March 26, 1999

What is so nice about sending off a new entry is the wonderful feedback it stimulates from you all. Thanks for all the stories and replies. I have asked the girls to write an entry and they have agreed, but are not quite ready yet to tackle it.

Ted will have to do some out-of-country traveling next week, the first since we arrived two weeks ago, so we are trying to think of all the questions we may need to find out from him before he leaves on Monday for the week. I drove about today by myself without him for the first time. Out to the grocery store where I shopped alone for the first time and then to the embassy to eat lunch in the cafeteria with the girls.

I have had two occasions where I didn't know what to say because of the language barrier. The first was when Lydia and I were walking in the neighborhood. A woman drove by and stopped and asked for what seemed to be directions in Russian. I looked at her, shrugged, and said carefully, "I don't speak . . . English." She rolled up the window and continued on, but Lydia was mortified. "Why did you say that?" she asked. I really don't know why, it just came out. But, it conveyed what she needed to know, that I couldn't help her.

The second occasion occurred today, when we returned to the car after lunch at the embassy. A young man was finishing up washing my car. Now there are places where you park where there are parking attendants, for want of a better name. They have orange plastic vests on and batons. In theory, you pay them to watch your car and when you return, they help stop the traffic so you can back out into it and free the spot for the next person. From others I have learned that you usually pay them 50 tengy, about 60 cents. But I have not learned about this custom of washing cars. I gave this guy some local money and he started talking to me in either Russian or Kazak. A buddy came over to try to help him explain to me, but nothing would help us understand each other. No one was upset, so I finally left, and tonight I will see if Ted understands what I did or failed to do.

We live in a town surrounded by mountains so high that the snow goes beyond the tree line. We live on the edge of town, at the foot of these mountains. The foothills actually start rising rather sharply behind the next row of houses between the mountains and us. As I stand on the back porch or in the back yard, I see many herds of animals on these hills. Cows, horses, sheep, always with a person standing with them. Sometimes there are also children running around near the animals and sometimes a dog. As I noticed these animals plus people at all times of the day, I found myself thinking that it is like they are shepherds, because I did not remember seeing people stand with herds all day in West Virginia. Finally I realized that I couldn't see a single fence. People must stay with herds to keep track of them or to keep them in a certain location. I realize that I can't see barns, either, but at nightfall, all the animals are gone from the hill. The other strange sight on this hill is a covered orange chair lift always slowly gliding up or down the hill on its overhead track. It is more substantial than a snow ski chair lift, and usually has people in it. Ted believes that it goes to a restaurant or a tearoom out of our sight on the mountaintop. Pittsburgh has a cable car like this that travels up a mountain to a sightseeing point and some restaurants. We don't know how to find the bottom of this lift in the town, and I hesitate to set off cross country to track it down, not knowing about land rights and trespassing around here and knowing that anyone I encounter will not be able to communicate with me about it.

About a block from this neighborhood towards the main road and the busier part of town, is a field where two more foundation holes have been dug to put more new houses. There is a man living in this field in a tiny shack made of metal siding. The shack is about the size of a van. As we walked down the road, I would notice that this guy was always chopping wood with an ax. I wondered if he was hired to keep watch over the property, although I can't think that anyone could hurt it in any way. Finally at night we noticed that there was a light bulb in the metal shack and that he must live there. Ted pointed out that it was a safe place for a person to take up residence, in a fancy new neighborhood. Who would try to steal anything from him?

In an earlier letter, I mentioned that all the tiny kiosks were lit all night. I have learned that in the town, all public electricity goes out after 11 PM, to conserve energy. Street lamps, billboards, all go dark. Except the kiosks. Apparently, each of these is illegally hooked into the electric lines and there is no meter or cut-off switch. In the old days, all power was at no charge, part of the services available to everyone. Now, most places have been converted to meters, but practices like this continue. That is what makes the kiosks so noticeably bright, however. When we first arrived here, it was close to 5 AM.

One of the cultural things here are large woven rugs that are hung on the walls, placed on the floors, etc. They are both utilitarian and pieces of art. They had a "rug show" yesterday at the embassy, which means local merchants spread out the rugs in the courtyard for people to walk around and hopefully purchase. There were rugs that were Turkish, Kazak, and Ubeki, all very different in style, but all in shades of reds and purples, and all beautiful. What was amazing at the rug show, was that the rugs were spread out on top of the snow. The original rugs were made to line the yurts, large round tents made of wool felt or leather, that were portable. The rugs covered the ground and gave insulation to the walls. We hope to bring a rug home at some point, but are not in a hurry to purchase one.

As Lydia says, we have landed in the land of pasta. Almost every meal includes noodles of some sort. It has been fun buying and trying the different kinds. All for now. We wish you all well, our friends. Brecken