August 26, 2009
September and the first day of school are quickly approaching and I am terrified. Still, I am doing my best to enjoy the last few days of summer. The sun is still really hot, but there have been some nice breezes in the last few days that make my daily treks to school for teacher meetings enjoyable. The walks have also been more interesting and even slightly treacherous as the street is all but covered with dry harvested sunflowers. The dead brown flowers are piled in huge heaps every few yards on either side of the street, somehow reminding me of the aftermath of a mass genocide (I know its morbid, but that is seriously what went through my head). The harvested seeds lay spread out on the edges of the pavement in perfect rectangles neatly lined by stones, and the heads of the flowers spill all the way into the middle of the street so that cars have to weave around the flowers and seeds like an obstacle course. A few houses have also laid out their homemade mud bricks to dry on the street, and I would hate to see a car weave around a sunflower pile to crash into a pile of bricks.
It is strange to be really busy again. I have been lesson planning all day today, and yesterday I spent several hours on it too, in addition to having a Kyrgyz lesson and helping my host mom and sister do yet more canning (salad this time). I was apparently an essential part of this process because Apa and Aijamal are observing Ramadan (locally called Orozo) which started on Friday. They needed me to taste the salad to make sure it had enough salt, and they couldn't do it without breaking their fast. I told them I didn't know how salty it was supposed to be, since I had never made canned salad before, so they had to call over a neighbor anyway.
I don't know how they are doing this fast. I would have to cheat for sure. It is too darn hot and the days are still really long. They pretty much sleep all day, but still. My host dad isn't fasting because he works at a hospital and needs to keep his energy up all day. I am glad, because I would feel really guilty if I was the only one in the house not fasting. At dinner time we all sit down together and Apa tells me and Ata to eat, but she and Aijamal wait the five minutes, or whatever, until they get the official go-ahead from TV that it is sunset. The TV station shows some footage of Mecca and some Kyrgyz imam in a kalpak says some stuff and then we all omen together. I didn't do it the first time because I figured this was a Muslim thing, and being as I am neither Muslim nor understand a word of what the imam said, I probably shouldn't participate in the prayer, but Apa and Ata gave me the stink eye, so I did it. Whatever, a little extra prayer never hurt anyone, and it is nice that they want me to participate in their family activities.
So, back to me being terrified about school starting. Right now, I am more or less fuming with frustration. I am sorry to say that I expected a lot more out of my counterpart. She had been telling me about all of these conferences and teacher trainings that she attended where she learned new and innovative teaching strategies. I had assumed that I could learn a lot from her about teaching. Yesterday I had to confront her directly about the specific form her lessons usually take (she has been skirting around the topic all summer) and I almost screamed when she told me the answer. She typically writes a text on the board, the students copy it down and note the new words, and then the next day they read aloud the text or recite sections by heart. When I asked how she teaches grammar, she said that she assigns exercises once or twice a month. That is it.
I hoped that we might have had a misunderstanding, so we moved on to lesson planning. She asked me if I had prepared topics for the first two quarters. I said no, because I don't know the level of the students and I also don't know the required curriculum. I suggested that we start out all grades with a review of the basics: alphabet, numbers, greetings, simple present tense, etc. and go from there. She seemed confused, and then I realized why when she showed me last year's calendar of “topics” along with the books that they came from.
The books are absolutely horrible. The problem isn't only that they are old and made up almost entirely of Communist propaganda, but they don't teach anything. There is no explanation of grammar and very few exercises. It is all just short texts with a few translated vocabulary words. The list of “topics” looks something like this: 1. “Knowledge is Power” 2. A.S. Pushkin 3. Anna Rodinova 4. Kyrgyz Folklore 5. Jack London 6. “John Reed: Champion of the Russian Revolution” 7. “For Peace and No Alcohol” 8. “The Moscow International Book Fair” 9. “The Future Belongs to the Youth” 10. “Golden Rules of Etiquette for Children” okay, you get the idea. Do you see any pattern at all? Neither did I. If you continue on, you will find some more Russian authors and poets and a lot of English-sounding names that I have never heard of. Why would Kyrgyz students read about Russian authors in an English class? That's what their Russian literature classes are for. And aren't there enough authors in the English language that they don't have to pick out ones so obscure that a British lit. buff like me hasn't even heard of them?
What is really sad is that these are the good “topics.” Thank God they skipped over the ones in the book like “V.I. Lenin Visits the Orphanage,” or “My Mother is a Member of the Communist Party.” I'm not even kidding you, that is straight from the book. I really need to make a copy of the “Lenin Visits the Orphanage” story. It was the first page I saw when I looked at the books I was going to be using back in June, so it has a special place in my heart.
I hope that all this work I have been doing has not been setting me up to getting taken advantage of. I hate that they are looking at me like I am the expert, but I can't deny that my ideas for teaching must be better than theirs, even though I have virtually no experience. My fear is that the students might be going from getting Russian imperialistic bullshit fed to them from those textbooks to getting American imperialistic bullshit from me. I can only teach what I know, so there is going to be a lot about America in my lessons, and at this point I can't help but believe that I have better teaching methods than the local teachers. So, am I really any better than the Soviets and their atrocious textbooks? Or am I creating a moral dilemma out of nothing? For those of you who like philosophical problems, this would be a good time to use the comments option on the blog. A little discussion might be nice.
August 28, 2009
I'm still terrified about the start of school, but I am beginning to feel better because I decorated my classroom yesterday. It now has a tiny bit of color and at now at least there are a few items in the room that don't pre-date the collapse of the Soviet Union.
Thanks to Ramadan, I am finally getting into the kind of eating routine I initially wanted to get into. Apa is finally letting me fry my own eggs or whatever else for my own lunch. I'm going to try to keep this up because it is working out well for me. Ramadan has also started some interesting conversations with my family about religion. We can't get very far because of the limits of our language, but it is still very interesting. My host dad was trying to make some sort of comparison between Mecca and what he called “Square Time” (Times Square. Remember, he went to America), but I didn't get it. I think it is interesting that several Kyrgyz people who speak a little English have asked me (upon learning that I am Christian) “We Muslims believe in God, who do you believe in?” I find it hard to believe that they don't know enough about Christianity to know that we have the same God, but nevertheless, it is interesting that they ask. Once in Osh, I had a conversation with an English-speaking girl at the pool that went something like this: “We are Musilm. Do you like Muslims? What religion are you? Vegetarian?”
Last night I had a dream that I was walking around in Uzgen when I came upon a Burger King sign. I reminded myself not to get too excited, because there is a Burger King sign in Osh in front of a Kyrgyz gamburger stand (a gamburger doesn't even slightly resemble a Burger King burger). When I got closer, I realized that there was actually a Burger King building behind the sign, but when I got up to the door, it was boarded up. In my dream, I moped away, but around the corner, there was a McDonald's. This time, the door was open and the lights were on. I ran inside, but I was fooled again. It was only a Kyrgyz store that smelled like a Kyrgyz store: stinky fish and greasy kielbasa. I bought some yogurt and woke up.
Now I am eating some yogurt that I bought yesterday at the Kyrgyz store in the center of my village. It tastes like greasy kielbasa because it was sitting next to it in the fridge at the store. Yuck.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Fun with language
Hey all,
I am in Osh this week, which means internet access, so I just wanted to share a quick cute story with you while I was thinking about it.
One day in the village, my Kyrgyz tutor was teaching me some new vocabulary for things around the house. He taught me one word that he didn't know in English, and he drew a horseshoe and told me it was something for a horse. When I told him the English word, he was like, "Wait. Horse shoe?? Like a shoe for a horse?" And he cracked up, saying that was the most ridiculous image he had ever thought of. It is so funny how we would never think that this is something funny, but I guess picturing a horse wearing people shoes is kind of silly.
Anyway, I told him he couldn't talk, because the Kyrgyz word for stomach, "ash kazan," literally means "food pot." So there.
I am in Osh this week, which means internet access, so I just wanted to share a quick cute story with you while I was thinking about it.
One day in the village, my Kyrgyz tutor was teaching me some new vocabulary for things around the house. He taught me one word that he didn't know in English, and he drew a horseshoe and told me it was something for a horse. When I told him the English word, he was like, "Wait. Horse shoe?? Like a shoe for a horse?" And he cracked up, saying that was the most ridiculous image he had ever thought of. It is so funny how we would never think that this is something funny, but I guess picturing a horse wearing people shoes is kind of silly.
Anyway, I told him he couldn't talk, because the Kyrgyz word for stomach, "ash kazan," literally means "food pot." So there.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Anaconda
August 6, 2009
I know its cliché, but seriously, be careful what you wish for. I was talking to my real family the other day while they were on vacation, just leaving Custer State Park, I think, and I was lamenting the fact that I never see wildlife around here, except for some pigeons, sparrows, and frogs. I miss seeing squirrels and deer and such. Well, I jinxed myself, because yesterday I saw a five-foot snake. IN THE HOUSE.
I have never been one to be terribly afraid of snakes. I can remember catching little ones and stuffing them into my bug barn when I was little, but this one terrified me. Probably because it was about as thick as my arm.
I was sitting out on the front steps of my house, reading, when some movement just inside my front door caught my eye, and I had to take a double take before I believed what I saw. I wish I would have thought ahead and sat still and let it go ahead out the door, but no, I had to jump up and scare it back into the house. I was glad that I managed to hop over it and close the door that separates the entryway from the rest of the main floor of the house.
It started to slither through a little crack into a Harry Potter-style cupboard under the stairs, and I had the genius idea to just grab it by the tail and drag it outside, but I got scared when it started making angry hisses, and I let go. I immediately started hauling stuff out of the cupboard to grab the snake before it found another crack to slide through, but then I remembered an urban legend that someone told me a few days ago about a taxi going up to Bishkek from Osh. It is about a 10 hour drive, and at some point, they stopped to get some food. Every passenger drank a lot of kymys and then fell asleep for the last leg of the drive. The driver got to Bishkek and tried to wake everyone up, but they were all dead. A poisonous snake had fallen into the sack of kymys as it was fermenting (they hang the sack from the smoke hole of the yurt) and died there, poisoning the drink.
Now, I didn't think much of the story at the time. It sounds like a myth to me, and I can't stand kymys anyway, no matter how many times people tell me it is good for my health. But as I was rooting through the winter boots and whatever else was stuffed in the cupboard, I wondered for the first time if the snake might be poisonous. Even if the story was false, it mentioned a poisonous snake that came in through the roof of the yurt, and this snake probably came from the roof of the house, since at the top of the stairs in the entryway there is an attic open to the roof. If I had been in Midwestern America, I would have figured, “well, it doesn't have a rattle on its tail, so it is probably ok,” but who knows what poisonous snakes look like in Central Asia? I'm not the Crocodile Hunter. So I got my host sister, and she was scared just at the mention of a snake, so she ran down the road and came back with a nice teenage boy with a sweater to tie around his neck (perfect! A Soc to go with my Greasers. Sorry, I don't think I have explained that. Read on, I'll get to it) with the very masculine name of Jodi (or at least that is what it sounds like when I try to say it).
Anyway, Jodi took over and grabbed the hoe I had been chasing after the snake with, and I ran away. He rummaged for a while, then came out with a coiled up extension cord, “is this what American snakes look like?” he teased.
“No, it is there! I saw it go inside!” I insisted, but I could tell he didn't believe me.
After a few minutes of more rummaging, he said something I didn't recognize, but could probably be translated to something like “Holy Shit!”
I forgot my squeamishness for a minute to go in and gloat in my infantile Kyrgyz, “hahaha, now you see. Isn't it big? I said it was big. I grabbed it, before, it runs and I caught it but then I am scared, so I don't catch it and it runs. What you do now?”
Jodi motioned for me to shut up and watch the snake, which had coiled itself up in the farthest, tightest corner of the storage space. He came back with a long stick and proceeded to poke and prod the animal, which started again to make the loud angry hisses and scared me back out the door. I guess I had expected Jodi to coax the huge snake back out the door into the garden, so I arranged myself to let the snake pass by me, but then I heard some commotion, and some banging around, and Jodi called out to me that it was dead, and I should come see it.
Well, it was indeed dead. I don't know how he did it, but Jodi had managed to behead the snake quite neatly with the hoe. He then grabbed the body and flung it outside on the steps, where a crowd of boys began to form, and we all waited for it to stop slithering around. Ick. Jodi asked me if I wanted to eat it, and I told him no thank you he could eat it himself, and he said he would, but I know he just threw the snake away. It was so big that when he took it away, he had to hold the tail up over his head so that the headless end wouldn't drag on the ground. Ugh, I can't believe it was in the house. Here I have been spending all my time worrying about tiny scorpions that I've heard hide in your shoes and stuff, and there is a snake as tall as me just hanging out in the house. I am just glad that I don't sleep on the floor like my host siblings do. Not that a five-foot snake would have any problem getting into my bed if it wanted to.
Ok, so enough of that. Now to explain the other story.
So, I think Kyrgyz names are kind of tricky. There are still quite a few people I see everyday whose names I can never remember, and I figure that asking any more than three times just makes me look like an idiot. Most of these people have made-up names that I only say in my head, that at least help me remember what family they belong to, or whatever else. Most of them are uninteresting, such as The Neighbor Who Drives a Lada, or Nargiza's Sister Who Has The Baby With Shoes That Go Squeak-Squeak. One boy who is about 8 or 9 wears these ridiculous round sunglasses that have earned him the name John Lennon in my head. He is kind of the ringleader for a gang of four little boys, so of course they will always be The Beatles. There is a group of three older boys (jigits in Kyrgyz) that hang out at the end of our street around the time it gets dark, just trying to look cool. I have also seen them pick some fights down by the river (jigits picking fights is an annoyingly common occurrence). These I named the Greasers, after the book “The Outsiders.”
Later:
Yay, my door is finally fixed! Like I had been trying to tell Apa, the job was much more complicated than just replacing the broken door knob. The guy had to take a hand plane to the inside corner on the hinge side and shave off a lot of wood so that the door fit the frame. I am so glad that it has been taken care of, especially after the snake incident, because who knows what other critters could sneak in through my open door?
But that is not even the best part of today. I told Apa I was thinking of buying an armchair for my room, and there was one in the Uzgen bazaar that I had my eye on and was totally affordable, but I needed Apa's help in arranging how to get it home. She told me not to buy one because she had a chair she could give me for my room, I just had to wait for the next time my host brother was home so he could bring it down from the attic for me. For some reason, I assumed that it was a chair to match the couch and other chair that sit around unused in the big dining room next to my room. I wasn't too excited about this because it isn't a very comfortable set, but I figured it I could put some cushions on it or something. Anyway, I was way wrong. The “chair” is a seat from a car. How ghetto is that? I am pretty excited about it. It is an excellent addition to all of the wonderful mismatched-ness of my room. I can't decide whether I want to leave it as is, or get some obnoxious fabric to drape over it.
Oh, and I just got back from swimming in the river, and another snake was spotted there by some boys. I asked some people if the snakes around here bite, and the general consensus was that they might, but there really aren't that many snakes around, so don't worry about it. What the heck! Not that many snakes? There's one right there, and there was a freaking anaconda in my house only yesterday! Sure, there aren't many snakes around here compared to the reptile house in a zoo, but come on. But I guess it is a comfort to know that the monster that paid a visit yesterday was a freak occurrence. Maybe we should have kept it in a giant bug barn to show it off instead of killing it.
I know its cliché, but seriously, be careful what you wish for. I was talking to my real family the other day while they were on vacation, just leaving Custer State Park, I think, and I was lamenting the fact that I never see wildlife around here, except for some pigeons, sparrows, and frogs. I miss seeing squirrels and deer and such. Well, I jinxed myself, because yesterday I saw a five-foot snake. IN THE HOUSE.
I have never been one to be terribly afraid of snakes. I can remember catching little ones and stuffing them into my bug barn when I was little, but this one terrified me. Probably because it was about as thick as my arm.
I was sitting out on the front steps of my house, reading, when some movement just inside my front door caught my eye, and I had to take a double take before I believed what I saw. I wish I would have thought ahead and sat still and let it go ahead out the door, but no, I had to jump up and scare it back into the house. I was glad that I managed to hop over it and close the door that separates the entryway from the rest of the main floor of the house.
It started to slither through a little crack into a Harry Potter-style cupboard under the stairs, and I had the genius idea to just grab it by the tail and drag it outside, but I got scared when it started making angry hisses, and I let go. I immediately started hauling stuff out of the cupboard to grab the snake before it found another crack to slide through, but then I remembered an urban legend that someone told me a few days ago about a taxi going up to Bishkek from Osh. It is about a 10 hour drive, and at some point, they stopped to get some food. Every passenger drank a lot of kymys and then fell asleep for the last leg of the drive. The driver got to Bishkek and tried to wake everyone up, but they were all dead. A poisonous snake had fallen into the sack of kymys as it was fermenting (they hang the sack from the smoke hole of the yurt) and died there, poisoning the drink.
Now, I didn't think much of the story at the time. It sounds like a myth to me, and I can't stand kymys anyway, no matter how many times people tell me it is good for my health. But as I was rooting through the winter boots and whatever else was stuffed in the cupboard, I wondered for the first time if the snake might be poisonous. Even if the story was false, it mentioned a poisonous snake that came in through the roof of the yurt, and this snake probably came from the roof of the house, since at the top of the stairs in the entryway there is an attic open to the roof. If I had been in Midwestern America, I would have figured, “well, it doesn't have a rattle on its tail, so it is probably ok,” but who knows what poisonous snakes look like in Central Asia? I'm not the Crocodile Hunter. So I got my host sister, and she was scared just at the mention of a snake, so she ran down the road and came back with a nice teenage boy with a sweater to tie around his neck (perfect! A Soc to go with my Greasers. Sorry, I don't think I have explained that. Read on, I'll get to it) with the very masculine name of Jodi (or at least that is what it sounds like when I try to say it).
Anyway, Jodi took over and grabbed the hoe I had been chasing after the snake with, and I ran away. He rummaged for a while, then came out with a coiled up extension cord, “is this what American snakes look like?” he teased.
“No, it is there! I saw it go inside!” I insisted, but I could tell he didn't believe me.
After a few minutes of more rummaging, he said something I didn't recognize, but could probably be translated to something like “Holy Shit!”
I forgot my squeamishness for a minute to go in and gloat in my infantile Kyrgyz, “hahaha, now you see. Isn't it big? I said it was big. I grabbed it, before, it runs and I caught it but then I am scared, so I don't catch it and it runs. What you do now?”
Jodi motioned for me to shut up and watch the snake, which had coiled itself up in the farthest, tightest corner of the storage space. He came back with a long stick and proceeded to poke and prod the animal, which started again to make the loud angry hisses and scared me back out the door. I guess I had expected Jodi to coax the huge snake back out the door into the garden, so I arranged myself to let the snake pass by me, but then I heard some commotion, and some banging around, and Jodi called out to me that it was dead, and I should come see it.
Well, it was indeed dead. I don't know how he did it, but Jodi had managed to behead the snake quite neatly with the hoe. He then grabbed the body and flung it outside on the steps, where a crowd of boys began to form, and we all waited for it to stop slithering around. Ick. Jodi asked me if I wanted to eat it, and I told him no thank you he could eat it himself, and he said he would, but I know he just threw the snake away. It was so big that when he took it away, he had to hold the tail up over his head so that the headless end wouldn't drag on the ground. Ugh, I can't believe it was in the house. Here I have been spending all my time worrying about tiny scorpions that I've heard hide in your shoes and stuff, and there is a snake as tall as me just hanging out in the house. I am just glad that I don't sleep on the floor like my host siblings do. Not that a five-foot snake would have any problem getting into my bed if it wanted to.
Ok, so enough of that. Now to explain the other story.
So, I think Kyrgyz names are kind of tricky. There are still quite a few people I see everyday whose names I can never remember, and I figure that asking any more than three times just makes me look like an idiot. Most of these people have made-up names that I only say in my head, that at least help me remember what family they belong to, or whatever else. Most of them are uninteresting, such as The Neighbor Who Drives a Lada, or Nargiza's Sister Who Has The Baby With Shoes That Go Squeak-Squeak. One boy who is about 8 or 9 wears these ridiculous round sunglasses that have earned him the name John Lennon in my head. He is kind of the ringleader for a gang of four little boys, so of course they will always be The Beatles. There is a group of three older boys (jigits in Kyrgyz) that hang out at the end of our street around the time it gets dark, just trying to look cool. I have also seen them pick some fights down by the river (jigits picking fights is an annoyingly common occurrence). These I named the Greasers, after the book “The Outsiders.”
Later:
Yay, my door is finally fixed! Like I had been trying to tell Apa, the job was much more complicated than just replacing the broken door knob. The guy had to take a hand plane to the inside corner on the hinge side and shave off a lot of wood so that the door fit the frame. I am so glad that it has been taken care of, especially after the snake incident, because who knows what other critters could sneak in through my open door?
But that is not even the best part of today. I told Apa I was thinking of buying an armchair for my room, and there was one in the Uzgen bazaar that I had my eye on and was totally affordable, but I needed Apa's help in arranging how to get it home. She told me not to buy one because she had a chair she could give me for my room, I just had to wait for the next time my host brother was home so he could bring it down from the attic for me. For some reason, I assumed that it was a chair to match the couch and other chair that sit around unused in the big dining room next to my room. I wasn't too excited about this because it isn't a very comfortable set, but I figured it I could put some cushions on it or something. Anyway, I was way wrong. The “chair” is a seat from a car. How ghetto is that? I am pretty excited about it. It is an excellent addition to all of the wonderful mismatched-ness of my room. I can't decide whether I want to leave it as is, or get some obnoxious fabric to drape over it.
Oh, and I just got back from swimming in the river, and another snake was spotted there by some boys. I asked some people if the snakes around here bite, and the general consensus was that they might, but there really aren't that many snakes around, so don't worry about it. What the heck! Not that many snakes? There's one right there, and there was a freaking anaconda in my house only yesterday! Sure, there aren't many snakes around here compared to the reptile house in a zoo, but come on. But I guess it is a comfort to know that the monster that paid a visit yesterday was a freak occurrence. Maybe we should have kept it in a giant bug barn to show it off instead of killing it.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Adventures with my Kyrgyz Family
July 24, 2009
Wow, it is really hot out. I went to the Uzgen bazaar today with my family, and we all came home and crashed on the floor in the (thankfully) cool living room. The electricity was out so we didn't even watch tv, we just laid there for a while until Apa provided me with motivation to get up by mentioning that there was cold orange juice in the refrigerator.
Last night, Apa asked me if I would have club this morning. I thought this was a strange question, as she knows my schedule pretty well and had just been included in a conversation with her sister-in-law who had asked the club schedule so that she could send her kids. I said yes, and she made a face like she wasn't happy about something and said, “ok, we'll talk tomorrow.” This morning, she asked me again if I was going to school. She said she was going to Uzgen, and I said that's fine, I have food to eat for lunch, I'll see you later. Then she basically ordered me not to go to club, and to change my clothes, because I am going with. I didn't really have a choice. We ended up leaving about the same time I usually leave for school. All the neighbor kids came running to walk with me, and my sister had to tell them that there is no club today. They all gave me sad faces, and I felt really bad, but I figured this trip to Uzgen must be pretty important to Apa.
I guess I was dragged along in order to be another pair of hands to carry bags. This is when I realize how wonderful the invention of the shopping cart is. A string bag full of potatoes and carrots is really heavy. Still, I can't complain, as I find bazaar shopping with Apa to be a fascinating experience.
A side note: ordering a dish that sounds familiar may not always yield familiar results. At a cafe for lunch, I asked Apa and my sister to pick out something new for me to try. Apa ordered three portions of what sounded to me like “beefstroganov.” “Oh, beef stroganov!” I said. “We have this in America. I like this food!” And then I tried to remember if I actually do like beef stroganov.
As it turns out, it didn't really matter if I like beef stroganov or not, since the plate I was given contained neither noodles nor (go figure) beef. Upon glancing at the menu again, I realized that I had heard wrong, and the dish that I was eating was actually written as Бистрогонов (bistroganov) although it was listed underneath Бифштекс(beefshtiks), a that actually is beef, and the closest you can get to a hamburger (albeit a bun-less hamburger) in this part of the oblast. And the beef is not in sticks (or shtiks): I guess it is just a russianization (or is the term “russification”? Probably) of the word “beef steak.” I'm not in love with beefshtiks, but I really just like saying it. Go on, try it: beefshtiks beefshtiks beefshtiks!
By the way, the first item on the menu was also familiar: gulash. Sometimes it is difficult to spot these familiar words through the Russian letters, but it is all the more gratifying once you decipher it. However, I am pretty sure I don't want to try the Kyrgyz version of gulash.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, it turns out that bistroganov was quite tasty. Basically it was some meat (sheep) in a tomato-y sauce, poured over some awesome steak fries.
Since I skipped club, I decided to also skip my Kyrgyz lesson, even though I was home in time. The lessons are good and helpful, but they fry my brain. It reminds me of training. My tutor is making me realize that I have severely underestimated the complexity of the Kyrgyz language. I really should stick to just learn the grammar that is needed for me to be understood on a basic level, but I find the really weird extra stuff so interesting. For example, I was practicing a sentence during my lesson, just using simple present tense and talking about the things I typically do in a day. My tutor interrupted me and said “Now, when you peel potatoes and carrots, do you do it by yourself or with your host mother or sister?” I thought he was prompting me for another sentence, but it turns out that the verb is conjugated differently depending on whether you are doing it by yourself or as a group. I think that is absolutely wild! But then, I am also obsessed with the word “beefshtiks.”
My tutor is doing an excellent job, and I am so fortunate to have him around. It is really nice to know that he is around and willing to help with a communication problem (every time I talk to him he asks me if I am “experiencing any defects with your new family?), especially because my counterpart (who is the person who is really supposed to be helping me out if I need it, the problem is that I have just as much difficulty communicating with her sometimes) is in Bishkek until mid August. No big deal for me because I don't see her very often anyway, but when she told me she was going I felt kind of ditched. Still, it is a great opportunity for her. She apparently won a contest put on by a new local tv station going in in the village, and she will be hosting some show part time. The training is in Bishkek, so that's where she is now.
Yesterday was an interesting day for me. Mostly interesting because it was remarkably uninteresting. The night before yesterday at around 9 I was just chilling in my room, reading a book, waiting to be summoned for supper, when Apa came in and told me to change my clothes because we were going to grandma's house (Kyrgyz people have their home clothes and their going somewhere clothes, a habit I quickly picked up on). I figured I was going to be in for a long night of guesting, but I was wrong. It was starting to get dark, so although the house isn't far (right across the street from my school, actually) the man who drives extended family around a lot (I haven't figured out the relationship with this guy actually. Is he like the chauffeur, or what?) drove us there. I got in the backseat and had to wait a few minutes for the rest of the family to come out. The driver is always really nice to me, but he doesn't talk a lot, which is fine with me. I offered my polite greeting routine and then we both sat in silence for a moment. The moment didn't last long, as I felt a strong kick in the back of my seat and heard a groan coming from the trunk. I gave a little yelp of surprise, and the driver glanced back at me through the rear-view mirror and said, “sheep.” Oh.
So my family (and the sheep) made our way up to my host dad's mother's house, a large compound where a ridiculous amount of aunts, uncles, and cousins live. Inside the main room of the house, which was at the moment devoid of all furniture, the old woman sad on a pile of cushions against the center of the wall opposite the door as if she was holding court over her offspring and their spouses who all stood awkwardly around her. I got in line with my family to give her the obligatory kisses on both cheeks.
She introduced herself to me one day at school when no one else was around. I was sitting on a bench outside, waiting for a teacher who was supposed to meet me, when I saw this old, hunched over woman hobbling over with the help of a cane. She called out out my name like a question (we hadn't seen each other before) so I hurried over to meet her. “Yes, I'm Audra,” I said, holding out my hand (hand shaking is really, really big here). To my surprise, she gripped my hand and yanked me in with amazing force for a smacking kiss on each cheek. “My daughter!” she said, “I am your Chong Ene!” (the southern Kyrgyz word for “grandmother.”) She is an awesome woman. I love her.
Anyway we were there so that the men could kill the sheep that was in the trunk in preparation for the next day, which was to be a joint celebration of the presidential election and the anniversary of the death of Chong Ene's husband. I made myself useful by babysitting inside the house, glad to be given a task and not the option of witnessing the slaughter of the animal that had been groaning in the trunk a few minutes earlier (what a horrible way to spend your last hour on earth).
We only ended up staying for about a little over an hour, and didn't eat, like I thought we would, except for the “osti,” which is the obligatory nibble of bread you must take when you visit someone's house. When we finally got home and ate dinner, it was past 11. I can't get used to this schedule.
The next morning, I got rolled out of bed to head back to Chong Ene's house, where I spent a very boring day. I wasn't really invited to be involved in either the prayer part of the day (I always want to call it a “death day party”) or the food preparation, so I just did the babysitting thing again, which was more difficult this time since the kids were just as bored as I was. It was too hot to play outside, even for the little kids, and all that was on tv was election stuff. I was glad that I had the foresight to stick my UNO game in my purse. I kind of wanted to know what was going on across the street at my school which was a voting station. There was a lot of loud music being played over there, so I wondered if there was a party of something, but I am technically supposed to avoid political stuff, and I wouldn't have wanted to check it out by myself anyway. Well, I got to eat a lot of good food, so I guess that's good.
(Later...)
I just got back into my room after supper (I helped Apa make stuffed sweet peppers, and it was amazing! It was similar to the rice and meat filling that is in Farah's dolmas, though not quite as flavorful.). I had turned out the lights in the big house before supper, and as it was now about 11 p.m., it was very dark in the house. Instead of turning on the light in the hall, I made my way through the dark entry way to get to my room. Every time I walk around the big old creaky house in the dark, I think about how this is the perfect setup for a horror movie. As I pushed aside the curtain that covered my doorway and reached around the corner to turn on the light, I heard a sniffle, and could kind of make out a person-sized shape standing up from crouching on the floor.
I freaked out a little bit. Okay, a lot, but only for a split second, because as soon as I switched the light on, there, sitting in the middle of the floor, his tail thumping on the carpet, was my host family's big lug of a dog, Churon. I have quickly become Churon's favorite person, as I have a tendency to not finish my plate of sheep fat and gristle, and I am the only person I have seen who pets him. Actually, I have only just now managed to remember his name (I don't know why it was so difficult, it seems like a simple name to me now) and had been calling him Marmaduke. Since I've gotten the name right, he loves me even more, and when he is not tied up, he follows me around everywhere. I wouldn't mind this in the least if he were an American dog, but he is not, and is probably infested with fleas and ticks. Yuck. He isn't even supposed to be in the house, but Apa and I have made an exception and allowed him to sleep in the entryway sometimes during the day. He is surprisingly obedient, but the temptation of doorways covered only with lace curtains must have gotten to him. He knew he was guilty, so he ran outside right away, and I didn't have to try to wrestle him out like I do sometimes. When he stands on all fours, his head comes up to my chest, and he probably weighs about as much as I do, so it is kind of tricky. I usually have to get some food for him. I am just so glad that he is a nice dog and not like my training family's three little terrors. I don't know why I was always so scared of little Rex, the smallest and most ferocious of the three. Churon could eat him in one bite.
August 2, 2009
I don't think I will ever be able to adapt to the Kyrgyz concept of time. I left home for Osh on Monday morning, expecting to be back home on Tuesday afternoon. It is now 6 o'clock on Sunday, and I just got home.
It would have been nice if my sister had warned me that we would be staying for a week, or maybe she just assumed I knew the typical Kyrgyz visiting policy. I had done my best to pack light, but light packing with one day in mind does not quite stretch for a week. This resulted in me wearing the same outfit all week and washing the shirt twice (it was a hot week) and being generally pissed that I didn't think to bring my dictionary or more money (I had to borrow from other volunteers. I hate borrowing).
Not that it wasn't a good week. It was a really good bonding experience for me and my sister, and it was nice to get away from the village for a bit. We really spent most of our time either at the pool down the road from the apartment we were staying at, or just sprawling on the floor watching American and Russian music videos, sappy Uzbek romance movies, and way too many episodes of this really bad Brazilian soap opera dubbed in Russian. It was probably the first time in my life where I just sat around doing nothing for an entire week and didn't feel guilty about it. Our lovely hostess, who I guess is my host sister's cousin's new wife, is a university student so she has the summer off. She is definitely a no-fuss housewife who made ramen noodles instead of complicated Kyrgyz dishes and spent the rest of her time laying around with us, even skipping the trips to the pool to watch more tv and sleep.
On Wednesday it was cloudy and breezy, so we climbed Suiliman Too (Soloman's Mountain), Osh's pride and joy and a very popular pilgrimage site for Musilms. To be honest, I am kind of getting sick of hearing about it, and I am mostly glad that I went to see it so that I don't have to hear the gasps of horror when I tell people that I have visited Osh several times without climbing the mountain. Maybe I have to be Muslim or really spiritual or something to really appreciate the mountain like Oshians do, but at least I could admire the view of the city from the top. And the museum was interesting, if a little sad and worn.
I spent Friday with some volunteers, came back yesterday to meet my sister and hoped to go home with her, but no luck there. We went for a long walk around the neighborhood with some new friends we met at the pool one day and they invited us for a tour of the city on Monday or Tuesday. I said I didn't think we would stay that long, but to my horror, my sister agreed. Turns out, she was just being Kyrgyz—they don't like to turn down invitations on the spot, so they agree and then make an excuse later. I think it is very annoying, and even more so that I have found myself doing it lately. Turns out Kyrgyz people don't like to hear other people turn down their invitations either, and often the invitations are empty anyway and they expect you to refuse later. What a joke.
Anyway, the apartment was really nice, even though the only furniture they had was a tv stand and a table. Kyrgyz people seem to have something of an aversion to furniture. Even when they have it, they hardly ever use it. The outside was a little dreary. If you walk for a ways down the road, there is a nice little park-type area with some nice and expensive-looking restaurants (one was called “Manhattan” and I wondered if they had American food. They don't.) and a small bazaar that was so convenient (shopping for anything requires such planning in the village). Even more convenient was that women would walk around in between apartment buildings yelling (in Kyrgyz) “peaches!”, “milk!”, “manti!” or whatever they were selling out of their baskets tied up in tablecloths that they were lugging around. I love this about city living! But I have to say that walking around in between the buildings was a tad depressing. It was just too many identical square, gray, Soviet buildings for one area. In the middle of the cluster of buildings there is the rusty remains of a playground, but it is the typical kind that I have seen all over Kyrgyzstan in various levels of disrepair. I would like to know what the Soviets expected kids to do on these playgrounds. Pull-ups during recess, perhaps?
Speaking of strange Soviet things (the country is full of them) I saw an interesting news segment the other day. It was in Russian, but I think I got the gist. The reporter was on a tour of an old Soviet fallout shelter somewhere in Central Asia. The segment was lighthearted, with the reporter laughing as she tried on old gas masks and such, but I don't know why she wasn't terrified. The whole place looked like something from a nightmare. Not only that, but the place was huge! I wish I could have understood what they were saying, but I was at least able to see that there were definitely intentions to accommodate a lot of people for a really long time. The scariest part was the tour of the shelter's weight room and a firing range. The lighting and the whole look of the place was so eerie I thought I might have nightmares. Even though there were several Kyrgyz people in the room, no one but me seemed to be paying attention, and when I asked if someone could translate what they were saying into Kyrgyz so I could understand, they were like, “this isn't interesting,” and changed the channel.
When we first got to Osh, we went guesting at the home of my host dad's sister, only about a 20 minute walk from our apartment and, ironically, just off Karl Marx street. The place was a mansion! I throw around that word a lot in jest because so many Kyrgyz homes are very large and are often made of many separate houses in one complex. But this was a mansion by American standards. The main house was very much a tv show house setup, and the decorating scheme was a very Western matchy-matchy beige and light green job, not at all what I have seen in most houses with mismatched rugs, wall hangings, and curtains. There was a big screened tv in the living room and I could hear another tv going in a bedroom upstairs. They had a piano in the dining room, the first piano I have seen in a house in country.
While we were eating lunch, the mother called her son on the phone, scolded him for still sleeping, and told him to come meet the American girl and speak English to her. Since she used the phone to call him, I thought he must live somewhere else, but he was just in another part of the house. Yeah, its that big. He conveniently stumbled in without a shirt, probably expecting to show off for an American girl cut more from the Jessica Alba mold. Too bad. He gave me a tour of the house, which included a bigger living room with another big screen tv, a small collection of antique brass ware, and a kangaroo pelt draped over the couch. There was also a pet eagle tied up in the front yard, and really expensive-looking SUV in the garage belonging to the father (my guide was quick to tell me that his own car—a Mercedes—was being borrowed by his father that day). The craziest part was the last stop on the tour. It was a separate building containing, get this: an indoor pool! And a sauna and a shower. I know, right? In Kyrgyzstan! I wasn't able to understand what the dad does for a living. Probably he's a drug lord or something. Just kidding. But really....
Wow, it is really hot out. I went to the Uzgen bazaar today with my family, and we all came home and crashed on the floor in the (thankfully) cool living room. The electricity was out so we didn't even watch tv, we just laid there for a while until Apa provided me with motivation to get up by mentioning that there was cold orange juice in the refrigerator.
Last night, Apa asked me if I would have club this morning. I thought this was a strange question, as she knows my schedule pretty well and had just been included in a conversation with her sister-in-law who had asked the club schedule so that she could send her kids. I said yes, and she made a face like she wasn't happy about something and said, “ok, we'll talk tomorrow.” This morning, she asked me again if I was going to school. She said she was going to Uzgen, and I said that's fine, I have food to eat for lunch, I'll see you later. Then she basically ordered me not to go to club, and to change my clothes, because I am going with. I didn't really have a choice. We ended up leaving about the same time I usually leave for school. All the neighbor kids came running to walk with me, and my sister had to tell them that there is no club today. They all gave me sad faces, and I felt really bad, but I figured this trip to Uzgen must be pretty important to Apa.
I guess I was dragged along in order to be another pair of hands to carry bags. This is when I realize how wonderful the invention of the shopping cart is. A string bag full of potatoes and carrots is really heavy. Still, I can't complain, as I find bazaar shopping with Apa to be a fascinating experience.
A side note: ordering a dish that sounds familiar may not always yield familiar results. At a cafe for lunch, I asked Apa and my sister to pick out something new for me to try. Apa ordered three portions of what sounded to me like “beefstroganov.” “Oh, beef stroganov!” I said. “We have this in America. I like this food!” And then I tried to remember if I actually do like beef stroganov.
As it turns out, it didn't really matter if I like beef stroganov or not, since the plate I was given contained neither noodles nor (go figure) beef. Upon glancing at the menu again, I realized that I had heard wrong, and the dish that I was eating was actually written as Бистрогонов (bistroganov) although it was listed underneath Бифштекс(beefshtiks), a that actually is beef, and the closest you can get to a hamburger (albeit a bun-less hamburger) in this part of the oblast. And the beef is not in sticks (or shtiks): I guess it is just a russianization (or is the term “russification”? Probably) of the word “beef steak.” I'm not in love with beefshtiks, but I really just like saying it. Go on, try it: beefshtiks beefshtiks beefshtiks!
By the way, the first item on the menu was also familiar: gulash. Sometimes it is difficult to spot these familiar words through the Russian letters, but it is all the more gratifying once you decipher it. However, I am pretty sure I don't want to try the Kyrgyz version of gulash.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, it turns out that bistroganov was quite tasty. Basically it was some meat (sheep) in a tomato-y sauce, poured over some awesome steak fries.
Since I skipped club, I decided to also skip my Kyrgyz lesson, even though I was home in time. The lessons are good and helpful, but they fry my brain. It reminds me of training. My tutor is making me realize that I have severely underestimated the complexity of the Kyrgyz language. I really should stick to just learn the grammar that is needed for me to be understood on a basic level, but I find the really weird extra stuff so interesting. For example, I was practicing a sentence during my lesson, just using simple present tense and talking about the things I typically do in a day. My tutor interrupted me and said “Now, when you peel potatoes and carrots, do you do it by yourself or with your host mother or sister?” I thought he was prompting me for another sentence, but it turns out that the verb is conjugated differently depending on whether you are doing it by yourself or as a group. I think that is absolutely wild! But then, I am also obsessed with the word “beefshtiks.”
My tutor is doing an excellent job, and I am so fortunate to have him around. It is really nice to know that he is around and willing to help with a communication problem (every time I talk to him he asks me if I am “experiencing any defects with your new family?), especially because my counterpart (who is the person who is really supposed to be helping me out if I need it, the problem is that I have just as much difficulty communicating with her sometimes) is in Bishkek until mid August. No big deal for me because I don't see her very often anyway, but when she told me she was going I felt kind of ditched. Still, it is a great opportunity for her. She apparently won a contest put on by a new local tv station going in in the village, and she will be hosting some show part time. The training is in Bishkek, so that's where she is now.
Yesterday was an interesting day for me. Mostly interesting because it was remarkably uninteresting. The night before yesterday at around 9 I was just chilling in my room, reading a book, waiting to be summoned for supper, when Apa came in and told me to change my clothes because we were going to grandma's house (Kyrgyz people have their home clothes and their going somewhere clothes, a habit I quickly picked up on). I figured I was going to be in for a long night of guesting, but I was wrong. It was starting to get dark, so although the house isn't far (right across the street from my school, actually) the man who drives extended family around a lot (I haven't figured out the relationship with this guy actually. Is he like the chauffeur, or what?) drove us there. I got in the backseat and had to wait a few minutes for the rest of the family to come out. The driver is always really nice to me, but he doesn't talk a lot, which is fine with me. I offered my polite greeting routine and then we both sat in silence for a moment. The moment didn't last long, as I felt a strong kick in the back of my seat and heard a groan coming from the trunk. I gave a little yelp of surprise, and the driver glanced back at me through the rear-view mirror and said, “sheep.” Oh.
So my family (and the sheep) made our way up to my host dad's mother's house, a large compound where a ridiculous amount of aunts, uncles, and cousins live. Inside the main room of the house, which was at the moment devoid of all furniture, the old woman sad on a pile of cushions against the center of the wall opposite the door as if she was holding court over her offspring and their spouses who all stood awkwardly around her. I got in line with my family to give her the obligatory kisses on both cheeks.
She introduced herself to me one day at school when no one else was around. I was sitting on a bench outside, waiting for a teacher who was supposed to meet me, when I saw this old, hunched over woman hobbling over with the help of a cane. She called out out my name like a question (we hadn't seen each other before) so I hurried over to meet her. “Yes, I'm Audra,” I said, holding out my hand (hand shaking is really, really big here). To my surprise, she gripped my hand and yanked me in with amazing force for a smacking kiss on each cheek. “My daughter!” she said, “I am your Chong Ene!” (the southern Kyrgyz word for “grandmother.”) She is an awesome woman. I love her.
Anyway we were there so that the men could kill the sheep that was in the trunk in preparation for the next day, which was to be a joint celebration of the presidential election and the anniversary of the death of Chong Ene's husband. I made myself useful by babysitting inside the house, glad to be given a task and not the option of witnessing the slaughter of the animal that had been groaning in the trunk a few minutes earlier (what a horrible way to spend your last hour on earth).
We only ended up staying for about a little over an hour, and didn't eat, like I thought we would, except for the “osti,” which is the obligatory nibble of bread you must take when you visit someone's house. When we finally got home and ate dinner, it was past 11. I can't get used to this schedule.
The next morning, I got rolled out of bed to head back to Chong Ene's house, where I spent a very boring day. I wasn't really invited to be involved in either the prayer part of the day (I always want to call it a “death day party”) or the food preparation, so I just did the babysitting thing again, which was more difficult this time since the kids were just as bored as I was. It was too hot to play outside, even for the little kids, and all that was on tv was election stuff. I was glad that I had the foresight to stick my UNO game in my purse. I kind of wanted to know what was going on across the street at my school which was a voting station. There was a lot of loud music being played over there, so I wondered if there was a party of something, but I am technically supposed to avoid political stuff, and I wouldn't have wanted to check it out by myself anyway. Well, I got to eat a lot of good food, so I guess that's good.
(Later...)
I just got back into my room after supper (I helped Apa make stuffed sweet peppers, and it was amazing! It was similar to the rice and meat filling that is in Farah's dolmas, though not quite as flavorful.). I had turned out the lights in the big house before supper, and as it was now about 11 p.m., it was very dark in the house. Instead of turning on the light in the hall, I made my way through the dark entry way to get to my room. Every time I walk around the big old creaky house in the dark, I think about how this is the perfect setup for a horror movie. As I pushed aside the curtain that covered my doorway and reached around the corner to turn on the light, I heard a sniffle, and could kind of make out a person-sized shape standing up from crouching on the floor.
I freaked out a little bit. Okay, a lot, but only for a split second, because as soon as I switched the light on, there, sitting in the middle of the floor, his tail thumping on the carpet, was my host family's big lug of a dog, Churon. I have quickly become Churon's favorite person, as I have a tendency to not finish my plate of sheep fat and gristle, and I am the only person I have seen who pets him. Actually, I have only just now managed to remember his name (I don't know why it was so difficult, it seems like a simple name to me now) and had been calling him Marmaduke. Since I've gotten the name right, he loves me even more, and when he is not tied up, he follows me around everywhere. I wouldn't mind this in the least if he were an American dog, but he is not, and is probably infested with fleas and ticks. Yuck. He isn't even supposed to be in the house, but Apa and I have made an exception and allowed him to sleep in the entryway sometimes during the day. He is surprisingly obedient, but the temptation of doorways covered only with lace curtains must have gotten to him. He knew he was guilty, so he ran outside right away, and I didn't have to try to wrestle him out like I do sometimes. When he stands on all fours, his head comes up to my chest, and he probably weighs about as much as I do, so it is kind of tricky. I usually have to get some food for him. I am just so glad that he is a nice dog and not like my training family's three little terrors. I don't know why I was always so scared of little Rex, the smallest and most ferocious of the three. Churon could eat him in one bite.
August 2, 2009
I don't think I will ever be able to adapt to the Kyrgyz concept of time. I left home for Osh on Monday morning, expecting to be back home on Tuesday afternoon. It is now 6 o'clock on Sunday, and I just got home.
It would have been nice if my sister had warned me that we would be staying for a week, or maybe she just assumed I knew the typical Kyrgyz visiting policy. I had done my best to pack light, but light packing with one day in mind does not quite stretch for a week. This resulted in me wearing the same outfit all week and washing the shirt twice (it was a hot week) and being generally pissed that I didn't think to bring my dictionary or more money (I had to borrow from other volunteers. I hate borrowing).
Not that it wasn't a good week. It was a really good bonding experience for me and my sister, and it was nice to get away from the village for a bit. We really spent most of our time either at the pool down the road from the apartment we were staying at, or just sprawling on the floor watching American and Russian music videos, sappy Uzbek romance movies, and way too many episodes of this really bad Brazilian soap opera dubbed in Russian. It was probably the first time in my life where I just sat around doing nothing for an entire week and didn't feel guilty about it. Our lovely hostess, who I guess is my host sister's cousin's new wife, is a university student so she has the summer off. She is definitely a no-fuss housewife who made ramen noodles instead of complicated Kyrgyz dishes and spent the rest of her time laying around with us, even skipping the trips to the pool to watch more tv and sleep.
On Wednesday it was cloudy and breezy, so we climbed Suiliman Too (Soloman's Mountain), Osh's pride and joy and a very popular pilgrimage site for Musilms. To be honest, I am kind of getting sick of hearing about it, and I am mostly glad that I went to see it so that I don't have to hear the gasps of horror when I tell people that I have visited Osh several times without climbing the mountain. Maybe I have to be Muslim or really spiritual or something to really appreciate the mountain like Oshians do, but at least I could admire the view of the city from the top. And the museum was interesting, if a little sad and worn.
I spent Friday with some volunteers, came back yesterday to meet my sister and hoped to go home with her, but no luck there. We went for a long walk around the neighborhood with some new friends we met at the pool one day and they invited us for a tour of the city on Monday or Tuesday. I said I didn't think we would stay that long, but to my horror, my sister agreed. Turns out, she was just being Kyrgyz—they don't like to turn down invitations on the spot, so they agree and then make an excuse later. I think it is very annoying, and even more so that I have found myself doing it lately. Turns out Kyrgyz people don't like to hear other people turn down their invitations either, and often the invitations are empty anyway and they expect you to refuse later. What a joke.
Anyway, the apartment was really nice, even though the only furniture they had was a tv stand and a table. Kyrgyz people seem to have something of an aversion to furniture. Even when they have it, they hardly ever use it. The outside was a little dreary. If you walk for a ways down the road, there is a nice little park-type area with some nice and expensive-looking restaurants (one was called “Manhattan” and I wondered if they had American food. They don't.) and a small bazaar that was so convenient (shopping for anything requires such planning in the village). Even more convenient was that women would walk around in between apartment buildings yelling (in Kyrgyz) “peaches!”, “milk!”, “manti!” or whatever they were selling out of their baskets tied up in tablecloths that they were lugging around. I love this about city living! But I have to say that walking around in between the buildings was a tad depressing. It was just too many identical square, gray, Soviet buildings for one area. In the middle of the cluster of buildings there is the rusty remains of a playground, but it is the typical kind that I have seen all over Kyrgyzstan in various levels of disrepair. I would like to know what the Soviets expected kids to do on these playgrounds. Pull-ups during recess, perhaps?
Speaking of strange Soviet things (the country is full of them) I saw an interesting news segment the other day. It was in Russian, but I think I got the gist. The reporter was on a tour of an old Soviet fallout shelter somewhere in Central Asia. The segment was lighthearted, with the reporter laughing as she tried on old gas masks and such, but I don't know why she wasn't terrified. The whole place looked like something from a nightmare. Not only that, but the place was huge! I wish I could have understood what they were saying, but I was at least able to see that there were definitely intentions to accommodate a lot of people for a really long time. The scariest part was the tour of the shelter's weight room and a firing range. The lighting and the whole look of the place was so eerie I thought I might have nightmares. Even though there were several Kyrgyz people in the room, no one but me seemed to be paying attention, and when I asked if someone could translate what they were saying into Kyrgyz so I could understand, they were like, “this isn't interesting,” and changed the channel.
When we first got to Osh, we went guesting at the home of my host dad's sister, only about a 20 minute walk from our apartment and, ironically, just off Karl Marx street. The place was a mansion! I throw around that word a lot in jest because so many Kyrgyz homes are very large and are often made of many separate houses in one complex. But this was a mansion by American standards. The main house was very much a tv show house setup, and the decorating scheme was a very Western matchy-matchy beige and light green job, not at all what I have seen in most houses with mismatched rugs, wall hangings, and curtains. There was a big screened tv in the living room and I could hear another tv going in a bedroom upstairs. They had a piano in the dining room, the first piano I have seen in a house in country.
While we were eating lunch, the mother called her son on the phone, scolded him for still sleeping, and told him to come meet the American girl and speak English to her. Since she used the phone to call him, I thought he must live somewhere else, but he was just in another part of the house. Yeah, its that big. He conveniently stumbled in without a shirt, probably expecting to show off for an American girl cut more from the Jessica Alba mold. Too bad. He gave me a tour of the house, which included a bigger living room with another big screen tv, a small collection of antique brass ware, and a kangaroo pelt draped over the couch. There was also a pet eagle tied up in the front yard, and really expensive-looking SUV in the garage belonging to the father (my guide was quick to tell me that his own car—a Mercedes—was being borrowed by his father that day). The craziest part was the last stop on the tour. It was a separate building containing, get this: an indoor pool! And a sauna and a shower. I know, right? In Kyrgyzstan! I wasn't able to understand what the dad does for a living. Probably he's a drug lord or something. Just kidding. But really....
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