A Peace Corps Kazakhstan Volunteer's Christmas Wish List…for those interested.

-Scented candles

-hand sanitizer

-ruled lined paper (Elementary, regular, college Ruled)

-writing stationary

-schoolroom chalk (the round kind)

-Tazo Tea (Of any type, but spiced orange and Chocolate Chai, if you can find it, would rock my world)

-Eucalyptus tea

-Any newspapers, magazines, books, dictionaries, thesauri, reading material of any kind as long as it is English (I want stuff that I can leave here for the teachers at my school to use for resources and material)

-pictures of people, places, and items of interest from around America

-any snack food from the States is also welcome in any amount (especially Hershey's Special Dark Chocolate)

-pancake syrup

-American Style playing cards

-anything you think someone far away from home would like to have, or could use.

Things necessary for living here and cooking:

-Measuring cups, bread knife (but I don't know how well that would travel)

-semi-sweet Chocolate chip morsels for cookies

-recipes for different American Style foods

-Classroom version of a game called word-up http://www.teflgames.com/about.html

-Any version of Scrabble

-Art supplies of any size, type, quality, quantity, variety, etc.

-Easy books, 3-8 grade reading level, in sets of 4-10

-Again, any magazines, newspapers, books, pictures, maps, guides to state / National Parks, Atlases, brochures from colleges, universities, schools, letters vaguely addressed to anybody, anything.

The following books:

-http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/1904563295/qid=1103032891/sr=1-1/ref=sr_1_1/102-2133278-0800109?v=glance&s=books

-http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1570717206/ref=pd_sxp_elt_l1/102-2133278-0800109

-http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0714844098/qid=1103119419/sr=2-1/ref=pd_ka_b_2_1/102-2133278-0800109

-http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1932112154/qid=1103119800/sr=2-1/ref=pd_ka_b_2_1/102-2133278-0800109

-Hershey's Special Dark Chocolate, true coffee (e.g. not instant)

-music

-MP3 CD's with Jazz, Classical, Blues, Country, Bluegrass, Classical Rock, Modern Rock, Rap, Pop (in small quantities), and any other type of music someone can get hold of.

-A laptop with a CD/CDRW burner DVD player

-Olympus digital camera (http://www.olympusamerica.com/cpg_section/cpg_product_blue.asp?l=1&p=&bc=&product=1140 ),

-a trip around the world for four

-just a letter (for those of you who I owe a letter, I am getting there, really I am)

-T1 Internet lines in Kazakhstan

-an IPOD loaded with music of all sorts and kinds

-a phone call (if you want, I can give you my number)

-any video tapes of movies, news, sports, TV shows, etc, as long as they are VHS / PAL compliant (DVD Players are hard to come by, unless someone wants to refer to the first on this list ;) )

-books by the boatload (books that aren't in "good shape" in America are better than any they have here, which is none, and if someone would arrange a book drive / fund raiser for sending said books, oh wow would these people here be ecstatic)

Well it finally happened that I had enough stress with my host family to take matters into my own hands, sort of.

The stress of living with the first host family that I chose finally got the best of me. The fin al straw happened on Wednesday evening. To start the story off, I will refer you all back to the earlier episode where I watched my older host brother pick up the younger one by his throat. This episode I wrote about in one of the earlier blogs, and I will make you go through the trouble of finding it, if you haven't read it, or if you don't remember.

The evening started out well, for the most part. I was gearing up for a four-day weekend that we had from teaching, as a result of the Kazakhstan Independence Day. I was planning on making a short travelling trip to meet some of the other volunteers in their site and hang out with them for a while. I was getting ready to make a phone call when they informed me, several days after the fact that I had phone calls from previous days that they forgot about…Mistakes happen I know, but sometimes, it can get old.

In the middle of me trying to get the damn phone to work, a fight began between the two boys. To back up a little bit, the host father had been gone for a few days on a trip for work back to the village they used to live in and the boys had been at each other and on my nerves since he had left. They refused to listen or obey to the host mom and had even gone so far as yelling at her when she requested them to do something. Not a fun time, let me tell you.

The fight almost got out of hand once and then they backed off of each other. I had to step into the middle of it politely as I could under the circumstances to actually put an end to it. I was trying to take the host brother into another room and explain to him that what he was doing was not going to be accepted by me, regardless if the host mom refused to get into the middle of it. This kind of backfired when the host mom decided that it was appropriate to get into he middle of it when I was trying to stop it. So I let it go.

But they didn't let their fight go. It was calm for about ten minutes, which oddly enough was enough time for me to make the overdue phone calls. I managed to get two of them done before the phone stopped working…again…and then the fight started back up. This time it was verbal for a few minutes. Then it quickly escalated when the older brother threw a hardbound book at the younger, hitting him with the corner of the book in the leg. The book was about chess, as he has been studying, trying to beat me. It wasn't a light book, and the corners of new, hardbound books are not soft. This was enough to light off the temper of the little one, who can't weigh more than 50 or 60 lbs. He started off a string of words that I know were bad, and this turned up the heat a little more. The older host brother, weighing in at about 140 or so, picked the younger up, by his throat, again, and this time punched him in the back of the head with a closed fist.

This was too much for me, and I wasn't going to take it anymore. I made my way from one corner of the room where I was trying to make the phone work to the other where the fight was happening, and put an end to it. I guess that is putting it lightly. I grabbed the arm of the older one as he swung again. He turned his attention to me, as did the host mom finally. (She still had yet to do anything about the fight!) He tried to swing at me and I laid him backwards over my knee, without hurting him, at which point, he made a grab at my face and I laid him on the floor, as gently as one can in this kind of situation.

He tried to swing a fist at me, and I responded by putting my forearm tight against his throat. This still didn't stop him and he tried to grab my face with his free hand. (I still had his first fist firmly in my grasp.) I put more pressure on my arm and stopped, realizing that he wasn't going to end up in good shape if he tried to hurt me. He finally backed off and started crying, for good reason. I had just humiliated him ion front of his mother, who couldn't stop me from what I was doing, and his little brother, who was still lying on the floor crying from being punched in the back of the head.

This was the point that I had let the situation go longer than I should have. I know that losing control of one's temper is never good, and I realized after the fact that it was the amount of stress that I was under with them that pushed me far enough to do what I had done. I immediately put in calls to my counterpart (well when I could get the damn phone to work), and to my manager (who I wasn't able to get her cell phone, but she called back later), explaining the situation. I had, ironically, just gone to visit with another potential host family earlier that evening and was calling my regional manager with a plan to move out. This incident only accelerated the move.

So now I am in a new host family, much better situation, which I will write about soon. I also have some details about the move out and my cat, which I am still trying to get back from the host family. But that is another entry.

Take care out there, and remember, if you are stressed in your situation, don't wait too late to get out. In this situation, Bad things happen to those who wait, I don't care what the saying says.

Love to all,

Ps…Stan is for Kazakhstan, (it is used by some of us to refer people to the area of the world we are in over here…e.g. the former USSR, or as they say here CCCP, which is Cyrillic for SSSR.)

I know there are other things that I should write about but I figured that I should revisit some of my recent excursions in the good, ol' village of Akzhaik.

Most recently I had the opportunity, or I should say the experience of watching a basketball tournament here at the school. Now the idea of a tournament hasn't quite been realized here, nor have the rules of basketball.

The best that I can do to explain this experience to you out there in the reading public, without having a video camera or having you here is to write so here comes my best shot.

Basketball in America is a clean non-contact sport with many rules about fouling, travelling, over the back, rebounding, double dribble, over and back, and the list could go on, but I will stop. The idea of the rules is to make the game fair and consistent so that the best team of players wins the contest. I have watched my fair share of basketball over my 23 years of life, and, although I wouldn't call myself an expert, I would go as far as to say that I know how the game is supposed to go and stop. And, I can call an occasional foul with a certain degree of fairness and truth. That being said…

Basketball in Kazakhstan, well I should say Akzhaik only because I have never seen anyone else play basketball here is a clean, non-contact sport… in the way that a combination gang street fight, rugby, Aussie Rules football, Street Ball "No Blood, No Foul"" is a clean non-contact sport. They asked me to referee the game when I first got there, and I politely declined, for whatever reasons, but it soon became clear that I had made the right choice.

I have never in my life seen so many rules let slide. There is no such thing as traveling. Pushing off is a way of life. Double dribble happens only when the referee feels like blowing the whistle and making the sign. And a foul? A foul simply does not exist. I have seen boxing matches with less fist to body contact. I have seen episodes of that horrible "Walker Texas Ranger" and watched Steven Segal movies where fewer bodies hit the ground.

You may think I am exaggerating, and think what you may, you are allowed that, but if you don't believe me 1) send a video camera and videotape, 2) come and see for yourself, or 3) take me at my word. I only wish I had a video camera to show this display of, for lack of a better word, violence. I took some pictures, but I know they will not do justice to the sort of "play" that happened on the court.

On top of the sport itself, you have the fans, the court, and the rim/backboard. The fans sit on the court, and sometimes are active in the pushing of players and returning / keeping the ball in play. The court is literally half the size of a basketball court. The backboard is a piece of 1/2 inch plywood bolted to a metal frame bolted to a concrete wall, the rim is probably the best piece of equipment in the entire room. The floor is composed of, well, it's a Kazakhstan rural primary / secondary school floor, which doesn't tell you much. It is falling apart. Some place the floor is level, other places it sinks when you walk on it, and still other places it is permanently sunk. This I have pictures of.

I have played on some weird, wild, and wooly courts before, with crazy rules and dangerous floors, but nothing…NOTHING…compares to this. You all will just have to take my word for it though.

On the plus side…They do enjoy watching it.

Take care out there FOUL!!! TRAVEL!!! FOUL FOUL FOUL FOUL!!!!

Missing you all and the motorcycles. Say hello to 'em for me, Dad.

This is a story that I was reminded of, not that long ago, by one of the other volunteers in the group that I am in. For those who read this story and know me, and my stubbornness, some of this will, I am sure, come as a shock.

This happened in the first three days that we were in country. At this point, I had all of maybe four hours of language training, and could just barely…no…I take that back. I couldn't even say, "Hello. My name is Tim." Anyone who has tried to learn this language and knows me will understand this. But I was game for an adventure, and set off to buy some honey.

We were staying at what is called a sanatorium, which is a little bit like a spa center type place, without all the frills. We were up in the mountains not far from Almaty. When we arrived in country, it was dark. The stars were amazingly bright, but there was absolutely no moon. So no one really knew where we were at, and at the time on the bus, tired, jet lagged, hungry, and feeling like dirty garbage after a day or thirty of flying…(I don't know how long the flight was, I lost all track of time.)…(And that feeling of dirty garbage is pretty much a weekly thing now.)…No one really knew where we were. You would think this would have been enough of an adventure for me, but no, I wanted honey, and come hell or high water, I was going to get some, language barrier or not.

At the bottom of one of the mountains was a place where there was supposed to be really good, really cheap honey. Or, at least that was what we were told. I think it was a Peace Corps set-up, but I'll forgive them for now, at least until I can prove it was a set-up. So I, with some other people, set-off down the hill in search of some honey. The others were just going for a walk, but I was going for the whole she-bang. The others turned back as we neared the honey place and I set up the hill on my own. At the time, I thought I must have been walking into the most backwoods yard in the world, compared to most places in the States, but as I have learned over the past half-a-year, most places outside of cities kind of have that feel here. This feeling was only stronger after I met the "saleswoman," who had, if Ai'm lyin, Ai'm dyin', one tooth in her mouth, and that one tooth was gold.

At the bottom of the hill, according to one volunteer who speaks Russian really well, there was a sign that said honey. I have learned since then that he was right, so Ryan, as I have told you already, I must apologize for my disbelief and ignorance. You were absolutely right. The sign said honey, and I know I was pronouncing it correct, but for some unknown reason, I could not communicate that I wanted honey to this woman. I told her honey, I told her the price, I told her flowers and bees and inscribed on the ground, all to no avail. She did not understand any of it. No a smart (i.e. not stubborn) person would have given up after a few minutes. But I was determined to have honey to take to my first host family.

After about 15 minutes, she appeared to have an epiphany. At this point, I must say that for her to have an epiphany was a lot like the sun coming out like a light being turned on after a thirty year period of pitch black night…no stars, no moon, no nothing. She turned and walked back into a little shed and brought out a bottle of what looked like milk tome. So I shook my head. No, that's not it. I want honey. (Ru. pron. btw Meod). She shook the bottle and said, I think, this is honey. No, it's not. And at this, she had another epiphany. Aha! She exclaimed, ran back to the barn, and came back with another bottle, this one bigger and the same white milk like stuff.

At this point I was so frustrated by my inabilities that I gave up. I mean, it was 20 minutes later and still no honey, so what the heck, I'll buy what she has in her hands. How much?..250 tenge for 1.5 liters…Sold to the idiot from America. I walked away completely frustrated with the bottle of milk.

After getting out of her line of sight, I figured I would open the bottle and find out what exactly it was that I had just bought for maybe $2. I opened the bottle and almost puked my guts out right there.

If anyone ever comes to Kazakhstan, let me be your warning. If anyone ever, EVER, offers you a drink of kumiz, DO NOT ACCEPT IT!!! Here, kumiz is a delicacy. But I am telling you now, I have never put anything so vile down my throat. I have been in a lot of strange places, including sewers (from working in utilities work) and I have never even smelled anything this vile. Kumiz is fermented mare's milk. Now for me, anything fermented is not drinkable, in any conditions, with the exception of near death, in the middle of the largest desert, when the buzzards are clipping at your heels. For those of you not up on farm lingo, a mare is a horse. They milk the horse and let the milk go sour and you get BLECH!!!!

Anyway, that was my real introduction to Kazakhstan culture. It was a winner, let me tell you. Since then, I have been offered kumiz about a dozen times at least, my students have to read about it in their terrible text books, and every time I hear it said, I fell like losing lunch on my shoes. Let me be the mistake you learn from if you come here. Don't drink Kumiz. (never ever, ever, ever again!)

Take care out there.

Weekend two with you guess who…

So, there I was, walking along last weekend, minding my own business (this time clever enough to have my coat on) when I get stopped, again, by the ever so elegant and honest police in this country called Kazakhstan.

Since I have been here, I have been stopped twice by the police, both times in the last two weeks. Now, even I am not stupid enough to believe that the first time was a fluke, funny, yes, but at least they had a reason to stop me. This time, no stumbling, no obnoxious behavior (if you can believe that J ), and I had my coat on. These two policemen had absolutely, positively no reason to even consider stopping me, with the possible exception that maybe, perhaps, on the off chance that I was carrying a "bomb" in my backpack.

So the usual barrage of questions followed.

Who are you? Where are you living? Why are you in our country? Are the girls in Kazakhstan beautiful? (I am still unsure about how this pertains to anything police like, but I hear from most of the male volunteers that this is a standard question.) Where are you staying the city? Why are you in the city? Where are you going? Where are you coming from? What is in your backpack? Do you have you documents?

My answers…I am Tim Dickison. I am a volunteer. I am teaching school in a small village. Yes of course I am going to tell you that the girls are beautiful, whether they are or not, I don't feel like pissing you off. (It's not like I have to lie, they are beautiful, but that is besides the point.) I am staying at a friend's apartment (stating the nearest apartment). I am going to that friend's apartment. I am coming from Kazakhtelecom (where I was doing Internet business, but I didn't tell them that. That would mean that I had money.) I have books and a camera. Of course, I have my documents.

And then the real reason for why they stopped me came out. Maybe, with the difference in cultures, these police don't understand that a volunteer doesn't make a whole lot of money, but then again, I am from America. I must be rich. What was the question? Where is your money? What exactly my money has to do with any police business in city of Uralsk is beyond me…Oh wait, no, it's not. I know why they ask that. They think 1) I am rich and 2) that my spine is weak enough that if I have money, I will just hand it over to them. For those of you who know me…That's right…I had 20,000 tenge in my pocket, which right now amounts to all of $150, a real fortune let me tell you. I had a host family payment to make, and shopping to do.

Did they honestly think that if they kept asking where my money was that I would just give them all that I had? Apparently, because they must have asked me at least 20 times. Where is your money? Honestly, I have no money. I am a volunteer. I don't get paid. I have no money.

For fifteen minutes I had to tell them this. I know they understood. I could understand their little laughs and snickers and their Kazakh. Haha, he's an American and he says he doesn't have money…what a lie! Where is your money?

Oh where is the ability and freedom to tell a crooked cop to "piss off, I'm not giving you a bloody red tenge!" It doesn't exist here for me. Oh, but wouldn't it be nice to be able…Oh wait a minute. Here comes his superior officer. What is the problem? His documents check out, let him alone. To which the crooked cops immediately responded, as the other officers left, Shuttka Shuttke…Joke, Joke. I know what a joke is. I'm sorry, your "joke" isn't funny.

Corruption exists in the world…Oh yes it does. Piece out my hommies…J ;) Take care.

Ps for those of you worried about me, don't. I really am doing well, and will eventually answer your emails. I promise.

You will all love this one, sorry about the length.

Last weekend was Thanksgiving, and being an American Holiday and not a Kazakh Holiday, most of us had to work. In and of itself, it wasn't all that bad. There were some twenty people that came in for our little feast. (Soon I will have pictures up displaying it…Maybe.) Before all of the feast happened, there was a little celebration to commemorate the ending of a big project that some of the NGO volunteers put together. It was nothing big, it was really just a bunch of people going out and having fun.

The real fun for me began after our arrival at the fourth bar / club that we went to, only to discover that they, like all of the other places, don't sell water without gas (regular water instead of mineral water). This has been a reoccurring theme in my PC service. You would think that I would just learn to drink that other crap.

Finding myself thirsty, not in the mood for mineral water, beer, or vodka, which appears to be the only drinks one can find in this country, I went for a walk into the gathering evening to find a bottle of water. Now, winter has started in this country, soon I will add an entry about that too, and it was a bit on the cold side for almost everyone, save me. So when I left the club / bar, I left my with the coat check person, knowing that I had everything I needed for my little foray into the city…passport, kartoucka, and money. Little did I know the rules in Kazakhstan.

Almost every street in Uralsk has a store that stays open late into the night, and if you can't get into it, you can at least ask for what you want through a small window, they bring it to you, you pay, and go on your merry way. Every street save the one I was walking down. I walked a full city block without finding a single open store. Arriving at the corner of Euvrasia and Doestuck (pron, not word, the word means friendship), and still being in search of water, I decided that the next logical step to take would be to turn down Doestuck and continue my search for water. Someone else had a different plan.

As I was taking the corner, I heard a vehicle pull up behind me and give a little toot on the horn. Beings that I was the only soul for a few hundred feet, I figured it was for me, and it was. I turned around to discover that there was the Kazakhstan equivalent of a police cruiser and they wanted to "have a talk with me, would you please get in the car?" Being the kind and cooperating soul that I am, I gladly complied to their request. They were three police officers in a Lada Niva "Truck," the Kazakhstan equivalent of an SUV. The following conversation happened in Kazakh, and I will spare you the time and trouble of translating it.

Them: What are you doing?

Me: I am looking for a store.

T: Who are you?

M: My name is ********.

T: Who?

M: ***********.

T: Where are you from?

M: America, I live in the state of Illinois.

T: Are you cold?

M: No, I like cold weather.

T: Where are you coming from?

M: I am coming from Soho (the name of the club).

T: Why are you at Soho?

M: I am there with my friends.

T: Have you been drinking?

M: No, I do not drink.

Now, at this point, I will have to add a special detail about Kazakh culture. In this country it is legal to walk about the streets, at pretty much any age, drinking beer and or vodka from open and uncovered bottles, without any sort of fear of police interference, as long as you have identification.. This will come into play later. Now back to the conversation. (Note: there are no mistakes in their following sentences, as they have now switched to English, very poor English.)

T: Have you been drinking?

M: No. (I lay down my story that I had friends die from drunk and reckless driving and that I don't drink because of this. It is not entirely true, but it makes people leave me alone about the issue. And it works with them also.)

T: Where is you coat?

M: It is at Soho.

T: Where is your coat? It is cold.

M: It is at Soho. I am not cold.

T: Where is your coat?

M: Hmmm. I think it is at Soho, and I like the cold weather.

T: You should have a coat on. You will get sick.

M: Ok.

T: Who your father? (In English.)

M: Inner Dialogue: What does my father have to do with this? Response: His name is Michael.

T: Who is father? (Again, In English.)

M: My father is *********.

T: Who is father?

M: I don't understand why you are asking about my father.

T: (Realize they don't know what they are trying to ask in English and revert back to Kazakh) Where are you from?

M: I am from Illinois, in America.

T: You are American?

M: Yes.

T: Why are you in Kazakhstan?

M: I am teaching English at the Akzhaik Secondary school.

T: Where are you living?

M: Akzhaik.

T: Where are you staying?

M: (ID: Why do I have to repeat myself… I know they understand me, every time I say something they repeat it.) I am living in Akzhaik.

T: Where are you living in Uralsk?

M: I don't live in Uralsk. I live in Akzhaik.

T: Why are you in Uralsk?

M: I am with my friends.

T: Where are your friends?

M: They are at Soho.

T: Where are you going?

M: I am going to find a store that sells water without gas. I am thirsty.

T: Why do you need water?

M: I am thirsty.

T: Do they sell water at Soho?

M: Yes, water with gas. I need water without gas.

T: Do you have you documents?

M: Of course. Here they are.

T: (All of them examine my documents.) Ahh. You are from America. What is your name?

M: (ID Dear God are you serious?) My name is Tim.

T: Sim?

M: No, T, T, T, Tim. (No one can understand me when I say Tim.)

T: Ahh. You will come with us.

M: (ID: Do I have a choice?) Ok.

At this point they turn down Doestuck and start heading in the general direction of the police station. My reaction: Oh great. I am going to get arrested in Kazkahstan for not wearing a coat…Are you serious? But before going far, they turn onto another street. We travel about half a block and then turn in the general direction of the club. At first, I thought, "They are taking me to the club, waterless. Oh well." Then I realized that the street isn't a street.

It is an alley, and the stories of the police forcing people, especially foreigners, to pay bribes to be left alone, start running through my head. As I look ahead, there are no lights, no people, and no, well, no nothing. About half way into the jungle, the driver, the senior officer, pulls the Lada up, and shuts it off. "Oh God, I am dead. They are going to pull me out and beat me up for all the 300 tenge I have on me. (That is less than $3.) The driver then opens the door to have a conversation with a man who is stumbling, and not from the ice and mud, down the alley. This is an easy feat to manage sober in any place that isn't a main sidewalk in Uralsk, but this fellow was a little bit on the intoxicated side. The driver orders the other two to get out and they do.

The next thing I hear is the gentleman being placed ever so gently against the back of the Lada (sarcasm). He hit hard enough to shake the whole car. Then I am ordered out of the car. Ok, I am next. I get myself ready, walk around the back of the car, and…

What a hanger…

I'm not sure where I left off concerning the language camp, but I think I at least finished telling about the train ride.

The language camp itself involved a lot of class time, about six hours a day. The teacher we had was the same one we all had from our days in training, and she is an amazing teacher. Her name is Saltanat, which is a common name in this country, and I used to know the translation, but I have forgotten and I don't have my Kazakh English dictionary with me at this point. But she is an incredible teacher.

When we arrived, we were under the impression (a trick played by the organizer Jon) that we were to have a different teacher, which was a disappointment to myself (and I am sure to all of the other volunteers at the camp) because I was looking forward to having Saltanat again as a teacher. As it turned out, we had Saltanat, which worked out wonderfully. She put together all of the lessons that we had after arriving because she didn't know until then what kind of lessons we were in need of or wanting. (She is working for the US Embassy in Almaty right now teaching Kazakh to a bunch of diplomats.)

The language camp was a welcome change from the monotony of classes. It was also nice to get to see the people that I had spent three months of six-hours-a-day-six-days-a-week minimum in class or training. We cooked some great American meals, and went out to some different restaurants, which was also a welcome change. I should be careful using we though. I know I didn't do a whole lot of cooking myself. I can't remember some of what we had, but we had an awesome salad (recipe provided from Jon), White Bean Chili (or something along those lines), some apple and pear crisp, grilled cheese, as well as some other great food. We also went out to eat a really great Korean Restaurant.

It was an interesting trip that I will have to repeat as soon as I can. The city itself isn't that impressive. It was a little on the dry side, which was a welcome relief to Susan and I, who were coming from Uralsk and three or four weeks of rain. The buildings there are small and less decorated than those here in Uralsk. I did see some interesting statues that I wanted pictures of, but, failing to have my camera with me, I did not get them. On the other hand, I was able to find a battery for my camera at the first store that I looked at, so now I don't need one, for the time being.

The train ride home was interesting also. Susan and I bought our tickets together and decided to ride in the coupe instead of Platts car. Coupes are cars that are divided into four-bunk rooms. Each room has four bunks, duh, and room for a lot of luggage, which was important for the car that I was in as well as Susan. We were worried about our arrangements, because we did not have an assigned room. The worry was that we would end up in a cabin with some drunk guys and get harassed the whole trip home, which had happened to some of the other volunteers on the trip to the camp.

Our worries were for naught as both of us ended in cars with women and children, who, I think, were traveling together. The car I was in had three women and a little girl, who ended up throwing up her dinner after taking some kind of pill which I think reacted with the pill she took. These ladies had so many bags, it could hardly be considered funny. The entire area of baggage was full of their bags and even one of the bunks that was being slept in had some large bags on it. As a result, I spent my sleep time shared with my bag, which, considering that the bunks are too small for me to begin with, made for some uncomfortable sleep. All in all the rest of the trip was uneventful, with one exception.

I talked a little bit with the ladies in the cabin, and found out that one of them was related to someone I know. She turned out to be the sister of one of the gym teachers at the school where I am teaching. She then proceeded to look through the pictures I had with me and we had a decent conversation, which ended with her offering me her phone numbers and address. I'm still not sure why.

All in all it was a pretty good trip. It was a chance to refresh myself from the worries of having to teach class. It was nice to eat American style food, and be able to carry on conversations without having to dummy it down or watch what I say for fear that something will be taken the wrong way.

Speaking of which, we also got to watch and have a decent discussion on Michael Moore's "Fahrenheit 9/11". Even though I don't like the guy or his style, he makes some pretty poignant statements about the quality of the administration that is playing with the future of America. It's too bad more people didn't take his message to heart.

I hope y'all are doing well out there. Remember that if you don't get emails from me when you write me, it's not because I don't want to write back, but my time is precious and needed in the classroom, and the internet is not cheap nor reliable.

Take care.

So, I haven't thrown anything up here in a while, and I guess by now, someone out there is about to write an email asking why. To that I say…Here. Have an entry. Hmm. What should I write about though? I guess I never told anyone about the trip to Kyzalorda for the language camp. I think I'll say a few words about that.

To start off the story, I should begin at the beginning. The rules for the Peace Corps state that a volunteer is not allowed to leave site in the first six months, or the last three months of his or her service. This is to integrate the volunteer into the community in which he/she is supposed to live for the next two years and to make sure the volunteer finishes the projects that they started. We were told prior to swearing in that the only way we were allowed to leave site during the first months was to put together a language camp. So being the rebels that we all are, and wanting to travel early and often, the group that learned Kazakh in training immediately began planning our escape from the sentence which was imposed on us.

We knew that we wanted to do the camp, and with the knowledge of our sites and a map of Kazkahstan, we began planning, before we even left training, where we could best hold the camp. The best location was pretty close to central Kazakhstan in a city called Kyzalorda. Although it doesn't compare to Uralsk, it is a pretty nice city and it really was the best place for us to hold the camp. The longest train ride was for Ryan, who ended up on a 40-hour train ride from Kokshetau to Kyzalorda, followed by Susan and myself from Uralsk on a 29 hour train ride. The others in our group all were less than eight hours from the campsite.

The train ride from Uralsk began, in reality, with a Election Day party at Terry's apartment in Uralsk. Terry is a Kaz 14 (NGO Worker) who just got an apartment with the help of his NGO that includes cable (which also includes CNN World). So we all watched tragically, sorry Dad, as Bush won too many States, and, unfortunately, as Kerry conceded, in my opinion, prematurely.

((Political opinion time: I couldn't vote for a person who cut the budget to one of the only US organizations whose goals are to create a better image of the US, help people in need, and create a better, peaceful world, namely the Peace Corps, and then take that money, start a personal vendetta war (I know there were certain valid reasons to invade Iraq, and he should have used those and found more valid reasons than the lies he sold the American Public) in which a thousand + American soldiers have died, and thousands more are being sent home dying and limbless, all for oil ;) for a world would be better off looking for alternative fuel sources before we destroy the only Earth there is. Wow, that is one long run-on sentence!))

Anyway, back to my story… The train that Susan and I took left at about 2:00 in the morning, so we stayed up rather than sleeping over and missing it. Getting on the train was a bit like going through a meat grinder, I am imagining of course what that would really feel like, and I am pretty sure that would be a pretty accurate description. We pushed and plowed our way through about forty people who were bound and determined to do nothing but get in our way and shout obscenities to the world. (Actually it was all in Russian, so I am not sure what they were yelling, but it was loud and unfriendly.) The trains in Kazakhstan arrive and leave, miraculously, on time from just about every stop. It may be the only form of cheap transportation to do so here in Kazakhstan.

We found our bunks and surprisingly didn't even have to kick anyone out of them. The normal way to travel is to show up at the train station as the train does, and bribe the conductor for a seat. Once the conductor has his bribe, regardless of what your ticket says the seat is no longer yours. One of the other volunteers who came to the camp discovered this the hard way, as her bed was yanked out from underneath her. I'm not really sure of all of the details of that story, so I won't add more than that.

Susan and I discovered that were in the midst of a group of women, mostly, who were making a pilgrimage to Tashkent, which is one of the Muslim Holy areas in Kazakhstan. The lady whom Susan spoke to for several hours (as she had to share her bottom as a seat, which is a whole other story), said she was going to ask for a son. She has two daughters, but she and her husband have been trying to have a son with no avail. They were a friendly and well-spoken group of women, right up until the end. When we got "to" Kyzalorda, one of them woke me up under the pretense of having arrived, and I rolled out of my bunk to discover about five minutes later, after she had crawled into my bunk, that we were still about an hour out of Kyzalorda. So I ended up sitting the rest of the trip on Susan's bunk.

We arrived early in the morning, only to discover that some idiot had put the wrong arrival date on the email that he sent out. I don't know who that idiot is, but he sure writes a long weblogs. Anyway, the situation was soon sorted out and our welcoming committee came to meet us, and take us to the apartment of his host family (who in reality was younger than he is).

I think I'll write the rest of the story in another entry…I still have half the story to write.

So Peace to you all, and God forbid Bush is in charge of finding that peace.