15 April 2009
If you’ve ever been to Azerbaijan (and possibly several other countries) and learned a bit about its culture, chances are you know about these places. Personally, I’m a fan of them.
“Çayxana” means “tea house”, and they’re very prevalent around here. I’d say just about every little village has at least one, and they’re not hard to spot. If you’re walking down the street in a typical town, you’ll see an establishment, often with a patio area. Little tables will be set up out front and inside with small receptacles for holding sugar cubes. I must add that these establishments are traditionally for men only. Now, women may be able to go to them, but it might attract some interesting attention.
On any given day, you’ll see men seated at the outside and inside tables, taking sips from little glasses with a teapot between them. This is where many men convene just about every day. They relax, talk, and play chess or backgammon. From an American perspective, it’s an interesting thing to see men do. I joke with my friends sometimes about this. Picture the typical dudes’ get together in the States. Chances are they’d be hanging around the bar, tossing beers and talking trash. Well, the same macho men do that here, except they’re grasping little tea glasses, and a pot with flowers painted on it sits between them.
I love it! Despite my admiration for beer, who says it’s imperative for a dudes’ get together? I, for one, am a fan of caffeinated beverages, and a pot of tea on a sunny afternoon after a days’ work isn’t a bad way to do it, especially if you’re with your friends. My sitemate Charlie and I get together at least once a week at the çayxana of our choosing (There, of course, are several of ‘em in Oğuz.). We sit down with some tea and shoot the breeze for a while. Charlie mentioned that it’s become almost a motif of our experience.
There may be differing opinions regarding the çayxana, but, to me, there’s something very relevant about them. It’s good to know that people value slowing down and enjoying each other’s company. We often have to run around here and there, and we forget about the simple pleasures that bring us to life.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Takin' a Little Run
10 April 2009
When you’re living and working in a different culture, you realize the importance of healthy habits that keep your mind, body, and spirit up to the task. These can range from reading, writing, prayer, playing a musical instrument, or whatever activity it may be. I write this web log partially because it feels good to write. It helps me put things in a better perspective.
Several times a week, I also like to hit the road and jog a few miles. It’s an activity I’ve always enjoyed. It’s interesting, though, doing it in broad daylight in a little village in Azerbaijan. It isn’t too common here, as many volunteers can testify. Running in public, with no particular destination in mind, can attract some odd stares and maybe even some harassment here and there. I can remember one time, when I was living in Ceyranbatan, in which my friend Charlie’s host brother saw me running by, and he looked at me curiously and asked, "Hara? (Where?)". Many volunteers avoid the varied reactions of the locals by either not running at all or heading out when people aren’t around. Some friends of mine in the rayon of İsmayıllı run at about six in the morning (It also grants them the liberty of wearing shorts.).
Thus far, in the ol’ village, that hasn’t been my style. At about five P.M., I head out the door and get my exercise in. This is partially because I tried the whole "running in the morning" thing. While it was nice to jog in the quiet with no one around, it wasn’t so nice to not be able to see where I was going. I fell hard on my left ankle the second or third time I did it, and I called it quits after that. Luckily, my ankle healed, and now I just run in the sunshine when others are out walking, drinking çay and playing backgammon, or playing volleyball (They’re really good at volleyball, by the way. I get put to shame when I step out there.). Sure, it attracts some attention, but not all of it’s bad. I get smiles and waves from the men drinking tea by the store. Women do the same while they’re walking down the road. Kids yell out, "Hi, John! How are you?!" which can be annoying, but at least it isn’t negative. I’ve even had some "followers" recently, but they generally taper off after about fifteen yards. It also appears, at least around here, that not all people find it necessarily "weird". I’ve gotten good reviews from various people. One man told me, "You know, John. I see you running a lot out there, and that’s a good thing. Folks around here, they don’t run, but you do. That’s good." Some women may also say, "John won’t get fat because he exercises" (It also, on a side note, has been good to maintain a healthy appetite. People appreciate that.).
Anyway, it’s just good to know that my strange, American ways aren’t necessarily strange to everyone. By being an English speaking foreigner in a small Azerbaijani village, I’m already pretty weird. What difference does taking a little run make?
When you’re living and working in a different culture, you realize the importance of healthy habits that keep your mind, body, and spirit up to the task. These can range from reading, writing, prayer, playing a musical instrument, or whatever activity it may be. I write this web log partially because it feels good to write. It helps me put things in a better perspective.
Several times a week, I also like to hit the road and jog a few miles. It’s an activity I’ve always enjoyed. It’s interesting, though, doing it in broad daylight in a little village in Azerbaijan. It isn’t too common here, as many volunteers can testify. Running in public, with no particular destination in mind, can attract some odd stares and maybe even some harassment here and there. I can remember one time, when I was living in Ceyranbatan, in which my friend Charlie’s host brother saw me running by, and he looked at me curiously and asked, "Hara? (Where?)". Many volunteers avoid the varied reactions of the locals by either not running at all or heading out when people aren’t around. Some friends of mine in the rayon of İsmayıllı run at about six in the morning (It also grants them the liberty of wearing shorts.).
Thus far, in the ol’ village, that hasn’t been my style. At about five P.M., I head out the door and get my exercise in. This is partially because I tried the whole "running in the morning" thing. While it was nice to jog in the quiet with no one around, it wasn’t so nice to not be able to see where I was going. I fell hard on my left ankle the second or third time I did it, and I called it quits after that. Luckily, my ankle healed, and now I just run in the sunshine when others are out walking, drinking çay and playing backgammon, or playing volleyball (They’re really good at volleyball, by the way. I get put to shame when I step out there.). Sure, it attracts some attention, but not all of it’s bad. I get smiles and waves from the men drinking tea by the store. Women do the same while they’re walking down the road. Kids yell out, "Hi, John! How are you?!" which can be annoying, but at least it isn’t negative. I’ve even had some "followers" recently, but they generally taper off after about fifteen yards. It also appears, at least around here, that not all people find it necessarily "weird". I’ve gotten good reviews from various people. One man told me, "You know, John. I see you running a lot out there, and that’s a good thing. Folks around here, they don’t run, but you do. That’s good." Some women may also say, "John won’t get fat because he exercises" (It also, on a side note, has been good to maintain a healthy appetite. People appreciate that.).
Anyway, it’s just good to know that my strange, American ways aren’t necessarily strange to everyone. By being an English speaking foreigner in a small Azerbaijani village, I’m already pretty weird. What difference does taking a little run make?
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Guesting
4 April 2009
There’s a verb that exists in the Azerbaijani language that really amuses me. It’s "qonaq etmək", which, if translated literally, means "to do/make guest", with "qonaq" being the word for "guest" and "etmək" the word for "to do" or "to make". Okay that doesn’t make a whole lotta sense, but let’s try and translate this in a better way. According to my big, clunky Azerbaijani to English dictionary, "qonaq etmək" means "to entertain", "to treat", or "to feast". Ah, perhaps it’s ringing a better bell with you now.
Being or entertaining a guest is a big part of the culture here, or anywhere, really, but I’ll concentrate on how it’s done here. We Peace Corps volunteers typically just say that were "going guesting" every now and then, signifying that we’re heading to an Azerbaijani’s house to eat and spend time with their friends and family. Let me paint the picture for you:
You approach the host’s house, and they warmly welcome you, immediately telling you to take off your shoes and put on a pair of slippers. Then you walk into the house and sit right down. In my experience, there’s never been the American custom of showing the guest around the house. You come, and you sit, and the T.V.’s usually on, too. I guess it serves as an extra diversion for the people’s attention. As you get accustomed to the surroundings and Turkish pop songs are playing on the tube, çay is served, along with various little cakes and candies. You gotta love this custom that would get you slapped by your mama if you were back in the States. Folks here eat sweets before and after dinner. Priceless.
After having a spot, or several, of tea and chatting it up with other folks at the table, the sweets are taken away, and the meal comes out. An interesting aspect I’ve experienced that isn’t so common back home is that the women are often going back and forth from the kitchen while only the men sit and eat. I suppose the locals are used to it, but I keep wanting to say, "Come, sit down. We got things to talk about," while they’re pacing to and fro.
Nonetheless, the food is tasty. It typically consists of a few dishes. One of them is dolma. You’ll rarely guest at someone’s place and not have this. Dolma is either grape leaves or cabbage stuffed with meat and rice. It’s good stuff. Then, of course, there’ll be plenty of fresh bread to go with it. I’ve become a world-class bread eater since being in this country. Every time I go for a run nowadays, I can feel it there, weighing me down, but it’s so good that it’d be a crime if I refused it.
Also, they might serve up some cutlet, which is cooked ground beef patties, kind of like a chop steak or burger, without the bun of course. Sometimes it’s served with scrambled eggs, too (providing enough fat and protein for the next few days). They also might serve some turkey or chicken stew with potatoes, and, of course, no bout of guesting would be complete without dovğra. It’s a type of yogurt-based drink with cilantro and other little greens in it. It’s served hot or cold. When I first tried it, I was like, "You gotta be kidding." I can remember when Charlie first gave it a whirl, at his host family’s house in Ceyranbatan. I was sitting next to him, and when I asked, "How is it?" he responded, after swallowing and making a priceless face, "It’s interesting," which, for some reason, made me laugh consistently throughout our meal there, perhaps to the chagrin or simply confusion of the host. Anyway, I’m getting off topic. Yeah, it seemed kinna weird at first, but it grew on me, and Charlie, too. It’s definitely an acquired taste.
Being the good hosts that they are, the Azerbaijanis will also insist that you eat more and more…and then more. My old football coach, Darly Hayes, would’ve been pleased. You gotta be careful, ‘cause, you know, you gotta save room for dessert, which is, well, what you had before dinner, with more çay. Oh, well, what the heck. Indulge. Life is short.
I’d say guesting is a pleasurable experience, and it’s certainly a testimony to the hospitality of folks that’re glad to have you. I’m also amazed to see the word "qonaq" have such a strong presence in the Azerbaijani language: "çağrılmış qonaq" (invited guest), "çağrilmamış qonaq" (uninvited guest / intruder (I guess it wouldn’t be good if you were this person.)), hörmətli qonaq (respected guest), şərəfli qonaq (guest of honor), qonaq getmək (to visit, to pay a visit), qonaq gəlmək (to come to see), qonaq qəbul etmək (to receive visitors / guests), qonaq qalmaq (to be on a visit), qonaq otağı (living room). If the handful of phrases with the word “qonaq” is any indication, I’d say it’s a big part of the culture, and that says a lot about these folks.
There’s a verb that exists in the Azerbaijani language that really amuses me. It’s "qonaq etmək", which, if translated literally, means "to do/make guest", with "qonaq" being the word for "guest" and "etmək" the word for "to do" or "to make". Okay that doesn’t make a whole lotta sense, but let’s try and translate this in a better way. According to my big, clunky Azerbaijani to English dictionary, "qonaq etmək" means "to entertain", "to treat", or "to feast". Ah, perhaps it’s ringing a better bell with you now.
Being or entertaining a guest is a big part of the culture here, or anywhere, really, but I’ll concentrate on how it’s done here. We Peace Corps volunteers typically just say that were "going guesting" every now and then, signifying that we’re heading to an Azerbaijani’s house to eat and spend time with their friends and family. Let me paint the picture for you:
You approach the host’s house, and they warmly welcome you, immediately telling you to take off your shoes and put on a pair of slippers. Then you walk into the house and sit right down. In my experience, there’s never been the American custom of showing the guest around the house. You come, and you sit, and the T.V.’s usually on, too. I guess it serves as an extra diversion for the people’s attention. As you get accustomed to the surroundings and Turkish pop songs are playing on the tube, çay is served, along with various little cakes and candies. You gotta love this custom that would get you slapped by your mama if you were back in the States. Folks here eat sweets before and after dinner. Priceless.
After having a spot, or several, of tea and chatting it up with other folks at the table, the sweets are taken away, and the meal comes out. An interesting aspect I’ve experienced that isn’t so common back home is that the women are often going back and forth from the kitchen while only the men sit and eat. I suppose the locals are used to it, but I keep wanting to say, "Come, sit down. We got things to talk about," while they’re pacing to and fro.
Nonetheless, the food is tasty. It typically consists of a few dishes. One of them is dolma. You’ll rarely guest at someone’s place and not have this. Dolma is either grape leaves or cabbage stuffed with meat and rice. It’s good stuff. Then, of course, there’ll be plenty of fresh bread to go with it. I’ve become a world-class bread eater since being in this country. Every time I go for a run nowadays, I can feel it there, weighing me down, but it’s so good that it’d be a crime if I refused it.
Also, they might serve up some cutlet, which is cooked ground beef patties, kind of like a chop steak or burger, without the bun of course. Sometimes it’s served with scrambled eggs, too (providing enough fat and protein for the next few days). They also might serve some turkey or chicken stew with potatoes, and, of course, no bout of guesting would be complete without dovğra. It’s a type of yogurt-based drink with cilantro and other little greens in it. It’s served hot or cold. When I first tried it, I was like, "You gotta be kidding." I can remember when Charlie first gave it a whirl, at his host family’s house in Ceyranbatan. I was sitting next to him, and when I asked, "How is it?" he responded, after swallowing and making a priceless face, "It’s interesting," which, for some reason, made me laugh consistently throughout our meal there, perhaps to the chagrin or simply confusion of the host. Anyway, I’m getting off topic. Yeah, it seemed kinna weird at first, but it grew on me, and Charlie, too. It’s definitely an acquired taste.
Being the good hosts that they are, the Azerbaijanis will also insist that you eat more and more…and then more. My old football coach, Darly Hayes, would’ve been pleased. You gotta be careful, ‘cause, you know, you gotta save room for dessert, which is, well, what you had before dinner, with more çay. Oh, well, what the heck. Indulge. Life is short.
I’d say guesting is a pleasurable experience, and it’s certainly a testimony to the hospitality of folks that’re glad to have you. I’m also amazed to see the word "qonaq" have such a strong presence in the Azerbaijani language: "çağrılmış qonaq" (invited guest), "çağrilmamış qonaq" (uninvited guest / intruder (I guess it wouldn’t be good if you were this person.)), hörmətli qonaq (respected guest), şərəfli qonaq (guest of honor), qonaq getmək (to visit, to pay a visit), qonaq gəlmək (to come to see), qonaq qəbul etmək (to receive visitors / guests), qonaq qalmaq (to be on a visit), qonaq otağı (living room). If the handful of phrases with the word “qonaq” is any indication, I’d say it’s a big part of the culture, and that says a lot about these folks.
Heç nə
1 April 2009
You gotta love living in a village, because I hear this phrase all the time. As I was walking back to my host family’s house on this beautiful spring day, I said hey to a few folks sitting on a bench. I asked them, "What are you up to," and they responded, "Heç nə (nothing)."
I get that response a lot, especially when I ask someone what he’s doing. Now, it may seem that doing "nothing" is probably not a good thing, but let’s think about it for a minute. I’ll give an example. In the town of Oğuz, where the rayon is centered, there are a few Internet cafes. These places are usually packed with little kids playing computer games. It’s really annoying when you’re trying to write an email to your mom and dad. Or let’s just ponder, for a second, the typical couch potato, wherever he may be, watching the tube all afternoon. I mean, he’s doing something, but that something may not be better than nothing, which is why I’m a fan of the village life. A lot of the time, when you’re walking around, you may ask someone, "Whatcha doin?" and he may say, "Nothing," when in fact, he’s simply walking around himself, or chatting with his buddy, or…I dunno…sitting on a rock. I’d say that’s about as edifying an activity as anything else. Can’t you think of some fond moments in which you were doing just that? How much more does a person need?
It reassures me that simplicity ain’t bad. We can’t help but want this or that, and the material world certainly isn’t bad, either, but if we can’t hang out and shoot the breeze with our buddies, what are we worth? What have we gained? Heck, Man, if something is gonna detract me from life’s simple pleasures, then I’ll take nothing over that. Would you agree? Just goes to show life isn’t that complicated.
You gotta love living in a village, because I hear this phrase all the time. As I was walking back to my host family’s house on this beautiful spring day, I said hey to a few folks sitting on a bench. I asked them, "What are you up to," and they responded, "Heç nə (nothing)."
I get that response a lot, especially when I ask someone what he’s doing. Now, it may seem that doing "nothing" is probably not a good thing, but let’s think about it for a minute. I’ll give an example. In the town of Oğuz, where the rayon is centered, there are a few Internet cafes. These places are usually packed with little kids playing computer games. It’s really annoying when you’re trying to write an email to your mom and dad. Or let’s just ponder, for a second, the typical couch potato, wherever he may be, watching the tube all afternoon. I mean, he’s doing something, but that something may not be better than nothing, which is why I’m a fan of the village life. A lot of the time, when you’re walking around, you may ask someone, "Whatcha doin?" and he may say, "Nothing," when in fact, he’s simply walking around himself, or chatting with his buddy, or…I dunno…sitting on a rock. I’d say that’s about as edifying an activity as anything else. Can’t you think of some fond moments in which you were doing just that? How much more does a person need?
It reassures me that simplicity ain’t bad. We can’t help but want this or that, and the material world certainly isn’t bad, either, but if we can’t hang out and shoot the breeze with our buddies, what are we worth? What have we gained? Heck, Man, if something is gonna detract me from life’s simple pleasures, then I’ll take nothing over that. Would you agree? Just goes to show life isn’t that complicated.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
School? On Sunday?!
30 March 2009
Can’t say I wasn’t a bit perturbed about this piece of news, merely a day after my arrival back at site near the end of the Novruz holiday. I had been hanging out with friends in various places in Azerbaijan, enjoying the two weeks of “tətil” (vacation) that we had. I got back to my host family’s on Saturday, and I was looking forward to a relaxing day in which I could plan for the week and enjoy my newly arrived issue of The Christian Science Monitor. I was lying in bed at about seven o’clock Sunday morning, and I got up to ask Firuz if he could turn the volume down in the T.V. in the dining room.
He responded, “You’re not going to school?”
“What? School?”
“Yes, school. There’s class, class.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Well, there was vacation, and now we’re having class today.”
“But it’s Sunday.”
“Yes, it was a holiday. There’s class today.”
This little piece of news wasn’t taken with a whole lotta gratitude, if you can imagine such a response. I was mystified and, well, pissed off. To my own criticism, Charlie had informed me the night before, “They’re making me go to class tomorrow!” At that time, I thought, “Surely they must be mistaken.”
Well, that morning, with me still in my sleeping clothes with no lesson plans, the joke was on me. I headed out the door in a hurry and met Mrs. Adilə for class. It really wasn’t a bad day, as it was Friday’s schedule, which is just two eighth form classes. I tried to find out, though, from my counterpart, why we were having class on Sunday, and I got the same “It was a holiday” response.
What the heck is that supposed to mean?
Is this to say that, because we had a two week holiday, we have to make up for it by having an extra day of class, on freaking Sunday?!
Now, I’m no stranger to different cultures. I can deal with stuff. I’m okay with the A.T.M. crowd. I like tea. I can live with not crossing my legs when I sit down or not putting my hands in my pockets when I walk around, but school on Sunday is pushing the limit. Not only was it an unpleasant surprise, but it also got my days turned around. It made Sunday feel like Monday, and today, being the actual Monday, I approached some students to talk about English club today, and they responded, “You mean Tuesday?” “Aaaggghhh!” I thought, “What the heck day is it?!”
Oh, well, what can I do? This work can’t be on my own terms. Heck, if I was a teacher in the States, I’d have to attend those mysterious “teacher-in-service” days while the students ran free. This is just another reality of what I’m doing, and I’m cool with that.
Can’t say I wasn’t a bit perturbed about this piece of news, merely a day after my arrival back at site near the end of the Novruz holiday. I had been hanging out with friends in various places in Azerbaijan, enjoying the two weeks of “tətil” (vacation) that we had. I got back to my host family’s on Saturday, and I was looking forward to a relaxing day in which I could plan for the week and enjoy my newly arrived issue of The Christian Science Monitor. I was lying in bed at about seven o’clock Sunday morning, and I got up to ask Firuz if he could turn the volume down in the T.V. in the dining room.
He responded, “You’re not going to school?”
“What? School?”
“Yes, school. There’s class, class.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Well, there was vacation, and now we’re having class today.”
“But it’s Sunday.”
“Yes, it was a holiday. There’s class today.”
This little piece of news wasn’t taken with a whole lotta gratitude, if you can imagine such a response. I was mystified and, well, pissed off. To my own criticism, Charlie had informed me the night before, “They’re making me go to class tomorrow!” At that time, I thought, “Surely they must be mistaken.”
Well, that morning, with me still in my sleeping clothes with no lesson plans, the joke was on me. I headed out the door in a hurry and met Mrs. Adilə for class. It really wasn’t a bad day, as it was Friday’s schedule, which is just two eighth form classes. I tried to find out, though, from my counterpart, why we were having class on Sunday, and I got the same “It was a holiday” response.
What the heck is that supposed to mean?
Is this to say that, because we had a two week holiday, we have to make up for it by having an extra day of class, on freaking Sunday?!
Now, I’m no stranger to different cultures. I can deal with stuff. I’m okay with the A.T.M. crowd. I like tea. I can live with not crossing my legs when I sit down or not putting my hands in my pockets when I walk around, but school on Sunday is pushing the limit. Not only was it an unpleasant surprise, but it also got my days turned around. It made Sunday feel like Monday, and today, being the actual Monday, I approached some students to talk about English club today, and they responded, “You mean Tuesday?” “Aaaggghhh!” I thought, “What the heck day is it?!”
Oh, well, what can I do? This work can’t be on my own terms. Heck, if I was a teacher in the States, I’d have to attend those mysterious “teacher-in-service” days while the students ran free. This is just another reality of what I’m doing, and I’m cool with that.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Peç
6 March 2009
I don’t know if any of you have extensive experience with one of these things, but for the inexperienced among us, it can be an…um…somewhat frustrating process.
My source of heat in my room is a little contraption the Azerbaijanis call a "peç" (pronounced "pech"). It has a boxy, rectangular shape, with a large, metal tube leading up above the roof, where the smoke comes out. It’s cool to see the outside of the school building here in the village, where every room has a peç, and the many tubes protruding from the walls, with smoke billowing out. To get it going, you put logs into the "box", get ‘em lit, close the little door, and voila, your room is "isti" (warm) before you know it.
Well, hmmm…Anybody here have much experience with fires? This guy doesn’t. In fact, I’d have to say that fiddling with this peç has been my first experience with starting a fire on a regular basis. I knew I should’ve joined the Boy Scouts.
Now, I probably could ask my host mom or dad every night if they could light it for me, but what self-respecting Peace Corps Volunteer would do that? Nope, I was determined to get this right myself, every time.
Yes, good thinking, John. I mean, I had seen them light the peç for me before, and it didn’t seem like any big deal. Basically, you take a few logs, maybe some paper, pour a little "neft" (some kind of lighter fluid) on it, strike a match, and, like I said before, "voila", you got a warm room.
That’s at least what I thought, but why would it be as easy as that? That would be no fun, right? So I went through the same protocol I saw Firuz and Aybəniz do, and, of course, things look good at first when you got the "neft" on the logs. They flare up in a lovely glow, and I close the little peç door, brush off my hands, and say "Glad that’s done."
Wait a minute (And that’s all it really takes. About a minute.). As I walk away from the peç and go about my other business, I no longer hear the roar that the flames were making earlier but the pathetic pittle of one little struggling flame, destined to go out soon. I then say, "What the heck?" and stick my face down into the peç, to see nothing more than steamy logs and a little smoke, but no fire. "Crap," I think, and go for desperate action, that is, doing it over again.
So I go through the process of sticking a little paper between the same, now hot to the touch, logs, pour a little more "neft" on ‘em, and light it up. Ah, another heavenly glow, and I stick around to inspect it a little longer this time. It appears the logs are starting to redden and create the "coal" effect, which is another good sign. I decide not to leave the peç’s side this time around, but it’s not like that helps too much, because, as I sit there looking in, I can clearly see that the flame is, once again, going out, and the logs continue to just sit there, now red, hissing at me. "Dangit," I think. "What’s the deal here?" It’s time for more drastic action.
What exactly constitutes drastic action? The inclusion of fast-moving air. That’s what. If there’s one thing that helps get a fire going, it’s blowing air onto it. So I go through the same process, get the fire lit, let it sit for a minute, and as it starts to die down again, I’m ready with lungs full of CO2.
So I blow, then again, then again, harder and harder, and it works…somewhat. The flames get going again, but the logs, all laid down parallel in the "box", have all been, more or less, "hollowed out" from being lit that all they do is simply flare up for a moment and die down again. Being the genius I am, though, I decide it’s a good idea to blow even harder, because surely that’ll do the trick. Mind you, I’m beginning to get a little angry at this point. I mean, come on. All I was is a warm room at night. I blow so hard and with such frequency that I begin to feel quite faint and have to take a rest. I lay on my floor to see, once again, that the stupid thing is still not lit. "Aaaagggghhhh!," I loudly groan in a Charlie Brown-esque exhalation of frustration. Okay, now I’m mad, but still determined, and I continue to poke around at the logs and check out what’s going on with this confounded peç, quietly (or, at least, trying to be quiet) cursing it and my own incompetence. At this point, Aybəniz can hear me clanking around in my room, and she knows just what I’m doing. She comes in and asks, "You trying to light the peç?"
"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks (Go away.)"
"Alright, let’s take a look here."
She peers in and assesses the situation, placing a coal or two here and there. Telling me to move a log this way and that. Then she tells me to blow on it a little, and a flame goes up.
"Alright. We’re cool," she says.
"Really?" I think, "Is that all it took?"
Yes, that’s all it took. The logs slowly kindle up, and the peç, slowly but surely, is going strong. "Great googly moogly," I think.
Well, like so many things in life, lighting the peç is all about trial and error. I eventually learned the ins and outs of getting it going well, and, now, I can get it on the first or second try, just about every time.
I also must say there’s something just lovely about the thing. As the sun goes down, the day done, it’s finally time to relax, and lighting up the warm peç has almost come to symbolize that relaxation. Living in a small village, the nights are peaceful and quiet, and as I sit there in my room with the peç going strong, writing or reading a good book, all the anxieties and frustrations of the day seem to go out the window. It’s a good feeling.
I don’t know if any of you have extensive experience with one of these things, but for the inexperienced among us, it can be an…um…somewhat frustrating process.
My source of heat in my room is a little contraption the Azerbaijanis call a "peç" (pronounced "pech"). It has a boxy, rectangular shape, with a large, metal tube leading up above the roof, where the smoke comes out. It’s cool to see the outside of the school building here in the village, where every room has a peç, and the many tubes protruding from the walls, with smoke billowing out. To get it going, you put logs into the "box", get ‘em lit, close the little door, and voila, your room is "isti" (warm) before you know it.
Well, hmmm…Anybody here have much experience with fires? This guy doesn’t. In fact, I’d have to say that fiddling with this peç has been my first experience with starting a fire on a regular basis. I knew I should’ve joined the Boy Scouts.
Now, I probably could ask my host mom or dad every night if they could light it for me, but what self-respecting Peace Corps Volunteer would do that? Nope, I was determined to get this right myself, every time.
Yes, good thinking, John. I mean, I had seen them light the peç for me before, and it didn’t seem like any big deal. Basically, you take a few logs, maybe some paper, pour a little "neft" (some kind of lighter fluid) on it, strike a match, and, like I said before, "voila", you got a warm room.
That’s at least what I thought, but why would it be as easy as that? That would be no fun, right? So I went through the same protocol I saw Firuz and Aybəniz do, and, of course, things look good at first when you got the "neft" on the logs. They flare up in a lovely glow, and I close the little peç door, brush off my hands, and say "Glad that’s done."
Wait a minute (And that’s all it really takes. About a minute.). As I walk away from the peç and go about my other business, I no longer hear the roar that the flames were making earlier but the pathetic pittle of one little struggling flame, destined to go out soon. I then say, "What the heck?" and stick my face down into the peç, to see nothing more than steamy logs and a little smoke, but no fire. "Crap," I think, and go for desperate action, that is, doing it over again.
So I go through the process of sticking a little paper between the same, now hot to the touch, logs, pour a little more "neft" on ‘em, and light it up. Ah, another heavenly glow, and I stick around to inspect it a little longer this time. It appears the logs are starting to redden and create the "coal" effect, which is another good sign. I decide not to leave the peç’s side this time around, but it’s not like that helps too much, because, as I sit there looking in, I can clearly see that the flame is, once again, going out, and the logs continue to just sit there, now red, hissing at me. "Dangit," I think. "What’s the deal here?" It’s time for more drastic action.
What exactly constitutes drastic action? The inclusion of fast-moving air. That’s what. If there’s one thing that helps get a fire going, it’s blowing air onto it. So I go through the same process, get the fire lit, let it sit for a minute, and as it starts to die down again, I’m ready with lungs full of CO2.
So I blow, then again, then again, harder and harder, and it works…somewhat. The flames get going again, but the logs, all laid down parallel in the "box", have all been, more or less, "hollowed out" from being lit that all they do is simply flare up for a moment and die down again. Being the genius I am, though, I decide it’s a good idea to blow even harder, because surely that’ll do the trick. Mind you, I’m beginning to get a little angry at this point. I mean, come on. All I was is a warm room at night. I blow so hard and with such frequency that I begin to feel quite faint and have to take a rest. I lay on my floor to see, once again, that the stupid thing is still not lit. "Aaaagggghhhh!," I loudly groan in a Charlie Brown-esque exhalation of frustration. Okay, now I’m mad, but still determined, and I continue to poke around at the logs and check out what’s going on with this confounded peç, quietly (or, at least, trying to be quiet) cursing it and my own incompetence. At this point, Aybəniz can hear me clanking around in my room, and she knows just what I’m doing. She comes in and asks, "You trying to light the peç?"
"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks (Go away.)"
"Alright, let’s take a look here."
She peers in and assesses the situation, placing a coal or two here and there. Telling me to move a log this way and that. Then she tells me to blow on it a little, and a flame goes up.
"Alright. We’re cool," she says.
"Really?" I think, "Is that all it took?"
Yes, that’s all it took. The logs slowly kindle up, and the peç, slowly but surely, is going strong. "Great googly moogly," I think.
Well, like so many things in life, lighting the peç is all about trial and error. I eventually learned the ins and outs of getting it going well, and, now, I can get it on the first or second try, just about every time.
I also must say there’s something just lovely about the thing. As the sun goes down, the day done, it’s finally time to relax, and lighting up the warm peç has almost come to symbolize that relaxation. Living in a small village, the nights are peaceful and quiet, and as I sit there in my room with the peç going strong, writing or reading a good book, all the anxieties and frustrations of the day seem to go out the window. It’s a good feeling.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Hi, I'm from Driftwood village
27 February 2009
I believe all people should take great pleasure in describing where they’re from. After all, it’s an important part of their identity. Whether a person’s from California, Mississippi, Canada, or China, they hopefully take pride in talking about their homeland, or, at least, that’s the ideal situation. Understandably, this may not always be the case. Nonetheless, in my case, I got no problem telling people I’m from Driftwood, Texas (I mean, c’mon. We have a good barbecue restaurant, a vineyard, and a post office. What more do you need?).
This becomes a bit sticky, though, when you’re talking with folks in a village in Azerbaijan. In Azerbaijani, there’re basically two words to describe a community: şəhər (city) and kənd (village). So when someone asks me if I’m from a city or village, what exactly do I say? I’m from Driftwood, Texas, a community consisting primarily of nice housing developments. To say it was a “city” would be a lie, so I’ve stuck with the latter term. However, that seems kinna weird, too. People in Qumlaq village, Oğuz, Azerbaijan, where the roads are mostly unpaved and I run next to a sheep herd, may fall under the impression that I’m from Driftwood “village.” Hmmm…but how the heck else would I describe where I’m from? Balıcı şəhər (small city)? No, that doesn’t work. Böyük kənd (big village)? That doesn’t really make sense. My only solution has been to stick with “village” and try to describe Driftwood in decent detail so folks can have some kind of understanding.
But what a pleasure it is to do such things! Like I’ve said before, it ain’t always easy to describe where you’re from and what it’s like, but I feel like every time I make the effort to do so, I’m making a difference. I may not be providing everyone with every developmental need they may have, but I’m still giving them a better understanding of the United States of America (or, at least, trying to). So I’m from Driftwood village. Does it make the place sound more interesting? What do you think? Heck, if anyone has any bright ideas on how I can tackle this better, let me know.
I believe all people should take great pleasure in describing where they’re from. After all, it’s an important part of their identity. Whether a person’s from California, Mississippi, Canada, or China, they hopefully take pride in talking about their homeland, or, at least, that’s the ideal situation. Understandably, this may not always be the case. Nonetheless, in my case, I got no problem telling people I’m from Driftwood, Texas (I mean, c’mon. We have a good barbecue restaurant, a vineyard, and a post office. What more do you need?).
This becomes a bit sticky, though, when you’re talking with folks in a village in Azerbaijan. In Azerbaijani, there’re basically two words to describe a community: şəhər (city) and kənd (village). So when someone asks me if I’m from a city or village, what exactly do I say? I’m from Driftwood, Texas, a community consisting primarily of nice housing developments. To say it was a “city” would be a lie, so I’ve stuck with the latter term. However, that seems kinna weird, too. People in Qumlaq village, Oğuz, Azerbaijan, where the roads are mostly unpaved and I run next to a sheep herd, may fall under the impression that I’m from Driftwood “village.” Hmmm…but how the heck else would I describe where I’m from? Balıcı şəhər (small city)? No, that doesn’t work. Böyük kənd (big village)? That doesn’t really make sense. My only solution has been to stick with “village” and try to describe Driftwood in decent detail so folks can have some kind of understanding.
But what a pleasure it is to do such things! Like I’ve said before, it ain’t always easy to describe where you’re from and what it’s like, but I feel like every time I make the effort to do so, I’m making a difference. I may not be providing everyone with every developmental need they may have, but I’m still giving them a better understanding of the United States of America (or, at least, trying to). So I’m from Driftwood village. Does it make the place sound more interesting? What do you think? Heck, if anyone has any bright ideas on how I can tackle this better, let me know.
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