Samuel of Kazakhia

2010-01-24T01:42:00.002+06:00

2010-01-14T04:38:00.003+06:00

2010-01-14T04:30:00.003+06:00

Winter Vegetables

2008-02-19T21:33:00.005+06:00

Possible Borsch Ingredients from Left to Right: Yellow Squash, Cabbage,
I don't know.

Petchka Ash

2008-02-19T21:27:00.002+06:00

The ash of the Petchka is dumped onto the street in front of the house, which in the spring makes an improvisational"sandpit" for village children.

Petchkas Permentantly Puffin'

2008-02-19T21:17:00.004+06:00

How do you further heat a house with limited insulation in -40 degree weather using a coal stove? Add more coal. During the week long period of "Moroze" the village took on an extra industrial look with the normal cloud that hangs above us darkening a few shades of gray.

Temperature Bottoms out at -46.5 F

2008-02-19T21:15:00.001+06:00

Kazakhstan Thermometer with Intervals of 10 C can go as low as -60.

Breaking a Yearling at the Horse Farm

2008-01-16T12:18:00.000+06:00

Iceberg Helmsmen on the Vinnoye Canal

2008-01-06T15:25:00.000+06:00

When it's -35 Degrees, Horses Freeze

2008-01-06T15:19:00.000+06:00

Russian Worker Attire

2008-01-06T15:06:00.000+06:00

Vinnoye 360

2007-12-08T13:33:00.000+06:00

As Winter Hits Rural Northeast Kazakhstan, Everything Dies

2007-12-04T16:44:00.000+06:00

As Winter Hits Rural Northeast Kazakhstan, the Lights Go Out

2007-12-04T15:42:00.000+06:00

The moment we had walked out of the school building the lights had gone out and a wave of darkness had splashed over rows and rows of neatly placed identical one story houses. The village was usually dark enough at this time that to walk down its ice streaked paths meant having to slowly place each foot cautiously in front of the other, a faint light the only means to differentiate between earth and ice.
This faint light came from the last remaining street lamp, a flickering bulb that sat at the top of a not too sturdy looking steel pole attached to the side of Ivan Vsilivich's store. The only reason it worked was because Ivan Vsilivich fitted the monthly electricity bill, a marketing strategy that had backfired horribly. Instead of real customers, the sole street lamp attracted a swarm of hooligans who loitered in front of his store like gnats around a frat house porch light. Occasionally they bought a 2 dollar bottle of vodka or a pack of 50 cent cigarettes but it took only one glance across the counter at Ivan Vsilivich's all to hardened face to see that the business wasn't worth their presence.
The street lamp flickered its last few breaths of life before it too was consumed by darkness. The hooligans began to slowly disperse now in search of a more suitable place to congregate. A steady snowfall had begun and was beginning to blanket the ground, creating a soft protective layer over the ice.
Instantly the shape of the village changed. Time within its modest borders had lost its rhythm and the shadows of assorted automobiles and satellite dishes now peered curiously against the an unfamiliar darkness.
Inside the rows and rows of neatly placed identical one story houses, people lit lanterns and carried them beside their dinner table. The food that they ate, the cabbage, boiled meat, carrots, salt and potatoes had been there for as long as anyone could remember, as were those creaky wooden chairs and light tin utensils.

As I walked down towards the store, I thought about walking in and seeing Ivan Vsilivich sitting there, his face smooth his demeanor undisturbed. I wanted to see him with his comrades, drinking to a future where he and his family would be protected from the evil that permeates life so often and so deeply. He would raise his arm, bellow a toast and confidently empty his glass. I wanted to see him before all the other streetlights turned on and then so abruptly turned off, before he became so frustrated, so confused.

Just as a deep uncertainty comes from the darkness, so does a hope. What's that they say, its always darkest before the dawn?

The light turned back on, the hooligans regrouped and the rhythm of the present reclaimed its rightful place.

Outhouse Toilet Paper

2007-12-04T15:29:00.000+06:00

For those of you who don't know, I've been wiping my ass with this for the last 15 months.

Vinnoye Horses

2007-09-12T11:42:00.000+06:00

Autumn begins in Vinnoye

2007-09-12T11:26:00.000+06:00

Fall chickens in the backyard chicken coop

Baby ducklings with their mother take twenty minute tours across the garden ten times a day

By November these guys will be served with a side of buckwheat

"Baba" Ira prepares tomato juice by grinding fresh tomatoes, onion and horseradish; the juice can be stored all winter.

First Bell for the Second Time

2007-09-03T19:12:00.000+06:00

First Form Students Start School

September 1st was my second time experiencing the "First Bell" ceremony, this time in a Russian village as opposed to an Uyghur village last year. All things went about the same, the ceremony began with the Director addressing the students and wishing them success in the coming year and ended with an 11th form student carrying a 1st form student on his shoulders while the youngin rang a small cow bell with all her might. They run into the school together, followed by all the rest of the grades 2nd through 10th.

All the students were dressed in their traditional uniforms left over from Soviet times and these days used for a handful of school related ceremonies. In the short span of three months many of my students have grown inches in height and facial hair. A new school year begins.

Not a typical summer hat

2007-08-21T14:08:00.000+06:00

I purchased the hat at a chinese bazaar in a village 2 hours outside of Almaty two weeks before I left for Azerbaijan. The sun had been strong that day and the hat as sylish as it was well priced. For three hundred Tenge, or a little over 2 and a half dollars I was now rocking the classic Kazakhstan 2007 summer old man hat. The hat was being spotted on the heads of pensioners all over the country in such old man hangouts as backgammon tables and marshrootka or mini bus ticket counters. Needless to say this hat was special and was already making waves in a country devoid of an ocean.

I wore the hat through customs, on the plane and even in the taxi cab tearing through the streets of Baku at 7:07 pm on 7/7/07. I wore it as I walked away from the hostel that had denied me entry even after I made a reservation three weeks before. And I was wearing the hat as I approached a Scottish fellow looking for directions to a hotel. The hat was cream coloured with a yellow and black striped band around its base. Crafted by a hat machine somewhere in Xinjiang province, it had most likely made an equally long trip to the bazaar as I had made with it from the bazaar to Baku, Azerbaijan. The Scottish fellow heard my situation and offered my to crash in is apartment within the walls of the old city. A few hours later I removed the hat, placed it on the floor next to the army cot I was sleeping on and fell asleep.

I was wearing the hat the next day when I met an Uzbek man about my age. We began talking and the subject quickly changed from the safe multi-dimensional topic of Central Asian plov to the dangerous one-dimensional topic of Uzbek-American politics. It seemed that the hat had given me all it was worth and it was beginning to put quite a strain on my head. Our conversation ended on a lighter note as the young man complimented the beauty of the fine machine woven stitching that made up the hat. I once read somewhere that in many muslim cultures if someone compliments you on a possession you are required to give it to them. I'm not muslim but my Uzbek friend was and I realized were in a muslim country. I interpreted these coincidences as signs, just as strong the sun that shone on my neck and encouraged me to buy the hat it the first place. I knew it was time to pass all the style and good fortune the hat had given me onto someone else.

"The hat is yours" I said and removed it from my head, brushed off the sweat with the back of my forearm as I presented it to him. "You are the most generous American I have ever met" he responded. I now was convinced, the hat had served its purpose.

On the flight home from Baku a few weeks later, I noticed that the flight attendants were the same. An hour before landing, one of them a Russian woman in her mid thirties approached me and asked in Russian where my hat had gone. Slightly startled and confused, I told her I had given it to a friend who deserved it more than I did. She seemed a bit upset but continued the conversation. She had spent six months in Brooklyn last year, living in her friends apartment on Ocean Parkway she said.

We landed back in Kazakhstan, with the hat still continuing its journey. The Uzbek lived in India and would most likely bring it with him there, unless he felt the need to pass it on to another. How many more the hat would bring style and fortune to I may never know, but I had a feeling its journey would be long and arduous. It was after all, a one size fits all.

The transfer is agreed upon.

A Summer Stroll

2007-08-21T13:14:00.000+06:00

I can't remember there being many flowers breaking through the sidewalks of Brooklyn. It's hard concrete that we chase up and down city streets, strong enough to support our quickening paces. In Vinnoye its a natural soil that covers the village floor. In late spring, into early and mid summer flowers of all types stretch their necks through this soil and are greeted by the snouts of all different kinds of wild and domestic animals. All intertwined together, they create a slow moving repetitive story of which each chapter lasts three months. With four chapters to every book and every book so similar to the next, the village notices when something changes. A six foot tall figure jutting through these dirt roads seemingly on a very important mission changes the plot completely.
The first question is obvous. Where is this newcomer going at such a pace? There are only a few places someone could be headed on foot in the village of Vinnoye. The skola, the hospital, horsefarm, the local shop or maybe somewhere over kruglia hill, to uncharted lands. It's a Sunday the one day where people put down their hoes and lay their frames to rest, so that cancels out the skola and horsefarm. He could be headed to the hospital, but there's a small remont there, an installation of new chinese made windows: a step down in quality from the old soviet one's which we stolen sometime between '92 and '94, but what can be done as the good ol' days are long past by now. He could be headed to Ivan Vsilovich's shop, but everyone knows that pensions are already two weeks late and that means Ivan Vsilovich shelves will be more bare than the old men who every June plant potatoes in nothing but black speedos.
One would be lucky to find a bottle of Slavyanka during a dry spell like that. Kruglia hill it must be, but who walks towards Kruglia hill on a Vaskresenya afternoon with such determination in his glazis? There is no rifle on his arm so he can't be going there to hunt rabbit or ptitisis. He goes alone and carries no blue tarp or large rice bag neccesary for an afternoon picnic. There is really only one possibility left, that his brats already headed out for a picnic and he is meeting them, extremelt late and in a great hurry. Yes, this could make sense, but why is he not carrying any podarkis with him? At the very least some smoked fish and piva are neccesary if a friend is meeting his tovarish fo a nice Sunday afternoon picnic. This poses a serious problem and is cause for real concern. After all, if chapter two of this year's book is different from chapter two of last year's book one could make the argument that the third chapter would be different as well, making the whole year's book different and eventually completely changing the story dramatically. In the entire history of the village there has been very little real change, of course there was that one time when the Ivanovich couple took15 potatoes from a neighbours yard without asking but that situation was resolved with the potatoes being paid for.
The concern now can be seen on the faces of two babooshkas sitting on a nearby bench, the constant pace of their croquet needles slowed to a halt. The light sound of their gossiping is all that is heard as a young fourth form girl suddently sprints in the middle of the path, picks a fresh sunflower from the earth and intercepting the fast paced figure, presents it to him. The six foot figure accepts the svetok and with a smile brewing on his face, peers deeply into the midday sky and continues down the road at a much more respectable pace. The babooshkas breathe a sigh of relief and the rotation of their needles starts up again. The chapter, the book, the story, the history will be preserved. Where he was going, nobody ever knew.

A simple funeral

2007-05-05T11:17:00.000+06:00

Walking down the long, funneling dirt road that marks the border between Vinnoye and open space, something very peticular and equally peculiar catches my eye. It is a color usually reserved for not so simple places, yet fused into a shape ubiquitious with those who have been humbled by the land. The color stands out like the blood of a calf torn apart by wolves that I came across in the snow of the previous winter. Much like the calf and much like this village, it simultaneously intrigues and horrifies me. I quicken my pace, weaving around some young children playing with the now yellowed bones leftover from a previous meal, their faces covered with a dark grey soot. "Zdrastvootie Mr. Robinson!". A step up from the "Kak Sam"'s of Avat I think.
I look up and at once notice that a large crowd has gathered in front of a house, which from the distance I'm at seems to be parellel to mine. They are standing in a semicircle, wrapped around the back of a blue rusted truck usually dedicated to transporting hay and grain. Their faces are somber, long and gaunt. Well, I think, their faces are always somber, long and gaunt. I turn my eyes to a recognizable face smoking "Medeo" cigarettes with fingers already caked with dirt from a half days work. He always smokes Medeo cigarettes and the dirt on his fingernails seems as permanent as the row of smokestacks that line the horizon. I hear a faint distinguishable sound and as I turn to look at what is within the semicircle of villagers I notice an older woman crying as two men prop up a wooden coffin into the back of the truck. A man turns on the engine and the truck slowly begins moving at an equal pace with the now growing crowd. A sense of unity pervades the chalky air as the crowd follows the grieving woman who follows the truck which follows the funneling dirt road, around a bend and towards the westernmost of three semicircular hills protruding from the earth.
Lying on the far side of "kruglia" or the aptly named "round" hill is a makeshift graveyard, where in its 150 year history the men and woman of Vinnoye have been returned to the same earth they spent their lives toiling. A hastily constructed stone fence protects the graveyard from wandering cattle. I join the end of the crowd and ask the man with the recognizable face "shto sloochilas", what happened? "Eta stari dyadooshka, on oomel. Oh bil voseemdesiate chitiri goad." It's an old grandfather who died. He was 84 years old. "Tui znal? On bil tvoi sosiedi". Did you know? He was your nieghbour. The truck continues up towards kruglia, the outline of a scarlet cross permeating the white birch wood of the propped coffin. "On bil harasho parin" says another familiar face who overheard my previous question. He was a good man.

Real, Live, Stock.

2007-04-27T13:44:00.000+06:00

I never before realized how valuable an animal could be to a person’s livelihood. Just one animal can make the difference between security and uncertainty, food on the table and an empty plate, hope and despair. The health and fruition of your animals will determine the health and fruition of your family for the coming year. Spring has come and with the fresh new grass comes herds of young animals, grazing across the village like clouds in the sky. A cowboy pulls his reigns long enough to the left to position his horse appropriately for driving his cattle towards one of the small rolling hills that stick out from the earth like humps of green whales. A short old woman runs after a cow, waving a small wooden cane in the air back and forth, back and forth. The village is brewing with life like I’ve never seen before; there is a feeling of anticipation that can only come after seven months of strong, unrelenting cold.
I wander across the schoolyard, through a gate and in between two large stockpiles of hay. I open the gate to the other English teachers home, her house a one story building equally long as it is wide stands on the left and a small barn stands on the right. She has invited me to see her new piglets, because she knows that living my whole life in New York City means this will be a new experience for me. Her excitement runs through her body and out through her eyes and the corners of her mouth as she opens the barn door. The litter of eleven piglets squealing behind the door means an improved life at least for the next 12 months, granted they all survive. Once they reach full size, she can sell each one for around 200 dollars. That’s up to 2200 dollars or enough money to pay off loans, maybe buy a few heads of cattle and even have money left over to purchase a 25 year old Soviet made Lada, still the best made cars in the world.
So I walk into the barn, the piglets shiver and huddle in the corner of a pit of wet mud. My friend picks up the unlucky one unable to crawl his way into the middle of the pile of pink fur. She baby talks him and holds him in her arms, petting their little heads with her fingers as if they’re her own children. Much like her children, these piglets have brought her hope and happiness.

The sun lingers on the horizon and the last few sheep and goats scamper back into their barns. The last few sounds of sticks whipping against hide and the trotting of horses echo in the distance, then a few words in Russian and the slamming of a wooden gate. It is spring, and the lives of the people of Vinnoye are starting to coincide with the lives of pigs, cows, sheep, goats and horses. It’s a codependence that has existed for thousands of years, that somewhere deep in the history of our families was once understood fully. In the year 2007 in Vinnoye, Kazakhstan these animals serve the same role that they did 3,000 years ago. They are more than hamburgers in wrappers. They are the promise of a better tomorrow. I think there’s something beautiful about that.

Just Look at that Form

2007-02-25T00:07:00.000+06:00

The Robinson Cake

2007-02-23T18:24:00.000+06:00

The Robinson cake, named after the Robinson Crusoe novel is a popular choice for small social gatherings and parties. The cake has two chocolate layers with a chocolate filling, including the cake's name, Robinson, written out on the top. A classic Kazakhstani cake.

Watchdogs of Vinnoye

2007-01-26T04:33:00.000+06:00

REX

The role of the dog in Vinnoye and in all of Kazakhstan may still be considered that of a man's best friend, but for primarily different reasons. These dogs arent spoiled with brand named dog food, taken on walks or even given a pat on the head every now and then as they might be in America. They are watch dogs and it is the hate and anger they exhalt, not an unyeilding love that gives them their value. There is an unwritten understanding between dog and owner. It is unwritten because the dogs cannot write but even if they could they would not know how to express themselves. Any emotion has been removed from their minds and souls at a young age. They are trained to hate, one could say they are professional haters. What remains is their end of the bargain, an unrelenting blood red hellbent almost psychotic rage against every moving object, living or non living. They have this uncanny ability to bark nonstop literally for hours at a time. The owner in turn gives the dog enough stale bread and chicken, duck or fish bones to survive, and a small wooden house to lie in when the weather dips below freezing. The dog that reminds everyone that passes by my small house that he has acquired the gift of unemotional, hateful gab, is named Rex. Rex is two years old and all he has ever known is the five square feet of land that his chain allows him to survey everyday. He knows that the only person in this world who he respects is his human mother, Irina Safonivna and maybe also that new tall American, but thats really still up in the air right now. He really respects Irina Safonivna because she gave him a place to stay forever. She was the only one who was there for him. Everyone else is an intruder and a threat who must be barked to death at any cost. Nothing can get in the way of Rex making sure that his hate is heard, loud and clear. If his bark could be translated into English, he would just be saying, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you" over and over again. Maybe an "I don't like you" or "God, you are pissing me off right now" thrown in there. It's ashame really, because deep down I think Rex is a good guy. If he just was taught that there is such a thing called love in this world I think he would be more than capable of finding happiness within himself. Maybe if Irina Safinovna didnt hit him in the face with a 2 by 4 everytime he barked at an intruder that was actually a friend of hers he wouldn't be so confused. He is only two years old and probably could be salvaged at this point in his young life. But then again, what does he need to be salvaged from? In this chaotic, hateful, dog eat dog world, this is his role, and he's damn good at it.

My next door neighbor's dog is half wolf and equally angry at the world.

Life on Mars

2007-01-06T13:14:00.000+06:00

The road from Ust Kamenogorsk to Jenghis Tobey (the train station to Almaty) looks more like the surface of Mars. This rocky mountainous looking hill used to be used as a monastery during the 15th century supposedly. When we were driving by the sun and the moon both shone brightly in the sky. It really felt like another planet, the planet of Kazakhstan.

New Years in Ust Square

2007-01-02T03:06:00.000+06:00

Ice Sculptures

2006-12-28T19:28:00.000+06:00

These are six of my fourth year University students and Kaz 17 volunteer Jay (far left). There is a display of ice sculptures at the main square in the city, including two big ice slides that gives the kids here hours of entertainment everyday. Yes, you can make the assumption that ice sculptures mean that it is constantly below freezing here. This sculpture is of father frost (the other santa) and one of his snow queens or the group of woman that seems to follow him everywhere. I already had to turn down one request to dress up as Father Frost for a celebration at the main library here, because I was suffering from food poisoning but also because I told myself a few years back that I was never going to be that jewish guy in a santa suit. But Father Frost is more of a New Years character, and the Russian Orthodox Christmas is not until January. For New Years we plan to celebrate in Ust Kamenogorsk, drinking vodka and lighting as many fireworks as we can afford, because there are just some things that you have to savour when you're away from New York. I have two weeks off from classes and since according to the Peace Corp we cant leave our oblasts (regions) until after three months in site, I plan to spend as much time skiing and riding horses as possible.
I hope everyone who reads this has a Happy New Years,
2007 will be a good year.

Traditional Kazakh Clothing (Minus Stalin Bust)

2006-12-16T18:29:00.000+06:00

Thanksgiving in Ust-Kamenogorsk

2006-12-10T12:29:00.000+06:00

Avat Host Family

2006-11-21T16:00:00.000+06:00

"Swearing In" was November 10th, televised on all 3 National Kazakhstan television stations, I was on TV, said my name and where I was going. I said goodbye to my host family, gave them some tea and some teacups and a Tom and Jerry dvd that I bought on the streets of Almaty for their 5 year old granddaughter. I was given a traditional Uyghur hat which is what I'm wearing in these photos with my old host mother and father. It was such a nice gift and i felt bad cause all i got them was tea. I jumped on the train heading straight north for 20 hours and got off in Jenghis Tobe, a two hours drive from Ust-Kamenogorsk, where my camera was promptly stolen. I took a cab to the city then a bus to the village where I met my new host babooshka, a 66 year old woman and former director of the collective farm that was Vinnoye under the Soviet Union. Ive started teaching, 6 classes back to back on Mondays and Wendesdays, and Im looking for things to do in the rest of my free time. Im only 30 minutes from the city so its good to have the opportunity to experience both urban and rural Kazakhstani life. The transition from New York City to Vinnoye is as expected, quite difficult. However, getting to know the people and creating good relationships is much easier here than in New York. I have internet access from an internet cafe in Ust, so I should be connected at least once a week. While walking to the internet cafe today I passed through a meat marker, rows and rows of fresh meat on makeshift tables, plus the heads of every domesticated animal you could think of lined up under these tables. Most of them had gaping holes in their skulls where Im guessing the brain was removed. The weather dips below freezing every day now and its only a matter of time before the snow comes. Time to try to find some nice wooden skiis.
My transition to a Kazakh man must first come with my attire. It becomes pretty obvious that im a foreigner when i walk around in real Nike's. Usually I get looked at from my feet up, so ive purchased some snake skin looking pointy dress shoes to wear wherever I go. Ive also found a nice warm hat with some ear flaps (the traditional Uyghur hat just doesnt cut it in the winter up north unfortunately) and am searching out some tight dress pants and the kitchiest tie i can find: hey, there are some things about Borat that just might be true.

Kazakh Kids and I

2006-10-29T15:50:00.000+06:00

Holding down the Kazakh region with my new friend.

2006-10-25T15:10:00.000+06:00

The village of Vinnoye, the blue houses are a
horse farm.

new address

2006-10-25T15:04:00.000+06:00

My new address in Ust Kamenogorsk is:

Mr Samuel Robinson
A-A 2490
Ust Kamenogorsk
070019
Kazakhstan

Send me mail.

Vinnoye: Population 1,876....make that 77.

2006-10-21T18:13:00.000+06:00

Privyet,

Training is coming to a close and in a couple of weeks I will be residing in my permenant village, named Vinnoye in Northeast KZ (over 1,000km away). Vinnoye is very close to Ust Kamenogorsk, the capital of the oblast (region) and a large city. This region of Kazakhstan has much more of a Russian influence (90% of the village is Russian), with some Germans,
Chechyens and Kazakhs. So basically in training I was in a different country, a place with much more of a muslim and "silkroad" influence. East (Vastok) Kazakhstan gets down to -45 and vodka is much more of a staple here. This region of Kazakhstan was originally supposed to be part of Russia but when Stalin chalked out the lines for central asia, he included it with kazakhstan for some reason. The Russians here are really mad at him for this for some reason.
My village is so small that when I first visited it in early october for a week I almost had a breakdown, coming from NY. It used to be a thriving collective farm under the Soviet Union, but since the fall many people have been moving to Russian and without finacial assistance from the USSR it has slowly become smaller. The village is about 1,800 people and the school
has 200 students, so I only have classes monday and wendesday. There are some nice mountains by me, including the Altais (some of the largest in the
world) and some great hiking and skiing spots. The steppe farther to the west is insane, its just thousands and thousands of KM of flat land or plains, with nothing in sight.
Russian remains insanely difficult.
"Swearing In" is on the 10th of november, and the next day I head 1,000
km north to Vinnoye, population 1,876...make that 77.
-Sam

2006-10-07T14:58:00.000+06:00

http://www.wunderground.com/global/stations/35925.html

I've found my alter-ego

End of September

2006-09-24T13:56:00.000+06:00

Hey,
So not much has changed in the last week or so,
I have started teaching classes and it has been going well, trying to get the hang of standing in front of 15 Kazakh kids trying to explain grammatical english forms that i didnt even know existed. I find out in about 6 days where im going to be spending the next two years so that is a bid nerveracking but for the most part i dont have the time to even think about that with russian language still consuming half of my week.
I uploaded some pictures to try to portray Kazakhstan in the best light as possible, although without the mountains, it would be quite bleak at times. However, the culture is quite the opposite and Im learning something new everyday. For example, the number 7 is so highly regarded as bringing good luck, that when I bought a phone card with a new number, each extra 7 in the phone number was an extra 1000 Tenge or so (about 10 dollars). So the guy whose walking around with 777-7777 is basically the man.
-Sam

Some of our students, with volunteers In Jee (far left), Ehren (second from left) and Erin (far right).

Mountains, School Children, Bazaars: Kazakhstan Part 2

2006-09-24T13:37:00.000+06:00

Breathtaking views of mountains on top of Medeo, we had to walk up 864 steps, on about a 60 degree angle to get to the top

My site mate Matthews' family donkey

Babooshkas can handle more vodka than the average American

View of my village from the tallest building (4 stories)

Another mountain view from Medeo; Hopefully I will get a chance to hike these before I leave for my permenane site.

Mountains, School Children, Bazaars: Kazakhstan

2006-09-24T13:10:00.000+06:00

World War 2 Memorial in Panfilov Park, Almaty

The view of the mountains from my village

Some 3rd - 4th grade children from my school

Nuts and Fruit at the Ziloni (Green) Bazaar; Almaty

Celebrating "First Bell", the first day of school in my village, August 30th.

1 month down, 26 to go

2006-09-17T12:26:00.000+06:00

Hey,
first off I now have a cell phone that can recieve incoming calls, however i cant call out of kazakhstan, my number is 0117 701 781 6712. For the last four weeks i've been spending about 7 hours a day learning Russian, everyday except for Sunday, where I try to get down to Almaty to use the internet or just return to civilization for a bit. Im living in a small village outside Almaty with a very nice Uyghur family who takes very good care of me. Theres a great view of the amazing mountain range with snow tipped peaks right outside my window and my family grows tons of fruits and vegetables which are all very delicious. So i am trying to overcome the diffuculties of the cultural divide by learning as much russian as I can, the classes help but its still difficult. Next week we are going to start team teaching with local teachers so that should be nice to get a taste of what teaching will be like. All the kids are really nice, they tend to gravitate towards me for some reason,running after me and calling my name, Kak Sam! Kak Sam!; i havent even met half of them. I live with four other volunteers in this village, they are all very nice and we get along well. Yesterday one of the other volunteers host brothers took us to the mountain ice skating rink called Medeo, the highest olympic size skating rink in the world. Its about 2400 M above sea level, and the temperature fdropped about25 degrees as we went up the mountain. The view at the top was amazing. I'll try to post some photos soon. Anyone whose reading this and wants to give me their home address, that would be greatly appreciated as I realized i lost alot of my addresses and when i have some freetime writing letters may be fun, and the only means of communication possibly afterr i leave training in 2 months.
-Sam

New Address

2006-08-22T10:55:00.000+06:00

My new address for my first three months in country, which will consist of language, cultural and skills training will be the Peace Corp HQ in Almaty: Peace Corp Kazakhstan P.O. Box 257 Almaty, 050022 Kazakhstan Attn: Samuel Robinson. However I will actually be living in a village about 2 hours out of the city. I just finished two days of "staging" or orientation in Philadelphia, learning the basics of what these next two years will consist of, including ways to approach cultural differences and some issues we may face throughout our service. I wont have internet access for three to four weeks after I enter the country so don't be worried if you don't hear from me for a while.... missing Brookstan already....-Sam

Kazakhstan

2006-08-14T23:33:00.000+06:00

I fly out Tuesday, August 22nd.