This is Kyrgyzstan

This is Kyrgyzstan.

An innocent phrase, but when uttered wryly and with that universal hand gesture of abandonment, it becomes the catchcry of the expat.

For instance:

I go upscale and take a Manas Taxi (as opposed to a private taxi) from the airport, thinking to buy a little peace of mind with the extra 50 som. My driver is a burly middle-aged Russian. He hoists my bags into his boot, and then poses a question: this here lady has a problem getting home, can she share the taxi with me? Deep down, a little internal alarm goes off, but sure! I say breezily. What harm? Well, naturally, it turns out the lady in 'distress' is the taxi driver's girlfriend (though he just told me about his wife and children - what?), and he's going to drop her off, a little out of the way. Bugger. I negotiate: she should pay part of the fare. On this point, as indeed on all points, I am firm. So is the driver. But he finally agrees to lower the price by 50 som; drops off his girlfriend; and proceeds (it is now 3:30 AM) to veer sharply off the main road and onto a dirt road, away from the city. Holy cow. Heart skips. My phone isn't working yet. Thinly disguising my panic, I demand to know where we're going. Eh, no worries, it shortcut! Shortcut! I spend the next twenty minutes frantically looking for landmarks, and the taxi does eventually veer around back to the city - a shortcut indeed, but one that cuts through deserted warehouses and unlit back streets. It is an unspeakable relief to finally see a street that I know.

This is Kyrgyzstan.

My new apartment (which I share now with another teacher, who shall henceforth be known as E) is reasonably comfortable and well-located. However, we have noted the following features:
- Several bad lots of milk later, it has been established that the fridge seals don't really work.
- The downstairs neighbour smokes like a chimney. Coincidentally, the vents that connect our two apartments are unsealed, and we are now collecting a healthy daily dose of secondary smoke.
- There is a badly behaved child and an angry father in the apartment above us. At approximately 11:30 PM most nights, they proceed to interact accordingly.
- The local mosque has a surprisingly regular call to prayer: just before midnight, and just after 5 AM. I can also report that the acoustics in this area are excellent.

This is Kyrgyzstan.

Ah, but it's good to be back, all the same. After all, the mosque's call to prayer is, in fact, beautiful, as well as being an exhortation about my own prayers. Bishkek has a certain dusty (read: smoggy) beauty if you look at it hard enough, and its people are my people, now. And, soaring far above all these things is the fact of being back at school, among students, colleagues, friends. I can endure many things for the sake of this community that I love.

I am tired, though. How I am tired! Last night was my best night - five straight hours of sleep. It was bliss. I've taught and survived a week of classes - reading up frantically about physical geography, the Westminster Confession (for Ethics), Shakespeare's The Tempest (delight!) and the gulag (in preparation for One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich). Teaching some ESL, as well as devotions every morning. There's a teacher retreat in the mountains tomorrow, and then next weekend is the high school retreat, also in the mountains. I'm helping out with the SRC this year - elections next week.

So it begins.

This is Kyrgyzstan, and where else should I be but here?

Rolled Up Sleeves

In an effort to become slightly cooler (in both senses of the word) I've taken to rolling up the sleeves of my t-shirt. Some people do this and look effortlessly fashionable: I do it and look slightly deranged, but I don't care, because this perpetual sheen of sweat is really irritating.

I'm waiting for my flight to Almaty (I wonder if anyone in the history of the world has ever flown Chiang Rai - Bangkok - Almaty - Bishkek?) and while the wi-fi continues, I'm going to write. Once on the plane, I have the following things to console me: Tim Keller podcasts, Father Brown stories, Tom Wright's commentary on the pastoral epistles, and a large packet of dried pineapple. Oh, and some sort of pill that I'm told will make me sleep. I've never slept on a plane yet, but stranger things have happened. Plus, I'm pretty tired.

This summer has been a surreal experience: two months, four countries, hundreds of people. I'm not just physically tired - I'm worn out mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and any other way you care to mention. The idea of being in a classroom in two days time is too farfetched to be alarming, and yet that's the way it is. Could I have done these months any differently? I don't think so. America was wonderful - I wouldn't have missed being in Erica's Ithaca wedding, seeing Val in Boston, or experiencing Texas with Aubre, for anything. Nor would I have done it differently in Australia, given the choice. Telling people about Kyrgyzstan was wonderful; hanging out with school and church communities and other groups of friends was a delight; spending time with friends and family was beyond price.

And if you think I'd have gone home without seeing my sister after nearly two years, you're dreaming!

But there's a price to pay, especially for a determined introvert like me. I don't know what it is, yet. But I do know that the God who has sustained and provided and challenged and grown me over the last two years in still in charge, and all this falls within his mandate of care. That makes me very content.

More anon.

(Postscript: upgraded to Business Class! Heck yes!)

Last Morning in Chiang Rai

I'm sitting in a most peculiar cafe, just down the road from the DR office; it's delightfully retro, with a big Astroboy in the corner and fantastic thin-limbed leather chairs with funky cushions. There are kewpie dolls and gumball machines on display, and Bebel Gilberto is drifting through the ancient speakers. I just inhaled a gorgeous piece of coconut cake and a very good coffee: so good that I might have another. However, what makes the whole setup peculiar is the requisite portrait of the bespectacled Thai king on the whitewashed wall, and also the tropical downpour that began several minutes ago: this isn't, in fact, inner city Melbourne. My arm is resting on my motorbike helmet, since Bess dropped me off and is likely to pick me up again. Being chauffeured on the back of a motorcycle is a pretty decent way of getting around - I'll miss it.

I do like Chiang Rai. I like my sister, too. But I'll be leaving it, and her, tomorrow - yoicks. Yet another transition, yet another goodbye. So many in the last three months - and it hasn't gotten easier with practice.

I began my sponsorship of a DR rescued girl this morning. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. She's one of Bess's cafe trainees: she's sixteen, understands enough English to have a conversation, and is a cheerful, keen learner. Her name is Sunsanee and her story is both typical and tragic. Here's what I know: both her parents are farmers. Her father is sick with tubercolosis and is an alcoholic. She has nine siblings. She moved to Chiang Rai to find a job to pay off a large debt incurred by her parents, and ended up working in a bar, becoming exposed to the sex trade. Before being rescued by a DR team, she experienced things no child should ever encounter.

Now, she lives in one of the DR homes, where she's learning English, training to work in the cafe, and discovering what it's like to be loved unconditionally. She's acquiring skills and community for life. I get to help finance that - what could be better? Yes, I know I'm living on a minimal wage that is provided by my supporters - but I don't think they're the kind of people who will begrudge this small expenditure.

You'll see a link to Destiny Rescue on the right of the page. There are lots of girls (and a few boys) who need sponsoring, both in Thailand and elsewhere. I've seen firsthand how donated money is used: all foreign workers here are volunteers and self-funded, which means that 100% of your money goes directly to the welfare of the child, rather than administrative costs. This is a grassroots Christian organisation with great accountability and integrity. They make it easy to sponsor kids. Check them out!

Big, fat, bucketing rain - I might not be going anywhere for a while.

Adopt a Babushka!

Would you consider adopting a babushka? It isn't uncommon to see elderly women (and men) selling their last possessions on the streets of Bishkek - lightbulbs, socks, cups and saucers - in an effort not to become beggars. The Kyrgyz pension is around 16 euros per month: hardly enough to buy food, let alone pay for heating or transport or basic needs. This organisation, Babushka Adoption, is a legitimate means of supplementing an income for elderly people without families and without dignity: an extra 10 euros per month can greatly enhance quality of life. It also arranges social and healthcare visits to the elderly.

Check it out! (And don't mind the loud Russian advertisement on the homepage!)

www.babushkaadoption.org

Chiang Rai

I'm kickstarting my return to regular blogging, with help from one of the abundant and free wi-fi cafes in Chiang Rai. It's pretty obvious that I'm a fulang (foreigner), since I'm about twice as tall (and wide) as most Thai people, and very pale. Though I'm a fulang in Kyrgyzstan too, it's less obvious because I can pass for Russian. Here, there's nothing I can do (short of extensive and probably world-first surgery) to blend in. Thus, I have embraced my foreignness by ordering a rum frappacino and cranking up the Mac, while Bess is off buying supplies for cafe training.

What am I doing in Chiang Rai? That's a sensible question, and thanks for noticing. It's the last stopover along a very frantic summer. My sister, Bess, recently started working here, and since I can write openly about it, I shall proceed to do so.

She works for an organisation called Destiny Rescue. Please read about them here. To summarise, there are about 800,000 child prostitutes in Thailand, which contributes to a billion-dollar sex industry - one of the biggest destinations for 'sex tourists.' Destiny Rescue exists to rescue and restore sexually exploited children, in Thailand and elsewhere. How do they do this?

- They send trained teams into red-light districts, who identify and rescue children being exploited. Last month in Thailand, 25 children were rescued by DR teams.
- The children are brought to "safe homes" where they are given intensive psychological, emotional, and physical care. They are also given tools and skills to reintegrate into society.
- DR focuses on hill tribe communities and slum communities. They offer opportunities and employment to 'at-risk' girls, and provide education and awareness training.
- They also alleviate poverty by providing training/development programs for families; things like small business loans, agricultural training, supplying running water, etc. This means families are less likely to sell their children for income.

Bess's job is to train a group of rescued girls to run a cafe: she is teaching them to cook, to wait, to speak enough English to serve fulangs. The cafe opens in a month and she'll be overseeing and managing the project for at least a year. She also teaches dance classes - fun! And let me tell you: these girls are happy. They are cared for; they have hope for the future; they're not just rescued from unthinkable darkness, they're being redeemed. It's impossible to see this work and not respond.

Please read up on the DR website - this is truly remarkable and heart-rending work. You can sponsor girls, you can volunteer here, there are so many tangible ways you can help.

I've heard such stories and I'm bursting with the desire to write about them - I'm leaving on Friday, though, so it'll be a while before I can do that.

In the meantime, there has been much motorbike riding and delicious food, torrential rain and crazy humidity, elephants and coffee and waterfalls. I've been posting the pictures on FB, so go check them out!

The Disaster of Flight QF108

Okay, here it is:

So when I was checking in at Dallas, I was concerned about the short layover time; I asked the United staff whether it would be a problem. I was very specific - Do I have to change terminals? What about my luggage? Will they hold the plane if we're a bit late? She reassured me that I wouldn't even have to change terminals. It'll be fine!

We arrive in LA a bit late, so I know I'll have to run to the right gate: when I get off the plane, I show the United flight attendant my ticket and ask which gate I should go to. She directs me to a gate at the far end of the terminal, so sure enough, I run to the gate and the flight is just closing! I show my ticket and they tell me I'm not checked in, at which point they point out that this is a UNITED flight and I'm taking a QANTAS flight. Holy hell. I have 45 minutes to make the flight. Where do I go, I ask? Take a bus to Terminal 4! They say. So I run all the way outside again, and find the shuttle bus, all red faced and sweaty. Phew! I'll totally make this.

10 minutes later, the bus still hasn't moved because of the traffic: I ask the driver whether it would be quicker to walk, and he nods. Most definitely. So, still out of breath, I leap off the bus and start jogging.

15 minutes later, I'm still jogging, because Terminal 4 is apparently at the other end of the airport. Eventually, I find it and locate the Qantas check-in. Empty. I ask a nearby worker where the check-in is. He tells me that I need TERMINAL 3, right next door. Okay. Time is really short now, I'm pretty convinced I'm going to miss it, but I still run, and eventually find the right Qantas desk. Ah, Qantas! So reassuring, so friendly. They interpret my panting explanation, and tell me that I'll probably miss my flight; so, they'll check me into a flight leaving 30 minutes later, which goes to Melbourne via Sydney. GREAT! This isn't going to be a disaster after all. She gives me the boarding pass and tells me to go to Gate 104. Of course, now I have to go through security again, and I'm in the longest line, and I'm still sweaty, but it's ok; I'll make my flight!

10 minutes later, tying on my shoes after an idiot businessman holds up security, I'm beginning to have doubts again. I haul my bags and run. Naturally, Gate 104 is at the far end of the terminal. After an eternity, I'm nearly there, when an announcement comes overhead: final boarding call for flight to Melbourne, boarding Gate 123. Holy hell. She obviously told me the wrong gate, so I turn and half sprint, half limp to the OTHER END of the terminal, where the attendants are literally about to close the doors. I thrust my boarding pass at them, and they look at me pityingly: no, this is the direct flight to Melbourne, the one I was originally checked into but am no longer on the flight list for. It's leaving a bit late. I COULD HAVE FREAKING MADE IT. No, my flight is still at Gate 104, and is about to begin boarding. SO. Off I go, feeling very conspicuous since I'm red-faced, panting, sweating, and have run this way twice now.

Get to Gate 104 - boarding is very slow. YESSS. This is my flight. Wooo! Everything's going to be okay. Suddenly, I realise that my parents, who are picking me up, will be extremely worried when I'm not on my original flight. This one gets in two hours later. I try the payphones: they don't work. I try wi-fi on my nearly-dead phone - yes, but I have to pay 4.95 with my credit card to use it. I do so, send a quick message to Dad on Facebook, but before I can double check the message, the internet cuts out. I just have to hope it got through.

15 hour flight ensued - landed in Sydney - take shuttle bus to next terminal for flight to Melbourne - all is well - HOME AT LAST! However, my luggage is still in LA, and I'm told it will be delivered tomorrow.

Not a complete disaster, but I do feel that significant years were shaved from my life.

Popcorn, Strawberries and Kim Chee

The fruit sellers are back. It's early days, but crates of strawberries and cherries and apricots hearken of the things to come. I bought half a kilo of tiny, sweet strawberries for about 80 cents this afternoon.

Another recent discovery - a shop that sells popping corn! I've never eaten so much popcorn - my American flatmate makes it in vast quantities, and a couple of times it constituted my dinner. Healthy and more-ish.

Over time, having eaten more Korean food than just about anything, we've developed a taste for kim chee, and our fridge is full of jars of it. It's surprisingly easy to make, and you can vary the fish sauce/pear/hot powder ratio to suit less fiery tastes.

Can't remember the last time I had meat-and-three-veg.

A 14 Year Old Says Farewell

One of my Year Eight students is going back to America for good, after a lifetime in Central Asia, first in Uzbekistan and then here in Kyrgyzstan. He wrote this today:


My dear Kyrgyzstan, you found a very special place in my heart a place I call home. You have shown me the majestic natural features, from your snow topped mountains to beautiful lake Issy-kul. Your people have shown me warm hospitality and great food. You have given me friends I will never forget and who have changed my life. But I am afraid it is time to part ways you gave me place to call home and I will never forget that. You are so beautiful.

Goodbye my love
Goodbye my home
Goodbye my Kyrgyzstan!

Cultural Jerk that I am

What I think of in myself as a mild-mannered sense of propriety - a polite deference to universally held manners - a gracious civility - is actually a deeply ingrained belief in my culture's superiority, and therefore in my own superiority.

I have very western views on personal space, public decorum, privacy, and on the occasions when I unbend and interact in local ways, I think of it condescendingly, as lowering myself to a local level; a generous act.

Actually, I'm the very worst kind of snob. I make assumptions all the time about what local people are thinking and feeling, based on very little except my own sense of cultural rightness. Tonight, for instance, I went to a function attended by Westerners, Koreans, Kyrgyz, and Russian people. At one point, we were served barbequed pork, and someone at my table wondered whether we shouldn't let the Kyrgyz people know that it was pork, since they are, nominally at least, Muslim. Before I thought, I said - oh, it probably doesn't matter, they'd prefer not to know: thinking, you see, that because they don't go to mosques or pray or dress conservatively - things I think that Muslims ought to do - they wouldn't really mind eating pork. And you know, many of them wouldn't: but my assumption was that none of them would mind. What a terrible thing to think, and a worse thing to say! I can only be grateful that no one took me to task for it. The moment it slipped out, I wanted to crawl under the table.

God grant that I should start loving my neighbours as I ought!

Betterment

My brain has become a Bishkek drain, clogged and silted with seasonal debris.

I supervised an IGCSE Geography exam this afternoon, and took Wendell Berry's Selected Poems with me to pass the time. The poems shamed me. They were beautiful - stripped to the bone. Simple poems about trees and birdsongs and earth and marriage and light. I should be writing. Why don't I write?

Last week, I went to a farewell for a family who have worked in Kyrgyzstan for years. The testimonies flowed, particularly about the mother. The testimonies made me ask the same question of myself as the poetry. They illuminated the figure of a strong, servant-hearted, loving, welcoming, patient woman. A woman without judgement, who loves indiscriminately, who feeds the hungry and welcomes strangers. A Southern, sun-kissed, Proverbs 31 kind of gal. I don't know her well - but I want to be like her.

So I hitch up again and keep my eyes on the goal. I learn by going where I have to go.

Book-spine Poetry Meme

The rules are:

• Create a book spine poem (examples here).
• Take a picture.
• Post it on your blog.
• Link back to this post.
• Tag another blogger, or two, or ten. (I obediently tag Lucidus, Matt, and Georgiya)

Thanks Ali! 'Twas fun. I discovered that you can do a remarkable amount with a very limited book collection, as demonstrated below:

Soviet Division of Property

Bed frames, complete with springs!

Plane Madness

My summer is insane. Look here:

Month of June: teacher work week, company conference, horse trek, pack.

July 1 - Arrive in New York from Bishkek.

July 4 - train to Boston to visit friends.

July 8 - fly to Ithaca, NY, for wedding.

July 11 - fly to Texas to visit friends.

July 16 - fly to Australia, at last!

August 27 - fly to Thailand to visit sister and friends.

September 5 - arrive back in Bishkek for a new academic year.

THAT'S A LOT OF FLYING. 

Just saying.

Cultural Exchange #2

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.

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.