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Grandpa really did walk uphill both ways

There’s this old man living in our house. He’s been here a few months now. We call him Chong-Ata or “Big-Father.” He’s my host grandpa and recently celebrated his 84th Birthday – no small feat in a country with a current life expectancy of 65. Until recently, I didn’t know much about him other than the envy I have for his life of quiet leisure.

Over the past few months our conversations have been mostly limited to “How did you sleep?” and “Pass the sugar.” For a man who spends most of his time napping and drinking tea these are actually quite useful phrases; however, I began to work up the courage to ask a few more questions. My chance came one evening when we were all around the dinner table, sipping our last cups of tea.

Grandpa Jumabek was the oldest male of eight children, and when his father passed away, the responsibility of caring for his family fell literally on his shoulders. It was the late 1930s and food was scarce in the Kara-Suu Valley where the family lived. To the north over a mountain range lived his aunt, and knowing her family had food, he decided to make the trip to ask for help. Wearing a thin pair of shoes, Jumabek trekked for three days up and through a narrow pass, arriving in the Chui Valley on the other side. After staying a couple days, his aunt sent him back up over the mountains with two sacks of flour and a donkey in tow. Returning home, he was exhausted, having worn off a layer of skin on his feet leaving them bloodied and raw. Jumabek was only nine years old.

At nine years old I was proud of making my own sandwich. Being the breadwinner for an entire family is so much more badass.

My awe for this man grew, as did his stature. A broad and imposing man, I had to look twice to realize he’s actually several inches shorter than I am. It’s amazing what high regard can do for a person through the eyes of the admirer.

So the next time you see a man surrounded by a gaggle of admiring grandkids spinning tales with “back in my day,” think twice before you disbelieve. He might just be telling the truth.

imageOnce shouldering a injured horse, Chong-Ata now shoulders three generations.

Floss

Government insurance is nice. Let me restate that. Government insurance is really nice.

Now, as Peace Corps Volunteers we don’t receive the same nice salaries as government employees (something about there being “volunteer” in the title), but we do enjoy the benefits of good medical care. During our hub-site medical days we received so many shots we were veritable pincushions. We would take them two at a time – one in each arm – just to save on shot taking time. At first I asked questions, like, “What’s this for?” After a couple weeks it was, “Where’s my juice box?”

During service we are well taken care of too. Multiple volunteers this past year have been flown to Bangkok or Washington, D.C. for treatment that can’t be done in country. Peace Corps will even pay for pregnancies from pre-natal care through six months after the baby is born, including those who become pregnant just before completion of service. (Married couples: start thinking about your timing.) If you’re going to get seriously ill or injured in life, Peace Corps service is the time to do it.

But reality is, we are “out in the field” for a majority of the time, and two years in a developing country does a number on your health. This is something most of us don’t realize until we’re cutting new holes in our belts or swallowing an army of pills to chase out that colony of worms that has settled in our small intestine. We make sacrifices nutritionally, bacterially, with lack of exercise and with increased stress. That’s why taking responsibility for watching our own health is so vitally important.

image A village Volunteer’s medical plan: a book titled Where There Is No Doctor

I’m seeing the dentist next week on one of my trips to the capital, and I know what he’s going to say. It’s the same thing the dentist always says to me: “You need to floss more.” The advice is free, yet I’ve now learned the value of good health care. So much so, that maybe this time, I might just listen.

Now doesn’t necessarily mean now

In Kyrgyz there’s this simple, small word whose translation is completely meaningless. If you ask for a translation, and worse yet, believe what you’re told, you are in for a world of hurt. But, since I’m now too far down the rabbit trail, I’ll let you in on what’s been tumbling past me in wonderland: the word in English means now.

In Kyrgyz, however, now could mean now; later; in a little bit; later this afternoon; tomorrow; this summer; sometime in the next few years; or some other indefinite and indefinable future date.

I was at a conference hosted at a hotel several months ago. Since we had computer equipment stored in a meeting room, one of the organizers asked me to tell the front desk to please lock the door after we left. Noticing the door was still unlocked, I notified the person at the desk asking in Kyrgyz, “Could you please lock the door now?” She smiled, said yes, and returned to the magazine she was reading. I waited a few moments and asked again, “Ah, could you please lock the door now? We’re leaving.” She smiled, nodded her head and struck up a conversation with her co-worker. I guess I should have included the definition of now I was after: “Could you please lock the door at 6:02pm and 39 seconds? Oh – would you look at the time.” But instead I just motioned for her to follow me. I was headed to the door, and she was coming, now.

This little word lends itself to all kinds of frustrations, and even more so when it comes as a response. “When is the concert starting?” “Now.” “So…should I hang around or go take a quick vacation and then come back?” Hours spent standing around just waiting for things to happen makes a volunteer go crazy.

As frustrating as it is to hear “Now,” when asking when such-and-such is going to begin, the word can be quite useful when wielded to one’s advantage. Like with this little project my vice-principal’s been asking me to do. I think I’ll start now.

People like the things they grow up with

There’s no law of nature that says a medium rare steak is high culinary art. (Though this author happens to agree.) Likewise, there’s no law of nature that says a blow-torched and boiled sheep is the pinnacle of all dining experiences. (Thank God.) Yet in a country where a sheep rib will serve as a pacifier, it’s hard to find someone who will bend to the opinion that people living elsewhere may, perhaps, prefer different options.

The US Embassy in Bishkek funds and supports several different programs for sending Kyrgyz people to the United States for a period of time, like FLEX for high school students or TEA for teachers. One such program is more of a mini tour/vacation for directors of schools to get a picture of what the American education system is like. One such director received an all expense paid trip this past year to wine and dine in the fancier restaurants on the east coast while checking out schools from his limo. I’m not complaining about the lavishness; rather, I’m all for showing a Kyrgyz person a good time. But what absolutely destroyed me was the first comment out of his mouth: “The food was terrible. There was no boiled sheep.”

This comment has been corroborated by several other primary sources, which clearly proves that people are crazy.

imageWould you like your sheepskin burnt or charcoaled?

And by people, I mean all people. Why do we get so attached to particular ways of life? Why are we so ethno-, (culturo-, experio-) centric? I think we’re attached to what we grow up with, appreciate the familiar, or just can’t see over the trench that’s been dug by so many passes down the same path.

Someone who has had significant experiences in places other than where he or she is starts to see the grey around the edges that separate black and white. Maybe a fine cut of grilled beef doesn’t claim inherent goodness (shudder). And maybe, just maybe, boiled sheep could be traded for some roasted chicken or a nice cheesy potato bake at the next village gathering. That’s what I grew up with anyway.

Laugh. Pretty much always.

I was walking down the street and saw this Lexus with initials embossed into the seats and I thought, “That’s pretentious.” (You have to spit a little on the first “T.”) Being in a dismal mood I was ready to write anything off as ridiculous, preposterous or just plain stupid. But then I was pulled back to the days when I lived in America and drove a car with plates that had the initials LAF. My initials.

I had gotten those letters embossed on my plates because I always wanted to be reminded to. My parents gave me a gift, or God maybe, and that was to see the laughter each time I agreed to the regulations for a driver’s license or finished an arcade game.

I thought about those days, driving that car to the disc golf course in Rapid City, or across vast stretches of Dakota land, or spinning in an empty parking lot after a shift at the restaurant. I got lost in these thoughts for a while, reminiscing about happy times.

I must have looked actually lost because I was suddenly pulled back by a man asking me if I was looking for something. “Happiness,” I replied, with a wistful look. “Ha, that’s good!” he said, and laughing again, “That’s a good answer!”

And I thought back over those last few moments – the sweetest girl, with a smile to match answering my question in the local language, a poster in Japanese advertising the sukuri matsuri, or summer festival, and now this man, a beam of light in answer to an off-handed remark.

And then it hit me – I had completely missed it. Completely missed the joy that was inherently present in each interaction, in each sign, in each moment, waiting to be drawn out. My own pretentions had covered them all like a blanket, smothering the spark of happiness that would ignite into a warm flame if I would only whisper a breath of hope.

Sometimes pretentions aren’t pretentious. Sometimes they’re just joy without worry or hope without fear. I hope you search for that joy wherever you are and in whatever you do. If that means initials on your leather seats, then heck – enjoy it!

imageThe least pretentious family you’ll ever meet – and the most joyful