Saturday in the Fall means college football (even during a down year in Columbus, Ohio), and thus my pseudo-intellectual pageantry today turns to the never-ending discussion over the need for a playoff to decide a Division I national champion. Though I suppose I could opine at length about the pros and cons of the BCS, I have always thought I had a simple and elegant solution to all the bowl/playoff debate.

Here's the idea: take the winners of the four major New Year's Day bowls, give them roughtly two weeks off and have them play two national championship semifinal games in mid January (on the Saturday of weekend when the NFL plays its two conference champions games). Then, the following Sunday, when the NFL is taking a week off before the Super Bowl, have the two winners from the prior week play for the national championship.

I suspect there are reasons — perhaps lots of reasons — why this couldn't work, but it sounds easy enough to me.

Part of a Peace Corps volunteer’s job is to be an ambassador of another, more American, way of life—to show that different ways do exist, and to quietly suggest that people consider chosing some of them. It’s not true that we didn’t come to change things. Why else, after JFK’s passing, would some prominent conservatives have supported us?

(I think I’ll start flagging some posts as ‘Subtle Propaganda’: American ideas to which I hope to open host country nationals’ minds. My thoughts on gender roles, for instance. These ideas may not be uniquely American, but learned them from life there. I’ll continue this occasional series until I tire of it.)

Volunteers cannot be bought. It is hard for me to explain to people that I cannot and will not tutor private lessons for money. I think this is sometimes taken as a lie, because a few people have become quite abrupt and angry after I have said this. Others have asked for under-the-table dealings. Money is the big stick around here: people don’t have enough, and then the little they have is taken from them. My school’s vice-principals have fined all the teachers 1,500 tenge for not keeping their classrooms clean enough. The police hang out at the railroad crossing and the corner gas station to stop drivers for bribes. And then I say that money won’t work as a carrot for me.

I explain my refusal by saying the Peace Corps contract forbids it, but in my town, I think only my host family and a growing number of teachers at my school really understand the scope of the PC and its regulations. Volunteers cannot take money for teaching: to do so would be grounds for administrative separation. Even without that rule, I’m not enticed. The PC’s modest living allowance is generous enough that I can save a decent bit of it for future trips. True, collecting more money from tutoring would allow me to hardly ever think about budgeting (I could charge 400 tenge for an hour’s work, or about $3). But I’d probably only want five or ten students a week, and I don’t want the significant hassle of turning away new people who wanted me to tutor their children. Citing a mysterious rule is hard enough; saying that I did not want to or I did not have the time would not go over well. I simply don’t need and don’t want more money, in local tenge, in my life right now.

And when I say that a rule forbids me and I will be sent back to America if I teach for money, I speak from a different style of management. First, a rule is followed out of respect for it as a rule (not that restrictions on leaving site get such respect, but anyway, I won’t speak of that further). The PC doesn’t punish volunteers who break rules by docking their bank account deposits. Instead, it restricts their freedoms by forbidding them to leave site or requiring them to sign alcohol contracts; for serious offenses, like driving a car, it kicks them out. It’s a different way of working.

People ask me how being a volunteer and learning Kazakh will benefit me when I return to America. I say that I don’t know that it wil, but that I studied English at university, and that hasn’t profited me yet, either. At the end of two years, I’ll face a year of competitive advantage for government jobs and maybe four universities in the nation that teach Kazkah. I didn’t volunteer expecting anything lucrative to come from it; my gains will be measured in other ways. The freedom to make such decisions is a great luxury that Americans have.

* * *

I think complaining about a lack of money is as much as a part of life as complaining about the weather is. It’s never a beautiful day even when it is, but always cold if unseasonably not-hot for summer, or hot if not jacket weather in the fall. And like the weather, most of the information is already known before the complaining begins, for new purchases’ costs and salaries are freely discussed (though I won’t say mine). For all the spoken lack of it, money is passed around a lot from hand to hand. I have heard one group of women discuss using the Muslim money transfer system that was much-discussed after 9/11.

More often, people ask each other for loans. The sums are what I’d call high: perhaps 20,000 tenge. I think that’s about the monthy salary for a teacher with 22 hours of classes a week. The terms aren’t always firmly set, or money is repaid more slowly than the lender would desire. The loans are sometimes within families, where non-immediate relatives tend to be more closely connected than they are in America. Other times, it’s to a co-worker, where the relationship is friendly but maybe not a friendship. And one request, denied, sounded bizarre to me: the school director’s daughter asked my co-teacher for a loan; the two women don’t really know each other. Perhaps people who want loans start with their family and continue down the list until someone grants a loan or the long list is truly exhausted. There doesn’t seem to be a shame in it, and the interest charged by the bank is said to be high.

To stave off requests for loans, money is a very common and appreciated gift. In local terms, a wedding is an elaborate celebration, at the end of which the young couple is set up to start life. They need this. Many couples have not yet finished college. In this tradition, couples are not expected to wait to marry until they can afford the ring and apartment themselves. In American terms, though, a Kazakh wedding looks like shaking down every potential person for cash. I still maintain that the couple’s friends are under-represented at a wedding. All the relatives come, but so do all the parents’ friends and co-workers, people who may have never met either of the wedding couple. And they all give. At a relatively modest wedding, the amount for a co-worker is 1,000 or 1,500 tenge. It covers the food (so much of it) and the reception hall, and leaves some more for the couple.

Many women form associations called “gaps” with their friends. These groups will last for years. Five women is the smallest size I’ve heard of, and twelve the largest. Some are for birthdays: on a woman’s birthday, all the other women in her gap give her a set amount of money (2,200 tenge in the one I was invited to join), and then she buys her own present. Others are for monthly parties: twelve women on a street host a monthly party in succession, and the guests all give the host a set amount (perhaps 1,000 tenge) to cover the costs of food and drink. To me, it sounds like a lovely stable social circle of friends, but also like a piggy bank, where the promised birthday or monthly money is a way of saving your money in friends’ hands so that you cannot splurge it until the assigned date. And after years of Communist promises, the idea of saving for a rainy day needs to catch on with a bit more fervour.

Part of a Peace Corps volunteer’s job is to be an ambassador of another, more American, way of life—to show that different ways do exist, and to quietly suggest that people consider chosing some of them. It’s not true that we didn’t come to change things. Why else, after JFK’s passing, would some prominent conservatives have supported us?

(I think I’ll start flagging some posts as ‘Subtle Propaganda’: American ideas to which I hope to open host country nationals’ minds. My thoughts on gender roles, for instance. These ideas may not be uniquely American, but learned them from life there. I’ll continue this occasional series until I tire of it.)

Volunteers cannot be bought. It is hard for me to explain to people that I cannot and will not tutor private lessons for money. I think this is sometimes taken as a lie, because a few people have become quite abrupt and angry after I have said this. Others have asked for under-the-table dealings. Money is the big stick around here: people don’t have enough, and then the little they have is taken from them. My school’s vice-principals have fined all the teachers 1,500 tenge for not keeping their classrooms clean enough. The police hang out at the railroad crossing and the corner gas station to stop drivers for bribes. And then I say that money won’t work as a carrot for me.

I explain my refusal by saying the Peace Corps contract forbids it, but in my town, I think only my host family and a growing number of teachers at my school really understand the scope of the PC and its regulations. Volunteers cannot take money for teaching: to do so would be grounds for administrative separation. Even without that rule, I’m not enticed. The PC’s modest living allowance is generous enough that I can save a decent bit of it for future trips. True, collecting more money from tutoring would allow me to hardly ever think about budgeting (I could charge 400 tenge for an hour’s work, or about $3). But I’d probably only want five or ten students a week, and I don’t want the significant hassle of turning away new people who wanted me to tutor their children. Citing a mysterious rule is hard enough; saying that I did not want to or I did not have the time would not go over well. I simply don’t need and don’t want more money, in local tenge, in my life right now.

And when I say that a rule forbids me and I will be sent back to America if I teach for money, I speak from a different style of management. First, a rule is followed out of respect for it as a rule (not that restrictions on leaving site get such respect, but anyway, I won’t speak of that further). The PC doesn’t punish volunteers who break rules by docking their bank account deposits. Instead, it restricts their freedoms by forbidding them to leave site or requiring them to sign alcohol contracts; for serious offenses, like driving a car, it kicks them out. It’s a different way of working.

People ask me how being a volunteer and learning Kazakh will benefit me when I return to America. I say that I don’t know that it wil, but that I studied English at university, and that hasn’t profited me yet, either. At the end of two years, I’ll face a year of competitive advantage for government jobs and maybe four universities in the nation that teach Kazkah. I didn’t volunteer expecting anything lucrative to come from it; my gains will be measured in other ways. The freedom to make such decisions is a great luxury that Americans have.

* * *

I think complaining about a lack of money is as much as a part of life as complaining about the weather is. It’s never a beautiful day even when it is, but always cold if unseasonably not-hot for summer, or hot if not jacket weather in the fall. And like the weather, most of the information is already known before the complaining begins, for new purchases’ costs and salaries are freely discussed (though I won’t say mine). For all the spoken lack of it, money is passed around a lot from hand to hand. I have heard one group of women discuss using the Muslim money transfer system that was much-discussed after 9/11.

More often, people ask each other for loans. The sums are what I’d call high: perhaps 20,000 tenge. I think that’s about the monthy salary for a teacher with 22 hours of classes a week. The terms aren’t always firmly set, or money is repaid more slowly than the lender would desire. The loans are sometimes within families, where non-immediate relatives tend to be more closely connected than they are in America. Other times, it’s to a co-worker, where the relationship is friendly but maybe not a friendship. And one request, denied, sounded bizarre to me: the school director’s daughter asked my co-teacher for a loan; the two women don’t really know each other. Perhaps people who want loans start with their family and continue down the list until someone grants a loan or the long list is truly exhausted. There doesn’t seem to be a shame in it, and the interest charged by the bank is said to be high.

To stave off requests for loans, money is a very common and appreciated gift. In local terms, a wedding is an elaborate celebration, at the end of which the young couple is set up to start life. They need this. Many couples have not yet finished college. In this tradition, couples are not expected to wait to marry until they can afford the ring and apartment themselves. In American terms, though, a Kazakh wedding looks like shaking down every potential person for cash. I still maintain that the couple’s friends are under-represented at a wedding. All the relatives come, but so do all the parents’ friends and co-workers, people who may have never met either of the wedding couple. And they all give. At a relatively modest wedding, the amount for a co-worker is 1,000 or 1,500 tenge. It covers the food (so much of it) and the reception hall, and leaves some more for the couple.

Many women form associations called “gaps” with their friends. These groups will last for years. Five women is the smallest size I’ve heard of, and twelve the largest. Some are for birthdays: on a woman’s birthday, all the other women in her gap give her a set amount of money (2,200 tenge in the one I was invited to join), and then she buys her own present. Others are for monthly parties: twelve women on a street host a monthly party in succession, and the guests all give the host a set amount (perhaps 1,000 tenge) to cover the costs of food and drink. To me, it sounds like a lovely stable social circle of friends, but also like a piggy bank, where the promised birthday or monthly money is a way of saving your money in friends’ hands so that you cannot splurge it until the assigned date. And after years of Communist promises, the idea of saving for a rainy day needs to catch on with a bit more fervour.

Wouldn't watching the election night coverage be even more exciting if there was some sort of fantasy league for all the congressional races (or state-wide ballot initiatives)? The league could be structured so that "team owners" earn points based on candidates' margin of victory, with perhaps bonus points earned in races where a congressional seat changes parties.

If nothing else, having an election-based fantasy league might help encourage young people to be more informed about politics and to come out and vote. This interesting census document details that younger adults vote in the smallest numbers (see page 8), while this reported study details the younger demographics of those who play fantasy sports.

Interestingly, articles here and here indicate that a "fantasy elections" site was created in 2000, but that site now appear defunct and apparently no one else has filled this gap.