My Newfound Appreciation

I have a newfound appreciation for Irish potato farmers and anyoneelse who has to toil in rocky soil.
Life has been incredibly busy since returning to country. As a strangemethod for relaxation, I signed up to help out with a Habitat forHumanity build in a village near Bishkek. The logic was that, since Iused to do Habitat occasionally on the weekends in the states and dogenuinely find the manual labor a great stress relief, I would berelaxing in the comfort of doing something familiar with somevolunteer friends. Don’t get me wrong, I was not naïve enough to thinkthat houses here are constructed in the same manner as homes in thestates but I was a bit caught off-guard by home different the workwas.
The majority of the house had already previously been built and thefamily was living there. We were helping to finish the floor of thefinal room in the house. The walls had already been built and our taskwas to fill in the space with a foot of dirt and gravel (and chunks ofbroken cement) so that they could pour the concrete floor down. Weworked in teams of two or three shoveling, hoeing, and hauling“wheelbarrows” filled with the dirt and gravel concoction into thehouse where the owner tamped it down with what appeared to be animmobile wooden pogo stick. It was part of a trunk from a small treewith a piece of 2x4 nailed to the bottom and a stick nailed to the topend to create a handle. Our wheelbarrows resemble miniature hospitalstretchers made of wood and metal. The kind of thing you would see insome old war film. It was a simple but durably constructed piece ofrounded metal with wooden poles on either side for two people to beable to carry it. We quickly discovered that shoveling gravel is notan easy task despite the ease with which the locals demonstrated thetask. Never fear, the girls quickly improvised a life changing methodof hoeing the concrete and gravel bits onto the shovel. Hooray forteamwork and creative thinking. Granted, the pile of pure rocks andthe pile that was just rocks mixed with dirt that we dug from oursecond day proved to be significantly easier than the pile of brokenconcrete pieces we shoveled from the first day.
The locals were concerned that we were over exerting ourselves andtold us we had to take breaks every 20 minutes. Then, of course, wehad to break for chai time before lunch. In comparison to the taskmaster pace at which the American Habitat workers charge through theday, it was quite awesome to work a little and rest a little. I thinkthey were also a little caught off guard by females hauling gravel asour Habitat team consisted of 3 males and 6 females.
All in all it proved to be a most exhilarating and relaxing weekend.The family we worked with were some of the nicest people I have evermet.

Phyllis and George

I now have a cat. I named her George, after Curious George that is.This name has been met with a surprising amount of understanding. Mysite mate thought this an unfit name for her, as it is a male’s nameand has decided that her real name is Georgiana. Another fellowvolunteer said her real name should be Georgia. She is a source ofnever ending jokes with locals who have seen her as she has orangehair just like me and therefore we were destined to be friends. Iactually found her in the flowerbed at my organization. She had twosiblings and was clearly the runt of the litter. I like her becauseshe was the only one that would come out and play or attempt toexplore the area outside of the flowerbed, despite her eyes beingalmost sealed shut with what looked like the feline version of pinkeye. When I returned to work after the three weeks in the states, shewas still there. So I took her home wrapped in a bandana thenimmediately bathed her. Now she is all clean and healthy. I have beentold by other volunteers and my parents (after a detailed phonedescription) that she is an orange tabby. To me, she is just George, acrazily curious and fearless wonder cat that has managed to get intoevery crack of my apartment without destroying anything. She has alsodeveloped an amazing habit of waking me by chewing on my ears… I haveto admit, I think I will always be a dog person at heart but it iskind of nice having something to stare at besides a slightly puffypink sparkly wall. (And yes, the wall paper in my apartment isdefinitely puffy, pink, and sparkly).
You may remember me mentioning that my host brother from my traininghost family was married back in October. Well him and his wife justhad a baby girl. Phyllis is the newest addition to my first familyhousehold. (Fi-lease would be the Turkish/Russian pronunciation). Sheis the first grandchild. I told my host mom it is hard to think of heras a grandmother now because she is only 42. Phyllis was born at 5 inthe morning the last week of July while I was in the states. I forgotwhat the family told me the name meant in Turkish but I rememberthinking it sounded extravagant. I was also glad that I was able tomeet Phyllis because she was so young. I even got to hold her when hermother needed to go to the restroom and cook dinner. My host motherkept saying that the baby was too young to see or understand what sheheard. However, she would also start crying within a minute of hermother leaving the room. Thus, Farida (her mother who is a totallyawesome girl that I really enjoy talking to when I visit my hostfamily) and I concluded that she can smell/sense her mother. Afterall,the baby would stop crying immediately upon being brought intowhatever room Fa was in. Phyllis looks exactly like Farida. I alsolearned a new Turkish tradition. When I was telling the family goodnight and wishing them a restful evening without too manyinterruptions from a hungry crying baby, I was instructed to pull outa strand of hair or a piece of string from my garment, place it acrossthe baby’s chest, and then say whatever it was my host mother had merepeat in order to properly tell the baby goodnight. It was reallyawesome visiting them again. Now I just have to wait for the end ofSeptember for my other host sister in my permanent host family to givebirth to her son. Then I will have two babies to play with.

My Sewing Lesson

I reached a new level of local domesticity this past week andsimultaneously discovered that knowing how to sew is not merely asouthern woman necessity, it is also equally important in Kyrgyzstan.My organization put on a handicraft training that focused solely onneedlework. I had previously mentioned that it would be fun to learnhow to make souvenirs to bring home and they took this comment ratherseriously seeing as they graciously included me as an attendee in thetraining. This was an excellent idea excepting the fact that it meantI sat in a room listen to instructions in Kyrgyz and Russian from9:30AM until 4:30 in the afternoon.
Life was not all cupcakes and roses, however. Apparently I sew toometiculously. I was jokingly instructed that if I did not learn to sewfaster my husband and children would starve. This comment of coursebrought up questions about American families. People here are alwayscaught off guard by the fact that Americans get married so late inlife and wait a few years before having children. Here women arenormally married by the time they are 24 and have a child within theirfirst year of marriage. I vote that my slow pace was due to the factthat I was being hauled into conversations at the same time I wastrying to sew. My brain simply vetoed this multitasking venture.
The trainer gave me several projects to take home and I am sincerelygrateful for my new hobby.