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

One of my fellow volunteers here in Sunny Naryn organized a sleep-away camp at a family resort on the north shore of the lake. The idea was to take 21 kids, ages 16 and 17, and for five days teach them about what college life in America is like.

The trip began, an hour late, 6 hours on a bus straight from a 1950’s mass transit system. While going uphill, the engine, resting comfortably beneath the first row of seats, roared and heated the cabin, and on the way down the mountains, we had to shut the windows, because the driver seemed content to simply coast. In the back, girls played pop music loud from their cell phones, and our small cohort of 4 boys sat together, quiet, in sunglasses.

Our days at the camp were half work, half play. As the USLA would have been proud, we stayed indoors from 9 until 3, basking our children, not in UV Rays, but with interactive training sessions on materials for college entrance, like Statement of Purpose essays, and proper interview techniques.

During one icebreaker, we asked the kids to imagine their lives, 1, 5 and 10 years down the line. Somehow I was surprised by their gasps, taken aback that we’d ask them to look so far into their futures. But by the end they got the hang of it, and the steely-eyed girl with straight bangs in her matching black-and-yellow Adidas track-suit stole the show, professing how within ten years she’d have two children and an American husband.

As the work days were peppered with coffee breaks, game breaks, and lunch, it was the afternoons that made it clear why this camp was so far from home. For 3 hours every day, we brought everyone down to the lake. These skinny little kids would go in the water until they shivered, and then we’d organize beach games, like which team could make the longest line in the sand, using only their bodies and their extra clothes. In the evenings, the camp organized grander events, like a bonfire, dances at the discotheque, and big hooplas where the kids got up and performed on the fancy resort stage.

For this American, having been to college (twice!) I wondered what these kids would actually find once they got there. We entertained ourselves with simple games I haven’t seen since grade school, and no one seemed worried about any hanky-panky in the night. On the bus ride back, us all newly comfortable, we played knee-slapping rhythm games, and sang Kyrgyz pop songs. One of our 4 boys regaled the group with stories about his rural upbringing, 8 siblings and lots of livestock.

What will these beautiful kids bring to our great country? And what will we give them in return? Just some food for thought, fresh, from the other side of the earth.

Originally Written August 13th, 2009

But these past weeks have been exciting to say the least, and have showed me that I really do live here, and in these 4 short months, have, in fact, created a real life for myself.

I headed out last week to the mountain gem of this entire region, Lake Issik-Kul. Kyrgyz songs and proverbs reference this place with reverence. Being there, the cool, humid air, fruit trees and tropical feel leant itself more to lowland, coastal Guatemala than highland, landlocked Central Asia.

The lake itself, called “Hot Lake” in Kyrgyz, is named such because its thin salinity keeps it from freezing in the winter. It feels as big as any Great Lake, but instead of seeing the smokestacks of Gary from the beach on a clear day, to see land you have to gaze high above the horizon to see only snow-capped, mountain peaks.

I was working in the city of Barskon on a Habitat for Humanity project. By day, 10 other Peace Corps volunteers and I would make layer cakes of stucco powder for even mixing, while our donations paid for skilled laborers to actually apply the stuff. After work we’d go to the beach, play charades, and have dinner with the family we were building the house for.

Arguably, one of the peak moments was trading insults with my friend from college, Jared. He learned Russian, and I Kyrgyz, and our hosts are naturally fluent in both. So Jared would say, in Russian, “I went to college with Carl. He never bathed, and the girls didn’t like him.” “True,” I’d say in Kyrgyz, “but Jared can’t read, and he’d always asked me what the teachers were talking about in class.” We would use just enough pantomime so that we’d catch each other’s retorts, but only the locals could really understand it all. It was like our own little tri-lingual comedy routine.

After that week of hard labor in Barskon, another friend and I rolled an hour down the coast to spend the weekend with our Kyrgyz language teacher from training, Timerlan the Hero-King. As his wife set pads out for us to sleep on in the guestroom, and he gave us dinner in his backyard yurt, I realized that I have vacations to take here, and friends to visit in this strange country. Peace Corps Kyrgyzstan has now, officially surpassed the study abroad experience; it is not travel or tourism, it is not even just part of my life; right now, it is my life. Who’d ever have thought.

That’s all for now folks. Turns out, there’s no post cards for sale here in my sleepy mountain town, but I’ve got a batch on its way up from the more touristed south. Do keep in touch.

Originally Written July 23rd, 2009