The holiday season is a funny season for the tenderfoot volunteer. It is a time of watching, of waiting, and interpreting everything through a lens of the ever growing cold.
Our Dec. 25th Christmas (as opposed to the Jan. 7th Russian Christmas) started things off. While festive decorations went up around the 20th, aside the occasional Santa Clause, the only direct mention of Christmas comes in the form of “Christmas Tree.” Having these is a common tradition here, and they’re called that, however the date we accept as “Christmas” goes almost entirely unrecognized.
For my sake, my family breaded and fried some fish, a relative rarity in these parts. The complete oblivion surrounding our customs took an ironic form for me, personally. Before dinner on Christmas, we picked up two tons of coal, in the form of 30 large sacks to fill a 3×3x6 foot shed. That makes me, surely, the naughtiest kid Santa has ever seen.
The following day, 13 of the volunteers in Naryn Oblast convened into one volunteer apartment to celebrate American Style. We prepared a spectacular feast, held a Secret Santa, played games and told stories. It was a big slice of the familiar packed into just a few hours.
The period between Christmas and New Years, was one of working uncertainty. See, the name of the game out here is company parties. My Dad and the electricians celebrated one day, the NGO/Government leaders another, then the teachers, smaller companies, students, large families, etc. And with only 3 or 4 real restaurants in town, this means it is wholly unclear when anyone would be actually working, or just preparing for their parties.
Match this with the bitter cold cheelde having tushed (or arrived), means getting bundled up to find an empty office is particularly unappealing.
On the subject of the cheelde, the forty days of the bitterest cold of winter, I’ve learned the first day is not necessarily a unanimously agreed upon event, but for me, one day stands out. As I left the house that morning, patches of frost covered the gate, like lichens, every tree branch in town sported a thick, wispy layer of it, like a sheath of white bark.
As for the Jan 1st New Years (as opposed to the Muslim Noruz New Years holiday in March, or the old Russian New Years on January 13th), the celebrations were quit a bit more subdued than I expected. My family and I had a big meal together, complete with Champaign for toasting. Just after the stroke of midnight, the city erupted. For about 20 minutes the popping of fireworks was nonstop, and we went outside to be awed, locals favoring the big bright ones, over the copious noise makers I witnessed years ago in Beijing. After that initial burst, the cracking slowed down, but continued, intermittently, like a spent bag of popcorn, throughout the night.
Feeling the cold before my siblings, I headed inside, in time to make a toast with just my parents around. I thanked them copiously, for everything, their time, patience, their respectfulness, and eagerness to open their family to me. Their response brought a tear to my eye, “Carl, you’re now part of our family.” What more could I want?
Originally Written January 3rd, 2010
