Life is great! And then it's not.

I wrote this post during a restful, child- and husband-free weekend. Then came a week of culture shock lows,* including dark rage at terrible drivers and total exhaustion. I didn’t have the energy to finish writing this positive piece. That said, I’m going on vacation tonight and that feels great! Thinks are looking up again, so I feel like less of an impostor sharing the things I like about living in Kigali.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Everyone who has lived in Kigali will tell you that it is a great place to live, especially with small children (older children are another story). It is safe, clean, and not too oppressively hot. For the most part, I agree with those who came before me – Kigali is a great place to live. Here are some reasons why.

Sunshine. Coming from Seattle, sunny is a big deal. Sunny in December is an even bigger deal. Every winter at home, after interminable months of damp, waking up to darkness and arriving home from work in darkness, I’d start researching jobs in hot, dry locations. At some point, winter just becomes too oppressive. Not in Kigali! It’s December 13 and it’s still 80 degrees!

Here's the 5-day weather forecast for Seattle:

While I haven’t had to look up jobs in sunny locales this winter, I will admit to yearning for a ski vacation.

Outdoor time. This is related to the above, but I get to spend a lot of time in the outdoors. Because it’s almost always warm and sunny, I spend Saturday and Sunday mornings drinking coffee in the backyard while Lark runs around in her diaper. When I walk the dog, I don’t usually need to wear a raincoat and waterproof pants. It is glorious.

My commute is nonexistent. Not to brag, but I can walk to work and be there in 15 minutes or I can drive and arrive in three minutes. In my previous life, I spent hours in traffic every day, often squeezed next to disgruntled strangers on the bus. I traveled to and from home and work, to and from work and daycare, and on and on. Here, I’ve become so spoiled that a trip to downtown Kigali now seems like a huge chore, though it takes no more than 15 minutes.

Housekeepers. I know that the idea of having a housekeeper is distasteful for some – power dynamics and all that – but I’m just going to come right out and say this: Having a housekeeper is awesome. Everything is clean! All the time! Our clothes are actually ironed! It is so calming. I keep reminding myself that this will not continue in my life. Someday, Ritchie and I will move back to the US and once again be stuck folding piles of laundry on Sundays and arguing about who is going to unload the dishwasher. For now, however, I am breathing in the serenity of a spotless kitchen and perfectly rolled socks in my dresser.

Slow pace of life. Life here just is not that busy. In part, it’s because we have about five friends (you know who you are), so there are limited demands on our time. Also, see above about having a nonexistent commute and a housekeeper to iron our clothes. There’s just not a ton going on here. This means a lot of slow dinners at restaurants (because service is slow), time spent playing with Lark in the evenings, and hanging out in the garden on weekends.

Family time. This is one of the primary reasons why I wanted to move here and we have a lot of it. Because we don’t commute, because we have someone to help us around the house, and because life is quieter, Ritchie and I have more time to spend on each other – both as partners and as parents.

*Check-in again in two weeks, when I’ll probably be riding a culture shock high. 

House, Part II: New house happiness

We moved in! So far, we love hanging out on the screened veranda and playing in the garden. The security guard hung our new swing (Is it safe? I guess we'll find out.). I'm particularly enamored of our satellite television. It feels good to start settling-in.

The veranda is a nice spot for morning coffee and playtime. It also works well for drinking wine in the evenings.

This is where the wine happens.

It's my babe in a box! Seriously, who needs toys when you can play in a discarded box?

Penna and Redy break for tea on the back patio.

House, Part I

Our first house fell through, but all is not lost. I have signed a lease on a different (better?) house! It's a three bedroom bungalow with an office in a gated community. It's not huge (a feature which appeals to me in this land of super-sized expatriate housing) and it has a pleasant, private garden and it's in a very secure, conveniently located neighborhood. I'll be able to walk to work. Because there isn't a lot of traffic in the neighborhood, I'll even be able to ride my bike around with Lark in the child seat.

All of this is to say, you should come visit me. The spare bedroom is waiting for you.

Screened sun porch - perfect for morning coffee and evening wine

Living/dining room

Kitchen, with a guest appearance by my boss

This is where the magic (of sleep) will happen, far away from Lark and her snoring.

This garden totally needs a trampoline, am I right?

Hammock goes *here*

Stay tuned for Part II, in which our furniture arrives and we make this house our own.

P.S. Sorry, Mom, there's no AC. 

“Rich, out-of-touch expatriates” or The Problem with Garden Toys

Who is a rich, out-of-touch expatriate? Me, apparently, for wanting to buy Lark a trampoline.

Before we moved to Rwanda, a friend sent me a list of recommended items to bring. The list included a swing set, a trampoline, and other large garden toys. At the time, I thought, “This doesn’t apply to me.” Lark wasn’t walking yet and I didn’t realize that I would actually really, really want to have a place for her to burn energy outside. Foolish me; I’d thought she’d always be happy to crawl around looking at blades of grass.

As it turns out, Lark loves jumping and climbing on things. She jumps on the bed yelling JUMP and she jumps while standing on her stool. She even climbs on top of stacked boxes and practices jumping. A trampoline seems like a relatively safe place for her to pursue her passions.

Cue me two months later sending an email to a local listserv asking where I could buy one. This kicked off a flurry of activity from other parents who also wanted trampolines. It was sort of ridiculous, but you have to understand – there is no public space for kids to play here. Everything happens in restaurants gardens or home gardens. Since its inconvenient (and expensive) to go to a restaurant every day to play, it is nice to have a well-equipped home.

These kids are looking pretty damn pleased about being on a trampoline.

Earlier this week, I met friends and friends-of-friends for dinner. One woman and I were chatting and had barely moved beyond pleasantries when she said, “Did you see that email thread about the trampolines? I was shaking with fury! I mean, it’s so typical. These people are just rich, out-of-touch expatriates.”

This is a trampoline. It is used by out-of touch-people the world over for jumping and other fun-related activities.

I was taken aback by her judgement. I didn’t know how to tell her that, actually, I’d sent the first email and, actually, I’d really like a trampoline.

Let me lay myself bare: I am a rich expatriate, at least by local standards (as is the woman in question). I’m not obscenely rich, but I can afford to buy moderately priced toys. I am not, however, out of touch. I have spent a decent amount of time outside of Kigali and I know the constraints that people face every day. I know that many people only eat meat once a year, at Christmas, because it’s too expensive for daily consumption. I also know that many Rwandan kids suffer from food insecurity and malnutrition. I can see the absurdity in spending money on recreational things while others can’t afford to pay their annual health insurance (less than $10).

Rural Rwanda looking beautiful. This garden would look good with a trampoline in it.

All of that said, forbearing from buying things will not magically resolve the income inequality and power asymmetry prevalent in our world. Even if I were to use my money – all of my money – to address inequality, it would be not be effective. At best, I could help a few people in a very short-term, unsustainable way. Instead, I focus my professional energy on fomenting systemic, structural changes with long-term impacts. But, I’ll also buy garden toys for my kid and will forgive myself for wanting such things.

I’ll even let the judgmental woman’s kid have a go on the trampoline.

This is me looking out-of-touch in Spain, but admittedly pretty chic. Would I jump on a trampoline with that dress on? You bet! I would set the wine down somewhere safe, though.

Lessons for my daughter (on sex)

I’ve been following the debates around funding for Planned Parenthood, abortion rights, and access to family planning. These have me pondering how we think about sex and sexuality in the US. Particularly, I’ve been thinking about how I want my own daughter to think about sex and sexuality when she’s old enough.

My parents did an admirable job teaching me about sex. I remember having “the talk” in my bedroom (I was horrified). As I aged, my Mom talked openly and candidly about her unplanned pregnancy as a high school student and the impacts that it had on her and my Dad’s lives. She also frequently asked me outright if I was sexually active and said that, if I was, she would help me get birth control.

I was so lucky. While getting birth control challenged my immature sense of decorum, I never doubted that I could or should have it. I never had a problem getting the morning after pill on the few occasions that it was necessary. I’m grateful that my parents gave me the confidence and sense of entitlement to take control of my own body, and that my State supported my choices with the necessary resources.

I want my daughter to have the same confidence and sense of entitlement, and the same access to resources. Yet, I want her to have more.

I want her to know that she has power over her own body and that she has choices. I never want her to feel desperate and alone.

With that in mind, these are the lessons I will teach my daughter:

• You are valuable and beloved and no one should ever, ever, ever make you feel otherwise.
• Your body belongs to you and no one else.
• Sex is not disgusting.
• Wanting to have sex is a natural feeling and there is no shame in it.
• Having consensual sex in a safe environment is natural and there is no shame in it.
• If you make a mistake, my heart will break for you, but I will be there for you. Without fail.
• You do not need to be married or even committed to have healthy, enjoyable sex.
• You can say “no”. Say it loudly. Scream it, if necessary.
• You only have one life and one body – enjoy it, but protect it.
• You might want to have sex with men or you might want to have sex with women. Either way, I support and love you.
• You have choices that can help you protect yourself and manage your future. Maybe you will want or need to have an abortion. I will help you navigate those choices without judgement.
• I will fight tirelessly to ensure that you – and even your daughters – always have those choices.
• Please come to me. The situation is not that desperate. You are not alone.

-From a loving (and proudly feminist) mother. 

P.S. Have I missed any crucial lessons? 

Bringing Gus to Rwanda

Last night I received a panicked email from Ritchie with a link to a pet import form, saying “Can you fill this out and submit it to the Ministry of Agriculture ASAP?! It will be best if you can get the approval tomorrow.” He’d waited until the last minute to look at the requirements for shipping Gus the Dog to Rwanda, bless his heart. I suspected that it’s impossible to get same-day processing and approval for pet imports here, but I promised to try.  

If only it were this easy (and inexspensive)

I was feeling very capable and urbane as I drove to the Ministry of Agriculture, got myself scanned at the security checkpoint, and waited while the guard looked over the paperwork before vaguely gesturing down the hall toward the left. Luckily for me, there were only two doors on the left and only one of those was open. I went in and handed over my paperwork. The clerks looked at the forms and chatted with each other animatedly for about ten minutes. Finally, one said, “You know the Rwanda Agriculture Board? You have to go there.”

I took my forms and got back in the car, still feeling capable, then drove across town to the RAB. At the RAB, the clerk examined my forms. “You have to go next door to the secretariat,” he said.

Feeling less capable and slightly deflated, I went next door to the secretariat. It was a single room crowded with desks and stacks of papers, which did not make me feel hopeful, but the clerk greeted me with a nice smile. I handed her my paperwork. She looked them over and said, “You need to take these next door to RAB.” And gestured back the way I’d come.

“I just came from next door!” I objected. The futility of my efforts was just starting to dawn on me. “They told me to come here.”

She glanced at my paperwork once more. “Okay, you can leave them here.” Then she put the papers on top of a messy pile and nodded toward the door. My cue to leave. I didn’t feel satisfied with this outcome.

“What happens next?” I asked. “How will I know when he’s approved? Will you contact me?”

“Come back in a few days. Then we’ll see.”  And she smiled at me nicely once more.

I left feeling entirely unsure of the outcome. Would they even look at my paperwork? Will Gus languish endlessly in customs or wherever it is that they store un-cleared pets until it’s time to ship him back home? Luckily, these worries don’t translate into dog and he is blissfully unaware of his own vulnerability.  Ritchie, on the other hand, might be sending more panicked emails.

Is anyone interested in adopting a charmingly stupid and partially trained mutt? You know, just in case.

For Kate

My beautiful friend Kate got married on Saturday. I couldn’t be there, but I love her so much that I wanted to write her a tribute.

Kate and I met in our senior year of college at Western Washington University in Bellingham. We were both creative writing majors, both recently returned from a semester studying abroad, and had both been recently dumped (seriously, screw those guys). I had just come back from Spain, while Kate had just come back from Nepal. How badass is that? While I was trying to decide where to drink a cerveza, Kate was sheltering at home because the Maoists had declared a curfew in Kathmandu. While I traveled to the Costa del Sol for a weekend in the sun, Kate trekked to Everest base camp. Needless to say, she’s way more hardcore than I am.

She’s also funny as hell. At my bachelorette party, she brought an all-white, one piece, belted snowsuit. She said it made her feel sexy. I wore it and discovered that she was right; it made me feel sexy, too. I was the sexiest skier on the mountain that weekend, thanks to Kate. She also accompanied me to multiple opening nights of the Twilight series (ironically, of course) and snuck mini bottles of champagne into the theater because those movies can only be laughed at with alcohol in hand.

What else can I say about Kate? She’s smart. She’s a good cook. She has amazing, enviable hair. She’s a seriously badass snowboarder. She is one of the coolest women you will ever meet. Kate is the type of person that you want to be happy because she should be happy. She deserves happiness, possibly because she brings so much happiness to others.

So, this is a tribute to Kate and the next phase of her happy, hilarious, badass life. Her husband is one lucky dude.

Single parenting woes

If you don't like reading other people's complaints, close this blog right now. A litany of my woes follows.

I just want to sleep past 5:30 and use the bathroom in peace. Is that too much to ask? Lately, it seems that it is. In Seattle, Lark slept until 7:15 a.m. every day, but here she wakes shortly after dawn. On weekdays, we’re engaging in a race to wake. I set my alarm earlier and earlier so that I can shower before she starts crying in her crib. Day after day, she beats me to it.  I struggle to find the time to get ready for work on weekdays because, not only is she an early riser, she is extraordinarily clingy.

If I try to shut myself in the bathroom, she screams outside the door, “MAMA, MAMA!” I opened the door this morning to find her in near hysterics, just because I had the audacity to separate us for a short five minutes. I can’t cook because Lark must be attached to my leg or in my arms. I can’t enjoy a meal because she must have a taste of every bite off my plate. When our sweet nanny arrives in the morning, Lark tries to hit her.

"It is insufferable that you aren't holding me right now."

This goes beyond separation. She has also become very possessive. If Anna joins me and Lark at the breakfast table, Lark gets upset, yelling “No!” and crying if we engage in conversation.

Needless to say, I find this exhausting. I’m trying to be empathetic because her 16-month-old brain has had a lot to process in the last six weeks. Things look and smell different. She doesn’t have her Dad or extended family around. Maybe she misses Gus the Dog. I’m hoping that this clinginess and possessiveness isn’t the sign of a difficult personality.

"You are a cruel and horrible mother and I judge you. Constantly."

I’m trying to be empathetic, but I also have a lot to process. I also left my home and family and friends behind. And I have to work. And I have to take care of Lark in the morning and at night and on the weekends. I miss having someone to ‘tag in’ when I need a nap or would like to go for a run. I’d like to have some time to myself, even if it’s just five peaceful minutes in the bathroom or a quiet moment to boil some pasta for dinner without worrying that I’ll scald my baby who won’t detach herself from my leg.

"I will not be ignored, Mother!"

I have all the respect for the single parents out there who do this every day, year after year without help. You are amazing.

Reflections on a month in Rwanda

Muraho from Rwanda!

Lark and I have been in Kigali for over one month and, for the most part, it's been a positive experience. Still, our first couple of days were rough. 

Ritchie, Lark and I arrived  on August 2 after a long journey. Our flight from Chicago to Brussels was delayed by a few hours, causing us to miss our connection in Brussels to Kigali. We were rerouted through Istanbul, adding about six hours to our overall trip. Though we'd tried to arrange a layover in Brussels in order to wait for another direct flight, Brussels Airlines was like, "Nope! Here are your tickets to Istanbul. You're boarding in 45 minutes. No thanks needed." And though Istanbul is a beautiful, fascinating city, our departure lounge was bleak with filthy toilets and no services. On the six-hour Turkish Air flight to Kigali, Lark managed to vomit the contents of her stomach all over Ritchie’s clothes. The flight attendant was kind enough to bring him a handful of tiny, ineffective serviettes with which to “clean up”. But we didn't lose heart! Fresh clothes would await us on arrival . . . only they didn't. In fact, our bags didn't arrive for three days and Ritchie had to hang out at the house in a towel for a day while his one pair of clothes was washed and dried.

When our bags finally arrived, we were elated and examined each item as if it were a long-awaited Christmas present: "Wow, shampoo!" "Look, Ritchie, a different shirt!" "Ailey, can you believe how clean this underwear is?!" Things were on the up-and-up from there. We experimented with driving (it's so much easier to be brave when you're driving someone else's car), went shopping, and visited different restaurants around town. 

Unfortunately, Ritchie had to go back to work and returned to Seattle after one week. I was devastated and cried unabashedly as he walked through the security gate at the airport, much to the interest of the Rwandans seeing people off. It's still hard to be apart and I miss him.

On the positive side, my new job is interesting and challenging and I work with a great team. I just came back from two days of fieldwork in the Southern and Western Provinces in which I learned a lot, both from the participants and my colleagues. In my day-to-day work, I feel valued and respected. I feel like I contribute. I feel smart. 

Also, Lark has grown so much since we’ve been here and it is a joy to see. She started walking in the week after we arrived and has grown progressively more confident and stable. She’s also learned several new words, her favorite being 'no'. Here is a sample conversation:

Me: “Lark, do you love me?” 

Lark: “NO."

She also says cow, hi, bye, night-night, mama, daddy, and thank you. She loves to sing to herself, which clearly means that she’ll be rich and famous, but also humble and down-to-earth. She is my child, after all. She gets along well with her nanny, Pena, and is deeply in love with the security guard, Venuste. Luckily for her, I think that the feeling is mutual.

Overall, I feel so, so lucky to spend time in and explore this beautiful country, though I recognize that adjusting to life here will not be a painless process. I miss Ritchie. I miss my family and my friends. At times, I even miss the Seattle weather. Crazy, right? But through new challenges, I grow as a person and as a professional. I just need to ensure that I have enough fresh

clothes and toiletries with me to ease my way.

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.


<>  <> 

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.

<>  <>  <> <>

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!