I've neglected writing the past weeks, mostly from what I feel is a lack of something to say. Spring is in full throttle here, which is welcome after the snowy and frigid February. I can now walk around in a t-shirt around mid-day. In two weeks (March 21) we will be celebrating Nooruz, or Navrus in Uzbek. The holiday, one of the biggest of the year, is popular throughout Central Asia (even Iran) and dates back to the Zoroastrian celebration marking the beginning of spring. Things are gearing up big time for the event, and it also marks the beginning of a two-week break from school.
We've all started thinking and talking about what's going to happen six months from now. Where will we go? What will we do? It seems to be the only topic of conversation these days. It's crazy to think that this time last year I was counting the ten months I had been here. And now it has been twenty-one months, and I'm counting the six I have left. It doesn't really seem real that I've reached the end of my service here. And to answer the above questions: I know what I want to do next year, and where I want to go, but it's currently in the planning stages and I don't want to jinx it. So perhaps in a few weeks I'll make the big announcement.
The next group of volunteers is arriving at the end of the month- including someone from SLO! It will be interesting to see if I'm replaced and what our interaction will be over the summer. Will I quickly be forgotten in place of this new volunteer? Or will I be remembered every time someone uses the toilet of my school (since I'm building them a new one)?
I just finished reading 100 Letters Home: My Two Years in Kyrgyzstan by Emily Ross. My mom sent it to me (thanks!) and I read it in one day. If you get a chance, considering reading it. She manages to express a lot of the frustrations I felt and still feel (and that I am not always able to convey) about being a volunteer, and about living and teaching here.
Sometimes my lack of something to say ultimately stems from the fact that I do things, everyday, that no longer seem fantastical or unique. They are events and activities that no longer seem out of the ordinary. When I was at home for Christmas, I did notice that I never used my knife to eat with. Not that odd here. I remember arriving at my site and looking, in vain, for a butter knife to buy in the bazaar. I was shocked that such knives were nowhere to be found! I also no longer point. Pointing is a rude thing here. So now, when I want someone to come to me, or I'm indicating a particular gesture, I do this sort of circular hand motion with my arm extended. And a third thing, I've adjusted to saying ill instead of sick; sick is a very rude word in Kyrgyz. When other volunteers and I get together we all say ill when talking about our endless illnesses. And these are just three examples of innumerable instances.
