Did You Just Say What I Think You Said?

Communication mishaps have become a dependable source of light entertainment in my life. However, fending for myself in Kyrgyz was not always such a quaint production. When I think back to those first six months in Kyrgyzstan, I remember how disheartening it was to always be fumbling with my words. More so, I was desperate to decode the new rules of popular humor that I was so sure would make adjusting to everything a whole lot easier. As I recall, all attempts at sarcasm fell flat. So, I started taking my cues from those around me – and I soon found myself laughing over things like a chicken spooking someone or dropping something of value down the outhouse. By the time my language had caught up, I was feeling quite refreshed by an appreciation of humor that finds inspiration in everyday situations. Funny doesn’t have to be dirty, cynical, offensive, or rehearsed (although I still embrace it all). Amongst my host family, the front runner seems to be meaning that is distorted through translation. Allow me to divulge two of my favorites:

So, I have a gorgeous 17-year-old host sister, Dilbar, who is as skinny as Popeye’s gal, Olive. I’m always joking around with her, making dramatic gestures over offering to give her some of my inner thigh or a slice off my back side. She gets a kick out of it, responding with remarks like “Oh, thank you,” or “Miss Erin, how is your baby? (while gently placing a hand on my bread baby).” Well, you get the point. Then, one day in August, my parents came for a visit and in the midst of a furry of greetings, she boldly introduced herself to my father: “Mr. Mark, give me some of your oil.” Of course, my dad’s like, “Some of my oil? My oil?” Then she points to his stomach, at which point it registers that she is referring to his body fat. He gave her a hearty laugh and had us near tears when he told my mom and I about their first conversation later that evening.

The other story involves my 12-year-old host brother, Almaz, and Chris. My brother had called to catch up and I decided to briefly pass the phone around the dinner table, so that he could say hi to the member of my host family. When the phone got to Almaz, he transitioned from something like, “We are eating potatoes and tea,” to “I am a smelly brother.” Unable to hear the other end of their brotherly conversation, I took my cues from Almaz’s face – he was simply beaming after listening to Chris’s reaction to this comment. Immediately after passing on the phone he shares that Chris had said, “Me too!” When I finally got back on the line, I had to revisit this…I mean, I had recently laughed at Almaz because he had passed gas and things were spinning out of control…I was trying to discourage such juvenile humor, and here was my brother, conspiring against me. But, when I asked him why he had agreed to the statement “I am a smelly brother,” he sounded equally shocked and amused. He admitted that he may have heard correctly, but it just wasn’t what he had expected Almaz to have said. So, he interpreted it as “I am a small brother,” as in I am Erin’s little brother, to which Chris agreed. Almaz still isn’t aware that there are two sides to this story. Chris is planning to visit this spring and I’d rather let Almaz anticipate the “smelly brother,” who he is so proud to have discovered.

Did You Just Say What I Think You Said?

Communication mishaps have become a dependable source of light entertainment in my life. However, fending for myself in Kyrgyz was not always such a quaint production. When I think back to those first six months in Kyrgyzstan, I remember how disheartening it was to always be fumbling with my words. More so, I was desperate to decode the new rules of popular humor that I was so sure would make adjusting to everything a whole lot easier. As I recall, all attempts at sarcasm fell flat. So, I started taking my cues from those around me – and I soon found myself laughing over things like a chicken spooking someone or dropping something of value down the outhouse. By the time my language had caught up, I was feeling quite refreshed by an appreciation of humor that finds inspiration in everyday situations. Funny doesn’t have to be dirty, cynical, offensive, or rehearsed (although I still embrace it all). Amongst my host family, the front runner seems to be meaning that is distorted through translation. Allow me to divulge two of my favorites:

So, I have a gorgeous 17-year-old host sister, Dilbar, who is as skinny as Popeye’s gal, Olive. I’m always joking around with her, making dramatic gestures over offering to give her some of my inner thigh or a slice off my back side. She gets a kick out of it, responding with remarks like “Oh, thank you,” or “Miss Erin, how is your baby? (while gently placing a hand on my bread baby).” Well, you get the point. Then, one day in August, my parents came for a visit and in the midst of a furry of greetings, she boldly introduced herself to my father: “Mr. Mark, give me some of your oil.” Of course, my dad’s like, “Some of my oil? My oil?” Then she points to his stomach, at which point it registers that she is referring to his body fat. He gave her a hearty laugh and had us near tears when he told my mom and I about their first conversation later that evening.

The other story involves my 12-year-old host brother, Almaz, and Chris. My brother had called to catch up and I decided to briefly pass the phone around the dinner table, so that he could say hi to the member of my host family. When the phone got to Almaz, he transitioned from something like, “We are eating potatoes and tea,” to “I am a smelly brother.” Unable to hear the other end of their brotherly conversation, I took my cues from Almaz’s face – he was simply beaming after listening to Chris’s reaction to this comment. Immediately after passing on the phone he shares that Chris had said, “Me too!” When I finally got back on the line, I had to revisit this…I mean, I had recently laughed at Almaz because he had passed gas and things were spinning out of control…I was trying to discourage such juvenile humor, and here was my brother, conspiring against me. But, when I asked him why he had agreed to the statement “I am a smelly brother,” he sounded equally shocked and amused. He admitted that he may have heard correctly, but it just wasn’t what he had expected Almaz to have said. So, he interpreted it as “I am a small brother,” as in I am Erin’s little brother, to which Chris agreed. Almaz still isn’t aware that there are two sides to this story. Chris is planning to visit this spring and I’d rather let Almaz anticipate the “smelly brother,” who he is so proud to have discovered.

Lenin has Left the Building

This afternoon closed in on my third day of school. After a patchwork summer of camps, traveling, swimming, and guesting, it’s kind of nice to have a routine again. The onset of fall helps to mark the passage of time (I’ve already been here 14 months) and from the looks of my planner, this year hardly affords enough time to do all that I want to do within the span of my service.

Now that we have new English text books at school, I made sure to get my hands on a copy of a retired English Text book. When I began team-teaching last October, we were using this particular book in the 8^th form; I observed a week of strict dictation and translation. Fortunately, we strayed from this method; but it left us drowning in a sea of improvisation, few alternative resources, and a wearing stretch of trial and error. Getting back to this classic Soviet keepsake of mine, I’d like to highlight a few bits of text that illustrate the educational foundation of a Kyrgyz student who is left without new text books.

Under a unit on “Our School Activities,” I confess that I actually helped teach the text “In the Camp of Labour and Rest,” before I had the sense to further investigate the legitimacy of the book. It was all about Komsomol members, competitive child labor, and cloudless skies. However, my favorite text, “Study as Lenin Studied,” is worthy of an excerpt:

“Volodya was the best pupil in his class and got the first prize every year (what prize?!). Coming back from school, Volodya usually told his father about his studies. He liked to say that in few words: <> His father was often interested to know how Volodya did his work…. Volodya was always ready to help his classmates. He corrected their translations and compositions and sometimes helped a pupil who could not write one. Volodya liked to help a classmate to get a good mark but he did not want anybody to learn about it (a little foreshadowing for a later text entitled “Lenin’s Modesty”). He sometimes went to school half an hour earlier to translate a difficult text or to explain a difficult problem to his classmates.” (No citation ‘cause I can’t read Russian, but if you think I’m making this up, I’ll send you a photo copy).

By Unit three things really escalate – the overarching theme is “We Go the Way of Lenin.” Students will improve upon their English language skills through practical conversational topics, such as “Communist Subbotniks” and Soviet Pioneers – Lenin’s Grandchildren.” To further stimulate the students’ critical thinking, follow up questions are included (ie. Write about V. I. Lenin’s family and be ready to speak about it).

Clearly, these books were instituted with little intention of teaching English. Since teachers simply ran through a translation of the texts anyways, the publishers used English lessons as another way to promote Soviet nationalism. True, it’s easy to be critical of almost anything that’s antique…I’m sure some equally limiting text surface in America (but more than likely, in a public library, rather than in a modern classroom).

I realize that my living here may have infected me with a greater attention span for Soviet culture than most back home, but I can’t resist giving a vocab list before shutting this book:

{Revoluntionary propaganda, true Leninist, revolutionary underground, party organization, military and Revolutionary Committee, Chairman of the All-Russian Central Executive Committee*, a professional revolutionary, the union of struggle}

*Are you kidding me?!

Image taking that spelling test/finding ways to casually slip these words into an English conversation or interview. In contrast, our new text books, published by Oxford Press, seek to engage students through “hip” themes like murder mysteries, tattoos, pop stars, and extreme sports. There’s a certain hilarity to be appreciated in this contrast. I have high hopes for this school year!

And for a completely unrelated concluding thought:

Autumn is the time for making jam, which is an essential component of a mindful Kyrgyz table setting. My host family grows a lot of raspberries and apricots, so naturally, we store up with a winter’s supply of these two sorts. Well, I decided to go crazy and buy some strawberries from the bazaar because I like strawberry jam in my breakfast porridge. I spent some time last night plucking off all the stems with my host mom and then we poured 2 kilos of sugar on top to pull out the juice. Ah – 1 kilo of sugar per 1 kilo of berries…that’s ½ and ½. Basically, all winter when I convince myself that eating jam on my bread and adding it to my tea is “health” because it’s fruit (which I don’t get any of in the winter), I’m actually self-inflicting sugar-coma. Not healthy. Not good. But I don’t think I have the willpower to resist my sweet Kyrgyz indulgence.

I tried adding new photos to my Flicker account, but it doesn’t seem to want to upload. I’ll try again later. Next post, I’ll elaborate upon my parents’ visit…if they were allowed to infiltrate my low-profile life in Kyrgyzstan, it’s only fair that I exploit a few of their shining moments ;)

Hosting my parents in KG

My parents came to KG the first two weeks of August - a milestone in my PC service. We spent the first half in Issyk-Kul Oblast, the lake region, and then blazed through the mountians to tour the south. Oddly, the most anticipated social experiment of my life (mixing family-family with my Kyrgyz family) couldn't have felt more comfortable. Most of the members of my host family can communicate the basics in English and my parents attempted to meet them halfway with "Rakmat" (thank you) and "Daamdoo" (Delicious) - my Dad's version was something a bit more like "Damdadamdamdoo," which might just be the appropriate Midwestern spin on it. I've been pretty lousy about keeping this blog updated, but I didn't come here to disconnect myself from the people and life in America that I love....so on with it.

The second day into their stay, my parents witnessed a lovely display of Kyrgyz formality. I had arranged for a meeting at my school, between the Director of the school, my local counterpart, my parents, and the President of the Bishkek Rotary Club. We had just received a generous donation through the cooperation of the Maple Grove Rotary Club and the Bishkek Rotary, for new English text books and I thought I was following custome by arranging for some sort of ceremony. Guess I'm just an amateur at Kyrgyz business arrangements, though, 'cause I ended up with an expectant guest from Bishkek, no key to the school building, no counterpart, and an offhand update that the Director was swimming in Lake Issky-Kul, so she wouldn't be coming after all. I was haunted by a cartoon-like image of my Director doing leisurely doing the breaststroke while I scrambled to pull together some sort of official feeling assembly. My host mother acted, while I just panicked; we had some lunch at my house and then we went to the school. So, once we were inside the English classroom, we had acquired one of the school's "zavooches" - like an assistant director - and my mom pulled out the video camera to record our thanks and a few words dedicated towards strengthening the realtionship between the two Rotary Clubs. Noticing another body in the room, I asked my host mom who the man in the sun hat was...."He's a shepherd." Of course. To his credit, he was probably one of the most enthusiastic people in the room (the Vodka on his breath may have played a part). He kept distracting me from my patch-work formal ceremony by asking me if we wanted to go to the mountains with him. He just couldn't fathom why I wasn't in complete agreement - we should have left immediately with this complete stranger, as passangers in his old Volvo, straight to the mountains, with the promise of an afternoon rich with occasions for toasts of Vodka. Meanwhile, my parents had no idea that this person wasn't invited to our mini school function. When we lined up for a photo, he was eager to join right in; and when speached were delivered in English, he started up confusing rounds of applause that had everyone else joining in for no reason other than the impulse to follow suit. I revealed his true identity to my parents after our Bishkek guest had left: a drunk enthusiast. Charming.

Well, school starts tomorrow, so I had better pick out my outfit and go to bed early:) I don't remember the last time I've been fully awake by 8am...life is full of challenges. Aha.

One Highlight of Teaching

My 8th and 9th form students are matched with pen pals from America. We received the initial batch of letters in the beginning of April.....three weeks later, my students had their response letters in the mail. I think the exchange will be rewarding, but I was astounded by my lack of foresight - somehow I didn't clarify that every students should reply to the initial letter I assigned to them and I know that a lot of the questions they were asked went unanswered. Some students took great pride in their letters and others did an excellent job of looking busy during class, yet produced nothing. I never seem to know if students are making progress because they only have 90 minutes of English lessons every week (that is if they aren't skipping, on holiday, or on cleaning duty). However, I was charmed by the letters that my students wrote. I love the creative ways they translate their thoughts into English - for me, the novelty of a new word combination never wears off;)

Spring time!!!

Time for an update…..I just talked to my mom and found out that she checks this blog every day; don’t think I’m that religious about anything. That’s somewhere around 30 days of disappointment – sorry mom.

So, I hear that May is holiday madness in Kyrgyzstan. Not surprising, it’s lived up to this reputation thus far: School is closed the 1st through the 5th (the official holiday being Labor Day !?!). There was also a build-up of holidays right before May: on the 30th we celebrated with the 1st form because they finished their alphabet book and put on a concert, paying tribute to each letter and saying “good-bye” to their first text book. Also, the prior weekend was “water holiday”- the people I celebrated with had a Kyrgyz feast and an extensive water fight….the motive was to pray for good rainfall this year. I’ll keep a log on the rest of May so that I’ll have some sort of calendar to go by next year.

Going back a little farther, on April 16th, we celebrated the school’s birthday. That, of course, meant that we didn’t have school – standard procedure. Another volunteer had come to visit, so we sat around all day, waiting for something to happen. Then, at 8:30 in the evening, my host mom poked her head in the room and asked if we were going to the school for the contest. I was under the impression that there would be a bon-fire and a disco tech; but what we witnessed was much more elaborate: a lip syncing contest. The activity room was packed but we were escorted to the front row of desks and made judges. The pressure of this role was alleviated when the teacher next to me leaned over the informed us that all 11th form participants should receive the highest marks….I suppose that when you pay your dues, you aught to be rewarded with superior lip syncing scores;) In total, there were 18 performances, some with back up dancers and thematic attire. My favorite, though, was the opening number – a montage of Kyrgyz songs performed by the entire group, with periodic solos. I’m pretty sure no one here watches American Idol, but there was a striking resemblance. The entire time, I couldn’t stop smiling! I’m charmed by the little surprises like this….the types of experiences that can only be captured in the two-year attention span of Peace Corps service.

While my school still claims that we will be getting internet “soon,” I went ahead and inquired about purchasing a private connection that my site-mate and I might use. The first time I consulted with the internet providers, I was convinced they had said I would need to purchase a 30-meter antenna in order to pick up the signal, because my house was pretty far away and near the mountains. Of course, the notion of such a giant antennae even existing was absurd, but I told my host-mother what I had heard. We laughed, imagining a pole that size jutting up from the top of our roof….it would make us a landmark for sure. Turns out, it was a 30 meter cable, attached to a tiny antennae – made a lot more sense then;) Long story short, we now have internet at site, so we are able to read world news in English, search for grant materials, and keep in better touch with friends and family. We’re able to teach our host families how to use the internet, as well. My host sister’s first request was to see fashion, so she sat in my room for like two hours looking at google images of “fashion models.” My host mother and father searched the Russian web for world news; and I showed Almaz a picture of projectile germs when a person coughs, so I could convince him to cover his mouth whenever he coughs. It was a pretty random list of firsts. What really made me smile was, when I was helping the family plant potatoes the next day, my host sister asked if it was my first time and when I said “of course,” she pointed out that she, too, had just experienced a first: using the internet.

My Shoe Story

Maybe I should start with a disclaimer (otherwise whoever reads this might not understand why I’m so invested in shoe issues): At 5’10”, it’s nearly impossible to find shoes my size in Kyrgyzstan – and that’s no exaggeration. I’ve got to ensure at least a two year life span on whatever I brought with me. Anyways…

…Oh, maybe back in October, the Velcro strap on my black dress shoe lost its battle against the dusty debris of the village roads. It was a petty annoyance, but I quickly grow tired of bending down every few yards to put it back in place. The next time I was in the neighboring city, I came along a shoe repair shop and decided to poke my head in. The guy offered to fix it for 50 com (under 2 dollars), so I took a seat on the bench opposite him and handed it over. Had I thought it through ahead of time, I might have worn a separate pair so I could run my errands while he was working; but as it happened, I was bound to sit and wait. Nonetheless, through our small talk, we ended up finding a common connection through a newly married male teacher at my school. In the end, he waived the fee because he now considered it nothing more than a favor for a friend – what a guy. I remember thinking to myself that day about how humorous I found the entire situation. There’s no way, only a few months back, I would have imagined that managing to get Velcro replaced would make me feel so accomplished.

Well, wouldn’t you know, two weeks pass and then the other shoe lands me in the same predicament. Cherishing my little expeditions, I was actually kind of happy to be paying another visit to my shoe guy. This time, though, I just dropped it off and arranged to pick it up later on. At first, he told me he wouldn’t accept any payment…but a guy has got to make a living and after some insistence, he charged me 30 com. When I went back, his shop was closed for lunch, so I figured I would just wait until I came back the following week.

That week, my host mother mentioned that someone had asked her about my shoe. Figuring that I just wasn’t comprehending everything, because I found it hard to believe that anyone would be talking about my shoe, I let the comment slide. However, when I made my way back to the shoe shop, I was met with such a distressed expression. Apparently, he had sent my shoe with a taxi driver from my village, hoping to save me a trip. Again, I was astounded by his generosity/consideration and humored by the situation. He came out, looking for the taxi driver, but I assured him that this wasn’t the end of the world. Things here generally have their own way of working out and there’s no use in getting stressed-out.

Back in my village, I inquired about the comment my host mother had made a few days earlier and discovered that my shoe was now under the watch of one of my students (the taxi driver’s daughter). I had to cringe at the thought of that poor girl carrying around my not-so-dainty shoe in her backpack. Needless to say, she never found me at school, and the prolonged reunion continued. Eventually, the departure date for my trip to Ukraine arrived and all I could do was write down “find black shoe” on a post-it note, so that I could pursue the hunt when I returned. However, when I returned, I found it sitting inside my room and my host sister’s explanation was, “Cinderella.”

School is Back in Session

I just finished my first week back at school, which went a lot smoother than I have come to expect. I'm now actually teaching my English classes in the English classroom (the project of a former volunteer) and it's wonderful. Creating the right learning environment is so important; and since I've got English posters decorating the walls, I've instantaneously gained stronger legitimacy among my students. After a long winter absence, I've done a lot of reassessing, as far as my role as an English teacher here goes. Now that I feel I have a better hold on the daily nuances, I'm ready to give the students a quality experience with English. I just have to keep reminding myself that this is their third language - that, in and of itself, is impressive. Looking back, I studied Spanish for maybe four years and don't remember a lick. The American educational system could really benefit from some stronger mandatory foreign language instruction.

I'm a bit disappointed in myself for letting my blog entries slip. One of the main goals of Peace Corps is to share one's experiences with friends and family back home - to promote cross-cultural understanding. I suppose that after nine months, I've just become comfortable enough in this new environment to allow my old habits to sneak back into play, procrastination being the most prominent. However, know that I think of home often and I appreciate that anyone takes the time to check in on my happenings. Don't lose faith...I'll get on top of things.

For now, here are a few of the charming moments that outweigh any homesickness and frustrations that I may experience:

• I got into a play-wrestling match with my younger host brother and made him say, "You are the winner," in English. When he escaped to a safe enough distance, he turned around and told me, "I am a wiener!" - Never realized how easy it would be to mix those two words up...but I had to warn him how important it was to articulate;)
• My latest language fumble involves another dose of juvenile humor. I had discovered a favorite host breakfast cereal "Mankaya Kasha," so whenever I went to the bazar I would ask the saleslady, "Do you have Manka," and "Can you give me some Manka, please?" Then I would tell my host family that Manka was my favorite breakfast food. One day my host brother decided to break me the news: I wasn't making the correct nasaly sound when I said "Manka," so what I was really saying was "snot." If you make the substitution, you'll undersand why I don't even say this word any more...I just point. It gets the job done.
• I went to Lake Issyk-Kyl with a couple neighbors and they took me to a secret shore. It was about an our walk through farming fields and a mini forest. When we got to the lake, all stress just evaporated. The lake is unlike anything I've ever seen before - snow capped mountains that appear grey, blue or purple (depending upon the weather), glacier clear salt water lapping against the shore (with no water toys tearing it up), and one side that stretches so far across the Oblast that you cannot see it's shore. As we walked along, they started picking pieces of old clay pots from the sand. They told me these artifacts come from the village that was swallowed up by lake Issyk-Kul, long, long ago. Then, they started picking bones out of the sand. I saw my neighbor hold one up to his rib cage, imagining where it must have once been. It was nuts! I had a hard time believing that these where human bones, half buried in the sand, not in some sort of historical museum. They were just amused by my disbelief. We have plans to go back and play armature archeologists sometime soon, and this time I'll bring my camera!
  

So this is Christmas...

The holiday season began when I declared December 20th “Christmas in Kyrgyzstan.” My host father, who currently lives and works in another village to supplement the family income, came back to visit, so we decided to have our holiday feast early. Since my host family is Muslim, they celebrate the New Year, rather than Christmas....but the similarities are charming. The Kyrgyz New Year features a Santa Clause figure and his wife, who also happen to distribute gifts and hang around a christmas tree. Also, the bazar transforms into a tinstle wonderland, with a confusing/amusing mix of Batman costumes and citrus fruits - more on this latter. The anticipation of a gentle snow, combined with marathons of “Adin Doma” (Alone Home in Russian), helped keep the holiday spirit alive, something I was pretty worried about my first year away. The fact that our entire last week of school was centered around competitive New Year celebrations, over Christmas week, blurred any differences between our holiday calendars even more.

A quick note on my actual 2008 Christmas experience: a baby sheep was born Christmas Eve and my host family brought it into their house to sleep by the coal heater the first few nights. It cried all night long, but the timing was special (for lack of a better word). For some reason, I spent a half hour explaining the concept of a manager and the three wise men and my host brother and he named it “Christmas.” Bada-bing...and the next day we have a baby “Mary” as well. That night, mentally preparing for my trip to the outhouse, my sister came into the corridor and asked me, “Miss Erin, are you going to tiolet?” I nodded my head and she handed me my Christmas gift - an old notebook, aka substitute T.P.

Now, back to the New Year extravaganza at my school. Lessons technically ran through the last day of the semester, but our entire last week was trumped by New Year concerts in the activity room. The first day was for elementery forms. When I stuck my head in, all the little boys were dressed as Zorro, Batman or Spiderman and all the girls looked like they were competing in a little girls’ beauty pageant (but nothing as extreme as what you see on American documentaries about mom agents going nuts). They were reciting, singing, dancing and acting. The next day was for middle schoolers and the last day was reserved for 9-11th form, where the title of “best New Year performance” was taken very seriously.

As things often happen, I was publically nominated as a substitute judge for the last New Year party. I was invited to the judges’ table and told to gives scores for all 6 categories of the competition. I’m still not entirely sure, but I think I critiqued each class on a pantomime, dance, song, presentation, and a couple other categories. I kept my total scores pretty even, becuase I didn’t really feel qualified to influence the end result. However, I was given a five minute warning, that I was going to have to take the mic and say a little something on why I scored the way I did. Yikes. My counterpart helped translate my brief “I’m not going to say what was good and what was bad becuase everyone is talanted” speech, but when our senior class lost to the 10th form, some serious tears were shed.

I’m going to try and write more within the week, but now I’ve got to go. I’ve got a whole store of short stories and would also like to spend some time on reflection...and now that school is closed until March, I really have no excuse not to share more. Thanks for all the support from home! I love and miss you all!