Define 'multilingual'

I speak Azerbaijani. Poorly, I speak it poorly, in all honesty. I have some things I say over and over again, like, “My Azerbaijani is really bad,” which, because I say them so frequently come out fluidly and easily, an audible contradiction to their meaning. But I do speak it passably. Speaking passably does not necessarily include the ability to decipher what is being said to me. Part of that is because my vocabulary is weak, part is because the Azerbaijani language includes innumerable suffixes which change words’ meanings in a myriad of ways, and partly because the Azerbaijani being spoken in my direction is often rapid-fire, even if I request the speaker to go more slowly. In short, I kind of stink and people give up on me.

A woman came a-begging in our apartment complex the other evening, and my neighbor (whom I have a really difficult time understanding) told the woman all I understand is “hello” and “goodbye.” Which isn’t necessarily true, but I didn’t bother to correct her. That would just be opening up a can of worms.

In Azerbaijan, people’s initial reaction to me is to speak Russian. I think it’s my coloring which makes them think I’m from Russia, because it’s sure not my facial structure. They’re always kind of shocked when I speak back to them in their own language; sometimes they don’t recognize it because they would never expect me to speak Azeri so they don’t listen for it. I get mixed reactions when I tell them I’m American. Most don’t know what to say….they just kind of say, “Huh.” You can see it. And conversation usually stops. But occasionally I’ll meet an adventurous soul who asks if I live here, if I work here, and how many children I have. One time an older gentleman, upon hearing I’m American, put his hand to his heart and just glowed. That was a good, good day. (this is him)

At work today, I was in the library with my Azerbaijani counterpart, a journalist visiting from Lithuania, the Azerbaijani man who manages the org’s farm, and a Russian woman and her grandson. I speak English and some Azeri. The Lithuanian guy speaks Russian and some English. The Azeri man speaks, well, Azeri and Russian and a tiny bit of English. My counterpart speaks Azeri, Russian and English. And the woman speaks Russian and Azeri. So the Azeri man and the woman were having an animated conversation which kept flipping back and forth between Russian and Azeri. Sometimes I could understand pieces, sometimes the Lithuanian guy could understand pieces…we were throwing each other glances to see how much the other was picking up. In the end, the woman was offered a job cooking in the org’s café and the boy was left in the library with us to learn how to use computers, though he ended up having a long, involved conversation in Russian with the guy from Lithuania and my counterpart.

Over the years I have studied German, Dutch, Spanish, French and now Azerbaijani. My weakness has always been vocabulary retention. I knew that coming into the Peace Corps and warned them repeatedly on self-assessment surveys that it would be my weakness. That hasn’t stopped them from telling me each and every testing cycle that my vocabulary is weak, but at least it doesn’t bother me anymore. Sometimes I’ll be chatting right along in Azeri and German will pop up. Or Spanish. All I can do is laugh.

I mean heck, if I can’t get rid of the lyrics to “Puppy Love,” what hope have I?

A meyva bonanza

It’s May and fruit season has come to Azerbaijan! Fruit is available throughout the year, really, but not all fruits and certainly not my favorites. Everything is seasonal and only certain things are imported, such as bananas and, if you’re in Baku, things like avocados. But out here in the rayons, you have to go with what’s in season. And right now that means strawberries, cherries and alchar. Alchar is something we don’t commonly eat in the States. They appear to be unripe plums; they are the right size, have the same pit inside and have the same look as a plum, but they’re eaten when they’re hard and super, duper sour. They taste an awful lot like one of the best Granny Smith apples you’ve probably ever had. But they’re tiny.

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been buying strawberries and each morning smooshing some of them up, adding a little sugar, and spooning the resulting slop on buttered toast. It’s messy and delicious and I’m going to be very, very sad when strawberry season ends this month. It’s also cherry season, though. I indulged this week and bought a kilo of cherries and have been snacking on a few each day. The kilo will probably last at least ten days if I snack industrially. Then came yesterday.

Yesterday, when I was juuuuust nodding off for a nap, I get a phone call. It’s the agronomist from my garden project and he’s saying something about coming to my apartment building and something else about cherries. Then he hangs up, so I grumble a bit as I change into something more appropriate for going out in public and the phone rings again. It’s him again, basically asking where I am. I asked him when he means to do this (whatever it is) and he says, “Indi!” Now. Exasperated, I look out the window and see his car. As I go downstairs, he’s trying to give a bag of stuff to some random guy, telling him to give it to me. What he doesn’t realize is I’m not on speaking terms (let alone a first-name basis) with everyone in my entire apartment complex and this guy has no idea who I am or where I live. Luckily for him, that’s when I walk up. I thank him and thank the agronomist for the huge bag of fruit he’s apparently just harvested and brought to me and he takes off.

As I go back to my apartment I wonder what the heck I am to do with what appears to be another three kilos of cherries?! And alchar? And several semi-ripe apricots? Some of the cherries were torn from the tree, part of their branches and leaves still attached. I put the bag in the refrigerator and decided to address it when I was in a better state of mind.

So here I am, the next day, pitting and freezing a big bowlful of assorted types of cherries. I’ve never baked a cherry pie but might just attempt one. At the very worst, I’ll have frozen cherries to snack on in September. When meyva season is finished.

Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight!

When I get back to the States, I’m not sure I’m going to know what to do without all of the reminders of Heydar. In Azerbaijan, Heydar Aliyev, the country’s first President after the breakup of the Soviet Union, is everywhere. And I mean EVERYwhere. The main street in every town and village seems to be named Heydar Aliyev Prospekti. There are parks named after him. Statues of him. Billboards. Everywhere you look, it’s Heydar.

Heydar Aliyev died in 2003, but the country still celebrates his birthday. In early May each town holds a festival on a day close to May 9th. The festivals aren’t always held on Heydar’s actual birthday because everyone wants media coverage and only Baku has broadcast news, so they all kind of take turns. The festivals celebrating Heydar’s birthday remind me of the Rose Parade because everything is all about flowers. There are floral sculptures, flower contests, and entire parks are transformed for the day through the hard work of the people of Azerbaijan.

Last week I traveled to Agcabedi (Ag-juh-bed’-ee) to help my friend in her garden, and timed the visit to coincide with their Gül Bayramı (“goul buy-rah’-mih”)(Flower Holiday) celebrating Heydar Aliyev’s 91st birthday, were he still alive. We walked from her house to the Heydar Aliyev Parkı, about three or four kilometers in our black and floral outfits. We could’ve been smarter….it was really hot, even though we didn’t start walking until about 5:20. Too hot even for ice cream, if you can believe it. On the way, a man heard us talking and asked if we were Russian (because English sounds so similar?). We assured him that we were American and spoke no Russian, but did speak a little Azerbaijani. He continued to walk with us, apparently forgetting what we said, since he was talking more and more urgently in Russian about the defeat of fascism. Realizing we were in a no-win situation, we tried to ditch him, thinking we could take a side street to the park. We walked away, got to where we meant to turn and thought to ask the woman selling chickens if we could get to the park that way. No, she said, you have to go back the way you came. And wouldn’t you know it, our Russian-speaking friend had followed us. Some strategically-paced walking later, we got to the park without passing out (barely), bought some water and proceeded to check things out.

Crowds were swarming, so, keeping an eye out for my friend’s tutor (we were supposed to be meeting him and his wife), we ventured into the vast, unshaded main plaza to check out the flower exhibits. I think most of the towns and villages in Agcabedi Rayon were represented with vases of lilies and roses, as were the city’s schools. There were tributes to Heydar in floral form…photos with frames made from flowers and petals. So lovely.

My friend and I had been told by her tutor that the concert portion of the celebration would begin “after six.” We went to the concert area and every seat was taken, mostly by women and children. We wandered, looking for her tutor’s signature hat, and I made the mistake of glaring back at a young guy who was staring at me like I had three heads. Usually when I glare back, they realize they’re doing something inappropriate and look away, but oh no. This guy apparently misreads my glare and proceeds to follow us as we wander the concert area. (In the interests of precaution should anything go awry, I surreptitiously took his picture.) After about 20 long minutes, he finally got bored and split, but not before making me very, very uncomfortable in the process.

My friend and I finally decide to join other women and children sitting on the edge of the non-working fountain. It’s a great people-watching place.

I wanted so much to make a photographic study of the shoes the women and girls thought fit to wear to an event where they would be standing and walking for hours, but didn’t. I wonder sometimes about these women who wear high heels for hiking and walking; I think it’s actually pride….sort of a show of toughness, an unwillingness to admit that the shoes actually kill their feet. But I see it everywhere. I don’t know how they do it. But my friend and I had found seats and got to watch them, occasionally making small talk with the other women and girls near us. Then the peace that is people-watching was shattered.

Some men took objection to the fact that women and children were sitting on the edge of the fountain. I’m not sure if they felt it was disrespectful of us to be sitting on the edge of the fountain, if they didn’t think we were bright enough to have cleaned the dirt off before sitting down and were making our clothes unspeakably filthy, or if they just wanted to exert some authority over random women, but it was me they approached first. Naturally.

An older man came and told me I couldn’t sit there. I asked him why. He just repeated himself, saying I couldn’t sit there. Then he started gesturing to the other women and saying to them that they shouldn’t sit on this fountain. My friend and I, annoyed but unsure what to do, stood up. The other women started to get up, too. Then some younger women sat down again. Rebellion!! I looked at the men; they were talking to each other, perhaps about how women just have no sense of propriety, I don’t know. But then I felt a tap on my shoulder and one of the men kind of smiled and told me to sit. Other men were saying this wasn’t right and it went on and on, with women standing and sitting, popping up and down, all at the whim of these random men who decided they weren’t sure whether they liked what they saw or not. Finally, most of the women just kind of said, “to hell with it,” and sat. Which is about the time my friend and I decided to walk home.

We did stop for ice cream along the way. Thanks, Heydar, for another memorable gül bayramı.

Baku, city of dreams. Or at least ham sandwiches.

Well, it finally happened. After all of these years, I am finally getting to use my bachelor’s degree. No, I wasn’t an English major, but thanks. I studied something equally obtuse, though. I majored in Geography. From childhood on, if you gave me a map I’d be entertained for hours. I still can’t label a blank map of the world with all of the current countries, darn it, but I can teach you how to read a topographic sheet, tell you a bit about landscape formations and the pros and cons of a grid traffic system in a city. But now I landed a juicy spot on a new committee, something I’ve been wanting to do for the past year when I first heard about this project. All hail the new member of the Peace Corps Azerbaijan mapping committee.

We’re working on developing a crowdmapping tool of Peace Corps volunteers’ sites and projects within Azerbaijan. With any luck, we’ll make it into a tool of such usefulness as to encourage PC Headquarters in DC to implement it worldwide. As it applies within our country, we are beginning with volunteers creating reports online about their sites...reports about their organizations, about secondary projects they are implementing, about transportation to/from/within their towns and regions. Everything is being mapped, and everything should be available for the groups of volunteers to follow us. That way, people don’t always have to reinvent the wheel, so to speak. We can get ideas from each other. We can collaborate, share knowledge. I personally have dreams of being able to collaborate with volunteers in other countries. I mean, this could be big. When I came to live at my site, I had nothing to go on; there hadn’t been a volunteer in my region for at least five years, if ever (I’m not really sure), so I did have to start from scratch. Hopefully this new mapping tool will make my own situation less common.

At any rate, I was asked to come into Baku for a committee meeting to be held on Saturday. It’s a five-hour bus ride from my region, so this means a three-day trip. BUT, because it was official business, the Peace Corps springs for two nights at a pretty stinkin’ nice hotel, and I’ll get mostly reimbursed for travel and meal expenses in my next paycheck. This is not a bad thing. Kind of like a mini-vacation with a meeting stuck in the middle. I can deal with that.

My bus ride Friday was perhaps my most uncomfortable ride to Baku to date. Not because the woman next to me wanted to talk (she didn’t) or because it was overly hot (it wasn’t), but because the guy in front of me decided to lay his seat allllllll the way back to facilitate napping. This wouldn’t be so bad, but apparently my legs have grown several inches in length lately, because when he reclined, my knees were suddenly crunched right into the back of his seat. I do admit I yelped a little and took a certain religious figure’s name in vain, but it didn’t change anything except maybe make me feel a micron better and startle the woman next to me who had been industriously attempting to fade into the landscape beyond the window. Knees now rendered immobile and with a seat back about eight inches from my nose, I just concentrated on breathing and not panicking with the occasional ripples of claustrophobia. At least I had a slight breeze from my air vent. Until he reached up and snapped it closed, that is. That’s okay. I reached up and snapped it right back open. Cut of MY air, will ya?! I think not!

I arrived in Baku a wee bit grumpy, I guess you might say. I went out in front of the bus station to wait for a city bus. It was windy and I waited. And waited. After about 20 minutes the bus I needed still hadn’t come and I was worried about getting to the office before everyone left for the day, so I jumped on the next one which would take me close, to Chirag Plaza. Now I would just need to (successfully) negotiate the nightmare which is traffic in the intersection in front of Chirag Plaza, an intersection affectionately referred to by volunteers as The Circle of Death. The Circle of Death involves four lanes (in each direction) of weaving traffic barreling down the road pretty much nonstop. The trick is to be strategic and stealthy and ultimately light on your feet, keeping in mind that, in Azerbaijan, pedestrians most certainly do not have the right-of-way. Ever. Oh, you can be bold and pretend you own the road, but more than one volunteer has had a near-death experience crossing this intersection. The Circle of Death is not to be taken lightly. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary. (Note for the picky: in the photo below of TCoD, you might be inclined to point out that there are only three lanes in each direction. You would be wrong. Baku drivers don't pay any attention to lane markings.)

I made it, alive, to the Peace Corps office and was delighted to find several other volunteers in the lounge. Greetings and hugs dispensed all around, I discovered a secret friend had left a pack of Oreos in my cubbie (!!!!), which I immediately offered to share. I was urged, in turn, to partake of an open bag of popcorn (“it’s cheesy!”), and settled down into what developed into a lively, bawdy discussion of questionable suitability. (There are times where being the oldest volunteer in the room allows me to just shock the pants off of my colleagues, prompting them to view me in a new light.) It was awesome.

Ah, Baku. City of insane traffic, packed buses, grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, alcohol, nightlife and firm, clean beds. And hot showers where both hands are free.

Coming to grips with the downslope

When, exactly, did I lose it? I remember noticing it happening four years ago when I took my then-16-year-old stunning daughter to Costa Rica. That’s when I found that I would forever be invisible as a woman when she was around. But she isn’t around now. She’s literally on the opposite side of the world, living her life. So I can’t unload this on her. Not now. Now it’s on me. Now I’ve become invisible all on my own.

I’m not talking about when I’m waiting in line at a store and people pretend I’m not there. This is much more personal. This is about dealing with something I figured was coming…you know…someday down the road. After applying to the Peace Corps there is a lot of medical testing and poking and prodding to go through. Things to be discussed with doctors and decisions to be made. This happens in two phases; once for pre-medical clearance and again, more intensely, once you receive an invitation. Well, in my own situation, I had to decide whether to continue taking a hormone-providing medication or not. I weighed the pros and cons and decided I really didn’t want to take a chance on having to deal with possibly going through menopause while I was in a foreign country trying to learn a new language and impress people. I mean, how impressed would they be with a woman who suddenly had to stop everything and start flapping her clothes? Things were going to be stressful enough…menopause could wait! Meds are my friends while I’m here.

The downside to hormone medication is, well, even when you’re older you still have hopes that you’re attractive to the opposite sex. You still feel vivacious. You still look at men and, well, wonder. You still hope.

The downside to being over 50 and a single Peace Corps volunteer is most of my cohorts are half my age. The young women are pretty and flirtatious and competing with them is completely out of the question. The young men, even if they’re attractive, are most certainly not looking at me “that” way. I could be most of their mothers. And this kind of sucks. Because I’m not ready for that yet! I’m not ready to be brushed aside and overlooked. I’m not ready to be gender-neutral, a piece of the scenery. I’m already a source of complete confusion for the people of Azerbaijan, what with my short hair, athletic build and fondness for my one pair of jeans. A friend told me her counterpart saw my photo and actually asked her whether I was a man or a woman.

So with the locals, I’m used to the uncomfortable staring. It’s just harder to take, somehow, when your fellow Americans, the ones who actually understand most of what you’re going through, act like you’re not there. When you see you missed a call then check your texts and have them tell you your number was dialed on accident. When you get a message from a guy you have secretly thought about for a year only to have them be asking for another woman’s phone number. When you go out in Baku with the younger set (because you love to sing and dance and want to make friends) and end up being ignored by the time a couple of hours have gone by. I get it. Nobody owes me anything. They don’t owe me attention. It’s not their job to make me feel wanted or desired or anything. Honestly, I understand and accept that. But it doesn’t make it an easy pill to swallow.

For the next year, then, I’ll keep swallowing those pills. And maybe by then I’ll have come to grips with this downslope of life as a 50+-year-old woman.

Camera yoxdur

My camera died. It wasn’t my favorite camera to begin with, but it was still a huge setback since it was my only one. And naturally, it happened during prime seed-sprouting season and wedding season and iconic-photo-opportunity season. So I bought a new one….a Canon this time (the dead camera was a Nikon, my first and probably my last). I tried to buy a camera here in Terter but they wanted 250 manat for a Fujifilm model and I just wasn’t going to pay that (over $300). So I went to A Big City, Ganga, and enlisted some PCV and university student help in finding something good for a reasonable price. Canon in hand at a discount (110 manat), I returned home happy with life once again. I took the new camera straight out to my garden project to document the changes which are so rapidly happening…seeds sprouting, new patches being tilled and furrowed, the greenhouse being constructed, everything is happening at once! I knew the battery had just a little charge from when they charged it a bit in the store, so when it died I thought nothing of it. I’d just go home and plop it in my new battery charger.

Which, apparently, doesn’t work.

So today, finding out my new, shiny camera was useless, I headed to my first village toy (wedding party) a little down in the dumps. I’ve been to a city toy and a town toy, but not a village toy...they’re a little different. City and town toys are normally held in big saraylar, or wedding palaces. Village toys are held in specially-constructed tents in the backyard. They are also basically segregated by gender, with a men’s tent and a women’s tent, and the food, rather than being professionally catered, is prepared by the relatives and friends of the wedding pair’s families. And, as I discovered today, is REALLY GOOD. Not that the catered toys aren’t delicious, but I had a salad today that knocked my socks off. Or would have, had I been wearing any.

Here are some of the things I wish I’d had a camera or video to record:

My outfit: a black clingy number from Bebe (obtained years ago from my niece….thanks, Erin!) which, because it is inappropriately low-cut for Azerbaijan, I had to manipulate and pin into something more respectable. I would have also liked to have gotten a photo of myself clad in this dress and its whispy scarf (tied around my shoulders to hide my inappropriately bare skin) and my decidedly unglamorous flats, worn in an attempt to navigate the gravel and broken pavement between here and my office building without breaking my ankle. I did take strappy heels for the actual party; don't think I wasn't going to represent America in proper fashion!

The parking area at the toy location: cars parked everywhere except for beneath one tree, where a saddled horse was happily tied, watching all of the comings and goings.

My greeting by the groom’s mother and subsequent entry into the women’s tent: the groom’s father is the agronomist with whom I work on my garden project, so I know him, but I’d never met his wife (Sədagət) until today. She greeted me like I was her long lost friend, laughing and falling all over herself, her faced creased with smiles. She took my arm firmly in hers and led me to the tent, wherein she announced to everyone there that Leigh From America had arrived and they were to welcome me. We proceeded down the aisle between all of the tables arm in arm, with every single woman checking me out, some smiling, some not so much. I felt like The Queen and was very, very happy to make it to my seat without tripping.

The food: how to describe an Azeri toy….how about this: more food than you can possibly ever eat. They have individual place settings at toys, but the food is all put in the center of the table and is served family-style. There are plates of salad items (herbs, cut cucumbers and tomatoes), cold meats (sliced sausages and cold chicken pieces), hot dishes (hunks of stewed beef and potatoes served in an oily broth), lamb kabobs (my favorite are the chops on the ribs), sheep or lamb sausages (ick)(just a personal preference), a mayonnaise salad (today’s was The Best EVER with peas, carrot, egg, onion, meat….everything possible diced and mixed with mayo), and plates of sliced fruits. Often there is also plov (rice pilaf with meat, onions and dried fruit on top). But all of this food is served on tapas-sized plates and ends up being piled up, dish on top of dish, so the center of the table is just a huge mountain of food. You never, ever eat within several hours of going to a toy.

Pictures with the wedding pair: the bride and groom are seated at a table separate from everyone else and generally don’t partake in the feasting. They also don’t smile much and kind of look like this is the most miserable day of their lives. From what I can tell, their main function at the toy is to watch all of their friends and family eat while everyone comes periodically to have their picture taken with the lucky couple.

The children: little boys are little boys around the world and they love to flit in small packs from table to table, stealing a piece of sausage here, an orange there, then dash off before an adult can say anything.

The weather: just picture perfect….low 20s (high 60s) with clear skies and brilliant sunshine

The trip home: the young man, pitchfork balanced on his shoulder, walking out of the sun down the lane toward the main road

Damn you, battery charger!! Foiled again.

Bağ adventures

One of my fellow volunteers moved into a new independent housing situation last month. She lives in what we would call in New Mexico the “mother-in-law quarters,” a separate small house in someone’s back yard. The landlord of my friend has hosted foreigners in this little house for many years…people from Europe, other Peace Corps volunteers, everyone. So she’s familiar with non-Azeri ways and expectations. We thought.

My friend got permission to install a vegetable garden in the main yard and her landlord enthusiastically approved. The intention is to have familiar (for my friend) fresh foods which you can’t find easily in rural Azerbaijan such as lettuce, kale, broccoli and summer squash. This is also a chance to introduce these new items to her landlord and co-workers, perhaps expanding their knowledge of gardening methods in the process. Plus, it’s going to be a comfort to my friend to be able to putter in the dirt, brush up against the tomato plants and smell that astringent smell. So Sherry (my friend) asked if I wanted to come help her get the garden started and naturally I jumped at the chance.

The landlord showed us the area for the garden, which looks like it was used for this purpose in the past. As she was showing it, she was very specific about which square meters of the overall rectangle we could use. She has some tulips planted in a few rows, so those were obviously to be avoided. But she specified we should go ahead and use the paths between her rows of tulips. Now, maybe I’m being persnickety, but I think we just need to be worrying about a basic rectangle shape, not a rectangle with legs, so Sherry and I conferred and decided to leave those path areas for her. If she wanted something there, she could choose what to plant herself.

The day we started was just gorgeous…upper teens (Celsius, so low 70s) with a light breeze and lots of sunshine. Tee shirt weather. We began by trying to clear the weeds off of the main garden area and quickly found the soil to be more difficult to work than we’d anticipated. It was just chock full of rocks. Every time we put the shovel or pitchfork in, we’d only get a few inches before being stopped cold. Granted we don’t have hiking boots, but still. You would think we’d be able to dig! Sherry’s director from her organization came by with another of her coworkers and they helped us quite a bit, mysteriously being able to dig down a good six inches. We were so grateful to them; they literally turned the soil for about half of the garden area. It took me just about as long to less-effectively turn an area less than a quarter of the size. Exhaustion was setting in rapidly. We stopped and had çay, during which I discovered that my friend has fantastic Azerbaijani listening comprehension. I am still at the point of hearing words, stopping to translate them in my head and, in the process, completely losing track of what’s being said.

The men left and Sherry and I struggled on with the rocky soil. At one point her landlord came over to where I was raking stones, pointed out the pathways between the tulips and said, “Dig here and here and here.” I told her, “bilerəm,” (I know) then she came and pointed and told me to dig closer to the driveway. Maybe I was grumpy because of how hot and tired I was, but at that point I stopped digging and told her, “Hə, amma çətindir!” (Yeah, but it’s difficult) She seemed non-plussed and asked, “oh, it’s difficult?” like she hadn’t considered that. After that exchange, though, she stopped trying to tell us what to do, which was lovely. If there’s one thing I can say about the people I have encountered in Azerbaijan, it’s that they all feel they know the best way to do something and have no problem showing or telling you how to do it. However, some are really nice about it, and obviously just want to help. There were some construction workers on the property that day, too, and one of them watched us work for awhile then took pity on us, came over and asked Sherry for the shovel, and proceeded to dig until his supervisor called him back to help with something.

We finally got most of the garden area cleared of weeds and decided to stop for the day. I didn’t have to leave until the next afternoon, so we went grocery shopping and made dinner. During the night the wind picked up. We woke to no electricty or heat; each time we tried to light her peç (gas heater) the wind would come down the exhaust pipe and extinguish the flames, so as the temperature dropped outside, it got much colder in her house. Then it rained, and the rain turned to snow.

It’s all in the timing.

A hat on my doorstep

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! What the heck?! WHY is someone trying to beat down my door?! With one eye on the stew I just started reheating on the stove, I open my front door to find…nobody.

But there is a hat.

Okaaaaaayyy. Umm, why?

So I grab the hat and lean over the stair railing, calling out in really, really bad Azeri, “why do I have this hat?” Nobody answers. “Salam? Salam?” A girl pokes her head back and yells something, making gestures I never learned in mime school, so I stand back up to see the neighbor woman across the landing standing in her door smiling at me. “Başaduşmiyirəm (Basha-dush-mir-am)(I don’t understand),” I say. She tells me something I can only guess at, then tells me to come, come. From her hallway, she drags a container of wrapped candies, fills the hat with them and I finally get it. OH! They’re trick-or-treating!

It’s just, you know, NOT Halloween. It’s March. This is Novruz.

Novruz is the celebration of the coming of Spring. It starts four weeks prior to the equinox, and for four Tuesday evenings, Azerbaijanis celebrate with special pastries, holiday foods and by making and jumping over bonfires. They generally let the fires burn down until they’re small before jumping so nothing catches on fire. But as they jump, they leave all of the prior year’s troubles and problems behind to start this year anew. Refreshed. Cleansed by fire, if you will.

Problem, though, in that my newly-friendly neighbor is telling me to come in, come in for tea. I tell her I’m cooking and gesture several times back toward my open door, making what I think to be wry faces, but she won’t take no for an answer, so I go turn off my stew and head back over to her place for çay. I’ve been exchanging smiles and greetings with her two kids for a couple of months now, and they’re so excited that I’m coming to their apartment they’re almost giddy. So while their mom bustles around heating tea and making sure I take some pastries, the kids take turns keeping me company.

I find it really easy to talk to the kids. Yes, they have a larger vocabulary than I do, but they understand when I’m baffled and offer alternative words (unlike most adults who tend to scoff and go silent). We talk about kid stuff. How old are you? Are you in the 5th and 6th forms at school (yes!)? Interestingly, the question which seems to stump them the most is, “What do you like to play?” I offer up, “futbol?” It doesn’t get too much of a response, even when I tell them I have played futbol. But we chat about their favorite foods (dolma, naturally) and foods I don’t like (cilantro, which is, like, Azerbaijan’s national herb). When their mom comes in, she talks and talks so eagerly and I have no idea what most of it is about. But we manage. Kind of.

After a cup of tea, a pastry and a half, a plate of plov (rice pilaf) and some slices of fruit, I finally beg off and head back home. At the door I finally think to ask her name, so we go through all of our names. I think I can remember hers, her daughter’s and husband’s. I’ve already informed the son, though, that I will probably never, ever remember his. And for the life of me, I honestly cannot remember it now.

And it’s only been 30 minutes.

The invisible woman amongst us

Back when I was only at my permanent site a month, I wrote a blog entry about being stared at (“Animal, vegetable or mineral?”). That was just over seven months ago. Oh, how things have changed. Not completely changed, but enough so that I now sometimes feel I live in an alternate universe. And maybe I do. I’ll have to check with Neil DeGrasse Tyson on that.

Today, I am convinced my town turned on me. I didn’t notice it at first, because things were kind of annoyingly normal. As in, I didn’t want to get out of my warm bed, I had the same breakfast as usual (qatıq (yogurt) and toast with jam), and my internet was down for the ninth day running. But it’s the last day of the month and I needed to go to the bankomat (ATM) for my rent money, plus I knew there should be something waiting for me at the poçt (post office). So I donned my Xanım Outfit (i.e., below-the-knee black skirt, black boots, black jacket and, to not be morose, a purple sweater) and went out to catch the bus.

I was in luck! It looked like the bus I wanted was just down the road, picking up a passenger! So I waited. And waited and waited, because it wasn’t actually a bus after all, but a bread delivery van. While I was waiting, though, a car pulled out of my apartment complex and stopped, the driver got out and, lo and behold, asked if I needed a ride to the town’s center!! Wow! “Hə!! Çox sağ ol!” This was awesome….this was the first time someone I didn’t know had offered me a ride! Am I being accepted? Finally??

On the drive in, I noticed there were traffic police seemingly everywhere. This, unfortunately, tends to make the drivers impatient and cranky, since they’re used to setting their own speed limits and making up their own traffic laws. And cranky drivers means everybody else needs to be hyper aware if they’re anywhere near a roadway, especially if they’re on foot. Pedestrians definitely do not have the right-of-way in Azerbaijan, and cranky drivers and pedestrians with questionable timing do not mix.

Happily enough, the bankomat had cash in it (because you just never know), and since that was my first stop, I fairly sashayed down the sidewalk toward the poçt. Money in my pocket and bus fare saved, I decided to pop into the aptek (pharmacy) on the corner to grab some rubbing alcohol. When I went in, there were about six customers waiting, which is normal for a centrally-located aptek. And there were no lines, just a cluster of folks crowded around the window where the pharmacist works, which is also normal. So I settled in at the back of the crowd and prepared to wait. I waited and waited, and waited some more, watching as more customers came in the door and very few left, with people ignoring the “line” (huddle?) of people already there and pushing their way to the window. Unfortunately, the pharmacist did not happen to be one of those who would say, “Hey, she was here before you,” but instead simply waited on whomever pushed their money or prescription in her face first. This is also pretty normal for here. I started to get impatient, then caught myself and realized I had nothing to rush off to today, nowhere to be by a certain time, and I could afford to wait as long as my patience held out.

Well, after about 15 minutes, it was wearing a bit thin. Two older women had each pushed past me (literally making me take steps to save my balance), so finally I edged my own way up to the window. Yay! Finally I was going to get my stuff and get on my way! Until 3 nömrəli xanım (older woman number three) thrust her arm past my ear and the clerk waited on her. I turned around to the woman and asked, “Seriously??” She wouldn’t even look at me. So I decided enough was enough, blocking the way to the window so nobody could pull that on me again, and the clerk ignored my presence and waited on someone else.

That’s when I stormed out.

And I don’t think anyone but me thought anything of it.

So now I’m trying to figure out which is worse…intimidating people with my Obviously Foreign Presence so that they give me space and stare holes in my head with their eyes? Or being The Invisible Woman Amongst Us. There’s a fine line in there somewhere, I’m convinced.

Sunday mornings

Through the wall behind my bed, I can hear the woman next door starting to do things in her kitchen. My room is barely getting light, and I turn over underneath my covers, determined not to let her industriousness influence me. Alas, it is bazar gün, also known as Sunday, and it’s the day I go to the main bazar in town to do my grocery shopping. I could conceivably go on other days, but I did that once only to find that the number of women selling dairy products is cut by about 75%.....bazar gün is definitely the day to go. Unfortunately, this means getting out of bed. By about 10am, the best food is pretty much gone (Azeri women would say by 8:30, but I really don’t like getting out of bed when it’s cold out), and since it takes me a half hour to get to the bazar, I need to get up.

I didn’t used to worry so much about my dairy products. In the States, I relied on half gallons of homogenized, pasteurized milk from the super market, vacuum-packed blocks of cheese and little 6oz cups of Yoplait yogurt, cherry and orange-cream, if you please. But here in Azerbaijan, I’ve gotten hooked on the real stuff. I don’t buy the fresh milk yet, because it intimidates me that I would have to boil it, and then what do I do with the cream (except mix it with a little sugar and pile it on some fresh bread)(which is bad)(well delicious, but bad)? I don’t buy the milk, but I do buy the fresh pendir (cheese) and qatıq (yogurt). The qatıq is plain (aka, kind of sour) and I will admit here and now that I have become addicted to it. Every morning I eat about 10oz of it, and when I don’t have it I’m very sad. So I have this huge jar I use to buy my qatıq….it’s a ‘bring-your-own-container’ system at the dairy section of the bazar. My huge jar, which holds at least two liters, costs a manat-20 to fill with fresh qatıq, which is about $1.60. I think that’s the same price as two or maybe three of those Yoplait cups.

When you buy qatıq, you find it doesn’t all taste the same. If you don’t like sour yogurt, and, take my word for it, it gets more sour by the day in your fridge, the best thing to do is ask if it’s şirin (sweet) and then taste it. There’s a method to the tasting, which caused me much embarrassment before I knew the deal. What you’re supposed to do is hold out your hand (palm up or down, it doesn’t matter), then the potential vendor will spoon a little onto your hand and you lick it off. You do NOT try to take it off the spoon, either with your fingers or mouth. Trust me. So the dairy section of the bazar is always my first stop, then I get anything else heavy and solid, like potatoes, onions, stuff like that. I try to be strategic when I shop, as I have to carry everything home in a bag on the bus, and it’s easier to pack as I shop rather than try to rearrange everything later.

Last on my list are always the yamurta (eggs) and çörək (bread). I have found that even if the price of eggs is 15 or even 20 qəpik per egg, if I ask for one manat’s worth, they always give me extra. Which is awesome, especially since it’s inevitable that I will break one on the way home. Part of this is because they ‘pack’ the eggs in a plastic bag, but part is because by the time I buy them, my bag is full and heavy, and I get clumsy as heck.

This morning I wore my special “lucky” necklace, a stone of lapis lazuli which my brother-in-law brought home from Afghanistan and had set as a Christmas present for me. If you didn’t know, lapis lazuli is purported to bring good luck to its wearer. It worked. Because even though spinach cost 30-qəpik a bundle, when I asked for a manat’s worth, she gave me five bundles. And I received 8 eggs for a manat when their price was 15-qəpik each. AND, when I went to buy my bread, the guy saw me waiting and had my order ready for me when I walked up!

It made sacrificing and having to pry myself out of bed kind of worth it after all.