The 'pot hole' and other it-only-happens-in-Kyrgyzstan stories

Apparently one’s klutziness is magnified in Kyrgyzstan, whether from altitude or otherwise—or so we’ve been told by our trainers and experience has thus proved:

Exhibit A: Leaving my friend’s house after a study session one evening, her host mom asked if I was scared to walk home because it was getting dark. “Of course not; it’s not too dark,” I replied in Kyrgyz (proud that I could say this), then proceeded to stumble blindly down the three stairs leaving her house.

Exhibit B: Another evening another friend and her sister walked to the store to get ice cream and on her way back, my friend fell right into a hole on the side of the road—a ditch really. A closer inspection proved that a) she was really lucky she didn’t hurt herself because it turned out to be three-feet deep full of protruding rebar; b) it was literally forested with cannabis, leaving us to conclude that she had indeed fallen into a “pot hole.”

Klutziness is however not to blame for all our mistakes and misfortunes here. They say you’re not a true PC volunteer until you’ve experience the joys of diarrhea, fondly known as “the fear.” Last Friday found me getting rather familiar with the family outhouse, thanks to a bout of stomach virus. However, my experience comes nowhere close to my friend, who admitted one week that his runs were so bad, that instead of tackling the task of washing his $50 pair of underwear by hand, he just chucked them down the outhouse. (Why he brought $50 pairs of designer underwear in his luggage still eludes us.)

Kyrgyzstan is fortunate enough to have the remnants of a well-established Soviet-era public transport system. Most families do not own a vehicle, so a passenger is left with two options: 1) the crowded marshrutka, or bus, which charges cheaper fare, but will literally be packed to its cubic capacity, or 2) the taxi. This can be any driver who is willing to pick up a passenger—for a price. In the cities, the system is fairly well established, with set routes and fares. In the remote country, it’s a crap shoot, which as I’ve been told can result in anything from a 3 hour wait on the road in sub-degree weather, to breakdowns that require the passenger’s assistance pushing the car up an ice pass—then it starting and taking off without them (it waited and hour up the road at the top), to sheep sharing the backseat. My own failed taxi experience was nothing of the sort. The car was barreling out of town, and I was about to be annoyed that it hadn’t stopped for my outstretched hand (I’d been waiting over an hour at this point), when I looked behind the wheel: the driver was no more than 6-years-old; his father—I assume—was calmly seated in the passenger seat as the careened down the road.

Perhaps my favorite part about Peace Corps is being able to share something with my students that blows their minds and excites them to learn more. Technology is usually at the crux of this, and my success the other day was thanks to an iPod and a portable speaker. My students took me on an “excursion” to a horse pasture down by the Naryn River for a cookout. After games of soccer and volleyball and a fish fry, I broke out the iPod. First we tried every 80’s move in the book, then I put some Latin music on and proceeded to demonstrate the salsa. 15 minutes later, I had girls leading, following, spinning, and generally having a ball amidst the cow patties. It’s moments like these that I remember why I love my job.

What's that you say? Do I want more sheep's intestine? Well...of course

At right: Alina, one of my first host sisters, braids sheep intestines, which look no different from prep to plate.

Last night I unwittingly committed myself to a little Kyrgyz cultural induction; at the invitation of my school’s directors, I attended the teachers’ end-of-exams toi (party), which began at approximately 9 p.m. and lasted well after midnight. I arrived to an already packed table, heavily laden with the staples of a Kyrgyz feast: borsok (fried bread bites), candy, noodle and cabbage salads, and samsa (like an empanada). The other teachers made room for the director and me in tor (the honored seat at the head of the table), and I took my proper kneeling position. The alcohol was already flowing, but I managed to get off with just a shot glass or extremely sweet wine (to be refilled of course). I think this is because I’m unmarried; the older women all had vodka. Of course, my introduction was made again, and I tried to answer questions as they came my way, but pretty quickly attention was turned back to students’ exam results, thank you toasts, and the revolution at hand. I tried to follow, but I was kidding no one. I pretty much sat lost in silence for three hours, until someone asked me to sing and I pulled out my note cards for the umpteenth rendition of “жайлоодо,” a song I still don’t understand the words to. (Don’t get me wrong though; I’m always happy to sing.)

At some point, a plate of new food was brought out to share. It was white, gelatinous cubes, which I first took for slices of fat I have seen (and consumed) before, until I asked. The director was quick to explain—or rather take a few deep breaths to demonstrate: I was eating sheep’s lung boiled in milk. Fortunately, it actually tasted very bland, with a hint of butter from the milk, but had the unfortunate consistency of old tofu. I should have recognized this as a sign of certain foods yet to come, but some how in my wine-induced stupor, I did not.

Dancing had been mentioned multiple times, but as yet, no one had made a move, so when around midnight, the group stood for a mass exodus from the table, I thought some disco was in store. But as we gathered in the other room, all the women took their seats again and a tablecloth was laid out in the middle. I should have known; no Kyrgyz toi is complete without besh barmak (translation: sheep—the whole thing—eaten with the fingers; besh means “5” and barmak means “fingers”).

As an American former-vegetarian, the thought of unseasoned mutton seemed the antithesis of my taste buds’ desire. In truth, neither the taste nor texture bothered me so much, but the thought of how much fat—and it’s mostly fat, not meat—and otherwise nutrient-less roughage I was forcing myself to ingest was enough to turn the stomach. Here’s how it all went down:

The first plate to make it’s round was what I think was large intestine, stuffed with some sort of other ground part and onions, then boiled and oiled. In my opinion, if you can get past the texture and somewhat iron/metallic taste, the onions are ok. Fortunately, there are chasers provided—the oily broth the sheep was boiled in, and of course, alcohol. (Never thought I’d use wine or fermented wheat, known as bozo, as a chaser…) I drank both copiously as the following plates made their rounds.

Next up was the small intestine, cleaned out, braided, and boiled. Essentially cartilage. It’s like eating octopus, except without any salty flavor. I didn’t bother chewing too much, just swallowed. Next came the actual meat, a wedge the size of my head. Fortunately, I knew I wasn’t expected to eat all of this. It could go in the take home bag they’d fill for me at the end. (No party is complete without the goody bags—they serve as next day’s dinner for everyone.) Then the intestines made a second pass, this time accompanied with fat I was told to eat in tandem. And not to be missed, was the final bowl of brains. Turns out, it tastes just like every other part of the sheep: gamy and salty. Dinner concluded with what I actually think is the true “barmak” part of the “besh barmak” experience: ramen noodles flavored in sheep broth and onions with shredded sheep on top—no utensils necessary; you just take a big scoop with your hands and slurp.

I must admit I was very much relieved when the teachers finally put out their hands for the final omen. I’m glad to finally say I’ve eaten the whole sheep, and was delighted to share in the teachers’ festivities. But I’m a little sheepish to try the meal again any time soon—unfortunately for my stomach, I agreed to a second toi (this one, a wedding) tonight. So here I raise a final toast: To my health—and tolerance!

My first day living in the "Roof of the World"

Pictured to the right: My village in Ak-Talaa ("White Field") Rayon, Naryn Oblast.


I arrived in my new village yesterday afternoon after a 7.5 hour taxi ride from Bishkek (in which the only mishaps was a flat tire that delayed us only a half hour in the oblast center, Naryn City). Unfortunately, the sky was overcast and clouds obscured the highest peaks as we drove through the Moldo-Too mountain range, so when we finally turned into my little town of 800, I was excited but somewhat letdown for missing the mountains.

Turns out, my reputation has preceded me in my village; apparently parts of our Peace Corps swearing-in ceremony were broadcast on national television, including the two Kyrgyz songs I performed with my host father, who accompanied me on accordion. (There was only one song on the program, but a standing ovation demanded an encore—and me awkwardly running off stage to find the words for the second song.) Anyway, I arrived a local celebrity and anticipate many repeat performances of “хайлоодо” and “бал бачым татым татайн” in the future. My first host mom wants me to perform at a national talent show next year, so you might be reading the blog of the next Kyrgyz star. Check out the following clip of my performance with my host father at the Peace Corps Cultural Day talent show:

The K-16 whom I am replacing at my site also performed at the ceremony; he recited part of the Kyrygz epic poem of Manas, the longest in the world. The full story takes two days, and any true Manas erdachu (reciter) is required by tradition to give a performance whenever requested.

This morning I visited the school, which is literally across the street, and met the teachers I will work with for the next two years—or most of them. I still haven’t met the woman who will be my English teaching counterpart; I believe she’s sick, or either she’s up in the jailoo (mountain pastures) with her husband tending sheep for the summer. The first volunteer in my village, a K-14, designated and decorated a beautiful English classroom at the end of the right wing of the school. The windows let in lots of natural light, there are English wall charts, maps, even a TV. I feel very lucky.

Afterwards, my host mom showed me the health post where she is a nurse (also just across the street). There too I was incredibly surprised to find well-kept, well-stocked, diagram-decorated rooms. After introductions, I took a walk to see the other 4 streets of the village and attempt a good look at the mountains behind. Along the way, I made a number of successful introductions of which I was pretty proud—mostly because I understood the questions being asked and could apply my ready answers. So far, only one (in jest) marriage proposal.

I returned home for a little “esal” (rest) time, then a delicious salad for lunch with cabbage, cucumber, tomatoes, fresh dill, copious amounts of salt and fresh cream. May sound strange, but it’s delicious. And Apa amazingly made scrambled eggs for dinner last night and in French toast this morning, in deference to my preference of eggs over meat.

After lunch, Apa suggested a hike with my sister (I mentioned this was something I like to do yesterday). The skies had cleared, and without really realizing where we were headed, we took off at a trot up the 750 ft. “hill” (by comparison to the actual mountains) essentially in my backyard. The climb was seriously steep so maybe it was partially altitude induced, but by the time we summited, I was as giddy as the 10 and 11-year-old who raced ahead of me (pictured at right: my host sister Daria and her friend Tolgonai). It turns out, what the clouds obscured are ridges beyond ridges of 10,000 ft. peaks on three sides of the canyon-ed valley that is now my home. To say the view was breathe-taking is an understatement. And I get to live here for two years!!

At my host mom’s request, I took out my komyz (three-stringed instrument) after dinner for a little neighborhood performance. So far I can really only pluck out the melody of the two songs I can sing, and the neighbor who can actually play didn’t know the songs, so I would up just doing a vocal performance of the two songs I sang at the swearing-in ceremony. I’m hoping my sister and her friends will teach me more soon!

We finished the forth or fifth chai session of the day around 10 p.m. For our snack, my host mom brought a bucket of strawberries back from Bishkek that she stewed into delicious jam to spread on our naan. The jams here are amazing and in abundance at every meal! I chased down bread with another 2 cups of chai that brings me up to 12 or 13 for the day (I stopped putting sugar in my tea after only a week here when I realized 15 cups of chai a day meant 15 tea spoons of sugar). Thankfully caffeine has never really had the stimulant effects its supposed to for me. I anticipate sleeping soundly shortly.

It’s now 11 p.m. and I’m off to bed on my army-cot size foldout armchair. My toes reach right to the end, but it’s super comfy with a tushuk (thick quilted blanket) underneath and on top of me. жокши жот! (Good night!)

Taking care of business

Pictured to the left: My outhouse—and it’s guardian cow.

When one joins Peace Corps, one expects certain adjustments in one’s facilities. In fact, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by my 24-7 electricity and thrice-weekly running water. But one convenience has matched expectation: the outhouse. Drinking as much chai as I do daily, I have become rather intimate with our “toilet” which is about 20 ft. down a cement path behind our house. Honestly, I don’t mind it a bit; some volunteers even claim the squat is a more natural posture for such bodily functions. A simple hole in a wood-planked hole certainly saves gallons of water. Unfortunately, the crepe paper TP leaves me deeply missing Charmin, but hey, it’s an upgrade from leaves. (And I am most thankful for the baby wipes I brought in bulk.) And whether it’s still too cold or it’s just not their climate, the floor is free of roaches, and I take this as a major plus.

The view is also unbeatable. My outhouse door has a charming pane-window cutout, perfectly framing the 10,000 ft. snow-covered peaks rising behind the rolling green foothills just outside town. Of course, should I ever get the runs (and they say you’re not a true PC volunteer until you do…) I don’t fancy I’ll be caring much for the sites.

It should be noted that this glory hole also functions as more than a natural waste receptacle. For lack of a garbage disposal system since the Soviet collapse, garbage has been piling up on the street curbs, front yards, and outhouses of Kyrgyz villages. My house is no exception. My family burns what they can—including some plastics—in the oven to heat the banya (the bathroom of sorts which is heated like a sauna for bathing), but the rest just goes down our toilette.

Yesterday, my fellow female village volunteers and I shared our first beer in country (decent and rather effective at our altitude). Cleaning up, I asked my Apa where I should dispose of the cans, hoping against hope for an unforeseen method of recycling. But I knew better. I pitched the four cans in our outhouse as directed. Recycling gods, please forgive me.

Мен сулойм Кыргызча!

Pictured on the right: My fellow language class volunteers on a street in our training village.

I have Kyrgyz language class 4-5 hours, 4 times per week. I love it. Language was never my strong suit, but it’s impossible not to pick up having the benefit of very small classes (I’m in the largest at just 6 people), excellent teachers, and fun, game-focused lessons. Now with the weather at a nice sunny 70 degrees most days, we spend a lot of time outside playing charades or language races of some sort or other. Of course, a little homeschooling over chai after class and in every interaction with my host parents (which often resembles the charades we play in class) doesn’t hurt. It is amazing just how much one can communicate through action and some choice words. The morning after the revolution, one volunteer’s parents summed up the national situation to him as: “Bakiyev,” running fingers, “bel-baim” (I don’t know).

But the pace of actual language acquisition has been astounding. In just the first week of classes we learned survival Kyrgyz and the present, past and future tenses (ok, so present and future are conjugated the same) along with a slew of grammar. In week 6, I was able to test at low-mid intermediate level, the target for the end of training. This was no great feat; I was in the middle of my class (our brightest student almost got advanced).

I estimate that we’ve learned more than a year of college-level language in 8 weeks. That is, it’s been taught; I’m not claiming it’s all sunk in. But getting paid (granted, $1 a day, literally) to learn a language is definitely the way to go.

I consider myself very lucky to learning Kyrgyz for a few reasons. One, it is infinitely easier than Russian (words are shorter, grammar is much simpler); two, being the native language here, Kyrgyz speakers are more greatly respected—and get better bargains—in the rural areas of the country; and three, if you know me, you surely know I don’t pursue languages that are spoken in more than one country ;) So without further ado, a snapshot of the language that has intrigued and befuddled me for the past two months.

Kyrygz is a Turkic language closely related to the other Central Asian languages of Kazak, Uzbek, Turkmen, and Turkish itself. I believe it was first writen using the Arabic script in the 20th century, then in a quick Soviet-instituted succession, tried the Latin script for about a decade before adopting the current Cyrillic alphabet (has a few modifications from Russian) in the 1930's. Fortunately for its learners, its words sound almost exactly like they're spelled. Learning the new alphabet was not the trick part. Learning to correctly pronounce vowels we don't have in English certainly was. (To those of you who made fun of me for going to a country without vowels in its name, I challenge you to come learn all the vowels in its alphabet.)

The structure of the sentence is a lot like Latin; the verb is at the end and each verb has a complicated system of endings depending on person and formality. There are no genders however (thank goodness!) and words tend to be very short and made of recognizable roots. In addition, Kyrygz has something called “vowel shifts,” which means that their 8 vowels have distinct parterns (pairs, actually) or arrangement in a given word. Kyrgyz uses suffixes to indicate everything from verb conjugation and possession to location and direction. However, unlike English, these suffixes are not fixed add-ons. The vowels in each change according to the last vowel in the word's stem and whether the suffix rule requires a right or left shift. The actual rules were first writen by a Kyrgyzstan Peace Corp volunteer years ago; if you asked a Kyrygz person about the rules, they'd have no idea what you were talking about. I'd give examples, but without a proper chart and understanding all suffix forms, they wouldn't make sense.

Missing a vowel change is perhaps the easiest way to confuse meaning in Kyrygz. My favorite example being Жокшыраак (“Jock-shuh uh-rock”) and Жокшы араак (“Jock-shuh ah-rock”), which mean “better” and “good vodka” respectively. There are many others: house (“eau-ee”) and cow (“uh-ee”); to think (“oi-lohn”), to learn (“eu-lohn”), and to marry a woman (“eu-rohn”); meat (“et”) and dog (“eat”); husband (“kuuyon”) and rabbit (“koyuhn”)—I’ve pretty much given up on this one, and now call husbands “loves” (“suuyon).

Like in English, there are also words that have many definitions. Тарт, for instance, means “to draw” and “to photograph.” Used with the cigarettes, it means “to smoke” and in another manifestation, “to snore.” Just imagine the possibilities with compound verbs…

Even when I know the right words, they don't always come out right. Once intending to tell my sister Alena I was going to my friend's house to study with her, I accidentally told her I planned to sleep with my friend. (Alena has a fantastic sense of humor, speaks almost fluently in English, and finds most things I say hilarious; this bodes very well for me.)

As you can imagine, even when the correct words are found, meaning can be elusive. While watching Shrek with her family, my friend Deborah used a dictionary to piece together a translation of “If you break a mirror, you'll have 7 years bad luck“, and mysteriously all the mirrors in the house had disappeared the next morning. A week later she managed to work into conversation the virtues of mirrors, and the next day they reappeared.

I think so much of a language can be revealed through its roots and stems, and I can’t help but attempting to derive such lexical-ancestry and meaning from Kyrgyz words. (Yes, I have been known to read the OED for fun. Unfortunately our PC-issued Kyrgyz-English dictionary is so inadequate and often blatantly wrong, it’s thought most useful as future kindling). In Pidgin, my lexical sleuthing was pretty easy as the words were largely derived from English; in Kyrgyz, I imagine my conjectures are less likely to be correct, but some are obvious. First, the word for girl (кыз, pronounced “kuhz”) is at the root of many words, including “jealous,” “red,” “blush,” “beet,” in which I can find some obvious relation. However, “interesting” (“kuhz-uk-too”)-—and it’s antonym?

On a cultural note, a girlfriend is can be translated literally as “the girl you talk to,” which makes a lot of sense when you consider that the appropriate way to date is to in Kyrgyzstan apparently is to take a girl on walks and respectfully converse. I found this out with unintended personal experience; after picking up the habit of taking walks around the village with one of my male volunteer friends, I found myself facing inquiries from other host parents. Of course, denying the accusations was also foiled by language. Жигит, which is the best translation of “boyfriend” also means any male friend that is older than 20—so go figure.

My friend Josh clued me into some other interesting lexical-ancestry last week. He’s had the benefit of studying 6 other languages, so we turn to him as the resident linguist. In this case, his Arabic came in handy. Apparently Kyrgyz has taken quite a few words relating to learning from its Arabic relative, including “school” (“mektep”—from the Arabic for place to learn) and “teacher” (magaleem”—from one who gives knowledge).

There are also some nice distinctions that Kyrygz makes, that English doesn't. For instance, if you buy something, you can «сатып бер» (buy it to give to someone) «сатып ал» (buy it to take for yourself), but you would never just «сатып». Also, when you are a guest at someone else's house you are a «конок», but guests at your own house are «конок кут» (literally guests that “wait“). Both interesting distinctions. On the other hand, I struggle to find the necessity in using карендаш for a boy's younger brother vs. синди for a girl’s younger brother (there is no distinction for younger sisters)—especially when карендаш is so close to карандаш (pencil).

While I practice these words everyday with my family, I must say having excellent English speakers to default to (namely, my sisters) has been a crutch. Technically, we take an LPI proficiency exam at the end of PST to that we need to pass before we’re sent to site (I’m not worried)—but the real test, as I see it, will be my next host family. Fortunately that charades for most human needs are universal…

Home Sweet Home

I have had the incredible luck of having a second amazing host family in my international wanderings. I am the Bishenbaeva’s 6^th Peace Corps volunteer, and their experience shows. My three host sisters, Alena (17), Kalema (22) and Czarina (25) speak impeccable English and my host apa (mom) has Kyrgyz TEFL talk down to a science. They are overly generous, respect my personal space and time, and are positively the most jovial family I’ve met in the village. Apa regularly dissolves into fits of giggles from Ata and Alena’s jests, as have I as I’ve learned more Kyrgyz (or Alena kindly translates). I have fond memories of one of our first meals when Ata accidently twisted the English expression “Oh my gosh” into “Oi, gamash!” which roughly translates in Kyrgyz as “Oh! My long underwear!”

The members of the household at any given time are very fluid. Alena, who graduates from high school next week, has been my constant companion. Her sister Kalema goes to university in Bishkek from Monday-Thursday, then returns home for weekends. Their elder sister Czarina lives with her husband and 3-year-old son just in the next village over, but lived with the family through the winter to save on heating costs. She studied English in North Dakota for her “12^th year” of high school. (Here they only go to 11^th grade, but she did an extra year as an American senior.) Her English and university degree from the American University of Central Asia landed her a nice job at a nonprofit in Bishkek, where she now works. The first night, her 3-year-old, Umar, performed an incredible rendition of a Kyrgyz rap, which he had learned just from watching the music video (which played in the background). As the often bragged-about rap seems to suggest, he’s the darling grandchild of the family and terrible spoiled (but oh so adorable).

My host brother (26) lives with his wife and 2-year-old daughter in Bishkek part-time (he drives a taxi there), and otherwise brings the family to stay here in the village. Because his wife is the only daughter-in-law, she gets stuck with all the household chores when she’s here (but in my defense, she shoos me away when I try to help).

Add to this fluid immediate family, the constant extended family/guests we have in and out. This past week alone, we had my host father’s younger brother, wife, and 2-year-old daughter, my host mother’s mother and one of her sisters, her husband, and their teenage son staying with us. At any given meal, it’s anyone’s guess who from the extend family—or neighbors—will show up without warning. But like in PNG, there’s always enough food.

Our farmhouse is built of thick white-washed cement walls that keep heat in in the winters and out in the summers. The trim is a very becoming Grecian sky blue. I have my own room in the main house (which is divided into 3 sleeping rooms (including a converted winter kitchen) and a long formal dinning area/additional sleeping quarters. In the adjacent building, we have a summer kitchen and living room. In the back, we have stables that now house only a cow and three sheep (which bleat like whinny 3-year-olds). I’m told that last year before Ata sold them all to pay for his travel to work in Russia, they had a flock of 55 sheep, 8 cows, and a horse or two. I’m not clear on the details, but somehow, he wasn’t paid, so he’s now back farming—but without his animals. Apa’s twice-daily naan baking supplies loafs for the local stores, and appear to be the majority of the home’s income. I will be terribly sorry to leave this family tomorrow as I move onto my permanent site for the next two years. But like their last volunteer, I have every intention of coming back to visit often.

First Week, First Impressions

Саламатсызбы! (Hello) Greetings from the roof of the world! As many of you know, my game of geographical roulette has landed me teaching English with the Peace Corps in Kyrgyzstan. I’m stoked to head back into the English classroom and to learn a new language and culture. I hope to use this blog to share my experiences and insights over the next two years. Peace Corps would like me to remind you that the contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps.

I wrote the following summary of my first impressions of Kyrgyzstan in my first few weeks of Pre-Service Training, which, now 9 weeks later, I am just about to complete. I apologize for not uploading this and the following entries earlier, but it has been impossible with the extremely limited and impossibly slow connections I’ve had on rare occasion. I plan for future entries to be far more timely.

I learned last week that I will be moving to a remote village in Naryn Oblast for the next two years of service. Yesterday I met my counterpart, the English teacher I will team team with. As it turns out, she speaks about as much English as I speak Kyrgyz, but seems super motivated. I am very excited to meet my family today and see my village tomorrow. But first, my firsts…

First sights. We landed in Bishkek at 1 a.m. on a Monday morning after a full 36 hours of travel from Philadelphia. Thus, my first impression of Kyrgyzstan was not of the majestic mountains I’d been promised, but rather of a crowd of weary-eyed Americans in a two-hour trickle through customs—and the curiously upward sloping captain’s hats worn by the customs officials. Two memories stand out of the half-hour bus ride to the hotel: the first, recognizing a стоп sign in the Cyrillic and feeling renewed hope for conquering the language; the second, pondering the strangely white-painted trunks of trees lining the “highway”. At the time, I took the 4 ft. coat of paint at the base of each tree to be a curious highway-specific decoration or maybe an insecticide coat. I’ve since learned (via some kinesthetic practical experience at an orphanage) that the tradition of painting trees white in spring stems from an eccentricity of Lenin’s—but still, no one really seems to know why.

First tastes. A second Peace Corps welcome party met us at the hotel when the buses pulled in at 4 a.m. As we filed in to claim room keys, two staff in traditional dress met us with an offering of food. In the dim light of the atrium, without having any hint of what I was eating, I took a piece of fried dough and scooped onto it at least a tablespoon of fresh butter before popping the whole thing in my mouth—and almost choking. I’ve since become quite familiar with борсок (“boor sok”), the fried bread bites that are a staple of every Kyrgyz meal. A few weeks ago, anticipating a slew of guests the next day, my family and I made literally a bodybag full of the fried dough bits one night from 29 pizza-size rounds of dough, which we individually cut and deep-fried handfuls at a time. Mai (butter) and suu mai (literally, “water butter” or oil) is impossible to avoid in the daily diet. Just about everything is fried and/or coated in it the fat somehow. Sheep fat itself is a delicacy, and turns up in the most unexpected cuisine, the strangest (and most unpalatable for my taste buds, since it lends it certain gamy odor to everything) being yellow cake.

First smells. My first few days of service were spent entirely within the confines of a cold, sterile Soviet-style hotel, but upon reaching my quiet village of 3,500, roughly a half-hour to the east of Bishkek, I was hit with an earthy aroma that will forever cling to the soles of my clogs. Thanks to the entire barnyards that lumber down our roads to pasture each day, our thoroughfares are splattered with cow patties and sheep droppings, which lend a grainy waft to the air of my morning walk to class.

First sounds. There are a few fortunate cognates (or stolen words from Russian) in the Kyrgyz vocabulary, and violoncello happens to be one of them. I mentioned my playing in one of my earliest conversation attempts with my host family, and in the spirit of cultural exchange, showed a video of my quintet playing Schubert’s Trout. In return, I was graced with a concert of my own by my Ata (host father) on the accordion. He is also rumored to play the three-string, plucked koomuz, the country’s national instrument. I have high hopes of learning to play. (Finally, a country with a string instrument!) Unfortunately it appears that koomuz is usually only a pursuit of men, but I plan to play the “strange American” card and find myself a teacher nonetheless.

Singing is also a popular pastime here and watching Kyrgyz music videos has been a source of considerable amusement (especially when my three-year-old nephew raps along to his favorite one). We’re learning a folk song, Кыргыз Жери (Kyrgyz Land), to sing for our swearing-in ceremony as volunteers (we’re still officially “trainees” for another month). Practice has not been going so well; we mumble through a series of vowels that we’re still struggling to pronounce and tone deafness was not something Peace Corps screen its recruits for. The song is in a rather pretty minor key, but needless to say, our daily rehearsal has been very painful—and we have yet to add the Russian speakers who are going to join in our final performance.

First feelings. I arrived in Bishkek very thankful to have totted my wool jacket in my carry-on. It was cold out and no warmer inside the Soviet-era hotel rooms we were checked into. I didn’t sleep much the first night, whether from cold, jet lag, or just excitement I don’t know, but all three continued for my first week in country. Perhaps the strangest feeling from the first days in country was not my impressions of dilapidated Soviet architecture or compete befuddlement at attempts at Russian communication with hotel staff, but rather being told that the 70 random people I was no thrown into a room with would be my best friends for the next two years. I am convinced I will become very close to many of them, but to forecast BFF-ships with an assembly of unknown persons seemed a bit presumptuous, despite what I imagine will largely turn out to be the truth.