Back to (village) life, back to reality...

After a solid 12 hours of travel Sunday, I arrived back in my village exhausted from my week of camp. My family had taken a day trip to jailoo (the mountain pastures), so the house was empty affording me some much needed time to esal (relax). I had some odds and ends to wrap up at site this week, but nothing big planned. Nonetheless, life is never dull in my village. Here’s how the week unfolded:

Monday

Today I made the best apple crisp of my life. I climbed the trees in my backyard to pick the still very-tart apples, then peeled them with my host brother. (He is unusually helpful with domestic chores for a Kyrgyz boy.) Using locally-churned butter, honey I picked up from an apiary stand at Lake Issyk Kul and cinnamon I brought from America, I mixed the apple bottom then a separate oat top together. My host family thought the final product too sweet, but to my taste buds, there’s never been anything better. I still find it hard to fathom how my family can prefer 2 table spoons of sugar in their tea, but not find my desserts too sweet, but then again, they don’t understand my dislike for korut, the ferment dried yogurt balls that are the twins’ snack of choice—so I guess we’re even. Anyway, it just means more apple crisp left for me.

Tonight, for the first time, I broke out the yoga DVD my former site mate, Mike, left me (he finished service a month ago and is now traveling South East Asia, I believe). He stayed in remarkable share, physically and mentally, during his service, and I’m now beginning to see how. The hour workout was the most rejuvenating experience I’ve had at site yet. By the end, I had managed to stretch out all my cramped muscles from the previous day’s travel and refocused my attention from my daydreaming. I never could get into yoga in the states, I think because I could never take my mind off all the work I was putting off to go through the poses, but here, where I have nothing but time and need to keep stressors in check, yoga has proved the perfect medicine. Thanks Mike.

Tuesday

Sun salutations and bow poses started off another excellent day (I’m really digging this yoga thing). This afternoon, I tucked into a new book, a copy of Collapse by Jared Diamond inherited from a departing volunteer. If you know anything about my academic interests, you’ll understand that Diamond’s stories of successful and failed civilizations are right up my alley.

When my host mom finished work (she’s the nurse at the clinic across the street), I lent a hand in the making of black current jam. The hand-cranked food processor wasn’t working, so we resorted to our hands. Fortunately, she’s a nurse and had spare pairs of latex gloves on hand (pun intended, of course) to avoid the juices leaching into our skin as we individually smooshed ever miniscule current to pulp. It took a while, but the product was worth the effort: almost 4 gallons of this jam to last us through the winter—Mmm!

After dinner, my host sibs hit me with the usual request for volleyball. I have never been so thankful for 4 years of high school volleyball playing as I am here; I find the game the easiest way to connect with my students (lacking enough language to do otherwise), and many days I’ve played for hours. Until yesterday, we’ve been using the soccer ball I brought with me, mostly bumping and setting it in a circle in the elimination game of “champion” or its alternative, “potato,” when the player who misses squats in the middle of the circle until another player hits them with the ball. But thanks to my first care package from the parents (thanks y’all!), we now have a real volleyball. In fact, the same one I used all those years in high school.

So a note to travelers: when visiting a developing country, pack a deflated ball and a pump. Don’t give it to the school—they will lock it up to keep it in pristine condition—hand it to a kid, who will certainly share it with his or her friends. No other gift will be so appreciated and well used.

Wednesday

Peace Corps deposits our paychecks into our bank accounts punctually a few days before the first of every month, but it takes a trip to the bank in my region’s center to get the money (and only this bank; I can’t withdraw from elsewhere)—and as today demonstrated, this is no simple errand. This month, because of camp travel, I wasn’t able to make the trip until today, the 10th.

At 8:30, I walked the 15 minutes to the main road to catch a ride the 25 km to rayon center. I was pushing it; by 8:30 I’ve already missed most of the few vehicles that leave my village each morning. I can’t afford to be picky about my rides out here. I hitchhike everywhere; everyone does.

I finally caught a car pulling out of my village, going the right direction, at 9:30. The car was already full by American standards (2 people in front; 3 in the back)—but there are no such limits in Kyrgyzstan. In this case, the mother of the new bride we were taking into town for the 3rd day of her wedding festivities pulled her 20-year-old daughter into her lap to make room for me in the backseat.

By 10:15 I’d made it to the bank queue. Ten minutes later, at the front of the line, I discovered I was in the wrong one, and moved to another window, but other than that the process is seamless: One teller processes your request, prints you a receipt, then sends you to another window to collect the cash.

By 10:45, I was done at the bank and headed to the bazaar to pick up eggs, tomatoes, carrots, sugar, and butter. This was the last of my errands, which put me, as usual, ready to head back to my village a good two hours before any taxi would be going that direction. The other volunteer who lived in the city was out of town for the day, so deprived of my usual company, I started back to the taxi stand to check on my driver.

I didn’t make it. Walking down the road, I recognized a young woman—a “cousin”—who had once had tea at my house. She waved me over, and I explained I’m was going to check on my taxi situation and mentioned the name of my driver.

“Nurchik?,” she asked. “He’s my younger brother.” I should not have been surprised. Of course just walking down the street of town of 10,000 I’m bound to run into the sister of a taxi driver from my village.

She informed me he wouldn’t be at the taxi stand (I knew this, but I had no where else to go). She had me call him instead (its protocol to get a driver’s number and give him yours if you’re hoping for a return trip). I dialed Nurchik to check the time of departure, but promptly pass the phone over to her. If he was surprised that his sister got on the line, I certainly couldn’t tell from this end. A minute later I was following her in the direction of her house for a chai break.

She had made fresh borsok (fried bread) that morning, which made an excellent snack/lunch coupled with fresh strawberry jam. She even had instant coffee to offer me! (I almost never have coffee; tea is the status quo). Additionally, I very much appreciated her conversation attempts and patience. I’d already told her previously many of the details of my family, friends, and American lifestyle, so she was happy to oblige with hers, even breaking out all the family photo albums to illustrate. Her family turns out to be incredibly international; she has sisters in Italy, Turkey, and Dubai.

At 12:30 Nurchick was still nowhere close to ready to leave (we were waiting on the bride and her new husband to take them back to the village, I later learn). Without knowing it, I agreed to run errands with my new sister. Also unbeknownst to me, the first stop was to be the local headquarters for a national political party gunning for the presidency in the Oct. 10th elections. I’m not allowed to be there (for obvious reasons), so when I realized where I was (and saw the cameras rolling), I awkwardly stepped outside to wait…for the next hour and a half. Since I was tethered to this woman (being my connection to my ride back), I had no place to go. So I sat, listened to my iPod, and vowed never to leave my village without a book again. You can’t change the situations you often find yourself in here, but you can always be more prepared for them, I’ve learned.

When my new friend finally emerged (she’d been playing secretary for the meeting), she took me again to the bazaar. As a lovely hospitable gesture, she insisted on buying me grapes. I’m know I won’t be able to wash them before I eat them, so I’d rather refuse, but she won’t let me. (I’m not sure how many times I’ll risk illness for the sake of not offending locals, but the number is steadily rising).
We walk next back the building I found her outside of originally. It turns out to be an architecture firm, where she works. She hands me a book of Russian floor plans to keep me occupied for the next half hour.

She finally gets a call from her brother that he’s about ready to leave at 3:30, so we head back to the house—where he’s not quite ready to go. We have chai for a second time. By this time, I’ve exhausted my Kyrgyz conversation skills, and we’re sitting in silence. Shortly after 4:30, Nurckik finally announces that we’re leaving. He’s picked up the wedding party, and I join them in the backseat and start down the road out of town. But two blocks later, we’ve stopped again. Apparently, there’s one more family they need to see before heading back the village. The groom runs into the house, then comes out two minutes later and motions for his wife to join him. They decide to stay after all, and Nurchik motions for me to join him in the front seat and we finally peal out of town—with the backseat empty, which almost never happens in Kyrgyzstan.

We don’t make it far. Five minutes down the road, we get a call from the groom, who’s left a bag in the trunk. We turn around, deposit the bag, and finally hit the road. It is common for taxi drivers to make conversation with their passengers for the duration of the drive. And certainly, being a foreigner, I’m often asked to explain myself—and my family, my country, etc. etc.

Unfortunately, Nurchik is my age (we established this back at his sister’s), and in Kyrgyzstan it is not common for girls my age to talk much with guys their age out in the villages. Too much talking (and most certainly smiling) can be misunderstood as intentional flirtation. Nonetheless, he was keen to make conversation, and having not had an opportunity to really talk with a guy my own age here yet, I was happy to try to oblige. It turns out he’s a volleyball champion within our province, so we had some shared experience (just the game obviously, not the talent; some of you may recall the time I served a volleyball that came back directly to hit me in the head). He also asked the usual, “Do you have a boyfriend?” and follow-up, “Why not?” (I’m almost past my prime here in Kyrgyzstan; most girls are married at 20 or 21.) I like to answer that I just “don’t need one” to make the point that it’s okay to be a single female with a career. That usually doesn’t get fully accepted, so sometimes I follow up with, “I haven’t found the right guy,” which usually gets countered with, “Oh, but its the guy who finds you.” In this case, I just volleyed the question back,” So why don’t you have a girlfriend?” but I couldn’t quite understand his answer. And when I couldn’t tell if the next question he was asking for me to be his friend or girlfriend, I decided I better stop nodding my agreement to sentences I don’t completely comprehend. We sat mostly in silence for the rest of the ride.

We finally pulled up to my gate shortly after 5:00, almost 9 hours after my departure for a simple trip to the bank. But few things are simple in Kyrgyzstan, and honestly, I prefer it this way.

Thursday

After my return from the bank yesterday, I’d gone to find my director to ask for two signed letters I needed to take to Peace Corps on behalf of two grants (one approved, one in the early stages) for school refurbishment. She’d agreed to meet this morning at the school at 10. It turned out that first we needed to stop by the mayor’s office to pick up this year’s school budget (our mayor is also a wonderfully proactive and competent woman). She took me afterwards on a tour of the school to let me take the pictures of damages I needed to document (the leaking roof and water damage to floors, frayed wiring that hasn’t been replaced in 40 years, and cracks in walls) and give me the letters I needed, signed and stamped. (No document in Kyrgyzstan seems to be official without a stamp.)

I’m very grateful that she’s a patient woman; it often takes me a few tries to communicate my intended meaning. At one point in the conversation, she tried to ask if I needed paper, “barak,” but I heard “barmak”, which means fingers. Of course I have fingers, I replied, very confused.

With my day’s work accomplished by 11 am, I headed back to the house for an hour of yoga, lunch (bread and tea), and in the afternoon, chores. I hadn’t had a bath in over a week, and my hair was beginning to dread, so a bath was the first thing on my list. (It turns out I missed a chance to have a banya—sauna bath—yesterday at a neighbors. Boo.) Still, bathing from a 2 gallon bucket of water suits me. It just takes work.

First, I walked with my neighbor to the end of the road to crank up the water from a well and carry it in buckets back to the house. Next, I heated the water, half gallon at a time, in our biggest electric teapot. Then, standing in a small tub in the dirt floor storage room off the kitchen, I could finally start ladling the water over myself. Surprisingly, I really haven’t minded the lack of bathing opportunities (about once a week, or so). Fortunately, my curly hair doesn’t start showing the grease to badly until about day 5. I hear in the winter volunteers go entire months without bathing however, so we’ll see how I’m feeling about all this in February.

After washing myself, the next task was my laundry. I use the same tub and same method to heat hot water. I re-wear my clothes her routinely; I only have 3 summer shirts and about the same amount of bottoms. I only do laundry when I’m out of underwear, which is exactly ever two weeks.. It takes about two hours every time I do it, but now that my fingers have built up calluses that prevent painful blisters I was getting from rubbing, I don’t actually mind the work. I just put on my iPod and go to scrubbing.

I made carrot dessert bread for my family tonight. Its always a gambol when I make a recipe with cinnamon (its not very popular with the Kyrgyz), but I keep doing it. I love cinnamon, and it’s one of the few spices I have at my disposal (brought from American, but rumored to be found at the bazaar in Bishkek). In this case, the recipe went over well. A double recipe (a baking sheet-full) was scarfed in the mater of a quarter of an hour. I’ll be making this again.

Friday

I’m told winter comes early to Naryn; last year the first frost was Sept. 1st, the first day of school. In anticipation of the snows, and the accompanying food shortage, I planned today to go into Bishkek and visit the bazaar, supermarket—and my host family at my first site—before going to a week of In-Serivce Language Training at Lake Issyk Kul with my fellow volunteers.

I rose early at 6 a.m., not wanting to miss any taxi opportunity out of the village. I was waiting at the road by 7, but as it turned out, there was no need to rush—there were no vehicles. Three other men were also waiting for transport out of the village, so after the first half hour of waiting, they finally called a driver in the village a half hour up the road and told him we had a full load of passengers waiting for him. An hour later, he finally showed up—with two other passengers and a sheep. So we piled in the Soviet era car (VW Beatle size), all 7 of us—and the sheep, which was stuck bleating and shitting in the trunk with my baggage. What we lack in typical forms of entertainment in Ak-Talaa (movie theatres, parks, everything really), we certainly make up for in everyday life experience. Who needs rollercoasters when you have a packed clown car peeling down a pothole-ridden road at 120 km/hr?

When we got into Naryn City, I luckily found a driver to Bishkek almost immediately. It turned out, I needn’t have worried about my delays leaving my village. The lost time was easily made up for by a driver who took every bump and blind curve over the mountain passes without losing speed. I think we spent more time in the wrong lane passing, than we did on the right. The poor little boy in the seat in front of me had lost all of his breakfast by the end of the trip.

But we made it into Bishkek by 2, and the driver let me out in the vicinity of the huge Osh bazaar—and theoretically the Peace Corps office. I promptly got lost trying to meet my friend who had come into town to meet me, but by 3, I’d been found and oriented to a city I’d only seen once before. (The PC office, by the way, turns out to be incredibly nice, complete with garden, fish pond, wifi, and shower—too bad I’ll only visit about twice a year). Ryan and I sat down for lunch at 4 o’clock, and both having not eaten since 7 am, each inhaled a pizza a piece. Yes, pizza (!!), my first in country from a restaurant. Oh my god was it good. Good cheese and vegetables! Ryan was one of my closest friends in PST, so catching up on the last 2 months was a blast.

To finish off an awesome day, I headed out of Bishkek to my first host village to spend the night with my first host family. Walking down my street just as the cows came home was like time travel. I’m happy to report that despite the fact my Kyrgyz vocab range use has certainly declined for lack of use, my general comprehension has improved—far more than I realized. I had wonderful, hilarious, and completely comprehensible conversation with my host mom and sister this evening. Apa let me help make apricot jam, and Kalima made my favorite salad in country—garlic eggplant and tomato stacks. Tomorrow Apa promises to teach me two new songs to expand my Kyrgyz repertoire; she still has dreams of me singing on a national talent show next year. I don’t think I realized just how much I missed being understood completely (Kalima, my sister, is fluent in English so could help out when my language skills broke down). I feel so lucky to be able to have such a homecoming away from home.