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!
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Cow Story
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.
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!
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)...
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
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...)
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
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...
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...
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Home Sweet Home
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?"
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?"
Monday, April 27, 2009
Strielka (stree-el-ka)
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...
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
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...
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
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.
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!
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.
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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Picture Update!
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 SeenThursday, March 12, 2009
A Bug's Life
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...
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...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Taxi Incidents.
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".
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!
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. :)
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
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...
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
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.
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
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.
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
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! :)
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...
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.
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
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.
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.
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