It’s All Smoke and Earthquakes…
I was in bed reading the other night when I smelled a strange perfume…like incense burning. Then, creeping in under my door I noticed the smoke. I wasn’t alarmed. Moments later my host mom billows into my room in a cloud holding what appears to be a baking sheet. Piled atop the baking sheet, a small mountain of twigs and herbs were burning – the source of the fragrant smoke.

Dancing around my room in her pink nightshirt, my mom is murmuring something about “no flu.” She asks if I mind, like I have a choice at this point. But I think, “heck no I don’t want the flu! Bring it on lady! Go to town!” At this point, with my positive response, she floats over to my bedside, stooping down to blow the smoke directly into my face. I close my eyes and let the smoke roll over me. It smells like lavender, pine, and freshly dried laundry. A few more swirls and she dances out of my room, closing the door behind her, trapping me in the cloud. I have to wave my hand between my face and my book to clear the air to see the words on the page. The smoke lingered for hours. It was nice, but looking back it was a little strange.

The next night, again, in bed reading I hear what sounds like rolling thunder. Low and loud. Gently, at first, the apartment starts vibrating, seconds later it’s trembling violently. I look to my desk then the doorway. Climbing out of my bed I see some kids in the hall so I go to my doorway – this is the safest place I think. My eleven-year-old host brother is sitting on the floor with his hands raised and eyes closed. His lips move silently – in prayer. I see my host mom’s reflection in the kitchen door. She continues chopping vegetables unaffected. By the time I notice my fourteen-year-old host sister, the earthquake has stopped and she is smiling at me from the other room.

Nothing fell off the walls or crashed and broke, so it must not have been a very big earthquake. Perhaps being on the fourth floor in an old apartment building exaggerated the vibrations. But what a rush! I experienced my first earthquake! Apparently these small earth trembles happen all the time. Maybe in 2 years I won’t stop cooking for a quake either.

Hey Cam!
Yesterday my Cameron (training village BFF) came down from a smaller city just over an hour north of here. He said he came for our weekly SOCD Volunteer meeting. He said he came to see the city. He said he came to get some new project ideas. But I really know he came to see me.

I gave him directions to and he was actually able to find my office – good navigational skills, on the list of reasons why I love my Cam. I gave him the grand tour. Introduced him to giant Lenin out front. Showed him my worktable and my comfy wooden chair. We brainstormed for a few about how to spend the day “working,” and decided that it would be beneficial to see Kelly’s office.

So we walked 15 minutes to Kelly’s office and got the grand tour there. Then we hit up a Russian café for lunch. After lunch we showed Cam our bank (so exciting), the street corner where we sometimes meet, the theater that hasn’t worked since 1970, the nice Samca lady who sells the hard to find pumpkin ones, the American Corner Library, and then the plane in the park. I think he was impressed. At 2:30 we met up with the others at the popular (delicious but expensive) expat café. Kelly’s boyfriend, who is visiting, along with some of the teacher volunteers, and some of the older volunteers all joined us. In all we filled up 3 tables with about 15 Americans. It was overwhelming and nice. The “meeting” was supposed to end at 4 but we ended up staying until almost 7. We ate pizza and brownies and drank coffee and beer. The bill was over 1,500 soms! Oops.

When I got home I pulled out the ‘Details’ magazine that Cam had given to me to read. I was all excited. I should have known it was a gay men’s magazine by the article headlines that read, “The ultimate guide to wearing jeans,” “Who says all gay men are stylish?” and “Accessories! Totes are in!” Hey Cam, because you honestly believed I would find pleasure in the glossy pages of a gay men’s mag is just another reason why I love you. Did you see all those beautiful and “proper” Tequila ads?!

Tonight Sarah is making falafel for everyone. Tomorrow there’s a cook-off at Meg’s.



A phone call I’ll never forget…
If I had any doubts of being here or making some small impact, I just got a little dose of hope to remind me I can do this. My first host family just called to see how I was doing, if I was okay, to see if I like my new location and my new family. I talked to Aselia, the oldest daughter who’s 15, my mom, and Eliza the 3 year old. I didn’t start choking up until my mom said that Eliza still cries when they tell her I’m not coming home. She doesn’t understand why I left. Though she never talked to me much, the last night I was there we played tag and hide and seek and had so much fun. She asked me if I was eating enough and if I am healthy. That phone call not only made my week, but it was a reality check. The text messages I get from Aselia every other day that say, “Hi and I love you! Are you watching Tanya?” help too. Just my being here, by meeting people and making meaningful relationships, I am fulfilling part of the reason why I joined PC in the first place. The work part is important too, but I have to keep reminding myself that it isn’t everything. I should try harder with this family.

Why’s everyone spitting?
Tomorrow I’m going to attempt to count the number of times I see or hear someone spitting. It seems like, to be cool here (if you’re a real man), you gotta know how to hack a lugie and spit with attitude. I swear I thought someone was spitting on me a few times today. People spit while walking, while squatting, while talking; they spit out the windows and doors of moving marshrutkas, they spit everywhere! I had to stop looking too carefully at the sidewalk while I walked down the street because it was too dangerous. The spit grenades made it so I couldn’t walk in a straight line. No wonder why everyone leaves their shoes outside. It’s all making sense. Well, not the spitting part…

A small Comparison…
I’ve been thinking a lot about how 3 year olds here compare to 3 year olds at home. In the village the 3 year olds are different because they squat to pee, they play in the dust on the side of the main road, they think old cans and empty coke bottles are magical. Clothes are optional. Bedtime, for my sister anyway, was whenever and wherever she passed out – usually around 11pm. 3 year olds drink coffee and tea everyday. And knowing and using both Kyrgyz and Russian is just the way it is.

In the city 3 years olds are different because they play in the gravel between the apartment buildings without adult supervision. They go to kindergarten if the family can afford it. They too drink a lot of tea and speak two languages.