One Last Goodbye

Salut,

I think I ended up delaying this post further than I should have, but to be honest, coming back was harder than I thought it would be. Goodbyes are hard. I have never been good at saying it, and despite the Peace Corps even doing a session on how best to say goodbye to our communities and villages, it still didn’t hit me fully. I kept delaying it and putting it off, intending to release it at the end of July, but then time seemed to slip away.

Everyone in my cohort, K-29, who is not extending and staying another year, has finished their service and left their village. Emotions and the finality of everything can feel like a tidal wave. So much has changed since June 2023, when I first departed. Yet, in some ways, nothing has changed at all.

Peace Corps staff in Kyrgyzstan have undergone numerous changes and reassignments, particularly among the American staff. In some ways, it made it feel chaotic. As I left and as I have reflected, there are so many things that can affect your service abroad, not just where you are, or your host family or school, but also the staff supporting you. I was lucky that I had some amazingly supportive staff. Despite our numerous complaints about policy, they seem to finally be changing their tune and opening to change it, right as we’re walking out the door.

The last month of service felt slow but also somehow chaotic. I blinked, and at the end of July, within a weekend, half had gone and left. For those of you who are Peace Corps volunteers in the future, reading this, COS or Close of Service, is the formal ending. We, as volunteers, are required to depart our families and villages and go to the capital for 2 or so days. We closed our bank accounts, returned our medical supplies, met with our Peace Corps doctor one last time, and got all our paperwork signed. A widespread tradition within the Peace Corps is the last bell ceremony, where volunteers ring the bell to signal the official end. In Kyrgyzstan, I wrote in previous blogposts that the bell is used in schools to ring in the commencement and graduation of school, so I like that our service mirrors that in this small way.

Before leaving for good, I was able to finally visit Arslanbob on the weekend. Arslanbob is a famous walnut forest in Jalal-Abad, and it is home to booming tourism, interestingly, people mostly from Uzbekistan. The hostel owner I spoke to, when I told him how crowded it was, said that Uzbekistan that day (this was late July) had gotten up to over 104 degrees Fahrenheit (he said the equivalent in Celsius), and mind you, most of us don’t have AC, Uzbek people crossed the border for cooler weather. I don’t blame them, I heard it can be or feel as hot as 110-115 degrees in Uzbekistan in the summer. 

Anyway, I went and it was lovely. A fellow volunteer told me about a beautiful waterfall, and at first, I assumed it would be somewhat small and empty. Throughout my time here, I’ve made the mistake countless times where I expect places of interest to be empty or sparse due to the relative low population density and development here. Sparse of people and sparse of tourism. I suppose I expected just a forest, and yet I descended upon a bustling carnival market adjacent to it, half a km worth of shops and stands, balloon pop and dart games, selling mouth watering candy, and huge crowds. Entry to the waterfall was only like 20 com (0.25-0.30$). Amidst the heat, the waterfall was a godsend. The walnut forest itself was pretty, even if difficult to navigate due to an abundance of walled off fencing. I hiked up to a panoramic point, which had a stunning view of the city.

In my village, home was crazy. My relatives from Russia all came back, and so the house was constantly busy and rowdy and loud, particularly at night. 7 kids, 8 adults, and me. I often went to bed “early”, and early being midnight, with the house still alive and kicking, kids screaming while they played with toys. I am so glad I got to see everyone for the last time. It was endlessly fun. As the days slowly slipped away, I grew sad thinking about leaving. Part of it still hasn’t hit me fully.

We celebrated my birthday and my host sister, Dinara’s, by going up to the mountains. We share a birthday, and we cooked shashlik (kebab) up there, with a ton of fruit.

I planned my departure from my village the day after my birthday; it felt right and poetic and the only way I knew how to say goodbye, right after a celebration. Going out with a bang. The night of my birthday, I gave away to my family a ton of stuff I had, some medical supplies I didn’t need or couldn't bring with me (medical scissors, bandages). Speaking of which, Aidana for the last two years, has constantly asked me for Band-Aids. The kids get hurt due to their shenanigans, and I’ve always given them to her. I said to her teasingly, “It’s been two years, you have young children, and you’ve never bought or had Band-Aids here for them??” She smiled and laughed and said, “Why should I? You have them.” Of course, she was right, and then I gave them most of my stuff anyway. I also had two years' worth of hotel toiletries. During any of my trips or Peace Corps trainings, I had an impulse to stash and take the travel-size shampoo bottles, toothbrushes, body lotions, and even razors. Packing was a challenge, so I couldn’t bring so much, so I pawned it all off on them.

On the morning of my departure, I met some of the teachers at school. They gave me a woven bag, and then gave me money to buy gifts for myself. I preferred this, in the months leading up to my departure, I told anyone who did want to buy me anything, to make sure it was small, due to the lack of space I had for anything, and I am glad they listened. They wished me well, and we took an array of pictures. The waterworks started early, and I began to cry. The teachers made it easy for me, as they could tell, they embraced me, and then turned me around and pushed me to leave, told me to not look back. Goodbyes are hardly ever permanent, which is what made it harder. So much uncertainty and unknowns. I made promises to come back, but life can change wildly, and as much as I want to, I cannot know for sure that I will be able to.

Shortly after, I finished packing all my stuff. I had so much stuff, 3 large suitcases, 2 at the weight limit, and a large medical bag. My host parents and siblings, the adults in the house, accompanied me to the city and airport. I flew from Jalal-Abad to Bishkek. I said one last goodbye to the kids and some of the adults. They could see I was sad, and they comforted me and told me not to cry. Alihan and Emir were at the kindergarten day care, and my host parents stopped at the day care, so I could say goodbye one last time. I had prepared myself to say goodbye to the kids one last time, but I think that was the hardest of any goodbyes. Those kids were some of my heart, and I’ll be gone for who knows how long, and they’ll continue growing up without me. For the kids in particular, I said one goodbye, because if I thought about it too much in that moment, if I let myself be too overwhelmingly sad, I would have been a weepy mess. A part of me got left in Kyrgyzstan, and that part was with them.  

My host parents drove me to the city, and we all ate lagman for one last time in a cafe right next to the airport. All throughout my last few weeks, I kept thinking to myself, this last ride through the city, the last time in the taxi, the last time on a marshrutka. So many lasts. It feels sometimes ridiculous to assume it will all be last, and that I won’t be back. Part of me thinks back to leaving Austin and how I was forlorn about those last moments with my friends. Yet there I was in Austin back again this past January. As I said in my introductory post, most lasts are not truly “lasts” at all, especially at this age. After we ate, they helped me lug all my luggage and even helped me check it into the airport. My host dad knew the guy at the counter, so I got a discount on excess baggage. He told me I had in excess of around 40 kg of the limit (40 kg=88 lbs). One last farewell in Jalal-Abad, and then I left.

I left all my luggage in the Peace Corps office, which, by the way, I was salty about. I left Kyrgyzstan on the 2nd of August, and the Peace Corps wouldn’t pay for my lodging the night of the 1st, but they did for Logan, so I had to book myself somewhere else for the night. The first day I was there, I met with Baktygul for one last time. This summer, she has been in Bishkek for her Master's program, and we met in the city. That day we met, her family had driven up from Jalal-Abad, as they were the next day going to Issyk Kul. We had a large fast food dinner, and then we all peer pressured her husband, Meder, to drive us to Arhar. Arhar, which I had seen tour adverts for on Instagram, is a new resort an hour south of Bishkek in the mountains. It had playgrounds, waterfalls, a panorama, toy stores, a large Cinderella pumpkin carriage, etc. We went at night, and it was cold, but well needed in the midst of summer.

On the second and last day in Bishkek, it was a lot of paperwork and running around the office getting staff to sign and look over my documentation. Meeting with the Peace Corps doctor, withdrawing my remaining money to close my bank account, etc. In the Peace Corps, it is also required to talk to/interview with a few staff members about our service. For me, it was with our safety officer, our education and program manager, and then the director, who, due to all the shuffling around, was Greg, though only as Acting Country Director, while they find his permanent replacement. This is the last opportunity to provide feedback, criticism, and comments about anything and everything. I had a lot to say, none of which I’ll elaborate on here, but just know that there are avenues.

Logan and I rang the bell one last time on August 1, and Kim, the Ecotourism response volunteer who lives in Bishkek, came to our ceremony. On our last night, we all went out to get drinks and ate Indian food. All in all, it was a fun ending, and just like that, it was over.

I left alone, and I got all my luggage to the bus station to cross on foot into Kazakhstan, where I flew out of. I was also bringing back Ian’s luggage, as he had asked if I could bring his bag back for him (we are both from Houston), as he is traveling through Southeast Asia for the next few months. So I had four large bags, and the driver of the bus to Almaty, I could see his eyes widen when he saw how much cargo I had with me, and he eventually relented and let me get on. I was antsy at the border, but fully willing to just drag all my stuff. Another volunteer bought out a taxi, which I think cost in excess of 60$, but I’m cheap to the extreme. Yet I was lucky, because an extremely kind Kazakh man helped me cross with all my luggage.

I spent some time in Astana and Almaty before leaving and flying out. I think I’m the volunteer who has been to Kazakhstan the most. This was my, what, 5th, 6th time? I adore the country and Almaty in particular. It is a city I could easily see myself living in. It is foreign enough and different enough from the US to feel new and exciting, but familiar enough with western fast food chains and developed and modern enough to comfortably live in, with a fantastic public metro and bus. I also am a sucker for Summer Love, a frozen yogurt chain I fell in love with while there. I could go on and on, but I’ll keep it succinct.

I visited the Almaty Zoo and public parks; they had a polar bear, giraffes, and elephants! In Astana, I rode the ferris wheel and visited the most landlocked aquarium in the world (yes, that’s a record), rode a boat across the river, got private guided tours to the Astana Opera House, and the Palace of Peace, got a seat on the Red double decker bus, and even went up the Baiterek tower during sundown to get a gorgeous view over the city. No fancy stories about cooking, to save money, I mostly ate snacks and cooked pasta or ramen for myself. I also walked a lot due to difficulty using the buses. In Astana, I walked between 13-18 miles every day, in Almaty, only 10-11. Astana is a huge government planned city, so it was difficult, I admit, and extremely car reliant.

I left Almaty and ran into FLEX students at the airport. FLEX, as I’ve mentioned before, is an American student exchange program where students from overseas apply to visit the US. Kyrgyzstan has its own, and our students have applied; I helped one student do the application. It’s super competitive from what I’ve heard, and Kazakhstan’s program looked to be about 25-30 students. We all ended up on the same flight to Frankfurt, and I sat next to one kid on the plane, who told me it was his first time going to the US, clearly nervous. The flight home was fine, and I managed to fall asleep successfully. I always have great luck, as I didn’t get to choose my seat, but I had an aisle seat on the first flight and a window on the second (same for the flight home in January). Frankfurt felt like reality slammed into me when I saw how expensive all the food was. That’s already difficult to get used to.

My grandfather met me at the airport (so did Ian’s parents, who I gave his bag to). I ended up paying a lot $ for excess baggage and felt awkward at the airport with so much of it. Home felt like home, and I narrowly missed my older sister, who is now up in DC for work with her husband/my brother-in-law.

So, this blog has reached its end. Perhaps there may be opportunities to revive it in the future, but this is the last, for now.

Everyone has been asking how I feel, and I ask myself that same question all the time. Nothing seemed to change, but then again, everything had. Parts of myself had changed. Kyrgyz words are still sometimes the first words to come to mind, and my brain blanks on the English ones. The instinct to throw toilet paper into the trashcan instead of the toilet, and the desire to take my shoes off once walking inside. Small things. When we leave our home, we leave parts of ourselves behind, and I did that in both Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. A version of myself, one I’m now able to reflect and understand, existed there, one with parts of myself that didn’t exist in the US. The parts of myself that were both very quiet and introspective, that relied so much on nonverbal communication and body language, the parts that could make jokes in Kyrgyz, the ones that could read or watch or do whatever I wanted in English because I was the only one who would understand, the ones that felt unashamed and fearless and curious in a foreign and new environment. In the end, it wasn’t foreign or new at all; it was a home, and leaving home is always nearly impossible.

I harken back to what I said in my opening post, and what the name of this blog represents. Pardon my French, but au revoir means goodbye; it is a general farewell, while Au Bientôt means “see you soon” with the implication that you’ll see each other again. English and Kyrgyz also have phrases that differentiate these connotations. The best things in life do change and alter, and some of the best people in my life have come and gone. I’m never too sad, though I am about the kids and will be silently crying about them for the next few years, but everything else, I am not too sad about, not yet, at least, because I can only grieve for something or someone if I loved and cherished it or them. So in that sadness and in that goodbye, I am joyful. I was asked constantly, once a week at least, if I liked Kyrgyzstan, and I often just settled for saying yes without elaboration because I never felt I had the words. Part of me is still sitting on the saddle of a horse, riding through the mountains. Another part of me is still drinking hot tea with jam in 100 degree heat. Another is stepping through 2 feet of high snow, feeling the snow on my pants and boots. Another is listening to feral dogs at night. Another is staring at the stars. Another is eating plov/ash and lagman, and another is imagining my host siblings on their phone on the couch of our house, another imagining them jumping up and down, begging me to spin them around until they get dizzy. Another is standing on top of the hills and mountains in the green summer fields, feeling the windy breeze. Another is standing on the sandy shores of Issyk Kul. Another is drinking cocktails with volunteers at a bar, laughing and smiling. Another is sitting in my English classroom, grading papers. Another is laughing at my students while they play, often incorrectly, Uno. Another is building a snowman with my 11th-grade girls. And another is remembering the first day I left, and now the last.

À Bientôt,

Grace