A Thanksgiving Tale

Our first Thanksgiving in Zhezkazgan was not particularly noteworthy. We gathered at Robert's apartment and dined on a small chicken, mashed potatoes, and a common local salad consisting of diced potatoes, diced egg, cold peas, croutons, and mayonnaise. A decent evening, but it was a third-rate alternative to my favorite holiday.

This year we aimed a little higher, which naturally entails tracking down a turkey. A turkey is something of a mythical beast in this part of the world. Most people have heard of the bird, although not everybody. Many will say that you can find a turkey somewhere in Zhezkazgan or Satpaev, but nobody knows exactly where. Others will flatly state that turkey can't be found. In Zhezkazgan, we were teased a few times. For example, my Russian tutor told me that she saw a turkey in the weekly outdoor market; obviously, the seller hawking a turkey was never to be found again.

(A puny turkey is better than no turkey at all and hey -- we couldn't even finish it.)

Fortunately the volunteers in Satpaev had better luck and managed to find a 3.5 kilogram (~8 lbs) turkey and even managed to buy it after it had been cleaned. From there, everything came together. We planned a Friday Thanksgiving because it fortuitously coincided with the Muslim holiday of Kurban Ait, meaning we had a three-day weekend. Nick and Corinne slaved over the turkey and the gravy and everybody else chipped in with side dishes, which were all very good although they were trumped in the end by Corinne's pumpkin pie. For a slapdash Thanksgiving in the middle of the steppe, it was surprisingly legitimate and we were all very pleased with ourselves.

(Don't act like you're not impressed.)

(Whether in the US or in Kazakhstan, Thanksgiving is the same. Sometimes even the best and brightest fail to make it through the day.)

(Back when Drew was able to sit in an upright position.)

The Icy Winds of Winter?

Some things in Kazakhstan never cease to amaze me. With the onset of the November chill and early winter snows, the current issue on my mind is the lack of tolerance the locals possess with regards to cold weather. I find this particularly remarkable for two reasons: first, because I would have thought that people would get used to it after a while and second, because back in the US, I had a reputation in my family for being cold all the time. When I was little, I would often be found buried under two blankets on the couch or snuggling under a veritable mountain of covers in bed. Perhaps years of training living in an old, drafty house eventually got me up to snuff. Whatever the reason, my ability to deal with wintry weather seems to be miles ahead of just about everybody here.

As my second winter in Kazakhstan begins, this point has been hammered in again almost immediately. For the last few weeks, the weather in Zhezkazgan has hovered around the freezing point with the highs rising to the mid-30s on occasion and the lows at night dropping to the low 20s. It's certainly time to break out the winter jacket (don't you fret, mom), but it's not yet necessary to call in the cavalry: long underwear, heavy duty gloves, etc. Just today, I was walking to work enjoying the freshness of a winter morning without a hat. However, I left work with a colleague and the sight of my uncovered head was so distressing that she simply couldn't bear to see me without a hat, saying that the mere sight made her colder. In Peace Corps, I need to pick my battles; this time, I acquiesced, shaking my head.

This issue runs across ethnic lines. My current theory is that both Russians and Kazakhs insulate themselves from the cold to such a great degree that it effectively ruins their ability to become somewhat comfortable with lower temperatures. I've seen Kazakh infants dressed up in jackets and hats.....in May. Locals do not skimp on heating in most buildings and trains. Drew's school is somewhat reminiscent of a blast furnace, although in fairness Zhezkazgan's school #1 could be the greatest offender that I have encountered thus far. In my host family, the heating was so strong that I kept my window open almost the entire winter. I expected to sweat my way through Peace Corps under a sultry sun on the banks of the Niger River; I did not imagine that I would be sweltering even during the brutal steppe winter!

Halloween Comes To Kazakhstan

Our weekly English clubs have a habit of acquiring a tinge of monotony as time passes. Fortunately, there are many ways to spice things up and take a break from the usual routine of typical English-y games and activities. One method is to take full advantage of American holidays and there might not be a better holiday for this sort of thing than Halloween.

The preceding English club, we told everybody that we would organize a Halloween event and we encouraged everybody to dress up for the occasion. Despite these efforts, we questioned whether the kids would actually go through with it. Drew and I really did not know what to expect. Young people in Zhezkazgan are quite familiar with Halloween, but we were unsure whether they would get into it or not.

It seems as though the prospect of dressing up scared away some of the kids, but the 20 students who did show up, it's fair to say, went nuts. The whole event started up about ten minutes late because everybody was still in the hallway perfecting the makeup for their costumes. Most of the guys went down the "horror" route and riffed off of zombies, Frankenstein, Joker, et al. The girls had a more diverse array of outfits. Regardless, almost everyone would have been above-average by American standards.

(These guys didn't mess around.)

(Rarely do Kazakhs get the chance to take to the high seas, but at least they can make a fair impression of a pirate!)

We tried to pull out all the old Halloween classics. We brought a bucketload of toilet paper and challenged the kids to create the best old-fashioned mummy. We went for the candlelit scary story, but our group was a little too old to get sucked in. There was an attempt at trick-or-treating, but it was really just a massive candy exchange since the logistics for something more authentic would have been difficult to engineer. The evening concluded with bobbing for apples Kazakhstan-style (meaning bobbing for apples in Jamie's laundry bucket). The water was too shallow and it was a little too easy to pin the apple on the bottom, but hey -- it was better than nothing.

(The woman gave Drew a strange look after he bought six rolls of TP would have given him an even stranger look if she knew what we planned to do with it.)

(The mummies line up. In a moment of immense controversy, a winner was never selected.)

(For some reason, students felt the need to give their friends a little extra push down into the water. Settle down kids -- this isn't Guantanamo Bay.)

The Ties That Bind Us

I dedicate this post to all you black-fleece-haters out there.


Last night I met with a man from the US embassy at a restaurant for dinner. It was not a particularly formal affair; the embassy apparently sends staffers on regional trips to conduct local business and check in on volunteers and perhaps other Americans. In the case of Zhezkazgan, it is obviously just volunteers. Anyway, in the course of our conversation, he stopped mid-sentence when he noticed a small MRG logo on my fleece. Apparently, he had lived in Vermont only a few towns away several years before and frequently skiied there.

It's a small world.

Kazakhstan: Life and Times

After English club today, Drew and I went to a Uyghur cafe for lagman and beer. Of course, the cafe was out of beer and instead the waitress directed us to the neighboring convenience store. Not a problem -- beer is cheaper that way. About 30 minutes into the meal, a friendly drunk guy came up to us, enthralled by the sound of a foreign language. We told him that we were Australians, a response that is extremely effective because it explains our English but stifles follow-up questions since nobody knows much about Australia here. Again, not a problem since there wasn't even a whiff of hostility around this guy. Not long after, we asked for the bill and waited for our change of 250 tenge. The cafe was busy tonight and apparently they were out of change, so we received a 200 tenge bill and about half a pack of gum. They didn't just give us a pack of gum for the trouble, they pro-rated the gum. The waitress brought a 3/4 full pack and gave us about two-thirds of what was left. This wasn't really a problem since 50 tenge is worth about 30 cents, which is cheaper than the price of the story, at least in my estimation. This incident wasn't even the first time I have seen volunteers receive gum in lieu of money at a cafe. So really, not a problem.

Sometimes, I remember that I am living in a strange country. The strangest thing of all is that this series of events barely seems remarkable to me any more.

The Quest for a Bancomat

In Kazakhstan, pay day never slips by quietly. It seems to me that a great many people live from month to month, paycheck to paycheck. Some do this by necessity, others by "choice" -- in other words, a complete lack of financial planning. In America, we can be more "sophisticated" about our budgetary recklessness by burying ourselves in debt, but the interest rates on personal loans in Kazakhstan sometimes give the impression that local banks are institutionalized loan sharks. Therefore, the Kazakhstani spendthrift lacks the option of elaborately lying to himself and is left with little recourse but to simply spend the monthly wages as they come in. Tongue-in-cheek commentary aside, life is difficult for many people here, so I don't actually begrudge people buying a little happiness by blowing their money on a lavish dinner party. However, my unscientific opinion is that the savings rate must be very low.

So on pay day, which is usually around the end of the first week of the month, there is a full-blown assault on all the ATMs ("bancomats") in the city. There are quite a few, but not enough to avoid lengthy lines and chronic shortages of actual cash. I have been meaning to go to the bazaar for the last two days, but every time I try to withdraw a little money, I am faced with an insurmountable phalanx of chattering grandmothers, who somehow either take out cash $10 at a time or have 16 different bank accounts. In truth I don't have any idea what goes on with them, but the level of incompetence with an ATM is at times infuriating. Around pay day, the promise of an open ATM is always fool's gold -- it means that the cash allotment for the day had dried up long ago.

One strange thing about ATM etiquette in Kazakhstan is that there is no privacy. If you step up to an ATM, people behind you in line -- and by in line, I mean trying to outflank each other to force their way to the front -- will crowd up on either side and examine every button you press in rapture. There is no thought to the idea that one might like a little space while dealing with their finances, but this is unsurprising in the greater context of local culture. People often ask what my salary is, how much I pay for my apartment, and so on. There just isn't any stigma about questions related to money here.

Today, I was once again unsuccessful in finding a working ATM. Since my refrigerator was looking awfully empty, I was left with no choice but to go bargain-hunting in the bazaar. Avoiding meat and cheese, which are more expensive, I walked into the fresh produce area, foolishly concerned about the fact that I had only a few small bills. I walked out with a kilogram of tomatoes, a half a kilo of bell peppers, and five small spicy peppers, which cost a grand total of 140 tenge, or about 90 cents. I don't know what I was worried about.

Catching Up

Yes, I have neglected Kokpar and Carnivores for the past month or so, but I plan on resuscitating these pages with a few updates over the next week. My sincerest apologies go out to the four people who read this blog.

One Year

This past Friday was a landmark for Kaz-20: on August 21, 2008, we belated arrived at the Almaty airport after a lengthy delay in Frankfurt. While the end of the summer signifies the passing of one year, we still have another month or two until the halfway point of the 27 months spent in country.

Like with every experience I have in life, I look back on my first year in Peace Corps with two perspectives. On the surface, it feels as though one year has sped by and it is hard to believe that we have lived here for so long when it feels like I arrived yesterday. On the other hand, when I focus on a specific event from training or even when I first came to Zhezkazgan, it feels like it happened centuries ago.

One of the things that happens to volunteers around months 6-12 is a reclamation of a feeling of normalcy. During this period it is finally possible to find comfort in a daily routine, to familiarize oneself with one's organization and city or village, and to progress in language enough to free oneself from the shackles of being able to communicate only on a rudimentary level.

Considering how much progress we have all made in integrating into the community, getting to know locals, and speaking Russian, I am excited to see what the next year holds. Now that I better understand how everything works in society and in my organization, I am hoping that the progress in year two will be exponential.

On Showers

Coming from the cozy land of Western plenty, living in the developing world often provides sharp perspective on what is really necessary in daily life. Many of the creature comforts and technological marvels that have become indispensable to American life begin to slip out of one's consciousness. If I feel this way in Kazakhstan, I can't imagine what is going on in the head of the typical Peace Corps Niger volunteer.

For example: vegetable peelers. My mother sent me a peeler in the mail when I moved into my apartment. The gesture was, of course, appreciated, but the truth is that I rarely use it. (Sorry, Mom!) Everybody in Kazakhstan uses knives and while our worldviews don't always see eye to eye, I have really come around on this particular topic. Anything but a knife seems altogether unnatural now. From volunteer anecdotes, the vegetable peeler is a popular gift sent from a volunteer's family back home to his or her host family in Kazakhstan. I have never once heard of an instance where a host family actually used the peeler. Why? Well, people everywhere often stubbornly cling to what they are accustomed to, but in this case a knife is simply more efficient. Vegetable peelers: slightly less pointless than Febreze.

The dryer is an appliance that I have come to see as utterly superfluous. It is an awfully expensive alternative to a piece of string, which accomplishes the same task albeit a little more slowly. On the other hand, the purchase of a washing machine must add about three or four years to a person's lifespan. Hand-washing is back-breaking work and almost never results in a truly clean article of clothing. Jeans are the worst -- an absolute nightmare that require at least 10 minutes per pair. Coincidentally, my jeans happen to be a little dirty at the moment.

I first began to dwell on this theme about a month ago, which was about the last time I have had hot water although I have lost track of time since it disappeared. The lack of hot water is a mild inconvenience and not one that is worthy of a serious complaint. Many volunteers, even in a relatively rich country like Kazakhstan, have no hot water -- and many in the villages have no running water at all. Often, people in the villages clean themselves only in the banya (the Russian variant of a sauna), which is often only once a week. Volunteers can drag the ol' bucket out to the banya house whenever they want in the summer, but when it's -30 degrees outside it's not conducive to even a bucket bath.

Anyway, my district in Zhezkazgan seems to have fallen victim to a massive water main leak. This summer has seen a number of minor public works projects all over the city, which is good to see: repaving roads, beautifying parks, etc. Unfortunately, about two weeks after they repaved the little "streets" that snake through the haphazardly-arranged apartment blocks of my district, they promptly dug up about half of them in an effort to root out this water main issue. As the weeks have gone on, the digging has created a trench about half the length of the Maginot Line and it shows no signs of abating so it is safe to say that my poor apartment will be bereft of water for quite some time.

The lack of hot water posed a big threat to my daily routine, which includes a morning shower because like any good American I am completely and totally obsessed and addicted to showering daily. Faced with the prospect of a cold shower or the old-fashioned bucket bath, the choice was clear. My new routine is to put water on the stove to boil in a teapot when I wake up. I then pour the boiling water into my laundry bucket and mix it with cold water from the tub. With the bucket in the center of the tub, I squat nearby and I scoop water onto myself with my head over the bucket to catch most of the water so that I don't burn through it too fast. Shampoo, a little soap, and it is not even a hassle. As somebody who was prone to taking overly long showers in the US, it is amazing to me how little water is required to take a perfectly effective "shower". To be fair, it is easier for a guy with short hair, but all I need is about three or four liters of water. Since I have been forced to run with the "bucket shower" method, I would estimate that I have used about as much water in one month as I did in a one day's regular shower. That's pretty crazy, huh?

(Who knew that a green and purple bucket with festive drawings on the bottom could be a source of contemplation?)

Escaping the Steppe

During the summer months, OCAP (NGO) volunteers and TEFL (teacher) volunteers have very divergent schedules. Sadly, NGOs do not have summer vacations, so we toil away at work while the TEFLs craft nomadic itineraries that take them from summer camp to summer camp across the country. I am a bit jealous of it all because it is a fantastic opportunity to tour the country and to spend time with other volunteers. That said, it is hard to begrudge my teaching counterparts anything because their daily schedule during the school year is a lot more grueling than life in most NGO offices.

Fortunately, it is not totally impossible to leave my island in the steppe. Recently, I traveled to a small town in northern Kazakhstan called Schuchinsk, where a number of volunteers assembled for five-day Russian language camp. The atmosphere around Schuchinsk was very, very different from what I have becomed used to in Zhezkazgan. Like most northern locales, Schuchinsk is much more Russian than the southern part of Kazakhstan. In truth, the biggest difference had nothing to do with the people; instead, it was the environment that really stood out. An hour or two south of the town by train, the steppe more or less ended and gave way to forested land. While there are trees in Zhezkazgan, it hardly feels forested, so walking under a canopy of greenery was a strange experience after living in the center of the steppe for so long.

(The road to the local volunteer's house was delightfully tree-lined by national standards)

(Locals clamber into boats at one of Borovoe's lakes. In the back left is Borovoe's signature rock formation that is fairly famous in Kazakhstan. It's basically the Old Man On The Mountain, except in a lake. You might have to click on the picture and expand it to see it well.)

It should be noted that the "green line" in Kazakhstan does not extend uniformly east or west. In the Kokshetau region (containing Schuchinsk) and around Petropavlovsk a little further north, the countryside is apparently forested. However, I've heard that Pavlodar and Kostanai -- located to the northeast and northwest of Schuchinsk respectively -- are classic steppe towns. This green island in Kazakhstan is well-known locally. Schuchinsk is the gateway to a small region of lakes and hills known as Borovoe. Locals will describe this area as "The Switzerland of Kazakhstan". It is certainly a pleasant area that is a welcome change from the endless monotony of the brown steppe, but this is a grotesque exaggeration. In terms of the dramatic beauty of nature, Borovoe is more along the lines of a typical lake in New England. The comparisons to the sweeping majesty of the Alps are...lacking, to be charitable.

(A Borovoe nature view)

(If you lived in the steppe, you'd call these hills mountains too)

Not What The Doctor Ordered

All Kaz-20 volunteers were required to make the trek to Almaty during July for a standard checkup with the doctor and a trip to a local dentist. For some volunteers, this entails a one-hour taxi ride. In my case, it was a 70 hour round-trip odyssey on three different trains, all for 16 hours in the city. At least I ran into a few other volunteers who were in town for an English teachers' conference.

As ridiculous as that may sound, though, you simply become accustomed to long train rides. They aren't nearly as unbearable as they may seem. For one thing, trains are timed to maximize sleeping time; the Zhezkazgan-Almaty train leaves at 11:30pm and arrives at 5:50am two days later for a total journey of around 30 hours, the majority of which I slept through. To cope with the ponderously slow speed of Kazakhstan's trains, locals have developed a great train culture and more often than not I find myself in interesting conversations with kind people. In this country, people aren't always overly friendly in the public sphere, but on the train this is very rarely the case. Life on the train is worthy of much more than a paragraph, however. When I finally get around to taking pictures on the train, there is a tour de force of a post waiting to be ridden about The Train.

Globalization

A few moments ago in the Шаруа bazaar in Zhezkazgan, Kazakhstan, I bought a Granny Smith apple with a little grown-in-Chile sticker on the side. The distance between Santiago, Chile and Almaty, Kazakhstan is about 10,530 miles.

Chez Jamie

I know that America is dying to know what my apartment in Zhezkazgan looks like. Fortunately, today is the day that I will put our long national nightmare to rest and finally show off my Kazakhstani flat in all its local glory.

Zhezkazgan is a small city and has two hubs of commercial activity. My apartment is located just behind the most active street in town and is only a one minute walk away from the main bazaar. That's nice in the summer and it is going to be even more useful when the icy winds of winter come howling from the steppe four months from now. Despite its central location, it is usually quiet at night other than the odd drunken conversation. The convenience is well worth a little noise, however. So without further ado, the pictures:

(A view of my apartment building from across the "yard". I live at the left end of the building in the center, behind a tree. The sign threatens passersby with a 50,000 tenge fine ($333) for throwing away trash from the bazaar, failing to throw trash in the proper containers, or lighting the trash on fire. All of these rules are broken with regularity, but somehow I don't think anybody has paid up.)

(The stairwell. This picture does not do it justice for a variety of reasons. Firstly, it has been recently swept, although in fairness they do sweep consistently -- after all, the bloody tampon in the corner and the condom wrapper on the second floor aren't going to throw themselves out! Unfortunately, this picture cannot convey the exotic aroma of urine, boiled lamb, and cigarette smoke that usually hangs in the air.)

(Big wooden doors: keeping PC-Kazakhstan volunteers safe since 1993. Sadly, the peephole was seemingly designed for a local woman, i.e. somebody around 5'2".)

(9 out 10 Iron Chef participants recommend this Soviet-era stove. Actually, it has broken down once, but it was completely re-wired. Now all I need is the (missing) third knob, so I can use the oven. For now, my kitchen is where dreams of eggplant parmesan go to die.)

(The shelves and cabinets all throughout my apartment are barely holding together. At least I do have a ton of space; too bad most of them simply don't close all the way. Nonetheless, my kitchen is not at all a bad setup for my purposes, and I am lucky to have a big and relatively cold refridgerator.)

(The bathroom. As per usual, the toilet is in an adjacent room. Bathroom sinks can be found in Kazakhstan, but they are not at all considered a necessity. The tub is viewed as a suitable alternative as a dual-purpose tub/sink. I (usually) have hot water, which turns taking a shower into a game of cat-and-mouse between me and the hot water knob. Even the most insignificant of twists can instantaneously transform the stream from feeling like an Arctic swimming hole to a jet of hot magma. When the hot water isn't working, I break out the tea kettle and mix boiled water with cold water and take a bucket shower. It's amazing how much water we waste when you can take a perfectively effective shower with just a few liters.)

(My living room. I like having an ugly carpet; it hides the stains. The far windows are papered over for privacy because the next building is situated perpendicularly to mine and about twenty apartment windows stare across the alley at mine.)

(See? A normal bedroom.)

(The built-in working space in my living room is great and, I think, unusual. I'm happy to take it and the abundance of closet space it provides.)

(The view from the balcony. Unfortunately, balconies here are rarely a social space. They are usually too narrow to sit in and are used as storage space. My balcony is closed off, so I found it stuffed with chairs stacked on each other. When I lived with my host family, the balcony was exposed and it was used as a freezer for the enormous amounts of horsemeat they bought.)

Journey To The Center Of The Earth

A few weeks ago, the Zhezkazgan volunteers were invited to go on a picnic day trip with the teachers and graduating students of a local college. The prospect of a day outside of the Zhezkazgan city limits is always a welcome proposition, so we gladly accepted. The destination was a village called Ulytau, located about three hours north of the city. Ulytau is not just any Kazakh village; it is as historic as a village in Kazakhstan can possibly get. While this is quite possibly damning with faint praise, it is true that Ulytau is the traditional home of Kazakh culture. It is said that the Kazakhs are split among three ancient tribes, although I personally have never heard anyone discuss this except when specifically referencing Ulytau. Nonetheless, Ulytau is recognized as the hallowed meeting point of these tribes. The village, which today consists of maybe 5,000 people, is located truly in the center of the steppe, miles from any other human settlement. What makes Ulytau interesting is that it lies in the shadow of a mountain that is remarkably large given the surrounding steppe.

We set out from Zhezkazgan early in the morning on a rickety, crowded bus. Fortunately, the road north of the city has been recently repaved, which allowed for smooth sailing all the way to Ulytau, unlike the road south. Beyond Ulytau, however, the road (European highway E123 - hah!) is from all accounts completely impassable even to the most intrepid vehicles. The only person I have met who braved the full length of the northern road was a Swedish cyclist passing through; the only cars he reported seeing were those rusting away on the side of the road, having been abandoned long ago.

(It's nearly impossible to capture the vastness of the steppe in a photograph. I don't have anything that can do it justice. Really, it is something that needs to be experienced over distance and time rather than something that one can comprehend with a snapshot.)

Our bus quickly passed through the smaller city of Satpaev, which lies only 15 minutes north and then proceeded through a maze of mines. I had always envisioned the Satpaev mines to be deep under the ground, but apparently they have their share of strip mines as well. Past this industrial section, the surroundings acquired a surprising beauty. I had previously held a rather low opinion of the asthetic value of the steppe, but my opinion had been heavily influenced by the brown months of fall and winter. In the early summer, at least, the grass took a strangely compelling shade of green. As we continued north, the landscape ceased to be as flat as the southern steppe and became a series of rolling hills. A bit later, real hills appeared on the horizon, shrouded in the purple mist of distance. The endless expanse of green grass (the "naked steppe", as they say in Russian), the bright blue sky dotted with cloudbursts, the purple hills, and the exposed mounds of reddish dirt created a palette the likes of which I had nearly forgotten existed during a Kazakhstan winter. It was refreshing.

(Rush hour on the road to Ulytau.)

We passed through a small village called Zhezdi one hour into the trip, where another road branched off to even more godforsaken locales to the west. After Zhezdi, the road was two hours of emptiness, although there were isolated houses strewn here and there and an attentive observer could spot the odd shepherd. As the hills in the steppe became more numerous, our 360 degree view became about as obstructed as is possible in Karaganda Oblast. After rounding one little flat-top, Ulytau came into view underneath a series of rugged-looking hills.

(A monument to the meeting place of the Kazakh tribes, a few kilometers from Ulytau.)

(Ulytau springs into view after we pass over a hump.)

We passed through the town, which seemed rather tidy by Kazakh village standards. I even saw an ATM! It should be noted that Ulytau is the capital of its region (think county), although that's not saying much considering the Ulytauskiy Rayon is home to only about 13,000 residents despite being the size of a small state. We passed through the center of the town and drove on towards the foothills. The bus managed to quite literally ford a stream, which fortunately was running low and eventually we found our way to a clearing where we set up shop.

(This is just the tip of the iceberg.)

The bus came to a stop and out came all the blankets, food containers, big pots, and shashlyk apparatus. We set out the dastarkhan (array of food -- it's an institution here) and "snacked" on some "light" food. After this relatively quick affair, the group split in different ways as we explored nature. Drew, Robert, and I separated ourselves from the pack since our mountaintop of choice was deemed to be too ambitious by the rest. I love a good aerial view and it was a great change of pace from the flatness of everyday life. Unfortunately, our ascent up the ridgeline was ultimately cut short by threatening weather. We retreated down the side of the ridge to the valley and eventually back to the campsite, where it was time for the shashlyk.

(Ulytau from above)

Shashlyk is a major Central Asian dish, although as far as I know, it is originally from the Caucausus region. It's basically a meat shish kebab and it is the closest thing that Kazakhs have to barbeque, although the meat -- lamb, chicken, beef, or less often, pork -- is much less tender than what you would find in an American patio. The existence of shashlyk is irritating in one sense because it proves that the local cuisine can marinade meat, yet they insist on boiling it in every other instance. (Note to my mother: if I see boiled lamb in my first month back in America, I am leaving for another two years).

(Shashlyk in action. It's always cooked this way -- a wood fire is made in the far end and the hot embers are slid down the chute to cook the meat.)

Despite the rain, we managed to light a good fire and successfully cooked everything. Ultimately, the rain shower was welcome because it drove away a Vietnam-like number of bugs that must have recently hatched. Free from the pestering of insects, we demolished round two of this Kazakh picnic as the rain subsided. Following the food, the teachers beckoned to us to follow them into the woods, which is how I ended up drinking vodka while standing in a distant forest in the rain with a bunch of middle-aged Kazakh schoolteachers. If that's not Peace Corps in a nutshell, I don't know what is.

(Raw, wet, late spring weather followed us home.)

Soon after, we began the epic task of cleanup and eventually boarded the bus once again. The ride back to Zhezkazgan was a sleepy one for everybody, especially because the trip lasted 13 hours in total. Seeing Ulytau was a fascinating experience for me. While I did not get the chance to wander around the town, it was by far the most isolated human place I have ever been in my life (yet we got great cell phone service, welcome to the 21st century). It was life at its simplest, far away from the bustle and worries of the larger world. Of course, it is easy to romanticize village life. Those volunteers who live there day in and day out and who eat beshbarmak every day might have a slightly different take.

Казахская Свадьба! (Not Just Any Wedding)

It has been a long time since I have written a blog post, but I am finally settled in my apartment which is never a simple process. C'est la vie in Kazakhstan.

(Proud parents await the official ceremony)

As I wrote earlier, about a month and a half ago, my host sister Sania got married. Coming into the wedding, I had no idea what to expect. The routine, the traditions, the ceremonies, and the general atmosphere were all a complete mystery to me. I could have dug deeper when asking my host family about the proceedings, but the family stress level was palpable. Some things in Kazakhstan are best experienced without any prior knowledge of what is supposed to happen, anyway.

(The couple during the civil ceremony. I'm not sure exactly what was said, because it was all in Kazakh.)

The classic image of an American wedding is that of the bride gliding down the aisle to the altar. This defining moment is not shared by Kazakh weddings. At around 3:30pm on a Saturday, we proceeded directly to a government office located about five minutes from our apartment. We waited in the hallway, collecting more family members, as another wedding was being performed in the main room. When it was our turn, we entered a modest room with a large desk and a huge sky-blue flag of Kazakhstan on the wall. This was the civil ceremony and was attended by a small group of about 30 family members. The best man and the maid of honor attended Sania and Kuanysh as papers were signed and the marriage was official.

That was quick.

(A quick dance.)

The Kazakhs clearly prefer to get the paperwork out of the way in order to clear the rest of the day for celebrations. In this case, the ceremony took about 20 minutes, although in reality it was simply the prelude for what ultimately became a 13 hour journey.

After the marriage ceremony, we went outside and waited in the blustery spring weather for the newlyweds to emerge. Kuanysh came out carrying Sania and swept her into the backseat of the first of seven waiting cars, all adorned with flowers and balloons. The best man and the maid of honor joined them in the first car while the rest of the wedding party filed down the street to the other cars. (Note: I don't know exactly what the 'best man' and 'maid of honor' are called here, but their roles are a little different. There were no extra groomsmen or bridesmaids).

As the celebrations continued through the day and into the night, the initial ceremony felt more and more like mere paperwork that had to be dispensed with. Our procession of cars left the government building and sped down the street, horns blaring and streamers flapping in the wind. When we reached the widest boulevard in Zhezkazgan, the cars began weaving between each other. My car would occasionally sidle up to another with windows rolled down and the guys in the back seat would clink their shot glasses together. Seeing that the vodka was already flowing at 4pm of what I knew would be a marathon of a day, I did my best to avoid doing a shot a minute. However, when it comes to drinking, locals are not accustomed to taking no for an answer.

(A quick candle-lighting ceremony at the local museum. What does the fire symbolize? Eternal love? I don't know -- your guess is as good as mine.)

As per Zhezkazgan tradition, the entire afternoon and early evening was spent traveling to a number of different local spots to take pictures and drink vodka. The first destination was the local history museum, where we took pictures and wandered around for a short while. After 15 minutes, everybody piled back into their cars and we drove to the neighboring town of Satpaev. While Zhezkazgan has a mosque of its own, it is rather dingy compared to the one in Satpaev. There was a minor catastrophe when, upon arrival, we realized that we had lost the car that was transporting the parents of the bride. Somehow, there had been a miscommunication and they had driven to the Zhezkazgan mosque! While missing the religious ceremony of their daughter's wedding might seem traumatic, the parents seemed to be only slightly bothered by this. I suppose that gallivanting around in cars while soaked in vodka is a young person's game -- we were only a party of 30 or so people, whereas dinner would be the true climax of the wedding.

(The mosque, which is located right across from the Russian Orthodox Church. Apparently they made sure that the minaret was slightly taller than the steeple.)

Following the trip to the mosque, we sped out of Satpaev and proceeded to skirt around Zhezkazgan to the airport, located a few miles outside of town. The airport is apparently the anchor of the "Zhezkazgan wedding tour". There are only daily flights to Astana and Almaty, a fact which lent the Zhezkazgan airport an air of importance about on par with the airport in West Lebanon, NH. Nonetheless, I had never seen the airport. Naturally, more pictures were taken although the strong wind and the cool spring air drove many back into their cars. The rest, of course, tossed down a few shots and champagne.

(The gang poses for a picture before running back to the cars as soon as it was taken. No, Kazakhs still have not gotten used to the wind around here.)

On the way back from the airport we stopped at a massive "ZHEZKAZGAN" sign overlooking the city. The standard pictures were taken and the newly-minted husband performed a tradition of tossing a champagne bottle in the air. Whether the bottle shatters on the ground determines the gender of the couple's first child. Of course, the bottle broke, but since it was never made clear to me which outcome meant girl and which outcome meant boy, I'm still holding my breath.

(Boy or girl?)

The final stop on the grand tour was in the main square in town. We took another round of pictures, but most people were too cold to stick around for more than a few token moments. We quickly retreated to the cars and finally drove to a restaurant.

(Satpaev Square in Zhezkazgan. Satpaev, by the way, was a Kazakh scientist who discovered most of the copper in this region.)

Restaurants in Zhezkazgan seem to thrive on wedding parties and the like. There is not a terribly strong culture of dining out, but families spend what I can only assume to be a ridiculous amount of money on big occasions such as these. A head count was impossible, but there were easily 200 people spread out among long tables. Like with most formal Kazakh functions, the routine was very standard. A hired emcee ran an agenda that included the formulaic games, music, and occasional dancing. All through the night food was brought to the tables and many people stood up to give toasts. And of course, there were pictures.

(The Scene as we entered)

(The table of leading dignitaries...and I want to stress that those are only the appetizers.)

(The four sitting at the main table would always stand as they listened to each and every toast throughout the night. Toasts play a much bigger role in Kazakh and Russian culture than they do in American culture. A regular dinner party will have many. A wedding... well, there were plenty.)

(Lord knows it wouldn't be a wedding without beshbarmak.)

(A better view of the whole room)

(The cake, which pretty much nobody ate because it was late and you can only be at a Kazakh dinner party for so long.)

(Yes, that is a Yulia Tymoshenko bobblehead on the vodka bottle. Tymoshenko is the Ukrainian prime minister and Princess Leia lookalike. Seriously she's got the hair. I want my George W. Bush bobblehead tequila bottle!)

The scene at the restaurant dissipated at around midnight. A long day of fluctuating between various levels of inebriation is the sort of thing that kills me and I was very ready for bed. This naive optimism was quickly dashed when it was announced that "молодёжь" -- the young people -- would all be heading to a night club. This was fun for a while, but I was a complete zombie by 4am. Thankfully, we left around 4:30 and I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.

The wedding was an interesting experience. At its core, it was not drastically different than an American wedding, although it was hardy the same thing. In truth, the wedding seemed to follow the exact same format that every large formal party follows, but with a pre-party and a post-party. I suppose it simply would not be a Kazakh event if it did not involve the дастархан, the enormous arrangement of food that leaves almost no empty space on the table. It was a fascinating experience, but not one I would want to do every weekend!