On one hand, this particular blog is a travel blog, providing the reader with a tiny and very narrow glimpse into the world of Central Asia. It is also, to a small degree, a personal blog, providing people who know me with a very basic idea of what I am doing in the region. Finally, this blog has morphed, somewhat unintentionally, into a place where I toss out a few ideas about the importance of having a broader global (non-Trumpian) perspective. In light of this third new purpose of the blog, I would like to share a TED talk by Hugh Evans that encapsulates what I believe is an essential world view that we must all consider if we are to survive as humans on this fragile planet. This talk is entitled: What does it mean to be a citizen of the world?
https://go.ted.com/Cy8y
Evans talks about what it means to be a Global Citizen and why it is so important for us to have this perspective. I also encourage you to check out his organization's website and consider joining.
www.globalcitizen.org/en
A medieval, parochial world view that identifies and vilifies "enemies," looks for military solutions as the primary answer to world problems, encourages tribalism, and fails to account for the least among us is the perspective of the oblivious that I would advocate we rise above. I hope you find these two links enlightening and motivating.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Wandering around Bishkek on a Sunday afternoon
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| Monument to the Fighters of the Revolution |
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| The Soviet-era clock tower at the Krygyz Telecom building |
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| Abandoned government public message boards |
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| Bungee swings for kids at the local park |
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| A wonderful day for an outdoor lunch at the Burger House--with fresh peach juice |
Classic Lagman Master Class
On Saturday, I went with several of my colleagues to Vostok-Zapad, a local Kyrgyz restaurant for a cooking class. We were there to learn how to make Classic Lagman. It is a very traditional dish where you make homemade noodles and then a sort of beef (or lamb) stew to put over the top. Noodles have been a part of Central Asian culture for centuries. The chef who was our teacher remarked that Lagman is the grandmother of Italian pasta. And she is correct. It is believed that Marco Polo and others who traveled via the Silk Road hundreds of years ago, brought pasta back from China and Central Asia to Italy and Europe. Despite the challenges of rolling out the lagman, with some help, we were able to create a delicious Kyrgyz specialty.
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| The wonderful chef of Vostok-Zapad showing us how to roll the lagman noodles. |
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| Our efforts at rolling Lagman. |
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| Taking the rolled lagman, bringing it to the kitchen, and putting it in the boiling water. |
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| Removing the lagman from the water for cooling. |
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| Cooking the spicy stew (beef, vegetable, and spices) that goes over the lagman. |
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| Dishing up the stew and putting it over the lagman noodles. |
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| The delicious finished product: Classic Lagman |
Friday, April 22, 2016
Oblivious
I have been staring at the UCA Staff Directory posted above my desk for the past two months now. I look up someone's phone extension at least three times a day. I had thought that the most noteworthy aspect of the Directory was the fact that all the staff's names are organized alphabetically by first name, not last name. However, today, when I was searching for a name on the list, I noticed something so important and obvious, that I was startled by how completely oblivious I had been to this very essential feature of Kyrgyz culture.
What I had been so oblivious to, was the fact that almost all women have the suffixes "ova" or "eva" added to their last names, and almost all male last names end with the suffixes "ev" or "ov." For example, Aisulu Razbaeva would be the name of a woman and Arsenbek Isanov would be the name of a man. There are a couple of rare exceptions (like last names ending in "ich"), but the last name of a person in Kyrgyzstan is almost always based upon their gender and I hadn't a clue until it dawned on me today. All I could see before now were Russian names that only seemed to be a mish-mash of letters strung together in difficult to pronounce orderings. Oblivious.
Even worse was the fact that I had been too oblivious to notice two names in my staff directory that didn't fit this pattern at all. One name in the directory had, what seemed to me, four random letters typed in error after the name: uulu. The other name had "kyzy" typed randomly after it. Well, I realized today that our clerical staff isn't haphazard, but instead, uulu and kyzy are the suffixes that are placed after the last names of people in Kyrgyzstan who have decided to revert back to Kyrgyz custom and have dropped the Russian suffixes at the end of their names and have replaced them with the traditional uulu Kyrgyz suffix that indicates males or the kyzy suffix that refers to females. So, for example, if you see the name Aisulu Amankul kyzy, you know that person is an ethnic Kyrgyz woman. After doing a little research, I discovered that most urban Kyrgyz have not reverted back to their traditional suffixes and have retained Russian ones; one of the reasons this happens is because urban Kyrgyz feel they might be perceived as rural and uneducated if they take on a traditional suffix, which might hamper their job search and social mobility in the ferociously competitive Kyrgyz labor market.
Oblivious. Sometimes expatriates like me forget how oblivious we are when we are abroad and making our pronouncements and judgments about where we find ourselves. I barely know six phrases in Russian. If that isn't a recipe for supreme obliviousness when living in Kyrgyzstan, I don't know what is. Yet, here I am making judgments and observations every day based on an ignorance so monumental that it is bigger than the tallest building in Bishkek. When I taught travel writing at the Castle in the Netherlands, now that I think about it, being oblivious was really the characteristic of my students that most hurt their writing; I still remember with great mirth the oblivious piece one of my students wrote complaining about the alleged rudeness of Parisians, citing the waiter who refused to return her Steak Tartare to the kitchen for cooking as evidence of Parisian hostility. It was only when my students were able to find even a glimmer of the knowledge and insight about a place that can only come from hard work, time, experience, and reflection, that they were able to write something that was somewhat effective as a piece of travel writing.
Being oblivious. It isn't just expatriates and travelers who fall victim to this state. In our everyday lives, even when we are anchored to our homes day after day, being oblivious is something that clouds our perceptions and keeps us from understanding what's going on right under our noses. Obliviousness is so difficult to defeat because it is so easy to remain oblivious: it requires absolutely no effort. Awareness and understanding, however, is grueling work--and there is no easy seven-step guide that one can fit on a 3 x 5 card and laminate that can bring us to a state of instant awareness and understanding. Sometimes all you can do is stare at a staff directory for two months before you achieve one small moment of awareness and realize that the entirety of what one knows as a person can be represented by a single tiny grain of sand on a beach and what we are oblivious to is represented by all the other grains of sand combined. That realization just might be the first step toward navigating the fog of the oblivious in which we all reside.
What I had been so oblivious to, was the fact that almost all women have the suffixes "ova" or "eva" added to their last names, and almost all male last names end with the suffixes "ev" or "ov." For example, Aisulu Razbaeva would be the name of a woman and Arsenbek Isanov would be the name of a man. There are a couple of rare exceptions (like last names ending in "ich"), but the last name of a person in Kyrgyzstan is almost always based upon their gender and I hadn't a clue until it dawned on me today. All I could see before now were Russian names that only seemed to be a mish-mash of letters strung together in difficult to pronounce orderings. Oblivious.
Even worse was the fact that I had been too oblivious to notice two names in my staff directory that didn't fit this pattern at all. One name in the directory had, what seemed to me, four random letters typed in error after the name: uulu. The other name had "kyzy" typed randomly after it. Well, I realized today that our clerical staff isn't haphazard, but instead, uulu and kyzy are the suffixes that are placed after the last names of people in Kyrgyzstan who have decided to revert back to Kyrgyz custom and have dropped the Russian suffixes at the end of their names and have replaced them with the traditional uulu Kyrgyz suffix that indicates males or the kyzy suffix that refers to females. So, for example, if you see the name Aisulu Amankul kyzy, you know that person is an ethnic Kyrgyz woman. After doing a little research, I discovered that most urban Kyrgyz have not reverted back to their traditional suffixes and have retained Russian ones; one of the reasons this happens is because urban Kyrgyz feel they might be perceived as rural and uneducated if they take on a traditional suffix, which might hamper their job search and social mobility in the ferociously competitive Kyrgyz labor market.
Oblivious. Sometimes expatriates like me forget how oblivious we are when we are abroad and making our pronouncements and judgments about where we find ourselves. I barely know six phrases in Russian. If that isn't a recipe for supreme obliviousness when living in Kyrgyzstan, I don't know what is. Yet, here I am making judgments and observations every day based on an ignorance so monumental that it is bigger than the tallest building in Bishkek. When I taught travel writing at the Castle in the Netherlands, now that I think about it, being oblivious was really the characteristic of my students that most hurt their writing; I still remember with great mirth the oblivious piece one of my students wrote complaining about the alleged rudeness of Parisians, citing the waiter who refused to return her Steak Tartare to the kitchen for cooking as evidence of Parisian hostility. It was only when my students were able to find even a glimmer of the knowledge and insight about a place that can only come from hard work, time, experience, and reflection, that they were able to write something that was somewhat effective as a piece of travel writing.
Being oblivious. It isn't just expatriates and travelers who fall victim to this state. In our everyday lives, even when we are anchored to our homes day after day, being oblivious is something that clouds our perceptions and keeps us from understanding what's going on right under our noses. Obliviousness is so difficult to defeat because it is so easy to remain oblivious: it requires absolutely no effort. Awareness and understanding, however, is grueling work--and there is no easy seven-step guide that one can fit on a 3 x 5 card and laminate that can bring us to a state of instant awareness and understanding. Sometimes all you can do is stare at a staff directory for two months before you achieve one small moment of awareness and realize that the entirety of what one knows as a person can be represented by a single tiny grain of sand on a beach and what we are oblivious to is represented by all the other grains of sand combined. That realization just might be the first step toward navigating the fog of the oblivious in which we all reside.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
It's Spring--the outdoor kebob houses are open
After our journey through the mountains near Bishkek, my friend Myrza took me to one of the outdoor kebob houses in Bishkek. You know it is spring when the kebob houses open. And, I can say, from my experience, that everything was absolutely delicious.
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| The tandoori oven in which the kebobs are cooked. |
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| The Kyrgyz eat a special kind of cheese with their beer. The Kyrgyz name for this cheese, chechil, is literally translated to "untied cheese" as you have to unravel the cheese before you eat it. Chechil is made of cow's milk and tastes a lot like smoked Gouda. |
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| View of the seating area. |
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| Myrza and I enjoy our beef and chicken kebabs with onions and freshly-baked bread. |
Visiting the "Grave of our Fathers"
My co-worker Myrza took me into the mountains to the Ata-Bayit memorials--translated to English, Ata Bayit means the "Grave of our Fathers." The story begins with the woman pictured below.
The woman in the picture's father (his image is above hers) confessed something horrible to her on his death bed. In 1938, while a member of Stalin's secret police, he witnessed his fellow officers murder 138 people near the village of Chong Tash. He told her that she should let people know what had happened when it was a safer time. Right after the fall of the Soviet Union, she felt she could disclose her father's secret. And she did so to the man in the upper right hand corner of the picture...a KGB agent she felt could be trusted with the secret. He went to the site where the killings were alleged to have occurred and found the mass grave that contained these bodies. 138 Kyrgyz nationals, Jewish leaders, members of the Chinese community and others who Stalin felt were threats to the Soviet state were murdered at the Ata-Bayit site. Once the location of the bodies was discovered, they were exhumed and they were re-buried and a memorial was created to them meters away from where the atrocities had been committed. If the woman had died before she had disclosed her secret, the site of this atrocity might never have been known. Those who were murdered, of course, had done nothing. Many were loyal Soviets who simply had tried to maintain the identity of the Kyrgyz people; for example, one of the murdered was the creator of the modern Kyrgyz alphabet, an act that Stalin felt was anti-Soviet.
Sadly, the events of 1938 aren't the only ones commemorated at this site. In 2010, protesters marched through Ala-Too Square in Bishkek to protest the corrupt and authoritarian President of that time. The President's security forces fired upon the protesters, killing 70. My friend Myrza knew several of the martyrs and himself was part of the protests. The President was eventually removed from office, but not after uprisings and violence across the country that killed over 1000. The Grave of our Fathers also memorializes the victims of 2010.
As we were leaving the Grave of our Fathers, a bus loaded with school children who had been touring the site departed as we walked by. "Let's hope these students will learn from their visit and hopefully we will never have to add another section in a future year to this memorial," Myrza remarked. Yes, Myrza, let us hope.
The woman in the picture's father (his image is above hers) confessed something horrible to her on his death bed. In 1938, while a member of Stalin's secret police, he witnessed his fellow officers murder 138 people near the village of Chong Tash. He told her that she should let people know what had happened when it was a safer time. Right after the fall of the Soviet Union, she felt she could disclose her father's secret. And she did so to the man in the upper right hand corner of the picture...a KGB agent she felt could be trusted with the secret. He went to the site where the killings were alleged to have occurred and found the mass grave that contained these bodies. 138 Kyrgyz nationals, Jewish leaders, members of the Chinese community and others who Stalin felt were threats to the Soviet state were murdered at the Ata-Bayit site. Once the location of the bodies was discovered, they were exhumed and they were re-buried and a memorial was created to them meters away from where the atrocities had been committed. If the woman had died before she had disclosed her secret, the site of this atrocity might never have been known. Those who were murdered, of course, had done nothing. Many were loyal Soviets who simply had tried to maintain the identity of the Kyrgyz people; for example, one of the murdered was the creator of the modern Kyrgyz alphabet, an act that Stalin felt was anti-Soviet.
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| Monument to the Kyrgyz martyrs |
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| Depiction of the events of 1938 |
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| One of Myrza's friends who was killed in the 2010 protests. |
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| View of the memorial. |
As we were leaving the Grave of our Fathers, a bus loaded with school children who had been touring the site departed as we walked by. "Let's hope these students will learn from their visit and hopefully we will never have to add another section in a future year to this memorial," Myrza remarked. Yes, Myrza, let us hope.
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| Student field trip departing the Grave of our Fathers |
The Islamic Cemetery near Baitik
This weekend my co-worker Myrza took me into the mountains for an excursion as the weather was perfect (around 27 degrees--80 Fahrenheit). We stopped at the cemetery near the mountain town of Baitik. Each region of Kyrgyzstan's cemeteries have very distinctive features, designs, and meanings. I must do much more additional research to explain the importance of cemeteries in Central Asia--and I hope in the future, I will be able to do so. For now, here are a few images of the cemetery near Baitik.
Friday, April 15, 2016
On Lake Issyk-Kul
It was only mentioned to me as an afterthought when I was hired, but it turns out that one of the more important aspects of my job is that I will be the lead manager of the UCA summer camp which provides 10th graders in Central Asia with upgrading in math and English skills. On Thursday, several of us made the three-hour drive to Lake Issyk-Kul to the Royal Beach Resort who will be hosting the camp. Lake Issyk-Kul is over 180 kilometers wide and averages over 270 meters in depth. It is a beautiful lake and one that I will grow familiar with this July/August.
Along the side of the road to Lake Issyk-Kul
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| My co-worker, Bunyod, purchasing corn steamed by a woman using a wood-powered portable stove. Seasoned with salt, it makes a delicious snack for travelers. |
Thursday, April 14, 2016
What to do when punked by an orange
When I went to the Osh Bazaar last weekend, I came across a fruit stand that was selling the most beautiful looking oranges I had ever seen. They were a bit more expensive than the usual orange for sale in Kyrgyzstan (about 40 cents each), but they were so alluring I had to buy a few.
When I returned home, the first thing I did was peel one of these luscious oranges. I took a big bite, only to discover...the most horrible, wretched tasting piece of citrus I had ever placed in my mouth. Never had I had tasted anything so intensely sour. To make it even more unpleasant was the fact that this vile orange also possessed the strong flavor of perfume. What could be worse than something that tastes like sour orange perfume? These were an item Santa Claus places in the stockings of only the most extraordinarily miserable and mischievous children who deserve something even worse than a lump of coal.
My initial impulse was to open my sixth floor apartment window and hurl these foul oranges as hard as I could toward the Kyrgyz-Kazakh border. But, then I got to thinking. These oranges must be something more than the ultimate prop for practical jokers. I got online and found my answer. I had purchased three very precious bergamot oranges, the kind whose essential oils are used to flavor Earl Grey tea. How these oranges made it from their traditional home in the Mediterranean to the heart of Kyrgyzstan I still have not yet determined, but when used properly they are a treasure. I used the bergamot zest to add a nice tangy zing to my plain yogurt. Even better was the assertive citrus flavor their juice added to my black tea...I had stumbled across a way to make my own homemade version of Earl Grey. Sadly, I am now down to my last bergamot and I will miss them when they are gone as I don't get to the Osh Bazaar often and am not even sure I could trace my way back through the labyrinth that is the Osh Bazaar to find the fruit stand where these sneaky fellows were hiding.
As I sip on my impromptu Earl Grey it has occurred to me that bergamot oranges could be a metaphor for living abroad or for encountering anything new. When living in an unfamiliar place, life may seem shiny and sparkling at first, then you encounter unexpected shocks and surprises. You then have a choice to respond with irritation or to respond by re-examining the situation, because often the unwanted surprise turns out to be pretty cool after you've placed it in its proper context. It's kind of amazing what an assertive little orange can tell you, if you're willing to listen.
When I returned home, the first thing I did was peel one of these luscious oranges. I took a big bite, only to discover...the most horrible, wretched tasting piece of citrus I had ever placed in my mouth. Never had I had tasted anything so intensely sour. To make it even more unpleasant was the fact that this vile orange also possessed the strong flavor of perfume. What could be worse than something that tastes like sour orange perfume? These were an item Santa Claus places in the stockings of only the most extraordinarily miserable and mischievous children who deserve something even worse than a lump of coal.
My initial impulse was to open my sixth floor apartment window and hurl these foul oranges as hard as I could toward the Kyrgyz-Kazakh border. But, then I got to thinking. These oranges must be something more than the ultimate prop for practical jokers. I got online and found my answer. I had purchased three very precious bergamot oranges, the kind whose essential oils are used to flavor Earl Grey tea. How these oranges made it from their traditional home in the Mediterranean to the heart of Kyrgyzstan I still have not yet determined, but when used properly they are a treasure. I used the bergamot zest to add a nice tangy zing to my plain yogurt. Even better was the assertive citrus flavor their juice added to my black tea...I had stumbled across a way to make my own homemade version of Earl Grey. Sadly, I am now down to my last bergamot and I will miss them when they are gone as I don't get to the Osh Bazaar often and am not even sure I could trace my way back through the labyrinth that is the Osh Bazaar to find the fruit stand where these sneaky fellows were hiding.
As I sip on my impromptu Earl Grey it has occurred to me that bergamot oranges could be a metaphor for living abroad or for encountering anything new. When living in an unfamiliar place, life may seem shiny and sparkling at first, then you encounter unexpected shocks and surprises. You then have a choice to respond with irritation or to respond by re-examining the situation, because often the unwanted surprise turns out to be pretty cool after you've placed it in its proper context. It's kind of amazing what an assertive little orange can tell you, if you're willing to listen.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Lunch and Tea at Bublyk
Probably my favorite lunch place is a coffee shop a couple of blocks from work called Bublyk, which means bagel in Russian. Bublyk is the spot where trendy, young, professional women take their lunches. I am about the polar opposite of Bublyk's usual demographic, but they let me in the door anyway.
Even the catchy little phrases decorating the cafe's support pillars, I find amusing. They range from the prescriptive ("Have you washed your hands?") to the oxymoronic ("Be fresh and positive") to the ones that should be tattooed on Donald Trump's forehead ("It's never late to learn something").
I enjoy how Bublyk prepares your tea. They use a French press. In this case, I have tea leaves, apples, and cinnamon in my press. The flavor is so intense you don't need to add sweetener.
The restaurant's namesake is also delicious. A New Yorker would object, but I enjoy Bublyk's thinner, less dense variation on bagels. I ordered the chicken bagel sandwich which is a toasted sesame, poppy seed bagel with chicken, barbecue sauce, cucumbers, tomatoes, and lettuce.
One of the best features of Kyrgyzstan's culinary landscape is its soups. Every soup I've had in a restaurant has been outstanding. Bublyk's homemade cream of mushroom soup with bagel croutons is no exception. All this for about the price of a Big Mac Value Meal and a person has a very pleasant lunch to savor.
Even the catchy little phrases decorating the cafe's support pillars, I find amusing. They range from the prescriptive ("Have you washed your hands?") to the oxymoronic ("Be fresh and positive") to the ones that should be tattooed on Donald Trump's forehead ("It's never late to learn something").
The restaurant's namesake is also delicious. A New Yorker would object, but I enjoy Bublyk's thinner, less dense variation on bagels. I ordered the chicken bagel sandwich which is a toasted sesame, poppy seed bagel with chicken, barbecue sauce, cucumbers, tomatoes, and lettuce.
Monday, April 11, 2016
Random Notes
Life is busy here, working together with dozens of people, trying to put a campus together from scratch. So, as you may have noticed, my frequency of postings has diminished and will probably be somewhat limited in the next several weeks. Or who knows, maybe until campus opening. But, I will keep trying to put things out there.
Also, I've noticed that this blog has morphed into something different than the simple travel blog I had originally envisioned. In my re-examination of my postings, it has occurred to me that it has also become a teensy-weensy bit of a political blog. In the highly unlikely event there are any Donald Trump or Ted Cruz supporters still reading my blog, I am sorry for my persistent commentary in this arena. No, actually, I am really not sorry; my commentary has been quite intentional. You see, when you live abroad, you aren't trapped in the vacuum where you can expose yourself only to Fox News or whatever voices you choose. When you live abroad, most of these voices have disappeared and you are exposed to a far greater diversity of voices, even some voices you've never heard before or some you haven't even imagined. And you are called upon to explain your culture by those from other cultures who are trying to understand the gap between American ideals and current American reality. Fox News talking points don't fly in those conversations. When you live abroad, you learn about other cultures, but you also gain a clearer picture of your own--and my personal version of this clearer picture is what I am trying to share, as well as the picture I am forming of Central Asia. Please know that the purpose of this blog's shift in tone is not to offend, but rather to serve as a miniscule voice during a year where we have the stark, unavoidable choice of expressing support for an America that might some day become a country where voices of hope, peace and tolerance become predominant or expressing support for a nation where the voices that shout out in hatred toward the least among us prevail.
Also, I've noticed that this blog has morphed into something different than the simple travel blog I had originally envisioned. In my re-examination of my postings, it has occurred to me that it has also become a teensy-weensy bit of a political blog. In the highly unlikely event there are any Donald Trump or Ted Cruz supporters still reading my blog, I am sorry for my persistent commentary in this arena. No, actually, I am really not sorry; my commentary has been quite intentional. You see, when you live abroad, you aren't trapped in the vacuum where you can expose yourself only to Fox News or whatever voices you choose. When you live abroad, most of these voices have disappeared and you are exposed to a far greater diversity of voices, even some voices you've never heard before or some you haven't even imagined. And you are called upon to explain your culture by those from other cultures who are trying to understand the gap between American ideals and current American reality. Fox News talking points don't fly in those conversations. When you live abroad, you learn about other cultures, but you also gain a clearer picture of your own--and my personal version of this clearer picture is what I am trying to share, as well as the picture I am forming of Central Asia. Please know that the purpose of this blog's shift in tone is not to offend, but rather to serve as a miniscule voice during a year where we have the stark, unavoidable choice of expressing support for an America that might some day become a country where voices of hope, peace and tolerance become predominant or expressing support for a nation where the voices that shout out in hatred toward the least among us prevail.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
At the Osh Bazaar
Today, my Pakistani co-workers Nooruddin and Karim took me to the Osh Bazaar, which is the largest open air market in Kyrgyzstan. We probably only had the time to see about 20% of the market, it is so large. It is a bit of a drive from where I live in the center of the city, so I was fortunate that Karim was kind enough to take us in his car.
I have a small radius of places I go to in Bishkek as I travel everywhere by foot, so it was nice to be able to venture outside my radius. The Osh Bazaar literally has everything one could imagine from fresh produce to clothing to electronics. This is where the average Kyrgyz person does their shopping, not at the fancy Bishkek Park mall that is situated near my apartment. I was able to purchase some wonderful produce, bulk nuts, and fresh bread during my outing.
I have a small radius of places I go to in Bishkek as I travel everywhere by foot, so it was nice to be able to venture outside my radius. The Osh Bazaar literally has everything one could imagine from fresh produce to clothing to electronics. This is where the average Kyrgyz person does their shopping, not at the fancy Bishkek Park mall that is situated near my apartment. I was able to purchase some wonderful produce, bulk nuts, and fresh bread during my outing.
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| The main hall at the Osh Bazaar. My co-workers Nooruddin and Karim in the foreground. |
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| Main Hall |
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| The stall where I purchased fresh walnuts and dried apricots. |
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| One of the stands selling fresh bread. Bread is an inexpensive staple in Kyrgyz culture. |
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Clinging to medieval thought
As I was shopping at the grocery store I was deciding which oranges to buy. I had to decide between the ones that were 120 Soms (the unit of Kyrgyz currency) per kilogram or the ones that were 108 Soms. So, I was required to do a double calculation in my head, Soms to dollars and kilograms to pounds. But, yesterday, was the first day, I wasn't doing any double calculations as I realized I was now thinking in the metric system and didn't have to make that translation.
It happens every time I move abroad. I get re-adjusted to the metric system and live my life in multiples of 10 and 100. It's when I get back the U.S. that I have a more jarring transition. Now how many pints are there in a quart? Quarts in gallon? Bushels in a peck? Feet in a mile? Our system of measurement is positively medieval. No, it really is MEDIEVAL. Our system of measurement is truly a medieval creation, from the Dark Ages. For example, the origin of the yard (or three feet) though not certain, came from around the year 1100. Depending on who you believe, it was either the average circumference of a man's waist at that time, or it was the distance between King Henry the First's nose and his thumb when he stretched out his arm. That's one of the things we base our measurement system on: the body of an English king who has been dead for about 900 years. It wasn't until the Age of Enlightenment of the 18th Century, that the rational metric system, based on easy, round numbers was adopted. Everyone now uses the modern, rational, and easy to calculate metric system. Well, not everyone. The U.S. might just be the only country on this planet that still clings to medieval thought and refuses to adopt the metric system.
And the U.S. is medieval in how it calculates the temperature of things. The other day was a lovely one in Bishkek, and I said to my Canadian co-worker, "it might just reach 70 degrees today." She gave an odd look and replied, "And how warm is that exactly?" That's right, we Americans also use the medieval Fahrenheit system, not the logical Celsius system where water freezes at 0 degrees and boils at 100. "Oh, I mean, it might reach 20 degrees today," I replied quickly, correcting myself. Yes, the U.S. is, I believe, the last country that refuses to adopt celsius measurements.
And the U.S. is the only country that can't figure out how to use a 24-hour clock. "Her flight will arrive at eight o'clock," you might tell someone in the U.S. The inevitable reply is "Is that a.m. or p.m.?" In every other country of the world, if you say 8:00, people know it's the morning and if you say 20:00, they know it's the evening. It's really not that complicated.
We also have our medieval approach to how we describe dates. In every other country of the world, you list the day, then the month, then the year. You go from the shortest unit of time to the longest. Only in the U.S. do we go month, then day, then year--a perfectly illogical sequence. How many times have I had to fix the confusion that's arisen in places I've lived, when the Americans have thought that 8-11-2016 was August 11th, but the rest of the group knew, of course, that the date in question was really November 8th?
When I've worked with Americans overseas, many get very frustrated by all this and are irritated that the rest of the world isn't in synch with them. The better question is, why aren't WE in synch with the rest of the world? Why must we insist upon measuring things based on King Henry's nose to thumb ratio? The word medieval refers to a period in history, but it also means "antiquated" or "out of date." Most Americans think of the United States as being the most advanced nation in the world, yet, in so many ways, particularly in our modes of thinking, we are positively medieval--and not in the singing Gregorian chants sense of the word.
This clinging to medieval thought, goes beyond simple things like the metric system. I don't know how many times I've listened to Americans speak about the origins of human life and the concept of evolution in a medieval way, rejecting the science of it altogether. And when I lived in Kentucky, I don't know how many insistent, medieval Kentuckians tried to persuade me that the earth was 6000 years old; in fact, they have a museum in that same state dedicated to promoting that very proposition. We are also medieval when it comes to the idea of climate change. "Look, it's snowing today, how's that for global warming?" many a medieval American has told me on an inclement winter's day. I usually don't respond, because people who are medieval tend to resist the enlightenment, no matter what you tell them. Look at it this way: if you could go back to the year 1100 and have a conversation with people to convince them the earth wasn't flat, how well would that go? That's really how medieval much of our discourse is now. I mean, seriously, one of the leading candidates for U.S. President's answer to a complex problem of labor markets, immigration patterns, trade policies, and international law is to build a huge wall along the U.S.-Mexico border. Building a huge wall, if that isn't a medieval approach to a modern problem, I don't know what is. But you have to give him credit, he knows there's a whole army of medieval voters out there eager to embrace a return to simpler times, also known as the Dark Ages.
The good news is, at least I can finally do more than sputter incoherently when people ask me why the U.S. doesn't use the metric system, doesn't adopt the celsius scale, or why in God's name is considering a person like Donald Trump to lead the nation. I can now shrug my shoulders and say, "I guess I am just from a medieval land."
It happens every time I move abroad. I get re-adjusted to the metric system and live my life in multiples of 10 and 100. It's when I get back the U.S. that I have a more jarring transition. Now how many pints are there in a quart? Quarts in gallon? Bushels in a peck? Feet in a mile? Our system of measurement is positively medieval. No, it really is MEDIEVAL. Our system of measurement is truly a medieval creation, from the Dark Ages. For example, the origin of the yard (or three feet) though not certain, came from around the year 1100. Depending on who you believe, it was either the average circumference of a man's waist at that time, or it was the distance between King Henry the First's nose and his thumb when he stretched out his arm. That's one of the things we base our measurement system on: the body of an English king who has been dead for about 900 years. It wasn't until the Age of Enlightenment of the 18th Century, that the rational metric system, based on easy, round numbers was adopted. Everyone now uses the modern, rational, and easy to calculate metric system. Well, not everyone. The U.S. might just be the only country on this planet that still clings to medieval thought and refuses to adopt the metric system.
And the U.S. is medieval in how it calculates the temperature of things. The other day was a lovely one in Bishkek, and I said to my Canadian co-worker, "it might just reach 70 degrees today." She gave an odd look and replied, "And how warm is that exactly?" That's right, we Americans also use the medieval Fahrenheit system, not the logical Celsius system where water freezes at 0 degrees and boils at 100. "Oh, I mean, it might reach 20 degrees today," I replied quickly, correcting myself. Yes, the U.S. is, I believe, the last country that refuses to adopt celsius measurements.
And the U.S. is the only country that can't figure out how to use a 24-hour clock. "Her flight will arrive at eight o'clock," you might tell someone in the U.S. The inevitable reply is "Is that a.m. or p.m.?" In every other country of the world, if you say 8:00, people know it's the morning and if you say 20:00, they know it's the evening. It's really not that complicated.
We also have our medieval approach to how we describe dates. In every other country of the world, you list the day, then the month, then the year. You go from the shortest unit of time to the longest. Only in the U.S. do we go month, then day, then year--a perfectly illogical sequence. How many times have I had to fix the confusion that's arisen in places I've lived, when the Americans have thought that 8-11-2016 was August 11th, but the rest of the group knew, of course, that the date in question was really November 8th?
When I've worked with Americans overseas, many get very frustrated by all this and are irritated that the rest of the world isn't in synch with them. The better question is, why aren't WE in synch with the rest of the world? Why must we insist upon measuring things based on King Henry's nose to thumb ratio? The word medieval refers to a period in history, but it also means "antiquated" or "out of date." Most Americans think of the United States as being the most advanced nation in the world, yet, in so many ways, particularly in our modes of thinking, we are positively medieval--and not in the singing Gregorian chants sense of the word.
This clinging to medieval thought, goes beyond simple things like the metric system. I don't know how many times I've listened to Americans speak about the origins of human life and the concept of evolution in a medieval way, rejecting the science of it altogether. And when I lived in Kentucky, I don't know how many insistent, medieval Kentuckians tried to persuade me that the earth was 6000 years old; in fact, they have a museum in that same state dedicated to promoting that very proposition. We are also medieval when it comes to the idea of climate change. "Look, it's snowing today, how's that for global warming?" many a medieval American has told me on an inclement winter's day. I usually don't respond, because people who are medieval tend to resist the enlightenment, no matter what you tell them. Look at it this way: if you could go back to the year 1100 and have a conversation with people to convince them the earth wasn't flat, how well would that go? That's really how medieval much of our discourse is now. I mean, seriously, one of the leading candidates for U.S. President's answer to a complex problem of labor markets, immigration patterns, trade policies, and international law is to build a huge wall along the U.S.-Mexico border. Building a huge wall, if that isn't a medieval approach to a modern problem, I don't know what is. But you have to give him credit, he knows there's a whole army of medieval voters out there eager to embrace a return to simpler times, also known as the Dark Ages.
The good news is, at least I can finally do more than sputter incoherently when people ask me why the U.S. doesn't use the metric system, doesn't adopt the celsius scale, or why in God's name is considering a person like Donald Trump to lead the nation. I can now shrug my shoulders and say, "I guess I am just from a medieval land."
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Marketing: the promise versus the reality
On my way grocery shopping today, I passed by the Nathan's hot dog restaurant that has recently opened. I was a little hungry for a mid-afternoon snack, so I decided to try a nice, piping hot serving of the Queens french fries I had heard so much about. When the clerk gave me my order this is what it looked like.
Compare the real Queens french fries to the adjacent picture of the idealized ones that the marketers provided for the unsuspecting customer. Trust me, the real Queens french fries tasted as bad as they looked. What happened? Where, where could those ideal Queens french fries be?
Luckily I was only out about a dollar and before I set foot inside Nathan's I had had a pretty strong suspicion that the Kyrgyzstan Nathan's would not be a good place to eat, so my experience wasn't really a shock. The great thing was, for the modest price of a dollar, I received a wonderful reminder that the world of marketing can be an ugly place. The promise of Queens french fries versus the reality…that's a lesson that can be translated to almost any product that is mass marketed. The reality seldom matches the promise. It is a truism we forget too easily in modern society.
Think about it in another way. Think about the best hidden little restaurant in the back woods that you've eaten at. I bet it wasn't mass marketed. You probably stumbled across it by mistake. I am pretty sure that virtually all of the most memorable meals I have eaten in restaurants were at places that I am confident did little or no marketing at all. Almost all of the lovely local inns and B&Bs I've stayed in, were not ones that had been marketed to me, but were places that I had uncovered through serendipity, just by wandering. The best of almost everything I've experienced in my life were things that were not mass marketed, probably not marketed at all. And much of what is awesome and meaningful, probably aren't even tangible items.
If one could chart this on a graph, it would almost be a straight line, a strong inverse relationship that describes this feature of the universe: the less something is mass marketed the better it probably is. Cosmetics, cars, beer, jewelry, prescription drugs. All of these are products where the promise of marketing and the reality of what is delivered don't always line up. If you have a reasonably good life, but somehow feel like something is missing, maybe it's this gap between the promise and the reality of our marketing-dominated world that happens a hundred times a day, without us even noticing, that creates this subtle feeling of emptiness. It's that nothing is exactly quite as good as we expect it will be.
It might be a crazy thought on my part, but I've spoken with so many people who tell me of this moderately-sized, yet persistent, discontent that seems to manifest itself for no reason and, after hearing it described to me many times, it feels like people are describing trying to eat a serving of Queens french fries after having stared at the lovely picture.
I have no reason to ever step foot inside Nathan's again. My lesson was received in the form of lousy fast food. Instead, I will be going up into the remote mountains this summer where few marketers ever travel. That will be where I will live for a time. A couple dozen other faculty and staff members from many nations will be joining me there. It will be interesting to see which of the two feelings will overtake us: a longing for the items we've habitually used in our lives that have been marketed to us or the freedom and joy that comes from not worrying about any of that. All I know is, when I am sitting in my apartment on a frigid winter's night at the Naryn campus, I will not be craving soggy french fries, smothered in artificial cheese and tasteless mushroom bits.
Compare the real Queens french fries to the adjacent picture of the idealized ones that the marketers provided for the unsuspecting customer. Trust me, the real Queens french fries tasted as bad as they looked. What happened? Where, where could those ideal Queens french fries be?
Luckily I was only out about a dollar and before I set foot inside Nathan's I had had a pretty strong suspicion that the Kyrgyzstan Nathan's would not be a good place to eat, so my experience wasn't really a shock. The great thing was, for the modest price of a dollar, I received a wonderful reminder that the world of marketing can be an ugly place. The promise of Queens french fries versus the reality…that's a lesson that can be translated to almost any product that is mass marketed. The reality seldom matches the promise. It is a truism we forget too easily in modern society.
Think about it in another way. Think about the best hidden little restaurant in the back woods that you've eaten at. I bet it wasn't mass marketed. You probably stumbled across it by mistake. I am pretty sure that virtually all of the most memorable meals I have eaten in restaurants were at places that I am confident did little or no marketing at all. Almost all of the lovely local inns and B&Bs I've stayed in, were not ones that had been marketed to me, but were places that I had uncovered through serendipity, just by wandering. The best of almost everything I've experienced in my life were things that were not mass marketed, probably not marketed at all. And much of what is awesome and meaningful, probably aren't even tangible items.
If one could chart this on a graph, it would almost be a straight line, a strong inverse relationship that describes this feature of the universe: the less something is mass marketed the better it probably is. Cosmetics, cars, beer, jewelry, prescription drugs. All of these are products where the promise of marketing and the reality of what is delivered don't always line up. If you have a reasonably good life, but somehow feel like something is missing, maybe it's this gap between the promise and the reality of our marketing-dominated world that happens a hundred times a day, without us even noticing, that creates this subtle feeling of emptiness. It's that nothing is exactly quite as good as we expect it will be.
It might be a crazy thought on my part, but I've spoken with so many people who tell me of this moderately-sized, yet persistent, discontent that seems to manifest itself for no reason and, after hearing it described to me many times, it feels like people are describing trying to eat a serving of Queens french fries after having stared at the lovely picture.
I have no reason to ever step foot inside Nathan's again. My lesson was received in the form of lousy fast food. Instead, I will be going up into the remote mountains this summer where few marketers ever travel. That will be where I will live for a time. A couple dozen other faculty and staff members from many nations will be joining me there. It will be interesting to see which of the two feelings will overtake us: a longing for the items we've habitually used in our lives that have been marketed to us or the freedom and joy that comes from not worrying about any of that. All I know is, when I am sitting in my apartment on a frigid winter's night at the Naryn campus, I will not be craving soggy french fries, smothered in artificial cheese and tasteless mushroom bits.
Time for a brief Turkish lesson
When I lived in Arkansas, I came across lots of people who had a fit if they encountered any language other than English. In fact one horrible woman was so angered that some of our Walton Scholars were, in her opinion, speaking too loudly in Spanish at the local Taco Bell that she sent an enraged message to our university's Dean of Students to complain. Good thing she doesn't have to move to Kyrgyzstan. She would have to encounter Kyrgyz, Russian, Turkish, Uzbek, and precious little English. I kind of like this odd mix of language. It keeps a person's brain on the move.
Like today, when I went grocery shopping at the big Yimpas market near my house. Yimpas is a Turkish chain of grocery stores and they carry some interesting products that the other stores don't. Like the bag of prunes I purchased. After I brought them home, I noticed my name, Erik, on the package. I did some quick research and found that, fortunately, Erik does not mean prune in Turkish. Erik is the Turkish word for "plum." Kuru is the word for "dried." So I purchased some dried plums AKA kuru erik. I guess one could say that Turkish is an erik of a language. It's a shame that the angry Taco Bell woman and the millions of Americans just like her will never have the fun, however tiny it might be, of appreciating other languages and the play one can have with them.
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