I wish I had adequate words to share the experience I had on Friday; pictures, today would be worth so much more. The sun wasn’t shining so most things looked gray and the air evened carried the same color; and that’s how Emily and I left as we made the 45 minute travel to a village to help with English teaching. Here, as in many countries, English is their 3rd language if they choose to learn it; everyone speaks their native tongue and Russian due to the country’s proximity and previous occupation. The roadside landscape is barren, for the most part; I wish I could see this place during spring/summer, it must be beautiful. Everything now though is dirt, even the mountains appear the same in contrast to the granite sierra nevedas. Men ride on horseback sheparding their flocks, some cattle, some sheep or horses. The livestock here are smaller and less majestic than the ones at home, but probably more hardy as their stature and thick coats show.
Graveyards adorn the hills at a close distance with their crescent pointed spires reaching toward the sky. They don’t make the land sacred, rather they are a monument of remembrance that ignite our memory that the land is sacred and the richness of this people’s culture is symbolic of the wealth of heritage in all humankind.
The school in the ‘local’ village is made from mud bricks and plaster like many of the houses. The school is heated by coal furnaces that they have in every classroom.
Once again, the children’s faces are bright with curiosity at seeing foreigners, some for the first time. I never thought I could have had such a great time helping with the English class. People here are so resourceful. The teacher we assisted began law school but when the soviet occupation left she could no longer afford it and became a teacher. She described to my how difficult it is to teach due to lack of resources; most classes only have one text book that the teacher copies onto chalk board and the class then copies for themselves.
After class, the teacher took us to her family’s house. As we arrived a coal truck was in the front measuring off a pile of fuel to be delivered to her house. Her family’s home was something out of a book. We took our shoes off in the entry way and were lead past the kitchen to the eating room where woven rugs decorated the floor and walls. We were then stuffed with steaming food which included a local noodle soup dish called Lagman often made with horse meat. When our meal was almost finished the teacher’s mother asked if it was possible for Americans to marry and stay in Kyrgyzstan (obviously setting her eyes on my friend Emily for her son). Emily turned red and we all left before we graciously thanked the family for their hospitality.