Persimmons and Dallas, Among Other Things

I am going to backtrack to a cute little anecdote about my visit to Lebap. My aunt-by-marriage there is a nephrologist in the nearby regional capital, but despite the extensive education for doctors, of course, she gets a very small salary (teachers get paid more). As a result, she is also a cosmetic salesperson. She queried me at length about which cosmetics were popular, and whether they were expensive in America. Her favorite brand is Mary Kay, and she confessed to me that her dream was to go to Dallas, Texas. When I asked her why, she explained that, of course, the Mary Kay central offices where there. I can only hope that they have a spectacular factory tour to make the trip worth it. Her wish just struck me as so charming and absurd, it just stuck with me and I wanted to include it.
The past few days have been very full of such intriguing cross-cultural encounters that I’ve made a little catalogue. Last night, for instance, just before going to bed, my host father turned on WWF pro wrestling, and my thirty-year-old sister-in-law was watching with great fascination. When I mentioned that it was from America, she was all the more rapt. I explained that WWF wrestling was theater in America and wasn’t real. I feel a did a great service to the country by letting someone halfway around the world that pro wresting was faked. This discussion had followed a brief conversation on race relations in America. My family asked me if there were a lot of black people in America, and the asked me about the black volunteers. It was astounding that they should even know about them, because they are not in the same town. But rumor spreads fast in Turkmenistan, and if you think being an American here puts you in the center of attention, try being a black American (strangers constantly taking photos of you). Anyway, my family asked me if there was interracial marriage, and if there where separate schools. I managed to convey that schools were separate 50 years ago, and that this was bad. But, terms like injustice, unequal and prejudice are still well beyond me. Well, not so much the words, because I have a dictionary, but putting them in context.

Then there have been a few amusing linguistic complications. I tried to tell my mother that I had bought persimmons (a new word that day), and she looked confused for a moment, repeated the word to me quizzically and finally said “Gutly Bolsun” which means “congratulations” and is traditionally said for somewhat larger purchases. A new dress, “Gutly Bolsun”; but a new fruit? Usually not. So I brought out the fruit to show her, and she cracked up. “Oh, you said ‘hormat’ but you bought ‘horma.’” She repeated this story later to her guests, again getting a good laugh. Finally, I looked up the word and found out that I had told her I had bought “respect.” The congratulations and confusion became clear. Last week, my training group went together to Nisa, and ancient ruin 5000 years old, and just a few minutes from our town. Despite the lack of tour guides or signage, I can tell you from my Turkmen teacher that Nisa was once the head of the Persian Empire and also a stronghold for Alexander the Great. The whole city’s outer perimeter is probably only a few kilometers, and we scrambled up and down the crumbling remains of the surrounding wall. As we were the only visitors, the whole place seemed like some private sand-swept playground. And despite the lack of information, the very proximity of ancientness was thrilling on its own. In the not-too-distant distance where the Kowpet Mountains separating Turkmenistan from Iran. Given the generous and welcoming and basically apolitical or pro-American attitudes I’ve encountered so far, it’s hard to believe that not so far away, people are burning effigies of American figures, or at least they might be if TV reflected life.

Yesterday, my birthday, was perfectly lovely. It began with a call from my parents. Then we spent the day in Ashgabat, first getting lost on the way to a museum where we were supposed to meet our teacher, then eating a pizza restaurant and heading to a bar (beer=$1). Then, three other volunteers came over to my host family as my mother had made about 10 pounds of palow (Turkmen fried rice). Keeping busy all day, I wasn’t really homesick at all until the next morning, because of course there are so many people in America I wish to share happy occasions with.
The museum we visited in Ashgabat was a spectacular marble building that looked almost brand new, but more reflected ideas about find arts museums from a hundred years ago. The first floor was full of paintings, with scenes form Turkmen life all painted between 1930-1970, it seemed, in a variety of styles, some of the quite compelling (from folk art to impressionist and vaguely Gaugin). The museum was clearly designed to be a pride and joy of the city, replete with a gift store and granite bathrooms, but I the we may have been the only ones there. We were able to talk to two curators, one of whom spoke English and wanted Peace Corps to give the museum a volunteer. That would be a really sweet job! As we were leaving, a school trip of Turkmen children was entering; they were the only other visitors I saw. Part of the reason we got lost looking for the museum was that nobody we asked knew where it was, or that it even existed, in spite of its grandeur.

The glittering marble halls were in especially sharp contrast to some conversations I had with Turkmen recently. On a visit to see my sister-in-law’s new nephew, my host brother spoke disparagingly of the absence of work in the country. He said people need to go to Turkey or Moscow for jobs, and I have heard unemployment rates as high as 80% quoted to me. My guess is that this figure does not take into account cottage industry, as many people seem to run small businesses out of their homes, as my brother who videos weddings almost every night of the week. Still, we heard that the median wage is $11,000 annually which, even account for lower costs, is very meager.
In less than two weeks, nessip bolsa, I will be sworn in as an official volunteer. Very exciting.

More Adventures

The family dinner on Saturday night was perhaps the most surprising thing of all. My host mother’s three brothers came, one all the way from Dashaguz, and eleven-hour drive. Not only was it a shock to eat with men, and freely converse with them but men and women drank vodka together. I have only seen alcohol once in my training village, and it was only served to men, and they were in a separate room. So being asked to drink was quite a shock. Naturally, as the guest, I was called upon to make a toast. I went something like this: “I do not toast good in Turkmen. Ummmm, I think, I think. Ummm. Turkmenistan beautiful. Turkmen people friendly,” (look about awkwardly, then repeat the text suggested by other guests: “Have many children and be healthy.”) “Have the children a lot. Be healthy.” I managed to survive many toasts drinking only a shot and a half of vodka. The men, however, got very drunk. One of them kept insisting that he was 22, and my hosts explained that this was a joke, in case I believed a 35-year-old man was 22. Then he told me I was breaking his heart and I told him I was 60, which got a pretty good laugh.

The next day, the brother from Dashaguz started the drive back, but wound up in the nearby hospital instead, with kidney stones. Of course, this took a lot of work to understand. At first, I thought he had hit a rock (aka stone), and hurt his back, because my host mother kept saying rock and pointing to her kidneys. Compounding the confusion, she believed the kidney stones could have been the result of too much alcohol. So, of course, I was thinking of drunk driving. His sister didn’t seem to worried, so I don’t think kidney stones are fatal in Turkmenistan.

The village of Sakar seems to have much to offer children. There are five kindergartens, all brightly-colored, if a bit worn. There is an arts & music school where two of my sisters studied dutak, the national instrument of Turkmenistan. It is something like a two-stringed lute, with a similar-shaped body and a thin, fretted neck. There is also a daily English club for enthusiastic students of English. Naturally, as an American, I was invited to come, as one of my host sisters attends.

When I arrived, I was surprised to see 30 or 40 students there on a Sunday. The teacher was very young, not more than 30, and overwhelmingly warm. As soon as I stepped into her room, she hugged me and explained how happy she was and that, When they found out an American was coming, she waited eagerly for me. I introduced myself, talked about my family, and then they sang me a song by an American pop star I never heard of. The children here almost definitely know more about American pop than I do. Then, I was called upon to sing a song, and recite some French and Greek poetry before the students split to different levels. I was placed with the advanced students, whom the teacher said could talk about many subjects. Not knowing the level, and I think appropriately, I confined the discussion topic to family, seasons, animals, and why the students wanted to learn English. Every student said that English was interesting for them, and that they wanted to study at an American university. I wonder how much of that statement came from a real desire, and how much came from a set of answers they memorized. One thing is clear, there are many Enthusiastic English learners in this town, and hopefully that network of motivated students will help my in my health work.

Talkujta, Independence Day and Kowata, the underground lake. All of these seem so long ago, that I feel I am writing them more out obligation to increase the information on my blog, but I suppose I owe it to myself as well since this blog will be my own record more than anyone else’s.

Talkujta, I am told, means “push and shove” in Russian, and it is the largest bazaar in Central Asia., just 20 minutes outside of Ashgabat. Inside the gates, it is probably over a square kilometer, but then there is the space outside the gates, like a giant open-air grocery store. We passed the vegetable stands, sausage stands, and street-food vendors to enter in the area of traditional Turkmen crafts. These include long, colored braids of camel hair, silver jewelry sold by weight, and of course carpets that would make anyone with a good taste in home décor plotz. You could buy colorful fabric screens to hang in doorways, an embroidered coat, or one of hundreds of traditional Russian fur hats Then there was the fabric section, aisle after aisle. A quarter mile just of velvet for the party dresses, another quarter mile, stall after stall, of brightly colored synthetics, and yet another of cottons. Cotton is one of Turkmenistan’s biggest exports, so it is plentiful and cheap. I bought about 2 ½ yards for about $4.(the labor and ribbon trim cost $3.50, making the cost of the hand-tailored dress $7.50.). The rest of Talkujka may have been dubbed “Mad in China.” There was everything you might find in Wal-Mart, only more chaotically organized. Scattered throughout the market were people carrying delicious-smelling trays of food. Throughout the market, I kept thinking how much fun it would be to show friends and family around the place.

I had a more mixed experience of Turkmen Independence Day. Every American kept insisting that it was the most spectacular fireworks display, and that I would agree with. But I also had to endure several hours in Ashgabat’s central amusement park with my host niece and nephew and a four-hour stint of drinking with my aunt. That being said, the fireworks were truly spectacular. They lasted half an hour and each sequence was coordinated to music, had a color or type theme, and seemed to contain enough fireworks for a mid-sized city. Throughout the show, my five-year-old nephew crouched and covered his ears. Unfortunately, it took us 1 ½ hours to catch a van back to Herrick-Gala. Eventually, my host sister-in-law had to beg our way onto a van that was already full by explaining that she had two young children. The ids sat in strangers’ laps, and I crouched most of the way beside the door.

Kowata is an underground hot spring where they took all the trainees swimming a week ago. It is about 45 minutes from the capital and about 5 kilometers from the border with Iran. You descend down about seven flights of slippery steps with wobbly hand rails, wishing you were wearing metal cleats. As you descend the dimly lit corridor, the air grows hotter and more humid, and eventually carries the smell of eggs from the sulfurous waters of the lake. The water is lovely to swim in; about 82 degrees Fahrenheit, it is like being in a bath. The depth of the water wasn’t clear, but nobody’s feet touched the bottom. However, there were many jutting rocks and ledges where you could rest. We spent about two hours swimming before learning that a half-hour was advised, probably for the same reason that excessive time in a hot tub should be avoided. Still, the water is supposed to be medicinal for your skin, and I have not seen any ill effects. When I told my family in Herrick-Gala that I swam, however, they were extremely apologetic because they don’t know how to swim.

*************

I want to mention briefly about Turkmen news, as I think anyone who knows anything about the government here might be interested. Basically, the news airs stock footage of brand new Turkmen factories, gorgeous schools with computers and state-of-the-art farming. Having watched the news over breakfast almost every day, I feel fairly confident that the same images are shown over and over. The new footage is of the President cutting the ribbon at a new gas station, the President riding a horse, the President visiting China. There are also man-on-the-street interviews, but I am not sure of their subject.

More from Sakar

I slept poorly on the train and dismounted with my counterpart to a rainy city. The pocked road was full of puddles I tried to make mental notes of my surroundings, but little stuck. As it turned out, the bus took us to a bazaar where my counterpart bought a pair of boos, some toy cars for her nephew and a large blanket. I would say that I was a bit put out by this. She had had been on the same 14-hour train ride; did she really wish to go shopping? Also, a trip to the bazaar meant I actual didn’t know how long it would take to go from the village to the train station. I had heard varying estimates from 20 to 45 minutes and was interested in actual differences. On the other had, the bazaar did give a good impression of Lebap’s liberality. There were women wearing jeans and shorter (knee-length) skirts.

The taxi ride to Sakar filled me with glee. For some reason, that expression seems awkward and wrong. But with glee was I filled, because Lebap has grass and trees. There are trees in Ahal, but they all seemed stunted and half-alive, like trees that grow in the salty mist of the ocean. The trees they have in Lebap are full and proper and have fall colors, mostly yellow, but some peaking of the pinkish orange of maple. Instead of camels, there are donkeys, and with the rain, the earth smelled wet and lush. Some of the roofs are piled high with hay, giving them an almost British air. The houses are made of brick from a yellow clay, instead of the whitewashed concrete in Herrick-Gala.

Now, on to the family and house. The difference is almost indescribable and I find myself thinking: “Is this Turkmenistan?” I guess my shock is something to keep in mind any time I believe I know something bout anything. For one, the kitchen is indoors and would be, aside from the ingredients, completely familiar to any American. The bathroom (NOTE: “bathroom” means bathing room, not toilet.) is in a separate building next to the kitchen, and has a full shower and a “washing machine” which resembles a garbage can with an agitator. It doesn’t fill or drain automatically but the setup has a faucet right above to fill it. So, keeping my clothes clean and myself clean should be quite a bit easier. I know it must seem strange to go on and on about the house’s amenities, but these things really sent me into a state of material shock that I still hardly believe. It doesn’t seem right, somehow. As in how did I get assigned to a family with all this? And they have a cow, a giant marmalade at and two overzealous guard dogs.

Now, the family. I finally have my dream of sisters. I have three sisters in the house. One is 20, and a nurse at the clinic where I will work. The next is 17, the next 15 (those two are students). There is also an older sister, married with two young children, but married women move to their husband’s home. These sisters are also a dream situation, both because it is great for my language skills and because I may very well wish to work with this age group, training them to be health educators, so I have an immediate connection. All of the children speak some degree of English, and two of them said they wish for English in their careers, as English teacher and interpreter. The parents are also very educated; the mother is a gynecologist, the father a pharmacist. It is also an interesting family because the mother is Tartar and Russian is her first language while the father is Turkmen. I’m not sure that that type of union is common. The girls explained, however, “We are Turkmen, because our father is Turkmen.” When the mother speaks Turkmen, about 30% of the words are Russian. In this town, this seems fairly common. I don’t recognize much of the vocabulary, and many of the words seem to have a Russian accent. I’m going to bed now, but look forward to the following topics (as thought you must wait while I sleep).

1. The Party
2. The English Club
3. Exciting events yet to happen, for who knows what tomorrow will bring?

To the Permanent Location

I am writing from the town of Sakar, center of the Sakar Etrap (kind of like a county) in Lebap Velayat (kind of like a state). This town will be my home for the next two years. Peace Corps sends us here, before the end of training, to gather important information about our sites, such as: mailing address (yay! This town has a post office!) and any potential problems (like the fact that m door doesn’t lock because the previous volunteer took the key). I am sitting in my host sister’s room staring blankly because I don’t know where to begin the description. I suppose at the beginning.

This past Wednesday, we found out about the election, and far more historically, our “permanent sites.” When I heard I would be in Lebap Velayat, I was thrilled because I had heard many positive things. Liberal enough for women to wear pants, better food, less gender separation, the current volunteers are cool. I was also happy for selfish reasons, because we got to take an overnight train there, which meant more time traveling with friends and less time isolated with strangers at my permanent site for an entire week.

Then, on Thursday, I met my official counterpart. She is a family doctor at the small health clinic attached to the hospital in town. She is in her late 30’s or early 40’s and has a kind face. Immediately she seemed like she would be easy to work with, an opinion supported by the fact that she is unmarried, a pretty radical thing for a woman. That Thursday was a “counterpart conference” run by Peace Corps so we could meet our colleagues in a controlled environment. We watched a video of a blind person and a sighted person running a race together. Then, I told her, “I am like the blind person because I do not know Turkmenistan well. However, with the state of my grammar, what I really said was: “I no see ‘cause to me Turkmenistan don’t good know.” She put her hand on my knee, looked deep into my eyes and said, “I will help you.” It was probably the sweetest part of the conference The rest was fairly tedious because it was a bilingual conference, which meant that it took at least three times longer than it would have in a single language. Whenever they asked if people had any questions, my counterpart would mutter “no” under her breath. So, rest assured that not just Americans are bored at conferences. In a hurried session at the end, the PC staff reviewed our travel plans with our counterparts.

Those of us in the Lebap velayat were to catch the 5:00 PM train in Ashgabat, which would travel for 14 hours to Turkmenibat, the local capital of Lebap. A have heard so many horror stories about trains in developing countries that I was surprised to find new trains, significantly nicer than AMTRAK. Me had a sleeping car, a small room with two sets of bunk beds. All the volunteers were in all-volunteer cabins and the first part of the journey was very pleasant, chatting and enjoying the train’s gentle, sluggish crawl. The drive to Lebap only takes seven hours. Later, as we began to consider sleep, some very drunk boys knocked on our cabin and proceeded to attempt conversation with us. It wasn’t threatening because there were two men in the cabin, but we got or first real tasted of Lebap Turkmen. The boys were returning from their two years of conscription in the army, and I think they somehow believed they would be able to sleep in our cabin. A policeman also briefly joined us and asked if we had an problems. I think he just wanted to meet the Americans. My host sister here in Lebap asked why people kept smiling at me. I explained that they may not have seen an American.

Food, Toys and Family

Food in Turkmenistan

Every day we have lunch at one of the host families’ houses. She gets paid to cook this meal and it is wonderful that they chose her, because she is an excellent cook! There is always relatively fresh bread (more on this comment later), fresh cucumbers, tomatoes --interestingly, the Turkmen word for tomato is pomidor – a mayonnaise salad (either potato or beet), an eggplant salad and a main course which is either palow, manty, mash (lentil soup – A+) or stuffed peppers. All this week we looked forward to lunch because it was so delicious. Palow is fried rice (super-oily but delicious) with carrots, onions, meat and sometimes dried fruit. The rice here is short-grain. Manty are the Central-Asian dumpling. The two times I’ve had manty, it has been ground meat and pumpkin. They are steamed. Also, the method of folding them is very easy, at least by dumpling standards [There is a diagram which I will try to include. Ed.]

I am still getting used to the taste of goat – when our soup doesn’t have a lot of vegetables, the taste is prominent. The advantage of soup is its role in the bread situation. Every volunteer has reservations about the bread; when fresh it is soft and delicious. However, the bread is served with every meal and becomes rock-hard in two days. Thus, soup is very good for softening the bread. I just keep trying to appreciate that my body is ridding itself of preservatives. Unfortunately, there is no soup for breakfast, so the only recourse is butter and apricot jam. Also, as the guest, I get to drink the fresh cream from the cow. They boil the milk, so the cream has a skin. I’ve taken quite a liking to it, I must admit. I don’t feel too guilty, since I can barely eat the bread.

The bread-making process was fascinating. You roll out the dough until it is two inches thick, oblong and about the size of a dinner plate. I didn’t see the dough being made, but I think it must have been yeast, because it is not a quick bread (although sourdough is a possibility). Then, you poke a hole in the top and start a fire in the bread oven known as the tamtoor . This word must be related to tandoor from India. The word for cheese is paneer! Anyway, you start a wood fire in the dome-shaped clay oven with a hole on top. When the oven is hot enough, you wet the bottom side of the bread and stick it on the side of the oven. It only bakes for 10 minutes. My host mom gave me a big hunk with tons of melted butter and jam. It was to die for.

The subject of food leads nicely into the subject of parties/weddings/celebrations, known in Turkmenistan as toys. On my very first morning, I found myself, with the help of my host mother, a neighbor, and a Turkmen dictionary, invited to a toy. I was very excited, because I had heard so much about them and I thought it was a good opportunity to do some community integration, so I agreed. It was underwhelming. Sort of a backyard barbecue/family reunion with someone else’s family. I sat with a roomful of middle-aged women, was plied with food, and repeated the few Turkmen phrases I knew:

“My name is Jessie. I am 22. I am from America. I am a volunteer. I do not speak Turkmen well.” They laughed and discussed my need for a proper Turkmen dress. This region is very conservative and I have seen no alcohol consumption. Needless to say, when I was invited to another toy after being at school for eight hours, I wasn’t particularly excited. But I should have been.

From several blocks away, I hear some music with an infectious rhythm, and see a brightly-lit pavilion.. It sounds a bit like Arabic or Indian pop with traditional instruments. When we arrive, I see at least 150 women in this huge pavilion hung with brightly-colored fabric. There are dozens of tables covered in food, and hosts bring out more and more hot food. It seems the whole town is there, and this is just the side of the party with the women. We are near the back, but by craning my neck, I am able to see that there is a live band with a synthesizer keyboard that seems to play a horn part, a singer and a fabulous drummer. When he breaks out in a drum solo, a small group of men dance athletically, holding fistfuls of plastic bags or money as pompoms. Little kids are screaming, the music is too loud, someone passes out plastic party favors. Eventually, we make our way to the front to pay respects to an old woman, and I am able to conclude that this is, in fact, a wedding. A group of young women I walked over with invite me to dance, and I oblige for two songs. But my host mom looks tired, so I bow out and we walk home, the music’s notes fading before its rhythm. All in all, an awesome party.

With all the excitement, I was looking forward to a quiet Sunday of cleaning, writing letters and reading, but this brings us to the first interruption of the writing of this letter. After cleaning with Gulgemal, and my mother bring somsas for lunch from the market, they tell me to get dressed. I hear “toy” so I assume another party. I’m a bit annoyed, but we never stay long, so I don’t worry. After we leave the house, I discern that we are going to Ashgabat. My hopes rise that they are taking me to get a dress made, as was briefly mentioned earlier in the week. However, I eventually realize that we are visiting my mom’s sister. We hail a taxi (a shared van) into Ashgabat, then take a long bus ride. To make a long story short, her sister is a tailor. The have already bought fabric, and it is clearly a party dress. I am a bit disappointed not to choose my own Also, I have to figure out how to give her the money. Because it is being done by a relative, I cannot pay directly. I did figure out that the dress costs $15 but I don’t know if that includes the fabric. We spend 2 ½ hours with the sister and her screaming kids (3, 4 and 5 years old + pregnant) before hitching a ride to my mom’s brother. Except that we just hang out with her sister-in-law. As a parting gift her 18-year-old daughter gives me two porcupine quills and a dishtowel. That is not a joke. Al in all, we spent six hours in Ashgabat; I barely got anything done and I have a stomach ache.

Fun with Language

Here are some misunderstandings that have occurred:

1) Since I don’t understand every word, there is a lot of guesswork. My host mom was attempting to introduce a guest whose name contained “gerek.” This means “need.” I thought she was asking me if I needed anything and I said: “No, no.” She kept repeating the name, and I kept saying “no.” Eventually, everyone was laughing.

2) In the opposite vein, a classmate accidentally failed to lock the bathroom door. When a host sibling opened it, he meant to shout: “No, no” but instead shouted “Yes, yes.”

3) My language teacher thought it was hilarious when I misunderstood her cursive and thought that the Turkmen word for “ear” was “queak.” There is clearly a good sense of humor here.

I have made a lot of linguistic progress this week. I can now explain that 22 is too young to marry in the U.S. I can say, “When I sit down, my black skirt becomes white” (from the dust). And, I managed to say: “I locked my door, but I don’t have a key.” That was the second exciting interruptions; I locked myself out of the room. Luckily, I had left the window open so, after a failed attempt to find out if there was a Peace Corps approved locksmith, my host father removed the screen and climbed into my room. I was very embarrassed, but it was also hilarious. I will only be really bad if I let it happen again.

The mention of my host-dad leads nicely into the topic of gender relations. It is basically totally segregated. I have never talked to my host father except on the first day when I introduced myself. He does no work around the house and barely talks to his wife. However, perhaps because I do not yet have a project, the gender separation seems positive for female volunteers. There is no gray area for interaction, so we feel very safe.

What the town is like

All the roads are paved. The houses are cement brick. Most houses have one outdoor faucet. Everyone has gas heat. There is no bazaar or post office, but there is a school, a hospital and lots of small bodegas called dukans. I am 25 minutes walking distance, at most, from all the other volunteers.

My technical training consists of shadowing a family doctor a few days a week. We have a home visit tomorrow.

Meeting the Host Family

October 4, 2008

I have just met the host family and things seem OK although I still have virtually no language so I can’t be entirely sure of that. The family lives in the village of Herrick-Gala, 14 miles southwest of Ashgabat. The mother is 55 and the father is 54. They have two sons, 30 and 24. The 30-year old son is married and his wife and two children – a seven-year old daughter and a five-year old son – also live here. I haven’t met them yet, as I only arrived half an hour ago. Why am I hiding in my room writing this, you may wonder? Well, having exhausted my impressively minuscule vocabulary, I got the impression that my host mom wanted a break; she kept asking me if I was tired and wanted a nap, so I figured she was asking about herself. Despite this, she is very, very friendly. She kissed me and took my hand at the hotel. At the house, she showed me how to use the squat toilet (there is an outhouse in the garden, but running water to fill the bath). The mother has four gold teeth in the front of her mouth.

I get the impression that this family is upper middle-class or wealthy. The house is one story, and plain, but very neat, with a garden in the back (as I mentioned of the outhouse) and chickens and a cow! My room has a bed, a chair and a small desk, all of which is unusual. Usually, there is no furniture, only carpets and mattresses on the floor. That way, Turkmen can host lots of people as family visits. You just pull out the extra mattress and there is plenty of room. Outside the window of my gigantic room, twice the size of the one in New York, you can see the mosque that Nyzazov (“Turkmen-Bashi”) built in his own honor. It is a kitschy replica of the Taj Mahal, with four minarets and a gold-plated dome. You can look it up, as I am sure there are plenty of pictures (Editor’s (Dad’s) note: there is one at

http://www.bdtw.tv/photos/turkmenistan/turkmenbashy-mosque).

Also, outside my window there is some kind of squash plant. There is a major road about 10 meters outside the window.

This morning we learned a little more about the progression of our training: for the next nine weeks we will have four hours of language lessons, six days a week and a meeting every day to shadow a nurse or a doctor at the local hospital. We will also be giving three health-related presentations as our Turkmen progresses. While the English-speaking volunteers work 95% in English, we work 95% in Turkmen.

… Later, same day.

I helped with dishes! Yes, I can do that when I need to make a good impression on a Turkmen family (Dad’s note: wow). And I helped feed the bull and the cow. As it turns out, they have both. I think the host mother invited me to join in, but I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t. When my language gets better, I may add that to my chores. I did chop onions and peppers for the goat soup, though. Then the mother made fresh pasta. She used a thin wooden rolling pin to roll it out and, to get the dough super-thin, wrapped it around the pin and rolled multiple layers together. The pasta was boiled and then served with some of the warm water, yogurt and salt. I got a big bowl of that around 5:50 and thought that was it, but we got the goat soup I mentioned before. There is still no sight of the grandkids, and I am not entirely sure they live here, although their parents certainly do.

Now for some hilarious cultural misunderstandings. We were instructed in a few key points before we met our host family:

1. Bread is sacred. Ensuing taboos include stepping over it, placing it the wrong way upon the plate, breaking it with one hand. OBSERVED TRUTH: They keep the bread in a plastic bag.
2. Burping is extremely, extremely rude. OBSERVED TRUTH: People burp here.
3. Father will ignore woman (me) out of respect. This seems true.
4. It is believed that black tea and green tea have different health effects and are good for different people. OBSERVED TRUTH: I tried to ask if a given tea was black or green and the host mother dumped it left and made another pot. Perhaps she thought I was refusing one type of tea or another.
5. Turkmen believe that being alone is sad and will be very protective. OBSERVED TRUTH: My host mother’s niece insisted on accompanying me to the outhouse. She was very surprised when I told her I didn’t need her to do that. I haven’t figured out how to take a shower yet, but given the level bathroom supervision, I; sure I’ll figure it out.

Premier post from Turkmenistan

October 1, 2008

Greetings from the land of the Turkmen. We are staying in the Hotel Turkmentistan, which is apparently not the nicest of hotels, but is completely comfortable (at least as nice as anywhere I stayed in my trip to the Mideast). Outside our window – I have the room with a very nice girl from Flint, Michigan – you can see the Arch of Neutrality. This is the rocket-ship-like construction that supports the golden rotating statue of Niyazov, in a triumphant pose. If it weren’t a symbol of authoritarian rule, it would seem like something out of Las Vegas, as it is adorned with neon light at night, and changes color like the Empire State Building, only every few seconds.

From what I have seen of the capital, the whole city resembles the monument district of Washington, D.C. with grand while marble everywhere. Near the Peace Corps office, the buildings have Spanish roof tiles and stucco sides so that, with the dry air, you could mistake for California, if you weren’t looking too closely. As the Country Director pointed out today, Turkmenistan has tons of oil and natural gas, combined with a history of neutrality, so the wealth is evident in the capital. However, we will not be here for long; Friday we move into our small training groups for intensive Turmken study. In the Villages, the need for development will be instantly more evident.

Amid this loosely familiar scene, there is still evidence of traditional Turkmen notions. While the men wear western clothes, many of the women wear the traditional dress, with embroidery along the collar and down a panel in the front. Still other women wear pants and some I have seen wearing short skirts, but I believe they were Russian. Still, the neon glamor with post-Soviet sensibilities does not seem congruous with my fantasy of Turkmen culture. I guess I will see about the reality of that soon enough.

A few notes before I go

Tomorrow, I get on a plain for Turkey, and by Wednesday at 2:45 am, I will be in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. The great adventures begin.

Here are a few fun things I think may be of interest about Turkmenistan:

There are no ATMs in the whole country, so it is, quite literally, an all cash economy. Furthermore, only the crispest, most recently issued American bills are excepted for exchange. They must be perfect, not a single mark, tear or other blemish. Perhaps in an all cash economy, the physical bill takes on more significance.

There are no other major development organizations in the country. Peace Corps is truly unique there. What an incredible privilege to get to be there.

I will send more when I know more.

Welcome

If you're at this page, I just sent you an email soliciting paper correspondence so I won't feel too alone on my impending adventure. Please send me your address, too, if you want to receive mail. I won't have email, at least for the first three months, and life is slower there. So, when I'm not trying to pick up a Turkic language or improve my skills as a health educator/grant writer/cultural ambassador/volunteer, I'll have plenty of time to write letters.

You may also be visiting this blog because you actually want to learn about Turkmenistan. I didn't know where it was until I was nominated by Peace Corps to Central Asia, either. Unfortunately, I'm not in Turkmenistan, yet, so I can't tell you about personal experiences. But, here are links to the best information sources so far:

Current Peace Corps Volunteer Blog (He inspired me)

Flickr Images of Turkmenistan

NYTimes on the death of their leader, changes with the new regime

State Department