Glennalicious

Hey everyone. Sorry about the long silence. Yes, I am still alive, although living in a second-world country has wreaked havoc with my internal organs. Let's just say that my body has gone through more major illnesses in two weeks than in the last three years. I've lost about fifteen pounds, and look like a poster child for anorexia. If only I could sing as well as Karen Carpenter, I'd be famous.

So leaving Lubbock was one of the hardest things I've done in my life. My friends that came to the airport with me should have seen me once I turned the corner. A huge part of me was shrieking inside, telling me to turn around, go back to my comfortable life, surrounded by familiar places and my friends. Of course, the other voices in my head were telling me to kill everyone, but I've learned to ignore them. Well, most of the time.

As I'm sitting here in my truly bizarre room here in 2nd Otdelenia, Kubrai micro-region, I know I made the right choice, mostly about the Peace Corps, a little about not killing everyone. But back to the trip to Washington. The flight was uneventful, with the exception of a 3 hour delay in Houston, because the big haired ladies apparently lost a part of the aircraft, god bless them. Probably in my food, but I digress. I arrive in Washington, which is a most amazing town. I'm one of the first people to arrive at our hotel, which is about five blocks from the Mall. Of course, customer service isn't this hotel's specialty, as the front desk tells me I need to prepay for the room. I tell them that I'm with the Peace Corps, which doesn't faze them one bit. The guy then takes a ten minute phone call from his girlfriend, who apparently wants him to bring home some groceries. He doesn't want to buy groceries, and a heated discussion erupts. I'm still waiting for my key, as are two other people now. During this time, the bellhop is fishing around for boogers so intently I could swear he is touching the pleasure center of his brain. Finally the front desk guy resolves the food issue by apparently agreeing to bring home chicken. We are all ecstatic. The room is fine, the bellhop stops picking his nose long enough to get his tip.

I orient myself from a map, and head down to the white house, etc. D.C. is designed like Paris, if I recall. It's an amazing place, with everyone playing sports, walking around. People are playing soccer in front of the White House, children are buying ice cream, I'm developing a very sweaty smell from the humidity and walking everywhere. I was really moved at the Lincoln Memorial, as I've wanted to go there since I was a kid. You just feel so solemn, and his statue haunts you. The Vietnam memorial is also moving, as is the Korean War memorial, but Lincoln was the high point for me. After a few hours, I was feeling a mite peckish, so I went back to the hotel, where I met my roommate, Kevin Y, from California. It's a bit odd, as he also has a shaved head, and also has a very odd sense of humor. We hit it off immediately, and went down to the hotel bar for some drinks, and to meet some of the other trainees. Quick note, I'm not a volunteer until sworn in October 27, after successfully completing training. Peace Corps is really into acronyms, and I'm known as a PCT. After that, I'm a volunteer, called a PCV. There are also ET's, AS's, CD's, and all sorts of other great people who happen to be acronyms. So we meet a few others, including Allison from Houston, TX. I'm at my most smarmily charming, coaxing people to our table. One girl is so excited to meet me, as apparently we have been chatting via email. I have NO idea who she is, but she is like 'you're the Glenn from Texas, right?'. Well, I am, but I still have no idea who this girl is, and why she wants to sing with me. Later on, the OtherGlen shows up, a fellow my age, from Dallas. So yes, there are two Texas Glen(n)'s . We all go out to eat, finding a place around midnight, with very expensive burgers. This group is a fairly diverse group, and not quite what I expected. Apparently there is a movie called Volunteers that has a bunch of hippies singing Kumbayah. There are a few of those, especially this one girl whose name I have yet to pronounce correctly, She, like all of her clothing, flows about. I call her Swirlie. But for the most part, we have a group of lucid individuals, fairly intelligent, all enjoyable. My extended family now includes Kevin, Michala, Heidi, Josie, Allison, Rannell, and others are being added daily.

So the next day is filled with Peace Corps stuff, but Kevin and I slip away and see the Holocaust museum. For those of you who are still wondering why I'm doing the Peace Corps, go to this museum. It was gutwrenching to see how a world refused to help as people were slaughtered, but inspiring to see how individuals saved thousands. I want to be one of those people who makes a difference. I know I'm not going to change the world, but I'd like to try, as corny as that sounds. I have a feeling that I'll be changed by this trip, at least as far as my internal organs are concerned. So we return to the hotel for the Peace Corps orientation, and I even get to meet the head of Peace Corps, and yes, I've already forgotten his name. Let's just say that the Peace Corps has two types of employees in the US: flower children, or Fox Mulder wanna-be's. One of our desk officers is cool, the other is an absolute dork. I'm talking the highest dork levels I've seen since skating in the 70's. Orientation is boring, but they offer free food, etc., so it is all good for me. We have one night out as a group, going to a brewery close by, and I meet the rest of the group. Sixty six of us, ranging from a guy named Ashraf who is 64 to Debbie, who is 21. The average age is about 24. Pretty much they all go to bed, bless the young un's. I go clubbing, and might I say that D.C. has some very interesting clubs, especially compared to little old Lubbock.

I had my last espresso drink two hours before we left for the airport. It was tasty, and very symbolic. It wasn't made by myself, but it was still good. I take off my earrings, as they are frowned upon in Uzbekistan. My bags are packed, stuffed abnormally full actually. I might even say bloated and incredibly heavy, making the veins in my head pop up like little map trails. One guy apparently chickens out before we leave. It's an ominous sign, but I'm fine with it, as his name is Glenn, and there is already enough confusion there. The flight is uneventful, but we did get to stop in Frankfurt, where we had a grand time leaving the airport, buying train tickets for the metro, and wandering about the downtown area. No, I didn't buy any liederhosen (sp?). No scary rug rats sit next to me on either flight, so no premature murders, either.

The first week, we are at the Uzbek equivalent of a health spa. The area, although a desert, is heavily irrigated from two major rivers, so there are trees and flowers everywhere. They use an elaborate canal system throughout the entire area, and the sound of running water is never far away here. We have great food, boiled water, and showers downstairs. We're on the 5th floor, and the elevators don't really work. One girl was trapped for an hour when it broke down. I just think of it as an incentive to build up my leg muscles in preparation for the turkish toilets. More on turkish toilets later. Just so everyone knows, this country is an oven. I feel like a EZ Bake cake every time I walk around. I've been here for three weeks, and I'm adapting, but my skull melon is very sunburned. My roommate again is Kevin, and we're getting to be pretty close friends. He has a hard time with the fact that we can't flush toilet paper down the toilet. You have to put it in the wastebasket. He develops an elaborate system of multiple wrappings that rivals those notes from girls that you would get in junior high. I'm just amused, especially after using the local paper, which is basically that crepe paper one uses for parties. So now everyone knows, when in a poop emergency, party hardy in Uzbekistan.

I really like the local food. The main staple is called osh, which is a tasty dish made with rice, carrots, and other bean-ish thingies, plus the occasional rock. Bite softly. We have loads of fresh fruit and veggies, bread called naan, and the only coffee is Nescafe. I drink the tea, obviously. Snob! Apparently I also contracted a flu, as I pass out at the post office and have to be taken back to the hotel. It could also be that I took some decongestants, didn't read the directions, and doubled the dose. I have a 103 degree temp, and sleep for a few days. They give us some very basic communications. Hello, my name is, how are you, our socio-economic model does not compare well with yours, please stop humping my leg, etc. They show us the major cultural mistakes, such as the fact that 'um' means 'vagina' in their language. Um, how many times do I, um, say 'um'? Um, um, um, um, um. Time to wash out my filthy mouth with soap. So without much ado, we our sent to our first host families, where we will live for the first six weeks, training, learning the language, contracting girardia. After that, we are sworn in as volunteers, and sent to the site where we will spend two years.

My family arrives. Irgali (dad, 45), Zhamila (mom, 43), Baikodir (son, 20), Fatima (daughter, 17), Botir (son, 15), and holy evil terror Azamat (wicked evil holy terror brat, son of eldest daughter Yulduz, 3) pick me up in a Soviet pickup. I think it must be from the fifties. For the people that saw the pic on the website of me in a scary truck, that's the one. Apparently it is only twenty years old, but it still has a handcrank on the front. Because we don't have room, they make Botir walk. Later I realize it was about 15 miles, so I'm a feeling a bit guilty when he shows up five hours later. Glad I'm the guest. Guests and the table are hugely important and elaborate concepts in this country. Bread is considered sacred. I can sympathize, as I have worshiped at the coffee altar myself. I digress again, and onto one of my favorite topics. I seem to do that a lot here. Talk about coffee, dream about coffee, keep making faux-coffee beans with dirt, grind the faux-coffee, brew the faux-coffee-grinds, then drink it. I think it probably tastes like the Nescafe. I'm such a snob. But I digressed again. Oh yeah, guests. You can walk into any house in Uzbekistan, and they will usually serve you tea (choi, as they call it) and naan bread before they can even ask you your name. Theoretically, I could simply wander from house to house, getting fat. And the commands! Ooling! Iching! Utering! Basically, eat! drink! sit! One gets very tired hearing it, as it will be said to you about a million times. I'm serious. You sit there, your mouth is full of food, and the host mom will tell you 'Ooling!'. I think it is how they exhale. We have all quickly learned to pace ourselves, as they will rupture your stomach. A huge mistake is to eat a lot of something early on, as there are ALWAYS more dishes to come, and the Ooling! command is washing over you in wave after wave. Plus these foods are all cooked in cottonseed oil, which is not allowed as a cooking oil in the US. It looks like motor oil, and leaves your body in a most alarming manner. Most of us have become quite open about our digestive systems between friends. 'Good poop today? Yes, pretty good. Yours? Horrific, thanks. Food poisoning, girardia, don't really know. So are you going to the study group this afternoon?, etc'.

Of course I'm bitching. It's a skill I have. The low point for my first few weeks was an appetizer of flu, followed by dehydration, and the main course of food poisoning, barfing up every fifteen minutes for an entire day. You could set your watch by my barf. Even better, I only had a big ziplock bag, which is useful and gross at the same time. Actually, everyone's systems are adapting, and the food is merely different, and in some ways better. Not the cottonseed oil. That's vile stuff, and I don't think my system will ever adapt, especially when everything is drowned in it. We have terrific fresh eggplant, picked from the vine behind my room, and then they drown it in the blasted cottonseed oil. However, one of my six local classmates made a baba ganouge-ish dish, and we all plan on showing it to our host families. We are all very excited, as it has no cottonseed oil, and is actually very tasty. All the other foods.... kick butt. I didn't realized how good fresh stuff is. We have tomatoes, cucumbers, grapes, raspberries (new trick, never eat just one, only a handful. I feel so decadent!), apples, peaches, potatoes, mint, coriander/cilantro, garlic, bell peppers, peanuts, walnuts, and one which is called anor here, which I can't remember the English word for, which has to be good sign for my learning Uzbek. Oops, wandered off again. The table. One sits on rugs, not on pillows, although one can lean on a pillow, but only after the most senior family member has leaned. The table is covered with a cloth that is considered clean, and one shouldn't defile the table, even it is stickier than the devil brat Azamat. Tell me that isn't a devil name. Wandered again. I think I have a harder time focusing without coffee. Mmmm, coffee. Anyway, one should never step over even the edge of the table, nor sit at the corner (the usual soviet 'you'll die' superstition), pray with a knife on the table, or spill bread crumbs.

Oh yeah, bread is very special, and I'm beginning to see the reverence. Never cut it with a knife. Always share it with friends. If you drop a crumb, pick it up, kiss it, and put it back on the table. NEVER throw it away. It is like the most cherished guest at the table. With my family, each meal always has the whole family, even if it makes someone late. It progresses slowly, things are talked about (in Uzbek, so I usually just smile, nod, ignore the occasional Ooling! command), and people just share. I don't feel left out when they switch off Russian, as I really feel like a part of the family. Hell, I vaguely recall staring at my real family as a kid, trying to figure out what alien language they were speaking also. They finally trust me to pour the choi, and I'm even allowed to break the bread. Very exciting stuff.

It's one of the most annoying things in the world, really. I know that I'm an intelligent, capable person. Here, the devil child Azamat can ask for things easier than I can. My Russian is jumping forward, but still just survival oriented. Most comments are simplistic, and I know my grammar is terrible. However, I had a great moment a few days ago, when my host mom Zhamila was trying to tell me something. Well, she was trying to get money from me, because I'm an American and they don't understand that we live on 25 dollars a month here. Yes, 25 buckaroos. It's not as difficult as it sounds. Entertainment consists of looking at the stars, talking with people, and being stared at by EVERY local person. We have to find/cook/buy/kill our own lunch, but all other meals are provided by the host family. Anyway, I figure out that my host mom is passing a kidney stone, my host father has been in prison for the last ten years for assault, and she wants me to give her money. I know all of this sounds bad, but I UNDERSTOOD WHAT SHE WAS SAYING. That is really only the real positive thing about this whole situation, as I will entail in the next letter.

I can say with certainty that one doesn't truly appreciate friends and family until they're gone from your life. I miss everyone terribly and even though I don't regret this choice, I hate not being able to talk with friends that I care about, go get coffee, maybe sit in the jacuzzi I had working for only four days before I left. I'd probably even choose the friends over the coffee, except maybe in the early mornings. If anyone would like to send letters or care packages (hint, hint, REALLY BIG HINT), my mom has address labels, as it is in two different languages.