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.