Archive for category Letters

The Wilds of Chicago (My Epilogue)

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on May 23, 2011

So, I have been in America almost a week now. Sleep deprivation before and during my marathon 30 hours of travel have helped ensure that my jet-leg has been decidedly light. My flights went off without a hitch, and even the six hour layover in Moscow was made absolutely pleasant thanks to the company of an Austrian guitar player returning from India with a sitar. His name was Peter.

Folks, Chicago is largely as I remembered it, and I have taken great solace in that. My family is still the same: we make the same jokes, share the same banter, and also the same love.

Some things, though, have struck me. I was immediately bowled over when I walked into my childhood home on account of all the wood. Wood door frames, wood floors, wood paneling. Naryn was a mountainous, poor place, where wood came only at significant premiums. I also noticed how tidy everything was. Each picture on the wall and each rug on the floor was so fitted to its spot. Even messes were tucked into drawers and behind doors. All the furniture matched.

Our house also seemed palatial. There were just rooms upon rooms, enough to get lost in, or so it seemed. My mother’s magnificent gardening left me speechless, the yard already flush with colors; my piddling with root crops in Naryn paled instantly in comparison.

Folks, some friends of mine met me at home the day that I arrived, and others were more to come. I have noticed that while my home and family feel like safe zones while I readjust to things that I once knew so well, it is before my friends that I get nervous. I spent a day canoeing on the river with my best friend Matt, and we connected as if there had never been a separation. But when he invited me to a barbeque a few days later, I got nervous.

These were people I had known, but since then I have changed. Prior to attending, I made a series of comments planning my escape from the party, if it got too late. This is appropriate in Kyrgyzstan, where pressure to stay and relax can often stymie other plans. My friend Matt got a little quizzical and just said, “Carl, no one is going to force you to stay if you need to leave. Don’t worry.” When I arrived, I felt almost in a daze, unsure of how to talk with the group, unsure of how to approach people; it was no longer appropriate to seek out every male to shake his hand, and just ignore all of the women. There was no sheep to be slaughtered, and no table cloth on the ground to sit around. No one, even, to insist that I sit down and have some tea.

But there again, came Matt, among those who know me best. He asked his roommate to procure some beer I’d like, and then made me a plate grilled delectables, somehow knowing I was still uncomfortable. He made jokes, wondering if the absence of boiled sheep had left me longing.

And it was here, at this social gathering that I got the first inkling as to the effects of my letters. No one really asked where I’d been, or what I’d been up to. That was common knowledge. Some people used their familiarity with my life to tell me all about theirs, and I soaked it up with relish. Others displayed almost encyclopedic knowledge of my letters, and wanted to know about all the things I must have been leaving out.

Between my family, my home, my closet friends, and these weekly chronicles of my past adventures, it seems I have been gifted with a wide bridge with which to reenter the land of my birth.

Since then, I have attended the two events that dictated the terms of my return home: my older sister’s graduation from law school, and my young sister’s graduation from university. Of all things, it has been these ceremonies that have helped me process much of what seemed so foreign, and so extravagant while I was away.

The professors at graduation, dressed up in colorful wizard robes and funny hats left me feeling that the traditional costumes of the Kyrgyz aren’t really so crazy after all. The overly formal language involved with dispensing diplomas reminded me of all that Kyrgyz language I could never seem to understand. The dreary singing before my sister walked across the stage left me feeling that the average Kyrgyz, singing in groups at parties while out to dinner, are pretty solid vocalists after all. For all the perceived differences I found out there, the American commonalities seemed pretty overwhelming, when looked at with the right kind of eyes.

But more than any other feeling, folks, it has been like putting on glasses again, for the first time in much too long. Things here are just clearer to me than the had been in Sunny Naryn. I can understand (almost) everything that everyone says, regardless of accent or context. I know when it is appropriate to get out of bed, and when it is fine to express my opinion. My jokes translate. It feels like coming home; for that is exactly what it is.

And that is where I am today, relaxing in this palace. I am seeking work in the field of international development, or (perhaps?) writing. I wonder how my instance on doing those things from Chicago will affect my plans. These are the new challenges. No longer will people rain praise before me, simply for speaking their language. That fact that I am living among Chicagoans (with a native family!) will no longer be enough to grant me entrance into just about any room. Once again, I am just part of the scrum. And looking to make my mark here, now a small fish in a very big pond, will be, surely, my next adventure.

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Too Many Tears

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on May 13, 2011

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.

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Another Wooly Success

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on May 6, 2011

Well, my friends of these past two years, I am delighted to say that things came together better than I could have imagined.

So, the folks in last week were a family from Ohio. Back home, they run a mini mill that caters to the exotic fiber industry in America. Through a series of acts of God and other Divine revelations, they decided that they should pack up and move their family, and their mill, to the rural reaches of Kyrgyzstan. I met them last year on a fact finding mission, and organized their return trip last week.

Folks, it was magical. I introduced them to every reliable worker and relevant handicrafter that I’ve encountered over my past two years here. We had a strategic business session, saw a full fledged shyrdak workshop, and then went to the village that, God willing, they will move to within two years time. This year, the crew included mom, dad, and two kids: boys aged 11 and 12. I watched the boys light up at the plethora of local horses, and saw them connect with the local kids, sharing only the international language of play. Mom connected with other village mothers like a champ. At one point, we stopped by a woman who was milling her own wheat. The Ohio mother stopped in to ask why she was separating the wheat germ and gran from the rest of the flower, pointing out that this is where the greatest nutrient lay.

The Kyrgyz mother listened and then said, “if I do what you say, will my sons grow big like yours?” The point was a relevant one: sporting Levi’s that measured 36×30, her 12 year old son towered over nearly everyone else in the village, not hardly to mention the kids his own age. They were like walking advertisements for proper nutrition.

The father, himself a former linebacker, had a moment of his own. Last year, he had met a 70 year old farmer who had stolen his heart, by telling him that he’d love nothing more than to take some American boys under his wing, and teach them about the wilds of his homeland. This year, as we were touring a facility that might house the wool factory, this old man came down from the mountains, on horseback for the sole purpose of reconnecting with the Giant from Ohio. There were hugs and photos all around.

Since their dramatic coming and departure, we’ve really been wrapping up life here in Sunny Naryn. I went on my last hike in our magical hills, and am now delightfully sore, a feeling that I hope leaves me before I get on that plane. I’ve already had a series of going away dinners, and just last night, I cracked out the gift for my host family that I’ve been preparing for so long: a little laptop, packed with as much educational software as I can find.

As I opened the machine last night, my host dad asked first if it was a real computer, or just a gaming console. Then, however, regardless of my answer, his eyes opened wide when I fired up my pride and joy: the complete Rosetta Stone sweet. Every language in one program. All these months of Korean soap operas gave the girls a leg up on basic vocabulary, goofing around with Turkish was like meeting a long lost relative, and they’ve hardly been able to set the English portion down.

As I prepare to leave, I seem to be only concerned with the future. I have these dreams that one day I’ll come back here to find a flowering apple tree and a family with more modern knowledge in their collective minds than I could even imagine.

Now, as I enter the real final stretch, I will spend the weekend with my friends here, doling out our warming goodbyes to this place that has very much come to mean home.

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Wrapping Up; or, The Final Throes

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on April 29, 2011

My time here in Sunny Naryn, folks, is desperately, and quite quickly coming to an end.
 
This last week here has been one of preparation and relax. At the moment, in my possession, are more handicrafts than I can hardly even imagine. Most of these, folks, are for you! Right now, my pride and joy is a little circle rug emblazoned with four reindeer, but designed in such a way that they tessellate into eagles towering over them. Next to that is a brightly colored peacock, made by the cooperative of my friend Andy, the guy who makes silk scarves up on the Lake. Then on down the line are slippers of all shapes and colors, some bright as the dickens with their Bedouin pointy toes, others bearing gentle earth tones and soft, rounded toes.
 
With the wrap up of Trees for the Kyrgyz, 2011, I have only one project left, and for that, I will draw on all of my skills thus acquired. A private business man, an exotic fibers processor from Ohio, wants, of all things, to move his business, and his family, here to Kyrgyzstan. For those of you who remember, I saw him last year. It was then that we proffered this fabulous little bit of dialogue:
 
JC: Carl, the wool here is just fine, but significantly undervalued. Why isn’t anyone else working here?
KyrgyCarl: Because, JC, this is Kyrgyzstan.
 
Somehow, though, that didn’t scare him away, and now he is back, for the second year in a row, further setting the ground work for his eventual transplantation. Now, folks, I have been in charge of planning the Naryn leg of his trip. For this, I have tapped every connection I have, and am bringing together every responsible and relevant businessman I know to come out and meet him. I have used these contacts to arrange meetings with the few Merino wool farmers who still have hung on since Soviet times. To boot, I’ll even be acting as translator. If a thousand fruit trees and lots of handicrafts didn’t cut the mustard, this folks, stands to be my finest professional hour.
 
And I do make that distinction intentionally. If I have learned one thing out here, lest I be trite, it is that professional life isn’t everything. Leaving my host family weighs heavily on me all the time. I have been impressed with my host parents: they make little jokes about me leaving all the time. I think this keeps that fact in the foreground, so the kids can easily prepare. I spend a lot of time with those kids, be it helping the two older girls with their English homework or just tickling the youngsters. Also, I have grown quite aware that their garden will be a testament to me for the rest of the year. I have planted a tree for them, rows of garlic and green onions, and even demolished their dilapidated chicken coop. If I don’t finish these projects, who will?
 
Then, of course, their are my friends. These volunteers who I have been around with, thrown together with for the last two years. Most of all, between Anne, my girlfriend and I, there will be a terrible separation. Living, as we have, with the calendrical boundaries of our relationship pre-defined has been taxing enough, but now seeing that final date bearing down before us seems artificial and wrong. But so is our lot.
 
I have other friends too, folks. Over the last two days, I endured two grueling, 8 hour bus rides to and from the capital city, so as to see off my friend, David and his girlfriend Natasha, the Bishkek expats. It was David who was responsible for my most outrageous days in Biskek,  pumping down the streets, listening to 80’s pop songs in the back of his SUV. They’re relocating to Istanbul, and only the Star’s know when we’ll see each other again.
 
And what, folks, about my returning home? That date is less than three weeks away; an almost non-existent 20 days. My one sister is engaged, the other graduating from college. My parents have plans to sell the house I grew up in, if still a few years down the road. My friends have made new friends in my absence, as they could only be expected to. So where does that leave me? As excited as I am to come back to the people and the places that formed me, I am quite nervous as to how I will fit in. This last week has been slow, and has left me pondering these things.
 
One thing, though, is comical in my mind, and I am curious to see if my homecoming solves it. That folks, curiously enough, has been crying.
 
Now, before you get worried, these aren’t the uncalled for tears that signal depression. No, for the last six months or so, I have been afflicted with super empathy, if you will. The first moment came last winter, just as the dark grips of cold came upon us. Anne and I were watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas. During the penultimate scene, when all the little Whos of Whoville, despite their lack of presents and food, gather regardless in the center of town to sing, I teared up, and even know, as I write this, find myself tearing up again. But last winter, as Anne and I watched this together, I let one solitary tear fall from the rim of my cheek, and land on a DVD case sitting on her bed. The hollow plastic of the case amplified the percussion of that single drop, and Anne’s jaw dropped wide open in guffaw.
 
Ever since then, folks, the slightest hints of sentimentality see my eyes start to well. Thank God there are no life insurance commercials out here, otherwise I’d be a hot mess.
 
So what folks, of this strange symptom? Have I simply grown into a bonafide softy? Need I only spend a few days in NYC, just enough to harden me up? Or are these the latent signs of homesickness, only the tip of the iceberg, scratching the surface?
 
Time will tell, folks, and, truth be told, hardly any time at all.

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The Totally Thorough (and still quite complicated) Tree Planting Success!

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on April 21, 2011

What more can I say? Thanks to your overflowing donations, last Saturday we planted not 500, but 540 fruit trees! A stunning and unbridled success! That being said, though, this was grassroots level work (see what I did there?) and it wasn’t without its frustrations.
It started, folks, in the town of Ananyevo, on the north shore of Lake Issyk Kul. My tree planting partner in crime, Mr. Gold, went up there three days before me to make sure we had access to trees that could handle the tough Naryn climate, and enough of them. He said he toured a number of nurseries, only to settle on one with the particular variety he was looking for run by a quirky little Russian man who said he had been doing this work since 1970. When he wasn’t laughing or explaining root grafting to me, he was digging up saplings and speaking hints of Kyrgyz. When it came time to hand over the cash, though, he didn’t want anything to do with me. “My wife,” was all he said. She was of a similar age, was quiet when she wasn’t laughing, and had until then only played a background role. After we settled our bill and organized the receipts, she showed me the garlic in her garden, and told me how to take care of raspberries.
It was 4 o’clock by the time we left Ananyevo, Mr. Gold, Corey and myself, tucked into our rented conversion van, sitting neatly among all those trees, plus the driver and his two grand kids. We dined on fried fish along the roadside, and didn’t get home until after dark. The driver told me he’d be happy to splash the tree roots with water, and we agreed to meet up the following morning.
It was the next day that we arrived in Emgekchil. This is a village of relative cash prosperity, an oddity in these parts. The cash-on-hand nature of this place is on account of the nearby mountain, flush with gold. The locals here spend weeks at a time digging for gold, and then hours at a time soaking the resulting stone in cyanide, which eats away everything but the metal.
Now, you must be thinking: if this village is relatively well off, why chose it for your tree project? The answer, my friends, is that cash prosperity doesn’t necessarily mean good decisions. Emgekchil also has a high rate of alcoholism. Lots of money may mean lots of parties, but it doesn’t guarantee quality food for the children. Plus, my host-grandmother’s sister lives in Emgekchil alone with only her drunken son. For me, this kind of work always carries a face, and her plight made this village as good as any other.
The relative wealth had led to concerns among the teachers who organized the project, however, that someone might just come along and buy the whole lot out from under me. They decided to place a limit on how many trees one person could buy (we price trees at 10% of their purchase price, largely to pay for transportation and future tree trainings. In the industry, this is called the ‘community contribution.’) While I was taken by the egalitarian nature of the idea at first, when we came to distribute, it backfired: when all was said and done, we had 130 trees left over.
Now, last year’s KyrgyCarl would have just sat down and cried. What do you do with 130 trees that you can’t hardly give away? Truth be told, this year’s KyrgyCarl wasn’t very happy about the outcome either. I was frustrated, but I wasn’t without a clue.
As the throngs were wrapping up, Mr. Gold took me by the hand, and led me away from the trees. “Carl,” he said, “I am going to Togolok Moldo village tomorrow, to pray and make a sacrifice for rain. It is very poor and has a good climate for fruit trees. I’ll take care of the rest of them there, and the people will be very happy.”
It was a risk. While I knew that I could trust this man, I needed to make sure that everything would go well. After all, you all donated this money! How could I not use every bit, and still have a clear conscience? So I called some people I knew in Togolok Moldo, including another volunteer. They agreed to do some monitoring for me, just to make sure everything went well. Then, I agreed to put my faith in Mr. Gold, the man I’d been working with for the last two months. He had never given me a reason to doubt him, and by this time in my service here, I’ve learned that if you can’t let go and trust people, there isn’t hardly a reason to be here at all.
And that folks, was that. I heard from my village spies that the trees were given out at the right price, about 25 cents a piece. Mr. Gold called me exuberant, telling me he sold them all in record time. The next day, he made a specific trip to my house to give me the proceeds. Now, thanks to your generous donations, we’ve planted over 1,000 fruit trees in this far away place, and even left a quality nest egg for future trainings, and to seed next year’s project.
Congratulations.

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Spring Spring! And Hi Ho! Let’s Buy Some Trees!

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on April 13, 2011

While Farmer Dan and I were cavorting about this beautiful country, we were missing some mighty strange weather back here in Sunny Naryn. While it was plenty warm in the low Chuy Valley and the higher regions of Talas, even when I arrived back in Naryn there were still freezing temperatures. One day, amidst a mass of early afternoon sleet, I asked a woman on the street, “is this snow or rain?”
 
My question must have tickled her as she laughed in reply, “rain of course! Can’t you see that Spring is here?” Then we both looked around and laughed together.
 
But now, a week on, Spring is so profoundly here I can’t even help myself: garlic we forgot about last year has sprung up in the garden, and I’ve gone to great lengths transplanting it to last year’s slug-infested carrot patch; I’ve been turning the newly softened compost with reckless abandon; the black currant bushes are already starting to bud (and research shows that rather than make a donut of mulch around their base like for a tree, they prefer somewhat of a mound!)
 
Speaking of trees, my partner in crime for this year’s Trees for the Kyrgyz project (I call him Mr. Gold), is proving to be amongst the most impressive Kyrgyz people I have ever met. Earlier this week he came over to my house, helped tame our increasingly wild apple tree, told me our plum tree wasn’t fruiting because it needed a friend (apparently they don’t do solo living), and then sat down for business.
 
This year, folks, Trees for the Kyrgyz is a significantly different beast. Unlike last year where I just paid the money and some guys showed up with some trees, this year I am grabbing the bull by the horns. Along with Mr. Gold, we are together going to a nursery on the magnificent shores of Lake Issyk Kul to pick out the trees ourselves. Then, we have hired a man with a conversion van to help us transport them to Emgekchil, this year’s project village. Last year, I wasn’t involved in any of this. For those of you, folks, who have been reading my letters this past year, have seen my personal growth, and all of these new tasks represent the fruition of it.
 
Now, after we get the trees to the village, we have even more grandiose plans afoot. This year, the project is being hosted by a volunteer named Aaron. He’s already organized the buyers together, and even prepared a little spot in his school where we will plant two trees. After doing the follow-up Spring-keeping training in Orto Nura (last year’s village), Mr. Gold recognized that many trees had been planted too closely. So, this year, we are requiring all purchasers to attend the planting training, so Mr. Gold can explicitly show them, among other things, how far apart the trees need to be. (Last year the nursery men told each individual buyer, but as the follow-up training showed, it didn’t always take.)
 
Today, for me folks, is Wednesday. In four days time I will have the incredible luxury of watching another 500 trees go into the ground, thanks largely in part to you all. It will be among my proudest moments, especially with the knowledge that I couldn’t have done it without you.

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Talas, the Russians, and a Very Unwelcome Goodbye

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on April 6, 2011

It has been a whirlwind of a week for Farmer Dan and I. We finished our national training series with a total of twelve sessions, 202 participants (many of whom were teachers themselves) and 15 communities served. I do believe we successfully sapped Dan’s brain of any and all knowledge he was prepared to dispense. Furthermore, his collection of relevant farming literature (all checked out, and soon to be returned to the Madison Public Library) served us well throughout.
 
Where in Naryn we spoke mostly to small groups in intimate places, Talas was all about the classroom. We gave two joint sessions, each serving two separate schools. By the time we were finished, it is no exaggeration to say that we were, officially, famous: the local radio station insisted on having us over for an interview. Through the marvels of mass media, we spread the word about composting: how to do it, and the many benefits. When it was all over, Farmer Dan leaned over to me and said with a grin, “it is as though we are evangelizers for the gospel of composting.” And how right he was.
 
We also had another experience in Talas that rivaled many of the others we had. Since one of Dan’s must-do activities was to bathe in a banya, Corey arranged for us to visit some of his friends, an ethnically Russian family who has one in their backyard. When we arrived there, Corey said simply, “the mother of the house speaks great English, and hosts volunteers for this kind of thing all the time. Still, I don’t know exactly what we’re in for.”
 
First off, it meant, for me, seeing the home of an ethnic Russian for the first time in country. From the first moment, the differences were everywhere. They had two yapping dogs in the backyard, but they were neatly tethered to little wire trolleys running along the foundation of the house. The building’s floor plan was not like a Kyrgyz home at all, but instead quite reminiscent of home. They had a red-headed, freckle-faced boy running around, passionate about showing us his toys and drawings. There were healthy seedlings growing in the windowsill.
 
But then, also like a Kyrgyz family, Nina, the matron of the house, said simply, “when you come to a Russian home, you must eat.” Then she proceeded to display a spread of mashed potatoes, beef stew, cabbage pie, and even a dish of horse radish. I had to wonder to myself, if I had had people like this around me, how vastly different would my service have been? Nina’s father in law was even there, a squinty old grandpa she just called Lyubyoshka. He insisted we match him shot for shot (three with dinner, two after we had bathed), and told great anecdotes, like, “the fall of the Soviet Union can be explained by one Russian proverb, ‘when you need to relax, go to work.’” He also showed us the many paintings he made, and ensured that the banya was incredibly hot.
 
Between dinner and the banya, I wandered into the garden, and my jaw dropped. They had a compost pile, and all their tools were hung neatly on the fence. Every single row was perfectly straight, and they even had over-wintered garlic already beginning to sprout. When we asked if they planned to rotate their crops to a new sport next year, Lyubyoshka just laughed, “I wouldn’t do it any other way.” Farmer Dan, for his part, had trouble picking his jaw up off the ground. “How can it be that these people already know everything I came here to teach?” Surely, a question for the ages.
 
But, folks, the dream couldn’t last forever. Yesterday morning, I dropped Farmer Dan off at the Manas International Airport outside of Bishkek. He had been so agreeable, so interesting, so laid back, such a perfect work partner, I wondered how I had ever gotten along without him, and, moreover, how I would do it once he had left. We had made an incredible team, spreading the word of the soil. At one point, Dan had laughed, “It is funny Car-car, we have never spent anywhere close to this much time together all at once!” And then, it seemed, it was already 5AM, and I was hugging Dan, sending him through the terminal gates.
 
But life moves on, and, in the Spring anyway, it does so with force. Congratulations to everyone who chipped in, as Trees for the Kyrgyz is now fully funded! The date for planting is April 16th, just a short ten days away. And speaking of ten, that number represents about how many more travel letters I’ve yet to send. How will you all ever get along without me?

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More Composting, More Kyrgyzstan, and (almost!) a Whole Bunch More Trees

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on March 28, 2011

Well, Farmer Dan and I have been as busy this week as one could imagine.

From the cold and snowy mountains of Naryn, we headed into the dramatically warmer Chui valley. This is the land of Bishkek, where there is more money, and much more will grow. Dan was surprised to see how prolific the small plastic tunnels are that cover many of the vegetable fields in Chui. Like mini green houses, these cheaply extend the local growing season. Back in Naryn, we only even heard mention of locals using them once.

We went down to Chui on the request of a volunteer named Kristian, as well as Kojo, his organization. They run farmer schools, and were eager to hear the words of wisdom that an organic farmer from America might bring. Here, in this land of relative wealth, instead of crowds of drunks around cars, or intimate sessions inside people’s homes, we conducted our training in a proper classroom.

The room had pictures on the walls of livestock, highlighting relevant parts, like birthing canals. We came in to a group of nearly 30 students, ages 18 to 60, from two different schools, some even ethnic Russians. In this setting, rather than use index cards with plant pictures to play the crop rotation game, we had everyone draw out sample rotations, draw them on the white board so Farmer Dan could comment on them, with his excellent farmer experience. While he may have caught people off guard with his yellow beanie and colorful backpack, once he started getting into detail, the students hung on his every word.

Our lodging there in Chui was different too. Rather than holing up with a host-family, we stayed with Kristian and his wife, in their plush Bishkek apartment. Their problems included showers that were sometimes too hot, and wireless internet that occassionally went out. It was like being in America, but with the most hospitable hosts around. Dan and I decided that the best way to repay them, besides with our excellent company, was with a house plant:Farmer Dan, making the world greener, every step of the way.

Since then, we have traveled up to Talas, where people seem to need a little more pushing. We had a meeting this morning with Corey’s organization, the local farmers union. Perhaps, we imagine, they figured we were too good to be true, and didn’t have venues for us prepared. So we went in to their office, and after a long, jovial conversation regarding bean processing and Kyrgyz-American farmer pen pals, we got to talking compost. Now, I am happy to report, we have two sessions, drawing on four schools, starting tomorrow.

And also, folks, last but not least, I am proud to say that with 36 donors, Trees for the Kyrgyz 2011 is nearly 90% funded. Folks, that means we have only 50 more trees to funded before the project has its official green light. At $17.50, or 5 trees a person, we need just ten more generous donors. Get yourselves to clicking on the box on the top right corner of this site before it’s too late!

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Whoa! Helping the Farmers! Lord! What a Ride!

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on March 22, 2011

I am as excited to write this letter to you all as I have been about any in ages. It is the chest-tingling kind of letter that reminds me all about why I am here, and why I love this work so much.

So, folks, I’ve got my delightful friend, Farmer Dan, here by my side, and he has been that way for over a week now. Dan is good natured and patient. He likes my stories. He is six two and built like the farm boys of old. When he walks into a room, he is quiet and respectful, and always waits to see how the locals act before doing anything himself. This, folks, might sound like shyness, but put him in a garden, and he springs to life.

The state of the state this past week has been trainings. We traveled to nine villages in 5 days and taught upwards of 120 farmers the details of composting, and the basics of soil nutrients and crop rotation. We’ve been a monster team: I talk; Farmer Dan answers questions; and my fellow volunteer Corey sits in the background, watching the crowd, answering questions, taking notes, and facilitating the little games that we’ve set up for the participants to play. (Namely index cards with crops on them so the people can practice rotation patterns.) Then, when we get to the end of the classroom portion, I always ask the groups, “Who lives nearby? Let’s make a compost pile!” And that’s when Farmer Dan in his plaid shirts and sandy hair springs to life.

I can’t keep Dan’s hands away from pitchforks, and he can’t help himself but gather fresh manure. He mixes mounds of moldy hay like he’s been doing it since birth, and waters them like they are his own progeny. He explains his actions with the simplest of terms, and then I translate. After we leave dusty villages and snowy ones, I can’t help myself but to beam: for the first time since coming here, I am directly in the field with a concrete skill to offer. No connection building or grant writing. No esoteric goal setting. I am teaching people concrete skills to improve their lives. No more burning leaves, no more smokey spring evenings, just healthy soil. We are making a difference.

But it hasn’t been just me who has been impressed out here. Dan had the great fortune of being here for Noruz, the traditional Kyrgyz (Muslim) New Years, just yesterday. We took two of my host-sisters to the center of town where we bought ice-cream and watched traditional dancing, had lots of fried food, and even listened to a professional teller of the Kyrgyz epic, The Manas. Dan also got to see the famed At Bashy Animal Bazaar. We bid on a baby yak and trudged around in the mud. We ate grilled meat and drank skunked beer and vodka just after noon, and Dan told us it was reminding him all of college.

Furthermore, my host family has been absolutely taken with ol’ Farmer Dan, despite his chewed finger nails and muddy shoes. He came bearing incredibly thoughtful gifts for the family as a whole (sent by our mothers in America), and brought out candied nuts and other healthy sweets for the Noruz celebration. Between all of these gifts and the honesty which brought him here, my host family couldn’t help but to dote. At the present time, much to the jealousy of nearly everyone around, Farmer Dan is happy the owner of his very own shyrdak, or felt rug. This one made by my very own host mother. When they presented it to Farmer Dan, he was speechless.

Now, folks, as Dan and I have been saying, our talk is going national. Tomorrow we head down to the Chuy valley, where we’ll be teaching the skills of composting to the students of two separate farmer schools. We are curious what kinds of things will go well there: will the participants already about crop rotation? Will our samples of finished compost still make them go gaga?

Then, after Chuy, we head up to Corey’s home base, and will deliver the talk four times in villages around Talas. However it goes, it can’t be more of a roller coaster ride than just the trainings we had today. We started in the most desolate of all the villages we’ve seen. Dan has me looking at soil these days, and this place was practically all white, and the residents said they didn’t have any irrigation at all. When we arrived, the community organizer wasn’t there, and we ended up delivering the talk to an impromptu group of 20 VERY drunk men with our posters taped to the back of a car. They did little more than badger me about how I hadn’t brought anything to give them, and only one came out to actually make a pile. But then, in the second village, we found 9 very sober women. They were quiet and curious, and very graciously corrected my Kyrgyz. Theirs was the most productive village we’ve seen yet, and we built the best compost pile there so far. The ladies hung on my every word, and absorbed everything I could say. It was a nightmare of a morning that turned into a paradise of an afternoon.

How will the rest of our weeks together turn out? Stay tuned, and your very own Kyrgy Carl will be sure to tell.

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Close of Service, and Hi-Ho! Farmer Dan!

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on March 15, 2011

Well, as they say, all’s well that end’s well. And if our Close of Service (COS) conference was any testament to that saying, then I must be vindicated when I write that: all has gone very well.
 
That’s right, folks, this past week saw the final closing ceremony for my class of Kyrgyzstan volunteers. Now, we’re not finished yet, not by a long shot. However, bureaucracy dictates that we must have our big bash sixty days before anyone can actually leave the country. That being that, we had a total ball.
 
This conference, folks, was the last and final hurrah for my group of volunteers. We haven’t had a group-wide meeting in over a year, and this one rivaled them all. Instead of trainings, the sessions were mostly geared towards ra-ra and feedback. We told Peace Corps what we liked overall, and Peace Corps told us what they liked about us. We also had “cultural readjustment” sessions, where we were told about how even if we had no “reverse culture-shock,” unless we take preventive measures, our friends at home are going to quickly tire of the phrase, “Back when I was in Peace Corps…”
 
And beyond the sessions, we also just got our last and final chance to hang out as one big group. And this was, perhaps, one of the greatest strengths of this whole Peace Corps thing. For this one last moment, we were totally surrounded by the very small group of people who, considering the whole experience, we could be totally comfortable around. We had all seen our friends go home early, and we all knew what it was like to see projects totally crushed by revolutions and violence. We could make off-color jokes about the place around us, and everyone knew they were coming from a place of respect and love.
 
But the honeymoon couldn’t last forever, and, as always, there is more work to do. And in my case, the work is among the most exciting kind.
 
That’s right folks, welcome to Composting with Farmer Dan. See, I have a friend in America who works as an organic farmer. He’s been reading my letters these past years, and by the time he saw the Camel Video last fall, he knew that he needed to make the experience real. So, we talked with each other, we talked with volunteers, and we talked with the locals; and then decided on something quite serious: if Farmer Dan wanted to come out and teach the hardworking farmers of Kyrgyzstan but a fragment of the things that he knows, we’d all show him the time of his life.
 
And that, folks, is where we are today. Dan has seen the grand and majestic mountains of Sunny Naryn. He got to see the first formal meeting with the villagers of Emgekchil, as we lay a (much more substantial) groundwork for the Trees for the Kyrgyz project. To boot, he’s also staying with my homestay family and I. The girls are using the opportunity to speak a lot of English, my host-Grandmother is using it to tell dramatic stories of her childhood (“Life was great up until WWII started,” she said), and my host mother harnessed Dan’s cooking skills to make a huge pile of steamed dumplings. Furthermore, when Farmer Dan haulled out the little American gifts he brought for the family, the whole crew lit up. Between the drawing books, the work gloves, and a little tiny Spider Man tshirt for the youngest boy, there isn’t anything but a smile to see.
 
Perhaps, however, until we start the compost trainings in force, Farmer Dan’s strongest contribution has been to the local volunteer community. His first night in town, as he went on about Wisconsin politics and the depth of beet roots, he caught himself and said, “feel free to stop me guys, I could go on about this stuff for days.”
 
“Oh, please continue,” said Anne, ” it doesn’t really matter what you say, since it is essentially the first new thing anyone in this group has talked about in years.”

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