I bought an electric heater for the apartment that I didn’t end up living in. On it is written “Super Electric Momtaz.” I wasn’t exactly sure what a momtaz was, but I figured if it kept me warm, it was ok by me. Since then I've moved to a nice apartment (heats itself! magic!) but have joined the team of "PCV's for free housing." Here's the deal--most peace corps countries provide housing fo the volunteers. For example, in Zambia, the village receiving a volunteer builds a home for them to use. Here, not only do they not give us homes, but we frequently get kicked out of where we are staying for one or more of the following reasons.
1) KNB put enough pressure on landlord, including asking for pictures of her children, so she kicks you out herself.
2) KNB comes late at night to try themselves to scare you by asking questions and "checking" documents.
3) Someone who is in line for a government apartment knows you are living in one (not allowed, it should only be the assigned family, but they build new houses and keep the old as their kids' future place--actual private apartments are expensive and hard to find.) and they call whoever they can to get you out so they can move up on the list.
4) Peace Corps itself tacks some strange qualification onto the ones you already have, making your apartment unacceptable.
So I'm not in the old apartment. Now I am going to pay more than my stipend to live in one of PC's reported 3 "safe" blocks in my city of 100,000 people. Now I'm not only a volunteer--I'm paying Turkmenistan out of pocket to let me work. At least I still have my momtaz and a lock on my door to hide from all the frustration
Dec 20, 2005
Random Wrath
The life of a foreigner living in Turkmenistan is either filled with grave ignorance of the surroundings or with bursts of anger that spray out like a fireman’s hose that’s too strong for its fireman. Rarely do the people who deserve this anger get fully punished, and often some partially-innocent bystanders face the brunt of the storm. I ended my day today running after a girl with a candy wrapper she had thrown on the ground, yelling, “Here! Take this. You have a dirty country. It’s dirty because of you. Why would you just throw that on the ground. Go home and tell your parents that you live in a dirty place in a dirty country all because of you.”
Yeah. . .
That, of course, is juxtaposed by the fact that I had just gotten a snicker and a “Hello!” shouted from a group of grown men dressed in black suits waiting to greet the P------ and watch the opening of a new hospital, who of course had time to pause first and laugh at the foreigner. That was after I’d set up a basketball lesson for begging students on a Saturday and then none showed up. So candy-wrapper girl got a bit of a shock.
I’m not the only one with outbursts, though. Katie, after too many stories of kids dying, yelled quite loudly at a boy outdoors who was about 2. She found him outside playing with a stick, a puddle, and a dirty syringe. She took the needle, yelled, “Dirty! Dirty!” and a bunch of other instructions and told him to go home. 2 year-olds with used drug needles are no contest for an angry volunteer.
Yeah. . .
That, of course, is juxtaposed by the fact that I had just gotten a snicker and a “Hello!” shouted from a group of grown men dressed in black suits waiting to greet the P------ and watch the opening of a new hospital, who of course had time to pause first and laugh at the foreigner. That was after I’d set up a basketball lesson for begging students on a Saturday and then none showed up. So candy-wrapper girl got a bit of a shock.
I’m not the only one with outbursts, though. Katie, after too many stories of kids dying, yelled quite loudly at a boy outdoors who was about 2. She found him outside playing with a stick, a puddle, and a dirty syringe. She took the needle, yelled, “Dirty! Dirty!” and a bunch of other instructions and told him to go home. 2 year-olds with used drug needles are no contest for an angry volunteer.
Violin Ensemble
I swore I’d never teach public school music classes in the states—and what do I do? I go and teach public school music in a developing country. I started an ensemble of 8 kids in either their 1st or 2nd year of playing. I’m lucky to have Katia, the other teacher, who was excited about the idea and immediately taught all the kids the song I wrote and passed out. They don’t really know much about low 2s yet or how to conquer the slur, so our repertoire is rather limited. That and the fact that every time we play a scale, Maksat forgets to switch strings, so we end up in 5ths for half of it. They pretty much play horribly, but none of them have ever heard a violin ensemble, or a violin being played at all for that matter, so I guess you can’t blame them.
It took me a few rehearsals to get Katia to stop yelling at them (if you yell, it means its obviously their fault they played it wrong, not yours. . . ) but I think they are enjoying themselves. Compared to the usual barrages of yelling, being called stupid, and occasional whaps on the head, my class must be just a treat—I’m usually smiling! Imagine!
Recently Nina, my friend who plays piano and irritates me, alternately, told me about her students’ exam. They played and she thought they deserved As. The teachers (right or not) gave them Cs probably out of jealousy and superiority issues since Nina went to University and they didn’t. She complains to me how the teachers wouldn’t give her a voice, takes lots of pity—how she cried. . . However, the next time she told the story, it was a tale of how her students played so badly and she yelled at them—“I told you how many times how to play that right! What’s wrong with you!” Long story short, it’s all about blame. Nothing good here ever came from taking rightful fault. Directly as a result there is lack of improvement or even the drive to improve since whether or not you get your diploma depends more on chance, money and connections than on your ability.
It took me a few rehearsals to get Katia to stop yelling at them (if you yell, it means its obviously their fault they played it wrong, not yours. . . ) but I think they are enjoying themselves. Compared to the usual barrages of yelling, being called stupid, and occasional whaps on the head, my class must be just a treat—I’m usually smiling! Imagine!
Recently Nina, my friend who plays piano and irritates me, alternately, told me about her students’ exam. They played and she thought they deserved As. The teachers (right or not) gave them Cs probably out of jealousy and superiority issues since Nina went to University and they didn’t. She complains to me how the teachers wouldn’t give her a voice, takes lots of pity—how she cried. . . However, the next time she told the story, it was a tale of how her students played so badly and she yelled at them—“I told you how many times how to play that right! What’s wrong with you!” Long story short, it’s all about blame. Nothing good here ever came from taking rightful fault. Directly as a result there is lack of improvement or even the drive to improve since whether or not you get your diploma depends more on chance, money and connections than on your ability.
Dec 7, 2005
This just in: the 2-cent bill
Well we’ve been successful in our recent effort to do away with coins. We were sick of only having our former 40, and 20 cent bills as well as the 4 and 2 cent coins. Oh no. Now we’ve got a 4 and 2 cent bill to replace those pesky coins. Our economy must be growing! Now when I go to the bank for my stipend of about 85 dollars, usually paid in 20 cent bills which makes a total of 440 bills. Now I may be able to get paid in 2 cent bills—a grand total of 4,400 bills! I think we’re trying to prove something to someone by replacing perfectly good coins with ones that look strikingly like euros, but for now I’m just keeping my fingers crossed at the bank window for the big bills!
Nov 27, 2005
Nov 24, 2005
Nov 19, 2005
Oct 24, 2005
October Update
Well things are looking up.
It feels like Christmas to me almost every day here. No, I'm not receiving warm socks and orchestral scores or hanging tinsel on the tree while mom's at work to try and surprise her for the 7th year in a row.
I think it's the combination of the weather turning cold, the kitchen always busy, and the lack of school. I am starting a violin ensemble at the music school, which has gotten Katya, the teacher from last year, quite excited. I'm starting new classes for writing and reading at School #17 (when they have no classes--thank God), and I have enough in the way of personal relationships to make time pass at the normal speed. I'm finally running into people I know around every turn, though some I'd rather avoid--like the teacher who stops me to ask me to write his semester report almost daily. But I'm finally enjoying my time hopping from one thing to the next.
I'm heading off to Thailand for rest and relaxation in November, which is just the break I need to freshen up my classes and remove some of the defensive behaviour from my everyday life. A good example of my 'burned-out-ness' being when a taxi driver ripped me off by 1,000 manat (4 cents) and I promptly stood in oncoming traffic to block him from driving and then threw a 500 manat coin at his car as hard as I could. Hmmmm, break gerekmi?
I have already said goodbye to my site-mates Carrie and Dave and have one month left with Katie before she heads out as well. I've adopted Courtnee from the nearby city of Serdar, and she now considers herself my sitemate. She'll be present for any holidays, important announcements, or really for any reason that gets her away from the hole in which she now resides. Then the new kids arrive, and I'll have even more chance to do normal things like show people the bazaar, help translate to host families, etc. I'll just be so helpful!
This week we're gearing up for our Independence Day. It is taught fairly forcefully that we are so so proud of our great great independence, although we were the last country to be torn away from the USSR, and most of the ministry probably cried that day as opposed to celebrating our long-fought-for independence. At any rate, the volunteers will be getting together for bean burgers, fries, condements and complaints in my city.
It feels like Christmas to me almost every day here. No, I'm not receiving warm socks and orchestral scores or hanging tinsel on the tree while mom's at work to try and surprise her for the 7th year in a row.
I think it's the combination of the weather turning cold, the kitchen always busy, and the lack of school. I am starting a violin ensemble at the music school, which has gotten Katya, the teacher from last year, quite excited. I'm starting new classes for writing and reading at School #17 (when they have no classes--thank God), and I have enough in the way of personal relationships to make time pass at the normal speed. I'm finally running into people I know around every turn, though some I'd rather avoid--like the teacher who stops me to ask me to write his semester report almost daily. But I'm finally enjoying my time hopping from one thing to the next.
I'm heading off to Thailand for rest and relaxation in November, which is just the break I need to freshen up my classes and remove some of the defensive behaviour from my everyday life. A good example of my 'burned-out-ness' being when a taxi driver ripped me off by 1,000 manat (4 cents) and I promptly stood in oncoming traffic to block him from driving and then threw a 500 manat coin at his car as hard as I could. Hmmmm, break gerekmi?
I have already said goodbye to my site-mates Carrie and Dave and have one month left with Katie before she heads out as well. I've adopted Courtnee from the nearby city of Serdar, and she now considers herself my sitemate. She'll be present for any holidays, important announcements, or really for any reason that gets her away from the hole in which she now resides. Then the new kids arrive, and I'll have even more chance to do normal things like show people the bazaar, help translate to host families, etc. I'll just be so helpful!
This week we're gearing up for our Independence Day. It is taught fairly forcefully that we are so so proud of our great great independence, although we were the last country to be torn away from the USSR, and most of the ministry probably cried that day as opposed to celebrating our long-fought-for independence. At any rate, the volunteers will be getting together for bean burgers, fries, condements and complaints in my city.
Sep 8, 2005
Uncle Sanjar
Well the verdict is partially in. Our friend who was unfortunately related to the minister of oil and gas who was fired, is now officially on the outs. He lost his job. No one else is allowed to hire him. He was told he has 10 days to vacate the apartment he owns. No one else is allowed to rent to him. I asked why he doesn't flee the country--they have Russian passports. I was told that they'd stop them at the borders. They're not allowed to leave. I'm not sure what purpose that serves the government, since even if they put up a big stink in Russia, we'd never hear about it anyways. So they are asking any families they know to come and buy things from them; furniture, decorative things, anything they have at home.
At school their eldest daughter has been harrassed by her own teachers. The minister had been accused of having a hidden chest of "gold things" and one million dollars buried in his garden. (What kind of idiot would bury a million dollars in his garden. . . ) Her teachers ask her where the money is. They call her by the 'clan', or family name and tell her that she should be ashamed. Where will this family go? They can't leave the country, but they can't work or live.
This isn't the first time this has happened here. Internal exile is common. I wish there was somthing I could do. That seems to be the theme here. I can't actually help anyone with their real problems. With the fact that in the last corruption index I checked, Turkmenistan was 130-something out of 145. America was 19. The only countries with more corruption were Haiti, Camaroon, and a few other places with recent war. We have no wars, just corruption.
(In 2005 we've made it to third from the end in corruption. Chad and Bangladesh are lower.)
At school their eldest daughter has been harrassed by her own teachers. The minister had been accused of having a hidden chest of "gold things" and one million dollars buried in his garden. (What kind of idiot would bury a million dollars in his garden. . . ) Her teachers ask her where the money is. They call her by the 'clan', or family name and tell her that she should be ashamed. Where will this family go? They can't leave the country, but they can't work or live.
This isn't the first time this has happened here. Internal exile is common. I wish there was somthing I could do. That seems to be the theme here. I can't actually help anyone with their real problems. With the fact that in the last corruption index I checked, Turkmenistan was 130-something out of 145. America was 19. The only countries with more corruption were Haiti, Camaroon, and a few other places with recent war. We have no wars, just corruption.
(In 2005 we've made it to third from the end in corruption. Chad and Bangladesh are lower.)
Australia
My mom has talked recently about moving to Australia. Coincidently enough, two of my best students, a mother and her 6-year-old daughter, just emigrated there. I was doing some research on how my host family could get a visa, so I dropped them an email. Here's the response:
Hello, dear Kari. I glad that you rememder our family.
We live in wonderfull city Sydney.There are many parks, musemes and
other intresting places in the center of Sydney. We went to the famous
place Opera House, it's biger and extroardinary place in Sydney.
Misha found the jod and Dasha goes to school. She has girlfreinds
there, and she lakes at school very mach. Our apartment is near the
school, it is very good for us. Mainly I lake birds and natures, and
people very kindly, always smile and help. In the weekend we went to
the beach and to observed how seagulls eaten the bread from our hands,
they don't be afriad of human at all, I was so surprised.
My apologies for bad mistakes, my English is not very good, but I hope
soon will be better.
Wish all the best. Thanks a lot for your message. Vika.
I have at least one success story.
Hello, dear Kari. I glad that you rememder our family.
We live in wonderfull city Sydney.There are many parks, musemes and
other intresting places in the center of Sydney. We went to the famous
place Opera House, it's biger and extroardinary place in Sydney.
Misha found the jod and Dasha goes to school. She has girlfreinds
there, and she lakes at school very mach. Our apartment is near the
school, it is very good for us. Mainly I lake birds and natures, and
people very kindly, always smile and help. In the weekend we went to
the beach and to observed how seagulls eaten the bread from our hands,
they don't be afriad of human at all, I was so surprised.
My apologies for bad mistakes, my English is not very good, but I hope
soon will be better.
Wish all the best. Thanks a lot for your message. Vika.
I have at least one success story.
Sep 4, 2005
Stoned
Last night at 9:30 pm I walked a friend home half way from a piano recital. 4 kids screamed at us as they passed (trying to scare us) and we ignored them. A little shaken, we waited to split up hoping they'd go away. They milled around a while and didn't do any harm, so we split up and walked our seperate ways. I was the lucky one who got to walk past the 8 or so boys and one military worker. First one shouted 'gel', which is the command form of 'come.' I ignored that. Then the first rock hit me in the lower back. The second was about the size of a fist and hit me on my right thigh. I flung around and grabbed the closest kid to me, threw him up against the wall (I don't think they were expecting a white girl in high-heels to fight back) and choked him with my left hand and yelled "who did that?" a few times. After roughing up the kid for a few seconds, I turned to the military boy who didn't feel the need to take part in the altercation, and asked him if he was working. He said he didn't understand Russian. I asked him why he didn't do anything and then took out a pen and asked for his name and surname (one of our most powerful weapons--the pen.) He started backing away. I wasn't going to get any farther with that route, so I turned and walked away. I have a welt from the rock about the size of a fist and it hurts to sit down. I'm going to call peace corps and report it, but how many reports of stone throwing do they get? I've heard from volunteers in rougher areas that they'd never bother calling in over a rock. It happens too often. I also plan on taking a picture of my bruise as a fond memory. Thanks, Balkanabat.
Aug 31, 2005
Another one bites the dust
Sasha owned a theme park (state-fair-type) in Ashgabat. It was well-known, always busy, and he built it up himself. He's in his 30's and one of the true great people I've met in this country. He's a great guest and a great host. He loves his children and is a responsible businessman. Unfortunately, the government has decided to make a "disneyland" (not to be confused of course with the actual disney company). Sasha has long been planning to move the park to somewhere in Russia. He was on his last few payments to the government for the land and the credit. . .
And of course, something goes wrong. I'm assuming that basic private ownership is looked down upon here, but beyond that I assume the government doesn't want to buy new park equipment and would rather just take Sasha's
They brought him to the courthouse. They told him he has two choices. First, he can sign over his property to the government. If he doesn't, they'll put him in jail and take his property anyway. He signed away his life's work, his business. Then, knowing better than to trust his own country, the place he raised his three children, he ran. He crossed the country by taxi, hoping at each check-point that the teenage military boys wouldn't have orders to hold him. He had no time to pack and only had some money friends gave him along the road and the clothes he was wearing. He got onto a cargo ferry and got to Russia without incident.
What about the people without friends along the way, or without relatives and friends in other countries. Sasha is so lucky and so smart. He has someone to run to. His wife is still here, his children are still here, but he has an opportunity to build all over again. His 'crimes' are not as serious as a situation a few years ago when someone tried to have free media by radio in Turkmenistan (yikes) and they attacked him in his home in Russia as well as his son. I think they got what they wanted out of Sasha.
Almost all of my friends, family, and colleagues here are 'white'. We are the minority that are being chased out. I feel very much a part of that tragedy and sometimes I wonder how many of my people will still be here in a few years when I want to return to see the country.
I wish Sasha the best and I plan to visit him in the next few months with my sister Aziza to give him any support we can.
And of course, something goes wrong. I'm assuming that basic private ownership is looked down upon here, but beyond that I assume the government doesn't want to buy new park equipment and would rather just take Sasha's
They brought him to the courthouse. They told him he has two choices. First, he can sign over his property to the government. If he doesn't, they'll put him in jail and take his property anyway. He signed away his life's work, his business. Then, knowing better than to trust his own country, the place he raised his three children, he ran. He crossed the country by taxi, hoping at each check-point that the teenage military boys wouldn't have orders to hold him. He had no time to pack and only had some money friends gave him along the road and the clothes he was wearing. He got onto a cargo ferry and got to Russia without incident.
What about the people without friends along the way, or without relatives and friends in other countries. Sasha is so lucky and so smart. He has someone to run to. His wife is still here, his children are still here, but he has an opportunity to build all over again. His 'crimes' are not as serious as a situation a few years ago when someone tried to have free media by radio in Turkmenistan (yikes) and they attacked him in his home in Russia as well as his son. I think they got what they wanted out of Sasha.
Almost all of my friends, family, and colleagues here are 'white'. We are the minority that are being chased out. I feel very much a part of that tragedy and sometimes I wonder how many of my people will still be here in a few years when I want to return to see the country.
I wish Sasha the best and I plan to visit him in the next few months with my sister Aziza to give him any support we can.
Aug 23, 2005
Alphabet Excitement
Well the library project was risen from the dead the second Akgul left to get married. I took a big leap, and went against what the locals told me. They want their stacks the way they are. The stacks that usually lie down, some with only a few pieces in each stack and some with over one hundred (and half of them belong to a different composer than labled). I finally was able to stand up straght and put in order! It took about an hour to free the top row and get some of the smallest stacks moved up. I'd suggested this idea many many times before but it never really stuck, except with Natasha who didn't get why anyone would NOT want books in order- how stupid!
I called in the director to take a look at my work thus far. There were still a few larger stacks I didn't include (Cherni, Chaikowsky, Mozart. . . ) but a good deal of movement was done. Well, she came in and decided that this was just fantastic. "It all looks just so pretty!" I explained to her where I had gotten each stack and why I thought the alphabetical system was better. She started looking around at what was left in stacks and suddenly got a great idea!
She says, "Well look, there are some other ones here that could also go in the alphabet. We could put ALL of the composers standing up in one big row and it would be so pretty! (Ta-da!) Look, this is Chaikovsky. That's 'Ch'. And wait, here is Ziling! That's 'Z'! Now Z in the alphabet is after, let's see. . . a,b,v,g,d,e,zh,z! It should go--over here after the d's!"
She literally went through every pile I'd left out and told me how it, too, could be part of the alphabetical system. After months of begging them to put things in order so we can find them. . . after weeks of working with Akgul knowing that if the book didn't fit into an already labled stack, she just put it on the bottom of the closest pile to where she was standing. . . finally they figured out how great the alphabet is!
Now that's Peace Corps. We're supposed to work together with the locals so that the final product is what they want too. Forget that! Just do whatever you want when they're not looking! They'll adopt the brilliance as their own!
I called in the director to take a look at my work thus far. There were still a few larger stacks I didn't include (Cherni, Chaikowsky, Mozart. . . ) but a good deal of movement was done. Well, she came in and decided that this was just fantastic. "It all looks just so pretty!" I explained to her where I had gotten each stack and why I thought the alphabetical system was better. She started looking around at what was left in stacks and suddenly got a great idea!
She says, "Well look, there are some other ones here that could also go in the alphabet. We could put ALL of the composers standing up in one big row and it would be so pretty! (Ta-da!) Look, this is Chaikovsky. That's 'Ch'. And wait, here is Ziling! That's 'Z'! Now Z in the alphabet is after, let's see. . . a,b,v,g,d,e,zh,z! It should go--over here after the d's!"
She literally went through every pile I'd left out and told me how it, too, could be part of the alphabetical system. After months of begging them to put things in order so we can find them. . . after weeks of working with Akgul knowing that if the book didn't fit into an already labled stack, she just put it on the bottom of the closest pile to where she was standing. . . finally they figured out how great the alphabet is!
Now that's Peace Corps. We're supposed to work together with the locals so that the final product is what they want too. Forget that! Just do whatever you want when they're not looking! They'll adopt the brilliance as their own!
Aug 22, 2005
Where are your parents?
So get this, a 24-year-old friend of mine wanted to go to Turkey on vacation this month. She bought her ticket. She packed her things, and got on the plane. A couple of men came up to her and told her to get off the plane. They took 15 young girls off and asked where they were going and why. She said she was going to visit friends. They said they didn't believe her. They asked her where her parents are. Why aren't they traveling with you? This girl works as a waitress in a restaurant in the capitol and though lives with her parents, she doesn't depend on them, say, to accompany her on a vacation as if she were 12 years old. The took all those 15 single women and told them to go home. They were not allowed to leave. Where were their husbands? Without husbands they were assumed to be prostitutes. Of course we don't want to give people in other places the impression that starving poor girls from Turkmenistan may prostitue themselves. Where were their parents? Where was her freedom to legally purchase and plane ticket and leave the country. . .
There are prostitues everywhere here. Everywhere. The cost an average of 2-4$. People in poor places need money. Uneducated men "have their own needs". This girl, however, has a job, has money, and wanted to take a vacation. Solve the problems in your own bars and discos before worrying about the girl on vacation. We're so scared that we don't have total control of all our people--that we need to keep them right here where we can see them.
There are prostitues everywhere here. Everywhere. The cost an average of 2-4$. People in poor places need money. Uneducated men "have their own needs". This girl, however, has a job, has money, and wanted to take a vacation. Solve the problems in your own bars and discos before worrying about the girl on vacation. We're so scared that we don't have total control of all our people--that we need to keep them right here where we can see them.
Secret password-"Palov"
Nina and I left a restaurant about 11:00 and headed out to catch a taxi. We walked along talking and laughing for a few blocks and ahead of us was an officer that had just stuck his arm out and caught a cab. We took his lead and stuck our arm out, but got a whistle from a guard telling us to move on. We were right in front of some very official buildings. We went a few steps foreward and caught one anyway. Well I started right away complaining about how that officer JUST got a cab in the same place and how lucky she was that I kept my mouth shut instead of saying something rude! Just then the driver turned down the music. . .
We stared straight ahead for about two minutes trying to think of something to say--we both figured out the driver must be a KNB informant. Finally I turned to her and said "So, we have palov at home to reheat right?" and she replies "Yeah. . . you know, it's really interesting how they make Ayzerbaijan Palov." "Oh really, how's that?" "They cook all the meat and vegetables seperately and then steam the rice in a different dish. . .
She literally described palov for about 10 minutes in the cab while I expressed my interest. Now every time we have a sketchy cab driver, we talk about palov. I can't wait for someone to check my file at the big office and see 28 reports of intense discussion of traditional rice dishes.
We stared straight ahead for about two minutes trying to think of something to say--we both figured out the driver must be a KNB informant. Finally I turned to her and said "So, we have palov at home to reheat right?" and she replies "Yeah. . . you know, it's really interesting how they make Ayzerbaijan Palov." "Oh really, how's that?" "They cook all the meat and vegetables seperately and then steam the rice in a different dish. . .
She literally described palov for about 10 minutes in the cab while I expressed my interest. Now every time we have a sketchy cab driver, we talk about palov. I can't wait for someone to check my file at the big office and see 28 reports of intense discussion of traditional rice dishes.
Aug 15, 2005
Molakara
So we've got our own little Dead Sea right here in Balkanabat. There is a lake that literally has so much salt that you can't hit the bottom. There are feet sticking up here and there, some log rolling and a lot of slow floating. If you get water in your eye, you're screwed. I've been there twice and I love it. If you get out of the water for a few minutes, your skin literally looks white with dried salt. It makes your skin soooo soft, though. After paddling around for a while we always head over to a mud-pit area to put black mud all over you. It's healthy they say. I did learn the word cork in Russian, however, which makes it kindof an educational trip. I even tried some floating-yoga, which seems to have some potential! Last time we were there, we decided to camp out on the other side of the lake, where naked children were not pooping in the sand and wild cows weren't rummaging through the trash for watermelon rinds. So we just wrapped up our clothes in the absolutely-necessary packette (plastic bag carried by every human at all times here) and caravanned slowly over like camels. I floated along with bags held high above my head and only broke down in laugter watching Pavel try to get a watermelon across. Watermelons are heavy evidently.
I highly recommend it. The park costs 4 cents to get in.
I highly recommend it. The park costs 4 cents to get in.
Hirings and Firings
This personal, artistic essay does not represent the opinions of Peace Corps in any way.
The p_____ came to B------- last week and was met with hundreds of chanting children and jolly musicians. Every time it's the same welcome. He gets out of his private helicopter, accepts a ceremonial piece of bread (which is sacred here), does a prayer with several old, traditionally-costumed, turkmen men. Then he listens to people perform selections from 'his' books and hands the performers a white envelope of more American dollars than one makes in a year here. (Showing, of course, his trust for his own economy). This trip to B-------, however, has more impact on my family that just a pleasant visit.
The purpose of his visit was to fire the Minister of ---- for Balkan velayat (the gas-producing velayat). He was accused without any basic rights to representation, on TV for his country to see. They said he personally stole several million dollars. He read his 'guilty' plea with his head hanging while the president pointed at him and yelled "Why have you stoled from your people, why have you lied to your great leader and to all of Tu------?" Then the kicker for us. He told the authorites to find all this man's relatives and chick if they should 'remain'. My father's closest family friend is the minister's only nephew. As I'm writing this now, I've learned that his daughter's husband has been taken somewhere, so nephew is not too far removed.
We all got together to watch the p________'s presetation, while two "FBI" cars watched us from outside. Our friend is evidently guilty by proxy.
"There are no laws here."
None. Some people I talk to here believe this man stole and tell me that his neqhew definetly get some of teh money, of course, to hide it from the gvnmt. I also hear that the big man promised him that he wouldn't put him in jail for this deal before it ever happened. Who really knows what happened. Certainly not us watching the news at home.
"Every rich person got that way illegally. They all steal".
"How do you think your fmaily got so much money."
Great, guys. It's back to the first years of communism. You're guilty by who you associate with. The rich, of course, are all guilty.
We have a 20 day wait period before the verdict. Here they call that the buying time. Who of his connections can pay the most to stay out of jail. They need some time to price-shop before turning in the results of the "investigation."
My real complaints are thus:
A g------- worker shouldn't be put on trail without representation.
In a system where everyone gives and takes bribes, one person can't be called out on it while everyone else stands and points. In a place where the president knows every dollar goes (or I suppose, every 25,000 manat) he has little right to suddenly 'reveal' a theft as if he 1) doesn't do the same thing on a bigger scale and 2) didn't know all along and allw the thefts to continually occur in order to have a great reason to send away the next rising power.
Relatives shouldn't be held accountable for the accused acts of their uncles.
And my mom, a housewife, shouldn't have to live in fear.
People deserve to know the possible consequences of their actions (Could we get an offical 'bribe menu?' A diploma without actual study costs 6,000$, a last minute plane ticket goes up from 1 to 4 dollars. . . ) Will this land me in a work camp out west or will I have to pay half of what I've stolen to be free?
People gamble with their lives here. Those who don't steal back from the g---------live each day trying to get enough to eat. Those who steal back count their days.
The p_____ came to B------- last week and was met with hundreds of chanting children and jolly musicians. Every time it's the same welcome. He gets out of his private helicopter, accepts a ceremonial piece of bread (which is sacred here), does a prayer with several old, traditionally-costumed, turkmen men. Then he listens to people perform selections from 'his' books and hands the performers a white envelope of more American dollars than one makes in a year here. (Showing, of course, his trust for his own economy). This trip to B-------, however, has more impact on my family that just a pleasant visit.
The purpose of his visit was to fire the Minister of ---- for Balkan velayat (the gas-producing velayat). He was accused without any basic rights to representation, on TV for his country to see. They said he personally stole several million dollars. He read his 'guilty' plea with his head hanging while the president pointed at him and yelled "Why have you stoled from your people, why have you lied to your great leader and to all of Tu------?" Then the kicker for us. He told the authorites to find all this man's relatives and chick if they should 'remain'. My father's closest family friend is the minister's only nephew. As I'm writing this now, I've learned that his daughter's husband has been taken somewhere, so nephew is not too far removed.
We all got together to watch the p________'s presetation, while two "FBI" cars watched us from outside. Our friend is evidently guilty by proxy.
"There are no laws here."
None. Some people I talk to here believe this man stole and tell me that his neqhew definetly get some of teh money, of course, to hide it from the gvnmt. I also hear that the big man promised him that he wouldn't put him in jail for this deal before it ever happened. Who really knows what happened. Certainly not us watching the news at home.
"Every rich person got that way illegally. They all steal".
"How do you think your fmaily got so much money."
Great, guys. It's back to the first years of communism. You're guilty by who you associate with. The rich, of course, are all guilty.
We have a 20 day wait period before the verdict. Here they call that the buying time. Who of his connections can pay the most to stay out of jail. They need some time to price-shop before turning in the results of the "investigation."
My real complaints are thus:
A g------- worker shouldn't be put on trail without representation.
In a system where everyone gives and takes bribes, one person can't be called out on it while everyone else stands and points. In a place where the president knows every dollar goes (or I suppose, every 25,000 manat) he has little right to suddenly 'reveal' a theft as if he 1) doesn't do the same thing on a bigger scale and 2) didn't know all along and allw the thefts to continually occur in order to have a great reason to send away the next rising power.
Relatives shouldn't be held accountable for the accused acts of their uncles.
And my mom, a housewife, shouldn't have to live in fear.
People deserve to know the possible consequences of their actions (Could we get an offical 'bribe menu?' A diploma without actual study costs 6,000$, a last minute plane ticket goes up from 1 to 4 dollars. . . ) Will this land me in a work camp out west or will I have to pay half of what I've stolen to be free?
People gamble with their lives here. Those who don't steal back from the g---------live each day trying to get enough to eat. Those who steal back count their days.
Aug 13, 2005
Dacha
The old tradition of a dacha. Lovely thought, but I'll take my garden right outside in my front lawn thank you very much.
Aug 4, 2005
Incident
Journal entry from 8-1-05
I came home sobbing after being propositioned (again again again) at a restaurant at 11:00 (bar time.) My mom did what she could in her position of power. She called around and yelled at whoever she could. She said to me, "Don't cry. Don't cry because of what people say to you--you can go home in a year. Cry for my children, who have to live here their entire lives. Cry for the people who grow up here and don't know the difference."
The short story goes, a drunk man yelled something at me and we told him to stop bothering us. Eventually we had to call over the manager, who all but threw US out, saying he can't do anything if we're already 'talking' to him. He told us "this isn't Europe or America. Things are different here." The man came over during the argument and grabbed my arm. Well, the next day I was councilled by Peace Corps to go write a statement at the police station. I went, wrote my statement with Jura, my lawyer (haha). We broght it to the head of his department who said, "Oh, you speak English! Why don't you say 'Jura, I love you' in English." I told him we'd just met, how could I love him? He said "Well then how about 'Jura you are a very attractive man." I asked him to pick a different sentence. We then moved on to the topic of 'if I asked you to go out tonight what would you say.' I made some type of incredulous face and the question was rephrased to 'you know, what do you do in your free time, do you want to get something to drink?' I told him I mostly sit at home. Is that irony? Sexual harrassment from your sexual harrassment case lawyer?! Or perhaps just normal, like people here tell me. Why are you so upset? that's normal. Everyone does that.
Then I get back to Jura's office and he orders up some coffee, tells me I'm a very pleasant girl and that any time I want I can come up to his office to see him. I said "well there's a guy in the office down there asking you what your official business is, so I probably won't be coming in for fun." He told me that the guy in the office was a friend. "Just tell him you're coming to see me. He'll know."
I guess on the bright side, my Russian seems to be good enough to get subtelties and nuances!
I came home sobbing after being propositioned (again again again) at a restaurant at 11:00 (bar time.) My mom did what she could in her position of power. She called around and yelled at whoever she could. She said to me, "Don't cry. Don't cry because of what people say to you--you can go home in a year. Cry for my children, who have to live here their entire lives. Cry for the people who grow up here and don't know the difference."
The short story goes, a drunk man yelled something at me and we told him to stop bothering us. Eventually we had to call over the manager, who all but threw US out, saying he can't do anything if we're already 'talking' to him. He told us "this isn't Europe or America. Things are different here." The man came over during the argument and grabbed my arm. Well, the next day I was councilled by Peace Corps to go write a statement at the police station. I went, wrote my statement with Jura, my lawyer (haha). We broght it to the head of his department who said, "Oh, you speak English! Why don't you say 'Jura, I love you' in English." I told him we'd just met, how could I love him? He said "Well then how about 'Jura you are a very attractive man." I asked him to pick a different sentence. We then moved on to the topic of 'if I asked you to go out tonight what would you say.' I made some type of incredulous face and the question was rephrased to 'you know, what do you do in your free time, do you want to get something to drink?' I told him I mostly sit at home. Is that irony? Sexual harrassment from your sexual harrassment case lawyer?! Or perhaps just normal, like people here tell me. Why are you so upset? that's normal. Everyone does that.
Then I get back to Jura's office and he orders up some coffee, tells me I'm a very pleasant girl and that any time I want I can come up to his office to see him. I said "well there's a guy in the office down there asking you what your official business is, so I probably won't be coming in for fun." He told me that the guy in the office was a friend. "Just tell him you're coming to see me. He'll know."
I guess on the bright side, my Russian seems to be good enough to get subtelties and nuances!
Jul 23, 2005
How an American Might Feel if a Turkmen Came to "Do a Project" in Their Library
I've been thinking a lot about the difficulties I'm having convincing certain 9th-grade-educated, 21 year-old librarians that I know what I'm doing. So I figured it might be worth meditating on a Turkmen librarian working in America.
If the programs were switched. . .
Akgul arrives at the Mills Music Library a random day in June asking if she can "help". After talking with one of the student workers who seemed friendly, she decides to come back each morning and get to know how things work at this library. Two weeks pass and the library staff has started to notice that this foreigner is hanging out quite a bit. They've even had contact from the Foreign Students' Office wondering who she is and what she's working on. They finally approach her and ask if there was something she wanted to work on while she was here. She says she'll think about some type of project if they are really interested. The librarians shrug and figure, heck, what does she know? Aygul arrives the next day with a 10-page plan in Turkmen language. She says it describes her grant she's written to the Turkmenistan government asking for 1,235 dollars to provide our workers with tea, candy and cake twice a day. Everyone looks at her quizzically, and a few even say some positive things. The library director decided, well, this can't be all bad. It's just tea. If she really wants to take two years of her life to bring us stupid tea, let's just let her. So Akgul begins her work. The first week or so she moved a few tables and chairs from the study area to her "workspace" to provide a tea area. The third week, she arrived, finally, with her supplies. She brings in a plastic bag of loose tea in one hand and an uncovered cake in the other. She tells everyone how difficult it was to find the right tea here! The stores are just not the same as back home! And the cakes here sit in the store for days! No one bakes cakes homemade anymore. This country is so backwards, she says.
The first few days of the new tea policy, everyone came over and thanked Akgul politely for bringing everything and had a fine time chatting for a few minutes before getting back to work. After a while, however, it got old and not too many people were taking advantage of the tea. Akgul then, to make up for everyone's lack of vision, began bringing the tea to each worker's desk with a piece of cake. She told them they should eat and have tea or they won't have any energy to work. She told them she was just trying to help the library. The director, worried about intentional tea spills, told everyone just to drink the tea and try to keep her happy. Two weeks later, however, Akgul arrived with a letter saying that her organization recommends that everyone have at least three cups of tea each day, or the program will not be successfull, and that in order for our government to have good relations, these programs should be maintained at high priority. . .
Well you see what I mean. I think many people in our library think of my work as obsolete--though the tea times are veeery important. The opposite is true of us. I try to convince them I know what I'm talking about. That doesn't really work. I get a lot of suggestions--"maybe we should glue the whole back page of music into the folders so it doesn't fall out" "maybe if we stapled the oldest ones into the folders they wouldn't fall out" "let's photocopy 80 copies of the biggest textbooks since they're the ones we use the most" "instead of putting a new table here, why don't we just have someone build my desk longer"
I have gotten frustrated recently with some of the workers, but all in all, we're learning to get along--even though Akgul (a real person!) doesn't like to use capitol letters in titles. .. and shortens fortepiano to "f-no". . .
If the programs were switched. . .
Akgul arrives at the Mills Music Library a random day in June asking if she can "help". After talking with one of the student workers who seemed friendly, she decides to come back each morning and get to know how things work at this library. Two weeks pass and the library staff has started to notice that this foreigner is hanging out quite a bit. They've even had contact from the Foreign Students' Office wondering who she is and what she's working on. They finally approach her and ask if there was something she wanted to work on while she was here. She says she'll think about some type of project if they are really interested. The librarians shrug and figure, heck, what does she know? Aygul arrives the next day with a 10-page plan in Turkmen language. She says it describes her grant she's written to the Turkmenistan government asking for 1,235 dollars to provide our workers with tea, candy and cake twice a day. Everyone looks at her quizzically, and a few even say some positive things. The library director decided, well, this can't be all bad. It's just tea. If she really wants to take two years of her life to bring us stupid tea, let's just let her. So Akgul begins her work. The first week or so she moved a few tables and chairs from the study area to her "workspace" to provide a tea area. The third week, she arrived, finally, with her supplies. She brings in a plastic bag of loose tea in one hand and an uncovered cake in the other. She tells everyone how difficult it was to find the right tea here! The stores are just not the same as back home! And the cakes here sit in the store for days! No one bakes cakes homemade anymore. This country is so backwards, she says.
The first few days of the new tea policy, everyone came over and thanked Akgul politely for bringing everything and had a fine time chatting for a few minutes before getting back to work. After a while, however, it got old and not too many people were taking advantage of the tea. Akgul then, to make up for everyone's lack of vision, began bringing the tea to each worker's desk with a piece of cake. She told them they should eat and have tea or they won't have any energy to work. She told them she was just trying to help the library. The director, worried about intentional tea spills, told everyone just to drink the tea and try to keep her happy. Two weeks later, however, Akgul arrived with a letter saying that her organization recommends that everyone have at least three cups of tea each day, or the program will not be successfull, and that in order for our government to have good relations, these programs should be maintained at high priority. . .
Well you see what I mean. I think many people in our library think of my work as obsolete--though the tea times are veeery important. The opposite is true of us. I try to convince them I know what I'm talking about. That doesn't really work. I get a lot of suggestions--"maybe we should glue the whole back page of music into the folders so it doesn't fall out" "maybe if we stapled the oldest ones into the folders they wouldn't fall out" "let's photocopy 80 copies of the biggest textbooks since they're the ones we use the most" "instead of putting a new table here, why don't we just have someone build my desk longer"
I have gotten frustrated recently with some of the workers, but all in all, we're learning to get along--even though Akgul (a real person!) doesn't like to use capitol letters in titles. .. and shortens fortepiano to "f-no". . .
Jul 12, 2005
A play in two acts, Act I
Housing Control: Knock Knock (not the beggining of a joke--the sound effect)
Natasha: Yes, what can I do for you?
Housing Control: Do you live in this apartment?
Natasha: Yes.
Housing Control: I'm from the housing commission. What registration do you have in your passport?
Natasha: I have a Balkanabat registration, but I got married last month to someone with an Ashgabat registration so we moved here together.
Housing Control: You live here with just your husband?
Natasha: Yes.
Housing Control: If you don't have an Ashgabat registration you can't move here.
Natasha: But I'm married. I have to live with my husband.
Housing Control: You can apply for your registration while living in Balkanabat and move here after three years.
Natasha: 3 years!? I'm married. How can I live five hours away from my own husband?
Housing Control: If you aren't registered you can't be living here.
Natasha: People move in with their husbands all the time. That's normal. How can this be?
Housing Control: you would be allowed to stay if you were living with your husband's parents like you should be. (Turkmen tradition has the new bride moving into the husbands house to care for the agin parents. They wear scarves over their mouths and aren't allowed to speak to anyone older than them. Natasha, not being Turkmen, has NO relation to this tradition. It's just one more diwscrimination to try and get all the minorities to give up on life here and leave.)
Natasha: That's not my culture!
Housing Control: That's Turkmenistan law.
Natasha: I won't do that. How else do i get registered.
Housing Control: You can have registration with your first child. (After Turkmen women are married, they must get pregnent within the first year of marriage to retain honor. The baby should also be a boy)
Natasha: What?!
Tears.
Natasha: Yes, what can I do for you?
Housing Control: Do you live in this apartment?
Natasha: Yes.
Housing Control: I'm from the housing commission. What registration do you have in your passport?
Natasha: I have a Balkanabat registration, but I got married last month to someone with an Ashgabat registration so we moved here together.
Housing Control: You live here with just your husband?
Natasha: Yes.
Housing Control: If you don't have an Ashgabat registration you can't move here.
Natasha: But I'm married. I have to live with my husband.
Housing Control: You can apply for your registration while living in Balkanabat and move here after three years.
Natasha: 3 years!? I'm married. How can I live five hours away from my own husband?
Housing Control: If you aren't registered you can't be living here.
Natasha: People move in with their husbands all the time. That's normal. How can this be?
Housing Control: you would be allowed to stay if you were living with your husband's parents like you should be. (Turkmen tradition has the new bride moving into the husbands house to care for the agin parents. They wear scarves over their mouths and aren't allowed to speak to anyone older than them. Natasha, not being Turkmen, has NO relation to this tradition. It's just one more diwscrimination to try and get all the minorities to give up on life here and leave.)
Natasha: That's not my culture!
Housing Control: That's Turkmenistan law.
Natasha: I won't do that. How else do i get registered.
Housing Control: You can have registration with your first child. (After Turkmen women are married, they must get pregnent within the first year of marriage to retain honor. The baby should also be a boy)
Natasha: What?!
Tears.
Act II and analysis
Men: Yeah, after six beers all we need are girls.
Six? I drank more like 10! Do I get two girls for that? (laughter.)
Sasha: Yup, it's about 3. If we're going to get to Natasha's by 4 we should go now.
Me: Ok, remember we have to pick up pictures for her at the kodak.
S: Yeah, we have time. Can I run and find the waitress, pay, and I'll be back in a minute. Is that ok?
Me: Of course, you know you don't have to ask permission. You can even go to the bathroom if you want. (smiles)
The three men get up from their table, see me alone, and stop in their tracks.
Men: Good evening young girl. What are you doing sitting here alone?
Me: (mean glare, no answer)
Men: You shouldn't have to sit there all alone. . .
My friend returns. The men walk off.
I walked out a bit angry--I'm so often thought of as a prostute. How am I not used to it yet? What can I even complain about? They didn't say "how much" like the last time I walked out of a restaurant alone to meet a friend outside. Maybe it was the time of day or the amount of time I was alone. I can't even be alone at 3 pm in a public building for one short minute without being bothered! We walked out and I proceeded to break down crying in a park across the street. Of course Sasha thought it was his fault for leaving me alone. Which almost makes me feel worse. I'm not even responsible for myself. As a youn woman I have so little power over what happens to me. Natasha can't even move TO her husband (seems moral and safe to me). I can't even be left alone for one minute. We are both children. Natasha by law must be living with either her own or her husbands parents. I too can't be trusted alone. And when do we become adults? Childbirth. After having a child we are suddenly allowed to be left home to cook, take care, aron, clean, push our way through the bazar. Children make us whole.
Six? I drank more like 10! Do I get two girls for that? (laughter.)
Sasha: Yup, it's about 3. If we're going to get to Natasha's by 4 we should go now.
Me: Ok, remember we have to pick up pictures for her at the kodak.
S: Yeah, we have time. Can I run and find the waitress, pay, and I'll be back in a minute. Is that ok?
Me: Of course, you know you don't have to ask permission. You can even go to the bathroom if you want. (smiles)
The three men get up from their table, see me alone, and stop in their tracks.
Men: Good evening young girl. What are you doing sitting here alone?
Me: (mean glare, no answer)
Men: You shouldn't have to sit there all alone. . .
My friend returns. The men walk off.
I walked out a bit angry--I'm so often thought of as a prostute. How am I not used to it yet? What can I even complain about? They didn't say "how much" like the last time I walked out of a restaurant alone to meet a friend outside. Maybe it was the time of day or the amount of time I was alone. I can't even be alone at 3 pm in a public building for one short minute without being bothered! We walked out and I proceeded to break down crying in a park across the street. Of course Sasha thought it was his fault for leaving me alone. Which almost makes me feel worse. I'm not even responsible for myself. As a youn woman I have so little power over what happens to me. Natasha can't even move TO her husband (seems moral and safe to me). I can't even be left alone for one minute. We are both children. Natasha by law must be living with either her own or her husbands parents. I too can't be trusted alone. And when do we become adults? Childbirth. After having a child we are suddenly allowed to be left home to cook, take care, aron, clean, push our way through the bazar. Children make us whole.
Jul 7, 2005
Thailand
It all became crystal clear on my trip to Thailand. It's more than the lack of answering machines or the difficulty forming a line that I hate about Turkmenistan. After a week in Thailand of not being singled out on the street for our hair color, Carrie, Katie and I pinpointed why we loved Thailand so much. The people are happy. They smile all the time! They laugh and enjoy themselves. Things there work conveniently and I felt like I had privacy for the first time. I used to think people were paranoid here--worried about all the ears and eyes. . . but I caught the bug too. A week away helped put things into perspective. I miss the happiness and smiles!
I actually missed Turkmenstan while I was away. That was an unexpected surprise. We spent two days in Bangkok, saw Wat Pho and took some time to look around the city. We ate some great food and I had my doctor's appointment (the actual reason I was there). Then Carrie and I went north to Chiang Mai. We spent three days walking, shopping, walking, learning to cook Thai food, walking, visiting temples, and walking some more. One broken pair of sandals later we headed back to Bangkok for a final check-up, a night of partially-successful salsa dancing, and more food.
I was looking foward to being back in Ashgabat--until I heard the weather report. 35 in Thailand and a crisp 45 in Turkmenistan. I looked on the internet--I believe that's about 113 degrees. Then there was the lack of a line at the airport. . . or more of a mass of elbows.
Now I'm back to work teaching English to mobs of young people and trying not to smile too much. I'm on my way to Ashgabat for a 4th of July party tomorrow. I feel more assimilated and more comfortable by the day, but that doesn't make me like this place. Soon it'll become difficult to leave. Not difficult to be away from this society, but I have a horrible sinking feeling every time I think of leaving the few people I really care about and the few who really care. I wish I had the power to turn this place around but working from the bottom up isn't making waves of change. We need a new deal. Until then.
I actually missed Turkmenstan while I was away. That was an unexpected surprise. We spent two days in Bangkok, saw Wat Pho and took some time to look around the city. We ate some great food and I had my doctor's appointment (the actual reason I was there). Then Carrie and I went north to Chiang Mai. We spent three days walking, shopping, walking, learning to cook Thai food, walking, visiting temples, and walking some more. One broken pair of sandals later we headed back to Bangkok for a final check-up, a night of partially-successful salsa dancing, and more food.
I was looking foward to being back in Ashgabat--until I heard the weather report. 35 in Thailand and a crisp 45 in Turkmenistan. I looked on the internet--I believe that's about 113 degrees. Then there was the lack of a line at the airport. . . or more of a mass of elbows.
Now I'm back to work teaching English to mobs of young people and trying not to smile too much. I'm on my way to Ashgabat for a 4th of July party tomorrow. I feel more assimilated and more comfortable by the day, but that doesn't make me like this place. Soon it'll become difficult to leave. Not difficult to be away from this society, but I have a horrible sinking feeling every time I think of leaving the few people I really care about and the few who really care. I wish I had the power to turn this place around but working from the bottom up isn't making waves of change. We need a new deal. Until then.
Jun 25, 2005
Nips out!
So I'm sitting in the back of a taxi and woman gets in with a baby. There are two men in front minding their own business. The baby's pretty cute but promptly begins to cry. No amount of bouncing, talking in weird chirpy voices, poking, or rocking helps this thing. Finally some motherly instinct way deep down inside (perhaps the same one that assisted me in cleaning up my 3-yr-old cousin when he pooped all over the floor of my bathroom yesterday and yelled "kari i pooped in my underwear!" at the top of his lungs) made me put my finger in this kid's mouth. Well that worked wonders. However, while he sucked away at my first knuckle his oblivious mother starts saying "There you go. .. auntie gave you a little breast to suck on. . . there you go. . . suck on auntie's breast. . . " Well you better believe those two men in the front seat tried their damndest not to turn around--unsuccessfully. Their heads started around and snapped back at least three times before they caught a glimps of auntie's first finger and lost all faith in the world. The stories always happen in the taxis here, don't they
Jun 5, 2005
Wedding!
I arrived at Natasha's wedding and little did I know . . . I was the maid of honor! I remember something in my cloudy Russian about having to sign something during the ceremony--evidently it was the marriage certificate.
The wedding was a wonderful mix of cultures. We started by putting a penny in her shoe, for good luck in money of course. Andrei arrived outside and walked past all the women of the family asking for the bride. They all yelled, "No! No!", and he must pay more and more money as he got closer to the door. They opened one lock, and he asked for the bride. We said "No", of course, and then he asked again and we opened the door.
Natasha was dressed in a big white dress, the men in tuxedos. They gave Andrei three glasses of water--one sweet, one bitter and one salty. They made him choose one of the three, and it would reflect how their marriage would be. Of course he got the sweet water--we're not dumb. They were all sweet.
We piled into an incredibly decorated car in our regular spots: bride in the middle back, I was to her right, the groom to her left and the best man in front. We did the traditional Turkmen deal--traveling around the city to all the pretty places and taking pictures of the four of us. That was over in a just a few long hours. We then went to the groom's house and made a few toasts. Everyone then left (around 3) and we relaxed for a while.
At about 7 we all got dolled up again and piled into the car. We arrived at the restaurant in our orderly line, from the left me, Andrei, Natasha, and the best man. We sat down at the head table. I was fortunate enough to have a giant cake in front of my face. There were most of the normal proceedings--lots of toasting and presents. There was a great part where the bride "lost" her shoe, and they took a collection of money to buy her a new shoe--in manat. I don't know how much they made from that trick, but it was cute. We drank a pretty large amount of champagne, but not nearly as much as the 'friends' table drank of vodka.
The whole process was great, but the best part was the four of us going back to Natasha and Andrei's new apartment at 11 (the national curfew), drinking wine, talking about the wedding, and opening presents. I don't think many American couples hang out with the wedding party AFTER the wedding. When the men went out to smoke, we gossiped and told secrets--we assume they were doing the same :)
All in all, for my first wedding, it was pretty successful! Cross culture experiences, here I come!
The wedding was a wonderful mix of cultures. We started by putting a penny in her shoe, for good luck in money of course. Andrei arrived outside and walked past all the women of the family asking for the bride. They all yelled, "No! No!", and he must pay more and more money as he got closer to the door. They opened one lock, and he asked for the bride. We said "No", of course, and then he asked again and we opened the door.
Natasha was dressed in a big white dress, the men in tuxedos. They gave Andrei three glasses of water--one sweet, one bitter and one salty. They made him choose one of the three, and it would reflect how their marriage would be. Of course he got the sweet water--we're not dumb. They were all sweet.
We piled into an incredibly decorated car in our regular spots: bride in the middle back, I was to her right, the groom to her left and the best man in front. We did the traditional Turkmen deal--traveling around the city to all the pretty places and taking pictures of the four of us. That was over in a just a few long hours. We then went to the groom's house and made a few toasts. Everyone then left (around 3) and we relaxed for a while.
At about 7 we all got dolled up again and piled into the car. We arrived at the restaurant in our orderly line, from the left me, Andrei, Natasha, and the best man. We sat down at the head table. I was fortunate enough to have a giant cake in front of my face. There were most of the normal proceedings--lots of toasting and presents. There was a great part where the bride "lost" her shoe, and they took a collection of money to buy her a new shoe--in manat. I don't know how much they made from that trick, but it was cute. We drank a pretty large amount of champagne, but not nearly as much as the 'friends' table drank of vodka.
The whole process was great, but the best part was the four of us going back to Natasha and Andrei's new apartment at 11 (the national curfew), drinking wine, talking about the wedding, and opening presents. I don't think many American couples hang out with the wedding party AFTER the wedding. When the men went out to smoke, we gossiped and told secrets--we assume they were doing the same :)
All in all, for my first wedding, it was pretty successful! Cross culture experiences, here I come!
Jun 3, 2005
Names
Turkmen names need no explaination--just a translation.
Here are some very common girls names:
Bibi- Girl
Akbibi- White girl
Gulbibi- Flower girl
Akgul- White flower
Nargul- Pomegranite flower
Aygul- Moon flower
Tazegul- New flower
Yazgul- Young flower
Ogolgerek- Need a son (my personal favorite)
Jahan- World
Ayjahan- Moon world
Sachly- Hairy
Altyn- Golden
Dilber- Give tongue
Allah- God
Enejan- Beloved mom
Bayramtach- Holiday birthmark
Bahar- Spring
Here are some very common girls names:
Bibi- Girl
Akbibi- White girl
Gulbibi- Flower girl
Akgul- White flower
Nargul- Pomegranite flower
Aygul- Moon flower
Tazegul- New flower
Yazgul- Young flower
Ogolgerek- Need a son (my personal favorite)
Jahan- World
Ayjahan- Moon world
Sachly- Hairy
Altyn- Golden
Dilber- Give tongue
Allah- God
Enejan- Beloved mom
Bayramtach- Holiday birthmark
Bahar- Spring
Power cord
I'm afraid my essays haven't been making it through the black-marker police, or perhaps someone is reading them out in Siberia somewhere. I'll write a few updates myself when I have the resources.
My grant application has been approved, and I've finally started purchasing materials for my library project. First was a small copier and several boxes of paper. Later will come 3,500 cardboard folders to cover all the music.
I came in last week with the copier and got quite a warm welcome from people who may have thought I'd been lying about this whole "free money" idea. I even got a kiss on the cheek from our 50 year old female door monitor with a mustache. It is about the only kiss I've had in 9 months, so I had to feel a bit appreciative of the attention.
Unfortunately, the minute the copier was in place, there was a line. Now, I had planned for this to be a music-only copier, but a few teachers had other plans. I also had planned to be out of town next week and hadn't evidently thought about the fact that people would be attacking the copier before I'd had a chance to set up rules and training.
Someone needed a passport copied. The director had a form she needed 15 copies of. All very draining to me who had hoped that people would suspend their Soviet desire to snatch everything available before it runs out! Well, I was wrong. I let them have their fun for a few minutes, and then I started packing it back into the box. This is when bad language skill is really a plus. I know they were asking each other why I was putting it in the box. . .where was it going. . . why can't we use it? But I just looked very confused and said "huh?" a few times. They gave up. Then when they all left the room for tea, I took the power cord and put it in my purse. I pictured their confused faces when they (of course) will open it and try to use it when I'm not there. They will yell across the hall, "Nina! The copier won't turn on! Nina! Do you know where the on button is for the copier!?"
Sometimes you have to be cruel to save the world.
My grant application has been approved, and I've finally started purchasing materials for my library project. First was a small copier and several boxes of paper. Later will come 3,500 cardboard folders to cover all the music.
I came in last week with the copier and got quite a warm welcome from people who may have thought I'd been lying about this whole "free money" idea. I even got a kiss on the cheek from our 50 year old female door monitor with a mustache. It is about the only kiss I've had in 9 months, so I had to feel a bit appreciative of the attention.
Unfortunately, the minute the copier was in place, there was a line. Now, I had planned for this to be a music-only copier, but a few teachers had other plans. I also had planned to be out of town next week and hadn't evidently thought about the fact that people would be attacking the copier before I'd had a chance to set up rules and training.
Someone needed a passport copied. The director had a form she needed 15 copies of. All very draining to me who had hoped that people would suspend their Soviet desire to snatch everything available before it runs out! Well, I was wrong. I let them have their fun for a few minutes, and then I started packing it back into the box. This is when bad language skill is really a plus. I know they were asking each other why I was putting it in the box. . .where was it going. . . why can't we use it? But I just looked very confused and said "huh?" a few times. They gave up. Then when they all left the room for tea, I took the power cord and put it in my purse. I pictured their confused faces when they (of course) will open it and try to use it when I'm not there. They will yell across the hall, "Nina! The copier won't turn on! Nina! Do you know where the on button is for the copier!?"
Sometimes you have to be cruel to save the world.
Ashgabat or bust
It takes a really crappy experience to reveal the good experiences.
On any other day, my taxi to Ashgabat would have felt just 'ok'. Carrie and I left Nebitdag in a small, cramped taxi driven by a driver with red eyes. We sped along at 140 k per hour on bumpy roads. I sat in the middle back seat, and my head literally hit the ceiling of the car a couple of times. The bobble-headed dog on the dashboard vigorously disagrees with us when the road is mediocre and suffers from epileptic seizures when the road gets bad. We suffer through two hours before the driver pulls off in all-too-familiar Serdar. (Judith, our medical officer agrees that "Serdar is the pits.") The driver says he'll be back in 5 minutes. Carrie and I decide to exercise our free will and get out of this guy's car--we grab our bags out of the trunk and look for a better car. We know he'll be upset, since we're only halfway there and only plan on paying what it would cost to go to Serdar. (Nebitdag to Ashgabat-100,000 manat. Nebitdag to Serdar-35,000. Serdar to Ashgabat-40,000.) The confrontation begins with me telling him we won't go any farther with him, and here's 40,000 manat for the ride. He answers "What, are you stupid or something?" I'll leave out the contents of the argument, but let's just say I was incredibly loud, logical, and persuasive. He was merely loud.
We get away and find a mini-sized Russian man named Dima. After a somewhat shady deal (4 men talking to Dima, Dima driving off with two, coming back with one, motioning us to cross the street and quick get in the car. . . ), we're off to Ashgabat. They try out their English in a most polite conversation and put on an American tape to make us feel at home. The conversation in Russian is political and logical. The passenger seems to have bought out the whole car and we are riding as a nice gesture--to whom, we're not sure. The passenger stops and gets us all ice waters and an hour into the trip stops off for a few baskets of fruit. Carrie and I get to eat 5 apricots. The car has air conditioning. Everything is about as pleasant as can be.
Had this been a car in the states, I would have had plenty to complain about. The seats were itchy, the music was a bit loud. I could go on. However, getting out of a bad situation and into a better one changes everything.
I hope this is an analogy for my return to America. I hope that when I go to the grocery store I'll be less worried about wasting time and more excited about having choice. I hope I'll be happy just to read the newspaper. If I start to lose that feeling, I hope I can find something to remind me of places that were tougher.
On any other day, my taxi to Ashgabat would have felt just 'ok'. Carrie and I left Nebitdag in a small, cramped taxi driven by a driver with red eyes. We sped along at 140 k per hour on bumpy roads. I sat in the middle back seat, and my head literally hit the ceiling of the car a couple of times. The bobble-headed dog on the dashboard vigorously disagrees with us when the road is mediocre and suffers from epileptic seizures when the road gets bad. We suffer through two hours before the driver pulls off in all-too-familiar Serdar. (Judith, our medical officer agrees that "Serdar is the pits.") The driver says he'll be back in 5 minutes. Carrie and I decide to exercise our free will and get out of this guy's car--we grab our bags out of the trunk and look for a better car. We know he'll be upset, since we're only halfway there and only plan on paying what it would cost to go to Serdar. (Nebitdag to Ashgabat-100,000 manat. Nebitdag to Serdar-35,000. Serdar to Ashgabat-40,000.) The confrontation begins with me telling him we won't go any farther with him, and here's 40,000 manat for the ride. He answers "What, are you stupid or something?" I'll leave out the contents of the argument, but let's just say I was incredibly loud, logical, and persuasive. He was merely loud.
We get away and find a mini-sized Russian man named Dima. After a somewhat shady deal (4 men talking to Dima, Dima driving off with two, coming back with one, motioning us to cross the street and quick get in the car. . . ), we're off to Ashgabat. They try out their English in a most polite conversation and put on an American tape to make us feel at home. The conversation in Russian is political and logical. The passenger seems to have bought out the whole car and we are riding as a nice gesture--to whom, we're not sure. The passenger stops and gets us all ice waters and an hour into the trip stops off for a few baskets of fruit. Carrie and I get to eat 5 apricots. The car has air conditioning. Everything is about as pleasant as can be.
Had this been a car in the states, I would have had plenty to complain about. The seats were itchy, the music was a bit loud. I could go on. However, getting out of a bad situation and into a better one changes everything.
I hope this is an analogy for my return to America. I hope that when I go to the grocery store I'll be less worried about wasting time and more excited about having choice. I hope I'll be happy just to read the newspaper. If I start to lose that feeling, I hope I can find something to remind me of places that were tougher.
Apr 29, 2005
Essay #28 (The Perfect Day)
For one full day I didn't feel like I was missing anything. There are always good moments, hours, chunks of time here or there, but not usually a whole day. Natasha and I went to Krasnavosk to play a recital. We hopped on a taxi at 10:00 and were lucky enough to get our cassette played and even luckier to have it played at a moderate volume! The taxi driver was nice, though he lied and charged 5,000 more manat than agreed upon, but for the tape success, I let it slide. We checked out the music school there and found the room in which we would perform: the Ruhnama room. The Ruhnama is the Turkmen people's sacred texts written by our current leader T____ the Great. The room was small but very comfortable. Pink curtains covered the floor to ceiling windows giving everyone a cheerful glow. About 25 instruments from balalaika to two full tubas lined the walls of the room. I asked. They are all the instruments which used to be taught here but aren't anymore.
People crammed into the classroom-sized room. I won't lie--our playing was mediocre. The piano was difficult (but in tune!) and everyone was close enough to hear all the noises a violin makes up close (yikes.) But by the time we were done there was a crowd outside the door, people craning their necks to see in.
We were presented with personalized and stamped records (official stamps are huge here) which I was extremely excited about! I know they don't use old records (who's buying a record player when the old one breaks?) and I know I could make great educational use out of them in the states. I was also given a strange clay vase, which seemed like more of an afterthought. Some woman went back to her room and appeared with this gray vase most likely off a shelf and made a little speech. "I'd like to present this gift as a memory..."
After the presents the director asked for some kind of encore. We played Czardas which was a hit. Lots of applause. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an old man to my left with a comically red nose attempt to start the Russian we-all-clap-together thing. He was clapping so vigorously that he brought his arms out to a full 180 degrees before slamming them back together--rather like a walrus.
Natasha and I were charmed by the whole day. Krasnavosk is on the Caspian Sea and hilly. The buildings are more European and everything looks a lot calmer and more pleasant there.
We finally tore ourselves away from tea and went to find a cab home. Finding a cab is terrible--they swarm you like vultures. "Where are you going girls!?" "Nebitdag?!" "Ashgabat?!" This time, however, we had two good choices: a relaxing ride with 3 of us women for 40,000 or an amusing group of men containing a young police officer who used his whistle to get our attention and "directed traffic" with his black and white stick towards his taxi. Temptingly humorous, but we went with the woman passenger instead.
Not everything went perfectly, but it made the perfect day nonetheless.
People crammed into the classroom-sized room. I won't lie--our playing was mediocre. The piano was difficult (but in tune!) and everyone was close enough to hear all the noises a violin makes up close (yikes.) But by the time we were done there was a crowd outside the door, people craning their necks to see in.
We were presented with personalized and stamped records (official stamps are huge here) which I was extremely excited about! I know they don't use old records (who's buying a record player when the old one breaks?) and I know I could make great educational use out of them in the states. I was also given a strange clay vase, which seemed like more of an afterthought. Some woman went back to her room and appeared with this gray vase most likely off a shelf and made a little speech. "I'd like to present this gift as a memory..."
After the presents the director asked for some kind of encore. We played Czardas which was a hit. Lots of applause. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an old man to my left with a comically red nose attempt to start the Russian we-all-clap-together thing. He was clapping so vigorously that he brought his arms out to a full 180 degrees before slamming them back together--rather like a walrus.
Natasha and I were charmed by the whole day. Krasnavosk is on the Caspian Sea and hilly. The buildings are more European and everything looks a lot calmer and more pleasant there.
We finally tore ourselves away from tea and went to find a cab home. Finding a cab is terrible--they swarm you like vultures. "Where are you going girls!?" "Nebitdag?!" "Ashgabat?!" This time, however, we had two good choices: a relaxing ride with 3 of us women for 40,000 or an amusing group of men containing a young police officer who used his whistle to get our attention and "directed traffic" with his black and white stick towards his taxi. Temptingly humorous, but we went with the woman passenger instead.
Not everything went perfectly, but it made the perfect day nonetheless.
Essay #27 (The Meeting)
The room was filled with all of the teachers. 15 to 20 white women (Russian, Armenian, and other nationalities) on one side of the Music School auditorium and 2 Turkmen men on the left. What follows are the words of a woman who can't live without her job. She was demoted purely because of race. During her speech the Turkmen said nothing.
"Alright people. Have a seat. Now as you know, the Commission was here yesterday, and we have a few new things to implement. I'm just telling you what they told me, so just hold on."
"First, our wall hangings and portraits are not up to date. The portrait with the ring needs to be replaced with the new ones, and the poetry and emblems should be new formats also. We should all have some form of a frame also."
"Okay, second, we need all classrooms to have the sacred text, which should be 50,000 manat at the bazaar. If you're teaching more than one student, you should be in a classroom with a Ruhnama."
"Next, we'll be congregating from now on in the music hall before 9:00 to sing the anthem. Our workday starts at 9:00, so at 8:55 you must be here to sing the anthem together every day."
"Lastly--please just listen while I get this out--our clothing is not appropriate. Men, your new uniform is black suit, black tie, white shirt and Turkmen cap. Women, you will wear green national dresses with white blouse. That's all."
Onslaught of blasphemous angry comments, not reported or reportable. Silence from the rest. Silence and sad eyes.
Great cultural steps forward for our people.
"Alright people. Have a seat. Now as you know, the Commission was here yesterday, and we have a few new things to implement. I'm just telling you what they told me, so just hold on."
"First, our wall hangings and portraits are not up to date. The portrait with the ring needs to be replaced with the new ones, and the poetry and emblems should be new formats also. We should all have some form of a frame also."
"Okay, second, we need all classrooms to have the sacred text, which should be 50,000 manat at the bazaar. If you're teaching more than one student, you should be in a classroom with a Ruhnama."
"Next, we'll be congregating from now on in the music hall before 9:00 to sing the anthem. Our workday starts at 9:00, so at 8:55 you must be here to sing the anthem together every day."
"Lastly--please just listen while I get this out--our clothing is not appropriate. Men, your new uniform is black suit, black tie, white shirt and Turkmen cap. Women, you will wear green national dresses with white blouse. That's all."
Onslaught of blasphemous angry comments, not reported or reportable. Silence from the rest. Silence and sad eyes.
Great cultural steps forward for our people.
Apr 15, 2005
Note to Readers
For new readers, posts are in order from newest to oldest. To get the full effect, start at the end!
Kari had intended to keep this site updated herself, but as she is not in the land of readily available email, she has had little opportunity to post since she got there. She has requested that we post many of her writings, all of which were handwritten and mailed. The letters take several weeks to get here.
If you write to her, the address is:
Turkmenistan
Balkan Velayat
Balkanabat
Central Post Office
Mail Box #38
Anderson, Karen
Turkmenistan
Send anything you'd like, but understand that things anyone might like (oreos, hershey's kisses, non-copy CD's. . .) probably won't make it past the post office workers! Hope you enjoy the stories!
Kari had intended to keep this site updated herself, but as she is not in the land of readily available email, she has had little opportunity to post since she got there. She has requested that we post many of her writings, all of which were handwritten and mailed. The letters take several weeks to get here.
If you write to her, the address is:
Turkmenistan
Balkan Velayat
Balkanabat
Central Post Office
Mail Box #38
Anderson, Karen
Turkmenistan
Send anything you'd like, but understand that things anyone might like (oreos, hershey's kisses, non-copy CD's. . .) probably won't make it past the post office workers! Hope you enjoy the stories!
Apr 10, 2005
Essay #26 (Woman's Day)
Happy Dog's Day everyone!
Today is March 8th, known to most people as "Woman's Day". Unfortunately, there seems to be at least one out of our 4.5 million people not happy with the idea of celebrating women--other than his mother, that is. Yes, Women's Day in Turkmenistan has been officially moved to March 20th, the Great Man's mother's birthday. To add a touch of insult, he's given March 8th a new title: Day of the Alibi, the national Turkmen dog. Needless to say, the women here still celebrated each other, as opposed to, say, feeding the surviving stray dogs of Turkmenistan. Everywhere I went I was showered with congratulations and knowing smiles. Though we weren't able to wrench the remote control from the men's hands, we found successes in other ways. Less cooking, more good moods. Students gave us candy bars, and even the post office lady was chatty today! I, surprisingly enough, didn't hear a single mention of Dog's Day, and it's a good thing, too. I only learned about today's holiday in the evening, and in my volatile mental state, I think my first congratulator of "Dog's Day" might have gotten a sock in the face.
It also came to my attention that there was a "Man's Day" created, perhaps out of the strong desire for gender equity here in central Asia, but I'm not sure much is done here for Man's Day. I asked my family what we should have done for Man's Day: made dinner--check; ironed their clothes--check; set out tea twice a day--check; pass women over for job advancement based on gender--check; require women to cover their mouths when first married so they can't talk--check; allow men to get prostitutes because they need that and women don't--check . . .
I have a feeling men celebrated Man's Day just fine. Hopefully women can keep March 8th in their hearts and lives even if their mouths may have to commit to March 20th. Happy Dog's Day, wink, wink!
Today is March 8th, known to most people as "Woman's Day". Unfortunately, there seems to be at least one out of our 4.5 million people not happy with the idea of celebrating women--other than his mother, that is. Yes, Women's Day in Turkmenistan has been officially moved to March 20th, the Great Man's mother's birthday. To add a touch of insult, he's given March 8th a new title: Day of the Alibi, the national Turkmen dog. Needless to say, the women here still celebrated each other, as opposed to, say, feeding the surviving stray dogs of Turkmenistan. Everywhere I went I was showered with congratulations and knowing smiles. Though we weren't able to wrench the remote control from the men's hands, we found successes in other ways. Less cooking, more good moods. Students gave us candy bars, and even the post office lady was chatty today! I, surprisingly enough, didn't hear a single mention of Dog's Day, and it's a good thing, too. I only learned about today's holiday in the evening, and in my volatile mental state, I think my first congratulator of "Dog's Day" might have gotten a sock in the face.
It also came to my attention that there was a "Man's Day" created, perhaps out of the strong desire for gender equity here in central Asia, but I'm not sure much is done here for Man's Day. I asked my family what we should have done for Man's Day: made dinner--check; ironed their clothes--check; set out tea twice a day--check; pass women over for job advancement based on gender--check; require women to cover their mouths when first married so they can't talk--check; allow men to get prostitutes because they need that and women don't--check . . .
I have a feeling men celebrated Man's Day just fine. Hopefully women can keep March 8th in their hearts and lives even if their mouths may have to commit to March 20th. Happy Dog's Day, wink, wink!
Apr 9, 2005
Essay #25 (Older Than Pushkin)
The orchestra members took turns craning their necks to see who the visitor was standing outside their rehearsal. They were working on a Turkmen composition, but mostly they were counting the minutes until break time. Andrei and I stood outside giggling about how old their stands were and how bad the oboe player was. When he was in the group it was much better, he claims. Andrei graduated from the Conservatory last year and has a professional job in the city now. He is one of few people I’ve met who understand how far downhill the music program is sliding. He was the last Russian accepted into the school, and perhaps it’s only a matter of time until Western instruments are eliminated there along with the people.
At break, Andrei introduced me to the conductor, an older, balding man with charisma and control. Perhaps a routine for guests, he started gushing about how fantastic the Turkmen composer they were playing was, how close to the president this composer was, and how so tragically he died at only 43, wasting so much talent. Possibly due to language, or maybe general attitude, I then blurted out “older than Pushkin”. Hmm, now when I decided on the comment, it seemed like such a fantastic idea.
He froze and stared at me for a second before answering, “Yes, by six years,” and he gave me a sly smile. Had I broken the code?! Turkmen composers left the conversation immediately, and we moved on to what standard repertoire I’ve played. Could it be that Pushkin is somehow the secret word? I’d insulted him, and yet somehow we had an automatic understanding.
I was asked to listen to rehearsal, and he even had me introduce myself to the group. He asked, “Do you know the Beethoven Serenade? Let’s have you come in and play with us. What solo would you like to prepare?”
This is the most professional I’ve felt since arriving here. I’m not really an English teacher--I’m not a methodology expert. I’m a violinist who speaks Russian. I’m an orchestral player and a music librarian. When Peace Corps tells us to use the skills we have, I started with a music club for English speakers and an English talent show. Who knew I should really be soloing with a small conservatory group, planning a children’s concert series through local sponsors, and organizing and improving the music school’s library. The week I spent in Ashgabat was intended to teach us grant-writing techniques and show us successful project ideas. For me, it drove me away from English and revealed my own strengths and fields of expertise. I finally have a purpose!
At break, Andrei introduced me to the conductor, an older, balding man with charisma and control. Perhaps a routine for guests, he started gushing about how fantastic the Turkmen composer they were playing was, how close to the president this composer was, and how so tragically he died at only 43, wasting so much talent. Possibly due to language, or maybe general attitude, I then blurted out “older than Pushkin”. Hmm, now when I decided on the comment, it seemed like such a fantastic idea.
He froze and stared at me for a second before answering, “Yes, by six years,” and he gave me a sly smile. Had I broken the code?! Turkmen composers left the conversation immediately, and we moved on to what standard repertoire I’ve played. Could it be that Pushkin is somehow the secret word? I’d insulted him, and yet somehow we had an automatic understanding.
I was asked to listen to rehearsal, and he even had me introduce myself to the group. He asked, “Do you know the Beethoven Serenade? Let’s have you come in and play with us. What solo would you like to prepare?”
This is the most professional I’ve felt since arriving here. I’m not really an English teacher--I’m not a methodology expert. I’m a violinist who speaks Russian. I’m an orchestral player and a music librarian. When Peace Corps tells us to use the skills we have, I started with a music club for English speakers and an English talent show. Who knew I should really be soloing with a small conservatory group, planning a children’s concert series through local sponsors, and organizing and improving the music school’s library. The week I spent in Ashgabat was intended to teach us grant-writing techniques and show us successful project ideas. For me, it drove me away from English and revealed my own strengths and fields of expertise. I finally have a purpose!
Apr 8, 2005
Essay#24 (N___ and A____)
It ended with “Can you help us?” but fortunately, for the ears in the walls, it started with “I have a friend who wants to find a job in America.” Their faces are always relaxed and anticipatory when the conversation starts. Then I have to tell them the truth. Unskilled workers with little to no English will find it very hard to live the stable life I lived in America. And no, the American Embassy won’t take bribes. No, not even for $3000. N___ and A___ sat across from me and showed more signs of actually taking the leap than anyone previous. They aren’t trying to leave in order to meet famous people or own a big car. They’re not running to, but away. They have less family connection and they have each other. My advice might be just what they need. Although A___’s brow wrinkles at any negative sign, he continues to ask. How much money would you need to start out? How possible is it to find a job?
Then there’s me. Do I encourage this dream? It is ethical, being in my position? I’m here to improve their lives, not move them away. Or am I here to improve the lives of Turkmen?
A few years back people were supposedly given a choice of citizenship if they previously had USSR or dual citizenship. My friend Nadia chose between Georgia and T-stan. A war or this. She chose this. N___ and A___ had no choice. I look at them again and ask, “But you’re Russian—why didn’t you leave with the Russians?” That being a moot point, I ask, “Wait, are you Russian?”
N___ tells me, “It’s so stupid! I am part German but from part of Russia where Germans lived before the war. My grandmother was so, so stupid, Kari. She left her village in Russia when things were bad there. She had two eggs and, I think, some bread. She wanted to go to Krasnadar, this beautiful, rich city in Russia, so she went to the train station and by mistake got on the train to Krasnavosk instead. So here I am!
I wonder if that grandmother has been torn out of a few family portraits over the years. A___ is the same. Germanish Russian. I think he blames it on a large deportation of people. T-stan is like the neighborhood of empty lots. You can picture good things happening so you stay put—but it can’t seem to get past what it has always been. A big, dirty, empty spot where people don’t feel guilty throwing glass bottles out the windows of their cars.
So I let them dream. I don’t normally allow it. I keep telling them obstacles upon obstacles until the furrowed brow is permanent, but N___ and A___ are real. Real people looking for reality. I can let them dream. I can bend my ethics just enough to visualize them teaching and buying groceries with a cart. The truth is—we wait and think and work and struggle and cry here. But all we want is to help with things the people actually need. If I give people computers, they’ll smile but their lives continue the same way. I can’t force people to educate themselves. They must ask for help.
Finally here is someone who wants help—just in a different light. N___ is a woman who wanted to study 2 subjects and receive 2 diplomas from the 2 or 3 year institutes and was told that you can’t get more than “one education” here. Perhaps there is still the “American Dream” in people’s hearts and minds. Perhaps it even exists for those who care enough. I always thought the American Dream was for dishwashers and waitresses, but I may have been wrong. I’ve had 10 years of music lessons from teachers with strong accents. Is there room for two more?
Then there’s me. Do I encourage this dream? It is ethical, being in my position? I’m here to improve their lives, not move them away. Or am I here to improve the lives of Turkmen?
A few years back people were supposedly given a choice of citizenship if they previously had USSR or dual citizenship. My friend Nadia chose between Georgia and T-stan. A war or this. She chose this. N___ and A___ had no choice. I look at them again and ask, “But you’re Russian—why didn’t you leave with the Russians?” That being a moot point, I ask, “Wait, are you Russian?”
N___ tells me, “It’s so stupid! I am part German but from part of Russia where Germans lived before the war. My grandmother was so, so stupid, Kari. She left her village in Russia when things were bad there. She had two eggs and, I think, some bread. She wanted to go to Krasnadar, this beautiful, rich city in Russia, so she went to the train station and by mistake got on the train to Krasnavosk instead. So here I am!
I wonder if that grandmother has been torn out of a few family portraits over the years. A___ is the same. Germanish Russian. I think he blames it on a large deportation of people. T-stan is like the neighborhood of empty lots. You can picture good things happening so you stay put—but it can’t seem to get past what it has always been. A big, dirty, empty spot where people don’t feel guilty throwing glass bottles out the windows of their cars.
So I let them dream. I don’t normally allow it. I keep telling them obstacles upon obstacles until the furrowed brow is permanent, but N___ and A___ are real. Real people looking for reality. I can let them dream. I can bend my ethics just enough to visualize them teaching and buying groceries with a cart. The truth is—we wait and think and work and struggle and cry here. But all we want is to help with things the people actually need. If I give people computers, they’ll smile but their lives continue the same way. I can’t force people to educate themselves. They must ask for help.
Finally here is someone who wants help—just in a different light. N___ is a woman who wanted to study 2 subjects and receive 2 diplomas from the 2 or 3 year institutes and was told that you can’t get more than “one education” here. Perhaps there is still the “American Dream” in people’s hearts and minds. Perhaps it even exists for those who care enough. I always thought the American Dream was for dishwashers and waitresses, but I may have been wrong. I’ve had 10 years of music lessons from teachers with strong accents. Is there room for two more?
Essay #23 (Water)
Living in the desert presents numerous challenges--sunburn, sandstorms, difficult farming, but most importantly, obtaining water. Everyone has their own system. Some have wells where the water is trucked in once in a while, some have canal water piped in from Ashgabat, and some have distillers.
In the city we have running water which is fairly clean but non-drinkable. It runs from about 6 a.m. to 11 a.m. and again from about 6 p.m. to 9 or 10 p.m. Even when running, it won't go upstairs to my bathroom. When I first arrived we had a pump that would get water upstairs when on, but not enough to shower, say, on off hours. One day, though, our pump died. Struck then with the horror which all the not-wealthy families face, we filled buckets and bathtubs during "on" hours and prepared for the worst. This system is common. In every public bathroom there is a toilet with a bucket of water on the floor in order to manually flush. The sink is a bucket and cup for pouring water over your hands.
So it was fortuante for us that it was during our non-pump week that there were 2 days where the city turned off the water altogether. Now picture the modern kitchen with no water. We boiled and filtered all cooking water, we had pails for dish water, the toilets sat unflushed for 2 days (foo!), and no one dared use the precious water for a shower. Our supply held us over, but all conversation out of my mother's mouth was about how one can't live without running water. How terrible is life without water!
We got a brand new pump that week. I can now shower any time of day (which, I have to say, doesn't convince me to do it more frequently), we can do laundry and dishes simultaneously, and we don't even have to drink water that sat in the bathtubs for a week. I'm definitely settling near a lake or stream later in life. I guess that rules out Phoenix.
In the city we have running water which is fairly clean but non-drinkable. It runs from about 6 a.m. to 11 a.m. and again from about 6 p.m. to 9 or 10 p.m. Even when running, it won't go upstairs to my bathroom. When I first arrived we had a pump that would get water upstairs when on, but not enough to shower, say, on off hours. One day, though, our pump died. Struck then with the horror which all the not-wealthy families face, we filled buckets and bathtubs during "on" hours and prepared for the worst. This system is common. In every public bathroom there is a toilet with a bucket of water on the floor in order to manually flush. The sink is a bucket and cup for pouring water over your hands.
So it was fortuante for us that it was during our non-pump week that there were 2 days where the city turned off the water altogether. Now picture the modern kitchen with no water. We boiled and filtered all cooking water, we had pails for dish water, the toilets sat unflushed for 2 days (foo!), and no one dared use the precious water for a shower. Our supply held us over, but all conversation out of my mother's mouth was about how one can't live without running water. How terrible is life without water!
We got a brand new pump that week. I can now shower any time of day (which, I have to say, doesn't convince me to do it more frequently), we can do laundry and dishes simultaneously, and we don't even have to drink water that sat in the bathtubs for a week. I'm definitely settling near a lake or stream later in life. I guess that rules out Phoenix.
Mar 31, 2005
Essay #22 Guncha
My daughter has no teeth and it’s my fault. We brush them as much as anyone but I was sick when I was pregnant with her. It was harder then that it is now, contrary to traditional belief. I think I’m one of the only single mothers in this country. I live close to my family now, so I can work while they take care of Y_____. I had the traditional marriage but my husband had problems. Maybe he had them before we were married, but I couldn’t do anything about it. He was a heroin addict. I got pregnant with Y_____ when we had little money already. I didn’t have enough for food and most times my husband took his salary for drugs. I had anemia during the pregnancy and I think that’s why Y_____ has problems. She is normal in most ways – it’s just her teeth. I left him, which is difficult here. I am not supposed to marry again but I think if someone comes along, you never know. I work with kindergarteners and teach Turkmen language to Peace Corps volunteers in the fall. Sometime I hope I can learn enough English to get a job teaching Turkmen or Russian in America. Don’t you think 6 years with Peace Corps is a pretty good credential? I guess we’ll see. My American students tell me of all the luxury they have, yet they seem like children still. They have no sense of work ethic and sometimes it just makes me cry nights to way they refuse to try. Some even tell me they don’t want to learn my native language because it’s ugly! The nerve! I try so hard to be a good teacher for them. Turkmen language is not a bad language. Sometimes I sit and thank Allah that I live in Turkmenistan. After hearing about the wars in Afghanistan and the problems in Iraq. Things are so stable here and so the people are happy. All we want is peace so we can live our lives. Of course, there are always problems. I hope to have some changes so we can move forward more. I mean, when we vote here, there’s not one person I really want, so I just cross them off! I don’t want you, or you or you! But I’d never make a problem as long as I can live here with my daughter. I’ve already had enough drama for a lifetime. Maybe I’ll get English lessons for Y_____. She already talks so well for being so little. If I never make it to the US maybe she’ll be able to. My students tell me you can make $5 an hour at any job and that their apartments all have running water and bathrooms indoors. Even the cheapest. Sounds good to me! We have to walk over to my parents house to use her toilet since our apartment doesn’t have one. Maybe Y_____ could work for a firm as a translator and move then. Or maybe she could get that scholarship to study there in high school. Well, we’ll keep it in mind. It would just be nice to be able to give her something real in life. Something far from her broken family and broken teeth. Somewhere as safe and quiet as she deserves.
Feb 25, 2005
Essay #21 (Taxi-stands)
Katie declares they’re hell on earth. Laura hates them. Courtnee wants to slam the piroshki lady’s head in the car door. I, however, have to give them another chance after yesterday’s experience.
We had pulled into the Serdar taxi station to find a ride to Balkanabat. Three white girls with three suitcases makes a sweet target. We hear shouts of various cities and calls for attention, but we ignore all voices besides our own for a few minutes.
Katie speaks the best Turkmen, so she begins the bargaining. The price is high as always, and they all snicker and elbow each other when we ask if the car has seatbelts. (Aren’t they the same people who weekly mourn friends and relatives who’ve died in accidents?) The price finally lowered, we put our bags in the trunk and begin the waiting period—there’s a 4th seat in the car and I’m not buying it out.
The snack sellers come over, and I automatically say “no” and hope they go away. These people generally follow refusals by repeatedly demanding, mocking us and our language attempts, and, at the least, following and staring. Katie has other plans. “What are you selling?” she asks the second boy who is following us, staring, but without wares to sell. He looks embarrassed and shakes his head and clicked 'no'. She teases him a little, and I feel a bit embarrassed at the exchange. This interchange, however, leads to a game of soccer played with a tiny inflated pink soccer ball. They kick it around for a while—2 boys and Katie—before she gets tired. Vocally tag-teamed, I jump in. In front of a bunch of onlookers—not even regular onlookers, but the obnoxious taxi-stand men—I claim my place in the sports world. It’s a pure Peace Corps experience. The boys are young and wear old clothes, the ball is not great, the sun is hot, and everyone’s watching the white girl. But today in this game they watch in kind amusement—not in lust or hatred, but in camaraderie.
Our 4th rider arrives, and we say goodbye 12 times to our new friends. I reach a hand out of the window to wave one last time when one of them grabs my hand and holds on, running beside the car as we pull out. I’m a local celebrity after a mere 20 minutes of positive communication. Hopefully three boys I just met will have a bit more respect for women, a little more patience with foreigners, a shred more respect for adults, and a great story to tell their families when they get home.
We had pulled into the Serdar taxi station to find a ride to Balkanabat. Three white girls with three suitcases makes a sweet target. We hear shouts of various cities and calls for attention, but we ignore all voices besides our own for a few minutes.
Katie speaks the best Turkmen, so she begins the bargaining. The price is high as always, and they all snicker and elbow each other when we ask if the car has seatbelts. (Aren’t they the same people who weekly mourn friends and relatives who’ve died in accidents?) The price finally lowered, we put our bags in the trunk and begin the waiting period—there’s a 4th seat in the car and I’m not buying it out.
The snack sellers come over, and I automatically say “no” and hope they go away. These people generally follow refusals by repeatedly demanding, mocking us and our language attempts, and, at the least, following and staring. Katie has other plans. “What are you selling?” she asks the second boy who is following us, staring, but without wares to sell. He looks embarrassed and shakes his head and clicked 'no'. She teases him a little, and I feel a bit embarrassed at the exchange. This interchange, however, leads to a game of soccer played with a tiny inflated pink soccer ball. They kick it around for a while—2 boys and Katie—before she gets tired. Vocally tag-teamed, I jump in. In front of a bunch of onlookers—not even regular onlookers, but the obnoxious taxi-stand men—I claim my place in the sports world. It’s a pure Peace Corps experience. The boys are young and wear old clothes, the ball is not great, the sun is hot, and everyone’s watching the white girl. But today in this game they watch in kind amusement—not in lust or hatred, but in camaraderie.
Our 4th rider arrives, and we say goodbye 12 times to our new friends. I reach a hand out of the window to wave one last time when one of them grabs my hand and holds on, running beside the car as we pull out. I’m a local celebrity after a mere 20 minutes of positive communication. Hopefully three boys I just met will have a bit more respect for women, a little more patience with foreigners, a shred more respect for adults, and a great story to tell their families when they get home.
Feb 23, 2005
Essay #20 (Pochta)
I'm almost up. The girl in front of me wears her hair down and stands on her tip-toes trying to see the shelf of cards behind the glass. Her jeans creak with the stretch and her face is confused. The woman behind the desk explains that she can't send a non-standard envelope through the mail. She'll have to choose one of the "Hallmark T-stan" cards with a giant picture of T___ the Great in order to send her oversized card to Russia. She looks at me, and we giggle as she tears open her already stamped and addressed envelope to shove its contents into some form of T-bashy's picture which will greatly confuse the recipient, no doubt.
I get to the counter and say I'd like to send two packages. We start the process quickly. I fill out one form and triplicate the form by hand while she itemizes the first package. The items are weighed individually and wrapped in white material. She hand sews the package closed and seals the seams with some black glue. I get a black ball-point pen to write the address directly on the material. As she attends to others in the fast-growing line, I sit down at a table with my first package. To my left is an old woman writing with black marker on what looks like a giant pillow. To my right is a man carefully writing a return address on some kind of giant banana. I bring my finished product to the young woman, and she charges me about a dollar, consults my passport, and then throws my package onto the general pile. I ask about my second and she replies that it's already 5:30 and they're closed. Closed?! I stare at her in disbelief. She's Turkmen and wears a Turkmen dress covered by a smock. She's tired from giving directions and yelling orders all day--not to mention listening to everyone's complaints--all for about $50 a month. I give in easily to her strength and resign myself to coming back tomorrow.
The next day I feel something's awry as I approach the doors. The power is out. She says they can't send packages without power. I give a laugh and say, "See you tomorrow!"
Day 3. I open the door of the post office and realize I've left my passport with Peace Corps today - no package sending. For good measure, I ask her - no go.
Day 4. We greet each other informally today and smile. I'm in! We get right to business, and in minutes my package is on the floor ready to go. Bidding adieu, I go about shopping for shoes and a coat. An hour down the road I hear someone calling to me. "Devushka!!" she yells. "Your passport! You left your passport at the post office!" Amazing! A strange woman who evidently also sent a package today saw my passport on the table and was told, no doubt, that if I'm spotted, she should direct me back to the post office! I run back and have a good laugh with my newest Turkmen friend and say goodbye for good.
Unfortunately, I now live in a new city with new postal ladies. I started off on the right foot here in Balkanabat. I've had little chats with the two workers and they seem friendly. My first package was successful, though it took a week of sitting in the office before everything was in order. The girl behind the desk, however, showed me how she sewed it together with great pride in her work. We check our mail often, and they get almost as excited as we do when a package comes! They know our names and the names of our loved ones.
I have been waging a secret battle against the recently mandated standard envelopes by sending my own and trying to slide it past them, but they're getting quicker. Whether to boost local envelope business or to begin sliding down the slippery slope towards outlawing foreign mail altogether, thin envelopes with "To:" and "From:" written in Turkmen are required for all mail. I wouldn't expect anything less, however, from the people who read our mail and reseal it with conspicuous-looking stickers. ("Mom, did you put Viagra stickers on your Chrismas card on purpose?"). We'll use the standard envelopes for now and someday, perhaps, the constitution will be upheld (which in Turkmenistan states all forms of communication are private). The irony will come when someone receives this essay with the last paragraph blackened out!
Cheers to the Turkmen postal service in all its glories!
I get to the counter and say I'd like to send two packages. We start the process quickly. I fill out one form and triplicate the form by hand while she itemizes the first package. The items are weighed individually and wrapped in white material. She hand sews the package closed and seals the seams with some black glue. I get a black ball-point pen to write the address directly on the material. As she attends to others in the fast-growing line, I sit down at a table with my first package. To my left is an old woman writing with black marker on what looks like a giant pillow. To my right is a man carefully writing a return address on some kind of giant banana. I bring my finished product to the young woman, and she charges me about a dollar, consults my passport, and then throws my package onto the general pile. I ask about my second and she replies that it's already 5:30 and they're closed. Closed?! I stare at her in disbelief. She's Turkmen and wears a Turkmen dress covered by a smock. She's tired from giving directions and yelling orders all day--not to mention listening to everyone's complaints--all for about $50 a month. I give in easily to her strength and resign myself to coming back tomorrow.
The next day I feel something's awry as I approach the doors. The power is out. She says they can't send packages without power. I give a laugh and say, "See you tomorrow!"
Day 3. I open the door of the post office and realize I've left my passport with Peace Corps today - no package sending. For good measure, I ask her - no go.
Day 4. We greet each other informally today and smile. I'm in! We get right to business, and in minutes my package is on the floor ready to go. Bidding adieu, I go about shopping for shoes and a coat. An hour down the road I hear someone calling to me. "Devushka!!" she yells. "Your passport! You left your passport at the post office!" Amazing! A strange woman who evidently also sent a package today saw my passport on the table and was told, no doubt, that if I'm spotted, she should direct me back to the post office! I run back and have a good laugh with my newest Turkmen friend and say goodbye for good.
Unfortunately, I now live in a new city with new postal ladies. I started off on the right foot here in Balkanabat. I've had little chats with the two workers and they seem friendly. My first package was successful, though it took a week of sitting in the office before everything was in order. The girl behind the desk, however, showed me how she sewed it together with great pride in her work. We check our mail often, and they get almost as excited as we do when a package comes! They know our names and the names of our loved ones.
I have been waging a secret battle against the recently mandated standard envelopes by sending my own and trying to slide it past them, but they're getting quicker. Whether to boost local envelope business or to begin sliding down the slippery slope towards outlawing foreign mail altogether, thin envelopes with "To:" and "From:" written in Turkmen are required for all mail. I wouldn't expect anything less, however, from the people who read our mail and reseal it with conspicuous-looking stickers. ("Mom, did you put Viagra stickers on your Chrismas card on purpose?"). We'll use the standard envelopes for now and someday, perhaps, the constitution will be upheld (which in Turkmenistan states all forms of communication are private). The irony will come when someone receives this essay with the last paragraph blackened out!
Cheers to the Turkmen postal service in all its glories!
Feb 22, 2005
Essay #19 (Rehearsal)
During our 2 minute warming breaks we stand over the single electric burner that heats my room. N___'s heater was broken today, and it's especially cold outside. I wear a scarf even though it feels funny under my violin, and N___ has a shawl and sits on her fur coat for warmth. When our fingers are sufficiently simmered, we dash back to our instruments for another run-through. The piano is worse in my office, but we trade the instrument choice for heat.
A___, N___'s boyfriend who comes in from Ashgabat on days off, huddles in to turn pages and we begin. If we've both practiced, things go well. My ego is boosted by playing in my office since I always play more in-tune than the piano! The lower 2 octaves mostly play 2 notes at a time, and the octaves get a bit closer together as they go up. I'm surprised at how tough the pianos are considering they go from stiflingly hot summers to freezing winters with no air conditioning or heat. Natasha and I survive the cold through giggles, complaints, and desire to perform.
Our concert is planned for the 27th of Baydak. (They require teachers to use the new Turkmen months even in English class to force us all to learn them. I'll stick with the Turkmen months, so it you ever meet a Turkmen in America, you can understand each other since they won't know that another name for the months exists. At least our concert isn't in the month named after our great leader . . . or his mother-- January and November, respectively. Baydak is 'flag' in English.) We hope to have use of several heaters by then to make the auditorium warm, but at least the audience will be sympathetic.
Wish us luck!
A___, N___'s boyfriend who comes in from Ashgabat on days off, huddles in to turn pages and we begin. If we've both practiced, things go well. My ego is boosted by playing in my office since I always play more in-tune than the piano! The lower 2 octaves mostly play 2 notes at a time, and the octaves get a bit closer together as they go up. I'm surprised at how tough the pianos are considering they go from stiflingly hot summers to freezing winters with no air conditioning or heat. Natasha and I survive the cold through giggles, complaints, and desire to perform.
Our concert is planned for the 27th of Baydak. (They require teachers to use the new Turkmen months even in English class to force us all to learn them. I'll stick with the Turkmen months, so it you ever meet a Turkmen in America, you can understand each other since they won't know that another name for the months exists. At least our concert isn't in the month named after our great leader . . . or his mother-- January and November, respectively. Baydak is 'flag' in English.) We hope to have use of several heaters by then to make the auditorium warm, but at least the audience will be sympathetic.
Wish us luck!
Essay #18 (Didar)
Didar leans his head back in his chair and says in Russian, "I want to sleep," and proceeds to make a snoring noise.
"Well," I respond in English, "you can sleep right here on the floor if you'd like! I don't mind, as long as you ask in English." He decides not to translate the comment. His second club of the day is music club, and after he requested to be allowed to stay "just in case it is interesting", I wasn't expecting the world out of Didar. He'd been to my conversation club religiously, but he snickers in the back when the comments get too advanced.
Last week after class we realized we lived near each other, and he declared we'd walk there together. He was obviously bored by the classical music I was teaching which outlined how stringed instruments sound, so I decided the kids could stand something a bit lighter. As it was rainy and cold, I taught them "It's raining, it's pouring". The song was a big hit, and Didar decided I was interesting enough. He and his slowly-growing pack of young, male, English-enthusiasts stayed to help me pack up my things and promptly stated in Russian, "We're with you." It was intended to mean we'd all walk home together, but I take it to mean they'll be sticking out this whole English-club idea even if there are some boring parts.
We tromped down the street in the rain--two 11-year-olds, two 12-year-olds, a 13-year-old and I--discussing the finer things in life such as how the Russian reality TV show everyone watches is dumb and how many sisters and brothers we all have. I let one of the boys drop my letters to America in the box, and we stopped at a kiosk to pick up a pen for Vanya. One by one they split off for home with a big "Bye-bye" and a "See you next week" from me. I'm so used to being laughed at and teased and heckled by neighborhood boys that I'm shocked at their interest and kindness towards me. Last to turn off the main road was Didar who stopped humming "It's raining, it's pouring" for a few seconds to yell "goodbye!"
I'm guessing he'll be back again next week!
"Well," I respond in English, "you can sleep right here on the floor if you'd like! I don't mind, as long as you ask in English." He decides not to translate the comment. His second club of the day is music club, and after he requested to be allowed to stay "just in case it is interesting", I wasn't expecting the world out of Didar. He'd been to my conversation club religiously, but he snickers in the back when the comments get too advanced.
Last week after class we realized we lived near each other, and he declared we'd walk there together. He was obviously bored by the classical music I was teaching which outlined how stringed instruments sound, so I decided the kids could stand something a bit lighter. As it was rainy and cold, I taught them "It's raining, it's pouring". The song was a big hit, and Didar decided I was interesting enough. He and his slowly-growing pack of young, male, English-enthusiasts stayed to help me pack up my things and promptly stated in Russian, "We're with you." It was intended to mean we'd all walk home together, but I take it to mean they'll be sticking out this whole English-club idea even if there are some boring parts.
We tromped down the street in the rain--two 11-year-olds, two 12-year-olds, a 13-year-old and I--discussing the finer things in life such as how the Russian reality TV show everyone watches is dumb and how many sisters and brothers we all have. I let one of the boys drop my letters to America in the box, and we stopped at a kiosk to pick up a pen for Vanya. One by one they split off for home with a big "Bye-bye" and a "See you next week" from me. I'm so used to being laughed at and teased and heckled by neighborhood boys that I'm shocked at their interest and kindness towards me. Last to turn off the main road was Didar who stopped humming "It's raining, it's pouring" for a few seconds to yell "goodbye!"
I'm guessing he'll be back again next week!
Essay #17 (Gurban Bayram)
Today we began the 3-day holiday of Gurban Bayram, which seems to translate roughly as "sheepskin curb piles," or else "now what part of the sheep am I eating--the what?!" Again, these are rough translations.
I went to my grandma's house for the first time, and we had plov, the national dish of Turkmenistan, and salad, which is cucumber, tomato, and onion sliced or in chunks with oil and salt. I then got a mystery call (How do you know my grandmother?) from Bibi with an invite to a real Turkmen celebration. I headed over, passing sheep slaughter after sheep slaughter. These are occurring on the main road through the city, and the families from 3 floors of apartments line up outside to "make dinner". It's as if State Street businesses had their clearance sales on the sidewalk while the employees killed and plucked chickens for their Caesar salads.
I managed to keep all the plov down even after watching blood drain and made it to Bibi's in time for--how did you guess?--unnamed parts of sheep. Yes, I had some liver and I even tried some lung, but no one was forcing sheep's head soup down my throat! No one! I met Bibi's sister who is quite pretty and kept her mobile phone at her side, though it didn't ring. We had Turkmen tea, and I switched back and forth between Russian and English which has become more natural recently. My Russian is better by the day. We played a few card games, and I decided to head home around 6:00.
I walked out to the street, hoping it would be empty of the sheep that were now filling bellies. I was close. The meat, yes, had been eaten, but now every corner had a 4 foot tall pile of sheepskins guarded by a person on each corner. I didn't feel the need to know the exact process (which would have necessitated standing near the skins long enough to ask), but I'm assuming they organized themselves into buyers and sellers of sheepskin, and the buyers were waiting for more sellers before they filled taxi trunks with wool and headed home!
Since this is a 3-day holiday there may be more surprises along the way, but perhaps I won't be strolling around during dinnertime anymore . . .
I went to my grandma's house for the first time, and we had plov, the national dish of Turkmenistan, and salad, which is cucumber, tomato, and onion sliced or in chunks with oil and salt. I then got a mystery call (How do you know my grandmother?) from Bibi with an invite to a real Turkmen celebration. I headed over, passing sheep slaughter after sheep slaughter. These are occurring on the main road through the city, and the families from 3 floors of apartments line up outside to "make dinner". It's as if State Street businesses had their clearance sales on the sidewalk while the employees killed and plucked chickens for their Caesar salads.
I managed to keep all the plov down even after watching blood drain and made it to Bibi's in time for--how did you guess?--unnamed parts of sheep. Yes, I had some liver and I even tried some lung, but no one was forcing sheep's head soup down my throat! No one! I met Bibi's sister who is quite pretty and kept her mobile phone at her side, though it didn't ring. We had Turkmen tea, and I switched back and forth between Russian and English which has become more natural recently. My Russian is better by the day. We played a few card games, and I decided to head home around 6:00.
I walked out to the street, hoping it would be empty of the sheep that were now filling bellies. I was close. The meat, yes, had been eaten, but now every corner had a 4 foot tall pile of sheepskins guarded by a person on each corner. I didn't feel the need to know the exact process (which would have necessitated standing near the skins long enough to ask), but I'm assuming they organized themselves into buyers and sellers of sheepskin, and the buyers were waiting for more sellers before they filled taxi trunks with wool and headed home!
Since this is a 3-day holiday there may be more surprises along the way, but perhaps I won't be strolling around during dinnertime anymore . . .
Feb 21, 2005
Essay #16 (N___)
N___ has quickly become my counterpart #2 and local friend #1. I came to work today to find she’d cut herself bangs. I was so excited—she looked great! She’s tall with long hair and glasses. Sometimes she wonders why I’m here. It’s strange because when I explain the reasons, she still wonders. Then, again, so do I.
She doesn’t need anything from me and rarely asks for favors. This leads to her receiving more from me than anyone else. I say “no” when people ask for English lessons, but N___’s English improves every day we are together. She doesn’t want me to make her workload lighter, but instead she asks me to play concerts on the side and to work together.
Her boyfriend is in Ashgabat where she lived the past seven years while attending school. They can’t marry yet. She owes the government 2 years of work in the school of their choice in exchange for the education. He can’t get a work visa to move to her city because one has to find the job first and there just aren’t any. His name is A___, and he sits patiently whenever we rehearse together. He doesn’t get jealous or selfish with her time even though they see each other on weekends only.
Being from two different worlds can make for foreign feelings, but we have such a great deal in common that she makes me feel at home. I’ve had difficulty understanding why people don’t just leave here. Her presence helps explain this phenomenon. She wants things to improve here and has a startling understanding of the realities of life beyond T-stan. The fact that N___ has never considered moving out of her cute apartment and even farther from her already remote boyfriend makes me trust that there’s something worth saving here. I get frustrated and think of ways out. She gets frustrated and thinks of ways in. She trusts me and my work because she thinks of moving here as crazy. I trust her in return.
Of the many people who want to visit or move to the States, she is one who could actually be successful there. Somehow I feel that she wouldn’t have the culture shock any normal Turkmen would. We giggle about how long the mail takes although she’s never seen faster. She hates the inept piano tuners and longs to start her own music school.
Many people here ask for my help or my company out of greed and need. Many won’t stop asking. With N___ it’s refreshing not to be seen as “the American”, but just as a friend. I’ve felt like I needed her help, her connections, and her time. But today intuition tells me she needed my excitement over a simple thing like a haircut. I’m her window to reality in a way. She left her friends in Ashgabat and perhaps even in former lifetimes. I doubt anyone else she knows would express such excitement about a haircut, play music with her, speak English with her, enjoy the company of Andrei, and encourage big hopes for the future all in one day. She went from being rejected by the English Institute here because getting a 2nd degree is not allowed—(Yes, that’s right, folks—restricted education!)—to dreaming of performance opportunities and world travel. In the meantime we work on little things—convincing a father that his 8-year-old son doesn’t need a full size violin even though the small one isn’t very masculine, and finding a bucket to catch the water dripping from the ceiling.
We’ll probably spend the rest of our lives thanking each other, or at least trying to, for just being here. She’ll question how I could spend 2 years working at this music school when I could be somewhere else, and I’ll smile and ask her right back.
She doesn’t need anything from me and rarely asks for favors. This leads to her receiving more from me than anyone else. I say “no” when people ask for English lessons, but N___’s English improves every day we are together. She doesn’t want me to make her workload lighter, but instead she asks me to play concerts on the side and to work together.
Her boyfriend is in Ashgabat where she lived the past seven years while attending school. They can’t marry yet. She owes the government 2 years of work in the school of their choice in exchange for the education. He can’t get a work visa to move to her city because one has to find the job first and there just aren’t any. His name is A___, and he sits patiently whenever we rehearse together. He doesn’t get jealous or selfish with her time even though they see each other on weekends only.
Being from two different worlds can make for foreign feelings, but we have such a great deal in common that she makes me feel at home. I’ve had difficulty understanding why people don’t just leave here. Her presence helps explain this phenomenon. She wants things to improve here and has a startling understanding of the realities of life beyond T-stan. The fact that N___ has never considered moving out of her cute apartment and even farther from her already remote boyfriend makes me trust that there’s something worth saving here. I get frustrated and think of ways out. She gets frustrated and thinks of ways in. She trusts me and my work because she thinks of moving here as crazy. I trust her in return.
Of the many people who want to visit or move to the States, she is one who could actually be successful there. Somehow I feel that she wouldn’t have the culture shock any normal Turkmen would. We giggle about how long the mail takes although she’s never seen faster. She hates the inept piano tuners and longs to start her own music school.
Many people here ask for my help or my company out of greed and need. Many won’t stop asking. With N___ it’s refreshing not to be seen as “the American”, but just as a friend. I’ve felt like I needed her help, her connections, and her time. But today intuition tells me she needed my excitement over a simple thing like a haircut. I’m her window to reality in a way. She left her friends in Ashgabat and perhaps even in former lifetimes. I doubt anyone else she knows would express such excitement about a haircut, play music with her, speak English with her, enjoy the company of Andrei, and encourage big hopes for the future all in one day. She went from being rejected by the English Institute here because getting a 2nd degree is not allowed—(Yes, that’s right, folks—restricted education!)—to dreaming of performance opportunities and world travel. In the meantime we work on little things—convincing a father that his 8-year-old son doesn’t need a full size violin even though the small one isn’t very masculine, and finding a bucket to catch the water dripping from the ceiling.
We’ll probably spend the rest of our lives thanking each other, or at least trying to, for just being here. She’ll question how I could spend 2 years working at this music school when I could be somewhere else, and I’ll smile and ask her right back.
Jan 5, 2005
Essay #15 (New Years in Turkmenistan)
Turkmenistan has economized all its holidays into one conglomerate called New Years. I was too busy celebrating to snap a picture of children in costumes waiting for Santa while we eat a feast, toasting to our health and family, at 12:00 midnight. Yes, our Halloween/Christmas/Thanksgiving/New Years party (and did I mention my sister's birthday is the 30th and my brother's is the 2nd?) was quite a sight. Is it the removal of all religious affiliation that moves it all to New Years, or is it just easier to get together only once a year?
The women began preparing several days ago, putting up decorations and setting up our tree. Santa is called "Father Freeze" here, and he sometimes looks like an old German representation--thin with a blue robe and a staff--while other times he is Santa to a T.
The salads alone took up the whole dinner table and took hours of chopping and mixing. I've never in my life seen two women make a picture-perfect feast absolutely from scratch. Everything was from scratch except the mayonnaise (which is a staple in most dishes). Several meats were cooked. Our Thanksgiving turkey was replaced with crow. Yes, crow. Even the men took part in making grilled shashlik, just like an American dad and his steak. Between vegetable chopping the women prepared for the night one tiny step at a time.
I'm in the kitchen, and before I realize she was gone, Fatima returns with her hair done and makes a cake. An hour later her make-up is in place and she's boiling pelmeni. We set up the meal upstairs with our nicest china, and at this point it's already 9:00 p.m. and I'm wondering when the heck we're going to actually eat.
The 3-year-old has been set up thoroughly for the arrival of Santa, and I wonder which grumbly, lazy man in our family will actually put on a red suit for any cause. The boy gets dressed up in a costume--he is Petrushka--or, to an American, a kind of Joker/Clown-type thing, and he is extremely cute. We sit down to our meal at about 11:15 p.m. and give a toast to our ongoing health and fortune and happiness . . . etc.
The toasts are necessary and always long and involved. The family digs in, and I can't imagine more being packed into one day, when we hear a clatter from downstairs, and my mom arises to see what was the matter! Santa arrives--a woman in a giant red suit with a Santa mask accompanied by a man with a Bayan (accordion, but pretty sounding) and a young girl. We drag Petrushka to see Santa, and after greeting him/her, Petrushka promptly cries. I'd be scared, too, if I thought that mask was a real face! This Santa doesn't just drop off a present. No, he/she comes to the feasting room and leads us in song and dance accompanied by the Bayan.
Petrushka gets used to the weird-looking Santa and has a blast. Even I am caught up in our little circle dance and song. Petrushka gets his present. Santa sits down for a toast and is off. Not a family member at all, as I could have guessed, but a genius entrepreneur! With Halloween over, we concentrate on finishing our meal and pouring champagne for a countdown. Of course to get the real time, we have to turn on the Turkmen station and listen to--guess who--until minus 15 seconds. (With no clock on the screen, we have to watch with rapt attention.) At 12:00 we toast with our champagne, and the kids run to the windows to look out.
Fireworks?!! It turns out that instead of a city-wide display, people merely shoot their own fireworks out the windows of their apartments! I've never liked huge firework shows, but for some reason this is so nice! Without regulations people set off real fireworks. The communal feelings soar, and I am proud to be here in a place where all people do things themselves. We cooked our own meal, all the neighborhood families set off one or two fireworks, and everyone gets to watch. There's a pride in independence that America tries to claim but has never felt. People here survive without help from kitchen gadgets and closet organizers.
After a few strong requests, I got out my violin and played Czardas for everyone, and they all enjoyed it more than I expected--even dad!
We set to opening presents. I had already bought and wrapped little gifts for everyone but felt quite guilty about the price and the fact that they weren't exciting. But it turns out--who knew?!?--that Turkmen are less materialistic than Americans! I gave hot chocolate, knitting needles, a small calculator and ruler set and a loofah. I think I was the big hit. My mom gave some bath supplies and, to me, a cotton dress (here, probably a nightgown) that I love! It cost a dollar here. It was wrapped in a plastic bag. So ended the Christmas holiday!
I walked around the city with my sister Aziza, and we mostly giggled at couples and talked of visiting California. I got to sleep around 3:30 and woke to a Thanksgiving leftover feeding frenzy and a viewing of the video we shot the night before. Hopefully I will get a copy so I can show everyone how convenient our overnight holiday season is!
Happy New Year!
The women began preparing several days ago, putting up decorations and setting up our tree. Santa is called "Father Freeze" here, and he sometimes looks like an old German representation--thin with a blue robe and a staff--while other times he is Santa to a T.
The salads alone took up the whole dinner table and took hours of chopping and mixing. I've never in my life seen two women make a picture-perfect feast absolutely from scratch. Everything was from scratch except the mayonnaise (which is a staple in most dishes). Several meats were cooked. Our Thanksgiving turkey was replaced with crow. Yes, crow. Even the men took part in making grilled shashlik, just like an American dad and his steak. Between vegetable chopping the women prepared for the night one tiny step at a time.
I'm in the kitchen, and before I realize she was gone, Fatima returns with her hair done and makes a cake. An hour later her make-up is in place and she's boiling pelmeni. We set up the meal upstairs with our nicest china, and at this point it's already 9:00 p.m. and I'm wondering when the heck we're going to actually eat.
The 3-year-old has been set up thoroughly for the arrival of Santa, and I wonder which grumbly, lazy man in our family will actually put on a red suit for any cause. The boy gets dressed up in a costume--he is Petrushka--or, to an American, a kind of Joker/Clown-type thing, and he is extremely cute. We sit down to our meal at about 11:15 p.m. and give a toast to our ongoing health and fortune and happiness . . . etc.
The toasts are necessary and always long and involved. The family digs in, and I can't imagine more being packed into one day, when we hear a clatter from downstairs, and my mom arises to see what was the matter! Santa arrives--a woman in a giant red suit with a Santa mask accompanied by a man with a Bayan (accordion, but pretty sounding) and a young girl. We drag Petrushka to see Santa, and after greeting him/her, Petrushka promptly cries. I'd be scared, too, if I thought that mask was a real face! This Santa doesn't just drop off a present. No, he/she comes to the feasting room and leads us in song and dance accompanied by the Bayan.
Petrushka gets used to the weird-looking Santa and has a blast. Even I am caught up in our little circle dance and song. Petrushka gets his present. Santa sits down for a toast and is off. Not a family member at all, as I could have guessed, but a genius entrepreneur! With Halloween over, we concentrate on finishing our meal and pouring champagne for a countdown. Of course to get the real time, we have to turn on the Turkmen station and listen to--guess who--until minus 15 seconds. (With no clock on the screen, we have to watch with rapt attention.) At 12:00 we toast with our champagne, and the kids run to the windows to look out.
Fireworks?!! It turns out that instead of a city-wide display, people merely shoot their own fireworks out the windows of their apartments! I've never liked huge firework shows, but for some reason this is so nice! Without regulations people set off real fireworks. The communal feelings soar, and I am proud to be here in a place where all people do things themselves. We cooked our own meal, all the neighborhood families set off one or two fireworks, and everyone gets to watch. There's a pride in independence that America tries to claim but has never felt. People here survive without help from kitchen gadgets and closet organizers.
After a few strong requests, I got out my violin and played Czardas for everyone, and they all enjoyed it more than I expected--even dad!
We set to opening presents. I had already bought and wrapped little gifts for everyone but felt quite guilty about the price and the fact that they weren't exciting. But it turns out--who knew?!?--that Turkmen are less materialistic than Americans! I gave hot chocolate, knitting needles, a small calculator and ruler set and a loofah. I think I was the big hit. My mom gave some bath supplies and, to me, a cotton dress (here, probably a nightgown) that I love! It cost a dollar here. It was wrapped in a plastic bag. So ended the Christmas holiday!
I walked around the city with my sister Aziza, and we mostly giggled at couples and talked of visiting California. I got to sleep around 3:30 and woke to a Thanksgiving leftover feeding frenzy and a viewing of the video we shot the night before. Hopefully I will get a copy so I can show everyone how convenient our overnight holiday season is!
Happy New Year!
Jan 4, 2005
Essay #14 (The Diet)
"Mom, please! Mom! A cucumber, Mom, please," Aziza pleaded, or rather the pit in her stomach asked her to plead.
"Nope. Not allowed. Aziza, you're 14 years old and you have stretch marks! If we're on this diet, we're not cheating!" her mother fired back as she reached out and lifted the side of Aziza's shirt to reveal the cursed signs of weight-gain. They both giggled and set out to look at what inedidible, saltless, sugarless food they were to have for dinner. The diet plan come through a neighbor who promised they'd lose 12 kilos in 12 days. Their giggles were sucked back in when they read:
Day V:
Breakfast - Black coffee
Lunch - 1 large boiled carrot; 500 g. boiled fish
Dinner - Salad of raw cabbage and oil
The diet was almost bearable, save for the presence of the man of the house, Rustam. He weighs more than both of them together, probably due to his habit of eating mayonnaise straight from the jar with a larger than standard-sized spoon. When his poor, mildly chubby wife gave the candy dish a sidelong glance, he taunted, "Not allowed, Fatima!" as he licked butter and sour cream off his fingers one at a time. She failed to retort that the one who had had a heart attack and simultaneously had managed to swallow a giant bone that lodged itself in his throat, giving him chest pains twice over just two weeks ago, shouldn't really be the one to scold.
Fatima optimistically chopped cabbage and liberally poured oil over both portions. With a smile, she brought them into the living room and presented Aziza with dinner. They both sat, pushing their raw cabbage around their pools of oil, visualizing hot shish-kebabs and borsch.
"Mom, I can't eat this. I can't!" Aziza whined.
"Ooph. Me neither, Sweetie!" Fatima responded as they whimpered and giggled their way to the kitchen to dispose of the whole mess.
"She's too young to be that big," Fatima had argued four long days earlier. "She gets it from her father's side, but she certainly doesn't do anything to prevent it, sitting here all day."
"What do you mean I just sit here all day?!" Aziza shouted from the living room where she was sitting watching TV. "What should I do, run?!"
"Hey, I'll run with you, if you want." I said, hoping I could get some much-needed excercise out of this new leaf.
"Really? You will run? Okay! Let's go!" Aziza complied much faster than I had expected.
With that, we headed out to the heath walk, a 4k path set against the mountains that happens to contain more stairs than the Empire State Building. Agbar, Aziza's 16 year old brother, was happy to drive us with his newly gained privileges. Besides almost killing 8 old ladies and overusing the brakes almost as much as the speakers, he got us there safe and sound. With Aziza's enthusiasm in soprano range (a high Eb on a good day), we began a slow jog. Much to my dismay, that slow jog lasted approximately .13k before my chubby sister couldn't possbly carry herself any farther.
"Kari, please, just rest one minute! Just one minute, I'm so tired . . . so tired!" she once again pleaded, this time from her legs, leaning against the rail as if maimed by some unseen force.
"Aziza, come on. Just walk. We'll power walk. A nice brisk hike. Aziza!... AZIZA!"
The rest of the 4k, needless to say, had continued much the same, though I didn't blame her for not siphoning more energy out of her boiled carrot.
By Day 5 Aziza's enthusiasm was a mellow, warm-toned alto. We ran by day, and she begged for cucumbers by night. Though Fatima relented and let her eat 2 cucumbers and a mandarin after the inedible cabbage went down the garbage disposal, I believe her own softness may have come after I caught her on Day 3 drinking a beer in the closet and on Day 4 eating a chocolate bar while pretending to iron.
Just don't tell Aziza or she'll never finish her boiled egg and fish!
"Nope. Not allowed. Aziza, you're 14 years old and you have stretch marks! If we're on this diet, we're not cheating!" her mother fired back as she reached out and lifted the side of Aziza's shirt to reveal the cursed signs of weight-gain. They both giggled and set out to look at what inedidible, saltless, sugarless food they were to have for dinner. The diet plan come through a neighbor who promised they'd lose 12 kilos in 12 days. Their giggles were sucked back in when they read:
Day V:
Breakfast - Black coffee
Lunch - 1 large boiled carrot; 500 g. boiled fish
Dinner - Salad of raw cabbage and oil
The diet was almost bearable, save for the presence of the man of the house, Rustam. He weighs more than both of them together, probably due to his habit of eating mayonnaise straight from the jar with a larger than standard-sized spoon. When his poor, mildly chubby wife gave the candy dish a sidelong glance, he taunted, "Not allowed, Fatima!" as he licked butter and sour cream off his fingers one at a time. She failed to retort that the one who had had a heart attack and simultaneously had managed to swallow a giant bone that lodged itself in his throat, giving him chest pains twice over just two weeks ago, shouldn't really be the one to scold.
Fatima optimistically chopped cabbage and liberally poured oil over both portions. With a smile, she brought them into the living room and presented Aziza with dinner. They both sat, pushing their raw cabbage around their pools of oil, visualizing hot shish-kebabs and borsch.
"Mom, I can't eat this. I can't!" Aziza whined.
"Ooph. Me neither, Sweetie!" Fatima responded as they whimpered and giggled their way to the kitchen to dispose of the whole mess.
"She's too young to be that big," Fatima had argued four long days earlier. "She gets it from her father's side, but she certainly doesn't do anything to prevent it, sitting here all day."
"What do you mean I just sit here all day?!" Aziza shouted from the living room where she was sitting watching TV. "What should I do, run?!"
"Hey, I'll run with you, if you want." I said, hoping I could get some much-needed excercise out of this new leaf.
"Really? You will run? Okay! Let's go!" Aziza complied much faster than I had expected.
With that, we headed out to the heath walk, a 4k path set against the mountains that happens to contain more stairs than the Empire State Building. Agbar, Aziza's 16 year old brother, was happy to drive us with his newly gained privileges. Besides almost killing 8 old ladies and overusing the brakes almost as much as the speakers, he got us there safe and sound. With Aziza's enthusiasm in soprano range (a high Eb on a good day), we began a slow jog. Much to my dismay, that slow jog lasted approximately .13k before my chubby sister couldn't possbly carry herself any farther.
"Kari, please, just rest one minute! Just one minute, I'm so tired . . . so tired!" she once again pleaded, this time from her legs, leaning against the rail as if maimed by some unseen force.
"Aziza, come on. Just walk. We'll power walk. A nice brisk hike. Aziza!... AZIZA!"
The rest of the 4k, needless to say, had continued much the same, though I didn't blame her for not siphoning more energy out of her boiled carrot.
By Day 5 Aziza's enthusiasm was a mellow, warm-toned alto. We ran by day, and she begged for cucumbers by night. Though Fatima relented and let her eat 2 cucumbers and a mandarin after the inedible cabbage went down the garbage disposal, I believe her own softness may have come after I caught her on Day 3 drinking a beer in the closet and on Day 4 eating a chocolate bar while pretending to iron.
Just don't tell Aziza or she'll never finish her boiled egg and fish!
Jan 3, 2005
Essay #13 (The Theft)
As uninteresting as theft is in most respects, I'd like to recount mine to all my internet viewers.
I was in Gypjak, hugging my little sister and listening to hand-washing instruction this past weekend. My older sister had her wedding ceremony--or ceremonies, as in turns out--and my house was the hot place to be. My little sister was glad to have her American pet back to play with, and I was happy to see friendly faces from the past, even if it is the recent past. The time passed slowly, however, as one toi turned into three. And it took a lot of effort to convince the girls that I don't need to scrub my hands for several minutes in freezing cold water--because I always bring toilet paper--no, no, not a page from a book--and my hands rarely get as dirty as yours evidently do.
By the last morning I am set to go, doing a last check around the house. Unfortunately as I look in my wallet for my passport (Don't leave home without it!), I find my 200,000 manat missing. I rifle through my bag thinking, " Could I have put it elsewhere?" My mother, seeing my distress, hands me a foreign comb and asks, "Is this it?". I quickly check for other missing things as the tears well up in my eyes. My mom looks confused, and I tell her my money is gone. She tells me not to cry but also exclaims, "Weee" at how much. It comes to about $8, but I need it for the taxi home. Meanwhile the discussion of "Who would do that?" and "Well, her bag was open on the floor, no wonder," comes at me in partailly intelligable phrases and as if there were a locked area anywhere in the house. I can't imagine what I'd have done if either my Ipod or my camera (both in the bag) had gone missing, but it might have included swearing in English and making numerous false accusations.
My mom gave a precious 200,000 manat to the still-crying-out-of-shame rich American without batting an eye. I deduced that the thief was probably someone we know well since our guests were close friends who know I'd have money and also who would be unable to use possessions which would be obviously mine. Either it was that, or it was the famed "Narco-man" who got blamed again. Narcomen are heroin users, and they get universal blame for petty theft. At any rate, I made it back safe and sound and am planning to give my family something in thanks the next time I visit.
I was in Gypjak, hugging my little sister and listening to hand-washing instruction this past weekend. My older sister had her wedding ceremony--or ceremonies, as in turns out--and my house was the hot place to be. My little sister was glad to have her American pet back to play with, and I was happy to see friendly faces from the past, even if it is the recent past. The time passed slowly, however, as one toi turned into three. And it took a lot of effort to convince the girls that I don't need to scrub my hands for several minutes in freezing cold water--because I always bring toilet paper--no, no, not a page from a book--and my hands rarely get as dirty as yours evidently do.
By the last morning I am set to go, doing a last check around the house. Unfortunately as I look in my wallet for my passport (Don't leave home without it!), I find my 200,000 manat missing. I rifle through my bag thinking, " Could I have put it elsewhere?" My mother, seeing my distress, hands me a foreign comb and asks, "Is this it?". I quickly check for other missing things as the tears well up in my eyes. My mom looks confused, and I tell her my money is gone. She tells me not to cry but also exclaims, "Weee" at how much. It comes to about $8, but I need it for the taxi home. Meanwhile the discussion of "Who would do that?" and "Well, her bag was open on the floor, no wonder," comes at me in partailly intelligable phrases and as if there were a locked area anywhere in the house. I can't imagine what I'd have done if either my Ipod or my camera (both in the bag) had gone missing, but it might have included swearing in English and making numerous false accusations.
My mom gave a precious 200,000 manat to the still-crying-out-of-shame rich American without batting an eye. I deduced that the thief was probably someone we know well since our guests were close friends who know I'd have money and also who would be unable to use possessions which would be obviously mine. Either it was that, or it was the famed "Narco-man" who got blamed again. Narcomen are heroin users, and they get universal blame for petty theft. At any rate, I made it back safe and sound and am planning to give my family something in thanks the next time I visit.
Jan 2, 2005
Essay #12 (The 5th Grade Presentation I Never Did: Turkmenistan)
Turkmenistan is a desert country situated east of the Caspian sea, north of Iran and south of Kazakstan and Uzbekistan. The capitol city of Ashgabat is close to Iran in the central south. There are few roads connecting the cities, but there is a paved road (sometimes only one usable lane) to Nebitdag, now renamed Balkanabat. On the way to Nebitdag one travels past roaming herds of camel, goat, cow, and sheep. There is also an above ground pipe that holds the water to the west. Someone once said that if you drive past a lake on the way to Nebitdag, you shouldn't expect a shower when you get there!
Trains run east to west overnight, and several of the large cities have airports. Nebitdag has approximately 110,000 people, and the country has 4.5 million. Though we assume the figures are correct, there would/could never be a census here. We also assume the numbers are fudged a bit by the government. The country is declared Muslim, but religion doesn't permeate life beyond the village. Many new mosques and government buildings are built yearly with (we figure) money from oil. Our velayat (like a state) is rich in oil, and we have an open contract with Russia giving us a great deal of money now, but many understand that it won't last forever. So we have many beautiful new "gifts from T____ the Great" to his people. There are taxes on business but not for regular citizens. The weather is like southern Indiana but with little precipitation. I won't miss it! The summers will be hot as heck, because of the desert climate. It really does look like a desert, especially out of town. For the most part, people own TVs and other conveniences. Cars are little needed because of the gypsy taxi system (which I adore).
The government is run on a purely micromanaged basis. All orders come directly from one person. Hakims are the local representatives. Most everything here works on a system of bribes. Colleges (and jobs for that matter) are techically free, but you have to have both connections as well as about $2000 given to the right person to enter. The education system runs 9 years. Just a few years back the 10th year was removed. College is supposedly 4 years, but I think it's more like 3. Army is not mandatory--for those that can finagle a way out (the draft to Vietnam?). But most go. The army is reportedly 2 years of fights, rough language, starvation, menial labor, and missing one's family. Some of the problems wth men here, I believe, may start in those two formative years. Marriage age is normally about 20-25, and most girls marry boys their own age. Many have large families here, but not overwhelming. 5 children is a bit above average. Literacy is officially 90-some percent, though I haven't met many who can read either Turkmen or Russian. The alphabet was changed from a modified cyrillic to a modified Latin alphabet in about 1995. Those out of school can't read Turkmen well, and Russian is not used officially enough to lean on. I believe literacy in the new alphabet is extremely low. Often young children read things to their parents.
Cotton is big here. The citizens as a whole are responsible for picking cotton during fall. Most is exported. The schools shut down, and older kids are bussed out to sites to pick. Many local leaders lose their jobs over low cotton numbers.
Turkmenistan wasn't ready to be on its own as we have very little production from start to finish. The economy is weak and we can't afford to import quality goods. We were the last country to leave the USSR after its collapse. We are, however, EXTREMELY, and I mean EXTREMELY proud of our independence. We are also neutral and quite proud of that as well. The people here feel safe from war in our neutral country and are therefore hesitant to critcize. Many Turkmen have said they thank Allah they were born here instead of, say, Afghanistan or any other nearby country that's had upsets. Turkmenistan is said to be a country to watch in the upcoming news. We are the only place left on earth with our unique problems and situation.
Trains run east to west overnight, and several of the large cities have airports. Nebitdag has approximately 110,000 people, and the country has 4.5 million. Though we assume the figures are correct, there would/could never be a census here. We also assume the numbers are fudged a bit by the government. The country is declared Muslim, but religion doesn't permeate life beyond the village. Many new mosques and government buildings are built yearly with (we figure) money from oil. Our velayat (like a state) is rich in oil, and we have an open contract with Russia giving us a great deal of money now, but many understand that it won't last forever. So we have many beautiful new "gifts from T____ the Great" to his people. There are taxes on business but not for regular citizens. The weather is like southern Indiana but with little precipitation. I won't miss it! The summers will be hot as heck, because of the desert climate. It really does look like a desert, especially out of town. For the most part, people own TVs and other conveniences. Cars are little needed because of the gypsy taxi system (which I adore).
The government is run on a purely micromanaged basis. All orders come directly from one person. Hakims are the local representatives. Most everything here works on a system of bribes. Colleges (and jobs for that matter) are techically free, but you have to have both connections as well as about $2000 given to the right person to enter. The education system runs 9 years. Just a few years back the 10th year was removed. College is supposedly 4 years, but I think it's more like 3. Army is not mandatory--for those that can finagle a way out (the draft to Vietnam?). But most go. The army is reportedly 2 years of fights, rough language, starvation, menial labor, and missing one's family. Some of the problems wth men here, I believe, may start in those two formative years. Marriage age is normally about 20-25, and most girls marry boys their own age. Many have large families here, but not overwhelming. 5 children is a bit above average. Literacy is officially 90-some percent, though I haven't met many who can read either Turkmen or Russian. The alphabet was changed from a modified cyrillic to a modified Latin alphabet in about 1995. Those out of school can't read Turkmen well, and Russian is not used officially enough to lean on. I believe literacy in the new alphabet is extremely low. Often young children read things to their parents.
Cotton is big here. The citizens as a whole are responsible for picking cotton during fall. Most is exported. The schools shut down, and older kids are bussed out to sites to pick. Many local leaders lose their jobs over low cotton numbers.
Turkmenistan wasn't ready to be on its own as we have very little production from start to finish. The economy is weak and we can't afford to import quality goods. We were the last country to leave the USSR after its collapse. We are, however, EXTREMELY, and I mean EXTREMELY proud of our independence. We are also neutral and quite proud of that as well. The people here feel safe from war in our neutral country and are therefore hesitant to critcize. Many Turkmen have said they thank Allah they were born here instead of, say, Afghanistan or any other nearby country that's had upsets. Turkmenistan is said to be a country to watch in the upcoming news. We are the only place left on earth with our unique problems and situation.
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