August 20
Around this time last year my fan broke and I nearly had a breakdown; becoming delirious while both laughing and crying on the phone to my mom and Adam. It was a classic and defining moment for me – the first time (and one of the only times) I became uncontrollably emotional during my service.
The next day at language classes I heard that I wasn’t the only one, the five of us relayed stories about how we thought we might have “lost it a little” amidst the heat of the afternoon and evening.
It’s that time of year again and I live in a region which, when I tell Azeris where I live, they say, “aydada! That’s terrible, it’s very hot there”. I’ve grown to wear the dreadful reputation of my un-scenic, hot as hell town as a badge.
To combat the wilting power of the sun I have incorporated what I consider Bikhram yoga into my daily routine (the kind of yoga you do in 90 degree temperatures). As I sit holding my poses my entire body becomes soaked and I embrace the feeling of the sweat oozing out of every pore. It’s kind of like being in a sauna – and I like saunas.
I also drink a lot of water – A LOT. My freezer is always filled with at least 3 or 4 bottles. This makes the weather more tolerable, though it also makes me sweat a great deal. Because they don’t drink a lot of water, Azeris don’t sweat a lot, which makes me look like a complete freak of nature when I come in soaking wet from the 20 minute walk to work. Leaving home without my “sweat rag” is disastrous, as it often leaves me blinded from the salty sweat trailing through my ineffective eyebrows and into my eyes. Imagine me desperately wiping the water from my forehead, blinking uncontrollably, eyes watering while my shirt becomes wetter and wetter. It’s an alarming sight for many a passersby, the melting ice bottle I carry in one hand compounding the spectacle.
My reverence for water has become well known by my closest Peace Corps friends. Arriving at a friend’s site a couple months ago I expressed alarm at her lack of water stored. The next time I visited she had filled her water filter to the brim in anticipation of my arrival, stating that she wouldn’t want to instigate the panic of my previous visit.
I have embraced the American tradition of a kind of obsession with the weather. Several times a day I remark to anyone who’s listening (and to some who aren’t) how hot it is, how I am melting, how sweaty I am, etc. It’s probably getting pretty annoying by this point – though I think they’re also amused by my fixation.
One thing I have found it more difficult to embrace is the tendency for people to burn their garbage and refuse on the side of the road near my house every chance they get. This severely interrupts the stress-reducing breathing exercises of my Bikhram yoga.
I caught my landlady in the act of burning plastic the other day when I arrived home. I scurried up to her somewhat frantically and said it was making me sick (faking a cough for effect). She, somewhat alarmed, replied, “this is your trash, what else would you like me to do with it?” Well played. My town doesn’t have a recycling center, nor a place where I can be sure that my plastics won’t be burned. If I insist on moving it out of my yard, I’ll just move it into someone else’s. We have a few token garbage cans near the center of town, but those are frequently overflowing, to which the response is usually to burn the excess. When the trucks do take it away, I’ve heard rumors that it’s thrown in the river (which, if you’ve seen the riverbed, is not too difficult to believe).
Therefore, I’ve (perhaps shamefully late) begun collecting all of my plastics in anticipation of some future place where they may by disposed. I’ll have to think on this awhile, but for now I’ve contented myself with closing my windows when the smoke arrives and appreciating the moments of non-plastic burning breathing bliss.