boots

It is summer on television. I want summer. I continue to tell people that the weather is like Chicago’s, although it was bitingly cold today – 13C, I think, and I’m ready – very ready – for a change. I’ve been shopping for boots, which is a long-term thing for me. Imagine how many people here have feet as big as mine (size 42 here, size 10 in America). I went shopping on a day I though would be muddy and was in fact very icy. There and been a thaw the night before, and I was prepared to go tromping through the bazaars looking for shoes, which are everywhere, not in their own section. Instead, it was extremely slick and lumpy ice everywhere. Everyone was trying to find low areas to walk, because if you step on high places, you slide down onto everyone below you. And I was wearing ugly boots, which amounted to a moral offense, garnering stares and frowns. Shoes are taken very seriously here.
I’m not looking for pointy-toed boots, since these would be dangerous on me, to say the least. Imagine some poor foreigner sliding around, with very large feet and leaves and papers poked through on the toes, like a freelance sanitation worker. I can’t imagine how many people I would hurt, getting onto and off of buses.
I found one pair that had a perfect style, but they were too small. Two of us were in the shop (the bazaar just go too cold, and I’d had no success), she had the right shoe on, and I had the left shoe on. I made a face. “Too small?” she asked gleefully. She bought them. So, the hunt continues.

more cats/plants

The cat and its baby that live in the stairwell of my host sisters have a home. Someone cut a nice hole in a cat-sized box,set out a bowl for food, and now the cats live there.

The plants in my southeast-facing window absolutely thrive. My host mother has asked me several times to heal plants, which are sometimes severely overwatered. “What’s wrong?” she’s asked, while the plant floats around in the solution. “I think it needs some rest in my window,” I say. And, indeed, the plant gets better. Also, these days are very long – light at 7, not really dark until 8:30 or so. Makes me wonder just how far it’s gonna go. It’s nice.

happy new year, again

Yesterday, we celebrated Nauryz at my school. Several kids sang traditional songs with a disco beat and accordion music on the synthesizer. (If there is a synthesizer available, it will be used to its utmost; fortunately, sometimes there is not a synthesizer.) The 7th grade girls were great. Akbota did an Uzbek (I think) dance, and five of the girls did a chicken dance, then a dance where they dressed up as Kazakh grandmas, then “the dance of the swallow.” My host sister and another 10th grade girl did a Kazakh dance, and the four 10th grade boys, who are rock stars (figuratively), sang their hit song which translates to “Hey, girls!”

The concert was in the gym, which is not ideal, but Nauryz is a spring New Year, and there is, after all, slush absolutely everywhere. Some of the teachers were seated at the low tables on the oriental rugs (not traditional Kazakh, but close) snacking on horse and wheat products. I was among them, and wondered again at how people who live here their whole lives can walk after a lifetime of sitting at these tables. The shortest celebratory chai at a low table (our everyday meals are at a higher table, with stools) is 2 hours, and we crawled away after three hours like wounded animals, on all fours, and used friends or the walls to help us stand again. The food was great, and the kids all told me about it proudly.

Most of them had rented Kazakh costumes. The 11th grade girls’ outfits featured the traditional oy-yoo, the designs that are on everything here, but were a bit more dramatic than was likely to be normal on the steppes. There was a baby blue dress with a bustier and a hoop skirt, a red gown where the hat with the feather in it was higher than Nazgul’s arm could reach, as well as a red, off-the-shoulder gown. “I don’t think that’s traditional,” said one of the teachers to me. But it’s slightly Kazakh, the only condition under which the girls could wear such a thing in the school.

zhaman

After the concert, the vice-principal who is in charge of events asked me if I would sing at the next concert. “I sing very badly,” I meant to say. However, in Uralsk dialect, the word for “bad” is also the word for “very/a lot.” This is a problem for me. So I hadn’t really given her a clear “no.” I will fix that as soon as possible.

I discovered this idiom in late autumn, when my host mother started to eat lemons dipped into the sugar bowl this winter because one of her friends eats lemons like that. “She bad eats lemons in sugar,” I heard. “Why is it bad?” I asked, although I was really wondering why she continued to do it if it was disapproved of. “It’s not bad.” She said, as her whole face puckered.

she doesn't know the students' names, anyway

The Kazakhstani grading system has four possible marks, 2 of which are viable at my school. A 5 is supposed to be excellent, a 4, good, and a 3, satisfactory. However, students get kicked out of the gymnasium if they get several 3's.

As the ice sublimes to fog –
The Uralsk version of spring thaw – a pile
Of journals for the students’ grades,
Part of some fearsome, permanent file,
Is marked indelibly by hand. The kids,
In contortions of indignity and guile,
Seek to guide blind justice
Toward desired outcomes, while
My fellow teacher, efficient in her own way, sits,
Writing 4’s in a broad argyle.

another holiday

Today is yet another New Year holiday. (Whoops – Damira tells me now that it’s not). It’s hard for me to figure out exactly what this one means. One person told me that it is a day when you officially are a year older, or say the next age you’re going to be, but I have no reason to believe any information she gives me. Another person told me that today is a day to apologize and forgive, to rebuild relationships, etc. She made it sound like a Kazakh Yom Kippur. Someone else said that it was just a day to go visiting (to 7 houses, I’m told). Several other people told me that it was a day to greet with a Kazakh handshake = hand sandwich, sideways, but they were unable to tell me how it started or what it’s about. So when I went to school, the 7th and 8th graders each greeted me with a handshake, and, in fact, I had to shake hands with every student in the school. And as for the rest of the celebration, I believe it is the typical holiday, with friends gathering at the home of the woman who pours the best tea (my host mother), drinking vodka, and playing cards. But many people who are sometimes a bit grumpy seem friendly and happy today. After all, it’s not so bad, having 4 New Years each year.

Host mother just came into my room with a box of matches, lit three, waved them around my head, and pretended to spit on me. This is because some guests praised me. The guests looked at my pictures and were forced to speak with me in Kazakh, which is cute to them although it’s a bit disadvantageous for me. My host mother is warding off the evil eye, and has been celebrating for a while, to boot.

in memorium

I was told today that one of Peace Corps’ administrators, Jan Funston, died. I was very sorry to hear of it. It was unexpected and, I’m sure, quite difficult for those who worked with her, as well as for all of us at our sites. As for me, she was someone I admired and liked. I remember how she listened to a ridiculous local diagnosis and remedy and was humble and gracious. She coughed and someone told her that she was sick because the door was open, something about doctors’ recommendations to keep all doors closed at all times and something about footwear, and perhaps the usual prescription of vodka. “Uh huh,” she said, without protest or condescension. She was a person who saw the direction things ought to take and helped equip other people for it. I believe she noticed and cared about the individuals, both volunteers and staff, in Peace Corps and was the most gung-ho of anyone. There are lots of Jan stories among us volunteers.

they won

It’s 10:00, and we just finished the fifth chai of the day. They’ve been oddly spaced: 5:30 am, 12pm, 3pm, 5pm, 10pm. On the table were the usual for a late tea: cheese, white bread, cherry compote, sausage, chocolate butter, Korean salad – cabbage and kimchee - recently pasteurized milk, and a bowl full of stale cookies and half-eaten chocolates (it’s common to take a nibble of your favorite and then to re-wrap it for later.) Mmm.

The multiple chais (tea) are part of a campaign to make me stay at my host family's house. Of course, I love them and they couldn't have been kinder or more generous - the ideal host family. But I, thinking I might be overstaying my welcome in a small house where there are often guests, began the process of looking for a babushka with some extra space. I believe I sometimes worry my host mother. I worry my own mother, too, sometimes. Anyway, it seemed to be going smoothly, with no offense taken, and but when my host sisters found out, they began a long campaign to get me to stay. "We've gotten used to you! Stay! Stay!" They've taken me ghosting, invited me to as many things as they can think of, told me about picnics in the summers, etc. It seems I produce more anxiety when I act like I'm going to leave than when I stay. So, I'm staying until the summer at least.

old news, from December, nothing happened

I have been informed that a certain illness has entered my village through wolves and foxes. But the foxes are yellow. Oh, coyotes, now I understand. My host mother and sister told me at dinner: it seems that the coyotes and wolves from the outer villages have fallen ill and gone crazy and are coming into Podstyopnaya (or is it just one?) and biting people. When they bite people, the people come down with influenza. Then there was something that sounded like "the Kazakh school is making guarantees," which I think was a misunderstanding on my part. Maybe it was "the Kazakh school is taking bets." I bet on the old lady who throws stones at anything on four legs, thereby making enemies she wouldn't otherwise have. In view of this news, posted on the door of the post office/bank, My host mother told me not to walk across empty fields by myself - we'll see if I can avoid it for a while. If worse comes to worst, maybe raspberry jam would help.

influence

My students beg me to hear Dolly Parton. My host family is addicted to Finn Crisps. But no one likes David’s Cowboy Cookies except me.

first day of March

Today, there was a fast, thick, wet snow. It fell parallel to the ground – the city looked a bit like an old movie, with the horizontal white lines over men in black coats and black newsboy caps. The buses were slow today, so people waited a long time at the bus stops, and the snow began to make peaks on the piles on our heads and shoulders and bags. On the ceilings of the marshrutkas, there were perfect circles of snow melting. I left one, too. They’re from the people who had to stand on the bus pressing their heads to the ceiling to keep balance.

more mistakes

Amanzhan was tearing around the house with a toy truck, and I tried to tell Shatagoul that he needed another boy to play with. However, I didn’t enunciate clearly enough, and “He needs another boy” came out sounding like “another fish to him particularly.” [to be honest, I don’t know if it could make sense in Kazakh, but those are the words] It took her a couple seconds to get it. Bala kerek. Balak erek.

And then, there’s also the dinner party at which the hostess asked me what we eat in America. “Well, we eat a lot of stick [we get beaten up often].” Whoops. I meant chicken. Tayak, tawak.

goats

Valentine's Day never really ended at the ol' boarding school, where dating is forbidden and students are obsessed with it.

In a chart on passive tense in a girl's notebook: I am taken. I am not taken. Am I taken? [next line]. He is taken. He is not taken. Is he taken?

One of the English teachers who gives me Russian lessons gets her jollies from trying to teach me to say “I want to marry your son” in Russian. She sent her son after me to give me a ride home. It’s unusual to be driven here, since there aren’t that many private cars, and my house is much closer by foot, but I let him drive me. Of course, all my students saw. When my host sister asked where I was, they told her I’d been bride-napped by the teacher’s son.

There’s frequent speculation in my host family about who will be the next to go – a cousin was “stolen” by her boyfriend. Shatagul is often teased for the deep-voiced suitor who calls. It’s really great to hear my host mother imitate him. They asked me if I would be bridenapped. “I don’t need that. I don’t have the time,” I said. “Well, he’s not going to ASK you,” said Damira. But, apparently, sometimes they do.

Enough about luuuv. I’m learning grammar through ridiculous sentences, because this is how I hold my tutor’s attention. “I want to buy a goat.” “Why do you want to buy a goat?” “Because I want to quarrel with my neighbors.” “Okay. Which goat do you want?” “May I look at the purple striped one?” “Here you go.” “This one is too tall. May I see that one?” “Yes. Here you go.” “Great. I’ll buy this one.”

concerts/wallpaper

As soon as I brag about my internet access, it cuts off. So I'm making no promises about frequency or consistency.

On Fridays, Damira is happy, and she turns the music loud and belly dances to Nelly and Tarkan (Turkish). But Women’s day is coming up, and there is a frenzy of preparation – every educational facility is having a concert, and my school is having two. So, everyone has been rehearsing dances and complaining about how there’s no good music, and the teachers all mention that the students want to do Arabski and Turetski dances, but not Kazakh dances. I have my theories about why that might be. The first concert was this afternoon, in honor of mothers. And my seventh grade boys were excused from English to practice their dance for Friday. Shatagul is preparing for her dance tomorrow, which involves her wearing a wedding dress and Kazakh vest thing at the same time, as well as one or two of my handkerchiefs.

Ah – hold on – my wallpaper just fell off again . . . . . Okay, it’s hopeless. Wallpapering my room is like wallpapering a cave. It just won’t stay on. I would just tear it off, but then the wall leaves objectionable pieces of plaster in my candle, bedsheets, etc. So I’ve been using masking tape for a while, but stronger methods are called for. I tried nails, but I don’t have a hammer. So, I first tried to push them in, but I only wiggled a hole, and it hurt my finger. Then, I used a little Christmas tree made of bells, which had a pleasant jingle, but was ineffective. The shoe didn’t work. The flowerpot did. But then, the damp wallpaper simply fell off the nails, and we’re back to tape. Lots of tape.