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…

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.

Let’s talk about the weather…
The longer I’m here, the more cultural intricacies become illuminated. Azeri’s knew a few things about American Culture before I came, evidenced by their extended handshakes and deliberate distance when I meet new people (they are told “American’s like a lot of physical distance and as little bodily contact as possible”).
But other things have begun to occur as well, and it’s charming.
American’s love to talk about the weather. For some reason this is a topic of conversation we just can’t get enough of. Without realizing it, I brought this custom with me. Recently I mentioned it to my counterpart and she said that it surprised her at first and she thought I was joking when I would say something like, “it’s a nice day today, isn’t it?” She said Azeri’s only talk about the weather in a ironic, cynical way – kind of the way we use “So how about those Tigers?” in Michigan. It’s not something they actually plan to discuss.
Now that this has been revealed, my close friends will comment on the weather in my presence. It’s always a forced and a bit out of place, such as “it is raining now” instead of “it’s been really rainy lately, hasn’t it?” At first I thought to myself, “why are they saying this? Yes, obviously it is raining” but I then realized they were trying to relate to me on my terms. It was endearing.
The same thing is happening with hugs. Azeri’s (women) greet one another with kisses on the cheek. It is a custom I have enjoyed since I visited France and have sought to bring back to the U.S. (without success). When one of my friends saw me greet my American friends with a big hug, they were a bit curious. I explained that American’s, though they do appreciate space between strangers, enjoy embracing their friends. Now, whenever I see the 3 or 4 of my close Azeri friends, there is always a hesitant, kiss/hug combo that we cannot seem to get right and usually ends up with us bumping into one another’s shoulders unsure of what to do with our arms.
Also, wen one of my Azeri friends received a confused response from my American friend after trying to embrace her, I had to explain the subtleties of when it is okay to hug. But how do you explain when a friendship moves to the hugging stage? Depending on the length of time and the interaction (such as the intimacy between PCV’s), it could be done after only one meeting. It’s something you just KNOW. This is like them trying to explain to me when to kiss twice.
Azeri’s love to serve you food. If you didn’t tell them to stop, they would serve you everything on the table 3 times plus everything in the house. Over time I have explained to my close friends that American’s don’t like to be forced to do anything, preferring to decide everything themselves, including how much food to put on their plates.
This practice takes a lot of willpower on the part of Azeris, so I found a compromise. I explained that though it is not common for American’s to serve one another food (unless the recipient is a child), it is customary to refill one another’s drinks. Finally – something they could hold onto!
On a recent guesting excursion to my counterparts, dinner was served and her husband (no doubt she had said something like “don’t serve her food! American’s don’t like that!”) practiced the utmost restraint waiting for me to serve myself. However, he more than made up for it as he continued to refill my glass after every sip I took. It was hilarious and I couldn’t help but to smile.
So much gets lost in translation and cultural differences and even if you know what they are, they can be difficult to overcome. What I perceive as pushy, they perceive as hospitality and what I perceive as giving individual respect, they perceive as being offstandish. Only after smiles and explanations, which only happen with time, can there begin to be some kind of cultural understanding.
After 9 months of being at site my Azeri friends have begun to understand me and to respect some of my traditions in the same way that I have tried to respect theirs. I no longer have a problem drinking hot tea on hot days, having extra servings of plov and dolma(though I usually serve myself if I am with friends – which they find more amusing than rude) and I never forget to take off my shoes (which are habitually cleaned).
For those interested in learning about American culture, they enjoy the hugs, the talk of the weather, and the informal ways of dining more than I would have imagined.
But it is always give and take. I still insist that they eat and drink something when they come to my house (as to offer it as an option is perceived as you don’t really want them to eat or drink anything) and I still wear houseshoes in their homes and eat everything offered to me (which has become easier since they now know what I like).
It can be a tricky balance, as I recognize that I am the one visiting their country, not the other way around, and I don’t want to impose my habits on them. But it’s still a comfort, every now and then, to give and receive a hug while talking about the weather.

June 14
I came across a blog I wrote during my 11 months traveling the U.S. with Americorps, NCCC in 2004 (if you want the address, let me know in a comment). It was interesting to see how things had changed. It was funny to think that then I didn’t have a computer, internet access more than once a week and no real access to media of any kind – no T.V., no magazines, no radio (It is for this reason I never really understood or caught on to the “Paris Hilton” phenomenon).
I now live more than 6000 miles away, have a computer with internet (usually) every day in my house. I have satellite T.V. on which I can watch CNN, BBC and Aljazeera (in English). I don’t always watch it, I have never been a newshound, but it’s available. This is in addition to my Newsweek magazines Peace Corps provides, making me more up to date on global news than I ever was in the states.
What I noticed about this blog was how many details I gave about my day to day life. I haven’t really done that here, so here is a little story about a trip I took a few months back over the Novruz holiday:
There are two volunteers who live about an hour south of me. We planned to travel 10 hours north to Zagatala, a town near the Caucasus Mountains bordering Georgia and Russia. We planned to visit some friends along the way, bypassing traditional bus stops for more of a “travel by the seat of our pants” experience.
The trip from my site to Baku is 2 hours. There is a city about half way between Baku and me that takes 1.5 hours to get to. From there to Baku it is about 1.5 hours. This makes no sense. Anyway….
They met me at my site and we traveled to our friend’s house. The evening was uneventful and we went to bed early in anticipation for our adventure the next day. The next morning we woke up and got to the road just in time as a bus going to the neighboring town was coming by. This would be the only such instance of the rest of the trip.
We got to the town of Hajicable, which is just a big round-about in the middle of nowhere that many buses pass through. Everyone assured us that once we got there it would be very obvious what we were supposed to do next. “Just get off the bus at the circle. There will be a man directing everyone where to go and you just stand on the road until you see a bus. The man will flag down the bus for you”. Not so. We stumbled off the bus with our various belongings into an ambiguous circle with a lot of people standing around in various places on various corners, none of whom was directing anyone.
Of course everyone stared at us like we were from Mars. After orienting ourselves to the 4 cardinal directions, we decided to cross the street and wait in an uncrowded spot in front of a shop. We continued to search for this supposed man with all the answers, but never did find him. Instead we began asking people which direction buses to Sheki we going (Sheki is another town we wanted to visit on the way). As it turns out, we were in the right place.
About 5 minutes later the shopkeeper came out to inquire about the strange foreigners standing in front of his shop. He was very nice and immediately brought out a bench for us to sit on (which we very much appreciated later). He offered us tea (of course) but we politely refused, explaining that we would be jumping on the next bus, which we assumed would be coming quickly. Not so. Or rather, lots of buses passed, but they were all full due to the holiday which we neglected to consider.
After about 1 hour of waiting the shopkeeper insisted we drink tea (to the point of pouring it anyway, despite our insistence) and eat apples (mealy, gross looking apples). We thanked him for the apples, but tried to explain that if we drank tea, we would then have to pee (demonstrating this 5 minutes later when we all suddenly had to go and had to use his families’ bathroom). Finally he got the point.
10 minutes later he returned with a baby goat. “Do you have these in America!!!??” Meanwhile, the baby goat is squirming like all get out and he hands it over to me. I found myself holding this squirming baby goat as he then hands me a bottle of milk (some of which spilled on my coat making me smell vaguely like goat milk for the remainder of the trip). He brought out another baby goat which he handed to my other friend. Our goatless friend quickly grabed our cameras. Bad idea. After seeing the cameras the shopkeeping asked us a slew of common questions “how much is that?” “did you buy it in America?” “That’s cheap” “If I give you money will you buy me one?” “Why not?”
After waiting 2.5 hours more (or maybe it was longer) we compromised and decided we were never going to find a bus to Sheki or Zagatala and we should just settle on one to Ganja, the second largest town in Azerbaijan, which would also have buses going out the next morning.
When a big bus finally came along it too, was full. However, by this time we were desperate and convinced the driver to allow us to sit in the aisles. We spent the next 4 hours on crates ignoring the displeased looks of the other passengers (though this practice is not at all unheard of).
We called a friend in Ganja who agreed to let us crash on her floor for the night. She was cooking pot-roast (oh the glory of volunteers being able to live on their own!) and we got a couple bottles of wine (which I would later regret).
In the middle of the night I awoke with terrible stomach cramps and spent the rest of the evening and into the morning writhing in agony. Determined to keep going, I told everyone we should leave extra early to make sure we got on the earliest bus. My pleas were ignored with “you only have to get there 20 minutes before the bus leaves, it never fills up”. Not so.
We got there 20 minutes early and sure enough – the only bus to Sheki was completely full. There were, however, buses to Zagatala, which goes through Sheki. Drivers usually don’t have a problem with a couple of people getting off early (it’s about 2 hours from Zagatala). Not today.
We finally convinced a driver to allow us on his bus – though he wasn’t leaving for another hour. 45 minutes passed. He put us in the most uncomfortable seats in the bus, yelling at me when I explained that I couldn’t sit there because of my hip (I pointed at my leg and said “doesn’t move”) but he wasn’t having it. Another bus then came along and he kicked us off saying that the other bus would take us and was leaving in 20 minutes. Not so.
An hour later the new bus started to move. This driver, however, was thrilled to have us along for the ride. We could hear him announcing to all the passengers how this was a special ride because there were American girls on board. It was hilarious.
As anyone who knows me will attest, I have the world’s smallest bladder. Therefore, on the obligatory “rest stop” I convinced my friend to come with me to the “bathroom”. After being assured that the driver wouldn’t leave us behind, we asked where the bathroom was. A man pointed behind some buildings.
When we got there, there was no structure except a dilapidated building. There was another area with bathrooms, but it was fenced off. Maybe we just went the wrong way? After conspicuously circling the entire area like the very confused Americans we were, we were finally told that there was no bathroom, the dilapidated building was it.
We swallowed our pride and our modesty and both hiked up our skirts and squatted down trying to pee as fast as possible before anyone else came by without peeing on ourselves. We were mildly successful. We quickly pulled down our skirts and ran off toward the bus which was surely gone by now. Not so.
Our friend who had been waiting in the bus told us that everyone had been exchanging worried looks and words about the missing American girls who ventured off to go to the bathroom and never came back.
We got back on the bus and our journey commenced. We got to talking to the men in front who were very curious about us. Finally, 3 hours later we arrived in Sheki – or rather, the outskirts of Sheki – as far as the bus would go. Luckily, the man who we were talking to was also getting out and happily shared a cab with us into the city.
Once in Sheki we met up with another friend whose journey was not so interesting and had arrived the night before. We made a great dinner of pizza and visited with the 5 or so volunteers who live there.
The next morning we got up extra early in order to catch a bus to Zagatala, which we did with no problem.
The rest of the journey was less eventful. We spent about 2 or 3 days in Zagatala, visiting a school in a neighboring village for the holiday celebration on the way almost being eaten by a rabid dog.
My friend and I decided to take the nighttrain back so we went a day early to get a ticket but they said they were all sold out and to come back the next day (the day we were to leave) when there would be tickets. Dubious as that sounds, it worked and we were able to get one of the bunks on the train. However, it was in the general compartment, not one of the 4-bed-to-a-room compartments. This means lots of people and lots of noise. Oh well. At least it wasn’t a 7-hour bus ride back to Baku.
That night we boarded the train about 8:30. It was torturously hot and instead of talking to one another, we quickly fell into heat comas at around 9:00 and slept almost the entire time – my face pressed close to the window for whatever air might make it through the cracks (the windows do not open, but are luckily poorly insulated).
We arrived back in Baku around 7:30, bid our adieus and returned to our respective sites. Now perhaps this explains why I say that traveling in Azerbaijan really isn’t all that relaxing. What a “vacation”!

June 2008
It has been awhile, I know. A statement I heard second hand from a volunteer can best describe my absence, “I can’t even write home anymore because I no longer know what’s interesting. That’s kind of interesting”. It really is.
This morning I awoke early in order to do some laundry before the oppressive afternoon heat rears its head. Yesterday was the first very hot day. The kind of day all you can do is sit still and allow the force of your own heat and the heat around you to lull you to sleep until it passes. Expecting every day to be this way from now on, I’ve become proactive. I get up early to boil water, go to the bazaar and do any housework I might have before 11.
Admiring my developed forearms while wringing out my clothes, I began to muse about my life here; specifically, the “foreigner factor”. Gone are the days when my life revolved around the complexities and surprises of my own bowels and physical discomforts. Gone are the days when simply moving around in this strange land excited and bewildered me to the point of exhaustion. I’ve been here just under a year now, and I’m on to bigger, deeper complexities.
Over the past couple months I’ve grown to know some young Azeris in my town. Mostly women, they are strong, inspiring, intelligent and incredibly beautiful (both physically and otherwise). In the time that I’ve been able to hold conversations with them I’ve heard the same phrase over and over, “Jenni, you don’t understand”.
This is the first time I’ve been a foreigner for any substantial length of time. I can be uncommonly naïve about certain things, and my status, what it means to be a foreigner, was/is no exception. I’ve been reading a lot of books this year about foreigners, specifically Americans, in foreign lands. I’ve watched my fellow foreign Americans interact in their communities and carve out their niches. Each experience being unique and molding itself to each specific individual and circumstance. Mine experience is no different.
I’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. “What if X has a bad reputation (“bad reputation” in this context means a female who’s rumored to sleep with married men – though in actuality (I think) was talking on the phone to an old friend whom she just recently discovered was engaged and didn’t tell her), and I hang out with X – will I then have a bad reputation?” “No, Jenni, you are a foreigner, people expect you to be different”. “Can I go to a restaurant here?” “Of course, Jenni, you are a foreigner.” “Can you go with me?” (laughs) “No, of course not”, “What would happen if you just defied your parents? What if you took a job in Baku (the “liberal” capital city)? What if you applied for a program and got in and went even though your father and mother said no?” (forms an amused look and laughs) “Jenni, this is impossible. You don’t understand. This is not America”.
She’s right. I don’t understand. For the first time in my life I am realizing how much I seek harmony and agreement. I am realizing the strength of my desire to “fit in”; to be like those around me. But I cannot be. I am an American. I don’t understand. Despite all of the similarities and shared moments, my mother would never, at 25 years old, insist on walking me two blocks down the street after dark. My father would never refuse to let me travel 2 hours a way to a town I new well (or any town for that matter). And no stranger (or anyone I know) would ever call me out of the blue to tell me that they had “decided” I was “fit” to marry. It is this that I can never empathize with. It is on this subject I have no advice to give. “Do you ever feel alone?” she asks. “Of course. I AM alone here. But I think everyone feels alone at some point…” I go on about the idea of loneliness, the feeling of alienation. “Maybe” she says. “I asked because I feel alone a lot”. I berate myself for not understanding her question. For going on and on like she wanted me to explain something to her, to philosophize, when really she wanted to express to me how SHE felt, she wasn’t really asking how I felt.
I have been affected. Before I left I religiously listened to the song “Across the Universe” covered by Fiona Apple. It’s a beautiful song with the refrain “nothing’s gonna change my world”. When I listen to that song now I get sick to my stomach. What arrogance, what ignorance, I had. How could I travel more than 6000 miles away from home, live in a town where I am the only American in 40,000, do the only natural thing, which is build relationships with those around me and think, for one moment, that “nothing’s gonna change my world”. My world has been changed. I can feel it beneath my eyes.
Back to this “foreigner card” I keep reading about and witnessing. Don’t ask me why, but I never considered not trying to conform to this society. I dress in long skirts and high-necked shirts. I clean my shoes every day. I wear lipstick when I go out. I am quiet on the bus, I don’t walk with headphones in, I don’t make eye contact with men in the street and I don’t smile and say “hi” to people I don’t know. I don’t smoke and I don’t drink in public (outside of Baku). I sit with my legs crossed (never underneath me), I don’t sit on tables and I don’t sit on concrete without something under me. I drink hot tea on hot days, take off my shoes inside and I never walk barefoot outside. I made it, right? I’m integrated. Nope. I will always be “the foreigner”, someone everyone expects to be different. I will always be a curiosity. I will always be “the other”. Don’t ask me why this is news to me.
I am a strong observer. I see how the PCVs operate in their towns. I marvel at the way some are able to keep their American identities so strong and still work within the community. Because of my strong desire for acceptance and approval, I could never do these things. Maybe if I wasn’t the only one here. Maybe if there was someone here before me who paved the way (there were actually 3 volunteers before me, but none made it the 2 years for various reasons).
In the past I’ve been fairly quiet. I try to listen and not speak because maybe I don’t understand. I’m not swift to voice my opinion in areas I haven’t personally experienced and don’t have extensive information about. I will very rarely debate “right” and “wrong” because very few things are “black” and “white” to me. So I listen. I listen and I learn and I observe and I think. But in my time here of listening, learning and observing there are a few things I cannot help but to form a strong opinion about. Is this the time to speak? Or will I be faced with, “Jenni, you don’t understand”?
All of the nuances of living in a strange place still occur. Geese accost me on my way to work, I almost trip over severed cow heads in the market, older women are constantly molesting my clothes to wipe off any speck of dirt that may have accumulated. I fear the bees in the bathroom, wake up to the voices of roosters, go to bed amongst the voices of nightingales. I stumble, fall, and get back up.
But, I ask myself again, “Is this interesting”? I don’t know. I hope so.

April 17
Spring is here. The unfamiliar returns familiar. I am waiting for the heat to suppress me, but I’m picking herbs in my garden for dinner until then. This world has blown my mind and as a result my very cells have changed. I thrive in a world that blows my mind.

I’ve found an oasis in the desert. My own private Idaho. Every day the desert jungle grows greener. I open my purple gate and I am in another world. I am completely here. I haven’t seen an American in weeks. Have I lost it? Lost what?

My life is akin to my transparent, embroidered curtains. I can see outside all right sometimes, but other times they provide a thin barrier allowing me to see only their embroidery. What do I mean? The language barrier is intense, but I have stepped up my studying and since the only English speaking person at work no longer works there, a relevance and immediacy now pervades my ambition. It’s for the best.

My Azeri language tutor now has a small goose living in her bedroom.

I sometimes need an Azeri translator to translate my Azeri.

The mosquitoes are coming, bringing with them malaria pills and mosquito netting. In fact, they’re already here but remain elusive leaving only their little red bite bump calling cards behind. I swear I had no idea I was being ambushed.

Gas becomes stronger in tandem with the decreasing need for it. Strays give birth to strays and strengthen their already sizeable community. Diplomacy and politics are as important as any English I might teach, which seems to be the only thing people think I do or want me to do. Under the shadow of no one, the gaze of everyone.

Yesterday morning I woke up to find I had no water. I still have no water today, and it looks like this might last a couple more days. Though being without water is a relatively recent phenomenon at my new house, I’m a practiced hoarder, so I had some reserves on hand. I cannot tell if this is, in the long run, positive or negative reinforcement of this habit.

Trying to decipher community news is like listening to a faint, snowy recording backward. I laugh, throw up my hands and place my head upon them.

There are things that melt my heart. Making friends and listening to them. Calling for help and receiving it. The great lengths people go to convince you. The things they will tell you in confidence.

While exiting the library yesterday, I found a small boy herding sheep TOWARD the entrance.

I see many smashed, dried frog remains on the road and “sidewalk”, but I haven’t see or heard very many living frogs.

I attended the celebration of “Alphabet Holiday” which I think was like a first grade graduation. They never sang the alphabet, but they did dance and sing many other songs.

Yesterday a bird flew into the library and proceeded to knock itself against the windows until it passed out. I tried to help it by opening windows, but it kept flying into the closed ones. When it fell to the ground in exhaustion a conversation club member picked it up and set it on the windowsill. It was very alive, but obviously beaten up. We then closed all the windows.

And on and on….

March 6
About once a month something inspires me to write and this month is no different. For the past 6 months I have been trying to find my place in my town. I’ve been meeting people, starting clubs, learning about my community and trying to get a hold of the Azeri language.

YD volunteers are community based, which means that we don’t have to work at the same place all the time. I have been spending most of my time at the library, but I have recently been making an effort to branch out.

Yesterday I visited the Music School. I have been talking about going there for months, but I only got around to it yesterday. On a related note, I have been trying to get someone to teach me to play the Tar, a famous Azeri instrument. However, because I get paid so little, I have to obtain lessons for free or next to free, which of course, has been a bit of a challenge.

My Counterpart (CP) and I met with the director of the school, a robust, tall man, in his mid 40’s. We sat down and my CP explained that I was interested in checking out the school. She then surprised me and said I wanted to learn to play the Tar. The director asked why, and I explained that we don’t have the Tar in American music and I want to bring this National Instrument back to my country. I felt like a real idiot. Here I come, I have no musical experience, but teach me for free. At the same time, there was no going back, I couldn’t deny that I wanted to learn, and that IS one of the reasons fueling my desire.

He was pleased with this answer and said I could study there for free with him. The director of the school! He then ordered someone to give him their Tar and gave it to me to see how I felt with it. Afterward we had tea and watched about an hour’s worth of recital tapes.

Before I left he “tested” me by tapping a pencil on his desk – apparently to make sure I wasn’t tone deaf and would be wasting his time. He explained, sternly, that “wanting” to play the Tar was much easier than actually learning to play it. Fair enough. He also made clear that the Tar was a difficult instrument to learn and though I don’t have a Tar now, once I’m serious, I will have to get one. I’ve priced Tars in Baku and they’re about 200 Manat ($240) - much too much for me now, but he assured me that he would talk to the storeowner in Baku to make sure I got the best Tar for the best price.

He said goodbye and told me to come back often. He also gave me the dates for upcoming performances, one of which was the following day. I assured him I would come back for the performance, not only because this is something I have wanted to do since I got here, but now also to prove to him that I am serious about learning the Tar.

The next day I returned to watch the concert. I (as always) was about 15 minutes early and when I asked someone at the school where the concert would be, they said there wouldn’t be one. This happens often and I didn’t believe it, so I continued my search. I found my way to the director’s office and was warmly greeted by the deputy director whom I had met the previous day.

He insisted I sit down and have tea and told me to stay put. I watched the clock reach closer and closer to 2 p.m., when the concert was supposed to begin. In the meantime I had a semi-coherent conversation with a woman who swore she ran into some PCV on the road whose bus had broken down and had helped her out of hysterics. I’ve since contacted all likely volunteers who have no recollection of this event.

Finally 2 p.m. arrived and the same woman I had been talking to earlier lead me down stairs to the auditorium. The door was locked, there was general confusion and she instructed me to sit down. I sat there for about 15 minutes while students, parents and teachers stared and giggled in my direction. I took out my phone appeared occupied.

Finally the door opened and the people piled in. The deputy director sat me front and center as everyone else piled into the back rows. I sat alone there for quite some time, wishing I could sit with everyone else, but not wanting to offend the deputy. Again I worked on perfecting the “sit and pretend you don’t notice you’re on stage” scenario.

Then my director from the library arrived. She had invited me to a concert the previous day, which I had to decline because it overlapped with my conversation clubs. She is new at the library and I have been trying to find ways to relate to her, so I was happy to see her there. I asked her to sit next to me, but she looked at me like I was both crazy and didn’t understand. I knew it was because of where I was sitting, but what could I do?

She sat on the side and I joined her. We talked a bit, mostly I didn’t understand, she was speaking quickly, but I listened and responded as best I could and the conversation consisted mostly of smiles, nods and affirmative statements.

The director of the music school came in, saw me, and smiled broadly. As the concert began another man came and sat on the opposite side of me. It was then that something I still don’t quite understand happened. People noticed my director sitting next to me and angry looks and harsh whispers started going around. In addition to the orchestra playing, there was an orchestra of whispers, dirty looks and shaming happening all around me. Like always, I didn’t know what was going on and I didn’t know how to stop it.

After the first musician left the stage, my director took her cue and left, never to return. My heart sank. Great, I thought. Now my director is REALLY going to hate me. I knew that whatever had just happened had something to do with where she was sitting, or at least that’s what I suspected.

However, the ceremony was terrific. There were two duets with an amazing Tar player who blew my mind. To me, the Tar sounds like beautiful jazz. I found myself lost in reverie, listening to the beat of the drum – unpredictable and incoherent mixed with the quick and violent strumming of the Tar. The Tar player played as if hypnotized, the bottom half of his body steady as the top half shook in violent fits of passion and skill. It was wonderful.

This performance both inspired and scared me. I’ll never know how to play like that! If I could just play a fraction as well, how great that would be! I was lost in his music – music with a mysterious and illusive rhythm – not unlike my day-to-day life here. When he strummed his last string a few of them popped and he smiled and nodded in appreciation to his instrument for holding out so long. It was spectacular. What an ending!

As the musicians returned for their bows, I found myself thinking a thought that I would never have in the U.S.. I thought, “I wonder if they’re going to acknowledge me?” Now, this might sound ridiculous to those at home, but it’s important to understand how important and revered guests are in this country, and how likely it actually was.

I’ve been to weddings where the video camera was stuck on me like I’m the only one in the room; I’ve taken bridal pictures with people; when I walk down the street EVERYONE stops and stares at me. I go into shops and people whisper and giggle to one another; I visit schools and the classes stop to introduce and accommodate me like I’m the most important thing happening. It’s crazy, but strangely, I’ve become used to it and almost expect it. Part of me wonders how I’ll feel when I return to the U.S. and no one pays attention to me…

Afterward, as the musicians assembled for their group photo, the director called me over and introduced me as a welcome guest (I was happy he didn’t ask me to give a speech) and told me to get in the picture. Everyone laughed, and I knew it was ridiculous, but I couldn’t refuse. So, when this year’s music festival picture hangs on the wall, along with all the other photos from every year, I will be there – trying not to smile (Azeri’s don’t generally smile in photos).

As all the musicians received their flowers a woman brought me a huge bouquet. It was beautiful and the first fresh flowers I’ve seen for a while. I knew I wouldn’t keep them, even as much as I love fresh flowers. No, as I walked back to the library, certainly a spectacle now with my huge bouquet, I knew I had to give them away, as a peace offering to my director.

I don’t know if she was angry about being kicked out. I don’t know if she got kicked out because of me. I don’t know if she understood where I got the flowers from, or why, but she received them with a smile and for the first time I felt like she understood my good intentions. All in all, it was a very good day.

February 5
While leaving my tutor’s house today a goose stole and spit all over my boots before laying an egg beside them. Seriously. As I slipped on sandals to recover them, the geese hissed and squawked at me. My tutor didn’t quite understand why I was laughing and thought it was funny as she told me how bad geese were. Take some time to think about this.

There are many things I love about my tutor. She is my third tutor; my first spoke no English and in my opinion, didn’t want to tutor me. I was convinced it was mainly a “language barrier”. My second tutor was my counterpart, who speaks English well, but didn’t really have the time to tutor me for long. I then found my most recent tutor, which has changed my attitude about learning Azerbaijani.

We begin our sessions in her house with tea, jam and candy. She has a room in a larger house. We began by using a first grader’s book. At first I didn’t understand anything, but now I have to refer to the dictionary less and less. We have since moved on to women’s magazines, which are a little more compelling (though I have learned quite a bit about Azeri history through the children’s book). Now we switch back and forth.

The language barrier has been a real bummer. As the all-knowing PCV handbook states, at around month 7 one of the struggles will be a language plateau. This helpful little manual always seems to know what I felt, am feeling and will feel at designated times. What’s even crazier is that my mom has the book too, and when I call home, freaked out, she says, “oh yes, the manual says that what you feel is normal”. I’ve discussed this phenomenon with other volunteers who find it both as comforting and infuriating as I do.

My tutor is always encouraging, praising my speech and telling me how much she likes me. It’s fantastic and what’s more, it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t speak English or that she speaks quickly. I catch on and she makes me want to keep going. She’s patient, kind and funny and I’m making it a point to see her more often.

Over dinner in Baku last weekend a mix of AZ4’s and 5’s (AZ is country and the numbers are for years the program has been in country–I am a 5) were talking about our experiences since the last time we saw one another. An AZ5’s exclaimed, “Can you believe we’ve been here over 7 months! That’s a long time!” Other 5’s shared in her joy until the AZ4 across the table said, “Yeah, that’s how much time I have left!” Our smiles soured as we realized 7 months meant the end was in sight for him. We were again reminded of just how long 27 months is. It’s a long time.

I’ve made it 7 months. My group of 55 is now 48 (1/3 of PCV’s don’t make it till the end). 7 months brings a mix of feelings. I am getting used to my surroundings and for the most part, the novelty has worn off. I have a reading and writing club, I joined the Women in Development and Writing Olympics committees and am trying to follow my ever-elusive sanity. Happiness and peace does not necessarily come to me, I have to go in search of it every day and follow it as its parameters constantly change. Everything I do is trial and error, and it’s mostly error. I’m always stumbling (whether literally or figuratively) and trying to motivate myself to keep going.

There are so many things I could say about this experience, but one thing is certain, I’m learning a lot. For instance, bread can double as a napkin, clean boots = smiling faces, dirty boots = frowning faces, pickled garlic can be eaten whole and things won’t fall apart if you make a mistake (or several) so long as your intentions are good.

January 6
Today I had a “Peace Corps moment”. As my surroundings become familiar the wonder of the moment wears off. As I settle into my little town, my eyes focus more on where I’m going and less on what’s around me. Things I never imagined doing before have become common and cease to be inherently interesting. Except for every now and then.

Living with a family is difficult for many reasons. However, the language barrier has to be one of the toughest obstacles (for me) to overcome. I’ve been living with my family for 4 months and have just in the past two months begun to regularly play checkers with my brother (which I win a lot more now – see previous blog). The rest of the time I am either sitting silently or in my room.

This perpetuates a vicious cycle. It begins with silence. I was silent because I was observing and adjusting. My family was at first talkative, but as my novelty wore off and my silence persisted, they gave up and began ignoring me. To my credit, I am mostly quiet in large social situations in the U.S. as well – my family consisting of 7 people makes every day a large social situation for me.

As I began to feel more comfortable in my surroundings and thus more willing to try to communicate, I was being ignored and haven’t gotten past this barrier and thus the cycle continues. In addition, there is the T.V.. I don’t enjoy watching T.V. in the U.S. when I can understand what’s going on and though at first watching Spanish and Azeri Soap Operas dubbed in Russian used to be novel, now it is mainly boring. The Azeri’s I’ve met, including my family, watch a lot of T.V. and talking during the shows is frowned upon.

Thus it came as a surprise today when my family invited me to go “guesting”. This was a very big deal because usually they don’t take me anywhere, and because they perceive me as being overly shy, they don’t try to draw me out of my room when they have guests at the house (not that they should).

As I’ve written before, guesting can be a long process lasting hours and hours while food is shoved in the PCV’s face “Ye, Ye!” “Eat, eat!”. Azeri’s take pride in their strong familial relations and spend hours upon hours visiting one another, which can be foreign and uncomfortable for the American PCV. In addition, there is the added stress of not knowing half of what is going on.

I took a deep breath. Despite my fatigue and discomfort (I had been laying in bed all morning because the electricity was out and my room was freezing), I knew I could not decline this very important invitation. In addition, last month I promised my family I would take pictures of them and give them a picture disk. I knew this was my opportunity.

I began my preparation. One cannot go into a guesting situation unprepared. I’ve done this and it ends in disaster. I knew I was going to a village, where heat might be scarce, so I put on 3 pairs of pants – 3 pair of socks (2 wool) and 4 shirts. I tied a scarf around my waist and around my neck. I put a small book on Taoism in my purse, grabbed my phone and camera and took two shots of vodka.

We began our trek. We walked past familiar places and then took a turn I’ve never taken before. The narrow, winding road ended at the Kur – the longest river in AZ and which flows through my town. I’ve seen the Kur coming across the bridge into my town, but never from this angle. From the bridge it always looks slow and muddy. From this angle, it actually looked quite nice. I had no idea it was so close.

I thought we were going into one of the houses nearby, so I was surprised when I was lead into the riverboat. I don’t know why I thought this, but I thought they were just showing me the boat. I don’t know why they would do that, but that’s what I thought. “How nice”, I thought, “they want me to see the boat”. I thought maybe someone owned the boat. Then I had an increasingly rare “American Thought” moment (like last night when I heard a engine sound and I thought it was snowplow – or sometimes in the morning when I consider going out for breakfast – both situations which are ridiculous here) – So in my “American Thought” moment I thought we were going to have the party on the boat – which is ridiculous because first of all – it was 32 degrees outside and second of all – well, you can see the picture of the boat.

So I sat down, all starry eyed. People noticed and laughed. I took this opportunity to indulge in my otherness and asked to snap some pictures. Everyone thought that was hilarious, and agreed.

We sat in the boat for about 10 minutes or less and then everyone started to get out. “Okay”, I thought, “shows over”. I was surprised, then, to find myself on the opposite side of the river. I didn’t even feel the boat move! This was my “Peace Corps Moment”. When you’re lead along to and through some strange space nodding and smiling all the way and find yourself in an even stranger place still nodding and smiling. Life suddenly feels more alive and makes all the other stuff kind of worth it.

When we got out of the boat we walked along an incredibly muddy road. I took this opportunity to look around me. To smell and listen around me, experiencing my town and village. Villages look much more like the Peace Corps I’d envisioned when I joined and I always enjoy visiting them.

When we arrived at the house about 40 people were gathered. The rest of the afternoon was fine and without incident. We didn’t stay too long and I took lots of pictures of my family of which I later made a picture CD as a gift. They thought it was great.

I’ve been with my family for 4 months and this was the first really good day. It was an effort made a little by me and a little by them. Everyone warmly welcomed me and no one made me eat too much.

My experience of guesting has changed because I now know what to expect, which makes a huge difference. I know how to pace myself each hour and for each course. As I watch Azeri’s, I see even my grandmother is chided when she doesn’t eat “enough”. But for the most part, I now know this is mostly for show. I now allow them to put the massive amount of food on my plate, laughing all the way saying “besdi, besdi” “enough, enough” and then I eat what I can. No one will hate me if I don’t eat every last bit – this was an important lesson for me. The world will not end if I say, “no”. After a while they won’t take my small appetite personally.

In fact, as long as I’m making a visible effort, observing all of the big cultural norms and some of the small ones, my community will embrace me. Smiling and being nice and friendly counts for a LOT. It’s not enough to wear long skirts, go to work on time, and just be here. You’ve got to pick your battles, find out what you can tolerate and what you cannot. And you absolutely CANNOT take yourself or your situation too seriously. As my friend Joe says, bend, don’t break.

January 3
It’s been over a month since my last entry and my only explanation is that I’ve lacked inspiration, which to me is a good reason not to write. The holidays are over now – and good riddance. I was surprised at how much the holiday season – or lack thereof, affected me.

It’s true that this was the first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years that I’ve been away from home, but I was taken aback by my longing for familiarity. All month I’ve found myself feeling very alien in this foreign land and what’s more, unable to communicate those feelings articulately.

Christmas was a travel day for all AZ 5’s as the following two days were spent at our first In Service Training (IST), which is meant to bring everyone together after being at site for 3 months to discuss where we go from here.

We met up in Baku throughout the day and into the evening. It’s difficult to explain what it’s like to be in a room of Americans on Christmas, so far away from home, after a day of traveling (and traveling here, which always inspires some good stories) in a country that doesn’t celebrate Christmas.

Throughout the night PCV’s sporadically disappeared and could be found in their rooms or staring out windows at either end of the hall talking to family and friends from home. Luckily, I was able to be one of these people, as the clock struck 7 and then 9, an acceptable time for a conversation back home.

PCV’s returned one by one to the lounge area in the center of the halls looking dazed and weary. They jumped back into conversation with whoever was around trying to bounce back to “reality”. As I stared out the huge window overlooking the twinkling lights (they do celebrate New Year’s here) and the Caspian Sea, all I could think was, “how strange”.

When IST was over I traveled to Qusar to visit a fellow PCV. Qusar is near the Caucus mountains and about 35 kilometers from Russia; thus quite far from me. It was beautiful there in the village and before I left I saw my first snow.

Today I woke up to the first snow in the South. Though it was very pretty, it made me wonder how much longer my reliable electricity would remain. When I returned home from my Azeri language tutoring session in the afternoon, the electricity was out. Fortunately, it was back on within a couple hours.

Doing laundry has become more interesting. What I mean is, I no longer really do laundry. My hamam (bath) is still hot in the mornings (which means I am one of the few very lucky ones who still gets to shower on a regular basis) but drying the clothes has become very tricky. I now have something more to be thankful for in addition to the internet and ipods. Febreeze. Ah, yes, it’s true, I febreeze my clothes until they smell alright again. I bring my underclothes into the shower with me to wash, but they still take forever to dry by my heater. For me, it’s worth it to wash my underclothes, but not worth it to wash my jeans, bath towel and bedding.

It’s been a good month, all in all. My conversation clubs have been successful and will morph into reading and writing clubs in January. I’ve recently received some amazing resources from a friend back home and I look forward to incorporating them into my lessons.

I’m going to try to reach out to some of the people who, though they do not fit the “15-24” age limitations of my program, are nevertheless very interested in being a part of what I’m doing. I am also running a workshop at the end of January teaching English speakers how to fill out applications for programs in the U.S.. Writing essays seems to be a bit of a challenge here. I’m also applying for some committees and planning to work jointly with some PCV’s both for my own sanity and to bring more interesting programs to my town.

However, as is the plight of volunteers in many places, I am only just beginning to make meaningful relationships which give me insight into “what the community thinks”. So far this has included the idea that the women who come to the club are only coming because they have nothing better to do (and this is bad because the woman’s place is in the home) and thus wasting time. This could explain why some librarians refuse to keep quiet during my clubs (everyone now gathers in the small computer room because it is the only room with heat). Others think I’m a spy. Great. The only thing cool about being considered a spy in a community where you’re supposed to do development is if I can add “international spy” to my resume, which I’m pretty sure, I cannot.

Hopefully this spy thing won’t become too serious. There was another PCV in the North who was booted from his home because they thought he was a spy. Vy, vy, vy (akin to Oy, oy, oy or jeez).

As I began my 7-hour trek home from Qusar, I thought about how far I’d come in the past 6 months. Here I am living 6000 miles away from home – dirtier clothes than I’ve ever worn before (and not getting cleaner any time soon) outdoor, squat toilets, host-family drama, loneliness, crazy marshrutka (bus) rides, greeting the morning with breath I can see and numerous other things that have now ceased to be novel and have become “normal”, and yet I am doing the most satisfying work I’ve ever done. I am one of the lucky ones in that regard. My community seems to really want me and I have been able to start programs that are wildly entertaining (at least to me) as well as educational. All that my town lacks is made up for in the people I’ve met and the things I want to do here in the future.

I didn’t join the Peace Corps with a great deal of idealism – I’ve spent too much time in the service sector to entertain ideas such as “changing the world” or “bringing world peace” but that doesn’t mean that change and peace aren’t possible in small doses.

So my New Year’s resolution isn’t to lose weight or eat healthy or exercise or any such thing. My resolution is for peace. Whatever that may mean, wherever I am, whomever I’m with, in whatever small or limited amount it comes. I don’t know if I’ll achieve it, but I’m going to try.

Nov. 21
November is almost over and fall is alluding to winter. This is the right time to live in the south. It has been cooler during the days and cold at night, but nowhere near the weather in Michigan or even Northern Azerbaijan. Good thing too, I hate the cold and without central indoor heating, you are constantly aware of how cold it is.

I have taken to layering, holding warm bottles of water and hiding under my many blankets at night. I am thankful for all that I have here, the little it may be compared to the U.S.. However I am finding, which I suspected I would, that having less does not necessarily mean being less happy. I suppose I miss daily, hot showers (gas is becoming sparse here, haven’t showered in a few days) and baths (especially baths) and being able to walk around without a million layers inside – but I would not say that I am less happy because of it.

Last weekend the PCV’s were invited to Baku to celebrate Thanksgiving with the Peace Corps staff and Embassy workers. I stayed with a young woman in her wonderful apartment, complete with microwave, washer and dryer and a tub. I stayed two nights. I took a bath. A long, hot bath and it was wonderful (though I couldn’t shake the nagging uneasiness that I was using A LOT of water – also something I suspected).

The volunteers prepared meals and we enjoyed a kind of potluck with turkeys provided by the staff. At the end was a talent show and following the shindig we ventured into the streets of Baku. It was a good night, and afterward I felt refreshed; partly because of the relaxation, but also because I felt that I hadn’t been out of the U.S. for that long.

I found using a microwave and washer and dryer weren’t all that exciting. The U.S. women’s magazines and satellite T.V. failed to enchant me. Instead of making me homesick for the U.S. they made me glad I’m here, and reassured me that all those things will be waiting for me when I return (they will, right?).

But before I return I have work to do, and the work is becoming exciting. My three conversation clubs will, in January, morph into one conversation club and two new themed clubs. What the themes will be, I don’t know yet, but a reading club, writing club, and typing club are possible candidates.

Now I am doing several “assessments” of what the “youth” here have, need and want. Listening to their answers is motivating. They overwhelmingly tell me that it’s boring here and that there are not enough places for girls to hang out. The people in my conversation clubs are bright and dedicated and thus are enthusiastic about the new clubs.

On my way to work today I was thinking about the act of listening. So often I’ve skidded through life without really listening. It’s easy to do when you live within your culture, when you’re busy with routine. But here I have to consciously listen every moment of every day and I have to think about what I hear. Not just to the words my community uses, which I am only beginning to understand, but to body language, habits, routines and desires. I listen to their environment, culture and customs. Sometimes I don’t like what I hear, it’s difficult to be a woman here and I knew that coming in, but am only beginning to understand the consequences as a woman living here.

I think about my own country’s history and how fortunate I am that the battles for the right to leave the house for recreation, drive a car and wear pants have already been fought for me. And though we still have battles to fight, we’ve come a long, long way.

I came here a bit directionless and though I would never entertain delusions so grand as changing the ideas or customs of an entire culture, I am nevertheless wholly enjoying listening and observing, asking and answering questions. My students are inquisitive. They want to know what teachers wear and if girls go to pool halls and bowl. They take pride in telling me about, and occasionally preparing, their “national meals” and they want to know about mine. We trade music and talk about the similarities and differences in instruments, what we like and what we don’t like.

I feel I have one of the most interesting jobs in the world. And every day I get the opportunity to fall and get back up, to hit a wall and try another route, to listen more attentively, be more present, and ask more questions. And in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m feeling very thankful.

The Funeral:
I was invited to attend the funeral of the husband of my counterpart’s friend earlier this week.

When someone dies Azeri men erect a mourning tent (for men only) outside the home. The tent covers the width of the street and the inside is obstructed from view by carpets and/or tarps. Being a woman, I have never been or seen the inside of one of these tents, though I sometimes hear the talk or chants of the men inside.

Unlike in the states, you can wear any color to a funeral except for red (or as my counterpart said, you can wear red, but people will talk about you). There is no body to view (at least I didn’t see one) and the ceremony is always held in the relative’s home. After the initial period of mourning, they return to mourn 40 days and then a year after the death. I have not yet experienced these later ceremonies.

Sensitive now to the fact that events such as “guesting” and weddings can take upwards of 5 hours or more, and it being evening, I was careful to tell my counterpart that I would like to be home at 9 p.m., my new bedtime. She laughed and said, “No, we will only be 10 minutes”.

She explained that the “Molla”, the leader of the ceremony speaks at intervals and at the end of the interval she says, “Fatihə” and you are able to leave. If you don’t leave at this time, you must stay until the next interval. She said we would only be staying for one interval.

She went on to explain that most funeral festivities occur in the morning, when all of the crying is done. This is because it is “unlucky” to cry in the evening. Therefore, by the time we arrived most people were dried out and returning home.

I was lead into the house and up the stairs into a small, warm room where about 15 women, mostly middle-aged and older, heads covered, sat legs out (legs and feet covered with sheets, you cannot show your feet) or legs and feet tucked under them on the floor. I took my seat near my counterpart and near the door (the room was full). Sevda quietly whispered to me who the “” was and almost immediately the chanting began. I don’t know what they were saying, but it sounded beautiful. The women began slowly to tap their right legs with their hands and chant along.

After feeling down for the past week, this experience, ironically a funeral, helped to lift my spirits and gave me perspective into my experience in the Peace Corps. As I sat there becoming exceedingly entranced by the chanting, warmth and persistent rising pain in my legs and knees (it’s difficult for me to sit on the floor because of my hip), I realized how unique an experience being in the Peace Corps really is.

True to her word, about 10 minutes later Sevda and I rose, said our goodbyes and walked back to my house.

Many people travel to and through exotic places. They see the sites you must see, they bargain with the locals and at the end of a week or two they return feeling like they’ve “been there”. I never before realized how untrue it is.

This was highlighted a few weeks ago while staying at a hostel in Baku. We met some English travelers who were passing through as the end of an Eastern European holiday. They were surprised that Peace Corps was in Azerbaijan because Baku, though not as impressive a place as Paris or London, is developing very quickly and is pretty comfortable.

As we departed a fellow PCV said to me, “Can you imagine coming to Azerbaijan and only seeing Baku; returning thinking that Baku reflected the country?” Because the truth is Baku, though very much Azeri, does not accurately reflect the state of this nation. You have to go to the regions, meet the local people, not the ex-pats or oil tycoons, to really get an idea about the people and the land. Even two years is not enough.

And we are only just beginning to get a taste of this. I can’t imagine another circumstance in which an individual who is not a doctor, anthropologist or of a similar profession could get to know a country in the same way as in the Peace Corps. And even then, foreigners very rarely live at the “local level” or stay months with host families, perhaps because both are really hard and require the person to be at least a little bit crazy.

I remember a professor in my introductory anthropology course in college saying, “If you want to know about a culture, get yourself invited to a wedding, funeral or birthday party, that’s where the culture is.” And though I would have never imagined it at the time, here I am, almost a decade later, more than 6000 miles away from my home, sitting on the living room floor of a house in mourning, but not as an anthropologist, as a Peace Corps volunteer.

Oct. 13

When I’m wrong, I’m wrong and I admit it. Ladies and Gentlemen, there are two ways (at least) to play checkers. I live my life through metaphors; some I have to look for, some look me right in the eye. This is an illustration of the second.

This afternoon my sitemate and I discussed our various experiences with what is known as “culture shock”. We’re both experiencing it to varying degrees (read previous blogs) but we can both see it’s clearly happening.

The interesting thing about culture shock is that it’s completely inevitable. No matter how much you think you know. How controlled or enlightened you think you are, misunderstandings and frustrations are bound to occur. And even as you know this and prepare for it, it cannot be prevented. It takes hold of you in the strangest of moments. Caught completely unawares, you fall into a kind of discontented alarm. It’s fight or flight. You versus them; a battle of wills ensues, which you will ultimately lose.

I’ve been staying away from this game of checkers (see previous blog), but tonight after my got my eyebrows plucked (with string – it’s really strange but amazingly, it works) by my aunt (after curiously watching my grandmother get hers plucked –they look great, by the way). My brother brought out the old game of checkers.

We’ve been on somewhat sour terms since that last debacle but I was feeling relaxed and not at all expectant, so I figured, “why not”. I knew I would lose, I knew he would make the same moves as before. I was resigned to defeat.

And then as we were playing I noticed a method to his moves. They weren’t wayward as I once assumed. I began to make the same moves. As the pieces disappeared from the board, I realized I wasn’t playing the same game of checkers. I was playing a new game, with new rules, and this one just as interesting. I lost 5 times out of 6 (the 5th time I won by 8!).

Afterward I had a new respect not only for him (he’s incredibly smart and doesn’t try to cheat, accepting both victory and defeat without creating a scene) but also for PC life itself. Perhaps I’m reaching, but I feel like I understand some basic truth which previously eluded me. Tonight I realized, not just intellectually, but with my entire being, that there is, in fact, more than one way to play checkers.

PS - as many of you have noticed, I now approve all comments before they can be posted on the blog. This is just in case I get some wayward comment from someone I don't know. Anyway, this also means that you can leave me personal posts which I can read, but can elect to keep private. Sometimes I'm not sure if people want everyone to see their comments or not, so please just write "don't post" or something like that so I know if you would rather not everyone see it.

Thanks!

October 2-11
I’ve been a month at site and what do I have to show for it? Quite a lot, I think. I’ve met many people over the past month and I now have two conversation clubs in full swing. Each club meets twice a week for one hour. I also decided to create a third club for “everyone else” which will meet once a week. This means that 5 days a week I have conversation clubs. The third club solves my previous problem of having to say no to so many. However, people still insist they should be in the other clubs (which are for people who already know English and theoretically should be 15-24 year olds, though somehow older ones snuck in). I don’t have a plan for the third club yet, I don’t plan the way I used to, but I’m not too worried about it.

I’m now spending time in two centers and am going to try to add a third in the near future. The more exposure the better. Right now is all about making myself seen. This is not really a problem as I am pretty conspicuous (though my father told me the other day I looked Russian). Interesting.

I’m still waiting to feel the “Azeri timeframe” Supposedly Azeri’s move slower and spend most of their time taking it easy. Like many things I’ve “heard” I am waiting to see it. My counterpart works longer and harder than anyone I’ve met. And I’m always running from one place to another. Though I don’t have a typical “job” I’m always busy.

I’ve barely had a chance to study my Azeri and I’ve had some complications with my tutor. She’s an Azerbaijani language teacher who speaks no English. It makes clarification nearly impossible. After the first lesson I went home and looked up all the words and realized that she was teaching me about first person, second person, etc. I actually know all of these things, so I was pretty disappointed. The same thing happened again with tenses. I showed my counterpart the lessons she was giving me and she said that the stuff she was teaching me was hard for Azeri’s to understand. At least then I didn’t feel so stupid (did I mention that she laughs at me when I don’t understand something???) It’s pretty horrifying, but hopefully soon it will be fixed.

There have been some interesting political issues with the town as well. As no foreigners, especially American’s, live here the powers that be don’t quite know what to do with us. I met the police chief and he was like, “what am I supposed to do?” so he gave me his phone number and then had to call someone to see what I needed to do next. The same thing happened with the town executive body (excom). He called a meeting with my sitemate and I to tell us that his door was open and how much he loved America and the work we were doing, etc. etc. Good news for me, I suppose.

This morning my counterpart told me that the excom came to the library to say that perhaps I didn’t like the toilet (I’ve never actually seen this toilet, I didn’t know the library had one – I’ve been using the one next door – which is pretty bad. My counterpart said that ours was too bad to show me - yikes!) He is now issuing a repair. My counterpart shook my hand and thanked me for coming to her center. Now to me, this is truly outrageous and illustrates…I don’t even know what it illustrates. I don’t know whether to be elated or outraged. Later that day she said he issued repairs for all of the local libraries (I don’t think this had anything to do with me). My status here is so confusing…

The good news is that perhaps in the future I won’t have to deal with (this particular) humiliation every day; using someone else’s bathroom listening to their laughter because it serves me right to drink so much water (and I don’t drink nearly enough water).
And of course everyone else will have the opportunity to appreciate this as well.

Well, they do say that they want the Peace Corps Volunteers to leave behind something sustainable…

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.

September 17-24
Week one is over and I’m feeling enthusiastic.

This week began with my first meeting of the first program I will create for those interested in the English Conversation Club. 52 people showed up ages 10-40! The way word was getting out I thought this might happen, but as the room grew more and more snug and people filtered in, I thought to myself, “how am I going to say no to so many people?” I can take up to 20 and they must already have a basic understanding of English (it is a conversation club, I am not a teacher). It’s something that every PCV faces and there’s not much to say about it except that it sucks. Especially when one after another comes to you to say, "It is my childhood dream to learn English." Ugh!!

However, I am thankful to Sevda, my counterpart who was extremely helpful in spreading the word. Obviously it was effective. She also helped to translate my English text schedule and plan into Azeri. When I greeted the group I spoke four whole paragraphs in Azeri!

Most foreigners here (and many people who live here) speak Russian and people are always asking (and assuming) that I speak Russian. When I say, “no, I speak English and a little Azeri”, they are always surprised and even delighted. It symbolizes my desire to be here and to learn the local culture. So many foreigners are here to profit from Azerbaijan (as many of you know, this is a oil rich country) with no regard to the culture or people. Learning the language is a small way to show that I am not here for that (living at the local level and offering free services is another).

And speaking of living at the local level…this is tremendously important and much easier to do if you are not around Americans (as I am not). My site mate is 25 minutes by bus and the bus stops running at 3p.m., so we haven’t seen one another more than once a week, therefore it’s like living without a site mate.

The other day I thought about buying more clothes (yes, I’m still thinking such things – it’s really hard to change!) and then I thought to myself, “everyone here wears the same outfit or same 3 outfits every day. They only have 3 or 4 hangers in their closets because they don’t need any more than that. If I wear a different outfit every day, what does that say?” And this is when living at the local level comes into play, because I know everyone is watching everything I do and everything I represent. I am not the first American they have met, but they could probably count them on one hand and I am the only one living here.

I think the fact that PC gives us so little money is an easy way to make this transition. Then you realize that 5 manat for a taxi is really expensive, and you balk and shudder along with the locals about the ridiculous 30% inflation rate. Because with development everything is getting more expensive, but most people aren’t getting any wealthier.

I spent this last weekend in Baku with about 35 other PCV’s both from our group and AZ4. I live only 2 hours from Baku, and there are always busses going there, so it makes the trip relatively painless.

I saw a bunch of people, shared stories and ideas and lived like I was in America. I went to restaurants and ordered in English, I browsed the racks at air conditioned clothing stores and I even hugged my male friends in public! It was very disturbing. Though I enjoy going to Baku on some level, it really messes with my mind. I stayed at a hostel with some other PCV’s, went out to eat at a Thai restaurant, bought some DVD’s for 3 manat a piece and raided the PC lounge.

The PC lounge is a sacred place. It is as close to America as you will get.
Side note: notice how I now refer to America instead of the U.S.. This is a nasty habit I have gotten into because everybody here refers to it as such. When you say the U.S., people just become confused and it takes longer to explain (they know where and what the U.S. is, it’s just not the common term), thus, for all of you who are annoyed by this (and I would be one of you if I were you) get over it, I’m trying to integrate.
Sunday afternoon I found myself sitting around watching, “Stranger than Fiction” in an room so air conditioned it was cold while eating a slice of Hawaiian pizza that had just been delivered! Real pizza. As more and more people filtered in I thought to myself, “I have to get out of here!” and a little while later (after the movie and after my pizza and hot cocoa) I left with my site mate, this time finding the right buses, and traveled back to my site where things made sense again.