November 2
When I was in high school I used to read Hermann Hesse novels. The thoughtful young man travels across the land pausing between mountains to munch bread from his rucksack. So far my life has met my romantic expectations.
Last weekend I traveled to a small mountain town famous for its metal works. Getting there was dicey. After raining for several days, we wondered if the road might be washed out. We were warned that if it rained the day we wanted to go, the drive would be unduly dangerous.
It didn’t rain.
A good friend and I loaded into the soviet era bus, bread in our knapsacks, as the chill of Fall bit into us. As we turned down the dirt road to the town, I was amazed over and over as well tread path became what passed for viable road.
At one point the bus stopped and I looked around me at my fellow passengers. Something peculiar was happening. I nudged my friend, who took her shared headphone out of her ear. “Never mind”, I said, “I’ll tell you later, when we get there.” “Why?” she said, “Is there something happening that I’m missing?” “Well, it’s just that everyone on the bus just started praying”.
Indeed.
Several times I reached for my friend’s hand and she for mine. I caught myself glimpsing The Reality Of Life quite a few times as I alternated between views of the steep drop off on one side and the 300 foot wall of loose rock on the other.
But we made it. And then we made it back after stopping to take out the floorboards and fix the bus twice before the returning on the mountain pass.
When I talk to other PCVs about going there – if they’ve been there they always say, “yeah, that’s crazy, right?” It is.
In the normal somewhat hum-drum of my average day I find these little excursions lightening. In the bulk of it all, sometimes I desperately need to be lightened.
But exciting things are happening at home as well. I recently started a girl’s swimming club. In my town, this is somewhat akin to starting a revolution. Girls in my town are scarcely allowed to play any kind of sport, let alone get into a swimsuit and learn to swim. And what for? Only boys are allowed down by the river.
Several months ago, perhaps back in February, two representatives from the new Olympic Complex came to the library where I work and told me that the complex would open in May and I was welcome to hold clubs there. I don’t know how they found me – or what they meant by “to hold clubs there” (to teach English?) but I put it on my mental shelf.
May rolled around, then June, and it still wasn’t open. Finally, sometime in August the President rolled through town and an opening ceremony commenced. A few weeks later I convinced one of my regular students to accompany to figure out who those people were who came to the library, and if they really meant what they said.
In this instance, being a foreigner helps. I have a “get out of cultural norms free” card. It’s a status that, at times, has been both confusing and uncomfortable, but more and more I am learning how to take advantage of it; this was one of those times.
We met with a man who agreed to allow us to use the pool if I gathered 5 girls. That day my friend’s mother got on the phone to some of her friends to try to convince them to allow their daughters to participate.
Two weeks later we had 8 girls signed up and I held my first lesson. I convinced another PCV who lives about an hour away to attend the classes with me for support. She agreed and as we went to the bus we both were in a state of shock as to what we were about to do. “Are we really doing this?” she asked. “Yeah, I think so.” I replied. Neither of us could believe it.
We walked into the sport’s complex and the groundskeepers welcomed us “International Sportsmen!” they exclaimed. We laughed and tried to explain that only 2 of us were “international” and neither of us were “sportsmen” but we appreciated the gesture.
Only 4 of the 8 girls showed – which wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was that the pool was in fact heated – and though it took 35 minutes to find the keys, eventually all the doors to the pool were locked (a stipulation necessitated by the girls – they didn’t want men to look at them in their swimsuits)
Unfortunately, the shallowest part of the pool is about 6 inches over my head, so the process of getting the girls into the pool was slow and tedious. But it was exciting. They shook with fear and anticipation. I slowly guided them into the pool and taught them the uncomfortable action of putting their heads underwater – it is important here to note how foreign this all was to them – I knew they had never been in a pool before, but I had no idea if any of them had even been immersed in a bathtub of water – let alone a pool. The process was slow and cumbersome but eventually, 3 out of 4 became more comfortable putting their heads underwater.
That was about as far as we got in our first class, but the girls were satisfied, almost giddy. They talked about how their arms hurt from holding the edge for so long and asked me how long it would be before they knew how to swim.
Today was our second session. The manager brought swim caps and goggles for us to buy and brought arm fins (the kind designed for children) to alleviate my fears of them drowning.
Only 2 girls returned this week – though the others assured me that they would come next week. I put on the arm fins to show them how impossible it was for them to drown now – and the shaking girl who wouldn’t put her head under the water finally did. “It’s easy,” she said.
My other star student learned to float. It’s impossible for me to describe the look on her face when she told me to take my hand out from under her to “see what happens” To her surprise – nothing happened. No disaster struck, no crisis ensued. This is the stuff of development.
Recently, for the Women in Development/Gender and Development committee, I interviewed a successful and prominent woman in Baku. When asked if foreigners had an impact on development she said, “of course”. She said that every time they see a woman in a restaurant or an internet club or other place traditionally off limits and… nothing happens. No disaster strikes. No crisis ensues. It eventually becomes normalized and socially accepted.
Though I wont be going to any restaurants, frequenting internet clubs or “upsetting” many of the “cultural norms”, perhaps, through this swim club, once September comes, and I leave and thus “take my hand away”, the girls I’ve worked with will see that they can float without me. That in fact, they were floating all along.

In other news: current yard animal count: 4 geese, 5 chickens