I know, I know, I just posted last week and so it's unreasonable to expect any of you to check back in so soon for an unprecidented note, but this is just so exciting that I have to tell someone back home.
April 22nd was Lenin's birthday, and in honor of the holiday I sent a message to my buddy Jose down south. This is the same friend I visited a few weeks ago for the kokpar and camel tour. His site is very remote and quite conservative, and even though we stayed in different homes and took pains to inform everyone that we're just friends, the rumors still flew that we were a couple.
Anyways, a few hours after my text, Jose called. "Guess what?" he said, "my Kazakh tutor's cow
gave birth to a new calf today!" When I was in town we spent lots of time with this man and his family, singing songs and eating with our hands.
"That's awesome," I replied, "Did they name the calf Lenin?"
"No," he said, "they actually named it Nora..."
Naturally I thought he was kidding, but then his tutor got on the phone and confirmed that, yes, the new calf was indeed named Nora. "Don't be offended, ok?" he asked in his quick Kazakh.
I wasn't fast enough to respond to him, so I passed my response along through Jose, "Tell him this is probably the coolest honor I've ever received in my life!"
And truly, it is. There is a little calf, a sign of spring and a source of milk and wealth, named Nora! Wow. Jose reports that calf-Nora has a mother named Micah and almost reddish hair.
When we were in training, our acting Country Director told us many stories about her 4-year service in Indonesia. Ten years later she returned to find the kindergarten/feeding program she started still up and running, and even more astonishingly, that there were three children named after her. One of them, unfortunately, was a beautiful girl named Schmidt.
I may not be the super volunteer worthy of children named Williams, but there is a special cow!
Love,
Nora
PS Happy Orthodox Easter. Last night I stood at church from 10.30pm -3.00am for the Easter vigil. It was quite an evening.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
Happy Birthday Abeeka and Hopa!
Disclaimer: I am not writing about my birthday as a means to guilt trip those of you who forgot. Really, please don’t send me belated wishes. If you do, it will just make me feel guilty, because unless you are one of my immediate family members, there’s about a 99% change that I don’t even know what month your birthday is in, much less the date. If you do insist on sending greetings, please accept my advanced/belated sentiments for all your past or future birthdays.
It was my birthday last weekend, I turned 23. This is not a huge milestone for most, just a pause on the way to 25 and a source of pleasant memories when scary 30 comes around, but for me it marks something big. When I joined the Peace Corps I was 21, the second youngest in my training group by about a month, and I was pestered by comments like, “oh, man, you’re only going to be 23 when you get out!” as though Peace Corps were a jail sentence and the faster you get through it the better. And now that I am 23, I am very aware that my service in Kazakhstan will soon come to a close. Yesterday I received a form in the mail asking for my banking information so Peace Corps can send my Readjustment Allowance when I leave. That’s scary because it means that a) I’ll be leaving soon and b) I have to find my banking information again. Haven’t touched that in two years…
To celebrate the big two-three I took my younger friends out to dinner/dancing at a local café the night before. It is considered bad luck to wish someone a happy birthday before the actual day begins, so we called it a “Good-bye 22” evening instead of a birthday party. All ten of us had a good time, I think, toasts were made, presents given, and we finished off lots of mayonnaise based salads, steamed meat/potato dumplings, chicken pie, and sweets. I even got cake and ice cream with candles! I don’t think I’ve done that since high school. I can’t help but laugh as I look at the presents in my room from the weekend; they reflect how well (or not) people here know me, from a silver necklace, a shawl and roses to an oversized stuffed rabbit and fake designer wallet. My favorite is a pink t-shit/tank contraption with both “Team International Cheerleading Team Meeting Official” and “Redwood Ranger” printed on in among other less intelligible phrases.
At 1 am, I slipped into a still warm banya and washed away the make-up and stress of hosting locals on their own turf – I think I got through without too many gaffs.
On the actual day, my host mother invited extended family and neighbors over to celebrate. As always, her cooking was delicious and the table was packed with salads, potatoes, stuffed cabbage leaves, my favorite dish of duck-in-dough with a goose substitution, and more sides than I can remember. And then, the coup de grace, I got to blow out the candles (again!) on a cake with “С днем рождения Нора!” written in frosting.
For birthdays in Kazakhstan and Russia, the gathered guests are asked to give well-wishing toasts. It is embarrassing to be praised so publicly but always fun to hear what people think you need. “May you find your soul mate,” “May you complete your work well,” “Health to you and your parents,” and “Love,” were repeated multiple times in three languages (or four if you consider Abeeka’s creative mix of Kazakh, Russian and Tartar to be unique). One aunt said, “Through you America has come closer to us; we are glad to find Americans are just like us.” Two toasts later, a neighbor begged to differ, “I disagree. Nora can’t have brought America closer because she’s not really American any more. She’s ours!” Thank you, dear friends, for your acceptance, if not quite as I am, then at least as much as you can.
As we finished our tea, Abeeka (that’s Tartar for grandmother) had the last word, pronouncing that, “when you get married, I will come and sing a special song for you and you will dance.” We had a practice session right there and then, turned out pretty well, so now all we need is a groom and the deal is on.
Two nights later on Abeeka’s birthday, I referenced her promise in my toast, “Abeeka, even though I am new to this family, I am still very proud of you. You are a window on history for us. Thank you. I wish you health and long life. May you live to come to my wedding!” She nodded her head, saying she fully expected to keep her promise. “Abeeka,” said one of her daughters, “you do realize you’d have to fly 22 hours to get there?” “Ok,” Abeeka said, “no problem.” We all laughed, but I wonder if she’s ever even been in an airplane; if she has, it was probably many years ago in the USSR.
Abeeka was turning either 84 or 86, depending on which source you choose. Her documents say she was born in 1922, her family says 1924. If you ask her how old she is, she’ll wave her hand in the air and scoff. Really, who has the time or memory to keep track of such things? She tells stories of coming to Kazakhstan in 1937, her mother having just died and Tatars migrating east to avoid collectivization. Her trunk was full, jewelry and clothing and head dresses all lost in the years since. On her birthday, her oldest daughter, acting as toast master, asked Abeeka to relate how she first met her husband, the father of this brood of 11 children. Abeeka thought for a few minutes then took us right back to 1937: she was married in 1938 when she was 16. Curiously, the rest of the family seemed equally intrigued by the story; from their reactions, this was a part of their history that they hadn’t heard before. Eyebrows went up, and we looked at each other in surprise.
The gist of the tale is this: Abeeka had never seen her husband, never shaken his hand or even said hello before they were married. She didn’t even know it was her wedding day until it was over. It was a first degree arranged marriage, if not a complete bride-napping like that common among Kazakhs.
“We were in a packed house,” Abeeka remembered, “no room for everyone, so we were sleeping by the corrals.”
“What did you think of Dad?” one daughter asked, “Did you think he was handsome?”
“Well,” Abeeka replied, “after two days they put up a curtain and then I liked him alright.” She’s got sass, this lady who prays five times a day, even if she doesn’t realize it.
In the middle of Abeeka's dinner, a friend from Middlebury called. It was the first time I've talked to non-family in almost 2 years. Letters and emails, yes, but what a strange moment to be talking to him!
Guess I should get used to it...
Love,
Nora
It was my birthday last weekend, I turned 23. This is not a huge milestone for most, just a pause on the way to 25 and a source of pleasant memories when scary 30 comes around, but for me it marks something big. When I joined the Peace Corps I was 21, the second youngest in my training group by about a month, and I was pestered by comments like, “oh, man, you’re only going to be 23 when you get out!” as though Peace Corps were a jail sentence and the faster you get through it the better. And now that I am 23, I am very aware that my service in Kazakhstan will soon come to a close. Yesterday I received a form in the mail asking for my banking information so Peace Corps can send my Readjustment Allowance when I leave. That’s scary because it means that a) I’ll be leaving soon and b) I have to find my banking information again. Haven’t touched that in two years…
To celebrate the big two-three I took my younger friends out to dinner/dancing at a local café the night before. It is considered bad luck to wish someone a happy birthday before the actual day begins, so we called it a “Good-bye 22” evening instead of a birthday party. All ten of us had a good time, I think, toasts were made, presents given, and we finished off lots of mayonnaise based salads, steamed meat/potato dumplings, chicken pie, and sweets. I even got cake and ice cream with candles! I don’t think I’ve done that since high school. I can’t help but laugh as I look at the presents in my room from the weekend; they reflect how well (or not) people here know me, from a silver necklace, a shawl and roses to an oversized stuffed rabbit and fake designer wallet. My favorite is a pink t-shit/tank contraption with both “Team International Cheerleading Team Meeting Official” and “Redwood Ranger” printed on in among other less intelligible phrases.
At 1 am, I slipped into a still warm banya and washed away the make-up and stress of hosting locals on their own turf – I think I got through without too many gaffs.
On the actual day, my host mother invited extended family and neighbors over to celebrate. As always, her cooking was delicious and the table was packed with salads, potatoes, stuffed cabbage leaves, my favorite dish of duck-in-dough with a goose substitution, and more sides than I can remember. And then, the coup de grace, I got to blow out the candles (again!) on a cake with “С днем рождения Нора!” written in frosting.
For birthdays in Kazakhstan and Russia, the gathered guests are asked to give well-wishing toasts. It is embarrassing to be praised so publicly but always fun to hear what people think you need. “May you find your soul mate,” “May you complete your work well,” “Health to you and your parents,” and “Love,” were repeated multiple times in three languages (or four if you consider Abeeka’s creative mix of Kazakh, Russian and Tartar to be unique). One aunt said, “Through you America has come closer to us; we are glad to find Americans are just like us.” Two toasts later, a neighbor begged to differ, “I disagree. Nora can’t have brought America closer because she’s not really American any more. She’s ours!” Thank you, dear friends, for your acceptance, if not quite as I am, then at least as much as you can.
As we finished our tea, Abeeka (that’s Tartar for grandmother) had the last word, pronouncing that, “when you get married, I will come and sing a special song for you and you will dance.” We had a practice session right there and then, turned out pretty well, so now all we need is a groom and the deal is on.
Two nights later on Abeeka’s birthday, I referenced her promise in my toast, “Abeeka, even though I am new to this family, I am still very proud of you. You are a window on history for us. Thank you. I wish you health and long life. May you live to come to my wedding!” She nodded her head, saying she fully expected to keep her promise. “Abeeka,” said one of her daughters, “you do realize you’d have to fly 22 hours to get there?” “Ok,” Abeeka said, “no problem.” We all laughed, but I wonder if she’s ever even been in an airplane; if she has, it was probably many years ago in the USSR.
Abeeka was turning either 84 or 86, depending on which source you choose. Her documents say she was born in 1922, her family says 1924. If you ask her how old she is, she’ll wave her hand in the air and scoff. Really, who has the time or memory to keep track of such things? She tells stories of coming to Kazakhstan in 1937, her mother having just died and Tatars migrating east to avoid collectivization. Her trunk was full, jewelry and clothing and head dresses all lost in the years since. On her birthday, her oldest daughter, acting as toast master, asked Abeeka to relate how she first met her husband, the father of this brood of 11 children. Abeeka thought for a few minutes then took us right back to 1937: she was married in 1938 when she was 16. Curiously, the rest of the family seemed equally intrigued by the story; from their reactions, this was a part of their history that they hadn’t heard before. Eyebrows went up, and we looked at each other in surprise.
The gist of the tale is this: Abeeka had never seen her husband, never shaken his hand or even said hello before they were married. She didn’t even know it was her wedding day until it was over. It was a first degree arranged marriage, if not a complete bride-napping like that common among Kazakhs.
“We were in a packed house,” Abeeka remembered, “no room for everyone, so we were sleeping by the corrals.”
“What did you think of Dad?” one daughter asked, “Did you think he was handsome?”
“Well,” Abeeka replied, “after two days they put up a curtain and then I liked him alright.” She’s got sass, this lady who prays five times a day, even if she doesn’t realize it.
In the middle of Abeeka's dinner, a friend from Middlebury called. It was the first time I've talked to non-family in almost 2 years. Letters and emails, yes, but what a strange moment to be talking to him!
Guess I should get used to it...
Love,
Nora
Friday, April 04, 2008
Where is the women's league?
There are only a few times when yelling “rip it in half” is appropriate at a sporting event. Maybe at an origami competition or a paper snowflake demolition derby? And yet, last week I found myself yelling just that. My friend Jose looked at me sideways on our bleacher bench, saying, “Wow, I didn’t think you’d get this into it…”
But how could you not get into kokpar, dubbed goat carcass polo by English speakers tying to simplify the event? How can you not be thrilled by two men on horseback, each holding onto one hind leg of a headless goat and trying to gallop away in opposite directions? Wouldn’t you, too, cheer for them?
There are not a whole lot of rules to kokpar, though there are two versions: team kokpar, where four riders from each side battle over the goat, and individual kokpar, aka a wild free-for-all with upwards of a hundred riders possible. We were watching team kokpar at the Shimkent hippodrome. I’d ridden a train 36 hours south to get to Shimkent, along with a whole crew of other volunteers, for Nauryz, Kazakhstan’s spring festival. Theoretically, I was there to visit with Americans, warm up after winter, drink some beer, practice my Kazakh language, and explore the rich culture of Kazakhstan. In reality, I’d been hearing about kokpar for almost two years now and the temptation to finally see it was just too great. The irony being that yesterday the head of our local sport school told me that our town was chosen to hold the annual oblast-wide kokpar festival this summer. I guess I didn’t have to go that far after all, though I like to think that northern kokpar will be a very different event. And while I was south, I did get to see and do some other cool things, like visit Kazakhstan’s holiest Muslim site, a gorgeous mausoleum to a 14th century Sufi, and drink fermented camel's milk.
Kokpar came at the end of an afternoon of riding events, most of which focused on skills needed to be a great kokpar player. Wresting on horseback (trying to wrench your opponent out of the saddle, a useful skill in the tight scrums trying to get to the goat), bareback races (you’ve got to be able to ride fast if you hope to make it to the goal), scooping scarves off the ground (quite a trick of balance and trust that riders must execute every time the carcass falls), and jumping (kokpar doesn’t stop if a horse or rider goes down; you need to work around obstacles). These events were all fascinating in their own right, of course. Especially kyz kuu, which translates as “kiss the girl,” and involves women on horseback trying to outrace a male suitor. If she’s faster over a set distance, she gets to whip her opponent on the way back. If he catches her, he throws his arm around her shoulders (still at a gallop) and tries to steal a kiss. People debate over the true rules or intentions of kyz kuu, but whatever the origins, the modern incarnation is fast and hilarious. My favorite was the confident young lady who not only won her race but managed to blow kisses and wave to the crowd as she rode; she was a cross between Miss Kazakhstan and Annie Oakley.
By the time kokpar rolled around, most of the Americans were already petering out of the stadium; it was hot and there was a basketball game scheduled between rival factions of volunteers. I made Jose (my guide for the rest of my southern tour) stay till the end of the first game with me. I if I had known there was going to be a second game I never would have left.
The best moments of the game were the beginnings of each new point. The carcass (soaked overnight and so less likely to fall apart) was placed on one side of the field and at the signal of the referee, all eight riders galloped at it from the other side, each trying to be the first to reach and snatch the goat. Much of the rest of the game was taken up in scrums as knots of riders fought for a chance to break away towards the goals. To score, a rider must toss the goat (cleanly, no points if there’s a leg hanging out) into the center of a large ring, which lies flat on the ground and is surrounded by a moat of old tires. If a rider takes the goat out of bounds, the carcass is brought to the middle of the field perpendicular to where it went out and both teams send one rider for a face-off.
Those are basically the only rules.
Substitutions are on a tag-out basis, unless someone falls from their horse, at which time their team can immediately send in another rider. This happened once and watching the team try to capture the rider-less horse was almost as exciting as the game. The last I saw of it, the horse had slipped through a loose net of riders and escaped into the parking lot.
Pictures of the game are not sufficient, of course, but I’ll try to get some up soon. And maybe of some of the other sights, like the mausoleum, Jose flying a kite on the steppe (a very Peace Corps moment), camels, and me sipping on fermented mare’s milk (kumis, not to be confused with shubat, the camel version).
Happy Spring!
-- Nora
But how could you not get into kokpar, dubbed goat carcass polo by English speakers tying to simplify the event? How can you not be thrilled by two men on horseback, each holding onto one hind leg of a headless goat and trying to gallop away in opposite directions? Wouldn’t you, too, cheer for them?
There are not a whole lot of rules to kokpar, though there are two versions: team kokpar, where four riders from each side battle over the goat, and individual kokpar, aka a wild free-for-all with upwards of a hundred riders possible. We were watching team kokpar at the Shimkent hippodrome. I’d ridden a train 36 hours south to get to Shimkent, along with a whole crew of other volunteers, for Nauryz, Kazakhstan’s spring festival. Theoretically, I was there to visit with Americans, warm up after winter, drink some beer, practice my Kazakh language, and explore the rich culture of Kazakhstan. In reality, I’d been hearing about kokpar for almost two years now and the temptation to finally see it was just too great. The irony being that yesterday the head of our local sport school told me that our town was chosen to hold the annual oblast-wide kokpar festival this summer. I guess I didn’t have to go that far after all, though I like to think that northern kokpar will be a very different event. And while I was south, I did get to see and do some other cool things, like visit Kazakhstan’s holiest Muslim site, a gorgeous mausoleum to a 14th century Sufi, and drink fermented camel's milk.
Kokpar came at the end of an afternoon of riding events, most of which focused on skills needed to be a great kokpar player. Wresting on horseback (trying to wrench your opponent out of the saddle, a useful skill in the tight scrums trying to get to the goat), bareback races (you’ve got to be able to ride fast if you hope to make it to the goal), scooping scarves off the ground (quite a trick of balance and trust that riders must execute every time the carcass falls), and jumping (kokpar doesn’t stop if a horse or rider goes down; you need to work around obstacles). These events were all fascinating in their own right, of course. Especially kyz kuu, which translates as “kiss the girl,” and involves women on horseback trying to outrace a male suitor. If she’s faster over a set distance, she gets to whip her opponent on the way back. If he catches her, he throws his arm around her shoulders (still at a gallop) and tries to steal a kiss. People debate over the true rules or intentions of kyz kuu, but whatever the origins, the modern incarnation is fast and hilarious. My favorite was the confident young lady who not only won her race but managed to blow kisses and wave to the crowd as she rode; she was a cross between Miss Kazakhstan and Annie Oakley.
By the time kokpar rolled around, most of the Americans were already petering out of the stadium; it was hot and there was a basketball game scheduled between rival factions of volunteers. I made Jose (my guide for the rest of my southern tour) stay till the end of the first game with me. I if I had known there was going to be a second game I never would have left.
The best moments of the game were the beginnings of each new point. The carcass (soaked overnight and so less likely to fall apart) was placed on one side of the field and at the signal of the referee, all eight riders galloped at it from the other side, each trying to be the first to reach and snatch the goat. Much of the rest of the game was taken up in scrums as knots of riders fought for a chance to break away towards the goals. To score, a rider must toss the goat (cleanly, no points if there’s a leg hanging out) into the center of a large ring, which lies flat on the ground and is surrounded by a moat of old tires. If a rider takes the goat out of bounds, the carcass is brought to the middle of the field perpendicular to where it went out and both teams send one rider for a face-off.
Those are basically the only rules.
Substitutions are on a tag-out basis, unless someone falls from their horse, at which time their team can immediately send in another rider. This happened once and watching the team try to capture the rider-less horse was almost as exciting as the game. The last I saw of it, the horse had slipped through a loose net of riders and escaped into the parking lot.
Pictures of the game are not sufficient, of course, but I’ll try to get some up soon. And maybe of some of the other sights, like the mausoleum, Jose flying a kite on the steppe (a very Peace Corps moment), camels, and me sipping on fermented mare’s milk (kumis, not to be confused with shubat, the camel version).
Happy Spring!
-- Nora
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