The Schirm Project

In the Shadows of the Tian Shan

2007-10-16T16:10:00.000+05:00

The original idea for this trip came from my friend and co-worker Amy McGoldrick. She is the director of ACCELS, an NGO that along with administering the FLEX Program, (which I have taught for the past two summers) which takes Turkmenistan high school students and places them in American High Schools, but it also oversees the work of the American Corners throughout the country.
I had planned on spending my last vacation as a Peace Corps Volunteer of Turkmenistan in Northwestern India. However, when I realized that the option to get to Kyrgyzstan was relatively cheap and that I had the opportunity to get back to the mountains, something I had done only once in 12 years since leaving Colorado, I jumped at the opportunity.
The hard part about traveling in Kyrgyzstan is not the actual travel itself but picking the few spots you have time to go to rather than seeing it all. When I first told people that I was going to Kyrgyzstan there immediate question was, “Are you going to Lake Issyk Kul?” Lake Issyk Kul is the second highest fresh water lake in the world and its northern shore attracts tourists from all over the world to swim in its cool and clear turquoise blue water. And to tell the truth initially I too wanted to navigate those clear blue waters.
During the planning stages of this trip Amy came upon the Kyrgyz Community Based Tourism Network website. This organization doesn’t use outside travel agencies but rather offers trips into the Kyrgyz countryside and mountain ranges that have until very recently been hard to navigate places for tourists. We sent an email describing what we were interested in doing and for how many days and the national coordinator, a man named Azabek based out of Bishkek, sent us back a choice of five different packages all over the country. The one that caught our eye was the nine day trek through Lake Sary Chelek, not only because of the amount of time that we would be in the nature, but because it looked challenging and neither one of us had ever done any trekking longer than three days. The challenge was what excited us, the timing was the problem. In order for me to make my plane back to Turkmenistan leaving out of Almaty I would have to be on the road back to Bishkek on the very early morning of the ninth day. For some travel agencies not sticking to the proposed itinerary is unacceptable, but Azabek was not only flexible he was prompt in responding to our queries and constant changes of schedules. Add to that the fact that using the whole network was actually cheaper than if we would have tried to find transport for ourselves to get out to Talas and back and you have all of the makings for a great trip.
Now that I have completed this hike, which took me through some of the most beautiful places I have ever seen on Earth I am not disappointed at all that I did not get to see Lake Issyk Kul. In fact, I would bet that the tourists waging a price war for the last room of a yurt around Issyk Kul would be quite jealous of our journey. Amy and I, apart from the Dutch couple that spent the first two days with us, were the only tourists that we saw the entire time we were on the trek and that in itself is a pleasure.
The following pages are a telling of what happened during those eight days. It was for me the perfect mixture between challenge (125 miles of hiking in seven days over passes of 2400, 3600, 3400, and 3601 meters above sea level) and the sense of being at home again in the mountains, only the ones I found myself in were literally halfway around the world from the place I was born.

Day 1- Bishkek to Arkit village, September 1, 2007

We arrived in Bishkek last night on the eve of Kyrgyzstan's Independence Day celebration. The streets were crowded with young people and families toting their toddlers with balloons tied to their wrists. We were taken on a tour of the city from some local Turkmen students that are studying at American University of Central Asia. Despite its being the capitol of the country, Bishkek has a small town feel to it. The awe inspiring buildings of white marble and blue glass windows are hidden behind towering elms and oaks. The first difference I noticed was the sheer amount of garbage on the streets; every gutter, curb, and alley was littered with bottles, cigarette packs, and various other amounts of trash. Yet in New York City where the graffiti and trash on the streets adds to the spice and life of the city here in Bishkek it seems that people are lackadaisical about the refuse.
After a dinner at a local ex-pat restaurant called the Metro Bar we started to head back to our friends apartment. On the street we saw a sign that noted an exchange window that would take 75 currencies from around the world in any condition. Singed, mouse-eaten, or wrinkled didn't matter, they would take them. For those of you that have never traveled in the former Soviet Union this is quite a bold statement, generally American dollars are treated like baseball cards they have to be in mint condition otherwise they are worth less. So in a joking I leaned over to Ahmed (whose family in Mary has adopted me as one of its sons) and said, "Let's see if they will take manat."
I climbed the steps and took out of my money belt ten 10,000 manat bills and handed them through the window. The teller behind the bulletproof glass took one look at the Turkmen manat and handed them back.
"Why not?" asked Ahmed.
"That's not money," he responded.
"Yes it is. It's from Turkmenistan. Look it has Turkmenbashy's picture on it," I piped in.
"That's worthless. I wouldn't even wipe my ass with that stuff," the teller said looking indignant and slamming his window shut on us.
We bounded down the steps to join the rest of the group with laughs and headed back to Ahmed's apartment.
When we arrived we found that in addition to Ahmed and his two roommates there were also two other Turkmen girl students living in the small three room apartment. Housing or finding decent and affordable housing is the largest problem that faces Turkmen students on scholarship in Bishkek. The housing market has ballooned close to 50 percent over the past four months. A three room, one bedroom apartment that used to cost $150 a month has ballooned to $250 a month. For Americans that would be no big deal, but for these students who get a housing stipend of $80 a month it makes it very difficult to live in an apartment by themselves or even with just one roommate. What ends up happening in many cases is that students live three, four, or even five to an apartment to share cost, with students rotating who sleeps on the floor and who gets a couch.
I woke this morning feeling refreshed from downing so much orange juice and my head cold easing away. I left the apartment as quietly as I could, not wanting to wake the Turkmen students from their dozing. I was headed back up Gogol Street to meet Amy at her hotel Asia Mountain Resort. Despite it being the day after a major holiday there were quite a few people on the streets. Kyrgyz mothers fussed with their son's ties, a pack of teenage boys red-eyed muttered secrets while crouching on the curb, and everywhere magazines were opening up for the day. The most ironic and purely soviet thing that I saw was a middle aged street sweeper. He swept away the leaves and dust from the road, but a pile of garbage as high as my waist sat on the curb un-bagged. He had a diligence to him that told me his only responsibility was to sweep that street, not the curb. I guess the curb was not in his job description, so it's someone else's fault if it is dirty.
I stopped at a corner cigarette stand and bought a pack of Camel Lights. When I asked the woman how much it was she smiled blankly at me. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together and she held up both of her hands twice…20 soms or about 75 cents.
Suddenly, I heard screaming coming from the corner opposite me. I looked and there on the corner was a man wearing a soiled brown t-shirt sitting on a crate while two women screamed at him. One of the women armed with a broom was swinging water from the trash filled gutter at him with her broom while the other, dressed in an oversized worn black leather jacket was grabbing his collar and throwing punches at his face. While this went on a scattered crowd stood back doing nothing, just watching. The man just sat there taking it. I crossed the street and as I neared I could see the man had a blank look on his face while the mayhem happened around him. One could assume that the man was wasted, but even if that were the case what would make him so complacent as to take such a beating. I didn't stop to ask, but kept walking past the scene not watching the fight but rather the bored look on the spectators' faces. I wondered why no one was stepping in and stopping this, but then I thought back to a similar occurrence I had seen in Turkmenistan where a crowd of Turkmen sat with the same complacency. It seemed that even though the concept of family is large in Central Asia the desire to step into to remedy a situation is blank. When I asked one of my students about this he turned to me clicked his tongue and said, "It's not me or my friends." My guess would be that the spectators were watching not because the fight was unique or even interesting, but because it was something that was happening.

All over Turkmenistan today kids are putting on their freshly ironed suits, girls are curling their hair and putting silver puff ball braid holders in, mothers are holding hands of their seven year olds as they escort them to school for their very first day, and PCVs are trying to figure out with their counterparts what grades they will be teaching while listening to the opening ceremonies. Today is Knowledge Day in Turkmenistan the start of a new school year, but there is only one thing missing, me. Currently I am about 500 miles away in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan in a cab waiting patiently for our driver Azamat to return with his granddaughter from breakfast so Amy and I can head off for seven days of trekking in the Sary Chelek Nature Reserve.
After waiting for a half an hour our driver and his granddaughter returned and we got on the road. We were headed out of Bishkek on Route 39 toward the western border with our final destination being Arkit village just south of the Sary Chelek Nature Reserve.
It took us an hour before we were out of the surrounding suburbs of Bishkek. We crossed a hill and there before us laid a valley that one would imagine only in Central Asia. It was the type of expansiveness that I had imagined Mongolia to be, pasture stretched everywhere with the only signs of habitation being the road and yurts off in the distance while packs of horses grazed lazily on the grass. We stopped halfway into the valley next to two yurts lining the road with a sign saying "The Best Kismis for You." Kismis is fermented horse milk and is a staple of the Kyrgyz diet, or perhaps only to our drivers because he bought five gallons of the stuff and put it into the trunk saying, "There is no better kismis in all of Kyrgyzstan. Do you want to try it?" Remembering the gagging bitterness of fermented camel's milk from Turkmenistan, I shook my head.
We passed through the valley and then road started to switchback through the first range of mountains. After the first hill our car clunked to a stop at the side of the road. Our driver got out and opened the hood with a pop of his fist to see the radiator overheating. He pointed to a nearby stream and asked me to go fill up the empty Pepsi bottles in his trunk with some. I did as he asked, climbing the divider. I plunged my hand into the stream and shivers instantly shot up my spine. I was cold!!! Now for most, sticking their hand in a cold water mountain stream would be refreshing, but for me it was almost ecstasy. I had spent the last three months in a place where the average temperature was above 115 degrees. I returned the bottles to the driver and he sprayed down the front of the radiator and added some water to the coolant tank.
Over the course of the next three hours we had to stop six times to cool down the engine. Despite all of the breakdowns, I found myself in a very amiable mood. I was not upset at the car trouble nor was our driver. Every time the car clunked to a stop he would shrug his shoulders give us a smile and set about cooling off the radiator. It was just something that happened and the fact that we didn't have to be in Arkit at any specific time was a relief. Each stop gave us a chance to get a closer look at the surrounding scenery.
The last stop however was a bit different, instead of the smoke coming from the engine we noticed that it was coming from the trunk. The driver stopped and we opened the trunk trying to find what was burning. I pulled my bag off the floor and noticed that the plastic cover for my sleeping bag had a quarter-sized hole melted off of it. I looked into the trunk and noticed that hot oil had sprayed up from a rusted hole in the base of it. The driver apologized and then set to work unhooking the muffler to get a better look at what had happened. While we waited a very drunk Kyrgyz elderly man wearing a blue and white polo shirt, track pants and plastic slippers came walking up to us holding a screwdriver. The intoxicated grandpa crouched next to our driver who had his under the car and started talking to him about what happened. It seemed that we had hit a rock and the rock had put a whole in the undercarriage that was leaking hot oil. Our driver after a couple of clicks and wiping the sweat off his brow proceeded to wander around the off road. He picked up a tin can and a bit of wire and came huffing back to the car. He punched two holes on opposite sides of the tin can's top, and then he wove the wire through it creating a patch. He looped the wire around the muffler with the tin can top over the hole and then wound the wire the shut. Then he replaced the screws of the muffler, steadying it with his knee while he fastened it. I thought how nice it was that we had the Kyrgyz version of McIver as a driver for the day. The whole process took less than half an hour and we were back on the road.
The last leg of the journey took us off the highway and onto a non grated village road that wound around and along a stream. We swerved around potholes, puddles, donkeys, and Kyrgyz kids who took the momentary light of the headlights to race each other up in front of us until the driver honked his horn. We crossed a bridge made only of lumber and pulled to a stop outside of a metal gate. We got out, took our packs from the car and headed inside. We were met by a plump middle aged Kyrgyz man with a smile on his face.
"Are you the Americans?" he asked. We nodded and he continued, "We thought you already came..." He pointed over his shoulder and there seated inside was a couple dressed in boots, long pants, and camping jackets. "They're European," he said with a smile.
I introduced myself to the couple. They were from Holland and had arrived about an hour before us with the intention of going on a three day horseback ride. We traded pleasantries and they waved good-bye as a local youth waited for them to take them to another nearby house to spend the night.
After we washed up, we were treated to a dish called lachjun which was a vegetable stew with noodles of eggplant, potatoes, onions, carrots, tomatoes, green peppers, cabbage, and spices. The meal was refreshing and filling after our eleven hours on the road. I collapsed on my bed to the sound of the stream coming from the window and fell fast asleep.

Day 2, Arkit to Kara Suu Lake, September 2nd, 2007

I awoke to the sounds of turkeys clucking outside my window and a teapot boiling on a stove. We ate a quick breakfast of coffee and Kyrgyz nan, which was quite softer than Turkmen bread, and brought our packs outside. We met our guides who were already busy strapping supplies to two pack horses.
Tursun, a middle aged short but powerfully built Kyrgyz man wearing sweats, galoshes, and a blue thread born sweater two sizes two big for him greeted us with a smile that made the corners of his sun tanned face that showed crows feet and a jagged toothed smile. He had an efficiency about him that looked like he had done our trek many times in his life and that no matter the pace that we set he would be able to keep up.
Umit was a smiling 21 year-old wearing a sweatshirt and a Kyrgyz bulik, a brown and white skull cap that looked like a mini cloth yurt on his head. He was studying at the Turkish Language Institute in Bishkek to become an English teacher. Instead of being present for the first week of classes he had decided, on invitation of his uncle, to join us for the trek as a birthday present to himself.
We set off from Arkit village at around 9:00 am up a well worn hill. Our valley had clear sky while in the surrounding mountains black clouds loomed and I could hear distant thunder echoing around us.
We walked for an hour up the hill through an elm forest while a pair of Kyrgyz boys on horseback, one of which was carrying a goat cross saddle, drove a small herd of donkeys up the hill in front of us. Then the sprinkling of rain that had given the forest a crisp smell and feel opened up into a full downpour. I cursed the fact that I had not borrowed a fellow PCVs rain jacket and zipped up my wind break to limit the amount of cold rain dripping down my back. We waited under a tree for about forty five minutes until the rain went from pouring to a slow but steady drizzle. Once we found the horses again, who were lazily grazing in a clover patch about 200 yards from where we had left them, we started up the hill again. Shortly thereafter there rose a fence out of the middle of nowhere in the forest to our right.
Tursun led the horses through and told us, "Welcome to Sary Chelek." We rounded a bend and came to a clearing where the grass glistened with the recent rainstorm and stopped for lunch. As I pulled off my wet socks, I could already feel a blister forming on my left heel and asked Amy if she had brought anything for the occasion. She went to her bag and pulled out a gallon sized Ziploc bag filled with a cornucopia of orthopedic remedies; Dr. Scholl's blister pads, moleskin, Glide stick, Ace bandage, Band-Aids, hydrocortisone cream, and athletic tape. I took the Dr.Scholl's blister pad thankful that she had planned so well ahead.
We were about done of our lunch of chickpeas from a can, bread, sausages and cheese when the Dutch couple came trotting into the clearing accompanied by a smiling mid-thirties guide wearing a Chicago Bulls baseball cap and a lanky and sullen looking Kyrgyz teenage boy.
They joined us on our horse blankets and we learned that they had been traveling for the past ten months. Jozefine was a nurse and had her blonde hair tucked into ponytail through a baseball hat. Eric, a sound technician for a club in Holland wore a stocking cap, a fleece jacket and Carhard brown pants. They had quite their respective jobs at decided to tour Asia. They had started in Indonesia, then moved onto Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, and then spent three months in China gradually moving their way west until they passed though Xingjian before coming to Kyrgyzstan. They planned after their horseback ride in Sary Chelek to head to Uzbekistan then on through the Caucuses to Turkey and then take a train to get to Paris by Christmas and then back to Rotterdam. I was jealous instantly of their ability to just pack up everything and head out traveling for a year, what was even more amazing was that this was not the first time they had done this. They had taken a year off and traveled all through South America eight years ago.
We finished our lunch and packed up the horses telling Jozefine and Eric that hopefully we would see them tonight, and set back on the trail. We wound our way down a willowed forest and then into an open pasture of cows and the first direct sunlight of the day. I peeled off my windbreaker and tied it around my waist thankful for the warmth the sunlight brought. The path after the pasture veered up into rocky cliffs with sage brush lining the trail grabbing at our ankles and calves. A bit winded after the first initial climb we paused in another clearing where haystacks lined the road in seven foot high piles. I heard a distant rumbling coming from behind us and stepped to the side of the trail as an old soviet truck so laden with hay that you could hardly see the driver at all could pass. The whole sight was a bit like a giant moving afro of hay that in the back looked to be smoking a giant cigarette, as the hay was so low that the exhaust fumes had to trace their way through the hay to escape.
We walked for another half an hour and came to the crest of a hill that revealed a valley that for me, living in the flat featureless desert for the past seven months, seemed as close to heavenly as one can expect. Packs of unattended horses grazed in green rolling hills whose tops revealed mountainous cliffs dotted with golden and red rock strains while off to the west I could see a football field sized lake that was so clear that it was hard to determine from the clouds reflection on the water which sky was the real one. This was Iryk Kul Lake and got its name from the crooked finger shape that it takes. My strides widened and my mood lifted the chill of the morning rain now gone. Even if the rest of this trip doesn't happen for one reason or another I could go back to Turkmenistan and feel completely satisfied, I thought to myself.
The trail descended in the meadow and after a grove of trees there came another lake into view. On the opposite bank a herd of horses grazed lazily in the afternoon sun. We set up our tent and were shortly joined by Eric and Jozefine who game galloping into camp. I hung my wet clothes up to dry on a nearby tree branch and put on my swimsuit to take a dip in the lake. Lake Kara Suu despite it being directly in the sun light was just above freezing temperature. I lasted about five minutes before scrambling back onto shore and wrapping my towel around me. As the sunset a swirling wind came into the valley and took the meal tent that Jozefine and Eric's guides had set up with it. The tent was similar in shape to a yurt but without the side supports the wind took it and made it float in the air like a UFO. The guides struggled to find rocks and heavy equipment to keep the sides down.
In jest Juma (Jozefine and Eric's guide) stood laughing saying, "It's a parachute."
"Yeah, but where's the plane?" I retorted.
We finished our dinner of plov with tomatoes lakeside a piece of driftwood acting as our stool. While we were sipping on watered down green tea I noticed a falcon that seemed to be hovering in place. Then all of a sudden it dove 100 feet toward the ground and took off again in a flash, a mouse in its claws.
As the sunset we chatted with Juma. He had been Physical Education teacher at a nearby school for twenty years before being asked to be the parks Head Ranger. The largest problem that he had were villagers coming in the spring and shooting all of the elk that call the reserve home. He noted that they use Russian rifles but with Bulgarian bullets and silencers from the Czech Republic making it very hard to catch them in the act. He said that the heard that used to be close to 200 has now dwindled down to around 50 every spring.
The wind seemed to die just as the last shoots of the sun disappeared over the mountains taking with it the chill of the night air. I felt something that I had not felt in a very long time. It was a feeling of invigoration, exhaustion and at the same time nostalgic. I was born in Colorado and spent summers tramping around the foothills and mountains with my cousins, friends, and parents. This was the first time that I had spent any extended time outdoors in the mountains in over a decade, and it felt like I was saying hello to that little boy that I had left in the Rockies when my family moved to Minnesota. Despite the long span of time, the zestiness and alive feeling that comes with being in the mountains welcomed me back along with my childhood memory.

Day 3 Tour of Sary Chelek and Kotormo Pass, September 3, 2007

I awoke at 6:30 to the sounds of clattering tin plates and whispered conversation and footsteps outside out tent. I had a restless sleep and every hour I woke and tried to find a position that was comfortable. At one point during the early morning I got out of the tent and went to the bathroom. I exited the tent and was momentarily blinded the white light. The moon was full and its light reflected off of the white of the birch trees outside our tent the stars millions more than I had ever seen before even when camping amidst the ruins of Ancient Merv in Turkmenistan.
After a breakfast of porridge and eggs we set off the way we came for a tour of the seven lakes within the Sary Chelek Nature Reserve. We passed one of the hay trucks we had seen yesterday afternoon its wheels were stuck up to the rims in mud. Our walk was leisurely we took our time chatting with two local farmers carrying a 12 foot long over their shoulders. They were jovial and smile quite a bit. Even there asking Amy and I about if we could take them to American seemed as a private quaint joke rather than the demands of Turkmen taxi cab drivers.
Along Kara Lake, was a team of Kyrgyz young farmers busy stacking another truck full of hay. Our first stop of the morning was at Grand Sary Chelek Lake. The lake runs for eight kilometers away from its banks and is absolutely awe inspiring. The water is so clear that it looks as if you are looking at a perfect mirrored illusion, but perhaps the most amazing thing was the silence. It was as everything stood in awe of how untouched and pristine this place was. There was a revered silence amongst Tursun, Amy and I (Umit had taken the horses to meet us at the place for lunch). The Golden Pail Lake is one that makes the 11,000 lakes look like ponds in Minnesota.
I wandered along the banks and noticed a tiny house where I noticed that a calf, a school of turkeys, and a goat grazed lazily at the grass at its fence. When I approached I noticed that Juma and Tursun were already talking to the owner of the house. Tursun was trying out an empty crossbow while Juma chatted jovially about all of the travelers that had been through this season. This house was the only place in the entire Reserve that you could drive up to and we had come just a week after the official season. He noted that this year they had seen tourists from Uzbekistan, Turkey, Russia, Sweden, Switzerland, France, Spain, Great Britain, Australia, the US, but we were the first from Turkmenistan.
After a half an hour rest and Lake Sary Chelek our walk took us through the rolling plains of wheat, thistles, and wildflowers. I dragged my hands through the grasses in sheer delight picking off a stem of wheat and chewing on it until it got damp. Tursun and I were waiting for Amy to come back from a trip to mother nature when he pointed to a yellow tree three quarters up the mountain ridge towering before us. "That's where we are eating lunch," he said.
We walked for about forty-five minutes when Tursun turned to us and asked, "Will it bother you?" He was pointing to a thicket up ahead and our uncovered lower legs.
"No, it won't bother us at all," Amy and I said together. I had been fooled at the beautiful morning temperature to even think about wearing pants. Ten minutes into the thicket our legs looked like we had been put in a padded room with fifty cats and our legs were smeared with catnip. Everything it seemed to reach out and grab at our open skin, wild rose bushes, thistles, bushes, and tiny trees, all of them adding their mark to our exposed lower legs. We traversed the thicket in about 20 minutes and then started a steady climb up the hill toward the yellow tree. Tursun set a slow pace for Amy to keep up and after following for about ten minutes I got impatient and took a break from the switchbacks and headed straight up the mountain. Sweat glistened on my brow as I put one foot in front of another straight up and then...I found myself alone with nothing but rock slides all around me. I had lost the trail in my determination to just go straight up.
"Tursun!" I yelled. "Where are you?" I was stuck and seeing no one I thought it best to yell.
I soon saw Tursun come bounding over the rock slides with the sure-footedness of a Billy goat. He smiled when he got to me and I am certain that even if my face were not red from the effort I certainly would be blushing from embarrassment of getting caught in trying to be the tough guy. He guided me where to put each step until I was firmly back on the trail. I looked up and Amy was smiling down at me.
The last fifty feet of the trail up to the yellow tree we had to traverse hand over foot to get up to a tiny plateau where Jozefine and Eric were already resting on their horse blankets in the shade sipping tea. While I caught my breath I looked out into the valley and just barely on the horizon you could make out the glen of trees by Kara Suu Lake that we had camped the night before.
After a lunch of sausages, cheese, tomatoes, and cucumbers with tea we set off back up the mountain ahead of the horses. In about fifteen minutes we were at the top of Kotormo Pass. There in front of us was a gleaming white rock mountain. We started our decent into the valley past rock formations that looked like they were transported from the Scottish Highlands while cows stopped chewing their cud to stare at us.
We descended for two hours and I began to hear the roar of a river below. The trail flattened out to a farm house and a rock filled meadow. We crossed a bridge of logs and crushed rock and my feet were aching in pain.
I asked Tursun when we were going to stop for the night and he said, "Only another hour." Faced with this fact I just thought of just putting one foot in front of the other and thankful that our course was flat. We had come to the base of the valley and the river crisscrossed the meadow floor so that from about it looked like a quilt of green patches stitched together with a silver thread of creek-side rocks.
During our walk through the valley Jozefine and Eric caught up to us and passed us in a trot with Juma close at their heels. We stopped at a small farmhouse with a meadow enclosure that had thirty bee houses collecting honey.
"This is my friend's house," said Tursun with a smile, his breath even and slow. "Our president last year said on national television that 'All our land is our home. So rest and relax, we will sleep here tonight."
We spent the rest of the night eating dinner and Eric and I sharing a bottle of vodka while we discussed American and Dutch politics and healthcare systems as well as the places that they had seen since they started on their journey across Asia.

Day 4-- Kotormo Valley through Kashka Suu Pass September 4, 2007

I awoke at 7:00 am to the sounds of hoofs outside of our tent. I put on my glasses and my shoes and opened the front flap of our tent and was face to face with the grey pack horse that Umit had guiding for the pass two days. The horse looked at me and then moved to the side to enjoy a patch of clover.
After breakfast we said good-bye to Jozefine and Eric, trading emails and promising to pass along pictures when we had access to a computer. They promised that were we ever in Rotterdam to look them up and I said the same should they come to the US.
We started to head North through the Ak Sakat river valley. The first hour of our morning trek we traipsed around the river, trying our best to not get our feet wet. We passed by numerous herds of cattle pushed on by Kyrgyz herders with whistles and shouts of, "Osh, Osh." They were adorned with traditional Kyrgyz hats which on the head of a foreigner would look as ridiculous as a middle aged obese man wearing Mickey Mouse ears, but on these herders the hats looked majestic, like a crown of a life lived in the outdoors. They would always stop and the elders would stop and shake our hands and ask from where we had come.
About an hour and half into our morning walk we turned Easy and followed one of the tributaries of the river. The river was a constant hum of activity and every few feet splashed white as it roared over rocks creating rapids. The hills and the trail gradually more steep crisscrossing the river every 1000 feet or so. My legs which had felt like lead pipes when I woke up had started to loosen up to a dull ache.
After one rather tricky river crossing where Amy ended up with one leg in the river up to her knee we passed through a village of five families. The women would stop their laundry to stare as children peeked out from being their legs. Tursun would greet the husbands of the family and stop for a quick conversation before pulling his horse on. We continued on for another thirty minutes before stopping for a break by a calmer section of the river.
I pulled out a cigarette and gave one to Tursun. He took a long deep drag and then pointed over my left shoulder, "That's what we will be climbing today."
"Seriously?" I asked, it looked as if the Kashka Suu Pass might as well have been a stairway to the clouds; it loomed intimidating and huge down here in the valley. We finished our smokes, loaded up our water bottles with water, and after crossing the river one more time started our ascent up the hills.
At times, the trail was little more than patches of grass and dust hanging from the side of the mountain, making it quite difficult to find good footing anywhere. The trick I found was find anything green that was sticking out and put your foot there. The dust turned back into the hill and we were faced with another obstacle the cow pies. Every step you had to look down to see that you wouldn't step in a refuse puddle. After making our way uphill for another hour we stopped at a yurt perched precariously 700 feet about the river on a ridge for lunch. I checked out my feet and noticed that while the Dr.Scholl's had worked on my left heel I now had two more blisters on my right foot, one of the big toe and the other on the outside part of the heel.
Out lunch was a delectable assortment of Kyrgyz fresh made food, save the sausage and cheese everything that was put in front of us was delicious. We ate gaymak, fresh yogurt, fish from the river, and freshly made honey butter in a yurt of a goli family. This family spent their summers up here on this hill their cattle grazing on the hills below, and then they would pack up everything for the winter and move into the valley. The members of the family that were there when we arrived were two women that looked like sisters. One of them busied herself preparing dough for cooking in a tandoor while the other was busy hanging up pieces of chicken on a twig to dry. Their children both of their heads shaved snoozed under horse blankets while we ate.
"Ready?" asked Tursun as we pulled our shoes back on after a rather quick lunch in the yurt. Kashka Suu Pass leered 12,000 feet above us, the trail crisscrossing from one rock formation to another to the final two rocky cliffs the whole thing looking like a horse's face hence its name Horse Face Mark Pass. A herd of horses looked down on us as we started making our slow but steady way up the pass. I knew that hiking up a grade of this magnitude is in no way a race but the pace set by Amy made my legs ache more than I could bare. I passed her and started to lengthen my strides each one feeling as though it were stretching me out from lunch. After the first half an hour my legs felt like they were going to spontaneously combust. Tursun stopped and I came heaving up beside him with my hands on my hips. I looked over at him and though he was wearing a thermal stocking cap he wasn't even sweating. My breathing slowed to normal as Amy came up the hill breathing heavily almost to the point of wheezing.
We pushed on up the hill for another half an hour reaching the first of four rocky formations. I collapsed onto my back thinking that my lungs might implode for lack of oxygen and the change in altitude. I sat up after a minute and there crouched behind me on the hillside was Tursun smoking a hand rolled cigarette!
"What, do you want one?" he asked me smiling. I could only shake my head and take another deep breathe trying to calm my heart beat down from throbbing in my head to a dull roar. "Here, look at this," he said throwing me a clump of tiny white flowers that he had picked from the base of a nearby rock, "That flower never dies. In the winter when we have to make this pass you can find it under a meter of snow. We use it for tea. If it can live so can you. Come on only one more hour and we will be at the top."
The last part of the ascent was the by far the hardest. Not only did my lungs feel like they were going to pop out of my chest, but I started to get a tad dizzy. I had to start counting my steps and every fifty pause for a second to make certain that I took some deep breathes. I know that during this last hour I cursed the fact that Amy had convinced me to go on the seven day trek rather than the four day one around Lake Issyk Kul when neither one of us had done any climbing at all except for one 90 minute speed hike up the Walk of Health outside of Ashgabat a couple of weeks before.
Then as though I thought I might just have to sleep on the side of this mountain on a 60 degree grade, Tursun and the trail disappeared off to the right and flatten out. The summit of the mountain was marked by a wooden cross with a base of stones that had had the numbers 3,601 (meters above sea level) carved into it and a 35 mile an hour wind that dropped the temperature instantly by 20 degrees.
"Aren't you cold?" I asked him seeing that he was wearing just a red Kyrgyz Community Based Tourism T-shirt.
He took a deep breathe and then to the mountains across the valley from which we came he pounded his fist on his chest and shouted, "This is my wind! This is my air! This is my warmth!" I could only feign a smile as I zipped on my windbreaker and tried to catch my breath.
The difference between the two sides of the pass could not have been more different. The pass we had just ascended was green with grass the occasional bush, the river far below looked like a capillary, but everywhere you could see life flourishing. On the side that we now began to descend was marked with loose black rock and the remnants of glaciers. Amy and my spirit were instantly lifted with the concept of being able to go down after five and half hours of going up. I could have almost hugged Tursun when he said, "We have another couple of hours, let's go."
The black shale loose rock changed into a meadow of lichen with yellow and white flowers to a short grass rocky pasture. We had been moving at a pretty steady pace for the past hour and a half when I heard the barking of two dogs rise up to greet us. I saw a lone shepherd standing on a hillside below us leaning on his walking stick as his dogs circled around him barking at us as we approached. I put the horse in between me and the snarling barking dogs and then there was silence. The shepherd had raised his staff and said, "Chepe!" The dogs silently laid down at his feet. We rested for five minutes while Tursun and the shepherd talked amiably.
Then we started down again crossing over a hill and then making a u-turn we passed through head high grasses along a ridge that dropped fifty feet to a river below. We crossed over a fallen tree and then walked another couple hundred yards to where the meadow grass had been pushed down in a twenty foot wide clearing. With a nod from Tursun I knew that this is where we would sleep. Relieved as I was to be able to stop for the day I knew that I couldn't rest yet. A front of grey blue clouds was making its way over the ridge that we crossed and I knew that the rain was coming. I grabbed our tent from the pack horse just as Amy and Umit came into the clearing. In just five minutes the last stake of the tent was in the ground, our stuff safely stored in the tent when the sky opened up and with a crash of thunder the rain came pouring down. I felt completely relaxed as the rain roared on the top of the tent, my legs wrapped comfortably in my sleeping bag as I wrote in my journal. After an hour the rain lightened up and I heard Umit say from outside of our tent, "Tuk Tuk (the Russian way of saying knock-knock)," he handed use plates of tomatoes and cucumber with a dab of mayonnaise, a plastic plate of raisins, and a teapot full of hot tea. This meager meal tasted as good as any four star restaurant in Manhattan to me. I was exhausted and soon thereafter fell deep asleep the gentle tap tapping of the end of the rainstorm on our tent.

Day 5 Kashka Suu Valley along the Umaral River to Kara-Kuldzha Pass September 5, 2007
I poked my head out of the tent at 7:00 this morning to find Tursun already had a cup of coffee waiting for me. Amy sat shivering in her sleeping bag until breakfast was ready refusing to come out of the tent even though she complained about having to go to the bathroom.
We packed up camp at around 9:00 and started our descent from the cliff face that our tents had laid the previous night. The first obstacle of the day was a wide bubbling span of the Umaral River that had no clear way to get across on foot. Tursun took his horse across the river, riding atop the food packs. Once across he unloaded the food bags and came back across. I hopped into the saddle and Tursun hopped on the back taking the reigns through my arms. He repeated the same for Amy and soon we were across and moving through head high reeds and dense undergrowth that were still soaked from last night's rain amidst poplars and aspen looking trees. At one point, Amy disappeared in front of me. She had not seen a rather large rock and had biffed it head over heels into the trail in front of her. She quickly picked herself up, brushed herself off and with a smile back to me kept moving.
Fifteen minutes after Amy's spill we came to a river crossing again. This time the river was not as deep as this morning's cross but still had no sure foot stones for us to cross. Umit asked us to take off our shoes and socks and make our way across. We crossed the river five more times that morning in the same way, each time pausing for five minutes for our feet to dry before pressing on. This morning I felt completely different than I had the previous mornings. The stiffness and ache in my legs and feet were gone and in their place was a gentle warmth that came as we made our way through the valley.
"How many people live in this region?" I asked Tursun during one of our breaks.
"About 2,000," he answered and he seemed to know everyone of them and all of them seemed to be out of cigarettes. Each time we saw someone he would stop offer them cigarettes and talk amiably about whom we were and where we were headed.
At about mid day we came to a river crossing where 50 feet down river were solid sheets of ice that had never melted in the summer sun. Amy had her second spill of the day as we tried to cross the river, she slipped on a rock and landed butt first in the icy cold river. We pushed on Amy's insistence and soon we rounded a bend and saw a herd of hundreds of sheep grazing on a hillside. As we came closer we saw a tent with another shepherd and two men on horseback sat talking while two dogs that looked like crosses between coyotes and Corgis barked emphatically at us. We waved hello and then started to make our way up a hill. Tursun pulled us to a stop halfway up the hill and nodded over his left shoulder, "After lunch we will climb the Kara Kuldzha." I must admit that I was a bit perturbed as to why we were stopping since I was not even breathing hard, but I knew that Tursun knew what he was doing so I sat and smoked a cigarette while Amy pulled out her book and started to read.
Kara Kuldzha Pass did not look quite as intimidating as Kashka Suu the day before. The hill ascending toward the top was about a twenty five grade rather than the 60 degree grade of Kashka Suu. We started the hill after spending a lazy hour for lunch. After five minutes Amy was breathing so hard behind me I thought she was going to hyperventilate. "You okay back there?" I asked; my breath slow and calm due to what I assumed was the slow pace that Tursun was setting.
"Fine!" She hissed back.
I thought to myself, well I guess we can only go as fast as the slowest person, but after ten minutes of listening to Amy's heaving and having Tursun's horse continually farting in my face I had had enough. I passed Tursun on a plateau of the pass. Once out in front my pace began to quicken and my strides got longer. It felt for the first time all day that I was able to stretch out my legs. Soon along with beads of sweat pouring down my forehead I had left everybody else behind me only this time the trail was clearly visible ahead and I had not pretensions about going straight up. I kept up a steady pace and when it got to where I could hear my heartbeat in my ears I started to concentrate on my breath; taking 10 deep breathes through my nose every 50 steps.
I reached the top of the 11,000+ foot pass and noted that I was not even winded. There laid out before me lay a valley of golden grass stretching into the horizon as it was bordered by gently slopping foothills dotted with evergreen bushes.
We crossed the river once more and came around a bend to see a patched tent and two Kyrgyz shepherds crouching smoking cigarettes by the entrance. We approached and the elder of the two wearing a traditional Kyrgyz hat shook my hand and then immediately started to kiss Amy’s cheeks and took her by the arm leading her toward the entrance of the tent. I interrupted the escort and asked if we could take their picture instead. I snapped the picture and lightly steered away from the over friendly shepherd.
“I’m sorry about that,” whispered Umit to me. “He has not seen a woman in three months.”
“Don’t be,” said Amy “It’s not every day I am accosted by a Kyrgyz shepherd.”
“Yeah he probably has not seen a woman in two months,” I noted.
“No, three months,” corrected Umit, “But he is relatively lucky some of them in these hills go six months without seeing their wives.”
I didn’t want to know how they spent their time up in the hills so I didn’t ask any further and kept on walking. We walked for another fifteen minutes before Tursun pulled up his horse. We had stopped in a stretch of valley that was sunken about five feet from the rest of the valley. I put up the tent and while doing so I noticed a pair of herding dogs go to work on a few straggling sheep to get them back into the pack while Tursun prepared a hearty Kyrgyz soup called ragu that consisted of noodles, eggplant, spices, cabbage, peppers and tomatoes all served over a bed of rice.
While Amy read in the tent I spent the remainder of the afternoon and early part of the evening snapping pictures of the valley and talking jovially with Umit and Tursun.
“So what are we going to do tomorrow? I asked Tursun
“Tomorrow we will do apat,” he answered.
“Five passes!? Seriously?”
“No, apat.”
“It means again,” piped in Umit with the proper translation. “We will do another pass tomorrow.”
The Russian word for five is pe-aht while apat is again. We all laughed at my mistake and then Umit started to tell me about Manas, the great Kyrgyz warrior of the past that was over eight feet tall and had kept out the Chinese from encroaching on their borders. I smiled at his telling of the tale, thinking that when I was in Turkmenistan and heard stories of Oguzhan I had to stifle a laugh. Anything regarding Turkmen history and its proven fact is doubtful, but then I thought about the fact that we do the same with Davy Crockett, Lewis & Clark, and even Christopher Columbus in our History classes.
The temperature dropped about twenty five degrees after the sun had set and I huddled by the fire with Umit and Tursun until the stars were out then I wished them a good night and headed into the tent. I tried to get to sleep, but a very curious marmot (basically a rodent that looks like a prairie dog but is the size of a bulldog kept scratching at our tent wall next to my head. I rolled back and forth finally falling asleep after an hour of tossing and turning.

Day 6 Kara Kuldzha Valley through the Tian Shans and through Chiyim Tash Pass September 6, 2007
I woke to the sounds of Amy shuffling about the tent in her sleeping bag and absolutely freezing. Despite the fact that I was wearing long underwear, jeans, two layers of wool socks, two t-shirts, a long sleeve Under Armor shirt and two jackets I was still shivering inside my sleeping bag. I emerged from the tent at around quarter past seven and my breath froze in the air as I tried to brush the frost off the front flap of tent.
As I wanted for the coffee to get ready I looked down the valley to find a pack of twenty horses of colors from jet black to a starling silver mare grazing by the riverbank about 40 yards downstream of our camp. The largest horse of the pack a chestnut stud with a black mane and fore hoofs stood about twenty yards closer to our camp staring at us not twitching a muscle as if he were surprised to find us in his valley.
I took the cup of warm coffee greatly into my hands amidst Amy’s complaints of how cold it was and how sore she was yesterday’s venture. I didn’t want to completely ignore the complaint but didn’t want to give her the opportunity to continue the stream of negativity so I shrugged and started in on a plate of hot scrambled eggs. Breakfast over I helped Tursun with the dishes while I noticed Umit about thirty yards away from the pack of horses his hand out. He took very small steps toward a cherry brown colt next to the silver mare. He didn’t break his gaze from the colt and I could hear him whisper. Every few seconds he would take another couple of slow tiny steps forward. He got to just within touching distance of the colt and paused, then with a final whisper he took a final step and started to stroke the colt’s mane. He petted it a couple of times before it moved further downstream due to a nudge of the nose from the mare. Umit came bounding back toward camp a wide smile on his face. I had no idea that he was an actual Horse Whisperer and when he came to camp I asked, “Where did you learn to do that?”
“My father taught me. Ever since I was a little baby I have seen something and I wanted to ride it. When I was a baby it was our dogs then when I was three I was put on a horse for the first time.”
Our camp packed up I started to mentally prepare for the last, tallest, and most difficult of the perovals or passes that we would cross on our journey, Chiyim-Tash, looming 3,700 meters above sea level. The pass got its name from the hieroglyphics that travelers throughout the centuries had carved on the rocks leading up to the summit. According to Tursun the most impressive collection of the hieroglyphs was carved over 400 years ago by Chinese travelers and covered an entire rock face.
We walked for an hour down the valley keeping the river to our right and passing herds of horses and sheep that would stop their grazing to watch us pass, I could see that we were such a spectacle that literally some of them watched us mouth agape. Then at a hill that looked just the same as all of the others that we had passed Tursun took and right and started to switchback up the hill. I saw a mountain rise above the hill with the unmistakable zigzag scars of a trail descending from it. Yet, despite the immensity of the obstacle ever getting closer and larger I was light hearted due to the ease with which I had made the pass just 300 meters shorter the day before.
“Where’s the water?” asked Tursun rhetorically as we descended a hill to a dry river bed at the foot of the pass. “It was here last month.” While he searched for the first signs of water in the river bed I sat down on a boulder to take a break. Moments later about 100 yards downstream Tursun whistled and beckoned us to come to him. I stood up and began to follow the rest of the group toward our lunch site. I got about halfway to the meeting point when I froze, I had lost my hat. My gray Jacob Leinenkugel’s hat that I had had for eight years and had been to every place on the planet that I had ever been was gone. I had looped the hat around the loose part of my belt thinking it would be better to have it handy due to the sun rather than having to go digging through my pack on the horse. I walked back through the steps I had made, but finding a grey hat amidst in a river bed filled with grey stones was like finding a diamond in the Karakum Desert. I was soon joined by Amy and Umit. Amy asking the incredibly annoying question of, “Are you sure you had it with you?” I resisted retorting, No I left it in Tibet the last time I was there. We searched for fifteen minutes and I began to think that the hat had chosen quite a remarkable burial place under the Tian Shan mountains overshadowed by Chiyim Tash Pass. I swore a couple of times in frustration and noticed that Tursun stuck his head up from lighting the camp stove and started toward us. He walked directly to the boulder that I had sat on reached down and picked the hat from a crack in the stones about five feet away. I thanked him profusely and put the hat back on my head where at least I would know if it fell again.
The first ten minutes of the ascent went well enough and I made sure to leave plenty of airing room between me and Tursun’s horse’s butt in front of me. The trail then steeped to a 60 degree grade and my eyes went away from the pass above me and concentrated on the next foothold. I concentrated on putting just one foot in front of the other and keeping my breathing under control. After fifteen minutes my calves were burning and I glanced up to see Tursun pull his horse to a stop above me. He turned and asked over his shoulder and asked me, “Chris, do they have donkeys in Turkmenistan?” I looked up and in between gasps of breath responded affirmatively. Satisfied with my answer he nodded his head and then continued his steady well trained pace up the steep path. I was too busy concentrating on getting air into my lungs to be concerned about the randomness of this question. Another couple of minutes passed and Tursun sat down on his haunches just above his horse. I assumed that we were pausing to let Amy catch up, who through her steady small stepped pace was making her way up the mountain about a hundred feet below us. However, when Amy arrived Tursun told us to sit down and listen. From the mountain top gave jovial shouts, whistles, and the sound of mini rock slides. A group of four Kyrgyz horse riders were making their way down from the top of the pass. Now for those of you that are concerned with what the politically correct way to let someone pass you on a Kyrgyz mountain trail from above the answer is you just sit down in the middle of the trail and let them pass you. It was a bit unnerving to see these four horsemen veer from the path and start to go straight down the hill ignoring the gradualness, however slight it may be, of the switchbacks. We pressed on for another twenty minutes and the trail gradually flattened out and seemed to be nearing a flat rocky top. I shouted back over my shoulder, “Almost there Amy.” Yet, when I arrived at the rock formation Tursun was neither crouched waiting for us nor was he pounding his chest in triumph he was still moving up. The rock formation was the halfway point of the pass. “Never mind,” I shouted back down the hill thinking that I heard a groan coming from below as I started again up and up, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, breathe in, breathe out, look for Tursun, left foot, right foot, breathe…
I paused with the summit in sight but about 100 yards ahead of me to see how far we had come in just that day. The river down below looked like a vein in a leaf of a nearby tree and off in the distance I saw the snow capped tops of what the local calls the Five Breast Ridge due to the rounded tops of the mountains. The top of the summit revealed a valley whose descent looked much more treacherous than the 60 degree grade loose rock trail that we had made on the ascent. I could see nothing but black shale and snow! It looked like a scene that could have been filmed for Lord of the Rings when the Hobbits reach the gates of Mordoor. It was the type of place that no living thing could survive for long but is stunningly beautiful in its harshness. I realized, inching closer to the edge, that after a short trip down a steep grade of loose shale we were going to have to go down a glacier. At the base of the rock trail I could see a shepherd leaning on a wooden walking stick resting. We passed him by, Tursun giving him two cigarettes, and then stepped out onto the glacier. The snow was wet but the ice did not budge one inch when I put my full weight on it. The texture of the glacier was far from smooth glass that they appear in pictures the entire glacier was a series of moguls that made it feel like we were on a giant golf ball. I slid from hole to hole enjoying myself thoroughly while Umit tried to gingerly lead Amy onto the glacier without her slipping. As soon as he let go she slipped and fell right on her backside, but laughed as she got up and started shuffling her way from hole to hole down the hillside. The snow was the perfect consistency for snowballs, a little wet yet still solid enough to hold together. I couldn’t resist. I picked up a handful of snow and then lobbed one back up the mountain. It caught Amy right in the stomach with a puff. She looked down at me in surprise and then balled up one of her own and chucked it back at me, missing over my head. I mean how many opportunities do you have in life to have a snowball fight in the middle of the summer on top of a glacier?
We carefully made our way down through the loose black shale, sliding more than walking and the ache in my calves was now replaced but a creaking pain from the outside of my knees after every step. I hopped down from a boulder drop and there about 200 yards below me were two crystal clear lakes about the size of rugby fields. The lakes looked like a pair of glasses with the trail crossing directly in between them both. They were from the glacier run off that we had just passed and marked the beginning of the Umaral River. As we came closer I noticed that the water was not blue but an azure turquoise so clear that standing on its banks I could see the bottom of the lake 30 feet from shore. On the shore there were names in Cyrillic carved into the boulders with dates of passage, not of passing this pass but of their lives. I imagined that Tursun after a long life would like to be buried here amongst his peers, but when I asked him he said with a smile, “No, it’s too crowded.”
We continued past the lakes and the black shale turned into grassy pasture with rocks that were all covered by names, some in Cyrillic others were prayers written in Arabic, but perhaps the most impressive of all of these hieroglyphs was the 15 foot tall rock wall that had indecipherable Chinese markings. You could tell that it was not the work of many travelers each adding their own bit, but an entire mural. My guess would be that this served as a border marking, but then again I am not an archeologist.
We continued on for another hour and came over a particularly loose rock trail from a cliff into a green mountain pasture that seemed to have just as many cow paddies as it did rocks. Tursun pointed over my left shoulder and I spun around to see a 50 foot waterfall crashing between the cliffs that we had just traversed and in the distance on the horizon was the glacier and the top of Chiyim Tash from where we had just come. This was to be our campsite for the night. We set up the tent and I climbed up to the waterfall to get a closer look and snap a couple of pictures before the sun completely set behind the canyon. When I returned to camp I noticed that Amy was sitting on a rock in the distant sunshine on the other side of the valley. I looked again a couple of minutes later and noticed that she was higher up on the wall. She had moved to stay in the sun. She repeated the action three more times before giving up and coming back to camp and zipping herself in her sleeping bag.
There was a silence amidst the campfire that night with Umit and Tursun. I thought to myself that despite the pain coming from my knees that I had done it. The last of the passes had been traversed and now for the first time since I had left Bishkek, I thought about life going on back in Turkmenistan. I thought about Albina and Bahar running the American Corner, classes and clubs going on without me there, my family’s upcoming visit, what my friends and family would think about the pictures that I have taken during the trip, but mostly I thought of endings. I thought about the end of this trip and how I would have to return to the world of conversation, complaints, and convoluted tasks. I thought about the Close of Service conference, our last as Peace Corps Volunteers upcoming when I got back. I thought about me actually leaving Turkmenistan now only three short months away. It is inherent with the ending of anything that you always think about what will come next, for you cannot have one without the other, but more than anything I was left with a desire to stay where I was. It was peaceful in these canyons, alongside crystal clear rivers, and never ending golden meadow valley. It was simple and I wished that I could take it with me when I left, no matter how long it would be till I step foot in mountains again. I wished I could put the world on pause.

Day 7 Chiyim Tash Valley to Umaral River Gorge
“I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I woke up at two, four and six,” complained Amy the next morning waking me from a deep comfortable sleep. Not “Good morning” or “How did you sleep?” but a complaint.
I know looking back on my journals from Turkmenistan that I have woken up in similar moods and hated everything about where I was, but when you are in a place as beautiful as the Tian Shan mountains how could you possibly wake up hating where you were. I wanted to shout at her, “LOOK WHERE YOU ARE!” but resisted and instead without a word put on my shoes and exited the tent to help Tursun prepare the morning breakfast. I know that she had probably been up for quite some time before she had tried her sunny morning greeting, waiting for me to show any signs of life so that she would have something to talk about, but I didn’t want to deal with it. I was tired of the complaints they certainly did not help things when I heard them from PCVs in Turkmenistan and they certainly were not going to help heal the blisters on my feet or numb the aching coming from my knees.
The morning was cold in the valley. There was plenty of light, but I could tell that the direct sunshine was still about an hour away from crossing the valley. We shared breakfast with a long silver haired Kyrgyz shepherd, who had one eye completely clouded over with glaucoma and carried a pair of binoculars around his neck. We set off just as the sun was crossing the river and into our campsite. I had not spoken to Amy more than to tell her that breakfast was ready that morning.
We set off down the valley and through a rocky meadow that reminded me of all of the pictures of my Dad and his trip to Scotland. The ache in my knees had grown worse overnight so I decided to wrap them with the ace bandage that I had brought along. It helped a bit, but after an hour of heading downhill we stopped by a river crossing and I collapsed in a heap. I had not felt this much pain in my knees since I tore my MCL in my right knee when I was in junior high school.
Tursun saw my discomfort and shouted to Umit to bring the kitchen knife. He then went after the closest sapling and snapped off a branch about five feet high and a quarter thick. He started shave pieces of one side of the branch into a point. He tugged at the branch knife and in a moment I saw the blade fly from the handle and fly into the river. Tursun looking a bit amazed looked at the empty handle in his hand.
“It went into the river,” I noted. He smiled at me and with a shrug through the handle in too. He asked Umit to bring another knife from the sacks and within five minutes had carved a hand hold done and handed it to me. I now had a walking stick.
I made my way gingerly across the wooden bridge and then set the walking stick down in front of me. It took me some time to get used to the motion of swinging the stick in front of me every third step and taking the weight off of my knee. I must admit that I felt a bit old, but soon the trail had flattened out. We passed through a pine forest and came to rest at clearing with a stream on our left and in the distance there seemed to be only one mountain left in the valley. I checked the time with Amy and it was not even noon.
“Why are we stopping here?” I asked “Shouldn’t we keep going?”
“No, we are stopping for the horses because further on there is no place for them to eat.”
I nodded and limped my way over to a flat rock and collapsed. I was exhausted and glad to have the full rest of the day to have my knees heal and rest up for our final day of hiking.
After lunch I sat on a stone washing my socks in the cold river water with a bar of soap. I looked up and saw that Umit was taking a nap on a nearby log while just behind him Amy sat reading her book and Tursun busied himself with his tent. In that moment of looking up, the suds filled sock slipped out of my hand and went underneath a rock into the current. I laughed as Amy commented, “First your hat, now your sock, if we’re not careful you may leave you head here on this rock.”
I finished up my laundry, hanging the sodden socks on a nearby tree branch to dry and lay back on a smooth boulder. I looked up and for the first time in a long time I watched the clouds. While gazing happily at their white puffy unique shapes it occurred to me how much appreciation I have for those who lived in the Wild West of American History. Even here in Kyrgyzstan one can see lonely riders, red faced from a life spent in the sun, clicking away on the trail their destination in mind but they will get there when they get there and not a moment sooner. While we call ourselves civilized and advanced and watch open ranges on the movie screen with a sense of nostalgia or even boredom in some cases, it is only here in the Tian Shans for the past seven days that I have felt a sense of rest and relaxation. The only thing in front of me has been the trail and my traveling companions the river, Amy, Umit, and Tursun. Everything else seems so undignified, uncivilized, and even downright silly when compared with the majesty and splendor of this place.
The campfire burned low and the sun had long since passed the canyon walls. Tursun stood atop a 10 foot boulder where those centuries before have made their mark, surveying the canyon around us, his arms crossed in front of him. Despite his short frame he looks regal staring off into the canyons as if he were listening to the answer to a question that only he could hear. I wondered how long you would have to spend in these mountains to be able to hear that answer. I have heard whispers of it bubbling along the rivers or in the wind at the top of the passes, that subtle feeling that disappears as fast as it comes that tells you nothing else matters except you and the moment you are in…now.

Day 8 Umaral River Gorge to Talas
We knew that we had to get up early in order to make it to our planned destination, Mediyanet Village, on time. So when I woke up at 6:15 it was as if a switch had gone off. I had slept in my clothes for the next day so all I had to do was to slip on my socks and shoes and I was out of the tent ready to go. The valley we had camped in looked the same as at it had at dusk the previous night, a rose colored glow emanating from the rocks while the white of the birch trees and orange glow about them.
We ate our final breakfast of porridge and packed up the tent with a sluggish fluidity. It was as if we were packing up a part of our lives for the last time and that even though the times had been amazing and challenging they were already in the past whether we wanted them to be or not. For the past seven days we had walked an average of 25 miles a day through scenes of beauty, passes that too every ounce of our strength to just put one foot in front of the other, two nights of shivering sleeplessly while marmots scratched outside our tent, yet we had to leave this paradise of isolation and awe to return to the rest of the world.
The horses were packed by 8:00 am and we set off. My knees still aching I leaned heavily on the walking stick for the first hour as we made our way down the rocky ridged canyon with Amy and Tursun in the lead and me trailing thirty yards behind. I kept hoping as we rounded each bend that it would flatten out so I could throw the walking stick away, but every bend brought another small rocky hill that had to be traversed. We were silent the only sounds were clap of the horses hooves on the rocks, our breathing, and the steady click of my walking stick against the rocks.
We stopped next to a glen of trees and a dry riverbed. Umit then jumped on his horse, tying the rope of the other pack horse to the back of his saddle and veered off to the left through the white foaming river.
“There is too much water that way,” noted Tursun. “We are going this way,” he said pointing up another rocky cliff to our right. My knees did fine on the way going up the hills, but each time we picked our way down every step felt like a sledgehammer descending on my kneecap. Then to our right the canyon walls switched from a loose rock filled cliffs of lifelessness to sheet and layers of orange sandstone. The canyon which according to Tursun was not named could easily have been named Thousand Secrets Canyon due to the layers of the rock looking like faces with the lips open as if their secret had been told long before and we say its aftermath. The rocks looked like frozen faces in the midst of desire to tell someone their secret. Perhaps the only ones that could hear it were people like Tursun, those that had lived their lives amidst their calls.
We rejoined Umit about fifteen minutes later and then the trail flattened and broadened out into a crushed gravel road that we would take for the remainder of our journey. The road was not paved but you could tell that many a machine had treaded it flat. My knees liked this changed immediately and Amy and I picked up the pace. We were basically power-walking and soon Tursun and Umit faded behind a corner. We came to a stop after about 20 minutes where the Arkit met with the main tributaries of the mountain and became the swiftly flowing rapid filled Umaral River. We chatted with a Kyrgyz construction worker in a non running bulldozer while we waited for Umit and Tursun to catch up. When they came around the bend five minutes later Umit once again hopped on his silver pack horse leading Tursun’s horse and crossed the rushing rapid water of the Umaral like a professional. It was like watching a scene out of a Western. We met him on the other side by using a bridge of rebar and then set off again. We soon came to an iron gate that marked the edge of the Talas district. We saw a Niva (a soviet 4x4 that looks like a Yugo with a suspension upgrade) roll past up to us and as they did I noticed rifle barrels sticking up from the laps of two portly Kyrgyz men dressed in fatigue pants and NIKE by Tommy t-shirts. I kept walking hoping that they were going hunting rather than some other purpose.
Once past the gate, the scenery changed from the calm shaded pine forest to the desert taiga that one can find in the mountains of Arizona. Crag filled mountains with splotches of color from wildflowers dotted the hillsides while our road turned from crushed gravel to dust that rose in puffs with every footstep. The only other person that we saw on our way was a small Kyrgyz boy on horseback who could be no older than seven leading a team of four black dairy cows along the road. He stopped when he came to us, put the apple he had been eating in his left hand and leaned down to shake my hand revealing a snaggle toothed grin set off after his cows. I wondered how different American neighborhoods would be if we told our kids to say hi rather than run away from those we didn’t know.
A few minutes later we came upon the first signs of civilization apart from shepherd tents we had seen since entering Sary Chelek Nature Reserve six days ago. It was an abandoned caravanserai built for Soviet officials that would come to the park for game hunting. The stables stood completely empty there only tenants tumbleweeds and dust. The white stucco walls were completely covered in scratched graffiti, giving it a unique and haunting appearance. Each name scratched in its walls had taken with it a bit of the mystery of the caravanserai until it looked as a scar filled corpse of a building of what it once was.
We went on for another half an hour stopping in a glen of high white barked trees called perek that looked and sounded like cylindrical aspens, a fence and an antiquated farmhouse that had plastic as its front windows.
Tursun soon followed us into the glen and with a smile and a deep breath Tursun said, “That’s it. We’ve come.”
“Seriously?” I pondered, “I thought we had to walk another four hours today?”
“No you must not have understood. We only had to walk four hours total today.”
“Then why did we have to get up early?”
“Because of your knees. I thought we would be late for your ride.”
It was over. I felt that I had had the energy to walk all the way to Talas, another 50km down the road from Mediyanet Village but instead we sat down on a bench outside of the house and smoked a cigarette. Shortly thereafter we had our final meal recalling all of the funny moments that had happened along then way.
“So what will you do now Tursun? Rest for a day or so?” I asked.
“No after you leave, I will start back. If I am lucky it should take me about two and half days to get back.”
“You never get tired do you?” I teased him.
“What for? Every step I take is just the same as the one I just made.”
I shook my head thinking that despite his non talkative nature the words that he did say seemed to explain everything about the man. Each day he work and did what he needed to do until sunset, then he woke and did the next days deeds. He just went on and on like the tributaries of the Umaral they are always moving yet never in the same place.
We exchanged addresses and promises of emails and pictures to be sent via the local coordinator network and hugs just before a red Niva pulled up at the gate and a man with a salt and pepper mustache and a beige baseball hat stepped out. He introduced himself as Turdulbek. We would be staying in a yurt at his house that night on the outskirts of Talas.
Talas is a sleepy little town of 34,000 people that is not given more than 20 words of description in the Central Asia Lonely Planet. However, from what we gathered on the ride there Talas was the center of the Maras’s legend including a museum devoted to his life story.
Turdulbek had become the local Talas coordinator two years ago, after the insistence of his daughter (a former FLEX student who now works as a translator in Northern Afghanistan and was home for the summer) that he and his wife attend a development seminar. The seminar conducted by a Swiss NGO had planned routes that he could take and funding to turn his house into a guesthouse suited for international travelers. This summer he had had visitors about four times a week mostly Europeans but also some Chinese anthropologists as well. In his yard along with a well cushioned and pillowed top john he also had a yurt that had been in his family for five generations. This was to be our sleeping quarters for our final night of our trip.
The entire place had the perfect blend of a comfort and tradition and the double stuffed dusheks that we slept on were as comfortable to us as any Hyatt Wonder Bed could have been. After a hearty dinner of chicken over a potato, eggplant, carrot, and rice pilaf I pulled the covers up to my chin and fell fast asleep.

TURKMENBASHI DIES, BUT IMPACT FOR TURKMENISTAN UNCLEAR

2006-12-23T10:38:00.000+04:00

http://www.eurasianet.org/departments/insight/articles/eav122106.shtml

EURASIA INSIGHT
TURKMENBASHI DIES, BUT IMPACT FOR TURKMENISTAN UNCLEAR
12/21/06

To many, it seemed that his rule would never end. But with the sudden death of Turkmen President Saparmurat Niyazov on December 21, Turkmenistan, after over 15 years of authoritarian rule, has finally entered a new chapter in its post-Soviet history that few observers outside of this isolated Central Asian state know how to define or how to predict.

Known as Turkmenbashi ("The Great Head of the Turkmen People"), Niyazov, who ruled Turkmenistan for 21 years, died from cardiac arrest at 1:10am on December 21, according to an official statement released by Turkmenistan’s State Security Council, government cabinet and parliament.

Unnamed sources within the government, however, told the Russian news agency ITAR-TASS that diabetes may have been "the possible cause" of the Turkmen leader’s unexpected death. (Uncontrolled diabetes can lead to complications with the circulatory system. ) In 1997, Niyazov underwent coronary bypass surgery in Germany.

For now, though, the focus within Turkmenistan is on eulogizing Niyazov rather than on the exact cause of the longtime leader’s death. "The glorious years during which the Great Serdar [Leader] ruled the Turkmen people confirmed his heavenly faculty to foresee and his ability to determine priorities," the Russian news agency Interfax reported the government’s statement as saying. "His unique abilities in the art of leading the nation revealed his talent as a diplomat and [as] a wise and humane person."

Niyazov’s funeral has been scheduled for December 24. The late president will be laid to rest in his family mausoleum in the village of Gypjak. The deputy chairman of Turkmenistan’s Cabinet of Ministers, Gurbanguly Berdimuhammedov, is overseeing preparations, according to television broadcasts.

An unnamed official from the Russian embassy in Ashgabat told the news agency RIA Novosti that the channel featured a black-framed portrait of the 66-year-old Niyazov as the announcer elaborated "what he has done for Turkmenistan and the international community."

For outside observers, whether the end of Niyazov’s authoritarian rule will bring any change to Turkmenistan is the key question. Fear of reprisals has pushed political opposition members out of Turkmenistan, and the extent to which such individuals enjoy support within the country itself is unknown.

RIA Novosti reported former Deputy Prime Minister Khudaiberdy Orazov as saying that opposition leaders living abroad may meet "in the next few days to discuss the situation following the president’s death."

"[F]or so long, Niyazov was, in effect, the state of Turkmenistan," commented Michael Hall, Central Asia project director for the Brussels-based International Crisis Group. "The simple fact that this did happen so suddenly, and that there had been no clearly designated successor and the fact that there are really no political institutions that function independently of Niyazov could bring in a period of quite serious chaos and instability in the country."

As of now, however, Hall stressed, "it’s very difficult to say . . . what could happen."

The likelihood of such instability means that the international community may prove cautious in its response to the Turkmen leader’s death, argued Dr. Murad Esenov, the editor-in-chief of the Sweden-based Journal of Central Asia and the Caucasus and an ethnic Turkmen who has published widely about the country. " I don’t see any big players pressuring for change as long as there is stability," he said. "They prefer stability in Turkmenistan."

Article 61 of the Turkmen constitution states that the chairman of parliament will take over the president’s duties if "the President, for some reason, is not capable of meeting her or his obligations." New presidential elections "should be held within two months from the day when the chairman of Mejlis [parliament] takes over the president’s duties."

Few details are known about the current chairman of Turkmenistan’s parliament, Ovezgeldi Atayev. As is the case for all members of parliament, he held his position with Niyazov’s blessing. The constitution, however, states that the person who steps in as acting president "cannot be nominated for the presidency."

"I see no dramatic change in the way the country

is run after the death of Niyazov," commented Esenov, who tapped Deputy Prime Minister Berdymukhammedov, in charge of arranging Niyazov’s funeral, as "the strongest candidate" to be his successor.

The lack of reliable, independent information about Turkmenistan makes political prognoses largely a guessing game, however. In September 2006, the Washington, DC-based non-governmental organization Freedom House ranked the country as having one of the world’s worst human rights records.

The country, which borders on Afghanistan and Iran, is of obvious strategic importance, though Niyazov’s policy of neutrality – represented in an arch in downtown Ashgabat – means that outside alliances have been eschewed. In the months ahead, however, any instability in Turkmenistan could have effects on its neighbors, in particular, fellow post-Soviet state Uzbekistan, with which it shares a 1,621-kilometer border.

The outside world’s interest in the oil and gas this Central Asian state can provide is one of the few indisputable facts. On December 18, just three days before his death, Niyazov met with European Union envoy to Central Asia Pierre Morel to discuss possibilities for transporting Turkmen gas to Europe, state television reported.

Niyazov, first elected president in 1990 when Turkmenistan was a Soviet republic, has overseen a rapid expansion of his country’s energy industry, although, the late president’s tight control over information makes estimates about the actual economic impact of that expansion largely a guessing game. Oil production has doubled since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, a 2005 analysis by the United States Department of Energy says.

Citing the Oil and Gas Journal, the analysis put Turkmenistan’s proven oil reserves at 546 million barrels, but noted that some estimates are still higher. As of 2004, the country had a production rate of 260,000 billion barrels per day; a statistic that Niyazov reportedly hoped to increase to 2 million bbld by 2020, according to the analysis.

Turkmenistan, which borders on Afghanistan and Iran, has some of the world’s largest gas fields, though pipelines from the country are all controlled by Russian energy giant Gazprom. Here, too, after enduring a slump in the early post-Soviet period, official production rates have been steadily climbing. As of 2005, gas exports made up 47 percent of Turkmenistan’s $4.7 billion in exports, and oil 34 percent, according to the US Department of State.

In the long run, control of access to Turkmenistan’s energy resources could determine who is left in control of the country itself, noted the International Crisis Group’s Michael Hall.

"For so long, energy agreements have been signed directly with Niyazov, so there will be all sorts of questions about whether agreements signed will be valid or not," he said, speaking from Bishkek. "If not, there will be an intensive scramble for control [of the resources.]"

The signs of that energy wealth are present throughout the country’s capital, Ashgabad, which, along with other gargantuan state tributes, features a revolving gold statue of Niyazov, as well as a recently opened 54-ride amusement park ("The World of Turkmenbashi Tales") designed to enhance children’s appreciation of Turkmenistan’s history and culture. The late president, a former electrical engineer, has also penned a spiritual guide to Turkmenistan’s history, the Ruhnama, which he asserted would guarantee entrance to heaven for anyone who read the tome aloud three times. The book has become required reading.

For now, no suggestion exists that the successor government will challenge that or any other aspect of Niyazov’s all-encompassing personality cult. In its official statement on Niyazov’s death, the government asserted that "The people of Turkmenistan will continue to pursue the political course of Saparmurat Turkmenbashi at this difficult moment."

Editor’s Note: With reporting by Mevlut Katik.

A new turn for the blog

2006-12-07T10:56:00.000+04:00

For those of you that have been avid readers of this blog, first off, I want to say thank you for your continued support and interest in what is going on in my life here in Turkmenistan and my travels.

You might notice that some of my recent postings have been removed from the blog at this time. The reason is not because of intimidation nor censoring as many might think, but rather I have realized that however truthful that I thought I could be here in this blog,I did not realize that it carries with it certain consequences. Among those being the fact that peoples lives can be adversely affected just by the written word.

That being said, in the future you will begin to see a different type of writing on this site. All of the future stories will be ficitional but based on actual happenings. I do this not only for the safety of those discussed, but also because I do not want to put an only cynical point of view about life in Turkmenistan. In the recent past you might have noticed that most of my writings held with them a lot spite and vinegar at the way things are. I thought at the time that this is the stuff that people wanted or must know about life here in Turkmenistan. However, I forgot that with only writing about these things that I was doing a disservice to all of the good that happens in the everyday life of Turkmenistan. Yes it is there, I just was not looking for it.

So, I guess this is the long way of saying that it might be sometime before I put another posting up on this blog, but it is merely because I am working on story ideas and points of view that are balanced and do not adversly affect those close to me here in Turkmenistan.

I hope that all of you continue to visit this site and pass it along to any and all friends that might find what I write interesting.

Headed to Thailand

2006-11-03T14:06:00.000+04:00

Hi everyone,

I am headed to Thailand for the week. I wish that I could say the trip was solely for vacation, but the way it worked out is that I have what the doctors are calling a subchondrial scilosis in my neck. Basically I have two vertebrate that are pinching together and it is on certain ocassions throughout the day making my left arm go numb.

I wish that I could say exactly what it was that caused it, but I can't. It's been hapenning for over a month now and is very uncomfortable. SO, I am headed to Bangkok to get an MRI done on my neck. I will be flying out in a couple of hours from now in Turkmenistan, and I will be there for a week.

If you would like to know the number and name of the place that I am staying before and after my appointments just email me or you can leave a comment on this page. I plan on checking my email pretty regularly while I am there.

Safe travels and I will let you know what happens as soon as I know.

Thanks for all of your support.

Pictures from Chris' Turkmen Trip

2006-10-25T01:49:00.000+05:00

Chris' package with pictures from his vacation several months ago finally arrived to me here in the States. I'll post some of them below. I don't have much in the way of details for them, so I'll leave it up to him to fill in it in, in another post.

I'll add more photos over the coming days.

The New Desert League

2006-09-01T21:00:00.000+05:00

July 29, 2006
With the sun setting over the pavilion of Merv Stadium, the largest stadium in the Mary region, 100 people, a mixture of fans and basball players anxiously awaited their turn on the field. Tonight was to be a first in the history of Turkmenistan. The first time that two teams from different velayats, Mary and Dashoghuz, would play to determine who had the better baseball team. The Dashoghuz Devils had arrived in Mary the day before and had set up a practice between the two teams. The practice showed that while Mary had more natural talent, the Devils were more experienced.

The soccer game that the players were waiting on, ended with a bench clearing brawl that left five people bleeding and one unconscious. While not happy at the fate of the soccer players, I was somewhat glad that the game was over so we could start ours.

Baseball came to Turkmenistan for the first time with full equipment last year, due to a grant that was written by PCVs of the T-12 class, Chris and Sari Miller. Strangely enough Chris, Sari, and I graduated from the same class in the same high school in Plymouth, MN. Now I found myself a coach of the Mary team in the first actual game between two regions.

The fans of the Mary Sharks, as we were named, came alive when they took the field. A recently returned student from the US had organized a number of girls into a cheerleading fully equipped with pom poms and uniforms to cheer us on with shouts of "Let's go, Let's go, L E T S GO, Let's GO!"

The first batter was the captain of the Dashoghuz Devils, Selbi. Serdar, the pitcher for the Sharks, reared back and lofted a pitch across the plate for strike one. The crowd erupted and waved the signs and posters they had spent the day before making. Selbi wiped some hair away from her brow and step backed for the second pitch. Serdar pushed the pitch just off the outside corner for ball one. The crowd was nearing screeching levels for the third pitch. It came in right at belt level, Selbi swung and connected a quick ground ball right back at Serdar. He scooped it up and tossed it easily to Didar at first for the first out. The Sharks team erupted in celebration with Serdar sliding back into the pitchers mound feet first before the next batter could step in.
Jayhun, stood in, adjusted the helmet that was two sizes too big and waited for the pitch. Serdar greeted Jayhun with two straight strikes. Jayhun, now a bit of a sneer of determination on his lip, stepped in for the third pitch, down in the count 0-2. The pitch came in high and Jayhun swung with a grunt, but the ball fell softly into the glove of the Sharks catcher. The Sharks fans cheered again with the cheerleaders forming a three girl pyramid at the end of the roar.

The Devils sent Shorat, their catcher to the plate. He stepped in and connected on the first pitch for a pop fly back to the pitcher. Serdar steadied himself, got underneath it and caught it for the third out. The Sharks hustled back to the dugout for their first chance at the plate.
As the Devils took the field, their coaches shouted words of encouragement. Serdar stepped to the plate as the lead-off batter of the Sharks. He swung at the first pitch and connected for a line a drive to the Devils' shortstop who scooped it up and sent a frozen rope to first to just get him in time. Anton, the Sharks catcher, came up and worked the count full before nubbing a grounder to the pitcher. Down to their final out of the first inning, the Sharks' sent Didar, the first baseman to the plate. He waited on a chest high pitch and smacked it toward third. The third baseman bobbled the ball and hurried the throw that got past the first baseman advancing Didar to second.

Yukup, adorned with a black headband and sweatband matching the Sharks uniforms, strode to the plate. He watched the first two pitches to an even count of 1-1. The next pitch he connected and drilled a line drive past the pitcher and into centerfield. The Mary fans stood up from their seats and yelled, "Go! Go! Go!" Didar rounded third and headed for home as the centerfielder came in and tossed the ball back to the pitcher. Islam, the Sharks third baseman, grounded out to the pitcher to end the inning with the Sharks on top, 1-0.

The top of the second brought to the plate the Devils right fielder, Arslan. Arslan waited out Serdar and trotted to first as the fourth ball came in high. Arslan advanced to second on a ground ball to the pitcher and third on an overthrow. Thus, with nobody out and runners on third and first, Kakajohn, the Devils left fielder came to the plate. Serdar reeled back and tossed a ball that came over the plate at Kakajohn's eyes. Kakajohn connected, but the ball was a dribbler down the first base line. Didar scooped up the ball and tagged first, but was not in time with his throw to get the runner at home. The scored was tied 1-1 with one out and a runner at second. The next batter, Merjen, swung at the first pitch for a ground ball right back at Serdar, who then tossed it to first for the second out. So with two outs, a runner on third, Bashem came to the plate. He lifted the first pitch for a fly ball into left center field. Yukup jumped at the last moment to try and nab the ball, but misjudged the angle and the ball went bouncing past him. Bashem rounded first and headed for second as Yukup scooped up his mistake and tossed a frozen rope to second. Elena, the Sharks second baseman, caught the ball and just in time put her glove in front of the base to get a sliding Bashem for the third out of the inning. The score now stood 2-1.

The Sharks could not get anything going in the bottom half of the second. They went down in three straight strikeouts.

With the score at 2-1, the Devils came up to bat in the top of the third. Serdar struggled with his control and walked the first two Devils' batters on 10 pitches.

The Devils sent their largest and most experienced player, Arsup, up to the plate. Serdar leaned back and delivered the first pitch for a ball. The second pitch floated right over the plate and Arsup crushed it, a tall screaming line drive into left center field. Sharks' centerfielder, Yukup, made a move on the ball but just missed cutting the ball off. Arsup rounded the bases in a minute making the score 5-1. The Devils added one more run off an errant throw by the Sharks third baseman to make the score 6-1 before the Sharks ended the inning with a strikeout.
The bottom of the third brought up the bottom of the Sharks order. After an infield hit by Shirina, the next three Sharks grounded out to the pitcher.

With the sunlight fading fast, the Sharks took the field for what the umpire said would be the last inning of play due to darkness. After striking out the first two batters, the Devils pitcher, Artum, came up and popped a line drive out to right field that got past, Turi, the Sharks' right fielder. Artum ended up with a stand-up double. Three consequetive singles scored Artum and another Devil to make the score 8-1. The inning ended on a leaping catch catch by Yukup in the fading light.

Before the Sharks took to the plate, they gathered in a circle and said a cheer of "Hits!" The leadoff hitter, Gus, singled down the third base line and advanced to second on an errant throw to first. The Mary Sharks fans woke up and started their cheers anew "Here we go Sharks, Here we go." Serdar grounded out to Artum, the devils pitcher, advancing Gus to third. Anton, the Sharks catcher, came to the plate and connected with a solid line drive that was pegged mid-jump by the Devil's centerfielder. A single by Didar, the Sharks first baseman, scored Gus and brought the score to 8-2. That is where the game ended.

As the awards and certificates were passed out to both teams it was heartbreaking to see the reaction of the Sharks players. They were clearly disappointed with their first-ever performance and watched with frowns as the Devils hoisted up the Tstan Cup. The trophy for the baseball tournament champions.

The Devils, in celebration of their victory, did a lap around the soccer field cheering and yelling out their success at the top of their lungs. This elation and celebration was not unlike that of a team winning the Little Legue World Series or even winning a high school baseball tournament. These kids had never seen a Major League Baseball game, nor did they have the dream of playing under the lights in front of 40,000 screaming fans like that of American kids. These kids were rejoicing because for them they were masters of their sport in their worlds.

So one has to ask, is there more passion in the American Little Leaguer because he one day dreams of playing at the palaces of his heroes, Wrigley, Fenway, or Coors Field, or is the celebration and elation on the players from Dashoghuz more passionate because it is more pure. The answer is that each has its own place in the hearts of the young players turning their normal sedentary lives into those of champions for one night.

I stood on the sideline, consoling the Sharks players, and shaking hands with the coaches from Dashoghuz realizing that we had just made history. I had been in the very first baseball game that had ever been played between two regions in Turkmenistan. While I am not sure that this game will develop into the multi-million dollar franchise that MLB is today, I can say that I was there at the beginning. How many other people in the world who are alive today can say that they were the coach of the first-ever baseball game played in a country. Not many, and I consider it a grand honor to be a part of it.

Magtym and Sveta

2006-07-17T10:32:00.000+05:00

The night is cloudless, cooled by a slight breeze and the stars are brilliantly burning above us. The plastic bags that I carry are filled to the ripping point with potatoes, onions, and tomatoes. Magtym, (my neighbor with whom I play basketball) Azat (Magtym's friend) and Didar, my host little brother, trail behind me struggling with their own bags filled with food and clothes for Batyr, my eldest younger host brother who is about to graduate from University of Ashgabat. We unload the bags into the back of the taxi and load in. We are headed to the train station. Didar is going to visit Batyr for the weekend.

Returning to the train station I cannot help but remember the police officer trying to take the film out of my digital camera after I took a picture of the train the last time I was at this station. The feeling now is one of complete relaxation and a subtle playfulness that prompts me to ask Didar to bring out the frisbee. We spread out and started throwing the Frisbee, back and forth each trying to out due each other as the best catch. Didar's train arrived promptly on time and we loaded the supplies into his cupee. I told him that he was lucky that he didn’t have the one right next to the bathroom. With a final joke and me doing a fake crying episode because he was leaving (which prompted a nearby officer to blow his whistle at me) we headed for the exit. Magtym draped his arm around Sveta’s shoulder while Azat and I trailed behind. Sveta wore a blue tank top and a jean skirt and with a smile and laugh to complete the outfit. Magtym was wearing the typical Turkmen white pointy gator shoes, stone washed jeans and new T-shirt that Didar had let him borrow.

Azat was in the midst of telling me that he wanted to learn English so he could travel to Turkey, when I asked him what he wanted to do in Turkey. He told me that he was going to buy cell phones here and then sell them in Turkey. When I asked him what he was going to do for housing or after he was done selling the cell phones his face was a complete blank. Like so many ideas that I have heard since I have been in Turkmenistan the initial idea is fine its the next step and sustainability that seems to be missing. I wonder if that is a product of the type of day to day life that pervades here, each a step of chores and meals before you sleep and wake up for the next.

We arrived outside of Azat’s apartment, which looked exactly like all of the others that we had past for the previous ten minutes, and exchanged farewells. We headed past a couple of shops and an alleyway. The only people out at 12:30 at night were Turkmen men crouching in alleyways hawking loogies or the occasional pair whose conversation would hush as Sveta, Magtym and I approached.

After we passed the tenth apartment that looked the same as the previous nine, Sveta turned to me and asked what city I had lived in America. I responded Washington DC.

“Is that the only one in the east?” She asked.

“No, there are many cities. Why do you ask?”

Sveta’s bright smile turned down and she brushed a piece of hair from her brow to reveal a deep furrow. She told me that five years ago her mother left for Russia, then three years ago she got a postcard from Washington D.C. with her mother’s signature on it. That is the only thing that she has heard from her mother since she left.

“Do you know her?” she asked.

I took a deep breath and shook my head. I felt like a soldier coming back to my old hometown during a war. People on the street stopping me and asking if I knew anything of their sons and daughters. The weight of their lingering hopes balancing in the air before I would shake my head and the life out of the conversation. This type of secondhand information that is powerful enough to wash out or liberate the hopes of a future reunion is a powerful thing. While the physical danger of losing my life is not present here in Turkmenistan, I can plainly see how Mom and Dad would hang on my every word in my letters home.

We dropped Sveta off at her door at the other end of our apartment complex and headed home.

We passed two vans parked near to one another and from the darkness I heard someone shout my name, “Salaam Chris! Are you good?” There in between the two vans 10 young Turkmen boys were spread out on carpets, pillows and blankets. I paused a bit to exchange pleasantries, trying not to disturb one particularly heavy snoring boy with a glob of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth near the rear wheel axles. I tried to think of any situation in America that you would get to see this. The only one that came to mind was Chris Farley’s old Saturday Nigh Live skit, “A van down by the river.” However, these boys were simply sleeping in the outdoor air and enjoying a summer night in the middle of a dusty courtyard.

Magtym’s and my apartments illuminated by the lights of the neighbors apartments behind them were now fully visible. I saw two shadows standing sentry, gazing out between the bars of their metal porches. Azat, Magtym’s little brother, his arms resting on the crossbars of their first floor patio greeted us with a whispered “Salaam.” A floor above and across the doorway my host mom, her fragile frame silhouetted by the glow of a candle on the top john called out to Magtym and me. After a brief explanation as to why we were close to an hour late in arriving from Magtym, I bid him good night and headed upstairs.

I settled myself onto a pillow and a mattress laid out on the patio by my host mom and told Bazar, my host dad, the story of how we played Frisbee at the train station. He smiled and chuckled a bit when I told him about pretending to cry when Didar left and the police blew a whistle at me. A few minutes past and he headed to bed in the far room of the apartment.

I overheard a hushed but rushed conversation coming from Magtym’s apartment. I stood up, nursing my now swollen ankle, an injury from the nights basketball practice, and walked over to the place where my host mom had only minutes ago stood guard to greet our return. Pasha, Magtym’s mother, was standing over Magtym while he propped himself up on an elbow. Pasha looked up at me and with a huff went back into their house. Magtym got up and followed right after her, swinging the steel door shut with a bang.

I heard Magtym’s raspy shouts coming from inside, “She’s good I tell you! I told you good!” Moments later there was a thump, the sound of a fist hitting a solid piece of wood. Then slightly muffled sniffling and crying came from inside the house. Tears from anger and shock coming at the same time.

The thing about free love in Turkmenistan is that there is no such thing. Turkmenistan for all of its boasting of development, Turkmenbashy glorifications, is still a tribal nation. Thus if a Turkmen son finds a Russian girl that he would like to marry, in some cases the family tells him that he is a disappointment to the family, sometimes with a more derogatory slant toward the girl.

I found myself pondering and understanding a bit of what Magtym must have felt when he slammed his fist into the wood; the disapproval of finding someone that you have loved for two years that your family disapproves of while in your heart you just want them to accept her. It is a story that has been told in every culture in every nation since humankind came together in cities. I lit a cigarette and exhaled, humming the song “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof.

The television was turned on and the volume turned up so loud that I could make out every word that the Altyn Asyr reporter was saying about the days “news.” This reminded of watching a drama of fighting parents that go into the car and turn the radio up so the kids can’t hear the fight but can see as they stand by the bay window watching. This illusion of self-infused separation being a simple matter of semantics.

I found myself wanting to go down to their apartment and start to tell Pasha that she was being restrictive, traditional, and that they loved each other so what did it matter. I knew though that adding fuel to the fire from the American neighbor would only hurt Magtym’s case rather than enrich it. This would not matter if I was fluent in Turkmen or not, it was simply not a problem I could fix.

It occurred to me that the saying, “Don’t hang your dirty laundry where everyone can see it,” seemed duly appropriate. This is a place that for 70 years they were taught to always watch their neighbors, add to this fact the huge percentage of unemployed and housewives with nothing to do but sit around and gossip and you have a place neighbor opinion is as valuable if not more so than personal desire.

I hear a scream in Russian, the smashing of a plate and the slamming of a door, followed by the voices of two Russian women descending the staircase from Pasha’s. It seemed that Sveta’s aunt had been called into the argument on behalf of Magtym. I went once again to the edge of the patio and gazed out. There in the beam of a streetlight a 100 feet from edge of our patio, I see the shrugging shoulders and hear the muffled tears of Sveta. The two Russian women walk back toward the other side of the apartment complex and disappear into the night.

The phone rings inside the house. I get up gingerly and head toward the living room door. I open it into the side of my host mom. I apologize and hand her the phone. She says hello and listens for a bit. She looked at me and I mouthed the word Pasha, she nodded telling me that yes she knew what had happened she had heard it to.

I feel asleep with my journal on my chest trying to recount all of the events that had just happened.

Our Big Fat American Turkmen Wedding: The Idea

2006-07-17T10:18:00.000+05:00

The Idea

One Saturday in late May, the sun beating down outside to the point you could cook an egg on the stones outside, two volunteers (a girl and a guy) from Mary were hanging out, sharing a bottle of vodka. They began to talk about one of the PCV's favorite topics; what they wanted to do before they left Turkmenistan.

"What do you want to do for a going away party?" she asked.

"Why don't we hold a toy?" he responded.

"What? I don’t know, wouldn't that be kind of wrong?"

"No, not if we went through the whole process and told people that it was just going to be a going away party for me."

"So let me get this straight you want to marry someone Turkmen style for your going away party?"

"No, not me, somebody else. Oh and then halfway through the night we could switch it to an American wedding, just to show that it is a cross cultural exchange."

"Sounds good to me. Let's do it. Who am I going to marry?"

"How about the PCV from the next town?"

"Sure."

Throughout the next week, these two volunteers started spreading the word among the PCV community and the local town. He talked to his host family’s uncle’s brother and found a place to have the wedding. She talked to her neighbors cousin and they agreed to rent her the gellen wear and the wedding dress. His host dad found a friend that ran a toy videotaping business to record the event. She bought material for the bridesmaid dresses, a purple and black paisley. He talked to his host mom and neighbors and they agreed to help with the cooking for the wedding. Then they both decided on the date of the wedding Wednesday, June 14th.

For many who read this blog, it might seem strange to have a wedding in the middle of the week. Why not have it on a Saturday when everyone that comes does not have to worry about going to work the next day? The answer here is easy, it doesn’t matter. I have been at toys until past midnight, trading shots with the neighborhood men, some barely able to sit in their chairs. Then the next morning at eight o’clock while I am still trying to get rid of the ringing in my ears as I walk to work, I see them hard at work. The next day is simply that…just the next day.

Despite all of the preparations moving ahead as planned, there was one snag…money. How were the PCVs with our minimal monthly salary pay for a toy for over one hundred people? The savior of the group was a Peace Corps Volunteer that was on her way out of the country, and had some extra money that she had received recently. This $70 was enough to put on the toy.

Now all that was standing in the way of the PCV Big Fat American/Turkmen Wedding is getting the Peace Corps Volunteers to come.

Toys, Toys, and more Toys: A Turkmen Wedding Story

2006-07-05T16:41:00.000+05:00

Our Big Fat American Turkmen wedding

Prologue

This past week marked an occasion that has never been done by PCVs while in service in Turkmenistan, two PCVs got married "sort of" twice in one night. Before I get to what actually happened at the wedding, I want to give you a better idea of what exactly is a Turkmen Toy (Turkmen word for wedding.)

Turkmenistan is a land where tradition and respect for what the elders of the family say carries much more weight than the individual opinion. While this may be true in certain aspects of life, there are still many people within Turkmenistan that fall in love, just as we do in the states, and then decide to get married. However, a majority of marriages here in Turkmenistan are arranged.

Before you jump to the conclusion that this practice is an infringement of personal freedom, think about something that one of my Turkmen friends recently said to me, "You, in America have so many marriages that end in divorce. The thing is that you in America you get to know the person, fall in love with them and then you get married. Then when you think that you no longer love that person it is time to move on. But here, there are many people that get married and then learn to fall in love with the person they married." I am not advocating either way, I just want to give you both sides of the story.

So the way, at least that I have learned that Turkmen men and women get married is the process that follows. A guy, depends on the age but generally ranges anywhere from 21 to 26 meets a girl that they like and then tells his parents. Oh keep in mind, that younger male siblings can not get married before the elder males do. There have been a couple of instances, like that of my host grandmother and grandfather from training that loved each other so much that they ran off together despite the feelings of their family. This resulted in much like a member of the Amish community choosing to live outside of the community, they were ostracized and left with nothing but what they had with them. Tales like this of romantic runaway newlyweds are far and few between here in Turkmenistan. However, there are many cases where both the girl and the guy want to get married, but in most cases that I have seen while here, the girl usually has to hide her feelings for the one that she loves unless the family approves of her marriage. Many times girls have to keep their boyfriend(s) secret from their family so as not to destroy the image of the virtuousness and cleanliness as a woman.

I find it interesting the reactions of Turkmen when I tell them that I am going back to the US in December because my little brother is getting married. Usually, I get a shake of the head as if telling me, those crazy Americans what will they do next.

Anyways, so after the eldest available son tells his parents that he is interested in a girl, the parents arrange a meeting with the girl's parents. At this meeting or interview as I like to call it, the parents talk about the traits of both the girl (can she cook, does she know how to keep house, etc.) and the guy (does he have a job, if so what type of a job, what type of car does he have, etc.) After it is agreed upon that the girl and the boy both have desirable traits for one another, the bargaining begins. Depending on the grooms family and the bride the initial price can range anywhere from $2,000 to $5,000+. This includes the dowry itself as well as jewelry and other possessions that the bride's family asks for, usually it is furniture or a car of some sort.

There are many that may think that the practice of giving a dowry or more blunt terms "buying" a bride is a way of subjugating women. However, if you think about it that the bride is a valuable work force around the house add to that the bride will be living with the grooms family and add to that this practice has been in place for centuries its a bit easier to understand why it happens.

After the price is settled, the planning for the wedding begins. The planning for a wedding is very similar to that of an American wedding. They have to find a place to have the wedding, usually this is at a Toyzal (translated into wedding center, but really its a banquet hall reserved for toys), finding someone to document the wedding, reserving the brides dress and preparing the food. You will notice that I did not include the finding of a preacher or justice of the peace to administer the wedding, this is because in Turkmen weddings there is no exchange of vows or the saying of "I do." But I am getting ahead of myself.

The dress of Turkmen weddings is something to behold. Several days before the wedding the bride must wear the traditional Turkmen bridal dress called "gell'en." The dress consists of a brightly patterned, but thick dress and vest and huge amounts of jewelry. The bride wears, gold or sometimes silver arm length bracelets, a circular necklace the size of a small dinner plate that hangs from their neck, and a crown of silver and beads sometimes weighing as much as ten pounds on their head. All told, the jewelry can weigh up to twenty pounds. Then on top of the crown, the bride must wear a heavy brightly patterned shawl. The end effect is that due to the weight on top of their head the brides heads are pulled forward and toward the ground in a pose of humbleness.

When the bride arrives at the grooms families house she is walked through a corridor that is adorned with fertility flags and celebration signs marking that the house/apartment will be the scene of an upcoming wedding. The bride is then put into a room, where she can only be attended by her bridesmaids and the women of the grooms family. The idea behind this practice is that, the bride must remain isolated to make certain that she remains untainted by the wandering eyes of men that might pass through the house. Thus keeping the bride virtuous and clean.

The day of the wedding is something that proves to me that Turkmen communities are much closer than that of many American communities. The day starts with the women of the bride's family going around to the neighbors and asking the women to come help them prepare the feast. The neighborhood women respond in droves and descend on the house to help cook the mountains of plov (sometimes as much as 20lbs), the gallons of chorba (an oily soup filled with potatoes and meat), and salads for the toy that evening.

Then it is time for the toy procession. This is something that defies words and can truly only be understood once you see it, but I will try to describe it the best that I can. Basically, the procession consists of anywhere from six to sometimes as many as 15 cars with the passengers hanging flags out of the windows and honking and passing each other as much as possible while taking a driving tour of the city. There are no rules as to how many lanes this procession takes up, sometimes it includes two of the lanes of oncoming traffic. In the middle of the procession is the car, wrapped up in ribbon and wrapping paper making it similar to a giant Christmas present, that transports the bride and groom to the picture sites.

The actual taking of pictures is something that Turkmen and American weddings share. However, while American wedding pictures are generally taken in a place where nature adds to the beauty of the bride and groom, Turkmen wedding pictures are taken in front of the cities favorite monuments sometimes if there is enough time, they pose (not smiling out of respect for the tradition and the family) in front of giant landscapes of tropical backdrops of Hawaii like beaches or scenes of waterfalls that have a permanent place in front of the monuments for that exact purpose. The bride has traded in her gell’en wear for a bridal dress that is very similar to that of American brides. After the pictures are taken the bride and groom head to the Toyzal.

The bride and groom are then greeted by a soundtrack of Turkmen music blaring from the speakers and everyone in the room clapping in unison. I have even seen some toys were the bride and groom were proceeded by Turkmen girls waving sparklers. The set up for a Turkmen Toy depends on the setting, but without doubt there are five things that must be present:

1. There are no RSVP or Invitation only toys. Anyone that wants or hears about the toy can come and enjoy. This results in that everyone that knows someone related to the bride or groom can come. Thus resulting in entire neighborhoods coming to the toy, which from what I have seen results in no less than 300 people attending.
2. The men and women sit separately. The tables in which the women sit are filled with silently clapping and smiling Turkmen women, girls, and grandmothers. The tables in which the men and young guys sit are filled with vodka, cognac, toasts, cigarette smoke, and a lot of backslapping.
3. The bride and groom sit at a table in the front of the room and out of respect for the family are not smiling or trying to smile or express any emotion. The table is adorned with gifts from the visitors (stereos, vodka, fruit baskets, tea sets, unopened boxes, etc.)
4. There is a band of musicians (at the expensive toys) or lip-synchers that is set up in a corner at the front of the room that blares out a mixture of Turkmen traditional wedding songs and Turkmen/Russian pop songs.
5. There is a toast master, or MC, that introduces every break in the music with shouts of “Very good! Congratulations!” and introduces the next line of toast givers to the married couple.

After the entrance of the bride and groom, they dance. However, Turkmen dancing is completely different from an American wedding reception. In American receptions the bride and the groom lead the first dance and then the DJ or band plays a mix of rock, pop, or whatever type of music requested along with a couple of the classics (The Electric Slide, The Chicken Dance, etc.). In Turkmen toys, the bride stands in the middle of a circle of her girlfriends and they dance around her, since she out of respect for the families cannot show any expression. After the song is completed the groom takes his term standing in the middle of his guy friends as the dance around him celebrating the marriage. Once each of the groups of friends dance the bride joins the groom on the dance floor and they share a dance that makes a middle school dance look intimate. This is the last time that the bride and the groom will share the dance floor together.

The remainder of the night is filled with guys dancing with each other in a circle, the girls in another separate group, and toasts from anyone and everyone that wants to wish the couple well. Being an American, I am always asked to give a toast to the bride and groom both in Turkmen and then in English, regardless of the fact that 99 percent of the audience will not understand the latter. My favorite toast to give is, "Saglyk bolsun, Bagtly bolun, Agzerbirlik bolsun, we Kop Chagalar Bolsun," which roughly translates to "Good health, Much happiness, Long life, and many children."

At the end of the night, as the men stagger out and away from the Toyzal while the women of the toy gather up the children and help clean up the Toyzal.

The day after the wedding ceremony there is something that is called the stealing of the bride. Personally, I have not been privileged to see this ceremony, mostly because it is not something that men are allowed to see. From what I understand, the unwed women of the grooms family travel to the brides house. There awaiting them are the married women of the brides family. Then it is truly like Wrestlemania, middle aged Turkmen women full out wrestle and throw each other to the ground in order to get to the bride. The married women almost always win due to the weight difference between the two groups, but more importantly this part of the ceremony represents the passage and struggle the new bride faces from transferring from a girl to a newlywed woman.

For the next forty days, the bride in order to pay respect to her new family stays in the house. She can receive guests, but as a matter of respect she must ask the host father and mother-in-law if she can leave the house. Only after this period is she considered to be a member of the family.

AIDS/HIV at 25

2006-06-21T13:01:00.000+05:00

It has been 25 years since the discovery of HIV/AIDS and it still remains that the best way to educate and learn from each other is to communicate. The following is piece that I wrote for the Ogilvy Public Relations AIDS @ 25 blog. If you would like to add your own piece or read what other communication professionals think, go to http://aids25.ogilvypr.com

While I worked at OPR last year, I was privileged enough to be able to work on the HIV Vaccine Awareness Campaign. The ability to educate and teach people about the HIV campaign through all different types of media was to me part of my job that enriched my life. Not only was the work fascinating and interesting, it gave me a sense of satisfaction that was addictive. The feeling you get when you help someone. I wanted more of that type of feeling....so what did I do? I joined the Peace Corps.

It is truly unfortunate that many people are beginning to lose their passion toward the urgency of finding a cure for AIDS. The fight has lost its luster. I would like to say that in many places the fight has not even begun. Currently, I am a Peace Corps Volunteer in Turkmenistan. According to my job description I am a Teacher of English as a Foreign (TEFL), but that title does little justice to the diversity of work that I have done here in Turkmenistan. Turkmenistan officially recognizes that yes AIDS and HIV exist. They also officially recognize that there has been one death in the past ten years because of the disease.

While the penchant for statistic spinning may be prevalent what I find amazing are the doctors that work in my city that work at the AIDS Center. These doctors go out on weekly training seminars and trips and talk to students, government officials, policeman, and other doctors. They also offer free and anonymous testing for patients that want to come in and be tested. I have been visiting this center once a week for the past six months and I have seen a total of five patients walk in the door. Why you may ask would you acknowledge a disease but not admit there is a problem? I don't have the answers.

What I do have are classes of young men and women where we discuss the dangers of HIV and what they could do to help. In a land where most of the media either comes from Russia or the state owned channels and the internet is sparse mass communicating to people is difficult. So how did these kids get their message out? They hit the pavement, and went to classrooms, orphanages, homeless shelters, they talked to people on the street, went to the bazaars and asked if people knew about AIDS. All told the ended up talking to over 200 people in the span of two days. These 200 people know now more about HIV and why it is important for them to know about how to protect themselves.

It may seem like a struggle that some in the states now take for granted, but if I can change the habits of just one child, young person, or sex worker I will consider all of my work here in Turkmenistan a success.

Whether it happens in my lifetime or in the next, the cure for HIV is absolutely essential, and I am proud to be able to say that I am working toward finding it.

Summers in Turkmenistan

2006-06-05T16:03:00.000+05:00

6-4-06

Summers in Turkmenistan

What is Turkmenistan like in the summer?

The mornings are cool until about 7:00 am when you wake up in a hot sweat.

It’s women in white head scarves with just a slit for their eyes sweeping the dusty streets, watering the flowerbeds around the Turkmenbashy statues, and painting the curbs in white a black with a sponge.

It’s Turkmen men sitting under an old pagoda, smoking cigarettes while playing chess and the Turkmen version of backgammon making the board snap with the crack of the die against the edges of their wooden boards.

It’s old Russian grandmothers donning purple parasols, pink faces, smiles of gold teeth, and bottleneck glasses standing by the side of road waiting for the next broken windshield van.

It’s sipping fountain sodas made from syrup and mineral water made in front of you for two cents.

It’s Turkmen boys in their underwear swimming in the chocolate brown canal water while their friends try to pelt them with the pebbles from the shore.

It’s caramel colored little girls with puff balls of shiny silver mesh adorning their pigtails, skipping along hand in hand eating the Turkmen ice cream that doesn’t melt.

It’s pick up soccer games in sandals and bare feet with a flat ball in the courtyard until 11:00 at night. Shouts of young boys saying, “Pass it to me! Look! Hey stupid, what are you doing?”

It’s old Turkmen women, bent over from a life of sweeping and cleaning with hand brooms sitting on the cracked sidewalk selling cigarettes, gum, and sunflower seeds.

It’s middle-aged women adorned in Turkmen traditional dresses with bright colors, colorful patterned collars, and head wraps selling fresh plums, cherries, and apricots out of buckets in the shade of the freshly painted curbs of the street.

It’s the rotting smell of sewage coming from the same drain that a woman with tangled hair, is washing her family’s clothes.

It’s the occasional whiff of burning trash.

It’s a walk home from work through an alleyway where the smell of lilacs wafts to my nose.

It’s sitting out on the family metal porch on carpets trading anecdotes and vodka shots.

It’s playing basketball where the hoop is a piece of sheet metal with a metal ring of rebar for the rim.

It’s the occasional meal at a restaurant with a luke warm beer, underneath a pavilion of grape vines, sashlik kabob cooking nearby over an open flame while you share stories with other Peace Corps Volunteers of what has happened in the past week.

It’s wedding season. Caravans of white Toyota Camries wrapped up in ribbon like a giant Christmas present, honking and speeding past each other and taking up all three lanes of the avenue. The bride, with the traditional carpet over her head, and her party pose for pictures without smiles in front of a plastic scene of Hawaii. A statue of the only “acknowledged” Turkmen poet Magtymguly rising up behind them and a child in a long since broken big wheel is seated in front of them.

It’s Turkmen yelling from half a block away “Chang-uh Dollar?!”

It’s a walk through the park where couples of young Turkmen men and women crouch on benches and lean on trees smooching, necking and snookering since they can not do anything at home.

It’s rides on the rusty Ferris wheel where the enthralling part of the ride is not the view from the top, but the thought that the groaning coming from the gears will be the last thing that you ever hear.

It’s classrooms, with rows of plywood chairs bolted to the floor, the light blue paint chipping off, where teachers sip endless cups of tea and chat about the hard work they are doing.

It’s sitting on carpets in the courtyard in the evening with raisin, dark cherry faced Turkmen elders with sparse beards down to the middle of their stomachs remembering the memories of those that have passed.

It’s reading letters over and over again in the post office while you wait for permission from the manager that your mail meets approval and you can leave with your mail.

It’s the midday heat that can reach 110 and stay hot until the sun sets at 9:00 pm where all you want to do is sleep.

It’s shaving you head with your friend so you can finally feel cooler from the heat.
It’s dust storm sunsets; beige, fascinating and stinging. Turkmen boys, with scarves on their faces, smacking the rumps of their camels and cows to hurry them back along the road to their pens as the sand blows in sideways.

It’s the neighborhood Turkmen kids knocking on the door of my apartment, then running away squealing with laughter when I answer.

It’s sweating through your shirt thirty seconds after you walk out the door.

It’s reading back copies of New Yorkers, sipping on freshly made coffee, while listening to Bob Dylan on my ipod delaying making the lesson plans for next week.

It’s teenage soldiers in uniforms three sizes to big for them polishing the golden bust of the President Turkmenbashy statues.

The evening brings on a coolness and with it the mosquitoes or chibin as they are named, that you have to brush away with a dish rag.

It’s realizing that this strange place that just a few months and another lifetime ago you thought that as the end of the earth is now your home.

What do you think? Does it sound like something that you might want to experience?

Travel writers

2006-06-05T15:58:00.000+05:00

Dust devils swept through the courtyard lifting up the discarded sunflower seeds left from a night of crouching young Turkmen men. I sat on the top john, the sound of Beck's Sea of Change album, emanated from my nearby computer, sipping a cup of freshly made coffee. I turned my attention away from the most recent dust devil that had sent a young Turkmen boy running away, howling with laughter and asked Stephanie, "Do you consider yourself an ex-pat already?"

She looked up from her magazine let out a sigh and responded, "I can't see myself living in America anytime soon."

"Me too," answered another PCV.

"Me too," replied another in Russian.

"Why so?"

"When I was back in the states I began to realize there was a part of me that the whole time couldn't wait to get back to Turkmenistan," she answered. Stephanie recently spent a month back in the states because her mother was going through chemotherapy and helping her father around the house.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah, because I realized that there was nothing there for me. That this time in my life I am supposed to be in Turkmenistan."

I nodded and took another sip of my coffee. For one that considers himself a novice when it comes to living abroad, I understood her point. When I first came to Turkmenistan there was the awe and appeal of something completely and utterly new and different. Ashgabat was a city that looked like Oz, which streets immaculately swept, gold grinning statues guarded by teenage soldiers with black and white striped sticks. Through training it was a challenge to see how far I would go as a person and as part of the community. Then in the past six months, there has been a battle within myself at many moments when I felt an isolation like no other that I had felt before. I knew that I was not happy here in Turkmenistan, but that I could not go home. While my parents told me over the phone that I could come home if I wanted. There was a part of me that knew that would be giving up. Plus, what would I be going home to, my mom and dad's house in Arizona, my friends in DC whose writing has dwindled to a mere trickle, no job and no idea where I would go next.

One might say that there are moments like that in the states when it feels that the only decisions that you have to make are tough life altering ones. The difference, apart from being in a land a thousand miles away, is that Peace Corps is in itself not solely a humanitarian venture. It is a personal journey to see how far you can go. Conversations with numerous volunteers will let you know that their primary reasons for coming to Turkmenistan are not to help people, while that is certainly the means to an end, but to travel to places that few have been to before, to truely live in another culture and find out the way that they live, or in my case it was a challenge to my self. Like the saying goes, "There is no such thing as an unselfish act."

However, recently I have begun to feel comfortable in knowing that I do not have to have a plan for the rest of my life yet. While other PCVs are headed off to grad school, jobs in Russia or Europe a great majority will head back to the states and have to decide what they will do for the rest of their lives. There is a strange sense of comfort now that I could only describe as serene that fills my days. Perhaps this is the point in the cycle of a PCV's service where things just seem to fall into place. While your language ability might still be developing, you are no longer struggling with finding the right word in the normal stream of conversation and the frustration that used to accompany not understanding what someone says is replaced with a shrugg and a slight smile of non-understanding.

"I also realized when I got off the plane, just how far I had come in six months," she continued.

"It took you going home to realize that?" asked one of the volunteers sticking their out the door to the patio.

"Yes. I mean we can all pat ourselves on the back for getting through training and accomplishing our projects and what not...but I did not realize just how far I had come until I started to have conversations with people back home."

"So what did you tell them," I asked.

“The big man, the situation and what the day to day life is like.”

“What did they think?”

“They couldn’t even begin to contemplate what this place was like.”

I took a long sip from my cup, lit a cigarette and nodded. There are moments I see on a daily basis that makes you want to sit down and write about what happened and tell everyone that you know about it. The hard part is actually sitting down and writing that letter or the journal entry. For the past month I have not written much, a few isolated things here and there, and for a person that finds a sense of therapy with unraveling tales of the day, it was somewhat disheartening. But, this is perhaps the best way that people back in America can understand what your life is about, because for all tense and purposes every PCV no matter where they are becomes a travel writer. In their letters home they begin to give dashes of paint to an ever evolving canvass of the land in which they are living. Some tell of recent escapades with other Peace Corps Volunteers, some tell of problems with their host family or counterparts, some send postcards or trinkets, but like all good travel novels they make the reader want to see that place for themselves rather than relying on the writer.

If there are things that you have picked up about Turkmenistan since you have read this blog, please let me know about them. I would love to hear your comments.

Gokche Serenade

2006-05-30T20:01:00.000+05:00

Last week, Dave Fossum and I went to visit our training family in Gokche. I had not visited since March when I brought their Christmas presents three months late. We walked through the cracked and muddied streets, the odor of burning trash wafted into our noses. Dave brought along his dutar and began to tune it while I answered the barrage of questions from Dariya and Hoshgeldi. Yeah, Mary was going all right, I had a lot of work that was keeping me busy, including William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, and yes, my new family is treating me well.
With the inquisition done for the time being, Dave began to play the dutar. He started with a piece about the winds of the desert outside of Gok Depe. The music was sinewy, lonesome, haunting, lush, joyous and filled with a beautiful melancholy all at the same time. When he finished we applauded and asked him when and how he had learned the instrument. Dave currently lives in Serdar, a town of 30,000 that appears out of the desert just passed a checkpoint. Serdar is the type of town that truly reminds you that you are in Turkmenistan, the empty dusty streets are lined with broken shacks advertising cigarettes or ice cream. It is the type of town that I imagined I might live in when I first heard that I was coming to a land where 90 percent of the country was desert. Dave met a teacher who had recently been left unemployed due to funding cuts for his school. The music that this teacher taught was not the all praising the glorious leader of Turkmenistan that you hear and see on Altyn Asyr. This was the music that was played in back rooms of chai houses or quietly amidst a roaring sashlik fire under Soviet rule. This was the music that had been passed down through the generations of Turkmen from father to son, teacher to student. This was the music that told you more about the Turkmen people than a month of acculturation classes would teach you. This was Turkmenistan. Wind-swept, lonesome, passionate, a beautiful melancholy filled with belief in the sadness of great stories, that drifted from one town to the next on the dirt devils and on the backs of camels, donkeys, and by foot. It was history resurrected and put on a sensual platter that left me warm and full, like after Thanksgiving dinner.
Dave played song after song of the great dutar players that he knew. He played the most famous Turkmen piece and the story behind it. I apologize that I cannot recall the name of the song or artist. A dutar player falls in love with a girl in his youth. Then he heads off to fight in the last great war, WWII. When he returns from fighting proudly for his homeland he comes back to his dutar and begins to play at weddings in the surrounding towns and villages. One day he comes to a house that looks vaguely familiar for the wedding of a local successful businessman. When the bride and groom arrive, he realizes that the woman getting married is the love of his youth. He meets her eyes and a deep sigh from here is all he needs to know that she recognizes him too. He then plays a sad love song that talks of the desert sands and stars taking his heart away to the lonely moon. Halfway through the song, Hoshgeldi began to sing along. He started with a low murmur that soon filled to a ear splitting twang that made Nyda (the family’s dog) go hiding under the top john. However, it didn’t matter if the song was sang in tune or not, Hoshgeldi was singing from his heart and I was privileged to be able to see it happen. Truly laying your heart out in public whether through song, emotion, or dance was something that was as rare to Turkmen as a prom without heightened expectations from young men and women.
I passed the next half an hour goofing around with my host brother Yhlas, while Dave engaged in some name dropping of dutar players with Dariya. Enebay, then made her appearance from the back seat of the family’s Lada that had just pulled into the driveway. Dave and I each gave her hugs and tried to calm her down a bit so we could understand her questions. I poured all of us cups of tea and Dave retuned his dutar. In the middle of his second set, during a piece about a desert race on the Ah Teke horses, Enebay asked Dave if he would play the Turkmen lovers song that I have already described. The second time was even better than the first. Dave seemed to entrance not only himself but also the rest of us listening. Thankfully, for the sake of the moment, Hoshgeldi didn’t try a repeat performance. After the song was done, she began to tell Dave and I about what it was like during the Soviet times and the musicians. She went on a tear. She told us of cafes that she and Kakam (our host father) used to go to every Friday night to hear the great dutar players. Gok Depe, is a city that like DC and jazz in the 30s, was the epicenter of all of the great dutar players in Turkmenistan. She told us that musicians didn’t make anything back then, because national music was banned under Soviet rule. However, when I asked her if it was better then or now her response surprised me. She said it was better to have real Turkmen music even if you had to risk being caught, than the pompous glory praising music that is now played on all of the radio and television stations in Turkmenistan. From what I could glean from the next couple of minutes she went on a tear about one musician who was now playing for Tstan television and how he didn’t even deserve the bones that the dogs chewed on.
It seems that there is a point in every PCVs service, where people finally shed the coat of promotion and tell you what they actually think of the state of events here. For me, it has always been unexpected, when someone decides to confide in me. It comes out of the blue and usually takes me numerous times of them repeating what they are saying before I can get the actual meaning of what they are saying. I guess you could mark this as a type of milestone. When you are no longer considered a guest, but a part of the family or community, is when life here seems to get a bit easier. The stares are no longer readily apparent, at least not close to your home or place of work and there is subtle comfort in knowing that everyone in the neighborhood knows you. It seemed as if this night was the one in which our host mom decided that I was part of their family.
Before I go any further, I should give you all a better idea of how guests and families are viewed here in Turkmenistan. Guests have priority over everyone, no matter the age of sex, the guest is the most important person within any social situation. We in America, tend to use this belief during business, "The costumer is always right," but don’t seem to make it as blatant during our social interactions. Next in order are the following: the eldest male (grandfather, etc.), the eldest female, the eldest male sibling, the rest of the male siblings, and then the female siblings in descending order of age. While for us, this seems very sexist and patriarchal it is in essence merely a cultural difference. Granted it is a large one, but the person that is the most involved in the family day to day life is the eldest female. So in essence, while the power structure by appearance seems to be patriarchal it is in actuality a matriarchy.
This night was an eye-opener to the fact that I now am a member of two families, each a half a world apart. I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face and a warming sense of gratitude for being able to be present tonight no matter that my Turkmen has gotten better or the fact that I don’t play the dutar. I was a member of an extended family and the comforting feeling of being home while being half a world away is something that I never would have thought possible until I came here.

More Pictures of Chris! And It's Not in a Turkmen Train Bathroom!

2006-04-26T01:55:00.000+05:00

So Schirm sent me some more photos, and I've finally got them scanned and now posted...with his ever-witty cut-lines. Miss ya bro! J.

On top of a crane 150 feet up off the ground. The crane is just outside of a PCV's apartment. Why did we climb it? To quote Sir Edmund Hillary, "Because it's there!"

PCV Katie Critchell and I goofing off before Russian class

Host dad, host dad's friend, and me at my birthday celebration

American Corner Staff and PCVs, From Left to Right

Turkmenabout AC - Dashoguz -

Richard (PCV), Nina, Layla and Ginny (PCV), Albina (boss), and ME

The Midnight Train to Ashgabat

2006-04-25T06:40:00.000+05:00

Last month, two other volunteers and me needed to come into Ashgabat and decided to take the train. When we arrived at the train station at 11:00pm, hundreds of Turkmen occupied the seats with either themselves or their plastic "dayza bags". Seeing the futility of waiting for one of the Turkmen to get up we headed outside to wait.
The night had a bit of chill to it and the scene that met us was one out of the movies. A rusty and dingy freight train waited on the far tracks and reminded me of almost every WWII movie I have seen. It could have been the train or the multitude of soliders and policemen who were roaming the platform that made me a bit apprehensive.
Nevertheless, being the PCVs that we were, we wanted to capture the moment. We took out our cameras and snapped a couple of shots of the train and the surrounding Turkmen.
Our presence did not go unnoticed at the station, as people passed by we were greeted with open mouthed stares. One poor child, a Turkmen boy who looked to be about 5, actually walked into a pole while he was looking at us.
The train's arrival was announced by a woman's voice crackling over a speaker that I had only seen in movies before, a giant rusty bullhorn on top of a 40 foot pole, giving off a cracking sound before and after the announcement. The train had arrived exactly as scheduled at 11:30 pm.
We waited for our turn to board the train as bags and children were passed up the steep steps. The first thing that hit me upon boarding was the prominent smell of urine. The cabins were placed on the left of a narrow hallway, already crowded with kids, bags of vegetables and Turkmen men hanging out the windows smoking.
I glanced at my ticket and then at the bunk numbers ascending from 20 in our car. I saw 6-8 people crammed into each cabin along with all of their belongings which made the cabins look more like closets of people than of actual sleeping areas. The closer I got to our cabin the worse the smell became, until I finally realized that our cabin was right next to the toilet. The smell was absolutely foul and I was certain that it wasn't just my American nose that thought so. Two Turkmen men headed toward the Ukraine had hankerchiefs over their noses as they sat and talked on the bottom bunk of our cabin.
The train began to roll, much like the complaints of the smell from my fellow PCVs. Having to rush to make the station on time, I did not have the time to properly relieve myself before we left and the thought of holding it for eight hours did not seem humanly possible. I hopped down from the top bunk, told my fellow PCVs that I would be back and stepped out of our cabin.
With a deep breath and a bit of courage, I opened up the toilet door.
The sight that I saw was unlike anything that I have seen in my life. The toilet was not so much a toilet as a rusty steel basin that had a hole that led directly to the tracks below. The floor had a brown sludge that I could only hope was dirt from people's shoes.
Just as I had steadied myself on a part of the tile that didn't seem to have any brown on it, I remembered one of the unique Turkmen superstitions. According to Turkmen lore, ladies of all ages should not go to the bathroom directly over the hole for the toilet because it will make them infertile. This tale, and the uneven sways of the train over the 50 year old track, made me realize that I was now in possibly the nastiest toilet in the world.
A minute later I emerged from the bathroom and stuck my head out the open train window, grateful for the fresh air. I took a couple of deep breaths and noticed that the stars of the midnight train were clearer than any I had seen since being in Turkmenistan.
The rest of the trip continued much like the first hour, with the notable exception, of course, of not having to go to the bathroom again and my fellow travelers gradually slipping off to sleep as the train made its slow ascent toward Ashgabat. We arrived in Ashgabat at 8:30am and I think for the first time in our lives we were thankful to breathe in city air that didn't leave a smell of urine in our noses.
Now some may say that I am biased or somewhat unfair in my judgement of the train from Mary to Ashgabat, but in case you needed a second opinion I have one. Recently, acclaimed travel writer Paul Theroux came and visited the American Corner in Mary. Paul has written numerous books where he traveled as far as one possibly could on a train starting in Europe and ending in Instanbul. We had a chance to go out to dinner with him after his brief presentation to our students. When I asked him what he thought of the train from Ashgabat to Mary, he said that it was one of the most unique and vile trains that he had ever been on.
So there you have it ...the midnight train to Ashgabat. I doubt that Gladys Knight and the Pips would have had much to sing about if instead of their "Midnight Train to Georgia" they would have been riding along next to the Turkmenistan Peace Corps Volunteers on their way to Ashgabat.

Almaty: Refreshment and Envigorating in the same breath

2006-04-06T23:33:00.000+05:00

Almaty is a city that is completely and utterly refreshing than Turkmenistan. Sarah and I spent the majority of our first day of travel on airplanes or stuck in the Moscow transit terminal and apart from a taxi driver who completely ripped us off when we first arrived the trip has been refreshing and energizing.

While I have not been able to travel and see all of the surrounding areas that I might have wanted if I was here on vacation, it is absolutely refreshing to be in an actual city where people do not stop and stare as you walk past. The one thing that Sarah and I both found that was remarkable was the amazing amount of civilization. We saw Panfilov park and walked around the city of Almaty, which I would compare to a cross between Reno, Washington DC, and Boston.

As we toured the Zeloni Bazaar, not only was I amazed with the amount of food that had taste, but the friendly nature of the people or the wide aisles that actually allowed you to walk through without rubbing up against the 75 year old babushkas, but the fact that I never felt like I had to be on guard about being robbed, swindled, gawked at, or clicked at from the locals that dont approve of our shoes.

The conference participants themselves are PCVs and FLEX alumni from Tajikstan, Turkmenistan, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, and Kyrghzstan with the training staff being mostly Americans that have either lived in Russia or are currently living in Russia.

The one thing that I noticed above all was the inate curiousity of other PCVs about Turkmenistan. Much like people that are still back in the states and have only heard the rumors of the land that we have chosen to serve two years of our lives in, I got questions about the somewhat odd and illogical nature of Turkmenbashy and the Tukrmen culture. I felt a certain amount of respect, that I never felt while being in country. Even the FLEX alumni and PCVs from Azerbaijan (another country in the watches of KGB) were amazed when I told them some of the stories of Turkmenistan.

Sarah and I came to a unanimous decision that if we were to serve in Kazakhstan and our hub sessions were in Almaty it would be a completely different service than being in Turkmenistan. Not that the service is without its challenges, but that you could come to a major city were the terms "customer service" still exist and thrive.

I hope to bring back a number of pictures to Turkmenistan to show you where we are staying and what we have experienced, but more importantly I will take back with me to Tstan a renewed sense of energy and drive that I could slowly sense slipping into a bitterness into my life in Tstan. This revival of energy is due in part to being part of a conference that not only is informative but also very practical and helpful in my day to day to life.

The actual Paradox of time attribution

2006-03-21T15:36:00.000+04:00

So my friend Jason Forget was apparently deceived when he sent me the words of the past post. If you click on the link below, you can find out that the words written is an essay that is called "Paradox of our Time" and was written by a preacher.

http://www.snopes.com/politics/soapbox/paradox.asp

Slow Down, Step Back, Don't Forget to Live

2006-03-19T20:04:00.000+04:00

Unlike other posts that I have made recently, I would like to take some time to convey some words to you that were recently sent to me from a Mr. Jason Forget.

While the author of these words is by many considered to be the definition of crass, infantile, but always passionate, he finds a unique way of presenting a great deal of truth within such a short article. It is something that not only teaches but reminds us all of the way this world might be headed and that while many of these things strike disheartingly true there is a way for each one of us to find something that we do instead of only talk about it. Can you guess who wrote it? You'll find out.

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less.

We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive to fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.

We talk too much, love too seldom and hate too often. We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life but not life to our years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things. We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill.

It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight or just hit delete.

Remember to spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever. Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side. Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only reassure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, "I love you" to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside you. Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again. Give time to love, give time to speak, and give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.

And ALWAYS REMEMBER: Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

-George Carlin-

On my way to Almaty

2006-03-03T12:56:00.000+04:00

Hi everybody,

Happy Peace Corps Day everybody (March 1st)! On this day in 1965, JFK made his famous speech of “ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country,” and started Peace Corps. The very first country that had PCVs was Ghana, on the west coast of Africa. Anyways, this morning we had ambassadors from the US, Pakistan, Afghanistan, UK, and Georgia show up as well as numerous directors
of NGOs to help us celebrate and learn about the start of Peace Corps.

I have fantastic news! Today I found out that I was selected to a Pre-Departure Orientation Leader for the (Future Leaders Exchange) FLEX students. Basically what this means is that another volunteer and me well be preparing and orientating around 60 kids for their departure to the U.S. to study for a year. One of the best things about this, apart from the enormous amount of fun and hard work it will take, is that I get to travel to the FLEX PDO conference. The conference will be held in the middle of April in Almaty, Kazakhstan. The actual conference itself will be for three days and then I will have four days to travel around Almaty and hopefully the rest of Kazakhstan. Since I don’t speak Kazak, I guess that means that I will have to practice my Russian. I AM SO AMPED about this opportunity.

I was very surprised when I found out that they chose me to do the PDO because usually they pick volunteers that has been around the country for a while. I think one of the major reasons that I was chosen was because I have a lot of experience in
doing this sort of thing (Summer Welcome, Generation Ogilvy etc.) and the fact that I get along very well with the country director of the organization that runs the FLEX program.

I am excited and a little bit nervous about all of the work that I have ahead of me. I only hope that I can balance all of the work with the PDO as well as my work at the American Corner. I still have to tell my counterpart that I got the
position and let her know the amount of the work that I will have to do.

Hope to hear from you all soon. Please let me know what you are up
to.

Peace
Chris

Hi ho hi ho, its off to work we go

2006-02-28T17:53:00.001+04:00

I am now officially Project Design Management Certified! Wahoo! So now that I have my PDM certificate I am able to start writing and working on grants and projects outside of my work within the classroom.

The other PCVs, counterparts, and myself have just spent the last two days learning how to design and implement feasible and sustainable community development projects. When I initially thought the so-called “Peace Corps” projects, I thought of the infrastructure building that many of our volunteers will attempt. For instance, one volunteer will be trying to build new toilets for his school due to the fact that the current ones are overused and overflowing. Another volunteer has the idea to create a solar water distiller that any home in her city can easily make, so that the number of poor water related illnesses within the community would decrease. In each of these cases there are very apparent and much needed infrastructure developments that are vitally needed within the community.

However, at my site, the city has a well-established infrastructure of services that the population uses. Instead of trying to seek out and find a vital infrastructure that HAS to be developed, I have decided to focus my efforts and projects on developing a natural resource that will serve Turkmenistan well for years to come creativity and critical thinking from the students.

Turkmenistan's education system is still based on the former Soviet model, which is primarily reading, transcribing, and dictation. While this gives students a work ethic that many teachers in the US would envy, it doesn’t exactly promote out-of-the-box thinking from the students. Instilling critical thinking and creativity in both teachers and students is the primary tenet of ever project and class that I will be doing here in Turkmenistan.

The major project that I will be working on outside of my normal site duties will be to write, publish and distribute a book on how to teach English in the classroom by using journalism. The vision of the book is to advance students critical thinking skills by attempting to instill in them a journalists' curiosity and examination of the world around them by giving them exercises and real life examples. The secondary goal of this project is to give teachers and students of English an instruction on how to develop newsletters and publications without materials (e.g. computers, printers etc.) After the book is developed and printed, I plan to do a train the trainers program that will give teachers and other PCVs an explanation of how to utilize the book in their classrooms and English centers.

The second project that I will be working on is an acting project. I have already started an acting club at the American Corner and almost on a weekly basis I am amazed at how much my students progress in becoming actors. At the beginning of the class, the students were pretty much doing what they thought was acting. They were making mushy faces and kisses when they thought they were in love, they were play hitting each other when they were supposed to be mad; while at the same time laughing their heads off. The first part of the project is simply to get materials and resources here that are designed for young actors and non-English speakers since there is a serious lack of scripts that can be utilized by my students. Once these resources are gathered, I plan on developing a traveling theater show that gives kids a chance to express their acting abilities to the community and country around them. The show has yet to be decided, but most likely the play will revolve around either youth development in a harsh world or human rights brought into question.

The final project that I will be working on is developing and implementing an Odyssey of the Mind (OM) competition here in Turkmenistan. If you have not heard of OM before please check out their website at www.odysseyofthemind.com Basically, it is a creative problem solving competition that rewards teams for the most out-of-the-box thinking rather than discouraging it. This project is designed to give students an opportunity to develop and advance their creative problem solving skills that we as Americans so often take for granted.

In addition to these projects, another male volunteer and myself in Mary are starting a young men's club. This club will be designed to give young male students a forum to discuss issues that affect them as young men. The club will be focused on issues on men's health, family and community development, leadership and life skills that they will need to become active and productive young men in their community.

Let me know what you all think

Let the games begin

2006-02-27T20:11:00.000+04:00

A quarter of a century old! Wow, when you say it like that..just kidding. Its official I am now 25. My birthday (feb. 21) was very nice, I got a number of presents from my students, new host family, and of course had to have some celebratory drinks with the other PCVs in Mary. It was very nice to have everyone in the community be able to celebrate my b-day with me.

I am back in the capital for our project design management conference for the first time since I left my first home family.

Its amazing to hear some of the stories that the volunteers have had in the past two months since they have been at site. Some have been stories of adventure, some have been stories of uneccessary drama or actions, but most of the stories have been of great times that we had apart from one another. There is a strange but comfortable feeling that I have with the other volunteers now, like the slight yet comfortable chill that raises the hair on your arms as you step outside after an autumn rainshower. For a majority of us, we have settled into our lives at our sites quite comfortably, the culture shock for the most part is now is a distant memory. Despite the fact that every once and again something happens in our daily lives that we shake our heads in disbelief and our fists in frustration, for the most part we have now are beggining to truely become members of our community. So what does it mean to become a part of a community in Turkmenistan? Well...

My new host family is great. I am living in an apartment in the city which, most days, I only share with my 14 year old host brother. This is due to the fact that the family has a house in a village just outside of Mary and my little brother goes to school in Mary. My new host mom and dad are great and stop by the apartment three or four times a week to help out with the cooking and just to see how we are doing. The family also has two brothers that are now studying foriegn languages in universities in Ashgabat. In addition, my apartment is just a 20-25 minute walk to work. So much like my living situation in DC I get to have a lot of exercise everyday. One of the most amazing things that I have found in moving as an American in Turkmenistan into a new community is the almost overwhelming number of new invitiations and requests that you receive from the Turkmen. There are those that want to know if I have met Brittaney Spears, undoubtedly there are teenagers that want me to explain the meaning of a 50 cent or Eminem song (Candyshop by 50 cent and Mockingbird by Eminem are now the local favorites), there are those that want me to take them back to America with them, but the most fascinating and common request that I have had is the request for me to teach the sons and daughters of neighbors and friends English. It may seem very logical for me to say, "Absolutely tell them to come on by," seeing as though I am an English teacher. The interesting part of this exercise happens when you tell them that they have to do work and heaven forbid do homework. It seems that there is a myth of learning English from an American can be done completely by osmosis. The students and people that truely do want to learn the language because they want to succeed are a breathe of fresh air. Unfortunately for a very few they look at the English language as a golden ticket to prosperity. In some ways I agree with them, but to be the conduit of that myth is sometimes frustrating. It's not frustrating because I dont want to help them, it's frustrating because I feel like I am being used a bit. But then again, why shouldn't I be viewed in that way, I am an American male that is teaching English in a country that is pretty close to as far away from the US as possible.

Despite these momentary doubts of self-esteem, I could not be more excited or content in my work situation right now. I am still teaching my clubs once a week: debate, journalism, acting and softball. Two weeks ago we had a scrimage with about 20 kids. The game started off really fast with both of the teams racking up the runs. At the end of the second inning the score was knotted at 7, and one of the best players we have, Anton, stepped up to the plate. He let my first pitch go by as it was outside. The second pitch he smashed a hot ground ball that headed straight for me. I prepared to scoop up the grounder, but just as the ball was in front of me it hit a rock and ended up in the one place that no man wants to be harmed. The moment it hit me, I didnt think of the pain that was shortly coming. Instead my mind flashed back to me playing Little League baseball during coach pitch. I saw myself as a short, skinny kid with rec-specs, running toward first base as I saw out of the corner of my eye my dad crumpled on the ground due to a well placed line drive of my own. So instead of being mad and in pain, I came up limping and smiling at the knowledge that literally it all comes full circle.

The weather here in T'stan or at least in Mary this week has been absolutely perfect. It is in the mid to high 60s during the day and down in the high 40s to 50s at night. Unfortunately, because of the amount of work that has come my way the past couple of weeks I have not had that much time to enjoy it.

I would like to take this opportunity to give a big congratulations to my cousin Gabe Schirm. He was selected out of 10,000 contestants to be a travelling journalist with five other people for the Travel Channel. He will be travelling around the Pacfic Rim for the next 13 weeks. You can check out the actual details at www.travelchannel.com but from what I hear the show will be airing on the travel channel on Mondays at 6:00pm Pacific time. Who knows you might see me make a cameo appearance if I get a chance to meet up with him in Thailand.

Thank you all of you that have sent letters, cards, and packages this way. It means a ton to be able to hear from everyone back home. So please keep them coming. I will try to make one more post about the projects that I am planning to do in the coming months, before I take off back to my site on Sunday so stayed tuned. And please let me know what you think of these postings. If you do send me a comment please make sure to have your email attached so that I can send you a response back.

A change of pace

2006-01-27T16:36:00.000+04:00

Hey everyone. First off, I want to thank Erin for posting all of the pics of both my final days in Gokche and my family in Mary. This week marked a new turning point of my service in the Peace Corps. Why you may ask have I had such a grand turn in my service?

The main reason is that I am no longer living with my host family.

Last weekend we had a toga party to celebrate a fellow Mary volunteer’s birthday. Hopefully I can get you some pictures here in the coming months. There are definitely some hilarious ones! When I came back to my host family on Sunday afternoon and crashed. I slept from six that night until six in the morning the next day.

I woke up feeling refreshed. I took a shower, ate breakfast and got dressed for work. Right before I left to go to work I unlocked the lock on my luggage to get some money out of my hiding place and lo and behold there is no money! The total missing totaled more than a million manat and over a $100.

I looked around the house to see if anyone was there that I could tell about what had happened. Unfortunately, everyone was gone either to schools or work. So I went to work and told my co-worker about what had happened. After work I headed home, not quite prepared for what was going to happen. When I came in, I told my host mother, sister, and brother what had happened. The look of shock on their faces was one to confirm that none of them had done it. I showed them where it was and how it was gone. My host mom hurriedly went out the door saying something about calling Juma and talking to my host grandfather about what happened. When she came back she had money in hand, the amount that had gone missing (not the same bills). I asked whether or not they knew where Juma (host dad) was and they had no idea. This marked the first time that he had been gone since I had been there.

Fast forward to Wednesday night…

I come home from work dreading the thought that my host dad would be there. Sure enough there he was when I got home. So in front of the entire family including an aunt that served as the translator and a cousin sat in the living room and began to listen to me tell what has happened. Before I got to the point of who or what I actually thought happened, my host father started yelling at me. He was yelling that I had insulted his family, made nothing but problems, that he didn’t care how much money was there that he didn’t need it, and that he didn’t want me to live there anymore. I tried to tell him that I wasn’t accusing him of anything, but he wouldn’t listen. After the second time of him repeating his rant, I yelled at him to go fuck himself and that I was leaving tomorrow. I slammed my door and started packing.

After an hour I emerged from my room to the morose faces of my host mom, sister, and brother. I felt like I was stuck in a Pat O’Connor’s Prince of Tides story, where I was torn in the love and great relationship that I had with the majority of the family and then having a complete an utter emotionally erratic host father who has lost all my respect. I knew as I was packing that this was one of those moments that defines a person in Peace Corps. What was my reaction?

The next morning, Thursday I packed up my stuff and headed toward another volunteers apartment with my stuff. I am not quite sure now how it all happened this way, but it has definitely made me think a great deal about how this experience could possibly be described to those avid readers of The Schirm Project back in the states. To tell you the truth all of the feelings that came onto me at once, was something that one can find in those moments of stress and confusion that instead of turning you into a ball of nerves, it cleared my head. I concentrated on one step at a time, one bag at a time, one taxi ride at a time, and one stair at a time until I got to the other volunteers apartment. It was only once I was sitting in the apartment that everything that had happened in the past 24 hours.

I will head back to Mary next week to start looking for a new host family, but to tell you the truth I am not in any hurry. I want to take my time and find a host family that this cannot happen to again. I hope that all of you are doing well and if you get a chance in the next couple of days to give a call please do so. 011 993 12 35 57 31

To the next step forward.

Chris

Recent Shots From Tstan

2006-01-14T05:18:00.000+04:00

The following are pictures highlighting a few of Chris' recent experiences. It's great to have visuals to accompany his detailed blog entries. Apologies for my serial killer-esque posting job (odd angles, crooked pictures...)! Erin

Chris, Yhlas and Enesh (neighbor) goofing around.

Yhlas getting wild n' crazy... this is my personal fave. Doesn't he exude happy, youthful energy?!

Ejegul in line for bumper cars. A little familiarity here!

At the material corridor of the Talkoochka Bazaar.

A purse seller at the Talkoochka Bazaar.

Catching the bus back to Gokje after visiting the Talkoochka Bazaar.

Rachel, a fellow Gokje volunteer, stops to write a journal entry atop a ridge while hiking the Chuli Mountains.

Juma (Mary host dad) and Chris posing in Turkmen style... no smiles. Quite the tough guys, eh?!

Chris and Lynch (Mary host sister) during his site visit.

Mary: At first glance

2006-01-07T10:21:00.000+04:00

Well I have been in Mary for over a week now, and I have so much to tell all of you that it seems hard to put down into words. However, I will tell you all briefly what I have been up to.

First things first, I have a new mailing address for letters. The new address is as follows:

Turkmenistan
Mary Welayat
Mary City, 745400
Mailbox 24
Central Post Office
Peace Corps Volunteer
Schirm, Chris

So what I have I been up to....

Well lets start with New Years Eve. I spent it meeting and eating. I met all of the extended host family, their relatives, wives, children and friends. In true Russian/Turkmen style I had to take some shots of vodka with everyone. Needless to say when i come back, I will certainly buy everyone a round of shots. At midnight all of the kids in our apartment complex let off their homemade fireworks, which sound more like mini bombs than anything else. I sat watching them go off from our second floow window and found myself thinking that last year at this time, their was no way I possibly could have know that I would get to see this. After midnight my host father and I, made a 2:30 am wine run because this is the one holiday that the Turkmen really let their hair down so to speak.

Work is already piling up on my desk. I have started two clubs already Journalism and Acting. i am amazed at the desire and intuitiveness of my students. They grasped very quickly that in my clubs we will laugh, listen, and think of things in a completely different light. For my journalism club I took a page out of my old high school journalism teacher, Mr Mahn's handbook. I aksed them what they thought was the most important question that a reporter needs to ask. All of them said when, where, and what. I promptly told them that they were all wrong and that the most important question to ask is WHY? How else can you find out about the world around you. They nodded in agreement.

I have two more clubs coming up baseball, which seems to be exciting for everyone and then debate club. I need to prepare them for a tournament in March. talk to you all soon.

Christmas in Tstan

2005-12-21T18:51:00.000+04:00

Salaam Men dostumlar. Taze Yyl we Novy gut! (Hello everyone and happy holidays)

I just wanted to drop you a line and let you know that the holidays are coming here and its good to be around the other Americans. We put on a mini X-mas celebration here in Ashgabat equipped with a visit from Santa and a reading of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. After that we all watched Love Actually in the main room of the hotel. Great movie, I know now that when the guy is trying to speak Portugeuse the pains that he is feeling as well as the mistakes. I heard this week that after we get to site that we will have intensive language training for the next month and then we are given a monthly allowance for tutoring. It will be interesting to see how it goes when I am studying two languages at that the same time. However, I am completely confident that I have one of the best counterparts that I could ask for. I have a smart middle aged, opinonated, driven Russian woman by the name of Albina. I Can definetly tell that we will be able to get a lot of things done. I think the hard part will be getting the programs that I want to develop turn into sustainable programs. All of my ideas will work around the idea of being questioning about the world around you and finding ways to let other people within the community know about the things that they need to. Some of the ideas are a journalism club, a debate training team for two competitions in the beginning of march, an improv acting club, a frisbee club, and hopefull later on next year a baseball/football club. One of the major ideas that I need to do some more development on is looking into starting an Odyssey of the Mind Club. In addition I am definetly going to be working with some of the local health volunteers to develop an HIV/Sexual Education Campaign. I still need to figure out exactly what the needs of the community will be and who I can get involved with.

It is absolutely fantastic to hear from all of you either via letter or email. Especially this time of year, for those that have written I hope you do and for those that have thank you so much. There is a great sense of not be forgotten in the states while you are here. I will officially be sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer tommorrow. I can honestly say that I dont think that I have been so ready to be done with anything in my whole life as much as training to be done. However, the great thing is that the fun is just beggining. I hope to tell you all about it as soon as possible.

Peace, Love, and Happy Holidays

Chris

TRAINING'S OVER! 'BOUT DAMN TIME!

2005-12-20T01:24:00.000+04:00

Hi everybody,

First things first. I am staying at the Ak Alytn Hotel in room 716. Their number here is 011 993 12 36-37-00. Can you give me a call some morning? We will have sessions starting at 9, but I will have the afternoons off, except for the 22nd. I would love to hear from you. Can you email and let me know when you plan to call so I can make sure that I am in the hotel? I hope to hear from you all.

Wow what a week I have had. We said good-bye to our host teachers at a restaraunt in Ashgabat on Wednesday. It was okay but it seemed that all the other guy teachers wanted to talk about was how to get a visa from the USA. I am used to this usual strain of conversation as I have been asked it by every Turkmen taxi driver that I have had since I have been here. However the highlight of the meal was the milk shake, while it wasn! t as thick as a double shake in the states, it was close enough and delicious!!!

On Saturday we had a going away/thank you chai session for our families. But before all of the families came to our house, we had our language tests. I passed with Intermediate Mid level, which is one level above what they wanted all of the volunteers to be at. So Yeah! It was nice to joke around with them for one last time before we head to our permanent sites. We also took our Turkmen teacher to the Zip Bar and got her WASTED! We got her back to her room without incident, but then trying to convince her that she was actually in her room was hilarious. I will try and send some pics as soon as I get them.

Sunday was a great day. I spent most of the day doing manual labor (feeding the cows, cutting down trees) and saying good-bye to people in the village of Gokje. That afternoon I did something that I never in a million years thought I was ever going to do...I helped kill and butcher a camel. Our neighbors were remembering the death of their son. It was strange to see , I wasn't really grossed out but just strangely fascinated by the whole thing. I think the hardest part was hearing the sounds coming from the camel when we had it tied down. After we had finished we went to wash up and then that's when it started to become the Jerry Springer good-bye party. Several hours later after many rounds of shots with vodka, the party began disperse outside. My host brother and I were outside talking when my host mom and brother made a comment to Hoshgeldi. He snapped and went after my brother, I had to pull him off and take him to the other side of the house. Our neighbor upon hearing that Hoshgeldi went after my brother, he went to town on him. He opened his lip, his nose and gave him a black eye that put him on the floor to come him down. Without waiting for anyone to say anything I got in the middle of the fight and broke it up. I then took Hoshgeldi outside and walked him toward his house. After we were out of sight from the house he collapsed onto my shoulder sobbing. From what I understood the whole thing was about how my host mother insulted Hoshgeldi's girlfriend in Ashgabat. The only thing that happened to me was that I got some blood on my shirt. Talk about a one unique day to say good-bye.

If you all get a chance I would love to hear from you all. I love and miss you all.

Chris

Reading list thus far

2005-12-09T12:50:00.000+04:00

Ok so instead of illustrating to you all of the grand adventures of Turkmenistan and what are some of the life enlivening things that I have learned since I last posted. I decided to let you all know the reading list that I have done so far. Its not exactly enlightening but would love to hear your opinions on any and all of the books on the list.

Books read so far in Turkmenistan

The Alchemist by Pablo Cuehlo (Twice)
Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
The Motorcycle Diaries by Che Guevara
The Story of B by David Quinn
The Lost Heart of Asia by Colin Thubron

Currently reading
War and Peace by Tolstoy
So Many Enemies So Little Time by Elinor Burkett (READ THIS BOOK!). Its from a journalism professor that taught in Bishkek in Kazakstan, but with a voice that is explainatory and sometimes downright hilarious she details the mindset of Central Asian journalism students and what they think about America.

As for an update on where we are at. It's crunch time on the language now, as we are preparing for our language tests next week. My teacher is being tough but fair on me to learn because she really wants me to do very well on the test. So needless to say other than studying language and getting ready for me to move Mary in a couple weeks.

I guess the one question that I would be interested to hear some opinions about is how do you say good-bye to a family that has fed and sheltered you for your first two months in a country.

Chris N' The Guys

2005-12-05T02:37:00.000+04:00

Photo of Chris; his host brother, Hoshgeldi, 45; neighbor, Noralgdi, 14; and Yhlas, 12. Chris taught Yhlas and other neighborhood kids in Gokche how to play baseball. Yhlas was his favorite, as he would hit the ball pretty well but continue running around the bases regardless of whether he was tagged or not. I can see it now!

Erin

To Mary and back again

2005-11-27T11:14:00.000+04:00

How was everybody's Thanksgiving? We had a phenomenal meal with the other Mary volunteers equipped with mashed potatoes, turkey and gravy. It was nice to spend the day just hanging out with the other Americans pigging out and laughing about the inane things.

Mary is the closest city to ancient ruins of Merv which used to be the westernmost city along the silk road. It is a nice town that is easy to navigate and has plenty to see and do, which is good because it will keep me sane to say the least. I will definetly need to learn Russian being in the city it will almost be a necessity. One of the most interesting things within the city is the framework of a mosque that was never finished. It stands guard to downtown Mary from my house like a skeleton into a tomb. According to my host family the reason it wasnt finished was that a series of accidents happened to people that step on the middle of building, including two were hit by cars, one had a heart attack and another dissapeared. Call it what you will I think they ran out of money, but who knows here.

My new host family in Mary is awesome. My host mother in Mary works at the Mary Museum as a tour guide, we have already had interesting conversations about how America was actually discovered and the history of slavery in the US. My host dad is a really nice guy that works as a car mechanic. My host brother is a nice kid that has become the local celebrity because he now has "The American" living with him. My host sister is shy but likes to laugh a lot at the funny American.

I will be working at the American Corner and will have spotty internet access while I am there. I will also find out the address when I get back into Gokje and I will send it to you via a letter. As for the future I think any packages should still be sent to Ashgabat but I think my letters can be spent to the American Corner. If you would like to send letters send them to the Ashgabat address for now.

Hope to hear from you all soon.

Good-bye Grandpa

2005-11-20T15:39:00.000+04:00

We have continued to paint the map, but had a little set back. When we came back to school on monday this week we saw that someone had clawed three gashes in Australia and wrote "Gokje Rules" all over the map. needless to say we were a little pissed.

today, I got a call from mom and dad. Grandpa passed away last week, they didnt tell me then because they were understandably a little preoccupied with everything that was going on. He went from what I hear very peacefully. My Auntie Gale and Uncle Jimmy were talking to him one night and he had some trouble breathing. They stepped out to give him a second to catch his breath and when they came back in he was gone. I hope that in that moment as he left, where his life in images, decorations, and scenes flashed before his eyes that he saw me smiling at him or me playing frisbee with Benj out on his lawn as the sunset over the mountains at his house in Republic, Michigan or even me standing next to the Michigan pillar of the WWII memorial in DC.

At the funeral a lot of people other than just the immediate family showed up. a testament to the gigantic heart of humility, love, friendship, and kindness that was held in Grandpa's 5'2" frame. Benjy sang the Celtic farewell and I can hear his voice echoing amidst the rafters and wish that I could have been there to sing along with him.

After I got the news, I went outside of Peace and started to write. Ten minutes later Mehri, the Peace Corps Program Director, came out and told me that in Turkmenistan they have a saying for one who has lost a loved one, "Let the snow fall on your heart." A beautiful and prerfectly correct image for Grandpa. I only hope that he is looking down now with pride.

As for me, this Sunday I will be flying out for a site visit of where I am going to be for the next two years. I am not sure where yet, but will let you know as soon as possible.

Hiking the Chuli Mountains

2005-11-13T08:46:00.000+04:00

This week we had one of the most serene experiences since we have been here. With the Gokje volunteers we got on a bus and headed toward the mountains close to the village of Chuli.

We took a 5 mile hike up into the mountains, once we got to the top of a ridge about 4 miles into the hike we stopped and lunch of spinach and pumpkin gotap (close to a fried pie with pumpkin or spinach in it). The scene was absolutely amazing. There were four seperate mountain ranges that surrounded us as we sat on top of the ridge. Later on in the afternoon two seperate cloud covers began to descend on the valley that we sat. I have an amazing picture of one of our volunteers Rachel, sitting on a ridge journaling as a cloud cover came over the mountains. I will try and send the pic stateside as soon as I get the chance, perhaps Mom and Dad or Erin will be able to post the pic to this blog when they get it.

Now a week from finding out where I will be for the next two years it was a great time to contemplate and gather my thoughts for the coming weeks. Next Sunday I will be loading up my pack for a weeks trip to my host site. I dont know where I will be yet, but I will let you all now as soon as possible. Until X-mas the same address in Ashgabat will work.

I hope this post finds you all well and please keep the letters and packages coming I love hearing from all of you.

Kow Ata, Talkuchka and Russian Kareoke

2005-11-07T00:30:00.000+04:00

Last week we went to Talkuchka. One of the places in the book "10,000 things to see and do before you die". The best way that I can describe it is think of what you would imagine the silk road with enough people to fill a professional football stadium crammed into an area the size of 4 soccer fields back to back. It was amazing to see and haggle with the sellers for jewelery or chai or sweets.

We went yesterday to Kow-Ata aka Father of the Caves. It is a naturally heated underground lake that is 1,000 feet below ground level. You have to walk down about a 1/4 mi of steps to get to the lake. They lake apart from having guano (bat) droppings around the cave was very cool, there was actually one volunteer that was hit in the shoulder by some guano. It felt so nice to have a good swim for the first time since I have been here. There is a legend supposedly that you can swim your way to Iran through the lake. Iran is 3 mi south of the cave. Needless to say I didnt try.

We also had a great time last night as we went to a performance of students of Joseph and the Amazing technicolor Dreamcoat directed by some volunteers. Then we went to a bar and sang some quality kareoke (Scorpions' Winds of Change and Whitesnakes "Here I go again") The mostly russian crowd loved us, we actually had one Russian woman that came up to us and with some help of a translater told us that we were the first Americans that she had ever seen and that it was a pleasure to meet us, then she helped us pay for our bill which was great.

Alive and well down on the farm in Gokje

2005-11-02T15:52:00.000+04:00

Hi everyone,

It has been a while since I have gotten the opportunity to actually sit down and post something to the blog since I have been here. As you may or may not know I am now living in a town just to the west of Ashgabat, called Gokche. I am living with a host family that has now four cows, they killed one last week in celebration of Turkmenistan's Independence day, which is October 27. I get up every morning and feed the cows and muck the stalls, thankfully I have yet to have the pleasure of milking the cows.

I am working in School 18 within Gokche working with all different age groups. I have already started teaching practice lessons, organized and ran a camp with the other Gokche volunteers, and have started beggining planning a teacher training session and a number of clubs. Plus with working six days a week, we stay busy whether it is learning language or in the classroom.

Learning the language is coming along. The basic grammar of Turkmen I understand, now I just need to build up my vocabulary. Wish me luck. I will find out where I will be placed for the next two years in three weeks. I will definetly let you all know as soon as I find out what my new address will be after December.

Thank you to all of you that have sent letters already. If you have any juicy questions that I havent answered in this post, please write me a letter. It takes about 2 1/2 weeks for the mail to get here, so just be patient with my response.

Peace

Chris

"Remember its not about you, its about how open you let yourself become."
-Matt Cregor 2005-

Chris Moving In With His Host Fam!

2005-10-09T20:25:00.000+05:00

I was lucky enough to get a hold of Chris via phone on Thursday night at the number posted in the last update... caught him at 5 am (which I am sure he was very happy about, haha). He was ready to move in with his host family on Friday afternoon. The family lives about 20 miles from Ashgabat, so he will have more regular access to email as compared to many other potential locations.

Chris' host family does not speak any English. They live on a farm with cows, goats, pigs... the works! One of his fellow volunteers will live right next door and two others will live within walking distance from his house. Very exciting week for him... we can expect an update from the man himself as soon as he can get to an Internet cafe--most likely mid-week.

Erin

Chris is in Turkmenistan!

2005-10-05T04:09:00.000+05:00

I received an email from the Peace Corps today letting me know that Chris has arrived safely in Turkmenistan. The text is:

Dear Loved Ones-
All 37 of the Peace Corps Turkmenistan trainees have arrived in country and are safe and healthy. They are staying in the capital, Ashgabat, until Friday in the afternoon. They will be staying at the Grand Sheraton Hotel and you can call them at 993 12 51 05 55. Depending on where you are located, there is about at 10-12 hour time difference. The front desk of the hotel with answer and they can speak English (basic). Slowly say the name of the person whom you want to speak with and they should connect you.
Everyone sends their love.
Peace Corps Turkmenistan

The last day of comfort

2005-09-28T21:53:00.000+05:00

Today is my last day in Arizona. Amidst the preparations for my departure I came upon a quote from Ben Franklin that summarizes nicely what I am feeling at the present moment. In the middle of his life Franklin went to England as an ambassador for the Pennsylvania colony, he stayed for four years and on the eve of his departure back to America he wrote this:

"I am now waiting here only for a wind to waft me to America, but
cannot leave this happy island and my friends in it without extreme
regret, though I am going to a country and a people that I love. I
am going from the Old West to the new, and I fancy I feel like those
who are leaving this world for the next: grief at the parting, fear
of the passage, hope for the future."

It seems to me that there is nothing easy about taking an adventure into your own personal unknown, there are many things that the mind can dwell upon when it has time to wander. The difficulty that I have struggled with is not trying to control the unknown be it in worrying about my own dissapointment with how much I have prepared or not being able to say a proper good-bye to everyone that has made an imprint on my life. I am now at a point of nervous satisfaction in the waiting. There is nothing really that I can do to possibly prepare myself for what I am about to experience, however I can sleep soundly knowing that I always have people around me or a letter away that will help me out in times of need.

This may be the last posting that I can make while in the states, if that is the case I hope to see all of you soon and hear from you as often as you can. I thank you all for supporting me in this adventure and I can't wait to tell you all about it.

Communications for the next three months

2005-09-16T23:48:00.000+05:00

Communication while I am in training

I have found the address that I can be contacted at for the next three months. Mail will most likely take two to three weeks to arrive in Turkmenistan. So I am giving you all the address that I can be contacted at, so you can start writing letters now if you would like. While I know that the first part of the time that I am there will be fast paced and filled with tastes, sights, and feelings that I have never had before I cannot wait to hear from you on what is going on here in the states. If I can make one request and that is to number your letters, so I will know if one doesn't arrive.

I cannot wait to hear your words while I am in Turkmenistan and I look forward to telling you all about what I am experiencing as much as possible. So without further adieu here is my address for the next three months.

PCT Chris Schirm
U.S. Peace Corps/Turkmenistan
PO Box 258 Krugozor
Central Post Office
Ashgabat, 744000
TURKMENISTAN

If you are shipping something larger than a letter here are some helpful hints that will help the package arrive safely and timely to Turkmenistan.

1) put "Airmail" and "Par Avion via Istanbul" on the outside of the package/envelope. It is safer and quicker for mail to come through Turkey as opposed to Moscow, which is the default route.

2) Use padded envelopes whenever possible. It is standard practice for all boxes to be examined at the airports as well as at the Central Post Office in Asghabat.

Around December I will get a new address once I find out what my permanent address is going to be while I am doing my project. I look forward to hearing from all of you soon.

Sincerely,
Chris

Preparing in the desert

2005-09-13T06:23:00.000+05:00

Salam!

I am in Chandler, Arizona right now preparing for the journey to Turkmenistan by learning the beginnings of the Turkmen language (e.g. questions, letters, numbers, salutations, and phrases). I have also been spending as much time outdoors in Phoenix's 100+ degree heat to get used to it. Turkmenistan has a very comparable climate to Arizona, with some days of 110+ degrees.

In the course of my studies I have come upon some great reading materials that you should take a look at if you are interested in finding out about Turkmenistan, Peace Corps and Central Asia generally:

The Lonely Planet Guide to Central Asia
http://www.lonelyplanet.com/worldguide/destinations/asia/turkmenistan/

Thubron, Colin. "The Lost Heart of Asia." Perenial Press 1994.
This book is the tale of an explorer from England and how he traveled by air, car, camel and foot around Central Asia. The first two chapters of the book are about people and landmarks in both Ashgabat, West Turkmenistan, and the historic ruins of Merv in Eastern Turkmenistan.

Banerjee, Dillon. "So you What to Join the Peace Corps: What to Know Before You Go" Ten Speed Press 2000.
A book that I read over and over during the course of the application process.

Here are some pictures that I have taken in my days here in Arizona.

I have made my final travel arrangements. I will be flying out of Arizona on September 28 and will be back in DC from the September 29-October 2. I fly out of DC to Frankfurt, I have a six hour lay over there and then I fly to Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. I am scheduled to arrive in Turkmenistan on October 4. Let the adventure to begin.

If you would like to get in touch with me before I take off, just post a comment on this blog with your name email and phone number and I will get back to you as soon as possible.

Sag bol, pronounced thag-bowl, (Thanks)

Going Away House Party

2005-08-31T03:07:00.000+05:00

Here are some of the memorable moments from my going away house party. Thank you all for making it a blast. I hope that all of you had a good time.

Last Day in DC

2005-08-30T22:14:00.000+05:00

Dear Washington D.C.,

I wanted to thank you very much for all of the opportunities that you have given me and made me learn about myself since I have lived within your borders. I came to D.C. as a naive Mid-Westerner and was amazed at the sharpness of people's witt and their resumes and experiences. Now, I have become one of those D.C. natives that curses under their breath when tourists block the escalator, the one that loves living in the D.C. and doesn't cross the moat (Potomac) very often, the one that likes having a packed social calendar almost as much as I like my brief moments of solitude.

I want to thank you for teaching me how to live, communicate, and thrive with people of more varying backgrounds and places than Minnesota has lakes. I want to thank you for pushing me to find out for myself what direction I want to take my life and giving me the opportunities to achieve it.

I especially want to thank you for letting me befriend such a wide variety of people, whether it be at work, on the hill, in the neighborhood, or out about the town.

Today is the last day that I will be a resident of Washington D.C. Its a strange feeling to be leaving the place I have made so many great friends that have taught me things that I never thought were possible.

It is a strange feeling being on the eve of a great adventure like the Peace Corps. The fact that I find absolutely humbling is the number of people that have come to the going away get togethers and all of the beautiful things that they have said.

I only hope that I can make all of them proud of me in what I will do. More importantly, I want to tell them all of the amazing things that I will be seeing.

So in the spirit of saying good-bye I thought I would write down a thank you note to Washington D.C. for all it has given me.

Sincerely,
Chris Schirm

Tourism in Turkmenistan

2005-08-26T06:05:00.000+05:00

During the course of my research I happened to find the State Committee of Turkmenistan for tourism and sport. While a majority of the site is in Turkmen there are a number of pages in English, including a description of Ashgabat and the hotels that are available for international travelers http://www.tourism-sport.gov.tm/en/tm/regions/asb.html.

The site also has articles that discuss the different sites within Turkmenistan including the mountains of Kugitang, the minarets in Kenye-Urgench, and the Carpet Museum in Ashghabat.
http://www.tourism-sport.gov.tm/en/articles/present/_mod_silk_road.html

Here are the laws and amendments governing tourism within Turkmenistan. http://www.tourism-sport.gov.tm/en/activity/law/tourlaw.html

Ogilvy Says Good-Bye

2005-08-20T04:45:00.000+05:00

Here are some of the highlights from my going away happy hour from Ogilvy. I was absolutely amazed, thankful, and humbled at how many people came out to say goodbye. I do honestly believe that the people that I have met at Ogilvy over the past two years treat each other like a family. Sure we fight sometimes, and every family has the crazy aunt or uncle, but when it comes down to it the people that I work with is the reason that I have enjoyed coming to work each day.

I am truly going to miss each and every one of them. But it is the pictures and nights like last night that make me certain that this is not the last that I have heard from the crew at Ogilvy PR in Washington DC.

Who am I?

2005-08-17T09:16:00.000+05:00

Who?
My name is Chris Schirm, I am 24, and currently live in Washington D.C. but not for too much longer. I have worked for a PR firm in DC for the past two years, and while the people that I have met and the experiences that I have had have been extrordinary to say the least, I will be leaving DC and joining the Peace Corps. I have accepted an invitation to teach English in Turkmenistan.

Where?
The question that most people have asked me when I tell them is, "Where the heck is Turkmenistan?" Well here is a map of where Turkmenistan is http://www.state.gov/p/eur/ci/tx/.

What language do they speak?
The primary language that is spoken is Turkmen, which is a combination of Russian and Turkish. No, I am not fluent in Turkmen nor Russian, nor have I been a teacher in a classroom for more than a couple days before. I will receive three months of intense (6 days a week) training on both teaching and the Turkmen language once I get over there. I am awaiting my staging packet that will have an introduction to Turkmen.

Why?
When people ask me why I am doing this I have two answers. The first for me is that I have a desire to answer the following question, "Who are you as a person when you are in situation that you dont know anyone, dont know the language, but all you know is that you are there to help?" The second answer that I have is simply, because I can. I am at a point in my life where I dont have that many responsibilities or that many people relying on me for sustenance. In part, I know that if I didn't do this now than I would regret it for the rest of my life and always wonder what it would have been like.

When?
I started thinking about joining the Peace Corps when I was still in college. I am glad that I took the advice of my mom and went out into the working world before I decided to join. I have learned more about myself and what I am able to do in the past year and a half then I have the previous four years of college.

I will be leaving D.C. the end of August, spending a month with my parents in Arizona before I leave for staging and Turkmenistan at the end of September. I feel so underprepared for the adventure that is yet to come, but for something like this I dont quite think that you ever could be ready completely.