Into the field!

I'm heading to Jalalabad city today for my second round of fieldwork. Tomorrow, my Research Assistant and I will drive to Kolot village, which is very near to where I lived as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Bazar-Korgon. We'll stay there for two weeks, living with a family in the village and leading research exercises. The work is fun and rewarding, but not without its challenges.

I've become accustomed to the comforts of life in Bishkek. I like to shower daily and eat a varied diet. I enjoy running at the stadium and working out at the gym. I like using a washing machine. In the village, I don't have access to such comforts and I quickly tire of bread for every meal (cue my Research Assistant kissing the bread three times to ensure it that I mean no disrespect). But, the discomfort is outweighed by the pleasure of being incorporated into a family and getting to know people that I would never meet otherwise.

My internet access in the village is limited to a slow and expensive USB modem, so I limit my use of it to emergencies like emailing my parents and checking Facebook. Don't expect any updates for the next couple of weeks!

The death of the Afrosiyab

The guidebook touted the Afrosiyab Hotel as “one of the big four star hotels in Samarkand.” And, it had a bar! We wanted to peek inside and, one night, conjured up an excuse to do so. Walking back to our hotel from dinner, I had to pee. Ritchie suggested that we casually walk past reception as if we belonged there and use the bathroom. It was a good plan.

As we got closer to the hotel, we saw that the parking lot and rooms were dark. Maybe all of the guests were already sleep? But, when we walked into the lobby, gates were pulled over the reception desk. A grand chandelier hung unlit. No one sat on the fine couches, no one came out of the elevators, no footsteps echoed off the marble tiles.  A lone security guard sat idly on a bench, illuminated by a few overhead fluorescent bulbs. I asked this man if I could use the toilet. He assented and vaguely pointed out the location of the toilets, presumably out of site down the dark corridor.

I was uncomfortable. Who knew what – or who – lurked around the dark corners? I called for Ritchie to come with me, but he presumably didn’t hear. In the darkness, I could make out what was once a grand hotel. More unlit chandeliers hung from the ceilings. What appeared to be a large bar with swanky couches sat darkly and silently to the side of the hall.  Around another corner, a hand-written sign taped to the wall informed visitors that “The bar is closed.” There were no guests, no employees, and no lights. I strongly wished that Ritchie had come with me. I finally found the bathroom down another dark hallway. When I flipped the switch, a single bulb illuminated a long-untended bathroom with perpetually running toilets. There was, of course, no toilet paper.

When I made it back to the foyer, Ritchie and I approached the guard. “What happened to this hotel?” we asked. “Where is everyone?”

The guard told us that the hotel used to be the best in Uzbekistan, “even the best in Central Asia!” In the old days, every room was filled at a rate of $250 a night. The hotel employed 200 people. However, mismanagement had led to decline. “The managers were busy lining their pockets,” the guard said. “Now these 200 people don’t have jobs. There is only me. The managers should be hung!”

I asked who owned the hotel, wondering why they would look the other way while management stole money and let such an investment run so devastatingly into the ground. He replied, “The government. This was a government hotel. Who will buy it now? What will I do when they no longer need a security guard?”

As we were walking home, Ritchie turned to me and said, “Stop having feelings!” He knows my tendency to internalize too much of other people’s despair. But my feelings went beyond the once-grand Afrosiyab Hotel and the security guard who, at 55, would soon be jobless because of the greed of a few government employees. I was thinking about the entire system of government in Uzbekistan and the hierarchy of corruption, the greed of the highest officials who line their pockets while people like our friendly security guard suffer.

Travels with Ritchie

My handsome husband, Ritchie, came to visit me in Bishkek for three weeks. It was his first trip to Central Asia and I wanted to take advantage. We visited all the sites in Bishkek (to be honest, there aren't that many), spent two (rather rainy) days in Karakol, and successfully executed a nine-day trip to Uzbekistan. Following are a small, hastily selected pictures of our happy times together in Central Asia.

Death Hike to Ala Archa

I thought the hike to Ala Archa would be a good idea. The April weather has been beautiful, the park is only an hour away from Bishkek, and I was keen to escape the city. Plus, I always meet interesting and like-minded people on my outings with the Trekking Union of Kyrgyzstan. It should have been a win all around!

When you arrive at Ala Archa National Park, you pay 70 soms (about $1.15) for day pass and park in the village at the entrance. After walking through a wooded pathway, you are greeted by a stunning river valley spreading out before you, with another canyon winding away to the left. The river valley is green, shady and cool-looking, not to mention flat. The canyon to the left is exposed, windswept – also stunning, of course – and promises an ascent from 1500 meters to 2500+ meters. Our group went to the left.

I felt a little unlike myself during the first thirty minutes of our hike. It was difficult to breath and I felt winded much more quickly than I usually do. I determined that the two weeks in Batken with limited exercise plus no practice on inclines (I run around the boring track at the National Stadium) were to blame. Thus, I trekked on.

After about three hours, my head started to hurt, my legs felt drained of strength, and I kept losing my balance. I decided that it was time to take an extended break and found a comfortable rock to park myself on. I listened to the birds and the wind and enjoyed the sun. I promptly fell asleep. I woke after indeterminate amount of time to find myself alone and decided to push myself a little further. My head still hurt and I had to pause ever ten minutes to catch my breath and rest my legs. After completing an ascent and seeing yet another – snowy – ascent before me, I threw in the towel and found another rock. I fell asleep again.

After what I can only guess was an hour, my group began to descend. They had reach the base camp for the Komsomol Summit, which is located in a snowy mountain valley with views of a beautiful glacier and mountains stretching into the distance in all directions. In my dumb state, I didn’t feel that I’d missed anything and pointed out that, from my rock, I also had a good view. We descended together.

My headache began to increase during our hike down and, when we reached the village at the entrance to the park, it was a full-blown, pounding, nausea-inducing headache. I considered the wisdom of vomiting in front of all these people I had just met and wondered, briefly, if I might die there on the pavement in front of them all. I tried not to moan out loud. Someone gave me a jacket. A blessed Russian girl handed me a pain tablet, which I drank with apple juice. More desire to vomit.

On the road back to Bishkek, the road descends quickly. I felt better the closer we got to the city, either from the reduced altitude, the pain tablet, or both. By the time I got home, I felt myself again, though with immobile legs and the weird bruised and befuddled feeling that follows a massive headache. One day later, after eleven hours of sleep and lots of water I feel good, if very, very tired.

What happened to me on that hike? I can’t decide if it was the altitude, the sun, dehydration or – perhaps most likely – a combination of all three. I’ve never felt so ill on a hike before. Still, I’m prepared to try again – next time on a more moderate hike. That flat river valley hike did look very nice.

Favorite Pictures from Batken, 4/1-4/13

The Return to High School (Someone should Make a Movie about This)!

I found this old blog post sitting in my unpublished drafts folder and thought it was too curious not to share. So, now you can read about my not-so-grand return to my high school back in November! How interesting . . .

Today, I went back to high school. It's been about ten - no, TWELVE! - years - since I graced the halls of EHS and at least two things have changed. The driveway is now called "Wolfpack Way" (or something like this). There is a drive-through Starbucks and Taco Time (or equally ubiquitous fast food restaurant) at the entrance to the parking lot. And, yet, much has stayed the same. Kids still clustered outside by the flagpole and in the entrance hall. The girls still wore too much make-up and inappropriate clothes (leggings are NOT pants! how long can this horrible trend persist?!). The boys still look short, gawky, and uncomfortable in their skin.

Though I guess that, when I was in high school, I didn't think that the girls were dressed inappropriately. I probably would have wished for a pair of my own leggings, only to be deterred by my father who would have never let me out of the house without proper pants. And, I probably thought that the short, gawky boys were cute because, well, I was also short and gawky.

Anyway, I digress. I went back to high school today, and it wasn't to assess the similarities and differences. I had the opportunity to meet with some pretty cool kids who are interested in international issues.

I had an idea! The Fulbright program is about international exchange and, with this in mind, I had the idea that I'd like to partner with a local high school while abroad. You know, to exchange ideas with some of the youth back at home. Luckily, I have an "in" with the kids - my former 9th grade Social Studies teacher now teaches World History at the very high school that I attended back in the day. He's also the advisor for the Global Action Project and leads a group of youth who are trying to learn more about global issues, engage their classmates in global issues, and - ahem - earn extra credit. So, I developed a rough plan and today I met with the youth. When I arrived, they were a total of three (one later wandered it). Only one of the kids really spoke - I presumed him to be the unofficial leader. One of the other silent kids kept staring at the clock, which was a little awkward since the clock was behind me and I was sitting directly in front of him. Toward the end of our meeting, I asked if they had any questions. They didn't. They seemed eager to leave.

I think I'd forgotten what it was like to be in high school and be more interested in your evening tennis practice and that rude post about your on Facebook (which didn't exist in my day, but we DID have the school website created by some anonymous wag - there was a "hot" list and a "not" list for senior girls; I was on the "not" list, which created endless opportunities for angst) than in international issues and the world beyond your sphere. Still, I'm inspired that such a club exists.

As an update, my plan was to send monthly video updates on life in Kyrgyzstan to the International Club at my former high school. Alas, this was a plan that was too good to act on. All conversation with the students and my former teacher has ceased and I haven't really had time to put together video communications. As it turns out, field research takes a lot of time! As a sad alternative, I can only hope that one of those students - probably the unofficial leader - stumbles across my blog, finds the posts about Kyrgyzstan interesting, and decides to take action himself. My door is always open and my couch is not too uncomfortable, should he develop an interest in visiting. In which case, he can make his own video updates to send back to the high school club. 

The shock of theater culture in Bishkek

Going to the theater in Bishkek is always entertaining and not only because the tickets are affordable and the performances enjoyable (accept for that rendition of Carmen . . . shudder). No, the theater is great fun because the audience provides endless, awful distraction. Here are some examples.

During a ballet performance of Giselle at the Opera-Ballet Theater, audience members wearing gowns and wrapped in furs answered their phones (which rang at regular volume) to say, “Sorry, I can’t talk right now! I’m in the theater. Yeah, the ballet. It’s pretty good. Okay, okay . . . call you later.” My friend Nora and I – solid plebeians in our own country – cursed the uncultured oafs throughout the performance.


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The theater may be beautiful, but it is filled with chattering plebians.

On another occasion, I went to see a professional Swiss violinist at the Philharmonic who was performing with members of the Kyrgyz National Orchestra. The woman sitting behind us – who attended alone and was clearly a music lover – searched noisily through her plastic bag for snacks through the performance. Every time I leaned back to let the power and beauty of the music sink in – rustle, rustle, rustle; munch, munch, munch. Perhaps classical music is best enjoyed with potato chips?

However, the coup de grace was seeing The Hunger Games at Ala Too Theater. While I’d assumed that movie theater culture couldn’t possibly be more annoying than it was at formal performances, I was wrong. The movie was a free-for-all, with audience members answering their phones, talking loudly with one another without cease, and stomping up and down the steps during important scenes. Rue is dying, you say? Sorry I didn’t notice. I was too busy listening to my neighbor’s telephone conversation.

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Ala Too Movie Theater, haunt of gossiping teens and jigits being jigits.

This approach to theater is a cultural difference that I will learn to live with, but not adopt. I firmly believe that, out of respect for the artists and the cost of the tickets, theaters should be free of cell phones. Conversations – when necessary – should be whispered. If it’s not a medical emergency, what could possibly be so important that it necessitates disrupting everyone else’s experience?  

The mad genius of geographers past

As we approached the roadblock, the marshutka driver turned and shouted, "Quick! Get down!" Without understanding what was happening, I scrunched down in my seat. "Lower!" the driver demanded. I scooted uncomfortably low, my head squashed in my neighbor's lap.

At the roadblock, the Uzbek border guard stuck his head in the driver's window. "Tajiklar bormi?" he asked ("Are there Tajiks?").

"No, only Kyrgyz," the driver replied. The militia officer waved us on.

"You can sit-up now," the driver said. I stretched-out in my seat and looked around. "Now we are in Uzbekistan! In about 20 minutes, you need to get low again." Uzbekistan looked strangely similar to Kyrgyzstan.

Whoever drew the borders in the Ferghana Valley was either a mad genius or an inept geographer. Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan come together in a tangled mash with international borders twisting around one another. In the border mess, Tajik communities are in Kyrgyzstan, Kyrgyz communities are in Tajikistan, and Uzbek communities are everywhere. To further complicate matters, there are six foreign enclaves - four Uzbek and two Tajik. The Uzbek enclaves are largely populated by ethnic Tajiks; the Tajik enclaves are populated by Tajiks and Kyrgyz. And, because a geographer past looked at the Ferghana Valley and saw a joke that would only be hilarious in the future, the only good road from Osh to Batken travels through Uzbekistan and several enclaves.

Those with Kyrgyz passports can transit Uzbekistan and the enclaves without a visa. As a foreigner, I would need a transit visa to do so legally. Yet, the Uzbek border guards are apparently only interested in Tajik travelers, who they shake down for bribes on their way to and from the markets in Kyrgyzstan. Unfortunately, the Tajik enclaves are so strict that foreigners without transit visas have to drive the unimproved roads around them, adding hours to the journey.

Still in Uzbekistan, the driver told me to get low again as we approached the border crossing back into Kyrgyzstan, but in vain. This time, the Kyrgyz border guard opened the van door and demanded all of our passports. "Tajikter barbi?" he asked ("Are there Tajiks?"). Again, the driver stated that there were no Tajiks in our car. After checking our passports, the guard waved us on. The Kyrgyz border guards also bribe Tajiks on their way to the markets.

After about eight hours of overland travel from Osh to Batken (hours added to bypass the enclaves), I determined to find a direct flight the next time regardless of the cost. And I pitied the Tajik traders who lose on all borders and can't afford the luxury of a flight. The mad genius or inept geographer really screwed things up for the southern economy.

Four days in Batken

As a Peace Corps Volunteer, Batken was forbidden to us. Some years ago, members of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan (IMU) kidnapped American and Japanese climbers in two separate incidents. Because of this, Batken was deemed dangerous and, to me, it became like a blank hole on my map of Kyrgyzstan. My site-mate Sean and I used to joke that Batken was where we’d find all of the glorious things that we’d been missing – Starbucks, McDonalds (yes, McDonalds), washing machines.

Now that I’m no longer in the direct employ of the Department of State, I was free to travel to Batken last week. After four days there, I can say that it is no longer a blank hole on my map, but neither is it the land of glorious things.

Batken City is a large, dusty village consisting of two, very short, paved streets, an intersection with a statue, and a litter-strewn park. Rather than permanent structures, many of the shops are converted shipping containers. A short distance away from the paved streets, winding, dusty neighborhoods spread out in every direction. Women wear headscarves, men wear kalpaks or the Uzbek do’ppi, and groups of Central Asia gypsies – the Lyuli – travel from house to house hawking their scrap metal. Simply put, it’s very different to Bishkek.

Yet, there is beauty here. The city is surrounded by agricultural fields and, beyond those, stunning mountains. I’ve regularly heard doves in the trees, which takes me pleasantly back to vacations in England. And, perhaps best of all, the shashleek is abundant and cheap.

I’ll be back in Batken for two weeks in April, though I won’t be spending my time in the city. My Research Assistant, Rahat, and I will be staying in a village nestled up against a Tajik enclave (more on those later) while we conduct research on women’s land rights. More to come on rural life in Batken in two weeks!

Could it be? Is spring almost here?

Is that the sun? Shining on my street?

Lenin hails the coming spring.

Blue skies over the stadium.

When the weather is nice, the mountains provide a pleasant backdrop.

Thank God for yoga!

Today was definitely Monday. I sat at my desk staring at my laptop, willing the articles to make an impact on my brain. They didn’t. I developed a headache. The flickering florescent ceiling lights didn’t help. And, when I was crossing the street on my way home, a man talking on his cell phone while driving failed to look where he was going and almost hit me. I cursed the day.

But then (but then!) something wonderful happened. I decided that only yoga could make this day better and trekked across town, skidding on icy sidewalks the entire way. Once inside the classroom, I could feel myself slowly unwind. The low music, the heated floors, the soothing tones of the instructor all served to remove the pall that had fallen over my mind and replace it with positive energy. It was an hour and a half of pure bliss – and a little bit of pain, depending on the position.

Afterward, all the women in the class gathered in the locker room, chatting cheerily in Russian. I could only make out bits and pieces, but they were so kind, so happy, that today I was even glad to be the class dunce. Just to be there, surrounded by positive people doing something positive, put me in the right state of mind.

Слава Богу для йоги!

Running in Kyrgyzstan - seven years later

Back in my youth, I posted this blog about my negative experiences running in Kyrgyzstan. After re-reading it (seven years later – oh my God, has it really been so long?!), I believe that the bitterness, sarcasm, and poor attempt at tongue-in-cheek humor evident in this post was actually an expression of my deep frustration about the constant negative attention that I attracted as a blond foreigner living in southern Kyrgyzstan.

I thought about those experiences yesterday as I jogged to the stadium and completed my requisite laps. I continue to run in Bishkek, but I’m rarely bothered. Yes, people often look at me like I have two heads, but no one makes rude comments and no one ever throws things at me. Yesterday, another casual jogger even smiled and said hello as we passed each other on the track!

It’s difficult to pinpoint what exactly is different. The culture in the north of Kyrgyzstan is certainly less conservative than the culture in the southern regions, more exposed to foreigners, and slightly economically better-off. Could it also be the passage of time, and people’s minds opening to other ways of doing things? I know that I have also changed since I was last in Kyrgyzstan – I’m much less sensitive to being perceived as an outsider and I could care less if people make jokes about me. So maybe my previous negative experience were all in my head (though people throwing balls of ice at you is about as physical as it gets).  

My host-mom runs at the track in eastern Bishkek.

So, I’m continuing to run here and even enjoying it. To be fair, it’s early days yet and there’s no telling what the future will bring. Maybe it’s too cold for the hecklers to hang out at the stadium. It’s certainly too cold for people to be exposing themselves, as they did from time to time in Bazar Korgon. But, there’s snow and ice galore for the throwing and I haven’t been pelted yet, so things are looking positive.

Pictures of my apartment

By special request, here are some pictures of my Stalinka. There's another bedroom that I didn't include here, primarily because it's cold (there's no heater in that room, for some reason) and my laundry is currently drying there. No one wants to see images of my frozen underwear!

Bright Skies, Cold Outhouses: Pictures from Skiing in Kyrgyzstan

Learning the language of apartments: "Suitable for foreigners" means "expensive"

I've found an apartment and I'm moving in next Saturday!

Finding an apartment here has been easier than I expected. There are several websites that list available units and the Russian is so basic that even I can understand it. “после ремонт” means that it has been remodeled, “с мебелью” means that it is furnished, and “подходит для иностранцев” means that it’s expensive. Though I’ve generally found Bishkek to be an affordable city, many landlords want between $700 and $900 a month for a three room (two bedrooms and a living room) apartment in the city center. Outrageous!

Luckily, my friend Uran has been acting as a guide, translator and negotiator on my behalf. We saw three different spaces in two days, making me feel like I was on an episode of House Hunters International. We’d go look at every apartment, making comments like “The master bedroom has no door? Oh, that’s . . . interesting” and “The furniture looks like someone stuck postage stamps all over it. That’s . . . pretty nice.” Afterward, out of earshot of the landlord, we’d weigh the pros and cons of each place. The first one is big, but expensive. The second one, in the same building, costs $100 less per month, but is packed with uncomfortable furniture. Neither felt like home.

Yesterday, we went to see a third apartment and I fell in love with it. The building is just off the main drag, Prospect Chuy, on a quiet side street. Inside, it feels huge, and it is spacious, but it could also be because the ceilings are about 12 feet high. It’s a proper Stalinka – a Stalin-era apartment with wainscoting on the walls, big rooms, tall ceilings, and French doors into the living room. The furniture is all from the Soviet-era, which in Kyrgyzstan indicates that it’s well-made (read: none of that modern cheap crap from China). In true Central Asian style, all of the living room furniture is arranged around the perimeter of the room; I’m already imagining ways to rearrange and make it cozier. There are a few downfalls – limited electrical outlets, a little chilly, too many rugs – but I think it can be made to feel like home for the next ten months or so. Better yet, Uran – the Master Negotiator – got the landlord to decrease the price by $50 per month if I pay three months in advance. I move in next Saturday.

Please come visit me!

Welcome to Bishkek! Now eat some meat.

I’ve been in Bishkek for one week and I can’t believe it. It feels like it’s been a month – a month of new experiences, new friends and new Russian vocabulary, but also a month of mistakes, embarrassing situations, and loneliness. Needless to say, my emotions have been up and down. Luckily, mostly up, but with a few low points.

I arrived early last Sunday morning and was driven to my host-family’s apartment on the eastern outskirts of Bishkek. After sneaking in a few hours of sleep, one of the family members woke me to go “guesting” at her grandmother’s house in the mountains. This proved to be a perfect reentry into Central Asian life, complete with Ulug’ Tashtir (a game similar to polo, but played with a headless goat or sheep carcass instead of a ball), sitting around a table sagging with snacks, course after course of meat-heavy dishes, and vodka. Of course, the meat was tenderized by the game of Ulug’ Tashtir. As I watched, the carcass got flatter and flatter while the onlookers got drunker and drunker. That night I went back to my guestroom bursting with food and exhausted from jet lag, but excited to be back in Kyrgyzstan.

I started Russian language classes at a private language school on Monday. The classes run from 8:30 a.m. until 2:20 p.m. every weekday. Otherwise, my time is filled with studying and jogging. I’ve also had an opportunity to meet new friends at different establishments around the city. Thus, my schedule has been pretty full and I haven’t had much time to get bored.

My first impression is that Bishkek is a fairly easy place to live, once you get the hang of the public transportation and can speak enough Russian to find what you’re looking for. There are Italian, Indian, Chinese, Turkish, and British/American restaurants. There’s even a Mexican Cantina! There are bars galore, the Opera Ballet has cheap shows, and you can catch a new release (dubbed into Russian) at the movie theater. I saw Giselle on Saturday night and am planning to see Carmen at the end of the month. My host-family and I are planning to see Sherlock Holmes one night this week.

The downs have mostly been due to loneliness, missing Ritchie and my family, or feeling overwhelmed by my situation. I’m meeting lots of great people, but for the time being, I’m still alone here. Despite Skype, my husband feels very far away and I’m almost counting down the seconds to May. After getting hopelessly lost on my second day in the city, I found myself struggling with serious transportation stress. It was so bad that I’d wake up in the middle of the night thinking about it. And, I feel overwhelmed by what I’ve set out to do, wondering if I can actually accomplish it.

Luckily, I have lots of people rooting for me back at home and my host family has a kitten who loves to cuddle. So far, the downs have been more than counterbalanced by the ups, and I feel excited about finding my way here.