End of November...

A Bittersweet November
November 26th, 2009

Literally, before my eyes, November has come and gone. And what a month it has been, Jeeze. My site mate deserted me, I aged YET another year (I am now 21, if anybody was wondering), and winter had come roaring in with a vengeance. It has been a bittersweet month, both some really good times, and some sad ones. Due to unforeseen circumstances, no new volunteers have come to join our ranks here in this sandy patch of the world, and with the previous Volunteers contracts being up, well it’s like they say in show business: curtains baby. This month begins their departures, and by the end of December, they will all be gone on to continue their lives elsewhere. It’s also a running joke here that Peace Corps Turkmenistan is a lot like being in Harry Potter Movie, as we are all divided into the five regions (Ahal, Mary, Dashoguz, Lebop, and Balkan) and have thus been given nicknames (my region is the Slitherin house, for any of you Harry Potter peops out there...still don’t know why) We see the volunteers in our respective regions most often, as we spend holiday and birthday events with one another, share work duties such as workshops and camps, and tend to travel in packs sharing taxi rides, planes or trains. So over time our ‘region buddies’ have started to become like family. And as December closes in, it has started to hit us that our family is going to get a lot smaller very soon.
Recently, all the Ahal Volunteers gathered in the capital to commemorate their last days among our ranks, and because it was the last time most of us would see each other, we decided to throw together a early thanksgiving day feast. As we went round the table giving thanks before eating our piles of delicious grub, it was resoundingly apparent from everybody how much of an impact that we have had on each other in just this short amount of time. A year ago, when we were sitting in our training rooms in Philadelphia, filling out the last of our paperwork before we boarded the plane, one of our trainers said to us. “Look around you guys. All these people are strangers now, but in ten years they will be the people coming to your weddings, and holding your babies, or sitting around the table with your families.” A lot of us laughed and were like “Ok, dude, cut down on the cheese factor a little, why don’t ya…” But to a certain degree, he was right. We have all come from vastly different walks of life as far as Americans go, but looking at my comrades around the table on our last day of celebration before they left and listening to everybody’s heartfelt speeches, I couldn’t help thinking, ‘It’s good to be around family’. I can only imagine what another year will bring. And ignoring the dangerously high rating on the cheese-o-meter, on my part, I’m thankful for family, whatever form or shape that it comes in. So, with that said, I wish everybody a Happy Thanksgiving. And to Dan’s mom, remind him to write me. He will be missed. 

Go to Hell

Go to Hell!
October 29th, 2009

Fellow PCV: “So, are we still going to Hell this weekend?”
ME: “I don’t know, it might be really cold”
PCV: “Dude, even if we froze, I would still go.”
ME: “Alright, Hell it is then. But pack extra socks.”

Yeah, this snippet of conversation might seem a bit odd. Actually, what we were talking about was the Crater of Darveza, known locally as the Pit of Hell. To backtrack, a while ago some fellow volunteers has told us about a place they had heard of that was this huge burning pit literally in the middle of the desert. To reach it, you had to go north into the center of Gara Gun desert, drive off the main road a while through the sand dunes with a 4 x 4, and then camp out at the site overnight. There was no cell phone coverage, no town within a several hundred-kilometer radius, and no marked road to show where you needed to go. For a normal person this might sound like more trouble than it’s worth. For a bunch of entertainment and adventure-starved volunteers, it sounded like GOLD. And rumor had it there was a group of Russians who rented out SUV’s and for a dime or two, would take curious travelers out there to check it out. So it was then that on fall break a group of fellow volunteers and I, faced with a week of free classes, escaped our work sites, piled into SUV’s, and headed into the desert. As I hadn’t left site for nearly two months, I was more than ecstatic to be out and about. (I suffer from a bad case of zip code claustrophobia-too long in one place and I start to go a bit bonkers. Ecstatic might have been an understatement.) Although I have lived here for over a year now, working a six-day week and travel policies really limit how much of the country I have seen, and as my work site is a fair stretch from most of the other volunteers, my social calendar is pretty much slim to none. Thus far my experiences have been mostly around my region, and so little excursions do a lot to make life here a little bit more exciting.
Added that this week was the celebration of Turkmenistan’s independence, a few of us decided the best way to ring in another year of Independence would be to camp out under the stars next to a burning pit of gas. As 4 of our assembled group live in the south and the other 4 live in the north, we had to coordinate meeting up before hand. Being as there is no cell phone service or road marks, this process was a bit tricky. But we did know that the stop was exactly halfway between the capital city and the Northern city of Dashoguz (about half of a 6 hour trek in), so what we came up with was to leave at the same time, and the group with the SUV’s would pull over on the side of the road where the halfway point was and wait till the other half of the group arrived, roughly within the same hour. When the second group spotted our vehicles, they would stop, switch to the SUV’s, and we would all head into the dunes together. As retarded as this sounds, believe it or not it actually worked, and in the middle of nowhere almost without a hitch we managed to locate the correct lone vehicles on the side of the road, exchange rides, and head inward in search of the pit as the evening closed in on us.

The history of the pit is a bit sketchy, and there are a few different versions to how it came about, but most of the stories circle around the Russians drilling expeditions. One story goes that in the 50’s or so the Russians were drilling for natural gas like they did over most of the country, and they hit a small pocket, but concluded it wasn’t large enough to draw from. So they decided to burn it out it so that the stagnant gas wouldn’t be left exposed. Apparently there was more gas there than they bargained on, and 50 years later the pit is still burning. Another story goes that while they were drilling, one of the workers accidentally dropped his cigarette into the pit and it lit the gas on fire. There was no putting it out, and so they had no choice but to leave the deserted pit burning. Probably was kind of hard for him to find another job after that. Yet another story says that while the workers were drilling they hit an unexpected air pocket that collapsed underneath them and took the drill head with it. When the drill hit the bottom of the cave, it hit rock and sparked, and the sparks hit the gas, and ta-da, the oversized Bunsen burner was born. Whatever the real story is, it resulted in a large fiery pit about the circumference of a small football field and the depth of a three story building, that has been nicknamed by the locals the Gate of Hell, or The Pit of Hell, and is pretty damn cool when the sun goes down amid miles of stretching sand and dunes.
So we arrived around sunset, cooked some BBQ with our fearless Russian leaders Sasha and Vladimeer (our drivers, who proved true any stereotype you’ve ever read about burly Russian men), met some fellow travelers from Austria who had also managed to hear about this odd place and found their way out into the sand, and settled in to watch the sun go down and the flames burn bright with some old fashioned Russian vodka to keep us warm. It was a pretty neat evening all around, and a nice change from watching my family’s Russian Soap Operas, which make up our normal evening entertainment. And let me just say, who needs fireworks on Independence Day when you have an endless supply of blazing flames coming straight from mother earth? All in all, going to Hell was a good time. Even if it was bloody cold out there and I am still recovering feeling in my toes  In the future, I will definitely tell anyone to go to Hell. It really is quite a nice place.

Dirt and Glory

Uses and Abuses
Oct 5th, 2009

So, a while ago I wrote that I was going to start keeping a running tally of all the funny stuff that my students came up with. And though the last few months have been pretty devoid of interesting topics, the other day I stumbled upon an activity that yielded GOLD. Looking for something to teach modal verbs (can, could, must, should), I found a game in an old lesson-planning book, and after making a few alterations on the rules and explanations, I decided to try it out on my intermediate club to see what they could handle. Basically, the students had to come up with two separate lists; one of items, and one of people. After we had a manageable list, they had to mix and match the two lists and make up questions and answers using the phrases “What can a so-and-so do with a so-and-so?” or “Why does a so-and-so need a so-and-so?” Once they got the hang of it, my kids went wild. With the help of my dictionary, they slapped together some phrases that literally made me want to pee my koynek. Here’s a ‘lil sample of what a few of them came up with:

Q: “Why does a crocodile need a safety pin?”
A: “To catch fish with when he has no teeth.”

Q: “ What can a baby do with a beer?”
A: “ He can take a bath with it.”

Q: “What can Harry Potter do in a Chamber?”
A: “He can find Valdemort.”

Q: “What can a writer do with a chick?”
A: “He can write a book about the history of chickens.”

Q: “Why does a teacher need a cactus?”
A: “To punish bad students.”

And my very favorite, thought up by some of my rock stars…

Q: “What can an old woman do with a walking stick?”
A: “She can dismantle small children with it.”

After some thought, I have decided to call this game ‘Uses and Abuses’ and I think I am going to try it out it on some of my beginner classes to see what they can come up with. Anything to make my life a little more interesting…


The Dirty Thief
Oct 1, 2009

I have never thought of myself as a horribly dishonest person, and as an everyday rule I try to stay on the moral straight away. And, despite a few bumps along the way, I think I have done a generally good job. I know the basics: never do unto others what you would not want done unto yourself. Honesty is the best policy. Don’t ever covet anything of your neighbors: wife, husband, favorite gardening tools, or whatever. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, and thus also results in a lot of doctor’s bills. Never kill anything with a social security number or passport. You know, all the general things we learn growing up. And although my family is not a particularly religious bunch, my parents did their best to instill upon us children the basic rights from wrongs, the moral guide-posts with which to live our lives by, so to speak. But this week, I failed that upbringing, and broke one of those cardinal rules: I stole.

To preface my actions, let me first just say that I was basically raised in a big Terrarium. My back yard growing up was- literally-a forest, and I am used to having such things like trees and grass and flowers and crawly bugs around me all the time. And although I have served my time in the Concrete Jungle and enjoyed it just fine, I still prefer to have natury-like things nearby. Which is why I have found one of the hardest things about this country is the lack of growing things. (* See my blog about the near tree-hugging incident) My host family here is not a particularly green thumbed bunch-they know HOW to garden, as pretty much everyone is this country does, and we have our small plot in the back yard where every once in a while we extract tomatoes, radishes, dill, grapes, sometimes figs, or other such small items. But mostly, we get our veggies at the store, and mostly our garden is a lot of weeds. During the school year I found I had no extra time to help with our garden what with all the classes I took on, and so my contribution to the effort was basically nil. And most host father was only interested when the power was out or there was nothing of interest on the TV. Some families here get really into their gardens, and added to this they grow these crazy Rose gardens and have latticed grape vines coming out of their ears-we’re talking garden of Eden style. Not so at my house. Our back yard is basically dirty sand. So in order to make myself feel a little more at home, over the last few months I have gotten lots of plant cuttings and invested, borrowed, or scrounged a variety of small pots and have installed them in my room. Among my collection I have a few vines, a spider plant, and a couple little Aloe Vera plants. These little patches of green do a lot to brighten my day sometimes, as small as they are. But flourish in the sand-mud they do not, and every week I wonder how much longer my struggling little plants will hold out.
So the other day, as I was returning from my weekly expedition to the post office to mail out a few letters, I noticed a large pile of dirt next to the road the telegraph office. But it didn’t look like normal Turkmen dirt, which is basically compacted mud. No, this dirt looked decidedly different. I opted to take a closer look, and upon inspection I made an amazing discovery. Now if you’ve ever taken a biology class, you know that what makes soil so healthy is decomposing plant life: i.e. dead trees, undergrowth, ect. And among other things, dead plants produce this great thing called Nitrogen that-wonder beyond wonders-makes stuff GROW. Well, here in the desert there is no decomposing plant life. It’s basically grainy sand, with just enough nutrients in it to support scrub grass and weedy-type plants. Thus people here just stick a tree in the sand, and hope it grows. And miracle beyond miracles, sometimes it does. But this dirt, believe it or not SMELLED like real dirt, felt like real dirt, and even had real plant parts in it! Jackpot! And it was just SITTING there, glorious and untouched. So you’re probably thinking big deal, pile of dirt, whoopee. Just grab a bucket, right? Well, let me footnote this discovery by saying that in this country every little thing here is highly coveted. Saving a dollar goes along way here, especially when you can buy a kilo of apples for 20 cents. There’s not a lot of wealth to be found, and so people guard even the smallest little scrap piles with their lives. An old metal door and some broken wood piled in the backyard? That’s a frame for the future hen house. A bunch of dusty old jars? They will cover the tomato plants when the frost comes in. That old proverb one mans junk is another mans treasure doesn’t really apply here. There is no junk. People use EVERYTHING. This also applies to grade A dirt. And this grade A dirt was sitting suspiciously near a large dug up flower-bed. So, wary of unseen eyes on me, I continued past the pile non-chalauntly, inwardly scheming of ways to get my hands on some.

As fate would have it, several days later I arrived at school to find my classes with my morning counterpart canceled, the class locked and empty (not a huge surprise) and thus two hours to kill before my next class. So, I did what any normal person would do during a long lunch hour: I decided to go steal some dirt. I arrived at the scene with two large plastic bags in my purse. After carefully checking the premises, I waited until the sidewalk was mostly empty of passerbys, then worked my way around to the backside of the dirt pile. A minute or so after I had sneakily begun to fill my little bags with the precious soil, people began to filter out of the café next door. Panicked, I began to imagine what I would have to tell my director when he asked why he had to bail his American teacher out of prison. “Well, sir. She was apprehended stealing some dirt.” The police clerk would have to say. (Don’t laugh-people are arrested here for stupider things. Just a few months ago my host father was detained for an entire day while he was jogging-all because they said he was running ‘suspiciously’) So, I grabbed what booty I could and dashed down the sidewalk as well as I was able to in my Koynek, visions of sirens ringing in my ears, my heart pounding in my ears. Lucky for me, nobody gave chase, whether for lack of interest, or for the fact they were just to perplexed by the sight of a grown woman sprinting down the street with a giant bag of dirt to do anything. So this evening, as my host siblings and I filled my new and improved flowerpots and displayed them on the windowsills, I had to ask myself, was I wrong to steal the dirt? Yes, probably. Stealing is generally not the best thing, especially when you are clinging to your citizenship by the flimsy edge of a temporary visa. But, do I regret stealing the dirt? No, not really. After all, it IS only dirt.

Until next time
The Thief

A Grab Bag

Well, I've gotten some complaints that I don't put up enough photos on here. So here's a little grab bag of some random ones I've snapped recently.

Host sisters B-day Party at our house


Pictures from work. My office, and me and counterpart.



Some pictures I snapped around my house that I house I thought were nice.

Anniversaries and Eyeballs

My site mate and I Russ,
and Dinner. Yum.


Anniversary Nostalgia and Eyeballs
Sept 20, 2009

Well, put a candle in it, because in less than 2 weeks it will mark exactly 1 year (Oct. 1st) since I’ve touched down into this crazy, interesting, and at times challenging, country. Although it didn’t seem like it at first, two years really is a pretty chunk of time to sign away to uncle Sam and go run around somewhere to play in the dirt and spread my knowledge of English verb conjugations. I’m amazed, yet again, at how strangely time passes in another country, especially when you are trying to set up a life for yourself all the while knowing it isn’t permanent. At this point it is looking like I’ll have spent the majority of my twenties overseas, and there are still times where I ask myself, is it worth it? Trying to keep ties with friends and family is hard enough when people start to go their own ways, and move on with new jobs or relationships-but add a few thousand miles and a constantly changing zip code to the mix, and it makes it ever trickier. Talking with other volunteers, it’s weird to think we’ve already put in a year here, because there are still days when we still feel like we have the cultural aptitude of toddlers, but yet there isn’t a volunteer here who hasn’t missed important events of close friends and loved ones back home-weddings, new babies, and even funerals. It’s amazing how many things can happen in such a short amount of time, and although in the grand scope of things two years is a drop in the bucket, when you start adding all those things up, you realize how precious that time really is and wonder if it’s worth it. So, to all my family and friends back home or elsewhere, I send you a grand hug, and hope everyone is well and happy!

On a lighter note: I have been through some serious gastric Olympics in the last year with the ever-surprising Turkmen cuisine, but this week I trumped my record and ate the most adventuresome thing to date. The other day my host father brought home a goat head and legs from his Mothers house, and by the giddy look on his face, I knew that could only mean one thing: Kellebashlyk. Kellebashlyk, (or Death in a Bowl, as I like to refer to it), is when they take the head and hooves of a cow, goat, or camel, and boil them till the meat comes off the bones. They hollow out the neck or crack open the top of the skull, and scoop out the brain mush and eyes, and eat them with the bone mallow broth, which is basically the leftover water from the boiled head. Sound delicious? Well, it also happens to be my host father’s favorite meal (a DELICACY, to quote him). And after months of avoiding this particular dish, this week I finally manned up and tried it. For one, I am not fasting for Ramadan and therefore had no more legitimate excuses, and two, there was nothing left to eat in the house except old tomato sauce and shredded beets. So I figured hey, what the hell, what the worse that can happen? Just yet another notch on my culinary bedpost. I’ve done weirder things, right? So I bellied up to the bar, grabbed a spoon, and dug in. The highlight of the meal? My host father, so psyched that I finally agreed to try it, dug out an especially goopy eyeball, popped out the hard center, and crammed it in my mouth. My overall feeling on the matter? Although goat eyeball isn’t really that vile, I don’t see Apple Bee’s putting it on their Super Starters Menu any time soon.
Well, that’s about it for now. Getting ready for a nice two day weekend, as there is no school this Monday due to the end of Ramadan (party!!! Because now people can EAT again), and then I’m back to the grind. My grant project is getting close to being finished, and classes are going pretty good. So bring it on year two! I’m ready for you (and if I’m not, there’s always counseling and therapy later on in life). Peace and Rainbow Skittles ya’ll.

Pondering Marriage

A Cultural Pondering of Marriage.
September 7, 2009

Well, before I left on my magical journey back to the homeland that words cannot even describe, I was twiddling away the last days of summer away by making my students do random and abstact assignments, if only to relieve my boredom from the tedious grammar train that we seemed trapped in. In some aspect, I hope it was equally interesting to them, and in any case, from several of the assignments I got some pretty funny, and enlightening results. One of my assignments, the idea taken from a fellow volunteer, and fueled by the fact that I would be soon attending a wedding myself, consisted of having the students translate the short story version of The Princess and The Pea. Once we had a translation that I thought was reasonably accurate, I had them re-write the story, using new characters and inventing different endings. I gave them three days to do the assignment, and when I got the papers back, the results were pretty hilarious. One of my girls changed the story so that the princess, once she was discovered to be a true blue-blood, didn’t want to marry the presented prince, and told her future mother in law that she was in love with a servant and that she should ‘bug off’. Then she ran off. During class, I practically peed my pants laughing while my kids read their new and improved versions of the fairytale. I will present one version here, unchanged, to give an idea of what some of my kids came up with.

The Princess and the Prince
By Bahar

Once upon a time there was two princes. Once prince was from London, his name is Alfredo. The second prince is from Mexico, his name is Carlos. The two princes lived in a very big castle with very many people. They loved one princess, who is named Jennifer. But their mother did not like the princess, and she said to them “You do not marry her!” They fight very hard for many days. But the Prince Alfredo said “No!” and talked with the princess Jennifer. So Alfredo and Jennifer deserted and they now live in another country.

The End

Now for some fun some cultural introspect: what I found interesting about most of the stories, at least the stories written by my girls, was how all the little cultural differences worked their way into the stories. Most of the stories included some version of a bride-price, which is a standard practice here. (When a couple gets married, the grooms family pays the brides family an agreed upon price for the girl). I also noticed in many of them was how important the mother-in-law was in the plot. It seemed that the relationship between the bride and her new mother in law was almost more important than the relationship between the newly married couple. Which, in this area of the world, where genders are often kept separated, is probably a pretty true idea. Normally, once a couple gets married, the bride moves into her new in-laws house, and becomes the Gelin (new daughter-in-law). Once there, if it’s a traditional family, she spends most of the time with her mother in law and sisters in law, cooking, cleaning, and helping with the chores. Pretty much, her new mother-in-law becomes her new ‘best friend’-she spends most of her time with her. So if they don’t see eye to eye? Well, it would make for some pretty uncomfortable days. The new gelin is supposed to show respect to her new in-laws by always covering her mouth with her yalik, or head scarf, in their presence. Over time, once the mother and law and her become cool, she can let down her guard, and doesn’t have to cover her face. But this rule doesn’t apply for the father-in-law. To show respect, she must ALWAYS cover her face. Sometimes, a more liberal man will ask his daughter in law to un-cover in mouth, but most of the time that little cloth guard stays up for as long as they know each other, or are in the same room together. Mostly these practices are just an accepted custom, and are not questioned more than Americans question who should change the oil in the car, or help with the dishes. (Although, yes, we sometimes debate about that).

So this assignment was yet another fun insight into the little, and big, differences between Muslim and Western practices, both for my students, and for me. (And yet another reason why I am still not dating a Turkmen dude, if anybody was wondering.) At the moment I am considering showing Mrs. Doubtfire in my next movie club. Might be fun to see how that gender bender goes over :) Until next time.

August Post

August 20, 2009
The Arrival Day

Well the day has arrived. After watching my collegues and fellow volunteers go and return from vacations, flaunting contraband goodies from the outside world such as gum and Whiskey, and telling stories of a rollicking good time, now my ticket has arrived. This week is my last week before my first official vacation-the first one in 10 months, believe it or not. Sitting at home croqueting cell phone cases during winter break does NOT count, thank you very much. This 2 vacation day-a-month policy kills me, seriously. So, starting this Wednesday, I am officially on ‘leave’. Monday, I am giving my student their last tests of the summer, locking up my office, putting up a ‘the doctor is out’ sign, and putting on pants for three whole weeks. Oh the glory. I will be boarding a plane (well, 4 actually) to return briefly to the motherland to attend a family gathering, visit friends, and stock up on good razor blades, some decent food, and hopefully * cough* cough * a LOT of good alcohol. The day I have plotted for about 5 months has arrived, and I am phyched. So if anybody is in the Glacier area August 20 until Sept 4th, hell stop by, say hey, and check out my bad tan lines and insect bites. They’re impressive. Until SOON,
Megan


August 10, 2009
Money Buys Happiness.

Whoever said that money can’t buy happiness was obviously a trust fund baby. Or a moron. Perhaps even both. Money can, in fact, buy you a number of things, believe it or not. Among these: food, housing, education, transportation, and decent medical care. For most normal human beings, (this doesn’t apply if you are Danish or Finish, as they are issued a government-supplied velvet carriage upon arrival from the womb, per standard socialism), basic necessities cost something. Show me a normal average person who has adequate housing, a full stomach, and basic medical care, and put him next to a hungry person who sleeps in a cardboard box and who happens to have a bad case of goiters, and ask them who’s happier. Honestly. None of that poor little rich girl crap. To put it straightly, in many places of the world your quality of life depends strongly upon the social, and/or financial system, that you are born into. The luck of the draw, so to speak. Just pray you get a flush. A farmers kid? Well, in most places, you’ll probably be picking potatoes until you’re fifty, unless by some chance American Idol is scouring the potato fields that week and they find your voice particularity charming and decide to ship you to Atlanta for tryouts. But a doctors kid? Well, most chances you won’t have to help your family with the sheep, and pop can probably afford to pay for those extra tutoring lessons and extra books to help you out with your studies after school. Public schools really aren’t that great anyway. And, with that little extra boost, most likely you’ll do better on your exams. Not to mention you can pay to sit for an exam, come entrance time. Every exam costs something, you know. And if you didn’t do so hot, even with all that extra help? Well, a little well greased palm here and there can help with that. All universities little a little extra contribution here and there. Everybody knows that, heck that’s how your dad got into school. And then, after graduation, if jobs are a little hard to find? Well, make some calls to dad’s buddies, return some back pats, grease a few more palms, and there you go, that chemical company that wasn’t hiring suddenly came up short one man-would you be available to start next Monday?
No, of course not, money can’t buy happiness. I mean, just ask the guy with the Mercedes Benz. He’ll tell you. So will my students who can’t pay for university.

Sincerely,
Sceptical