12 February 2010
Dearest everyone,
I’m still alive; however, I’m still waiting for the world to end since the Saints not only made it to the Super Bowl but also won the game. Having heard that people are wondering what happened to the elusive Lerik PCV, I am once again writing a marathon letter. I guess I should also note that those stateside should not worry about my long stints of radio silence, those in Azerbaijan also experience my bouts of radio silence. But on with our regularly scheduled program….
Can you believe it? We’re in 2010! I still have a hard time believing it, and February is rapidly coming to an end. Officially, this is my last year of Peace Corps; in less than 10 months, my PC tenure is over. This leaves me wondering how did this all pass so fast and panicking that I will not finish my projects before I go home. But I guess just one day at a time, and we’ll see what happens. After all, here in Azerbaijan, we live “in time” not “on time.”
As always, I’ll have to play a bit of rewind so you can catch up to my present reality. October was my last update, so November it is. November’s highlights include Thanksgiving, TEFL Training, meeting sitemate #1, and Gulafat (of course). November’s low points were hurting my ankle in TEFL training and losing the sitemate stalement with the powers that be in the office (I got not one but two). November started with me leaving Gulafat and Lerik for the first time since September. I was definitely itching on the inside to get out, but I was content Lerik. Yet, after the whole moving out drama and the emotions that came with the move, it was nice to vent to fellow Americans.
While spending time with the fabulous southern ladies of Lankaran, I gave a presentation to the local AzETA (Azerbaijan English Teacher Association) branch about encouraging students to talk in the classroom. I forgot how nervous public speaking made me, but it went well. One frightening moment occurred when the eldest male teacher in the classroom began to talk. I was sure he was going to contradict everything I just said. I braced myself for impact as he agreed with everything I just said. The whole room breathed a sigh of relief, and the meeting was adjourned. Pictures followed the meeting, and before the flash, Rachel’s counterpart patted my rear and told me, “oh, soft!”
Well, I suppose I have become used to the culture in unexpected ways. It wasn’t the “soft” comment that threw me for a loop; rather, the touching my rear part confused me. Azerbaijanis are definitely more touchy than Americans, but they touch people’s arms much like my grandmother used to. As for the “soft” part, well, that’s kind of normal. In Azerbaijan, people aren’t as sensitive to commenting on people’s weight. Here in Lerik, I’m the yaxshi topush – the good chubby. They don’t mean that I’m the chubby, good girl. Nope, they mean that I’m the good kind of chubby. It would appear that my self-esteem in that area has taken so many knocks that I just try to let it roll off now. It can be hard, but I’m “soft, “ so I think most comments can bounce off naturally.
After AzETA, I was off to Baku for TEFL training. For one week, I was to observe the trainees teach classes and provide feedback on how to improve. After much confusion, I was finally informed that Xirdalan was the community I was going to. It was a stroke of luck because Masazir is next to Xirdalan, so I got to stay with my training host family while I commuted every day to Xirdalan. The training was fun, and definitely brought back memories of my own training. PCT was a good time, but, honestly, I much rather be a PCV. Lerik is way more interesting than Masazir.
Because of the commute, I walked 4 miles a day that week in my kitten heels, and my Achilles suffered. By the time I came home to Lerik, my heel was huge and painful. My running abruptly came to an end just as winter came to Lerik. I suppose that this was the perfect season to have running banned, because some days I can skate down my 12% grade hill. (I don’t know if it’s 12% or not, but every sign says 12%). While I was helping training, I received a call from one of my new sitemates: Mason. He called me in hopes of brokering a peace before coming to Lerik. It was well known amongst the Az06 (my group) and the Az07 (his group) that the little volunteer in Lerik DID NOT want any sitemates. To his surprise, I was pleasant, and we arranged to meet at the end of the week.
On a side note: The fact that I did not want sitemates did not mean that I was anti-social or disliked people. I think I got into my head that being at site with no other Americans was the PC experience that I wanted. It was like being an anthropologist and going into the field, figuring stuff out on your own, and stuff like that. I was not going to throw my sitemates off the mountain (as the chances of me being taller than them were slim) or ignore them (given the size of Lerik that is impossible). Lerik for me was a conundrum. On the one hand, I love Lerik. It’s a great community with little harassment, beautiful scenery, and friendly people. Why would I not want other PCVs to come and help this community? On the other hand, I love Lerik. I have met some bitter PCVs, and I did not want anyone to say bad things about my community. But I do love my sitemates, and I’m happy to have them just as much as I am happy that I had my first year by myself.
Meeting Mason was the end of an era. I knew that when he came to Lerik that my isolation was over. Whether this was a good or bad thing, I couldn’t tell yet, but change comes whether we want it or not. I liked Mason right off the bat, so I knew we wouldn’t have problems in Lerik. He tried to reassure me that he wasn’t taking over my site, and I tried to reassure him that not wanting sitemates wasn’t personal.
After training, I came home only to pack my bags and turn around again for Baku Thanksgiving with the Embassy staff. That’s right, I got to rub elbows with the man who is right under the US Ambassador to Azerbaijan. Baku Thanksgiving was a lot of fun because I got to get to know a fellow PCV better: Linda. Linda is a CED (Community Economic Developer) volunteer, and she just amazes me. She has come to PC after retiring, but she’s my mom’s age. Unlike many “senior” volunteers, she strongly believes that she will learn Azerbaijani and is always studying and improving her language skills. I enjoyed rooming with her and getting to know her better. She is such an amazing woman, and I love hearing her experiences as a PCV because the older people garner more respect in Azerbaijan than younger people.
By the end of November, I was back in Lerik and anxiously awaiting the TEFL site announcements. This is when I learned I was getting Jessica in Lerik. I called her to welcome her to Lerik and make sure she wasn’t scared of me. My program manager was sure that the Az07s knew nothing of me not wanting a sitemate, but word always spreads fast amongst the PCVs. Sure enough, Jessica had heard that I didn’t want a sitemate but was keen on coming to the fabulous that is Lerik.
December marked two glorious occasions. One: I celebrated one year as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Two: I welcomed my sitemates to Lerik. As Mason says, Lerik is a site Peace Corps places you as a reward. I was nervous to get my sitemates. I was not sure how we would fit into each other’s lives. I have learned enough about other sites with multiple PCVs that some sitemates never see each other while others hang out all the time. I was not certain what tone to set or, moreover, what tone they wanted. But as with most things, time has told our tone for us.
Indeed, my world has been rocked to the core since the arrival of Mason and Jessica. But I cannot say that it’s been a bad thing. As my mom would say, they are rounding out my PC experience. It’s a bit odd to have sitemates. Whenever I want to go speak English with another native speaker, I can walk down the road and find one. Originally, I had to call fellow PCVs when I wanted American-like conversation. We can meet, talk, be Americans, navigate guesting, discuss projects, and hang out. It’s been nice to meet some new people and realise that their arrival has not ended my little Lerik world.
Suddenly, I’m the PCV expert of Lerik because I’ve been here over a year. It’s hard to think that they have only been in country in 4 months, but the company has been nice. With Gulafat, Aynura, and my kids as my Azerbaijani company and Mason and Jessica as my American company, I found this part of my service to be more fulfilling. It has been a big confidence boost in my language to know that sometimes they need my help in translating or expressing an idea. However, Mason is very good with the language and often navigates the waters on his own.
Having sitemates is like having a mini-American family here. Mason and I are like adult siblings. We offer advice to each other but generally let each other figure things out on their own. Jessica is like our little sister. We can spoil her a bit, help her out a bit more, and she more than willingly accepts our help. We probably see each other 3 to 4 times a week for coffee, a game of dominos, and to vent. Mason’s hikes have meant that I have seen and explored more parts of Lerik. Jessica and Mason are still in host family situations. Jessica, like me, lives with a single woman and really enjoys her host family life. (Female PCVs have noted that the best host family situations tend to be those without males). Mason, on the other hand, has had a harder time. I think finding him housing was difficult in Lerik, but since his organization only wanted a male CED volunteer, Lerik was getting a male PCV. I’ll give Mason this. He’s a lot stronger than I am. If I had to sleep with Nana (host grandmother) in my room, I would have blown my top a long time ago.
Now to Gulafat! I have lived with Gulafat for almost 5 months now, and it has been nothing short of fantastic. She’s the bee’s knees. Without her, my language skills would have never improved nor would I have been motivated to improve them. We spend so much time talking about everything. I try to be very honest with her, because I want her to know me. She knows that I drink in America. She knows that I speak very frankly with my parents. She’s very patient with me when I try to talk Azeri and always manages to make me feel better about my language skills.
Lately, Gulafat wants to learn English, so every night we have English lessons. Slowly, she is gaining confidence to form simple sentences, and it’s great to see what this is doing to her confidence. She is talking about going to the community college in Lerik and studying to become a primary school teacher. I’ve really encouraged her to do this because she loves kids, and I want her to be able to support herself.
In many ways, Gulafat is my best friend here, and she is the kind of connection I always wanted to make during my Peace Corps service. We share ideas, opinions, and cultural differences. Sometimes, I’m too tired to translate everything she’s telling me, but I just let her talk and talk. We’ve bonded a little too close, because now I’m even more reluctant to leave Lerik.
In many ways, I cannot picture my PC service or living in Lerik without her. I know that before I spent a lot of time in my head, by myself. But now, Gulafat and I spend 80% of our time in the same room – the room with the pech. We even now sleep in the same room. I have my own room with a bed, drawers I’ve made from boxes, and an electric heater; however, now I prefer sleeping in this room.
The biggest change in December was my sitemates coming to Lerik. I have to say that overall it’s been a mild winter. But I’m still grateful for hot coffee (coffee!), a warm pech, and hot food. I’m rarely in more than two layers, and the snow rarely lasts for more than a week. Ata insists it’s because I’m in Lerik and Allah knows that I don’t like the snow. Yes, my Azerbaijani family is doing great. They had a new PC Trainee this year but assure me that I am still their daughter and their favourite. (I know this to be true, but will not elaborate.) I miss them greatly, and I cannot wait to see them next. The problem is that with Ana and Ata it’s never a short visit. I feel like I have to stay at least 3 nights to make it worth our while. I have been very fortunate to have good host families and such an awesome Azerbaijani roommate.
In the absence of a formal Azerbaijani tutor, I’ve been reading the second grade Azerbaijan language book. Rather, I’ve been trying to read this book. I have to stop every sixth word and look up what it means. I’ve noticed an improvement, but it’s still a bit of a confidence knock to know that I can’t read a second grade book. In my defence, Peace Corps teaches us how to navigate our way through the adult Azerbaijani world in which learning words like lion, to swing, and slave aren’t really necessary. But the book has been wonderful for seeing how this language is used, and Gulafat has noticed an improvement in my language skills. Sometimes, she listens to me while I read to correct my pronunciation. It makes me feel a bit sheepish, but it’s good practice.
I also find the second form book so culturally telling in its choice of subjects and national stories. Many of the stories talk about family, bread, obeying one’s elders, national heroes from both Soviet times and even to today. It makes me want to look at my second grad text books with a new eyes and see how we imprint our children with our desired cultural nuances.
Middle December marked the beginning of Ashurah:
“Ashura is celebrated on the ninth and tenth month of Muharram. The word ashura means "ten" and is a time of fasting, reflection and meditation. Jews of the city of Medina fasted on the tenth day in remembrance of their salvation from the Pharaoh, and the Prophet Muhammad pledged he would fast for two days instead of one in this same remembrance, but he died the following year and so never fasted as he had hoped
For many Muslims there is joy in commemorating all of the wonderful events traditions say occurred on this day, including: Noah's ark came to rest, the Prophet Abraham was born, the Kaaba was built. Among Shiite Muslims, it is a day of special sorrow commemorating the martyrdom of the Prophet's grandson Hussain and his followers at the battle of Kerbala in Islam's first century. It is commemorated in Shiite communities with reenactment of these events and is a time of mourning.”
Azerbaijan is a predominately Shiite country, and the community in which I live is also predominately Shiite. Women gather for ten evenings to mourn the Hussain’s death, and, of course, I was invited to tag along. I was present for seven of the ten evenings (even on Christmas eve and Christmas night), and it was quite the experience. We went to our neighbour’s house: Saida. Saida has spent all day cooking with her sisters. We were served plov and levengi until I wanted to burst and then I was given tea and sweet bread. After tea and food, one woman lead prayers, while we kept the beat on our legs. The “beating” of our legs symbolize the ritual self-flagellations one might see on TV every year around Ashurah. I also found it significant that only young boys could pray in the room with us and that they would hit their chest instead of their legs.
The evening prayers could be a bit tiring because the older women much like the older women at Momo’s would slip in and out of Talysh, making it increasingly difficult for me to follow their conversations. However, they were impressed that I could say, “Amen” and that I knew what it meant. I had a wonderful time meeting more women in the community and getting to know my neighbour more. Gulafat and I spent Christmas day making shakurbura, my favourite cookie, to give to Saida as Imam yolu (Imam’s way). It is great praise from Gulafat is you can decorate shakurbura up to her standards. I’ve accomplished this.
Christmas was celebrated more flagrantly than last year. I actually acknowledged the holiday and welcomed the incoming Az07s whom Mason and Jessica had invited. It was great to “celebrate” the holiday this year; although, I fear the rest of my service will be Amy and the Az07s. Jessica and I went to the boarding school and led class after class in a spirited and somewhat jumbled version of “Jingle Bells” which did make my spirits bright. While the others went for a long Christmas Day hike, I came home to open my presents and help Gulafat make cookies. Then it was Christmas dinner with Americans, and Muslim prayers were my Christmas carols. I think it was a holiday well spent: a blending of both worlds.
New Years once again was celebrated in Baku, and while we were not snowed in this year, I did skin my knee as I ran for the bus that I almost overslept. Overall, it was a low key holiday, and I enjoyed spending time with my Az06 friends whom I do not see enough. We reminisced on times past and were giddy at the fact that this was our last New Year’s in country. It’s not that we don’t like Azerbaijan; most of us find it hard to be away from family and friends over the holidays. I enjoyed my holidays spent mostly at coffee houses, drinking Americanos, downloading new podcasts, and catching up with stateside friends via Skype. But soon enough, the holidays were over, and I just wanted to go home to Lerik.
Gulafat was excited that I was home, and I was equally excited to be home. Now that is 2010 the end is in site! This idea is both scary and super exciting. Gulafat is already counting down the months and looks sad that it’s approaching so fast. My mother and father celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary in January, so Mom and Dad, sizi tebrik ediram! I congratulate you. January in Lerik was a month of settling in. Getting back into my routine of teaching, I focused on my fifth form kids whom I believe have the most potential to change. I feel that if I start them off with good habits, then Terana who is an excellent teacher can continue to build their English skills. It’s too often in this country that kids who miss the English basics just fall off the wagon because no one will go back and explain the basics to them. As Aynura said my success has been that most of my children can properly conjugate verbs into the present tense and translate those sentences into Azerbaijani.
With my sitemates, they are settling into their roles as PCVs and settling into the idea that this is the next two years of their lives. I try to be optimistic and tell them that it’ll pass far faster than they realize, while I try to be realistic and recall how hard my first couple of months truly were. With Gulafat, we are always learning new things about each other, but settling in is actually quite minimal. As she said, “You were a guest the first two days you were here, Amy. Now, you are my sister.”
Some of you have read my blog about the red rooster how kept attacking me until Gul felt it was necessary to cut off it’s head. Well, the two remaining roosters also have begun to hit me – quite hard. I’m not exactly sure why they hate me so much, but Wednesday, I was trying to go help Mason with his English club when the rooster appeared out of nowhere and jumped on my pant leg. Of course, his muddy feet soiled my freshly washed pants. Out of frustration for my newly soiled pants, shock from the velocity of the hit, and sleepiness just waking up from a nap, I started to cry. I turned back to the house in defeat because I had to be clean for class. But the black-tailed rooster wasn’t done. He hit me six more times on the way back to the house – one of those times was half-way up the stairs. Surprised to see me back so soon, Gul came out to see tears in my eyes. “What’s wrong?” “Roosters.” She looked at my pant legs that are now covered in mud. She was furious. She actually escorted me to the gate and gave me a stick. Then I was given permission to hit the rooster. It sounds a bit childish, but after making my pants dirty, I was happy to give that rooster a good whack. After returning from Mason’s English club, Gul assured me that both roosters would be dead by the end of the month. Yay!
The beginning of February marked our Mid-Service Conference (MSC). The Az06’s descended upon the Neopol Hotel for two full days of Peace Corps sponsored fun. It was the first time all of the remaining PCVs had gathered together since swearing-in over a year ago. It was really nice to see every one, especially those of us who have a habit of hiding at site. The biggest downfall at these conferences is comparing your PC experience to those around you. We have some “super PCVs” who seem to be taking on the world, but we all have very different resources at site and very different reasons for being here. So, I think our service reflects our choice of joining Peace Corps. I may not have a million and one clubs going, but I do have friendships with Host Country Nationals that some PCVs envy. I got what I came for here.
But like New Year 2009, a freak blizzard hit the Baku area literally freezing us into place. Once again I was stuck in Baku, and Az06 bunkered down to card games, movies, and friendly conversations. Once again, I was roomed with “senior” volunteers. I was so excited that Susan was my roommate once again like she was back in Philadelphia. I have to say, that I immensely enjoy talking to the senior volunteers. Dorothy and I discussed swing music. Denney explained to me how green stamps worked. Linda and I caught up on Elle. Susan and I discussed our sites. I could not have asked for a more relaxed atmosphere.
Because of the snow-in, my plans on going to Mingachavir were postponed, but I was able to attend the Super Bowl. At 1:30am, I piled into a taxi with 4 other PCVs and we made our way to the Hyatt Regency whose bar we convinced not only stay open but to give us half-priced drinks the whole game. At 3:30am, I braced myself for my first football game in a long time. Sitting up in the front with the men who watch “SPORTS” (as they said), I was definitely on edge for most of the game waiting for the Saints to pull a Saints. I’m sorry, David, I was not a believer. But thanks for taking the time to teach me about football because now I enjoy it. I sat next to Mathias a hard core Colts fan, but we enjoyed a good conversation of football in between plays. At half-time I was feeling weary, but I had made it this far, so I decided to stick it out. Most of the PCVs were pulling for the Saints out of some distorted Katrina sympathy (which I won’t even get started on), but as the sole Louisiana representative in PC Az, I did the “Who Dat” nation proud and cheered for my team. The few Colts fans left sad, but my euphoria and sleep deprivation left me light on my feet.
By the way, major thanks to my incredible mother who “watched” the game with me via text. It was nice to have a voice from home throughout the game – even if hell has now frozen over because it’s snowing in Lafayette.
I’m not back in Lerik, and not too ashamed that I haven’t been emailing as regularly as I once have. I’m settled in. I have a fabulous roommate who makes each day interesting and fun. We’re currently hiding out in our bedroom/living room/dining room watching TV as snow covers Lerik once again this winter. Y’all take care, and I’ll try to be more regular with my coverage.
Cheers,
Amy
Monday, February 15, 2010
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Istanbul Highlights- As Promised
Whirling Dervish outside the Blue Mosque during post-fasting fun
The Palace
Goodies at the Spice Bazaar
Inside the Blue Mosque
Inside the Aya Sophia
The Bosphorus and Golden Horn
The Blue Mosque
The Bascilica Cisterns
The Aya Sophia
Friday, October 30, 2009
Rooster v. Amy Round 2 - The End
This morning the rooster chased me out of the gate on my way to school. Sighing, I thought, two more months of rooster-fun. Thank goodness, I'm wearing my wool stockings. I'd be pissed if he attacks my leg again and rips my tights. (I'm more worried that he's going to rip my tights more than draw blood.) The weather is foggy, dreary, and cold, and I'm in no mood to play with the rooster-fiend, so I head quickly out the gate. The red rooster crows his victory.
When I come home from the school, the yard is quiet. I don't take anything for granted because the rooster is very quick and will take me by surprise. In my high heels, I traversed the muddy, rocky yard, listening for his steps. Nothing. Hmm, maybe Gul has just fed them.
I quickly dressed for my afternoon run wanting to get it in before the fog got any thicker. Gul caught me before I left. "The rooster," she said, "is gone. I gave him away." "Where does he live now?" I asked. Confused, she shook her head. "No, Amy, we killed it and gave it to my sister."
What? No good-byes? My rooster-fiend is dead. Somehow life was more interesting with an antagonist. Alas, our conflict was short-lived, but I will remember you, red menace.
Final score: I still don't know. The rooster definitely lost this round, but I don't think I can claim victory.
Azerbaijani lesson learned: Red roosters are pretty, but they will hit you. Thanks Gul!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Rooster v. Amy Round 1
Due to the cold weather, Gul has been putting the chickens (and my rooster-foe) in the garden. She doesn't want them wandering off in the fog and getting hit by a car. So this past week, I've been safe from the unwanted attention from male fowl.
Nevertheless, the rooster always kept me in his sight following me as I cross the yard going to and from the gate. It was a bit amusing, and I might have teased him a bit, feeling safe with the feathered fiend on the other side of the fence.
That, however, changed today. After my afternoon run, I came back to find Gul planting strawberry plants in the garden (now home to the chickens). I, foolishly, decided to join her to keep her company and to see what was going on. As I approached, I could her the rooster's approach as he tailed me across the garden. When his sound was too close, I would turn and glare at him and stop him in his tracks.
Everything was fine until it was time to go back into the house. Crossing back through the garden, I had to face the rooster head on -- a move too aggressive for the red menace. As soon as I was in attacking range, he flew into motion. Admittedly he used much more force than I was expecting, but I was shocked.
Did he really think he was going to take me down? Morever, does my leg look like any kind of opponent? Seriously, I've seen roosters fight each here in Azerbaijan -- mini-battles for yard supremacy, but cockfighting my leg? It's like a one-sided battle with a post of something.
I'm guessing the battle ended in a draw. I'm still standing and not defeated, although he got both of my pant legs muddy (I'll have chicken feet mark on my pants as battle scars until my pants are washed). However, he's still standing too. While he waits for his next opportunity to attack, I will try to learn more deflection manoeuvres.
We have both lived to fight another day.
Chicken Head Haiku
Chicken head on road
Muddy, flat, and forgotten
I had to look twice.
As Micah (a PCV north of me) said, "sounds like someone is in Azerbaijan."
It was just another day going to work.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Attack of the Rooster
So, after moving into my new place, I have noticed some strange behaviour from the red rooster. As I walk to and from the house (going to school or coming home from an errand), the rooster runs up to me and hits me. Sometimes, he runs in front of me and ruffles his feathers poised and ready to attack. I was and still am genuinely confused by this behaviour. All my experience with Azeri chickens and Louisiana chickens says that chickens run away from you unless you have good in hand. Then again, my mother always told us not to chase the roosters at Momo's. At first, I was amused by the attacking rooster, but now that the ground is muddy and I'm wearing heels, I am less inclined to be kind.
At first, I hiss at the rooster, "You know, I could eat you if I wanted." (A phrase I can say in both English and Azerbaijani.) The rooster doesn't know I'm a vegetarian, but my threats appear to have no effect on my stubborn and formidable foe. He rules this yard. I am an unwanted trespasser. My next form of attack was throw pebble in his general direction; it's a tactic that works on dogs, so it should phase my rooster-foe. No luck. He just dodges the pebbles and continues his pursuit with dogged determination. I'm glad the dogs of Lerik aren't this persistent.
I made a passing comment to Gul that the rooster keeps hitting me, and she become very distressed. "He may jump on you and take out your eye," she warns.
Not exactly a story I want from the PC. "What happened to you eye in Azerbaijan?" "Well, I was riding in a crazy marshutka, and .... No, really, a rooster attacked me."
But while I was contemplating ways to protect my eyes from rooster attacks, Gul's next sentence brought me back into the present. "I'll tell Poppa to kill him." "What?!" She repeats the phrase thinking that I didn't understand. "Why?" I ask. Basically her answer is that he's getting aggressive and needs to be put down. I was saddened to know that I am the cause of the rooster's untimely demise.
Until the next time, I went outside, and he attacked me. Now as I cross the yard keeping an ear open for the pitter patter of his approach, I think, "your days are numbered, buddy."
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Long Time Coming
19 September 2009
Dear everyone,
Tomorrow marks on year of leaving Lafayette for this Peace Corps adventure. (It is also, most importantly, Emily’s – my little sister – twenty-first birthday! Happy Birthday, Emily!) It’s hard to believe that it’s only been a year. The year mark is an anniversary of mixed emotions for me. First, I think, “How can this only be a year?” So much has happened in this year. I have hit rock bottom; I have soared higher than the Talysh Mountains. I have struggled with a new language, a new culture, and a new job description. I have made new friends (both American and Azerbaijani) and have been adopted into a loving Azerbaijani family. I learned to manage a squat toilet, to ignore unwanted attention, and to handle knowing that the only American I’ll see is my reflection in the mirror. These are some of my triumphs. I also have my failures: my continual struggle in learning Azerbaijani (and my laziness of not studying), spending too much time in my head rather than with my host family, and feeling as if I’m not doing much for my community.
For all the good (which I cherish) and all the bad (which has made me a stronger person), I wouldn’t trade any of my Peace Corps experience for anything. Looking back, all my nervousness was warranted, but nothing could have prepared me for what was to come when I left Lafayette. Peace Corps has been harder and easier than I expected. I am blown away with how kind, generous, and (of course) hospitable the people of Azerbaijan are. When I hit a brick wall, there is always someone here to give me perspective. Not too long ago, I took the wrong bus from Masazir to Baku. Both buses are labelled 225, but the one I boarded only went to Xirdalan. At the end of the route, the bus driver helped me find the correct bus to Baku. A woman once paid for my ride into Baku (another trip from Masazir to Baku) because I gave her my seat. She was juggling five kids on the marshutka and reminded me of my mother when we all under the age of 13. Yes, I’ve had unpleasant experiences, but I like to think that most of my bad experiences could have happened anywhere in the world. They aren’t Azerbaijan-exclusive incidents.
Peace Corps Volunteer life is like riding a roller coaster. When you’re down, you know you’ll be up again, and when you’re up, you know and dread the impending fall. And in the end, you end up right where you started just with a new perspective. Tonight is Eid or the end of Ramazan. We are celebrating the breaking of Ramazan fasting for the last time tonight. I haven’t noticed strict observance of Ramazan here in Azerbaijan. Some people fast, and some people don’t. It’s interesting to celebrate this holiday here in Lerik tonight. Last year for Eid, I was in Masazir. I remember still being uncomfortable because it was only my third day in Masazir. My host cousin told me that my husband would be ugly because I couldn’t finish my plate of food. (Just a side night, the Islamic calendar is based on the lunar calendar so holidays move up ten days each year on the Gregorian calendar.) In Lerik, it was a slow day. I read my latest Peace Corps lounge book, listened to music, and enjoyed a cup or two of fine French Pressed Community Coffee. Life is good. Today the house has been buzzing with Eid sweet preparation and baking. I am a bit amused with how everyone makes the same sweets and then gives them to each other. So in the end, you end up with all the sweets that you just backed but from different houses. It is interesting to taste little differences in each family’s recipes. The Eid sweet of choice looks like a giant shakurbura (from Novruz) with gogal (again from Novuz) stuffing. I’ll get the name sooner or later, but it has the Amy seal of approval.
I would feel a bit bad for not helping out more with sweet making, because my host-mom is working so hard, and I like to watch how she makes national dishes. Nevertheless, like a good Azerbaijani mother, she doesn’t expect or really want us to lift a finger to help. Saida helps a bit, but, at a moment’s notice, she’ll leave the room and go play on her computer. Ruslan (my host brother who lives in Baku) is home, but being a boy and the youngest is not expected to help. Since I’m the youngest and an American, I’m a baby in two senses, so I just sit in a corner and try to stay out of the way. Azerbaijani women work so hard. My host mom, when she gets going, just doesn’t stop. It’s amazing.
At the Bashirov house, I am left to my own devices for the most part. I went running in the fog and rain. I’ve changed my running routine because school has started. I now run in the evenings. I hate running for an audience of boys, but I figure the novelty will wear off in a month or two. Until then, I’ll just ignore the boys who try to race me for a lap while my blasting music drowns out any of their attempts to communicate with me. When I come in with rosy cheeks, wet hair, and a big grin on my face, Saida and Yeta (my host mom) start fussing over me, telling me to put on some dry clothes, and telling me how I’m going to get sick. Despite the daily onslaught of reprimands, I think Yeta is proud of me for running because she tells all the teachers that I run daily. This report is in a proud mother tone and not in the guess-what-the-crazy-American-is-doing-now tone. Saida, I believe, thinks that running is a bit crazy.
Fall is slowly smothering what was left of summer. Starting in August, sunny, cold days would snidely remind me what was to come. Now, the rain and fog of fall has settled over Lerik, and I layer accordingly. I am already sporting my black wool long johns to colour coordinate with the grey skies.
The rain of autumn is not my enemy like it was in Masazir. Paved roads and living close to school make daily walks less of a mud-sludge-ing adventure. Sometimes the rain is Seattle-like: it mists. But, lately, I’ve had the pleasure of Louisiana-rain. Big drops beat on the truck outside my window (which has finally starting working and been removed from it’s permanent parking space outside my window), fill the potholes at the stadium, and drip off the red school roof to stain the yellow walls. Some days, we are even granted thunderstorms. Last thunderstorm, my three-year old cousin Farid informed me that he wasn’t afraid of the thunderstorms, as we watched the storm from my kitchen window. He also told me a bunch of other things, which I couldn’t catch because a) he was talking really fast and b) his mouth was full of cucumbers he had snatched from the dinner table.
As with most Peace Corps experiences, the bad resides with the good like a colloid. Yes, fall brings cold, foggy days, and the part of me that has lived over ninety percent of my life south of the Mason-Dixon line and roughly seventy percent within a twenty-minute drive of I-10 still cannot fathom that it can actually be this cold. But the cold weather does have some sweet rewards. First, school has started, and I am back – enthusiastically – in the classroom. I actually missed my monkeys. Second, some of my favourite fruits are now in season or will soon be in season. Pomegranates (nar), lemons (limon), persimmons (xurma), figs (ancır), and apples (alma) will once again be cheap and readily available. I cannot express how excited I am for persimmons and pomegranates. Memories of PST rush back with every bite… For such a small fruit, the fig holds so many memories for me.
My maternal grandmother had a fig tree in her yard, and I remember watching her peel them at the kitchen counter. Thinking that they looked squishy and gross, I didn’t like figs for a long time. Homemade fig preserves never lasted long at our house and was eaten on everything from cornbread to rice-cakes and, at times, straight from the jar. I’d bring jars of fig preserves from the bakery home last summer, and after dinner, we’d let the syrupy figs bring us back to Mowata and our childhoods. My first morning in Azerbaijan, I was elated to see fig preserves at breakfast; they were a reminder of home and softened the reality of how far, both in time and distance, I was from home. To me, food is the perfect way to capture a memory; it’s better than a photograph. The sweet smell, the sticky syrup on my fingers, amber-coloured figs sitting in the jar flooded my memory with thoughts of home as soon they hit my tongue. Fig preserves every morning in Masazir reminded me who I was and where I came from and prevented me from losing myself in my new situation. It was my comfort food. Before leaving Masazir last week for Lerik, Ana gave me jar of fig preserves, and I couldn’t help but smile. Figs will always remind me of Mowata, my grandmother, and my mother. This week in Lerik, when I ate my figs on fresh baked bread, recollections of Louisiana and Masazir painted my mental wanderings. I never expected the tiny fruit to hold so many memories.
13 October 2009
So flash forward almost a month, and here I am still typing the same letter, but in a completely new location. Shortly after I started composing this letter, my host mom informed me that I had to find a new residence. That’s right, I was being kicked out. I should probably add that she was very polite, I didn’t have to move until I found some place new (but ASAP), and many PCVs face this problem of sudden homelessness syndrome (henceforth will be called SHS). I should also add that the day I was told that I needed to move out was also 23 September: my one-year anniversary in Azerbaijan. Happy one year, right?
Of course, I went through the normal stages of SHS: shock, anger, despair, panic, hope, and resolution. First was shock; it was so hard to believe that I was being kicked out. Yes, I understood that guests were coming (Saida’s future in-laws, it turns out), but still. Where am I going to go? I had kind of thought that this arrangement was going to see me through my PC service. I have so much to pack. For a lack of better things to do, to prevent crying, and to ensure that I didn’t use all my kontour (read cell phone credit) texting my parents, I began to pack. It took me probably 4 hours to pack my room from 10pm to 2am. I condensed my year in Azerbaijan into my orange backpack, messenger bag, black duffle, eight boxes, and one huge bazaar bag that I can fit into. This was a long cry from the orange backpack, duffle, and messenger bag I brought with me from America. By the end of packing, I was too tired to cry, and the next stage of SHS was hitting anger.
The worst kind of anger is undirected anger. I was so angry with my situation. How could I be kicked out? It wasn’t even something I did. It’s a cultural issue, and, honestly, you have to respect the fact that family is so prized (even future in-laws). Family outranks the American who is paying to stay in your house. I could tell my host mom really didn’t want to kick me out, but I was still angry. What was I going to do? Where was I going to live? Who was I going to live with? I knew the idea of living on my own was a bust, and I just wanted to move as quickly as possible. I couldn’t stay at the Bashirov house any longer than necessary; sometimes, things look better the next day. The cold, cloudy morning only made things look worse, and I slipped into despair.
Getting kicked out does a bit of work to your self-esteem. I felt so unnecessary, disposable, and unliked. I had lived here for 9 months, and, now, I was being tossed aside like week old dolma. Damn, how did I get here? I went to school the next morning, only because I had to start asking everyone for help to find a place. When you need to find a new roof to sleep under, you start asking EVERYONE you know for help. It was surprising to find out that some people already knew that I was kicked out. Apparently Qizyeta had informed people of my impending move even before I knew of it. I was a bit miffed, but considering that it gave my house hunt a jump-start, I got passed my annoyance. My counterparts were shocked to learn that I needed a new place to stay. It was honestly a bit hard to keep it together in class. I just sat there, worried, and probably looked like a pathetic, homesick American. So, I went home early.
Heading home, I ran into my soon-to-be former host dad. That sight did me in. Barely holding back the tears, I managed to crawl into bed, and then I let the tears flow. This is where Qizyeta found me. She came bursting in my room because I wouldn’t answer her. I was hoping that she would think I was sleeping and leave me alone, but she had other plans. She came in to find me in bed red-nosed and tissue in hand. I’m sure it was a lovely site. Like a mother, she came rushing to my bed and threw back the sheets. She said we are going to village today. I think, “Good. I want to be alone today.” She asks me why I’m all packed up. I answer because I’m moving. “Where?” “I don’t know yet.” “Amy, don’t worry. You’ll find a new place, and it’ll be ok.” It’s really hard to be angry with this woman who is stroking my hair, trying to comfort me, and telling me that I can come visit whenever I want. With a kiss on my forehead, she headed to the door, reminding me that we are going to the village today. At this moment, I realized I was included in this we. Oh my.
I knew that I wouldn’t find my new house that very day, but a car ride into the countryside to an unknown village with the people that just kicked me out? Am I really that masochistic? I could tell by Qizyeta’s demeanour that I was not getting out of this one. Maybe she felt guilty. Maybe she wanted to show that I was still her “daughter.” Maybe she just wanted to show me off to relatives. Whatever the reason, I was going to Zuand.
Where is Zuand? Well, the best way to describe Zuand is almost-Iran. We took off towards the village, and my host mom said that Zuand is near Iran and very close to the border. I though, crap, I left my passport and Azer ID back at the house. Inshallah, we won’t get that close to the border. On the rough, mountain roads to Zuand, I could really appreciate the rugged beauty of Lerik. It’s a beautiful rayon. An hour into the trip, I started to realize what Qizyeta meant by close to the border. We pass an Azerbaijan army base, and then I see a long barbed wire fence maybe 200 yards in the distance. My host mom pointed out the window, “See, Amy, that’s Iran. See the fence. See the watchtower.” Oh yes, I saw the watch-tower and wondered how Jeyhun, the PC Safety and Security Officer, would like this story. I took my phone out of my pocket to check the time, and Saida said, “Oh, Amy, phones don’t work here.” Oh boy, no cell phone reception.
As I hoped that we would not get any closer to the border as to incur a check of our vehicle from Azeri border patrol or otherwise, we pull over near some tombstones seemingly in the middle of nowhere. (Nowhere next to Iran.) These are Adil’s relatives, and we have come here to pay our respects. The men stand next to the car while the women circle the tombstones again and again and again. I follow along placing my hand on the tombstone and pulling it across my face. Religious and family moments are always a bit awkward. How do you act appropriately?
Back into the car to drive further into the rayon, we finally made it to Adil’s relatives. Zuand is like a ghost town. Most of the residents have moved to Lerik for work, and the rugged landscape reminds me of the movies. It was a strangely pleasant afternoon, and Qizyeta’s efforts to make me feel not kicked out from her family did win me over. Plus, Farid, my 3 year old host cousin, is just the cutest little kid, and I got to hang out with him all afternoon.
So next came the house hunt. My emotions bounced like a ping pong ball between hope and despair many times a day. I was shown three houses in the course of my house hunting escapades, one of which I couldn’t live in because the new PCV will be living there. And while my emotional rollercoaster had me feeling like time was creeping along, I actually found my new house a week after being told I needed to move. Aynura, my younger counterpart and best friend in Lerik, told me that her classmate and very good friend Gulafat was living alone and maybe I could live with her. One cold, rainy, and dreary Tuesday (funny how it was fitting of my mood), Aynura, her two daughters, and I slowly walked up the hill to Gulafat’s. While the house is admittedly not as nice as Qizyeta’s (let’s face it, she set the standards pretty high), Gulafat instantly won me over. She was really kind and welcoming, and she seemed genuinely excited that I might live with her. I can handle an outhouse, bucket baths, hand washing my clothes, and basically an outdoor kitchen. Before leaving Gulafat’s, I agree to move in with her even though the room that was going to be mine wasn’t ready. I just got a good vibe from her.
Deciding to move in with Gul was such a relief. At last, resolution. I felt like I could breath again; even though looking at all the stuff I had to move up hill, I was a bit reluctant to actually move.
September thirtieth was my supposed move-in day. I waited most of the afternoon for Qizyeta to help me find a car to move; I was willing to get a taxi, but she wouldn’t hear of it. However, after two hours of making calls, Qizyeta was still empty handed, and I was falling asleep on the couch. I offered to call Gulafat and ask for help, but Qizyeta wouldn’t hear of it. She told me to stay the night, kissed my forehead, and sent me to bed. In spite of all the ups and downs, I realized that I liked these people a lot, and I was sad to leave. Nevertheless, sometimes we have to move on.
27 October 2009
When all the moving out rigmarole started, my mother said something better was waiting for me after this settled down. Well, as always, she was right. That something better is a person. Gulafat is my roommate here in Lerik. She’s frankly awesome. She’s really patient with my bad Azerbaijani, super motivated, and really sweet. She is such a strong person for reasons that I won’t get into, but let’s just say that she’s not your typical Azerbaijani woman. We spend a lot of time each day together. She is quite a talker, so I like to sit back and listen. On her birthday, I made her chocolate chip cookies. I could go on and on about her, but I’ll just sum it up saying that she rocks my socks.
On a BIG side note, I must add that there are many people I want to thank for helping through my moving out fun. Tarana and Aynura were so patient and understanding of all my freak outs and panicky moments. Tarana is like a mother-figure. She brought me to look at houses and acted like a translator when I was so stressed that my Azeri went out the window. Aynura is my best friend in Lerik. We joke, watch TV, and even cut class together. She helped me find Gulafat and is a pleasure to teach with. Thanks to my parents at home who lent encouraging words at all the right moments. Thanks to Qizyeta and Saida for being understanding of my dilemma and helping me to find a new place as much as they did. I think we are still having fun telling everyone that Amy did not choose to leave their house nor was she kicked out. They put up with me for nine months, and I am grateful for all the memories. (P.S. They are already fussing at me that I haven’t visited them.)
Moving out caused me to miss class for person reasons, house hunting, and etc. My absences caused minor panic in some of my classes. As soon as the news leaked that Ms. Amy was moving, children were volunteering their houses and scared that I would have to return to America if I didn’t find a house (or England, some of them are still a bit confused the Americans speak English). To everyone’s relief, I found a house and was comfortably moved in by October first, and in my new location, I am now neighbours with many of my students, which they all informed me about numerous times. My favourite new neighbours are Rza and his brother Rashad. Rza cracks me up. He is a very sweet kid who earnestly wants to learn English. He tries to speak, and he’s really a smart boy. He just has this grin that is winning. His favourite English sentences are, “I like it all,” and “it is very, very hot.” Rashad is the younger of the two and just tends to giggle.
Classes seem to be off to a good start. Aynura is up for some of my ideas of classroom reform, and Tarana has asked for help decorating her classroom. I’m afraid that I will not be able to start any clubs before the snow puts them on hold all winter. However, I’m developing ideas for my next round of clubs so they will be fantastic when I finally get them started. My fifth form is much larger than last year, but I see a lot of potential in them. A couple of them are quite quick with the language. Others are just plain eager to learn. One has obvious learning disabilities but tries to participate in the class. Fifth form is always my favourite form. They are at such a great age. These kids are all new to me because I didn’t teach them last year. Sixth form has my favourites from last year. They are an active class, but I can see so much improvement from last year. This is my class; I will see them through my whole time I am here. Seventh form is my class of characters. Each student has such a distinct personality. There are a couple of students who show a great aptitude for English. Eighth form, I regret to say, I’m only with them once a week. The students and I are both upset that I will not be teaching them more this year, yet I feel that I am more productive and a better teacher with the younger forms. Because I have no clubs, my goal every class is to get my children to speak more.
The boarding school is going better this year now that I know what role I fill there. I’m Friday Enrichment for any of the GT kids out there. I teach the children songs and English games. Vagif is a great teacher, and the children have a good grasp on grammar and seem more confident in trying to speak than the children at School 1. This past Friday, my seventh form treated me to a wonderful rendition of “Old MacDonald” with monkeys, wolves, and roosters. The wolf was my favourite that student completely hammed it up.
Halloween is on its way, so HAPPY HALLOWEEN! I will be in Lankaran with other PCVs celebrating a small Halloween, and then I will be giving a presentation to AzETA (Azerbaijan English Teacher Association) about encouraging students to speak in the classroom. Then I am off to Baku to help with training.
Of course, I have more to write, but I’ll leave that for next time. Istanbul will be shown in pictures on my website. I had a wonderful time, and it is an incredible city. I am more than ok with going back any time. Azerbaijani is only so useful in Turkey. I could understand some of what was going on but found that Azerbaijani is great for amusing the locals who think you are speaking “baby Turkish.” I got a lot of free food speaking Azeri with the locals. More on that later.
Happy October!
Cheers,
Amy
Dear everyone,
Tomorrow marks on year of leaving Lafayette for this Peace Corps adventure. (It is also, most importantly, Emily’s – my little sister – twenty-first birthday! Happy Birthday, Emily!) It’s hard to believe that it’s only been a year. The year mark is an anniversary of mixed emotions for me. First, I think, “How can this only be a year?” So much has happened in this year. I have hit rock bottom; I have soared higher than the Talysh Mountains. I have struggled with a new language, a new culture, and a new job description. I have made new friends (both American and Azerbaijani) and have been adopted into a loving Azerbaijani family. I learned to manage a squat toilet, to ignore unwanted attention, and to handle knowing that the only American I’ll see is my reflection in the mirror. These are some of my triumphs. I also have my failures: my continual struggle in learning Azerbaijani (and my laziness of not studying), spending too much time in my head rather than with my host family, and feeling as if I’m not doing much for my community.
For all the good (which I cherish) and all the bad (which has made me a stronger person), I wouldn’t trade any of my Peace Corps experience for anything. Looking back, all my nervousness was warranted, but nothing could have prepared me for what was to come when I left Lafayette. Peace Corps has been harder and easier than I expected. I am blown away with how kind, generous, and (of course) hospitable the people of Azerbaijan are. When I hit a brick wall, there is always someone here to give me perspective. Not too long ago, I took the wrong bus from Masazir to Baku. Both buses are labelled 225, but the one I boarded only went to Xirdalan. At the end of the route, the bus driver helped me find the correct bus to Baku. A woman once paid for my ride into Baku (another trip from Masazir to Baku) because I gave her my seat. She was juggling five kids on the marshutka and reminded me of my mother when we all under the age of 13. Yes, I’ve had unpleasant experiences, but I like to think that most of my bad experiences could have happened anywhere in the world. They aren’t Azerbaijan-exclusive incidents.
Peace Corps Volunteer life is like riding a roller coaster. When you’re down, you know you’ll be up again, and when you’re up, you know and dread the impending fall. And in the end, you end up right where you started just with a new perspective. Tonight is Eid or the end of Ramazan. We are celebrating the breaking of Ramazan fasting for the last time tonight. I haven’t noticed strict observance of Ramazan here in Azerbaijan. Some people fast, and some people don’t. It’s interesting to celebrate this holiday here in Lerik tonight. Last year for Eid, I was in Masazir. I remember still being uncomfortable because it was only my third day in Masazir. My host cousin told me that my husband would be ugly because I couldn’t finish my plate of food. (Just a side night, the Islamic calendar is based on the lunar calendar so holidays move up ten days each year on the Gregorian calendar.) In Lerik, it was a slow day. I read my latest Peace Corps lounge book, listened to music, and enjoyed a cup or two of fine French Pressed Community Coffee. Life is good. Today the house has been buzzing with Eid sweet preparation and baking. I am a bit amused with how everyone makes the same sweets and then gives them to each other. So in the end, you end up with all the sweets that you just backed but from different houses. It is interesting to taste little differences in each family’s recipes. The Eid sweet of choice looks like a giant shakurbura (from Novruz) with gogal (again from Novuz) stuffing. I’ll get the name sooner or later, but it has the Amy seal of approval.
I would feel a bit bad for not helping out more with sweet making, because my host-mom is working so hard, and I like to watch how she makes national dishes. Nevertheless, like a good Azerbaijani mother, she doesn’t expect or really want us to lift a finger to help. Saida helps a bit, but, at a moment’s notice, she’ll leave the room and go play on her computer. Ruslan (my host brother who lives in Baku) is home, but being a boy and the youngest is not expected to help. Since I’m the youngest and an American, I’m a baby in two senses, so I just sit in a corner and try to stay out of the way. Azerbaijani women work so hard. My host mom, when she gets going, just doesn’t stop. It’s amazing.
At the Bashirov house, I am left to my own devices for the most part. I went running in the fog and rain. I’ve changed my running routine because school has started. I now run in the evenings. I hate running for an audience of boys, but I figure the novelty will wear off in a month or two. Until then, I’ll just ignore the boys who try to race me for a lap while my blasting music drowns out any of their attempts to communicate with me. When I come in with rosy cheeks, wet hair, and a big grin on my face, Saida and Yeta (my host mom) start fussing over me, telling me to put on some dry clothes, and telling me how I’m going to get sick. Despite the daily onslaught of reprimands, I think Yeta is proud of me for running because she tells all the teachers that I run daily. This report is in a proud mother tone and not in the guess-what-the-crazy-American-is-doing-now tone. Saida, I believe, thinks that running is a bit crazy.
Fall is slowly smothering what was left of summer. Starting in August, sunny, cold days would snidely remind me what was to come. Now, the rain and fog of fall has settled over Lerik, and I layer accordingly. I am already sporting my black wool long johns to colour coordinate with the grey skies.
The rain of autumn is not my enemy like it was in Masazir. Paved roads and living close to school make daily walks less of a mud-sludge-ing adventure. Sometimes the rain is Seattle-like: it mists. But, lately, I’ve had the pleasure of Louisiana-rain. Big drops beat on the truck outside my window (which has finally starting working and been removed from it’s permanent parking space outside my window), fill the potholes at the stadium, and drip off the red school roof to stain the yellow walls. Some days, we are even granted thunderstorms. Last thunderstorm, my three-year old cousin Farid informed me that he wasn’t afraid of the thunderstorms, as we watched the storm from my kitchen window. He also told me a bunch of other things, which I couldn’t catch because a) he was talking really fast and b) his mouth was full of cucumbers he had snatched from the dinner table.
As with most Peace Corps experiences, the bad resides with the good like a colloid. Yes, fall brings cold, foggy days, and the part of me that has lived over ninety percent of my life south of the Mason-Dixon line and roughly seventy percent within a twenty-minute drive of I-10 still cannot fathom that it can actually be this cold. But the cold weather does have some sweet rewards. First, school has started, and I am back – enthusiastically – in the classroom. I actually missed my monkeys. Second, some of my favourite fruits are now in season or will soon be in season. Pomegranates (nar), lemons (limon), persimmons (xurma), figs (ancır), and apples (alma) will once again be cheap and readily available. I cannot express how excited I am for persimmons and pomegranates. Memories of PST rush back with every bite… For such a small fruit, the fig holds so many memories for me.
My maternal grandmother had a fig tree in her yard, and I remember watching her peel them at the kitchen counter. Thinking that they looked squishy and gross, I didn’t like figs for a long time. Homemade fig preserves never lasted long at our house and was eaten on everything from cornbread to rice-cakes and, at times, straight from the jar. I’d bring jars of fig preserves from the bakery home last summer, and after dinner, we’d let the syrupy figs bring us back to Mowata and our childhoods. My first morning in Azerbaijan, I was elated to see fig preserves at breakfast; they were a reminder of home and softened the reality of how far, both in time and distance, I was from home. To me, food is the perfect way to capture a memory; it’s better than a photograph. The sweet smell, the sticky syrup on my fingers, amber-coloured figs sitting in the jar flooded my memory with thoughts of home as soon they hit my tongue. Fig preserves every morning in Masazir reminded me who I was and where I came from and prevented me from losing myself in my new situation. It was my comfort food. Before leaving Masazir last week for Lerik, Ana gave me jar of fig preserves, and I couldn’t help but smile. Figs will always remind me of Mowata, my grandmother, and my mother. This week in Lerik, when I ate my figs on fresh baked bread, recollections of Louisiana and Masazir painted my mental wanderings. I never expected the tiny fruit to hold so many memories.
13 October 2009
So flash forward almost a month, and here I am still typing the same letter, but in a completely new location. Shortly after I started composing this letter, my host mom informed me that I had to find a new residence. That’s right, I was being kicked out. I should probably add that she was very polite, I didn’t have to move until I found some place new (but ASAP), and many PCVs face this problem of sudden homelessness syndrome (henceforth will be called SHS). I should also add that the day I was told that I needed to move out was also 23 September: my one-year anniversary in Azerbaijan. Happy one year, right?
Of course, I went through the normal stages of SHS: shock, anger, despair, panic, hope, and resolution. First was shock; it was so hard to believe that I was being kicked out. Yes, I understood that guests were coming (Saida’s future in-laws, it turns out), but still. Where am I going to go? I had kind of thought that this arrangement was going to see me through my PC service. I have so much to pack. For a lack of better things to do, to prevent crying, and to ensure that I didn’t use all my kontour (read cell phone credit) texting my parents, I began to pack. It took me probably 4 hours to pack my room from 10pm to 2am. I condensed my year in Azerbaijan into my orange backpack, messenger bag, black duffle, eight boxes, and one huge bazaar bag that I can fit into. This was a long cry from the orange backpack, duffle, and messenger bag I brought with me from America. By the end of packing, I was too tired to cry, and the next stage of SHS was hitting anger.
The worst kind of anger is undirected anger. I was so angry with my situation. How could I be kicked out? It wasn’t even something I did. It’s a cultural issue, and, honestly, you have to respect the fact that family is so prized (even future in-laws). Family outranks the American who is paying to stay in your house. I could tell my host mom really didn’t want to kick me out, but I was still angry. What was I going to do? Where was I going to live? Who was I going to live with? I knew the idea of living on my own was a bust, and I just wanted to move as quickly as possible. I couldn’t stay at the Bashirov house any longer than necessary; sometimes, things look better the next day. The cold, cloudy morning only made things look worse, and I slipped into despair.
Getting kicked out does a bit of work to your self-esteem. I felt so unnecessary, disposable, and unliked. I had lived here for 9 months, and, now, I was being tossed aside like week old dolma. Damn, how did I get here? I went to school the next morning, only because I had to start asking everyone for help to find a place. When you need to find a new roof to sleep under, you start asking EVERYONE you know for help. It was surprising to find out that some people already knew that I was kicked out. Apparently Qizyeta had informed people of my impending move even before I knew of it. I was a bit miffed, but considering that it gave my house hunt a jump-start, I got passed my annoyance. My counterparts were shocked to learn that I needed a new place to stay. It was honestly a bit hard to keep it together in class. I just sat there, worried, and probably looked like a pathetic, homesick American. So, I went home early.
Heading home, I ran into my soon-to-be former host dad. That sight did me in. Barely holding back the tears, I managed to crawl into bed, and then I let the tears flow. This is where Qizyeta found me. She came bursting in my room because I wouldn’t answer her. I was hoping that she would think I was sleeping and leave me alone, but she had other plans. She came in to find me in bed red-nosed and tissue in hand. I’m sure it was a lovely site. Like a mother, she came rushing to my bed and threw back the sheets. She said we are going to village today. I think, “Good. I want to be alone today.” She asks me why I’m all packed up. I answer because I’m moving. “Where?” “I don’t know yet.” “Amy, don’t worry. You’ll find a new place, and it’ll be ok.” It’s really hard to be angry with this woman who is stroking my hair, trying to comfort me, and telling me that I can come visit whenever I want. With a kiss on my forehead, she headed to the door, reminding me that we are going to the village today. At this moment, I realized I was included in this we. Oh my.
I knew that I wouldn’t find my new house that very day, but a car ride into the countryside to an unknown village with the people that just kicked me out? Am I really that masochistic? I could tell by Qizyeta’s demeanour that I was not getting out of this one. Maybe she felt guilty. Maybe she wanted to show that I was still her “daughter.” Maybe she just wanted to show me off to relatives. Whatever the reason, I was going to Zuand.
Where is Zuand? Well, the best way to describe Zuand is almost-Iran. We took off towards the village, and my host mom said that Zuand is near Iran and very close to the border. I though, crap, I left my passport and Azer ID back at the house. Inshallah, we won’t get that close to the border. On the rough, mountain roads to Zuand, I could really appreciate the rugged beauty of Lerik. It’s a beautiful rayon. An hour into the trip, I started to realize what Qizyeta meant by close to the border. We pass an Azerbaijan army base, and then I see a long barbed wire fence maybe 200 yards in the distance. My host mom pointed out the window, “See, Amy, that’s Iran. See the fence. See the watchtower.” Oh yes, I saw the watch-tower and wondered how Jeyhun, the PC Safety and Security Officer, would like this story. I took my phone out of my pocket to check the time, and Saida said, “Oh, Amy, phones don’t work here.” Oh boy, no cell phone reception.
As I hoped that we would not get any closer to the border as to incur a check of our vehicle from Azeri border patrol or otherwise, we pull over near some tombstones seemingly in the middle of nowhere. (Nowhere next to Iran.) These are Adil’s relatives, and we have come here to pay our respects. The men stand next to the car while the women circle the tombstones again and again and again. I follow along placing my hand on the tombstone and pulling it across my face. Religious and family moments are always a bit awkward. How do you act appropriately?
Back into the car to drive further into the rayon, we finally made it to Adil’s relatives. Zuand is like a ghost town. Most of the residents have moved to Lerik for work, and the rugged landscape reminds me of the movies. It was a strangely pleasant afternoon, and Qizyeta’s efforts to make me feel not kicked out from her family did win me over. Plus, Farid, my 3 year old host cousin, is just the cutest little kid, and I got to hang out with him all afternoon.
So next came the house hunt. My emotions bounced like a ping pong ball between hope and despair many times a day. I was shown three houses in the course of my house hunting escapades, one of which I couldn’t live in because the new PCV will be living there. And while my emotional rollercoaster had me feeling like time was creeping along, I actually found my new house a week after being told I needed to move. Aynura, my younger counterpart and best friend in Lerik, told me that her classmate and very good friend Gulafat was living alone and maybe I could live with her. One cold, rainy, and dreary Tuesday (funny how it was fitting of my mood), Aynura, her two daughters, and I slowly walked up the hill to Gulafat’s. While the house is admittedly not as nice as Qizyeta’s (let’s face it, she set the standards pretty high), Gulafat instantly won me over. She was really kind and welcoming, and she seemed genuinely excited that I might live with her. I can handle an outhouse, bucket baths, hand washing my clothes, and basically an outdoor kitchen. Before leaving Gulafat’s, I agree to move in with her even though the room that was going to be mine wasn’t ready. I just got a good vibe from her.
Deciding to move in with Gul was such a relief. At last, resolution. I felt like I could breath again; even though looking at all the stuff I had to move up hill, I was a bit reluctant to actually move.
September thirtieth was my supposed move-in day. I waited most of the afternoon for Qizyeta to help me find a car to move; I was willing to get a taxi, but she wouldn’t hear of it. However, after two hours of making calls, Qizyeta was still empty handed, and I was falling asleep on the couch. I offered to call Gulafat and ask for help, but Qizyeta wouldn’t hear of it. She told me to stay the night, kissed my forehead, and sent me to bed. In spite of all the ups and downs, I realized that I liked these people a lot, and I was sad to leave. Nevertheless, sometimes we have to move on.
27 October 2009
When all the moving out rigmarole started, my mother said something better was waiting for me after this settled down. Well, as always, she was right. That something better is a person. Gulafat is my roommate here in Lerik. She’s frankly awesome. She’s really patient with my bad Azerbaijani, super motivated, and really sweet. She is such a strong person for reasons that I won’t get into, but let’s just say that she’s not your typical Azerbaijani woman. We spend a lot of time each day together. She is quite a talker, so I like to sit back and listen. On her birthday, I made her chocolate chip cookies. I could go on and on about her, but I’ll just sum it up saying that she rocks my socks.
On a BIG side note, I must add that there are many people I want to thank for helping through my moving out fun. Tarana and Aynura were so patient and understanding of all my freak outs and panicky moments. Tarana is like a mother-figure. She brought me to look at houses and acted like a translator when I was so stressed that my Azeri went out the window. Aynura is my best friend in Lerik. We joke, watch TV, and even cut class together. She helped me find Gulafat and is a pleasure to teach with. Thanks to my parents at home who lent encouraging words at all the right moments. Thanks to Qizyeta and Saida for being understanding of my dilemma and helping me to find a new place as much as they did. I think we are still having fun telling everyone that Amy did not choose to leave their house nor was she kicked out. They put up with me for nine months, and I am grateful for all the memories. (P.S. They are already fussing at me that I haven’t visited them.)
Moving out caused me to miss class for person reasons, house hunting, and etc. My absences caused minor panic in some of my classes. As soon as the news leaked that Ms. Amy was moving, children were volunteering their houses and scared that I would have to return to America if I didn’t find a house (or England, some of them are still a bit confused the Americans speak English). To everyone’s relief, I found a house and was comfortably moved in by October first, and in my new location, I am now neighbours with many of my students, which they all informed me about numerous times. My favourite new neighbours are Rza and his brother Rashad. Rza cracks me up. He is a very sweet kid who earnestly wants to learn English. He tries to speak, and he’s really a smart boy. He just has this grin that is winning. His favourite English sentences are, “I like it all,” and “it is very, very hot.” Rashad is the younger of the two and just tends to giggle.
Classes seem to be off to a good start. Aynura is up for some of my ideas of classroom reform, and Tarana has asked for help decorating her classroom. I’m afraid that I will not be able to start any clubs before the snow puts them on hold all winter. However, I’m developing ideas for my next round of clubs so they will be fantastic when I finally get them started. My fifth form is much larger than last year, but I see a lot of potential in them. A couple of them are quite quick with the language. Others are just plain eager to learn. One has obvious learning disabilities but tries to participate in the class. Fifth form is always my favourite form. They are at such a great age. These kids are all new to me because I didn’t teach them last year. Sixth form has my favourites from last year. They are an active class, but I can see so much improvement from last year. This is my class; I will see them through my whole time I am here. Seventh form is my class of characters. Each student has such a distinct personality. There are a couple of students who show a great aptitude for English. Eighth form, I regret to say, I’m only with them once a week. The students and I are both upset that I will not be teaching them more this year, yet I feel that I am more productive and a better teacher with the younger forms. Because I have no clubs, my goal every class is to get my children to speak more.
The boarding school is going better this year now that I know what role I fill there. I’m Friday Enrichment for any of the GT kids out there. I teach the children songs and English games. Vagif is a great teacher, and the children have a good grasp on grammar and seem more confident in trying to speak than the children at School 1. This past Friday, my seventh form treated me to a wonderful rendition of “Old MacDonald” with monkeys, wolves, and roosters. The wolf was my favourite that student completely hammed it up.
Halloween is on its way, so HAPPY HALLOWEEN! I will be in Lankaran with other PCVs celebrating a small Halloween, and then I will be giving a presentation to AzETA (Azerbaijan English Teacher Association) about encouraging students to speak in the classroom. Then I am off to Baku to help with training.
Of course, I have more to write, but I’ll leave that for next time. Istanbul will be shown in pictures on my website. I had a wonderful time, and it is an incredible city. I am more than ok with going back any time. Azerbaijani is only so useful in Turkey. I could understand some of what was going on but found that Azerbaijani is great for amusing the locals who think you are speaking “baby Turkish.” I got a lot of free food speaking Azeri with the locals. More on that later.
Happy October!
Cheers,
Amy
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