Hello, friends!
Wow, it's been so long since I've written that I hardly know where to begin. I don't even remember when I last wrote an email home. Yikes. So, I suppose it would be best to submit a flurry of updates to you today:
1) The T-18s did not come. And it looks like we will not get another group until (hopefully) March and then again next October. What happened? As best as we can tell, there was some miscommunication.
2) The Pit of Hell was a) cool and b) not the crater of lava that I had imagined. Not surprising, no one ever said it was a lava pit, but I had visions of Mt. Doom dancing in my head. It was a crater of burning rocks. But still cool. And it's been burning for over 40 years! (Cue: "We Didn't Start the Fire" or "Ring of Fire") I'll try to post pictures.
3) I finally got my computer back! Woo-hoo! Try living for 5 months without a computer - not having internet is bad enough but no computer, egads. As a result, I'm exercising more (thanks to my yoga and P90X workout videos) and reading much less (I'm so addicted to TV series. I don't watch a lot of movies, but give me an interesting TV series and I can't stop watching. Current favorites: Top Chef, Glee (wow, great show), season 5 of The Office, and of course, the latest season of Lost (which I know I'm way behind in watching, but at least I finally got to see it. And OMG what a cliff-hanger.
4) My program manager Rahman came to visit a few days ago and was really pleased with my work and my idea for a classroom remodel/creation of an adjacent resource room. It was most gratifying to get some positive feedback because it's the only feedback I get. Ever.
5) My counterpart and I are finally getting an idea of where above project is going. I'm hoping to have my grant application written by January. Which she's already told me that I will have to do by myself because she "doesn't understand" even though we both attended the same seminar and the seminar was given in Turkmen. Sigh. Oh well, If I don't do it, it won't get done. Not a very sustainable attitude, but these days I take heart in the saying "Is it better to be right or effective?" I'm going for effectiveness here.
6) And that reminds me: around my year mark I was pondering ways in which I'd changed over the past 12 months. And you know, from my perspective, I don't think I've changed all that much. However, I think I am a heck of a lot more patient. For a while I was wondering if I've just become resigned to dealing with things that frustrate me, but then I thought, well, if that's not patience, then what is? Also, I think I'm definitely more mature. Case in point: when I was preparing to come to T-stan, I remember being very frustrated with the clothing, long skirts/dress issue. I was ticked that I had to conform to another culture's norm. Hah. Such naivete. Now, I could care less. In fact, I've taken to only wearing my Turkmen dresses to work because it cuts down on time spent deciding what to wear and, also, Turkmen love it when I wear their clothes. It's honestly the only time anyone has called me beautiful, so there you go. And I used to attempt to match outfits. Now, that's a forgotten notion. Friday, I wore a purple and white checkered sweater, a giraffe print dress, blue argyle socks, and floral shoes and I liked it! And no one batted an eye. I'll miss this back home. And adopting cultural norms? Well, it makes total sense.
7) I'm traveling to Thailand and Cambodia! I'm going with a few other volunteers. We leave on December 27th and return January 14th. of course, being here hasn't cured me of my over-active guilty conscience and I feel bad about the few days of work I'll have to miss (we do get 2 weeks off school, but the flight schedule didn't leave us with too many options for going and returning). Rahman aforementioned Program Manager, didn't have a problem with my plans and as such I am feeling less guilty. Well, really, not at all.
8) I have reached my quarter century mark. We celebrated my 25th birthday a few weeks ago, Turkmen style. It was fun, actually. Lots of Turkmen ladies came and gifted me totally useless stuff that I'll never be able to take home (glasses, plates, etc.) but the thought we nice and we had good food. I made a carrot cake with cream cheese icing! Delicious.
9) Is it just me, or did this year go by wicked fast? Jeeze. I can't believe it's almost December. It's scary how quickly I perceive time passing. I suppose it's because I'm really busy this year, which is a good thing, but I'm also worried. Before I know it, I'll be grey haired and retired. Not ready for that.
10) And yes, with December, that brings an end to Elliot's Peace Corps service. He's leaving December 6th, so I'm on my own after that. The closest person to me will be Kelsey, and she's 35 minutes away by car. I'll be okay. But I'm going to miss Elliott for sure.
11) It's Thanksgiving! It could possibly be my last Thanksgiving in Turkmenistan. Did I send out a list of things I am thankful for last year? I can't remember. Well, in any case, here are a few more: lunch meat, dogs in the house, affectionate parents, books, USPS, appreciation of good food (Twinkies-like food isn't a delicacy at home), common sense and logic, good education, competent health care, and a culture of good dental hygiene. We celebrated Thanksgiving as a group yesterday. It was the last time to see several of our friends. After eating, we watched a Will Ferrell comedy routine lampooning former President Bush (43). And we all marveled that that sort of routine was okay at home. That one can say just about anything without facing persecution, jail time, exile, or worse. It's a pretty amazing concept and something we all agreed that we're thankful for...free speech.
Happy Thanksgiving! And don't forget to floss :)
Love,
Jessica
Monday, November 23, 2009
Reminder to our readers:
This blog is solely the responsibility of Jessica Hoover and does not reflect the views of Peace Corps.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The art of the TOQUE
Hi gang :) Fall weather has hit Turkmenistan and boy, it's made me long for home. We don't have quite the array of colors to admire here, just yellows and browns. However, there's a lot to look forward to: I'm going to a wedding tonight. My friend Annie's counter part is getting married and invited us all! It's unique a) because Jennet is 31 (not the typical 20-23) and b) she's hired an Uzbek singer and dancer! Not the kind of wedding I'm used to! This coming weekend, I'll be traveling to the "Pit of Hell" in the desert north of Ashgabat. It's a giant gas crater in the desert that was lit on fire years ago and has been burning since. Should be interesting. THEN, the following Sunday we're having a Halloween party at Elliott's and on November 8th I've invited all the volunteers and several Turkmen from my village to my birthday party. It's shaping up to be an eventful 3 weeks!
In my last email I alluded to the fact that the next group of volunteers was not going to arrive when expected. Well, it turns out they're not coming at all. No one is exactly sure why, but PC was informed last minute that T-stan didn't want volunteers this year. It even made the news back home! Here's are a few articles: http://www.rferl.org/content/Turkmenistan_Denies_Entry_To_Peace_Corps_Volunteers/1849867.htmlhttp://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/10/09/ap/asia/main5373489.shtml
And, on to the good stuff:
In countries with cell-phone plans consisting of an alloted number of minutes and free nights and weekends, the toque isn't necessary. But in Turkmenistan and, I'm assuming, other countries where you pay-per-call (and here you also pay more when you call rather than when you are called) the toque reigns supreme. A toque: when one doesn't want to spend money calling another person, but wants to speak with said other person, one dials the number, listens for the call to go through, and upon hearing the first ring immediately hangs up. This says, "I don't want to use my money to call you, so please call me." Toque is not Turkmen -- it's Spanish (it means "touch"), but there is no cute, concise way of expressing this idea in Turkmen. They use the verb "aylanmak" which means "to turn." You could call it a "turn around" I suppose, but I prefer toque.
In Turkmenistan, where entertainment is lacking, toques have become a game. To wit: the other day an unknown number kept calling Bagul's phone and hanging up right away. Were it me, I would not have cared and put my ringer on silent. But Bagul was intrigued. "Who is it?" she wondered outloud. And so she began calling the number back and hanging up on the first ring. It went on like this for hours -- I watched as she kept her finger pressed to the green answer button, wating for a call to come through so she could try and pick up before the caller hung up. I imagine the person on the other end doing the same. It didn't matter that the identities on either end were unknown to each other. It had become a competition: who can pick up fast enough? Eventually Bagul pounced and answered the phone before the caller had time to hang up. "Allo?" she said. No one was there. All the same, she was pleased. "I ate their money," she said triumphantly.
That does it for me this week. I hope you are all well and enjoying the fruits of the season (mmm, apple cider!)
Lots of love,Jessica
In my last email I alluded to the fact that the next group of volunteers was not going to arrive when expected. Well, it turns out they're not coming at all. No one is exactly sure why, but PC was informed last minute that T-stan didn't want volunteers this year. It even made the news back home! Here's are a few articles: http://www.rferl.org/content/Turkmenistan_Denies_Entry_To_Peace_Corps_Volunteers/1849867.htmlhttp://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/10/09/ap/asia/main5373489.shtml
And, on to the good stuff:
In countries with cell-phone plans consisting of an alloted number of minutes and free nights and weekends, the toque isn't necessary. But in Turkmenistan and, I'm assuming, other countries where you pay-per-call (and here you also pay more when you call rather than when you are called) the toque reigns supreme. A toque: when one doesn't want to spend money calling another person, but wants to speak with said other person, one dials the number, listens for the call to go through, and upon hearing the first ring immediately hangs up. This says, "I don't want to use my money to call you, so please call me." Toque is not Turkmen -- it's Spanish (it means "touch"), but there is no cute, concise way of expressing this idea in Turkmen. They use the verb "aylanmak" which means "to turn." You could call it a "turn around" I suppose, but I prefer toque.
In Turkmenistan, where entertainment is lacking, toques have become a game. To wit: the other day an unknown number kept calling Bagul's phone and hanging up right away. Were it me, I would not have cared and put my ringer on silent. But Bagul was intrigued. "Who is it?" she wondered outloud. And so she began calling the number back and hanging up on the first ring. It went on like this for hours -- I watched as she kept her finger pressed to the green answer button, wating for a call to come through so she could try and pick up before the caller hung up. I imagine the person on the other end doing the same. It didn't matter that the identities on either end were unknown to each other. It had become a competition: who can pick up fast enough? Eventually Bagul pounced and answered the phone before the caller had time to hang up. "Allo?" she said. No one was there. All the same, she was pleased. "I ate their money," she said triumphantly.
That does it for me this week. I hope you are all well and enjoying the fruits of the season (mmm, apple cider!)
Lots of love,Jessica
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
One year in Turkmenistan!
Hi folks! Just a quick reminder that tomorrow is my one year anniversary! And if you find yourself thinking that it doesn't seem that much time has passed, well, I agree. I'll try to send out a longer email next time I'm around the internet -- I intended to tomorrow because Elliott and I were going to go to Ashgabat to greet the newbies but problems occurred and the newbies will not be coming tomorrow....but eventually, hopefully -- anyway, I squandered my internet time looking for zucchini recipes and I've got to dash. BUT: ONE YEAR IN TURKMENISTAN!!!! One more to go :) Hugs, Jess
Enesh doesn't love Kemal
Love? ... and marriage
Enesh doesn't love Kemal. Not really. Not from the heart. And certainly not in the romanticized way I think two people should love each other when they're about to get married.I've never met Kemal, though I've seen him across the crowded, too loud dance parties (aka walk around in circles waving your hands back and forth) that pass for weddings here. He doesn't have much to recommend him as far as looks are concerned. She's definitely a lot more attractive than he is. But she says he's a good buy and believes he'll treat her right.Bagul isn't so sure. She heard he's slept with other girls -- taboo in the oba. Whether or not it was before he began dating Enejan, I don't know. But he's a guy, so it doesn't hurt his reputation as much.I ask Enesh if she's happy and she says yes. But she says shes' scared and she doesn't want to leave her house and family. She'll be moving in with his family the next town over. She says to be sure to visit because she'll miss me.I tell her not to get married. I know she's only dated Kemal for about 9 months and in that time, they've only seen each other at parties and nights when he comes over and she sneaks out of her home to meet him, telling her parents she's coming to our house. It sounds like behavior more appropriate for teenagers. Enesh is 23. But, in a village culture where even the most innocent brush of fingertips can set the gossip mill running, the cover of darkness is the only time young couples have to spend together. I don't know what Enejan and Kemal do or if they talk. I don't know how well they know each other. I know that Enesh's friends, many of whom are already married, pressured her into marrying, saying, "When are you going to set the date? Set the date!!"So I tell her, don't get married. And she looks at me and says, there is no other option. Really, there is. She could wait and see if someone better comes along. Someone she could really fall in love with. But she fears the likelihood of that happening around here is slim. So she settles for good enough. Besides, at 23 she's getting up there in age as far as Turkmen are concerned. At 24 going on 25, most women cluck their tongues at me when, in answering their inevitable question, I divulge that I am not married. Their jaws drop as they try to regain their grip on reality. The next question is, invariably, WHY? I reply that in America, I am still young. That many people wait for love, steady jobs, and/or a place to live before they marry. When I tell people that I probably won't get married until I'm at least 28 it a) scares me (so soon!) and b) sends them spitting down their dresses, hoping their daughters don't follow suit. I explained this all to my neighbor Gozel (Enejan's mother) after she encouraged me -- not for the first time -- to stay here and marry a Turkmen. When I finished, she shook her head and told me I have a "different head." I suppose the correct translation would be "different mindset", but somehow the literal "different head" seems more appropriate.Now, some girls do wait. Maybe their boyfriends are studying or working abroad. Bagul's cousin fell in love but the boy left her for another girl, now his wife. She waited until she was 30, casting away undesirable suitors until she broke down, tired of waiting, and settled for just being in like.After marriage, Enejan's next order of business is to get knocked up. Soon. If she isn't pregnant within the first two years or so of her marriage, suspicions arise. Her in-laws might take her to a doctor to undergo tests and determine if she's at fault. If the girl is infertile, the husband has grounds to divorce her and take another wife. If he's sterile the can "adopt" by buying a baby from a family member who already has enough children. If the women is infertile, she's of no use (although some men are more understanding and will still adopt). If it's the man, well, it's not really his fault. He couldn't help it.Women can be tossed from their married homes for less than that. The husband might decide that he doesn't need her. Or, maybe the mother-in-law thinks she's lazy or she sews too much or leaves the house too much. Grounds for removal. Of course, it's much more difficult for a woman to leave a man. And in either case, the man can easily re-marry. It's harder for the girl, who many will regard as second-hand goods. Friday night is Enejan's vecher -- the girl's wedding party. Two larger trailers are set up in the road. Inside one is a table for the bride and groom to sit at. The other, about 50 yards away, reveals a small stage with a a keyboard and ginormous speakers. The guests are invited to a meal at the bride's home after which they exit to the street for an evening of dancing. The musical entertainment consists of a couple of guys up on the stage playing a predictable line-up of music. Sometimes they even play the same song 3 or 4 times in one night! -- a big no-no at Home. The vocal tracks have all been altered so it sounds like the same nasal whine singing them all. There's a guy playing the keyboard and another singing. Although, if they walked away from the stage, the spectacle would go on without them. The whole act is just that -- an act: they're lip-synching and pretend playing their instruments.The bride and groom descend every now and then to dance among the crowd, but mostly they just watch, faces revealing no real emotion -- Enejan barely smiles. The women and men dance separately, for the most part. If they do dance together, it's a circle of men within a circle of women. Male dancing is particularly boisterous. They look like their doing a cross between the chicken dance and a River Dance. Not very attractive, and when they bust into the girls' circles, the girls generally drift away...The bride doesn't dance with her father or relatives. The wives don't dance with their husbands. And when the bride and groom do dance, they maintain a respectful distance between their bodies -- no slow-dance here. The following day has two separate parts: in the afternoon, the boy arrives at the girl's house to take her to his. In most cases, the couple moves into the boy's parents' home and the new bride immediately takes up the lion's share of the house work -- cooking, cleaning, and washing clothes. I'm not sure what happens when a family has multiple sons. I suppose the younger brothers have to find their own houses.The taking of the bride is so ritual that it is easy to ignore the video cameras and honking car horns and imagine the yurt-dwelling, nomadic society that began these customs. The bride eats one last meal with her friends and awaits the groom's arrival. She wears a traditional dress, her hair in braids, a scarf wrapped around her head. After the meal, she sits in a corner and cries.At first, I thought the crying was lame. A fake show put on by the brides because that's what they're supposed to do because it's been done that way since before anyone can remember. I thought, come on! This is so contrived -- weddings are supposed to be HAPPY! Then I realized that these girls are not as independent as my female compatriots and I are. They didn't go to college or summer camp. The most they've been away from home maybe is spending the summer with family in the city or other villages. If that. Now, they have to move into a strange house with people they barely know, filling a role they're totally new to. Of course they're sad. Of course they're scared. More than anything, this move signals the end of childhood for them.But Enesh doesn't just cry. She bawls, so much so that the doctor gives her a sedative. It is heartbreaking. I've been told many times that yes, the brides cry, but really they're very happy. Really. Frankly, I don't buy it. A happy woman's body doesn't collapse into sobbing while she waits for her husband. It looks the very opposite of the blushing bride to me. Enesh cries more than I did leaving my family, friends, culture and country to come to Turkmenistan, and she's just moving to the next village. A five minute car ride. A 10 minute bike ride. A 30 minute walk.The groom arrives for the bride flanked by family members cheering and the sounds of men playing drums and accordions. He enters the room where the bride cowers in the corner. A large embroidered coat is draped over her head and she's led out through the awaiting crowd to the car. (Can't you just picture this happening hundreds of years ago -- the arrival of one family to another's yurt, probably on horse-back, taking a much younger bride to a new home and to a husband she's probably never seen before? No wonder the women cried.)Kemal picks Enejan up. He frets that he has no flowers to present to her, but when someone locates a bunch of fakes, he just passes them off to someone else to carry. The jacket obscures Enejan's tear streaked face as they leave the room, wade through the on-lookers, and get into the car. They'll spend the next few hours driving around, honking the horn, announcing the marriage.Then Enejan heads to the salon in Kerki in order to be made-up for the boy's wedding the same evening. The ceremony is the same, only this time she wears a Turkmen rendition of a white wedding gown -- a gaudy outfit more appropriate for a Barbie than a real woman, studded with rhinestones and layers of sparkly cascading polyester. More food. More dancing. And then it's all over. Husband and wife. No crushing a glass, no exchanging of vows or rings. They don't even sign a paper until about 2 months later.Now her new life beings. And I hope that she's made a good decision. I hope that he is decent to her. I hope she is comfortable and content in her new home. I sigh and consider myself lucky. This way of marrying off daughters works for the Turkmen, and I know other cultures marry their girls at even younger ages to complete strangers, but I'm relieved that I don't have to face the same future Turkmen village girls do. I can wait as long as I want. Or, I never have to get married if I chose not to. And I can pick and be picky. I can find someone who shares my interests -- someone who skis, loves to read, and wants to travel the world with me. I have options and for that I cannot give enough thanks.Lots of love,Jess
Enesh doesn't love Kemal. Not really. Not from the heart. And certainly not in the romanticized way I think two people should love each other when they're about to get married.I've never met Kemal, though I've seen him across the crowded, too loud dance parties (aka walk around in circles waving your hands back and forth) that pass for weddings here. He doesn't have much to recommend him as far as looks are concerned. She's definitely a lot more attractive than he is. But she says he's a good buy and believes he'll treat her right.Bagul isn't so sure. She heard he's slept with other girls -- taboo in the oba. Whether or not it was before he began dating Enejan, I don't know. But he's a guy, so it doesn't hurt his reputation as much.I ask Enesh if she's happy and she says yes. But she says shes' scared and she doesn't want to leave her house and family. She'll be moving in with his family the next town over. She says to be sure to visit because she'll miss me.I tell her not to get married. I know she's only dated Kemal for about 9 months and in that time, they've only seen each other at parties and nights when he comes over and she sneaks out of her home to meet him, telling her parents she's coming to our house. It sounds like behavior more appropriate for teenagers. Enesh is 23. But, in a village culture where even the most innocent brush of fingertips can set the gossip mill running, the cover of darkness is the only time young couples have to spend together. I don't know what Enejan and Kemal do or if they talk. I don't know how well they know each other. I know that Enesh's friends, many of whom are already married, pressured her into marrying, saying, "When are you going to set the date? Set the date!!"So I tell her, don't get married. And she looks at me and says, there is no other option. Really, there is. She could wait and see if someone better comes along. Someone she could really fall in love with. But she fears the likelihood of that happening around here is slim. So she settles for good enough. Besides, at 23 she's getting up there in age as far as Turkmen are concerned. At 24 going on 25, most women cluck their tongues at me when, in answering their inevitable question, I divulge that I am not married. Their jaws drop as they try to regain their grip on reality. The next question is, invariably, WHY? I reply that in America, I am still young. That many people wait for love, steady jobs, and/or a place to live before they marry. When I tell people that I probably won't get married until I'm at least 28 it a) scares me (so soon!) and b) sends them spitting down their dresses, hoping their daughters don't follow suit. I explained this all to my neighbor Gozel (Enejan's mother) after she encouraged me -- not for the first time -- to stay here and marry a Turkmen. When I finished, she shook her head and told me I have a "different head." I suppose the correct translation would be "different mindset", but somehow the literal "different head" seems more appropriate.Now, some girls do wait. Maybe their boyfriends are studying or working abroad. Bagul's cousin fell in love but the boy left her for another girl, now his wife. She waited until she was 30, casting away undesirable suitors until she broke down, tired of waiting, and settled for just being in like.After marriage, Enejan's next order of business is to get knocked up. Soon. If she isn't pregnant within the first two years or so of her marriage, suspicions arise. Her in-laws might take her to a doctor to undergo tests and determine if she's at fault. If the girl is infertile, the husband has grounds to divorce her and take another wife. If he's sterile the can "adopt" by buying a baby from a family member who already has enough children. If the women is infertile, she's of no use (although some men are more understanding and will still adopt). If it's the man, well, it's not really his fault. He couldn't help it.Women can be tossed from their married homes for less than that. The husband might decide that he doesn't need her. Or, maybe the mother-in-law thinks she's lazy or she sews too much or leaves the house too much. Grounds for removal. Of course, it's much more difficult for a woman to leave a man. And in either case, the man can easily re-marry. It's harder for the girl, who many will regard as second-hand goods. Friday night is Enejan's vecher -- the girl's wedding party. Two larger trailers are set up in the road. Inside one is a table for the bride and groom to sit at. The other, about 50 yards away, reveals a small stage with a a keyboard and ginormous speakers. The guests are invited to a meal at the bride's home after which they exit to the street for an evening of dancing. The musical entertainment consists of a couple of guys up on the stage playing a predictable line-up of music. Sometimes they even play the same song 3 or 4 times in one night! -- a big no-no at Home. The vocal tracks have all been altered so it sounds like the same nasal whine singing them all. There's a guy playing the keyboard and another singing. Although, if they walked away from the stage, the spectacle would go on without them. The whole act is just that -- an act: they're lip-synching and pretend playing their instruments.The bride and groom descend every now and then to dance among the crowd, but mostly they just watch, faces revealing no real emotion -- Enejan barely smiles. The women and men dance separately, for the most part. If they do dance together, it's a circle of men within a circle of women. Male dancing is particularly boisterous. They look like their doing a cross between the chicken dance and a River Dance. Not very attractive, and when they bust into the girls' circles, the girls generally drift away...The bride doesn't dance with her father or relatives. The wives don't dance with their husbands. And when the bride and groom do dance, they maintain a respectful distance between their bodies -- no slow-dance here. The following day has two separate parts: in the afternoon, the boy arrives at the girl's house to take her to his. In most cases, the couple moves into the boy's parents' home and the new bride immediately takes up the lion's share of the house work -- cooking, cleaning, and washing clothes. I'm not sure what happens when a family has multiple sons. I suppose the younger brothers have to find their own houses.The taking of the bride is so ritual that it is easy to ignore the video cameras and honking car horns and imagine the yurt-dwelling, nomadic society that began these customs. The bride eats one last meal with her friends and awaits the groom's arrival. She wears a traditional dress, her hair in braids, a scarf wrapped around her head. After the meal, she sits in a corner and cries.At first, I thought the crying was lame. A fake show put on by the brides because that's what they're supposed to do because it's been done that way since before anyone can remember. I thought, come on! This is so contrived -- weddings are supposed to be HAPPY! Then I realized that these girls are not as independent as my female compatriots and I are. They didn't go to college or summer camp. The most they've been away from home maybe is spending the summer with family in the city or other villages. If that. Now, they have to move into a strange house with people they barely know, filling a role they're totally new to. Of course they're sad. Of course they're scared. More than anything, this move signals the end of childhood for them.But Enesh doesn't just cry. She bawls, so much so that the doctor gives her a sedative. It is heartbreaking. I've been told many times that yes, the brides cry, but really they're very happy. Really. Frankly, I don't buy it. A happy woman's body doesn't collapse into sobbing while she waits for her husband. It looks the very opposite of the blushing bride to me. Enesh cries more than I did leaving my family, friends, culture and country to come to Turkmenistan, and she's just moving to the next village. A five minute car ride. A 10 minute bike ride. A 30 minute walk.The groom arrives for the bride flanked by family members cheering and the sounds of men playing drums and accordions. He enters the room where the bride cowers in the corner. A large embroidered coat is draped over her head and she's led out through the awaiting crowd to the car. (Can't you just picture this happening hundreds of years ago -- the arrival of one family to another's yurt, probably on horse-back, taking a much younger bride to a new home and to a husband she's probably never seen before? No wonder the women cried.)Kemal picks Enejan up. He frets that he has no flowers to present to her, but when someone locates a bunch of fakes, he just passes them off to someone else to carry. The jacket obscures Enejan's tear streaked face as they leave the room, wade through the on-lookers, and get into the car. They'll spend the next few hours driving around, honking the horn, announcing the marriage.Then Enejan heads to the salon in Kerki in order to be made-up for the boy's wedding the same evening. The ceremony is the same, only this time she wears a Turkmen rendition of a white wedding gown -- a gaudy outfit more appropriate for a Barbie than a real woman, studded with rhinestones and layers of sparkly cascading polyester. More food. More dancing. And then it's all over. Husband and wife. No crushing a glass, no exchanging of vows or rings. They don't even sign a paper until about 2 months later.Now her new life beings. And I hope that she's made a good decision. I hope that he is decent to her. I hope she is comfortable and content in her new home. I sigh and consider myself lucky. This way of marrying off daughters works for the Turkmen, and I know other cultures marry their girls at even younger ages to complete strangers, but I'm relieved that I don't have to face the same future Turkmen village girls do. I can wait as long as I want. Or, I never have to get married if I chose not to. And I can pick and be picky. I can find someone who shares my interests -- someone who skis, loves to read, and wants to travel the world with me. I have options and for that I cannot give enough thanks.Lots of love,Jess
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Melon Day
Melon Day was Sunday, August 9th
Hey folks! Well, I'm back into the swing of things in Turkmenistan. The last week went well and everybody missed me so it wasn't too bad. I still miss my Mom and my daily gelato, but that's the way vacations go -- they end. Anyway, yesterday was Melon Day in Turkmenistan. Supposedly there are many varieties of melon in T.stan, but truthfully, I've only seen two: watermelon and another football shaped honeydew-like melon. And, in fact, at my family's home, we've only eaten watermelon. It's really popular -- tractors with wagons teeming with watermelon trawl the streets honking their horns to attract customers. You can buy however much you want right in front of your home. It's like our equivalent of an ice-cream truck -- only watermelon! In my family, we eat watermelon every afternoon somewhere between 4 and 6 depending on when my host mom gets up from her nap. And, because they're Turkmen, they eat their watermelon with bread. My host mom thinks it's very strange that I don't each much bread at all, and since I came back I've been eating even less. And I would definitely not eat bread with watermelon -- weird taste combo. That's culture for you. So yesterday, as usual, I sat down to my afternoon snack and she offered me bread and I declined. Then, she started telling me about a group of doctors from T.stan who visited the States two years ago. They were impressed by our hospitals and our hospital beds (they go up and down at the touch of a button!), our cities, our "bazaars," our hotels -- everything. They said it was amazing -- you could get anything you could possible want ... EXCEPT Turkmen bread. They missed their bread and no rye or pumpernickel or zucchini or banana or pumpkin or foccacia or French loaf would suffice. The wanted Turkmen bread cooked in a Turkmen tamdor (clay bee-hive shaped oven). Turkmen are serious about their bread. Now, I would argue that it's not very open-minded -- just because we aren't ritual bread eaters doesn't mean our bread isn't good. But hey, what do I know? Zohre (host mom) told me that these people were also surprised that there are poor people living in the streets in America. She said, "We don't have that in Turkmenistan!" Which I guess is true -- I haven't seen any except for the beggar kids at the bazaars in the city who burn grass in your face and try to get money for you (the grass is supposed to be good for you somehow -- same stuff my host sister burns at home -- but I hate the smell.) In T.stan, I have a feeling that if anyone finds themselves homeless, someone in the extended family would take them in -- one of the benefits of ginormous family circles. I've also heard that the government "hides" them, so there's that possibility, too. But it got me thinking, how is it that Turkmenistan does homelessness better than we do? (assuming the destitute aren't "hidden") And then I remembered that their population is only about 5 million people (the government says 6 million -- it's debatable) and that seems like a much more manageable figure than 330 million (give or take). Anyway, it was an interesting conversation and I actually enjoy talking to my host mom when she's not nagging me (a lesson well learned: I hate it so much that I will strive in my life to never be a nag ... or at least not as bad as she is -- she nags me about stuff weeks after the fact. AH!) However, she ran out of stuff to say and by the third time she started repeating the story I got up and left. So yeah, that's Melon Day for you. There was a party last night that I decided not to go to -- I asked my sister if they'd have all sorts of melon to eat and she said no. It's just like any other party: same food, same people, no melon. In honor of melon day, make a nice fruit salad. Know what melon they DON'T have here? Cantaloupe. Mmmmm, I love cantaloupe. Enjoy your week!Hugs,Jessica
Hey folks! Well, I'm back into the swing of things in Turkmenistan. The last week went well and everybody missed me so it wasn't too bad. I still miss my Mom and my daily gelato, but that's the way vacations go -- they end. Anyway, yesterday was Melon Day in Turkmenistan. Supposedly there are many varieties of melon in T.stan, but truthfully, I've only seen two: watermelon and another football shaped honeydew-like melon. And, in fact, at my family's home, we've only eaten watermelon. It's really popular -- tractors with wagons teeming with watermelon trawl the streets honking their horns to attract customers. You can buy however much you want right in front of your home. It's like our equivalent of an ice-cream truck -- only watermelon! In my family, we eat watermelon every afternoon somewhere between 4 and 6 depending on when my host mom gets up from her nap. And, because they're Turkmen, they eat their watermelon with bread. My host mom thinks it's very strange that I don't each much bread at all, and since I came back I've been eating even less. And I would definitely not eat bread with watermelon -- weird taste combo. That's culture for you. So yesterday, as usual, I sat down to my afternoon snack and she offered me bread and I declined. Then, she started telling me about a group of doctors from T.stan who visited the States two years ago. They were impressed by our hospitals and our hospital beds (they go up and down at the touch of a button!), our cities, our "bazaars," our hotels -- everything. They said it was amazing -- you could get anything you could possible want ... EXCEPT Turkmen bread. They missed their bread and no rye or pumpernickel or zucchini or banana or pumpkin or foccacia or French loaf would suffice. The wanted Turkmen bread cooked in a Turkmen tamdor (clay bee-hive shaped oven). Turkmen are serious about their bread. Now, I would argue that it's not very open-minded -- just because we aren't ritual bread eaters doesn't mean our bread isn't good. But hey, what do I know? Zohre (host mom) told me that these people were also surprised that there are poor people living in the streets in America. She said, "We don't have that in Turkmenistan!" Which I guess is true -- I haven't seen any except for the beggar kids at the bazaars in the city who burn grass in your face and try to get money for you (the grass is supposed to be good for you somehow -- same stuff my host sister burns at home -- but I hate the smell.) In T.stan, I have a feeling that if anyone finds themselves homeless, someone in the extended family would take them in -- one of the benefits of ginormous family circles. I've also heard that the government "hides" them, so there's that possibility, too. But it got me thinking, how is it that Turkmenistan does homelessness better than we do? (assuming the destitute aren't "hidden") And then I remembered that their population is only about 5 million people (the government says 6 million -- it's debatable) and that seems like a much more manageable figure than 330 million (give or take). Anyway, it was an interesting conversation and I actually enjoy talking to my host mom when she's not nagging me (a lesson well learned: I hate it so much that I will strive in my life to never be a nag ... or at least not as bad as she is -- she nags me about stuff weeks after the fact. AH!) However, she ran out of stuff to say and by the third time she started repeating the story I got up and left. So yeah, that's Melon Day for you. There was a party last night that I decided not to go to -- I asked my sister if they'd have all sorts of melon to eat and she said no. It's just like any other party: same food, same people, no melon. In honor of melon day, make a nice fruit salad. Know what melon they DON'T have here? Cantaloupe. Mmmmm, I love cantaloupe. Enjoy your week!Hugs,Jessica
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Fake Flowers and Dogs
To my adoring fans,
I have two stories to share with you today. I suppose a better term would be essays or commentaries, but whatever. They are what they are. Before I copy and paste however, a few tid-bits:
· I had a fascinating discussion with my host sister Bagul the other day on Turkmen folklore. She also told me about Noah and the Ark, the Crucifixion, Creation and Adam and Eve which amazed me. I have a copy of the Koran at home and now I’m curious to read it (this is not a hint for you to send it to me, Dad, as my bookshelves are stocked). Apparently she read all these stories in the Koran and other Muslim books. Please don’t think me totally naïve when I say I had no idea we shared those stories (if indeed they are in the Koran). Interestingly enough, her versions of these stories concluded with things like this, “And that’s why the snake has a forked tongue,” etc. (There’s a word for stories like these but I can’t remember it).
· I ate tofu this week and liked it. Shocking! (And no, it was not purchased here).
· Still happy, still healthy and still rainy
Presenting: “Fake Plastic Flowers” and “Dogs.”
On Fake Plastic Flowers
Flowers are the choice gift on Women’s Day – March 8. Turkmen are incredibly confused about the fact that we American’s don’t celebrate Women’s Day because it’s actually called “International Women’s Day.” How can’t we celebrate it? It’s international! (Which really just means more than one country celebrates it but they don’t get that). Women’s Day, according to my encyclopedia, is “an important occasion for promoting women's issues and rights, especially in developing countries.”[1]
Well, I don’t know about how other countries celebrate, but Women’s Day in Turkmenistan was just another day of TV specials. I didn’t hear any talk about women’s issues or rights. I didn’t hear anything about trying to get more Turkmen girls about of the restricting village life and into institutes and universities. No one said anything about men helping around the house. There was no talk about equality. Nope. The government gave each school girl 200,00 manat – about $14 – to share with their mothers and that was it. Congratulations on having a vagina, now have lots of babies. Girls who aren’t in school or who don’t work don’t get any money. Suckers!
Oh, but wasn’t receiving dozens of flowers just fabulous? I stashed mine in a corner of my room. I pretend I’m a celebrated opera star and my adoring fans can’t help but heap flowers upon me. I have four dozen. That’s right: four dozen flowers. And they’re all FAKE. Some are okay replications, some aren’t, none are passable, some are perfumed, some aren’t. But I am now the proud owner of 48 fake plastic flowers.
Fake flowers are a nice gesture, I suppose. And I don’t know where Turkmen would find real flowers in March except in the cities, but I still think they’re tacky. Turkmen like them. They keep their fake flowers in vases tucked in shelving units – they’ll be there forever. You don’t have to buy more. They’ll never lose their beauty, never turn brown or lose their petals.
Frankly, I remain unconvinced. At least now I have lots of flowers to re-gift!
And now a change of pace:
On Dogs
I write this as someone who loves dogs. I mean, I love cats too, (What’s up, Bangu! [like the cat reads my emails and understands this]) but this piece in particular pertains to dogs.
Turkmen don’t have the same relationship with dogs as we Americans do (well, most Americans that is. Certainly there are people in the US who mistreat their animals. Shameful.) In your average Turkmen village, dogs are outside animals. They aren’t bathed or groomed or otherwise taken care of. Some are kicked and angrily yelled at. I’ve yet to come across a dog that had been spayed and/or neutered (although I hear there are vets in Turkmenistan). I don’t know if they get their rabies and distemper shots like they should. From what I gather, dogs are primarily for guarding the house.
As puppies, Turkmen Alibis (their “National” dog – unsure of that spelling, really) are removed of their ears and tails because they get into fights and of course ears and tails are easy targets. This has probably been a tradition for a long time because I haven’t seen or heard any real dog fights. And I think it’s probably a learned behavior. They might not have to remove the ears and tails if they a) didn’t kick or otherwise abuse dogs b) fed the dogs and c) didn’t encourage fighting. I think dog fighting may have been sport before. I don’t know if it’s practiced in my village but nonetheless, ear and tail removal has stuck and so you see a lot of funny looking dogs. Russian dogs and dogs of other unknown descent are left intact (apparently they’re pacifists and eschew fighting). Garagoz is a Russian dog and that’s why he has ears.
My host father likes dogs and so he feeds Garagoz. This has made Garagoz friendly and loyal to our family. The other day, I opened my window and he trotted over and jumped up, putting his paws on the window sill and wagging his tail hello. He hangs out at home most nights. Or, if my father is on sleeping duty at school, he goes to school with him. Awww. Not all families feed their dogs. There were skinny dogs in Magtymguly left to fend for themselves, finding what trash and scraps they could in the desert. Not something a Westerner can easily grow accustomed to.
Unfortunately, because dogs aren’t neutered here, there are a great deal of unwanted pups. Particularly girl dogs. Why? Because girl dogs get impregnated. Boy dogs can do it all they want and they don’t have to deal with the consequences of having puppies (SUCH a double standard). Last month, a stray ended up on our door step. My sister gave it some bread. Garagoz left it alone, presumably because it was a harmless puppy. My host father, when he came home, scared it away because he doesn’t want another dog, especially not a girl dog (which she was, I checked). She came back a few more times but I haven’t seen her anymore. I have no idea what happened to her and can only hope someone took her in.
But that’s the thing. Turkmen don’t feel the same way about strays as I do. Or most Americans, I assume, based on the fact that we have organizations like the SPCA and the Humane Society. Granted not every animal taken to the Humane League is rescued, but some are. And that makes a difference. Here, strays are just a nuisance. At home in the States, two of our pets were taken in as strays. (Does Stumpy count as a stray if Mom found her under a soybean leaf?)
Turkmenistan isn’t easy on man’s best friend but eventually, a person becomes hardened to seeing dogs without ears, skinny dogs, aggressive dogs, trash-eating dogs, stray dogs, and dead puppies in trash piles in the desert who couldn’t find enough to eat. That’s life.
But not today. No, today was a day for tugging on heart strings. I had just returned from Kelsey’s village where we spent a lovely afternoon with two other volunteers. We made amazing food and played cards. It was super. I had a decent taxi ride back to my village which was a relief because the taxi driver on the way to Kelsey’s village kept inviting himself to eat with us and told me he wasn’t married and needed a wife. Thus, it was in a good mood that I disembarked from the car.
The driver dropped me off on the side of the road and I started the 40 minute walk to my village (hoping, of course, to be picked up along the way). As I crossed the bridge over the canal, I heard whimpers. Ever curious, I walked towards the sound to investigate. A fatal mistake. There I saw four small black and white puppies, huddling together. I looked around and saw no mommy. Maybe she was nearby. Maybe someone didn’t want them and dropped them off to fend for themselves. I have no idea how to guess how old they were, but one would have fit in my cupped hands. I sighed, chided myself for looking and went on my way.
I was not alone. One intrepid puppy decided to take fate into its own hands, to leave the pack and endeavor for a better future. It followed me. I tried quickening my pace. It kept up. It whimpered. I couldn’t lose the damn thing. Every now and then I thought maybe it had turned back, had returned to its brothers and sisters. Yet every time there it was; right at my feet, tripping over my shoes, tripping me.
I started to cry. I wanted so badly to take it home with me. I also knew that the house I live in is not my true home. I cannot simply show up with a dog and say, “We have a new pet!” What would happen in two years when it’s time to leave? And I cannot in good conscience own an animal without taking it to a vet for shots and neutering. I didn’t know what to do. I hoped for someone to pick me up so I wouldn’t have to see it anymore. A woman stopped me and told me it was following me. When it went over to her feet she kicked it. It stumbled over itself as it ran after me. It almost got hit by a car. And I was complicit. I left it.
Finally, it stopped following me and began trotting after two other ladies. I was relieved. I looked over my shoulder every few steps to make sure it wasn’t there. A car came and picked me up. I didn’t look back again.
Sitting in the car, I prayed for the first time in a long while. I fervently prayed for that little puppy and it’s siblings that they wouldn’t end up in a garbage heap like so many others.
Until next time!
Hugs,
Jessica
Monday, March 16, 2009
On rain, cows and cardboard*
*among other things.
Hello friends! I hope this email finds you well and eagerly anticipating the arrival of spring! It’s been a long time, eh? Well, totally out of character, I had nothing to impart the last time I came up to the city. And it was a Sunday so the internet café wasn’t open either. But you know what they say … no news and good news go hand in hand.
I mean, theoretically, of course. I could have been kidnapped by Afghani hoodlums and held for ransom in a dark cave near some treacherous border lines – hungry and dirty but not too smelly. It would’ve been difficult to send email in such a situation.
Fortunately for you, I wasn’t kidnapped! No indeed! Happy-go-lucky as always, here I am, yet again, with some scribbling straight from my Central Asian abode. Today I present thoughts on rain, cows and cardboard (etc).
So a few weeks ago, Mommy[1] says to me, “How’s the weather?” And I respond something to the effect of, “Blech. Last week was beautiful, warm and sunny and now it’s gross and rainy.” Mom says, “Rain? I thought you lived in the desert.” Au contraire! It’s rained at least once a week for the past month or more! Once it rained so much our back yard became a pond and algae began to bloom! If it had been warmer, I would have wondered about malaria and things. Surely this can’t be desert! Time for a geography lesson!
Turkmensitan: indeed, much of the country is occupied by the Karakum (or Garagum) Desert – one of the world’s largest sand deserts! According to my Encyclopedia Britannica 2009 Deluxe Edition (woo-hoo!) desert makes up nine-tenths of Turkmenistan’s territory. However, due to my relatively close geographical situation to the Amu Darya river, Halach and the surrounding areas are considered to be an oasis of sorts. No palm trees or anything here, but we do have an extensive canal system that diverts river water to our villages. I live in one of the most fertile and verdant areas of the country (if not THE most fertile and verdant). This is a great advantage because we have fresh veggies (more or less) year round (I think some are imported, but a lot of food is stored as well). Now, interestingly enough, the swath of oasis is not very wide. The river lies to the east of me (5 miles?) and the desert is just west – just another couple of miles. When we took the train to Halach, we were travelling through sand and scrub brush. When we drive up to Charjew, we drive through sand and scrub brush. Because of our close proximity to the river, we don’t have water shortage issues, either – also a plus.
Now, compare this to the Balkan region in Western Turkmenistan. Balkan has a diminished water supply. As in nearly zero water. The ground is not especially fertile. Things just don’t grow. In fact, it’s so depressed for vegetation that I’ve heard tell of people feeding the cows cardboard.
Let’s just consider cows for a moment. Currently at home (America, that is) there’s a movement afoot regarding cows and what they eat. Thanks to Michael Pollan and books like The Omnivore’s Dilemma (which I thoroughly enjoyed), people are beginning to question why cows eat so much corn when they’re not biologically equipped to be corn eaters. It turns out that corn isn’t as good for cows as fresh sweet grass and that grass fed cows are better for us humans than corn fed cows. Damn you, government subsidized corn!!! Anyway, as I was attending to business in the outhouse this morning, I wondered: What would we prefer our cows ruminated upon? Corn or cardboard? And though I know corn is bad for their bellies, I can’t imagine cardboard is any more nutritious. In which case, I suppose we should be lucky that our American cows are at least eating food stuffs and not paper.
This does beg the question, however: would I rather eat cows fed on paper or rendered cow bits? I’m undecided on this one. Wasn’t that outlawed though? Cows can no longer eat other cows for dinner, no?
Luckily, I do not live in Balkan and our cows do not eat cardboard. As best I can tell, they eat hay and the occasional food scraps. Including garlic, which may explain the sometimes sour taste of our dairy.
Anyway, by March 12 the rainy, muddy transition from Winter to Spring ceased and a warm weather pattern has settled in. The fruit trees flowered and are now budding leaves. Bees are busying themselves will pollen collection. And best of all, the air has that dry, fresh, almost chlorinated scent that I love so much about the air in Southern California.
Having no thermometer, I don’t really know what the temperature is. But I no longer need to wear long underwear beneath my skirts and I can play outside in a t-shirt, capris, and sandals quite contendedly. High 60s maybe? 70s? Spring here really seems like early summer for us back home in the Northeast. We kinda skipped right over all that 40s and 50s business.
Celebrating this lovely weather, I ventured to school one day wearing my beloved Teva flip-flops. After all the stares from students and teachers commenting “Oh, Spring has arrived for you!” I got the hint that Tevas aren’t going to cut it at work. That and my counterpart said “No” when I asked her if I could wear them. Sigh. Teachers are supposed to dress “professionally” and that includes wearing closed-toed shoes. According to my counterpart, they’re not even allowed to wear open-backed shoes, but they do anyway because no one from the Ministry of Education comes to check. I still can’t wear my flip-flops though. Or my Chacos. Well, just not to school, that is.
I’m not really a shoe person. As I write this I realize it’s a blatant lie. I suppose it would be more appropriate to say I’m not a summer shoe person. I’d much rather be barefoot in summer than wear shoes. On the other hand where shoes are required, I do have quite a collection of cute footwear to prance around in. I’m not quite sure how to reconcile these two sides of my personality into a witty comment.
You know what else spring in Turkmenistan brings? Ants. Lots of ‘em. Recently, the ants have been marching in full force. Around our “dining room” table, ants come out of the woodwork searching for food. Attempts to thwart them are in vain. Shoving tiny rocks in the cracks makes more work for the little black guys, but soon, they remove the obstructions and venture forth freely again. It would be interesting to lift our house up and have a look at the ground underneath. I wouldn’t be surprised, but I’d be kind of disgusted, to find one ginormous ant hill.
My host mom brought out a bag of cookies recently and offered me one. I don’t care for these cookies and I declined. Boy was that a good move. She removed one for herself and it was covered with ants. Upon further inspection we realized that the whole bag was teeming with the little buggers. So what did she do? Shook them out and ate the cookies. I gagged.
Despite this recent resurgence of ant activity, my ant problem began weeks ago. In a box I received for Christmas was a book covered with crushed bits of candy cane that didn’t quite survive the trans-Atlantic crossing. Nothing thinking much of it, I placed the new book on the shelf. A few days later, I noticed a great increase of ants in my bedroom and upon investigation realized they were going for the pepperminty goodness of those miniscule candy cane crumbs. Bah humbug indeed. I took the book outside, shook off all the ants, cleaned the cover, put it in a zip lock bag and stashed it in my suitcase. Unfortunately, the ants didn’t take the hint and the following few weeks were marked by a steady ant presence in my boudoir. At first I killed them with abandon, but I started to feel guilty. They weren’t hurting anything, right? Just looking for some tasty food to take back to the hill. They had a route – come in through the crack in the door way, climb up the wall, traverse the wall towards the window, sniff around and return.
Then I started finding ants in my clothing. I got bit by ants at the breakfast table. I would feel a tickle on my neck and scratch and an ant would be on my hand. Ants crawled across my computer while I was watching movies. My counterpart picked an ant out of my hair once. And twice, I was woken up in the middle of the night to a strange sensation on my face only to discover that, yes, there was an ant scaling my nose. Then I became upset. I moved my bed away from the wall, tightly packed all my food, and kept vigil on the ant situation. Over time, they began to lessen.
Then spring came and with the warmer weather, more ants came out to play. Out in our main room, they use the molding as their main highway. In a line, too many to count, they make their way to the table and back to all the cracks in the walls. My room became of interest again. I watched them come out of a crack in the door frame. I nervously fell asleep at night, not wanting another ant disrupting my dreams.
Mom called and told me to try cinnamon. I dusted it around my door, shoved cinnamon into the cracks with a Q-tip. It turns out the ants do not like cinnamon. They wouldn’t walk across it. They didn’t emerge from cracks sprinkled with the spice. A few days ago, I found a number of ants clamoring for a piece of noodle that was on my bedroom floor, presumably from my clothing. I sprinkled cinnamon on them. They cowered. For the time being, I have won.
Every now and then I still find a few ants roaming about my walls, searching for most delicious treats. But it’s rare now. As I am writing, I don’t see any travelers. A few weeks ago, I could count dozens walking the path towards my window. I am at peace.
Ironically, my family finally bought some “medical chalk” at the bazaar last week. Apparently ants don’t like it. I have a hunch it’s lyme. Anyhow, they drew on the molding, on the floor, around my door jamb. The ants, wily creatures that they are, walked all over the lyme.
The other day I watched an ant struggle to carry a large crumb across the carpet. You have to admire a creature so tenacious and determined. To haul such an awkward and heavy load must be one heck of a workout for an ant. It reminds me Sisyphus and his rock. Only unlike Sisyphus, the ant is certain to succeed.
An ant haiku:
Middle of the night
An ant crawls across my face
I wake up, annoyed.
Well, I hope you have enjoyed this week’s tale of daring and adventure from Turkmenistan! Happy spring and Happy St. Patty’s Day! And remember, if you’re not going to go barefoot, wear cute shoes!
Love,
Jess
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