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The YouthInAsia

In China.

Took us 14+hrs to get out of Kstan and into China. We traveled over the Torugart pass and into Kashgar.

Our first night out we went to an outdoor cafe and ordered things by making the noises of the things we wanted. We aren’t even close to the spicy part of China yet and the cold chicken dish that came out of the kitchen was so spicy that my friend Katie looked like she had been punched in the face and waterboarded within seconds. It was funny. And delicious.

Its hot. Real hot. We went out to the Taklamikan desert because we thought it would be sweet to see the deadliest desert in the world but it turns out that this particular desert isn’t really to be fucked with. We lounged under a tent for like 8 hrs, waiting for it to cool down (which it never did), drifting in and out of sleep. Then we walked up to the nearest dune, looked out at the lack-luster expanse of dunes then left. We also sorta got ripped off by some guys with camels who wanted more money then they were worth. I guess we are lucky they didn’t kill us and bury us out there. I mean if they had decided to do that nobody would have any clue.

We Kashgar on what would turn out to be the smelliest bus on the planet. 28 hrs, no AC and we drove through a desert the whole way. I would open the window and get blasted in the face by air that felt like it was out of an oven. Then I would shut the window and be consumed by some of the most varied bodily odors I have ever had the pleasure of soaking in. Blah blah misery blah blah awful blah blah.

Now we are in Urumqi and its awesome. Last night we went out and watched some bands sing weird rock songs in Chinese. Then we walked into a club that turned out to be a drag queen strip club. Then we left. Then we made some friends despite either of us speaking a language the other knew.

I like China.

Also, should be setting up blog for the whole group to write for soon.

…and I’m out

I’m no longer a PCV. Just closed my service out, scored a Superior level in my Kyrgyz language exam and an Intermediate in Russian, said goodbye, high-fived.

The dream is over.

Now its on to China and other parts of Asia.

Thanks for checking the blog and stay tuned for more…

Dispatches from a REDACTED

I was recently brought by Peace Corps to a REDACTED REDACTED somewhere in Central Asia. It was probably more surreal then any other experience I’ve had in country thus far. The main purpose of the location is to ferry troops in and out of a war zone nearby. This means that at any given time over 10,000 soldiers are sitting around, waiting to go home or go to war.

It became clear very quickly that all the PCVs were way way out of place. We were the only ones in civilian clothing, very loud, usually smelly. We also ate like locusts from the 24/7 cafeteria (so much so that at one point we were told by military personnel that sitting for hours in the dining hall was prohibited and that it was not ok to eat 12 lobster tails on steak and lobster night.

The most interesting part of interacting with soldiers on a daily basis was figuring out how they saw us. One guy told me “We think you are a bunch of do-gooders who got yourselves in too deep and now need our help”. Another told me, “We are scared of you all. We assume that you are judging us, thinking we are ‘baby killer’ and stuff like that”. “Actually, we are a lot like you, except we can get killed doing it”. This last remark is fairly accurate. Obamas plan in the nearby war zone has always been to “win the hearts and minds” of the people first, shoot later.

I can’t imagine how difficult that must be for soldiers. A man told me a story about a shepherd who was clearly radioing to the Taliban about the troops location but they couldn’t shoot or even detain the man because he was just a shepherd and the only reason anybody helps the Taliban is that they will kill him and his family otherwise. How do you fight a war without killing people who are helping the enemy? Actually with the recent change in Generals and strategies this may soon change.

We watched a lot of world cup. Mostly in a big mess hall called Shooters. Most days when I walked in it would be packed with soldiers playing first person shooter games set during different glorious wars. I found this strange. Like a gynecologist going home after a long day of work and playing with a sex doll. On one day, however, I walked into the whole place singing along to the song Bodies:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sO_QntXc-c4       I felt like I was in a bad cliche war movie. Then someone put on Marvin Gaye. That lasted 15 seconds until the entire place started to boo in anger at Marvin’s tone and they shut it off. Then we watched soccer.

I’ve never seen so many people so uninterested in the sport of soccer going so crazy from it. The night the US beat Algeria I almost crapped my pants in excitement. It was a great place to see the US triumph and even I was involved in a few USA chants.

Another noteworthy element: Writing on bathroom walls. People in the different branches of military hate each other. They also clearly hate gay people. Usually they combine their hate and say something clever like: “fuck you marine faggots”, “Army sucks cock” or drawing a tiny dick and then writing whose dick it is. Some could have used a proofread. Like Pete from Brooklyn who wrote  ”Pete from Brooklyn, Born and Bread!” Somebody wrote something misspelled and then below that person’s comment was somebody making fun of him who wrote ” Faggot Marines can’t even spell right”. Other bathroom wall posts: “I’m smart because I write on walls” the below that “I’m smart because I’m ironic”. Also, “God is our savior” and below that “God is dead”.

Thats about all I can remember at the moment. I gained a lot of respect for what those people do. I was humbled by their ability to do their jobs with no questions asked while simultaneously being further repulsed by war and what it takes to fight one.

On our way off the grounds one day for a day trip into the city one of the top dogs in charge asked a group of us about the peace corps and if we thought pacifism worked. Nobody answered because the question was silly. “Because pacifism doesn’t always work (of course it doesn’t) and not to offend anybody but its a fact that our country was founded on Christian values (of course it wasn’t) and its a fact that Moses smote the Israelites by word of God (wow how did we get here?) and sometimes evil doers can’t be talked down and you have to kill them and that’s why we can’t all be pacifists (we never said we were pacifists)”. I just started to laugh while my jewish friend quietly asked nobody “what the fuck?”

Photo and print: referendum and ethnic violence in Kyrgyzstan

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2010/06/15/world/KYRGYZ.html?ref=asia

http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/06/23/assignment-40/?scp=3&sq=kyrgyzstan&st=cse

http://enews.ferghana.ru/

http://www.eurasianet.org/node/61405

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/world/asia_pacific/10426533.stm

http://www.hrw.org/en/features/kyrg

double triple top secret location for referendum in kstan

Random Notes: I can’t say much about anything, really. Where I am or where I will be for the voting which may turn violent here. So I’m posting this which I wrote before I got to the place I can’t talk about.

June 14^th, 2010

A few days ago, ethnic violence began in the city of Osh in southern Kyrgyzstan. What I am told began as I fight at a casino has turned into a humanitarian disaster. The clash is between ethnically Uzbek, Kyrgyz nationals and ethnically Kyrgyz, Kyrgyz nationals. It seems that the Uzbeks, the minority, are being attacked and forced to flee into neighboring Uzbekistan. Today I heard many numbers but it looks like at least 110 and 75,000 who have attempted to flee (although the number is surely already more than that and still growing).

Why are there Uzbeks living in Kyrgyzstan when Uzbekistan is right across the border? The answer is long and complicated. What is simple is this: people are being killed in large numbers because of their ethnicity.

Tonight I sat down to dinner with my family. My dad spent the whole night yelling at the t.v. “Of course you would! You’re an idiot!” “Donkey’s have bigger brains then you!” “Your mother must have beat you hard, fool!” It’s ok, I laughed too.

When he wasn’t yelling at the box we discussed the mess engulfing Kyrgyzstan. My host dad is embarrassed and frustrated. People fight because they are unhappy, they are unhappy because their government does not represent them. Worse, it steals from them. We have no leaders who care about our people”.

April’s revolution, still unresolved, has proved difficult for Kyrgyzstan and its parliament to justify. On the 27^th Kyrgyzstan will hold a referendum to vote on numerous changes in the constitution. I’m not sure if that will be possible now.

The truth is that this most recent outbreak of unrest and violence is just another symptom of a bigger problem- Kyrgyzstan has turned into yet another failed state in the region. Of course, the one ray of light the April coup provided was a hope for change and improvement. But now that will have to wait as Osh and Jalalabad city burn to the ground.

Needless to say this has been difficult to live through. Also, surreal. While people are being forced into exile in the south of the country I sit up in the mountains of my site and it couldn’t be more peaceful and same ol’. It’s business as usual up in the regions of Naryn and Issyk-Kol. Except for the fact that I’m grounded to site, which means I can’t really go anywhere.

April 15^th, 2010

More bad news today. Al-Jazeera is reporting cases of rape in the south. The refugee situation is getting worse and Uzbekistan has closed its border. Uzbeks waiting to be let in are dying of exhaustion and hunger while dysentery is spreading among the population of exiles. Russia has sent aid but not enough and the US, to the best of my knowledge has done little to nothing to mitigate what is now being called a humanitarian catastrophe. Maybe this would change if George Clooney got on board or gap ran a hip new t-shirt campaign (“can I get that ‘AIDS in Africa Sucks’ T-shirt in a V-neck?”).

On the way to work a young man approached me on a bicycle and began yelling random English phrases at me. “Have a nice day! Nice to meet you!”, etc. I told him I speak Kyrgyz and he told me his English was better than my Kyrgyz. I told him it wasn’t and this apparently made him very mad. “We all know,” he told me. “We all know you are agents.” This is relatively common around here- being told we are spies. I told him he was wrong, that I was invited here by the school I work at. He told me I was wrong. I told him if I was a spy then I’m a terrible spy. I told him if I was a spy then I wouldn’t be in Kyrgyzstan. It didn’t matter to him. He kept telling me I was a spy. Ever the tactful diplomat I told him he was an idiot and to leave me alone.

Then he said, “We all think that people who come here from other countries to live are wrong in the head. You are all crazy or else you would be back at home”. This is a sneaking suspicion I’ve had since arriving. I mean, because if you think about it, it is very hard to grasp. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is a bit crazy. At the time though, without the benefit of reflection, it just pissed me off and I told him he was a mother beaten donkey and to leave me alone again. He got off two punches to my chest before an Imam (we were in the street outside of a mosque) stepped in and told the boy to go home. The imam had been listening to the whole thing and apologized profusely for the boy. From across the street the guy yelled something about beating me up again before peddling off on his rickety little bike.

When I ask people here what they think of all this they either avoid the question because they seem embarrassed by it all of they say something like “It’s bad”. And that’s only when I ask. Otherwise its business as usual and this is the hardest part about this situation personally. PC has put everyone on standfast. We are not to leave our sites. So I’m stuck out here in the mountains, once again, while the country self-destructs.

June 27

Waiting…

Article and photos on otherplacestravel.com

Follow the link below. Words and photos on a trip to Tash Rabat Caravanseria in Naryn, Kyrgyzstan. One of the oldest standing Silk Road forts left.

http://www.otherplacestravel.com/?p=180

The River Near China

Today the river in At-Bashy, reflecting the sun, put purple spots in my eyes and I could barely read the book I had brought down to the banks. The water, now a grayish green, had been muddy just a few days before, bringing clay and red dirt out of the mountains. As I sat there a memory, almost two years old popped into my head, my mind racing from too much coffee and the prospect of leaving very soon.

The At-Bashy river, fed by snow melt and mammoth glaciers, falls out of the 7,000 meter peaks of the Tian Shan in eastern Kyrgyzstan and merges into the At-Bashy river, then the Naryn river and on to the Syr Daria River. The Syr Daria, one of the most prominent in Central Asia, continues on all the way to the desiccated Aral Sea.

From where I sat in mid August 2008, on the raised boulders above the banks of the At-Bashy River in At-Bashy village, it looked like little more than a wide riverbed full of scree and shrubs and lined with sinuous ribbons of water. Except for a few deep pockets where the thin streams converged and rushed through, it never got deeper than a few feet.

The At-Bashy (literally horse’s head) Mountains rear up almost immediately after the river and fades into grass heading southwest into the glare of the sun. This range is a subgroup of the Tian Shan, which flank the At-Bashy range’s 5000 meter peaks all the way into China. On the other end of town, to the north, sit the Naryn Too Mountains. These parallel the At-Bashy’s, tumbling off into the distance. From the bank I sat on looking southwest, it felt like I was inside some giant bowl. The sky here is so big that entire storms are contained in the distance, glowing like giant walls of grey marble. This was my home.

I had just arrived in At-Bashy, placed there by the United States Peace Corps, and was going to be teaching English at a primary school in town. A short walk from my host family’s house ran the river, the twisting mountains and the sky. Work hadn’t begun yet and so, in those first weeks at site, I went down to sit and look and listen to the river. My language ability was poor at the time, having only had 3 months of training. The result was a nagging loneliness that was easiest dealt with by surrounding myself with the harsh topography and wide-open space found at the end of a muddy road.

Sitting there one day, I noticed him. The sun was setting behind him so he wasn’t much more than a black set of limbs among flowing pools of white light. But I could see he was preparing himself for something. He took off his shirt and broke a long stick into two. Then he turned and stepped into one of the deeper sections of the river.

His chest, blocking the flow, sent water up over his shoulders and for a moment it looked as though his feet had lifted from the rocks and he drifted back. He had lifted his two hands above his head and it seemed like a plea for help. As I got to him I realized his hands were held above his head to keep his deconstructed rifle and clothing dry- the butt and box of bullets in one hand, barrel and shirt in the other. He looked up at me and then back up river. In a moment he was on a boulder beside the rushing flow, shaking himself dry and wringing out his pants. He smiled up at me and then brought two fingers to his mouth. I gave him a cigarette and we sat there quietly smoking. Freeing his hands, he pieced his rifle back together and then hopped up the boulders onto the dirt road above. With the cigarette still dangling between his cracked lips he caught my gaze and nodded down river. He began to walk. I followed.

His house was several miles away and by the time we reached it the sun had set. I walked in and took my shoes off. His wife came out and stared at me, confused. I have no idea what was said but soon she had placed a bowl of steaming tea in front of me and we all sat, legs crossed, drinking out of cracked cups and eating chunks of bread and stale fried dough called borsok. The man left for a moment and returned with a little photo album. Inside were photos of his kills. He pointed, smiling at a particular photo. In some photos he sat next to marco polo rams with antler spans that were longer than he was tall. In others he was posed with his guns, sometimes knee deep in snow.

I said goodbye to his wife and he refused to let me walk home alone in the dark. I invited him in but he just shook my hand and turned and walked swiftly away. Inside, my host father yelled at me. They had been worried. I hadn’t slept a week in their house and already I was getting into trouble. They told me only bandits and drunks hang out down by the river (this turns out to be basically true) and I just said it wasn’t a problem and I wouldn’t be out after dark again.

I’ve only seen him a few more times during my service. Once in town I passed him on the street and he introduced me to his daughter. A smiling, little thing that dangled from his hand and hid behind his legs. I don’t even remember his name. I still remember his face, though. As clear a memory I have of living in Kyrgyzstan. His smirking mouth stuck to a cigarette drooping from his dry lips.

Volunteer work wears on the soul, especially of the development sort. I’ve been in At-Bashy now for almost two years and I’m not sure what exactly I’ve accomplished. The Peace Corps is aware that this sentiment is common among vols. and so they created 3 goals to quantify success at site. Two of the three state, essentially, that by just being here we are succeeding. They go something like: to spread awareness of US culture to host country nationals and to gain knowledge of the host country’s culture and to pass on that knowledge to US nationals. It’s extremely useful for PC to have these two goals set up because it makes failure almost impossible. Unless, the volunteer hates it in country, she can probably manage these two goals. The third goal, though, is the most important to the majority of vols. It is to improve the capacity of the host country to meet its needs- basically the meat of the whole endeavor. Obviously, it’s the most difficult. I’ve helped kids get into programs in the US, written grants, run summer camps, etc. But, for some reason, I rarely feel like I’ve helped in any significant way. Is Kyrgyzstan better off from my service? I’m not sure.

Anyway, my point I guess is that when I leave it will be memories like the one above that help me to remember why I came and stayed and consider the whole thing to have been worth it.
The last time I saw him he was going to fish and carried a net and a pole for the job on his back. He was riding a bicycle that must have been twenty years old and made of solid iron. He looked like he might be pushed over by gusts of wind but he never fell. He stopped and we spoke awhile. I asked how his family was. He asked if I had a cigarette. I said I didn’t. He threw a pinch of dark green pellets into his mouth and pushed them under his lip with his tongue. Known locally as nasifai but what I call bird turd because of the rumor that it is made from bird shit, this stuff makes your head light and your feet as heavy as cinderblocks. The last time I put some in my mouth I almost fell off a horse and then off a mountain. He invited me to some and then to come fish and I said I would the next day. We shook hands and he rode on into the wind and dust. I could hear his bike squeak against itself even after he turned the corner.

revolution or something like it

I can’t get into detail. Peace Corps doesn’t want me to alarm anybody. The truth is, though, that everyone is safe in Kstan at the moment and, in the region of the country I reside, things couldn’t be more peaceful.

The Mongolian

*** The following post has some vulgar words in it. Also, I write about a scene in the movie Antichrist where two people have some vivid sex. At the end I get a bit graphic in describing the… balls mainly. If that may bother you please don’t read on. But do donate to my resource center!

He showed up one night at a cafe in Naryn. He was a big guy with long hair and a variation of a beard that I guess you could call a goatee. I sat there eating my dinner and before long he was telling us about his job as a Mongolian historian. He had been on the road for four years, writing a blog for Mongolians to read. This apparently is a long-standing Mongolian tradition- recording history for future generations to learn from. Clearly, a sweet gig. But how is he paying for it? Some friends back at home were paying his way. He had been to the US, Africa, the Middle East, and Europe and now we sat in a circle, eating and drinking with him in Central Asia.

On the way home we stopped at a store and bought a half-liter of Vodka. We grabbed a few plastic cups and some Fanta and planted ourselves down in a side room that can only be described as cramped and dirty and perfect for suggestions of vodka shots. As we sat there the Mongolian, Amai was his name, toasted us by saying that he had met many Americans that he liked very much and that we were actually very nice people. This is a common theme among people who aren’t American but find themselves in need of their hospitality in are worried about offending- “you aren’t as bad as we all say”.

Up in the apartment Amai told us he had a surprise. We were made to close our eyes and soon he was throat singing. Throat singing is that loud, deep groaning in two notes that form a chord. You hear in any movie that has ever been made about Mongolia or Tibet. It was awesome, of course. So awesome that some of us laughed from the sheer ridiculousness of the scene and Amai stopped. Then somebody got too drunk and way, way too naked. Then another person- a theme at PC parties these days. I guess we are bored- and that effectively ended the night.

The next day the Amai, a social butterfly, began to tell us how ignorant we were in tones of compassionate pity. “Listen, I know way more about the world than you and you should take everything I say as though it’s sacred”. On topics of religion, politics, art, music and geography we were all wrong. Then he began to tell us about how we, Americans, didn’t know much about American culture. How could we, being from there?

Now I’ll be the first to shit on America if it needs a dumping. But don’t tell me you know more about American culture than I do. Don’t tell me that American music has no soul. We invented blues, jazz and rock and roll. Don’t tell me that we don’t cherish our women. Don’t tell me we don’t believe in the right God. Ironically, all those criticisms sound like something an American would say about another culture. Anyway…

This is a global trend- that Americans are fat, lazy, stupid and cultureless and because of the past 8 years of stupidity around the globe we are all forced to tuck our tails between our legs and beg for forgiveness. I’m getting bored.

Of course, most of the volunteers were so entranced by Amai’s existence and his implicit claim that he was some sort of mystic that he could say or do no wrong. Another trait of Americans abroad- worshipping people who aren’t American. Now I’m all for valuing diversity. In fact, its what I live for usually. But I refuse to be impressed just because you were born in a unique place or know a lot about Genghis Khan or cook really good food. Say something interesting or shut the fuck up. Get over your own myth.

The next day, smoking a hookah with Amai, he put on the movie Anti-Christ. In the first scene there is a pornographic, close-up of legendary proportions. This jarred me a bit and I chuckled. Mostly, a nod to any director who has the balls to show balls in glistening, high def. But also because it was a bold move on Amai’s part. ‘’Want to watch a movie, people I just met? Well check this nut sack out!’’ Amai immediately shut off the movie, telling us he hadn’t liked our reactions. Apparently, Genghis Khan had sat through his share of exceedingly unnecessary scenes of scrotums and labia without even a chuckle. I stood to learn a lot from the guy.

Here it is, Amai the Mongolian. If laughing at private parts practically overflowing out of the screen makes me American, then I am 120% American. I laugh at penises and vaginas in close-up, filmed in slow motion, artistically grinding (maybe I should say dancing) against each other in stunning black-and-white, dripping with water and set to an epic piece of opera music. I laugh at it because it’s funny. I laugh at it because anyone- from Mongolia to Mexico- who doesn’t react to that shot, at least at first, in some way, is an asshole.