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.
Oh my goodness, I was on the edge of my seat to see if you would make your train! :) I love these updates, Denise. I'm so sorry to hear about the loss of your student, but congratulations on the new baby in the family!
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