“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.