Turkmenistan in early summer

The Village at Dawn

If I get out before 6 am, I don’t usually see anyone until I turn around and make my way back home. After 6, there are occasionally a few people outside working – opening
up the mud dams that control water flow into the cotton fields from the canal or mixing mud to make bricks. There are mulberry trees stripped of their leaves lining the dirt road leading to the desert, and on each side, cotton fields. The road stops at the canal.

Essentially a border crossing, on one side of the bridge that spans the canal are the cotton fields growing greener every day, while on the other side, only desert.

The desert, acting as Turkmenistan’s official trash heap, is dotted with piles of, well, trash. Glass bottles, broken shoes, and stiff goat carcasses mark the landscape. The banks of the canal itself are covered with long wild grasses that look like cattails but aren’t.

This early in the morning, birds are waking up and greeting the day with song. The
weather is pleasant – almost cool. The rising sun casts a warm glow over the
landscape. It’s a lot better than running laps around the school.

When I reach the canal, I turn left. I run past more cotton fields, orchards I didn’t know existed until recently, and an apiary. I knew that there were beekeepers around – Elliott was interested in learning how to keep bees and my family buys honey by the kilo, there have to be beekeepers somewhere – but I didn’t know where. I was quietly excited when I found these bee hives.

Further up and I pass a gas distribution line and come to a fork in the road where the road disappears and the desert begins in earnest. I turn around.

Reaching the bridge again, I continue straight. The road to the right of the bridge is hard packed stone in some places and sand in others. If tractors have passed by, the sand is firm and easy to run on. If a herd of cows has passed, the sand is soft and running is a challenge. On this half of my run, there are only cotton fields. A motor in the canal occasionally hums, drinking up water to irrigate a nearby garden.

When I get to the big gas pipe that hovers above the water, I again turn around and head back to the road to the village.

I hit the village road and start back into town. Usually by about this time in my run, people have begun stirring. Girls head out to the cotton fields to weed or thin the plants. Little boys on donkeys drive herds of their family’s or neighbors’ cattle and goats to the desert for a day of grazing, socializing and calf-making – a veritable bovine/caprine day care service. My neighbors are out tending their gardens, taking advantage of the low sun and cool weather before the heat of the day sets in.

Occasionally, I see a white donkey taking itself for an early morning stroll, plodding alone out towards the canal.

Garagoz

Garagoz always liked me. I hug and pet him and remove his ticks – that means a lot to
a dog, especially one who isn’t hugged or petted very often. Recently he started joining me on my morning runs. After the first time I took him with me, our relationship reached a whole new level of devotion. Now he follows me nearly everywhere. My neighbor, Jumabike, and I went to a wedding last week, and he followed me almost the whole way there – until Jumabike tired and we got into a passing car and the dog lost my scent. I’m attached to him, too, and worried about him all evening – would he find his way home alone? Would he get into a fight with another dog? Would he chase a motorcycle and have another accident? We were both tail waggingly happy when I arrived home and saw him lying in the yard, waiting for my return.

My host dad isn’t thrilled about Garagoz running with me. He worries about him getting into fights with other dogs. With this in mind, when he started following me out towards the road a few mornings ago, I tried to send him home. Garagoz doesn’t understand much, least of all the word “stay” so I quickly relented. Besides, he was so frisky; I think he really enjoys running with me and who am I to deprive him of an early morning frolic? Especially when it’s the only real exercise he gets. So together we ran. He swam in the canal and peed on stacks of hay. And then, much to his delight I’m sure, we came across a very dead smell. All animal carcasses must have similar rotting smells because, whatever it was, it sure smelled a heck of a lot like dead groundhog – an odor I know very well thanks to my own “we love to roll in dead stuff!” dogs. Unless, of course, it was a groundhog. I didn’t bother to investigate. The first time we passed the gruesome aroma I managed to keep Garagoz away from it. On our way back I was not so lucky. I noticed the shadow at my feet had strayed and when I turned around, I only saw his white, bushy tail waving from behind a sand dune. He came right when I called, but as he approached, I was hit full on with the musk of decay. And oh, was he happy! He pranced and wanted to jump on me. “No!” I said, pushing his smelly paws off my pants. We do not share the same taste in eau de perfumes.

We continued on our merry way. He swam in the canal again before we turned on
the road back to our house, but the dip did nothing to lessen the funk emanating from
his pelt. Once we returned home, Bagul noticed at once that Garagoz had run afoul
of something dead. “Go away!” she told him. He looked at us with his deep, brown
eyes and floppy ears, head cocked to the side. Dogs are experts on tugging on human
heartstrings: probably a trait evolved over the years of interaction with humans. The
doggy gaze worked its magic on me; despite the stink, I wanted to reach out, hug him,
and thank him for being such a loyal companion. I resisted and tried to give him a bath instead. Turns out Garagoz is not one for baths. He ran away and couldn’t be coaxed back. Well, let him savor the smell, I thought. He’s a good dog; he deserves a roll in something stinky every now and then.

Watermelons

Call me unobservant, but I never really considered the provenance of the
word “watermelon” before coming to Turkmenistan. Sure, okay, they’re juicy. But not
until this afternoon in late June, the inaugural day of watermelon-as-late-afternoon-
snack in our household, did I, dehydrated and hung-over from a long nap, seriously
consider the watermelon. As I bit into the crisp pink flesh, as the fruit gushed sweet water with each successive bite, I was struck with the thought: “Of course, it makesso much sense now.” Watermelons are refreshingly hydrating, especially chilled from the refrigerator – a perfect pick-me-up for the transition from scorching afternoon to pleasant evening. Watermelons are such a quintessential part of summer in Turkmenistan that, for the rest of my life, I don’t think I will be able to eat one without thinking fondly of my Central Asian home.

The Vibratone

For many village Turkmen the TV is the apotheosis of truth. Any information imparted
via happy satellite beams streaming across the atmosphere and captured for broadcast
in their homes is accepted as the ultimate truth; if they saw it on TV, surely it must be real. This blind belief can be frustrating to the worldlier American in the village when she runs into resistance trying to dispel TV inspired myths, but gullible people exist the world over – not just in Turkmenistan. I realize this and try not to judge them for holding the TV’s word sacred, despite the many stupid things the TV reports.

My neighbor, Jumabike, is no exception to cult of the holy TV. On the heavy side of
zaftig, she realizes it would behoove her to lose weight. And, fortunately for her, she has seen the infomercial for the weight loss miracle (ahem: gimmick) called “Vibratone.”

(Are those commercials broadcast in America? I can’t remember if I saw them at home
or just here.) “Vibratone” is advertised ad nauseam on the Russian TV stations. It’s a belt-like device that you can Velcro around your thighs, butt, hips, stomach – wherever you carry a little extra heft. It vibrates and the idea is that this vibrating will melt away all your excess fat. There are also a few magnets tucked inside for some other unnamed health benefit, you know, whatever magnets do.

Jumabike, intrigued by the idea of such an easy way to lose weight, asked one of her
relatives to give her one. The people in the infomercials were svelte and muscular,
so it obviously works. She came over recently so I could translate the poorly written
English instructions for her. She and her daughter were both very excited with this new acquisition – how often could they do it? How much time? Could they eat after they finished? They looked at the pictures and tried to mimic the exact positions the models were posed in, as though the pictures showed the only correct posture for “Vibratone’s” use – seated, legs gracefully bent at the knees and angling to the side, toes pointed, one foot slightly in front of the other. Careful! If you don’t sit just so, you won’t lose the weight! “It’s just a picture,” I said.

Jumabike proudly commented that this will help her to lose weight. I made a face.
“Jessica doesn’t believe it,” my host mom said. “No,” I replied. “In America our doctors tell us the main way to lose weight is to eat less and to exercise.” “Well,” Jumabike retorted, “I don’t feel like exercising.” I sighed and launched into my spiel about diet and exercise – you should elevate your heart rate for at least 30 minutes 3 times a week I told her. If you walk to the canal and back that is enough. And, I continued, the Turkmen diet is very bad. You should eat less oily food. You need many fruits and vegetables. Less bread. Too much bread will make you fat. Too much oil will make you fat. Too many sweets will make you fat. And you should drink lots and lots of water. “But water is fattening!” was her response. I cringe every time I hear this. “No, it’s not,” I said. “Maybe you think that because your belly swells if you drink a lot of water, but it will go away. It’s just water. It has no calories. Do you know what calories are?” She asked if was okay to drink tea. Of course, I said. After all, tea is just leafy water.

Jumabike won’t lose weight. She eats for two, sometimes three, and doesn’t have
a healthy diet. Nutrition is not a Turkmen concept. They eat to be full and it doesn’t matter what fulfills that requirement – gastronomy, the slow foods movement, these are alien ideas here. The Turkmen diet is very fat heavy. Children are plied with candy as soon as the first baby teeth come in and the sweet tooth habit isn’t kicked until the bucket is. High blood pressure is a matter of course. Heart attacks are a common cause of death, often among people in their 50s or 60s.

I have been interested in eating well for several years, probably since I read Fast Food Nation in high school. I’m a big fan of Michael Pollan. Here in Turkmenistan, I started following his “no dessert except on days that start with S” rule (…okay, okay, I cheat sometimes). I monitor the amount of fat I eat as much as I can here, even if it means tediously picking out chunks of animal fat from my food. I pay lots of money to buy olive oil. I planted my own vegetable garden. Back at home I devour Bon Appetit magazine and love the challenge of making delectable desserts, but it was in Turkmenistan that I became a gourmand (as state of mind which will begin in earnest upon my return home). I think it’s the privation of quality nutrition and really good food I’ve experienced these last two years that inspired me to take up an apron and get into cooking. That and all the heart attacks.

Of course, obesity is a problem in America. There are people whose diets are far worse in American than Turkmenistan. All the fast food, the processed foods – none of it is good for us.

We’re lucky in Turkmenistan that we don’t have any fast food chains.

Yes, there is food served quickly at restaurants, but it is real food. And yes, there are processed foods, but they’re expensive and so they don’t eat a lot of it – except for candy. But we in America are lucky because, despite the fact that we too have problem with heart disease and obesity, we are at least aware of the problems inherent in poor diets. We know that we should avoid excess. We recognize the importance of diet and exercise. And we have the food pyramid! The food pyramid!

Turkmen have a bizarre relationship with weight. The girls are generally stick thin
and most likely have eating disorders. The idea is that men want to marry thin girls.
I don’t know why – maybe because historically it showed the girl wouldn’t use up a
lot of resources (food) after the marriage and the ideal stuck. Who knows? But we
have a society of waifs here that, after getting married and having kids, begin to do
less work around the house, let themselves balloon and invite the health problems in.
The pathetic thing is that exercise is so easy. Anyone can walk. But it’s so strange a concept here and thus few people exercise for fear of being talked about. Jumabike
could easily take daily walks, but chooses not to because it’s not the societal
norm. I try to set a good example. I run and I tell people who ask about running
and exercise. I get a lot of, “Well, I’m too old to start,” or other half-assed excuses.

I’m glad Jumabike wants to lose weight, though I don’t think the “Vibratone” is the
way to go. But what do I know? I am not a TV; my words are not blessed. Maybe I
shouldn’t be such a skeptic. Maybe there will be a miracle and her picture will be the next one you see on the box.

The Hajj

Akbike is the fortune teller my host mother favors. Her name means “white lady.” She’s in her 60s but could pass for at least 70-something due to a car accident she was in last year that both aged her and left her right arm totally lame. She came over the other day to read salt for my host sister and left saying that she wanted to take me to Astanababa – the holiest place in Turkmenistan, about 15 minutes from our village. It was agreed that we’d go today, as early as possible so there would be fewer people around.

Well, we weren’t early. I refused to miss my morning run, although I did shorten it
by 10 minutes, and my host father was hung over after a whole day of marathon
shot taking. We didn’t leave until 7:20; she’d wanted to go at 5:30. When we picked
her up, she remarked that she’d been waiting since six and we were so late it was
almost noon. I looked at my watch; it wasn’t even 8:00. Great, I thought, another nag.

My host dad had a few errands to run before we set off in earnest. Akbike asked my
host sister all sorts questions as we cruised the oba: Who’s that? Whose house is that? What’s that bus doing? Do you think it works? She turned to me and asked me if I would hang out with her son (or grandson, not sure which) if he ever went to Germany. Confused, I said, “Maybe.” More questions directed at Bagul. Then, again to me, “How is life in Germany?” My host sister said, “No, she’s from America.” Once Bagul clarified I understood Akbike’s previous request about hanging out with her kids in Germany.

It was odd nonetheless; she knows – or at least she’s been told – that I’m American.
I began to wonder if she wasn’t as sharp as I’d thought. Akbike continues to play her
question game, turns to Bagul and says – and mind you, I’m sitting right next to her – “Has she gained weight?” She’s referring to me. I’d seen her only 3 days before. I somewhat testily and more than a little pedantically explain to her that a person cannot perceptibly gain weight in a matter of a couple days. Bagul chimes in that I have, in fact, lost weight.

I used to like Akbike, but this comment pissed me off – I have been told countless times that I’ve gained weight since arriving in country. And you know, just this morning I was wondering what pushed me to become so calorie conscious here – more than in America. It’s such a paradox! I miss good food and dream of gourmet cooking, yet I carefully measure the amount of bread I eat every morning, pick the animal fat out of my meals, and seriously consider whether or not to eat sweets when they’re placed in front of me. Well, I think I’ve found the culprit. If you were told on a nearly weekly basis that you had gained weight, you might become a little self-conscious and calorie paranoid, too. I decided to cross Akbike off my friends list.

After a few minutes though, I started to feel bad. She was, after all, taking me on this mini hajj of sorts. Were it not for her, I would have never visited Astanababa. And technically, I shouldn’t have. It’s in Atamyrat Etrap. I’m not allowed to go there – to close to the Afghan border or some other threatening thing the Turkmen government wants to keep me away from. But the mosque is on the near side of Kerki. I figured I’d be safe. Besides, it seems bad form to heckle someone at a holy site – shouldn’t arrest a hajji, even if she is American, it’s probably bad luck. Allah would frown on it.

We arrived at our first stop. It was a small mosque. An imam was sitting inside and
saying prayers for whoever wandered in. I didn’t know what to do, so I followed
Akbike’s lead and circled the tomb inside, placing my head on each end briefly, and
waving my hands back and forth from the cool cement to my forehead. After three
revolutions, the imam invited us to sit down. Akbike told him to wish both Bagul and
I luck in work. He chanted in Arabic and then said some prayers for us in Turkmen.
Akbike told him I’m a foreigner and that I came on an airplane. He asked if I flew
it myself. I said no, and then he asked if I’m a stewardess. I briefly worried that
Allah would take this seriously and grant me luck in work in the form of being a flight attendant. Which isn’t a bad job at all, really, I could see some interesting places, it’s just not what I want.

We exited the cool of the mausoleum and headed for a well. Supposedly sacred or
filled with special water or I don’t know what, we first had to drink from the well water and then wash our hands and face. I hesitated drinking the water. The imam informed us that foreigners generally don’t drink it. I wasn’t worried about the water quality – I’ve been here long enough that I think my stomach has adjusted to any happy water-borne bacteria – but I was feeling pretty skeptical about the one cup that everyone who visited the mosque used to drink said water. I tried to find the cleanest looking place on the rim and took a swig. Then we washed our hands and faces – I don’t know if it was the heat of the morning or if the water really was special, but my face did feel pretty good after that.

The next stop was Astanababa proper, further up the road. Here we were greeted
by yet another imam who said a few prayers for us outside. Then we entered and
encountered rooms with more tombs. Again, I mimicked Akbike and placed my head
on door frames, walked around tombs, did the hand waving bit – I wasn’t sure what the
proper etiquette was: is it better to politely stand by and watch but not join in since I’m not Muslim? Or should I go along with it because I was there and that’s what people do? No harm joining in, I thought. Just another step towards cultural integration. With so little time remaining, I’m trying to experience as much local flavor as I can. Who knows when I’ll be back?

Akbike showed me a rock that she said is a piece of the Ka’bah in Mecca. She told me
to pray in my own language, doing whatever was appropriate for me, and to tell Allah
my wishes. I said I didn’t have any wishes, which is partly true, but nonetheless, I stood and offered up a little Christmas list of a prayer.

From what I’ve observed, the Islam most commonly practiced in the village is mainly
cultural and steeped in superstition. Turkmen who go to Astanababa and other holy
sites routinely ask for jobs or luck or babies or husbands. Frankly, I don’t think life works that way and so I felt kind of awkward asking for stuff, but I did what I was told.

If I get into grad school, I guess I’ll know Allah was listening.

We left the main mausoleum and walked towards a smaller crypt where an imam is
buried. On the way, we stopped to scatter grain seeds for pigeons who, Akbike claims,
can discern those who truly believe from those who don’t. In the crypt, Akbike lit a
wad of cotton doused in cotton seed oil and mumbled a few prayers. I had a hard time
concentrating; to me the burning cotton smelled an awful like barbeque chicken, and by this time, having woken up at 5am for my morning run, I was feeling tired and hungry.

My mouth watered at the thought of once again biting into my Dad’s deliciously juicy
grilled chicken. Mmmm…

Akbike said ‘amen,’ we wiped our hands across our faces, stood and left. Now that I’d
visited the holiest of holy site in Turkmenistan, she rattled off a list of places I needed to see before I leave. This will not happen. However, there is one more place in Halach – not as powerful as Astanababa, but holy enough – that I can check off the list before November rolls around. In the meantime, we’re going to her house for dinner tomorrow night.

A while ago, she told me that I needed to visit Astanababa before she could read
my future in her salt. I look forward to learning what she sees in the crystals for me.