April in Central Asia

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.

IMPORTANT:

The contents of this web blog are mine and do not reflect any positions of the US Government or the Peace Corps.

Seasons of Food

Seasons of Food

In the musical Rent there's a song called "Seasons of Love" that poses the question, "How do you measure a year?" The chorus offers up various suggestions – daylights, sunsets, laughter and strife, cups of coffee, and so on – until deciding on love. Measure the year in seasons of love.

It works for the characters of Rent, but that's not the way I measure my life these days. If I measured in love, I supposed I'd be having on long, stifling, dry summer in the desert (not unlike summers in Turkmenistan), relieved by the oases of love that I find in friends and family back home.

I often have this song pinballing around in my head, and it's made me wonder how I measure the seasons of my life these days. And I've realized that it's come down to a much more tangible passage of time: I measure the year in fruit and vegetables.

Mandarin oranges are in peak season now – you can buy a kilo for a little less than a dollar. Lemons are also in season, though not for much longer. Pumpkins are still available and have become my favorite food (pumpkin and thyme is a fantastic flavor combination, by the by). Spinach is ubiquitous and cheap; Pop-Eye would weep for joy at the sight of bags upon bags of fresh spinach at the bazaar every Sunday.

And now it's time to begin planting potatoes again. My family has been spending mild days in the garden creating rows in which to plant their saved spuds. Come June apricots will ripen and that kicks off the summertime cornucopia of fruits and veggies from the garden straight to my mouth.

My diet here is much more in tune with the earth than it's ever been. And I feel a greater connection to the seasons as a result. Of course, it's possible to think of the year in terms of fresh produce at Home; I bet most farmers do. But does the wax and wane of ripe fruits cross the mind of the average American more than once or twice a year?

Certainly we know that foods have seasons: rhubarb in early summer, watermelon, strawberries, cantaloupe, tomatoes and sweet corn in midsummer and pumpkins in the fall. Living in a rural area and shopping at road sides stands help cultivate a sense of seasonality. And with people becoming increasingly involved with their food – where it comes from and how it's grown –we're experiencing a welcome shift to awareness of seasons. But we still have lemons and apples and oranges available every time we go to the grocery store. And the best way to develop an appreciation for tea with lemon is to only have lemons four months of the year.

We can always cheat. Buy something out of season if you really need it. In Turkmenistan we don't have that ability – I would call it a luxury but recently I've come to view it as an impediment – and it has changed the way I think about food. Here everything is seasonal. Fruits and vegetables come and go with the months. The meals you eat depend on what is available in the garden. It's a way of life that I hope I don't lose sight of when I return back to the land of refrigerated trucks bearing foods from afar.

Now, will I stop buying avocadoes? Well…no. But I do hope I'll garden. I hope I'll invest the time and money into feeding myself seasonally. Maybe I'll even build a greenhouse. As long as I want fruits and vegetables year round (and I do, my current winter diet is way too monochrome), they may as well come from my backyard rather than a country thousands of miles away.

Making foods from scratch is another good habit I've picked up. Homemade spaghetti sauce is so much more satisfying than red stuff from a jar with questionable ingredients. And in an effort to cut down on the number of granola bars my dad sends me, I made my own recently. Not only do I know all the ingredients that went into them, they were a) ridiculously easy to make and b) delicious. Too delicious even. And the granola that goes into those granola bars? Holy cow. I will never, ever buy granola again. My granola paired with my family's homemade yogurt is now my favorite dessert.

Who needs seasons of love? I choose seasons of fruit. It's a simpler way of thinking about the world, it's eco-friendly, and encourages us to pay closer attention to the earth that feeds and sustains us.

Updates and... more on food!

Hi all,

Tomorrow is the first day of Turkmen spring! And the weather? Overcast and cool. I am in Ashgabat -- got here on Friday morning to attend a concert given by the American embassy to celebrate Black History Month. It was awesome. Culture shock within Turkmenistan -- there was a jazz band! They were great!

Anyway, about my host sister: I shot from the hip. My emotional discourse about Bagul was made in good faith, but as with most things in Turkmenistan, issues are often many layered and convoluted. Nothing here is cut and dry. So what's the deal? Well it turns out that a) admission into bank school is three thousand dollars but students must pay an additional $100/month on top of that and b) the teachers institute is only two thousand dollars but it's located in a different region and she'd need to "buy" a new license to be able to move there.

This whole license business is a complicated mess. Once it became apparent that paying for school could be a major headache I talked to Bagul about her options. She's really interested in moving to Ashgabat or somewhere nearby and finding a job. She's got a well-connected relative in the city that has told her that he can get her a job if she moves here. And she's got relatives with whom she could live. The only problem is that Turkmen can't move around freely. You need this license and getting a new one is only possible under the table. Moving to Ashgabat involves at least $5000. Moving to a "suburb" costs less – about $2000. So my idea was to give Bagul money to move in with her aunt outside the city. That way she'd be able to work in the city and save money and get out of the village. Then I learn that her aunt's house is set to be bulldozed to make room for a new road and Bagul doesn't know where they're going to move or what their own license situation is going to be.

Further complicating issues, Collin, Summer and I had lunch with our former Turkmen language teacher on Saturday. She lives in Ashgabat, but her family doesn't have the license so she can't get a job and has to sit at home. Her husband is able to work because of some special permission. She told me that they tried to buy the license and offered ten thousand dollars and were turned down. I don't know if that was for her whole family of four or just the husband. And she told me that people living in villages near Ashgabat can't work in Ashgabat, which would totally defeat the purpose of Bagul moving.

UGH. Is there a pea at the bottom of this ever growing pile of mattresses? We need to do some sleuthing and get answers, but we're likely to continue hearing different answers from every source we talk to. And I guess that's what it all boils down to: you have to find the right people. If not? S.O.L.

Anyway, that's the latest on that story. I'll keep you posted as we clear away the cobwebs of confusion and bureaucracy.

In the meantime…more on food! Enjoy :)

Love,

Jess

Bagul is the eldest of two sisters

I love both my host sisters. They both have added love and laughter to my life in Turkmenistan. The youngest, Gulalek, makes me laugh but my bond is stronger with Bagul, the eldest. Bagul is 22 and studied at bank school a few years ago. She was supposed to grandfather into university, but whatever loophole they were going to use closed the year she finished. She returned home and that was that.

Bagul is not cut from the same cloth as most of these village girls. She is bright, determined, and worldly. She wants more from her life than to be someone's daughter-in-law. She wants to fall in love and not be married off to some random village kid. We've had discussions about homosexuality and Bagul serenely states that she thinks it's natural – a rare point of view among Turkmen. When I tell her that girls in America are able to date openly, that we can kiss boys and not be viewed as tainted goods, that we can wait until we are 30 or 35 to get married or never marry at all, she sighs and wonders aloud why she was born in Turkmenistan.

We've had a lot of discussions about her future. I know she's been trying in vain to get a job. There's just no work in the villages or in the larger towns nearby. If she had the chance she'd go to university... but there's no way she could ever afford the $30,000 price. Her more realistic goal is to study to be a teacher or do a few more years at bank school, but even then she can't scrounge together the two or three thousand dollars she'd need for tuition.

Her sister needs to study. The family is now saving money for Gulalek's tuition. The eldest son needs to pay two thousand dollars to get out of his compulsory military service. Then both brothers must marry and that costs another few thousand dollars. So while Bagul shows great promise, her mother simply says that there is no money for her. She already studied. Money is needed elsewhere. And, her mother adds, all Bagul's friends are getting married and having babies, so she should start thinking about that, too.

Bagul has been trying to save her own money. She sews dress after dress and yet still can't save enough. And as a job has been impossible to find, she's resigned herself to the fact that she probably won't get to study anymore. Now she tells me, "hopefully my children will have more opportunity."

It kills me. Especially now since she's given up on her dreams. And I get it. What good is hope when all odds are against you? When you've already tried and gotten nowhere? I understand her need to protect herself and shut down. Maybe it doesn't make her cry anymore, but after we had this discussion again last night, I left the room with angry tears stinging my eyes.

Sure, it wouldn't be sustainable to give her some money and if the village found out it would set a horrible precedent for future volunteers, but how can I sit here in my position of privilege and just watch this girl give up on her modest dreams? I know we can't help everyone, but what kind of person am I if I don't help those who I have the ability to help?

Peace Corps volunteer on vacation

Jessica's New Year's vacation 2009-2010

A

ll extraordinary things become mundane after awhile. Remember that Pluto used to be a planet? Yeah. I think we're all used to its relegated status of "rock" by now. And cell phones? I mean, I didn't even have one until my sophomore year of college – that was only six years ago. Now they're ubiquitous – even Turkmen in tiny tucked away villages have them! Novelty is ephemeral; after the shiny luster and new smells disappear, it seems as though all this new stuff was always a part of our lives. It takes conscious effort to remember back to a time pre-innovation when cell phones were big and boxy, the internet didn't exist, computers had only one color and games like "Grover in Space" were all the rage.

If this is the way of the world these days, is it any wonder that I feel the same way about Turkmenistan? My existence here, which once seemed so bizarre, has become very routine and ordinary. I wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, eat lunch, go back to work, come home, read/exercise/watch movies, eat dinner, read/exercise/watch movies, go to bed and do it all over again. I'm merely another hamster running on the wheel, like so many others. My wheel just happens to be in Central Asia. Other than that, is my life so different from yours?

Of course there are occasions when I'm walking in the village and all of a sudden it hits me that I'm in my second year of Peace Corps service in Turkmenistan. It always leaves me amazed for a few seconds. Wow! Peace Corps! Turkmenistan! Then I hurry on my way and the thought doesn't occur to me again for another few weeks.

The other day my dad remarked to me that it had been a while since I'd sent an email about my life here. He said he missed all the character descriptions of emails past. I'd introduced people to him via my emails only to leave him hanging for more information. He had a point. I've been remiss. I just don't know what to write about anymore. Although I do realize that while life here seems pretty quotidian to me, it's still new to all of you. So the challenge for me now is to file through events in my mind and decide what would be interesting for you all to read, no matter how normal it might seem to me. Hey, if Erma Bombeck can make every day life New York Times Bestseller worthy, it shouldn't be that hard.

We have a kitten, a tabby named Boris. He's really sweet – loves to catch flies, climb the curtains and curl up in laps. He's learned where meat comes from and stalks the kitchen, going as far as climbing into the refrigerator when it's opened. It's amusing, but unsanitary for sure. A few days ago he was nosing around on the middle shelf, mewing for food and deciding whether or not the butter would be a good substitute for beef. It was not.

The car – it's an early 90-something – is on its last legs. My host dad wants to buy a "new" one, but my host mom tells him that he drives too fast to buy a new car. Our village road is too pot-holed to get any real speed, but many drivers do take advantage of space between pot holes to go fast. They speed for about 50 yards before they have to slam on the brakes and negotiate the pocked asphalt and then they're off speeding for another 25 yards. The stretch of road between my village and the next is fairly clear of obstruction and that quarter of a mile is where drivers fulfill their need for real speed – I swear they get up to highway speeds for that brief time (or maybe it just seems that fast because the car is shuddering and feels on the verge of falling apart). My host dad is no exception and even takes the pot holes too fast. So I understand my host mom's objections: why get a new car? He doesn't drive far and the car, while a piece of crap, does the job. On the other hand, I understand his side too: The car isn't going to last much longer. Every now and then it won't start. When this happens, we have to push it to the end of the driveway and then push it as fast as we can back down the driveway and hope that by doing so the engine will start. If it doesn't, we push until it does. I get a kick each time I watch my host mom in her long dress and head scarf bearing down on the car. Hilarious.

I continue to be amazed at the lack of general geographical knowledge people display. When asked where I went on vacation I'm usually met with quizzical looks when I reply, "Thailand." I don't even mention Cambodia. People are further surprised when I tell them that it's hot there now and that it never gets cold. My counterpart was convinced that Thailand was actually China until I got a map and showed her that they are in fact different countries. But does it really matter that Turkmen don't know the capital of Djibouti? And does it matter that I do? Only in quiz games…

The shoe of cultural disbelief was on the other foot this week when I walked into my host sister's room wearing my workout outfit – running shorts and tank top. Bagul was talking to my host mom, and while I know Bagul wouldn't bat an eye at my near nudity (by Turkmen standards), I was unsure of how my host mom would take it. I asked her if she minded and she was like, "I don't have a problem with it, but don't walk in front of Gapur like that. He's a man." And then she asked if I wore similar outfits on vacation and could scarcely believe my affirmative reply, though she'd already seen my pictures. "You wore shorts? In public? In front of men???" Why, yes I did. And it was remarkably normal.

Which brings me to the vacation: It was fun. It was adventure. It was escape, renewal, inspiration, sensory overload, Culture and delicious food. I apologize that all I can offer are platitudes, but I'm still awe struck by what an amazing trip it was. Here are some of the hightlights:

• Clogging the toilet of our hotel room in Ko Samui and clandestinely borrowing the hotel's plunger and getting it past hotel staff in order to plunge the toilet ourselves because I was too embarrassed to tell them we'd clogged it. I maintain that if they want people to throw away their toilet paper, they should be up front about it rather than suggestively putting a trash can next to the toilet.
• Taking a Thai cooking class.
• The government bus ride to Ko Samui on which we were the only Westerners and during which we were treated to a free lunch wherein I was instructed in the proper method of eating (use your fork to push food onto the spoon, eat with the spoon). Also wherein I'm pretty sure we ate snail because whatever it was, it tasted exactly the way you'd expect snail to.
• Eating grasshoppers.
• Angkor Wat. Angkor Wat. Angkor Wat. Absolutely magnificent.
• Undergoing a traditional Cambodian treatment for illness which involved being rubbed repeatedly with a metal disc such that our skin bruised and we were left with tiger stripes all over our backs. It was hardcore.
• Enduring a harrowing car ride with friends from the hostel en route to a floating village where we were the first Westerners some of the residents had ever seen.
• Seeing Avatar in IMAX 3D in Bangkok. Holy cow.

Thailand was fantastic, but, oh, Cambodia. The quiet magic of Angkor Wat, the solemnity of the Killing Fields, the NGO on seemingly every block in Phnom Penh, the friends we made at our hostel, the first kiss I'd had in over a year – all of it made it hard to leave and convinced me that I had to go back as soon as I could.

Particularly the NGOs. What a wake-up call. Did you realize that other countries have active NGOs? That development work can happen unimpeded by government intrusion? There are oodles of volunteer opportunities in Cambodia! Volunteers are wanted! They don't have to jump through hoops for the Cambodian government! AND there's an expat community!! After living in Turkmenistan for a while I'd decided that maybe I didn't want to live abroad anymore. Being in Cambodia reminded me that Turkmenistan is unique. Turkmenistan is certainly interesting, but it's also kind of soul draining. Cambodia restored my spirit to overflowing.

You can imagine how difficult it was to leave that NGO paradise for a place where I can't motivate my teachers to help me write the grant for remodeling their classroom and getting decent grammar books. (It's supposed to be a group effort!) The confiscation of my American toothpaste at the Bangkok airport only made me angrier. (I forgot that other countries have carry-on restrictions. Oops.) Needless to say, I was in a funk for a few days after we got back. Little Miss. Happy-Go-Lucky had to eat the words of her last email – I was in the thrall of the dreaded and inevitable mid-service blues. It's true that most of the time I feel positive about the work I do, but there are certain realities about Turkmenistan that most of us choose to ignore lest we become too bitter to go on. And once you get sucked into that sticky pit of unhappy reality, it's hard to break free again.

However these things pass and after a few days of sleeping a lot and wistfully thinking of Cambodia, I resumed the spring in my step and the happy attitude of denial that gets me through. I'm feeling good again, although I'm still anxious about this grant – right now my students are my main motivation for getting it done but I still feel very Little Red Hen about the whole thing.

Well, it's a few days later and I've lost my train of thought… we're in Ashgabat now for our Mid-service Conference. It's fun being back together as a group again – we haven't all been together since the Fourth of July. I updated my computer for the first time in a year – woo-hoo! I tried uploading photos from my vacation but the connection is too slow for that right now…

Oh! And the hotel has BBC and I got to watch the State of the Union this morning! What a treat!

So yes, life in Turkmenistan has resumed its ebb and flow. I'm healthy – no TB, got my test result today – and happy and in disbelief that my time here is another month sooner to ending.

Lots of love,

Jess

P.S. Remember my friend Enejan? Well, she's about six months pregnant and if you do the math, it works out to her getting knocked up a month before she was married. Which explains a lot.