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.
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