Summer is NOT my favorite season in Turkmenistan

Hello, friends.

No long missive from me today. It's been too hot to write lately.
It's too hot to do anything, really. The only pleasant time of day is
from when we wake up around 6:00 to about 10:00. I dug potatoes for
an hour yesterday and then weeded my lettuce crop for two and a half
more hours. I finished at 11:30 sweaty, sunburned and exhausted, and
had to take a long nap after lunch to recover. When my friend,
Collin, told me that his thermometer maxed out the other day, I didn't
believe him. That would have meant the temperature was over 50
degrees Celsius – 120 degrees Fahrenheit. I thought, no way. I mean,
it's hot. It's really, really freaking hot, but 120 is ludicrously
hot. Surely it wasn't that hot.

Well, I was wrong. When I came home from a fellow teacher's birthday
party Saturday afternoon, I happened to notice the thermometer that I
bought last year (for just this purpose of tracking how perspiringly
hot it can be here) read over 105 – and that was in the shade. So, I
plucked up some courage, took the thermometer and stood in the sun for
about 5 minutes, watching the red dye creep up incrementally towards
the 50/120 mark. I got too hot around 114 degrees, admitted that it
was entirely likely that the temperature reached 120 degrees recently,
and decided to go back inside to the relative cool of my 86 degree
room.

I shouldn't be surprised. It's been so hot that you sweat just
sitting. I spend most days glistening with perspiration. Last year I
got really bad heat rash around my bra line, so this year I've given
up on wearing bras. Most Turkmen women don't wear bras unless they're
at work anyway, so I'm not creating scandal by not wearing one. It's
nice and breezy going bra less, and I briefly contemplated keeping the
practice up at home until my neighbor came over. Faced with her
pendulous, sagging bosoms, I decided that I probably won't sweat as
much in America and heat rash won't be an issue so therefore going
bra less won't be a necessity. In any case, these days I wear as
little clothing as I can get away with. I've contemplated shaving my
head. I knock back liters of water like shots.

So yeah, it's hot. It gives summer a whole new meaning. It makes you
wonder why people settled here. And totally makes me understand and
feel less bad for joining in the afternoon nap phenomenon, which I've
been doing instead of writing emails to you all.

I would, however, like to plug a little project my mother and I are
working on. Mom's collecting used children's books and kid-friendly
DVDs to send to me (which I'll give to my school). If you have any
books no one's reading anymore or DVDs you'd like to donate (no
specific genre necessary, just fun books or movies that kids of all
ages would enjoy), please feel free to pass them on to either of my
parents.

Also, and please note that I feel awkward saying this and there is no
obligation whatsoever, if you would like to contribute to the shipping
costs, which will most likely be on the low end of outrageous, that
would be lovely, as Mom and Dad will be fronting the bill. Please,
please, please, no obligation, but if you feel so inclined, you can
pass on whatever amount you would like to my parents. Mom said that
if she gets more money than she needs, she'll just buy a few more
books/DVDs to put in the box. If you'd like to know how much they
need or if they've gotten enough already, you should talk to them. I
am out of the loop on the whole shipping business. Also, if you don't
live in the greater Elizabethtown/Lancaster County area, don't worry
about it.


No pendulous, sagging bosoms for me,

Jessica

Potato harvest

Hello friends!  Here are a few updates from the oba:
 
It's May and that means potato digging time!  On Friday my host
parents spent all day in their field and harvested over 370 kilos of
spuds, which they sold for 1 manat/kilo – about 35 cents – making a
little over $100 in the deal.  Families the village over are digging
up their potatoes now and selling them to middle men who will in turn
sell them to other, not so potato-rich provinces.  Although everyone
uses the Russian word for potato – kartoshka – there is a Turkmen
word: yer alma.  Literally it means "ground apple."  Rather a lovely
image, don't you think?  As you might suspect, my diet this week has
been heavily potato based, which can induce culinary ennui, but
freshly dug Turkmen potatoes are surprisingly tasty and not at all
starchy like the standard Idaho variety.  They are sweet and delicate
and impel volunteers to wax poetic about the subtle flavor and the
excitement that a pan of frying potatoes brings.

It's not just potatoes that are ripening now.  Strawberries appeared
at the bazaars a few weeks ago and now sour cherries are coming into
season.  My family's tomatoes and peppers haven't produced anything
yet, but people with greenhouses are harvesting theirs.  I planted
green beans and zucchini again this year, and my beans are steadily
climbing and my zucchini plants look very healthy.  They've even begun
flowering!  I should soon be up to my ears in squash and I can't wait!
 
My parents (my real parents) recently purchased their plane tickets
for our summer vacation, my last as a PCV!  They bought the tickets
sooner than I'd anticipated and as such, the last time I was in
Ashgabat (the only place one can purchase westward-headed tickets), I
didn't have sufficient funds to by my Ashgabat-Frankfurt ticket.  By
the end of April, all economy tickets to Bangkok had sold out though
August, so although Germany isn't the hot Russian tourist destination
that Thailand is, I was worried that if I waited there would only be
business class left, or nothing at all.  Of course, business class
isn't a big deal.  Because of a lack of economy tickets we flew
business class to Bangkok in December, but I'm saving money to buy
carpets and purchasing a business class ticket would have broken my
shoebox bank.  A number of tickets are set aside for acquaintances,
too, so even if there are tickets left, you might not be able to buy
one without knowing the right people or crying.  It can be a headache.
Thus, when mom told me that they had their tickets in their hot
little (electronic) hands and I was faced with waiting another month
before I'd be able to purchase mine, I began to look for alternative
solutions.  Enter: Bagageldi.
 
Babageldi is the son of one of my counterparts.  He's in university in
Ukraine but he came back to Turkmenistan a few weeks ago to apply for
a visa at the American Embassy.  I helped him practice for his visa
interview and actually set up the appointment for him.  And then I
thought…hey, Babageldi is going to Ashgabat, and since he flys to
Ukraine all the time, he knows where the ticket office is and how to
buy tickets.  So during our last meeting, I gave him my passport and
ALL my money and asked him to buy a ticket for me.  He agreed.  A few
days later he returned, with an American visa (yay!  If anyone is in
Ocean City, New Jersey this summer, let me know and I'll tell you how
to find my Turkmen friend!  While visas are usually different for
Turkmen to obtain, he applied to go to the States through some program
via his university and therefore had a much easier application
process) and my airplane ticket and all my leftover money.  I was
thrilled!
 
The practice of buying tickets for other people is commonplace in
Turkmenistan.  I didn't bat an eye handing my passport and savings to
him.  Turkmen are tremendously trustworthy and it's a trait that I'll
miss in people when I return home.  I don't know that I'd ask a casual
acquaintance for such a favor in the States, which is unfortunate,
because it was wonderfully convenient.
 
We're looking at less than six months left in Turkmenistan.  It's
mindboggling to think that I've already been here over a year and a
half and time only seems to be speeding up.
 
 Leaving is going to be difficult.  I've grown very fond of my Turkmen family, friends and
neighbors, but it will be nice to see all of you again, too.

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?