Baby, you can drive my car...

I’ve been dreaming a lot lately. Most of my dreams, for some reason, have involved driving a car. Driving down the frontage road of I-25 in Albuquerque, wondering what I want to eat for dinner. Hugging the curves of a country road, wind in my hair, music playing. Just driving. I have always loved to drive. Sometimes, in my previous life, I used to fill up the tank, grab some snacks and water and just hit the road for hours on end. My favorite getaway used to be to find new roads I’d never been on before and just go see what was there.

I think I’m having these dreams because it’s been seven months now since I’ve driven a car. Seven months. It seems like an eternity. But while you’re in the Peace Corps, one of the fastest and surest ways to get asked to leave the program is to drive a vehicle. Vehicles include cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, basically anything motorized. And it’s so frustrating! I’ve had a driver’s license for 33 years. In fact, I still have it. Mostly because the last one I got, I actually like the photo on it, so it’s like a little triumph on its own. (Hey…don’t judge….in 33 years I’ve only had three drivers’ licenses with decent photos)

Here in Azerbaijan, I’ve been adjusting to not being able to drive. I take buses and taxis and, for the first four months at site, have had a driver to take me to and from work. Having a driver was not my choice. Because I have been living nearly four kilometers from the office (a 35-40 minute walk), they felt it unsuitable for me to be walking. And I must admit, during the heat of the summer, I was downright grateful. A little embarrassed (this is the Peace Corps, after all), but hey, it’s a cultural thing in Azerbaijan. Women, for the most part, just don’t drive here. In fact, they don’t even sit in the front seat of the car. But having a driver has just felt really weird. Like I really WAS Beyoncé. I tried to make myself feel better, tried to justify it as providing employment opportunities. But then I felt guilty again, because my driver didn’t actually live in my town; he stayed here all week just to be my driver, then went home to his family on the weekends. I have tried to ease my awkwardness by commiserating with him, expostulating at all of the other idiot drivers who are just completely inconsiderate and uncooperative. I know how he feels. But sometimes, I’m awfully glad it’s him behind the wheel and not me. Because driving here is an art.

Most roads here have no markings. The only place where they do, really, is in the capital of Baku, but that’s not where the volunteers live. Out here in the rayons (regions….think states, if you’re familiar with the US) markings are few and far between. Potholes, on the other hand, make up for the scarcity of markings. Because potholes and just bad road surfaces in general, well, that’s the norm. Even on the major cross-country highway which goes from one end of the country to the other…no markings, lots of potholes. The drivers just go along at 80, 90, 100 km/hour and slow to a crawl for each pothole. It’s crazy. I know, I know, they’re protecting their vehicle’s suspension, etc. But the roads are so bad it takes forever to get anywhere.

If it’s not potholes, it’s cows. Or sheep. I know what you’re thinking….how quaint! And it IS quaint on a small country road. Picturesque. Bucolic. All those great words. But on the major highway? Yes, even on that major cross-country highway there will be herds of cows and sheep being moved to pasture just wandering down the side of the road. Not on the shoulder, necessarily….sometimes they take up one of the two lanes. And everyone’s perfectly unconcerned. Because that’s how things roll in the ‘baijan. It’s cool. Chill.

I think I’ve seen some speed limit signs, too. They’re apparently just suggestions, but they’re there. And sometimes the yol patrul (traffic police) are out there, waving speeders over and presumably giving them tickets. I haven’t actually seen anyone receive a ticket, but I’ve heard rumors. So it’s fun to be in a car here, and it’s always an adventure.

Speed limits are suggestions, no road markings (for the most part, anyway), sheep, and, oh, have I mentioned other drivers? I say driving here is an art and I mean it. Because there’s an art to knowing exactly where the corners of your vehicle are, exactly how wide and long it is. And there’s an art to judging whether the space between those two cars hurtling along at 100 km/hr will actually be large enough to fit your vehicle, because you have a few seconds to decide before the oncoming truck flattens you. And the drivers let you in!! Drivers here are, in some ways, much more patient than in other countries. If someone’s passing you and cuts into the two meters between you and the car in front, it’s okay. Problem yoxdur! No horns, no gestures, no yelling, no problem. I think this is mainly karma at work. Because, inevitably, you’re going to do the same thing to someone else, and you wouldn’t want them treating you like that, would you? So you’re patient. Good to go.

Something else which is different than in the US is the sheer numbers of people in cars. I don’t mean the numbers of cars on the roads. I mean the numbers of bodies in a car. For the most part, if there are members of both sexes in a car, men will sit in front, women in back. Even if it’s just you and the driver, if you’re female, in the back you go. So if there are, say, three or four men and one or two women, normal seating would be three men in the front (if there’s a bench seat) and everyone else in the back. I told someone once that you just don’t see that often in the US…if there were so many people that men would need to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, well, they’d just take two cars. Our men don’t tend to get so cozy. Also, if you are taking a taxi, the general rule is three bodies in the back seat or the driver doesn’t go anywhere. You have to convince them and then pay extra for them to go. If you have five or even six people in your group and want to take a taxi, no worries….one or two in the front passenger seat, everyone else crams in the back. I can tell you that, for someone with even mild claustrophobia, this is enough to challenge your reserves of self-control. But at least when you’re crammed in like that, the lack of seat belts isn’t such an issue. Because seat belts here, especially in the backs of cars, well, they technically exist, but they’re usually not visible. Or functional. Once or twice I’ve been privileged enough to sit in the front seat and was questioned as to why I immediately fastened my seat belt. To be safe, I replied.

You know. Because of the sheep.

Adventures in house hunting

After five months of living beneath someone else’s roof, this following sixteen years of living either on my own or with immediate family members, I’m frothing at the bit for a chance to live once again by myself. In Azerbaijan, this is a very unusual situation. Very uncommon. Here, it’s normal for several generations and extended families to live under the same roof, often sleeping in the same room. I’m told it’s especially common to sleep all in one room in the winter, since they tend to only heat one room of the house. But I’m willing to be viewed as The Weird American, if only for the chance to live by myself.

Don’t get me wrong….there have been no problems living with host families. Problem yoxdur! I have always been comfortable with solitude, though, and feel myself chafing because, though I take advantage of the ability to close my bedroom door, I feel a twinge of guilt as I do so, and it irks me that I should have to feel guilty about wanting to be alone. There are some definite things I will miss, for sure, such as someone worrying about whether I need another blanket because the nights are turning colder. But the lure of living alone is difficult to resist.

Initially, I let my counterpart at work know I wanted to find my own place, so she informed some of the other people at work in hopes they would be helpful in finding a rental house. Alarm set in, though, when someone from the Baku office came and said to me, “I hear you want to move out and that there are problems where you’re living now.” WHAT?? “YOX! Problem YOXDUR!!” I explained emphatically that there are no problems and that I lived alone for so many years and grew to really enjoy it. Also alarming is the fact that the people in the Baku office were apparently discussing my situation without having spoken with me about it, and you know what happens when rumors spread….how they grow….I was in a near panic, worried that my host family here would hear through the grapevine that I am unhappy with them and their hospitality. I had to tell them. Now.

But how to do this without offending them? My language skills are still very basic. I got some help from the head of the language and cultural integration department of the PC office in Baku. But even if I memorized the phrases they sent, if my family started asking questions, I would probably end up fumbling around and who knows what unintentional impressions I might make. Or, if I didn’t memorize the phrases, I’d have to end up reading them off of a piece of paper, which would make me just the most pathetic person ever. I was nervous and quiet and pretty miserable, and finally I asked my counterpart from work if she would help me break the news. And that’s exactly what happened; she came and had a conversation with my host mom and everything has been hunky-dory since.

One of the men at work found out quickly that there is a vacant house near the center of town. The family apparently moved to Baku and some work was being done on the house, but it sounded great. However, either contact with the family was made and they don’t want to rent it, or contact was never made, or, well I don’t know. I just never heard anything more, even after asking.

We’ve had a bit of an “Indian summer” this week, with temps in the upper 60s, so I’ve been taking advantage of it and going for walks in the afternoons. On yesterday’s walk, I decided to see how my luck is working these days, and went house hunting on my own. I left the office and strolled toward the center of town, hoping to find something within walking distance of both work and a decent-sized grocery store. On a whim, I turned down a side street and started turning wherever it felt ‘right.’ I crossed the Tərtər Çay (Terter River), which is about two or three meters across at this point, and took a likely left.

About 50 meters down this side road, I see a very lost and distraught pışik (cat) coming toward me, tail straight up in the air and mewing plaintively every five or six steps. This little baby couldn’t be more than six weeks old and hasn’t had regular meals, from what I could tell. It didn’t avoid me, which told me it was truly desperate, so I stopped to pet it and offer what comfort I could. I spent several minutes there, crouched down, petting this kitten. This, naturally, drew the curiosity of a couple of boys headed home from school. I said, “Salam,” to them and, receiving no response, tried, “Hello,” to the same stony stares, so I returned my attention to the sweet baby at my foot, who had taken the opportunity afforded by my standing up to explore beneath my skirt. I happened to glance down the road and see a large cat. Hoping it to be the kitten’s mother, I picked it up and tried to get near the cat before it disappeared. Naturally, it went over a wall. But I put the kitten down in hopes it wouldn’t wander off again.

At this point, a young man of about 22 came out of his gate and was staring at me. I tried to show that I was enamored with this helpless kitten, but he just shook his head. Crazy foreigner. I went further down the road on my hunting expedition and came across a small flock of pullets which, amazingly, came to me when I stopped and beckoned to them. Until they realized I had no food, that is, at which point they made a beeline right back to the gate from which they’d escaped. I decided to head back to work but once I’d made it back to where I’d left the kitten, some young girls came around the corner. I greeted them and, lo and behold, they greeted me back! So I took a chance and told them I was from America and that I’m looking for an available house nearby. This drew the young man into the conversation, as well as his buddy who’d shown up in the meanwhile. “Hello, what is your name?” he asked. I told him in Azeri and we spoke back and forth for a bit, and the girls told him I was looking for a house. The guys seemed to know who to ask!

So the three of us headed back out toward the main road, chatting in Azeri as we went. At one point, the friend stopped and knocked at a gate and spoke with a young woman there. She seemed to refer him to someone else, so we headed back the way we came. He had asked about the house next door to hers, which he believes to be empty. But as we were strolling, he started asking me questions with words I didn’t recognize, so I told him, “I don’t understand,” and he got frustrated. He was asking questions about pul (money), and I wanted to know what he was saying, so I asked him to wait a sec and called my counterpart, asking her to speak with him. She told me later that he asked her WHY she had allowed me to go out by myself (SERIOUSLY??) and said that nobody would rent a house to me because I couldn’t speak Azeri. She told him that I CAN speak it, but that I don’t have a large vocabulary yet. Apparently, that made no difference in his eyes. (This is absolutely one of the most frustrating things I’m discovering about living in a foreign country….the assumption that, if you don’t speak the language with some fluency, you’re somehow stupid or inexperienced. This might have been a bit easier to swallow at 25 than it is at 50.) Now, he may have meant people wouldn’t want to negotiate a contract with me if I didn’t have more advanced language skills, but somehow I don’t think so.

I told the guys that I needed to get back to work, so we turned back toward the main road. I was beat. Hot, wearing too many layers for the day, mentally drained from retrieving language, interpreting meaning, gestures and tone of voice….I headed back to work with a sigh of relief. Before we parted, they were asking me about my parents for some reason. Apparently, I’m not ready to live on my own.