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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February 20th

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

It went well. The above pictures were taken there.

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

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

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

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

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

It was rainy and cold.

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

Not so.

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

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

I didn’t think it was so bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the beat goes on…

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.