Memories of KAZ

The car was barreling down the two-lane highway, mostly in the left lane passing trucks and other taxis heading for the border. I distinctly remember feeling the lack of a seat belt hugging my body and using my hand to brace myself on the back of the driver’s seat, knowing full well that it wouldn’t save me or my friend Jamie from being crushed by the full weight of the vehicle when we crashed. I was imagining my mangled body out among the poppy fields when Jamie nudged my shoulder. “He’s taking a picture of the speedometer now; we’re over 200 km/h.” My prayer life doubled. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever exited a vehicle as quickly as I did that taxi when we arrived at our destination, Jamie hot on my heels.

That wasn’t the only adventure I had with her in our overlapping three months in my favorite Central Asian country. We went hiking in the gorgeous Tien Shan mountains with the destination being a wooden Orthodox monastic site. We had to carry skirts with us to pull over our hiking shorts when we got close so that they’d let us in to view the building. But what was far more interesting was the character we met in the middle of nowhere who has been building himself a bonafide castle for the past two decades and thinks he is about ⅔ of the way there. He gave us a proud tour while we followed the stench of his cigarettes from one dark room to the next, his personal lair decorated with pictures of a certain former Soviet despot. 

Of course, I was really in the country to volunteer at a partner school and teach a couple classes, thus lightening the load of some overworked colleagues at that point in the year. One of those classes was 8th grade Geography. In an effort to broaden young minds and help them think beyond their borders, I assigned a country report that had to be given orally in class along with pictures and details about culture, maybe even food. Sweet Darla (name changed to protect the innocent) chose Lebanon, and I’ll never forget in her presentation when she got to the food portion and announced that she would not be subjecting us to their disgusting food. I was a bit confused as I personally adore Middle Eastern delicacies. She quickly put up a picture of hummus on the screen. “This mash,” she said pointing at it and leaning away, “is made from chicken pee.” I generally try very hard never to laugh at students, but the guffaw was across my lips before I could stop it. “I think you mean chickpeas,” I said with as straight of a face as possible; “it’s a type of bean.” Darla’s face scrunched in confusion. After thinking about this new information for about 2 seconds, she pressed the clicker, and we moved on to Lebanese dress.

It hurt my heart in the last week to watch streets I once traversed empty but for the trucks with men and guns, to see the President’s palace abandoned and charred, to not be able to get through to the friends I still have because power lines had been severed. I knew it as a place of free-flying eagles, of caring old mommas who helped me buy fruit when I couldn’t communicate with the seller, of students eager to clean up their communities, of goats that regularly blocked our drive home but made me laugh every time, and a country God loves very much. Well, at least that part is still true.