February 20th

This week I traveled south for a ”gender training” I conducted with a couple of PCVs. The goal of these trainings is to build an awareness and understanding of gender issues, stereotypes and cultural differences as they relate to the discrepancies and inequalities between the genders.

It went well. The above pictures were taken there.

When it was time to go home, I left earlier than I had to, allowing room for error. In the same way that I have grown to stifle my curiosity about what lies on the side of the road, where smells and sounds originate, how close I’ve come to having a head on collision on the road, I should have learned by now to be weary of “shortcuts” along any path of travel. I should know by now to be cautious about “saving time” or “making things easier” I should know by now that nothing is ever easy.

We all have a lapse in judgment from one time to another.

I live about 2.5 hours by bus from the town I traveled to. From my town, there is one bus in the morning that goes straight to this southern town. It leaves at 8am. I’ve elected to take this bus both of the times I traveled there – not wanting to take the option of standing on the side of the road, waiting for a bus from Baku to travel by and flagging it down. I did this once last year, after being assured by PCVs that it was the easiest mode of travel. It took me 2 days to make what should have been a 5 hour trip. Again, I should have been weary of “easy”.

I arrived at the bus station around 12:40 – hoping to catch the 1:00 bus to Baku, which passes through my town. The problem with this bus is that it stops for a 30 minute “tea break” right outside my town – too far to walk, but a pain in the ass to wait for. Also, the drivers, in my experience, charge the whole fare to Baku, instead of a reduced rate.

When I arrived a bus waiting to go, but they wanted to charge me 5 manat (it should be 3). “No,” I said, “I’ll wait”. The drivers seemed to think I was being reasonable, and had me stand to the side to wait for another bus, which they said was leaving at 1pm. Cutting corners can be the stupidest decision one makes.

It was rainy and cold.

The men then signaled a guy who was coming out of the station and told him where I was going. He led me to a bus that was going straight to my town. Excellent, I thought – not only would it be 3 manat, but I would get there 30 minutes sooner.

Not so.

The bus left 1.5 hours later after a false start at 1pm (which I got excited about). It left after I sat in it alone for awhile, then had the charming company of an old Xanim (woman) disgruntled and muttering about the delay and occasionally asking me questions; “what time does it leave?” “why hasn’t it left yet?” “where is everyone?” “when will it leave?” “I’m going to get off this bus” “what time is it?” “how long have we been sitting here?” “what time will we leave?” “why hasn’t it left yet?” and on and on and on. Apparently, she was unaware that I knew left my crystal ball at home and knew as much as her – probably less. Our bus sat there as I watched the 1 o’clock bus to Baku fill, considered getting on it, and let it pass.

Luckily, I had a book. A book I was revisiting after I suggested it to a friend several months ago and he stopped reading it stating that, he “wanted to throw it into the fire after 20 pages”.

I didn’t think it was so bad.

Finally, at 2:30, we pulled away. I settled into my seat, gazing out the window while listening to my “marshrutka melodies”. The bus wasn’t entirely full, so we continued to pick people up along the way.

It was at one of these stops that I heard a hard “clunk” at the bottom of the bus. At first I thought nothing of it, as no one in the bus seemed to be alarmed. Then there was some confusion and commotion between the drivers and their assistants sitting in front. I then thought that perhaps something had hit us. An animal, a motorcar, or maybe we hit a rock of some sort. In any event, it was evident now that the bus was unable to move forward.

Through photos I’ve tried to convey the generally dilapidated condition of motor vehicles, specifically buses here. This has been changing since I’ve arrived, but I’ve been on buses that were literally rusting through – buses where I had to cautiously choose my seat so that I couldn’t see the road underneath me – such rattletraps I was (and still am) amazed got me anywhere. This bus definitely looked sturdier than some I’ve been on.

I’ve also been on 2 buses that have gotten into minor car accidents with smaller cars – both gave no rise to the passengers and besides a slight delay, were unremarkable. I’ve been on a bus that broke down – myself, a PCV and 2 German tourists – in the middle of absolutely nowhere – on the way down a mountain. That time the driver lifted up the floorboards to fix what I assume was something related to the manual gear shifter thing.

Each instance was novel and funny, a little scary, but in the adventurous, traveling in a developing country kind of way. This time I didn’t feel that way. Maybe it was the weather.

Soon it was apparent that something was truly wrong with our bus. Shortly thereafter another bus pulled ahead of us. The driver said something about it and everyone started making for the door. When I tried to get off, the driver told me that I should stay on the bus, that we would still go to my town and that the other bus was going somewhere else. I listened to him.

Besides me there were two older women (minus my previous mate) one very old man and two younger men along with 2 drivers and one assistant. We stood outside. It was cold. The women asked me where I was going. I asked them where they were going.

The strange part about this situation was that they seemed completely unimpressed and uninterested in my presence. This is not normal. Normally, immediately recognizing me as a foreigner (once I speak), people ask me a host of questions including exactly where I live, with whom, for how long, where I work, which is better, America or Azerbaijan, and what I get paid. But these people, all of them, seemed not even to notice I was foreign. This unnerved me. I was searching for allies – searching for people I could cling to if the need arose. Searching for comfort, companionship. There was none to be had.

As I pulled my coat closer to me, the men worked on the bus. They pulled off a huge contraption about 6 feet long that looked like it had something to do with making the wheels spin (this is my assumption). They looked it over and then two of the men whizzed away in a taxi. Then both the younger men started walking down the road.
This left me, the two ladies, the old man and one of the drivers. Everyone was on phones and I tried to still the small drop of panic that kept threatening to rise to the surface.

The ladies wanted to get back in the bus, but I figured that if we got back into the bus, we wouldn’t be able to flag down another bus that might have empty space to bring us on. I knew that there should be a bus that left at 3pm which would be heading our way. If I stayed in our bus, I would miss it. And if it turned out that the bus couldn’t be fixed, and everyone else called their families to pick them up (or took taxies to their relatives houses in the area) then I would be left alone.

My biggest concern was building an alliance with the two ladies in the bus. The problem was that they weren’t half as friendly as the average Azeri and my usual ticket to charm and conversation– my status as a foreigner, seemed to be a moot point. I did have a black coat on, I’ve been complemented many times on my accent, and that I don’t look like your “average American” here (most think I’m Turkish), but this was ridiculous.

I tried to make conversation inside the bus. Again they didn’t seem interested in this in the least. The old man was talking and laughing – almost to himself, as it didn’t seem like the ladies were listening. He was talking about my town, and something that happened at the bazaar.

It’s difficult to describe the feelings I had at in these moments. Besides chiding myself for trying to take the easy, cheaper way home – I thought about all of the worst-case scenarios that could happen. I thought about how this could turn into a Real Situation. Though I have no reason to think this would happen – a Real Situation in which I would have to mobilize my “fight or flight” reflex.

There have been a few moments like this in my life; moments when something happens that lets me assess my situation and circumstance more objectively. Here was the circumstance saw myself in: Female Peace Corps Volunteer traveling alone in the southern Caucuses gets stranded on the highway after her bus breaks down and is lost forever. Maybe it was the rain, but for a time, it looked pretty bleak.

I thought about how one of the comforts I have at this point in my service is exactly the opposite of what was happening – the feeling that no matter what, I would be okay – that because I knew the language, the customs and the culture, that I could get lost, broke down, or in a sticky situation and make it out unscathed. So why was I worrying now that it was happening?

I wished so much that I had another PCV with me. That I had traveled back with my friend from the north who had left earlier that morning. I wished I had taken the normal bus – or that I had paid the extra 2 manat for the bus that was leaving when I first arrived. I hoped and prayed that this wouldn’t become one of those Situations when I had to do something definitive. I wished that I wouldn’t have to make any decisions.

To stay or to go? As time passed I thought several times about getting out of the bus and fending for myself. Flagging down another bus or taxi (neither of which seemed to be passing very often) – ignoring those who said the bus would be fixed – ignoring those who thought I was crazy to go off – taking the situation “into my own hands” – But what if I stayed – in which scenario would I later be seen as the fool? Which scenario was irrational? It was not at all clear.

And then I just wanted to be home. I thought about calling Adam, but I knew it would only worry him – and what was he supposed to do? Plus, those at home wouldn’t have the tools and knowledge to assess the situation like someone here would (though I was proving fairly incompetent myself). I thought about calling my friend whom I left, but what could she do? No one could do anything and I was alone to make this decision on my own.

Was I overreacting? Probably. Unless, of course, this turned into one of those Real Situations – then I was under reacting. But which WAS it?
As I thought these myriad of thoughts – as I fretted and considered my options, two of the men who went off in the taxi came back. They got to work under the bus. Next the younger men returned. Within 20 minutes of our regrouping, we were once again off on our journey.

This time I prayed for a safe and quick journey home. At first I was a ball of nerves, but gradually I settled back in my seat, and each time we stopped to pick up more people, and each time we got back on the road again, I became less and less concerned that the bus would again break down. I stopped making my requests and I began to give thanks.

I arrived home 5 hours after I left the bus station. By the time I walked through my door, after going to the bathroom, I barely remembered my former panic and was instead left with a dull exhaustion. All I could think was, “what a strange reaction I had to a simple auto repair”.

January 29
What a difference (how long have I been here?) makes:
The law in Azerbaijan recently changed to state that foreigners had to renew their in-country passports (akin to a license) every three months. I’ve been ignoring this ruling since my passport expired in November on account of the ridiculous hoops I had to jump through the first time (including officials insisting I submit to a blood test – which I adamantly refused) and the fact that it took over 2 months to get it in the first place. More or less, I’ve been waiting for it to be a problem. When my friend who lives in a neighboring village told me she recently renewed hers, I thought my absence in doing so might become conspicuous.

Allow me to veer off on a small tangent…
The idea of a passport doesn’t inherently bother me. It seems completely reasonable that one should be registered where they live with the proper authorities, especially if they are a foreigner.

When I tried to get my passport the first time, it seemed like endless runaround and waiting – wait to talk to this guy, then that guy, then show him my American Passport, answer the barrage of questions about why my father’s name isn’t on my passport – why my blood-type, and other, what I consider to be private and inconsequential information, is not there – what are we trying to hide, anyway? Perhaps this is what bothers me about the passports here – the father’s name business.

Whose girl are you? Who OWNES you? How can I know your character, if I don’t know your father’s character (and his father, and his father, and his father)? This very system that our ancestors sought to overcome is alive and well in this part of the world (and many other parts). Think about this for a moment: to be defined by, not even your parents, but specifically your father? Defined by a history that you had very little to do with. It’s something, along with standing too close at the ATM, that I cannot get used to.

At this question I defiantly said (probably too haughtily), “we don’t DO that in America” as my counterpart tried to stifle a laugh. Being a bit of a firestarter herself, I could hear her thinking “Yeah! They don’t DO that in America!”. This happened several times and we were told again and again to wait. There was also some problem with the housing documents of the family I was living with – problems I never fully discovered, because at the time, I was pretty much in the dark about everything.

My counterpart insisted that the root of the problem was that I wasn’t willing to give them a bribe (or as my Azeri friend says, a “sweet” as she rubs her fingers together). Rather, I insisted that passports were supposed to be free, and I would not pay for one – plus, I really didn’t care if I had one in the first place.
All of this perhaps explains why I was not overly enthusiastic about obtaining another such document. In addition, I have moved since I last got my passport and I wasn’t sure how my current landlady would react to having to produce “house documents” that most people, in fact, don’t have (partially because of the unofficial way property has been passed on, the personal building of houses, etc.).
And this is where I say, what a difference time makes. In the (million?) months I’ve been here, from time to time I can see progress not only within my work, but also within my standing in the community. My mom has assured me that this is exactly what the book (mentioned in earlier blogs) says is supposed to happen (if only this book could explain every step of my life AFTER Peace Corps!).

I first called my former counterpart, who was “relieved of her duties” at the library last year. I still see her from time to time and consider her helpful with these types of things. Unfortunately, her message back to me was that she was busy until March. This would not do.

The next day I talked to my Azeri friend whose family I know fairly well; her (all important) father, in particular. This is a family who, of all the Azeri’s I know, adheres the most to the fabled hospitality of Azerbaijanis.

I knew her father had some connections with the police, so I figured it would be a good bet that they could help me. “Oh yes,” she said, “My neighbor is the passport official”. We went to the passport office and asked about which documents we would need. They said that my landlady would have to personally vouch for me by coming down to the office and presenting the documents herself. I told my friend I had never seen my landlady leave the house (which is true, except when she visits the neighbors or goes with her son, by car, to her relatives house) and I doubted whether she would be keen on the idea of venturing as far as the police station (about a 30 minute walk). “I will see if I can take care of it” she said, adding, “I know the people at the Notariat Consul (NC) (Azeri Secretary of State)”.
I couldn’t help but to have a big smile on my usually emotionally controlled face when we went into the NC. We spent some time chatting with my friend’s other neighbor and then talked to the men in charge of housing documents and verifications. They were extremely amiable, good-natured and helpful. “No problem” they said, “we can drive with you to your house to meet her”
We couldn’t do it that day, and after another day of waiting around for them, we decided the following day would be best. In the meantime, I took a taxi, with my friend, to my house to tell my landlady what documents she needed to produce. On the way, I left my wallet (with all my documents) in the taxi.

After frantically searching for my wallet and berating myself for being so forgetful, I called Peace Corps to figure out what I had to do next. Not one to put all my eggs in one proverbial basket, I always keep my American passport, along with credit cards and my American bank card in another location – however, my Azeri bank card, along with my Azeri passport, about 30 manat ($45) and 4 straight-faced passport photos of me were in there.

Here I got a feeling I would probably have never gotten in the U.S., overwhelmed me. I thought: my wallet HAS to be in the taxi – and if it is, I will SURELY get it back. After all, the taxi carrying the American is a conspicuous one in a town without any foreigners. Plus, I thought, people here KNOW me. I have a complex support network of influential people, people of “good character”, no doubt with good, honest fathers, behind me.

I called my friend who said she would check. Everyone I met that day told me not to worry about it –that I would surely find it. I had to believe them. About 3 hours after I reported it missing, the taxi driver arrived at the library. His questions about the contents of the wallet (for verification that it was mine) seemed trite and unnecessary under the circumstances, but I appreciated his efforts to find me (apparently he had searched for me at the two schools where volunteers had worked 4 years ago before arriving at the library).

On our way back to the passport office, we passed the “taxi stand” where several of the taxi drivers inquired as to whether or not I found my wallet. When I said I did, they said to my friend, “I knew she would get it back. I told him, you better return it – I know her father!” – finding this a bit ridiculous and funny, wondering if things would be different if her father was a deadbeat crackhead, didn’t stop me from being grateful for a system I was temporarily benefitting from.
Back to the passport office: it turns out, my landlady didn’t have the correct documents, but, no matter, they would sign for them anyway. While at my house my landlady asked the official’s name and discovered that they had a relative in common. “oh!” she said, “my son has to repeat his university courses because he didn’t go to class! If I had known who you were, I would have called upon you to help us” – this means, presumably, to throw his weight around with the head of the university, making it unnecessary for them to pay a bribe to have her son pass onto the next courses (whose cost, presumably, was too steep, which is why he is repeating his classes). At this moment, it was difficult not to laugh at the absurdity of things.

When all was said and done with the passport business, no one had asked to take my blood, asked me who my father was, why I was here; no one tried to make me pay money or gave vague answers to my inquiries as to when it would be ready. In fact, I was asked to sit and chat while being offered tea as I was praised for my language skills (specifically my pronunciation – which leads many Azeris to believe I’m Turkish).

Being here is a lot like riding a wave – and for the past several months, I’ve felt as if I’ve been on top of that wave. Certainly I’ve fallen over a lot and I’ve had my fair share of cursing the water – but I’ve finally PROVEN myself, at least to a small group of people who can vouch for me. I jumped through enough hoops to have some kind of credibility.

All this acts as a kind of buffer to the smaller novelties and annoyances of everyday life. Things such as the incessant scratching and (I swear) furniture moving of the rats who live in my walls and underneath the floor boards. The occasional ant that will (from where?) become lodged in my stocking and bite me all day long until I scratch and kill it. The flies the size of my fingernail (again, from WHERE?) that get into my house and buzz around my head. My unwashed hair which has become akin to a massive dreadlock and acts now as a kind of science experiment (what will happen if I never wash it again?). The fact that, though Azerbaijan is an oil-rich country, many of its citizens, including me and my family, do not have gas (the cheapest way to heat the home) and have to resort to chopping wood from the small trees around the house; producing a smell which burns our eyes at night. And the surprise and (disgust?) of my yard dog chewing on his daily sheep head.
Ah – but there are some things I DO understand – some things I CAN have control of – and some things that do work out alright.