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.
Feb 25, 2005
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.
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