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
Jun 3, 2005
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.
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