Baby, you can drive my car...

I’ve been dreaming a lot lately. Most of my dreams, for some reason, have involved driving a car. Driving down the frontage road of I-25 in Albuquerque, wondering what I want to eat for dinner. Hugging the curves of a country road, wind in my hair, music playing. Just driving. I have always loved to drive. Sometimes, in my previous life, I used to fill up the tank, grab some snacks and water and just hit the road for hours on end. My favorite getaway used to be to find new roads I’d never been on before and just go see what was there.

I think I’m having these dreams because it’s been seven months now since I’ve driven a car. Seven months. It seems like an eternity. But while you’re in the Peace Corps, one of the fastest and surest ways to get asked to leave the program is to drive a vehicle. Vehicles include cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, basically anything motorized. And it’s so frustrating! I’ve had a driver’s license for 33 years. In fact, I still have it. Mostly because the last one I got, I actually like the photo on it, so it’s like a little triumph on its own. (Hey…don’t judge….in 33 years I’ve only had three drivers’ licenses with decent photos)

Here in Azerbaijan, I’ve been adjusting to not being able to drive. I take buses and taxis and, for the first four months at site, have had a driver to take me to and from work. Having a driver was not my choice. Because I have been living nearly four kilometers from the office (a 35-40 minute walk), they felt it unsuitable for me to be walking. And I must admit, during the heat of the summer, I was downright grateful. A little embarrassed (this is the Peace Corps, after all), but hey, it’s a cultural thing in Azerbaijan. Women, for the most part, just don’t drive here. In fact, they don’t even sit in the front seat of the car. But having a driver has just felt really weird. Like I really WAS Beyoncé. I tried to make myself feel better, tried to justify it as providing employment opportunities. But then I felt guilty again, because my driver didn’t actually live in my town; he stayed here all week just to be my driver, then went home to his family on the weekends. I have tried to ease my awkwardness by commiserating with him, expostulating at all of the other idiot drivers who are just completely inconsiderate and uncooperative. I know how he feels. But sometimes, I’m awfully glad it’s him behind the wheel and not me. Because driving here is an art.

Most roads here have no markings. The only place where they do, really, is in the capital of Baku, but that’s not where the volunteers live. Out here in the rayons (regions….think states, if you’re familiar with the US) markings are few and far between. Potholes, on the other hand, make up for the scarcity of markings. Because potholes and just bad road surfaces in general, well, that’s the norm. Even on the major cross-country highway which goes from one end of the country to the other…no markings, lots of potholes. The drivers just go along at 80, 90, 100 km/hour and slow to a crawl for each pothole. It’s crazy. I know, I know, they’re protecting their vehicle’s suspension, etc. But the roads are so bad it takes forever to get anywhere.

If it’s not potholes, it’s cows. Or sheep. I know what you’re thinking….how quaint! And it IS quaint on a small country road. Picturesque. Bucolic. All those great words. But on the major highway? Yes, even on that major cross-country highway there will be herds of cows and sheep being moved to pasture just wandering down the side of the road. Not on the shoulder, necessarily….sometimes they take up one of the two lanes. And everyone’s perfectly unconcerned. Because that’s how things roll in the ‘baijan. It’s cool. Chill.

I think I’ve seen some speed limit signs, too. They’re apparently just suggestions, but they’re there. And sometimes the yol patrul (traffic police) are out there, waving speeders over and presumably giving them tickets. I haven’t actually seen anyone receive a ticket, but I’ve heard rumors. So it’s fun to be in a car here, and it’s always an adventure.

Speed limits are suggestions, no road markings (for the most part, anyway), sheep, and, oh, have I mentioned other drivers? I say driving here is an art and I mean it. Because there’s an art to knowing exactly where the corners of your vehicle are, exactly how wide and long it is. And there’s an art to judging whether the space between those two cars hurtling along at 100 km/hr will actually be large enough to fit your vehicle, because you have a few seconds to decide before the oncoming truck flattens you. And the drivers let you in!! Drivers here are, in some ways, much more patient than in other countries. If someone’s passing you and cuts into the two meters between you and the car in front, it’s okay. Problem yoxdur! No horns, no gestures, no yelling, no problem. I think this is mainly karma at work. Because, inevitably, you’re going to do the same thing to someone else, and you wouldn’t want them treating you like that, would you? So you’re patient. Good to go.

Something else which is different than in the US is the sheer numbers of people in cars. I don’t mean the numbers of cars on the roads. I mean the numbers of bodies in a car. For the most part, if there are members of both sexes in a car, men will sit in front, women in back. Even if it’s just you and the driver, if you’re female, in the back you go. So if there are, say, three or four men and one or two women, normal seating would be three men in the front (if there’s a bench seat) and everyone else in the back. I told someone once that you just don’t see that often in the US…if there were so many people that men would need to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, well, they’d just take two cars. Our men don’t tend to get so cozy. Also, if you are taking a taxi, the general rule is three bodies in the back seat or the driver doesn’t go anywhere. You have to convince them and then pay extra for them to go. If you have five or even six people in your group and want to take a taxi, no worries….one or two in the front passenger seat, everyone else crams in the back. I can tell you that, for someone with even mild claustrophobia, this is enough to challenge your reserves of self-control. But at least when you’re crammed in like that, the lack of seat belts isn’t such an issue. Because seat belts here, especially in the backs of cars, well, they technically exist, but they’re usually not visible. Or functional. Once or twice I’ve been privileged enough to sit in the front seat and was questioned as to why I immediately fastened my seat belt. To be safe, I replied.

You know. Because of the sheep.

Adventures in house hunting

After five months of living beneath someone else’s roof, this following sixteen years of living either on my own or with immediate family members, I’m frothing at the bit for a chance to live once again by myself. In Azerbaijan, this is a very unusual situation. Very uncommon. Here, it’s normal for several generations and extended families to live under the same roof, often sleeping in the same room. I’m told it’s especially common to sleep all in one room in the winter, since they tend to only heat one room of the house. But I’m willing to be viewed as The Weird American, if only for the chance to live by myself.

Don’t get me wrong….there have been no problems living with host families. Problem yoxdur! I have always been comfortable with solitude, though, and feel myself chafing because, though I take advantage of the ability to close my bedroom door, I feel a twinge of guilt as I do so, and it irks me that I should have to feel guilty about wanting to be alone. There are some definite things I will miss, for sure, such as someone worrying about whether I need another blanket because the nights are turning colder. But the lure of living alone is difficult to resist.

Initially, I let my counterpart at work know I wanted to find my own place, so she informed some of the other people at work in hopes they would be helpful in finding a rental house. Alarm set in, though, when someone from the Baku office came and said to me, “I hear you want to move out and that there are problems where you’re living now.” WHAT?? “YOX! Problem YOXDUR!!” I explained emphatically that there are no problems and that I lived alone for so many years and grew to really enjoy it. Also alarming is the fact that the people in the Baku office were apparently discussing my situation without having spoken with me about it, and you know what happens when rumors spread….how they grow….I was in a near panic, worried that my host family here would hear through the grapevine that I am unhappy with them and their hospitality. I had to tell them. Now.

But how to do this without offending them? My language skills are still very basic. I got some help from the head of the language and cultural integration department of the PC office in Baku. But even if I memorized the phrases they sent, if my family started asking questions, I would probably end up fumbling around and who knows what unintentional impressions I might make. Or, if I didn’t memorize the phrases, I’d have to end up reading them off of a piece of paper, which would make me just the most pathetic person ever. I was nervous and quiet and pretty miserable, and finally I asked my counterpart from work if she would help me break the news. And that’s exactly what happened; she came and had a conversation with my host mom and everything has been hunky-dory since.

One of the men at work found out quickly that there is a vacant house near the center of town. The family apparently moved to Baku and some work was being done on the house, but it sounded great. However, either contact with the family was made and they don’t want to rent it, or contact was never made, or, well I don’t know. I just never heard anything more, even after asking.

We’ve had a bit of an “Indian summer” this week, with temps in the upper 60s, so I’ve been taking advantage of it and going for walks in the afternoons. On yesterday’s walk, I decided to see how my luck is working these days, and went house hunting on my own. I left the office and strolled toward the center of town, hoping to find something within walking distance of both work and a decent-sized grocery store. On a whim, I turned down a side street and started turning wherever it felt ‘right.’ I crossed the Tərtər Çay (Terter River), which is about two or three meters across at this point, and took a likely left.

About 50 meters down this side road, I see a very lost and distraught pışik (cat) coming toward me, tail straight up in the air and mewing plaintively every five or six steps. This little baby couldn’t be more than six weeks old and hasn’t had regular meals, from what I could tell. It didn’t avoid me, which told me it was truly desperate, so I stopped to pet it and offer what comfort I could. I spent several minutes there, crouched down, petting this kitten. This, naturally, drew the curiosity of a couple of boys headed home from school. I said, “Salam,” to them and, receiving no response, tried, “Hello,” to the same stony stares, so I returned my attention to the sweet baby at my foot, who had taken the opportunity afforded by my standing up to explore beneath my skirt. I happened to glance down the road and see a large cat. Hoping it to be the kitten’s mother, I picked it up and tried to get near the cat before it disappeared. Naturally, it went over a wall. But I put the kitten down in hopes it wouldn’t wander off again.

At this point, a young man of about 22 came out of his gate and was staring at me. I tried to show that I was enamored with this helpless kitten, but he just shook his head. Crazy foreigner. I went further down the road on my hunting expedition and came across a small flock of pullets which, amazingly, came to me when I stopped and beckoned to them. Until they realized I had no food, that is, at which point they made a beeline right back to the gate from which they’d escaped. I decided to head back to work but once I’d made it back to where I’d left the kitten, some young girls came around the corner. I greeted them and, lo and behold, they greeted me back! So I took a chance and told them I was from America and that I’m looking for an available house nearby. This drew the young man into the conversation, as well as his buddy who’d shown up in the meanwhile. “Hello, what is your name?” he asked. I told him in Azeri and we spoke back and forth for a bit, and the girls told him I was looking for a house. The guys seemed to know who to ask!

So the three of us headed back out toward the main road, chatting in Azeri as we went. At one point, the friend stopped and knocked at a gate and spoke with a young woman there. She seemed to refer him to someone else, so we headed back the way we came. He had asked about the house next door to hers, which he believes to be empty. But as we were strolling, he started asking me questions with words I didn’t recognize, so I told him, “I don’t understand,” and he got frustrated. He was asking questions about pul (money), and I wanted to know what he was saying, so I asked him to wait a sec and called my counterpart, asking her to speak with him. She told me later that he asked her WHY she had allowed me to go out by myself (SERIOUSLY??) and said that nobody would rent a house to me because I couldn’t speak Azeri. She told him that I CAN speak it, but that I don’t have a large vocabulary yet. Apparently, that made no difference in his eyes. (This is absolutely one of the most frustrating things I’m discovering about living in a foreign country….the assumption that, if you don’t speak the language with some fluency, you’re somehow stupid or inexperienced. This might have been a bit easier to swallow at 25 than it is at 50.) Now, he may have meant people wouldn’t want to negotiate a contract with me if I didn’t have more advanced language skills, but somehow I don’t think so.

I told the guys that I needed to get back to work, so we turned back toward the main road. I was beat. Hot, wearing too many layers for the day, mentally drained from retrieving language, interpreting meaning, gestures and tone of voice….I headed back to work with a sigh of relief. Before we parted, they were asking me about my parents for some reason. Apparently, I’m not ready to live on my own.

The Color of Water

I feel for you, you people in the first-world countries. I feel for you having to worry about your cars and the price of gas. For dealing with the lines at your big-box stores, your grocery stores with way too many choices of brands and flavors and always-available produce. I feel for you with your washing machines and dryers, with your endless loads of laundry.

I just did my laundry. I no longer have a machine to help, so doing laundry now means, well, actually doing it. As in getting a bucket of water and putting it to heat on the stove, then getting a big bowl, guesstimating how much is the right amount of powdered detergent to use, putting the now-hot water in the bowl (careful! That bucket’s handle is now hot, too!) and adding enough cold water to not scald your hands. (Or, as I usually do, just use cold water. But it’s getting colder out these days, so the warm is lovely.) Then sploosh your clothes into the bowl and leave them to soak for a bit.

This is where things are more like they are with a machine; this is where naps and reading and food come in.

Now go back to your bowl-o-clothes and try not to be so concerned when you see how gray the water is. It’s gross. Maybe your first-world clothes get this dirty, too, but we’ll never really know because you don’t stop your washer and take a peek while your laundry’s running, do you? Do it sometime. It’s crazy. And this is just from soaking your clothes.

Back in my previous life when I hand-washed something like, oh, a sweater, it involved filling the bathroom sink with cold water and pouring in a cap of Woolite, then letting my clothes soak. Maybe swish them around, squeeze the water through them, whatever. It was dainty. And kind of fun.

These days, once my clothes have soaked, I take a bar of laundry soap and rub my clothes with it, then scrub the cloth against itself. Sometimes this entails a little knuckle-to-knuckle action, which can hurt after about five minutes. But the water just gets worse and worse. So I drain the water and add more to either finish washing or to rinse. Wring the clothes(which is NO fun with big things like sheets, let me tell you, since so much of the water will inevitably run down your arms into your armpits as you try to keep the sheet from hitting the ground), hang to dry and hope it’s not rainy/dreary/cold so your clothes will dry sooner than in a few days. (When it is, I’ve learned to take them in when they’re damp and drape them over chairs in my room to finish drying.) Also, hope nobody nearby decides to burn trash that day or, if they do, that the smoke doesn’t drift pleasingly through your yard. If it does, prepare for your clothes to end up smelling like pot (seriously).

So yes, you first-world-country people, I feel sorry for you. For you have no idea how truly dirty your clothes are. Go back to your washing machines, your dryers, your (gasp!) fabric softener and dryer sheets. Yes, go back to your moisture-sensing dryers which notify you when your clothes are just barely soft-and-fluffy dry and not all-the-way-scratchy dry.

And hopefully in about two years I’ll join you.

Toy time

It’s 10:30am on a Sunday. Things are nice and calm, nice and quiet, just as they would have been at home in Albuquerque. There, I would have spent a leisurely morning watching, “Sunday Morning,” “This Week,” and maybe “The Victory Garden” on the telly, whilst eating, oh, let’s say fried potatoes and onions, an egg over-easy, warm tortillas and salsa. Comfy couch, sunshine streaming in the French doors…just a normal, relaxed Sunday with nothing on the agenda. Kind of the same as here.

But what’s this? A text? It’s my counterpart, saying we’ve been invited to a toy (a wedding) at one o’clock and do I want to go.

Not really, I reply, but I think I should.

I know that sounds kind of flippant, but I said it based on experience combined with confirmative knowledge acquired from my fellow volunteers in Azerbaijan. Because toys are all the same. The music is the same, the atmosphere is the same, the food….we’re actually beginning to wonder if the people aren’t all the same, too. (just kidding on that last bit. I think.)

So we go to the toy, which is held in a big wedding palace on the edge of town by the big traffic circle. The parking area is packed with cars all helter-skelter. The building is also packed….I only see about ten empty chairs in the whole place. Pretty sure there were upwards of three hundred attendees. Yet my counterpart, who has lived in this town of approximately 15,000 people all her life, doesn’t know anyone but me. Which is fine….at least we have each other, I say. But 300 people on a hot, hot August day in a room with basically no air circulation, jammed together all perfumed-up…it got to me. I needed something to drink badly before I passed out. We asked for water, which they didn’t seem to have. So I made my way outside, where, with help, I located the outdoor sink for hand washing. The water was delightfully cold, and I ran it over my wrists for a few seconds, as the local people accompanying me looked a little embarrassed. Then I had to go back in.

Wedding behavior is different here. The ceremony doesn’t take place at the toy; the toy is more of a huge, lavish reception which can last up to ten hours. Loud music from a live band, lots and lots of food served in an endless cycle, only the men get liquor (and it flows rather freely on their side of the room). There is dancing….first the older men, then women (not usually both together), then the young men who get quite ambitious and athletic. It’s funny, though. At the end of each song, the music just stops. Nobody applauds. Nothing. It just….stops. And the women never look like they’re enjoying themselves. The men get all exuberant and into their dancing. The women just, well, dance. No expression on their faces, pretty much as little movement as possible, with the exception of incredibly graceful hand gestures which I have tried and tried and failed to master. We didn’t dance.

The other women seated at our table were nice. We exchanged quite a few nods and tentative smiles back and forth. There weren’t any disapproving stares (my hair is terribly, terribly short for this country) or glares or anything. How refreshing! Then the girl seated across from me asked my counterpart if she could talk with me, and she came around to take the empty chair to my right.

Man, but that music was loud! So loud I could barely hear this lovely 20-year-old as she practiced her English and asked me questions in Azeri (which, unfortunately, I kept having her repeat). We talked about me coming to her country and where I lived in the States (they ALWAYS ask which state….I think they’re baffled when I say New Mexico; it would be much easier if I said New York or California) and what I think of Azerbaijan and how many children I have and what they do and whether they’re married. And then, there’s that darned question: “Do you like your son better or your daughter?”

Sigh.

But one thing she said…she thinks Americans are very nice and kind. I did ask how many Americans she has met other than me. And we did have a good laugh together.

Sophie's Choice

I am learning in Azerbaijan! Not just the language, because that’s coming along slooowly and questionably. But I’m learning other things, too. Like how to keep your clothes out of the way when using a squat toilet (I’ve gotten darned good at that). How to never assume I’m welcome in the front of a car, ever. How to buy water and cheese and is that oregano? Because I’ve only ever seen oregano in a jar. But the main things I’m learning in Azerbaijan are 1) they LOVE to compare things, and 2) not to take offense when they do.

You’re not so fat. (why, thank you)

That other volunteer I knew had much better Azerbaijani than you. (just go ahead and get used to this one)

Which is better: Azerbaijan or America? (stock answer: they’re just different)

How much is a kilo of apples in America? (well, which month? Which kind of apples? Where?) How much do they cost in winter? In summer? (we pretty much have the same fruit all year round there)

Are our bazaars more expensive than yours in America? (we kind of don’t have bazaars; we have enormous stores instead)

How much is electricity in America? (uhhh….)

How much does five liters of gasoline cost in America? (hmmm…well, what time of year? Winter or summer? Which state? Because in California it’s about a dollar 25 for one liter, but in Albuquerque one liter is about 85 cents. Our government doesn’t set the gas prices in America.)

Do you like the food better here or in America? (well, in America we have a big variety…here, not so much)

Do your children like you or their father better? (huh??)

Do you like your son or your daughter better? (what the heck??)

That last one, which I call the Sophie’s Choice question, gets under my skin. I mean, seriously. Are they expecting me to blurt something out? Raise my eyes to the ceiling, thoughtfully put my finger beside my mouth and evaluate the pros and cons of each child? Am I supposed to gush and pick one of my kids over the other?

So I asked someone….do you choose between your children in Azerbaijan? Oh no, they said, grimacing at the thought.

So why are you asking me, then?

I have a new theory. I’m being tested. To see what I’ll say, see how I’ll react. The whole, “I’m not touching yooouuuuuu,”thing. I’m foreign. They’re seeing how uncomfortable they can make me.

You know. Just for funsies.

Aye Aye, Cap'n!

It’s been a rough week. Or maybe two. Nothing in particular has happened to make it rough, really. I’m just going through a down period. A blah period. A severe absence of motivation period. I’ve been reading (and speaking) too much English and not enough Azeri lately, causing my already limited language skills to be even more stunted. So I’m getting more intimidated, and it feels kind of like water must feel when it’s spiraling the drain. I know I should be speaking and studying more, but….meh.

I also need to exercise. The most exercise I’ve gotten lately is on Sunday mornings, when I can usually find time to go for a walk for an hour or so. Before I left the States, I was going to Zumba classes three times a week. I had dreams, before I left the States, visions of myself starting Zumba classes in Azerbaijan, wondering if I’d be able to convince the girls here to shake it and get crazy. I convinced my American Zumba instructor to let me borrow some of her music, and I actually HAVE, like, hours and hours and hours of pop and latin and world music on my MP3 player. Heck…I bought an MP3 player (yes, I’m years behind the times, thank you) and speakers so I could do these classes in Azerbaijan! And hopefully, I will. Someday. But right now? Meh.

I miss home. I miss my family. I miss driving my car and my scooter, neither of which I even own now. I miss my cats. I miss the freedom to go to the movies or out to a solo dinner or for a hike. I miss wearing short dresses. I miss being understood and understanding others with no effort. I miss bacon and pulled pork sammiches and Jif and spinach salads with feta cheese (not all together). I miss a lot of things. And sometimes, you know, it gets to me.

So today, when I was leaving work for lunch, the driver had a box which he was showing to my counterpart. He was showing her the mailing label on the package, wondering who would be sending a package to our office, and she pointed to the name on it…

It said “Leigh Maddox!!!!!!” (well, without the punctuation. That’s from me.)

Someone sent me a care package! I couldn’t believe it…the timing of this was impeccable! How does that WORK?! I mean, seriously. There have been periods of my life where I was so low on money I was unable to buy my kids a 25-cent pack of gum, and poof! Like magic, a refund check from the insurance company or a “just because” check from my mom would show up in the mail. Times where you wonder how you’re going to make it, and suddenly, what you need most appears at your door. That’s how I feel right now. Humbled and relieved and incredibly, unbelievably thankful.

My counterpart hasn’t yet asked me what was in the package, and for that I’m also thankful. Because how on earth do you explain Cap’n Crunch? How do you explain Jell-O? Or graham cracker crumbs and pie pans? Spices and tee-shirts and some new-fangled-towel-cooler-thing? But the best part? The best part was the hand-written letter. Not typed, but an old-fashioned pen-on-paper loopy-letter-handwriting kind of letter. Because not only did my friend spend all kinds of money on the spices and the shirts and the Jell-O (J-e-l-l-O), and an EXHORBITANT amount of money on the shipping (I’m so sorry!!!!!), but she took the time to sit down and write an actual letter. That was definitely the best part.

Though the Cap’n Crunch was a close, close second.

Channeling that inner little boy

This evening after work, my host sister was preparing some fruit for drying. She had this big bowl with what look like little bitty plums soaking in water, and a cookie sheet with the finished cut and seeded fruit. I asked if I could help, knowing she really doesn’t like doing stuff like that, grabbed a knife and sat down. It’s summer here right now, and it’s darned hot. Though we have mountains just west of town, we’re apparently in the drought shadow. Those of you reading this in Albuquerque can probably understand this concept….depending on where you live in town, you either get rain or you don’t. Proximity to the local mountains matters. At any rate, here in my little town in Azerbaijan, we’re apparently in the “no rain” part. I read Facebook posts all the time of friends located near me who say it’s raining where they are, while I can only look wistfully at the occasional cloud scurrying away.

So we’re sitting there, halving fruit and putting it on the cookie sheet, and she asks her niece what time it is. Three hours and twenty minutes, she sighs….three hours and twenty minutes, not before she can eat…..three hours and twenty minutes before she can even have any water. During the holy month of Ramadan, the faithful who choose to fast are not allowed to eat or drink anything from about 5 in the morning until a certain amount of time after the sun sets. No tea, no bread, no water. I don’t know how she does it. Because it’s HOT and these darned summer days are LONG. And as we’re sitting there, preparing fruit, I try to get across a little empathy to her, to let her know I realize how difficult it is for her. Which, inevitably brings on one of Those Discussions.

Sən Kətoliksən?

No, I’m not Catholic, I reply.

Well, what are you?

Oh crap. This is difficult to explain to people in English and I sure as heck don’t know how to do it in Azeri.

So through lots and lots of gestures and mixed English and Azeri, I think (THINK) I get across that I think her belief in Islam is great for her, and that I believe in the energy of the Earth and connecting my internal energy with that source. At times I was trying to channel my internal little boy….you know him….the kid who can make those awesome noises with his mouth….the blowing-up noises and car noises and stuff. So I’m miming the Earth pulsing with energy (insert little boy noise here) and then gesture to myself and mime the same energy coming from me (insert same noise) and joining with the other, previously-existing energy. I can only imagine how hard she was laughing inside, but she was gracious enough not to do it to my face. Or maybe that expression of hers could be better read as semi-bewilderment. But at the end of it all, I think she actually understood.

I didn’t see her make any ‘hook-em-horns’ signs against evil, anyway.

And the fruit got processed and her burden lessened, which was basically the whole point of it to begin with. Minor awkwardnesses and increased miming skills notwithstanding.

Light

It's funny....I've always noticed the light in landscapes. I'm not sure I've always noticed it in people. Not consciously, anyway. But there are some....some people I've met recently who really resonate with me and when I've thought of them, when I think of them, there's always a glow about them. I don't know if it's their aura or energy field or what to call it, but it's there, coming from within. The magic most often happens when our eyes make contact. It's like the energy from me reaches out to the energy coming from them and connects, making one big blob, one big field of energy. It's an amazing feeling. I think that's what I'm missing when I'm alone, away from them. I'm missing their energy. And their eyes.

Animal, vegetable or mineral?

I get stared at in Azerbaijan. A lot. I know my coloring is a little different than the majority of the population. As are my build and facial features. And my hair is WAY short for this country’s female population. I didn’t come to this country thinking I was going to fit in, by any means. In the first city, my training city, the population is about 200,000. Historically, it has always been a city of immigrants. But I got stared at there a LOT. I mean, people stopping in the street just to watch you in disbelief kind of staring. You know, like you have three arms or an extra head kind of staring. Heck…I even had some guy follow me in his car, talking trash to me out of his window toward the end of my second month. I ignored him and was relieved when he turned a corner and drove off, but much to my dismay, he whipped around, came back, and blocked my path with his car. At that point I pulled out my phone and pretended to dial. He got the hint and left me shaking in my boots, so to speak.

When I moved to my permanent site out here in a town of, oh, 10-15,000, I actually didn’t get stared at as much, which shocked me. Women here in my new town (some of them) wear their hair shorter. And If I can use my host family members as examples, they seem more confident and self-assured here. I do still get stared at, but here it’s a little more understandable. It’s no less uncomfortable, mind, but it’s pretty unusual for foreigners to be out here in the territories, speaking English of all things. (Many people in my new town speak Russian, and presume I speak it, also. They are sadly mistaken.)

So, yeah. I still get stared at. But it’s not usually malicious any more. Just curious. Still uncomfortable, though. I have taken to wearing my big, huge sunglasses when I walk through town and pretending I’m Beyonce and the people staring just more of my adoring fans. I use this fantasy to keep myself sane and to try to keep a sense of humor about it all. Because if I don’t maintain that sense of humor, I’m afraid of what could happen.

We have had an out-of-town visitor this week, someone who speaks a bit of English and with whom I have occasionally spoken at length as we try each other’s language. But 24-7 togetherness isn’t what I was made for, and I treasure my solitude sometimes, retreating into my e-reader or online. So I’m sitting in the kitchen this morning with a little bit of time before I head into the office, and she asks me if I can help hull some raspberries. (We buy raspberries literally by the bucket here. It’s phenomenal. We pay about $6.50 a bucket, which is probably 20 half-pints…price them at your local store and be in awe.) So we’re hulling berries, me keeping an eye on the clock, and in conversation she mentions that I accompanied my host mom to the bazaar this morning.

“I want go bazaar with you. We go, yes? Interesting for me.”

Quizzical look.

She grins. “People look you, yes?”

“Yes, people look at me a lot. They stare.”

“Yes! We go together. Interesting me see people look at you.” She thinks it’s a game.

“I am not a toy,” I say. “Çox narahatdır,” I say. It’s very uncomfortable. “Mən xoşlamıram.” I don’t like it. She’s still grinning at the thought of accompanying me, watching people stare at me. Like I’m not real. Like I have no feelings.

Oh, honey, we are definitely NOT going to the bazaar together. Or anywhere.

“Where do you work?” and other unintelligible questions

Safe at last, safe at last, thanking my elementary language skills I’m safe at last.

Having just returned from a neighboring town (20 minutes away), and having spent a thoroughly decadent 24 hours doing pretty much next to nothing, I exited the shared taxi in front of the bazaar. It didn’t start out being a shared taxi. I thought I had overpaid the driver sufficiently to have his car to myself on this hot, hot, hot day. Alas, he stopped on the way out of town and asked a man if his wife and two children needed to go to my town since he had some free space in the car. Naturally they did, and naturally there was no air conditioning. Or seat belts. Which is normal, but not especially reassuring.

So I exit this shared taxi in front of the bazaar and head home. The streets are quiet. I mean, nobody is around. It’s SO hot, you know? But as I pass in front of a polis man, he asks me something, and I answer, “bilmeram….” I don’t know. Meaning I didn’t know what he said because he was mumbling, but I really just wanted him to repeat it or send me on my way. He did neither. Yay. Yay for being questioned by a mumbling polis officer in a foreign language on a really, really hot day.

He asks what language I speak….Russian? Azerbaijani? So I tell him I speak English and a little bit of Azerbaijani. He asks where I live. I ask in return, you mean in America? Or Azerbaijan? Here, he says. So I point….”over there,” and tell him the names of my host family. Shockingly, he doesn’t register any sign of recognition (it’s a pretty small town), and he then asks for my passport. I hand it to him and ask him why he needs it. He checks out the visa to make sure it’s current, make sure of my citizenship, etc. He asks where I work. I tell him with the Peace Corps. People are gathering around us. This, folks, is serious entertainment.

Someone speaks a little English, and he asks me to explain where I work. So I tell them, both in Azerbaijani and English, that I just moved to town last week and work at the vocational training center here in town, and, once again, that I live literally just around the corner and down the street. Finally, someone recognizes the family names I provide, and then everyone says, oh! Over there? Yes, I say, just over there (like I’ve been TELLING you), and we all laugh. Hoping I won’t be stopped by another question, I walk toward home without looking back. They let me go. And even though we have no water at home right now, somehow there’s enough for tea. It’s SO good to be here.

Being Free

I moved to a new home yesterday, the home I will share with a new host family for at least the next four months. When I arrived there were many more people than I was expecting to be at the house. My host mother’s brother (gardash), his wife and their 13-year-old grandson are here from Baku for the week, as are my mom’s two grandchildren, a girl, 6, and her three-year-old brother. Names are going to be withheld to protect the innocent. (DUM dum dummmmmmm.....)

Turns out the brother’s wife and her grandson both speak quite a bit of English, so we have all been helping each other recall vocabulary words in both languages, smoothing things over quite a bit. It also turns out that my host mother and sister really DON’T speak English. When I visited a month ago, I thought they were just repressing it to make me speak Azeri, but no. They speak Azeri and Russian and very, very little English. Which makes me feel better. I had been under the impression they were really super frustrated with my lack of language skills, but it turns out we were just ALL equally frustrated at not being able to communicate. Doesn’t make it easier, but it does, somehow, make it more palatable.

So. Late this morning, after a delicious breakfast of tomatoes and eggs and butter and oil and soft bread and tea (naturally) and just general numminess, I decided I’d better stock up on some water for a couple of days. Upon receiving questioning looks, I explained I was going to go to the bazaar, and asked the teen if he wanted to come. This opened the door for the three-year-old to insist on coming, but, having dealt with a couple of three-year-olds in a previous life, I told the sister-in-law, ebi yox (it’s okay) and let him tag along.

There’s something about going through a bazaar market in a foreign country which is invigorating and intimidating and just a tad overwhelming, but the drive to return is persistence in itself. I saw so many interesting stalls full of possible future purchases. Someone was selling pots for planting and, like an American, I was trying to ask where to buy the soil to put in them. I get the feeling from the mass confusion about what I could possibly mean that the common practice is to not BUY soil. You just dig and there it is. Imagine.

There are clothes vendors and food vendors and produce and meat and candy and toys. Cookies are often sold in bulk in Azerbaijan, in supermarkets, neighborhood shops and, yes, in the bazaar. Three-year-olds appreciate cookies for all of their buttery, crumbly goodness. Three-year-olds take cookies as they walk by stalls, too. And once that happened, our visit to the magical wonderland called the bazaar changed a little bit. Because once the cookie was taken (and returned to the shopkeeper), everything became fair game. And naturally, Murphy’s Law ruling the universe as it does, even though we headed directly toward the exit, this straight line exodus took us past not one, not two, but three, count ‘em three, toy vendors.

Once safely outside, we crossed the street, Mister Free-year-old’s hands firmly in our respective grips. And, yay! Across the street was the chicken market! With bundles of chickens with their feet tied together lying helplessly (but still (momentarily)) alive, waiting for their fates to be determined. The wonderful teen, looking askance at me when I moaned, laughed and said it was the chicken store. Uh huh, I see.

So we walked down the sidewalk, our little monkey swinging on our hands as we went down step after step. But at least his hands were occupied and he was temporarily engrossed in innocent three-year-old industry once more. I will be headed back to the bazaar another day, hopefully with slightly more freedom to take my time about things and explore a little. I want to feel like I’m three again. Or, as most toddlers say, ‘I’m free.’

The Honor. Or, what in the hell was I thinking?!?

Oh. My. Gravy. The day after returning from my site visit to my new home in Tartar, I get a phone call from my LCF (language and culture facilitator). He practically never, ever calls me, so he’s definitely got my attention. The conversation was deceptively casual….what are you doing? Where are you? How long will you be there? And all the while, I’m wondering when he’s going to get to the point. But he never does…he just says he’ll call me later. Huh. Okaaay.

“Later” comes and no mention of anything he wanted to speak with me about. (Hey! I’m in Azerbaijan; English grammar rules are out the window, okay?) We’re a good couple of hours into language class, in fact, when there’s a knock on the door. This was kind of expected, as he’d warned us that the head of the department of language and culture for Peace Corps in Azerbaijan would be popping by to deliver a package which had come in for someone in our group. So he invites her in, she delivers the much-coveted package (we each laid hands on it, just because we could), then she stays. Nooooo!!!!  She’s actually going to ask us questions and surreptitiously ascertain whether or not our language has improved? *whimper…  Then she looks at me and asks if she can speak with me in private.

Oh. My. Gravy.

Heart in my throat and thoroughly confused and bewildered, I follow her into the school’s hallway. Ever culturally appropriate, she kindly asks how I’m doing, etc, as I just wait for her to hit me with whatever it is she’s got. Then, BLAM! She’s wondering if I will be willing to present a speech, representing the entire AZ11 group of volunteers, at the swearing-in ceremony. The 10-year-anniversary of the Peace Corps being in Azerbaijan swearing-in ceremony. In front of the country director, the American ambassador to Azerbaijan, representatives from several Azerbaijani Ministries (Youth and Sports, Economics and Education), brand new work counterparts, current volunteers and staff and host-family members. In Azerbaijani.

I don’t have to, she says, if I’m uncomfortable. I ask if she has others she intends to ask and she says yes, she does, but if I say yes she won’t bother asking them. I ask if I’d have to memorize the speech or if I could read it, and she says she’d like me to try to memorize it, but I can have a written copy to refer to. It’s only about two minutes, she says. You’ll have help, she says. We’ll help edit your speech in English, help translate it into Azerbaijani….you’ll have our full support. It won’t be just your speech. It should represent your whole group, and since at the time you give it you’ll be sworn-in as a volunteer, it shouldn’t just be about your training experience. You’ll have our full support.

I thought of the honor this meant. Not necessarily for me, but for my LCF. If I can pull this off, if I can do this without completely falling on my face, man! That would be so great for him! To have taken someone that far through all of the ups and downs and blank stares and complete and utter mangling of his native language….to have brought someone so far in just over two months to be able to stand up and give a two-minute speech in Azerbaijani, what a feather in his cap that would be! This young man has been so patient with me (and all of us). He’s laughed with us, been there for us with tension-relieving soccer games, with sympathetic ears, big shoulders and even bigger hugs. He’s been the one rock here I have been able to count on. I thought of him. I thought of him and I told her I would do it.

Oh. My. Gravy.

I tried turning to my fellow trainees for input regarding their experiences and expectations. A handful responded to my pleas, but most, understandably, were busy with their own studies, making lesson plans and business plans and planning day camps for local children. I found out who gave the swearing-in speech for the group which is two years ahead of us and asked her for advice on where to start. She turned out to be a wealth of information, inspiration and support (thank you, Leah!), and bade me turn to my own writing for inspiration and ideas. Huh. Why didn’t I think of that? Turning off my computer, I lay down and tried to go to sleep, a wily mosquito buzzing intermittently around my head. (Apparently this is a new and improved brand of mosquito, as she has thus far eluded my wickedly quick slapping attempts. I shall not divulge the numbers of bruises on my own face and arms I am bound to see in the mirror tomorrow.) Much to my frustration, my brain just would NOT leave the speech thing alone. And then suddenly the speech started writing itself in my head. This, apparently, is why my laptop lives on the floor next to my bed. So in times of need, my speeches will have someplace to be born.

Having been translated into Azerbaijani, and having just received said speech and looked in disbelief at the seventeen endings attached to basically every fourth word, I'm starting to question my sanity. The department head told me today, "You're going to be the most impressive speaker at the ceremony!" I asked which other volunteers were speaking, and she said, "Just you!"  

She's right, then. I most certainly WILL be the most impressive speaker. Since I'll be the only one.

Oh. My. Gravy.

The Cutest Cows in the World

I met what must be the absolutely cutest cows in the world last weekend. It was at my new site….where I will be living for the next two years. I went on a visit there to meet my new host family and my work counterparts, to explore the town a bit and find out what exactly my organization does in the community. The new site is a town called Tərtər (Tare-tare), one of the prettiest towns I think I’ve ever seen. Apparently, the town I visited is pretty new. Part of Azerbaijan,the light green shaded area on the map above, is currently being occupied by Armenia. The front lines of the conflict are about 10km outside of the town. (no worries, though; the Peace Corps won’t place volunteers at sites which are unsafe) The red portion of the Rayon (region) of Tərtər is still in "free" Azerbaijan, but the dark green is an area of conflict. The original townsite of Tərtər lies within the currently-occupied area, so they just kind of made a “new” town of Tərtər. I’m going to have to research this a bit further, because not all of the town looks brand-spankin’-new. But back to the cows.

During my site visit, the woman with whom I’ll be working at the IEPF’s Regional Vocational Training Center for Land Mine Victims took me and several other volunteers to see one of the projects the IEPF oversees. It’s a little farm not far from the office which offers opportunities for mine victims to learn new skills which help them continue to support their families. From what I saw, the farm has a honeybee operation in full swing, and a lovely barn. Inside the barn were about twenty of the cutest cows I’ve ever seen, all lined up wondering which of us was going to feed them.

Generally speaking, I’m a horse person. I am all about the horses. I love the way they move, the way they look, and mostly the way they smell. I connect with horses. Cows? Cows, in comparison, are angular. They’re clunky mooooovers (sorry…couldn’t resist). And their poop just doesn’t smell right, you know? But THESE cows….THESE cows (oh…that’s inəklər (ee-neck-lahr) to you), these cows were just so darned cute. Not just cute in the face; I’m not that shallow. No, these cows have personality cuteness. Cuteness on the inside. I say that because they didn’t shy away from me when I went to speak with them personally. (you cant speak to cows from afar; it just doesn’t have the same effect) No, these cows are curious cows, and curious cows are just too darned cute for their own good.

I’m going to try to ignore the fact that these cows are there as income-generating sources for the mine victims. They buy the calves and raise them for resale, keeping the profits. Which is really cool and extremely awesome, and I totally and completely support it. But I’m going to try to ignore these “facts” each time I visit The Farm of the World’s Cutest Cows. Because visit them I shall. They are that cute.

Resilience. Or, life lessons from a seven-year-old.

Sine curves…remember them from high school trig? Up and down, up and down, in a never-ending cycle. Kind of mesmerizing, as I recall. Mesmerising….that’s such a calming word. Makes me think of oceans and spinning tops. And now it makes me think of Peace Corps training. Which isn’t calm in the slightest, but certainly has the same ups and downs, ups and downs.

We talked about resilience just this past week, actually. The PC’s Country Director for Azerbaijan spoke with us about it. About expecting those highs and lows, those peaks and valleys. It’s all normal. Happens to everyone. And I can personally vouch for that. Because twice now in less than two months I have hit lows. I think I have cried more in the six weeks I’ve been here than I did in the previous eight months. I had to assure my LCF this evening that in America, I practically never cried. I said this as I was choking back tears. Somehow, I’m not so sure he believed me.

What brought on this bout of self-doubt? The addition of another person to my host-family household. Not just another person, actually….the father returned from his job in Russia. The entire dynamic of the household has changed. We went from a four-woman house (yay for estrogen!!!) to one with a ruling man. I have seen changes in my host mother and both of my host sisters. Not negative changes; this is a nice man, apparently. But the women are more subdued than they were just a few days ago. I’m sure, in typical Azerbaijani fashion, they have already told him everything about me there is to know from their perspective. He was very nice and non-intimidating when I was introduced to him. Things were definitely yaxşı (good). Until late last night.

Because late last night, just before I was going to bed, came the kicker. My new host dad said a bunch of things to me, and as I was trying to sort out all of the sounds I was hearing, wondering if I should be recognizing these words, if I knew these words and, if I did, what on earth it was they meant again (for the zillionth time), suddenly there was a string of words I recognized… Leigh, yoxdur inglisdili evda danişmaq! (I think that’s what he said; I probably have words in the wrong order and with incorrect endings, knowing me. Oops.) What he was saying, basically, is for me not to speak English in the house anymore…to ONLY speak Azerbaijani.

Well. Not knowing this man but for a few minutes, really, I took this as a directive. Nobody laughed. Nobody in the room smiled. Just boom. No more speaking English in the house.

I have spent six weeks forming and cultivating friendships with the women in this house. I have gone evenings where I was completely unable to form an intelligent phrase to evenings where I felt completely comfortable and the words came to me easily, dictionary all but cast aside. There haven’t been many of those occasions, mind, but I relish the few I’ve had for the hope they provided. During the six weeks, I have honed my perception skills, reading tone of voice, facial expressions, body language, context. I can usually tell pretty much what’s going on, what’s being said. I don’t contribute a lot to the conversations, because in the time it takes me to look up the words for what I want to say and get up the nerve to actually SAY them, the conversation has long since moved on and the moment lost. But I get them. And sometimes, in my desire to be a part of the conversations around me, I do speak in English, which they mostly don’t understand….but sometimes they read my facial expressions, my tone, my body language, and they get me, too. It’s a symbiotic kind of thing. Awkward, yet comfortable. Until Mr. No English.

I’m going to admit here and now that I got about two hours of sleep last night. It didn’t matter how much I read or how much my eyes hurt, each time I tried to go to sleep my brain stirred up the pain of that statement, No English. I understand why he said it. He wants to make it “easier” for me to learn their language by being forced into it. But shouldn’t I be the one making that decision? I mean, after all, is it not I who will suffer if I don’t learn Azerbaijani sufficiently to survive when I move to my new home in four weeks? He doesn’t know how far I’ve come since I got here. Or how much I sacrificed to come to his country. Or that I was once (in my own mind) competent of doing just about anything I put my mind to. He honestly knows basically nothing about me.

So I got angry. And sad. And afraid. And devastated. And angry some more. And I wrote letters to him in my mind, letters I would translate into Azerbaijani and have handy at a moment’s notice for when the opportunity presented itself to let him know what I thought of this No English in the House policy. And I cried. And cried some more. I think I got two hours of sleep, and when I got up this morning, my emotions were still right below the surface. I mean, if you had pricked me with a pin anywhere on my body, tears would have come gushing out of the resulting hole, I felt so vulnerable. Everyone left the house except my older host sister and me. I tried in vain to sleep some more. I did a little homework. 

Early in the afternoon I ventured out to take my laundry from the line, and she asked if I wanted to eat. I didn’t really care; I was just one big emotional mess by that point. But she fixed some pasta and set the table, so I sat down to eat. That was when she noticed I’d been crying and got really concerned, asking me niyə??  Why??  On the verge of tears yet again, I told her in broken Azerbaijani, and she immediately said, “no, no!! Leigh….joke!” She said he was joking, that he was trying to help me speak Azerbaijani, but he was joking.

This was when I started to question just how much I was expected to infer from a directive coming from the ruling member of the household. Someone I don’t know, who may think they have a good handle on me already (but really doesn’t), and whom I know not at all. So it’s a little awkward around here, now. When Papa speaks, I have a very difficult time understanding what he’s saying. I don’t know if it’s his accent or speech mannerisms, or if it’s words I haven’t learned yet. Could be anything. Anything.

I thought about all of this as I walked along a sidewalk behind a seven-year-old boy this evening. Two young men, my LCF and a mutual friend of ours, were kind of messing with the kid, bouncing a soccer ball around the boy, keeping it just out of his reach. That little kid just kept coming back for more, trying over and over and over to get that ball. Maybe this time. No? Well, maybe this time. Darn. Well, maybe THIS time…. No matter how close he got or how frustrating it was to just about be able to get that ball and have it be just out of his reach, he kept trying.

Kids. They’re the bestest teachers of all.

E-I-E-I-O

Traveling to central Azerbaijan is a long, hot trip, even in early May. Especially packed into SUVs like the sardines for which we are often mistaken. And especially with adrenaline running high, since this was our first opportunity to leave Sumqayit and see The Country.

Azerbaijan, at least right now, is drier than I’d expected. Much of the landscape headed west from Baku looks like New Mexico or western Texas….arid soils and scrubby vegetation. And the roads….let’s not even worry about the roads! I’m really, really glad I wasn’t driving, since that would have taken the absolute utmost level of concentration. Potholes large enough to swallow vehicles and be ready for more? Just slow down to 8kph and go around them. Every. Few. Minutes. As I said, I’m glad to have been able to trust the driving to the very capable attention span and considerable skill of Elmar.

Several hours later and we were smack in the middle of Azerbaijan. There were produce vendors peddling their wares on the roadsides. This wouldn’t be unusual, even in the States, except every last stand has exactly the same things for sale. Diversity is hard to come by here. In Sumqayit, for example, there might be one block on the main street which has, literally, seven or eight competing Azercell stores, all selling the same phones and data plans. In class we talked a bit about how on earth the vendors survive with everyone selling the same merchandise, and it turns out each vendor sells to their relatives and friends….you always know someone who has a brother or other relative who works on cars, has a produce shop or an Azercell franchise, and so that’s where you shop. Period. Diversity and free market enterprise are pretty unusual here. But I digress….

We arrived in Barda (Bərdə), met with the volunteers currently serving in the local area, and took off to see one of their successful projects in neighboring Tartar (Tərtər), the Worm House. Donna, the volunteer, met and started a project with a local farmer…it was his idea, as I understand, that he convert a recently-purchased barn into a facility which produces worm droppings and sells them to local farmers and other customers. Through quite a bit of trial and error, he now has a successful operation and about a zillion-trillion little red helpers just pooping their hearts out on his behalf. This farmer is extremely progressive. He showed us around his family farm, and he’s growing potatoes (kartoff), beans, strawberries, mulberries, grapes (üzüm), cucumbers and a whole BUNCH of hothouse tomatoes (pomıdor). He also runs three cows (inək) and a multitude of chickens (toyuq). He’s starting seedlings from seeds the volunteer gave him. He created his own soaker hose by punching a hose with a nail. He put in a drip irrigation system. With the help of some volunteers, he has a solar drier currently used to make mulberry raisins. I mean, this guy has it going on! I was very impressed. Very impressed.

We returned to Barda and headed off to individual volunteers’ homes for the night. I got to stay with Donna and another AZ9, Jodi, which was quite the treat. We decided on a comfort-food kind of dinner, and indulged in not one, but two versions of mac-n-cheese (this is a judge-free zone, now), accompanied by a bottle of red wine and carrot cake. Absolutely fantastic. Unfortunately, our planned breakfast of pancakes and chocolate fell through the following morning…..something about lacking eggs and sugar. That was sad. Though I suppose my body appreciated the oatmeal consumed in its place.

I shall be on the hunt for Bisquick in Baku. Just sayin.

Sunday brought visits to an agricultural NGO in Agjabedi (Agcabədi) and several projects overseen by another AZ9, Carissa. We went to a couple of sites where baby forests have been planted and recycle bins installed at local schools. The recycle bins are an interesting exercise in education. As far as I know, there is only one recycling facility currently in Azerbaijan, and it’s in Baku. The goal at this point seems to be to just educate the populace on what recycling IS, and to not use the bins as trash receptacles. People understand re-using things like plastic bottles and bags, but actually collecting them, breaking them down and reforming new product is a mind-boggling concept. In fact, many of the local Azerbaijanis are under the impression that water is the ultimate self-cleaning system, and will readily dump trash in a stream or the sea, as soon enough, it will disappear…..apparently, thought isn’t given regarding what actually happens to the trash. Or the water. It’s an uphill battle, for sure.