Two Stops Past Siberia

On my last night in Naryn, I came back to my homestay house relatively early. I came in to finish packing my bags. My host family called me in for tea, and the distance was a little strange.

 

It was strangeness compounded on a strange “farewell” dinner we’d have the night before. My host family had cooked dumplings and invited over two women somehow related to them, women I’ve seen many times. We had dumplings and champagne, everyone took turns saying toasts to my parting, mostly wishing me well, and telling me to greet my family back home. I didn’t really feel like the center of attention, though: my host dad was engrossed in a war movie (it being WWII Victory Day, after all), and the kids were coming in and out, enjoying the nice weather. One of the women almost choked me up when she talked about how we had become like family, but when I looked over to find my host mom not paying attention and my host dad slamming down dumpling, the moment largely passed.

 

To be perfectly honest, I was a little worried that I’d really turn into a sobbing shell of a man right there at the dinner table, and so this total lack of ceremony was a bit of a relief, if a little anti-climactic. I received a couple of hats as gifts, being told that they were auspicious, and then the women left, needing to get on home. Then I excused myself from the table to start the packing process. It was all very matter of fact. But that was the night before I actually left.

 

On the actual night, things were even more awkward. When I got home they called me in for tea, and we finished off some of the left over dumplings from the night before. I took the opportunity to mention that I wouldn’t be spending the night at home, but needed to help my girlfriend pack, and would be doing that late into the night. The family kind of looked around at this news, but then just went on eating, so I got up from the table early, again to continue packing. Then I got distracted and set to mulching with some old Peace Corps papers, and spread the rest of our compost around the currants. My host family called me in for tea and grits a little later, and once again didn’t mention anything as I got up and retreated to my room.

 

Then, as I was taking down the maps and photos that have come to adorn my walls, my host dad popped in. We talked a little bit about some family news, and then drifted into which items to focus on packing first. It wasn’t long after we went down that road, though, that my host dad just said, “we can’t talk about this. I’ll start to cry,” and left the room. 

 

Then, as I finished getting the last of my belongings into their bags, my host mom drifted in. I took the opportunity to explain to her about some of the vitamins and various lotions that I’d be  leaving behind. With everything tied up, then, I pulled out a cryptic bureaucratic ritual I hadn’t had time yet to take care of: the form that said I’d paid my last rent check and would be leaving debt free. My host mom thought it was a little funny and said, “where do they ask if you’ve finished all your weeding?” Then, when my host dad swung by again, I told him I needed him to sign was witness. Then I dropped my final payment on the floor, since they won’t accept money from my hands after dark. My host just said, “I don’t even want this.”

 

Then, as the kids crowded around my door, my host dad stood up, and I realized what was behind all the awkwardness of the past days: everyone was really, really sad. My host dad almost melted before my eyes. He stood up, and I could see he’d already started crying. He pulled me in close, for the Kyrgyz style goodbye, where you shake hands and touch heads. But it wasn’t enough, and we fell into full embrace. Then he looked me in the eye, said he’d miss me, and we hugged again. Then, perhaps to be alone with his thoughts, or just his tears, he left the room and I didn’t see him again.

 

My host mom stood up next, and her face was a blotched with red. By this time I couldn’t keep myself from crying either. She pulled me in, and amidst the sadness their was no clear embrace, whether to do a kiss on a cheek, or just have a real hug. She cried when she pulled away, cheeks streaked with red, and moved aside for the girls. Aigerim, the 12 year old, cried without stop. I held her and patted her back. It wasn’t deep conversation or familial bond that she was going to miss. What we had shared was proximity, and the trust it had spawned. I told her not to cry, only knowing that to say, even though we were all crying together.

 

Kalima, the 14 year old, who is a little more mature, and a little more serious, stood further away, leaning against the edge of my door. She told me that there would be no hugs, but I wouldn’t have it, I couldn’t not. It was the first solid embrace that I was sharing with them, and with each hug we seemed to get sadder, becoming more aware of the grief.

 

Aijamal, still only 7, let me pick her up, though she didn’t like it. She kept clutching a toothache. And then it came time for Aidin, the three year old boy. He was my little buddy all winter. He’d help me crush eggshells in the frozen compost and shovel the snow. I had taught him how to play with my cell phone without sending blank text messages. On days when my host dad didn’t come home and Aidin wouldn’t leave the house, I would be the only other male that he’d see. At first, he didn’t seem to understand all my packed bags, the naked walls, or why everyone was crying. So I picked him up, let him sit on the crook of my arm, and just said, “Aidin, I’m going away. I won’t be coming home.” He didn’t reach in for a hug even say goodbye, just, in his toddler’s simplicity, muttered, “you’re leaving me all alone,” and then asked me to set him down.

 

Folks, I knew that my host family isn’t the emotional kind, so I had decided to set this moment for goodbyes. Had I spent that final night, we wouldn’t have been able to set a goodbye moment like this, lest it feel artificial, and then, as everyone left the next morning for work at their various times, it would have felt empty, wrong, absent of formal goodbye. But in this moment of weepy catharsis, things were almost harder. As I finally walked out to the door, no one was there, all still in my room, presumably in tears. My host mom offered my last words, fallen back on the safety of matronly tradition, “I’ll make you some small round bread for the road,” she said through tears, “pick it up with your luggage tomorrow. I won’t be here when you leave.” And with that, she stood by the door, facing away from me. After I put on my shoes and started to walk out, no one was left; just me, walking into the darkness. And with that, left alone, I really started to cry.

 

And that, was, by far and away more emotion packed into fewer minutes that I’d experienced thus far. We had lived together, worked together, come to trust each other, to exhibit the unspoken bonds of family. And, then as it became clear that I’d be going away, and changing those relationships we’d cultivated so slowly, the pain hit all at once.

 

But that was a couple of days ago, folks. Things are quite different now. I’ve been in Bishkek three days already. I’ve been running around, filling out forms, completing paperwork; I even saw my host grandmother, who is in Bishkek with a new grandchild. Officially now, as of one hour and nineteen minutes ago, I have finished my Peace Corps service. I have done what, over two years ago, I so dramatically set out to do. I have less than 6 days left in country now. I’ll be eating out and relaxing, experiencing Kyrgyzstan in all the magnificent danger than comes with being unemployed.

 

And that, folks, after this long email, marks the end of our journey together! Writing these letters has been a labor of love. In many ways, sitting down for weekly reflections has been very healthy for me. In others, when times were tough, I always seemed to have letters of encouragement coming back from you. Some of you responded frequently, others only every so often. Some of you pass these letters along to friends, others read them out loud to people you know. I am honored to have had such a supportive community in my life as you all, and even now, thinking that this relationship, long distance as it may be, brings me to tears.

 

So farewell. In truth, I do intend to write one more letter, from the wilds of Chicago: a post script, if you will. So, please, if you’ve been reading my letter all this while, but not saying hi, drop me a line. Let me know you’ve been reading. I’ll respond to every letter, as always.

 

So, lest I get too mushy, even via the impersonal world of electronic mail, I’ll just cut this off now. It’s been great folks. Thanks for the wonderful ride.