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.

Futbol!!

So one day in class, my language instructor (LCF) mentioned he was going to get together with some friends to play soccer, and did any of us want to join him. Aaahhhhhh….futbol! It’s been a full decade since I last laced up my cleats (which I also donated to a non-profit in March), and I’m horribly, horribly out of shape for it, but futbol!! Heck yeah! I was game!

The next day, having had time to undertake a little sober reflection of the very real possibility of my keeling over five minutes into the match, I tried to gracefully back out. I tried citing the fact that I was in the midst of a chest cold (nada), that I’m not in shape for soccer (which received absolutely no acknowledgement whatsoever), that it’s just been too long since I last played, to which my lovely LCF replied, “but you have to play. You will set such a good example!” Crap. My colleague (also in for the game) asked the LCF if this was basically just a chance for him and his friends to laugh at the Americans’ futbol skills, and received an answer in the affirmative. Oh yay. How enticing.

The day dawned bright and hot. Four hours of language classes in the morning followed by language assessment tests in the afternoon, then play time. About a dozen of us gathered at the astroturfed, fenced-in quarter-size pitch, and started warming up. A little dribbling and about three shots on goal later, and my quads were already burning. And it was HOT. Teams were decided and the game started, and right from the get-go I let my team know they shouldn’t count on me to run a whole lot. I started getting light-headed, so I dumped some of my oh-so-precious water over my head and down my jersey. On the pitch, off the pitch I went, listening to my aging body and advising the youngsters to do the same to theirs.

We had a fun time; it was fun to see the different personalities come out on the field of competition. Some people ended up being surprisingly talented and skilled, some ended up being über competitive. I tried not to take anything too seriously and just enjoy myself, rooting for everyone on both teams whenever they did a good job. I did (accidentally, I swear) put a couple of guys on the ground with my defensive skills, one of whom I have to see on a daily basis, but it’s all good. Everyone had a fantastic time and I’m pretty sure this won’t be our only match during PST.

We played four days ago. I am finally able to walk almost normally again.

Ich Bin Ein Enfant

The Dreaded LPI….Language Proficiency Interview. It happens after receiving about four weeks of language training, and consists of a 10-15 minute interview by the head of the Language and Culture department. The LPI doesn’t really count for anything. It’s not graded, really, and is just meant to be an assessment of where you are at the current time, what your strengths are and where you could stand to focus your language studies (i.e., improve). It’s not a huge deal, and there’s no real way to study for it. It’s kind of like taking the SATs or GRE. Only it’s completely oral. And even though it’s not graded, that doesn’t mean you don’t still sweat over it. Except I didn’t. But maybe I should have.

My LPI progressed nicely, I thought. I was asked to talk about my family, my house, what I do and where I live and from whence I hail. Things like that. Then I was tossed a curve ball….a question in the future tense, which my language cluster had not studied yet. I recognized most of the words, but couldn’t place the meaning of the question, and I didn’t know why. Strike one.

The interviewer, seeing my confusion, abandoned her tack and tried another. I was asked to choose a card with a scenario in English, read it out loud (oh….did I forget to mention this entire interview was being recorded for later perusal (and, I’m assuming, hilarious entertainment) by the evaluating staff? Yeah. No pressure), and then role-play. I was able to wrack my brain and ask her one question before my brain emptied of all coherent thought. One. One question. She even tried to prompt me, and I just sat there, mouth gaping open and shut like a fish out of water. Strikes two, three, four and five.

Ah well. I knew all along my grasp of the language is tentative at best. I was told I need to work on my case endings and vocabulary (no big surprise there, as those are the very two things I noted on my self-assessment form a few days prior), and I was asked if I’d sought private tutoring yet. That was a blow to the old ego, for sure. Dang. So I left her office, lower lip protruding only slightly (I hope) and not trembling (I’m pretty sure).

Two days later, after yet another bewildering day of language training during which my brain AGAIN shut down and my emotions flooded to the surface, much to the consternation of my wonderful LCF/instructor, I was feeling pretty hopeless and useless and all of the other “less”es you can find in your dictionary. I texted my LCF that evening and apologized for my in-class breakdown, and received a reply reassuring me that all was and would be well, and not to worry about it. Several minutes later, I received yet another text, this one with the results of my LPI.

Out of the ten possible levels of language acquisition, I had already achieved the fourth level. At the end of our pre-service training, we’re expected to have attained a level five or better. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel!

In the meanwhile, I’m afraid to tell my host family about the results of my assessment. I’d hate to inform them that I managed to score as high as anyone else in my 27-person team. I’m afraid to tell them this because of what it would probably do to their image of the Peace Corps. I’m afraid, because when I’m home with them, I can do barely more than speak in infinitives….root words…..and I sound like a toddler. I am no longer feeling like a competent, accomplished businesswoman who has bounced back from challenge upon challenge. No, these days, I am generally feeling like a toddler…..unable to fully communicate, unable to adequately express my feelings.

Ich bin ein enfant. I am a child.