June 4: The drive to Darkhan Village

Met Kengeshbek-baike, my new host father, and stuffed his aging Nissan sedan full of my shit.

Snowboard bag couldn't fit, so we tied it down with an old rope and drove it a few miles to Kengeshbek-baike's friend's place, and dropped it in his big flatbed semi. He said his friend would drive it to Darkhan in a day or two.

Stopped at a bazar, picked up their son, Ulan (22). Didn't notice someone new had gotten in. Kengeshbek-baike, Gulnara-eje, Farida-eje (my counterpart), and Joomart are all in the car.

I'm sitting shotgun. We hit the road again.

We run a red light. Tired of waiting, I guess. Or no need.

On the open road, potholes here and there like landmines.

Kengeshbek-baike says the raods in Kyrgyzstan are bad, and asks me if the raods are bad in the US.
Sometimes, I say.

We hit a pothole at like 50 mph and I wonder if the car will hold up for the whole drive.
Tires are nearly bald and need air.

Windshield and mirrors are cracked.

We push on in silence.

Farida-eje and Gulnara-eje whisper quietly to each other in the back seat. Joomart is sick; he takes his medicine, cough syrup, without complaint.

''Good boy,'' I say to Keneshbek-baike.

''Kiiyiin bala,'' he replies. Difficult boy.

I close my eyes and doze off. There are no raod signs, no speed limit signs, no lines. Only names of towns and villages are marked.

We pass by a cop with a radar gun and an orange baton, like the ones used on airport runways to communicate with pilots when they're taxiing.

I wonder if he's going to pull us over, and what it means to be a foreigner. I left my ID in my bag, in the back, but I don't know how to say that in Kyrgyz.

He doesn't pull us over.

But, the next cop does. Keneshbek-baike pays the bribe, and we go free. The radar guns are bullshit. They pick cars at random, and wave their orange baton at them.

''You will pull over.''

They have families to feed.

''Politzia,'' Keneshbek-baike says, shaking his head.

We stop for gas. The attendant shakes her head. No. We pull away.

Down the road, we try again. No gas here, either.

Keneshbek-baike points out Kazakhstan to our left. The countries are separated by a river just off the road. We stop again for gas. This place has some. I pay for it.

Inside, the car is quiet. I doze off again. Keneshbek-baike asks me if I'm hungry, and some bread is passed up from the back, along with a one-liter bottle of peach soda or something, which we all share.

I wonder what diseases I might catch from these strangers, but decide not to worry about it.

We enter Balykchy and get our first view of Lake Issyk-Kul. It is big and blue, and then it is gone, as the road extends inland.

The mountains are getting bigger. They're shaped like wizard hats, and green. They remind me of Punta Bardini.

Keneshbek-baike points to our right and says, ''Cheena.'' China looks mountainous.

I have a few short texting conversations with some friends from PST as we drive along the South shore of the lake and the sun sets.

It is beautiful, and I hope Darkhan overlooks the lake.

We pass Barskoon and Kichi-Jargylchak, and I mention the volunteers who are living there.

Farida-eje confirms what I said, in English, and I feel that our partnership has begun.

It's dark when we drive into Darkhan. People are silouettes. A man walks with his arm around his buddy's shoulders; women hold hands. Totally normal.

We drop off Farida-eje. I'm told to stay in the car. I wanted to, but somehow we don't say goodbye to each other.

Ulan jumps into the driver's seat. I feel that something is different, but I don't realize he's not Keneshbek-baike at first.

Strange consequence of fatigue and stress that my situational awareness is fading.

I think maybe Ulan wants practice driving. I ask him if he's sixteen.

''Men Jirima-ekie,'' he says, and I felt like I should have known his was 22.

We pull into the driveway. He honks the horn. Nurgazy greets us, helps me with my bags while Keneshbek-baike shows me to my room.

I give him the rest of the 900 soms the Peace Corps gave me for transportation, and tell him it's for him. I could've pocketed it, but I wanted to start off on the right foot. No secrets. No guilt.

He didn't understand. ''Imnegay?'' he asked. Why?

For travel, I said.

I text the PC to tell them I made it to the village while his sons brought in the rest of my bags, and the groceries from the bazar.

Keneshbek-baike gives me a tour of the house, showing me the TV, radio, DVD player, the path to the outhouse and the light switch in the back yard.

Then I tune the guitar in the living room and play a few riffs.

Nurgazy plays a few notes, and it sounds much better than before, when it was out-of-tune.

I fill up my water filter with ''clean water'' from a stand pipe in the back yard, and brush my teeth.

Then I watch an episode of Lost called ''The Outsider''—He walks among us, but he is not one of us—and fall asleep.

That night, I had some of the craziest, most vivid dreams I have ever had in my life.

June 2: One day left in Novo Pokrovka

Last night I packed most of my stuff—snowboards, clothes, and books—and got ready to move to Darkhan Village, on the south shore of Lake Issyk-Kul. I went to bed listening to Jack Johnson on my iPod, hoping that it would put me to sleep. I am buzzing with nervous anticipation.

Today, I woke up early and listened to the rain outside my window for awhile. Then, after breakfast and tea, Talant, Emir, and I loaded my bags into Mederbek-Baike's car, and we drove the short distance to Rahat-Eje's host family's house.

Talant was pumping some Paula Abdul remix in the car. It was so loud the windows were rattling. I looked back at Emir. He had his hands over his ears. I threw my hand in the air and started grooving a little. Talant laughed and did the same. Up ahead, there was a girl in a short skirt and high heels walking along the muddy, potholed road, with her hood up.

''Kiz,'' Talant said. Girl.

He turned the music down, rolled down his window, pulled up alongside her, and slowed the car down to walking speed. They spoke back and forth in Russian. She didn't seem appalled, which surprised me. I couldn't tell if she was 14 or 24, because even young girls wear short skirts and high heels here, near the city. It is totally normal. When we got to an intersection, she was turning left, and we had to go straight, so he asked her for her number, and she actually gave it to him. He pulled over and entered it in his phone. It was eight in the morning, and raining, and Talant was already partying.

We dropped off my bags, spoke to Rahat-Eje briefly, and then drove back home and watched ''Troy'' in Russian. I asked Gulaim if I could clean my room before I move out, but she insisted that she would do it for me. This family's hospitality has no end.

May 21: "I've had many troubles, most of which have never happened."--Mark Twain

There are less than two weeks left of Pre-Service Training. They've ramped up our Krygyz lessons, and added another two hours per day of class. My group also has a new Language and Culture Facilitator (LCF), named Rahat-Eje.

Rahat-Eje is a teacher in her late thirties who lives in Talas with her husband and four kids. She demands a lot from us. She thinks fast and talks fast, and very rarely speaks English, although her English is really good. Her lessons move so fast, there's no time to take notes. Here's what I do: I focus, listen, absorb, and try not to get left behind. Then, I go home and pass out for a couple hours. She is an excellent teacher.

One time, after class, we were hanging out in Kylebek's back yard, and I was lying flat on my back, staring into the blue sky with my shades on, bemoaning the apparent learning disability, of which I had been previously unaware, that was causing me to get my ass kicked by Rahat-Eje's lessons every day. I later told another K-18, Brooke, from Washington, about this, and she said that, one time, she had tears streaming down her face during one of Rahat-Eje's lessons. I think we made each other feel better. We are learning Kyrgyz at an accelerated rate.

In a week, we have our site placement announcements. This is on everybody's mind. Where will we go? It's a big deal, and I look forward to watching that day unfold, to gauge everyone's reactions. We've all been told that there are good things and bad things about every oblast, but I lobbied hard for Issyk-Kul because of the big ski resort there. Also, Iskender and Altynai have a summer home there. That said, I'll make the best out of wherever they send me.

It's hard to imagine what my new host family will be like, so I've decided not to worry about it. I will not lose sleep over it. Hopefully I'll get along with them as well as I get along with my current family.

May 18: The Novo Pokrovka Crew

We have a tight language group, and feel it is our duty to represent.

Kylebek, from Kansas City, got his nickname the second day we were with our host families, when his host dad, a fiery Kyrgyz marshrutka driver, stunned Brandy by repeatedly yelling at Kyle and calling him ''Kyle-BEK!'' He wasn't angry, he just always yelled. Kyle is one of the most intelligent people I've ever known, and he knows it.

Brandy was only with us for a week or so, before ET-ing back to Colorado, where she hoped to marry her boyfriend of five years. Losing her brought us closer together.

Ivy is a married 24-year-old from Arkansas who is very easy to talk to. She and I have been known to grab a beer together and solve all the problems of the world. She is dedicated to learning Kyrgyz better than her husband, Nick, who lives in International, a few villages away.

Esther is a beautiful Korean-American from Los Angeles, whose father is a pastor and who, just eleven years ago, moved to the United States to go to school, even though she spoke no English. She is a positive force, and an inspires me to see the good in all people.

I hope to stay in touch with this crew throughout my service. We have been through some battles together, during language classes and afternoons teaching local students, and I appreciate the opportunity to get to know them. The four of us also wrote the K-18 contract for resilience together, which was a meaningful contribution.

May 16: Talant

I spent most of my day off today working outside with Azat's younger brother, Talant, who's been living in Kazakhstan. Talant is 25, unmarried, and always smiling and joking. He speaks no English, only Russian, Kyrgyz, and Kazakh. He likes to go to Bishkek with his friends, and when he tells me about it, he always dances around and sings the word, ''Yeah,'' and talks about girls.

The night he showed up, his family brought out all their old photo albums and reminisced. He showed me some pictures of himself without a shirt on and said, ''Semiz bala,'' or fat boy. I liked him immediately.

One night Talant saw me working on my laptop and said that he can buy a wire in the city and use his phone as a modem so I can get on the Internet from the house. I knew it wouldn't work, but I didn't know how to tell him that without just saying,
''No,'' which was not what I wanted to say, because that would be rude. So, I feigned interest in his plan, just to see what would happen.

The next day, he came home with the wire, which had cost him about 200 som, about seven bucks, US. I plugged his phone into my MacBook, fired up the bluetooth, made some progress, but then came up short, as expected. He needed to call his ISP to find out what number to call to gain access to the Internet, but I didn't know how to communicate this with him. He called his friend to ask for help, and I opened up a chess game on my computer. Talant started playing me, and quickly beat me, while he was talking on the phone. He knows a few English words.

''Check mate,'' he said.

Since then, I've played Talant in chess, on his board, a number of times, and have never won. I think that if I ever win, it will be because he let me.

Talant, like many Kyrgyz people, has a different notion of privacy. For one thing, he goes to the bathroom with the outhouse door wide open. One day I almost walked in on him, but at the last second, a caught a glimpse of his hand near the ground as he was squatting. The other thing is, it's normal for him to open my door and walk right into my room, if my light is on and he knows I'm up.

''Kandai,'' he says. How you doing? I'm usually studying, so he asks me how my studying is going. I need to practice speaking, so I ask him where he's been.

''Kaiakka bardung?''

''Shaar,'' he says. The city. ''Yeaah.'' Then he says something about work, even though he doesn't have a job. This happens just about every day. I haven't been able to grasp what he's talking about.

So anyway, I was working with him outside for most of the day today. He wanted to tear a section of the roof down that was covering a small room filled with some random junk and old cobwebs. Talant ripped two-by-fours down with a pry bar, and I piled them up neatly against the house. We worked well together. He taught me a few words, and my broken Kyrgyz began to flow a little better, after a while. We took frequent breaks to sit and talk.

Spending time with Talant was a great opportunity to practice speaking and listening to Kyrgyz. It also felt good to show him that Americans can do physical work, too. In fact, a few days before, I had helped him break rocks apart with a sledgehammer, for a different home improvement project. That was dangerous, since there were pieces of rocks flying in all directions, and we weren't wearing eye protection. Also, there had been neighborhood kids standing around, watching us, easily within striking distance. At one point I guided Emir, my three-year-old host brother, out of the way. The Kyrgyz have different standards of safety.

Sitting in his back yard, Talant asked me where the Peace Corps was going to send me for the next two years, and I told him that I didn't know, but that I was hoping for Issyk-Kul. He told me that next week, he could drive me there, to check it out.

I told him that I couldn't, that the Peace Corps wouldn't allow it. He said that he could drive me there on Sunday. I replied that I couldn't do it. Then he said, again, that he could drive me there next Sunday. As he was talking, I found myself bewildered, looking up into the sky, trying not listen, hoping that he would stop. I had heard of this, that in their culture, Kyrgyz people often extended invitations three times. Frustrated and confused, I raised my voice and said that the Peace Corps says no!

''Jak shi, Brandy,'' Talant said.

Our break was over. We stood up and got back to work.

May 9: Victory Day

Don't ever tell a former Soviet that Americans won World War II. It was the U.S.S.R. that was the most committed, that was dug in the deepest. The former Soviet Union suffered the most casualties during the war, which they call, ''The Great Patriotic War;'' I've been told that every Soviet family lost a family member while fighting the Nazis. Today, May 9, ''Jengish Koon,'' is the day that they are remembered.

Last night before going to bed, my host father, Mederbek-Baike, told me to rest, because tomorrow was Victory Day. I got in his car this morning with he and little Emir, and we drove less than a mile to a white, courthouse-like building, where the festivities were taking place. I was nervous, because I knew people were going to want to talk to me, and I would have to tell them that I didn't understand what they were saying.

The three of us stood with our backs against the building, while kids dressed up in the uniforms of the time and performed choreographed marches and dances. One dance depicted a couple who, at the end of song, parted ways, as the man waved goodbye and went off to fight in the war. I wondered what the elderly women in the crowd were thinking, and what they were talking about.

My host father is a respected man in my village, so he was greeted by many other men, who shook his hand and said a few words on their way past. None of them shook my hand, and I wondered if it was because I was a foreigner. I tried not to let it bother me. I just stood there and did my best to look respectable.

A few speakers said some words to the crowd, in Kyrgyz and in Russian. I didn't understand anything except when one Kyrgyz man, who was a leader of the village, said the words, ''sixty-five'' (''altimish besh''), meaning that this was the 65th anniversary of the end of the Great Patriotic War. It felt good to be able to pick up even a couple words in his speech. It was a small victory. Then, a few soldiers fired their guns into the air, over the building, and the ceremony was over.

A few minutes later, Mederbek introduced me to the important man who had given the speech. They were friends. I can't remember his name, beacause Kyrgyz names are new vocabulary words that take time to sink in, but he was wearing a nice grey suit, with a ribbon pinned onto his chest, commemorating the celebration. I could tell he was successful because he had all of his teeth.

''Salamatsysby,'' he said to me, shaking my hand. Hello. I panicked and forgot what to say.

''Jak shi,'' I said. Good. We both shared a laugh at this, at my botched greeting, and I loosened up a little. There were a couple other men standing with us now, a circle of four, and I recited the Kyrgyz sentences that I am most familiar with.

I told them that my name is Berdebek (people always laugh at this), that I am a volunteer from California, that I'm an English teacher at the school, and that I'm going to be in Kyrgyzstan for two years. One of the men was Josh's host father, an intelligent, artistic K-18 who plays the guitar, and, now, the komuz. It was good to talk to them.

They asked me the standard questions: How old am I? Am I married? No? What do I think of Kyrgyz girls? These questions come up in most conversations, because age and marital status are very important here. It's difficult to explain why I am 32 and not married. I'm going to have to work on that. But, I'm starting to get comfortable with this sort of drilling, because it feels good to know what people are saying to me. It is amazing to actually be able to hold a conversation!

The important man in the grey suit, who had teeth, accompanied Mederbek-Baike, Emir, and I to a small park with grass and trees. A group of women were setting up tables under a large tarp, and cooking. It was a family reunion-like setting. The man asked me a few questions that I couldn't make out. I told him I didn't understand, and he accepted that.

He then brought me under the tarp, and told me to introduce myself to the women, and to tell them where I am from. I'm not sure how I knew that that was what I was told to do, I just knew. I think maybe I picked up one or two words from what was being said, and, despite my efforts, my brain connected the dots. That's what life is like for me right now: reacting to a subconscious understanding of verbal, and non-verbal, cues.

I'm getting used to understanding only one percent of what people say.

I caught the next thing, though. Mederbek-Baike said, ''Berinchi, bys ichebys, anan, bys tamak jebys.'' First, we drink, then, we eat food.

We walked back to his car and Emir and I waited inside while Mederbek-Baike bought some vodka, a couple cups, and a bottle of soda for Emir from the store. Then, we drove across the street and parked in front of a blue, iron gate. We opened the gate, which led into an empty, overgrown plot of land, and walked inside. Mederbek found a rusted, cast iron object which we used as a bench, to hold our drinks.

But first, we had to wash our hands. It is very important here to wash your hands before you handle food or drink. So, he pulled the end off of a crimped hose laying in the weeds, uncrimped it, and rubbed his hands under the water. I did the same. I have no idea where the source of the water was, but I didn't trust it, so I disinfected my hands with the bottle of Purell that lives in my pocket these days, and prepared to drink.

We weren't quite ready, though. The cups had fallen onto the ground when we had first set up our table, and now had to be rinsed out, with the sketchy hand-washing water. I gasped as Mederbek-Baike poured this water into my cup and rinsed it out. Using that cup went against every instinct I've trusted over the years to stay clean and healthy in the wilderness, but it was too late to back down. Later, I would be in the outhouse, bummed, with some explosive diarrhea.

So there we were, my host father, in his expensive blue suit and polished black shoes, a respected man in his village, and I; drinking shots of vodka, before noon, in a small field of weeds and scrap metal out of plastic cups that had been washed out with questionable water from a black hose on the ground, and this was totally normal.

The first shot loosened his tongue, and he explained that, I think, he owned this plot of land, and that in a year, there will be a café on it. Then he said something about Scott, the volunteer who lived with his family back in 2005, that I couldn't quite get. He went on and on, in Kyrgyz, as if I knew what he was saying, slurring words together and stopping every once in a while to ask, ''tooshoondoonbu?'' Do I understand? I wanted very badly to understand, but I couldn't. Then I just wanted him to stop.

We drank our second shot, which emptied the bottle. He tossed it on the ground, along with the cups, and Emir's bottle of soda, and we went back to the party. Littering here is totally normal.

I ate lunch with a few of the teachers I recognized from working at the school once a week. It was nice to see them. They introduced me to some of their friends, who asked how old I was, and if I was married. We drank some vodka together, finished our lunch, and went our separate ways.

Pictures of Kyrgyzstan

May 4: Pre-Service Training

Okay, just finished my first month of PST, and I wanted to share some thoughts. The countless cross-cultural experiences I've been living through every day have been amazing. If I wrote down every interesting detail of a typical day here, I wouldn't have time to do anything else.

Pre-Service Training is a very busy time during which I am learning the Kyrgyz language and culture, as well as how to be a teacher. It is supposed to be stressful. It's kind of like drinking from a fire hose, actually. But, I get to hang out with other Americans, and we're all in this together. When we are placed in our permanent sites, and each of us are the only Americans in our villages, I know I'll miss these days. So, even though we are being micro-managed, which I don't like, I'm savoring every moment.

May 2: "It's good to have someone from Mammoth here."

It took a volcanic eruption to meet my friend, Altynai. This is a long story, but here it goes.

A couple months before moving to Kyrgyzstan, I had met John and Nancy Walter, two of the first Americans to volunteer their skills in newly-independent Kyrgyzstan, following the collapse of the Soviet Union.

As a cultural anthropologist, Nancy taught at a university in K-Stan, and is known as a very courageous woman. John had also enhanced the lives of ordinary Kyrgyz people in his own way. It was a great coincidence that this couple, who had been married for over 50 years, lived in the same small CA mountain town that I did. I relished the opportunity to meet them, and to pick their brains about the country whose people I would soon serve.

I have to thank Dinah Craig for making it happen. I coached her son, Connor, on the snowboard team in Mammoth. She had been one of the first people I had told about my plans to join the Peace Corps, and two years later, when I told her I was going to Kyrgyzstan, she insisted that I meet John and Nancy, and set up a dinner date at their house.

John and Nancy's house was built on a hillside in Mammoth Lakes, CA, where every summer, they assembled a yurt in the back yard, which, according to John, can be seen on Google Earth. Inside, adorned with shyrdaks (colorful Kyrgyz rugs stuffed with sheep wool), kalpaks (traditional Kyrgyz hats), komuzes (small, three-stringed Kyrgyz guitars), and photos from Central Asia that span decades, their walls tell stories of the adventures they've taken, and the people with whom they've shared their lives.

We sat on the floor around a long, short table covered with a colorful table cloth, and drank tea and ate bread. I told them about myself, and started to ask questions about life in Central Asia. Nancy answered each question with anecdotes about the people of Kyrgyzstan.

They've kept in close contact with one Kyrgyz family in particular, whom they call their ''second family.'' Their names are Urmat and Dinara, and their children, Iskander and Altynai. All four of them have lived in Mammoth, in John and Nancy's house, and basically learned how to speak English there.

After dinner, they Skyped Altynai, who is now living in London, studying fashion design. John and Nancy are like second parents to Altynai, so, even though it was four in the morning, local time, in Altynai's flat, she enthusiastically answered the call.

The three of them caught up, Altynai proudly displayed a magazine which had published some of her designs, and Nancy introduced her to me, an American who is moving to Kyrgyzstan with the Peace Corps.

I told Altynai that I would be teaching English in a rural village, and sharing snowboarding with the local people by starting clubs and teaching kids how to ride, using equipment donated by some of the parents of the kids I'd been coaching. She said that there would be plenty of opportunities to snowboard there.

Altynai had long dark hair and captivating brown eyes. Eager to learn about the country I would soon be living in, I hung on to every word. She recommended that I bring American movies and some good snacks to get me through the first culture shock. She said that I would love it and hate it at the same time. As a girl in a village in Issyk-Kul, an oblast on the east side of Kyrgyzstan, she had been taught by a Peace Corps Volunteer, and her family had a good opinion of PCVs. Sharing this moment with her, a native Kyrgyz girl, became deeply meaningful, and my brain was swimming with possibilities.

Altynai continued her conversation with John and Nancy, updating them with news from her family, until there was nothing left to say.

''Well, I'd better go,'' she said, ''and get ready to face another day.''

After that night, Nancy contacted Urmat and Dinara and gave them my email address. Soon I was in contact with them, and I was reveling in my good fortune. There was a local Kyrgyz family awaiting my arrival.

I kept Altynai and her family in the back of my mind as I drove out of Mammoth and across the country, to Pennsylvania; and then on the flight to Istanbul, and finally Bishkek, telling the story of our Skype conversation along the way. We had been emailing each other pictures of ourselves, and I couldn't wait to meet her.

On my second night in Kyrgyzstan, while staying at the Issyk-Kul Hotel, Altynai tracked me down and called me on the phone in my room, which took some effort on her part. She was back home, during a break from University, and would be in Bishkek until the middle of April.

It was great to hear from her, but I wasn't allowed to visit her family's house in Bishkek, since the Peace Corps had us on lock-down. We had just arrived, and they didn't want us to leave the hotel, I explained to her, but I would call her when I buy a cell phone, and have some more freedom.

A week later, on April 7, 85 Kyrgyz people were killed during a violent revolution in Bishkek, which ousted their president from power. I sent Altynai, Dinara, and Nancy an email to tell them that I was okay, that my group was not leaving the country, and to wish them the best during this sad, profoundly difficult time. I tried to call Altynai, but her phone had been shut off. I assumed she had left the country and gone back to London.

After things had settled down, and I was back with my host family in Novo Pokrovka, I checked my email and found that Altynai had written me to let me know that she was still in Kyrgyzstan, but would be leaving soon. I checked the date, and realized I had missed her. I replied with my cell phone number anyway.

That night, she called.

''Did you hear about the volcano erupting in Iceland?'' she asked me.

''No, I don't know anything that's going on,'' I said.

She laughed. ''That's so funny about Kyrgyz people! They never know what's happening in the rest of the world. It's okay. These two years will be a good rest for your brain.''

Turns out, a volcano had erupted in Iceland, sending a cloud of ash and debris East across Europe, halting air traffic for weeks, and costing the airline industry millions. But, it kept Altynai in Bishkek. Our meeting felt pre-ordained, like it was meant to be. We made plans to meet on my day off.

Altynai picked me up and took me to her family's house, where Urmat was cooking plov. He was a professional cook, Altynai told me. Her parents are both artists (''cyrootchewloor''), which explains her love for fashion design. They have a beautiful property, with a grassy courtyard separating their house from their art studio.

A table was set up on the grass, and I sat down and spoke some broken Kyrgyz with some of Dinara's friends, who were impressed with the level of my language, for only having been in-country for a month. Still, I could understand very little of what was being said.

Altynai's older brother, Iskander, soon arrived, and the three of us, along with a couple of Altynai's friends, spoke English together, reminiscing about the time they spent in Mammoth. Iskander said he really misses is, and after over ten years, is going back this summer to try to sell some of his art in New Mexico. Then, he's going to visit John and Nancy.

One of their friends was a student, and was doing a project about ethnic violence. She asked me if she could interview me, to hear a Peace Corps Volunteer's views on the subject. One of their other friends was interested in hearing about how small business volunteers could help with her projects, as a businesswoman. I wrote down their numbers, and told them I would keep in touch if something comes up. I felt so comfortable with my new friends, I almost forgot for a moment that we were in Kyrgyzstan, a country that is so new and unfamiliar to me.

It was time for me to leave, and Dinara extended an invitation for me to come back any time.

''I like Americans,'' she said. ''They are so…broad.'' Dinara struck me as an incredible woman who I would like to get to know better.

It was actually really hard to leave Altynai, because she said that she probably would not be coming back to Kyrgyzstan at all in the next two years. She gave me a bag full of hand-outs for the children of the village where I will soon be living, like Harry Potter books on tape, some VHS movies, and a few pairs of goggles and gloves, for my future snowboard club.

I gave her a poster of June Lake and Carson Peak for her flat in London. We hugged each other, and I said I thought it was cool that it took a volcanic eruption for us to meet. I'm not sure if she had thought about it in the same way, but I think she was glowing a little.

Urmat and Iskander then drove me back to my host family's house, and Iskander and I made plans to go snowboarding together sometime next winter.

''It's good to have someone from Mammoth here,'' Iskander said, and I replied that it was good to be here.
Shutting the car door and walking across the street to my house, my temporary home in Kyrgyzstan during Pre-Service Training, I thought back to why I joined the Peace Corps in the first place. Knowing that I was meeting one of my goals successfully, and making new friends on the other side of the world, I felt elated.

April 26: An English Lesson

A few days later, my host-brother, Azat came to my room to tell me my students were here. I hadn't been expecting anyone, and was in the middle of studying. Caught off-guard, but pumping myself up to dig deep and give a good English lesson, I brought my books out into the living room.

The shy 17-year-old girl, named Bermet, who I had taught a week ago, was sitting there with her mother, the doctor. Beside them was a third guest, an tall Kyrgyz girl who introduced herself as Alina. She was 18, and much more confident with her English than Bermet.

''I am going to Florida soon,'' she said. ''Do you think we can speak in English to each other, so I can practice?''

I looked over at the doctor woman, who smiled and nodded at me. Bermet looked down at the floor, bashfully. I said that of course I can help, and we began talking.

''I believe you met my brother a few days ago?'' she asked.

Ray. Wow. This is what life in a fish bowl is like, I thought. Alina spoke surprisingly well, and could even keep up with the pace of my English when I sped it up, to emulate how Americans would sound. She told me she is moving to Pensacola to learn how to become a tattoo artist. We made plans to speak again the next evening.

When she showed up, I was ready with a conversation about some of the cultural differences between America and Kyrgyzstan. There are more than can be counted. The only thing we have in common with the Kyrgyz people, I think, is that we are both human. The similarities stop there. The way they live their lives is completely different.
Still, it's important to realize that cultural differences are neither good nor bad, but simply different—if not fascinating. That was the theme I stuck to as I shared some American customs with Alina.

I told her how men will want to shake her hand when they meet her, even though she's a woman; how nobody takes their shoes off before entering someone's home, unless they are asked to do so; and how everyone has an indoor toilet. I let her know that there are no banyas in the States, that people take showers instead, and that they bathe every day.
''I like banyas,'' she said, looking disappointed. I had to agree. A good banya is something we all look forward to. One volunteer recently claimed that you will never be cleaner than after a half hour in a banya.

''Still, we don't use them in America,'' I said. ''We shower or take baths.'' The concept of filling an entire bathtub with water just to bathe suddenly seemed wasteful.

Next, I touched on some of the differences in gender roles halfway across the world. I told her how strange it is to me here, that I am literally not allowed to help clean up after dinner. Instead, I just sit there, with the other men, while the women do the work. I told her that she will meet guys who are going to want to cook for her, and that is totally normal. Then I suggested that she stay away from fast food, because that is a reason why Americans are so fat.

''But it tastes so good!'' she said. True. I would love a cheeseburger right now.

Alina wanted to know what the people are like in America, how their minds work. I responded that people are people, no matter where you are. There will be some that you love, and some that you can't stand. Perhaps Americans are more individualistic, more independent, maybe, as a whole.

In the States, people love to do things for themselves, and women have more options, like marrying later, or staying single, without feeling as much cultural pressure. I tried to explain that, although many Americans live their entire lives near their parents, it is also widely accepted for people to move away from their parents when they become adults. I used myself, and my friends, as examples.

Also, some parents retire, and move to, well…Florida, even if their children don't come with them.

''Do you see how some Americans think?'' I asked, wrapping it up.

She nodded, and I hoped that I had represented the ideals of the United States accurately, to this one girl in this one small country tucked away in the mountains of Central Asia. She'll see, soon enough, that there are so many different types of Americans, representing so many different cultural and ethnic backgrounds, each with their own priorities, traditions, ethics, and values, that it does my country an injustice to try to generalize what its people are like.

It was a very interesting conversation, and I was surprised to hear that Alina gets on the Internet every day, and actually asked me how I can live without it, here. Some parts of this country are more modern than I expected. I am going to see a different Kyrgyzstan when I get to a village.

April 24: "You guys speak English?"

I can feel a transition taking place.

The other day, I said my goodbyes to Ester and Ivy after we had been standing on the corner talking for a while, and then crossed the main road, on my way home. Here, when I walk home by myself, I enter a world of non-verbal communication.

Since I don't understand Russian or Kyrgyz yet (though I'm getting better!), I try to blend in by reacting appropriately to the subtle little cues people subconsiously show when they pass by. Without language, I am at a disadvantage. I want to be approachable, but I also want them to know that I am not prey.

So, if they make eye contact with me, I hold it for just a second. If they smile at me, and want to shake my hand, I smile back and shake hands. If they don't look at me, I don't look at them either, but I listen to their footsteps fade away, just in case. I am very aware of the presence of strangers--since I can't speak to them, my other senses acutely buzz.

So it caught me off-guard that day when I heard someone behind me say, ''Hey, you guys speak English?''

What? English, on my street? It was actually kind of startling.

I turned around and had to think for a second whether to speak to him in Kyrgyz or English. My instinct was to speak Kyrgyz, even though I can't make the words yet. But he had just asked me a question in English. Weird.

''Yeah,'' I said. ''We're Peace Corps volunteers, teachers, here in Kyrgyzstan for two years. Men mektepte eeshtate. I work at the school.''

Like most people, he was happy to hear this, and glad to meet me. He said to call him Ray. We kept walking, past his house, so we could talk. Ray had lived in Chicago for five years, where he went to school and worked part time. He wore a baseball cap and had a gap-tooth smile, and spoke fluent American English. My gut instinct told me he would be a good ally to have.
Since I live really close to Bishkek, English-speakers are more common than they will be in the rural village I'm going to be sent to. They are still rare, though, and it felt nice to have Ray on my block.

''Well, stop by some time,'' he said.

April 22: Temirlan's Seven Fathers

A Kyrgyz man's family tree, if you ask him to draw one, will start at the bottom of the page, and then shoot up seven generations on his father's side, to his great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather. He will not hesitate a moment when naming his seven fathers. This intimate knowledge of his elders has been drilled into him his whole life.

I learned about this when my Peace Corps Language and Cultural Facilitator (LCF), Temerlan, mapped out his family history during a culture session in our classroom in Novo Pokrovka. We were all told to draw our own family trees, actually, to illustrate how, compared to Kyrgyz people, Americans don't really know from whom they come.

I know that I am part German, part Dutch, because that is what I was told when I was young. Kyrgyz boys, in comparison, are sometimes stopped on the street by older men, who they call ''Beike'' (older brother), or ''Chong Ata'' (grandfather), and questioned. If they can't name their seven fathers, they are assumed to have come from slaves.

April 20: Teaching

Today, I survived my first day as an English teacher in Kyrgyzstan. This isn't me. This is my friend, Esther. I don't have any pictures of myself teaching yet.

Like the rest of us, I worked with a counterpart on my first day, who was a local English teacher who spoke very little English; only Russian and Kyrgyz. Our classroom was filled with 6th graders and a few other volunteers, who were observing. There were not enough chairs in the room, so a few of the kids shared. This is normal here.

I was prepared with a lesson plan that emphasized speaking in English, not just reading and writing. I taught them how adjectives modify nouns, which was a review for them. The lesson went well; some things worked, some didn't, but I learned a lot. For instance, passing a ball made of duct tape to students, to get them to participate, is fun; but trying to expain how to play a game to kids who don't speak English, is hilarious.

I split the class into three teams by having them count off, which was confusing for some of them, but worked, and then told them to grab their notebooks and pens, and that the 1's will sit over here, 2's will sit in the middle, and 3's will sit over there.

They all stood up at once, but only half of them knew what to do. They tried to move to their new seats, to sit with their teams, but of course, they were all blocking each other. There's only so much space in a crowded classroom. So suddenly they were all standing, stuck, trying to move but completely in each other's way, and they were all speaking Russian.

I laughed at the chaos that was unfolding, then began herding them around the room. I looked over at my counterpart, who was sitting at her desk, yelling at the kids in Russian, pulling out her hair.
''Is this okay?'' I asked her, smiling, and she shot me a look of bewilderment and sympathy, as if saying that no, it was not okay, but nice try.

Her class had just come undone. Kids were sitting down, then standing up again, then moving around, strategically positioning themselves beside their friends. The teams I had created for them—that concept was lost. The room was erupting in a frenzy of unpredictable movement, laughter, and Russian chatter.

It couldn't last forever though. Soon, they were all sitting down, and order was restored. My counterpart took a deep breath. But I had already started the game, and I was determined to see it through. I picked one representative from each team, and called them to the front of the room. My plan was to have each team describe one teammate, using the adjectives we had gone over earlier, and the kids in front of the room would try to guess who their teammates were describing. Sounds good in theory, right?

Well, I started explaining the point of the game to these kids, who, of course, speak very, very, basic English, and it occurred to me that the game would not work if the kids in the front of the room could listen in on who their teammates were going to describe. The point was for them not to know, so they would have to guess.

So, I grabbed those three kids, two enthusiastic boys and one noticeably shy little girl, and escorted them out into the hall, where they wouldn't be able to hear the identity of the kids their teammates were going to describe. They were hesitant to go out into the hall, but I assured them it was okay.

So now I had three kids in the hall, who didn't know why they were out there, and a classroom full of kids who didn't know what was going on, either. I walked over to team 1, chose a kid, asked him his name, and instructed his teammates to write three sentences that described him.

My counterpart jumped in—''One sentence each,'' she said, trying to mitigate another meltdown. I decided it was a good call, and walked around the room, helping a few students construct one sentence about this kid. He was short, with brown hair, and was wearing a black suit with a white tie. A lot of boys wear suits to school here.

There was a knock on the door, and I let the kids back into the room. Three different students volunteered to read their sentences, and one of the kids who was in the hall, who spoke good English and could actually follow what was going on, explained to his buddy, in Russian, what they were supposed to do. The shy little girl lowered her gaze, looking shy and scared. I told him to expain what was going on to her, too.

To my amazement, just as the bell rang, the three kids in the front of the room guessed correctly who their classmates were describing! It was crazy, but it worked, and I think most of the kids had a good time in class that day. They placed their chairs upside-down on their desks, and thanked me on their way out of the room. What an experience. I have a lot to learn, but I'm happy to say that I felt completely comfortable in front of the class, I'm just going to have to learn from my mistakes.

April 15: Back in Novo Pokrovka

I'm glad to be back at my host family's house, where Bermet-Eje, my host mom, bakes homemade bread for the family, and the chai flows endlessly. Gulaim, Azat's wife, my host sister-in-law, felt ill yesterday, so her doctor, who lives in the neighborhood, made a house call.

Bermet-Eje introduced me to the doctor and her husband, and we all drank some tea. She told her I was a volunteer, an English teacher from America, and this got her attention. Through Azat, our interpreter, I was asked if I would be willing to give some English lessons
.
Pre-Service Training is very busy, and learning Kyrgyz is not easy, so I told him that no, I couldn't, because it was against the rules, and I didn't have the time. I was feeling overwhelmed, and just wanted to study as much as possible, and then go to bed early. I tried to let them down easy, but in a culturally-sensitive way, so they would not feel that I was being selfish. I wondered briefly if I was in any way indebted to my host family for feeding me so lavishly every day.

I said ''no'' once, but my explanation was lost in translation. The doctor had called her daughter, and now, the 17-year-old was sitting quietly beside me at the table, and my benevolence had sealed my fate. Like tribal elders, Bermet-Eje, the doctor, and her husband consulted with each other in Kyrgyz and contrived a plan, while those of us in the younger generation sat quietly still.

Suddenly Azat was prompted to address me. He told me that I would speak English with the doctor's daughter for one hour tomorrow night, okay? Hmm. I looked at the girl, her gaze lowered, too shy to raise her eyes, or embarrassed. I thought it was interesting that they thought I was an English teacher. I really didn't want to be bothered with trying to teach during training, though, and I'm not even sure if I'd be permitted, anyway. But then, I remembered that I've been encouraged to get involved with the community. Maybe I should help, I thought. I could test out some Kyrgyz on this girl, and win over some of the neighbors at the same time. Why not? It would probably be good practice.

April 9: Unrest

My group and I are in a safe place now, following the unrest in Bishkek. Our training is continuing, and I'm using this time to meet some of the K-16 and 17 volunteers and learn from their experiences.

April 4: Besh Barmak

On my first day off in Kyrgyzstan, a Sunday, my host family took me into the mountains, to a village called Sasbullock, where Bermet-Eje was born. They gave me shotgun in Mederbek-Baike's mini SUV, while Bermet-Eje, Emir (two years old), Azat and Gulya all sat comfortably in the back. We drove on a two lane highway for about two hours before hanging a left onto a dirt road, crossing a set of train tracks, and pulling into the driveway of what looked like a farm. It had been raining on and off, prompting Mederbek-Baike to comment to me about the weather. I didn't understand what he was saying, so I looked up ''rain'' in my dictionary, found a suitable phrase, and replied in Kyrgyz, ''It is raining cats and dogs.'' This made everyone in the car laugh.

Azat was excited to show me the mountains, which were shrouded in rain clouds, and very green. After meeting Bermet-Eje's older brother, Ishem, and his family, over tea, bread, a couple shots of vodka, and an assortment of baked goods, Azat let me borrow a hat, and took me on a hike. We walked up a rocky hill where mountain goats were grazing until we reached the top of a ridge, snapping pictures along the way and talking about life.

Azat has learned about America through hip-hop, it turns out. He mentioned Barack Obama, and I told him that I liked Obama (''maga Obama jagat'') and that I didn't like George Bush (''maga Bush jakpai''). I told him that on the East coast and West coast of the country, people like Obama, and in the middle of the country, people like Bush.

''The middle,'' he replied, thinking. ''Like Tay-has?''

''Yes,'' I said. ''Texas.''

Then he started in on what he knew about. ''East Coast, West Side,'' he said. ''West Side—Tupac. East coast, Notorous B.I.G, yes?'' He hasn't mastered the word ''notorious.''

''You like Tupac?'' he continued.

''Yeah, I like Tupac.''

''He was killed, yes? By Biggie Smalls, yes?''

''That's right,'' I said, laughing to myself.

We continued hiking along the ridge, stopping every now and then so Azat could show me the little things people miss when they walk too fast. He said that in Kyrgyzstan, we hike slowly, so we can appreciate the beauty of the natural world. He showed me a black slug, commented on the colors of the rocks, and we shared the words for stone, rock, and boulder in English and Kyrgyz. It was windy, so he told me the word for ''wind,'' (''shamal'') and I told him about Mammoth. He noticed a China Rose, and stopped to touch it, and admire it. He pointed to the green mountains in front of us, and asked me about snowboarding, making gestures with his lands like someone ripping turns.

''In the winter, you come here, for snowboarding?''

Next we climbed up the ridge to the top of a hill overlooking a graveyard, where Azat said his grandmother was buried. As a Muslim, he explained, he is required to read from the Koran whenever he sees a grave, so he and I sat down on the rocks, and he recited a verse from the Koran, by memory, with his legs crossed, his hands palms-up in front of him, and his eyes closed. I stole a few glances of him, acutely aware that I was in another part of the world, and that, so early in my adventure, I was lucky to have made a friend like Azat.

We made our way back down to the house, drank more tea, then played some volleyball, which was really just hitting the ball around without a net, while the older men played Asian poker, the women worked in the kitchen, and the children played outside in their scrap heap of a yard, precariously close to many random shards of sharp metal, which no one, except for me, was concerned about. Beside us were a few cows and a horse, tied up in an open stable. Every once in a while the ball would land in some cow shit, and we would have to rub it through some prairie grass before resuming play. A couple of the older men came out, and our game of volleyball morphed into some version of ''monkey in the middle,'' before it abruptly came to an end. It was time to eat.

Inside, there were more of my host family's relatives, and their boisterous conversation halted immediately when I walked into the room, like a jukebox getting unplugged when someone who doesn't belong walks into a cowboy bar. I greeted them (''salamatsysdarby—hello everyone''), introduced myself, and made my way around the room, hearing names I have never heard before.

I began to feel like I might be a guest of honor when they seated me at the head of the table. They poured shots of vodka, and insisted that I give a toast. I thanked my host parents and the hosts of our dinner, told everyone that I like Kyrgyzstan, and we drank.

The table was short, and we all sat on the floor around it, except for the eldest, who, as a result of their position in the family, have apparently earned the right to abstain from some traditions which might be hard on their backs. They sat on the couch, leaning over the table. On my plate in front of me was a rib bone with fat and a little bit of meat, that looked like the leftovers we throw to dogs in the States. Azat sat beside me.

''Do you know what meat this is?'' he asked. I did know, but he told me anyway. ''It is sheep.''

I looked around. Bermet-Eje had a leg bone in front of her that looked like what a caveman would eat in a cartoon, and there was a blackened sheep's head in the middle of the table, ceremoniously on display for one of the young men to enjoy. Beside my plate was a hot bowl of water and fat, and I noticed Azat drinking his, so I tried mine. It tasted like hot, unseasoned sheep's fat. I had a plate of noodles to eat with my rib, but no fork or spoon. Everyone around me was speaking rapid fire Kyrgyz, and I had no idea what was going on. We drank another shot of vodka, following a lengthy toast by Ishem, which I didn't understand. This was Besh Barmak.

Besh Barmak translates into ''five fingers,'' and is only eaten correctly with your hands. Most of the family had spoons, but I was the American guest, so the honor of consuming the sheep meat and noodles in the traditional way fell to me, and to Mederbek-Baike, who showed me how to do it. The room erupted with laughter when I stuffed the first handful into my mouth, and there were many faces looking at me and speaking Kyrgyz gibberish, giving me feedback. I took a few more bites, to their approval, drank some more hot fat water, and called it good. I kept repeating a mantra to myself—''Please don't get sick, please don't get sick…'' but I was quietly deciding whether or not I would eat the sheep's eye, should it be offered.

It was not, to my disappointment, nor was another drink of vodka. I was ready for another one, but, through Azat, I was told that because I was a young man, and I would not be able to keep up with the older guys anyway, I would now be cut off. At first I was offended, but I quickly resigned to feeling that it was for the best.
I think I will have another chance while I'm here to eat a sheep's eye, but hopefully the next time I have besh barmak, it will be in a yurt.

April 3: So, now I live in Novopokrovka.

My host brother, Azat, doesn't drink vodka, because he is a Muslim. He laughs when I tell him that I like vodka (″maga vodka jagat″), but that I don't like to get drunk off of it. The two of us are sitting at the table, where a basket of bread, a plate of butter and a bowl of raspberry jam, a plate full of meat and a salsa-like substance, a tea kettle and a pot of hot water, and a few empty shot glasses are on display before us. As expected, this type of lavish spread has been typical at every house I've visited so far.

″This is a beautiful life,″ he says. ″It is a beautiful world, yes? You understand?″ Azat is working on his English, so I told him the first night I stayed at his family's house that I would help him with his English, if he helps me with my Kyrgyz. The host families are instructed to speak Kyrgyz around us, even though, in Chui Oblast, where Novoprokovka is, 90 percent of the locals speak Russian.

″Yes, I understand,″ I say, nodding. I think he's telling me that life is good without alcohol. I had just drank vodka with his dad, Mederbek, who I call Mederbek-Baike (″older brother″), and his mom, Bermet, who I call Bermet-Eje (″older sister″), and two of their guests, Stalinbek and Jusu, a married couple who live in Bishkek, ten minutes away. I've been getting along really well with Azat, who is 26, and his beautiful wife, Gulya, and I don't want him to judge me.

″But your parents drink vodka,″ I tell him.

″Yes, they are Muslim, but they don't pray, and they drink,″ he replies. I've heard this about Kyrgyz people, how their laid-back, nomadic culture has never been conquored by conservative Islam. Maybe my host parents are examples of this.

My house at 38 Chklova Street sits on a rocky road in a relatively affluent neighborhood in the suburbs of Bishkek. The street is lined with trees that are still bare from the winter, and modest houses made of white brick and cement, with colorful trim around the windows and doors. Every house is enclosed by a gate, and usually there is a vicious dog on the other side. Dogs sleep outside here, and they have only one job, and that is to guard their homes. Still, there are children all over the place, and it feels friendly.

The newness of this place lends to something hilarious waiting around every turn, that comes out whenever I'm with the other trainees. We all have different stories to tell about our host families, but two things that we all share are not being able to understand anything our families are saying to us, and the aggressive hospitality they nonetheless impose on us. None of us can find time to study, for example, because we keep getting pulled away to drink more tea, or to eat more food. That is the Kyrgyz way. When it comes to feeding their guests, they don't ask, they insist.

April 1: The Other Side of the World

I spent my first night with my host family last night, and it went really well. I hope everyone also found success with this pivotal moment in the Peace Corps adventure. I imagine we're all having different experiences. After staging, two days of travel, and three days in the Hotel Issyk-Kul, a lot of us became instant friends. There have been so many new experiences packed into the last few days, I can't believe that it has been less than a week since Philadelphia.

Our six-hour layover in Istanbul had been a highlight. Barely knowing each other at all, but feeding off of the profoundly strong bond shared by Americans oversees, we bought day visas, exchanged some money, and put our heads together to figure out how to get to the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque and back, in time for our flight to Bishkek.

Ten of us decided to accept an offer from a local near the exit of the airport to share a van, who may or may not have ripped us off. We piled in, and the driver gunned it through the streets of Istanbul as if we were in a drag race, weaving through traffic and honking his horn, just barely missing the cars in the other lanes. Of course, this is totally normal just about everywhere outside of the U.S. The wreckless driving made some of us nervous, but I decided to just let go and accept whatever was about to happen. I had my seatbelt on. What more could I do, than scan the Turkic roadside scenery as it went by in a blur? As we crossed from Europe into Asia, on the way to our destination, I checked out how the people on the street were dressed. Mostly jeans and sweaters, with small, Euro sneakers. Then, suddenly, the van came to an abrupt stop, and we spilled out and onto the streets of central Istanbul, Turkey.

The architecture around us was dumbfounding. The towers of the Blue Mosque punctured the sky, and inside, where everyone was required to take their shoes off, and women were asked to cover their shoulders, tourists like us walked around in admiration, snapping group pictures as Muslims in one end of the room prayed, facing Mecca. I didn't know a thing about this place, but it seemed pretty cool. Humbling.

Outside, messages of Islam, written in English, scrolled across an electronic sign in red letters, and my new friend, Jia, wrote some of them down. We didn't linger there for too long, because behind the sign, across a concrete courtyard filled with street vendors, stood the Hagia Sophia. I'd heard that you've got to check it out if you're in the neighborhood, so we strolled over to it as a loud call for prayer suddenly filled the area. It was one of those surreal moments that I tried to savor, but just didn't know how to enjoy it any more than I actually was. It was transformative. If anyone would have told me a year ago that I would be listening to a Muslim call to prayer in person…I looked around at my new friends, who yesterday were complete strangers, and savored the moment before the familiar sounds of the city returned.

I didn't know anything about the Hagia Sofia's importance in world history. I didn't know what it was, or that I was going to go there that day. I went in totally blind; I was probably one of the only people there who would have to learn about it after visiting it, instead of vice versa.

I might have picked up something, though. Turns out, I think, Istanbul used to be the center of the Roman empire, and great emperors were the only ones allowed to enter the halls of the Hagia Sofia. I wondered if Alexander the Great had invited any ladies in there with him. I'm sure he did, right? How could anyone keep a place like that to themselves? Today, it's a museum, and, walking around on little sleep and stimulation overload, Jia and I pondered how they could build such a huge, intricate dome back in 500 A.D, without it collapsing on itself. She said her boyfriend, who was an architect, would have been wildly impressed. I had to agree.

We only got a small taste of that extraordinary place, because we had to get some lunch and grab a cab back to the airport. We ate some mystery meat wrapped in a gyro or something, and served with a cup of sour milk yogurt that we couldn't decide whether to dip our food into, or drink. I took one sip, gagged, and tossed mine into the trash.

We hailed a cab and stuffed four of us into the back seat, while I sat shotgun. The cabbie, who spoke zero English, lit up a cigarette and offered me one. First time that had ever happened. But that was nothing compared to one of our friends, in another cab, who had been offered to drive! Hey, American, welcome to my cab! You want to drive? They do things differently on the other side of the world.

Soon we were back on a plane, and would be landing in Bishkek at two in the morning, local time. No one really knew what time it was back in Philly, or what day it was, or anything. Had we lost a day? Didn't really matter. Our steady regimen of cautiously moving forward, East, had brought us here, and all 70 of us were still accounted for. Delirious, sleep-deprived and punch-drunk, we were greeted at Manas Airport, outside Bishkek, by a few volunteers and two buses the Peace Corps had chartered.

Pre-Service Training (PST) officially began with us drilling one of the volunteers, named Brad, with questions that would prove to be meaningless, since everyone's experience is different, and there was nothing we could do to prevent our own experience from beginning. He just kept telling us that it was all good. We checked into the hotel, wrestled our bags up to the fifth floor, and finally crashed in a bed, instead of an airplane seat. I drifted off, hoping that the kids were representing well at Nationals, and making new friends. Four hours later, at 7 a.m., we reported for duty to begin learning how to speak Kyrgyz.

March 29: Lost a Day

Philadelphia to JFK. JFK to Istanbul, Turkey. Istanbul to Bishkek, which in Kyrgyz looks like Бишкек. Over 36 hours of travel, dozing only in airports and on the planes, and then straight into language training at the Issyk Kul Hotel. The only thing that kept the 70 of us going was the excitement of the adventure we had just begun. I tried to read that first night in the hotel, to study the Cyrillic alphabet and the few greetings we had just learned, but I couldn't keep my eyes open. I'm still not sure what day it is. I need sleep.

The 3,000-mile mark...

I hit the 3,000-mile mark near Cleveland, which happens to be exactly 3,075 miles from Mammoth, if you go the way I went. The first 650 miles landed me in Park City, UT, where Bryce was already drunk. I showed up a bit of a mess myself. Bryce's buddy, Lee, talked me in over the phone, directing me into a snug parking space in a condo parking garage. I turned off the car for the first time in hours, since I filled up at a 7-Eleven in Provo, finally bringing my eleven-hour drive to an end (I screwed up and went through Delta). Then I was hit with an empty feeling as I scrambled to locate my wallet, which suddenly was missing. I walked around the car, and strangely, the fuel door was open, and the cap was gone. This all came crashing down on me just as Lee came out to greet me. I was doubled-over and confused, partly from road fatigue and needing to stretch, but mostly from the fear of losing my wallet, which had somehow disappeared. And why was the fuel door open? Did everything just fall apart at that 7-Eleven, on my 600th mile of driving? Had I left my fuel cap, and my wallet, behind?

Turns out, my wallet had slid under my seat, and I found it easily the next time I looked for it. My trip was still on. Bryce and I spent the next day riding Park City. He had a new butter he wanted to show me, he said. "If I can say anything about the winter we've had, it's that I've gotten really good at buttering," he said, "if that tells you anything." Indeed, it was thin in Utah this year. Bryce talked about the storms that hammered the Eastern Sierras routinely splitting right around the Wasatch, for some reason having to do with El Nino. He was not happy when he talked about this winter.

But then he dropped in off a cat track, fast, pressed himself into a tripod, nose and hands on the snow, and buttered down the entire groomer. He was even passing people. Bryce.

That night I hopped on Rte. 40 and drove East to Breckenridge, where Jefro and Carrie were staying for the weekend. On the way I had a close encounter with a deer that would have been a serious bummer to hit. Luckily, he was not into the idea either, and dodged me as I swerved to miss him, going 70 miles per hour through the moonless night of Western Colorado. The adrenaline kicked in a few seconds later, and my body was flooded with some kind of emergency response, triggered by the close call. My heart rate shot up and my breathing became faster, and I pondered the lack of a buddy sitting shotgun, how s/he would have reacted, and how close I really was to that deer.

I made it safely to Breck, and rode Keystone the next day with Jefro, Carrie, and her distant cousin from Spain, Fernando. Unfortunately I don't have any pictures from our couple of days of hanging out. Fernando and I kicked it in town for a couple hours while Jefro and Carrie listened to sales pitches for condos. Cool guy. Living in Boulder, learning how to speak English fluently. We shot some pool, talked about life, looked at some pics of Kyrgyzstan, I helped him out with his English, and reminded him to tip a buck for every beer, in America. He asked at one point if he looks American. I looked at him, his style, and thought back to how he looked on skis. Again, I wish I had pictures. Anyway, I told him he needs to learn the language better to look more American, and laughed to myself at how easy it is to spot a Euro dude in a ski town.

It's great catching up with Jefro and Carrie, because I have known them for so long, and they are such warm, intelligent people, who speak rapid-fire Spanish weaved into a conversation about current events. Fernando tried to follow along with our discussions, and it made me wonder how it will feel to try to follow a conversation in Kyrgyz. Find out soon enough. Anyway, we all went to a play, and then watched Gazers, which Carrie was really impressed by, and then I crashed. Hard.

The next morning the four of us went out for brunch in Denver, and then stopped in at a coffee shop no one had ever been to, where the owner happened to be from Peru. More Spanish. Jefro's is really getting good. Hanging out with those guys is always somewhat of an international experience, which is exactly what I need right now.

Jefro took Carrie to the airport, to fly back to Pittsburgh, where she's finishing up her job at Carnegie Mellon, and I went to REI to stock up on some essentials. I found some brown Lowa Gore-tex shoes, which are kind of like low top hiking boots, and I think will be appropriate for both muddy streets and classrooms. I also replaced my Thermarest with a lighter, newer one, and bought a Frisbee on my way out of the store.

That night, I partied with Dragotta, who I hadn't seen in ten years. In fact, I had spent the eve of the millennium with Mark, along with Sean, Chrissa, Todd, McGill, Matt Bent, Bradley, and others; the night of the Y2K scare, when someone at the house in South Oakland shut the power off, right at midnight. Now, over ten years later, Mark looked good, and was up to the same stuff. He's starting a magazine called the Umbrella Factory, and has a professional-looking business card. In his down time, hangs out with the chicks he works with at his restaurant. He wondered if I was going to visit Sean and Chrissa in Milwaukee.

I decided two days later, from the road, that I would. It's easy to be spontaneous when you're solo.



A few years ago, in 2004, when I moved back to Mammoth from Boulder, I had just missed Tom Miaskiewizc, who I had started PIST with back in the late nineties at Pitt. He moved to Boulder from Boston in early 2005, and earned his Masters, and then his Ph.D. in marketing. I called him up and arranged to have dinner at his place in Boulder, with his new fiance, Carrie, who I have known since my Pitt days, and a friend of her's who she knows from Americorps in Boston. Wow, my friends are really cool people. Anyway, I brought my Kyrgyz Republic book inside for them, as I have a few times on this trip, and told them about "guesting," and eating sheep eyeballs. "You're going to need to practice," Tom said, and broke out some of his own vodka. He admitted that his vodkas were "girlie," but drinking vodka with a friend from Poland sounded like good training to me. Tom and Carrie are moving to Portugal soon, where Tom will be working as a professor. I may see them again soon, since we'll be on the same side of the Atlantic.

The next day, I had to drive from Denver to South Bend, where I was going to spend St. Patty's Day. Seemed fitting to go to the home of the Fighting Irish! It was a long, flat drive across the Bible Belt, and I was just coming to terms with the fact that my speakers were out on the right side of the car, rendering half the sounds in my music inaudible. I was missing good guitar riffs. Unacceptable. I decided to drive with my iPod plugged into my ears, and tuned into the rhythm of the highway.

The cruise control set on 80, the long stretches of road in between turns are hypnotic. I think about conserving gas. The trucks--they're nice to draft, but after a while it feels claustrophobic to be behind one. I slingshot past it and let the openness of the mid-West surround me.

As I entered Nebraska, I snapped a picture of the sign to send to Wolf and Pete. Wolf got back to me: she was also in Nebraska! She'd be in Lincoln in a few hours. I looked at the map. Fittingly, I would also be in Lincoln in a few hours. What a coincidence! So, after a funny game of cat and mouse through Lincoln, I met Wolf at her dad's house on the South end of town. We exchanged a couple laughs, hugged, and I was out of there, before I wore out my welcome with her dad. What a cool thing, to run into a California friend, a house mate, in Nebraska on a 3,400-mile drive across the country. That we were able to meet at that time and space was one of the fortuitous encounters of travel, which I have always embraced as good kharma.

The next day, I called Sean, and got directions to Milwaukee. Conveniently, he had the night off, and the next day, which was his 35th birthday. So I went out with Sean and Chrissa, and two of their friends, for St. Patrick's Day, another lucky chance to cash in on. Sean and Chrissa are doing well. They own their own house, which has a huge yard backed up to a conservancy, where their two dogs and two cats can stretch their legs. Sean is a GM at a Mitchell's Fish Market, and works like 65 hours a week, and Chrissa is a server at a steak house, and makes just as much as Sean. Now they are talking about kids, and whether to settle down in Milwaukee, or somewhere back East, closer to family.

We went to dinner at an international restaurant where we all shared our entrees, and then went to a brand new, quiet Irish pub called Dubliner's. We caught up on mutual friends who I have completely lost touch with, and reminisced about Phish shows and the Hot Coal Game. Then, we went back to their house for more Jameson and Guinness.



I've been listening to my Kyrgyz mp3s on the drive, but I've been living by the philosophy that the best way to prepare for this move is to reconnect with old friends, and spend time with my family. Soon I will look inward, get organized, and cram to learn the Cyrillic alphabet, probably over a couple Yuenglings.

On day seven, I reached Pennsylvania. The view of the Pittsburgh skyline along the 279 S was not as dramatic as I remembered. I wondered if there was a better place to view it from. Couldn't remember. I headed straight for familiar turf--Oakland--and found a room on the seventh floor of the Quality Inn, along the Boulevard of the Allies, with a view of the Cathedral. I was on the home stretch.

Hitting the Road...

The next day, I packed, and Pete and I drank some whiskey and stuffed my Specialized mountain bike into a box, to ship it to PA. The sendoff I received from the coaches, the kids, and the parents of the kids was truly heart-warming. My friends and I rode together as much as we could, partied together, and BBQ'd, and the support I'm getting from them is humbling. The most I can do is represent well in Kyrgyzstan.


Filled with encouragement and good feelings, I drove out of Mammoth after lunch and coffee at the Stellar Brew, and pointed it East across the Long Valley caldera, towards Nevada. I knew I'd be passing by some of my favorite landmarks, so I took extra care in appreciating them.

McGee Mountain, the Nevahbe Ridge, he headwall of Mt. Esha, and the airport on the left. Then, the infamous Green Church, which was saved from destruction during the airport expansion by a grassroots effort; and the Green Church Road, a corridor through the thermal hot springs which are really nice, but not as nice as the pools in Hot Creek used to be, just to the North, before the Forest Service closed them to soakers (Crew 2).

The last views of Mammoth Mountain, Ritter, and Banner, out the driver's side window, Mt. Morrison looming in the rear-view mirror, and then the right turn at the third cattle guard for Wild Willie's. I've spent a lot of time in those tubs, with a lot of interesting people, soaking in the light of the stars and admiring the scenery. I swear my entire world view has been molded by my conversations, thoughts, and experiences in the outdoors, in the wilderness, and in the tubs along Whitmore Road. As I drove by, it was hard not to feel a little nostalgic about leaving the place that has shaped who I am. No doubt, I am an East-Sider. But I've been telling myself, like that famous quote, that it's time to leave the person that I have been, to make room for the one I will become.

So, the hot springs that I've spent so many evenings soaking in over the past nine years, tucked away in gentle undulations in the creek bed, just out of site from the road, already felt like visions of the past as I sped by.