We've gotten used to you.

Now, you see, I have Internet in my little abode, which’ll make writing web log entries more convenient, or I’ll at least be able to upload them as soon as I write them. Oh joy.

But I must admit I’m not entirely pleased with the purchase my parents so kindly made for me when we were in Baku together. They were, of course, generous to buy the Azercell DataKart, to make my Internetting easier, seeing as every time I needed to send an email or upload a file, I had to hitchhike to Oğuz, a real crapshoot of a task that could take as long as an hour each way. Yeah, I know, I’m a crybaby, but now I can be…eh…more productive in the comfort of my own “həyət evi” (“yard house”).

But I was expressing my dissatisfaction, see. With regards to the hardware itself, it works fine. You plug it in a U.S.B. port, connect, and you’re on the Web. However, I was informed, as I was putting cash on the “kart” in Zaqatala, that “pul çox gedir” (“Money goes fast.”). Wonderful. So, exactly how fast? Well, judging by my Internet connection records, I burned through ten Manat after about six and a half hours of Internetting. That’s about a Manat fifty per hour. What the f%*#!! Seriously? I can use a computer at an Internet club in Oğuz for forty qəpik an hour. Not only that, but the equipment itself was fifty-nine Manat. Oh, those corporations and their crooked games. Clearly they’ve learned that us consumers are too awed by their flashy bells and whistles to take into account how this will effect our two fifty monthly allowance.

Nonetheless, I’m still happy I have this thing. It saves me the trip if I wanna send a quick email, look up an idea for lesson planning, check out a news story, or upload a web log entry.

Of course, that has nothing to do with this entry’s topic. Nope, I just wanna review a funny line I heard from an old teacher in Qumlaq. Her name’s Cahanə Müəllimə, and she teaches…something. A unique characteristic of this “müəllim” is that she drives a car. Now, female drivers are commonplace in richy rich Baku, with plenty of shade-sporting ladies cruising along the Caspian in their S.U.V.’s, but in the rayons, like Oğuz, pretty much only dudes drive. That’s why I get a kick out of this elderly woman puttering around the rayon in her red Lada. It isn’t like she’s a trendy young dame, pushing the limits by wearing stylish clothes and borrowing Dad’s Mercedes every now and then. This woman wears ankle-length dresses and headscarves, and judging by her passengers, you’d assume she’s driving her closest friends to the next bridge game. Life is full of things that make you smile.

So I was walking down the Qumlaq road one day, like I always do on my way to Oğuz, hoping a car would come by, and Cahanə Müəllimə came by and picked me up in her red Lada (whose design, by the way, hasn’t changed since 1974). A friend or relative was in the back seat, and they were also heading to Oğuz.

I sat next to Cahanə Müəllimə and had a pretty casual conversation: “How’s it going?” “What’re you up to?” “When’re you leaving for America?” “How’s Azerbaijan treating you?” Then she asked, in her nearly gone voice, something about Qumlaq and how I found the people, and I responded that I liked them, of course. Then she told me, “Well, we’ve gotten used to you.”

I kind of laughed at that response and didn’t think about it much until later. What exactly does it mean to “get used to someone”? I mean, I must admit, I’m sure the Qumlaqians had to shift their weight around a little to get used to me, the weird dresser, the runner, the coffee-drinker, the walker-to-towner (though I don’t really do that anymore, due to high river water levels.), the backpack wearer. I’m not sure how many outsiders these folks’ve gotten to know. Around Qumlaq, at least, Azerbaijani is pretty much what you get, a united “millət” (“nationality”), a people who drink çay and who all know the latest on the Turkish soap operas, who enjoy sunflower seeds and watching musicians play their national music on a grassy knoll in Qazax. Yeah, these folks’ve gotten used to the American.

Now, I mean, it may seem like an unnecessary adjustment. Why should they have to “get used to” me, like Cahanə Müəllimə said? I’m just here to help. I just want some respect and a comfortable house. You don’t need to bend over backwards.

But what about the folks who don’t get it? Any volunteer knows what I’m talking about. The dudes who yell ugly words at you on the street, who are so unfamiliar that they stare. My own mother felt conspicuous in Sheki, where grown men peered at her from the fronts of markets, clearly not used to what they saw.

The hardest thing for me at the beginning of service was trying to explain myself, in my broken Azerbaijani, to people who clearly didn’t understand me. I didn’t know if they liked me or not. It kept me up at night, even. “What if I leave, and they speak badly of me?” I thought. It was hard to bare, until, of course, I got used to them, and they did likewise, as this older teacher assured me. I guess it was a two-sided deal. You adjust. I adjust. If any party doesn’t do so, Peace Corps doesn’t work.

But aside from Peace Corps, how many times have you had an ugly encounter with folks who didn’t “get it”, from people ignorant to you and your needs, who didn’t understand you and where you came from? How ‘bout the other way around? You ever look back on a time when you alienated an outsider, refused to let him in? We all might be a little guilty, and that’s what’s made this experience so important. I never really knew what it was like.

What's all that scratching?

7 July 2010


Man, it’s hot, and I don’t even live in the hotter, considerably flatter part of Azerbaijan. Here in the rayon of Oğuz, we’re right by the mountains and rivers, a little ways uphill from the steamy cities of Mingechevir and Ujar, to name a couple. But still, I can’t deny the fact that I’m sweating my ass off at every corner, except for my bedroom here in the house, with the fan on high, blowing against the back of my Tennessee Titans shirt (You didn’t know I was a fan. Did you?). I was just in class with one ten year old girl who I’d suspect was thinking, the whole, you know, ten minutes we could stand to be in the classroom, “When the heck are we leaving?” We jammed out way early because her cousin was left alone at her house. Azerbaijani’s like to stay close to their guests. None of us wept at the change of plans.

But it’s a small price to pay for summer vacation. I mean, I’m from central Texas, where July days surpass a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I’d still run and sweat in the midday sun along the hills of Sierra West and not give it a thought. To be honest, I kinna liked it, and I still don’t mind it too much around here. Let’s consider the alternative, or opposite, if you will:

Would you rather…

-Walk around on a July day, your wet t-shirt sticking to your back, dying to get in the air conditioning?

or…

-Freeze your butt off in the January coldness, carrying the dishes out to the yard faucet, your hands getting numb from the icy water?

Now, don’t cheat. Human nature dictates you’ll always choose what you’re not in now. At first glance, plenty of you would choose the latter. However, if you were in a bustling crowd of polka dancers in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania on Groundhog Day, you’d choose the former (“Better put on your booties, ‘cause it’s cold out there today.”). The truth is we naturally want what we don’t have. That’s why you get a crush on that girl who used to like you. Okay, this entry needs more direction.

As if the sweltering heat weren’t enough, these peaceful days are disrupted, from time to time, by mysterious scratching noises coming from, literally, inside the desk in my room. I don’t know what they are, and I can’t see a trace of evidence. All I know is that if I pound on the top of the table like this: BOOM! (Sorry, you couldn’t actually see or hear that.), the scratching stops for a minute and starts back up again. It’s like an invisible man is clipping and scraping out his toenails within the thin, wooden piece of plywood that supports my computer and nearly empty can of Nescafe. It’s annoying and concerning. What the hell is it? Any ideas? Termites? Ants? Evil spirits? Flesh eating bacteria? The rotting wood? Though this isn’t a horribly dire concern, knowing would be nice, and I’d appreciate your help.

Then again, I could just ask my landlord.

Summer

24 June 2010


The time has come…again, and thank heavens! I personally can’t get enough of summer vacation. The weather’s hot. The days are long, and there’s no school. I feel like a kid again. You know what I mean? That…just…summer feeling you get, the kind that, I imagine, fades away when you’re into your working years, having to toil away during the hot months while the young ones play. Does this happen. Well, in any case, I can, at least for a little while longer, relish in summer bliss. It’s not bad.

Really, I’m working a little bit. Honestly it’s not really the lack of work I like so much about summer; it’s just the freedom. I can do as I please. I’m finally making the time to apply for a grant for an English resource room and girls’ computer room. I’m hoping to get a health project going. I got to play softball in Mingechevir. Whoa! That hadn’t happened yet, and what a pleasure it was, not just to play myself but to watch the Azerbaijanis go at it. They were good. They’ve learned well.

My new house also suits me, and why wouldn’t it? It’s my own place with the landlord across the street. It’s got a fridge and a stove on the porch. I’m not sure how it happened, but I’m glad to have a place like this, despite how late in the game it might be. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m comfortable now. Let’s hope it stays that way ‘till December.

And let’s hope all our summers go along nicely. Enjoy yourselves. Take care.

Georgia and Azerbaijan with Mom and Dad

20 May 2010


You can’t help but smile when the pieces fall into place, when you plan ahead, hoping it’ll turn out okay, and it does. Meeting Mom and Dad in Tbilisi and showing them around Azerbaijan made me happy, as it was the first time for either of them to visit me in a foreign country.

At about 2:45 in the morning on the twelfth, they flew into the Tbilisi airport, and we cruised, in the middle of the night, to our guesthouse. After a long, five-hour slumber, we got up and toured the city with the one free day we had there. It went well, although Tbilisi’s winding streets took some getting used to. We enjoyed its natural and manmade beauty, it’s statues, walls, and churches built on hillsides. I thought Mom and Dad would enjoy Georgia’s strong Orthodox tradition, to which it seems about everyone is devoted. When we entered Trinity Cathedral, with its gold top and beautiful setting on a hill, we sat and watched in wonder as countless people paced through the sanctuary and kissed every icon. Later that day, we went to the same cathedral and enjoyed evening Eucharist. It was beautiful, with several people not only in the congregation, but also participating in the service. Mom and Dad pointed out how many participants, whether they be priests, deacons, or acolytes, would take part for a while, then fall out to talk with their friends outside or do something else. It was like there was a perpetual turnover during the service, which was interesting.

We enjoyed some ajaruli xajapuri (a large crater of fresh bread, melted butter, cheese, and a raw egg…so delicious) and Netakhtari beer that afternoon. Then, after church, with all three of us pretty tired at the end of the day, we went to a restaurant and had some good, red, Seperavi wine, more xajapuri, bread, pork kabobs, and cha cha. Then we crashed.

We traveled for about half of the next day, as we jammed out of the guesthouse early and took a taxi to the Lagodekhi-Balakən border. Our driver drove efficiently, and we got to the border in good time. Crossing the border went fine for all of us, and we were soon off on a Zaqatala marşrutka, where we met a nice Dutch man who shared a taxi with us from Zaqatala to Şəki, where we’d be staying that night.

We were all pleased with the Karvan Saray Hotel, a beautiful, historic place with interesting, almost chamber-esque rooms and a gorgeous outdoor restaurant. Shortly after arriving there, we enjoyed lunch at that lovely restaurant, and, while Mom and Dad napped a little, I changed some money, bought some sweets for us, and we had tea in out room as Mom and Dad were waking back up. We took advantage of the cool evening to see the Xan Saray, a fascinating old palace near the top of the city, and then we rolled back into our quarters to enjoy some sweet Azerbaijani wine, cheese, and bread for dinner. The light dinner was nice, but I managed, for one reason or another, to get deathly ill in the middle of the night. Who knows what it was from.

There was no rest for the weary, though, because we left in a taxi at about seven the next morning to arrive in Qumlaq before school started. We got there in good time and had an excellent time in class. Mom and Dad loved the school, teachers, and students, and that made me really happy. It was really just great for them to see the actual service I and so many other peace Corps volunteers are doing in this country, and the day also ended well with a lovely visit to Firuz’s house, where I used to live. He and his family were very nice to us, and we got to enjoy some aş, one of my favorite Azerbaijani dishes. The family also showed us around their garden, which was especially interesting for Mom and Dad, who enjoy gardening themselves.

I was totally spent at the end of the day, and we all crashed in good time. We had a pretty leisurely morning the next day and left around noon to meet Charlie at a restaurant in Oğuz. I was glad they finally got to meet. After a nice lunch, we walked around town, bought a few goods for my new house, toured the town a bit, and visited Charlie’s host family. Mom, Dad, and I then went back to the village and cleaned ourselves up for another dinner party at Nərgiz, a student of mine’s, family’s house. This family and I have been good friends for a while, and it was awesome for Mom and Dad to meet them. Mom and I got to watch Nərgiz’s mother, Mrs. Qaratel, make a cake, and Mom even got to help the ladies prepare grape leaf dolma. Dad was also taken to see the family’s huge garden. We ate our hearts out, and then some, and I snapped a picture of my mother carrying one of the plates of aş.

I must say Dad also established a friendly connection with Nərgiz’s father, Mr. Yaşar, whom Dad described as very Texan-like. I could see that. We talked pretty late into the evening, and it was no doubt the ideal ending to Mom and Dad’s village experience (especially walking back to the house in the pitch black dark). With good reason, they seemed to enjoy the village most of all.

The next day, we left early (again) to Baku on the bus (Nərgiz even joined us because she was on her way to school.), and Mom and Dad got to see the beautiful scenery along the way. We got to Baku in time to check into the hotel and put our things in our rooms (Charlie was also joining us.). Then we headed out to Ceyranbatan to spend the evening with my old host family there. That was a good time, too. We sat out in the yard, ate delicious lamb kabobs and dolma, got to see the beautiful new fruit trees they were planting, and Mom and Dad basically got to hear over and over again how this host family made sure their home was a comfortable place for me to stay (which it was). A few vodka shots and a cup of çay or two later, we headed back, again tired, to our hotel.

The next day, we had to take care of some travel business. Mom and Dad wanted to fly out of Baku instead of Tbilisi, so they wouldn’t have to travel all the way back to Tbilisi by themselves and figure out what to do there before their flight left. We knew we had to go to the Turkish Airlines office, but we didn’t exactly know where it was. We had the address, but that was only kind of helpful. Charlie ended up calling Ceyhun, our Safety and Security Officer, to find out where it was, and we eventually found it. Though it took a while, Mom and Dad’s flight arrangements were changed, and we got to enjoy some extra time together.

Mom, Dad, and I spent the afternoon checking out the Old City and the many parks that lie around there. They loved this area of Baku, and even I realized, at that time, how beautiful it is. We later met Charlie and had Communion in Mom and Dad’s hotel room, which was Mom’s idea, and a good one at that. Then Charlie hosted us to Indian food at Adam’s, and we had dessert at Café Caramel and walked along the Boulevard, by the Caspian, which was packed with people, before retiring to our hotel rooms. It was another great ending to another wonderful day.

On this final day, we took advantage of the hotel’s free breakfast and visited the Peace Corps office. It was great for Mom and Dad to visit with other volunteers and the staff, including Flora, my Program Manager. We then headed out, had lunch at a Turkish joint, and visited the Old City again to see the Maiden Tower and Şirvan Şah’s Palace. Charlie and I also enjoyed the Palace, ‘cause we hadn’t seen it before, and it was again great to spend time in a part of the city we didn’t know very well. We also headed up to Martyr’s Lane to see the memorials to those who were killed on January twentieth, 1990, and the eternal flame, which, unfortunately, appeared to be out, due to the wind (Baku is the “City of Winds”, after all.). Mom and Dad were also fascinated by an old, beat up Lenin Museum, which, judging by the smell, didn’t appear to derive much respect from the populace. It’s also just a creepy place, with Lenin’s big, protruding head on one of the walls and Stalin shaking hands with a worker on another.

After that, we enjoyed an American-style dinner at Sunset Café and eventually made our way back to the hotel, as Mom and Dad would have to get up in the middle of the night to catch a taxi to the airport. I got up with them at about two thirty and saw them off, which was a sad, albeit sleepy moment.

But what an awesome time it was, as I just relished in being able to show Mom and Dad around Azerbaijan for that period of time. Being the curious, adventurous folks they are, I really enjoyed showing them the ins and outs of where I’ve been living for over a year.

Writing Olympics

Hey, everybody. I'm again posting an advertisement for a Peace Corps project, but this is also one I really support and appreciate. It's called the Writing Olympics.

In a nutshell, the Writing Olympics is an annual English writing competition for high school and university students throughout the Caucasus. It allows young people to express themselves freely and creatively. In our experiences in the Azerbaijani schools, we can't help but notice a lack of opportunity for personal expression. So much emphasis is put on memorizing the facts for university entrance exams that things like creative writing are often overlooked. For this reason, it's always a pleasure to meet and see Azerbaijani students being creative in any way.

Every year, volunteers at their own schools and organizations arrange the time and place for students to write on a few given topics. Their entries are then submitted, and the more exceptional essays move on to greater, international competitions.

The Writing Olympics has been going on here for years, and it's volunteer leaders in Azerbaijan are trying to expand it, particularly by recognizing the award winners. Peace Corps is going to invite these students for a ceremony in which they'll receive books, dictionaries, certificates, and more, and guest speakers from Peace Corps, AccessBank, and the U.S.-Educated Azerbaijani Alumni Association will also participate.

Aaron McKean and Kim Joyce, the volunteers in charge of Writing Olympics this year, are asking for contributions from willing donors for this event. You can get more information from this post on Aaron's web log.

If you're interested in donating towards this cause, here is the link to the Writing Olympics' Peace Corps Partnership web page. Thanks a lot. Take care.

Inerested in environmental issues?

Hey, everybody. Some volunteers in the city of Mingechevir are raising money for an environmental event. My friend Alexis works hard to address environmental issues in Azerbaijan via our environmental committee, and this particular event will include an environmentally themed art contest, mural, city clean up, and more. If you're interested in contributing to this event, check out this web page: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=314-062

Adios, and thank you.

Will you take me to America?

13 March 2010

I’m not sure what I was expecting before I came to Azerbaijan. Well, I mean, considering the fact that I didn’t know much of anything about Azerbaijan before arriving, I guess I was setting myself up for anything, and part of that "anything" would be the set catalogue of questions many people, especially dudes, like to ask the foreigner.

Let me elaborate on one. Can you guess what it is? Wow, you’re good. Yes, it’s true. I come from America, the land of chocolate telephone poles and golden mailboxes. Opportunities out the gonads. I mean, geez, upon getting off the boat on American soil, you got guys swarming you, begging you to take their high-paying, perk-filled jobs. No wonder people wanna be taken to the Land of the Free, and what better escort than the Peace Corps volunteer who makes two hundred fifty bucks a month.

Alright, now that that stream of sarcasm is over, let me just say that this question, "Will you take to me to America?" would be fine if we were asked it, you know, like once a month, but that’s not the case. Heck, my landlord asks me it all the time, and even after repeated "no’s", he keeps asking. I’m not sure why.

First off, I’d like to know why you want to go to America. What would you do there? What would you see? Whom would you meet? How’s your English these days? Who's gonna look after you (An Azerbaijani friend of mine and Charlie's recently sent his wife to Canada to care for hit son who's studying there.)? It doesn’t look like you’re starving here, so what’s the big hurry?
Then I’ve gotten another response to my own questions regarding their desire to go to America: "I’ll ‘receive’ a wife there."

Um, yeah, that’s probably not going to happen. I can see you now, making friends and looking in your Azerbaijani/English dictionary and saying "I’d like to receive a wife." Wonder how that’d go over. It might make you the life of the party, with all the lovely ladies lining up like you’re at the "woman bazaar", but, then again, maybe not.

My next question is this: How are you going to get there? This is where my role in getting them to the U.S.A. comes in. In order to immigrate to another country, you gotta go to the embassy yourself and apply for a visa. If you qualify and receive one, you can buy your plane ticket and go. So where exactly do I come in in getting you to the United States? What, do you think I have visas in my back pocket? They don’t give us "extras".

"You know, you can just tell them I’m your guest."

"No, I can’t do that."

"Why not?"

"Because that’s not how it works."

"Why?"

"Because it’s the law."

"No, come on. Just tell them I’m your guest and take me to America."

"Uuuuuggggghhhhhh!"

"Why are you angry?"

Ha ha. Yes, that was just a random example of how the conversation might go, and I’m not Azerbaijani, so what kind of perspective do I have? I can say, though, that I live here, and I’m pleased by the curiosity people around here have about foreign lands. There’s a good chance you might be talking to a gentleman from Oğuz who’s never left the rayon, or another guy who remembers his military service in Siberia of wherever during the Soviet era and wants to wonder around the globe again. It does someone good to go somewhere else, wherever it may be, and I and many other volunteers can say that some of the best folks in this country are the ones that did the F.L.E.X. program, where you study for a year at a U.S. high school. They come home with all kinds of wisdom and optimism, and they’re a big help.

So, despite my seemingly cathartic portrayal of the lovely conversations I have with the local crowd, I still have to accept that where I am just ain’t America. One’s desire to "be taken to the U.S." may just be an expression of curiosity for a place he’s only seen on T.V. When you look at it that way, it seems pretty normal.

Some things you just have to accept as part of being here, as something you can’t fight or resist. You’re in a different place, and you’re a foreigner. If you try to contort it to fit your needs, you’ll lose.