The 10,000th Chimp

Harvest

2008-09-09T07:36:00.000-07:00

The great, late evenings of summer have stealthily ended and many good events have transpired since my last entry.

A few weeks back, I had the supreme fortune of being asked to be a camp counselor and teacher at "Camp Far Away Places", a summer camp for children from the rival villages of Bayanaul and Maikaiyeen. The campers, numbering around 50 or so, were broken into five different group countries: the intelligent India, the elegant Egypt, the joyous Japan, the awkward Canada and the saucy Spain (adjective added by me). My group campers came together to form the country of Spain, and I enjoyed nearly every minute of getting to know and educate them and other campers. Each day, a different country was selected to be focused upon and learned about. Campers were presented lessons in language, culture, history, art and biography. That's the skinny.

Note that the most detailed and therefore best flag is Spain's flag.

The fat gristle is that so much fun was had and so many laughs were shared and so many children were hit with dodge balls that I could not think of a more condensed period of "work" enjoyment during the rest of my service in Kazakhstan to this point.

Spain!

I must, just to balance out this lovefest, make it clear that my lesson on Canadian history was weak and boring. The topic I chose to present upon makes it clear enough: "Canada: The Quiet Revolution."

Part of our Spanish skit: Dancing. Yes, that is me on guitar and mustasche in the background.

The camp took place on a small resort with a sizeable dirt area for running and gathering. The kids would gather every morning to be led in morning exercises, and then--sometimes orderly, sometimes not--collect in front of the cafeteria, form a line and shout their team cheer. My team's--Spain's--cheer went as such:

"Spain brings the pain! Spain brings the pain! Spain brings the pain! (clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap) Ole!"

Each night we played a review game to make sure the kids paid attention in addition to a special evening activity. The first night, we played something called "The Big Game." This was an event where myself and two other volunteers wore capes and face paint, and placed flour in socks with which we would then swing and hit them as the kids shuttled between the review game stations. Don't worry, folks, it's safe.

Maybe, I'm no safety inspector #34. But they had fun!

There were disco clubs, and with most disco clubs, as we all know, come hordes of females that want to dance with me. I can't help it really, it's just a curse being so approachably attractive. The Peace Corps interview never really covers the subject of how one would deal with the noticeable disappointment on a 13-year old girl's face when you tell her that yes, you do have a girlfriend already.

Intense Dodgeball! These kids never played it in their lives...until now. Could you imagine?!?

Okay, I don't really feel like relaying all the details of the camp; I suggest that you check out this and this website for a thorough rundown of it all, as told by my fellow volunteers. What I wish to convey is the feeling that I had at the very end of the camp. A few of the volunteers had to catch a bus back to the city of Pavlodar, and in order to do so, had to leave a littler earlier than all the campers. We volunteers climbed onto the bus to bring us to the bus station (Kazakhstan is a bus culture), but within a minute's time, the whole thing was surrounded by the kids. After countless waves and goodbyes, one of the kids came onto the bus. A hug rung out. Then another. Then another. Before I know it, there are children crowding the door to come in and gives us all tearful hugs and broken sentences of gratitude.

"This never forget me ever," said one of my Team Spain students.

The boys, showing greater emotional restraint but still showing something, would place their hands on the windows, waiting for the opposite pane to be struck in a high five, prison visitation sort of way. In an all too Hallmark conclusion, the bus then pulled us away from the group of sobbing kids, us all waving and mouthing thank yous until the last turn ended it.

Now these types of instances are built over a long period of time. It was the work of volunteers from a few years ago, establishing the relationships with local schools and teachers so that they may trust an outsider to want to hold a camp with diverse lessons and teaching methods. It was the work of volunteers each year that had to scramble for the vast majority of the year to find financing for everything from space rental to wiffle balls. Mary Couri and Adam Henricksen, a Kaz-19 and Kaz-18 respectively, were up to the task this year and did an amazing job. They worked hard and it showed. It was so, so good.

The actual ride back home to Pavlodar was not so pleasant, as there were multiple delays, no tickets left and the whole trip, which usually takes roughly three hours, took about eight. The following photo sums up just about any Peace Corps volunteer's experience with taxi drivers. In this photo, Scott (a fellow volunteer that only speaks Kazakh) is trying to talk to the taxi driver. The taxi driver suggests a price of roughly $100. I notice this as a problem, so start talking to him in Russian. I get him down to $70, but that's still crazy. In the end, we got a much better deal with a much better driver, but the game of "Who's Gonna Talk and in what Language?" is always fun.

Bartering.

Met a Phillies fan during the long wait. After explaining to him how cool I though his hat was, we became friends. Then, he whispered to me that he had a headache, which in real-life Russian translates to "I have a massive hangover and need to drink beer posthaste, so could you be nice and give me 100 tenge?"

When I returned to my office in Pavlodar, I took a step out onto the balcony for a pensive moment of looking out the window. We all have those. Anyway, I look down on the ground before our window that is housing our newly planted anti-vodka rip session garden (vodka session: when a couple of people pool their pocket change together, buy a bottle of vodka, a few plastic cups, and sit down in the middle of the day to get very drunk and end up cursing endlessly). I look with greater detail and I find that there are about four used syringes and broken vodka bottles scattered on the ground.

This, as I calmly put it, is balance.

HARVEST

My friends, I want to talk to you about the potato.

The potato is a tuberous vegetable crop that can provide someone with fine daily values of vitamins C, potassium, riboflavin, zinc, phosphorous, iron, folate, magnessium and thiamin. Despite common belief, these nutrients are not concentrated in the potatoe's skin, as at least 50 percent of all dietary goodness can be found in the potato itself. They can also protect you against colon cancer and improve glucose tolerance! Damn, knowledge is awesome.

If you take a look back a few entries, you can find some information on what the Russian call, "dachas." Every few weeks or so, I spend some time at my director's parents' garden home, planting and tending various vegetables and fruits. The most consuming task was planting roughly 400 potatoes, way back in June. Each time we would work there, we would have to clear weeds or cut back the frothing potato bushes that would come up. It was an annoying task, and all for potatoes.

But to force a theme here, much of work in this instance and in countless others is about working toward the harvest, the realization of our efforts.

And there just aren't many situations that are so clear cut as 1) dig a hole 2) plant a potato 3) tend potato 4) eat potato. Over the course of the past two years, I have planted illustrative potatoes in a variety of places, whether it was trying to teach my co-workers how to create a student volunteer group or writing to numerous book donation agencies or editing scholarship applications or teaching a kid how to dribble a basketball properly or introducing the concept of microcredit to old women. I haven't eaten many of these potatoes. I don't know if they're growing. I don't even know if they will be of any use or success. I don't know.

At my office with the HIV/AIDS group, we have written multiple proposals for project financing and experience exchange trips. Recently, we inquired about an international AIDS conference to take place in Amsterdam. My counterpart, the lovely Dina Galyeva, was rejected right off the bat. My director, Elena Bondareva, was put on the waiting list as the heading company searched for further funding to pay for her trip there. They assurred us that the funding would come through, and the excitement from Elena was damaging to my ears (she is an expressive, loud woman). Unfortunately, we recently received word that she would not be going.

That potato died.

Another time was when I started a youth sports club. At our first meeting, over forty kids came to learn how to play basketball. After two meetings, less kids showed up, and the tendency for each game to degenerate into a call for soccer grew. After two months, I had only three reliable kids showing up*.

That potato died.

The Pavlodar Public Library is supposed to receive shipments of books from the International Book Project soon. My director is soon going to begin working as the National Coordinator for the AIDS International Candlelight Memorial project for two years. Youth volunteers come to our weekly meetings with regularity and vigor in order to help with planning and implementation of HIV/AIDS projects.

Those potatoes are still in the ground.

Last Sunday, after digging up those 400 actual potatoes at the garden home, the sight of them spread out on the ground made me so damn happy. Such a smile for such a starch.

So whenever I have the chance to see some sort of result--good or bad--I am genuinely thankful for that moment.

But most humbly, as I approach the end of my service here, I know there are many things in the ground that I will never dig up and eat.

Women's Business Seminar in the Village

2008-08-05T07:33:00.000-07:00

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.

---------------------------

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)

---------------------------

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

Countrified Overgrowth

2008-07-28T03:42:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-21T10:40:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-20T03:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-18T05:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Guest Columnist: Dina Galieva

2008-05-30T05:32:00.000-07:00

Dina Galyeva is the organizational counterpart for Andrew Holets, and deputy director of the HIV/AIDS and drug abuse NGO, Public Foundation “Challenge”. This is part one of a tentatively-scheduled four-part series of guest columns from Ms. Galyeva detailing her interactions with Andrew, the experience of non-government health sector work, and her life in general. Each article is written in her strongest language, Russian, and translated by Andrew, weakly. Russian will appear first, and the English translation afterward.

Помню, как первый раз увидела Эндрю, это было в Алмате, ну или почти, там есть поселок городского типа Талгар. Нас пригласил Корпус Мира на семинар и встречу с новыми волонтерами.
В первый день, в первой половине дня, занятия проходили отдельно от волонтеров, только кураторы, и нас еще не знакомили с нашими…Только показали нарисованную карту РК, где были наклеены фото волонтеров, но на наш город было аж три человека, и кто именно будет работать у нас в «Challenge», я не знала, даже не знала кто это будет девушка или парень…, было даже немного страшновато, ведь работать целых два года…

После обеда нас решили представить друг-другу, ну я как всегда опоздала, стояла в очереди за пирожками J, прихожу и вижу картину…, все кураторы уже довольно мило общаются со своими волонтерами, а что делать мне, и где мой «чувак» или «чувиха», фиг его знает…Ну все думаю, «капец», разобрали всех симпотных и умных, а мне где???

Только вижу, стоит посреди холла, какой то красавчик похожий на латино - американца или на испанца, совершенно один, но я и подумать не могла, что это ОН…, наш волонтер, что может так повезти. Уф…! Да это был Andrew, мы стали с ним знакомиться, я даже боялась что либо на английском сказать, с языком то у меня не очень, думаю…, вдруг подумает, что я совсем полный «тупик», ну ни чё, разговорились, он оказался не только очень красивым, но и умным, сообразительным, коммуникабельным, еще и с чувством юмора, короче, «клЁвый» такой…

Сразу позвонила шефушке, mss. Бондаревой (этА наш директор ОФ «Challenge», Елена Владимировна) и сразу же обрадовала ее, что задание выполнено, везу умного и красивого, ну там тоже радости не было предела…

После завершения семинара, все стали разъезжаться по городам, кто куда и наше время пришло, Павлодар, домой…!!!

Вот так мы и познакомились впервые.

Уже полтора года, мы работаем вместе и мы отличная компания, отличные друзья!

I remember the first time I saw Andrew; it was in Almaty, well almost, it was there in a village-type urban setting named Talgar. We were invited by the Peace Corps to the seminar and to meet with new volunteers. On the first day, in the morning, classes were held separately from the volunteers –counterparts only—and we were not yet familiar with our volunteers… Only pictures were shown on a map of Kazakhstan, where the glued photos showed the volunteers, but in our city were three people, and whoever will work with us in the "Challenge" Foundation, I did not know…I did not even know whether it will be a girl or guy…, it was even slightly frightening, to think of this as someone for two years to work with…

After lunch, we decided to present ourselves to one another, and as usual, I was late, standing in the line with a little cake in hand J, in order to see the picture on the map… all the other counterparts were quite nice and could communicate with their volunteers and what can I do, and where is my "Dude" or "Dudette", God knows who or where… Well, all I think, "That's it!", all around me are goodlooking and smart people, but what do I get? Only then do I see in the middle of the hall, someone similar to that handsome Latino - American or Spaniard looking person on that photo on the map. This is the one, but I could not think that this HIM…, our volunteer, which may very well be my luck. Uf…! Yes, it was Andrew, and as I became acquainted with him, I was nervous of my speech in English, the language I have not, and I think…suddenly that I am in quite the full "standstill", nor speaking, for he was not only very beautiful but also intelligent, cultured, sociable, and even humorous…basically, "awesome" as it may… Immediately I called the boss, Ms. Bondareva (aka our director of Public Foundation "Challenge", Elena) and immediately rejoiced to her that the job is done, and that he’s very smart and beautiful, and well, there was joy without any limit… Upon completion of the seminar, all steel away to our city, to where and with whom our time has come, to Pavlodar, home!!!

That is how we first met.

Already a year and a half, we work together and we have a great company, and are excellent friends!

Volunteers: prone to diatribes and beards

2008-05-27T03:04:00.000-07:00

Last week marked the international “Day of Remembrance” for those that have passed away due to AIDS, recognized every third Sunday in May. Many organizations around the world gather to hold awareness or candle vigil events, and Public Foundation Challenge of Pavlodar, Kazakhstan (my primary workplace) was no different.

With the assistance of Challenge’s dedicated youth volunteers (Annya, Arina, Timorhan, Nastya, Julia, et al) and my trusty counterpart Dina, people gathered along the sandy beach of the Irytish River to hold a candlelight memorial. To be true, the event was hastily planned. I knew the date was coming, and that it would be a perfect time to hold an awareness event that directly correlated with the Challenge mission. My colleagues, however, were drawn dispassionate to work in general due a recent spate of unsuccessful requests for financial support from local and international donors.

I cannot say that I am any less prone to being discouraged by the state of non-government financing affairs either – the following represents a certain admitted cynicism – but the number of donors willing to support HIV/AIDS organizations that are either not a) in Africa, or b) handing out syringes in CIS countries, are scarce. And though many HIV/AIDS donation programs include aims to decrease discrimination and increase awareness of the pandemic, their selection of organizations and programs to target such goals is becoming narrower and shorter-sighted than ever.

Let us cite some recent public health history. In America during the 1980’s, AIDS was coined as the “gay disease”. People became squeamish of gays and that sort of lifestyle, and took on the ‘it’s a problem but not for me’ attitude until more people practicing unsafe heterosexual relations started becoming infected in higher numbers. It was only then that measures were taken to teach about safe sex in a broader manner, to trust in partners and testing procedures for people of all sexual choices. Add drug issues into the fold and you can see why America’s difficulty with AIDS could be pointed to a noted lack of foresight in prevention methods and appropriate target grouping.

The same could be said for Kazakhstan and other republics in the CIS. When you talk about HIV/AIDS here, you get a sorrowful headshake, a gesture of a syringe into the arm and a tsssk-tssk’ing “it’s those drug users” remark. For sure, statistics show that nearly 60 percent of registered HIV-positive people in Kazakhstan were infected through intra-venous drug usage, but that most likely reflects the statistical gathering process. Every drug user arrested must be tested for HIV, while sex workers and people caught patronizing their special services are not required to do as such. These statistics are then used as the main source for nationwide research and fact. These statistics are further sighted by many international donors, and people come to believe that the main reason (read stigmatized) for HIV/AIDS is from drug usage, and not much else. When asked about the potential for HIV infection, the most typical response I get from people is, “I don’t do heroine.” Promoting regular HIV analysis is seen as something barely short of walking around town with a giant red A emblazed on your chest.

Along the Irytish river, a ribbon of candles in remembrance of those passed away from AIDS.

Try looking for funding that supports youth education on safe sex, anti-drug awareness campaigns and healthy lifestyles in Central Asia, and you find a short list. Your program best be about teaching sex workers about condom usage and providing drug users with needle exchange. That approach is incomplete, and sometimes ineffective. Not to rattle too many cages here, but there are roughly 3,000 sterile syringes, courtesy of The Global Fund, sitting in a closet in my office which are the responsibility of another HIV/AIDS ‘organization’, and they aren’t going anywhere or to anyone. What does this mean?

Convincing donors of high drug use + closet space to keep syringes safe, unused and useless = Salaries!

Taking a walk in the spring time is one of those simple pleasures that, despite its annual occurrences, always jolt a surprise. Walking around Pavlodar, I humbly and securely admit to noticing the gorgeous feminine beauty around me. There is not a lack of sex appeal going on here, or at least in MTV overdrive, short skirt, see-through blouse aspect of it. Perhaps it is an effect of the region’s historically suppressive past (see: “There is no sex in the USSR”), but public images of sex are now quite prominent and find their way into the most seemingly innocuous places. Billboards selling washing machines show an older man, no less than forty years old and cardigan-sporting, cradling his younger wife, no more than twenty-five years old and showing the perfect amount of cleavage and just the right hint of red lace lingerie underneath to pique certain thoughts. It breathes of creepiness; the creepy kind relating material purchasing power and sexual attraction, vitality. The young woman’s age and appearance, particularly the observable lingerie, had to be calculated by the advertising company or photographer. Now perhaps it is my self-imposed restraint coming into the fray, but this is still an advertisement for a washing machine. (Personal side note: I opt to wash my clothes by hand.) Playboys and other ‘newspapers’ with bare-assed chicks are displayed at children’s eye level in supermarkets and street kiosks. Condom wrappers with naked women are sold in shops everywhere (maybe not a bad thing actually), and I have to take off my shoes to count how many times I’ve been invited to go for a banya steam and get some prostitutes to really round out the cleansing process afterwards.

What this represents is generally a good thing for society in Central Asia – an opening and outing of sexual mores – but what about the health consequences of such public displays and casual suggestions? That whole 1960’s sexual revolution thing in the USA produced plenty of people that had kids and instilled a generation probably more comfortable with themselves than any before, and talking about sex wasn’t a big deal. Despite the lack of social friction in its content, safe sex didn’t always occur (and probably never will) and more people were okay with having it (maybe, I have no factual knowledge of this, just anecdotal). People had more casual sex, didn’t think of diseases so much, associated HIV with gay stuff and flim-flam! you have a high number of HIV cases infected through heterosexual relations. Only then did you see an increase in awareness events and prevention programs…prevention programs for something that should have been prevented years before.

It’s just a different take on it now in Kazakhstan and Central Asia in general: HIV/AIDS is assumed to be a sex worker and drug user problem. People are given more freedoms due to the fall of the Soviet Union (in most areas), and an entire generation is raised and comes of age under a society free from a communist form of suppression. Kazakhstan declared independence in 1991, and there is now a group of 16 and 17 year olds hitting that stride of life prone to trial and error that has not known the rigors of Soviet life and behavioral expectation.

And this is my working hypothesis: Due to the growth of the first adult generation to live under independent societies and an eventual improvement in statistical gathering procedures, regions in the CIS will experience a counterfeit success on the decrease of intravenous drug HIV infections at the expense of increased infection through unsafe sexual relations.

Basically, preventive behavior awareness will be focused upon – and funded – only when it becomes a problem that could have been prevented.

But back to the actual awareness event…

There we were, gathered at the beach and scenic city park along the Irytish River. Passersby were asked to participate in the lighting and subsequent remembrance ceremony, and many joined in to see what all the hubbub and burning was about. Even with all the flashing lights and attention sucking cell phones out there, fire still draws a crowd.

168 candles were lit to represent the number of people that have died of AIDS in the Pavlodar oblast thus far in 2008 (statistics provided by the Pavlodar Oblast AIDS Center). It seems like a low number when compared to the compelling and unfortunate millions in Africa. But why does a number have to be grand to garner acknowledgement and attention to the way a person dies if it could have been prevented? I am not calling for a full swing of resources from Africa. Absolutely not. But there is a chance to help prevent a greater spread of a terrible global virus in Kazakhstan and Central Asia. Just take a look in Central Asia from time to time, okay Bono?

Pavlodar is known for its high winds that come whistling off the flatland steppe surrounding it, and the lack of breeze was noticeable and welcome. The amount of mosquitoes was unwelcome and noticeable. Lesson learned: when writing any grant for candlelight vigils near bodies of water in the Spring/Summer time, request funding for insect repellant. Some people simply could not bare the attacks long enough to stay for the whole vigil, and we lost some good people out there, their bodies swollen and scratchy.

Despite the previous mention of acute professional melancholy and the onslaught of winged vampires, the event proved a visual sign of solidarity, respect and remembrance to those passed on in a way that was nothing less than uplifting. Kudos to those people that don’t care about financing and monitoring and sustainability and expected results and partnership programs in order to simply do the good.

C-e-l-e-b-r-a-t-i-o-n

May 16th marked the second best day in the month of May: my birthday. The best day, obviously, goes to May 28th, the day of the National Spelling Bee Finals. My colleagues at Public Foundation Challenge organized me a day in the forest marked with roasted chickens, vegetables, beer, guitars, potatoes, chocolates, fires, footballs and friends. It was nice that my colleagues and local volunteer friends could come out, and was delighted that fellow friends and Americans Nicholas the Jersey Greek Pappas and Adam the Mad Henricksen could attend. Free food and beer is always a good persuasion. With no oil in tow, Henricksen cleanses my feet with his saliva.

Astounded at the glory.

It was calm, relaxed and outdoors. Appropriate. For my 23rd birthday last year, the entire day took place during a train ride in a cramped coupee with a two vodka-bottles-deep, pissed pants professor and a pair of withholding prostitutes that were relocating from Pavlodar to Almaty for better business prospects. The 24th year rang in markedly better in the forest, thank you.

Celebration.

The Walkings and Talkings of Gingerbread Bear

2008-05-16T23:59:00.000-07:00

The following is a series of photographs taken over the course of one day in the life of Gingerbread Bear, an altruistic pastry that lives and works in the city of Pavlodar, Kazakhstan. This is a humble attempt to share his daily routines and actions, so that other people can gain a greater mental image and/or understanding of what happens in a regular day.

Gingerbread Bear is an American citizen, has no legs, has a penchant for indie rock, and enjoys debating the finer points of global diplomatic politics. Also, he fears milk and pigeons.

Gingerbread Bear stops at a local fruit and vegetable stand on his way to the Public Foundation Challenge office.

Everyday starts with a little sunshine! Gingerbread Bear greets his counterpart and colleague, Dina.

Sometimes, Gingerbread Bear gets yelled at by his primary organization director, Elena Bondareva, for no reason whatsoever. It is comical.

Despite having no thumbs, Gingerbread Bear types away on grant opportunities, strategic plan outlines, translations and other lesson plans.

Gingerbread Bear assists Dina in writing a program plan to help the people of Pavlodar combat the spread of HIV/AIDS and the abuse of drugs. What a pastry!

The nice weather calls to the inner depths of Gingerbread Bear's place where a heart should be, and he has to bust out of the office. Let's go for a walk to the city library and see what's happening.

Wow! Some of the books that Gingerbread Bear's friends and supporters have generously sent are now being prominently displayed in the New Books section of the library. Check em' out!

Gingerbread Bear can't resist a good literary description utilizing baseball, and goes directly to the Hemingway section.

Hey, how are you? Gingerbread Bear is greeted by the director of the International Language section. And yes, we will have tea together.

Back to the office...but look at that fountain! Gingerbread Bear gleefully -- yet carefully -- looks on.

Would you take a look at that! It's the fifth longest river in the world, the Irtyish! 'I can't wait to get my tan on', thinks Gingerbread Bear.

Gingerbread Bear passes through the WWII memorial park to check out the eternal flame. Gingerbread Bear notes that the flame seems to only be blazing on weekends and holidays.

Gingerbread Bear quietly observes the student preparations for May 9th (Victory Day).

Nobody is forgotten. Gingerbread Bear doesn't forget about the sacrifices of the men and women of the armed forces.

Gingerbread Bear gazes upon one of the numerous Nursultan Nazarbayev billboards in town with an ironic reverance. 'Huh, we could be twins!' exclaims Gingerbread Bear.

It's getting hot. 'Good thing I don't have any cream filling,' he muses.

Danger lurks around every corner. Gingerbread Bear narrowly avoids death by pigeon.

This is Gingerbread Bear's language class. 'They speak English gooder than I do', Gingerbread Bear claims.

'Hello, ladies!' Gingerbread Bear stops to greet the helpful secretaries of New Generation Language Center.

Gingerbread Bear unlocks his door with his key/eye gouger.

Time to greet Гриб (GRB), his trusty friend and pet. He is unafraid of him, for they are dear friends.

Time to study and improve those Russian language skills. 'This is futile', bemoans Gingerbread Bear (editor's note: yes, it is).

Gingerbread Bear checks out the fridge for dinner. 'Hmmm...Kvas could be good right about now...'

Turns out Gingerbread Bear only has potatoes for dinner. 'I never expected to eat like a king being a United Gingerbread Volunteer, but this inflation and lack of proper government support and funding due to silly in-fighting is killing me', Gingerbread Bear complains.

Gingerbread Bear talks to his dear friend, Baurzahn Ablyavich, and talks about life, philosophy, work and an astounding amount of odd topics. 'No, I didn't know that about the seven levels of sociological study, Baurzahn', replies Gingerbread Bear.

'Who needs a girlfriend to keep you warm at night, when you can rest well knowing you can wash your socks and undies by hand before going to bed?' says Gingerbread Bear to himself out loud, kinda depressingly. Either way, Gingerbread Bear turns in for the night, thinking and dreaming about the next day full of surprises and fun.

THE END

I was recently invited to be a guest speaker at one of the local universities to give a presentation on the US.

I was also invited to give a presentation on the electoral process in America. For some reason, I brought the flag of Pennsylvania, and students went nuts for it.

Workers of the world, unite!

2008-05-02T02:05:00.000-07:00

Happy International Workers Day, or as it is officially known today "Kazakhstan Day of Unity". This holiday has a special place in the hearts of many former Soviet people, and it is celebrated by making the blood that pumps through said heart a little thinner.

In the city square of Pavlodar -- a central area boxed off by the Akimat (similar to a city hall), library and the Irytish river embankment -- was a solid balloon-banging, slogan-shouting, Nazarbayev-photo-carrying extravaganza. The city set up the place as it usual does for any holiday, with a stage for dancers of various cultural backgrounds, speeches galore and a ton of lipsynching. There was, of course, a parade. Leading the way were a myriad of oil companies, banks, local businesses and then finally caboosed by students.

The most interesting occurence, in my opinion, came on one of the side stages where a band of tuba players were stationed. Imagine a tuba. Now imagine an entire band of tubas, pushing 25 players. People were almost forced to march with all that oom-pa-pa.

The beleaguered start to spring

2008-04-22T04:17:00.000-07:00

PEPFAR HIV/AIDS Conference Attendees in Karaganda, KZ

A grandmother takes a rest

About six months to go, I sing.

This part of the year always seems to bring about a great mental mixture of review and renewal—grass, bees and an inflamed appreciation for the female ankle come to mind on the latter—and the recent weather did a good job at confusing me on both accounts.

The long winter is finished, now available to be cited for the rest of my living days as one of those back in my day, you The North Face-loving sumagun, I walked to work in -43° C weather! moments. By most books, it is April. April usually includes bouts of rain and fluctuating temperatures leaning towards the warm. Usually. Things were thrown for a loop last week, when at about 2 AM, I arose from my slumber to the eerie silence of snow falling (most people that grew up in the Northeast or anywhere else where they waited for snow before winter school days knows this non-sound well), and went a little crazy. Maybe it was the mid-night awakening and the bleariness that comes with it, but I went to my balcony, stared at the white blanket silencing the road below, saw a man walking in the street and became incensed with vehemence for weather. I decided that this climatic parody deserved some kind of statement.

Me: “It’s snowing!” yelled in Russian to the man.

Man on street: Stop, turn, glance, blink frighteningly, continue.

Me: “Seriously! It’s snowing!” I chime again.

Man on street: Stop, turn, glance, blink frighteningly, stare at the sky, run away.

Yes, I felt that my shouting made the absurdity of snow fall in April more realistic; that crazy should always accompany crazy.

Anyway, now it’s warm again, the snow is gone, making it the last snow I will see in Kazakhstan for a long time. Then again, I thought that thought eight days ago.

Basically, I was reminded that assumption is the cheese on the mouse trap, that the unexpected should be expected and that the absurd is helpful to us all, especially when you get on a railway track of thinking earlier than you should. There’s still time for further effort. And snow.

Otherwise, man, it’s been good. Let us draw up the short list of Kazakhstan recent greatness:

a) Nauryz (Kazakh New Year)
b) Presidential Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR) Conference
-This was a conference of host country nationals and Peace Corps volunteers gathered to discuss HIV/AIDS in a myriad of social sectors. Alongside some high quality and dedicated volunteers, I added my part by co-facilitating the conference with presentations on drug trafficking in Central Asia, HIV blood analysis processes in Kazakhstan, project planning, etc. (although I know my half was much less than 50 percent of the work compared to the diligence of other volunteers).
c) This photo of former roommate and Top 5 Coolest Dude Ever, Baurzahn Ablyavich
d) Cultural lessons with local students getting ready to travel to the US and A for the summer
e) English lessons at local language center
f) Avoiding a big international conference scam (F you, Emmanuel Foundation)
g) New apartment!
h) Writing up new grants for Public Foundation Challenge
i) Film club attendance increase
j) Basketball club branching out to volleyball and soccer, and one extra hour (Sunday 12-3 PM Pavlodar School #4)
k) Mid-day birthday celebration and banya with my director’s husband, Папик.
l) Slow day at the office following said celebration
m) Giving my rat a shower.
n) Mastery of the potato and all the ways to cook it due to unique budget situation
o) Nice apartment warming party for fellow volunteer, Jeff

It’s not all smiley faces and LOL’s. I missed birthdays! Happy birthdays to Antonia Elizabeth, Rebecca, Cassandra Leigh, Joshua Alan, John Cabell, Mr. Lanser, Chris, Deborah Jean and other people that aren’t on facebook.com.

Free Political Commentary, Come One, Come All

Recently read a great example of a writer seemingly writing only to fill a word quota with nothing but racing innuendo and poll watching: The Kaus Files on slate.com. I should write a book about watching this primary election season play out with no more than one-hour of actually hearing the candidates speak and absolutely no television pundit discussion, but equipped with the reading of at least one hundred articles on each candidate and the transcripts of four debates (Well, Edwards, Clinton and Obama on one side; Romney, Giuliani, Paul, Huckabee and McCain on the other).

Too much fun to take notice to the words chosen rather than how the words were spoken and further dissected.

NBA JAM

2008-03-17T05:07:00.000-07:00

Little Timor sends up a shot

Champions

One of my side projects is a youth basketball club. It's held every Sunday afternoon, and it's a time to feel the power of the gym teacher (whistles!) and the joy of Dikembe Mutombo (Rejected! Finger wag). Basically, the basketball club is full of kids that like to run around a gym and I get to teach them some basketball and exercise properly, and maybe some English, along the way.

Photo-op for some of the players

And just for kicks, a scene from the market.

She came!

2008-03-02T10:23:00.000-08:00

She's cute with the sheep

Not so much.

Men in hot rooms. This is my director's husband, flashing off his richness (belly).

Our sleigh driver, whom fell off a few times due to a few too many liquid coats.

Students celebrate Valentine's Day at the Pavlodar Library

It is with renewed vigor and a grilled cheese sandwich in stomach, that I attempt to convey the paradoxical nature of what happens when loving someone so intensely from so faraway comes so close to you for so short a period of time.

‘This is an act of mercy,’ is what shot through my mind when my loving girlfriend told me that she had purchased a plane ticket to visit me in Kazakhstan. Mercy from someone upstairs allowing her to come here unharmed and with a fair amount of swiftness, and also mercy from her in actually accepting my work in the world and coming here in the depths of the near-Siberian winter. This coming from the girl that is comfortable in the temperatures normally only found during the small windows of September 10th-15th and May 3rd-May 6th, these being the perfect days for 70° F in Northeastern Pennsylvania. Her timing to visit seems doomed to be unpleasant and nearly impossible, like a little brother pestering to play Wiffleball under a canopy of power lines and overgrown maple trees.

But she came! Flying across the world, past the expected and all too frequently used adage, ‘on the opposite end of the Earth’, all the way to Almaty, Kazakhstan, she came! Not to slight the musical appeal of the dombra, but she did not travel from America to Kazakhstan for the culture. It was a tertiary aim fo sho, but it is clear why she came so far. She came for me and her and so that we could be us for a brief period. To be together.

Her gesture was remarkable and she is stunning, making her beauty and valor and wholesomeness and understanding and allure to be regarded as legendary and therefore told through the ages.

We did many fun things, including:

-Riding a one-horse open sleigh across the steppe
-Meeting the former power lifting champion of Russia and Kazakhstan, unfortunately who is now missing all of his fingers
-Getting our personal photos taken alongside nearly all the significant artifacts in the Pavlodar Natural Museum of History
-Eating ten onions
-Playing with goats and baby lambs
-Making beshparmak (national dish of Kazakhstan)
-Smacking each other with birch leaves in a hot, steamy room
-Teaching three Spanish lessons
-Bathing a rat
-Preparing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Kazakhstan President Nursultan Nazarbayev’s chef/head of food distribution
-Dancing like idiots

The point attempting to be conveyed here is that my girlfriend, whom has supported me in her own reluctant yet loving way ever since I knew I was going to Kazakhstan and for one and a half years called me nearly everyday since my work here began, totally broke out of her comfort zone and spent a great deal of time, money and faith in order to come visit me—and the recipe of us two together led to cooking up the greatest month ever.

As I am currently not in possession of fluxcapacitor-infused Dalorean, I can’t go back to that greatest month. This makes the next few months a bit trying.

I know there are many people out there that complain about long-distance relationships—tough no matter what the mileage—but there is an increasingly tangible goodness in this self-imposed unhappiness that I’ve put myself and her through. I’m not looking forward to my work here to be over anytime soon, as I feel accepted and useful here to a myriad of causes, but I am looking forward to actually being with the woman I am with for more than two months out of two years, and finally grabbing that carrot that has been dangling in front of us for so long now.

2008-01-29T05:26:00.000-08:00

Listen and Learn! Jennifer is here. Music is heard! I live, work and do more.

This does not represent the United States Peace Corps or the United States Government in any shape or fashion.

Let's talk about the weather because the rest is something entirely different.

2008-01-14T03:52:00.000-08:00

-20 normally with a low of -35 so far. Also, there is snow.

My plant, Phosphorus, stoically stares out the window.

Had a productive meeting with a gym teacher and school director this past week, discussing plans for a basketball club and potential tournament between other schools in Pavlodar. This opportunity is really exciting, as I get to teach kids the fundamentals of basketball—there will be many practices on the Zen of boxing out—as well as get a little exercise in the process.

The school director mentioned that it would be a great chance to keep his students from sitting around, playing computer games and eventually turning to drinking or whathaveyou later on. I agree.

I must procure a photo of the school director, as his appearance conjures up thoughts of Humpty Dumpty, but with suspenders. Also he has a beard and wears flannel shirts, so perhaps he's more comparable to that of a rounded Al Borland. He is Legend.

Happy Old New Year.

ring a ding ding

2008-01-08T04:18:00.000-08:00

The man seems too short and young to be the man. He’s also uninspired, but what can you say about agreeing to sing the same two songs in at least ten different cafes over the course one evening. It’s not the most fun way to spend your New Year’s, though very lucrative.

The man in question is Serik Musalinof. Supposedly. He is known across the great Republic of Kazakhstan for singing a little diddy that harmonizes all the main cities of this nation, and another song about Pavlodar. People all dance and sing along to his songs, but a fair amount also let out a groan whenever they hear it as well due to its unbridled pop nationalism. It is a relationship similar to New Jersey with its Bon Jovi.

We’re at a restaurant, BierXanna, to ring in the New Year. We, as per the end of 2007 definition, are Adam, Nick, Nick’s brother Chris (visiting from LA), Jeffrey (new cool volunteer) and me. The restaurant reservation is a lovely treat, compliments of Chris. It turned out to be the usual fanfare of greatness: food, conversation, dancing with Santa Claus, belly dancers, beverages and President Nursultan Nazarbayev giving a speech at the midnight hour. Follow up the mid-day wake-up with a banya steam session, and you have yourself a proper payment of respects to 2007 and a necessarily clean welcome to 2008.

2007 was spent, minus for three weeks in the US, twelve hours in Germany, six over Europe and ten or so over the Atlantic, completely in Kazakhstan. It brought me a fine amount of accomplishment (AIDS awareness project, summer camps, English and film clubs, tutoring, translations, children’s clubs, book donations, etc.), frustration (communication problems regardless of language barriers), sickness (lick those rubber suckers, put em’ on my nipples and strap me to a radiator to check my heart rate again, nurse), and health (running, swimming in the Irytish, basketball evenings, basketball club).

I started it living with my good friend, Baurzahn Ablyavich and I have ended it living in my own apartment, now going on seven months. I started with attempting to get a mouse out of my suitcase that stowed away in my bag from a train ride and ended with me having a pet rat that either has an unfortunately placed tumor or has extremely fertile carry-on luggage (it’s a male, and quite male at that).

Most importantly, it started with a growing sense of doubt over my decision to join Peace Corps and over exactly how I could be of assistance to people here, and ended with a growing sense of excitement for the opportunities available and the pressurizing time left to accomplish works of importance.

My main organization shows signs of regular professional improvement, from the implementation of project planning, weekly volunteer meetings, transparent financial oversight even for the smallest items, gaining confidence in working with international health groups and simply a confidence knowing that we have worked as a team.

My secondary projects show signs of progress in that I helped send sixteen students to the US last summer for work, tutored two that will pursue their undergraduate and graduate degrees overseas, assisted one with international business presentations for a conference in Afghanistan, aided students to finally ask me a question other than “how are you?” when they greet me and have a different response other than “fine.”, showed students a different side of America and the world through independent films, camps and concert performances (with the grand assistance of the perpetually active volcano that is fellow volunteer Adam Henricksen), and laying the groundwork for a youth basketball club.

Run-on sentences happen. A lot, in fact, happens.

I received an e-mail from a dear friend of mine this past week that covered the topic of young adulthood and the questions that linger within. What is the point of work? What comes next? Why is it is so hard to compartmentalize the graying aspects of life so they can actually be dealt with? Add a little side order of confusion over relationships and a longing for the joyful past, and you have a lost path that I think is all too frighteningly common.

Putting aside the fact that we are dear friends, and no one else can substitute for that kind of understanding, who am I to answer these questions? I’m a young adult with constant questions of what is the point of this work? and what’s next? except there lies a very obvious expiration date to find the answers here. But taken flatly in a context outside of friends’ understanding, the answers fail to materialize quickly. This past week, however, and the experiences of the past year that led up to it, made me confident in confronting these questions and others.

My old friend Baurzahn invited me over to his home before New Year’s and we reminisced about the silliness of last year; how we barely spoke any Russian, the awkward dinner visit in which he slyly fed me a complicated toast in ode to a particular woman’s beautiful eyes and figure (whom I had just met), and an assortment of other daily happenstances that hold a special place between us.

Nick’s brother provided a very fresh, very American perspective on Kazakhstan—particularly on the raw emotion that people show here so often. I found myself ashamed that I was taking these displays and people for granted, as if living here for sixteen months makes them less interesting. Routine can do that to many, but why was I already in a routine of hum-hum acceptance? Why at age 23 in Central Asia while speaking Russian while meeting kind, seed-selling street corner grandmas and politically pushy drunken uncles, and eager-minded students, and open-hearted social workers and squeeze-box playing musicians, and yoga-teaching sport enthusiasts with funny English, and working with a memorable-quote-per-minute boss, am I in a routine that makes me not notice how great it all is?

So I snap out of it. I take notice once again, and again and again.

There is no time to compartmentalize anymore. Block scheduling is over. The dewey decimal system is useless. I have stopped my search for the period. Life is a run-on sentence.

2008 is up and running.

2007-12-30T00:06:00.000-08:00

Ice sculpture in city square.

Conversations shared, dishes prepared and languages butchered, much has occurred as of late. And its nearly the commencement of the Year of the Rat. I am quite proud to state that this is to be my year, one in which I will have the perspective of a completed year in Kazakhstan (2007) yet know that I will be spending the end of the next most likely in America (2008). Oh the places you'll go.

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.

*My rat does not have a name yet, but it will most likely be something to recognize his Russian heritage. If you have any suggestions, they will be accepted and deliberated over with great consideration.

I've spent most of the holidays with some fellow volunteers, and for that much thanks can be had. Still, I do miss my family and friends, and I can only hope that everyone there and elsewhere could look at the ridiculous Christmas decorations and smile. At least I got to see a Soviet Lada driving around with a Manura on its roof.

I'll post a true retelling of events and ideas in the near future, so for now I will simply share a few insightful and/or comedic quotes accumulated over the course of the great existence of life in Kazakhstan.

"Sorry, but my cat pissed on my homework today."

"He's paying for it you say? Young man, do you know where people usually place free cheese?"

"Hopefully, this table of meat will last us five months."

"Why am I the stupid man? You're the one that is sitting here, paying me more money than you think you should. I'm getting paid either way."

"You should meet my daugther. She has a nice Chechan nose like you. Can you imagine the beautiful children?"

"If you eat this fat, you will have a beautiful wife. See my wife? Therefore, eat the fat."

и саммый главный...

"To the health of you and your family."

matt taibbi interview

2007-11-18T08:54:00.000-08:00

A few months back, I decided to inquire about a short interview with political writer and Rolling Stone contributor, Matt Taibbi for the Peace Corps newsletter, The Vesti. Turns out that this splitting Twain's wit voice is a kind enough guy to respond in full, and with charging replies. This interview was conducted under the auspices of my position as contributing editor of the Vesti, but here is the complete, unedited transcript. The opinions expressed in this interview do not reflect those of the United States Peace Corps and should not be associated with them. For those wishing to read something a bit more insightfully jarring, try Mr. Taibbi's on-line blog, Rolling Stone entries or books.

How did you get started in journalism and how did you find yourself working at Rolling Stone?

Taibbi: Well, I grew up in journalism. My father is a reporter, as was my stepmother and my godparents. I was always around journalists growing up. So when I graduated college in 1991, that was all I really knew how to do. I started by offering to string for various wire services in Russia/Uzbekistan, where I’d moved after graduating. As for Rolling Stone, I had a relationship with them, sort of, that went back to when they did a story about the eXile in… I think it was 1999. So when I came back to the States to live, one of their editors called me and asked me to do some work on the ‘04 campaign trail.

What inspires you to write? Additionally, has anything you've ever covered made you feel better about world?

Not sure how much of a role inspiration plays anymore. I used to be very inspired to write by other good writers. Now I’m not really sure why I do anything. If you have any idea, let me know. As for feeling better about the world, that’s hard to say. I’m basically an absurdist, which means that I think the world is cruel and monstrous sometimes, beautiful and touching other times, but ultimately those two opposing forces balance each other out and the world is ridiculous more than anything else. And I don’t think that’s so bad. So I don’t have much need to feel better about things. Even monstrous figures like George Bush and Dick Cheney, the beautiful thing about them is that their time on earth is a lot shorter than they think. That’s what makes them comic in addition to being villainous. And I try to bring that out when I write about these people -- show how much smaller some evil people are in the scheme of things than they are in their own estimation.

What state are media and politics in today, and where does journalism fit in with them?

I think American politics is basically a corporate oligarchy masquerading as a Western social democracy. Russian politics is the same, except that it’s grotesquely so, and the masquerade is far more grotesque than ours. The important decisions are made by the same narrow class of monied interests and connected insiders in both states. What’s wrong with our American press is that for the most part they further the illusion that our government is a healthy and vigorous democracy. The press is supposed to advocate for the population against entrenched power, act as a check on it; it has long since ceased fulfilling that role.

You've spent time at the Leningrad State Technical University and held various positions at newspapers in Moscow and Uzbekistan―what drives your interest in this region and do you have any plans to work there again?

I was very much in love with Russian books as a kid. Gogol was my hero, but I also loved Bulgakov (Heart of a Dog was one of my favorite books), Tolstoy, Leskov, Zoschenko, Dovlatov, Trofimov, Chekhov… it was kind of strange and extremely nerdly, but I felt this weird attraction to the environment all of these writers were describing. And in fact when I went to Russia I found that I felt more at ease there than at home. That said, I sort of doubt I’ll be back for any long period of time, mainly because my girlfriend prefers warm climates.

Your last book, Spanking the Donkey, was a story of your time covering the 2004 U.S. presidential campaign in all of its staging, disappointment and drug-influenced interviews; what can people expect from your next book, Smells Like Dead Elephants: Dispatches from a Rotting Empire?

Elephants is just a compilation, a collection of previously-published Rolling Stone pieces. I have another book called The Great Derangement that’s coming out next year that’s original; it has a lengthy undercover deal in there, among other things.

Do alternative sources of information such as blogs and fact checking sites pose a real threat to the mainstream media? Will it force them to completely rethink the way they deliver news, or will they simply imitate bloggers while still remaining within the chain of vested corporate interest command?

Well, all of these electronic media threaten traditional print media, mainly because of the advantages they hold in terms of revenue streams. With click-throughs to shopping sites and whatnot e-content has a much faster and more quantifiable way of advertising, which means it’s going to steal a lot of revenue from print. Alternative newspapers have already been killed off by the Craigslists of the world. As far as content, the trend is going to be that newspapers are going to move downward in quality to match the speed and instantaneousness of blogs. There will be an effort to get news up right away before it’s confirmed or checked. We’ve already seen that -- a good example was in ‘04, when the New York Times put a story on the front page about the mysterious lump in George Bush’s back during the debates. They implied it was a transmitter, because that was the buzz on the blogs. But really that was a non-story that needed to be checked out before it was printed.

With your experience in Asia, Eastern Europe and the U.S., what aspects of life have you found to be the most interesting in each region? Have you ever spent any time in Kazakhstan, and if so, for what reasons?

I once threw up in Kazakhstan, on a bus going from Tashkent to Bishkek. I threw up because a woman next to me had… well, never mind why. I also -- I have to tell this story -- I saw the bus driver getting a hand job from an old lady on that same trip. It was late at night and he thought everyone was asleep (we had two drivers who kept alternating behind the wheel; this one wasn‘t driving). I’m pretty sure we were still in Kazakhstan. But aside from that, no, I’ve never spent any real time there.
Most interesting about each region? Wow, that’s tough. In Eastern Europe I’d say the crime and corruption. In America, NFL football. In Asia, the girls.

Kazakhstan recently held its parliamentary elections, and the ruling party (Nuro-Tan or "Light of the Fatherland") came out with some extremely high numbers (88 percent of the vote). What are your thoughts on the current political trends in Kazakhstan and other former Soviet Union countries?

My favorite Nur-Otan story lately was their protest over the Nazarbayev-Speedo deal. Surely that is a reason to shut down the free press! But obviously we know these rubber-stamp parliaments exist mainly to hand out patronage deals to friends of the president, ie provide an equitable slice to each of the robbers with interests in things like the Kashagan oil field, etc. I think in Kazakhstan what we have is a situation where the autocratic government has basically dropped all pretense of democracy, and that is probably in the future for Russia and other ex-Soviet countries as well.

What should people really be looking for in the upcoming U.S. presidential election season? How can they keep attention to the real issues with such a long primary campaigning season and the usual pandering that takes place to get votes?

They won’t keep attention on real issues. That’s not what they do. What presidential candidates do is blather about nothing by day and then make promises to campaign contributors by night. That’s all the campaign is about -- candidates reaching out to bundlers/CEOs and promising stuff to them. That’s why you’ll see companies like Phillip Morris’s Altria throwing gazillion-dollar parties during the Republican convention last time around; because they want help with legislation. Same with Bristol-Myers-Squibb and AstraZeneca hiring the Boston Pops to play a birthday party for Teddy Kennedy at Kerry’s convention. They wanted to fight drug reimportation. That’s what goes on behind closed doors. The stuff they actually talk about on camera, it’s meaningless.

Describe your ideal political leader(s), and what would he/she/they do to improve America?

I’ll take anyone who’s honest. It almost doesn’t matter what his ideology is. Just have him not be a thief. That’s a good start. In that regard I like guys like Bernie Sanders and Ron Paul, who are on opposite sides often but get along.
America’s biggest problem these days is that its political processes have become corrupted. Our appropriations process takes place behind closed doors or late at night in secretive committee hearings. Votes are held open so that recalcitrant congressmen can be intimidated by party leaders. Earmarking is rampant, and favors are handed out hand over fist. Oversight of one’s own party is almost unheard of in congress. At the same time, the Executive Branch has gradually classified and made secret huge chunks of its operations. The public has little or no access or input on key decisions like making war anymore. I think our future leaders need to be more concerned with restoring government transparency and re-instituting the checks and balances that broke down in the last two decades. He also needs to educate people on how the system works. We don’t see this very much from our politicians, and that’s disappointing.

In Baseball Terms, Peace Corps is a Grounder to the Right Side to Advance the Runner.

2007-10-17T10:17:00.000-07:00

BESEECH ME, AUTUMN!

A year ago to this day, Pavlodar city and I became friends for the first time. It was 0° C at that time—I did the John Mayer, sensitive and cool look (high-collared and zippered sweater with a tweed jacket on top) in order to stay warm. Today, I have a beard and Michelin man coat. I’m still here, and Darwin proves right again.

Furthermore, I have lapsed into the Siberian form of clean heroine addiction: thermals.

I’ve heard some people attempting to be clever say that they are, ‘naked under their clothes.’ This is not the most clever of remarks, but if we accept this statement, then I will not be naked for the next five months. The thermals, once put on, never want to be taken off. They become a part of you, giving you a warm feeling when all else seems so frozen on the outside. To go without them for even a day, the body ravages with the shakes, the mood becomes extremely aggravated and you just might die from withdrawal. They are my wintry drug. And its hold is just starting. I should come clean around March.

I ate that.
A few weeks back, I took a trip to the local village of Shareeshiganok once again, and photo captured some of the moments whilst riding a bicycle, eating lamb fat and galloping across the Virgin Lands steppe to wrangle sheep, horse and cow. There is now a new volunteer experiencing his first time at that village this week, of which will bring some victory and difficulty. Here’s to victory.

This past week also brought a pleasant turn for English language literary lovers. With the help of a wonderful friend and former student of mine, I have partnered with the Oblast City Library of Pavlodar to form an English and American literature and material room in their central building. The section will feature classic literature from British and American writers, a plethora of contemporary magazines from the States and books with a wide range of subject matter (Geography, Modern Art, Biology, Business, etc.), all available to the public for free. The first part of this on-going partnership was made possible through the generosity of the Darien Book Aid, individual donations from family and friends, and some books from my personal collection. You too can send books for donation to the city library via my post office address. You may personally inscribe the books if you choose, or ask me to do so upon arrival.

The address for any donated books, and my personal address for any cookies you wish to send is (please use both English and Russian variants):

Mr. Andrew Holets
Public Foundation “Challenge”
83 Krivenko Street, Apartment 122
Pavlodar, Kazakhstan 140008

Эндрю Холетс
ОФ “Challenge”
Ул. Кривенко 83, Кв. 122
Павлодар, Казахстан 140008

Also, for the first time since being six years old, I got to register for a library card. I’m hoping to check out a book just as amazing as that first, “A Light in the Attic.” “Лампочка на чердаке” doesn’t seem to have the same whimsical ring though…

An Open Letter to the Philadelphia Phillies:

First off, congratulations on your National League Eastern Division Championship—through the grandeur of overwhelming media coverage of every game and the overblown focus on the Mets’ collapse, every stitch on every pitch was seen in my mind. Romero’s golden left arm, Myers’ goatee of death, Howard’s endless strikeouts and home runs, Burrell’s resurgence, Rowand’s every play a tug at our heart strings and the future, Utley’s prevail, Iguchi’s quotes and little league fundamentals, Hamels’ chiropractor, and that lousy shortstop that used to pop everything up since 2001 finally become the Jimmy Rollins we knew he could be: Gorgeous Season. There was a little, very loud devil sitting on my shoulder that kept telling me to go home to attend the World Series. Thankfully, the angel won out, though only in the result of your playoff death.

I wish to ask you this: Could you please play like that again next season and the next so I can actually attend a playoff game?

Sincerely,

Andrew Russell Holets
Fan since age 9

p.s. Jim Eisenreich is my favorite player of all-time. We used to count his twitches when they'd zoom in during his at-bats. Amazing guy. You should get him to throw out a first pitch when I come back. Eisey!

Finally, I just want to come clean about how selfish we Peace Corps volunteers can be when given the right circumstances. This past week, a fellow volunteer downloaded the new Radiohead album without paying anything, and I asked him to actually put it on his flash drive so I did not even have to spend time on the internet for it, despite it being offered free of charge.

“Человек становится равным тому, чей язык и тскусство он знает.”
-Абай кунанбаев

“A man attains an equal level with anyone whose language and art he understands.”
-Abai Kunanbayev, Kazakh Poet and Philosopher

In honor of Al Gore's Nobel Prize, here is a photo of my lovely director hugging a tree.

A Series of Reviews

2007-10-01T09:52:00.000-07:00

The Endless Steppe--the view for 87 percent of any train ride.

Kids getting covered in spider webs--the perils of drug use! Listen, children!

A new month, a new set of ideas and the continuous attempt to find some sort of rational as to why I live in Kazakhstan.

1) To fulfill a mission of spreading friendship and understanding on behalf of the people of the United States of America, or “You’re A Good Man, Andrew Holets!”

Maybe during the summertime, but that sun is going down earlier and earlier and it’s high time I finally wash those thermals from last March. With the sunshine comes happier people, whether that be because of the life flowing from the earth and environment or it the increased opportunity for people to drink longer publicly on the streets, I don’t know. Either way, autumn will barely have time to check in before winter consumes all. Friendship proves more difficult when everyone is concerned with warming their extremities.

2) To increase the skills and capacities of my primary organization and co-workers.

Yes! I’ve been blessed with a potential-laden counterpart, and that’s a good enough target for anyone. This may be one of those overlooked aspects of Peace Corps service, but I believe that this experience has made me hone the ability to identify who you can cooperate with, who has talent, who has the drive and give you the mentality that you can help or change that person. And I thought that mentality was left only to teachers and fathers that sire sons with an early pension for the color pink. They all see the individual development and want to steer them in a desired direction, perceived to be the best. I think I’m getting there (“Is this merely good-intentioned imperialism, sir? Uh…I hope not.”). Yes, that’s a good reason to do this.

3) On a daily basis, Kazakhstan is a nation that delivers entertaining circumstances and people.

True. Whether it our office’s pet rat that scours our garbage can, Кристов Крыса, or the women in ludicrous high heels or the late-night descents into vodka and loud, blabbering, endearingly revealing toasts or the gold-toothed smiles or the grilled meat on a skewer or the hospitality of its people or the total lack of bullshit, Kazakhstan gives me one praiseworthy story a day, an hour.

Jam sessions with fellow Platzkart train travellers--bonus of train travel

4) I have one year, two months and ten days until my contract is up: why stop now?

The Phillies made the playoffs, an intelligent and beautiful girlfriend back home, a job that pays a salary, my family, basic living comforts, an ability to truly communicate with everybody, familiarity, friends, being a tangible part of peoples’ lives, the Phillies made the playoffs, good music, two-ply, Phillies games, family, family, friends, Phillies, concerts, conversations over coffee, girlfriend, hugs, driving a car, weekends, Christmas, sandwiches, ‘thank you for shopping at…’, oh God sandwiches.

Wait! The political process in America and the possibility of a Thompson/Romney/Clinton presidency! That deters me just enough!*

I’ll stay in Kazakhstan a bit longer with the hope that my girlfriend comes to Kazakhstan. And stay up until 4 AM and listen to mlb.com radio every playoff game. And contact friends and family through e-mail and skype (andrew.holets). And hope, with the hope of every word in the holy bible, that people I care about are always safe. Money is of no use. Oh, and I’ll try to make sandwiches with horse meat here.

5) There are not many other better options.

I live in a nice apartment on the top floor. I speak a second language almost every word of my day. My job, in its essence, is to help people. I sleep easy without an ounce of selfish toss and turn. Idealism is not dead. I can say one sentence the rest of my life to shut up people that doubt my cold-weather fortitude: “I wintered in Siberia…twice.” This is a test—sitting in an office is not. I have an increasingly real reason to have children and teach them of the world. I am growing a beard to raise money for an HIV/AIDS and Healthy Living Awareness event. That, by itself, is awesome. I owe this to everyone, for me, for others.

6) It is only two years.

Yes, it is only two years. Stop making it seem like the hardest thing in the world—it’s not. It will be over, and you better do your best. You’re not a good person because of it, you’re only good if you do good. Keep doing good. It’s only two years. Two years of Peace Corps, not Marine or anything else that taxes the body more so. It is only two years.

7) You’re actually doing something you said you wanted to do.

Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. Cool.

That covers my short list of why I’m here. There are many more; more added and taken away each day. But the Phillies! Arrgggh!

Recent Events:

-My boss has finally returned to work.
-Our organization traveled to Shymkent and made some good contacts with USAID and others regarding the terrible HIV/AIDS situation in Southern Kazakhstan. The trip must be given credit to fellow PC volunteer, Mika Yasuo, a most industrious young woman.
-Most of my students have returned from their trips to the States. I’ve received two pens from Florida and Virginia, respectively, as gifts. The pride could not be higher for them.
-Film Club is booming, with over 25 attendees last week. I’m attempting to secure a local theatre for a real cinematic experience.
-Two packages received from Deborah Holets regarding supplies for the Shareeshiganok Children’s Club (see previous journal entry). She sent paper, crayons, glue, pencils, craft supplies and coloring books.
-Started teaching English at a furious rate.
-Stopped shaving for the next month in order to raise money from local sponsors for an HIV/AIDS and Healthy Living Awareness Day. If you would like to sponsor this project or simply receive daily photographic updates of the beard/fundraising event, please e-mail andrewholets@gmail.com.

If you would like to send something to the Shareeshiganok Children’s Club, you may send it to this address:

Andrew Holets
Public Foundation, “Challenge”
83 Krivenko Street, Apartment 122
Pavlodar, Kazakhstan 140008

Эндрю Холитс
ОФ “Challenge”
Ул. Кривенко 83, Кв. 122
Павлодар, Казахстан 140008

(Craft supplies, children’s activity books and anything fun for kids of all ages are greatly appreciated.)

If you wish to send stuff/letters specifically to me, that address works just the same (smile face!).

*An open letter to America,

If I have to return to America on November 13th, 2008 and find that the president-elect is Fred Thompson or Mitt Romney or Rudy Giuliani or Hilary Clinton, this man will live in either a different country or at least a remote area of America that is unaffected in as many aspects as possible by the executive branch.

And finally...

I listened to the Phillies game on mlb.com. My neighbhors will nary forget the crazy American shouting, "whooooohooooo's" at 3:34 AM for the rest of their lives. I gave out ten high-fives today to locals.

Also...

this web journal is the representation of my opinion solely and has no connection to the ideas, ideals or opinions to the United States Peace Corps organization.

A Mustachioed Idea is a Good Idea

2007-09-11T08:29:00.000-07:00

Photos

The River Irytish at sunset

First day of school activities

Reflections

--Practicing a two-chord punk song on guitar and appropriating time to smack the blood-thirsty mosquitoes--

My phone unsettles this activity and my innocuous apartment with a ring. On the other end is one of the top five coolest people in the world, Baurzahn Ablyavich. This 45-year old psychology professor and former roommate of mine calls on occasion to keep in touch—what a pal—and he has phoned to inform me of a documentary film about 9/11 playing on the television. Before he does this, he changes his voice and says, "Алло. Эта Секретиый агент 007," attempting to trick me (Translation: 'Hello. This is secret agent 007.'). He never fails to crack himself up with that one, and despite all sound reasoning, it's always funny to me too. Anyway, he then says that he wanted to call simply to say that he supports America and that he was thankful to know me and that we had become friends under such peculiar circumstances*. Agreeing, I thanked him and tried to forget the memory of my always-wisecracking friend Steve Reck’s silence as we watched the buildings come down during our 2nd block class six years ago.

And so the inevitable letters from government officials sent by their assistants will fill my e-mail inbox today, telling me that what I’m doing reflects the can-do, philanthropic and humanitarian spirit of America; that despite all the problems in our nation, our world, our humanity, we conscientiously decided to help. Hate can’t get us down, no sir, and as a matter of fact, the number of people wanting to do humanitarian service increased after 2001, reinforcing that notion of true progress. That’s the stuff of stand-straight postures and firm handshakes if I ever heard it.

But that doesn’t do much for me. I don’t want to think that this decision, this gentle effort of Peace Corps and other volunteers in various capacities is in anyway derivative of others’ acts of destruction. We are not the positively charged end of the magnet. I’m not here to balance the right and wrong in the world. I probably wouldn’t be considered in the right of the balance if there was one anyway. I’m here to figure something out for me and other people, and that’s to make both of our lives better in some small, unsexy way. We don't need bad people in order to have good people, or people to do bad things to force people to want to do good things. Good people just are, and there are more of them than not.

So instead of thinking about some grand scheme project to benefit the people of Kazakhstan or reflect on 9/11 by reading article upon article about the pains and horrors and the ramifications and the political fall-outs, my mind wanted something else. Yes, I did reflect on the events and what it means, but my mind wanted to go forward.

Therefore, I went to 826 Valencia’s website and read some extremely silly posters about Pirates (826valencia.org).

That eased my tensions, shook the stale cobwebs off my brain and gave me a great idea: one that I hope you, the reader, will love and support and tell all of your friends about and chuckle over but realize its genius and maybe even continue it in your own town:

Organize a healthy living and HIV/AIDS awareness day for kids at a local bowling alley by raising funds through a sponsored mustache growing contest**.

Silly? Yes. Genius? Questionable. Helpful? Possibly. The best Peace Corps project ever? Not by a long shot. Will I shave the mustache before my girlfriend comes here? Yes, don’t worry.

And this idea made me happy—that at a time when I am one of only a handful of Americans in a faraway land, and on a day that has a tempestuous place in American history, my brain gave me some relief and told me to grow a mustache to make this world a better place.

In other weekly activity, I will soon be starting my computer training program (with focus on financial transparency), English Club attendance should increase, Film Club is steadily improving and English lessons are showing progress.

*Baurzahn and I became roommates after a two-week period where I did not have a host family. After a long search and a brief bout of being homeless, I moved into his home on Christmas Eve '06, and we shared a bottle of cognac to toast baby Jesus. We've been friends ever since.

**The actual project will be more formalized than me just growing a mustache. There will be other contestants, other organizations and actual information being disseminated for the event for the kids. It’s just a little hard finding funding for NGO projects, and creativity is a must.

Finally, check out this article on the 9/11 documentary about the famous photograph and lasting image, "The Falling Man." It was directed by Henry Singer, a very kind and accessible gentleman. I note this because my mom, Deborah "Mean Jean" Holets, is part of the film due to her diligence to setting a prime example of democracy and free speech via appropriate usage of the letter to the the editor newspaper section. Here is the link to a story in Allentown, Pennsylvania's local newspaper regarding the film:

http://www.mcall.com/entertainment/all-fallingman.6018174sep09,0,817643.story

And this is a little funny...

The Simpsons in Film in Russian

Phases of August

2007-08-26T04:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Hitched

2007-08-12T04:05:00.000-07:00

Enjoyable times have occurred in my small universe of Pavlodar. Mountains scaled. Nations traversed. Dogs fed. Babies danced. Toasts shared. Love visualized!

But the stage must be set! Let's rewind roughly ten months ago to a much simpler time, October 2006. Halloween in the air, colors in the trees and dogs always, always on the streets. We in our Peace Corps group of Kaz-18's meet our counterparts for the first time; the people whom we will be working hand-in-hand with our non-government organizations theoretically for the entirety of our service. Mine is the kind-hearted and strong-willed Dina of Public Foundation Challenge. You will see a picture of her if you scroll down. The counterpart of another volunteer close to my site is also a kind-hearted gentleman, and we instantly clicked as friends. His name is Nurlybek, a talented English teacher that can play multiple instruments with high skill, sing with a velvety smoothness rivaling a Kazakh Sinatra and is generally a good person.

Now, let's come back to the present, August 2007.

He got married, and to a wonderful journalist named Altin! Life coming at you hard right there.

And I had the honor of being invited to the ceremony and banquet that followed.

Today's interesting conversational point (translated from Russian):

While talking to the best man of groom, a lull came into the conversation, as is apt to do when you first meet someone and know nothing about them. We were situated along the riverbank for picturesque needs, and there were two other wedding parties circulating around the area as well. I take a look at the groups, glance back at Altin and Nurlybek and we have the following exchange:

Me: "A beautiful day, eh?"

Best Man: "Yes--simply a beautiful page in the book of life."

Waxing philosophical already! Obviously with my silver tongue and vast Russian knowledge, I try to think of something just as cryptically insightful but fall very short when I reply, 'nice.' I'm a moron.

Along the Irtish River

The wedding was a grand mix of tradition and new age fun, ranging from the expected toasts to poetry sung to the strums of a dombra to a silly team game of transferring an apple through the pants of four men (don't ask more, that's the entirety of the game) in order to be declared The Champions. My team lost.

Kazakhstan's national dish--Bishparmak--horse meat, onions and noodles.

Counterpart Dina and I during the wedding banquet

First Dance

Cheers

Telling him what he wins, Marv--a new car! My prize for 2nd place in the Wedding Dance Contest

As with most traditional gatherings, nearly everyone is asked to give a toast. I didn't want to be the silly American, so I showed my support for the government policy of learning three languages, and gave three speeches in three languages. The English came out and no one was impressed. The Russian came out and people smiled, probably at my absurd pronunciation. The Kazakh came out last and they clapped before I even finished the toast. Later on, each one of the groom's brothers took me aside and thanked me for coming and displaying a respect for their language and customs. All I said was "Dear Nurlybek and Altin, I want to wish you happiness, love, health and a strong family in your future." Simple. Yet, the people of Kazakhstan once again show that they are appreciative and kind, even for the smallest gestures. Always courteous. Always open and welcoming. Kazakhstan!

Other small tidbits of update:

-Summer camp coming up on the 20th
-Visit to Kazakh Artisan Organization in local village...should be awesome and full of horse milk.
-Guitar is slowly progressing
-I started up a newsletter that I will only send out via e-mail. If you wish to receive it and/or contribute anything to it, please tell me via this website and/or andrewholets@gmail.com
-I filmed a television commercial for a local language center (as my presence here makes me a weird small-time celebrity of sorts) where I threw a lot of my coolness out the window during the last scene. I say my line of extolling the benefits of sending your child to this language center, then throw my hand up with a full-on thumbs up raised to the sky, with a group of children surrounding me doing the same right on cue. Totally cool!

And finally, the Photo of the Week.

Dairy Queen is renowned for its delicious summertime treats, particularly the genius of The Blizzard, as it adds to great things at once (ice cream and a topping or candy of your choice, amazing!). It is so good, so tasty, so resplendent all because it puts two good things together at one time. The concept could make a dead man smile.

I'm here to tell you that this photo is better than any mere combination of candy and gelatinous ice cream can ever be.

A happy man. A baby. A balloon. Three generations of family clapping you on. The happiest photo ever.

Goodnight world!

Men in Hats

2007-07-15T04:31:00.000-07:00

Brief and full of media, a new post is thrown hastily onto the inter-web!

Kazakhstan offers an awful lot to enjoy—it’s truly a destination that not many think of visiting, but most definitely should—and this week proved that point effectively. It’s not always the buildings or the museums that drive a person to visit a different country, and its not always the sunny beaches or great local cuisine either. Sometimes, it’s the people that are worth getting to know. The overwhelming goodness of the Kazakh people comes out in their celebrations and importance they place on their families. I was fortunate enough to be invited to two separate celebrations this week; one graduation party and one wedding party. Both showcased great toasts (“May your love be as vast as the ocean”, while eating at a restaurant called, “The Ocean.”) and family members from all generations (Soviet ornament-adorned grandfathers and kids that were so young and oblivious that they wrestled during the wedding prayer). With all the dancing and food, it was hard not to have fun, and I did my family proud by showcasing my amazing ability to do the Charleston when the music proved appropriate. The rug was cut mightily with the dance moves. There was also an old-fashioned Russian style dance-off with leg kicks and all. The American did not come out victorious, unfortunately.

To savior the recreational times like this that show a country’s and people’s true magnetism—it makes this life a pleasure.

And now for the media!

Photo(s) of the Week

A tie between my definition of Kazakhstan—the kindness of its people and horsemeat sausage.

Taken a few weeks back, this is the scene from our final day at summer camp were the kids bequeathed me and another volunteer with homemade gifts. Fellow Kaz-18, though EDU volunteer Adam Henricksen and I enjoying our scrapbooks. Note the wise Kazakh-man hats.

I awoke from a beautiful dream to find this on my kitchen table.

There is the hope that this is only the intestine stuffed with meat.

Godspeed everyone, I'm off to Almaty.

Summer camp!

2007-07-01T03:23:00.000-07:00

Salutations.

This past week, me and fellow volunteer Adam Henricksen enjoyed the task of heading a summer language camp for some Pavlodarian youth at the local university, иНеу. With campers ages ranging from 12-24, there were a multitude of approaches we could take with teaching them about American life and having a good time.

We went with the "teach what we think is cool" approach and ended up having the following schedule for the week:

Monday: Lesson on American Idioms
Lesson on American Colonialization
Lesson on Benjamin Franklin
Singing "Ooo, Baby I Love Your Way" by Frampton and "Together" by the Youngbloods
Jeopardy!
Drawing and Artwork

Tuesday: Lesson on American Slang
Lesson on Handshakes/Greetings
Lesson on Rock & Roll
Lesson on Joan Baez
Singing "Hold Your Hand" and "Eight Days a Week" by the Beatles
Jeopardy!
Bracelet making

Wednesday: Lesson on American Idioms
Lesson on the History of Pirates
Lesson on Making Chili
Lesson on Edward "Black Beard" Teach/Thatch
Singing "A Pirate's Life for Me"
Jeopardy!
Baseball and Frisbee!

Thursday: Lesson on American Idioms
Lesson on Hershey's Chocolate
Lesson on American Movies
Lesson on Sydney Poitier
Jeopardy!
Tie-dye t-shirts

Friday: Lesson on American Idioms
Lesson on The Simpsons
Guest speaker from America (Volunteer Nicholas Garrett Pappas' mother, Lelia)
Jeopardy!
Boat ride on the Irytish river

Saturday: Lesson on American Idioms
Lesson on American Slang
Movie: Chicken Little
Talent Show
Food party
Presentation of gifts and slideshow of week

Basically, it was amazing. The difficulty of planning and executing such activities was strenuous at times and easy at others, but the campers made it amazing. For the final day, Adam and me were seated in the middle of our classroom and every student presented us with a personally-made gift. The gifts ranged from watercolor paintings of flowers and fruits to teaching us Russian songs to begifting us a scrapbook with everyone's history and interests.

In short, it was awesome.

Guitar progress is occuring.
Summer is hot.
Apartment is clean.
NGO is up in the air due to health reasons of co-workers--worrisome.
Pappas' birthday today and his mom is visiting--more than enjoyable. Кайф, baby.

This installment's Photo of the Week!

Yeah well, your mom lives in Kazakhstan.

2007-06-24T05:35:00.000-07:00

3:30 AM whilst camping near the Irytish.

With a renewed vigor for purpose, friendship, peace and love, a blog post is gurgled onto the inter-web once more from this glorious nation…

To recap the happenings:

From May 16th-June 12th, I enjoyed the most splendid of vacations in the United States of America. “But Andrew”, you kindly inquire, “how can one have such a wonderful time away from their work when all they really did was go to their home?” Great question, inter-web browser. It was so marvelous when consideration is given to the enormity and grandeur of my friends, family and most beloved one. The three-week vacation was an amalgamation of seeing old friends and learning about their new jobs or lack thereof, an ignorance of technological advances (I-Phone? Headache. Nintendo Wii? Ruptured spleen.), family visits around the eastern seaboard, lifestyle changes, beer and one hell of a girlfriend. Recipe for perfection. Try it for yourself one day if you can— you’ll see its rewarding and impossible to complete—to at least force yourself to fit in as many people that are important in your life within a small time period to catch up and say, “hey, we’re friends and that’s all right.”

So America was cool.

Additionally, it’s really fat. Pennsylvania should have cellulosed with cottage cheese ripples by now.

I YAmerica!

N your calorie intake, America.

A return to Kazakhstan:

One of my fellow volunteers and good friends has moved into my city of Pavlodar to act as a teacher of the English language at a local university. This increases Pavlodar’s coolness level by 50 percent.

A change of scenery was needed, though not due to roommate problems whatsoever, and a new apartment has been procured. The aforementioned roommate, the awesome Baurzahn Ablyavich is still in the top five coolest people in the world’s history. The bird needs to fly from the nest sometimes, even if it is one consistently filled with deliciously prepared egg and cabbage breakfasts.

Additionally, my first SPA (Small Project Assistance) grant was approved recently. The funds will be used to purchase technological equipment for computer skills training sessions and for a HIV/AIDS support hotline. Hooray for community development.

And so we start a new segment for this, promising as best I can, weekly posting: Photo of the Week. The winner this week goes to the empty chili pot of achievement in cultural exchange. Yes, when people of various backgrounds get together in a 95° F room and eat spicy chili, you have a recipe for greatness. Throw in a few toasty rips of the ‘little water’ and you really have a good time. And thanks for stopping by, Pavlodar.

This week's winner: An empty chili pot, housed.

Writing Contest: Write one sentence that depicts a birthday better than this one.

2007-06-12T22:02:00.000-07:00

My 23rd birthday was spent in its entirety in a coupee on a train racing from Pavlodar to Almaty that was filled with four people; one Andrew, one man that drank two bottles of vodka by himself, pulled his pants down, resoundly pulled them back up, pissed himself and of course two prostitutes with very gentle eyes.

I ate that.

2007-04-29T07:19:00.000-07:00

When it comes to new experiences, I'm generally all for it. I was ready and willing when I was asked to ride my bike off that ramp in the backyard when I was 9, I was ready when I was dared to eat dirt to get a girl's attention and affection, I was ready to eat the broccoli when my mom told me to, and I was ready to see how cool it would be to see my brother's karate kick up close, but I was not ready to eat this after my roommate (The amazing psychology professor Baurzahn Ablyavich) took roughly three minutes of description to tell me where this meat came from:

The kasha-type side dish wasn't really up to my tastes either. Am I picky?

In general, let it be known, that I love the food here, especially since Baurzahn is the one that prepares it. It's all natural, all the time, baby.

It was some kind of meat from a breast of some kind of animal.

Of note: I was 19 when I ate the dirt for the girl, and I'd do it again.

Springtime is near

2007-04-09T23:21:00.000-07:00

What, me worry?

Springtime is coming on strong here in lovely Pavlodar. The temperatures are already running around 10-19 degrees Celcius. I don't know what I'm going to do, as my clothes are prepared for winter weather more so than this good stuff. Item A on the to-do-list when I visit the States.

I thought that I'd share some photos that are a little old, but bespeak to the beauty that is this country:

The rolling river Irytish in my home of Pavlodar. It froze over during the winter, but I plan on enjoying some shashleek (kabobs) and swimming in the near future along its mighty banks.

Here is a man playing an accordion, wearing a traditional Kazakh hat. I'm going to have a complex with how much I love this music here.

This was taken back in September, but there are the mountains in southern Kazakhstan, taking from a hike with my host grandfather while in Talgar. There aren't mountains near Pavlodar, but there are some forests around here that I'm excited to check out.

There is a lot more beauty to this country, my city of Pavlodar and its people, and I'll do my best to showcase it as best I can.

"The contents of this Web site are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. Government or the Peace Corps."

Ticket and Kids' Birthdays

2007-04-06T23:33:00.000-07:00

I've been a traveling Wilderbury the past few weeks, as I've been in Almaty for nearly 2/3 of the month of March and the first part of April. I had the opportunity to meet with UNAIDS, UNIFEM, UNICEF, USAID, the International Red Cross and the European Union offices in Almaty. Not sure what will come of it, but I sure did give out a lot of business cards.

But because of being away with more English speakers and something like laziness, my Russian has suffered drastically. I don't even know if I can attach any form of possession to the language itself anymore. It hit a low point when I told my roommate that I had bought a guitar but "didn't know how to speak guitar yet." Jesus.

Yesterday, after a day of filling out extremely interesting budgets and grant applications with stamps and signatures galore, my professor roomate kidnapped me to head to a birthday party for his 5 year-old nephew. We enjoyed the customary Kazakh dish, bizparmak which is a huge dish of noodles, potatoes, onions and horse meat. The fun/meat never stops.

By the end, after countless toasts and handshakes and laughs and questions and such, we headed back home. One of the brothers asked me to head to the disco tech with him and his girlfriend, but I felt it was time to head out. With that, the whole family gave me a big hug and said that I was now part their family. Nice little moment there--take note Disney.

Additionally, my plan is to take a vacation to America's United States in mid-May. The ticket is already purchased. Hoping I don't get freaked out by all of America's strange, strange customs (see actually waiting in line in a civil manner). We'll see how it goes.

I also bought a wonderful conversation piece, I mean, guitar. I have time and a guitar, so the equation should solve itself.

Godspeed to the rest.

Nauryz!

2007-03-21T06:13:00.000-07:00

The Monument of Kazakhstani Hope.

Church in Almaty with no nails.

Wedding.

The poet, philospher, cultural man Абай.

Me and a fellow volunteer with a mustasche.

Very well—the in-service training was more of a vacation period in which we learned of various ways to be effective volunteers (again) and blew off a little steam with some colleagues for a few days in a nice city and showers (individually).

They say that our responsibilities as a Peace Corps volunteer do not include changing the world, let alone saving it, but they do often preach providing new perspectives or improvements of life for a few individuals. I suppose that happens from time to time in most other professions. I wouldn’t know. Twenty-two.

And they give us such wonderfully lofty goals as to act with this in mind patiently, and in face of difficultly and confusion. That’s swell, but I think that you, dear reader, act unselfishly and capable to someone you know or don’t know all the time without having a fancy mission statement printed on copy paper and handed to you in a foreign country. Is this assumption correct or are we all damned?

March 8^th was Women’s Day. It was also my roommate’s birthday, so much celebration was had. This included dancing, smuggling drinks and ice cream into the restaurant (we're not the richest family, aight?) and dancing some more.

Example of dancing!

Presently doing the following:

« Website design for my AIDS organization

« Preparing Latin and Greek word origins lesson

« Preparing World History lesson plan

« Trying to master the pronunciation and proper usage of the phrases, “That was a pretty awkward situation” and “It’s going to be muddy like this for awhile, isn’t it?”

« Rolling my pant cuffs up

« Enjoying the Shins, Of Montreal and The Killers’ semi-new albums

« Obtaining tickets for a three-week vacation to the US and A

« Growing my sideburns back

« Preparing my students for their voyages to the US and A! Such eager minds!

« Anxiously awaiting the time when I can give my students their Amero-Kazakh Super Friends Pen Pal letters*—they might just eat the paper with elation.

*-This is a group of Kazakhstani students from my lessons and clubs that correspond with randomly selected, yet best of the best Americans to partake in the ole fashioned cultural exchange known as pen pals. If you would like to apply to be part of the Amero-Kazakh Super Friends Pen Pal Club, simply e-mail andrewholets@gmail.com and request membership. Ask for Andrew Holets.

I need to find a better internet joint to upload photos.

Additionally, I am opining and wishing for the finest recovery for Rob Lowry. He is indestructable.

"The contents of this Web site are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. Government or the Peace Corps."

Wintertime

2007-02-27T23:21:00.000-08:00

I want to be sunburnt right now. Glorious Winter!

Ambiguity is a spice that I often use in conversation either with the intention of remaining mysterious (press fog machine button now) or because it’s a chore to be detailed and introspective enough to properly describe what that deliberative bee inside my head is buzzing for. This type of tactic can certainly bore the questioner, which is sometimes my aim; I am aware that this places me in the post-drizzling-puddle of social interaction, but it also has a slight potential for more in-depth conversation if the answers are truly sought.

And it can also lead people here and back in the States to ask, ‘what the hell are you doing exactly in Kazakhstan, you wooly fool?’

Thus, I shall give my best attempt to describe what the typical day of this wonderful country is like for someone in my position and disposition depending. I will make this a ?-part series so that I may be more detailed with the happenings.

If you have more websites and important tasks to do, here is the short version of the story below:

1) I wake up everyday.
2) I eat food and drink tea every morning.
3) I walk to the spot where the public transportation vehicle picks me up. I say hello to people along the walk that are interesting sometimes.
4) Things happen on public transportation.

And here is the long version of the routine day:

The Northern parts of Kazakhstan were formally used as the grain-raising areas of the Soviet Union. There are seemingly endless fields of nothing in a lot of areas, but I’m located in the city of Pavlodar. I don’t see much of this due to my urban environment. What I do see is a lot of blocked, cement apartment buildings. There are French boutiques, 24-hour supermarkets, internet clubs, WWII monuments, street musicians with squeeze boxes, cell phones galore, bazaars, dive bars with the only food option being fish or flavored croutons, elementary schools, bathhouses (banyas), hotels, office supply stores, notaries, movie theaters, convenience shops, florists, universities and water pumps.

Snow is everywhere. There isn’t much of it, however, as the winds kick it away before it accumulates. There are a fair amount of older people here. They are old men with gum drop hats of fur, women that are more wrinkled than the raisins they sell on the streets. I say hello to this one lady outside my apartment nearly everyday, and she has these eyes that are similar to Death’s but very blue. She’s lovely. They are all very highly respected.

I wake up around 8:30 AM everyday. I have an alarm clock that cost 70 tenge (roughly 48 cents) and a lovely lady from America that calls me nearly every morning. I brew tea—normally green—butter some bread, eat some kielbasa and I head out on my way. I wear nice pants, a button-up shirt and a sweater most days. I can’t be too flashy or casual, but I tend to use the ‘air-it-out’ method of keeping most of my clothes clean. I do handwash my clothes when needed, don't get me wrong, Mom. However, similar to college, I can wear the same outfit a few times a week and no one seems to care. I am unashamed!

From this point, I’ll walk along the sidewalk between school #24 and an apartment. There are normally a few teenagers outside the “парикмахерская” (Barbershop) that I know from a few random run-ins, so I normally shake hands and say hey to them. A few stray dogs will pass by me in search of food, other dogs or a hole to lie in. If I leave at the exact right time, I can catch the one homeless man crawling out of the steaming manhole from his slumber. He’s a nice guy too.

After cutting through a few alley ways and past the garages that aren’t big enough to hold anything more than the car itself, I cross the street to get to the tram stop for my work. I normally wait about three minutes or so, as the trams are on a pretty consistent loop, though there is definitely no structured schedule. When it’s colder than -15° C, I don’t like to chance a fifteen minute wait. This causes me to chase many a tram if I see it heading towards my stop before I get there. Allow me to make it clear that the women that operate the trams can be the nicest people going, if they see you. And yes, mostly only women operate trams; not sure why this is the case exactly. Anyway, there are times when I am a solid 60 yards behind the tram and the operator will wait and open the back door for me to get in. Running isn’t a problem here, as the air itself is crisp and clean, even for a city (Pavlodar population est. 300,000+).

I am normally very quiet on the tram, as it’s the fashionable thing to do. It is proper to give up a seat for an older woman or to whom is with child. The cost is 22 tenge (13 cents). I get off at the double school stop and walk to work. The tram is not without its faults as other means of transportation, as I have been involved in accident where a bus ran into its side, breaking a window and causing a lot of confusion during a very chilly snow storm, and have witnessed an apparent get-away attempt by a gentleman that had stabbed someone with a sizeable kitchen knife. He had the knife tucked in his coat and blood was dripping in a lot of places. There were a lot of shifting, ‘uhh…should we do something?’ type of eyes in that tram. Everything was fine, though.

That’s a basic day in terms of my travel during the work week. I understand the length and potential boredom of said routine. Sorry about that, but I tried spicing it up by using the phrases “steaming manhole” and “with child.”

There are times when a cold fog rambles through the city at night, and this is what it leaves in its wake.

-35 C yesterday.

Version 1.0

2007-02-23T01:18:00.000-08:00

People won't follow the news in a foreign land just because they think it's important; they track what is going on when they have emotional investment in watching and anticipating what comes next.

First, a brief introduction:

Pennsylvania-bred and educated, I am a 22-year old American in Kazakhstan that has chosen the transitory yet tenacious career as a volunteer with the United States Peace Corps. These course of events has led me to the former Soviet bloc; the infantile, democratic nation of Kazakhstan. People speak Russian and Kazakh here; I speak English to those that wish to hear it, muddle through Russian with everyone and have a surprisingly pleasurable knowledge of nearly two dozen words in Kazakh. Though the specialty is the development of non-governmental organizations within the sphere of anti-drug usage and HIV/AIDS services, the people here strangle my free time in such way that I teach English on an average of 7.2 times per week (Elias Sports Bureau). Basically, I do what I can when I can.

Thus, as the current form of media so popularly permits, an American Peace Corps Volunteer from Kazakhstan blog—conceived in idealism, screamed through the womb of altruism, delivered into the hands of an eagerly waiting doctor of underdevelopment—is born,
whose bum has swiftly been smacked by the palm of reality.

Ethan Zuckerman, of the Harvard Berkman Center of co-founder of the international media site, Global Voices, says this regarding the interest in the ‘outside world’ (‘ ‘s used for sarcasm):

"I find myself wondering whether deeper change comes from creating a set of post-national citizens-- people who have friends and collaborators and colleagues all over the world” (SL Magazine, Feb 2007).

That is to say that we care about countries when we care about their people and their stories. And so rather than partaking in news-briefed flashes of outrage, terror or press conferences on the Action News, we'd cultivate a lifelong urge to follow along. Maybe following what I have to share here will aid in that regard.

My initial objective of this is to provide a personal viewpoint from Kazakhstan, although I will not (unfortunately) provide that snappy Channel 6 Action News jingle and Philadelphia photo montage that really gives a punch to the broadcast.