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.
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