Sipping Water from a Goblet

Oh my, it’s quite possible that entirely too much time got away from me. Let one month go, and then another… and all the sudden, blogging for 2 months seems too daunting, which will obviously be fixed by just waiting longer, right? The plight of the procrastinator right there. So now that I’m sipping water from a goblet in a suite on Santorini, I’ll draw the blinds and write a note to those still hanging around to see if I’ve got another post in me. No worries – the sun has already set, though I was too busy eating mousaka to see it.

Bullet points.
That’s what I get for waiting too long. Rather than embellish, er… elaborate on my latest affairs, they’ll come to you in my best attempt at bullet point fashion.

- Ivan update. Ivan ran away. Well, “moved” may be a more accurate reflection. He’s now a resident of Karaganda. While that hasn’t made the phone calls completely stop, they’re sure getting less and less frequent. I’m bummed that I lost a running buddy, but quite ok with hearing from him less.
- A marathon training schedule I drew out, calendar-style, on 4 sheets of paper slowly got colored in as I successfully completed runs. Some were running dates with Ira. Thank goodness she ran with me some as the weather turned chilly. Running through early morning fog may sound fabulous to some, but on mornings like that, my pillow sounds much more fabulous. Other notable runs: 17 miles through the steppe. 6 with a visiting trainee. 14 around a forest. And 20 beyond that forest onto a road I could confidently retrace (unlike the 17. That run may have included a nagging lost feeling around mile 14. Not the point at which one cares to wonder whether home is straight ahead, or off to the left somewhere …because I swear it’s not to my right… To allay your fears, I’m still alive. I made it back.).
- Letter from the Akimat. Forget this bullet point crap. The story is at the end. :)
- Turns out all that volleyball playing was in preparation for an oblast-wide sports extravaganza. Competitions in volleyball, football, table tennis, and who knows what else. The girls’ team from Shakhtinsk was… half from Shakhtinsk, half from Shahan. Suffice it to say, we made a poor showing. But the practice beforehand with local guys sure was all kinds of fun. I’ll forever be proud of blocking a hard hit from a strong player. Take that, boy-I-was-secretly-admiring! Now you want to know my name, don’t you?? Or… maybe not.
- The big competition was the same day as my first bus trip to the grand city of Pavlodar. Bought the bus ticket (with the help of my host mother) from a woman who informed us the ride would take 14 hours. That meant leaving 8pm and arriving at 10am. Ouch. But those volunteers over in Pavlodar… time with them is more than worth an awful bus ride. So I wasn’t dissuaded. I sure was confused, though, when everyone got off the bus at 4am as though we were in Pavlodar. …which we were. There I was, at the bus station at 4am, having made arrangements to be met 6 hours later. May God pour out blessing after blessing upon Shannon, who, awakened by my phone call, got herself into a taxi to fetch me at the station.
- Back in Shakhtinsk, or, rather, outside of Shakhtinsk, is a quaint little lake called Topar. Twice this summer I made trips with my volleyball-playing friends. We made shashlik, splashed in the water, tossed an American football, and dominated on the sand volleyball court. Don’t judge me for beaming with pride that I made a purely social trip with people who 1) are outside my host family, and 2) do not speak English.
- In August I started Lessons @ the Library! Week 1, I had a group of about 25, mostly adults of varying ages. Attendance has stayed pretty high, with low weeks still between 10 and 15. Oh, what fun times they’ve been. For one short story, again go to the end.
- Celebrated (English teacher) Olya’s birthday. She has crazy friends. One of whom is named Denise. Hasn’t gotten old yet, the pleasure I find in sharing a name with Russian guys. Often goes something like this: “My name is Denise.” “Denise?!” (They’re sure I’ve made some terrible mistake.) “Yes, Denise. It’s a man’s name, yeah?” “Yes!” (I give my sweetest smile…) “I’m not a man.” (On that they don’t seem so confused. :) But I digress… The night ended on a good note, though the next day’s clean-up was a dousy.
- Miner’s Day. Story #3.
- Sometime in early September, I suppose, I accepted an invitation to play table tennis with Ira and a couple Kazakh guys who come to my library lessons. I consider the discovery of “Jaguar” to be nothing short of fabulous. It’s an internet café. A place to play table tennis. A hot spot for aspiring boxers. An option for weight lifting. And the place I plan to go for aerobics classes! Oh, I feel like I hit a gold mine. Table tennis has been terrific. There’s a small room with one table, so we bring music and have a good ol’ time, slammin’ and jammin’. I just might come back with mad ping pong skills… :)
- School Day #1. No question on the date here. September 1 is the first day of school for all schools across Kazakhstan (and Russia, so I’ve heard). “Bell Day” means lots of pomp and circumstance …and an equally minimal amount of learning. So… I ironed a nice blouse, took a walk over to school, watched children parade around. Boys in suits, girls in French maid outfits (just subtract the duster and add larger than life white bows on the tip top of their little heads). An 11th grade boy carried a 1st grade girl on his shoulders as she rang a bell. Little kiddos stumbled over rehearsed Russian and Kazakh lines. Important people said (I assume) important things. And the kids filed in to say hello to their homeroom teacher …and I went home. School day number one, done. The rest of them will only require 30 minutes of my time, too, right?
- Just to clarify… school started September 1. English lessons? September 6. Don’t you dare ask about a set schedule. How could teachers expect such a thing before 2nd quarter?!
- Attended a beauty pageant at the culture center. Entertaining enough to justify the 500T ticket. Introductory choreographed… walk off? dance? runway style stomp? Whatever they did, they did it together. And proceeded to pound out many other steps, in many other outfits, throughout the evening. While they occupied themselves backstage, the audience was treated to some singing dude fancy enough to have his picture printed on the ticket. My favorite was his rendition of Mambo #5. Given that it’s entirely too much English to memorize, I’ll forgive him for butchering most lines. I was entertained, and that’s what he’s going for, right? I also got a kick out of Miss Shakhtinsk’s comments on her victory, which began with something to the tune of, “I would like to thank the judges for making the right decision…” Gotta love girls who know what they’ve got.
- An 8th grade boy came to school with a cast on his right hand. I teased Zhenya about losing a fight, not realizing (or believing) that’s actually what happened. But when the English lesson started, the goal of my teasing was to get him to do more than stare into space. See, he’s right handed, so for the next 40 days, he “can’t write”. Sorry y’all, that’s not gonna fly. There’s a perfectly capable left hand hanging off the opposite wrist. “Zhenya,” I said, “I can write with my left hand.” Oh, no, he insisted, no way could he write with his left hand. “So, how do you eat?” I rhetorically asked. “…with my left hand,” he confessed. “Oh, oh my!” I teased. “You mean, you aren’t going to just not eat for the next 40 days?!” Of course not. That’d be silly. And so is sitting in class pretending like you don’t have to do any work. I gave Zhenya a scrap of paper and asked him to write his name. Two minutes later, he was writing out the assignment his classmates were busy with. With a couple sentences, albeit shaky, written out, he had made the flip from rejecting the idea of writing left-handed to boasting about his newfound talent. Keep it up for 40 days, and that boy will have a unique talent for a lifetime.
- A 24 year-old, decently good-looking guy named Dmitri made a stunning discovery: me. How it takes a year to find the only American in Shakhtinsk is beyond me. (And he has been “trying to meet me” since November 2009.) But I suppose showing up at one of my library lessons is a lot less creepy than, say, waiting for me in the schoolyard. He’s an English translator. Was an English teacher – at my school, in fact, the year before I came. Only taught one year. Goal: English interpreter. (That’d mean vocally translating, rather than writing, as he does for oil companies now.) Asked me to go “on a walk” (read: on a date) right after the lesson he sat through. I was grateful to be whisked away by the Kazakh guys, who often drive me home from the library.
- Teacher’s Day is celebrated on the 1st Sunday of October. Schools celebrate the Friday before with a concert, and teachers continue the festivities at a local café. Enjoyed the concert, put on collectively by schools in and around Shakhtinsk. Then joined my little brother and his friend for a walk home, though I promptly turned around to check out the partying happening at Юност. See Story #4.
- Kaz-22’s arrived!! A fabulous change in PST: trainees were sent to sites around the country to shadow a volunteer for a couple days. They came as far north as the Karaganda area, so I got to host two girls (one at a time). With the first PCT, just to show her a good time, the water and electricity gods wreaked havoc. Electricity but no water. Then water and no electricity. And periods without either. Nonetheless, we put together eggplant parmesan as best we could! Water was spotty the following week, too. Of course we haven’t had any trouble with water except the 4 days we had a guest in the house. But with the second visit, electricity was more cooperative, allowing us to properly bake a Dutch apple pie. Oh yeah.
- Got my Holiday Club up and running with the help of three of my students (two 8th grade girls, one 9th grade girl). Halloween is all that has happened thus far. Thanksgiving to commence upon my return early November.
- October 10, FLEX testing was held in Astana for students in and around Karaganda. Four of my students (2 8th, 2 9th) prepared to take the test, which is the first part of a competition to be sent to the U.S. for one academic year. Three of the four were accompanied by mothers and had places to stay. I served as surrogate mother for number four, who I think (shh!) is the most deserving of a chance to study in the States. She and I traveled with the other 8th grade girl and her mother, going by bus on Saturday afternoon. We got help getting to the apartment where we were hosted by my school director’s goddaughter. Sunday, all four participated in Round 1: 16 written, multiple-choice questions. Two proceeded to Round 2, held later the same day. One was my daughter-for-the-day, so I waited… and waited. Round 2 lasted three hours. Then it was a trip back to the Astana bus station… 4 hours to Karaganda… and another hour to Shakhtinsk… my head hit the pillow somewhere around midnight, with 3 or 4 unplanned lessons scheduled to start about 8 hours later.
- Yeah, so I’ve been teaching. Four groups. 4A, 7Б, 8A, and 9A. I will team-teach 4A and 7Б once Svetlana returns from helping with the Kaz-22 PST. 8A and 9A are with Tatyana. Teaching 4A solo has resulted in more than one lesson where I feel like 9-year-olds have just trampled over me. But they’re getting better, and I’m recognizing the importance of a well structured, thoroughly thought out lesson plan.
- As often as I can, I continue attending church in Karaganda! I’m understanding more and more of the sermons, though translation help from a local Kazakh girl allows for much greater comprehension than I’d get on my own. The church seems to have a rock star core group of young adults. Oh, I yearn to be a contributing member of a church body… someday, someday.
- Might have gone on a walk with Dmitri the night before I flew to Turkey. Might have eaten dinner. Before he might have taken me to meet his mother. And say hello to his sister, who might have been my student last year…

Whew! How’s that for bringing you up to speed? Too bad there’s nothing about this lil’ vacation of mine yet. Cross your fingers for 3 blog posts, all in the span of a week! And if the bullet points weren’t enough, hopefully the four stories below will keep you busy until I post more. Happy reading!


Darn you, Akimat!!
In May, I asked Tatyana about the possibility of renting an apartment. This goes against what I expressed in the beginning, since at that point I was set on staying with my host family for 2 years. But the bug of independence gets into a person, and I wanted to, at the very least, explore my options. Mind you, I wanted to be quiet about this so as to escape the risk of offending my host family. Nothing need be mentioned to them unless a decision were made to move out. So… Tatyana talked to Svetlana. Svetlana talked to the town’s Head of Education. And they all helped me with paperwork required by the Akimat (City Hall). Why all this mess was necessary wasn’t even a question that crossed my mind. Look how well I’ve integrated… or at least resigned to blindly accept all sorts of crazy business. So, the local Akimat is aware that I’m interested in a new apartment. But I hear nothing.

Fast forward to August. My host mother hands off a sealed envelope addressed to me. Puzzled, I open it to find a memo on an official-looking letterhead. Everything in Russian. And not See-Spot-Run Russian. All I can get is that it’s from the Akimat. I head out to the kitchen and give a confused look to my host mother. She reads the letter, now quizzical. “You’re looking for an apartment?” she asks. I gasp, not having had any notion the letter would be about that. “I, uh, I asked Tatyana about apartments, and then I didn’t hear anything.” “Don’t you like living here? Isn’t our home enough for you?” she inquires. “Of course,” I stammer. “I enjoy living here immensely.” Not yet convinced, she continues. “A rented apartment would be no good. It would be dirty. You would have to clean it. And paint it. And buy furniture, a tv, a table, and kitchen utensils.” Mortified, I gave as satisfactory of answers as I could – whatever would grant me leave so I could hide in my humiliation. Thankfully, the topic didn’t surface again, and I’m to the point where I’m content to stay there through the remainder of my service. Oh, and the letter said that it’d be a long, long time until I could move into a new apartment. Perfect.

A Stumble into 20 Questions
To lighten things up, I’ve tried a couple times to include easy 5 minute “lessons” at the end of our scheduled time at the library. Early in September, that meant teaching variations of yes and no. But I was hasty in my planning. No forethought had been given to instructions on how to practice their new terminology. Extemporaneously, I gave them the vague direction to think of yes or no questions. Didn’t tell them who to ask… so of course the questions were aimed at me. The first few were innocent and impersonal enough. Then take note of two fun-loving Kazakh boys in the back, both about my age. One of whom is married, one of whom is self-reportedly single. Of course it’s the single one who stands up with his yes or no question. “Denise, do you have a boyfriend?” Giggles erupt as my face flushes red. Being almost incapable of lying, I fess up to being single and shortly thereafter call a cease to further probing questions. Assuming you’ve read further bullet points up above, yes, they’re the boys with whom I’ve since been playing table tennis, and getting rides home. Believe it or not, though, our friendship seems to be free of the tension of underlying romantic attraction. Let’s hope it stays that way, because I’m quite fond of hanging out with them.

Miner’s Day
In KZ, you know a holiday is a big deal when you hear about it more than a week in advance. And when rumors float around about a printed schedule of events, that’s even more reason to get your hopes up. Miner’s Day, the last Sunday in August, is Shakhtinsk’s biggest holiday. And considering that the town’s economy is completely dependent on the coalmines, it’s more than enough reason to shut down the town for one huge celebration.

I hesitantly invited volunteers from neighboring Karaganda to check out the festivities. To be frank, I didn’t know if it’d be a total flop, so I didn’t put too much pressure on them to come. But with rumor of horse races, intrigue got the best of them, and some decided to make the trip out.

On Friday, the promised schedule came out. Take note: a schedule, in writing, with times(!) almost 36 hours before anything was set to begin. Be amazed. :) Among the listed morning events were soccer matches, relay races, musical performances, tug-of-war, and a powerlifting competition. Baiga (horse races) was scheduled for 1:30pm. And the day was to finish in high fashion with a concert and fireworks (which, I was informed, simply could not be missed).

I made it over to the stadium to see a bit of soccer and witness a couple guys display their brute force, lifting some sort of dumbbells over their head repeatedly. Next, I joined my family for a quick tour of the town square, which was set up with several yurts and a huge stage. Each mine and factory in the area had a yurt set up, inside of which was, I’m told, food and drink. Our next stop was an open field near the bus station, where people and horses were kicking up dust. Wouldn’t you know, the horse races started essentially on time! Four friends indeed did find their way to Shakhtinsk, and soon joined me as race spectators.

The crowd, predominantly Kazakh, watched young Kazakh boys (most of whom rode bareback) whip their horses around a circular track probably close to one mile around. Police officers were working in one-step-forward-two-steps-back fashion, battling to keep people from crowding onto the dirt track. Made me itch for a sorrel quarter horse standing in a small Nebraska pasture.

Leaving the races, we wandered through town to the best café for shashlik …only to be turned away. Bruised but not broken, we paid for sub-par hunks of meat over in the town square before meandering over to my apartment. A plan to go in, use the bathroom, escape the sweltering heat for a minute, and get on a bus back to Karaganda wasn’t exactly agreeable to my host parents. Rather, my friends needed to stay for the evening concert and fireworks, and then sleep in our apartment. None of them had planned on staying, but after much pushing and persuading, three of them agreed to stay.

Out we went to watch the Backstreet Boys of Kazakhstan perform live. Ringo, I think is the group’s name. But the parallel is no exaggeration – they even let us know that Backstreet’s back …alright! A couple hours of music, a decent display of fireworks, and we were all ready to crash. All of us except my host father, that is. He proceeded to drag all of us over to his favorite café, where we tried to look as tired as possible in an effort to hasten the trip home. Sometimes Kazakhstanis are so set on showing hospitality that they fail to recognize it’s actually misery they’re causing. All in all, though, Miner’s Day rocked, and I can’t wait to invite even more volunteers for the 2011 celebration.

Story #4: Teacher’s Day
I walked into Юност about 30 minutes late, so several tables were bustling with teachers from all over town. Closest to the door was a table almost full of younger teachers from my school, with the only empty chair next to …Dmitri. It hadn’t even dawned on me that, because he once was a teacher, he’d spend this evening with former co-workers. But I can’t kid myself into believing it was the former co-workers who lured him to a café he doesn’t like. (The following week, I was informed that he had heard I’d be coming. Something tells me that played a small role in him making an appearance.)

Night in a nutshell: (Well, as nutshell as I get.) He talked to me almost exclusively for …four hours. At these functions, one eats a little, dances a little. Eats some more, dances some more. Which is all fine and dandy, especially when the music is not slow, and people have their own space to bust a move. First slow song that started up, though, he and I were immediately ordered to go dance, as per “Russian tradition.” Funny how “Russian tradition” demanded slow dances throughout the evening. And more than once during these dances, he’d blurt out oddly intense compliments. Fine example: “It’s impossible to be as beautiful as you.” …In the seconds it took the shock to set in, I discerned that he was merely translating lyrics for me. Ha ha!

Ok, nutshell, Denise… Though disappointed at my early departure, he walked me home, where we stood outside talking. We were there long enough for my host parents to come home from their own merry-making. First words from my host mother: “Denise! New …boyfriend?!” Ha! No, no, no… I set her straight and Dmitri tripped all over himself, trying to talk himself out of the awkwardness he was only making worse. My host father can claim the title MVP-of-the-night with his terse fatherly comments. While Denise lives in our house, she’s our daughter, so you best watch yourself, young man. :) Darn right. They stepped inside. Dmitri said more awkward things. A taxi finally carted him off. The end. For now.

Mom, there’s a dead sheep in the kitchen.

A frozen carcass is lying on the floor, thawing out. Based on size and locations of extra fat, I’m left with no doubt it’s a sheep. So what do I do on the morning I find an entire carcass on the floor of our kitchen? I reach over it to get a mug for my morning tea. And inconspicuously listen for the moment everyone leaves the room so I can take a picture.

Maybe I’m a person who’s hard to get a rise out of. Or maybe I can start counting my losses – mainly, my American eyes. Things that should be absurd are mostly taken in stride. And maybe, just maybe, I can look back at the roller coaster of culture shock and label myself “adjusted”. *Knock on wood.*

With over a year left, there’s no doubt more eccentricities of Kazakhstani culture will make my eyes pop. But I take a certain amount of pride going through a list of cultural norms that just don’t have an affect on me, now that I’ve been in country for just over a year. For example…

- Stores being labeled, for example, “Milk Drinks and Ice Cream” with a smaller sign admitting (all summer long), “We don’t have ice cream.” Just because the words “Ice Cream” are on a large sign prominently displayed on your building doesn’t mean you have to sell it.
- Shopkeepers telling me what I want to buy is crap and that I shouldn’t buy it. Case in point: Me: “I’d like 4 tomatoes.” Shopkeeper: “Our tomatoes are no good.” Me: *confused, stepping closer to the tomatoes, reaching out to touch them* Shopkeeper: “See, awful tomatoes. You should go across the street. They have good tomatoes there.” …I bought tomatoes across the street. They were delicious.
- Needing to leave large purses or bags in a small locker just outside the store. And still having more security personnel than customers in grocery stores. And having to walk through sensors after leaving the store. And having security personnel look at your receipt to check your bag against your purchases.
- Stepping out of that store to find street vendors leaving tables of products out for any ol’ passerby to grab and slide into the bag that had to be in the locker at that fancy store. One of these days, I want to see someone take a pair of socks and glide on down the street. Street vendors should borrow one of those grocery store guys. Or would someone jump from behind some corner and promptly tackle the offender? Oh, I’m curious…
- Walking past people hanging out on the sidewalk with a scale that reads 10 Tenge (or 20 if it’s ritzy), and knowing locals really do pay to step on it. I’ve just got to ask around to find the scale that tells me I’ve lost 5 pounds…
- Waitresses seeming to be completely unaware of your presence, or the notion that you may eventually want to pay your bill. And then when they do bring the check, waitresses hovering as you scrape out your pockets and dig through your purse to find enough money to cover your bill. Complete with glaring and (I swear) the occasional foot-tapping. Don’t worry – they include their tip in the bill.
- You may also find a charge for “music”. Did you like the guy who sang so loudly you had to yell at your companions during your nice meal at that formal restaurant? Not really. Is there any way out of paying for music if you’re there for any amount of his performance? Not a chance.
- Asking the waitress what they have and being told “everything”, only to ask item by item down the menu …and discover they have about half of the items listed. Are they upset about this fact? No. Are they afraid this reflects poorly on them? Not in the least. What do they expect you to do? Precisely what I’ve learned to do – go down your list of preferred dishes until you happen upon something lying about over in the kitchen.
- Public restrooms without toilet paper. Don’t dare think I’ve adjusted to paying for public restrooms. But I do now expect that I need to provide my own tp. So when I go to a beach and find a hole in the ground with four walls around it… and then I spy a roll of tissue nearby, I think it’s a high-class place. True story.

And oh my, does the list go on. May call for future installments. But I’m finding that this life that is lived so differently in some ways is fine living nonetheless.

I ♥ Kazakhstan

Hear “I love KZ” leave my lips and you can assume one of two things: I’ve developed a sweet affection for this place and its people or, as Jack Ingram would put it, it’s the only four-letter word that’ll do. Any given day, both can be right on the money. And this “love” I have for Kazakhstan has admittedly become more intense with time. Thankfully, though, the sweet affection far outweighs the times of loathing, as (I hope) you can see as (I hope) you read on…

A Throne among Thrones
An entertaining (albeit absurd) way to reflect on 10+ months in KZ is by comparing the different places I’ve, well, relieved myself. Think what you may, but this is an exercise you just can’t have much fun with staying inside US borders. I mean, there, you may have multicolored toilet seats or fuzzy seat covers. Maybe a rug around the base that you’re nervous about putting your feet on. Or knobs that make it tricky to flush with your foot. But here, oh, is it a different story. Forget foot-flushing, you germaphobes. If you’re lucky enough to use a toilet resembling those in the US, there will be either a button or something to pull up on the tank. My first KZ toilet needed a good dose of finesse to flush right, even after a local explained what needed to happen. With many of those indoor toilets, don’t you dare drop your tp thinking it’ll flush fine. So the most common toilet is a tiny room with only the toilet and a covered trash can. Get out quick and go in search of a sink with soap.

Still, it’s a huge step up from the variety of outhouses. Some with doors that close… some that put you at risk of indecent exposure. Some with deep holes… and some unpleasantly shallow. Some made for one, some designed for socializing. And one with a beautifully carved exterior and equally interesting interior. Cutouts of wooden feet complete with toenail polish tell you right where to stand, and a porthole makes a nice place to lay a flashlight at night. Well done, Forest Brother and Mary. Well done. But going back through my now-extensive Rolodex of outhouses, I can’t say I’ve seen one with a place to sit – just holes (of varying size) cut in the floor. Your aim improves with practice…

But don’t go thinking my reflections end with ho-hum toilets and unavoidable outhouses. I can now say KZ is home to the most sophisticated toilet I’ve ever encountered. It makes automatic flush look old-fashioned. This sucker had an attached remote. Immediately upon sensing weight, a spray of air freshener is released into the bowl below the heated toilet seat. Then as you, you know, you can contemplate all sorts of options, most of which I didn’t dare try to understand. I mean, how many different types of bides can there be? And do I really need a toilet to wash and dry me?! Really, being able to flush my toilet paper is enough excitement for me. Sure, throw in a heated toilet seat, I guess, but the rest… I just don’t get it.

Even more than I don’t understand the sheer excessiveness of the throne I experienced in Astana, though, I am bewildered that each and every one of these toilets can be found within 5 or 6 hours of driving around KZ. Say what you want about Nebraska, but you won’t find that diversity between Lincoln and Scottsbluff.

Running around Kazakhstan
By train, in a bus, with a taxi, or on foot… I’ve been more places in the last six weeks than many Kazakhstanis have seen. And while many locals are quite sure I’ve just been vacationing like crazy, I swear there’s been work done in there, too. Three summer camps: first was Noelle’s.

For the second, I went north and west to Presnovka, where Patrick has done a superb job with a pioneer site. I joined a rock-star team of Kaz-20s and 21s, and finagled an American football from a PCV who clearly doesn’t need two. ☺ Thanks, Brendan. And does “publicly” thanking you mean I get to keep it instead of this “borrowing” concept you speak of? I may take your silence as a yes.

Third, I traveled east to beautiful Bayanaul. A horrendous bus ride (averaging 40mph (to be generous) because of awful roads… in clear weather… for over 5 hours) later, I was in a place with scenery to make up for my sore bum and rattled brain. For the next 10 days, I squeezed in with a small group of PCVs on the floor of Forest Brother’s cozy abode. We took advantage of our surroundings through excursions of berry picking, hiking, swimming, lazy evening walks, and even a few jogs. And for “showering”, prayers were offered that no one would be electrocuted and that no one would walk in on me as they innocently made their way in or out of the house. (Maybe I ought to post a note or two of the “shower” Rolodex I’ve got going sometime.) Crazy as it sounds, I’m pretty proud of how clean I can get with only half a bucket of water. And even crazier, there’s something I enjoy about being in a place where amenities are such that I get to walk down to the well for the bucket of water. Can’t imagine I’d enjoy it near as much in the dead of winter. Because of that, my beloved PCVs who are in such places will forever stand on a pedestal I’ve erected in my brain.

Back in Shakhtinsk, where on a good day I’ve got enough water pressure to take a respectable shower, the running continues, just with a great pair of Brooks. The events of the last month, though, deserve their own little heading.

Ivan Running Guy
It’s become a common sight as my phone rings. To explain from the beginning takes us back to a Saturday in June. Armed with my iPod, I headed out for my week’s long run. Only six minutes in, I gasped when I suddenly noticed a young man jogging beside me. He asked if he could run with me, and not seeing a reason to refuse, I responded in the affirmative. As we jogged… and jogged… and jogged some more, bits of conversation were exchanged. Yes, I’m American. No, I don’t have a boyfriend. I think that covers all the basics. Seven miles later, we finally slowed to a walk.

Wait, not all the basics. One last very important question to ask me… what’s my phone number? Ugh. A struggle far too many PCVs encounter far too often. Not wanting to be mean (but also not wanting to give him my number) I just said, “Later.” He was persistent, and creeping thoughts of the advantages of having a good running buddy added in to get me to the tipping point. Besides, I was leaving the next day for summer camp #2 and wouldn’t be back for nearly a month. And so, I surrendered my number. About an hour later, I answered a phone call and saved his. Not two hours later, caller ID showed me “Ivan Running Guy”. I push a button to silence the call and wondered just what I’d gotten myself into.

I made it quite clear that Saturday in June that I wouldn’t be back to Shakhtinsk until July 17. What I didn’t make clear, apparently, is that I was not interested in getting a phone call from him every day in between. A very important little detail to add here: he does not speak a lick of English. He is (can you believe) very interested in me teaching him English. Too bad I threw out the last of my instantly-speak-English pills… so answering any of his phone calls would have been completely pointless. I’m hundreds of miles away, so no, I couldn’t go for a walk, a run, or anything else. And I can’t speak Russian. Charades don’t work well over the phone. So that silence button got lots of use.

Back at site after all three camps, though, (and having forgotten what the guy looks like) I wondered as I ran… was that him? Uh oh, how about that guy? I have no need for enemies, so figured, heck, give the guy a chance before writing him off as a creep. I sent a text asking if he wanted to join me for a run Thursday morning. Immediate response: “I very much want to.” The message he didn’t get was that I’d start at 7am. I ran past his workplace on my way back a few minutes before 8am. Just then, a bus stopped and he got off. I paused and spoke with him for a minute. “Why so early?” “Whoops, sorry,” I said, “but I’ll run again on Saturday.” “Alright, how about 8am?” I agreed and took off to finish my run.

By the time I got to my apartment, my phone showed two new texts. First was an apology from him for coming late. The second was compliment after compliment. Apparently I’m excellent, he admires me, and he likes me. Does that mean he likes me? Mostly because of the incessant calling, I’ll go out on a limb and say he likes me.

I, however, was not anxious to reciprocate any of this. I’m looking for a running buddy who isn’t half-crazed, either about me or in general. So I continued to ignore his calls, some days needing to ignore three or four. I did nothing about the texts. Next, though, came this text (in rough translation): “I to you not interesting?” Good grief. I can’t very well yell at the guy in either English or Russian for acting like an adolescent. But if he was looking to get a response from me, he’d gotten me. I felt like I had to do something. After some hemming and hawing, I settled on sending this message (in Russian, for which I pat myself on the back ☺): “Sorry. Just, I don’t want a boyfriend and I don’t speak Russian well.”

In response, I got a message saying, “I really liked you. I want to run with you.” Note the switch from present to past time. Whew! I recognize, though, that the future tense can’t very well be ruled out. Regardless, things were moving in the right direction.

With any locals I spent time with, I relished recounting as much of the story as I could. Good Russian practice, and telling people adds an element of safety. One woman I explained all of this to, Ira, has told me before that she runs. Apparently Ira does more sprinting, though, and with a strange work schedule, I hadn’t figured out if running with her would be an option. So I thought nothing of it. Rather, I appreciated her concern, with her ordering me to text her before and after this run planned for Saturday at 8.

Early Saturday, I rolled out of bed to prepare for running 8 miles. I was even kind enough to answer a phone call from Ivan Running Guy to confirm that I indeed would soon be running. Ready to go, I left my apartment and started stretching a bit. Just then, an SUV pulled in, driven by none other than Ira! Surprised, I was speechless as she told me she wanted to try running with me. Oh, I was pumped. How perfect. So, Ira and I headed off and as we passed Ivan’s work, he came down from his lookout post on the roof, jumped over the fence, and joined us.

What a fabulous run it turned out to be. Four miles out, a bit of a break, and back home. Ah, and I collected some of my own details. He grew up in Astana, which rules out the possibility of local teachers knowing him. And rather than my guess of 22 (and fearing 19), he says he’s 28. I’m not sure I should believe him. Irregardless, both Ivan and Ira ran really well. …And both reported being all sorts of sore the following day.

Since then, I’ve run with Ivan once more. My plan to do some fast segments with breaks between was too much for his poor legs today, though, so it turned into a combination of running ahead and switching gears to jogging instead. Not keeping up with the faster pace: good if he’s a stalker, bad if he’s a running buddy. Oh, let’s hope my sense that he’s not a crazy stalker turns out to be true, eh? And let’s hope he doesn’t continue to be a slow poke if he does keep running with me.

Etc.
Gosh the summer is disappearing fast! I can scarcely fathom what I was doing last year at this time. And now Kaz-22s are in the thick of their preparations! With the rest of my summer, I’ll be preparing to take over a couple classes since Svetlana will serve as a TCF for some lucky trainees. I also plan to start a club at the local library for adults who want to learn English, and I have every intention of playing loads of volleyball, as I’ve been doing for the last several days. If I could only find a way to stretch the summer out even longer…

Remember Me?

What day is it? Or rather… what month is it? And where am I? Over the past several weeks, all that and more has certainly been in question. Oh, between the end of the year, travel around the country, and travel around the world, I’m all mixed up. Step by step, I’ll see what I can straighten out for you (and me :).

Street Sign Nonsense
First, I’ve got to reach way back – to April, in fact – and piece together what I can of a story I insist on writing down. A few weeks prior, my eyeglasses went missing. (Don’t sit around waiting for that story to get posted. You’ll have to ask yourself.) Knowing our fabulous PC insurance would foot the bill for a replacement pair, I contacted our doctor for further instructions. Over the phone and in an e-mail, I got information for an optical clinic in Karaganda. Phone number, hours, address, and an employee’s name (Valentina). Sadly, their working hours didn’t stretch much beyond mine.

But I had a sense of urgency. And a Wednesday when I was done with just enough time to get there before closing time. A quick call to Valentina, and I hustled into town. Closing time: 5:00pm. My ETA: 4:45pm. Address: Nurkena Abdirova, 30a. I know that street, so I figured I had it in the bag. Hurrying down said street, I watched address numbers (and my watch) as I trucked along. I saw teens, and soon enough twenties. Then I saw a fantastic restaurant, Georgia, and more importantly, it’s address. 32. I backtracked, but saw no 30.

With 5 minutes left before 5:00, I again called Valentia. I’ll say here – she doesn’t speak a lick of English. So, with the Russian of a 3 year old, I tried to describe where I was. “I see Georgia. Left or right?” Valentina: “Do you see Leila?” Who, or what, is Leila?! “I see a pharmacy,” which is akin to saying I see a stop sign. Entirely useless. Again she asks about this Leila. And I see it – the name of a café next to Georgia. Now we’re getting somewhere. But there’s just a small street between them – no eye clinic. I again ask left or right, and she repeatedly says a word I don’t know. She tries a different approach, asking if I see a house. I see a big building that I understand to have several shops inside, and wishfully think it must be what she’s talking about.

At this point, I decide asking a stranger on the street may give me the next clue on this hunt. Valentina doesn’t like the idea, but I’m confident I’m close. A kind woman tells me there’s an eye clinic inside, so in I go, keeping Valentina on the phone. After walking for less than 30 seconds, I stop at a clothes shop. The storekeeper pegs me right away as a girl who doesn’t have a clue, and kindly takes me by the hand to a small shop with walls of eyeglasses. Woo!

The space is small, so I figure Valentina must be in some hidden back room. I ask the woman in a white lab coat where Valentina is. Meanwhile, a faint, “Nyet! Nyet!” comes from my phone. Somehow I get across to this woman that I’m looking for a certain eye clinic, and it dawns on us both that I’m in the wrong one. She asks for my phone, and seconds later the two locals have it straightened out. The woman delivers directions with both words and (praise God) hand motions. (My ability to play charades is improving, slowly but surely.)

I retrace my steps to that small street between Leila and Georgia. Hang a left. Walk a couple minutes, past a big house-looking restaurant, and, ta-da! An eye clinic. (May I digress? How the heck is that Nurkena Abdirova 30a?! I need a good arm to throw a rock over to Nurkena Abdirova from this place. What would possess a people to base addresses, not on concrete streets, but undefined areas?! Good grief!! Whew, ok, where was I?) A young woman steps outside and motions me over. Profuse apologies given, I’m rushed to the right wall of eyeglasses. With a spending limit and no time – it’s now about 5:10 – my decision was made relatively quickly. Price of the frames: 4800. As Valentina completes paperwork, I thumb through the cash I’ve got. 3600. No problem – I’ll use my PC debit card. I mean, there are frames in there priced over 20,000 tenge. Of course they take credit cards. In due time, I hold out my debit card. No go. She promptly refuses it. Crap. Bashfully, I hold out my 3600 tenge. All this trouble, and now I’m afraid it’s for not. I’ll have to make another trip in. But no! She accepts my “down-payment,” asking instead if I have any money with which to get home. What a sweetheart!

I weaved my way back to Nurkena Abdirova, found an ATM, and got myself back to site. The happy end: trip number two – when I picked up my glasses – went much more smoothly, and I look like a little smarty pants when I decide I need to read things.

A Little Black Dress
Now, moving forward. I don’t understand how so many people in this country are so darn thin. Granted, not all locals have it figured out, but many do. I, on the other hand, seem to have no issue with maintaining – and adding to – my curves. Result? I knew the little black dress hanging in Nebraska didn’t have a chance of fitting for the June wedding I’d be standing up for. (The lovely bride requested bridesmaids in black dresses. Excellent choice, Emily.) Like it or not, I had some dress shopping to do. I brought up my quandary with one of the English teachers, asking if she knew good places in Karaganda to shop. No need to go to Karaganda, Dasha said. She prefers the Shakhtinsk shops. And she offered to take me around to them. Perfect!

So, some Saturday in May, I met up with Dasha after swearing to my host mother I would not buy anything until I also looked in Karaganda. Not everyone is sold on small-town shopping, I guess. Dasha and I spent a beautiful afternoon wandering from one side of town to another. The selection wasn’t enormous, but I found an interesting dress that had possibilities. I made a mental note of it, then enjoyed walking through town with Dasha.

A week or so later, I spent the better part of an afternoon with Elena, a PCV in Karaganda, on a shopping trip dedicated solely to dress shopping. Great time, even if we came away with a mere 3 dresses, none of them black. We did come across a lovely silky black dress, though not lovely enough to shell out 16,000 tenge. The Shakhtinsk dress, at 3,500 tenge, became all the more appealing, and the next day I returned to the shop and brought it home.

And then brought it home. :) Going to the US, even just for 12 days, was nothing short of fantastic. The United States is my home. The country I love. And being away only intensifies it. Oh, my homeland is a wonderful land. Beautiful, clean, organized… but in an effort to keep things straight, I’ll dive into my praise of the US in chronological order.

Last Bell
First, the end. Of school. Last Bell. May 25. I’d been warned of what would be happening. The English Club I hold on Thursday afternoons with 7th and 8th graders (and random community members) would be held on Tuesday morning, May 25th. Reason being special visitors from Karaganda. Important men, invariably clad in 3 piece suits, would want to see the wonders I’m working in our youth. The time was set at 10:00am. Most of the day, though, would be dedicated to the Last Bell ceremony for the graduating class.

May 24th, Tatyana pleaded that I be at school earlier than 10am. I assured her I would. And then at 4am on May 25th, I sat at the base of a toilet, my body rejecting something I’d consumed the previous day. After the second trip, I considered forgetting the whole ordeal and crawling into bed for the day. But after trip 3, I figured I could maybe make it. That makes sense, right? Around 9:30, I was done with my shower and heard the phone ring. Caller ID told me someone at school was calling, so I answered. “Where are you?!” Tatyana demanded. “I’m at home. Give me 10 minutes.” I proceeded to hunt down clothes for the occasion. Before I was dressed, a person pounded on our apartment door. I was the only one home, and opted to let them pound, not even bothering to check who was there. All I knew was that it had better not be who I knew it likely was. She had to have left immediately after hanging up to get to my apartment so quickly.

With a bag filled with activities for this special English Club, I strode over to school. Once in the school yard, my phone rang. Now caller ID said Olya was calling. But yet again, Tatyana’s voice greeted me. “Where are you?!” “I’m right outside the school.” An overly anxious Tatyana met me right inside the school doors. She whisked me away to the Resource Center, where the club would be held. I stepped inside, where I was greeted by two more English teachers and a room full of young students I’ve never met. Each of them had been given a textbook and a small notebook. (FYI: I got to this classroom at 9:45am, thank you very much. ;)

Now we had 15 minutes with nothing to do but shoot our blood pressure through the roof. Two more students came, including Zhenya. He took the strange textbook without question, but asked why the teacher then gave him Miriam’s notebook. No worries, Zhenya, don’t think you actually need to do something with the materials in front of you. Just sit like a statue and you’re good to go.

Sometime around 10:00, three to five men in the expected pressed suits entered the room, escorted by my school director. Satisfied by the children sitting quietly and by my elemental answers to their simple questions, they made an about face and proceeded to the Last Bell ceremony at the other end of the school. The second the last of their soles was lifted off the floor, all the textbooks had been closed, and students nearly tripped over each other to exit the room. Something well worthy of getting worked up about, yeah?

I was not too far behind them, and joined the procession to the other end of the school. The ceremony was a pleasant time acknowledging the hard work of students and teachers alike. Students sang, children danced, people spoke, my stomach growled. I made it through more of the presentation than the important men in suits, though not by much. No worries, I didn’t erp anywhere. Simply dragged myself back home and moved as little as possible for the rest of the day. With each successive day, I felt a little more like myself. And by golly, getting a few American meals in my belly several days later brought me back to 100%. :) I love that country. And before expounding on the wonders of that beautiful land, the travels that got me there.

Travel Mercies
And with it, a story about the wonders of Kazakhstan. My trip itinerary coincided with other meetings happening in Almaty, so I planned to travel there with another PCV, Erica. She beat me to the train station in Karaganda and gave me a call as I was on my way, wanting to know what seat was mine. (Who knew someone was camping out on it?) I kept my attention to my luggage and kept moving her direction. Arriving less than 15 minutes before our scheduled departure, the train was packed with passengers when I boarded. I hope my bags didn’t knock anybody out as I bulled through to my seat. Tired and wet from the rain, I was ready to set everything down and relax.

But that would have to wait. Between her seat and mine, I had to scan several faces before finding Erica hidden in a corner. Where there should have been four, there were eight adults and two children. For my own sanity, I inquired as to which person had a ticket for which place. With that knowledge, I squeezed in on my bench and discussed the absurdity of it with Erica. Three women, two children, and at the beginning, one man, had all taken the liberty of assuming our seats. It seemed our only option was to wait for the conductor to check tickets and clear things up, which typically happens ten or fifteen minutes after the train sets out. Dispelling our fears that we’d have to ride for 18 hours cramped together, our extra passengers – who indeed had no tickets at all – were moved to some other spot about a half hour into our trip. What we thought was sure to be our worst train ride yet seemed to be on the up swing.

Hours down the tracks, we made a decent stop. One giving people aboard time for an escape from the train’s stuffy interior. Erica and I walked up and down the platform by our train, minding our own business. Soon enough, though, two men struck up conversation. Turns out, we happened to be on the same train as one of Erica’s college students. This one was traveling with a friend who also speaks English.

Back on the train, they paid us a visit before long. We joked and laughed, testing the limits of our Russian and their English. It’s amazing the conversation you can come up with between the two. And it’s encouraging to witness how quickly strangers can become friends. The two women on the bunks above Erica and I became acquainted, and soon enough warmed up to the pair of guys. We all shared some wine and food – one of the women sliced her food to share with us all. Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, we each found our own bed to get a little rest. And by the time we woke up, we were near our stop, and Erica and I could agree it had turned into quite an enjoyable ride.

Over the weekend, I got to spend time with friends from South Africa, Org and Hannette. With a stroke of luck, the Sunday we were in town was the very one Org and Hannette had chosen to host a potluck targeting those with connections to South Africa. Sunday afternoon, their apartment was abuzz with church friends, many bringing along dishes from their homeland. Nothing like great food and wonderful fellowship. Monday, I headed off to Peace Corps Headquarters for much of the day – midservice medical and dental. I’ll let someone else describe those lovely experiences.

Back at Org and Hannette’s apartment in the evening, I joined them for dinner and prepped my bags for a 3:30am flight on Tuesday. Despite calming words from other PCVs and Org & Hannette, I was fit to be tied. The next day would bring over 20 hours of solo, international travel. (In a nutshell: Almaty (ALA) to Frankfurt (FRA). 1 hour and 50 minute layover. FRA to Chicago O’Hare (ORD). 1 hour 39 minute layover. Finally, ORD to Denver (DEN).) All other international travel has been in the comfort of well-organized groups. I was to navigate three flights, four airports, on my own? To be frank, I was terrified. And the only thing I could think to do was rush off to the Almaty airport hours before my flight. So thank goodness Org distracted me with great conversation about experiences he’s had the world over and all he’s learned from it. Finally, around midnight, he kindly drove me to the Peace Corps office, from where I would take a taxi to the airport. With heavy rain the only obstacle, I got to the airport with plenty of time.

To do nothing but wait. See, Almaty’s airport must be comparable to half of the Sioux Falls airport. And here’s how it works. Through the first set of doors is a large area of general seating. Directly ahead of you is the first security checkpoint. On the other side of that checkpoint are five or six ticket counters. And beside that checkpoint are screens displaying upcoming departures. Many are in white text; one or two are in yellow. Only when your flight switches to yellow are you allowed to leave general seating and proceed through that security checkpoint to check in to your flight. No need for early arrival to allow for long security lines. There’s no starting them until about 90 minutes before the flight. This could be cause for concern, but in such a small place, we were all on board in no time. And our mostly empty flight landed on time in Frankfurt.

And that’s where I saw unwelcome news. A screen full of on-time departures, except one. Mine. Delayed “40 minutes.” Notice, that shrinks my O’Hare layover from 1 hr 39 to 59 minutes. Yikes. By the time we took off, that 40 minute delay was more to the tune of an hour. Good thing the pilot had a lead foot and got us back around a 40 or 50 minute delay. Towards the end of the flight, I asked an attendant if passengers with connecting flights would be able to exit first. “It won’t matter. You all have to wait for your bags.” “Ooo, but I’ve just got a carry-on.” (Praise God I hadn’t checked any bags!) She gave a hopeful response, saying she’d work something out.

Twenty minutes before landing in Chicago, she guided me to a seat at the front of Economy seating. Across the aisle was an outspoken man who gave me more tips than I could remember on how to efficiently get to the opposite side of O’Hare. But to get through Customs and Immigration, stop at a ticket counter for a boarding pass, switch terminals, pass through security, and scamper to my gate… all in under an hour?! I was doubtful.

The seatbelt light clicked off and I was off. I got as close to the plane’s door as I could manage. A painfully slow exit, and I had room to run. Following other passengers who were also obviously cutting it close for their own connection, I hustled to stop number one: Customs. The line crawled, but at least it moved. I stood behind a young woman and mentioned how anxious I was about catching my flight. She smiled sympathetically and stepped up to the officer when her turn came. My already pounding heart tried to break a rib when the officer went to extra measures with the young woman, and then led her to a different area of customs. Boy did I choose the wrong line, and precious minutes were already long gone.

To my right stood an elderly man. I turned his direction and said, “Sir?” His response was anything but obliging. I had shoved my way in front of enough people already. Who was I to think other people didn’t also have connecting flights? Jeepers. The officer was back before I had time to respond, motioned me up, glanced at my documents, and waved me through. Not 15 seconds later, I was cleared to run for the ticket counter. No line to wait in, thankfully, and I got my boarding pass and excellent advice from behind the counter to hurry. And hurry I did, through long corridor after long corridor.

Next task: change terminals. Waiting for a tram, I saw the very flight attendant who helped me out at the beginning. And here she was to help again. Prep yourself for security now, she said. Off with the watch and belt. Hygiene bag ready. Computer within easy reach. Done and done. Once in my terminal, she pointed out the best place to go. I ran over and scouted out the quickest line. With my watch now somewhere in my bag, all I could do was ignorantly hope I still had time. Through security without delay, I was free to run for my gate. And wouldn’t you know, three other people had arrived just before me to board. I made it! One flight away from Mom and Dad!!

With my window seat, I relished the views from the mostly cloudless skies. America! Oh, even from hundreds of feet up, it’s breathtaking. Over the Southern Nebraska Panhandle, I spotted Lake McConaughy! Using that landmark, I traced the road over to the I-80/76 interchange and followed the interstate as long as I could. Marks of my home. It makes a heart happy.

By now, I’ve finally gotten DIA mostly figured out, and easily navigated over to meet my parents, with the help of a call on my American cell phone. (Thanks for not stealing that, whoever you are. ;) Finally, I got to hug my mom and dad!! And relish being on American soil!!

AMERICA!!
You wouldn’t believe it. Vehicles with steering wheels all on the same side. Smooth, maintained roads. With paint on them. Like, you always know how many lanes there are. And street signs. You could actually give directions based on them. Drivers observe speed limits – without speed bumps forcing them to. And everything is beautiful. Storefronts, vehicles, sidewalks, parking lots, landscaping, candy aisles, restaurant tables, public bathrooms, herds of cattle, houses, ditches, front yards, back yards. No wild dogs run through the street. Garbage isn’t piled on the side of the road. Ingenuity and initiative emanate from all 360 degrees. There are driven people in the country who have achieved great things. Capitalism sure has its evils, but some of its results are simply fabulous. Now, not only was I in America, I was there in the company of people I love.

Radiating with the joy of just being together, Mom, Dad, and I made our way to a family favorite, Famous Dave’s. A dear friend, Amy, drove up to meet us for lunch. Mmm, deliciousness. Cornbread, and pork ribs slathered in barbeque sauce. Welcome to America. :) And I was surrounded by loved ones. Too good for words.

It was the first stop of too many to count during the mere 12 days I had in my beloved homeland. During that time, I would travel over 3,000 miles around the Midwest, all in the company of my parents. We worked our way across Nebraska, up into South Dakota, over to Wisconsin, and back home through Iowa. I soaked up as best I could time with each dear friend I saw, each visit still too short. But all went beautifully according to plans carefully made over the previous seven months, with many days far exceeding my expectations.

In Columbus Grandpa treated us to the Husker Steak House. Wilgokski’s made a terrific homemade breakfast and hooked me up with a local beautician for a long overdue haircut. We made it to Sioux City in time to meet Jessica for lunch and do a bit of shopping before continuing on to Sioux Falls. I got to tag along for Josh and Caleb’s last swimming lesson. We found what is quite possibly the most fascinating magazine ever. I drank freshly brewed coffee. I remembered the wrong time and accidentally gave myself time to buy a waffle cone of Culver’s custard to eat while waiting for Emily and AJ’s wedding rehearsal to start. (I wouldn’t list that among my most sophisticated moments…) We watched three families of geese swim along the lakeshore as we ate an enormous breakfast. I didn’t fall walking down the aisle in the insanely high heels I tortured myself in - not in rehearsal or the ceremony. At the wedding, my parents connected with friends they were close to 25 years ago. Miller’s and Nyffeler’s chowed down together at the Sioux Falls RibFest. Timing was perfect to see Russell’s latest (and oh so adorable) addition. I got to use a squirt gun to spray lots of people. I chased and was chased in an effort to stay somewhat dry. Caleb understood “Contact 1-2-3” better than my dad. Jon spotted me at Hy-Vee and paid for my Starbuck’s drink. My parents and I timed our travels over to Wisconsin such that we could stuff ourselves at Pizza Ranch for lunch. We made it to Appleton with enough time for me to grab Chipotle before joining friends for Bible study. I stepped back into the comfort of Molly’s apartment. I drove down memory lane on my way out to the Shalom House. My presentation about Peace Corps came together (albeit at the last minute) and tested out perfectly on Tuesday. April graciously accompanied me to Barnes & Noble and Half Price Books – both dangerous stops. And I got to share windshield time with her on the way to Dorothy and Pete’s. Dorothy left most of her eyelashes un-singed as she lit the grill for delectable shish kabobs. My parents got to experience the wonders of the Shalom House. Luke took a vacation day to see the presentation I made at Rawhide. Debbie found me hiding/practicing in a closet before it all started. Guys participated in my presentation – heck, some of them may have even liked it and learned something. Teresa, Luke, and I got to reminisce about old times and share joys about current times. Joel pulled out one of the biggest knives I’ve seen to cut bite-size pieces of candy into three to share with his HR team. Daun sent me away with not one, but three(!) varieties of tea to enjoy. Travel time into town allowed for a quick tour of Lisa and Bryan’s hard work. Bruce and Alyssa joined a host of fantastic people for a wonderful evening of food and fellowship. Angie made it in with Baby Bea. Rob shared some about his time in India. We hit the road early enough to be in Des Moines for lunch, where I got to share Alyssa’s homemade cookies with Holly and Ang. A man at the local visitor’s center gave me two huge armloads of pamphlets to take back for my students. Mom and Dad let me beat them at more than one game of Cribbage, and then teamed up to make delicious meals on Saturday. Dustin and Kristen advised with their culinary expertise. God sent enough rain to send water rushing over the road just northeast of our house. We serendipitously met up with Keith and Nancy after dinner Saturday night. Cabela’s had just the right bags to replace the ones I’ve managed to wear out in a matter of months. Tara’s flight to Calgary left 30 minutes after mine, so I avoided bawling when saying goodbye to my parents by turning back to catch up with her. And many mornings along those 3,000 miles, I had the best running partner in my dad, with whom I got to test out a new watch and pair of shoes.

Now if you don’t think that’s enough to wear a person out, I refuse to travel with you. Reflecting on the whole trip, I couldn’t be more pleased. Sure, I would have loved to spend time with even more people, and to do so without a rush. Saying goodbye stunk, but I can say I’ll see you next year. Sure, I mean November or December of 2011, which is actually closer to a year and a half away, but it is technically next year. And that sounds soon, doesn’t it?

Not that I want to rush my time in KZ. But I don’t want to stretch it out, either. I’m excited to one day be a resident of the USA again. Really, I was a bit shocked at how much I relished being back in my homeland. The independence, my depth of understanding, the luxuries… and the people. Oh, it takes one glance at the pictures from my trip to see what I enjoyed most about being back. People. The rest is icing on the cake, really. That’s what makes it hard to be away. And on the other end, that’s what brings me back. I mean, my lack of cravings for American food is a bit surprising. And when in America, I can’t say I was hankering for Kazakh food. But when people hold a special place in your heart, it stings to be on opposite sides of the globe.

And a quick note on culture shock. I wondered what would shock me about America after being gone 10 months. Really, though, I can’t say I was shocked by culture. Maybe that comes from ignoring hard questions about the operation of our society. I expect it also comes from the brevity of my visit – a visit packed to the gills. No looking for a job, no time to sit back and roll around questions of life.

Another curious advantage I seem to have going for me… from my work at Rawhide, I have an understanding of the phenomenon of those within an organization having an understanding that can’t be equaled by those outside. And those outside usually lack the propensity to show the depth of concern you hope to see as you recount experiences. So I ask people more questions about their life than they ask about mine, knowing that even though the last year of my life may be more “exotic”, what people want to talk about is, most often, themselves. Selfish and sad, but true. And I’m in that very boat, sometimes eager to just talk about me. Lucky for me, I’ve got a blog. :) Read about it if you want, ignore it if you don’t. Simple as that. Sure, there are experiences I’m compelled to share with anyone who will listen. But realistically speaking, people simply can’t care about those stories in the same way I do. Of course, those same people can love me in ways unfathomable. Nevertheless, we’re living through different experiences, and the most we can do is take a keen interest in each other, soaking up details. …Details that get harder to explain the further apart the experiences are.

So during my travels in the States, talking about my stateside travels was often easier. And upon my return to Kazakhstan, telling people here about my travels usually involved details just about the KZ parts of the journey. So to wrap it all up, the last minutes of being on American soil…

Goodbyes
The airport setup really couldn’t have been better. My parents and I left after a leisurely lunch at our church’s most popular stop, Runza, and headed over to Denver. Not until we were on the road did we learn from my uncle that my cousin would be in the airport, too. Tara got there with just enough time for us to take a few pictures before going through security. I gave my parents a last hug, and a last wave, a last “I love you”. All without tears. Much of that I attribute to Tara’s company. In another way, though, this goodbye was so different than last August. I know where I’m going. I’ve begun to feel settled there. And a prominent realization – the world feels like a smaller place. Dustin and Kristen had a long, long drive on Sunday. I had a long flight. Both of us could call Mom and Dad at the end of our journey to check in. Oh, there’s comfort in that.

Back in KZ
Nothing nearly as exciting happened on the flights back to Kazakhstan. I landed in Almaty, collected my bags, closed my eyes for a few hours at the Peace Corps office, and then I was on the move again. I paid too much for a taxi driver to take me to Noelle’s site, where I helped with a volleyball camp she did a terrific job of organizing. Spending time with her and a few other volunteers served as a terrific reentry to the country. And finally on Sunday, I boarded a bus bound for Shakhtinsk. With a week under my belt, I think I know where I am, and maybe even what day it is. That’ll change soon enough – I’ll ride out of town in the morning. Leaving for a few weeks is bittersweet, really. I’m excited for weeks here without travel plans. We’ll see if I like sitting still as well when I’m actually doing it rather than dreaming about it. :)

More on my Time in the South

It must seem like I’m including every stinking detail with these books I post, but oh, it only scratches the surface. As I scroll through a list of stories I want to tell (up to 22 at last count), fabulous memories come flooding back. Twenty-two is a daunting number, but I’m gonna go for it! (We’ll see if I manage to include every last one. :) Grab a cup (or maybe a pot?) of tea and let’s dive in!

Nauryz and IST. A great time to reconnect with volunteers you already know, connect with ones you hadn’t managed to meet earlier, and celebrate together the completion of a huge hunk of our service. The result: links are made and awesome things happen, whether the tie is an activity, or faith, or PC work.

Classroom Management
Teaming up with other PCVs to accomplish some task can really be a joy. During IST, I got to do just that. Over four days, dozens of presentations were made, both by volunteers and Peace Corps staff. Many weeks back, I was asked to share my grading system with other PCVs. That transformed into co-leading a session on Classroom Management with Echo, a rock-star volunteer who is teaching at the college level in Southern KZ. With a little research and a lot of creativity, we put together a session that seemed to go really well (though not at all according to plan. But really, am I still planning? That’s just silly.). Brought me back to my Rawhide days, scheming effective management techniques to address difficult behaviors. In the end, I’m hoping at least a few volunteers returned to site with some new tricks up their sleeves.

As for this grading system, that also has ties to my Rawhide days. I took the general principles of their scoring system and decided on four main areas I wanted to highlight in my classroom. I give my students a score of 0-5 in timeliness, homework, participation, and quality. From the average of those numbers, I decide on their daily score. I’ve got some wiggle room, but the part I appreciate most is being able to show my students exactly what I expect them to improve for a better grade. Objectivity is great.

What have I gotten myself into?!
Throughout my time in Shymkent and Almaty, I bumped into more and more runners! (I’m more of a jogger, really, but “runner” just sounds so much better.) Back in the quiet apartment in Shymkent, I met Hannah, who joined me on a couple morning runs and told me about a few PCVs who are training for a marathon in Russia this coming August. We brainstormed and got all sorts of excited about the idea of copying them, not this August, in 2011.

I shared my excitement with my parents a few days later. Recognizing that we might be open to places other than Russia, my dad suggested Greece. Thanks to Runner’s World, he was aware of what a special year this is. The year 2010 marks the 2,500th year anniversary of the marathon!! On October 31, 2010, a marathon will follow the original route. My excitement quadrupled and I had to get online to see about registration. Already in April, all the tour packages were sold out, and I couldn’t figure out if there were spots available for entering the race without all the fancy perks. A day or two later, my answer came. Registration closed. Seven months ahead of the race, she’s all booked. Darn it.

Our sights shifted to a land not so far from there. A marathon in Istanbul, Turkey, will be held on October 17, 2010. We agreed that October is a perfect time to run, as it gives us warm summer months in which to train. So that we wouldn’t miss another registration, Hannah, Holly, and myself got ourselves signed up. Bib 400 for me. Oh, I may have lost my mind. Have I lost my mind??

Especially with the excitement of registering for a marathon, the disappointment of not being quick enough for Greece had abated. So when I relayed the story to a friend back home, I was taken aback when she asked, “Denise, why are you not going to watch this marathon in Greece?” “Uh… well, uh… I guess I could!” Molly was even so kind as to pull up ticket prices to show just how feasible such a trip could be. No plane tickets purchased yet, but I’m going to Turkey, by golly. We’ll see if I dare make a 2-week trip out of it.

First order of business is to decide on a training plan. And I must mention that we extended the invitation to other volunteers. Right now we’re up to 5 who are registered! Good golly I’m excited! This summer, knowing that at least four other girls are also trudging along dirt paths past wild dogs and gawking locals better keep me going strong.

Prayer Chain
One more community brought closer together was that of believers! Being a Christian in Peace Corps is quite a different thing than circumstances in which I’ve lived before. To be honest, I didn’t know whether I’d come across brothers or sisters in Christ. So oh, is it terrific every time I discover that connection with others.

Some of us put our heads together and decided we ought to organize some sort of weekly e-mail. With a big thanks to Hannah, we’ve got a weekly e-mail coming out with contributions from whoever wants to contribute an encouraging/challenging word, followed by a list of names. We each pray for one designated person for the coming week. Having an intentional network of prayer support is invaluable.

Little by little, I’ll get you all caught up! So stay tuned!

Good Grief.

Oh, where do I begin?! Well over a month ago, I sat in a banquet hall with dozens of others, chowing down on who-knows-what. Since then, I’ve been all over the place… and you could apply that to location as well as spirits. Bear with me as I reach way back to places already beginning to collect dust in my brain.

Setting Sail
Date: March 20, 2010. First day of spring. A splendidly fitting day for Maxcat and Baldergan to celebrate love in the air. I dolled myself up as best I could to join my host family for their pre-wedding celebration. The couple was to officially tie the knot the following Saturday; the 20th marked the day the groom’s family ceremoniously took the bride from her family. Due to my plans to be in Southern Kazakhstan on the day of the wedding, my attendance at this banquet was of paramount importance.

The day’s layout: eat lots of food at reserved restaurant in the afternoon, return home quickly to collect my luggage for a two week trip, navigate to Karaganda and board a south-bound train in the evening.

Early afternoon, I scrambled to finish packing one backpack for 16 days (including two computers… more on that to come) as my family rushed me out the door. We joined various relatives of both the bride and groom for a lovely meal of bishbarmak, side salads, and …other delicacies. The celebration included scheduled toasts, and my arm got twisted into saying some kind words, too. Thank goodness I didn’t have to speak in Russian over a microphone – the groom speaks English well and seemed content to receive an English toast. (Though personally, I would prefer an English muffin. :)

In good time, I was offered a ride home from some relatives who were leaving early. Back in the apartment, my little brother and a friend of his kept me company as I readied myself for a long train ride. Ready to walk out the door, I swung my backpack on my shoulders, and turned the deadbolt knob. And turned it again. And heard a snap. And then freely turned the knob, which was no longer connected to the bolt that was still holding the front door securely shut. Panic gripped my little brother, who threw every pound of strength he has into the door, then rushed to the phone, calling his parents’ every number.

I like to call it cultural integration – blindly assuming (as it seems so many locals do) that everything will work out. So I crouched next to the wall, opened a box of Oreo cookies, and patiently waited. Mind you, I didn’t go to great lengths to calm my little brother. Somebody has to freak out. I just like my blood pressure to stay near its baseline.

And soon enough, my poor host sister and host father stood on the other side of said door and hollered directions in to my 8 year-old brother. A key turned into a clumsy screwdriver that, combined with help from a flashlight, moved the bolt. Whew! Within minutes, I was on a tense ride to the bus station in town. A certain someone lamented the problems that just had to come with the holiday weekend, and the two little boys who must have contributed. Never mind that the door has been falling apart for months now, with no moves to repair it… Darn human nature, leading us to shift the blame any chance we get.

My host sister filled in where I failed and called back to the apartment to a terrified, and now weeping, boy who did all he knew how to get me on the road as soon as possible. With all the extra time I had given myself to catch my train, there was nothing to worry about, but that doesn’t do much for a 3rd grader who has taken on the heavy burden of providing a top-notch home to some strange person.

Rather than assume you know the destination of this train, here’s the nutshell. First train: to Shymkent as a tourist for Nauryz (big Kazakh holiday) between March 21 and 26. Second train: arrived in Almaty on March 27, which is where I stayed until April 3, with Peace Corps training (IST) starting April 30 and finishing April 2. Third train: return to site, leaving Almaty April 3 and arriving April 4.

Train Snip-its
Oh, the wonders of the train system here in Kazakhstan. I enjoy pondering what it’d be like if the same system existed in the U.S. So you can ponder along with me, here’s the lowdown. We PCVs choose between two “classes”: Platzcart or Kupe. A kupe wagon has a bathroom at each end and a kettle of boiling water to use for drinks or ramen-type food at one end (next to the conductor’s little office space), with an aisle running lengthwise right next to the windows. Walking down the aisle, you pass sliding doors, which open into a compartment, or room. Each room has four beds and a small table that’s attached just below the window, in between the two bottom bunks.

Over in platzcart, you’ve got the same amenities and the same type of area with four beds and a table that flips down in between the two bottom bunks. But, the beds aren’t quite as long in order to maximize space. And now the aisle doesn’t run along the window. Instead, there are two beds, perpendicular to the group of four, running against the windows. The narrow aisle goes in between the sets of two and the sets of four. You end up with what I like to call “pods”. Six beds to a pod, with a wall running between each pod (except for in the aisle, of course). Without doors, platzcart is much less private, though people are still mostly confined to their respective pod.

In both kupe and platzcart, passengers are provided with bedding. Bedrolls are stored on upper bunks or on the third level (shelf two or three feet from the ceiling) along with folded blankets and pillows. Sheets are provided as the conductors walk through the wagon to check tickets. They hand you a sealed bag containing two large sheets, a pillow cover, and a small towel. It all makes for a decently comfortable ride, whether you’re in kupe or platzcart.

There are reasons for traveling both, but since kupe is nearly double the price of platzcart, you better have some darn good reasons. Going to site in November, Peace Corps got kupe tickets for all the volunteers traveling by train. In February, I rode in platzcart down to Balkhash.

For most of my travels in late March and early April, I purchased platzcart tickets. The gamble with this, of course, is exiting the train with stories of drunk men fondling your food, or sweet girls wanting to practice their English, or going ten hours without muttering so much as a word. By now, I’ve had all three, plus plenty more.

Riding with Louis L’Amour
On the ride to Shymkent, my bed was in a different wagon than other volunteers. Early on, I had visited them, and a local guy walking through recognized one of girls as a teacher at his college. We made small talk before wandering to different parts of the train. Later, I kicked back in my own bed and listened to an audiobook on my iPod. The local guy spotted me and stopped to say hello. Noticing my headphones, he asked what I was playing. “Oh, I’m just listening to a book.” His brows furrowed. I spoke more slowly, trying to catch where the misunderstanding lay. “You know, someone is reading the book out loud, and I’m listening to it.” He stood for several seconds, still visibly confused. “So,” he finally said, “it is a book for your …ears? …Not for your eyes?” “Exactly,” I agreed. Exactly.

With the same audiobook, I succeeded in confounding another local on another ride. This time it was a flirtatious conductor who couldn’t speak English but wanted to listen in on my music. Knowing perfectly well what would happen, I gladly handed over an earbud. His face scrunched up and he handed it back. Where’s the music, he wanted to know. Sorry, I replied. Just books. Works like a charm, assuming such sharing isn’t your thing.

Only thing is, if you’re listening to L’Amour, Kazakhstan’s setting substitutes all too easily, leaving you convinced that the train is probably in the process of being robbed, or that some renegade will emerge from the crest of the hill nearest the tracks. I kept my eyes peeled, and though the hills remained empty, I entertained myself with musings about the time when the steppe was alive with all too similar adventures unfolding.

Shymkent
Our quasi-tourist experience got off to a smooth start on March 21st with Shymkent volunteers haggling taxi drivers for us and leading us to the apartment we’d live out of for the next few days. (Quick note: per-KZ culture, visitors don’t rent hotel rooms. Here, we rent apartments, even if it’s only for a day.) Birds of a feather flock together, and that was the case in grouping together the masses who descended on Shymkent. Call it dull or call it peaceful, those of us who wanted a quiet apartment found each other and enjoyed it.

As for the cultural celebrations, the trip left something to be desired. Namely, Kokpar. We were quite upset at the lost opportunity to see horseback riders snatching a goat carcass from one another, polo style. Maybe next year. Instead, we filled ourselves with plof, and sashlik, and bauersak, and other deliciousness.

On Wednesday, another volunteer and I embarked on a tour of Southern Kazakhstan. We went into a National Park, stayed with two different host families, and had quite the adventures. Without a doubt, being a tourist is decidedly different in KZ. Suffice it to say, we made it back alive.

Radical Hospitality
Over in Almaty, everything worked out better than planned. And I’ll back up a minute and remind you of this renting-apartment business that’s so common here. See, many of us were arriving in Almaty earlier than necessary. We had to be there for IST, but until then, Peace Corps would not be providing lodging. For that, we were on our own.

On this trip, I hoped to stay with people I had befriended during PST. One Sunday in October, I met a lovely couple from South Africa who are currently teaching at an international school in Almaty. Though I only talked to them for 30 minutes, I got a generous and hospitable vibe. So in preparation for this trip, I asked them about the possibility of visiting them (and staying in their apartment). I got a warm reply, just asking for specific dates. I sent over my travel plans and awaited their response. Turns out they planned to be out of the country during the first part of my time in town. So, they insisted, they would leave the key to their apartment with a friend, from whom I could retrieve it. Dang! I was blown away. Really, they were willing to give their key to a person they had met months ago, and then only for 30 minutes?! I called another PCV for advice on the situation. Being in the same boat in regard to lodging needs, we came up with the idea of seeing if we could both stay there. Turns out I’m much more bold when it’s not just me.

With an invitation extended to both of us, we got off our train in Almaty and, with the help of a local, got a cab to the right part of the city. Oh, it couldn’t have worked out more smoothly. We settled in a bit and headed back out to meet other volunteers for lunch… came back in the evening and baked up a delicious dinner and enjoyed the fabulous apartment. Just to clarify, we arrived on Saturday morning. They returned from their travels late on Sunday. So, we got to spend time with them on Monday before going to training on Tuesday. Oh, I can’t tell you how pleased I was to stay there, in a beautiful place with such wonderful people.

More posts are in progress, but rather than wait until I get them all written, I’ll post in segments. You’ve got my word – there will be more soon!

Bits of March 2010

There’s snow melting. It’s been both outside, and inside. Like, in my school. In a tub. (And in my bathroom, in a bucket.) But when water isn’t working anywhere in town, that’s what you do. Bless their hearts, the cleaning ladies at school #1 brought in buckets of snow so they could continue mopping throughout the building. And while the cleaning must continue, lessons will not. That’s right – more missed lessons. In January I said, “When spring comes, the students will come.” Question is, will spring come before school lets out for the summer? Slowly rising temperatures give me a ray of hope, but the wind and weather with the change of seasons has recently resulted in spotty electricity and, even more annoying, water outages. So for a couple days, I had to take pride in being able to brush my teeth and wash my face with a small mug of warm water. Oh, how such experiences make me appreciate what we normally have.

Women’s Day

Now, as promised, a word about March 8. Plenty of festivities surrounded the holiday, including a gathering of teachers at a local restaurant on Friday, a fun competition and a small concert at school on Saturday, and plenty of gosti-ing on the actual holiday. And for me, a shared bottle of champagne on Wednesday from my host father since I missed out on gosti-ing with them on Monday.

As school staff geared up for Saturday, my participation in some mysterious competition was requested. I agreed, clueless as to what that might mean. But on Saturday, I showed up at school at noon in my “sports suit,” ready for anything. I walked into our gym, filled with boisterous students and teachers, and then snuck over to the equipment room to take off my coat and boots. In doing so, I got a good clue as to what was about to happen. Five cutting boards with a variety of fruits and vegetables. Five large dolls with five piles of clothing. Who knows what else was waiting for the five teams assembled on the other side of the door, out in the gym.

As the competition got underway, I did my best to stand where directed and listen carefully to the coordinating teacher as she shouted out instructions for relay races. Understanding next to nothing, I caught the eye of Tatyana, who came to my aid with translation help. I can imitate others pretty well, but in a race against your students, Kazakhstani teachers take no prisoners. So, in relay races ranging from running around with a broom in the air and one foot in a bucket, to tying a piece of cloth on a bar at the opposite end, to dressing and undressing a doll, to chopping food into a salad, to pushing a car along the ground; we lied, cheated, and shoved our way to victory.

Case in point: let’s return to those 5 cutting boards with fruits and veggies. The teachers get a tomato and cucumber. Only work necessary: run the cutting board and knife to a table at the other end, then a clean plate, and then the food, at which point the tomato is cut into quarters and the cucumber is cut lengthwise into quarters then sliced into smaller pieces. Four other teams get food such as a potato and onion, or an orange and apple. Poor girls (students of 11^th, 10^th, 9^th, and 8^th) actually have to do something. So the teachers are ahead already. But to seal the deal, they covertly quarter the cucumber before the start of the race. Finishing insanely early, the teachers proceed to have their own little dance party while their students do their best to finish an honest race. (Goes without saying that the teachers were awarded first place, thereby scoring a box of Snickers.)

As evidenced by the celebrations and presents, this holiday is a pretty big deal. Men make mention of it to women for much of the week beforehand. Women receive gifts from friends and family. And the holiday celebrates girls, too, whereas our closest popular equivalent, Mother’s Day, is more exclusive.

So even though I’m rather youthful looking, I got plenty of “Happy Women’s Day” greetings. For instance, when getting in a taxi on Friday, March 5, the driver greeted me with a congratulations of sorts, referring to Women’s Day. But at first this didn’t register, so I confessed that I speak only a little Russian and asked him to repeat himself. Now I understood. And now he had questions. Where am I from? Just visiting? Working? Married? I humored him and replied as best I could. He paused and then said, “Seriously?” “Seriously what?” “You’re from America?” I like to think he didn’t believe me because of my flawless Russian. (Ha!) Anyway, I figured, heck, I’ll spout off something in English and show him what’s up. A couple English sentences later, a grin spreads across his face, my origin confirmed.

Restaurant #1

That taxi ride came after spending much of the evening at a restaurant with other teachers. But rather than a restaurant gathering I’m accustomed to, the proceedings have a few KZ twists. For starters, space in the restaurant was reserved well in advance, with payment also being made beforehand. Everyone pays a set amount, which differs depending on what you want. I assume the price depends in part on the side dishes and entree ordered for the gathering. It also depends on whether or not you will order beverages from the restaurant’s bar. Opting for BYOB fetches you a higher price. I’d guess BYOB is the more popular choice and likely cheaper in the long run. (Really, who ever heard of only drinking a few shots at any given meal?) So, upon arrival I found a table covered with side dishes and a wide array of wines, vodkas, a few cartons of juice, and maybe one lonely bottle of water.

Another clear difference is the food and dance combo. The restaurant is small, but contains a dance floor. So, teachers would eat a bit, then dance a bit. Come back to the table, eat a little more, drink a little more, and head back to the dance floor. (I’m slowly learning that this must be connected to jiggling food down to make room for more.) As for dancing, there may be a bashful teacher somewhere, but by and large, they get their groove on! Result? Tons of good clean fun.

And on to the next holiday…

With Women’s Day behind us, Nauryz (Kazakh New Year) is quickly approaching. The official holiday is March 22, but celebrations are well underway. I’ll be going south over the holiday, so I’m doing what I can to take part while I’m around. One piece I’ve caught wind of in Shakhtinsk is a competition among school employees across town. The competition is comprised of at least three events: table tennis, chess, and volleyball. So, last week, I stepped into a teacher’s meeting just in time to hear a physical education teacher asking for people who play tennis. “Can you play tennis, Denise?” an English teacher asked. I gave a confident yes. And while it’s true that I have the ability to play tennis, I stink. And having not played for ages, I barely have the right to answer in the affirmative. Thankfully, “tennis” turned into table tennis. And since I then found myself at a table tennis tournament last Saturday, that’s a very ,very good thing. My defeats in tennis would have been even more humiliating than the two I suffered in table tennis. I seemed to display a pattern seen in some of our less-than-favorite Husker football seasons, doing much better in the second half than the first. Too little too late. As we left, the PE teacher’s comment, “Better than sitting at home, yeah?” was pleasantly optimistic and fit the occasion quite well.

Restaurant #2

And for the rest of the day, there wouldn’t be any more sitting at home, for I was off to have another rousing restaurant experience. This was for a relative’s birthday party. In these parts, “Jubilee” birthdays are big deals. And here, that means any big number that ends in zero or five. This was his 60^th birthday, and boy was it jubilant! Here’s the scene: small restaurant with two rooms. Enter via a small corridor, and you’ve got a bar and dance floor on your left, and a dining area on your right. The dining room is barely big enough for the two long tables set up. (The only way out for the unlucky ones tucked in the corner was to crawl over a dozen laps, if that gives you any idea. I think such seating arrangements are a favorite among fire marshals.) The two long tables are, of course, covered in salads and a selection of beverages, with a typical trifecta: red wine, cognac, and vodka. Then there’s this curious third table, close to the room’s only entrance. Heaping with fruit and various desserts, only innocent sweet-tooths under the age of 5 picked away at its contents.

With all this beginning at 3:30 in the afternoon, we’ve got signs of a serious case of gluttony about to unfurl. And… part of the restaurant deal is an emcee. As dozens of relatives file in, the young woman sets to work. She’s got toasts to orchestrate, trite jokes to deliver, and cheap toys to distribute. Before nearing even a slight pang of hunger, everyone is munching on side dishes, listening to the emcee or relatives giving toasts. About an hour of that, and huge trays of bishbarmak are set in the middle of already crowded tables. More antics from the emcee, more toasts, and then… the dance floor.

Women’s Day, apparently, gave me a nice calm version of dancing and eating, eating and dancing. I’ve got some rowdy relatives. Men and women, vying for the spotlight, breaking a sweat in no time at all… No encouragement needed. And yet, this darn emcee has a job to do, and dancing games are on her list. Not one for dancing, I get dragged onto the dance floor. To make matters worse, I soon have a microphone up to my mouth with orders to introduce myself. Having a bonafide American in your presence is a pretty big deal, don’t you know? But rather than use my name, a couple boisterous personalities preferred to simply address me as “America.” Perfect. Hugs, kisses on the cheek, and cries of “I love you, America!” followed throughout the night. Darn vodka.

Confirming my predictions of gluttony, everyone was called back to the table and presented with, I don’t know, dinner #3? Good grief. While people mostly played with their mashed potatoes, we were all entertained by good natured relatives willing to look ridiculous. And when I write ridiculous, I mean totally and completely RIDICULOUS. Women in polka dotted clothes with awful masks. Fat men in skirts and pointy bras, belly dancing. More men in miniskirts and curly wigs. Jubilant, indeed.

Then, for those who hadn’t returned to the dance floor or fallen into a food coma, a table of desserts waited. Yep, that means 5 solid hours of eating. My host mother’s perspective? “It’s ok. Just don’t eat tomorrow.”

Church!

So this blog post is certainly long enough, but I must add news about finding a church! That’s right, there’s a small Bible-believing church in Karaganda where I’ve gone with another volunteer a couple times now. We first became aware of it after meeting a fellow American who is here teaching English through a different organization. The little I know is that it was started quite a while ago by an American pastor who is no longer with them. Praise the Lord, services are now led by locals. I’m assuming the services are almost always in Russian, although one of the two Sundays I’ve attended, the sermon was given in English and translated throughout into Russian. The other week, a young Kazakhstani woman sat amongst a few Americans and translated the main points of the sermon. I’m so thankful to have found this spot, and I look forward to getting to know people from the church better. Learning praise songs in Russian is also fantastic!

Time Stops for No Man (or Woman)

And… one last note. I’m over ¼ of the way done. I scarcely believe it, really. Where has the time gone? And with such a sizeable chunk behind me, I’m feeling… alright. I’d say I’m getting the hang of teaching. Feels good to have English Clubs established. But, oh, there’s so much to do. My host mother is pushing for a renewed commitment to studying each others’ language. Those established English Clubs may get revamped. And other projects are sure to come along, vying for time I don’t feel like I’ve got. But, now in the middle year of my service, it’s time to rock and roll. Lord help me.