Summer Begins

May 18, 2007

6:30 AM

Woke up this morning to rain. It is a good thing to have rain on our end of the lake. We tend to be a very dry area due to the lake/valley combination shooting all precipitation East. Nonetheless, we still occasionally experience some moisture from the heavens; and today happens to be one of those days.

Today is essentially my last day of classes for the year. Technically our school has told me that all next week there are classes. They also told me about “school cleaning” day, awards ceremonies, final bell ceremony, and graduation ceremonies happening all next week—oddly enough around the same time that the majority of my classes will be occurring.

I will still head to school, but I don’t have many life altering lesson plans ready for the 5-6 student classes I am expecting next week. This past month has been a struggle in attendance as it is; I have had to learn to be patient with students not coming to class. I have a good core of students (that are naturally backed by a good set of parents) and they are the ones that make it to every English class and club. They also happen to be the ones that request study sessions for tests (one volunteer almost chocked when I told her that my students requested a study session and that they show up to it).

The month of May brought about heavy field work: mini-canal digging in the yards and farms, the sowing of crops, planting of new/caring for fruit trees, and so much more. The arrival of May (and warmer weather) meant that students would have to start making decisions (or more like their parents would make them for them): school or work in the fields/at home.

I know I have talked about this a lot, but it doesn’t get easier with time to take. School is sacred back home; missing class was not done easily for me and required reasoning. Even on the days that I was really sick or had an appointment of some type; it felt weird to not be in school on a weekday. I felt out of place if I was in a classroom from Monday through Friday. This sentiment just doesn’t exist here.

It hurts sometimes to know that many of my best students will never leave my village. Sometimes it seems that the parents in this country are still too connected to the past to really see the benefit of education. I can see this with my host-family. Both my host-parents are thirty-six, young parents who still have a relatively new family. On some days it is clear that the combination of formal education (my host-mother, who has a university diploma) and family education (my host-father, who barely made it out of secondary school, as he tells me) creates an unsteady balance in the house here.

One day they may both be on their children, making them study and sometimes sitting down with them to work through the homework. On other days, they will send them to the farm for a week, missing class without thought. It is a crazy combination. On one hand there is the modern drive for education, the need to learn about the world at large and grow from acquired knowledge. On the other hand there is a sentiment that achieving the dreams and goals for most will no be obtainable, so there is a need to learn the trade of life at home and in the fields.

I struggle with this because I can see into the eyes of my students, I can feel their hearts burning to see more; I see their smiles filled with an acceptance of a life they made no real decisions to lead.. I talk with them; I feel it, I hear it, and I see it. There is a future that awaits them with open arms. But to reach the arms or the future, many students (and families) have to take a chance and risk the path of education that may not display its rewards for years to come. The children are the future, the next generation that can say they grew in an independent Kyrgyzstan. These children here have the chance to make this country into a place that was once a distant dream for their parents.

The dreams of parents can be made a reality by the children of this country. The struggle, though, is getting the parents to accept this and to get the children to believe it. Teaching someone English pronouns is fairly straightforward. Teaching someone to believe in themselves when the world around them tells them differently, now that needs a bit more effort.

In all of my work here, this is the thing that keeps me going. Even on the worst of days, days when I want to smack every drunk in the street with a stick and remind the people of my village that problems don’t fix themselves; even on these days, when my hope and drive skips a beat, I feel the hearts of my students and people who may some day drag this country off their knees and carry them into light. There are people here who can make this country become something great; the problem is, and where I may be needed, is that many of them have no idea how much power they have to make a difference.

I believe, now they need to.



May 18, 2007

7:00 PM

The young rejoice to no avail
if they rejoice the joyless.



May 21, 2007

6:00 PM

Bride Kidnapping and the Treatment of Children in this country share a lot of commonalities. In both cases it seems that the perpetrators are subjecting their victims to struggle and hardship as payback to the struggles they had to endure.

Women play a very key role in Bride Kidnapping and it is usually women that have been previously Bride Kidnapped. I get the feeling talking to women about Bride Kidnapping that because they were able to get through the struggle and pain of it, they believe others can also. They feel as if they’ve earned the right through their horrible struggle to then subject some one else to the horror.

The treatment of kids here takes on a very similar feel. Parents and all adults alike treat children more or less like slaves. Sure, a slave’s life comes no where in comparison to the lives of children here; but there is surely a master-servant relationship at work between adults and children here.

I watch parents order kids around here like it is a natural aspect to society. Kids are trained to respect elders here. But respect doesn’t need to involve servitude. I don’t want to sit here and type the thousands of examples I see daily here, but I will spell out a few.

An example from the home can be found in the idea of “Chores.” Chores don’t really exist here for kids; their “Chores” are simply known as work. House work is expected of kids at home, and many ways will take precedent over school work and/or normal kid things (i.e. some old fashioned FUN!). I’m not saying the kids should not be asked to help around the house. But many of times I hear orders come from parents’ mouths for things like “pick up those clothes of mine and put them away,” “sweep off the floor of my car,” or “go buy me cigarettes.”

It may just be the American watching from the outside, but I was raised to ask for help, not order it. I helped my parents around the house. I was also yelled at a lot for not helping. But never can I remember being asked to things that any able human should be able to do by him/herself.

This is where the age/authority abuse role comes into play. I get the feeling that adults of this country feel as if they went through the struggles of being ordered around by adults, and now that they’ve reached adulthood, it is their turn. I can see even in my students. The older students take it upon themselves daily to prove their superiority to the younger ones. There is the usual ragging on the younger kids. But then there is the ordering of kids to “go to my house and get my notebook” or “go get my friend from downstairs for me.”

In both cases, Bride Kidnapping and Adult/Children relationships, there is a feel of getting through the struggle, and then making others pay for what you had to endure. I have not talked enough, nor have I seen enough, to say if there are people here that see what I see or feel as I do. I need to start talking. I can only hope that some people here are able to see through the thick coating of history and culture to the truth beneath. If they see through it, they might be able to affect it; for the better.

This is a beautiful culture that, like every other culture in this world, has some very sore spots. The flawed parts of life here standout to me because I am an outsider. I said long ago in a posting, and I will reiterate now, that being an outsider in a culture will make the beautiful seem breathtaking and the ugly seem downright nasty. I have not been raised here and thus I see and feel things entirely differently.

This has been both a blessing and curse while living in a small village. Daily I am trying to improve the lives of people here; in doing so I have the task of dissecting the place I live for all its negatives and positives. Sometimes it is a bit overwhelming to take, and that is when I find a book and get lost. Sometimes it is more energizing than a Dunkin’ Donut’s coffee and more refreshing than a Fat Tire. Thus is my life.




June 2, 2007

7:40 PM


Today I had the joy of experiencing, for the second time in country, the odd and exciting events of the “Baby’s First Steps Party.” Technically what this celebration involves is a massive gathering of friends, family, and neighbors (not all neighbors are friends, just like in America!). Enough borsook (fried bread pieces) to feed the village is fried up, a few sheep are slaughtered, a copious amount of vodka is purchased, and a few random salads are made in mass quantity.

Essentially, this gathering is exactly like every other celebration here (including, but not limited to, New Years, Orozo Ait, Birthdays, Change of Seasons, Monday, Sunset). Everything on the surface of today’s gathering had the look and feel of a regular Kyrgyz gathering of tons of food and too much vodka, with one exception:

The Race

The Key Points
An old Kyrgyz tradition is to hold a celebration in honor of a baby making the passage from a stout crawler to upright steppin’ machine. In order to honor this momentous occasion, a race, a regular old 100 yard dash, is organized for people of all ages and sex. The key element to the race is that at the finish line waits the baby of honor waiting with his/her feet tied with a string of sheep’s wool.

A relative (the oldest and most respected one) holds the baby at the finish line with a knife in her hand. The races are organized so that the children all line up to race first. Once the children are lined up (with the little ones and girls given a head start), the yell for RUN! is called out. The first child to reach the baby is to dive for the knife and cut the string, thus winning the race. The relative holding the baby will then go for a short symbolic walk with the child. The winner receives a small prize and then all of the children that didn’t win are given a “thank you for running” prize of some small amount of som (the children today were given 50 som each, no small amount, but it was a big party).

After the children all of the “Big Men” are called to line up at the start line. This is where things begin to get interesting. While the children raced for symbolism and cash, the men all line up to race for glory and A LAMB! All of the men line up, and after a few false starts and some bickering, eventually all of the men spring off toward to lamb. The first to touch the lamb wins, and then gets the honor of throwing the lamb on his shoulders to display for the crowd.

The final race is for the women, who are all called out to run against every will in their body. Most of them seem to refuse running with a vigor only matched in the game of ‘refusal’ they play with vodka at parties. Finally a few women will make their way to the starting line, half of them wearing heels, and will prep themselves for the race (a.k.a. try and sneak out of the lineup, where upon they are kindly guided back to the line by a spectator). The women then hear the call to run and sprint to the finish where a nice tea-set or flower pot is awaiting the winner.

The Outsiders View
Today I was milling around the party talking to some of the village boys that I have become friends with and having conversations with some of my best Kyrgyz friends, the children. All of the sudden, I heard a murmur begin among the crowd. I first saw a few women come out of the house and start whispering to each other; and then, in a matter of seconds, the party was is in a buzz with what would seem to be word that Christ has returned.

Eventually the news reached me: it was time for the races!

In their best impression of an unorganized fire drill, the party’s entire crowd came pouring out of the house. Coming out first were the respected elders. The old men came out limping on their canes doing their best to dodge children they couldn’t see while the old women stutter-stepped outside doing their bowing maître d' impressions. Following the elders was everyone else, with a few men carrying chairs for the elders to sit on while watching the races.

By the time everyone had made it to the road, there was a stadium sized crowd formed around the finish-line. I couldn’t help but smile at Olympic-esque aura floating around the finish line. Men and women were all talking about who had the quickest feet and who they though might capture the lamb this year. Mixed in all of the conversation were the random comments about the American:

“He is a sportsman, he runs all the time. To where, I don’t know, but I see him running all of the time.”

“I heard he is a very good futbol player, I think he needs to be to a good runner for that. But he is a little chubby.”

“He is from America; I think they all run a lot there. I think he is a fast runner.”


Little did they know, being American does not inherently grace me with super powers and a sprinter’s speed. Nonetheless, I kept listening, randomly hearing comments about “the American” and smiling. While they were all talking and prepping for the races to begin, I sat back and began to really take in the scene. The children were screaming and cartwheeling their way to the starting-line while the crowd settled into their best watching points.

While watching them tie the rope on to the baby’s legs, I was suddenly struck with a realization. Did no one ever think it might be dangerous having a group of children sprint and dive towards a woman holding a knife, only to then take the same knife and jab it towards the baby in an attempt to cut the rope first? The danger seemed blatantly obvious to me; but then again, so do seat belts. What do I really know?

By the time the children were foaming at the mouth and ready to sprint, the entire crowd from the party had formed an arch around the finish line. Word had also apparently spread throughout the village, and people from all over were arriving for the races.

The children were off!

One of the girls in our extended family stretched her strides out to reach the knife first and then quickly sliced down across the baby’s feet. The baby then headed off for his symbolic steps and the crowd roared. The parents of the baby were gleaming, the children were giddy and all receiving prizes, and all the while the baby of honor was balling his eyes out. It just seemed fitting in the mass hysteria.

As the crowd settled in after the first race, attention was quickly turned to the men’s race. We all made our way to the starting-line. I looked around and wondered why I wasn’t wearing my track shoes or short blue Maine West track shorts. The men around me were anxious, some visibly nervous. This was a big race, and why was I wearing my Teva sandals? Like any true Olympic event, we had a few false starts. Eventually, everyone settled in and we heard the third call for RUN! The second we starting sprinting the only thought going through my head was “Us dwarves are natural born sprinters; we are not built for long distances.” I felt the exact opposite during our race.

By the time I reached the finish line, I realized that not only had I not won a lamb, I also was not in second, third, or even fourth place. To a lot of people’s disappointment I had not even placed in the race. Attention was quickly turned to the young a man (a good student of mine) who had thrown the lamb up on his shoulders. I, like any loser would do, did the best move I could: I snuck away back to our house across the street. I made my way back into my garden to finish my weeding and to sit and think over my failure of the day.



June 3, 2007

8:40 AM

I spent the majority of this past week in Karakol (the biggest city on the lake, which is on the East end of the lake). I went there to take care of some business and preparation for my summer plans and to also hang out with Amy for a little while.

While in Karakol, I was able to find time to take care of a few tasks. Below, some of the highlights:

Task 1 – Find and purchase an engagement ring for Amy.

Amy had previously done some shopping in the jewelry section of the bazaar in Karakol and found a few rings she liked. We had both previously decided that it would be fitting to get a Kyrgyz ring (one with a Kyrgyz traditional design on it) as the engagement ring. It just seemed like the logical thing to do.

So we made our way to the bazaar to look at a few and eventually decided on a very simple, but elegant, ring. The only problem was that we could not find any ring small enough for Amy’s fingers. Apparently as it seems while the Kyrgyz people may be short, they certainly have some thick fingers. So we decided on a ring a little bit to big for her with the intent of buying some little plastic piece that Amy said would make the ring fit her (I had no idea what she was talking about, so I just agreed that they existed).

After a few hours of searching for the “plastic thing,” we realized that such an object does not reside in the Kyrgyz bazaars or strip mall stores. We decided that maybe we would just ask some family or friends to bring it to us this summer when we meet up with them.

Not wanting to quit though, we tried one more place the next day to see if they had this thingy we were looking for. The final place did not have it, but they did suggest heading to the “Remont” stand (Fixing station) in the bazaar. So we headed there to talk to the man working there. To our surprise, the man said that he could fit it, cut it, weld it, and clean it in a half hour for us. We were caught a bit off guard, not expecting it to be so easy and quick, but we agreed.

The man then took the ring, fitted it to Amy’s finger (with his eyes), and then quickly went about his work, proving to us that he truly was a master at his craft. His fingers handled the ring with care and the flame he used to weld it back into shape seemed to cross his finger a few times without even a wince on his face. His fingers showed their signs of a lifetime of work.

The whole time he was working, in true Kyrgyz fashion, he held a cigarette in his mouth. Only once during the work did he touch the cigarette to ash it. After about twenty minutes, he had fitted, cut, and welded the ring. He then turned to his buffer and cleaning solutions. By the time a half hour was up, he had taken the ring and not only made it fit perfectly on Amy’s finger, but he had also shined the ring to a glow that was twice it was when we bought. We paid the man, and left both satisfied and amazed.

Try getting a ring fitted, cut, welded and cleaned in America in a half hour for $2.50. One up for bazaars!

Task 2 – Identify some sites of culture and history in Karakol where I can take some of my students when we all head there in the end of June for a summer camp.

(Amy has organized a summer camp to happen at the end of June in Karakol. The camp is week long camp for students all along the lake and we will have a good amount of PC and local volunteers working it. I will be bringing eight students from my school to the camp).

So one afternoon Amy and I decided that we were going to head to the local Dungan Mosque and the Prjevalsky Museum. Our first stop was the mosque where we met a wonderful man.

The man we met was the Imam for the mosque and the second he found out that he could give us a tour of the mosque in Kyrgyz, he opened up all of the grounds to us. The man was in his late sixties and had seen and been through a lot. He proceeded to tell us stories about how the mosque was built over a hundred years ago.

Over a hundred year’s time a lot had happened. The most significant was that the mosque was almost completely destroyed during the Soviet raids of Karakol. During that time the mosque still existed (and so did Islam as he told us), but it was all secret.

The mosque itself was beautifully unique. Dungan is a mix of Kyrgyz and Chinese blood. This mosque definitely showed that mix. I got the feeling I was looking a piece of Chinese architecture while surveying the mosque. The Imam told us that the entire mosque was built with interlocking wood and not one nail was used in its construction.

The whole time I couldn’t help but be amazed at the history behind the mosque. Here was a piece of religion that existed and survived the religious clamp of the Soviet Union. This man had been alive for more than half of the mosque’s history and seemed to love nothing more than his religion and telling us about it. This man held the beauties of life that warm the heart: a pious man who loves nothing more than to share with others the loves of his life.

We thanked him endlessly for giving us a tour of his wonderful mosque and he then invited us to the 100 year celebration to happen in August at the mosque. We told him we would be there.

After the mosque we then hopped on a bus to head to the outskirts of Karakol to visit the Prjevalsky Museum. Prjevalsky was a famous Russian explorer who explored a large part of Central Asia during the late 19th century. He is famous for many different treks over the mountains of Central Asia and also for discovering a countless number of plants and animals.

He went on six famous treks and wrote a book after everyone discussing his journeys and his new discoveries. On his six and final trek he died on the shores of Lake Issyk-Kul in a hospital in Karakol. His dying wish was to be buried next to the shore of the lake. His wish was granted and then a monument and museum were built in the surrounding area of his gravesite (check out the flickr pics).

The museum was cool for the same reason the mosque was: the history it held. Sometimes I forget that I am living in a country that has been inhabited for nearly two thousand years. The sheer length of time that life has resided here is overwhelming; but to then hear stories, see images, and read the writings of people that lived this history is incredible. I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed. Reading about history is cool; walking inside of the history is moving.


June 3, 2007

10:00 AM

I hear the rhythm,
the sound of my feet;
Below the ground moves,
The music of my dreams.