Peace Corps Turkmenistan

Visa Denial

2008-04-07T21:25:00.000-07:00

I am considering renaming the blog 'how Not to get into Turkmenistan'.

I applied for a visa this past month to visit my old friends and family . . . and was rejected. My boyfriend, with no ties to the country, was accepted.

Of course, with all that went on during my two years there--signing the anti-government petition, assaulting a soldier, being denounced to the KGB by my local boss--I suppose I should have known it was coming.

It's only sad to think I might never be let back in again.

AUCA

2007-09-23T03:49:00.000-07:00

I just heard from Rowshen, who got a scholarship to study in Bishkek. Not at the American University yet, but he'll have one year of high school level study and then a year guaranteed at the AUCA.

Balkanabat is represented well this year. Eziz, one of our Turkmen-Turkish school kids (private school that Akbar went to) is there on scholarship as well as Lida. Lida and Eziz were both on one-year scholarships last year and won three more years free based on their performance. All three of them are Balkanabat's pride and joy.

I can't begin to describe how much I support the American University there. Students dream of getting an education abroad but the financial/logistical realities of studying in America or Britain are unsurmountable for most. And the fact that I know these three kids and they all deserve something more than their surroundings. The university is something sustainable. If you're looking for something to donate to, there's your fix.

Rowshen:
there are many things to do here, however i don't have any free time to
do anything because we are given tons of homework everyday both at
college and AUCA. we stay up late and get up so early. we leave house at
7 am for college. classes start at 7:30. it is really something new for
our team.we are all doing our best!

Opportunity Knocks

2007-04-18T03:12:00.000-07:00

Rita is coming to America! She won a slot in the TEA program through IREX that sends teachers to the states for a summer program. We're not sure where she'll be yet, but if any teacher deserves it, it's Rita! Hopefully we can rally a bunch of old volunteers together and make her feel at home. She cooked for us every week in tstan--because she promised Allah that if her daughter made it to America to studey on the FLEX exchange program that she would have the volunteers over for Sunday lunch as long as they were in Balkanabat. Hopefully we can show her some of the same hospitality in the states! Congrats Rita!

Igor

2007-04-18T03:07:00.000-07:00

I was eating spaghetti when the phone rang and asked for Miss Kari. Who the heck in Moscow knows me as Miss Kari? Turns out Altyn somebody from Tstan passing along a hello from Igor my favorite violin student! Whoever Altyn is, she says Igor won the city-wide olympiad in math and is getting an A in violin. I passed along the best of the best back and only after I hung up did I realize I should have gotten Altyn's phone number so I could send them back a gift! Blin.

They told us during our orientation that messages will come from the most random people in the most random places. People have learned to deal with the lack of available communication methods. Evolution? Or just avoidance of all government services. Better send Altyn with a message as opposed to trusting the post or the phone. . .

Aziza's in town!

2007-04-02T04:17:00.000-07:00

There was plov. I was in heaven. My sister came to visit for a couple of days before moving to Vladikavkaz to finish her senior year of high school and get a 'real' diploma. As usual there was a lot of gossiping and reporting on what's happening with all of our mutual friends. It doesn't seem like much, but there are so many people I can't keep in contact with there. The news wasn't bad this time--everyone is in the same place. No good news either, though. They love hearing the updates of all the volunteers who they knew for two years and then all ran off to the far corners of the earth. All of our plans are such surprises to them. We seemed so stable to them when we were there. Never moving, not going anywhere and suddenly we're all going to school and working and travelling and earning!

Of course, there was carpet talk too. But that's a given in really any guesting situation I'm involved in. They always love the joke about how I'll make a great Turkmen bride with my giant carpet collection as a dowry. Though they mostly laugh because they and I think it's funny to imagine me ever marrying a Turkmen. . . or any of them doing the same either :)

And in fine tstan tradition I showed them all the pictures I'd taken in the past six months. I gave myself a headache but they seemed to enjoy it.

I have to say, though, I missed plov. We make it sometimes but it's never as good as the real thing. And eating plov always brings up the never ending questions about what I eat and how do I survive since I can't cook to save my life. They don't look convinced when I say I eat salads. Hot dogs doesn't go over well either since for them that's a breakfast food. We finally agree that I go to restaurants and starve the rest of the time. I'll take a hit on that topic. But I should have brought up how I ironed a shirt last week! That would raise my status.

I gifted them an In Style magazine that Courtnee brought me from America. They gifted me a t-shirt that says California on it in honor of Aziza hopefully moving there someday and a set of sheets that I desperately needed. And of course pajama pants made in Turkmenistan. Feel the love.

Reunion

2006-11-30T01:56:00.000-08:00

A whole day of gossip, gossip, and more gossip. It was a joyous reunion in Moscow.

Exit Visas

2006-11-27T02:28:00.000-08:00

Exit visas were reintroduced. One has to apply through the government for permission to leave. Those on the top of the list are criminals (in the eyes of the government), drug user/dealers, except of course the higher officials involved in the drug trade. They will also stop anyone with questionable dedication to the regime. This has been developing for a long time. People pass through passport control without problem but are taken off the actual plan after everyone is seated. I guess it’s easier to find them when they’re in their seats--if Turkmen ever sat in their assigned seats in the first place. . .
It was said that this decision helps cut down on the 50% of those who fly out of Turkmenistan and don’t return. Those who fly to Eastern Europe and Turkey specifically. I just hope the UN steps in on this one.

Postlude

2006-10-26T03:50:00.000-07:00

Enough time has passed since I left country in order to officially 'look back.' At the time, I thought I'd be an activist, a protestant, a something, just as soon as I left the country. I've dissapointed myself. I skim my weekly news briefs and I haven't held up a single sign protesting anything. Is this what happens to us all? We get connected to people, we live with them, help them, and care about them. Then distance gets in the way and we're lost. Now is the time when I can write about the current happenings without fear. I can read articles about Ogulsapar Muradova being killed, and Turkmenbashi's health being questioned. The freedoms, I suppose, are just easy to take advantage of. It seems so natural to have use of uncensored internet for instance. And feel like even if the government was listening in on my telephone conversations, they can do little about my insults. How does one prick themselves back to a second reality?

I'm Home

2006-08-14T07:14:00.000-07:00

Freedom tastes like granola, yogurt and raspberries. I'll be in America for two weeks then off to Moscow. I now have the freedom to post and re-post all sensitive materials--or at least most of it. I'll get to work on that as soon as I finish my coffee. Yum, coffee.

The end

2006-07-28T16:24:00.000-07:00

The last look at my perfect little apartment. I had to say goodbye to all the trinkets that made my life so full. I left behind the basket next to the toilet that housed used toilet paper. I won't forget the front door that held itself shut only with the lock locked. Memories to cherish forever!

A Few Weeks and Counting

2006-07-20T20:53:00.000-07:00

Saying goodbye is huge here. If I miss even one person I have made eye-contact with in the past two years, I've got big problems. Rumors start to spread. Case in point: My host mother has told me the story--I don't know--49 times of her former volunteer Nathan. Yes, Nathan supposedly left without saying goodbye AND took the key with him. He didn't say goodbye to the kids and just ran off without a moment's thought or thanks for the family that had housed him.

In all acutality he probably did tell them--or they should have noticed him pack all his things and move them out of the house. At any rate, he is the devil. I don't want to be the devil, so my last few weeks will be spent saying goodbye over and over . . . and over again. Starting with a goodbye party I'm throwing for myself on July 23! You're all welcome!

Ice Palace

2006-07-09T20:40:00.000-07:00

Yes, we did. We budged. The clump of hot and sweaty kids holding their hot and sweaty passports frightened us and we budged. Our "blue passports with problems" as the Turkmen report, saved us. "What do you mean. . . we have to push?? But we are guests. How will we push through that line?" I really do feel for the poor kids who sat ourside for hours waiting just to get to buy a ticket. . . but gosh was it hot outside! Maybe our karma will catch up with us, but it was worth it for an afternoon of ice skating in the desert on the 4th of July!

Thailand Observation #1

2006-07-03T20:54:00.000-07:00

You should come to Thailand. It's the best place on earth.

Our Young Graduate

2006-06-23T21:27:00.000-07:00

The ceremony was not a treat, though I did get to replace my usual teacher-like behavior with something more enjoyable. While they recited Ruhnama quotes and acted out scenes from the book, the auditorium was a buzz of talking, pictures, people getting up and walking around, and the occasional confused lady walking around looking for her son. I would usually be shushing, shunning, accusing, and disciplining everyone who made a peep (my job is 24/7 here, make no mistake), I sat in silence. I occasionally myself talked a bit to my neighbor and even walked over to chat with our own graduate. I could contain my inertia to discipline by considering the apathy towards these 'readings', by considering them purposeful. Sure, they weren't, but I felt great thinking of how our mass anti-something movement was going out here. Three cheers for uncivilization!

New Job

2006-06-23T05:51:00.000-07:00

I screamed when I heard about the job, which was fodder for Dick, the middle-aged humorist of the group.

I am a little disappointed that I'll be leaving so soon and that I have so little time to say goodbye to everyone. I'm not sure how much closure I'll have, but I'm not moving that far away. I figure, I don't have to promise to return. I can tell everyone that now it's their turn to visit me in Moscow!

The job is a year contract but they usually want people to stay for two years. At least I'll be getting back to America gradually. One step at a time.

Seatbelts! We've got seatbelts!!

2006-06-21T02:30:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Courtnee Neilsen in Serdar, the country of Turkmenistan is glorifying the seatbelt.

Ahh yes, I recently came to the taxi stand in Serdar "pit of hell", Turkmenistan to get a taxi back to Balkanabat. I am not 50 yards from the cars before I hear the usual, "Ashgabat!!!" "Chiliken!!!" "Turkmenbashy City!!!" "Balkanabat!!!" called out to me, as if I would decide my destination solely based on their exuberance. At any rate, amidst their cries I suddenly hear, "Seatbelts!!! I've got seatbelts!!!!" Picking up his scent, several other drivers join in--"Seatbelts! My car has them!." "We've got seatbelts here!"

Turns out Courtnee has made a habit of requiring seat belts every time she gets in the car. They now associate Americans with seatbelts. Hey, I say that's great! We went from not being able to find one, to agreeing on seatbelts before price.

We Peace Corps Volunteers are just trying to make the world a better place--one safe car trip at a time.

India Observations #5

2006-06-18T08:18:00.000-07:00

Why do they just pee everywhere?! I've seen so many men peeing that it doesn't even suprise me anymore. Whoop, a man peeing. And a cow strolling past. And a man yelling "HELLO YOUNG WOMAN EXCUSE ME TAXI TAXI TAXI". I did have a very relaxing day today despite all the peeing. We saw a movie. It was in English.

Fascism

2006-06-17T04:17:00.000-07:00

Here's an interesting conversation. I was talking to a Russian friend of mine about my humble opinion that we shouldn't really be celebrating 'Victory Day.' Yes, I'm fine with a Memory Day, or a Remembrance Day, but I don't see the point of a Victory Day. This was answered with lots of nonsense about how many people died etc. which I responded could be remembered during a Remembrance Day. The next excuse was that it wasn't the killing that we were celebrating, but the victory against fascism. Hmmmm. I bought that for about 10 seconds before I looked up the definition of fascism. If you have the same dictionary as I, I'd like to draw your attention to the combination of state and business leadership, and especially to the part about belligerent nationalism.

Yeah, great job at victory over that, T-stan.

Dizas are Following Me

2006-06-16T04:01:00.000-07:00

Heading into the main bazaar yesterday, we happened upon two dizas squatting outside the entrance looking at gold rings. Just knowing that those two fat Turkmen women dictate the quality of items in Turkmenistan is a bit frustrating. I felt like coming up to them and mentioning loudly with lots of hand gestures, that those rings aren't pretty, and are, in fact, quite atrocious! Just buy pretty things! I'm sick of only hot pink and hot green purses on sale at the bazaar! I'm tired of the same three styles of pointy-toed shoes! Buy something I like! Please!

But instead, Courtnee and I merely grabbed each other's hand and steered ourselves away from the people of our Motherland before making a spectacle. Maybe next time.

India Observations #4

2006-06-15T06:11:00.000-07:00

I promised myself before getting here that I wouldn't purchase anything pink and/or orange with mirrors sewn on. Courtnee and I made a pact. We were to stop all purchases if containing these colors and items. Since then, I'm sad to report, I have bought something pink, several items with glitter, and a yellowish orange thing. Courtnee has bought something pink, some glitter, and red jeweled item. So much for the pact. At least you'll be able to spot me when I get off of the plane!

India Observations #3

2006-06-14T04:54:00.000-07:00

Turkmenistan has given me a few positive things. First and foremost, it was the rage built up from Turkmenistan that aided me in chasing a grown man through a busy train station after he groped me. Yes, chased, caught him twice for long enough to hit him on the head before he was halted by other Indian guys and a police officer. I then yelled to women standing near that their men are a disgrace, pointed him out to the police and yelled, "This man grabbed me! THIS MAN. . . ", and was assured by his restrainers that, "Don't worry, he will be punished." A bit more disgracing, and I asked to be let through the crowd. I guess the observation here is that the old saying is true: If you can brave Peace Corps, you can brave anything.

PS We decided against the train. We're taking a bus.

Apartment Aggravation

2006-06-04T04:10:00.000-07:00

I've officially lost a friendship because of the lack of landlord policy. I gave my key to Vanessa when I left for America. Not a day later, she calls to report that Nina 'is the master of this flat' and refused her entry. This is after Vanessa explaining that our medical kits are in the apartment and we need to have access. The 'master of the flat' was not willing to grant access, which resulted in an angry phone call from me, and the end of my relationship with said 'master.' The problem with a lawless society is just that. The lack of laws. I don't even know if I'm in the right or wrong. I tried to do everything--I told her I'd be gone. I brought up people in the apartment previously and told them that Natasha could stay if she came into town. And yet there are people living there the second I leave. I miss laws.

India Observations #2

2006-06-04T03:56:00.000-07:00

I saw a baby monkey get electrocuted this morning--but lived. So by comparison, our trip is going quite well. We saw a Baha'i temple today. Mostly I just feel brave going outside. There is a lot of honking and buzzing working as a deterrant.

India Observation #1

2006-06-03T02:51:00.000-07:00

Being here in the bowels of New Delhi has made me realize that Turkmenistan has very few people. And not a lot gets done there. This place is just bustling.

Teaching

2006-05-17T13:58:00.000-07:00

Old Hat New Hat was a favorite. . . of mine.

IREX

2006-04-17T01:32:00.000-07:00

I came back to a developed city. Our center that was previously 4 computers and an unenthusiastic team of "voluneers" has now become one room of 10 computers and a second conference room with one large table, 10 chairs, and bookshelves. I already came in to label and organize all the books we'd already donated. Now they have little spine labels and a check-out card! The success of that, however, depends on how many people want to read. But at any rate, the room looks good. I feel like with this center, kids finally have a place to just go a few times a week and see what's going on. There are seminars and online chats--but mostly they just look at pictures online. At least they are getting some practice with technology and seeing other kids acting like civil people for once!

So I was asked what is positive here. . . I think this is one thing. We now have public internet.

Flags

2006-04-17T01:16:00.000-07:00

Being in America was relaxing, and coming back was refreshing. I was surprised by how easy it was to jump back into Americanism and again how easy it was to come back to T-stan. I was expecting the feeling of not-fitting-in in either place, but I felt like myself in the states and I feel like myself here.

I came back, luckily, to a lot of work. Every school had to be visited and every person had to be seen for fear of offending someone. Maintenance here is key. So I did my rounds with a few pictures to show and some little gifts for people and was warmly welcomed. Truly, there is a reason we’re here for two years. That’s how long it takes not for you to get accustomed to your site, but for THEM to get used to you. Finally people know what language to speak to me in, and that I won’t criticize or assess their English. And that I’m not going to pressure them to do lots of extra work. The relationships are now at a comfortable level. Just in time to leave.

The gifts all went over wildly well. Especially, ironically enough, the two American flags I gave to Jeren and Zohre. These two girls are my best students and also awaiting the results of the only exchange program to America, the FLEX program. We’ll find out next week. They are model students and good friends.

Americans have a hard time understanding why people here would want flags so badly, but living in the midst of nothing good and nothing that actually works while having American friends and seeing American TV and pop music—there really is no other paradise than America for them.

Americans can’t see how much focus there is on them. Everyone knows America. Everyone knows our pop stars and our movies and our cars and our computer software and our songs and our conflicts and our allies and our wars. Everyone knows the president of our country and everyone knows who we are planning to attack next—since they are our next-door neighbors.

But for these girls, they’ve spent most of their time thinking about our clubs and classes. They’ve heard that we have no passport-checks in America, and that we have 12 years of school and not 9, and that you can find a job, and that they don’t read our mail. So to them, this was a representation of something they want but are both incredibly far from, yet reminded of on a daily basis. Amazing to think that so far from America, our flag can mean almost the opposite of allegiance, but can represent the longing for something better.

In Minnesota Teaching

2006-03-29T18:51:00.000-08:00

This was taken in April or so, of my mom and me in our Turkmen dresses. I gave a few presentations in Minneapolis (the third goal of Peace Corps!) when I was home for a couple of weeks.

Smiles

2006-03-28T05:04:00.000-08:00

Everyone in America is just so darn friendly! People are excusing themselves every 10 seconds and getting gracious replies. Bump into someone and out fly two "sorries". Every service worker has been so pleasant that I feel like I've made all these friends.

Not to mention, all the stores here have tons of stuff in them! Get that! Their are rows and rows of products, and they are not all identical. I was beginning to think shelving products wouldn't be needed there until 2058, there were so many identical things on the shelves. Here you have to look through a bunch of different things to find what you're looking for, but hey, fine by me.

This computer is so fast. I used to think faster than the computer. When that web site came up, my cursor was poised and I was alredy fixing my own spelling errors in my head. Now I just stare.

My taste buds are happy too!

Desert

2006-03-27T18:55:00.000-08:00

So this is the desert, huh? When the wind blows harder than usual, I keep my mouth shut tight. Sunglasses help too. Washing sand out of my hair in the evening, I sometimes allow un-American thoughts to creep into my head like the practical purposes of wearing scarves and long dresses. No matter how windy or hot though, it always looks like a beautiful day in the desert, and without fail the people tell you the opposite.

"It's terribly cold and terribly windy this week, and when you come back, it'll be April, and April is already terribly hot."

So I try to enjoy the sand in my teeth.

It's Monday and I should be up already, but I slept in men's boxers I bought at the bazaar, which wildly confuses anyone who sees me in them, and my legs don't want to part with the sheets. This past year and a half I've found that I have to be woken up by something living. Today no one has called, no knock at the door, no one klinking around the kitchen, so I'm on my own. That's one reason not to live alone. There's no competition. When people live together and one is up at 8, there's a kind of automatic pressure on the second. I have to feel at least as productive as those around me, but when there's no one--why not stay in bed until 10? Having to pee helps some, and soon I'm up and around and boiling water for tea.

Bathing in my apartment happens rarely and in the evenings. It's a process that consists of using a plastic ladle and being cold. Don't get me wrong. I've got the miracle of running hot water, just no shower head. You get cold between ladles and during shampooing.

So my morning is free from that hassle. I pick an outfit based on the boss of today's activities. If it is my programs, I'm wearing jeans. If I'm going to be seen by other various bosses or workmates, I'll put on a skirt. Today it's off to School #15 first, so I'm going for a long skirt, flip-flops, and an oversized sweater. I know I look silly to someone every time I'm out. The Americans snicker at my hip russian outfits, the turkmen gasp at my immorality, and the Russians cringe at my tasteless, colorless outfits. So I give up and go for what's comfortable.

School 15 is a block away from my house which is convenient for walking purposes but means that I live next to 600 children who know both my name, and the word "Hello". Trust me--they are fluent at yelling both words.

A familiar face in a home abroad is rare and welcome oddity. Today it's Omar, a friend I helped with English practice. . . just enough attendance at Teacher's Club to get him a job at an oil company and the privilage of leaving the school for good. Since then, Anabibi (an older single woman with an angular smile) has taken the plunge as well.

Omar looks like he's from India. his nationality confuses everyone on the job too, since the most obvious words I taught him were "yep" and "nope." He loves it. Are you working this week Omar? "Nope." Oh, you have the week to relax huh? "Yep." I believe he was asked his nationality on the job after his first "yep."

Now, however, he's waiting in the teachers' room to ask about help updating his resume. Omar is one of few local men who will shake my hand. It's not done between women and men, which only bothers me when someone comes to a group of 10 and shakes the men's hands and ignores the women. He's not married and probably doesn't care to be.

Bibi sniffs us out as usual. She's so social that a social gathering happening without her is like a giant magnet. She's stylish and enjoys being so.

To be cont.

Ferris Wheel

2006-03-03T16:15:00.000-08:00

I don't know how we survived the Ferris Wheel in the left of this picture. . .since I recall something being held together with a twisty-tie. Not dying feels great!

Things that are better in Turkmenistan:

2006-02-07T02:18:00.000-08:00

Ketchup (It’s spicy and good)
Taxis any time you want (and cheap!)
Fresh bread at every corner
Photo ordering (you order as many as you want of any pictures on the roll)
Clothes made to order

Top 5 things Turkmenistan needs to fix/change:

2006-02-07T01:21:00.000-08:00

Rampant corruption
Low level of education
Health care (any health care)
Rights of privacy
Covering of girls’ faces after marriage

School's Out

2006-01-27T23:00:00.000-08:00

I'll never forget the 18 angry Russian women on their march to the culture department. We heard on December 27th that our school was to be 'liquidated' by the 31st. People were in shock. Everyone except our newly-appointed director, appropreately a Turkmen man with little actual talent besides making unmarried women feel uncomfortable. He had gone to a New Years party the night before with the department that was firing him, got immensely drunk, and we haven't seen him since.

So in the custom of people who have fought for their survival under one Stalinistic regime and are now fighting against another authoritarian regime, the women got ready. Coats and hats on, potent messages on posters, extremely discouraged--and we started off. On the way I heard the usual complaints--

"I'm not Turkmen, but I'm not Russian either. I have nowhere to go."

"I have 3 kids and no husband."

"It just gets worse and worse every year."

"I just feel sorry for the kids that won't have any music."

We got to the culture department and were, of course, herded into an office and told very vague answers to all our questions, which after the past month have even turned out to be very vague lies.

All teachers are fired.

No one gets offered any other jobs.

The kids won't be studying further.

We don't know why.

We don't know what will happen with the building.

Of course that was as much crap as the accusations that our friend was hiding 3,000,000$ in a suitcase in his house. He's since been arrested. We're hoping to find out if he's alive sometime soon, but lawyers aren't allowed to contact him, let alone friends.

The art school, which has a more 'traditional' program took over our building immediately. They moved all the furniture around and have smug smiles on their faces. I took almost everything from the music library (except the folders that already cover the music) that I put in. I now have an 'unsuccessful' grant in my opinion and no one to help me fight for the school. Peace Corps dissapproves of my work there.

I've kept in touch with my one private student, and we started lessons again. One down, 347 students to go!

My favorite student

2006-01-13T16:12:00.000-08:00

Music schools gerek dal (unneeded)

2006-01-01T02:06:00.000-08:00

A decree this past week shut down almost all the music schools in the country. This wasn't even an attempt to privatize and save government (officials') money--it was just a straight-up liquidation. Everyone is out of a job. Severance pay is two months (90$ a month). We're all pretty lost.

Momtaz

2005-12-20T20:48:00.001-08:00

I bought an electric heater for the apartment that I didn’t end up living in. On it is written “Super Electric Momtaz.” I wasn’t exactly sure what a momtaz was, but I figured if it kept me warm, it was ok by me. Since then I've moved to a nice apartment (heats itself! magic!) but have joined the team of "PCV's for free housing." Here's the deal--most peace corps countries provide housing fo the volunteers. For example, in Zambia, the village receiving a volunteer builds a home for them to use. Here, not only do they not give us homes, but we frequently get kicked out of where we are staying for one or more of the following reasons.

1) KNB put enough pressure on landlord, including asking for pictures of her children, so she kicks you out herself.

2) KNB comes late at night to try themselves to scare you by asking questions and "checking" documents.

3) Someone who is in line for a government apartment knows you are living in one (not allowed, it should only be the assigned family, but they build new houses and keep the old as their kids' future place--actual private apartments are expensive and hard to find.) and they call whoever they can to get you out so they can move up on the list.

4) Peace Corps itself tacks some strange qualification onto the ones you already have, making your apartment unacceptable.

So I'm not in the old apartment. Now I am going to pay more than my stipend to live in one of PC's reported 3 "safe" blocks in my city of 100,000 people. Now I'm not only a volunteer--I'm paying Turkmenistan out of pocket to let me work. At least I still have my momtaz and a lock on my door to hide from all the frustration

Random Wrath

2005-12-20T20:42:00.000-08:00

The life of a foreigner living in Turkmenistan is either filled with grave ignorance of the surroundings or with bursts of anger that spray out like a fireman’s hose that’s too strong for its fireman. Rarely do the people who deserve this anger get fully punished, and often some partially-innocent bystanders face the brunt of the storm. I ended my day today running after a girl with a candy wrapper she had thrown on the ground, yelling, “Here! Take this. You have a dirty country. It’s dirty because of you. Why would you just throw that on the ground. Go home and tell your parents that you live in a dirty place in a dirty country all because of you.”

Yeah. . .

That, of course, is juxtaposed by the fact that I had just gotten a snicker and a “Hello!” shouted from a group of grown men dressed in black suits waiting to greet the P------ and watch the opening of a new hospital, who of course had time to pause first and laugh at the foreigner. That was after I’d set up a basketball lesson for begging students on a Saturday and then none showed up. So candy-wrapper girl got a bit of a shock.

I’m not the only one with outbursts, though. Katie, after too many stories of kids dying, yelled quite loudly at a boy outdoors who was about 2. She found him outside playing with a stick, a puddle, and a dirty syringe. She took the needle, yelled, “Dirty! Dirty!” and a bunch of other instructions and told him to go home. 2 year-olds with used drug needles are no contest for an angry volunteer.

Violin Ensemble

2005-12-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

I swore I’d never teach public school music classes in the states—and what do I do? I go and teach public school music in a developing country. I started an ensemble of 8 kids in either their 1st or 2nd year of playing. I’m lucky to have Katia, the other teacher, who was excited about the idea and immediately taught all the kids the song I wrote and passed out. They don’t really know much about low 2s yet or how to conquer the slur, so our repertoire is rather limited. That and the fact that every time we play a scale, Maksat forgets to switch strings, so we end up in 5ths for half of it. They pretty much play horribly, but none of them have ever heard a violin ensemble, or a violin being played at all for that matter, so I guess you can’t blame them.

It took me a few rehearsals to get Katia to stop yelling at them (if you yell, it means its obviously their fault they played it wrong, not yours. . . ) but I think they are enjoying themselves. Compared to the usual barrages of yelling, being called stupid, and occasional whaps on the head, my class must be just a treat—I’m usually smiling! Imagine!

Recently Nina, my friend who plays piano and irritates me, alternately, told me about her students’ exam. They played and she thought they deserved As. The teachers (right or not) gave them Cs probably out of jealousy and superiority issues since Nina went to University and they didn’t. She complains to me how the teachers wouldn’t give her a voice, takes lots of pity—how she cried. . . However, the next time she told the story, it was a tale of how her students played so badly and she yelled at them—“I told you how many times how to play that right! What’s wrong with you!” Long story short, it’s all about blame. Nothing good here ever came from taking rightful fault. Directly as a result there is lack of improvement or even the drive to improve since whether or not you get your diploma depends more on chance, money and connections than on your ability.

This just in: the 2-cent bill

2005-12-07T00:38:00.000-08:00

Well we’ve been successful in our recent effort to do away with coins. We were sick of only having our former 40, and 20 cent bills as well as the 4 and 2 cent coins. Oh no. Now we’ve got a 4 and 2 cent bill to replace those pesky coins. Our economy must be growing! Now when I go to the bank for my stipend of about 85 dollars, usually paid in 20 cent bills which makes a total of 440 bills. Now I may be able to get paid in 2 cent bills—a grand total of 4,400 bills! I think we’re trying to prove something to someone by replacing perfectly good coins with ones that look strikingly like euros, but for now I’m just keeping my fingers crossed at the bank window for the big bills!

Another of mine

2005-11-27T18:28:00.000-08:00

Lebapskii Carpet

2005-11-24T18:03:00.000-08:00

This one I bought for myself.

Tekke Carpet

2005-11-19T17:54:00.000-08:00

This is a blue tekke carpet I bought for my mom.

October Update

2005-10-24T07:03:00.000-07:00

Well things are looking up.

It feels like Christmas to me almost every day here. No, I'm not receiving warm socks and orchestral scores or hanging tinsel on the tree while mom's at work to try and surprise her for the 7th year in a row.

I think it's the combination of the weather turning cold, the kitchen always busy, and the lack of school. I am starting a violin ensemble at the music school, which has gotten Katya, the teacher from last year, quite excited. I'm starting new classes for writing and reading at School #17 (when they have no classes--thank God), and I have enough in the way of personal relationships to make time pass at the normal speed. I'm finally running into people I know around every turn, though some I'd rather avoid--like the teacher who stops me to ask me to write his semester report almost daily. But I'm finally enjoying my time hopping from one thing to the next.

I'm heading off to Thailand for rest and relaxation in November, which is just the break I need to freshen up my classes and remove some of the defensive behaviour from my everyday life. A good example of my 'burned-out-ness' being when a taxi driver ripped me off by 1,000 manat (4 cents) and I promptly stood in oncoming traffic to block him from driving and then threw a 500 manat coin at his car as hard as I could. Hmmmm, break gerekmi?

I have already said goodbye to my site-mates Carrie and Dave and have one month left with Katie before she heads out as well. I've adopted Courtnee from the nearby city of Serdar, and she now considers herself my sitemate. She'll be present for any holidays, important announcements, or really for any reason that gets her away from the hole in which she now resides. Then the new kids arrive, and I'll have even more chance to do normal things like show people the bazaar, help translate to host families, etc. I'll just be so helpful!

This week we're gearing up for our Independence Day. It is taught fairly forcefully that we are so so proud of our great great independence, although we were the last country to be torn away from the USSR, and most of the ministry probably cried that day as opposed to celebrating our long-fought-for independence. At any rate, the volunteers will be getting together for bean burgers, fries, condements and complaints in my city.

Uncle Sanjar

2005-09-08T02:01:00.000-07:00

Well the verdict is partially in. Our friend who was unfortunately related to the minister of oil and gas who was fired, is now officially on the outs. He lost his job. No one else is allowed to hire him. He was told he has 10 days to vacate the apartment he owns. No one else is allowed to rent to him. I asked why he doesn't flee the country--they have Russian passports. I was told that they'd stop them at the borders. They're not allowed to leave. I'm not sure what purpose that serves the government, since even if they put up a big stink in Russia, we'd never hear about it anyways. So they are asking any families they know to come and buy things from them; furniture, decorative things, anything they have at home.

At school their eldest daughter has been harrassed by her own teachers. The minister had been accused of having a hidden chest of "gold things" and one million dollars buried in his garden. (What kind of idiot would bury a million dollars in his garden. . . ) Her teachers ask her where the money is. They call her by the 'clan', or family name and tell her that she should be ashamed. Where will this family go? They can't leave the country, but they can't work or live.

This isn't the first time this has happened here. Internal exile is common. I wish there was somthing I could do. That seems to be the theme here. I can't actually help anyone with their real problems. With the fact that in the last corruption index I checked, Turkmenistan was 130-something out of 145. America was 19. The only countries with more corruption were Haiti, Camaroon, and a few other places with recent war. We have no wars, just corruption.

(In 2005 we've made it to third from the end in corruption. Chad and Bangladesh are lower.)

Australia

2005-09-08T01:56:00.000-07:00

My mom has talked recently about moving to Australia. Coincidently enough, two of my best students, a mother and her 6-year-old daughter, just emigrated there. I was doing some research on how my host family could get a visa, so I dropped them an email. Here's the response:
Hello, dear Kari. I glad that you rememder our family.
We live in wonderfull city Sydney.There are many parks, musemes and
other intresting places in the center of Sydney. We went to the famous
place Opera House, it's biger and extroardinary place in Sydney.
Misha found the jod and Dasha goes to school. She has girlfreinds
there, and she lakes at school very mach. Our apartment is near the
school, it is very good for us. Mainly I lake birds and natures, and
people very kindly, always smile and help. In the weekend we went to
the beach and to observed how seagulls eaten the bread from our hands,
they don't be afriad of human at all, I was so surprised.
My apologies for bad mistakes, my English is not very good, but I hope
soon will be better.
Wish all the best. Thanks a lot for your message. Vika.

I have at least one success story.

Stoned

2005-09-04T01:32:00.000-07:00

Last night at 9:30 pm I walked a friend home half way from a piano recital. 4 kids screamed at us as they passed (trying to scare us) and we ignored them. A little shaken, we waited to split up hoping they'd go away. They milled around a while and didn't do any harm, so we split up and walked our seperate ways. I was the lucky one who got to walk past the 8 or so boys and one military worker. First one shouted 'gel', which is the command form of 'come.' I ignored that. Then the first rock hit me in the lower back. The second was about the size of a fist and hit me on my right thigh. I flung around and grabbed the closest kid to me, threw him up against the wall (I don't think they were expecting a white girl in high-heels to fight back) and choked him with my left hand and yelled "who did that?" a few times. After roughing up the kid for a few seconds, I turned to the military boy who didn't feel the need to take part in the altercation, and asked him if he was working. He said he didn't understand Russian. I asked him why he didn't do anything and then took out a pen and asked for his name and surname (one of our most powerful weapons--the pen.) He started backing away. I wasn't going to get any farther with that route, so I turned and walked away. I have a welt from the rock about the size of a fist and it hurts to sit down. I'm going to call peace corps and report it, but how many reports of stone throwing do they get? I've heard from volunteers in rougher areas that they'd never bother calling in over a rock. It happens too often. I also plan on taking a picture of my bruise as a fond memory. Thanks, Balkanabat.

Another one bites the dust

2005-08-31T02:21:00.000-07:00

Sasha owned a theme park (state-fair-type) in Ashgabat. It was well-known, always busy, and he built it up himself. He's in his 30's and one of the true great people I've met in this country. He's a great guest and a great host. He loves his children and is a responsible businessman. Unfortunately, the government has decided to make a "disneyland" (not to be confused of course with the actual disney company). Sasha has long been planning to move the park to somewhere in Russia. He was on his last few payments to the government for the land and the credit. . .

And of course, something goes wrong. I'm assuming that basic private ownership is looked down upon here, but beyond that I assume the government doesn't want to buy new park equipment and would rather just take Sasha's

They brought him to the courthouse. They told him he has two choices. First, he can sign over his property to the government. If he doesn't, they'll put him in jail and take his property anyway. He signed away his life's work, his business. Then, knowing better than to trust his own country, the place he raised his three children, he ran. He crossed the country by taxi, hoping at each check-point that the teenage military boys wouldn't have orders to hold him. He had no time to pack and only had some money friends gave him along the road and the clothes he was wearing. He got onto a cargo ferry and got to Russia without incident.

What about the people without friends along the way, or without relatives and friends in other countries. Sasha is so lucky and so smart. He has someone to run to. His wife is still here, his children are still here, but he has an opportunity to build all over again. His 'crimes' are not as serious as a situation a few years ago when someone tried to have free media by radio in Turkmenistan (yikes) and they attacked him in his home in Russia as well as his son. I think they got what they wanted out of Sasha.

Almost all of my friends, family, and colleagues here are 'white'. We are the minority that are being chased out. I feel very much a part of that tragedy and sometimes I wonder how many of my people will still be here in a few years when I want to return to see the country.

I wish Sasha the best and I plan to visit him in the next few months with my sister Aziza to give him any support we can.

Alphabet Excitement

2005-08-23T03:24:00.000-07:00

Well the library project was risen from the dead the second Akgul left to get married. I took a big leap, and went against what the locals told me. They want their stacks the way they are. The stacks that usually lie down, some with only a few pieces in each stack and some with over one hundred (and half of them belong to a different composer than labled). I finally was able to stand up straght and put in order! It took about an hour to free the top row and get some of the smallest stacks moved up. I'd suggested this idea many many times before but it never really stuck, except with Natasha who didn't get why anyone would NOT want books in order- how stupid!

I called in the director to take a look at my work thus far. There were still a few larger stacks I didn't include (Cherni, Chaikowsky, Mozart. . . ) but a good deal of movement was done. Well, she came in and decided that this was just fantastic. "It all looks just so pretty!" I explained to her where I had gotten each stack and why I thought the alphabetical system was better. She started looking around at what was left in stacks and suddenly got a great idea!

She says, "Well look, there are some other ones here that could also go in the alphabet. We could put ALL of the composers standing up in one big row and it would be so pretty! (Ta-da!) Look, this is Chaikovsky. That's 'Ch'. And wait, here is Ziling! That's 'Z'! Now Z in the alphabet is after, let's see. . . a,b,v,g,d,e,zh,z! It should go--over here after the d's!"

She literally went through every pile I'd left out and told me how it, too, could be part of the alphabetical system. After months of begging them to put things in order so we can find them. . . after weeks of working with Akgul knowing that if the book didn't fit into an already labled stack, she just put it on the bottom of the closest pile to where she was standing. . . finally they figured out how great the alphabet is!

Now that's Peace Corps. We're supposed to work together with the locals so that the final product is what they want too. Forget that! Just do whatever you want when they're not looking! They'll adopt the brilliance as their own!

Where are your parents?

2005-08-22T05:29:00.000-07:00

So get this, a 24-year-old friend of mine wanted to go to Turkey on vacation this month. She bought her ticket. She packed her things, and got on the plane. A couple of men came up to her and told her to get off the plane. They took 15 young girls off and asked where they were going and why. She said she was going to visit friends. They said they didn't believe her. They asked her where her parents are. Why aren't they traveling with you? This girl works as a waitress in a restaurant in the capitol and though lives with her parents, she doesn't depend on them, say, to accompany her on a vacation as if she were 12 years old. The took all those 15 single women and told them to go home. They were not allowed to leave. Where were their husbands? Without husbands they were assumed to be prostitutes. Of course we don't want to give people in other places the impression that starving poor girls from Turkmenistan may prostitue themselves. Where were their parents? Where was her freedom to legally purchase and plane ticket and leave the country. . .
There are prostitues everywhere here. Everywhere. The cost an average of 2-4$. People in poor places need money. Uneducated men "have their own needs". This girl, however, has a job, has money, and wanted to take a vacation. Solve the problems in your own bars and discos before worrying about the girl on vacation. We're so scared that we don't have total control of all our people--that we need to keep them right here where we can see them.

Secret password-"Palov"

2005-08-22T04:54:00.000-07:00

Nina and I left a restaurant about 11:00 and headed out to catch a taxi. We walked along talking and laughing for a few blocks and ahead of us was an officer that had just stuck his arm out and caught a cab. We took his lead and stuck our arm out, but got a whistle from a guard telling us to move on. We were right in front of some very official buildings. We went a few steps foreward and caught one anyway. Well I started right away complaining about how that officer JUST got a cab in the same place and how lucky she was that I kept my mouth shut instead of saying something rude! Just then the driver turned down the music. . .

We stared straight ahead for about two minutes trying to think of something to say--we both figured out the driver must be a KNB informant. Finally I turned to her and said "So, we have palov at home to reheat right?" and she replies "Yeah. . . you know, it's really interesting how they make Ayzerbaijan Palov." "Oh really, how's that?" "They cook all the meat and vegetables seperately and then steam the rice in a different dish. . .

She literally described palov for about 10 minutes in the cab while I expressed my interest. Now every time we have a sketchy cab driver, we talk about palov. I can't wait for someone to check my file at the big office and see 28 reports of intense discussion of traditional rice dishes.

Molakara

2005-08-15T22:30:00.000-07:00

So we've got our own little Dead Sea right here in Balkanabat. There is a lake that literally has so much salt that you can't hit the bottom. There are feet sticking up here and there, some log rolling and a lot of slow floating. If you get water in your eye, you're screwed. I've been there twice and I love it. If you get out of the water for a few minutes, your skin literally looks white with dried salt. It makes your skin soooo soft, though. After paddling around for a while we always head over to a mud-pit area to put black mud all over you. It's healthy they say. I did learn the word cork in Russian, however, which makes it kindof an educational trip. I even tried some floating-yoga, which seems to have some potential! Last time we were there, we decided to camp out on the other side of the lake, where naked children were not pooping in the sand and wild cows weren't rummaging through the trash for watermelon rinds. So we just wrapped up our clothes in the absolutely-necessary packette (plastic bag carried by every human at all times here) and caravanned slowly over like camels. I floated along with bags held high above my head and only broke down in laugter watching Pavel try to get a watermelon across. Watermelons are heavy evidently.

I highly recommend it. The park costs 4 cents to get in.

Hirings and Firings

2005-08-15T20:58:00.000-07:00

This personal, artistic essay does not represent the opinions of Peace Corps in any way.

The p_____ came to B------- last week and was met with hundreds of chanting children and jolly musicians. Every time it's the same welcome. He gets out of his private helicopter, accepts a ceremonial piece of bread (which is sacred here), does a prayer with several old, traditionally-costumed, turkmen men. Then he listens to people perform selections from 'his' books and hands the performers a white envelope of more American dollars than one makes in a year here. (Showing, of course, his trust for his own economy). This trip to B-------, however, has more impact on my family that just a pleasant visit.

The purpose of his visit was to fire the Minister of ---- for Balkan velayat (the gas-producing velayat). He was accused without any basic rights to representation, on TV for his country to see. They said he personally stole several million dollars. He read his 'guilty' plea with his head hanging while the president pointed at him and yelled "Why have you stoled from your people, why have you lied to your great leader and to all of Tu------?" Then the kicker for us. He told the authorites to find all this man's relatives and chick if they should 'remain'. My father's closest family friend is the minister's only nephew. As I'm writing this now, I've learned that his daughter's husband has been taken somewhere, so nephew is not too far removed.

We all got together to watch the p________'s presetation, while two "FBI" cars watched us from outside. Our friend is evidently guilty by proxy.

"There are no laws here."

None. Some people I talk to here believe this man stole and tell me that his neqhew definetly get some of teh money, of course, to hide it from the gvnmt. I also hear that the big man promised him that he wouldn't put him in jail for this deal before it ever happened. Who really knows what happened. Certainly not us watching the news at home.

"Every rich person got that way illegally. They all steal".

"How do you think your fmaily got so much money."

Great, guys. It's back to the first years of communism. You're guilty by who you associate with. The rich, of course, are all guilty.

We have a 20 day wait period before the verdict. Here they call that the buying time. Who of his connections can pay the most to stay out of jail. They need some time to price-shop before turning in the results of the "investigation."

My real complaints are thus:
A g------- worker shouldn't be put on trail without representation.
In a system where everyone gives and takes bribes, one person can't be called out on it while everyone else stands and points. In a place where the president knows every dollar goes (or I suppose, every 25,000 manat) he has little right to suddenly 'reveal' a theft as if he 1) doesn't do the same thing on a bigger scale and 2) didn't know all along and allw the thefts to continually occur in order to have a great reason to send away the next rising power.
Relatives shouldn't be held accountable for the accused acts of their uncles.
And my mom, a housewife, shouldn't have to live in fear.
People deserve to know the possible consequences of their actions (Could we get an offical 'bribe menu?' A diploma without actual study costs 6,000$, a last minute plane ticket goes up from 1 to 4 dollars. . . ) Will this land me in a work camp out west or will I have to pay half of what I've stolen to be free?

People gamble with their lives here. Those who don't steal back from the g---------live each day trying to get enough to eat. Those who steal back count their days.

Dacha

2005-08-13T16:44:00.000-07:00

The old tradition of a dacha. Lovely thought, but I'll take my garden right outside in my front lawn thank you very much.

Incident

2005-08-04T05:16:00.000-07:00

Journal entry from 8-1-05
I came home sobbing after being propositioned (again again again) at a restaurant at 11:00 (bar time.) My mom did what she could in her position of power. She called around and yelled at whoever she could. She said to me, "Don't cry. Don't cry because of what people say to you--you can go home in a year. Cry for my children, who have to live here their entire lives. Cry for the people who grow up here and don't know the difference."

The short story goes, a drunk man yelled something at me and we told him to stop bothering us. Eventually we had to call over the manager, who all but threw US out, saying he can't do anything if we're already 'talking' to him. He told us "this isn't Europe or America. Things are different here." The man came over during the argument and grabbed my arm. Well, the next day I was councilled by Peace Corps to go write a statement at the police station. I went, wrote my statement with Jura, my lawyer (haha). We broght it to the head of his department who said, "Oh, you speak English! Why don't you say 'Jura, I love you' in English." I told him we'd just met, how could I love him? He said "Well then how about 'Jura you are a very attractive man." I asked him to pick a different sentence. We then moved on to the topic of 'if I asked you to go out tonight what would you say.' I made some type of incredulous face and the question was rephrased to 'you know, what do you do in your free time, do you want to get something to drink?' I told him I mostly sit at home. Is that irony? Sexual harrassment from your sexual harrassment case lawyer?! Or perhaps just normal, like people here tell me. Why are you so upset? that's normal. Everyone does that.

Then I get back to Jura's office and he orders up some coffee, tells me I'm a very pleasant girl and that any time I want I can come up to his office to see him. I said "well there's a guy in the office down there asking you what your official business is, so I probably won't be coming in for fun." He told me that the guy in the office was a friend. "Just tell him you're coming to see me. He'll know."

I guess on the bright side, my Russian seems to be good enough to get subtelties and nuances!

How an American Might Feel if a Turkmen Came to "Do a Project" in Their Library

2005-07-23T01:34:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about the difficulties I'm having convincing certain 9th-grade-educated, 21 year-old librarians that I know what I'm doing. So I figured it might be worth meditating on a Turkmen librarian working in America.

If the programs were switched. . .

Akgul arrives at the Mills Music Library a random day in June asking if she can "help". After talking with one of the student workers who seemed friendly, she decides to come back each morning and get to know how things work at this library. Two weeks pass and the library staff has started to notice that this foreigner is hanging out quite a bit. They've even had contact from the Foreign Students' Office wondering who she is and what she's working on. They finally approach her and ask if there was something she wanted to work on while she was here. She says she'll think about some type of project if they are really interested. The librarians shrug and figure, heck, what does she know? Aygul arrives the next day with a 10-page plan in Turkmen language. She says it describes her grant she's written to the Turkmenistan government asking for 1,235 dollars to provide our workers with tea, candy and cake twice a day. Everyone looks at her quizzically, and a few even say some positive things. The library director decided, well, this can't be all bad. It's just tea. If she really wants to take two years of her life to bring us stupid tea, let's just let her. So Akgul begins her work. The first week or so she moved a few tables and chairs from the study area to her "workspace" to provide a tea area. The third week, she arrived, finally, with her supplies. She brings in a plastic bag of loose tea in one hand and an uncovered cake in the other. She tells everyone how difficult it was to find the right tea here! The stores are just not the same as back home! And the cakes here sit in the store for days! No one bakes cakes homemade anymore. This country is so backwards, she says.

The first few days of the new tea policy, everyone came over and thanked Akgul politely for bringing everything and had a fine time chatting for a few minutes before getting back to work. After a while, however, it got old and not too many people were taking advantage of the tea. Akgul then, to make up for everyone's lack of vision, began bringing the tea to each worker's desk with a piece of cake. She told them they should eat and have tea or they won't have any energy to work. She told them she was just trying to help the library. The director, worried about intentional tea spills, told everyone just to drink the tea and try to keep her happy. Two weeks later, however, Akgul arrived with a letter saying that her organization recommends that everyone have at least three cups of tea each day, or the program will not be successfull, and that in order for our government to have good relations, these programs should be maintained at high priority. . .

Well you see what I mean. I think many people in our library think of my work as obsolete--though the tea times are veeery important. The opposite is true of us. I try to convince them I know what I'm talking about. That doesn't really work. I get a lot of suggestions--"maybe we should glue the whole back page of music into the folders so it doesn't fall out" "maybe if we stapled the oldest ones into the folders they wouldn't fall out" "let's photocopy 80 copies of the biggest textbooks since they're the ones we use the most" "instead of putting a new table here, why don't we just have someone build my desk longer"

I have gotten frustrated recently with some of the workers, but all in all, we're learning to get along--even though Akgul (a real person!) doesn't like to use capitol letters in titles. .. and shortens fortepiano to "f-no". . .

A play in two acts, Act I

2005-07-12T06:45:00.000-07:00

Housing Control: Knock Knock (not the beggining of a joke--the sound effect)
Natasha: Yes, what can I do for you?
Housing Control: Do you live in this apartment?
Natasha: Yes.
Housing Control: I'm from the housing commission. What registration do you have in your passport?
Natasha: I have a Balkanabat registration, but I got married last month to someone with an Ashgabat registration so we moved here together.
Housing Control: You live here with just your husband?
Natasha: Yes.
Housing Control: If you don't have an Ashgabat registration you can't move here.
Natasha: But I'm married. I have to live with my husband.
Housing Control: You can apply for your registration while living in Balkanabat and move here after three years.
Natasha: 3 years!? I'm married. How can I live five hours away from my own husband?
Housing Control: If you aren't registered you can't be living here.
Natasha: People move in with their husbands all the time. That's normal. How can this be?
Housing Control: you would be allowed to stay if you were living with your husband's parents like you should be. (Turkmen tradition has the new bride moving into the husbands house to care for the agin parents. They wear scarves over their mouths and aren't allowed to speak to anyone older than them. Natasha, not being Turkmen, has NO relation to this tradition. It's just one more diwscrimination to try and get all the minorities to give up on life here and leave.)
Natasha: That's not my culture!
Housing Control: That's Turkmenistan law.
Natasha: I won't do that. How else do i get registered.
Housing Control: You can have registration with your first child. (After Turkmen women are married, they must get pregnent within the first year of marriage to retain honor. The baby should also be a boy)
Natasha: What?!
Tears.

Act II and analysis

2005-07-12T05:59:00.000-07:00

Men: Yeah, after six beers all we need are girls.
Six? I drank more like 10! Do I get two girls for that? (laughter.)

Sasha: Yup, it's about 3. If we're going to get to Natasha's by 4 we should go now.
Me: Ok, remember we have to pick up pictures for her at the kodak.
S: Yeah, we have time. Can I run and find the waitress, pay, and I'll be back in a minute. Is that ok?
Me: Of course, you know you don't have to ask permission. You can even go to the bathroom if you want. (smiles)
The three men get up from their table, see me alone, and stop in their tracks.
Men: Good evening young girl. What are you doing sitting here alone?
Me: (mean glare, no answer)
Men: You shouldn't have to sit there all alone. . .
My friend returns. The men walk off.
I walked out a bit angry--I'm so often thought of as a prostute. How am I not used to it yet? What can I even complain about? They didn't say "how much" like the last time I walked out of a restaurant alone to meet a friend outside. Maybe it was the time of day or the amount of time I was alone. I can't even be alone at 3 pm in a public building for one short minute without being bothered! We walked out and I proceeded to break down crying in a park across the street. Of course Sasha thought it was his fault for leaving me alone. Which almost makes me feel worse. I'm not even responsible for myself. As a youn woman I have so little power over what happens to me. Natasha can't even move TO her husband (seems moral and safe to me). I can't even be left alone for one minute. We are both children. Natasha by law must be living with either her own or her husbands parents. I too can't be trusted alone. And when do we become adults? Childbirth. After having a child we are suddenly allowed to be left home to cook, take care, aron, clean, push our way through the bazar. Children make us whole.

Thailand

2005-07-07T10:07:00.000-07:00

It all became crystal clear on my trip to Thailand. It's more than the lack of answering machines or the difficulty forming a line that I hate about Turkmenistan. After a week in Thailand of not being singled out on the street for our hair color, Carrie, Katie and I pinpointed why we loved Thailand so much. The people are happy. They smile all the time! They laugh and enjoy themselves. Things there work conveniently and I felt like I had privacy for the first time. I used to think people were paranoid here--worried about all the ears and eyes. . . but I caught the bug too. A week away helped put things into perspective. I miss the happiness and smiles!

I actually missed Turkmenstan while I was away. That was an unexpected surprise. We spent two days in Bangkok, saw Wat Pho and took some time to look around the city. We ate some great food and I had my doctor's appointment (the actual reason I was there). Then Carrie and I went north to Chiang Mai. We spent three days walking, shopping, walking, learning to cook Thai food, walking, visiting temples, and walking some more. One broken pair of sandals later we headed back to Bangkok for a final check-up, a night of partially-successful salsa dancing, and more food.

I was looking foward to being back in Ashgabat--until I heard the weather report. 35 in Thailand and a crisp 45 in Turkmenistan. I looked on the internet--I believe that's about 113 degrees. Then there was the lack of a line at the airport. . . or more of a mass of elbows.

Now I'm back to work teaching English to mobs of young people and trying not to smile too much. I'm on my way to Ashgabat for a 4th of July party tomorrow. I feel more assimilated and more comfortable by the day, but that doesn't make me like this place. Soon it'll become difficult to leave. Not difficult to be away from this society, but I have a horrible sinking feeling every time I think of leaving the few people I really care about and the few who really care. I wish I had the power to turn this place around but working from the bottom up isn't making waves of change. We need a new deal. Until then.

Nips out!

2005-06-25T05:30:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting in the back of a taxi and woman gets in with a baby. There are two men in front minding their own business. The baby's pretty cute but promptly begins to cry. No amount of bouncing, talking in weird chirpy voices, poking, or rocking helps this thing. Finally some motherly instinct way deep down inside (perhaps the same one that assisted me in cleaning up my 3-yr-old cousin when he pooped all over the floor of my bathroom yesterday and yelled "kari i pooped in my underwear!" at the top of his lungs) made me put my finger in this kid's mouth. Well that worked wonders. However, while he sucked away at my first knuckle his oblivious mother starts saying "There you go. .. auntie gave you a little breast to suck on. . . there you go. . . suck on auntie's breast. . . " Well you better believe those two men in the front seat tried their damndest not to turn around--unsuccessfully. Their heads started around and snapped back at least three times before they caught a glimps of auntie's first finger and lost all faith in the world. The stories always happen in the taxis here, don't they

Wedding!

2005-06-05T00:52:00.000-07:00

I arrived at Natasha's wedding and little did I know . . . I was the maid of honor! I remember something in my cloudy Russian about having to sign something during the ceremony--evidently it was the marriage certificate.

The wedding was a wonderful mix of cultures. We started by putting a penny in her shoe, for good luck in money of course. Andrei arrived outside and walked past all the women of the family asking for the bride. They all yelled, "No! No!", and he must pay more and more money as he got closer to the door. They opened one lock, and he asked for the bride. We said "No", of course, and then he asked again and we opened the door.

Natasha was dressed in a big white dress, the men in tuxedos. They gave Andrei three glasses of water--one sweet, one bitter and one salty. They made him choose one of the three, and it would reflect how their marriage would be. Of course he got the sweet water--we're not dumb. They were all sweet.

We piled into an incredibly decorated car in our regular spots: bride in the middle back, I was to her right, the groom to her left and the best man in front. We did the traditional Turkmen deal--traveling around the city to all the pretty places and taking pictures of the four of us. That was over in a just a few long hours. We then went to the groom's house and made a few toasts. Everyone then left (around 3) and we relaxed for a while.

At about 7 we all got dolled up again and piled into the car. We arrived at the restaurant in our orderly line, from the left me, Andrei, Natasha, and the best man. We sat down at the head table. I was fortunate enough to have a giant cake in front of my face. There were most of the normal proceedings--lots of toasting and presents. There was a great part where the bride "lost" her shoe, and they took a collection of money to buy her a new shoe--in manat. I don't know how much they made from that trick, but it was cute. We drank a pretty large amount of champagne, but not nearly as much as the 'friends' table drank of vodka.

The whole process was great, but the best part was the four of us going back to Natasha and Andrei's new apartment at 11 (the national curfew), drinking wine, talking about the wedding, and opening presents. I don't think many American couples hang out with the wedding party AFTER the wedding. When the men went out to smoke, we gossiped and told secrets--we assume they were doing the same :)

All in all, for my first wedding, it was pretty successful! Cross culture experiences, here I come!

Names

2005-06-03T10:24:00.000-07:00

Turkmen names need no explaination--just a translation.
Here are some very common girls names:

Bibi- Girl
Akbibi- White girl
Gulbibi- Flower girl
Akgul- White flower
Nargul- Pomegranite flower
Aygul- Moon flower
Tazegul- New flower
Yazgul- Young flower
Ogolgerek- Need a son (my personal favorite)
Jahan- World
Ayjahan- Moon world
Sachly- Hairy
Altyn- Golden
Dilber- Give tongue
Allah- God
Enejan- Beloved mom
Bayramtach- Holiday birthmark
Bahar- Spring

Power cord

2005-06-03T09:40:00.000-07:00

I'm afraid my essays haven't been making it through the black-marker police, or perhaps someone is reading them out in Siberia somewhere. I'll write a few updates myself when I have the resources.

My grant application has been approved, and I've finally started purchasing materials for my library project. First was a small copier and several boxes of paper. Later will come 3,500 cardboard folders to cover all the music.

I came in last week with the copier and got quite a warm welcome from people who may have thought I'd been lying about this whole "free money" idea. I even got a kiss on the cheek from our 50 year old female door monitor with a mustache. It is about the only kiss I've had in 9 months, so I had to feel a bit appreciative of the attention.

Unfortunately, the minute the copier was in place, there was a line. Now, I had planned for this to be a music-only copier, but a few teachers had other plans. I also had planned to be out of town next week and hadn't evidently thought about the fact that people would be attacking the copier before I'd had a chance to set up rules and training.

Someone needed a passport copied. The director had a form she needed 15 copies of. All very draining to me who had hoped that people would suspend their Soviet desire to snatch everything available before it runs out! Well, I was wrong. I let them have their fun for a few minutes, and then I started packing it back into the box. This is when bad language skill is really a plus. I know they were asking each other why I was putting it in the box. . .where was it going. . . why can't we use it? But I just looked very confused and said "huh?" a few times. They gave up. Then when they all left the room for tea, I took the power cord and put it in my purse. I pictured their confused faces when they (of course) will open it and try to use it when I'm not there. They will yell across the hall, "Nina! The copier won't turn on! Nina! Do you know where the on button is for the copier!?"

Sometimes you have to be cruel to save the world.

Ashgabat or bust

2005-06-03T09:21:00.000-07:00

It takes a really crappy experience to reveal the good experiences.

On any other day, my taxi to Ashgabat would have felt just 'ok'. Carrie and I left Nebitdag in a small, cramped taxi driven by a driver with red eyes. We sped along at 140 k per hour on bumpy roads. I sat in the middle back seat, and my head literally hit the ceiling of the car a couple of times. The bobble-headed dog on the dashboard vigorously disagrees with us when the road is mediocre and suffers from epileptic seizures when the road gets bad. We suffer through two hours before the driver pulls off in all-too-familiar Serdar. (Judith, our medical officer agrees that "Serdar is the pits.") The driver says he'll be back in 5 minutes. Carrie and I decide to exercise our free will and get out of this guy's car--we grab our bags out of the trunk and look for a better car. We know he'll be upset, since we're only halfway there and only plan on paying what it would cost to go to Serdar. (Nebitdag to Ashgabat-100,000 manat. Nebitdag to Serdar-35,000. Serdar to Ashgabat-40,000.) The confrontation begins with me telling him we won't go any farther with him, and here's 40,000 manat for the ride. He answers "What, are you stupid or something?" I'll leave out the contents of the argument, but let's just say I was incredibly loud, logical, and persuasive. He was merely loud.

We get away and find a mini-sized Russian man named Dima. After a somewhat shady deal (4 men talking to Dima, Dima driving off with two, coming back with one, motioning us to cross the street and quick get in the car. . . ), we're off to Ashgabat. They try out their English in a most polite conversation and put on an American tape to make us feel at home. The conversation in Russian is political and logical. The passenger seems to have bought out the whole car and we are riding as a nice gesture--to whom, we're not sure. The passenger stops and gets us all ice waters and an hour into the trip stops off for a few baskets of fruit. Carrie and I get to eat 5 apricots. The car has air conditioning. Everything is about as pleasant as can be.

Had this been a car in the states, I would have had plenty to complain about. The seats were itchy, the music was a bit loud. I could go on. However, getting out of a bad situation and into a better one changes everything.

I hope this is an analogy for my return to America. I hope that when I go to the grocery store I'll be less worried about wasting time and more excited about having choice. I hope I'll be happy just to read the newspaper. If I start to lose that feeling, I hope I can find something to remind me of places that were tougher.

Essay #28 (The Perfect Day)

2005-04-29T14:21:00.000-07:00

For one full day I didn't feel like I was missing anything. There are always good moments, hours, chunks of time here or there, but not usually a whole day. Natasha and I went to Krasnavosk to play a recital. We hopped on a taxi at 10:00 and were lucky enough to get our cassette played and even luckier to have it played at a moderate volume! The taxi driver was nice, though he lied and charged 5,000 more manat than agreed upon, but for the tape success, I let it slide. We checked out the music school there and found the room in which we would perform: the Ruhnama room. The Ruhnama is the Turkmen people's sacred texts written by our current leader T____ the Great. The room was small but very comfortable. Pink curtains covered the floor to ceiling windows giving everyone a cheerful glow. About 25 instruments from balalaika to two full tubas lined the walls of the room. I asked. They are all the instruments which used to be taught here but aren't anymore.

People crammed into the classroom-sized room. I won't lie--our playing was mediocre. The piano was difficult (but in tune!) and everyone was close enough to hear all the noises a violin makes up close (yikes.) But by the time we were done there was a crowd outside the door, people craning their necks to see in.

We were presented with personalized and stamped records (official stamps are huge here) which I was extremely excited about! I know they don't use old records (who's buying a record player when the old one breaks?) and I know I could make great educational use out of them in the states. I was also given a strange clay vase, which seemed like more of an afterthought. Some woman went back to her room and appeared with this gray vase most likely off a shelf and made a little speech. "I'd like to present this gift as a memory..."

After the presents the director asked for some kind of encore. We played Czardas which was a hit. Lots of applause. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an old man to my left with a comically red nose attempt to start the Russian we-all-clap-together thing. He was clapping so vigorously that he brought his arms out to a full 180 degrees before slamming them back together--rather like a walrus.

Natasha and I were charmed by the whole day. Krasnavosk is on the Caspian Sea and hilly. The buildings are more European and everything looks a lot calmer and more pleasant there.

We finally tore ourselves away from tea and went to find a cab home. Finding a cab is terrible--they swarm you like vultures. "Where are you going girls!?" "Nebitdag?!" "Ashgabat?!" This time, however, we had two good choices: a relaxing ride with 3 of us women for 40,000 or an amusing group of men containing a young police officer who used his whistle to get our attention and "directed traffic" with his black and white stick towards his taxi. Temptingly humorous, but we went with the woman passenger instead.

Not everything went perfectly, but it made the perfect day nonetheless.

Essay #27 (The Meeting)

2005-04-29T14:09:00.000-07:00

The room was filled with all of the teachers. 15 to 20 white women (Russian, Armenian, and other nationalities) on one side of the Music School auditorium and 2 Turkmen men on the left. What follows are the words of a woman who can't live without her job. She was demoted purely because of race. During her speech the Turkmen said nothing.

"Alright people. Have a seat. Now as you know, the Commission was here yesterday, and we have a few new things to implement. I'm just telling you what they told me, so just hold on."

"First, our wall hangings and portraits are not up to date. The portrait with the ring needs to be replaced with the new ones, and the poetry and emblems should be new formats also. We should all have some form of a frame also."

"Okay, second, we need all classrooms to have the sacred text, which should be 50,000 manat at the bazaar. If you're teaching more than one student, you should be in a classroom with a Ruhnama."

"Next, we'll be congregating from now on in the music hall before 9:00 to sing the anthem. Our workday starts at 9:00, so at 8:55 you must be here to sing the anthem together every day."

"Lastly--please just listen while I get this out--our clothing is not appropriate. Men, your new uniform is black suit, black tie, white shirt and Turkmen cap. Women, you will wear green national dresses with white blouse. That's all."

Onslaught of blasphemous angry comments, not reported or reportable. Silence from the rest. Silence and sad eyes.

Great cultural steps forward for our people.

Note to Readers

2005-04-15T18:00:00.000-07:00

For new readers, posts are in order from newest to oldest. To get the full effect, start at the end!

Kari had intended to keep this site updated herself, but as she is not in the land of readily available email, she has had little opportunity to post since she got there. She has requested that we post many of her writings, all of which were handwritten and mailed. The letters take several weeks to get here.

If you write to her, the address is:
Turkmenistan
Balkan Velayat
Balkanabat
Central Post Office
Mail Box #38
Anderson, Karen
Turkmenistan

Send anything you'd like, but understand that things anyone might like (oreos, hershey's kisses, non-copy CD's. . .) probably won't make it past the post office workers! Hope you enjoy the stories!

Essay #26 (Woman's Day)

2005-04-10T17:46:00.000-07:00

Happy Dog's Day everyone!

Today is March 8th, known to most people as "Woman's Day". Unfortunately, there seems to be at least one out of our 4.5 million people not happy with the idea of celebrating women--other than his mother, that is. Yes, Women's Day in Turkmenistan has been officially moved to March 20th, the Great Man's mother's birthday. To add a touch of insult, he's given March 8th a new title: Day of the Alibi, the national Turkmen dog. Needless to say, the women here still celebrated each other, as opposed to, say, feeding the surviving stray dogs of Turkmenistan. Everywhere I went I was showered with congratulations and knowing smiles. Though we weren't able to wrench the remote control from the men's hands, we found successes in other ways. Less cooking, more good moods. Students gave us candy bars, and even the post office lady was chatty today! I, surprisingly enough, didn't hear a single mention of Dog's Day, and it's a good thing, too. I only learned about today's holiday in the evening, and in my volatile mental state, I think my first congratulator of "Dog's Day" might have gotten a sock in the face.

It also came to my attention that there was a "Man's Day" created, perhaps out of the strong desire for gender equity here in central Asia, but I'm not sure much is done here for Man's Day. I asked my family what we should have done for Man's Day: made dinner--check; ironed their clothes--check; set out tea twice a day--check; pass women over for job advancement based on gender--check; require women to cover their mouths when first married so they can't talk--check; allow men to get prostitutes because they need that and women don't--check . . .

I have a feeling men celebrated Man's Day just fine. Hopefully women can keep March 8th in their hearts and lives even if their mouths may have to commit to March 20th. Happy Dog's Day, wink, wink!

Essay #25 (Older Than Pushkin)

2005-04-09T06:03:00.000-07:00

The orchestra members took turns craning their necks to see who the visitor was standing outside their rehearsal. They were working on a Turkmen composition, but mostly they were counting the minutes until break time. Andrei and I stood outside giggling about how old their stands were and how bad the oboe player was. When he was in the group it was much better, he claims. Andrei graduated from the Conservatory last year and has a professional job in the city now. He is one of few people I’ve met who understand how far downhill the music program is sliding. He was the last Russian accepted into the school, and perhaps it’s only a matter of time until Western instruments are eliminated there along with the people.

At break, Andrei introduced me to the conductor, an older, balding man with charisma and control. Perhaps a routine for guests, he started gushing about how fantastic the Turkmen composer they were playing was, how close to the president this composer was, and how so tragically he died at only 43, wasting so much talent. Possibly due to language, or maybe general attitude, I then blurted out “older than Pushkin”. Hmm, now when I decided on the comment, it seemed like such a fantastic idea.

He froze and stared at me for a second before answering, “Yes, by six years,” and he gave me a sly smile. Had I broken the code?! Turkmen composers left the conversation immediately, and we moved on to what standard repertoire I’ve played. Could it be that Pushkin is somehow the secret word? I’d insulted him, and yet somehow we had an automatic understanding.

I was asked to listen to rehearsal, and he even had me introduce myself to the group. He asked, “Do you know the Beethoven Serenade? Let’s have you come in and play with us. What solo would you like to prepare?”

This is the most professional I’ve felt since arriving here. I’m not really an English teacher--I’m not a methodology expert. I’m a violinist who speaks Russian. I’m an orchestral player and a music librarian. When Peace Corps tells us to use the skills we have, I started with a music club for English speakers and an English talent show. Who knew I should really be soloing with a small conservatory group, planning a children’s concert series through local sponsors, and organizing and improving the music school’s library. The week I spent in Ashgabat was intended to teach us grant-writing techniques and show us successful project ideas. For me, it drove me away from English and revealed my own strengths and fields of expertise. I finally have a purpose!

Essay#24 (N_ and A__)

2005-04-08T19:25:00.000-07:00

It ended with “Can you help us?” but fortunately, for the ears in the walls, it started with “I have a friend who wants to find a job in America.” Their faces are always relaxed and anticipatory when the conversation starts. Then I have to tell them the truth. Unskilled workers with little to no English will find it very hard to live the stable life I lived in America. And no, the American Embassy won’t take bribes. No, not even for $3000. N___ and A___ sat across from me and showed more signs of actually taking the leap than anyone previous. They aren’t trying to leave in order to meet famous people or own a big car. They’re not running to, but away. They have less family connection and they have each other. My advice might be just what they need. Although A___’s brow wrinkles at any negative sign, he continues to ask. How much money would you need to start out? How possible is it to find a job?

Then there’s me. Do I encourage this dream? It is ethical, being in my position? I’m here to improve their lives, not move them away. Or am I here to improve the lives of Turkmen?

A few years back people were supposedly given a choice of citizenship if they previously had USSR or dual citizenship. My friend Nadia chose between Georgia and T-stan. A war or this. She chose this. N___ and A___ had no choice. I look at them again and ask, “But you’re Russian—why didn’t you leave with the Russians?” That being a moot point, I ask, “Wait, are you Russian?”

N___ tells me, “It’s so stupid! I am part German but from part of Russia where Germans lived before the war. My grandmother was so, so stupid, Kari. She left her village in Russia when things were bad there. She had two eggs and, I think, some bread. She wanted to go to Krasnadar, this beautiful, rich city in Russia, so she went to the train station and by mistake got on the train to Krasnavosk instead. So here I am!

I wonder if that grandmother has been torn out of a few family portraits over the years. A___ is the same. Germanish Russian. I think he blames it on a large deportation of people. T-stan is like the neighborhood of empty lots. You can picture good things happening so you stay put—but it can’t seem to get past what it has always been. A big, dirty, empty spot where people don’t feel guilty throwing glass bottles out the windows of their cars.

So I let them dream. I don’t normally allow it. I keep telling them obstacles upon obstacles until the furrowed brow is permanent, but N___ and A___ are real. Real people looking for reality. I can let them dream. I can bend my ethics just enough to visualize them teaching and buying groceries with a cart. The truth is—we wait and think and work and struggle and cry here. But all we want is to help with things the people actually need. If I give people computers, they’ll smile but their lives continue the same way. I can’t force people to educate themselves. They must ask for help.

Finally here is someone who wants help—just in a different light. N___ is a woman who wanted to study 2 subjects and receive 2 diplomas from the 2 or 3 year institutes and was told that you can’t get more than “one education” here. Perhaps there is still the “American Dream” in people’s hearts and minds. Perhaps it even exists for those who care enough. I always thought the American Dream was for dishwashers and waitresses, but I may have been wrong. I’ve had 10 years of music lessons from teachers with strong accents. Is there room for two more?

Essay #23 (Water)

2005-04-08T02:05:00.000-07:00

Living in the desert presents numerous challenges--sunburn, sandstorms, difficult farming, but most importantly, obtaining water. Everyone has their own system. Some have wells where the water is trucked in once in a while, some have canal water piped in from Ashgabat, and some have distillers.

In the city we have running water which is fairly clean but non-drinkable. It runs from about 6 a.m. to 11 a.m. and again from about 6 p.m. to 9 or 10 p.m. Even when running, it won't go upstairs to my bathroom. When I first arrived we had a pump that would get water upstairs when on, but not enough to shower, say, on off hours. One day, though, our pump died. Struck then with the horror which all the not-wealthy families face, we filled buckets and bathtubs during "on" hours and prepared for the worst. This system is common. In every public bathroom there is a toilet with a bucket of water on the floor in order to manually flush. The sink is a bucket and cup for pouring water over your hands.

So it was fortuante for us that it was during our non-pump week that there were 2 days where the city turned off the water altogether. Now picture the modern kitchen with no water. We boiled and filtered all cooking water, we had pails for dish water, the toilets sat unflushed for 2 days (foo!), and no one dared use the precious water for a shower. Our supply held us over, but all conversation out of my mother's mouth was about how one can't live without running water. How terrible is life without water!

We got a brand new pump that week. I can now shower any time of day (which, I have to say, doesn't convince me to do it more frequently), we can do laundry and dishes simultaneously, and we don't even have to drink water that sat in the bathtubs for a week. I'm definitely settling near a lake or stream later in life. I guess that rules out Phoenix.

Essay #22 Guncha

2005-03-31T01:27:00.000-08:00

My daughter has no teeth and it’s my fault. We brush them as much as anyone but I was sick when I was pregnant with her. It was harder then that it is now, contrary to traditional belief. I think I’m one of the only single mothers in this country. I live close to my family now, so I can work while they take care of Y_____. I had the traditional marriage but my husband had problems. Maybe he had them before we were married, but I couldn’t do anything about it. He was a heroin addict. I got pregnant with Y_____ when we had little money already. I didn’t have enough for food and most times my husband took his salary for drugs. I had anemia during the pregnancy and I think that’s why Y_____ has problems. She is normal in most ways – it’s just her teeth. I left him, which is difficult here. I am not supposed to marry again but I think if someone comes along, you never know. I work with kindergarteners and teach Turkmen language to Peace Corps volunteers in the fall. Sometime I hope I can learn enough English to get a job teaching Turkmen or Russian in America. Don’t you think 6 years with Peace Corps is a pretty good credential? I guess we’ll see. My American students tell me of all the luxury they have, yet they seem like children still. They have no sense of work ethic and sometimes it just makes me cry nights to way they refuse to try. Some even tell me they don’t want to learn my native language because it’s ugly! The nerve! I try so hard to be a good teacher for them. Turkmen language is not a bad language. Sometimes I sit and thank Allah that I live in Turkmenistan. After hearing about the wars in Afghanistan and the problems in Iraq. Things are so stable here and so the people are happy. All we want is peace so we can live our lives. Of course, there are always problems. I hope to have some changes so we can move forward more. I mean, when we vote here, there’s not one person I really want, so I just cross them off! I don’t want you, or you or you! But I’d never make a problem as long as I can live here with my daughter. I’ve already had enough drama for a lifetime. Maybe I’ll get English lessons for Y_____. She already talks so well for being so little. If I never make it to the US maybe she’ll be able to. My students tell me you can make $5 an hour at any job and that their apartments all have running water and bathrooms indoors. Even the cheapest. Sounds good to me! We have to walk over to my parents house to use her toilet since our apartment doesn’t have one. Maybe Y_____ could work for a firm as a translator and move then. Or maybe she could get that scholarship to study there in high school. Well, we’ll keep it in mind. It would just be nice to be able to give her something real in life. Something far from her broken family and broken teeth. Somewhere as safe and quiet as she deserves.

Essay #21 (Taxi-stands)

2005-02-25T11:14:00.000-08:00

Katie declares they’re hell on earth. Laura hates them. Courtnee wants to slam the piroshki lady’s head in the car door. I, however, have to give them another chance after yesterday’s experience.

We had pulled into the Serdar taxi station to find a ride to Balkanabat. Three white girls with three suitcases makes a sweet target. We hear shouts of various cities and calls for attention, but we ignore all voices besides our own for a few minutes.

Katie speaks the best Turkmen, so she begins the bargaining. The price is high as always, and they all snicker and elbow each other when we ask if the car has seatbelts. (Aren’t they the same people who weekly mourn friends and relatives who’ve died in accidents?) The price finally lowered, we put our bags in the trunk and begin the waiting period—there’s a 4th seat in the car and I’m not buying it out.

The snack sellers come over, and I automatically say “no” and hope they go away. These people generally follow refusals by repeatedly demanding, mocking us and our language attempts, and, at the least, following and staring. Katie has other plans. “What are you selling?” she asks the second boy who is following us, staring, but without wares to sell. He looks embarrassed and shakes his head and clicked 'no'. She teases him a little, and I feel a bit embarrassed at the exchange. This interchange, however, leads to a game of soccer played with a tiny inflated pink soccer ball. They kick it around for a while—2 boys and Katie—before she gets tired. Vocally tag-teamed, I jump in. In front of a bunch of onlookers—not even regular onlookers, but the obnoxious taxi-stand men—I claim my place in the sports world. It’s a pure Peace Corps experience. The boys are young and wear old clothes, the ball is not great, the sun is hot, and everyone’s watching the white girl. But today in this game they watch in kind amusement—not in lust or hatred, but in camaraderie.

Our 4th rider arrives, and we say goodbye 12 times to our new friends. I reach a hand out of the window to wave one last time when one of them grabs my hand and holds on, running beside the car as we pull out. I’m a local celebrity after a mere 20 minutes of positive communication. Hopefully three boys I just met will have a bit more respect for women, a little more patience with foreigners, a shred more respect for adults, and a great story to tell their families when they get home.

Essay #20 (Pochta)

2005-02-23T09:14:00.000-08:00

I'm almost up. The girl in front of me wears her hair down and stands on her tip-toes trying to see the shelf of cards behind the glass. Her jeans creak with the stretch and her face is confused. The woman behind the desk explains that she can't send a non-standard envelope through the mail. She'll have to choose one of the "Hallmark T-stan" cards with a giant picture of T___ the Great in order to send her oversized card to Russia. She looks at me, and we giggle as she tears open her already stamped and addressed envelope to shove its contents into some form of T-bashy's picture which will greatly confuse the recipient, no doubt.

I get to the counter and say I'd like to send two packages. We start the process quickly. I fill out one form and triplicate the form by hand while she itemizes the first package. The items are weighed individually and wrapped in white material. She hand sews the package closed and seals the seams with some black glue. I get a black ball-point pen to write the address directly on the material. As she attends to others in the fast-growing line, I sit down at a table with my first package. To my left is an old woman writing with black marker on what looks like a giant pillow. To my right is a man carefully writing a return address on some kind of giant banana. I bring my finished product to the young woman, and she charges me about a dollar, consults my passport, and then throws my package onto the general pile. I ask about my second and she replies that it's already 5:30 and they're closed. Closed?! I stare at her in disbelief. She's Turkmen and wears a Turkmen dress covered by a smock. She's tired from giving directions and yelling orders all day--not to mention listening to everyone's complaints--all for about $50 a month. I give in easily to her strength and resign myself to coming back tomorrow.

The next day I feel something's awry as I approach the doors. The power is out. She says they can't send packages without power. I give a laugh and say, "See you tomorrow!"

Day 3. I open the door of the post office and realize I've left my passport with Peace Corps today - no package sending. For good measure, I ask her - no go.

Day 4. We greet each other informally today and smile. I'm in! We get right to business, and in minutes my package is on the floor ready to go. Bidding adieu, I go about shopping for shoes and a coat. An hour down the road I hear someone calling to me. "Devushka!!" she yells. "Your passport! You left your passport at the post office!" Amazing! A strange woman who evidently also sent a package today saw my passport on the table and was told, no doubt, that if I'm spotted, she should direct me back to the post office! I run back and have a good laugh with my newest Turkmen friend and say goodbye for good.

Unfortunately, I now live in a new city with new postal ladies. I started off on the right foot here in Balkanabat. I've had little chats with the two workers and they seem friendly. My first package was successful, though it took a week of sitting in the office before everything was in order. The girl behind the desk, however, showed me how she sewed it together with great pride in her work. We check our mail often, and they get almost as excited as we do when a package comes! They know our names and the names of our loved ones.

I have been waging a secret battle against the recently mandated standard envelopes by sending my own and trying to slide it past them, but they're getting quicker. Whether to boost local envelope business or to begin sliding down the slippery slope towards outlawing foreign mail altogether, thin envelopes with "To:" and "From:" written in Turkmen are required for all mail. I wouldn't expect anything less, however, from the people who read our mail and reseal it with conspicuous-looking stickers. ("Mom, did you put Viagra stickers on your Chrismas card on purpose?"). We'll use the standard envelopes for now and someday, perhaps, the constitution will be upheld (which in Turkmenistan states all forms of communication are private). The irony will come when someone receives this essay with the last paragraph blackened out!

Cheers to the Turkmen postal service in all its glories!

Essay #19 (Rehearsal)

2005-02-22T17:30:00.000-08:00

During our 2 minute warming breaks we stand over the single electric burner that heats my room. N___'s heater was broken today, and it's especially cold outside. I wear a scarf even though it feels funny under my violin, and N___ has a shawl and sits on her fur coat for warmth. When our fingers are sufficiently simmered, we dash back to our instruments for another run-through. The piano is worse in my office, but we trade the instrument choice for heat.

A___, N___'s boyfriend who comes in from Ashgabat on days off, huddles in to turn pages and we begin. If we've both practiced, things go well. My ego is boosted by playing in my office since I always play more in-tune than the piano! The lower 2 octaves mostly play 2 notes at a time, and the octaves get a bit closer together as they go up. I'm surprised at how tough the pianos are considering they go from stiflingly hot summers to freezing winters with no air conditioning or heat. Natasha and I survive the cold through giggles, complaints, and desire to perform.

Our concert is planned for the 27th of Baydak. (They require teachers to use the new Turkmen months even in English class to force us all to learn them. I'll stick with the Turkmen months, so it you ever meet a Turkmen in America, you can understand each other since they won't know that another name for the months exists. At least our concert isn't in the month named after our great leader . . . or his mother-- January and November, respectively. Baydak is 'flag' in English.) We hope to have use of several heaters by then to make the auditorium warm, but at least the audience will be sympathetic.

Wish us luck!

Essay #18 (Didar)

2005-02-22T17:17:00.000-08:00

Didar leans his head back in his chair and says in Russian, "I want to sleep," and proceeds to make a snoring noise.

"Well," I respond in English, "you can sleep right here on the floor if you'd like! I don't mind, as long as you ask in English." He decides not to translate the comment. His second club of the day is music club, and after he requested to be allowed to stay "just in case it is interesting", I wasn't expecting the world out of Didar. He'd been to my conversation club religiously, but he snickers in the back when the comments get too advanced.

Last week after class we realized we lived near each other, and he declared we'd walk there together. He was obviously bored by the classical music I was teaching which outlined how stringed instruments sound, so I decided the kids could stand something a bit lighter. As it was rainy and cold, I taught them "It's raining, it's pouring". The song was a big hit, and Didar decided I was interesting enough. He and his slowly-growing pack of young, male, English-enthusiasts stayed to help me pack up my things and promptly stated in Russian, "We're with you." It was intended to mean we'd all walk home together, but I take it to mean they'll be sticking out this whole English-club idea even if there are some boring parts.

We tromped down the street in the rain--two 11-year-olds, two 12-year-olds, a 13-year-old and I--discussing the finer things in life such as how the Russian reality TV show everyone watches is dumb and how many sisters and brothers we all have. I let one of the boys drop my letters to America in the box, and we stopped at a kiosk to pick up a pen for Vanya. One by one they split off for home with a big "Bye-bye" and a "See you next week" from me. I'm so used to being laughed at and teased and heckled by neighborhood boys that I'm shocked at their interest and kindness towards me. Last to turn off the main road was Didar who stopped humming "It's raining, it's pouring" for a few seconds to yell "goodbye!"

I'm guessing he'll be back again next week!

Essay #17 (Gurban Bayram)

2005-02-22T16:59:00.000-08:00

Today we began the 3-day holiday of Gurban Bayram, which seems to translate roughly as "sheepskin curb piles," or else "now what part of the sheep am I eating--the what?!" Again, these are rough translations.

I went to my grandma's house for the first time, and we had plov, the national dish of Turkmenistan, and salad, which is cucumber, tomato, and onion sliced or in chunks with oil and salt. I then got a mystery call (How do you know my grandmother?) from Bibi with an invite to a real Turkmen celebration. I headed over, passing sheep slaughter after sheep slaughter. These are occurring on the main road through the city, and the families from 3 floors of apartments line up outside to "make dinner". It's as if State Street businesses had their clearance sales on the sidewalk while the employees killed and plucked chickens for their Caesar salads.

I managed to keep all the plov down even after watching blood drain and made it to Bibi's in time for--how did you guess?--unnamed parts of sheep. Yes, I had some liver and I even tried some lung, but no one was forcing sheep's head soup down my throat! No one! I met Bibi's sister who is quite pretty and kept her mobile phone at her side, though it didn't ring. We had Turkmen tea, and I switched back and forth between Russian and English which has become more natural recently. My Russian is better by the day. We played a few card games, and I decided to head home around 6:00.

I walked out to the street, hoping it would be empty of the sheep that were now filling bellies. I was close. The meat, yes, had been eaten, but now every corner had a 4 foot tall pile of sheepskins guarded by a person on each corner. I didn't feel the need to know the exact process (which would have necessitated standing near the skins long enough to ask), but I'm assuming they organized themselves into buyers and sellers of sheepskin, and the buyers were waiting for more sellers before they filled taxi trunks with wool and headed home!

Since this is a 3-day holiday there may be more surprises along the way, but perhaps I won't be strolling around during dinnertime anymore . . .

Essay #16 (N___)

2005-02-21T11:35:00.000-08:00

N___ has quickly become my counterpart #2 and local friend #1. I came to work today to find she’d cut herself bangs. I was so excited—she looked great! She’s tall with long hair and glasses. Sometimes she wonders why I’m here. It’s strange because when I explain the reasons, she still wonders. Then, again, so do I.

She doesn’t need anything from me and rarely asks for favors. This leads to her receiving more from me than anyone else. I say “no” when people ask for English lessons, but N___’s English improves every day we are together. She doesn’t want me to make her workload lighter, but instead she asks me to play concerts on the side and to work together.

Her boyfriend is in Ashgabat where she lived the past seven years while attending school. They can’t marry yet. She owes the government 2 years of work in the school of their choice in exchange for the education. He can’t get a work visa to move to her city because one has to find the job first and there just aren’t any. His name is A___, and he sits patiently whenever we rehearse together. He doesn’t get jealous or selfish with her time even though they see each other on weekends only.

Being from two different worlds can make for foreign feelings, but we have such a great deal in common that she makes me feel at home. I’ve had difficulty understanding why people don’t just leave here. Her presence helps explain this phenomenon. She wants things to improve here and has a startling understanding of the realities of life beyond T-stan. The fact that N___ has never considered moving out of her cute apartment and even farther from her already remote boyfriend makes me trust that there’s something worth saving here. I get frustrated and think of ways out. She gets frustrated and thinks of ways in. She trusts me and my work because she thinks of moving here as crazy. I trust her in return.

Of the many people who want to visit or move to the States, she is one who could actually be successful there. Somehow I feel that she wouldn’t have the culture shock any normal Turkmen would. We giggle about how long the mail takes although she’s never seen faster. She hates the inept piano tuners and longs to start her own music school.

Many people here ask for my help or my company out of greed and need. Many won’t stop asking. With N___ it’s refreshing not to be seen as “the American”, but just as a friend. I’ve felt like I needed her help, her connections, and her time. But today intuition tells me she needed my excitement over a simple thing like a haircut. I’m her window to reality in a way. She left her friends in Ashgabat and perhaps even in former lifetimes. I doubt anyone else she knows would express such excitement about a haircut, play music with her, speak English with her, enjoy the company of Andrei, and encourage big hopes for the future all in one day. She went from being rejected by the English Institute here because getting a 2nd degree is not allowed—(Yes, that’s right, folks—restricted education!)—to dreaming of performance opportunities and world travel. In the meantime we work on little things—convincing a father that his 8-year-old son doesn’t need a full size violin even though the small one isn’t very masculine, and finding a bucket to catch the water dripping from the ceiling.

We’ll probably spend the rest of our lives thanking each other, or at least trying to, for just being here. She’ll question how I could spend 2 years working at this music school when I could be somewhere else, and I’ll smile and ask her right back.

Essay #15 (New Years in Turkmenistan)

2005-01-05T09:04:00.000-08:00

Turkmenistan has economized all its holidays into one conglomerate called New Years. I was too busy celebrating to snap a picture of children in costumes waiting for Santa while we eat a feast, toasting to our health and family, at 12:00 midnight. Yes, our Halloween/Christmas/Thanksgiving/New Years party (and did I mention my sister's birthday is the 30th and my brother's is the 2nd?) was quite a sight. Is it the removal of all religious affiliation that moves it all to New Years, or is it just easier to get together only once a year?

The women began preparing several days ago, putting up decorations and setting up our tree. Santa is called "Father Freeze" here, and he sometimes looks like an old German representation--thin with a blue robe and a staff--while other times he is Santa to a T.

The salads alone took up the whole dinner table and took hours of chopping and mixing. I've never in my life seen two women make a picture-perfect feast absolutely from scratch. Everything was from scratch except the mayonnaise (which is a staple in most dishes). Several meats were cooked. Our Thanksgiving turkey was replaced with crow. Yes, crow. Even the men took part in making grilled shashlik, just like an American dad and his steak. Between vegetable chopping the women prepared for the night one tiny step at a time.

I'm in the kitchen, and before I realize she was gone, Fatima returns with her hair done and makes a cake. An hour later her make-up is in place and she's boiling pelmeni. We set up the meal upstairs with our nicest china, and at this point it's already 9:00 p.m. and I'm wondering when the heck we're going to actually eat.

The 3-year-old has been set up thoroughly for the arrival of Santa, and I wonder which grumbly, lazy man in our family will actually put on a red suit for any cause. The boy gets dressed up in a costume--he is Petrushka--or, to an American, a kind of Joker/Clown-type thing, and he is extremely cute. We sit down to our meal at about 11:15 p.m. and give a toast to our ongoing health and fortune and happiness . . . etc.

The toasts are necessary and always long and involved. The family digs in, and I can't imagine more being packed into one day, when we hear a clatter from downstairs, and my mom arises to see what was the matter! Santa arrives--a woman in a giant red suit with a Santa mask accompanied by a man with a Bayan (accordion, but pretty sounding) and a young girl. We drag Petrushka to see Santa, and after greeting him/her, Petrushka promptly cries. I'd be scared, too, if I thought that mask was a real face! This Santa doesn't just drop off a present. No, he/she comes to the feasting room and leads us in song and dance accompanied by the Bayan.

Petrushka gets used to the weird-looking Santa and has a blast. Even I am caught up in our little circle dance and song. Petrushka gets his present. Santa sits down for a toast and is off. Not a family member at all, as I could have guessed, but a genius entrepreneur! With Halloween over, we concentrate on finishing our meal and pouring champagne for a countdown. Of course to get the real time, we have to turn on the Turkmen station and listen to--guess who--until minus 15 seconds. (With no clock on the screen, we have to watch with rapt attention.) At 12:00 we toast with our champagne, and the kids run to the windows to look out.

Fireworks?!! It turns out that instead of a city-wide display, people merely shoot their own fireworks out the windows of their apartments! I've never liked huge firework shows, but for some reason this is so nice! Without regulations people set off real fireworks. The communal feelings soar, and I am proud to be here in a place where all people do things themselves. We cooked our own meal, all the neighborhood families set off one or two fireworks, and everyone gets to watch. There's a pride in independence that America tries to claim but has never felt. People here survive without help from kitchen gadgets and closet organizers.

After a few strong requests, I got out my violin and played Czardas for everyone, and they all enjoyed it more than I expected--even dad!

We set to opening presents. I had already bought and wrapped little gifts for everyone but felt quite guilty about the price and the fact that they weren't exciting. But it turns out--who knew?!?--that Turkmen are less materialistic than Americans! I gave hot chocolate, knitting needles, a small calculator and ruler set and a loofah. I think I was the big hit. My mom gave some bath supplies and, to me, a cotton dress (here, probably a nightgown) that I love! It cost a dollar here. It was wrapped in a plastic bag. So ended the Christmas holiday!

I walked around the city with my sister Aziza, and we mostly giggled at couples and talked of visiting California. I got to sleep around 3:30 and woke to a Thanksgiving leftover feeding frenzy and a viewing of the video we shot the night before. Hopefully I will get a copy so I can show everyone how convenient our overnight holiday season is!

Happy New Year!

Essay #14 (The Diet)

2005-01-04T08:25:00.000-08:00

"Mom, please! Mom! A cucumber, Mom, please," Aziza pleaded, or rather the pit in her stomach asked her to plead.

"Nope. Not allowed. Aziza, you're 14 years old and you have stretch marks! If we're on this diet, we're not cheating!" her mother fired back as she reached out and lifted the side of Aziza's shirt to reveal the cursed signs of weight-gain. They both giggled and set out to look at what inedidible, saltless, sugarless food they were to have for dinner. The diet plan come through a neighbor who promised they'd lose 12 kilos in 12 days. Their giggles were sucked back in when they read:

Day V:
Breakfast - Black coffee
Lunch - 1 large boiled carrot; 500 g. boiled fish
Dinner - Salad of raw cabbage and oil

The diet was almost bearable, save for the presence of the man of the house, Rustam. He weighs more than both of them together, probably due to his habit of eating mayonnaise straight from the jar with a larger than standard-sized spoon. When his poor, mildly chubby wife gave the candy dish a sidelong glance, he taunted, "Not allowed, Fatima!" as he licked butter and sour cream off his fingers one at a time. She failed to retort that the one who had had a heart attack and simultaneously had managed to swallow a giant bone that lodged itself in his throat, giving him chest pains twice over just two weeks ago, shouldn't really be the one to scold.

Fatima optimistically chopped cabbage and liberally poured oil over both portions. With a smile, she brought them into the living room and presented Aziza with dinner. They both sat, pushing their raw cabbage around their pools of oil, visualizing hot shish-kebabs and borsch.

"Mom, I can't eat this. I can't!" Aziza whined.

"Ooph. Me neither, Sweetie!" Fatima responded as they whimpered and giggled their way to the kitchen to dispose of the whole mess.

"She's too young to be that big," Fatima had argued four long days earlier. "She gets it from her father's side, but she certainly doesn't do anything to prevent it, sitting here all day."

"What do you mean I just sit here all day?!" Aziza shouted from the living room where she was sitting watching TV. "What should I do, run?!"

"Hey, I'll run with you, if you want." I said, hoping I could get some much-needed excercise out of this new leaf.

"Really? You will run? Okay! Let's go!" Aziza complied much faster than I had expected.

With that, we headed out to the heath walk, a 4k path set against the mountains that happens to contain more stairs than the Empire State Building. Agbar, Aziza's 16 year old brother, was happy to drive us with his newly gained privileges. Besides almost killing 8 old ladies and overusing the brakes almost as much as the speakers, he got us there safe and sound. With Aziza's enthusiasm in soprano range (a high Eb on a good day), we began a slow jog. Much to my dismay, that slow jog lasted approximately .13k before my chubby sister couldn't possbly carry herself any farther.

"Kari, please, just rest one minute! Just one minute, I'm so tired . . . so tired!" she once again pleaded, this time from her legs, leaning against the rail as if maimed by some unseen force.

"Aziza, come on. Just walk. We'll power walk. A nice brisk hike. Aziza!... AZIZA!"

The rest of the 4k, needless to say, had continued much the same, though I didn't blame her for not siphoning more energy out of her boiled carrot.

By Day 5 Aziza's enthusiasm was a mellow, warm-toned alto. We ran by day, and she begged for cucumbers by night. Though Fatima relented and let her eat 2 cucumbers and a mandarin after the inedible cabbage went down the garbage disposal, I believe her own softness may have come after I caught her on Day 3 drinking a beer in the closet and on Day 4 eating a chocolate bar while pretending to iron.

Just don't tell Aziza or she'll never finish her boiled egg and fish!

Essay #13 (The Theft)

2005-01-03T08:10:00.000-08:00

As uninteresting as theft is in most respects, I'd like to recount mine to all my internet viewers.

I was in Gypjak, hugging my little sister and listening to hand-washing instruction this past weekend. My older sister had her wedding ceremony--or ceremonies, as in turns out--and my house was the hot place to be. My little sister was glad to have her American pet back to play with, and I was happy to see friendly faces from the past, even if it is the recent past. The time passed slowly, however, as one toi turned into three. And it took a lot of effort to convince the girls that I don't need to scrub my hands for several minutes in freezing cold water--because I always bring toilet paper--no, no, not a page from a book--and my hands rarely get as dirty as yours evidently do.

By the last morning I am set to go, doing a last check around the house. Unfortunately as I look in my wallet for my passport (Don't leave home without it!), I find my 200,000 manat missing. I rifle through my bag thinking, " Could I have put it elsewhere?" My mother, seeing my distress, hands me a foreign comb and asks, "Is this it?". I quickly check for other missing things as the tears well up in my eyes. My mom looks confused, and I tell her my money is gone. She tells me not to cry but also exclaims, "Weee" at how much. It comes to about $8, but I need it for the taxi home. Meanwhile the discussion of "Who would do that?" and "Well, her bag was open on the floor, no wonder," comes at me in partailly intelligable phrases and as if there were a locked area anywhere in the house. I can't imagine what I'd have done if either my Ipod or my camera (both in the bag) had gone missing, but it might have included swearing in English and making numerous false accusations.

My mom gave a precious 200,000 manat to the still-crying-out-of-shame rich American without batting an eye. I deduced that the thief was probably someone we know well since our guests were close friends who know I'd have money and also who would be unable to use possessions which would be obviously mine. Either it was that, or it was the famed "Narco-man" who got blamed again. Narcomen are heroin users, and they get universal blame for petty theft. At any rate, I made it back safe and sound and am planning to give my family something in thanks the next time I visit.

Essay #12 (The 5th Grade Presentation I Never Did: Turkmenistan)

2005-01-02T20:07:00.000-08:00

Turkmenistan is a desert country situated east of the Caspian sea, north of Iran and south of Kazakstan and Uzbekistan. The capitol city of Ashgabat is close to Iran in the central south. There are few roads connecting the cities, but there is a paved road (sometimes only one usable lane) to Nebitdag, now renamed Balkanabat. On the way to Nebitdag one travels past roaming herds of camel, goat, cow, and sheep. There is also an above ground pipe that holds the water to the west. Someone once said that if you drive past a lake on the way to Nebitdag, you shouldn't expect a shower when you get there!

Trains run east to west overnight, and several of the large cities have airports. Nebitdag has approximately 110,000 people, and the country has 4.5 million. Though we assume the figures are correct, there would/could never be a census here. We also assume the numbers are fudged a bit by the government. The country is declared Muslim, but religion doesn't permeate life beyond the village. Many new mosques and government buildings are built yearly with (we figure) money from oil. Our velayat (like a state) is rich in oil, and we have an open contract with Russia giving us a great deal of money now, but many understand that it won't last forever. So we have many beautiful new "gifts from T____ the Great" to his people. There are taxes on business but not for regular citizens. The weather is like southern Indiana but with little precipitation. I won't miss it! The summers will be hot as heck, because of the desert climate. It really does look like a desert, especially out of town. For the most part, people own TVs and other conveniences. Cars are little needed because of the gypsy taxi system (which I adore).

The government is run on a purely micromanaged basis. All orders come directly from one person. Hakims are the local representatives. Most everything here works on a system of bribes. Colleges (and jobs for that matter) are techically free, but you have to have both connections as well as about $2000 given to the right person to enter. The education system runs 9 years. Just a few years back the 10th year was removed. College is supposedly 4 years, but I think it's more like 3. Army is not mandatory--for those that can finagle a way out (the draft to Vietnam?). But most go. The army is reportedly 2 years of fights, rough language, starvation, menial labor, and missing one's family. Some of the problems wth men here, I believe, may start in those two formative years. Marriage age is normally about 20-25, and most girls marry boys their own age. Many have large families here, but not overwhelming. 5 children is a bit above average. Literacy is officially 90-some percent, though I haven't met many who can read either Turkmen or Russian. The alphabet was changed from a modified cyrillic to a modified Latin alphabet in about 1995. Those out of school can't read Turkmen well, and Russian is not used officially enough to lean on. I believe literacy in the new alphabet is extremely low. Often young children read things to their parents.

Cotton is big here. The citizens as a whole are responsible for picking cotton during fall. Most is exported. The schools shut down, and older kids are bussed out to sites to pick. Many local leaders lose their jobs over low cotton numbers.

Turkmenistan wasn't ready to be on its own as we have very little production from start to finish. The economy is weak and we can't afford to import quality goods. We were the last country to leave the USSR after its collapse. We are, however, EXTREMELY, and I mean EXTREMELY proud of our independence. We are also neutral and quite proud of that as well. The people here feel safe from war in our neutral country and are therefore hesitant to critcize. Many Turkmen have said they thank Allah they were born here instead of, say, Afghanistan or any other nearby country that's had upsets. Turkmenistan is said to be a country to watch in the upcoming news. We are the only place left on earth with our unique problems and situation.

December 29 & 31 letter excerpts

2004-12-29T13:20:00.000-08:00

So I’ve been tutoring a woman in English who is quite Turkmen, and it turns out her sisters make the famous carpets of T-stan. I got to go watch them, and the process is amazing. Four of them sit in a line and tie the individual strands in a pattern that is quite intricate and totally memorized. Then they switch the base threads and pound—literally pound—the cross string against the finished side. Hard to explain but amazing to watch. These are the most valued objects to the Turkmen, selling at $200-300 each—even to natives.

I have the crazy idea that I’m going to learn, and the girls are willing to show me. So hopefully I’ll be able to observe them and then have them help me set up a small carpet (not room-sized like theirs), and I can work on it in my spare time!

I learned to knit this week, and I’ve knit myself almost 1/3 of a scarf, too. I love being in a situation where it’s normal to be learning things from scratch. At home there’s this pressure to do what you already excel at. Here I don’t have to worry about being bad. Of course, this is my first carpet. And so what? Hopefully that will start soon.

We started vacation today, but mostly I sit around and watch the news about the earthquake. And knit. I have a lot of planning to do this weekend for clubs that start in January.

So—a funny story . . . I’ve got hot water upstairs now, but it’s very tempermental and often the whole room smells of gas before the water’s hot enough to shower. I was taking my second shower upstairs ever when suddenly the water goes ice cold. I’ve seen family members in towels before, so I wrapped up and went down to finish my shower in the family bathroom. Little did I know that my family had two conservatively dressed Turkmen guests in the living room.

I barge in stammering something incoherent in Russian/Turkmen/English (Rurklish?) and proceed to freeze in embarrassment, dripping on the living room carpet, until I realize that the damage is done and I may as well continue to the bathroom. Minutes later my mom hands in a robe (hint, hint) for me to make a smoother exit. Culture fo-paux? (Hmm . . . not fluent in French yet.)

That’s actually the second blunder, though the first wasn’t my fault. They have no handle on the bathroom door, and during my first shower here, Agbar, my 15 year old brother, burst in on me. I squealed in time for him to turn away quickly, but he’s been the butt of endless, “I’m taking a shower later, Agbar, are you busy?” jokes until we got it out of our system.

New Year’s is tomorrow and I’m not sure what is going to happen. I got everyone small gifts and wrapped them up, but I don’t really know if it’s appropriate. That’s the hard part. It’s a guessing game. I can’t ask how much I should pay for a present because they’ll say I don’t need to buy one. I got little for my birthday from them, though, so I’m probably okay just having put in the effort.

I hope your—what—late January is going well.

Tell Grandma "hi"!

Love,
Kari
*******************************************************************************************
December 31, 2004

So, volunteer number 2 left today—again affecting me! Liz from Balkanabat took the dive! She and I were roommates in Chuli for the first 8 days, and she was the only other Russian speaker here. So that leaves me alone for the T-13s here. Balkan has been cursed with ETs [early terminations] recently, though, so we knew something was coming. She had been our unanimous vote for “most likely to marry a Turkmen”. So she’s back in the free land.

Strangely enough I got your second letter today, written on Dec. 12th. I actually got a letter that was written and received between phone calls!

As for the weather--it must be nice having a cold winter with snow! Here it’s just cold some days and not others. Today it was about 60 degrees and sunny. I hear we get no snow either. So I told all my students about what a “white Christmas” was and tried to live vicariously through my explanations.

So I’m going to be the warden of our velayat. I’d be excited about the nomination, but since Liz is gone, I’m the only one in the central city. So I’m it. I do get to go into Ashgabat Jan. 11-13 to get trained, which should be nice. Steve and Heidi—both great friends—are also going to be the wardens. So I should get my fabric from Nicole’s city brought in and have a nice reunion with good friends.

Say hi to Grandma!

Love,
Kari

Essay #11 (Two Meetings)

2004-12-23T19:52:00.000-08:00

I got up early this morning to prepare mentally for a planned meeting with Svetlana, the Bull of the Education Department. Our permission begins and ends with this woman whose personality can be felt in the sharp, ear-piercing whistle she makes when she says the letter "s". She's always in high heels, and her hair is in a beehive. Her work revolves around a 50 cent plastic phone into which she screeches out her plans. I come into the office to ask how to receive permission to work in the music school to which she conveniently responds, "You have no permission to do anything!" She accepts my plans for clubs at School #15 (her idea) with a whistle and remarks, "I see you have plans for 3 clubs. Good. Three clubs here," and then manages to mutter "not a third or fourth, just three" under her breath. Her office is plastered with maps from classrooms and plants from teachers' offices and still she asks when I can write grants for computers. I see she is without one. Eventually I leave the meeting with a vague concept of the theme of our conversation and a fresh reminder of my childish Russian skills.

While I am pondering how I can sneak my way into the permission-holding world, a woman notices my violin and asks if I'm the girl who plays at the music school. I reply that I am, checking over my shoulder for permission-hoarding Svetlana. Apparently this woman has been told that the violin program has been closed for years, and she is hoping her daughter can study with me. I tell her that I only take students with instruments, explaining that I'm a volunteer from America. She looks surprised and gushes over my Russian. This of course leads to the subject of English lessons--could her son learn? I discover that her son is in 5th grade at my school. "Well, I work there, too!" I say. I tell her to have her son sign up for my clubs. She tells me that both clubs and a violin are too expensive, and then she almost has a fit when I tell her the clubs are free. All this takes place on the street at a normal rate of speech . She practically pinches my cheeks right there, realizing a new hope for some education for her kids. She doesn't even realize that she's giving me a reason to stay and teach.

Each day my self-reflection goes from one extreme to the other. The higher level the person is, the less they want my presence. I didn't know until today how my presence can help one family in so many ways. I ignored Svetlana because of this mother. I teach secretly without the official stamp, and no one is the wiser. The mother saw that someone was willing to teach for free, and whether or not her kids take advantage of my presence, she knows there are people who want to help. I'm here to keep her spirits up as much as anything else.

And, in turn, I came home and studied Russian, understanding that if someone wants to make language difficult for you, they can. It's those who WANT to communicate that make language worth learning.

December 21 letter

2004-12-21T21:15:00.000-08:00

Mom,

The enclosed letter will probably be out of order--it was sent before the pictures, but it got returned to my box on account of too small an envelope! (Can you believe they took the time to return it with a note instead of throwing it out?) So I bet I won’t receive anything sent in a small envelope. I bet I sent a few already that weren’t received! That’s a lesson learned!

Anyway, I’m resending the other note here.

So I taught 2 new students at school, and they loved me. So far all of my students are great. At first I was worried about my bad Russian. But this next one (two) was a Turkmen family--twins! They understood my broken Russian and weren’t afraid to guess what I was saying. I was comfortable to do my normal craziness. Like pretend crying out in shock when positions are bad--or the evident wealth of strange noises I make. I think I’ll be great teaching foreigners on account of my beeps, gasps, oohs and ah, ah, ahs. I’ve figured out that I don’t do well right away in class because I’m not rough. The discipline here is nil. But one-on-one the kids are so well-behaved and scared of being hit or yelled at or given a bad grade. I think they’re very pleasantly surprised at my enthusiasm and happy to have a fun lesson for once!

Well, thanks for the barrage of phone calls I’ve been getting! I really needed to hear from everyone just to remember I still have family out there. It’s so much easier to be happy and to agree to stay when I’ve checked up at home and all is well. Sharon and I had a really long talk which was great! And it was nice to talk to Alice since I’ve been sending her letters and all. Okay, ‘til next time!

Love,
Kari

Essay #10 (Milk and Yogurt Satire)

2004-12-20T18:12:00.000-08:00

There’s been a topic bothering me here day to day. I need to dedicate some space to a discussion of milk and yogurt trafficking.

Now it may seem to the untrained eye that this kind of thing never happens in Turkmenistan, but I have seen with my very eyes trucks parked on the street with the back hatch open. Old women--old, seemingly distinguished women--crouch in the back of these trucks dispensing their products. Apparently in order to disguise themselves, they’ve donned large scarves over their heads making them look like the average law-abiding Turkmen. The milk is poured from buckets into large glass jars while money is subtly exchanged. These jars are unmarked and carried by hand with no lids on, perhaps to lessen the fingerprint evidence. The yogurt is more solid, spooned into a jar and then mixed with water.

As soon as the truck appears, the area crowds with buyers--right there on the street! I often wonder how the 17 year-old cop can stand idly a mere block away from a scene like this and not alert someone to these underhanded dealings. This back-of-a-truck milk and yogurt selling has gone too far, and I’m prepared, as a Peace Corps volunteer, to do whatever I can to put a stop to it. Just think--young children at home are getting this fresh milk daily! That’s every morning! And I assume the money is going straight to the old woman who goes right home to milk her cow.

Again! This country needs milk and yogurt reform! Who’s with me?!

December 19 letter

2004-12-19T21:08:00.000-08:00

Hi Mom!

I think perhaps the mail is just slow in general getting here, or they have lots of delays with the first few and it’ll get better. At any rate, I’ve only gotten the letter from Alice (her 2nd, but not 1st). I hope things aren’t lost.

Anyway, I received official permission to start my clubs yesterday! I have the stamp. Now I have to give a copy to the woman in charge, and I’m all set!

I’ve taken on an adult student who’s a doctor. She wants to learn English, and I figure I can pass her off to the health volunteer, Liz, if she gets far enough along. [Note to readers: Liz ended up leaving Turkmenistan to come home at the end of December.]

My birthday was great! I think low expectations is key. I’m not used to lots of birthday attention. My students made a big deal and got me a few very typical presents--chocolates, a picture frame/clock, a mug, a stuffed lion. The teachers got together on the sly and got me a cake with English writing on it (!) and a heavy collector’s statue of a camel. Ha! I think it’s something I’d never buy or display on my own, but it’ll be fun to have as a reminder.

I played violin for everyone in return. I’m getting the feeling that it’ll be easier to practice well in this new office I have! I spent 1.5 hours there yesterday when a student showed up without her instrument. I was able to play with no worries about how much noise I was making or how I sounded--I’m the only violinist over the age of 8!

I don’t know if I mentioned, but I went to all my superiors about my work permit. Peace Corps said it was great that I wanted to do extra work there and that I should talk to my local superior, the same head woman. Well, she said, quite ungracefully, no. She said I have no work permit and she’d advise me to stay at school #15. Well, great! I was miffed so I looked at the stamp in my passport and sure enough, I have the same darn work permit as everyone else. So I dangerously took things into my own hands and told my school that I have the stamp, so I’m cleared to work. We’ll see if that'll fly or not in the near future.

So today is Sunday. I love Sundays because I have absolutely nothing to do. I work both jobs on Saturdays, so Sunday is the only real break. So far I’ve read, listened to some music,, written some tutoring plans, and I’ll probably meet with Bibi to write plans for her classes today. I love having the whole upstairs to make noise or have peace and quiet. I think it’ll help the longevity of my existence with this family if I can just disappear once in a while--or every evening.

I still have a bad cold, but it’s easy to handle compared to the fever I had last week. I only lament the lack of tissues and ample toilet paper. I feel very stingy on the T.P. issue! Save, save, save!

Well, I thought you would call on Friday. (Scott said you had planned on it.) But it’s just as well. We had a special birthday dinner--Sprite and Coke were served! And a cake. Hopefully all is well at home. Say “hi” to anyone who asks! Grandma, too!

Love,
Kari

December 16 letter

2004-12-16T20:58:00.000-08:00

Well, enough has happened concerning the music school that I’d rather write the whole thing out. So this all began with a friend I met named Natasha who plays the piano. She is very cosmopolitan looking and has been excellent company. She’s 25 and teaches piano full-time at the music school. Upon meeting, we decided to play together and work up some music for a recital. She’s hampered by the teachers in T-stan and the necessity for her to accompany children all day, so she’s at the level of accompanying things like “Roumanian Folk Dances”, etc. We became good friends and I met her sister who worked as--guess what--the violin teacher at our school.

Turns out this sister is 18 years old, possibly not at all ready professionally to teach and perform and she knows it. Well, she took off back to Ashgabat saying she was young and didn’t want to start working yet. So here I am, the only violinist they know, willing to teach for free. Hmm.

Natasha pushed for me--surprisingly enough I have all the qualifications they need: a higher education degree from a University of Music. I met the director and he asked me, “Can you play?” and then, “Do you play from notes?”. So I passed that interview with flying colors.

I was given my own classroom without heat, but with a piano (go figure!). #23. I have a schedule now that has 4 students who were the only ones with real instruments. I taught my first lesson today with a student from school #15, and I couldn’t say much, but we got through it. The mom was there, probably to check my ability, but which I molded into getting instructions from me on how to practice at home with the girl. She seemed very attentive and has good potential. They just don’t have anywhere warm to play, and they’re probably distracted just like Americans. Anyway, the lesson part should be okay once I memorize some key phrases.

So today after my lesson the Director calls me into his office, and I assume it is for me to play for him (he’s been wanting to check my ability), but he had a strange grin on his face. I crossed my fingers, hoping he intended for me to retain all my clothing, but the conversation turns to his daughter. Turns out he wants to take advantage of my English for his own kid. !!!! But I act excited and say that of course his daughter can come and visit me and chat in my office any time I’m there! Hopefully she’ll become less interested as time passes.

On to another matter, he says, and wants to know if I have--then some word I don’t know. Well, I said, I don’t know what a ___ is, but I probably have it. Turns out it’s a work registration of some type that I need to work in the region. I have to have something in order to work here, but I don’t know what it is. So I figure, here it comes: I knew there’d be a problem with permission somehow. I’m the perfect candidate, trying to do work to which I wasn’t assigned! I called Peace Corps to find out, and they referred me to the Oldono (or education department) in Balkanabat, which is a scary lady who puts the smack down. I hope the whole thing doesn’t fall through. I want to think that this problem wouldn’t occur in the U.S., but I know it would be worse. I’d never be allowed to just up and work somewhere in the U.S. without my SS card, etc. So the saga begins, but I already began teaching, so I guess that’s half the battle.

I’ve been slacking at school a bit because I have so much to do now, but I just need a solid plan. I put sign-up sheets for 3 clubs of sorts and they were attacked by ravenous student-dogs and their pens. So I’ll probably have to weed out students with interviews. One kid signed up for my music school who takes German, not English. Well, he’s out. [Kari’s students have to be in the English program.] At least I know there’s interest. For the talent show I realize I’ll have to put every act together one by one and get each student to be in act on a one to one basis. I had thought they would have an idea of what to do. I do have a great English speaker who wants to be a “helper”, and I may find material and have her get the kids who can perform together and rehearse. At any rate, that’s on its way.

I’ve having less contact with the girl in my city who was the volunteer I most talked to and the only one who’s house I’ve been to. It’s hard to realize that although we randomly ended up together as the only 5 Americans in the city, we may not get along. I came here in part to relax myself and get used to being flexible and adaptable. There are 2 people who will never be flexible or relaxed, and it’s just as well that I stay away. Well, for now I have enough friends among the locals to turn to.

I still work half days, but I find myself overtired and swamped with un-deadlined work (i.e. practice, learn languages, create clubs). My hair is falling out, too. I feel downtrodden a lot. I may be sleeping too much recently, but I’ve also had a bad cold. (Who hasn’t here? Colds spread like you wouldn’t believe. It’s incredible.)

I find myself overly emotional, too, which is annoying. If I read a “Chicken Soup for the Soul”, I’d be crippled for hours. I feel like crying a lot, but mostly I just wax and wane on liking things here very quickly. Like in a matter of hours. I’ll have a great morning, but something at lunch will make me hate everyone and everything. I’d like to be at the point where I realize that everyone’s frustrated sometimes with or without reason. My emotions are reacting to--something--here. Maybe unfamiliarity or maybe high expectations of me from everyone. Some want me to tutor, start clubs, learn 2 languages, teach, and also do their own work for them. Then I have my own expectations of myself: being successful at everything everyone else wants. It seems like I shouldn’t feel pressure since I’m here as a volunteer, but no one’s expectations are related to how much I’m (not) being paid. They still want my best effort. I’ll have to learn either to say "no" or to accept myself even at an extremely un-perfect work level.

Anyway, I’ll find a way to describe my emotions better when I can figure them out. :)

Love,
Kari

December 8 letter

2004-12-08T06:16:00.000-08:00

Alice,

I got your second letter first, so I’m replying a bit out of order. It’s so nice to have questions to answer, though. So far I’ve been writing whatever I could think of and haven’t had much response because of the time it takes to send things. I’ll try to describe things a bit here.

I’m in a city of 110,000, so I don’t see the real desert until I go out of town. Then you exit the city and drive for hours past nothing but camels on the worst roads you could imagine. Then I see the real desert. My family here is quite wealthy, so they have none other than a Chevrolet. Most people take taxis here, so there is little need for a car.

In Gypjak the population was more openly Muslim, but the two legal religions here are Islam and Russian Orthodoxy. (Sorry Bob!) So the city, with a much higher foreign population, has more variety. Not many people practice religion (left over from Soviet times), and I don’t think our city has a church of any religion.

As for landowning, I know there are landlords here, but the entire city has planned apartments. I don’t think there is a house in the entire city, but people often buy apartments here. We have 2 floors and have redone most everything in ours to look new. Our neighbors (in the same building) have a slum, basically. Our house is unique in its indoor plumbing and the fact that we have a pump. Most families have no running water from about 10 am until 7 pm, but we can draw water all day. No one has a boiler, though, so water is only hot with a special gas boiler-contraption. (We have one for the shower.)

One of the great things here (I told Mom a bit about this) is their system of dressmaking. You can purchase 2 meters of material from a store for about $3-$5 in any color/variety. Then you ask around and find a good dressmaker. They are usually women whose husbands work but not enough. For another $3-$6 she makes the dress however you request in about 2 days. I love not having to search in stores, and I hate how nothing in the states ever fits. This way you get exactly what you need, and it always fits. Usually your own family sews your dresses, but my family here is not “Turkmen” enough.

I wouldn’t worry too hard about not being able to visit. It’s really a pit here, and the things I love about it have grown through my connections to things. The postcards, I believe, are about the only thing the department of tourism puts out because they are extremely unwelcoming of visitors. They don’t like our presence here very much either. I assume by now you’ve seen descriptions I’ve sent to different people. I’ll keep up writing while I'm here for sure. I have an almost insatiable need to write something every day whether it be a journal, a letter, or an essay. Mom and I talked a while about your family and their current plans, but I would love to hear updates!

Right now, actually, I am sitting in a Turkmen language class (the students speak Russian natively) because it’s one of the 6 rooms in our school with heat. We teach with winter coats on and ‘visit’ the heated rooms as much as possible. Rumor has it that some rich kids’ parents bought heaters for the classrooms that their kids are in. That’s the routine here. There’s a strange dichotomy between attempting to make everyone and everything equal, and, on the other hand, surviving by who you know.

I hope my letters aren’t too negative, but I’m hoping to create as honest a picture as I can! It was great to hear from you! Keep writing!

Love,
Kari

Essay #9 (My Counterpart)

2004-11-29T06:47:00.000-08:00

Bibi sat at our meeting at the Peace Corps office in her her jeans skirt trying depserately to memorize the names of all the Volunteers so as not to miss a bit of interesting gossip. A Supervisor or Counterpart was to attend a weekend in Ashgabat to go over expectations and plans with us. While most of the Counterparts tried to schmooze with the other well-to-do Supervisor types, Bibi Isgenovna regailed the PC Volunteers with her camp song entitled "Nature Nuts". She is 24, always has a smile on her face, and is continually disciplined by her school director NOT to wear the watch with bells on it as well as to cut down on rings.

The first thing she asked about me was my name and birthday (which has yet to pass). At the mention of my family visiting from America, she gets instantly excited and asks, "May I be introduced?!"

Her classroom discipline is tough--she carries a stick--but the students all like her even though she calls them crazy. Thought not yet married, boys are often on the brain. She claims there are no good men in Turkmenistan, and so far I can't prove her wrong.

In the one week I've been here, we've attended at least 4 one-hour clubs per week, she works in school for 35 classes a week, and she has lesson plans neatly written in her spare time. On one particularly rough day for me, she told me she never shows her emotions. She smiles, listens, and lets it go. I don't know where she gets the strength, but she is more put-together than anyone I've seen.

Some Volunteers report that their Counterpart is drunk at work, and some are unwilling to accept a Volunteer. Some are too busy, and some are impatient. All that trouble--and here I have a girl who shows up at my house to take me to a wedding as an equal with all of her colleagues. I have the perfect social butterfly ("Butterfly" was her camp name at Nature Nuts English Camp--fitting!) to include me in the lives of my co-workers.

Cheers to Bibi!!

November 28 letter

2004-11-28T06:18:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm here!

I met Wayne Wildman's Turkmen twin who just happens to work in our English department at school. What a coincidence! He speaks in a very careful and polite British accent. Today I observed one of his classes. Before class he had said, "I would like to extend to you an invitation to my class which will be taking place next hour here at School Number 15 in Room 27." Once, during a class where teachers from around the city observed, (I know . . . on my 3rd day in town!), we were teaching a lesson and mentioned that it was unexpected. He piped up with, "Ah yes . . . unexpected like a winter storm." Later he came and said, "I truly apologize, Karen, for I meant to add that it was as unexpected as a winter storm IN MAY. I swear he's Wayne Wildman's ESL counterpersonality.

So far it's been hard to figure out what's really going to work at my school. The teachers seem to think I'm here as an expert in order to critique their classes, so I've seen a lot of great students answering pre-planned questions. Teachers get "checked on" a lot, but always through a strange list of necessities for classes. Like they get yelled at for not writing the month (the newly created months) in both languages on the board every day, but not given credit for creative classes. During the open lesson I mentioned that we did a Thanksgiving class that was very full of learning and practice. We were told that it wasn't REALLY a class, but more of a seminar. No new grammar introduced.

So hopefully I'll start music soon. I'll be playing for classes and doing a short lecture on orchestral instruments to get interest up.

Oh, yeah, and our school doesn't have heat--except 6 classrooms. Why? Because whoever has those teachers has rich parents that bought heaters for their kids' classes. These are also the kids with the most experienced teachers. Go figure. :)

Love,
Kari

Essay #8 (Music)

2004-11-27T10:53:00.000-08:00

It's hard to actually listen to a song objectively here, but with the help of boredom and earplugs, I've finally been successful. I attended the infamous "toi" yesterday. The word is used for any big party but mostly for weddings. The musicians consisted of an electric guitar player, a synthesizer, a singer, and someone doing something unknown to me but on stage nonetheless. The dislike of the toi music spreads pretty wide among PCVs, and even the locals admit freely that "it's just too darn loud!" The beat varies somewhat, but it almost always uses a fast beat with a 2 against 3 feel. The melodic instruments play in three but the beat always makes listeners clap in 2 (which amazingly enough, they do consistently at the right time). The melody is played by a synthesized sound much like an accordion or oboe. The melody is improvised upon, and here's where the description gets fuzzy. I'm not sure if they follow a key or set of notes or if the choice is random. They are not in a single scale, and sometimes I'm convinced the keyboardist can't hear the background he's on top of. The mode, if there is one, may be drowned out by the fact that the beat comes from a button on the synth or a taped recording. Many times on TV the instrumentalists merely play over a prerecorded song, so I have yet to learn the real intricacies of Turkmen music.

Traditional music exists here and is a far cry from the horror of the toi. The group is made of a single drum held on one's lap and played with the hands, an erhu-type violin with four strings tuned in fourths, and a dutar, which is a small pear-shaped guitar. They play melodies on both, and I've only heard a couple of songs by this type of group. The music schools teach these instruments and have cancelled most Western music programs. I look forward to learning the erhu, as Balkanabat has a music school. My hope is that the country continues their traditional music and people start either to develop past, or to regress from, synthesizer music. I know if I ever marry a Turkmen, there will be no blaring synthesizer at my wedding. :)

Essay #7 (Balkanabat so far)

2004-11-27T08:14:00.000-08:00

Seeing Balkanabat through rose-colored glasses has given me a few skewed ideas. I've been in the city for exactly one week, and for the first time I took my eyes off the nearby mountains long enough to notice the number of used needles lying on the ground. Maybe it's just my block (I hear it's not), but the moment I saw my first dirty needle, I started counting. Within ten steps the count was at four. I've already noticed the broken-glass-ridden playground near my building. They evidently don't believe in woodchips here! The drug problem supposedly comes across from A-stan. We call heroin users and sellers "Narcomen", and they are easily noticed. On my first late night out my mother made sure I had someone to walk me home-- specifically because of Narcomen.

My route to school is down a main road, so I've mostly seen businesses. In a startling revelation, we now understand how illogical business is here. No one takes the time to clearly mark their stores. No one ever puts on sales. If there is low demand and high supply, no one thinks to lower their prices. The store workers couldn't care less. The end result is our depleting economy and a bunch of unhappy store owners.

I mentioned rose-colored glasses because of my family setup here. I have a great cook for a mother, easy communication, and my own floor for peace and quiet. I don't think I have as much potential for strong bonds as the people living with Turkmen families do, but I'll take the convenience for all it's worth.

Taxis here are cheap and easy. 2000 anywhere within city limits. The atmosphere is overwhelmingly Russian, which makes the school completely undisciplined, but the city life more comfortable. I can dress as I wish and most Turkmen rules of culture don't apply. I hear the city is very rough overall--it's compared to New York in that respect--but I find the people very personable after meeting them. I'll just have to keep my head down and walk with a purpose through the streets, and hopefully I won't be bothered!

Hello!

2004-11-27T01:07:00.000-08:00

It's so hard to get at a computer around here!! I was so happy to see people writing and updating!! That's the best xmas gift I can think of. I'll try to keep getting letters out! Balkanabat is great, and I'm sure you'll hear more of it in the next two years! Best wishes to all!
kari

November 14 Christmas notes

2004-11-14T17:13:00.000-08:00

Mom,

Ah, the thrills of preparing for the holidays before Thanksgiving. I guess this is what people who write Christmas cards every year feel like. I think I would excel at sending Christmas cards on time.

Today is my last day at site, and I'm very sad! I got a new dress to wear, and hopefully soon I'll have pictures of me dressed like a Turkmen bride. :) My mother has been away for 2 days, so I've bonded with my dad a bit and also done some cooking in the fly-ridden hell-trap that is an outdoor kitchen.

I almost wish I had requested a Turkmen family instead of a Russian family, though I will like the language practice. We had a test scored on "Novice/Intermediate/Advanced" with "low/mid/high". I got an "Intermediate-low" (very good) in Turkmen and and "Intermediate-mid" in Russian. My teacher assures me that Russian is much harder, but it's still a bit funny. I talk more with my family here now, and I think they like me. I shake things up a bit, but overall it's been nice.

We will have our "fun week" in Ashgabat where we will all pretend to listen to lectures on the alcohol policy, and then we will be officially "sworn in" on Nov. 19th. Then I'm a real Volunteer. (So far, I guess, it's been mostly vacation!)

*****************************************************************************************

Michael A-dot,

How's the knee?

So, Turkmenistan's desert beauty is starting to grow on me. Though "The Economist" evidently rated T-stan as the worst place to live in 2004, I'm not sure that I'm as uncomfortable as they'd like me to believe.

I have some really awesome friends here, but in a week we're all leaving. My friends all will live in Dashoguz region, and I'm way the heck over in Nebitdag in Balkan. So I'm pretty much stuck for a good long time all by myself. That should be a good test. I couldn't tell Mom (haha), but I feel very directionless here. We haven't been on our own yet, and we sometimes don't know what kind of help anyone even wants. Are we just patronizing the people here? Well, the best or worst part is that I have nothing really to do in the States, so I have no reason to give up. It seems so far from college here, yet it's all the "2 years" idea. We have no grades, no annoying University stuff, but we still have this structure and ladder of power and 2-year deadline that makes it feel like a "Camping Master's Degree". I'll have had a class on outdoor cooking, using a hole as a toilet, and luggage carrying, but not much more. :)

So, how are Margo and school in general? Gee, I'm going to sound like dad here-- "So, hey, what classes are you taking? Are you still in engineering?" In 2 years I'll still think you're in engineering even if you're in art or something.

I'm sorry I couldn't send any real presents--I sent what's here. I figure the bracelets are manly because they're made of camel hair, and camel's spit and are hairy. Plus, if anyone asks, you can say it protects you from the evil eye which, from what I hear, is pretty bad.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

***********************************************************************************

Sharon,

Well, since they don't really have Christmas here, I'm using the UW cards I brought from home. I hope all is well with you. It's only November 13th or so, but I haven't heard anything from you other than Mom's reports.

I'm on my last day here at Gypjak. I've had so much more success with my family recently. I tested well in Turkmen, so I've been more confident. Now I have to go, and PC policy is that I can't leave my new site for 3 months--even to visit country nationals. Thumbs down!! So I think I'll be in a bit of a slump for the first month at least in Balkanabat.

I've been meaning to tell you that your skirt is about the best skirt ever! It's exactly what I'm supposed to have. I've had two dresses made here, but they're pretty traditional and conservative. Anyway, I feel like I fit in okay here, and I now think a lot about the work we're doing.

I definitely realize it's not the toughing it out that makes people leave, but rather the Peace Corps falling off its pedestal. Everyone thinks it such a life-changing, monumental thing to do, but really it's just like anything else. Anyone can make it through.

My mom here has been out of town (a rare occurrence here) for 2 or 3 days, so I got to do some cooking and a bit of "servant work" for my dad. He's actually a cool guy and would never ask me to do anything, but I felt responsible as the only girl. I'm going to take lessons in Turkmen sewing, etc. at my permanent site.

Well, this is sort of a Christmas card, so I'll apologize for the obvious lack of cool presents. :) If any of the stuff I sent appeals to you, fight for it. I made the bag with the zipper for you, though! It's a very early sewing attempt. I was still trying to work the pedals correctly. Anyway, good thoughts to you, and have a merry Christmas! Tell every family member who cares that I'm doing well, and make it sound sincere and personal. :) Miss you!

Love,
Kari

November 8 letter

2004-11-08T11:41:00.000-08:00

11/8/04
Dear Alice,

Well, here I am sitting on the floor (pillows are our only furniture) on my last week with my family. Right now my crazy grandma, that they claim is 83, is muttering and wandering around flipping on and off lights whenever she sees need. She’s the superhero of light switches. As soon as it starts getting dark, there she is. If she were 83, she’d have had my mom at age 60 or so, so I think she’s more like 65. The women here age very quickly. I told grandma (in the states) it’s probably the lack of iodine but I think it’s more like constant work outside in the sun or bent over a sewing machine. The women, once they are married, cover their hair always, which doesn’t help them look young. The strange thing is the young people look old also. We mistake 12 or 13 year-old girls for 22 year-olds. They don’t have clothes for young people. They just have very small adult clothes.

My house here in Gypjak is right out of a National Geographic magazine. The animals wake me up in the morning (usually a rooster/cow duet at about 6:30 am) and my sisters run down the street and hug me when I come home every day. My mother makes bread every 2-3 days which consists of sticking bread to the wall of an outdoor oven with her bare hands. The women work all day and all evening preparing food, cleaning, and taking care of the animals. The...
(my grandma just came up and checked my temperature and kissed me on the cheek)
...the men go to work but are used to such a different level of hard labor. The men are perfectly comfortable going to any house of a friend or neighbor and accepting food service and tea any time of the day. My father here is one of the nicest Turkmen men and still rarely spends time at home unless he’s watching TV.

The kids are very happy here and love any attention I give them. Their education is far behind kids in the states but for such a vast number of reasons that it’s hard to find things in schools to pinpoint and work on changing. Kids copy to be nice to each other to the extent that all homework is identical. The teachers let the best students call out every answer and tell without embarrassment who the ‘lazy' or ‘stupid’ students are right in front of them. The kids have very little creativity and even art class is basically copying pictures of famous paintings.

We’ve had trouble getting used to the way the government works here but the longer I’m here the more I learn. I should just accept it as a learning tool. We’re in a very pivotal time in this country’s history and we can’t do anything but watch. Our frustration will end up lying more in things like gender inequality that we see on a very personal level or the trials of starting programs that the people don’t join. There are so many people that don’t understand why we’re here. They are told and believe that they are an advanced country. People ask which is better, America or Turkmenistan. They ask if they have ‘said household item’ in America. They tell me Turkmen language is the most difficult in the world (it’s not). I want to explain that we volunteer to help developing nations and what that means, but we’re here to gain trust, not make enemies. Politics is off-limits and many are appalled at my dislike of Pres. Bush. (Them's fightin’ words?) What I realize is that Peace Corps people quit not because they’re not tough enough, but because not only is it hard to know why we’re here and what to do, but we’ll never know if the things we did made any measurable difference. I could co-teach here and give my counterpart a day off here and there, or I could increase literacy by great margins. We just won’t know if our programs help. For goal-driven Americans that’s a difficult proposition.

Music here is also in a sense developing. The country is encouraging going back to traditional musical instruments instead of Western which is ‘fun’ to say the least but I think there are ways to teach Western music if students have the desire. My school in Balkanabat is quite wealthy compared to the village so I’ll have to assess everything again when I get there.

Well, I hope this was information you’d like to hear! If you want, you can type it up on karianderson.blogspot.com and add to my small collection! Best wishes and thoughts! Tell Stew and Andrew I say “hi!”

Love, Kari

Essay #6 (Flies)

2004-11-07T20:28:00.000-08:00

My sister's bride price party was beautiful! The guests loved it. My sister was great.

But each of the 50 guests left behind 12 flies, and they all wanted to live in my room. I had a little breakdown and swatted about 50 flies while my family, no doubt, sat in the other room discussing how strange Americans are. Exhausted, I finally went to sleep only to wake up to a house once again free of flies.

Dead, you ask? No, I later found out that what I had thought was a strange dancing ritual is really a fly-clearing technique. My first night in my house the women had appeared in my room and had waved scarves in the air while walking the length of the room towards the door. Evidently they also performed the fly dance after my sister's bride price party and successfully removed the entire population of flies in Turkmenistan in a few short minutes.

I can just picture them wondering why this strange girl wants to keep the dead flies instead of just waving them out with scarves like any normal person.

They are used to flies, unfortunately, since flies are present at every meal and on every animal they own. Telling a Turkmen woman to prepare food cleanly is like telling her to serve only food prepared entirely under a mosquito net in covered cups with straws to a family hiding under blankets in a very warm room.

Essay #5 (Transportation)

2004-11-05T16:17:00.000-08:00

The newest fad here in Turkmenistan is lane dividers on the highway. Previously, I marveled at the smooth drivers that swerved every which direction to pass slow traffic on this road with unofficial speed limits and bribe prices. Now, with lane markers, I can see which lane we're not in. The long drives from city to city are all done by taxi (any car on the road you desire to flag down) or Marshutka, a big private van usually without shocks (likewise, flagged down). I love the convenience of picking up a ride anywhere but often feel like the drivers may want more than 5000 Manat, as I've had several hand-holding attempts and some lively discussions about the price. "How much?", I say after getting in. "What do you mean how much?" and a big, gold-toothed smile.

I haven't sampled trains, but if they're anything like Russia, I'll be enjoying either a drunk man, a snoring man, or a drunk, snoring man in my cabin at all times.

Walking would be the transportation favorite in most cases, but the sun makes long walks unbearable. A few people here have bikes, but they aren't used often. Motorcycles with side cars, (I haven't seen a motorcycle without a sidecar yet), are mostly for fun, and I'm not allowed to ride them anywhere.

The crazy thing is--there are airplanes that fly in-country. The planes are new and trustworthy, and flights are about $1.50 anywhere in the country. The trouble is finding a ticket in the world of family favors. A taxi from Balkan to Ashgabat takes 4 hours and costs $4.00. A flight takes 45 minutes and costs $1.50. Go figure.

I'm sure taxi story after taxi story could be written by anyone. Half of our lives here are taken up finding, bargaining for, and riding public transportation.

Next to taxis are buses. For the less wealthy and more time-available customer, a bus can be taken anywhere in our Welayat for 1,000 manat (10 cents). The buses range from a normal European packed-with-people bus to a downright frightening scabies-ridden deathtrap with holes in the floor and actual chairs sitting on wooden planks driven by the oldest living Turkmen in a country without prescription glasses. When buses pass mosques here, everyone does a short prayer by sweeping their hands across their face. They do it out of reverance for the mosque, and I do it to get help surviving the ride from anyone who'll listen to a bus full of Muslims. Of course, the bus driver does it long enough to take his hands from the wheel so the bus can slowly veer into a lane.

Essay #4 (Sewing)

2004-11-03T18:53:00.000-08:00

Watching my sister sew makes me question the value of money. Here I am able to do little more than think with my college degree, and I can't imagine learning the intricacy of stitchwork. These patterns of thick, entirely stitch-filled swirls are worn as borders on the necks of traditional Turkmen dresses as well as around the ankle-cuffs of womens undergarments (and yes, their undergarments reach their ankles).

The dresses are simple, always covering shoulder and elbow, with a few different options of neckline. The popular fabric currently has very small flower print, though Americans have a hard time believing they could stand a full dress of small-pattern flowers. We buy the material for a few dollars at the bazaar, and for a few more dollars a sibling or family friend assembles a koynek. Some come out like potato sacks and others like princess gowns. In the villages this is the only acceptable attire. For formal affairs, such as a wedding, they bring out the similarly shaped dress made of decorative felt. While dresses on the whole met with some resistance, we soon found that if we had to wear long sleeves and skirts to the ankle, this was certainly the best and most comfortable option.

Men wear suits to everything, and boys from kindergarten on wear full suits to school. Too bad their behavior doesn't match their attire! Ironing is very "in" here, of course done every morning by the women of the house. The men wake up and shave themselves (which I believe if women could do for them, they would), returning inside to warmly ironed dress shirts and a hot breakfast. At school everyone's appearance is of utmost importance as can be observed on the Turkmen television station. Cleaned and pressed without a creative stitch to be found. If only the women could stitch art as opposed to well-established patterns, this place could make some money! Until then we'll all just wear matching outfits and call it a day!

November 2 letter

2004-11-02T20:28:00.000-08:00

Well, since that letter I’ve had another interesting experience. Went to a birthday party for a 16 year-old and the whole neighborhood came. Turns out—at your party you still serve the men first, and when each of them has food, you serve the women. Then you and your friends sit down Cinderella-style to eat the more plentiful foods (no fruits/vegetables) in the back room of the kitchen. I hate men here. I find myself falling into the same patterns.

Today was pretty enjoyable. My mother made fresh bread, which involves sticking your arms literally inside an oven and sticking dough to a wall. It hangs there and cooks! We all sat around and scarfed fresh bread and talked about our visiting half-crazy grandma. She can’t hear so someone always has to get up and yell right in her ear to answer her questions. While I was sewing once she asked me to mend something quick and then patted me on the head and kissed my cheek in thanks upon completion. I don’t think she really knows who I am though!

I’m used to the food again and haven’t been as sick as some other people. I’ve been annoyed with my American group-mates for various reasons, but I’m starting to see that’s inevitable. It’s how you deal with it that counts.

Well, I’m off to sleep. This will be dropped in the mail on the 3rd, so you’ll be seeing it hopefully before Thanksgiving!

[Rec’d 11/20]