Well, I was undoubtedly adopted for 40 minutes. On today’s run through the woods, I glanced back, and to my surprise, I appeared to have a four-legged friend. A blond mutt a bit on the mangy side was 10 feet behind, and stayed there for the duration of my run. A sweet lil’ guy who did a good job keeping pace. And thus was the much-needed highlight of today’s run.

See, over in KZ, autumn is upon us. Big time. With it has come cold, dreary, wet weather, combined all too often with strong wind. So these runs I have on the schedule almost always set off an internal argument. It’s too cold. It’s fall, Denise. It’s only gonna get colder. And windy. You’re from Nebraska. At least here there’s a tree grove to run through. It’ll be dark soon. So go now. And I don’t wanna. Get off your rear and RUN.

I won the argument today (though what exactly is winning if it’s with yourself?), aided by a quick grocery run during which, dag-nab-it, I admitted that it wasn’t all that cold. Moreover, the wind whipping through Soviet constructed courtyards was indeed slowed to a nice breeze in my go-to tunnel of trees. Add to it a canine running buddy, and I had myself a lovely little run. Now for a repeat with six miles tomorrow…

P.S. Uh, whoops… I suppose I should mention that, as with many countries around the world, stray dogs are all over the place here. And excluding today, my reaction is to avoid ‘em or scare ‘em… whatever it’ll take for me to walk away unscathed. So, it’s downright weird that this dog trotted after me today, content to just go out for a run, and then stick by my side as I walked home. Once I got to my building entrance, there was a twinge of guilt as I left him outside. But even if he adopts me, I won’t be adopting him. P.P.S. His name is Roscoe. ;)

They’ve come to be my favorite days. Other Kaz volunteers will likely know exactly what I’m talking about – the days when people of extreme importance come to visit your school, and you could swear there’s a fire under everyone’s bum. The best is when the visit is unexpected. Like today. It’s more than enough time to go crazy, for sure, but it leaves no time to fret about what to wear to school, how to wear a nametag, how early to come, wear to wait, etc, etc, etc. And now that I’ve given away the surprise, I’ll rewind and begin with us blissfully oblivious.

Dasha is in the resource center with two groups of students, hers and the absent Luda’s. The room is overflowing with rambunctious seventh graders. (Ah, how we love 12 year olds.) Every desk is full, and in the back are two practicum students from a nearby university who have come to observe. (One being Dima’s younger sister. Ha.) I come in for the stapler and wind up sticking my nose a bit too far into the lesson, distracting the kids in the back from causing a distraction in class. Dasha is doing her best to review passive voice when a zavuch (assistant principal) comes in. Channeling Paul Revere, she tells us that someone from the ministry is coming. Enter from stage right: panic. Half of these kids need to be on display with Dasha up in the multimedia room now. The other half stays. Tempering the fire you can see swelling within her, Dasha notes that she is only one person and cannot teach in two rooms at once. I hastily offer to drill these young’uns on the passive voice. Satisfied, Dasha grabs a couple things as the zavuch snaps at the kids to pack up and ship out. With the 10 students I have left, I get to work, borrowing a book and relying on the kids to tell me where they were. Praise the Lord I’ve worked with these kids before, so I know names and general behaviors. We get the ball rolling just in time for zavuch #2. Now they want me to be with Dasha up in the multimedia room. Gracious. Three different teachers within 20 minutes sounds like a grand idea. I work through one last sentence with the kids before handing over the reins to the two in the back. Take it away, Dima’s little sister. Nothing like being baptized with fire.

Upstairs, Dasha’s heart rate spikes again as I step in the room. I give the only explanation I can – just doing what I’m told. We keep things moving, still working through the passive voice. The bell rings. We’re not 100% sure, but chances are that we’re supposed to keep these kiddos here until this delegation makes its rounds. None too pleased, they sit back down and reopen their textbooks. I skip back down to the other group, which appears to have been deserted. Just in time, I rein them in and send them home with work to do, lock up the room, and retrace my steps upstairs.

There ought to be a climax to these stories, but really, things flat line early and drop off without much ado. Being all too passionate about the passive voice, I insist on continuing to instruct them. One boy sputters off, “Я ничего не буду писать.” Perfect. I write his sentence on the board, “I will write nothing.” Now, class… how do we put this in the passive voice?? Hee hee… And just as light bulbs start flickering, the head of the ministry of education in Shakhtinsk walks in. Recognizing him, I offer a warm hello. On his heels is the akim (mayor). We exchange greetings in English. An older man follows, and then there are the groupies. Goes without saying that pressed 3-piece suits are the outfit of choice. The head of the ministry of education is giving this tour, and explains the wondrous technology of School № 1 and the plans to expand it. A few sentences more, and they step back into the hallway. All those pounding hearts for, what, 30 seconds? Gotta love it. :) We manage to convince the students they must wait before herding out the door like elephants, and when we see the group of men step beyond the boundaries of school grounds, the kids are dismissed, and life resumes again.

September

And a few more tidbits from the last month-ish…

Answering my phone on a Saturday morning meant getting the opportunity to play tennis – like, real tennis, in a nearby village. There may have been six participants. There most certainly were no other females. Though I scored points, I mostly spent those five hours getting schooled. But hey- got a certificate at the end of the day for being the best female participant. Let me tell you, competition for that honor was something else.

Chance encounter with our old friend Dima turns into awkward date #2. In case your memory is too sharp and you ask what could get more awkward than meeting the mother on date one, I’ll tell you. Friends playing big brother from two tables away… in an otherwise empty café – that’s what.

With two casualties in late August from a mining-related accident at a mine near Karaganda, Miner’s Day was pushed back a week and renamed City Day. As far as I could tell, festivities were identical, down to people wishing each other a happy Miner’s Day. Horse races in the early afternoon, shashlik and music on the square all day long, and a big concert with a respectable fireworks show at night. A couple PCVs came out in time for the races, and we put up an ice cream cone for the person who could pick the winning horse. A couple more came a bit later, in time to see Dima play the guitar for his rock band. And in the evening it was back down to three PCVs as we snaked our way towards the main stage to see a Russian star of yesteryear. Several minutes of fireworks, and another Miner’s Day (I mean, City Day…) was in the books.

Made it out to Topar on one of the last warm weekends of the season. What I expected to be a few hours at the beach turned into an entire day, with so much delicious shashlik that I couldn’t look at meat for days.

Students from the camp we organized in Rostovka invited several volunteers to go bowling. Many of the kids had never actually bowled. Pretty cool to witness their first attempts, even if the computers malfunctioned and we couldn’t coordinate our rolls with our line on the scoreboard.

And, school has begun! I’m taking a shot at a different approach, focusing more on teachers than students. We’ll see how things progress with that. So for now, the only set lesson at school is a Survey of the USA. Teaching all about America in 35 hours or less. Now that’ll be a trick.

Two weeks down south. A week home. A week up north. A week home. Five days in Georgia. Three weeks at home, followed by almost four weeks away, and summer is gone. My verdict: keep yourself at home if you want to feel whole. Drag yourself around the world if you want adventure. Or try to do both if your goal is a ragged, somewhat confused funk. You can’t have it all, folks. Pausing to consider some highs and lows, I rewind first to…

The Fourth of July

Strangely enough, American embassies celebrate Independence Day. And here in Kazakhstan, some PCVs are invited to attend. I enjoyed my time on embassy grounds last year, and considered doing the same again. As the date drew nearer, we first assumed we could come, but then many were told that we couldn’t come. Rather than wait and cross my fingers for a re-invite, I went to the closest computer and bought myself a ticket to Tbilisi. (The only logical choice. Oh, and the re-invite came a week or two later. ;)

More or less inadvertently, I timed it all so I could enjoy a bit of both worlds. I caught a bus to Astana on the 2nd, where I joined Noelle in the apartment of an incredibly hospitable embassy couple, Craig and Leslie. Oh, the wonders of high-end housing in the capital, paired with impeccable American style hospitality. Ah, *contented sigh*. On the 3rd, we woke up to fresh brewed coffee. A delicious omelet. And fried bacon. Food worth stretching your stomach and clogging your arteries, no doubt about it.

The evening’s festivities were equally wondrous, with a rooftop party where English filled the air. Volunteers, embassy employees, and other Americans working in town congregated for food and fun. Sadly, I could only stay for a bit, as I had a plane to catch at 1am. Craig, who had effortlessly slid into the role of father-for-the-day, insisted on driving me to the airport, saving me from any taxi hassles. (Blessings to parents around the world who care for young adults as they would their own grown children, trusting that other parents are doing the same for their sons and daughters.)

And so, without a hitch, I landed in the capital of Georgia, where I met up with Anna and her friend Jessica. We enjoyed the day in Tbilisi, where we were lucky enough to meet up with a couple Georgian Peace Corps Response Volunteers, one of whom just finished three years with PC in KZ (you rock, Mary!). Traditional cuisine for lunch. American food for dinner. We found our way to a bar with stars-and-stripes table coverings. One look at the menu and the decision was made. Jessica and I split an Obama burger. Happy birthday, America.

თბილისი (Tbilisi)

“Hello, my name is Denise. I’m calling to inform you that I’ll be traveling to Tbilisi, the capital of the country of Georgia.”

The receptionist at my American bank transfers me to another department so I can repeat myself to a woman concerned with such matters. She asks me to repeat the location once more.

“T-bili-si.”

“And you’ll spell that for me?” she confidently requests, not yet wanting to expose how completely confused she is by all of this.

“And Georgia – is that spelled like our Georgia?”

Smiling patiently, I confirm that it is. And then her ignorance is laid bare.

“Is that in Russia?”

“No, ma’am, it is it’s own country.”

And a beautiful country it is. During our time there, we explored Tbilisi’s Old Town and took day trips away from the capital to explore Kazbegi and Gori. The scenery on the way to and around Kazbegi is breathtaking. And on our adventures in and around Gori, we explored a cave city and toured the town’s Stalin museum, complete with the house in which he was born.

Goes without saying that everywhere we went, we stuffed ourselves to the gills. Khachapuri is a food I could eat every day for the rest of my life. While in the country, I averaged 2 orders a day of the deliciously cheesy bread. You’ve also got hinkhali (fist-sized dough pockets filled with meat or mushrooms or potatoes or cheese), lobio (red beans with a fabulous spice blend), and a mouth-watering walnut paste that’s great with eggplant or kidney beans. It took a few days back in KZ to remember what hunger felt like.

Reality Check

Back on the ground in Kazakhstan after my return from Georgia, I was finally looking at more than seven days at site. Only by then, it had turned into close to twenty days with little to do and lots to brood over. I’ll tell you what, deciding to stay a third year feels very different when that reality is months away, your friends are all still in-country, and you’ve got a school schedule to keep you busy. Mid-July, my fellow 21s were prepping to go back, and I was struggling to reconnect with local friends I’d been ditching all summer for week-long stints elsewhere. Suffice to say, it was a rough couple of weeks.

Enough moping around, and I clawed my way out of my funk. An evening with one of my favorite English teachers and a long overdue housewarming brought back the sense that I just might belong here. And an invitation to go to Karkaralinsk put a skip back in my step.

Karkaralinsk (aka Karkaraly)

Quick side note – so, so many towns here have 2 names: the old Russian name and the new Kazakh name. Some new names have stuck. For many more towns, the old just won’t go away. Often, the names are completely different, inevitably causing confusion. Others are just a Kazakh-ified version. Thus, Karkaralinsk (Russian) and Karkaraly (Kazakh).

Either name, it’s a gorgeous place. Many locals vacation there at little… resort centers? Sanatoriums? They’ve got basic hotel rooms, gyms, outdoor cafés, swimming areas, etc. Others stay outside the sanatorium in areas reserved for tent campers. I just assumed the locals I accompanied would stay at a sanatorium, where I could take a shower and sleep in a regular bed. Try again.

As we filled the trunk with our baggage, I spotted two tents. A quick mental check and I confirmed that I was prepared for this little twist. We sped through the steppe until we reached the forested hills of Karkaraly. Next on the list: set up camp. We paid a small fee at a checkpoint and tried to follow the man’s directions to the camping area. That led us to four small cabins. The woman tending to them confessed that they were all full, but for 500tenge, we could pitch our tent on the grass nearby. We mulled this over as we piled back in the car to explore other options. We found nothing but other people trying to talk us out of even more money, so we made our way back.

Before parting with any cash, the five of us checked out the proposed spot again, and admired the forest down the hill. In the afternoon quiet, I could make out the faint sound of music from the trees. Soon we were off to investigate, despite cries from the woman to not stray too far. Five minutes later, we were in the forest talking to tent campers who had set up for free. Heh. We swiftly returned to our car and set up camp where we should have been in the first place.

The weekend turned out to be a wonderful escape, with hikes into the rocky hills and a morning spent sitting around a little lake. Only thing missing was marshmallows to roast over our campfire after demolishing round after round of shashlik. Good thing I have another summer to rectify that. :)

August

All of that excitement closed out July. For August, I was to be away from my site all but 8 days. For over two weeks, I lived out of a suitcase in Almaty, acting as a training assistant for the Kaz-23’s pre-service training, part 2. Gave me a chance to meet the newest group to the country and play my part in keeping an Indian restaurant open for business. Ah, dinner there alone is worth the trip down.

After that, it was off to Rostovka for a 5-day sleep-away camp. I joined 11 other volunteers to teach lessons, play games, and just hang out with kids. Just enough volunteers that we were kept busy, yet had enough down time to maintain our sanity all week long.

Now, back at site, I’m gearing up for school to begin. You know, reading magazines that came in the latest package, going on leisurely runs through the forest, and playing table tennis with friends. It’s going to be a great school year, but what I’m really excited about is Summer, Take 3. :) Something tells me it’ll be here before I know it.

I could (and I promise I will) write about non-post office happenings. But too many good stories come from that (usually) wretched place. Fellow lovers of snail mail, read on!

Money, Shmoney…

On a sunny June morning, I walk into the post office with a stack of letters to send out. Most are sealed in envelopes, but I’ll have to buy a couple more, too. It’s a slow morning, and no one is at window 5. I walk up and make my requests. He takes my letters to glue on stamps, and gives me blank envelopes, insisting that I fill and seal them before he puts stamps on them. I concede and step to the side and start writing. In the meantime, two young men come in to collect a package. It’s clear their business is far more important than mine, so I wait for my last couple stamps as these three Kazakh men get things squared away. As I wait, another employee comes up and asks if I am Denise, then explains that I need to pay the yearly fee for my mailbox. I dig out the money, but wait until I am again first in line to hand it over. I give it to the man along with my last envelopes, irritated that what could have happened in minutes is now going to take 45. He fiddles with my mail, and then indicates that I ought to be leaving now. I’m befuddled, but walk away, taking note of the line that has formed during my wait. But I can’t get myself through the door, knowing I haven’t paid my rather large bill for the stamps and envelopes I just got. I make an about-face and call over to him in Russian sprinkled with arrogance but completely devoid of elegance, “Pardon, stamps no need to pay?” Instantaneously his face expressed his shock, and in seconds he had darted to the back room and come back to calculate my expenses. No need for a line, he took my money with an efficiency that soothed my American soul and placated my Christian conscience.

The Bane of My Existence

My mom tells me of a postmaster back in the States who is always on the lookout for new and innovative ways to make business better at his post office. So when I shared the following with her, she insisted on passing it on.

At the end of June, I got a birthday card ready for a July 12th birthday. I still struggle with staying two weeks ahead of all holidays, but I thought I was doing alright, trying to send this one 13 days ahead. What I haven’t done is buy stamps in bulk… a great idea I wouldn’t think twice about in the States. So on June 30th, I walk into the post office, walk up to a window that (amazingly) doesn’t have a line. Before I can even finish asking for stamps, I’m told that they aren’t selling stamps. They’re doing inventory. That’s right. Inventory.

With a sliver of hope, I walked over to a much smaller post office in another part of town. And there I got the same line. Come back in July, I was told. So the next day, July 1st, I went back to the small post office. Now the woman had the gall to act irritated with me. Come back in a week, she said. As though I should obviously know that doing inventory takes a week. Now there’s an idea to boost your business…

Is that a whiff of …redemption?!

When I had all but lost hope in the post office being anything but a repulsive establishment completely incapable of posting mail, they went and earned themselves two points. The first one came around the middle of July, when long lines of people wait for hours on end to pay their bills. (Sidenote: can you really call it a post office? It’s more of a… business center. Or financial hub? You go there to pay bills. To utilize Western Union’s services. To collect your pension. And dozens of Avon saleswomen get their monthly orders. And 2 of us collect letters.)

I look at the long line at window 5, where I usually buy stamps, and decide to try window 6. That man clearly communicates that he will absolutely not sell me stamps. So, I decide to walk around the line of people, where I can ask window-5-man if I can buy stamps from him. He casually replies, with the slightest hint of a grin, that he’ll be with me in a second. A second?! Like, he’ll sell me stamps without me going to the back of this 5+ person line?! Sort of in shock, I stand a little off to the side to wait until he’s done with the person he’s currently helping. And to listen as people around me get all anxious about who’s last in line, who’s saving their spot but sitting over by the window, and who is standing in the wrong spot. In between people, he takes all of my letters to be posted and even gets me the one envelope I need. I get the envelope ready and hand that to him as well. Another 10 minutes and I’ve paid for everything and head for the door. As I walk away, I grin as the woman next in line complains about how long she’s been waiting there and how awful it is that he would help someone wanting stamps at the post office before he attends to people there to pay bills. Little did I know, there’s a sign taped to window 5 saying that people with letters and packages don’t have to wait in line with everyone else. And little does she know, in a land far away, people pay so many of those bills without waiting in a single line.

Point two came not so long after, on a slow day. One woman was working with window-5-man to get a package delivered to a town in Russia. Much paperwork is involved, making the confusion I cause seem minimal – or at least manageable. I patiently waited behind her… 10 minutes turned into 20, and 20 into 30. Gave me lots of time to read and reread the friendly little printout giving those of us with packages and letters the right-of-way. On the tails of my recent success, I happily waited behind someone doing post office business. A sizeable chunk of time had passed when a Kazakh woman walked up to demand an envelope. Window-5-man starts to get more information, and then backs off in favor of the package business at hand. On the verge of outrage, the woman tries a different approach. She’s Kazakh and he’s Kazakh… so she speaks Kazakh, demanding to know why in the world is she not being catered to. At least that’s the message I imagine she spit in his direction. As a fascinated observer, I noted that he said next to nothing to her in Kazakh, but, sticking to Russian, repeated to her that there is a line, and just as I had been waiting, she also needed to wait for her turn. Because, for the time being, anyway, I can find no sign indicating that Kazakhs get to skip the line.

And you thought there wouldn’t be a long-winded June post… On the contrary, I seem to have outdone myself. Take ‘er in bits, my friends. :) In amongst many summer trips, I’ve taken all the time necessary to peck out minute details from stories that may or may not be worth retelling. I’ll let you be the judge.

The Fragility of Life

On a Tuesday morning in May, I walked into the teacher’s room at my school to find dozens of school staff, all eerily silent. The only noise came from those who couldn’t hold back their tears. It takes only seconds in an atmosphere like that to comprehend that something tragic has occurred. Having heard the day before that one of my students was in bad shape in the hospital, I feared the worst. And the worst it was. Nastya, one of my seventh grade students, only 14 years old, had passed away early Tuesday morning from heart complications. Confused and downcast, we numbly listened to what the school director had to say before going to our classrooms. Both teachers and students understood, however, that there would be no lessons, but only the passing of time together, if even that.

Activity picked up only slightly before the funeral, which took place on Friday. Until then, her body was kept in her home. Friday morning, those closest to her went to the apartment. After their time there, they followed in a bus as the casket was transported to School #1. A team of young men carefully lifted the open casket out of the hearse-like vehicle and set it on two stools in the school’s courtyard. A small crowd gathered around and peered at her body, so mysteriously robbed of life …a girl who had been alert and active only one week prior. A small procession was led by her best friend Tanya, who was clutching a portrait of Nastya. Behind her were Nastya’s parents and more of their classmates. The school director gave a small speech before everyone prepared for a trip to the cemetery.

At the cemetery, the casket, still open, was again set on two stools. Now people crowded even closer together, leaving little room around the perimeter of the casket. From my observation, it was time for an anything-but-private final goodbye. The last and most tender parting was mother and daughter. The grief her mother must be experiencing – and must continue experiencing as our school’s nurse – cannot be quantified. With a last kiss, she draped a white cloth over her daughter’s body. She sprinkled a handful of dirt down the middle and then closed the casket.

Taking hold of two white ropes strung underneath it, young men lowered the casket into the ground. People then took turns dropping handfuls of dirt on top. Once everyone had performed this ritual, we stood, waited, and listened as those same young men tossed dirt into her grave, shovel by shovel. The rhythmic thuds of earth reclaiming a life is a sound not easily forgotten.

In due time, a mound of dirt protruded from the ground, and the young men could move on to their next task. In cemeteries here, each gravesite is typically surrounded by a small fence. And so, they took four panels, eyed right angles, and forced them into the ground. Then the white rope, now cut into short strips, could be used to tie bundles of flowers to the fence. Dozens of children who had been holding flowers for Nastya could now lay them on her grave. And as we loaded back into buses, the crows could come and feast on what we had left to remember a young life, lost.

And in this culture’s version of a funeral dinner, we all went straight to a restaurant in Shakhtinsk where tables were covered with food for us to eat. With only a spoon, we picked away at salads, then soup, then mashed potatoes with a Russian version of a hamburger (sans bun). Little was said, as we dared not break the spirit of solemnity. And so, I suppose it’s natural that many of us did not linger long, but preferred to surround ourselves in personal lives not so grief-stricken. As for Nastya’s family, there would be another feast to mark day seven after her death, and a third at day forty.

This tragedy certainly highlights the fragility and uncertainty of life… and the mystery of when each of us has lived out our destined days.

May 29th

And on a polar opposite note… May 29th marked day one for Addison Mae Nyffeler, daughter and first child of Dustin and Kristen. Praise God for the Internet… I had spoken with my brother a few days beforehand, so I was just waiting to hear the news. My Monday morning, May 30th, I decided to try calling, knowing it would be a while before I could try again. No answer. Then, a few minutes before I left for work, I got an e-mail from Dustin, saying he missed my call because he was holding his daughter! I had called not 2 hours after she was born. I quickly called again, offering congratulations as well as one can from the other side of the earth. Now to convince him he should download Skype so we can video chat…

Staying on the Right Side of the Law

Oh, the days that end with a ride in a police car… (How’s that to pique your curiosity? ;) A few days after school ended, a couple volunteers and I joined two of our favorite local women to enjoy a delicious dinner here in Shakhtinsk. Marly and I know just the place to go. Don’t go there for the service; don’t go there for the crowd. Just go for the food. Man, I’m still convinced it’s the best shashlik to be had in KZ. Judging from how busy it always is, lots of other people think so, too.

On this evening, we were having a wonderful time, enjoying our food and drink. And, as always, attracting attention by speaking English. This time around, the ears that perked up belonged to the city’s chief of police. We had been aware of his presence, but not until he turned did we acknowledge that. Happily enjoying his own meal with a deputy and his bodyguard, he turned initially to greet Marly, to whom he had formerly been introduced.

He and his companions decided to get more acquainted with all of us, and the deputy invited himself to sit our table. He and the chief had great fun talking with us, and soon decided we needed a bottle of champagne, and then another. I made the mistake of understanding too much of the deputy’s Russian, and before long my name changed from Denise to “my sunshine”. Bleen. (He wanted my number – I said, “no.” He tried to sweeten the deal by offering to sing to me in every language known to man. Charming offer, but I still had to decline. Stick with your wife and kids, buddy.)

With all the food eaten and all drink consumed, our new off-duty friends convinced us we now needed to go sing together at a karaoke bar. They paid for our meal and escorted us outside. Since they were in no condition to drive themselves, they called on some on-duty friends to pick us up. I steered clear of the deputy, meaning I missed my chance at a ride in a police car, and rode to our next destination in some luxury sedan instead. You’ll have to ask Marly how it felt to race down the main street in one of those silly looking jeeps. It was terrifying enough in a car with a wide wheelbase.

Their karaoke spot of choice was, thank God, 5 minutes from my apartment door. No sooner had we been seated did we discover that the karaoke machine was broken. On to Plan B. For them, that meant finding a new locale. For me, that meant sneaking home. I started tiptoeing away, not wanting deputy-man to notice. The first to object was the goliath-sized Russian man charged with protecting the chief. I implored him to be quiet and allow me to slip away. I made it across the street and into the shadows before I peered back. No sign of anyone running after me. So, I scurried off to my stairwell and sighed with relief once inside my locked apartment.

I learned the next day that the others had a fabulous time singing at the next bar they landed in. That happened only after, however, the deputy fussed over my sudden absence. Noticing I was gone, he wanted to know which apartment building was mine. In her infinite wisdom, Marly pointed to the wrong one, so he hurried over, trying to find his sunshine. Hard to believe no one else ran to jump into his arms…

Bake Sale, Schmake Sale

If anyone has ever told you that bake sales are a good way to make money, you should spit on their shoe, or at least do something mildly offensive. Bake sales are a bad way to make a profit, at least if you plan on subtracting expenses from your earnings. Even worse is if the cookies are all baked by you in an oven the size of a large man’s beer belly.

Six by six, I baked hundreds of cookies in an attempt to make money for a camp a few of us are organizing (to be held in late August). Chocolate chip, chocolate chocolate chip, shortbread, oat walnut shortbread, and brownies. I finished as much as I could each of the four evenings before the day we had set to sell.

We had advertised with all the energy that remained after the ruckus we raised for our carnival. While that means we didn’t go to the same extreme, we still hoped for a decent turnout. Alas, the combination of a rain delay and school having just let out meant that a grand total of maybe 12 kids showed up. And they came to help sell – not buy. Those who brought money turned into buyers, but the rest could do nothing but wait for the occasional passerby. Two hours of sitting outside in the wind, and we had just managed to cover our expenses. Note to self: make cookies to fill your stomach, not your pockets.

“The Museum of the Memory of Political Repressions Victims”

Kudos to any of you who can spit out that mouthful, and even more to those who can decipher a meaning. In different words, it’s a museum dedicated to victims of political repression, specifically during the Soviet Union. And the museum is a 10-minute car ride from my site. The museum was open for a chunk of time, but then closed for renovation, with a scheduled opening of May 31, 2011. Early in the month, Marly and I were asked to assist with translations of various materials, as the goal is to present all information in three languages: Kazakh, Russian, and English. And so, Marly and I made various trips to Dolinka, where this museum stands.

Now for a little Soviet history. September 2, 1918, marked the beginning of “Red Terror,” during which thousands were charged as being enemies of the state, punishable by imprisonment or execution. People were targeted for their wealth or any hint of counterrevolutionary perspectives. A decade later, in the late 1920s, the government imposed a forced collectivization policy. Across the USSR, rural people were stripped of their belongings and forced to join collective farms. For nomadic Kazakhs, this was especially debilitating. Without their livestock, they struggled to provide for themselves, and any attempt to conceal livestock or grain was punished severely. And in 1930, the Gulag was officially established, within which the government exploited prisoners, likely in an attempt to rapidly industrialize.

Gulag camps were present throughout the Soviet Union. A large section, about the size of France, was in my oblast, and was called the Karlag. (“Kar” for Karaganda, “lag” for lager, the Russian word for camp.) The administrative center was in Dolinka, in the building that now houses the museum all about the Karlag.

The Karlag was opened on December 19, 1931. People labeled as enemies of the state were forced to do various forms of hard labor such as building railroads or mining coal. Some imprisoned scientists were able to continue research within the confines of the camp. Families were separated, if for nothing more than to wreak havoc on their psyche. Women were also sentenced to hard labor, as were children over the age of 15. Younger children lived in children’s homes, and any education they received taught them to be sympathetic to the government and to disown their parents as traitors. Conditions everywhere were inhumane, and inordinate numbers lost their lives as a result. The numbers of forced laborers was maintained, however, by the continual imprisonment of more and more people.

The museum in Dolinka covers that history in much more depth, as well as information pertaining to mass deportations carried out over the same time period. In an effort to quell any uprisings, the government deported people by the thousands, with many of them finding themselves in the middle of the vast Kazakh steppe. Local Kazakhs were already suffering from a terrible famine (induced by the dispossession of their belongings); thousands more being forced to live on the same territory only exacerbated it.

A somber tour through the museum will fill you in on more of the horrors of this era, but end with a bright blue room, summarizing Kazakhstan’s progress as an independent state. The museum is quite impressive, and packed with more information than I could digest. And that’s saying something, since I went there so frequently throughout May.

Marly and I kept going back not just to provide translation help, but also to take a crash course on being museum guides. See, this impressive renovation called for an impressive grand opening. Over 500 people were to attend, and the goal was to provide tours in three languages. Lena, one of the museum curators who speaks Russian and English, called on our help in response to an expectation that17 English-speaking ambassadors would come on May 31st. Excited at the opportunity to guide ambassadors through the museum, Marly and I proceeded to cram our brains with Soviet history. We scoured the Internet, listened to podcasts, and memorized museum annotations. And spent hours on end going through the place, until I could ramble for over 30 minutes, talking only briefly about each exhibit.

And here’s how we were rewarded. First, on May 30th, Marly and I came yet again, but this time with two more PCVs who would also be there to help during the opening. The museum was buzzing with curators from area museums who were acquainting themselves with all the exhibits in order to give tours in Kazakh or Russian. We joined the commotion, showing the other two around and then practicing a time or two. Afterwards, the four of us sat down in the director’s office. I figured she’d drill into us the importance of the next day, reemphasize the dress code of frilly white blouse and black dress pants or skirt, and then set us free to go home and study. No dice. A vice-akim from Karaganda was coming (read: very, very important person, at least by his own standards), and he would test to make sure everything was up to his high expectations. Lena told us that he would listen to our tours and then yell at us about how awful we were, but that we shouldn’t be discouraged. Great. Ah- and the guy says he speaks English, Lena told us, though she then added her doubts to that claim. He was coming at 2pm, so we had time to eat lunch and get back to await him.

Close to 2, all four of us joined a dozen other guides waiting nervously for this big shot. Then Lena relayed the message that only one of us was to give a tour. I was the lucky (or maybe unlucky?) one who stayed behind as the other three hid and waited upstairs in an office. Without a single scrap of paper as a cheat-sheet, I visually walked myself from room to room, reciting my spiel. I went through it twice before reverting to thumb-twiddling to pass the time. That’s right, the guy expected at 2 didn’t come until almost 4.

As he entered the front door of the museum, his first words were, “Why isn’t there a table here?!”

“We planned to open these ticket windows, sir, which will be…”

“Bring me a table!!” People scurried to haul the closest available table to the spot he demanded it be. But he was not to be appeased. “This table is too small!” he roared.

“That’s the only table we’ve got right now,” the director hesitantly admitted, while promising to find one more suitable.

Disgusted, he moved on to the next order of business: tours. He demanded to know who were the main tour guides. A lovely older woman, a curator at a Karaganda museum, was identified along with Lena. He ordered the older woman to begin giving him a tour. Visibly shaking, she dove into an explanation of a Kazakhstan map and a model of a watchtower before moving down the hall in response to frantic signals from the museum director to hurry up. She continued to guide us through the first hall and into the second before he snapped at Lena to pick up where she left off. He soon interrupted her, demanding to know why a machete was positioned at the bottom of the display case being described. He opened the side door, took it out, and started pacing around the room with it. I prepared to pounce over whomever necessary to save myself from an imminent rampage. Lena, however, not only maintained her composure, but calmly defended its placement. Subjecting himself to agreement, he returned the weapon and allowed her to continue her tour. Soon another guide was snapped at to continue, and then another. I did my best to strategically place myself – close enough to listen, far enough to avoid attention. But I could only hide so long.

Down in the basement of the museum is an installment of a prison. And as we all crowded in and near a model of an investigator’s office, I heard a call for an English-speaking tour guide. I squeezed into the room, offered a good afternoon, and asked Lena where I should begin. With the go-ahead to start with the portion in our immediate vicinity, I rattled off, “Here in the investigator’s office, the imprisoned would sit on a stool, where they would face hours of interrogation from…”

“Does she speak Russian?” he interrupted.

“A little,” I said.

“Where are you from?”

“Uh, I live in Shakhtinsk… I’m from America.”

And suddenly, apparently satisfied with my knowledge of the museum (or unsettled by all those long i-words), the tense tour dissolved altogether, and we parted ways before talking ourselves out of the prison. I rejoined my friends upstairs and caught a bus home.

The next morning, we donned the closest thing we had to the requested outfit and returned to the museum, ready for anything. The best intentions of museum staff were to usher in small groups, which would proceed smoothly from room to room, following and being followed by other groups. Tours would start every few minutes to maximize efficiency, while still allowing visitors to enjoy a taste of the museum. A lovely idea, indeed.

The day’s events began with a few distinguished guests addressing the large crowd gathered in the morning drizzle. One of them, I later learned, was the daughter of Seyfullin, a famous Kazakh poet who was killed in the Gulag. Many of us guides crammed around the windows to catch what we could, seeing only the backside of the speaker and heads of the hundreds of people looking on. Soon enough, the doors opened for the first tour group, and immediately plans went awry.

I’ll tell you what. If men in suits will feel slighted by being left out of the first group to walk through, there better be fewer than 10 people dressed up. As it was, over twenty men crammed in for the first tour guide to lead around. And as soon as they stepped out of the doorway, more people crowded in. In a land where lines are usually confined to the faces of babushkas, I should have expected chaos. As for the 17 English-speaking ambassadors, though, the verdict was still out.

So, the four of us waited around and eventually went where we were told. In the end, the tours we provided were to 1) a freelance writer who, upon learning what state I call home, fondly recounted a former employer, the Omaha World Herald, 2) the Japanese ambassador and his adorable assistant/ translator, and 3) a random tourist from NYC.

Regardless of the numbers, though, the experience was fabulous. I am greatly honored to have had the chance to guide the Japanese ambassador through the museum. I am also glad I was pushed to learn so much more about this country’s rocky past. There’s fascinating stuff hidden away in history, and digging around in Kazakhstan can turn up some juicy stuff.

Petro: Where all goes south, except me.

The plan was straightforward. I had even thought ahead when I bought my train ticket. Leave in the evening on Saturday, so I wouldn’t have to worry about making my train after traveling back into the city. See, I had gone up to Petropavlovsk by train the previous Saturday, and then traveled three hours by bus out to Presnovka with other PCVs to help at an English camp. Early the following Saturday afternoon, we returned by bus to Petro. Now I just needed to kill a few more hours before my 10pm train back to Karaganda.

Sidd, a friend of mine since PST, lives in the city, so I planned to spend the afternoon and evening catching up with him. Getting to him required a taxi, so I got his address, the fair price (400 tenge) and went in search of a driver. First man I spoke with understood where I wanted to go and repeated it back to me as if in shock, followed by, “Do you know where that is?! Do you know how far that is?!” Hmm, nope. No, I do not. I just want to know how much, so that’s what I demanded to know. “1000 tenge!” he exclaimed. Ha. No. way. Nice try. “How much did you expect?” he retorted. “400,” I responded assertively. His turn to laugh. And then he dropped to 700, which I also refused. He assured me I wouldn’t find any driver willing to take me there for that price, at which I assured him that I knew it must be a 400t ride and turned to walk away. “500!” he yelled after me. I glanced back and tried 400 once more before walking to another car. Since he again refused, I walked further down in the line of parked cars to one that had a taxi light on top. The punked-out driver rolled the address around in his head for a minute, and when I asked how much, promptly replied, “400.” That’s what I thought.

He drove a serpentine path through the city as I thanked God that these taxi drivers don’t charge by the mile. Eventually we wound up at an apartment building that said 45 Ermekov. I wanted 75, but figured it was probably close by. I paid the driver, got out and called Sidd. “I’m at your door!” “Uh, I’m outside my door, so no… you’re not.” I whip around to see if there’s another door in sight with my friend nearby. Nothing. My taxi driver had pulled further into the maze of pavement next to the apartment buildings to turn around and was now coming back. I stopped him in the nick of time and pointed out the error. Confused and a bit irritated, he let me back in and set to the task of finding building 75. Now, one may think that 75 Ermekov would be near 45 Ermekov. But one learns quickly that sentences pertaining to KZ that begin with “You would think that…” should not be finished. We may think so. They do not. So, back to taxi driver man. Poor guy has to get directions from Sidd, after which he drives for another five minutes, making multiple turns and one more wrong turn before arriving at the correct address. Good heavens.

Sidd and I enjoyed our time together, going out to eat with his girlfriend and meeting up with a former student of his. Got in a good deal of walking around and testing out colorful Russian phrases before I got on a bus bound for the train station. I got there around 9:30pm – plenty of time to get on Train 16 before it left at 10:10. I made my way up to the waiting hall and finished off a stale samsa as an announcement was made over the loudspeaker. “Train 15 Almaty-Petropavlovsk …blah, blah… has been …blah, blah… delayed nine hours… blah, blah, blah…” Lots of the Russian zoomed right over my head, I’m sure, but I caught enough to understand something was wrong with someone else’s train. Good thing mine was #16. Though, as I was to discover minutes later, it’s a bad thing that the train enters the station as 15 and leaves as 16. My 31st train ride, and finally, my first significant, annoying, plan-altering train delay. I made my way down to a ticket clerk and inquired about the delay. Exactly what time would it be leaving? “Well, right now we think it will come in at 5:10am, but it could be later.” “Could it be earlier?” I asked. “Yes.” Ugh. So what the heck am I supposed to do? She kindly gave a local number that I could call from a house phone to get the latest estimate. With that, I headed off to return from where I had come. To add insult to injury, the buses stop running at 10pm, so even if I wanted to save money that way, I was too late. Off I went to negotiate with yet another taxi driver. A line up of marked taxis were on the curb right outside, so I asked them. An outspoken man piped up with a 500 tenge quote. Nope. 400, I insisted. In our ensuing banter, he mentioned that I couldn’t get a lower price because this is the train station, and from that I knew without a doubt he was trying to pull a fast one on me. Annoyed, I started walking away, and just as before, he called after me once more. With a twinge of irritation, he yelled, “Get in.” “400?” I demanded to know. Not wanting to openly admit defeat, he silently accepted as I threw in my backpack and sat down. At least this jerk was able to drive straight back to Sidd’s.

Back at his place, I set my alarm for 4am, planning to call the train station to confirm a 5:10 departure. Closed my eyes well after 11, and woke up on my own at 3:30. I continued to lay there, but minutes passed and I figured, heck, might as well call the train station to see what I could find out. Tip-toed over to the phone and dialed. “Tell me, please, about train 16,” I mumbled. “Blah, blah… arrival… blah, blah, 20 minutes… lots more Russian…” “Uh, can you say that again? Is the train already there?” I ask as my mind is still trying to wake up. She lambasted me with more Russian. “When will it leave?” was my last feeble attempt to make sense of anything. “Неизвестный.” Huh? And then, click.

I promptly took this all to mean that my train was sitting in the station, preparing to take off any minute, with or without me. Heart pounding, I took the taxi numbers Sidd had jotted down and tried calling. Both were busy. 3:40AM, and they’re both busy. Unbelievable. I woke up my poor friend, pleading for help. Ever chivalrous, he rolled out of bed and got right to work, trying everything he could think of to get a taxi a.s.a.p. We wound up on hold with a recording that told us what number we were in line. We started out at seven. SEVEN. People, aren’t you aware that you’re supposed to be sleeping at 4am?! Waiting to get a live person took an eternity. And once we did, she just took a name and promised to call back when a car was free. Good grief. Our patience lasted a good 90 seconds before we started furiously dialing again. Five minutes later, and we were in line again, now number eight. “Sidd, what does неизвестный mean?” “Unknown.” What was unknown, I had no idea. I just assumed the worst and started running through contingency plans, guessing at the cost effectiveness of racing the train in a taxi to a stop down the line versus staying in Petro until the next train southbound.

About 40 minutes later, and a taxi was finally on its way. Whew. Now to call the station to see if I was screwed or not. Sidd tried to hand me the phone. Ha. I speak like a 5 year old; he speaks like a local. He consented to making the call, to my relief, and Russian rolled right off his tongue, and he soon consoled me with a correct translation. The train was expected to pull in 30 minutes later, so I had ample time to get there. Only one more taxi ride for which to dish out my dwindling cash, and I’d be on my way home. I sat myself down and dug out a 500 as we got close to the station. I had asked Sidd before I left, but he assured me getting to the station was more important than haggling for the right price. I took it as sound advice and prepared to be swindled. We rolled to a stop and I asked, “How much? 400?” “No,” he replied, “300.” Dumbfounded, I stuck the 200 tenge in my pocket. Finally, my turn to go south.

During my childhood in Western Nebraska, rain was a blessing. We never seemed to get enough of it, so when it came, we soaked it up along with the parched fields. We prayed for gentle rains, but eagerly anticipated the next crack of lightning during thunderstorms. I reminisce about walking into the middle of our farmstead to watch clouds churning overhead… about scrambling through the hail to bring my horses into the safety of the barn… and sitting with them through the worst of it as the radio blared with tornado watches. I remember running through the rain with my friends, getting soaked to the bone… and then scolded by parents as we climbed into what was a dry and clean car. I remember the draws running, washing out a section of the road not a half mile from us. I think back to the dozens of times my family and I would rush through the house to close the right windows, careful to account for which direction the raindrops were falling. And as I sit here in my own apartment, so far away from all those memories, the patter of raindrops brings them back.

In the nutshell version of the Peace Corps Carnival I wrote and posted, so, so much of the story was left untold. So in an effort to amuse you, or at least hold your attention, here is a closer look at our successfully chaotic day.

The Morning Of…

Hordes of volunteers had arrived, and I couldn’t have been more pleased with the numbers we had. Yet, with all those helping hands, I still couldn’t dream up any work to put them to. Games were almost all ready. Booth posters had been painted. Fingers were crossed for rolls of tickets to come that day in a package from home. One remaining task – collect advertising posters that had been displayed in different schools.

Anna and I took off, walking across town to School #1. Plan was to take down 3 posters and do a 180. Who would dress up for that? Certainly not Denise. To my credit, at least ½ of my outfit was not pajamas. (If you’re good at detecting foreshadowing, you know this isn’t going to turn out well.)

The hick-up came about a quarter after 9, just as we ran into my counterpart at school. The Country Director is coming at 10, she explained, and my school director insists I stay and meet him. I’d never met the man before, and here was my chance to make a shining first impression …looking like I had just rolled out of bed. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and stared at Anna for solace of some sort.

Finding two befuddled girls standing idly in the hallway, my favorite maintenance man tapped me and motioned for me to follow him. I fell in step behind him and obediently waited outside as he entered some mysterious room I knew nothing about. A quick peek provided the obvious answer – maintenance men’s workroom. Now the question was, why in the world was I waiting outside of it? Less than a minute later, he came back out, holding a hand behind his back. Then, with suspense hanging in the air, he revealed a …hedgehog!

I’ve never seen a hedgehog up close. Probably never seen one at all. Heck, I don’t even remember seeing pictures of them. Stuffed animals, sure. Cartoon drawings. But never something in the flesh. I definitely whipped out my camera and madly snapped pictures of the terrified little thing. Then the maintenance man suggested I hold it. My turn to be terrified. They sure are spiny guys, and they curl up into a ball when they’re afraid. So when I mustered enough guts to hold him, he tensed into a ball, but as I stood there steadily, he eventually felt safe enough to unfurl a bit, and then paw at the air, much like a turtle on his shell. And that’s about the point at which some of my ninth grade girls came skipping down the steps. Seeing me fearfully holding the little animal, they squeezed into a circle around me, daring themselves to inch a finger closer and closer until he (or she?) made a reactionary movement, at which they’d jump back.

Soon enough it was time to relinquish the hedgehog. I handed him over to the janitor, who was intent on releasing him outside. I rejoined Anna and we went outside together, where she got her turn to pose for pictures with a hedgehog before he burrowed under a tree in the schoolyard. All proof that I never can know what a morning will bring. Good thing I carry my camera most days.

Anna carted the posters back to my apartment, and I wandered back inside, waiting nervously for our guest to arrive. I sat in our little tearoom with Tatyana, and when we saw strangers walking up, we went to the front doors to properly welcome them. Though I can say nothing for first impressions made of me, I like to think things went pretty smoothly. Gathered in the director’s office and people from school and I took turns praising each other. Went to the resource center to admire the work of volunteers before me. I almost hit the road before I got a picture of my teachers with the Country Director and his translator. With sufficient photos snapped, both of small animals and important people, I could hustle back to my apartment to anxiously make last-minute preparations. Whew. What a start to the day.

Guest(s) of Honor

In the days leading up to the carnival, I was stoked about the expected attendance of three people. And two of them actually did come! Not a bad hit-rate, especially in these parts. The three included my dear friend Marina, Bob Cone (the Country Director of Peace Corps-Kazakhstan), and the Akim (Mayor) of Shakhtinsk.

I often visit Marina, and our time is mutually beneficial for language acquisition. She improves her English; I pick up a couple Russian words. Marina’s vivacity and good spirits constantly impress me. See, she’s confined to a wheelchair, and she lives with her mother and grandmother on the fourth floor of a building without an elevator. Needless to say, she rarely gets out. So when Ira, the friend who introduced us, suggested that we take her to the carnival, I was elated. Ira had an SUV to transport both Marina and her wheelchair, and we could depend on Sergei to do the grunt work. And just as things were getting started on Saturday, I saw Ira, Sergei, and Marina shooting the breeze in the foyer of the Culture House. All the festivities were on the 2nd floor, so we recruited a couple more guys to carry the wheelchair as Sergei took Marina on up. Ira stayed by her side to the bitter end, faithfully helping her move from place to place to take in as much as possible. Post-carnival report from Ira is that Marina thoroughly enjoyed herself. I’m pumped that she got to join us and meet many of the visiting volunteers.

The second honored guest was our Country Director, Bob Cone. Peace Corps-KZ just changed CDs (PC staff all work on time-limited contracts.), and this event provided a great chance for him to see another site and meet more volunteers. Add to that a rocking celebration of Peace Corps’ 50th Birthday, and you’ve got an opportunity that simply cannot be missed. Given his extensive experience within the public school system in the States, he felt right at home at our crazy carnival, and offered wise suggestions to smooth operations. He led us in “Happy Birthday” to kick things off, and shook hands with certificate winners at the end. What an honor it was for us to have him join in on the fun.

And your deductive powers will tell you that our akim was the no-show. Such a shame. The guy speaks English well and seems rather friendly. Don’t worry, the first chance I got, I put my hand on my hip and berated him for not being there. (…because it’s my place to scold the mayor? Open mouth, insert foot, anyone?) And yet, my silly comment was made in such a way that I think he’ll happily help us out with any future projects. What a fine display of a skill passed on from my father… ;) (Hee hee, thanks Dad.)

So instead of his presence at the carnival, I’ll add a note about a different guest. Dig around in my blog archives and you’ll read about Ivan, aka Ivan Running Guy. That’s right, Ivan came. It’s my fault, really. Err, entirely. Days before the carnival, I saw I missed a call from him. Rather than ignore it as I have dozens of other calls, my exuberance for the carnival overtook my better sense. “I can invite him to my carnival!!” Right. Invite a grown man to 3 hours of mayhem in which little kids play silly games and I run around like a beheaded chicken. Excellent idea. And as you already know, the poor guy showed up. Worse yet, he came from Astana. A few PCVs knew he might come, and so they instantly understood when a young man came in asking for Denise. Oh, what a silly thing I had done by inviting him… his coming was surprising, yet I appreciated the trouble he went to to get there. But showing my appreciation was hindered dramatically by my beheaded-chicken state. So I talked to him for, oh, about 2 minutes. Got a few pictures with him. And continued scurrying around. Reflecting on it is quite embarrassing, to be honest. But hey, we’re living and learning here. Living and learning.

Television Debut

In a last quick note… that’s right, the carnival was on the news. Karaganda news. (Big city nearby broadcasting to tens of thousands in the city and probably just as many in outlying towns and villages.) Having a television camera recording the chaos of the carnival is one thing. Being interviewed in Russian is quite another. Marly and I couldn’t weasel out of it, though. I put it off as long as I could. All that did, however, was give me enough time to get my internal speed up to an easy 100mph. At breakneck internal speeds, I race from place to place, knowing something must be done, but not really sure what it is. So I do something possibly productive, not likely well thought-out, and race on to whatever comes next. Perfect state to give an interview in a language I can’t speak well when all cylinders are firing.

The questions were easy enough to understand, though answering them proved more difficult. Words jumbled together and escaped from my tongue, most of them making some sense, and only one answer being found humorous by locals who giggle as they tell me they saw me on TV. Good thing it takes a lot to embarrass me. I’ll thank my dad for that one, too. ;)

On a snowy afternoon in late winter, an idea was hatched to celebrate Peace Corps’ 50th Anniversary: a Peace Corps Carnival. Picture it… a room packed with people of all ages having all sorts of fun playing silly games and winning candy. Who doesn’t love a good cake walk? Having gained confidence from attending and assisting at dozens of spring carnivals myself, I decided to run with the idea. Making it possible was the mutual excitement of my sitemate, Marly.

But attending and assisting is a tad different than planning one from scratch. …and being in a country where such carnivals have never before been done adds an extra degree of difficulty. That said, here’s a peek at what Marly and I have been up to the last few months.

First, we decided on a time – April 23, 2011. Four to seven in the evening. At the Culture House, in a room I prayed would be large enough. Figured out how we wanted to advertise for the carnival and, more importantly, operate it. The best projects are the ones that most intimately involve the community, and even better is offering an opportunity for youth to shine as future leaders. To that end, we barged into class after class in each of the seven schools in Shakhtinsk and spread the word to nearby villages that we had an exciting opportunity for them.

Our pitch went like this – a quick introduction and one sentence explanation of our purpose for interrupting their class. But what’s the point in telling you when we can show you?! Having brought materials for a few silly games, we pulled kids to try their luck. Some batted balloons in the air, some bounced a super-ball with a Frisbee, and others tried to catch candy in a cup strapped to the top of their head. Some looked like clowns. And some of those clowns got candy.

By this point, it was clear whether we had captured their interest or not. Some kids were just spellbound; in other rooms you could hear the chirps of crickets. Thankfully the former was much more common, and we could confidently proceed. At the carnival, we explained, would be a wide variety of games, fun for all ages. We wanted them to first, come. Come themselves, and come with their families. Second, we asked for help from older students to decorate and operate the booths. Ideally, twelve students from each school would help us, each receiving a t-shirt for their work. Third, we requested all students to make a poster to advertise for the event. The best posters in two divisions (divided by age) were promised an award, as were the students who would do the best job decorating.

With schools informed, the first wave of tasks ceased. The next flurry of activity came after the posters were due. Two former students happened to be at my school at just the right time to help Marly and I judge the entries we had received. Goodness, are there some talented artists in town! And over thirty posters were created! We declared a 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place in both divisions, and then divided the posters to be delivered to and hung up at schools around town.

During this time, Marly and I were also busy deciding on what booths we wanted to have. Some fabulous ideas came from the show, A Minute to Win It. Most games require few materials, which would keep this huge project pretty low budget. What didn’t keep the budget down was the decision to purchase t-shirts. To make this a really special 50th occasion, we wanted the student workers and volunteers to wear custom-made Peace Corps 50th t-shirts. We researched prices in this area, and discovered that screen-printing alone would be astronomical. Thus, we looked overseas and worked through Marly’s cousin, and got a deal on shirts. Woo!

So… at this point, we gathered names of students from 10 schools and made lots of phone calls to remind each school to bring some candy and five cakes. We purchased materials, painted posters, and waited for the big day.

The whole process bears some resemblance to wedding planning. A small group of people work their rears off for months, knowing the event they’re planning will be over in a flash. And for this 3-hour project, we knew we needed as many volunteers as we could convince to travel to Shakhtinsk. And as much as you plan and plan and plan, there are bound to be oversights and incorrect assumptions… As you may guess, being in KZ doesn’t exactly alleviate that reality…

But moving on to what actually happened. Believe it or not, we pulled it off!! Started on Friday. Students came to the culture house with their own decorating materials and went to work making their spot beautiful. First hiccup was being told at first that we could not use tape. Anywhere. A little stiff-arming, and we started putting tape on the floor, but for the wall, we made do with thumbtacks. In less than two hours, the room was filled with balloons, ribbons, and posters, sort of ready for the next day’s carnival.

Another hiccup was these darn t-shirts. Given the day we placed our order, we knew we were cutting it close. The week of the carnival, and no t-shirts. In one last effort on Friday… I went to check my mail, and whal-ah! Package slips!! Two huge boxes stuffed with the prized shirts. One, count it: ONE, day before the carnival. You might say Marly and I took a huge sigh of relief. :)

On Saturday, we did last minute prep work, working even as excited students started streaming in to see what this carnival was all about. Opening words were given by Mr. Robert Cone, Country Director of Peace Corps Kazakhstan. We were honored that he made the trip to join our festivities. The room sang happy birthday to Peace Corps, and the games began!

Goodness was it madness. People sort of knew what was happening. We left some interpretation up to the booth workers themselves after sharing what we had in mind. Some ideas stuck, some were improved. And inevitably, you’ve got some student workers who have no intention of doing anything productive. Overall, though, all were pleased with the results. Kids had a great time, as did volunteers (of which we had seventeen helping!!). Rather than drone on, how about my first blog pictures since, what, PST? Enjoy!

I might have you fooled, since I’m thousands of miles from home in a land where I still struggle to have everyday conversations, but I’m slow to seize opportunities and (tied to that) my tendency is to be incredibly lazy. Typically, it’s more natural for me to follow than to lead, more tempting to not do rather than do. Give me a choice to either sit at home and read a book or to run around at a big festival and my first instinct is to grab a comfy chair and a page-turner. Organize something fun or let the season quietly slip by? Let’s let the time pass in peace, thank you very much. So how is it that I find myself going to celebrations, and a better question yet – how the heck did it happen that I’m organizing one??

Because not doing so isn’t living life. Now, this is something I have to often persuade myself to believe, even though these concepts show themselves to be more and more true, the more days and months and years I live. Sharing experiences with others enriches both parties. What’s the point of keeping to yourself when you can take part in events that celebrate our aliveness? Whether it’s observing a cultural tradition or testing our physical stamina or showing appreciation for another’s existence, life is more vibrant lived in communion with others.

Plus, it gives me stories to write on my blog. :)

Karaganda vs. Pavlodar

Spicing up February was a to-the-death competition between two oblasts. Well, I guess it’d be more accurate to have you imagine extreme flippy cup and eating contests. We all got to go home at the end. But some of us got to go home with the pride of SUCCESS. Oh, sweet success. (Better luck next year, Pavlodar Oblast. ;)

The two-day competition (in Pavlodar) started out with a trip to a banya. In this private banya, rented out by us for a couple hours, there are showers, a small dipping pool, a sauna, and a couple other rooms for lounging. Forget the Russian banya I experienced my first day at site – all donned swimming suits, making for a much less awkward atmosphere. Chris did a fine job cooking up some bishbarmak, which we brought along to chow down on. Competition #1: each team needed to eat their half of the bishbarmak. Rather than go for speed, we enjoyed the succulent meat and tender carrots, chowed down on noodles, and tried not to breathe on each other as we shared raw onions. Next, each team was represented by one person who thought they could outlast the other in the sauna. Corinne earned us a point – and scrubbed away at dead skin as you can only do after 20 minutes in over 100*F heat. Third, in a test of speed, each team collectively downed equal amounts of vodka (figuring out to about 2 shots each). Team Karaganda, again victorious, ended the night in the lead, 3 points to 1.

The next morning, we reveled in the smell of bacon. Just thinking about bacon makes KZ PCVs salivate. Smell it and we’ll go nuts. Eat it and we think we’re in heaven – or at least a bit closer to America. (You try going a year and a half without bacon. No good. No good at all.) And now, in Pavlodar, a breakfast of bacon, egg casserole, toast, and brewed coffee?! Good grief that’s exciting. We ingested every last morsel, and then got on with the contest. Day 2, Battle 1: Kazakh Squat-Off. Our secret weapon: Losha, Elena’s boyfriend. Know of any Americans who can sit on their heels longer than a Kazakhstani? ‘Cuz I don’t. Karaganda 5, Pavlodar 1. Their fate improved with the next challenge, in which Shannon showed off her flexibility as the Karaganda girls tried to twist our bodies in ways they just won’t go. Our first surrender, and the score was 5 to 3. Another defeat soon followed as Pavlodar folks smeared us on the carpet in Indian leg-wrestling duels. Just like that, the score was all tied up.

Next up was a three-pointer – a plov cook-off. Some of Karla’s students had gathered at her apartment to judge, and we toted over three types of plov after preparing everything in Paul and Susan’s kitchen. We got it set up as fair as we could, and let the students start eating. Their votes left no doubt – Corinne’s plov was the local’s favorite. Three points for Karaganda, and we could freely devour our favorite variant. Kudos to Elena and Susan, each of whom cooked up mouth-watering bowls of plov. Two competitions remained. First was a frozen clothing race. Yep, frozen clothes. Outside. In winter. Would it be easier to thaw out clothes if the temperature were above zero? Mm hmm. Did we still rip apart those pants and stretch out that shirt to get ‘em over Corinne’s head? You betcha. Karaganda 10, Pavlodar 5.

Last was a group outing to a local café, where Pavlodar PCVs have been known to play beer pong. We found some room for a bit more food, and then got down to business. One last battle, bearing enough points that Pavlodar had a chance to tie it up. A win in beer pong and we’d each be at 10. We slid two tables together, set out plastic cups in triangles at each end, and honed our shot, chasing ping-pong balls around the café when we missed. Over the course of the next two hours, we played some, danced some, and amused locals even more. At one point we played a mini-game, pitting America against Kazakhstan. Chanting, “USA! USA!” for our team and then joining in as they cheered, “Kazakhstan! Kazakhstan!” was certainly a highlight of the evening, and was almost distracting enough to forget who won. (Pretty sure USA took that one.) But back to the Karaganda/Pavlodar rivalry… I am grieved to admit we were pretty sorry ping-pong ball tossers.

After working so hard for a comfortable lead, we faced a sudden death tiebreaker. Task: four people on each team had to flip a plastic cup, set upside down, hanging just over the edge of the table, and make it stand right-side up. With enough cups for each person, the table was a-flurry with flipping plastic cups, each of us trying and trying until we caught a stroke of luck. And luck was with… KARAGANDA! Oo rah! Pictures were taken, ribbons distributed, and the coveted trophy handed off from the defending champions to the traveling team. Now the hunk of wood with a metal rod sticking out, to which are attached bobble-head magnets of a cow and bunny – a.k.a., the trophy – can be proudly displayed in my humble Shakhtinsk apartment. Watch out next year, Pavlodar… we’ll see what we can do with a home-court advantage. :)

Life in my Apartment

I’ll take a minute to elaborate on my humble abode, since I haven’t mentioned much beyond the absence of an oven and hot water. I’ve got plenty of space in what is locally considered a two-room apartment. For Americans, read one-bedroom. I’ve got a small kitchen, bathroom, closet, bedroom, and living room. Just the right size, at just the right price. March’s rent was pricey – rent and bills added up to just over $160. It’s furnished, meaning I’ve got two beds, a sofa, a couple armchairs, a wardrobe, a coffee-table sorta thing, and a kitchen table with stools. “Furnished” also means I’ve got a small collection of dishware, a few hangers, and a rocking horse.

Things missing – that I can honestly say I don’t miss – are a television, microwave, and bathroom sink. Can’t say I don’t miss a washing machine and dryer. I would also love to have a vacuum cleaner… Then, of course, is this issue of an oven and hot water. For me, an oven is of much greater necessity, as improvising for running hot water is far simpler.

Thankfully, Tatyana rounded up a small contraption that turns dough into something edible. Picture an easy-bake oven, Soviet style, with enough character that assigning him a name was obligatory. Alvin is entirely metal, plugs into the wall, and has an infinite number of temperature settings, determined by how far you leave his door open. His interior cavity is just the right size for a standard bread pan – nothing bigger. A friend aptly described him as a rambunctious child who just needs careful supervision. Thus far, Alvin and I have gotten along great. He’s turned out some delicious baked goods and has done a fine job reheating different leftovers.

Now for a note about my water situation. Long ago, I had a conversation with Tatyana about apartments available in town. “What amenities do they come with?” I inquired. “Everything!” she said. “They’ll have electricity, running water, and be heated.” Right. (How does electricity even make it to the list, as though it’s something optional? Anyways…) “Hot and cold water, yeah?” I couldn’t conceive of someone living in an apartment without hot water, so her reply astonished me. “Oh no. You won’t find an apartment with hot water.” In the conversation that followed, I expressed my disbelief, unconvinced that someone could live without running hot water. How do you bathe? Wash your hands? Wash dishes? Were there really people who lived in Shakhtinsk without hot water?? Indeed there are, and now I’m one of them. And it isn’t nearly as difficult as one may think. Just requires a bit of patience and planning.

Take bathing. I’ve got a little red bucket – probably about 2 or 2 ½ gallons worth. I fill it to the top (to the top is key) with cold water, and I stick in a metal coil. (Less water and the coil talks back to me.) Attached to the coil is a cord, which I plug into an outlet. I slowly back away and stay away for 15-17 minutes. Come back, unplug the cord, hang it in a place where it won’t start a fire, and whal-ah!, I’ve got what I need for a warm bucket bath. As of yet, I haven’t electrocuted myself. And only once have I tipped over my bucket of hot water. (I can tell you, watching the only hot water you’ve got swirl down the drain is a pitiful sight.) All in all, though, not a huge inconvenience – I just have to think ahead and heat up my water 20 minutes before I want to bathe.

And for other stuff – either hot water isn’t actually necessary, or it’s easy to boil what you need. Dishes come clean a lot faster with hot water, so I’ll often pour hot water from my teapot into a big bowl where I’ve got my dirty dishes. My hands, my face, and my laundry come clean (enough) with cold water. So, I forge ahead – even though I could buy a hot water tank. Who wants to spend over $100, just to have hot water come out of your pipes?

A couple quotes I can’t let slip by…

At a discussion club, the topic of our city mayor was brought up. Somewhere else a mayor was doing a pitiful job. The young, handsome Shakhtinsk mayor is a rock-star, so he was plucked from our town and declared the replacement for the pitiful guy. His absence was filled by who-knows-who from who-knows-where. So, did you have a say in who the new mayor would be? “Oh, we don’t vote. …But we’re a democracy!”

I invited a few teachers over to my apartment for dinner. Served them carrot-ginger soup, rosemary garlic bread, and meatloaf. After tasting the soup, Zhenya inquired, with a bit of surprise in her voice, “Do you use spices every day, Denise?”

My sitemate reached for something on the floor and the corner of a table got in her way, leaving a scratch just below her eye. Hours later a purplish half crescent started to show, evidence of a fight that never happened. At their next lesson, her tutor gaily said, “I didn’t know you were married, Marly!” Confused, Marly asked her to repeat herself. The tutor pointed to the spot the table had caught her. “You have a husband. Or maybe a boyfriend?”

Sports Competitions

Finding my spot in a sports-loving group of locals has been priceless. Playing volleyball is something that requires communication, but it’s communication that can be done even if you don’t actually share a common language. So I play as often as I can. Lately, though, I’ve had to remind myself that I work as an English teacher here, not a volleyball nor basketball player.

You may not think the two would conflict. Who’s heard of a teacher-only tournament held during regular school hours? Well, Kazakhstan, that’s who. And it turns out they like those a lot. Weeks ago, I agreed to play volleyball on a Wednesday. (I later caught wind it being a two-day ordeal, with the second day something I just couldn’t justify doing. But I figured I’d cross that bridge in due time.) In the days prior, I had to confess to my co-teachers that I’d be missing our Wednesday lessons. But they already knew – a list hung in the teacher’s room, indicating which teachers were excused from their lessons. To play volleyball. (At first that didn’t strike me as odd. I have to tell these stories to people back home to realize that much of this is actually quite abnormal.)

I showed up on Wednesday at the right school at the right time. Throughout the day, we played a few games with a mix of wins and losses. Mid-afternoon, people collected their things to head home. Before I could get out of the gym, I was cornered by three of my teammates. With an edge of tension in their voices, they fired away. “Do you have lessons tomorrow?” Yep. Lessons every day. “Don’t go to your lessons tomorrow.” Excuse me? “Rest, Denise. Take a day off…” Still confused, “I’ve also got an English Club.” “What time is your club?” they asked. “One o’clock.” They pondered that, and decided I could go to my English Club, but nothing more.

The back-and-forth continued, with me insisting that I needed to go to school, and them insisting that I not go, until it was clear that I actually understood what was going on. That point was marked with the comment, “Ah, you’re an honest person.” See, we didn’t do whatever was necessary to take part in day 2 of the tournament. If none of us went to school, the assumption would be that we were playing volleyball, an “acceptable” excuse for skipping lessons. But if I were seen at school, I’d ruin a perfectly good day for them to stay at home and watch TV. The most senior of my teammates left it like this – I was “given permission” to go to school, but if asked, they were “playing volleyball.” Oh, dilemmas, one of the joys that come with understanding enough that you can’t just be ignorant.

On Thursday, I went to school. Went to my English Club and my lessons. And when asked about the volleyball tournament, I told the inquisitive zavuch that I was indeed not playing volleyball that day.

The following Thursday, it seemed the situation might repeat itself, this time with basketball. Again, a competition during the school day. A bit older, a bit wiser, I agreed to come after my English Club, recognizing I wouldn’t make it for the first games. My teammates were none too pleased, but sensed I wasn’t going to budge. I also had a club at 4:30, one I simply couldn’t miss.

I showed up to play, having missed only one of our games. Played the second and third with them, both victories for School #1. That put us in game 4 – and vying for first place. We increased our lead as the clock wound down, and ended the day with a win …and some ticked off opponents, fuming at the “American” who poked, scratched, or otherwise offended them. I guess that’d be me. I scooted out to my English Club… timing that was probably for the best.

Note about playing basketball with middle-aged women in KZ. Middle-aged women are supposed to be mellow about sports – don’t they know that? Apparently, though, it hasn’t occurred to many of these women that they are no longer 17. The result is a rough-and-tumble game of bball. And if I’m not the main one fouling, you know it’s bad. (Though the ref may have explicitly said I play rudely. True, I may have yet to figure out how to play without the occasional foul. But (with a classic “he-hit-me-first” excuse), I will say that I played up to my competition, not letting them bump me without them getting a bump back.) Irregardless, I think I’ll stick to volleyball.

I was informed of yet another volleyball competition, this one on a Thursday at my school. Determined not to miss any more lessons in favor of playing sports, I agreed to come after my lesson. I listened to the opening ceremony from the hallway at 2:00 and bounded up to the second floor for my 40-minute lesson with Dasha. Ten minutes into the lesson and two of my teammates were standing in the hallway, motioning for me to leave the lesson. A bit of body language and they got the picture I would be staying right where I was. Twenty minutes in and a different teammate stopped by. This teacher was brazen enough to step into the classroom and try her best to persuade Dasha and our students that “Denise should go play volleyball.” Gracious. Unwavering, I informed her I would come “soon” – in other words, after my lesson. Which is just what I did – and I made it onto the court to play with time to spare.

Games went more quickly for this tournament, though I again had to rush out to make it on time to my next engagement. So, I received my silver medal (which appears surprisingly serious) the next day, our prize for second place in some seemingly random Thursday afternoon tournament. Who knows.

Nauryz!

The Kazakh New Year is upon us! Kids are out of school for 2 weeks, lots of people get three or four days off work, and Denise has enough time to write a really long blog. Oo rah! Last year I traveled to Shymkent to celebrate; this go-round I’m staying close to home.

I talked myself into accepting an invitation (seizing the day!) to see Nauryz celebrations in Shahan, and so I went there Sunday morning. A collective performance got the day started, and then classes celebrated separately in their own rooms. As an honored guest, I was escorted to several rooms, and in each I and other honored guests would sit on the floor around a table, eat a few bites, take a few sips of tea, and stand up to go to the next room where we’d do it all again.

After we had visited a sufficient number of rooms, we went back to drink tea with teachers. At that point they presented me with a beautiful long traditional Kazakh vest. Mindblowing. Re-opens my eyes to the weight they place on hosting a foreigner. They’re just tickled to be able to share their customs with others. So not only does this school (apparently) generously give to their honored guests, but they also relive those moments through mementos. The teacher who invited me showed me a video taken of volunteers who visited back in 2003 – a video she watches over and over again – and showed me notes written by those volunteers, and had me write my own note in response to the time I spent at their school. I’m nothing special, but something tells me my quick trip will be talked about for some time to come.

Whew. I’ve gotta call it quits for this post, though thoughts on a Peace Corps Carnival are soon to come. Maladyets (well done), my friends, for enduring my verbosity (in other words, I talk too much – my bad).

Boy, when I’m not inspired to write, my life seems to be full of nothing worth sharing. And the poignant moments seem too short to post. I don’t know how to elaborate on sharing tea with the maintenance man who hung a light fixture for me, but saying only one sentence seems silly. Or being reminded of the giddiness surrounding Valentines. Well, maybe I can write about that. :)

Send candy. Send a valentine. Send a CANDY GRAM!

Credit goes to Corinne, the woman across the table from me on a snowy January afternoon. We caught each other up on life, ate delicious Georgian food, drank enough tea to appease the wait staff, and shared ideas. Now, she’s a scary one with whom to share ideas. Enough time in her company, and you’ll go off trying to change the world. Or maybe you’ll just go sell candy grams.

I had left myself just enough time before Valentine’s Day to talk to teachers, make a poster, and collect supplies. Monday was advertising. Svetlana A and I popped into dozens of classrooms, explaining in Russian, English, or both, that I would be selling valentines with attached candy. Monday evening was a scramble to find more red paper and some ribbon. And Tuesday started a whirlwind of children buying valentines for 20 or 50 tenge, until, at last count, the total was over 7,500 tenge.

I’d say my business dealing has been successful. I’ll also quickly add that it’s as close to the retail world as I care to get. There are probably more of you than I want to know who have been on the receiving end of my persuasive and pushy tactics. On a good day, I like to think I could sell ice to Eskimos. And here I am working with candy and kids?? Ha! Bit by bit, though, I have become aware of the power of persuasion, and with that realization has slowly come the ability to keep it in check. I can proudly say I have not been conning children out of any money. I can almost say I didn’t even try. (It’s Zhenya. Someone has to twist his arm, so it might as well be me, yeah? :) Though, as for the handful of adults who crossed my radar… they’re fair game.

The best part of this week hasn’t been raking in money tenge by tenge, but getting glimpses into the social workings of School #1. Little girls who sheepishly send valentines to little boys. Little boys who buy valentines for little girls, running away and then coming back, finally brave enough to sign their names. A teenage boy who saunters in to buy a valentine, with a look that manages to communicate instantly that he is a hopeless romantic. And the dozens and dozens and dozens of valentines sent between girls of all ages. My eighth grade girls don’t even give me a chance to persuade them when they come in requesting 10 valentines and then come back for 5 more. What am I to do? Tell ‘em to buy 20? Gotta leave some candy for other kids. Like Zhenya. Who, fyi, bought zero valentines. I guess there’s always next year…

And speaking of next year, that’s right. I’ll still be in Kazakhstan in February 2012. Crazy! With a nine-month extension, I’ll be here until August 2012. The extension becoming reality hinges on some paperwork and a physical exam, but rather than go into those details, let’s back up and look at why in the world I’m staying, eh?

Rewind to November. En route to play some volleyball, I took a call from a PCV who informed me that PC wanted us to go home three months early. While some volunteers jumped at the news, I was stunned. I had made a commitment to my school. To my community. And I wasn’t about to fall short on my promise. November 2011 had seemed so far away. But August 2011 seemed way too close. I had to figure out how to keep my word and stay until November.

Thus started a multitude of questions, struggles, discussions, prayers, and pro/con lists as to whether or not to apply for an extension. Where can I best serve God? What needs to happen for me to consider a third year successful? What will I do upon returning to the States? Are people here interested in my volunteer work? Is this just me procrastinating? Bit by bit, I answered hard questions. I prayed often. Talked to different people. And in the end, God gave me a peace about another 9 months in KZ. What those nine months will bring is beyond me, but something tells me an adventure or two is tucked in, along with some incredibly good days …and some equally sour ones.

Continuing on this update I’ve got going (feel that inspiration gaining steam??)… a few more stories from the last few months. How ‘bout that little thing they call chronological order?

November

Hadn’t planned on being in Almaty to see the Kaz-22s become official PCVs, but my brain kept me in town for a week after the Turkey-Greece trip. I had been having quite the headaches, with intense pain coming on suddenly, in only the quadrant behind my left eye. The PC doctor gave me his prognosis, but also wanted me to get an MRI to rule out something more serious. And so, I stayed with a dear couple in town and went in for the scan later in the week. In due time, the results came back saying that nothing is wrong with my brain. Praise God! And, I’ll eventually get to have the sweet chart, evidence of how big and powerful my noggin really is. ;) (Another praise/update: a few weeks later, the headaches stopped! God rocks.)

The hold-up in Almaty came at just the right time. Many Kaz-21s were in town, and as mentioned, the Kaz-22s swore in. Noelle and I wanted to attend but got a late start from the place we stayed, and so we took a taxi …to a fuzzy address. Surprise surprise, I don’t recommend this. Taxi driver took us to the right part of town, but we couldn’t find the building we wanted. KZ street signs (read: lack thereof) don’t offer much help to those who aren’t familiar with an area. Result: lots of driving up and down streets, straining to see numbers painted on walls and signs posted behind bushes. Thankfully, with Noelle’s fine Kazakh skills and some phone-a-friend assistance, our patient taxi driver got us to our destination only half an hour late.

The ambassador spoke. People sang. Others danced. A few even played the dombra. And finally, a fine group of trainees became volunteers. I met my sitemate, said hello to Svetlana, and got together with some Kaz-21s to devour some lagman before a long train ride back to site.

The clock was ticking when I got back to Shakhtinsk, my birthday coming closer each minute. I had wanted to celebrate my birthday in grander fashion than last year, but didn’t know how that was going to happen. A local friend summed up perfectly the KZ perspective: Your birthday? Your problem. If I wanted to go to a café, I would have to foot the entire bill. But if I didn’t want to go to a café, I needed a different location – namely, my host family’s living room. I asked a couple of English teachers if they would be interested and able to come over, (assuming I could invite them to our apartment). Then I asked my host mother. And she needed to ask my host father. A day or two later, an opportune moment came and permission was granted. Then came the question, “So Denise, what will you be buying and making for all of us?” …Right. Forgot that paying a host family for food does not mean they pitch in on such an occasion. Refer back to KZ perspective, conveniently written in bold. Now I was faced with the challenge of not only buying all necessary ingredients, but also figuring out what ingredients I needed to make an entire meal to feed 10 people. Daunting. I dared not invite more than four English teachers. With Marly (my sitemate), me, and my host family, I counted 10 heads.

I landed on spaghetti with a meat sauce. Sides of garlic bread, cucumber salad, and applesauce. Dessert thanks to Betty Crocker. Not my culinary heyday, but it was pretty foolproof. I played out what needed to start when, recognizing that an hour would be more than enough time to get everything together. Two hours before teachers planned to arrive, my host mother and sister started panicking for me. Shouldn’t I be racing around the kitchen by now? Am I not worried? Do I not know what time it is? I assured them all was under control. I started the water for spaghetti. Got the hamburger going. And started setting the table …for 6. My family chose to inform me an hour before dinner that none of them would be eating with us. Better to have too much than not enough, I suppose. (Best, though, is spending no more money than necessary on food no one will eat.) Even so, the meal turned out just right, with all of us enjoying a meal that (for me) tasted like home. Happy birthday to me. :)

December

Biggest news from those 31 days came midmonth. At 2am one night, I resolved to move out. Asap. I’ll just say that experiencing a family’s drama from a distance is experience enough. I’m not involved. I don’t want to be involved. Given the language barrier, I can’t very well be involved. So, finding my own apartment seemed to be the best (and quite necessary) option. My 2am resolution was on a Friday morning. The following Thursday, I spent my first night in my own apartment! (My only requirements for my new apartment were hot water and an oven. I moved into one with neither. Ha ha.)

A four-day holiday landed on just the right weekend, so I was able to use that Thursday to move my stuff and Friday to unpack a box or two. Anna, a volunteer with a heart of gold, came down to help me pack up and move. She stayed with me through the weekend, making it lots more comfortable to sleep through those first nights of new creaks.

Little moving-in story: boxes were all unloaded. I had talked to my landlord and counterpart, and they had left. Ahead of Anna and I lay the huge task of arranging furniture and finding all things immediately necessary. And foremost on my mind: we must drink tea. Come on, Denise, who does that?? But so, we searched through cupboards for a teapot. And finally found matches. The lid was stuck on the teapot, so I opened the spout to fill it with water, hesitant about how clean the water would be. But after you boil it, it’s all good, yeah? As the water level rose, I peeked in and saw a piece of paper. Ok, a little dirt in my water is one thing. Paper is another. Next search was for tools to pry off the lid. That success earned us one Kyrgyz banknote. Yep, that was the paper hidden in my teapot. Something tells me I didn’t strike it rich. I sure would like to hear my teapot’s stories, though. (By the way, this all led to the sad discovery that the gas tank was empty. No hot water for us. All that work, and no tea. Such a shame. Good thing the story can legitimately end with me finding money.)

January

January 18th. What started out as a typical Tuesday ended as anything but. I left my lesson at the library with Ira, and we headed over to visit Marina. During the walk and the time at Marina’s, Ira was busy making phone calls to see where people would cut a hole in some ice. Reason: midnight marked the beginning of Kreshenya, a Russian Orthodox holiday meaning “baptism”. Celebrated every January 19th. Someone most certainly selected what is likely to be the coldest day of the year and deemed holy all water that lies below 4 feet of ice. Cruel. For those with skulls thick enough to get in that water, though, is a promise of health. (Note the ambiguity – healthy for a month? A year? Until you get sick? Who knows. I tend to believe option 3.) The idea is to lower yourself into the water three times, and if you’re in a fancy spot, a Russian Orthodox priest will bless you as you perform the ritual.

Having gotten in contact with people in-the-know, Ira and I left Marina’s and waited to be picked up by Sergei. After a trip to my apartment and a few hours of waiting, we followed a minivan out of town. In the minivan (among others): my school director (Svetlana Y) and a PE teacher (Alfiya), also from #1. We weaved our way behind one of the major coalmines and parked next to a few other vehicles. Still bundled up, we walked out on the ice to the hole men had carved out 30 minutes earlier. An inch of ice had already formed on top. I watched in horror as they took a shovel to smash and scoop out that fresh layer. Minus 30*C is no joke.

Somewhere in our time zone, a clock struck 12, ringing in Kreshenya. Svetlana wasted no time stepping out of her valenki and slipping off her bathrobe, leaving her barefoot on the snow in her bathing suit. A ladder had been lowered into the lake until it hit bottom, so she gracefully lowered herself, rung by rung, into the water. She bobbed up and down twice, then fully submerged herself for a few seconds. With poise not at all reflective of the bitter cold, she slowly stepped back out, splashing her face with a bit more water. You’d think she was stepping out of a hot tub. I was most certainly staring with dropped jaw as I tried to take in her every move. Here was a professional Kreshenya participant, and I needed to do what she did.

Ira went after Alfiya, all three of them wanting to get this business over and done with. Dozens of people had gathered by then, and this is not a line-friendly holiday. Ira (who had never before participated in Kreshenya) rocked it. No messin’ around. She went completely under three times before getting back out and wrapping herself in a huge blanket. We accompanied her back to Sergei’s car, where she got out her thermos of sweet black tea and got herself into dry clothes.

Though aware I still had the opportunity to pass, I couldn’t turn back. I informed Ira that once she was ready to go back out, I was gonna do this. Less than 10 minutes later, I was on the ice. Gingerly found one rung a few inches under water, and then the next. The wooden ladder was secure, so I just had to make sure I didn’t slip off. Lowered my arms, and forced myself under. Back up, I took a breath. Dunk number two. Came up again, gasping from the shock of the cold. (Why do people do this?!) With much less mental clarity than I had for dunk 1, I pushed myself under for the last time. Back out in the midnight air, I felt sure the water on my face would instantly turn to ice. I moved in the direction from which I had come, grateful for friends who wrapped me in a blanket and put a towel in my hands. Gears in my head grinded against each other, slowly sending the message to whisk some water off my feet and get them back in my boots. We gathered up my things and scampered back to the car. In the backseat, I wriggled into dry clothes after warming up with a cup of tea. I hadn’t died. I hadn’t even lost feeling in any appendages. And just as my mind got caught up to the present, Sergei put the car in reverse and then headed back into town. Twenty minutes later I was soaking up the warmth of my apartment.

Fast-forward seven hours to the first lesson at school. Tatyana and I stood before our ninth graders. One boy looked especially sluggish and when prodded for an explanation, said he had been up late watching people get in the lake. Hee hee, wrong excuse. “Did you jump in?” I asked. “No way.” “Did you see me?” “What?! You got in the water? Weren’t you frozen??” “Nope, and I’m here, ready for our lesson. So you should be, too.”

Thus ends some stories that bring us back to (almost) the present. A lot is left untold, but at least I said something, yeah? And I’ll quietly whisper a resolution of mine for 2011. Shh! My goal is to blog once a month. While it doesn’t sound like much, it also sounds doable! And maybe, just maybe, reflecting on smaller chunks of life will allow me to expand on some of the brief moments that add a little sweet and a little spice to my life in KZ. Because somewhere I’ve got to share about finally connecting to the Internet with the help of two boys, one of whom preferred to flirt rather than make any productive efforts… and about running into Timur after four months of mysterious absence… and hosting friends who stopped by after my bedtime to bring me a cake to cure me of my cold. In case nothing happens between now and March, I’ll keep those details to myself. ;)

Well lookie here, I’ve managed to dig myself the same blogging hole. In an effort to actually get a blog posted, we’ll take it piece by piece. Granted, my blogs don’t tend to come in “bite-size” pieces, but maybe, just maybe, if I cover only 2 weeks, you can read through it in the same amount of time. :) Alright, cut to the chase, eh? We’ll back up to October 2010, the month I’d been running all summer for. Finally, I was off to Turkey for a marathon!

Travel Triumphs …and Trip-Ups

- One last test of my endurance before boarding my Almaty-bound train: 2+ mile walk, carrying my luggage, starting from where my bus broke down. A pat on Denise’s back for having (unknowingly) factored a 45-minute walk into the departure schedule.

- Connecting with Svetlana (teacher from Shakhtinsk working for Peace Corps in Almaty during PST) despite sparse rendezvous plans. The extent of the details: meet at Almaty’s Green Bazaar at 10am. That’s like saying, let’s meet at the Mall of America and just wander around until we bump into each other. Genius. I’ll say, though, that real-life games of “Where’s Waldo” can be fun. Especially when they end in less than 3 minutes. Well done, Svetlana, well done.

- Trip-up #1. Lambasting a flight attendant. Well, or at least her tea-prep skills. “Chai c-molokom, pazhalusta.” (Tea with milk, please) *Lovely flight attendant pours black tea before adding milk.* Gasp. Cardinal sin of Kazakh tea pouring. You best put that milk in the bottom of my cup and add the tea 2nd, dang it. My all-too-animated response, half to Hannah, half to the flight attendant: “What are you thinking, ruining my tea?! Milk can’t go second!” …so, that was said in English, quite possibly out loud… with the expectation she wouldn’t understand. And then she politely handed over my perfectly good cup of tea with a, “Here you are, ma’am.” In perfectly clear English. Note to self: Assume everyone understands everything you say, Denise. Watch your tongue.

- Getting to the marathon expo in Istanbul, Turkey!! Navigating an area of town called Sultanahmet rewarded us with a shuttle bus. Upon arrival at the expo, we found a well-organized maze for collecting t-shirts, time chips, bib numbers, and pre-race pasta. Mmm, mmm, good.

- Getting back to our hostel. This involved a much greater degree of skill and finesse …if you can call infantile communication in Turkish “finesse”. Heck, let’s call it story #1.

- Terrific trip-up. Story #2. I’m not even going to give you a bullet point. Read the story, dang it.

- We ran a marathon!! Hannah, Holly, and I successfully traveled 26.2 miles. Ho.ly. crap. Most definitely one of the most painful experiences of. my. life. Hannah and I stayed together for much of the race, taking pictures of each mile we conquered. Then I ran ahead. And kept hoping Hannah would catch up. Standing for 5+ hours: uncomfortable. Walking for 5+ hours: tiring. Running for 5+ hours: excruciating.

- Received the company of a Turkish boy, who, believe it or not, is the same age as me. Though, something tells me that if I were 16, he’d be “16,” too. As I watched for Hannah, he snuggled up to me and offered to massage my shoulders …at which point I may have told him about my boyfriend. (Does the hope that I will someday have a boyfriend, and that it will not be him, make the lie less malicious?) Not put off by my unavailability, he continued to chat with me and taught me useful phrases such as “I am tired” and “I am very tired.” (Sidenote: the kid finished the marathon in something like 3 ½ hours, went home to shower and change, and returned to watch more people finish. Disgusting.)

- In due time, Hannah, Holly, and I hobbled to our hostel. Sleep came quickly, and we were content to lay there the remainder of the day. Around 10pm, rustling came from my bed and Hannah’s, and we decided to test out our hostel’s restaurant. Delicious dinner before going next door to relax with a glass of wine on the rooftop, overlooking the water. How we got up and down all those stairs, I may never know.

- Miraculously, each of us awoke from our stupor in time for the complimentary breakfast in the hostel’s restaurant. The three of us joined a crowd in the dining room and filled our plates with food. Next task: round up three chairs. Over in a corner, we saw the back of one person sitting alone at a table for 4. I walked over and asked the young man, “Do you mind if three lovely ladies join you for breakfast?” Immediate response, said with a friendly smirk, “I can think of worse things.” Thus began half a day of being accompanied by Eric, a guy who calls California home. Worked well to have a brain among us that wasn’t still reeling from the dozens of miles run the day before.

- That evening, we met up with Cigdem! Hannah and Cigdem studied together in Ireland a year or two ago, and have stayed in touch since. We stayed with her family for several days, traveling from their home out to explore Istanbul each day. The rendezvous only necessitated the rejection of one local’s directions, one borrowed phone, the deciphering of two restaurants by the same name, and hours of waiting. Nothing 3 Peace Corps Volunteers can’t handle.

- Public transportation in Istanbul: fabulous. Just be sure to give yourself time. To get around the city, each day we would take a bus to the ferry, a ferry to the tram, and a tram to [insert destination]. Ferries are fun. Don’t get many of those over in Shakhtinsk. Plus, on these ferries, people come around with little Turkish cups of tea for you to sip as you switch continents.

- With Cigdem and one of her local friends, we headed out to a Turkish bath they recommend, and luckily had the place all to ourselves. The amount of nakedness was surpassed only by the amount of dead skin that swirled down those drains. Such complete exfoliation is wonderful and at the same time, absolutely disgusting.

- Group of local guys displayed a new (and odd) strategy for attracting English-speaking girls. Talk loudly in broken English to each other, but not to the girls you’re hoping to engage in conversation. Response: English-speaking girls (Holly and Denise) talk to each other in broken Russian. Result: satisfactory amount of befuddlement and more than enough stifled laughter.

- Staying with a local family is hands-down the best accommodation. Though, I imagine I should not eat a volume of food equal to or larger than my own head. But oh, can Cigdem’s mom whip up some fine food. Can I put in for a site change …to Istanbul??

- Hannah and I dared to get our hair cut at a local salon. And succeeded in walking out without anything even resembling a mullet. Let’s hope the same success can be had in KZ.

- Having been in Istanbul for a week, we had picked up a phrase or two of Turkish. But you can imagine our delight when, in the Aya Sofia, we heard behind us the sweet sound of Russian!? We whip around, eyes ready to pop from our heads, goofy grin from ear to ear, head tilted just a bit, unintentionally giving the impression that a few screws may be loose. The man proceeded with the guided Russian tour of the building. And I (not-so-sneakily) followed the tour group, catching words like kids catch snowflakes.

- Navigated Istanbul’s airport and got myself to Athens. (We’ll call this travel triumph…) With a decent layover, I sat myself at a café and perused the Internet, aware of the time, yet unaware of what I needed to do in that time. (You got it – travel trip-up.) Fast-forward to 15 minutes before my flight leaves. I assume I can walk downstairs to my flight and board immediately. Try again. I can walk downstairs and wait in line at security. Immediate onset of panic. I use my Kazakh skill to push over to the short line. Act calm. Get through. And run. My gate was nearby, but it was a remote boarding. The sliding doors opened to the last of the shuttle buses headed for my flight. Whew.

- Island 1: Crete. In the airport, found a sign with my name and followed it’s holder to a car. On the short drive to Chania, my taxi driver helped me nail down four Greek words: please, thank you, yes, no. Enough to help me escape the constant feeling of being an annoying tourist. Drops that feeling to only, oh, 90% of the time.

My Solo Honeymoon

- Greeted by vivacious woman in her 70s at a villa in Chania, my first accommodation. She eyed me and confessed she expected me to be much older, as she saw I was traveling alone. (Nope, this is whatcha get. But I promise I’ll pay. Really.) She quickly found just the right balance between hostess and mother, making me feel quite at ease. She opened the door to my suite, and we stepped into a quaint living room. No bed to be seen. My immediate thought – I call the couch. Heck, maybe it folds out? Ha ha, try again. As though reading my mind, she mentions that my bedroom is upstairs. Thoughts race again, now trying to fathom that I’m staying in a suite with two floors. Add to that a plate of fresh fruit and complimentary bottle of wine. And a request to write down what I would like for breakfast, when I want to be served, and whether I want to eat in my room or on the balcony overlooking the water. Yep, honeymoon. Only piece missing is the husband. (Fyi – I recommend the traditional order of things. I imagine honeymoons are better with 2 people.)

- A day and a half later, I went by ferry to island 2, Santorini. Stayed in Fira for 2 ½ days, one of which I drove a 4-wheeler around the island. Highlights: An American couple now living in Germany joined me during my dinner one evening. Got to know a little about two brothers working at my suite. They work on the island during the tourist season and then return to their families in Bulgaria for a few months. And so, on my last evening, we conversed a bit in Russian. Oh yeah. :)

- First night on Santorini, there was quite the storm. About 11pm, the lights in my suite went out. Not wanting to hassle with it, I took it as my sign to go to bed. Next morning as I was served breakfast, I mentioned that the lights didn’t work. Minutes later the manager was knocking down my door, tripping over herself to apologize for the inconvenience. Ha! Apologizing to a girl who’s been living in KZ?? “Hey,” I told her, “the water still works. Where I live, electricity goes out all the time.” Something tells me typical guests may respond a bit differently…

- Drove a 4-wheeler over to the ancient town of Thira on the windiest day I’ve been out in for a long time. So much for the kite I had packed all the way from KZ. Just put a string on me. Pictures taken that day were either terribly blurry or the result of me bracing myself against a wall and using all my might to hold the camera against something solid. Whew! And I thought Nebraska was windy…

- Flew back to Athens, all but exhausted from solo traveling. I was joined by a tour-guide for a few hours both days I was there, though that does nothing to alleviate the gnawing feeling of not having a companion with whom to enjoy sites. Though it does give one a much more informed view of the historical importance of the city. If only I could have ingested all the information that poured out of his mouth.

- The main reason for the trip came on October 31, 2010. The year marks 2,500 years since the Battle of Marathon, when the Greeks defeated the Persians (and a messenger ran and ran and ran to bring news to Athenians). Momentous mark in history. And seeing finish of the marathon was fantastic. I stayed in the stadium for quite some time, watching the first finishers. Seeing Kenyans sprint into the stadium is awesome, but seeing the first woman sprint in 20 minutes later is inspiring. Makes me want to put myself through more months of brutal training.

My solo honeymoon, and October, ended with a gorgeous night during which I gave myself a walking tour of Athens. Early the next morning, I got on a plane bound for Kazakhstan. More about that to come, hopefully in less than 3 months from now. :) As for the trip to Greece, I feel incredibly lucky to have had the privilege of traveling in such a fashion. A trip completely unlike any I ever expect to take again. I must say, although sitting up in bed to see the sun rising over the Mediterranean is sweet, I learned quite well that I’m one for people over places. But hey, it’s all about living and learning, eh?

Story #1: Gi-dey-lim!

Scene: Having just left the marathon expo, Hannah, Holly, and Denise are circling inside a parking lot in sunny Istanbul. The idea: shuttle buses run to and from two locations – Sultanahmet and Taxim Square. They’re on opposite sides of Istanbul. One’s actually in Asia, the other in Europe. We need to go to Europe. The question: where the heck is the shuttle bus to Sultanahmet?!

On a mental trip back to the first days in Kazakhstan, we find ourselves relying almost completely on nonverbals. We inch up to complete strangers. Point at them. Mispronounce “Sultanahmet?” Assume the shake of their head means either they’re not going there, they’re telling us that we are indeed not currently at Sultanahmet, or just that we’re saying it wrong. Now, if this had happened for only 10 minutes before finding someone also wanting to return to Sultanahmet, it wouldn’t have been so confusing. But the three of us took turns over at least an hour walking up to random individuals, groups, and even buses. And all we could productively stutter was this long S-word.

Enter two men in their early 40s – Jamal and Ahmet. We had bothered everyone else idly waiting, so we went up and tried again. What else could we do? You can’t expect Peace Corps Volunteers to spring for a taxi, you know. Unthinkable. So we ask these men. And we get a favorable response!! Yes, they’re going to Sultanahmet. What’s more, they’re locals! And they look confused, wondering why a shuttle bus isn’t ready to take us there. We walk together towards a large van in the parking lot, one looking much like the shuttle bus that brought us to the expo. We stand by the door of the van, having identified two possible drivers, smoking and chatting nearby. The five of us patiently wait, a mental scrounging ensuing, where each of us searches for a way to communicate. I must say, even without speaking English, a degree of warm gentility came through.

By some small miracle, we reached a mutual understanding of the phrase “let’s go!” The atmosphere made clear we were not being rudely impatient. And so, a smile spread over the face of our bus driver as Holly, Hannah, and I repeated over and over, “Gi-dey-lim! Gi-dey-lim!” in a surely American accent. Our intent: correctly pronounce a Turkish phrase. Translation to Turkish bus driver: three adorable American girls saying, “Let’s go! Let’s go!” Now, who could refuse that? Ten or fifteen rounds of practice, and the five of us were in the shuttle bus, accompanied by a driver shuttling us over to Sultanahmet.

The language lesson continued in the almost-empty shuttle bus, and by the time we reached our destination, my mind was swimming with new Turkish words. At Sultanahmet, we confirmed the plan for the next day, took a picture together, and went separate ways, not imagining we’d ever see each other again. So, imagine our surprise as the three of us were greeted the next morning, among thousands of runners assembled behind the start line, by Ahmet! He wound his way closer to the start, a runner who would be miles ahead of us in no time. And indeed, on one of the switchbacks partway through the race, Hannah and I saw him again, miles ahead of us. And so we continued our own races with a shout of, “Gi-dey-lim!”

Story #2: Terrific Trip-Up

The night before the marathon, Hannah, Holly, and I carefully laid out our gear and clothes. Bib numbers pinned to shirt: check. Socks placed with shoes, ready to be laced up for the longest run yet: check. Breakfast food collected: check. Alarm set: check. And off to sleep we went.

Hannah set an alarm. Holly set an alarm. No need for alarm number three. I trusted them to wake me up at the time I requested, and sure enough, we were all awake before we knew it, putting on those clothes, tying back that hair, chowing down on a carefully selected breakfast.

The shuttle buses would take us from Sultanahmet to the start of the race. The buses were scheduled to start at 7 and go until 9. The race was scheduled to start at 10. With our practice the day before, we were confident we knew precisely where to find the correct transportation. Still, we aimed for getting there a bit early so we wouldn’t be rushed or crammed in, and so we’d have ample time to arrive at a successful solution to any mishap that could occur.

Minutes before our goal of a 6:30 departure, we looked out our 2nd story window onto a winding-down birthday party across the street. Gosh, 6:20 is a heck of a bedtime. Crazy boys in their 20s. And about the time they dispersed, rain started coming down. Nothing an umbrella can’t fix, so we threw it in, planning to add it to a bag we’d drop off at the start and pick up at the finish.

Stepping out the door of our hostel, we pause for a picture that captures three sets of sleepy eyes that are trying really hard to look awake and excited. We venture out into the drizzle, hopping over puddles and looking for the least slippery, least drenched place to walk. In less than 15 minutes, we’re in the very spot our kind shuttle bus driver had stopped the day before. But there’s a problem. A big problem. We see no vehicles. We see no marathoners. The stray dog that walked with us from the hostel is our only company as we seek shelter under a narrow awning.

Across an empty parking lot, we see two security guards (or maybe parking attendants?) who scarcely have work to do. Completely and utterly befuddled, we try to find out from them any information about the buses scheduled to take runners to the race. Bus? Going? Oh, happiness that “bus” is a cognate. If people don’t understand, say those three letters with some strange accent. Luck may be with you. In our case, though, we couldn’t tell if it was or not. “Bus, go, 7,” a guard said. We confer, noting that it is now past 7:00am. How can we decipher these words? Did only one bus go? And does that mean it left at 6:45? I mean, we were there at 6:50. Goodness, how terrible it would be to have missed the only bus by only 5 minutes. We retreat back to our awning, wondering aloud what to do on this dark, drizzly morning. We see a box truck 100 meters down the road. Hannah ventured over first, and I second, double checking that it did not appear to be in any way related to the marathon we’d paid to run. More minutes past, and we decide to probe these guard guys a second time.

The three of us wander over and again ask about buses for the marathon. And something crucial happened. One of those guards composed the most important English question (in my opinion) that he’s ever asked. “Why so early?” Early? It’s 7:45! We’re not early! We’re late!! Must we take a taxi? We’ve trained for months to run this race. No way we’re going to miss it! Seeing our disbelief, he takes out a cell phone and points to the digits reading: 4:45. That’s right, 4:45am. It’s 7:45, alright …over in Kazakhstan.

Replay the morning and all sorts of oddities make perfect sense. Boys can party until 3am. It will be pitch black at 4, and don’t ask me why, but morning showers are often the precursor to a beautiful, rainless day. Most importantly, neither runners nor shuttle buses will be waiting six hours before the race.

Agreeing to get a few more minutes of rest, we find our way back to our beds and repeat the situation (albeit with much more success) hours later. Better early than late, right?

Oh my, it’s quite possible that entirely too much time got away from me. Let one month go, and then another… and all the sudden, blogging for 2 months seems too daunting, which will obviously be fixed by just waiting longer, right? The plight of the procrastinator right there. So now that I’m sipping water from a goblet in a suite on Santorini, I’ll draw the blinds and write a note to those still hanging around to see if I’ve got another post in me. No worries – the sun has already set, though I was too busy eating mousaka to see it.

Bullet points.

That’s what I get for waiting too long. Rather than embellish, er… elaborate on my latest affairs, they’ll come to you in my best attempt at bullet point fashion.

- Ivan update. Ivan ran away. Well, “moved” may be a more accurate reflection. He’s now a resident of Karaganda. While that hasn’t made the phone calls completely stop, they’re sure getting less and less frequent. I’m bummed that I lost a running buddy, but quite ok with hearing from him less.

- A marathon training schedule I drew out, calendar-style, on 4 sheets of paper slowly got colored in as I successfully completed runs. Some were running dates with Ira. Thank goodness she ran with me some as the weather turned chilly. Running through early morning fog may sound fabulous to some, but on mornings like that, my pillow sounds much more fabulous. Other notable runs: 17 miles through the steppe. 6 with a visiting trainee. 14 around a forest. And 20 beyond that forest onto a road I could confidently retrace (unlike the 17. That run may have included a nagging lost feeling around mile 14. Not the point at which one cares to wonder whether home is straight ahead, or off to the left somewhere …because I swear it’s not to my right… To allay your fears, I’m still alive. I made it back.).

- Letter from the Akimat. Forget this bullet point crap. The story is at the end. :)

- Turns out all that volleyball playing was in preparation for an oblast-wide sports extravaganza. Competitions in volleyball, football, table tennis, and who knows what else. The girls’ team from Shakhtinsk was… half from Shakhtinsk, half from Shahan. Suffice it to say, we made a poor showing. But the practice beforehand with local guys sure was all kinds of fun. I’ll forever be proud of blocking a hard hit from a strong player. Take that, boy-I-was-secretly-admiring! Now you want to know my name, don’t you?? Or… maybe not.

- The big competition was the same day as my first bus trip to the grand city of Pavlodar. Bought the bus ticket (with the help of my host mother) from a woman who informed us the ride would take 14 hours. That meant leaving 8pm and arriving at 10am. Ouch. But those volunteers over in Pavlodar… time with them is more than worth an awful bus ride. So I wasn’t dissuaded. I sure was confused, though, when everyone got off the bus at 4am as though we were in Pavlodar. …which we were. There I was, at the bus station at 4am, having made arrangements to be met 6 hours later. May God pour out blessing after blessing upon Shannon, who, awakened by my phone call, got herself into a taxi to fetch me at the station.

- Back in Shakhtinsk, or, rather, outside of Shakhtinsk, is a quaint little lake called Topar. Twice this summer I made trips with my volleyball-playing friends. We made shashlik, splashed in the water, tossed an American football, and dominated on the sand volleyball court. Don’t judge me for beaming with pride that I made a purely social trip with people who 1) are outside my host family, and 2) do not speak English.

- In August I started Lessons @ the Library! Week 1, I had a group of about 25, mostly adults of varying ages. Attendance has stayed pretty high, with low weeks still between 10 and 15. Oh, what fun times they’ve been. For one short story, again go to the end.

- Celebrated (English teacher) Olya’s birthday. She has crazy friends. One of whom is named Denise. Hasn’t gotten old yet, the pleasure I find in sharing a name with Russian guys. Often goes something like this: “My name is Denise.” “Denise?!” (They’re sure I’ve made some terrible mistake.) “Yes, Denise. It’s a man’s name, yeah?” “Yes!” (I give my sweetest smile…) “I’m not a man.” (On that they don’t seem so confused. :) But I digress… The night ended on a good note, though the next day’s clean-up was a dousy.

- Miner’s Day. Story #3.

- Sometime in early September, I suppose, I accepted an invitation to play table tennis with Ira and a couple Kazakh guys who come to my library lessons. I consider the discovery of “Jaguar” to be nothing short of fabulous. It’s an internet café. A place to play table tennis. A hot spot for aspiring boxers. An option for weight lifting. And the place I plan to go for aerobics classes! Oh, I feel like I hit a gold mine. Table tennis has been terrific. There’s a small room with one table, so we bring music and have a good ol’ time, slammin’ and jammin’. I just might come back with mad ping pong skills… :)

- School Day #1. No question on the date here. September 1 is the first day of school for all schools across Kazakhstan (and Russia, so I’ve heard). “Bell Day” means lots of pomp and circumstance …and an equally minimal amount of learning. So… I ironed a nice blouse, took a walk over to school, watched children parade around. Boys in suits, girls in French maid outfits (just subtract the duster and add larger than life white bows on the tip top of their little heads). An 11th grade boy carried a 1st grade girl on his shoulders as she rang a bell. Little kiddos stumbled over rehearsed Russian and Kazakh lines. Important people said (I assume) important things. And the kids filed in to say hello to their homeroom teacher …and I went home. School day number one, done. The rest of them will only require 30 minutes of my time, too, right?

- Just to clarify… school started September 1. English lessons? September 6. Don’t you dare ask about a set schedule. How could teachers expect such a thing before 2nd quarter?!

- Attended a beauty pageant at the culture center. Entertaining enough to justify the 500T ticket. Introductory choreographed… walk off? dance? runway style stomp? Whatever they did, they did it together. And proceeded to pound out many other steps, in many other outfits, throughout the evening. While they occupied themselves backstage, the audience was treated to some singing dude fancy enough to have his picture printed on the ticket. My favorite was his rendition of Mambo #5. Given that it’s entirely too much English to memorize, I’ll forgive him for butchering most lines. I was entertained, and that’s what he’s going for, right? I also got a kick out of Miss Shakhtinsk’s comments on her victory, which began with something to the tune of, “I would like to thank the judges for making the right decision…” Gotta love girls who know what they’ve got.

- An 8th grade boy came to school with a cast on his right hand. I teased Zhenya about losing a fight, not realizing (or believing) that’s actually what happened. But when the English lesson started, the goal of my teasing was to get him to do more than stare into space. See, he’s right handed, so for the next 40 days, he “can’t write”. Sorry y’all, that’s not gonna fly. There’s a perfectly capable left hand hanging off the opposite wrist. “Zhenya,” I said, “I can write with my left hand.” Oh, no, he insisted, no way could he write with his left hand. “So, how do you eat?” I rhetorically asked. “…with my left hand,” he confessed. “Oh, oh my!” I teased. “You mean, you aren’t going to just not eat for the next 40 days?!” Of course not. That’d be silly. And so is sitting in class pretending like you don’t have to do any work. I gave Zhenya a scrap of paper and asked him to write his name. Two minutes later, he was writing out the assignment his classmates were busy with. With a couple sentences, albeit shaky, written out, he had made the flip from rejecting the idea of writing left-handed to boasting about his newfound talent. Keep it up for 40 days, and that boy will have a unique talent for a lifetime.

- A 24 year-old, decently good-looking guy named Dmitri made a stunning discovery: me. How it takes a year to find the only American in Shakhtinsk is beyond me. (And he has been “trying to meet me” since November 2009.) But I suppose showing up at one of my library lessons is a lot less creepy than, say, waiting for me in the schoolyard. He’s an English translator. Was an English teacher – at my school, in fact, the year before I came. Only taught one year. Goal: English interpreter. (That’d mean vocally translating, rather than writing, as he does for oil companies now.) Asked me to go “on a walk” (read: on a date) right after the lesson he sat through. I was grateful to be whisked away by the Kazakh guys, who often drive me home from the library.

- Teacher’s Day is celebrated on the 1st Sunday of October. Schools celebrate the Friday before with a concert, and teachers continue the festivities at a local café. Enjoyed the concert, put on collectively by schools in and around Shakhtinsk. Then joined my little brother and his friend for a walk home, though I promptly turned around to check out the partying happening at Юност. See Story #4.

- Kaz-22’s arrived!! A fabulous change in PST: trainees were sent to sites around the country to shadow a volunteer for a couple days. They came as far north as the Karaganda area, so I got to host two girls (one at a time). With the first PCT, just to show her a good time, the water and electricity gods wreaked havoc. Electricity but no water. Then water and no electricity. And periods without either. Nonetheless, we put together eggplant parmesan as best we could! Water was spotty the following week, too. Of course we haven’t had any trouble with water except the 4 days we had a guest in the house. But with the second visit, electricity was more cooperative, allowing us to properly bake a Dutch apple pie. Oh yeah.

- Got my Holiday Club up and running with the help of three of my students (two 8th grade girls, one 9th grade girl). Halloween is all that has happened thus far. Thanksgiving to commence upon my return early November.

- October 10, FLEX testing was held in Astana for students in and around Karaganda. Four of my students (2 8th, 2 9th) prepared to take the test, which is the first part of a competition to be sent to the U.S. for one academic year. Three of the four were accompanied by mothers and had places to stay. I served as surrogate mother for number four, who I think (shh!) is the most deserving of a chance to study in the States. She and I traveled with the other 8th grade girl and her mother, going by bus on Saturday afternoon. We got help getting to the apartment where we were hosted by my school director’s goddaughter. Sunday, all four participated in Round 1: 16 written, multiple-choice questions. Two proceeded to Round 2, held later the same day. One was my daughter-for-the-day, so I waited… and waited. Round 2 lasted three hours. Then it was a trip back to the Astana bus station… 4 hours to Karaganda… and another hour to Shakhtinsk… my head hit the pillow somewhere around midnight, with 3 or 4 unplanned lessons scheduled to start about 8 hours later.

- Yeah, so I’ve been teaching. Four groups. 4A, 7Б, 8A, and 9A. I will team-teach 4A and 7Б once Svetlana returns from helping with the Kaz-22 PST. 8A and 9A are with Tatyana. Teaching 4A solo has resulted in more than one lesson where I feel like 9-year-olds have just trampled over me. But they’re getting better, and I’m recognizing the importance of a well structured, thoroughly thought out lesson plan.

- As often as I can, I continue attending church in Karaganda! I’m understanding more and more of the sermons, though translation help from a local Kazakh girl allows for much greater comprehension than I’d get on my own. The church seems to have a rock star core group of young adults. Oh, I yearn to be a contributing member of a church body… someday, someday.

- Might have gone on a walk with Dmitri the night before I flew to Turkey. Might have eaten dinner. Before he might have taken me to meet his mother. And say hello to his sister, who might have been my student last year…

Whew! How’s that for bringing you up to speed? Too bad there’s nothing about this lil’ vacation of mine yet. Cross your fingers for 3 blog posts, all in the span of a week! And if the bullet points weren’t enough, hopefully the four stories below will keep you busy until I post more. Happy reading!

Darn you, Akimat!!

In May, I asked Tatyana about the possibility of renting an apartment. This goes against what I expressed in the beginning, since at that point I was set on staying with my host family for 2 years. But the bug of independence gets into a person, and I wanted to, at the very least, explore my options. Mind you, I wanted to be quiet about this so as to escape the risk of offending my host family. Nothing need be mentioned to them unless a decision were made to move out. So… Tatyana talked to Svetlana. Svetlana talked to the town’s Head of Education. And they all helped me with paperwork required by the Akimat (City Hall). Why all this mess was necessary wasn’t even a question that crossed my mind. Look how well I’ve integrated… or at least resigned to blindly accept all sorts of crazy business. So, the local Akimat is aware that I’m interested in a new apartment. But I hear nothing.

Fast forward to August. My host mother hands off a sealed envelope addressed to me. Puzzled, I open it to find a memo on an official-looking letterhead. Everything in Russian. And not See-Spot-Run Russian. All I can get is that it’s from the Akimat. I head out to the kitchen and give a confused look to my host mother. She reads the letter, now quizzical. “You’re looking for an apartment?” she asks. I gasp, not having had any notion the letter would be about that. “I, uh, I asked Tatyana about apartments, and then I didn’t hear anything.” “Don’t you like living here? Isn’t our home enough for you?” she inquires. “Of course,” I stammer. “I enjoy living here immensely.” Not yet convinced, she continues. “A rented apartment would be no good. It would be dirty. You would have to clean it. And paint it. And buy furniture, a tv, a table, and kitchen utensils.” Mortified, I gave as satisfactory of answers as I could – whatever would grant me leave so I could hide in my humiliation. Thankfully, the topic didn’t surface again, and I’m to the point where I’m content to stay there through the remainder of my service. Oh, and the letter said that it’d be a long, long time until I could move into a new apartment. Perfect.

A Stumble into 20 Questions

To lighten things up, I’ve tried a couple times to include easy 5 minute “lessons” at the end of our scheduled time at the library. Early in September, that meant teaching variations of yes and no. But I was hasty in my planning. No forethought had been given to instructions on how to practice their new terminology. Extemporaneously, I gave them the vague direction to think of yes or no questions. Didn’t tell them who to ask… so of course the questions were aimed at me. The first few were innocent and impersonal enough. Then take note of two fun-loving Kazakh boys in the back, both about my age. One of whom is married, one of whom is self-reportedly single. Of course it’s the single one who stands up with his yes or no question. “Denise, do you have a boyfriend?” Giggles erupt as my face flushes red. Being almost incapable of lying, I fess up to being single and shortly thereafter call a cease to further probing questions. Assuming you’ve read further bullet points up above, yes, they’re the boys with whom I’ve since been playing table tennis, and getting rides home. Believe it or not, though, our friendship seems to be free of the tension of underlying romantic attraction. Let’s hope it stays that way, because I’m quite fond of hanging out with them.

Miner’s Day

In KZ, you know a holiday is a big deal when you hear about it more than a week in advance. And when rumors float around about a printed schedule of events, that’s even more reason to get your hopes up. Miner’s Day, the last Sunday in August, is Shakhtinsk’s biggest holiday. And considering that the town’s economy is completely dependent on the coalmines, it’s more than enough reason to shut down the town for one huge celebration.

I hesitantly invited volunteers from neighboring Karaganda to check out the festivities. To be frank, I didn’t know if it’d be a total flop, so I didn’t put too much pressure on them to come. But with rumor of horse races, intrigue got the best of them, and some decided to make the trip out.

On Friday, the promised schedule came out. Take note: a schedule, in writing, with times(!) almost 36 hours before anything was set to begin. Be amazed. :) Among the listed morning events were soccer matches, relay races, musical performances, tug-of-war, and a powerlifting competition. Baiga (horse races) was scheduled for 1:30pm. And the day was to finish in high fashion with a concert and fireworks (which, I was informed, simply could not be missed).

I made it over to the stadium to see a bit of soccer and witness a couple guys display their brute force, lifting some sort of dumbbells over their head repeatedly. Next, I joined my family for a quick tour of the town square, which was set up with several yurts and a huge stage. Each mine and factory in the area had a yurt set up, inside of which was, I’m told, food and drink. Our next stop was an open field near the bus station, where people and horses were kicking up dust. Wouldn’t you know, the horse races started essentially on time! Four friends indeed did find their way to Shakhtinsk, and soon joined me as race spectators.

The crowd, predominantly Kazakh, watched young Kazakh boys (most of whom rode bareback) whip their horses around a circular track probably close to one mile around. Police officers were working in one-step-forward-two-steps-back fashion, battling to keep people from crowding onto the dirt track. Made me itch for a sorrel quarter horse standing in a small Nebraska pasture.

Leaving the races, we wandered through town to the best café for shashlik …only to be turned away. Bruised but not broken, we paid for sub-par hunks of meat over in the town square before meandering over to my apartment. A plan to go in, use the bathroom, escape the sweltering heat for a minute, and get on a bus back to Karaganda wasn’t exactly agreeable to my host parents. Rather, my friends needed to stay for the evening concert and fireworks, and then sleep in our apartment. None of them had planned on staying, but after much pushing and persuading, three of them agreed to stay.

Out we went to watch the Backstreet Boys of Kazakhstan perform live. Ringo, I think is the group’s name. But the parallel is no exaggeration – they even let us know that Backstreet’s back …alright! A couple hours of music, a decent display of fireworks, and we were all ready to crash. All of us except my host father, that is. He proceeded to drag all of us over to his favorite café, where we tried to look as tired as possible in an effort to hasten the trip home. Sometimes Kazakhstanis are so set on showing hospitality that they fail to recognize it’s actually misery they’re causing. All in all, though, Miner’s Day rocked, and I can’t wait to invite even more volunteers for the 2011 celebration.

Story #4: Teacher’s Day

I walked into Юност about 30 minutes late, so several tables were bustling with teachers from all over town. Closest to the door was a table almost full of younger teachers from my school, with the only empty chair next to …Dmitri. It hadn’t even dawned on me that, because he once was a teacher, he’d spend this evening with former co-workers. But I can’t kid myself into believing it was the former co-workers who lured him to a café he doesn’t like. (The following week, I was informed that he had heard I’d be coming. Something tells me that played a small role in him making an appearance.)

Night in a nutshell: (Well, as nutshell as I get.) He talked to me almost exclusively for …four hours. At these functions, one eats a little, dances a little. Eats some more, dances some more. Which is all fine and dandy, especially when the music is not slow, and people have their own space to bust a move. First slow song that started up, though, he and I were immediately ordered to go dance, as per “Russian tradition.” Funny how “Russian tradition” demanded slow dances throughout the evening. And more than once during these dances, he’d blurt out oddly intense compliments. Fine example: “It’s impossible to be as beautiful as you.” …In the seconds it took the shock to set in, I discerned that he was merely translating lyrics for me. Ha ha!

Ok, nutshell, Denise… Though disappointed at my early departure, he walked me home, where we stood outside talking. We were there long enough for my host parents to come home from their own merry-making. First words from my host mother: “Denise! New …boyfriend?!” Ha! No, no, no… I set her straight and Dmitri tripped all over himself, trying to talk himself out of the awkwardness he was only making worse. My host father can claim the title MVP-of-the-night with his terse fatherly comments. While Denise lives in our house, she’s our daughter, so you best watch yourself, young man. :) Darn right. They stepped inside. Dmitri said more awkward things. A taxi finally carted him off. The end. For now.

A frozen carcass is lying on the floor, thawing out. Based on size and locations of extra fat, I’m left with no doubt it’s a sheep. So what do I do on the morning I find an entire carcass on the floor of our kitchen? I reach over it to get a mug for my morning tea. And inconspicuously listen for the moment everyone leaves the room so I can take a picture.

Maybe I’m a person who’s hard to get a rise out of. Or maybe I can start counting my losses – mainly, my American eyes. Things that should be absurd are mostly taken in stride. And maybe, just maybe, I can look back at the roller coaster of culture shock and label myself “adjusted”. *Knock on wood.*

With over a year left, there’s no doubt more eccentricities of Kazakhstani culture will make my eyes pop. But I take a certain amount of pride going through a list of cultural norms that just don’t have an affect on me, now that I’ve been in country for just over a year. For example…

- Stores being labeled, for example, “Milk Drinks and Ice Cream” with a smaller sign admitting (all summer long), “We don’t have ice cream.” Just because the words “Ice Cream” are on a large sign prominently displayed on your building doesn’t mean you have to sell it.

- Shopkeepers telling me what I want to buy is crap and that I shouldn’t buy it. Case in point: Me: “I’d like 4 tomatoes.” Shopkeeper: “Our tomatoes are no good.” Me: *confused, stepping closer to the tomatoes, reaching out to touch them* Shopkeeper: “See, awful tomatoes. You should go across the street. They have good tomatoes there.” …I bought tomatoes across the street. They were delicious.

- Needing to leave large purses or bags in a small locker just outside the store. And still having more security personnel than customers in grocery stores. And having to walk through sensors after leaving the store. And having security personnel look at your receipt to check your bag against your purchases.

- Stepping out of that store to find street vendors leaving tables of products out for any ol’ passerby to grab and slide into the bag that had to be in the locker at that fancy store. One of these days, I want to see someone take a pair of socks and glide on down the street. Street vendors should borrow one of those grocery store guys. Or would someone jump from behind some corner and promptly tackle the offender? Oh, I’m curious…

- Walking past people hanging out on the sidewalk with a scale that reads 10 Tenge (or 20 if it’s ritzy), and knowing locals really do pay to step on it. I’ve just got to ask around to find the scale that tells me I’ve lost 5 pounds…

- Waitresses seeming to be completely unaware of your presence, or the notion that you may eventually want to pay your bill. And then when they do bring the check, waitresses hovering as you scrape out your pockets and dig through your purse to find enough money to cover your bill. Complete with glaring and (I swear) the occasional foot-tapping. Don’t worry – they include their tip in the bill.

- You may also find a charge for “music”. Did you like the guy who sang so loudly you had to yell at your companions during your nice meal at that formal restaurant? Not really. Is there any way out of paying for music if you’re there for any amount of his performance? Not a chance.

- Asking the waitress what they have and being told “everything”, only to ask item by item down the menu …and discover they have about half of the items listed. Are they upset about this fact? No. Are they afraid this reflects poorly on them? Not in the least. What do they expect you to do? Precisely what I’ve learned to do – go down your list of preferred dishes until you happen upon something lying about over in the kitchen.

- Public restrooms without toilet paper. Don’t dare think I’ve adjusted to paying for public restrooms. But I do now expect that I need to provide my own tp. So when I go to a beach and find a hole in the ground with four walls around it… and then I spy a roll of tissue nearby, I think it’s a high-class place. True story.

And oh my, does the list go on. May call for future installments. But I’m finding that this life that is lived so differently in some ways is fine living nonetheless.

Hear “I love KZ” leave my lips and you can assume one of two things: I’ve developed a sweet affection for this place and its people or, as Jack Ingram would put it, it’s the only four-letter word that’ll do. Any given day, both can be right on the money. And this “love” I have for Kazakhstan has admittedly become more intense with time. Thankfully, though, the sweet affection far outweighs the times of loathing, as (I hope) you can see as (I hope) you read on…

A Throne among Thrones

An entertaining (albeit absurd) way to reflect on 10+ months in KZ is by comparing the different places I’ve, well, relieved myself. Think what you may, but this is an exercise you just can’t have much fun with staying inside US borders. I mean, there, you may have multicolored toilet seats or fuzzy seat covers. Maybe a rug around the base that you’re nervous about putting your feet on. Or knobs that make it tricky to flush with your foot. But here, oh, is it a different story. Forget foot-flushing, you germaphobes. If you’re lucky enough to use a toilet resembling those in the US, there will be either a button or something to pull up on the tank. My first KZ toilet needed a good dose of finesse to flush right, even after a local explained what needed to happen. With many of those indoor toilets, don’t you dare drop your tp thinking it’ll flush fine. So the most common toilet is a tiny room with only the toilet and a covered trash can. Get out quick and go in search of a sink with soap.

Still, it’s a huge step up from the variety of outhouses. Some with doors that close… some that put you at risk of indecent exposure. Some with deep holes… and some unpleasantly shallow. Some made for one, some designed for socializing. And one with a beautifully carved exterior and equally interesting interior. Cutouts of wooden feet complete with toenail polish tell you right where to stand, and a porthole makes a nice place to lay a flashlight at night. Well done, Forest Brother and Mary. Well done. But going back through my now-extensive Rolodex of outhouses, I can’t say I’ve seen one with a place to sit – just holes (of varying size) cut in the floor. Your aim improves with practice…

But don’t go thinking my reflections end with ho-hum toilets and unavoidable outhouses. I can now say KZ is home to the most sophisticated toilet I’ve ever encountered. It makes automatic flush look old-fashioned. This sucker had an attached remote. Immediately upon sensing weight, a spray of air freshener is released into the bowl below the heated toilet seat. Then as you, you know, you can contemplate all sorts of options, most of which I didn’t dare try to understand. I mean, how many different types of bides can there be? And do I really need a toilet to wash and dry me?! Really, being able to flush my toilet paper is enough excitement for me. Sure, throw in a heated toilet seat, I guess, but the rest… I just don’t get it.

Even more than I don’t understand the sheer excessiveness of the throne I experienced in Astana, though, I am bewildered that each and every one of these toilets can be found within 5 or 6 hours of driving around KZ. Say what you want about Nebraska, but you won’t find that diversity between Lincoln and Scottsbluff.

Running around Kazakhstan

By train, in a bus, with a taxi, or on foot… I’ve been more places in the last six weeks than many Kazakhstanis have seen. And while many locals are quite sure I’ve just been vacationing like crazy, I swear there’s been work done in there, too. Three summer camps: first was Noelle’s.

For the second, I went north and west to Presnovka, where Patrick has done a superb job with a pioneer site. I joined a rock-star team of Kaz-20s and 21s, and finagled an American football from a PCV who clearly doesn’t need two. ☺ Thanks, Brendan. And does “publicly” thanking you mean I get to keep it instead of this “borrowing” concept you speak of? I may take your silence as a yes.

Third, I traveled east to beautiful Bayanaul. A horrendous bus ride (averaging 40mph (to be generous) because of awful roads… in clear weather… for over 5 hours) later, I was in a place with scenery to make up for my sore bum and rattled brain. For the next 10 days, I squeezed in with a small group of PCVs on the floor of Forest Brother’s cozy abode. We took advantage of our surroundings through excursions of berry picking, hiking, swimming, lazy evening walks, and even a few jogs. And for “showering”, prayers were offered that no one would be electrocuted and that no one would walk in on me as they innocently made their way in or out of the house. (Maybe I ought to post a note or two of the “shower” Rolodex I’ve got going sometime.) Crazy as it sounds, I’m pretty proud of how clean I can get with only half a bucket of water. And even crazier, there’s something I enjoy about being in a place where amenities are such that I get to walk down to the well for the bucket of water. Can’t imagine I’d enjoy it near as much in the dead of winter. Because of that, my beloved PCVs who are in such places will forever stand on a pedestal I’ve erected in my brain.

Back in Shakhtinsk, where on a good day I’ve got enough water pressure to take a respectable shower, the running continues, just with a great pair of Brooks. The events of the last month, though, deserve their own little heading.

Ivan Running Guy

It’s become a common sight as my phone rings. To explain from the beginning takes us back to a Saturday in June. Armed with my iPod, I headed out for my week’s long run. Only six minutes in, I gasped when I suddenly noticed a young man jogging beside me. He asked if he could run with me, and not seeing a reason to refuse, I responded in the affirmative. As we jogged… and jogged… and jogged some more, bits of conversation were exchanged. Yes, I’m American. No, I don’t have a boyfriend. I think that covers all the basics. Seven miles later, we finally slowed to a walk.

Wait, not all the basics. One last very important question to ask me… what’s my phone number? Ugh. A struggle far too many PCVs encounter far too often. Not wanting to be mean (but also not wanting to give him my number) I just said, “Later.” He was persistent, and creeping thoughts of the advantages of having a good running buddy added in to get me to the tipping point. Besides, I was leaving the next day for summer camp #2 and wouldn’t be back for nearly a month. And so, I surrendered my number. About an hour later, I answered a phone call and saved his. Not two hours later, caller ID showed me “Ivan Running Guy”. I push a button to silence the call and wondered just what I’d gotten myself into.

I made it quite clear that Saturday in June that I wouldn’t be back to Shakhtinsk until July 17. What I didn’t make clear, apparently, is that I was not interested in getting a phone call from him every day in between. A very important little detail to add here: he does not speak a lick of English. He is (can you believe) very interested in me teaching him English. Too bad I threw out the last of my instantly-speak-English pills… so answering any of his phone calls would have been completely pointless. I’m hundreds of miles away, so no, I couldn’t go for a walk, a run, or anything else. And I can’t speak Russian. Charades don’t work well over the phone. So that silence button got lots of use.

Back at site after all three camps, though, (and having forgotten what the guy looks like) I wondered as I ran… was that him? Uh oh, how about that guy? I have no need for enemies, so figured, heck, give the guy a chance before writing him off as a creep. I sent a text asking if he wanted to join me for a run Thursday morning. Immediate response: “I very much want to.” The message he didn’t get was that I’d start at 7am. I ran past his workplace on my way back a few minutes before 8am. Just then, a bus stopped and he got off. I paused and spoke with him for a minute. “Why so early?” “Whoops, sorry,” I said, “but I’ll run again on Saturday.” “Alright, how about 8am?” I agreed and took off to finish my run.

By the time I got to my apartment, my phone showed two new texts. First was an apology from him for coming late. The second was compliment after compliment. Apparently I’m excellent, he admires me, and he likes me. Does that mean he likes me? Mostly because of the incessant calling, I’ll go out on a limb and say he likes me.

I, however, was not anxious to reciprocate any of this. I’m looking for a running buddy who isn’t half-crazed, either about me or in general. So I continued to ignore his calls, some days needing to ignore three or four. I did nothing about the texts. Next, though, came this text (in rough translation): “I to you not interesting?” Good grief. I can’t very well yell at the guy in either English or Russian for acting like an adolescent. But if he was looking to get a response from me, he’d gotten me. I felt like I had to do something. After some hemming and hawing, I settled on sending this message (in Russian, for which I pat myself on the back ☺): “Sorry. Just, I don’t want a boyfriend and I don’t speak Russian well.”

In response, I got a message saying, “I really liked you. I want to run with you.” Note the switch from present to past time. Whew! I recognize, though, that the future tense can’t very well be ruled out. Regardless, things were moving in the right direction.

With any locals I spent time with, I relished recounting as much of the story as I could. Good Russian practice, and telling people adds an element of safety. One woman I explained all of this to, Ira, has told me before that she runs. Apparently Ira does more sprinting, though, and with a strange work schedule, I hadn’t figured out if running with her would be an option. So I thought nothing of it. Rather, I appreciated her concern, with her ordering me to text her before and after this run planned for Saturday at 8.

Early Saturday, I rolled out of bed to prepare for running 8 miles. I was even kind enough to answer a phone call from Ivan Running Guy to confirm that I indeed would soon be running. Ready to go, I left my apartment and started stretching a bit. Just then, an SUV pulled in, driven by none other than Ira! Surprised, I was speechless as she told me she wanted to try running with me. Oh, I was pumped. How perfect. So, Ira and I headed off and as we passed Ivan’s work, he came down from his lookout post on the roof, jumped over the fence, and joined us.

What a fabulous run it turned out to be. Four miles out, a bit of a break, and back home. Ah, and I collected some of my own details. He grew up in Astana, which rules out the possibility of local teachers knowing him. And rather than my guess of 22 (and fearing 19), he says he’s 28. I’m not sure I should believe him. Irregardless, both Ivan and Ira ran really well. …And both reported being all sorts of sore the following day.

Since then, I’ve run with Ivan once more. My plan to do some fast segments with breaks between was too much for his poor legs today, though, so it turned into a combination of running ahead and switching gears to jogging instead. Not keeping up with the faster pace: good if he’s a stalker, bad if he’s a running buddy. Oh, let’s hope my sense that he’s not a crazy stalker turns out to be true, eh? And let’s hope he doesn’t continue to be a slow poke if he does keep running with me.

Etc.

Gosh the summer is disappearing fast! I can scarcely fathom what I was doing last year at this time. And now Kaz-22s are in the thick of their preparations! With the rest of my summer, I’ll be preparing to take over a couple classes since Svetlana will serve as a TCF for some lucky trainees. I also plan to start a club at the local library for adults who want to learn English, and I have every intention of playing loads of volleyball, as I’ve been doing for the last several days. If I could only find a way to stretch the summer out even longer…

What day is it? Or rather… what month is it? And where am I? Over the past several weeks, all that and more has certainly been in question. Oh, between the end of the year, travel around the country, and travel around the world, I’m all mixed up. Step by step, I’ll see what I can straighten out for you (and me :).

Street Sign Nonsense

First, I’ve got to reach way back – to April, in fact – and piece together what I can of a story I insist on writing down. A few weeks prior, my eyeglasses went missing. (Don’t sit around waiting for that story to get posted. You’ll have to ask yourself.) Knowing our fabulous PC insurance would foot the bill for a replacement pair, I contacted our doctor for further instructions. Over the phone and in an e-mail, I got information for an optical clinic in Karaganda. Phone number, hours, address, and an employee’s name (Valentina). Sadly, their working hours didn’t stretch much beyond mine.

But I had a sense of urgency. And a Wednesday when I was done with just enough time to get there before closing time. A quick call to Valentina, and I hustled into town. Closing time: 5:00pm. My ETA: 4:45pm. Address: Nurkena Abdirova, 30a. I know that street, so I figured I had it in the bag. Hurrying down said street, I watched address numbers (and my watch) as I trucked along. I saw teens, and soon enough twenties. Then I saw a fantastic restaurant, Georgia, and more importantly, it’s address. 32. I backtracked, but saw no 30.

With 5 minutes left before 5:00, I again called Valentia. I’ll say here – she doesn’t speak a lick of English. So, with the Russian of a 3 year old, I tried to describe where I was. “I see Georgia. Left or right?” Valentina: “Do you see Leila?” Who, or what, is Leila?! “I see a pharmacy,” which is akin to saying I see a stop sign. Entirely useless. Again she asks about this Leila. And I see it – the name of a café next to Georgia. Now we’re getting somewhere. But there’s just a small street between them – no eye clinic. I again ask left or right, and she repeatedly says a word I don’t know. She tries a different approach, asking if I see a house. I see a big building that I understand to have several shops inside, and wishfully think it must be what she’s talking about.

At this point, I decide asking a stranger on the street may give me the next clue on this hunt. Valentina doesn’t like the idea, but I’m confident I’m close. A kind woman tells me there’s an eye clinic inside, so in I go, keeping Valentina on the phone. After walking for less than 30 seconds, I stop at a clothes shop. The storekeeper pegs me right away as a girl who doesn’t have a clue, and kindly takes me by the hand to a small shop with walls of eyeglasses. Woo!

The space is small, so I figure Valentina must be in some hidden back room. I ask the woman in a white lab coat where Valentina is. Meanwhile, a faint, “Nyet! Nyet!” comes from my phone. Somehow I get across to this woman that I’m looking for a certain eye clinic, and it dawns on us both that I’m in the wrong one. She asks for my phone, and seconds later the two locals have it straightened out. The woman delivers directions with both words and (praise God) hand motions. (My ability to play charades is improving, slowly but surely.)

I retrace my steps to that small street between Leila and Georgia. Hang a left. Walk a couple minutes, past a big house-looking restaurant, and, ta-da! An eye clinic. (May I digress? How the heck is that Nurkena Abdirova 30a?! I need a good arm to throw a rock over to Nurkena Abdirova from this place. What would possess a people to base addresses, not on concrete streets, but undefined areas?! Good grief!! Whew, ok, where was I?) A young woman steps outside and motions me over. Profuse apologies given, I’m rushed to the right wall of eyeglasses. With a spending limit and no time – it’s now about 5:10 – my decision was made relatively quickly. Price of the frames: 4800. As Valentina completes paperwork, I thumb through the cash I’ve got. 3600. No problem – I’ll use my PC debit card. I mean, there are frames in there priced over 20,000 tenge. Of course they take credit cards. In due time, I hold out my debit card. No go. She promptly refuses it. Crap. Bashfully, I hold out my 3600 tenge. All this trouble, and now I’m afraid it’s for not. I’ll have to make another trip in. But no! She accepts my “down-payment,” asking instead if I have any money with which to get home. What a sweetheart!

I weaved my way back to Nurkena Abdirova, found an ATM, and got myself back to site. The happy end: trip number two – when I picked up my glasses – went much more smoothly, and I look like a little smarty pants when I decide I need to read things.

A Little Black Dress

Now, moving forward. I don’t understand how so many people in this country are so darn thin. Granted, not all locals have it figured out, but many do. I, on the other hand, seem to have no issue with maintaining – and adding to – my curves. Result? I knew the little black dress hanging in Nebraska didn’t have a chance of fitting for the June wedding I’d be standing up for. (The lovely bride requested bridesmaids in black dresses. Excellent choice, Emily.) Like it or not, I had some dress shopping to do. I brought up my quandary with one of the English teachers, asking if she knew good places in Karaganda to shop. No need to go to Karaganda, Dasha said. She prefers the Shakhtinsk shops. And she offered to take me around to them. Perfect!

So, some Saturday in May, I met up with Dasha after swearing to my host mother I would not buy anything until I also looked in Karaganda. Not everyone is sold on small-town shopping, I guess. Dasha and I spent a beautiful afternoon wandering from one side of town to another. The selection wasn’t enormous, but I found an interesting dress that had possibilities. I made a mental note of it, then enjoyed walking through town with Dasha.

A week or so later, I spent the better part of an afternoon with Elena, a PCV in Karaganda, on a shopping trip dedicated solely to dress shopping. Great time, even if we came away with a mere 3 dresses, none of them black. We did come across a lovely silky black dress, though not lovely enough to shell out 16,000 tenge. The Shakhtinsk dress, at 3,500 tenge, became all the more appealing, and the next day I returned to the shop and brought it home.

And then brought it home. :) Going to the US, even just for 12 days, was nothing short of fantastic. The United States is my home. The country I love. And being away only intensifies it. Oh, my homeland is a wonderful land. Beautiful, clean, organized… but in an effort to keep things straight, I’ll dive into my praise of the US in chronological order.

Last Bell

First, the end. Of school. Last Bell. May 25. I’d been warned of what would be happening. The English Club I hold on Thursday afternoons with 7th and 8th graders (and random community members) would be held on Tuesday morning, May 25th. Reason being special visitors from Karaganda. Important men, invariably clad in 3 piece suits, would want to see the wonders I’m working in our youth. The time was set at 10:00am. Most of the day, though, would be dedicated to the Last Bell ceremony for the graduating class.

May 24th, Tatyana pleaded that I be at school earlier than 10am. I assured her I would. And then at 4am on May 25th, I sat at the base of a toilet, my body rejecting something I’d consumed the previous day. After the second trip, I considered forgetting the whole ordeal and crawling into bed for the day. But after trip 3, I figured I could maybe make it. That makes sense, right? Around 9:30, I was done with my shower and heard the phone ring. Caller ID told me someone at school was calling, so I answered. “Where are you?!” Tatyana demanded. “I’m at home. Give me 10 minutes.” I proceeded to hunt down clothes for the occasion. Before I was dressed, a person pounded on our apartment door. I was the only one home, and opted to let them pound, not even bothering to check who was there. All I knew was that it had better not be who I knew it likely was. She had to have left immediately after hanging up to get to my apartment so quickly.

With a bag filled with activities for this special English Club, I strode over to school. Once in the school yard, my phone rang. Now caller ID said Olya was calling. But yet again, Tatyana’s voice greeted me. “Where are you?!” “I’m right outside the school.” An overly anxious Tatyana met me right inside the school doors. She whisked me away to the Resource Center, where the club would be held. I stepped inside, where I was greeted by two more English teachers and a room full of young students I’ve never met. Each of them had been given a textbook and a small notebook. (FYI: I got to this classroom at 9:45am, thank you very much. ;)

Now we had 15 minutes with nothing to do but shoot our blood pressure through the roof. Two more students came, including Zhenya. He took the strange textbook without question, but asked why the teacher then gave him Miriam’s notebook. No worries, Zhenya, don’t think you actually need to do something with the materials in front of you. Just sit like a statue and you’re good to go.

Sometime around 10:00, three to five men in the expected pressed suits entered the room, escorted by my school director. Satisfied by the children sitting quietly and by my elemental answers to their simple questions, they made an about face and proceeded to the Last Bell ceremony at the other end of the school. The second the last of their soles was lifted off the floor, all the textbooks had been closed, and students nearly tripped over each other to exit the room. Something well worthy of getting worked up about, yeah?

I was not too far behind them, and joined the procession to the other end of the school. The ceremony was a pleasant time acknowledging the hard work of students and teachers alike. Students sang, children danced, people spoke, my stomach growled. I made it through more of the presentation than the important men in suits, though not by much. No worries, I didn’t erp anywhere. Simply dragged myself back home and moved as little as possible for the rest of the day. With each successive day, I felt a little more like myself. And by golly, getting a few American meals in my belly several days later brought me back to 100%. :) I love that country. And before expounding on the wonders of that beautiful land, the travels that got me there.

Travel Mercies

And with it, a story about the wonders of Kazakhstan. My trip itinerary coincided with other meetings happening in Almaty, so I planned to travel there with another PCV, Erica. She beat me to the train station in Karaganda and gave me a call as I was on my way, wanting to know what seat was mine. (Who knew someone was camping out on it?) I kept my attention to my luggage and kept moving her direction. Arriving less than 15 minutes before our scheduled departure, the train was packed with passengers when I boarded. I hope my bags didn’t knock anybody out as I bulled through to my seat. Tired and wet from the rain, I was ready to set everything down and relax.

But that would have to wait. Between her seat and mine, I had to scan several faces before finding Erica hidden in a corner. Where there should have been four, there were eight adults and two children. For my own sanity, I inquired as to which person had a ticket for which place. With that knowledge, I squeezed in on my bench and discussed the absurdity of it with Erica. Three women, two children, and at the beginning, one man, had all taken the liberty of assuming our seats. It seemed our only option was to wait for the conductor to check tickets and clear things up, which typically happens ten or fifteen minutes after the train sets out. Dispelling our fears that we’d have to ride for 18 hours cramped together, our extra passengers – who indeed had no tickets at all – were moved to some other spot about a half hour into our trip. What we thought was sure to be our worst train ride yet seemed to be on the up swing.

Hours down the tracks, we made a decent stop. One giving people aboard time for an escape from the train’s stuffy interior. Erica and I walked up and down the platform by our train, minding our own business. Soon enough, though, two men struck up conversation. Turns out, we happened to be on the same train as one of Erica’s college students. This one was traveling with a friend who also speaks English.

Back on the train, they paid us a visit before long. We joked and laughed, testing the limits of our Russian and their English. It’s amazing the conversation you can come up with between the two. And it’s encouraging to witness how quickly strangers can become friends. The two women on the bunks above Erica and I became acquainted, and soon enough warmed up to the pair of guys. We all shared some wine and food – one of the women sliced her food to share with us all. Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, we each found our own bed to get a little rest. And by the time we woke up, we were near our stop, and Erica and I could agree it had turned into quite an enjoyable ride.

Over the weekend, I got to spend time with friends from South Africa, Org and Hannette. With a stroke of luck, the Sunday we were in town was the very one Org and Hannette had chosen to host a potluck targeting those with connections to South Africa. Sunday afternoon, their apartment was abuzz with church friends, many bringing along dishes from their homeland. Nothing like great food and wonderful fellowship. Monday, I headed off to Peace Corps Headquarters for much of the day – midservice medical and dental. I’ll let someone else describe those lovely experiences.

Back at Org and Hannette’s apartment in the evening, I joined them for dinner and prepped my bags for a 3:30am flight on Tuesday. Despite calming words from other PCVs and Org & Hannette, I was fit to be tied. The next day would bring over 20 hours of solo, international travel. (In a nutshell: Almaty (ALA) to Frankfurt (FRA). 1 hour and 50 minute layover. FRA to Chicago O’Hare (ORD). 1 hour 39 minute layover. Finally, ORD to Denver (DEN).) All other international travel has been in the comfort of well-organized groups. I was to navigate three flights, four airports, on my own? To be frank, I was terrified. And the only thing I could think to do was rush off to the Almaty airport hours before my flight. So thank goodness Org distracted me with great conversation about experiences he’s had the world over and all he’s learned from it. Finally, around midnight, he kindly drove me to the Peace Corps office, from where I would take a taxi to the airport. With heavy rain the only obstacle, I got to the airport with plenty of time.

To do nothing but wait. See, Almaty’s airport must be comparable to half of the Sioux Falls airport. And here’s how it works. Through the first set of doors is a large area of general seating. Directly ahead of you is the first security checkpoint. On the other side of that checkpoint are five or six ticket counters. And beside that checkpoint are screens displaying upcoming departures. Many are in white text; one or two are in yellow. Only when your flight switches to yellow are you allowed to leave general seating and proceed through that security checkpoint to check in to your flight. No need for early arrival to allow for long security lines. There’s no starting them until about 90 minutes before the flight. This could be cause for concern, but in such a small place, we were all on board in no time. And our mostly empty flight landed on time in Frankfurt.

And that’s where I saw unwelcome news. A screen full of on-time departures, except one. Mine. Delayed “40 minutes.” Notice, that shrinks my O’Hare layover from 1 hr 39 to 59 minutes. Yikes. By the time we took off, that 40 minute delay was more to the tune of an hour. Good thing the pilot had a lead foot and got us back around a 40 or 50 minute delay. Towards the end of the flight, I asked an attendant if passengers with connecting flights would be able to exit first. “It won’t matter. You all have to wait for your bags.” “Ooo, but I’ve just got a carry-on.” (Praise God I hadn’t checked any bags!) She gave a hopeful response, saying she’d work something out.

Twenty minutes before landing in Chicago, she guided me to a seat at the front of Economy seating. Across the aisle was an outspoken man who gave me more tips than I could remember on how to efficiently get to the opposite side of O’Hare. But to get through Customs and Immigration, stop at a ticket counter for a boarding pass, switch terminals, pass through security, and scamper to my gate… all in under an hour?! I was doubtful.

The seatbelt light clicked off and I was off. I got as close to the plane’s door as I could manage. A painfully slow exit, and I had room to run. Following other passengers who were also obviously cutting it close for their own connection, I hustled to stop number one: Customs. The line crawled, but at least it moved. I stood behind a young woman and mentioned how anxious I was about catching my flight. She smiled sympathetically and stepped up to the officer when her turn came. My already pounding heart tried to break a rib when the officer went to extra measures with the young woman, and then led her to a different area of customs. Boy did I choose the wrong line, and precious minutes were already long gone.

To my right stood an elderly man. I turned his direction and said, “Sir?” His response was anything but obliging. I had shoved my way in front of enough people already. Who was I to think other people didn’t also have connecting flights? Jeepers. The officer was back before I had time to respond, motioned me up, glanced at my documents, and waved me through. Not 15 seconds later, I was cleared to run for the ticket counter. No line to wait in, thankfully, and I got my boarding pass and excellent advice from behind the counter to hurry. And hurry I did, through long corridor after long corridor.

Next task: change terminals. Waiting for a tram, I saw the very flight attendant who helped me out at the beginning. And here she was to help again. Prep yourself for security now, she said. Off with the watch and belt. Hygiene bag ready. Computer within easy reach. Done and done. Once in my terminal, she pointed out the best place to go. I ran over and scouted out the quickest line. With my watch now somewhere in my bag, all I could do was ignorantly hope I still had time. Through security without delay, I was free to run for my gate. And wouldn’t you know, three other people had arrived just before me to board. I made it! One flight away from Mom and Dad!!

With my window seat, I relished the views from the mostly cloudless skies. America! Oh, even from hundreds of feet up, it’s breathtaking. Over the Southern Nebraska Panhandle, I spotted Lake McConaughy! Using that landmark, I traced the road over to the I-80/76 interchange and followed the interstate as long as I could. Marks of my home. It makes a heart happy.

By now, I’ve finally gotten DIA mostly figured out, and easily navigated over to meet my parents, with the help of a call on my American cell phone. (Thanks for not stealing that, whoever you are. ;) Finally, I got to hug my mom and dad!! And relish being on American soil!!

AMERICA!!

You wouldn’t believe it. Vehicles with steering wheels all on the same side. Smooth, maintained roads. With paint on them. Like, you always know how many lanes there are. And street signs. You could actually give directions based on them. Drivers observe speed limits – without speed bumps forcing them to. And everything is beautiful. Storefronts, vehicles, sidewalks, parking lots, landscaping, candy aisles, restaurant tables, public bathrooms, herds of cattle, houses, ditches, front yards, back yards. No wild dogs run through the street. Garbage isn’t piled on the side of the road. Ingenuity and initiative emanate from all 360 degrees. There are driven people in the country who have achieved great things. Capitalism sure has its evils, but some of its results are simply fabulous. Now, not only was I in America, I was there in the company of people I love.

Radiating with the joy of just being together, Mom, Dad, and I made our way to a family favorite, Famous Dave’s. A dear friend, Amy, drove up to meet us for lunch. Mmm, deliciousness. Cornbread, and pork ribs slathered in barbeque sauce. Welcome to America. :) And I was surrounded by loved ones. Too good for words.

It was the first stop of too many to count during the mere 12 days I had in my beloved homeland. During that time, I would travel over 3,000 miles around the Midwest, all in the company of my parents. We worked our way across Nebraska, up into South Dakota, over to Wisconsin, and back home through Iowa. I soaked up as best I could time with each dear friend I saw, each visit still too short. But all went beautifully according to plans carefully made over the previous seven months, with many days far exceeding my expectations.

In Columbus Grandpa treated us to the Husker Steak House. Wilgokski’s made a terrific homemade breakfast and hooked me up with a local beautician for a long overdue haircut. We made it to Sioux City in time to meet Jessica for lunch and do a bit of shopping before continuing on to Sioux Falls. I got to tag along for Josh and Caleb’s last swimming lesson. We found what is quite possibly the most fascinating magazine ever. I drank freshly brewed coffee. I remembered the wrong time and accidentally gave myself time to buy a waffle cone of Culver’s custard to eat while waiting for Emily and AJ’s wedding rehearsal to start. (I wouldn’t list that among my most sophisticated moments…) We watched three families of geese swim along the lakeshore as we ate an enormous breakfast. I didn’t fall walking down the aisle in the insanely high heels I tortured myself in - not in rehearsal or the ceremony. At the wedding, my parents connected with friends they were close to 25 years ago. Miller’s and Nyffeler’s chowed down together at the Sioux Falls RibFest. Timing was perfect to see Russell’s latest (and oh so adorable) addition. I got to use a squirt gun to spray lots of people. I chased and was chased in an effort to stay somewhat dry. Caleb understood “Contact 1-2-3” better than my dad. Jon spotted me at Hy-Vee and paid for my Starbuck’s drink. My parents and I timed our travels over to Wisconsin such that we could stuff ourselves at Pizza Ranch for lunch. We made it to Appleton with enough time for me to grab Chipotle before joining friends for Bible study. I stepped back into the comfort of Molly’s apartment. I drove down memory lane on my way out to the Shalom House. My presentation about Peace Corps came together (albeit at the last minute) and tested out perfectly on Tuesday. April graciously accompanied me to Barnes & Noble and Half Price Books – both dangerous stops. And I got to share windshield time with her on the way to Dorothy and Pete’s. Dorothy left most of her eyelashes un-singed as she lit the grill for delectable shish kabobs. My parents got to experience the wonders of the Shalom House. Luke took a vacation day to see the presentation I made at Rawhide. Debbie found me hiding/practicing in a closet before it all started. Guys participated in my presentation – heck, some of them may have even liked it and learned something. Teresa, Luke, and I got to reminisce about old times and share joys about current times. Joel pulled out one of the biggest knives I’ve seen to cut bite-size pieces of candy into three to share with his HR team. Daun sent me away with not one, but three(!) varieties of tea to enjoy. Travel time into town allowed for a quick tour of Lisa and Bryan’s hard work. Bruce and Alyssa joined a host of fantastic people for a wonderful evening of food and fellowship. Angie made it in with Baby Bea. Rob shared some about his time in India. We hit the road early enough to be in Des Moines for lunch, where I got to share Alyssa’s homemade cookies with Holly and Ang. A man at the local visitor’s center gave me two huge armloads of pamphlets to take back for my students. Mom and Dad let me beat them at more than one game of Cribbage, and then teamed up to make delicious meals on Saturday. Dustin and Kristen advised with their culinary expertise. God sent enough rain to send water rushing over the road just northeast of our house. We serendipitously met up with Keith and Nancy after dinner Saturday night. Cabela’s had just the right bags to replace the ones I’ve managed to wear out in a matter of months. Tara’s flight to Calgary left 30 minutes after mine, so I avoided bawling when saying goodbye to my parents by turning back to catch up with her. And many mornings along those 3,000 miles, I had the best running partner in my dad, with whom I got to test out a new watch and pair of shoes.

Now if you don’t think that’s enough to wear a person out, I refuse to travel with you. Reflecting on the whole trip, I couldn’t be more pleased. Sure, I would have loved to spend time with even more people, and to do so without a rush. Saying goodbye stunk, but I can say I’ll see you next year. Sure, I mean November or December of 2011, which is actually closer to a year and a half away, but it is technically next year. And that sounds soon, doesn’t it?

Not that I want to rush my time in KZ. But I don’t want to stretch it out, either. I’m excited to one day be a resident of the USA again. Really, I was a bit shocked at how much I relished being back in my homeland. The independence, my depth of understanding, the luxuries… and the people. Oh, it takes one glance at the pictures from my trip to see what I enjoyed most about being back. People. The rest is icing on the cake, really. That’s what makes it hard to be away. And on the other end, that’s what brings me back. I mean, my lack of cravings for American food is a bit surprising. And when in America, I can’t say I was hankering for Kazakh food. But when people hold a special place in your heart, it stings to be on opposite sides of the globe.

And a quick note on culture shock. I wondered what would shock me about America after being gone 10 months. Really, though, I can’t say I was shocked by culture. Maybe that comes from ignoring hard questions about the operation of our society. I expect it also comes from the brevity of my visit – a visit packed to the gills. No looking for a job, no time to sit back and roll around questions of life.

Another curious advantage I seem to have going for me… from my work at Rawhide, I have an understanding of the phenomenon of those within an organization having an understanding that can’t be equaled by those outside. And those outside usually lack the propensity to show the depth of concern you hope to see as you recount experiences. So I ask people more questions about their life than they ask about mine, knowing that even though the last year of my life may be more “exotic”, what people want to talk about is, most often, themselves. Selfish and sad, but true. And I’m in that very boat, sometimes eager to just talk about me. Lucky for me, I’ve got a blog. :) Read about it if you want, ignore it if you don’t. Simple as that. Sure, there are experiences I’m compelled to share with anyone who will listen. But realistically speaking, people simply can’t care about those stories in the same way I do. Of course, those same people can love me in ways unfathomable. Nevertheless, we’re living through different experiences, and the most we can do is take a keen interest in each other, soaking up details. …Details that get harder to explain the further apart the experiences are.

So during my travels in the States, talking about my stateside travels was often easier. And upon my return to Kazakhstan, telling people here about my travels usually involved details just about the KZ parts of the journey. So to wrap it all up, the last minutes of being on American soil…

Goodbyes

The airport setup really couldn’t have been better. My parents and I left after a leisurely lunch at our church’s most popular stop, Runza, and headed over to Denver. Not until we were on the road did we learn from my uncle that my cousin would be in the airport, too. Tara got there with just enough time for us to take a few pictures before going through security. I gave my parents a last hug, and a last wave, a last “I love you”. All without tears. Much of that I attribute to Tara’s company. In another way, though, this goodbye was so different than last August. I know where I’m going. I’ve begun to feel settled there. And a prominent realization – the world feels like a smaller place. Dustin and Kristen had a long, long drive on Sunday. I had a long flight. Both of us could call Mom and Dad at the end of our journey to check in. Oh, there’s comfort in that.

Back in KZ

Nothing nearly as exciting happened on the flights back to Kazakhstan. I landed in Almaty, collected my bags, closed my eyes for a few hours at the Peace Corps office, and then I was on the move again. I paid too much for a taxi driver to take me to Noelle’s site, where I helped with a volleyball camp she did a terrific job of organizing. Spending time with her and a few other volunteers served as a terrific reentry to the country. And finally on Sunday, I boarded a bus bound for Shakhtinsk. With a week under my belt, I think I know where I am, and maybe even what day it is. That’ll change soon enough – I’ll ride out of town in the morning. Leaving for a few weeks is bittersweet, really. I’m excited for weeks here without travel plans. We’ll see if I like sitting still as well when I’m actually doing it rather than dreaming about it. :)

It must seem like I’m including every stinking detail with these books I post, but oh, it only scratches the surface. As I scroll through a list of stories I want to tell (up to 22 at last count), fabulous memories come flooding back. Twenty-two is a daunting number, but I’m gonna go for it! (We’ll see if I manage to include every last one. :) Grab a cup (or maybe a pot?) of tea and let’s dive in!

Nauryz and IST. A great time to reconnect with volunteers you already know, connect with ones you hadn’t managed to meet earlier, and celebrate together the completion of a huge hunk of our service. The result: links are made and awesome things happen, whether the tie is an activity, or faith, or PC work.

Classroom Management

Teaming up with other PCVs to accomplish some task can really be a joy. During IST, I got to do just that. Over four days, dozens of presentations were made, both by volunteers and Peace Corps staff. Many weeks back, I was asked to share my grading system with other PCVs. That transformed into co-leading a session on Classroom Management with Echo, a rock-star volunteer who is teaching at the college level in Southern KZ. With a little research and a lot of creativity, we put together a session that seemed to go really well (though not at all according to plan. But really, am I still planning? That’s just silly.). Brought me back to my Rawhide days, scheming effective management techniques to address difficult behaviors. In the end, I’m hoping at least a few volunteers returned to site with some new tricks up their sleeves.

As for this grading system, that also has ties to my Rawhide days. I took the general principles of their scoring system and decided on four main areas I wanted to highlight in my classroom. I give my students a score of 0-5 in timeliness, homework, participation, and quality. From the average of those numbers, I decide on their daily score. I’ve got some wiggle room, but the part I appreciate most is being able to show my students exactly what I expect them to improve for a better grade. Objectivity is great.

What have I gotten myself into?!

Throughout my time in Shymkent and Almaty, I bumped into more and more runners! (I’m more of a jogger, really, but “runner” just sounds so much better.) Back in the quiet apartment in Shymkent, I met Hannah, who joined me on a couple morning runs and told me about a few PCVs who are training for a marathon in Russia this coming August. We brainstormed and got all sorts of excited about the idea of copying them, not this August, in 2011.

I shared my excitement with my parents a few days later. Recognizing that we might be open to places other than Russia, my dad suggested Greece. Thanks to Runner’s World, he was aware of what a special year this is. The year 2010 marks the 2,500th year anniversary of the marathon!! On October 31, 2010, a marathon will follow the original route. My excitement quadrupled and I had to get online to see about registration. Already in April, all the tour packages were sold out, and I couldn’t figure out if there were spots available for entering the race without all the fancy perks. A day or two later, my answer came. Registration closed. Seven months ahead of the race, she’s all booked. Darn it.

Our sights shifted to a land not so far from there. A marathon in Istanbul, Turkey, will be held on October 17, 2010. We agreed that October is a perfect time to run, as it gives us warm summer months in which to train. So that we wouldn’t miss another registration, Hannah, Holly, and myself got ourselves signed up. Bib 400 for me. Oh, I may have lost my mind. Have I lost my mind??

Especially with the excitement of registering for a marathon, the disappointment of not being quick enough for Greece had abated. So when I relayed the story to a friend back home, I was taken aback when she asked, “Denise, why are you not going to watch this marathon in Greece?” “Uh… well, uh… I guess I could!” Molly was even so kind as to pull up ticket prices to show just how feasible such a trip could be. No plane tickets purchased yet, but I’m going to Turkey, by golly. We’ll see if I dare make a 2-week trip out of it.

First order of business is to decide on a training plan. And I must mention that we extended the invitation to other volunteers. Right now we’re up to 5 who are registered! Good golly I’m excited! This summer, knowing that at least four other girls are also trudging along dirt paths past wild dogs and gawking locals better keep me going strong.

Prayer Chain

One more community brought closer together was that of believers! Being a Christian in Peace Corps is quite a different thing than circumstances in which I’ve lived before. To be honest, I didn’t know whether I’d come across brothers or sisters in Christ. So oh, is it terrific every time I discover that connection with others.

Some of us put our heads together and decided we ought to organize some sort of weekly e-mail. With a big thanks to Hannah, we’ve got a weekly e-mail coming out with contributions from whoever wants to contribute an encouraging/challenging word, followed by a list of names. We each pray for one designated person for the coming week. Having an intentional network of prayer support is invaluable.

Little by little, I’ll get you all caught up! So stay tuned!

Oh, where do I begin?! Well over a month ago, I sat in a banquet hall with dozens of others, chowing down on who-knows-what. Since then, I’ve been all over the place… and you could apply that to location as well as spirits. Bear with me as I reach way back to places already beginning to collect dust in my brain.

Setting Sail

Date: March 20, 2010. First day of spring. A splendidly fitting day for Maxcat and Baldergan to celebrate love in the air. I dolled myself up as best I could to join my host family for their pre-wedding celebration. The couple was to officially tie the knot the following Saturday; the 20th marked the day the groom’s family ceremoniously took the bride from her family. Due to my plans to be in Southern Kazakhstan on the day of the wedding, my attendance at this banquet was of paramount importance.

The day’s layout: eat lots of food at reserved restaurant in the afternoon, return home quickly to collect my luggage for a two week trip, navigate to Karaganda and board a south-bound train in the evening.

Early afternoon, I scrambled to finish packing one backpack for 16 days (including two computers… more on that to come) as my family rushed me out the door. We joined various relatives of both the bride and groom for a lovely meal of bishbarmak, side salads, and …other delicacies. The celebration included scheduled toasts, and my arm got twisted into saying some kind words, too. Thank goodness I didn’t have to speak in Russian over a microphone – the groom speaks English well and seemed content to receive an English toast. (Though personally, I would prefer an English muffin. :)

In good time, I was offered a ride home from some relatives who were leaving early. Back in the apartment, my little brother and a friend of his kept me company as I readied myself for a long train ride. Ready to walk out the door, I swung my backpack on my shoulders, and turned the deadbolt knob. And turned it again. And heard a snap. And then freely turned the knob, which was no longer connected to the bolt that was still holding the front door securely shut. Panic gripped my little brother, who threw every pound of strength he has into the door, then rushed to the phone, calling his parents’ every number.

I like to call it cultural integration – blindly assuming (as it seems so many locals do) that everything will work out. So I crouched next to the wall, opened a box of Oreo cookies, and patiently waited. Mind you, I didn’t go to great lengths to calm my little brother. Somebody has to freak out. I just like my blood pressure to stay near its baseline.

And soon enough, my poor host sister and host father stood on the other side of said door and hollered directions in to my 8 year-old brother. A key turned into a clumsy screwdriver that, combined with help from a flashlight, moved the bolt. Whew! Within minutes, I was on a tense ride to the bus station in town. A certain someone lamented the problems that just had to come with the holiday weekend, and the two little boys who must have contributed. Never mind that the door has been falling apart for months now, with no moves to repair it… Darn human nature, leading us to shift the blame any chance we get.

My host sister filled in where I failed and called back to the apartment to a terrified, and now weeping, boy who did all he knew how to get me on the road as soon as possible. With all the extra time I had given myself to catch my train, there was nothing to worry about, but that doesn’t do much for a 3rd grader who has taken on the heavy burden of providing a top-notch home to some strange person.

Rather than assume you know the destination of this train, here’s the nutshell. First train: to Shymkent as a tourist for Nauryz (big Kazakh holiday) between March 21 and 26. Second train: arrived in Almaty on March 27, which is where I stayed until April 3, with Peace Corps training (IST) starting April 30 and finishing April 2. Third train: return to site, leaving Almaty April 3 and arriving April 4.

Train Snip-its

Oh, the wonders of the train system here in Kazakhstan. I enjoy pondering what it’d be like if the same system existed in the U.S. So you can ponder along with me, here’s the lowdown. We PCVs choose between two “classes”: Platzcart or Kupe. A kupe wagon has a bathroom at each end and a kettle of boiling water to use for drinks or ramen-type food at one end (next to the conductor’s little office space), with an aisle running lengthwise right next to the windows. Walking down the aisle, you pass sliding doors, which open into a compartment, or room. Each room has four beds and a small table that’s attached just below the window, in between the two bottom bunks.

Over in platzcart, you’ve got the same amenities and the same type of area with four beds and a table that flips down in between the two bottom bunks. But, the beds aren’t quite as long in order to maximize space. And now the aisle doesn’t run along the window. Instead, there are two beds, perpendicular to the group of four, running against the windows. The narrow aisle goes in between the sets of two and the sets of four. You end up with what I like to call “pods”. Six beds to a pod, with a wall running between each pod (except for in the aisle, of course). Without doors, platzcart is much less private, though people are still mostly confined to their respective pod.

In both kupe and platzcart, passengers are provided with bedding. Bedrolls are stored on upper bunks or on the third level (shelf two or three feet from the ceiling) along with folded blankets and pillows. Sheets are provided as the conductors walk through the wagon to check tickets. They hand you a sealed bag containing two large sheets, a pillow cover, and a small towel. It all makes for a decently comfortable ride, whether you’re in kupe or platzcart.

There are reasons for traveling both, but since kupe is nearly double the price of platzcart, you better have some darn good reasons. Going to site in November, Peace Corps got kupe tickets for all the volunteers traveling by train. In February, I rode in platzcart down to Balkhash.

For most of my travels in late March and early April, I purchased platzcart tickets. The gamble with this, of course, is exiting the train with stories of drunk men fondling your food, or sweet girls wanting to practice their English, or going ten hours without muttering so much as a word. By now, I’ve had all three, plus plenty more.

Riding with Louis L’Amour

On the ride to Shymkent, my bed was in a different wagon than other volunteers. Early on, I had visited them, and a local guy walking through recognized one of girls as a teacher at his college. We made small talk before wandering to different parts of the train. Later, I kicked back in my own bed and listened to an audiobook on my iPod. The local guy spotted me and stopped to say hello. Noticing my headphones, he asked what I was playing. “Oh, I’m just listening to a book.” His brows furrowed. I spoke more slowly, trying to catch where the misunderstanding lay. “You know, someone is reading the book out loud, and I’m listening to it.” He stood for several seconds, still visibly confused. “So,” he finally said, “it is a book for your …ears? …Not for your eyes?” “Exactly,” I agreed. Exactly.

With the same audiobook, I succeeded in confounding another local on another ride. This time it was a flirtatious conductor who couldn’t speak English but wanted to listen in on my music. Knowing perfectly well what would happen, I gladly handed over an earbud. His face scrunched up and he handed it back. Where’s the music, he wanted to know. Sorry, I replied. Just books. Works like a charm, assuming such sharing isn’t your thing.

Only thing is, if you’re listening to L’Amour, Kazakhstan’s setting substitutes all too easily, leaving you convinced that the train is probably in the process of being robbed, or that some renegade will emerge from the crest of the hill nearest the tracks. I kept my eyes peeled, and though the hills remained empty, I entertained myself with musings about the time when the steppe was alive with all too similar adventures unfolding.

Shymkent

Our quasi-tourist experience got off to a smooth start on March 21st with Shymkent volunteers haggling taxi drivers for us and leading us to the apartment we’d live out of for the next few days. (Quick note: per-KZ culture, visitors don’t rent hotel rooms. Here, we rent apartments, even if it’s only for a day.) Birds of a feather flock together, and that was the case in grouping together the masses who descended on Shymkent. Call it dull or call it peaceful, those of us who wanted a quiet apartment found each other and enjoyed it.

As for the cultural celebrations, the trip left something to be desired. Namely, Kokpar. We were quite upset at the lost opportunity to see horseback riders snatching a goat carcass from one another, polo style. Maybe next year. Instead, we filled ourselves with plof, and sashlik, and bauersak, and other deliciousness.

On Wednesday, another volunteer and I embarked on a tour of Southern Kazakhstan. We went into a National Park, stayed with two different host families, and had quite the adventures. Without a doubt, being a tourist is decidedly different in KZ. Suffice it to say, we made it back alive.

Radical Hospitality

Over in Almaty, everything worked out better than planned. And I’ll back up a minute and remind you of this renting-apartment business that’s so common here. See, many of us were arriving in Almaty earlier than necessary. We had to be there for IST, but until then, Peace Corps would not be providing lodging. For that, we were on our own.

On this trip, I hoped to stay with people I had befriended during PST. One Sunday in October, I met a lovely couple from South Africa who are currently teaching at an international school in Almaty. Though I only talked to them for 30 minutes, I got a generous and hospitable vibe. So in preparation for this trip, I asked them about the possibility of visiting them (and staying in their apartment). I got a warm reply, just asking for specific dates. I sent over my travel plans and awaited their response. Turns out they planned to be out of the country during the first part of my time in town. So, they insisted, they would leave the key to their apartment with a friend, from whom I could retrieve it. Dang! I was blown away. Really, they were willing to give their key to a person they had met months ago, and then only for 30 minutes?! I called another PCV for advice on the situation. Being in the same boat in regard to lodging needs, we came up with the idea of seeing if we could both stay there. Turns out I’m much more bold when it’s not just me.

With an invitation extended to both of us, we got off our train in Almaty and, with the help of a local, got a cab to the right part of the city. Oh, it couldn’t have worked out more smoothly. We settled in a bit and headed back out to meet other volunteers for lunch… came back in the evening and baked up a delicious dinner and enjoyed the fabulous apartment. Just to clarify, we arrived on Saturday morning. They returned from their travels late on Sunday. So, we got to spend time with them on Monday before going to training on Tuesday. Oh, I can’t tell you how pleased I was to stay there, in a beautiful place with such wonderful people.

More posts are in progress, but rather than wait until I get them all written, I’ll post in segments. You’ve got my word – there will be more soon!

There’s snow melting. It’s been both outside, and inside. Like, in my school. In a tub. (And in my bathroom, in a bucket.) But when water isn’t working anywhere in town, that’s what you do. Bless their hearts, the cleaning ladies at school #1 brought in buckets of snow so they could continue mopping throughout the building. And while the cleaning must continue, lessons will not. That’s right – more missed lessons. In January I said, “When spring comes, the students will come.” Question is, will spring come before school lets out for the summer? Slowly rising temperatures give me a ray of hope, but the wind and weather with the change of seasons has recently resulted in spotty electricity and, even more annoying, water outages. So for a couple days, I had to take pride in being able to brush my teeth and wash my face with a small mug of warm water. Oh, how such experiences make me appreciate what we normally have. Women’s Day

Now, as promised, a word about March 8. Plenty of festivities surrounded the holiday, including a gathering of teachers at a local restaurant on Friday, a fun competition and a small concert at school on Saturday, and plenty of gosti-ing on the actual holiday. And for me, a shared bottle of champagne on Wednesday from my host father since I missed out on gosti-ing with them on Monday. As school staff geared up for Saturday, my participation in some mysterious competition was requested. I agreed, clueless as to what that might mean. But on Saturday, I showed up at school at noon in my “sports suit,” ready for anything. I walked into our gym, filled with boisterous students and teachers, and then snuck over to the equipment room to take off my coat and boots. In doing so, I got a good clue as to what was about to happen. Five cutting boards with a variety of fruits and vegetables. Five large dolls with five piles of clothing. Who knows what else was waiting for the five teams assembled on the other side of the door, out in the gym. As the competition got underway, I did my best to stand where directed and listen carefully to the coordinating teacher as she shouted out instructions for relay races. Understanding next to nothing, I caught the eye of Tatyana, who came to my aid with translation help. I can imitate others pretty well, but in a race against your students, Kazakhstani teachers take no prisoners. So, in relay races ranging from running around with a broom in the air and one foot in a bucket, to tying a piece of cloth on a bar at the opposite end, to dressing and undressing a doll, to chopping food into a salad, to pushing a car along the ground; we lied, cheated, and shoved our way to victory. Case in point: let’s return to those 5 cutting boards with fruits and veggies. The teachers get a tomato and cucumber. Only work necessary: run the cutting board and knife to a table at the other end, then a clean plate, and then the food, at which point the tomato is cut into quarters and the cucumber is cut lengthwise into quarters then sliced into smaller pieces. Four other teams get food such as a potato and onion, or an orange and apple. Poor girls (students of 11th, 10th, 9th, and 8th) actually have to do something. So the teachers are ahead already. But to seal the deal, they covertly quarter the cucumber before the start of the race. Finishing insanely early, the teachers proceed to have their own little dance party while their students do their best to finish an honest race. (Goes without saying that the teachers were awarded first place, thereby scoring a box of Snickers.) As evidenced by the celebrations and presents, this holiday is a pretty big deal. Men make mention of it to women for much of the week beforehand. Women receive gifts from friends and family. And the holiday celebrates girls, too, whereas our closest popular equivalent, Mother’s Day, is more exclusive. So even though I’m rather youthful looking, I got plenty of “Happy Women’s Day” greetings. For instance, when getting in a taxi on Friday, March 5, the driver greeted me with a congratulations of sorts, referring to Women’s Day. But at first this didn’t register, so I confessed that I speak only a little Russian and asked him to repeat himself. Now I understood. And now he had questions. Where am I from? Just visiting? Working? Married? I humored him and replied as best I could. He paused and then said, “Seriously?” “Seriously what?” “You’re from America?” I like to think he didn’t believe me because of my flawless Russian. (Ha!) Anyway, I figured, heck, I’ll spout off something in English and show him what’s up. A couple English sentences later, a grin spreads across his face, my origin confirmed. Restaurant #1

That taxi ride came after spending much of the evening at a restaurant with other teachers. But rather than a restaurant gathering I’m accustomed to, the proceedings have a few KZ twists. For starters, space in the restaurant was reserved well in advance, with payment also being made beforehand. Everyone pays a set amount, which differs depending on what you want. I assume the price depends in part on the side dishes and entree ordered for the gathering. It also depends on whether or not you will order beverages from the restaurant’s bar. Opting for BYOB fetches you a higher price. I’d guess BYOB is the more popular choice and likely cheaper in the long run. (Really, who ever heard of only drinking a few shots at any given meal?) So, upon arrival I found a table covered with side dishes and a wide array of wines, vodkas, a few cartons of juice, and maybe one lonely bottle of water. Another clear difference is the food and dance combo. The restaurant is small, but contains a dance floor. So, teachers would eat a bit, then dance a bit. Come back to the table, eat a little more, drink a little more, and head back to the dance floor. (I’m slowly learning that this must be connected to jiggling food down to make room for more.) As for dancing, there may be a bashful teacher somewhere, but by and large, they get their groove on! Result? Tons of good clean fun. And on to the next holiday…

With Women’s Day behind us, Nauryz (Kazakh New Year) is quickly approaching. The official holiday is March 22, but celebrations are well underway. I’ll be going south over the holiday, so I’m doing what I can to take part while I’m around. One piece I’ve caught wind of in Shakhtinsk is a competition among school employees across town. The competition is comprised of at least three events: table tennis, chess, and volleyball. So, last week, I stepped into a teacher’s meeting just in time to hear a physical education teacher asking for people who play tennis. “Can you play tennis, Denise?” an English teacher asked. I gave a confident yes. And while it’s true that I have the ability to play tennis, I stink. And having not played for ages, I barely have the right to answer in the affirmative. Thankfully, “tennis” turned into table tennis. And since I then found myself at a table tennis tournament last Saturday, that’s a very ,very good thing. My defeats in tennis would have been even more humiliating than the two I suffered in table tennis. I seemed to display a pattern seen in some of our less-than-favorite Husker football seasons, doing much better in the second half than the first. Too little too late. As we left, the PE teacher’s comment, “Better than sitting at home, yeah?” was pleasantly optimistic and fit the occasion quite well.

Restaurant #2

And for the rest of the day, there wouldn’t be any more sitting at home, for I was off to have another rousing restaurant experience. This was for a relative’s birthday party. In these parts, “Jubilee” birthdays are big deals. And here, that means any big number that ends in zero or five. This was his 60th birthday, and boy was it jubilant! Here’s the scene: small restaurant with two rooms. Enter via a small corridor, and you’ve got a bar and dance floor on your left, and a dining area on your right. The dining room is barely big enough for the two long tables set up. (The only way out for the unlucky ones tucked in the corner was to crawl over a dozen laps, if that gives you any idea. I think such seating arrangements are a favorite among fire marshals.) The two long tables are, of course, covered in salads and a selection of beverages, with a typical trifecta: red wine, cognac, and vodka. Then there’s this curious third table, close to the room’s only entrance. Heaping with fruit and various desserts, only innocent sweet-tooths under the age of 5 picked away at its contents.

With all this beginning at 3:30 in the afternoon, we’ve got signs of a serious case of gluttony about to unfurl. And… part of the restaurant deal is an emcee. As dozens of relatives file in, the young woman sets to work. She’s got toasts to orchestrate, trite jokes to deliver, and cheap toys to distribute. Before nearing even a slight pang of hunger, everyone is munching on side dishes, listening to the emcee or relatives giving toasts. About an hour of that, and huge trays of bishbarmak are set in the middle of already crowded tables. More antics from the emcee, more toasts, and then… the dance floor.

Women’s Day, apparently, gave me a nice calm version of dancing and eating, eating and dancing. I’ve got some rowdy relatives. Men and women, vying for the spotlight, breaking a sweat in no time at all… No encouragement needed. And yet, this darn emcee has a job to do, and dancing games are on her list. Not one for dancing, I get dragged onto the dance floor. To make matters worse, I soon have a microphone up to my mouth with orders to introduce myself. Having a bonafide American in your presence is a pretty big deal, don’t you know? But rather than use my name, a couple boisterous personalities preferred to simply address me as “America.” Perfect. Hugs, kisses on the cheek, and cries of “I love you, America!” followed throughout the night. Darn vodka.

Confirming my predictions of gluttony, everyone was called back to the table and presented with, I don’t know, dinner #3? Good grief. While people mostly played with their mashed potatoes, we were all entertained by good natured relatives willing to look ridiculous. And when I write ridiculous, I mean totally and completely RIDICULOUS. Women in polka dotted clothes with awful masks. Fat men in skirts and pointy bras, belly dancing. More men in miniskirts and curly wigs. Jubilant, indeed.

Then, for those who hadn’t returned to the dance floor or fallen into a food coma, a table of desserts waited. Yep, that means 5 solid hours of eating. My host mother’s perspective? “It’s ok. Just don’t eat tomorrow.”

Church!

So this blog post is certainly long enough, but I must add news about finding a church! That’s right, there’s a small Bible-believing church in Karaganda where I’ve gone with another volunteer a couple times now. We first became aware of it after meeting a fellow American who is here teaching English through a different organization. The little I know is that it was started quite a while ago by an American pastor who is no longer with them. Praise the Lord, services are now led by locals. I’m assuming the services are almost always in Russian, although one of the two Sundays I’ve attended, the sermon was given in English and translated throughout into Russian. The other week, a young Kazakhstani woman sat amongst a few Americans and translated the main points of the sermon. I’m so thankful to have found this spot, and I look forward to getting to know people from the church better. Learning praise songs in Russian is also fantastic!

Time Stops for No Man (or Woman)

And… one last note. I’m over ¼ of the way done. I scarcely believe it, really. Where has the time gone? And with such a sizeable chunk behind me, I’m feeling… alright. I’d say I’m getting the hang of teaching. Feels good to have English Clubs established. But, oh, there’s so much to do. My host mother is pushing for a renewed commitment to studying each others’ language. Those established English Clubs may get revamped. And other projects are sure to come along, vying for time I don’t feel like I’ve got. But, now in the middle year of my service, it’s time to rock and roll. Lord help me.

With weeks of moderate temperatures (read anything above -5*F), I hardly know what to do with myself. And things are heating up not only in regard to weather, but my schedule as well. On Monday, though, I taught only one lesson. Why? It was “Emergency Day”. “What’s the emergency?” I asked my counterpart. She kindly explained that this is a day for them to practice exiting the building quickly in case of a fire. So students have only three lessons before a fire drill, after which they go home. (Maybe they can’t get them back in the building??) I vaguely remember loathing fire drills. Probably because it cut into my recess time, rather than being yet another day off that won’t ever be made up, as it is here. But oh, we’re embracing the wonders of life in Kazakhstan. Yep, like a big bear hug, where the line between wrestling and hugging is mostly indistinguishable.

But before you go getting the wrong idea, I’ve gotta say, the last few weeks have been quite enjoyable. Without further ado, some highlights:

Trip to Balkhash

Over Valentine’s Day, I made my first solo train trip! With tickets in hand, I found my way to the waiting room at the train station, convinced I would not be able to distinguish any words that blasted over the loudspeaker. See, that’s the only cue I’ve figured out – there’s a garbled announcement when a train has arrived and is now boarding. I can rarely make out such announcements in English. How in the world could I hope to understand anything in Russian?!

I found a seat, dug out some snacks, and glanced often at my watch. And then… over the loudspeaker… “starting…” “606…” “Karaganda to Balkhash”. I heard it! I understood some of it! Oh yeah! Delighted, I joined the mass that I could have instead used for my cue, and waited in the cold to board the train. The trip proceeded without incident, with the ride to Balkhash bringing many questions from nearby passengers.

In Balkhash, I joined another Kaz-21 and then we met up with a Kaz-20. A wonderful time of relaxation. I enjoyed seeing yet another piece of this huge country; the same, yet unique in its own right. Being on a huge lake (Lake Balkhash), we hear it’s a wonderful place to go in the summer. I’ll see what I can do to find out.

To make the trip back by train, I had one option: leave about 7:00pm and arrive in Karaganda around 6:30am. Karaganda is an hour bus ride from Shakhtinsk, and my first class starts at 8:30am. I figured, heck, I can manage this. I’ll be cutting it close, but totally doable. To the chagrin of other passengers, I hogged the train bathroom to don my teaching outfit, now ready to go straight to school, if need be. We rolled into Karaganda around 6:40am. I hustled over to the bus station, and after clearing up some confusion, found a place to buy a ticket for a bus ride to Shakhtinsk. That bus pulled out around 7:15am. Yep, that means I got to town 15 minutes before the starting bell.

As any business-minded person would guess, taxis are waiting at the bus stop, ready to whisk people to different parts of town. For 200 Tenge, they’ll take you to a specific address. Usually I say “School #1” because it’s on a main road very close to my house. But this day, that’s precisely where I needed to be. The driver, having placed my backpack and duffel bag in the trunk, asked again, expecting a home address near the school. In my fine Russian, I replied, “I teacher. I late.”

Upon arrival, I rushed to the teacher’s room, dropped off my luggage, and heard the bell ring. So close! I scampered up to my room, expecting a room full of 8th graders. But I found only my counterpart, patiently waiting. Ah! The all-school meeting they have each Monday morning! Whew! Saved by the extra 15 minutes this took, I was prepared just in time to set the week in motion.

Taxis

Now I’ll return for a minute for this issue of taxis, realizing the beauty of the system they’ve got going over here – especially in Shakhtinsk. Taxi “businesses” abound in this town. So, unlike other places where you may rely on gypsy cabs (let’s call that hitchhiking), these taxis at least have signs. Sure, it’s more like the sign the high-school boy puts on his car to deliver Domino’s pizza, but at least it’s something. So, if I want to splurge and pay for a ride to, say, the post office, I can go to the main road near my house and wait for a taxi to drive by. That’ll be a whopping 40 Tenge (27 cents). And this gives me a ride that’s like a never ending carpool. The driver is constantly picking up people and dropping them off along the main roads, making up the route as he goes. So I won’t go directly to the post office, but I’ll get there soon enough.

Sometimes these are quiet rides. Other times, like when saliva is dripping off the bottom lip of the Kazakh man sitting shotgun, I get to answer more questions. (I prefer the quiet rides.) To guarantee a ride absent of drunken passengers, I can call a taxi or go to one of their main locations. There, I can pay 200 Tenge ($1.33) and be taken straight to my chosen destination. As someone who prefers walking 20 minutes rather than spending 27 cents on a taxi, there’s a slight possibility U.S. prices will be a shock to my system.

What will you give me today, Kazakhstan?

Over a month ago, my regional manager visited my site to check in on me, my school, and my host family. During her visit, she mentioned the possibility of encouraging organizations in the area to apply for a Youth Development (YD) Peace Corps Volunteer. She envisioned my counterpart and I visiting an organization (or maybe 2), and then inviting a nearby YD PCV to check it out, with her knowledge of this new PC program. Sounds simple enough. Check out a couple places, relay some information about Peace Corps work, and assist with an application for a volunteer, if it seems like a good fit.

I reminded my counterpart of this, who in turn consulted our school director. Instead of the proposed low-key visit, she planned to meet with someone at the local Akimat (read City Hall). Then the plan was a meeting with various leaders in the area. In the end, a round table discussion was arranged at my school. Being the rock star she is, my school director organized a round table discussion with 15 leaders from this area plus a local news reporter.

At 9:30am, we bunched around tables arranged in a square, each set with a plate of pastries, a plate of candy, and two teacups on saucers. Two young English teachers made fine servers, pouring tea and watching how few people ate any food. As for the round table discussion, it proceeded in typical KZ fashion, beginning with many monologues during which everyone spoke about themselves, their family, their hobbies, and, oh, maybe a mention of their title of employment. KZ rule of thumb: socialize first, business later. Thus, an hour and a half had elapsed before we had coaxed out concrete descriptions of two (of the six or seven) organizations represented. Elena, the YD PCV who came over for the meeting, mused about how long the meeting might have gone if we hadn’t drawn things to a close in an effort to continue with the working day. Somehow… miraculously, work is accomplished here …I think.

No news yet on results of the meeting. If any of the organizations applied for a PC Volunteer, there is the possibility a volunteer would join me this coming November, working somehow with the youth in the area. Time will tell!

Where does the time go??

As I mentioned, my schedule has certainly been filling up. Currently, I teach somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 classes each week. Within those lessons, I work with three different teachers. Not bad. But when you add the out-of-class activities I have been leading, I want to bury my head under my pillow. How can it be, that in a place still largely unfamiliar, I can still stuff my days to the gills? Busyness is a disease that seems to have followed me on my journey thousands of miles from home.

I’m running two English Clubs – one for 4th-6th grade and one for 7th-8th grade. The 7th-8th crowd is a bit easier to manage, with the English level of all participants being more comparable. Within the 4th-6th grade, I have adorable girls who speak next to no English, and other students who are quick as a whip, impressing me with their knowledge at such a young age.

I also gather together with English teachers once a week. Sort of mini-trainings. I have brought different games, which we play and discuss. How can we modify this game for young kids? Older kids? I enjoy this time and see that as having longer-lasting benefits. Help these teachers fine-tune their teaching methods, and the benefits will reach many more children than I could hope to reach.

Finally, I spend extra time with a handful of students. I meet one-on-one with an 11th grade girl, and then with 4 or 5 seventh and eighth grade girls. The 7th and 8th graders are preparing for the FLEX competition, which provides students from former Soviet countries with the opportunity to study in a U.S. high school for one academic year. My focus right now is developing their writing skills – something that seems to be lacking in their current education.

A Wonderful Discovery

And… I have uncovered a gem! I found a place to join adults playing volleyball! First I joined the P.E. class at my school. Upon seeing that I have played a fair amount of volleyball, the instructor invited me to go with her to a place where, “people can actually play”. Lol! The plan: wait near the mosque at 5:30pm on Wednesday. This being KZ, I proceeded to the mosque near 5:30pm, not having any other information. No phone number, no knowledge of what would happen next. I blindly trusted that it’d work out, and sure enough, after waiting about 10 minutes, I heard someone yell my name. I hopped in a car with Nastya, the P.E. teacher, and her boyfriend. A short ride later, we got to another school in town, where more men than women had gathered to play. Even with my chock-full schedule in mind, how could I pass up volleyball with funny old Kazakhstani men?

Only the beginning…

More stories continue to float around in my head, both from recent experiences and upcoming events. Next Monday is International Women’s Day. You silly folks in the U.S. may say, “Huh?” But here, this is huge! Friday the teacher’s will celebrate at a café. Saturday there’s a concert. And Monday… get excited… no school! Go Women’s Day! So if I haven’t lost you yet, check back to see if I can milk any stories from the upcoming weekend! And spread the good news of this wonderful holiday to the women in your lives!

Exciting news as of late is… drumroll, please… Internet access!! Apparently I wasn’t the only one scheming about getting Internet access in my room, with my computer. Last Friday, as I read in my room, I heard, “Tell Denise!” Seconds later, my door swings open, with my host ma informing me I must move my bed. “Drilling hole in wall” and “Internet” were mixed in whatever she said as she manhandled my bed for me. Sure enough, on the other side of my wall, an older man, grinning from ear to ear, sat cross-legged on the floor, looking a bit like a chimney sweeper but wielding a drill with a one inch diameter bit and a foot long shaft. More than enough to send concrete flying as he bored into the wall right next to a heating pipe. He snaked the Ethernet cord through and went on his merry way. My sister and I then strung the cord behind my wardrobe, letting it rest on the heating pipe. No worries, right?

A day or two later, necessary steps were taken for the computer I’ve got to get online. Ah, being able to wake up early and talk on Skype without using the family’s computer, which sits feet from where my sister sleeps. Now to figure out how to access blocked pages…

It’s little, but oh, it’s big. What a wonderful evening. Gathered around a small kitchen table, I help my host family pinch together squares of dough around a spoonful of an onion and raw ground beef mixture. Manti. Oh, it’s delicious. The bundles – about the size of 1 ½ golf balls, maybe (?) are then put onto a special cooking appliance. Think tall pot for the stovetop, with lots of stackable layers inside. Get water boiling and the manti is steamed until fully cooked. In order to keep the bottoms from sticking, they’re dipped in a bit of oil right before placing them onto the metal pan. We finished off the dough, but had a handful of meat left over.

Now, in times past, I observed that the little bit of meat ended up in the trash. Tragic. So, I asked if I could cook the meat. I was greeted with looks of utter confusion. “You mean, in the oven?” asked my host mother and sister. “Or, you must mean the microwave?” Our little dog gets meat they put in the microwave for a few minutes. So maybe I want to eat what they feed the dog? “No, on the stovetop. In a skillet,” I say slowly. More confused looks. “Uh, may I have your permission to try it?” And getting an affirmative, but hesitant, reply, I got out a little skillet, perfect for the task. By now it was clear I was doing something crazy by putting raw meat and onions in a skillet.

But oh, cooking meat as my mom does! How wonderful! I grabbed some seasoning sent from the States – a citrus grill blend that smells delicious – and sprinkled some on the meat as it started sizzling away. (By the way, excellent choice, friends.) A few minutes later, I went to look for a spoon to remove the oil that had cooked out of the meat. As I step back to my skillet, my well-meaning host mother approaches with… remember the oil we dipped the manti in?? …with the excess oil. And dumps it on my browned hamburger. Yep, seconds before I was going to take out the grease already there. Really?? Really. Argh. Dejected, I now drain out as much of that oil as I can and put my cooked hamburger in a little bowl. After tasting a bite, my host mother, yep, thought it needed more grease.

Such a small event, but so, so telling of the cooking style here. The more butter, the better. Where some spread butter on bread, they slice butter for their bread. How about a little chicken with your oil? And oh, I could go on and on with little examples. Is it better to eat tomatoes and cucumbers saturated in soy sauce or not eat vegetables? Lord, give me the vocabulary and grace to explain the concept of healthy food prep. I promise it can save your waistline and your wallet.

Out and About After my first bus ride to Karaganda, you may correctly infer that my host family can tend on the protective side. Makes Mom and Dad happy, at least. But when I mentioned a trip to a small town five hours northeast of here, they were hell-bent on talking me out of it. Some volunteers were gathering to play winter games, and I was excited at the prospect of joining in on the fun. Though, realizing it could likely be around -25*F, I decided against mentioning “outdoor games”.

Even so, my host mother launched into horror stories of buses freezing up and sliding off the road in the middle of the steppe with no one around to save them. Watching TV, she switched over to the news channel. Perfectly timed was a news flash of a bus, teetering in a ditch, with no sign of civilization in sight. If they had proceeded to pan across a field strewn with people lying frozen in the snow as they ran for help, I would have been converted then and there. Rather, I assured her I would seek advice from the volunteer with whom I’d be staying, and my host mother dropped it. Or rather, switched tactics. From my room I heard the order to my sister, “You must tell Denise she cannot go. It’s simply too dangerous.”

Sure enough, I soon got an animated message from my sister. The roads will be closed. Dangerous. Don’t go. But the final straw was the forecast I looked at while talking with my parents. The night I’d sleep over was predicted to be a whopping 50 below. I don’t care if you’re talking Celsius or Fahrenheit. That’s dang cold. So instead of frolicking in the snow, I wrapped up with a blanket and a cup of steaming hot tea, safe in my Shakhtinsk apartment.

This weekend, though, there’s no turning back. I’m setting out for Balhash, a town on the northern side of a lake by the same name. My purchased train tickets tell me the trip will take 11 hours each way. Boy, let’s hope I get myself on the right train and off at the right spot. Hey Ma, wanna talk to the train conductor for me? ; )

How’s the weather? Как мороз? Как наша зимой? Ты холодна? Teachers ask. Students ask. Strangers ask. Women at the post office ask. Whatever form the question takes, their curiosity carries a common theme – aren’t I on the verge of death by frost? Nonchalantly, I reply that the weather is fine. I mean, it’s cold, but we also have seasons in the United States. The Northern U.S. is on a similar latitude as Kazakhstan. Result? Similar weather. Not often is it this cold in the U.S., but it’s not always this cold in KZ, either. As confirmed by many locals: this is one heck of a winter we’re in.

As a result, I think we’re still on Christmas vacation (or New Year’s vacation…). Will we have school today? Nope. Tomorrow? Likely not. How about next week? May be a negative there, too. I give my 4th They’ve gotten a grand total of five scores so far this year. It’s February, folks. And even though they only have English 3 days a week, I’m still shocked at how seldom school has been in session. For those of you who are asking, “So, they’ll make up those days in the summer, right?” Nope. Which leaves teachers in quite the predicament. But no use getting worked up about it. Rather, I’ve taken to saying, “When spring comes, the children will come.” graders a grade, or score, each time I see them.

Масленица And according to the Russian holiday we’re smack in the middle of, we get to welcome spring right now! (Just never mind that we’re usually in the neighborhood of -20*F.) It’s Pancake Week! Масленица is a Russian religious and folk holiday. The folk side says it’s a sun festival, ushering in spring. The Christian aspect corresponds with Lent. For Russian Orthodox Christians, meat is already forbidden this week, and it’s the last week they may eat eggs and dairy products. In typical fashion, binge before the fast. So to tie the folk and religious celebrations together, you eat блины (crepe-like pancakes)!

Blinis symbolize the sun – round and golden. And they’re impressively versatile. Delicious as-is; or smeared with butter, jam, or сметана; or burrito-style with any number of fillings. For dinner, roll a blini around cooked meat and onions or chicken or potatoes or vegetables… For dessert, go with творог (think dry cottage cheese) with sugar mixed in, or sweetened condensed milk, or honey, or jam… Oh, I’m getting hungry writing about it!

In talking with an English teacher at school today, I learned that each day of the week has a special activity attached. For instance, on Wednesday the mother-in-law brings her son-in-law blinis. (Precisely the “activity” you had in mind, yeah?) The English teacher said her mother held up her end of the deal, and said she expected her son-in-law to bring her blinis on Friday. Other activities apparently include sleigh-riding and visiting godparents. (Got the last bit from Wikipedia… so don’t go betting a lung or anything on the validity of it.)

Anyway, I like any excuse to make and especially eat blinis. I’ll have to be sure to get plenty of practice to ensure successful replication outside the country. Sadly, we haven’t had blinis since Monday. While I was rather hoping for a daily dose, I suppose there’s always the possibility of too much of a good thing.

I swear I’ve started to write a blog post earlier than now… on my flash drive, it’s titled January , 2010. Usually a number goes in there. You know, for a specific date. But this month I’m moving slow. Rather than change the name to February , 2010, though, I’ll get my butt in gear and finally post again! So yes, I am still here!

…well, kind of.

This post is coming to you courtesy of the most incredible mother in the world. I haven’t done as much digging as others, but it seems most KZ PCVs are not able to access any blogspot pages. The embassy is looking into it, apparently, to see what they can figure out. There’s something I could download so I could again access websites as though I were in the U.S., but I’ll kindly leave my family’s computer be. I’ll just have to resort to the old fashioned method of keeping in touch with many of you and …e-mail or something. (If you thought I was going to say “write a letter,” consider yourself aged. ;)

Anyway, with the lapse between this and the last post, I’m bound to have a story or two, yeah?? Here’s what I’ll narrow it down to…

Lil’ bro & kitchen… like oil and water

Whether its blinis or sugar cookies, cracking an egg or lighting a gas stove, I’m becoming more and more convinced that a kitchen co-pilot is a must. Blame it on age or blame it on gender, but don’t blame it on heart. This kid loves to help out in the kitchen. You just need to choose wisely the task assigned.

One evening I walked into the kitchen to find самса underway. His task: pinching the dough together to transform a circle of dough into a triangle. Bring the outer edge to the middle, spaced out in thirds. Poor guy was botching it, leaving a disgruntled mother and a pile of самса’s that looked more like a pennant than the equilateral triangle so desired. But boy did he light up when I pointed out how he could change his ways! His countenance beamed with pride as he held a hunk of dough in front of his mother to say, “Hey! I figured it out!”

Eggs, on the other hand, may not happen so quickly. His mother taps the shell with a butcher knife, so that’s what he decided to do, too, on his first try frying an egg. Result: 8 year old bearing a huge knife, an egg splattered down the front of the oven, pooling on the floor, and family members cracking up before offering assistance. I like to think we disarmed him before taking further action… His next attempt with eggs was for my Grandma’s sugar cookies. No knife this go round, but we’ve still got some improvements to make. But hey, he gets an A for effort in my book.

I’ll skip over the blini (aka crepe) bit and round this out with a story from today (January 25th). I came home from class around lunch to find only my little brother and his friend, a fellow 3rd grade boy. Being the nice friend he is, my bro offered to heat up water for tea. Since we had no electricity at this point, that required lighting the gas stove. Here’s how it went. Box of matches: check. Knob turned on full blast: check. Take out a match, fumble a bit. Strike one, strike two… skip to strike …seven? Let a bit more gas billow out. Move the spark no closer than several inches from the burner and POOF! We’ve got liftoff. Yelp from small boy: check. Controlled fire under teapot: check. Knuckle hair on brother’s hand: …uncheck. Rather than stick around to see what other excitement he could stir up, I said a prayer that the apartment complex wouldn’t go up in flames and rushed off to my next lesson at school.

A different kind of “Gosti”

And before mentioning school stories, I’ll back up to last Friday, when it was me who was home alone. Early afternoon, I didn’t think much of it when my host sister hollered goodbye on her way out the door. Sometimes I lock the door, other times I don’t. This day would have been a good day to lock it, but that’s hindsight for you! As it was, I heard a knock and seconds later said hello to a man I’ve never seen before. He stumbles in, but even drunk men know you don’t dare go anywhere inside without taking off your shoes, which effectively confined him to a three foot area. “You’re alone, eh?” Mmm… yep. “Where’s your sister?” Not a clue. “Where’s your host mother?” Work, I think. “How ‘bout you get the home phone. What’s her number?” I get the requested cordless phone and grab my cell, too, quickly pulling up the number. I return to this man, who I’d guess to be around 30, now crouching near the door, vodka seeming to escape from his pores. In my best Russian, I list off the five-digit number, and listen as he eventually connects with the right woman.

A short conversation later, he hangs up the phone and turns his attention back to me. I do my best to strike a balance between short and snappy, limiting information wherever I can. “How about we sit down and sip some wine?” …How ‘bout no. “Come with me – I want to introduce you to my friends. They’re great guys.” I’m sure they are. But avoiding snappiness, I simply replied, “Later, later…” Praise the Lord, he turned to leave, seemingly content with that. But rather than a smooth exit, we’ve got another hang-up.

Back up a day or two for a second. We’ve got two doors, and on the one that locks, the handle on the inside got loose… and then fell off. So, you now need a key to open ‘er up. Something tells me we’re not up to fire code… but if we wanted to be, I’m thinking the door may be toward the bottom of the list. But I digress. Back to Mr. Tipsy-at-3pm. He turns for the door as I hustle off to find a key. Recognizing the problem, he waits for me and strikes up conversation again. “What are you doing tomorrow?” Sitting on my rear, doing nothing… “Not sure.” “We can drink wine tomorrow!” What a not so wonderful idea. “We’ll see.” With a steady hand (thanks, God), I turn the key to allow for his exit. Behind his wobbly stance was a good natured attitude, and he made his way back out into the snow. I shut (and locked!) the door, thankful the meeting had passed without further incident.

Minutes later, caller id shows my host mother’s work number. “Did he leave? Are you scared? What did he say? What did you say?” Hearing satisfactory replies, she responded affectionately, “Моя умница.” (Translation: my clever person) And lastly, “Did you lock the door? You need to lock the door.” Done and done.

Roll out the red carpet…

With that, how about some school news! All is well (and usually rather humdrum) at school #1, where I continue to teach… most days. Last week was almost entirely knocked out due to low temperatures and ensuing canceled lessons. The week before, though, had the added excitement of my regional manager coming to check things out. Routine rounds to all PCVs as we’re a few months into our stay. Her aim is to speak with my counterpart and director, watch a class or two, and check to make sure things are smooth on the home front, too. Convincing folks here, though, of the monotony of her visit just wasn’t going to happen.

Days before her scheduled visit, bags of dried fruit and nuts walk in the door of our apartment – essential ingredients for chai. Concerned about her workload, my host mother gives me detailed instructions for setting up chai, in case she can’t make it back home. We also figure out a calling plan – call this number at this time, let it ring once. What a foolproof cue for my host mother to rush home…

At school, tension is multiplied. For at least a week prior, my counterpart began insisting I make up a game for the lesson my manager would watch. Pull out all the stops! I replied with nonchalance, insisting that we shouldn’t change a thing. If the lesson stinks, that means we need to change lots of our lessons. If it’s fine, so be it. I’m not going to get all worked up over her visit, and neither should my CP.

Time marched on and the fateful day came. My CP was fit to be tied. My Regional Manager, a wonderfully bubbly, unassuming woman, reassured us both she was no inspector. Still, my CP insisted I meet her 30 minutes before the lesson so we could review what we had planned. (We can plan 5 lessons in 30 minutes. Review one lesson for that long? …Right.) Thankfully, we ran on a KZ schedule (read: toss out the schedule and go with the flow), eating three different times in a span of a few hours, taking turns talking each other’s ears off. Necessary tasks get done; the rest just gets squeezed out.

We did manage to get out of the school building and sneak over to my apartment, where you better believe there was no waiting around for the phone cue to rush home. The table was covered with proper chai, and lunch was sizzling on the stovetop. My host mother had the same frantic countenance as my CP, but quickly calmed down, enjoying the company of our guest.

And really, without going into the nitty gritty details, my manager’s visit was a joy. I appreciated her constructive feedback (something completely foreign and therefore petrifying to people here) and positive reaction to my site. She mentioned the change in my countenance from the training village to now, saying my eyes speak volumes of how much happier I am here. And she kept telling me how great my site is, how impressed she is with my host family, counterpart, and director. My apologies to PCVs she visited shortly after, for apparently she was all too happy to continue on about my site while at other sites. Whoops. Or, maybe they can come see for themselves if the hype is true. Even when the red carpet gets rolled up, this is still a heck of a place to live.

Happy New Year! A bit late, but heartfelt nonetheless! And before we get much farther into 2010, I’ve got to jot a few things down.

Where’s a hollow leg when you need one?

Let’s get things started by backing up to 2009. December 30th, our kitchen was full with preparations for New Year’s Eve. Side dishes to be refrigerated until the big meal, and a cake with enough butter to… I don’t know, do something dangerous. As we worked away, I thought to myself, I should skip meals until dinner tomorrow… If only I had followed my own advice.

December 31st was pretty laid back. I worked some more in the kitchen, as did my host mother. It should go without saying that bishbarmak was on the menu. But as a reflection of the significance of this holiday above other bishbarmak-warranting days, she went above and beyond what usually winds up on the central platter. Two comments: I usually like bishbarmak, but making it extra special for the holidays elicits amazement on my part as to what people can be conditioned to find appetizing. If you want to know more, I’d happily send an e-mail. Enough said.

Apart from making fresh dishes for the evening meal, we lounged around. Gotta save up energy for staying up entirely too late, you know. Then, around 7:00pm, the family – complete with my host father – piled in the car, leaving all that food behind. Our destination was his mother’s house, where other relatives had gathered. The typical spread was set out, and people all too happily piled different salads on my plate. My mother taught me all too well to eat what’s on my plate. I’m sure working on un-learning that lesson, starting with this: I renounce all responsibility for eating food someone else puts on my plate. Nonetheless, I ate my fill, as I took note of my host mother and sister making comments early on of being full. Hmm… should have followed their lead.

Plenty of toasts later, we made the return trip to our apartment, with a detour to pick up my other host-grandmother. We wasted no time setting out all the food we had prepared for our second dinner of the evening. Side dishes alone constituted a feast. But you better believe I ate some of the apple-stuffed goose. As I continued to fill an already full stomach, my host mother warned me to eat only a little – the bishbarmak hadn’t been set out yet. Ha! All hope of eating “only a little” was lost hours ago. Almost as ridiculous was the comment I heard while she was cutting up meat for it a little later. Pointing to globs of fat, someone said, “to your health!” …Yes, I suppose a person would need lots of health to survive that. Thankfully, I managed to avoid unwanted, artery-clogging helpings. Still, I’m pretty sure I ate enough to last me several days.

Hello 2010!

Somewhere in here, a new year started. In the last minutes of 2009, President Nazarbayev flashed across the screen on televisions around the country. “Doesn’t your President say something for New Year?” “Uh, if he does, it’s not very important.” We’re busy watching a ball drop, if there’s a TV on. But in KZ, they’ve got a fancy stopwatch that shows the year’s last seconds slip away. So, we poured champagne, listened to Nazarbayev, and got sparklers ready. With the stopwatch as our cue, we lit the sparklers and clanked together glasses of champagne over our table of food. No worries – as far as I know, the sparklers only put one hole in the tablecloth.

Next, we headed outside for more pyrotechnics. First wick lit led into a long, skinny tube that my brother was holding. A few seconds later, poof! Sparks covered the ground between his feet! Whoops! He gave a little hop and got ‘er turned around, so the sparks could instead dance along the wires overhead. Amazingly, the night proceeded without further incident. More fireworks, a drive to the center of town for a bit of socializing, and finally, a return inside to get some much needed sleep.

Egg Nog? All gone. Pear Cranberry Sauce? No way.

I must add some comments on what I prepared for our New Year’s feast. So, with plenty of people I know back home, it’d go the other way. Give ‘em cranberries, but go elsewhere with the egg nog. Not my host family. I have proudly turned out two batches of egg nog, and both have disappeared with amazing speed. Try #2 included significantly less sugar. Maybe try #3 should have even less, so we can spread it out over more than 12 hours.

Cranberries are a different story. But after a shopping trip where I almost wound up broke over a $6 bag of the darn things, they were not going in the trash. So I had pear cranberry sauce for lunch, and dinner, and lunch and dinner again. Good thing I thought they were tasty. But I imagine the conversation out of my ear-shot may have gone something like this: “Mom, why did she ruin pears with those red things?” “I don’t know, dear. Maybe Americans like to eat funny things like that.” Mind you, there’s a slight chance they might have liked the tangy sauce… if they would have tried it. Alas, the “I don’t like it. What is it?” mentality isn’t confined to children in the U.S.

Колобок

Once upon a time a grandpa told a grandma to make Колобок – a ball of bread. So she made Колобок. But Колобок rolled away from grandpa and grandma into the forest. He came to Rabbit, who wanted to eat him. “Don’t eat me,” he said. “It’ll be much better for you to listen to my song. I’m made of flour and cream. I got away from Grandma, I got away from Grandpa. Getting away from you isn’t tricky at all!” Колобок moved on to Bear, and Wolf, singing the same song, adding to the list of who he’d gotten away from. Then Колобок finds Fox. “That was a very pretty song, but my ears are bad,” says Fox. “Come closer so I can hear it better.” “Sure thing! I’m made of flour and…” Snap! No more Колобок. The End.

Just one example of the “Nice Russian Stories” I’ve been reading with my Russian tutor. (I think I’ll pass on the unpleasant ones.) Колобок was my first story – and later that same day, I came upon a snow sculpture of Колобок at a pre-school! Picture to come, I promise. Anyway, reading stories where the intended audience is 5 years old is fantastic. Good reading practice and vocabulary building.

Chivalry Lives On

After an afternoon in Karaganda, I headed off to find a bus stop. That’s always quite the trick, as only some of them are marked. To add to the adventure, I’m never completely positive the buses are actually running. But this particular evening, I see a gray coat that is unmistakably that of my host sister! So this is where the bus will stop, eh? Fantastic. She reported that she and the two guys with her had already been waiting for a half hour. Enough of a wait for there to be a decent group waiting with us. Another pair of teenage guys was among them, and apparently they all knew each other. They also all knew the bus would be packed once it did come. Competition brewed for who would be the first on the bus to get a prized seat, if any were left. The bus rolled up, and whaddya know… two seats left, and instead of the victorious teenage boys, they were given to two young women. My sister and I sat down, and while standing for an hour isn’t so bad, I’m certainly thankful for the politeness that lives on here.

Christmas #2

With help from my counterpart, I connected with a teacher who attends the Russian Orthodox Church in town. Yesterday, January 6, I made the walk over to the church, where I was greeted by her and an older student from my school. Of course, I can’t just attend the service. I get to watch it from the choir loft. Both women sing, so I stood behind them during the 3-hour long service. Liturgical service, filled with beautiful singing and various readings. They took Mass in there, too, and we all held a candle for a bit of it. I got my Christmas Eve Candlelight Service. Now I just need to convince myself it’s Christmas time…

Whew.

There you have a sampling of the stories I’ve accumulated up to the present. I’ll leave some untold, in hopes that you can still make it to the end of this post! Suffice it to say, there have been pre-school celebrations. There have been snowball fights. Trips to host-relatives. Walks to the post office. And enough time at home to put my nose in some solid books. Where will I find time to teach, once school starts up again?

Having been all set to teach seven lessons on Wednesday (December 23rd), with 5 about Christmas, I was bummed when I got the news that lessons were cancelled. Ok, so “all set” really means I was still up at midnight frantically making visual aids and trying to figure out what activities to use for which grade levels. But by golly, I was ready to teach Wednesday morning! The darn cold, though, prevented me from using five lessons to share about a huge holiday. At least I got three more chances over Thursday and Friday. And two out of the three becoming reality is better than nothing. So I taught one Christmas lesson on Christmas Eve, and another on Christmas Day. But on Christmas Day, lessons were called off after the first period so students could decorate the New Year’s tree. Yes, you read correctly. And yes, the winter holidays are a wee-bit different for me this year.

New Year’s Day (Новый год)

To cover Christmas and New Year’s, we’ll go in reverse order for Americans; chronological for Kazakhstan. In a nutshell, I tell people that in the U.S., Christmas is a much bigger deal than New Year’s, with Christmas being a family-oriented holiday, and New Year’s Eve being a chance to go out with friends. In Kazakhstan, it’s the opposite. New Year is their biggest holiday, and that’s when they stay home with family. For those who do celebrate Christmas… well, I’ll get there eventually.

Without having done much legitimate research, this is what I’ve gathered. Wait. I have read about Russian New Year’s traditions. …in Russian, with my Russian tutor. To give you a hint about that, she asked at the end of one text what I understood. Rather than fess up and say, “absolutely nothing,” I said “very little.” Besides, I don’t yet know how to say “absolutely”. But I digress…

New Year’s is, like I said, a family holiday. I’ll stay at home with my host family, and I’m pretty pumped about it. A lot of what they will do mirrors the secular celebrations of Christmas. We’ll exchange presents. They’ve set up a decorated tree. They’ll cook a big meal. (I’ve been informed I’ll also be making a dish.) And they’ll reflect on times passed and anticipate times to come, with many wishes for health and happiness. Something tells me a toast or two will sneak in there.

Quite similar to our Santa Claus, they’ve got Ded Moroz – Grandfather Frost. And they’ve got his granddaughter Snegurochka, the snow maiden. Ded Moroz is an elegant fellow who goes around in an elegant, icy blue (or red) and silver coat trimmed with fur. Russian through and through. He carries a staff, wears valenki (warm Russian boots), and gets pulled around in a beautiful troika (horse-drawn sledge). Snegurochka wears a long silvery blue robe and a furry cap, looking slender and stunning. On New Year’s Eve, Ded Moroz brings presents and puts them under the tree, with Snegurochka along to help.

Also similar to our Christmas festivities, the revelry is underway weeks beforehand. At school, their winter break won’t start until December 29th, but New Year parties started happening long ago. As a fine example, on our Christmas Eve, my host brother had a ticket for a New Year’s event in Karaganda. So he and my sister skipped school. I taught during first period and then tagged along, standing back and observing a spectacular gathering of small children, most dressed up in costumes – putting to shame any Halloween party I’ve seen. Children first gathered around a decorated tree and were entertained by characters connected to New Year’s. Ded Moroz and Snegurochka made an appearance and handed out presents (at which point utter chaos ensued; what crazy person would think of forming a line when there are children who want presents and parents who will fight to get it for them?). Next, people were directed to an auditorium, where we could watch a theatrical play about Ded Moroz and Snegurochka. But, happy to have his present, my little brother and the rest of the family skipped out and spent their self-appointed day off shopping for more presents instead.

All around town, there are holiday themed snow sculptures and decorated trees, reflecting the ongoing preparation for the big day. I’m excited to see what the actual holiday brings! I’m sure I’ll be able to squeeze a paragraph or two out of it to share with you!

Christmas

Now a bit about Christmas. Christmas on the Russian Orthodox calendar is written in on January 7. Looks like that comes from Russia dragging its feet in making the switch from the Julian Calendar to the Gregorian Calendar. So when the Gregorian Calendar says December 25, the old Julian Calendar would say January 7, I suppose? And somehow, from that, I’ve landed myself in a place where Christmas is observed in January? Before I think through that too much – and completely confuse myself – I’ll just move on.

I’ll see if I can celebrate again around January 7, but as my brother so affectionately pointed out, most Muslims don’t celebrate Christmas. Thank you, Dustin. Even though the presence of Islam is practically unnoticeable here, there certainly is not much of a Christian influence, either. And even from the handful of Russian Orthodox folks who live in Shakhtinsk, I don’t expect much in the way of Christmas spirit. Religious celebrations, including Christmas, were banned during the Soviet Union (from 1917 to 1991). So, only since 1992 has it been openly celebrated again. I suppose that’s enough time for Christmas to once again become a huge holiday – in places with a large Russian Orthodox population. (Read: not Shakhtinsk) But not all hope is lost. There is a Russian Orthodox Church in town!

As for December 24th and 25th of 2009… It will go down as a Christmas I’ll certainly remember. Just …maybe not as fondly as others. Looking at those days as a Debbie-downer is all too easy. Heck, both Christmas lunch and dinner was a microwaved bowl of soup that I ate by myself. But, how ‘bout we look at the bright side of things, eh?

A Taste of Christmas

I got the idea stuck in my head of making egg nog to drink on Christmas, and armed with a recipe, my family and I rounded up all the ingredients. Actually finding nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon is nothing short of a miracle! Upon hearing all the ingredients, my family was fascinated in what I would be making. But have no fear – I used a recipe that cooks the eggs, so I wasn’t giving them raw eggs to drink. Nor did I add rum. I may be in KZ, but my brother is only 8.

After eating dinner on the 24th, I set about making my first-ever egg nog. I ran back and forth between the kitchen and computer, trying to figure out conversions. Still, I can say with confidence that the amount of sugar I measured was completely wrong. I looked at the pile of sugar in the bowl, shook it around, and dumped some of it out. Even so, I left too much. But hey – not the worst ingredient to have too much of!

I got my little brother’s help in the mixing process… and the tasting process. We agreed it was shaping up to be delicious. Think of an adorable boy with a mouth full of sweet teeth, and imagine his disappointment when I said it needed to sit in the refrigerator overnight. But he accepted it and went off to do whatever. I, on the other hand, couldn’t keep myself from filling a mug with my thick concoction. When I decided that one mug wasn’t enough of a taste, I told myself I must share. Oh, the delight in my little brother’s answer when I asked if anyone would like a taste of the egg nog. He made for the kitchen posthaste, and when I handed him a full mug, he had it gone in less than 10 seconds and trotted up to the counter for a refill. I guess it’s good!

Later on in the evening, a friend of my host mother’s stopped by, and the three of us drank some egg nog by candlelight, with two Christmas songs repeating in the background – We Wish You a Merry Christmas and Silent Night. Now there’s a memory to treasure.

I’ve got white… but what about Christmas?

Christmas morning, I awoke to find my little brother downing another cup of egg nog. Delicious as it is, I opted for tea. Gotta get some of your liquid apart from egg yolks with cream and sugar. I headed off to teach my one lesson and made it back in time to talk to my parents, who had just returned from a Christmas Eve church service. Being able to not only talk to them, but see them via Skype is too wonderful for words. I feel spoiled and I’m incredibly thankful for it.

Still, Christmas Day was rough. In my mind, December 25 is the pinnacle of days to be with family. And being in a culture where the day is meaningless sure doesn’t help. When my host mother and sister returned in the evening, they took one look at me and asked if I had been crying. Dang it! And of course, asking only makes me cry again. I tried to explain that I was fine; I just missed my family. My host mother, who instantly teared up too, tried to offer comforting words. “You’ve talked to your parents, right?” ”If you want, you can call them every day.” “You’ll get to visit them next June.” While all that is fine and good, there’s still all the emotion we’ve wrapped into December 25th. I don’t want presents, I don’t want Christmas dinner. Being with my host family is great. But today, I want my family. No substitutions will do. And this year, I can’t be with them, so I will cry.

Without family, and without the hustle and bustle we attach to Christmas, I did my best to focus more on the Christmas story. I can definitely say I’ve read through both gospel accounts more this season than any other. Gaining new insights and forming new questions is fun, too. A devotional book I’ve been reading, called “Jesus is Calling,” pointed out that the day of His birth must have actually been a dark day for Jesus. The day He left the glorious realms to show up in a dirty stable. And Mary… she was told she was giving birth to the Son of God. Did she think it was absolutely insane that God gave her nothing more than a manger for Him? Or did she have an idea of the rough time on earth that lay ahead for Christ? From Luke, it sounds like she was the pondering type, and boy, did she have a lot to ponder.

With all of it, I’ve got to keep in mind that December 25th is only a day on the calendar. We’ve attached lots of meaning to that date, but any day is perfect to read the Christmas story and celebrate the gift God sent from above. And any day spent with family is precious. Having gone through another Christmas away from family, I recognize that all the more. And I hope that when I am again able to spend the holidays with family, it'll be with an even deeper appreciation.

I’m at the end of a six day span which included a grand total of 30 minutes teaching time. Good thing the work of a Peace Corps Volunteer extends beyond the walls of the classroom… and includes the unquantifiable (but also unceasing) cross-cultural exchange.

Independence Days

The national holiday accounted for big chunk of my six day respite. Apparently legislation states that Independence Day is December 16th, but it’s celebrated for two days – both the 16th and 17th. To relay a bit of history… on December 16th and 17th of 1986, there were riots in Almaty in response to a change in leadership over Kazakhstan. A woman who worked with my PST group was a university student in Almaty at the time. I learned from her that the leader of Kazakhstan – then still part of the USSR – was replaced by a man who knew little about the Kazakh people. The resulting fury led to the riots. On the same day five years later, December 16, 1991, Kazakhstan passed an Act of State Independence. They were the last of the Soviet Republics to do so after the fall of the Soviet Union. So, Happy 18th Birthday, Kazakhstan!

But rather than attending lots of Independence Day festivities, I joined my family in mostly relaxing and visiting friends. I asked various people what they typically do to celebrate the two days… and in contrast to the response I’d expect from Americans – almost all of whom do something for the holiday, I mostly got blank looks. “Uh, we don’t really do anything to celebrate…” My counterpart, for example, stayed at home and helped her daughter with university coursework.

Another Birthday Bash

My host family, as I mentioned, got out to visit friends. Specifically my host mother and brother. While relaxing Wednesday evening, my cell phone rang. My ma was on the other end with a quick message: “Get dressed. Gosti.” I glanced down at my long-sleeved shirt with “Nebraska” plastered across my chest, and decided that’d be fine. Minutes later my host sister and her boyfriend escorted me to a house down the street, where my ma was eager to introduce me to the throng of people inside. After meeting the Kazakh women making the last preparations for our nine o’clock dinner, I was led down the hall to the room where the kids were hanging out and was ordered to sit there.

As is becoming habitual, if ever there is a person who speaks English in the family, they are dragged to me and expected to exhibit their linguistic abilities. This time it was a young woman who was booted into the room. After a span of time, my ma will usually peek her head in to see if we’re still doing our assigned task, conversing in English. Seeing smiling faces, she’ll smile back and disappear again.

This particular conversation didn’t last long, as there was much bishbarmak to be eaten. It was a familiar scene: a long table, filling the biggest room of the house, covered with food. Namely, two huge platters bearing bishbarkmak made with horse meat. Yum! Delicious side dishes filled what space was left. Of course, you end up stuffing yourself …and then the table is cleared and covered again with fruit and desserts of all kinds. This is where a hollow leg would come in handy.

I can’t say I was surprised, but this group was especially interested in me and my homeland. Since leaving my training village, I’ve mostly been able to avoid the paparazzi treatment. This occasion, though, I was stuck. Adults were pulling out their cell phones to take candid shots of me. And then cameras came out, at which point I was flanked by two or three people in turn to pose for pictures. …So this is what Mickey Mouse feels like.

Also during the evening, I got loads of questions, from “Are all Americans fat?” and “How much does Harvard cost?” to “Why aren’t you studying Kazakh?” and “What are your goals while living here?” Upon discovery that my father is a farmer, people are also eager to learn more about that. The fact that my family’s herd of cattle is only for meat production is downright bewildering. You don’t milk your cows?! Nope, we don’t. They’re also blown away by their average weight, and from this group, I was asked if we give our calves steroids. Also a negative, thanks.

Apart from speaking to me directly, “the American” surfaces in conversations going on around me, and this time, in toasts. Around the table, people gave toasts once, and then twice, and then …oh, I lost count. Blame it on the loquacious characters gathered, not my B.A.C. We were there until 1 am…

And don’t think I get out of giving toasts, just because my Russian is inferior to a 3-year-old’s. In fact, though I was permitted to give my first toast in English, the second was to be in Russian! (But before giving my first toast, the girl I spoke with earlier was brought back to translate. She got a bit of it right, and hopefully made the rest sound complimentary.) My second toast was …rough. I repeated whatever words my host mother whispered to me… and then whatever words the man beyond her said. Finally, to the amusement of all, I added the only words I could think of myself that might be fitting… “за дружбы” – “to friendship”. One of the men added with a tone of confusion, “Between Kazakhstan and Nebraska?” before convincing himself and adding on confidently, “Yes! To friendship between Kazakhstan and Nebraska!” …Alright, so I need to memorize a few toasts in Russian.

Back to those loquacious folks and their toasts. Time and again as they offered toasts to the woman celebrating her birthday, they would point to me, mentioning how wonderful it was that an American had come to her party. And this family has travelled around Asia and Western Europe. While I can chuckle at the absurdity of my presence being some mark of success for them, there’s also a weight that comes with it. It’s a weight of responsibility, you could say, that accompanies a privilege I did nothing to attain. I was born in the United States of America. On the world stage, that means something. Just why it means something is something I’ll continue pondering…

The Angel at the Post Office

On December 18th, I set out for the post office after my hard day’s work (of 30 minutes). Made sense to me that, since the previous two days were national holidays, the post office would be open again on Friday. What was I thinking? Of course not. Two days isn’t quite enough; they’re closed for a 3rd. I treated myself to some yogurt, so as to feel better about the wasted trip, and tried again on the 19th.

When I got there at 11:20am on Saturday, the place was packed. Ugh. I like sending letters. I like receiving letters. But I could sure do without those darn post office trips. Both in the US and KZ, post office lines sure do move slowly. But in the US, we’ve got order. In KZ, we’ve got chaos. Are you a pensioner waiting to get money? Are you simply buying stamps? Or wanting to send a package? Who knows. But you better land yourself in the correct “line”. And if you’d rather not wait for an hour in that line (that doesn’t actually exist), be prepared to just shove your way to the front.

On this trip, there must have been something inviting about my facial expression, as different people chose me – the one person in there who doesn’t speak Russian – as the recipient of their questions. In such situations, I give an apologetic, “I don’t know,” to whatever they say. So the conversation is likely something along the lines of, “Are you standing in line?” “Sorry, I don’t know.” Brilliant. One young woman was persistent, and after I confessed that I speak only a little Russian, she switched over to pretty darn good English, trying to make some sense of the mess. I continued to patiently wait in a line that showed absolutely no signs of moving and watched her weave in and out of people across the room, asking questions all along. She came back at one point and asked me what I needed to get. Stamps and an envelope. “This line is just for packages,” she said. “Come with me.”

She led me to the end of a different line, where she waited like a cat, ready to pounce. At the first opportunity, we bypassed the whole darn line. Within five minutes, I was holding stamped envelopes! Amazing. Fortunately, I had thanked her while I was purchasing my stamps; when I went to put the final touches on one envelope, she was gone as quickly as she had come. Lord, bless her.

Nowadays, I feel like I’ve settled into a routine. And I’d say it’s a pretty normal existence. I teach, I come home, I muddle through Russian, I try to keep in touch with friends. Nothing to write home about. I expect soon enough weeks will come and go without anything new and exciting, but while the stories keep coming, I’ll keep writing!

Maybe the song should be, “School’s out for the Winter!”

The temperature took a dive this past week, keeping me from running and keeping kids from going to school. Monday night, my host sister returned from running errands and warned me that tomorrow I must wear very warm clothes. Uhm, ok, not like I haven’t already been bundling up. But I’ll see what I can do. Tuesday morning, I’m almost ready to leave and she tells me again that my clothes must be very warm today. “See, our little brother here, he’s staying home today.” What?! My brother, who is perfectly capable of going outside to play (and did so later that day), is staying home because it’s chilly outside?! Fine, -28 Celsius (-18 for you Fahrenheit folks) is cold. But stay-home-from-school cold? Really?? But at school, it became evident about half of the kids had the same mindset as my lil’ bro. My 4th grade class had shrunk to 2 brave souls. Two souls who were then told that tomorrow they shouldn’t come to school – nor should any other 1st-4th graders.

Wednesday morning, my brother watched SpongeBob Squarepants, tickled pink that his lessons had been cancelled, and I again headed out into the winter wonderland. …Only to get to school and learn ALL of the lessons had been cancelled. So after sitting through a teacher’s meeting, consisting of many raised voices and the occasional “It was colder yesterday!” I went on a 40-minute walk. : )

Letter-Mailing Triumphs …and Complete Failures

Lest you think I’m nuts for taking a walk on a day declared too cold for school, it did have a purpose. The post office is a 20-minute walk from my apartment (Or a 3-minute, 25 cent taxi ride. Maybe there is something goofy about walking there…). Wednesday went well, though. I had dressed for the cold and got the letter stamped without any hiccups.

Friday, armed with more Christmas-time greetings, I decided to use the time in between lessons to jet over to the post office again. I’ll tell you what… a long skirt with socks that come just below the knee does not qualify as warm clothing. As my thighs started stinging with the cold, I told myself, “Remember that time in high school when you scraped ice off your windshield …without gloves …with a credit card? And the searing pain afterwards??” But rather than convince me to take a taxi instead of walk, apparently the effect was – if I could make it through that, this walk to the post office is a piece of cake!

Once inside the wonderfully warm building, I waited in line, carefully counting my envelopes. Seven. Same as what I counted that morning at home. I handed over the envelopes and more than enough money. But instead of being given back only my change, the woman also gives me back the stamped envelopes! What the heck am I supposed to do with these?! (In the past, the postal clerk takes my letter who-knows-where, and it eventually gets to America.) “Outside,” is all I understand from the Russian answer she gives in response to my deer-in-the-headlights look. Good grief. I step outside and find only one logical location to put stamped envelopes, so in they went. And off to school I go – again opting to walk.

Back in the safety of my overheated school, I unzip my bag to a very unpleasant sight. A forgotten letter. All that hassle and I forgot a letter? Argh! That afternoon, I explained to my host sister that I walked to the post office in the morning, but found the eighth letter only upon my return. “Which friend is it for?” “My brother and his wife.” “Oh. Your brother,” she says nonchalantly. “He can wait.” Words of a true sister.

Cat for Hire

As I sat at the little table in my room one evening, I glimpsed a small gray mass race across the edge of my room. A mouse!! Being a good farm-girl, I instantly jumped on top of my chair. With the floor transformed into a mouse-infested pit, I jumped from piece to piece of furniture, trying to find a hole in the wall that would tell me he found his way out.

The next morning, I hear hysterics from my sister, who is having the same reaction to the discovery that a mouse has taken up residence here. She calls her mother on the phone, having a conversation very similar to what might transpire between me and my own mother. “What’s the matter? If he’s in the bag of potatoes, open it up and step on him,” says the fearless mother. “But I’m scared!!” whimpers the daughter, who will one day miraculously transform into the fearless mother.

My host mother’s solution: “Fine. Go to the store and borrow the cat again.” Cerick, a big cat who hangs out at the store my host parents now lease out, has been to the apartment before to hunt mice. My sister carries him in and takes him directly to the tub, where I’ve already agreed to help bathe him. Two doses of shampoo later, we’ve got a drenched but clean cat ready to kill mice. Trouble is, my host family kept trying to feed him. If I were a well-fed cat, can’t say I’d be too eager to hunt down mice. But not Cerick. The next morning, he had killed not one, but two mice! And as a reward, he was promptly returned to the store.

My 1st “Gosti”

gost-i (GHOST-ee) v. to travel to another’s home with the purpose of having much conversation and even more food. While I’ve done this before, I insist on calling Saturday’s trip my first. See, December 12th marked the first time when my host family gave me an address and kicked me out. Or maybe that’s a bit harsh. But you better believe I had no choice in the matter.

About a week ago, my host mother mentioned a friend’s birthday, and said we would be going there to celebrate with her. Then Friday came and it changed to, “You are going to Svetlana’s house tomorrow.” “Who’s going with me?” “Only you.” Oh really. “You will be there at 1:30pm.” Alrighty then…

Saturday morning, my host mother prepared to travel to a different birthday party in Astana. She took a piece of paper and wrote down twice as much information as needed – her way of insuring I would make a successful trip. From the taxi service number to a drawing of Svetlana’s building to a note to remember the present… she leaves out nothing. She even tells me what time I should be getting into the darn taxi. Overboard, but helpful nonetheless.

Looking through my closet, I decide on olive green slacks and a brown top, excited to not wear a skirt for the day. But no – today I am told where to go, when to go, AND what to wear. Whatever. Black skirt, blue button-down shirt, and black sweater-vest. “I want you to be beautiful!” my host mother says as she sways her hips. I put on a touch of eye-liner and then look at a sparkling necklace. Nope – no need to raise the bar and break out what little formal jewelry I have, too.

In keeping with my given timeline, I get in the taxi and arrive at Svetlana’s apartment by 1:30pm. I’m greeted by a petite, wonderful woman bubbling over with joy. Two women are in the kitchen preparing manti (yummy Kazakh dish). She leads me out to her living room, now dining room, which is dominated by a long table full of food. FULL of food. It’s enough food to feed a small army, and there are only 12 plates set around the perimeter. Plus, the entrées are still in the kitchen. Yes, entréeS. Manti and goose-stuffed-with-apples.

In due time, a dozen of us squeeze around the table and eat our fill of salads, manti, and goose. Toasts are given, which evoke both laughter and tears. An apartment filled with the warmth of friendship, both old and new. And as things start to wind down, another man arrives. He marches over to a cassette player and turns up the volume for a dance with Svetlana. I try my hardest to read faces around the room as I’m informed that this is her husband, but they don’t live together. Doesn’t take long to figure out the shots of vodka he’s now taking aren’t his first drinks of the day.

He’s introduced to people around the room, and sure enough, he takes a keen interest in the young American over there in the corner. I hoped he’d lose interest after learning a few basic facts. No. And then that he’d lay off after I agreed to say hello to Jean-Claude Van Damme for him. (Jean-Claude and I are obviously friends, both having lived in America and all.) Rather, at this point, he comes over and assumes half a woman’s stool. She’s none too pleased by his intrusion. Nor are the people around us too excited about the shotgun-like shells he’s struggling to give me. When I refuse to take one – to give to Jean-Claude, of course – he pulls a contraption out of its holster on his hip. Resembling a gun, I’m being told it’s for New Year’s celebrations. If I won’t take a shell, he’ll just have to show me how it works. Despite plenty of objections, the man loads the gun, walks onto the balcony, opens the window, and takes two deafening shots. The contents of the shells fly off, sending sparks of red and white on their way. Amused with himself, he returns inside, where I managed to do a better job of ignoring him as I set about finding a way to leave.

Thankfully, many people were on their way out, and I was able to share a taxi with others. Though I had expressed concern to my parents about knowing an appropriate length of stay, it turned out to be nothing to worry about. My mom’s advice to “eat and run” certainly can be followed here. And in a way, that’s what I did. It’s just that, here, you eat for four hours. They’re enjoyable hours, though, even though I barely speak the language. I think I’ll even look for other opportunities to go gosti… although I’ll do my best to limit it to gatherings without pyromaniacs.

Time has certainly been flying since my arrival at site. I can’t believe a month has already vanished! While I’m fully aware that the first winter is often considered the hardest time of your service, I’m already beginning to wish there were more of it! Let’s hope that sentiment doesn’t evaporate as quickly as November did.

I’m famous!

For a couple weeks now, rumor had it a reporter for the local paper was trying to track me down. She finally found me last Monday. I huddled next to my counterpart (without whom an interview would consist of “My name is Denise. I am 25. I like running and reading. I like Kazakhstan. The end.”) and dove head first into an interview. I told her what I’m up to, why I came to Kazakhstan, and information about Peace Corps. Let’s hope I have my facts straight!

On Friday, the article came out. I thought, heck, I might get a couple paragraphs tucked in somewhere inconspicuous. No, it’s half a page, complete with a 3x5 picture of me and my counterpart. Maybe by the end of my service I can go back and actually read what she wrote about me!

As you’d also expect in small-town America, people are pleased to tell me they saw my picture in the paper and read all about me. What you might not get so readily, though, is too much honesty. “You look fat and old in that picture. You look much better in person.” Uh, thank you? I’ll haveta see if I can get a picture of said article posted on here one of these days, so you can judge for yourself!

Zwieback

One peaceful evening, I sat at the kitchen table writing new Russian words into a little notebook I’ve got. Meanwhile, my host mother cut a loaf of bread into cubes, spread them on a pan, and popped ‘em in the oven. Who knew such a simple act would incite the dialog that followed. She was making сухарь and wanted to know the English translation. In my dictionary, we find “zwieback; rusk”. She latches on to “zwieback” and asks if she’s pronouncing it correctly. If you’re like me, this word is beyond all recognition. I tell her I’ve never heard this word; I have no idea if she’s pronouncing it correctly. I try to appease her by looking up “crouton”. Once she sees the Russian translation, she ponders it for a minute before insisting zwieback is in the oven. Not croutons. Croutons involve eggs and milk. I again explain that, to my knowledge, no one uses this word, “zwieback”. Well, she decides, then you must teach them! You must learn this word, go back to the US, and tell everyone! Demand it at cafés! She goes farther and insists I write this new word in my little notebook. “I’m learning Russian,” I tell her, laughing. “Not English!” “Write it down!” she commands.

All this while, she’s still confused as to why I do not know the word “zwieback”. Thinking a conversation with my counterpart will solve the problem, my host mother gives her a call. As my counterpart and I have become fond of doing, she blames it on the British, guessing it’s a term only they use. I don’t dare show my host mother the cover of my dictionary: “The only comprehensive English-Russian, Russian-English dictionary based on American English”. But even without knowing that, she ends the conversation with my counterpart, still convinced I ought to introduce America to this wonderful word that she thinks is so fun to say.

The next step in an effort to clear up the confusion was a visit to the world wide web. I check with Merriam-Webster, and sure enough, the definition of zwieback is there. Further confirmation I ought to know this word. I concede it is indeed an English word, and even write the darn thing in my notebook.

In the next day or two, I talked with my parents, curious to see if they know of zwieback. My mom didn’t remember ever hearing this word, but my dad had at least a foggy memory of it. “Some type of bread, yeah?” Shoot! There are people who know what it is! I told them of my recent vocabulary lesson, and we decided there’s a chance a person could find zwieback in a grocery store. Later on, I told my host mother that my dad knew of this word. Her reaction: “Your dad – Superman!” You didn’t know being superman was so easy, did you, Dad? : )

And a little note about “croutons”… during dinner one evening, she proceeds to make гренок – the translation we had found for crouton. She beats condensed milk, a little sugar, and salt into four eggs. Then she dips slices of white bread into the batter before frying them to a nice golden brown. You know, French toast. As I munch on them, I think to myself, “Hmm… not croutons. But I’m gonna let this sleeping dog lie.”

My New Running Buddies!

Mid-afternoon, as snow falls, I tell my family I’ll go running soon. My host mother has declared that my little brother needs more exercise, so he’s commanded to join me. I change into running attire, and when I go to leave, I see my host mother is also looking rather sporty! She’s going to run, too, she says! Rock on! The three of us walk over to the stadium, where I was joined in spurts by either my host mother or little brother. I must say, MUCH preferable to the companion I had on an earlier run! I think we’re in for lots of snow soon, though, as I sit watching huge flakes fall. So, we’ll see how long our running days last…

Olympiad

Without making this blog post too much longer, I’ll toot the horn of some of my students! I travelled to a nearby city with another English teacher and two eighth grade girls for an English Olympiad. It consisted of three stages – a grammar test, “situations”, and “film”. For situations, they were randomly paired up, given ten minutes to prepare a dialog, and one minute to present. In film, they individually watched a movie clip without sound, and then had to produce their own script. Interesting competition, consisting of 8th to 11th grade students, obviously with really varied skill levels. Ah- and this was held at a college. Gives them a chance to see the best and brightest English students in the area. Prizes were given by grade, and the girls from my school placed second and third! Woo hoo!

Don’t go thinking the second is a translation. This past week two holidays were celebrated. Thursday, of course, was Thanksgiving! Friday through Sunday was the three day Muslim holiday, Kurban Ait.

A Turkey-less Thanksgiving

Originally I planned to teach on Thursday, so I got myself all wound up about traditions being celebrated by loved ones, deeply wishing I could accompany them. Wednesday morning the plan changed, and I travelled into Karaganda instead of teaching. Met with some PCVs and a gentleman who recently started work at the Embassy. Among other business, he wanted to meet the volunteers in the area, so meet we did. We gathered at an “American Corner” in a local library and afterwards watched presentations made by students from area schools. They had written eloquent essays, centered on what they know of American culture, with a few of their own words sprinkled in here and there (I hope). SendItIn.com, or whatever the site is to check for plagiarism, hasn’t made it quite this far just yet.

To relate a more personal note from the day, though, requires us to rewind for a second. Wednesday night, I told my host mother I planned to go into Karaganda the next morning. Alone?! Anxiety swept across her face. Exactly where was I going? What trustworthy person would be my personal escort? Telling her I was meeting another volunteer who lives there wasn’t quite good enough. Showing her on a makeshift map the bus stop where we’d meet still wasn’t sufficient. “I will take you to the bus station. I will help you buy your ticket. And I will talk to the bus driver so he knows where you must get off.” With light spirits, we both laughed as we agreed that I was like a two-foot-tall child. And when I returned in the evening, she would come and collect me. “I cannot lose my Denise!”

Thursday morning, she was true to her word. I sheepishly stood in line to board while my host mother pointed me out to the bus driver. And sure enough, as we approached my stop, the conductor (person on the bus responsible for walking up and down the aisles collecting bus fares) kindly sent a flurry of Russian my way, accompanied by much more helpful hand gestures. Entry to Karaganda: done.

What dawned on me early afternoon, however, was the fact that exactly how to return home remained a mystery. A fellow PCV lives in between Karaganda and Shakhtinsk, and had successfully gone in and back a few times already. So he and I set out to find a bus for both of us. We stood at the stop where he’s caught a bus before. And we asked around – can we get a bus to Shakhtinsk here? We got a variety of responses, with a range of confidence levels. Go to that side of the street. No, go to that side. Yes, your bus will come here. No, you must go there. (Wherever “there” is…) So we stood where he has gotten a bus home, confident I could do the same. And then his bus came. “Should I get on?” “Of course – go home!” He boarded, encouraging me that eventually, he was sure the right bus would come.

Alone I stood, in the middle of Karaganda, as darkness quickly approached. I addressed yet another woman, “Excuse me, I need a bus to Sha…” By that point her gaze was callous, she shook her head, and walked away. Ugh. (Please, oh please, be patient with the foreigners in your midst…) I re-gathered my courage and stepped up to two young women and started in again. “Excuse me, I need a bus to Shakhtinsk. Will it come here?” No, they carefully explained. I needed to walk across a square populated by shops to the nearest parallel street. I thanked them and walked off. Once I reached said street, I tried my luck and again asked for help. A kind-hearted woman walked with me to an unmarked bus stop. Just in time – a bus plastered with “Shakhtinsk” on the front stopped right as we said goodbye.

Back at the Shaktinsk bus station, my host mother picked me up. “Did you have any problems?” Since I’d prefer graduating from “two-foot-tall child” to “competent adult”, you better believe the answer was “no.”

Kurban Ait

A very elementary explanation of the holiday is the Muslim remembrance of Abraham’s son being spared from sacrifice. Traditionally, I understand, they slaughter an animal and feast for three days. In 2006, I was in Oman during this holiday. From my observation, celebrations in KZ were much toned down comparatively. (In Oman, streets were crazy with last-minute shoppers. Myriad goats tied in the marketplace were mysteriously gone Friday morning. Here, no marked increase in shopping; no goats or sheep to be seen.) Makes sense – Islam takes a much less prominent role here, and one may fairly say a large majority are Muslim only in name.

Regardless, it’s a holiday. Just as you could expect in the US, for my host family, that means family and food. I joined my host mother and sister for a trip to my host grandmother’s apartment. A handful of relatives had gathered. All women. Can’t say this is typical. I wish I were able to give an informed comparison between their gathering and others where men are present. Even with women, though, a holiday isn’t a holiday here without a bottle of vodka being emptied. Toasts all around. As for food, the meal was cutlets (like meatloaf in the shape of small hamburgers) on a bed of pasta, pickled mushrooms, cabbage salad. At this point you ought to be shocked. Not bishbarmak?! But it’s a holiday! No fear, that’s what I ate for supper.

It’s all in the numbers…

I relish explaining trivial differences between KZ and the US to my host family. This past week I tackled numbers. A few fascinating, and very definite differences. Want to say what year you were born? In English, I’d say nineteen eighty four. In Russian, I’ve gotta go through the whole process of one thousand nine hundred eighty four. Same type of pattern holds for the cost of items. Where English-speakers usually take the shortcut of saying twelve hundred, Russian speakers will faithfully say one thousand two hundred. Our method is completely foreign – various people to whom I’ve explained this had to carefully think it through before accepting the two versions as equals.

Lastly, hold up four fingers, with your thumb folded over your palm. Ask your neighbor how much it is. If you’re in the US, that neighbor will likely say “4”. In KZ, you’ll likely get “1” in response. You know how we count to five on our fingers… pointer finger for one, etc. Kazakhstanis, though, will start out with all five fingers out, and fold them down as they count. Thumb in = 1. Pointer finger folded down = 2. So to get a “4” out of someone here, hold up your pinky finger. Fun stuff, eh?

Part of me feels like I’ve got nothing to report; another part feels like I’ve got tons to report. Depends on whether daily life is “reportable”, I suppose. I hope you enjoy hearing the ins and outs of my days as much as I relish hearing the details of life back in the States! Recently I’ve enjoyed a trip to the country’s capital, celebrated a birthday, and started teaching. But first, a story from today (well, yesterday, now that I'm posting this), Saturday, November 21, 2009.

Off and Running!

Since settling in at site, I’ve been able to run! My apartment is really close to a stadium, which includes a couple sets of bleachers, a basketball court, a soccer field, and a track encircling the field! So, while I’m still unfamiliar with my surroundings, I feel quite comfortable heading over and running in circles. I’m positive there’s no small amount of suspicion surrounding this strange girl who shows up several times throughout the week. Often there are people in the stadium; maybe working, maybe playing football (ahem, soccer), maybe just lounging about. The braver souls test out my Russian.

Today two such men walked in while I was jogging. I warily eyed the stride of the first, who soon joined me for a lap, happy to talk but struggling to keep up. My responses were mostly guttural “oh’s” and “mm’s”. On a good day it’d take much time and a good dictionary, but today there was no hope of understanding his slurs …except for one sentence: “I love running, but not after drinking vodka.” Oh, it makes me smile. And in an effort to set my mom’s mind at ease… hmm… all this training will enable me to run away from such men? Yeah. That explanation ought to do the trick…

But the story isn’t over. Man #2 enters the stadium and joins the wobbly one. They stand either in or near a small building near the gate, coming out when I jog by. Thankfully #2’s gait appears more stable. And I recognize him as someone I’ve spoken with before. Today again he calls out to me, with all but a few words flying right over my head. At first I wonder if they want to share some great advice about how vodka will improve my ability to run. I tell him I don’t drink, and he’s insistent that is not his intent. But he’s persistent, and now his message includes raising both arms in the air… like a celebratory move? Maybe he wants me to indicate when, yay, I’m done running today?! I contemplate trying a different gate for my exit but figure I’ll take the risk and pass by them once more. As I go to leave, man #2 waves me over. I hesitantly follow him around the corner of the building, walking over dozens of cigarette butts. He stops at a window and cups his hands to look inside, then motions for me to do the same. And inside… Ah ha! A weight-lifting machine! Sweet! I crack up inside, humored and thankful, but tell him “later.” I’m foolish enough to run alongside an inebriated man, but I’ve got sense to wait for a better day to let them show me their weight room.

Birthday Sweets

Despite being about as far away as possible from family and friends on my birthday, my day was wonderful, filled with lots of love both from family and friends here and at home. Of course, I also had more than my fill of sweets!

At school, I stuck around through the morning. During the break between the 2nd and 3rd periods, teachers gather for announcements. One announcement consisted of my school’s director presenting me with a cake, a card, and lots of Russian words I didn’t understand. Nowadays when I don’t have a clue what’s being said, I like to fabricate grandiose stories. If I hear my name in there, I just assume they’re complimenting me. Maybe this time she actually was? Either way, I gladly accepted the heart-shaped, bright-pink, half frosting/ half cake. Now if that won’t satisfy your sweet tooth…

After leaving school, I proceeded to confound people around town as I searched for винный камень - the only translation I’ve got for cream of tartar. (And as a hint to my fishbowl existence, the first shopkeeper knew it was my birthday. :) And my counterpart knew what I was looking for and where I looked, without getting any of that info from me.) Before actually looking at my recipe, I thought my grandma’s sugar cookies would be something for which I could actually get all the ingredients. But last on the list was this pesky cream of tartar. After walking about an hour (roundtrip) and asking employees of three stores – small, big, and biggest – I’m convinced cream of tartar is nowhere to be found in Shakhtinsk. But dang it, I was bent on baking cookies.

Lacking only one ingredient, I threw caution to the wind and followed the recipe where I could. Heck, the dough was still tasty enough for me to eat way too much before it actually became cookies. And those that did get to the oven weren’t bad – the texture was just a bit different. In fact, in only one day, they all disappeared. I’ll take that as a good sign.

Astana!

The day after my b-day, I went to the country’s capital with my host mother and her mother. After stopping at a couple clinics, we did some sightseeing. (One of the clinics is where my host mother worked in 2007. She got to visit with a couple friends there, and we actually ate lunch with women in what used to be her office. I am convinced that women of Kazakhstan always have in their back pocket enough food to cover the table. Always. Show up and they’ll feed you. Show up at home. Show up at work. It doesn’t matter. You’ll eat. A lot.)

Before describing the sightseeing bit, a sentence or two of history. Kazakhstan became an independent country in 1991. At first, the capital was Almaty, but in 1997, it was changed to Astana. At that time, Astana was a fairly small city. But in the last 12 years, they’ve sure been busy! In the new part of town, new, modern, beautiful buildings abound. In the center is a tower called Baiterek (translated: tree of life). My host mother and I paid the 500 tenge for a ride to the top. The highest you can get is 97 meters (no coincidence that it matches 1997). The tower is beautiful, as are the buildings surrounding it. If Karaganda is like a trip to the states, this part of Astana would have to be a trip to the future. Crazy to be in a place where dozens of huge buildings have been built in only the last 12 years. With snow covering the ground, it’s breathtaking. I can’t wait to see what it looks like in the summer, with professionally designed landscaping to add even more eye-appeal. Until I get some pictures posted on here, you can check out http://aboutkazakhstan.com/Astana_city.shtml if you're curious.

Oh yeah, teaching!

Maybe I should mention my job, eh? I feel like I really haven’t taught much. Thus far, I’ve team-taught with Tatyana, my official counterpart (CP). She’s a fierce teacher who is very serious about students studying and excelling in English, especially English grammar. Tatyana has an excellent grasp on the English language and knows English grammar like the back of her hand. Recognizing her strengths, I see my role as increasing talking time in the classroom, where students can actually apply their skills in conversation. Ah- and I should mention my school uses good textbooks, which is HUGE. We can actually use the exercises and texts, instead of having to revamp all the time, like I had to do in PST.

Early this next week, I will observe a lesson or two taught by other English teachers, with the intent of team-teaching with them later in the week. I’m looking forward to this, although I’m afraid this means I might actually be busy with work soon. I’ve come to love having gobs of free time. :) And to end this blog post, a few other things I’ve learned in the wondrous land of KZ…

Lessons from KZ

One cannot have too much free time. At least Denise can’t.

Forks can be used to spread butter on bread.

But heck, forks, spoons, knives… not necessary. The hands God gave you are perfectly capable of performing all those functions.

Whistling indoors equals a life of poverty.

Skype rocks.

Who you live with is infinitely more important than where you live or the amenities you’ve got there.

But having a shower and indoor toilet sure is nice.

Grandma’s sugar cookies are still sugary without cream of tartar.

I have the world’s greatest mom and dad.

Paper towels: not necessary. Toilet paper: necessary.

BYOTP (Bring your own toilet paper. It’s a lesson you learn quickly.)

God answers prayer.

Eating from a community bowl is bad for my waistline.

Eating from that community bowl won’t make you sick, but walking around the house sans socks will.

Just because you live as far away as possible doesn’t mean people forget about you.

Today I think I traveled to America with my family. My little brother brought along his friend and played at the arcade while my sister, Mama, and I browsed through overpriced stores in the attached mall. Rocket Dog shoes. L’Oreal make-up. An Apple computer store. Baskin Robbins ice cream. And back at the arcade… if I didn’t know better, I’d think I really was at Dave & Buster’s as I battled my sister at air hockey and stumbled through a couple DDR (Dance Dance Revolution) songs. I’m confident the Kazakh boy who was shooting rams (and occasionally ewes) in Dubois, WY, could find an exact replica of that game in the US. And of course, even though we were in Karaganda, KAZAKHSTAN, the shopping trip and dinner afterwards (pizza and Coca-Cola – and a shared hamburger) sure transported me to a land far away.

I don’t quite know what to make of it all, though. Does this mean people on both sides of the globe really do want to eat hamburgers and spend money on video games? Or does this come from an affinity for all things American? I think back to the short time I spent in Oman in December 2006. We wanted to eat authentic Omani food, and our restaurant choices were really limited. With sizeable ex-pat populations, apparently Omanis think it’s better to build up restaurants serving other nationalities’ cuisines. In my book, that’s unsettling. Even though I’m teaching English, I’m all for people maintaining their own cultural identity. The vital question, then, is how development can fit in with that. Looks like I’ve got a couple years to mull it over…

Yesterday marked the first Skype call I’ve made from Kazakhstan, and what better day for it than my mom’s birthday (Nov 6)!! So even though I can’t be with her, at least I got to see her! Which, of course, means I’ve got access to the internet… at home!

I moved into an apartment on November 5, where I live with a family of four. Parents, one daughter, one son, one dog. My host father is a mine employee (as are almost all men in this town), but as far as I can understand, he’s in some type of managerial position. Still, he works crazy hours and I don’t expect to see too much of him. My host mother also works. She’s in accounting and works at a clinic in town, I believe. And my host siblings go to school; my brother is in 3rd grade at my school and my sister is a ninth grader at a medical school. The dog has both bark and bite, but since he measures approximately eight inches tall (maybe a Chihuahua?), neither are intimidating.

The apartment is a comfortable size and has quite the modern appearance. It now has three bedrooms, since I bumped my host sister over to what was a sitting room. There’s also a kitchen/living room. Great place to hang out, watch TV, and eat. And the bathroom. Complete with washing machine, toilet, and tub w/ a showerhead. No curtain, but I can take a shower! After living in a place where I had only weekly cleanings, this is pretty much heaven.

In short, I’m spoiled. Indoor toilet, shower, washing machine, and internet. Did I mention it’s across the street from my school, and next door to my counterpart?? I don’t think it could get any better. And above all, I’m thrilled about the people I’m living with. According to my host mother, I’m another daughter, and I’m excited to improve my Russian and feel more and more like part of the family.

Good thing I survived PST – the environment here has been so incredibly different than training. And I feel like I’ve been given an incredible opportunity. Makes me think of the saying, “To whom much is given, much is expected.” I’ll have to kick ‘er in gear and facilitate some incredible projects. If you’ve got ideas, suggestions, etc., send them my way! (And you can use e-mail… I’ve got that now. :)

How the heck do I start this blog post? Lucky for me, figuring out how to begin a post seems more difficult than beginning life at my site. Do I start with the train ride here? Or a description of my horrifying public banya experience? Maybe I should give a report of my school or soon-to-be host family first… Or must I discipline myself to rewind all the way back to life in my training village? (To which my current reaction is, “Village? What village?”)

Bite of the Bazaar

Oh, it seems so long ago, life in Panfilova. I sure was right about my last week in the village being overshadowed by more recent events. But we’ll get to those soon enough. First, one last taste of village life. Think fried yummy-ness and sweet carrots. On Friday, I wandered through the bazaar with Anna and Sarah to make our last purchases, with a long train ride in mind. But our first stop was a самса stand. I greeted the lovely lady who works there, who seems to always enjoy seeing any of us. Sarah takes over and orders herself one самса. In fine Kazakhstani fashion, she prepares not one, but three самса, and refuses to take any money. We enjoy the snack and slowly continue shopping. Purchases here don’t involve only the mere passing of money. It’s a social transaction. A chance to converse and make friends. So, I bought bread and talked. Then we bought apples and talked. And as a prime example, Anna and I then made our way to a jolly Kazakh woman to buy produce. We chatted, picked out vegetables and fruit, and paid. Then we mentioned that it was our last day in Panfilova. She instantly became theatrical, wailing with mock sadness and wrapping Anna in a bear hug. She wailed and hugged Anna for a while, then me, then both of us, as we and nearby merchants had a good laugh. We must come back, she insisted, and visit her both at her stand and at her home. Yet, I must confess I don’t know her name…

I could bore you with all sorts of stories from the ensuing days: my last evening with host family #2, the anticlimactic morning and swearing-in ceremony, the chaos of coordinating the departure of over 60 volunteers, stepping off the train in Chu… but I’ll spare you, barring any special requests. Rather, I’ll jump ahead to my first hours in Shakhtinsk.

My New Site!

Sunday, November 1, 2009, at 11:07am, as scheduled, our train stopped. Immediately outside stood my counterpart (Tatyana), waiting for me at the Karaganda station with another English teacher. Together with the teacher’s husband, we loaded a car with my luggage and travelled another 50 km to Shakhtinsk. We stopped at an apartment building on the outskirts of town, the home of my school’s director and my temporary home. My counterpart ate lunch with the director and me before going to her own home. And thus began the adventures of my first day.

Cleaning Up – Kazakh Style

With my counterpart present, the suggested evening plans were a trip to either the banya or the swimming pool. After she left, the plan narrowed to the banya. Very few women would be there, the director assured me, so of course it wouldn’t be awkward. And our school’s physical ed teacher would be there with her daughter. (As if the combination should be comforting?) Being naïve and gullible, I agreed. So off we marched to a public banya. The scene that unfolded beats the heck out of my high school locker room days. Four connected rooms, in each of which you are free to relax without the annoyance of clothes. Room one is for changing, like any old locker room. Room two is labeled “bar”, a place to drink hot tea or mineral water as you try match liquid intake with sweat output. Here, the plastic tables and chairs are reminiscent of hotel pool furniture. Room three is where the actual cleaning takes place. There are stacks of tubs by the door. Take one and proceed to the hot and cold spouts of water, fill ‘er up, and find a spot around the room. All around the perimeter is a ledge, protruding about 3 feet from the wall. Set down your hygiene supplies and let the process begin. You’ll rinse some, scrub some, and rinse some more, refilling the tub as need be. And in between the rinsing and the scrubbing, you’ll dare to enter room four. Room four is for sweating. In here, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego might be comfortable. To the rest of us, I’ll use the word “excruciating”. Breathe too deep and you’ll burn your nostrils. And many wonderful but crazy people of Kazakhstan hang out in there! You enter through two doors, so as to keep in more heat, I suppose. Then there’s a larger-than-life furnace in a medium-sized room. All wooden. Wooden floor, wooden walls. Wooden benches around the edge. Have a seat and try not to die. But if you’re Kazakh, you’ll do one better and whip yourself with a bundle of herb branches. If you’re there with a friend, you can take turns whipping each other. (Or if you’re me, your school director has the honor.) Before you keel over, head back to room three. I recommend striding over to the lone shower head, out of which comes refreshingly cold water. Repeat the process three or four times and declare yourself clean. With an air of innocence, I fondly remembered evenings in my childhood when Mom made me alternate putting my feet in hot and cold water – Grandma’s tried and true way to improve circulation. A banya just puts that on a grander scale and adds soap to the mix… right?

So, on the upside, I got to clean up after nearly 18 hours on a train. On the… we’ll call it awkward… side, I banya-ed with dozens of women, young and old. (Sunday night is a typical banya night… so much for “very few women”.) And I did indeed meet the physical ed teacher and her daughter in the banya. Not to mention I banya-ed with my school’s director. On day one. Mere hours after arriving. I still shake my head in disbelief.

The Blissfully Mundane

Since then, I’ve had other, less peculiar, adventures. Being shoved in front of a gymnasium full of students without forewarning to introduce myself. Visiting Karaganda and eating блины. Introducing myself in Russian(!) to a room full of my school’s teachers. Meeting the comical Head of Education. Drinking tea with all the English teachers. Cooking with Svetlana (my school’s director). Meeting two prospective host families. And much, much more…

Short notes on the latter two. Cooking first. We made pizza – Kazakhstani style. So, while it was delicious, I’m not sure I’d call it pizza. A thin, scrumptious crust topped with bits of steak and mushrooms, then dill and scallions, cheese, tomato and bell pepper slices, more dill and scallions, and more cheese. And how could I forget – mayonnaise!! I balked at her suggestion of mayo, so as a compromise, she put only “a little” on. Boy, I’d hate to see what “a lot” looks like! Amazingly, though, it all turned out great and was quite delicious. More recently I helped fry alladi(?). Kind of like pancakes, only so much tastier. I sure hope I learn to cook many more dishes with my host family…

Speaking of which, what a difficult decision! Spending a half hour with part of a family, conversing with the help of my counterpart, seems so inadequate, considering the weightiness of the decision. I got a little peek into the lives of two host families this week, and I’m sure I’d enjoy living with either. Nonetheless, decisions must be made, and I’ve made my choice. Let’s hope I can proceed without offense to either family. Today, I’ll lug my four overstuffed bags from one apartment to another and finally let the contents all spill out.

Of all places, there's free Wi-Fi at the train station. So while we've got a few hours to wait, Kaz-21 Volunteers (that's right - as of today, we're sworn-in VOLUNTEERS!) are scattered about, typing away. The minutes are passing quickly... those of us headed to the Karaganda Oblast are boarding our train around 5:00pm, one hour from now. No time for a detailed update now, but one is sure to come. I hope it'll be worth the wait, with stories of our last week of PST - complete with a talent show, my last trip to the bazaar, swearing in, and more! (Gosh, and there's sure to be a detailed account of my first train ride and arrival to site!! Maybe the glories of village life will be overshadowed...) Regardless... I've gotta say I am so darn thankful for all the support and encouragement! I have LOVED hearing from people through mail, e-mail, text, and phone calls! Keep it coming! I send heaps of love!!

I miss having a free hour of Internet at one of the schools in my village. So instead, I must pay for it elsewhere. And I’ve screwed up the great pattern of Wednesday postings I had going. Dang it! Anyway, I’m done teaching and I’ve had a wonderful week, most of which was in Almaty!

Teaching Finale

First, my last days of teaching… Friday marked my last day as a teacher at my PST site. Again, I had no counterpart. I found my students as the bell rang and walked through the halls with them to find a room where we could have class. With the topic of vacations, the assigned homework was drawing a picture of and then talking about their dream vacation. And what do you know? Some of them did their homework! Rock on! (Two girls then gave me their drawings as a parting gift. : ) I’m pretty proud of the fact that each student stood in front of the class and at least said something in English about travelling before the period was over. And at the end, we squeezed in a few class pictures amidst them inviting me to a “Fall Ball”. Their sadness at my leaving elicits a couple responses. On one hand, I wish I could continue teaching them. On the other, I’m all the more excited to get to site and really get to know various students.

Anyway, a note about the “Fall Ball” I did indeed attend. 110% high school. High school is high school, whether it’s US or KZ. You’ve got cliques paralleling a typical US high school, with kids displaying personalities all too similar. The format, though, was unique. The “ball” was a mix of talent show, fashion show, cook-off, and dance. Eighth to eleventh grade students from each section competed, with a panel of judges scrutinizing them along the way. Once everyone had shown their talent (mostly dancing, with many acts surprisingly risqué for this culture), done their runway walk, performed a nice waltz, and tried to bribe judges with tasty treats, one class was declared supreme. Only then did the dance begin. With it being like any other high school, that’s a good time for the teacher-types to find the nearest exit. And so I did.

Counterpart Conference

The CP conference was held at the same sanitarium we stayed at upon arriving in KZ: Kok Tobe. I enjoyed reflecting on the vast differences in my perceptions during this stay compared to those of exactly two months ago. After only eight weeks in the country, I already have such a deep appreciation for different luxuries. For example, my highlight from day one: the tub in my room had a curtain!! I hadn’t seen one of those since Washington, D.C.!

On Tuesday, we arrived early afternoon and attended sessions for the remainder of the day. Wednesday and Thursday were filled with sessions, as was Friday morning. (Counterparts arrived on Monday for additional training before we got to join them.)

May I say, I’m pumped about my counterpart. My initial impression: she’s a driven woman with a strong personality that’s balanced by a good sense of humor. She’s been teaching for 11 years, so she has the voice of wisdom and experience. I really enjoyed going through various training sessions with her, getting more and more insights on who she is. Also, I’m excited about the school where I’ll be teaching. Sounds like there are 2 tracks of English students, and I’ll be working with the advanced track, I think. Those students start learning English in 1st grade, and by grade 5, they have 5 hours of English every week. Fantastic! Also, this school uses at least some McMillan books. Some of the English textbooks used here make you shudder. They’re awful. So I feel pretty darn lucky to use better books. And the school was renovated this year… has interactive boards (which I ought to learn how to use)… and computers connected to the Internet. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that I can eventually get high speed internet in the house where I’ll be living.

Randomness

With the luxury of a stream of either scalding hot or freezing cold, but RUNNING, water flowing over my head, I dared to jog every morning at Kok Tobe. It’s painfully apparent just how out of shape I am… I hope I can figure out some type of exercise to do at site.

Short story for you: One evening at Kok Tobe, I sat on a lobby couch, crocheting a scarf and talking with friends. A young Russian man enters the lobby, stands and stares at us (and especially me) for a while. He then says “show me” in Russian. The guy wants to learn how to crochet. Right… Anyway, this guy who reeked of cigarette smoke sits inches from me, intently watching me stitch away. I decide to humor him and show him how to make a simple chain. He caught on, made a few stitches, and then left. Whew, I think. Could’ve been much worse. And then he returns in precisely the amount of time he needed to go outside and rip a rose off a bush. How romantic. My deflecting begins, but wasn’t too successful until after he also gave me a little Russian brochure for kids about taking walks through parks. Note to self: Next time pass on teaching crocheting to creepy Russian men who wander into the lobby of a building in which they aren’t staying.

I’ve bought a winter coat. Let’s hope it stands up to the Shakhtinsk winters. Shopping for clothing here is nothing short of an adventure. I went with a couple girls to Baraholka, which is an enormous bazaar in Almaty. Rumor has it this bazaar is cheaper, so with the few tenge we’ve got, that’s the place to be. But the place is huge and chaotic. We went on a peaceful weekday afternoon, and still there were many shoppers, men pushing huge crates through the aisles (making you fear for your life), and shouting all around. There are buildings or tents crowded with booths of clothes, boots, lingerie, and anything else that’s made its way into the country in mass quantities. As for trying on clothes… they give you the courtesy of holding a sheet in front of you if you’re buying an article of clothing that would require removing anything beforehand. I’m a bit apprehensive about buying a dress… I may stick with the coat for now.

A peek into days ahead: Trainees of my village get to head into the CD’s house for a BBQ today! I’m pumped, and I’ve heard from other trainees that it’s an amazing time. Then begins our last week here! We’ll have our swearing-in ceremony one week from today. Crazy! Finally I won’t have to write “trainee” and can call us what we are – “volunteers”! The same day, October 31, I board a train headed north. I’ll leave Almaty Saturday afternoon and get off late Sunday morning in Karaganda. Exciting times await!

With the wonders of flash drives, I’m writing this while sitting in my dining room… a little typing, a little conversation, a little help to my host sister. She’s writing out lyrics to “I’m a little tea pot.” This week, there’s been some good trading going on. She teaches me Russian, I teach her English. She seems to catch on much more quickly than I. I’ll blame it on my old brain. : ) (Side note: don't think I have the internet at home. I type, type, type, then use my flash drive to give you all a wonderfully long post for your reading pleasure!)

Site Announcement!

The long awaited announcement came on Friday! They dragged out the ceremony as long as they dared, but finally, we know where we’ll be living for the next two years! …Two years without packing up and moving?? I haven’t done that since before college. So, once I weather the 19+ hour train ride (and then bus? I’m not sure) to SHAKHTINSK(!!), I can settle in.

On Friday, the Regional Managers took turns announcing volunteers who will be in their respective oblasts. Afterward, we gathered in different rooms with our Regional Manager. We found ourselves on a map, looked through some information on our specific sites, and chatted a bit.

I don’t know much about the place… it’s considered a “town” with 56,714 people. Founded in 1961. Coal mining is huge. Situated on the Tentek River. Extreme continental climate. Entertainment: “cafes, gyms, local friends”. Communication: “phone/cell phone access, post office, Internet”. Infrastructure: “water, electricity are available for the most time”. Yep, grammatically less-than-perfect. But the idea that I’ll have running water and maybe even the opportunity to bathe more than once a week is fabulous. I’m also really hoping for the chance to get Internet hooked up at my home. But I digress. There is not currently a PCV at this site, but they have had PCVs. A grand total of two, to be exact. I’m not sure what to make of that, so I intend to roll with the punches. I’ll be at “Secondary School # 1”. Job description: “Team teaching and individual teaching at 5-11 grades 2 times a week. English Club for students and teachers, organization of theater, Countries study, Ecology”. And apparently you can see pictures of Shakhtinsk on http://aboutkazakhstan.com/shakhtinsk-kazakhstan-city.sthml Let me know if you learn fascinating tidbits regarding my future home.

I’m excited about getting to my site, settling in, and getting to work. I’m amazed at how quickly my focus has changed away from the village where I currently live. Get me to my site, dang it! But alas, I must teach through the end of the week and complete a community project, among other things.

The Last of PST Teaching

Speaking of which, I’m in the middle of five straight days with one lesson each day. So far, so good. Yet, Tuesday’s lesson was, well… in a Kazakhstani school. And the fact that we’re still in the first quarter doesn’t help matters; that’s apparently the time scheduling gets ironed out. Until then, chaos is all too typical. So, Tuesday. I’d been told I would teach during fifth period in Room 6. The bell rings to end fourth period. I make my way to Room 6, which I half expect to be empty. (It’s the size of a closet, not a classroom.) I’m right; it’s empty. I check nearby rooms for my counterpart. She’s nowhere to be found. I do, however, find my Regional Manager and PCVTA, who have come to observe my lesson. Wonderful, we can all be lost together. The bell rings to begin fifth period. I descend from the second floor to the main level and spot one of my students among several roaming the halls. “Where’s our class?” I ask. He gives a clueless look and points to another student of mine, who is equally as clueless. Then, down the hall, I see the frantic waving of my counterpart. Alrighty, let’s get this lesson going. With precious minutes lost, I recalculate my lesson plan, taking out activities as need be. (You’ve gotta love unnecessary preparation.) I dive head first into my lesson, caring more about the time I’ve lost than the fact that my counterpart is now MIA, along with three of my eleven students. I guess the students are at some cultural function; I give no thought to the absence of the teacher. Then I reach a point in my lesson where her role is critical: explaining gerunds. Heck, I’d be lucky to adequately explain gerunds to myself, let alone native Kazakh speakers. But I’m proud to say, we fought through and prevailed! I use “prevail” a bit loosely – they were able to form sentences through very guided activities. Who knows if they understand the grammar. So what’s my plan? Hit ‘em with infinitives tomorrow.

In Other News…

I’ve finally eaten pizza in Kazakhstan! Two friends and I got together and made two masterpieces. Here, there is a bread (лепёшка) that’s perfect for the crust. I ate and ate and ate some more. Man was it tasty. I must say, though, I have been enjoying Kazakh food. Самса is becoming a favorite – fried bread with your choice of filling, which for me is cheese. You can’t go wrong with cheese. My host family cooks great food, too. Bishbarmak has been tasty, as have other dishes. There was a carrot dish I really enjoyed – and apparently it’s just shredded carrots mixed with a mayo/garlic sauce. I’ll have to see if I can replicate said dish in the future.

Next week, Tuesday through Saturday, is Counterpart Conference. So, I’ll meet my counterpart and attend trainings. We’ll all be at the resort-type place where we stayed right after arriving in the country. The following week, we’re back in our villages, and we’ll be doing teacher trainings, I believe. I’ll do what I can to keep you posted. Let’s hope these aren’t my final days of feeling somewhat connected through my weekly hour on the world wide web…

Host Family

Last Friday, my host father returned. I’m sure the extra amount of food was no coincidence. He’s quite the guy, and (surprise surprise) had questions about my marital status. Am I married? Won’t I get married? Won’t I be too old to be married? How about marrying his brother? Really a pleasant man, though, and I enjoyed observing the interactions between him and his wife. From the glimpse I’ve gotten, they seem to have a good relationship, especially considering his usual absence. He was gone by Monday. From my host sister, I understand he will be on a business trip until December.

I’m sure enjoying time with my little sister. She and I walk to the nearby store almost every night. The purchases range from bread and milk to vodka and cigarettes. Yep, you read correctly. Ah- and, of course, she buys a little treat or toy for herself with the amount left over. That’s what you get for sending an 11-year old to the store.

This past weekend we were joined by a cousin in addition to my host father. The cousin is a policeman in another city. I must say, I much prefer interactions with police when they don’t concern offences committed against me. Sitting around with my host cousin and siblings, going through my Russian/English dictionary was great. Them being so overzealous to speak with me that they walk in on me in my bedroom without even a knock… not so great. (Their take on privacy is a far cry from the cultural norms ingrained in me. And while I could go on about it, I’ll save that for another time.)

Trudging Along

While home life is much improved from my previous situation, the past week has still been fraught with internal struggles. I’ve really been wrestling with different questions in my mind, trying to determine my suitability for “the toughest job you’ll ever love”. I struggle with being here as I recognize more and more just how important people are to me. I desperately miss friends and family in the states, and I tear up when I think of how much I’ll miss, being gone for over two years. Why sacrifice time I could be with loved ones, so I can be in Kazakhstan? Will I even accomplish anything worthwhile as an English teacher? How useful is it to teach students English? And the most important, and possibly the most difficult question to answer: is this God’s will?

I often daydream about life in the states. I have such a deep appreciation for luxuries I didn’t even consider as such – like toilet paper and Kleenex, clean stores of clothing, quality assurance, or water from the tap. In amongst those trivialities, though, are the deeper quandaries, which are understandably more bothersome. But I’m doing my best to consider them with a level head. I romanticize what life would be like. People I love are spread all over – I couldn’t be near them even if I were in the US. Kazakhstan has placed a priority on learning English, and I ought to trust them in that. So to a handful of students, the knowledge I impart could make a big difference in their lives. As for God’s will… I’m reminded of advice passed on by former Rawhide coworkers. Seek God, not His will. And I see my time here as an incredible opportunity to seek passionately after God. Without the comforts of my American life, I find myself seeking after Him with newfound fervor. (Not to mention the discomforts of the life I’ve had here so far.) So I’m still here. Often struggling, but still here.

The Russian has also been difficult. Oh, it comes so slowly to me. Different people have utilized some interesting methods in hopes of lighting a fire under our bums. Some have done so more literally than others. A game we played indoors on Tuesday: how many questions can you ask and answer before this blazing match I’m holding burns out? (I can’t say that’s been my favorite game so far.) Then there’s home. My host mother told me I speak poorly and I should study more. (Instead, I’m writing this. I sure hope you appreciate it. : ) With all the obligations of PST, studying Russian gets pushed to the back burner all too often. I’m banking on lots of time and a great tutor at my site. Which reminds me…

Lowdown on Remaining PST

This Friday (October 9) is Site Announcement! That could come none too soon. I’m excited to find out where I’ll be and to read any information available about the place I’ll hopefully learn to call “home”. I’ll be sure to pass on information as quickly as possible.

Also upcoming in PST: Unit Plans. That’s code for a week full of teaching. I’ll teach 9th grade every day next week. For a brand-spanking new teacher, this is huge. I’m not too confident about going from two lesson plans a week up to five. Yikes. We’ll see if I survive to write another blog post.

After the unit plan week, we go to Counterpart Conference. There, I’ll meet my counterpart and attend various trainings. We will also be giving presentations to our counterparts about projects we’ve worked on in our respective villages. I’m sure there will be more to come on that later.

Police Update

For those of you who are interested, I’ll finish with a short update. On Monday, I travelled to another city to speak with the man investigating my case. I understand I was formally recognized as the victim in this crime. I answered some questions, filled out some forms, listened to lots of Russian I didn’t understand, and came back to my village. Sounds like the investigation can last up to two months. Then the case will go before the court. My continued prayer is for justice. Still no leads on recovering the computer, as far as I’m aware. I’m afraid I’ll be replacing it, thereby losing a fair bit of music and pictures. But hey – it could be lots worse.

Please pray for me as I keep working through my time here. Day by day, I need another shot of God’s strength and protection. And on a little different note, may I say… getting mail is absolutely wonderful. To do my part, this week I finally got to the post office to send mail. I plan on writing many more letters – there’s just something about snail mail that beats other methods of correspondence. I look forward to receiving letters from you! I send much love and many thanks for your support and encouragement!

Looking back on my first blog, the sentence, “However, if you offered me a washing machine in exchange for my indoor toilet, I’d be happy to squat,” is painfully ironic. I now live in a home with a washing machine, but I squat outside. I just never guessed the trade would come at the expense of being robbed. Yeah, it’s been quite the week.

Romans 8:28

“All things work towards good for those who love the Lord.” Friday morning (September 25) marked the first time in KZ that I wore my bracelet with that inscription. It made for good reading as I waited for police and investigators that evening. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When I arrived home from a long day at school, I found the door to my apartment closed but unlocked. I entered, called out a friendly hello, and received no response. I took a few steps to my bedroom door and saw a key sticking in the doorknob. My heart sank. Inside my room, my suitcase had obviously been disturbed. I took enough of a peek to see they had taken all the tenge from my hiding spot. Then it dawned on me – what a bad place to be. I hurriedly left the apartment and embarked on quite the evening, complete with an inside look of the Kazakh police force. But I much prefer looking at the silver lining, rather than the ominous cloud. I’ve been left with enough eerie feelings and images; no need to dwell on those.

Silver linings. They took my money and computer bag (with all included accessories) – everything else is intact. I wasn’t home when the robbery took place. Most of that hard drive is also on a laptop back home. I am surrounded by wonderful, supportive people. And… drumroll please… I have a NEW FAMILY!!!

A New Home

Friday night, I slept in a different apartment (belonging to the parents of my host sister/mother). When I returned to my old apartment Saturday afternoon, I got to pack up everything and head off for a new home. Good grief it’s great to see God work. (Saturday afternoon I was told I may not be able to move until Monday. A few hours later, I had the go-ahead to pack up.)

At 6:30pm, I stepped out of the apartment building and gazed at my first Kazakh rainbow as I waited for my new host brother to drive up. I like to think God was smiling on me. We piled in my bags and piled in the car. Having four people (my host brother, my LCF, myself, and Pat – another PCT) plus my bags made for a tight squeeze. After a short drive, we passed through the gates of my new and very beautiful home.

Inside, a spread of food awaited as we took my bags up to my room. In the words of Pat, watching me take it all in was like watching someone on Christmas. One could say I was pretty pumped. Pat and I drank tea with my mom and sister before he finally went home. A little later, Leah, my PCVTA, stopped by. With her superior Russian skills, I discovered that my family had been told about my ordeal. Apparently they also said, “God is with this girl. We would have loved to have her from the beginning.” They’re really sweet people. Before I brag more about them, I’ve got to brag about other people surrounding me.

The trainees in this village are top-notch. Pat went with me on Saturday to pack. That means he stayed with me from about 4 until 7 or 8, just to help me out. What a saint. And so many people have offered their support in other ways. Phone calls, prayers, hugs… And then there’s Laura. I’m able to type this out at home, only because she’s given me a netbook to use! Simply amazing.

Back to my new host family. I’ve got an 11-year old host sister, a 22-year old host brother, and a stay-at-home mother. Due to the father’s work, he apparently is not home often. We’ll see if I get to meet him one of these days. My host sister is adorable. She’s an excellent student and wants to improve her English. Her mother’s plan: I and her daughter will talk a lot. I’ll speak Russian; she’ll speak English. Let’s hope it works. My host mother was a Kazakh language teacher for 30 years. Maybe my Kazakh will improve, too? And I’m not too clear on my host brother’s job. Maybe an advocate of some sort? What was very clear, though, was my host mother’s message one day into my stay. The conversation went something like this:

Pat. Boyfriend?

–No, not my boyfriend.

Ah. Do you have a boyfriend?

-Nope. I don’t need a boyfriend.

Mmm. *points to her son* Boyfriend?

*Lots of laughter*

-Nope, I don’t need a boyfriend.

*More laughter*

I suppose I can be thankful it took a full 24 hours for the question to surface. And I’m more thankful I made it through without offending them right off the bat. So, they’re great. We laugh often and have already spent some quality time together.

On Sunday we went to a house in the village to participate in a memorial. Apparently it was held to commemorate the one year mark after the passing of a grandmother. It consisted of absurd amounts of food. Six or seven tables were set up outside, completely covered in food. Dozens of people stood around, not eating any of it. That was puzzling to me until we walked inside the house. One room was filled with an equal amount of food. So, people were going inside in shifts. They would eat “appetizers” – fruit, cabbage salad, candy – before the plof topped with meat came out. The meat: definitely horse. I’ve decided horse tastes like it smells. Don’t take that as a complaint, necessarily. The smell of a clean horse’s nose is great. It’s just weird to taste that smell in its meat. After people had eaten their fill, the hosts passed out plastic baggies. Each person filled the baggie with food to take home with them. Interesting event, and I’m sure there’s all sorts of meaning packed into it.

The rest of the week has gone by a bit more smoothly. I taught two lessons on Monday, and I feel like they went well. Monday afternoon, though, I went home early, as my body was saying – hey, you’ve been through too much. Sleep! So sleep I did. Tuesday I felt better and in the evening got to help my little sister hang my first load of clean laundry out on the line. Oh how I’d love to take down all my underwear and dry them behind closed doors… Also on Tuesday, I unpacked enough to feel a bit more settled here. With half of PST left, I think I’ll be alright…

Just a quick shout-out to my dad, who finished his first HALF MARATHON on Sunday, September 20th! I'm uber-proud of him and wish I could have been there to cheer him on. I've got to admit I said to myself on Saturday morning, "I can't ET now. I wouldn't make it home in time to watch him anyway." So yeah... I'm proud of you, Dad, and hope that someday I WILL get to watch you run or run with you!!

On September 18, we marked one month in Kazakhstan! Dang! I (and other trainees) feel like I haven’t been in the US for years. We’ve really bonded, which has been great. Hopefully the 12 of us in this village will have t-shirts to prove it. When we realize training is half over, there seems to be a good mix of sadness and excitement. And with training flying by, you better believe we’re starting to teach classes! Eek! …More on that later. First, laundry!!

Laundry and Bauersak

One beautiful, sunny Saturday afternoon, the trainees from this village gathered at the home of our TCF (Technical and Cultural Facilitator) and learned how to properly do laundry. For those of you with washing machines – whether in Kazakhstan or the US – count your blessings. But, to make hand-washing clothes fun, we were split into teams and had a race to see who could clean more clothes. I thought I had put my team at an advantage by bringing most of my dirty laundry, but alas… a trainee who lived very close to our TCF brought his dirty socks. And since one sock was equal to one shirt or one pair of pants, our opponents blew us away. At least I got clean clothes out of the deal!

The perfect compliment to teaching us laundry skills was teaching us bauersak-making skills. Bauersak = fried bread = delicious. Both laundry and frying bauersak happened outside. For the bauersak, we built a small fire and had a huge pot / wok hanging over it, in which we heated up the oil and eventually fried the bread. We got to roll out the dough and slide the diamond-shaped pieces into the hot oil. Stir, strain, and eat. The most difficult part was keeping a distance from the flames while our TCF encouraged us to get closer than we cared for. I think my singed arm hair is evidence that I was plenty close.

Once we fried up enough bauersak to clog all our arteries, we added watermelon, tea, and a tasty eggplant dish to make a real feast. I wish I could remember the name of the eggplant dish… literally translated, it means “tongue of mother-in-law.” Hee hee. It’s fried eggplant topped with a tomato slice, with a bit of spicy mayo sauce in between. The following week, three of us trainees gathered together and made some for ourselves. Mmm mmm good.

A Fantastic Day in Almaty

The second Sunday in September, our TCF planned to go into Almaty to purchase school supplies. When she invited trainees to come along, five of us took her up on it. For some of us, we also wanted to go to a church. Another PCT had discovered a nondenominational Protestant church when she was still in the states. We got the cross streets (thanks Mom!) and relied on our TCF to help us get there. And we did! All six of us went to church! What a fantastic morning. I enjoyed the service immensely and met several people. I should mention the services at International Christian Fellowship are in English. Ah, singing praise songs… listening to a sermon… fellowshipping with believers. It was great. I’m really hoping I can return, at least a couple times. There’s a fine balance to strike between connecting with an expat community and not sacrificing relationships with locals.

After the service, we made our way to the store. To say they’re concerned about shoplifters would be an understatement. The front of the store was dominated by small lockers, in which you were to place any medium or large bag/purse. Small office supplies had to be purchased separately from behind the counter. Interesting place.

When we left the store, we parted ways with our TCF, which is a pretty big deal in and of itself. PC is protective – some may say overly – of its volunteers and trainees. Really, I prefer too much caution over too little caution. But I digress. There we were, five trainees in Almaty, without a chauffeur. We headed off to a café for a tasty lunch, thoroughly enjoyed the taste of independence… then hastily made our way home, with only a quick stop at the Green Bazaar on the way. Hey- it’s a big step in the right direction.

Я преподаватель английсково языка.

If that rolls off your tongue, you ought to come replace me. They’re huge words, representing something hugely difficult: “I teach English.” After four weeks in the country, many of us had (mostly) independently taught two classes.

My first class was with fifth formers (aka: 5th graders) on Monday afternoon (September 14th). It was rough. I felt pretty darn overwhelmed, as I had overestimated them in some ways. I should have recognized that the little guys have only studied English for two weeks. So, surprise surprise, many of them aren’t comfortable writing their name, nor can they understand what I say. Being in a classroom where I can’t easily communicate with my students is a humbling experience. I’m a bit ashamed to say I had a good cry after leaving that classroom. Let’s hope I can look back on that experience someday with a smile, seeing the great lengths I will have come.

The next day I taught seventh formers. The combination of a smaller class and more knowledgeable students made for a much smoother class. I’ll have to work on my time management, but hey – I survived another lesson.

This week, I taught three classes. My PST counterpart wanted me to teach her 9th graders instead of her 5th graders, so on Monday I did so. And if you think these 9th graders have more English skills than the 7th graders, think again. I’m learning that the English level fluctuates a great deal between classes. Some students in higher grades speak rather poorly, and some young students have learned a good bit. As of yet, I haven’t figured out how to predict the level before entering the classroom as a teacher. So for the 9th graders, I quickly came to the conclusion that I’d have to scrap the entire lesson I’d spent hours preparing. No fancy drawings explaining food vocabulary. They needed to practice numbers and simple present verbs. So I made up a lesson as I went along. As you can imagine, it wasn’t the most well put together lesson. But, there were no casualties, so we’ll count it as another successful day. On Tuesday (22nd) I taught two classes of 7th graders. Again, no casualties. I’ve got a long way to go towards being a great teacher, though. Excellent teachers I know are gaining more and more respect with each lesson I teach.

Bishbarmak!

As people celebrated the end of Ramadan, a fellow trainee celebrated her birthday. I joined her family for dinner, and it was quite the spread! First, we snacked on various salads (no lettuce – it’s mostly vegetables slathered in sauce), fried bread, and candy. Once we were all full, we got to start on the main course – bishbarmak. Several of us sat around a platter of homemade noodles topped with a mound of meat. The noodles are slippery buggers, so eating with our hands was tricky. Yeah… sharing a plate with several people still doesn’t seem normal, nor does eating greasy meat and pasta with your hands. Anyway, the bishbarmak was pretty good. I can see, though, how a person might tire of the taste (or lack thereof).

Hub Day

Once a week we have "Hub Day", which is when volunteers from various villages join for trainings and lectures. This particular Hub Day, we were able to ask questions of current volunteers (valuable information!!), and listened to an historian/teacher/journalist speak about Kazakhstan's history. Fascinating lecture. I and many others would have gladly listened to him for hours. He spawned some great critical thinking regarding the effect history has on the culture, even when the facts of history are forgotten. For Kazakhstan and it's history, this is particularly applicable. After the presentations, we were off for a hike. The mountains are gorgeous, and being out for a hike on a beautiful day was just what we needed. Our destination was a waterfall about 30 minutes away. Some of the braver souls walked underneath it. I passed on that, thank you very much.

English Club

Today my group hosted our second after school English Club. Some of us sang songs, some of us played games. Bananagrams was big hit! (Sidenote: If anyone sees old Scrabble pieces at garage sales, BUY THEM!! We'll figure out a way to get them sent over here and for you to get reimbursed. And we can be great friends.) They also loved the songs. And acting like paparazzi. Having many children get out their cell phones to take your picture... I'm not so sure what I think of it. We've also heard small children scream out "Americans! Americans!" as we walk by. I'm not sure if they equate us with wild animals or celebrities. Hopefully the latter.

Jeepers, only a few days ago I was on the Internet. I’m feeling a bit spoiled, but I’m ok with that! And even though only a few days have passed… Each day brings a new adventure, so prepare to swim through some stories – don’t go and drown, alright?

Bell Day

September 1 is a huge day. Across the country, schools begin the school year with a morning full of festivities. Here in my village, children had prepared performances ranging from taekwondo to traditional Kazakh dances. We also were expected to perform. Being the talented group we are, we altered lyrics to “Free Falling”. (Let’s be honest… without Sid’s amazing musical talent, we would’ve been in trouble. He purchased a guitar in Almaty on Aug 31 and played the song with ease.) But I’m getting ahead of myself.

That day, my language group gathered for an hour of Russian before the ceremony began. When we went outside, where everything was to happen, the schoolyard (aka stadium) was filled with hundreds of people. Children and adults stood around the perimeter of a huge paved section. In the middle of them were two rows of chairs: one row for a few school administrators and another row just for us. Talk about front and center!

To begin, two different school staff spoke, followed by a parade of “seniors” leading in “kindergarteners”. (Labeled differently here, but you get the point.) Soon after on the agenda was handing the microphone over to us. Just as we began introducing ourselves, the rain came. Light enough for us to continue, but distracting enough to fluster us and others. We did belt out our song in the rain and watched an adorable girl ring a bell as she was carried in a big circle before ducking for cover. Sadly, the school doesn’t have an auditorium large enough to accommodate the group gathered. Thus, the rest of the ceremony was cancelled. We were disappointed, but have no fear- Kazakhs view rain as a sign of blessings on the upcoming academic year. (Good thing they start school during a rainy season. : )

More on Kazakh Life

We eat lots of ethnically Russian food, so it seems. I’m slowly learning the names of different dishes. Often there’s either potatoes or a type of pasta, with either vegetables or meat. And to have the best of both worlds, I’d describe one dish as potato ravioli (varenika). Sometimes the entrée is accompanied by a vegetable salad, which consists of tomatoes, cucumbers, and maybe some scallions. That’s mixed together with a mayonnaise-type sauce. And at every, every meal, there is bread. Often the whole “loaf” looks like a fluffy flatbread, about the size of a large pizza crust (called leepioshka). Pieces are torn or cut off and piled on a plate. During the meal, each person can take either a whole piece, or tear off a smaller piece to eat, leaving the rest on the center plate. Apparently, sometimes people will bite off a mouthful and replace the piece of bread to the center plate. Bread is rather sacred, so it cannot be wasted. Therefore, you take only what you are going to eat. I’ve heard this mindset comes from the lengthy and involved process necessary to make bread. Also, there have been times in their history when bread was difficult to acquire. So now, we get it all the time! It’s tasty, especially when it’s fresh and soft. More importantly, it seems to be agreeing with me so far. Thank goodness!

Power Outages

These past few days, electricity and water have been much less reliable. Thank the Lord, my timing has been great. Yesterday I had to go with my host sister to her parents’ apartment for a hot breakfast. (They’ve got a gas stove, which was still working.) When I came home from school, the water was back on, so I rushed to get some laundry done. As I was ringing out my last piece of clothing, the water and electricity went kaput. I left to play Ultimate Frisbee for a couple hours, and when I returned, we again had water and electricity. Thank God! I desperately needed a good bath and headed for the tub. I had been clean and dry for five minutes when we lost both water and electricity yet again. But hey- I did laundry and bathed in the midst of the off’s and on’s. Success!

Ultimate!

September 3, 2009. The date of our first game of Ultimate Frisbee in the “stadium” of the school. Johnny, a PCT (Peace Corps Trainee) absolutely LOVES Ultimate. So, he mentioned it to a few PCTs that he wanted to play after school. That’s all it took to bring together 8 PCTs and dozens of school children. Thanks to Leah (current PCV in her 3rd year), the kids got basic rules of the game. Thus, team Pizza and team Cheeseburger were formed. (You’d never guess, but some PCTs already miss American cuisine.)

The game actually went really well! The kids were told to shout out their team name, so as to know who to throw to. Hearing kids yell out “pizza!” and “burger!” in Russian accents: adorable. Learning their actual names: impossible. Before, during, and after the game, kids came up to me and other volunteers, wanting to know our names and try out a bit of English. Being surrounded by youngsters was such fun. I must have asked the same children a dozen times what their names are. Yet, Acema is the only one I’ve semi-mastered. With her 10 years of wisdom, she grabbed my hand, opened up my palm, and wrote out her name before I could say otherwise.

As you may guess, the game turned out to be a wonderful way to hang out with a lot of kids. Building those relationships will be huge. I’m sure I’ll recognize that truth more and more as the weeks wear on.

Randomness

I’ve gone jogging once and ran by a harvested wheat field! I got all excited and felt a little like I was at home. Good stuff. I and my co-PCTs have begun observing classes at the school. There may be more on that to come. The differences between a classroom in the US and Kazakhstan are pretty freaking huge. On September 5, my Russian language group and I had our first Kazakh lesson. We’re supposed to focus on Russian and develop survival skills in Kazakh. Oh boy. Also on the fifth, we were taken into Almaty. With that done, we’re free to travel on public transportation between cities. Question is, with our new-found freedom, will we get ourselves lost in the middle of Kazakh steppe?

Oh my! I almost forgot! For those of you who haven’t yet drowned, here’s my best explanation of a banya. A banya is a building, separate from the house. It’s got two rooms, one in which to undress and one in which to bathe. In the bathing room, there are a few containers of water. Two are large containers, one holding cold water, the other holding hot. The container of hot water is part of a contraption under which they build a fire, with the fire being contained outside of the building. (Genius.) The result: super hot water, which in turn heats up this tiny bathing room. Using another container and a pitcher, you combine some of the cold water with the hot water. Again using the pitcher, you dump water on yourself, lather up, and rinse off. Now, this is often done in groups. In that scenario, people may hit each other with a bundle of small branches. My strong preference is banyaing alone, so I can’t say more about the branch bit. I do know banyas can get awfully hot. The idea is to sweat toxins out of your body. For people like me who despise sweating immediately after showering, this holds zero appeal. Also, heating up the banya is quite the ordeal, and is therefore typically done only once a week. For many families, this is their only method of really getting clean. Mmm, showering on a weekly basis… I’ll stick to my tub, thanks.

I wanted to attach some pictures to my last blog, but I didn’t have them saved right in order to do so. (Navigating a computer with different programs, which uses only Russian, to fix the problem – not gonna happen. Give me a bit on my netbook, and we’re good to go.) Without further ado…

Leaving Mom and Dad. It was a sad day. Yes, there were tears.

From Kok Tobe with my host sister. Almaty is in the background.

A snapshot of my walk to school. He helps me give directions to people. : ) “Take a left by Lenin…” Oh! And they’ve since cleaned it up, so he’s not surrounded by weeds anymore. Seeing people trim trees and cut down weeds is encouraging.

On a visit to a fellow trainee’s house, I watched her Kazakh host sister and father roast a goat head and legs. Fascinating!

We do our best to survive Russian lessons together. We make a great group. This pic is from the big first day of school, before the rain.

A mere fraction of all the kids and parental types gathered for the festivities of “Bell Day.”

Yes, this time I mean Kazakhstan. We’re here. After a dreadful but uneventful 19 hours from D.C. takeoff to KZ landing, we’re here. But obviously “America” beat us. English on t-shirts (ie: “My boyfriend appreciates me”). A duplicate of my Venus razor on a bathroom shelf. Cold Coca-Cola at every store. A Colgate commercial on TV. Brittany Spears on the radio. Of course, something tells me this isn’t quite like home.

In a nutshell, my (luxurious) Kazakh situation: a small apartment, living with a young Russian couple (she’s 19; he’s 25). Three rooms: kitchen, 2 bedrooms. And… drum roll please… a toilet and a tub!! Yep, unlike other trainees in this village, I’ve got both. (I wasn’t kidding about the luxurious bit. However, if you offered me a washing machine in exchange for my indoor toilet, I’d be happy to squat.) The food is tasty – hopefully I can maintain that opinion down the road. Lucky for me, I enjoy tea. I probably drink five cups every day. And the locals love bread. No meal is complete without it. My host sister (it’s hard to call her a mother when she’s years younger than me) often teams up with her mother, who lives in the neighboring building. They’re great cooks.

Six days a week, I walk about ten minutes to school. There, I face language lessons, cross-cultural lectures, technical training, and what seems to be a never-ending supply of immunizations. I’m getting used to the shots much more quickly than the language. As for how my Russian is coming along, I could tell you best in person with a deep “ugh” sigh. Some days are rough. My host family has taken me some sweet places, but they aren’t nearly as enjoyable when you have no clue what’s going on. Oh, how I hope I’ll catch on quickly. Still, going to the circus in Almaty was fantastic. I’ve also gone to Kok Tobe – Kazakh for Green Small Mountain (I think). Essentially, it’s a touristy place that reminded me of the midway at a county fair without the rides.

I’m pretty fascinated by what’s going on all around me, and after only a week in the country, I’ve already got a few stories to tell. But, without regular Internet access, relaying stories on any regular basis isn’t likely. I’ll see if I can get my hands on some envelopes – or postcards – and give snail mail a try. And, I’ll put a plug in for you sending mail! I would LOVE to hear from you, so hopefully you haven’t yet forgotten me! I’d love to hear how you’re doing and read any random U.S. headlines you think us Peace Corps trainees should know. : ) Also, I can receive calls and texts for free! On my end, sending texts is cheap; making calls is not. Paying $1 per minute on a PC trainee salary just can’t happen. If you like, call or send a text my way. (+7(777)846-3084) If I have any significant time on the Internet, I’ll see if I can figure out an application so you can send me texts from my blog… I know it can be done, if I can muster enough IT savvy. Anyway, I hope all is well, and I look forward to hearing from you!

So, I'm going to Kazakhstan. Now that I'm in Washington, D.C., that reality is much more in-my-face. It's been quite the day. I got in one more (much shorter) run with my dad before my parents and I drove to Denver. During lunch there, I managed to dump bbq beef brisket on my shirt and pants - perfect timing, since there's a chance I won't see a washing machine for years. No better time than the present to perfect the art of hand washing clothes, right? And I got in a bit of practice closing the flood gates of tears. Unfortunately, I can't say this is a skill I always possess. Say one word to me, and I could burst out in tears. I figure, I'm leaving people I love, places I know, and surroundings I (normally) understand. Bawling is ok. Thankfully, initial goodbyes seem to be the toughest. So for now, no Kleenexes are necessary. I'll let you know if that holds true over the next few weeks.

No, not to Kazakhstan. Not yet. (I’m still ignoring that looming reality.) This morning at 6:30, my dad and I walked in the driveway, with a 9-mile jog under our belts. That’s an hour earlier than I would have woken up on a typical day. My body would have much preferred the sleep to a grueling workout. It keeps reminding me of that each time I move, as I hobble around looking centuries older. Maybe there’s wisdom in a gradual mileage increase? Hey – at least I got to see a falling star and a sunrise, in addition to hearing an antelope. Ah – and how could I forget the friendly neighbors who restrain their barking dog, greet us, and ask how many miles we’re running? The wonders of rural Western Nebraska.

Yep, I took a crazy trip. Here it is in a nutshell.

August 3: Columbus, NE and Orange City, IA

August 4: Orange City, IA and Sioux Falls, SD

August 5: Sioux Falls, SD

August 6: Sioux Falls, SD; Westbrook, MN; New Hope, MN

August 7: New Hope, MN

August 8: New Hope, MN and Seymour, WI

August 9: Appleton, WI

August 10: New London, WI and Chicago, IL

August 11: Chicago, IL and Des Moines, IA

August 12: Des Moines, IA; Omaha, NE; and back HOME!!

What a whirlwind trip! So many people to see – so little time. Seeing familiar faces was wonderful. Saying goodbye – not so wonderful. Many have assured me the time away will go quickly. And while I bet it will, I also know I’ll want it to slow down after adjusting to life in KZ. Regardless, in my last days stateside, I’m taking Micah’s advice and living in denial. I must say, stress dissipates when you refuse to acknowledge the fact that your life is about to drastically change. So, instead of writing about my packing struggles or my (lack of) Russian studies or other ways I feel completely unprepared, I’ll list snip-its of road trip highlights.

Seeing bits of my late grandma while visiting with her brother. Hearing my grandpa’s stories of hosting the National Corn Picking Contest. Seeing hundreds of lightening bugs as I drove by corn fields. Gaining a better picture of Jessica’s work. Seeing Erin days before she enters motherhood. Scheming with Caleb and then successfully drenching Jon in a water fight. Catching lightening bugs. Rollerblading without taking a fantastic spill. Hearing about Emily's crazy summer. Delivering a wedding present… 9 months late. Eating a delicious breakfast with Mark at Fat Nat’s Eggs – and having our waitress repeatedly ask how we liked the “romantic section”. Buying super-cheap socks at Macy’s. Time talking with Dustin and Kristen. Being back with friends in Wisconsin. Joining people for a corn roast. Going to church at Christ the Rock and seeing guys I worked with at Rawhide. Watching Julie & Julia in the theater. Making myself at home with Wes and April while he pushed the wrong button on my computer. (Side note: Wes – thanks for giving me practice removing malicious computer-eating files before my netbook burst into flames. It’s all good.) Paying no mind to the time and talking with April for hours. Surprising people at Rawhide by showing up there. (I just can’t get enough of the place.) Doing a great job of parallel parking on a busy Chicago street. Ordering my first meal of sushi – and loving it. Seeing familiar Heartland faces. Thoughtful conversations with Kara. Successfully navigating Chicago streets on my way to Des Moines. Catching up with Ang and Holly. Going to a Cubs baseball game. (Hey Cubs fans – they won! …Dare I specify Iowa Cubs?) Half price appetizers at Roja, where Tracy and I met up. Delivering a wedding present… a month early. Getting to Starbucks seconds before they locked their doors. Safely arriving back at home, at 2:30am.

Since returning home, the fun hasn’t stopped. I’ve watched my mom send my kite swirling in the Nebraska wind (and dive-bombing into a stubble field). I’ve gotten to drive my beloved Dodge Ram. Driving a manual is like riding a bike – it’s like I’ve been driving it all along. I got to see a storm so typical to Nebraska. One minute I wondered if the windows would shatter, and the next the storm was past. And tomorrow I hope to jog 9 miles with my dad. Going weeks without running, then attempting 9. Hmm…

Here are some pictures of my time gallivanting around the Midwest. I will miss you, my dear friends. P.S. For under $1, you can (and should! :) send a letter to Kazakhstan. Someone told me I’d be going there soon.

Today I learned I will leave home August 17, 2009. I must say the reality brought tears to my eyes. Days are passing too quickly, and the date keeps getting earlier. When I got my invitation, the date I was given was August 19th. Then I got an e-mail saying I must report to staging in Washington, D.C., on August 18th. I arranged travel accommodations today, which brought the date up to August 17th. As a resident of (we’ll kindly say) a sparsely populated place, major airports are hard to come by. So, in order to make it to D.C. in time, I board a flight a day earlier. Let’s call it preparation for Kazakhstan. I think they’ve got wide open spaces without so many people and airports, too. Hey – since I’ll have a free morning in our nation’s capital, anybody got any suggestions? Oh! And my flight itinerary is set for travel to Kazakhstan, too. I leave Washington, D.C., on August 19th at 5:45pm. I board a 7 hour and 50 minute flight to Frankfurt. On August 20th, I leave Frankfurt at 1:15pm for an 8 hour flight to Almaty. So, at 1:15am on August 21st, I should be in Kazakhstan.

In order to squeak in a vacation before wheat harvest started up, my parents and I took a long weekend trip to Yellowstone National Park. My parents honeymooned there thirty years ago and have fond memories of the beautiful scenery. (Yep, those are the only memories of which I care to be informed.) This is the hotel where they stayed back in 1979.

We stayed outside the park in West Yellowstone, Montana. This is the view from that hotel. Even there the scenery was beautiful!With gorgeous weather, we truly enjoyed taking in various sights. I’m amazed at the diversity of the place. You’ve got steaming hot sulfur-water running into clear blue freshwater lakes and rivers. There are wide open meadows and mountains in the distance. Apparently those features are due to it being a huge blown-to-bits, but still active, volcano. The caldera (aka: crater formed when a volcano collapses or explodes really violently) is enormous – like, 1,500 square miles. And while I hope it doesn’t explode and, God forbid, change the landscape of beautiful Western Nebraska, it certainly is an area fraught with earthquakes. As many as 3,000 earthquakes per year are recorded. The most recent major earthquake was in 1959 – the year both of my parents’ families just happened to make trips to Yellowstone within the same summer. Although they were too young to have remembered a definitive year, the news of a big earthquake after their visits aids their memory in figuring out a timeline. Anyway, no big earthquakes for us. But, boy, did we see bears! When you’re repeatedly told you won’t see bears, you tend to think you won’t. Quite on the contrary, we ended up seeing five! We saw a cinnamon black bear (I think), a black bear momma with two cubs, and another black bear. We also saw several elk (cows and bulls), a bald eagle (next to the nest in which we earlier saw an eaglet), a beaver, and lots of buffalo. I kept my eyes peeled for wildlife, but by far the best indicator were traffic jams. Everyone must stop and watch any animal they can see up close and personal, you know. I can’t say I blame them; I wanted to do the same. I was ticked when I missed a photo opp. for the momma bear because a park official insisted traffic keep moving. Dang it. At least I got a picture of one cub. Ah! How could I forget – I got to stumble over a couple Russian words! I overheard a man say “nyet”, and then sheepishly asked what language he was speaking. (The place is packed with foreign tourists, speaking all sorts of languages.) I really lit up when he said Russian, but in that instant, the few Russian words I’ve learned vanished. At first, I couldn’t even say hello. Now there’s motivation to keep studying…

On our way home, we went through Grand Teton National Park. We stopped by a self-guided tour of one of the first people to settle in the area. He had quite the view...We also stopped in Jackson, WY. In their town square, they've got four archways made of elk antlers. The antlers have been collected by the Boy Scouts. Quite the place!

Two weeks ago I finished packing up my room at Rawhide to begin my journey home (aka, Nebraska). Thank goodness for Kaitlyn’s help. If she hadn’t packed up half my room, I could still be there, trying to figure out how tightly everything would fit. See, I was bound and determined to fit everything in my Toyota Corolla. Problem is, I moved to Wisconsin in a minivan. While I may not be a chronic packrat, I still managed to accumulate stuff while there. So, after a worried / frustrated call home (can’t mothers fix everything, even through a phone?!), I decided I would indeed not be able to fit it all. May God pour many blessings on friends who have room in their basement. :) On July 3rd, I started off with what could be my last cheese blintzes from Blueberry Hill Pancake House and a Starbucks drink made specially by my dear friend Molly. I’d need some good food and drink for the 1000 mile drive. With minimal stops, I made it (in around 15 hours) for the last bit of Sidney’s Third of July fireworks. (Someone should tell the city about the holiday we celebrate on July 4th.) You could say I’d had enough time behind the wheel for a while. But by golly, I was home, and I’m glad to be here.

Some aspects of leaving a place are pretty darn enjoyable. Typical patterns seem to include people being obliged to compliment you when you leave somewhere and after you die. I like the former, because then you’re there to hear it. At Rawhide, complimentary goodbyes can take the form of fellowship time at a Youth Homes Meeting, a going-away dinner, or an open house farewell time. On my last day, I got to enjoy all three! Rawhide folks are great. Seeing people turn out for an open house was really wonderful. I joked with my guys that only two people would show up. Frankly, I was curious to see if anyone would come… and they did! I was also pretty pumped that three of my guys had written and then read poems to me as a part of my going-away dinner. They may often prefer to destroy things, but they sure have a sweet side, too. :) So, let’s be honest. My last day wasn’t filled with all sorts of hard work, per se, but I’ll treasure fond memories of July 1, 2009.*Note: Just in case you're someone who is really confused by references to "my guys", I worked with teenage boys in a residential care center (Rawhide Boys Ranch). They function under a family style model, so staff live in a home with an average of 8 guys.

Reality just isn't sinking in. I'll leave Wisconsin in 8 days, and I'll leave the U.S. 50 days later. Does that mean I should start packing?? To the best of my knowledge, I'm on track in regard to Peace Corps paperwork, which gives me ample justification to sit back and relax. Yet I know there's no rest for the weary, there's a heck-of-a lot to get done yet, and time is ticking away...