Posts Tagged family

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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Valentine’s Day, and Handicrafts Homeward Bound

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on February 16, 2011

“Valentine’s Day, do you have this holiday? It is the lover’s day.” Or so said more Kyrgyz people than I could count.

I don’t remember this day making such a splash last year, but the other day Sunny Naryn was a bound with discussions of the holiday. While the typical public signs of holiday were missing, namely cakes in the bazaar and pictures in store windows, conversation was buzzing.

I found the first of it with ten of my village coworkers who had come in to Naryn city for a strategic planning session. While they were in for work, the work simultaneously celebrating the successful year passed, and therefore included vodka. The atmosphere was festive, and while the women sat silent, the men only wanted to know if I had a girlfriend, and how we’d be celebrating.

“We are going to make a chicken marinade,” I told them, “and we have a new movie.” This answer was sufficient, and so we toasted with vodka.

That night, as we were well into our movie, I got a delightful little text message from my host dad. He asked if I’d be coming home, and then wished us a happy evening.

The next day I arrived to a hug from my host sister, and a valentine on my bed. It was a glittering heart, was printed in Russian, and was signed, “from your family.” The front featured a little boy in a tuxedo kissing a little girl. A heart had been drawn around the heads, and “Anne and Karl” had been written over each. I thought I was special, but then my host sister opened up the cabinet where she keeps her school books, to show nearly ten valentines tapped up inside.

“In school we all address our cards in put them in an anonymous bag. Then the teacher pulls them out and gives them to each kid. I got eight.” She was proud and giggly. It reminded me of my own grade school, and I marveled at home similar this whole experience seems to be.

My host dad, on the other hand, displayed a different picture. “This is not our holiday,” he said simply. “Besides, in Kyrgyzstan, we have so many holidays. Our country is poor, we need to develop, and all this celebrating doesn’t help.” He has said this about the country’s myriad of festivals before, but still, I couldn’t help by laugh to myself, and wonder if his wife bought the excuse.

In other news, folks, has I’ve been ruminating lately, my time here is coming to an end. Just as I have been wondering what mementos will help me remember my time here, it has come to my attention that some of you all have been similarly looking for something to remember these two years of letters. So, here comes the pitch:

I’m happy to bring home any of the myriad of small handicrafts that I have been working with all this time, namely laptop sleeves and slippers, and if folks really want, I’ll talk to Andrew and ask about those silk/felt scarves. So, go ahead and check out www.kyrgycarl.com/handicrafts. There is plenty of stuff there to satiate your wildest and most colorful fantasies. Slippers will cost about $10, laptop sleeves about $25, depending on the size, and Andrew’s scarves about $30. If you would like something, just give me a basic idea (men’s/women’s, big/medium/small), then I’ll plan accordingly, send an order to ladies, and get the stuff home.

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Reflections in the Snow

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on February 3, 2011

While so much of America was getting pounded with snow this week, so too did we in Naryn get a little bit, though only an inch. While it still took me an hour to clear our whole driveway/compound, it was easy work; easy work that catered well to having a three-year-old helper at my side.
 
Folks, my time here is growing short, and that weighs on me more and more with each passing day. As my host dad stunned me at lunch today, “Carl, I’ve never seen your pictures from home. Would you show them to me?” I complied with his request, and then felt the most powerful homesickness I can recall. There, all of the sudden before us, were the smiling faces of my siblings, the warm embraces of my family; I was shot back to long evenings, falling asleep on the couches belonging to my closest friends.  
 
And at the same time, those feelings brought me back to the present, with a deep intensity. Last night I made paper airplanes and ambushed a screaming host sister, and then I wondered if she’d tell her school friends, “look at this design! It’s how they do it in America.” Later, I helped another host sister with an English paper, assuring her that “200 words or less” didn’t mean a relevant assortment of 200 nouns, adjectives and verbs; but instead a collection of cohesive sentences who’s total component words should total 200. “But Carl,” she said, “it says words, it doesn’t say anything about sentences. 
 
And this morning, as I put off going to work so I could shovel the snow, I made sure my little three year old host brother got dressed and came outside with me. He threw little snowballs at me. And while I batted them away with the snow shovel, laughing together with him, I wondered if he would remember even a single one of our moments together, or if years down the line, the older girls would talk about me, while he just sat quiet, or maybe asked, “did Carl play with me, too?” And later, while he crunched eggshells by the compost, ones I had so gingerly laid out for him, I wondered, how many of these moments, so important to me, will stay in these people’s minds.
 
But that is life for the transient, the temporary guest. My memories are largely my own, for I know that years down the line I will have very few to reminisce with, but so is the path I’ve chosen. But then again, each moment is new, and each brings with it a surprise to turn around my thoughts. 
 
When I broached the subject of a replacement volunteer with my host family the other day, they balked, and it made me happy. “Maybe, if there was another one, a boy, just like you, we could it,” said my host dad. But then he reconsidered as he looked at his daughters. “No,” he said, “we’ve grown accustomed to you. You eat when we eat, you are thirsty when we are. I don’t think we’d want a new volunteer after you are gone.” I smiled and knew I wasn’t a tenant, a source of income for the family. But why did I even need reminding?
 
Or this past Monday, during my weekly banya, I bathed with a guy just a few years younger than me. He said that even though he had no work and no money, he was hopeful, and spent his time going to the mosque to pray. He said he had sworn off alcohol and cigarettes, the real opiates of society. He asked if I was married, and when I would. I asked him if he’d marry for love, or just kidnap a girl off the streets, as is not uncommon.
 
“No, for love,” he said.
 
“Why?” I asked him.
 
“Because there isn’t enough love,” he said so simply.
 
And then, for the next few minutes I basked not only in the depth of his answer, but also its context. Here we were, in a deeply impoverished land, and this young man, with no education, in a community where men want to talk to me about little more than sex and prostitutes, he gave me an answer more profound than I could have imagined. He was marrying for love simply because there isn’t enough love in this world, and he wants to add to it. What better answer is there?
 
And so, these, among so many others, will be my memories. And that leads to the natural question, what will be yours? You, the readers of my letters, when my travels are done, let me be so narcissistic as to ask, what will you all take from all that I’ve shared?

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Smoky Yogurt and Blessings: Happy Birthday

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on October 7, 2010

I once wrote how when my Uncle Dennis died, it was my host-grandmother who provided the only real comfort from anyone in my vicinity. I came to believe, then, that it was not necessarily our host-family relationship that led her to reach out to me, but something more fundamental: only that she is a Grandmother. Cultural differences all aside, I seemed to find myself in the presence of one honest universal: that grandmothers, whomever’s they are, care.

And so it was this morning that I rose to find my near-blind, well hunched and toothless host-grandmother, doddering around the kitchen; ensuring that I had tea and yogurt and leftover sheep for my breakfast. She spoke to me in the diminutive, like always, encouraging that I eat and that I drink, and insisting that I not rush. It was then that I thought I’d mention to her that it was my birthday.

“How old are you, grandma?” I asked, knowing full well the answer.

“86,” she said.

“Today,” I told her, “I’m 26.”

“26?” and she smiled, “you are 60 years my junior!” She was so bright, I knew I’d done the right thing. “Long life, happy life, good family, much happiness,” the blessings just went on and on. Then we sat down, I drank my tea, and dipped sliced of sheep into garlicky salsa.

“I don’t have any gifts for you today,” she said, out of the blue, “so let us say a prayer – To a long life, a happy family, a wonderful life,” and the litany began again. We ended it with the Kyrgyz “omin,” just the two of us, paired with the face washing gesture that ends every meal, and accompanies every prayer. A gesture that has taken on so much significance.

I had living grandmothers of my own once, and I loved them both. I used to listen to their stories, and pull on the papery skin of their hands. I read eulogies at both of their funerals. In one, I asked my family not to let the bonds she had built for us fall into neglect with her gone. At the other, I imagined her waiting at the gates of Heaven, patiently, for the time when we could run, like children, into her arms again.

Even while writing this now, I have just received a call from a coworker, another grandmother, to dole out even more birthday blessings; I don’t even know how she knew. Was it intuition?

Family, host-family, friends, girlfriend, coworkers – this story, my story, has been over and over, all about them. And I wonder, is this the story of Peace Corps? Or is it, simply, just the story.

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I Have No Wiener

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on September 9, 2010

A more accurate translation of my host-brother’s comment is probably, “I no longer have an uncircumcised wiener,” but coming from a three-year-old in a swaddling fleece blanket and sporting a very grim countenance, this kind of statement is a tough sell.

See, what he had used the work chochok. This word specifically refers to a young boy’s uncircumcised penis. By Kyrgyz custom, a boy is snipped at age three. Of all the things he could have told me in that moment, this was the one I already knew.

It was sweet, really, in it’s vulnerability. I’d been gently getting in between him and his cartoons, some anime in Russian that he surely couldn’t understand. He turned to me, so quietly, and just said, “I have no chochok,” perhaps his first coherent utterance of value in our year together. “My dad’s friend cut it.”

Then, with a pure, child like desire for sympathy in shared experience, he asked me simply, “is yours like this too?”

I felt like the big brother he didn’t have. Just someone to tell him that he’d been through it himself, and it would be okay. I couldn’t tell him in America we do it right after birth, that there was no way I could sympathize with his pain. But to his soft little face, squinting through a perpetual wince; waiting; there was only one thing to say.

“Yeah,” I answered, “mine’s like that too.” And then he went back to his cartoons.

Of course, this isn’t how the evening ended. This is a big event out here, the cutting of the wiener. Normally there is a party, but my host-dad said we were in no hurry for that. Instead, we just invited over a few relatives, and made a nice dinner. Not of course, that my little host-brother cared one way or the other. He was more interested in sitting in one place and not moving at all.

He was also getting wise to a particular cruelty of the standard selection of drinks around the house: from mare’s milk to weak tea, everything is either vaguely fermented or lightly caffeinated. This means we can only provide him with diarrhetics, and urination is something he most definitely wants to avoid.

(He only did that once while I was home. I was digging for garlic in the garden, trying desperately to remember the word for worm, while he, already an accomplished screamer, was yelling at the top of his little three-year-old lungs.)

When the first of the guests came over, an aunt from the other side of town, she was warned, “don’t ask the little guy how he’s feeling, and definitely don’t mention the cut. He’s not in a very good mood.”

An understatement, to say the least.

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Green Salads and the Bloggers of Tomorrow

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on May 18, 2010

It’s a wonderful, happy world here in Sunny Naryn. For those of you who hadn’t heard the news, we had a little bit more revolutionary violence in southern Kyrgyzstan last week, and there was some fear that things could get really hairy. But the Kyrgyz people showed their true colors when they rallied together and kept everything cool. It’s just a wonderful time to be here.

On top of that, there is more cause for celebration. This past weekend, I had, for the first time in recent memory, a fresh green salad! We had skinned cucumbers, cabbage, and onion greens from the garden. Mix this together with pepper and mayonnaise, and it was like a little taste of forgotten magic.

The milk, folks, is getting cheap, too, as the cows now pasture in the nearby hills. That means yogurt, cream, and lots of fermented cow milk. Folks are even telling met the kymys, or fermented mare’s, milk will start flowing from the mountains soon!

With the weather truly warm, and the politics seemingly settled, it’s like sitting in the dawn of a bright new day. And with that in mind, I’ve paired up with another volunteer to help teach Naryn’s very own Future Bloggers of Tomorrow. Attracted by the exciting and dramatic success of KyrgyCarl.com (not really), these girls, part of the US Embassy’s gceKyrgyzstan.ning.com project, have gotten the blogging buzz. Their school’s are well equipped with American funded computers and Internet. They are sharing their culture, goals and dreams with the wonderful world that is the Internet. We all firmly believe, that with the right tutelage, they will be the best the world has to offer.

Back at the home front, I’ve finally gotten my compost heap up and running. It is sitting in an old wooden box in the back, but with the right mixture of green and brown matter, it is starting to heat up (Thanks Corey and Farmer Dan!). I convinced one neighbor kid to stick his hand in there and feel it, and now he believes I’m some kind of magician. Who knows, folks, I might even develop a following.

And speaking of home, after we dug up that stump out back, remember, my host dad said, “we’ll put a new room there, and tear down this old one!” I hadn’t believed him. But he’s proving me wrong. We’ve officially laid the foundation for the new room (which, when finished, will sport a big south-facing window), and are tearing down the old one.

As I emerged from my house this morning, I found the men already working, having made great headway tearing down the old room, that used to service as a mudroom. As a result of their efforts, our shoes were scattered all about the yard. As I looked around for mine, I came to a loss.

“Guys, have you seen my shoes around?” I asked, gazing at the man on the roof, and his nice black, leather boots.

“What did they look like?” they asked.

“Brown leather!” I replied.

“Oh, these?” It was the other guy, sitting on the steps. He was pointing to his feet.

They say, folks, that Kyrgyzstan has a collectivist culture. Sometimes, I believe them.

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Welcome to Women’s Day!

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on March 10, 2010

For those of you who may have been caught unawares, this past Monday, March the 8th celebrated International Women’s Day. This holiday, once a domestic affair in the Soviet Union, has, since it’s fall, burst with excitement onto the international stage. (That last line was a blatantly sensationalized way of reporting that this holiday is still celebrated in the former USSR countries…)

That being said, it really is a wonderful affair. Where some women complain that it serves as just another excuse for their husbands to take them out to eat, and then get drunk themselves, all the while patting themselves on the back, this was not my experience (not exactly, any way.)

On Women’s Day Eve, my dad made dinner, all by himself, and the family girls all received it to high acclaim. The dish, a winter time variant of dimdama: beef, onions and potatoes cooked together in oil, was tasty. Unfortunately, by no fault of my father’s, we had to eat carefully, as we’re getting down to some of the rougher cuts of the winter cow, and little bone fragments are becoming more frequent.

The next day, Women’s Day proper, was a bona fide feast. After being called to dress a slim 30 minutes before the guests would arrive, I found myself in the dining room with 5, only one of whom I’d met. Four were women, and the fifth was a short, happy little Kyrgyz guy with a round face. When I introduced myself, as I do, as Kanibek, he laughed aloud and told me his was Michael.

Lunch was defined by salads, fruit, and the famous Kyrgyz boiled meat and noodles, the national dish we call besh barkmak. Plus, of course, booze. Usually I refrain, but I had a headache, so matched Mike shot for shot. We shared toasts all around, and he had fun with me, among other things, admiring my golden, curly hair, and the high quality of my shoes, which he insisted I open a business importing.

At the end of the meal, after many toasts to the women among us, conversation took a turn towards the most recent hot topic, democracy.

“Kanibek,” Michael said, “which country that you’ve visited has the best democracy, China, Vietnam or India?” Then there was some stifled laughter, “or here?”

I thought about Chinese censorship, and the travel restrictions I found in Vietnam. I thought about Kyrgyzstan, and then said, “India.”

“But Kanibek,” one woman with a row of gold teeth asked, “there is so much difference between rich and poor there, how can their democracy be real?”

I had to think for a second. “Every country has this problem,” I said, “but India is on the right path.”

It hadn’t been my intention, but this last comment silenced the room. We just sat then, thoughtful, wondering, before my parents, the excellent hosts, gathered everyone up for an “omin,” the traditional finishing of a meal, and we moved on.

The day wasn’t over yet, though. My sisters, having seen me down shots, wanted to, among other things, play chess with me. Needless to say, they were delighted with the results.

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Meat with Rice is Good

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on March 3, 2010

So, that warm snap I encountered in Bishkek last week has been creeping towards us Naryners here in the highlands. Where Bishkek was a mud puddle, we are simply awash with melted snow.

I guess I had forgotten how much snow we got over the winter, and how, in most places, it was never removed, but simply packed down. Aside from the heaps of snow piled in the limited green space along (and in) the roads, many of those roads and sidewalks sport ice or heavily packed snow as much as 6 inches thick!

This all means the amount of slushy water that has infiltrated the city is beyond the pale. I have never seen puddles this big in my entire life. They’ll occupy entire an intersection at the end of an alley, and submerge your foot to the ankle, like after a big rain in Chicago. But these puddles have no plans of going anywhere. Furthermore, they’re filled with snow and slushy ice, and bear an uncanny resemblance to the regular snow and ice we’ve had since October. That means, unless the guy in front of you just made waves, you’re unlikely to be able to tell the wet from the dry.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, the melting icicles on the eaves of tall buildings are big like lightning bolts, and scare even the savviest of men. People can be seen marching around on their roofs, shoveling off big sheets of snow. I’m just waiting for another cold snap though, when these giant puddles turn our fair city into the largest urban skating rink the world has ever seen.

But, like all good cold-weather people, this nonsense hasn’t put a damper on a thing, and its business as usual. At work, our handicraft business course, which was originally supposed to start today, has been delayed, for a second time, to the 15th. Something about money, overlapping skill-sets, and an inkling suspicion that this same thing has been done before…

And at home with my lovely family, my homestay mom has just celebrated her 40th birthday. No one told me about this until I got home from work, but that was okay, as the whole celebration was decidedly subdued. We had cake. My dad gave silly, yet meaningful toasts. Aijamal, the six year old, presented a book half filled with pictures she drew of horses and mermaids, put it in a bag, and tied it all up with a scarf.

In fact, it was Aijamal, the Christmas whisperer, who really stole the show. She’d been a bundle of energy all day, just laughing and saying anything that’d come into her head. And one of those things, she said, while standing on her chair at the dinner table, after taking a bite of her rice with carrot shreds and boiled beef, was simply, “meat with rice is good, huh,” as if she was having it for the first time.

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Sledding in the Ruins of Russia

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on February 10, 2010

Never fear! The cheelde is currently in the process of chik-ing! The cheelde, the forty coldest days of the year, come in and out with the bitterest cold of it all, and so far, February has been absolutely biting. While the present is positively painful, according to the locals, the end is in sight.

While that means it will be warming, it doesn’t mean other things, like fresh vegetables, will be returning. For the last two months or so, we have been living the high life with winter Mandarins, those tiny little oranges I remember from America. While at home they only seemed to be in abundance for two weeks or so, they’ve been a saving grace for what seems like all winter so far. Mostly from China and Pakistan, we’re starting to see their quality wane, and its clear the time of the Mandarins will soon come to pass.

Our diet these days is almost entirely dough based starches, like bread or noodles with frozen beef or fatty mutton, onions and potatoes. Top that off with the simple delights of honey, home made jam, and salads made last fall of tomatoes, garlic and onions, or red beets, and along with tea and fermented milk, that pretty much sums things up here in Sunny Naryn. Its amazing how much you can make with so few ingredients.

But life here is by no means as limited as our diet might suggest. While the instability (and the recently doubled rate) of our electricity keeps everyone on their toes (and their oil lamps on hand), there’s plenty of fun to be had in this hilly land of snow. Namely, in the suburb of Internat (not to be confused with Al Gore’s Internet) there is what used to be a ski-lift. I had heard the stories of this thing, and seen the ghostly apparatus trailing into the mountains, but didn’t believe it still worked.

Then this past Saturday, as I was shoveling out the driveway with my homestay father, he mentioned that we might attend, as a family, and I whole heartedly agreed. What we found was a happy collection of Naryners, perhaps 500 strong, just out and about, having fun standing around in the packed down snow, or climbing high to ski where it was still three feet of untouched fun.

While the old Soviet rope-tow wasn’t working, that didn’t stop the trailer/shack from renting skis and snowboards, nor the local kids from pushing their sleds on people at fifty cents for the day.

We came prepared with a thermos of tea, a dozen large fried dumplings, a little sled, and the rubber mat that is meant to protect the floor of our car from snow and mud. While the sled worked well, and kept its riders dry, I pioneered lying stomach down on the rubber pad, and cruising like a walrus through the crowds. More than once I heard, “Hey bro! Where are you from?”

We hiked and frolicked and hours later, landed home, cold, wet and happy. What more could ask from a Sunday?

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The Vast and Exciting Land of Kyrgyzstan

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on January 20, 2010

Kyrgyzstan is a vast, exciting and varied country. I spend the vast majority of my time home, in Sunny Naryn, but I’ve just returned for a veritable extravaganza of domestic traveling.

From my jaunt with Tamerlane in Darkon, I headed east to the center of University and tourist life in the northern country. Set on the idyllic shores of Lake Issyk Kul, Karakol surely ranks among the most wonderful towns in the country. It sports 75,000 people, and gaggle of universities. Many Russians (complete with their money and western mentality) never left the place, and that gives it an air much different than Naryn. This air, among other things, includes night clubs, peanut butter and applesauce.

From there it was to the Wisconsin Dells of Kyrgyzstan, Cholpon-Ata. This tourist town on the north shore of the lake, sports high quality hotels, that, in the winter, go for low low prices. This combination led our PDM to offer a strange bit of high luxury. My room, for example, included a Jacuzzi.

After three solid days of socializing, networking and, in tandem with our local counterparts, learning how to design and manage community based projects, on the boot heels of a giant celebratory bon-fire, the vacation was over. While many headed right home, I made my way back to the metropolis of Bishkek.

I was a man on a mission. I had handicraft samples to buy, high INGO officials to meet, and big groups of volunteers to connect with. I started my trip meeting with a supply chain analyst who works at the UNDP. We finished a proposal together for a central web-based marketplace for Kyrgyz cooperatives country wide, and then rolled on over to the Asian Development Bank to present it. Could this be the project that defines my service here? Only time will tell.

From there it was to an underground bar with no name that we PCVs refer to collectively as The Dungeon. It’s a smoky meeting ground for Bohemian youth of all nations, and it brews its own beer. Along with other escapees from the PDM conference, that weekend also included a gathering of PCVs charged with monitoring our safety, namely, those who hold the title, “warden.” With this collection of great minds from all over the country, there was never a dull moment.

And as with all trips away from home, I’m lucky if I can spend some time with friends I’ve made who don’t travel much. This time, it was my homestay family from Ivanovka. I spent just one night with them. They understand me. My 13 year old sister said, “boy, your language hasn’t gotten much better.” And she was right. We spent the rest of our time playing, or talking, explaining things slowly, helping me learn.

I then left in a cheap van through a worsening blizzard surrounded by my best friends in country. When I arrived at home, my family noted my cough and cold and commanded, “eat this lump of garlic. Drink some boiled milk with honey, and then go to bed. We’ll get you healthy in no time.”

Life. Way to go.

Originally Written January 18th, 2010

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