An addendum.
While waiting for a marshrutka today, a very drunk guy sat down next to me. Not unusual, so I just cranked up my music; a moment later, I noticed other people edging away from me. I took my earphones out and heard a splashing sound - it was the drunk guy, who'd pulled down his pants and was now peeing next to my feet in an artistic and carefree manner. In one smooth, dignified move, I was out of there, barely dry-footed.
...I decided to walk the rest of the way, taking a shortcut between apartment blocks. Halfway there, I was greeted by another unforgettable sight. An extremely large and elderly lady, squatting in the podyest (the doorway to the apartment) with her dress hitched up, having a very visible crap.
Several minutes later, I came across two men sitting at a fire in the courtyard, spit-roasting the head of some indiscriminate animal - possibly a sheep.
These things aren't unusual, I suppose. But all within the space of ten minutes? I thought it was worth recording.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Cultural Exchange
I've been neglecting this blog lately, I know, and I'm sorry. But a rather funny-slash-frightening (depending on your degree of fortitude) thing happened tonight!
My flatmate (who shall be referred to as A) and I live on the first floor of an apartment block, like the majority of people in Bishkek (who live in apartments, not necessarily on the first floor). The windows have bars, and our door has several locks, but the first floor is notoriously susceptible to thieves and botherers. We've had a pretty good run, living here since January, but were slightly freaked out about thirty minutes ago. I had just gone to bed, and was listening to a little David Mitchell, when an almighty knock rattled my windows. I lay there paralysed for a few seconds, then jumped up and ran into the lounge room, where A and I reassured ourselves that it was just local kids being mischievous: I went to the kitchen for a drink - the only room in the house with transparent curtains - when the same thing happened. I ran out like a frightened rabbit, leaving the tap running, and dived into an armchair. A and I stared at each other in hysterical horror, until she was brave enough to crawl back into the kitchen, unseen, to turn off the light and the tap. After further conference, and being more annoyed than freaked out, she went outside to confront the culprits, who turned out to be some local guys with good English. Apparently, word has got around that two foreign girls live here, and as everyone knows, foreign girls are always up for a good time (!): so, these two Kyrgyz lads had decided to try their luck. The spokesman offered to take us out for "coca-cola" to make a "cultural exchange" and pleaded that it was a "cultural thing" to knock on the windows of girls, since knocking on the door would attract the attention of Soviet-schooled neighbours. I stood behind the door and had a mild hysterical fit while the conversation took place.
Anyway, after expressing displeasure in a polite sort of way, A got rid of them. For some reason (perhaps the accumulation of similarly unsettling incidents lately), I have been immensely disturbed by this violation of our privacy, and am now firmly ensconced on the couch, where I shall sleep in the knowledge that A is feisty, and a baseballer, and also has a knife.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Out of the Mouths of Babes
Let it be known that one of my students, not knowing what the word 'celibate' meant, rang me tonight; at the end of the conversation, after establishing that neither of us had any plans other than schoolwork, and intending to be erudite, he said "to quote from Earnest, Miss K, I suppose a passionate celibacy is all that either of us can look forward to."
It took considerable time for me to regain my composure.
It took considerable time for me to regain my composure.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Student Video: Karakol
A student video from our recent service trip - he chose a Future of Forestry song! My work here is done.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
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Saturday, March 10, 2012
A Little Bit of Late Winter Kyrgyz Horsemanship
We took our high school to a local village for our own Kyrgyz day on Friday. Despite the forecast of a snow storm, the day was fresh and lovely, and only began to turn grey and bitter as we were waiting for the marshrutkas. A blessing of a day.
The day began with a public slaughtering and butchering of a brown sheep, which elicited a response of horrified fascination from our kids, ranging from retching to close-up filming of blood and guts. This sheep was then served to us as beshbarmak, and became the basis for a reflection on the imagery of the sacrificial Lamb.
We were also treated to a number of Kyrgyz games. The highlight was definitely when the village men demonstrated their horsemanship for us. The Kyrgyz people are horse people: their horses are like another limb, and they ride with incredible dexterity. This clip below is a game where they must collect a number of markers from the ground - the quality isn't good, being of the iPhone variety, but it is still great to see the way the horses respond to their riders.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
The Morning Walk to Church
Every great Soviet city has an 'Eternal Flame' monument, and Bishkek is no different. Here's an early morning shot of ours, illuminated by sun and smog. You can see the beautiful mountains in the background.
Fresh Bread
A little taste of local life...this is the best tandoor in Bishkek, and it's only 5 minutes from our apartment. We stopped here on the way home from church this morning for some delicious warm lapyoshka. The tandoor oven is in a pit in front of the baker. You could live contentedly on this bread, as, in fact, we do.
(My flatmate thinks this baker is extremely cute and particularly likes to buy bread when he's working. He was very shy about getting his photo taken.)
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Room 210
It's time you saw my classroom! Here are some interesting and colourful things that are happening on my walls:
Forgetting
My memory isn't the best. It's a genetic thing on my father's side. At least, I like to think so. That's what the members of my immediate family tell each other when we forget where we put the laundry, car, etc. This week has been a particularly bad specimen, however, and I don't think it can be attributed purely to inherited traits.
This poor memory isn't confined to personal identification numbers; I've been forgetting many things lately. Like tonight, when I couldn't remember that word for someone who rejects technology (Luddite!! Luddite! It came to me as I was writing that sentence), or earlier today, when I forgot to meet with a student. I think it's temporary - I'm tired, stressed, and iron deficient. A nice spring break week, and I'll be right as rain.
I'm reminded of this poem that a friend posted on her blog, months ago.
FORGETFULNESS
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
- Billy Collins
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
- Billy Collins
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Отелло
In a marvellous collision of unlikely events, a Russian theatre group has been staging Othello here in Bishkek at the same time as I've been teaching it to my 11-12 class. Despite the fact that it was performed in archaic Russian, I was determined to get my students to it; most of them have never even seen a stage performance of any sort, as the TCK life doesn't exactly lend itself to the pursuit of artistic cultural experiences. So, we all went along tonight, and I'm very glad of it!
Othello himself wasn't black, which was disappointing, but we decided that the proportion of black, dramatically inclined, native Russian speakers would be very small indeed, and forgave them this infraction. The casting was very good: Othello was sensual, commanding, noble; Iago was bold, arrogant, manipulative; Desdemona was fair, Emilia was brassy and loveable, and Cassio was the very picture of blond Slavic charm. They were first-rate actors, and the production, despite taking place in a rundown plush theatre, was full of imaginative touches. The set, for instance, was composed of a piece of netting that could be raised and lowered from the ceiling and five black blocks that were combined in thrilling ways that a conventional and far more expensive set could not have achieved; they were particularly effective as mirrors for Othello's changing state of mind. The costumes had Russian touches, too, with fur and heels and leather. Othello wore a headpiece like a pirate's bandanna, and Iago wore a tunic like a nineteenth century Russian peasant. There were drums and native dance at the start, intimating Othello's exotic origins, and at various points cast members would finish their parts and pick up the spotlights at the front of the stage, and becoming the lighting masters. It was really magnificent, all the more so given the limited resources available to theatre-makers in Bishkek (as I've discovered in recent experiences).
It's the first decent live performance I've seen for over a year, and I'm profoundly and surprisedly satisfied by it. The kids were pretty intrigued - most of them - and many of them had Russian language enough to be able to experience it properly. Their next task is to write a critical review and then perform a section of the play in the groups I allotted them.
When I visit home to Australia in July, I'm going to see every performance, of any sort, that I can possibly manage. I realised tonight that I'm starved for theatre, music, dance. If you're a Melbournite, and you know me well enough to know what I love, then go ahead and book me in for any cultural experiences in July and August! I will owe you a debt of gratitude, which I shall pay back in felt goods and plov dishes.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Ustatshakirt and Red State Ramblers: Indian Ate the Woodchuck - Koyrong Kuu
A marv'lus and rare concatenation of Kyrgyz and US tradition, thanks to the US Embassy. So jolly! Enjoy.
...
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Timewarp
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.
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