Channeling that inner little boy

This evening after work, my host sister was preparing some fruit for drying. She had this big bowl with what look like little bitty plums soaking in water, and a cookie sheet with the finished cut and seeded fruit. I asked if I could help, knowing she really doesn’t like doing stuff like that, grabbed a knife and sat down. It’s summer here right now, and it’s darned hot. Though we have mountains just west of town, we’re apparently in the drought shadow. Those of you reading this in Albuquerque can probably understand this concept….depending on where you live in town, you either get rain or you don’t. Proximity to the local mountains matters. At any rate, here in my little town in Azerbaijan, we’re apparently in the “no rain” part. I read Facebook posts all the time of friends located near me who say it’s raining where they are, while I can only look wistfully at the occasional cloud scurrying away.

So we’re sitting there, halving fruit and putting it on the cookie sheet, and she asks her niece what time it is. Three hours and twenty minutes, she sighs….three hours and twenty minutes, not before she can eat…..three hours and twenty minutes before she can even have any water. During the holy month of Ramadan, the faithful who choose to fast are not allowed to eat or drink anything from about 5 in the morning until a certain amount of time after the sun sets. No tea, no bread, no water. I don’t know how she does it. Because it’s HOT and these darned summer days are LONG. And as we’re sitting there, preparing fruit, I try to get across a little empathy to her, to let her know I realize how difficult it is for her. Which, inevitably brings on one of Those Discussions.

Sən Kətoliksən?

No, I’m not Catholic, I reply.

Well, what are you?

Oh crap. This is difficult to explain to people in English and I sure as heck don’t know how to do it in Azeri.

So through lots and lots of gestures and mixed English and Azeri, I think (THINK) I get across that I think her belief in Islam is great for her, and that I believe in the energy of the Earth and connecting my internal energy with that source. At times I was trying to channel my internal little boy….you know him….the kid who can make those awesome noises with his mouth….the blowing-up noises and car noises and stuff. So I’m miming the Earth pulsing with energy (insert little boy noise here) and then gesture to myself and mime the same energy coming from me (insert same noise) and joining with the other, previously-existing energy. I can only imagine how hard she was laughing inside, but she was gracious enough not to do it to my face. Or maybe that expression of hers could be better read as semi-bewilderment. But at the end of it all, I think she actually understood.

I didn’t see her make any ‘hook-em-horns’ signs against evil, anyway.

And the fruit got processed and her burden lessened, which was basically the whole point of it to begin with. Minor awkwardnesses and increased miming skills notwithstanding.

Light

It's funny....I've always noticed the light in landscapes. I'm not sure I've always noticed it in people. Not consciously, anyway. But there are some....some people I've met recently who really resonate with me and when I've thought of them, when I think of them, there's always a glow about them. I don't know if it's their aura or energy field or what to call it, but it's there, coming from within. The magic most often happens when our eyes make contact. It's like the energy from me reaches out to the energy coming from them and connects, making one big blob, one big field of energy. It's an amazing feeling. I think that's what I'm missing when I'm alone, away from them. I'm missing their energy. And their eyes.

Animal, vegetable or mineral?

I get stared at in Azerbaijan. A lot. I know my coloring is a little different than the majority of the population. As are my build and facial features. And my hair is WAY short for this country’s female population. I didn’t come to this country thinking I was going to fit in, by any means. In the first city, my training city, the population is about 200,000. Historically, it has always been a city of immigrants. But I got stared at there a LOT. I mean, people stopping in the street just to watch you in disbelief kind of staring. You know, like you have three arms or an extra head kind of staring. Heck…I even had some guy follow me in his car, talking trash to me out of his window toward the end of my second month. I ignored him and was relieved when he turned a corner and drove off, but much to my dismay, he whipped around, came back, and blocked my path with his car. At that point I pulled out my phone and pretended to dial. He got the hint and left me shaking in my boots, so to speak.

When I moved to my permanent site out here in a town of, oh, 10-15,000, I actually didn’t get stared at as much, which shocked me. Women here in my new town (some of them) wear their hair shorter. And If I can use my host family members as examples, they seem more confident and self-assured here. I do still get stared at, but here it’s a little more understandable. It’s no less uncomfortable, mind, but it’s pretty unusual for foreigners to be out here in the territories, speaking English of all things. (Many people in my new town speak Russian, and presume I speak it, also. They are sadly mistaken.)

So, yeah. I still get stared at. But it’s not usually malicious any more. Just curious. Still uncomfortable, though. I have taken to wearing my big, huge sunglasses when I walk through town and pretending I’m Beyonce and the people staring just more of my adoring fans. I use this fantasy to keep myself sane and to try to keep a sense of humor about it all. Because if I don’t maintain that sense of humor, I’m afraid of what could happen.

We have had an out-of-town visitor this week, someone who speaks a bit of English and with whom I have occasionally spoken at length as we try each other’s language. But 24-7 togetherness isn’t what I was made for, and I treasure my solitude sometimes, retreating into my e-reader or online. So I’m sitting in the kitchen this morning with a little bit of time before I head into the office, and she asks me if I can help hull some raspberries. (We buy raspberries literally by the bucket here. It’s phenomenal. We pay about $6.50 a bucket, which is probably 20 half-pints…price them at your local store and be in awe.) So we’re hulling berries, me keeping an eye on the clock, and in conversation she mentions that I accompanied my host mom to the bazaar this morning.

“I want go bazaar with you. We go, yes? Interesting for me.”

Quizzical look.

She grins. “People look you, yes?”

“Yes, people look at me a lot. They stare.”

“Yes! We go together. Interesting me see people look at you.” She thinks it’s a game.

“I am not a toy,” I say. “Çox narahatdır,” I say. It’s very uncomfortable. “Mən xoşlamıram.” I don’t like it. She’s still grinning at the thought of accompanying me, watching people stare at me. Like I’m not real. Like I have no feelings.

Oh, honey, we are definitely NOT going to the bazaar together. Or anywhere.