Full of truth and beauty--
Andrew Sexy Boy by Summer Camper of иНеУ
Note: We need to do something about English around the world. The most effective teacher thus far has been Justin Timberlake and his irrational and grammatically confusing usage of the word, "sexy." With that said, I don't debate the legitmacy of this particular illustration, minus the girly eyes and green lips.
Part 1: The Village
The village of Sharreeshiganok lies roughly 60 kilometers outside of Pavlodar, has three collective land-line telephones and seemingly not a whole lot else. Cows and sheep walk the streets like teenagers at a mall, loitering and making funny noises for no reason in particular, and the village looks like it was dropped in the middle of the steppe as fields extend unsoiled until the horizon. You can reach some streams after a fifteen minute bike ride that run into the river Irtysh, perfect for weekends of fishing, shashleeking and pleasant beverages. After only a few hours in Shareeshiganok, a man can actually hear himself think.
The most recent census states that there are 1,048 residents of the village and according to local NGO director and my new friend Kalamash, 500 of them are over the age of 60. It is, in more than one aspect, an old place to live.
As stated, there are only three telephones connected to land-lines for the entire village.
1) Local government building for the Akim (kind of like the mayor)
2) Police Station
3) Hospital
The interesting part of this is that all of these offices are located in the same two-story building, all on the same floor. Everyone else uses either cellular telephones or sticks to making friends with other villagers.
The kids of Shareeshiganok's Children Club and me
So why was I there, other than my job description fits the possibility? There is an organization there that is trying to expand the capabilities of Sharreeshiganok, whether it through teaching people how to make their own milk and cheese, how to make winter slippers out of the sheep’s wool or giving a place for children to do something/anything. There’s not much there, and they do what they can with what they have.
The children’s club building is a formally abandoned home on what one might classify as the outskirts of the village, though it depends upon how long the skirt is in your definition. It is a three-room building with no doors, four window panes with only one having glass in it. The glass was broken during a ‘disco’ night when some teenagers came a bit tipsy and their dance moves were not impermeable to the disruption of adult beverages. Upon my visit, there are seven children there, ages ranging from three to eleven, and a woman in her mid-thirties telling me about the history of the organization. She runs the club under the assistance of Kalamash, and tells me that the kids usually draw and sing songs most of the day, though materials to draw and do crafts is pretty meager. In order to provide the kids with something to draw on, she goes out once a week around the village to collect empty chocolate boxes which are used, pretty ingeniously, as shadow boxes or for artistic depictions of the scenery and imaginative visions. One child drew a picture of each member of their family in the oval placed where chocolates used to be, looking like little frames for each person. They also use plastic bottles as vases for folded flowers made of paper.
Toys stiched by the kids.
The Children's Club Building in Shareeshiganok
The woman in charge of the children’s club went on to tell me that she hadn’t worked in nearly twelve years, as her husband left her one night after failing to find solid work for himself. She hasn’t received a salary in twelve years and cannot finance anything to the club, yet she still finds a way to provide space and care for the village and children that, apparently, wouldn’t be done by anyone else.
For some reason, after I took all of this in, I got the feeling that I used to get around Christmas time back in the States; the feeling that comes after going out shopping with your family in an early winter snow—hot chocolate is obviously going to be served— and you find yourself watching some kind of Christmas or Channukah, but not-so-much Kwanzaa television special or commercial that talks about how you should think about other people during this time of year.
“‘Tis the season to be jolly”, says Prehistoric Santa to Fred Flintstone..
“Aww, Fred,” mutters Barney Rubble.
And you get this feeling that you should do something. That something could be putting clothes in a bag to throw to the Salvation Army, or working at a soup kitchen or buying more Fruity Pebbles. But you get this feeling that you haven’t done anything to help anyone, and even when you think you’re helping, you’re really just consuming and getting fat on the farce that you’re doing something good.
I got that feeling when the kids sang their songs about Kazakhstan and love (I didn’t really understand a whole lot of the song lyrics as my Kazakh skills are relegated to courtesies and toasts).
August 22nd marked the one-year mark since my arrival in Kazakhstan under the auspices of Peace Corps, leaving me with fifteen more months to do something, anything, in order to help someone, anyone, everyone.
And this woman has been doing her work with the children’s club for twelve years without a salary or any type of financing. I was confused—was this a terribly depressing fact or a life-inspiring one? Are they one and the same?
Lies! You are not an American.
…said the brown-toothed man that I just met.
“You’re either Turkish or Uzbek or a Chechen.”
“No, I’m an American. Isn’t my poor Russian an indicator of this possibility?”
“No! I know Americans, and you are no American. You are definitely a Chechen. Chechen!”
“Have you ever met an American before, sir?”
“No, why would they come here?”
“I don’t exactly know why I’m here really, but I’m an American definitely.”
“Nope, Chechen, without a doubt.”
“Ok, pleasure meeting you.”
“Likewise, you Chechen.”
The people of the village were really nice and forward with their questions, something not that uncommon here. Meeting people that have never met an American before is always a bit of a treat for me because the stereotypes (as well as basic truths) come out in full force. I love it.
We head back to Kalamash’s house to make some slippers for the winter time, under the guidance of Pavlodar’s only master of slippers. With expert skill and extremely clear directions, the master teaches me how to make a slipper using only hot water, a kilogram of wool, a washboard and a bar of soap. The master is a woman easily over the age of 60. She is an expert, the authority, a specialist, the Bassmaster of making slippers. It is an impressive feat. And she’ll go on to sell the things for nearly 300 percent the cost of making them, which is still an extremely affordable price for purchase.
The Master at work on making slippers the old-fashioned way
Sharreeshiganok is a village that is a prime example of the ravages of the Soviet Union’s past and the subsequent economic divide that is infecting this country so often described by most western media as “oil-rich.”* Meanwhile, those connected in cities drive their Mercedes Benzes and Lexus’s (Lexi?), and worry about whether to spend $300 or $400 on this month’s cell phone.
But Sharreeshinganok, more importantly, is an example that there is a multitude of opportunity to improve the situation of our lives by being proactive and working together with others—that life can be good even without all the material.
Part 2: The Commercial
A few weeks back, one of my secondary project organizations, “Новое Поколение” (New Generation) Language Center asked me to be part of one of their television commercials marking the start of the academic school year quickly approaching. I agreed, citing that it might be fun to muddle through a little self-aggrandizement through television exposure. Turns out, I have been disastrously correct in that regard.
After filming one spot earlier in which I was depicted given a lesson to a group of students, I was asked to return again for another time to fill yet another advertisement, but this time, I would be the star. Oh my.
I will allow some of my dialogue to speak for itself rather than sharing how personally awkward I felt (some lines were in Russian while others were dubbed):
(holding a language book) “When I hold these books in my hands, it feels like a I have a piece of my motherland with me. With the aid of texts from quality publication houses such as Oxford and Cambridge Press, you’ll be receiving a high-class education.”
“Hi, my name is Andrew. I’m from America, and one of my goals is to help you learn English.”
“I’m a little jealous of the opportunity the students of New Generation have, as they have the chance to learn their country’s native language, Kazakh while also learning English. It is important to know the language of your own culture and heritage.”
“New Generation, yay!”
Look, Ma! I'm on TV, speaking in different languages!
As long as it helps people learn, I will be the monkey. I will state, however, that I never meant to declare or imply that England is my motherland—I would rather be dead than pledge allegiance to that silly nation of redcoats! Ha. Even so, whether I’m riding on the tram to work, shopping the bazaar for meat or going out for a post-work constitutional, I am met with stares and eyes more questioning and intrigued than before. I went out to a pizzeria the other night with a friend and fellow volunteer, only to be informed that a girl had wanted to meet me after seeing the commercial and, ahem, get to know me better. I am charmed, flattered even, but happy in my present situation all the same to not want situations like this too much.
So, in conclusion, send your child to New Generation, yay!
Part 3: Parliament Elections!
Being where I’m from and having the rights and limitations as apt to that truth, my opinion doesn’t matter and subsequently, I haven’t really formed a strong one regarding the outcome of the recent parliament election here in Kazakhstan. But my political science and journalistic love kept me from being completely uninterested in the charade, and my interest perked when I saw the massive amount of candidate and party posters adorning every wall and window pane possible leading up to the election date.
Most of them were unintentionally funny photos of candidates either posing for their poster by holding a phone to their ear, strongly indicating that they are so busy and connected that they can’t even stop talking to someone else in order to get their picture taken.
Another good pose is one where a potential politician has a hard-hat on their head, standing in front of a construction site, strongly indicating that they are for development and growth. This is typically silly of politicians because they normally don’t care and are trying to appeal to blue-collar workers, but it is funnier because I have never seen an actual construction worker in this country ever wear a protective hard helmet. The safety standards for construction workers must either be negligible or chronically ignored at all times because I’ve seen people scaling fifteen stories up on a scaffolding of planked boards wearing not more than a pair sandals and pants.
Finally, my favorite poster. It is one that is for the ruling political party, Nuro Tan (“Light of the Fatherland”) by showing famous people from various social spheres casting their support. There are journalists, musicians, writers, all giving their two-sentence reason why Nuro Tan is the right choice. The final figure on the end is bicyclist Alexander Vinokorov, the recent disgraced leader of the Tour de France. His sentences read as such, “The essence of sports—confidence in yourself and a drive to victory. I am voting Nuro Tan, and assurance—victory will be ours!” He was very, very right.
http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/07/30/news/TOUR.php
No other political party received more than five percent of the vote.
The Social-Democrat Party: These guys had no chance
Part 4: Summer Camp
One of our language campers wearing his pirate hat that was intended to read, "Captain Roger", as in Jolly Roger, but the mistake came out much more awesome.
I was so in the mood to start another summer language camp that I looked up “Salute Your Shorts” on wikipedia. I will only say that my expectations were a little lowered by the end of day one, but fun and education was still had.
Pavlodar's central mosque, as depicted by a camper
Activities and lessons were once again organized and administered by myself and the Wayne Campbell of Peace Corps, Adam Henricksen. Similar to a previous language and culture camp held at ИНеУ University earlier this summer, we broke up the day into four lessons of history, language, culture and biographies in the morning and outdoor activities in the afternoon.
Lessons included topics on the following:
Pirates
Edward “Black Beard” Teach
Baseball
How to Cook Chili
The History of Chinese Communism (yeah, US Volunteers are teaching this? I know, I know…)
Benjamin Franklin
The Beatles
Tie-Dye T-Shirts
Hacky Sack
Ultimate Frisbee
American Idioms and Slang
Expressing understanding or confusion with grammar, body language and enunciation
Martin Luther King Jr.
American Colonialism
The Simpsons
Drawing
At the end of the week, we held a talent show in which the students played songs and presented Adam and I with gifts made at home. Adam and I also managed to write and perform our own songs on guitar for the kids—I tried my best not to make them cry.
Camper's illustrative depiction of Adam and me (I'm on the left) at language camp
Some gifts from our students, including hand-made flowers of beads and a hedge hog made out of bread.
Part 5: Nanas are Awesome
Package recently received, sent by my wonderful Nana, as obvious by the "And Jesus Said..." book. She included toothpaste(so that I don't contract diseases from terribly produced Chinese goods), cookie mix, office supplies for my organization and tie-dye for the kids. Thanks, Nana (and mom for helping out)!
August 30th is Constitution Day, get ready! Godspeed to all.
Ice sculpture in city square.
Myself and two presents: my new pet Rat (on shoulder) and a finely styled shirt most frequently worn by Russian sailors. What a Christmas bounty.
