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.