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.