Christmas with the Kazakhs; New Year's with the Dutch

One shot

The top-shelf Russian vodka burns my throat as the sound of a substantial Russian man behind me barking the lyrics to “Sign” by Ace of Base burns my ears.

Two women dance idly in the corner of the room while a man not older than 25 attempts to woo them with his amazingly arrhythmic dance moves.

Two shots

At the table I am accompanied by approximately twelve Lufthansa crew members laughing riotously and screaming to each other in high-pitched German.

I cling to my Kazakh acquaintance to my left as the only other person not shouting unintelligible phrases at an overly-audible level into my ear.

Three shots

A few of the crew members crawl out of their seats to take the place of the substantial Russian man at the microphone to sing Pink’s classic, “Let’s Get This Party Started”.

The initial signs of dancing begin to take shape on the dance floor.

Four shots

I am pulled rather violently from my seat to take center stage and lead the eager crew members in a rendition of “New York, New York” which is only appropriate - I am repeatedly reminded - because I am the only American in the room.

Five shots

The dancing really gets underway with Russians, Kazakhs and Germans alike being pulled onto the dance floor in a cacophony of movement and a flurry of sound (yes, those adjectives are correctly placed).

Six shots

The night progresses oscillating between Russian pop songs and English classics spanning the decades.

Zenkov Cathedral (made entirely of wood)

Language is of no issue at this point as everyone in the room dances to each song regardless of its linguistic origin, taking only the occasional break for another shot.

. . . And that’s how I spent Christmas in Almaty . . .

Kazakhstan is a place of contradictions, perhaps by design: It sits squarely in the Central Asia region, yet Almaty is more European than Asian; it is a country founded on the Kazakh identity, yet is one of the most multi-ethnic countries I have ever visited with Kazakhs, Russians, Koreans, Jews, Uighurs, Kurds, Kyrgyz, Uzbeks and a host of other ethnicities coloring the landscape; Almaty proper is dense and polluted but just a short bus ride away lie some of the most beautifully unspoiled mountains I’ve ever seen.

Almaty and larger Kazakhstan also does not contain some of the more historic architecture or sights of its European or Central Asian counterparts; nomadic until Russian occupation, the Kazakh people did not construct large cities like the Tajiks of Samarkand and Bukhara. Interestingly, religion is much more diverse than other parts of Central Asia with the population splitting its allegiances between Russian Orthodox, Islam, atheism and a smattering of other faiths.

Perfect day for a hike

I was fortunate to get a peek at this unique country through the eyes of its most visited city. It left me wanting to explore more.
---
After spending Christmas with the Kazakhs (and a large number of Germans), I awoke early on the 29th to journey to Amsterdam for New Year’s. It was with great anticipation that I returned to the city for the first time since I left in 2004 and to meet some dear friends with whom I had spent a year studying there.

(Some of) the Amsterdam crew reunites

BOOM sputter sputter

The sound and accompanying sonic force nearly knock me from my bike as I race through the streets of Amsterdam following Karl as well as possible through the haze of firework smoke.

BANG BOOM fizzle fizzle blinding light

It seems that every resident of Amsterdam feels that it is perfectly safe and ordinary to light fireworks in the middle of the street as myself and a few hundred other bikers weave through seemingly life threatening explosions and showers of sparks.

BAM BAM sputter fizzle

The impossibly tall Dutch man and his family stare at me as I halt my bike waiting for the shower of sparks to stop.

Happy New Year from Amsterdam!

I can’t tell if they stare at me because they see no reason for me to stop or if it’s because I’m wearing silver tights, gold sequin hotpants and a sleeveless shirt that reads “Moon Gymnastics” . . . I’m leaning toward the former.

BOOM BOOM sparkle sputter BOOM fizzle fizzle

“Hot outfit,” a group of impossibly tall Dutch girls shout as another explosion lights the sky behind them, “I want some of that!”

Not tonight girls, not tonight.

While Karl and I never did find our friends to attend the “Space Oddity” party we had dressed so appropriately for, we did manage to find a few other watering holes to ring in the New Year. Riding my bike amidst showers of sparks along the canals of Amsterdam wearing utter ridiculousness, however, was celebration enough as I remembered why I love the city so deeply.

. . . And that's how I spent New Year's in Amsterdam . . .

Wishing for Barf for the Holidays

барф (barf) means snow in Tajik, by the way.

As I sit here in the relative luxury of Dushanbe, I realize that it's been quite a while since I last wrote a blog entry.  I apologize; I know that you've been waiting with bated breath.

Summing up the past month: свет нест has become a daily occurrence leaving only a few hours of non-generator electricity per day (thus sketchy internet and no electric heat); following-up on my successful sheep slaughtering, I managed to procure a turkey for Thanksgiving and cook a fairly palatable meal despite the limitations; I may or may not have crossed over into Uzbekistan during a recent weekend hike; my doctor host father has asked me to procure a prostate stimulator for a patient during my international holiday travels; and finally, all of the New Year holiday decorations are out in full force around the country, complete with Boboi Barfi (Grandfather Snow) and "New Years Trees".

The holidays have always been a time to reflect for me.  Whether it be because I am often far from "home" and separated by many miles from family and friends or because it signals the end of a year and the impending beginning of a new one with endless possibilities, this time of year brings with it a special opportunity to step back and gain perspective.  My time here in Tajikistan is more than half over.  Despite many setbacks and stalls along the way, I feel like I have accomplished a great deal and learned volumes more.  Tajikistan has got a hook in me, so I know that when I leave in 3 months, it won't be last time I'm here.

Below are some photos from the last month.  I'm headed out early tomorrow morning for a two week adventure to Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan ... with a little detour to Amsterdam for New Year's; a reunion with another place that is close to my heart.  I'll try to post some updates from the road.  Expect a full debrief once I return mid-January.

Oh, and Happy Holidays to anyone who is still reading this.  I miss you all!

So many chickens ... where's the turkey?

Allah

The hiking crew

Thanksgiving dinner

свет нест

"свет нест" ("no light") is a phrase that has infiltrated every aspect of my life here.  It's a phrase that has redefined productivity/unproductivity and intimately taught me that sometimes there are more important things than electricity and internet connectivity.  Below are some notable events that have happened when the electricity has been on . . . and off.

Washing my clothes in scalding hot water.

Close Encounters of the Itchy Kind
It was 4:30am.  I was scheduled to go to the Dushanbe airport to fly up to Khujand in the north for two weeks of work on our projects in that region.  My driver arrived at 5am sharp and we drove through the dark, frigid streets of Dushanbe.  Completely unaware of the fact that there are two "terminals" at the airport, given that there is only one small building comprising its entirety, I first tried to enter the international departures door and was swiftly turned away.

After a few moments of confused queries, I was directed to a door outside on the side of the building.  Loitering with a few other passengers bound for Khujand, we waited for over an hour, our flight departure time come and gone, huddling as close together as possible for strangers.  As the first light of day began to appear, we were told that our flight had been delayed until 9am.

I searched for a warm tea house around the airport with futility.  Eventually sneaking into the "VIP lounge" that was filled with Russians anxiously awaiting their return to Mother Russia, I sleepily sat through three consecutive flight delays.  Finally leaving at 2pm, I was asleep before I sat in my seat, despite a growing itch around my ankles, knees and elbows.

Forty-five minutes later, I arrived in Khujand, was met by my driver there and proceeded to the field office.

Opening my computer, I was greeted with an Apple startup page that did not actually boot the computer despite a couple hours of effort from me.  One computer down, little sleep the night before and a full two weeks of fieldwork ahead of me, I was . . . concerned.

And still that itch . . .

I woke up the next morning to freezing rain and the most intense itch I have ever experienced over my entire body.  Showering and dressing for work, I entered the office and immediately asked for the nearest doctor.  A trip to the hospital later, I was diagnosed with Scabies.  It was to be a weekend of scrubbing, hot water and dousing my body in nose-hair-singing medication.

After spending a fortune on calling AppleCare, I was informed that my problem was likely due to the voltage fluctuations here in Tajikistan and that they would have to send me new software to fix the problem.

The trip to Khujand ended up being highly productive.  I visited most of our target communities in the region and completed most of what I had planned despite the invasion of parasites - human and computer alike.

Dividing the meat of the sacrificed sheep.

Blood On My Hands

Almost as soon as the morning prayer concluded, the steam rose from the blood that streamed from the sheep's throat and came in puffs as the animal took its last breaths in the chilled early morning air.  Holding the sheep's feet through its last convulsive attempts at life, my hands were warmed by the body that was soon to turn cold.  Proceeding to fillet and separate the meat,  the prized sheep's fat was scraped into a separate bowl to make the special Eid-i-Korbon dishes that would feed numerous neighbors and friends.

Eid-i-Qurbon (Eid-al-Adha in Arabic) is a religious holiday commemorating Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his eldest son as commanded by God.  The most symbolic act on this holiday is the sacrificing of a sheep and splitting its meat into three parts: one for the family, another for family and friends, the third for the poor.  Families visit each other throughout the day, enjoying abundant food and conversation, opening their own homes to anyone who wishes to eat.

The gang I rolled around with for Eid-i-Qurbon.

My day began with a rousing sacrifice of a sheep followed by visits to two funeral ceremonies and no less than eleven houses with twelve guys (men and women usually travel in single-sex groups and eat in separate rooms).  I ended the day bloated, my eyes swimming from countless cups of tea, ready for bed.  I will never forget the excitement on the streets or the bright eyes of the children who go door-to-door singing and asking for candy or money.  The sheep slaughtering will also leave an indelible imprint in my mind . . . and perhaps my clothes.

While the lack of electricity makes productivity impossible sometimes, it is the moments, both great and challenging, that happen despite свет нест that I will likely never forget.