Sunday, September 30, 2007
In my communication with people I’m always asked how I’m feeling. What is it like here? These are reasonable questions, although oftentimes I find I cannot give reasonable answers. Therefore, I thought I would instead provide a “slice of life” commentary about “what it’s like here” and “How I’m feeling”. Of course, it’s not always “like this” but it does, I think, give an accurate account of some of the day-to-day adventures of a PCV in Azerbaijan.

Tonight I learned how to play Dominoes. I played with my aunt and she won six times and I won one. Then my brother brought out checkers. “Excellent”, I thought, “a game I know how to play”. I was elated that we were relating to one another and able to speak a common language through games. Oftentimes I find myself at a loss verbally with them (obviously). I had been looking for such an opportunity to bridge the gap in conversation all week so, despite my stomach cramps, I decided to play.

When my brother, who is 6, and I began playing checkers, I noticed he was making illegal moves. So I said, “Olmaz” which means, “not okay” or “you cannot”. He insisted that it was okay. Then his entire family went to bat for him. His father then insisted I play a “mock” game with him because he persisted in thinking that I just didn’t understand. I explained that I did understand, and I was pretty sure those moves were illegal. I saw this was going nowhere so I deliberately put myself in compromising situations and he quickly won.

Then my brother wanted to play again. I didn’t want to, but I figured it would be awkward now not to. When he again made illegal moves, I became furious (like a child myself) and again deliberately lost as quickly as possible. I was frustrated because I couldn’t explain that it was not that I didn’t know how to play, or didn’t understand, but rather that the game is played differently in America. I said “Americada muxtelif dir” “In America, it is different” But they insisted that no, I was wrong (and I suppose, in a way, I was saying the same thing to them) Also, whenever I get the least bit frustrated my Azeri goes out the window and I find myself unable to communicate even the most basic ideas, which is even more frustrating. In a way, it really wasn’t about the game.

When it was over I said thank you very much and promptly removed myself from the room. I texted Donnie, who had texted me earlier, to get it off my chest and relate to someone who I knew would understand.

Maybe I was just tired, or let down because I was so happy to begin with. In any case, I decided this was a good time to do my ritual “I’m going to bed” routine and I grabbed my toothbrush and headed outside to the sink area trying to find solace and friendship in the stars all the while berating myself for how childish and emotional I knew I was being. I said to myself, “but they don’t understand. No one is on my (our – PCV’s) side here. Culturally, we’re all alone. You can think things are wrong - and be sure about it, but no one will agree with you. Right and wrong go out the window. It’s completely disorienting.

On my way back in I gathered my composure. Am I a child? I thought. I felt I was redeeming myself with these games, showing interest in what they were doing and playing along. And now look at it – it’s all messed up and they’re going to think I’m unreasonable and childish and I don’t know that they’re wrong about that.

As I was thinking this I noticed a flame by the cooking area. My Nene was cooking something, but it wasn’t in a pot. Meat! I thought. Yes, there will be meat at the next meal! And as I came closer she noticed me and encouraged me, “gel, gel” “come, come” she said. I couldn’t tell exactly what she was cooking, though it looked like a headless chicken. No big deal, I thought, I’ve seen this before. So I said, “Ah, toyuq dir?” “Yox, qoyun” “No, sheep” But to me it didn’t look like a sheep. My mother then came outside and encouraged me, “”Jennifer, bax, bax” “Jennifer, watch, watch” My nene backed away to give me a better look.

It was then that it came into view. Oh yes, I had seen this before, in the Azerbaijan guidebook. It’s the picture my cluster would always muse over and point to when they were trying to illustrate how different things were going to be here. We used this picture as a kind of badge when we wanted to feel like we were joining the Peace Corps.

Slowly it became clear. The strange smell, burning hair. Yes, there it was, I could see the teeth, a spear through the chin, the shape of the head, now black and charred but still completely intact. There were the ears. My grandmother was torching a sheep’s head. I was transfixed and unable to look away. They started speaking to me and, despite the words being familiar, I was too dumbfounded to understand. After they repeated it several times, I realized they were asking me if we have this in America. I slowly nodded my head, “yoxdur” “we don’t have” and after giving it the appropriate amount of time, I returned to my room.

I texted Donnie, Joe and Scott, all from my cluster whom I knew had seen the picture and would think this was as crazy as I did. Donnie responded, “Is it all you could want and more??” “Yes,” I replied, “I think it is”.

When I tried to recover my feelings about the game of checkers I saw that they had vanished without a trace. I had no feeling of anger or frustration about an event I felt so passionately about not ten minutes before. “Well,” I thought, “I suppose that happened at exactly the right time”.

Monday, October 1, 2007
Another day in the life… Guess what showed up on the dinner table tonight… If you guessed pieces of burnt head, you would be right. But before I get to that, I’m feeling descriptive, so I’ll talk a little about my day first.

My day was great. I began my day going into the library where there was (yet another) young girl waiting for me who wanted to join my conversation club. Like many others, when I asked her if she spoke English, she said yes, but that was the only question in English she could answer. This brings the count to 63.

I am also beginning to work with another nearby organization, the Children’s Creative Center. There is a woman there I met on my site visit who speaks some English and who’s super nice. Maybe my first friend. Since I’m interested in all things creative, I figured it would be a good match. Ellada agrees that it is, “very wonderful”.

The kids were studying their English homework and Ellada had each student introduce themselves. There were four girls there from 4th to 7th grade. They were adorable! Then I read some English passages first slowly and then at a normal pace. Afterward I spoke with Ellada for a bit (in English, she is trying to improve and I enjoy the break) about what it’s like to be a foreigner and not just learn the language a couple hours a day but constantly. She speaks Turkish, Russian (as many people here do), Azeri and a good amount of English so she is no stranger to these struggles. This was the first time I had a chance to talk about the fatigue and struggles regarding language acquisition. We laughed about my poor Azeri and her poor English and it was good.

The kids then asked me questions about myself. How many people were in my family, what fruits I like, am I married, what is the weather like in America, what do I like better, America or here, do I like my town, etc. Pretty standard. But I think they were my most attentive audience to date.

After “dinner” (lunch) Sevda and another woman and I did some real Azeri shopping. Apparently outside of the bazaar many people sell goods from their homes. If you were merely a tourist, you would never know this. The goods aren’t cheaper, but sometimes they are more unique.

We first took this windy rocky road to an otherwise plain-looking house. Once inside we were lead through the garden, where numerous pomegranate trees were in full bloom. The tall trees and bright red fruits were beautiful in the afternoon sunlight. After we went past the main house, the chicken coop, the bags of wool hanging from a tree, we came upon some cinderblocks formed into stairs which lead to a second house. After walking up the wobbly steps, we were in the shop. There was nothing worth mentioning about the shop, really. I bought some comfy slippers for 3 AZN (Manat) and the other two bought some pantyhose. But she didn’t really have what they wanted, so we left.

The shop keeper was an English teacher and once she found out I knew English she was delighted and began speaking to me in English. On our way out, she asked me if I liked pomegranates. When I said yes, she told me to pick a few. So with my purchase of slippers, I also walked away with two huge, ripe pomegranates. She told me when her daughter comes in to town I will have to come there to “guest. Not bad, I thought.

The next place was similar, though less charming. I wondered how many of these “secret” shops there were. Sevda tells me that she will take me again once the fall supply comes in. This is where I will buy a winter coat. I can’t wait! It’s so much more exciting (and less intimidating) than the bazaar.

So yeah, tonight I found myself staring into a bowl of sheep head parts. I knew it was coming before I looked and when it was set in front of my father first, I told myself, “don’t look, don’t look”. But when it was in front of me, I had to look. I could make out a piece of a jawbone, teeth and all. But, I tried to be a good sport. After all, isn’t this what the Peace Corps is all about???? So when my father started eating, I took a piece of bread (a great buffer, I’ve found), and dipped it in the soup. It was awful. Worse than liver (before tasting this, my least favorite meal). And it still smelled of burnt hair.

I had a choice. It is a choice I have anticipated making since I decided to join. When my mother saw my face after tasting it – she (without a hint of surprise) said, “yemirsan?” “you don’t eat?” Then I did something I totally did not anticipate doing. I refused. I said no, I’m sorry, I don’t like it. She said, “nevermind” and promptly brought out some cheese and grape jam (by the way, real, fresh grape jam tastes nothing like grape jam or jelly in the states). I repeated that I was very sorry, and listened to my father say it would make me strong, and tried not to watch as they heartily enjoyed their meal.

So there it is. I found my food adventure limit. I hope these anecdotes are amusing and give a better picture of “how I’m feeling” and “what it’s like here”. Because, as you can see, it is a very complicated answer.