Nine Months Home

I'm sitting in front of the t.v., once again obsessed with Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations. It was a little over three years ago that I first got hooked on the show, sitting on the floor of our house packing books and dishes (which have yet to be unpacked) ready for adventure. We were preparing to leave for Azerbaijan and the show encompasses all of our excited expectations. I have a feeling this sort of thing is cyclical-or will be for Mathias and I.
Step 1-Wanderlust. The undeniable pull in the belly to foreign lands and different people. Enter obsessive Bourdain watching and jealousy, and reminiscing about past trips.
Step 2-Arrival. For a week or two everything is magical and perfect, simply because you wish it to be so. Bourdain's visit to Kurdistan is an excellent example. The food is amazing, severed cow heads charming and everything pin-prickingly special.
Step3-Disillusionment. Exhausted from spending so much energy deliberately ignoring those things which don't match your expectations of the place, your manic swings to depressive. Everything is horrible. This is the most boring/frustrating/backward (insert your own adjective here) country in the world. You spend a lot of time being angry with taxi drivers.
Step 4-Acceptance. Or whatever mix you can find. There are things you'll always hate, but you're ready to appreciate your favorite foods again and some of the local oddities. You make friends and appreciate them. Perhaps you are so bored that you spend all of your time making home videos of your cat.
Step 5-The joy of returning home. Eat all the donuts you can. Endure mild own-culture shock in the supermarket.
Step 6-Amnesia. Like a woman who's forgotten her 13 hour labor while holding her newborn, you cannot for the life of you remember what was so bad (something about taxi drivers?) Nostalgia sets in. It was such a great experience, why didn't I appreciate it more? You make your very first attempt at cooking indigenous recipes. You must find these recipes on the Internet because while you were in country you couldn't have been less interested in a cooking lesson from a local. You go back over all the photos and videos you took and wonder why there are so many of your cat. You realize that maybe you don't want to go back there, specifically, but you want to go again. Somewhere else. Next time you'll do better.
You watch No Reservations. The cycle begins again.

An Episode in Culture Shock

"That is too heavy for you!" He cries, hurrying towards me and taking the bucket of kitty litter from me as I emerge from the pet needs aisle. The older cashier and young bag boy grin at each other; obviously most adolescent sized women don't go stumbling through the grocery store carrying things half their size. "Why didn't you get a cart?" The bag boy asks, lugging the bucket up onto the conveyor belt. I say something about exercise and pull my cloth bazaar bag from my purse. The thin young man seems appreciative of my environmentalist gesture and cheerfully bags the rest of my groceries as I pay the cashier. Maybe it's his dark skin and lightly accented English but I suddenly feel like I am back in Azerbaijan. I automatically count how many males are looking at me, which is quite a lot since it is immediately clear that though the bag boy only outweighs me by a dozen pounds, he will squire me to my vehicle with the majority of the load and the others are going to tease him. My glance darts around to the ground, the sky, to my peripherals. As we walk towards the car I find that I can no longer make eye contact. I'm walking a few steps ahead, mentally telling myself not to walk so quickly. What is my problem? I find the intimacy of the help unbearable. I unlock the car and gesture towards the passenger side, "You can put it down on the floor there" I say, my gaze staying at a safe unfocused chest height. You probably look really bizarre and rude. American women are perfectly capable of casual interaction with service persons! "Have a great day!" I chirp at the last moment, hoping this will make up for my awkwardness. He's already off, cheerfully helping another customer. I spend the rest of the drive home wondering what triggered such a vivid emotional response. Was it the small Azerbaijan-sized onions in the produce section? Was it that choosing between the brand-name cat litter or cheaper publix kind I vividly remembered Mathias digging concrete dust out of our crawlspace into a laundry bucket for Baby Cat's first litter box? (I went with the off-brand.) Or maybe it was the bag boy himself, something (forgive me) but not-quite-American-yet about him? Or maybe it is I who am not quite American. There is one thing that is for sure and that is that Azerbaijan is not leaving me anytime soon.

Three Months Out

It's a strange thing, when you're back, it's hard to look back.
I had always suspected as much. People in my town would tell me how their emails and phone calls went unanswered when they tried to reach the volunteer who had left. There were a lot of stories like that-volunteer leaves, never to be heard from again. And near the end more than one volunteer jokes they will never attempt a good deed ever again, that their allotment of humanitarianism has been used up for the rest of their lives.
But we didn't want to vanish off the face of the earth. We didn't want our friends and colleagues to question our fealty. Thanks to the wonders of the Internet, Skype and Facebook, keeping in touch with our dear Azerbaijani friends has been easy. Easy say "Happy New Year!" or "How was your vacation?"
But part of it hasn't been easy- staying connected to the American experience in Azerbaijan. By that, I mean that I could not read a single Azerbaijan volunteer blog. I tried. But I couldn't do it. Maybe the struggles are too familiar, something I'm not willing to feel again so readily. Perhaps I am reading the subtext behind each line, knowing the things I never wrote. Maybe it is the residue of all the things I did that I didn't want to do-all the times I smiled when I wanted to cry, or tried to brush off offense, or be a stronger person than I was. You never want to feel some of those things again, those things the current volunteers are doing right this very moment, and I fear if I read their heartbreaks that mine will come crashing back through--I want to be finished with that part.
I miss Azerbaijan. I miss my friends. I miss speaking Azerbaijani, the walking to the store and laundry hanging in the breeze. But I do not miss being a volunteer. I do not miss realizing that I am not even 10% close to being able to be selfless for a single day, let alone two years. Which brings me to my final judgment of my time. All those times that I was disappointed, the frustrations, the fears...they were not because of Azerbaijan or it's people. I mean, some of them were, but for the most part they were merely the big dirty mirror by which I learned the of the flaws in myself. That I am not as selfless as I wish. That my self-esteem could be stronger in the face of disapproval or rudeness. But for every time my inability to handle such difficulties frustrated me to tears, like a muscle aching under strain, I did get the tiniest bit stronger. I'm still getting stronger.
And so this week I could enjoy Hillary and Joey's post about the computer-ray-eating-cactus, and practice my Azeri to my Azerbaijani cat. I walked into a lamp shop whose owners were Turkish and had to go hide in the sconce room because their accents made me weepy and nostalgic. I could watch Egypt and think of Baku without bitterness, but hope.
Perhaps now is the time to go back to my novel, and begin editing again.

For It's Own Sake

Disclaimer: I am so very glad to have been a Peace Corps Volunteer for the last two years. I have done good work and made a difference. I have learned a lot. The fact that I felt a need to write a disclaimer just proves the point I'm about to make.

In the past I have alluded to the fact that things aren't always perfect in the PC, but I haven't spent a lot of time going into detail. There are several reasons for this.

One of them being, people don't want to read about it. I know a fellow development worker who was recently very honest about their experience on their blog-the frustration of giving up so much for others who rarely acknowledge your sacrifices-and was criticized for not being more understanding of those they are serving. People don't want to hear that Mother Theresa had doubts or resentment about what she was doing. They want you to be a hero. I fear that if I'm not a hero, people will think I'm not living up to the job.

I don't want you to feel I wasted your money. My "salary" is paid by the U.S. government and therefore you. Development work is painfully slow and full of failure. And even if I've been able to adjust my own expectations of success, how do I explain myself to results-driven Americans that I did a total four hours of work this week? That when I got to work no one else showed or that the project I worked on for six months never came to fruition? That sometimes the best you can do is be happy you finished a load of laundry. I haven't always succeeded in teaching myself that it's about process, not product, so I'm too afraid to justify it to others.

I've been convinced for too long that if a person isn't happy, that must mean that they are doing something wrong. So when I wasn't happy, I felt guilty instead of accepting the whole range of emotion as a valid and integral part of human experience.

So I leave out the bad parts mostly for fear of being judged. Because I'm sure judging the heck out of myself already.

As you read this, a new group of PCV's are in Sumgayit training just as we did two years ago: learning the language, enjoying the exotic nature of everything being different. For the most part they are blogging and writing home about their awesome host family and the yummy new food and leaving out the doubts and frustration (I mean, how bad would it look that I'm struggling already?). And I know that someone in that group is going to face these demons that I've been facing. This week while watching Michael Sandel's Justice Series, I heard something that I wished I'd accepted two years ago:

"A good will isn't good because of what it affects or accomplishes, it's good in itself. Even if by utmost effort the good will accomplishes nothing it would still shine like a jewel for it's own sake as something which has it's full value in itself." ~Immanuel Kant

As Kant argues, the fact that you are still here when it turns out this isn't as glamorous as you thought it would be, that you aren't getting recognition or thanks, that you are misunderstood and lonely, this is proof that you came with good will. You are doing the best you can. And that's enough.
Let it be enough, I beg of you, for your own sake.

To Not Forget the Figs and Friends

A little over two years ago I was busy memorizing every sight, smell and feeling I experienced on a daily basis. We were about to leave to a faraway place and I didn't want to forget anything. I was creating a memory bank of everything I'd miss. At the time it felt like I'd never see or feel those things again, like I was never going to come back. Of course, it was for only two years and here we are, on the verge of return. And now, for real this time, there's a good chance that I'm not coming back.

Preparing to leave Azerbaijan feels very different than preparing to leave America. And it should; I'm different. There is a lot to process looking back over the experience and preparing to re-enter my own country without too many expectations. So now is the time to put into good use what I've been working on for the last two years-living in the moment and really memorizing the feelings.

Like when we went over to the Məlikov's house. We learned a lot of cool stuff that day. Araz makes wine and liquor at home and had just bought over 100 kilos of grapes (it's grape season) to process. We asked if we could watch and he said come on over. We got to see how the grapes get squished, ferment and then sit in bottles. Araz lets his wine age for about three years.
Then we did a tasting. Araz also has a still that he welded himself. He makes araq (vodka/liquor) with grapes, honey, mint and other things I forgot. It's always strong but you'll never get sick from it. Araz says that this is a sign of its quality.

While Qətibə was preparing dinner, Araz called "Who wants to do some work?!" "Oohh! Me! Me!" Mathias, Nijat and I threw our hands in the air (actually, maybe Nicat rolled his eyes). We were each handed a small glass full of water and headed to the back yard. Araz showed us how to break off the little baby figs and collect the sap/milk that came out of the stems in our glasses:
Then Qətibə used 1/6th of what we collected on the meat (but everyone got to feel like good helpers!). She is the best cook in the world by the way. When Qətibə is feeding you there will be a main dish and a minimum of three sides. For dinner we had little tenderized beef medallions, fried potatoes, pickled eggplant, salsa-like tomato sauce, pepper tomato salad, salt-preserved fish and home made bread. Yummm!! She is also the only person I've met here who actually asks for and writes down our recipes for things like corn bread when she likes what we've made.
We talk and tell jokes and drink tea. The family always makes us feel normal. I know that sometimes we must be difficult to understand or make a lot of mistakes when we speak but I never feel that way when we're talking to them. They are patient and willing to search for words to get a point across instead of giving up and moving on. Araz and Qətibə have been like our parents over the last two years. When we needed a new house they helped us find it and negotiate prices. When our water pumps broke at two houses in a row, Araz fixed both of them for free. When I apologized he said we just didn't know how to fix it because we're still young (not because we're dumb Americans!) They take us on trips out to the village or the mountains. If I get sick, Qətibə calls to make sure that I'm ok and sends over a jar of zoğal mürəbbəsi (a high-vitamin jam) to speed my recovery. They have loved us for who we are. Even if we are different. Even if we don't always do everything right. Even when it was probably more convenient not to invite or help us. They did.

People have been asking me what I would have done differently or if I have any regrets about the last two years. And I don't have an answer for that yet. But one thing I would not change for the world was the opportunity to be adopted by this incredible, fantastic family.

Who Says You Can't Go Home?

NPR this week reports that the economic crisis in America has led to many people moving back in or consolidating living spaces with their extended families in order to cope financially. I found the article interesting because of it's overall assertion that moving in with families is very difficult and uncomfortable for Americans. "It was embarrassing" one couple asserts.

I live in a country where living with your extended family is more than normal, it is the only way to go. My best friend's family includes her siblings, mother, father, aunt and grandmother as well as college student boarders. At no point have I ever felt like it was crowded or uncomfortable. Everyone continues to live their own lives, on their own schedules. It's not like you have 8 people sitting in the same room all the time (which is why I would not compare it to a holiday dinner, as the article does). We're not even talking about that big though, the article cites for example a single mother with one child moving in with her own mother. Yup, an overwhelming family of three.

The great financial success of America has created a system where even the very young can have their very own house, their very own car. We can make any decision we want without consulting a single other soul if we so choose. Between our cars and facebook and teleconferencing we hardly have to physically interact with anyone at all. It is the ultimate in freedom. But at what price? Americans are very socially evolved when it comes to work, school and friendship situations. About this I have no doubt. But have we gained the ability to "play well with others" at the expense of being able to enjoy our own families? I would like to meet someone who could argue that over the last few decades of increasing separation that the American family unit has grown stronger and more appreciative of each other. The comment about moving in with family being embarrassing also said something to me about our culture. We are independent. But so independent as to be embarrassed about a living situation that is considered healthy in many many countries on earth? Would we really rather be poor and alone than middle class and together?

Of course living with family has its drawbacks. Opinionated mothers or mothers-in-law for example. Or a grandma that hogs the remote. Hierarchy develops between the generations that we've thrown off long ago. Why should someone with decades more life experience (or outdated views) give me their opinion on how to live? I've learned that living with someone else demands a degree of personal sacrifice, of compromise and forgiveness. Boundaries must be drawn and agreed upon. However I also feel that if I can learn to consider others more, to be more forgiving and laid back, I might be a less selfish and maybe even a happier person. In the cleverly titled Truman biography, Truman, I read that the president was forever sending letters to or asking advice of his mother and sister and cousins. No matter how far he went or what he accomplished, he always returned home. There is something awfully appealing about strong family ties like that.

I might just feel this way because I am literally in the home stretch. Stretching for home, preparing to move back. Ask me again in two months and see if my opinion changes!

Thinking in Words

I just finished listening to Radiolab's excellent podcast on Words. I would highly recommend it. They spend a lot of time talking about the degree to which the ability to use words impacts one's thought processes and social interactions. It got me thinking about when we first arrived in Azerbaijan and suddenly to a small degree I had no language anymore. Actually, it would be more accurate to say when we arrived in Shamaxi. This is because throughout training we are surrounded by English speakers and Azerbaijani language teachers-there is never a loss for words. I did well enough during training-I learned phrases, how to understand and answer basic questions, ask for things. But these linguistic interactions were always slow and one-on-one regarding predictable topics.

In Shamaxi, everything changed. In the teachers room it is loud and gossipy. There are always several conversations going on at once. When I was alone in the corner my brain would get overwhelmed just trying to pick which conversation to focus on and try to decipher. I stop thinking even in English so much as in feelings: Angry, repetitive, agreement, frustrated, sympathetic. I find myself emotionally mirroring the people I'm watching (this is especially useful when people are telling jokes) Oftentimes several people would begin speaking to me all at once. I was hit with a tangle of questions and while I sorted through them and crafted answers for them painstakingly the group would give up. Everyone drops back, silent, with a disappointed look on their faces. And then one person says something slow and predictable: She doesn't understand. Which of course, I completely understand. I have gained an immense amount of empathy for any immigrant to the U.S. who is trying to find their way in a new language.

When describing what it is like to arrive not knowing the language I often say that at that time I was like a baby; always watching, absorbing and not understanding. And like a baby all this processing made me exhausted and forced me to re-institute the four hour afternoon nap.
Eventually things began to click together. Now I can speak. But my vocabulary is still frustratingly limited compared to my English. It makes me think of the assertion in the podcast that we are limited in our thoughts by the breadth of our language. I am interested in this because there are holes in the Azerbaijani language that don't exist in English. For example He, She and It are all represented by one word, O. O went and said to O did you get O? Also there are no articles. For me this takes away a specificity of meaning. When I'm translating what I want to say from English to Azerbaijani in my head it comes out the other end not quite as satisfactorily. But the real question is that at the same time that these words or lack of words are changing the way I communicate, do they intrinsically change the way that native Azerbaijani's think comparatively to how I think in English?
For instance To Wait and To Miss. In English you say "I will wait FOR you" and "I miss you." In Azerbaijani it is the opposite-"I wait (or await) you" and "I miss FOR you." I spend a lot of time wondering why? Why do we just miss and they miss for? Why do we wait for and they just wait? Does it partially change the meaning? Or the feeling?

I think the key is in the feeling. Often people use words to me that I don't know the literal translation for but I can still feel what they are trying to say. Just like Shakespeare. It's what I absolutely love about Shakespeare. You don't have to know exactly what that strange word means because likely at the time he made it up and his audience didn't know it either-you just have to go with the gut reaction you get from hearing the word. And experiencing words on the gut level opens up such an immense and beautiful release to intuition.

But feelings are not enough. Ultimately we need that language key to simplify our interactions (and help us stop taking all those naps!!) Knowing the words can be like magic. Last week I was in Georgia (the Country, not the state). I not only didn't know the language all over again but I was illiterate as well. Georgian script looks like this:ქართული. Which means I can't even attempt to read the street signs. For some reason this is even more disturbing to me than not being able to understand spoken word-maybe because I'm so visual. And so again it's watch, watch, watch, feel, guess. I can't wait to be speaking Azerbaijani again-how easy! How clear! Nothing shows me how far I've come until I cross the border into Azerbaijan, heave a great sigh of relief and say Salam.

A Little Night Music at 93 Degrees

It's 11:30 p.m., the noisiest time of the day. Children are running screaming through the alleyways, playing games. The sounds of chattering women drifts through the open windows while men slap their dominoes and nərd pieces against hard wooden tables. The sun has finally gone down and provided a few hours of cool sociability.

Very few people in Azerbaijan have air conditioning in their homes. This includes us. No air conditioner necessitates keeping the windows open all the time. Many doors are replaced with breezy lace curtains to block out bugs and remind cats where the border between outside and inside lies. And the thing about not having doors and windows is that sound carries. The openness transforms our private little boxes into a loose community of honking horns, private arguments and music lessons. At ten a.m. the quiet is broken by the qatıq xanım, a grandmotherly figure with a raspy cadenced holler that could challenge any beer seller at Busch Stadium. Smetan! Yarpaqmızdan! Kimə Lazım?! Sour cream! From our leaves, Who needs some?! Now I'll admit, I don't understand the "from our leaves" part. She's selling homemade yogurt, sour cream and soft cheese out of large jars and comes by a few times a week. By noon it is surprisingly quiet. I assume that everyone, like us, is taking naps and avoiding anything too strenuous. Stirrings of sound mark the preparation of dinner and by nightfall it's as if everyone breathes a huge sigh of relief and lets out all of the chatter and noise they've been preserving throughout the day.

Every night I enjoy this. I even consider going downstairs and sitting with the ladies on their stoops to perhaps try and soak up some gossip. But my American privacy-obsessed shyness takes over and we watch a movie instead. Let me be more specific-My middle class suburban American privacy-obsessed shyness. There are places in America where the communal front stoop has not been abandoned. Mathias and I used to live in Belleville and drive through East Saint everyday and that's when we first noticed that there are still groups of Americans who don't have air conditioning. And because of that, whole neighborhoods go outside and sit on the front stoop to share their lives with those around them who also lack the luxury. This in stark contrast to where I grew up, where houses are far apart and people can't imagine living without the air conditioner humming. But in this specific situation I'm not sure who is the disadvantaged group. Which is the greater luxury? Physical comfort or feeling part of a close community? I guess it depends on how hot it is. But at 93 degrees, I'm still tempted to choose the latter. That is, if I had a choice. But since I don't, I'll just sip my iced tea and keep listening to the night music.

Rain and Shine

When things are very up and down its hard to decide what to blog about. I realize that while I often blog about various things I rarely get to the heart of what I do. Peace Corps is not what I expected at all, in good ways and in bad. It can be very very hard, followed by pretty darn good. The last two days are a good example of this.

Yesterday I was working on returning to my daily routine after spending a few days in Baku for medical. About two months ago my immune system finally gave up and since then I've had shingles, common but annoying colds and other maladies that require doctors visits and antibiotics. I've even had neighbors drip raw onion down my nose (attempted cure). So yesterday I was finally back home when I received a note from a student informing me that while I was gone the director of the women's center where I do most of my projects informed her that we can no longer meet there. I made a call and received confirmation, yes, while you were gone the entire place was shut down. No more tables, no more chairs. The computer containing the articles for the newsletter we've been working to publish for over three months is gone without warning. I fell apart. I may have said such dramatic things as "I have literally nothing to return to when we go to America." I may have laid in bed crying like a baby. The only thing that cheered me was how fabulously the rumbling thunderstorm in the background complemented my cinematic despair.

Today I woke to perfect temperatures and blue skies. For some strange reason, washing the dishes and sweeping the floor felt fun. I went and tutored a student. I went and visited a friend. She suggested we take a month long hiatus from the project, that it would be best for everyone what with the end of the school year and exams and vacations. And honestly, I would love a break from this project. Back home I thinned out the strawberry plants, spread broken eggshells on the lettuce to deter slugs and went over to the neighbors to borrow a scythe. She didn't have a scythe but she was working on cleaning some beautiful wool and after a short conversation about how I'm learning to spin she sent me home with lovely fluffy bunches in the most beautiful shade. I ate an Italian meal complete with french garlic bread I made myself from scratch and wine home-brewed by another close Azerbaijani friend.

What I'm trying to say is, this is what Peace Corps for me is like. Devastatingly disappointing days followed by bursts of sunshine. Or, to steal from Anne Lamott, it's Grace (Eventually).

"That's me, trying to make any progress at all with family, in work, relationships, self-image: scootch, scootch, stall; scootch, stall, catastrophic reversal; bog, bog, scootch. I wish grace and healing were more abracadabra kinds of things; also, that delicate silver bells would ring to announce grace's arrival. But no, it's clog and slog and scootch, on the floor, in silence, in the dark. I suppose that if you were snatched out of the mess, you'd miss the lesson; the lesson is the slog. I grew up thinking the lessons should be more like the von Trapp children: more marionettes, more dirndls and harmonies. But no: it's slog, bog, scootch."~Anne Lamott, Grace (Eventually) Thoughts on Faith.

Thoughts from a Prostitute on Women's Day

Today was International Women's Day. It's celebrated all around the world with a lot of fanfare, though not as much in the U.S. The staple answer is because every day is "women's day" in America. It is also a governmental holiday so there was no school or work.

This morning in the middle of making pancakes I ran short of ingredients. So I set out to the store and not two blocks away encountered a group of boys in their late teens. As I walked by one of them yelled "red woman!" (prostitute) at me as his friends laughed and high-fived.

I was still thinking of cutting replies when I stumbled across one the sweetest women I know on her way to a friends house. "Happy Women's Day!" she exclaimed, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

All day I got text messages of congratulations and notes on facebook. Women called congratulations and holiday wishes across the streets to each other. Gifts of flowers, underwear, scarves, figurines and glassware were exchanged. I find myself grinning at just about every woman I pass.

All year women bring dinner and tea to men who never say thank you. Some are not allowed to work by their husbands and some are not even allowed to leave the house. There is statistical documentation that this is one country of many that have "missing daughters", meaning that there are statistically less girls born than should be, having been aborted after the ultrasound.

To paraphrase Julia, I'm not sure that saying "Happy Women's Day" and giving me a bottle of perfume makes up for that.

I've noticed that Women's Day is primarily celebrated by women themselves. The teachers get together and pitch in to throw themselves a party. Female friends give each other gifts (To be fair, I did get a lovely tea set from three of my seventh grade boys). A PCV friend said, "I like this better than what we do, because I may never get to be a mother", which is a good point.

And it really is an uplifting holiday. I saw genuine pride on the faces of women all weekend. It's like they know or hope that they are deserving, important, special and for the long weekend the answer is a resounding yes you are!

Which brings me back to the boy who called me a prostitute. Was he just trying to make sure I didn't get too uppity what with all the congratulations? Or maybe after 18 years of practice, it's just too hard to break the habit, even for one day.

Who Puts the Soap on Your Back?

Imagine this: You are sitting around on a Sunday afternoon with your extended family when your Aunt and Uncle, or maybe your brother and his wife, stand up and say, "Well, we're going to take a shower." No one blinks. And when they return everyone says "May you always be clean!" and the next couple skips off to the bathroom. What is your reaction?

I never really thought about how taboo showering together is in the States until we were living with our host family here in Shamaxi and I realized that the couples we were living with were not showering alone. In fact, our host brother once gave us the scoop on how much hot water was currently left in the tank by giving us the calculations for if we showered separately and if we showered together. At our second place of residence I noticed the same trend.

There are more than a couple of stories about PCV's being surprised by host family members appearing mid-shower to help. Talking to one of our friends today, she said that after she declined help her host mom asked "But who will put the soap on your back?" Host mom then explained that she and her daughter always help each other get to that pesky middle of the back.

What's interesting about stumbling across something like this is realizing that what for you is shocking, for someone else isn't the least bit questionable. And after being here for a while I'm seeing it for what it is, a simple cultural difference. There are some things in life that really are not black or white. Shower etiquette is one of them.

I'm even starting to wonder if a little bit of loosening up wouldn't be good for us. After our vacation to Georgia where we went to the public baths (boys to the boys side, girls the the other) At first I thought it would be weird. It wasn't. I couldn't stop enthusiastically raving about the benefits of public bathing for self-esteem. How valuable to stand in a huge room of women of all shapes, sizes, ages (and stages of gravitational influence) walking around completely un-self-consciously. And there's something about public bathing that leaves no room for cattiness; no room for "can you believe she's wearing that?"

And I think about the modesty standards in our country that would prevent this. Women in almost non-existent bathing suits will be a magazine staple in month or two but a few years back when a parenting magazine featured a cover of a woman breastfeeding the outcry was enormous. PCV's find themselves buying longer skirts and concurrently watching their underwear flap in the breeze for all to see.

Where do our feelings about the appropriateness of the human body and relationship come from? How come in Orthodox Georgia and Muslim Azerbaijan nudity within one's own gender is considered completely normal while in the United States it is not? It can't completely come from religion. Is it related to ideas about homosexuality? Was it Queen Victoria? Backlash from Freud? Just something to think about. See you at the baths.

MSC Part 1: Lessons Learned

Two weeks ago we had what is called our Mid-Service Conference (though it was held past the mid-point). More than anything this is a time for volunteers from all over the country to get together and exchange experiences, successes and failures. It's the first time since we swore in that our entire group has been together.

One of the highlights of the conference was a man from Turkey who came to tell us about the impact Peace Corps Volunteers had on him as a child. He had two teachers who were PCVs and talked less about what they actually taught but more about how everything about them challenged his perspective-their hair, the way they walked, the way they interacted with the students. He pointed out the young women volunteers and how radical it is in a culture where women really don't leave the security of the home to see a young, unmarried woman working thousands of miles away from home confidently. He talked about how his view of what is possible changed; how he has raised his daughter to be independent and a world traveller.

I think that this was exactly what a lot of us needed to hear. In terms of "changing the world" few PCVs witness anything akin to change and progress. The modern Peace Corps in a lot of countries is not building wells or planting trees, they are teaching computer skills and English. Many of our English students will never be proficient enough to use it in their careers; some of the girls who are will be married to men who won't allow them to work or travel. There still won't be trash pick-up or reliable electricity. So in the end it really is about the relationships we are building more than anything we can see. We got to see and hear about the impact those two volunteers back in the seventies may never know they had (the former student never learned their first names). Needless to say after a year of hard work in a country that doesn't understand volunteerism ("your country sent you here to work for free? What did you do wrong!?") there wasn't a dry eye in the room.

Don't Judge Me 'Cause I'm Trashy

We burn our trash.

When I first got here, the burning of trash was one of the cultural things that bothered me the most. It’s so bad for the environment! It’s so bad for your lungs! I get a horrible headache whenever it’s trash burning day. And until now, I’ve been able to stay fairly judgmental about it through ignorance.

When we lived with a host family, trash wasn’t our responsibility and thus I didn’t have to think about it. Out of sight, out of mind, out of conscience.

In our first home by ourselves we were given two options: pay the trash men 1 manat per pickup (3 manat a month) or sneak across the neighborhood at night to dump the trash in the woods. We nobly chose the expensive route. I felt so environmentalist and smug. Yes, I Emma Jackson, Peace Corps Volunteer, was sacrificing 3 manat a month for my ethics.

A quick note about the trash pickup—There is no trash pickup schedule, no “every Tuesday at 10”. There are no trash bins to be left at the end of your driveway. The way it works is that at three random days and times during the month someone will knock on the door. There will be a big open truck parked on your street and two guys with shovels. You will run inside and collect all the trash you have and hand it to them along with your payment (always in cash). And if no one is at home you ask? Of course there is someone at home, that’s what women are for!

So when we moved here and our landlord told us to burn our trash, we declined and decided we would continue to pay the garbage men instead. We paid them. They never came back. We see them from time to time but they are as elusive as an even-handed comment on Fox News. And so after letting the bags in our kitchen build and build, we have no other option than to dispose of our trash ourselves. And that means burning it or dumping it on someone else’s yard to be torn apart by wild dogs in the night. When we finish burning it, we must then bury it. Otherwise Baby Cat comes inside with her face all black and looking like an extra in Braveheart.

And so I’m a lot less smug these days. And a lot less judgmental of people who really have no viable options. If any of you environmentalist inventors or engineers can come up with a solution, please let me know. Until then:

Recycle all the plastic you can find. Don’t do it for yourself. Do it so that when the fumes of our burning trash reach God’s nose, he’ll balance it out with your recycling indulgences on our behalf and we won’t have to live in the oil baron section when we go to heaven.

New Kids on the Block

So I wrote about how much we love our new place. I also want to take a moment and talk about how great our new neighbors are. In the past week they have so exemplified the great parts of Azeri culture that I wanted to make sure I took note of it.
When new neighbors pull up in your neighborhood, do you send your kids to unpack their truck?
Well that's what happened to us. Granted, we don't have that much stuff; it all fits in one and a half Ladas. I thought it was a good sign when as we crept down the stony, muddy road, our taxi driver said, "you'll have good neighbors here." My impression is that most of our neighbors are relatives. We pay our rent to the sister of the homeowner and every kid who was helping us move identified themselves as each other's cousins. They not only moved in our stuff but carried bed frames and mattresses in from another house for us and made sure that our peç was correctly installed (many interchangeable pieces-hilarity ensues).
When is the last time your landlord offered to give you the things you might need that you don't have?
Before our landlady left us alone she made sure to fill a kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. Tea always comes first.
She was also concerned that we might not have slippers as the floor is not carpeted and would be cold. I assured her that our slippers were hiding somewhere in our luggage.
Lastly she gave us an oil lamp. We protested "Oh, we don't need that!" She responded by giving it anyway and saying "It's for nighttime." Makes me wonder how often the power will be going out...
Remember when you thought of baking some brownies for the new neighbors and then reconsidered in case they would think it was weird?
And just tonight as we were preparing dinner we heard a knock on the door. Mathias went to investigate and returned with a bag of fruit (quince, pomegranates and persimmons) from yet another neighbor.
I had been nervous about going through it all again-everyone staring, explaining who we were and where we are from, that no, we don't speak Russian, etc. etc. But it's been great and I feel really comfortable here.

Moral of the story: If a foreigner moves in down the street, go ahead and give them those brownies or some fruit. It will probably make their day.

One Year Later: How far I've Come

Then

I can genuinely say I am really happy to be here.

The Peace Corps has this phrase they use in their advertising "The Hardest Job you'll ever Love" which until recently I viewed as a total crock. But cheesy as it is, I'm starting to get there.
I just got back from a hotel on the side of the highway where a whole slew of brand spankin' new Americans were being bombarded with information their first few days in country. First of all I want to say it was an honor to be there. And to those of you AZ7's who may read this blog, you guys are great and I can't wait until we are fellow PCV's.

The truth is, in terms of what they are about to go through, I would never want to do that again. The first nine months here were painfully hard. But I can also say that am so glad I stuck through it.

And here I come to another Peace Corps cliche. That while I have no idea if I'm making a difference in my community, this experience is certainly changing me.
I'm finally over hating things I can't change. I've stopped comparing myself to others or always worrying about the day that someone else is going to decide I'm not good enough. I'm remembering where my true identity lies. In the words of a fellow AZ6 "I've grown the backbone I never knew I didn't have."

I've let go idealizing the United States. Let go of a lifestyle that judges worth by how many unscheduled seconds were crowded out with activity.

And because I've let go of so much, I can now see all of those things I've been blind to. The really polite and thoughtful Azeri men. The truly hospitable friends and neighbors. The smart and talented people who are pushing the envelope. That there is nothing wrong with sitting under a fruit tree drinking tea and just talking on a summer day. Oh yeah, and the new factory the government just renovated and those lovely new highway signs.

A couple days ago I got the last seat on a markrutka-the very last row in between two dudes and a grandmother. There was a woman in front of me who started making fun of the fact that I was foreign. I quickly responded to her that I speak Azeri. She then peppered me with a machine gun fire of questions that would have left me sobbing and confused nine months ago but that I deftly answered as if I was swatting away flies. The woman then for an inexplicable reason decided to revert to the age of seven and take advantage of what I had told her, taunting me in Russian because I said I didn't speak it. And if this had been a year ago, I would have been defeated. And this story would have ended there, with me crying and hating what I took to be "azeri culture." But this isn't a year ago. This is now. And I didn't start crying. And instead of fearfully ignoring the men beside me who were trying to get my attention, I turned my head to them. They were silently making "she's crazy!" hand motions and pointing to the woman while simultaneously offering me a bite of sandwich. And a year ago I would have thought that when the man beside me started talking and joking with the woman that they were probably friends making fun of me when in reality he was chastising her for her rude behavior. The truth is, everyone else was really nice and maybe a little embarrassed. The guy next to me, after trying earnestly to get me to accept Fanta and sandwich, finally got me to take a pack of gum. That's true Azeri culture. And that woman is no different from the people I saw in a McDonald's in Belleville Illinois taunting a man who didn't speak English.

School didn't go super great today. I was expecting twenty kids and only seven showed up. There are probably worse days than that to come. And sure, my life looks a lot like that teacher from Glee if he didn't also have Spanish. I will be afraid sometimes but I will not let that stop me. And disappointed probably even more times. I will probably never know the impact I might have. But it's about the process, and I accept that now.

Now

Raindrops on Roses

"When the bee stings..."

In some of our literature is a useful little bit called "Critical Periods in the Life of a Volunteer". It tells you how volunteers trend through their service. This is where we are at right now:
AZ 6
Months 7-10

Problems:
Slow Work Progress
Language Plateaus
Cross-Cultural Frustration

Behaviors:
Comparison to Other
Over Zealousness
Homesickness
Uncertainty about adaptation skills
Intolerance of Host Culture

As I read this my head almost fell off from nodding. They also include some coping mechanisms such as hobbies (check!) writing home (check!) working on relationships (check!) and "refer to culture shock information" (ummm...where did I put that?).
Another thing I have found really useful as of late has been to list the things about Azerbaijan that I really like and would not have in my life if I wasn't here. I decided to post a bit of it here:

• Hearing the call to prayer
• Marshrutka Rides (ok, maybe I've lost my mind!)
• Ladas
• Shopping at the Bazaar
• Having regular shopkeepers
• The bee boxes in my tutors yard
• Not needing a car/Walking everywhere
• Our meat grinder (so fun!)
• The Azeri Families who have shown true kindness and caring for us
• My Azeri Friends
• Following the Politics
• Muğam (specific Azeri music form)
• Fruit trees in my yard and everyone else's
• How people sit under the fruit trees drinking tea, eating and talking for hours (even on a workday!)
• My new sense of time (or being allowed to not have one!)
• Learning new words
• Peçlər (petches)
• 60 qapik ice cream in Baku
• Watching Al Jazeera
• My amazing PC friends
• Doing laundry by hand
• The myriad of ways that women wear scarves
• Our host family from Saray
• Konturs (pay as you go phone system)
• Canning for the first time
• Reading more books than I normally would
• Some Azeri Foods: Şekerbura with Cinnamon, Aş, Levengi, Toy (wedding) food
• The scenery and weather of Şamaxı in the Spring
• The student who drops everything she is doing to run over and kiss me on the cheek anytime I walk by her street
• The word "var" (it exists/to have/there is) and phrase "lazim dir" (is necessary)
• Paying for everything in Cash
• The utilities guys that deliver your bill right to your door/check to see if you paid
• The fact that I successfully stood in a clump (not line) at the post office to pay our electric bill for quite a bit of time and didn't feel frustrated or impatient.
• Seeing sheep and shepherds everywhere
• Animals everywhere in general (chickens, geese, baby cow outside my door)
• Homemade honey with real chunks of bee!

Well, that's quite a lot!

~Emma

"I just think of a few of my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad!"

An American in (Well, not Paris)

I'd like to know more about the response you get from locals when they find out/figure out that you are Americans. Is there any sort of perceived anti American sentiment that you've had to deal with? ~Corey

I will begin by saying the nature of this question leads me to make statements that are mildly political and social by nature and based solely on my own experience. My feelings do not represent everyones America, everyones Azerbaijan, and certainly are not in any way related to the opinions of the Peace Corps. Now that’s out of the way:

Well, first off there’s the process of figuring out where we are from. Often on the street a stranger will assume we are from Russia and speak to us in Russian. In School, when I introduce myself, it goes something like this:
Emma: Welcome to English Club! My Name is Emma and I’m from—
Students: ENGLAND!
Emma: Nope, America!
Students: Oh, PORTLAND (where their former PCV came from)
Emma: Nope, Georgia!
Students Look Confused

But once the American thing is established, the reaction has never been negative. Azerbaijanis are very hospitable people, so chances are even if they think America is terrible, they won’t let on.
I have met many, many young people who enthusiastically exclaim their desire to go to America. When I ask why, the answer is something like this: I’ve been watching American films my whole life and it looks great-or- Everybody is rich there!
One of the things that have struck me most is that the perception of America is often based on television, movies, and music. Political activist Hollywood actors, producers and directors should be overjoyed to know that young people here seem to be paying much more attention to the movie Titanic and the works of 50 Cent than any of the President’s foreign policy.
I have been congratulated on the new President more than once. I don’t know if this is a show of support for change, or people telling me what they think I want to hear. Maybe it’s just another fairytale story coming from America. One friend asked, “So, Barack Obama is going to end all war now, right?” I decided not to mention Afghanistan.
I’ll leave you with a the question I was asked on a bus by a fifteen year old,
“What do Americans think about us? About Azerbaijan?”
…

Day in the Life...Travelling to Baku

Today we went to Baku to celebrate Valentine's day and our 6th year anniversary of being a couple (wow!). I'll be honest, I love Marshrutka rides because they, more than anything else, make me feel like I'm living in another country. Here's how's today's ride went:

We arrived in the morning to a mostly-full bus. The driver decides where everyone sits, arranging people like tetris blocks as to use the space as efficiently as possible. I end up in the front row next to a couple of grandmothers and Mathias ends up in the back row with the men. We waited for a few minutes for the four more people needed to fill the bus. I'm delighted to see that our bus just so happens to have a bunch of red and white silk flowers on the dashboard (a good Valentine's day omen!). Marshrutkas are independently owned and everyone decorates their own. In addition to the flowers there is a heart shaped ribbon thing pinned to the ceiling with a bunch of dried herbs and a hanging pendent of Mecca. Suction-cupped to the windshield is a portrait of Mohammad. When the last seat is filled, we take off!

The Grandmothers next to me pray us across a bridge and when it becomes foggy and visibility drops they pray us through that too. They sit with their hands raised, praying aloud. When it is clear that we are safe they say "Thanks be to God!" and go to sleep.
We hit a bump and suddenly a "Bk-Kaw!" emanates from the row behind me. I jump, surprised and other passengers look at me bemusedly. Of course there was a chicken on the bus with us, how could I have missed him coming on? (I missed him because he was in a grocery bag).
The soundtrack is as I imagine it, the Azerbaijani "Nine Lessons in Carols". A male voice narrates powerfully, punctuated with a woman's singing. Her wavering, belting voice performs gymnastic acts I never imagined possible and I get goosebumps. I love this soundtrack. I think its a tape because the other times We've ridden I've heard it, but only in the morning and after that the radio comes on.

We are passed by Lada's, BMW's, and Land Rovers. In Baku there are even more luxury cars and so many Luxury SUV's I look around to see who's filming a Hip-Hop video. Unlike in America, the SUV's make perfect sense here-the road is so pitted and potholed that sometimes everyone drives on the shoulder-it's smoother- or the road completely turns into dirt. There is a lot of construction going on but it seems like the strategy was to tear up the road completely and then rebuild it later.

As we near the city people give instructions to the driver where to stop. This person in the suburbs, this person by the overpass. One of the grandmothers hands the driver a phone number and has him call on his cellphone to find out where to take her. He ends up meeting her friend/relative's car on the side of the highway. Everyone pays when they get off. You get on and are allowed to ride the entire way on the good faith that you will have the money when you reach your destination. We do and we depart with everyone else in the heart of the city.
~Emma

The Change to Fall

The changing of the season has been different here. Its been hard to put a finger on, but after some discussion with fellow PCT’s, I’ve come to the conclusion that a lot of it has to do with how intrinsically the sights and smells and sounds of changing, crunching, burning leaves are woven into my understanding of fall. The trees here do not change in the same way; there are no leaves, no familiar smells. However, when I start to look for it I realize how much the season is indeed marked in some really neat ways.

This year Fall came accompanied by a few big changes: The installation of our wood petch (phonetically, not correctly spelled) and running water in the kitchen, as well as the arrival of home-canned fruits and vegetables.
The petch may be fantastic enough to satisfactorily replace crunching leaves (almost). For those who don’t have one, here’s what it is: Imagine a big metal box about the size of a duffel bag with feet and a stovepipe sticking into the wall. The arrival of the petch coincides with the temperature dropping, as it is the one and only source of heating on our property. It lives in the kitchen which I can only imagine over the winter will be THE place to be. It is fueled by wood and trash-a perfect solution for refuse in a neighborhood which will not have trash pickup or recycling for at least as long as I’m here. The radiant heat from the petch’s burning fabric scraps, candy wrappers and coke bottles keeps the room wonderfully warm and the three kettles sitting on top of it guarantee hot tea anytime you like! It’s also great for re-heating. I placed the metal pan with Mathias’ apple crisp on top and within moments have deliciously toasty left-overs. Microwaves don’t stand a chance against this baby!
We also now have a sink with running water INSIDE the kitchen, thanks to the handiwork of my teenaged host brother. My host family explained that they are getting water inside because it’s getting too cold to wash dishes outside. My question of “Why not have water inside all the time?” did not seem to translate.
And last but not least-my host mom’s jarred tomatoes and peaches have arrived from under the stairs!! I have to say, they are delicious. It was explained to me that over the summer the tomatoes are placed in the big jars along with garlic, herbs and boiling water then sealed. We also eat pickled cabbage, carrots, cucumber, and green tomatoes every day. At breakfast time the family breaks out the homemade strawberry preserves, the best I’ve ever had. Hopefully our next host family will also have these skills and I will be able to learn!

Postscript:
Since the writing of the original post, the temperature has indeed dropped. We received a delivery of wood that will last about two months from a gentlemen who collects it from…well I’m not really sure, but I can say it’s mostly two-by-fours with nails still attached. At night the kitchen is indeed the place to be and very toasty. The only other option is under the covers in our room as our thermometer has be registering 54-57 degrees consistently for the last few days. Our host family asked how we heat our homes in America and I did a rather silly reenactment of air coming out of the floor and ceiling. I took that air for granted for sure. To sign off, I’m going in my two pairs of long underwear and leg warmers to sit by my new favorite household object, the petch!!
~Emma

Training Days or If You're Going to Spew, Spew into This!

Our pre-service training has already come to a close and I can hardly believe it. Things are really moving now!
We had a wonderful week in Atlanta with my family which included a tour of UGA, playing with puppies, and good old fashioned sitting around. I had not felt nervous at all until early Saturday morning when I woke up with quite a stomach-ach. Suddenly the reality of leaving and saying goodbye to my family had arrived. In the midst of this gastronomical stress, the face of Garth appeared before my eyes, unfolding a tiny paper cup. “If you’re going to spew, spew into this!” Well, that made me feel instantly better and became my mantra for the rest of the day! We arrived at the airport and went up the counter to check our bags. There is a limit of 50lbs per bag. One by one they went on the scale. 56lbs…52lbs…52lbs..52lbs…apparently our bathroom scale is off! The man at the counter kindly informed us there would be a $90 fee per bag. Immediately we pulled everything into the corner and began the purge. Pen lights? Jettisoned. Knitting manual? Out! Before long we reached perfection. All four bags, 50lbs exactly. And my lucky mom got to leave with 12 lbs of gifts and prizes!
Training was great and passed by quickly. I’ve mentioned to many of you that I really miss school and saw this as an opportunity to be in a learning environment again. Maybe I’m a dork, but just sitting with a pad of paper and taking notes was really fun. On top of that, everyone we have met has been amazing. We are a group of 61, the largest AZ group yet (I think!). There are three other married couples in our group, two of whom are retirees. Our hotel is also great. I don’t stay in hotels often so it’s all very exciting (Look! Tiny soap!)
Tonight we got to have dinner with my aunt and uncle and cousins which was really fun. My aunt made her world-famous brisket, a particular favorite of Mathias’s so we were well fed for our “last supper”! We were also fortunate enough yesterday to enjoy lunch with my Uncle at a great fifties-style diner.
Tomorrow we hop on a bus to New York, hang out in the airport most of the day and depart tomorrow night. We will have a stopover in Frankfurt and then on to Baku. I’m looking forward to checking out all the German shoes. Once we arrive in country, we won’t be in contact for about a week and half-which almost guarantees an interesting blog post next time. Until then I would just like to reiterate how grateful we are for you, our friends and family. I am not afraid of leaving, but I do know there will be moments that I will miss you terribly. Thank you to everyone who helped us move, made us meals, drove us around, simply were there to talk, and made us feel so loved and encouraged. We appreciate you so much!