At the moment, I cannot tell who I have been, or who I will be. I can only guess who I am. This makes the written record valuable.

We are standing in line. 33 people are standing with me. Two of my group are staying with Peace Corps (one of whom is marrying an Azerbaijani). Two others are staying to work in Baku. This makes 37 finishing out of an original 54.

I have 5 weeks left in Azerbaijan. I thought it appropriate to go back to my first posts and compare what I thought then to what I know now. In the spirit of my original list…

- I will be leaving Azerbaijan Sept. 2nd at 11:55 a.m. from the Baku Airport
- I will arrive (Inshallah) at Detroit Metro at 11:30 p.m. the same day
- While here, none of the PCVs have died or been irreparably injured
(though several Azerbaijanis have been)
- I’ve not had hot running water
- Sometimes I didn’t have any running water
- I’ve never lived in a house with a bath or toilet inside
- I’ve never lived in a house with a “western style” or flushing toilet
- I’ve had a cell phone and occasional internet (at my house)
- With the exception of a few hours a day without in the winter, I’ve had consistent electricity
- The weather here has been much hotter than Michigan
(over 100 is normal and it was over 120 a few days so far this summer)
- I’ve lived traditionally with a host family for the first nine months of service, then moved in
with another family; but had my own kitchen and living space for the remainder of my service
- I’ve very much fallen in love with my current host family
- I have not loved my previous families
- I have not worn a burqa or hijab and most everyone here hasn’t either (PCVs or Azerbaijanis)
- I have not worn shorts, but some PCVs do
- Until two months ago, I’ve been the only PCV in my town. Now there is one other PCV here
- I’ve always been within 30 minutes of another PCV
- I’ve used almost all of my 48 vacation days visiting Prague, Georgia (the country) and the U.S.
- I’ve traveled to 31 regions in Azerbaijan
- I haven’t gotten malaria, but have lived in one of the only three regions requiring malaria
medication
- I dislike malaria medication very much
- The Caucasus mountains are very beautiful, but I have lived in what would be considered the
desert - far from any natural beauty
- The Caspian Sea is disgusting up close – if you are far from it – it is as beautiful as any sea
- I had to buy a voltage regulator to cope with the frequent power surges hazardous to electronics
- I’ve had good luck thus far with electronics, still using my original laptop, ipod, and camera –
all of which have been indispensable to the survival of my sanity
- I’ve broken many a piece of furniture
- I’ve witnessed a lot of other PCVs break many a piece of furniture
- I’ve found that yogurt can be combined with everything
- I’ve not always been able to get the things I wanted. Namely, quality lotions, pork, peanut
butter, and granola bars (though I could have bought these in Baku for exorbitant prices)
- I’ve received lots of packages giving me these things and more
- I continue to be grateful for the support I’ve received and have received an amazing amount of
support

We are all biding our time. Now, getting ready for the future…

- I have my medical, dental and exit interview appointments next week
- I’ve already completed much of the paperwork necessary for COS (Close of Service)
- I’ve contacted my contacts in the states
- I’ve fantasized about the technology I will use in the coming months
- I’ve fantasized about meals in the U.S.
- I have little idea of what my life with consist of in six months
- I have dreams several times a week about the process

Where would we be without wishful thinking? Indeed. It’s been quite sometime since I last wrote. There are a million reasons for this, but here are 3:

1. I don’t have internet at site anymore
2. I don’t have the inspiration to detail what has become my daily existence
3. I have lost perspective entirely

In the time since I last wrote, much has occurred. Some are (in chronological order):

1. Went to Georgia (the country) and lost my passport/visa
2. My mom and Adam came to visit (!!!)
3. Close of Service (COS) conference

Georgia was beautiful and it allowed a freedom I haven’t felt in a long time (except for my quick jaunt home for the holidays). I went with a few PCVs and we rode the tide on serendipitous meetings, delicious food, sulfur baths and intoxicating wine. Because of all or none of these, I lost my passport the last night I was there. Of course, this complicated my return quite a bit.

Luckily, there is a Peace Corps office in Tiblisi. Though there are currently no PCVs living in Georgia (they were all evacuated last year when the “conflict” broke out), the office is still up and running and what else did they have to do but to help an absentminded soul such as myself? Actually, they had a ton of stuff to do in preparation for the security clearance to welcome the new group of PCVs coming in June of this year.

Let me say this: to any incoming Georgia PCVs, you’ve got a great staff awaiting you. The director and security officer were infinitely helpful and perhaps what I most appreciated, they didn’t make it a point to make me feel any stupider than I already felt.

My wallet/documents were eventually returned – though not in time before they were invalidated. I’m still figuring it out and waiting for my new passport/visa. In case anyone didn’t already know this – losing your passport in a foreign country is a BIG problem. I don’t recommend it.

As is probably obvious – I made it back to Azerbaijan – something that, had I not had to work so hard for, I might have resented. I hate crossing borders in general – always feeling as if I’ve done something wrong and the guards will find out – attempting this passage with a jumble of incomplete documents proved a further challenge – good thing I speak Azerbaijani and that Azerbaijanis like Americans. I had no trouble at all at the border – the guards even gave me some apples for my journey (apples they forced the guy in front of me to give them).

The next big thing was my family coming to visit. This is a critical point in a PCVs experience. Of course, for various reasons, not everyone experiences this luxury. I feel infinitely fortunate to have had the opportunity.

Before they came I fretted about various things including sickness, maiming and eventual death. Living here, one feels their mortality up to several times a month. Most of the time, I enjoy this flexing of the soul. It’s all so…vivid (thanks Tom Robbins). But just because I feel confident in my own ability to navigate this wilderness, doesn’t mean I feel the same comfort for those I love most. For the first time, it occurred to me that this must be the way they felt when I joined the Peace Corps. How out of control they must have felt – how susceptible to chance! It gave me a greater appreciation for their commitment to me.

Luckily, none of my worries materialized. The visit was benign and enjoyable.
While Adam was here, PC held the AZ5 Close Of Service conference – another milestone in a PCVs life. The last time we’ll all be in a room together. Here’s the jist of what’s in store for me over the next six months:

1. lots of paperwork/preparation
2. sadness, elation, anxiety
3. readjustment to a society that isn’t impressed with everything I say and do
4. job searching in a weak economy
5. adjusting to the changes of those around me

Twenty-seven months is a long time to be away – I’m not the only one who’s been changing. Friends of mine have gotten married, had kids, and unfortunately, died. Relatives and those I love have done the same. Gas has gone from over $4 a gallon to whatever it is now (I don’t know what it is now, just that no one seems to be complaining about it anymore). And, perhaps most notably, the election of the first non-white president! Something called the iphone has emerged, I hear Mcdonalds serves gourmet coffee (???) and probably a million other things I can’t think of at the moment.

The COS conference was as it should be – except that we were at an “Aquapark” and not allowed to go in the “aqua”. There were lots of discussion about leaving, how to leave, and how to return. Up until now I’d gotten by without thinking too much about it, but now I’ve things to complete. Documenting my service. What have I done with my time here???

I thought about listing the things I’ve done here, but I decided that would be annoying. It’s true that, far from any other service I’ve been involved with, Peace Corps has been the most worthwhile. I’ve always felt that I was DOING SOMETHING here. I feel that I have made a difference. That my time here was important and valued. Perhaps I haven’t made any systemic changes. Perhaps, because of various circumstances, not everything I do (or maybe nothing) will go on for long without me – but those I’ve worked with every day – their skills and ways of thinking have been enhanced and/or changed. I feel strongly that this is true.

For the next three months I’m not sure what I’ll do with myself. Yesterday I sat with one of my most dedicated students and we made a schedule for the summer. It goes something like this:

2 days a week of movie, creative writing, swimming and reading clubs. One day of games and internet training and one “wild card” day in which we may do art projects/sports or nothing at all.

I have plans to visit Lerik, a purportedly beautiful town in the southern Talish Mountains. Other than that, I’ve been just about everywhere I wanted to go and I want to spend time at site, anyhow. I don’t know if or when I may write again.

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.

January 21, 2009
I’ve been searching and listening for inspiration for my next blog. A few times I’ve had an idea or two but they haven’t come to much. In one way or another, they all fall flat. This morning I decided that if I didn’t write something soon, I may not write at all, and so…

Recently I returned from a trip abroad to the U.S.. I’m not the first, and certainly not the last PCV to pause their service to take a peek at their motherland. We pause to re-group, to remember, “who we are”, where we’re from, and oftentimes come back stronger.

It was like a dream. Not the kind of fantasy-dream you have when you’re too happy to speak, but rather, the kind of dream that’s not quite real, the kind of dream that is somewhere in between here and there. My entire experience was like that.
One of the most common questions I was asked was if I “couldn’t wait to get back home and be done with the Peace Corps”. How was one to answer that? Of course I will be happy to return home, to old and new friends and family. Of course my culture offers me many more comforts than a foreign culture might. Of course the comforts afforded are more numerous and varied. However, I couldn’t feel any kind of emotion that would allow me to answer yes. Because, in fact, I am in no hurry to return. I’m not considering staying. I’m not considering continuing my life abroad. Partly this is because those who love me want me home; partly this is because I have become disillusioned with the ex-patriot lifestyle I’ve observed.

One thing I’ve been trying to reconcile is how to equate “this” with “that”. How do I equate who I’ve been with who I’ve become? How do I successfully exist with both my old peers and my new peers? How do I equate the “financial crisis” in America with my landlady who only owned a car in the “good old days” of the Soviet Union, and even then, didn’t drive it (because she is a woman); who can see her breath inside on a regular basis because the cost of heating her house several hours a day is too great; who I often find sitting in the dark because electricity is too expensive?

On my visit home, this topic was a common contention. I believe now that this is because most of the people I now come into contact with have never been poor. They’ve never been in serious want of anything. I’m not speaking of the want to go out to eat, to sell or buy a home, to buy a new car, new clothes or to go on vacation.

Fear is a powerful force. As Americans, we fear so many things. Many of those things have to do with the potential for loss. It’s not that I cannot understand this feeling. Nor is it that I don’t identify with the feeling in any way. Rather, it surprised me how few people understood where I was coming from when I said that the “financial crisis” could be a good thing – or at the very least, it wasn’t the end of the world as we know it – and if it WAS the end of the world as we know it, the new world might not be as bad as we’re told.

I’m not all that well read – and it’s true that even when I did have a chance to follow the news (when I was in the U.S.), I didn’t follow it as closely as I could have. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention. I’ve been paying attention to my mom when she talks about the stronger sense of community she feels at her local grocery store – when she takes out her mounds of coupons and those around her comment about how we all have to watch our money now. I’m paying attention when my friends talk about friends that they’ve helped out because they lost their jobs, and how people came together to support one another and to help on another – because – for me, I don’t think that the worst thing that can happen is to have to need people.

The poor have a greater need for people’s help. When people help, they serve that need. When they share their wealth, when they look outside themselves at a situation larger than themselves and choose to participate in it instead of run from it, they do not become imprisoned by it, they become liberated from it.

When we need one another, it does not make us weaker, it makes us stronger. I joined the Peace Corps because, although my life has been somewhat less charmed than many of those I’ve met here, it has been more charmed than most of the people in the world. Service is the only thing I don’t ever have to think about. I am an average person, with average intelligence – it doesn’t take much to help out. It doesn’t take much to participate.

I’m not itching to get back to the U.S. because there’s more for me to see and do here. There’s more I have to learn. There’s more I have to ask about. There’s more I have to listen to. I’m not finished yet. I have friends here; friends who won’t be accompanying me back to the U.S. Friends that, once I’m finished in September, I will likely never see again.

Lately I’ve thought a lot about what kind of Peace Corps volunteer I will have want to have been. My “big village” doesn’t have much. I don’t have NGOs to partner with, or sitemates to plan projects with. I’ve struggled to have a continuum with those I have worked with, including the firings of my first counterpart and director; with a new director who tried to fire me. And seeing things no person should see – confronted with not only the written words of the conditions of women in the world – but the chance to KNOW some of those women, to see their struggles, and to be able to do very little to change ANYTHING.

But I can do a little. One of my most dedicated students wrote me a text while I was writing this blog. It read: “Good Morning. How r u? I’m happy today, I don’t know the reason.  there will be 4 participants at the swimming club this week…”
I didn’t come to Peace Corps with the idea of making a difference. I know this seems counterintuitive, but I’ve done too many service programs to feel the idealism of “changing the world”. For me, there’s too much ego and arrogance in that. Rather, more times than not, the world changes me. With Peace Corps, for the first time in my life, I KNOW that those with whom I work, their lives are better because I am here. Even if my programs don’t continue when I’m gone. Even if the library where I work doesn’t ask for another volunteer. Even if I have nothing to show for my service at the end, at least I can say that those I have worked with; those who have faces; those who have names, they knew me, and they changed me.

I realize this is a simplified version of events that affect many people. I could be wrong in my assumptions and perhaps would feel differently if I was there and therefore more personally impacted. Nevertheless, knowing what I know, thinking what I think, how could I be anxious to return to the U.S.? I am not anxious at all. I am learning how to live slowly. I am learning how to listen, how to care. I am learning how to be the kind of person I want to think of myself as being. I am not afraid of the details.

Yard animal count:
7 chickens
2 turkeys
2 geese
1 dog named Beethoven (named by my landlady, not me)

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

September 30

After spending the past two weeks both helping to train the new Language and Cultural Facilitators (LCFs) for the new group of AZ6 trainees arriving last weekend, and attending the International Youth Employment Summit in Baku, I’ve struggled to define and articulate what those experiences meant to me in a medium as trite as print.
My conclusion is that it is impossible to express the feeling of meeting youth leaders (state workers and other high ranking professionals) from over 50 countries, in a country that is not the U.S; watching an Iranian woman dance without her veil, listening to the (absurdly funny) stories of a journalist who was in Iraq the day after Sadam fell, a former PC beneficiary from Liberia, describing the aftermath of war and how “his volunteer” helped him get to where he was today; running two of the only youth centers in Liberia. I lack the skills to illustrate the feelings that rose within me and I will, instead, talk about the weather.

Last month it was 110 degrees in my house (I know this thanks to the handy thermometer Adam sent me). Now it’s 62. I find myself bundled in layers, wool socks (also thanks to Adam) a sweatshirt (thanks Mom) and slippers. I stare out the window somewhat apprehensively wondering when the rain will break so I can wash my clothes. I must again learn to adapt to the seasons, which so directly affect my life.
As mentioned earlier, the new group of trainees have arrived and have settled in their training sites just last weekend. Two weeks ago, the volunteers before us, the AZ4’s, departed for their futures outside Azerbaijan. This transition lead me to believe that one day, I too, will depart this country, this experience and all that has come to pass, for something else.

I can only imagine this in the abstract. It seems impossible for me to “wrap my mind around” it. I’ve talked to other PCV’s and they feel the same way. It’s not as if I am new to comings, goings and new experiences, but all the same, the strangeness captures me. How far I’ve come, what I’ve learned, and that one day, my journey here will come to an end – but still not for quite a long time.

In more concrete news, my number of yard animals has multiplied and we now have three chickens and two geese running around. This is in addition to Beethoven, the dog. I now have an outlet for my old fruit, vegetables and bread that, without preservatives or chemicals, cannot seem to last long enough for me to eat.

I’ve learned to make several new meals in the past few months including lentil soup, applesauce, cinnamon rolls, bruscetta and others. I’ve also learned to make jam and have been the lucky recipient of several jars of jam from friends. I’ve traveled to all the (permitted) southern towns and a few northern cities. I haven’t learned to play the Tar, but I have learned to play two songs on piano. My Azeri lessons have ended in place of Russian and I now know the Cyrillic alphabet, can count to 10 and say the most basic greetings and introductions. It’s fun finding a variety of outlets for the long expanses of time spent without “anything to do”.

I lost weight, gained weight and now do yoga in the morning for my sanity. I became addicted to television shows (on disk) I would never have watched in the states (I haven’t even owned a T.V. in the past 7 years) and came to the healthy conclusion that I cannot watch any more. Last night I began reading Frankenstein by candlelight (because of a lack of electricity, not for romantic effect).

I don’t write as often, as I find my life less and less noteworthy (to me, at least). Today I’ll go “guesting” at a friend’s house who will surly fill me with lots of tasty Azeri treats I’ve become addicted to and unable to make at home yet. At the end of the week, after Ramadan celebrations have concluded, I will begin my next round of clubs including a movie, creative writing, debate, media and English conversation club.

And the beat goes on…