Reflections in the Fog...

What is the pull? What motivates me to push back the covers in the still-dark morning and dress up to go to work everyday? Why am I living in a semi-developed city in an apartment by myself? Shouldn’t I be isolated in a yurt somewhere? Eating sheep eyes and drinking vodka?

I’m a Sustainable Organizational and Community Development Peace Corps volunteer in the Kyrgyz Republic. I’m posted in a city in the south of the country. It rains a lot. My primary assignment is with an NGO called “Ayalzat,” which is a women’s initiatives non-governmental organization. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I spent my time in their tiny office, with 4 other women working on grants and projects, or out in the community helping with information campaigns, trainings, and seminars around anti-trafficking, domestic violence, and micro-credit. Occasionally I visit the hot-line, where my former host mother works, and the shelter for victims of human trafficking.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I work with the Central Asian Alliance for Water. Having just begun there, I’m in the process of learning HTML so I can help revamp their 2 year old website. In the future I will also go with them into the villages to help with the various components of advocacy and training on water rights and youth and women empowerment.

Every Friday afternoon I co-facilitate a Women’s Leadership Club with another volunteer. This is usually the highlight of my week not only because the young women who attend club are so motivated, but because they are optimistic and intelligent and inspire me.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed with how disorganized and slow things are here; how the work culture seems to grate against my productivity-oriented personality. I need to stop and remind myself that relationship building is important here too.

The pull is the friendships I am forging with locals and with expats. The pull is getting the chance to mold my life here, for the next 21 months, with the random chunk of clay I was given. The pull is knowing that everyday my Russian is getting just a little bit better, that I show up to work and set an example, that I appear positive, that I represent single American women.

I don’t fit in here physically, with my blond hair and blue eyes. I don’t speak Kyrgyz. I’m not married nor have children. I can’t walk the length of the city in high-heeled boots. I’m a foreigner – even if this is my home for 2 years. I can always leave. My roots are someplace else, far away.

I still look upon the fruit pyramids in the bazaar with wonderment, and at the old women selling individual cigarettes and sunflower seeds with wide eyes, wondering how they survive. When I see the full-length “peacock sweaters” I smile and think of how a fellow volunteer says winter is here officially when the peacocks are out in full force – 80% of women over the age of 50 don these multi-colored sweaters with their knee high black rubber boots.

I’m getting used to the electricity and water being unreliable. Candles are about the only thing in this country sold in bulk. When I turn my faucets in my modest apartment, water only comes out sometimes. I fill buckets and empty soda bottles when the water does work, to use when it doesn’t. I can’t remember the last time I showered. I bath in a bucket in my tub using water I heat up in an electric teapot. I can shower effectively using just 2 liters of hot water. Luckily, it’s winter so there’s no point in shaving.

Recently, I had a handy day. I installed a lock for my balcony door, and hooks on the back of my bathroom door using only my leatherman. In the same day I peeled potatoes without a peeler, and finished the last of 5 pillow covers (using only the materials in one small travel sewing kit). These are valuable skills I’m learning here!

By the end of my service I’d like to be able to: play the guitar, knit scarves, write grants that get funded, design/implement/monitor/evaluate projects, cook better, speak Russian fluently, improve my public speaking, present a finished thesis, and say that I made a difference, among other things.

27 months is a long time, but it’s all relative.