Countrified Overgrowth

Food prices are going up, yes?

The bread here has gone from a 2006 price of $0.28 per loaf to $0.45 as of July 28, 2008 (statistics personally gathered by buying bread, eating it, not finishing it all before mold sets in, and then getting angry). This is too much.

No, seriously, people are getting antsy round these parts because of such everyday purchase price pressure. You should hear the locals start with cooking oil. They're already getting their old Soviet ration line boots ready just in case.

But there's a lovely solution to all of this worry with supermarket price gouging: grow your own food.

Many people in this region, mostly the Russians, have a long tradition of using the land for both sustenance and relaxation by maintaining a garden village, or 'Dacha'. They are second homes that may be lived in year round, though are normally occupied during the summer months. Thanks to the beautiful simplicity of the Russian language, a person that lives in a Dacha is called Dachnik.

Dachas have a long history in Russian culture, dating back to Peter the Great.

Our garden cottage

Extra land was given out to loyalists by the Tsar (Tzar? Czar? Theatre?) and in archaic Russian, dacha means 'something that is given.' Over time, fortunately, that whole government give-a-way went to the wayside, and people started up their own Dachas. These garden homes have some of the following fruits and vegetables: potatoes, tomatoes, lettuce, cabbage, apples, pears, cherries, raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, gooseberries, snozberries, blackcurrants, redcurrants, honeysuckle, grapes, carrots, cucumbers, onions, garlic, dill, radishes, parsley, rubarb and yougettheideaberries.

Snozberries located in bag.

Through the generosity of wanting to teach an ignorant, little American about this rich agricultural history, my organizational boss, Elena Bondareva, has so kindly volunteered me to work at her parents' Dacha every Sunday. Dacha work includes planting of potatoes, picking of sweet berries and vegetables, clearing of overgrowth, movement of heavy things, jimyrigging an irrigation system and moving piles of dirt and dung from point a to point b.

In complete sincerity, it is the best part of my week. I return home every Sunday with a bag of vegetables and fruits that I could not possibly finish on my own, and the rest is sold by the Grandma to street vendors around Pavlodar.

If you work hard, you get dirty. If you get dirty, you eat.

There is no talk of sustainability, project planning, strategic plans, English lessons or laptops. I simply move and remove things that have grown from the ground or trees for a few hours, sit down at the kitchen table and allow an old woman to force me to eat however much food I can take until she is satisfied enough with my tortured gluttony to openly tell me "good job". This usually occurs after a minimum of six boiled eggs, two bowls of soup (in the summer!), two glasses of homemade wine, two cups of tea, half a kielbasa, three potatoes, a tomato and half a loaf of bread. I am fully fortified by 2 o'clock every Sunday afternoon.

And that is the Dacha.


GARBAGE FIRES ARE BAD IDEAS

And Sunday the 27th came.

I'm coming towards the Dacha home to start up work for the day, trying to formulate an opportunity where I can insert my gardening word of the day, "Мотыги" (hoe), into a proper sentence. Walking along the path past a pile of garbage, I come up with, "So when am I going to have the happy opportunity to use the hoe?"

I pass a woman burning some grass and weeds outside her fence. When I reach my summer garden home, the rusted gate on the fence scratches obligingly, and I am a little embarrassed to see that everyone (Elena, her husband Papik, and Grandma) are eating lunch already.

"Why are you late?" scolds Grandma.

"I am late becaus--," I'm interrupted.

"I don't need to know. There is food to eat. Sit. Eat. It's for your health," says Grandma, more out of habit and force than stereotypical kindness. I sit. I eat.

The Photogenic Igor (Papik).

I suggest that after lunch, I could weed some of the overgrowth outside our fence in the pathway. Papik shoots it down.

"Why should you clear the pathway? That's not our territory," he states.

"But everyone uses it...weren't all you Communists about community and the collective before?" I ask with a smile.

"Ha! That garbage! Everybody's worries about their own things now, and we're the same," Papik answers,"We clear out our own area, and let the rest to whomever. Leave it."

We take a drag of homemade wine. Something outside, past the limits of our territory, catches Elena's attention.

"What's that smoke over there?" she asks to no one in particular.

Our investigation begins. There is a fire situated about 200 yards away from our Dacha, along one of the main walkways in our region, far enough to not pose any danger to us. Our conclusion is that a large garbage pile was lit on fire for disposal purposes and, like most plans involving fire, the whole damn area around it wants in on the hot, burning action. The fire begins eating up the dry brush surrounding it, spreading to the fencing around another Dacha. Thankfully, no one was at the Dacha. No one would burn.

The same could not be said for the outhouse next to the fence; that shit went up in flames.

The fire burned for nearly an hour.

Dancing reds were overtaking the indifferent gold of the ground and turning it all into black. The sky remained defiantly blue. It had rained, just a little bit, a few days earlier, but people don't grow potatoes in sponges--this grass and land was dry.

I suggested that we get some buckets of water from a pond nearby to cut the spread of the fire. That was shot down by Elena.

"A waste of time," she concluded.

A small coddling of people had gathered at this point, looking on and giving guesses as to how far the whole thing would spread. Their demeanor and dialogue came off like porch-dwelling elderly discussing and debating the potential of a dark cloud forming in the sky.

"Yip, that right there's a problem that'll get worse before it gets better," says one.
"Nah, 'taint gonna be nothing more than a little wind and a blow-by," the other argues.

Then they just waited around for something else to happen or burn.

A big red truck.

We had called the firemen roughly twenty minutes before they came to put out the blaze, the firemen being three guys in a red truck. They had a hose of sorts, and performed their job well, keeping the damage to some overgrowth, a fence, an outhouse, a little singeing of a Dacha nearby and that pile of garbage.

The crowd disperses, all turning towards their Dachas, and I to Elena with a question.

"So when am I going to have the happy opportunity to use the hoe?"

Spread it on.

Excalibur

Children cause bad, bad things. This summer camp is driving me crazy.

Well, that shouldn't be stated in complete conviction; only some of the campers are mind numbingly apathetic. Some kids don't even know what the word "what" is. Where do I go from there? The answer is nowhere because there is no hope for where when there is no what.

I shouldn't make things seem so bleak. Actually, my excitement to teach erupts in everything I do, all over my shirt front and just a little bit on my lap.

If you could teach kids something about American culture and had seven different days to do it, what would you teach? Would you teach about baseball? Of course you would, don't be silly.

So I taught about baseball, but unlike every self-denying sports journalist out there now, I did not include anything on steroids. Topics did include such nuggets like the inception of the American League, the designated hitter, the first black person to play in the major leagues, the Dead Ball Era and the expansion of baseball into our friends to the North, Canada.

Also, just to spite my fellow teacher Adam, I taught the children that only poor people move to Baltimore, the city in which he claims loyalty. It may be wrong, but isn't personal sanity a bit more important than a small factual miscue?

Tomorrow: The Beach!

When in Doubt, Go with Pirates

Study the Pirate, children.

We asked the campers to create their own pirate flags ala Jolly Rogers. Their personal interests shone through.

Art Day: Portraits

Interesting.

Summer camp season is back again. Me and fellow volunteer, Adam "The Mad" Henricksen are collaborating to provide a top-notch educational and cultural opportunity for kids 9-15 years of age at the Innovative Euroasian University.

Lesson topics are selected completely free of any oversight by anyone other than Adam or myself. It's an open style of education and summer fun, and creating lessons is basically the hardest thing about the camp. Thankfully, you can always talk about pirates.

We still have a few days remaining, but here are just a few of the topics covered thus far:

Pirate Culture
Art History
Biography on Rembrandt
Japanese Kanji writing
Rock & Roll History
English grammar
The environment

Something That Needs to be Shared

Today, while sitting in my lovely carpet-covered apartment, I received a phone call. From a Chechen man. Whom I don't know. I'm not sure how the fellow received my phone number, but he has called her before, gabbing away like we've been the best of friends since grade school. Through smooth questioning, I have deducted that I met the guy last summer (over a year ago) at a cafe, where he had a fairly threatening tone towards some friends, and he challenged me to the manly sport of showing off bodily scars. He showed me a knife puncture on his side and a stare that held endless years of anger in it, so I countered with a threaded scar on my knee that I received when I got my leg caught in a K-mart stockroom conveyor belt at age 16. That little detail usually illicits snickers, so I told him that it was shrapnel from a gunfight. Through this, we bonded, apparently. And now he calls me for little telephone chitchats, like old women do on Sundays.

The Chechen.

Looking Back A Bit

The pictures attached aren't allowing me to move them, so please read and then try and connect what is written to what is pictured. Thanks.




This is like attempting to stuff a shark into a fish barrel. There is just too much thrash to get it all in.

This past week, I returned to my office in Pavlodar and made a comment about the fact that, for an anti-drug and addiction organization, we sure have a lot of drunks sitting behind our window, trading shot glasses back and forth before noon. Plus, it's a wreck back there. With the support of my wonderful colleagues and volunteers, we set forth to clean up our backyard and plant a few flowers and vegetables to try and discourage those folks from sticking around so much. Simple, but it turned out pleasantly.

About three weeks ago, I took advantage of my geographical proximity to some of the world's unthoughtof vacation spots in the Central Asia country of Kyrgyzstan. Ranging from conversations with village corn clerks to metropolitan coffee houses, my trip was well-rounded and energizing.

Here is some of it in photographic beauty.



In one of those expected confusions that come with leaving your own country to try and assist others for seemingly no reason, my corn-holding friend here believed me to be a National Geographic photographer, documenting the great food of Central Asia. I explained to her differently at first, but then realized that it would actually make for a great photogenic moment.

The tubesocked fellow seen here is me, enjoying the 'back seat' all the way down the 'road' while dealing with a pretty tremendous stomach ache. I can't tell you how much torture this photograph conveys...the cause is not certain, but I'm going to point to this
<-----------horse milk (I told her it was too sour). An entry from a trip in Kyrgyzstan, attended by myself and three other fellow Americans.

Day 2: Chopin-Ata, Kyrgyzstan

Following the long beveraged riot and surprising pleasantry of Bishkek, we met up with our travel partners. After a little rest and stifling taxi drivers, we boarded a car driven by Victor, a grasshopper-legged Russian with great service skills. Stopped by a rest stop and talked shop with some corn sellers. The scenery was vastly open, with mountainous bookends and a variety of livestock interrupting the roadways. Again, after a bit of time and a stifling taxi driver (Victor unfortunately), we found our place at "Kamilla's", a place with quaint and brightly painted cottages and a vast rose garden. We hit up an Afghan restaurant--lagman was served--and got drenched and sleepy in an end-all thunderstorm. First one as such in years, to my experience at least. Power out, no football (note: this was written during the Euro Cup 2008 Semi-final. Congratulations, Spain.)

The next day I arise at 8 a.m. with perniciously positive energy. While the others sleep, I make my way to the bazaar, witnessing and observing the fruit stand set-up and breakfast offerings.

An exchange:

Bazaar Woman: "Lagman! Lagman! Lagman!"
Me: "Do you have any food for breakfast?"
BW: "Of course--lagman."

Following that, I made my way to shop for bread. Purchased apricots and cherries along the way instead. Kumis (fermented horse milk) was offered, tried and recklessly purchased (note: I wrote this before receiving the stomach ache of death two days later). It was enjoyed in a slightly masochistic sense. Downed nearly half a liter. After buying some round, sesame covered bread (Lepyoshka), a few of the women around me inquired about my living conditions, where I learned Russian and where I was from. Answers given: a nice cottage down the street, Kazakhstan and with a pointed finger to my over-the-top USA flag in the continental America shirt. After the flattering words ended, the one woman showed me her home as a potential place to stay. It was nice though unfortunately placed in the line of a mud slide.

THE BEACH

A contrast of science fictional proportions--or possibly drug induced--beautifully takes place at the beaches of Lake Issakul. The rippling sheet of the lake spreads out until the horizon and is backdropped with absurd mountains. They stretch beyond eye's view from left to right, peaking well above the cloud coverage. The water is chilled and easily acclimated. Old, rusty paddle boasts meander about, while the elderly, families and naked children sunbathe and swim. Sellers hawk beer, monti, samsa and fish--children sometimes selling the beer. I buy one "Siberian Crown" and enjoy it immensely (50 soma=roughly 25 cents). Swimming is awakening to parts of the body like none other, perhaps reflecting the original translation of Holets: water-loving. It is heavenly and intimidating to float, open your eyes and see endless mountains, blue waters and theatrical clouds above you in any directions. This places deserves a special adjective not yet my, nor anyone else's, vocabulary. Also, the sun burned the spit out of me. Hurts to walk.

Cut to a marsrutka ride (small van) to Karakol (150 soma=75 cents!) for two hours. Arrive in Karakol, a seemingly quiet town not located too close to the lake and just close enough to the mountains. After more taxi stiflage, we ride to a place heavily recommended by Lonely Planet, the best and worst publication to have for travel. It is a home, presented by a polite young man with fairly decent English. We engage in Russian, and he shows me around, and communicates to me that we would be the first Americans of the season for them. We end up not assuming such as honor, as we opt for the backpacker style Yak Tours (450 soma with breakfast). It is wooden, rustic, creative and run by an amazing fellow, Sergei. Sergei looks like he was given the job of watching the red button during the Cold War, and held nightly vodka fests and cigarette pulls to ease the tension and pressure. This man's got some ragged eyes. This covers his extremely pleasant funny personality, and his cadence which has got to be the most relaxed Russian I've heard yet. He might just choose his words with more thought and ease than others, I think.

After checking out his rose garden, three marooned Soviet cars in the backyard and sauna, we agree to stay the night. We give our equipment the night off and head out to a cafe.

During a stop-off at a shop in search for ATM, we meet a few people similar to us--foreigners. They're Swiss (three males) and one unfortunate American woman.

[Jann-a bespectacled straight talker. Sebastian-a bohemian, inquisitive and pony-tailed fellow. Nick-a quiet photographer type. Rachel-a plain, awkward, drag of a woman. Point: She showed us digital pictures of her cat while Sebastian showed us pictures of demonstrations in Tehran.]

After general introductions, we head to an indoor cafe. Order a "Tender Salad" and shashleek. Shash was the smallest ever eaten; not the worst but comparable. Shared stories and opinions of different countries--Iran mostly--and learned about the various langauges and dialects found in Switzerland. Rachel added nothing, even during her attempt at a toast. It was so bumbling that straight-talking Jann had enough and shot his vodka before the end of her spiel, if there ever was one. Nicholas (ours) suggested a friendship vodka. I chose to purchase a bottle of "Хлебная Водка" (Bread vodka), only because it compounds the two most treasured products of Russian culture. Made our way back to Sergei's Yak Tours under an empty night sky. Then, without fail, came the sauna's intrigue. Built for three people, we managed eight inside this steamy sweat box. Beer and wine consumed, and humorous exclamations of German origin were shouted with each refreshing splash of cold water. My body was that of a lobster at this point due to the lake sun.

Take a bench sit and a cigarette, some passed around bottles of wine and oddly intriguing travel videos of cows in before unseen positions played to techno music (The Swiss), and it was a splendid evening.

Then, the sky opened up, showing its great design, and a shooting star surprised me, as they tend to do.