I now have a piece on TNR Online discussing yesterday's decision in Hiibel. Thanks to Howard Bashman and Lawrence Solum, and anybody else who's already linked to it.

As must be terribly obvious to you all, given the slightly depressed traffic of the past week or so, daytime blogging-- at least on my part-- will not be at the same frenetic pace this summer that it has been at since January. [And that blogging was not at the still-more frenetic pace as it was during my fall months in Cambridge.]

Occasionally a few moments in the day wiggle free, and I'll sometimes post things during them, as well as at night, and occasionally I'll save things as drafts and post them during the day. And so on.

In other words, posts are going to be much more catch-as-catch-can (my favorite phrase when describing my own irreponsible habits) for a little while. But hopefully you'll keep coming back for the usual mix of completely unrelated musings.

Brian Montopoli has a piece up on TNR Online in praise of Jeopardy. I'm a little dubious about what seems to be his political agenda (rescuing Jeopardy from the cut-throat competition folks) but praise of useless knowledge is always welcome, especially by those of us who waste much of our time in life acquiring it. And because no post about useless knowledge could be complete without it:

Housman: Taste is not knowledge. A scholar’s business is to add to what is known. That is all. But it is capable of giving the very greatest satisfaction, because knowledge is good. It does not have to look food or sound good or even do good. It is good just by being knowledge. And the only thing that makes it knowledge is that it is true. You can’t have too much of it and there is no little too little to be worth having. ... It’s where we’re nearest to our own humanness. Useless knowledge for its own sake. Useful knowledge is good, too, but it’s for the faint-hearted, an elaboration of the real thing, which is only to shine some light, it doesn’t matter where on what, it’s the light itself, against the darkness, it’s what’s left of God’s purpose when you take away God.

Below the fold

Sovet: Wednesday, 16 June.

Today was the first day with our new host families. ItТs what IТve been looking forward nervously to through all of training. For the next ten weeks, IТm living in the village of Sovet, outside of Ecik, which is outside of Almaty. In all the Rockies, IТve never seen such lovely mountains. All that can possibly compare to the beauty here is a small valley that my family wandered into in the mountains north of Taos, NM, and even that is not the same as these. From my host familyТs house, I can see the green mountains of the foothills. If I walk down the street -- about two blocks long -- I can see the mountains that are a spur of the Tien Shan, which make up the northernmost stretch of the Himalayas. They are are the sharpest mountains IТve ever seen, with snow patches left on them as far down on the slopes as is visible from here. If I walk down my street in the other direction to the main street -- about half a block -- I can see the flat steppe stretching away in front of me. In the Almaty region of Kazakhstan, the cardinal directions arenТt used; instead, directions are in terms of up and down. Why complicate things when you can always see the mountains?

The returned PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) I have met have all been extremely nice and helpful. I now see that the HCNs (Host Country Nationals) trained them that way. Admittedly, we began in my group with good people. IТve never seen such constant door-holding. But this has nothing on Kazakh hospitality. When host mom met me at the sanatorium, she greeted me with roses. Flowers and chocolates are the traditional gifts given when visiting. I brought chocolates (I also brought a larger gift, but we were advised to save our nice American gifts until we leave, to smooth over all the things weТll have done wrong). Host mom is an English teacher for ten year-olds in the local school. Her English isnТt fluent, but itТs far better than my Kazakh. Her husband is a construction worker who spends 10 days in Almaty, then 10 days in Sovet. Host brother is 3 years old, and afraid of me. Host grandma is wonderful. (This is the first major slip of my English. As far as I can tell, Сmy momТ and Сmy brotherТ are reserved for actual blood relatives. СHostТ is used in place of the possessive pronouns, and is not required to take an article.). Host mom brought me home for lunch with the family, minus the father whoТs in Almaty right now, plus the friend who drove us in his car, and another woman, whose relationship I never figured out but who helped host babushka cook.

Lunch was delicious (/demdi/). Plov --- the national dish of rice, meet (beef, no horse yet), and carrots; balkash -- the national bread, a fried dough similar to an unsweetened beignet; gherkin cucumbers; better tomatoes than are found in the States; some sweets; and Assam tea. Eat, eat, eat. Or, in Kazakh, Сji, ji, ji.Т First words I learned from my host family. No, really, IТm full.

After that, I unpacked in my room and sat outside with host brother and host babushka, playing ball with him and learning words from her. S--, our LCF (Language and Cultural Facilitator; Kazakh language teacher), had said sheТd make a walking round of Sovet at 3pm to pick up the seven of us Kazakh language students, and to show us around. I was the sixth she picked up, at 4:15pm. SheТd been to the first place at 2:30om.

We ran on Kazakh time. When the LCF and other volunteers came to get me, I was drinking tea with my family. So they were all also served tea. And you canТt just serve tea. You must set out something for the table, /dastarhan/. ItТs not referred to as a meal, or as food, yet the table is covered and youТre expected to eat. So we did. And then we went to the last volunteerТs house to pick her up. Tea again. Same general principle. A few of the dishes change -- curried-ish potatoes, Korean carrot salad, very good coleslaw -- but the expectations do not.

After that, we walked around Sovet to the hospital, police station, two small stores, and school where weТll be having our language lesson. ItТs painted the same shade of green as my elementary school, but unlike Buchannan Elementary, the paint isnТt peeling off the wall in quarter-inch thick sheets. In the lobby, there is a portrait of President Nazarbayev, and plants in small garden beds.

At the store (/dukan/, or /magazine/ in Russian), our LCF bought us ice cream bars. By this time, I felt like a child whose dinner has been spoiled by too many treats. And then we walked by T--Тs place, and were invited in for tea. And then we dropped off Y-- at her place, and the same. And them by Te--Тs, and the same. And I knew that dinnertime was ahead of me, to make my eighth meal of the day (breakfast, lunch, tea with my family, tea at four other host familiesТ). And not just any dinner, but IТd been invited to the birthday party of a twelve-year old neighbor. I was just hoping that it would be crazy enough that I could push food around my plate and not really eat it. It worked, somewhat. Host mom knew IТd been to all these other houses, and what had happened there.

We were warned about the drinking culture before we met any HCNs, possibly with too fearful a slant to it. My family hasnТt offered me anything to drink yet. The host at the birthday party did ask if IТd like vodka, but /ishpemin/, I donТt drink. I still had to give the toast, though, and host mom translated. I think she understood that I didnТt have an absolute prohibition against drinking vodka, but it wasnТt very likely that sheТd see me doing it any time soon. At Te--Тs earlier, I tried the local wine from the next village over, Turgen. It was served in tine crystal goblets, about 2 shots worth. The custom is to take one drink, and then a refill. Two drinks because two eyes, two arms, two feet, two people in a marriage. Her host dad had accidentally broken off the top part of the cork when trying to open it. He handed J-- what I thought was a plastic bottle of vodka (it turned out to be water with gas). Host dad held the wine bottle by its neck at an angle, cork down, and tapped the bottom of the wine bottle to tell J-- that he should hit it with his bottle, pinata-style. Whack! Whack! It worked. It got the cork close enough to the neck that host dad could pull it out with his teeth. The wine was very fruity and a bit sweet, but not in that overpowering Manischewitz way.

And so I think that day eventually ended, absolutely stuffed. Not quite in order, but it ended. And the pillows here are great giant comfortable things.

* * *

Sovet: Thursday, 17 June

Most of the second day in Sovet was actually spent in Ecik, the hub site where all the PCTs in Kaz-15 come to twice a week for technical training (how to teach, how to not get diarrhea, how to avoid being administratively separated from the PC). ItТs a town. There are at least three restaurants, a gymnasium that looks partially funded by tuition, a disco with hot hip hop and alternative, a post office (138 tenge to send a letter to America; 135 tenge = 1USD), and the bazaar, which is an amazing crowd of things. Car parts and random non-carbonated liquids in Coca-cola bottles, flashlights that recharge by being plugged into the wall (to find the toilet at night), tons of sandals, American movies in Russian, music tapes, clothes, unrefrigerated meats, those addictively good slim cylindrical cookies that Pepperidge Farm sells for an annoyingly high price.

On the subject of food, I canТt figure out how it is that HCNs arenТt seriously dehydrated. IТm going through at least 3 liters of distilled water a day, and IТm not sure thatТs enough. They drink tea with their meals -- short little handleless cups. The person who sits next to the teapots asks throughout the meal, /chai-ish/, and refills the cups with a bit of the concentrated brew and a lot of hot water. But caffeine is dehydrating. They also sometimes drink bottled juice and compote, which is the delicious liquid made from stewing dried fruits. Occasionally, theyТll drink water, but rarely more than one of those little cupfuls.

We were told that Ecik is about 8 km (5 m) from Sovet. ItТs not. A few of us tested it by walking it. The hub site is on the far side of Ecik and I live on the far side of Sovet, but the walk was only about 45 minutes at a good pace, perhaps one that is a bit fast for 80 F weather. (My host family keeps saying to me that itТs so hot, but itТs a dry heat and I think it only gets up to about 90 F at noon. IТve lived in far worse).

If you donТt feel like walking, itТs 20 tenge by marshuka, the small buses that are everywhere in this corner of the world. They run during certain hours, but not really on a set schedule. If too few people get on the marshuka, the driver just waits a while longer for enough people to board. I havenТt been on one empty enough to see this yet, but IТve heard that if one person is sitting alone, another person will come and sit on the bench next to him, out of pity that this person is without friends or family. The bus coming back from Ecik was very crowded, like the DC metro at rush hour where youТre somewhat hanging on and somewhat held upright by everyone around you. The aisles are narrower, though, so itТs a real squeeze for anyone to get off. Most of the people in the seats were babushkas with children on their laps, so whenever anyone came by, it was Сoh no, IТm squishing grandma.Т So sorry.

About a quarter the way through the trip from Ecik back to Sovet, the gear shift began emitting smoke and the engine started to make some dying sound. Halfway through, it finally just stopped. The driver handed R--, who was wedges nearest to him, an unmarked plastic jug with several gallons of a dark liquid. There was some cap next to the gear shift to be unscrewed, and without getting off the bus, R-- refilled the gas tank. It worked. No one else seemed particularly shocked at this.

* * *

Sovet: Friday, 18 June

I realize IТve been talking in first person plural a lot right now, but one volunteer doesnТt do much during the first week of training but eat, sleep, study, and make a lot of mistakes. And go running. IТm seriously out of shape, so IТm not out for very long in the mornings, in my shorts that only children and Americans wear. Fortunately, in this village at least, running in shorts is accepted as one of those crazy things Americans do. ItТs probably because theyТve had PCTs at least once before.

So far, the largest and most offensive mistake was in a group. Most of us had wanted to go to Friday prayers at the mosque. Our LCF talked to someone in charge there, and received permission for us to come. We arrived somewhat after the service began, took off our shoes, covered our heads (the women), and walked into the mosque, into the section where the Imam (?) and other worshippers were. Almost instant shouting. Several men on their feet (they were all men). Quick, quick Kazakh from our LCF. Women were NOT allowed in that section; we must remain in a curtained-off area of the room. Yessir. The curtains were off the same general floral lace that all the curtains in the houses here are (yes, floral).

After the service, the Imam (yes?) invited us all into the main worship section, the same one the women among us had been chased out of. Once he found out that we were training to be English teachers and were not in any sense missionaries, he was calm and talkative, and graciously offered to answer any of our questions. There were only adult men present that day, and only a few at that, because many of them had work and it was the season for cutting hay for the others. Children came at 11am each day for Arabic lessons. There were normally five or six women, but it was a busy day for them to. The sung portion was in Arabic; the spoken part its translation into Kazakh.

Sovet: Saturday, 19 June

IТm not sure that immersion language classes are the best way to prepare for a class in conversational English. WHen I talk with host mom or any other non-fluent English speaker, I fall into their way of talking. My articles disappear; I use constructions like СI donТt have,Т in place of complete sentences; and IТll repeat othersТ errors, like returning the greeting СGood MorningТ at 4 pm.

I think weТre attracting more vocal attention from the children now. I can say hello in Kazakh, ask them how theyТre doing, what their names are, and what their ages are. After that, though, they start rattling off and I donТt have a clue whatТs going on. I tell them IТm an American from Chicago. Actually, most of the children out playing are boys, and few look older than 1o years. If I see girls, theyТre usually either barely older than toddlers, or young teenagers out in groups for their evening strolls. If the kids are talkative, it seems polite to stop and chat, but sometimes itТs hard to get where youТre going. As we were heading home to dinner tonight, a little Russian boy started yelling СI love youТ after us. OK, kid. Two of the male volunteers were followed by a group of boys who began pulling on their arms and grabbing around their legs. They finally managed to shake them by confusing them and sprinting away. Sorry kids, your new toy left you. A lot of the attention today came as we were trying to draw a map of the village. Silly Americans. Everyone lives on about six main streets, why do you need a /karta/? How do you explain that Peace Corps requires you to send the Almaty office a map of where youТre living, marked with the nearest volunteers, trusted neighbors, police and hospital, within fifteen days of moving to a new place?

After lunch, when I was in my room studying, host mom called out form e to go talk to some people. A retired Russian couple had stopped by to visit with me. They both spoke some English, and they had a son who worked for Microsoft in southeastern America, including Louisiana. They were some of the wealthiest Kazakhstanis IТve met so far -- they drive a relatively new Volkswagen and have a home in Almaty, a dacha in the mountains, and a home in Sovet. They also have a digital camera, for they explained that they came by to take a picture of me to send to my parents in America. I also wrote a brief letter on a sheet of paper they theyТll scan as an image and send with it. TheyТre also coming back in about a week to show me the pictures on their laptop (IТm tired; I havenТt been using complicated sentence structures; itТs not coming to me now). I tried to explain to them that it wasnТt necessary, that one of the email addresses I gave them was mine, and that I can check email in Ecik, but it didnТt go through.

Raya-opa, my grandmother, rocks. Host mom and host dad left this afternoon for a party, so IТve been talking to her a lot. SHeТs quite good at speaking Kazakh so that I can understand her. We communicate in a mixture of Kazakh, Russian, and German, switching around within sentences. Grammar is shot to hell. I think of words as either English, Kazakh, or none of the above. I have a dictionary that was compiled by the Peace COrps, but itТs only English to Kazakh and there are only a few thousand words. Some really important words are missing, like Сcousin.Т Raya-opa was flipping through my Kazakh dictionary, and stumbled upon the word СblindТ, which she pronounces with the /i/ of /twin/. Blind, blind, Raya-opa blind. It pleased her immensely. She can read if she holds the paper touching her nose.

Anyway, sheТs wonderfully funny and sweet and loves asking me questions about America. She walked me to school on the first day, holding my hand, and when the little puppy disobeyed her and followed us, she sighed and carried him when he became tired (dogs tend not to be be treated well here. /Eat/ in Kazakh, or /sobacki/ in Russian and in some Kazakh blends. The pun has been successfully explained to some HCNs.)

She was asking if America had mountains, so I showed her some of my family pictures, since there are some of us camping in the Rockies. She was very impressed by my father. Tall. Strong. Red beard. I think the taller the guy, the more she esteems him. Her favorite volunteer seems to be J--, the tallest of the guys in Sovet, although really I think the range among those three is only about 5Т10 to 6Т. Tall enough that they canТt stand up straight on the marshuka.

I had a gentleman caller after dinner. His Kazakh is not as easy for me to understand as host grandmaТs is, and honestly, I wasnТt trying as hard. Raya-opa explained to me that heТs a friend host dadТs, and to him that I have a two-year contract in Kazakhstan, after which IТm returning to America. I didn't catch her saying my age, so perhaps heТd already heard it. He pointed to indicate that I was 22 and he 23. I tried confusion the first time and pretended that I thought he was 43, but grandma knows that I know the difference between /jhrmal/ (20) and /kirick/ (40) [horrible transliteration. Kazakh has the Russian alphabet, and then some.]

Anyway, heТd come over, which means that he came over for tea, so I set the table and sipped tea as he and grandma spoke. About all I understood of what he said to me was that heТs a year older than I am, that he thinks IТm pretty, and УI love you.Ф Oh, lord, grandma save me. Please, please, please, let a PCT walk in the door with some nice safe agenda, like going to the cafe so I can escape. Thank god, though, for the tradition of tea, which you have at the same table as the other adult family members who are home. It doesnТt cut down on the flirting, though. Grandma and her babushka friends can kiss my cheek when they greet me; strange friend cannot. Maybe itТs the effect of having fresh exotic blood in a village, but really, 3 year old host brother understands whatТs going on far better than I do. Just go away.