It's the official last evening of Fall Semester. Unlike most people, I don't measure my life in years, but in semesters. And at the end of each semester I try to reflect upon what I have learned.
It isn't the best time to reflect, because I am tired and ready to rest, but I think there are a couple of things I might have learned in my journey through approximately the 100th semester of my life--if one counts nursery school, doesn't include summer semesters, considers each rare six-month period I didn't work in education as a semester, and converts the quarters I spent at Eastern Washington University and the University of Washington into the semester system.
I learned that there are 18,774 potholes on the road from Darvaz to Khorog and that I landed in 11,209 of them. I learned that one's kidneys can recover from landing in 11,209 potholes, but it does take a couple days. I learned that I am happy eating boiled buckwheat (grechka) four times a week. It's that fifth time that really pushes you over the edge. I learned that it can take up to six months to acquire 100 coffee mugs and get them shipped to campus.
In the world of current events, I learned that being an American is something one doesn't advertise quite so freely anymore, now that our new leader is in power. Most people had a warm glow around them when I spoke with them about our previous President. The current leader causes awkward silences, looks of horror, expressions of condolences, and discussions laced with outright fear. I am learning that it doesn't take much misconduct or effort to dismantle political institutions and social programs that define a nation's greatness.
Of course, what I've learned most acutely are the things I re-learn every semester of my life. I learned that I truly enjoy working with college students--for about the 50th time. I learned that collaborating with the people on my student life team (on two campuses) is one of the most fulfilling things that I do in my life from semester to semester. I learned that my strengths are input, maximizer, ideation, intellection, and positivity--though some days I wonder, especially about that last one. I've learned to appreciate acronyms and the ideals and people they represent more and more like SLA, SLT, SLAT, ACLU, NRCAT, AKDN, CU, UP, WISP, MLA, INTP/J, C-R, and countless others. Conversely there are acronyms that I dread, but if I mention them I will find myself in serious trouble. One of the little gems that I had forgotten but have put high on my list of important lessons to never stop learning is that laughter is a wondrous gift one should never do without. Most important of all, I have learned again that the connections one makes with other people are what causes life to be joyful and worth living.
Next year begins the 101st--or so--semester of my life. The best part of living life in semesters is that when you think of your life in this way, as continuous segments of learning, then it is the precious lessons that you acquire that begin to take precedence in your life and you realize that every day can be like a commencement, the advent of a deeper, richer life.
Saturday, December 16, 2017
Adaptability: Saturday Morning Breakfast in Kyrgyzstan
One of the challenges of being an expat living in a remote place is the disconnection you feel from that which you are accustomed. And food is one of the biggest challenges.
Adaptability and resourcefulness are what a person must possess in abundance in order to maintain one's sense of equanimity. My Saturday morning breakfast was my humble effort to live up to this credo.
I always try to cook up something comforting and special on my Saturday morning. It is a reminder of a family custom, as my parents would endeavor to make french toast or Swedish Custard Pancakes or omelettes or a decadent breakfast casserole for our breakfasts when I was a child. And so today it was a breakfast burrito that I hoped to make in order to create a warm, pleasant Saturday.
But the only ingredients for breakfast burritos that can be obtained in Naryn are eggs, milk, and onions. The rest must be tracked down, invented or adapted. No tortillas? That's OK, I can use the wonderful roti that I have in my freezer, a gift from a co-worker; they work as well, maybe even better. Don't forget the salsa and American cheese I managed to find last time I was in Bishkek. Resourcefulness: that comes from the chipotle sauce I managed to create and invent, almost from sheer determination.
Ahhh. The final product. Not a typical breakfast burrito. In fact it was unlike any breakfast burrito I've ever had. But, oh, it was a hot, rich, creamy, spicy, and savory plate of goodness.
In all the world, and even in the familiar lives of our customary homes, the joy that comes from adapting and transforming what we have to what we enjoy: it is a challenge that defines how we live and how we feel. And it is important to remember that these potential moments of zen can even be found in something as simple as the act of creating a breakfast burrito.
Adaptability and resourcefulness are what a person must possess in abundance in order to maintain one's sense of equanimity. My Saturday morning breakfast was my humble effort to live up to this credo.
I always try to cook up something comforting and special on my Saturday morning. It is a reminder of a family custom, as my parents would endeavor to make french toast or Swedish Custard Pancakes or omelettes or a decadent breakfast casserole for our breakfasts when I was a child. And so today it was a breakfast burrito that I hoped to make in order to create a warm, pleasant Saturday.
But the only ingredients for breakfast burritos that can be obtained in Naryn are eggs, milk, and onions. The rest must be tracked down, invented or adapted. No tortillas? That's OK, I can use the wonderful roti that I have in my freezer, a gift from a co-worker; they work as well, maybe even better. Don't forget the salsa and American cheese I managed to find last time I was in Bishkek. Resourcefulness: that comes from the chipotle sauce I managed to create and invent, almost from sheer determination.
Ahhh. The final product. Not a typical breakfast burrito. In fact it was unlike any breakfast burrito I've ever had. But, oh, it was a hot, rich, creamy, spicy, and savory plate of goodness.
In all the world, and even in the familiar lives of our customary homes, the joy that comes from adapting and transforming what we have to what we enjoy: it is a challenge that defines how we live and how we feel. And it is important to remember that these potential moments of zen can even be found in something as simple as the act of creating a breakfast burrito.
What Avocados Mean
Winter in Naryn hasn't arrived in full force yet this year. By December of last year we already had tons of snow on the ground--this year, strangely enough, Bishkek, usually a much more temperate place, has had far more snow and inclement weather. I am actually spending my December Naryn days wandering around outside looking at the barren, snowless mountains.
While the advance of winter is not discernible by observing the current weather, I discovered a much more pleasant omen of the season in Bishkek. Winter in Kyrgyzstan is also marked by the beginning of avocado season. In the U.S. avocados are plentiful all 365 days of the year in all but the most-isolated, rural outposts. Here, however, avocados are rare and precious and are usually only found in urban settings from December through April. In almost perfect harmony with the start of Advent, I discovered the first avocados of the season in one of my favorite Bishkek markets.
When avocados are precious they carry greater meaning. I brought mine back to Naryn in my carry-on bag, cradled in between some soft new socks I had purchased. A few I gave away to a couple of fellow avocado aficionados who share my affinities, but I saved two to make something particularly satisfying to the taste when one lives in a bright yellow spaceship in the Kyrgyz mountains. A spicy batch of guacamole--a gift of green richness to herald the entrance of the season.
When I am in the U.S., avocados mean very little as they are omnipresent and guacamole can be even found in gas station convenience stores. What a newfound joy it is when something familiar, like the hard-skinned but delicate avocado, suddenly acquires profound new meaning.
While the advance of winter is not discernible by observing the current weather, I discovered a much more pleasant omen of the season in Bishkek. Winter in Kyrgyzstan is also marked by the beginning of avocado season. In the U.S. avocados are plentiful all 365 days of the year in all but the most-isolated, rural outposts. Here, however, avocados are rare and precious and are usually only found in urban settings from December through April. In almost perfect harmony with the start of Advent, I discovered the first avocados of the season in one of my favorite Bishkek markets.
When avocados are precious they carry greater meaning. I brought mine back to Naryn in my carry-on bag, cradled in between some soft new socks I had purchased. A few I gave away to a couple of fellow avocado aficionados who share my affinities, but I saved two to make something particularly satisfying to the taste when one lives in a bright yellow spaceship in the Kyrgyz mountains. A spicy batch of guacamole--a gift of green richness to herald the entrance of the season.
When I am in the U.S., avocados mean very little as they are omnipresent and guacamole can be even found in gas station convenience stores. What a newfound joy it is when something familiar, like the hard-skinned but delicate avocado, suddenly acquires profound new meaning.
Monday, November 20, 2017
Along the Pamir Highway
On my way to Khorog and back to Dushanbe I traveled over the Pamir Highway. It is a roadway that extends from Afghanistan to Uzbekistan to Tajikistan to Kyrgyzstan. It is an ancient route that has been in use for centuries.
The roadway is narrow and not well-maintained and is usually a gravel surface with perpetual bumps and potholes. Much of the problem with the highway is that the rocky slopes lining the roadway are predisposed to landslides. Along almost every kilometer a passenger can notice a place where a landslide has taken place in the not-too-distant past.
Perhaps the most fun presented by the Pamir Highway is the drop-off into the river that one must avoid while driving. Seldom is there a guardrail present and much of my entertainment on the trip consisted of peering out my back seat window over the cliffs we were avoiding by mere centimeters. Our trip from Khorog to Dushanbe was made during the day, but our journey in the reverse direction happened in the night. The evening we traveled was dark--as I gazed out my window toward the river I could see nothing but a black void as I looked down. It is unsettling to know that the void exists, but cannot be perceived.
Safely back in Kyrgyzstan. To commemorate my successful journey across the Pamir Highway, I have been researching the road and learning more about it on a cheery website I discovered tonight: dangerousroads.org.
The roadway is narrow and not well-maintained and is usually a gravel surface with perpetual bumps and potholes. Much of the problem with the highway is that the rocky slopes lining the roadway are predisposed to landslides. Along almost every kilometer a passenger can notice a place where a landslide has taken place in the not-too-distant past.
Perhaps the most fun presented by the Pamir Highway is the drop-off into the river that one must avoid while driving. Seldom is there a guardrail present and much of my entertainment on the trip consisted of peering out my back seat window over the cliffs we were avoiding by mere centimeters. Our trip from Khorog to Dushanbe was made during the day, but our journey in the reverse direction happened in the night. The evening we traveled was dark--as I gazed out my window toward the river I could see nothing but a black void as I looked down. It is unsettling to know that the void exists, but cannot be perceived.
Safely back in Kyrgyzstan. To commemorate my successful journey across the Pamir Highway, I have been researching the road and learning more about it on a cheery website I discovered tonight: dangerousroads.org.
What Afghanistan looks like
This past week I was in Khorog, Tajikistan visiting our new campus there. To get there you have drive 12 hours from the capital city of Dushanbe. Half of the trip is on the Pamir Highway which runs adjacent to the Panj River. Across the river during this 6-hour stretch of the journey is the country of Afghanistan. At some points in the trip, the distance betwen Tajikistan and Afghanistan was so small, a person with average athleticism could toss a rock across the river and hit the other country.
Americans tend to shiver with anxiety when they hear the word Afghanistan and, while I didn't ever cross the border, I gazed at the Afghan landscape for several hours while bounding down the Pamir Highway. Nothing to fear particularly, beyond the treacherous nature of the road itself. The more troublesome regions of the country are situated hundreds of kilometers away.
I guess it proves that lines on maps have meaning, but sometimes this meaning isn't always what we think it is. And it also demonstrates that the names of countries, their boundaries, and their geography aren't the complete essence of a land. While I enjoyed the stunning landscape of Afghanistan from across the river, these views will still not be what I immediately think of when I hear the name Afghanistan. Rather, it will remain the precious students I know from this troubled land who will always be what I carry in my heart when I consider that which is Afghan.
Americans tend to shiver with anxiety when they hear the word Afghanistan and, while I didn't ever cross the border, I gazed at the Afghan landscape for several hours while bounding down the Pamir Highway. Nothing to fear particularly, beyond the treacherous nature of the road itself. The more troublesome regions of the country are situated hundreds of kilometers away.
I guess it proves that lines on maps have meaning, but sometimes this meaning isn't always what we think it is. And it also demonstrates that the names of countries, their boundaries, and their geography aren't the complete essence of a land. While I enjoyed the stunning landscape of Afghanistan from across the river, these views will still not be what I immediately think of when I hear the name Afghanistan. Rather, it will remain the precious students I know from this troubled land who will always be what I carry in my heart when I consider that which is Afghan.
Thursday, November 2, 2017
Searching for authenticity in Dubai
One of the secret, subtle joys of traveling alone is sitting, eating meals in restaurants and eavesdropping on the conversations of one's surrounding diners. I have heard the desperate promises of those attempting seduction, ridiculous business scams promoted that I could not believe weren't being seen through, political discourse of varying degrees of illogic, and when unlucky, of course, the most mundane talk ever uttered in the world. ("I like Coke Zero better than diet Coke, I don't know why, I think it's because it has more bubbles" for example.)
At one meal in Dubai, I overhead an American telling his companions he was insulted that they had insisted upon having their meal in the Dubai Mall. He was telling them they were not experiencing the authentic Dubai and accusing them, therefore, of being inauthentic themselves.
While I did not like his haughty tone, my overheard conversation got me thinking. Where was the authentic Dubai and was I like this man's friends, an inauthentic fraud, unable to find that in the universe that is true and genuine?
I was eating this meal in Eataly, the oh-so-clever name of an establishment in the Mall that is owned by the Illy Company, a purveyor of excellent Italian coffees. As I ate my impeccable spinach salad laced with the highest quality balsamic vinegar of Modena and hand-crafted gorgonzola cheese, I realized that this was certainly not authentic Dubai. Yet, having lived twice in Italy for over three years cumulatively, I also realized I was having a more authentic Italian meal than I often would consume when eating in the restaurants in the tourist sections of my Florentine home where foreigners were exploited by being served frozen pizzas made in Germany. Inauthentic culinary experiences in Florence mere meters from the grand statue of David, but authentic ones in Dubai thousands of kilometers away. This search for authenticity is not as straightforward as my haughty American lecturer on authenticity would have us believe.
As I sat eating, I realized that my gnocchi with veal ragu was startlingly authentic Italian cuisine as well. And I also realized that authenticity might not always be the ideal. When I lived in Arkansas, I experienced a whole range of Arkansan authenticity, from the rants of my racist barber to the cruel poverty I witnessed when visiting a family living in misery deep in the mountains. Were these experiences better, because they were more authentic, than the lovely handmade tacos I purchased from the kind Mexican man at the food truck near the apartment where I lived?
I decided that I must leave the mall to find the authentic Dubai that the haughty American claimed was ready to be discovered if only one would try.
Where else could authenticity be found but in the old town of Dubai? I took a taxi there the next day and found a place that wasn't gleaming and modern and where no spinach salads with gorgonzola were served. The gold market and the spice market and the perfume market were interesting, yet tourists were crawling all over the place there too. If I was there, how could the place be authentic after all? Besides, when I thought about it, although it was far less glitzy than the Dubai Mall, wasn't this part of town devoted to exactly what the mall was? Commerce and selling! How many dozen watches did people try to sell me in the authentic old town? About as many as in the mall. Just not as much air conditioning.
I also considered the possibility that what is authentic can be difficult to determine. Which is the authentic experience I have had in the current town where I live: the kind welcome I have received from much of the populace or other, more unsettling, reactions to my existence there? Or both?
Discouraged by my lack of authentic experience, I returned to my hotel, a trendy place, fantastically comfortable and pleasant, yet authentic to what I did not know, except the perfected and crafted world of marketers and MBAs. I entered my room and stared for a time at the zen-ish slogan painted on the wall above my bed: THIS IS WHERE I AM.
That's when I realized where authenticity resides: where one is. What one experiences at any specific place during that moment in time is what is authentic.
There is no place in Dubai that is authentic, yet every inch I saw of Dubai was totally authentic in that moment. Rather than searching for what is authentic as the haughty American would have us do, instead it might be best to be more concerned about our personal response to the places where we find ourselves in the world and the people we encounter. It is in how we interact with our surroundings that defines our authenticity as humans and it is our capacity to be real and to be compassionate and to be empathetic that is the authentic response to what the universe presents us. It is a search for that form of authenticity that should occupy our minds, whether we are eating an Italian meal in Dubai, or conducting German Club on a Kyrgyz campus, or eating tacos in Arkansas. Because THIS IS WHERE WE ARE.
At one meal in Dubai, I overhead an American telling his companions he was insulted that they had insisted upon having their meal in the Dubai Mall. He was telling them they were not experiencing the authentic Dubai and accusing them, therefore, of being inauthentic themselves.
While I did not like his haughty tone, my overheard conversation got me thinking. Where was the authentic Dubai and was I like this man's friends, an inauthentic fraud, unable to find that in the universe that is true and genuine?
I was eating this meal in Eataly, the oh-so-clever name of an establishment in the Mall that is owned by the Illy Company, a purveyor of excellent Italian coffees. As I ate my impeccable spinach salad laced with the highest quality balsamic vinegar of Modena and hand-crafted gorgonzola cheese, I realized that this was certainly not authentic Dubai. Yet, having lived twice in Italy for over three years cumulatively, I also realized I was having a more authentic Italian meal than I often would consume when eating in the restaurants in the tourist sections of my Florentine home where foreigners were exploited by being served frozen pizzas made in Germany. Inauthentic culinary experiences in Florence mere meters from the grand statue of David, but authentic ones in Dubai thousands of kilometers away. This search for authenticity is not as straightforward as my haughty American lecturer on authenticity would have us believe.
As I sat eating, I realized that my gnocchi with veal ragu was startlingly authentic Italian cuisine as well. And I also realized that authenticity might not always be the ideal. When I lived in Arkansas, I experienced a whole range of Arkansan authenticity, from the rants of my racist barber to the cruel poverty I witnessed when visiting a family living in misery deep in the mountains. Were these experiences better, because they were more authentic, than the lovely handmade tacos I purchased from the kind Mexican man at the food truck near the apartment where I lived?
I decided that I must leave the mall to find the authentic Dubai that the haughty American claimed was ready to be discovered if only one would try.
Where else could authenticity be found but in the old town of Dubai? I took a taxi there the next day and found a place that wasn't gleaming and modern and where no spinach salads with gorgonzola were served. The gold market and the spice market and the perfume market were interesting, yet tourists were crawling all over the place there too. If I was there, how could the place be authentic after all? Besides, when I thought about it, although it was far less glitzy than the Dubai Mall, wasn't this part of town devoted to exactly what the mall was? Commerce and selling! How many dozen watches did people try to sell me in the authentic old town? About as many as in the mall. Just not as much air conditioning.
I also considered the possibility that what is authentic can be difficult to determine. Which is the authentic experience I have had in the current town where I live: the kind welcome I have received from much of the populace or other, more unsettling, reactions to my existence there? Or both?
Discouraged by my lack of authentic experience, I returned to my hotel, a trendy place, fantastically comfortable and pleasant, yet authentic to what I did not know, except the perfected and crafted world of marketers and MBAs. I entered my room and stared for a time at the zen-ish slogan painted on the wall above my bed: THIS IS WHERE I AM.
That's when I realized where authenticity resides: where one is. What one experiences at any specific place during that moment in time is what is authentic.
There is no place in Dubai that is authentic, yet every inch I saw of Dubai was totally authentic in that moment. Rather than searching for what is authentic as the haughty American would have us do, instead it might be best to be more concerned about our personal response to the places where we find ourselves in the world and the people we encounter. It is in how we interact with our surroundings that defines our authenticity as humans and it is our capacity to be real and to be compassionate and to be empathetic that is the authentic response to what the universe presents us. It is a search for that form of authenticity that should occupy our minds, whether we are eating an Italian meal in Dubai, or conducting German Club on a Kyrgyz campus, or eating tacos in Arkansas. Because THIS IS WHERE WE ARE.
A desire to touch the heavens
Humans are creatures not content with keeping their feet on the ground. The heavens are what we strive to touch. This striving is often manifested by the need to build ever-taller buildings than have ever been built before.
This desire has reached its current culmination in Dubai in the form of Burj Khalifa, the tallest man-made structure in the world at 828 meters (2,717 feet). I took the elevator that travels at 10 meters per second to the highest observation deck in the world at almost 600 meters. A startling view of the surrounding city was what I was treated to as well as a gaggle of tourists taking selfies at a rate that might also qualify as a world record. What desire that fulfills I am still trying to determine.
This desire has reached its current culmination in Dubai in the form of Burj Khalifa, the tallest man-made structure in the world at 828 meters (2,717 feet). I took the elevator that travels at 10 meters per second to the highest observation deck in the world at almost 600 meters. A startling view of the surrounding city was what I was treated to as well as a gaggle of tourists taking selfies at a rate that might also qualify as a world record. What desire that fulfills I am still trying to determine.
What we take for granted
One might be tempted to exclusively sing the praises of the urban area with the shining lights and almost infinite opportunities for entertainment and consumption. However, when I looked out my hotel window in Dubai one morning, that which I take for granted in my home in Naryn came to mind. Like clean air.
The most frightening demon I have ever been on Halloween
I had warned students and colleagues that I would I have the most frightening Halloween costume ever. And I wasn't kidding, though everyone thought I was, as sometimes I have been know to do a little bit of joking, though not often.
When I finally unveiled my costume, most everyone understood that indeed I had chosen to depict the most horrible goblin one could imagine. One of my co-workers, even shielded her face every time I walked by as the sight of me caused her great horror.
One person though, did say that they didn't understand and didn't find me particularly scary. They said I would have been more frightening if I had been dressed as a vampire or other monster.
Hmmm, I thought to myself, then replied.
*How many monsters do you know who are responsible for taking away the health care (CHIP program) of hundreds of thousands of poor children, some of whom will die because of they no longer have access to health care? Dracula himself never sucked the blood out of so many people.
*And how many ghosts have access to the nuclear codes and could wipe out millions with a single entry into a keypad? And this person I was depicting had even blithely suggested he might want to use these nuclear weapons and do exactly that.
*And what evil Halloween monsters openly brag about doing horrible things to women like grabbing...well, we all know about that.
*And have you ever met a goblin who mocked the disabled, constantly attacked people with foul words, who defrauded thousands of their money with a fake university, and who cheated hundreds and hundreds of small, honest business people by refusing to pay them for their work and services, just so he could line his own pockets?
Soon, the person understood, that I had indeed chosen to depict one of the most dreadful and frightening demons imaginable on this Halloween. But, what they couldn't understand was why any nation on the planet would choose to elect such a ghoul to be its leader.
When I finally unveiled my costume, most everyone understood that indeed I had chosen to depict the most horrible goblin one could imagine. One of my co-workers, even shielded her face every time I walked by as the sight of me caused her great horror.
One person though, did say that they didn't understand and didn't find me particularly scary. They said I would have been more frightening if I had been dressed as a vampire or other monster.
Hmmm, I thought to myself, then replied.
*How many monsters do you know who are responsible for taking away the health care (CHIP program) of hundreds of thousands of poor children, some of whom will die because of they no longer have access to health care? Dracula himself never sucked the blood out of so many people.
*And how many ghosts have access to the nuclear codes and could wipe out millions with a single entry into a keypad? And this person I was depicting had even blithely suggested he might want to use these nuclear weapons and do exactly that.
*And what evil Halloween monsters openly brag about doing horrible things to women like grabbing...well, we all know about that.
*And have you ever met a goblin who mocked the disabled, constantly attacked people with foul words, who defrauded thousands of their money with a fake university, and who cheated hundreds and hundreds of small, honest business people by refusing to pay them for their work and services, just so he could line his own pockets?
Soon, the person understood, that I had indeed chosen to depict one of the most dreadful and frightening demons imaginable on this Halloween. But, what they couldn't understand was why any nation on the planet would choose to elect such a ghoul to be its leader.
A miracle has happened!
Those who live in proximity to me know that one of my ongoing crusades has been to get English-language satellite TV on our campus.
It all started almost two years ago when I first moved here, when one of the junior administrators asked me to come up with a list of stations that we would want to have on our satellite system. "You name it. The sky's the limit," he told me.
What an amazing list I created of entertaining and educational stations.
Little did I know at the time that indeed the sky was the limit, as satellites operate out in space well beyond the sky, for when we arrived on campus, no satellite TV at all.
The weeks went by and finally satellite TV came flickering across my screen. 40 Russian stations, 25 Turkish stations, and two English stations. Not just any English stations, mind you, but two of the worst English language stations known to humankind. In our secular university, we received two Christian Evangelical stations that, among other offenses, engaged in persistent attacks on Islam, here on our campus where probably 90% of the community can claim Islamic heritage. Cool! And even better, no Kyrgyz stations on our televisions, in this land of Kyrgyzstan.
I will spare everyone the list of harangues and strategies and actions and growling and grumbling I engaged in over the next 13 months in my efforts to get some sort of satellite TV installed. The problem, I was told was sub-contractors who couldn't deliver, the angle of satellites, the height of the mountains, the hardness of the rocky soil where no fiber optic cable could be installed, the phases of the moon, the general condition of human existence. "People will be walking the surface of the planet Mars before we get satellite TV," was my common response to these explanations.
To make a long story short, I returned from an extremely brief vacation yesterday to find that finally we have satellite TV. With English language stations. And no tele-evangelism on our strictly secular campus.
Only one downside. I had promised the ever-intrepid operations manager, Kuban-baike, that I would do a Kyrgyz dance and buy the staff pizza the day that English satellite tv arrived to campus. Not ever expecting such an eventuality, I now have to get out my Kyrgyz dancing shoes and pizza money. But, in the end, it is all worth it, as last night, after watching the news on BBC World Service and viewing the end of a scintillating NBA match-up, I got to watch game 5 of the World Series, where the Astros beat the Dodgers in one of the most exciting baseball games I have ever witnessed. All good things come to those who wait?
It all started almost two years ago when I first moved here, when one of the junior administrators asked me to come up with a list of stations that we would want to have on our satellite system. "You name it. The sky's the limit," he told me.
What an amazing list I created of entertaining and educational stations.
Little did I know at the time that indeed the sky was the limit, as satellites operate out in space well beyond the sky, for when we arrived on campus, no satellite TV at all.
The weeks went by and finally satellite TV came flickering across my screen. 40 Russian stations, 25 Turkish stations, and two English stations. Not just any English stations, mind you, but two of the worst English language stations known to humankind. In our secular university, we received two Christian Evangelical stations that, among other offenses, engaged in persistent attacks on Islam, here on our campus where probably 90% of the community can claim Islamic heritage. Cool! And even better, no Kyrgyz stations on our televisions, in this land of Kyrgyzstan.
I will spare everyone the list of harangues and strategies and actions and growling and grumbling I engaged in over the next 13 months in my efforts to get some sort of satellite TV installed. The problem, I was told was sub-contractors who couldn't deliver, the angle of satellites, the height of the mountains, the hardness of the rocky soil where no fiber optic cable could be installed, the phases of the moon, the general condition of human existence. "People will be walking the surface of the planet Mars before we get satellite TV," was my common response to these explanations.
To make a long story short, I returned from an extremely brief vacation yesterday to find that finally we have satellite TV. With English language stations. And no tele-evangelism on our strictly secular campus.
Only one downside. I had promised the ever-intrepid operations manager, Kuban-baike, that I would do a Kyrgyz dance and buy the staff pizza the day that English satellite tv arrived to campus. Not ever expecting such an eventuality, I now have to get out my Kyrgyz dancing shoes and pizza money. But, in the end, it is all worth it, as last night, after watching the news on BBC World Service and viewing the end of a scintillating NBA match-up, I got to watch game 5 of the World Series, where the Astros beat the Dodgers in one of the most exciting baseball games I have ever witnessed. All good things come to those who wait?
It's Otterly difficult to reconcile it all
The Dubai Mall is more than a place for selling goods, it is an establishment that also endeavors to sell experiences. The Dubai Aquarium inside the mall has all the traditional exhibits, but a visitor can also purchase the opportunity to have close interactions with the creatures contained within.
You can have an encounter with a giant crocodile, be lowered into a shark tank inside a cage to witness these mysterious creatures more closely, and I think I also saw on offer the opportunity to cavort with large aquatic rays, charming and personable creatures that they are.
None of these exotic encounters appealed to me all that much, but there was one I decided to purchase...the chance to be one of eight people to have an interaction with a family of otters. I've always found them to be interesting creatures, so I decided to purchase a ticket to the Otter Encounter.
The eight of us were led, at our appointed time, to the room in the aquarium complex where the small-clawed Asian otters were housed. We got to sit on benches in the back of the house where the babies lived and where the animals were trained and given special care.
The Otter Encounter started off well as we were able to watch the Otter Trainer feed the baby otters. But things quickly turned chaotic when the adults were introduced to our little room. The male otter, for some reason, found a young German woman to be highly objectionable and he leaped over the barrier and tried to attack her. Luckily she wasn't bitten, but the otter managed to shred the hem of her dress rather comprehensively with his razor-sharp teeth. It has been a theme of my life this year it seems: trapped in rooms I can't escape with highly agitated beings.
Luckily the trainer, using her clickers and a large supply of fish and clams, was able to lure the feisty otter back over the barrier to continue the Encounter. The rest of the event was as scripted, the otters did little tricks and played basketball and even were lured into posing with each and every one of us.
Then came the grand finale of the encounter, where the otters are lured to put their little claws through the holes near where we were sitting, so that we could touch their soft, yet lethal, little claws. Everyone seemed quite pleased to touch the otters; even the German woman, shredded dress and all, seemed satisfied that the Otter Encounter had been everything she had hoped it would be.
As much as like I otters, I left the Otter Encounter feeling less than overjoyed. Is a life in captivity, where one has to work quite intensely playing basketball and posing with tourists, somehow not more than a little bit exploitive of these spunky creatures? Can't we just leave them where they are in their natural homes? Must my fondness for otters be indulged so completely that I am entitled to touch their little claws, as long as I have enough money to pay for the encounter? Should I believe the Otter Trainer when she tells us that having the otters in captivity and the money that's raised by these activities is crucial toward preserving the entire species?
Somehow, the truth felt to me that it was contained in the shredded hem of the German woman's dress. I would rather we keep otters where they belong, and maybe we don't need to touch their claws, and perhaps we humans might be able to muster the resources and energy to preserve all the greatness of nature and the creatures contained within it, without having to force them to play basketball with us. Yes, it is hypocritical for me to make this pronouncement after I got to have my little Otter Encounter. But after having my Otter Encounter, I realized that the concept of empathy applies to all the beings we encounter and that we must consider how we respond to every creature of the Earth.
You can have an encounter with a giant crocodile, be lowered into a shark tank inside a cage to witness these mysterious creatures more closely, and I think I also saw on offer the opportunity to cavort with large aquatic rays, charming and personable creatures that they are.
None of these exotic encounters appealed to me all that much, but there was one I decided to purchase...the chance to be one of eight people to have an interaction with a family of otters. I've always found them to be interesting creatures, so I decided to purchase a ticket to the Otter Encounter.
The eight of us were led, at our appointed time, to the room in the aquarium complex where the small-clawed Asian otters were housed. We got to sit on benches in the back of the house where the babies lived and where the animals were trained and given special care.
The Otter Encounter started off well as we were able to watch the Otter Trainer feed the baby otters. But things quickly turned chaotic when the adults were introduced to our little room. The male otter, for some reason, found a young German woman to be highly objectionable and he leaped over the barrier and tried to attack her. Luckily she wasn't bitten, but the otter managed to shred the hem of her dress rather comprehensively with his razor-sharp teeth. It has been a theme of my life this year it seems: trapped in rooms I can't escape with highly agitated beings.
Luckily the trainer, using her clickers and a large supply of fish and clams, was able to lure the feisty otter back over the barrier to continue the Encounter. The rest of the event was as scripted, the otters did little tricks and played basketball and even were lured into posing with each and every one of us.
Then came the grand finale of the encounter, where the otters are lured to put their little claws through the holes near where we were sitting, so that we could touch their soft, yet lethal, little claws. Everyone seemed quite pleased to touch the otters; even the German woman, shredded dress and all, seemed satisfied that the Otter Encounter had been everything she had hoped it would be.
As much as like I otters, I left the Otter Encounter feeling less than overjoyed. Is a life in captivity, where one has to work quite intensely playing basketball and posing with tourists, somehow not more than a little bit exploitive of these spunky creatures? Can't we just leave them where they are in their natural homes? Must my fondness for otters be indulged so completely that I am entitled to touch their little claws, as long as I have enough money to pay for the encounter? Should I believe the Otter Trainer when she tells us that having the otters in captivity and the money that's raised by these activities is crucial toward preserving the entire species?
Somehow, the truth felt to me that it was contained in the shredded hem of the German woman's dress. I would rather we keep otters where they belong, and maybe we don't need to touch their claws, and perhaps we humans might be able to muster the resources and energy to preserve all the greatness of nature and the creatures contained within it, without having to force them to play basketball with us. Yes, it is hypocritical for me to make this pronouncement after I got to have my little Otter Encounter. But after having my Otter Encounter, I realized that the concept of empathy applies to all the beings we encounter and that we must consider how we respond to every creature of the Earth.
The view from my table at the Dubai Cheesecake Factory
This past weekend I made a fast trek to visit Dubai for the weekend, just for a must-needed change of pace. I'm not much of a mall rat, but I must say that the Dubai Mall is the most gigantic and impressive monument to consumerism that I have ever visited. However, perhaps the most impressive thing I witnessed at the Dubai Mall had nothing to do with shopping, but instead was the gigantic dinosaur I admired as I ate my cheesecake.
The diplodocus on display is the most intact and well-preserved diplodocus in the world. This particular diplodocus was unearthed in Wyoming in 2008 and virtually all of its bones are perfectly intact. The diplodocus was a vegetarian almost 80 feet in length and 25 feet high that mercilessly shredded the vegetation from tree-tops in a relentless search to satisfy its endless desires and appetites. Sounds like some of the shoppers I encountered in the Dubai Mall, come to think of it. Of course, this pea-brained creature could not have imagined 150 million years ago, when she met her death in a Wyoming quarry, that her afterlife would consist of having her remains grace the world's most opulent shopping center for the satisfaction of those us who think it might be a fine idea to munch down a piece of cheesecake at three in the afternoon. It just goes to show that anyone can be a late-bloomer and attain fame and notoriety even millions of years after one thinks their best days are in the rear-view window, with bones proudly on display in the atrium outside The Cheesecake Factory.
The diplodocus on display is the most intact and well-preserved diplodocus in the world. This particular diplodocus was unearthed in Wyoming in 2008 and virtually all of its bones are perfectly intact. The diplodocus was a vegetarian almost 80 feet in length and 25 feet high that mercilessly shredded the vegetation from tree-tops in a relentless search to satisfy its endless desires and appetites. Sounds like some of the shoppers I encountered in the Dubai Mall, come to think of it. Of course, this pea-brained creature could not have imagined 150 million years ago, when she met her death in a Wyoming quarry, that her afterlife would consist of having her remains grace the world's most opulent shopping center for the satisfaction of those us who think it might be a fine idea to munch down a piece of cheesecake at three in the afternoon. It just goes to show that anyone can be a late-bloomer and attain fame and notoriety even millions of years after one thinks their best days are in the rear-view window, with bones proudly on display in the atrium outside The Cheesecake Factory.
Connected by Biryani
Tonight some of our student life staff and Pakistani students made chicken biryani and a sweet carrot dish, the name of which was told to me several times, but as yet the name has not left a lasting imprint on my brain.
Each of our senses brings us pleasure, but perhaps no sense brings us greater joy on a daily basis than the sense of taste.
Taste is intricately tied to that which means much to us. What we taste can take us home more quickly than the fastest jet. Taste is celebration and it is memory. It can serve as a connection to people we love. It is ceremony and it is much of what sustains us. It is life itself.
I only had chicken biryani a few times in my life before I moved to Kyrgyzstan--it had been a dish with no more meaning than butterscotch pudding or kale salad or countless other dishes of no consequence to me. But since I've been here, I've eaten biryani several times. Each time I've had biryani here it has been made by people who I've shared my life with in this isolated place. Not only have the biryanis been delicious, but they also have been crafted with love and care. For those with whom I've shared biryani it's been remembrance of a faraway life and a link to what's held dear. For me, biryani has become special too as it will always remind me of a time and place and will, from now on, serve as a point of connection to people I've come to care about.
Rice. Chicken. Spice. That is the core of what biryani is. Yet, in my life now, it has become so much more.
Each of our senses brings us pleasure, but perhaps no sense brings us greater joy on a daily basis than the sense of taste.
Taste is intricately tied to that which means much to us. What we taste can take us home more quickly than the fastest jet. Taste is celebration and it is memory. It can serve as a connection to people we love. It is ceremony and it is much of what sustains us. It is life itself.
I only had chicken biryani a few times in my life before I moved to Kyrgyzstan--it had been a dish with no more meaning than butterscotch pudding or kale salad or countless other dishes of no consequence to me. But since I've been here, I've eaten biryani several times. Each time I've had biryani here it has been made by people who I've shared my life with in this isolated place. Not only have the biryanis been delicious, but they also have been crafted with love and care. For those with whom I've shared biryani it's been remembrance of a faraway life and a link to what's held dear. For me, biryani has become special too as it will always remind me of a time and place and will, from now on, serve as a point of connection to people I've come to care about.
Rice. Chicken. Spice. That is the core of what biryani is. Yet, in my life now, it has become so much more.
My zenful vespers of the day
It is only a strainer filled with green leaf lettuce that has just been washed, dirt and grime scrubbed gently away from each smooth leaf. Green, slightly crisp, yet delicate. Added olive oil, vinegar, some spices, and carrot shavings. Nothing else. By December, meals like this will only be a memory, a desire, a dream. In my prior lives I thought nothing of a strainer filled with green leaf lettuce. But now as I savor each small leaf that passes my lips, I think of nothing more.
Sunday, October 22, 2017
One welcome sign of winter
As the warmth of autumn ebbs in the Kyrgyz mountains, there is no doubt that we will soon be caught in winter's grip.
I received another reminder that winter is almost here, when I went shopping today in the Naryn produce bazaar. I found my first pineapple of the season--traveled here all the way from Costa Rica. It is a nice counterbalance to the unrelenting Kyrgyz ice and snow to realize that the ripening of tropical fruit in nearby warmer venues coincides with the approach of winter here. Also found my first fresh mandarin oranges in many months. How strange it is that winter marks the advent of tropical fruit salads in this mountain land. Looking forward to the time in a couple months, when avocados start arriving in Bishkek and winter guacamole season begins as well.
One other purchase made today: what will probably be the last bunch of fresh leaf lettuce I will be able to buy in Naryn for about the equivalent of one human gestation period. June will be next time this delicate luxury, taken for granted by every shopper in America, will land in my dinner bowl. Rugged salads of raw red cabbage and cauliflower will now be what I must consume.
If nothing else, while living in the Kyrgyz mountains, one becomes keenly aware of the seasons and of what one can and cannot have. The complacency that comes from being able fulfill one's desires without limit does not exist in this place where I reside. As I transition from leaf lettuce to pineapples, the understanding that limits are usually part of the natural flow of existence is a lesson that each day must be contemplated and appreciated here in order to lead a contented life.
I received another reminder that winter is almost here, when I went shopping today in the Naryn produce bazaar. I found my first pineapple of the season--traveled here all the way from Costa Rica. It is a nice counterbalance to the unrelenting Kyrgyz ice and snow to realize that the ripening of tropical fruit in nearby warmer venues coincides with the approach of winter here. Also found my first fresh mandarin oranges in many months. How strange it is that winter marks the advent of tropical fruit salads in this mountain land. Looking forward to the time in a couple months, when avocados start arriving in Bishkek and winter guacamole season begins as well.
One other purchase made today: what will probably be the last bunch of fresh leaf lettuce I will be able to buy in Naryn for about the equivalent of one human gestation period. June will be next time this delicate luxury, taken for granted by every shopper in America, will land in my dinner bowl. Rugged salads of raw red cabbage and cauliflower will now be what I must consume.
If nothing else, while living in the Kyrgyz mountains, one becomes keenly aware of the seasons and of what one can and cannot have. The complacency that comes from being able fulfill one's desires without limit does not exist in this place where I reside. As I transition from leaf lettuce to pineapples, the understanding that limits are usually part of the natural flow of existence is a lesson that each day must be contemplated and appreciated here in order to lead a contented life.
Eating a Hematogen Bar
As I was sitting in my office today, I noticed one of my co-workers eating what appeared to be a dark chocolate bar. Being the chocophile that I am, I inquired to what she was eating.
"I am eating a Hematogen Bar," she proudly exclaimed.
Former English teacher that I am, the prefix "hema-" raised a red flag for me, as that particular prefix usually refers to blood.
"What's in a Hematogen Bar?" I asked.
Well, of course, there was tons of sugar and caramel and vanilla, but the fourth ingredient on the list was processed cow's blood. Evidently Hematogen Bars are the candy bars of choice for people who need a little more iron in their diet.
I had my co-worker go through the label and discovered that it really had no chocolate in it at all, so a bit of disappointment there. 3 grams of protein was nice, but the 76 grams of carbs seemed to be a bit much to me for a little bit of cow's blood.
"If a Hematogen Bar is filled with cow's blood, why is there a picture of a rooster on the wrapper?" I wondered.
It turns out that if you read the label it says: Russian Hematogen (for children). So, my co-worker told me that children in Russia and Kyrgyzstan love pictures of cute little roosters, so the picture serves an enticement for little kids to eat their Hematogen Bar as a source of iron.
345 calories per bar, with sugar and caramel as the dominant ingredients, surely there must be a better way to deal with anemia it seemed to me. But how often does one get to eat a candy bar laced with cow's blood? So, off I went to the campus store to get my very own Hematogen Bar. Besides at only 30 cents, I couldn't imagine a better deal: confectionary treat and medicinal treatment all rolled into one.
After my evening meal, I sat down in my apartment to unwrap my precious bundle. When you eat something that your mind associates with the blood of a cow, you possess a slight sense of wariness. I should not have worried, because had I not known what I was eating and had purchased a Hematogen Bar because I had been fooled by that darling little rooster, I wouldn't have even imagined it had cow's blood in it. Rather I would have thought I had purchased the snack of choice of sugar addicts around the world. Personally, I would recommend Hematogen bars to those with dangerously low blood sugar who might require immediate treatment as they are on the way to the hospital. I must say I was mildly disappointed, as I would have preferred something that possessed the faint trace of the same sanguinary pleasure one receives when eating a steak, medium rare.
After taking my small bite of the Hematogen Bar, I had to dispose of the rest as my blood sugar would have taken three days to reach an equilibrium again if I had consumed the entire thing. And I realized that my colleague had eaten two of these bars while I was conversing with her. No wonder she stays up quite late at night from what I've heard. And I've learned to beware of the image of the cute little rooster if it adorns a package label--it is a trap to ensnare small children to eat a trace of something good for them disguised in a day's worth of sugar.
"I am eating a Hematogen Bar," she proudly exclaimed.
Former English teacher that I am, the prefix "hema-" raised a red flag for me, as that particular prefix usually refers to blood.
"What's in a Hematogen Bar?" I asked.
Well, of course, there was tons of sugar and caramel and vanilla, but the fourth ingredient on the list was processed cow's blood. Evidently Hematogen Bars are the candy bars of choice for people who need a little more iron in their diet.
I had my co-worker go through the label and discovered that it really had no chocolate in it at all, so a bit of disappointment there. 3 grams of protein was nice, but the 76 grams of carbs seemed to be a bit much to me for a little bit of cow's blood.
"If a Hematogen Bar is filled with cow's blood, why is there a picture of a rooster on the wrapper?" I wondered.
It turns out that if you read the label it says: Russian Hematogen (for children). So, my co-worker told me that children in Russia and Kyrgyzstan love pictures of cute little roosters, so the picture serves an enticement for little kids to eat their Hematogen Bar as a source of iron.
345 calories per bar, with sugar and caramel as the dominant ingredients, surely there must be a better way to deal with anemia it seemed to me. But how often does one get to eat a candy bar laced with cow's blood? So, off I went to the campus store to get my very own Hematogen Bar. Besides at only 30 cents, I couldn't imagine a better deal: confectionary treat and medicinal treatment all rolled into one.
After my evening meal, I sat down in my apartment to unwrap my precious bundle. When you eat something that your mind associates with the blood of a cow, you possess a slight sense of wariness. I should not have worried, because had I not known what I was eating and had purchased a Hematogen Bar because I had been fooled by that darling little rooster, I wouldn't have even imagined it had cow's blood in it. Rather I would have thought I had purchased the snack of choice of sugar addicts around the world. Personally, I would recommend Hematogen bars to those with dangerously low blood sugar who might require immediate treatment as they are on the way to the hospital. I must say I was mildly disappointed, as I would have preferred something that possessed the faint trace of the same sanguinary pleasure one receives when eating a steak, medium rare.
After taking my small bite of the Hematogen Bar, I had to dispose of the rest as my blood sugar would have taken three days to reach an equilibrium again if I had consumed the entire thing. And I realized that my colleague had eaten two of these bars while I was conversing with her. No wonder she stays up quite late at night from what I've heard. And I've learned to beware of the image of the cute little rooster if it adorns a package label--it is a trap to ensnare small children to eat a trace of something good for them disguised in a day's worth of sugar.
The Cultural Quiz of the Day
We had three guests come to campus today. I am going to give you a series of clues and you are going to have to guess what country they were from.
*The three were administrators of a vocational center who had come to Kyrgyzstan to learn about education programs, particularly for those who are developing skills and trades.
*They were extremely kind and appreciative that I, and everyone on campus, was taking the time to meet with them and show them our university.
*All three of them spoke nearly flawless English.
*They dressed in standard Western clothing--more stylish and nicer than what I was wearing today.
*They asked a series of questions about our student body and curricular programs as they were interested in providing information to students from their home country on our institution and on how to apply.
*They gave me a beautiful leather wallet handmade by their vocational students as a gift of appreciation.
So, which country were these educators from? I would be surprised if anyone would guess the right answer at this point in the quiz.
Let me give you one piece of information that might help. When they told me how much they loved visiting Kyrgyzstan, I asked them what they liked the best. And they said, "it is so peaceful here, no rockets or missiles in the air."
I bet you have a different guess now. Try again.
If you guessed Syria, then you have passed the Cultural Quiz of the Day. Here is what I've gathered from the quiz and my experience today:
*When we judge nations or peoples strictly what we hear on the news, we form skewed opinions.
*People in every country want to make their homes better places.
*People carry on and are brave and don't give up, no matter the adversity. We don't understand what adversity truly is in many of our personal contexts.
*Stereotypes are not helpful.
*Never say one word in judgment about the people of another country until you've eaten lunch with them (at the very minimum, and probably 50 lunches would be better).
*Most of us, myself included, know very little about the world and even less about the places we have never been.
*A reminder to me and all of us: consider each person, not as a part of a particular group, but as a distinct and unique individual, as you encounter them in the world.
Hope you enjoyed playing.
*The three were administrators of a vocational center who had come to Kyrgyzstan to learn about education programs, particularly for those who are developing skills and trades.
*They were extremely kind and appreciative that I, and everyone on campus, was taking the time to meet with them and show them our university.
*All three of them spoke nearly flawless English.
*They dressed in standard Western clothing--more stylish and nicer than what I was wearing today.
*They asked a series of questions about our student body and curricular programs as they were interested in providing information to students from their home country on our institution and on how to apply.
*They gave me a beautiful leather wallet handmade by their vocational students as a gift of appreciation.
So, which country were these educators from? I would be surprised if anyone would guess the right answer at this point in the quiz.
Let me give you one piece of information that might help. When they told me how much they loved visiting Kyrgyzstan, I asked them what they liked the best. And they said, "it is so peaceful here, no rockets or missiles in the air."
I bet you have a different guess now. Try again.
If you guessed Syria, then you have passed the Cultural Quiz of the Day. Here is what I've gathered from the quiz and my experience today:
*When we judge nations or peoples strictly what we hear on the news, we form skewed opinions.
*People in every country want to make their homes better places.
*People carry on and are brave and don't give up, no matter the adversity. We don't understand what adversity truly is in many of our personal contexts.
*Stereotypes are not helpful.
*Never say one word in judgment about the people of another country until you've eaten lunch with them (at the very minimum, and probably 50 lunches would be better).
*Most of us, myself included, know very little about the world and even less about the places we have never been.
*A reminder to me and all of us: consider each person, not as a part of a particular group, but as a distinct and unique individual, as you encounter them in the world.
Hope you enjoyed playing.
Saturday, October 14, 2017
What I did last Sunday: Cheering our students on
Last Sunday was the Kuz Demi Half Marathon and road race. Our students, staff, and faculty from six countries ran 5K and 10K races. Everyone did an outstanding job. Proud of this tremendous group and their stellar effort. Hope they keep running so that they'll be ready for the Spring race.
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| UCA Faculty, Students, and Staff at the Kuz Demi race. |
Subbotnik, Shashlyk, and....Cricket?
Today was our annual fall subbotnik. A subbotnik is a Saturday work project. The subbotnik was instituted by Lenin in the early days of the Soviet Union and serves in Kyrgyzstan as an example of community involvement still utilized today. For our subbotnik, students, faculty, and staff picked up tons of litter and garbage from a local park. We also picked up garbage at the panorama point up in the hills overlooking the Naryn Valley.
After our subbotnik, we had a delicious picnic of shashlyk: chicken and beef on skewers. It's become a fall tradition at the Naryn campus.
The new element of our day was a cricket match organized by our Pakistani math instructor. What was cool is that students from all countries, male and female alike, participated.
Our lives take us along unexpected pathways. When did I ever imagine that I would be working with students to clean a park in Kyrgyzstan with a Pakistani version of baseball as our entertainment when our meal was done? No, I never imagined it, but I am so glad to be doing it. Unexpected journeys give life as golden a hue as the aspens in a cleaned-up Kyrgyz park.
After our subbotnik, we had a delicious picnic of shashlyk: chicken and beef on skewers. It's become a fall tradition at the Naryn campus.
The new element of our day was a cricket match organized by our Pakistani math instructor. What was cool is that students from all countries, male and female alike, participated.
Our lives take us along unexpected pathways. When did I ever imagine that I would be working with students to clean a park in Kyrgyzstan with a Pakistani version of baseball as our entertainment when our meal was done? No, I never imagined it, but I am so glad to be doing it. Unexpected journeys give life as golden a hue as the aspens in a cleaned-up Kyrgyz park.
Top Ten Things Donald Trump will Never Say (or Tweet)
10. "I've always wanted to go on one of those Silent Buddhist Retreats."
9. "Those camping trips I took my kids on were definitely the highlight of my life."
8. "Heavenly Father, please forgive me for my sins."
7. "I married my wife because of her intellect and inner beauty."
6. "Martin Luther King Day has to be my favorite holiday."
5. "Changing diapers really made me a better father."
4. "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country."
3. "Kindness and love conquers all."
2. "It's not about me, but the principles I stand for."
1. "I'm sorry."
9. "Those camping trips I took my kids on were definitely the highlight of my life."
8. "Heavenly Father, please forgive me for my sins."
7. "I married my wife because of her intellect and inner beauty."
6. "Martin Luther King Day has to be my favorite holiday."
5. "Changing diapers really made me a better father."
4. "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country."
3. "Kindness and love conquers all."
2. "It's not about me, but the principles I stand for."
1. "I'm sorry."
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
What October 5th looks like in Kyrgyzstan
It looks like snow. It was sticking on the ground at our Naryn campus when I left for Bishkek today. Let's hope that this day will not be the last day I will see the green of the campus lawn until April.
On Dolon Pass (elevation 3050 meters) October 5th really looked like snow. And it will, most likely, until the 5th of May, that I am reasonably assured of.
As I traveled, October 5th looked like a traffic jam along the road to Bishkek as we wound toward Kochkor. This traffic jam consisted of endless herds of livestock heading for lower pasture land. It wouldn't surprise me if we had to evade 5000 sheep in the middle of the road, not to mention assorted cows, goats, horses and donkeys along the way.
If you were in some other land today, I bet October 5th where you are didn't look at all like this.
On Dolon Pass (elevation 3050 meters) October 5th really looked like snow. And it will, most likely, until the 5th of May, that I am reasonably assured of.
As I traveled, October 5th looked like a traffic jam along the road to Bishkek as we wound toward Kochkor. This traffic jam consisted of endless herds of livestock heading for lower pasture land. It wouldn't surprise me if we had to evade 5000 sheep in the middle of the road, not to mention assorted cows, goats, horses and donkeys along the way.
If you were in some other land today, I bet October 5th where you are didn't look at all like this.
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| Campus Snow |
 |
| Near Dolon Pass |
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| Kyrgyz Traffic Jam |
Saturday, September 30, 2017
September Snowfall
My cellphone gave me the first warning yesterday, as there was teeny little snowflake embedded in the weather icon that sits in the upper right hand corner of my phone. I stared at the little snowflake for a minute or two. "Can't be," I muttered to myself.
Oh, but could be. I remembered one of my co-workers who, on almost the same day a year ago, was traveling back to Naryn from Bishkek on a marshrutka and got caught in a blizzard on Dolon Pass. The marshrutka driver hadn't yet put snow tires on his vehicle, the vehicle couldn't quite make it to the top of the pass on the slick roads, so the passengers, at great risk to life and limb, were forced to jump out of the marshrutka and push it up over the summit. Oh, most certainly, definitely could be!
When I got out of bed this morning, I found that the snowflake embedded in my phone wasn't "can't be" but instead "UNDOUBTEDLY!"
Yes, there was snow: not in the distant heights of the mountains surrounding our campus, but directly in the foothills right on top of us. And when I went outside to take a picture of this frightening sight, I felt the cold drizzle had a bit of solid substance in it--rain and snow were mixed.
Winter in the Kyrgyz mountains is not for the weak or whining or for those unwilling to face the long haul. It is the season that defines this place in where I reside. And it defines the people who must endure this tough, unyielding season. Just as the herders have brought their animals down from the summer pastures, I must get my winter refuge ready. I have my supply of tea, provisions for baking hearty winter breads and cooking thick and heavy stews, my wool Canadian mittens and my warmest furry hat. And I must also search through the recesses of my soul for the spirit I must adopt to survive the six-month stretch of unrelenting snow and chill. Must I dig out my calm and peaceful, Zen-like countenance? Perhaps I need to find a fearsome, defiant spirit that can fight any adversary? In reality, I must find both as each day will determine which spirit requires summoning.
And as another year advances toward its finish, I gaze up into the hills and the dusting of snow upon them and I am startled by the majesty of this precious little planet. I realize, more than anything else, it is a spirit of wonderment and gratitude that will keep me going along the way.
Oh, but could be. I remembered one of my co-workers who, on almost the same day a year ago, was traveling back to Naryn from Bishkek on a marshrutka and got caught in a blizzard on Dolon Pass. The marshrutka driver hadn't yet put snow tires on his vehicle, the vehicle couldn't quite make it to the top of the pass on the slick roads, so the passengers, at great risk to life and limb, were forced to jump out of the marshrutka and push it up over the summit. Oh, most certainly, definitely could be!
When I got out of bed this morning, I found that the snowflake embedded in my phone wasn't "can't be" but instead "UNDOUBTEDLY!"
Yes, there was snow: not in the distant heights of the mountains surrounding our campus, but directly in the foothills right on top of us. And when I went outside to take a picture of this frightening sight, I felt the cold drizzle had a bit of solid substance in it--rain and snow were mixed.
Winter in the Kyrgyz mountains is not for the weak or whining or for those unwilling to face the long haul. It is the season that defines this place in where I reside. And it defines the people who must endure this tough, unyielding season. Just as the herders have brought their animals down from the summer pastures, I must get my winter refuge ready. I have my supply of tea, provisions for baking hearty winter breads and cooking thick and heavy stews, my wool Canadian mittens and my warmest furry hat. And I must also search through the recesses of my soul for the spirit I must adopt to survive the six-month stretch of unrelenting snow and chill. Must I dig out my calm and peaceful, Zen-like countenance? Perhaps I need to find a fearsome, defiant spirit that can fight any adversary? In reality, I must find both as each day will determine which spirit requires summoning.
And as another year advances toward its finish, I gaze up into the hills and the dusting of snow upon them and I am startled by the majesty of this precious little planet. I realize, more than anything else, it is a spirit of wonderment and gratitude that will keep me going along the way.
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| The view from campus of approaching winter |
Sunday, September 24, 2017
The meaning of napkins
When I was in my twenties and started living on my own, I adopted a very minimalist style of home decor. Martha Stewart I was not. In the living room of my first apartment, I had a lawn chair, a tv tray, and a small television that sat on a milk crate. That was it.
I occasionally cooked, but often I just threw a pre-packaged, plastic-encased dinner into the microwave. No frills dining. When I lived in that first apartment of mine, I certainly did not purchase something as luxurious as napkins. Rather, I might pull a sheet off a roll of paper towels if my face needed wiping. Or maybe I would take one of my hand towels I used for drying dishes and use it, if I had forgotten to purchase paper towels. In dire circumstances, I recall that I might have even once or twice, not wiped my face off at all while eating, and I just waited until the end of the meal to wash my face in the bathroom. Or maybe even used my sleeves. This is how twenty-something men live, when they live alone, untouched by the civilizing influence of more sophisticated companionship.
Now many years later, I have realized that I have undergone a peculiar transformation. When people come to my apartment now for meals, one of the things they comment on are my napkins. I have become renowned for the napkins I dispense at mealtime. When I entertain guests no dull white napkins for them, but instead they get to wipe their mouths on serviettes I have spent many minutes contemplating the purchase of at Mia Home, the swankiest kitchen store in Bishkek. People even bring me napkins as gifts: a very dear colleague brought me special napkins commemorating the 150th Anniversary of Canada after returning from her vacation in the Great North, because she knew her gift would bring me tremendous satisfaction.
What has happened to me and why did this bizarre personality switch take place? When was it that I started channeling the personality of my late Great-Grandmother Julia Wells, queen of napkins, vinegar cruets, Hors d'oeuvre forks, decorative salt and pepper shakers, and pickle trays? Really shouldn't I be purchasing power drills and hammers and nails and adjustable wrenches like my Grandfather Krauss, handyman about the house? I am simply baffled.
I have no plausible explanation for this phenomenon. Perhaps the passing of time washes away one's barbaric impulses and steers one toward refinement. Or maybe all my years of working in higher education and my constant exposure to the liberal arts has truly brought me enlightenment in all realms of life. Or maybe I just got tired of laundering stains out of my dish towels and off my shirtsleeves. Who knows?
I wish I could go back for a moment to meet that twenty-something person I once was. I wonder what other radical changes, besides what I use to wipe my mouth, I would notice between this me and that me. How many more subtle changes in my behavior have I not even perceived over time? People change like the face of the mountains; the change is imperceptible on a daily basis and is usually never noticed unless the shift in personality is something dramatic like an avalanche. As I sit and look at my napkins, I wonder about me and hope that the gradual changes in who I am have been somewhat graceful and for the better. If nothing else, I know that the quality of my dining experience has improved inexplicably, and every so slightly, over time.
I occasionally cooked, but often I just threw a pre-packaged, plastic-encased dinner into the microwave. No frills dining. When I lived in that first apartment of mine, I certainly did not purchase something as luxurious as napkins. Rather, I might pull a sheet off a roll of paper towels if my face needed wiping. Or maybe I would take one of my hand towels I used for drying dishes and use it, if I had forgotten to purchase paper towels. In dire circumstances, I recall that I might have even once or twice, not wiped my face off at all while eating, and I just waited until the end of the meal to wash my face in the bathroom. Or maybe even used my sleeves. This is how twenty-something men live, when they live alone, untouched by the civilizing influence of more sophisticated companionship.
Now many years later, I have realized that I have undergone a peculiar transformation. When people come to my apartment now for meals, one of the things they comment on are my napkins. I have become renowned for the napkins I dispense at mealtime. When I entertain guests no dull white napkins for them, but instead they get to wipe their mouths on serviettes I have spent many minutes contemplating the purchase of at Mia Home, the swankiest kitchen store in Bishkek. People even bring me napkins as gifts: a very dear colleague brought me special napkins commemorating the 150th Anniversary of Canada after returning from her vacation in the Great North, because she knew her gift would bring me tremendous satisfaction.
What has happened to me and why did this bizarre personality switch take place? When was it that I started channeling the personality of my late Great-Grandmother Julia Wells, queen of napkins, vinegar cruets, Hors d'oeuvre forks, decorative salt and pepper shakers, and pickle trays? Really shouldn't I be purchasing power drills and hammers and nails and adjustable wrenches like my Grandfather Krauss, handyman about the house? I am simply baffled.
I have no plausible explanation for this phenomenon. Perhaps the passing of time washes away one's barbaric impulses and steers one toward refinement. Or maybe all my years of working in higher education and my constant exposure to the liberal arts has truly brought me enlightenment in all realms of life. Or maybe I just got tired of laundering stains out of my dish towels and off my shirtsleeves. Who knows?
I wish I could go back for a moment to meet that twenty-something person I once was. I wonder what other radical changes, besides what I use to wipe my mouth, I would notice between this me and that me. How many more subtle changes in my behavior have I not even perceived over time? People change like the face of the mountains; the change is imperceptible on a daily basis and is usually never noticed unless the shift in personality is something dramatic like an avalanche. As I sit and look at my napkins, I wonder about me and hope that the gradual changes in who I am have been somewhat graceful and for the better. If nothing else, I know that the quality of my dining experience has improved inexplicably, and every so slightly, over time.
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