Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Women's Business Seminar in the Village

Proud Watermelon


We started off the week with watermelon

Work in a Kazakhstan village is omnipresent--gotta milk those cows, pump the water, boil the tea, wash the floors, slice up the meat, gather the cattle--and this is for the women. Getting paid for such activity and others is something not so easily found, and in the northern located oblast of Pavlodar, the village of Sharishiganok has plenty of examples that reflect this disjunction.

Fortunately for this region, there is a positive-minded woman trying to provide opportunity for other women to provide their own business opportunities. Kalamash, the director of the NGO Zhaurkazin, comes off as a jolly, busy woman with too many ideas for any good. One of her good ideas, however, is turning a lot of good this week as she has organized a five-day business seminar for women in the region, focusing on the production of traditional handcrafts, milk, cheese and yogurt. Most of these women come from village with a strong reliance on materials of agricultural cut, hence all the udder and hair products.


"People think that we are all simple, too simple to make our own businesses, but we are not so," Kalamash shared, a little bitterly, after a few regional politicians took advantage of the press coverage at the start of the seminar but swiftly complained about such small things as the briskness of tea pouring. "We can do it ourselves, and if you do not wish to help or only want to criticize, you may leave us be." she states, quite proudly.

And so I attend this seminar, starting with the night before preparations of making placards, hauling water, wool and food here to there and clearing out brush from peoples' yards (that might've been free labor right there...).

Aside from being part of a grassroots economic seminar, the village visit gave me a chance to see some friends out there. I enjoyed dinner, tea, conversation and some little water with my friends, Morat and his wife, while waking up around 5:30 a.m. to head out fishing with Kalamash's son, Jingar. For bait, we used bread dough and for poles, plain sticks. We caught nothing but did try to wake up a drunken man that was celebrating 'the farmers' holiday', as they say, because it had just rained for the first time all summer, and he had fallen asleep by the river in his alcoholic agricultural exuberance. This happens.

Nothing wrong with fishing during the workday if it starts at 5:30 a.m.

DAY 2 in the Village (Day 1 of the Seminar)

Chick! Morat gives the thumbs up for the seminar

The seminar started, as most things do in Kazakhstan, with a table lined with politicians ready to give speeches with peppered phrases such as, 'I wish you great success', 'We support your work', and 'Congratulations, here is a DVD player.'

One of these types directed me and another guy--a kind, usually drunken fellow referred to only as "The Christian Owner"--to hang up a banner for the ruling political Nuro-Tan party. After fifteen minutes, twenty seven pieces of tape and countless instruction, this sign of ubiquitous power met the hanging guidelines of a featherhaired politician.

That's just about all that deserves to be said about that.

Here is a photo of said politician running away the second her speech was over and the journalists stopped taking her picture. Thank you for your genuine support.

The seminar really got into swing once we started working with the wool, cleaning it of any sticks, dirt or dung. Generally, that sort of thing is unwanted in handicrafts and footwear. I cleaned some of that stuff out, and the cameramen made a big to-do in getting the American picking sheep poo out of wool for old women to later make into slippers.

After picking a bag of wool for a while, the ladies started on their lessons. The head wool master (shown in photo) laid it down babushka style. She scrubbed it, patted it, called it names, and created gorgeous pieces of wearable wool and crafts with great ease. The ladies that came from near and far gathered around and took in the knowledge gratefully.

The Christian Owner and Timor

Then came lunch time, and the chance for me to again move water from here to there and serve roughly 60 Kazakhs tea. This is something that every Kazakhstani Peace Corps volunteers knows all too well--that tea is the nectar of the gods here. Once it starts flowing, it shan't stop until the last grunt is released and the final candy is unwrapped. I poured 234 cups of tea that day.
Dining Hall


After tea, we returned to the original hall to enjoy the cherubic musical stylings of some of the local children, singing and dancing their way through a myriad of Kazakh folk and pop tunes. There is no hesistance to throw these kids out there on stage to impress a few outside visitors. It is glorious, putting Nashville and any star searching game show to shame.

There were two notable acts: the first being a girl in a pink dress that had some wicked dance moves (1-2, point!), the second being my friend Morat's son, dressed to kill in his Pee Wee Herman Tequila suit and armed with the golden voice of Kazakhstan. The kid really put on a fine show, at least up until a drunken fella stumbled in, walked on stage in mid-song, and handed the white-shoed singer a 200 tenge bill (roughly $2.50) to thank him for his song. This threw the kid's rhythmn off--the drunk didn't know the words to the song and couldn't pick the kid up once he lost track of them--and he basically stared at the crowd in embarassment. Good kid.

This kid is a prince

To make up for the embarassment of a druken local, the powers that be decided that it would be best to throw me on stage with a guitar, and have me sing something, anything. I played some random punk song on acoustic (sigh), and received a mild applause. This is where things get nice. After my song, I made my way to the back of the room to purchase a candy bar. With a bite of delicious Albeni in mouth, my shoulder's sensors told me to turn around, and I swing around to see a 45-year old woman gleefully standing there with paper in hand.

"Could I get your autograph, Mr. Andrew?" she asks in complete sincerity.

My face turns red, redder than Coca-Cola cans could ever be, and try to stifle my geewiz grin.

"You know that I'm not famous. I just like to play," I say.

She smiles. "Not yet, but that was a nice start."

Washing the wool

Some of the end products

Following the entertainment, we continued our wool handicraft lessons until roughly 5 o'clock. We were given a few hour rest, and required to return to the main village hall to dance. I was asked to attend, then told to attend, then pushed through the entrance of hall by the women. Once there, we do what most poor yet eager dancers do: form a circle and do the AB step. The AB step is crucial in almost all social occassions. It is the staple, the go-to-move, the little black dress of dance. You can't go wrong. A is your left foot, B your right. Move back and forth to the 4/4 beat. It looks like this.

A--->B
A<---B +hand movements=Dancing. Another drunken fella burst through the circle and used his own moves. He did not go to the AB step. He was happy, and how can you fault that?

DAY 3 in the Village


Following the early morning fishing, I head over to the main building to see all the ladies gleefully gathered around a big pot. The pot is filled with steaming cream, allowing my nose one of those unfortunately far between moments of a smell that I've never experienced before. Remember the first time you walked outside and smelled honeysuckles in the summer air? Or time your Grandma made you pumpkin pie? Yeah, this smell was nothing like that. It's something on its own level, neither good nor bad.

Today, a master from Almaty was teaching the women how to make their own cheese, yogurt and milk to then sell to both local and urban retailers.

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Again, I did a lot of heavy lifting (see cream filled pot), thus allowing me some good opportunities to talk to people here and there. One such person was Bolat, a man that had traveld 250 kilometers to attend the seminar. He was the only male participant.


"So...in America," he would begin with me, "do you have a lot of pitbulls?"
"I have two dogs here in Kazakhstan. The first dog is named 'Stone' and the second is named 'Rambo'. They are both strong."
"So...in American," continuing, "you have many crocodiles, yes?"


He liked strong animals.

He caught me sitting on a bench outside, and felt compelled to share this tale. I did not add much to the conversation other than the encouraging yeahs and rights so that his train of thought could barrel on:

"How long do Americans live for? Isn't it something around 78 or so? People from the Caucuses live very long, most until they are 100. I worked in the military a few years ago, and had to watch over prisoners sometimes. We would hit them, the people from the Caucuses, mostly in the head, hitting them here and there."

(Pause)


"They were strong. Many of them live to 100. The Japanese are also healthy. People from the Caucuses drink wine every day, therefore they are strong. Okay, well, I worked in the military, and one time some kind of Swiss commission came to see how we were working. We stopped hitting people then, but once they left we started again. That's how life is, you know? I hope that when you leave here, people still work hard. You're not Swiss, but it is an example of how people work and live sometimes only when someone else watches them."


(Pause)

"What is Chicago like?"

(Pause)


"It's really nice to talk with you. I guess American films aren't always right. You seem different than those films, and that is good."

(Pause)


"Can I film you with my cellular phone?"

(Yes)

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Aizhan, wife to Morat, prepares some Barsaki

After lunch, it was time to go home. I have another language camp to take part in this week, and needed to head out early to prepare. Following a final tea with Kalamash, Morat and his family and twenty minutes worth of picturetaking with everyone, I climbed into a van provided by some other ladies that were in attendance. They also had to get back to the city. I wished them all well, and they were almost too kind to me in their gratitude. All I had done was bring them water, pour them tea, sing, dance and talk with them. It had not taken much to forge friendship or understanding on some level with each woman there. They were glowing with pride. Their hands were ready and minds drunk on confidence. They are genuine and perfect in every way, mostly their own. Smile. I received three unexpected hugs.

On the ride back, the two ladies came into the back seat to talk and get to know me further. They asked me where Pennsylvania is situated, what kind of weather is there, how I like Pavlodar and what my plans were for my future. These questions were answered in the same form I usually do, and asked as they normally are. Once that was over, however, they wanted something else. Something more enjoyable.

"Andrew," the older one said, "could you maybe play your guitar while we ride back into the city? It's so nice to hear instead of the wind and bumpy road."

The road was indeed in need of repair, providing plenty of spinal shocks and handlebar holds. Still, I played, my hand bouncing up and down and through the strings more like a fueling jet under strong turbulance than a musician, jabbing around and not quite hitting the notes or tune I planned or wanted. But they sat there, smiling at the attempt, and it was enjoyable. It is enjoyable.

Me, Morat, his son, Kalamash and Rauzahn the Milk Master

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