Thomas blogs too.

Brevity does not exist here. Prepare yourself.

The other week the Director of Peace Corps Kyrgyzstan came to our site to check up on us. They call these "site visits." The site visit wasn't just to Rach and myself but, I assume, will eventually be done to all volunteers, oblast by oblast. The scene goes as follows, our modest four person table is decorated with the finest fares that our humble host family have for just such an occasion: several kinds of jams, honey, sugar cubes, the nice tea pot and special tea cups, bread, candies and other sweet pastries of all kinds. With my host mom serving tea and the director's assistant idlely chatting to keep her company, the director asks questions concerning everything that is our entire existence at this moment. I don't mean to make it seem like a therapy session, because it certainly is not. But even the simplest question like, "How are things going?" or "How is work?" or "How are you adjusting?" have the potential to fully pierce any hardy exterior and get to the root of all that plagues our 24 hour job of being a volunteer. That is of course if we choose to answer truthfully, or as we humans are, truthfully know the answer within us.

Sitting maybe a meter from my host mom, who stays to serve tea, we have the absolute freedom to say anything we want, maybe against her, the village, the country, the culture, whatever. Because all questions of impropriety are lost in this situation.

She doesn't understand a word we say.

And what an ample metaphor, but you won't understand that just yet.

The Director suggests I read a blog from another volunteer that is currently experiencing similar problems. (She knows about the contents of blogs because, as it might surprise all but the most cynical readers, our blogs are monitored for appropriateness. Hi Claudia.) I took her advice, spent a few minutes searching for it next time I was on the internet and read it. It was brilliant actually. Her struggles were actually relatively similar to some of mine. And although I can't say I am happy that another volunteer is having a difficult time, like any human being, it is good to know I am not alone in my struggles. And it occurs to me, that while people constantly ask about what is going on "over here," it might actually be that some of them have the capacity to understand some of all this. So here I am, vaulting myself into yet another endeavor that is based on some naive idea of humanity.

I arrived in mid-June to my site. I am a health promotion volunteer assigned to an Orphanage for "Specialty Children" which basically means children with mental development issues. Funny thing about my orphanage is that during the summer, the school closes and the kids go home. So I was told there was no work. My director was an older woman who had worked at the orphanage for over twenty years. She knew the last volunteer that worked there and worked very closely with him on some of his projects. She spoke brilliant English and seemed nice enough. She told me to spend the summer studying my language skills and getting to know my new home. Work would come in September.

So I enjoyed my summer. I relaxed. A lot. I read. I played some computer games. I studied my language and got to know my community. I was even able to visit some other portions of the country and help with some summer camps.

My summer morning: #1. Sleep in. #2. Eat breakfast with coffee. #3. Get water. This entails me putting a giant old milk canister (maybe 50 liters, maybe more) on a hand cart and hauling it down our road and to an old pump, filling it up, then hauling it back. This is our water for the day. I was in the middle of step 3 of my day when my phone rings. "Guljan Eje." Probably just checking up on me, I suspect. It is around 9:30. After the usual hi's, how are you's, she says, "Thomas, I need you to come to the internat (orphanage) today. I need you to meet the calibrators. I need you here at 11." That was only an hour and a half away and, surprisingly, on this day I had actually made plans in Talas City. "Calibrators? What calibrators? What are they calibrating?" "No. [pause] Collaborators. I need you to meet the other collaborators. You must come today." This was not the way I wanted to begin our professional career together but I figured I would explain proper scheduling to her later. I mean, we spent 11 weeks in Training talking about this kind of stuff. It was half expected.

So I went. But collaborators wasn't the right word. I think... new staff would have been better. Replacement director would have worked also. The government put a new director at the school. And he had no idea who I was. Or what Peace Corps was. The first words he said after meeting me were, "We can't pay him. We don't have the budget for him." I knew this was going to be rough.

To give him and Peace Corps (PC) credit, he was quickly brought up to speed. He was educated and quickly came to understand what my "role" was. But here is where it starts to get muddy.

What is my role there? If you ask PC, my director, and me, you will probably get all different answers. No matter where you go in this country, health equates physical fitness. September came and so did the children. It was here that I quickly learned that the next two years of my life had been mapped out as giving PE classes to 1st-4th graders and/or English lessons.

As they say here, bolboeet (Not going to happen, or literally, it will not be).

I feel like we need a recap before we move on. Act 1: Removal from large airborne metal canister to foreign soil. Act 2: Two and a half months of training. Act 3: Summer, AKA, Intermission. Act 4: Conflict! English language removed. Next two years realized.

And what are those two years?

I had visions about what this would be. I think everyone did. And still does. I mean, I still have these amazing dreams about doing amazing things to help lots and lots of people. But truthfully, my blissful naivety has seen better days. I mean, I will always fight the losing battle. I won't give up. But sometimes, I used to think there was a chance of not losing.

Anyways... those two years. What do I do? The orphanage won't do. I am no PE teacher. I mean, for goodness sake, with every new person I meet, I inevitably will get the question about why I am so skinny. Apparently, it’s because I don't eat enough and do enough manual labor, I am told. What makes it more, I just don't like small children. Teenagers and adults are great. But not small kids. Is this truly what development work is boiled down to? PE classes to children?

So I have to build my own job. The next two years will be completely contingent on me finding someone to work with. Only problem is, I can't say that last sentence in Kyrgyz. And I can't say lots of other things in Kyrgyz. My director tells me almost everyday I talk with him that I have bad Kyrgyz. (My apa, mom, emphatically tells me the things I can tell him in return. It is actually quite cute.) I have to weigh every opportunity against my language ability. Every possibility for work comes with a catch; "He speaks very poor Kyrgyz so you have to baby step with him." And what is more, everyday, my life is in contrast to the work done by others with English-speaking counterparts.

"I don't know" and "I don't understand" have both become staple pieces of conversation in this country. And being laughed at, a new pause in conversation.

I know this might sound terribly depressing. So let me be clear. It is. It truly is that depressing sometimes. It is cold too. And when I am sad, there is no, let’s go to a bar with some friends and drink and go see a movie and get a slice and then wake up tomorrow feeling better. Everyday is a battle with the sun to make it go faster so that your lack of work seems less heavy. Everyday involves a conversation with hard-working Kyrgyz people about what I am doing that day where I am embarrassed to admit, "Nothing". Everyday involves a conversation with myself where I question the necessity and virtue of being here.

And I guess maybe this is the bright spot. Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither can my language be. And neither can my work. Everything has a process. And process is important. Process gives the end meaning. So I climb my Everest. I participate in culture exchanges. I help my family with the potato harvest. I go to wedding feasts and give bad toasts that people cheer for nonetheless. I teach three students in an English club and talk to them about culture. I study my Kyrgyz and try my elementary school level sentences on for a try. I help build a bigger sheep pen out back and I herd the calf, cows and sheep when need arises. I learn what it means to live in these inhospitable lands with these very hospitable people.

And that also means I sit a meter from people and let them talk about me, my culture, my thinness, my bad Kyrgyz, or whatever they want, without the necessity of knowing everything they say. But I stay because maybe in a bit, work may open up. You know, they may drink all the tea in their cup and need a refill.