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The intensity of our training schedule leaves only a one-day weekend. Many volunteers choose to spend that day in Bishkek, the capital, where we can get food that reminds us of home burgers, iced coffee, fried chicken, good cocktails and wander the wide streets of a big city. After transferring between two marshrutkas and a very cramped taxi ride 8 people in 5 seats , we finally made it to Balykchy, a mid-sized city on the western tip of the lake. On Saturday afternoon, the wind was strong and it looked like rain — not good odds for a weekend at the beach. Fortunately, the weather opened up for us on Sunday, and we were able to enjoy several hours at the beach, sunbathing, snacking on ice cream, and people-watching. Issyk Kul? More like Cool Kul. Cue laugh track now, please. We took the train back from Balykchy, which was a wonderful experience. It took more than twice the amount of time to get back by train, but the landscapes were lovely and we had a lot of room to stretch out, talk, nap, play cards, and eat snacks bought from the Russian women selling homemade pies. Kids in the next compartment over took an interest in us, and we chatted with their parents, as well as the man who sold us our tickets. These conversations are often short, but they are definitely heart-warming. One Russian babushka who sold me a fried-dough pastry filled with potato went on and on about how lovely it is to meet an actual American and speak face-to-face. She only sees Americans on TV, where we are portrayed only in a negative light; seeing us smiling and laughing on the train changed her perception of Americans, she said. After all the drama with visas and bureaucracy in the last month, chats like this confirm that I am in the right place. I feel the weight of this overprotection most strongly in the morning, when leaving the house is often a battle. I try to put back a few pieces of the loaf of bread my host mom tried to feed me in my packed lunch; she catches me, scolds me for not eating enough, and puts the bread back into the plastic paket. While slipping out the door as quietly as possible, I am more often than not caught with a wrinkly shirt and pulled into the laundry room to fix it. In the first phase of training, I dreaded this part of the day, having to iron my shirts, knowing that they would just become wrinkly again after the commute to the training site. In an effort to maintain the peace and have more control over whether I am late, in this third phase of training I have been proactive and made an effort to iron my clothes every morning — I do it loudly and very visibly, so that my host apa would see and notice me taking her advice. Today, though, the ironing board was hidden in a different room than normal, and it refused to stay standing long enough for me to do anything to fix my shirt. She hovered over me, pointing out parts of the shirt I should iron again, until she just took the iron away from me and finished the shirt for me. There are probably a lot of factors at play in the overprotectiveness of my host moms. One likely reason is that Peace Corps, a U. Gets enough sleep! Takes enough showers! Kyz is the Kyrgyz word for girl. Ayal is the Kyrgyz word for woman. Like most Kyrgyz words, kyz and ayal have other meanings. Kyz also means virgin, which basically implies a pre-marriage state, while ayal means wife. The dividing line between girls and women is marriage; without a ring on her finger, a girl cannot be a woman. At a certain point, though, it will be easier just to accept my status as a kyz and learn to flourish and function within that role. In the United States, adulthood means personal responsibility. Kyrgyzstan is a collectivist culture, so as people grow up, they are forced to come to terms with responsibility for the whole, for the family unit. Even very young girls learn to help with chores, taking care of siblings, giving up free time to help the family function more smoothly, more harmoniously. I recently talked with a friend about being selfish. We both expressed worry about being too self-centered, and talked through how we can give back. I laughed at myself, that even as a Peace Corps volunteer, I fret about being too selfish. Or the reference right there at the end, double educate yourself. My host apa, Mairamgul, preparing dill for the winter. Before the rule, it might have looked like students were in uniform; everyone wore black pants, a white shirt, and looked a thousand times more put together than American kids at public school. The girls came home from the big bazaar in Bishkek, excited to try on and show off their new school clothes. Albina, the year old, stood tall and proud, with her jacket buttoned and socks pulled up tight. It seemed a little early for ezan, the call to prayer, but the timing of the five prayers a day changes with the seasons. Only once we heard giggles did we realize that local kids must have been playing with the microphone. My host apa asked me to come with her to get groceries the other day. The first store was selling only old, hardened sausage. The second store, which is much smaller and usually offers less selection, had the fresh sausage she wanted. Parked in a car with my host family outside a corner-store in Jalalabad, waiting for host apa to buy bread. Out the window, I see a man squatting on the sidewalk outside an auto-repair shop. He is doing ablutions with water leaking from a pipe; spitting and gargling and snot rocketing right onto the concrete. On the last leg of the journey from Bishkek to International, find a taxi driver who is eager to leave. Sometimes, I pace around my room begging that time pass by a little faster; at other times, like right now, I am stunned to see how quickly a week, then two, can pass. With few students left in the city, my summer English club fell apart, leaving me with basically no work. A true Type A, the lack of work has sent me in a tailspin of stir-craziness and self-doubt. Arrive at a Kyrgyz wedding reception with 10 teachers from the English department on time, only to realize that we are still in Kyrgyzstan, so we are technically three hours early. Sit down at a table like the one pictured below, snack on the salads, candy, and fruit already laid out on the table until the plates are empty; pick a new table, and repeat the process until the waitresses get annoyed and force us to stay at one table. All of this is on film somewhere, just so you know, to be admired by this family at reunions for years. Having arrived at the village, locate food for the day. Play card games for a few hours before eating a bowl of 10 cent soft-serve ice cream and heading home. Enlist all the volunteers in a one-mile radius to help you carry your personal belongings from one house to another. Four days later, do it again. See two new host brothers having the time of their life in the inflatable pool in the courtyard, and promptly put on the only pair of shorts you have so you can enjoy the cool water and finally get some sun on your legs for the first time since last fall. Try to dissect their rapid, kid-slang-infused Kyrgyz; realize all of their questions are about Hollywood; make up facts about Hollywood. Somewhere in here, there could be a mantra about perseverance or staying positive — finding the good things to outweigh boredom or fear for the future or frustration with the lack of work or structure in my days. A few weeks ago in my English club, I gave a presentation about famous American people. The lesson was based on one a previous volunteer wrote 6 or 7 years ago, which involved short biographies of 8 white men. I talked about Eleanor Roosevelt, Rosa Parks, and Sonia Sotomayor, and it was interesting to hear students put the presentation into their own words in a discussion section after class. I was really inspired to hear students talk about Otunbayeva as a role model. Some aspects of life in my country that are quite controversial and make a lot of headlines are no-brainers here. Sure, there are problems associated with a quota system , but it also has its advantages. Every day, I see how notions of female empowerment are a perfect example of the cultural exchange facilitated by Peace Corps. Driving to the mountains with too many people in the car when we pass by a police road check. It would require less effort to just wear a seatbelt in the first place, but I guess that takes away all the fun. An old woman walks down the side road, with several recycled Coke bottles in her hand. As we pass each other, she smiles and tells me good morning in a similar sing-song voice, maybe just out of habit. Preparing NesCafe for a morning meeting in the office, determining who will take one sugar or two. A baby sits on a toy car in the middle of the village street. Our car, definitely not a toy, honks at the baby to scoot toward his house, but the baby just stares until an older sibling comes to pull him away. Though our hosts might have been disappointed in our tiny stomaches, it was no problem that we left so much of the rice and sheep dish on the plate; the waitress packed up the leftovers into plastic grocery bags, tied up neatly for us to carry home. What was supposed to be a quick snack while I waited for my host family to get home turned into a five-hour feast to celebrate one month in Jalalabad. Confusion about marshrutka routes meant a tour of the far-reaches of Jalal-Abad City. Half of the commuters became concerned for my safety and whereabouts, and an old man his face and eyes made me think Russian, his name made me think Kyrgyz got off the bus early to walk me to my destination — even though I insisted I knew where I was going. He immediately fell asleep, with his face cemented to my arm. Falling asleep to the sound of a father and daughter playing komuz together through the window, one lying in bed, the other sitting on the porch. Enjoying my best sleep since arriving to Jalal-Abad, on a tushuk on the floor. My eyes closed the moment my head hit the pillow, and I awoke hours later to sun through the window and two girls whispering in Kyrgyz next to me. The way for these things to happen? Accept the random invitation. I had my first encounter with kymyz this weekend. Take a breath, I know that was a lot. The balance between the two languages in public and private spaces has consistently amazed me. Signs at restaurants often communicate items on the menu in both languages, neighboring billboards represent both Kyrgyz and Russian; families begin a conversation in Kyrgyz, and a Russian commercial sparks a switch, and the chat ends in Russian. Krussian is the magical blend of Kyrgyz and Russian, the code-switching unique to this country. Code-switching is a linguistics term that describes alternating between multiple languages in a single conversation. It opened up doors to make myself clear to my host family during training, to add complexity during my Kyrgyz language exam and I was not docked points, because it is a realistic use of the language. Especially in the Peace Corps English program, which adds a third common language into the mix. In the meantime, a picture of how even Coca Cola panders to the prevalence of both languages here:. August 24, July 19, Leave a comment. August 20, June 28, 3 Comments. August 16, August 17, 2 Comments. August 7, August 7, Leave a comment. So, what can one fit into a fortnight in southern Kyrgyzstan? July 23, October 19, Leave a comment. Photo credit: State Department photo by Michael Gross; public domain. July 19, October 19, Leave a comment. July 15, July 19, 4 Comments. It did not disappoint. July 3, July 2, 2 Comments. Sun showers and a hail storm, which everyone but two chicks survived. Walking out to wash my face and finding a cat sleeping in my shoes. June 30, October 19, 7 Comments. June 24, October 19, 2 Comments. Older posts. Newer posts. Subscribe Subscribed. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments Email Required Name Required Website. Design a site like this with WordPress.

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