of the country, so I think it'll be bearable.

But, for all you travelers out there, if Kazakhstan every makes it onto your itinerary, Spring is definitely the right time of year for Kazakhstan. Everything just looks a lot cleaner.

Picture Update!

2009-03-30T06:42:00.000-07:00

Layover in New York

After climbing 841 stairs at Medeu.

Our stair climbing team.

Leaving Almalybak. :(

My students in Almalybak.

The Almalybak Crew.

My Language Group

Kazakh Wedding Spread and my host brother Manat.

Bon Appetit. Talk about a tease.

Oblast Boys

Thanksgiving with the oblast mates and locals.

My old host brother stole my camera...

New Year's Eve with the Almalybak family et al.

My host family setting off some very illegal fireworks. The dog was trying to eat them.

The men of the family.

The Greatest Club Sandwich and Lava Cake in Kazakhstan - Shymkent

The only picture I have of the mountains in Merke. Sorry.

Nick, Corinne, Seth and Katy

Corinne and I after Swearing In.

Brrrrr.... Winter in Merke.

The Kazakh Squat

Almalybak Crew

The Merke Camel

The Cutest Santa Claus I've Ever Seen

A Bug's Life

2009-03-12T02:12:00.000-07:00

written February 19, 2009

That's right. There are bugs in my room and one of them was in my bed. Nevermind the fact that it was not any bigger than an ant, it was still a bug and it was on my stomach. I had found a couple of these bugs on the walls in my room before that night, and had taken a twisted pleasure in squishing them against the wall and hearing them pop, but when the bug is crawling on your stomach there is absolutely no room for pleasure.

Now, I've made it my personal mission to find and kill any living animal in my room. There's the occassional ant trying to find its way to my stash of American peanut butter, granola bars and spices that I consider to be a personal attack on my well-being and I squash that sucker into pieces and leave it there in hopes that any of his wandering friends will be warned of the fate that awaits them should I spot them in my room.

I was, admittedly, the girl in America who still (at the age of 24) called her dad to kill spiders in her room, and honestly if these bugs were any bigger than the size of an ant I wouldn't even consider going near them. Yes, that's right - I'd sacrifice my coveted Reduced Fat Skippy to those giant predators. But, I feel some odd sort of power and accomplishment in killing these intruders in Kazakhstan. I wake up every morning and scan the walls of my room for any tiny black spots. I check my couch and sheets every morning and every evening to make sure that there aren't any surprises awaiting me in my sleep.

Aren't you a little curious how I would have handled Africa? :)

Last week was the woman I live with's birthday. (I've decided that I don't really like calling her my host mom because that title seems more rightfully owned by my mom in Almalybak.) I came home during the middle of the day and made cake (without the frosting, having yet again forgot that I need powdered sugar for that). I cut up a few pieces of the cake and put them on a plate for dinner and put the rest in a Ziplock bag (from America - lifesavers!) in my room. The woman I live with didn't really care for the cake of course (she hasn't yet warmed up to anything 'American' that I have prepared in Kazakhstan) complaining that it was too sweet. Uh, it's cake...

Well, needless to say, I was glad that I had saved the rest of the cake for my colleagues who I knew would enjoy the homemade cake. I woke up the next morning to find my windowsill (where I had placed the Ziplock baggie full of goodness) covered in a layer of black. Turns out that the particular Ziplock bag of choice had a small rip in it, through which an entire colony of ants was able to travel. I had to run the bag out to the hole in the backyard where we put our garbage damning the entire ant species as I ran. I then had to spend my morning killing the ants remaining on my windowsill and the trail of ants on the wall underneath the windowsill. I find a few stragglers every now and again, but they just help to remind me that I can't keep food in my bedroom.

The good news? The ants liked my cake. :)

So, yes, it's a bugs life here in Kazakhstan for me, but I'd say I've handled the change pretty well. Oh the things you learn in the Peace Corps...

Taxi Incidents.

2009-01-27T22:43:00.001-08:00

written January 27, 2009

Incident Number 1:

I went to Shymkent this past weekend (the locals call it the Texas of Kazakhstan) for my friend Joe's birthday. On a taxi on my way back to Merke on Sunday night, I was drifting in and out of sleep. At one point the driver nudged my legs, waking me up. He was trying to open the glove compartment. He pulled a can of air freshener out of the glove compartment. He sprayed it in his lap and then liberally throughout the front of the taxi. As he was spraying, he smiled sheepishly and apologized. I was literally choking on the air freshener fumes but also partly as a result of trying to stifle my laughter.

My taxi driver farted. :)

Sometimes I think I'm thirteen.

when I told my friend Joe about the incident, he mentioned that he probably could have just rolled down the window and accomplished the same result, which I hadn't even considered at the time. But I think that the fact that he had a can of air freshener on hand for such and incident was entertaining.

Incident Number 2:

Yesterday, the weather was particularly cold in Merke. The kind of cold where your whole face just freezes and your eyes hurt from the cold. Because I'm a wuss, I decided to take a taxi home from school instead of walking (it only costs 40 tenge - less than 40 US Cents). As the taxi pulled over to the side of the road, I opened the back door forcing the woman who was sitting there to have to slide over. I was about to apologize for making her move, when the woman made eye contact with me and loudly exclaimed (in English), "I've been hoping to meet you! Let's speak in English". I soon learned that she was an English teacher at another school in Merke, and had obviously heard about the new American living in Merke.

It's a very bizarre experience to climb into a cab and have the stranger in the back seat know all about you. I hadn't even spoken yet (which almost always gives away my foreigner status) and I can usually slide by as Russian if I don't open my mouth. But this woman knew instantly (having never met me or seen me before) that I was "Merke's American".

The Toilet Works!

2009-01-27T22:42:00.001-08:00

written January 17, 2009

I count myself among the lucky here in Kazakhstan. I have an indoor toilet*. And, while this may seem quite luxurious (well, to other PCVs) it wouldn't be considered such in the United States. But, like many other things, I have learned to appreciate the little luxuries here in Kazakhstan and I am trying to forget about my heated bathroom, jacuzzi bathtub and shower with water pressure (wait - just the shower period).

When I moved into my house in Merke, I was very aware that most homes in this town don't have running water. For my more intelligent readers, you surely recognize that this means no indoor plumbing. Well, sure enough, I am currently living without running water. So, you can imagine my surprise when I was shown the indoor toilet. With no running water... how exactly does this contraption work? (On a side note, let me mention that being shown how to "use" the toilet is a very surreal experience at the age of 24.)

Well, our toilet is really basically an indoor outhouse. The toilet has been placed in the entryway, behind a couple of doors that don't actually close. There are pipes running to the toilet and to the sink, but as far as I'm concerned, they serve no purpose. To "flush" the toilet, there are two handy buckets (which we regularly fill with water). You simply pour the water into the pot (no, not the tank) and it magically "flushes" the contents. Now, to the average American, this might seem slightly savage, but the alternative is the wooden structure about 20 yards from the door covering a hole in our yard. In the winter, when we have a significant amount of snow on the ground, this slightly chilly toilet in the entryway is greatly appreciated, especially after being forced to drink at least three cups of tea before bed.

Imagine my surprise, when my host mom mentions something about the toilet working during our fragmented dinner "conversation" last night. As far as I was concerned, the toilet had always been "working" just fine. Responding to the look of confusion on my face, we took a little field trip to the toilet. She pushed the flusher on top of the tank and Ta-Da! the toilet flushed. She pointed at the pipe leading to the toilet and said something about water. Now, don't ask me where the water comes from, in a house with no indoor plumbing? This is a question for another day, or another year (depending on the progression of my Russian language skills).

But, as of yesterday we officially have a toilet that flushes without involving me carrying a bucket full of water through the house. I'm under the impression that this magical flushing capability I have grown so unaccustomed to is temporary and that at any moment the water will no longer exist. This leads me to feel as though I should take advantage of the toilet situation as much as possible having been granted such a luxury. As a result, I find myself drinking more than my average three cups of tea at any one sitting. I mean, how cool is it that I can simply push a button and the contents of the toilet are replaced with clear water? Pretty freaking cool!

*Talking about bathroom issues is no longer something that we PCVs consider "unapproachable territory". I apologize to my readers who find such topics displeasing. But trust me when I tell you that this is one of the most tasteful bathroom antics I could share. :)

Craft Scissors

2009-01-27T22:41:00.000-08:00

written January 17, 2009

One afternoon, after three months in Kazakhstan, I made a drastic decision. I took a pair of craft scissors (purchased at the local bazaar) to my head. I hadn't realized how long my hair had gotten until I saw it all lying on the ground around my feet. Yes, that's right, I cut my own hair with craft scissors. I didn't even really think about it. It wasn't something I had been planning. I just looked at the ends of my hair, which desperately needed to be cut, knew that I wasn't going to be going to a hair salon any time in the near future and so I picked up my scissors (usually reserved for school projects).

I think when it was all said and done I cut off about two inches. I felt THAT immediately. I didn't mean to cut off so much, but I'm not exactly a hair stylist... But now, two months later, my hair is actually really healthy. Maybe it's all the grease from only being able to wash it twice a week. Who knows? But, I don't have any split ends. I'm thinking maybe I will become my own hair stylist while in Kazakhstan.

I won't lie... a lot of this has to do with the fact that there are some pretty drastic hair styles going on in Kazakhstan at the moment. There's Dima Bilan (Google him if you get a chance). He's the "Russian Idol" winner - basically Russia's Kelly Clarkson. He sings in English and Russian, and he's really popular among the younger kids in Kazakhstan. But his hair... It's like a partial mullet, but he's made it "fashionable" simply by being famous. So, boys in Kazakhstan have started growing out the back of their hair to look like Dima Bilan. It's hideous.

The other popular hairstyle among boys that I've noticed is the shaved head with bangs. Yes, at first I thought I was just seeing things, but no. One day, in Almalybak, my host brother came home and he had obviously just had a hair cut. It was shorter all over, except right in the front. I kind of thought that maybe the hair stylist had just missed that section. Stupid me. Now I see it on a lot of my students. It's this short cut all over and then in the front, right above the forehead, it fades into "bangs". I'll try to get a picture, but as I'm sure you can imagine it's quite awful.

For girls, it's not quite so bad. But, just as a general rule nothing ever looks even. One side tends to be longer than the other, or the top is shorter than the bottom. This obviously isn't true of every girl in Kazakhstan, these are just the trends that I notice and secretly fear. As a result, I haven't asked about a hair salon in Merke. I'm simply not interested. For now, me and my craft scissors are a great pair. But next time I'll try not to cut off so much...

Bambi

2009-01-27T22:40:00.000-08:00

written January 17, 2009

Something they don't teach you during PST (Pre-Service Training): how to walk on the ice like the locals.

In the South of Kazakhstan, when we have sunny days the well-travelled snow will melt just enough to freeze overnight into a smooth sheet of ice. The walking paths become beautifully smooth ice skating rinks. The locals are unfazed by these trecherous paths. Women wear tall stiletto heels and glide elegantly across these ice patches. Children run and slide across them like Olympic athletes. Us Americans, well to put it gently, we're less elegant.

I've now fallen (like REALLY fallen - this does not include flailing or stumbling) three times this winter. One of these times was particularly impressive. Last week I was walking to school and I came across what used to be a couple of steps. In this season, they are covered in snow and ice and form a sort of "ramp". I hesitated, as my brain was struggling to think up the best solution for traversing this downward ramp of ice. I noticed an old babuskha (grandmother) coming my way, and wanting to blend in with the locals so I quieted my thoughts and hurriedly decided that maybe "quickly" was the best solution. If I tried to actually gingerly step down this ramp, I would surely fall as there was absolutely no foothold for these steps of mine. But, if I quickly scampered down the ramp I might be able to avoid slipping.
I went for it.

Unfortunately, on my very first movement I slipped. I now had all of my weight on a single limb that was sliding (not even remotely resembling grace) down the ramp. I glanced up and saw the babushka out of the corner of my eye and my pride kicked in and I decided that I needed to quickly regain composure. In an attempt to steady myself, I began flailing... We're talking like Bambi-style flailing here. I've got arms spinning in circles in opposite directions, one leg rapidly sliding out to the right side of my body, the other slowly, but surely rising up into the air and before I know it, all pride is lost and I'm sprawled out on the ice with limbs located in impressively flexible positions. I did the inevitable. I began to raise my eyes towards the babushka... only to find her gliding past me, unable to stifle her laughter, a broad smile slapped across her face.

It took a few attempts to regain a vertical position, but I was eventually able to stumble away from the scene with a relatively small number of witnesses. I was now clearly a foreigner and I'll probably have to learn Kazakh in order to regain any sort of respect from those few locals who witnessed this disaster.

I have since avoided this portion of the path to school, having found alternate (and less trecherous) routes on the other side of the road. My new plan of attack - avoidance.

* Many of my PCV friends have other, more impressive "Winter Fall" stories. For example, just this week I received a text message from a fellow PCV that read "Last 3 days, I'm 3/3 on ice falls. Day 1, slid back down an icy hill. Day 2, I bruised my thigh. Today was only a small tumble but in front of two girls that laughed at me." I'll attempt to gather more of these stories for the general entertainment of all.

Winter

2009-01-27T22:39:00.000-08:00

written January 17, 2009

It's winter.

That is a reminder for those of you living in California. I know, it's so sad that you are having to deal with bright sunny days and 75 degree weather in the middle of January. Oh, and I heard about those record breaking lows a couple of weeks ago. The 40s?!? No way! And... how long did that last for, again?

I actually received an email from one of my friends who recently vacationed in Canada complaining about how terribly cold the weather was up North... It was at this point that I realized I hadn't discussed "winter in Kazakhstan" with my dear old friend. Here's an overview:
Winter in South Kazakhstan: very cold. Winter in the North-ish of Kazakhstan: freezing cold. Winter in the true North of Kazakhstan: shoot me.

I currently live in what is considered "South Kazakhstan". As it was described on my "Site Information Form", Merke's "climate is mild, warm winters, summers are not hot, springs and falls are long". Sounds ideal, right? Yea, uh... if you're from Siberia! For someone who has lived in California for roughly 22 years, this description could be considered a flat-out lie. I intend to re-write this description for future volunteers. I believe it will look something like this:

Climate is tolerable. A lot of snow can be expected in the winter, a very large and warm winter coat is a MUST as are fur-lined boots (and a single pair of wool socks will still not be sufficient). The sun will shine relatively often (these are very picturesque days), but these days should not be mistaken for "warm" days as your clothes will still literally freeze into the shape of a thin "V" on the clothing line outside, cracking to the touch. Indoor heating is low in quality - either insufficient or overwhelmingly hot, depending on the income of your host family. Running is near impossible and burns your throat as well as your face, find ways to exercise indoors. Practice walking on ice.

*Spring, Summer and Fall descriptions to follow (although I've been told summers are in the 100's and clothing will be literally soaked with sweat).

Here's the positive angle:

Kazakhstan looks a lot prettier when it is covered in a layer of pure white snow. Snow can be fun - snowballs, snowmen, sledding, snow angels (the only of which I have checked off the list thus far is snowballs). Christmas truly can be white (even if no one knows what Christmas is)! It's still a heck of a lot warmer than the rest of Kazakhstan.

After a recent trip to the North-ish of Kazakhstan (Karaganda), here's how I describe the difference between the South and the North-ish (I have yet to experience the "true North"): In the South, you need a scarf, a hat and usually gloves. In the North-ish, that scarf must be thick and wrapped around your face and those gloves must be a heck of a lot warmer and you will still be chilly. It's really the wind that gets you in the North-ish. Imagine, if you will, a biting cold wind that whips around in all directions carrying with it a flurry of snow.

So, for those of you "suffering" through your winters in California, if you haven't pulled out the fur-lined boots or the gloves, scarves and hats, you're not really suffering. Those gloves, scarves and hats are daily necessities in the life of a Kazakhstan PCV during this season and could very surely find much more grateful homes in the true-North of Kazakhstan. The first question my host mom asks me every day when she gets home, literally translates into: "you are not freezing?" This same verb is also used in the following expressions "to be frozen", "to freeze to death", "to perish from the frost", and "to become frozen".

Winter. Something California has not yet experienced.

The Wheels on the Bus

2009-01-27T22:38:00.000-08:00

January 9, 2009

So, these past holidays I took yet another "bus" into Almaty, to spend the New Year with my old host family in Almalybak. We have quite a bit of snow here in the South of Kazakhstan now, and based on my previous experiences, I wasn't exactly ecstatic to jump into another vessel of death and make the trek to Almaty. Well, this trip proved much less dangerous, but much worse in so many other ways...

I know the bus driver now, and if I give him enough warning, he'll come and pick me up at my house in the morning for the ride to Almaty. When he got to my house, there was only one other woman on the vehicle so far, and I slid past her into a nice seat by the window. We drove around Merke picking up our other passengers and cargo (being the holidays, a lot of people were paying our driver to deliver their presents to family in Almaty - it was almost like we were playing Santa Claus, yay!) Before we left Merke, I noticed that the woman next to me had a folded hand towel on her lap and a little plastic bag. Considering that everything in Kazakhstan is carried in these plastic shopping bags, I didn't give it a second thought. MISTAKE NUMBER 1.

About fifteen minutes outside of Merke, this woman next to me curled up towards me and placed her head on my shoulder. Yea, in America, total invasion of that personal bubble! In Kazakhstan, aparently you don't even have to ask before you use your neighbor as a sleeping aid. I kind of giggled at first (MISTAKE NUMBER 2), thinking of the stories I could tell my fellow volunteers about my new best friend. BUT, as I came to learn, this was the absolute least of my worries. We carried on in this manner: me shifting slightly under her weight, her snoozing away on my shoulder. About an hour and a half outside of Merke, my new friend woke up. She started shifting restlessly in her seat and fanning her face. A few short minutes later, she began frantically asking the driver to stop the car. He pulled over into the snow and a young Russian guy in the front seat got out, and opened the back door (he had to unload two heavy speakers before the woman could burst out of the van). She knelt down in the snow and started gagging. She then lifted up handfuls of snow and began rubbing it all over her face and arms. She returned to the van a few minutes later, quite damp, and definitely very ill-looking.

We continued on our way, the rest of the passengers seemingly unfazed, and I was just glad that she clearly wouldn't be sleeping on me anymore - oh wait! What's this heavy lump I feel on my right shoulder? I was not giggling anymore. She tried to sleep (on me!) for another 30 minutes or so, before she instantly (and without warning) lifted her head, grabbed that plastic bag on her lap, and began vomitting excessively and noisily into the bag. No one in the front of the van even turned around! My right thigh is literally touching this puking woman, who was just sleeping on my shoulder and the sounds coming from her wretching body are grotesque (to put it lightly). Well, fortunately by this point, we were only about 15 minutes from our halfway point (where we unload quickly for bathroom breaks and food). So, she just held that little bag of puke until we arrived. I could not have exited that vehicle sooner. I was practically running away from the scene, just trying to get those sounds out of my head, when my new best friend began yelling after me -- "Wait! We will go to the toilets together." Oh great, she likes me. She followed me around like a little puppy dog as I grabbed an iced tea for the road.

I almost screamed when the bus pulled away from the stop and this woman, oh this woman, made the move to lie on my shoulder again! Does she not remember that she was just heaving into a small plastic bag at my side? I was bound and determined to no longer be a comfortable shoulder to rest on. I was constantly finding excuses to lean down and grab something out of my bag, or check the time on my cell phone, forcing her to remove her head from my shoulder. But as soon as I had settled back into a stationary position, her head would find its way back to my shoulder. I had all of these visions of her puking down my neck, and other awful images. I was not a happy traveler.

Well, to cut the rest of the 4 hour bus ride short... my new friend DID end up throwing up again (3 more times in fact! All of them as she sat next to me on this doomed vehicle). Each time she tried to sleep on my shoulder, and each time I found myself squirming around in my seat trying to shake this dreaded puking head from my body. The third time she threw up, we all had to smell the pizza flavored croutons she had picked up as a snack from our first stop - those things smelled bad going down, you don't even want to imagine what they were like coming back up. Well, unfortunately the little girl in the back seat had reached her limit and when that smell reached her, she began throwing up as well! So the two were puking in chorus, and I just had my head smashed against the cold window trying to think about anything other than the sound and the smell. Side note: after one of the times she threw up, she asked the driver to stop the car. She handed her bag of vomit to the young Russian guy and asked him to throw it out into the snow for her! That poor guy's face was absolutely priceless. All I could think, was that we had all taken one for the team at this point, and really it was his turn. He obliged.

When we pulled into Almaty I was so anxious to get off of that vehicle and as far away from that woman as possible that I actually banged my head against the door in my haste. I quickly grabbed my backpack and nearly sprinted away from the scene, not even stopping to say goodbye to my fantastic new friend. I am, in no way, looking forward to my next trip to Almaty.

And if that van pulls up in front of my house with that woman on it, I am going to have to learn how to say "I'd rather not, Thank You".

The worst part? I ended up eating Sbarro pizza for lunch later that day - by choice! :)

The Journey...

2009-01-27T22:37:00.002-08:00

Written December 18, 2008

Kazakhstan doesn't recognize Christmas as a holiday, but it does have Independence Day on December 16 - therefore, I had the 16th and 17th without school. Not wanting to sit around the house for two days, I decided to go into Almaty to meet a couple of PCVs. Getting to and from Almaty on this particular holiday proved to be quite eventful. Here's what I experienced:

- Two dead cows on the road. The first was initially mistaken for a horse, but recognized once we got up close to it (ugh). The second was clearly a cow, and the car that had hit it was smashed up on the side of the road.

- Two dead dogs. RIP.

- A fog so thick that we could barely see the cars in front of us. This makes passing cars really exciting, let me tell you. Headlights just suddenly appear in front of you. I think I almost peed about 4 times.

- Started snowing on the way back to Merke (yes, we now have about 2 inches on the ground). I just kept wanting the darn car to pull over and put chains on, but I don't think those exist here. We only skidded on the snow twice, I think...

- A car accident that rivals any I've ever seen in person. One car was engulfed in flames on the side of the road - actually kind of mesmerizing to watch a car just burn out of control. Except that as we got closer I thought I saw a person standing next to the car, also engulfed in flames and I thought I was going to vomit. I soon realized that it was actually the passenger's door had been left open as the car burned. Phew! We didn't see the second car until we were leaving the scene of the accident, and it pretty much looked as though it had been crushed by one of those compactors. Pieces of that car were strewn all over the road. I didn't understand anything that was being relayed between all of the passersby (because, note to self, when Kazakhs are excited they don't speak slowly - very inconvenient for us Americans). But, I did catch that no people were hurt, so that's good.

- Oh, and did I mention that MC Hammer came on the radio? Yes. That's right. I listened to Can't Touch This in Kazakhstan on the radio. I smiled for the entire length of the song.

A journey that usually takes just under 4 hours, took us 6 on the way back to Merke. I got home and my host mom wasn't expecting me, so she had locked me out. Fortunately, she was sitting in front of the TV as usual, so I was able to knock on the window to get her to let me in.

Woke up this morning to a white Merke. I've been told the snow has begun and winter has arrived, and there is no going back from here. I'm going to the Bazaar today to buy a warmer coat and maybe some other warm gear for this white winter. They keep calling it a snowy New Years, but I still think of it as a white Christmas. :) I'm stubborn like that.

The Local Celebrity

2009-01-27T22:36:00.000-08:00

written December 6, 2008

We have a woman in the house this morning. An extra. We've only had a couple of people by the house since I moved in - the first, the cleaning woman who vacuumed my room, second, the locksmith, who installed the new lock on my bedroom door, and now this woman. She is the curtain hanger (for lack of a better term). Apparently my host mother has ordered new curtains for most of the house and today this woman has come to hang them up.

As I emerged from my bedroom this morning, quite groggy and in desperate need of the bathroom, my host mother pulled me aside and insisted that I meet this woman in our house. So, I obliged. As I returned from the bathroom, the woman, now alone, told me that she needed help with some English. She had a word that she had heard somewhere and she wanted to know what it meant in Russian (as she doesn't speak any English). I'm not sure where she heard the word, or why she knew that she should bring it with her so that the native English speaker in this local house could translate it for her, but that's Kazakhstan. I'm constantly being asked to live with people (as they boast about their various amenities) I have to admit that the hot water amenity usually trips me up a bit in my usual polite refusal, or to teach them English, or to teach their children English. This all usually comes before they've even learned my name. One woman even wanted me to marry her son. She started spouting off all of his traits that made him a worthy husband - he doesn't smoke, he doesn't drink - it was at this time that my counterpart began to rush me out of the magazine.

And I know that I'm not the only volunteer that experiences this. A friend of mine living in the north of Kazakhstan actually received a phone call (at his host family's house) from a local woman who had heard he was in town and would like to commission him to teach her English. He has no idea how she got his phone number or knew where he lived, but that's how things work in these smaller communities. People hear about the "American" and everyone gets to talking and someone knows that you live with the Berekova family and before you know it you're receiving phone calls during dinner from a woman you've never met.

2008-12-16T23:24:00.000-08:00

Local Transportation

Almalybak Lake

Merke (after my first snow)

Merke

Pictures...

2008-12-16T23:14:00.000-08:00

My married friends. They're kind of cool, I guess. (Nick, Corinne, Katy and Seth)

Almalybak Language Group (I saw these guys 7 days a week practically all day long for 3 months) Seth, Katy, Leah, AC, and Jessie

Corinne and I at Swearing In Ceremony

I'm bringing Phase 10 to the world. Nick and Corinne's house.

The infamous dining room table at Nick and Corinne's house.

pictures

2008-12-16T02:36:00.001-08:00

I've gone back and added pictures to some of the past few blogs. check 'em out.

40 Things I've Learned After 4 Months In Kazakhstan

2008-12-16T02:32:00.002-08:00

Began October 30, 2008

1. Electricians are cruel. Every single light switch is a guessing game in Kazakhstan. They are never where they should be, and most often are found outside of the actual room which they illuminate. I stayed in an apartment in Almaty once and I couldn't find the lightswitch for the bathroom, finally I found a switch in the hallway, on the opposite side of the hall, that didn't seem to have a corresponding room or fixture, sure enough when I flipped the switch - ding! bathroom light turns on.

2. I appear to like music videos. Kazakhstanians like their television (I mean, they put a lot of Americans to shame). I don't watch TV in Kazakhstan, but because it's what you can find almost all Kazakhstanians doing at most hours of the day, especially in the evening, on occasion I will join them in front of the TV. In Almalybak when I walked into the TV room, all of my brothers sat up straight and grabbed the remote. Before I know it, we're watching the Kazakhstan MTV equivalent. Just music video after music video. I tried explaining that the Russian movie they were watching when I walked in was perfectly acceptable to me, but without fail, if I sit in the TV room - we watch music videos. I've stopped going into the TV room, it's just ridiculous.

3. MTV has made it to Kazakhstan. My Super Sweet 16 was playing on my counterpart's television the other day (dubbed in Russian) as was some dating show with a bus that was by no means educational or entertaining.

4. Bedding is meant to be used. If you are not sleeping, your bedding should not remain on your bed. Every morning I must strip my bed and place a blanket of sorts over my mattress. This blanket is only for show. (This was when I had a bed, now I take the blankets off of my COUCH).

5. School is a formal affair. 5 year old boys wear suits and ties to school. 5 year old girls wear pouf balls as big as a basketball in their hair. It's fashionable?

6. I can't cook. Everything here is made from scratch and the fact that I would consider buying my pasta noodles from a store is a disgrace to my gender.

7. Men are fascinated with America. My previous host dad was especially fascinated with my Dad in America. He wanted to know everything about him, and about my house (including what kind of heating we have).

8. "Breakfast" is a relative term.

9. Apartments are all about what's on the other side of that door. Every building looks like it could fall down at any moment and the corridors are something straight out of a horror film, but you walk inside someone's apartment and it's a palace.

10. Wine is consumed by the shot.

11. Water and electricity are never guaranteed. Anywhere.

12. "Superstitious" has a whole new meaning in Kazakhstan. Knock on wood. Spit over your shoulder three times. Never wipe a table with paper products. Don't whistle indoors. Don't pull loose hairs off of someone else's shoulder. Do not consider not wearing socks or slippers indoors.

13. If you don't understand, they will just say it LOUDER.

14. Even though it is technically called "toilet paper" the paper should never actually go inside of the toilet. That is why there is always a garbage can in the bathroom. (It took me being in an apartment in Almaty with other volunteers to figure this one out.) Fun times.

15. "American" foods are much more appealing in Kazakhstan than they are in America. I can't remember the last time I actually drank a Coke or ate a Snickers in the United States, but in Kazakhstan, I can't resist that Snickers bar in the magazine (Russian for store). What's that all about?

16. Dogs are not pets, they are doorbells.

17. In America there seem to be four options for milk: Non-fat, 1%, 2% and whole milk. In Kazakhstan there are three options: 3.2%, 6% and straight from the udder. I was a non-fat only drinker in the states, imagine my excitement...

18. A single "hard-boiled" egg can be considered dinner.

19. In the event of an earthquake, don't get UNDER furniture, just sit next to it. This is what we were taught during one of our safety and security sessions. They clearly wouldn't have survived Loma Prieta 1989. :) Either that or I need to throw my "Duck and Cover" training out the window.

20. There is always room for more tea. Always.

21. Barf is considered a high quality cleaning product in Kazakhstan. It's quite good at washing clothes and leaves them smelling fresh and clean.

22. No matter how much you eat, it is never enough. I'm convinced you have not eaten enough until you have actually become ill. This is the main reason the two Kazakh words I know and use every day are "full" and "finished".

23. There is no word for "sir" or "madam" unless you are addressing a judge or someone of royalty. They will look at you foolishly if you try using these words in every day speech.

24. Camels are domestic animals.

25. When a local learns you are from America, 8 times out of 10 they will respond with, "Oh, California!" (I wish I weren't from California so I could teach these people about some of the other 49 states). And when they do learn that you are from California, they always respond with "Arnold Schwarzenegger" and laugh hysterically. The word for governor in Russian is "guvernator" so it is even funnier to hear the locals say "Arnold Schwarzenegger Guvernator".

26. Sending a letter to the United States is not as easy as one might think. In Merke, I actually needed a translator AND a hand-written note to explain that this letter (addressed to the United States, in Russian) was to be sent to the United States.

27. Running in Merke is not acceptable. The first (and consequently only) time I went for a run in Merke, I was chased by a dog, followed by a car full of young men, and shouted at by a multitude of locals as I ran by. I had to turn around and head for home a mere 15 minutes from my front door because it didn't quite feel like a safe activity.

28. A shower is a luxury.

29. Korean restaurants in Taraz are apparently known for serving dog meat. I draw the line at horse! (which, for the record, is quite tasty)

30. It goes both ways: I have found that just nodding my head and saying "yes, yes, yes" through a conversation (even if you don't understand everything) usually makes life a lot easier. My host mom has now learned this trick, too. I found her responding to my questions (in Russian), which were not of the yes/no variety with "yes, yes, yes". When I looked at her quizically, she nodded seriously, and said, "yes, I understand".

31. If you try to play volleyball with a soccer ball, you will bruise your wrists, arms AND hands. Pumping up the soccer ball only makes this situation worse.

32. It's cool to wear tacky slippers.

33. The correct response to "Are you married?" is "No, I am not married. I DO NOT WANT to be married." And yet, most of the time you eventually have to say something to the extent of: "I'm sure your son is really wonderful. And yes, the fact that he doesn't smoke and doesn't drink are very wonderful qualities. Anyone would be lucky to have him. Thanks for selling me this loaf of bread. It was very nice to meet you."

34. Kazakhstan has a Santa Claus that wears blue instead of red. And he visits on New Year's Eve instead of Christmas Eve.

35. Couches are considered sufficient beds. Even if you happen to be 5'9" and your feet hang off the edge.

36. Americans are very efficient at an ATM machine. Be grateful for your ATM experience in America.

37. British English is a pain in my side.

38. If you are a Kazakh woman and you have passed the age of 21, it will be very hard for you to get married because you are now quite old.

39. You don't need a refrigerator for leftovers or salads, you just need a fairly cold room. We use our entryway (it isn't heated).

40. You can own a vehicle and a driver's license without knowing how to make a 3-point turn or turn on your headlights. I don't recommend traveling with said individual, it's quite terrifying.

Huber's Words of Wisdom

2008-12-16T02:32:00.001-08:00

written December 15, 2008

Nick and Corinne Huber are two of my favorite people here in Kazakshtan (and not only because they have fed me pancakes and Mexican food - although it helps). In addition to being a couple of my favorites, they also have a Kazakhstan Peace Corps blog in action and I couldn't resist sharing the following post because it had me laughing out loud:

http://hubersfarfromhome.blogspot.com/2008/09/education.html

Check it out, along with some of the other blogs in the right hand column of this blogsite for those times when I can't adequately describe this crazy experience that is KZ Peace Corps. :)

Because I think they are so cool (and I want to be cool like them) I've started my own list. Stay tuned...

Making a Difference

2008-12-16T02:31:00.001-08:00

written December 10, 2008

I had one of those "Peace Corps moments" this week. Last week I taught my 5th graders about "I have got" and "I haven't got" (yes, slightly British, we'd probably just say "I have" and "I don't have" but some things you just let slide). One of the activities I played with my students to get them using the phrases was a form of Go Fish.

I bought some playing cards at the bazaar and drew pictures of a bunch of the students vocabulary words (pen, pencil, book, computer, etc.). I pasted these pictures onto the cards and laminated them (with clear tape). Each student was dealt four or five cards and, in groups, my students proceeded to play "Go Fish".

All around the classroom these little kids were laughing and smiling and saying "Have you got a computer?", "No, I haven't got a book." "Yes, I have got a CD." I let them play for about 15 minutes because they were enjoying it so much - and hey, if my students are speaking English, then I'm doing my job. Then, I collected the cards and continued on with my lesson.

Well, this week, when I met with my 5th grade class again, one of the little girls (who struggles with English quite a bit) came up to me at the beginning of class just absolutely beaming. She reached into her pocket and pulled out some playing cards and handed them to me. She had made her own set! There on these 15 or so cards were pictures of pens, pencils, CDs, books, etc. - exact replicas of my own drawings.

Some days in Kazakhstan make all the difficult ones worth while. And it all boiled down to a set of playing cards and some pictures.

More Pictures

2008-12-13T22:19:00.000-08:00

Jealous yet?

Brendan, Nick and I (with Pancakes!)

My Counterpart, Symbat

My Soup!

My New House in Merke

pictures

2008-12-12T21:20:00.000-08:00

Earthquake!!

2008-12-12T21:19:00.000-08:00

Written December 5, 2008

I wasn't even missing home that much on Tuesday, but I was given a little taste of it anyways. I can now proudly declare that in the event of a fairly sizeable earthquake, my house is not going to fall down. Well, there are no guarantees for next time, but it held up just fine this first time. Being the daughter of a structural engineer I was indeed a little concerned to learn that Southern Kazakhstan lay on a fairly large faultline. I mean, there aren't exactly building codes in Kazakhstan, and I saw what happened to the Bay Bridge in '89.

I was at home, alone, on Tuesday morning boycotting my Russian tutoring lesson because chances are this would be the third session in a row that my tutor wouldn't show up for (don't worry I've found a new tutor), when suddenly the Mona Lisa in my room started to shake, and then the awkward topless woman painted on a piece of metal started making a lot of noise as she banged against my wall. It took a second for me to realize what was happening, and then I just had to smile. I was in Kazakhstan, but it was like I had been transported back to the Bay Area just so I could experience another earthquake.

Now, I've been fully trained (from a very young age) how one is expected to respond in an earthquake. But, had this particular earthquake occured in America, I'm not so sure I would have brought out the "duck and cover" tactics or made a move for the doorway. However, in Kazakhstan, you just never know how sturdy your structure is, and before I knew it I found myself standing in my doorway waiting for the shaking to be over. I heard a couple of things fall over in the other room, and to be honest I was kind of hoping it was a couple of those hideous fake plants my host mom has put up all over the house. After about a minute and a half the shaking stopped.

I had class shortly thereafter, so I didn't really have time to wait for an aftershock. I just grabbed my things and decided to start heading to school. And, I have to admit, I was a little curious how the Kazakhstanians would be responding to the earthquake on the streets. I was disappointed to see that there was little reaction when I made it out onto the street a mere 15 minutes after the quake. I grabbed a taxi to school (because I'm sorry when I can't feel my face I'm going to pay the 30 cents to get to class in less than 20 minutes) and for the first time since I've been in Kazakhstan, I was asked to put on my seatbelt! I realized later that this was because of the earthquake, but at the time I didn't know the word for earthquake (or for seatbelt, for that matter) so I just thought he was being particular forward-thinking. I happily strapped in and got to school safe and sound. On a side note, my driver only had nine fingers.

When I walked into the school yard, I saw that the entire building had been evacuated and was now standing in front of the school. I didn't have the heart to tell them that this would actually be a really horrible place to congregate your school children during an earthquake as most of the students were huddled underneath trees and there was a major electrical line running above them. But, I wasn't really concerned for an aftershock. We stood out there in the cold for about 15 or 20 minutes waiting for word from the regional center as to whether or not the students could be permitted back inside of the building.

During this time, one of my 8th grade students yelled at me "Miss James!" (yea, don't get me started) and then started shaking his whole body back and forth, presumably trying to simulate an earthquake. It was as though he thought that because I hadn't actually been in the school building with them that I hadn't felt the earthquake. (Maybe some earthquake training would be an appropriate secondary project?) My counterpart and another English teacher came running up to me as soon as I arrived and worriedly asked if I was OK and if I was scared. I stifled a laugh and let them know that I was familiar with earthquakes and that it had made me feel quite at home. I later learned that one of the English teachers had not been so cool and had actually started crying in class, while my counterpart (instead of comforting the students) had to focus her attentions on the spastic teacher.

School was cancelled for the day and everyone was sent home, for which I was actually quite grateful. All in all, my first Kazakhstanian earthquake was a success. And I'm safe, so don't worry. And to all of my elementary school teachers - your earthquake training served me well as I stood proudly in my Kazakh doorway.

Taxi?... Or Camel?

2008-12-12T21:18:00.000-08:00

Written December 4, 2008

The first time I ever saw a camel was quite bizarre. I was traveling through Western Europe with a couple of my best friends. I met them in Strasbourg and we traveled South from there, through Germany and Switzerland. This was my Christmas vacation while studying abroad, and one of the best traveling experiences I've ever had. The four or five of us have some fantastic memories and stories from this time in Europe together.

One of the memories that had escaped me until just last week, was the couple of days that we spent in Laussane, Switzerland together. By this time, Kevin had just left us and headed back to Oxford (where he was studying for the semester) so it was just us girls left - Tracy, Sarah and I. We spent a couple of days sleeping in a concrete building with practically no heating (got to love hostels) and riding buses without tickets, just wandering around this old city that once hosted the Olympic Games. We didn't really have an agenda in Laussane, but somehow it had made it onto our itinerary.

We got lost a couple of times, we saw one of the most beautiful sunsets on the lake ever, and we just wandered the old streets. Well, being the holidays, every town has got their "Christmas Market". One night, we found ourself wandering around the market, listening to Christmas carols and checking out all of the candy and Christmas goodies at the market. It was the true Christmas experience. Then, as we turned a corner, we found ourself being passed by two or three men on camels. Just riding through the Christmas market. I'm pretty sure it was the first time any of us had see a camel, certainly my first time, and in a Christmas market in Switzerland none the less.

Well, just last week I saw my second camel. This time, in Kazakhstan - which, let's be honest, makes a little more sense. I've been told that there is quite the collection of camels in Kazakhstan, but the animals that I see around the towns and villages are mostly cows, horses and donkeys (and of course the dogs). Which, as a side note, are considered "domestic animals" in Kazakhstan. I learned this in one of my classes when my counterpart was teaching our sixth graders about animals and she asked the students to name "wild animals" and "domestic animals". Wild animals included the usual, Tiger, Lion, Bear, etc. and the "domestic animals" were dogs, cats, rabbits, the usual, and then they started adding animals to this list. Animals such as, sheep, cows, horses, donkeys... I was shaking my head thinking "No, those are 'farm animals'" but my counterpart confirmed their distinctions of these animals. And, I guess it makes sense because most of these children actually do have these animals in their backyards.

Later that week, during one of my Russian tutoring sessions, I, too, found myself learning about animals. Kind of embarassing really, to realize that my Russian is at a 6th grade level. But, she pointed at the camel and told me that it was a domestic animal. I couldn't stop laughing. I told her that in America, a camel would never be considered domestic. We had a good laugh, but nonetheless, I was a little saddened by our conversation. I mean, if camels are domestic animals in Kazakhstan, shouldn't I be seeing more of them? Are my neighbors hiding their camels in their backyards? I mean, come on, don't be greedy. The American wants to see a camel in Kazakhstan.
Well, I got my wish. I was running late for school one day, so I was going to pay the 30 cents to take a taxi to class. When I got to the taxi stand, there it was! It was just standing there, all primped and beautiful on a particularly sunny day in Merke. I stopped dead in my tracks, and I couldn't wipe the smile off of my face. I just stared. It was one of those moments where I am reminded that Kazakhstan is still not "natural", I'm still an American living abroad, who is fascinated daily by these little "miracles". It was then, that I realized this camel was for hire. Behind the camel was this very ornately decorated passenger cart. The owner was standing by soliciting the locals for a ride to work or school or wherever.

I stood there just looking at the camel, then at the taxi, then back at the camel. Decisions, decisions... Well, unfortunately the only reason I was taking a taxi in the first place was because I was running late. And, while I am not familiar with camels as a form of transportation, I imagine that they aren't exactly the speediest? So, I pouted and head hung low, walked over to my taxi. Unfortunately, I didn't take a picture of the camel - part of me was hoping he'd still be there when I got out of my classes, and part of me realized that I was supposed to be blending in as part of this community. Now, the weather is cold again and the camel has returned to hiding. But, there is hope that maybe in the Spring, he'll be back...

The Camel in Laussane

Thanksgiving

2008-12-12T21:17:00.001-08:00

Written December 2, 2008

Happy Thanksgiving from a country that doesn't care! :)

This was the initial start to my Thanksgiving blog, BEFORE I headed to Taraz for a Thanksgiving celebration with my fellow regional volunteers. As you can see, it wasn't the most uplifting start. I've since decided that the actual date of the American holiday is not what's important - it's all about when you choose to celebrate it.

My ACTUAL Thanksgiving day was a bust. I taught two lessons, which were nothing special, and then an extra lesson (for 5th graders) where I had a total attendance of 2 students. Back at my house, my host mom was lodged in front of the television for the evening, and proceeded to actually leave the "Thanksgiving" dinner table and eat her dinner in front of the TV. And what was on the menu for that particular Thursday evening? Borsch - basically Russian stew (not comparable to the delicious soup that I had made previously). So, for Thanksgiving, I sat alone at the dinner table sipping bland soup. Oh, Kazakhstan...

Fortunately, my "real" family called that night. And when I say family, I mean F-A-M-I-L-Y. First, my dad called (being the early riser in the family) then when my brother and sister-in-law woke up, they called (no, they don't live with my parents, they had stayed there for the holiday, thank goodness), and then after I got off the phone with my brother I was handed off to my mom. These conversations made the day. I mean, shoot, 4 phone conversations in one evening? That's like how many phone calls I receive in one month (in a good month). I think they all forgot about the time difference, because when I told my mom that it was almost midnight she quickly rushed me off the phone for my beauty sleep. SHE clearly hasn't heard about the bucket showers and the broken couch... it's not "beauty" sleep in Merke, quite the opposite really.

Talking to my family on Thanksgiving was so great that I didn't even mind when my dad revealed that shortly after I left the states they had completely transformed my childhood bedroom into his personal study. We're talking total transformation - painted the walls, new furniture, put my bed in the new "guest room", the whole thing. I'm sure it was just a coping mechanism. Right? :)

After talking to the fam, Thanksgiving only got better. Friday afternoon I got on a bus to Taraz (picking up a fellow volunteer along the way). Two hours later we pulled into the "city". Neither of us had remembered to bring directions to the volunteer's apartment, so we got off at the first statue we saw (Jennie remembered something about a statue in the directions). We were about an hour early, so not really having any idea where we were we just decided to sit down on the side of a building and hang out for a little bit. She had delivered a package from a friend of mine in the states, so I opened that and we ate Twizzlers (thanks Sarah) and just waited. Later, I received a phone call from a fellow volunteer asking if we had made it to Taraz yet. I told him our situation, and he had actually be driven into Taraz by a Peace Corps driver (any chance he's the favorite? haha) so they proceeded to pin point our location and came and picked us up. So, we had a personal escort to Susanna's apartment - Thanks Peace Corps! We spent the weekend at Susanna's... where there was a shower!

Saturday night was our Thanksgiving celebration. The other volunteers had invited some of their local friends and co-workers, and we had a total turnout of about 16. (Only 6 of us being PCVs). Dave had provided the turkey - bought at the bazaar and slaughtered by his host family. Susanna baked an apple pie and two pumpkin pies (from scratch!) Hotard made the now infamous Hotard Casserole. We had mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, corn bread (two types), brownies, pumpkin bread, salad (without mayonnaise!), and gravy. Matt made fish cakes (with salmon from America, none of this KZ crap). Jennie brought Kraft Mac and Cheese. Add to that a couple of Kazakhstanian salads (provided by our guests - this time with mayo), and we had a FULL spread. We ate food, said a little of what we were thankful for, and played "Cowboy, Bear, Indian" - appropriate game.

The six of us spent all day preparing food AND... what is Thanksgiving without a little American football? I had the 2006 Tostitos Fiesta Bowl (Boise St v. Oklahoma) on my computer, so we turned that on and spent the day in true Thanksgiving fashion. And really, what better football game to watch?

Everyone ate too much, and we still had leftovers for a perfect Thanksgiving leftovers lunch on Sunday. I'm not sure how I walked out of that apartment on Sunday afternoon, but I managed, and made my way back to Merke, where my host mom was in relatively good spirits.
Thanksgiving lives!! Now, CHRISTMAS...

Eating Dinner

Hotard, Matt Turner and Dave Hannon

Mmm... Turkey!!

My Thanksgiving Day Plate

Our Thanksgiving gathering

Banana Republic

2008-12-03T23:53:00.000-08:00

November 27, 2008

I think I have a problem...

So I had this dream the other night that was slightly problematic. What was even more problematic was how I felt when I woke up in the morning (after the dream). So, here's my dream...

I was in a shopping mall. I had some clothes from Banana Republic that I needed to return because I, well because I live in Kazakhstan and I'm a volunteer - I can use all the money I can get. So, I had brought my clothes to Banana to return them and get some money (probably to buy a measly banana or something - no pun intended, I just love bananas and they are quite expensive in Kazakhstan, so expensive in fact that you don't buy bananas by weight, you buy them individually). So, I walked into Banana Republic (back in America, which also didn't really seem to phase me) with some friends (Californian friends, of course, because dreams never make sense). We had to stand in a really long line (literally it went outside the store) just to get to the register. For some reason this also didn't phase me like it normally would.

When I finally got to the register, I pulled out my merchandise to return (which I'm pretty sure was old and worn, but this also didn't seem to come into play). The store clerk started talking about all the customers and how they had so many earlier in the day that there had been a line outside the store all day just to get in (like it was a nightclub or something). I just laughed it off, and then that's when I saw IT. Banana Republic was having their once- well it must be once in a lifetime because I've never seen this before - in a lifetime sale. Everything in the store was 75% off! It was only then that everything finally clicked into place. Basically I was outrageously lucky to have even gotten into the store, more or less that there was any merchandise left (and there was!) and instead of buying anything I had brought in some old clothes to return.

The store clerk asked me, you know, wasn't I going to buy anything? I had to play it cool (you wouldn't want to let on that you had no idea there was a HUGE sale going on) and said that, yea, but I always like to return my stuff first and then get to shopping. Let's just finish the transaction, and then I'll get back in line to buy new clothes.

I walked away from the register towards all of these clothes that were glowing like they were literally sent from Heaven. And, of course, it was right then that I woke up. I was furious! All I wanted to do was just go shopping in my dream for 75% off, but NO I had to wake up, on my fold-out couch (that doesn't fold out) in my sparse room with no furniture, in a country where they don't even have Banana Republic!

OK, so in retrospect, of course I realize that I was being ridiculous and that shopping is not nearly as important as changing the world (which, I'm totally doing). That I shouldn't care about Banana Republic or any other clothing store because well, in Kazakhstan they wear the same clothes for weeks on end (nice clothes, but the same ones!) and even at 75% off I probably still couldn't afford very much. But, nonetheless, I haven't stopped thinking about this dream shopping adventure. I wake up in the morning and stumble over to my buffet (which is the pathetic excuse I have for a dresser and a closet these days) stare at my clothes that are being destroyed by the bucket washings and want to climb back into bed just wishing that I can find my way back to that Banana Republic store (or any store really, I'm not being picky). But, no. Because you know that you can never go back to a dream when you want to. It's only when it's a nightmare that you don't want to ever experience again that you just can't seem to get away from the images...

So, I'm in Kazakhstan, dreaming about America and shopping at Banana Republic. But I swear, I'm changing the world! :)

Reliability

2008-12-03T23:52:00.000-08:00

written December 2, 2008

Alright already! I've learned my lesson. Just give me back my internet! So, just when I thought I was growing accustomed to this culture and all of its quirks, I found myself getting just a little too comfortable. Of course nothing is ever guaranteed in Kazakhstan, I should know that by now. But, is it so wrong for a girl to think that things were looking up? That when I heard my school had high speed internet connection that I could use whenever I wanted, I perked up?

Well, I decided to be nonchalant about it all. Oh, internet? That could be handy, but no big deal. I waited a few days before I checked the internet situation out, and sure enough, there it was! I was so excited, I started typing emails and posting blogs like there was no tomorrow. I told my parents that I'd have internet now if they needed to get ahold of me, but that I was going to try not to turn into that American that sits in front of the computer on all of her class breaks. I was going to use the internet no more than once (maybe twice) a week.

So, of course I ran home that afternoon and started typing. I started typing emails to friends I hadn't communicated with in some time, I started typing blogs about topics I hadn't been sure I'd ever actually have the time to post. I put them all in a neat little folder on my external hard drive and told my parents on Sunday night that I'd be sending them all of this important information on Monday (a solid 4 days after my first internet sitting). Well, of course when I showed up on Monday there was no internet. I played it cool, they told me it would be working after lunch - no big deal. I didn't want to seem desperate, so I didn't even check back after lunch. I just brought my external on Tuesday morning prepared to get some serious correspondence accomplished.

Tuesday - no internet. Wednesday, I asked (through the grapevine, of course. I couldn't let the computer tech know that I was asking again) about the internet. Still not working. No one could figure out why the internet wasn't working. It took a solid week for the administration to determine why the internet had suddenly stopped working. So what was the reason? The school hadn't paid it's bill. Kazakhstan.

It took two weeks for the internet to come back to life. December 1, I walked into the computer lab and looked sheepishly at the computer tech and said "Internet doesn't work?" as though it was an affirmative statement that didn't really need confirmation. She looked back at me and said "No, it works". I tried my hardest, but I'm pretty sure that I didn't hide my excitement very well. I sauntered over to the computers, and of course, I hadn't brought my external hard drive.

So, here I am again typing up emails and updates to post on the internet, but I promise that I realize it's entirely possible when I go back into the computer lab, that the internet will have disappeared again. It's teaching me a lesson really... the little EXTRAS aren't necessary. Really, they aren't. I don't mind waiting two weeks for a letter to reach the states. Now, I just have to figure out how the post office in Merke works...

Gone to the Dogs

2008-11-29T22:28:00.000-08:00

Written November 14, 2008

I should start by saying that technically most of the following observations can be said for cats as well as dogs, but I don't really care about the cats, so I'm going to focus my discussion on the dogs.

Dogs are not pets in Kazakhstan. This is a very hard thing for me to grasp being a self-proclaimed dog lover myself. The situation for dogs in Kazakhstan is dismal, and it kind of makes me want to cry.

Dogs are rarely considered part of the family in Kazakhstan, and to call a dog "man's best friend" would be absolutely absurd. Almost all families who live in a house, own a dog. They give this dog a name - most commonly Rex (apparently there is some television show with a dog named Rex) 1 out of every 3 dogs you meet will be named Rex. When I first moved to Kazakhstan I actually convinced myself that the word for dog was not actually "cabaka" but Rex.

Dogs do not eat "dog food" in Kazakhstan. Dogs eat whatever their owners don't finish or can't stomach. This includes whatever bread has become so stale that even the Kazakhstanians deem it inedible (impressively stale), as well as any bones left over from dinner (be they horse, or cow, or sheep...) and I usually try to sneak as many of the fat cubes on my plate to the dog's dish. In one of my classes today (6th graders) we were teaching the students about animals. One student wrote about what dogs eat and she listed basically all of the same foods that humans eat. Sounded quite delicious really.

Dogs are doorbells. People own dogs for security purposes not companionship. When someone enters your yard, your dog's duty is to bark like hell until that person has disappeared. The dog is also usually expected to lunge at this stranger in an attempt to rob them of their life, but since they are almost always chained up, they usually fail in doing so. When I moved into my new house, my new dog succeeded in completing his duties, except that somehow he had managed to break free of his chain and he bolted at my poor counterpart. We were fortunate that my new host mother came running outside just seconds before my counterpart (presumably) lost her life. After this incident my counterpart walked up to me and stated "well thank goodness I went to the toilet before we left my house". :)

You do not pet dogs. Obviously you don't pet the packs of wild dogs roaming the streets, but you do not even pet family-owned dogs. I tried to pet my counterpart's little mut "Tiger" (yes, one of three dogs I've met who are not named Rex) and my counterpart instantly scolded me and said "Jamie! He is dirty!". She didn't mean that he had been rolling around in the mud that day, or that he hadn't yet received his bath (because the extent of their bathing consists of days when it rains) she meant simply that this dog was characteristically dirty and should not ever (by anyone) be touched. And really, as much as I hate that this is true, it can't be argued. You just can't pet the dogs in Kazakhstan, unless they are puppies, because they have spent their entire lives without any affectionate physical contact from humans (of course they are kicked and tossed and dragged back to their chains) and quite honestly you can't blame them for freaking out when you make a move to touch them. Puppies are a different story only because they are still young and naive and have not yet realized that they are going to spend the rest of their lives without any affectionate petting. I spent three months in Almalybak, where my family owned a dog named Lyka (that's #2) who looked somewhat like a German Shephard (but wasn't) and it wasn't until the morning I left Almalybak that he actually licked my hand moments before I climbed into the car to leave. I saw that dog every single day and stuck my hand out for him to sniff every single morning and he always backed away in fear. They just simply aren't used to being treated like dogs in America.

Dogs are commonly chained up. Often they are put on a metal chain that is not more than 5-6 feet in length (like my dog in Merke, Prince - #3). So they have a 5 foot radius within which to sleep, eat and poop. This one bothers me so much I can't even really talk about it.

Dogs who have owners actually have it pretty wonderful. There are thousands and thousands of dogs who just roam the streets without owners, without any constant source of food and without any life expectancy. They are usually deathly thin, outrageously dirty and unhealthy.

Dogs and cows co-exist quite peacefully. In Almalybak, whenever they cows were being walked out to pasture, there were always at least two or three dogs running alongside the pack of cows, quite happy to be a part of the excursion.

I have never before found myself afraid of dogs, but there are some dogs in Kazakhstan that would give me reason to rethink this.

In the first couple of weeks in Almalybak I crossed paths with a dog that I later adopted (in my heart). He was a shaggy long-haired mut (they all are) who was absolutely adorable and had those large spurs stuck all in his hair and on his ears. He was covered in dirt, but he had the sweetest face and the happiest little prance. I tried not to fall in love with him, but I did. Before I knew it, I had called him Shaggy (Shags for short). He didn't appear to have a home, he slept on the street outside of one house near our school that I passed every day on my walk. I think I loved him so much because I felt so bad for him. Of course, in the last couple of weeks before I left I found that Shaggy actually DID have a home, and it was very nice. He was "choosing" to sleep on the street instead of in the yard, and he spent all day getting dirty simply because he could, not because he had to. So, I picked the wrong dog to accept into my heart and give my left over snacks to for three months... go figure! But, I still love Shags. I just can't help it.

In Merke, I don't think I'll have to look any further than my front yard to find a dog to take under my wing. Prince is quite underloved. But, for now, I'm still afraid to penetrate his 5 foot radius. :)

This is Shaggy. :)

This is my new dog, Prince.

Move over Campbell...

2008-11-13T21:10:00.000-08:00

Written November 12, 2008

I made soup! Yes, that's right, I made soup from scratch. No more Campbell's for me America, I've got skill. I know it wasn't technically one of the things on the list that I was supposed to take from Kazakhstan, but learning to cook from scratch is really quite impressive if I might say so myself. Now, OK the truth of the story is a little less dazzling and probably not quite as impressive, but I've got to say, I'm still quite proud of myself.

My host "family" here just consists of one woman, a pediatrician and widow (with no children) named Aliya. She works from 9-6 every day besides Sunday (as is common in Kazakhstan) and so therefore, has left me on my own for the past 4-5 days for all meals except dinner.

She is very concerned about two things:

- whether or not I am warm enough
- whether or not I have eaten enough

It's actually kind of ridiculous, because she asks me these questions approximately every 5 minutes. I know I don't know a lot of Russian, but when the woman asks me if I'm cold, and I respond with accurate Russian that "No, I'm not cold, it's very warm here", I can't quite figure out why she then repeats the same question less than a minute later, and continuously until she leaves the house. She also just constantly tells me to "eat! eat! eat!".

So, I was scolded yesterday evening because when she came home and took stock of the ingredients of the fridge she noticed that the dinner from the previous night remained untouched. Now, had I known that what was actually sandwiched between the two small plates on the bottom shelf was our cabbage and meat concoction from the night before, I (maybe surprisingly, but this IS Kazakhstan) would happily have licked the plate clean, but when I opened the fridge and saw among a few other random ingredients, the slightly moldy block of cheese and a giant stick of what can only be equated to bologna, I assumed I was out of luck in the food department.

I resorted to making the Kazakh version of Peanut Butter and Jelly. I sliced up some bread, spread the homemade jam (still not sure what fruit it is) on one half and used the remainder of my Skippy on the other half. It was really quite tasty. Throw in the Ghirardelli chocolate square I took from the stash I gave to my host mom, and really I had a very filling lunch.

Anyways, my host mom saw the still untouched leftovers and assumed I hadn't eaten. I tried everything in my Russian language repertoire to explain that I had, in fact, eaten a sandwich (yes I know the word) and some bread, but when she saw the untouched sausage (aka bologna log) and cheese - the only acceptable sandwich fixings here - I guess she thought I was lying. She told me that I did not eat and she was very concerned. She started making dinner, which ended up being sliced bologna log and scrambled eggs in a skillet, and I thought that she had forgiven me for supposedly not eating. We sat down to dinner together and I served up a small portion of now fried bologna log and scrambled eggs. When I managed to finish my plate, she told me to eat more because I had not eaten all day. I politely refused, throwing in my impressive Kazakh language skills insisting that I was "toydum (full)" but thank you.

Well new host mom wasn't OK with that, so she picked up the skillet herself and dumped the remainder of our dinner on my plate and simply told me to "coushee (eat)". Well, normally I would have slid the mess around on my plate for awhile and taken a few extra bites, but having only been here for a couple of days, and afraid of what else I might have to eat if I displeased this new family member of mine, I managed to swallow every last bite of that bologna log on my plate. She smiled with pleasure when I finished.

Side note: to be fair, the bologna log basically just tastes like hot dog. But, no one likes hot dogs THAT much.

I guess now my host mom doesn't trust me to feed myself because when I woke up this morning there was a saucepan on the stove and a plate of various vegetables on the counter. She walked me over to the counter and explained that I was to make soup for lunch, and pointed at the saucepan which had two chunks of meat simmering in water. Before leaving the house (a mere 10 minutes later) she managed to tell me approximately 15 times that I was to eat soup for lunch. I panicked a little because I've never made soup from scratch before, but she had given me all of the ingredients and even started the pot boiling so really, I just had to cut it all up and throw it together right? Well that's pretty much what I did. And guess what? I ate soup for lunch. And this is no time for modesty... it was REALLY tasty. Some kind of meat broth (you just don't really even want to ask - but chances are it was sheep or cow, probably sheep), some rice, tomato, red pepper (which I cut the moldy parts off of, leaving me with less than half of the pepper), carrot, potato and onion.

I was so proud I took pictures. :o) Look at me Ma, I can make soup!

She hasn't come home from work yet tonight, but I'm hoping I got myself off of the hook for the PB&J the other day. I don't think I can eat another 5 slices of bologna log...

The Migration Police

2008-11-13T21:09:00.000-08:00

Written November 11, 2008

Just a quick little story that seemed to encapsulate Kazakhstan...

Today I had to visit the Migration Police. You know, show them my face, give them copies of my passport, visa, and Kartochka so they know who I am as they see me wandering the streets of Merke for the next two years. Really, the whole thing is just a formality, because I'm already "in the system" but what's another introduction in Russian? I've got these things DOWN.

So, after my meeting with some important man in an office upstairs, I was sent (with my counterpart) to a room downstairs on the first floor. My counterpart knocked on the door and tried opening it. Someone on the other side of the door muttered something in a language I couldn't understand (probably Russian) and she responded with something along the lines of "I tried to open it, it's locked".

A lot of confusion ensued, and something that appeared to be angry shouting occurred between my counterpart and the man on the other side of the door. From my position in the hallway, I saw the doorknob start twisting in all sorts of directions, and what sounded like a key in the lock. The doorknob had now begun twisting furiously and I could hear grunting coming from the other side of the door. A few body slams against the door and then... silence.

Eventually my counterpart managed to attract the attention of another uniformed individual (on our side of the mysterious door) and they were pointing at the door and speaking in Kazakh. That man then started turning the handle and knocking. Whoever the employee was on the other side began speaking again (this time in a less angry voice), but the door remained closed.
Unlike my counterpart, I grew tired of standing in the hallway staring at a closed door, so I made my way down the hall a few feet and sat on the window sill, just waiting. Not sure what I was waiting for, but she wasn't making any motion to leave...

Soon a couple of new uniformed individuals arrived and began fussing with the door and it was now quite clear that the door was in fact broken. That it could not be opened from either side. The man on the other side didn't seem to care too much, as he was no longer speaking and definitely not shouting at my counterpart. It took about 15 minutes of various individuals sticking knives between the door and the jam, and then screwdrivers, but eventually someone showed up who actually made a difference. This man removed the door handle from the door and eventually managed to pry the door open.

No one seemed to think that the fact that two employees were locked inside of an office and had to be broken free by a number of uniformed individuals was any big deal. Oh, just another day at the office...

Turns out we just needed to give the individual on the other side of the door some copies of my documents. But, during all the ruckus he had learned that there was an American on the other side wanting to speak to him. After we had handed over the documents and made for the now inoperable door, he asked us to stop and sit down. He wanted to have what appeared to be a chat.

I sat and smiled, as has become customary when I don't understand a lot of what is going on, but I ended up leaving with his cell phone number and work number and his name and was assured that if I ever needed anything from the migration police department that he would help me. And if anyone gave me any problems, I could call him.

I'll be sure not to call about any hardware related issues...

The Classroom

2008-11-13T21:08:00.000-08:00

Written October 30, 2008

Try this one on for size:

I'm teaching a class of 8th graders (about 12 of them) and I've got this piece of chalk in my hand. I'm talking, and gesturing and trying to explain what "windy" is, and the chalk falls out of my hand. Well, I'm in the middle of this explanation so I continue talking and ignore it for a second. A small boy, Daulet, jumps out of his seat and runs to the front of the class, picks up the chalk and hands it back to me, before returning quietly to his seat.

I dropped a picture of a washing machine on the floor once, and as I was bending down to pick it up, I saw one of my students getting up from his seat and heading towards the front. I waved at him to sit back down, that really, contrary to popular opinion I am capable of picking up this piece of paper on my own.

In so many ways, I find myself baffled by the customs of the Kazakhstanian classroom. When I walk into the classroom at the beginning of the class period, the entire class stands at their desks and waits for me to tell them that they may sit. Like I'm the Emperor or something (although I guess if that were the case, they'd all be bowing instead of standing). During training, this whole rising in my presence thing made me uncomfortable, so when I saw my students making to stand up when I walked in the door, I shook my head and told them to sit down. Every time. And they never stopped standing. I later learned, from a current PCV that some of these traditions should be respected. So, now apparently I'm supposed to let my entire class stand at their seats while I get my things situated and then instruct them to sit (as a class).

I'm also rarely allowed to wipe the chalkboard, or take my posters or pictures off of the board at the end of the class period. The bell rings, I assign homework and next thing I know all of my visuals are being handed to me by a group of my students and the board is being wiped clean. In my 11th grade class, I would walk into the classroom and there would be notes left on the board from the class before me, I would make to begin erasing the board, and one of my students would rush over and start cleaning for me.

Teaching hasn't been so bad thus far, but then again, my dad always did call me a Princess. :)

I'm sure I'll have more stories from the classroom to come, as I get situated in the new school. I can already tell it's going to be a slightly different atmosphere.

My First Kazakh Snow

2008-11-13T21:06:00.000-08:00

Written November 9, 2008

I woke up this morning (in Merke) and as I got ready to head out to the outhouse (oh yes, that is what my life has become) I looked out the kitchen window and I saw white stuff all over the ground. At first I didn't recognize it. I thought the dog got into the trash. But then I looked over towards the yard and realized that it was snow! And it was all over the place. Probably about an inch of it. Today the sun is shining and the air is brisk and I couldn't love the weather more.

Moving to Merke was not exactly the easiest thing I have done in a long time and waking up on my first morning to my first Kazakhstan snow could not have been more perfect! Yay for snow! It must be one of the side effects of being a Californian, because I don't think I know anyone else who gets so incredibly excited over snow. It literally makes me all warm and fuzzy inside and I usually can't stop smiling for at least half an hour. If only there were other Americans here in Merke to go outside and play in the snow with, because I have this sneaking suspicion that the Kazakhstanians don't find the snow here nearly as exciting.

When I tried to brag about my first snow in Merke to my friend back in Almalybak, he unfortunately informed me that Almalybak was also covered in a layer of snow. Jerk! But, the timing could not have been better because if it had snowed in the Bak yesterday, I don't think they could have dragged me out. :)

In a couple of hours I will be moving to my new house (yes, folks that's number 3) to live with an older woman named Aliya. Should be a very quiet and relaxing environment. I expect to get a lot of books read in my free time. :) I will also be moving into my first residence without a shower. Yup, it's going to be bucket baths and banyas for me for the next 6 months... Kevin - be glad you're not coming to visit during that time. :)

I'm also heading to the bazaar today to experience my first REAL shopping experience. I have to get some winter boots, a hat and probably a warmer jacket. I've been avoiding the shopping experience because (well, because I'm a volunteer which means I work for free) and also because the bazaar is so incredibly stressful, but now that there is snow on the ground my counterpart won't let me waste another day without fur-lined footwear. I also really want a crazy Russian fur hat, but I hear they are like $100, and I probably won't need it in Merke... maybe next winter? I'll have to see what the locals wear here in the winter. When in Rome...

So California might be sunny and beautiful practically year 'round but you don't have Russian fur hats and snow in early November.

Things are looking up...

Manarbek (Mah-nar-beck)

2008-10-25T23:41:00.000-07:00

My host brother Manarbek is an absolute character. He brings a certain kind of life into this host family with whom I have found myself living these past 2 months (which for the record, have absolutely flown by!). Manarbek is 18 years old, and is really in many ways, just like every other 18 year old boy I've known. He lives and breathes music and cars.

A few weeks back a couple of my host brothers spent a significant amount of time showing me their collection of family photos on their computer from the past few years. Manarbek's collection of photos consisted of cars and more cars, some license plates, and a couple of fantastic photos of him in his military garb. (Everyone has to take military courses - kind of similar to ROTC - and he gets dressed up in his camo gear once a week). Apparently one of the mornings before he left he asked his older brother Azamat to take photos of him with the Jaguar dressed in his camo gear. I had to stifle my laughter as he proudly scrolled through these photos.

His current automobile obsession is the Toyota Camry. Which, I realize to fellow Americans, sounds quite absurd - especially in this Kazakhstanian family that hasn't exactly scrimped in the automobile department. And I, myself, was quite taken aback when I learned that this was his dream car of the moment. I mean, my mom drove a Toyota Camry for ten years, my brother and sister-in-law now drive it, and I'd hardly call it a car worthy of a teenage boys admiration (no offense Lailah). But, I've seen pictures of this new model of Camry, and I have to admit that it does look more like a Lexus than the typical Camry model I'm accustomed to. Anyways, he loves it, and a few weeks back it was really all he could talk about.

The other thing I learned about Kazakhstanians during this little photo session was that they are obsessed with license plates. This culture is outrageously superstitious (something I'll address in another post) and one of these superstitions is how important an individual's license plate is. If you have money, you will pay for your license plate (kind of like customized license plates in the states, except that these license plates don't have words written on them - it's all about the numbers). For example, if you ever come across a license plate in Kazakhstan with the numbers 777 on it, you can be certain that this individual has paid a lot of money for his license plate. Of course, you would never see a beat up old clunker with a 777 license plate, it's the Escalades and the Hummers with the good license plates. I was shocked as we flipped through Manarbek's photos, that for every picture of an automobile he has, he has at least three of a license plate (007, 777, etc.). These are fun little facts I've learned about Kazakhstan and it's people that are a direct result of my 18 year old host brother and his quirks.

More than the obsession with cars, Manarbek loves music, and more than music he loves dancing. Manarbek basically turns the upstairs of our house into a disco in the evenings, as he sits at his computer and blares popular dance tunes. At first, I was annoyed by the loud music a couple of doors down, but now I look forward to it. I'll be planning my lessons with my door open with the sounds of Akon, Usher, and other American artists, along with the occasional Kazakhstan or Russian pop songs, filtering down the hallway. You really can't help but tap your foot and bob your head.

Of course Manarbek sings along. They ALL do! That's another really fascinating thing about this culture: they have absolutely no shame singing. If a young Kazakhstanian has a song stuck in their head, they simply sing it. I've heard Manas (my youngest host brother) singing, and of course Manarbek (even at the dinner table), and just this past weekend I was visiting my counterpart's sister's house in Almaty and her niece (about 18 or 19) came to the table for Chai and was just belting some pop tune. No one seemed to notice, and I was trying my hardest not to stare in amazement. I mean, she didn't have a particularly good voice, in fact I might say it wasn't very good at all. But she just sang her little heart out, without thinking twice about it.
I've also seen this culture of singing in the schools. Whenever there is an assembly or an event at the school of any kind, you can't escape the singing. We had an English Language Competition about 3 weeks ago, and in the middle of the competition (almost like a half-time show) one of the students stood up, they started the sound system and she danced and sang herself around that stage. When she was done, the English Competition resumed. It was like no big deal. And, for the record, she also didn't have a particular impressive set of vocals.

But, back to Manarbek. About a month ago, I came home from the cafe (not particularly late) and heard the disco raging upstairs. As I climbed the stairs on the way to my room I heard Manarbek singing. I peeked into the computer room from the hallway, only to find Manarbek dancing his little heart out in the middle of the room. Now, normally I would have just smiled and walked away, but I couldn't resist. I walked over and stood in the doorway of the room (only to find that Azamat was actually sitting on the couch just kind of watching this little performance unfold?) and waited for Manarbek to notice the American at the door. Eventually his head bobbed my direction and he hesitated. He smiled at me, I gave him the thumbs up, and he just kept on dancing and singing. Absolutely no shame, this kid.

At the Kazakh wedding I attended at the beginning of October, Manarbek was given a chance to really show his stuff on the dance floor. And I'm not going to lie - this kid's got talent. I mean, it's Kazakh-style dancing, but he's "got moves you've never seen before". :)

Dinners always last a little longer when Manarbek is at the table, because for one, he drinks chai "like Grandma" as he says - which basically translates into really slowly. And also because when Manarbek is talking, we are all laughing. He's got the greatest "Russish" I've ever heard. He basically speaks Russian, but when he thinks he knows a word in English he just throws it in there. At which point we all laugh. This kid is endlessly entertaining in his very goofy way. His current dream is to move to Finland when he finishes at the University. Yes, you heard me right, Finland. I asked him why Finland (amidst the continuous laughter of his family) and he told me (through a whole lot of gesturing on both of our parts) that it is because they have fir trees and because he can do this: At which point, Manarbek stands up from the table and struts around the kitchen with his arms flailing about. To this day, I still have no idea what that is, but apparently Finland is the place to do it. He doesn't know anyone who has ever been to Finland, his whole family can't understand why Finland, but now Finland comes up at least once or twice a day at the table.

The fir tree thing is also fantastic. He just loves New Years Trees (they don't celebrate Christmas in Kazakhstan - being a dominantly Muslim country - but they decorate Christmas trees just like Americans do, for New Years). He has been bugging his mom to plant Fir Trees in the yard forever now, but she just laughs him off. She offered to get some small ones and try planting them and he said that that just wouldn't do. They need to be big ones. He's apparently also quite impatient. :) There is a part of me that expects to see huge fir trees in their yard before I leave the country in 2 years. I'll keep you all posted.

Basically, Manarbek makes Kazakhstan a little more entertaining each and every day. (But don't worry Ryan, you're still my favorite).

(tried to post a video of the dancing at the wedding, but it took 30 minutes and still wasn't done... another time maybe?)

The Open Road

2008-10-25T23:39:00.000-07:00

I should probably rename this whole blog "Oh Kazakhstan..." as those two words seem to be leaving my mouth on a quite regular basis these days. Because really, in most situations, there isn't anything else to be said. It's just Kazakhstan, some things that happen here would probably never happen anywhere else in the world, and we just accept it as being a trait of this foreign land. You can't really get angry about these things, or think too much about them, because it just is. Most of the time we find ourselves laughing, because it's all you can do.

I'll try to give you a little taste of Kazakhstan as it differs from my experience in America (and even, for that matter, in France). First of all, we as PCTs and PCVs are forbidden from participating in certain activities here in Kazakhstan (for safety reasons). For one, we aren't allowed to ride horses without helmets, we aren't allowed to indulge in any "extreme" activities, such as rock-climbing, skiing (without excessive protective gear), and most importantly, driving.
Yes, that might sound absurd to an American, but here in Kazakhstan, driving is most certainly an extreme activity. Maybe more so than skydiving (and I can say that because I've experienced them both). And while driving is undoubtedly a dangerous activity in the states as well, it reaches a whole new level of extreme here in Kazakhstan. This is probably due in part to the fact that, like many things in Kazakhstan, driving has a price. I'll get back to that, but in America, every 15 year old is familiar with the process of learning to drive. Many (oddly with the exception of many of my high school friends) eagerly anticipate the day that they first sit behind that wheel and step on that gas pedal.

Well, in Kazakhstan, driving is hardly enforced. That is to say, that on numerous occasions I have been privy to seeing small children behind the wheel of the car. Yup, there are 10 year olds actually operating automobiles in Kazakhstan. Sure, the parents or grandparents are always in the car with them, but they are the sole operators of these vehicles.

When I was a small child, I remember with great joy and fondness the times when my father would take me out to the old Breuner's parking lot, sit me on his lap and let me steer the car around the parking lot for 10-15 minutes. Here, 5 or 6 year olds experience that same experience, but they are actually out on the pot-hole-infested roads. The really scary part is that I no longer find myself looking twice when I see a small four year old steering an automobile down the main road of Almalybak, on his grandfather's lap. But these 10 year olds I speak of, they actually drive themselves to school or to the magazine (store), or who knows wherever else they might be heading. I don't know how their feet can even reach the pedals?!

I was about a half block away from my house, on the way to my school a few weeks back when I heard a car approaching from behind. Being Kazakhstan, pedestrians also have absolutely no right of way on the roads (or the sidewalks for that matter, if they exist). So, naturally I scurried over to the side of the road, daringly dodging the giant mud puddles in my way, and continued walking slowly. Well, the car caught up to me and stopped next to me. I looked over, and go figure, a small boy of about 9 or 10 was driving the car. Grandpa was sitting in the passenger's seat, and the little sister was chilling in the back. They rolled down the window and told me that they would drive me to school (stop worrying Mom, I heard you when you told me not to get into cars with strangers - these were students I had seen around school, it wasn't as though I was in danger of being kidnapped or anything of the sort).

I'm pretty sure I snorted. Are you kidding me? I mean sure, there is a small amount of risk associated with being a PCV, but I'm not exactly here to just throw my life out the window (or in this case, into the hands of a 9 year old boy). I politely declined the ride, trying to insist that I really enjoyed the fresh (albeit brisk) air. Eventually I convinced them, and the small boy sped off down the dirt road. And yes, he was speeding (well, he would have been if there were speed limits). Afterwards, all I could do was laugh to myself as I continued on my way to the school (and of course send my friend Katy a text message telling her what had just happened). I'm happy to announce that the boy, his sister, and grandfather did all make it safely to school that day.

This is only the preface to the driving situation, because technically they do have "laws" about driving in Kazakhstan. I've never seen a small child driving a car in Almaty (a very large city) and my guess is that they can only get away with it in Almalybak because it is such a small village that might not even be patrolled by policemen. So here are the laws as I understand them in Kazakhstan: You can't drive until you are 18 years old in Kazakhstan, and in order to do so, you must pass a driving test (just like in America, right?). However, if you don't pass the driving test, you can just purchase a driver's license. I'm not sure if purchasing the license is "technically" legal, but the majority of driver's on the roads in Kazakhstan have not actually passed a driving test at any point in their lives - oh and yes, this includes taxi drivers and bus drivers.

So, take driving in San Francisco. Now, take 70 percent of the individuals operating vehicles and pretend they don't have a driver's license (they just bought one, say). Would you want to be on the road with these people? I think not. In addition, would you want to put yourself in the backseat of a taxi where the driver has no real experience operating a vehicle besides his lessons as a small child with his grandfather (possibly on the way to school)? What this - as you can surely imagine - results in, is absolute chaos on the road. There might be lines painted on the cement, but they are really more of a suggestion for drivers. I've been in buses, where the bus will simply pull off to the right hand side of the "freeway" and tear ass down the dirt shoulder passing all of the cars sitting in traffic, until the shoulder becomes too small for the bus and then it cuts off the line of traffic. Why? Because he can. The first time this happened, I was shocked into silence, my mouth stuck open in awe, and my eyes as wide as quarters. Now, it's just another day on the road from Almalybak to Almaty.

In addition, seatbelts are a suggestion. My host family made fun of me when I got into their car (albeit a Jaguar) and automatically strapped in for our trip to the supermarket. They all let me know that it was unnecessary and that I didn't actually have to wear the seatbelt. Fortunately, Peace Corps has a policy that if we are in a vehicle and that vehicle has functional seatbelts, we must wear them. So, I had an excuse for my actions that my host family could understand. I think there is a new law in effect that the people in the front seat of vehicles have to wear seatbelts, but it is rarely (if ever) enforced and usually results in taxi drivers pulling the seatbelts across their chest and then just hanging on their lap. I'm still addicted to my seatbelt, maybe even more so now, than before. :)

Also, good to know if you ever visit Kazakhstan (I'm sure it's top on all of your lists) is that any car on the road could be a potential taxi. Taxis are not marked, or rarely marked, I've seen maybe 10 or 12 taxis with an actual taxi sign atop the vehicle. Taxis are individually owned vehicles and people drive around town. You throw your arm out on a street and chances are the beat up old Nissan heading towards you is going to be your ride - or at least offer you one. You negotiate the price of your ride before entering the vehicle and then you're off. There are no meters in the taxis, but there is also no guarantee that this unmarked vehicle is going to take you where you asked them to. As a result, I rarely take taxis. And I definitely don't take taxis alone (so stop worrying, Mom).

One more note about traveling the roads in Kazakhstan. This one I almost forgot to mention because I have grown so used to it (like the infants steering cars) that I forget it as being abnormal. Buses and taxis in Kazakhstan are all individually owned (as stated above) and I think this is a major factor in the following occurrence: If a bus or taxi needs to fill up (needs gas), it simply stops and does so. I've been in an overcrowded bus before - standing room only, and barely any of that - and the bus has pulled off of the road and into a gas station to fill up. No one thinks this is weird. The first time it happened I thought I was dreaming, or that the bus had broken down (which, if you could see these things, is not out of the question). But, nope, the driver is just taking the opportunity to fill up the tank - no big deal. :) No one cares, or says anything, they just accept it as part of their ride, and after 10 minutes, when the bus is loaded up and ready to go, we pull out of the gas station and continue on our way. The same thing happened to me in a taxi in Merke with my counterpart (it's safe to cab it with a local, they don't get screwed over). We were on our way to visit one of my potential host families, and about a block from the house, he pulled off to get gas. My counterpart didn't say anything, we just sat there and continued our conversation while the man filled up his rickety old heap of metal (the taxis are especially decrepid in Merke) and eventually we continued on our way.

Oh Kazakhstan...

A Fresh Start

2008-10-25T23:38:00.000-07:00

So, I know back in the states I gave all of my blogging friends (ahem! Lailah...) a whole bunch of grief for being really horrible about their blogging. And I also realize that I am now one of these obnoxious people who never updates their blog. So, any normal person would appologize for being so hypocritical and either a) learn to lower their blogging expectations of others, or b) become a more reliable and frequent blogger themselves. Well, here's my response: I'm in Kazakhstan. What's your excuse? :)

No, but in all seriousness, my life has become so different if only in the aspect that I no longer have access to some of the daily comforts of a westernized country. In America, it wasn't absurd to accuse my friends of being lazy if they didn't blog. I knew they had access to the internet, and law school well, HA! Law school is obviously no excuse for not blogging (what? Like it keeps you busy or something?). My other excuse for regularly nagging these sporadic bloggers was that I, myself, had nothing better to do. I worked in front of a computer 8 or 9 hours a day (yes, Dad, only some would actually deem my responsibilities "work") and when I found myself with no imminent task, or really no task at all, I wanted something to entertain me. I relied on the sometimes clever, sometimes humorous, sometimes insightful words of my blogger friends. And what's more annoying than being bored and going to read a friend's blog and finding, what? Oh, yea, that's right. Lailah hasn't updated her blog in 4.5 weeks...

Well, my life here is devoid of many regular comforts. Internet is really just a crap shoot. Even if you do have internet (in your town, because it's practically insane to imagine having internet in your actual residence) the reliability of this internet is non-existent. When we first moved to Almalybak, we were introduced to the internet, and one week later the internet was broken. No one seemed to be in a real hurry to fix it, and all of the PCTs were constantly dropping by the internet "cafe" with their fingers crossed hoping that maybe today, just maybe? But, they just looked at us, pitied our high hopes and shook their heads.

What was most surprising was how nearly refreshing it became to not have internet. Once I was finally granted access to a computer and given the opportunity to sit down to my email account and contact the outside world, I found myself unbelievably overwhelmed. How do I write absolutely everything that I am experiencing over here in this foreign society, or really even anything, in an email to my friends and family? And how do I do it in a short amount of time, so as to allow the impatient PCTs behind me a chance to experience the same terror and anxiety? I've almost grown to dread internet access.

Well, today I had the opportunity to sit in front of a computer for essentially as long as I wanted, with no impatient Americans waiting (as I was the only EDU PCT back from our site visit) and on the hour long bus ride to the PC Headquarters I scribbled notes on a piece of scratch paper about what I wanted to make sure I addressed in my blog entry. And what do you know? I opened up my blog and stared at the page for 10 minutes without typing anything. No, that's not true, I (uncharacteristically) titled the blog entry - Culture Shock 101. Then, I stared.

I used to enjoy blogging. I started blogging (as can be found in the first entry of this blog) as a release for my writing. I needed something to do (post-college) that would allow me to utilize this appreciation for the written word. Now, go figure, when I sit down to type these blogs that could seemingly express so much of this culture and these new experiences, that could be filled with descriptions of tastes and sounds and all that is foreign, I usually just try to throw as many facts onto the screen as possible, a verbal vomit of sorts, in an attempt to describe this experience. I don't like looking at my blog, I don't like logging into my account, I don't like what my musings have become.

Well, then I found out that what other volunteers have been doing (we're such a smart bunch over here!) is typing up their entries in advance, bringing them to the computer on a flash drive and simply transferring them. Yea, if you know me, you're feeling my pain. Of course I wish that I had thought of this ingenious idea on my own. But now, I hope to be able to provide a better understanding of how exactly my life is transforming over here in the great country of Kazakhstan, with slightly more thought-out descriptions and reflections. Because yes, I have been listening when you complain on the phone that no one still has any idea what I've been eating (which was, as we all know, my biggest concern before I boarded that plane), or what I do with all of my time, or how my Russian is coming along. Well... soon my friends. Soon.

Here's to my fresh start! (Here's where all of the Kazakhstanians - yes, we've learned that is the appropriate term for the people of Kazakhstan - raise their shot glasses, clink, and drink).

Pictures!

2008-10-25T00:39:00.000-07:00

I'm having trouble with Picasa (google photo site) due to privacy restrictions on the Peace Corps computers, so I can't upload a lot of pictures, but I wanted to throw a few up here while I had a chance to finally put out some pictures from Kazakhstan! yay!

This is what a crowded bus on the way to Almaty is like...

View from my house in Almalybak of the mountains.

My running path... :)

Host Mom, Host brother Manarbek (the middle brother of 3) , and host Pops.

Dinner. :) Look at ALL that food!! Relatives came over for dinner. This is surprisingly typical of a dinner in K-stan. The guy on the far left with the yellow shirt is my oldest host brother (Azamat).

Our Jaguar and basketball hoop. Living the hard life...

I had to put in a picture of the trash... This is right by the view of the mountains from earlier.

Saturday afternoon activities for the locals...

My school in Almalybak. Yes, it's pink.

I used to pass this on my way to school in the morning (at my first host family). I had to take a picture.

3 of my 11th grade students.

A handful of my 8th grade students during an English competition at the school.

Three schoolgirls on the playground during lunch. They asked for our autographs...

My language class! (clockwise from bottom left) Seth, Katy (married from Portland, OR) Asel (our language teacher), AC (Marietta, Georgia), Leah (Flint, Michigan), and Jessie (Columbus, Mississippi, although she rarely claims it).

It's MERKE for me.

2008-10-04T04:04:00.001-07:00

We found out our permanent sites on Thursday. I'll be in the South of Kazakhstan, about 4 hours from Almaty (by bus) and 130 km from Taraz (another big city) and close to Shymkent (the largest city in the South). So, I'm heading to Merke, Kazakhstan for the remainder of my 2 years. I'll be moving there in the beginning of November (the 8th I think?). The town itself is about 30,000 people, mild winters (no Siberian snow winters for me...), but very green and lots of fruits and veggies all year long. That's about all I know, so Google it and let me know what you find out.

Some Funny Stories

2008-09-16T23:21:00.000-07:00

The other day, while my training group was leaving our school after a long day of Russian, we were bombarded with the usual, "Hello!" (snicker-snicker) "How are you?" (he-he-he) "What is your name?" (pull friends towards you sheepishly and laugh or run away). Basically, just the usual Almalybak interactions with local children. So, we nonchalantly answered their questions and then AC (the local Almalybak celebrity, and fellow PCT) asked one of the young boys how old HE was. They, as a general rule, aren't prepared to answer these questions, but if they do answer it generally means they have been taught the appropriate english response, and they are almost always correct. This particular little boy (who couldn't have been more than 3.5' tall) looked up at AC and confidently replied, "I'm 20!". We all started laughing and AC replied, "No, you aren't". The little boy was insistent that he was 20 years old. After switching to our minimal Russian we asked him how old he was. 12. :) When we corrected his mistake, he smiled largely and laughed with his friends. By the way, I still have a hard time beliving he was even 12 - these kids looks SO young.

On that same day, I also saw a man herding his sheep through the streets of Almalybak, twice. And every morning I pass a woman and a man who are "walking their cow(s)". Technically, they are taking them out to the fields behind my house, but when you pass them on the streets with ropes tied to the cows, it pretty much looks like they are just walking their cows. I also pass a donkey on the way to school every morning, always tied somewhere different to "graze" for the day. I've named him Donkey (Shrek, anyone?).

I have seen a young school girl dropped off at school by her father in their garbage truck (military-issue). The dad had to get out, walk around, open the door and hoist the daughter our, all the while I just walked on by smiling.

I have officially given my first autograph, to a group of four school girls on the playground during lunch. That is always a funny experience.

Being woken up in the middle of the night (when my window is open) by Donkey, down the road, hee-hawing is terribly frustrating, but I still can't help but smile.

The kids yelling "Hello" is getting a little old, as are their 3 other English phrases, but the boy who yelled "My mother's name is Dana!" the other day, deserves some credit. :)

When my host dad got home late from work and we saw eachother in the hall upstairs and he proudly said, "Good Morning!" in perfect English, only to be laughed at by his wife who realized his mistake, is in the top 10 moments for sure. Especially because Aida (my host mom) then brought it up at the dinner table so that everyone could have a good laugh at my host Dad's expense (including Dad). I noticed he hasn't greeted me in English since, however. :)

Hearing about Ryan S.'s host mom saying that "plants are bad for the environment too!" when he tried to explain his vegetarianism to her, will not ever cease to amuse me. I mean, come on, plants ARE the environment.

Also near the top of the list is AC's video of the donkey eating weeds, only to see, as the camera zooms out, two little boys smiling from ear to ear atop the donkey. AC calls it the Kazakhstan Gas Station.

I'll try to write about the much anticipated food subject soon!

Almalybak, anyone?

2008-09-08T01:06:00.000-07:00

We just started Week 4 of PST (pre-service training) and a lot has changed since my first Sunday here in Almalybak. For one, I am no longer living with my original host family. Peace Corps got wind of some uncomfortable situations I was being placed in and the realization that there was no lock on my bedroom door and they found me a new family and moved me in with them no more than a day or two after they grew concerned. Basically, I spent the first week trying to find ways to deal with the very awkward 23-year old brother I was sharing a house with. He took an uncomfortable interest in everything I was doing, at all times of the day. When I was writing a letter to one of my friends back home, he came into my room (uninvited) and sat down on my bed and watched me write a letter for 20 minutes, just watched me.

But, no need to dwell on the past, Peace Corps moved me in with a new family, which I never asked them to do, but felt immediately relieved when I learned of their decision. I now live on the other side of Almalyback (in a newer part of town) with a family that is absolutely fantastic. I have three brothers (none of which compare to my American one, but all of whom add a little to my life). They are 15 (Manas), 18 (Manarbek) and 21 (Azamat), and then Mama (Aida) and Papa (Hanat) (which I don't call them haha). My host mother is a Vice Principal at the school I am training at and my host father is a "businessman" in Almaty. The literal translation of his position is Businessman, so take what you will from that because I still don't have a clue what he does (something with documents, I think). Our house is very western, almost too western in fact, but can you really complain about these kinds of things? I think not. I'll try to post pictures soon, I wasn't able to post them today unfortunately.

The first 7 days were really rough and culture shock basically took over, but now we've climbed over that hump and life is starting to feel a little more regular. I'm getting to know all of the other PSTs in Almalybak very well and a few of them would even fit right in back home (maybe I'll throw them in my suitcase in 26.5 months?) My new house is the last at the end of a newly constructed street (so new it doesn't even have a street name yet) and then the dirt road opens up into fields and fields for days, with a dirt path leading through the fields, lined with tall birch trees. This has been a lifesaver - I wake up in the morning and am able to go for a run through the fields with fantastic views of the mountains all around and no Kazakstanians staring and pointing at me as I run. It's perfect. The first evening at my new house I told my family I was going to go running in the morning, and when I woke up the next morning I was followed out of the house by my 15 year old brother. He doesn't speak English so I couldn't ask him what he was doing, but when I started to run down the path, next thing I know my little brother is running with me. Turns out his parents had told him to be my escort for my first day, so he was forced to go running with me. I still laugh about it to this day. After breakfast he then walked me to school as well. The poor thing must have been miserably embarassed, but it was only one day. :)

There are a lot of funny stories I hope to be able to share soon, but for now I'll have to leave it at this. My time on the computer is coming to an end and I've actually got to run back to Russian class here in 30 minutes. For now, internet in Almalybak is up and running, but you just never know... But Kaskelan (another PST site) is down the road about 15 minutes and they have a reliable cafe, so that's my plan of attack if I can't get internet in the next few days.

Love and miss you all!

Kazakhstan!

2008-08-23T22:38:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone! So I'm officially in Kazakhstan... and it would be an understatement to call this place one crazy country. The first night with my host family was absolutely overwhelming. First of all, Peace Corps screwed up and wrote on my housing assignment that I was a male (maybe because there are two other PCTs named Jamie/Jaime and they are both guys?) but needless to say my host family was expecting a female, so when I walked up and threw out my best "Mena Zavoot Jamie" she looked at me in absolute terror. Not going to lie, I almost starting crying on the spot :) I later learned the reason for the confusion, and my host mom agreed to host me anyways and gave me a huge hug. I moved in with my family two nights ago. My family consists of a father, a mother Farida, a 23 year old son Arman, a daughter with down syndrome Amira, and an occasional aunt Clara. As you can see I don't remember my host father's name... :) Don't judge me!

So, unlike some PCTs here, no one in my family speaks English AT ALL. Arman knows about 5 words, and uses them over and over again. It's a lot of gestures and throwing my arms up in confusion at this point. We had our first language lesson yesterday (Saturday) for only 2 hours. I rushed home and practiced all of my new sentences/phrases on my family. I am from American, the state California, the city San Francisco (yea right like I'd try and get them to learn San Carlos). They laugh at me a lot, which makes everything better.

Lots and lots of Chai (the russian word for tea). They are shoving food down my throat 24 hours a day, I just keep rubbing my stomach and saying "no". Or pointing at my stomach and then saying little with my fingers. I think they are catching on. We've managed to have some very interesting conversations with my little amount of communication skills. I'll have to share some of these stories later. I miss home and miss all of my friends and family terribly, but I can't lie... I wouldn't trade this experience for anything - even if it is the hardest thing I've ever done so far.

I am living in a small "village" outside of Almaty (about 20 km) called Almalybak (all mall ee bok). Today I am going into Almaty with a fellow PCT and her family (mine disappeared this morning and weren't able to tell me where they were going or when they were coming home because I can't understand them haha). I plan to buy a cell phone on this trip so then people (mom and dad etc) will be able to call me here whenever you want. Unfortunately it is 2x as expensive for me to call the US as it is for the US to call KZ. I've written a few letters, but haven't had my "Post Office Orientation" yet, so they are just piling up on my desk. If you read this post, email me your address (even if I already asked you for it, because I left all of my addresses at home - whoops!). I haven't taken many pictures yet but I will try to post some of those soon.

Sorry this post is all over the place, but internet time is limited and expensive so I'm just trying to get out as much information as possible. The "internet cafe" (not what you would expect) is a few blocks from my apartment so I might manage internet connection a couple of times a week or so. I am the only PCT living in an apartment in this village, but the benefit to that is that I actually have a shower. Yay! But I might banya at a fellow PCT's house on the weekends - basically an outdoor sauna/shower combo that is very very popular here and replaces showers in most homes. If you guys think you know anything about hospitality, you are sorely mistaken as this country is the most warm and inviting country ever (at least the families that are hosting us). So Mom and Dad, no worries, they are treating me fabulously.

That's all for now! I'll keep you posted.

Packing

2008-08-12T17:59:00.000-07:00

My first load of clothing to Goodwill amounted to three black garbage bags full of clothes and a shopping bag full of shoes. I guess maybe I had WAY too much stuff in my closet this year, because believe it or not there is still a ton of stuff hanging in my closet and hanging out in drawers - most of which I'm going to try and cram into my two suitcases heading to Kazakhstan.

So, this is my first load of stuff for Goodwill, can't wait to see how many bags/boxes I'll fill with books...

They're Not Your Grandma's Shoes

2008-07-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

I have one fantastic grandmother. And my grandmother has one fantastic sense of style. Every year for her birthday the women in my family (mom, cousin, aunt and I) take her out to San Francisco for an afternoon of shopping and lunch at Neiman Marcus. It's her dream day. We hit all of the shoe stores in Union Square and she usually leaves with at least one or two new pairs of shoes.

Now, we're not talking any old shoes. My grandma wears stilettos. She will actually put down a pair of shoes if the heel isn't high enough. Keep in mind that my grandmother just turned 78 years old. She wears hotter shoes than I've ever even thought about trying on. AND not only does she own thousands of shoes, she gives each and every pair of heels a name. No, we're not talking about names like Dolores or Patty, because well that's just not any fun. And my grandma - she's fun.

To Ryan and Lailah's wedding she wore a pair called The Kitchen Sink (because if you've got everything but the kitchen sink, these are the kitchen sink). She's also got her Prostitute Reds and her Diarrhea Slings. She had recently bought a new pair of pumps before this most recent trip into the city, so she had to bring them with her to show us - these were her Snow Whites. Last year, on our shopping excursion she bought her Reynold's Wraps (yes, that's Reynolds Wrap as in the aluminum foil manufacturers). This year, Grandma didn't let us down. She got two new pairs of shoes.

She was wearing a teal leather jacket that looked stunning on my 78 year old grandma, and she happened to run across some heels that matched her gorgeous jacket. She just HAD to buy them. We called them her Flippers (yes, named after the dolphin). These were actually the same pair of shoes my cousin had recently purchased and returned because she decided she didn't need them. And yes, my cousin in 25 years old. For Grandma, it's not about needing them. When my aunt asked her if she was going to wear the new shoes that day (since they matched her jacket and all) she simply responded, "No, they hurt my feet". Yes, turns out they really pinched her left foot, but she just couldn't not get them. She'll wear them on one of their cruises where she doesn't have to stand on her feet all day.
When buying her second pair of heels on Thursday, the salesman at Neiman Marcus asked her what outfit she was planning on wearing these shoes with. She looked him straight in the eye and said, "I buy the shoes, THEN I find the outfit". This is another fun part of shopping with Grandma. When we walk into these designer stores and head for the shoe selection, sales people never assume it is my Grandma shopping for these outrageous heels. They will glance at my mom, my aunt, my cousin and I only to realize that we are all just here for Grandma. These are the second pair of shoes Grandma purchased on Thursday, except they were bright pink:

My grandparents cruise a lot, and her shoe collection has become famous on the ship. When they board the cruise, their wait staff will spread the word and various crew members will come by to check out this old lady's fabulous shoes.

The sad news here is that my grandmother wears a size 7.5 (which, coincidentally is the same size shoe my cousin Sara wears). Unfortunately for me, I would have had to start binding my feet at the age of 7 to fit into Grandma's shoes. So, Sara will probably inherit the beloved shoe collection... but hey, at least they'll stay in the family.

The saying, "They're not your grandma's shoes", has a whole new meaning in our family.

Freshies

2008-07-22T13:59:00.001-07:00

Freshies is probably one of the worst restaurant experiences I've had in a long time.

While staying in South Lake Tahoe this past weekend for Mike's race, we ventured into unfamiliar territory when we decided on Freshies for dinner Friday night. Here's a list of the things that went wrong with our dining experience:

1. A poorly marked sign informed patrons to write down their own names on the list at the hostess podium - which no one saw, and therefore found themselves standing in front of the podium forever while the staff merely ignored their presence waiting for them to find the sign with the instructions. Sarah took it upon herself to inform various patrons about the restaurant policies, because clearly no one who works there was interested.

2. Sarah was scolded for sitting on the staircase, due to a lack of seating available for waiting customers. No, not kindly informed that her choice of seating was not preferable to the staff, actually scolded. Mike was then ridiculed for getting in the way of this same angry staffer, as he moved an empty chair towards our corner of the courtyard waiting area. Last I checked, you don't want to make your patrons hate you before they have even committed to eating at your restaurant...

3. When asked how long the wait would be for a table, the staff answered with the same line each and every time - "the diners at your table are about halfway through their meal".

4. As a result of the inconclusive answer to number 3, we were left waiting for a table for 1 hour! We were starving and very tired.

5. After finally being escorted to a table (1 hour after arrival) we found that the diners who had been given a table shortly after our arrival, were only now receiving their food. The wait was far from over.

6. When the waitress began to recite the Specials Menu, Mike informed her that we had actually already decided what we wanted to order. She got angry and I'm sure she spit in our food.

7. My meal stank. Mike and Sarah had good meals, so I'll give them that, and the fries and house salad were quite tasty, but my meal - no good.

So, basically after 2.5 hours we walked away angry, cold and (for me) unsatisfied.

Aside from Freshies, the weekend in Tahoe was a blast. Here are some photos:

Hat Tip: Lauren

2008-07-22T11:29:00.000-07:00

This post marks the start of my new Peace Corps Blog. I aim to continue THIS blog for all of my random posts, and posts of a more personal (and therefore quirky) nature. However, for those interested in the details of my Peace Corps experience I will be starting a new blog focusing solely on my experiences in Kazakhstan. The Real Kaz - check it out (hat tip to Lauren for the name, get it?).

The Fetus

2008-07-10T11:52:00.000-07:00

For your viewing pleasure:

I stayed at a house in Benicia on Saturday night that had this stained glass on one of it's doors. Um, yes... that's a fetus.

Gas Station Disaster

2008-07-10T08:40:00.001-07:00

Welcome to my most embarrassing moment. I was telling this story the other day and I realized it just might be blog-worthy.

This was in college a few years ago. I had gotten sick and wasn't really feeling up to par and Friday came around. I had plans to go home for the weekend, so I got my stuff together and climbed into my car. I drove to the trusty Arco Gas Station (the most popular gas station in Davis because their gas was always 10 cents cheaper than everywhere else).

Being a Friday afternoon, Arco was packed. I pulled up to the pump, did my thing, and then went into the AMPM to grab a Gatorade for the ride home. After leaving the AMPM, I went back to my car, climbed inside and drove away - BANG! thud, click, crash, click, swishhh

Yes, that's right. I forgot to take the pump out of my car. As I drove away the pump snapped off and then flew across the pavement where it slid to a stop about 20 feet away. I had to stop my car, get out and the worst part is that I had to then walk across the pavement to pick up the pump and carry it back to the gas pump and hang it back up. I had managed to break the connector piece so it wouldn't reattach itself (much to my dismay).

By this time, everyone in the station is watching me and laughing. I then have to go into the AMPM and tell the not-so-competent employee what I had done. She then also laughed at me, and gave me an insurance form to fill out.

When it was all said and done, the whole incident cost me about $260, not to mention my dignity.

So, yes, if you're wondering if that ever REALLY happens... I'm afraid to say it does. :(

I guess it could have been worse...

Peace Corps, Here I Come!

2008-06-24T13:57:00.001-07:00

It's official. I received my Peace Corps Invitation this morning!

Country of Service: KAZAKHSTAN

Dates of Service: August 18, 2008 - November 7, 2010

I'm still taking it all in, and wading through the massive amounts of information that was Fed-Exed to me, but it's really happening. It's kind of crazy how much my world changed in a matter of hours. Before this morning it all felt very distant and intangible, but now it is suddenly very real. Holy cow! I'm leaving the country in less than 8 weeks!

Let the fun begin! Because you better believe I plan on making the most of these next two months...

Sasser Syndrome

2008-06-19T13:02:00.000-07:00

I was explaining at a recent softball game that I suffer from "Sasser Syndrome". Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. I looked back at this group of Fantasy Baseball fanatics, especially Jason who knows practically every baseball trivia question in the book, and said, "You know, the catcher Mickey or Mackey Sasser, who couldn't throw the ball back to the pitcher?" They insisted I was making it up and no one had any idea who I was talking about (including Jason).

Unfortunately for me, my credibility had been recently questioned when I swore up and down that the 1989 World Series game was played in Oakland, not San Francisco (an honest mistake, I swear). So they all dismissed my allegation and moved on. Well... I hate being wrong (and rarely, RARELY am) so I just had to prove myself right!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mackey_Sasser

Yes, that's right. Mackey Sasser. :)

He's quite the looker, huh?

My SF Giants

2008-06-18T11:17:00.000-07:00

So, they may not be the San Francisco Giants that I grew up cheering for. Oh how I miss those days with Matt Williams, Kevin Mitchell, Robby Thompson & Will Clark... BUT, they are still MY San Francisco Giants.

And maybe this isn't really their season, but they're still setting records and putting their names in the books. Find me another team this season that has accomplished both a TRIPLE PLAY

and STEALING HOME.

Or find me a team, period, that has accomplished both in a single season. And I am proud to be able to say that I witnessed one of these amazing feats. Yes, that's right. I took Ryan to the Giants game where Castillo, Durham and Bowker turned a fabulous triple play. How many people can say that they have seen a triple play live?

Nevermind the fact that the Giants lost that game in 13 innings (a very LONG 13 innings), you can forgive them that when you've just witnessed a triple play! :)

I'm trying to see as many Giants games as possible this season before I leave the country. So far I've got a record of 2-2 this season - I started thinking that I needed to stop going to games with Ryan because they were losing every game he attended. But the Giants did manage to pull off a fantastic win against the Tigers for Ryan's birthday on Monday, so I'm willing to reconsider. But I'm still wary...

My favorite Giants seats at AT&T park yet. Thanks Megan and Matt R.!

Bleachers! Can't beat the ambiance of screaming fans...

Triple play game! Go home San Diego.

We were surrounded by Detroit fans, but Bowker shut them up with his homerun. Happy Birthday Ryan!

Giants games with the family, just like old times. (Except this time Robby Thompson doesn't live down the street.) For those of you who don't know... Robby Thompson used to live on Oakview Drive in San Carlos (yup! MY street). On the day he moved, Ryan went down to his house and asked him to sign a ball. I was a wuss and too afraid to ask so I stayed home - still regret that decision.

So, if anyone feels like a Giants game this season... you know that I'm always up for it.

Guys and ?

2008-06-17T14:37:00.000-07:00

I've decided that someone needs to take on the task of inventing a new word. Not just any word, I've got one in mind:

There's no acceptable female equivalent for "guy" in the English language.

I, personally, constantly use the term "girl" to refer to females my age or around my age, but really that's the equivalent to "boy".

I rarely use the word "woman" because it just sounds so stuffy and mature. It's not natural for me to say that I was talking to this "woman" the other day when she was in her twenties.

And I refuse to believe that "gal" is an adequate term unless you live in the South and square dance on a regular basis.

"Lady" just makes me think of Lady and the Tramp, or some women at an English tea party.

"Chick" is acceptable in certain circumstances, but isn't really a word that a female can use to refer to another female. That's a word that should exist primarily in the male vocabulary.

So, someone please invent a new word for me to use. Thank you.

The Happiness that Is/Was "The Fort"

2008-06-16T11:46:00.001-07:00

I've got this friend. Her name is Stephanie. She's an actor.

Oh and yes, I've learned it's more PC to call her an actor than an actress. Darn feminism and equal rights interfering with the English language. We invent these words and we don't even use them, argh.

Anyways, back to the point.

She is currently performing in a show in San Francisco called Headspace (nice plug, I know). A group of us went to see the show and celebrate this budding actor friend recently. We show up only to find, what? That there's a fort! Um, yea!

The stage was a round stage and they had constructed various seating arrangements around it, one of which was a fort! So, of course we all fought over the fort and crammed as many of us as possible on it. You'd do it too, dont lie.

But what I've come to realize is that the fort is genius. I mean, truly genius. Because, while I am a fan of theater and enjoy a good show every season or so, this is definitely not the case for everyone. You know there are guys who have been dragged to plays by their girlfriends one too many times. So what do you do? You put a fort in the theater and suddenly the child in us all emerges and you're stoked to be watching this performance before you because you're camped out in a fort. Because really, who doesn't love a fort?

And even for those of us who do love a good show every once in a while, there's always something about the venue to complain about: no leg room, seats are squeaky, smells bad, etc. But lie down in a fort with pillows and try complaining about the venue...

Now, if you insist on being one of those people who swears they don't appreciate a good fort, you shouldn't be reading my blog because we shouldn't be friends. But, I suppose I'll let you stay (my readership isn't quite large enough to turn anyone away just yet).

Oh, and don't forget the best part: The top of the fort had a bucket that they could raise and lower for food and drinks. This is not a joke. Fort + Bucket = Elation.

I can't finish this post without confirming that actor friend Stephanie is indeed a rockstar, not to mention MY friend. :) Yes, Stephanie you heard it here first, I'm your friend not just Mike's.

Jason and Matt experiencing the happiness that is the fort.

Sure, there were couches too... but not quite the same as the fort.

And the happiness continues...

Ahh the fort... in all it's glory. Note the bucket.

Natural Born Tendencies

2008-06-13T10:34:00.000-07:00

What's with this whole potty training thing? I haven't been able to escape the phenomenon lately. And, to be completely honest, I don't think it is something that Americans should talk about, not to mention draw attention to. I mean, who decided, "Hey! Let's remind people that they aren't born with the ability to not crap their pants?"

Think about it... someone actually has to train you how to recognize that you are going to poop and beyond that, to actually make your way to a potty to dispose of your own waste. If no one taught us, we'd just sit there, perfectly content filling our pants with our own poop. I think it is absolutely foul.

On television a couple of days ago there was a family who was working on potty training their sextuplets. First of all, women - take pride in the fact that we are way more on top of this whole poop in the potty thing. Boys are apparently much more resistant to the whole toilet issue. But, as a whole, we are all much less capable of being trained to poop in a toilet than to pee in it. I have this awful image of a three year old girl being held at arms length in the air, being rushed to the bathtub with her panties overflowing with poop.

I just have a really hard time imagining being that age and not being able to prevent something so horrid from happening. Or, worse, not thinking that it's horrid. It just brings me back to the realization that babies are gross. They emit foulness from every orifice. If you don't believe me, watch the following video:

Now don't get me wrong... I love kids, but gross.

Again, I was confronted with the potty training issue when I came across a news article featuring a woman who claims she can potty train any child in one day. One of her tricks - if the kid makes a mess, they are forced to clean it up themselves. Can you imagine? Oh Sally just pooped her pants again... Sally, you know what to do... Go get in that bathtub and clean yourself up. And clean up those dirty panties before you put them in the washing machine, you hear? I mean, it sounds absurd, but isn't there a little part of you that would absolutely love to hand the task off to the child? AND if they are forced to handle their own soiled clothing you think they are going to be a little more desperate to figure out the whole potty thing right? I'll consider it my "last resort" method...

I also want to add that I'm awesome. I talked to my mom about all of this and she said I was the easiest kid to potty train ever. Take that Ryan! I guess it kind of makes sense... I mean I'm so disgusted by the idea now that I was clearly also disgusted by it then. I was so ahead of my time. :)

HIV Negative-Positive

2008-06-11T16:42:00.001-07:00

Ever wonder what it's like to live life in the "in-between"? Well, I've been doing it for a few weeks now, in a variety of different ways - the most disturbing of which is my HIV status.

I always thought that HIV was a hit or miss kind of thing? You know, either you have it or you don't... Well, apparently with the Peace Corps it's not that simple. Although I have officially tested "Negative" for HIV, my results have been rejected by the Peace Corps. I started wondering if maybe there was more to this HIV thing?

Since becoming HIV Negative-Positive my outlook on life has changed drastically. I received my rejection notice on May 28th and since then, life has not been the same. I got sunburned, my batting average dropped to 0.333 in Tuesday night's game, I decided to paint my toenails purple, the lovely people of Starbucks have learned my name and my order by heart. All very rare occurences in my life up until my diagnosis.

I visited my doctor on Tuesday, hoping she could provide some comfort. Although, as mentioned in a previous post, she's not exactly the most comforting of doctors. She just told me some depressing story about a patient of hers who gets tested regularly for HIV because he has a thing for prostitutes. He must also be suffering from HIV Negative-Positive, it's the only explanation. :)

My doctor gave me another lab report declaring me HIV Negative, so I can only hope that with evidence of my blood work the Peace Corps will reconsider their initial rejection and I can return to being a regular HIV Negative individual. I think the chances are good...

*On a side note, thanks to Lauren for giving me the idea for this much overdue blog post. Ideas and inspiration are always welcome as I am a regular victim of blogger's block.

Peace Corps Update

2008-05-22T08:15:00.000-07:00

It seems like nearly every day I have someone else asking me if I know where I'm heading for my Peace Corps service, or when I'm leaving. Believe you me, when I know... every one of you will know. For now, to keep the questions at bay, here's the latest:

- I completed all of my medical examinations, got a whole bunch of lab reports and doctors' signatures. I sent my packet to the placement office in DC a little over three weeks ago. I have not heard from them since then, in fact, until this morning I didn't know if the packet had even made it to DC.

- This morning, I received an update declaring that they received my medical packet as of May 21, 2008.

So, now I wait for them to review my medical kits, hope that they don't need any more information from me (which would certainly mean giving more blood and getting more shots - not to mention more waiting). Once approved, they will then start looking for a place to send me. And then I receive my invitation in the mail. We're looking at about a month or two before I know where I'm heading.

The "good" news is that they send the invitation at least six weeks before your departure date. So, I can start planning my future a minimum of six weeks before I leave. Argh...

Outwit, Outlast, Outeat

2008-05-21T07:56:00.000-07:00

I don't know how many of you have seen the movie Alive, but for those of you who haven't, here's the basic plot:

A Uraguayan Rugby team suffers a plane crash in the Andes Mountains in 1972. No search team is coming to rescue them, and they need to gain strength to find help for themselves. Unfortunately, they have no food left. The only solution: to eat the dead. (Based upon a true story.)

The movie forces people to ask themselves the question, What would you do in this situation? Would you eat the dead or not? On our way home from softball a couple of weeks ago, Matt and Justin took this idea a little further. Sure, it started innocently enough as Justin affirmed that he would want all of us to eat him if he died first. Matt concluded that he would indeed have no reservations about eating Justin - his former roommate of many years. I was a little less certain about eating Justin, and Lauren was just absolutely appalled that our drive home had taken such a terrible turn.

They theorized that if they found themselves in a similar situation, you know that everyone would just be hoping that the fat guy dies first - absolutely willing him to death in the hopes of food for all. But, wait, maybe we want the most muscular person to die first - more meat, less fat. After only a couple of short minutes, the question of whether or not to eat the dead was no longer the issue - these guys were beyond eating the dead. They were now eating AND mutilating the dead without hesitation.

I'm not sure who started it, but they began imagining all of the ways they could use the various bones and appendages of the person they had just devoured. At this point Lauren and I were begging them to stop, assuring them they had taken it far enough, we were turning up the radio to drown out their discussions about using the jaw bone as a saw, and adorning their bodies in the carcasses of their comrades - like the indians would do, they claimed. After enough complaining, the conversation finally took a turn...

Matt and Justin had now jumped to the following scenario: you are alone, with no friends left to eat. At what point do you decide to eat your own arm? I found myself trying not to laugh at this point. It's one thing to talk about eating another human being - a dead one, at that - but to begin eating your own body, while you are still alive (obviously) is beyond imaginable for me. But, Matt and Justin were very easily capable of imagining it. I don't know if the rest of you have thought this through, but here are Matt and Justin's pointers for anyone considering eating themselves:

1. Eat your left arm first (if you are right handed).
2. Next, after making certain that there are no berries left to scrounge or any method of saving yourself by foot, move on to the legs.
3. Make sure you leave the other arm, otherwise you will be unable to cut up the rest of your body.
4. Take it slow, pace yourself.
5. To eat your second arm, is to admit defeat.

How any one person, not to mention two could begin to devise such a plan is beyond me. We all laughed as they imagined the rescuers finally showing up to save you, and finding the savage survivor with nothing but a torso left.

In conclusion, should any of you find yourselves on vacation with Matt and Justin, you better hope you are not the fattest or the most muscular, you better not give up, and you better be willing to Outwit, Outlast, Outeat.

Got Milk?

7 Random Things About Me

2008-05-16T12:49:00.000-07:00

I'm taking inspiration from Lailah. I guess I'm supposed to choose seven things about myself that most people wouldn't know. I'm resorting to this blog because I'm stuck. In life, I'm stuck - I still don't know where I'm headed or when (Peace Corps), and my blogs are starting to resemble this issue. I thought maybe this fun little post might un-stick me. (Please ignore the bizarre thoughts possibly conjured up of a Post-It just then. Just me? Nevermind.). So... 7 random things that I think most of you won't know about me.

I have a very small family.
My entire extended family (including the spouses and kids of my cousins) is only 22 people. AND all of my grandparents are still living. So, this number has not been reduced by deaths in the family - this is the whole thing. I have five cousins, three aunts, and two uncles. As a result, I find myself wanting more kids than the average person from my generation.

I jumped out of a plane.
This doesn't come up in daily conversations and as a result I guess not too many people know about it. In March of 2005, I had to leave my house to get some studying done in a quiet place. I went for a drive and parked. I saw a whole bunch of parachutes falling from the sky in front of me. I turned the car on and found a skydiving facility down the road. I convinced three friends to come with me and in April of 2005 we jumped. I loved it even though I look like a mentally handicapped individual in my video as we're getting ready to tumble out of the plane - long story.

I grew 7" during high school.
When I entered Sequoia High School I was 5'2". By the summer of my junior year I was 5'9". I had many painful months.

I'm ophidiophobic.
Big time. We're talking, I have to change the channel or cover my eyes when I see a snake on TV. I used to just think I was afraid of snakes like some girls are afraid of spiders (which don't really bother me), but then I had a professor who explained the difference between fear and phobia. He said, imagine there is a snake in a box in the corner of the room, if you are afraid of snakes, you wouldn't go near the box, if you have a phobia, you couldn't be in the same room as the box. I would not be in the same building as the box. Needless to say, I don't understand why anyone would want to see the movie Snakes on a Plane.

On the SATs my Math score was 260 points higher than my Verbal score.
This is only worth mentioning because I graduated from college with a Bachelor's degree in English. I was admitted to UC Davis as an Econ major, and took classes including Statistics and Calculus during my first year at Davis. It wasn't until I took an elective called Creative Writing: Fiction that I officially changed majors. This was after a series of other considered majors including Exercise Biology (I wanted to be a Pediatric Physical Therapist). I haven't taken a math class since that quarter, but there was a time when my math skills were much higher than my English skills, believe it or not.

I screen my calls.
This is true of just about every phone call I receive. I don't think there is a single person whose phone call I have not ignored at least once. It's not because I don't like everyone who calls me, but there are just some times when you don't feel like talking on the phone. And unfortunately I experience these moments more often than the average person. So, I'm sorry in advance because if I have not yet ignored your phone call, I will once during our friendship - it's basically inevitable.

I have to wet my toothbrush before I put toothpaste on it, and then wet it again with the toothpaste.
I know, this is so random but that's the point right? AND I got stuck on number 7. I couldn't think of anything. So, when I brush my teeth I guess I'm really paranoid about making sure the brushing is going to be sudsy so I have to make sure everything is wet. I used to be the same way about washing my hands, wet them, soap in them and then wet again. I've decided that's a waste of water now, but I can't quit the tooth brushing habit.

Now that I read this list over, I'm realizing that the few people who read this blog fairly regularly (my faithful readers as Lailah and I would call them) probably know almost all of these things about me. But for those of you who don't... now you know and surely feel exponentially more enlightened than you were before you stumbled across this post.

Accident-Prone?

2008-05-13T22:24:00.000-07:00

As a kid, I was always covered in dirt and almost always had stains on my clothes. I was that kid that just wanted to get into everything and when my parents took me camping I was the first one to find some way to get dirty. There's a picture of me, at the age of three where it looks like I could have very well been eating dirt and then spreading it all over my body, I'm covered in layer of brown - the tannest I've ever been.

Again, at about the age of four, is my favorite home video of all time - a birthday party of mine at the gymnastics center. We basically rented out the place for an hour and just ran and ran and ran. We jumped into the giant foam pit and climbed in and out of big foam structures. It was basically a four-year-old's dream, just uninterrupted playing for an hour. Included in this deal was a gymnastics instructor - basically a babysitter who was paid to wear us out while our parents stood on the sidelines chatting.

Part of the fun were these big (3' x 3') foam blocks that were stacked on one side of the gym in a pyramid that stood probably 9' high. All of us kids would climb onto the pyramid and jump off of it onto a big pad in a fit of giggles. My adventuresome spirit came out and I got the brilliant idea to upstage my friends with a new dismount. I climbed onto the top of the pyramid, turned around so my back was facing the pad, lay down and slowly slid off the block backwards with my arms hanging on to the top of the block. As I got ready to drop, my arms caught the block and as I fell the block came tumbling after. First, I hit the pad, and then the giant block landed on top of me. My mom was videotaping the whole thing while talking to a friend of hers, and as the viewer watches me fall, you hear my mom simultaneously saying "whoop! there she goes..."

But here's the ridiculous part - I didn't get hurt. I'm sure I cried for a little bit out of shock, as four-year-olds do, but not a bruise or a scratch on my body. I share this story only to point out that I would often do the most ridiculous things, and I suffered no injuries.

Even with this adventuresome spirit of mine, I surprisingly never broke a bone (excluding a couple of untreated fingers during volleyball season) and I've never had stiches (although I probably should have that time my dad hit me in the head with a wrench - nice little scar from that one, thanks Pops!).

I've been playing sports since I was eight, and of course there have been the inevitable minor injuries - sprained an ankle once, a floor burn or two and a potentially broken finger from volleyball, a handful of raspberries from softball, but those were just part of the deal. I had friends that were tearing their ACL's, breaking bones, getting awesome casts in festive colors, but me - I got nothing.

What I have found is that while I escape the major injuries I'm constantly experiencing little accidents. Megan won't let me live down the time I parked in front of her house, jumped out of my car to run inside and somehow managed to trip on the curb, skid on the sidewalk and tear a hole in my jeans. I'm sure if I allowed them, my friends could recount many more of these types of stories.

Until recently, I've felt relatively accident free. In the past four or five years I don't feel as though I've done too many stupid things or fallen unexpectedly. Granted, there still haven't been any major injuries suffered, but for the lack of dangerous situations I've been placing myself in, I'm getting hurt a surprising amount. Just in the last few weeks... I looked down at my hand and saw that one of my fingers was bleeding after packing up camp on our recent camping trip. I smashed my thumb in my desk drawer scraping off a chunk of skin. I've got an inexplicit cut on my knuckle that's scabbing over, I ran into the corner of our couch the other night leaving a mighty bruise on my thigh. Not to mention the slice I took out of my finger with the serrated knife while chopping onions (see prior post)... and to top it all off, I got a terrifyingly fast softball to the shin while playing third base at our game on Tuesday night.

I'm afraid that it's all starting to catch up to me. All those injuries escaped during my childhood might be coming back to haunt me. If this is the case, you might as well stick me in a bubble because I'm pretty sure the worst is yet to come.

My New (Unwelcome) Houseguest

2008-05-05T10:03:00.000-07:00

Friday night, as I was watching TV in my room (yes, I had very big plans Friday night) I started to hear scratching above my head. It took me a few minutes to figure out what was going on, but then I realized that something was scratching around in the attic.

About a year ago, we had a similar problem -- rats had managed to make their way into our attic. My dad solved the problem by littering the attic with rat poison and eventually we terminated those nasty vermin! Unfortunately, one of the terminated rats was found underneath my mom's car as she pulled out of the garage. Needless to say, she freaked! She tore out of the garage, closed the door, and called my dad at work to warn him that the dead rat better be gone by the time she got home from work that afternoon. He disposed of the carcass, but my mom has never quite gotten over that morning.

I managed to sleep Friday night with no more interuptions from our guest in the attic. But, I had made the mistake of going downstairs and telling my mom about the rat - having become, myself, a little spooked out by the thing. She had to load her car up Friday night for an early morning photo shoot on Saturday and couldn't stop picturing the rat underneath her car from the year before. I got in a little bit of trouble for (unintentionally) freaking her out.

If it hasn't been made clear by now, my dad was out of town this weekend - so our rat exterminator was not available. Saturday night, I crawled into bed and proceeded to be woken up about every 15 minutes from 2 am to 7 am by the guest upstairs. At one point I was convinced the rat was going to gnaw a hole through the ceiling and fall into my bed. This was enough to keep me from sleeping soundly the rest of the night, in addition to the loud noises above my head.

So, here's how my Saturday night went. Fifteen minutes of light sleep, then loud scratching wakes me up. I stumble to my feet on top of my bed and jump up and down slamming my palms against the ceiling. Then I collapse back on to the bed for fifteen more minutes of sleep before repeating myself. After about two hours of repeating this routine, I started thinking of alternatives - I made my way into my closet where I found an old volleyball of mine. I climbed back into bed with the volleyball in my arms and fell asleep. The next time my new friend woke me up, I grabbed the volleyball in both hands and threw it against the ceiling a few times, and then curled back up with it. It was one of the worst nights of sleep I've ever experienced.

I called my dad on his way home from Oregon, and warned him about the attic guest and that my mom was surely going to get on his case to terminate the thing as soon as he walked in the front door. So, he came home loaded with rat poison and climbed up into the attic. I still heard scratching last night, but it was much less powerful, so hopefully the poison is weakening this guest of mine already. I also forced my dad to assure me that there was absolutely no way the rat could gnaw his way through my ceiling.

Now, apparently I just have to wait until it drops onto my mom's car. :)

Dear Conditioner

2008-05-02T08:35:00.000-07:00

Why on earth can you not manage to last half as long as your dear friend Shampoo? I mean, just look at Salt & Pepper, they've got it totally figured out. One salt shaker lasts equally as long as a pepper shaker (unless you are my dad, who feels the necessity to drown every item of food in gallons of pepper - but that's a rare case, not to mention disgusting). But you and Shampoo have some serious work to do. I shouldn't have to buy two bottles of you for every bottle of Shampoo that I buy.

I don't mind if you are bigger than Shampoo so that you last as long... but maybe you have a complex about being so much larger than Shampoo? Get over yourself, Conditioner, everyone loves you more anyways. It is you, Conditioner, that makes my hair silky smooth and shiny. Shampoo has got nothing on you - EXCEPT that Shampoo has the longevity factor that you can't seem to get a grasp on. You must understand that you are thicker and you don't make suds like Shampoo, therefore a dollop of you doesn't go nearly as far as Shampoo.

Who can buy Conditioner without feeling it necessary to buy your counterpart Shampoo? Not I. My shower is filled with half-empty bottles of Shampoo and one sole, rapidly depleting, bottle of Conditioner. You are a duo that should not be separated, but I am starting to think that I am simply going to have to start buying extra of you to make up for this problem. And this is not a solution that I appreciate.

So, Conditioner, I beg of you -- get your act together and banish this problem I have.

Love (for now),
Jamie

It Should Come With A Warning Label

2008-04-30T10:23:00.000-07:00

The new Weepies album "Hideaway" should definitely come with a warning label. I'm a big fan of The Weepies and I bought their new album last weekend before our road trip to Santa Barbara. Unfortunately, it wasn't really that kind of road trip so we didn't listen to the album- instead we listened to a really awesome 6 hour mix I made. So, when I got back to the Bay on Sunday I was really anxious to start listening. I got in a few tracks on the way to Burlingame for dinner with Ryan and Lailah on Monday night, but come Tuesday I still hadn't heard most of the album.

So I plugged in the iPod as I jumped in my car to head to my softball game. I figured I could listen to the remaining tracks to and from the field (which is less than ten minutes from my front door). As I got ready to turn onto 101N I saw that traffic was stopped. So, feeling pretty awesome for knowing the backroads, I decided I'd take them through Redwood Shores to avoid the freeway and traffic. It was an absolute success until I got within 100 yards of the field.

I sat stopped at the last light before the field. I was hanging out in the right hand lane enjoying my Weepies. The light turned green and the trail of cars started chugging forward. Suddenly I realized I was on the on-ramp to the freeway two lanes to the right of where I needed to be. Because traffic on 101 was so heavy there was no way for me to get over two lanes in the 20 feet before we entered "no turning back" territory. So, I slowly inched on to the freeway. As I drove past the field I laughed at myself for being so ridiculous as I imagined my teammates watching me creeping by the field on the freeway.

I finally made it down to the next exit and turned around to get back on 101 heading the other direction (which had much less traffic at this time of day). I was cranking my Weepies again and enjoying life as I drove past the field one more time before my exit. I exited and headed left. It was just seconds too late that I realized the left hand lane doesn't take you East over the overpass, but instead takes you down to the next exit. Again, I had to take the backroads through Belmont this time, to get back to the overpass I had just driven under twice.

I finally made it to the field, had just enough time to lace up my cleats and then I was running to the batter's box.

I was that car on the road that just kept driving past its destination but couldn't actually manage to get there. Back and forth on 101 I drove, while my teammates sat at the field totally unaware that I was just on the other side of the fence passing by on the freeway.

Pretty much, I blame The Weepies.

Jamie Lynne Morris

2008-04-22T11:15:00.000-07:00

That's my name. Take note. Not because I'm going to be famous one day or anything, but because I’m under the impression that it's a simple name. I have always thought that it was relatively hard to misspell or mispronounce. BUT, oh how wrong I was. So, I'm just asking that everyone take a nice little glance at how the letters combine and in what order.

I have to hand it to my parents; they did a pretty good job picking names for Ryan and me. Our names aren't unusual in any regard, but they aren't overused either, like many of the popular names of my generation. My only real complaint growing up was that it wasn't very easy to make a nickname out of Jamie. People have tried over the years, and a few have stuck, but for the most part, I'm just Jamie. And, at the age of 24, I'm quite happy with it. But in middle school, it was a different story.

At that age, there was this desire to find something unique about your name. There was one girl at our school that wanted to be unique so badly that she started spelling her name differently. She went from Jackie to Jakki. Her poor parents. My attempt was much less successful. Growing up, I had accumulated only two nicknames thus far, neither of which was exactly impressive – Jamerz and Jamie from Nebraska. So, I tried to get people to start calling me J.J. Just the thought of it makes me shudder. Fortunately, no one else saw the relation (noting the obvious - that there is no other “J” in my name) and it never caught. In fact, I don’t think a single person ever called me J.J. At the time, I was very disappointed.

I got over trying to force a nickname upon myself, and learned to just like being referred to as Jamie. But the glory days didn’t last long. When I entered high school (which was about 65% Latino) I encountered some new problems with my name. Teachers reading off the attendance sheet started hesitating and calling out the name “himay” (which might I add is actually spelled Jaime) AND is the name of a boy. There would be chuckling among my friends, but after a few classes at Sequoia High School, teachers caught on and the problem diminished. I thought I had heard the last of it, until that fateful afternoon in June of 2002.

The week before graduation all of us Seniors were handed name cards. We were supposed to fill out our name as we would like it read over the speaker system as we received our diploma. Beside each word, we were instructed to spell the name phonetically (so as to reduce mispronunciations on one of the most important days of your life). My friends and I laughed as we filled out these cards, because we all had pretty simple names to read, “Sarah Hogan”, “Adam Klein”, “Chelsea Lewis” etc. But nonetheless, I filled my card out like this:

Jamie (jay-me) Lynne (lin) Morris (more-iss)

So, I’m all dressed up in my graduation robe, sitting in the bleachers with my friends (alphabetically, I was close enough to exchange glances with Miskelly and Milanos). Our cue comes and my row stands and begins filing towards the podium. As I hand my name card (complete with pronunciation guide) to my guidance counselor and step up to the plate, I wait to hear this name that I have grown to love announced over the speaker system. Instead, this is what I, my parents, my friends, my family, and the families of all of my close friends heard, “Himay Lynne Morris”. Wide-eyed, I looked my counselor in the eye absolutely stunned. Ms. Dolores Sleeper looked back at this blonde, pale-skinned, 18-year-old, and stumbled out a quiet correction “Jamie” (which to this day no one remembers hearing besides myself).

Thanks to Dolores Sleeper I’d finally gotten myself that nickname I had so long ago desired. I can admit that the whole scenario is really quite entertaining now, when I visit with the families of those high school friends, they all laugh about Himay’s graduation. And the name started sticking. At some point in college, the story got out, and the nickname expanded on itself. I was now Himay Gonzales (with an accent of course) in certain circles, which is so ridiculous you just have to laugh, and to this day I still have one friend who calls me nothing other than Himay.

Now, here’s what you have to recognize. Himay, is the phonetic spelling of Jaime – the Hispanic version of my name. So, whenever someone spells my name Jaime, it strikes a little nerve and I have nightmares about that afternoon in July and those mornings when attendance was being read. While this was not included on my list of pet peeves, it should have been. With friends, I’ll usually forgive an initial misspelling or two, but I’m quick to correct after that point.

At food joints where the barista or whomever asks for your name, I’m always more entertained with the various ways that these professionals believe my name to be spelled. They’ve run the gamut – Jaymee being one of my favorite. A teammate on my softball team had a sister with the same name as me, but hers was spelled J-Me, on her birth certificate. I’ve taken up this method of spelling my name whenever I feel that the five letters are just too strenuous a task.

We won’t even get into my middle name. That’s almost always spelled without the “E”, which I can understand, and forgive considering how rarely it is used. My medical records at Kaiser still have me listed as Jamie Lynn because I’m too lazy to go through the process of showing up in person downtown to change the record. And as for Morris, it has only been in the last two or three years that I have started to take a liking to my name. As a kid I hated my last name because my signature always went to the dogs after the M-O. Two double cursive r’s… that’s just never attractive. The way I sign my name now, it looks like Jamie L. Mom’s.

So, here’s another window into the weird way that my mind works. I’m sure it sounds a little OCD, but if people started spelling my brother’s name Rian, I’m sure he’d have issue too. Well, OK maybe he’s a bad example. Point is, I’m sure every one of you has had at least one name issue in your day (except maybe my cousin Christopher Patrick Tate – that one’s pretty hard to screw up) but hey I thought my name was easy too… so who knows?

I have been known to respond to any of the following, if I have missed any feel free to correct me:

J.Mo
James
Paisley
Jame-Jame
Himay Gonzales
Himay
Jamie from Nebraska
Jamerz
Sister

But one last time, for the record, it’s Jamie Lynne Morris.

What's the greatest thing in the world?

2008-04-22T09:20:00.000-07:00

This question came about the other day. I understand that it’s a pretty loaded question, and that in order to answer it, you really have to understand what kind of person you are and what things are ultimately the most important to you. I had a really hard time answering it. This probably boils down to the fact that I’m utterly indecisive. I’m really awful at picking favorites (with the exception of a few things) and I usually cheat and pick my Top 5.

So, I did what any schooled person would do… I decided to look at my friends’ answers. I started sending emails and asking friends simply “What’s the greatest thing in the world?” I figured everyone else would have an equally hard time answering this question and that I would feel better about my own inability to decide. What I found surprised me…

The very first person I asked gave me one of my favorite answers. I sent her a message that just stated the question, no lead-up, no explanation, just the question. She responded seconds later with Happiness. As simple as that. The more people that responded, the more intrigued I became with how their answers corresponded with their lives and their personalities.

Ask yourself the question, what’s the greatest thing in the world to me, and just pay attention to the kinds of answers that run through your mind. For me, it was all of these little pleasures (cheesecake, laughter, long showers, etc.). But when it came down to picking the big ideas, I got overwhelmed; it starts to feel so definitive.

I also found myself expecting certain answers from certain people. I knew my family would say something about God. I figured a couple of my love-struck friends would mention Love in one way or another. And at the same time, things I had known about certain people or their circumstance were affirmed through the less expected answers they gave me. My friend who is just finishing up law school, commented on the value of a good night’s sleep. :) Another chose “imagination” and was quick to explain that without imagination we are no different from any other species. A recent college grad mentioned how great “experiencing new things” is. Others simply jumped with the first thing that came to their mind, which was surprisingly usually a food item – pizza, chocolate and strawberries all making that list.

So here’s what some of my close friends and family deemed the greatest things in the world:

Happiness
Experiencing New Things
Real, Honest Laughter
Friends & Family
My Husband
Courage
A Good Night’s Sleep, When You’ve Worked Really Hard
The Thing You Want Most In a Moment That You Are Least Able To Obtain
Jesus
Babies
Love
Family
A Warm Sun-Filled Day
Imagination
Optimism
The Strawberries I Am Eating Right Now
Chocolate
Bicycles
Pizza

I should also note that I didn’t really want to publish this blog (which I typed up a little over a week ago), but I’ve been getting grief from all of the people who gave me answers, so this one serves to appease the masses. :)

My Tumultuous Relationship with Root Beer

2008-04-16T13:27:00.000-07:00

Root Beer makes me vomit.

I don't like the taste of Root Beer. True.

I say that it makes me vomit to merely emphasize the fact that I don't like the taste of Root Beer. False.

It's not an exaggeration or a method to help me convince you of the severity of my dislike for Root Beer. It's a fact. When I drink Root Beer, I throw up. Granted, I haven't drank any Root Beer since the last time it made me vomit, but would you? I think not.

Let's revisit the scenario from the last time I drank Root Beer, shall we? I was 15 (so now you have to imagine me being at least 4 inches shorter). I was at Lake Shasta on a houseboating trip with my high school youth group. The sun was setting. We had all gathered around the basecamp for a night of singing gospel songs and playing games (pretty traditional evening routine). As my competitive spirit starts to swell, we are all split up into two teams.

The first activity I sit out (not by choice! but due to too many numbers, you can only compete in one activity). I watch as my fellow teammates line up beside the other team (LOSERS!) and the first person in line is handed a large brown paper bag. On the count of three the first person in each of the two lines reaches into the bag and pulls out an object. They are now required to consume the entirety of the contents in their hand before passing the bag on to the next person in line. I remember very little about what my teammates were forced to eat, except that there were multiple jars of baby food in that brown paper bag. I can't remember if my team won or not (Shocker, I know, but I wasn't participating so I was less invested).

Activity Number Two. I am up to the plate. A handful of members from each team are asked to stand along the edge of one side of the picnic table, facing the members from the opposing team. So here I stand, at the picnic table staring down the person facing me. Starting at one end of the table and working their way down, the youth group leaders begin placing an object in front of each person at the table. As I look down in front of me, what else do I see but a nice cold can of A&W Root Beer? Oh great.

Rules of the Game. Starting at the head of the picnic table, both teams begin chugging the can of Root Beer. When they have emptied the contents of their can, the next team member pops the soda can and starts chugging. First team to place the last empty soda can upside down on the picnic table wins.

And, I'm sweating. The only thing worse than this can of soda would be a jar of pickles. But, it's a competition. What can I do? At this point, I'm more concerned with winning than I am with my own tastes. So I lift my head and growl at the individual standing across from me. OK, I don't really growl, that would just be weird, but you get the idea.

3... 2... 1... GO!

And we're off! These Senior boys just demolish these cans of soda, and in what feels like less than 30 seconds we've finished at least three cans. We've got two people ahead of me, and before I know it the person standing to my left has the soda can at their mouth and they're chugging. I just can't let my team down! He/she (how could I possible remember) smashes their can upside down on the picnic table and my shaking fingers are popping the top to my can of A&W and raising it to my mouth. Ughhhh... Just that gnarly smell alone makes my stomach lurch. I've got Root Beer running down my cheeks, splashing on my shirt, sneaking in my nose, not to mention pouring down my throat. I have absolutely no idea how I finished that can of Root Beer, but all I remember is smashing the upside down can on the picnic table and running for the bushes.

I cannot tell you which team won. Hopefully mine, but as the game finished up I was a little preoccupied upchucking into the greenery. I'll spare you the details, but lets just say it came out with as much force as it went down with. And, if the vomiting wasn't enough, I had Root Beer all over my shirt, my face, my hands. I smelled like Root Beer for the remainder of the night, and fought off the upchuck reflex for quite some time. We won't even get into the whole inability to burp thing.

It was a less than pleasant experience, and I haven't sipped Root Beer since that awful evening.

Book Club

2008-04-14T08:23:00.001-07:00

I decided that my fabulous book club needed a blog post. We started our book club back in October (around the same time that I attempted to start a book club with some old high school friends - which after three months of me being the only one who read the books, was disbanded). But this book club has been a godsend. There are 9 of us in the group, many of whom I didn't know before the club started, and now I find myself eagerly anticipating the monthly gatherings with each of these wonderful gals.

We've read some really great books, and some not so wonderful books (It's The End of the World As We Know It), drank some good wine and eaten some fabulous food. And, if I do say so myself, we've got a pretty good dynamic going on and just the right number of people in the club to get some great discussions going. There is always a dinner (or brunch) which everyone contributes to, resulting in far too much food each and every month, and then just a lot of catching up and story telling.

Last night was our 7th book club meeting, where we had read The Diving Bell and The Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby. For anyone who doesn't know his story, he was the editor-in-chief of French Elle, when he suffered a massive stroke that left him the victim of Locked-In Syndrome. Pretty much, he was completely paralyzed except for the ability to blink his left eye. And that is how he wrote this book - by blinking his left eye!

Unfortunately we had our first injuries reported last night. I came over to Lauren's (our host for April) to help prep dinner and she assigned me to chopping duty. I assured her that I was a world class chopper. Moments later, I yelped and after much blood loss and a little dizziness, I was back to work with a band-aid on my index finger. Lauren ridiculed me to no end (I think dropping the chopped garlic all over the kitchen floor didn't help my situation), but I had the last laugh because when opening a can she sliced her thumb and also returned to work with a band-aid. :)

April's book club was also possibly the loudest book club in our history. We found that we have the tendency to raise the volume around the dinner table to an unhealthy level. But, we also took a little time to get to know each other with a nice juvenile game of two truths and a lie. Where this came from I have no idea - well it was from Steph, but that doesn't exactly explain why we all agreed to play it, that could have been the wine. But I think we'd all agree that it has been a blast getting to know these girls both in and out of book club over the past 7 months.

The best part - so most of these gals know each other through their fiances/husbands/brothers (a group of guys who know each other from high school and college), a group which includes Ryan. When these guys realized that they were all sitting around with nothing to do one night a month they decided to band together and form their own club. So they formed "The Barrio" - a club focused on finding the best burrito in the Bay Area. http://burritorater.blogspot.com/. While it pales in comparison to our book club, the entertainment value is quite high.

Love these girls, and love our monthly get-togethers. Thanks for all the laughs, can't wait to see what next month has in store...

Book Club Members:
Ashley, Becky, Cary, Lailah, Lauren, Megan, Robin, & Stephanie.

Birthday Celebrations Can Never Be Too Late

2008-04-13T09:32:00.000-07:00

So, for my birthday this year two of my closest friends planned a little outing for us. It is actually becoming somewhat of a tradition with the three of us. Last year they surprised me and drove me over to Carmel for the day, where we picnicked on the beach and then went to a daffodil farm and picked 'til our hearts content. It was probably the greatest birthday ever.

Here we are at the daffodil farm in Carmel Valley last year (2007).

So this year, after some minor scheduling delays and health issues, the two of them decided to try and out-do last year's celebration and we drove up to Saratoga and went wine tasting. The weather could not have been more perfect, causing Sarah to force us to put Tracy's top down on the way there and on the way back, so the hair was a little bit of a tangled mess, but we had a great time.

They packed another picnic and we ate out on the property at one of the vineyards after our first wine tasting. Then we drove down the mountain to a second vineyard, complete with roaming peacock (which was certainly Tracy's favorite part of the day) and did some more wine tasting before heading home. I pretty much have the greatest friends EVER.

It was an absolutely fabulous day, and I certainly can't complain about getting to extend my birthday celebrations into the month of April. Who would? So cheers to fabulous friends and wonderful weather! Thank you for yet another outstanding birthday.

Sarah

Tracy

And if you can't tell from the pictures, I was stuck sitting in the back seat on the way to the vineyards. :)

Cruel and Unusual Punishment

2008-04-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

I'm changing doctors.

I had my first medical appointment yesterday for my extensive Peace Corps Medical Evaluation. When my doctor heard that I was joining the Peace Corps she started by telling me about some married friends of hers who decided to go to Cambodia and the husband came back with a liver disease that was slowly killing him. After she told me horror story number one, she decided to continue with this fright fest and mention all of the additional immunizations I was going to need before I left and how much they were going to hurt. Um, excuse me? Aren't you supposed to be my doctor? Last I checked this wasn't exactly the favored method of speaking to your patients.

Then I handed her the stack of medical forms that I need to get filled out in the next couple of weeks. As she began browsing the immunizations and blood work that I needed done she kept smiling and laughing and looked me in the eyes and said "you going to cry", and as she scheduled each injection and blood draw she noted to herself and her now very uncomfortable patient "ouch! this going to hurt" and "ooo! so many needles..." When I told her that I'm not a crier and I that I was prepared for the process, she said, "OK, well when you come back next appointment, you tell me if you cried. I bet you do."

As if all of this wasn't bad enough, she kept checking back with me to make sure I still wanted to join the Peace Corps. She even asked me if I could really ride a bike, because in Asia you'll die if you can't ride a bike well. So, Dr. Leung is out, BUT the process yesterday didn't end there. After her examination I was shuttled to the Injection Clinic where more joyous events awaited me.

In the Injection Clinic I was told I would be getting three injections, and was handed a form for Polio, Tetanus and TB. Let me say now that I don't like needles. At my old doctor's office, the Injection Nurse would always laugh at me because I can't watch them stick the needles into me, so I would stare determinedly at the wall over the opposite shoulder, and then he would give me a Snoopy bandaid when it was all over. I can handle needles, as long as I don't look at the needle or what is going into or coming out of my body. So the two Injection Nurses yesterday (after giving me these pamphlets) walked out of the little shower curtain enclosed room and started preparing my entourage of drugs. I guess they thought this little shower curtain was a sound proof barrier because the older of the two nurses began asking the other if she could do all three shots, or if she would like to watch the other woman do them this time. Pretty much, the woman who was about to shove three needles into my body was a newbie. Great! And now I'm worried...

After Polio in my left shoulder and Tetanus in my right and the TB test in my right forearm, I still wasn't done for the day. The new nurse did alright, not too much pain at the time of the injection (although I suffered all night last night from aching shoulders). So from the Injection Clinic I walked over to the Lab for blood work and urinanalysis. I peed in a cup (which I had been holding since I got to the doctor's - knowing that this was an inevitable part of the day's proceedings) dropped it off in a box and was asked by the lady standing next to the box "do you need blood work".

At this point, let's be honest... I'm tempted to say no and run the hell out of there. But I've got the form in my hand and it would have just been avoiding the inevitable. So I let her sit me down in a chair, lay my left arm on a cushion, and watch as she pulls out vial after vial after vial. Five empty vials sat there in front of me on this little counter. Instinct set in, and before she even had the stretchy rubber thing tied around my bicep I was staring intently at the wall over my right shoulder.

I guess maybe this looked a little bizarre, because the nurse immediately asked me if I was OK. I reassured her that I was fine, I just can't watch. This exchange took place about four more times during the process, but she managed to steal five vials of blood from my left arm before I left the doctor's.

So, in less than two hours I had three injections, five vials of blood drawn, a cup full of pee and three Advil, not to mention the strong desire for a new doctor. And this was only Day One of the process... I go back in 2 days, and again next week.

In the Beginning...

2008-04-07T13:39:00.000-07:00

Ryan was born with a bang - quite literally. He was born a couple of weeks after Mount Saint Helens erupted in 1980. I have always pictured this scrapbook page that my grandmother had made in his baby book that consisted of my brother's infant body rising out of the explosion of the Mount Saint Helens eruption. How awesome is that?! The world was so excited for the arrival of my brother that even the volcanoes couldn't contain themselves any longer. My mother has always associated that geological event with the birth of my brother. They drove home from the hospital through a city and along streets that were blanketed in a thick layer of ash. There are pictures from our house in Portland that show piles of ash swept up along the curbs as one might sweep up the fallen leaves of autumn. The whole city was in a state of disbelief and everything seemed to stand still for a few moments as the minds of everyone tried to wrap themselves around this phenomenon. THAT was my brother's entrance - a massive bang! followed by a period of silence and reflection; a world that stood still for a few extra moments.

All I can say is that I tried. I tried to make a better entrance. I tried to show the world that I was a force to be reckoned with and that I, too, could change the world. Unfortunately, Mount Saint Helens wasn't returning my calls; apparently she wasn't interested in another explosion. If Orwell had been right, maybe 1984 wouldn't have been a bad year to make my move, but he was horribly wrong and I hadn't gotten the message. It looked as though the world wasn't going to be working with me, so I decided to take my destiny into my own hands. I came up with the leap year! OK, so I realize it's no volcanic eruption, but it's all I had (I mean, come on I was only a fetus). So, I was going to be a leap day baby! All I had to do was get my timing right and I would be born on February 29, 1984. Even the doctors agreed with my plan (probably out of pity) and my due date was set.

My time came around and I fought my way into this world in a hurry. My mother was in labor for less than 5 hours and has always marveled at how anxious I seemed to be to make my way into this world. Clearly, she didn't know who she was working with. Unfortunately, February 29, 1984 had already come and gone precisely nine hours before my birth. It was only after that Leap Day had completed and the mystery and individuality had passed that I decided to make my move - en retard. I was born in Portland, Oregon on the morning of March 1, 1984 - as close to exceptional as possible, without actually achieving anything of the sort.

I was one day late. I had simply misread the calendar hanging on the walls of my mother's womb. There is nothing exceptional about the first of March. I tried, during my younger years, to convince myself otherwise. It had helped that I shared a birthday with the hunk of all 80's hunks - Mark-Paul Gosselaar (otherwise known as Zack Morris on Saved by the Bell). But, even that would eventually be trumped by the most unfortunate of all unfortunate circumstances. When my birthday came around and my mom got ready to bring cupcakes to the classroom, I would learn that I shared my birthday with the Smelly Fat Kid. Yes, that's right, I shared my birthday with the child whose butt crack showed when we gathered on the carpet in from of Mrs. Betch (our first grade teacher); the same kid who would later develop an appropriate obsession with Star Wars and a severe case of dandruff. The one kid in elementary school who nobody wanted to be friends with, would be sharing MY special day with me for 6 years. Of course nobody had a February 29th birthday, but the Smelly Fat Kid and I were condemned to share the glory of the first of March until my 12th birthday.

Ryan was nearly 4 years old the day I was born and he was already over the excitement of my arrival. He already knew that it didn't matter what day I was born or how graciously I arrived. Even at the age of 4 he seemed to have already figured it all out. There have been a few instances throughout my life where I have wanted to despise his apparent perfection, but I have learned that it is due to his character that I was given the opportunity to live my life. Because, quite honestly, if my brother had been a little more like me in the first 4 years of his life, it is quite possible that my parents may have decided not to have a second child. This is not to suggest that my parents don't love me, because how could you not? It is simply that I was such a colorful and exuberant young child that keeping up with me was a full time job. You could say I was born with personality.

(Excerpt from my autobiography, assigned for my Senior Seminar - Dec. 2006)

My List of Thirty-Four

2008-04-03T12:56:00.000-07:00

So, I'm experiencing bloggers block at the moment and haven't been able to think of anything to blog about for the past couple of days. BUT, I came across a bright pink piece of paper today that I thought might be of some interest.

As I am mentally preparing myself for the adventure that is the Peace Corps, I'm finding myself drawing on a lot of the feelings and experiences from my year in France. During that year, whenever I found myself missing something about home I added it to an ongoing list, on a bright pink sheet of paper, entitled "The Things I Love About California". I figured, that when I returned to California I could look back on this list and be reminded of all of the things that make this place "home". Of course, I don't think I've looked at it since I got back, and instead flipped it over and started a list on the back side of all of the things I missed about France. (Not exactly the point of the list).

BUT, as I'm preparing myself for the imminent struggles I will be facing between now and November 2010, I've finally revisited this list of things that I once missed about California. Here's what I found myself missing while living in Southern France over two years ago:

1. My friends and family
2. Cheesecake
3. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese
4. REAL deli sandwiches
5. Knowing where to shop
6. American boys
7. Smiling at strangers
8. Chevy's fajitas
9. Margaritas
10. My bed
11. Long, hot showers
12. Boys in baseball caps
13. Driving (w/ music)
14. Sports games (namely The Giants)
15. Laundry in my house, for FREE
16. Understanding strangers' conversations
17. American movies w/o subtitles
18. Movies immediately after release
19. Television
20. Radio
21. Courses in English
22. Receiving mail (as in the postal service actually gets the mail to you)
23. Warm chocolate chip cookies
24. Internet in my bedroom
25. Peanut butter
26. Cheddar cheese
27. Not having to walk up a mountain to get home
28. American gossip magazines
29. Fahrenheit
30. Thanksgiving
31. Having clean, intact clothes (no stains, holes, tears, fading or shrinkage)
32. No time change
33. Whole Foods
34. Trader Joes

And, that was my extensive list. As I typed it out, I realized I was reading this list for the first time in over a year and most of the items on this list have a story behind them. I'm also realizing that almost none of these things are exclusive to California.

And, this little list may have just done the trick. I can already think of a handful of experiences that I could blog about including the time we were all forced to de-board our overnight train at 3am, in the middle of nowhere in the Czech Republic, in the snow, watching as our train then chugged away down the tracks. Ahh, the memories... :)

The Art of Letter Writing

2008-03-31T11:08:00.000-07:00

I think one of my favorite things in the world is receiving a letter via good old snail mail. I don't write this to encourage an onslaught of letters to my mailbox, but simply to comment on the lost art that is letter writing.

Early last week, shortly after the news that I had been nominated for the Peace Corps, I received a lime green envelope in the mail with my name on it. The return address said that it was from Lauren, in my book club, who is getting married in May. I automatically figured it was an invite to the bachelorette party in a few weeks, or something wedding-related. When I opened the envelope and found the word "Congratulations" on the front of the card, I was a little confused, but figured it was a clever way of congratulating me on being a part of the bachelorette shindig. :)

Imagine my surprise when I open the card to find a note congratulating me on my recent nomination to the Peace Corps. To say that I was shocked, is an understatement. I couldn't figure out why I was so stunned, but I was absolutely all smiles. I had just seen Lauren that weekend for book club, and with all of her wedding planning I couldn't grasp that this little letter in my hands was for me.

So, naturally I've been thinking about it since then, pondering what it is about a hand-written letter received in the mail that is so precious. I think it all boils down to the realization that sending a letter in the mail requires that one go out of their way - even just a little bit. These days, it is so easy to sign on to your email account and quickly type a little note to your friends or family, that the thought of having to pull out a piece of paper (or purchase a card) and grab your pen and write out a note to someone (not to mention the postage) seems like a lot of work.

I was involved in a conversation a few months back about the "Thank You Card". When I was growing up, Ryan and I were forced to sit down every year after Christmas and birthdays and write out our thank yous to grandparents, aunts, cousins, friends, etc. I remember dreading this chore. When you've just received a baby doll that crawls on the floor, the last thing you want to do is abandon said doll and write about how happy it makes you! But, nonetheless we were required each and every year to write these letters. Of course, these letters waned as we stopped being reminded (in our teens) by Mom to write them. And now, I rarely write them.

But, realizing that in a few short months my main method of communicating with family and friends will be through these hand-written, postally-delivered letters, I should probably start brushing up on this lost art. I don't think I even have a current address book!

The Toilet Seat Phenomenon

2008-03-27T14:52:00.001-07:00

So, although it may not be evident from the actual comments on my blog, the feedback that I received regarding this whole "toilet seat" issue has been immense. I decided that the issue needed a follow-up blog post.

First of all, I must state that the blog was by no means intended to pit the female species against my sister-in-law, Lailah. :) I love Lailah (I'll save the extent of my love for her for another, much anticipated blog post), and she is just one of many who happen to share the opinion that the toilet seat need not be placed in the closed position. Or, more specifically that men should not be expected to return the toilet seat to this position. However, it appears as though some of my friends and family members have very different opinions about the expectations of the male species in the restroom.

One of my closest friends, Sarah, went so far as to claim that "toilet seats left up are not okay" and "unsanitary" and that those who are unbothered by this just may need their "heads examined". Now, I don't believe anyone can fault her for this opinion. In fact, I applaud her for taking such a strong stance on the issue. She actually suggested that "boys should wipe the rim of the bowl AND put the toilet seat down". This suggestion made me smile, but I felt as though I needed to stand up for those who may not share our similar opinion on the toilet seat.

In response to my doubt as to whether or not we held reasonable expectations, Sarah had this to say, "unless they can figure out how to perfect their aim and not soak the seat, the only reason to move it is for them. Therefore they should also have to put it down. Duh". And really, who can argue with that?

My friend, Adam, (who is a believer in putting the toilet seat down when a restroom is shared with a female) had another suggestion. He doesn't understand why people don't start installing urinals in their homes (in addition to the standard toilet). He claims that this would solve the issue altogether and that, if you think about it, it would actually be easier to clean than a toilet. He continued, by noting that it makes no sense that the wealthy will have both a toilet and a bidet, but not a urinal (which is really the only missing element here). To his credit, he did recognize that a urinal isn't exactly the most attractive architectural element in a bathroom, but we designed a few "fountain-esque" urinals that would actually be more like art than potty.

I also learned that the Santa Rosa Morris household also had some issues regarding the famed "toilet seat blog". My Uncle Lee insisted that I contradicted myself, between my insistance on opening doors for myself (see Gentlemanly post) and my insistance on men putting down the toilet seat. He used the term "Feminist" to describe my preceding opinions. Well, the first issue here, is that I don't open doors for myself and pay on dates because I'm a feminist, it's entirely an issue of my stubborn nature. The second issue, is that there are two very key differences between a guy paying for your date and a guy putting the toilet seat down - (1) sanitary concerns and (2) safety. Falling into the toilet seat is both unsafe AND entirely unsanitary. Paying for your own meal, or opening your own door are neither of these things.

So, I hold firm to my opinions. However, I am delighted to report that both (cousin) Chelsea and (aunt) Janette (as well as a couple of Chelsea's friends) supported the notion that men should be expected to put the toilet seat down, and that this expectation is not entirely unreasonable. I know nothing more than this, because Uncle Lee slipped away from this debate finding himself slightly outnumbered. Coward? :)

I believe it is also important to note that I have no problem putting the toilet seat cover down when I leave the restroom (if this makes men feel as though we are compromising because we both have do our share of "seat swinging" as Ryan calls it). But, the simple facts are that the majority of toilet uses require that the toilet seat be down, therefore this is the favored position.

I will end my potty tirade here, keeping in mind that I don't like these blog posts to get too long. But I appreciate all of the input, and if further clarification is still needed, please don't hesistate to come forth with your issues. :)

Potty Note: There is a toilet-shaped HOUSE in Korea, named Haewoojae (which in Korean means "a place of sanctuary where one can solve one's worries"). Check it out: http://freshome.com/2007/10/11/toilet-shaped-house/

The Cookie Lady

2008-03-25T15:17:00.000-07:00

Tuesday is, hands down, the best day of the work week. No contest. And let me explain why...

Mondays are the worst. Everyone knows that. You spend all weekend enjoying yourself and when that alarm goes off Monday morning, it's the mind-numbing reminder that the next five days will be spent toiling away at your desk, staring a computer screen for eight hours a day. Mondays have nothing to offer.

Tuesdays. Tuesdays, on the other hand are the most satisfying day of the work week at Morris Engineering. Not only do we have the occasional pleasure of welcoming my uncle to the office, but we also have the reliable arrival of The Cookie Lady. The Cookie Lady, whom those less familiar with her culinary talents might refer to as Betsy, arrives each and every Tuesday, usually around 10:30 or 11:00, without fail (except for the tragically upsetting week or two when she decides to take a vacation).

Now The Cookie Lady excites every single person in our office, not just me. When her little Toyota pulls into our parking lot, the first person to spot it declares "Cookie Lady Alert!" or "The Cookies Have Arrived!" And then we all play it cool. We sit down at our desks trying not to make it obvious that we are anxiously awaiting the new ziplock baggy full of goodness. She then walks over to Ray's desk, sets the ziplock bag down, turns around and walks back out the door. As soon as we see her car pulling out of the parking lot, someone rushes over to Ray's desk, opens the ziplock back and walks around to everyone in the office offering each of us our first cookie of the day. The ziplock baggy then gets placed on the table next to the coffee machine, officially declaring it communal property!

The Cookie Lady is Ray's mother-in-law and she makes THE best homemade cookies I've ever tasted. And she rarely repeats a recipe. We get cookies with m&ms in them, we get chocolate cookies with mint chips in them, and butterscotch cookies and oatmeal, and plain old chocolate chip. The list doesn't end. AND she's festive. For Christmas we had red and green m&ms in our cookies, and for easter we have pastel m&ms in our cookies. It's perfection!

Each week, after the cookies have arrived we stand around and discuss this latest batch and how it compares to the history of other cookies we have received from The Cookie Lady. There was only one week that we were disappointed in the results of her efforts, and we haven't received a similar sort of cookie since, much to our constant excitement.

The scariest part is that the ziplock bag full of cookies usually doesn't last until Wednesday. These cookies are so good that any time someone walks past the bag they grab a couple, and this continues until the cookies are devoured. If you don't make it in to the office on Tuesday, you don't get cookies because they aren't around on Wednesday morning.

So, here's to The Cookie Lady and Tuesdays for all of they joy they have brought me over the past year!

(During the vegetable season, she also brings us fresh tomatoes, zucchini and other fresh veggies from her garden, along with (of course) the cookies!)