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.