The space between my ears

Terrible Posture

I got this plastic apparatus in the mail a few months ago. It’s a wide hook with a ballpeen point on the end. When my host brother asked me what it was I said it was for massaging your own back, and then gave him a little demonstration. He fell into fits of laughter and said it was a good joke, but really, what is it for? I just shrugged and set it down.

I’ve been doing all kinds of terrible things to my back, some overtly inflicted but most have crept in more subtly. I’m not a tall person by American standards and used to walk with my shoulders back and my head held high to try and pass off my 5-11 for 6-1. I just wanted to fit in, that’s all. But here I’m taller than most and in my attempt to fit in I slouch much more often. I notice it in my shadow sometimes on the dusty path, shoulders rolled and neck tilted forward. There’s a practical side to slouching too – a greatly decreased chance of smacking my forehead for the seventh time on that doorframe. Doorways are generally made shorter here and not just because people are shorter. Shorter houses mean less building material and less cubic meters to heat. When I visited a fellow volunteer, he didn’t warn me not to hit my head on the roof, but warned me that I would hit my head on it. And I did. Twice.

And then there’re the backpacks. Yes, I carry multiple backpacks. I wish I could write “How to pack lightly” as the title for one of these posts, but it’s simply something I haven’t learned yet. I still lug that extra power adapter across the country thinking that one of these trips I’m going to need it, like I’m going to find an outlet in a tree somewhere when our taxi gets a flat tire.

imageTurnstiles: for keeping out cows and American tourists

And let’s not count out stress as a contributing factor. I have to mutter things like, “Unclench the fists. Ok, good…breathe…ok, good…let the shoulders down…there, now we’re getting somewhere…” to myself often. If I had access to a girlfriend who had a knack for massages then maybe my back wouldn’t hurt so bad. But now I’m just bringing up a point of further stress, and “breathe…good, good…”

So I’ll settle for my plastic hook, sitting on the edge of my bed, door closed to keep the laughter out, posturing for my position.

Faking a smile until you feel like it sometimes just gives you a sore face

Bright, cheery, naïve advice is about as useful as an Ethernet cord in the village. There are going to be days (weeks, months?) that just plain suck. And what can you do? Sit back and eat an entire box of Girl Scout cookies? It’s worked before, though I can’t credit anyone else with the advice, nor am I giving it either. (Especially if I’m the one holding the cookies.)

We’ve all heard it – “Cheer up,” “Think positive,” “It’ll be ok.” The last one gets me. What if it’s not? What if it just continues to suck and there’s no fixing anything? Sometimes you have to cut your losses and get out. I’ve heard that one before too.

It is a gamble, this Peace Corps life. Thirty-eight people in my group made it to country, and to date five have left. There will probably be more. Yet I’m not condemning those who have left – quite the opposite. If moving on to something else is going to make people more satisfied, more productive, or just plain more joyful, then that is wonderful and I support it. Me, I rely on an inherited patch of stubbornness to get me through. It pairs well with a sour face. Maybe I’m passing time waiting for the phrase, “I did it” to make everything worthwhile. Maybe I am waiting until it will be ok.

I miss home like hell

And by that I mean I miss it in a way that is exactly opposite of how I miss hell. I left my family, friends, language, culture, food, church, holidays, hobbies, ways of dealing with stress, support networks, country and that comfortable feeling of knowing you’re “home.” I sometimes pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming; am I really stuck in the middle of nowhere for two years?

But then I think about Nazgul, my counterpart. She’s never left an area the size of southern Minnesota, except this isn’t Minnesota at all but an equally tiny sliver of known universe lost up the side of a mountain. If I hadn’t been flung here in a Peace Corps blessed aircraft, I never would have met her. I never would have met any of these people, walking to school, planting their crops, building houses and flour mills and barns, driving their animals to pasture and driving them home again at night. People with stories as big as the open sky and bright as the stars that wash the valley. People who will spend half their paycheck to make sure you feel welcomed.

People ask me sometimes what I think is better, America or Kyrgyzstan. I answer, “America, or course. It’s my home.” “Ah, you must miss it,” they say wistfully, their minds wandering to nearer mountains and land well loved. “Oh home beloved where e’er I wander…” is what my heart starts to sing, “Though fair be nature’s scenes around me and friends are ever tried and true…”

image

The truth of it is, I’m going to miss this place too. I think everyone misses it when they’re gone, and you have to let that future knowledge affect your appreciation for the place today, no matter how shitty things are going or how fed-up you are with the whole lot. We miss things. And we’re going to miss this.