15 Second Mood Booster

Who knew an agriculture expo could be so much fun? If only we could all find this much joy in life! Notice the fantastic percussion instrument made out of saucers and thimbles.

An answer to those of you who have asked me about the attitude towards America in Central Asia

The Obama Grill in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.

Hospitality

It seems like so many of the best stories I have are of the disasters, the misadventures, the challenges that I've come across, so I'm very pleased to finally tell a story about something unexpected and pleasant.

Yesterday, while enjoying the gorgeous spring weather, I ran into an American colleague and his wife, who invited me to join them to see an art gallery where they were going to finish a payment and pick up an order. I'm not a huge art enthusiast, but having nothing else to do, I went along.

The art gallery turned out to be the private residence of the artist, who is well known and respected within Tajikistan. The home was easily the most beautiful I've seen in Central Asia. There are two rooms to the small gallery/studio that they showed us. The entry way is lined with the proudly framed work of children who take art lessons there. The main gallery is bright with natural light coming in through the skylight in the high ceiling. The walls are lined from ceiling to floor with brightly colored heirlooms--wall hangings passed down through the generations, grandmother's embroidered wedding dress, and, of course, the artist's work, which is stunning. The best part of this room was the grapevine, which the room was actually built around, so that the vine comes up through the floor and out through the wall onto an arbor outside, creating shade in the courtyard. The vine itself was another heirloom, having been planted by the grandfather.

As if this weren't surprising enough, the artist's family had laid out a full feast for their expected guests (making me feel guilty for tagging along, but Tajik people are always prepared for extra guests, and I think this family sincerely enjoys being hosts). This particular spread was in gratitude, I suppose, for the substantial purchase that my friends were making. The artist's life work, it seems, is reviving the Persian miniature style of painting. I thought that this meant little paintings, but most of them are quite large. It simply means that the subjects are miniature, which means that his work is rich with detail, and they are like illustrations--they tell a story. He also makes these beautiful chess sets, one of which is what my friends were there to pick up. These chess sets are also beautiful and richly detailed, and each set is specific to one region in Tajikistan.

After enjoying traditional Tajik food and chatting about the history of all the interesting things in the gallery and about the family's work, a huge amount of picture taking ensued. We were taking pictures of everything in the beautiful gallery, and the family was taking pictures of us enjoying the gallery. We all ended up laughing about it the situation was so funny--all of us taking pictures of each other. We even took a group photo on a timer.

Ironically, I actually didn't have my own camera at the time, so I don't actually have any pictures at the moment, but check out the artist's website at this address:

http://olim-kamalov.blogspot.com

Dead Goat Polo

So, if I remember correctly, today marks 2 years since I first came to Central Asia. How fitting that I should finally see an official game of Boz Kashi, known to the rest of the world as "a polo-like game played with a goat carcass."

I enjoyed the game about as much as I expected to; which is to say, I didn't. I mean no disrespect to this ancient and treasured tradition, but I just don't really like contact sports with incomprehensible rules and objectives, and I especially don't like standing in the mud and rain and cold watching such a sport.

Now that I'm home and warm and dry, I don't necessarily regret going. The attitude of the riders was impressive to me, and interesting, right down to their clothes, which gave me the impression that they couldn't decide whether they were in a rodeo, an American football game in 1920, or playing quidditch.

As far as I could tell, the game is something of a free-for-all with each rider competing individually for prizes donated by sponsors. The main riders are supported by a back up team that guards them once they get hold of the goat. The first winner was awarded with a prize of honey. The second winner received a car.

Happy Navruz!

It's almost Navruz again--I can't believe it! The last year went by so incredibly quickly.

Navruz (in Kyrgyzstan, Nooruz) is the Central Asian New Year holiday celebrated on the Spring Equinox, March 21. I arrived in Kyrgyzstan right after this holiday two years ago, and spent the following year hearing about how awesome it is. By the time Nooruz finally came, there was a freak mid-spring blizzard and the electricity was out all day. I sat around being bored with my host family waiting for the power to come back on, but it never did, so we sat around in the dark eating cake. Bummer.

So, as you can imagine, I am totally pumped for Navruz in Tajikistan, especially because it seems like so much of the Tajik national identity is centered around its Navruz traditions.

They started decorating the city over a week ago. On Friday, I started seeing lots of kids of all ages on the streets in national dress, heading to and from school celebrations. This morning I ran out to the store and found that someone had decorated my building's stairwell and my door with spring-colored balloons. The checkout girls at the store across the street were all decked out in their national dresses and hats. The weather is great and everyone seems to be in a good mood, including me!

UPDATE: Turns out the balloons were in preparation for a wedding! I had forgotten that the girl upstairs was getting married. I almost had a heart attack when I heard the horns and drums coming up the stairs.

The Coffin Lid on the Stairs

Today is Sunday, so I woke up late this morning. It had gotten colder overnight, so when I got up I turned on the air conditioner that heats my apartment. The strong smell of incense flooded in with the warm air. My next-door neighbor, an old Russian woman named Aleksandra, died of a heart attack two nights ago. Her funeral is being held in her apartment today.

News of her death came to me last night at precisely the moment the neighbor who lives in the apartment directly below Aleksandra and I were sharing complaints about her. “There's always people coming and going from her place early in the morning,” I complained. “Her doorbell is loud and plays annoying tunes like 'My Darling Clementine' and 'Happy Birthday. The chiming of her grandfather clock sometimes wakes me up at night.”

“She yelled at me about setting my garbage in the hallway for a minute,” added my friend. “And people were moving furniture around up there in the afternoon when I wanted my baby to sleep.”

Someone delivered the news to us while I was sitting in my friend's apartment, gossiping, and we felt terrible. We simultaneously looked to the ceiling, asking forgiveness, whether we were directing our prayers to the apartment above or further up, I don't know. I don't know why I was so ungracious toward this poor old woman. She always returned my greetings in the hallway when I saw her, but since the weather turned cold, I didn't see her very often. I was glad when she stopped coming out so much, because she whenever she did she would always talk to me, striking up a very one-sided conversation that always made me uncomfortable. Once she made me repeat her full name several times until she was satisfied with my pronunciation. A moment later, I didn't remember her last name. More than once she motioned to me that I should come in for tea, but looking past her into her dark and creepy apartment that emitted some strong unpleasant smells, I would say in my best broken Russian “nyet, sichas nyet.” (“no, now no”) and saying a word that I hoped best resembled the Russian for work, I pantomimed running in place, and left.

Today is a rare gloomy, damp, snowy day. It's cold, but not that cold, so the city is covered with muddy puddles. I preferred not to go out at all today, but I had a pile of garbage that needed to be taken out, and as all I had in my fridge was one egg, some ketchup, and mayonnaise, a trip to the bazaar was needed.

As I readied to leave, I could hear several voices on the other side of my door. I looked through the peep hole to watch for the mourners to move out of the way. I felt guilty trying to avoid the whole funeral thing, and I wondered if I should offer to do something, or at least go in and pay my respects, but I'm a coward, and it seems more respectful to stay out of the way than to risk a cultural faux pas.

When the mourners dispersed, I made my escape. The hallway was filled with smoke, not from the incense, but from Tajik women cooking over two open fires right in the stairwell. One woman is deep-frying potatoes, and the other is watching rice in a larger pot. A rare and out of place taste of community and local tradition in a building who's occupants are a mix of nationalities that all keep to ourselves.

A red coffin lid is propped up against the wall of the stairwell opposite my door. On my way out and the way back home, I navigated past these obstacles—the large coffin lid, the two fires and two cooking pots, the mourners huddled around the building's entrance with umbrellas. And now I'm hiding in my apartment again, the TV on, but muted respectfully. Rest in peace, Aleksandra. I'm sorry I never took you up on that offer for a cup of tea.

Christmas Greetings from Dushanbe

The big New Year tree in my neighborhood. I have been thinking that Dushanbe is such a pretty, neat and well-kept city until they started decorating for New Years.

October 23, 2010

Ack, the dust! I could probably get some pretty decent cement out of my mouth right now. After cleaning my apartment thoroughly, I have decided to keep my windows closed until it rains.

Today was the first day since my arrival that hasn't felt like summer. It was still beautiful and sunny (though dusty), just a little bit cooler. Love the sun, hate the dust.

I'm as busy as ever and still love my job, possibly even more so now that I have really begun to get to know my students.

Dushanbe never ceases to amaze me with the strange variety of things it offers. In the past week or so I attended an international film festival, saw a performance by Native American dancers from the States, saw a belly dancing show and a performance of the opera Aida. Tomorrow I plan to go on a hike to see dinosaur fossils.

Maybe it's because I so recently lived in rural Central Asia, or maybe it's because whenever I read a news article on Tajikistan, it almost is always referred to as “the poorest of the former Soviet republics” or something of that nature, but I was impressed with the interior of the Opera Ballet Theater that is situated just on the other side of a small park from my apartment building. Not only was the theater beautifully decorated, but the place had the most comfortable theater seats that I've ever sat in. I could have taken a nap in that seat, but the performance of Aida was actually quite entertaining. The number of empty seats in the place was depressing, however. With the huge cast, there could have hardly been more than two audience members to each performer. With tickets at only $4, I don't know how they managed to finance the performance.

November 6, 2010

It's a holiday weekend! One great thing about the former Soviet Union is the multitude of holidays that are nicely spread out. I'm writing this while watching a concert on TV. Actually, its on EVERY Tajik channel (all four, that is). I have sputnik TV, so I have options, but I'm mesmerized by this concert. So far, it has mostly consisted of pretty girls in various varieties of national dress walking around in formations and occasionally dancing or braiding each other's hair in rhythm. There was one dance entirely choreographed around one woman's ridiculously amazing hair: it literally brushed the floor. In any case, it's not the most interesting thing I've ever seen, but there's so much sparkle and color, I just can't look away!

I spoke Tajik at the bazaar today! I can't believe how quickly I'm picking up the basics of this language. Only about half of the words I've learned so far are completely new. Many words are similar enough to Kyrgyz/Uzbek to be easily remembered, and all the borrowed Russian words are the same. Surprisingly, there are more than a few words that are related to English or Romantic languages. Mother is “modar,” father is “padar,” bad is “bad”. Awesome!

Also at the bazaar today, I realized I've been spending too much time in Central Asia. There were some women selling steaming-hot boiled sheep heads out of big tubs, and as I was walking by and caught a whiff of the boiled meat, my mouth started to water and I started thinking about what I was going to have for supper. Hard to believe that just a little over a year ago I would have forced back the urge to vomit at such a sight.

If you were wondering, I did NOT eat a sheep head. I had mac and cheese. Thank God Tajik people appreciate good cheese. Why it was so difficult to find edible cheese in Kyrgyzstan, I'll never know. I actually have big chunks of cheddar and swiss in my fridge right now.

November 14, 2010

Reasons I know I've spent too much time in Central Asia:

• At a party, I feel much more comfortable dancing in a Central Asian style than like an American.
• My kitchen perpetually smells like cumin.
• I've come to appreciate the beauty of a finely groomed uni-brow.
• After one month in Dushanbe, I've already bought two pairs of sparkly shoes.
• I'm more surprised to see a dog on a leash than I am to see a leashed goat, sheep, or even bear in the center of the city.
• I'm mesmerized by the weather girl on Tajik TV. I wish I could point at a weather map with as much grace as she does.
• After hearing that broccoli was sighted at the bazaar, I spent my whole lunch break searching for it with no success.
• I got really excited when a co-worker gave me an avocado.
• I know what persimmons and quince are.
• I haven't figured out the complex system of street crossing yet, but I do know that it helps to find the most formidable-looking middle aged woman with the glittery-est clothes and keep pace with her.
• I recognize that it is actually bad manners to buy something without bargaining for a lower price.

Reasons Dushanbe is an amazingly terrible / terribly amazing (depends on your opinion) place:

• Fried Chicken. There are at least 3 different fast-food chains in the city: “SFC” (Southern Fried Chicken), “New York Fried Chicken,” and “Kantri Fried Chicken” (I think with this one they were going for “country,” but they decided to spell it in Russian letters). They all look almost exactly the same. “SFC” (called simply “Chicken,” in English, even by locals who don't speak English) is dangerously close to home for me. They actually have really good pizza, too.
• Sawdust on your head is apparently adequate warning that a tree branch is about to be cut above the sidewalk you are walking on.
• An equally adequate warning is a plastic bag on a stick next to an open man hole.
• Fountains everywhere!
• Hate the chore of sorting your recycling? No need to in my neighborhood. I just take all my trash to the dump, and some poor desperate person will, as soon as my back is turned, jump on the bag, collect all my plastic bottles, brush off the bag the trash was in, fold it up neatly, and presumably will be able to sell all these things. I can't tell whether it would be nicer for me to just hand them the things that they might want rather than making them have to tromp through the trash to collect it.
• Have I mentioned the bear on a leash?
• The routine for getting bread for lunch at my office is as follows: 1. Leave the office compound and walk a few yards down a narrow alley. 2. Knock on an unmarked blue door halfway down the alley. 3. Wait a few seconds and knock again. 4. I the door opens, you are in luck! You can buy fresh hot bread straight from the bakers at whole-sale price. 5. Run back to the office, tossing the bread back and forth so as not to burn your hands. 6. Enjoy.
• Living next to a kindergarten = happiness.
• Keeping my window open = a dusty apartment.
• A reincarnation of the WWII-era Red Army marched down the main street on a Saturday afternoon. I'm talking long coats, furry hats, shiny black boots, rifles slung across the back, the whole shebang. I looked around for movie cameras or something, but this was the real thing. Allegedly they are from the police academy. I knew they weren't much for investing in new uniforms if they still have old ones that will do, but these guys looked fresh off the time machine.

November 16, 2010

Another holiday today. I was really looking forward to sleeping in this morning, but unfortunately I was awoken at 7 am by loud knocking at my door and children's voices yelling “do you have bread?” (At least this is what I think they were saying. I only just learned the verb “to have.” It took me only a peek out the peep hole to figure out that there was something of a trick-or-treat thing going on. I ignored the knocking until 9, but the kids were just so darn cute that I started giving out cookies. By 11, it was finished. Why didn't anyone tell me this would happen? And why do they do it so early in the morning?

December 3, 2010

Everyone keeps saying, "winter is here" but there are still roses blooming in the garden, and I eat lunch outside everyday without a jacket. It is chilly in the morning and evening, but I'll take that in exchange for warm and sunny afternoons! My Tajik teacher predicts that it will "barf" this weekend. I can't say I'm looking forward to that.

Onomatopoetry

Since Barf received something of a reprieve from me, I thought I would take the opportunity to highlight another wonderful product name that I came across in the store last night: a brand of baby food called "Plop."

Doesn't this product name entirely ensure you of the tastiness and nutritional value of the trusted brand? The best you could buy for your precious offspring.

Mystery Solved

"Barf" (Барф) means "snow" in Tajik/Persian. A much more pleasant thing to compare a cleaning product to.

"Runaways" Part II

I wanted to take this opportunity to follow up on the story recorded in June's "Runaways and Runway Models" post. A comment from Gemma made me realize that I never resolved what happened.

After my account left off, the runaway followed me around for a few days, and I bought him a few lunches in exchange for helping me with my English club. As it turned out, he stopped hanging around me after I reprimanded him (maybe too harshly, considering that his views were no different from most other Kyrgyz teenage boys) for some strong racist language that he used against an Uzbek shopkeeper.

Somehow, in the coming days, he finally made it home. He told me that he had apologized and made peace with his parents, but I don't know if this was the truth or not.

Soon after this, all hell broke loose in the June violence, so I lost touch with most people. I can only hope that he decided to resume his studies.

Afghan Gunmen

Sorry about the delay, everyone. For some reason, I haven't been able to access this page for the past week or so. I don't know whether to blame the connection or government censorship. No doubt all 777 of you have been anxiously awaiting the next installment. True story: at this exact moment, precisely 777 people have viewed my blog since the first entry. Actually, that can't be true. 777 computers have viewed this blog. Here's a special shout-out to my 19 readers in Guadeloupe (no offense, but who are you? I'd really like to know. Leave a comment if you are still reading.)

Last night I succeeded in breaking the lock to my apartment door. This is the second lock I've broken in Central Asia. I don't know how I do these things. Luckily, this time I was neither locked in or out of my apartment. Also, it took only an hour before the lock was fixed, as opposed to a month last time.

While my landlady was standing around with me waiting for the guy to switch the lock, I took the opportunity to point out a water stain on the ceiling that had recently appeared. My plan had been to march upstairs and, in the combination of Russian caveman speech and hand gestures that has been serving me so well so far, inform my upstairs neighbors that they are rudely dripping water on my ceiling.

I asked my landlady, who speaks some basic English, "Who lives upstairs? Do you know?".

"Yes," she replied. "Uh... gunmen. Afghan gunmen." Suddenly the water stain on my ceiling doesn't seem like such a big deal. I'll let the landlady deal with it whenever she gets around to it.

Journey and First Impressions

Once again, I must ask you to watch the dates of the entries. I am apparently incapable of doing anything in a linear fashion.

Sept. 28, 2010

Stockholm Airport

I find airports to be at once fascinating and terribly sad. Fascinating for many obvious reasons including its value as a giant on-going social experiment, as in “lets lock thousands of people from all walks of life and different parts of the world into one building for hours when they are already cranky and sleep-deprived, and just DARE them tolerate each other.” Its the same effect as going to the zoo, watching all these people. In fact, I strategically positioned myself across from the “Smoking Capsule” which is exactly what it sounds like. A round, elevator-sized glass capsule intended to contain smokers. Its deliciously cruel, watching all these people cram themselves desperately into this tiny container with a bunch of strangers, exposed to amused gawkers like me.

Well, its my lucky day. A man accompanied by a helper dog just sat down on the other end of the Ikea-ish bench I've sprawled out on for the time being. The dog was carrying the man's briefcase by the handle in his mouth. Adorable! Smokers in a capsule, cute helper dogs, this wait will go by in no time. Once I get tired of sitting here, I might move over to one of the red egg chairs on a circle of shag carpet behind me and look out the window, just because it seems like a fun place to sit. Oh, and there's also a kitchen gadget store here that I might go back and look through again. Kitchen gadgets have recently and inexplicably become an interest of mine. I never buy, just look. Its weird. I'm holding off on buying anything at all here because I have no idea what Swedish currency is called or what the exchange rate is. It makes me feel kind of guilty.

Which brings me to the reason that airports are so sad. So here I am, looking at souvenirs from a city I've never seen and will not see anytime soon. The flight attendant, the guy that stamps my passport, and security people all say what I assume to be “thank you” or “good-bye” or “have a pleasant trip” in a language I don't know, and I never know if it is more polite to say “thank you” in English or stay silent. I feel bad for not have doing some research on Sweden before I got here, like it should be an expected courtesy to know a little bit about a country you are visiting before you get there. I know even less about Latvia, my next stop.

Sept. 30, 2010

I'm here! My very LONG trip went smoothly, and although it took an irritatingly long time to get past the border control guys (there were three of them, but they kept switching booths for some reason, causing all of the travelers to run from one line to the other and back again, trying to predict which one would get them through the fastest. I did a bad job picking. If everyone weren't so cranky it would have been hilarious).

I was met at the doors of the airport by my new office's driver and American director, and they quickly got me shuffled off to my temporary apartment, leaving me to sleep (it was about 5 a.m. at this point).

Incidentally, I am writing this now at 4:30 a.m. today because I unfortunately have a messed-up internal clock.

The apartment, which from the outside and stairwell looks exactly like every apartment building I saw in Kyrgyzstan (boxy, cold, gray, crumbling), is very nice and comfortable. Its pretty huge for just me, nicely decorated with new-looking furniture and fixtures (if you like Central Asian neo-baroque, or whatever you would call the style of home decorating that they prefer in this part of the world), comfortable, and spotless. Some perks: three big windows, big bed, new stove and oven that looks like its never been used, and satellite TV (BBC World and Aljazeera English!).

I woke up around noon, cleaned up, and visited the supermarket across the street to change my money and get something to eat. As soon as I poked my head out of the building, I noticed a woman bent over a cooking pot propped on bricks in small fire. Hooray, I'm in Central Asia again!

My apartment is in a quiet area near the central hub of the city. Two of the Americans who work at my office live on the same block, and besides the supermarket, there is also a Georgian restaurant that the thee of us ate at last night (leftover hachupuri—Georgian cheesy bread—is in the fridge for breakfast!) and, apparently, a small produce market that I haven't visited yet.

The driver came to bring me to the office in late afternoon (its in walking distance, but I don't know the way yet), just in time for a quick tour and then a little award ceremony and reception for the Tajikistani lawyers who went on a professional development/study tour of America in the summer.

I knew I would like working at the office as soon as I saw the ping-pong table directly inside the office's compound gates. On the other side of the courtyard, exquisitely ornate carved wood doors of the office's main building were thrown wide open to let in the sunshine and fresh air from the garden (by the way, the weather is absolutely perfect). Luckily, they decided to set up my work space in the bright reception area rather than the isolated classroom. My desk is set next to a large upper-level window that opens up into the garden, giving me the illusion of sitting among the branches of a persimmon tree now heavy with bright orange fruit.

My new co-workers are being so nice already. As I went around meeting people in the office, a few showed me my date of arrival marked on their calendars with prominence. They kindly suggested that I sleep in tomorrow and come in to the office whenever I wake up (such a switch from PC where we arrived in the wee hours of the morning and started our first meeting a few hours later).

My first impression of Dushanbe: in many ways it looks a lot like Bishkek, but with a completely different vibe. It has a certain vibrancy similar to southern Kyrgyzstan which I suppose comes from the bright sun, fruit trees, and colorful clothes. I didn't think it was possible, but there are even more shiny, sparkley clothes here than in Uzgen. At night the streets in this area are lit up with colored lights. This street has multicolored palm tree shapes.

Interior Design and Fashion

October 10, 2010

Hey, happy 10-10-10!

I'm finally feeling settled into my new apartment (my permanent place, not the first place). Somehow it only took a few touches to make it home-y. Sadly, I think that involved messing it up a bit. I've uncovered a few surprises since moving in. Only one is bad: I can't move couch out from in front of the window so to open it fully. Most are good: screens on the windows, a water filter, a few jugs of un-opened bottled water, lights in the stairwell, and satellite radio connected to my TV. That means I get NPR! I was actually happy when I heard Car Talk come out of the speakers. Technology is amazing. The best surprise is that one of my co-workers, a local who speaks fluent English. lives right downstairs from me, so he can help me with translation or whatever if I have any problems. This was a great coincidence, but wait for the crazy part: his wife, who also speaks English, studied abroad in Iowa. Even weirder, we realized that we were at the very same rally for Obama in Waterloo back in 2008. How do these things happen? “Small world” is far too cliché to apply to a situation like this.

This ex-pat thing is definitely an interesting experience, and I'm glad I'm getting a taste of it now. I'm in a weird kind of mindset now, torn between eating it all up and being a Peace Corps volunteer snob and turning up my nose at all the foreigners and their weaknesses for things like ice, diet coke, and indoor plumbing. In any case, this is a really great way for a mediocre, middle class, Midwestern girl to try out being fancy-shmancy once in a while. Like tonight—I attended a fashion show and dinner at the Hyatt to benefit victims of domestic violence in Tajikistan (incidentally, the government apparently censored the event, and the announcers were not allowed to talk about this problem at all. So strange.). In any case, it was a neat event, and I can't wait to get my hands on some Tajik silk—it is really some of the most beautiful fabric I've ever seen.

One week in Dushanbe

Really, its only been a week?

So much has happened so far it seems like its been twice as long. I've been very busy with work and everything else, and have almost literally spent every moment I have at home sleeping. But I love it! Right now I'm part of a project that is helping a small and very motivated group of young people to learn English well enough to be accepted into an American law school. They are a really wonderful group, and their enthusiasm makes me want to work extra hard to assist them.

In other news, I moved into a new apartment yesterday! Its a great little place close to work and closer to the bazaar. Its really small, but that's perfect for me and the time I'll be spending there. All the appliances and fixtures are really new and clean and work well. The only problem I have with the place is that there is quite a lot of furniture for such a small place.

Now all I have to do is figure out those essential details such as: do I brush my teeth in the shower or in the kitchen sink? How can I position the couch so that it doesn't block me from opening the window? Where can I stash the giant stuffed gorilla that is sitting on the dresser?

New Format! New Life!

My Dear Readers,
If you look closely at the left side of this page, you might notice that all entries have been conveniently archived in chronological order (what a novel idea!)

Also on the left you will find a cute little poll that you may or may not choose to participate in. I thought I'd try it out for a while just for fun until I get sick of coming up with poll questions.

You might also notice that I have removed the pesky Peace Corps disclaimer, although all the entries I wrote during my time with Peace Corps will remain archived on this site until they are devoured by cyberspace.

Enough with the housekeeping.

Soon I will embark on a new journey and will once again resume writing Letters From A Faraway Land, although I suspect that for many of my American friends and family my new change of location will be no more perceivable than the change in format of this site.

In fact, my new home for the next 8 months or so will be not-so-very-faraway from my home in southern Kyrgyzstan: I have accepted a non-Peace Corps teaching position in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, and will most likely travel there before the end of the month. Hooray!

It has been a wonderful, relaxing summer here at home with my family and friends, but now that summer is over I am ready to get back to work and get back to Central Asia! Once again I feel torn between leaving behind loved ones and the comforts of American life and doing work that I feel a near magnetic pull towards.

While witnessing the tragedies in Osh from my safe bubble, I was reminded that life is precious and dangerous and unexpected all at once, and all at once it made me want to be with my family and be safe and be comfortable and seize the day. In the past few months I've spent lots of time feeling safe and comfortable and appreciating the importance of family. Now there's only one thing left to do.

Update

June 28, 2010
I made it back home to Iowa, whew.

As for what my plan is now: no idea.

The posts below were written over the last few weeks. Check the dates before you read the entries, everything is kind of in a jumbled-up order.

Waiting

June 13, 2010
Things are not looking good for southern Kyrgyzstan right now. At the moment, my site mate and I are sitting at her house, each on our own computers because we've run out of games to play with each other and stuff to talk about and we are way to antsy to watch more TV.

I won't go into details here, but yesterday was a very tense day for us. We were very, very worried about the safety of our fellow volunteers in Osh Oblast, as well as our local friends in various areas. Our village is very safe, but the same cannot be said many places in the surrounding region. We spent many hours yesterday waiting for word about when we would be evacuated and for news about how the other volunteers were faring, but could finally relax a bit after 9 p.m. when we heard news that all but one volunteer had been safely eveacuated, and that one had been moved to a safer location. Now there's just three of us waiting to get out of the south, and while we are all safe we are more or less trapped. On top of all this we are hearing terrible news of the violence in the city, and while it is comforting to know that all volunteers are safe, there are still many local friends still in Osh, and we are so scared for them. Its not fair that I should be so certain of my rescue, based only on the place of my birth.

In any case, I am not at all optomistic about coming back home to Osh once I leave. I hate to admit it, and the feelings of guilt are choking me, but I'm ready to leave the country once I am evacuated from the South. Maybe I'll change my mind later, but right now I'm just done. I love this country, and I feel like leaving willingly is a serious betrayal, but I can't shake the feeling that I just have to get out alltogether.

Runaways and Runway Models

May 25, 2010
Today I had a revelation: being a grown-up is hard. I hope I can start to get the hang of it by the time I''m 80.

When you're a kid, you have this idea that all your problems can be easily solved by some person you perceive to be a "grown-up." Its great to be on the kid side, but I've only recently started to experience things from the grown-up side, and that's not so great.

Around two weeks ago I heard that one volunteer's 16-year-old host brother ran away from home. The volunteer was away for a training, so couldn't really do much about this. When the volunteer told me this over the phone, I said something along the lines of "hmmm, that's too bad,' and when he asked me for advice, I assured him that he shouldn't worry about it because it isn't his problem.

My apathy bit me in the butt when the runaway turned up at my front door Sunday night.

The self-proclaimed "fugitive" (he had to spend some time flipping through his Kyrgyz-English dictionary before arriving at this word) had been floating around southern Kyrgyzstan for the past two weeks, staying with friends and acquaintances and avoiding family before arriving in my village at the house of his friend. He then asked around until he found me, knowing that I was friends with the volunteer that lives in his house and hoping that I could help him.

So, the kid said he had a place to stay, food to eat, and a change of clothes, but nothing else. He said he'd grabbed 100 som (about $2) before he left home two weeks ago, but now he was broke. He was trying to play it cool, telling me he was looking for work, but I could tell he was getting desparate. He asked if he could come and help me teach at school the next day, and I told him that would be fine, but when he continued to stand around expectantly I didn't know what to tell him. He wanted me to promise not to call his American brother, but I wouldn't promise, even though I had the urge to be the cool grown-up as opposed to the responsible teacher type.

In my childhood, I read enough books about runaways to recognize this story. At this point in the plot the runaway is getting scared and feeling alone. The happy feeling that came with freedom has worn off and realityy has set in. He's broke and out of options. Everything is looking bleak; but wait! Enter a new character: the wise spiritual guide who will offer sage advice and point the young protagonist in the right direction, resolving the story and teaching the runaway and the youthfull reader a valuable life lesson or two.

Only the author of this novel did a shitty job because the runaway got me instead.

Anyway, after following me around for two days, we finally sat down and had a good talk about his options. It was hard for me to look at this kid who is directly asking me for help and telling him that I can't even offer a possible solution for him that is anything other than going back home, which I knew he didn't want to do.

At long last, I offered to go with him back to his village and stand by him while he apologizes to his parents. I expected him to turn this offer down flat, but his face kind of lit up and he promised to think about it tonight.

I guess it wasn't that grown-ups always knew the solution, but they knew a solution. Wisdom comes with age, yes, but even more so it comes with the opportunity to experience responsibility over the life of another human being. And the difference between a child and an adult is sometimes not a difference in years, but the difference between trusting and being trusted.

And that is my sage advice for the resolution of this novel.

May 31, 2010

Paris runway models in robot-like leggings looking like characters the sci-fi film.
Quiz: The above phrase is
a) the name of a champion racehorse
b) the title of a punk-rock song from the late 90's
c) the text printed on the back of a shirt worn by a middle-aged woman in front of me in line at the bank

The correct answer, of course, is "c"

Today I was walking through my village when I was met with the usual chorus of cheerful and overly enthusiastic "hello"s from the little boys playing in the street. As I walked away, they begain to shout at me, "I am a sexy guy! I am a sexy guy!" I was confused for a minute until I realized that they were reciting the lyrics of a popular dance song.

I would like to place all the blame on things like t-shirts and pop songs for confusing the hell out of my students, but I think I am often to blame. Once, a pair of sweek eighth-grade girls asked for my help in understanding the lyrics of an Enlish pop song. They had already done an excellent job of translating, but were stuck on the phrase "make love." Not knowing an eighth-grade appropriate Kyrgyz equivalent, I told them in Kyrgyz, "for example, kisses, and ..." and then acted out obnoxious, noisy kissing. The girls had a giggle fit and ran away, so I couldn't check their understanding. I forgot about the whole thing until the last day of school when one of these girls wrote me a note that said, "Dear Miss Audra. Thank you we learn English. Summer good. Make love!" I guess they didn't get it. Oh well.

Update on the runaway: after tagging along after me for a few more days, he finally went home to his parents. Hooray!

Peace Corps policy prevents me from voicing opinions on this blog, and I will find it hard to relate the events of the past week without doing so. I will say that I have just been moved from the South and am very safe. I don't know what will happen next.

However:
Please, please, read the news about the current situation in Kyrgyzstan. Please stay informed. Tell your friends, family, co-workers. Don't allow this story to be ignored by the rest of the world. And please keep my friends and neighbors in Southern Kyrgyzstan in your thoughts and prayers.

I have more blog entries saved on my computer, but I will post them later at a more appropriate time.