I think I got adopted…

Well, I was undoubtedly adopted for 40 minutes. On today’s run through the woods, I glanced back, and to my surprise, I appeared to have a four-legged friend. A blond mutt a bit on the mangy side was 10 feet behind, and stayed there for the duration of my run. A sweet lil’ guy who did a good job keeping pace. And thus was the much-needed highlight of today’s run.

See, over in KZ, autumn is upon us. Big time. With it has come cold, dreary, wet weather, combined all too often with strong wind. So these runs I have on the schedule almost always set off an internal argument. It’s too cold. It’s fall, Denise. It’s only gonna get colder. And windy. You’re from Nebraska. At least here there’s a tree grove to run through. It’ll be dark soon. So go now. And I don’t wanna. Get off your rear and RUN.

I won the argument today (though what exactly is winning if it’s with yourself?), aided by a quick grocery run during which, dag-nab-it, I admitted that it wasn’t all that cold. Moreover, the wind whipping through Soviet constructed courtyards was indeed slowed to a nice breeze in my go-to tunnel of trees. Add to it a canine running buddy, and I had myself a lovely little run. Now for a repeat with six miles tomorrow…

P.S. Uh, whoops… I suppose I should mention that, as with many countries around the world, stray dogs are all over the place here. And excluding today, my reaction is to avoid ‘em or scare ‘em… whatever it’ll take for me to walk away unscathed. So, it’s downright weird that this dog trotted after me today, content to just go out for a run, and then stick by my side as I walked home. Once I got to my building entrance, there was a twinge of guilt as I left him outside. But even if he adopts me, I won’t be adopting him. P.P.S. His name is Roscoe. ;)

Much Ado...

They’ve come to be my favorite days. Other Kaz volunteers will likely know exactly what I’m talking about – the days when people of extreme importance come to visit your school, and you could swear there’s a fire under everyone’s bum. The best is when the visit is unexpected. Like today. It’s more than enough time to go crazy, for sure, but it leaves no time to fret about what to wear to school, how to wear a nametag, how early to come, wear to wait, etc, etc, etc. And now that I’ve given away the surprise, I’ll rewind and begin with us blissfully oblivious.

Dasha is in the resource center with two groups of students, hers and the absent Luda’s. The room is overflowing with rambunctious seventh graders. (Ah, how we love 12 year olds.) Every desk is full, and in the back are two practicum students from a nearby university who have come to observe. (One being Dima’s younger sister. Ha.) I come in for the stapler and wind up sticking my nose a bit too far into the lesson, distracting the kids in the back from causing a distraction in class. Dasha is doing her best to review passive voice when a zavuch (assistant principal) comes in. Channeling Paul Revere, she tells us that someone from the ministry is coming. Enter from stage right: panic. Half of these kids need to be on display with Dasha up in the multimedia room now. The other half stays. Tempering the fire you can see swelling within her, Dasha notes that she is only one person and cannot teach in two rooms at once. I hastily offer to drill these young’uns on the passive voice. Satisfied, Dasha grabs a couple things as the zavuch snaps at the kids to pack up and ship out. With the 10 students I have left, I get to work, borrowing a book and relying on the kids to tell me where they were. Praise the Lord I’ve worked with these kids before, so I know names and general behaviors. We get the ball rolling just in time for zavuch #2. Now they want me to be with Dasha up in the multimedia room. Gracious. Three different teachers within 20 minutes sounds like a grand idea. I work through one last sentence with the kids before handing over the reins to the two in the back. Take it away, Dima’s little sister. Nothing like being baptized with fire.

Upstairs, Dasha’s heart rate spikes again as I step in the room. I give the only explanation I can – just doing what I’m told. We keep things moving, still working through the passive voice. The bell rings. We’re not 100% sure, but chances are that we’re supposed to keep these kiddos here until this delegation makes its rounds. None too pleased, they sit back down and reopen their textbooks. I skip back down to the other group, which appears to have been deserted. Just in time, I rein them in and send them home with work to do, lock up the room, and retrace my steps upstairs.

There ought to be a climax to these stories, but really, things flat line early and drop off without much ado. Being all too passionate about the passive voice, I insist on continuing to instruct them. One boy sputters off, “Я ничего не буду писать.” Perfect. I write his sentence on the board, “I will write nothing.” Now, class… how do we put this in the passive voice?? Hee hee… And just as light bulbs start flickering, the head of the ministry of education in Shakhtinsk walks in. Recognizing him, I offer a warm hello. On his heels is the akim (mayor). We exchange greetings in English. An older man follows, and then there are the groupies. Goes without saying that pressed 3-piece suits are the outfit of choice. The head of the ministry of education is giving this tour, and explains the wondrous technology of School № 1 and the plans to expand it. A few sentences more, and they step back into the hallway. All those pounding hearts for, what, 30 seconds? Gotta love it. :) We manage to convince the students they must wait before herding out the door like elephants, and when we see the group of men step beyond the boundaries of school grounds, the kids are dismissed, and life resumes again.

September
And a few more tidbits from the last month-ish…

Answering my phone on a Saturday morning meant getting the opportunity to play tennis – like, real tennis, in a nearby village. There may have been six participants. There most certainly were no other females. Though I scored points, I mostly spent those five hours getting schooled. But hey- got a certificate at the end of the day for being the best female participant. Let me tell you, competition for that honor was something else.

Chance encounter with our old friend Dima turns into awkward date #2. In case your memory is too sharp and you ask what could get more awkward than meeting the mother on date one, I’ll tell you. Friends playing big brother from two tables away… in an otherwise empty café – that’s what.

With two casualties in late August from a mining-related accident at a mine near Karaganda, Miner’s Day was pushed back a week and renamed City Day. As far as I could tell, festivities were identical, down to people wishing each other a happy Miner’s Day. Horse races in the early afternoon, shashlik and music on the square all day long, and a big concert with a respectable fireworks show at night. A couple PCVs came out in time for the races, and we put up an ice cream cone for the person who could pick the winning horse. A couple more came a bit later, in time to see Dima play the guitar for his rock band. And in the evening it was back down to three PCVs as we snaked our way towards the main stage to see a Russian star of yesteryear. Several minutes of fireworks, and another Miner’s Day (I mean, City Day…) was in the books.

Made it out to Topar on one of the last warm weekends of the season. What I expected to be a few hours at the beach turned into an entire day, with so much delicious shashlik that I couldn’t look at meat for days.

Students from the camp we organized in Rostovka invited several volunteers to go bowling. Many of the kids had never actually bowled. Pretty cool to witness their first attempts, even if the computers malfunctioned and we couldn’t coordinate our rolls with our line on the scoreboard.

And, school has begun! I’m taking a shot at a different approach, focusing more on teachers than students. We’ll see how things progress with that. So for now, the only set lesson at school is a Survey of the USA. Teaching all about America in 35 hours or less. Now that’ll be a trick.

Summer, Take 2

Two weeks down south. A week home. A week up north. A week home. Five days in Georgia. Three weeks at home, followed by almost four weeks away, and summer is gone. My verdict: keep yourself at home if you want to feel whole. Drag yourself around the world if you want adventure. Or try to do both if your goal is a ragged, somewhat confused funk. You can’t have it all, folks. Pausing to consider some highs and lows, I rewind first to…

The Fourth of July
Strangely enough, American embassies celebrate Independence Day. And here in Kazakhstan, some PCVs are invited to attend. I enjoyed my time on embassy grounds last year, and considered doing the same again. As the date drew nearer, we first assumed we could come, but then many were told that we couldn’t come. Rather than wait and cross my fingers for a re-invite, I went to the closest computer and bought myself a ticket to Tbilisi. (The only logical choice. Oh, and the re-invite came a week or two later. ;)

More or less inadvertently, I timed it all so I could enjoy a bit of both worlds. I caught a bus to Astana on the 2nd, where I joined Noelle in the apartment of an incredibly hospitable embassy couple, Craig and Leslie. Oh, the wonders of high-end housing in the capital, paired with impeccable American style hospitality. Ah, *contented sigh*. On the 3rd, we woke up to fresh brewed coffee. A delicious omelet. And fried bacon. Food worth stretching your stomach and clogging your arteries, no doubt about it.

The evening’s festivities were equally wondrous, with a rooftop party where English filled the air. Volunteers, embassy employees, and other Americans working in town congregated for food and fun. Sadly, I could only stay for a bit, as I had a plane to catch at 1am. Craig, who had effortlessly slid into the role of father-for-the-day, insisted on driving me to the airport, saving me from any taxi hassles. (Blessings to parents around the world who care for young adults as they would their own grown children, trusting that other parents are doing the same for their sons and daughters.)

And so, without a hitch, I landed in the capital of Georgia, where I met up with Anna and her friend Jessica. We enjoyed the day in Tbilisi, where we were lucky enough to meet up with a couple Georgian Peace Corps Response Volunteers, one of whom just finished three years with PC in KZ (you rock, Mary!). Traditional cuisine for lunch. American food for dinner. We found our way to a bar with stars-and-stripes table coverings. One look at the menu and the decision was made. Jessica and I split an Obama burger. Happy birthday, America.

თბილისი (Tbilisi)
“Hello, my name is Denise. I’m calling to inform you that I’ll be traveling to Tbilisi, the capital of the country of Georgia.”
The receptionist at my American bank transfers me to another department so I can repeat myself to a woman concerned with such matters. She asks me to repeat the location once more.
“T-bili-si.”
“And you’ll spell that for me?” she confidently requests, not yet wanting to expose how completely confused she is by all of this.
“And Georgia – is that spelled like our Georgia?”
Smiling patiently, I confirm that it is. And then her ignorance is laid bare.
“Is that in Russia?”
“No, ma’am, it is it’s own country.”

And a beautiful country it is. During our time there, we explored Tbilisi’s Old Town and took day trips away from the capital to explore Kazbegi and Gori. The scenery on the way to and around Kazbegi is breathtaking. And on our adventures in and around Gori, we explored a cave city and toured the town’s Stalin museum, complete with the house in which he was born.

Goes without saying that everywhere we went, we stuffed ourselves to the gills. Khachapuri is a food I could eat every day for the rest of my life. While in the country, I averaged 2 orders a day of the deliciously cheesy bread. You’ve also got hinkhali (fist-sized dough pockets filled with meat or mushrooms or potatoes or cheese), lobio (red beans with a fabulous spice blend), and a mouth-watering walnut paste that’s great with eggplant or kidney beans. It took a few days back in KZ to remember what hunger felt like.

Reality Check
Back on the ground in Kazakhstan after my return from Georgia, I was finally looking at more than seven days at site. Only by then, it had turned into close to twenty days with little to do and lots to brood over. I’ll tell you what, deciding to stay a third year feels very different when that reality is months away, your friends are all still in-country, and you’ve got a school schedule to keep you busy. Mid-July, my fellow 21s were prepping to go back, and I was struggling to reconnect with local friends I’d been ditching all summer for week-long stints elsewhere. Suffice to say, it was a rough couple of weeks.

Enough moping around, and I clawed my way out of my funk. An evening with one of my favorite English teachers and a long overdue housewarming brought back the sense that I just might belong here. And an invitation to go to Karkaralinsk put a skip back in my step.

Karkaralinsk (aka Karkaraly)
Quick side note – so, so many towns here have 2 names: the old Russian name and the new Kazakh name. Some new names have stuck. For many more towns, the old just won’t go away. Often, the names are completely different, inevitably causing confusion. Others are just a Kazakh-ified version. Thus, Karkaralinsk (Russian) and Karkaraly (Kazakh).

Either name, it’s a gorgeous place. Many locals vacation there at little… resort centers? Sanatoriums? They’ve got basic hotel rooms, gyms, outdoor cafés, swimming areas, etc. Others stay outside the sanatorium in areas reserved for tent campers. I just assumed the locals I accompanied would stay at a sanatorium, where I could take a shower and sleep in a regular bed. Try again.

As we filled the trunk with our baggage, I spotted two tents. A quick mental check and I confirmed that I was prepared for this little twist. We sped through the steppe until we reached the forested hills of Karkaraly. Next on the list: set up camp. We paid a small fee at a checkpoint and tried to follow the man’s directions to the camping area. That led us to four small cabins. The woman tending to them confessed that they were all full, but for 500tenge, we could pitch our tent on the grass nearby. We mulled this over as we piled back in the car to explore other options. We found nothing but other people trying to talk us out of even more money, so we made our way back.

Before parting with any cash, the five of us checked out the proposed spot again, and admired the forest down the hill. In the afternoon quiet, I could make out the faint sound of music from the trees. Soon we were off to investigate, despite cries from the woman to not stray too far. Five minutes later, we were in the forest talking to tent campers who had set up for free. Heh. We swiftly returned to our car and set up camp where we should have been in the first place.

The weekend turned out to be a wonderful escape, with hikes into the rocky hills and a morning spent sitting around a little lake. Only thing missing was marshmallows to roast over our campfire after demolishing round after round of shashlik. Good thing I have another summer to rectify that. :)

August
All of that excitement closed out July. For August, I was to be away from my site all but 8 days. For over two weeks, I lived out of a suitcase in Almaty, acting as a training assistant for the Kaz-23’s pre-service training, part 2. Gave me a chance to meet the newest group to the country and play my part in keeping an Indian restaurant open for business. Ah, dinner there alone is worth the trip down.

After that, it was off to Rostovka for a 5-day sleep-away camp. I joined 11 other volunteers to teach lessons, play games, and just hang out with kids. Just enough volunteers that we were kept busy, yet had enough down time to maintain our sanity all week long.

Now, back at site, I’m gearing up for school to begin. You know, reading magazines that came in the latest package, going on leisurely runs through the forest, and playing table tennis with friends. It’s going to be a great school year, but what I’m really excited about is Summer, Take 3. :) Something tells me it’ll be here before I know it.

Going Postal

I could (and I promise I will) write about non-post office happenings. But too many good stories come from that (usually) wretched place. Fellow lovers of snail mail, read on!

Money, Shmoney…
On a sunny June morning, I walk into the post office with a stack of letters to send out. Most are sealed in envelopes, but I’ll have to buy a couple more, too. It’s a slow morning, and no one is at window 5. I walk up and make my requests. He takes my letters to glue on stamps, and gives me blank envelopes, insisting that I fill and seal them before he puts stamps on them. I concede and step to the side and start writing. In the meantime, two young men come in to collect a package. It’s clear their business is far more important than mine, so I wait for my last couple stamps as these three Kazakh men get things squared away. As I wait, another employee comes up and asks if I am Denise, then explains that I need to pay the yearly fee for my mailbox. I dig out the money, but wait until I am again first in line to hand it over. I give it to the man along with my last envelopes, irritated that what could have happened in minutes is now going to take 45. He fiddles with my mail, and then indicates that I ought to be leaving now. I’m befuddled, but walk away, taking note of the line that has formed during my wait. But I can’t get myself through the door, knowing I haven’t paid my rather large bill for the stamps and envelopes I just got. I make an about-face and call over to him in Russian sprinkled with arrogance but completely devoid of elegance, “Pardon, stamps no need to pay?” Instantaneously his face expressed his shock, and in seconds he had darted to the back room and come back to calculate my expenses. No need for a line, he took my money with an efficiency that soothed my American soul and placated my Christian conscience.

The Bane of My Existence
My mom tells me of a postmaster back in the States who is always on the lookout for new and innovative ways to make business better at his post office. So when I shared the following with her, she insisted on passing it on.

At the end of June, I got a birthday card ready for a July 12th birthday. I still struggle with staying two weeks ahead of all holidays, but I thought I was doing alright, trying to send this one 13 days ahead. What I haven’t done is buy stamps in bulk… a great idea I wouldn’t think twice about in the States. So on June 30th, I walk into the post office, walk up to a window that (amazingly) doesn’t have a line. Before I can even finish asking for stamps, I’m told that they aren’t selling stamps. They’re doing inventory. That’s right. Inventory.

With a sliver of hope, I walked over to a much smaller post office in another part of town. And there I got the same line. Come back in July, I was told. So the next day, July 1st, I went back to the small post office. Now the woman had the gall to act irritated with me. Come back in a week, she said. As though I should obviously know that doing inventory takes a week. Now there’s an idea to boost your business…

Is that a whiff of …redemption?!
When I had all but lost hope in the post office being anything but a repulsive establishment completely incapable of posting mail, they went and earned themselves two points. The first one came around the middle of July, when long lines of people wait for hours on end to pay their bills. (Sidenote: can you really call it a post office? It’s more of a… business center. Or financial hub? You go there to pay bills. To utilize Western Union’s services. To collect your pension. And dozens of Avon saleswomen get their monthly orders. And 2 of us collect letters.)

I look at the long line at window 5, where I usually buy stamps, and decide to try window 6. That man clearly communicates that he will absolutely not sell me stamps. So, I decide to walk around the line of people, where I can ask window-5-man if I can buy stamps from him. He casually replies, with the slightest hint of a grin, that he’ll be with me in a second. A second?! Like, he’ll sell me stamps without me going to the back of this 5+ person line?! Sort of in shock, I stand a little off to the side to wait until he’s done with the person he’s currently helping. And to listen as people around me get all anxious about who’s last in line, who’s saving their spot but sitting over by the window, and who is standing in the wrong spot. In between people, he takes all of my letters to be posted and even gets me the one envelope I need. I get the envelope ready and hand that to him as well. Another 10 minutes and I’ve paid for everything and head for the door. As I walk away, I grin as the woman next in line complains about how long she’s been waiting there and how awful it is that he would help someone wanting stamps at the post office before he attends to people there to pay bills. Little did I know, there’s a sign taped to window 5 saying that people with letters and packages don’t have to wait in line with everyone else. And little does she know, in a land far away, people pay so many of those bills without waiting in a single line.

Point two came not so long after, on a slow day. One woman was working with window-5-man to get a package delivered to a town in Russia. Much paperwork is involved, making the confusion I cause seem minimal – or at least manageable. I patiently waited behind her… 10 minutes turned into 20, and 20 into 30. Gave me lots of time to read and reread the friendly little printout giving those of us with packages and letters the right-of-way. On the tails of my recent success, I happily waited behind someone doing post office business. A sizeable chunk of time had passed when a Kazakh woman walked up to demand an envelope. Window-5-man starts to get more information, and then backs off in favor of the package business at hand. On the verge of outrage, the woman tries a different approach. She’s Kazakh and he’s Kazakh… so she speaks Kazakh, demanding to know why in the world is she not being catered to. At least that’s the message I imagine she spit in his direction. As a fascinated observer, I noted that he said next to nothing to her in Kazakh, but, sticking to Russian, repeated to her that there is a line, and just as I had been waiting, she also needed to wait for her turn. Because, for the time being, anyway, I can find no sign indicating that Kazakhs get to skip the line.

Back, loquacious as ever…

And you thought there wouldn’t be a long-winded June post… On the contrary, I seem to have outdone myself. Take ‘er in bits, my friends. :) In amongst many summer trips, I’ve taken all the time necessary to peck out minute details from stories that may or may not be worth retelling. I’ll let you be the judge.

The Fragility of Life
On a Tuesday morning in May, I walked into the teacher’s room at my school to find dozens of school staff, all eerily silent. The only noise came from those who couldn’t hold back their tears. It takes only seconds in an atmosphere like that to comprehend that something tragic has occurred. Having heard the day before that one of my students was in bad shape in the hospital, I feared the worst. And the worst it was. Nastya, one of my seventh grade students, only 14 years old, had passed away early Tuesday morning from heart complications. Confused and downcast, we numbly listened to what the school director had to say before going to our classrooms. Both teachers and students understood, however, that there would be no lessons, but only the passing of time together, if even that.

Activity picked up only slightly before the funeral, which took place on Friday. Until then, her body was kept in her home. Friday morning, those closest to her went to the apartment. After their time there, they followed in a bus as the casket was transported to School #1. A team of young men carefully lifted the open casket out of the hearse-like vehicle and set it on two stools in the school’s courtyard. A small crowd gathered around and peered at her body, so mysteriously robbed of life …a girl who had been alert and active only one week prior. A small procession was led by her best friend Tanya, who was clutching a portrait of Nastya. Behind her were Nastya’s parents and more of their classmates. The school director gave a small speech before everyone prepared for a trip to the cemetery.

At the cemetery, the casket, still open, was again set on two stools. Now people crowded even closer together, leaving little room around the perimeter of the casket. From my observation, it was time for an anything-but-private final goodbye. The last and most tender parting was mother and daughter. The grief her mother must be experiencing – and must continue experiencing as our school’s nurse – cannot be quantified. With a last kiss, she draped a white cloth over her daughter’s body. She sprinkled a handful of dirt down the middle and then closed the casket.

Taking hold of two white ropes strung underneath it, young men lowered the casket into the ground. People then took turns dropping handfuls of dirt on top. Once everyone had performed this ritual, we stood, waited, and listened as those same young men tossed dirt into her grave, shovel by shovel. The rhythmic thuds of earth reclaiming a life is a sound not easily forgotten.

In due time, a mound of dirt protruded from the ground, and the young men could move on to their next task. In cemeteries here, each gravesite is typically surrounded by a small fence. And so, they took four panels, eyed right angles, and forced them into the ground. Then the white rope, now cut into short strips, could be used to tie bundles of flowers to the fence. Dozens of children who had been holding flowers for Nastya could now lay them on her grave. And as we loaded back into buses, the crows could come and feast on what we had left to remember a young life, lost.

And in this culture’s version of a funeral dinner, we all went straight to a restaurant in Shakhtinsk where tables were covered with food for us to eat. With only a spoon, we picked away at salads, then soup, then mashed potatoes with a Russian version of a hamburger (sans bun). Little was said, as we dared not break the spirit of solemnity. And so, I suppose it’s natural that many of us did not linger long, but preferred to surround ourselves in personal lives not so grief-stricken. As for Nastya’s family, there would be another feast to mark day seven after her death, and a third at day forty.

This tragedy certainly highlights the fragility and uncertainty of life… and the mystery of when each of us has lived out our destined days.

May 29th
And on a polar opposite note… May 29th marked day one for Addison Mae Nyffeler, daughter and first child of Dustin and Kristen. Praise God for the Internet… I had spoken with my brother a few days beforehand, so I was just waiting to hear the news. My Monday morning, May 30th, I decided to try calling, knowing it would be a while before I could try again. No answer. Then, a few minutes before I left for work, I got an e-mail from Dustin, saying he missed my call because he was holding his daughter! I had called not 2 hours after she was born. I quickly called again, offering congratulations as well as one can from the other side of the earth. Now to convince him he should download Skype so we can video chat…


Staying on the Right Side of the Law
Oh, the days that end with a ride in a police car… (How’s that to pique your curiosity? ;) A few days after school ended, a couple volunteers and I joined two of our favorite local women to enjoy a delicious dinner here in Shakhtinsk. Marly and I know just the place to go. Don’t go there for the service; don’t go there for the crowd. Just go for the food. Man, I’m still convinced it’s the best shashlik to be had in KZ. Judging from how busy it always is, lots of other people think so, too.

On this evening, we were having a wonderful time, enjoying our food and drink. And, as always, attracting attention by speaking English. This time around, the ears that perked up belonged to the city’s chief of police. We had been aware of his presence, but not until he turned did we acknowledge that. Happily enjoying his own meal with a deputy and his bodyguard, he turned initially to greet Marly, to whom he had formerly been introduced.

He and his companions decided to get more acquainted with all of us, and the deputy invited himself to sit our table. He and the chief had great fun talking with us, and soon decided we needed a bottle of champagne, and then another. I made the mistake of understanding too much of the deputy’s Russian, and before long my name changed from Denise to “my sunshine”. Bleen. (He wanted my number – I said, “no.” He tried to sweeten the deal by offering to sing to me in every language known to man. Charming offer, but I still had to decline. Stick with your wife and kids, buddy.)

With all the food eaten and all drink consumed, our new off-duty friends convinced us we now needed to go sing together at a karaoke bar. They paid for our meal and escorted us outside. Since they were in no condition to drive themselves, they called on some on-duty friends to pick us up. I steered clear of the deputy, meaning I missed my chance at a ride in a police car, and rode to our next destination in some luxury sedan instead. You’ll have to ask Marly how it felt to race down the main street in one of those silly looking jeeps. It was terrifying enough in a car with a wide wheelbase.

Their karaoke spot of choice was, thank God, 5 minutes from my apartment door. No sooner had we been seated did we discover that the karaoke machine was broken. On to Plan B. For them, that meant finding a new locale. For me, that meant sneaking home. I started tiptoeing away, not wanting deputy-man to notice. The first to object was the goliath-sized Russian man charged with protecting the chief. I implored him to be quiet and allow me to slip away. I made it across the street and into the shadows before I peered back. No sign of anyone running after me. So, I scurried off to my stairwell and sighed with relief once inside my locked apartment.

I learned the next day that the others had a fabulous time singing at the next bar they landed in. That happened only after, however, the deputy fussed over my sudden absence. Noticing I was gone, he wanted to know which apartment building was mine. In her infinite wisdom, Marly pointed to the wrong one, so he hurried over, trying to find his sunshine. Hard to believe no one else ran to jump into his arms…

Bake Sale, Schmake Sale
If anyone has ever told you that bake sales are a good way to make money, you should spit on their shoe, or at least do something mildly offensive. Bake sales are a bad way to make a profit, at least if you plan on subtracting expenses from your earnings. Even worse is if the cookies are all baked by you in an oven the size of a large man’s beer belly.

Six by six, I baked hundreds of cookies in an attempt to make money for a camp a few of us are organizing (to be held in late August). Chocolate chip, chocolate chocolate chip, shortbread, oat walnut shortbread, and brownies. I finished as much as I could each of the four evenings before the day we had set to sell.

We had advertised with all the energy that remained after the ruckus we raised for our carnival. While that means we didn’t go to the same extreme, we still hoped for a decent turnout. Alas, the combination of a rain delay and school having just let out meant that a grand total of maybe 12 kids showed up. And they came to help sell – not buy. Those who brought money turned into buyers, but the rest could do nothing but wait for the occasional passerby. Two hours of sitting outside in the wind, and we had just managed to cover our expenses. Note to self: make cookies to fill your stomach, not your pockets.

“The Museum of the Memory of Political Repressions Victims”
Kudos to any of you who can spit out that mouthful, and even more to those who can decipher a meaning. In different words, it’s a museum dedicated to victims of political repression, specifically during the Soviet Union. And the museum is a 10-minute car ride from my site. The museum was open for a chunk of time, but then closed for renovation, with a scheduled opening of May 31, 2011. Early in the month, Marly and I were asked to assist with translations of various materials, as the goal is to present all information in three languages: Kazakh, Russian, and English. And so, Marly and I made various trips to Dolinka, where this museum stands.

Now for a little Soviet history. September 2, 1918, marked the beginning of “Red Terror,” during which thousands were charged as being enemies of the state, punishable by imprisonment or execution. People were targeted for their wealth or any hint of counterrevolutionary perspectives. A decade later, in the late 1920s, the government imposed a forced collectivization policy. Across the USSR, rural people were stripped of their belongings and forced to join collective farms. For nomadic Kazakhs, this was especially debilitating. Without their livestock, they struggled to provide for themselves, and any attempt to conceal livestock or grain was punished severely. And in 1930, the Gulag was officially established, within which the government exploited prisoners, likely in an attempt to rapidly industrialize.

Gulag camps were present throughout the Soviet Union. A large section, about the size of France, was in my oblast, and was called the Karlag. (“Kar” for Karaganda, “lag” for lager, the Russian word for camp.) The administrative center was in Dolinka, in the building that now houses the museum all about the Karlag.

The Karlag was opened on December 19, 1931. People labeled as enemies of the state were forced to do various forms of hard labor such as building railroads or mining coal. Some imprisoned scientists were able to continue research within the confines of the camp. Families were separated, if for nothing more than to wreak havoc on their psyche. Women were also sentenced to hard labor, as were children over the age of 15. Younger children lived in children’s homes, and any education they received taught them to be sympathetic to the government and to disown their parents as traitors. Conditions everywhere were inhumane, and inordinate numbers lost their lives as a result. The numbers of forced laborers was maintained, however, by the continual imprisonment of more and more people.

The museum in Dolinka covers that history in much more depth, as well as information pertaining to mass deportations carried out over the same time period. In an effort to quell any uprisings, the government deported people by the thousands, with many of them finding themselves in the middle of the vast Kazakh steppe. Local Kazakhs were already suffering from a terrible famine (induced by the dispossession of their belongings); thousands more being forced to live on the same territory only exacerbated it.

A somber tour through the museum will fill you in on more of the horrors of this era, but end with a bright blue room, summarizing Kazakhstan’s progress as an independent state. The museum is quite impressive, and packed with more information than I could digest. And that’s saying something, since I went there so frequently throughout May.

Marly and I kept going back not just to provide translation help, but also to take a crash course on being museum guides. See, this impressive renovation called for an impressive grand opening. Over 500 people were to attend, and the goal was to provide tours in three languages. Lena, one of the museum curators who speaks Russian and English, called on our help in response to an expectation that17 English-speaking ambassadors would come on May 31st. Excited at the opportunity to guide ambassadors through the museum, Marly and I proceeded to cram our brains with Soviet history. We scoured the Internet, listened to podcasts, and memorized museum annotations. And spent hours on end going through the place, until I could ramble for over 30 minutes, talking only briefly about each exhibit.

And here’s how we were rewarded. First, on May 30th, Marly and I came yet again, but this time with two more PCVs who would also be there to help during the opening. The museum was buzzing with curators from area museums who were acquainting themselves with all the exhibits in order to give tours in Kazakh or Russian. We joined the commotion, showing the other two around and then practicing a time or two. Afterwards, the four of us sat down in the director’s office. I figured she’d drill into us the importance of the next day, reemphasize the dress code of frilly white blouse and black dress pants or skirt, and then set us free to go home and study. No dice. A vice-akim from Karaganda was coming (read: very, very important person, at least by his own standards), and he would test to make sure everything was up to his high expectations. Lena told us that he would listen to our tours and then yell at us about how awful we were, but that we shouldn’t be discouraged. Great. Ah- and the guy says he speaks English, Lena told us, though she then added her doubts to that claim. He was coming at 2pm, so we had time to eat lunch and get back to await him.

Close to 2, all four of us joined a dozen other guides waiting nervously for this big shot. Then Lena relayed the message that only one of us was to give a tour. I was the lucky (or maybe unlucky?) one who stayed behind as the other three hid and waited upstairs in an office. Without a single scrap of paper as a cheat-sheet, I visually walked myself from room to room, reciting my spiel. I went through it twice before reverting to thumb-twiddling to pass the time. That’s right, the guy expected at 2 didn’t come until almost 4.

As he entered the front door of the museum, his first words were, “Why isn’t there a table here?!”
“We planned to open these ticket windows, sir, which will be…”
“Bring me a table!!” People scurried to haul the closest available table to the spot he demanded it be. But he was not to be appeased. “This table is too small!” he roared.
“That’s the only table we’ve got right now,” the director hesitantly admitted, while promising to find one more suitable.
Disgusted, he moved on to the next order of business: tours. He demanded to know who were the main tour guides. A lovely older woman, a curator at a Karaganda museum, was identified along with Lena. He ordered the older woman to begin giving him a tour. Visibly shaking, she dove into an explanation of a Kazakhstan map and a model of a watchtower before moving down the hall in response to frantic signals from the museum director to hurry up. She continued to guide us through the first hall and into the second before he snapped at Lena to pick up where she left off. He soon interrupted her, demanding to know why a machete was positioned at the bottom of the display case being described. He opened the side door, took it out, and started pacing around the room with it. I prepared to pounce over whomever necessary to save myself from an imminent rampage. Lena, however, not only maintained her composure, but calmly defended its placement. Subjecting himself to agreement, he returned the weapon and allowed her to continue her tour. Soon another guide was snapped at to continue, and then another. I did my best to strategically place myself – close enough to listen, far enough to avoid attention. But I could only hide so long.

Down in the basement of the museum is an installment of a prison. And as we all crowded in and near a model of an investigator’s office, I heard a call for an English-speaking tour guide. I squeezed into the room, offered a good afternoon, and asked Lena where I should begin. With the go-ahead to start with the portion in our immediate vicinity, I rattled off, “Here in the investigator’s office, the imprisoned would sit on a stool, where they would face hours of interrogation from…”
“Does she speak Russian?” he interrupted.
“A little,” I said.
“Where are you from?”
“Uh, I live in Shakhtinsk… I’m from America.”
And suddenly, apparently satisfied with my knowledge of the museum (or unsettled by all those long i-words), the tense tour dissolved altogether, and we parted ways before talking ourselves out of the prison. I rejoined my friends upstairs and caught a bus home.

The next morning, we donned the closest thing we had to the requested outfit and returned to the museum, ready for anything. The best intentions of museum staff were to usher in small groups, which would proceed smoothly from room to room, following and being followed by other groups. Tours would start every few minutes to maximize efficiency, while still allowing visitors to enjoy a taste of the museum. A lovely idea, indeed.

The day’s events began with a few distinguished guests addressing the large crowd gathered in the morning drizzle. One of them, I later learned, was the daughter of Seyfullin, a famous Kazakh poet who was killed in the Gulag. Many of us guides crammed around the windows to catch what we could, seeing only the backside of the speaker and heads of the hundreds of people looking on. Soon enough, the doors opened for the first tour group, and immediately plans went awry.

I’ll tell you what. If men in suits will feel slighted by being left out of the first group to walk through, there better be fewer than 10 people dressed up. As it was, over twenty men crammed in for the first tour guide to lead around. And as soon as they stepped out of the doorway, more people crowded in. In a land where lines are usually confined to the faces of babushkas, I should have expected chaos. As for the 17 English-speaking ambassadors, though, the verdict was still out.

So, the four of us waited around and eventually went where we were told. In the end, the tours we provided were to 1) a freelance writer who, upon learning what state I call home, fondly recounted a former employer, the Omaha World Herald, 2) the Japanese ambassador and his adorable assistant/ translator, and 3) a random tourist from NYC.

Regardless of the numbers, though, the experience was fabulous. I am greatly honored to have had the chance to guide the Japanese ambassador through the museum. I am also glad I was pushed to learn so much more about this country’s rocky past. There’s fascinating stuff hidden away in history, and digging around in Kazakhstan can turn up some juicy stuff.

Petro: Where all goes south, except me.
The plan was straightforward. I had even thought ahead when I bought my train ticket. Leave in the evening on Saturday, so I wouldn’t have to worry about making my train after traveling back into the city. See, I had gone up to Petropavlovsk by train the previous Saturday, and then traveled three hours by bus out to Presnovka with other PCVs to help at an English camp. Early the following Saturday afternoon, we returned by bus to Petro. Now I just needed to kill a few more hours before my 10pm train back to Karaganda.

Sidd, a friend of mine since PST, lives in the city, so I planned to spend the afternoon and evening catching up with him. Getting to him required a taxi, so I got his address, the fair price (400 tenge) and went in search of a driver. First man I spoke with understood where I wanted to go and repeated it back to me as if in shock, followed by, “Do you know where that is?! Do you know how far that is?!” Hmm, nope. No, I do not. I just want to know how much, so that’s what I demanded to know. “1000 tenge!” he exclaimed. Ha. No. way. Nice try. “How much did you expect?” he retorted. “400,” I responded assertively. His turn to laugh. And then he dropped to 700, which I also refused. He assured me I wouldn’t find any driver willing to take me there for that price, at which I assured him that I knew it must be a 400t ride and turned to walk away. “500!” he yelled after me. I glanced back and tried 400 once more before walking to another car. Since he again refused, I walked further down in the line of parked cars to one that had a taxi light on top. The punked-out driver rolled the address around in his head for a minute, and when I asked how much, promptly replied, “400.” That’s what I thought.

He drove a serpentine path through the city as I thanked God that these taxi drivers don’t charge by the mile. Eventually we wound up at an apartment building that said 45 Ermekov. I wanted 75, but figured it was probably close by. I paid the driver, got out and called Sidd. “I’m at your door!” “Uh, I’m outside my door, so no… you’re not.” I whip around to see if there’s another door in sight with my friend nearby. Nothing. My taxi driver had pulled further into the maze of pavement next to the apartment buildings to turn around and was now coming back. I stopped him in the nick of time and pointed out the error. Confused and a bit irritated, he let me back in and set to the task of finding building 75. Now, one may think that 75 Ermekov would be near 45 Ermekov. But one learns quickly that sentences pertaining to KZ that begin with “You would think that…” should not be finished. We may think so. They do not. So, back to taxi driver man. Poor guy has to get directions from Sidd, after which he drives for another five minutes, making multiple turns and one more wrong turn before arriving at the correct address. Good heavens.

Sidd and I enjoyed our time together, going out to eat with his girlfriend and meeting up with a former student of his. Got in a good deal of walking around and testing out colorful Russian phrases before I got on a bus bound for the train station. I got there around 9:30pm – plenty of time to get on Train 16 before it left at 10:10. I made my way up to the waiting hall and finished off a stale samsa as an announcement was made over the loudspeaker. “Train 15 Almaty-Petropavlovsk …blah, blah… has been …blah, blah… delayed nine hours… blah, blah, blah…” Lots of the Russian zoomed right over my head, I’m sure, but I caught enough to understand something was wrong with someone else’s train. Good thing mine was #16. Though, as I was to discover minutes later, it’s a bad thing that the train enters the station as 15 and leaves as 16. My 31st train ride, and finally, my first significant, annoying, plan-altering train delay. I made my way down to a ticket clerk and inquired about the delay. Exactly what time would it be leaving? “Well, right now we think it will come in at 5:10am, but it could be later.” “Could it be earlier?” I asked. “Yes.” Ugh. So what the heck am I supposed to do? She kindly gave a local number that I could call from a house phone to get the latest estimate. With that, I headed off to return from where I had come. To add insult to injury, the buses stop running at 10pm, so even if I wanted to save money that way, I was too late. Off I went to negotiate with yet another taxi driver. A line up of marked taxis were on the curb right outside, so I asked them. An outspoken man piped up with a 500 tenge quote. Nope. 400, I insisted. In our ensuing banter, he mentioned that I couldn’t get a lower price because this is the train station, and from that I knew without a doubt he was trying to pull a fast one on me. Annoyed, I started walking away, and just as before, he called after me once more. With a twinge of irritation, he yelled, “Get in.” “400?” I demanded to know. Not wanting to openly admit defeat, he silently accepted as I threw in my backpack and sat down. At least this jerk was able to drive straight back to Sidd’s.

Back at his place, I set my alarm for 4am, planning to call the train station to confirm a 5:10 departure. Closed my eyes well after 11, and woke up on my own at 3:30. I continued to lay there, but minutes passed and I figured, heck, might as well call the train station to see what I could find out. Tip-toed over to the phone and dialed. “Tell me, please, about train 16,” I mumbled. “Blah, blah… arrival… blah, blah, 20 minutes… lots more Russian…” “Uh, can you say that again? Is the train already there?” I ask as my mind is still trying to wake up. She lambasted me with more Russian. “When will it leave?” was my last feeble attempt to make sense of anything. “Неизвестный.” Huh? And then, click.

I promptly took this all to mean that my train was sitting in the station, preparing to take off any minute, with or without me. Heart pounding, I took the taxi numbers Sidd had jotted down and tried calling. Both were busy. 3:40AM, and they’re both busy. Unbelievable. I woke up my poor friend, pleading for help. Ever chivalrous, he rolled out of bed and got right to work, trying everything he could think of to get a taxi a.s.a.p. We wound up on hold with a recording that told us what number we were in line. We started out at seven. SEVEN. People, aren’t you aware that you’re supposed to be sleeping at 4am?! Waiting to get a live person took an eternity. And once we did, she just took a name and promised to call back when a car was free. Good grief. Our patience lasted a good 90 seconds before we started furiously dialing again. Five minutes later, and we were in line again, now number eight. “Sidd, what does неизвестный mean?” “Unknown.” What was unknown, I had no idea. I just assumed the worst and started running through contingency plans, guessing at the cost effectiveness of racing the train in a taxi to a stop down the line versus staying in Petro until the next train southbound.

About 40 minutes later, and a taxi was finally on its way. Whew. Now to call the station to see if I was screwed or not. Sidd tried to hand me the phone. Ha. I speak like a 5 year old; he speaks like a local. He consented to making the call, to my relief, and Russian rolled right off his tongue, and he soon consoled me with a correct translation. The train was expected to pull in 30 minutes later, so I had ample time to get there. Only one more taxi ride for which to dish out my dwindling cash, and I’d be on my way home. I sat myself down and dug out a 500 as we got close to the station. I had asked Sidd before I left, but he assured me getting to the station was more important than haggling for the right price. I took it as sound advice and prepared to be swindled. We rolled to a stop and I asked, “How much? 400?” “No,” he replied, “300.” Dumbfounded, I stuck the 200 tenge in my pocket. Finally, my turn to go south.

During my childhood in Western Nebraska, rain was a blessing. We never seemed to get enough of it, so when it came, we soaked it up along with the parched fields. We prayed for gentle rains, but eagerly anticipated the next crack of lightning during thunderstorms. I reminisce about walking into the middle of our farmstead to watch clouds churning overhead… about scrambling through the hail to bring my horses into the safety of the barn… and sitting with them through the worst of it as the radio blared with tornado watches. I remember running through the rain with my friends, getting soaked to the bone… and then scolded by parents as we climbed into what was a dry and clean car. I remember the draws running, washing out a section of the road not a half mile from us. I think back to the dozens of times my family and I would rush through the house to close the right windows, careful to account for which direction the raindrops were falling. And as I sit here in my own apartment, so far away from all those memories, the patter of raindrops brings them back.

Behind the Scenes

In the nutshell version of the Peace Corps Carnival I wrote and posted, so, so much of the story was left untold. So in an effort to amuse you, or at least hold your attention, here is a closer look at our successfully chaotic day.

The Morning Of…
Hordes of volunteers had arrived, and I couldn’t have been more pleased with the numbers we had. Yet, with all those helping hands, I still couldn’t dream up any work to put them to. Games were almost all ready. Booth posters had been painted. Fingers were crossed for rolls of tickets to come that day in a package from home. One remaining task – collect advertising posters that had been displayed in different schools.

Anna and I took off, walking across town to School #1. Plan was to take down 3 posters and do a 180. Who would dress up for that? Certainly not Denise. To my credit, at least ½ of my outfit was not pajamas. (If you’re good at detecting foreshadowing, you know this isn’t going to turn out well.)

The hick-up came about a quarter after 9, just as we ran into my counterpart at school. The Country Director is coming at 10, she explained, and my school director insists I stay and meet him. I’d never met the man before, and here was my chance to make a shining first impression …looking like I had just rolled out of bed. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and stared at Anna for solace of some sort.

Finding two befuddled girls standing idly in the hallway, my favorite maintenance man tapped me and motioned for me to follow him. I fell in step behind him and obediently waited outside as he entered some mysterious room I knew nothing about. A quick peek provided the obvious answer – maintenance men’s workroom. Now the question was, why in the world was I waiting outside of it? Less than a minute later, he came back out, holding a hand behind his back. Then, with suspense hanging in the air, he revealed a …hedgehog!

I’ve never seen a hedgehog up close. Probably never seen one at all. Heck, I don’t even remember seeing pictures of them. Stuffed animals, sure. Cartoon drawings. But never something in the flesh. I definitely whipped out my camera and madly snapped pictures of the terrified little thing. Then the maintenance man suggested I hold it. My turn to be terrified. They sure are spiny guys, and they curl up into a ball when they’re afraid. So when I mustered enough guts to hold him, he tensed into a ball, but as I stood there steadily, he eventually felt safe enough to unfurl a bit, and then paw at the air, much like a turtle on his shell. And that’s about the point at which some of my ninth grade girls came skipping down the steps. Seeing me fearfully holding the little animal, they squeezed into a circle around me, daring themselves to inch a finger closer and closer until he (or she?) made a reactionary movement, at which they’d jump back.

Soon enough it was time to relinquish the hedgehog. I handed him over to the janitor, who was intent on releasing him outside. I rejoined Anna and we went outside together, where she got her turn to pose for pictures with a hedgehog before he burrowed under a tree in the schoolyard. All proof that I never can know what a morning will bring. Good thing I carry my camera most days.

Anna carted the posters back to my apartment, and I wandered back inside, waiting nervously for our guest to arrive. I sat in our little tearoom with Tatyana, and when we saw strangers walking up, we went to the front doors to properly welcome them. Though I can say nothing for first impressions made of me, I like to think things went pretty smoothly. Gathered in the director’s office and people from school and I took turns praising each other. Went to the resource center to admire the work of volunteers before me. I almost hit the road before I got a picture of my teachers with the Country Director and his translator. With sufficient photos snapped, both of small animals and important people, I could hustle back to my apartment to anxiously make last-minute preparations. Whew. What a start to the day.

Guest(s) of Honor
In the days leading up to the carnival, I was stoked about the expected attendance of three people. And two of them actually did come! Not a bad hit-rate, especially in these parts. The three included my dear friend Marina, Bob Cone (the Country Director of Peace Corps-Kazakhstan), and the Akim (Mayor) of Shakhtinsk.

I often visit Marina, and our time is mutually beneficial for language acquisition. She improves her English; I pick up a couple Russian words. Marina’s vivacity and good spirits constantly impress me. See, she’s confined to a wheelchair, and she lives with her mother and grandmother on the fourth floor of a building without an elevator. Needless to say, she rarely gets out. So when Ira, the friend who introduced us, suggested that we take her to the carnival, I was elated. Ira had an SUV to transport both Marina and her wheelchair, and we could depend on Sergei to do the grunt work. And just as things were getting started on Saturday, I saw Ira, Sergei, and Marina shooting the breeze in the foyer of the Culture House. All the festivities were on the 2nd floor, so we recruited a couple more guys to carry the wheelchair as Sergei took Marina on up. Ira stayed by her side to the bitter end, faithfully helping her move from place to place to take in as much as possible. Post-carnival report from Ira is that Marina thoroughly enjoyed herself. I’m pumped that she got to join us and meet many of the visiting volunteers.

The second honored guest was our Country Director, Bob Cone. Peace Corps-KZ just changed CDs (PC staff all work on time-limited contracts.), and this event provided a great chance for him to see another site and meet more volunteers. Add to that a rocking celebration of Peace Corps’ 50th Birthday, and you’ve got an opportunity that simply cannot be missed. Given his extensive experience within the public school system in the States, he felt right at home at our crazy carnival, and offered wise suggestions to smooth operations. He led us in “Happy Birthday” to kick things off, and shook hands with certificate winners at the end. What an honor it was for us to have him join in on the fun.

And your deductive powers will tell you that our akim was the no-show. Such a shame. The guy speaks English well and seems rather friendly. Don’t worry, the first chance I got, I put my hand on my hip and berated him for not being there. (…because it’s my place to scold the mayor? Open mouth, insert foot, anyone?) And yet, my silly comment was made in such a way that I think he’ll happily help us out with any future projects. What a fine display of a skill passed on from my father… ;) (Hee hee, thanks Dad.)

So instead of his presence at the carnival, I’ll add a note about a different guest. Dig around in my blog archives and you’ll read about Ivan, aka Ivan Running Guy. That’s right, Ivan came. It’s my fault, really. Err, entirely. Days before the carnival, I saw I missed a call from him. Rather than ignore it as I have dozens of other calls, my exuberance for the carnival overtook my better sense. “I can invite him to my carnival!!” Right. Invite a grown man to 3 hours of mayhem in which little kids play silly games and I run around like a beheaded chicken. Excellent idea. And as you already know, the poor guy showed up. Worse yet, he came from Astana. A few PCVs knew he might come, and so they instantly understood when a young man came in asking for Denise. Oh, what a silly thing I had done by inviting him… his coming was surprising, yet I appreciated the trouble he went to to get there. But showing my appreciation was hindered dramatically by my beheaded-chicken state. So I talked to him for, oh, about 2 minutes. Got a few pictures with him. And continued scurrying around. Reflecting on it is quite embarrassing, to be honest. But hey, we’re living and learning here. Living and learning.

Television Debut
In a last quick note… that’s right, the carnival was on the news. Karaganda news. (Big city nearby broadcasting to tens of thousands in the city and probably just as many in outlying towns and villages.) Having a television camera recording the chaos of the carnival is one thing. Being interviewed in Russian is quite another. Marly and I couldn’t weasel out of it, though. I put it off as long as I could. All that did, however, was give me enough time to get my internal speed up to an easy 100mph. At breakneck internal speeds, I race from place to place, knowing something must be done, but not really sure what it is. So I do something possibly productive, not likely well thought-out, and race on to whatever comes next. Perfect state to give an interview in a language I can’t speak well when all cylinders are firing.

The questions were easy enough to understand, though answering them proved more difficult. Words jumbled together and escaped from my tongue, most of them making some sense, and only one answer being found humorous by locals who giggle as they tell me they saw me on TV. Good thing it takes a lot to embarrass me. I’ll thank my dad for that one, too. ;)

Happy 50th Birthday, Peace Corps!

On a snowy afternoon in late winter, an idea was hatched to celebrate Peace Corps’ 50th Anniversary: a Peace Corps Carnival. Picture it… a room packed with people of all ages having all sorts of fun playing silly games and winning candy. Who doesn’t love a good cake walk? Having gained confidence from attending and assisting at dozens of spring carnivals myself, I decided to run with the idea. Making it possible was the mutual excitement of my sitemate, Marly.

But attending and assisting is a tad different than planning one from scratch. …and being in a country where such carnivals have never before been done adds an extra degree of difficulty. That said, here’s a peek at what Marly and I have been up to the last few months.

First, we decided on a time – April 23, 2011. Four to seven in the evening. At the Culture House, in a room I prayed would be large enough. Figured out how we wanted to advertise for the carnival and, more importantly, operate it. The best projects are the ones that most intimately involve the community, and even better is offering an opportunity for youth to shine as future leaders. To that end, we barged into class after class in each of the seven schools in Shakhtinsk and spread the word to nearby villages that we had an exciting opportunity for them.

Our pitch went like this – a quick introduction and one sentence explanation of our purpose for interrupting their class. But what’s the point in telling you when we can show you?! Having brought materials for a few silly games, we pulled kids to try their luck. Some batted balloons in the air, some bounced a super-ball with a Frisbee, and others tried to catch candy in a cup strapped to the top of their head. Some looked like clowns. And some of those clowns got candy.

By this point, it was clear whether we had captured their interest or not. Some kids were just spellbound; in other rooms you could hear the chirps of crickets. Thankfully the former was much more common, and we could confidently proceed. At the carnival, we explained, would be a wide variety of games, fun for all ages. We wanted them to first, come. Come themselves, and come with their families. Second, we asked for help from older students to decorate and operate the booths. Ideally, twelve students from each school would help us, each receiving a t-shirt for their work. Third, we requested all students to make a poster to advertise for the event. The best posters in two divisions (divided by age) were promised an award, as were the students who would do the best job decorating.

With schools informed, the first wave of tasks ceased. The next flurry of activity came after the posters were due. Two former students happened to be at my school at just the right time to help Marly and I judge the entries we had received. Goodness, are there some talented artists in town! And over thirty posters were created! We declared a 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place in both divisions, and then divided the posters to be delivered to and hung up at schools around town.

During this time, Marly and I were also busy deciding on what booths we wanted to have. Some fabulous ideas came from the show, A Minute to Win It. Most games require few materials, which would keep this huge project pretty low budget. What didn’t keep the budget down was the decision to purchase t-shirts. To make this a really special 50th occasion, we wanted the student workers and volunteers to wear custom-made Peace Corps 50th t-shirts. We researched prices in this area, and discovered that screen-printing alone would be astronomical. Thus, we looked overseas and worked through Marly’s cousin, and got a deal on shirts. Woo!

So… at this point, we gathered names of students from 10 schools and made lots of phone calls to remind each school to bring some candy and five cakes. We purchased materials, painted posters, and waited for the big day.

The whole process bears some resemblance to wedding planning. A small group of people work their rears off for months, knowing the event they’re planning will be over in a flash. And for this 3-hour project, we knew we needed as many volunteers as we could convince to travel to Shakhtinsk. And as much as you plan and plan and plan, there are bound to be oversights and incorrect assumptions… As you may guess, being in KZ doesn’t exactly alleviate that reality…

But moving on to what actually happened. Believe it or not, we pulled it off!! Started on Friday. Students came to the culture house with their own decorating materials and went to work making their spot beautiful. First hiccup was being told at first that we could not use tape. Anywhere. A little stiff-arming, and we started putting tape on the floor, but for the wall, we made do with thumbtacks. In less than two hours, the room was filled with balloons, ribbons, and posters, sort of ready for the next day’s carnival.

Another hiccup was these darn t-shirts. Given the day we placed our order, we knew we were cutting it close. The week of the carnival, and no t-shirts. In one last effort on Friday… I went to check my mail, and whal-ah! Package slips!! Two huge boxes stuffed with the prized shirts. One, count it: ONE, day before the carnival. You might say Marly and I took a huge sigh of relief. :)

On Saturday, we did last minute prep work, working even as excited students started streaming in to see what this carnival was all about. Opening words were given by Mr. Robert Cone, Country Director of Peace Corps Kazakhstan. We were honored that he made the trip to join our festivities. The room sang happy birthday to Peace Corps, and the games began!

Goodness was it madness. People sort of knew what was happening. We left some interpretation up to the booth workers themselves after sharing what we had in mind. Some ideas stuck, some were improved. And inevitably, you’ve got some student workers who have no intention of doing anything productive. Overall, though, all were pleased with the results. Kids had a great time, as did volunteers (of which we had seventeen helping!!). Rather than drone on, how about my first blog pictures since, what, PST? Enjoy!

Seizing the Day

I might have you fooled, since I’m thousands of miles from home in a land where I still struggle to have everyday conversations, but I’m slow to seize opportunities and (tied to that) my tendency is to be incredibly lazy. Typically, it’s more natural for me to follow than to lead, more tempting to not do rather than do. Give me a choice to either sit at home and read a book or to run around at a big festival and my first instinct is to grab a comfy chair and a page-turner. Organize something fun or let the season quietly slip by? Let’s let the time pass in peace, thank you very much. So how is it that I find myself going to celebrations, and a better question yet – how the heck did it happen that I’m organizing one??

Because not doing so isn’t living life. Now, this is something I have to often persuade myself to believe, even though these concepts show themselves to be more and more true, the more days and months and years I live. Sharing experiences with others enriches both parties. What’s the point of keeping to yourself when you can take part in events that celebrate our aliveness? Whether it’s observing a cultural tradition or testing our physical stamina or showing appreciation for another’s existence, life is more vibrant lived in communion with others.

Plus, it gives me stories to write on my blog. :)

Karaganda vs. Pavlodar
Spicing up February was a to-the-death competition between two oblasts. Well, I guess it’d be more accurate to have you imagine extreme flippy cup and eating contests. We all got to go home at the end. But some of us got to go home with the pride of SUCCESS. Oh, sweet success. (Better luck next year, Pavlodar Oblast. ;)

The two-day competition (in Pavlodar) started out with a trip to a banya. In this private banya, rented out by us for a couple hours, there are showers, a small dipping pool, a sauna, and a couple other rooms for lounging. Forget the Russian banya I experienced my first day at site – all donned swimming suits, making for a much less awkward atmosphere. Chris did a fine job cooking up some bishbarmak, which we brought along to chow down on. Competition #1: each team needed to eat their half of the bishbarmak. Rather than go for speed, we enjoyed the succulent meat and tender carrots, chowed down on noodles, and tried not to breathe on each other as we shared raw onions. Next, each team was represented by one person who thought they could outlast the other in the sauna. Corinne earned us a point – and scrubbed away at dead skin as you can only do after 20 minutes in over 100*F heat. Third, in a test of speed, each team collectively downed equal amounts of vodka (figuring out to about 2 shots each). Team Karaganda, again victorious, ended the night in the lead, 3 points to 1.

The next morning, we reveled in the smell of bacon. Just thinking about bacon makes KZ PCVs salivate. Smell it and we’ll go nuts. Eat it and we think we’re in heaven – or at least a bit closer to America. (You try going a year and a half without bacon. No good. No good at all.) And now, in Pavlodar, a breakfast of bacon, egg casserole, toast, and brewed coffee?! Good grief that’s exciting. We ingested every last morsel, and then got on with the contest. Day 2, Battle 1: Kazakh Squat-Off. Our secret weapon: Losha, Elena’s boyfriend. Know of any Americans who can sit on their heels longer than a Kazakhstani? ‘Cuz I don’t. Karaganda 5, Pavlodar 1. Their fate improved with the next challenge, in which Shannon showed off her flexibility as the Karaganda girls tried to twist our bodies in ways they just won’t go. Our first surrender, and the score was 5 to 3. Another defeat soon followed as Pavlodar folks smeared us on the carpet in Indian leg-wrestling duels. Just like that, the score was all tied up.

Next up was a three-pointer – a plov cook-off. Some of Karla’s students had gathered at her apartment to judge, and we toted over three types of plov after preparing everything in Paul and Susan’s kitchen. We got it set up as fair as we could, and let the students start eating. Their votes left no doubt – Corinne’s plov was the local’s favorite. Three points for Karaganda, and we could freely devour our favorite variant. Kudos to Elena and Susan, each of whom cooked up mouth-watering bowls of plov. Two competitions remained. First was a frozen clothing race. Yep, frozen clothes. Outside. In winter. Would it be easier to thaw out clothes if the temperature were above zero? Mm hmm. Did we still rip apart those pants and stretch out that shirt to get ‘em over Corinne’s head? You betcha. Karaganda 10, Pavlodar 5.

Last was a group outing to a local café, where Pavlodar PCVs have been known to play beer pong. We found some room for a bit more food, and then got down to business. One last battle, bearing enough points that Pavlodar had a chance to tie it up. A win in beer pong and we’d each be at 10. We slid two tables together, set out plastic cups in triangles at each end, and honed our shot, chasing ping-pong balls around the café when we missed. Over the course of the next two hours, we played some, danced some, and amused locals even more. At one point we played a mini-game, pitting America against Kazakhstan. Chanting, “USA! USA!” for our team and then joining in as they cheered, “Kazakhstan! Kazakhstan!” was certainly a highlight of the evening, and was almost distracting enough to forget who won. (Pretty sure USA took that one.) But back to the Karaganda/Pavlodar rivalry… I am grieved to admit we were pretty sorry ping-pong ball tossers.

After working so hard for a comfortable lead, we faced a sudden death tiebreaker. Task: four people on each team had to flip a plastic cup, set upside down, hanging just over the edge of the table, and make it stand right-side up. With enough cups for each person, the table was a-flurry with flipping plastic cups, each of us trying and trying until we caught a stroke of luck. And luck was with… KARAGANDA! Oo rah! Pictures were taken, ribbons distributed, and the coveted trophy handed off from the defending champions to the traveling team. Now the hunk of wood with a metal rod sticking out, to which are attached bobble-head magnets of a cow and bunny – a.k.a., the trophy – can be proudly displayed in my humble Shakhtinsk apartment. Watch out next year, Pavlodar… we’ll see what we can do with a home-court advantage. :)

Life in my Apartment
I’ll take a minute to elaborate on my humble abode, since I haven’t mentioned much beyond the absence of an oven and hot water. I’ve got plenty of space in what is locally considered a two-room apartment. For Americans, read one-bedroom. I’ve got a small kitchen, bathroom, closet, bedroom, and living room. Just the right size, at just the right price. March’s rent was pricey – rent and bills added up to just over $160. It’s furnished, meaning I’ve got two beds, a sofa, a couple armchairs, a wardrobe, a coffee-table sorta thing, and a kitchen table with stools. “Furnished” also means I’ve got a small collection of dishware, a few hangers, and a rocking horse.

Things missing – that I can honestly say I don’t miss – are a television, microwave, and bathroom sink. Can’t say I don’t miss a washing machine and dryer. I would also love to have a vacuum cleaner… Then, of course, is this issue of an oven and hot water. For me, an oven is of much greater necessity, as improvising for running hot water is far simpler.

Thankfully, Tatyana rounded up a small contraption that turns dough into something edible. Picture an easy-bake oven, Soviet style, with enough character that assigning him a name was obligatory. Alvin is entirely metal, plugs into the wall, and has an infinite number of temperature settings, determined by how far you leave his door open. His interior cavity is just the right size for a standard bread pan – nothing bigger. A friend aptly described him as a rambunctious child who just needs careful supervision. Thus far, Alvin and I have gotten along great. He’s turned out some delicious baked goods and has done a fine job reheating different leftovers.

Now for a note about my water situation. Long ago, I had a conversation with Tatyana about apartments available in town. “What amenities do they come with?” I inquired. “Everything!” she said. “They’ll have electricity, running water, and be heated.” Right. (How does electricity even make it to the list, as though it’s something optional? Anyways…) “Hot and cold water, yeah?” I couldn’t conceive of someone living in an apartment without hot water, so her reply astonished me. “Oh no. You won’t find an apartment with hot water.” In the conversation that followed, I expressed my disbelief, unconvinced that someone could live without running hot water. How do you bathe? Wash your hands? Wash dishes? Were there really people who lived in Shakhtinsk without hot water?? Indeed there are, and now I’m one of them. And it isn’t nearly as difficult as one may think. Just requires a bit of patience and planning.

Take bathing. I’ve got a little red bucket – probably about 2 or 2 ½ gallons worth. I fill it to the top (to the top is key) with cold water, and I stick in a metal coil. (Less water and the coil talks back to me.) Attached to the coil is a cord, which I plug into an outlet. I slowly back away and stay away for 15-17 minutes. Come back, unplug the cord, hang it in a place where it won’t start a fire, and whal-ah!, I’ve got what I need for a warm bucket bath. As of yet, I haven’t electrocuted myself. And only once have I tipped over my bucket of hot water. (I can tell you, watching the only hot water you’ve got swirl down the drain is a pitiful sight.) All in all, though, not a huge inconvenience – I just have to think ahead and heat up my water 20 minutes before I want to bathe.

And for other stuff – either hot water isn’t actually necessary, or it’s easy to boil what you need. Dishes come clean a lot faster with hot water, so I’ll often pour hot water from my teapot into a big bowl where I’ve got my dirty dishes. My hands, my face, and my laundry come clean (enough) with cold water. So, I forge ahead – even though I could buy a hot water tank. Who wants to spend over $100, just to have hot water come out of your pipes?

A couple quotes I can’t let slip by…
At a discussion club, the topic of our city mayor was brought up. Somewhere else a mayor was doing a pitiful job. The young, handsome Shakhtinsk mayor is a rock-star, so he was plucked from our town and declared the replacement for the pitiful guy. His absence was filled by who-knows-who from who-knows-where. So, did you have a say in who the new mayor would be? “Oh, we don’t vote. …But we’re a democracy!”

I invited a few teachers over to my apartment for dinner. Served them carrot-ginger soup, rosemary garlic bread, and meatloaf. After tasting the soup, Zhenya inquired, with a bit of surprise in her voice, “Do you use spices every day, Denise?”

My sitemate reached for something on the floor and the corner of a table got in her way, leaving a scratch just below her eye. Hours later a purplish half crescent started to show, evidence of a fight that never happened. At their next lesson, her tutor gaily said, “I didn’t know you were married, Marly!” Confused, Marly asked her to repeat herself. The tutor pointed to the spot the table had caught her. “You have a husband. Or maybe a boyfriend?”

Sports Competitions
Finding my spot in a sports-loving group of locals has been priceless. Playing volleyball is something that requires communication, but it’s communication that can be done even if you don’t actually share a common language. So I play as often as I can. Lately, though, I’ve had to remind myself that I work as an English teacher here, not a volleyball nor basketball player.

You may not think the two would conflict. Who’s heard of a teacher-only tournament held during regular school hours? Well, Kazakhstan, that’s who. And it turns out they like those a lot. Weeks ago, I agreed to play volleyball on a Wednesday. (I later caught wind it being a two-day ordeal, with the second day something I just couldn’t justify doing. But I figured I’d cross that bridge in due time.) In the days prior, I had to confess to my co-teachers that I’d be missing our Wednesday lessons. But they already knew – a list hung in the teacher’s room, indicating which teachers were excused from their lessons. To play volleyball. (At first that didn’t strike me as odd. I have to tell these stories to people back home to realize that much of this is actually quite abnormal.)

I showed up on Wednesday at the right school at the right time. Throughout the day, we played a few games with a mix of wins and losses. Mid-afternoon, people collected their things to head home. Before I could get out of the gym, I was cornered by three of my teammates. With an edge of tension in their voices, they fired away. “Do you have lessons tomorrow?” Yep. Lessons every day. “Don’t go to your lessons tomorrow.” Excuse me? “Rest, Denise. Take a day off…” Still confused, “I’ve also got an English Club.” “What time is your club?” they asked. “One o’clock.” They pondered that, and decided I could go to my English Club, but nothing more.

The back-and-forth continued, with me insisting that I needed to go to school, and them insisting that I not go, until it was clear that I actually understood what was going on. That point was marked with the comment, “Ah, you’re an honest person.” See, we didn’t do whatever was necessary to take part in day 2 of the tournament. If none of us went to school, the assumption would be that we were playing volleyball, an “acceptable” excuse for skipping lessons. But if I were seen at school, I’d ruin a perfectly good day for them to stay at home and watch TV. The most senior of my teammates left it like this – I was “given permission” to go to school, but if asked, they were “playing volleyball.” Oh, dilemmas, one of the joys that come with understanding enough that you can’t just be ignorant.

On Thursday, I went to school. Went to my English Club and my lessons. And when asked about the volleyball tournament, I told the inquisitive zavuch that I was indeed not playing volleyball that day.

The following Thursday, it seemed the situation might repeat itself, this time with basketball. Again, a competition during the school day. A bit older, a bit wiser, I agreed to come after my English Club, recognizing I wouldn’t make it for the first games. My teammates were none too pleased, but sensed I wasn’t going to budge. I also had a club at 4:30, one I simply couldn’t miss.

I showed up to play, having missed only one of our games. Played the second and third with them, both victories for School #1. That put us in game 4 – and vying for first place. We increased our lead as the clock wound down, and ended the day with a win …and some ticked off opponents, fuming at the “American” who poked, scratched, or otherwise offended them. I guess that’d be me. I scooted out to my English Club… timing that was probably for the best.

Note about playing basketball with middle-aged women in KZ. Middle-aged women are supposed to be mellow about sports – don’t they know that? Apparently, though, it hasn’t occurred to many of these women that they are no longer 17. The result is a rough-and-tumble game of bball. And if I’m not the main one fouling, you know it’s bad. (Though the ref may have explicitly said I play rudely. True, I may have yet to figure out how to play without the occasional foul. But (with a classic “he-hit-me-first” excuse), I will say that I played up to my competition, not letting them bump me without them getting a bump back.) Irregardless, I think I’ll stick to volleyball.

I was informed of yet another volleyball competition, this one on a Thursday at my school. Determined not to miss any more lessons in favor of playing sports, I agreed to come after my lesson. I listened to the opening ceremony from the hallway at 2:00 and bounded up to the second floor for my 40-minute lesson with Dasha. Ten minutes into the lesson and two of my teammates were standing in the hallway, motioning for me to leave the lesson. A bit of body language and they got the picture I would be staying right where I was. Twenty minutes in and a different teammate stopped by. This teacher was brazen enough to step into the classroom and try her best to persuade Dasha and our students that “Denise should go play volleyball.” Gracious. Unwavering, I informed her I would come “soon” – in other words, after my lesson. Which is just what I did – and I made it onto the court to play with time to spare.

Games went more quickly for this tournament, though I again had to rush out to make it on time to my next engagement. So, I received my silver medal (which appears surprisingly serious) the next day, our prize for second place in some seemingly random Thursday afternoon tournament. Who knows.

Nauryz!
The Kazakh New Year is upon us! Kids are out of school for 2 weeks, lots of people get three or four days off work, and Denise has enough time to write a really long blog. Oo rah! Last year I traveled to Shymkent to celebrate; this go-round I’m staying close to home.

I talked myself into accepting an invitation (seizing the day!) to see Nauryz celebrations in Shahan, and so I went there Sunday morning. A collective performance got the day started, and then classes celebrated separately in their own rooms. As an honored guest, I was escorted to several rooms, and in each I and other honored guests would sit on the floor around a table, eat a few bites, take a few sips of tea, and stand up to go to the next room where we’d do it all again.

After we had visited a sufficient number of rooms, we went back to drink tea with teachers. At that point they presented me with a beautiful long traditional Kazakh vest. Mindblowing. Re-opens my eyes to the weight they place on hosting a foreigner. They’re just tickled to be able to share their customs with others. So not only does this school (apparently) generously give to their honored guests, but they also relive those moments through mementos. The teacher who invited me showed me a video taken of volunteers who visited back in 2003 – a video she watches over and over again – and showed me notes written by those volunteers, and had me write my own note in response to the time I spent at their school. I’m nothing special, but something tells me my quick trip will be talked about for some time to come.

Whew. I’ve gotta call it quits for this post, though thoughts on a Peace Corps Carnival are soon to come. Maladyets (well done), my friends, for enduring my verbosity (in other words, I talk too much – my bad).

Bringing you up to speed...

Boy, when I’m not inspired to write, my life seems to be full of nothing worth sharing. And the poignant moments seem too short to post. I don’t know how to elaborate on sharing tea with the maintenance man who hung a light fixture for me, but saying only one sentence seems silly. Or being reminded of the giddiness surrounding Valentines. Well, maybe I can write about that. :)

Send candy. Send a valentine. Send a CANDY GRAM!
Credit goes to Corinne, the woman across the table from me on a snowy January afternoon. We caught each other up on life, ate delicious Georgian food, drank enough tea to appease the wait staff, and shared ideas. Now, she’s a scary one with whom to share ideas. Enough time in her company, and you’ll go off trying to change the world. Or maybe you’ll just go sell candy grams.

I had left myself just enough time before Valentine’s Day to talk to teachers, make a poster, and collect supplies. Monday was advertising. Svetlana A and I popped into dozens of classrooms, explaining in Russian, English, or both, that I would be selling valentines with attached candy. Monday evening was a scramble to find more red paper and some ribbon. And Tuesday started a whirlwind of children buying valentines for 20 or 50 tenge, until, at last count, the total was over 7,500 tenge.

I’d say my business dealing has been successful. I’ll also quickly add that it’s as close to the retail world as I care to get. There are probably more of you than I want to know who have been on the receiving end of my persuasive and pushy tactics. On a good day, I like to think I could sell ice to Eskimos. And here I am working with candy and kids?? Ha! Bit by bit, though, I have become aware of the power of persuasion, and with that realization has slowly come the ability to keep it in check. I can proudly say I have not been conning children out of any money. I can almost say I didn’t even try. (It’s Zhenya. Someone has to twist his arm, so it might as well be me, yeah? :) Though, as for the handful of adults who crossed my radar… they’re fair game.

The best part of this week hasn’t been raking in money tenge by tenge, but getting glimpses into the social workings of School #1. Little girls who sheepishly send valentines to little boys. Little boys who buy valentines for little girls, running away and then coming back, finally brave enough to sign their names. A teenage boy who saunters in to buy a valentine, with a look that manages to communicate instantly that he is a hopeless romantic. And the dozens and dozens and dozens of valentines sent between girls of all ages. My eighth grade girls don’t even give me a chance to persuade them when they come in requesting 10 valentines and then come back for 5 more. What am I to do? Tell ‘em to buy 20? Gotta leave some candy for other kids. Like Zhenya. Who, fyi, bought zero valentines. I guess there’s always next year…

And speaking of next year, that’s right. I’ll still be in Kazakhstan in February 2012. Crazy! With a nine-month extension, I’ll be here until August 2012. The extension becoming reality hinges on some paperwork and a physical exam, but rather than go into those details, let’s back up and look at why in the world I’m staying, eh?

Rewind to November. En route to play some volleyball, I took a call from a PCV who informed me that PC wanted us to go home three months early. While some volunteers jumped at the news, I was stunned. I had made a commitment to my school. To my community. And I wasn’t about to fall short on my promise. November 2011 had seemed so far away. But August 2011 seemed way too close. I had to figure out how to keep my word and stay until November.

Thus started a multitude of questions, struggles, discussions, prayers, and pro/con lists as to whether or not to apply for an extension. Where can I best serve God? What needs to happen for me to consider a third year successful? What will I do upon returning to the States? Are people here interested in my volunteer work? Is this just me procrastinating? Bit by bit, I answered hard questions. I prayed often. Talked to different people. And in the end, God gave me a peace about another 9 months in KZ. What those nine months will bring is beyond me, but something tells me an adventure or two is tucked in, along with some incredibly good days …and some equally sour ones.

Continuing on this update I’ve got going (feel that inspiration gaining steam??)… a few more stories from the last few months. How ‘bout that little thing they call chronological order?

November
Hadn’t planned on being in Almaty to see the Kaz-22s become official PCVs, but my brain kept me in town for a week after the Turkey-Greece trip. I had been having quite the headaches, with intense pain coming on suddenly, in only the quadrant behind my left eye. The PC doctor gave me his prognosis, but also wanted me to get an MRI to rule out something more serious. And so, I stayed with a dear couple in town and went in for the scan later in the week. In due time, the results came back saying that nothing is wrong with my brain. Praise God! And, I’ll eventually get to have the sweet chart, evidence of how big and powerful my noggin really is. ;) (Another praise/update: a few weeks later, the headaches stopped! God rocks.)

The hold-up in Almaty came at just the right time. Many Kaz-21s were in town, and as mentioned, the Kaz-22s swore in. Noelle and I wanted to attend but got a late start from the place we stayed, and so we took a taxi …to a fuzzy address. Surprise surprise, I don’t recommend this. Taxi driver took us to the right part of town, but we couldn’t find the building we wanted. KZ street signs (read: lack thereof) don’t offer much help to those who aren’t familiar with an area. Result: lots of driving up and down streets, straining to see numbers painted on walls and signs posted behind bushes. Thankfully, with Noelle’s fine Kazakh skills and some phone-a-friend assistance, our patient taxi driver got us to our destination only half an hour late.

The ambassador spoke. People sang. Others danced. A few even played the dombra. And finally, a fine group of trainees became volunteers. I met my sitemate, said hello to Svetlana, and got together with some Kaz-21s to devour some lagman before a long train ride back to site.

The clock was ticking when I got back to Shakhtinsk, my birthday coming closer each minute. I had wanted to celebrate my birthday in grander fashion than last year, but didn’t know how that was going to happen. A local friend summed up perfectly the KZ perspective: Your birthday? Your problem. If I wanted to go to a café, I would have to foot the entire bill. But if I didn’t want to go to a café, I needed a different location – namely, my host family’s living room. I asked a couple of English teachers if they would be interested and able to come over, (assuming I could invite them to our apartment). Then I asked my host mother. And she needed to ask my host father. A day or two later, an opportune moment came and permission was granted. Then came the question, “So Denise, what will you be buying and making for all of us?” …Right. Forgot that paying a host family for food does not mean they pitch in on such an occasion. Refer back to KZ perspective, conveniently written in bold. Now I was faced with the challenge of not only buying all necessary ingredients, but also figuring out what ingredients I needed to make an entire meal to feed 10 people. Daunting. I dared not invite more than four English teachers. With Marly (my sitemate), me, and my host family, I counted 10 heads.

I landed on spaghetti with a meat sauce. Sides of garlic bread, cucumber salad, and applesauce. Dessert thanks to Betty Crocker. Not my culinary heyday, but it was pretty foolproof. I played out what needed to start when, recognizing that an hour would be more than enough time to get everything together. Two hours before teachers planned to arrive, my host mother and sister started panicking for me. Shouldn’t I be racing around the kitchen by now? Am I not worried? Do I not know what time it is? I assured them all was under control. I started the water for spaghetti. Got the hamburger going. And started setting the table …for 6. My family chose to inform me an hour before dinner that none of them would be eating with us. Better to have too much than not enough, I suppose. (Best, though, is spending no more money than necessary on food no one will eat.) Even so, the meal turned out just right, with all of us enjoying a meal that (for me) tasted like home. Happy birthday to me. :)

December
Biggest news from those 31 days came midmonth. At 2am one night, I resolved to move out. Asap. I’ll just say that experiencing a family’s drama from a distance is experience enough. I’m not involved. I don’t want to be involved. Given the language barrier, I can’t very well be involved. So, finding my own apartment seemed to be the best (and quite necessary) option. My 2am resolution was on a Friday morning. The following Thursday, I spent my first night in my own apartment! (My only requirements for my new apartment were hot water and an oven. I moved into one with neither. Ha ha.)

A four-day holiday landed on just the right weekend, so I was able to use that Thursday to move my stuff and Friday to unpack a box or two. Anna, a volunteer with a heart of gold, came down to help me pack up and move. She stayed with me through the weekend, making it lots more comfortable to sleep through those first nights of new creaks.

Little moving-in story: boxes were all unloaded. I had talked to my landlord and counterpart, and they had left. Ahead of Anna and I lay the huge task of arranging furniture and finding all things immediately necessary. And foremost on my mind: we must drink tea. Come on, Denise, who does that?? But so, we searched through cupboards for a teapot. And finally found matches. The lid was stuck on the teapot, so I opened the spout to fill it with water, hesitant about how clean the water would be. But after you boil it, it’s all good, yeah? As the water level rose, I peeked in and saw a piece of paper. Ok, a little dirt in my water is one thing. Paper is another. Next search was for tools to pry off the lid. That success earned us one Kyrgyz banknote. Yep, that was the paper hidden in my teapot. Something tells me I didn’t strike it rich. I sure would like to hear my teapot’s stories, though. (By the way, this all led to the sad discovery that the gas tank was empty. No hot water for us. All that work, and no tea. Such a shame. Good thing the story can legitimately end with me finding money.)

January
January 18th. What started out as a typical Tuesday ended as anything but. I left my lesson at the library with Ira, and we headed over to visit Marina. During the walk and the time at Marina’s, Ira was busy making phone calls to see where people would cut a hole in some ice. Reason: midnight marked the beginning of Kreshenya, a Russian Orthodox holiday meaning “baptism”. Celebrated every January 19th. Someone most certainly selected what is likely to be the coldest day of the year and deemed holy all water that lies below 4 feet of ice. Cruel. For those with skulls thick enough to get in that water, though, is a promise of health. (Note the ambiguity – healthy for a month? A year? Until you get sick? Who knows. I tend to believe option 3.) The idea is to lower yourself into the water three times, and if you’re in a fancy spot, a Russian Orthodox priest will bless you as you perform the ritual.

Having gotten in contact with people in-the-know, Ira and I left Marina’s and waited to be picked up by Sergei. After a trip to my apartment and a few hours of waiting, we followed a minivan out of town. In the minivan (among others): my school director (Svetlana Y) and a PE teacher (Alfiya), also from #1. We weaved our way behind one of the major coalmines and parked next to a few other vehicles. Still bundled up, we walked out on the ice to the hole men had carved out 30 minutes earlier. An inch of ice had already formed on top. I watched in horror as they took a shovel to smash and scoop out that fresh layer. Minus 30*C is no joke.

Somewhere in our time zone, a clock struck 12, ringing in Kreshenya. Svetlana wasted no time stepping out of her valenki and slipping off her bathrobe, leaving her barefoot on the snow in her bathing suit. A ladder had been lowered into the lake until it hit bottom, so she gracefully lowered herself, rung by rung, into the water. She bobbed up and down twice, then fully submerged herself for a few seconds. With poise not at all reflective of the bitter cold, she slowly stepped back out, splashing her face with a bit more water. You’d think she was stepping out of a hot tub. I was most certainly staring with dropped jaw as I tried to take in her every move. Here was a professional Kreshenya participant, and I needed to do what she did.

Ira went after Alfiya, all three of them wanting to get this business over and done with. Dozens of people had gathered by then, and this is not a line-friendly holiday. Ira (who had never before participated in Kreshenya) rocked it. No messin’ around. She went completely under three times before getting back out and wrapping herself in a huge blanket. We accompanied her back to Sergei’s car, where she got out her thermos of sweet black tea and changed into dry clothes.

Though aware I still had the opportunity to pass, I couldn’t turn back. I informed Ira that once she was ready to go back out, I was gonna do this. Less than 10 minutes later, I was on the ice. Gingerly found one rung a few inches under water, and then the next. The wooden ladder was secure, so I just had to make sure I didn’t slip off. Lowered my arms, and forced myself under. Back up, I took a breath. Dunk number two. Came up again, gasping from the shock of the cold. (Why do people do this?!) With much less mental clarity than I had for dunk 1, I pushed myself under for the last time. Back out in the midnight air, I felt sure the water on my face would instantly turn to ice. I moved in the direction from which I had come, grateful for friends who wrapped me in a blanket and put a towel in my hands. Gears in my head grinded against each other, slowly sending the message to whisk some water off my feet and get them back in my boots. We gathered up my things and scampered back to the car. In the backseat, I wriggled into dry clothes after warming up with a cup of tea. I hadn’t died. I hadn’t even lost feeling in any appendages. And just as my mind got caught up to the present, Sergei put the car in reverse and then headed back into town. Twenty minutes later I was soaking up the warmth of my apartment.

Fast-forward seven hours to the first lesson at school. Tatyana and I stood before our ninth graders. One boy looked especially sluggish and when prodded for an explanation, said he had been up late watching people get in the lake. Hee hee, wrong excuse. “Did you jump in?” I asked. “No way.” “Did you see me?” “What?! You got in the water? Weren’t you frozen??” “Nope, and I’m here, ready for our lesson. So you should be, too.” ;)

Thus ends some stories that bring us back to (almost) the present. A lot is left untold, but at least I said something, yeah? And I’ll quietly whisper a resolution of mine for 2011. Shh! My goal is to blog once a month. While it doesn’t sound like much, it also sounds doable! And maybe, just maybe, reflecting on smaller chunks of life will allow me to expand on some of the brief moments that add a little sweet and a little spice to my life in KZ. Because somewhere I’ve got to share about finally connecting to the Internet with the help of two boys, one of whom preferred to flirt rather than make any productive efforts… and about running into Timur after four months of mysterious absence… and hosting friends who stopped by after my bedtime to bring me a cake to cure me of my cold. But in case nothing happens between now and March, I’ll keep those details to myself. ;)