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.

a day at the lake: Kyrgyz style.

I see my counterpart*, Kushtar, walking towards me on the main road of Barskoon with a sack full of sweet iced tea (the Kyrgyz version of iced tea is so sweet it tastes as if someone melted a popsicle into a plastic bottle and called it tea...) and another sack containing 2 melons. “Ahhh Amanda, I’m sorry for making you walk! My family is coming in the shrut now.” I laugh and exclaim “Kushtar! I don’t mind walking! Let me help you with those melons.”

Kushtar’s husband, Kumar, is one of the few marshrutka drivers in charge of ferrying people on the route from Barskoon to Karakol city and vice versa. For those of you who are wondering what a marshrutka is, allow me to explain. Imagine a tall van/bus equipped with a few rows of seats and some metal bars hanging from the ceiling from which people can hold on for dear life. Marshrutka rides tend to be packed, hot, uncomfortable, and cheap to boot, which is why most people prefer to ride the marshrutka versus the taxi, the more expensive option. In proper marshrutka etiquite, seats must be made available for older Kyrgyz people, women who are pregnant, and women with small children.

The bright yellow shrut approaches us on the main road and I can see Kumar flashing a big smile and waving us over. “Oh!” Kushtar begins, “My family does not want you to think that we all live together in one house! They are worried you will think this. Many people come to visit to take a rest and go to lake. Not everyone live with me.” I nod in understanding and we continue on and go aboard the marshrutka to find Kushtar’s large, bustling family equipped with great smiles to meet me.

We take the bumpy road down to a private, serene stretch of beach on the lake. Parking the shrut near the sand, we claim our territory for the day. Immediately upon arrival, the women jump out of the shrut and begin setting up camp- laying out tooshuks, setting up a grill, and digging holes for the melons and the drinks in shallow water to keep them cool. The children quickly strip their clothes and run full speed for the water. I take a seat near Kushtar’s parents in law, the elderly Kyrgyz of our bunch.

We sit for hours- talking, eating, laughing, and sporadically wading in the water to cool off from the blazing sun. Kumar is manning the grill and providing a steady stream of “shashlik” (pieces of marinated chicken grilled on skewers- much like the American model of a “shish kabob”) with pieces of onion and bread. Kushtar occasionally makes rounds with the melons- cutting off pieces of melon and handing them out to everyone. Kushtar’s father in law takes a swig from a bottle of vodka and them shoves it in my direction, motioning for me to take a drink. “No, thank you.” I tell him in Kyrgyz, but he persists. “Just a little bit…?” He says, using his fingers to squeeze the air in the universal sign for “little”. “No, no no.” I tell him again, chuckling a little at his persistent attempt to get me to drink with him.

When Kyrgyz people go to the beach, they tend to use up every bit of warm sunlight available to them. This means staying at the beach until the winds grows cool enough to cause them to replace layers once shed in a prompt dash for the glistening water before them. The small children begin crying, knowing that a departure from their beloved beach is soon to come.

I sit out of the last round of shashlik, feeling as though my stomach was full enough to last 2 or 3 days at the least. Kushtar comes around with a bag of candies and cookies signaling the children over so they may dip their hands into the sugar filled bag of goodies. I take one chocolate covered cookie and Kushtar swiftly hands me 2 more, true to pure Kyrgyz form.

Filing onto the marshrutka, we bid goodbye to our small escape from village life on the shore on the lake. We take the bumpy road back into Barskoon and I exchange kisses on the cheek with the women as I say goodbye, disembark the bright yellow marshrutka, and open my gate leading into my home as the last drops of sunlight escape behind the mountains.

_________ 

*All Peace Corps Volunteers in The Kyrgyz Republic have a counterpart- a host country partner with whom you work and will act as a community facilitator, a cultural guide, and at times, if necessary, a translator. In my case, my counterpart is a fellow English teacher. 

a project fulfilled.

I approach the entrance of the school to find a group of Baikes squatting and chatting next to a smaller , bright yellow semi truck. They stare at me as I walk up to the courtyard, probably wondering if I am with the group of Americans coming from the Transit Center. "Salamatsizdarbuh!" I exclaim to them. Surprised, some of the men respond with quiet "Salamachuluk" and return to their boisterous conversation. The American volunteer is a well known concept in my community, as my site mate and I are the 5th and 6th volunteers to live and work in Barskoon village. Most people in the village are excited to meet us, grateful to communicate with us in their native Kyrgyz tongue, and hopeful for the potential projects we will pursue.

Walking into the school I find several Kyrgyz women in their longer dresses, sandals, and head wraps working tireless to clean the entrance and hallways of the school in order to impress the Americans soon to be arriving at the school. One woman mops the floor while another is dusting windowsills and yet another is moving a table and some chairs to a storage room. I travel up the stairs to the third floor of the older children's wing to the newly created "English Resource Center". I enter the room to find stacks of fresh, newly printed textbooks, workbooks, crisp bookshelves, and a new computer. The 14 English teachers crowded around the books, speaking in brisk Kyrgyz, greet me with beaming smiles and extend a copy of one of the textbooks for me to review. Here it was, the fruits of Joanna (the previous Barskoon volunteer) and her counterpart, Dinara Eje's hard work. They had written a project to the Transit Center at Manas Airport to fund an English Resource Center for the English Department at the school in Barskoon. After a long wait, the project was approved and now the contractor had delivered the things from the grant. The men from the Transit Center would arrive any minute to conduct the "Dedication Ceremony" for the English Resource Center.

Crowded in the room which now housed all of the new teaching materials, the Director of the school addressed a room full of teachers, staff members, community members, and the 8 men from the Transit Center. Exuding gratefulness and pride, the Director made a promise to the Americans who funded the project. The promise was that the teachers would use the materials to their full potential and these materials would certainly be a great help for the students to increase their English language knowledge. A rewarding project with a sustainable plan for implementation... Yep, this is why I joined the Peace Corps. I knew that the materials would not only help the students' English skills, but would increase the teaching abilities of the English teachers- affecting generations of Kyrgyz students who would fill the seats at the school in years to come. Much to look forward to here!