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.
Apr 29, 2005
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.
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