Now, I must admit, all this talk about my service ending must seem a little strange, being that it is more than three months away. After all, if I were studying abroad, my semester would be just beginning! But here, the transition is a very real, very delicate thing, and it is the subject of my letter again today.
Just yesterday, folks, one of the Peace Corps brass came down from Bishkek to survey the potential placements for the next batch of volunteers. She is Lelia, a happy young Russian woman whose Kyrgyz is halting, but graciously makes the effort. She told me that she would be meeting with my organization at 8:30 in the morning, and I said I’d be happy to attend. (My organization, of course, being the rural development NGO that I work with on paper, not the UN office where I spend my days.)
Of course, the meeting was postponed until 9, and the the director didn’t show up until 9:30. He took us to his office, in an old Soviet government building, the kind with a Brutalist cement exterior and soft marble floors. He didn’t have the key, so we waited a little bit longer for his accountant. The meeting went on for about half an hour, my organization not having prepared any information, and clearly giving answers on the fly. I had told them repeatedly that I had come upon them by chance, and if they did not get their acts together, I wouldn’t be replaced. While they will surely put a new volunteer here in Naryn city, whether they will be placed with this cohort of yahoos is too soon to tell.
From the city it was out to the villages, some of my favorite places on Earth. The first of the two was a little spot called Uchkun, or “Flash.” I have worked with this village before, have done handicraft trainings there and even gotten them a brand new sewing machine. When we strolled into the village government building, it was as if we had stepped into a broken record, but just a little poorer. The building was more dilapidated, and teh floors were cracked cement. But the one heated room smelled like kymyz, and featured bearded old men who nodded solemnly at nearly every question we asked. “Yes, a volunteer could help us here,” they said, and then smiling, “this place is full of problems!” But as I looked around, I could tell Leila wasn’t being shown the kind of thing that makes a community look like it’s ready to grow.
So I made some phone calls, and next thing I knew we were on the way to the handicraft workshop and the new sewing machine. The owner is a thin woman with smiling eyes and a sad lips. Her office is covered head to toe with more color than one could imagine finding in a snowy brown village. I pointed out the pride that had clearly be taken in sewing her rugs, and she talked about why she didn’t sell her articles in Bishkek, “we can’t afford to front the money while the souvenirswait to sell,” she said. Then I told Leila, “look around, surely they can, at least a little bit; they just need a volunteer to help them plan.” Just then a man came in, having seen some foreigners around, and tried to sell us a fox fur hat he had made, high quality and a fraction of bazaar prices. I used this as a vignette.
“See Leila, there is energy here,” I said, knowing full well that this was not enough organization to support a full time volunteer.
But then we moved on to the hamlet of Dostuk, or “Friendship.” It is a little town made up of equal parts single family homes and 12 unit apartment buildings, set on the site of a small damn. In Soviet times it housed electricians and engineers. Today there is a prosperous family there that runs the village government and a handicraft cooperative. They were a little anxious that we were 5 minutes late, and when we arrived, introduced us to the movers and shakers. “This man is my husband,” said the co-op leader, “he is the mayor. This is a Kyrgyz teacher who will teach Kyrgyz language to the volunteer, this is an English teacher who wants to setup some English clubs. These women here work for me, and these other women just want to see what you are all about.” While Leila talked, her posters pinned with sewing needles to a stack of felt, some other women kept sewing rugs and seat cushions in garish pinks and modern browns. It was a community effort, through and through. Finally, I thought to myself, someone I have worked with who knows how to put on a show.
But that is only the story of replacing me personally. My projects, for better or for worse, will go on. Most notably, in fact, is the laptop sleeve project by a new volunteer, one placed in a relatively affluent area by the Lake Issyk kul. When he first arrived, we talked a bit about the project, and even tried to sell some stuff together in New Jersey. After I hadn’t heard from him in a while, he shot me a well meaning text message with a website address. Folks, this young man, Andrew is his name, has taken my work and blown me away. Check it out, folks, its well worth a look.
