Having been all set to teach seven lessons on Wednesday (December 23rd), with 5 about Christmas, I was bummed when I got the news that lessons were cancelled. Ok, so “all set” really means I was still up at midnight frantically making visual aids and trying to figure out what activities to use for which grade levels. But by golly, I was ready to teach Wednesday morning! The darn cold, though, prevented me from using five lessons to share about a huge holiday. At least I got three more chances over Thursday and Friday. And two out of the three becoming reality is better than nothing. So I taught one Christmas lesson on Christmas Eve, and another on Christmas Day. But on Christmas Day, lessons were called off after the first period so students could decorate the New Year’s tree. Yes, you read correctly. And yes, the winter holidays are a wee-bit different for me this year.
New Year’s Day (Новый год)
To cover Christmas and New Year’s, we’ll go in reverse order for Americans; chronological for Kazakhstan. In a nutshell, I tell people that in the U.S., Christmas is a much bigger deal than New Year’s, with Christmas being a family-oriented holiday, and New Year’s Eve being a chance to go out with friends. In Kazakhstan, it’s the opposite. New Year is their biggest holiday, and that’s when they stay home with family. For those who do celebrate Christmas… well, I’ll get there eventually.
Without having done much legitimate research, this is what I’ve gathered. Wait. I have read about Russian New Year’s traditions. …in Russian, with my Russian tutor. To give you a hint about that, she asked at the end of one text what I understood. Rather than fess up and say, “absolutely nothing,” I said “very little.” Besides, I don’t yet know how to say “absolutely”. But I digress…
New Year’s is, like I said, a family holiday. I’ll stay at home with my host family, and I’m pretty pumped about it. A lot of what they will do mirrors the secular celebrations of Christmas. We’ll exchange presents. They’ve set up a decorated tree. They’ll cook a big meal. (I’ve been informed I’ll also be making a dish.) And they’ll reflect on times passed and anticipate times to come, with many wishes for health and happiness. Something tells me a toast or two will sneak in there.
Quite similar to our Santa Claus, they’ve got Ded Moroz – Grandfather Frost. And they’ve got his granddaughter Snegurochka, the snow maiden. Ded Moroz is an elegant fellow who goes around in an elegant, icy blue (or red) and silver coat trimmed with fur. Russian through and through. He carries a staff, wears valenki (warm Russian boots), and gets pulled around in a beautiful troika (horse-drawn sledge). Snegurochka wears a long silvery blue robe and a furry cap, looking slender and stunning. On New Year’s Eve, Ded Moroz brings presents and puts them under the tree, with Snegurochka along to help.
Also similar to our Christmas festivities, the revelry is underway weeks beforehand. At school, their winter break won’t start until December 29th, but New Year parties started happening long ago. As a fine example, on our Christmas Eve, my host brother had a ticket for a New Year’s event in Karaganda. So he and my sister skipped school. I taught during first period and then tagged along, standing back and observing a spectacular gathering of small children, most dressed up in costumes – putting to shame any Halloween party I’ve seen. Children first gathered around a decorated tree and were entertained by characters connected to New Year’s. Ded Moroz and Snegurochka made an appearance and handed out presents (at which point utter chaos ensued; what crazy person would think of forming a line when there are children who want presents and parents who will fight to get it for them?). Next, people were directed to an auditorium, where we could watch a theatrical play about Ded Moroz and Snegurochka. But, happy to have his present, my little brother and the rest of the family skipped out and spent their self-appointed day off shopping for more presents instead.
All around town, there are holiday themed snow sculptures and decorated trees, reflecting the ongoing preparation for the big day. I’m excited to see what the actual holiday brings! I’m sure I’ll be able to squeeze a paragraph or two out of it to share with you!
Christmas
Now a bit about Christmas. Christmas on the Russian Orthodox calendar is written in on January 7. Looks like that comes from Russia dragging its feet in making the switch from the Julian Calendar to the Gregorian Calendar. So when the Gregorian Calendar says December 25, the old Julian Calendar would say January 7, I suppose? And somehow, from that, I’ve landed myself in a place where Christmas is observed in January? Before I think through that too much – and completely confuse myself – I’ll just move on.
I’ll see if I can celebrate again around January 7, but as my brother so affectionately pointed out, most Muslims don’t celebrate Christmas. Thank you, Dustin. Even though the presence of Islam is practically unnoticeable here, there certainly is not much of a Christian influence, either. And even from the handful of Russian Orthodox folks who live in Shakhtinsk, I don’t expect much in the way of Christmas spirit. Religious celebrations, including Christmas, were banned during the Soviet Union (from 1917 to 1991). So, only since 1992 has it been openly celebrated again. I suppose that’s enough time for Christmas to once again become a huge holiday – in places with a large Russian Orthodox population. (Read: not Shakhtinsk) But not all hope is lost. There is a Russian Orthodox Church in town!
As for December 24th and 25th of 2009… It will go down as a Christmas I’ll certainly remember. Just …maybe not as fondly as others. Looking at those days as a Debbie-downer is all too easy. Heck, both Christmas lunch and dinner was a microwaved bowl of soup that I ate by myself. But, how ‘bout we look at the bright side of things, eh?
A Taste of Christmas
I got the idea stuck in my head of making egg nog to drink on Christmas, and armed with a recipe, my family and I rounded up all the ingredients. Actually finding nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon is nothing short of a miracle! Upon hearing all the ingredients, my family was fascinated in what I would be making. But have no fear – I used a recipe that cooks the eggs, so I wasn’t giving them raw eggs to drink. Nor did I add rum. I may be in KZ, but my brother is only 8.
After eating dinner on the 24th, I set about making my first-ever egg nog. I ran back and forth between the kitchen and computer, trying to figure out conversions. Still, I can say with confidence that the amount of sugar I measured was completely wrong. I looked at the pile of sugar in the bowl, shook it around, and dumped some of it out. Even so, I left too much. But hey – not the worst ingredient to have too much of!
I got my little brother’s help in the mixing process… and the tasting process. We agreed it was shaping up to be delicious. Think of an adorable boy with a mouth full of sweet teeth, and imagine his disappointment when I said it needed to sit in the refrigerator overnight. But he accepted it and went off to do whatever. I, on the other hand, couldn’t keep myself from filling a mug with my thick concoction. When I decided that one mug wasn’t enough of a taste, I told myself I must share. Oh, the delight in my little brother’s answer when I asked if anyone would like a taste of the egg nog. He made for the kitchen posthaste, and when I handed him a full mug, he had it gone in less than 10 seconds and trotted up to the counter for a refill. I guess it’s good!
Later on in the evening, a friend of my host mother’s stopped by, and the three of us drank some egg nog by candlelight, with two Christmas songs repeating in the background – We Wish You a Merry Christmas and Silent Night. Now there’s a memory to treasure.
I’ve got white… but what about Christmas?
Christmas morning, I awoke to find my little brother downing another cup of egg nog. Delicious as it is, I opted for tea. Gotta get some of your liquid apart from egg yolks with cream and sugar. I headed off to teach my one lesson and made it back in time to talk to my parents, who had just returned from a Christmas Eve church service. Being able to not only talk to them, but see them via Skype is too wonderful for words. I feel spoiled and I’m incredibly thankful for it.
Still, Christmas Day was rough. In my mind, December 25 is the pinnacle of days to be with family. And being in a culture where the day is meaningless sure doesn’t help. When my host mother and sister returned in the evening, they took one look at me and asked if I had been crying. Dang it! And of course, asking only makes me cry again. I tried to explain that I was fine; I just missed my family. My host mother, who instantly teared up too, tried to offer comforting words. “You’ve talked to your parents, right?” ”If you want, you can call them every day.” “You’ll get to visit them next June.” While all that is fine and good, there’s still all the emotion we’ve wrapped into December 25th. I don’t want presents, I don’t want Christmas dinner. Being with my host family is great. But today, I want my family. No substitutions will do. And this year, I can’t be with them, so I will cry.
Without family, and without the hustle and bustle we attach to Christmas, I did my best to focus more on the Christmas story. I can definitely say I’ve read through both gospel accounts more this season than any other. Gaining new insights and forming new questions is fun, too. A devotional book I’ve been reading, called “Jesus is Calling,” pointed out that the day of His birth must have actually been a dark day for Jesus. The day He left the glorious realms to show up in a dirty stable. And Mary… she was told she was giving birth to the Son of God. Did she think it was absolutely insane that God gave her nothing more than a manger for Him? Or did she have an idea of the rough time on earth that lay ahead for Christ? From Luke, it sounds like she was the pondering type, and boy, did she have a lot to ponder.
With all of it, I’ve got to keep in mind that December 25th is only a day on the calendar. We’ve attached lots of meaning to that date, but any day is perfect to read the Christmas story and celebrate the gift God sent from above. And any day spent with family is precious. Having gone through another Christmas away from family, I recognize that all the more. And I hope that when I am again able to spend the holidays with family, it'll be with an even deeper appreciation.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
It's Hard Work, I Tell You...
I’m at the end of a six day span which included a grand total of 30 minutes teaching time. Good thing the work of a Peace Corps Volunteer extends beyond the walls of the classroom… and includes the unquantifiable (but also unceasing) cross-cultural exchange.
Independence Days
The national holiday accounted for big chunk of my six day respite. Apparently legislation states that Independence Day is December 16th, but it’s celebrated for two days – both the 16th and 17th. To relay a bit of history… on December 16th and 17th of 1986, there were riots in Almaty in response to a change in leadership over Kazakhstan. A woman who worked with my PST group was a university student in Almaty at the time. I learned from her that the leader of Kazakhstan – then still part of the USSR – was replaced by a man who knew little about the Kazakh people. The resulting fury led to the riots. On the same day five years later, December 16, 1991, Kazakhstan passed an Act of State Independence. They were the last of the Soviet Republics to do so after the fall of the Soviet Union. So, Happy 18th Birthday, Kazakhstan!
But rather than attending lots of Independence Day festivities, I joined my family in mostly relaxing and visiting friends. I asked various people what they typically do to celebrate the two days… and in contrast to the response I’d expect from Americans – almost all of whom do something for the holiday, I mostly got blank looks. “Uh, we don’t really do anything to celebrate…” My counterpart, for example, stayed at home and helped her daughter with university coursework.
Another Birthday Bash
My host family, as I mentioned, got out to visit friends. Specifically my host mother and brother. While relaxing Wednesday evening, my cell phone rang. My ma was on the other end with a quick message: “Get dressed. Gosti.” I glanced down at my long-sleeved shirt with “Nebraska” plastered across my chest, and decided that’d be fine. Minutes later my host sister and her boyfriend escorted me to a house down the street, where my ma was eager to introduce me to the throng of people inside. After meeting the Kazakh women making the last preparations for our nine o’clock dinner, I was led down the hall to the room where the kids were hanging out and was ordered to sit there.
As is becoming habitual, if ever there is a person who speaks English in the family, they are dragged to me and expected to exhibit their linguistic abilities. This time it was a young woman who was booted into the room. After a span of time, my ma will usually peek her head in to see if we’re still doing our assigned task, conversing in English. Seeing smiling faces, she’ll smile back and disappear again.
This particular conversation didn’t last long, as there was much bishbarmak to be eaten. It was a familiar scene: a long table, filling the biggest room of the house, covered with food. Namely, two huge platters bearing bishbarkmak made with horse meat. Yum! Delicious side dishes filled what space was left. Of course, you end up stuffing yourself …and then the table is cleared and covered again with fruit and desserts of all kinds. This is where a hollow leg would come in handy.
I can’t say I was surprised, but this group was especially interested in me and my homeland. Since leaving my training village, I’ve mostly been able to avoid the paparazzi treatment. This occasion, though, I was stuck. Adults were pulling out their cell phones to take candid shots of me. And then cameras came out, at which point I was flanked by two or three people in turn to pose for pictures. …So this is what Mickey Mouse feels like.
Also during the evening, I got loads of questions, from “Are all Americans fat?” and “How much does Harvard cost?” to “Why aren’t you studying Kazakh?” and “What are your goals while living here?” Upon discovery that my father is a farmer, people are also eager to learn more about that. The fact that my family’s herd of cattle is only for meat production is downright bewildering. You don’t milk your cows?! Nope, we don’t. They’re also blown away by their average weight, and from this group, I was asked if we give our calves steroids. Also a negative, thanks.
Apart from speaking to me directly, “the American” surfaces in conversations going on around me, and this time, in toasts. Around the table, people gave toasts once, and then twice, and then …oh, I lost count. Blame it on the loquacious characters gathered, not my B.A.C. We were there until 1 am…
And don’t think I get out of giving toasts, just because my Russian is inferior to a 3-year-old’s. In fact, though I was permitted to give my first toast in English, the second was to be in Russian! (But before giving my first toast, the girl I spoke with earlier was brought back to translate. She got a bit of it right, and hopefully made the rest sound complimentary.) My second toast was …rough. I repeated whatever words my host mother whispered to me… and then whatever words the man beyond her said. Finally, to the amusement of all, I added the only words I could think of myself that might be fitting… “за дружбы” – “to friendship”. One of the men added with a tone of confusion, “Between Kazakhstan and Nebraska?” before convincing himself and adding on confidently, “Yes! To friendship between Kazakhstan and Nebraska!” …Alright, so I need to memorize a few toasts in Russian.
Back to those loquacious folks and their toasts. Time and again as they offered toasts to the woman celebrating her birthday, they would point to me, mentioning how wonderful it was that an American had come to her party. And this family has travelled around Asia and Western Europe. While I can chuckle at the absurdity of my presence being some mark of success for them, there’s also a weight that comes with it. It’s a weight of responsibility, you could say, that accompanies a privilege I did nothing to attain. I was born in the United States of America. On the world stage, that means something. Just why it means something is something I’ll continue pondering…
The Angel at the Post Office
On December 18th, I set out for the post office after my hard day’s work (of 30 minutes). Made sense to me that, since the previous two days were national holidays, the post office would be open again on Friday. What was I thinking? Of course not. Two days isn’t quite enough; they’re closed for a 3rd. I treated myself to some yogurt, so as to feel better about the wasted trip, and tried again on the 19th.
When I got there at 11:20am on Saturday, the place was packed. Ugh. I like sending letters. I like receiving letters. But I could sure do without those darn post office trips. Both in the US and KZ, post office lines sure do move slowly. But in the US, we’ve got order. In KZ, we’ve got chaos. Are you a pensioner waiting to get money? Are you simply buying stamps? Or wanting to send a package? Who knows. But you better land yourself in the correct “line”. And if you’d rather not wait for an hour in that line (that doesn’t actually exist), be prepared to just shove your way to the front.
On this trip, there must have been something inviting about my facial expression, as different people chose me – the one person in there who doesn’t speak Russian – as the recipient of their questions. In such situations, I give an apologetic, “I don’t know,” to whatever they say. So the conversation is likely something along the lines of, “Are you standing in line?” “Sorry, I don’t know.” Brilliant. One young woman was persistent, and after I confessed that I speak only a little Russian, she switched over to pretty darn good English, trying to make some sense of the mess. I continued to patiently wait in a line that showed absolutely no signs of moving and watched her weave in and out of people across the room, asking questions all along. She came back at one point and asked me what I needed to get. Stamps and an envelope. “This line is just for packages,” she said. “Come with me.”
She led me to the end of a different line, where she waited like a cat, ready to pounce. At the first opportunity, we bypassed the whole darn line. Within five minutes, I was holding stamped envelopes! Amazing. Fortunately, I had thanked her while I was purchasing my stamps; when I went to put the final touches on one envelope, she was gone as quickly as she had come. Lord, bless her.
Independence Days
The national holiday accounted for big chunk of my six day respite. Apparently legislation states that Independence Day is December 16th, but it’s celebrated for two days – both the 16th and 17th. To relay a bit of history… on December 16th and 17th of 1986, there were riots in Almaty in response to a change in leadership over Kazakhstan. A woman who worked with my PST group was a university student in Almaty at the time. I learned from her that the leader of Kazakhstan – then still part of the USSR – was replaced by a man who knew little about the Kazakh people. The resulting fury led to the riots. On the same day five years later, December 16, 1991, Kazakhstan passed an Act of State Independence. They were the last of the Soviet Republics to do so after the fall of the Soviet Union. So, Happy 18th Birthday, Kazakhstan!
But rather than attending lots of Independence Day festivities, I joined my family in mostly relaxing and visiting friends. I asked various people what they typically do to celebrate the two days… and in contrast to the response I’d expect from Americans – almost all of whom do something for the holiday, I mostly got blank looks. “Uh, we don’t really do anything to celebrate…” My counterpart, for example, stayed at home and helped her daughter with university coursework.
Another Birthday Bash
My host family, as I mentioned, got out to visit friends. Specifically my host mother and brother. While relaxing Wednesday evening, my cell phone rang. My ma was on the other end with a quick message: “Get dressed. Gosti.” I glanced down at my long-sleeved shirt with “Nebraska” plastered across my chest, and decided that’d be fine. Minutes later my host sister and her boyfriend escorted me to a house down the street, where my ma was eager to introduce me to the throng of people inside. After meeting the Kazakh women making the last preparations for our nine o’clock dinner, I was led down the hall to the room where the kids were hanging out and was ordered to sit there.
As is becoming habitual, if ever there is a person who speaks English in the family, they are dragged to me and expected to exhibit their linguistic abilities. This time it was a young woman who was booted into the room. After a span of time, my ma will usually peek her head in to see if we’re still doing our assigned task, conversing in English. Seeing smiling faces, she’ll smile back and disappear again.
This particular conversation didn’t last long, as there was much bishbarmak to be eaten. It was a familiar scene: a long table, filling the biggest room of the house, covered with food. Namely, two huge platters bearing bishbarkmak made with horse meat. Yum! Delicious side dishes filled what space was left. Of course, you end up stuffing yourself …and then the table is cleared and covered again with fruit and desserts of all kinds. This is where a hollow leg would come in handy.
I can’t say I was surprised, but this group was especially interested in me and my homeland. Since leaving my training village, I’ve mostly been able to avoid the paparazzi treatment. This occasion, though, I was stuck. Adults were pulling out their cell phones to take candid shots of me. And then cameras came out, at which point I was flanked by two or three people in turn to pose for pictures. …So this is what Mickey Mouse feels like.
Also during the evening, I got loads of questions, from “Are all Americans fat?” and “How much does Harvard cost?” to “Why aren’t you studying Kazakh?” and “What are your goals while living here?” Upon discovery that my father is a farmer, people are also eager to learn more about that. The fact that my family’s herd of cattle is only for meat production is downright bewildering. You don’t milk your cows?! Nope, we don’t. They’re also blown away by their average weight, and from this group, I was asked if we give our calves steroids. Also a negative, thanks.
Apart from speaking to me directly, “the American” surfaces in conversations going on around me, and this time, in toasts. Around the table, people gave toasts once, and then twice, and then …oh, I lost count. Blame it on the loquacious characters gathered, not my B.A.C. We were there until 1 am…
And don’t think I get out of giving toasts, just because my Russian is inferior to a 3-year-old’s. In fact, though I was permitted to give my first toast in English, the second was to be in Russian! (But before giving my first toast, the girl I spoke with earlier was brought back to translate. She got a bit of it right, and hopefully made the rest sound complimentary.) My second toast was …rough. I repeated whatever words my host mother whispered to me… and then whatever words the man beyond her said. Finally, to the amusement of all, I added the only words I could think of myself that might be fitting… “за дружбы” – “to friendship”. One of the men added with a tone of confusion, “Between Kazakhstan and Nebraska?” before convincing himself and adding on confidently, “Yes! To friendship between Kazakhstan and Nebraska!” …Alright, so I need to memorize a few toasts in Russian.
Back to those loquacious folks and their toasts. Time and again as they offered toasts to the woman celebrating her birthday, they would point to me, mentioning how wonderful it was that an American had come to her party. And this family has travelled around Asia and Western Europe. While I can chuckle at the absurdity of my presence being some mark of success for them, there’s also a weight that comes with it. It’s a weight of responsibility, you could say, that accompanies a privilege I did nothing to attain. I was born in the United States of America. On the world stage, that means something. Just why it means something is something I’ll continue pondering…
The Angel at the Post Office
On December 18th, I set out for the post office after my hard day’s work (of 30 minutes). Made sense to me that, since the previous two days were national holidays, the post office would be open again on Friday. What was I thinking? Of course not. Two days isn’t quite enough; they’re closed for a 3rd. I treated myself to some yogurt, so as to feel better about the wasted trip, and tried again on the 19th.
When I got there at 11:20am on Saturday, the place was packed. Ugh. I like sending letters. I like receiving letters. But I could sure do without those darn post office trips. Both in the US and KZ, post office lines sure do move slowly. But in the US, we’ve got order. In KZ, we’ve got chaos. Are you a pensioner waiting to get money? Are you simply buying stamps? Or wanting to send a package? Who knows. But you better land yourself in the correct “line”. And if you’d rather not wait for an hour in that line (that doesn’t actually exist), be prepared to just shove your way to the front.
On this trip, there must have been something inviting about my facial expression, as different people chose me – the one person in there who doesn’t speak Russian – as the recipient of their questions. In such situations, I give an apologetic, “I don’t know,” to whatever they say. So the conversation is likely something along the lines of, “Are you standing in line?” “Sorry, I don’t know.” Brilliant. One young woman was persistent, and after I confessed that I speak only a little Russian, she switched over to pretty darn good English, trying to make some sense of the mess. I continued to patiently wait in a line that showed absolutely no signs of moving and watched her weave in and out of people across the room, asking questions all along. She came back at one point and asked me what I needed to get. Stamps and an envelope. “This line is just for packages,” she said. “Come with me.”
She led me to the end of a different line, where she waited like a cat, ready to pounce. At the first opportunity, we bypassed the whole darn line. Within five minutes, I was holding stamped envelopes! Amazing. Fortunately, I had thanked her while I was purchasing my stamps; when I went to put the final touches on one envelope, she was gone as quickly as she had come. Lord, bless her.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
While the Stories Keep Coming…
Nowadays, I feel like I’ve settled into a routine. And I’d say it’s a pretty normal existence. I teach, I come home, I muddle through Russian, I try to keep in touch with friends. Nothing to write home about. I expect soon enough weeks will come and go without anything new and exciting, but while the stories keep coming, I’ll keep writing!
Maybe the song should be, “School’s out for the Winter!”
The temperature took a dive this past week, keeping me from running and keeping kids from going to school. Monday night, my host sister returned from running errands and warned me that tomorrow I must wear very warm clothes. Uhm, ok, not like I haven’t already been bundling up. But I’ll see what I can do. Tuesday morning, I’m almost ready to leave and she tells me again that my clothes must be very warm today. “See, our little brother here, he’s staying home today.” What?! My brother, who is perfectly capable of going outside to play (and did so later that day), is staying home because it’s chilly outside?! Fine, -28 Celsius (-18 for you Fahrenheit folks) is cold. But stay-home-from-school cold? Really?? But at school, it became evident about half of the kids had the same mindset as my lil’ bro. My 4th grade class had shrunk to 2 brave souls. Two souls who were then told that tomorrow they shouldn’t come to school – nor should any other 1st-4th graders.
Wednesday morning, my brother watched SpongeBob Squarepants, tickled pink that his lessons had been cancelled, and I again headed out into the winter wonderland. …Only to get to school and learn ALL of the lessons had been cancelled. So after sitting through a teacher’s meeting, consisting of many raised voices and the occasional “It was colder yesterday!” I went on a 40-minute walk. : )
Letter-Mailing Triumphs …and Complete Failures
Lest you think I’m nuts for taking a walk on a day declared too cold for school, it did have a purpose. The post office is a 20-minute walk from my apartment (Or a 3-minute, 25 cent taxi ride. Maybe there is something goofy about walking there…). Wednesday went well, though. I had dressed for the cold and got the letter stamped without any hiccups.
Friday, armed with more Christmas-time greetings, I decided to use the time in between lessons to jet over to the post office again. I’ll tell you what… a long skirt with socks that come just below the knee does not qualify as warm clothing. As my thighs started stinging with the cold, I told myself, “Remember that time in high school when you scraped ice off your windshield …without gloves …with a credit card? And the searing pain afterwards??” But rather than convince me to take a taxi instead of walk, apparently the effect was – if I could make it through that, this walk to the post office is a piece of cake!
Once inside the wonderfully warm building, I waited in line, carefully counting my envelopes. Seven. Same as what I counted that morning at home. I handed over the envelopes and more than enough money. But instead of being given back only my change, the woman also gives me back the stamped envelopes! What the heck am I supposed to do with these?! (In the past, the postal clerk takes my letter who-knows-where, and it eventually gets to America.) “Outside,” is all I understand from the Russian answer she gives in response to my deer-in-the-headlights look. Good grief. I step outside and find only one logical location to put stamped envelopes, so in they went. And off to school I go – again opting to walk.
Back in the safety of my overheated school, I unzip my bag to a very unpleasant sight. A forgotten letter. All that hassle and I forgot a letter? Argh! That afternoon, I explained to my host sister that I walked to the post office in the morning, but found the eighth letter only upon my return. “Which friend is it for?” “My brother and his wife.” “Oh. Your brother,” she says nonchalantly. “He can wait.” Words of a true sister.
Cat for Hire
As I sat at the little table in my room one evening, I glimpsed a small gray mass race across the edge of my room. A mouse!! Being a good farm-girl, I instantly jumped on top of my chair. With the floor transformed into a mouse-infested pit, I jumped from piece to piece of furniture, trying to find a hole in the wall that would tell me he found his way out.
The next morning, I hear hysterics from my sister, who is having the same reaction to the discovery that a mouse has taken up residence here. She calls her mother on the phone, having a conversation very similar to what might transpire between me and my own mother. “What’s the matter? If he’s in the bag of potatoes, open it up and step on him,” says the fearless mother. “But I’m scared!!” whimpers the daughter, who will one day miraculously transform into the fearless mother.
My host mother’s solution: “Fine. Go to the store and borrow the cat again.” Cerick, a big cat who hangs out at the store my host parents now lease out, has been to the apartment before to hunt mice. My sister carries him in and takes him directly to the tub, where I’ve already agreed to help bathe him. Two doses of shampoo later, we’ve got a drenched but clean cat ready to kill mice. Trouble is, my host family kept trying to feed him. If I were a well-fed cat, can’t say I’d be too eager to hunt down mice. But not Cerick. The next morning, he had killed not one, but two mice! And as a reward, he was promptly returned to the store.
My 1st “Gosti”
gost-i (GHOST-ee) v. to travel to another’s home with the purpose of having much conversation and even more food. While I’ve done this before, I insist on calling Saturday’s trip my first. See, December 12th marked the first time when my host family gave me an address and kicked me out. Or maybe that’s a bit harsh. But you better believe I had no choice in the matter.
About a week ago, my host mother mentioned a friend’s birthday, and said we would be going there to celebrate with her. Then Friday came and it changed to, “You are going to Svetlana’s house tomorrow.” “Who’s going with me?” “Only you.” Oh really. “You will be there at 1:30pm.” Alrighty then…
Saturday morning, my host mother prepared to travel to a different birthday party in Astana. She took a piece of paper and wrote down twice as much information as needed – her way of insuring I would make a successful trip. From the taxi service number to a drawing of Svetlana’s building to a note to remember the present… she leaves out nothing. She even tells me what time I should be getting into the darn taxi. Overboard, but helpful nonetheless.
Looking through my closet, I decide on olive green slacks and a brown top, excited to not wear a skirt for the day. But no – today I am told where to go, when to go, AND what to wear. Whatever. Black skirt, blue button-down shirt, and black sweater-vest. “I want you to be beautiful!” my host mother says as she sways her hips. I put on a touch of eye-liner and then look at a sparkling necklace. Nope – no need to raise the bar and break out what little formal jewelry I have, too.
In keeping with my given timeline, I get in the taxi and arrive at Svetlana’s apartment by 1:30pm. I’m greeted by a petite, wonderful woman bubbling over with joy. Two women are in the kitchen preparing manti (yummy Kazakh dish). She leads me out to her living room, now dining room, which is dominated by a long table full of food. FULL of food. It’s enough food to feed a small army, and there are only 12 plates set around the perimeter. Plus, the entrées are still in the kitchen. Yes, entréeS. Manti and goose-stuffed-with-apples.
In due time, a dozen of us squeeze around the table and eat our fill of salads, manti, and goose. Toasts are given, which evoke both laughter and tears. An apartment filled with the warmth of friendship, both old and new. And as things start to wind down, another man arrives. He marches over to a cassette player and turns up the volume for a dance with Svetlana. I try my hardest to read faces around the room as I’m informed that this is her husband, but they don’t live together. Doesn’t take long to figure out the shots of vodka he’s now taking aren’t his first drinks of the day.
He’s introduced to people around the room, and sure enough, he takes a keen interest in the young American over there in the corner. I hoped he’d lose interest after learning a few basic facts. No. And then that he’d lay off after I agreed to say hello to Jean-Claude Van Damme for him. (Jean-Claude and I are obviously friends, both having lived in America and all.) Rather, at this point, he comes over and assumes half a woman’s stool. She’s none too pleased by his intrusion. Nor are the people around us too excited about the shotgun-like shells he’s struggling to give me. When I refuse to take one – to give to Jean-Claude, of course – he pulls a contraption out of its holster on his hip. Resembling a gun, I’m being told it’s for New Year’s celebrations. If I won’t take a shell, he’ll just have to show me how it works. Despite plenty of objections, the man loads the gun, walks onto the balcony, opens the window, and takes two deafening shots. The contents of the shells fly off, sending sparks of red and white on their way. Amused with himself, he returns inside, where I managed to do a better job of ignoring him as I set about finding a way to leave.
Thankfully, many people were on their way out, and I was able to share a taxi with others. Though I had expressed concern to my parents about knowing an appropriate length of stay, it turned out to be nothing to worry about. My mom’s advice to “eat and run” certainly can be followed here. And in a way, that’s what I did. It’s just that, here, you eat for four hours. They’re enjoyable hours, though, even though I barely speak the language. I think I’ll even look for other opportunities to go gosti… although I’ll do my best to limit it to gatherings without pyromaniacs.
Maybe the song should be, “School’s out for the Winter!”
The temperature took a dive this past week, keeping me from running and keeping kids from going to school. Monday night, my host sister returned from running errands and warned me that tomorrow I must wear very warm clothes. Uhm, ok, not like I haven’t already been bundling up. But I’ll see what I can do. Tuesday morning, I’m almost ready to leave and she tells me again that my clothes must be very warm today. “See, our little brother here, he’s staying home today.” What?! My brother, who is perfectly capable of going outside to play (and did so later that day), is staying home because it’s chilly outside?! Fine, -28 Celsius (-18 for you Fahrenheit folks) is cold. But stay-home-from-school cold? Really?? But at school, it became evident about half of the kids had the same mindset as my lil’ bro. My 4th grade class had shrunk to 2 brave souls. Two souls who were then told that tomorrow they shouldn’t come to school – nor should any other 1st-4th graders.
Wednesday morning, my brother watched SpongeBob Squarepants, tickled pink that his lessons had been cancelled, and I again headed out into the winter wonderland. …Only to get to school and learn ALL of the lessons had been cancelled. So after sitting through a teacher’s meeting, consisting of many raised voices and the occasional “It was colder yesterday!” I went on a 40-minute walk. : )
Letter-Mailing Triumphs …and Complete Failures
Lest you think I’m nuts for taking a walk on a day declared too cold for school, it did have a purpose. The post office is a 20-minute walk from my apartment (Or a 3-minute, 25 cent taxi ride. Maybe there is something goofy about walking there…). Wednesday went well, though. I had dressed for the cold and got the letter stamped without any hiccups.
Friday, armed with more Christmas-time greetings, I decided to use the time in between lessons to jet over to the post office again. I’ll tell you what… a long skirt with socks that come just below the knee does not qualify as warm clothing. As my thighs started stinging with the cold, I told myself, “Remember that time in high school when you scraped ice off your windshield …without gloves …with a credit card? And the searing pain afterwards??” But rather than convince me to take a taxi instead of walk, apparently the effect was – if I could make it through that, this walk to the post office is a piece of cake!
Once inside the wonderfully warm building, I waited in line, carefully counting my envelopes. Seven. Same as what I counted that morning at home. I handed over the envelopes and more than enough money. But instead of being given back only my change, the woman also gives me back the stamped envelopes! What the heck am I supposed to do with these?! (In the past, the postal clerk takes my letter who-knows-where, and it eventually gets to America.) “Outside,” is all I understand from the Russian answer she gives in response to my deer-in-the-headlights look. Good grief. I step outside and find only one logical location to put stamped envelopes, so in they went. And off to school I go – again opting to walk.
Back in the safety of my overheated school, I unzip my bag to a very unpleasant sight. A forgotten letter. All that hassle and I forgot a letter? Argh! That afternoon, I explained to my host sister that I walked to the post office in the morning, but found the eighth letter only upon my return. “Which friend is it for?” “My brother and his wife.” “Oh. Your brother,” she says nonchalantly. “He can wait.” Words of a true sister.
Cat for Hire
As I sat at the little table in my room one evening, I glimpsed a small gray mass race across the edge of my room. A mouse!! Being a good farm-girl, I instantly jumped on top of my chair. With the floor transformed into a mouse-infested pit, I jumped from piece to piece of furniture, trying to find a hole in the wall that would tell me he found his way out.
The next morning, I hear hysterics from my sister, who is having the same reaction to the discovery that a mouse has taken up residence here. She calls her mother on the phone, having a conversation very similar to what might transpire between me and my own mother. “What’s the matter? If he’s in the bag of potatoes, open it up and step on him,” says the fearless mother. “But I’m scared!!” whimpers the daughter, who will one day miraculously transform into the fearless mother.
My host mother’s solution: “Fine. Go to the store and borrow the cat again.” Cerick, a big cat who hangs out at the store my host parents now lease out, has been to the apartment before to hunt mice. My sister carries him in and takes him directly to the tub, where I’ve already agreed to help bathe him. Two doses of shampoo later, we’ve got a drenched but clean cat ready to kill mice. Trouble is, my host family kept trying to feed him. If I were a well-fed cat, can’t say I’d be too eager to hunt down mice. But not Cerick. The next morning, he had killed not one, but two mice! And as a reward, he was promptly returned to the store.
My 1st “Gosti”
gost-i (GHOST-ee) v. to travel to another’s home with the purpose of having much conversation and even more food. While I’ve done this before, I insist on calling Saturday’s trip my first. See, December 12th marked the first time when my host family gave me an address and kicked me out. Or maybe that’s a bit harsh. But you better believe I had no choice in the matter.
About a week ago, my host mother mentioned a friend’s birthday, and said we would be going there to celebrate with her. Then Friday came and it changed to, “You are going to Svetlana’s house tomorrow.” “Who’s going with me?” “Only you.” Oh really. “You will be there at 1:30pm.” Alrighty then…
Saturday morning, my host mother prepared to travel to a different birthday party in Astana. She took a piece of paper and wrote down twice as much information as needed – her way of insuring I would make a successful trip. From the taxi service number to a drawing of Svetlana’s building to a note to remember the present… she leaves out nothing. She even tells me what time I should be getting into the darn taxi. Overboard, but helpful nonetheless.
Looking through my closet, I decide on olive green slacks and a brown top, excited to not wear a skirt for the day. But no – today I am told where to go, when to go, AND what to wear. Whatever. Black skirt, blue button-down shirt, and black sweater-vest. “I want you to be beautiful!” my host mother says as she sways her hips. I put on a touch of eye-liner and then look at a sparkling necklace. Nope – no need to raise the bar and break out what little formal jewelry I have, too.
In keeping with my given timeline, I get in the taxi and arrive at Svetlana’s apartment by 1:30pm. I’m greeted by a petite, wonderful woman bubbling over with joy. Two women are in the kitchen preparing manti (yummy Kazakh dish). She leads me out to her living room, now dining room, which is dominated by a long table full of food. FULL of food. It’s enough food to feed a small army, and there are only 12 plates set around the perimeter. Plus, the entrées are still in the kitchen. Yes, entréeS. Manti and goose-stuffed-with-apples.
In due time, a dozen of us squeeze around the table and eat our fill of salads, manti, and goose. Toasts are given, which evoke both laughter and tears. An apartment filled with the warmth of friendship, both old and new. And as things start to wind down, another man arrives. He marches over to a cassette player and turns up the volume for a dance with Svetlana. I try my hardest to read faces around the room as I’m informed that this is her husband, but they don’t live together. Doesn’t take long to figure out the shots of vodka he’s now taking aren’t his first drinks of the day.
He’s introduced to people around the room, and sure enough, he takes a keen interest in the young American over there in the corner. I hoped he’d lose interest after learning a few basic facts. No. And then that he’d lay off after I agreed to say hello to Jean-Claude Van Damme for him. (Jean-Claude and I are obviously friends, both having lived in America and all.) Rather, at this point, he comes over and assumes half a woman’s stool. She’s none too pleased by his intrusion. Nor are the people around us too excited about the shotgun-like shells he’s struggling to give me. When I refuse to take one – to give to Jean-Claude, of course – he pulls a contraption out of its holster on his hip. Resembling a gun, I’m being told it’s for New Year’s celebrations. If I won’t take a shell, he’ll just have to show me how it works. Despite plenty of objections, the man loads the gun, walks onto the balcony, opens the window, and takes two deafening shots. The contents of the shells fly off, sending sparks of red and white on their way. Amused with himself, he returns inside, where I managed to do a better job of ignoring him as I set about finding a way to leave.
Thankfully, many people were on their way out, and I was able to share a taxi with others. Though I had expressed concern to my parents about knowing an appropriate length of stay, it turned out to be nothing to worry about. My mom’s advice to “eat and run” certainly can be followed here. And in a way, that’s what I did. It’s just that, here, you eat for four hours. They’re enjoyable hours, though, even though I barely speak the language. I think I’ll even look for other opportunities to go gosti… although I’ll do my best to limit it to gatherings without pyromaniacs.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
It’s DECEMBER?!
Time has certainly been flying since my arrival at site. I can’t believe a month has already vanished! While I’m fully aware that the first winter is often considered the hardest time of your service, I’m already beginning to wish there were more of it! Let’s hope that sentiment doesn’t evaporate as quickly as November did.
I’m famous!
For a couple weeks now, rumor had it a reporter for the local paper was trying to track me down. She finally found me last Monday. I huddled next to my counterpart (without whom an interview would consist of “My name is Denise. I am 25. I like running and reading. I like Kazakhstan. The end.”) and dove head first into an interview. I told her what I’m up to, why I came to Kazakhstan, and information about Peace Corps. Let’s hope I have my facts straight!
On Friday, the article came out. I thought, heck, I might get a couple paragraphs tucked in somewhere inconspicuous. No, it’s half a page, complete with a 3x5 picture of me and my counterpart. Maybe by the end of my service I can go back and actually read what she wrote about me!
As you’d also expect in small-town America, people are pleased to tell me they saw my picture in the paper and read all about me. What you might not get so readily, though, is too much honesty. “You look fat and old in that picture. You look much better in person.” Uh, thank you? I’ll haveta see if I can get a picture of said article posted on here one of these days, so you can judge for yourself!
Zwieback
One peaceful evening, I sat at the kitchen table writing new Russian words into a little notebook I’ve got. Meanwhile, my host mother cut a loaf of bread into cubes, spread them on a pan, and popped ‘em in the oven. Who knew such a simple act would incite the dialog that followed. She was making сухарь and wanted to know the English translation. In my dictionary, we find “zwieback; rusk”. She latches on to “zwieback” and asks if she’s pronouncing it correctly. If you’re like me, this word is beyond all recognition. I tell her I’ve never heard this word; I have no idea if she’s pronouncing it correctly. I try to appease her by looking up “crouton”. Once she sees the Russian translation, she ponders it for a minute before insisting zwieback is in the oven. Not croutons. Croutons involve eggs and milk. I again explain that, to my knowledge, no one uses this word, “zwieback”. Well, she decides, then you must teach them! You must learn this word, go back to the US, and tell everyone! Demand it at cafés! She goes farther and insists I write this new word in my little notebook. “I’m learning Russian,” I tell her, laughing. “Not English!” “Write it down!” she commands.
All this while, she’s still confused as to why I do not know the word “zwieback”. Thinking a conversation with my counterpart will solve the problem, my host mother gives her a call. As my counterpart and I have become fond of doing, she blames it on the British, guessing it’s a term only they use. I don’t dare show my host mother the cover of my dictionary: “The only comprehensive English-Russian, Russian-English dictionary based on American English”. But even without knowing that, she ends the conversation with my counterpart, still convinced I ought to introduce America to this wonderful word that she thinks is so fun to say.
The next step in an effort to clear up the confusion was a visit to the world wide web. I check with Merriam-Webster, and sure enough, the definition of zwieback is there. Further confirmation I ought to know this word. I concede it is indeed an English word, and even write the darn thing in my notebook.
In the next day or two, I talked with my parents, curious to see if they know of zwieback. My mom didn’t remember ever hearing this word, but my dad had at least a foggy memory of it. “Some type of bread, yeah?” Shoot! There are people who know what it is! I told them of my recent vocabulary lesson, and we decided there’s a chance a person could find zwieback in a grocery store. Later on, I told my host mother that my dad knew of this word. Her reaction: “Your dad – Superman!” You didn’t know being superman was so easy, did you, Dad? : )
And a little note about “croutons”… during dinner one evening, she proceeds to make гренок – the translation we had found for crouton. She beats condensed milk, a little sugar, and salt into four eggs. Then she dips slices of white bread into the batter before frying them to a nice golden brown. You know, French toast. As I munch on them, I think to myself, “Hmm… not croutons. But I’m gonna let this sleeping dog lie.”
My New Running Buddies!
Mid-afternoon, as snow falls, I tell my family I’ll go running soon. My host mother has declared that my little brother needs more exercise, so he’s commanded to join me. I change into running attire, and when I go to leave, I see my host mother is also looking rather sporty! She’s going to run, too, she says! Rock on! The three of us walk over to the stadium, where I was joined in spurts by either my host mother or little brother. I must say, MUCH preferable to the companion I had on an earlier run! I think we’re in for lots of snow soon, though, as I sit watching huge flakes fall. So, we’ll see how long our running days last…
Olympiad
Without making this blog post too much longer, I’ll toot the horn of some of my students! I travelled to a nearby city with another English teacher and two eighth grade girls for an English Olympiad. It consisted of three stages – a grammar test, “situations”, and “film”. For situations, they were randomly paired up, given ten minutes to prepare a dialog, and one minute to present. In film, they individually watched a movie clip without sound, and then had to produce their own script. Interesting competition, consisting of 8th to 11th grade students, obviously with really varied skill levels. Ah- and this was held at a college. Gives them a chance to see the best and brightest English students in the area. Prizes were given by grade, and the girls from my school placed second and third! Woo hoo!
I’m famous!
For a couple weeks now, rumor had it a reporter for the local paper was trying to track me down. She finally found me last Monday. I huddled next to my counterpart (without whom an interview would consist of “My name is Denise. I am 25. I like running and reading. I like Kazakhstan. The end.”) and dove head first into an interview. I told her what I’m up to, why I came to Kazakhstan, and information about Peace Corps. Let’s hope I have my facts straight!
On Friday, the article came out. I thought, heck, I might get a couple paragraphs tucked in somewhere inconspicuous. No, it’s half a page, complete with a 3x5 picture of me and my counterpart. Maybe by the end of my service I can go back and actually read what she wrote about me!
As you’d also expect in small-town America, people are pleased to tell me they saw my picture in the paper and read all about me. What you might not get so readily, though, is too much honesty. “You look fat and old in that picture. You look much better in person.” Uh, thank you? I’ll haveta see if I can get a picture of said article posted on here one of these days, so you can judge for yourself!
Zwieback
One peaceful evening, I sat at the kitchen table writing new Russian words into a little notebook I’ve got. Meanwhile, my host mother cut a loaf of bread into cubes, spread them on a pan, and popped ‘em in the oven. Who knew such a simple act would incite the dialog that followed. She was making сухарь and wanted to know the English translation. In my dictionary, we find “zwieback; rusk”. She latches on to “zwieback” and asks if she’s pronouncing it correctly. If you’re like me, this word is beyond all recognition. I tell her I’ve never heard this word; I have no idea if she’s pronouncing it correctly. I try to appease her by looking up “crouton”. Once she sees the Russian translation, she ponders it for a minute before insisting zwieback is in the oven. Not croutons. Croutons involve eggs and milk. I again explain that, to my knowledge, no one uses this word, “zwieback”. Well, she decides, then you must teach them! You must learn this word, go back to the US, and tell everyone! Demand it at cafés! She goes farther and insists I write this new word in my little notebook. “I’m learning Russian,” I tell her, laughing. “Not English!” “Write it down!” she commands.
All this while, she’s still confused as to why I do not know the word “zwieback”. Thinking a conversation with my counterpart will solve the problem, my host mother gives her a call. As my counterpart and I have become fond of doing, she blames it on the British, guessing it’s a term only they use. I don’t dare show my host mother the cover of my dictionary: “The only comprehensive English-Russian, Russian-English dictionary based on American English”. But even without knowing that, she ends the conversation with my counterpart, still convinced I ought to introduce America to this wonderful word that she thinks is so fun to say.
The next step in an effort to clear up the confusion was a visit to the world wide web. I check with Merriam-Webster, and sure enough, the definition of zwieback is there. Further confirmation I ought to know this word. I concede it is indeed an English word, and even write the darn thing in my notebook.
In the next day or two, I talked with my parents, curious to see if they know of zwieback. My mom didn’t remember ever hearing this word, but my dad had at least a foggy memory of it. “Some type of bread, yeah?” Shoot! There are people who know what it is! I told them of my recent vocabulary lesson, and we decided there’s a chance a person could find zwieback in a grocery store. Later on, I told my host mother that my dad knew of this word. Her reaction: “Your dad – Superman!” You didn’t know being superman was so easy, did you, Dad? : )
And a little note about “croutons”… during dinner one evening, she proceeds to make гренок – the translation we had found for crouton. She beats condensed milk, a little sugar, and salt into four eggs. Then she dips slices of white bread into the batter before frying them to a nice golden brown. You know, French toast. As I munch on them, I think to myself, “Hmm… not croutons. But I’m gonna let this sleeping dog lie.”
My New Running Buddies!
Mid-afternoon, as snow falls, I tell my family I’ll go running soon. My host mother has declared that my little brother needs more exercise, so he’s commanded to join me. I change into running attire, and when I go to leave, I see my host mother is also looking rather sporty! She’s going to run, too, she says! Rock on! The three of us walk over to the stadium, where I was joined in spurts by either my host mother or little brother. I must say, MUCH preferable to the companion I had on an earlier run! I think we’re in for lots of snow soon, though, as I sit watching huge flakes fall. So, we’ll see how long our running days last…
Olympiad
Without making this blog post too much longer, I’ll toot the horn of some of my students! I travelled to a nearby city with another English teacher and two eighth grade girls for an English Olympiad. It consisted of three stages – a grammar test, “situations”, and “film”. For situations, they were randomly paired up, given ten minutes to prepare a dialog, and one minute to present. In film, they individually watched a movie clip without sound, and then had to produce their own script. Interesting competition, consisting of 8th to 11th grade students, obviously with really varied skill levels. Ah- and this was held at a college. Gives them a chance to see the best and brightest English students in the area. Prizes were given by grade, and the girls from my school placed second and third! Woo hoo!
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