Rugless

Bare floors. Tile, linoleum, wood, it doesn’t matter. Their commonality is that they’re hard and often cold. This past week, I slipped and landed on one. HARD. Not literally, thank goodness….having a hip replaced would be a real drag at this point, regardless of the possibility of traveling to Thailand to have it done. No, I fell on the bare floor quite figuratively enough, but it was just as shocking and hurt a lot just the same.

Feeling like a fish out of water in Azerbaijan is to be expected. It’s a different culture, the people don’t look like folks in the US do, the obvious language difference, the not-so-obvious behavioral differences. Dorothy, you are no longer in Kansas. Welcome to Oz. Or rather, AZ. This is not yo momma’s country no mo.  

Before I left the US for this two-year tour, I did my research. I found just where the heck Azerbaijan lies on the globe, learned a few key introductory phrases…you know, the basic stuff everyone does when they get ready to travel somewhere new. New alphabet? Okay…not so horrible; only six additional letters. Meh. Bring it on. Business track….”community economic development?” Not exactly what I had in mind when I applied, but okay. I’ll figure it out.

First couple of weeks, I was golden. Things went positively swimmingly, if I do say so myself. The culture is fascinating. Learning to live in a close-knit family after so many years either alone or with one or two grown-ish children has been an adjustment, but not too much of one. Even the language immersion hasn’t been too terribly painful. Until last week. Ten days ago, I was extremely confident and was catching on to new concepts quickly. Then I hit a wall. Even if I understood new things in class (and we were learning something new and more complex on a daily basis), when I went home and did the homework, I was messing up. Understand this: Azerbaijani only has about 3,000 individual words. But the meanings of these words change completely depending on which and how many suffixes are added to them. So if you have a basic noun like talimchi (trainee) and you add, say, -yam to it, it becomes talimchiyam, or I am a trainee. Consequently, if you add –lar to it, it then becomes talimchilar, or trainees. And if you add –larizim to it, it becomes talimchilarizim, or we are trainees. Depending on the final vowel in the word receiving the suffix(es), the vowel in the suffix will either be an i with or without a dot, or a u with or without an umlaut. There are different suffixes for plurals, possessives, objects, adjectives….it’s completely crazy. At least to my feeble little brain it is, anyway. Someone asked our language instructors how many suffixes there are in Azerbaijani and they just laughed, saying there are far too many to count. OMG, okay? Oh my gravy.

So, as I said, things were going along SWIMMINGLY. Then the wall. But, I reasoned, even if I stumbled in my language classes, eventually it would all click and I’ll bounce back. Just a minor slip up. No worries….I was still competent in the technical training bit. I had that leg to stand on until both feet were back beneath me. Then somebody pulled that darned rug. Technical training suddenly became just that….technical. Lots and lots of business terminology and things and best practices with which I am unfamiliar. Panic. Boom. The floor came rushing up to hit me. Suddenly, I wasn’t standing on one wobbly leg. I was standing on NOTHING. I had nothing to lean on; nothing to brace me up. I was on that hard, bare floor, lip trembling, just as helpless as I have ever been. I had one tool….my voice. I used it and someone heard. Someone heard!! Oh god, someone HEARD me!

One of my classmates asked me to take a walk and told me everything reassuring she could possibly think of, and then some I’m convinced she pulled out of thin air. We walked out into the schoolyard, she with her arm around my shoulders, speaking soothing reassurances to me, and I cried. It only caused a very minor scene with the twelve-year-old boys clustered out there, but quite frankly, they were not my concern. At my lowest point, when I thought I had nobody who understood, nobody who cared, I was dead wrong. I had my friend.

We walked, talking and sniffling, and halfway around the block, met up with two other classmates who had gone the other direction. They were all amazing….one offered me a good, tight hug, another plied me with a huge bag of cheese potato chips he wouldn’t stop sticking within reach of my hand. I haven’t eaten that many chips in I don’t know how long.

Several someones heard. It’s all going to be okay. I am NOT alone.

Pocht Adventures

During a break in school the other day, I went for a walk around the block in a direction I hadn’t yet explored. A volunteer who was in town staying with my family for the week advised always making yourself known to the workers at the local post office where you might receive mail someday. Post office workers here can be pretty mean and sometimes rude, I was told, but it’s still a good idea for them to know who you are.

So I came to the pocht (that’s phoenetic, as my current keyboard doesn’t contain some of the letters of Azerbaijan’s alphabet), and popped inside. There is a bulletin board and a counter, with several women working behind the glass barrier. I introduced myself as an American (man amerikaliyam) and then got lost in a pantomime, trying to find out if they had any boxes for mailing packages. No, they have no boxes. So I thanked them and went back on my merry way around the block. Around the corner I discovered a largish grocery store with a LOT of food labeled in Russian and, naturally, Philadelphia cream cheese. Because you never know.

Later in the day, another couple of trainees (talimchilar) wanted to go down and mail a letter to the states, so I went with them. While one was working on the letter and I was busily trying to decipher the items on the bulletin board, the one of us with the most language proficiency was being addressed by one of the workers. Unexpectedly, I hear, “Leigh, can you help?” So I go over and try to understand what this very gregarious, friendly woman is saying in rapid Azerbaijani. I think I hear her ask for my name, so I give it to her, but she apparently thinks it should have more syllables or something, because she doesn’t recognize it as a name. As she continues to try to get her point across and I continue to look more bewildered, suddenly, out of her mouth pops, “Wie hiesst du?” My mind goes instantly back to high school, where I studied German for years….I’m sorry, but are you really speaking German?? “Sprechen Sie Deutsch??” She laughs and reintroduces herself, at which point I repeat my name and we all introduce ourselves and briefly tell her why we’re there.

As we leave the pocht, laughter follows us out the door. This is a good thing…I have a package to mail this weekend and I could use some sympathetic patience from them when I go back.

BRAYN-ded

Brain-dead: adj. The state of being unable to think coherently. Commonly occurs following nine hours of school, half of which is conducted in a language foreign to one’s own. Syn: mute, idiotic, useless. Example: see Leigh.

I do well in my four-hour language classes. Well, relatively speaking, anyway. And that’s even following several hours of technical training. Pronunciation? No problem. Context? It’s getting there. Vocabulary? Meh. My teachers seem decently impressed enough. I’m a good mimicker. I listen to what they say and parrot it back to them correctly on a regular basis, occasionally adding a more advanced nuance or variation here and there as I think of one. Pretty smooth sailing.

Then I go home.

Somewhere between the door of the classroom and home, somewhere in that brief 15-minute walk, my brain says, “okee doke, that’s it. I’m done. See ya tomorrow.” I arrive home to a cheerful, sociable family and turn into an imbecile. I mean, it’s bad. They can ask me the simplest things, and if I understand the context (Yemek? Oh, mealtime?) and my brain hasn’t shut down completely, I can maybe form a correct response. Usually, though, I just smile and nod and head for the table. I nod yes when they ask if I’m tired; I can’t even remember enough to say the word, “ha.” I mean, it’s just pathetic. I feel like a moron, and I’m sure they have sincere doubts I’ll EVER make it in Azerbaijan. There are times I’m tempted to agree with their assessment, but I know better. I know that eventually it will click. I KNOW it will. It HAS to. I can’t go on being an idiot forever.

First Free Day

After a week in-country and not having much more than an hour to myself thus far, my first “free” day (i.e., no school or training) finally arrived. My sanity being on the precipice, it could not get here soon enough. I woke before the rest of the family, which was unfortunate in that there would be no warm greeting or hot tea waiting for me to consume. On the other hand, it meant I could go back to my room and actually goof off without having to think too hard. Tea be damned….not thinking wins out every time! There’s just something about not being on display or on edge, wondering if someone’s going to speak to me and if they do, whether or not I’ll understand what the heck they’re saying….there’s just something about chilling which is oh-so-irresistible at this point of the game. After an hour and a half of reorganizing my school papers into my newly-purchased expanding-multi-pocket folder, reading the assignment due this Thursday and jotting down some questions, the old stomach was starting to growl. Luckily, I have a stash of mandarin oranges, water and assorted snacks. (This shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who knows me, but might to my Azerbaijani mama.) The family starts to get up, and there’s a new surprise for breakfast this morning. In addition to the chorek (bread), yagh (butter), sur (kind of a whipped sour cream cheese) and hazelnut spread I have each morning, there’s a dish of something like sweetened condensed milk, which is spooned onto the bread and eaten. It’s good, but for me adds nothing but calories. Post-breakfast, Mama teaches me how to use the washing machine for my laundry, and I get out my computer to attempt to make a Zumba playlist. I showed the older of my two sisters here a few moves the first day I moved in, and she expressed an interest in exploring the wonders of Zumba, so that’s on my agenda for the day. After sitting all week, it will be great to actually do something besides walking to training and classes. (Just a note: literally within thirty minutes of arriving at my new home, my sister and mother informed me that, “you’re not very fat.” I let them know I thought this was a good thing.)

Unbeknownst to me, Mama has paid more attention to the laundry than I, and has hung my things out on the line in the yard to dry, much to my embarrassment. Feeling a little useless, I do a little weeding in the garden she planted this week. The sun feels so good, and the pishik (cat…well, kitten, really) I made the mistake of befriending (i.e., petting because nobody else pays it much attention) came running over to be petted and scratched. Mama walked by as I was petting it, and I mimicked its purring. She didn’t seem impressed. At about 1:30, my sister came to me and said I should put on nicer clothes because we were going over to her aunt’s house for a henna party. This wasn’t what I had in mind for the day, really….I was looking forward to zumba-ing, showering, and walking around town taking pictures. But okay, a henna party sounded interesting. So I put on a knee-length black skirt, a work top and the black tights suggested by my sister, which I thought was a bit of overkill but which saved me from getting a chill later. Off to the aunt’s house we went. There ended up being about two or three dozen women there, seated at a loooonnng table shoulder-to-shoulder. For the first hour or so, we had a cup of tea and just sat and talked. At this point, while I’m doing well in my language classes, if I’m faced with someone asking a question I’m like a deer in the headlights and my mind goes nearly completely blank. I think Mama warned them I don’t have much proficiency yet, because they mostly ignored the fact I was there. Sometimes I could tell they were talking about me, but nobody really stared or made me feel uncomfortable….I just couldn’t understand much of anything and didn’t say more than two words. I tried not to think about how nice it was outside and how lucky I was to be invited to this party. I really did. But as the hours passed, I watched my free day slip away, helpless to do anything about it.

Eventually the food was served. First course was a mayonnaise salad….mostly mayo with some veggies mixed in. (this is very common in Azerbaijan; they’re heavy on the oils here) I watched in awe as a girl of about six devoured a plate of this salad with a tablespoon about three times larger than her mouth, and she didn’t spill one bit. After the salad course, bowls of potatoes and beef in an oily sauce with cilantro (not my favorite herb) were served. Everything here is served family-style, and people reach across each other without an “excuse me” to be heard, grabbing drinks or more food or napkins, etc. Also, conversation basically comes to a grinding halt when there’s food on the table. It’s time to get down to the business of eating. Meals are quiet and quick in Azerbaijan. The potato and beef  dish is quite good, despite the cilantro (again….ick), and once I’ve finished my serving, that plate is removed to reveal a clean one, just in time for the plov (national dish of rice with varying fruits, such as apricots) and some meat I’d rather not try to identify, thanks. It was all very good. VERY good. I just wasn’t ready to eat this much food today.

The best part of the day today was watching the facial expressions and body language of the women. On the street and in public, Azerbaijan’s women are extremely reserved and mostly wear dour expressions or downright scowls on their faces. Behind closed doors, though, it’s apparently a different story. Plenty of gesticulating to get a point across, lots of laughter, huge smiles and obvious teasing. Watching someone tell a story is the same in any language; so much can be gleaned from tone of voice and gestures. One nana (grandmother) at the other end of the table was bemoaning long and loudly about someone’s (an individual? A nationality? A generation?) rudeness because they don’t say, “choke sa-ole” (thank you very much) with any great frequency. After a bit, she moved to my end of the table, and when I had the opportunity I made sure to tell her, “choke sa-ole,” upon which she commented with a smile.

Score one for the amerikaliyam.

Making Friends

On Thursday, April 4^th, I met a group of people who will be integral in my life for the next two years. Included in this group are eight other people over 50, and 18 in their 20s and 30s, mostly 20s. Lots of new faces, new names, new personalities to learn all at once. It was a whirlwind of introductions, information and soft-skills training. A whopping six and a half hours of being bombarded and trying to keep people and their stories straight. That evening a dozen of us roamed Eye Street Southeast (in DC) looking for dinner, and we ended up at The Banana Leaf, a raucous, brightly-colored restaurant specializing in food from Puerto Rico and Cuba. Some ropa vieja and tostones under my belt (shared with my roommate, Amy), we were feeling pretty exhausted and headed back to the hotel. One final episode of Scandal and I was done-in. Friday morning we all filtered by ones and twos down to the hotel restaurant where there was a breakfast buffet. On the elevator I turned to a familiar face and asked if he’d slept well. He was very congenial and responded positively…a perfectly lovely exchange. Having eventually sat down to eat, though, I looked up and in walks the person I thought I had been talking to in the elevator. Yeah. I had been asking a complete stranger if he slept well. He was gracious enough to go with the flow, saving my face. Once I realized, I laughed it off. Hey, I’m old, yeah? I’ve got Donny Osmond song lyrics in my head…no room for all of these new faces and names! So Amy and some of the other young women and I are eating, and I go to make some toast at the buffet, when I see another familiar face. I animatedly said to this young lady, “good morning!” Not as gracious as the stranger in the elevator, she was startled then proceeded to glare at me. I went back to the table and fessed-up to Amy and the girls, and we all had a good laugh at Leigh the Friend-Maker. Here’s to the next two years.

Being Lucky

I’m a lucky one. I always knew that, of course, but joining the Peace Corps and moving to Azerbaijan has hammered that home. I gave up a very comfortable lifestyle in the States to come here and was ready for very primitive conditions. I got lucky. I live in a harmonious home with a “mom” ten years younger than me, a university student, and a young teenager, all female. That’s lucky point number one. Lucky point number two, my new mom is a great cook and every morning I get to eat a ton of bread with chocolate-hazelnut spread, accompanied by a bottomless cup of hot tea (chay; our is black tea, not the spiced kind Americans call chai). We’ve had meat in one form or another every day since I moved in (unlike some of my PC cohorts), and eat dinners together each evening. Lucky point number three: I not only have a real, western-style toilet, but a washing machine for clothes and warm showers. This is MOST excellent. Some of my friends here don’t have flushing toilets….just squat toilets out in the corner of the yard. But not lucky me! We have a separate bathroom just steps from the front door with the toilet, sink and shower. I’m in heaven. At least until June, when I leave Sumqayit and move to my new, permanent home. Who knows how lucky I’ll be then. 

Avtobus Fun

In the past two days, I’ve ventured into the world of public transportation. It’s incredibly, incredibly cheap (20 gepik, or about 27 cents, no matter how long you stay on the bus) and buses run very frequently. Buses are always an adventure. The ones I’ve been on have a single-wide row of seats on each side, leaving lots of room for standing and basically hanging on for dear life. You can hang onto the poles, you can hang onto the hand grips dangling from the ceiling, but by all means, you’d better be hanging on. Especially in the downtown sector. There are bus stops, but they are really just suggestions, since you can face traffic and wave your hand at any point in the bus route, and the bus will pull over to let you on. The same goes for stopping; if you want to stop, just rap a coin against the bus window to get the driver’s attention, then move your way to the front of the bus. You pay the driver as he lets you off. Except for the people who want the driver to take their money (and make change) as he’s navigating an intersection and pulling over, it’s all very efficient. The fun part comes in when the bus is stopped on the right side of the road and the cars in the left lane decide to turn right at the intersection, right in front of the bus as the light changes. Ever heard a car horn blaring? Yeah. Welcome to traffic in Azerbaijan.

Getting Around Sumqayit ("Soom-guy-it")

I brought the wrong shoes. I go to school or training of some sort from 9-6, six days a week. During this time, we have a business-casual dress code. Women don’t wear a lot of pants in Azerbaijan, so I wear skirts and dresses. I brought a pair of comfortable pumps and a pair of comfortable knee-high boots. Shouldn’t be a problem. It’s a problem. I do a lot of walking in Sumquayit. A LOT of walking. My short walking days are when I go to the local “cluster” school for language and technical training. Those days aren’t bad; only a 15-minute walk each way. At least once a week, the entire AZ11 group meets at the Hub school, which is more like a 30-minute walk each way. None of this would be much of an issue, except the roads and sidewalks, what there are of them, are often crumbling or don’t really exist…many sidewalks are really just dirt paths next to the streets, so we end up walking in the streets instead. Again, not an issue….until you realize pedestrians definitely do NOT have the right-of-way in AZ, and the drivers are pretty much out for themselves, period. You might occasionally come across a crosswalk here and there, but it doesn’t mean much; the drivers just blow right through them. So, basically, the strategy is to walk the fine line between being bold and being careful. Bolful. That’s pretty much it. Walking to school or downtown (a 40-minute walk), then, is always an adventure. At this point I don’t dare wear my tennis shoes; they just aren’t seen much on women here. I brought the wrong shoes.

Sayin' Goodbye

So I headed off to Washington, DC, for staging, pausing to spend a precious couple of days with my sisters, Kim and Christi, Brother-in-Law Bob, nephews and nieces, and my parents. I only had one full day, really, so I tried to make it really count. My dad loaned me his brand new car, and my sister Kim and I bundled up Mom, got her into the front seat and her wheelchair in the trunk, and took off for an adventure. It was a brisk, beautifully bright morning in the 40s, and there was a bit of a wind coming in off of the Tidal Basin. We parked, got Mom in her chair, tucked a blanket around her legs and headed off to the new MLK, Jr. Memorial. Though we'd hoped our positive thoughts would change it, the fact remained that the cherry blossoms, though on the verge of popping out, were clamped decidedly shut with the rare exception of probably two branches. We came upon the FDR Memorial by surprise, none of us having realized where in the District it was. Lots of loud waterfalls, lots of quotes from his four terms in office...I'll tell you, we have had some great men holding the office of President of this country. Not many, but some really incredible ones among the few.

Because it was so brisk and Mom kind of immobile in her chair, we headed back to the car rather quickly. Having successfully driven straight to the Tidal Basin after who knows how many years away from DC, I was feeling a bit cocky and decided to try to find the staging hotel while we were in the vicinity. It only took one wrong turn (and a right, another right and another right again) to get me to say, "hmm...maybe this wasn't such a bright idea." I followed the sign to get on 395 South, and lo and behold, my hotel popped up directly in front of the car!! It was miraculous! And if anyone other than my mother and sister been in the car, I would have insisted I'd known exactly where I was going all along.

Headed back down the GW Parkway, I talked my Mom into consenting to go to Mount Vernon for a light lunch of their signature peanut and ginger soup. There was really very little protest, since, after all, I was the one driving. But I would have turned around if she HAD protested. I'm not that mean. It took several attempts, but at the third (and final) parking area at MV, we finally located a handicapped parking space and got into the restaurant. Lucky us! Only a 40-minute wait!! 

It was so worth it.