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!
Apr 9, 2005
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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