GoMad Nomad Travel Mag » former soviet union

Photo of the Week: Soviet Mosaic in Kazakhstan

admin — Sat, 01 May 2010 14:07:02 +0000

In Honor of International Worker’s Day, here is one of the ubiquitous public mosaics that once adorned buildings and public spaces across the whole of the Soviet Union, many still remaining to this day. Although there has been a trend over the past decade or so to remove some of these monuments and other artistic relics of the Soviet Union, many still remain.

Here a farmer and an industrial worker stand proudly in the shadow of Lenin under the blazing orange sun of the central Asian steppe. This art appeared on the side of an apartment block in a village near Tekeli in southeastern Kazakhstan. I took the photo in 2004 as I made my way through Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Azerbaijan.

Text and photo by Stephen Bugno

Photo of the Week: Tash Rabat Caravansarai, Kyrgyzstan

admin — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 13:59:51 +0000

We took the road south out of At-Bashi immediately passing a huge animal bazaar. Our Kyrgyz driver carefully weaved his way through the cows and horses being led across the main road. We continued, overtaking huge 18-weelers full of Soviet scrap metal, lined up miles before the Torugart Pass border, the back way into China’s Xinjiang province.

We turned east onto a gravel road, passing plenty of yaks before reaching the Tash Rabat Caravansarai. There were a few yurts set up in the grass covered river valley and some horses for riding. The very well preserved stone structure of Tash Rabat is thought to be from the 15^th century, when Silk Road travelers used it as an inn.

Text and photo by Stephen Bugno

Of Rice and Rams

admin — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 10:10:39 +0000

By Jett Thomason

My alarm clock goes off at five. It’s been about four hours since I fell asleep. I’ve woken up to go to the early-morning festivities for a neighborhood circumcision ceremony which is locally and collectively referred to as one of several Uzbek “weddings”. I have been a Peace Corps Volunteer in a small provincial town in Uzbekistan for more than a year now. The people of my town are exceedingly friendly and known to be the most festive in the country. If there’s a wedding to go to, it will be a neighbor of mine pouring the vodka and cracking jokes for the table.

An Uzbek man can reasonably expect to be the main participant in four “weddings” in his life. There’s the bishek-toi (new baby wedding), the sunnat-toi (circumcision wedding for boys), the niqoh-toi (marriage wedding), and the final funeral celebration. All of these are pretty similar in the arrangement. Neighbors and friends and recent companions and new acquaintances and coworkers and their families all come out for the bash. Part of the wedding which is limited to men only is the morning plov ceremony that I have woken up so early for.

We can hear the horns before we can see the house. Big bellowing long trumpets announce the opening of the wedding. Guests arrive streaming onto the street. It’s been blocked off to cars and set with plastic tables and chairs. Most everyone is wearing their skullcap with the local evil-eye preventive charms sewn on. The hosts are leading people in, and everyone exchanges head-nods with their hand across their chest in the wonderful Muslim greeting. It expresses piety, modesty, honor and deference all at once.

Once a table is filled, the serving and eating begins. One man pours the tea the requisite three times, another opens the vodka, young boys run around handing out tomato and onion salads. Older boys quickly follow them with plov, the steaming rice, carrot, and meat dish that is ubiquitous in this part of the world. The word is the root for English “rice pilaf”. Legend states that Alexander the Great’s army chef was puzzled over what to cook with such simple ingredients. Plov, it became, and apparently the soldiers took to it heartily because there’s not a celebration in Central Asia without it. The dish is slightly different every time you have it. Or so I’m told. Plov is like fine French wine, far wiser people than I can detect the subtitles of cooking it in different ways. I just enjoy it and don’t bother with the shades of distinction.

Everyone eats. The plov is packed into spoons or palms and slid into the mouth. Neighbors mutually implore each other to eat. Vodka, tea, soda, and melon are passed from hand to hand to hand and finally to mouth. The plov portion is just finishing up as the young boy of honor is brought out in his turban and robe made of velour and gold trim.

The grandfather holds up his grandchild—today a man. Speeches are made and countless people wish the young lad success, health, and a large family. One of the elders has had a bit more vodka than he should have, and expresses his hope that “what the mullah made short today, may it be much larger in the future!” Great laughs come from the men at the tables, great sighs from the ladies looking out from the doorways.

People begin to finish their meals and work their way into the adjacent park. Today’s wedding is even more noteworthy because there is going to be a ram fight. The hosting family has spent about $10,000 on the prizes for the winning rams. For perspective this largess is spent in a country where a person pulls down an average monthly salary of $80. All local ram owners have been invited. As such, there’s quite a crowd waiting around the field when we arrive.

As we walk in, we see the rams tied up and waiting for their moment. A few are banging their head against the trunks of trees. These are the berserkers, the ones given their due space. Other rams are congenial enough to be petted. They all have nicknames. Tornado, Gypsy, Super, and several Tysons are all ready to win their masters a rug or maybe the championship prize of a camel.

The park fills up over the course of the hour. The camel is terrified, frothing at the mouth, and difficult to control. Dust piles up around its stamping legs and passersby futilely try to keep their pants clean while inspecting the beast. The musicians have turned the music more upbeat and a costumed girl dances for small notes from the bystanders.

Finally our host comes out and takes the microphone from the band. There are yet more speeches. People are beginning to get tired and are itching to see some action. The rams peacefully look on, grubbing for grass. One man speaks for ten minutes, repeatedly answering his own rhetorical questions. The sun begins to beat down and the vodka fades. I desperately wish for a ram to dash across and butt him off the field. Finally it’s over and the crowd roars relief and satisfaction as the first two rams are brought out.

Someone notices my camera and urges me forward for a better shot. The aggressive hospitality of the crowd has pushed me right out onto the edge of the field for a front-row view. I’m an honored guest, but having about a thousand people stare at me as I stare at the rams doesn’t feel so honored. As the rams are squared up, I feel eyes lift from the foreigner to the real sight.

The rams break free of their owners and the heads of the animals smack together. It sounds like fencing with logs. My unease at watching the fight disappears in the rush of the moment. The rams shake, back up slowly, and run towards each other again for a mighty smack. They back up again, but they’re not walking backwards in perfectly straight lines. They are backing up slowly but surely in my direction. Smack, another shake, another move towards me. I start to look anxiously at the ditches, benches, and speakers blocking me from an easy exit.

Smack, they crash again and one of the rams bows out. The crowd gives its solid approval at the performance, the beaten ram runs back…. towards me. I snap a picture of imminent impact and scramble to get across the ditch. Dust billows up as I try to cross over the side of the field; the shamed loser is scared and looking to get past or through me. I hop up onto a ledge full of people, the ram stops short and nonchalantly strolls in the other direction. I laugh at myself along with the rest and decide that I’ll enjoy the following matches as a local would—on the sidelines.

The other rams are brought out in pairs and steadily the rugs and other prizes are passed out. It comes time to give the camel off. A monster is led onto the field. It’s huge, at least waist high on a tall man and I can’t begin to guess how much it weighs. The horns curl back under and over its ears and the gray wool shines in the sun. He’s the reigning champion. The speaker entreats someone to challenge him. Minutes pass as the speaker assures that the loser will also get a consolation prize. It’s still a while before a smaller ram is led out. The excited owner pulls it by the horn; it’s not as willing.

The animals are arranged in the middle of the field. The speaker calls for the American guest to come out and watch. I’m pushed out to the field again. The large and imposing ram is even more so from close up. Suddenly the white challenger makes a dash at the large one. Smack. Perhaps he can pull it off…they back up, the owners, a few feet away, encourage their beasts with clapping and cursing. Smack, and they bounce off each other. Both shake, back even farther up, and run at it again. Smack, the white ram’s legs buckle but he regains.

The champion doesn’t even appear winded. They hit and retreat again. The white ram backs up, backs up, backs up, and people start falling down as he backs into the crowd. The rams start to dash towards each other from sixty feet away. Simultaneously they both dive into the air. The champion has the mass and the advantage and blows down the smaller ram.

It’s over, the white one turns and runs. For added glory the black champion encourages the flight with a hit to the rear of the failed challenger. The crowd heartily approves. The cheers could be from anywhere and from anytime.

As the prize camel is brought onto the field, the owner beams and the host makes generous gestures. He’s too far on to the pitch to speak into the microphone but it’s not needed. We’ve heard the same lines a thousand times today. The proud winner stands by its owner, avowed champion again. The camel suddenly jumps and spits, the startled winning ram turns tail and runs off the field followed by its owner. The crowd enjoys this sight as much as the fight. Old men turn grinning to each other. “There’s always someone bigger!” they mutually confirm.

I pick my way through the crowd, past the spitting camel, and exit the dusty field. Another wedding, another memory, but this isn’t one I’ll soon forget.

Jett Thomason was a TEFL volunteer in Uzbekistan from 2002- 2004 in the United States Peace Corps. Since then, he’s worked in Afghanistan and Iraq and traveled extensively throughout Asia, Europe, and the countries of the Former Soviet Union. He lives in Washington, DC.

Belarus Photo Slideshow

admin — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 04:07:04 +0000

Photos by Tata Nadaryan

Homemade Wine and Salted Pig’s Fat

admin — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 17:18:47 +0000

Vasya offers some homemade wine

I am in Moldova. Now a former republic of the Soviet Union, the region has previously been known as Bessarabia and has changed hands between Russian, Austria-Hungarian, Ottoman, and home-grown empires a number of times. The population is largely Romanian in culture and language. The elected Communist government has tried to avoid the forces of “Greater Romania” by insisting on the separation between Moldovan and Romanian. This has even led to a Moldovan-Romanian dictionary. Widely mocked, it’s about the same as writing a dictionary for Californian-New Yorkian.

I came here a bit more than a month ago at the invitation of an old friend. Overall, it’s been a great place to wait out the winter, study Russian, and see a relatively unknown but fascinating corner of Eastern Europe.

I’ve been staying mostly in the capital of Chisinau (pronounced Kishinow). You would have trouble believing it to be the capital of one of Europe’s poorest countries. The nightlife is booming and the cafes are packed with people. New BMWs and Mercedes race the streets and stores are packed with shoppers. Most of the economy is funded by the tremendous quantity of remittances from young Moldovans overseas. While the country’s official population is about four million, a huge portion of the young workforce has left to find work in Russia, Italy, and Spain.

The difference between the small towns and the capital is stark. Essentially the only people left in the villages are the very old and the very young. Once school is completed, people leave for the capital or an overseas job – usually illegally. One result of this mass migration is that Moldovans have a distinct appreciation of the difference between European and their own standard of living. I’ve repeatedly had to assure locals that I wasn’t offended by their less-than-ideal living conditions. Many of the young women have seen how modern Western women enjoy more privileges and balanced roles in the house. These experiences are rapidly changing the traditional culture and gender relations in the country.

a babushka sweeps the snow

A few weeks ago I went to a small village about an hour outside of Chisinau and had a chance to see the rural life first-hand. After a long night of shish kebabs and beer, I was woken up early, given another large meal and strong tea, and led down to the basement for a “quick tour” with the same pride an American might show off their new home theater.

The signature product of Moldova is their wine. The larger wineries have imported modern production techniques and are producing excellent wine at very inexpensive prices. Still, any Moldovan worth their salt has a large store of homemade wine from the massive barrel or two in their basement.

The basement belongs to the Moldovan men just as the kitchen is the preserve of their wives. A single glass is all that they needed to begin showing off the wares. Several pairs of eyes waiting for you to finish the drink inevitably mean the wine is drunk quickly and with vigor. After a few draughts I stopped wondering why they had complained that the two-and-a-half tons of wine they make in the autumn barely lasts the year.

We sampled the open barrel of red wine, the older barrel of red wine, a little bit of the white, a couple drinks from last year’s reserve, a few shots of the grape moonshine steeped in walnut husks (to help settle the stomach), and again a small glass of the red just to round out the visit. I emerged from the basement before noon a little less steady and with my arms full of bottles of the local reserve as well as a hefty jar of salted pig fat known as “sala” – an especially proud local delicacy. (I made a personal note to avoid complimenting the quality of any other local’s sala.)

Posted by Jett Thomason

The Country that Doesn’t Exist: Transdniestria

A Stroll through Odessa

admin — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 13:53:07 +0000

By Jason Gilpin

Odessa, Ukraine

Odessa has a severely Victorian character about it; the lampposts, sidewalks and infrastructure are something out of 1812 Hyde Park. The train station and opera house are Crimean War-era. The parks are green and manicured. This place is fancy, European, cosmopolitan and cultivated. Fantastic restaurants abound. Foreigners abound, and yet the locals do not stop to gawk at their odd tongue. Still, Odessa does have much more than a hint of Slavic culture, as the suburbs are populated with colorful Cossack cottages, the outskirts are disjointed and unplanned, and the outer skyline is guarded by wall-like concrete Soviet block apartments.

Odessa is a romantic city. Women in expensive fur coats are accompanied by well-dressed men out for a formal walk in a place that oozes a need to see and be seen. Signs advertising “marriage agencies” promised to match attractive young women with wealthy foreigners. Fashionable young couples embrace on the waterfront. They saunter across an unassuming pedestrian overpass festooned with thousands of padlocks professing love, past, present and future.

Although some might call it an industrial eyesore, I found the port area to be a vibrantly colorful picture screen displaying Ukraine’s relationship with the rest of the world; a maritime commercial traffic jam seemed to crowd the waters immediate the port, probably from Turkey, Russia, Georgia, Bulgaria, Crimea. Cargo was hurriedly off-and-on loaded from far flung places all over the world via the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles.

Many Americans are familiar with the word Odessa (although probably can’t tell you where it is), because of New York’s Brighton Beach’s Little Odessa, a district of New York founded by Ukrainian and Russian expats. In fact, America and Odessa have a lot in common. In both lands settlement was founded by diverse gigantic refugee populations.

Odessa’s early 19th century hay day was exactly that; it was founded as a free trade settlement bolstered by grain exports from the Russian Empire. German, Greek, Moldavian, Jewish, Swiss, and Polish mingled comfortably with the Ukrainian and Russian peasants, and the Nogay Tatars from the steppes. It was a city founded and managed by foreigners, existing with some autonomy in the Russian Empire. There seemed to be a very real sense of freedom here at that time.

The forefathers of the United States would have much in common with Odessa’s founder, a Frenchman by the name of Lycee Richelieu. After establishing the city and being credited with its economic success, Richelieu was appointed France’s first Prime Minister after the fall of Napoleon.

Like the Independence Hall crew, Richelieu was a man of the Enlightenment. I rather like the way Neal Ascherson, (author of the Black Sea where much of the historical info for this post comes from), put Richelieu’s character: “…energetic, austere, universal, lonely.”

The city evidently found much in common with her founder.

In my long afternoon stroll in this especially quixotic place, I felt like I did as well.

Jason Gilpin has just returned from being an NGO Facilitator in the US Peace Corps in Sevastopol, Ukraine and is currently an MA candidate (Int’l Administration) at the University of Denver’s Korbel School of International Studies (formerly GSIS). He blogs at Gilpin on the Globe: http://jasongilpin.blogspot.com/

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The Country that Doesn’t Exist: Transdniestria

admin — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 17:46:11 +0000

By Jett Thomason

One of the oddest relics of the breakup of the Soviet Union is the Transdniester Moldovan Republic, known locally as Pridnistrovia. As part of the ethnic gerrymandering in the Soviet Union, Moscow added a Russian and Ukrainian populated slice of land on the eastern bank of the Dniester River to the original Moldovan Soviet Republic. This was part of a larger policy of diluting ethnic concentrations in all of the republics to weaken any indigenous nationalism. The majority of the factories and profitable industries were located in this section of Moldova (populated by more loyal Slavic citizens).

Lenin statue in Transnistria

Once the Soviet Union broke apart, the Moldovans began to vigorously exert their control of government to insist on the official use of the Romanian language in all aspects of official and commercial dealings. The Slavic region of Prinistrovia declared independence and fought a small war in 1992. The 14th Russian army supplied their ethnic kinsmen with weapons and a ceasefire has held since then, though both sides wage a cold war of sorts with various economic sanctions that have halted almost all commerce between the two sides.

The result has been an extremely unusual arrangement. Prinistrovia has issued its own rubles, maintains an army, issues passports and is essentially an independent country. A continuing Russian military presence has kept the peace between the two sides. As with most political problems, it is the local people who suffer. Most of them have juggled Russian, Prinistrovian, Ukrainian, and Moldovan passports in order to travel abroad. Considering the extremely small size of the country, traveling abroad usually involves a trip of less than an hour. Meanwhile, ethnic Slavs from Prinistrovia have to deal with unofficial hostility in Moldova and Moldovans deal with the same in Prinistrovia.

The US Embassy doesn’t maintain any presence and is far from enthusiastic about Americans traveling there. Moldovans in Chisinau assured me that in addition to the armed men I would find on the street, the local police would shake me down for bribes on every corner and I’d be lucky to make it without landing in the local KGB interrogation room. Naturally I had to go see for myself.

Arriving at the international border the immigration officers made about a dozen phone calls to authorize my entry. They gave me a bit of a drilling as to the purpose of my journey but were friendly enough and finally gave me a registration document to keep with my passport during my stay.

Despite my cautious welcome, I spent a great weekend in this country that doesn’t officially exist. Once the locals got over the shock of seeing an American everyone was very welcoming and hospitable. A very warm and friendly family whose daughter had been an exchange student in Iowa was kind enough to host me over the weekend.

Prinistrovia has preserved many of the communist organs of government. A large statue of Lenin stands in front of the Supreme Soviet building, the Communist Party publishes a daily Pravda and the streets all have their original soviet names unchanged. These communist trappings lie right alongside the president’s sons’ local business monopoly named “Sheriff”. Sheriff owns the local casinos, all the local sporting teams and betting parlors, the supermarkets, and has a controlling share in every viable enterprise. Underlying the outward polish and modern facades to these enterprises is the unspoken reality that the members of government and their relatives have profited tremendously from the “independence” status quo and that the full force of the state is brought to bear against any competitors.

I had a chance to meet some of the most talented English-speaking high school seniors from the capital, Tiraspol. They all wanted to study in Ukraine or Russia. The state university had previously been just a teacher’s college. Even though additional faculties had been added on post-independence, it was not at the same standard as a university in Odessa or Moscow. A few of the student’s parents had fought in the short conflict and not a single one of them wanted to study in Moldova or identified with the Romanian culture just across the river.

I made my way back to Moldova. It only took fifteen minutes to get through the checkpoints on the return. Moldovan officials maintain that visitors to Prinistrovia are still within Moldova so the customs are much less onerous. It’s an odd arrangement and neither side seems willing to budge. As a result, the people of Prinistrovia will most likely continue to deal with the burden of finding their homes on the wrong side of international, cultural and historical boundaries.

After teaching English in Uzbekistan from 2002- 2004, Jett Thomason set off to visit the rest of the republics of the former Soviet Union. Since then, he’s worked in Afghanistan and Iraq and traveled extensively throughout Asia and Europe. He is currently pursuing a masters degree in public policy from Georgetown University in Washington, DC.

Homemade Wine and Salted Pig’s Fat

A Mother’s Medicine

admin — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 20:21:56 +0000

by Jett Thomason

One of the many advantages to living with a host family in Uzbekistan was the free and doting medical care. Upon arrival at my work site, I discovered this the hard way. With the cold weather and the throngs of little children extending their germ-ridden hands to greet me each day at school, I quickly took ill. I called the Peace Corps Medical Officer from the depths of my cold.

“Cold viruses have no cure,” the doctor told me. “The body just has to learn how to fight the new strains.”

“So there’s nothing I can do?” I ventured.

“Drink lots of liquids and tea. Some volunteers take several months to adjust to the new situation,” came the cheerful reply. Did I detect a note of sadistic satisfaction on the end of line? Must have been the long distance connection.

I sat down to my fortieth cup of tea, shivering and sniffling. The doctor had delivered tough love and no matter how many generic cold pills I popped from my medical kit, I just had to suffer through the “adjustment.”

In the meantime, my host mom had been pleading to give me her natural medicines. She said she had been mixing and selling her medicinal teas for years.

“Jett,” Sveta looked at me with sad eyes, “Drink my special teas. I can’t sleep because I’m so worried about you.”

Well, what volunteer could say no to host mother’s plea like that? The hell with Peace Corps’ prohibition on local medicine, I decided. Tea is tea; it’s not medicine.

“All right, Sveta. I’ll drink your tea.”

I took my first dose that evening. The taste didn’t even reach me through my stuffy nose. I went to bed miserable and woke up feeling a thousand times better. I took the next two servings, and within a day was feeling perfectly healthy. My host mother just smiled knowingly as I gave her the positive results.

From that day on, I always asked Sveta for one of her teas whenever the worst laid me low. The colds were milder and my sleeplessness disappeared with one of her blends. As such, I felt free to ask her any time the slightest illness threatened.

As the weather began to cool again in the fall, I got my first sore throat. First thing that morning I told Sveta.

“Jett, come to me for some medicine just before bed,” she instructed. Obediently, I nodded yes.

That evening I went into the kitchen and asked for the tea.

“Not tea, it’s different for a sore throat,” Sveta explained. “Wait here and I’ll be back with the treatment.”

Curious but confident, I sat down to wait. A few minutes later Sveta came back. She had what looked to be a pumpkin wrapped in a wool scarf under her arm. I wasn’t too sure what to expect, but she hadn’t failed me yet.

As I watched, she opened the cabinet and pulled out a small bowl. Then a plastic bag. Then a strip of cheesecloth. Then came the vodka.

Oh God, I thought, her cure for a sore throat is the same as my host dad’s: lots of booze. I stood up and began to make excuses for not taking that kind of “medicine.”

“Just a minute, Jett. This isn’t for drinking.” She nodded at me. “It’s for your throat.”

I was confused but I sat down again in good faith. She opened the vodka and poured some into the bowl. Then she laid the cheesecloth in the bowl and soaked up as much vodka as it would hold. With the strip saturated and breathing fumes, she folded it and placed it on my throat.

“Hold this,” she said.

Dutifully I held the strip in place. Sveta then took the plastic bag and folded it several times. This was placed over the vodka cloth.

“Hold this,” she said.

Again I did as I was told.

With vodka running down the outside of my throat for a change, Sveta pulled the scarf-wrapped object to her. What could possibly be in there? I wondered. She unfolded, unfolded, and unfolded the scarf to…nothing. With a quick whipping action, the scarf was suddenly a thick woolen rope. Deftly she tied it around my head binding the vodka-soaked cheesecloth to my throat.

“The scarf keeps the vodka in. That way it works better.” She confided her trade secret to me.

I had to admit, it was an interesting sensation. Heavy and cumbersome, hard to breathe, just the thing for swollen glands. I smiled and nodded, my true thoughts about the process quite concealed.

“Now go to bed, tomorrow you’ll feel much better.” She smiled at me knowingly.

What to do but as she told me? As I walked up to my room I reminded myself that the teas had worked before. That Western medicine didn’t know everything. That this couldn’t hurt, at least.

Then I saw myself reflected in the window. I was the Woolly Lion. I was the Goodyear Tire Christmas Wreath. I was an astronaut. I was wearing the world’s longest scarf wrapped around my head holding a vodka cloth to my throat. I looked ridiculous.

I lay down in bed debating what to do. Perhaps it would work. Sveta seemed to know what she was doing. But I doubted her; I tried to imagine some kind of scientific basis for this simple, yet extravagant, treatment. I came up with nothing. The extra padding began putting a kink my neck. Suddenly, with a burst of free will, I ripped the thing off, took a deep breath and went to sleep.

Later that night, as the last cup of tea worked its way through my body, I awoke from tsunami dreams to a very full bladder. I got dressed and prepared to go down to the toilet. I stopped short as I looked into the courtyard. The light in the kitchen was still on. It had only been an hour since I had lain down and the family was still up. Sveta was still up. How to explain my missing treatment? I sat down, trying to reconcile my sense of dignity with my bladder’s pressing needs. I knew the truth, though. I was going to have to put that scarf back on.

Resigned, I strapped the mass of wool around my head and went to the latrine. Washing my hands, I dared a look in the mirror. I was caught in a fuzzy gray cloud. I was wearing the St. Louis arch on my head. At no time in my life have I looked or felt more foolish. Oh well. My business was finished; I’d soon be in my room and out of sight.

I wobbled out to the courtyard, trying to get used to the unfamiliar weight on my skull. I had no peripheral vision. I reeked of vodka.

My host dad and his apprentice suddenly appeared from the side. I nearly lost my balance craning to look at them with this burden around my skull.

“Sore throat, eh?” my host dad grunted.

Shrugging my shoulders, I nodded at them. They nodded back.

They returned to their work in the garage. I crept up to my room to take my medicine.

About the Author:

Jett Thomason was a TEFL volunteer in Uzbekistan from 2002- 2004 in the United States Peace Corps. Since then, he’s worked in Afghanistan and Iraq and traveled extensively throughout Asia, Europe, and the countries of the Former Soviet Union. He is currently pursuing a masters degree in public policy from Georgetown University in Washington, DC. This story, “A Mother’s Medicine” originally appeared in Americans Do Their Business Abroad, a collection of Peace Corps stories.