Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween from Barskoon!

rest...?

I sit cross-legged on my bed after a long day. It is dark outside and lightening flutters in the distance. Wednesdays are by far my longest day of the week. 5 English classes back to back in the morning, lesson planning, and 3 English clubs in the afternoon. Earlier, I’d ambitiously wrote out an evening “to-do list” in my planner, only to find myself now pushing so many of the items to the next page- tomorrow’s tasks are boxes waiting to be checked off.

I think about how I find rest in my life in Kyrgyzstan. Days are exhausting- standing in front of classes of students then leaving class only to be the continued center of attention. I have found that I need the evenings to rest in the comfort of my home in order to maintain the energy and enthusiasm to keep up with the children I teach. Though it makes me wonder, how do my fellow teachers keep up with the responsibilities of their lives? This struck me today as my Counterpart, Kushtar, tells me story after story of her family’s struggles.

Kushtar is subject to a Kyrgyz tradition, which dictates how the parents of a family will be taken care of in their older age. The wife of the youngest son in a family is known as the “Kalen”. A woman who becomes a Kalen is responsible for moving into her husband’s parent’s home upon marriage and becoming the main caretaker of the entire family. Some women, especially those who have kind parents-in-law, enjoy the tradition and the family closeness it promises. Others, who may have demanding and harsh inherited parents, will end up detesting their role and live in an endless abyss of unhappiness. Thankfully, Kushtar thoroughly enjoys her husband’s family and is happy to serve them. Though this fortunate reality does not make her role lighter than other Kalens.

Kushtar’s day starts very early each morning and often does not end until after midnight. She will make food for her family in the morning and get her young sons ready for school. She is always at school before 8am ready with new ideas, questions, and topics to discuss with me, which she thought of the night before. Her English is incredible- especially for a young teacher living in the village. She is constantly reading, looking up words in her dictionary, and asking me questions to improve her English. She and I teach classes and clubs together every weekday, and spend numerous hours lesson planning, in meetings, or simply talking about life in the school’s “Canteen” (I’ve tried to change the name to the Cafeteria in an attempt to reduce the wartime Army barrack-esque nature calling it the “Canteen” evokes). In the late afternoon (and sometimes not until early evening) Kushtar returns home to clean her home, help her sons and niece (whom lives with her) with their homework, and organize whatever family events are unfolding that day.

Kushtar cooks dinner for her family every night without fail. In the states cooking could range from a 2-minute hot pocket to a 2-hour cook fest. In Kyrgyzstan, women do not have the option of “the easy way out” when it comes to preparing food. Cooking is always a strenuous endeavor, as almost everything has to be made from scratch. After cooking, eating with the family, and cleaning everything from the meal, Kushtar will often work on her lesson planning or brainstorming new activities we can do with the children. I asked her before if she has much time to relax and her response was “Relax? I am confused. Do you mean sleep?” Thus my question was answered.

Despite her heavy home responsibilities, work expectations, and ups and downs of everyday village life, Kushtar maintains an extremely positive and upbeat attitude. She is part of the minority of Kyrgyz women who flash big, teeth-y smiles when they greet someone rather than the simple eye blink greeting most Kyrgyz women employ. She’s an impressive teacher and her students adore her.

I have yet to meet a woman in the village who would be caught dead with her feet up. In fact, I doubt they exist. Or if they do exist, I think they may have to wait until their old age in order to lounge. That said I’ve come to the conclusion that the idea of “rest” is a product of culture. I’m from a culture that says, “You’ve had a long day. You deserve to rest and watch your favorite T.V. show with a glass of wine in hand.” And Kushtar is from a culture that says to women, “You’ve accomplished much today. It has been a long day. What else is new?” I’m learning that this idea of “rest” is not only a product of culture, but also a learned luxury. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying there is anything wrong with rest (in fact, I’m a big fan of the concept), I’m simply realizing that my personal thoughts on the matter differ drastically from the culture I’m emerged in on a daily basis.

just keep swimming.

                                                    Baby on a Marshrutka. 9.24.12.

Yesterday, while enjoying the last few hours of a last minute escape to the city, I received a call informing me that school in the village was cancelled for the week due to "potato harvest". As it is now Monday and my students are aiding their families in picking potatoes thus leaving yours truly with no work for the day, I feel inclined to do some other productive activities. Now that the ever laborious cleaning and laundry are completed, this blog is the result of said notion. My apologies if this entry lacks direction as it concurrently also lacks inspiration.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what Peace Corps likes to call "The Fishbowl Effect". As volunteers, we were warned at pre-country departure orientation, in-country pre-service training, and possibly even in the initial interview about this fishbowl concept. Most prominent in villages, The Fishbowl Effect can be described as a volunteer becoming like a fish in a fishbowl to villagers- the subject of conversation, curiosity, interest, gossip, gawking, intrigue, and constant requests for "things"- just to name a few. There is no way to prepare for this reality, as one cannot understand what is it like until experience takes place.

My conclusion regarding this fishbowl idea is that it ends up putting a whole heck of a lot of responsibility on the volunteer. In the states, I could go to the grocery store and be completely anonymous- I'd most likely never met any of my fellow shoppers before nor would I likely see them again. In my village, I venture out to the magazine (store) and I am stopped by people on the street (many of whom I've never met) asking where I am going. At the store, I'm asked what I am buying and why I need such things. The following day at school, I'm approached by a fellow teacher telling me that she heard I bought bread at the large magazine, but it is much better and more fresh at the Asel's store on the main road.

Forget anonymity because, in the village, whether I like it or not, I'm apparently a person of extreme interest. I never thought that I would mourn the loss of anonymity- I mean, don't we spend our lives longing to be known? Whether by our family, friends, or a significant other? In America, I'd grown accustomed to this idea that I could hand pick what I wanted people to know about me, what I wanted people who knew me to view me as, and even what I spent my paychecks on. The thought of anyone, unless they were stalking me, to take interest in what I bought at the grocery store was a ridiculous thought. When I wanted to talk about things with others, those things became known, and what I didn't care to talk about stayed tucked away. Now, in the colony known as my village, it's widely the topic of conversation and incredibly interesting when I go for a run, walk to my sitemate's home, or when my boyfriend comes for a visit.

The people in my community don't find it rude to ask about the details of my life because, in their upbringing in the village, very little managed to remain private and the prospect of a question possibly seeming rude never occurred to them. Privacy- yet another intriguing idea. I doubt that my Eje has spent more than maybe an hour in alone time in her life. Constantly surrounded by immediate family, extended relatives, friends, neighbors, or whomever- the Kyrgyz would likely be confused if I brought up the concept of alone time. My host family finds it perplexing that I can spend hours in my room by myself, if I were to broach the idea that I indeed need this time, they'd just as soon assume me to be crazy. Oh the glory of cultural differences!

Bon appétit!

                                          Fried bread. Mmmmmmmm.

It’s lunchtime in the village. I sit, elbows resting on the plastic tablecloth, hunched over my ceramic bowl-like cup of steaming tea at the L-shape benched table. My 4-year-old host sister, Bermet, stands on the bench to reach across the table for a piece of bread. I watch as she uses a spoon to scoop butter from a small plate by the spoonful and spreads over the petite piece of bread. It would have been reasonable for her to stop after the first spoonful of butter, however, when it comes to grease, sugar, and butter- the Kyrgyz cuisine is anything but reasonable. She continued until the plate, once full with butter, was emptied onto her single bread piece and then she promptly devoured the gooey light yellow substance in heaping mouthfuls. I couldn’t help but laugh at her. “Emne?” What? She looked at me confused.

Kyrgyz people argue that our bodies need three “food groups” to stay healthy and function well: tea (known here as chai), sugar, and meat. People think it’s odd that I do not add sugar to my tea and especially odd that I do not enjoy eating a lot of meat. “But a doctor told me that our bodies need meat in order to be healthy” one English teacher told me over an afternoon “chai eech” at our school. A discussion with the older Kyrgyz woman about the countless food products aside from meat that contain the same (and in some cases more) amount of protein found in meat would have been pointless. In this case, culture trumps science for the vast majority of Kyrgyz people.

In the novel, “This is Not Civilization”, based off one Kyrgyzstan Peace Corps Volunteer’s experience in the country, the Kyrgyz cuisine is not so surprisingly mentioned. “She appeared carrying a new mutton dish each night: mutton dumplings called manti, a mutton and turnip stew called lagman, the mutton kebabs called shashlyk- and what Anarbek claimed was a special delicacy, known as “refrigerator jelly”: a wobbling glob of congealed fat from the previous day’s mutton.” Although this account was of a volunteer who served nearly 20 years ago, not much has changed in the realm of food for this gradually modernizing country.

My favorite Kyrgyz dish is actually derived from a traditional Russian dish- Plov. Maybe because it reminds me of Chinese fried rice or possibly because it strokes my life-long obsession with any dish involving rice. Whatever the reason, I’m always relieved to see the rice dish adorning the chai eech table. With only a few simple ingredients, Plov is considered a rather easy meal to prepare among Kyrgyz women. Rice is cooked in an overwhelming amount of oil and sliced carrots and onions are added. Most Plov dishes are made with the Kyrgyz favorite- mutton, though I prefer the dish with chicken.

How to make Plov:

3 Tbsp oil (though most KG recipes use more)
½ kg beef or mutton, cubed (or chicken)
1 large onion, sliced
½ kg carrots, julienne-sliced
4 cups water
3 garlic cloves, whole (optional)
½ kg rice, cleaned and soaked for 30 minutes

Heat oil in kazan or deep skillet over medium high heat. Add meat and sauté until browned, about 10 minutes. Add onion and sauté until soft, about 8 minutes. Add carrots to mixture and sauté 15 more minutes. Add water and rice; bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer partially covered for about 30 minutes. Add garlic (optional). Simmer until rice is just tender, about 15 more minutes.

Tamaginez tatuu bolsen! (Bon appétit!)

Pics from First Bell Ceremony :)

 With my 8-year-old sharp lookin' brother, Begsat.

 With my Counterpart English Teacher, Kushtar.

 With English teachers (from the left) Gulsara, Jumagul, Dinara, myself, Kushtar, and my sitemate, Aly.

 With my 14-year-old sister, Altynai.

With a physical education teacher and Dinara, the head of the English department.

"Ding, ding, ding!"

I close the final pages of Maya Angelou’s “The Heart of a Woman”, and I am inspired. The wind looms loudly among the trees and a chain on a metal gate just outside clanks violently in a demanding rhythm. I close the book on my bed and, as it sits on top of my blue and yellow busy floral bedspread, I gaze at my hands as they rest on top of the book. My hands are young and, at the moment, look as though they might belong to a teenaged schoolgirl. The chipping red nail polish splotched across my unkempt fingernails desperately needs to be removed before I lose a certain amount of respect among the impressively dressed, neat, and clean Kyrgyz teachers at school. Respect… this term has been brought to my attention increasingly in the past several days in ways that cause me to ponder it’s weight in this culture, which I currently call home.

In Kyrgyz culture, a person’s age is the ultimate determining factor in terms of respect. A person’s age will determine how they are to be called, their place at the table, which parts of an animal they will eat at a Toi (party), whether they sit or stand on a Marshrutka, and the list goes on. What I have recently discovered is the abrupt reality that age, regardless of experience, determines much in the work place as well. In my case, this means that age determines the picking order of the teachers at school. Of course, because I am a volunteer and a guest, I am treated differently from my fellow young teachers (who are all older than I with more practical teaching experience) and I am honored, listened to, and respected. This interesting reality with which I have bumped shoulders will be a steady companion, I’m sure, throughout the next 2 years.

As the wind continues to race through the trees outside my protective window, I think back to this past Saturday’s “First Bell Ceremony” which took place at my school. Nearly 1,500 students along with over 100 teachers collected in the school’s courtyard, dressed to the nines, anticipating the coming school year. Multicolored banners were strung above the concrete yard and the students collected in a three-sided square awaiting the beginning of the ceremony. A long table stretched the length of the fourth side of the square and placed neatly on it were pinkish purple iridescent vases bustling with roses and greenery. At the table were seated some of the older teachers, the director of the school, the mayor, and other school administration.

“Amanda, you will speak, won’t you?” My counterpart, Kushtar, asks me expectantly. I had been warned that I would be asked to speak and, though I hadn’t prepared an official speech, I politely obliged. “Of course I will speak. Will you help me to translate?” I asked Kushtar, knowing what her answer would be. “Yes, yes, no problem.” After some hushed questions to some fellow helpful teachers on the pronunciation of Kyrgyz introductory phrases and congratulations, a microphone was thrust in my direction. I barely made it through “Salamatsizdarbuh” before a few girls approached me with roses. These students knew what it meant to have a volunteer, they were grateful and an obvious appreciation of my presence preceded me. I said a few words on the importance of attaining knowledge and even used a cheesy line like “this school year marks a new journey on the road of knowledge for all of you” which I’m sure did not translate into Kyrgyz. Five of the youngest students walked the inside perimeter of the populated square with a bell in tow. "Ding, ding, ding!" Was the sound that resonated from the bell and the crowd clapped and cheered. The school year had begun with the simple dinging of a bell. Like the flurry with which it had begun, the ceremony ended and the students dispersed to their first lessons.

my Kyrgyz family.

My Kyrgyz family :) missing some members... Included are (from the left) Chynara Eje, Bermet, Altynai (yep, she's flashing a "peace" sign...) , myself, and Begsat.