School's Finished

I taught my last day of class yesterday and graduation on the 25th will mark the end of my two years of teaching in Tory-Aiger Village. I’ve always been antsy for change, so I’m excited for a relaxing summer at the lake and am already making plans for a brief stint of travel before I come home, grad school (fall of 2011), and a magnificent marathon of reunions in the States. However, all of these things don’t negate the sense of home and family that I’ve found in Kyrgyzstan. Saying good-bye to my host-family, friends, students, and neighbors is going to be one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do; and that’s no exaggeration. With three months left the only real responsibility I have left is to live in the moment. So, the following are a collection of stories that celebrate the charming mystique of Kyrgyzstan:

One of my favorite school activities is dropping in on the cafeteria ladies. The only items on the menu are sweet rolls, cookies, tea, and “pirashki” – potatoes and onions stuffed inside deep-fried dough. Despite the forewarning black-toothed grins of all the elementary students who file in for their snack, such sweets always seems to be just what I’m craving. So, I’ve gotten to know the cafeteria ladies pretty well and I’ve spent many hours chatting with like-minded colleagues over a few cups of tea. Well, the other day one of the cafeteria ladies gave me a disco-ball-inspired bracelet and just sealed herself a place in my list of top 10 favorite school employees! She gets points for her bold taste in accessories, but what really made me smile was the unexpectedness of it all. It was a good reminder to stay keen on delivering small acts of generosity.

Coming back from my Grandfather’s funeral in the States this April, I was consoled by all of my colleagues and neighbors. Dealing with the death of a loved-one is something that transcends culture and Kyrgyz people pay serious respect to the deceased. They follow Muslim tradition, infused with some untraceable customs such as group wailing and grand-scale animal slaughter (in my experience a cow, horse, and sheep). Well, when I came back, my host mother invited our neighbors to have some tea and salad at our house, so they could recite some of the Koran in honor of my Grandfather. It was a nice gesture, but this event ended up serving more as an opportune moment of self-deprecating humor. One of the women brought her year-old daughter along and, as usual, I reached out my arms and asked her to come to me. We all know that this child is absolutely terrified of me, but I’m determined to force my affection upon her before I leave – it’s disconcerting that my face can bring a baby to tears. Well, this time she held back. She leaned back into her mother, shaped her little mouth into a perfect oval and tweeted, “Mo-mok jok!” I thought she had told me that I wasn’t her mother, which sounds similar, but the eruption of laughter at the table prompted me to clarify. Turns out, the direct translation of her rejection was, “No boobs!” How do you translate “touché” in Kyrgyz?

I feel compelled to share that I made honey from Dandelions with my host mother. I’m certain this is the same weed that we seek to exterminate from our plush green lawns in America and that little kids pick to make head wreaths or smear on their playmates’ forearms, depending on their disposition. But it’s true – we filled a jar full of Dandelion heads, added water and a kilo of sugar, boiled it the next day, and put this “honey” on our bread and in our tea. I am amused by how resourceful people in different parts of the world are. I enjoy eating a product of Dandelions! Now all I have to do is convince my host family to eat the skin on their potatoes, something that they find equally hard to fathom.

My school director has been really buddy-buddy with me lately, a curious development that I’m just going to embrace. Yesterday we played three hours of volleyball and basketball with other teachers and 11th form students. Seeing my director and colleagues run around with no restraint can only be described as sheer joy. But the pinnacle of my uncomfortable interactions with the director happened last week, when she invited my host mother and I over to her house for dinner at nine in the evening. I had just finished baking nachos for my host family and somehow ended up bringing a full tray over to her house, which was rather awkward. My host mother insisted that it wasn’t strange, but there’s no way that it wasn’t and quite frankly, Kyrgyz people aren’t the best at expanding their palate. So, on top of extracting insincere compliments from everyone as they grazed on their plate of cold nachos, I also endured the “joking” attempt at an arranged marriage between myself and the director’s son. I’ll save my judgments and just assure you that we’re incompatible. So, there we were, all sitting on floor cushions around the table, drinking tea like addicts and eating dinner long after our metabolism had check-out for the day. I noticed that my director was wearing a putty colored polo that had a patch that said “security” over the left breast pocket. The humor of this image was lost on everyone else, because it ewonder if she knows what that word means. Conversation was spotty and I soon felt the temptation of sleep pulling at my eye and muffling out everyone speaking Kyrgyz. I felt myself going cross-eyed in an effort to keep my eyes open and developed a strong distaste for the artificial in-door lighting and white noise silence of late night. Ironically, this late night rendezvous made my director really happy – just a couple a gals hanging out past their bed time, gossiping and eating. I wonder what our next date will entail…..karaoke, riding horses, the options are endless.

Making Friends

Whenever friends and family ask about my life in rural Kyrgyzstan, the most engrossing conversations seem to center on primal needs – the outhouse, mutton and carbohydrate overloading, and bi-weekly bathing, to name a few. Sure, I’ve played up the shock factor to encourage a charitable flow of care packages (my mom’s dramatic reports have even inspired unwarranted tears of sympathy). But, on the whole, I deal with these challenges best by reasoning that there’s no use resisting my environment. By adopting this mentality, I’ve given myself a license to be what others may deem “disgusting.” So what if it’s a fringe holiday and I indulge in heaps of deep-fried bread (a.k.a. “borsok”), 10 plus cups of tea, and cookies galore….I’ll dive right into the hunk of meat I’m given during the second course and massage the fatty grease/natural moisturizer into my hands when I’m done. No one here is going to judge me, because they’re too busy doing the exact same thing. But, I had better stop with the confessions – there are some experiences that are best kept within the Peace Corps community. Quite frankly, if I share too much information about my intestinal wars, only some Peace Corps buddy is going to view this as an opportunity to divulge their own toilet record next.

What I really want to get at is the rather unexpected challenge of carving out a legitimate social life. As a 24-year-old single female, my social situation is a bit of an anomaly here. All of the women my age have either moved to the city for work or school, or they are tucked away in their mother/mother-in-law’s house. Of course, my host mother was kind enough to share her friends with me. However, it’s exhausting trying to pose as a middle-aged woman who is concerned with gardening and the domestic affairs of everyone and their cousin and their cousin’s mother. And so, the search for my people continued. I kept losing the battle for the attention of my new pals to newborn babies, job opportunities, and persistent house work. Despite marriage proposals that come on a rolling basis, I refuse to join the club. Instead, I’ve conceded to a much more direct approach: forced friendship.

Making girlfriends in my village requires a certain level of assertiveness on my part – not unlike the gumption that it takes to find a date to a middle-school dance. I’d like to think that I don’t come across as desperate for friendship, but I’m pretty certain that telling someone, “I want to be your friend,” doesn’t help my case. After a ruthless battle for my local social identity, I’m happy to report that I’ve now got 4 friends. It all began when I offered to write a grant with Azamat, a young male teacher at my school. He’s very passionate about his work and he is a morally grounded individual. Since the success of any grant depends upon the commitment of the local counterpart, I presented him with the million dollar question: “What would you do for your school if money weren’t an issue?” Without missing a beat, he enthusiastically delved into his idea for a youth puppet theater…that involves life-sized puppet costumes. Since I was expecting something like text books or new desks, I was caught off guard hearing a 30-year-old Kyrgyz guy speak so passionately about Barney-esque costumes. His reasoning, though, is flawless:
1. Theater is a healthy outlet for village youth – it builds life skills such as communication and team work.
2. There is a strong need to revive local passion for the fine arts because it’s richer/more wholesome than popular culture.
3. As an educational venue, theater embraces creativity and lends itself to a variety of different learning styles, something that is neglected by left over Soviet teaching methods.
4. Costumes act as a buffer between culture, age, and gender. This anonymity grants youth the opportunity to campaign for progress in controversial fields such as health and social change.
So, we submitted this grant to Peace Corps and received 3500 USD to custom-order 10 costumes (bear, eagle, boy, witch, dragon, dog, fox, wolf, rabbit, lion). Skipping over an explanation of the finer details of this project, Azamat will coordinate the opening performance with Children’s Day, on June 1st. Peace Corps work truly is unpredictable…I’m both amazed and grateful that fate landed me in the hands of Azamat and his puppet ensemble.

Once my friendship with Azamat was established, I set out on a mission to befriend his wife, Kyndyz. My host mother and I often invited them over for pizza dinners, and eventually the formalness gave way to casual conversation. Spurred by my own impatience, last week I attempted a social breakthrough by inviting Dawn (my site-mate) and myself over to their house for dinner. Fortunately, they were not off-put by my invasion. In fact, this dinner date was the first time in-country that I felt a genuine sense of young adult camaraderie. Azamat’s brother and his wife (my two bonus friends) joined us as well. Some highlights from the evening include Kyndyz’s mayo pizza – which looks deceivingly like cheese pizza – and the ride home in a donkey cart that they referred to as the “Mercedes.” I love my Peace Corps friends and I’ve got a wonderful support system back home, but it’s a huge relief to finally claim some local friends of my own. All four of them.

I'm back

Homestretch – I’ve made it through my last Kyrgyz winter and it’s already time to start making plans for when I go back home this fall. Then again, I may be getting ahead of myself. While I may be looking forward to warm showers, English TV channels, colorful food, and a social life that begins (rather than ends) at 9 at night, I’m going to miss the spontaneity of life in Kyrgyzstan. In fact, sometimes I feel like the fate of my entire service was to inspire a top-notch comedy routine…and I’m not disappointed by this in the least. We could all benefit from a bit more humor in our lives. When I’m lucky I’m granted the chance to play spectator; but when I’m participating it’s the clarity of a moment of separation that brings out the richest humor. To better articulate this feeling, I’ll break it down into a couple recent anecdotes:

Earlier this week I had the strangest dream. It was around 7 A.M. and I was leisurely coming out of a good night’s sleep. Then, I remember a sudden shift in my dream – a guy with a fro of curly black hair invaded the scene and I couldn’t stop staring at him. Actually, I was probably sneering at him because he was sticking out his tongue and making a rude “Baaaing” sound. Eventually I woke up because it was so disturbing. Just as I began to shake off a lingering feeling of irritation and thought to open my eyes, I heard the “Baaaing” sound again. In real life, I recognized the call of my bunk buddy – I share a clay bedroom wall with 15 sheep. I guess she was crying for her newborn, who my host family had kept warm near the earthen stove that night. What should you do when farm animals start invading your dreams?

Men’s day was February 23rd. It’s comparable to Father’s Day, except it warrants a day of pre-emptive celebrations, a day of official celebrations, and a lazy day of “recuperation.” Come to think of it, most Kyrgyz holidays follow this three stage festivities pattern. Anyways, I dutifully attended our school’s staff party the first day and found myself strategically avoiding eye contact with all uninhibited (the brand that comes with red cheeks and a thick tongue) male dancers during the “disco tech” in the cafeteria at two in the afternoon . The next day I went to school expecting some sort of student competition/celebration. I blended into the crowd for about a minute before a teacher called me forward as a guest judge. Funny thing is, I was to judge two competing student army troops, as if I were familiar with Kyrgyz military standards in marching, uniform, and standards of strength. So, I did my best to stifle the constant urge to laugh - temptation intensified by the seriousness of everyone around me - and made sure that my average scores didn’t draw any attention to myself. For round two, we moved from the playground to the activity room, where some of my favorite competitions took place. Before the potato peeling event we were instructed to judge three criteria: the thinness of the peel, the number of whole potatoes peeled, and the cleanliness of all peeled potatoes. There was also trivia, acting, and button sewing. I decided that I’m a fan of Men’s Day.

Women’s Day is March 8th….I’m overtaken with the simultaneous desire to seek out all the action the instinctual call to hole up in my room. My curiosity boasts the stronger track record.

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.