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.’