Let the Transition Begin!

How the heck do I start this blog post? Lucky for me, figuring out how to begin a post seems more difficult than beginning life at my site. Do I start with the train ride here? Or a description of my horrifying public banya experience? Maybe I should give a report of my school or soon-to-be host family first… Or must I discipline myself to rewind all the way back to life in my training village? (To which my current reaction is, “Village? What village?”)

Bite of the Bazaar
Oh, it seems so long ago, life in Panfilova. I sure was right about my last week in the village being overshadowed by more recent events. But we’ll get to those soon enough. First, one last taste of village life. Think fried yummy-ness and sweet carrots. On Friday, I wandered through the bazaar with Anna and Sarah to make our last purchases, with a long train ride in mind. But our first stop was a самса stand. I greeted the lovely lady who works there, who seems to always enjoy seeing any of us. Sarah takes over and orders herself one самса. In fine Kazakhstani fashion, she prepares not one, but three самса, and refuses to take any money. We enjoy the snack and slowly continue shopping. Purchases here don’t involve only the mere passing of money. It’s a social transaction. A chance to converse and make friends. So, I bought bread and talked. Then we bought apples and talked. And as a prime example, Anna and I then made our way to a jolly Kazakh woman to buy produce. We chatted, picked out vegetables and fruit, and paid. Then we mentioned that it was our last day in Panfilova. She instantly became theatrical, wailing with mock sadness and wrapping Anna in a bear hug. She wailed and hugged Anna for a while, then me, then both of us, as we and nearby merchants had a good laugh. We must come back, she insisted, and visit her both at her stand and at her home. Yet, I must confess I don’t know her name…

I could bore you with all sorts of stories from the ensuing days: my last evening with host family #2, the anticlimactic morning and swearing-in ceremony, the chaos of coordinating the departure of over 60 volunteers, stepping off the train in Chu… but I’ll spare you, barring any special requests. Rather, I’ll jump ahead to my first hours in Shakhtinsk.

My New Site!
Sunday, November 1, 2009, at 11:07am, as scheduled, our train stopped. Immediately outside stood my counterpart (Tatyana), waiting for me at the Karaganda station with another English teacher. Together with the teacher’s husband, we loaded a car with my luggage and travelled another 50 km to Shakhtinsk. We stopped at an apartment building on the outskirts of town, the home of my school’s director and my temporary home. My counterpart ate lunch with the director and me before going to her own home. And thus began the adventures of my first day.

Cleaning Up – Kazakh Style
With my counterpart present, the suggested evening plans were a trip to either the banya or the swimming pool. After she left, the plan narrowed to the banya. Very few women would be there, the director assured me, so of course it wouldn’t be awkward. And our school’s physical ed teacher would be there with her daughter. (As if the combination should be comforting?) Being naïve and gullible, I agreed. So off we marched to a public banya. The scene that unfolded beats the heck out of my high school locker room days. Four connected rooms, in each of which you are free to relax without the annoyance of clothes. Room one is for changing, like any old locker room. Room two is labeled “bar”, a place to drink hot tea or mineral water as you try match liquid intake with sweat output. Here, the plastic tables and chairs are reminiscent of hotel pool furniture. Room three is where the actual cleaning takes place. There are stacks of tubs by the door. Take one and proceed to the hot and cold spouts of water, fill ‘er up, and find a spot around the room. All around the perimeter is a ledge, protruding about 3 feet from the wall. Set down your hygiene supplies and let the process begin. You’ll rinse some, scrub some, and rinse some more, refilling the tub as need be. And in between the rinsing and the scrubbing, you’ll dare to enter room four. Room four is for sweating. In here, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego might be comfortable. To the rest of us, I’ll use the word “excruciating”. Breathe too deep and you’ll burn your nostrils. And many wonderful but crazy people of Kazakhstan hang out in there! You enter through two doors, so as to keep in more heat, I suppose. Then there’s a larger-than-life furnace in a medium-sized room. All wooden. Wooden floor, wooden walls. Wooden benches around the edge. Have a seat and try not to die. But if you’re Kazakh, you’ll do one better and whip yourself with a bundle of herb branches. If you’re there with a friend, you can take turns whipping each other. (Or if you’re me, your school director has the honor.) Before you keel over, head back to room three. I recommend striding over to the lone shower head, out of which comes refreshingly cold water. Repeat the process three or four times and declare yourself clean. With an air of innocence, I fondly remembered evenings in my childhood when Mom made me alternate putting my feet in hot and cold water – Grandma’s tried and true way to improve circulation. A banya just puts that on a grander scale and adds soap to the mix… right?

So, on the upside, I got to clean up after nearly 18 hours on a train. On the… we’ll call it awkward… side, I banya-ed with dozens of women, young and old. (Sunday night is a typical banya night… so much for “very few women”.) And I did indeed meet the physical ed teacher and her daughter in the banya. Not to mention I banya-ed with my school’s director. On day one. Mere hours after arriving. I still shake my head in disbelief.

The Blissfully Mundane
Since then, I’ve had other, less peculiar, adventures. Being shoved in front of a gymnasium full of students without forewarning to introduce myself. Visiting Karaganda and eating блины. Introducing myself in Russian(!) to a room full of my school’s teachers. Meeting the comical Head of Education. Drinking tea with all the English teachers. Cooking with Svetlana (my school’s director). Meeting two prospective host families. And much, much more…

Short notes on the latter two. Cooking first. We made pizza – Kazakhstani style. So, while it was delicious, I’m not sure I’d call it pizza. A thin, scrumptious crust topped with bits of steak and mushrooms, then dill and scallions, cheese, tomato and bell pepper slices, more dill and scallions, and more cheese. And how could I forget – mayonnaise!! I balked at her suggestion of mayo, so as a compromise, she put only “a little” on. Boy, I’d hate to see what “a lot” looks like! Amazingly, though, it all turned out great and was quite delicious. More recently I helped fry alladi(?). Kind of like pancakes, only so much tastier. I sure hope I learn to cook many more dishes with my host family…

Speaking of which, what a difficult decision! Spending a half hour with part of a family, conversing with the help of my counterpart, seems so inadequate, considering the weightiness of the decision. I got a little peek into the lives of two host families this week, and I’m sure I’d enjoy living with either. Nonetheless, decisions must be made, and I’ve made my choice. Let’s hope I can proceed without offense to either family. Today, I’ll lug my four overstuffed bags from one apartment to another and finally let the contents all spill out.