Hello all,
Hope you're doing well. Spring has sprung in Turkmenistan -- we've had several days in the high 70s this past week. It's been quite lovely, but unfortunately the spring-like weather doesn't last long before the sweltering summer heat kicks in. We had our 18th month anniversary on April 1st. It's hard to believe so much time has already passed and so little time remains.
6 more weeks of school! Woo-hoo!!
Take care,
Jessica
And now I give you this:
"Where are you going?" Jumabike shouts to me across her green onion patch.
"Elliott's!"I shout back.
"But he's not there!" she reminds me. As if I'd forgotten.
It was the first time I'd ridden my bike since he'd left. It was a gorgeous day, the wind in my face was refreshing and I smiled as I navigated the pot-holed road, much like playing a game of connect the dots, only trying to avoid the dots instead of go through them. I was riding in a dress which made me proud of how much I've integrated; these days I could care less about wearing pants except for when going to Ashgabat. Riding a bike in a dress makes me look super Turkmen! Lately I've been wearing a quilted Turkmen vest and the locals just love that, too. They coo over me and remark what a genuine Turkmen girl I've become. Last year it would've pissed me off. This year I laugh and agree.
As usual, as I'm riding my bike through the village, all the kids in the street say hello or shout my name as I pass. I wave, smile, and say hello right back. Sometimes this celebrity is annoying, especially when people openly stare at you and whisper as you pass, but I don't mind when the kids greet me. It's cute. It's become so natural that I expect it's going to be a shock moving from a place where everyone knows your name and wants to know you to a place where most people could care less.
Spring is such a lovely season. If pressed to pick a favorite, I think living in Turkmenistan has convinced me that spring reigns supreme. At home winter is a fun season – there's snow, skiing, Christmas, roasting marshmallows in the fireplace… Winter in Turkmenistan is boring. There's nothing fun to do and there's often no heat and no gas for cooking. Once spring comes I think, "Well, thank goodness that's over." It occurred to me that spring is probably a beautiful season all over the world. Summers can be too hot, autumns too rainy, winters too long and cold, but I bet spring is just right wherever you go.
A leisurely bike ride affords a person with the opportunity to contemplate pleasant things like this. Also, it gives ample time to compose witty come-backs that you couldn't think of at the appropriate moment. To wit: on the Saturday before my bike ride, I went to Kelsey's house for her birthday party. I stood talking with the taxi drivers in Halach while we were waiting for more passengers to come. And, as always, the conversation turned to my marital status. When I replied truthfully that I was single, one of the men said, "If you stay in Turkmenistan, I will buy you!" And what did I say, strong, independent American female that I am? I said, "No thank you." Really, though, what else can you say? I'm pondering this about halfway to Elliott's, and I thought of a few other options. I could have said, "I'm not for sale." Or I could have said, "Okay, but my bride price is 80 million…DOLLARS!" (Have I mentioned that families must pay for their brides? Girls in my village typically go for about 80 million manat or rougly $5,628.) But rather than pick fights, I'm content to politely decline. Although I have decided that I need to start lying and say that I have a boyfriend in America.
At Elliott's house I had a very nice visit with his host family. He'd sent them three packages and they showed me the contents, his letter, and asked me what they should send to him. An hour or so and several cups of tea later, I got back on my back and began the 20 minute ride home. Though I consider this whole area my site and though Elliott's house is not at all far from mine, once I reached the limits of my village, I felt like I'd arrived back home – the houses are familiar, the faces are familiar, the spacing between the potholes is familiar. After 18 months, it's a wonder to realize that this place really has become home to me.
The following Monday we (finally) went to the desert. Let me tell you what, it was not all it was cracked up to be. In fact, it was pretty boring. And not very pretty – no flowers! Apparently the poppies bloom elsewhere. All we saw were scrubby bushes and some grass. Gapur slaughtered a chicken and make chicken soup over a fire which was tasty enough. Still not worth the trip though. Or maybe it was, just to see what the big deal about going to the desert is all about. It's probably more fun with close friends – our group was my two host sisters, my host dad, our relative Sabay, his wife, their infant son, and some other kid they're related to, and a police officer and his wife. Not the most fun crowd for us three young women. We all squeezed into Sabay's car which is an SUV, so it's big, but not that big. My host sister, the young kid, and my host dad all had to sit in the jump seats. For a while, the police officer's wife was riding in his lap, but that was too scandalous for her, so she squished beside me in the back at which point there were four of us in the back seat. The police officer brought a rifle which he never shot, and the barrel of the gun was pointing directly at my uterus the whole trip. I kept imagining a scenario wherein we hit a dune the wrong way, the gun gets jostled, shoots, and boom! it's curtains for my ovaries. Obviously it didn't happen like that; I think the gun was unloaded. Nonetheless, it was more than a little unsettling.
We stopped to stock up on supplies, including a 1.75 liter bottle of vodka, and once well equipped, drove about 30 minutes into the desert. There, we proceeded to cook the aforementioned soup and eat the other goodies we'd brought. The men proceeded to get drunk, which is why they like going to the desert so much. And again, it's probably more fun drunk with your friends than sober with a bunch of drunken Turkmen men.
One of the snacks they'd brought was chocolate candy. It seems innocent enough, but the bonbons turned our trip into a lesson in cultural differences. Oguz Khan, considered the father of the Turkmen race, is quoted thus: "One who harms the land in the slightest degree is not a Turkmen." In general, I have found this not to be the case. Real Turkmen liter like it's their birthright to besmirch their beloved motherland. And so, true to fashion, we're enjoying our afternoon in the untouched desert, and those around me were enjoying their chocolates and tossing the wrappers into the breeze for some sheep to find later and eat. I bet Oguz Khan was crying somewhere in the great Turkmen beyond. And who was the one running after the wrappers somersaulting in the wind? Who was the one who couldn't stand to see others harming the land? Not the Turkmen. It was the American. I busied myself picking up their trash and countered their protests to my labor by explaining that littering is illegal in America, and it's especially frowned upon in pristine places like the one in which we were picnicking. Nothing gets my goat like a litter bug.
The men tired of their shot taking and I moseyed around the dunes for a while, waiting for them to sleep (some of) it off. After an hour, we were able to rouse them enough to say we'd had enough of this party and wanted to leave. At the time I was reading a book called The Female Brain. There's a chapter on the cerebral changes that pregnant woman and mothers undergo. The discussion about mothers feeling aggressively protective of their children was especially pertinent to this outing. Remember the infant who tagged along? Well, his mom held him in her lap for the trip, and this is not at all unusual. I've never seen a car seat here. If a baby has to travel, it travels in mommy's lap, and mommy herself isn't wearing a seat belt. Totally safe. But, okay, we weren't going that far, and it's not like there's a lot of traffic in the desert, right? Well, his father, our driver, was drunk too (or at the very least very tipsy). And before you get on my case about getting in the car of a drunk driver, think of the baby! No seat belts + inebriated driver = wait, you mean this doesn't happen everywhere? I was beginning to think it was normal!
Are the moms in the audience cringing yet? It gets worse: baby was given sips of vodka. I KNOW! Jeeze. I can't stand the stuff they drink so I have no idea what the baby thought when the offending liquid was offered up to his lips. And, okay, they didn't give him a lot – it's not like he took a shot – but he's a BABY. Baby + vodka = are you out of your mind??? Well, then, after we'd arrived back to the village, baby was handed off to an extremely sloshed relative to hold while they were unpacking the car. Said relative could barely stand, and yet there he is responsible for not dropping a child.
Now, I am not a mother and so I don't have protect-at-all-costs hormones coursing through my veins. In fact, I have marveled at the fierce protection I've seen some parents display when it comes to their own children, but even I was flabbergasted. And it left me wondering: Where are these mommy hormones in Turkmen women? Why don't they worry about their children riding in cars without seatbelts at breakneck speeds? Why do they let people give their 8 month old babies vodka? Why do they hand their children to men so drunk they end up talking like babies themselves? It's a mystery.
Overall, I think Turkmen are good parents, though I am glad I wasn't raised here. Not enough physical affection for me – I don't think I'd be nearly as close to my mother if I were a Turkmen girl. But, the population is growing, so whatever they're doing is working.
And thus ended another riveting day in Turkmenistan.
