alumns

Today was the alumni gathering at my school. The 11th graders traditionally prepare entertainment, everyone is supposed to ask the alumns questions, and as is traditional, the guests are expected to entertain by songs or stories. The 11th graders decided to model the event after the popular television show “zhde minye” in which people look for lost loved ones. It has sappy classical music playing in the background, and the people making requests invariably break down. But, it’s very culturally revealing. People during the USSR were shifted all over the place for various reasons and often without being able to prepare. The format was a big hit, mostly because the 11th graders are hams. The graduates they “found” came out from behind the curtain, just like on the show. The guys all had all grown mullets and bought tight jeans. The girls had all cut their long hair into drastic layers.

teeth

I just came home from Zhupar’s and sat down to relax in the chair that one of Kanipa Apa’s friends had wet. And it occurred to me, as changed my pants and gave it the vinegar treatment, that being old in Kazakhstan is cruel and unfair. Imagine being incontinent on a -45C day when your only socially acceptable option is to be constantly putting on your coat and boots and shuffling through the snow to the tiny, slippery outhouse. Imagine going to your friend’s house where there are three chairs (and four people) and wetting one of them and having to walk home like that because the water pipes had frozen again.
These old ladies come pretty often, drink tea, play cards, warm up (our house is warm; theirs are cold) and complain about their alcoholic sons and their children who take every tenge of their pensions. The three of them – toothless Kanipa, who is too poor to buy dentures, the incontinent one, and the one who lives in a tiny house with 6 people who can’t pull together the money to buy coal – look happy when they're together.
The money Peace Corps gives us is enough – more than enough for me – but a shockingly small amount per month by American standards. And yet it still creates a cushion around us, because the money is to keep us from unsafe situations, such as living through a winter like this without coal.

pickles

The pickle jar blew its top in the living room last night. Kanipa Apa was just beginning to snore, and her daughter and grandchildren were sprawled in front of the TV. I was in my room, doing something on the computer. And then there was a loud, metallic pop and the smell of garlic. We didn’t know what it was for a while, but then Aisulu spotted the jar under a chair. The lid was not to be found. She put it on the kitchen floor, near the fireplace, and cleaned as best she could. However, something in the pickle jar continued to fester. This morning, there was a little sticky pickle juice river from the jar to where I stand to brush my teeth. My favorite socks are saturated.

like Americans

As I have said (several times already, I think), my Christmas was Christmassy but not American Christmassy. It was as it should have been. Tom and I (and lots of other people) spent all day at church, which is really an apartment, and were served several meals, between games and songs. I’m not used to sitting so long, however, and miss parties where you can hold a plate and walk around. Sergei, Bolat, and Canzizbai were sitting on the couch, having gotten tired of sitting at the table. Their conversation lagged. We were all getting sleepy. “Hey, let’s sit like Americans,” said either Saki or Bolat, to energize the gathering. The three men leaned back luxuriously and spread their knees as far as they would go. Saki and Bolat began to discuss Tom’s posture. He was in jeans and a sweatshirt, and was taking up a very American amount of floor space, far from the table. They concluded that Kazakhs sit close to the table in order to shovel food into their faces (“like animals,” said Bolat, unable to disguise his approval) and that Americans sit far from the food for unknown reasons. “But look,” Bolat said, pointing at me, “Susan’s gone Kazakh.” I laughed and sat up straight, backing away from the table. A few hours later, after the last meal of Christmas (at about 8pm), Bolat said “I’m going to relax like an American” and reclined more like an odalisque, with a pillow under his side. “Me too. Like an American,” said Saki and leaned back against Bolat, an invasion of personal space (personal MAN space, no less) perhaps one in twenty Americans would tolerate from a close relative.