Winter fun

I finally got around to posting some pics and stories I've been meaning to share. I guess it's a wrap-up of winter. I know the winter's not over yet but I'm anxiously awaiting the start of spring! So I like to pretend it's really getting warmer.


My family keeps massive piles of hay (winter feed for our cows and sheep) stacked up next to the outhouse in the backyard. Once in a while when I go back there I’ll see a cow eating it and I have no idea what to do [see picture]. Is it our cow? I ask myself. Does it matter? Is it supposed to be eating right now? Is it going to eat too much? Should I tell someone? Why do I have to make these hard decisions? I was only trying to use the bathroom! Last week there was a huge brown bull in the backyard, chowing down on some hay. I did what I usually do:
1) Look around.
2) Say, “There’s a cow eating our hay,” out loud to no one.
3) Figure that I’m absolved of responsibility.
4) Shrug.
Our outhouse is not the sturdiest piece of craftsmanship. As an added bonus, the door is currently broken and precariously tipped against the frame, having been blown off its hinges in a major windstorm a few weeks ago. Just as I had stepped inside to – well, you know – our dog/wolf Borsik came charging into the backyard, ready to defend our pile of golden hay from drooling cow-gluttons where I had failed. I’m sort of scared of the dog but even more afraid of the cow. And now, I found myself prisoner in a shaky, stinky structure while the former pursued the latter around the backyard. If this doesn’t sound scary, then you probably haven’t stood next to a cow recently. With Borsik hot on his tail, the cow was being funneled between some trees and the hay pile. Guess what was dead ahead of him: the outhouse. Through a slit between the boards, I could see the beast charging right for me. Oh my god, I thought, if he doesn’t swerve a few feet he’s going to smash into the outhouse. I had a vision of a fatal collision: outhouse boards, mixed with my body parts, flying through the air. Needless to say (because I’m alive and writing this) he swerved in time, but for a minute I really thought I was a goner. As my friend Alex said, “Man, but what a way to go!”


Last fall, when our sheep were still off grazing in the meadows, I came home and saw this bag sitting on our outdoor table. I naively assumed it was full of potatoes or onions, until I saw the lone (but proud) leg sticking out of it. It turned out that a shepherd had brought the bag to our house from the jailoo (Kyrgyz for ‘mountain meadow’).
“What happened?” I asked my sister Aizat. “A wolf attacked one of our sheep,” she said. “But there’s still some of it in the bag?” I asked. She nodded. This still befuddles me. Call me crazy, but I would assume that if a wolf attacks a sheep, the wolf (or its pack) would devour the whole thing. Or at least there wouldn’t be enough left to stuff in a bag. So what happened? Did someone scare off the wolf partway through the feast? Is our shepherd a wolf-fighting badass? Was the wolf just not that hungry? I don’t know. But, sure enough, an hour later my host cousin was at our house, butcher knife in hand, up to his elbows in blood and guts.
And thus I can say: I’ve eaten a wolf’s leftovers.
Have you?
That’s what I thought.


Our little dog Lada, rest in peace. He was Borsik’s protégé but he was dead when I came home from vacation.









Some more pics of my little posse because they’re so cute.




Doesn’t it look like I just interrupted a secret conference where they were voting to kick me out of the club? I swear they’re not unhappy to be around me; they’re just not big into smiling for photos.



My sisters decorating Christmas cookies. The Gordon family recipe prevailed over our temperamental oven (sort of, if you ignored the burned parts). The oven is broken so every time you want to turn it on or off you have to open the top and twist/untwist two wires. And we can’t adjust the temperature. It only does “insanely hot.”











These little fried doughnuts are called “borsak” and they’re made for each and every special occasion. I resolved to stop eating them because it’s dangerously easy to lose count – especially when there’s bottomless strawberry jam on the table. Then I came home one day and this pile of warm borsak was blocking my bedroom door. It would be like coming home and discovering that Krispy Kreme had decided to open up shop in your bedroom and the “HOT NOW” sign was flashing outside your door. Obviously I had to eat a few. In order to clear the path to my door.





My host sisters at a party a few months ago. And one of the food tables.





PCVs freaking out over my friend Katie’s package from home. Goldfish! Tuna fish! Lindt truffles!



Making mini snowmen with Begai as the snow begins to fall.





The next morning. My host family is pretty diehard about the laundry line. I’m pretty sure there could be a tornado or flood and they’d still leave everything hanging out on the line. Only wusses take their laundry inside.



Cute little neighbors and their sweet sleds. The little guy on the right waits for me in his backyard every day after school and demands that I take his picture. They call me “Karen ejay” which is like “Ms. Karen.” Or “Kevin ejay” which is how most people pronounce my name. Many people – more than you would probably believe – have asked me why I have the same name as that boy from Home Alone.





Walking to school with my sister Aizat and her friends. The water pump on our street didn’t work for a while so I melted buckets of snow in my room to wash my hair. That was a first. My room isn’t exactly toasty so it took all day.





You can see the pretty moon in this photo. My favorite Kyrgyz name is “Aisuuluu” which means “beautiful moon.” I also like “Talaikul” which means “happy laugh.” Many Kyrgyz names are poetic: Jazgul (spring flower), Mirgul (peace flower), Akbermet (white pearl), Nurjan (ray of life), Altinai (golden moon). Popular boys’ names are: Azamat (perfect), Bakit (happy), Aibek (strong moon), and Bolot (steel). Lots of names start or end with “bek” which means “strong.”



Footprints in the fresh snow behind our school. The building in the back right is our outhouse.



I went skiing for the first time in a town called Karakol on the east side of Lake Issyk-Kol. I don't have a picture of myself on skis so you'll have to take my word for it. Unfortunately, I also don't have a picture of myself face-planting off the ski lift (going DOWN the mountain) so you'll have to take my word for it. Lots of men were yelling things at me in Russian which I didn't understand. Later, I was told it meant "Now! Girl! Run! Now! Get off!"



A tank and memorial in a park, also in Karakol.




I’ve been doing English clubs after school. The kids are nuts for it but I’m running out of ideas for games. Please email any and all ideas my way. I’m not kidding. Some of my girls are very sweet and gave me holiday presents like this one. A few of my seventh grade students stayed after school last week and said “Can we talk to you?” Then they bombarded me with random and charming questions including: “Can you dance for us?” After I sort of clumsily danced around the room in my socks, one of them asked: “Did you go to the Olympics for ballet?” Adorable! And then I said, “Yes.” Obviously.

(Just kidding.)






I’ll close with some shots of our animal pen – more pics of my siblings and little neighbor Danchik and our nine lambs. Because who doesn’t love pictures of cute kids playing with lambs (that they will one day eat)?