Happy Thanksgiving and Айт құтты болсын!

Don’t go thinking the second is a translation. This past week two holidays were celebrated. Thursday, of course, was Thanksgiving! Friday through Sunday was the three day Muslim holiday, Kurban Ait.

A Turkey-less Thanksgiving
Originally I planned to teach on Thursday, so I got myself all wound up about traditions being celebrated by loved ones, deeply wishing I could accompany them. Wednesday morning the plan changed, and I travelled into Karaganda instead of teaching. Met with some PCVs and a gentleman who recently started work at the Embassy. Among other business, he wanted to meet the volunteers in the area, so meet we did. We gathered at an “American Corner” in a local library and afterwards watched presentations made by students from area schools. They had written eloquent essays, centered on what they know of American culture, with a few of their own words sprinkled in here and there (I hope). SendItIn.com, or whatever the site is to check for plagiarism, hasn’t made it quite this far just yet.

To relate a more personal note from the day, though, requires us to rewind for a second. Wednesday night, I told my host mother I planned to go into Karaganda the next morning. Alone?! Anxiety swept across her face. Exactly where was I going? What trustworthy person would be my personal escort? Telling her I was meeting another volunteer who lives there wasn’t quite good enough. Showing her on a makeshift map the bus stop where we’d meet still wasn’t sufficient. “I will take you to the bus station. I will help you buy your ticket. And I will talk to the bus driver so he knows where you must get off.” With light spirits, we both laughed as we agreed that I was like a two-foot-tall child. And when I returned in the evening, she would come and collect me. “I cannot lose my Denise!”

Thursday morning, she was true to her word. I sheepishly stood in line to board while my host mother pointed me out to the bus driver. And sure enough, as we approached my stop, the conductor (person on the bus responsible for walking up and down the aisles collecting bus fares) kindly sent a flurry of Russian my way, accompanied by much more helpful hand gestures. Entry to Karaganda: done.

What dawned on me early afternoon, however, was the fact that exactly how to return home remained a mystery. A fellow PCV lives in between Karaganda and Shakhtinsk, and had successfully gone in and back a few times already. So he and I set out to find a bus for both of us. We stood at the stop where he’s caught a bus before. And we asked around – can we get a bus to Shakhtinsk here? We got a variety of responses, with a range of confidence levels. Go to that side of the street. No, go to that side. Yes, your bus will come here. No, you must go there. (Wherever “there” is…) So we stood where he has gotten a bus home, confident I could do the same. And then his bus came. “Should I get on?” “Of course – go home!” He boarded, encouraging me that eventually, he was sure the right bus would come.

Alone I stood, in the middle of Karaganda, as darkness quickly approached. I addressed yet another woman, “Excuse me, I need a bus to Sha…” By that point her gaze was callous, she shook her head, and walked away. Ugh. (Please, oh please, be patient with the foreigners in your midst…) I re-gathered my courage and stepped up to two young women and started in again. “Excuse me, I need a bus to Shakhtinsk. Will it come here?” No, they carefully explained. I needed to walk across a square populated by shops to the nearest parallel street. I thanked them and walked off. Once I reached said street, I tried my luck and again asked for help. A kind-hearted woman walked with me to an unmarked bus stop. Just in time – a bus plastered with “Shakhtinsk” on the front stopped right as we said goodbye.

Back at the Shaktinsk bus station, my host mother picked me up. “Did you have any problems?” Since I’d prefer graduating from “two-foot-tall child” to “competent adult”, you better believe the answer was “no.”

Kurban Ait
A very elementary explanation of the holiday is the Muslim remembrance of Abraham’s son being spared from sacrifice. Traditionally, I understand, they slaughter an animal and feast for three days. In 2006, I was in Oman during this holiday. From my observation, celebrations in KZ were much toned down comparatively. (In Oman, streets were crazy with last-minute shoppers. Myriad goats tied in the marketplace were mysteriously gone Friday morning. Here, no marked increase in shopping; no goats or sheep to be seen.) Makes sense – Islam takes a much less prominent role here, and one may fairly say a large majority are Muslim only in name.

Regardless, it’s a holiday. Just as you could expect in the US, for my host family, that means family and food. I joined my host mother and sister for a trip to my host grandmother’s apartment. A handful of relatives had gathered. All women. Can’t say this is typical. I wish I were able to give an informed comparison between their gathering and others where men are present. Even with women, though, a holiday isn’t a holiday here without a bottle of vodka being emptied. Toasts all around. As for food, the meal was cutlets (like meatloaf in the shape of small hamburgers) on a bed of pasta, pickled mushrooms, cabbage salad. At this point you ought to be shocked. Not bishbarmak?! But it’s a holiday! No fear, that’s what I ate for supper.

It’s all in the numbers…
I relish explaining trivial differences between KZ and the US to my host family. This past week I tackled numbers. A few fascinating, and very definite differences. Want to say what year you were born? In English, I’d say nineteen eighty four. In Russian, I’ve gotta go through the whole process of one thousand nine hundred eighty four. Same type of pattern holds for the cost of items. Where English-speakers usually take the shortcut of saying twelve hundred, Russian speakers will faithfully say one thousand two hundred. Our method is completely foreign – various people to whom I’ve explained this had to carefully think it through before accepting the two versions as equals.

Lastly, hold up four fingers, with your thumb folded over your palm. Ask your neighbor how much it is. If you’re in the US, that neighbor will likely say “4”. In KZ, you’ll likely get “1” in response. You know how we count to five on our fingers… pointer finger for one, etc. Kazakhstanis, though, will start out with all five fingers out, and fold them down as they count. Thumb in = 1. Pointer finger folded down = 2. So to get a “4” out of someone here, hold up your pinky finger. Fun stuff, eh?