Last bell with the Prime Minister

The whisperings began about a week and a half before last bell. At first it was, “Someone very important might come to our last bell.” Then it was less subtle, “The Prime Minister might come to our last bell, but the director said she’d kill us if we told anyone and people on the street asked her about it.”

“Cool, the Prime Minister is coming,” I think. Of course I was reluctant to believe it. I mean, after all, he’s the number two guy in the country – his schedule is highly subject to change. Then again, could be a nice photo op…maybe, maybe. We’re a Kazakh Gymnasium, so it’s good for boosting national pride and whatnot. Hey, it could happen.

And so began the steady stream of dignitaries. At first, it was just a representative from the local akimat. Then the deputy akim came to check things out. I always like to see him. He’s a nice guy. Also, for some reason he reminds me of Eugene Levy, and who doesn’t love Eugene Levy, right?

But that wasn’t the end. No friends, only the beginning. Next was our town education department director – a representative may have come before that, too. That in itself isn’t quite as big a deal because his wife is one of our zavuches, his daughter graduated from the gymnasium and his son graduated this year. Still, in this instance it was a good sign of things to come.

The next day the place was in a tizzy. This time the town akim was coming. But he wasn’t coming alone. No, he was coming with the oblast akim. Essentially, the mayor and the governor were popping in to see if we were up to snuff. That day I got to sit in waiting in a physics class that is taught in English for the akims (or akimler if you want to get Kazakh with your plurals). They came, they saw, they apparently approved.

Soon the rehearsals began. We rehearsed the last bell ceremony several hours a day, every day, during the last week of classes. In the cold, in the rain. Indoors and out. We practiced. Now, my role in the ceremony was to stand in one place, clap when everyone else clapped and sing the national anthem with as much vigor as possible when it played. Still not entirely 100% on the words, but I gave it my best every time.

At first we practiced under the watchful eye of one of our zavuches, then zavuch and director. Then other people started to come and watch and adjust. First the town education department director and deputy akim came. Then the oblast education department director and deputy director came. They watched and made further adjustments. I start thinking there might be something to this visit after all.

Then the oblast deputy akim came. She took the bull by the horns and made the final adjustments. They were quick, decisive, authoritative and certainly no-nonsense. All the female dignitaries were like that. It’s pretty amazing to watch, actually. Women in power here are much scarier when they’re mad. And they all seem to be really in control of things. With most of the men in power, it’s just sort of like, “Oh yeah, I guess he’s in charge.” With the women, though, it’s, “Yeah, she’s definitely in charge and God help me if I screw up.” The aura of power and authority they have is something else. They don’t tolerate no mess, you might say. At the same time, all folks in power here that we saw at this event would on occasion joke with the youngest students and gently help them out. It was a touching dichotomy.

Moving back from that tangent, the day I realized this was probably undoubtedly a go was when the Prime Minister’s representative came to the school to briefly meet with the upper echelon. I actually bumped into him in the hallway as the whole group was leaving and got to meet him. He seemed impressed that I knew a little Kazakh. Then we had a brief talk (that I mostly understood) about what a great instrument the dombura was. He was also impressed that I was learning to play.

The day it really hit home was when we started practicing outside for the first time with the final script. We’d practiced outdoors the entire time. The entire time we had a PA system. But once they said the PM’s name on the loudspeaker the secret was out and it had to be for real.

And it was. On May 25, the day of last bell, we waited around for many hours for his schedule to clear. We had several false alarm scrambles for the front before finally taking our places to get the show on the road. A few police cars started to roll in randomly, but it didn’t really seem caravan-like. Then I heard rotors. Two helicopters flew over heading toward the outskirts of town. That’s where both a new school and hospital are being built. After touring those, I assume, the caravan finally arrived. Lots of cars. The interesting thing is that the VIPs seemed to be in microbuses, not luxury sedans.

And then we began. Good times. There didn’t seem to be a vast armed security presence, which is a stark contrast to a visit by any major US political figure. That’s not to say that he didn’t have people. I attracted plenty of attention in the school from security dudes in suits. Outside, too. I had to show my Peace Corps ID inside the building to one of the guys. I was standing outside the physics classroom – I was supposed to sit in on a physics class later in the day the PM was going to attend. He (security suit) starts grilling me in Russian, which I don’t understand, about what I’m doing there. I didn’t have a badge like the other teachers. Mostly because no one ever gave me one…. The physics teacher explained it to him, but it was still a little annoying. Whatever.

All in all, it was a cool visit. Wish I would have gotten my picture made with the PM, or even gotten one of him (cameras were forbidden – they don’t make good photo ops for the real photogs). Didn’t make the newsreel either. But I was there! And that, friends, is last bell with the Prime Minister. A well-orchestrated visit that gave our school great recognition and gave us a chance to strut our stuff for the PM. I hope he liked what he saw.