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.

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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.