How does a musical act achieve longevity? You know, get past album slumps, appease adoring fans and not-so-adoring critics, and find their sound – that musical style which sometimes can't seem to be different enough to remain original-yet-familiar and other times seems to be so different that it seems affected or just plain idiotic. Perhaps after a few forays into the experimental, many intelligent acts look to score a sure-fire winner. And how do they do so? By releasing a Greatest Hits album. Many add a few new tracks to the original cut so as to appear to have not lost their game. Michael Jackson's re-release of Thriller with tracks featuring Will.i.am and Kanye West is one recent example; he's probably hoping that people will stop thinking about tabloid photos of his increasingly interesting clothing choices and ever-morphing facial structures and remember that, hey, Jacko really is one hell of a performer.
Forgive my poor imitation of Rolling Stone writing…but this Greatest Hits thing is about the closest approximation I can find to describe my experience last week having my family visit Kyrgyzstan. To be honest, the good ole KR had been acting kind of like Radiohead on Hail To The Thief: still recognizable and theoretically interesting, but hard to grasp and generally lacking in those qualities which originally sparked my affection – a lack of mojo, if you will. I needed to be reminded that this place is actually pretty cool - and that I haven't been wasting my time for the past year and a half.
And a family visit proved to be just the thing. Despite my initial premonitions about the trip (especially re: giardia), it ended up being nothing short of lovely. Mom, Dad, and Ben all proved to be excellent sports, willing to consume one more pile of rice or cup of tea; to look a little ridiculous in traditional Kyrgyz clothing; to shun bathing for days on end; to play with children with whom they shared nary a common word save "hello;" to dance with persons 5, 10, 20, even 30 years their junior or senior; really just to roll with the punches dealt out by this most unusual of vacations.
This was perhaps best illustrated – at least to me – by our attempt at driving from Bishkek to my village in Osh. The weather had been perfect up til our day of departure…and, initially, the cloudy skies and steady rain didn't faze me. It wasn't really until we could barely see 5 feet outside our SUV due to the snow, fog, and wind that I realized that I had potentially led my family to their deaths. When news of a baby avalanche came, we turned around and took the plane to Osh instead. Throughout the ordeal, though, my parents and brother were champs.
The highlight of their trip for me, though, was getting to watch my real family interact with my adopted one. I kind of had this actively-passive role -- I was talking all the time because I was translating all of their questions and comments, but not really saying many of my own thoughts. This translation process can be exhausting and annoying...but can also be pretty empowering. If someone says something that I think is inappropriate or uninteresting, I can tone it down or jazz it up a little without the involved parties being any the wiser. I stupidly told my brother, however, about the liberties I occasionally took with translating... During Nooryz (the Central Asian new year which my family celebrated with my entire freaking village), we were dragged in front of several thousand people from my village and forced to give little speeches on the platform. After Dad gives an appropriate speech thanking the village for welcoming us with open arms, my darling baby brother uses his turn to muse about the waving flags, green trees, etc etc. Basically, he got up there and, knowing that I'd just translate it as whatever I wanted, started describing what was in his immediate line of vision. Not so appropriate...so I told everyone that he said, "Allah has truly blessed us today as we can see by the beautiful weather," thereby giving Ben major points with the pious old ladies and village elders (and giving myself a private laugh). Anyway, my host family and real family got along amazingly well. I mean, one afternoon, I passed out from exhaustion and awoke to my host siblings' delighted shrieks as my parents and Ben were running around the yard, playing 'horsey' with them. My host mom told me that she had been really worried about my family coming because she was concerned that they might be haughty or condescending...but then she met them and realized that they were actually a lot like her own family. Hallmark, eat your heart out.
So now I'm back on my own in my village...only, after my family's grand appearance last week, I have now lost all traces of anonymity while walking around. I get stopped twice as much by guys in donkey carts asking about my parents' health, giddy schoolgirls asking if my brother is available, and -- once -- a photographer asking if I wanted to buy the photos he'd taken of my family in their Kyrgyz garb.
Also -- my school has FINALLY started remodelling the club. I've been spending part of each day for the past week doing errands with various maintence men and builders...them doing the actual dirty work while I trail along paying for everything (kind of like a mob accountant). I'll send pictures once it's finished so that our very generous donors can see what they did with their money.
That's it for now. Take care, now.
Terri
12 March 2008
Feathers and Black Eyes
The brain is a funny thing. It hangs onto random, seemingly pointless things like Rihanna lyrics but can’t seem to harbor a 10-digit phone number for more than 20 seconds. One of my recent mental acquisitions came from Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, which I read for the first time a couple of months ago. Now, instead of making lists of “pros” and “cons,” I opt for “Feathers In My Cap” and “Black Eyes!!!!” like one of the hapless officers in the book (of course I don’t actually remember the character’s name or why he was making such lists…but I do distinctly remember how splendidly odd his headers were). I realize that this is a kind of odd habit to have adopted, but don’t blame me. Blame my brain. Here’s my list concerning the current state of my life in Kyrgyzstan:
Feathers In My Cap
- My family is coming on Saturday! My family is coming on Saturday! I can’t wait to show them around the weirdly charming place that is Kyrgyzstan…but am also a little concerned about what’s going to happen to them once my local friends and host family get their hands on a bunch of blond Americans. Stay tuned.
- Several of my projects beyond giving English lessons have finally started to take off. Things like teacher training seminars, the completion of the club renovation project, and skills/character-building sessions for my kids look to make my last few months here busy but productive (holiday celebrations and end-of-the-year malaise notwithstanding).
- Soft serve will soon make a triumphant return to my village bazaar. Last summer, soft serve was virtually a food group for me, I ate so much of it.
Black Eyes!!!!!
- I think I wrote a letter a while ago about some of my more amusing lingual mishaps, like my unfortunate tendency early on in my teaching career to confuse the Kyrgyz words for “pig” and “penis” (that made for some very confusing “Life on the Farm” lessons). Yesterday, I was having tea with my 5 year-old host brother, who kept using a word I hadn’t heard before in reference to his cousins – “chichkak.” That this is just one letter away from the word for “mouse” and was used with a group of other animal words (e.g. “I am a lion. My cousin is ‘chichkak.’”), I assumed that this word referred to some sort of rodent. To my confusion, he was completely unable to answer questions like, “What color is it?” and “Where does it live?” and “How big is it?” Finally, when I started miming different kinds of body parts, he responded enthusiastically to my pantomime of a long tail. We dropped the matter until dinner, when the word came up again, this time with the whole family around the table. After we adults giggled at the kids’ antics (which included calling each other various names, including “chichkak”), I asked my host mom what kind of animal a “chichkak” was. Everyone then began laughing hysterically at me, because “chichkak” is not a rodent. It is diarrhea.
- Although one of my classes has heretofore been unable to master things like the use of the “to be” verb and present frigging tense, they have learned to forge my handwriting.
- Another class argued today that they “had to cheat” on the test because they “don’t know English well.” Bollocks.
- Seriously, men and women of Kyrgyzstan, I know that you mean well and I’m sure that your sons and neighbors are very nice boys, but I really don’t want to get married anytime soon. I understand that this is not considered to be normal behavior from a 24 year-old woman, but I ask that you bear with me the way that I try and bear with you. I mean, we just met 2 minutes ago and I’m not really comfortable having this conversation with a total stranger. And, by the way, Kyrgyz guys, lines like “I’ll give your parents 100 horses and 200 cows” or “I’m dark, you’re light…our kids will be normal!” really don’t do it for me.
- Need. Variation. In. Diet. I'm pretty much adhering to the complete opposite of Atkins Diet -- noodles, potatoes, and white bread for every meal, nearly every day of the week.
Feathers In My Cap
- My family is coming on Saturday! My family is coming on Saturday! I can’t wait to show them around the weirdly charming place that is Kyrgyzstan…but am also a little concerned about what’s going to happen to them once my local friends and host family get their hands on a bunch of blond Americans. Stay tuned.
- Several of my projects beyond giving English lessons have finally started to take off. Things like teacher training seminars, the completion of the club renovation project, and skills/character-building sessions for my kids look to make my last few months here busy but productive (holiday celebrations and end-of-the-year malaise notwithstanding).
- Soft serve will soon make a triumphant return to my village bazaar. Last summer, soft serve was virtually a food group for me, I ate so much of it.
Black Eyes!!!!!
- I think I wrote a letter a while ago about some of my more amusing lingual mishaps, like my unfortunate tendency early on in my teaching career to confuse the Kyrgyz words for “pig” and “penis” (that made for some very confusing “Life on the Farm” lessons). Yesterday, I was having tea with my 5 year-old host brother, who kept using a word I hadn’t heard before in reference to his cousins – “chichkak.” That this is just one letter away from the word for “mouse” and was used with a group of other animal words (e.g. “I am a lion. My cousin is ‘chichkak.’”), I assumed that this word referred to some sort of rodent. To my confusion, he was completely unable to answer questions like, “What color is it?” and “Where does it live?” and “How big is it?” Finally, when I started miming different kinds of body parts, he responded enthusiastically to my pantomime of a long tail. We dropped the matter until dinner, when the word came up again, this time with the whole family around the table. After we adults giggled at the kids’ antics (which included calling each other various names, including “chichkak”), I asked my host mom what kind of animal a “chichkak” was. Everyone then began laughing hysterically at me, because “chichkak” is not a rodent. It is diarrhea.
- Although one of my classes has heretofore been unable to master things like the use of the “to be” verb and present frigging tense, they have learned to forge my handwriting.
- Another class argued today that they “had to cheat” on the test because they “don’t know English well.” Bollocks.
- Seriously, men and women of Kyrgyzstan, I know that you mean well and I’m sure that your sons and neighbors are very nice boys, but I really don’t want to get married anytime soon. I understand that this is not considered to be normal behavior from a 24 year-old woman, but I ask that you bear with me the way that I try and bear with you. I mean, we just met 2 minutes ago and I’m not really comfortable having this conversation with a total stranger. And, by the way, Kyrgyz guys, lines like “I’ll give your parents 100 horses and 200 cows” or “I’m dark, you’re light…our kids will be normal!” really don’t do it for me.
- Need. Variation. In. Diet. I'm pretty much adhering to the complete opposite of Atkins Diet -- noodles, potatoes, and white bread for every meal, nearly every day of the week.
India, Part IV
It’s Sunday morning – maybe my favorite time of week since I can usually drink as much coffee, do as many crossword puzzles, read as many books and magazines, and sleep as many hours as I want. This particular a.m., I’ve been reading Smithsonian and National Geographic magazines from the past few months (thanks, Aunt Susie and Uncle Jack) and drinking delicious Columbian coffee (thanks, Mom and Dad). I’ve learned that Western lowland gorillas (which inhabit valleys and swamps in Congo and Rwanda) often have red hair sprouting from their scalps (and I thought my ancestors were from Scotland), that Polish mountaineers are the very epitome of bad-ass-ness (it’s not enough for them to conquer the world’s highest peaks – they do it in wintertime), and that Andrew Lloyd Webber may do a musical version of The Master and Margarita (I enjoyed Cats and Phantom as much as the next girl, but I’m not sure how I feel about one of the best books I’ve read in Kyrgyzstan being turned into a song-and-dance spectacle. Also, how crazy are Lloyd Webber’s eyebrows? Like giant sinewy caterpillars, they are.). I also read about ancient cave art in India, which reminded me that I have neglected to finish my India Chronicles. I believe I left off at the close of our time in Mumbai, which brings us to the Goa/Hampi section of the trip:
When you think about religion in India, you probably think about bindis and Buddha and flowers and temples and a veritable pantheon of Gods. This is, on the whole, a correct assumption…unless you’re in Goa, the tiny former Portuguese colony on the coast of the Indian ocean. Visiting here after Mumbai felt almost like taking a trip to Latin or South America – the Spanish colonial architecture in the steamy, jungle-like environment makes Panaji and Old Goa seem more like towns in Costa Rica or Brazil. Goa actually didn’t become part of the modern Indian state until 1961, fourteen years after independence from the British, and retains a character very distinct from that of other Indian states. Here, for example, you’ll find a significant population of Catholics and discover the area’s culinary knack for seafood dishes. In Old Goa, the now mostly uninhabited former capital, stands a cluster of striking basilicas, monasteries, and churches. What’s believed to be the largest church in Asia is here. And like their European counterparts, these holy buildings are just as impressive inside as out, teeming with intricate carvings and paintings meant to inspire piety and humility. Inside one sanctuary, though, I was sharply reminded that I was in what was considered a “heathen” land: at the feet of one of the life-sized statues of famed Catholic proselytizers lay a severed, turbaned head, a not-so-subtle reminder of the uglier aspects of the colonizers’ work.
After a couple of easy days in the Goan cities, we boarded what I would come to think as the demon bus to Hampi. In order to reach the other-worldly capital of the Vijayanagar Hindu empire, we had to endure an overnight, 12-hour journey perched atop narrow, bunk-bed-like berths. Remember the night bus from Harry Potter? It was pretty much like that. As the double-decker bus bulleted down the bumpy roads of the Indian Interior, swaying this way and that, its crew shouted and upbraided one another like a pack of swarthy sailors. This, coupled with the increasingly nippy temperature, made sleep the fountain of youth to my Fernando de Soto.
Haggard and bleary-eyed, we finally made it to Hampi and were promptly wrangled by an enterprising young guide named Patrick to stay at his guesthouse. As we enjoyed yet another delicious Indian meal in the open-air rooftop restaurant, Patrick also managed to convince us to take him on as a guide for our 2 ½ days there. His brother owned a rickshaw and would drive us everywhere we needed to go. Taking Patrick up on his offer ended up being an excellent decision – the ruins of the bazaar, temples, and royal center cover some 20 square kilometers of boulder-strewn, monkey-populated terrain. As a bonus, our rickshaw appeared to be the only one in the area equipped with an impressive sound system…thus all of my memories of the awe-inspiring place are backed by a soundtrack of Indian techno-hip-hop (yet another example of the fantastic Indian mish-mashedness).
The city of Vijayanagar was founded in 1336 and, until it was sacked by a confederacy of sultanates from the surrounding Deccan plateau in 1565, served as a center of international commerce and culture. As you’ll see in the pictures, the place is full of incredible temples and buildings, all made of stone carved to represent various deities and myths from the Hindu canon. The Vittala temple was particularly impressive with its “musical” columns (they make tonal murmurs when tapped) and large stone chariot at its entrance. In the Royal Center stand the Lotus Mahal (a really nice fusion of Hindu and Islamic architectural styles with its curved, lotus-shaped domed roof) and the great elephant stables (at these, I couldn’t help but muse that Thomas Jefferson would’ve adored the symmetric diversity of the domes).
One of the best parts about Hampi was that, despite its designation as a UNESCO World Heritage site, it allowed visitors to climb all over the place – into temples, up stairways that now lead to nowhere, down into underground passages, and around the countless buildings that never got tiresome. Patrick led us up several craggy hills (one proved to be more of a monkey-scamper than a climb; I did it barefoot, as Rainbows – though beloved by Wahoos and Californians – aren’t known for their traction). One climb he reserved for the very early morning. As we watched the sun rise over the landscape of precariously balanced rocks (the work of an odd kind of erosion), we fed bananas to the monkeys who poured out of one of the temple towers and marveled at our good fortune of being able to take such a trip.
After another bus trip of doom, we headed to Palolem, one of the Edens dotting the Goan coast, to spend our last few days in India lolling about on the beach alongside fishermen, tourists, and – this was India, after all – holy cows. After five glorious days laying on the sand, swimming in the Arabian sea, drinking mojitos, and eating fish caught mere hours before consumption, we sadly made our way to the airport. I can’t say that the 97 degree temperature drop from the tarmac in Mumbai to the airfield in Almaty was particularly welcome.
But India wasn’t quite finished with us just yet…some kind of parasite seemed to have feasted upon our feet in Palolem and so I spent the next month literally itching to go back.
And so concludes this account of a trek to India. Hope you’ve enjoyed the ride.
Terri
When you think about religion in India, you probably think about bindis and Buddha and flowers and temples and a veritable pantheon of Gods. This is, on the whole, a correct assumption…unless you’re in Goa, the tiny former Portuguese colony on the coast of the Indian ocean. Visiting here after Mumbai felt almost like taking a trip to Latin or South America – the Spanish colonial architecture in the steamy, jungle-like environment makes Panaji and Old Goa seem more like towns in Costa Rica or Brazil. Goa actually didn’t become part of the modern Indian state until 1961, fourteen years after independence from the British, and retains a character very distinct from that of other Indian states. Here, for example, you’ll find a significant population of Catholics and discover the area’s culinary knack for seafood dishes. In Old Goa, the now mostly uninhabited former capital, stands a cluster of striking basilicas, monasteries, and churches. What’s believed to be the largest church in Asia is here. And like their European counterparts, these holy buildings are just as impressive inside as out, teeming with intricate carvings and paintings meant to inspire piety and humility. Inside one sanctuary, though, I was sharply reminded that I was in what was considered a “heathen” land: at the feet of one of the life-sized statues of famed Catholic proselytizers lay a severed, turbaned head, a not-so-subtle reminder of the uglier aspects of the colonizers’ work.
After a couple of easy days in the Goan cities, we boarded what I would come to think as the demon bus to Hampi. In order to reach the other-worldly capital of the Vijayanagar Hindu empire, we had to endure an overnight, 12-hour journey perched atop narrow, bunk-bed-like berths. Remember the night bus from Harry Potter? It was pretty much like that. As the double-decker bus bulleted down the bumpy roads of the Indian Interior, swaying this way and that, its crew shouted and upbraided one another like a pack of swarthy sailors. This, coupled with the increasingly nippy temperature, made sleep the fountain of youth to my Fernando de Soto.
Haggard and bleary-eyed, we finally made it to Hampi and were promptly wrangled by an enterprising young guide named Patrick to stay at his guesthouse. As we enjoyed yet another delicious Indian meal in the open-air rooftop restaurant, Patrick also managed to convince us to take him on as a guide for our 2 ½ days there. His brother owned a rickshaw and would drive us everywhere we needed to go. Taking Patrick up on his offer ended up being an excellent decision – the ruins of the bazaar, temples, and royal center cover some 20 square kilometers of boulder-strewn, monkey-populated terrain. As a bonus, our rickshaw appeared to be the only one in the area equipped with an impressive sound system…thus all of my memories of the awe-inspiring place are backed by a soundtrack of Indian techno-hip-hop (yet another example of the fantastic Indian mish-mashedness).
The city of Vijayanagar was founded in 1336 and, until it was sacked by a confederacy of sultanates from the surrounding Deccan plateau in 1565, served as a center of international commerce and culture. As you’ll see in the pictures, the place is full of incredible temples and buildings, all made of stone carved to represent various deities and myths from the Hindu canon. The Vittala temple was particularly impressive with its “musical” columns (they make tonal murmurs when tapped) and large stone chariot at its entrance. In the Royal Center stand the Lotus Mahal (a really nice fusion of Hindu and Islamic architectural styles with its curved, lotus-shaped domed roof) and the great elephant stables (at these, I couldn’t help but muse that Thomas Jefferson would’ve adored the symmetric diversity of the domes).
One of the best parts about Hampi was that, despite its designation as a UNESCO World Heritage site, it allowed visitors to climb all over the place – into temples, up stairways that now lead to nowhere, down into underground passages, and around the countless buildings that never got tiresome. Patrick led us up several craggy hills (one proved to be more of a monkey-scamper than a climb; I did it barefoot, as Rainbows – though beloved by Wahoos and Californians – aren’t known for their traction). One climb he reserved for the very early morning. As we watched the sun rise over the landscape of precariously balanced rocks (the work of an odd kind of erosion), we fed bananas to the monkeys who poured out of one of the temple towers and marveled at our good fortune of being able to take such a trip.
After another bus trip of doom, we headed to Palolem, one of the Edens dotting the Goan coast, to spend our last few days in India lolling about on the beach alongside fishermen, tourists, and – this was India, after all – holy cows. After five glorious days laying on the sand, swimming in the Arabian sea, drinking mojitos, and eating fish caught mere hours before consumption, we sadly made our way to the airport. I can’t say that the 97 degree temperature drop from the tarmac in Mumbai to the airfield in Almaty was particularly welcome.
But India wasn’t quite finished with us just yet…some kind of parasite seemed to have feasted upon our feet in Palolem and so I spent the next month literally itching to go back.
And so concludes this account of a trek to India. Hope you’ve enjoyed the ride.
Terri
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