Bishkek Diary

Ustatshakirt and Red State Ramblers: Indian Ate the Woodchuck - Koyrong Kuu

2012-02-23T22:10:00.000+06:00

A marv'lus and rare concatenation of Kyrgyz and US tradition, thanks to the US Embassy. So jolly! Enjoy.

...

Timewarp

2012-02-22T23:16:00.005+06:00

Yesterday, I partook in some time travel. Having accompanied a group of our students to the local high school across the road - School No. 4 - in a friendly ambassadorial exchange of cultures, I found myself immersed in a classic Soviet experience.

First of all, our students were performing a modern Korean dance, but the majority of the local student performances were deeply traditional: Turkish and Afghan dance, Tajik, Uzbek and Russian songs, and of course, lots of Kyrgyz instruments and dances too. It was really very enjoyable, but extraordinarily timewarp-ish: at the end, there was a great deal of flag waving and chanting of "Kyr-gyz-stan! Kyr-gyz-stan!" which conveyed a general impression of forced patriotism. I also learned that the Kyrgyz national anthem has too many verses to count. The whole thing was a very Soviet production, and rather fun.

The truly cultural experience, however, came afterwards. Before I even had time to speak to her, the Director of School No. 4 grabbed me by the elbow and whisked me down the corridor, into a room full of gold-toothed local officials. Hoping very much that my students would figure out how to get back to their school on their own, I took a place at the table laden with festive dishes, next to an official from the Ministry of the Promotion of the Kyrgyz Language. Thankfully, our own Director came along at the last minute, and he too was seated at the prestigious head of the table. We soon discovered that by attending, we had conferred a great deal of honour on the Director of School No. 4, and had achieved a kind of temporary fame as foreigners (and therefore supposed sources of great wealth and power). As we were served plov and manti, each official around the table stood and gave a longish speech: we were given snifters of cognac (which kept getting refilled), and after twelve toasts I began to wonder if the end was in sight.

Of course, the end came finally, but not before far too much cognac and several conversations which hinted at, well, reciprocal benefits: if you contribute to our building project, we'll let you use our hall! If you send your students to talk English to our students, maybe we'll invite you to meet important people! Our Director fielded these suggestive conversations with aplomb, and we finally walked out feeling a little dazed by the whole thing.

Returning to school was like waking up from a dream. Really, it was. The Soviet Empire may have collapsed twenty years ago, but it lives on in the institutions and rites of millions. There is no easy exchange of pleasantries and ideas between people with power: there is instead an uneasy tension between people with authority and those under them, in which a deferential system of obligations and reciprocations exist. For instance, the regional political Head of Education was seated on my right, and she wouldn't look at me, and always made a point of toasting our Director first, and then me if she felt like it. I tried a conversation, but it was obvious that I was below her, unable to offer her anything, and therefore undeserving of attention. To my egalitarian ego, it was rather a blow.

Still, this experience has opened up the possibility of a relationship between our schools, and we very much hope to foster a sense of community by getting our students involved in things like their English Conversation Club and their sporting events. It's exciting to think of the ways our students could be challenged to leave the safe bubble of our school. I hope very much to be able to report on similar events in the future - sans cognac, perhaps.

Sunday, Punctuated with Red Pen

2012-01-29T23:04:00.001+06:00

Having spent the better part of Sunday poring over innumerable essay drafts, I have a renewed appreciation for the following (and increasingly rare) aspects of the English language, as utilised by teenagers:

Well placed commas
Agreeable tenses
Vivid and lovely adjectives
Properly punctuated dialogue
Appropriate use of ellipses
Pretty paragraph breaks
Original metaphors
Semi-colons
Headings

If I were not a teacher, and if I did not harbour aspirations about travel writing, I could very easily and truly state that my ideal job would be editing other people's writing. However, as this is an integral aspect of being an English Literature teacher, that part of my personality is satisfied.

Although if anyone out there is working on a novel and has wads of cash to throw at an editor, I'd reconsider in a flash!

I should clarify that an equally good part of Sunday was spent listening to an edifying sermon on Mark 10 and then eating lunch with friends. That was pleasant - nearly as pleasant as ripping through thirty essays with a red pen.

The latter use of 'pleasant' was a little whimsical, by the way. I could have just as easily said 'heart-burning' or 'hair-raising' or 'brain-curdling'. But I went with 'pleasant'. Make of it what you will.

Saturday Noting

2012-01-28T15:04:00.000+06:00

If I don't write, I don't notice a damn thing. - Kim Fabricius, 2012.

Well, it's true. I don't. There's an obvious mathematical correlation between the frequency of my writing and the amount of unhealthy introspection I enact on a daily basis. In layman's terms (because I'm no more than a layman about statistics), the less I write, the stupider I become about God, the world and other people.

Thus, writing (fitfully/patchily/whimmily) in a blog is an excellent gauge of emotional and spiritual health. As I cast my eyes back over the last twelve months in Bishkek, I note a rise and fall in the frequency and quality of postings that pretty accurately reflects the degree of my wellbeing at any given time. January is a bit of a misleading statistic: I've posted 9 times about absolutely nothing. I think it's because I was aware of this preexisting truth, and trying - a little frantically - to shore up my crumbling literary inclinations.

Anyway, here I am, on a Saturday afternoon, determined to create a blog entry that is honest and instructive.

And yes, it has indeed been twelve - nearly thirteen! - months in Bishkek. Five months left. It has been the most challenging and beautiful year of my life. I've learned to love this broken country, this smoky city, these proud people. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm not someone who will ever pick up languages easily, but I enjoy Russian nevertheless. I've learned to accept the frequent blackouts, the extreme temperatures, the filthy streets, the smoggy air, all with equanimity. I'm comfortable here: I can take a marshrutka, a taxi, order food, buy clothes, ask for directions, shop at bazaars. It's enough to feel at home.

The real sense of home, however, is founded on the relationships that have grown, the community that I've found. Sometimes, it feels as though my students are my sons and daughters; my colleagues are my kin; my friends are my sisters. These are rich gifts.

Yet I'm keenly aware, at all times, of being alone. Of my unchosen, unwanted singleness. No matter how busy I am (and sometimes I wonder if the busyness is a way of avoiding this fact), I feel my singleness and it hurts me like the dickens.

Yes, being alone encourages a certain type of spiritual and personal growth. It drives me to my knees often, and that is a blessing, because it teaches me to rely on God, to put my relationship with him first. It gives me opportunities to spend vast amounts of time with students and friends, time that I wouldn't have if I were married. It allows me to be single-minded about my work here. These are blessings of a very obvious kind and I'm grateful for them.

But it is, undeniably, a thorn in the flesh. It is a loss, a lack, that I find myself grieving again and again.

I'm in an honest groove, and so I will say this: singleness is the sole barrier to recommitting to Bishkek for the 2012-13 school year. The idea of doing this again, alone - that is very hard. That is sacrificial to a degree that I've never sacrificed before. I'll be turning 30 this year, and the odds of meeting a wonderful like-minded man in this place are astronomical. (The odds might not be that much better in Australia either, truth be told, but being in Australia at least gives the illusion of possibility)!

Of course, I love it here, and I love my job, and I love the way that God stretches and changes me in new ways the longer I stay. There's nothing better.

But it's not easily done on my own.

If you pray, you can pray about this: that I will be able to discern what the best decision will be, and how to be at peace about it.

You could also pray for our staffing needs at school: we need all sorts of people in the new school year, not the least of whom is another English Literature teacher. Also, A Social Studies teacher. Some primary school teachers. Basically, if you're a teacher, we need you.

Having written, I feel healthier somehow. I think I shall go for a walk in the snow and buy some potatoes. These days, going outside is an adventure. Your nosehairs freeze, you slip on the ice, you risk frostbite if not properly rugged up. But on the plus side, you arrive home with rosy cheeks and a sense of accomplishment. And potatoes.

Shakespearean Excesses

2012-01-19T19:44:00.003+06:00

My 7th and 8th graders are researching Julius Caesar and Pompey and the Roman Senate in preparation for reading Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. My 9th and 10th graders are about to beginning exploring themes in Much Ado About Nothing, and my 11th and 12th graders are about to begin reading Othello for the first time.

It's going to be a Shakespeare sort of term, with a dash of Oscar Wilde for good measure. What could be better?

That was a rhetorical question, but I just thought of an answer: lots and lots of rest, and then Shakespeare.

A Time of Day

2012-01-18T19:38:00.000+06:00

There must be a time of day when the man who makes plans
forgets his plans, and acts as if he had no plans at all.

There must be a time of day
when the man who has to speak falls very silent.
and his mind forms no more propositions,
and he asks himself: Did they have a meaning?

There must be a time when the man of prayer goes to pray
as if it were the first time in his life
he has ever prayed,
when the man of resolutions puts his resolutions aside
as if they had all been broken,
and he learns a different wisdom:

distinguishing the sun from the moon,
the stars from the darkness,
the sea from the dry land,
and the night sky from the shoulder of a hill.

Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island

Sneg!

2012-01-17T19:47:00.002+06:00

Here's your piece of Russian vocabulary for the day: sneg, meaning snow. I confess, I find it a mildly amusing word.

The snow hasn't stopped falling today. It's sitting about in big fluffy drifts and whirls. Cold and fresh and fabulous. Thusly is my antipodean fascination for snow sated. The primary school children built a snow fort in the playground - I dearly wanted to join in. Of course, it means that there are great dirty puddles of melted snow in the corridors and on the stairs, but the cleaning ladies are industriously mopping up after everyone. We're all used to the routine by now - stomping your boots before you go inside, wrapping up in scarves and hats and jackets and gloves before you go outside. It's splendid.

Today was a good day: I got through some grading, put up a new display in my room, wrote a college recommendation, taught four classes, thought about (and decided against) aerobics class, had some important conversations. Now, I've settled in for a long evening with my gradebook, some chocolate and a pot of rooibos tea.

Of course, for that to work, I have to close my laptop...going, going...

The Joy of Books

2012-01-16T18:10:00.000+06:00

There's nothing quite like a real book.

9 Books on Reading and Writing

2012-01-16T07:28:00.000+06:00

If I had some disposable income and spare time, this is how I'd spend them:

New Year's Resolution Reading List: 9 Books on Reading and Writing - The Atlantic

*drools slightly before recalling senses and heading to school*

Oh, and:

Ala-Too Square has a webcam which can be quite fun. This is the centre of the city. Check it out! We had a nice snowfall overnight.

http://webcam.saimanet.kg/

Sunday Morning Post

2012-01-15T12:07:00.000+06:00

I slept in. Blissful. Coffee and porridge. Amy Carmichael's biography. A couple of episodes of QI. I missed church, because rest was needful. Now, I'm gearing up to put in a half-day at school, for grading purposes. Reports are due in on Friday and there's an awful lot of papers standing between me and my gradebook. If I can plough through most of it today, I'll feel much better about the week ahead.

It's so good to have internet at home again! I can Skype people and haunt Facebook and write emails at leisure. Two Russians from Megaline turned up yesterday to install it: my vocabulary about computers is not so good, and their English was limited to "I not speak English", so things got increasingly comical, until a Kyrgyz friend was able to come over and help sort things out. She was marvellous. Following which, I made cucumber sandwiches and scones (substituting local ingredients along the way) and hosted an Importance of Being Earnest viewing with members of the cast, because the DVDs arrived by post, at last. The Colin Firth version doesn't hold a candle to the 1952 Michael Redgrave version, which I thoroughly recommend; it's genius. Lady Bracknell is a delight, Jack is a perfect straight man, and Algernon is exquisite. My cast, however, being of a teenage and 21st century persuasion, resolutely prefer the newer version, over which fact I have sighed and resigned myself. Nevertheless, rehearsals are going very well. My 'Algernon' and 'Gwendolyn' have already learned all of their lines, which is a feat worthy of great praise, since they have huge roles. Sets and costumes are underway.

Yes, things have been quiet on this end. I know it. The cultural and emotional disconnection that I experienced in England over Christmas really knocked me about. I still feel bruised from the shock of it all, and I haven't really had a chance to process it since plunging back into Bishkek life, which is as fun and chaotic as ever.

More anon!

Leif's Rabbit Trap

2012-01-02T03:01:00.001+06:00

My dear delightful friends, the Loftis family, are off to Thailand soon to do exciting things. They won't mind (I hope) me sharing this very beautiful video, made as a New Year greeting. It brought tears to my eyes. Chad is a talented film-maker.

I love these guys.

Leif's Rabbit Trap from Chad Loftis on Vimeo.

Still no baby, so I'll be catching a plane in the morning, with a view to sleeping for the ensuing 9 hours. The plane gets in at 3 AM - I catch a taxi to my new apartment (as yet unseen) - take a shower, find clean clothes, and head off to school for a full day's teaching. Then, I meet my good friend A for dinner, who is visiting from Osh for one day and one day only. An unmissable occasion. But, as you see, being able to sleep on the plane is a desirable, if unprecedented, state of affairs!

Several Lists (of a non-NY-related variety)

2012-01-01T17:12:00.001+06:00

Hurry up, baby! I have a plane to catch.

Despite some promising signs yesterday, the bub (not mine, obviously - E's) shows no inclination to leave her comfortable home. I'm leaving for Bishkek in 24 hours, so it looks increasingly as though I won't meeting this long-awaited little girl. Not for many months, at least. Sadness.

It's New Year's Day in England! We have to keep reminding ourselves of the fact, since we're all focused intently on E's every move, casting covert glances at her from over the tops of our books. We had a lovely meal and prosecco last night, which was both relaxed and celebratory. There were the requisite fireworks at midnight, and the requisite phone calls this morning, but on the whole we're very baby-centric around here.

I've been practicing packing my bags. It's quite an art form, given that I purchased bits and pieces from Waitrose that individually didn't look like much but have collectively created substantial mass. This mass is enhanced by the many beautiful gifts I was given at Christmas. I was very, very spoiled indeed. In fact, I'm in the mood for a list, so I shall make a list of my Christmas gifts:

A stunning poster from the British Museum, detailing the history of science fiction in a colourful riot.
A gift box of delicious Neal's Yard lotions: Geranium & Orange. Neal's Yard, in case you've not heard of it, creates beautiful organic cosmetics and also has one of the finest cheese shops in London. I do hope it arrives in Australia one day.
A set of shampoo and conditioning soaps from Lush that you lather up and use with flair.
Some tea towels with koalas on them and a 2012 'Geelong & Bellarine Peninsula' calendar (!).
A gorgeous purple and green hat and matching fingerless gloves that are the very epitome of 1920's style. I feel like Flora Post when I wear my hat. There was also a big, greeny, beachy necklace which I am growing to enjoy.
A substantial voucher for John Lewis, which I spent on a Liberty print shirt, a soft brown cardigan, and a purple sweater.
A pretty pair of earrings from Venice.
A sweet smelling collection that included: a delicious bottle of Sarah Jessica Parker perfume, a box of Yankee Candle tealights, and the cutest little Parisian calendar.
A very substantial, generous financial gift

I am blessed and humbled and know not what to say. Each gift was a very perfect reflection of the people who gave them. Some of the gifts traversed the world to get here. I'm floored by so much goodness and love.

Now that I am in the swing of making lists, here is the list of good grocery-like items that I purchased at Waitrose:

A range of spices for Indian curry-making
Various organic stock cubes
Several good jams
Several bags of organic coffee beans
Peppermint tea
Golden syrup (possibly foolhardy, but I've been dreaming of gingerbread cake)
Treacle
Crystallised ginger
Good bean soup mixes
Couscous
Sundried tomatoes
Organic muesli
Various Green & Black's items that are intended as presents. Also, marshmallows.

You can take inner-suburbanite out the city, but you can't take the foodie pretensions out of the inner-suburbanite. Or something like that. Anyway, both of those lists go some way to explaining why packing my bags is going to take some serious thought.

These material and relational blessings are great indeed. I hope, when I get home to Bishkek, that I have the emotional capacities to reflect on them that I am lacking right now. Reverse culture shock has really knocked me down. Perhaps, when I have regained my balance, I shall write about it, because it's profound enough to deserve a good exploration. In the meantime, it's been a good lesson about future forays into the western world.

A Son is Born

2011-12-24T17:26:00.002+06:00

My friend Bei-En posted this powerful piece of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and I just had to steal it for my Christmas Eve blog.

Look up, you whose eyes are fixed on this earth, you who are captivated by the events and changes on the surface of this earth. Look up, you who turned away from heaven to this ground because you had become disillusioned. Look up, you whose eyes are laden with tears, you who mourn the loss all that the earth has snatched away. Look up, you who cannot lift your eyes because you are so laden with guilt.

“Look up, your redemption is drawing near.”

Something different than you see daily, something more important, something infinitely greater and more powerful is taking place. Become aware of it, be on your guard, wait a short while longer, wait and something new will overtake you! God will come, Jesus will take possession of you and you will be a redeemed people!

Lift up your heads, you army of the afflicted, the humbled, the discouraged, you defeated army with bowed heads. The battle is not lost, the victory is yours—take courage, be strong! There is no room here for shaking your heads and doubting, because Christ is coming.

Today's sentence from the Australian Prayer Book fits in rather beautifully, too:

This is our God; we have waited for him, that he might save us.

This is the Lord; we have waited for him; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.

Isaiah 25:9

My return to western civilisation has been marked by the general sensation of being unfashionable, unconnected,uninteresting, and unintelligible. I'm finding it difficult to have conversations - to connect. I'm acutely aware of my Bishkek style. But you know what? Tonight, I don't care. These things will pass, for Jesus is come, the light of the world and the king of Heaven!

Worship

2011-12-23T22:36:00.000+06:00

I have a proclivity for worship.

If I were married, my husband would be my god.

If I lived a middle-class life, a perfect lifestyle would be my crowning glory.

If I had money, a bank account would be my king.

If I had children, they would be little gods to me.

By some kind of grace - though it doesn't always feel like grace - I am not at a point in my life where I am worshipping a regular person, or an ideology, or a lifestyle, though God knows how close I've come to each.

(I hoard my little idols. In fact, without much effort, I could easily end up like those junk-pile ladies in Labyrinth):

So, this Christmas, I look to Jesus, the author of my life, who knows so perfectly what I need. What else have I to bring him, and what more does He ask for, than my worship?

What is there here for me? Are these like Him?

Haiku: The Glorious Revolution of Today

2011-12-22T23:23:00.000+06:00

From here:

A Bright Winter's Day

2011-12-22T22:06:00.002+06:00

Today is Emily's due date, but someone forgot to tell the baby, so we went for a walk along the canals near Leighton Buzzard instead. It was very beautiful. Tonight, we're going to make gingerbread and plan out a Christmas menu.

This time last year, I was also in England, but it was frosty and I was in a fog of anticipation about Bishkek. Now, Bishkek is my home, and England is sunny and a strange place to me. I still don't quite know how to act and what to say - but it's coming back, slowly.

Anyway, here is Emily with me and with Roy, healthy and well and nowhere near about to give birth.

10 Astonishing Things

2011-12-21T14:27:00.001+06:00

1. Cars that pay attention to road signs and lane markings.

2. Being able to flush toilet paper (instead of binning it).

3. Instant hot water.

4. Shop assistants who thank you.

5. Great coffee available on every corner.

6. Perfect strangers on the street who say make eye contact and say Merry Christmas!

7. Internet as fast as lightning.

8. 78 types of muesli.

9. The absence of stray animals.

10. Speaking English!

More to come, once I recover my senses...

Bonhoeffer Prays in Prison:

2011-12-20T23:38:00.001+06:00

God, I call to you early in the morning,
help me pray and collect my thoughts,
I cannot do so alone.
–––––
In me it is dark, but with you there is light.
I am lonely, but do not abandon me.
I am faint-hearted, but from you comes my help.
I am restless, but with you is peace.
In me is bitterness, but with you is patience.
I do not understand your ways, but you know the right way for me.
–––––
Father in heaven,
Praise and thanks be to you for the quiet of the night.
Praise and thanks be to you for the new day.
Praise and thanks be to you for all your goodness and faithfulness in my life thus far.
You have granted me much good,
now let me also accept hardship from your hand.
You will not lay on me more than I can
You make all things serve your children for the best.
–––––
Lord Jesus Christ,
you were poor and miserable, imprisoned and abandoned as I am.
You know all human need,
you remain with me when no human being stands by me,
you do not forget me and you seek me,
you want me to recognize you and turn back to you.
Lord, I hear your call and follow.
Help me!
–––––
Holy Spirit,
Grant me the faith
that saves me from despair and vice.
Grant me the love for God and others
that purges all hate and bitterness,
grant me the hope
that frees me from fear and despondency.
Teach me to discern Jesus Christ and to do his will.
–––––
Triune God,
my Creator and my Savior,
this day belongs to you. My time is in your hands.
Holy, merciful God,
my Creator and my Savior
my Judge and my Redeemer,
you know me and all my ways and actions.
You hate and punish evil in this and every world
without regard for person,
you forgive sins
for anyone who asks you sincerely,
and you love the good and reward it
on this earth with a clear conscience
and in the world to come with the crown of righteousness.
Before you I remember all those I love,
my fellow prisoners, and all
who in this house perform their difficult duty.
Lord, have mercy.
Grant me freedom again
and in the meantime let me live in such a way
that I can give account before [you] and others.
Lord, whatever this day may bring – your name be praised.

– Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison

An Overview

2011-12-18T11:25:00.000+06:00

In the last 48 hours, I've had a staff Christmas party; a student Christmas party; a Christmas concert; an all-night lock in with the middle schoolers (which included, but was not limited to, three hours of theatre sports between 2 and 5 am); dinner with a school family; afternoon tea with a school family; and lunch with a school family.

In the next 24 hours, I have to: pack up my apartment; pack bags for London; confirm new apartment; attend a rendition of Handel's Messiah in Russian; and catch a plane at 5 am.

And strangely, I'm not fussed. Not even breaking a sweat. Everything I've done, I love, and I even got some sleep in there somewhere. What's to come is about to be tremendously exciting. I'm so thankful to God who provides all my needs and more besides.

Fun in the Snow: Grade Eight Homeroom!

2011-12-15T20:58:00.000+06:00

Midnight

2011-12-13T00:19:00.003+06:00

I thought I was handling the busyness and the stress brilliantly, I really did. The mountainous workload, the constant building of relationships, the thousands of extracurricular activities, the pressures of living cross-culturally, the below-zero weather, the lingering sickness - I was getting rather proud of myself for managing everything, by the grace of God. Until today.

Today was the day that I had to mourn my precious cat back in Australia. I loved her - I raised her from a kitten - spent countless hours with her curled up in my lap like a soft, purring donut - I'll never see her again. It hurts like the dickens.

Today was the day that I found out I would also have to take on the sixth grade English class, beginning in January. No new teachers means extra classes. I've been holding back a mild panic attack ever since. I can do it - of course I can - but it will require the use of untapped reserves of energy. This kind of workload is new territory, and therefore frightening.

Today was the day when the devil found a chink in my armour; the chink is my lack of self-confidence. He prised it wide open and the full force of doubt came flooding through. A couple of imagined slights - an ill-conceived lesson - and suddenly I'm laid flat with the paralysing fear of Not Good Enough. It doesn't just paralyse - it eats away.

Today, the world caved in a little: just a little.

As I lay in bed, desperately tired and unable to sleep for the racing of my heart, a truth was slowly borne in upon me, and I reached for my journal so as not to forget it. The truth is this: Jesus can do immeasurably more than I am able to ask or imagine. There's nothing lying ahead that he doesn't know about and hasn't equipped me for. He is who he says he is. These are fragmented, childlike thoughts, and yet I cling to them like a drowning man, glad and grateful. I've been drowned by Not Good Enough more than once; but not this time.

I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep what I've committed to him until that day.

"Christmas Poem" by G.K. Chesterton

2011-12-12T20:39:00.000+06:00

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost — how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky’s dome.

This world is wild as an old wife’s tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

Shamelessly lifted from Along Addison's Walk.

Koreans & Me

2011-12-10T13:55:00.001+06:00

For those of you who don't have FB - here are some of my dear delightful students.

It's the Little Things

2011-12-10T13:00:00.001+06:00

I am somewhat giddy with excitement this morning. A small stall, selling fruit and vegetables from Tashkent, has sprung up at our local bazaar, and you'll never guess what I bought: eggplant! And field mushrooms! And what's more, I heard tell of a place that's selling leeks right now. I'm going on an expedition to find it shortly. Leek and potato soup coming up.

I hope I still get excited about vegetables when I'm back in Australia.

A Little Bit of Jeremiah

2011-12-09T06:46:00.001+06:00

Does it make you a king, to have more and more cedar?
Did not your father eat and drink,
and do justice and righteousness?
Then it was well with him.
He defended the cause of the poor and needy, and so all went well.
Is this not what it means to know me? declares the LORD.

Jeremiah 22:15-16

Two Views from the Seventh Floor

2011-12-04T10:02:00.001+06:00

Taken with my trusty iPhone on Saturday morning: it is very pleasant to wake up to a white city, so long as one knows that one isn't required to walk around in it, and that the rusty old heating system is actually working!

Future of Forestry - O Holy Night

2011-11-28T18:55:00.001+06:00

A gorgeous rendition of a beautiful carol.

A Wilde Day

2011-11-23T17:42:00.001+06:00

We have an official cast for The Importance of Being Earnest! First meeting at lunch today, when most of them got to see the script for the first time. We read a couple of key scenes and there was much laughter, which is heart-warming indication that they understand the comic genius of the play. Hurrah! Life gets that little bit more hectic from this point onwards, but it gets correspondingly more interesting too. I've never directed, much less acted in a production, but I'm learning increasingly that it doesn't matter a whit. We have an excited, motivated cast, and an excited, creative group of potential crew, and one of the greatest plays ever written. What could be better?

'Tis Winter

2011-11-19T20:37:00.001+06:00

It's unofficially Winter, which means I can wear my splendid big coat with a hood like the Cave of Adullam every day. I shopped at a bazaar recently for some woolly imitation Uggs and a beanie with a bobble on it, so I'm all set.

I enjoy my early morning walk to work, which generally has a Narnian quality about it:

But unfortunately, no fawns.

The really hard part about this seasonal change is leaving for work in the dark and then catching a marshrutka home in the dark; it's resulted in a tiredness that settled in my bones and hasn't lifted. In fact, between classes yesterday I laid out a tushuk and had a nap: and I never sleep during the day. Thankfully, today's Saturday, and it's been a blessed time of recuperation in which I have slowly graded papers - interspersed with watching episodes of The Office (US version) with my flatmate - gone bazaar shopping, and consequently made a good soup out of beans and lentils and the last of the tomatoes. Another day like this one and I'll be back to good. (Although it would be nice if the power would stay on for a couple of hours in a row, since cooking by candlelight is a little dicey, if pleasantly quaint).

Three Life Lessons from Stanley Fish

2011-11-13T14:13:00.001+06:00

From this excellent article:

...what have I learned along the way? Three things, closely related. The first is that people are often in pain; their lives are shadowed by memories and anticipations of inadequacy, and they are always afraid that the next moment will bring disaster or exposure. You can see it in their faces, and that is especially true of children who have not yet learned how to pretend that everything is all right and who are acutely aware of the precariousness of their situations.

The second thing I have learned is that the people who are most in pain are the people who act most badly; the worse people behave, the more they are in pain. They’re asking for help, although the form of the request is such that they are likely never to get it.

The third thing I have learned follows from the other two. It is the necessity of generosity. I suppose it is a form of the golden rule: if you want them to be generous to you, be generous to them. The rule acknowledges the fellowship of fragility we all share. In your worst moments — which may appear superficially to be your best moments — what you need most of all is the sympathetic recognition of someone who says, if only in a small smile or half-nod, yes, I have been there too, and I too have tried to shore up my insecurity with exhibitions of pettiness, bluster, overconfidence, petulance and impatience. It’s not, “But for the grace of God that could be me”; it’s, “Even with the grace of God, that will be, and has been, me.”

Kalmak Ashu with the Parentals

2011-11-03T15:24:00.000+06:00

Here I Am

2011-11-02T16:03:00.003+06:00

You might have noticed - I don't know, maybe you didn't - that I haven't written for some time. I'll try to do better. Promise.

Julia Gillard is spouting some guff on CNN about the values that Australians hold dear, which appear to include, without being limited to, turning asylum seekers away from our shores. She's got the same hair, the same clothes, the same voice, as when I last saw her. I even called in my Texan flatmate to listen to the improbable accent, and then sent her out again because I was embarrassed by the emptiness of Julia's words.

Anyway. It's 'Fall Break' right now. I've read about Fall Breaks in books for years, but this is the first time I've experienced one. My original plan for the week was to fly down to Osh to visit friends; however, with the recent election things are a bit dicey down there, and my team leader decided that I shouldn't go. So, I'm in Bishkek for the week, sleeping in and eating peanut butter on lapyoshka and watching terrible television and going to the gym.

...yes, going to the gym! I joined up a month ago, and so now I go to aerobics two or three times every week with some friends. The instructor is a bouncy Russian, and it takes me a while to understand her instructions, which means I'm often a couple of steps behind everyone else. I'm enjoying it though, and it's great to hang out with these friends.

There's so much to write about that I don't know where to begin, so I'm not going to write any more at all: the purpose of this post is to reassure my small but devoted readership that I'm still here - and happy.

A little bit of Marilynne Robinson

2011-10-02T18:40:00.002+06:00

Two rather wonderful gems from Home. First:

"...he was the sort of man who noticed the absence of encouragement and drew conclusions from it."

And:

"For her, church was an airy white room with tall windows looking out on God's good world, with God's good sunlight pouring in through the windows and falling across the pulpit where her father stood, straight and strong, parsing the broken heart of humankind and praising the loving heart of Christ. That was church."

To read Marilynne Robinson is to read a prayer that throws all human emotion into relief.

There's the joy of the father at the return of a prodigal son; the perseverance of the saints; the profound sorrow of ruined relationships; the beauty of worship and sacrifice, the tragedy of sin, and wonder at a beautiful, sad world.

If I could write a page of prose half as lovely as her pages, I would be well content.

Prayer: a little anthology

2011-09-29T21:03:00.000+06:00

You should probably read this rather wonderful post from Faith & Theology.

Prayer: a little anthology

Kalmak-Ashu

2011-09-29T18:46:00.000+06:00

I'm sitting in a high room with a misty mountain view, drinking homegrown herbal tea from a clay teapot and listening to the crackle of a wood fire and the sound of conversation in German. There are a group of formidably Teutonic women at the next table, clad in hardy hiking gear and sensible haircuts. They are the only kind of tourists that make it this far; they, and the rowdy Peace Corps folk. I might try and talk to them later. But whether it's out of pride or otherwise, I don't think of myself as a tourist. I'm a resident, a worker: I belong here, even if it's for a finite time.

I've brought M and D here as a treat. I even took a couple of days off work, which is troubling me - I'm trying to reconcile myself to being here and not there, even though here is so extremely beautiful and peaceful - a simple, good life - and there is a place where tasks are piled on tasks and there's always another thing that needs doing. Anyway, it was an interesting marshrutka ride out here. Marshrutkas bound for this village leave every hour, on the hour, from the eastern bus station. We were aiming for the 10 o'clock, but I was so tired that we caught the 11 o'clock instead. And that was a providential business: a couple of blocks from the station, we passed a road accident where a marshrutka had rolled over. It turned out to be the 10 o'clock one, which we'd so nearly caught. We rode in thoughtful silence for a time. And then, at Tokmok, the marshrutka was crammed jowl to jowl with people who coughed in a suspiciously tubercular fashion. Still, the trees around here are succumbing to autumn, all piecemeal, with yellow and red foliage breaking through the greenery, and it was a rather lovely journey in all.

This is a guesthouse in the village of Kalmak-Ashu, which is located in a spectacular valley about two hours out of Bishkek. My parents have been walking around in wonder and taking pictures of the village children, donkeys and mountainous landscapes. As I said, I've been trying my best to relax by reading and ingesting the aforementioned tea, with only moderate success thus far. I have high hopes for tomorrow, however. I've arranged for a local guide to take us all horseriding through the mountains, and the kind Kyrgyz woman in the kitchen will pack us lunch. The weather promises to be fine.

In 150 Words or Less...

2011-09-25T22:46:00.001+06:00

In brief, because I'm so very, very tired:

The high school retreat in mountains was magnificent. I can feel an avalanche of superlatives coming on, so I'll simply say that God was very good to us and that my colleagues - and our students - are spectacular human beings. I love them dearly.

(The parentals enjoyed it too, despite being a bit sick and shell-shocked. D spoke, M cooked, so they were on familiar territory).

School is very busy indeed, and the marking load is almost intolerably immense. But I shall overcome.

I'm letting M and D loose on the city by themselves, tomorrow. They have a list of words, an old phone, and a map in Russian. The day after that, I'm sending them off for a trek in the mountains while I keep teaching. Then, I'm taking a couple of days off so that we can go stay at a guesthouse in a village, which should be perfectly lovely.

I've been looking at my calendar today; it appears that I have no free time for the next seven months, apart from the occasional national holiday. I'm hugely excited at the prospect of everything that lies ahead.

Life in brief.

What, if Anything, Can I Change About My Life...

2011-09-19T18:00:00.002+06:00

...so that people don't have to live like this?

This afternoon, within fifty metres of my apartment, I saw:

A badly crippled man - his knees almost at ninety degree angles - trying to cross a busy street, and no one stopping for him.

An impossibly ancient babushka wrapped in ancient rags, weighed down with two ancient shopping bags, and no one to help her.

A couple of homeless people sitting in a skip - in a skip - eating the rind of a watermelon.

A black dog on the sidewalk, quivering with starvation, dodging the foot that wanted to kick it.

Lord, have mercy.

What can I change about my life, so that people (and dogs) don't have to live like this?

If you are to feed and welcome and clothe the least of these - and you must, it is an imperative, for in so doing you feed and welcome and clothe the King himself - what needs to change about your life?

A Poem by Siegfried Sassoon

2011-09-18T10:59:00.000+06:00

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and green fields; on - on - and out of sight.
Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away...O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will
never be done.

The Chosen Fast

2011-09-14T22:58:00.001+06:00

I've been making a collection of passages about social justice, which I've shared here without comment from time to time. Here is tonight's extract, from my favourite OT book. It seemed important to write it out before I sleep. Imagine:

Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of wickedness,
to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover him,
and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
Then shall your light break forth like the dawn,
and your healing shall spring up speedily;
your righteousness shall go before you;
the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
you shall cry, and he will say, 'Here I am.'
If you take away the yoke from your midst,
the pointing of the finger, the speaking wickedness,
if you pour yourself out for the hungry
and satisfy the desire of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness
and your gloom be as the noonday.
And the Lord will guide you continually
and satisfy your desire in scorched places
and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water,
whose waters do not fail.
And your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
the restorer of streets to dwell in.

Haiku: The Lord is True and Good...

2011-09-12T18:12:00.001+06:00

(From this lovely website)

Then the King will Say

2011-09-11T21:51:00.000+06:00

...then the King will say, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger and you welcomed me; I was naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you visited me; I was in prison and you came to me.'

Then the righteous will answer him, saying, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?'

And the King will answer them, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.'

photo of Kyrgyz boy from here

The Funeral

2011-09-10T20:02:00.007+06:00

I haven't been writing these last three weeks. I haven't been reading, either, apart from the texts that I'm teaching. The region of my brain that deals in words has been co-opted into preparing lessons and planning for the year ahead. However, a very interesting scenario is playing out in the courtyard seven stories below, and I thought I'd better tell you about it while the will is with me.

A small, plain yurt has been erected; dozens of men are squatting around it, alternately smoking and making thoughtful contributions to the pools of spit between their feet. Elderly women with covered heads sit in purposeful silence with hands clasped, and children dressed in their best find ways to play quietly without ruining the white of their shirts.

(This is a yurt on the jailoo: now you need to imagine it in the valley that is our potholed courtyard, with the mountains that are these broken-down apartment blocks on all sides.)

When night falls, the women begin to wail; orchestrated, echoing wails that bounce between our apartment building and the one parallel to it. It's an eerie soundtrack to my dinner-making; the scrambled eggs lose their prosaicness amidst the ululating sounds of sorrow, and eventually I abandon my dinner to the spectacle. From the seventh floor, I can see the lights flickering through the tunduk at the top of the yurt, and the dark shapes passing under it. After a time, a man's voice starts up among the women's. He is singing a dirge, and soon he is singing alone, an haunting elegy for an audience of apartment-dwellers and cold night sky.

Now it's morning; as I was stirring my porridge in that half-asleep Saturday morning sort of way, the wailing was renewed with so much vigour that I had to look out the window again. Right now, the corpse is being carried down the street by a throng of men, while the women remain seated around the yurt and bellow grief.

There is a Kyrgyz saying that goes, "only when a Kyrgyz dies and is laid to rest does he cease to be a nomad." Deaths and marriages are the most important parts of Kyrgyz society, and the rites surrounding death are full of pomp and generally costly; since family honour is involved, the service must be splendidly lavish. A yurt will be set up near the home of the deceased, and the best, most expensive food must be served - traditionally horsemeat. Specially assigned mourners share the wailing and the praying, and as in all Islamic societies, after several days of ritual, an imam will preside over the burial. Memorial services will take place periodically over the next year until the final one, twelve months after burial.

Now I've had the inestimable privilege of observing Kyrgyz funeral rites from my window; I should like to see a wedding one day - if I can possibly do so without having to partake of horse.

Hearing and Doing the Word

2011-09-04T17:58:00.000+06:00

...but be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves. For if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks intently at his natural face in a mirror. For he looks at himself and goes away and at once forgets what he was like. But the one who looks at the perfect law, the law of liberty, and perseveres, being no hearer who forgets but a doer who acts, he will be blessed in his doing.

If anyone thinks he is religious and does not bridle his tongue but deceives his heart, this person's religion is worthless. Religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world.

Cool Hand Luke - Two Versions

2011-09-03T08:42:00.000+06:00

Jon Foreman - The Cure For Pain

2011-09-02T18:13:00.000+06:00

Consider the Lilies

2011-08-31T09:08:00.000+06:00

He said to his disciples:

Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds! And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? If then you are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest? Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith! And do not keep striving for what you are to eat and what you are to drink, and do not keep worrying. For it is the nations of the world that strive after all these things, and your Father knows that you need them. Instead, strive for his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well. Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Instead of a Show- Jon Foreman

2011-08-25T20:10:00.000+06:00

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

2011-08-19T21:23:00.002+06:00

Bishkek is my home. I really felt that as I was going through customs at Manas airport. I couldn't wait to get to my comfortable apartment and have a long sleep in my own bed. I was pleasantly surprised at how glad I was to be back.

But that lasted all of thirty minutes, thanks to an unscrupulous taxi driver, who began renegotiating the price of the ride as soon as he'd started driving. First he wanted more som, and then he started asking for rubles. By the time we got to my apartment (at 4:30 in the morning) he was really quite angry, and called his friend, presumably to intimidate me. However, I was angrier than he; so angry that I threw the money on the ground, grabbed my bags and marched away, twisting his hand off my arm when he tried to grab it. Honestly, I could have punched him for ruining my pleasure at being home again.

I'm dangerous when crossed. Taxi drivers of Bishkek, beware.

(Still, I should probably invest in some capsicum spray).

Anyway, it is good to be home. Classes start again on Monday, which well and truly signals the end of the summer break. Somehow, we've ended up with lots more students this semester, and as the sole English teacher I find the idea of being responsible for the entire Year 7-12 curriculum both exciting and a little daunting. This time, however, I have my own classroom, which is a colourful and jolly place, decorated in posters from the British Museum and pretty postcards. Soon enough the walls will be covered in student work.

I promised photos, didn't I? Some selected highlights from Moscow, St Petersburg, and the train in between, then, provided particularly for the edification of those without Facebook:

Soul Food and Other Foods

2011-08-12T01:39:00.004+06:00

Today, in a cafe, a very handsome Russian man in an expensive suit tried to flirt with me. It was going swimmingly for about ten seconds, until he realised that I didn't actually speak Russian, even though I'd ordered in it. We were both a bit embarrassed, after that; I stuck my head in my Lonely Planet and he bolted his coffee and left.

However, I wasn't sitting around in cafes all day, hoping that gentlemen would make abortive attempts to speak to me; the day was devoted entirely to The Hermitage. (Well, not entirely. There was also pirogi, which I will explain shortly.)

It's been said that if you stood in front of every piece in The Hermitage for one minute, you'd be in the museum for thirty years. That's to be taken with a pinch of salt, but it's certainly a vast collection. The sensible way to approach it is to read up beforehand and be certain what you want to see. There's a very impressive antiquities section - lots of Roman emperors and Greek amphoras and Egyptian mummies - but what I enjoyed the most on the ground floor were the rooms themselves: palatial and colourfully grand with vast bay windows. I went on to pay my dues to the French, the Italians, the English, the Dutch - very worthy collections - but in my heart of hearts I was impatient to see the Impressionists. As it was, I stumbled on them unexpectedly. Room upon room of Monet and Cezanne, Pissarro and Renoir, Cezanne and Van Gogh and Gaugin: enough gorgeousness to make the hardest heart leap. Oh, it made me very, very happy. I sighed with delight in each room, and tried not to judge the silly people with cameras. (I am working hard on my judgmental nature, and am pleased to say that I think progress is being made: but I will not stand idly by - because judging people isn't being idle, is it? - while they snap pictures of themselves next to a Monet and then complain that the lilies don't look like real lilies.) Then, I tried very hard to like Matisse, and failed (if someone would explain his genius to me, I'd be very grateful); discovered Picasso's absinthe drinker and peculiar pottery; and wandered the halls of Henry Moore's wartime sketches.

The Hermitage itself is endlessly stunning, a palace decked out in French style. Outside, it's all white columns, gold leaf, pale mint-green walls, statuary. Inside, there's even more gold leaf and the grandest red velvet and chandeliers you'll ever see. Also, a royal stairway filled with gold and light and ceiling frescoes. It holds its own with comparable museums in France, England and America. If you can get over the perpetual crowds (and if art is your thing) St Petersburg is worth the trip for this alone.

The art of The Hermitage was food for the soul; unfortunately, I'm not composed entirely of soul, and was ravenously hungry after four hours of art-gazing. So, I went in search of a restaurant called Stolle, which is known for its pirogi (Russian pies). I found it easily and had a really excellent meal of sweet cabbage pirogi with fried potatoes (peasant food! but I never claimed to be anything else) followed by apricot pirogi and black tea. After waiting some time to see if I'd suffer a coronary, it seemed safe to leave, so I walked heartily and hastily for miles around the canals, trying to exorcise some gastronomic guilt.

Tomorrow is my last full day in Russia. I intend to climb the belfry of St Isaac's, visit the Russian Museum, and maybe one of the islands. I will also pay my last respects to Zoom cafe, where the good coffee is to be had.

In Which Moscow Compares (Vastly Unfavourably) to St Petersburg

2011-08-09T23:16:00.000+06:00

The centre of St Petersburg is very beautiful, very European, very bright. They call it the Venice of the North for good reason. Magnificent eighteenth century palaces, exquisite Orthodox churches, wide streets, stately parks, lots of wrought-iron and eggshell-blue and wooden bridges. However, it has also been raining in a soggy four-seasons-in-one-day kind of way which reminds me of nothing so much as Melbourne weather, so I'm waiting for blue skies before I start photographing things.

Today my friend Georgia and I walked almost the entire length of the city: she wanted to orientate me before I set out on my own tomorrow. One of the best things she showed me was a very lovely, very French, (and therefore completely un-Russian), bohemian cafe, where we ordered the best coffee I've had since leaving Melbourne. It was a rapturous experience. I intend to go there every day until I leave, so I have the memory to hold on to when downing yet another instant coffee in Bishkek. I may be missing friends and family a great deal, but good food and coffee come a close second. I dream about Yarraville cafes and Thai restaurants and mum's cooking.

I've been enjoying the hospitality of Georgia's family. They live in the suburbs, which, unlike the city center, have a crumbling, rusty Soviet ambience. Lots of abandoned factories, identical Stalin-esque flats, Lenin's face everywhere. Still, in comparison with Moscow, it's a hugely attractive city.

More as it comes to hand!

Some Art, a Cathedral, a Cemetary, and Lenin Himself

2011-08-06T19:46:00.002+06:00

This morning, I resigned myself to the probability that I would get lost, stand in pointless queues, pay too much for extremely ordinary food, and generally wander around like a lost sheep with sore feet. All of these things happened, and yet as I reflect on the day I don't feel particularly peeved. Mostly, I just feel poor.

Notable Event #1 was Lenin's Mausoleum. This involved standing in the longest line I've ever stood in, apart from the time when I queued for Mumford & Sons. It was hot, but it was free, so I bore it well. You get about two minutes in the tomb, and Lenin might as well be a wax figure for all we know, but it was one of those few times I've had in my life as a tourist where I tick a box in my head. Not thrilling, precisely, but obligatory. Lots of military standing about to ensure that you don't speak, take photos, or smile. (I might have made the last one up, but only just).

Incidentally, if you try to jump a queue in Australia, a guard might escort you back with a stern word, but probably a grin as well. He's certainly not armed. If you try to jump a queue in Moscow, a guard mght reach menacingly for his gun, or at the very least freeze you in a stare as steely as his grasp.

Following the requisite visit to Lenin, I hopped on the metro to the Pushkin Museum of Fine Art, which had an astonishingly good collection of antiquities, some very fine Rembrandts, and a whole building full of Matisse, Picasso, Monet, Kandinsky, Rodin, etc. Honestly, it rivals many more famous collections. The Egyptian Room alone took my breath away. I'm learning, however, to avoid Orthodox iconography and Russian religious art in general, because while there are some beautiful examples of the genre, the overwhelming effect is a bit ghastly.

Over the road is the relatively modern Cathedral, Christ the Saviour: if you're a woman, you can't enter with bare arms or head or legs, so quite a few are turned away since it's very much summer here. Fortunately, I had a scarf with me (which I wore to match my new bohemian haircut) so I got in, though something in me baulked at having to cover my head, low-churchwoman that I undoubtedly am. Though new, it's a very traditional stately cathedral; no boundary-breaking art or particularly creative architecture. But there are lots of very formal and rather beautiful icons, with many people praying all around. The overall effect is majestic - lovely colours, not too much gold, lots of marble and candles and frescoes. It reminded me of a Rubens painting. I'm not sure I liked it - for the same reason that I'm not always sure I like Rubens - but it's very striking.

Finally, after a hideously overpriced and horrible lunch at the Soviet-style canteen in the basement of the gallery, I hopped a train to Novodevichy Cemetary, where such notables as Krushchev,Gogol (all I could think was, poor dead soul!), Rachmaninov and Chekhov are buried. The place was swarming with Asian tourists in large packs and matching shirts, conscientiously aiming cameras at everything and nothing. I found the tombs I wanted to find, however, except for Rubinstein's, which has evaporated in the most peculiar way. The overall effect of the cemetary - which houses all the political and cultural figures who the authorities judged unsuitable to be buried in the walls of the Kremlin - was one of Soviet heroes striding out of granite blocks, chests imperious, faces impassive, gazing at a glorious future whilst clad in immaculate suits. (Soviet heroines are generally pigeon-breasted and middle-aged, occasionally in pearls but more often in sensible brogue). A lot of older folk still pay homage and leave flowers at the graves of notable Communist figures. I rested my feet a good deal and gazed on stony visages; all those Soviet figures became a little more real as I did so.

As you see, the day has been full and I feel quite justified in heading home for a bit, before I amble around in search of dinner. Tomorrow is my last full day in Moscow. I catch a train to St Petersburg at 11:45 PM. In the morning, I'm going to visit an Anglican church that is reputed to exist somewhere near me; I love expatriate congregations! They're full of interesting people doing wonderful things.

Regarding Moscow and All Things Muscovite

2011-08-05T18:19:00.000+06:00

The secret to enjoying a new city is a comfortable pair of shoes. A decent guidebook, good health, pleasant company and adequate funds will naturally contribute to the overall experience, but ultimately your happiness depends on the state of your feet. This is particularly true in cities with cobblestones, of which most of The Continent is comprised, and at which Antipodeans are in awe.

Moscow does not exert itself to win over visitors. It does not ask for your admiration or praise, it sits haughty and high and expecting your homage. You are privileged to bask in my grandeur, it says to foreigners; and so, it does not provide signage or directions or readable maps or convenient eating places. The Muscovites within it will not slow down to listen to your broken attempts at questions in Russian, or even acknowledge that you asked them. It seems to me that the most effective method of extracting information from a local is to wrestle them to the ground and tickle-torture it out of them.

It is a hard city; hard and glitzy like a diamond, except you have to imagine a very imperfect diamond with veins of concrete running through it. There is beauty here, but the city doesn't ask you to partake in it; in fact, it demands that you keep your distance and forebear to love it. In most European cities, the architecture invites you to enter into a relationship with it; to be warmly enriched by it. Moscow's buildings, for the most part, are like a patient with dementia. They are sunk in Soviet memory and don't recognise the present. Difficult to love, unless you knew them beforehand.

The Kremlin is the ultimate expression of Moscow's stony indifference to foreigners. In order to experience the Kremlin, the visitor must exert her problem-solving powers, since the ticket sellers will only sell certain tickets at designated hours, and you must use your intuition to identify entrances and exits. For instance, if you want to visit the Armoury, which you certainly will since that's where the Faberge eggs and ancient carriages and jewels are kept, you must line up at 11:15 precisely to gain entry at noon. There is a perpetual huddle of confused tourists around the office, and information is garnered by word of mouth rather than signage. Then, once in possession of the required tickets - which cost enough to feed an average sort of individual in Bishkek for a week - the visitor must pass through many security checks and undergo the scrutiny of bored police before entering the inner sanctum.

When I manage to upload my photos, I'll talk about The Kremlin and Red Square and surrounds in detail. There are lots of things to like about Moscow - but it's ever so much more fun to talk about the difficult things!

I bought a Stephen Fry novel in English yesterday, since it turns out that I'm not feeling as intellectually keen as I anticipated when I packed some rather more demanding books. I'm going to take it to the park and read for a bit, and rest my weary feet. It occurred to me today, as I was grumbling (in my head) about Russian things, and also when I spent more time on an exhibit of English art than on anything besides Faberge, that I'm a bit of an Anglophile, and Stephen Fry's writing feeds this inclination since he is himself the perfect arbiter of Britishness. If my next post reeks of aphorisms and tweedy adverbs (frightfully boring and all that!) you'll know the reason why.

In Which I Tell (Briefly) of How the Tsar Kissed my Hand.

2011-08-04T19:13:00.001+06:00

I have 25 minutes left at a frightfully expensive Moscow internet cafe, so I thought I'd just check in to say - here I am! I tracked down my visa on Tuesday, boarded a plane yesterday, arrived at a perfectly lovely and relatively inexpensive B&B in the middle of town, and spent most of today wandering through the Red Square, etc. The highlight was indubitably, exquisitely, St Basil's, the one with the gorgeous multicoloured domes. Unfortunately, I left my camera cord in Bishkek, so I can't upload them, but I look forward to writing about it at length and sharing some photos of beautiful architecture!

You know how the ultimate cheesy tourist experience is getting your photo taken with someone dressed as an historical figure? Well, I gave in today! There was a wonderful duo, the Tsar and Lenin, and I just had to get my picture taken with them. They were charming. The Tsar kissed my hand in a most courteous way, and Lenin said gentlemanly things in Russian.

Incidentally, I also got an excellent haircut at an expensively warm and friendly salon, on the recommendation of the people I had dinner with last night. It's very short with a pretty fringe. I've been missing good hair -I feel a little more like myself again.

On Sunday, I take an old-school overnight train to St Petersburg (how very Agatha Christie!) where I hope to report all manner of adventures. But my time's up - till soon!

Moscow Bound

2011-08-03T08:47:00.002+06:00

Yesterday was nearly 40 degrees, not the most conducive temperature to running around Bishkek like a headless chook trying to locate a mysteriously elusive visa! But three offices and some heatstroke later, and there's a holographic Russian visa in my rapidly expanding passport, which means that I can board my flight this afternoon...

In Which I Commend the Local Dentistry to my Gentle Readers

2011-08-01T16:54:00.002+06:00

I've needed a dentist for months, since one of my molars has been giving me grief. But, being both a sterling procrastinator and a little wary of Kyrgyz medical practices, I put it off and off again - until last week, when it actually became painful to chew. An individual wise in the ways of Kyrgyz medical practices told me about a clinic where the dentists speak some English and have been trained by Korean professionals rather than Russians, so I vested my trust in them, made an appointment and went today.

The surrounds were not promising: a big Kafka-esque concrete building, cracked linoleum, people dressed in 1970s-style medical gowns, an ancient chair of dentistry that had probably seen its share of bloodied enamel. The young lady dentist was very nice and efficient, however, and in the end I wasn't half as freaked out as I normally am. This might be partly attributed to the fact that they placed a surgical cloth over my face, so that I couldn't see anything and voices were muffled; I know it sounds like a veterinary thing to do, but it sure worked. I floated happy as a cloud. They gave me a little filling in one tooth, made an x-ray (this was the only thing that really concerned me, a weird contraption that looked like something left over from the Space Race), and confirmed my suspicion that another tooth needs a root canal. This is largely due to the (Australian) dentist who butchered my molar last October.

Altogether, as painless, efficient, stress-free and inexpensive dentist experience as I've ever had. I won't say that I'm looking forward to said root canal, but I'm not dreading it half as much as I normally would. Who'd a-thought it?

In addition to acquiring a filling today, I also acquired a housemate. her name is Aubre, she's Texan, and she's a history teacher who coaches baseball on the side. After a summer comprised almost exclusively of language study and remote trekking, I'm very glad to have company!

The Question of Orphans (cf. James 1:27)

2011-07-29T15:59:00.008+06:00

Here's a question that I've been swatting away like a fly ever since I arrived in Bishkek.

Why aren't I visiting orphanages more? Why, though they are always in my heart, am I so reluctant to spend time with these indescribably precious, abandoned, unloved children?

After months of skirting around the question, I think I know: once I go, I'll never leave. The next time I visit an orphanage, it can't be in a casual drop-by-here's-some-presents-let's play-peekaboo-aren't-you-cute kind of way. It's got to be for keeps. (This article describes life in the Bishkek baby house, the only government-run one in the city. It's probably the nicest orphanage in the country). I can't stand the idea of befriending children - bonding with them - for half a day and then leaving their lives for good. It's altogether too painful and I won't do it any more.

I must learn to be content with the work that I do. Teaching TCKs is challenging, rewarding and exciting. But it's also all-consuming. I haven't got the time to invest in weekly visits and what's more, I don't have enough leftovers to make the emotional investment. For now, I accept the fact that I'm an enabler: by teaching these dear delightful teenagers, I'm enabling their parents to do things like caring for orphans. One day, though, I want to be on the frontline. My heart is becoming like that of a young boy yearning to fight in the trenches for his country, only with (I hope) a more realistic grasp of the glamourless sacrifice it involves, because I've seen it firsthand in the lives of others.

Perhaps there'll be a day when I'm no longer a full-time teacher. Until then, I pray desperately for the orphans of Bishkek, that God might send people with big hearts and lots of time; people who love to hug and play and give presents and brush hair and kick footballs. People who are willing and able to consider adoption. I thank him for the people who are already doing these things, the families who have committed to care for orphans. God willing, one day I'll join them.

The First World Problems Rap

2011-07-29T11:41:00.003+06:00

Ah, I love this for so many reasons, not least because it reminds me of those days (those Canaan days - where have they gone?) when I could do things like buy clothes, flush toilet paper, eat cereal, and watch movies in English.

World Cup Qualifier: Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

2011-07-28T23:50:00.004+06:00

Even in this far-flung corner of the globe - where there'd be dragons, if there were dragons - there's a FIFA outpost. I went to a World Cup qualifying match this afternoon between Kyrgyzstan and its relatively giant neighbour, Uzbekistan, a little wary of what was to be. You might know that in June 2010, there was a terrible spree of ethnic violence in Osh, where many people died and over 100,000 Uzbeks fled Kyrgyzstan. These circumstances have become very politicised, with many Kyrgyz people rejecting the independent and UN findings that labelled the events as "ethnic cleansing". I don't propose to write about the situation here, since many people have done so and this is not the forum for it: but, as you can imagine, one of the symptoms is ongoing tension between Kyrgyz and Uzbek people. Thus, it was something of a relief to turn up at the 'stadion' and find hundreds of police lining the stands, plus a platoon of soldiers who marched periodically around the circumference of the field. There was also a posse of horses and German shepherd dogs on standby.

As it turned out, there wasn't much to worry about. Most of the players for Uzbekistan were ethnic Russians rather than Uzbeks, and the Kyrgyz crowd, for the most part, wasn't really sure how to act. They certainly didn't resemble your typical European spectators, although some enterprising people had brought drums, and a couple of people even went to the trouble of bringing flags. There was some booing and bottle throwing at the foreign national anthem, but the scowling police did much to dampen spirits.

The game wasn't much to speak of - 3-0 to Uzbekistan, who are something of a powerhouse in the Asian football region - but I found it very illuminating for other reasons. First off, when entering the arena, we were searched for bottles, which was perfectly acceptable since the same thing happens at AFL matches and at sports events all over the world, presumably. However, this was notable because they didn't want us to discard our water or our bottles - they wanted us to throw out our bottle caps. Incomprehensible, not to mention inconvenient, but we did so. (Sometimes I think that people here have seen a Western idea or practice from a distance and decided to implement it without fully understanding the theory behind the idea or practice). Anyway, with a bemused shrug, we nursed our bottletop-less bottles up to the top of a stand, and settled in with a program. As people began filling up the seats, however, it became clear that we'd misunderstood the point of the printed program; no one could have cared less about its contents. They were too busy covering their chairs in programs so that no part of their bodies would touch any part of the seats. I saw one fellow with about fifteen programs spend all of five minutes carefully arranging them all over his chair. Whether this was a cleanliness issue, I don't know, since they weren't particularly dirty chairs, but I accepted this confusing practice with equanimity and even put my program to similar use.

The Kyrgyz team had a scruffy, brave, but scoreless first half, and grew progressively demoralised as the Uzbeks began scoring in the second. It was sad to note that many people started to leave as soon as two goals had been scored against their team; again, it seemed to show a misunderstanding of the game. Indeed, as the game drew to a close, people began throwing things on to the pitch, either out of boredom or disgust, it was difficult to tell. However, on the whole, when compared to British hooliganism or Brazilian exuberance, the Kyrgyz crowd was very sedate. Later, we speculated as to the apparent lack of passion or emotional involvement of the spectators - many seemed disengaged - and thought that perhaps in Soviet times, obvious expressions of emotion or passion were discouraged and perhaps even dangerous. It might take another generation or two before people can truly let themselves engage in events such as this; engagement such as Europeans might recognise, anyway.

So it is with pride that I can say I've been to a World Cup qualifying match, and if Uzbekistan should happen to do well in 2014, you can say that you knew they would, since you heard it first here.

Introducing Garry Potter

2011-07-27T10:46:00.000+06:00

There are a couple of cinemas in Bishkek. They get their films directly from Russia, which means that there are generally some blockbusters showing at any given time. In the last month we've had both Transformers and most recently, Harry Potter. A friend asked me along yesterday; normally, I would say no, because I don't quite see the point of sitting through two hours of a film in a language I don't understand. But this time, because I'm familiar with the story and because I wanted to test out my newly acquired vocabulary, I agreed. Also, movie tickets are about the equivalent of four dollars here, so it wasn't exactly going to break the bank.

As it turned out, I understood about one word in twenty; in combination with my fairly thorough grounding in the Potteresque, it meant that I gathered the gist of things. For some reason, even though they have a perfectly respectable 'H' (masquerading as 'X') in their alphabet, the Russians have turned Harry into Garry. It could be because the Russian 'H' sounds like one is clearing one's throat. Anyway, it was quite amusing to hear Voldemort growling on about 'Garry'. Also, 'Snape' is turned into 'Snak'. Altogether, it was an enjoyable experience: I might even go to see Transformers, because I don't anticipate reams of dialogue or weighty language-dependent plot development. It's good practice.

A Fourfold Franciscan Blessing

2011-07-25T12:13:00.001+06:00

I found this here: this is what I pray for myself and for my friends.

May God bless you with a restless discomfort about easy answers, half-truths and superficial relationships, so that you may seek truth boldly and love deep within your heart.

May God bless you with holy anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that you may tirelessly work for justice, freedom, and peace among all people.

May God bless you with the gift of tears to shed with those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation, or the loss of all that they cherish, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and transform their pain into joy.

May God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you really can make a difference in this world, so that you are able, with God's grace, to do what others claim cannot be done.

In Which I Become an Honorary Citizen of the Lone Star State

2011-07-25T01:42:00.002+06:00

On my iGoogle homepage, there's a column with the weather forecast of ten cities, mostly places I've been to in the last six months. The weather of Bishkek and Athens is not dissimilar - mid to high thirties - but you have to laugh incredulously at London's feeble attempts to be summery. However, even the pale British sun looks inviting when juxtaposed with the solid block of grey rainclouds in Melbourne's forecast! I must confess, I'm glad to be skipping the seasonal gloom there, especially when Bishkek is so green and bright. I like winter clothes - heavy velvet coats, long boots, pretty hats - I like sitting in warm cafes with good coffee while it rains outside - I like fireplaces and roast dinners and all those good things. Lest I forget, however: cold feet, iced-up car windows, dark mornings, early evenings, puddles on roads and pavements, and the general disinclination to get out of bed. If I time it right - calloo callay! - I may miss two whole Melbourne winters in a row.

Of course, I get Bishkek winters in their stead: but six inches of snow and icy pavements are still sufficiently novel to be exciting.

Anyway, there I go, talking about the weather, which isn't at all what I meant to talk about. I fully intended, and still intend, to explain how it is that I've come to appreciate Texas and all things Texan.

There are a disproportionate number of Texans here in Kyrgyzstan. I'm looking after the apartment of a Texan family, my housemate-to-be is Texan, and I've just come home after a dinner with another family from, you guessed it, Texas. When I arrived, Mr T was putting the finishing touches on the flag display over the door: an American flag on the left, a Texan flag on the right, and a set of wind chimes in the middle which was in the shape of Texas and adorned with little cowboy boots. Mr T, an ex-Army officer, explained that he was measuring the flagpoles because legislation states that the American flag, when flying on a house, must always be hung on the left and slightly higher than any other flags in the vicinity. Legislation also decrees that said flag must either be taken down at night, or have a spotlight set upon it; further, if the flag gets tattered in the wind, then it must be burned, not thrown away. But, to the T family, it's the Lone Star flag that really matters. Texas was its own country for a number of years before joining the Union, and this has profoundly affected the way its inhabitants think about their state: there's a song and everything.

Mr and Mrs T have planted a little cornfield in their backyard, and we ate some of it at dinner: I can confidently say it was the best corn of my life. Juicy, sweet, perfectly cooked. I would like to visit Texas just so I could eat my fill of that corn. We also ate a spicy cajun stew and ginger pudding, and it was so good that I grinned like a loony. It occurred to me that I've barely cooked for myself this last month, having been so preoccupied with my study. Then, we played some Texan card games (the cards had pictures of the Alamo on the back). Most notably of all, I experienced a warmth and hospitality that I've rarely felt since being away from Australia. I felt loved and cared for, and they shared their lives with me in an open and inviting way. These Texans are exceptionally gifted at making friends.

My future housemate has many of the same qualities as my hosts tonight. So does the family whose apartment I'm looking after. What are these qualities exactly? Like many aspects of human nature, they're ineffable, indefinable - the closest I can get to explaining it is that they value hospitality; good food; creaturely comforts; games; stories; they speak a certain lingo, feel a certain patriotism. They make their guests feel very comfortable. Family is important; conservatism is important, but not so important that you can't be friends with people who aren't conservative; God is important, so important that you'd leave your beloved home state to do his work in the world. The T family love the Kyrgyz people very much, and speak about them with such tenderness that I got a lump in my throat.

Texans are in my life for good, it seems. So - when I'm back in Australia, you'll forgive me if I say "ya'll" occasionally, or shout "Remember the Alamo!" or look fondly on a lone star flag, or put a little hot sauce on my steak. For, in the words of an immortal fridge magnet: 'Whoever said life was good must have been in Texas.'

Victorian Photo Booth

2011-07-22T12:35:00.000+06:00

via Reddit

When Dialling 000 Doesn't Work

2011-07-20T12:28:00.002+06:00

What would you do if you could hear your neighbour abusing his wife? If you could hear things crashing violently, a man's voice screaming, a woman pleading, a child crying? I guess you'd call the police. I'd probably call my parents too, or my friends who work in social services.

What would you do if you came across a litter of mewling kittens in a gutter, or a shivering puppy under a dumpster? I guess you'd call the council, or the lost animal home. I did that once, when I found a family of cats in an abandoned block in Werribee. A two minute phone call, and they were out of my hands.

What would you do if there was a little boy, all skin and bones, who looks six but might be twelve, wandering the street and asking for money with bony outstretched arms? I guess you'd call the police, social services, anyone you could think of, although such a thing is horrific and rarely seen in Australia.

What would you do if you visited an orphanage, and learned that a baby with a terrible deformity, born after a botched abortion, wasn't getting fed? And that the children were locked up and left alone in the building for the night? Well, I guess you might call the media. They can change things. Public outrage is a powerful medium for change.

In Australia, we can take action by lifting the telephone. If we see an injustice, we can fight it. There's always an organisation that will help, a council department, a community service - and if all else fails, you probably have enough money yourself to buy food for the stray animal or the malnourished baby. And you could always start a Facebook page to raise awareness. Particularly if you're part of a church community that cares enough to get involved, like mine back home. There's always something you can do.

You live in an unthinkably rich country. Rich in compassion and in resources. Be thankful.

If you want to survive in Kyrgyzstan, you have to develop one of two things: an impenetrable heart that refuses to get emotionally entangled in daily injustices, or a soft heart that continually yearns and prays to the maker of the universe to come quickly and make all things new. Sometimes I wish for the former: but then I think about the heart of the one who died so I could live. The softest human heart that ever was. It's ok to cry. He did. But he also brought his pain to his father in faith.

I can't call 000. But what's infinitely better - I can call on the sorrowing creator of all things, who sees all and grieves with more passion than me. I'm thankful that he's given me this chance to draw closer to him, by participating in his suffering world.

A Little Vicarious Culture, Please!

2011-07-18T14:01:00.000+06:00

I want to know what you're reading. And listening to. And baking. And thinking about. Poetry? Novels? Songs? Good food? I want to hear all about it. Help a culturally deprived sister out!

Language. Also, Food.

2011-07-14T17:12:00.001+06:00

I had a great lesson in conversation class today. My teacher is a young aspiring actress with lots of energy (and not so much teaching experience, but we get along). Today, she decided that we were going to practice shopping for clothes in a real department store, one of the few posh places in Bishkek. I had a to-do list: ask for directions, ask which floor women's clothing was on, ask for a green shirt, a red dress and blue jeans, get a bigger size, a smaller size, ask to try them on, ask for a discount, and finally to reject them as too expensive, sticking to Russian all the while. It was so encouraging to be able to sustain these exchanges, and even extemporise a little! I finished the exercise so excited about everything I've learned to do. If you are ever in a Russian-speaking country and you need to purchase some clothes, order food, or comment on the weather, using past and present tenses and a variety of adjectives, just call me! (Ok, it may not sound that impressive yet, but have you heard this language?)

The second harvest of strawberries has hit the streets; these ones are smaller and darker than the last. There are furtive trades happening on every corner. This is good news, as is the juicy white corn that has become available. I also, finally, found some bread (besides the flat lapyoshka) that I like! It's a real, dark, Russian rye. A touch expensive, perhaps, but delicious. Good things are a-happening, foodwise.

A fellow flat-dweller from the fifth floor is coming over tonight: she's going to practice English, I'm going to practice Russian. Last time, we talked about family and kitchen items - this time, I'm hoping she can help me with talking to bus drivers. So, I'd better clean this place up a little and find some teabags.

My Summer Companions!

2011-07-13T00:05:00.001+06:00

I Saw Him Standing: Ann Griffiths

2011-07-12T23:51:00.003+06:00

I've shared this poem elsewhere - some of you may know it. It is perhaps my favourite poem.

I Saw him Standing

Under the dark trees, there he stands,
there he stands; shall he not draw my eyes?
I thought I knew a little
how he compels, beyond all things, but now
he stands there in the shadows. It will be
Oh, such a daybreak, such bright morning,
when I shall wake to see him
as he is.
He is called Rose of Sharon, for his skin
is clear, his skin is flushed with blood,
his body lovely and exact; how he compels
beyond ten thousand rivals. There he stands,
my friend, the friend of guilt and helplessness,
to steer my hollow body
over the sea.
The earth is full of masks and fetishes,
what is there here for me? are these like him?
Keep company with him and you will know:
no kin, no likeness to those empty eyes.
He is a stranger to them all, great Jesus.
What is there here for me? I know
what I have longed for. Him to hold
me always.

From the Welsh of Ann Griffiths (translated by Rowan Williams)

Kak Dela? (And Other Pressing Questions)

2011-07-11T20:43:00.003+06:00

Every morning, I'm subjected to a gruelling interrogation about my health and happiness: how is your mood? Are you well? How was your evening? What did you have for breakfast? My grammar teacher fires these questions into the room like a machine gun, and I must ball together the cheese-parings that constitute my Russian vocabulary and answer her creatively. And after two weeks of lessons, instead of falling back on 'good' or 'bad' or 'normal' I'm now required to communicate finer shades of meaning: 'not bad' and 'terrible' and 'fantastic' and 'currant jam', for instance.

It's nice to be asked, even if only for academic purposes. There's an exodus of expats from Bishkek in the summer so apart from lessons no one's really enquiring after my wellbeing. Many of my colleagues and friends are back in their home countries, raising awareness and support and avoiding the baking temperatures here in Kyrgyzstan. I haven't had many real conversations in the last couple of weeks. The exception was last night, when I had dinner with a lovely family. He's English, she's Malay, and they have a very cute little son. It was splendid to be hosted and to play card games and chat; but the cumulative effect was one of acute homesickness, a malady which I've staved off so far. I shall continue to stave it off, I believe, but the idea of home - and the questions that are asked of me there - is increasingly being set on a pedestal.

Postscript: in the very minute that I hit 'publish post', an email arrived in my inbox with the title 'How are you?' (Which is kind of what 'Kak Dela?' means). It was from a friend in Osh who knows me well and asked all the right questions - so, I raised my hands to the heavens and thanked a providential father who knows what I need!

Hymn for the Mercy Seat: Ann Griffiths

2011-07-09T12:28:00.004+06:00

It's probably obvious by now that I've been working my way through Rowan Williams' book of poetry. He has translated, rather magnificently, a set of Welsh poems into English; I find them so compelling that I must share them - so, here is another, and by no means the last, of his translations. I recommend reading further about Ann Griffiths, by the way. She was an eighteenth century housewife who lived in a Welsh village and wrote unbelievably vivid poems.

Hymn for the Mercy Seat

By Ann Griffiths (as translated from the Welsh by Rowan Williams)

Wonder is what the angels' eyes hold, wonder:
The eyes of faith, too, unbelieving in the strangeness.
Looking on him who makes all being gift,
Whose overflowing holds, sustains,
Who sets what is in shape,
Here in the cradle, swaddled, homeless,
And here adored by the bright eyes of angels,
The great Lord recognised.

Sinai ablaze, the black pall rising,
Through it the horn's pitch, high, intolerable,
And I, I step across the mortal frontier
Into the feast safe in my Christ from slaughter.
Beyond that boundary, all loss is mended,
The wilderness is filled, for he,
Broker between the litigants, stands in the breach,
Offers himself for peace.

Between the butchered thieves, the mercy seat, the healing,
The place for him to test death's costs,
Who powers his very killers' arms,
Drives in the nails that hold him, while he pays
The debt of brands torn from the bonfire,
Due to his Father's law, the flames of justice
Bright for forgiveness now, administering
Liberty's contract.

Soul, look. This is the place where all kings' monarch
rested a corpse, the maker of our rest, and in
His stillness all things that always move,
Within his buried silence.
Song for the lost, and life; wonder
For angels's straining eyes, God's flesh.
They praise together, they adore,
'To him', they shout, 'only to him'.

And I, while there is breath left to me,
Say, Thanksgiving, with a hundred thousand words,
Thanksgiving: that there is a God to worship,
There is an everlasting matter for my singing;
Who with the worst of us, in what
he shares with me, cried under tempting,
A child and powerless, the boundless
Living true God.

Flesh rots: instead, aflame, along with heaven's singers,
I shall pierce through the veil, into the land
Of infinite astonishment, the land
Of what was done at Calvary;
I shall look on what never can be seen, and still
Shall live, look on the one who died and who still lives
And shall; look in eternal jointure and communion,
Not to be parted.

I shall lift up the name that God
Sets out to be a mercy seat, a healing, and the veils,
And the imaginings and shrouds have gone, because
My soul stands now, his finished likeness,
Admitted now to share his secret, that his blood and hurt
Showed once, now I shall kiss the Son
And never turn away again. And never
Turn away.

Team Cadel, Girls' Night and a Haiku

2011-07-07T22:17:00.003+06:00

My ex-boyfriend was a mad keen lycra-wearing, carbon fibre-loving cyclist, and he would follow every stage of Le Tour. So, for a couple of years, there was a ritual where I'd fall asleep in a beanbag and he'd wake me up whenever something exciting happened, which usually involved Cadel Evans or Contador. Anyway, I was well and truly indoctrinated into the cult that is the Tour. Team Cadel all the way! And it's nice to be in a country where I can watch the stages without incurring much of a sleep debt. I love the frenchiness of it all, the gorgeous panoramas, the charming commentators, the grit, the guile, the lean faces and splendid calves of the competitors. Plus, it's so soothing to have European accents as a backdrop to my Russian homework. (A nice young Norwegian has just won a stage, and he can't stop grinning. He hasn't endangered Cadel's chances, so I'm happy for him).

In addition to the cycling and the language study, today's notable event was the discovery of a friendly bazaar only a couple of minutes away. It's a patchwork of little tables in a shed, and I used full sentences to purchase a kilo of delicious strawberries for the guests I'm having over for dinner tomorrow: I also bought nectarines, plums, and a melon of mysterious but fragrant antecedents. The aforementioned guests are some students who are still in Bishkek for the summer. I've invited them over for a girls' night, which will consist of dinner and a movie. I'm thinking Shepherd's Pie and Jane Campion's Bright Star; while it's nearly a perfect film from my perspective - stunningly shot, great script, Keats - I'm not convinced of its universal appeal, so am still hunting around for a fallback.

I also discovered this whimsical website today, where new haikus are posted frequently. I recognise the feeling of this one, particularly as my head is swimming with new vocabulary.

Die Bibelforscher: Waldo Williams

2011-07-07T00:17:00.004+06:00

I read this poem before bed, and by the last stanza I'd stopped breathing. It seemed urgent that I share it immediately, so I share it here. Is it not astonishing? I think particularly of Dietrich Bonhoeffer: arriving with his fist clenched on what the king had written.

Die Bibelforscher

For the Protestant martyrs of the Third Reich

By Waldo Williams (as translated from the Welsh by Rowan Williams)

Earth is a hard text to read; but the king
has put his message in our hands, for us to carry
sweating, whether the trumpets of his court
sound near or far. So for these men:
they were the bearers of the royal writ,
clinging to it through spite and hurts and wounding.

The earth's round fullness is not like a parable, where meaning
breaks through, a flash of lightning, in the humid, heavy dusk;
imagination will not conjure into flesh the depths
of fire and crystal sealed under castle walls of wax, but still
they keep their witness pure in Buchenwald,
pure in the crucible of hate penning them in.

They closed their eyes to doors that might have opened
if they had put their names to words of cowardice;
they took their stand, backs to the wall, face to face with savagery,
and died there, with their filth and piss flowing together,
arriving at the gates of heaven,
their fists still clenched on what the king had written.

Earth is a hard text to read. But what we can be certain of
is that screaming mob is insubstantial mist;
in the clear sky, the thundering assertions fade to nothing.
There the Lamb's song is sung, and what it celebrates
is the apocalypse of a glory
pain lays bare.

Grooveless

2011-07-05T22:49:00.002+06:00

For the last week I've been casting around, unsuccessfully, for something to write about that isn't purely extraneous. The days are very full of the Russian language, seasonal fruit (plums and nectarines and raspberries this week), walks in parks, plans for future letter-writing, along with the usual soupçon of tiredness and procrastination. I owe about four letters, and there's a trip to Russia that needs planning. But I'm finding it difficult to write. I don't know why.

Perhaps if I begin to describe my day, I'll find my groove. So here it goes.

Classes start at ten in the morning, which suits me well. I can sleep in till eight and have a leisurely breakfast. Usually, it's toast and plunger coffee (specially couriered from Melbourne, thanks to a generous mutti); lately, with the prevalence and goodness of fruit everywhere, it's berries and stone fruit too. The school I attend is a 15 minute marshrutka ride away. However, I try to walk most days, since the mornings aren't too hot and the exercise is necessary, so it becomes a 50 minute commute. This morning, I listened to Glenn Richards and Josh Garrels on the way, and the music made me glad; the former, because it was so thoroughly and poignantly Australian, and the latter because it helped me to pray as I walked.

There are three classes in a day, all one-on-one tutorials - Grammar, Reading, Conversation. I like Grammar the best, because my dodgy pronunciation doesn't matter so much, and because the teacher is patient and maintains at a pace I can match. The other two teachers don't speak much English, and they plough full steam ahead regardless of whether I understand or not. My speaking is getting better, though I still struggle with some of the heavy sounds and where to put the accents in words. The classes are eighty minutes in length, with ten minute breaks in between, hence the feeling of having been run over by a freight train at the end of the day. Also, they are fond of giving me enough homework every night to fit into a wheelbarrow. Still, it leaves me a couple of hours of leisure in the afternoon, which I like to spend in the park, or reading, or both.

I went to a pot-luck dinner this evening, hosted by a Swiss family in my organisation. It was very pleasant to eat salad under a shady apricot tree and find out how other people are spending their summers and to be encouraged by good fellowship. The other pleasant thing that happened today was that my hot water was restored - after several weeks of cold showers, I very nearly kicked my heels for joy.

Well, perhaps tomorrow I'll find a groove to write in!

Missing People and Stuff

2011-07-03T15:09:00.001+06:00

Encounters of the Neighbourly Kind

2011-07-02T19:44:00.005+06:00

I fully intended to be industrious this afternoon. However, it appears that I'm inadvertently responsible for cutting off the hot water supply for the entire apartment block, all nine floors of it, and a constant stream of neighbours have been thumping on my door to alert me to the fact. You see, the hot water in my shower hasn't been working, and I decided to use the water heater that is installed above the shower for just such occasions. Unbenownest to me, in my quest for a hot shower, I somehow overrode the system for the whole apartment block. So it is that I've had neighbours and maintenance men in my flat all day, all of them gesticulating wildly and speaking in accusatory tones; plus, in an unrelated incident, a woman who lives on the fifth floor chose today to ask me if I could teach her English, in exchange for Russian practice, and we just arranged to have a language lesson every Tuesday for the foreseeable future. Add to this two Skype conversations, a perfunctory visit from my team leader, and a leaking bathroom pipe, and my undone homework might be forgiven.

A pleasing antithesis to today's neighbourly encounters: someone above me is playing a piano rather beautifully. Also, there's a thunderstorm approaching the city which is about to crack open. The evening promises to ensue in a pleasant fashion.

A Tragic Revelation about the Russians

2011-07-01T22:09:00.003+06:00

I know, finally, why all the Russian novels are so miserable: they were written in the Russian language.

You thought Raskolnikov was tragically tormented over that durned theft-turned-double-murder, right? Well, I'm here to tell you that his crimes were but a minor contributing factor. It was only when he realised that he'd never be able to pronounce the ninth Russian vowel that his descent into madness began. And Anna Karenina - someone told her that her stress changes after verb conjugations had been wrong for years, and that's when she realised that life was unbearable. Ivan Denisovich was only sentenced to Siberia when he failed to identify whether the farmer threw the sickle at the wife, or the wife threw the farmer at the sickle. Had Pasternak written in French, Dr Zhivago and Lara might have gotten married and had eight children. Eugene Onegin - the Brothers Karamazov - need I go on? The tragic trajectory of all Russian protagonists has been profoundly influenced by the language which imbued them with life.

My Russian classes are administered by old-school teachers and supplemented by Soviet-era textbooks; after four hours a day, I feel like I've been run over by a freight train. Brute memorisation is the only way to survive, and even then it still feels like my teachers would like nothing more than to rap my knuckles and make me stand with my face to the wall. One week down, three to go. I'm already looking forward to life without language class.

On the other hand, I can already have fairly coherent conversations about vegetables and buses, so I guess it's not all bad.

Days 3 & 4 - Song Kul Lake

2011-06-29T12:37:00.005+06:00

Here is Azamat, holding up a wild onion. We ate them in sandwiches on the third day.

This was our first glance of Song Kul, which means 'Comfortable Lake'. Legend has it that when Genghis Khan saw this lake he slaughtered nearby villagers out of anger, for hiding such a beautiful lake from him. It is only accessible between June and September, and there are no facilities here except for the yurts and food that the local shepherds provide through CBT.

The lake is surrounded by plains such as the one below, on which Azamat is trying to teach me how to gallop. I never quite got to a gallop, though I dearly wished to.

We stayed in the yurt on the far left, and were fed like royalty on excellent cream, butter, yoghurt, jams, flatbread, plov, kasha, borsok. These nomads eat a dairy- and carbohydrate-rich diet, but they need it for the extreme conditions under which they tend their animals, particularly in winter. We asked if we could have fresh fish for breakfast, and sure enough, it was waiting for us, fried and delicious! I ate three of the things.

The lake was beautiful: untouched and still. I spent some hours walking and reading and just sitting by it. I finished Marilynne Robinson's 'Home' by the shore. (That's not me, that's Nazgul).

Eventually, it was time to go, so Azamat rounded up the horses and proceeded to gallop all the way back to Koch Kor, leading the horses on ropes, while his brother Nurdin drove us home to Bishkek (about 6 hours) in his rattling, overheated car. The two brothers took as much kumis home as they could carry!

Three notable events occurred on the way home: we stopped at a 4000 foot pass and drank from a glacier waterfall: we came across a herd of yaks: and we were stopped by patrolling policemen who were searching for illegal guns.

Thus ended the Adventure. (Well, not really: arrived back in Bishkek at midnight on Sunday, lugged my bags up seven floors, and realised that I was locked out and that my phone had 4% power left on it, and that I was starting class early on Monday morning. But that's another story for another time).

I have a couple of free days at the end of July, and I'm thinking of doing a similar trip in Naryn through Shofar Group, which was started by a couple from my own organisation: their aim is to eventually hand over the whole business to local guides. If you're looking for a unique and locally sourced holiday, Kyrgyzstan is the perfect place - so long as you're free between June and September!

Day 2 - The Jailoo

2011-06-28T18:58:00.003+06:00

The second day opened with a delicious breakfast of kasha (a sweet semolina-like dish) and fruit preserves. Along with chai and coffee, we were also offered one of the great Kyrgyz delicacies - kumis! Kumis is fermented mare's milk and it is highly prized: it's sometimes referred to as a 'pipe-cleaner' for its alleged benefit to your innards. Azamat drank it like water; I bravely accepted a cup, tasted, and decided the only way I was going to get through it was to scull it down, which I did, to the acclaim of all. Thus, I add the fermented milk of a horse to a growing list entitled, 'Interesting Foodstuffs I Have Ingested (Intentionally or Otherwise).'

A little way out of Koch Kor, we met our horses - near this tomb to a great Kyrgyz ruler of the eighteenth century.

Also nearby was one of the random Soviet relics that I am growing to appreciate:

Kyrgyz horses are famous for their breeding and their training. They are small horses, but sturdy, and extremely responsive to their riders. Genghis Khan himself thought highly of them. The horses are usually named for their colour, so I found myself riding 'Mud-Brown'. We got on extremely well. He navigated the rocky climbs and narrow paths with ease, and cantered when I asked him to. We climbed very quickly to about 4000 feet, and the view from horseback was exhilarating; I could easily imagine myself as a conqueror, and understood better the reason why possession of this region has been disputed through the centuries. You can't tire of the gorgeous sweeping mountains, or the flat steppes at the base of them.

We stopped for lunch by a glacier river, eating fresh lapyoshka, salami, smoked cheese and dried apricots. Here are Azamat and Nazgul, our delightful guides and friends:

We reluctantly left the valley and continued riding for several hours. Finally, as the sun began to set, we reached an isolated yurt on the jailoo (the high summer pastures) which was part of the CBT program. We were immediately settled inside the yurt and fed fresh borsok and yoghurt.

I made friends with two of the children and we went and played in the hills for a time. They made me posies of flowers and brought me wild onions to eat: I used my three words of Kyrgyz to great effect, and they showed off their magic tricks and animal sounds.

Then, as dusk began to set in, the jailoo took on new hues and beauty:

After an excellent dinner and a good sleep under piles of tushuks, the dawn was bright and warm. The daily milking of the mare was an interesting beginning to the day. (Can you spot the snow?)

But then, that's Day 3, and I'm exhausted after many hours of Russian. I learned fruits and vegetables today: also, I can count to 10,000, no mean feat when you consider that this time last week I could only count to 10. These Russian teachers are old-school and they don't mess around. If I don't do my homework, they will make me feel like a naughty child.

Day 1 - Koch Kor

2011-06-27T19:40:00.001+06:00

I recently got back from the most delicious adventure, and I must write about it immediately. The obstacle is that I have four hours of Russian language classes every day for the next month, which I started today, and pretty well all my brain cells are rushing to the sight of this endeavor. So, I've decided to break the adventure down into itty-bitty pieces.

Kyrgyzstan has a fledgling tourist trade: 'industry' is not quite the word for it, yet. This country has extraordinary landscapes, hospitable people, unique cuisine, but it lacks the means to advertise itself to the world. For my part, and the part of the other foreigners who are fortunate enough to have tumbled into it, this is a pleasing circumstance. I and my friends, C & E, arranged our trip through CBT (Community Based Tourism), a splendid organisation which facilitates yurt stays and hikes and treks and allows people to enjoy the hospitality of Kyrgyz families, while also providing such families with some much needed income. Our guide was Azamat, a young man who works night shifts, studies linguistics, and happens to have outstanding horsemanship. He also brought along his girlfriend Nazgul (yes, Tolkien lifted that name from Central Asia). They picked us up in Bishkek on a sizzling hot day, so naturally there was a traffic jam on the way out; but once in the countryside, the air cooled considerably. Our first overnight stop was in Koch Kor, a sizeable town where Azamat's parents live and provide CBT hospitality. Our very first sight was this donkey! Donkeys are so cute, but I restrain myself from obvious expressions of delight because the donkey is the equivalent of a pick-up truck, and to go all gooey over such a creature would incur quizzical looks. There were also the obligatory relics from an earlier age.

We enjoyed Azamat's family very much. Indeed, it's rather a beautiful thing to see a traditional Kyrgyz family in action. Three generations living under one roof, including a fat-cheeked baby called Adiz who was the apple of everyone's eye. We were served endless cups of chai around a low table, along with fresh borsok (fried dough), fresh cream and butter from the family cow, homemade preserves and a big potato and mutton stew. Following this, Azamat's mother showed us some of her crafts, including a rather astonishing tapestry-like creation of Lenin's head: (Lenin was, and still is, a very important figure to the older generation).

We walked around Koch Kor for a bit and were struck by the children playing in decrepit old Soviet-era playgrounds and schoolyards. They were very happy to play and have their pictures taken, and were pleased to be spoken to in the few words of Kyrgyz that we knew.

I'll stop there, because I have to do my homework (homework!) which includes, but is not limited to, a list of 40 vocabulary words. Part 2 tomorrow, then: folk heroes, Kyrgyz saddles, and some of the loveliest scenery you ever saw.

Song Kul

2011-06-23T13:41:00.001+06:00

I'm headed here for a couple of days on a horseriding trek. Apart from an encounter with a pony when I was five, I've never ridden, so imagine my excitement and trepidation! It's a mixture of 'squeeee!' and 'eeep!' I'll be sure to write all about it when I return.

"Farther Along" - Josh Garrels

2011-06-22T21:48:00.004+06:00

I'm adding Josh Garrels to my Bishkek music collection. Please, go to www.noisetrade.com and download his new album for free. Listen these lyrics - gorgeous.

Farther along we'll know all about it
Farther along we'll understand why
So, cheer up my brothers, live in the sunshine
We'll understand this, all by and by

Tempted and tried, I wondered why
The good man died, the bad man thrives
And Jesus cries because he loves 'em both
We're all cast-aways in need of rope
Hangin' on by the last threads of our hope
In a house of mirrors full of smoke
Confusing illusions I've seen

Where did I go wrong, I sang along
To every chorus of the song
That the devil wrote like a piper at the gates
Leading mice and men down to their fates
But some will courageously escape
The seductive voice with a heart of faith
While walkin' that line back home

So much more to life than we've been told
It's full of beauty that will unfold
And shine like you struck gold my wayward son
That deadweight burden weighs a ton
Go down into the river and let it run
Wash away all the things you've done
Forgiveness alright

Farther along we'll know all about it
Farther along we'll understand why
So, cheer up my brothers, live in the sunshine
We'll understand this, all by and by

Still I get hard pressed on every side
Between the rock and a compromise
Like the truth and pack of lies fightin' for my soul
And I've got no place left go
'Cause I got changed by what I've been shown
More glory than the world has known
Keeps me ramblin' on

Skipping like a calf loosed from its stall
I'm free to love once and for all
And even when I fall I'll get back up
For the joy that overflows my cup
Heaven filled me with more than enough
Broke down my levees and my bluffs
Let the flood wash me

And one day when the sky rolls back on us
Some rejoice and the others fuss
'Cause every knee must bow and tongue confess
That the Son of God is forever blessed
His is the kingdom, we're the guests
So put your voice up to the test
Sing Lord, come soon

Farther along we'll know all about it
Farther along we'll understand why
So, cheer up my brothers, live in the sunshine
We'll understand this, all by and by

The Holidays Commence (with a Potato Gun Hold-Up)

2011-06-21T15:00:00.000+06:00

While my Melbourne friends are shivering through a glum, wet winter that is unenlivened by snowfalls, I am racking my brain for ways to keep cool. The sun is beginning to bake the city, and I've already got a patchwork of lobster-red bits from where I've forgotten to put on sunscreen. (Having a quintessentially English/Irish complexion doesn't usually bother me, but there's a limit: we delicate white-skinned types were not made for blazing summers in steppe regions). There's a lull in berry production right now, too. I'm given to understand that the raspberries will be out shortly, but the plums are still too sour for eating.

My recent posts are a bit dismal, aren't they? This place needs brightening up, so I would write more along jolly summer lines - but I had another frightening encounter this morning! I went out to buy some lapyoshka (Russian flat bread) for breakfast. On the way back, I rounded a corner and was confronted by the sight of a teenage boy pointing a black handgun at another boy pressed against a fence. For half a petrified second that felt like much longer, I contemplated my options, which pretty much consisted of backing around the corner. Before I could move, he pulled the trigger, and the gun made a sound like the old potato pellet guns my brother used to have: they were playing. Big teenage boys playing with toy guns. When my heart started beating again, I walked on by with as much casualness as I could muster.

I leave that little morning snapshot with you. No comment.

I began watching Lord of the Rings last night. Half an hour in, I was overwhelmed with the desire to read the trilogy again - it's been a couple of years since my last foray - so my other errand this morning was to go into the school library and borrow them out. I also borrowed out the Narnia books and some Sonya Hartnett, thus regressing many years into my reading history. I imagine I shall spend the rest of the day reading compulsively. This is what being on holidays should look like - good books and movies and intermittent adventures. Now if only my friends were within walking distance!

The Resumption of Daily Life

2011-06-20T10:26:00.002+06:00

Upon reaching into my backpack to pay a taxi driver last night, I discovered that my sunscreen tube had popped open and smeared white goop over everything. I don't know if you've ever tried to clean sunscreen off a leather camera case or a felted purse, but it's one of life's mundane tasks. My trusty Macpac will never be the same again.

Taxi drivers in Bishkek, by the way, are expert fleecers. Even if you negotiate a price beforehand, they will often try to extort you. For instance, on Saturday night, a driver tried to charge us an extra 100 som for our luggage, even though he hadn't helped us get it in or out of the car. He also argued (semi-convincingly) that because at one point he'd had to drive down a road that had turned into something like a river, we should pay him still more. However, I had a Swiss German speaker with me, and if you haven't heard the law laid down to a taxi driver by a Swiss German speaker, you've missed out on a deeply satisfying experience.

I'm in my new apartment now, and besides a leaking pipe in the bathroom (which may explain the irate man from downstairs who thumped tenaciously on the door yesterday) it's very comfortable indeed. I'm a bit further out from the centre of the city now, in a region called Восток пять (pronounced Vostok Pyat), or East Five. There's a nice feel about it; there's a communal basketball court (never mind the weeds, cracked concrete and rusty hoops), little magazins scattered about (a magazin is kind of like a corner shop), kids everywhere. Hopefully I can find a decent bazaar close by - will go exploring once I've finished my unpacking.

My mail still goes to the school address. In case you were wondering. Also in case you were wondering, I'm doing fine. Last week's horrid encounter seems like an age ago, and I had some helpful chats with people while I was away at the lake. However, though I haven't yet processed this, I think perhaps a longer lasting effect of it will be my attitude to Kyrgyz men, which is something that I will need to think carefully about since there are still twelve months ahead in which I will need to relate to them a fair bit.

I have a swathe of emails to cut through. I love getting emails, and I love writing replies, but I'm not feeling particularly efficient or articulate right now, so it may be a while before I get to the other side of them.

Edelweiss!

2011-06-19T16:52:00.002+06:00

All's Well

2011-06-19T16:18:00.001+06:00

I got back from Issyk-Kul last night and found a bunch of emails and comments awaiting, for which I send my heartfelt thanks into the ether. I'm in a new apartment in a different area of Bishkek, which has a Fort Knox-ish air about it. I'm very well, and have just had an encouraging week with lots of like-minded people and some good books. I will write more when less tired, but just wanted to say - you are God's blessing to me, friends!

It's Not All Rose-Coloured Glasses

2011-06-10T21:15:00.001+06:00

Over the course of writing about Bishkek, I've focused on the beautiful and the weird aspects of life and culture. Snow, springtime, strawberries and so on. And in the process, I convinced myself that life here could be pink and fluffy if only you searched hard for the good stuff. Well, today I've been rudely shaken out of my blithe perspectives on Kyrgyz life and culture, particularly the menfolk. And I'm still shaken, despite having been plied with beer and vegemite toast in the intervening hours. Here's what happened.

This coming Sunday, I'm moving out of my apartment and into a newer one which I'll be sharing with an American colleague. I spent most of today making piles of things and throwing out junk. (It's amazing how much one person can accumulate in five short months)! Anyway, at about 5 pm my landlord came by. This in itself was unusual, since most of my dealings have been with his wife, and he's been the surly one. Still, he seemed friendly enough, and wanted to say goodbye, so I invited him in and we had a chat. After a couple of minutes, he invited me to have dinner: I asked if he meant with his wife, and he seemed to concur. Despite the slightly out-of-character invitation, it seemed like a good chance to get to know them better, so I acquiesced and we left the building. A couple of steps out of the apartment, however, and I realised my mistake. He'd meant dinner in a restaurant, with just him; worse, he was clearly drunk, and very grabby. He kept touching my arm and asking whether I had any men friends. Furious with myself for not realising his drunken intentions, but wary of his reaction if I were to cry off, we started walking down the street while I racked my brains for a way out. He ducked into a magazin for some cigarettes, at which I pulled out my phone and called a friend, babbling frantically about the situation. Before she could give me advice, he came back out, so we continued to walk for a bit. Unbeknownest to me, however, a Nigerian man (strange enough in itself!) had overheard my rushed phone conversation, and he followed us for a time. After a block or so, he pushed himself aggressively between us, and started to tell me to be careful. He was pretty drunk himself, and my landlord pushed him away: he pushed back, and they began to shout and push violently at each other in earnest. Even for Bishkek, it was a bizarre sight, this massive African and my Kyrgyz landlord with his gold teeth! It drew quite a crowd. I interjected, loudly, that I was going to leave now, and I did, fast. My landlord protested, but was now too embroiled in the fight to stop me.

After I'd walked a couple of blocks, however, and called the same friend to blurt it all out, my landlord came running after me with drunken lurches, and again I mentally kicked myself for not taking a different route home. This time, it was different: he made some suggestive gestures, stroking my arm, and even took hold of it, trying to steer me towards a taxi: if he'd really tried, he could have pulled me into it. I firmly declined, and planted my feet, and eventually he seemed to believe that I was scared of the African and that's why I was refusing. After about five minutes of aggressively negotiating, he let me walk away, shouting that he was going to run back and fight that 'nigger'. (Same word in Russian, apparently). Shaking with relief, I went to the apartment of a male colleague who lives close by. He gave me beer and sympathy, and we concocted a plan whereby he would accompany me back to my apartment, I would pack an overnight bag, and we would take a taxi together to another friend's place, who could put me up on a couch. So that's what we did, and that's where I am.

I'm one of those people who walks around after dark, unable to believe that anyone would want to hurt me. And yet, if it hadn't been for the good Nigerian giant, I could be in a dreadfully serious situation right now, and one which I walked right in to. Am I careless? Do I walk around in a bubble? That Kyrgyz man, I'm almost certain, went home and took it all out on his wife, and that could have been avoided if I'd been more cautious in the beginning. Kyrgyz men are given to drink, be violent, and to exercise authority over women. I knew that before, but still assumed the best. All I can do is thank God for the intervention, and pray for discernment in the future. It doesn't do to assume the best in this country, or anywhere; for all men, everywhere, fall short of the glory of God. Perhaps assuming the worst isn't an unrealistic position - perhaps it's the position of a person, sans rose-coloured glasses, who sees the world as it truly is.

An Inkling Suspicion

2011-06-09T20:05:00.013+06:00

Someone observed recently that my writing has evolved since I've been in Kyrgyzstan: apparently it's taken on new 'humanity and warmth'. I like that. (Although perhaps it means that my writing was robotic and icy before, which is worrying). It's certainly true that the daily exposure to other peoples' privations and sufferings is changing me. It's changing my priorities and the way I think about the future. It's changing my place in the world and my relationship with the maker of the universe.

He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.

Now, I was (and still sort of am) a refined inner-city Melbournite in possession of a good job that provides a reasonably disposable income; I was able (and will doubtless be able again) to indulge my penchants for good coffee, independent designers, organic markets, The Sunday Age crossword, arthouse cinemas - oh, you know the type. It's a beautiful life in many ways. I wrote about it here. But if I'm honest with myself, it wasn't particularly fulfilling; I always had this inkling suspicion that I should be elsewhere, doing otherwise. Yet because I was so very comfortable and surrounded by pleasant things, I ignored the inkling, merely appeasing it from time to time by tithing and making gifts of money to worthy projects. And I certainly didn't compromise on daily coffee or good shows or new books in order to be more generous with my time and money.

In the last couple of months, I've had the opportunity to examine that inkling suspicion from different angles, and it's taken on the proportions of a giant realisation, which is this: I don't think I can return to that pleasant, selfish life. (And when I call it selfish, I'm only describing what I made it to be. I'm not judging the many inner-city people I know who live with integrity and generosity. I just know that I didn't live that way). I'm not about to make a big announcement: I'm not about to tell you that I'm devoting my life to orphans or the homeless. All I'm saying is - it's possible. I want to have God's heart for justice and mercy, now that he has shown me so clearly what is good. And indeed, my heart is different; it is more malleable, softer, quicker to act. God, in his goodness, is delivering me from certain of my vices.

How these new inclinations will be manifested, I don't exactly know. But I do know this: if, in a couple of years, you find me drinking lattes and navel gazing in my renovated Yarraville home, making plans for the theatre - you would do me a kindness by opening up the book of Micah and directing my attention to this blog post.

Five Rupees

2011-06-08T17:13:00.007+06:00

"If you are preoccupied with people who are talking about the poor, you scarcely have time to talk to the poor. Some people talk about hunger, but they don't come and say, "Mother, here is five rupees, buy food for these people." But they can give a most beautiful lecture on hunger.

I had the most extraordinary experience once in Bombay. There was a big conference about hunger. I was supposed to go to that meeting and I lost the way. Suddenly I came to that place, and right in front of the door to where hundreds of people were talking about food and hunger, I found a dying man.

I took him out and I took him home.

He died there.

He died of hunger.

And the people inside were talking about how in 15 years we will have so much food, so much this, so much that, and that man died. See the difference?"

--Mother Teresa

"I obey, I bear the crucifying consequences, because I have, however dimly and weakly, chosen to love God and to do his will, chosen to see that as the one ultimately, unconditionally worthwhile thing a human can do. I have no rights here."

     --Rowan Williams

The Chickenskin Couple

2011-06-05T22:31:00.002+06:00

I feel like a Great White Western Whale sometimes. (I think I just cleverly conglomerated the names of a shark, a whale and a wall in Jerusalem). As an Australian of above-average height, unruly hair and fairly substantial mass, I tend to stand out around here. Kyrgyz women are uniformly slender and petite with good hair and the ability to daintily navigate uneven footpaths while wearing high heels. Me, I trip and scuff my Birkenstocks on the cracks and generally blunder my way around the city, acutely aware of my big limbs and bad posture. I have to crane my neck at unnatural angles on marshrutkas. Even at the school where I work, the chairs and desks are built for people smaller than I, so that my knees have a permanent technicolour array of bruises.

This awareness is heightened when I spend time with the families of the Korean students I teach. Last night, high school students, teachers, the graduating class of 2011 and their families, all gathered at a Korean restaurant to celebrate. Over half of our students are Korean, so it was an appropriate venue. The food was delicious, the speeches touching, the company superb. However, it did bring out the GWWW in me. First of all, as a GWWW, it is difficult to sit on the floor around a table gracefully. One is forever checking that one's jeans are not showing unbecoming bits of one; one is knocking the knees of one's neighbours every time one awkwardly changes position; and one is subject to cramp at inconvenient times. Secondly, as a GWWW who prides oneself on one's use of chopsticks (as GWWWs, in their self-satisfied way, often tend to do), one is put to shame by the effortless ability of one's neighbours to clean every grain of rice from their plates, even as one's own chopsticks are scrabbling round the plate for ten minutes after that last elusive mouthful. Finally, the GWWW is put to shame by her grubby Shrek-like feet, because she forgot that one takes off one's sandals at these things and had spent the entire day walking.

Anyway, I exaggerate for comic effect; it was really a lovely night. I was reminded anew of God's intricate and perfect plan, and the way that he lavishes his blessings on this school. Many people spoke, including some of the Korean parents. There were a couple of phrases in their speeches that were uniquely Korean, including a "chickenskin couple": this refers to a couple who are so attuned to each other and to God that they cause goosebumps, or 'chickenskin', in the people around them. I thought this was a beautiful phrase, and a distinctly Asian one. There was something so delicate in the way it was used. (Although it was translated initially as "chicken" which was perplexing for a time). The Korean couple being referred to are gorgeous people: despite having an eighteen year old son, the wife has dimples and the complexion of a child, while the husband has an irrepressibly cheeky look. They've served here for fifteen years, raising a family and working hard in the community. The wife gave an amazing testimony of thanks and praise to God for bringing her family to this harsh country, and indeed she and her husband and children are a vibrant testimony to grace. I cried a little as she spoke (I've been crying a lot these last few weeks, with so many goodbyes), and gave quiet thanks for this chickenskin couple and their beautiful children. Those two kids, by the way, are going to change the world, with their soft hearts and passion for suffering people. You heard it here first.

My friend Katya was dunked today, in a shallow blue wading pool. I took her and another friend, Tonya, out for lunch afterwards. We went to Bishkek's one and only Mexican restaurant (this city is full of surprises) and ate the Kyrgyz version of fajitas. She's graduating from local university next Saturday, and I'm going to that ceremony too. I'm glad to have fallen into friendship with these two girls - it just sort of happened. Both new believers, both hungry to learn and eager to teach me about culture and language. Initially, the idea was that I would do a study with them and be a mentor, but it turns out that I'm learning more from them, as is so often the case. (Even GWWWs, who often think they know more than the daintier fish in the sea, need to be humbled from time to time).

In the spirit of barnyard fowl analogies - you know how chickens can sometimes run around after being beheaded? That's kind of what I just did. There's a week of school left and I haven't got two brain cells to rub together - but somehow, through a freakish combination of sensory memory and ingrained habit, I just constructed a blog post out of reasonably coherent sentences. Of course, I may have just ruined their impact through a poorly chosen metaphor.

Psalm 23

2011-05-29T20:47:00.001+06:00

Ace of Base, that bastion of high culture, should be resting on their laurels, since they've finally made it in Kyrgyzstan. At least, my neighbour seems to find them extremely edifying, and in turn edifies the rest of the building with the help of a subwoofer, thus discharging his comradely duty. It makes a change from doleful dirges, but somehow I'm not as grateful as you'd think.

Anyway, while I was grumping, this song came onto shuffle: it reminds me strongly of walking the streets of Bishkek, so I thought I'd share it. It's a good antidote to Ace of Base, anyway. Enjoy.

Apologies (and Strawberries!)

2011-05-28T16:58:00.001+06:00

My internet connection has been down for nearly two weeks, which is why I haven't been posting here. Why it was down, I don't know, but as the local expats say, TIB (This is Bishkek): basically, when uttered with a wry smile, it means that trying to find an explanation for daily weirdness and inconveniences is a fruitless exercise which will certainly lead to heightened blood pressure. Like the fact that the hot water gets turned off for the whole month of May across the city, or that you never quite know where your marshrutka is headed.

I must say, though, that all these puzzlements dwindle into insignificance in the face of the glorious springtime. In the last couple of weeks, numberless babushkas have set up shop on crates in the streets, selling strawberries and cherries and apricots that are impossibly delicious. Every couple of days, I stop and buy a jarful. (That's how they're sold: a kilo of gorgeous strawberries in a jar for about 80 cents). Given that I've subsisted on apples and potatoes for the last five months - yes, it's been that long! - I have no compunction about gorging myself.

Well, I did a very brave thing recently, followed by a very exciting thing. The brave thing was that I enrolled in a language course for the whole of July. This means four hours of classes a day, and it could well be the hardest thing that I ever do. The classes are one-to-one, which is splendid, but the textbooks are solidly Soviet in origin, including references to comrades and suchlike. I think it's an old-school learning style - lots of rote and repetition - but compared to Australia, where the cost of an hour's language lesson, in any language, is astronomical, this works out at less than 4 dollars per hour. I'm a little apprehensive at the rigour it will doubtless involve, but I'm also relishing the challenge. For now, anyway! Regardless, I'm getting my money's worth, and daresay I shall be reading Pushkin and Solzhenitsyn in no time. (Failing that, I imagine that I shall be more realistically content if I can grapple with Russian books for small children).

The very exciting thing is that I finally booked my flights to Russia, for the first two weeks of August! Moscow and St Pete's for the win. I know friends and friends-of-friends in both cities, which makes all the difference. Also, it's an extra incentive to learn as much language as I can, since I'll be travelling around on my own.

Apart from anything else, the summer's going to be very lonely. Lots of expats head off on home assignment, and lots of locals leave the city and live in their dachas, which are huts in the mountains where it's cooler. I'll be very busy, with a conference, horseback trek, and the aforementioned language study and travel to occupy me, but I'll also be growing heartily sick of my own company. Which is why you should keep writing, emailing and skyping me.

Speaking of, I had a skype conversation with my whole family on Friday, in which I learned how my sister, who my parents thought was in Thailand, jumped out of a box on my mother's birthday, and is now contemplating a return to civilian life; how both my brothers are beginning new and exciting courses, and how my sister-in-law makes incredible lemon meringue cakes whilst also working a demanding job, studying for her Master's degree, and fostering children with my brother on weekends. I have a pretty spectacular family. I can't wait to see my parents in September when they visit!

A Graduation & Some Hot Water

2011-05-11T22:36:00.002+06:00

Bishkek weather is like Melbourne weather: changeable, frustrating, four-seasons-in-a-day type weather. You never know if you’ll be needing an umbrella, sandals, thermal underwear, or all three in a single day. I don’t know if that’s why I’ve been getting so sick lately, but it’s as good a reason as any. I’ve been feeling exceptionally sorry for myself, and for my lungs which threaten to cough themselves up any day now. And, to exacerbate this self-pity, the hot water got turned off yesterday. Apparently this happens in Bishkek every year on the tenth of May and lasts the whole month, while the pipes get 'refitted'. My apartment has a little hot water heater above the bathtub - my landlady's dour husband, who speaks some English but is profoundly uninterested in matters relating to his tenant, had to come around tonight and show me how to make it work. So it was a thankfully brief stint without hot water, and a good reminder to be grateful for small mercies.

The term is winding up - already! A third of my teaching time here is nearly over, with only four weeks until the summer break. My Grade Tens are sitting their IGCSE English exams, starting tomorrow. My Grade Sevens and Eights are busy rehearsing and performing Romeo & Juliet with gusto. My Ethics class are working industriously on projects. I'm up to my elbows in grading, and strangely not minding it too much.

The Grade Eight class, all five of them, had a graduation dinner last Friday. We gathered at a Chinese restaurant with their parents and teachers. After a curious feast of pseudo-Chinese food, each student gave a speech which acknowledged their teachers; they shed tears of gratitude as they tried to express their love for us. I'm not kidding. Each of these kids has already had a profound impact on my life, with their soft hearts, their desire to learn and grow and love, their compassion and humour and maturity. I'm beginning to realise how hard it will be to leave this place and these students - I've never met their equals.

A Sampling of Statuary

2011-05-08T22:39:00.003+06:00

Bishkek is full of interesting, historic, and occasionally perplexing monuments, most of them dating from or commemorating the Soviet era. These are a couple of photos I've taken recently, and I hope you'll note the blue skies in them!

The impressively impassive guards of the national flag.

The statue to Erkindik (Freedom) overlooking Ala-Too Square.

A Personage in National Dress.

World War II Explosives Bearers.

The Eternal Flame (eternally peppered with bottle-toting youths)

Welcoming Home the Heroes of the Front.

Another Personage. (Possibly Frunze, though I can't be sure.)

Mutton, Mutton Everywhere

2011-05-07T20:39:00.004+06:00

Before coming to Kyrgyzstan, I thought of mutton as a sort of post-war British fare, to be accompanied by boiled cabbage and carrots. I'm quite sure my grandparents ate it. (I know for a fact that my grandmother happily consumed delicacies like brains and tongue, too; I can forgive the latter because The Famous Five were forever eating tinned tongue on their sandwiches - the brains not so much.) However, up until the last few months I hadn't given proper consideration to the reality of mutton. The very name is unappetising - sort of reminiscent of nineteenth century sideburns - and so is the fact that you distinguish it from lamb by saying it's the meat of an old sheep.

Anyway, mutton is the meat of choice round these parts. The shashliks on street corners are made of it; the samsi are filled with the fatty remnants of it; and every local restaurant will have a chicken option and a meat option, which will be a sort of indistinguishable beef or mutton, but generally the latter. That's it as far as meat goes. Hence, as a dyed-in-the-wool omnivore, I find myself thinking longingly about lamb chops and pork roasts and kangaroo steaks and barbequed swordfish and prosciutto, and also about the idea of not eating rice and potatoes and doughs with every meal. It's heavy stuff. Salt and pepper and chilli and dill are the flavours of choice - how I'd love some fresh coriander, some basil, some continental parsley! (Such is the privilege of having lived an inner-city Melbourne life - the food is impossibly good, varied, fresh. And don't even get me started on the coffee - that's a whole other blog post.)

Interestingly, I find that my attitude to food hygiene is also changing; in Australia, we can be certain (or close to it) that our food has been prepared to rigid cleanliness standards. We expect, and even assume as our right, that the meal we order has been carefully prepared by clean hands and its components have been appropriately refrigerated. Well, the Kyrgyz think differently about all this. The chicken you buy - it might have been frozen and refrozen a couple of times. That's perfectly acceptable. The beef could have been sitting at room temperature all day - and so what? I find I'm becoming increasingly inured to the hygiene standards, or lack of them. The alternative is becoming extremely fussy and perhaps even cutting out meat altogether, which would make you a sort of social pariah in this country.

Having said that, I would not willingly eat horse again, no matter how painstakingly it had been prepared. The first time was a mistake, and I ate it so as not to offend, and also so that I could say that I had eaten horse (perhaps thereby demonstrating an unfortunate tendency to pride). But everybody has their level, as Mr Elton said to Emma, and I am tolerably sure that I have found mine; it resides somewhere between mutton and horsemeat.

Anyone for a Summer Adventure?

2011-05-04T20:30:00.002+06:00

Here I am, a mere train trip away from Russia, summer holidays approaching - and no one to go exploring with. Woe is me. So what follows is an advertisement for the post of travel companion to Russia. (Pictures from this excellent website.)

Item #1: Mother Motherland. Built at the end of the 1950s, she's twice as high as the Statue of Liberty. Tell me you wouldn't give your back teeth to see her! (And I'm not ashamed to use hyperbole in this instance.)

Item #2: St Petersburg: specifically, St Basil's Cathedral. I've wanted to see these magic domes for longer than I can remember.

Item #3: The Poles of the Komi Republic.

Item #4: G.K. Chesterton's wise words. "The object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country."

Item #5: The Silk Road Train.

Item #6: the land of the Bolshoi ballet, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Solzhenitsyn, Chekhov, and Pushkin's Onegin. (Okay, Ralph Fiennes isn't Russian, but wouldn't it be nice to meet a Russian who looked like him?)

Applications for this post can be made through the usual channels.

The Gypsy Girl & William Brown

2011-05-02T22:10:00.003+06:00

So I think I've mentioned the gypsies before. They're quite common. Gypsy women have knocked on my door a couple of times, glaring and spitting when refused money. Gypsy children will often tug at your clothing, whining and begging in a well-trained routine, until you have to shout at them (and mean it!) and swat their hands away. The men - goodness knows what they're doing. Picking pockets probably.

Anyway, I saw a rather beautiful thing today. Quite often, a gypsy woman will be begging cross-legged on the pavement, cradling a bundle that the passerby assumes is a child, looking accusingly as you pass. The girl I saw this afternoon looked particularly young to be a mother, and she had forgotten to do her job for a moment: she was playing with the grubby hands of the little baby in her lap, gazing delightedly into its face with open adoration. I have never seen such a look on a gypsy. As I drew near, I smiled at the sight; she looked up, still with the delight in her eyes. She saw me, and it took a few seconds for the light to fade from her face and the hardness to descend. She aged about ten years in that moment. It was too late for her to ask for money, and I could tell she was angry - either at me or at herself. Oh, I wanted to kneel down and put my arm around her and tell her that it is good to be delighted in your baby, and it's okay for strangers to share in that pleasure too. But I walked on, because I'm pretty sure she hated me for being one of 'them', as gypsies do.

It reminded me of something else. On Friday, I caught an overcrowded marshrutka. A boy of about eight or nine got up and gave me his seat. He was dressed in the black suit and cap of local schoolboys and carrying a satchel. (Such boys always remind me of William Brown, except they are much less jolly and they do things like giving up their seats for adults. And they have certainly never played cowboys and Indians, although lifelike plastic guns are their commonest plaything.) Anyway, I don't think this little boy had smiled in his life. He had the grim look of all men here; thin, serious, intense. Kyrgyz children aren't encouraged or praised at home. It just isn't done. And as for his schooling - well, Kyrgyzstan recently ranked 65th out of 65 countries tested for education standards, so I imagine his little soul is not being terribly nurtured and stimulated.

There was something in the gypsy's face that was like the schoolboy's face. Dull eyes looking anxiously at a hopeless prospect. And I am helpless. I speak no Russian or Kyrgyz; I have nothing to give them. I can't even smile at them - that isn't done, either. I can give a few som to a beggar, but that helps no one and only perpetuates the begging. The most I can do is buy them bread, but that's not what they need. How I long to show them love, and point them to the source of all hope and assurance and peace and joy! In this I am frustrated, being limited by my culture and my language. Frustration rises up like bile at my uselessness.

But then I remember - my presence here is a building block. I may not be on the front-line, but by teaching as I do I am facilitating the ability of families to start businesses, build lasting relationships, train local people in real skills. These are the things that bring lasting change. Perhaps one day I'll be doing a different kind of work, but for now I'm thankful to be involved in this way; it's how I can show love to the grim-faced children and the grubby gypsies and the homeless and the disabled and the babushkas selling their last possessions on the street. For now, there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

A Half-Blind Longing for the Light of the World

2011-05-01T21:22:00.009+06:00

I got a touch of the old Sehnsucht today. (Like sunstroke, only metaphysical.) First, there was the message this morning about the ineffable beauty of Grace and the Phoenician woman in Mark. Then, there was a lunch in the park which was all laughter and dappled greenery and gypsy children. Finally, I had occasion to reflect on the mingled sorrow and joy of changing friendships: joy, because I love my friends, and sorrow, because tyrannous distance is intervening.

The cumulative effect was a profound wistfulness for I know not what: for an imperfect heart, perhaps, that clutches at grace and then falls away; for the endless summer of childhood past; for the foreshadowing of the time when we will be in relationship forever.

C.S. Lewis took Sehnsucht from the Germans and made it his own. The word denotes a longing - a craving - intense yearning. In The Weight of Glory, he wrote:

In speaking of this desire for our own faroff country...I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter...the books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.

Sometimes I think I live my life in a haze of longing for the scent, the echo, the news that Lewis here describes. Perhaps we all do. King David certainly did: he was forever crying out - How long O Lord? which is frequently a cry on my lips also, even (and perhaps especially) while I am living a full life. This is a weighty paradox - that even when life is rich and good, there is an inexorable yearning on the edges of it. The thing to do, then, is to acknowledge that it's there - to look at it square-on and strike a detente with it. George Herbert did - in his poem Bitter-sweet, he described the terms of his truce:

And all my sour-sweet days

I will lament and love.

That's the thing to do - lament and love in equal measure, and acknowledge that "blue unclouded weather" experiences have a flip side, which is the taste for heaven and the longing they instil in us. Sehnsucht is a foreshadowing - or, according to Lewis, a remembering - of beauty and glory and eternity. It is the experience of looking through a glass darkly. It causes us to long for the One who we catch peripheral sight of; He is the Alpha and the Omega, the Platonic form, the truth in the darkened glass; and we wait for the day when we will see him face to face. The apostle Paul frequently tells us to rejoice in this hope - to wait with hope - to embrace it - to hold it fast.

In the meantime, one can't walk around in this sort of heightened Germanic spiritual state for ever: a return to the mundane reality of boiled eggs on toast for dinner is desirable, and so I draw to a close with this thought, which isn't mine at all, but Paul's: Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. And if that isn't cause for joy, I don't know what is.

My First Banya

2011-04-28T23:00:00.002+06:00

The first thing to know about banya, traditional Russian sauna, is that it involves a whole lot of hair-pulling and rib-thumping: the next and possibly more startling fact about banya is that it involves no clothes whatsoever. However, sheets are kindly made available for the squeamish of heart.

Here is a medieval description of a banya (lifted from wikipedia):

I saw the land of the Slavs, and while I was among them, I noticed their wooden bathhouses. They warm them to extreme heat, then undress, and after anointing themselves with tallow, they take young reeds and lash their bodies. They actually lash themselves so violently that they barely escape alive. Then they drench themselves with cold water, and thus are revived. They think nothing of doing this every day, and actually inflict such voluntary torture on themselves. They make of the act not a mere washing but a veritable torment.

My friend V rightly suggested that a banya experience was necessary for anyone seeking true cultural immersion, so we visited one of palatial and Roman aspect this afternoon. The whole complex was a maze of massage rooms and pool rooms. There was a posh restaurant with white tablecloths, strange enough in Bishkek, but stranger still to see it peopled with large Kyrgyz women wearing very, very little. Of equal oddness was the Karaoke room next door, presumably for light entertainment in between stages.

First stop, the steam room: within seconds, the skin drips with sweat and the lungs feel scalded. Ten minutes tests the endurance, but the idea is that you have a cold shower or a swim and go back in a couple of times, after which you are quite refreshed. In this lightened mood, you might go for a massage, which is a violent procedure but surprisingly effective. (I'm pretty sure she actually punched me at one point.) The whole thing takes about two hours, and it's marvellous, though I can't see it really taking off in modest, prudish Melbourne.

We followed up our cultural experience with a very good meal and some chocolate ice cream and good conversation. Thus, I retire now in a pleasant stupor of relaxation.

In Which a Fear is Addressed and Action Taken

2011-04-15T22:58:00.000+06:00

Maybe it's the INFP in me, but I've conceived a deep-seated antipathy to marshrutkas; there's something about being confined at such close quarters, with so many people, that makes me exceedingly weary. In the beginning, it was interesting and exciting and new. Now it's just squashy. I particularly hate the fact that you can't see out the windows for the bodies, and the driver will only stop if you ask - and when you don't know where you are, and you're frantically racking your brains for the right phrase in Russian, it can be a bit stressful.

Or maybe it's just that I have a very western attitude to personal space. I get tired when it's invaded.

Either way, I've begun to walk pretty much everywhere. I prefer the independence and the space. I'm learning the names of the streets in a ten-block radius: Moscovskaya, Sovietskaya, Jibek Jolu, Chui, Toktokul, Pravda, Karpinsky, Frunze. I walked home from a friend's place in the rain tonight. There aren't a lot of street lights, even on the main arteries, but there were enough cars to throw splashes of light around. My legs are long and when I'm walking on dark rainy streets I walk with purpose and I can set a cracking pace; my jaunty shadow stretches on forever.

At the top of Gogolya there's a mosque. At night the minaret is lit with green spotlights that make it hazy in the rain and silhouettes are cast by the men in the tower who call people to prayer. It's a beautiful building; you can see inside the high windows of the rounded prayer hall, how the ceiling is gorgeously decorated in deep blue.

Tonight I was having dinner with a group of women friends - all single. They started to confess their fears - about dark streets, unscrupulous taxi drivers, about language and door locks and marketplaces. Someone asked if I found anything particularly scary: I said - actually, I don't really get scared - and then she looked at me thoughtfully and said - actually, that's something I've noticed about you. Which struck me, because I don't think of myself as a particularly fearless person.

So, as I strode home with my jaunty shadow, through the puddles, past the mosque, I contemplated the extent to which I feel afear'd. And I came to this conclusion: I'm not afraid for my safety. I'm not afraid of new experiences. I'm not afraid of losing material possessions or my health. As Juliet said to Friar Lawrence in Year 8 English today, what must be shall be. That's quite a good m.o., in fact, and a certain text. But I don't think these things together make me fearless. Indeed, I have many fears that aren't of a daily nature, but hearken ahead to future things, and they can be bunched up together in one word.

Loneliness.

That was my conclusion tonight. It took all of five blocks to reach it, and another two blocks to determine that this was a fear to be overcome by the end of my time in Bishkek. Because, after all, if I'm not scared of the dark, why should I be scared of the future? Both the dark and the future are under the dominion of the same king; all things have been placed in his keeping, and he is beautiful, strong, good and true.

Fear not, for I am with you; I have called you by name, you are mine.

...underneath are the everlasting arms.

Here endeth the lesson. Assessment will be conducted in June 2012, at which time the candidate will undertake to show that she fears not.

Silly Lines Before Bed

2011-04-11T23:00:00.009+06:00

A choral score of flushing pipes;

Yo ho, apartment life for me!

Four locks, a ticking clock, two spoons,

A second-floor calamity.
Since 1983, the walls

have not been scrubbed, or windows shined.

The stove is black with ancient stew.

The doorframes are all misaligned.
(When they took the Iron Curtain

down for washing - Хорошо! But hell,

I wish they'd taken mine as well.)

Bishkek Diary

Ustatshakirt and Red State Ramblers: Indian Ate the Woodchuck - Koyrong Kuu

Services

Link preview

Wikipedia Links

Services

Link preview

Wikipedia Links

Timewarp

Sunday, Punctuated with Red Pen

Saturday Noting

Shakespearean Excesses

A Time of Day

Sneg!

The Joy of Books

9 Books on Reading and Writing

Sunday Morning Post

Leif's Rabbit Trap

Several Lists (of a non-NY-related variety)

A Son is Born

Worship

Haiku: The Glorious Revolution of Today

A Bright Winter's Day

10 Astonishing Things

Bonhoeffer Prays in Prison:

An Overview

Fun in the Snow: Grade Eight Homeroom!

Midnight

"Christmas Poem" by G.K. Chesterton

Koreans & Me

It's the Little Things

A Little Bit of Jeremiah

Two Views from the Seventh Floor

Future of Forestry - O Holy Night

A Wilde Day

'Tis Winter

Three Life Lessons from Stanley Fish

Kalmak Ashu with the Parentals

Here I Am

A little bit of Marilynne Robinson

Prayer: a little anthology

Kalmak-Ashu

In 150 Words or Less...

What, if Anything, Can I Change About My Life...

A Poem by Siegfried Sassoon

The Chosen Fast

Haiku: The Lord is True and Good...

Then the King will Say

The Funeral

Hearing and Doing the Word

Cool Hand Luke - Two Versions

Jon Foreman - The Cure For Pain

Consider the Lilies

Instead of a Show- Jon Foreman

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

Soul Food and Other Foods

In Which Moscow Compares (Vastly Unfavourably) to St Petersburg

Some Art, a Cathedral, a Cemetary, and Lenin Himself

Regarding Moscow and All Things Muscovite

In Which I Tell (Briefly) of How the Tsar Kissed my Hand.

Moscow Bound

In Which I Commend the Local Dentistry to my Gentle Readers

The Question of Orphans (cf. James 1:27)

The First World Problems Rap

World Cup Qualifier: Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

Introducing Garry Potter

A Fourfold Franciscan Blessing

In Which I Become an Honorary Citizen of the Lone Star State

Victorian Photo Booth

When Dialling 000 Doesn't Work

A Little Vicarious Culture, Please!

Language. Also, Food.

My Summer Companions!

I Saw Him Standing: Ann Griffiths

Kak Dela? (And Other Pressing Questions)

Hymn for the Mercy Seat: Ann Griffiths

Team Cadel, Girls' Night and a Haiku

Die Bibelforscher: Waldo Williams

Grooveless

Missing People and Stuff