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.

That history has a long fingers in Kyrgyzstan. Among those are the Victory Day celebrations.

We started here in Sunny Naryn with a festival. Near the center of town there is a park with a giant memorial. Here thousands of people gathered. The entrance was lined with school children dressed to the nines in formal, quasi-military uniforms. We had a small march of soldiers, a 21-gun salute, and speeches by WWII survivors. These men, relics of an older time, came covered in medals. One, pushed in a wheel chair, brought an Uzi.

From there I made my way out to my new second home, the hamlet of Orto Nura. I had been invited under the auspices that they’d be slaughtering not the mainstay sheep, but a supple little lamb. This folks, I just couldn’t resist.

As for my part, I brought some of the fresh produce that has been showing up in the bazaars. Last week I saw radishes for the first time in months, and a large crowd around them. Since then, tomatoes and cucumbers have appeared, and their prices have been dropping. Since they first appeared, prices have dropped by half. My 1 kilo of tomatoes still cost and outrageous 2 dollars, but after we made the steadfast Kyrgyz favorite, tomato and onion salad, it was all worth it.

Before dinner I walked around the village, and checked out some of the new trees, and shopped around my Tree Growers Association. Then, after soft, soft lamb, and it’s intestines tied in knots, we headed out for a walk.

The mountains around Orto Nura are a wonderful thing. While across the river they are immediate, large and foreboding, on the Orto Nura side, they are smaller, accessible. Half an hour in, following one branch of a Naryn River tributary, we found a little house. It was neat an tidy, with trees and a little potato patch. There was a low animal barn around back, and kids in front. As we approached, the matron came out to greet us.

“Come inside!” we her first words, “we’ll have yogurt.”

This was Kyrgyz hospitality at it’s finest. They asked about us, where we came from, what we did. We asked to our own interests, like where the solar panel on the side of their house came from, and if they lived here year round (“no, no,” she said, “we move out in the summer, to the mountains.”)

And then, when I said I hailed from the Great Windy City, she just laughed, “oh! My brother lives there. He drives a taxi, you’ll have to look him up.” The world folks, just keeps getting smaller.

That would lead the reader to assume Spring was on its way, marching steadily towards Sunny Naryn. However, with mountains of snow still lining the streets, and a fresh three inches for the holiday, us locals are feeling otherwise.

With the lion’s share of my family in Bishkek, it was just my host father and Kalima, the oldest daughter left with me at home. Kalima and I went out to check out the festivities in the town center at noon, and found the take-down of a concert in progress, as well as some remaining hundreds of people eating, taking pictures, and just generally enjoying themselves outdoors.

Kalima and I walked around, and I bought some ice cream, on sale in the street for the first time all year. At this point, I’d love to show a wonderful picture of Kalima eating hers with a snowy, crowded Naryn in the background, but when I asked to stage such a thing,  she said succinctly, “If I eat mine now, the boys will throw snowballs at me.” To be 14 here, it seems, is to be 14 anywhere on earth.

My host father showed no interest in celebrating. “I’m young,” he said, “now is the time for working, not partying.” Instead, he was happy to point out subtleties in the pictures I had taken during last week’s wedding.

“See these boys?” he said, “can you tell they are from Bishkek? They look more cultured. And these boys? They’re a little rougher. They’re all Naryners.”

“And what I about this boy?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s the worst of the bunch.” Naturally, we were talking about me.

Then, as the sun was setting on this, the last time the light won’t overwhelm the dark until Fall, I found myself watching a movie when my family got home. I was enjoying a Russian dubbed version of “Doomsday,” a tasteful film which follows the exploits of a small band of modern soldiers stranded in a post apocalyptic Scotland, as they run from tribes of equally barbaric urban punks and rural knights, all the while seeing advertisements at the bottom of the screen in Kyrgyz: “For a fat mare, call…” and “House for sale, city center, fruit tree, shop and banya on premises…”

My mother had left about a week ago, for a medical conference in the capital, and had brought the children with her. When she returned, the quiet house I had been growing accustomed to filled up again. The drying laundry ha been washed wrong, the 2 year old was spilling his tea on the table, and the shoes needed polishing.

All’s happy, well, and normal here in Naryn, folks. One day the snow will stop, but no one is quite sure when.

We started out the week with a team of wool specialists from Ohio who came out on a fact finding mission on the possibility of setting up a mill here. After copious village visits, plenty of meat and greets, and a whole handful of fiber samples, they said,

“Carl, how has no one discovered the potential of this place already?”

“Because,” I told them, “this is Naryn.”

In truth, it was more than that. Not a lot of folks with this kind of know-how are willing to relocate their families all the way out here. But, for the few that are, like these, the potential is endless.

Next, my grandmother came back to Naryn from her wintering in Bishkek. It’s just for a visit, though. She’s in town for a wedding.

See, it’s my father’s little brother’s wedding. Now, while he (thankfully) didn’t steal his bride, that tradition did play a part. First, surely, as was mine, your curiosity is piqued. “Why,” you must be asking, “is this young fella’ getting married in the winter? The sheep are expensive now!” I asked these questions myself, and discovered, among other reasons, the timing of this wedding was dictated by his fiancé getting stolen, by another man.

“It’s a funny thing,” the groom told me, “if he had gotten her past his house, there would have been nothing I could do. But my friend stopped them on the road. Then I got there, we talked for maybe 20 minutes, and then I got her back.”

“Did you go alone?” I asked.

“Oh no. There were 20 of us.”

I can only make inferences as to what happened behind those decidedly casual sentences. But either way, he then went on to tell me how wonderful she is, and how much he loves her. And unlike an American wedding, she spent the whole weekend whisking around, quietly busy, cutting vegetables and pouring tea. And she did it all with an ever present smile. As my little sister and I headed out of the house one day together, and I asked her,

“Do you like the bride?”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“Do you think they will be happy?” I asked.

“I think so,” and she smiled, “the borsok was good. That’s a good sign.”

And if all this magic wasn’t good enough, I’ve also succeeded in one of my other, long standing goals: to enrolled at Naryn State University. While “enroll” is really a strong word, what I mean is that I finally got the nerve to ask if I could sit in on a college level Kyrgyz language course. In my experience, the greatest obstacle to language acquisition is getting too comfortable with your abilities. This course, thus far, is proving, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to show me how limited my knowledge really is.

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.

Our Dec. 25^th Christmas (as opposed to the Jan. 7^th Russian Christmas) started things off. While festive decorations went up around the 20^th, aside the occasional Santa Clause, the only direct mention of Christmas comes in the form of “Christmas Tree.” Having these is a common tradition here, and they’re called that, however the date we accept as “Christmas” goes almost entirely unrecognized.

For my sake, my family breaded and fried some fish, a relative rarity in these parts. The complete oblivion surrounding our customs took an ironic form for me, personally. Before dinner on Christmas, we picked up two tons of coal, in the form of 30 large sacks to fill a 3×3x6 foot shed. That makes me, surely, the naughtiest kid Santa has ever seen.

The following day, 13 of the volunteers in Naryn Oblast convened into one volunteer apartment to celebrate American Style. We prepared a spectacular feast, held a Secret Santa, played games and told stories. It was a big slice of the familiar packed into just a few hours.

The period between Christmas and New Years, was one of working uncertainty. See, the name of the game out here is company parties. My Dad and the electricians celebrated one day, the NGO/Government leaders another, then the teachers, smaller companies, students, large families, etc. And with only 3 or 4 real restaurants in town, this means it is wholly unclear when anyone would be actually working, or just preparing for their parties.

Match this with the bitter cold cheelde having tushed (or arrived), means getting bundled up to find an empty office is particularly unappealing.

On the subject of the cheelde, the forty days of the bitterest cold of winter, I’ve learned the first day is not necessarily a unanimously agreed upon event, but for me, one day stands out. As I left the house that morning, patches of frost covered the gate, like lichens, every tree branch in town sported a thick, wispy layer of it, like a sheath of white bark.

As for the Jan 1^st New Years (as opposed to the Muslim Noruz New Years holiday in March, or the old Russian New Years on January 13th), the celebrations were quit a bit more subdued than I expected. My family and I had a big meal together, complete with Champaign for toasting. Just after the stroke of midnight, the city erupted. For about 20 minutes the popping of fireworks was nonstop, and we went outside to be awed, locals favoring the big bright ones, over the copious noise makers I witnessed years ago in Beijing. After that initial burst, the cracking slowed down, but continued, intermittently, like a spent bag of popcorn, throughout the night.

Feeling the cold before my siblings, I headed inside, in time to make a toast with just my parents around. I thanked them copiously, for everything, their time, patience, their respectfulness, and eagerness to open their family to me. Their response brought a tear to my eye, “Carl, you’re now part of our family.” What more could I want?

Originally Written January 3rd, 2010

In my life, I have only received whispers in English, my mother tongue, until now.

See, I have a 6 year old sister here. I tickle her, we plan little games, sometimes she hangs on me at dinner, or sneaks over to kiss my cheek. And lately, she’s been whispering secrets close into my ears.

There is something profound about listening to words so close and quiet they aren’t meant for anyone else. So intimate. Never before has someone who didn’t speak the language of my parents trust me enough to confide in me using another one. No one has even whispered a secret to me since grade school. In that way, I feel both a bit like I am back there, but also, just like in grade school, I feel a bit like I am growing up.

And with these simple moments of innocence, I am growing closer with my family. My 2 year old brother, having seen this, has taken to copying his sister. But, unlike her, he doesn’t really know what is going on, so he just give me hoarse gibberish, and then sits close to me, and giggles when I kiss him. The whole family watches, and we all laugh together.

This is my tenth home stay family world wide. One might say I’m experienced. But here, only three months deep, by no means the longest duration, I am beginning to grow truly close.

To be with a family bold and strong and loving enough to really embrace me is a gift I’m so grateful to receive.  I wish all of you in my correspondence the same gifts I am so lucky to have out here.

For this holiday season, find someone you love, hold them close with your hands, and whisper a secret to them. You just might surprise yourself.

Merry Christmas, and have a happy New Year.

Originally Written Dec. 24th, 2009

This year, I spent the holiday with my newest homestay family. First off, for those of you who keep track, this is 8^th developing-country family to take me in, but the first to celebrate my birthday.

This new crew provides me a different view of Kyrgyz culture than the last. They have family living abroad and siblings who sport chess Grand-Masterships. The father one day asked me, “if the American economy is so bad, how come the value of the dollar keeps rising?” The children seem to study constantly.

We have a grandmother who lives with us. One of the first things I noticed was that she does that adorable, cartoony old person thing of scrunching her whole face when she chews. At dinner one night, I noticed she was peeling the apples before eating them, and so I asked, “don’t you like to eat the skin?” to which she replied with a laugh, “I have no teeth!”

This year’s birthday celebration was marked by a large dinner, and the exchanging of simple gifts. This new family seems very eager to embrace me as another child. They gave me a bright white kalpak, the traditional Kyrgyz hat, and a towel, “for washing your face.” I wore the hat all through dinner. In return, I gave them some American candy I recently got in a package (thanks Lizzie!), all were impressed.

Aside from these delightful festivities, I had a quick glimpse into the language acquisition process of a non-native speaker. As we sat around, eating slowly, people took turns toasting to me. In America, while this would be a rarity, I think I could handle the moment, but here, I became uncomfortable.

See, when I normally don’t understand things, I can either bluff my way through, or ask for clarification. But when something poetic is being said in my honor, I find it impolite to bluff, but also to ask for a repeat. Then, as I became more and more eager to make a toast of thanks, it became all the clear to me that my Kyrgyz simply can’t support such an exercise.

See, I am good at saying the things I say a lot. Sitting around, casually talking, even being at work, those things I can get by doing. But formal, poetic, toasting language, moments of sincerity, spoken intensely from the heart are a seldom occurrence here in this land of second language.

Just as here, when I was a child, my parents brought me to these types of settings, and I watched, I learned how to do it, in our, American culture. But here, not only do I not know the customs, neither do I have the language to even understand them. And being with people who care, who are clearly invested in the moment, it just hurts so much to get things wrong.

But we can’t let that stop us, now can we? So I tried, I thanked everyone I could think of, and all seemed impressed. Sometimes, I just hope for a little patience, and assume that practice will make perfect.

Originally Written Oct. 8th, 2009

During Ramadan, folks don’t traditionally put anything in their mouths from sunrise to sunset. Kyrgyzstan, however, is a notoriously lax Muslim country, and I have seen only a small percentage of people following these strictures.

What I have luckily been able to witness more of is the Kyrgyz tradition of Jaramazan. A couple of times per week this last month, neighborhood boys have come around to our house and others singing the folk song of the same name, on the subject of down from the mountains, on horseback in the first verse, and on an ox in the second. After hearing the song, residents are suppose to give out some of their dinner, or candy, or money to the boys, much like our Halloween. However, true to their relaxed nature on these traditions, I seldom heard the song sung to completion, nor did we always answer the bell.

Now the finale celebration of Ait, or Eid, here in Kyrgyzstan is defined not by gift giving, but by boatloads of guesting.

Traditionally, one goes to an odd number of houses. The reigning champion volunteer went to thirteen in one day. I clocked in at a paltry 3, but I still slept well on a full belly of Plov, Kymyz and Dim-da-ma (my personal favorite Kyrgyz dish, effectively a thick, down home stew without the broth.)

Most of my time this year was spent on a narrow, neighboring street where a previous volunteer lived, and made such an impression that the folks have taken me in with loving arms. So much so, in fact, that I have just about completed the delicate balancing act of moving from one house to another, namely, my current house, to one of these neighbors.

See, the family that I am living with is absolutely delightful, but the traveler in me is getting restless again. “Its not that I don’t like you, quite the opposite in fact,” I told my current family. “The fact is, if I am to learn about all of Kyrgyzstan, the troubles and successes, the good jobs and the bad, if I am to truly get to know this community, I can’t just live in one place, with just one family.”

“Okay, we understand. But, will you come and visit often?” They asked.

“You had better believe it.” I said.

That means, at the beginning of October, the auspicious calendrical lunacular of my birth, yours truly, Kyrgy Carl, will be moving from my little room among this big Kyrgyz family to a littler room among an even bigger Kyrgyz family. That means no more carcasses when I come home. But rest assured, the more people I have to visit, the better my letters will become.

Originally Written September 22nd, 2009