Vote for Pedro

This picture has made my life better in so many ways.

The Return of the Cat General

This is the type of cat that I am:

If you were to buy a car from me, and the car turned out not work, I would say fu** you . . . in the a**.

A study in buses around the world

It still amazes me how striking cultural disparities between places can be. For example, this morning I was at the bus stop, prepping myself for the fight to get on the bus. When the 7:20 slowed in front of those waiting and opened its doors, everyone stood back to let someone else, anyone else, go ahead of them. No one there was elderly, or disabled, or carrying six shopping bags, but no one wanted to be the one to charge ahead – me first – and run up the steps, taking two at a time. Usually I find that I’ve somehow edged me way to the front of the line. Months of fighting for a space on buses in other countries has created an anxiety in me, much like a sprinter feels before the gun goes off at the start of a race. In Kyrgyzstan, getting on the bus was like fighting your way through a crowd of citizens in the bread line. There was no mercy and nothing spared for those not willing to lay it all down. In Spain, my roommate used to joke: “No one in this country is in a hurry until it’s time to get on the bus.” Elbows were thrown, people were shoved aside, and heated words exchanged. It’s almost a let-down when here, in the United States, where life moves at a rapid pace and the mentality is to achieve, achieve, ACHIEVE, there is absolutely no rush to get on the bus. Have we become a culture of bus-wusses? Maybe Americans (or perhaps softy Seattlites?) have lost their basic need for minor confrontations. We have espresso and Hollywood to keep us sharp. In the end, though, riding the bus here is MUCH less stressful. And you walk away with fewer bruises.

Practicing to be a Pirate

In order to prepare for my New Years sailing trip around Antigua, I will start honing my pirate-ness for several hours every day. This will include saying a gravely 'YAAaargh' over and over again, as well as running people through with a wooden dagger.

I'll also be wearing an eyepatch.

Me duele mi espalda

Well, my bad back and I have finally moved out of our parents' house! That's right, for the last two nights I've been packing, heaving, lifting, and sorting, much to the chagrin of my aching espalda (that's Spanish for lower-back, in case you're a complete idiot, or a French speaker. Wait, is that redundant?). It's been a long time since I've been out on my own. After graduation, I moved in with a family as a live-in nanny for several months. When I arrived in Kyrgyzstan for my Peace Corps service, I was placed with a HUGE family (they all lived in one room while I had two to myself - does that seem a little unbalanced to anyone else?) for training and then a different family when I arrived at my permanent site. After I returned, I stayed with my parents. It's been . . . cough . . . five months now and I've finally found a job, bought a car, and moved out. Oh sweet freedom! Oh sweet back-pain! Who needs a back when you have the freedom to do whatever you want - as long as your roommates approve, of course.

Why Ryan Adams sucks

Yes, that's right, I said that Ryan Adams sucks. Our love affair is over. Ever since he cancelled BOTH concerts in Seattle I see him for what he really is - a hope stealing, cigarette smoking (heroine shooting?)musician that produces too many CDs and not enough love for me. I was so ready for the concert last night. I had my outfit ready so that he would be overwhelmed by my effortless beauty and hence invite me backstage. Once there, he would realize our overwhelming compatability - how can one deny destiny - and ask me to be his bride, or at least to bear his love child. But now all of that is ruined and I don't even care. You know what, Ryan Adams? I didn't even buy your last album! What do you think about that?! Sucker.

Allow me to share with you my constitution

I am the sort of cat that not only says 'F*** you,' but says, 'F*** you . . . in the ass.'








This post is dedicated to Sean and Andy.

Kyrgyzstan Story

My host-grandmother was kidnapped by my host-grandfather. Their eldest son kidnapped his bride. Their middle son, my host-father, went about it in the more widely accepted, western way - by asking.

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/chi-0507240351jul24,1,1130165.story?coll=chi-newsnationworld-hed&ctrack=1&cset=true

This link provides a really interesting story on Kyrgyzstan, where I served as a Peace Corps volunteer for seven months.

'So this is a rave.'

On Friday night, I had my eyes opened. Much to my shock and surprise, techno is not only admired by e-bombed kids wearing white pants and waving glow sticks, but by Seattle yuppies as well! I went to my first techno show with friends to see Deep Dish who, I am told, is ‘pretty old-school’ when it comes to Progressive House. Huh? In my ignorance, I didn’t even know that techno had sub-forms! I made my first blunder of the night by attempting to wear flip-flops into the club. When I had located some appropriate footwear and was admitted by the bouncer, I made another mistake by saying, “So this is a rave.” My friends were peeved, to say the least. “This is NOT a rave!” They yelled. Oops. I guess I just have a hard time understanding the difference. Here’s what I’ve gleaned over the past couple of days: a)Rave – takes place in a warehouse with flashing lights, kids on party drugs, thumping beats, and crazy outfits, b)Show – takes place at a club (this is apparently a key difference) with good DJs, flashing lights, and kids on party drugs. The only thing missing is the crazy outfits, as the downtown Seattle crowd tends to dress a little more to impress. I’m not going to lie, though, it was a great time. I haven’t been so sweaty on a dance floor since 80’s Night at the 3B in Bellingham. I wish that I could post some pictures of my gnarly blisters and torn-up toes. I’m excited – now I will feel more at home in my future travels! I will no longer be intimidated by Euro trash clubs and pulsing beats. But don’t worry; I’ll leave my glow sticks at home.

Rain, rain, go away!

Above is a picture of my friend, Quinn, peeing into the abyss on Kendall's Katwalk. Note the fog and rain. Welcome to a Seattle summer! Don't blink, or you'll miss it. We have two weeks of absolutely beautiful weather, a couple days of it's-not-raining-but-it's-still-kind-of-dismal weather, and the rest is just rain, rain, and more rain. It's the same as a Seattle winter, only slightly warmer. I love Seattle, but I have begun to feel bitterness toward the incessant rain. True, the grass is always green. True, our trees always have leaves (okay, needles). Yes, you can play outside all year, as long as you don't mind a decent soaking. Are these positives a fair trade for the constant gray? I am especially upset because all week long the weather was hot and sunny, but now that it's Friday everything goes to crap. I guess I'll be wearing a poncho to my friends' barbeque and the festival tomorrow afternoon. One really good thing about Seattle weather is that, wherever you go, you are always appreciative. Blazing heat? Hey, at least its not rain! Blizzards? Still not rain! Tornadoes? Don't even talk to me about it . . .

Innocence Lost

I have no idea how technology functions. Television, for example. How do they get those pictures on a screen in my house? I'm curious as to how television works, just as I'm curious as to how the book I'm reading right now ends. Maybe I'll skip to the end and read the last page, but I know that if I do I'll lose most of my interest in the plot. It's like eating desert before dinner or finding out who won the Superbowl before you watch it (granted, you are in Kyrgyzstan and you have to wait two months for the tape to arrive, but still . . .). Yesterday, I drove down to Portland to pick up Noah the Dog where he was patiently waiting for me at the news station. My brother-in-law decided to show me around 'the compound' so that I could see what a real TV station looks like. Oh bliss! Oh lucky day! But when we got inside, it looked a lot like my office, only less nice and with lots of televisions on everywhere. Where did the magic go? I don't want to know that my local anchorman is cracking jokes to himself because no one is operating the camera. I don't want to know that on the other side of my television screen is a disgruntled, unshaved tech-guy who sits in front of hundreds of switches for hours on end, choosing which images to display. It's just too weird. I do, however, like to know that my brother-in-law sat outside some guy's house in Idaho for three hours in a van with tinted windows, waiting to get a story - now that is magical. From now on I want to know as little about TV as possible. In fact, I don't really want to watch it at all, unless it's the Laguna Beach marathon or Queer Eye for the Straight Guy extravaganza. For those I will make an exception, but I definitely don't want to visit the set and find out that Carson is actually manly and straight and making jokes about hitting-it. Ignorance is bliss.

Come and Take It!

This weekend my family celebrated not only my mother's graduation from college, but my Dad's fiftieth birthday. My aunts flew in from Texas, friends from Arizona, cousins from wherever they were in the US, and my sister and her husband drove up from Portland. It was a great party and so much fun, until the family togetherness began to wear a few of us down - namely myself and my older brother who are easily sparked.


Now, I want to precede this story with a anecdote that my father tells me every time we are driving through south-central Texas. It is the story of a small town called Gonzalez which, during the Texas war for independence, made a big name for itself. This town of a few hundred people (maybe less) was harboring a cannon owned by the Mexican army. When the war began, the Mexicans demanded the cannon back. The townspeople refused. The Mexicans again asked for their cannon, flexing their muscles and threatening attack if the cannon was not relinquished. In response, the hardy people of Gonzalez hung up a banner at the entrance to their town which read, clearly and proudly, "Come and take it!" The Mexicans came, but never got their cannon back because the Texans fought long and hard.


This little piece of history is a reflection of an argument my brother and I got into this weekend. My father has a bike. "A classic!" the REI people yell every time I bring it in for tune-ups. This bike is only ten years old, but it is vintage in the bike world and generally awesome. I love this bike. When I ride to the park, I sleep with arm across it. Sometimes I even talk to The Bike. As it happens, when I was still living in Kyrgyzstan, my father told my older brother that he could take the bike. He didn't pick it up while I was gone, but once I had returned and already replaced the seat, rewrapped the handlebars, and had it tuned-up, he demanded The Bike. I refused. Again he demanded The Bike. Again, I refused. "Fine," he said, "I'm just going to take it then," and began preparing to load the bike onto his girlfriend's truck. I felt like a fire had been lit inside of me. This is how women who lift cars off of children feel! I ran outside in my bare feet and t-shirt and jumped on The Bike. "Come and take it!" I screamed and pedaled away.


After riding around the block, I realized that I couldn't go back home with The Bike while my brother was still there, so I stashed it in a neighbor's garage and walked home. "Why don't you have your shoes on?" my Dad asked when I walked in the door. "I don't really want to talk about it," I said. But I was vibrant from my victory. Come and take it.

Me and My Swollen Eye

Something extremely mysterious is going on here in Sammamish and it has to do with my swollen eye. The mystery is, how did I get this swollen eye? Why does my swollen eye hurt so badly? Most importantly, will my swollen eye reduce in size before I leave for Las Vegas on Friday? I'm curious as to why I have only one swollen eye and not two, but I guess I should be thankful. Apparently it's not that noticeable, but I feel like Quasimodo and think that everyone is constantly looking at my eye. I hope that this is not permanent. In yoga this morning while doing the Downward Dog, I could feel the blood pumping in my swollen eye and it felt like someone punching me repeatedly. Then, while drinking a capuccino and reading at Victor's Coffee, I had to hold the book directly in front of my left eye because the other was too swollen and blurry to use. I hate my swollen eye.

Summarizing

In an attempt to more accurately focus my forward-thrusting efforts, I want to take a moment to step back and look at some things that I have accomplished in the past two years. These follow no particular pattern.


Schools graduated from: 1
Schools attended: 2
Languages learned: 2.33333337
Countries travelled to: 5-8
Time spent abroad: 1 year
Books read: Infinite
Houses lived in: 6
Boys been dumped by: 2
Boys I have dumped: 1
Been in love: 1.25
New sports attempted: 3
Car crashes: 0
Flights taken: ~34
Letters written: ~50
Classes taught: 92
Pounds of plov consumed: 110
Horses ridden: 1
Donkeys ridden: 0
Turkeys slaughtered: 2
Official government buildings viewed: 9
Jobs worked: 5
Smallest salary ever: 100$/month
Marathons trained for: 1
Marathons completed: 0
Training related injuries: 2


Hmmmm, very interesting. I wonder if achievement levels dwindle post-college?

Long Time

It's been a pretty long time since my last post, mainly because I have very little to write about. I'm back in the greater-Seattle area, living with my parents, and out of work. I've only been home for four days and have been filling my time with riding bikes and seeing old friends. I feel like I could ride my bike all day, every day, if only I were in better shape. As it is now, my legs feel like noodles every time I step off the damn thing and try to walk. Gone are the days when I was athletic and trim, though I have a feeling they are on the come-back. As to the old friends, I had totally and completely forgotten what it was like to have a social life. After seven months of spending my nights with my best friend (a heater) and our companion (a book), it seems a little exhausting to hang out with people every night. Perhaps I'm over-doing it. My social arena in The Stan consisted of Sean and Umut and a bottle of wine. After Lamar sent Sean the You Don't Know Jack computer game, we felt like our wild college days had returned - an entire hour of trivia! You have to be kidding me! After a night of You Don't Know Jack, I would go home exhausted and then sleep until 11am the next morning. Maybe sometimes I even had a trivia-induced hangover. Anyway, I'm readjusting to life here, or at least trying to, and sometimes its really hard. It's kind of like that old Kyrgyz banya when you step out of the sauna and then jump into the icy pool. Eventually it's refreshing, but for those first few moments you feel like your heart will stop beating. That's me right now, still in those first few moments.

Re-entry and isn't it hilarious to be alive?

Well, it's Saturday night and I am lame. I think that I have begun to experience reverse culture-shock, which is the term for how freaked-out you get when you come back to the United States after living in the third-world for seven months. This is why the US is freaking me out right now: This afternoon, at around 1pm, I decided to hop on the metro and head to the Smithsonian to see the Holocaust Museum. For some reason, possibly because it was Saturday, possibly because the Cherry Blossom Festival was going on (beautiful, truly), the metro was absolutely packed. I mean, Tokyo at rush hour packed. This was not a big deal. I have sat in circa 1980 mini-vans (marshukas) for hours at a time over roads paved with boulders. I have sat in mini-vans so incredibly crowded that unknown women set their babies, or chickens, on my lap. I have had drunk Kyrgyz men grope my ass. Crowded metro cars in Washington, DC where people are freshly showered and afraid of causing offence to anyone are no problem Or, at least, I thought this was the case until today. The car was so packed that I was joking about the packedness of the car with strangers. It was funny until we came to the Foggy Bottom stop - this was when The Woman decided to snap. "You are standing in the DAMN DOORWAY!" she yelled at the people clinging desperately to poles and seat-backs, unable to move because other people were standing behind them, to the left of them, breathing down their necks. This was when she started pushing the Other Woman, the innocent one, and yelling again, "Will you move out of the F-ing doorway!" The Other Woman, being normal, didn't respond. I said, audibly (snapping in my own, particular way), "Are you freaking kidding me?" People looked away. What causes people to snap like this? Obviously we have all been in frustrating situations, but this is what they are - situations. They are not life. Usually they don't last longer than ten minutes, which is enough time to remember to breathe into your abdomen and use that breath to laugh at how ridiculous things have gotten. I hope that this tendency to snap and forget the hilarity of life, the waste of this hilarity on anger, is a trait of The Woman and not of America in general. Anyway, I made it to the Holocaust Museum. I saw pictures of the children who were euthanized for being imperfect (aren't we all?). I read about women and men who risked their lives to resist imprisonment and enslavement. I listened to the story of two starving men who, after years of starvation, ran to embrace each other because they were both alive and wasn't it something to be joyful about? After seeing this shadow of tragedy, I want to say to The Woman (at the risk of sounding condescending and preachy) - suck it up, you wuss. Suck it up. You know nothing of frustration.

I get my news from Wolf Blitzer.

I was getting my hair cut today in DC when the stylist, David, who is French and utterly fabulous, leaned down and whispered that Wolf Blitzer had just come in. Apparently he had been doing work in Iraq. "Oh, was he reporting?" I asked from underneath my hair. "Non," David replied, "he is no reporter. He is anchorman (imagine the statement being made with a French accent)." Then I felt like an asshole for not knowing what exactly is was that Wolf Blitzer did for a living. To make up for my ignorance, I watched this man with the famous name very carefully. Wolf Blitzer sat down and read a magazine. Wolf Blitzer stood up and went to the bathroom. Wolf Blitzer came back and announced that the Pope had passed. "When did it happen?" David asked. "About two minutes ago," Wolf Blitzer replied. Of course, being Wolf Blitzer, he would know. What I'm curious about is, why did he wait to announce this? Was he letting the tension build by sitting to read his magazine, by going to the bathroom? Maybe Wolf Blitzer always announces world-changing breaking news when he goes in to get his beard touched-up and he was just kidding around with the stylists by making them wait. Maybe, because he is Wolf Blitzer, he does not have to honor the important information code, which is that you announce really important information as soon as you enter a room. I don't know. What I do know is, nobody questioned Wolf Blitzer when he made his statement. This was not true for me. When I got back to the hotel, I announced to the room at large, "I saw Wolf Blitzer at the hair salon and he told me that the Pope died." Nobody believed me, especially the part about Wolf Blitzer being at the hair salon. Hopefully Wolf Blitzer was not playing a late April Fool's Day joke about the Pope. First of all, because it wouldn't be funny and, second of all, because it would make me look like a total fool. But isn't that the kind of power that Wolf Blitzer has?

America is boring

Welcome to the United States. Now that I've been here for a couple days and have settled in (by this I mean: have taken several showers, washed clothes in a washing machine, and retrained myself to NOT throw toilet paper in the trash can after use) I've come to the conclusion that America is boring. I haven't seen any ass-carts since I've been here. No random drunk men have tried to fight me on the street over the state of our country's foreign policy. I haven't sat on the floor to eat in a week. Maybe it's boring in a good way, but today when someone asked me what the most interesting thing that happened to me yesterday was, I had to respond, "I saw a cute guy on the subway." If this is the most stimulating thing in my daily life then things have really gone downhill. Mostly its my own fault since I am still captivated by the readily available book stores and English television programs. Tomorrow I am determined to go see some stuff. Oh wait! Something interesting DID happen to me today! Not only did I eat at Baja Fresh, but I hypnotized myself. Yes, that's right, I hypnotized myself. Is that too weird? Is it even possible? Well, that sums up things for now. I'll update when I see George W.

So this is our nation's capitol.

I arrived in Washington, DC the day before yesterday. When I stepped off the plane, I almost cried with the wonder and joy of being in America again. Unfortunately, the customs agents didn't share my joy and demanded my passport and tickets when I said, "Can you believe it? It's America!" No one understands. Since I've been here I've gone shopping, had a massage, eaten at a deli, shopped at Safeway, and spoken English to everyone. The English part is a little bit weird. I'm not used to understanding other peoples' conversations in the bathroom and on the subway and, honestly, I find it a little disconcerting. In-country, when people would speak in Russian I always imagined they that were discussing something incredibly interesting. Now I realize that they were probably just saying, "Could you pass me some toilet paper? My stall is out." or "Did you hear about the newest recipe for plov? I can't wait to try it at our sheep slaughtering this weekend." Plus, it is exhausting to process information about other peoples' lives. Of course I always listen in and make mental notes - this one's neurotic, this one's an insomniac, this one's life is driven by work, and so on and so on. They're probably thinking: This one has a bad haircut. I have a lot of free time here and am trying to think of ways to fill it. Its an entirely different problem than the one that confronted me in Kyrgyzstan. There my options were either read a book or watch television in Russian. Oh, or sit in my room for an hour straight mechanically putting chocolates into my mouth (not that it ever happened). Here I can go to a museum, see a movie, get a coffee and read the paper - so many things to do that it makes decision making difficult. Alright, I'm going to go try and sleep again. I woke up, as usual at 5am and was wide-awake. Thank you jet-lag! Bye for now.

Still in Germany

I lied, I'm updating from Germany again because I have HUGE news - I saw a Starbucks!!! It was closed so I couldn't go in, but I saw one. I recognized the green table-tents from afar and my heart started pounding. Just seeing it was enough to convince me that I'm back in the western world. I walked around this morning looking at old buildings and eating German pastries. It is cold here right now. There is a park along the Rhine river and the entire area was covered in chilly fog, but it was nice to walk through anyway. Since last night I have met people from Malta, India, America, and, of course, Germany. Travelling is always so interesting. Alright, back to my hotel to pack up and catch the subway back to the airport. Goodbye, Frankfurt! You were amazing.

Hello from Frankfurt

I want to begin this post by apologizing for any misspellings, particularly `y` where there should be `z` and vice-versa. I'm writing this in Frankfurt, Germany and, for some reason unknown to me, the keyboard is switched-around. First of all, Kyrgzy news: the president fled the country, the opposition party took over the government buildings, the mob looted various stores around the city, and Peace Corps volunteers are consolidated. As far as I know, the only people who have been evacuated are the volunteers from Osh and Jalalabad who are now living in various surrounding villages. My home-town, Bazar-Korgon, has welcomed its fair share of volunteers recently. In response to Ian's post - BK remains peaceful and Kyrgyz-Uzbek relations remain as they ever were. By the way, I know your old host-family and they still speak of you. When militia officers were being beaten to death by an angry mob in Jalalabad City, the people of Bazar-Korgon didn't even know that there was a problem half an hour away from them. Speaking of Bazar-Korgon, it seems far away right now, considering the fact that I just ate at McDonalds, withdrew euros from an ATM, and am about to go drink some German beer. The initial plan for my medevac was to leave last night on Turkish Airlines and stop over in Istanbul; however, foreign carriers cancelled all flights out of Bishkek, so my options were limited to flying from Almaty, or taking Kyrgyz Airways to Germany. Since I don't have a Kazakh visa and the borders were closing down, Kyrgzy Airways was the better option. I should be in DC tomorrow evening. I'm feeling extremely overwhelmed right now by the recent events. First of all, I get whisked away from my village for medical. Then, while in the city, an angry mob takes over the government. I was just sitting down for lunch in a nice cafe (I had even ordered a cappuccino), when a Peace Corps staffer came running in. 'We have to go now!' she said. 'Why,' I asked. 'They're just bringing my coffee.' 'The people are coming!' she said. 'The people are coming!' We ran outside to where the Peace Corps vehicle was waiting and, sure enough, thousands of protestors were marching down the street. While I was sad to leave behind my coffee, I preferred not to be in the path of so many volatile marchers. To make up for this loss, a friend and I decided to go to the Hyatt for lunch. When we came back, stuffed and glowing from our delicious meal, we discovered that the opposition had taken over the White House and that Akaev had fled. I felt like such a tool. I was eating lunch at the Hyatt while other people were witnessing revolution. But anyway, this entire situation is just too weird. In fact, I'm really weirded out that I'm in Germany right now. I mean, honestly, Germany? Just this morning I was stoked to have a luke-warm shower at the hotel. When I asked the woman at the desk here if the rooms have showers, she laughed in my face. Apparently I have some adjusting to do. Alright, sorry this blog is so long. If you have read this far, you are a dedicated type of person. Next update will be from Washington, DC.

Escape!!!

Due to increasing unrest in the city centers (Sadie heard gunshots outside of her house and Scott saw people handing out Molotov Cocktails), Jalalabad City has been evacuated to Bazar-Korgon and Kochkor-Ata. Sean put up four extra volunteers in his apartment and life was easing and the living was free for a day or two. We played frisbee at the stadium, watched movies, and walked around. We also ate pizza. Unfortunately, it is easy to go crazy when you can't leave a village for an unknown amount of time. I was ready to bang my head against the wall, if only to knock myself unconscious and sleep for a couple hours. Myself and three other girls in the Jalalabad Oblast needed to travel to Bishkek for medical reasons, but whenever we would begin to prepare our trip something new would happen. For instance, the opposition would block all traffic from the south to Bishkek. Or, the opposition would pour rocks all over the airport runways so that planes couldn't land or take off. Finally, Doctor Yelena decided to chance the odds and drive down in the Peace Corps Vehicle in order to pick us up. We left Bazar-Korgon yesterday at noon and had no problems driving up, except for when we almost got stuck crossing the mountains, but that is another story. Now I'm in Bishkek, waiting for my appointment with the doctor. I am here indefinitely as all Peace Corps volunteers are now on Stand-Fast, which means they can't leave their sites and have to check in regularly with the office. Stand-Fast is the first step of evacuation, if the situation here leads to that. I've run into some other volunteers who are also stuck in the city. They are unhappy about it, but I say great! A hot shower every day and cheeseburgers at my disposal? I'm stoked to be here. I'll let you know how it turns out.


By the way, if you are using my blog to back up the premise that America is funding the opposition party in Kyrgyzstan, you are a fool. America doesn't even know that Kyrgyzstan exists.

Trapped and Nasty American Rumors

Well, today is our six month anniversary in Kyrgyzstan and, to celebrate, we are trapped in our villages. Thank you Civil Unrest Fest! Thank you Kyrgyz people! You have succeeded in making my life that much more boring and tedious. Things, apparently, are heating up around here. For instance, the mayor of Bazar-Korgon was captured and held hostage by angry protestors, only to be rescued by special task-force militia. Now he is in hiding somewhere, we don't know where (because he is hiding). The same thing happened in a village in Talas. In Osh city, the first reports of injuries were made when protestors took over a government building there. What is this craziness? Though it sounds interesting, things appear to be as quiet as ever in day to day life. Sean, Umut and I, strapped for things to do, ended up watching Six Feet Under on Sean's laptop for FIVE HOURS straight yesterday. I think I developed a bed-sore. We snuck into Jalalabad City today, feeling very anti-establishment and courageous, only to discover that it is alright to travel during the day, only overnight travel is restricted. Well then. Anyway, I am going crazy in my site, which should be obvious by the stress-induced hives that curiously appeared on Thursday night. There is no relief in sight, either, as we have a two week vacation to look forward to and nothing to do. Excellent.


The second half of this entry will be devoted to dispelling nasty rumors that Americans have about themselves. I was inspired to write this on our taxi ride into the city this morning -honestly, guys, Kyrgyz people KNOW about America. The nastiest rumor that Americans have about themselves (and I really hate to be the one to break it to you) is that Alaska is actually a state. It's really on lease from Russia and the sooner we realize this the better. This comes as a relief to me, because I hate people from Alaska. Another nasty rumor we have is that there are fifty states. In truth, there are anywhere from thirty to sixty-five states, depending on who you talk to. I think the numbers change based on the weather and what Arnold Schwarzenneger, who is actually the president, decide. In America, we do not have tall mountains, big rivers, or notably large lakes. We don't have snow, cold weather, or rain because California, Florida, and Texas have taken over the country. We also don't have walnuts. I don't know what it is that you're eating right now, but its not really a walnut and you should probably throw it away. Some dirty capitalist developed that walnut look-alike in an attempt to take over the world and enslave the working classes. The sooner you realize these things, the better. Perhaps you should spread the word to everyone else - we don't want to look stupid in the eyes of the world.


Alright, I've got to go back to my village and stare at the wall for a while. Check out Eurasianet.com for information and updates on the Kyrgyz situation. Don't forget to click on Kyrgyzstan.

My Kyrgyz Haircut

Well, I just had my first hair cut in eight months and, though it was much needed, I have to be honest and say that my hair looks like shit. I look like a blonde Kyrgyz woman. It's not as bad as the euro-mullet haircut that crazy man gave me in Spain, but it's similar to the bowl cut my Mom blessed me with for the first twelve years of my life. I didn't think it was so bad at first, but my Kyrgyz friend Umut saw what the woman had done and asked me, "Oh! Are you okay?" which is when I started realizing that things had gone horribly wrong. I guess this is what I should expect for paying 1.50$ for a haircut. Wondering about the reasons behind a cheap bad haircut is kind of like wondering why a bottle of 40 com vodka gave you such a nasty hang-over. Anything for a dollar is just not worth it. But don't pity me and my bad hair, I put myself into this situation and I will live with its consequences. Bye for now.

Shout-Outs

This blog entry is dedicated to the people I rarely communicate with, but think are awesome. If you feel that you are not one of these people, read no further. If you are bored by the idea of reading about people who are not you (you self-centered asshole), read no further. If you would rather watch reruns of the Real World, read no further. If you can't read at all, stop looking at this, you're wasting your time. Let the shout-outs begin!


1. Kathryn Stickney - You are awesome and I wish I had your e-mail address! Congratulations on seminary - I'm really proud of you. In Kyrgyz, we say 'ak jyrek,' which mean 'pure-hearted.' This makes me think of you.
2. Lamar Brown - Though we have never met in my life, you are my own personal hero. Thank you for the walkie-talkies and all the delicious treats you send to your son, which he then shares with me. You seem cool - I'm sorry that Sean is such a bitch.
3. Reuben Person - If I could, I would drop the Peace Corps and move to New Zealand to hang out and have adventures with you. You better not be sharing the Reuben Tiggle Jiggle with other girls, because I will kill them with my own two hands.
4. Katie Grimes - When will the old hotness and the new hotness be reunited? When?
5. Chris Patnode - Thank you for always commenting on my lame blogs and for sending me delicious chex mix. We ate it in one sitting and it was irresistible.
6. The Makers of Clone - You have remade my life from something lost and floating into something with drive and direction - the need to watch Clone every night at 7pm. My life has a purpose again.
7. The US government and all you taxpayers - Thank you for giving me a job, you suckers.
8. Ayn Rand - Even though you are dead, maybe someone will get you this message: you are amazing! I don't know how right-on the whole Objectivism thing is and sometimes I find you rather heartless, but keep on rocking for all those above-average people out there!


This concludes my shout-outs for today. Stay prepared for the next update - maybe you'll be on it.

Civil Unrest Fest

Salam! After receiving nervous e-mails from my family and reading news quotes talking about protestors rioting and taking over government offices and such, I thought I would say that the news is blowing this movement out of proportion. True, groups of anti-Akaev protestors have taken over the government office in Jalalabad and their supporters have set up yurts of solidarity handing out bread and tea and vodka (of course). True, an armed guard dressed in full riot-gear is surrounding the office to make sure that things stay peaceful and that no one else can enter, but they don't even have guns. True, the volunteers living in Jalalabad city were asked by the Peace Corps to pack their bags and be prepared to evacuate to Osh should violence arise, but nothing has happened and things are as calm as they ever were.
The Civil Unrest Fest began last Friday, the same day that I decided to go to Osh to visit some volunteer friends there. When we arrived in Jalalabad city, there was a crowd chanting, "Down with Akaev! Down with Akaev!" outside of the government offices. As we prepared to catch the taxi out of the city, the crowd was swarming the office gates despite the militia men fighting to keep them out. In Osh, we heard reports of protestors setting up tents in the offices, the government workers had fled, and volunteer evacuation to Osh city might be necessary. "That's conventient," we said. "We're already in Osh." And then we went to the park to play ping-pong and eat ice cream.
I'm interested to see what happens here. The protestors are calling for Akaev's early resignation and a sped-up presidential election. They also want a new parliamentary election to make up for the last one, which was a total farce. What will Akaev do? I seem to recall something he said along the lines of, "Any resistance will be seen as a show of force and proper military action will be taken." I hope he was bluffing, otherwise I might be out a job and back in America before you know it. Either way, even though as a representative of the US government (does that mean I'm just a grossly underpaid ambassador?) I have to walk disinterestedly through crowds of protestors, I secretly feel a little thrill of pride for the Kyrgyz people tying pink ribbons around their arms and yelling 'Dwn with Akaev!' I hope they succeed in creating a better country for themselves. I hope they break out of this post-Soviet lock that seems to be hold Central Asia back. I also hope they come up with a better color than pink for their next revolution.

Holiday (every day?)

Hello again! It's Thursday and, yes, I definitely should be teaching class right now, but the mayor of Bazar-Korgon has declared it School Cleaning Day! This is not a joke, class is actually cancelled so that the students can clean their school as a crucial element of their instruction on how to be good little Soviets. This week I taught school a total of . . . (pause for Ailey thinking) . . . two days! Why only two days, you ask? Because who needs eduation! I flippantly reply. Actually, Wednesday was International Man Day, which is definitely needed here in Central Asia - men just don't get the respect they deserve. So, no school on Wednesday and, because no holiday is complete without a half-day the day before, no school on Tuesday either. Next week is International Woman Day, so there will be no school on Tuesday and, as I have already said, no holiday is complete without a half-day the day before, no school on Monday either. Of course, the post office will be closed for two weeks straight in celebration of International Man Day and International Woman Day. International Man Day doubled as Army Day, so there was a lot of drunk men in the street all week last week. When I pass a drunk man in the street on the way to my 11am class, I never know where to look. If he's walking straight, but slightly lurching, I don't make eye-contact. If he's sober enough to walk, he's sober enough to talk and I hate making conversations with drunks early in the morning. If he's walking, but veering all over the place, I have to watch because, first of all, maybe he will fall over and that is interesting and, second of all, maybe he will walk into me and that is bad. I'm curious, are they still drunk and awake from the night before? If so, that is an impressive feat. Or did they just start drinking really early in the morning? The thought honestly turns my stomach - to be honest, the thought of vodka turns my stomach at any time, day or night, but in the morning when respectable people are eating their bread and tea! I just don't understand. Alright, I'm going to go enjoy the weather. Its around seventy degrees today! This is great, but its only March. What will happen in June, or July, or August? For those of you who were tired of hearing me complain about the cold - prepare yourselves. I'm going to complain a lot about the heat. Honestly, I'm from Seattle. Its sixty degrees year-round there.

Spring and the Lies I Tell

Spring is here!!! It's coming and the reason I know is that everything is melting. While I was teaching class last week a huge chunk of ice fell of the roof past the window and crashed to the cement courtyard below. The entire class stopped amid gasps of awe and wonder. A mini avalanche, just for us! Because its spring and because spring is about new beginnings, I have some confessions to get off my chest. The first one is that I hate Askar Akaev. He is a shitty, corrupt president running a farce of a democracy and, also, he has a unibrow. The second one is that I'm beginning to hate my site-mate, Sean. If you read this Sean, that's right, you suck. The third and most heavy confession I have to make is that I have begun telling lies to win arguments. The first occurence was during pre-service training outside of Bishkek. I and volunteer-to-remained-unnamed were having our usual daily fight, this time about Uggs and where they originated. Volunteer-to-remain-unnamed said, "Uggs are from Australia and were originally used as surfing shoes. Sheepskin is an excellent way to warm you feet." Of course, he was right and I knew that he was right. But because I was sick and tired of his rightness, sick and tired of his all-knowingness, sick and tired of the way he pronounced information gleaned from Newsweek and CNN.com as if it were direct information from the head of the KGB himself, I told a lie to make him feel bad. "Oh no, my friend, that's simply not true." The lie spilled out of me like juice out of a ripe pear, "Uggs are from New Zealand where the shepherds created them to keep their feet warm during mid-summer blizzards." "Are you sure?" he asked. "Yes, I'm sure. I looked it up on the internet before I came here." My heart was beating faster from the success of my lie. It was exhilerating! Later, in the privacy of my room, I laughed long and hard - what a stupid lie to tell. But then, last Sunday, I found myself doing it again, this time to win an argument about why the Kyrgyz government paints the bottom half of the city's trees white. "It's to protect against insects," I said, which is true. "I simply don't understand," my friend replied. "In America we have many trees and the bottom halves are never painted white." "That is where you are wrong!" I yelled. "I have SEEN trees painted white in America! In Georgia they paint all the trees white to protect against insects." This is totally untrue. Actually, I don't know, because I have never in my life been to Georgia. I also have no plans to ever find out, I'm simply saying I lied to win and I won. Is this a bad thing? Perhaps I should become a politician. I don't know if I should work on correcting this new habit of mine, or hone it. Which will be better for my future career path? Anyway, I'm going to go outside and enjoy this fresh spring rain. At least its not snow and ice. Bye for now.

Why I hate Running in Kyrgyzstan

I live in a city of approximately 60,000 people and I am the only one who runs for exercise. Other people run to catch the bus, or run when someone is throwing free plov out the back of a moving truck, but never for exercise. I am also the only natural blonde in a thirty-mile radius and this makes me an oddity; some might even go so far as to say 'a freak.' I love running, but I hate running in Kyrgyzstan and this is why: women lugging heavy sackfuls of potatoes to the bazaar will stop and stare, cars will honk, buses will pass and all the passengers will press their faces to the windows, just to watch me run. I have had snowballs thrown at me by otherwise peaceful side-of-the-road squatters. One time two drunk Kyrgyz men marched after me yelling "One, TWO. one, TWO!" in heavily accented English. I have had mens quat beside the track to watch me complete lap after lap as if a single person running was a spectator sport. One man showed me his penis. What are these people thinking, I wonder? Does their inner-dialogue sound similar to a sports-commentator? "And she's running, she's starting a little later today than yesterday. She seems to be favoring her right leg - could the old hip-flexor be acting up again? Oh, she's picking up speed . . . she passing us now . . ." Why do people look at me like such a freak? Maybe they should consider their not-so-hopeful average life-expectancy (~54) and think twice about throwing snowballs, yelling marches like a total post-communist, or flashing certain body parts. I'm just an innocent woman trying to protect my health. The diet here consists of potatoes, vodka (also made from a potatoe), and cigarettes (I'm not sure about this one, but could have some potatoe components) and, though my students always claim to have 'done their morning exercises,' they didn't and are only lying to please Stalin, who's dead anyway, so just who are they kidding? I should be more fair, running in Spain was also an adventure, though slightly different. People there never threw things (too lethargic from siesta? too much vino with lunch?), but they did make plenty of comments. Old men on park benches would watch as if you were some kind of free soft-core porn deposited on the streets for their viewing pleasure. "Hola rubia, que piernas!" followed by a hacking smokers cough was common. But at least in Spain there was the comfort of other runners. Usually they were secret runners, such as myself, completing their laps during the two hours siesta so as not to be seen by the normal people who were at home, drinking red wine and watch Corazon, Corazon. There are no secret runners in Kyrgyzstan, so I am resigned to my solitary, freakish runs. Just so long as people don't throw rocks. Snowballs I can handle, but rocks are just too much. I am haunted by the story of the volunteer who had a slab of concrete slammed against his head by a drunk local and later was found to have pieces of skull in his brain. Granted, small rocks are hardly slabs of concrete, but you know how these things escalate. For now I'll take my chances. I'm not kidding, though, one rock and I'm done.

Claiming Dibs

It turns out that a Dutch ex-pat will soon be relocating from Osh to Jalalabad. This news was relayed to me by Vanessa who has met this man and claims that he is "nice." After giving the information, V then proceeded to claim dibs and, even though I have never spoken to or seen this man in my life, I immediately became extremely defensive. "I'm sorry, did you just say 'dibs'?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "This is a person we're talking about, not a sweater at a JC Penny sale." V then sheepishly retracted her dibs, at least vocally and I felt weirdly placated. Is it the lack of available men that is making us so crazy? I mean, claiming dibs, getting pissed about someone claiming dibs . . . what does it all mean? And why should I care if V claims dibs anyway? I'll probably meet this Dutch ex-pat, this "nice" guy, and find that, in the way of the Dutch, his jeans are too tight and his shirts a little too stylish to be considered attractive by any self-respecting American girl from the West Coast. Give me baggy jeans! Give me t-shirt over t-shirt! Give me beenies! Anything but style. I wouldn't know what to do with a Dutch man and his french fries dipped in mayonaise anyway. If I ever meet this "nice" guy, I will probably make some Pulp Fiction joke about 'Royale with cheese" and he will think I'm lame. What I'm getting at is that I'm a little ashamed for making V retract her dibs. If she wants him, she can have him. Unless, of course, he looks like Jude Law. Then it is every girl for herself.

What a chest cold!

I don't have anything to report right now, other than the fact that I have a chest cold and it sucks. Oh yeah! I also heard some exciting stories about a certain volunteer residing on the lake (to remain unnamed - you know who you are) who lept out of a two-story window in order to escape the wrathful husband of his roommate's girlfriend. Given the options of a) facing drunk and scary Kyrgyz man bent on revenge and b) leaping Batman-esque out of a two-story window, I would definitely choose the window. What's a back fracture compared to years of night-sweats and dreams that such a man is coming after you? This is my opinion on the matter. Also, I have started my secondary project and it is called Increasing Tourism in Kyrgyzstan by Convincing Friends to Visit Me. What do you think of the title? Here's what I can offer you if you come here: a week-long horseback riding trek through the nature preserve! Really, really cheap food, the likes of which you have never even dreamed of! Unlimited hiking through unsettled mountain country! Also, will offer myself as your personal guide and champion at taxi stops and on marshukas for free. What a deal! So consider it, and think of the underprivileged country that you would be helping out with your powerful American dollars. Alright, that's enough for now. I'm going to go and feel sorry for myself and dream about chicken noodle soup. I'm also going to cough a lot. Bye for now!

Kerbenanza

What's happening, readers of my blog? I just got back from a weekend trip to Kerben, the coldest place on earth. Our friends live there and always complain about having no visitors (Kerben is basically IN Uzbekistan). It was awesome, though, because we arrived after our four hour taxi ride to find Jungle Juice prepared and Mario Brothers on the Chinese Nintendo knock-off. So we played some video games and waited for our other friends, Liz and Victoria, to arrive from Osh. They had to sit in a marshuka for basically an entire day over bumpy-ass roads and along treacherous cliffs. It sucks. I know because I just sat in the same marshuka for five hours on the way back. We went to Kerben because beautiful mountain vistas were promised and, going along with these mountain vistas, awesome sledding. So, on Saturday morning, we set out with two circa-1750 sleds complete with metal runners and plank wood seats for the best sledding known to man. We walked for two miles through thigh-deep snow (this is not a joke) pulling those damn metal sleds and contemplating death the entire way: "If we got stuck here, how would we shelter ourselves through the night? What would we eat?" Someone decided that I would get eaten first, but they had no arguments to back that up. "Does this remind anyone of a death-march?" Sean said, falling into a snowdrift chest-high. "If you fall here, you die here!" Kyle shouted from the lead. He wasn't pulling a sled. After an hour, we finally made it to a slope. Rob was the first to try the sled out. He started at the top of the hill - we waited, tense with anticipation. The sled began to move, the runners cutting smoothly into the snows upper-crust. It was kind of like art, kind of like nature at its finest. But then, because the sled had metal runners and a plank wood seat, it sunk into the snow (knee-deep snow) and Rob fell off. I think that the sled covered a total distance of three feet. To be quite honest, the sledding sucked, but I like to call our trek a "snow hike," which has a much nobler sound to it. "Snow hike." If you say it really slow and dramatically, it kind of has a ring, huh? But anyway, Kyle and Rob's friends made us fresh lagman last night, which was delicious and then we all pretty much passed-out. It was a good weekend that could only have been topped-off by almost being left by the marshuka in God-knows-where-town in the middle of the mountains while you are peeing. This almost happened to me and would have been terrible today, but probably pretty funny in about five years. Well, I'm pretty tired from our adventures at the Kerbenanza and must return to, as Kyle so aptly put it, "The Sucktopolis of Kyrgyzstan," otherwise known as Bazar-Korgon. Please stay posted for next week's update and more adventures from Kyrgyzstan.

My fingers are cold

It is freaking cold here right now! In fact, my fingers are so cold that it's making typing difficult. Luckily, my host-family adopted a baby and, since they obviously want the baby to be warm, they fixed the heat in our house and now it's almost too hot at times. When winters first hit, it was really fun to slide around on the ice and pick snowball fights with my students and random kids in the street, but now I'm tired of almost falling on my ass every time I walk to the outhouse. Plus, who wants to haul food from the bazaar in such treacherous conditions? Let's just say I've been resorting to an old favorite and eating peanut butter out of the jar. Another thing that frustrates me is the little boys who like to perfect there aim by throwing snowballs and ice chunks at your head. On Saturday morning, I was walking past the Uzbek school when some kid hit me square in the back. I was so pissed that I snapped, "F--- you!" I yelled, in English, of course (passion just can't be translated into Kyrgyz). "That's right! You're ugly! Yeah, your face is ugly," and I ran away like some junior high girl that just got her pants pulled down at the Spring Fling. Afterwards, I was ashamed for yelling those things, but the only thing that kid understood was, "Man, that girl is PISSED!" He probably thought it was funny.
My boss is coming down from Bishkek this afternoon to interview us about our sites. She's also bringing packages that have been sitting at the embassy for three months - I can't wait to see what I get. I know that one of my packages has Christmas tree ornaments in it, which is a little late in coming, but maybe I'll decorate anyway. I listened to Christmas music just the other night and got all wistful, thinking about home. In one of my most recent packages, I got a pair of slippers to keep my feet warm in the house. The funny thing is, they are the slippers that Mary, my favorite schwuarma stealing roommate, bought in Spain! After she left, I kept them, took them back to the states, and then my mom sent them to me. They have been more places than I have.
Well, other than getting hit with snowballs and new slippers, there's not much to say. I miss you all and can't wait to talk to you again. Oh yeah, wish me luck on my job interview this Wednesday! I'm trying to work with the Central Asian student exchange program for two weeks this summer, so I would be teaching Kyrgyz, Uzbek, Tajik, Turkmen, and Afghan kids English before they leave for their year in the United States. But apparently there are only two positions and my experience is definitely lacking. We'll see what happens. Talk to you soon!

My New Blog!

Dear friends and people I've never met in my life - welcome to my new blog! Well, today is Friday, it's 11am and snowing outside. Winter is, supposedly, almost over, but Peace Corps volunteers from my group are dropping like flies. We lost two during pre-service training, two a month after we swore in, and now it seems that two more are going home. I also have a list of about five people in my head that will most likely follow soon after. These are probably the people that never quite mastered the bucket-bath and, therefore, were always feeling dirty and unhappy. As long as I can be clean I will be somewhat satisfied. It's really, really cold today. So much for this "childare" business. Everyone was saying that there were only forty days of purgatory-like winter left. Strangely enough, the childare was more like spring and, now that it's over, winter appears to be starting. This is the backwardness that is my life - it's cold when it should be nice, the post office is closed when it should be open, the electricity is off when it should be on, etc. Aside from this, I've been really busy lately, teaching classes and working with clubs. So far I have two regular English clubs, one dance/American music club, movie club, and, of course, basketball club. My basketball skills have recently been discovered and, I think, are and will forever only be appreciated in Central Asia where most people are shorter than me. As for my host-family, my host-mom, a former geography teacher at our school, just adopted a baby boy, so she quit working and now we bond over discussions about which class we dislike the most. The general consensus is 10B. Last night an argument almost erupted as we sorted the rice for plov (eye-destroying work, let me tell you) over who disliked teaching 10B more. I think I probably win - those kids give me a headache. In other exciting news from my life, I just finished reading Lonesome Dove which turned out to be an excellent book. Also, Schindler's List is amazing if you can get your hands on it. Clone is ending this week and we are all chewing our fingernails, trying to figure out what Latin-American program will be dubbed into Russian next. I hope it's something steamy and involving men named Diego and Paco. I can't wait to visit Spain this summer! Well, that's about it for news from Peace Corps Kyrgyzstan. Hopefully my next entry will be more interesting - I will actively look for adventures, just so I have something funny to write about. Bye for now.