Happy Holidays from Kyrgyzstan!
We have snow here in Osh (which is considered to be one of the warmest places), so I’m guessing that most of the country will be having a white Christmas. Of course, Christmas isn’t really celebrated in Kyrgyzstan, however, New Years seems to make a fine substitute complete with decorated Christmas x-mas trees, santa clause costumes, and lots of parties. “Snow-vumm Go-dumm” is Russian for Happy New Year!
Today (Christmas eve) I am headed about 3 hours north to Jalala-bad, to spend Christmas with some Peace Corps volunteers up there. Christmas in Jalala-bad—that has a nice ring to it doesn’t it?
Last week I moved into an apartment, centrally located in Osh and only 10 minutes walk to the Human Rights and Democracy Center. My yellow pear brick building looks like any other apartment building in Kyrgyzstan, old, bombed out, dilapidated and decaying. Most apartment buildings in Osh are three to four story rectangles about 75 yards long and 25 yards wide and nothing but steel skeletons with concrete flesh (and the occasional stucco or brick façade). I’m on the second floor in a one room apartment. As you enter my apartment, there is a corridor that leads about 10 feet to the left. At the end of the corridor are two curtains separating the hallway from the living room and there is a door leading into my bathroom on the right side. The bathroom has a tub, sink and a porcelain toilet. The right side of the sink, which hovers about 10 inches above the toilet, prevents one from raising the conventional toilet seat…ah, but in Kyrgyzstan nothing is conventional. My toilet seat is a wooden horseshoe that looks like it was made by an eighth grader in his first shop class. This splintery slab of warped wood sits freely atop the porcelain basin and can be removed depending on your desired output. If you wish to sit then lean forward and imagine the drawings in airplane safety manuals that instruct you to lean forward and lock your arms around your knees—this is what you will need to do, since your sink was installed directly above the toilet.
Had a nice dinner with the U.S. Ambassador to Kyrgyzstan, Steven Young and some of his staff the other week. They treated us (the volunteers in Osh) to a quasi-American meal in a Restaurant named Nirvana. I devoured a tasty chicken burrito, complete with salsa, sour cream and Spanish rice—a welcome change from fatty sheep meat. Nirvana also brews a cold tasty beverage called Academia Gold, which could compete with just about any microbrew in the states. Tax dollars never tasted so good.
I have all of next week off for the holidays—I’m hoping to use this time to explore some more of the city as well as make some needed purchases at the Bazaar (I’ve been drying off with a hand towel for the last week).
Other news. One Hundred dollars has been returned to me by the family which I first started living with here in Osh and they have promised to return the remaining “missing cash”.
Well, I’m going to post this brief update while the connection still works, but before I do, I just wanted to thank everyone who has sent me emails, letters and packages—they’ve all been much appreciated! Have a safe and happy holiday!
Oh, and a shout out to all my friends and family! Love and miss ya!
Larry
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Osh In Waves
Taking in Osh isn’t too different from a three year old’s first time in the candy store--there’s just too many things to taste and experience all at once.
Painting the surreal: there is a large park on a hill in the center of Osh with trees and sidewalks and steps leading down to the river. As you walk down toward the river the wing of a plane emerges from behind the trees. Like studying the lines of a painting and their control over the direction of your wandering eyes, the horizontal hover of this wing forces you to look right and left instead of up and down at the trees and monuments. At first, all you can see is the wing’s tip emerge from edge of a bristly pine. You take another step, desiring to know whether this wing hovers, Houdini-like, in mid air, or if the illusion has a simpler explanation. You walk faster, but as you stride into this surreal landscape, the wing grows longer and wider and suddenly you grasp that it really is connected to an airplane.
The white “Aeroflat” airplane happens to be a Russian commercial passenger jet—and minus its warped windows and mossy weathered hue, you half expect a stewardess to appear and passengers to funnel out. The commercial jet’s landing gear is down, but the tires are flat, forming little half moons of black rubber on the grass and sidewalk. There are no plaques explaining the plane’s existence and the people in the park seem un-phased by the flying machine as they stroll under its belly and beneath its wings.
To confuse matters even more, mature trees surround this giant metal bird thwarting the brain’s calculations of how in the hell it got there. Mouth agape, you stare at the Aeroflat for some time until you notice locals gawking at you gawking at the plane. And then you purse your lips, flip-up your coat collar and walk on pretending like your new mission in life is to introduce commercial airliners to every public park in the world.
Painting the surreal: there is a large park on a hill in the center of Osh with trees and sidewalks and steps leading down to the river. As you walk down toward the river the wing of a plane emerges from behind the trees. Like studying the lines of a painting and their control over the direction of your wandering eyes, the horizontal hover of this wing forces you to look right and left instead of up and down at the trees and monuments. At first, all you can see is the wing’s tip emerge from edge of a bristly pine. You take another step, desiring to know whether this wing hovers, Houdini-like, in mid air, or if the illusion has a simpler explanation. You walk faster, but as you stride into this surreal landscape, the wing grows longer and wider and suddenly you grasp that it really is connected to an airplane.
The white “Aeroflat” airplane happens to be a Russian commercial passenger jet—and minus its warped windows and mossy weathered hue, you half expect a stewardess to appear and passengers to funnel out. The commercial jet’s landing gear is down, but the tires are flat, forming little half moons of black rubber on the grass and sidewalk. There are no plaques explaining the plane’s existence and the people in the park seem un-phased by the flying machine as they stroll under its belly and beneath its wings.
To confuse matters even more, mature trees surround this giant metal bird thwarting the brain’s calculations of how in the hell it got there. Mouth agape, you stare at the Aeroflat for some time until you notice locals gawking at you gawking at the plane. And then you purse your lips, flip-up your coat collar and walk on pretending like your new mission in life is to introduce commercial airliners to every public park in the world.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
What A Long Strange Trip It's Been! Peace Corps Kyrgyzstan.
Swearing In Fashion.
We made national television last Friday night, as we were sworn in as official Peace Corps volunteers. The president of Kyrgyzstan was too busy to make it, however, after the ceremony we piled into two giant buses and attended a reception at the ambassador’s private residence. We were greeted by the ambassador, served pizza and miniature hamburgers, and introduced to such people as the CEO of Canada’s largest gold company (interestingly, when I was in Indonesia in 1996 I ran into the CEO of the Louisiana based McMoran Freeport Corporation in Surabaya—hmmm…Gold Barons and third-world countries…mere coincidence?); met the ambassador of Afghanistan in Kyrgyzstan and an executive from Freedom House publishing; as well as a variety of other expats and embassy personnel.
After the ambassador’s, we retired to the hotel to repack our bags for the long haul to our permanent sites. I stayed up until 4:30 AM visiting different rooms, saying good buy to the 65 “volunteers” with whom I had spent the last 11 weeks with. As anyone who has traveled with a group knows, strong bonds and friendships are forged quickly in intense situations. If nothing else, PST (pre-service training) was certainly intense. For many of us, Friday, December 3rd and Saturday the 4th would be the last time we’d see each other in country. Unfortunately, I don’t think most people quite realized the uniqueness of these past 11 weeks and the finality or closure that the swearing in ceremony represented. Yes, we are volunteers now, but I’ll never see most of these people again and I will certainly never see them all at the same place and at the same time. Good Luck to all of you!
Highlights at the Issyk Kul Hotel: Poker tournament—“No Limit Texas Hold’em”: I came in 3rd place out of 10; Talent Show—Nate solved a Rubic’s Cube in under 5 minutes, Erich turned a traditional Kyrgyz song into a rap, Mahima convinced the other trainees from her village to do a well choreographed Indian Dance, Taylor recited poetry, Greg played guitar, etc. Hats off to everyone—the show was beautifully done! Other highlights…Snowball fight. Cale and Sean (who has only seen snow a few times) managed to chuck a few snowballs up to our 3rd story balcony window—whereupon, we (my roommate, Brian Kiger and Greg) promptly re-cycled the snowball, returning it to its natural habitat (that is to say, we nailed Cale and Sean from 3 stories up). Everyone learned an important lesson that evening—snowballs pick up speed when hailed from above.
Saturday morning I woke up at 5:30AM (just an hour after going to bed) to the after effects of the worst snow storm this year (it actually wasn’t too bad). Our taxi (my co-passengers to Osh were John and Victoria) was supposed to leave at 5:30 AM. Mind you, I’m normally not late—so when I discovered that I had slept through my alarm (set for 5:00 AM), I was in a panic. I immediately finished packing and dragged my bags into the elevator. When the elevator opened in the lobby, I quickly discovered that I had nothing to worry about. Only one taxi had arrived so far (out of approximately 20) and it wasn’t going to Osh.
It took another two hours before we actually left the Hotel parking lot. The whole trip from Bishkek to Osh took about 15 hours. I slept a good five of those fifteen, took in the breathtaking scenery, talked with John and Victoria, and finished reading a November 29th Newsweek (which I conveniently liberated from the growing mound of Paleo-news magazines at Peace Corps HQ). Like re-constructing the skeletal frames of dinosaurs merely from their fossils, reading old news provides a framework which can help the blips of current news take form. Sometimes we see how the fragments fit together and other times we try and force them into beasts that never existed in the first place.
I arrived in Osh on Saturday night and toured the Bazaar on Sunday before moving the rest of my belongings into my host-family’s house Sunday evening. Sunday night, I also discovered that a good portion of the American cash that I had brought to Kyrgyzstan was missing from a book in my locked bedroom. I asked my brother if there was a spare key (Peace Corps requires the families to give us the complete set of keys to our rooms), “just in case I loose my keys…do you have an extra one?”—and discovered that the answer was “Yes.” I also brought the book that the money was stashed in, into the living room that night and pretended to read it—I was actually gauging people’s reactions as they walked by. It was not a fun evening for me—I don’t enjoy heightened levels of suspicion and deceit, especially when it was with a family that I was supposed to be a part of.
I spent my first day at work on Monday morning awkwardly describing the theft and my suspicions. My organization reacted with sympathy and regret that the incident occurred. I also sensed a little fear, since they were the ones who placed me with this family. As you might imagine, this kind of incident is considered extremely shameful and to complicate matters, the director of my organization and my oldest host-brother (who no longer lives at home) were old classmates. This oldest brother also happens to by a detective in the Osh police force—which has enough power to make or break an organization…so you can see the multiple layers of complexity the situation presented.
I pretended as if nothing happened on Monday night and returned home and surreptiously packed the majority of my bags. On Monday afternoon, I left work with two of my co-workers and we drove to my village where I gathered my belongings and said goodbye to a host-sister (who happened to be the only family member there). We then drove to another part of Osh, where I unloaded all of my belongings and temporarily moved in to an apartment with two K11 peace corps women whom I had met at lunch only hours before. Try reassuring your girlfriend, who lives over 7,000 miles away, that even though you were robbed, homeless, and temporarily shacking up with two women—that everything is actually fine, in fact, couldn’t be better. By the way, Solena, thank you for your resolve, support, understanding and confidence—you F’in Rock!
On Wednesday, when I arrived at work, I was ushered into the director’s office. As I entered the room, my host mother, my 19 year old host brother and my 5 year old host cousin all stood. We shot anxious glances and nervous smiles at each other, until finally I went to shake the little boy’s hand (the cousin) and watched him back away from me and nearly break out in tears. Then the translation began: he say he sorry, he saw key that your brother hid and go into room and take money; he say he take fifty dollar bill, and that all he take. This family will pay you back.
Now, in some ways, I actually felt good about this encounter. First off, I was starting to wonder whether in fact I had been robbed or if perhaps I merely miscalculated how much money I had (I know I had over $300 in an envelope in the book and when I checked it, there was only $130 remaining). This confirmed that I was not mistakenly shaming a family. However, a couple things bothered me. I don’t think that a five year old would logically think that he should leave money in the envelope to make it appear like nothing had happened. I also never saw this child away from adults for more than a brief moment. More importantly, where was the money now?—I mean, if a five year old came to you with over two months salary in his hands, wouldn’t you suspect that he probably didn’t earn this selling lemonade? Additionally, if the kid spent it himself—what did he buy?—$170 US of candy in Kyrgyzstan could literally buy you a dump truck full. Finally, if the family was claiming that the kid took $50, what happened to the other $120? Anyway, I tried to maintain a serious face throughout the ordeal, but I couldn’t help but smile at the 5 year old—whom I truly believe is the scapegoat for an older, though not more sophisticated, thief.
When the family left, vowing to pay me back in installments, my organization informed me that the family really wanted me to move back in with them. I explained that I didn’t think this was a good idea (Not to mention, Peace Corps was the one that demanded I move out immediately) and that I would live with the other volunteers until we figured out alternative housing. Fortunately, my organization agreed that moving back in with this family was not a good idea and they also agreed to find me new housing within a few days.
Today is Thursday, December 09, 2004 and I was told that they are looking for a single room apartment for me, close to work, but that they may not be able to find anything until Sunday. So, the search continues.
My Work:
yesterday, I edited a letter to the Deputy US Ambassador. I also declined an invitation to travel to Kiev, Ukraine (all expenses paid) to monitor the elections there. As a PC volunteer we are forbidden from participation in political activities. Today, I went to the Regional Library as the HRDC representative and evaluated children’s drawing of human right’s issues. I have no idea what is in store for me tomorrow.
Letter to Ren
The following letter is to one of my best friends, Loren (nicknamed Ren). Ren will be three years old in January, 2005.
Dear Loren,
I miss you! I saw an eagle flying the other day, it looked bigger than a car and I remembered the hawk family that lived close to your house. Do you remember the hawks flying through your back yard? I used to worry that they could pick you up and fly away with you—but you are far too big for those hawks now. Ren, where did you go for Thanksgiving? Are you excited about Santa Claus and Christmas?
I will be in Kyrgyzstan for Christmas. I am living in a city named Osh, in the southwestern part of the country. They have a big market here where they sell bread, pastas, spices, tomatoes, bananas, melons, apples, walnuts, beans, rice, and meats. The market is outside and in the winter it can be very cold, so before people go to the market, they dress up in warm clothes like sweaters, scarves, gloves or mittens and coats. The men wear tall white hats called Kalpoks
People from all over the world live in Osh, but most of them are from the countries of Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Turkey and Russia. Ren, do you remember where Kyrgyzstan is? If you look closely at the map, you will see that these other countries are not very far from Kyrgyzstan.
In Kyrgyzstan, very few people have cars. People walk, ride horses or ride in a small bus called a mashrutka (Ma shroot ka). Mashrutkas look like minivans, but have benches inside so people can sit down. If the mashrutka is very full, younger people stand up and offer their seats to grandpas and grandmas. It costs four Som (or 10 cents) to ride anywhere in Osh.
Ren, how is your little brother, Fisher? Are you teaching him about the world. Is he learning baby sign language? Do you remember the signs for “food” and “more”? I remember how excited and amazed I was when you started signing. Your Mom and Dad were very excited too.
Ren, have you been playing in the snow? Do you remember the snow fort that we built last spring in your front yard? How are your mom and dad doing? I miss them very much too. Please tell everyone (especially your grandparents) that I said hello. If you see Jen and John and Isaac and Nora, please say hello and “Happy Holidays” to them too. Take care, Ren.
Love,
Your Friend,
Larry
p.s.—ask your dad and mom to help you write me a letter or email and don’t forget to say “please.”
METER HOUNDS
(written sometime in November)
My Meter Reader:
Resembling the head of a robotic dog (two porcelain spool shaped eyes jut out from the black square brow while a cylindrical snout protrudes below their steady gaze), this cubist-readymade hybrid mounted in the corner of my room, forever stares at the opposite wall where a textile rug hangs above my bed.
I would scarcely notice this Monstros-o-meter, were it not for the muffled ticks bellowing from deep within the beast. O.K., “ticks” and “bellowing” aren’t quite the right words—imagine inserting a floppy disk into a computer—you know the frantic sound your drive makes while it hopelessly searches for a file that you accidentally deleted?—now imagine you can’t shut off your computer or eject your disk…it’s the kind of sound that you imagine will never end…
The rat a tat tat of billions of bits of data streaming off endlessly into the ether…this is my room.
Each night, around 12:15 AM, the power in Ivanovka shuts down, the meter’s cogs stop chugging-off watts and smooth silence pours over me— filling my room, my lungs, my thoughts. I close my eyes…
It is said that God, after parceling out the land to all the peoples of the world, fell asleep only to be awakened by the Kyrgyz people, “Why have you forsaken us?”
God rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at the Kyrgyz, “What do you mean?”
“We’ve been waiting a long time to receive our land but it seems you’ve already given all the land to everyone else.”
God sat up in bed looking a little disheveled and distraught, “I thought I covered everyone…”
“Well, we’ve been waiting…have we done something wrong? You’ve given all the land away and we were left with nothing.”
Now it just so happens that God had saved a beautiful sliver of land for himself—hoping to use it as a kind of summer retreat, hidden in the mountains.
Let’s see how the Kyrgyz situation was handled.
God looked around and then whispered, “It just so happens that I saved a little sliver of beautiful land for myself—please take this land for your people.”
And, so it is said (at least, by a Kyrgyz Taxi driver), that that is how the Kyrgyz got their land.
Now back to the Meter Reader:
At four AM, the power is restored and the noise, the interminable stream of electric chatter, begins anew. At four AM, the brave bulb dangling from my ceiling buzzes to life sending darkness scurrying into corners, beneath beds and under chairs.
At four AM, I, too, try to hide from the light and thrash under my duvet like a drowning man in the shallow end of a swimming pool. Inevitably I throw off my blanket, defeated by the guilt that all those rat a tat tats add up to some cold hard cash for my family. I get up, every morning at four AM and walk the 3 paces to my door (for it is a very small room) and turn off the light.
Fact: The city of Osh is 6478.94 from St. Paul, Minnesota. Note, this route is as the crow flies (over the north pole).
We made national television last Friday night, as we were sworn in as official Peace Corps volunteers. The president of Kyrgyzstan was too busy to make it, however, after the ceremony we piled into two giant buses and attended a reception at the ambassador’s private residence. We were greeted by the ambassador, served pizza and miniature hamburgers, and introduced to such people as the CEO of Canada’s largest gold company (interestingly, when I was in Indonesia in 1996 I ran into the CEO of the Louisiana based McMoran Freeport Corporation in Surabaya—hmmm…Gold Barons and third-world countries…mere coincidence?); met the ambassador of Afghanistan in Kyrgyzstan and an executive from Freedom House publishing; as well as a variety of other expats and embassy personnel.
After the ambassador’s, we retired to the hotel to repack our bags for the long haul to our permanent sites. I stayed up until 4:30 AM visiting different rooms, saying good buy to the 65 “volunteers” with whom I had spent the last 11 weeks with. As anyone who has traveled with a group knows, strong bonds and friendships are forged quickly in intense situations. If nothing else, PST (pre-service training) was certainly intense. For many of us, Friday, December 3rd and Saturday the 4th would be the last time we’d see each other in country. Unfortunately, I don’t think most people quite realized the uniqueness of these past 11 weeks and the finality or closure that the swearing in ceremony represented. Yes, we are volunteers now, but I’ll never see most of these people again and I will certainly never see them all at the same place and at the same time. Good Luck to all of you!
Highlights at the Issyk Kul Hotel: Poker tournament—“No Limit Texas Hold’em”: I came in 3rd place out of 10; Talent Show—Nate solved a Rubic’s Cube in under 5 minutes, Erich turned a traditional Kyrgyz song into a rap, Mahima convinced the other trainees from her village to do a well choreographed Indian Dance, Taylor recited poetry, Greg played guitar, etc. Hats off to everyone—the show was beautifully done! Other highlights…Snowball fight. Cale and Sean (who has only seen snow a few times) managed to chuck a few snowballs up to our 3rd story balcony window—whereupon, we (my roommate, Brian Kiger and Greg) promptly re-cycled the snowball, returning it to its natural habitat (that is to say, we nailed Cale and Sean from 3 stories up). Everyone learned an important lesson that evening—snowballs pick up speed when hailed from above.
Saturday morning I woke up at 5:30AM (just an hour after going to bed) to the after effects of the worst snow storm this year (it actually wasn’t too bad). Our taxi (my co-passengers to Osh were John and Victoria) was supposed to leave at 5:30 AM. Mind you, I’m normally not late—so when I discovered that I had slept through my alarm (set for 5:00 AM), I was in a panic. I immediately finished packing and dragged my bags into the elevator. When the elevator opened in the lobby, I quickly discovered that I had nothing to worry about. Only one taxi had arrived so far (out of approximately 20) and it wasn’t going to Osh.
It took another two hours before we actually left the Hotel parking lot. The whole trip from Bishkek to Osh took about 15 hours. I slept a good five of those fifteen, took in the breathtaking scenery, talked with John and Victoria, and finished reading a November 29th Newsweek (which I conveniently liberated from the growing mound of Paleo-news magazines at Peace Corps HQ). Like re-constructing the skeletal frames of dinosaurs merely from their fossils, reading old news provides a framework which can help the blips of current news take form. Sometimes we see how the fragments fit together and other times we try and force them into beasts that never existed in the first place.
I arrived in Osh on Saturday night and toured the Bazaar on Sunday before moving the rest of my belongings into my host-family’s house Sunday evening. Sunday night, I also discovered that a good portion of the American cash that I had brought to Kyrgyzstan was missing from a book in my locked bedroom. I asked my brother if there was a spare key (Peace Corps requires the families to give us the complete set of keys to our rooms), “just in case I loose my keys…do you have an extra one?”—and discovered that the answer was “Yes.” I also brought the book that the money was stashed in, into the living room that night and pretended to read it—I was actually gauging people’s reactions as they walked by. It was not a fun evening for me—I don’t enjoy heightened levels of suspicion and deceit, especially when it was with a family that I was supposed to be a part of.
I spent my first day at work on Monday morning awkwardly describing the theft and my suspicions. My organization reacted with sympathy and regret that the incident occurred. I also sensed a little fear, since they were the ones who placed me with this family. As you might imagine, this kind of incident is considered extremely shameful and to complicate matters, the director of my organization and my oldest host-brother (who no longer lives at home) were old classmates. This oldest brother also happens to by a detective in the Osh police force—which has enough power to make or break an organization…so you can see the multiple layers of complexity the situation presented.
I pretended as if nothing happened on Monday night and returned home and surreptiously packed the majority of my bags. On Monday afternoon, I left work with two of my co-workers and we drove to my village where I gathered my belongings and said goodbye to a host-sister (who happened to be the only family member there). We then drove to another part of Osh, where I unloaded all of my belongings and temporarily moved in to an apartment with two K11 peace corps women whom I had met at lunch only hours before. Try reassuring your girlfriend, who lives over 7,000 miles away, that even though you were robbed, homeless, and temporarily shacking up with two women—that everything is actually fine, in fact, couldn’t be better. By the way, Solena, thank you for your resolve, support, understanding and confidence—you F’in Rock!
On Wednesday, when I arrived at work, I was ushered into the director’s office. As I entered the room, my host mother, my 19 year old host brother and my 5 year old host cousin all stood. We shot anxious glances and nervous smiles at each other, until finally I went to shake the little boy’s hand (the cousin) and watched him back away from me and nearly break out in tears. Then the translation began: he say he sorry, he saw key that your brother hid and go into room and take money; he say he take fifty dollar bill, and that all he take. This family will pay you back.
Now, in some ways, I actually felt good about this encounter. First off, I was starting to wonder whether in fact I had been robbed or if perhaps I merely miscalculated how much money I had (I know I had over $300 in an envelope in the book and when I checked it, there was only $130 remaining). This confirmed that I was not mistakenly shaming a family. However, a couple things bothered me. I don’t think that a five year old would logically think that he should leave money in the envelope to make it appear like nothing had happened. I also never saw this child away from adults for more than a brief moment. More importantly, where was the money now?—I mean, if a five year old came to you with over two months salary in his hands, wouldn’t you suspect that he probably didn’t earn this selling lemonade? Additionally, if the kid spent it himself—what did he buy?—$170 US of candy in Kyrgyzstan could literally buy you a dump truck full. Finally, if the family was claiming that the kid took $50, what happened to the other $120? Anyway, I tried to maintain a serious face throughout the ordeal, but I couldn’t help but smile at the 5 year old—whom I truly believe is the scapegoat for an older, though not more sophisticated, thief.
When the family left, vowing to pay me back in installments, my organization informed me that the family really wanted me to move back in with them. I explained that I didn’t think this was a good idea (Not to mention, Peace Corps was the one that demanded I move out immediately) and that I would live with the other volunteers until we figured out alternative housing. Fortunately, my organization agreed that moving back in with this family was not a good idea and they also agreed to find me new housing within a few days.
Today is Thursday, December 09, 2004 and I was told that they are looking for a single room apartment for me, close to work, but that they may not be able to find anything until Sunday. So, the search continues.
My Work:
yesterday, I edited a letter to the Deputy US Ambassador. I also declined an invitation to travel to Kiev, Ukraine (all expenses paid) to monitor the elections there. As a PC volunteer we are forbidden from participation in political activities. Today, I went to the Regional Library as the HRDC representative and evaluated children’s drawing of human right’s issues. I have no idea what is in store for me tomorrow.
Letter to Ren
The following letter is to one of my best friends, Loren (nicknamed Ren). Ren will be three years old in January, 2005.
Dear Loren,
I miss you! I saw an eagle flying the other day, it looked bigger than a car and I remembered the hawk family that lived close to your house. Do you remember the hawks flying through your back yard? I used to worry that they could pick you up and fly away with you—but you are far too big for those hawks now. Ren, where did you go for Thanksgiving? Are you excited about Santa Claus and Christmas?
I will be in Kyrgyzstan for Christmas. I am living in a city named Osh, in the southwestern part of the country. They have a big market here where they sell bread, pastas, spices, tomatoes, bananas, melons, apples, walnuts, beans, rice, and meats. The market is outside and in the winter it can be very cold, so before people go to the market, they dress up in warm clothes like sweaters, scarves, gloves or mittens and coats. The men wear tall white hats called Kalpoks
People from all over the world live in Osh, but most of them are from the countries of Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Turkey and Russia. Ren, do you remember where Kyrgyzstan is? If you look closely at the map, you will see that these other countries are not very far from Kyrgyzstan.
In Kyrgyzstan, very few people have cars. People walk, ride horses or ride in a small bus called a mashrutka (Ma shroot ka). Mashrutkas look like minivans, but have benches inside so people can sit down. If the mashrutka is very full, younger people stand up and offer their seats to grandpas and grandmas. It costs four Som (or 10 cents) to ride anywhere in Osh.
Ren, how is your little brother, Fisher? Are you teaching him about the world. Is he learning baby sign language? Do you remember the signs for “food” and “more”? I remember how excited and amazed I was when you started signing. Your Mom and Dad were very excited too.
Ren, have you been playing in the snow? Do you remember the snow fort that we built last spring in your front yard? How are your mom and dad doing? I miss them very much too. Please tell everyone (especially your grandparents) that I said hello. If you see Jen and John and Isaac and Nora, please say hello and “Happy Holidays” to them too. Take care, Ren.
Love,
Your Friend,
Larry
p.s.—ask your dad and mom to help you write me a letter or email and don’t forget to say “please.”
METER HOUNDS
(written sometime in November)
My Meter Reader:
Resembling the head of a robotic dog (two porcelain spool shaped eyes jut out from the black square brow while a cylindrical snout protrudes below their steady gaze), this cubist-readymade hybrid mounted in the corner of my room, forever stares at the opposite wall where a textile rug hangs above my bed.
I would scarcely notice this Monstros-o-meter, were it not for the muffled ticks bellowing from deep within the beast. O.K., “ticks” and “bellowing” aren’t quite the right words—imagine inserting a floppy disk into a computer—you know the frantic sound your drive makes while it hopelessly searches for a file that you accidentally deleted?—now imagine you can’t shut off your computer or eject your disk…it’s the kind of sound that you imagine will never end…
The rat a tat tat of billions of bits of data streaming off endlessly into the ether…this is my room.
Each night, around 12:15 AM, the power in Ivanovka shuts down, the meter’s cogs stop chugging-off watts and smooth silence pours over me— filling my room, my lungs, my thoughts. I close my eyes…
It is said that God, after parceling out the land to all the peoples of the world, fell asleep only to be awakened by the Kyrgyz people, “Why have you forsaken us?”
God rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at the Kyrgyz, “What do you mean?”
“We’ve been waiting a long time to receive our land but it seems you’ve already given all the land to everyone else.”
God sat up in bed looking a little disheveled and distraught, “I thought I covered everyone…”
“Well, we’ve been waiting…have we done something wrong? You’ve given all the land away and we were left with nothing.”
Now it just so happens that God had saved a beautiful sliver of land for himself—hoping to use it as a kind of summer retreat, hidden in the mountains.
Let’s see how the Kyrgyz situation was handled.
God looked around and then whispered, “It just so happens that I saved a little sliver of beautiful land for myself—please take this land for your people.”
And, so it is said (at least, by a Kyrgyz Taxi driver), that that is how the Kyrgyz got their land.
Now back to the Meter Reader:
At four AM, the power is restored and the noise, the interminable stream of electric chatter, begins anew. At four AM, the brave bulb dangling from my ceiling buzzes to life sending darkness scurrying into corners, beneath beds and under chairs.
At four AM, I, too, try to hide from the light and thrash under my duvet like a drowning man in the shallow end of a swimming pool. Inevitably I throw off my blanket, defeated by the guilt that all those rat a tat tats add up to some cold hard cash for my family. I get up, every morning at four AM and walk the 3 paces to my door (for it is a very small room) and turn off the light.
Fact: The city of Osh is 6478.94 from St. Paul, Minnesota. Note, this route is as the crow flies (over the north pole).
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Peace Corps Kyrgyzstan Update!
First off, Happy belated Thanksgiving from Kyrgyzstan! Everyone here had a wonderful time celebrating traditions old and new on Thanksgiving day. Many ambitious individuals hunted down turkeys and pumpkins at the bazaar in Bishkek. As for me, I was out-voted (I was hoping for the traditional meal) and ended up indulging in burgers, fries and barbecue chicken pizza... Oh, and beer. I'm a little jealous of the traditionalists with their turkey, mash-potatoes, gravy and corn. Next year!
We've been very busy finishing up our Pre Service Training and preparing to move to our permanent sites. Here's a little time line for you:
December 1st: Move all of our belongings into Hotel Isykk Kul in Bishkek:
December 2nd: We wrap up our last training session in the hotel and put on a Talent Show.
December 3rd: Swearing in Ceremony at the Philharmonia in Bishkek(With Askar Akaev, the president of Kyrgyzstan in attendance). After the ceremony, the Ambassador to Kyrygzstan, Steven Young (I believe that's his name) has invited us to a reception at his private residence.
December 4th: We depart for our permanent sites for the next 2 years. As you know, I will be working at the Human Rights and Democracy Center in Osh. I'm excited to move and get settled in, though a bit sad that next week will likely be the last time we all see one another in one spot again.
Sorry for the long delay between updates. This certainly has not been by choice. Internet in Kyrgyzstan is very unreliable and often times I will have written a long message only to have the power go out before I send it. For those parents and friends who aren't receiving regular emails from your loved ones over here--please know that I am one of the few volunteers who actually lives in a village with internet access.
I will not be able to post any messages until after the first week of December. Please check back in around December 5th or 6th for the latest update.
Once I get settled in Osh, the blog entries should be more regular again. Hope all is well back home,
Take care,
Larry
We've been very busy finishing up our Pre Service Training and preparing to move to our permanent sites. Here's a little time line for you:
December 1st: Move all of our belongings into Hotel Isykk Kul in Bishkek:
December 2nd: We wrap up our last training session in the hotel and put on a Talent Show.
December 3rd: Swearing in Ceremony at the Philharmonia in Bishkek(With Askar Akaev, the president of Kyrgyzstan in attendance). After the ceremony, the Ambassador to Kyrygzstan, Steven Young (I believe that's his name) has invited us to a reception at his private residence.
December 4th: We depart for our permanent sites for the next 2 years. As you know, I will be working at the Human Rights and Democracy Center in Osh. I'm excited to move and get settled in, though a bit sad that next week will likely be the last time we all see one another in one spot again.
Sorry for the long delay between updates. This certainly has not been by choice. Internet in Kyrgyzstan is very unreliable and often times I will have written a long message only to have the power go out before I send it. For those parents and friends who aren't receiving regular emails from your loved ones over here--please know that I am one of the few volunteers who actually lives in a village with internet access.
I will not be able to post any messages until after the first week of December. Please check back in around December 5th or 6th for the latest update.
Once I get settled in Osh, the blog entries should be more regular again. Hope all is well back home,
Take care,
Larry
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Osh My Gosh--I Love It!
Just a quick note from Osh. Left Bishkek and Issyk Kul hotel on Thursday. The night before we left, President Askar Akaev celebrated his birthday in our hotel. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to seem him, but we did see plenty of armed guards. The twelve hour taxi ride certainly was interesting—an eagle, mythical in size, nearly flew off with our taxi in it's talons.
WHERE I'll LIVE
When I come to Osh in December, I will be living with an ethnic Kyrgyz Family, in a village just outside of the city. My host brother studies International Diplomacy at Osh State University and two of my three sisters are doctors. The oldest son is police detective. My father is the director of the movie theatres (apparently there are two) and my mother works for the department of education. We have a few sheep, a dog with 5 puppies, and a sick boy (just a cold) who is staying with us--I still don't know who he belongs too.
WHERE I'll WORK.
The Human Rights and Democracy Center is an amazing organization—they work hard and play hard, as was evidenced by our busy day on Friday followed by mountains of food, billiards and beer. We are located in the center of the city on a beautiful street (see address below). Feel free to check our website at www.legal.kg I'll be working alongside a very ambitious group of young attorneys, and I believe we'll learn a lot from one another.
All mail should now be sent to:
Larry Tweed
Public Foundation Human Rights and Democracy Center
714000 Kurmanjan – Datka str. 209,
Osh city, Kyrgyz Republic
Tel/fax. (+996 3222) 24438
(Written November 7 in Ivanovka)
One of the most important indicators of one’s adaptation to a new culture is the failure to see the contrasts and juxtapositions inherent in everyday life. Before I begin to forget the things that I find foreign and extraordinary, I decided to document some of them. Here are a few things I’ve noticed in the two months that I’ve lived in Kyrgyzstan:
Mercedes and Audis parked next to donkey carts.
Skinned horse legs, hooves and all, for sale at the local bazaar.
Manholes (remnants of soviet infrastructure) in the middle of the streets, without any covers over them.
Viewing an early 80s television while it advertises LG® Flat-screen Russian TVs.
New Mosques (being built with United Arab Emirates cash) prominently positioned on busy corners in nearly every village and city—I’ve coined the term McMosque, not to be culturally insensitive, but, rather, to connote their uniform appearance, abundance and purpose in Kyrgyz pop-culture.
Eggs, grain and vegetables being sold next to black-market audio-tapes, CDs and Adidas.
Cleaning detergents with not-so-clean names as BARF and MUFF
Push-pop children’s candy called Nipple-Sticks, which, oddly enough, have one end shaped like a nipple.
Internet cafes, where children can be found, all times of the day, playing such educational games as Grand Theft Auto III and Counter-Strike.
Scantily dressed Russian women discussing child rearing with conservatively dressed Uzbek women.
A discothèque with outdoor speakers—noisily drowning out the evening “call-to-prayer” which soulfully resonates from the McMosque across the street.
An Opera house and a 5-star Hyatt hotel in a “third world country”.
Homemade Vodka being sold more cheaply than water.
Coal trucks loaded with scrap metal (remember the missing manhole covers?) bound for china, where the refuse it will be melted down, re-manufactured and exported back to Kyrgyzstan to be re-sold at the bazaar.
Muslim men consuming copious amounts of Vodka in order to make it through Ramadan
A children’s mental institution with wall paper depicting werewolves and deranged bears standing over severed heads (no joke—this was one of the most disturbing decorating jobs I’ve ever seen).
The belief that television hypnotists can get into your mind and actually kill you while you watch them…yet people still watch.
The local Red Cross, which for obvious religious reasons is emblematically represented by a Red Crescent.
Statues of Lenin in cities where all of the Russians have left.
That’s all for now. Take care,
Larry
WHERE I'll LIVE
When I come to Osh in December, I will be living with an ethnic Kyrgyz Family, in a village just outside of the city. My host brother studies International Diplomacy at Osh State University and two of my three sisters are doctors. The oldest son is police detective. My father is the director of the movie theatres (apparently there are two) and my mother works for the department of education. We have a few sheep, a dog with 5 puppies, and a sick boy (just a cold) who is staying with us--I still don't know who he belongs too.
WHERE I'll WORK.
The Human Rights and Democracy Center is an amazing organization—they work hard and play hard, as was evidenced by our busy day on Friday followed by mountains of food, billiards and beer. We are located in the center of the city on a beautiful street (see address below). Feel free to check our website at www.legal.kg I'll be working alongside a very ambitious group of young attorneys, and I believe we'll learn a lot from one another.
All mail should now be sent to:
Larry Tweed
Public Foundation Human Rights and Democracy Center
714000 Kurmanjan – Datka str. 209,
Osh city, Kyrgyz Republic
Tel/fax. (+996 3222) 24438
(Written November 7 in Ivanovka)
One of the most important indicators of one’s adaptation to a new culture is the failure to see the contrasts and juxtapositions inherent in everyday life. Before I begin to forget the things that I find foreign and extraordinary, I decided to document some of them. Here are a few things I’ve noticed in the two months that I’ve lived in Kyrgyzstan:
Mercedes and Audis parked next to donkey carts.
Skinned horse legs, hooves and all, for sale at the local bazaar.
Manholes (remnants of soviet infrastructure) in the middle of the streets, without any covers over them.
Viewing an early 80s television while it advertises LG® Flat-screen Russian TVs.
New Mosques (being built with United Arab Emirates cash) prominently positioned on busy corners in nearly every village and city—I’ve coined the term McMosque, not to be culturally insensitive, but, rather, to connote their uniform appearance, abundance and purpose in Kyrgyz pop-culture.
Eggs, grain and vegetables being sold next to black-market audio-tapes, CDs and Adidas.
Cleaning detergents with not-so-clean names as BARF and MUFF
Push-pop children’s candy called Nipple-Sticks, which, oddly enough, have one end shaped like a nipple.
Internet cafes, where children can be found, all times of the day, playing such educational games as Grand Theft Auto III and Counter-Strike.
Scantily dressed Russian women discussing child rearing with conservatively dressed Uzbek women.
A discothèque with outdoor speakers—noisily drowning out the evening “call-to-prayer” which soulfully resonates from the McMosque across the street.
An Opera house and a 5-star Hyatt hotel in a “third world country”.
Homemade Vodka being sold more cheaply than water.
Coal trucks loaded with scrap metal (remember the missing manhole covers?) bound for china, where the refuse it will be melted down, re-manufactured and exported back to Kyrgyzstan to be re-sold at the bazaar.
Muslim men consuming copious amounts of Vodka in order to make it through Ramadan
A children’s mental institution with wall paper depicting werewolves and deranged bears standing over severed heads (no joke—this was one of the most disturbing decorating jobs I’ve ever seen).
The belief that television hypnotists can get into your mind and actually kill you while you watch them…yet people still watch.
The local Red Cross, which for obvious religious reasons is emblematically represented by a Red Crescent.
Statues of Lenin in cities where all of the Russians have left.
That’s all for now. Take care,
Larry
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
The Living and the Dead
This will be a short post.
Today, my mother and sister asked me to leave my language class early in order to participate in a grieving ceremony for my host grandmother who died 7 years ago today. I exited class at 11:30 AM and walked (rather, I limped after playing football on Saturday) the mile back to my house. We awaited the arrival of my twin uncles and thier wives and proceeded north about 3 city blocks, toward Kazahkastan (it is only a 25 minute walk to the border from my house). As we walked my sister told me stories of her grandmother; she talked about her last day in the hospital and told me how she and my Momma had tried to make it to the hospital when they heard that grandma was dying. They arrived too late to say goodbye. My sister was 16 years old and her grief was so overwhelming that the doctors couldn't restrain her. She told me how she lost all control when they told her that grandma was dead--she kicked and bit them and screamed into the the halls, hearing only her echoes wailing back.
When we arrived at the cemetary, my uncle brushed off the grave, carefully removing leaves and twigs. The graves of my host grandparents lay next to each other and a short fence surrounds their resting place. My grandmother's grave is marked by a marble headstone and my grandfather's by a wooden cross. My grandfather died on June 18, 2004--and I believe we are saving money for a marble headstone. There is a small table and bench within the fence and while my uncle tidied the space my mother and aunt set the table. Momma placed a danish on each grave and then the men were called to drink. We three men, raised our glasses of wine in toast and then sipped a little. We then poured wine on each grave and finished our glasses. Then the women drank and then the men again. We each ate some bread and hard candy before returning to the house where we feasted on pigs in the blanket, coca-cola and wine. Momma set a place for my grandmother and lit a candle in her stead. I was told that I will be eating these left-overs for dinner--which I find somewhat interesting.
On the way to the internet cafe, a child waved from his rooftop. He wore Rollerblades as he tried to ascend his slanted roof. When I asked him what he was doing, all he said was, "Extreme Sport".
I laughed and walked away--not wanting to witness the Extreme outcome.
That is all today.
Good bye.
Larry
Today, my mother and sister asked me to leave my language class early in order to participate in a grieving ceremony for my host grandmother who died 7 years ago today. I exited class at 11:30 AM and walked (rather, I limped after playing football on Saturday) the mile back to my house. We awaited the arrival of my twin uncles and thier wives and proceeded north about 3 city blocks, toward Kazahkastan (it is only a 25 minute walk to the border from my house). As we walked my sister told me stories of her grandmother; she talked about her last day in the hospital and told me how she and my Momma had tried to make it to the hospital when they heard that grandma was dying. They arrived too late to say goodbye. My sister was 16 years old and her grief was so overwhelming that the doctors couldn't restrain her. She told me how she lost all control when they told her that grandma was dead--she kicked and bit them and screamed into the the halls, hearing only her echoes wailing back.
When we arrived at the cemetary, my uncle brushed off the grave, carefully removing leaves and twigs. The graves of my host grandparents lay next to each other and a short fence surrounds their resting place. My grandmother's grave is marked by a marble headstone and my grandfather's by a wooden cross. My grandfather died on June 18, 2004--and I believe we are saving money for a marble headstone. There is a small table and bench within the fence and while my uncle tidied the space my mother and aunt set the table. Momma placed a danish on each grave and then the men were called to drink. We three men, raised our glasses of wine in toast and then sipped a little. We then poured wine on each grave and finished our glasses. Then the women drank and then the men again. We each ate some bread and hard candy before returning to the house where we feasted on pigs in the blanket, coca-cola and wine. Momma set a place for my grandmother and lit a candle in her stead. I was told that I will be eating these left-overs for dinner--which I find somewhat interesting.
On the way to the internet cafe, a child waved from his rooftop. He wore Rollerblades as he tried to ascend his slanted roof. When I asked him what he was doing, all he said was, "Extreme Sport".
I laughed and walked away--not wanting to witness the Extreme outcome.
That is all today.
Good bye.
Larry
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Condom Skits and Rabies Shots
October 27, 2004, was my directorial debut. After viewing a pus-filled
PowerPoint on Syphilis, Gonorrhea, Chlamydia et al, our Peace Corps Medical Officer, Yelena, challenged us [8 separate groups] to come up with a skit on the proper technique for “applying a condom”. Mind you, condoms and phalli were provided to those groups who needed such banal props to carry forth this beautifully creative challenge; Group #4 [my group] was the only one needing no such props.
With only the shirts off our backs, we put together a masterful interpretive dance, that’s had Broadway phoning us for days. Keep in mind, the entire month of October the men have been growing mustaches for “StacheTober” and I am currently the proud wearer of a 1970’s porn star “Leisure Suit Larry” stache.
Let me further set the stage: After assembling in our groups [Group #4 consisted of 5 men and 3 women], we had five minutes to think up a skit. After two and half minutes of the usual, “Does your host family use Christmas cards as toilet paper too? Did you hear so and so fell in a manhole? What’s with that crazy drunk tractor driver? Did you get that package with the oregano yet?”—I realized we needed something uplifting in order to get our condom skit on. But what…?
And then the epiphany hit me!
Only an interpretive dance can subtly convey the discretion and control necessary to properly apply a condom to a phallus.
The idea arrived in toto, complete with roles, music and our own props. Better yet, since it was an interpretive dance, no speaking roles were necessary…except the announcer of course.
Here’s how it broke down--please note, imagination is key in comprehending the complexity of this arousing piece.
The Players: 5 men and 3 women
The Penis: [three men] two men sitting on the floor, knees to chest, heads down and arms locked around their legs in front of them (think family jewels); directly between them a man squats on his haunches, arms hanging limply at his sides as he awaits his cue to arise to the occasion.
The Music: one man standing in the background humming classical music [think DeBeers Diamonds theme mixed with 2001 Space Odyssey]
The Condom: starring my rolled-up sweater and another volunteer’s winter hat [think reservoir]
The Condom Applicators: Two women willing to unroll a sweater over a man and place a hat atop his head.
Interpretive Dancers: One woman [excellent dancer] and yours truly [think of an elephant trying to perform ballet on ice-skates]
Announcer: Also played by me and I’m proud to say the only speaking role, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please be seated…Thank you all for coming…no pun intended…we have for you this evening, a beautiful interpretive dance…let us begin.”
[Music starts soft and grows harder…ummm…louder]
[Man on his haunches slowly begins to stand]
………….Laughter……….
[interpretive dancers twist, writhe and run across the stage]
[Man on haunches now fully erect begins arching backward (note: this arching was brilliantly ad-libbed by Erich—AKA The Penis)]
[Music reaches climax]
Two women approach either side of the arching Erich, one with sweater and the other with hat; sweater is placed over his head and pulled down around his waist and winter cap is set gently a top his head.
……….The crowd (consisting of the program manager, the medical staff and 58 other volunteers) erupts!………
Later that day, as the Medical Officer was about to administer my third and final rabies shot [standard procedure for every volunteer here] she asked me, “Larry, vas dee dahnse zjur idea?”
I paused and looked at Yelena who smiled behind her needle, squeezing out a little of the anti-rabies serum, to punctuate her question, “…so vas eet?”
“No, no, no…it was the group’s idea.” I replied glibly, captivated by the awful length of the syringe.
Yelena’s eyes fixed on the needle’s tip. She flicked the cylinder’s plastic bladder twice and lowered it toward my arm, “I thought dees skit vas sverry funny…I tink eet vas zjur doing.”
I smiled and faced forward as the cold steel needle penetrated all five layers of my skin, pushed through my muscle and delivered the burning anti-rabies serum into my bloodstream.
PowerPoint on Syphilis, Gonorrhea, Chlamydia et al, our Peace Corps Medical Officer, Yelena, challenged us [8 separate groups] to come up with a skit on the proper technique for “applying a condom”. Mind you, condoms and phalli were provided to those groups who needed such banal props to carry forth this beautifully creative challenge; Group #4 [my group] was the only one needing no such props.
With only the shirts off our backs, we put together a masterful interpretive dance, that’s had Broadway phoning us for days. Keep in mind, the entire month of October the men have been growing mustaches for “StacheTober” and I am currently the proud wearer of a 1970’s porn star “Leisure Suit Larry” stache.
Let me further set the stage: After assembling in our groups [Group #4 consisted of 5 men and 3 women], we had five minutes to think up a skit. After two and half minutes of the usual, “Does your host family use Christmas cards as toilet paper too? Did you hear so and so fell in a manhole? What’s with that crazy drunk tractor driver? Did you get that package with the oregano yet?”—I realized we needed something uplifting in order to get our condom skit on. But what…?
And then the epiphany hit me!
Only an interpretive dance can subtly convey the discretion and control necessary to properly apply a condom to a phallus.
The idea arrived in toto, complete with roles, music and our own props. Better yet, since it was an interpretive dance, no speaking roles were necessary…except the announcer of course.
Here’s how it broke down--please note, imagination is key in comprehending the complexity of this arousing piece.
The Players: 5 men and 3 women
The Penis: [three men] two men sitting on the floor, knees to chest, heads down and arms locked around their legs in front of them (think family jewels); directly between them a man squats on his haunches, arms hanging limply at his sides as he awaits his cue to arise to the occasion.
The Music: one man standing in the background humming classical music [think DeBeers Diamonds theme mixed with 2001 Space Odyssey]
The Condom: starring my rolled-up sweater and another volunteer’s winter hat [think reservoir]
The Condom Applicators: Two women willing to unroll a sweater over a man and place a hat atop his head.
Interpretive Dancers: One woman [excellent dancer] and yours truly [think of an elephant trying to perform ballet on ice-skates]
Announcer: Also played by me and I’m proud to say the only speaking role, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please be seated…Thank you all for coming…no pun intended…we have for you this evening, a beautiful interpretive dance…let us begin.”
[Music starts soft and grows harder…ummm…louder]
[Man on his haunches slowly begins to stand]
………….Laughter……….
[interpretive dancers twist, writhe and run across the stage]
[Man on haunches now fully erect begins arching backward (note: this arching was brilliantly ad-libbed by Erich—AKA The Penis)]
[Music reaches climax]
Two women approach either side of the arching Erich, one with sweater and the other with hat; sweater is placed over his head and pulled down around his waist and winter cap is set gently a top his head.
……….The crowd (consisting of the program manager, the medical staff and 58 other volunteers) erupts!………
Later that day, as the Medical Officer was about to administer my third and final rabies shot [standard procedure for every volunteer here] she asked me, “Larry, vas dee dahnse zjur idea?”
I paused and looked at Yelena who smiled behind her needle, squeezing out a little of the anti-rabies serum, to punctuate her question, “…so vas eet?”
“No, no, no…it was the group’s idea.” I replied glibly, captivated by the awful length of the syringe.
Yelena’s eyes fixed on the needle’s tip. She flicked the cylinder’s plastic bladder twice and lowered it toward my arm, “I thought dees skit vas sverry funny…I tink eet vas zjur doing.”
I smiled and faced forward as the cold steel needle penetrated all five layers of my skin, pushed through my muscle and delivered the burning anti-rabies serum into my bloodstream.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Brief Update--Busy Days Ahead
Happy Halloween from Kyrgyzstan! This is going to be a short post, as I only have a few minutes left. I just wanted to thank everyone who's dropped me a line. It's great to hear from friendly folks both old and new.
Here's a little info for any folks who have sons and daughters over here. On November 9th we will find out where our permanent site placements are. Nov. 10th we will travel back to the Isykk Kul Hotel and meet our "counterparts"--the Kyrgyzstan folks who submitted proposal for volunteers to come work with them (a very competitive process--so i'm told). Nov. 11th we will travel to our permanent sites and see our housing options (many sites will have 2-3 options, some will only have 1--nearly all of us will be placed with familys). We will stay at our future permanent sites until the 14th of November and then return home.
The K-12s are tight group and as I have said in the past, we do a good job of looking after one another. Spirits are high and we are anxious to find out where we are going.
Through a bit of serendipity (and reconnaissance work) I discovered that I am likely going to be in Osh (which claims to be older than Rome). If the info that I have is correct, I will be working with the "Human Rights and Democracy Center" which is located on the main street in this city of about 300,000. Those PSTs who visited the city last week tell me that Osh is fantastic place, complete with the oldest Bazaar in Central Asia. A lot of money is being poured into the south from the international community to aid with the development of "civil society" down there.
I'll try and write more soon. Take care and keep writing!
Here's a little info for any folks who have sons and daughters over here. On November 9th we will find out where our permanent site placements are. Nov. 10th we will travel back to the Isykk Kul Hotel and meet our "counterparts"--the Kyrgyzstan folks who submitted proposal for volunteers to come work with them (a very competitive process--so i'm told). Nov. 11th we will travel to our permanent sites and see our housing options (many sites will have 2-3 options, some will only have 1--nearly all of us will be placed with familys). We will stay at our future permanent sites until the 14th of November and then return home.
The K-12s are tight group and as I have said in the past, we do a good job of looking after one another. Spirits are high and we are anxious to find out where we are going.
Through a bit of serendipity (and reconnaissance work) I discovered that I am likely going to be in Osh (which claims to be older than Rome). If the info that I have is correct, I will be working with the "Human Rights and Democracy Center" which is located on the main street in this city of about 300,000. Those PSTs who visited the city last week tell me that Osh is fantastic place, complete with the oldest Bazaar in Central Asia. A lot of money is being poured into the south from the international community to aid with the development of "civil society" down there.
I'll try and write more soon. Take care and keep writing!
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
The Horror...The Horror...
As you may recall, this period of the Peace Corps experience is called “Pre-Service Training” [PST]. Even though we’re but a small tooth in the government mouth, unfortunately, we do not escape the acrimonious [or, as I like to call it “acronymonious”] breath of government brevity via abbreviation. Here’s a brief list:
AA – Assignment Area
CBC – Competency Based Curriculum
CBT – Community Based Training
COS – Close of Service
DOS - Description of Service
EAP – Emergency Action Plan
ET – Early Termination
HCN – Host Country National
HOR – Home of Record
IC – In Country
IST – In-Service Training
LCF – Language and Cultural Facilitator
PM – Program Manager
PC – Peace Corps
PCMO – Peace Corps Medical Officer
PCV – Peace Corps Volunteer
PST – Pre-Service Training
SEOD – Sustainable Economic and Organizational Development
SLF – Site Locator form
VAD – Volunteer Assignment Description
Since PC teaches us to apply our knowledge, I thought this might be a good opportunity to “teach a man to fish…” So, let’s see what you’ve learned:
After arriving IC, I met our APCD, PM, CD, and LCF and began my PST so that I can be a PCV conducting SEOD. Nearly everyday we have a CCA to help us along with our CBT and occasionally we receive a DOS and ponder what our AA and VAD may be.
Please note: The above list is a truncated version of the actual list PC supplied.
So, what has happened in the last few weeks? Well, we are settling in to our new surroundings. I no longer think twice when I step in Korova (cow) dung or we are forced to jump start our Mashrutka (minibus) by getting out and pushing it backwards, towards oncoming traffic, and popping the clutch.
The evenings and mornings are much colder, but this reduces the humidity and particulate matter in the air, allowing for a great view of the mountains. I’ve seen 4 shooting stars since I’ve arrived in country, but haven’t spent enough time to spot a satellite yet.
We retrieve water from the local well every other day. The well is about a 10 minute walk and we have an old large metal container (think milk container circa 1950) that we place on a dolly and pull to the well. The water runs freely, without pumping and we fill a smaller container (about 9 liters) 5 times and empty into the larger one and return home.
When the electricity is running, we cook our meals over a 9 inch high square electric stove that contains one long heating element coiled around ceramic that looks like a inverted U around the center column of a W. Every lunch and dinner contains potatoes and my family is particularly keen on chicken.
If we eat around 7PM (this is quite early for my family) then we inevitably prepare the living room for a meal around the television. Why? Because at 7PM, the Brazilian soap “Clone” begins. As far as I can tell (and you can likely google this and find out more info—if you do, please email me the details), Clone is about an old scientist who had two nephews who were twins. The nephews lived in Morocco, but one of them died and the crazy uncle cloned the dead twin and is now raising this clone in Brazil. The clone has somehow retained part of the genetic memory of the dead twin and apparently likes women twice his age (which may be why my host mom shows such affection for this dashing and debonnaire Brazilian cabana boy). Of course, Clone is dubbed into Russian—but unfortunately, lip reading Portuguese or Spanish doesn’t aid my enunciation and pronunciation skills. I fear that I am now speaking Russian with a Portuguese accent.
Apocalypse Now: “The Horror” Of Learning Russian
My Momma (Viola) has the habit of saying “Ujus!” quite frequently. For instance, when I pour my third cup of instant coffee, Momma will say, “Ujus! Larry” or if I run back into the house for third time (having forgotten my book bag and pen the first two times) and grab my winter hat, she exclaims in Russian “Ujus Larry! Drop the zero from 30 and you are a 3 year old. We have a crazy Family.” After dropping “Ujus!” a few times in Russian class (and watching my Language teacher bust out laughing)—I finally rallied the nerve to ask what this enigmatic “Ujus!” meant. Usien, my teacher, laughed and then paused in all seriousness, “Larry, it means…how do I say this…it means “The Horror”. All this time, I thought I was saying something cute and fuzzy and actually I was quoting Brando in Apocalypse Now…Ujus….Ujus…
Tomorrow I am leaving for a four day trip to Naryn—notorious for being the most remote and coldest city in Kyrygyzstan. I am going with one other trainee and we will be staying with two current volunteers who are both working with NGOs. The trip is supposed to give us a taste for what we’ll be doing after we are “sworn in” in December. Naryn is nestled between two mountain ranges. The city is only 2 kilometers wide, but it is 15 kilometers long. Along with Osh (in the south) and Bishkek (North) Naryn is the only other city with a trolley-bus system. Trolley buses are electrical buses with contact bars on top which touch the routes equipped with live wires above the streets. By all accounts, Naryn is beautiful, with dreamy snow-white mountains that touch the heavens and a large river that flows through the valley, dividing the already narrow city in two.
AA – Assignment Area
CBC – Competency Based Curriculum
CBT – Community Based Training
COS – Close of Service
DOS - Description of Service
EAP – Emergency Action Plan
ET – Early Termination
HCN – Host Country National
HOR – Home of Record
IC – In Country
IST – In-Service Training
LCF – Language and Cultural Facilitator
PM – Program Manager
PC – Peace Corps
PCMO – Peace Corps Medical Officer
PCV – Peace Corps Volunteer
PST – Pre-Service Training
SEOD – Sustainable Economic and Organizational Development
SLF – Site Locator form
VAD – Volunteer Assignment Description
Since PC teaches us to apply our knowledge, I thought this might be a good opportunity to “teach a man to fish…” So, let’s see what you’ve learned:
After arriving IC, I met our APCD, PM, CD, and LCF and began my PST so that I can be a PCV conducting SEOD. Nearly everyday we have a CCA to help us along with our CBT and occasionally we receive a DOS and ponder what our AA and VAD may be.
Please note: The above list is a truncated version of the actual list PC supplied.
So, what has happened in the last few weeks? Well, we are settling in to our new surroundings. I no longer think twice when I step in Korova (cow) dung or we are forced to jump start our Mashrutka (minibus) by getting out and pushing it backwards, towards oncoming traffic, and popping the clutch.
The evenings and mornings are much colder, but this reduces the humidity and particulate matter in the air, allowing for a great view of the mountains. I’ve seen 4 shooting stars since I’ve arrived in country, but haven’t spent enough time to spot a satellite yet.
We retrieve water from the local well every other day. The well is about a 10 minute walk and we have an old large metal container (think milk container circa 1950) that we place on a dolly and pull to the well. The water runs freely, without pumping and we fill a smaller container (about 9 liters) 5 times and empty into the larger one and return home.
When the electricity is running, we cook our meals over a 9 inch high square electric stove that contains one long heating element coiled around ceramic that looks like a inverted U around the center column of a W. Every lunch and dinner contains potatoes and my family is particularly keen on chicken.
If we eat around 7PM (this is quite early for my family) then we inevitably prepare the living room for a meal around the television. Why? Because at 7PM, the Brazilian soap “Clone” begins. As far as I can tell (and you can likely google this and find out more info—if you do, please email me the details), Clone is about an old scientist who had two nephews who were twins. The nephews lived in Morocco, but one of them died and the crazy uncle cloned the dead twin and is now raising this clone in Brazil. The clone has somehow retained part of the genetic memory of the dead twin and apparently likes women twice his age (which may be why my host mom shows such affection for this dashing and debonnaire Brazilian cabana boy). Of course, Clone is dubbed into Russian—but unfortunately, lip reading Portuguese or Spanish doesn’t aid my enunciation and pronunciation skills. I fear that I am now speaking Russian with a Portuguese accent.
Apocalypse Now: “The Horror” Of Learning Russian
My Momma (Viola) has the habit of saying “Ujus!” quite frequently. For instance, when I pour my third cup of instant coffee, Momma will say, “Ujus! Larry” or if I run back into the house for third time (having forgotten my book bag and pen the first two times) and grab my winter hat, she exclaims in Russian “Ujus Larry! Drop the zero from 30 and you are a 3 year old. We have a crazy Family.” After dropping “Ujus!” a few times in Russian class (and watching my Language teacher bust out laughing)—I finally rallied the nerve to ask what this enigmatic “Ujus!” meant. Usien, my teacher, laughed and then paused in all seriousness, “Larry, it means…how do I say this…it means “The Horror”. All this time, I thought I was saying something cute and fuzzy and actually I was quoting Brando in Apocalypse Now…Ujus….Ujus…
Tomorrow I am leaving for a four day trip to Naryn—notorious for being the most remote and coldest city in Kyrygyzstan. I am going with one other trainee and we will be staying with two current volunteers who are both working with NGOs. The trip is supposed to give us a taste for what we’ll be doing after we are “sworn in” in December. Naryn is nestled between two mountain ranges. The city is only 2 kilometers wide, but it is 15 kilometers long. Along with Osh (in the south) and Bishkek (North) Naryn is the only other city with a trolley-bus system. Trolley buses are electrical buses with contact bars on top which touch the routes equipped with live wires above the streets. By all accounts, Naryn is beautiful, with dreamy snow-white mountains that touch the heavens and a large river that flows through the valley, dividing the already narrow city in two.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Sheep Eyes, Fermented Horses Milk and Ancient Muslim Minarets
Saturday October 2nd, was our first “culture day” and PC assembled all 66 of us at Burana Tower (about ½ hour drive southeast of Ivanovka). An eleventh century minaret, the 60 foot high Burana Tower is flanked on three sides by partially excavated mausoleums. About 5 miles to the south, snow covered mountain peaks poke the sky defining the valley’s southern boundary. With nothing but farmland for as far as the eye can see, it’s hard to imagine that nearly 1,000 years ago Burana Tower was a major stop on the old Silk Road and a city center of some 200,000 people.
As you know, our group of 66 has been divvied up and parsed out to about 7 or 8 eight villages around the city of Tokmok. My village, Ivanovka, contains the most volunteers (Raymond, David, Roselle Victoria, Kat, Tammi, Willie and his wife Alexis). I’m the oldest of the group and catch a lot of flak for being 30, looking 20 and acting 10. It’s a wonderful group of people and we take excellent care of one another as our bodies and bowels adjust to what our PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) refers to as “new intestinal flora”. Here’s a direct quote from our PCMO, “Dat iz right folkz, you have new flowerz blooming in zyour bottomz.”---ah, smells like roses.
Speaking of roses, Friday, October 1st was teacher’s day. On teachers day, students bring their favorite teacher flowers (usually roses as they are the most prolific flower in Ivanovka). I am proud to share that my Momma received 150 roses, more than any other teacher in the school. Her students also borrowed a 35mm camera and walked around the school grounds taking photos of each other, developed the film, assembled an album, and presented it to my mother. She was very touched and I told her I was very proud.
Ok, let’s return to culture day. After touring the ancient grounds of Burana, we assembled about 40 feet south of the base of the tower to witness the slaughter of a sheep. After the throat slitting and blood letting, the entire head is removed and then boiled. A Kyrgyz babushka (grandmother) befriended me and I assisted her with cooking Plov—a Kyrgyz traditional dish consisting of a mixture of fried onions, carrots, rice, salt and oil. We cooked over a semi-open fire (what resembled half of a 50 gallon drum, the bottom part of which a hole was cut to add logs while on top a giant wok shaped pan was placed). This wind-weathered, leather faced babushka chuckled continuously as I attempted to stir the mountain of onions and carrots that popped and fizzled in the boiling oil. One volunteer told me he was sure it would be the best Plov he’d ever had. Thank you.
The weather was beautiful and as we awaited our meal, blankets were thrown down over the dirt and straw and baskets of fresh apples, pears, walnuts and pomegranates were placed in the center of each. We snacked on fresh bread and fruit and tasted Kumyss (fermented mare’s milk).
I Spy a Sheep Eye
After awhile a procession of men carried the sheep head to the central blanket whereupon it was laid, facing the crowd of curious and squeamish volunteers. We watched in awe as the eyeballs were extracted (not effortlessly) from the sockets of this now alien looking boiled skull of flesh. Our cultural leader (a Kyrgyz national named Akylbek [pronounced Ah kool bek] who incidentally studied at the University of Minnesota) was handed one of the eyes and began explaining that it was a great honor to be offered the sheep’s eyes and it meant your host wanted to see you again. Now, I thought this was the perfect opportunity to encourage Akylbek to eat the eye—since he had just been handed one, “Akylbek, we would all like to see you again, so please…the eye is yours.” No sooner had my witty lips closed around “yours” than the words of another instructor began goading from the rear of the crowd, “Larry! Larry! If you want to see Akylbek again, you must eat eye too!.”
Jerry Springer would have been proud of the crowd that day—cheers and jeers from the frenzied masses grew deafening as Akylbek sliced the eyeball in two and handed me half. Kyrgyz children jostled one another to catch a glimpse of the great American Appreciator of Sheep-Eyes. As you know, I’ve never been called sheepish (sorry about that, I couldn’t help myself) and faced the crowd like Schwarzenegger’s Conan, proudly displaying the half-eye in hand. Akylbek and I looked at one another, and with a subtle nod, we slung’em back like pros. After a few chews, I determined that Sheep eyes taste like grizzled fat and swallowed. Not too bad, though next time you’ll find me at the back of the crowd, mute and mindful that silence means never having to say Eye’m sorry.
Culture day concluded with horse races, amazing musicians, puppeteers and violent Kyrgyz versions of dodgeball, duck duck goose, tug-of-war and Red Rover—all of which I participated in with true competitive glory…and humiliating defeat(s). When all was said and done, I think 66 volunteers had a great day.
After obtaining permission from the director of our PST (pre-service training), on Sunday (Oct. 3), I lead a group of volunteers from Ivanovka to Bishkek. It actually turned out to be a great day trip: we didn’t get lost, we paid local prices for transportation, shopped, wondered through the massive Dordoy Bazaar, drank a few beers and finally, at the request of the group, and found a decent restaurant for food.
That's all for now. I'll try and write again soon!
As you know, our group of 66 has been divvied up and parsed out to about 7 or 8 eight villages around the city of Tokmok. My village, Ivanovka, contains the most volunteers (Raymond, David, Roselle Victoria, Kat, Tammi, Willie and his wife Alexis). I’m the oldest of the group and catch a lot of flak for being 30, looking 20 and acting 10. It’s a wonderful group of people and we take excellent care of one another as our bodies and bowels adjust to what our PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) refers to as “new intestinal flora”. Here’s a direct quote from our PCMO, “Dat iz right folkz, you have new flowerz blooming in zyour bottomz.”---ah, smells like roses.
Speaking of roses, Friday, October 1st was teacher’s day. On teachers day, students bring their favorite teacher flowers (usually roses as they are the most prolific flower in Ivanovka). I am proud to share that my Momma received 150 roses, more than any other teacher in the school. Her students also borrowed a 35mm camera and walked around the school grounds taking photos of each other, developed the film, assembled an album, and presented it to my mother. She was very touched and I told her I was very proud.
Ok, let’s return to culture day. After touring the ancient grounds of Burana, we assembled about 40 feet south of the base of the tower to witness the slaughter of a sheep. After the throat slitting and blood letting, the entire head is removed and then boiled. A Kyrgyz babushka (grandmother) befriended me and I assisted her with cooking Plov—a Kyrgyz traditional dish consisting of a mixture of fried onions, carrots, rice, salt and oil. We cooked over a semi-open fire (what resembled half of a 50 gallon drum, the bottom part of which a hole was cut to add logs while on top a giant wok shaped pan was placed). This wind-weathered, leather faced babushka chuckled continuously as I attempted to stir the mountain of onions and carrots that popped and fizzled in the boiling oil. One volunteer told me he was sure it would be the best Plov he’d ever had. Thank you.
The weather was beautiful and as we awaited our meal, blankets were thrown down over the dirt and straw and baskets of fresh apples, pears, walnuts and pomegranates were placed in the center of each. We snacked on fresh bread and fruit and tasted Kumyss (fermented mare’s milk).
I Spy a Sheep Eye
After awhile a procession of men carried the sheep head to the central blanket whereupon it was laid, facing the crowd of curious and squeamish volunteers. We watched in awe as the eyeballs were extracted (not effortlessly) from the sockets of this now alien looking boiled skull of flesh. Our cultural leader (a Kyrgyz national named Akylbek [pronounced Ah kool bek] who incidentally studied at the University of Minnesota) was handed one of the eyes and began explaining that it was a great honor to be offered the sheep’s eyes and it meant your host wanted to see you again. Now, I thought this was the perfect opportunity to encourage Akylbek to eat the eye—since he had just been handed one, “Akylbek, we would all like to see you again, so please…the eye is yours.” No sooner had my witty lips closed around “yours” than the words of another instructor began goading from the rear of the crowd, “Larry! Larry! If you want to see Akylbek again, you must eat eye too!.”
Jerry Springer would have been proud of the crowd that day—cheers and jeers from the frenzied masses grew deafening as Akylbek sliced the eyeball in two and handed me half. Kyrgyz children jostled one another to catch a glimpse of the great American Appreciator of Sheep-Eyes. As you know, I’ve never been called sheepish (sorry about that, I couldn’t help myself) and faced the crowd like Schwarzenegger’s Conan, proudly displaying the half-eye in hand. Akylbek and I looked at one another, and with a subtle nod, we slung’em back like pros. After a few chews, I determined that Sheep eyes taste like grizzled fat and swallowed. Not too bad, though next time you’ll find me at the back of the crowd, mute and mindful that silence means never having to say Eye’m sorry.
Culture day concluded with horse races, amazing musicians, puppeteers and violent Kyrgyz versions of dodgeball, duck duck goose, tug-of-war and Red Rover—all of which I participated in with true competitive glory…and humiliating defeat(s). When all was said and done, I think 66 volunteers had a great day.
After obtaining permission from the director of our PST (pre-service training), on Sunday (Oct. 3), I lead a group of volunteers from Ivanovka to Bishkek. It actually turned out to be a great day trip: we didn’t get lost, we paid local prices for transportation, shopped, wondered through the massive Dordoy Bazaar, drank a few beers and finally, at the request of the group, and found a decent restaurant for food.
That's all for now. I'll try and write again soon!
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Beware of exploding light bulbs!
I was in my room the other night studying my Russian like a good PCT (Peace Corps Tainee) and POP!—just like a champagne cork, my light bulb ejected from its socket and fell through the sour sock smell of my room’s atmosphere (right passed my head) and landed on the rug below. The glass portion of this miniature Sputnik remained entirely intact, save where it separated from the socket.
“Wow!…Momma, Yulia [my sister] hmmm…Nyet Sviet, nyet sviet [no light, no light]”
“Pocheemoo? [why?]” asked momma.
Unfortunately, after seven years of “higher education” I still don’t know what makes the glass part of a light bulb explode from its screwed-in socket and nearly burn the foreigner it had been so benignly illuminating seconds before…and if I did, I there’s no way I could explain it in Russian.
After a short discussion, 97% of which motivates me to keep studying Russian, my mother disappeared from the house. Within seconds she was back, dragging a skinny, sleepy-eyed Russian man by the arm. My Russian isn’t too good yet, but I did manage, “Momma, from where man?” and “this man who?”
My sister explained that he was our neighbor and an electrician and sure enough, without hesitation he climbed atop a chair, pulled a pair of needle-nose from his pocket and started to raise his arm toward the socket. He paused and turned to Yulia, mumbling something in Russian. Yulia turned to me, “he says this very dangerous and don’t try without much practice”.
I explained to my sister that I would be happy not to play with live wires and that she should not worry.
As our wiry electrically enlightened Russian neighbor unscrewed Sputnik’s booster rocket from its socket, he explained that the wiring was very old, probably from Stalin’s time (now, this I took to be an exaggeration since the house was built during the Brezhnev era), but he got his point across and we all had a good laugh.
Addenda: About a week ago my fellow volunteers pointed out that when I tried to speak in Russian, I spoke with an Italian accent. Moreover, now when I speak English to a Kyrgyz or Russian person, I use a Russian accent. Perhaps soon I will eliminate the Faux-Italian sounding Russian speaking and replace my Russian sounding English speaking with Russian sounding Russian speaking. Did you get all that?
Speaking of Language, I attend a Russian language class with three others and we share the best language instructor that PC has to offer. Our professor, Usien, attended Moscow University and speaks 7 languages. More importantly, he is incredibly kind, patient and creative in his teaching. 5 days a week I walk one mile down the main road in Ivanovka to Usien’s host-home. We study Russian from 8:30-12:30 with a 15 minute coffee break around 10:45AM.
Over the past 7 days I have walked over 24 miles. I now weigh 94 pounds. Just kidding, if anything I’ve been packing on the pounds. I eat pasta, bread and potatoes everyday (Atkins would have had a heart attack if he—wait a minute, he did have heart attack—scratch that).
(As I was writing this, I was just introduced to my first Tajik refugee. I wish I could write more about this, but truly it was just an introduction and then he left. As you may recall, the NGO I am working with here in Ivanovka works with Tajiks who fled Tajikistan during the civil war from 1992-95. I know very little about this civil war and have limited access to information and the internet—So if any of you who read this blog could google it, it would be much appreciated. My sister and I are writing a grant proposal to obtain funding for seminars that provide Tajik refugees with basic knowledge about how to obtain Kyrgyz citizenship.
Jake, thanks for the post! Hope the Vikes are doing well. As for things I could use...actually not too much yet...but there are a couple.Coffee (ground for a french press---all I’ve had is instant and although the chai is good, coffee would rock!)2-3 cheap Potatoe peelers and a few blank CDs. Thanks!!!! Mom, I hope your trip to Alaska went well. I would love an update about it! Keith said you saw some whales and dolphins. Sounds great. Hope you are doing well. I'll write more later. Take care, Love Larry. Tomorrow (Saturday) is culture day and a field trip to Burana Tower. Gotta RUn. Take care.
“Wow!…Momma, Yulia [my sister] hmmm…Nyet Sviet, nyet sviet [no light, no light]”
“Pocheemoo? [why?]” asked momma.
Unfortunately, after seven years of “higher education” I still don’t know what makes the glass part of a light bulb explode from its screwed-in socket and nearly burn the foreigner it had been so benignly illuminating seconds before…and if I did, I there’s no way I could explain it in Russian.
After a short discussion, 97% of which motivates me to keep studying Russian, my mother disappeared from the house. Within seconds she was back, dragging a skinny, sleepy-eyed Russian man by the arm. My Russian isn’t too good yet, but I did manage, “Momma, from where man?” and “this man who?”
My sister explained that he was our neighbor and an electrician and sure enough, without hesitation he climbed atop a chair, pulled a pair of needle-nose from his pocket and started to raise his arm toward the socket. He paused and turned to Yulia, mumbling something in Russian. Yulia turned to me, “he says this very dangerous and don’t try without much practice”.
I explained to my sister that I would be happy not to play with live wires and that she should not worry.
As our wiry electrically enlightened Russian neighbor unscrewed Sputnik’s booster rocket from its socket, he explained that the wiring was very old, probably from Stalin’s time (now, this I took to be an exaggeration since the house was built during the Brezhnev era), but he got his point across and we all had a good laugh.
Addenda: About a week ago my fellow volunteers pointed out that when I tried to speak in Russian, I spoke with an Italian accent. Moreover, now when I speak English to a Kyrgyz or Russian person, I use a Russian accent. Perhaps soon I will eliminate the Faux-Italian sounding Russian speaking and replace my Russian sounding English speaking with Russian sounding Russian speaking. Did you get all that?
Speaking of Language, I attend a Russian language class with three others and we share the best language instructor that PC has to offer. Our professor, Usien, attended Moscow University and speaks 7 languages. More importantly, he is incredibly kind, patient and creative in his teaching. 5 days a week I walk one mile down the main road in Ivanovka to Usien’s host-home. We study Russian from 8:30-12:30 with a 15 minute coffee break around 10:45AM.
Over the past 7 days I have walked over 24 miles. I now weigh 94 pounds. Just kidding, if anything I’ve been packing on the pounds. I eat pasta, bread and potatoes everyday (Atkins would have had a heart attack if he—wait a minute, he did have heart attack—scratch that).
(As I was writing this, I was just introduced to my first Tajik refugee. I wish I could write more about this, but truly it was just an introduction and then he left. As you may recall, the NGO I am working with here in Ivanovka works with Tajiks who fled Tajikistan during the civil war from 1992-95. I know very little about this civil war and have limited access to information and the internet—So if any of you who read this blog could google it, it would be much appreciated. My sister and I are writing a grant proposal to obtain funding for seminars that provide Tajik refugees with basic knowledge about how to obtain Kyrgyz citizenship.
Jake, thanks for the post! Hope the Vikes are doing well. As for things I could use...actually not too much yet...but there are a couple.Coffee (ground for a french press---all I’ve had is instant and although the chai is good, coffee would rock!)2-3 cheap Potatoe peelers and a few blank CDs. Thanks!!!! Mom, I hope your trip to Alaska went well. I would love an update about it! Keith said you saw some whales and dolphins. Sounds great. Hope you are doing well. I'll write more later. Take care, Love Larry. Tomorrow (Saturday) is culture day and a field trip to Burana Tower. Gotta RUn. Take care.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Wrong Phone Number
Sorry, I gave you the wrong number the other day. You should be able to reach me at 996 31 32 48 3 56.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Dog Tricks and Tea
Internet Cafe. My Hotmail account works from the Internet cafe in Ivanovka. The internet costs 40 som/hr which is about 95 cents. This may not seem like a lot, but here 95 cents can buy you 11 loaves of fresh bread or 14 kilos of potatoes.
Unfortunately, we lost another member of the K-12 group (this is PCs designation becuase we are the 12th group of volunteers in Kyrgyzstan). I haven't heard exactly what happened and I don't want to be part of the rumor mill but apparently he had to leave for medical reasons and was quite disappointed about his impending departure. We are sad to see him go.
My family continues to impress me with their generosity and concern for my safety. Though they seem perfectly fine with allowing me to make an ass of myself. Yesterday, while preparing a cup of tea, I accidentally added a spoonful of salt instead of sugar. My lips puckered upon the first sip and my sister busted out in hysterics. Apparently she watched the whole thing happen. Her response was simply, I thought you were a Kyrgyz man--they used to put salt in their tea too. Sugar is the container with the lid on it, salt is the one left out in the open--just in case you were wondering.
Dad, your delicious beef jerky now has another purpose. It can save lives by preventing rabies. That's right folks, Jerky saves lives. The two mangy dogs that live outside my door now both stand on their hind legs and turn around (full circle) before I give them a tiny piece of jerky. Of course, my sister and mom think this is hilarious (I am working on our cat--Fyodor--but I call him Dostoevosky since I can't pronounce Fyodor correctly --it's something like Fee ay da).
Anyone who has been in the PC, knows how structured our days are here:Wake up, eat breakfast, 1/2 hr walk to my professor's house, 4 hours of Russian language, 1/2 hr walk back, eat lunch, community training on someday (which is about a 3 hour field trip from what I've gathered) other days after language class I receive technical training in Tokmok and every Wedesdays we meet (also in Tokmok about 1/2 hr by Mashrutka (mini-bus)). I get home around 5:30, study until 7:00, eat dinner and talk with my family until 10:30 and study until about midnight. My sister and mother don't go to bed until midnight and last night (Saturday) my mother stayed up grading tests and my sister processed Citizenship applications (for Tajiks trying to get Kyrgyz citizenship) until 2AM. I think these hours unusual. Most other volunteers I spoke with go to bed around 9 or 10--but to be honest, I am enjoying keeping a similar schedule as I did in the states. I remember in Thailand, I would go to bed around 8:30 because I was so mentally drained. Not that that won't happen, but as long as I feel good and energized I'm gonna use this time.
Here's a shout out to everyone at Thomson/West. I hope you are all well. Does 1800 Ref Atty work internationally? Give me a call!
Well my time's up. Take care and I'll try and write whenever I get a chance. Later,
Tweed.
Unfortunately, we lost another member of the K-12 group (this is PCs designation becuase we are the 12th group of volunteers in Kyrgyzstan). I haven't heard exactly what happened and I don't want to be part of the rumor mill but apparently he had to leave for medical reasons and was quite disappointed about his impending departure. We are sad to see him go.
My family continues to impress me with their generosity and concern for my safety. Though they seem perfectly fine with allowing me to make an ass of myself. Yesterday, while preparing a cup of tea, I accidentally added a spoonful of salt instead of sugar. My lips puckered upon the first sip and my sister busted out in hysterics. Apparently she watched the whole thing happen. Her response was simply, I thought you were a Kyrgyz man--they used to put salt in their tea too. Sugar is the container with the lid on it, salt is the one left out in the open--just in case you were wondering.
Dad, your delicious beef jerky now has another purpose. It can save lives by preventing rabies. That's right folks, Jerky saves lives. The two mangy dogs that live outside my door now both stand on their hind legs and turn around (full circle) before I give them a tiny piece of jerky. Of course, my sister and mom think this is hilarious (I am working on our cat--Fyodor--but I call him Dostoevosky since I can't pronounce Fyodor correctly --it's something like Fee ay da).
Anyone who has been in the PC, knows how structured our days are here:Wake up, eat breakfast, 1/2 hr walk to my professor's house, 4 hours of Russian language, 1/2 hr walk back, eat lunch, community training on someday (which is about a 3 hour field trip from what I've gathered) other days after language class I receive technical training in Tokmok and every Wedesdays we meet (also in Tokmok about 1/2 hr by Mashrutka (mini-bus)). I get home around 5:30, study until 7:00, eat dinner and talk with my family until 10:30 and study until about midnight. My sister and mother don't go to bed until midnight and last night (Saturday) my mother stayed up grading tests and my sister processed Citizenship applications (for Tajiks trying to get Kyrgyz citizenship) until 2AM. I think these hours unusual. Most other volunteers I spoke with go to bed around 9 or 10--but to be honest, I am enjoying keeping a similar schedule as I did in the states. I remember in Thailand, I would go to bed around 8:30 because I was so mentally drained. Not that that won't happen, but as long as I feel good and energized I'm gonna use this time.
Here's a shout out to everyone at Thomson/West. I hope you are all well. Does 1800 Ref Atty work internationally? Give me a call!
Well my time's up. Take care and I'll try and write whenever I get a chance. Later,
Tweed.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Sept 25. Life in Ivanovka village
My hotmail account still is not working over here, i'll be going to an internet cafe a little later this afternoon and give it a shot from there. Otherwise, please feel free to post a comment on this blog (of course, it will be public). I live in a small soviet home that was built about twenty years ago. as you enter my yard from the street, you walk under a tunnel of grapevines with bunches of fresh grapes dangling from above. To your left is a sleepy dog and to your right is yelping dog named Manya (viscious bark, but consider the creature could fit in your pocket--not too dangerous). straight ahead is the porch (four steps) Make sure you take your shoes off before you enter (this practice helps with the problem of disease because it reduces the fecal matter and TB (from saliva on the streets) from entering our home. Inside you will find a tiny kitchen (a small refrigerator, hot plate, tiny wooden table, cabinet and lots of jars for canning your fresh vegetables). Welcome. More to come later, I don't want to keep my host sister waiting any longer. Take care,
Larry
p.s. I am healthy and eating like a horse...hmmm...perhaps i'm eating horse. Any way, it tastes great.
Larry
p.s. I am healthy and eating like a horse...hmmm...perhaps i'm eating horse. Any way, it tastes great.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Sept. 23--Update from Ivanovka--my new home
Dear friends & family,
I have a wonderful host family and have already begun learning lots of Russian…I live with my host mother and sister—my sister is an attorney and works for an NGO that assists refugees from Tajikistan. I learned today that my legal practicum will be with her NGO. I have fully recovered from my brief bout with food poisoning, but unfortunately many of my comrades have recently fallen ill. I live in a village (actually quite big…around 15000) called Ivanovka. I can be reached at 996 31 31 48 3 56 (this should be the full phone number…996 is the country code) I am usually home around 6 iu the evenings and we are awake until at least 10 PM I hope all is well in the states. I will compose a longer email and update later. Unfortuntely Hotmail was not working so I could not read or respond to any individual emails.
p.s. Solena, either address will work for the absentee ballot---thanks for taking care of me, as always!
Take care,
Love,
Larry
I have a wonderful host family and have already begun learning lots of Russian…I live with my host mother and sister—my sister is an attorney and works for an NGO that assists refugees from Tajikistan. I learned today that my legal practicum will be with her NGO. I have fully recovered from my brief bout with food poisoning, but unfortunately many of my comrades have recently fallen ill. I live in a village (actually quite big…around 15000) called Ivanovka. I can be reached at 996 31 31 48 3 56 (this should be the full phone number…996 is the country code) I am usually home around 6 iu the evenings and we are awake until at least 10 PM I hope all is well in the states. I will compose a longer email and update later. Unfortuntely Hotmail was not working so I could not read or respond to any individual emails.
p.s. Solena, either address will work for the absentee ballot---thanks for taking care of me, as always!
Take care,
Love,
Larry
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
New Beginnings
Hey Folks,
I am in Kyrgyzstan.
Highlights:
Philly: Doing a Voice Dub-over for a skit we put on re: remaining apolitical while in the PC (I used my best woman's voice and my buddy dressed in drag). We go a lot-o-laughs.
Istanbul: drinking beer and playing cards at the airport (unfortunately, there wasn't enough time to make it out of the city)
Kyrgyzstan: having about 80 people (most of whom I had just met a few days before) sing me Happy Birthday.
Seeing the dawn light bring the mountains into view as 5 of stayed up all night talking on a balcony at the Issyk Kul Hotel in Bishkek.
Learning that Russian would be my primary language of study and that I may be working with a Human Rights NGO(Non-Governmental Organization).
Throwing up and diareaha (more than likely from something I ate) and being in goodhands with the wonderful medical staff here!
We've got a phenomenal group of 67 volunteers. I know nearly everyone's name already and have enjoyed learning about my fellow PCV's.
I don't know how often I will be able to update this blog yet. Tomorrow I move in with my first host family (it was supposed to happen today, but my puking precluded it).
I think I have to go now. I will write every chance I get.
Take care,
Love Larry
I am in Kyrgyzstan.
Highlights:
Philly: Doing a Voice Dub-over for a skit we put on re: remaining apolitical while in the PC (I used my best woman's voice and my buddy dressed in drag). We go a lot-o-laughs.
Istanbul: drinking beer and playing cards at the airport (unfortunately, there wasn't enough time to make it out of the city)
Kyrgyzstan: having about 80 people (most of whom I had just met a few days before) sing me Happy Birthday.
Seeing the dawn light bring the mountains into view as 5 of stayed up all night talking on a balcony at the Issyk Kul Hotel in Bishkek.
Learning that Russian would be my primary language of study and that I may be working with a Human Rights NGO(Non-Governmental Organization).
Throwing up and diareaha (more than likely from something I ate) and being in goodhands with the wonderful medical staff here!
We've got a phenomenal group of 67 volunteers. I know nearly everyone's name already and have enjoyed learning about my fellow PCV's.
I don't know how often I will be able to update this blog yet. Tomorrow I move in with my first host family (it was supposed to happen today, but my puking precluded it).
I think I have to go now. I will write every chance I get.
Take care,
Love Larry
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
My New Address (for the next 3 months of PC training)
Well, tomorrow I begin the first leg of this new adventure. My address in Kyrgyzstan (for the next 3 months) will be:
Larry Tweed
Peace Corps
304 Chokmorova Street
720010
Bishkek, Kyrgyz Republic
* I had hoped to update more frequently over these last few weeks...sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day. Please stay tuned for the next adventure. Larry Tweed.
Larry Tweed
Peace Corps
304 Chokmorova Street
720010
Bishkek, Kyrgyz Republic
* I had hoped to update more frequently over these last few weeks...sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day. Please stay tuned for the next adventure. Larry Tweed.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Brief Update
I hope to be posting more frequently over the next couple of weeks.
Busy good-bye days. I leave Minnesota (my home for the last 10 years) on August 31st, 2004.
Saturday August 21st I received confirmation that I fly out of Philadelphia (my birth city) on September 17; with a layover in Turkey (the country where my parents met); and I arrive in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan on September 19th (my 30th birthday). Nice bookends.
Part II of Little Boys & Indians is nearly complete.
Busy good-bye days. I leave Minnesota (my home for the last 10 years) on August 31st, 2004.
Saturday August 21st I received confirmation that I fly out of Philadelphia (my birth city) on September 17; with a layover in Turkey (the country where my parents met); and I arrive in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan on September 19th (my 30th birthday). Nice bookends.
Part II of Little Boys & Indians is nearly complete.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Little Boys and Indians (Part 1: Buried Years)
In the spring of 1979, just four months shy of my fifth birthday, my father unearthed a ceremonial spearhead while roto-tilling our garden in New Florence, Pennsylvania.
“WHAT-THE-HELL IS THAT?” He cut the engine to the Toro and knelt down to retrieve the object that had just soared past his face.
The spearhead was about four inches long and approximately two and half inches across. From its base, the stone bowed outward like a bowling pin and about two-thirds up it tapered to a sharp point.
He turned the stone in his hands and used his thumbs to push away the dark earth clumped in its obsidian grooves. The midday sun reflected off the spearhead and dappled and danced over my father’s face.
At the time, my dad was a counselor at a Pennsylvania state-run rehabilitation center. The “rehab” employed a man by the name of Paul Moynihan whose hobby happened to be Indian artifacts. “Found this in the garden,” My dad handed the stone to Paul, “damn thing nearly took out my eye.”
Paul received the stone like it was the Holy Grail, “You found THIS in your garden?”
“Yup. Sort of looks a like giant arrow head, but more rounded—thought you might know what it was.”
Paul explained to my father that it was a ceremonial spearhead, the work of an expert craftsman and probably had taken quite some time and skill to carve. The fact that the stone was perfectly edged lead Paul to believe that the artifact had been buried alongside the body of powerful chief so that he could hunt on his journey into the afterlife.
“Remind me, where you’re living these days?” Paul handed the spearhead back to my father.
“New Florence.”
“Conemaugh River runs through there, don’t it?” Paul raised an eyebrow, punctuating the question.
“Sure it does, about half mile from our house.”
“Any fields being plowed down close to the river?”
“Yup, a farmer I know owns some land down in the Bottoms.”
“The Bottoms” consisted of 400 acres of forests, fields and marshlands, known mostly to local hunters for its abundant population of white-tail deer that grew fat off the river delta’s rich vegetation. For a child going on five years old The Bottoms represented a dark, cool mysterious nether-world where tadpoles could be scooped from car-swallowing mud puddles and chin-dripping red raspberries were plucked at will.
A few days after the meeting with Paul, my father obtained permission to walk the farmer’s fields.
The entrance of the dirt road leading into The Bottoms was only a few blocks from our house. Once on the road, we walked mostly in shadows, mottled by the leafy light of May’s easy breeze. Rain had fallen the night before and the dark, fecund earth seemed rich with life and possibility. Tangles of trees, vines, and briars threatened us from both sides and I walked down the middle of the path, imagining that we were archaeologists sent on an expedition through the jungle with hopes of discovering a lost city.
“Dad, what if the Indians see us?” I kicked a rock down the road with my tennis shoe and spun around to see his answer.
“I don’t think there’s any Indians back here anymore.” He held out his hand and I took it, “My buddy at work tells me that spearhead we found in the garden is probably six hundred years old.”
We walked a few more paces holding hands while I contemplated how long six-hundred years was.
I pulled my hand away, crossed my skinny arms in front of my chest, and looked up at my father inquisitively, “But what if they’ve just been hiding in the woods…what if they are waiting for us?”
“Hmmm…” he raised a hand to his face and massaged his chin pretending to ponder my question, "I think I see what your getting at—What if the Indians like small blond headed boys, like yourself, who ask too many what-if questions.” He laughed and tousled my hair with his hand.
“Daa-ad!” I smiled back, then turned and kicked another stone down the trail.
Around the second bend, about three quarters of a mile down, the road widened and the yellow sunlight glowed over the great expanse of the farmer’s fields. The corn had been planted only the week before, but you could already see green rows of germinating seed push their way from darkness into light.
We stopped at the edge of the field, “Now, we have to be careful,” my father instructed, “This field was just planted—see the corn growing already?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Paul said that the plow turns up the earth and in the process sometimes it reveals artifacts that have been buried for hundreds of years…” My dad looked out at the field, sensing its potential, “Now, I don’t know if we are gonna find anything out there today, but it just rained last night and I think this might be the perfect time to try.”
I looked at the field. It seemed to go on forever. My eyes widened.
(To be continued...)
“WHAT-THE-HELL IS THAT?” He cut the engine to the Toro and knelt down to retrieve the object that had just soared past his face.
The spearhead was about four inches long and approximately two and half inches across. From its base, the stone bowed outward like a bowling pin and about two-thirds up it tapered to a sharp point.
He turned the stone in his hands and used his thumbs to push away the dark earth clumped in its obsidian grooves. The midday sun reflected off the spearhead and dappled and danced over my father’s face.
At the time, my dad was a counselor at a Pennsylvania state-run rehabilitation center. The “rehab” employed a man by the name of Paul Moynihan whose hobby happened to be Indian artifacts. “Found this in the garden,” My dad handed the stone to Paul, “damn thing nearly took out my eye.”
Paul received the stone like it was the Holy Grail, “You found THIS in your garden?”
“Yup. Sort of looks a like giant arrow head, but more rounded—thought you might know what it was.”
Paul explained to my father that it was a ceremonial spearhead, the work of an expert craftsman and probably had taken quite some time and skill to carve. The fact that the stone was perfectly edged lead Paul to believe that the artifact had been buried alongside the body of powerful chief so that he could hunt on his journey into the afterlife.
“Remind me, where you’re living these days?” Paul handed the spearhead back to my father.
“New Florence.”
“Conemaugh River runs through there, don’t it?” Paul raised an eyebrow, punctuating the question.
“Sure it does, about half mile from our house.”
“Any fields being plowed down close to the river?”
“Yup, a farmer I know owns some land down in the Bottoms.”
“The Bottoms” consisted of 400 acres of forests, fields and marshlands, known mostly to local hunters for its abundant population of white-tail deer that grew fat off the river delta’s rich vegetation. For a child going on five years old The Bottoms represented a dark, cool mysterious nether-world where tadpoles could be scooped from car-swallowing mud puddles and chin-dripping red raspberries were plucked at will.
A few days after the meeting with Paul, my father obtained permission to walk the farmer’s fields.
The entrance of the dirt road leading into The Bottoms was only a few blocks from our house. Once on the road, we walked mostly in shadows, mottled by the leafy light of May’s easy breeze. Rain had fallen the night before and the dark, fecund earth seemed rich with life and possibility. Tangles of trees, vines, and briars threatened us from both sides and I walked down the middle of the path, imagining that we were archaeologists sent on an expedition through the jungle with hopes of discovering a lost city.
“Dad, what if the Indians see us?” I kicked a rock down the road with my tennis shoe and spun around to see his answer.
“I don’t think there’s any Indians back here anymore.” He held out his hand and I took it, “My buddy at work tells me that spearhead we found in the garden is probably six hundred years old.”
We walked a few more paces holding hands while I contemplated how long six-hundred years was.
I pulled my hand away, crossed my skinny arms in front of my chest, and looked up at my father inquisitively, “But what if they’ve just been hiding in the woods…what if they are waiting for us?”
“Hmmm…” he raised a hand to his face and massaged his chin pretending to ponder my question, "I think I see what your getting at—What if the Indians like small blond headed boys, like yourself, who ask too many what-if questions.” He laughed and tousled my hair with his hand.
“Daa-ad!” I smiled back, then turned and kicked another stone down the trail.
Around the second bend, about three quarters of a mile down, the road widened and the yellow sunlight glowed over the great expanse of the farmer’s fields. The corn had been planted only the week before, but you could already see green rows of germinating seed push their way from darkness into light.
We stopped at the edge of the field, “Now, we have to be careful,” my father instructed, “This field was just planted—see the corn growing already?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Paul said that the plow turns up the earth and in the process sometimes it reveals artifacts that have been buried for hundreds of years…” My dad looked out at the field, sensing its potential, “Now, I don’t know if we are gonna find anything out there today, but it just rained last night and I think this might be the perfect time to try.”
I looked at the field. It seemed to go on forever. My eyes widened.
(To be continued...)
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
Minor Frustration!
To any of you who blog. I suggest writing your thoughts in a word processor and then doing a cut & paste. I was in Blogger, working on an entry for over an hour and then lost it--it was completely my fault. Oh well. Let me sum it up for you in less than 50 words. 48 days til I depart. Lots to do. Time Flies. I'm 10894 days old. In life, try and avoid having to say "Wish-I-Had-Done..." Enjoy the time you have.
There. This time around it only took me about a minute. I hope to post a short-story (non-fiction) about hunting arrowheads with my father in Western Pennsylvania back in the 70's & 80's sometime soon. I've been writing but not posting. Trying to find time to read a bit too. Just finished an intriguing novel, Any Human Heart, by William Boyd (NY Times Book Review).
On the Academic front, just started reading Kyrgyzstan: Central Asia's Island of Democracy? written in 1999 by a Scottsman named John Anderson.
Oh yeah, I also wanted to point people to this link containing breathtaking photos of Kyrgyzstan.
There. This time around it only took me about a minute. I hope to post a short-story (non-fiction) about hunting arrowheads with my father in Western Pennsylvania back in the 70's & 80's sometime soon. I've been writing but not posting. Trying to find time to read a bit too. Just finished an intriguing novel, Any Human Heart, by William Boyd (NY Times Book Review).
On the Academic front, just started reading Kyrgyzstan: Central Asia's Island of Democracy? written in 1999 by a Scottsman named John Anderson.
Oh yeah, I also wanted to point people to this link containing breathtaking photos of Kyrgyzstan.
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
For any of those interested in following U.S. Foreign Policy, I found the following article in The New York Sun on Tuesday, July 27, 2004
U.S. Military's Plan of 'Lily Pad' Deployment Taking Shape in Kyrgyzstan
MANAS AIR FIELD, Kyrgyzstan - U.S. Air Force Captain Dale Linafelter was dumbfounded when he first found out he was being deployed to the Manas air base in the former Soviet republic of Kyrgyzstan. "I'd never even heard of Kyrgyzstan," said Captain Linafelter, the flight safety investigator at the base, which hosts the largest number of American forces in Central Asia outside Afghanistan.
He wasn't alone. Very few of the more than 1,150 American servicemen at Manas, a dusty, long-abandoned Soviet bomber base, could have found Kyrgyzstan on a map before they arrived here, said the base chaplain, Lieutenant Colonel Stan Giles.
"Some of them still don't know where they are," Colonel Giles joked. "You know, there's an old saying: War is God's way of teaching geography to Americans."
Yet it is in places like Kyrgyzstan - a mountainous Muslim country bordering Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and China - that the future of the American military is taking shape.
In the wake of the September 11 attacks and combat in Afghanistan and Iraq, the Pentagon is planning the greatest shake-up in America's overseas military deployment since the end of World War II. While the full details of the plan will be disclosed only later this year, one thing is already clear: the days of the massive "small-town USA" bases in places like Germany, Japan, and South Korea are over. Replacing them will be a global network of what Pentagon planners have dubbed "lily pads" - small forward bases in more remote and dangerous corners of the world that can act as jumping-off points when crises arise.
"This marks a new epoch in American force posturing," said the director of a Washington clearinghouse for strategic intelligence, globalsecurity.org, John Pike. "It's one of only a half dozen similar reposturings since the American Revolution. It's a very significant change."
The deputy assistant secretary of defense for strategy, Andy Hoehn, said in Washington that defense officials will be presenting their redeployment pro posals to President Bush within weeks. Mr. Hoehn said he expects the changes to start taking effect in late 2005 or early 2006.
The strategy, experts say, is to position American forces throughout a so-called arc of instability that runs through the Caribbean, Africa, the Caucasus, Central Asia, the Middle East, and South Asia. It is in these parts of the world - generally poor, insular, and unstable - that military planners now see threats to American interests.
The Pentagon believes that spreading American forces through a large number of small, flexible bases within this arc would better position the military to strike faster at remote hotspots. The American military presence in these areas could also act as a stabilizing factor, preventing them from becoming hotspots in the first place.
"We don't know exactly where the next threat will be. It could be Iran, North Korea, China, or other parts of the world. This redeployment is designed to allow us to quickly respond to any of those challenges," Mr. Pike said.
The American military presence in Kyrgyzstan provides a glimpse of what's to come.
Unlike the big garrison bases that have traditionally housed more than 80% of American forces overseas, the Manas air base is small, simple, and largely isolated from the surrounding community. There are no families, schools, fast-food chains, or department stores. Contact with local villagers and access to the nearby capital, Bishkek, is strictly limited. Postings here rarely last longer than three or four months and accommodations consist of eight-man tents.
Initially set up as a temporary staging ground for incursions into neighboring Afghanistan, today the base serves primarily as a strategic airlift hub and launching area for air refueling missions - exactly the kind of "lily pad" Pentagon planners are envisaging.
About 10 flights a day depart from Manas, either C-130 Hercules planes ferrying troops and supplies to bases in Afghanistan or KC-135 Stratotankers refueling American planes over Afghan airspace.
American bases abroad cannot be named after individuals, but unofficially this facility is known as the Peter J. Ganci base, after a New York fire chief killed when the World Trade Center collapsed.
Whether the base is having the kind of stabilizing effect military planners are hoping for still isn't clear.
Kyrygz officials credit the presence of American forces with helping deter attacks from Islamic fundamentalists based in the Ferghana Valley, which straddles Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan.
One terrorist group, the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, which is believed to be responsible for a string of attacks that left 47 people dead in Uzbekistan in April, launched incursions into Kyrgyzstan in 1999 and 2000 that the military repelled only after taking heavy casualties.
"There haven't been any incursions since we got here," said the Manas base's public-affairs officer, Captain Jason Decker. "It's not why we're here, but we're happy to make it a more stable world."
Still, radical Islamic groups have condemned the Kyrgyz government for cooperating with the Americans, and in April four men were jailed for plotting to blow up the base. Captain Decker says two other terrorist attacks on the base were averted in the last year. Earlier this month, the Kyrgyz government also arrested six people, including four government employees, for allegedly spying for Islamic terrorists abroad.
The presence of American forces has also increased tensions between Central Asian countries and former imperial master Russia. Seriously concerned about the presence of American troops in its backyard, Moscow has been pressuring Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan - all of which host American forces - to ask them to leave. Last year, the Kremlin convinced the Kyrgyz government to allow the Russian Air Force to set up its own base less than 70 miles from Manas. The Kant base marked the first foreign deployment of Russian forces abroad since the collapse of the Soviet Union. It is home to Su-27 fighter planes, Su-25 ground-attack aircraft, and Mi-8 helicopters, which conduct training exercises in Kyrgyz airspace. Captain Decker said there have been no contacts between the American and Russian forces.
For ordinary Kyrgyz, the presence of the American base is less of a political issue than an economic one, said a senior Western official who has spent the last seven years living in Bishkek.
In poverty-stricken Kyrgyzstan, the presence of even a relatively small number of American troops can have an enormous impact. The base employs more than 500 locals, paying them up to 10 times the average monthly wage of about $100. The base is pumping about $156,000 a day into the local economy and last year accounted for 5% of Kyrgyzstan's entire gross domestic product.
"The general attitude among people here is that they'll take it for what it's worth," the Western official said. "The advent of the American base has actually helped to create something of a middle class in Bishkek."
And there are no signs that American forces will be abandoning Manas any time soon. In fact, the Air Force is spending $60 million this year to replace the base tents with more permanent buildings constructed from shipping containers.
"This is not any kind of indication of moving to a permanent base," Captain Decker insisted. "On the other hand, we're not leaving tomorrow. Our mission is going on until the global war on terrorism is done, until the Kyrgyz government doesn't want us here or until America decides to send us home."
By Michael Mainville Special to The Sun
Posted by
Elinda Tarra Lie
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