Author: Luther

Makal Monday: “Maybe a crow will poop on my hand too”

“Makal” in the Kyrgyz language means “proverb.” Kyrgyz is full of wonderful and puzzling little proverbs – some that match common proverbs often heard in English and some that are real head scratchers. Most Mondays I’ll post one of the more fun ones for you. Let’s see if we can’t make some of these commonplace in America by the time I get back!

Menin Koluma da karga chychaar

Менин колума да карга чычаар

“Maybe a crow will poop on my hand too”

You know that moment. That moment where you’re standing under a tree or maybe a power-line somewhere and something wet hits your head. You’d say it’s rain, but there’s not a cloud in the sky. What is in the sky, however, is a pair of wings and a little feathery body. “Direct hit!” he radios back to command center as he makes his aerial escape.

Of course you don’t have a towel with you. You’re dressed and pressed and on your way to work. You even shampooed your hair that morning to look good for the cute girl in sales. Which is why it’s so fortunate that a bird pooped on you—it’s a sign of good luck—and maybe, just maybe, this is the day she’ll return one of your internal instant messages that you send with all the emoticons.

Being pooped on by a bird is good luck in Kyrgyzstan. I’m not sure if that carries over to other animals, but as I’ve also had the honor of being graced by other varieties I’m going to pretend yes.

That’s the context for this Kyrgyz proverb. The literal translation is “maybe a crow will poop on my hand too” but what it means is “maybe I also will be so lucky.” When good fortune comes to the people around you, you hope that luck will also someday come your way.

As our two year contract is coming to an end this week, the volunteers in my group are looking back over two years of service. The weekend has been filled with goodbyes of so many kinds—toasts, hugs, memories and last shared moments.

Our group ordered T-shirts as a memento to be carried back with us beyond the final days of service and back to the states, something to both honor Kyrgyzstan and to remind us of the connection we will always have. On the front is our Kyrgyz proverb but slightly altered. It says, “A crow did poop on my hand too.”

At times throughout service, being a Peace Corps Volunteer has felt pretty much just like that—getting shat on that is.

And yes, just like the proverb, we’ve been so lucky to serve here in Kyrgyzstan, a country of great wonder, incredible potential, people generous beyond words and an experience that has taught us so much.

Good-bye to all my friends who are leaving! I’ll see you in a year!

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The grass is always greener, er, toilet redder or something

I’ve made the move. I’m currently sitting at my new desk, in my new room, with newly painted walls that don’t rub off on your clothes, using new 3G Internet on my new iPhone to put this new post online!

Ok, so I lied—the phone’s actually quite old. It’s a 4 sans the s, but that’s ok because I doubt even Siri knows Kyrgyzstan exists. (It does btw.)

My new 15-year-old host brother and I were sitting at the dinner table comparing each of our “new” iPhones and I started to say how excited I was about moving into a village that gets fast 3G internet. But after saying the word “3G” and before I could mention the being excited part, he jumped in, “Oh, I know! It sucks that we only have 3G here—no 4G like in Bishkek. I can’t watch TV all day!” My eyes narrowed into thin, little slits and I just stared at him. Clearly he wasn’t appreciating what blessings had been bestowed upon his teenage head.

Dolphin ToiletThis is the dolphin-graced definition of “blessed”

The whole set-up is really nice and we even have a flush toilet. I asked my host bro if there were any limits on its use and he looked at me kind of funny and then said, “Yes, from 8pm-9pm…naw, just kidding, there’s no limit!”

I think we’re going to get along quite well!

And I think I’m going to get along pretty well with my host brother too.

IMG_0406We’re bartering Russian and komuz (pictured above) lessons for English and guitar

Spying on sheep: The diplomacy of a Peace Corps ‘foreign agent’

In recent legislative news here in Central Asia, Kyrgyzstan is proving that once again, life in a former Soviet Republic truly is stranger than fiction. In a country where I’m still asked about once a month if I’m a spy, it’s necessary to discover ways to traverse these conversations.

For my Internet friends: I am not a spy. (Just what you’d expect a spy to say, I suppose.) But I can do better than that. Here’s how I usually handle it:

New acquaintance: Are you a spy?

Me: Yes. Yes, I am a spy. A shepherd spy to be specific. I’m out here in the village to count sheep. How many sheep do you have?

Agent ShepherdAgent Shepherd, busy at work

There is a combined total of zero points of useful intelligence out where I live and though I’m sure the Ambassador would drop everything if I were to call her with news of disputes over watering schedules for local gardens, I think national security and development holds the trump. This question is usually asked of me a bit tongue-in-cheek anyway, so it’s ok to have a little laugh.

Access CampI’ve always been quite good at keeping under the radar

Other than the sticky situations that arise from pushing a ‘foreign agenda’ of peace and friendship upon the people of Kyrgyzstan while indoctrinating their children with a working knowledge of English, there are other kinds of conversations that require the same delicate step and well placed word. As a “grassroots diplomat,” I’ve developed five basic strategies for diplomatically dealing with the more hairy situations:

1) Feign ignorance

This is usually not very difficult since most of the time I don’t have to feign. I’m just straight up ignorant. But for those situations or conversations I would like to get out of, I try to either look really confused or give answers that have nothing to do with the question.

Man on street: Hey, we’re headed up to the mountain—you think you could spare a hundred som—you know, for just a wee bottle.

Me: Yes, I have 2 sisters.

Man on street: No, we’re headed up to the mountain see, and just to celebrate, it being spring and all, and you do want to be respectful of us and so forth…

Me: Thirty.

Man on street: Huh?

Me: I’m thirty years old. Your mountains are very beautiful. I like to play Frisbee.

Man on street: Alright, take care now, we’ll see you around, Luther.

2) Make a joke

Older man: You can marry my daughter. We will have American in-laws.

Me: I can’t marry your daughter because I don’t own any sheep for the bridal gift.

Funny and, sadly true. (Though I’ve been keeping my secret agent eye on a few of the more ‘suspicious’ ones.)

3) Be profusely grateful

Host: Drink the vodka!

Me: Thank you! (Leaves vodka on table.)

Host: No, I mean, drink—you should drink.

Me: I am so grateful for your hospitality! (Smiles like an idiot and looks around room.)

Host: But…the vodka…

Me: You are so generous! Thank you deeply from my heart! (Continues to ignore vodka and shoves an entire fistful of raisins in mouth.)

Host: …

4) Give a culturally appropriate response

Neighbor: Come over to my house for besh barmak for dinner.

Me: Oh, that would be good. God willing. (Smiles, shakes hand and leaves.)

5) Call a spade a spade

I believe in the importance of dealing candidly and directly with important issues, and I don’t shy away from engaging others in conversation when the greater good of our community or the future of Kyrgyzstan is at stake. Simply laughing off bigotry, laziness or abuse is a sin in of itself. (Though showing these stances to be ridiculous by bringing them to their logical conclusions like the article above can sometimes be effective.) The trick is to be able to respond with the appropriate level of gravity without creating enemies. This balance is exceptionally difficult to strike, especially given the fact that ideological differences can sometimes preclude any chance of friendly relations.

Sometimes creating enemies is unavoidable and therefore the right thing to do. I believe when it comes to the topics of justice and a fair shot at opportunity we shouldn’t compromise. Still, we have a wide array of possible choices of discourse and should always weigh carefully the cultural implications, choose responsibly and act with discretion. If that makes me deserving of the title, ‘foreign agent,’ so be it. Those sheep had it coming to them anyway.

Failure must be an option

I jingled the keys in my pocket. It was 8 minutes past the bell and I was still waiting for the first student to show up. A minute later one of my girls shuffled in. She was the only one in her class who had showed up to school that day, and wondered if she could just go home. I thought about the possibility of an early lunch, and sent her on her way.

Unfortunately this is an all too common experience in village schools. Attendance is abysmal in the fall because many students are helping with harvests, terrible in winter because the school is freezing and many catch colds, and bad in spring due to various tests, holidays, and sending animals off to the summer pasture. But the biggest reason why kids aren’t in class is because nothing is really expected of them.

If students come to class or not, they will get a diploma. No questions asked. It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to realize that under these circumstances most junior and seniors simply aren’t going to show up. Senioritis hits hard anywhere; if I had known 12 years ago that I could have skipped the entire month of May and still gotten my same GPA and diploma, I would have been a much better golfer that summer.

There are schools in Kyrgyzstan where administrative leadership and control is working well. One of my friends described her school days as orderly and quite strict with real consequences for not coming to school or not doing homework. If you were late, you had to run 3 laps around the school yard. If you didn’t do your homework, your parents were contacted. If you didn’t show up, you had to go around to every teacher the next day and explain why you weren’t there, take whatever verbal punishment was coming to you, and then do the homework anyway. Students were responsible for their actions.

 Epic signage fail…Tho you do have to give them credit for trying.

Sometimes letting someone fail is the best thing you can do for them. Always allowing people to pass right through life with the belief that what they do has no bearing on their outcome leads to disastrous results.

Additionally, you need to make sure the relationship between a student’s action and his or her failure is made clear. It can’t be arbitrary and it can’t be outside of their direct control. As an example, one of our seventh grade students was having some participation issues and so we assigned him a low grade for the day. When he complained about it I made the effort to explain to him: “Choose to screw around and you will get a D for this class. But also, you can still turn it around. If you consistently show up, with your homework done and work until the bell rings, you can still get an A for the quarter. It is your own choice. You will choose what grade you receive.”

The next time we had class he worked diligently, without disrupting other students, and even presented his written work in front of his classmates at the end of the activity. I was really proud of him and made the point of praising his efforts and announcing to the class his “A” for the day. (A culturally appropriate move.) The relationship between action and consequence—both positive and negative—must be clearly seen by the student and strictly followed through by the teacher.

Without the possibility of failure, it’s difficult to define success. When we take away the possibility of failure, nobody learns to appreciate what incredible heights of success they can reach. This teaches students to be satisfied with the mediocre and chalk their lack of achievement up to dumb luck or blind fate. If Kyrgyzstan is to see real improvements in development, this is the kind of “option” we truly need to eliminate.

Pickles aren’t magic

I’ve always been a fan of pickles. Dill pickles, to be specific. Pickles on a stick at the Minnesota State Fair, blue ribbon baby dills, extra pickles on my Chick-fil-A sandwich, pickles in a bloody mary (I eat the pickle and toss the rest out because, ew, tomato juice! *shudder), pickles sliced and pickles diced and mixed with miracle whip. Mmmm…pickles.

When I was little, aka up until last summer, I thought pickles were magic. How did pickles grow? On trees? In salt water near the coasts? And why were they so delicious? Now, that child-like wonder has been shattered. It turns out they’re not magic at all. It’s just cucumbers plus vinegar and time. (And not the homophonic spice.)

Vinegar’s good in its own right, I guess, but really pickles? I thought you were special. I thought you had something no other delicious condiment carried, something that would ignite the wonder in my soft and supple brain.

That innocent youth was shattered last summer when Nazgul invited me to do some canning with her.

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 Can you can? Nazgul can can.

We ground tomatoes, peppers, carrots and garlic until their juices ran off the table and onto the floor. We chopped onions until no more tears could fall. We lit a fire and steamed the jars and simmered the sauce until we had 12 quarts of winter salad and 13 jars worth of pickles. The canned vegetable stuff I got. The pickles were just too simple to comprehend. All you do is put some cucumbers and some dill in a jar, pour in a spoon of sugar and a spoon of salt and a spoon of concentrated vinegar, fill with water and then seal. That’s it. The only thing left to do is wait. It’s one of the most disappointing lessons I’ve learned in the Peace Corps.

It’s now May and all my pickles are gone. My last two jars I shared with the ladies who came to our village English teaching methodology training we hosted. The other jars had served me well over the winter, in those desperately cold and God-forsaken months where the closest available thing to a vegetable was the sole of my shoe that was falling off. (It needed more dill.)

Peace Corps—you opened this kid’s eyes to all kinds of wonder and amazement, but did you really have to steal one from me?

And then I put on my favorite movie soundtrack, Happy Gilmore, and Pilot takes me home…..

“Oh oh oh it’s magic!!! You know….never believe it’s not so!….”

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