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).