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. :)