This spring I was delighted to discover that like my family back home, my Kyrgyz family here takes part in an annual family picnic—with a twist. In a remote village of 800, just about everyone is related somehow, so the entire village goes down to the river on the same Sunday in April. But this is no simple picnic table potluck.
Families packed up cars, trucks, and many a donkey-cart with 20-gallon cast iron kazans; two-foot tall samovars to heat water for tea; bags of bread, borsok, potato and beet salads; china dishes and tea cups; wool-stuffed sitting mats; tablecloths; and of course a sheep…or two. Every family group set up camp along the river, which, running with the fresh muddy snowmelt from the mountains, churned like a chocolate milkshake. Some older cousins dug out a hole for our kazan, lit a fire beneath it, then slaughtered and put the sheep in its entirety into the giant pot to boil for the next 6 hours.
In the meantime, the family sat, conversed, and drank tea. I met a number of older family members I hadn't been introduced to before, then attempted to use the time to lose myself in a good book in the shade of a tree, but my younger students found me and wouldn’t leave off peppering me with questions. So we went off to explore, clambering up foothills and over the ravines that ran down them.
We finally ate the sheep at 2 o’clock, which was first served in large hunks, then finely diced up and mixed with noodles, which we ate with our fingers, i.e. besh barmak (“5 finger” food).
Afterwards everyone was ready for a nap, so we packed up quickly—or as quickly as possible when you have a set of 20 dishes and a 20-gallon cast iron pot to clean—and loaded into the cars. All in all, what my stomach missed from an American picnic—think salads, brownies, grilled chicken, etc.—was more than made up for by the fellowship of family. All 800 members of it…
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Other End of Giving
Have you ever wondered what happens to the Christmas shoeboxes you pack, gift-wrap, and donate every holiday season?
I found out this past February when a shipment of such boxes arrived in my village from an organization called Samaritan’s Purse. For a small fee (the equivalent of 20 cents per box), a mom could pick up a shoebox for each of her children from the post office. (I’m still not sure why there was a small surcharge, but that amount was not a barrier for any families as far as I could tell.) My host mom came home that afternoon with 4 boxes. An unpacking frenzy ensued.
After the initial excitement, my oldest host sister Daria carefully laid out and catalogued the contents of all the packages on the living room floor on behalf of the family as a collective: 4 toothbrushes and toothpastes, two bars of soap, two knitted hats and scarves, two knitted hand-puppets, one doll, 2 British Pounds, one box of pencils, 5 small notepads, one matchbox car, one wind-up toy, a pair of socks, and a number of other trinkets my memory—and the kids—have lost with time.
For the rest of the week I had students coming up to me asking to translate fairytale story books, explain pocket-size Parcheesi sets, and otherwise identify simple but utterly unfamiliar toys (to them). I had one student write all her answers on a magic magnet sheet (that erased the answer when you lifted the top sheet) for the rest of the semester so I could check them before she copied them into her notebook.
Months later, the toothpaste tubes have been exhausted and the McDonald’s caliber toys have been all but forgotten, but Ainuru still carries around the doll as if it were her own child and a number of new pencils are still in the cabinet awaiting the start of the new school year. So on behalf of a very thankful family and a village, thanks to all who took the time to fill a shoebox this year. It was a pleasure to witness the joy on the other end of giving.
I found out this past February when a shipment of such boxes arrived in my village from an organization called Samaritan’s Purse. For a small fee (the equivalent of 20 cents per box), a mom could pick up a shoebox for each of her children from the post office. (I’m still not sure why there was a small surcharge, but that amount was not a barrier for any families as far as I could tell.) My host mom came home that afternoon with 4 boxes. An unpacking frenzy ensued.
After the initial excitement, my oldest host sister Daria carefully laid out and catalogued the contents of all the packages on the living room floor on behalf of the family as a collective: 4 toothbrushes and toothpastes, two bars of soap, two knitted hats and scarves, two knitted hand-puppets, one doll, 2 British Pounds, one box of pencils, 5 small notepads, one matchbox car, one wind-up toy, a pair of socks, and a number of other trinkets my memory—and the kids—have lost with time.
For the rest of the week I had students coming up to me asking to translate fairytale story books, explain pocket-size Parcheesi sets, and otherwise identify simple but utterly unfamiliar toys (to them). I had one student write all her answers on a magic magnet sheet (that erased the answer when you lifted the top sheet) for the rest of the semester so I could check them before she copied them into her notebook.
Months later, the toothpaste tubes have been exhausted and the McDonald’s caliber toys have been all but forgotten, but Ainuru still carries around the doll as if it were her own child and a number of new pencils are still in the cabinet awaiting the start of the new school year. So on behalf of a very thankful family and a village, thanks to all who took the time to fill a shoebox this year. It was a pleasure to witness the joy on the other end of giving.
Monday, February 14, 2011
On Happiness
January 10th - This week my literary selection has taken me around the world, from revolutionary Tehran in Iran Awakening (highly recommended) to the circus circuit of Depression Era America in Water for Elephants. Salt: A World History was particularly interestingly and geographically broad in scope, but the winner for the most introspective world tour goes to Eric Weiner’s The Geography of Bliss. Weiner decides to track down the catalysts for happiness with visits to many of the world’s most felicitous countries, among them Bhutan, where the government measures GNH (Gross National Happiness) instead of GDP (Gross National Product) and Iceland, where a culture so readily accepts failure as the expense of genius that it supports its citizens as they serially try out careers like hats at a costume shop.
Anyway, the book got me thinking about what makes me happy in Kyrgyzstan. And despite the sub-zero temperatures, I am quite happy in Kyrgyzstan; on a scale from 1-10, I’d say I’m about a 9. Yes, eating real Italian food and Salsa dancing—two things that top my general list—are impossible here, but I give you 15 things that do keep a smile on my face:
1) Daily life as the source of infinitely unpredictable and wildly improbable stories. We’ve devised all sorts of methods to keep ourselves entertained in America, from lazer tag to pranks involving cling-wrap and a friend’s car. But no one would ever think to put two donkeys in the kitchen. And here they needn’t to; here the donkeys do it themselves, and I wake up to yet another day where the “mundane” village life is anything but.
2) Reading detailed letters and emails. Any PC volunteer will tell you that a letter from home is a real treat, but for me, I am especially grateful to those who’ve taken the time to write me almost lyrical prose about the magnificent and mundane events of their lives. You have no idea how happy it makes me to know you learned to make a delicious quinoa salad or that your sons caught a 5 pound catfish. Thank you. (And please keep the emails coming!)
3) Writing. Yes, writing about the details of my own life give me almost as much joy as reading about the rest of yours’. Whether you, dear reader, appreciate the stories I post here or not, recounting such ridiculous events as go on in my daily life brings me great pleasure. It also must be said that I’ve always enjoyed the craft of writing and finally having the time to do it is a joy in and of itself.
4) Reading Dr. Seuss with 5th graders. Reading the genius of Dr. Seuss to anyone is a joyous endeavor, but helping bubbly Kyrgyz 5th graders read it themselves is a pleasure indeed. Imagine having never seen a picture book, then flipping through Dr. Suess. You’ve just imagined my 4th-5th grade English Club, the highlight of my teaching week. Taking turns passing the book around, we’ve learned colors and numbers with the help of One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, rhyme with Green Eggs and Ham, ‘right’ and ‘left’ with The Foot Book (and a little Hokey Pokey afterwards), and a whole lot more. Thank you Theodore Geisel (and thank you Mom for sending the books).
5) The laughter of children. I am blessed to live in a family with adorable, giggly, twin three-year-old girls. Tangnuru has learned the colors in English and has lately taken to going around pointing to everything and identifying its color. (As I write this, her father is quizzing her in the other room.) Adorable.
6) Pickles. Delicious—nutritious--and the only vegetable I’m currently able to keep in my diet (unless you count the ubiquitous potato). My friends and I canned dill pickles back in August anticipating the winter’s lack of vegetables, but I don’t think any of us envisioned three months bereft of the entire food group. The once sparse carrots and turnips in our soups have entirely disappeared, so I’m left with my pickles, which I’ve rationed to last me through mid-February, eating one pickle every other day. I eat a mandarin orange—my sole winter “fruit group” representative—on the alternate days.
7) Eating (and cooking) good food. This doesn’t happen often. But when it does, the contrast to all that bread you ate last week make the meal doubly pleasurable. Granted, with all the ingredient substitutions and baking with an oven that unevenly heats to a scalding 500 degrees and no other temperature, some things are bound to be a bit off. Nonetheless, when volunteers congregate, the one requisite for a good night seems to be making good food—and that we do well. The fried chicken and creamed spinach at the Karakol Christmas party certainly top my list of foodgasmic experiences and well illustrate this point (this was the first time in about 3 months I’d had chicken, let alone battered and fried, and only about the 3rd time in Kyrgyzstan that I’d had spinach). But not all delicious meals are reserved for holidays. Just last weekend I was able to whip up a delicious cheese-onion-red pepper quiche that was divine and completely doable with ingredients readily found in Naryn City. So yes, in the village I’m subsisting on dinners of fried potatoes, fried pasta, fried rice, or a combination thereof (and pickles and oranges as of late), but every now and then a quiche or homemade pumpkin ravioli will pass my palate—and its almost worth the bleak contrast of every bite of potato for those few meals of taste-bud bliss.
8) Deep musical tradition. One of the first things that endeared me to my first host family—and indeed Kyrygz people in general—was the pervasiveness of music in their lives. My host mother regularly sang to my host father’s accordion accompaniment, and she was happy to teach me some of her favorite traditional tunes, an endeavor that was a highlight of my pre-service training. The results also made me a sensation in the village; I’m called on to sing at every party. Everyone here takes singing seriously, to the point that national musical talent shows are featured weekly on TV. A popular party game is the “sing off,” where two teams take turns singing songs that start with the last letter of the last word of the previous song. The game can go on for as much as an hour, such is the breadth of Kyrygz vocal literature and the depth of my hosts knowledge. In addition to singing, I’ve also picked up a new instrument. (I decided my cello wouldn’t like the cold much and left it behind). I’m learning the komyz, a tear-shaped instrument much like a mandolin, but with only 3 strings. It’s beautiful to watch true masters play; the instrument may be simple, but the strumming can be quite elaborate and, if well executed, almost dance-like.
9) Grammar faux pas. Whether its my constant mix up of the Kyrgyz words “cow” and “house” (virtually indistinguishable to the untrained ear) or a student’s mis-statement, “Sally shits in the chair,” instead of “Sally sits in the chair,” mistakes like these keep me and my host family continually bemused.
10) The tendency to toast. Our teachers’ lounge sees at least weekly toasts to new brides, new coats, new hats, birthdays and reunions. I still find vodka shots before a 1:15 class a little disconcerting, but the toasts themselves, given in turn by every person in the room, are a beautiful symbol of the genuine care the Kyrgyz share for one another.
11) Greeting everyone in the street. When was the last time you said “hello” to a complete stranger on the street? Try it and I guarantee you’ll find yourself smiling 10 times more on the way to work. Here it’s a sign of respect to acknowledge anyone older than you when you pass in the street, and I think, a tradition worth adopting.
12) Spontaneous guesting. It is culturally accepted, in fact it is actually polite, to drop by a neighbor or friends’ house unexpectedly for casual chat and chai. No prior phone call, text, or email needed. Would you do this in the States? I think not. Your neighbor is undoubtedly busy and needs to find time to work you into the schedule and the house probably needs a bit of cleaning before its presentable, right? Not so in Kyrygzstan. Your neighbor is most likely home, happy to receive you, and the carpets are certainly clean—they’re vacuumed daily.
13) “It happens when it happens” mentality. Most volunteers are annoyed by this attitude—especially coming from a culture that values pro-activity—but I appreciate aspects of the “azer” outlook. (Azer being the word that translates as “now” but means anything from in the next 5 minutes to the next 5 hours.) Yes, it can be frustrating to wait in a “taxi” for 3 hours for it to leave, but once you learn to accept your powerless in certain situations, it’s actually liberating. (Though certainly plan ahead for such predicaments by bringing a book.) While stressing over something in the States might actually have some effect over the situation, it won’t here. So why stress?
14) Mountains beyond mountains. I see them ringing the valley I live in each time I walk out my front gate. If the altitude isn’t enough to make you catch your breath, these peaks certainly are.
15) Blue skies, nothing but blue skies. When Irving Berlin penned this song, he surely couldn’t have had the Ak-Talaa Valley in mind, but he may as well have. My region of Kyrgyzstan is strikingly similar to the American Southwest when it comes to weather and rock formations. The climate is incredibly dry and we might get rain (or in winter, snow) once every two weeks, but 95% percent of the time the sun is shining. And as it turns out, 10-below is not too bad when the skies are blue.
Anyway, the book got me thinking about what makes me happy in Kyrgyzstan. And despite the sub-zero temperatures, I am quite happy in Kyrgyzstan; on a scale from 1-10, I’d say I’m about a 9. Yes, eating real Italian food and Salsa dancing—two things that top my general list—are impossible here, but I give you 15 things that do keep a smile on my face:
1) Daily life as the source of infinitely unpredictable and wildly improbable stories. We’ve devised all sorts of methods to keep ourselves entertained in America, from lazer tag to pranks involving cling-wrap and a friend’s car. But no one would ever think to put two donkeys in the kitchen. And here they needn’t to; here the donkeys do it themselves, and I wake up to yet another day where the “mundane” village life is anything but.
2) Reading detailed letters and emails. Any PC volunteer will tell you that a letter from home is a real treat, but for me, I am especially grateful to those who’ve taken the time to write me almost lyrical prose about the magnificent and mundane events of their lives. You have no idea how happy it makes me to know you learned to make a delicious quinoa salad or that your sons caught a 5 pound catfish. Thank you. (And please keep the emails coming!)
3) Writing. Yes, writing about the details of my own life give me almost as much joy as reading about the rest of yours’. Whether you, dear reader, appreciate the stories I post here or not, recounting such ridiculous events as go on in my daily life brings me great pleasure. It also must be said that I’ve always enjoyed the craft of writing and finally having the time to do it is a joy in and of itself.
4) Reading Dr. Seuss with 5th graders. Reading the genius of Dr. Seuss to anyone is a joyous endeavor, but helping bubbly Kyrgyz 5th graders read it themselves is a pleasure indeed. Imagine having never seen a picture book, then flipping through Dr. Suess. You’ve just imagined my 4th-5th grade English Club, the highlight of my teaching week. Taking turns passing the book around, we’ve learned colors and numbers with the help of One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, rhyme with Green Eggs and Ham, ‘right’ and ‘left’ with The Foot Book (and a little Hokey Pokey afterwards), and a whole lot more. Thank you Theodore Geisel (and thank you Mom for sending the books).
5) The laughter of children. I am blessed to live in a family with adorable, giggly, twin three-year-old girls. Tangnuru has learned the colors in English and has lately taken to going around pointing to everything and identifying its color. (As I write this, her father is quizzing her in the other room.) Adorable.
6) Pickles. Delicious—nutritious--and the only vegetable I’m currently able to keep in my diet (unless you count the ubiquitous potato). My friends and I canned dill pickles back in August anticipating the winter’s lack of vegetables, but I don’t think any of us envisioned three months bereft of the entire food group. The once sparse carrots and turnips in our soups have entirely disappeared, so I’m left with my pickles, which I’ve rationed to last me through mid-February, eating one pickle every other day. I eat a mandarin orange—my sole winter “fruit group” representative—on the alternate days.
7) Eating (and cooking) good food. This doesn’t happen often. But when it does, the contrast to all that bread you ate last week make the meal doubly pleasurable. Granted, with all the ingredient substitutions and baking with an oven that unevenly heats to a scalding 500 degrees and no other temperature, some things are bound to be a bit off. Nonetheless, when volunteers congregate, the one requisite for a good night seems to be making good food—and that we do well. The fried chicken and creamed spinach at the Karakol Christmas party certainly top my list of foodgasmic experiences and well illustrate this point (this was the first time in about 3 months I’d had chicken, let alone battered and fried, and only about the 3rd time in Kyrgyzstan that I’d had spinach). But not all delicious meals are reserved for holidays. Just last weekend I was able to whip up a delicious cheese-onion-red pepper quiche that was divine and completely doable with ingredients readily found in Naryn City. So yes, in the village I’m subsisting on dinners of fried potatoes, fried pasta, fried rice, or a combination thereof (and pickles and oranges as of late), but every now and then a quiche or homemade pumpkin ravioli will pass my palate—and its almost worth the bleak contrast of every bite of potato for those few meals of taste-bud bliss.
8) Deep musical tradition. One of the first things that endeared me to my first host family—and indeed Kyrygz people in general—was the pervasiveness of music in their lives. My host mother regularly sang to my host father’s accordion accompaniment, and she was happy to teach me some of her favorite traditional tunes, an endeavor that was a highlight of my pre-service training. The results also made me a sensation in the village; I’m called on to sing at every party. Everyone here takes singing seriously, to the point that national musical talent shows are featured weekly on TV. A popular party game is the “sing off,” where two teams take turns singing songs that start with the last letter of the last word of the previous song. The game can go on for as much as an hour, such is the breadth of Kyrygz vocal literature and the depth of my hosts knowledge. In addition to singing, I’ve also picked up a new instrument. (I decided my cello wouldn’t like the cold much and left it behind). I’m learning the komyz, a tear-shaped instrument much like a mandolin, but with only 3 strings. It’s beautiful to watch true masters play; the instrument may be simple, but the strumming can be quite elaborate and, if well executed, almost dance-like.
9) Grammar faux pas. Whether its my constant mix up of the Kyrgyz words “cow” and “house” (virtually indistinguishable to the untrained ear) or a student’s mis-statement, “Sally shits in the chair,” instead of “Sally sits in the chair,” mistakes like these keep me and my host family continually bemused.
10) The tendency to toast. Our teachers’ lounge sees at least weekly toasts to new brides, new coats, new hats, birthdays and reunions. I still find vodka shots before a 1:15 class a little disconcerting, but the toasts themselves, given in turn by every person in the room, are a beautiful symbol of the genuine care the Kyrgyz share for one another.
11) Greeting everyone in the street. When was the last time you said “hello” to a complete stranger on the street? Try it and I guarantee you’ll find yourself smiling 10 times more on the way to work. Here it’s a sign of respect to acknowledge anyone older than you when you pass in the street, and I think, a tradition worth adopting.
12) Spontaneous guesting. It is culturally accepted, in fact it is actually polite, to drop by a neighbor or friends’ house unexpectedly for casual chat and chai. No prior phone call, text, or email needed. Would you do this in the States? I think not. Your neighbor is undoubtedly busy and needs to find time to work you into the schedule and the house probably needs a bit of cleaning before its presentable, right? Not so in Kyrygzstan. Your neighbor is most likely home, happy to receive you, and the carpets are certainly clean—they’re vacuumed daily.
13) “It happens when it happens” mentality. Most volunteers are annoyed by this attitude—especially coming from a culture that values pro-activity—but I appreciate aspects of the “azer” outlook. (Azer being the word that translates as “now” but means anything from in the next 5 minutes to the next 5 hours.) Yes, it can be frustrating to wait in a “taxi” for 3 hours for it to leave, but once you learn to accept your powerless in certain situations, it’s actually liberating. (Though certainly plan ahead for such predicaments by bringing a book.) While stressing over something in the States might actually have some effect over the situation, it won’t here. So why stress?
14) Mountains beyond mountains. I see them ringing the valley I live in each time I walk out my front gate. If the altitude isn’t enough to make you catch your breath, these peaks certainly are.
15) Blue skies, nothing but blue skies. When Irving Berlin penned this song, he surely couldn’t have had the Ak-Talaa Valley in mind, but he may as well have. My region of Kyrgyzstan is strikingly similar to the American Southwest when it comes to weather and rock formations. The climate is incredibly dry and we might get rain (or in winter, snow) once every two weeks, but 95% percent of the time the sun is shining. And as it turns out, 10-below is not too bad when the skies are blue.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Жаңы Жыл (“Janguh Jil”)
Decorating a tree, getting presents from Santa, spending time with family… Can you name the holiday?
For the Kyrgyz, this is New Years.
The Kyrgyz celebrate New Years much as secular Americans would celebrate Christmas. I had quite a bit of confusion in class differentiating the two holidays, until I got across the point that Christmas was really a Christian holiday centered on the birth of Jesus, and New Years for Americans was just a party. Nonetheless, when my students presented their Venn diagrams on the subject, it still surprised me just how much of American Christmas transferred over to celebrations of the Kyrgyz New Year, a major holiday in this Muslim country. It makes sense if you think back to Kyrgyzstan’s Soviet era, as Orthodox Russian celebrate Christmas, but it’s not celebrated until January 8th and that connection certainly wasn’t made by most of my students (who almost certainly have never seen an Orthodox church, as there aren’t any in my province).
There are a few differences, of course. For instance, Santa’s (“Aiaz-Ata”) yuletide partner is his daughter (“Aiaz-Kuz”), not Mrs. Claus. Trees bear shiny ornaments and lots of tinsel and garlands, but the multi-colored garlands are usually strung vertically rather than horizontally around the tree, and in such a number, you can hardly make out the tree behind them. Despite their abundance in the mountains, trees are expensive, so my family made do with just a juniper branch this year. It had two decorations—a pinecone someone painted gold and a brass ornament my parents sent from the Shenandoah Valley.
The holiday itself, January 31st, is spent largely at home in the company of family (which is particularly notable, as most holidays include the whole neighborhood). My family’s holiday started the night before when my host dad came home bearing candy and oranges as presents “from Santa.”
Before going to bed, I instructed my host sibs to leave out their socks, just in case American Santa came to visit. I woke at 6 a.m. to stuff these “stockings”. I always thought my Dad’s stories of getting oranges and nuts in his stocking as a kid were quintessentially old fashioned, but oranges (mandarins from China, now relatively cheap in the bazaar), candy, dates, and hot chocolate packets were exactly what I filled my siblings socks with now. I threw in some stickers I had as well, and the weight eventually pulled all the socks of the door (see the “before” picture at right). The sign they left me reads “Thank you Santa.”
So for breakfast—a good four hours later, we had a veritable sugar feast, as withholding candy or explaining the concept of “saving for later” to a Kyrgyz 3-year-old is just not done. At some point, Tangnuru decided the crocheted Christmas tree my parents had sent from the states would make a nice hat. I agree.
We spent the rest of the morning making “boluchka”, or sweet rolls. Mine never turn out as nicely twisted as my host mom’s, but since she makes the dough, they all taste good. Actually, it’s very akin to challah, but made into individual rolls. The afternoon was spent snacking on various elements of our later meal and playing games. Daria put up a good fight, but in the end, I soundly beat her in chess. Tangnuru (3) on the other hand, beat me in a matching game of color flashcards.
Around 7 o’clock, my host parents, 11-year-old sister and I headed to our neighbors—an aunt and uncle’s—for the first of our New Years celebrations. My host brother Beksultan headed up the mountain behind the village with his classmates to light a bonfire. I’m not sure how and with what they scrambled up the icy slope in what were negative 15-20 degree temperatures to light such a blaze, but the fire was pretty impressive as seen from the village. Apparently it’s a New Years tradition.
Nurai Ege (my host aunt) made manty, or Kyrgyz dumplings, for our feast. Hers were particularly good, actually, with a higher onion to fat ratio than normal and beef instead of mutton. Still, the requisite of proper manty seems to be that the copious grease ooze down your fingers until congealing like candle wax (my host mom’s recipe calls for equal parts meat and cut up bits of solid fat). Once, in an attempt to cutout some of the fat, I actually “milked” the dumplings onto my plate, leaving enough fat for my host mom to save for later cooking. What to do once your fingers have solidified into wax sculptures? Just rub it in. It’s actually a pretty good hand salve (and much needed in winter).
I suspect just one manty is cause enough for a heart-attack, yet Kyrgyz hospitality would never permit such a portion. (And in fact, the Kyrgyz unfortunately do have a very high rate of heart disease.) I’m usually started off with 4 or 5 dumplings, and when finished, despite protests that I’m quite full, more are inevitably put on my plate. In Kyrgyzstan, apparently “no” means “yes”—at least at the dinner table. You’d be a bad host if you acted otherwise. The solution is, after at least politely finishing one portion, to leave the second or third on your plate. Cleaning your plate will not get you excused from the table; you’ll just get more.
The drink of choice for the evening (and every other Kyrgyz party I’ve ever attended) was the traditional bozo, a frothy fermented barley beverage (not at all like beer), naturally alcoholic but usually supplemented with a drought of vodka for good measure. In my region, bozo is drunk sour. In my friend Brooke’s rayon, just three hours away, good bozo is always sweet from added sugar. The usual toasts proceeded with wishes of good health (“den-so-luk bol-soong”), good fortune (“bai bol-o-lu”), warm clothes (“jiloo kee-eem bol-soong”), and peace (“tinch-tuk bol-soong”).
We left shortly there after. If you’ve never walked home on iced-over dirt roads in the pitch dark, you should try it some time. It’s a real trip.
Back home, with three hours to go until midnight, we did what any family would do to kill time til the ball drops: we turned on the TV. But instead of overly-hyped pop performances and a lot of filler from announcers and camera pans of giant crowds in New Years, the Kyrygz national educational channel was broadcasting staged performances of traditional vocal, instrumental and dance pieces. Naryn Oblast (the “most Kyrgyz” of all oblasts) was the home of at least half of the performers. Many, I was told, were in fact from neighboring villages, and on more than one occasion my host mom pointed out a singer who was a brother’s wife, niece, or relation of some kind. I guess in country of 5 million, that’s bound to happen.
With the rest of the family entertained, my host mom and I turned to the other tasks at hand—making more food, of course. First on the prep list was a second “salad” (we’d make Kyrgyz potato salad earlier in the day). Salad or “salat” just means anything that is not a main course, usually has some form of vegetable in it, but never consists of a leafy green. Two of my favorites include layers of tomato slices and fried eggplant with garlicy mayonnaise between the slices and “funchosa”, a cold Chinese noodle salad with strips of red pepper and carrots doused in oil. “Bird’s nest” salad, as she called the one we made this particular evening, turned out to be the strangest salad I’ve ever seen in Kyrygzstan.
We started by mounding pomegranate seeds in the centers of three plates. (Note: I’ve never seen my host mom buy the rather expensive pomegranates before this.) Next, we added a ring of canned peas around the tart seeds. This was followed by a ring of apples bits coated and mixed with mayonnaise, and outside that, a layer of diced dill pickles. The outer ring was chopped hardboiled egg. (See picture). As if this wasn’t enough, the masterpiece was then covered in mayonnaise and sprinkled with a light dusting of chopped walnuts.
I will concede that it was very pretty. And fortunately, it was actually not as bad as it sounds, though, you have to like a sweet-sour-oily mix and not mind it tasting different every bite. I admit, I did my best to steer clear of the peas in the same bite as the pomegranate, and the pickles in the same bite as the mayo apples. Even my host dad and the relatives that came over later were wary of it.
Having stuffed ourselves with manty earlier in the evening, my host mom and I both thought forgoing our plans to make the main dish was a good idea, but I think my host dad protested or my host mom just got bored with two hours left ‘til midnight.
In any case, at 10 o’clock I found myself helping to roll out noodles for logman (pronounced “log-mun”), a traditionally Dungun (a Muslim Western-Chinese ethnic group) hearty noodle soup.
My host mom had made the dough earlier, a simple mix of flour, water, and salt. Now she cut off slices and rolled them into thick coils. I took the coils and began rolling and lengthening them between my fingers. They were then oiled and re-coiled, and the process was repeated.
Finally, we took the now 6-foot-long noodle, strung it between our fingers like Cats Cradle string (see picture) and literally whipped the noodle against the table like we were beating laundry. The finished product was super thin and over 10 ft. long (and we made about 20 of these). The noodles were boiled in salty water, then transferred to cold water, like you’d make any noodle. 
These were then ladled into bowls, and a fried mix of turnips, carrots, potatoes, and meat was poured over top. Logman is quite possibly my favorite meal in Kyrgyzstan, and certainly fun to eat. Daria (left) and Ainuru (right) demonstrate.
With 2nd dinner finished and still a half-hour to go ‘til midnight, my host dad decided he was tired and didn’t need to wait til midnight to start the toasts. I had bought a “children’s” non-alcoholic bottle of champagne in Karakol, and he decided we’d start with this. The picture at left shows my family’s response as he maneuvered out the cork.
(In actuality, it hardly even made the ‘popping’ noise.) After our carbonated juice (for that’s what it really was), we opened the real bottle. I think I preferred the fake stuff; Crystal is the high end of champagne to be found in Kyrgyzstan, if that tells you anything. And this wasn’t Crystal.
Nonetheless, toasts were made all around. It is Kyrgyz custom for everyone, kids included, to offer a toast at a gathering, and this was no exception. Then at 5 minutes ‘til midnight, President Rosa Otumbaeva came on TV for a national address of hope and peace in the New Year, speaking first in Russian, then in Kyrgyz.
We drank our final drops of champagne at midnight and headed outside to shoot off our two fireworks. Our neighbors were also shooting off sparklers and the like, all of which combined to scare 3-year-old Ainuru to tears. (I have to say, I myself was scared for my host sibling’s hands as they held the fireworks through the length of their incineration). I’m told in other villages, the shows were pretty fantastic, but I didn’t stay out long enough in the freezing temperatures to see the extent of ours.
By 12:30, the last of the well-wishing New Years SMS’s had rolled in (both me and my host father had been sending and receiving texts on our cell phones all evening) and I crawled into my sleeping bag. жаңы жылыңыздар менен куттуктайм! (Happy New Years everyone!)
For the Kyrgyz, this is New Years.
The Kyrgyz celebrate New Years much as secular Americans would celebrate Christmas. I had quite a bit of confusion in class differentiating the two holidays, until I got across the point that Christmas was really a Christian holiday centered on the birth of Jesus, and New Years for Americans was just a party. Nonetheless, when my students presented their Venn diagrams on the subject, it still surprised me just how much of American Christmas transferred over to celebrations of the Kyrgyz New Year, a major holiday in this Muslim country. It makes sense if you think back to Kyrgyzstan’s Soviet era, as Orthodox Russian celebrate Christmas, but it’s not celebrated until January 8th and that connection certainly wasn’t made by most of my students (who almost certainly have never seen an Orthodox church, as there aren’t any in my province).
There are a few differences, of course. For instance, Santa’s (“Aiaz-Ata”) yuletide partner is his daughter (“Aiaz-Kuz”), not Mrs. Claus. Trees bear shiny ornaments and lots of tinsel and garlands, but the multi-colored garlands are usually strung vertically rather than horizontally around the tree, and in such a number, you can hardly make out the tree behind them. Despite their abundance in the mountains, trees are expensive, so my family made do with just a juniper branch this year. It had two decorations—a pinecone someone painted gold and a brass ornament my parents sent from the Shenandoah Valley.
The holiday itself, January 31st, is spent largely at home in the company of family (which is particularly notable, as most holidays include the whole neighborhood). My family’s holiday started the night before when my host dad came home bearing candy and oranges as presents “from Santa.”
Before going to bed, I instructed my host sibs to leave out their socks, just in case American Santa came to visit. I woke at 6 a.m. to stuff these “stockings”. I always thought my Dad’s stories of getting oranges and nuts in his stocking as a kid were quintessentially old fashioned, but oranges (mandarins from China, now relatively cheap in the bazaar), candy, dates, and hot chocolate packets were exactly what I filled my siblings socks with now. I threw in some stickers I had as well, and the weight eventually pulled all the socks of the door (see the “before” picture at right). The sign they left me reads “Thank you Santa.”
So for breakfast—a good four hours later, we had a veritable sugar feast, as withholding candy or explaining the concept of “saving for later” to a Kyrgyz 3-year-old is just not done. At some point, Tangnuru decided the crocheted Christmas tree my parents had sent from the states would make a nice hat. I agree.We spent the rest of the morning making “boluchka”, or sweet rolls. Mine never turn out as nicely twisted as my host mom’s, but since she makes the dough, they all taste good. Actually, it’s very akin to challah, but made into individual rolls. The afternoon was spent snacking on various elements of our later meal and playing games. Daria put up a good fight, but in the end, I soundly beat her in chess. Tangnuru (3) on the other hand, beat me in a matching game of color flashcards.
Around 7 o’clock, my host parents, 11-year-old sister and I headed to our neighbors—an aunt and uncle’s—for the first of our New Years celebrations. My host brother Beksultan headed up the mountain behind the village with his classmates to light a bonfire. I’m not sure how and with what they scrambled up the icy slope in what were negative 15-20 degree temperatures to light such a blaze, but the fire was pretty impressive as seen from the village. Apparently it’s a New Years tradition.
Nurai Ege (my host aunt) made manty, or Kyrgyz dumplings, for our feast. Hers were particularly good, actually, with a higher onion to fat ratio than normal and beef instead of mutton. Still, the requisite of proper manty seems to be that the copious grease ooze down your fingers until congealing like candle wax (my host mom’s recipe calls for equal parts meat and cut up bits of solid fat). Once, in an attempt to cutout some of the fat, I actually “milked” the dumplings onto my plate, leaving enough fat for my host mom to save for later cooking. What to do once your fingers have solidified into wax sculptures? Just rub it in. It’s actually a pretty good hand salve (and much needed in winter).I suspect just one manty is cause enough for a heart-attack, yet Kyrgyz hospitality would never permit such a portion. (And in fact, the Kyrgyz unfortunately do have a very high rate of heart disease.) I’m usually started off with 4 or 5 dumplings, and when finished, despite protests that I’m quite full, more are inevitably put on my plate. In Kyrgyzstan, apparently “no” means “yes”—at least at the dinner table. You’d be a bad host if you acted otherwise. The solution is, after at least politely finishing one portion, to leave the second or third on your plate. Cleaning your plate will not get you excused from the table; you’ll just get more.
The drink of choice for the evening (and every other Kyrgyz party I’ve ever attended) was the traditional bozo, a frothy fermented barley beverage (not at all like beer), naturally alcoholic but usually supplemented with a drought of vodka for good measure. In my region, bozo is drunk sour. In my friend Brooke’s rayon, just three hours away, good bozo is always sweet from added sugar. The usual toasts proceeded with wishes of good health (“den-so-luk bol-soong”), good fortune (“bai bol-o-lu”), warm clothes (“jiloo kee-eem bol-soong”), and peace (“tinch-tuk bol-soong”). We left shortly there after. If you’ve never walked home on iced-over dirt roads in the pitch dark, you should try it some time. It’s a real trip.
Back home, with three hours to go until midnight, we did what any family would do to kill time til the ball drops: we turned on the TV. But instead of overly-hyped pop performances and a lot of filler from announcers and camera pans of giant crowds in New Years, the Kyrygz national educational channel was broadcasting staged performances of traditional vocal, instrumental and dance pieces. Naryn Oblast (the “most Kyrgyz” of all oblasts) was the home of at least half of the performers. Many, I was told, were in fact from neighboring villages, and on more than one occasion my host mom pointed out a singer who was a brother’s wife, niece, or relation of some kind. I guess in country of 5 million, that’s bound to happen.
With the rest of the family entertained, my host mom and I turned to the other tasks at hand—making more food, of course. First on the prep list was a second “salad” (we’d make Kyrgyz potato salad earlier in the day). Salad or “salat” just means anything that is not a main course, usually has some form of vegetable in it, but never consists of a leafy green. Two of my favorites include layers of tomato slices and fried eggplant with garlicy mayonnaise between the slices and “funchosa”, a cold Chinese noodle salad with strips of red pepper and carrots doused in oil. “Bird’s nest” salad, as she called the one we made this particular evening, turned out to be the strangest salad I’ve ever seen in Kyrygzstan.
We started by mounding pomegranate seeds in the centers of three plates. (Note: I’ve never seen my host mom buy the rather expensive pomegranates before this.) Next, we added a ring of canned peas around the tart seeds. This was followed by a ring of apples bits coated and mixed with mayonnaise, and outside that, a layer of diced dill pickles. The outer ring was chopped hardboiled egg. (See picture). As if this wasn’t enough, the masterpiece was then covered in mayonnaise and sprinkled with a light dusting of chopped walnuts. I will concede that it was very pretty. And fortunately, it was actually not as bad as it sounds, though, you have to like a sweet-sour-oily mix and not mind it tasting different every bite. I admit, I did my best to steer clear of the peas in the same bite as the pomegranate, and the pickles in the same bite as the mayo apples. Even my host dad and the relatives that came over later were wary of it.
Having stuffed ourselves with manty earlier in the evening, my host mom and I both thought forgoing our plans to make the main dish was a good idea, but I think my host dad protested or my host mom just got bored with two hours left ‘til midnight.
In any case, at 10 o’clock I found myself helping to roll out noodles for logman (pronounced “log-mun”), a traditionally Dungun (a Muslim Western-Chinese ethnic group) hearty noodle soup. My host mom had made the dough earlier, a simple mix of flour, water, and salt. Now she cut off slices and rolled them into thick coils. I took the coils and began rolling and lengthening them between my fingers. They were then oiled and re-coiled, and the process was repeated.
Finally, we took the now 6-foot-long noodle, strung it between our fingers like Cats Cradle string (see picture) and literally whipped the noodle against the table like we were beating laundry. The finished product was super thin and over 10 ft. long (and we made about 20 of these). The noodles were boiled in salty water, then transferred to cold water, like you’d make any noodle. 
These were then ladled into bowls, and a fried mix of turnips, carrots, potatoes, and meat was poured over top. Logman is quite possibly my favorite meal in Kyrgyzstan, and certainly fun to eat. Daria (left) and Ainuru (right) demonstrate.With 2nd dinner finished and still a half-hour to go ‘til midnight, my host dad decided he was tired and didn’t need to wait til midnight to start the toasts. I had bought a “children’s” non-alcoholic bottle of champagne in Karakol, and he decided we’d start with this. The picture at left shows my family’s response as he maneuvered out the cork.
(In actuality, it hardly even made the ‘popping’ noise.) After our carbonated juice (for that’s what it really was), we opened the real bottle. I think I preferred the fake stuff; Crystal is the high end of champagne to be found in Kyrgyzstan, if that tells you anything. And this wasn’t Crystal.Nonetheless, toasts were made all around. It is Kyrgyz custom for everyone, kids included, to offer a toast at a gathering, and this was no exception. Then at 5 minutes ‘til midnight, President Rosa Otumbaeva came on TV for a national address of hope and peace in the New Year, speaking first in Russian, then in Kyrgyz.
We drank our final drops of champagne at midnight and headed outside to shoot off our two fireworks. Our neighbors were also shooting off sparklers and the like, all of which combined to scare 3-year-old Ainuru to tears. (I have to say, I myself was scared for my host sibling’s hands as they held the fireworks through the length of their incineration). I’m told in other villages, the shows were pretty fantastic, but I didn’t stay out long enough in the freezing temperatures to see the extent of ours.
By 12:30, the last of the well-wishing New Years SMS’s had rolled in (both me and my host father had been sending and receiving texts on our cell phones all evening) and I crawled into my sleeping bag. жаңы жылыңыздар менен куттуктайм! (Happy New Years everyone!)
"American" Christmas
I don’t think there is another place in Kyrgyzstan that you can tell a driver a destination and there be two routes to get there, but Lake Issyk Kul has two shores—and thus two roads to get to the city at its farthest end, Karakol.
A number of volunteers live in and around this city, so it’s to Karakol I traveled with other Naryn volunteers for Christmas. Unfortunately, as Brooke and I discovered once we’d already spent half of the day just getting out of our villages and our oblast (province), there are two routes to Karakol from Balykchy, the city at the opposite end of the lake. Of course, we accidentally took the marshrutka along the longest (southern) shore of the second largest alpine lake in the world. Five hours later, after a good conversation explaining our work as volunteers to some of our fellow passengers and later an annoying 45 minutes ignoring 20-something drunk men who kept trying to get our attention in Russian, we arrived, and I unsuspectingly hopped off the bus into a 3-foot snowdrift. Turns out Karakol, though much warmer than Naryn, gets twice the snow.
For the holiday festivities, we gathered in a volunteer’s apartment for a “Southern” Christmas, complete with fried chicken, baked mac’n’cheese, creamed spinach, meatballs, and plenty of cookies (someone’s family had sent them molasses and brown sugar to cook with, bless them). Back at our hosts, we concluded the evening with homemade eggnog. (I was staying with two good volunteer friends, a young married couple from Washington, who graciously let us take as many hot showers we liked—but when you’re in the habit of bathing only once a week, a shower more than any other day seems truly excessive.)
The next day, we drove just out of town to hit Karakol’s beautiful slopes for a day of skiing. As it turned out, the runs were limited (2), but long, nicely groomed, and offered breath-taking, jaw-dropping views of the Lake one side, and the gorges of Karakol valley on the other. (The picture, at right, doesn’t do it justice.) To my delight, I found that my fellow volunteers were as competent skiers as myself, and we spent the day racing down the slopes. It was also remarkably uncrowded for the day after Christmas, the ski rentals were surprisingly top of the line, and there were very few beginners to contend with. (I imagine its too expensive for the average Kyrgyz person to spend money to learn how to ski. The ticket and rentals came to 1300 som—$25 US—or about a seventh of my monthly salary.)
For lunch, we hit the lodge, and despite its relatively outrageous prices (to our budgets), I greatly enjoyed a caprese salad (tomatoes in December!!) and cheesecake. I admit, I skipped the main courses, which were all very meaty, but my friends ordered steak, a meat as hard to find in Kyrgyzstan as tomatoes in December.
I would say my eating experience—and the pounds I gained—pretty much sums up the remainder of my holidays. Dinner that night was homemade individual chicken-pot-pies, which I must admit, Brooke and I outdid ourselves on; they were incredible. The next night Mark cooked his homemade lasagna, making the ricotta cheese from scratch. (I hadn’t imagined learning to make Italian food from scratch would go on my “learned-in-Kyrgyzstan” list, but there you have it.) Brooke made cheesy garlic bread to complete the meal, and again, we ate until we could no more. The last night, we headed over to another volunteer’s apartment, singing carols all the way (this really completely my Christmas). He had all the makings for sushi and had found a coconut in the Karakol bazaar! While he rolled the sushi (all veggie and all delicious), I cracked and scraped a coconut to make Papua New Guinea coconut rice. Brooke fried bananas to complete my dessert, and we all left with very full stomachs.
If you can’t have family for the holidays, friends and fantastic food make a pretty good substitute.
A number of volunteers live in and around this city, so it’s to Karakol I traveled with other Naryn volunteers for Christmas. Unfortunately, as Brooke and I discovered once we’d already spent half of the day just getting out of our villages and our oblast (province), there are two routes to Karakol from Balykchy, the city at the opposite end of the lake. Of course, we accidentally took the marshrutka along the longest (southern) shore of the second largest alpine lake in the world. Five hours later, after a good conversation explaining our work as volunteers to some of our fellow passengers and later an annoying 45 minutes ignoring 20-something drunk men who kept trying to get our attention in Russian, we arrived, and I unsuspectingly hopped off the bus into a 3-foot snowdrift. Turns out Karakol, though much warmer than Naryn, gets twice the snow.
For the holiday festivities, we gathered in a volunteer’s apartment for a “Southern” Christmas, complete with fried chicken, baked mac’n’cheese, creamed spinach, meatballs, and plenty of cookies (someone’s family had sent them molasses and brown sugar to cook with, bless them). Back at our hosts, we concluded the evening with homemade eggnog. (I was staying with two good volunteer friends, a young married couple from Washington, who graciously let us take as many hot showers we liked—but when you’re in the habit of bathing only once a week, a shower more than any other day seems truly excessive.)
The next day, we drove just out of town to hit Karakol’s beautiful slopes for a day of skiing. As it turned out, the runs were limited (2), but long, nicely groomed, and offered breath-taking, jaw-dropping views of the Lake one side, and the gorges of Karakol valley on the other. (The picture, at right, doesn’t do it justice.) To my delight, I found that my fellow volunteers were as competent skiers as myself, and we spent the day racing down the slopes. It was also remarkably uncrowded for the day after Christmas, the ski rentals were surprisingly top of the line, and there were very few beginners to contend with. (I imagine its too expensive for the average Kyrgyz person to spend money to learn how to ski. The ticket and rentals came to 1300 som—$25 US—or about a seventh of my monthly salary.) For lunch, we hit the lodge, and despite its relatively outrageous prices (to our budgets), I greatly enjoyed a caprese salad (tomatoes in December!!) and cheesecake. I admit, I skipped the main courses, which were all very meaty, but my friends ordered steak, a meat as hard to find in Kyrgyzstan as tomatoes in December.
I would say my eating experience—and the pounds I gained—pretty much sums up the remainder of my holidays. Dinner that night was homemade individual chicken-pot-pies, which I must admit, Brooke and I outdid ourselves on; they were incredible. The next night Mark cooked his homemade lasagna, making the ricotta cheese from scratch. (I hadn’t imagined learning to make Italian food from scratch would go on my “learned-in-Kyrgyzstan” list, but there you have it.) Brooke made cheesy garlic bread to complete the meal, and again, we ate until we could no more. The last night, we headed over to another volunteer’s apartment, singing carols all the way (this really completely my Christmas). He had all the makings for sushi and had found a coconut in the Karakol bazaar! While he rolled the sushi (all veggie and all delicious), I cracked and scraped a coconut to make Papua New Guinea coconut rice. Brooke fried bananas to complete my dessert, and we all left with very full stomachs.
If you can’t have family for the holidays, friends and fantastic food make a pretty good substitute.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
I realize I’ve devoted significantly more time to recounting anecdotes than explaining the ins and outs of my daily routine; this post should paint a more accurate picture of my daily life.
I teach 3-11th grades (my 4th A class is pictured at right). Each grade has two 45 minute classes a week, and 6th grade for 3 periods for some reason. My school has just under 200 students, which makes for wonderfully small classes, my smallest at just 10 and my largest at 24, averaging about 15. I teach (most) classes with my wonderful counterpart, Gulnor, for which we plan together and share the teaching 50/50. I have a second counterpart, Nurzada, with whom I’m supposed to teach 10th and 11th grade, but due to illness she’s been in and out of the classroom all semester.
My day starts at 7:30, which is currently before the sun comes up. I get up, head to the outhouse, then eat half a Cliff Bar and head to school for 8 a.m. class (and some lucky days, later). On any given day (Monday-Saturday), I have 1-6 classes, averaging about 4 a day, and Tuesday being my “mostly” day off with just one class. We only have 7 classrooms in our school, so 6th-11th grades have class from 8 a.m.-1 p.m., and the younger grades from 1:15 -5:30. It makes for long days, but except for 6 classes Friday, I never have all my classes consecutively. Between periods, I plan with my counterpart or teach one of my three English clubs (3-5th, 6-8th, 9-11th).
We strive to teach very student-centered classes, playing a lot of interactive games to learn vocabulary and grammar structures, and using as much English as possible. This last week of class has seen quite a few games of jeopardy review for finals. I wrote the finals with Gulnor, typed them, and printed them on a decade-old printer so each student could take the test without having to waste time copying all the questions from the blackboard. This was a first for the teachers and students, and I got lots of questions about where I got the paper (Bishkek) and why I’d bother, but I could show the tests as reason enough; I could actually use graphics (including pictures of my host sister washing her hands, brushing teeth, etc.), which made the tests much more interesting for 4th graders.
I love designing new games to play with the kids, and I get the most chance to do this with my English clubs. The most motivated students elect to come to my hour long clubs to practice speaking and reading, mostly. With the younger kids, we’ve been reading Dr. Seuss books (thanks for sending Mom!), learning color vocab with flashcards, and ‘right’ and ‘left’ with the Hokey Pokey. In the older grades, we’ve recently practiced giving toasts and writing resolutions for New Years, translated the Beatle’s hit “I feel fine,” and played adjective/adverb endings dominos (eg. peace-ful, quick-ly, etc.)
After class, I usually meet with one or two students for tutoring, my favorite part of the day.
I head home about 5:30 or 6, have chai with my family (see my host sister, Ainuru at right), do yoga, play games or watch a video with my host sibs. We eat about 9. Sometimes I cook, sometimes my host mom. The fare is sometimes fried potatoes, sometimes fried pasta, and sometimes both together. When I cook, I try to use vegetables, but lately they’ve been pretty hard to come by. We’ve been eating a lot of carrot, pumpkin or corn bread when its my night in the kitchen.
About 10 o’clock (after more chai, of course), I usually retire to my room where I read, listen to music, or watch movies on my computer. Around midnight, in 3 layers of long-underwear and a hat, I crawl into my 0 degree sleeping bag and turn out the light. I can sometime’s feel the wind whistling through the panes of my window that don’t quite reach their frames, but thankfully my heater works—even if it’s currently hotwired for lack of an outlet.
I teach 3-11th grades (my 4th A class is pictured at right). Each grade has two 45 minute classes a week, and 6th grade for 3 periods for some reason. My school has just under 200 students, which makes for wonderfully small classes, my smallest at just 10 and my largest at 24, averaging about 15. I teach (most) classes with my wonderful counterpart, Gulnor, for which we plan together and share the teaching 50/50. I have a second counterpart, Nurzada, with whom I’m supposed to teach 10th and 11th grade, but due to illness she’s been in and out of the classroom all semester.My day starts at 7:30, which is currently before the sun comes up. I get up, head to the outhouse, then eat half a Cliff Bar and head to school for 8 a.m. class (and some lucky days, later). On any given day (Monday-Saturday), I have 1-6 classes, averaging about 4 a day, and Tuesday being my “mostly” day off with just one class. We only have 7 classrooms in our school, so 6th-11th grades have class from 8 a.m.-1 p.m., and the younger grades from 1:15 -5:30. It makes for long days, but except for 6 classes Friday, I never have all my classes consecutively. Between periods, I plan with my counterpart or teach one of my three English clubs (3-5th, 6-8th, 9-11th).
We strive to teach very student-centered classes, playing a lot of interactive games to learn vocabulary and grammar structures, and using as much English as possible. This last week of class has seen quite a few games of jeopardy review for finals. I wrote the finals with Gulnor, typed them, and printed them on a decade-old printer so each student could take the test without having to waste time copying all the questions from the blackboard. This was a first for the teachers and students, and I got lots of questions about where I got the paper (Bishkek) and why I’d bother, but I could show the tests as reason enough; I could actually use graphics (including pictures of my host sister washing her hands, brushing teeth, etc.), which made the tests much more interesting for 4th graders. I love designing new games to play with the kids, and I get the most chance to do this with my English clubs. The most motivated students elect to come to my hour long clubs to practice speaking and reading, mostly. With the younger kids, we’ve been reading Dr. Seuss books (thanks for sending Mom!), learning color vocab with flashcards, and ‘right’ and ‘left’ with the Hokey Pokey. In the older grades, we’ve recently practiced giving toasts and writing resolutions for New Years, translated the Beatle’s hit “I feel fine,” and played adjective/adverb endings dominos (eg. peace-ful, quick-ly, etc.)
After class, I usually meet with one or two students for tutoring, my favorite part of the day.
I head home about 5:30 or 6, have chai with my family (see my host sister, Ainuru at right), do yoga, play games or watch a video with my host sibs. We eat about 9. Sometimes I cook, sometimes my host mom. The fare is sometimes fried potatoes, sometimes fried pasta, and sometimes both together. When I cook, I try to use vegetables, but lately they’ve been pretty hard to come by. We’ve been eating a lot of carrot, pumpkin or corn bread when its my night in the kitchen.About 10 o’clock (after more chai, of course), I usually retire to my room where I read, listen to music, or watch movies on my computer. Around midnight, in 3 layers of long-underwear and a hat, I crawl into my 0 degree sleeping bag and turn out the light. I can sometime’s feel the wind whistling through the panes of my window that don’t quite reach their frames, but thankfully my heater works—even if it’s currently hotwired for lack of an outlet.
When in Kyrgyzstan...
In no particular order, I give you a collection of anecdotes from the last couple months:
The other night I was knitting—my newest hobby; I’m already on scarf number three—and I dropped my knitting needle under my bed (actually an armchair that folds out). I first went digging around for it with a ruler, and then thinking I had finally gotten it close enough to grab it with my hand, I blindly reached for it. Only, when I pulled my hand back out, I was holding the tail of a long-dead and decaying mouse.
We have a stalagmite in our outhouse, and it’s not made of limestone. The outhouse pit was never deep, but now its so cold that a poopsicle has formed, and if not routinely knocked down, breeches the hole. As if going to the outhouse in freezing temperatures wasn’t bad enough.
My language has improved dramatically living with a family—and babysitting for the twins often. But still, its only three questions Ainuru and Tangnuru know they can ask me and I will absolutely respond to: 1) Can we watch Shrek/Lion King/Toy Story? 2) Can we draw pictures? 3) Can we brush our teeth? I’m not quite sure how my American habit of dental hygiene has rubbed off so successfully on them, but the number of times they ask to brush teeth each day has grown to far more than recommended ADA standards; on any given afternoon, they’ll ask me to get the brushes down 3-6 times. But given the dental hygiene around here (or serious lack thereof), I’d be the last to discourage a good habit.
I returned from a trip to Bishkek in mid-November with new winter boots, and wearing them to school the next day, found myself besieged by (mostly joking) requests for “myda.” I had to ask my counterpart to translate. It turns out, Kyrgyz tradition—much like Papua New Guinea’s, actually—says that anyone who purchases something new for herself, must share some of her “wealth” in the form of cookies, candies, etc. with everyone else. I brought my offering of treats the next day, and had to laugh while everyone took turns toasting my new shoes.
On Mondays at noon (or sometime relatively soon thereafter), my school’s 27 teachers congregate in our teacher’s lounge for a weekly meeting. The meeting usual lasts about an hour, leaving 10 minutes or so before afternoon classes start for refreshments brought by one teacher or other. The fare includes cookies, candy, some slices of meat/fat, and very often, vodka, for what would a proper teachers’ meeting be without shots to conclude it?
Our oblast’s volunteers gathered together to celebrate Thanksgiving in as much of an American fashion as we could manage the Saturday after the actual holiday. Thanks to one small oven, stove top burners that could not be plugged in simultaneously, and a power outage, it took all day to cook (we started at 10 a.m., ate the main meal at 10:30 p.m., and finally had my apple and pumpkin pies at 1 a.m.), but the fare was worth it. We killed, cleaned, and stuffed 3 turkeys—though we only had time to cook two of them, and had to use a neighbor’s oven for one. The process wasn’t exactly pretty; the first slaughterer didn’t quite come down on the first turkey’s neck hard enough, and the volunteer who was holding it panicked and let go, so it had to be caught and axed again, at which point it started spinning around headless and spraying the spectators with blood. But the meat, gravy, and accompanying mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and stuffing were well worth the effort in the end. Thanks Mom for sending the dried cranberries—they were the best addition to the stuffing!
The other night I was knitting—my newest hobby; I’m already on scarf number three—and I dropped my knitting needle under my bed (actually an armchair that folds out). I first went digging around for it with a ruler, and then thinking I had finally gotten it close enough to grab it with my hand, I blindly reached for it. Only, when I pulled my hand back out, I was holding the tail of a long-dead and decaying mouse.
We have a stalagmite in our outhouse, and it’s not made of limestone. The outhouse pit was never deep, but now its so cold that a poopsicle has formed, and if not routinely knocked down, breeches the hole. As if going to the outhouse in freezing temperatures wasn’t bad enough.
My language has improved dramatically living with a family—and babysitting for the twins often. But still, its only three questions Ainuru and Tangnuru know they can ask me and I will absolutely respond to: 1) Can we watch Shrek/Lion King/Toy Story? 2) Can we draw pictures? 3) Can we brush our teeth? I’m not quite sure how my American habit of dental hygiene has rubbed off so successfully on them, but the number of times they ask to brush teeth each day has grown to far more than recommended ADA standards; on any given afternoon, they’ll ask me to get the brushes down 3-6 times. But given the dental hygiene around here (or serious lack thereof), I’d be the last to discourage a good habit.I returned from a trip to Bishkek in mid-November with new winter boots, and wearing them to school the next day, found myself besieged by (mostly joking) requests for “myda.” I had to ask my counterpart to translate. It turns out, Kyrgyz tradition—much like Papua New Guinea’s, actually—says that anyone who purchases something new for herself, must share some of her “wealth” in the form of cookies, candies, etc. with everyone else. I brought my offering of treats the next day, and had to laugh while everyone took turns toasting my new shoes.
On Mondays at noon (or sometime relatively soon thereafter), my school’s 27 teachers congregate in our teacher’s lounge for a weekly meeting. The meeting usual lasts about an hour, leaving 10 minutes or so before afternoon classes start for refreshments brought by one teacher or other. The fare includes cookies, candy, some slices of meat/fat, and very often, vodka, for what would a proper teachers’ meeting be without shots to conclude it?
Our oblast’s volunteers gathered together to celebrate Thanksgiving in as much of an American fashion as we could manage the Saturday after the actual holiday. Thanks to one small oven, stove top burners that could not be plugged in simultaneously, and a power outage, it took all day to cook (we started at 10 a.m., ate the main meal at 10:30 p.m., and finally had my apple and pumpkin pies at 1 a.m.), but the fare was worth it. We killed, cleaned, and stuffed 3 turkeys—though we only had time to cook two of them, and had to use a neighbor’s oven for one. The process wasn’t exactly pretty; the first slaughterer didn’t quite come down on the first turkey’s neck hard enough, and the volunteer who was holding it panicked and let go, so it had to be caught and axed again, at which point it started spinning around headless and spraying the spectators with blood. But the meat, gravy, and accompanying mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and stuffing were well worth the effort in the end. Thanks Mom for sending the dried cranberries—they were the best addition to the stuffing!
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