My sitemate finished her 27 months of service last week. Sending her on her way was one of my more bittersweet Peace Corps experiences. But I have plenty of happy and rewarding memories of our time together to help me survive the winter without her.
I am aware that that last sentence reads like the unhappy ending to some sort of teenage melodrama so let me rephrase: I will miss her gas heat, reliable electricity and the 4 burners on her stove. I am far too practical to resort to crying jags. (Haha.)
Leslie taught me some important PCV survival skills:
There is no such thing as too much toilet paper. One should have at least six rolls in reserve at any given time.
Sometimes the only way to recover from a particularly rough day is make obscene quantities of popcorn and watch Mama Mia. (Singing along with Meryl Streep is optional. Sorta.)
Whenever at a loss about what to make for dinner, there will always be surplus of chicken noodle soup in the pantry.
Leslie also made my life just a little bit easier:
She read The Economist magazines my mother sent so that I didn’t have to.
She always did the washing up. (I have always had a tendency to never do my dishes.)
She single-handedly taught the majority of the shopkeepers in our city the English words for most of the foodstuffs on my shopping lists.
She left me an incredible collection of DVDs (albeit frustratingly non-sequential ones.)
She left me her internet-enabled phone. Which will be awesome. As soon as I figure out how to use it…
But the more entertaining aspects of our give and take relationship aside, I am going to miss her more than I am willing to admit in cyberspace. We made a great team. It takes a special sort of person to serve in this region. And she made it the two full years.
Enjoy that steak (and the indoor plumbing), Leslie. You’ve earned it. J
Monday, November 22, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
The 'Candy Holiday' Extravaganza
A few days before Halloween I was over at my neighbours’ drinking tea, and trying to figure out the logistics of having a costume party in the village.
Due to my lack of imagination the best way I could think to explain Halloween in Azerbaijani was as ‘the candy holiday for children.’ I thought it was a pretty accurate description. Fortunately, someone realised I was talking about Halloween. Although the revelation that such a holiday actually exists caused much laughter - the mother of the family had been sure I’d been joking. America really is a strange and wonderful place.
(But Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory is better.)
I went out and bought an obscene amount of candy from the village store. If nothing else, I could eat it myself. The resulting purchase of two kilos of refined sugar in various forms confused the shopkeeper. Remember this is the guy I buy my mass quantities of spinach and carrots from. I was acting a little bit out of character.
Sunday was a grey and rainy day. Which did not bode well for the mini costume party I had planned for my 6th graders. (The 6th grade English textbook has a text on Halloween.)
The final count was six kids. Three of whom were my landlady’s children (and therefore live across the street.) But I did have one student come who traveled from the opposite side of the village. The other two were my Director’s granddaughters. The number is un-important.
Most importantly: There were costumes. Properly thought out and elaborately executed costumes. There was a pirate – complete with eye patch, goatee and skull and cross bones flag. There was a wizard- complete with starry cone hat and black cape. There was a princess – complete with fur stole and heels. There was a vampire – whose costume consisted of turning up the collar of a black trench-coat yet was very effective. (If said coat had been a few sizes bigger I would have stolen it for myself.) So I’d like to think I spent Halloween in the company of Jack Sparrow, Harry Potter, Princess Anastasia and a distant relative of Edward Cullen. I was so impressed I took pictures.
I’m pretty sure these kids put more thought into their costumes than I have ever put into any of my own. I didn’t dress up especially for the party, but I feel like the bizarre collection of clothing I had to wear in order to stay warm qualifies as a rather convincing impersonation of Miss. Haversham, if she had lived during the 21st century in Azerbaijan. (I would like to take this opportunity to admit the only version I have ever read of Great Expectations was written for 9-year-olds.)
Then we spent a rather enjoyable hour drawing and playing party games. I tried to get the kids to draw jack o’laterns, but my good intentions were thwarted by culture. Pumpkins in Azerbaijan just aren’t shaped that way. Due to improper instruments (read: blunt knife) I had to abandon my attempt to carve a pumpkin. Which was probably the best possible outcome for all involved. Then we played Time Bingo (got to educate at every opportunity) and pin the tail on the donkey. A good time was had by all.
I would consider it a definitive success. Even if the concept of consuming mass quanities of candy was lost on the majority of the attendees – that’s OK more for me!
Due to my lack of imagination the best way I could think to explain Halloween in Azerbaijani was as ‘the candy holiday for children.’ I thought it was a pretty accurate description. Fortunately, someone realised I was talking about Halloween. Although the revelation that such a holiday actually exists caused much laughter - the mother of the family had been sure I’d been joking. America really is a strange and wonderful place.
(But Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory is better.)
I went out and bought an obscene amount of candy from the village store. If nothing else, I could eat it myself. The resulting purchase of two kilos of refined sugar in various forms confused the shopkeeper. Remember this is the guy I buy my mass quantities of spinach and carrots from. I was acting a little bit out of character.
Sunday was a grey and rainy day. Which did not bode well for the mini costume party I had planned for my 6th graders. (The 6th grade English textbook has a text on Halloween.)
The final count was six kids. Three of whom were my landlady’s children (and therefore live across the street.) But I did have one student come who traveled from the opposite side of the village. The other two were my Director’s granddaughters. The number is un-important.
Most importantly: There were costumes. Properly thought out and elaborately executed costumes. There was a pirate – complete with eye patch, goatee and skull and cross bones flag. There was a wizard- complete with starry cone hat and black cape. There was a princess – complete with fur stole and heels. There was a vampire – whose costume consisted of turning up the collar of a black trench-coat yet was very effective. (If said coat had been a few sizes bigger I would have stolen it for myself.) So I’d like to think I spent Halloween in the company of Jack Sparrow, Harry Potter, Princess Anastasia and a distant relative of Edward Cullen. I was so impressed I took pictures.
I’m pretty sure these kids put more thought into their costumes than I have ever put into any of my own. I didn’t dress up especially for the party, but I feel like the bizarre collection of clothing I had to wear in order to stay warm qualifies as a rather convincing impersonation of Miss. Haversham, if she had lived during the 21st century in Azerbaijan. (I would like to take this opportunity to admit the only version I have ever read of Great Expectations was written for 9-year-olds.)
Then we spent a rather enjoyable hour drawing and playing party games. I tried to get the kids to draw jack o’laterns, but my good intentions were thwarted by culture. Pumpkins in Azerbaijan just aren’t shaped that way. Due to improper instruments (read: blunt knife) I had to abandon my attempt to carve a pumpkin. Which was probably the best possible outcome for all involved. Then we played Time Bingo (got to educate at every opportunity) and pin the tail on the donkey. A good time was had by all.
I would consider it a definitive success. Even if the concept of consuming mass quanities of candy was lost on the majority of the attendees – that’s OK more for me!
Friday, October 29, 2010
Xeyala Means 'Dream'
I only get to spend 1 hour a week with Latifa's 8th form class. I don't get a chance to visit with Tofig's section at all. And by this age, the students have either decided whether they want to learn English or not. (The motivated kids get a spot in my clubs. The others I don't see outside of that single hour of class)
Today. I was working with this class. On Monday, they had talked about 'if clauses' and Latifa said no one really understood the concept.
So I wrote "If I had a million dollars, I would...." on the blackboard. Then I went around the classroom and asked each student what they would do with a million dollars. Everyone willing participated. A feat in itself. Most were the standard answers you would expect. ' I would buy a house.' ' I would buy a car.' 'I would travel around the world.' Xeyala was the last girl to speak: ' I would use half the money to buy a house for my family. I would give the other half to charity.' I was blown away. I've never heard anyone in this country refer to charities, let alone giving money to such an organisation. I was impressed
Then I wrote "If I could be someone famous or important, I would want to be..." on the blackboard. The majority of the students wanted to be various actors and actresses or popstars of the Eurovision variety. Some of the boys wanted to be footballers. The usual stuff. Some had more realistic ambitions. One boy wanted to be a policeman. One girl wanted to be a university director.
Then Xeyala spoke up again: "If I could be someone famous or important I would want to be a Peace Corps Volunteer like Miss. Melissa, so I could travel to different countries and teach and help people."
You could have knocked me over with a feather.
This girl is one of the students that transferred into Latifa's section from Tofig's class at the start of the year because she said she wasn't learning English in the other class. She sought me out to ask for a place in my most advanced club, and promised she would keep up. And she has. In fact she's probably the hardest working. . She is a quiet, studious (and clearly very thoughtful) young lady.
Her name is Xeyala Xeyala translates from Azerbaijani as dream or day-dream.
And it wasn't so much the inherent compliment in her statement. Or that she said the whole sentence in English. It was the fact that my mere presence in the classroom inspired Xeyala to dream for herself
I don't always feel like my monkey like antics at the front of the classroom make all that much of a difference in my students' learning process. Or that my presence in the village is little more than the foreigner who lives in the half-built house with no TV and occasionally shows up for tea or a meal.
But when little moments like today happen. I realise that it doesn't matter if I'm not the best or most creative teacher in the world. Or that I am not a bad person if I don't leave my house every single afternoon to socialise with my neighbours.
I am here.
That simple fact makes all the difference in the world to the people of a village In one of the most looked-down upon regions in the country. More than I will probably ever realise.
Today. I was working with this class. On Monday, they had talked about 'if clauses' and Latifa said no one really understood the concept.
So I wrote "If I had a million dollars, I would...." on the blackboard. Then I went around the classroom and asked each student what they would do with a million dollars. Everyone willing participated. A feat in itself. Most were the standard answers you would expect. ' I would buy a house.' ' I would buy a car.' 'I would travel around the world.' Xeyala was the last girl to speak: ' I would use half the money to buy a house for my family. I would give the other half to charity.' I was blown away. I've never heard anyone in this country refer to charities, let alone giving money to such an organisation. I was impressed
Then I wrote "If I could be someone famous or important, I would want to be..." on the blackboard. The majority of the students wanted to be various actors and actresses or popstars of the Eurovision variety. Some of the boys wanted to be footballers. The usual stuff. Some had more realistic ambitions. One boy wanted to be a policeman. One girl wanted to be a university director.
Then Xeyala spoke up again: "If I could be someone famous or important I would want to be a Peace Corps Volunteer like Miss. Melissa, so I could travel to different countries and teach and help people."
You could have knocked me over with a feather.
This girl is one of the students that transferred into Latifa's section from Tofig's class at the start of the year because she said she wasn't learning English in the other class. She sought me out to ask for a place in my most advanced club, and promised she would keep up. And she has. In fact she's probably the hardest working. . She is a quiet, studious (and clearly very thoughtful) young lady.
Her name is Xeyala Xeyala translates from Azerbaijani as dream or day-dream.
And it wasn't so much the inherent compliment in her statement. Or that she said the whole sentence in English. It was the fact that my mere presence in the classroom inspired Xeyala to dream for herself
I don't always feel like my monkey like antics at the front of the classroom make all that much of a difference in my students' learning process. Or that my presence in the village is little more than the foreigner who lives in the half-built house with no TV and occasionally shows up for tea or a meal.
But when little moments like today happen. I realise that it doesn't matter if I'm not the best or most creative teacher in the world. Or that I am not a bad person if I don't leave my house every single afternoon to socialise with my neighbours.
I am here.
That simple fact makes all the difference in the world to the people of a village In one of the most looked-down upon regions in the country. More than I will probably ever realise.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Colour-Coded Chaos
One of the man things I do outside of the classroom is run after-school activities.
These are very popular with the children. Too popular in fact.
When I held the first conversation club meeting kids I’ve never even seen before appeared at desks. Suddenly I had twenty kids in the classroom instead of the ten I was expecting. Oops. I guess the news of last week’s sign up session didn’t get around to everyone interested.
When you have twenty kids in a classroom built for twelve it is hard to teach. Consider also that these kids are trying to learn a foreign language (and that I am trying to teach in a foreign language). Moreover, it felt like every kid had a different schedule to adhere too: I can only come to this session. I don’t want to come to a class with 6th graders; I am in the 8th grade. I went to go straight home after school to have lunch.
In short it was chaos. I couldn’t teach anything. And it gave me a headache.
I am glad that so many of my students want to learn English. But I am only one person. I am physically incapable of teaching all these kids at once. (There are another thirty students scheduled for another day.) But I don’t want to exclude anyone, thereby enforcing the idea that only the strongest students have earned my attention outside of classroom hours. My philosophy is that anyone who wants to learn should be able to learn. But how does one solve the ‘overbooking problem’? (This isn’t an airplane. I can’t give away free tickets.)
I was in a bit of a quandary. What to do? So I employed a very wise piece of Peace Corps wisdom. Let the students chose when they come.
I put twenty-seven pieces of paper in a bag. Nine pieces were blue. Nine pieces were yellow. Nine pieces were purple. The students picked a piece of paper. If you picked blue, you could come in October. If you picked yellow, you could come in November. If you picked purple, you could come in January.
Everyone gets to come. Everyone is happy (albeit the January kids are a little bit impatient.)
I will have to see if everything works out was nicely as the theory suggests it will. I doubt it. More likely it will just be colour-coded chaos. But at least I tried.
Wish me luck!
These are very popular with the children. Too popular in fact.
When I held the first conversation club meeting kids I’ve never even seen before appeared at desks. Suddenly I had twenty kids in the classroom instead of the ten I was expecting. Oops. I guess the news of last week’s sign up session didn’t get around to everyone interested.
When you have twenty kids in a classroom built for twelve it is hard to teach. Consider also that these kids are trying to learn a foreign language (and that I am trying to teach in a foreign language). Moreover, it felt like every kid had a different schedule to adhere too: I can only come to this session. I don’t want to come to a class with 6th graders; I am in the 8th grade. I went to go straight home after school to have lunch.
In short it was chaos. I couldn’t teach anything. And it gave me a headache.
I am glad that so many of my students want to learn English. But I am only one person. I am physically incapable of teaching all these kids at once. (There are another thirty students scheduled for another day.) But I don’t want to exclude anyone, thereby enforcing the idea that only the strongest students have earned my attention outside of classroom hours. My philosophy is that anyone who wants to learn should be able to learn. But how does one solve the ‘overbooking problem’? (This isn’t an airplane. I can’t give away free tickets.)
I was in a bit of a quandary. What to do? So I employed a very wise piece of Peace Corps wisdom. Let the students chose when they come.
I put twenty-seven pieces of paper in a bag. Nine pieces were blue. Nine pieces were yellow. Nine pieces were purple. The students picked a piece of paper. If you picked blue, you could come in October. If you picked yellow, you could come in November. If you picked purple, you could come in January.
Everyone gets to come. Everyone is happy (albeit the January kids are a little bit impatient.)
I will have to see if everything works out was nicely as the theory suggests it will. I doubt it. More likely it will just be colour-coded chaos. But at least I tried.
Wish me luck!
Measuring Sustainability
Sustainability is a Peace Corps ‘watch word’.
As volunteers we serve our community for two years. We work like crazy to accomplish as much as we can in those 24 months because we worry that there will be no one to continue our work after our service is complete. Which is why we are all very conscious of trying to pass our skills, ideas and projects on to other community members. The most sure-fire way of ensuring we have a lasting impact on our community is to make the developments we introduce ‘sustainable.’ - to give the community the tools to help themselves.
This week on three different occasions I realized that my work over the last year has already started to show signs of sustainability. Success!
ONE:
I saw one of the teachers I worked with this summer at the Salyan library this past weekend. I was happy to see her and asked how the school year had started for her. She was eager to tell me about the ways she had put the techniques we had discussed during our sessions into practice. She said she had devised an activity to check students’ Question-and-Answer ability. She brought a ball into the classroom and threw the ball to each student asking a question. The student had to reply and throw the ball to another student and ask a question of him or her. I was so excited. I have been trying to introduce this activity into my own classrooms. She also said she had drawn a card for each letter of the alphabet and would bring them next time to show me.
Interactive classroom activities AND visual aids! (And I’ve never even set foot into the school where she teaches!)
Back in Kerimbeyli I have also noticed the impact I have had.
TWO:
First: a teacher I didn’t get to work with much last year actually REQUESTED that I work with her in her classroom.
Second: When we were discussing the sorts of things we could do in the lessons, she pointed out to me that the Teacher’s Book says we SHOULD sing songs in class. (This is the teacher that was very confused when I taught the parts of the body to students using the song ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” last year.
THREE:
And as unpredictable as ever…Tofig has thrown me for a loop yet again. But in a positive respect this time. It has come to my attention that Tofig decided his class of 5th form students all needed some extra tuition. So in response he’s started his own ‘gratis’ after-school club out of his house three days a week. I must admit to being a little bit skeptical that such a thing is actually happening. (Or what sort of thing he is teaching there.) I plan to investigate.
So there you have it: three instances of sustainability that occurred due to teachers’ initiative with little or no interference from me. (‘BY’ instead of ‘WITH’). I am quite proud of my counterparts and colleagues, and very happy that they have acknowledged the merits of some of the crazy stuff I get up to in and out of the classroom and implemented them in their own classrooms. Success!
As volunteers we serve our community for two years. We work like crazy to accomplish as much as we can in those 24 months because we worry that there will be no one to continue our work after our service is complete. Which is why we are all very conscious of trying to pass our skills, ideas and projects on to other community members. The most sure-fire way of ensuring we have a lasting impact on our community is to make the developments we introduce ‘sustainable.’ - to give the community the tools to help themselves.
This week on three different occasions I realized that my work over the last year has already started to show signs of sustainability. Success!
ONE:
I saw one of the teachers I worked with this summer at the Salyan library this past weekend. I was happy to see her and asked how the school year had started for her. She was eager to tell me about the ways she had put the techniques we had discussed during our sessions into practice. She said she had devised an activity to check students’ Question-and-Answer ability. She brought a ball into the classroom and threw the ball to each student asking a question. The student had to reply and throw the ball to another student and ask a question of him or her. I was so excited. I have been trying to introduce this activity into my own classrooms. She also said she had drawn a card for each letter of the alphabet and would bring them next time to show me.
Interactive classroom activities AND visual aids! (And I’ve never even set foot into the school where she teaches!)
Back in Kerimbeyli I have also noticed the impact I have had.
TWO:
First: a teacher I didn’t get to work with much last year actually REQUESTED that I work with her in her classroom.
Second: When we were discussing the sorts of things we could do in the lessons, she pointed out to me that the Teacher’s Book says we SHOULD sing songs in class. (This is the teacher that was very confused when I taught the parts of the body to students using the song ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” last year.
THREE:
And as unpredictable as ever…Tofig has thrown me for a loop yet again. But in a positive respect this time. It has come to my attention that Tofig decided his class of 5th form students all needed some extra tuition. So in response he’s started his own ‘gratis’ after-school club out of his house three days a week. I must admit to being a little bit skeptical that such a thing is actually happening. (Or what sort of thing he is teaching there.) I plan to investigate.
So there you have it: three instances of sustainability that occurred due to teachers’ initiative with little or no interference from me. (‘BY’ instead of ‘WITH’). I am quite proud of my counterparts and colleagues, and very happy that they have acknowledged the merits of some of the crazy stuff I get up to in and out of the classroom and implemented them in their own classrooms. Success!
Five Reasons I Love 7B
I’m not going to lie. I have a favourite class. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I can’t help it.
Here are some excerpts from class this week. See for yourself.
M: Has anyone ever been to London?
Student N: In my dreams
(He said this in English. )
M: *writes ‘I’m in a hurry’ on the blackboard* What does this say?
Student O: I’m Hungry!
(This was especially funny because it was the lesson before lunch.)
M: *explains possessive and object pronouns at length* Does everyone understand?
Student O: We learned this in 5th form. Of course we do.
Five Reasons I Love 7B
I’m not going to lie. I have a favourite class. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I can’t help it.
Here are some excerpts from class this week. See for yourself.
M: Has anyone ever been to London?
Student N: In my dreams
(He said this in English. )
M: *writes ‘I’m in a hurry’ on the blackboard* What does this say?
Student O: I’m Hungry!
(This was especially funny because it was the lesson before lunch.)
M: *explains possessive and object pronouns at length* Does everyone understand?
Student O: We learned this in 5th form. Of course we do.
(Well. That will teach me to over-simplify.)
M: Did you do the homework?
Student E: No. I was lazy.
(Give him credit for being honest).
Student N: *writes the vocabulary for the day on the board*
M: Very good. Everything is correct.
Students E and N: Teacher there are four different spelling mistakes in the words.
M: *genuinely confused* Where? Come to the blackboard and show me.
(Clearly I need to re-learn the ‘i before e except after c’ rule. Oops.)
M: Did you do the homework?
Student E: No. I was lazy.
(Give him credit for being honest).
Student N: *writes the vocabulary for the day on the board*
M: Very good. Everything is correct.
Students E and N: Teacher there are four different spelling mistakes in the words.
M: *genuinely confused* Where? Come to the blackboard and show me.
(Clearly I need to re-learn the ‘i before e except after c’ rule. Oops.)
Here are some excerpts from class this week. See for yourself.
M: Has anyone ever been to London?
Student N: In my dreams
(He said this in English. )
M: *writes ‘I’m in a hurry’ on the blackboard* What does this say?
Student O: I’m Hungry!
(This was especially funny because it was the lesson before lunch.)
M: *explains possessive and object pronouns at length* Does everyone understand?
Student O: We learned this in 5th form. Of course we do.
Five Reasons I Love 7B
I’m not going to lie. I have a favourite class. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I can’t help it.
Here are some excerpts from class this week. See for yourself.
M: Has anyone ever been to London?
Student N: In my dreams
(He said this in English. )
M: *writes ‘I’m in a hurry’ on the blackboard* What does this say?
Student O: I’m Hungry!
(This was especially funny because it was the lesson before lunch.)
M: *explains possessive and object pronouns at length* Does everyone understand?
Student O: We learned this in 5th form. Of course we do.
(Well. That will teach me to over-simplify.)
M: Did you do the homework?
Student E: No. I was lazy.
(Give him credit for being honest).
Student N: *writes the vocabulary for the day on the board*
M: Very good. Everything is correct.
Students E and N: Teacher there are four different spelling mistakes in the words.
M: *genuinely confused* Where? Come to the blackboard and show me.
(Clearly I need to re-learn the ‘i before e except after c’ rule. Oops.)
M: Did you do the homework?
Student E: No. I was lazy.
(Give him credit for being honest).
Student N: *writes the vocabulary for the day on the board*
M: Very good. Everything is correct.
Students E and N: Teacher there are four different spelling mistakes in the words.
M: *genuinely confused* Where? Come to the blackboard and show me.
(Clearly I need to re-learn the ‘i before e except after c’ rule. Oops.)
A Year in TV: A Companion Piece
I have to admit I’ve also watched a fair amount of TV over the past year. Of particular note:
Glee: Season 1
Bones: Seasons 1-5
Mad Men: Seasons 1-3
Which seems like a rather uninspiring list. Until you convert those numbers into individual hours. Personally I haven’t done the math, mostly because I’m sure I would hate myself.
Suffice to say: there was a solid three week period this summer where I watched at least 3 episodes of Bones a day. (It’s addictive!)
I’m sure the list will grow exponentially this winter when I inherit my site-mate’s DVD collection. (As long as the power holds out.)
Any other ‘can’t miss TV’ I should try to find-borrow-buy? I’m open to suggestions.
Glee: Season 1
Bones: Seasons 1-5
Mad Men: Seasons 1-3
Which seems like a rather uninspiring list. Until you convert those numbers into individual hours. Personally I haven’t done the math, mostly because I’m sure I would hate myself.
Suffice to say: there was a solid three week period this summer where I watched at least 3 episodes of Bones a day. (It’s addictive!)
I’m sure the list will grow exponentially this winter when I inherit my site-mate’s DVD collection. (As long as the power holds out.)
Any other ‘can’t miss TV’ I should try to find-borrow-buy? I’m open to suggestions.
A Year In Books
I’ve read a lot this year. Recently a few people have asked what sort of books I’ve been reading. Being the nerd that I am, I’ve kept a list. There are also two sentence summaries of each book; a list of favourite quotations and a running page count in a notebook with the list. But let’s not get carried away.
Yes. I am aware it is heavy on the Soviet inspired stuff. And that Dostie and Dickens are conspicuously absent. Oops. Don’t judge me for the presence of Chick-Lit.
* denotes the books I recommend
+ denotes the books I’ve read before
- Azerbaijan Diary: T. Goltz
- Suite Francaise: I. Nemirovsky
- Eat Pray Love: E. Glibert
- House For Mr. Biswas: VS Naipaul
- Someone Else’s Daughter: ??
- Belong to Me: M. de Los Santos
- A Dive From Clauson’s Pier: A. Packer
- Love Walked In: M. de Los Santos
- Out Stealing Horses: P. Petterson
- A Kiss For Maddelena: C. Castellani
- Chasing Harry Winston: L Weisberger
- The Jane Austen Book Club: K.J Fowler
- My Sister’s Keeper: J. Picoult
- The Bronze Horseman: P. Simmons * +
- The Soloist: S. Lopez
- The Freedom Writer’s Diary: E. Grunwell
- Confessions of a Shopaholic: S. Kinsella
- The Story of Edgar Sawtelle: D. Woblenski *
- The English: A Portrait of a People: J. Paxman
- Revolutionary Road: R. Yates
- Like Water For Chocolate: L Esquivel *
- A Window Across the River: B. Morton
- The Secret Speech: T.R. Smith
- Crossing Washington Square: J. Rendell
- Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society: M.A. Shaffer *
- Water For Elephants: S. Gruen * * * (READ THIS!)
- Lost and Found: J. Sigaloff
- Julie and Julia: J. Powell
- Me Talk Pretty One Day: D. Sedaris
- Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard: K. Desai
- The Mermaid Chair: S.M. Kidd
- A Tree Grows In Brooklyn: B. Smith *
- The Shipping News: E.A. Prolux
- The Joy Luck Club: A. Tan
- Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: J. le Carre
- The Heretic’s Daughter: K. Kent
- Girls of Riyadh: R. Alsanea *
- The Other Queen: P. Gregory
- How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents: J. Alvarez
- The Girl in Hyacinth Blue: S. Vreeland
- The Yiddish Policemen’s Union: M. Chabon
- Two Years in Poland and Other Stories: A Peace Corps Memoir: L. Siddell
- Harvesting the Heart: J. Picoult
- How Soccer Explains the World: F. Foer
- Bliss, Remembered: F. Deford
- The Angel of Grozny: Orphans of a Forgotten War: A. Seierstad
- Nineteen Minutes: J. Picoult *
- The White Tiger: A. Adiga
- Rumour Has It: J. Mansell
- Africa United: S. Bloomfield
- The Piano Tuner: D. Mason
- The Other Side of the Story: M. Keyes
- Absurdistan: G. Shteyngart *
- The Red Scarf: K. Furnivall
- Marley and Me: J. Groban
- The Secret Life of Bees: S.M. Kidd +
And the most quotable entry in the quotation collection:
“[Dressed] Like a missionary, her cousins will say, like one of those Peace Corps girls who have let themselves go so as to do dubious good in the world.” - How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents
This little gem inserts itself into almost every conversation my site-mate and I have about the deterioration of our wardrobes.
Yes. I am aware it is heavy on the Soviet inspired stuff. And that Dostie and Dickens are conspicuously absent. Oops. Don’t judge me for the presence of Chick-Lit.
* denotes the books I recommend
+ denotes the books I’ve read before
- Azerbaijan Diary: T. Goltz
- Suite Francaise: I. Nemirovsky
- Eat Pray Love: E. Glibert
- House For Mr. Biswas: VS Naipaul
- Someone Else’s Daughter: ??
- Belong to Me: M. de Los Santos
- A Dive From Clauson’s Pier: A. Packer
- Love Walked In: M. de Los Santos
- Out Stealing Horses: P. Petterson
- A Kiss For Maddelena: C. Castellani
- Chasing Harry Winston: L Weisberger
- The Jane Austen Book Club: K.J Fowler
- My Sister’s Keeper: J. Picoult
- The Bronze Horseman: P. Simmons * +
- The Soloist: S. Lopez
- The Freedom Writer’s Diary: E. Grunwell
- Confessions of a Shopaholic: S. Kinsella
- The Story of Edgar Sawtelle: D. Woblenski *
- The English: A Portrait of a People: J. Paxman
- Revolutionary Road: R. Yates
- Like Water For Chocolate: L Esquivel *
- A Window Across the River: B. Morton
- The Secret Speech: T.R. Smith
- Crossing Washington Square: J. Rendell
- Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society: M.A. Shaffer *
- Water For Elephants: S. Gruen * * * (READ THIS!)
- Lost and Found: J. Sigaloff
- Julie and Julia: J. Powell
- Me Talk Pretty One Day: D. Sedaris
- Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard: K. Desai
- The Mermaid Chair: S.M. Kidd
- A Tree Grows In Brooklyn: B. Smith *
- The Shipping News: E.A. Prolux
- The Joy Luck Club: A. Tan
- Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: J. le Carre
- The Heretic’s Daughter: K. Kent
- Girls of Riyadh: R. Alsanea *
- The Other Queen: P. Gregory
- How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents: J. Alvarez
- The Girl in Hyacinth Blue: S. Vreeland
- The Yiddish Policemen’s Union: M. Chabon
- Two Years in Poland and Other Stories: A Peace Corps Memoir: L. Siddell
- Harvesting the Heart: J. Picoult
- How Soccer Explains the World: F. Foer
- Bliss, Remembered: F. Deford
- The Angel of Grozny: Orphans of a Forgotten War: A. Seierstad
- Nineteen Minutes: J. Picoult *
- The White Tiger: A. Adiga
- Rumour Has It: J. Mansell
- Africa United: S. Bloomfield
- The Piano Tuner: D. Mason
- The Other Side of the Story: M. Keyes
- Absurdistan: G. Shteyngart *
- The Red Scarf: K. Furnivall
- Marley and Me: J. Groban
- The Secret Life of Bees: S.M. Kidd +
And the most quotable entry in the quotation collection:
“[Dressed] Like a missionary, her cousins will say, like one of those Peace Corps girls who have let themselves go so as to do dubious good in the world.” - How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents
This little gem inserts itself into almost every conversation my site-mate and I have about the deterioration of our wardrobes.
Friday, October 1, 2010
One Year Ago Today
I set foot in Azebaijan for the first time.
Really this time.
:)
Everyone else has been posting meaningful rambles about the past year of their lives. I am too lazy.
If you've been reading this you know what I've been up to. If you've been getting my letters and text messages you know the gritty details of the more difficult days as well as the celebrations over days well spent.
I wish I had something more profound to say. Ask me again in 14 months when this adventure is behind me. I'll work on something in time for that.
Maybe I'll even take some photos in prepartion. (Or not).
Really this time.
:)
Everyone else has been posting meaningful rambles about the past year of their lives. I am too lazy.
If you've been reading this you know what I've been up to. If you've been getting my letters and text messages you know the gritty details of the more difficult days as well as the celebrations over days well spent.
I wish I had something more profound to say. Ask me again in 14 months when this adventure is behind me. I'll work on something in time for that.
Maybe I'll even take some photos in prepartion. (Or not).
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Mid-Week Muffins
On Wednesday I came home and made myself some blueberry muffins in the afternoon.
Why? Read on.
It was the first week of school this week. I must admit I am a little bit worse for the wear. The first week of school is always difficult. The students are more excited to see their friends than they are about whatever lesson they’re supposed to be learning. The timetable hasn’t exactly been set in stone yet. Not to mention those early morning wake-up calls.
This week I was in the teachers’ lounge by 8 AM every day. The catch was I had no idea when any of lessons were. So I would sit there and chat with the other teachers or write letters until a teacher or student came looking for me. (My postman is going to hate me for the number of letters I need to send today.) It was a good system for the most part.
But there were two flaws in this plan. My primary counterpart has been away on a computer course this week. Oops. I had to teach all her classes by myself. Which was a minor problem because the students either refused to pay attention or had no idea what I was asking them to do. Moreover, more than once this week, the timetable had me scheduled to be in three places at once. (I would like to argue that this is a step up from last year’s ‘two places at once’ conflict. But really it’s not.)
However, ‘nar’ season has begun in earnest. (If you have no idea what a ‘nar’ is I have failed to implement Goal 3.) Every day my landlady’s soon brings me at least three ‘nar’ straight off the tree. Yum!
Maybe next week I should try to make ‘nar’ muffins. Is that even possible?
Why? Read on.
It was the first week of school this week. I must admit I am a little bit worse for the wear. The first week of school is always difficult. The students are more excited to see their friends than they are about whatever lesson they’re supposed to be learning. The timetable hasn’t exactly been set in stone yet. Not to mention those early morning wake-up calls.
This week I was in the teachers’ lounge by 8 AM every day. The catch was I had no idea when any of lessons were. So I would sit there and chat with the other teachers or write letters until a teacher or student came looking for me. (My postman is going to hate me for the number of letters I need to send today.) It was a good system for the most part.
But there were two flaws in this plan. My primary counterpart has been away on a computer course this week. Oops. I had to teach all her classes by myself. Which was a minor problem because the students either refused to pay attention or had no idea what I was asking them to do. Moreover, more than once this week, the timetable had me scheduled to be in three places at once. (I would like to argue that this is a step up from last year’s ‘two places at once’ conflict. But really it’s not.)
However, ‘nar’ season has begun in earnest. (If you have no idea what a ‘nar’ is I have failed to implement Goal 3.) Every day my landlady’s soon brings me at least three ‘nar’ straight off the tree. Yum!
Maybe next week I should try to make ‘nar’ muffins. Is that even possible?
Furniture Feng Shui
My house is back in working order. Huzzah!
The painters finished up mid-week, and after the paint had dried on the floors we were able to reassemble the rooms as they were the first week of September. My living room is now a fetching shade of pink. (Oh well.)
I took the opportunity to single-handedly rearrange the furniture one evening. (I guess I am my mother’s daughter.) I have moved a table out into the large central room and set up a ‘study area’. (It’s amazing what you can do when you realize that an outlet you thought was dead is in working order.) There is another table in my living room now for meals. No more constantly sitting on the sofa or eating on the floor. I’m not quite sure how I feel about this, but I’ve been told it’s an improvement.
Now if only I could get one of the neighbours to build me a bookcase. My care-package boxes do not make the sturdiest of makeshift bookshelves.
The painters finished up mid-week, and after the paint had dried on the floors we were able to reassemble the rooms as they were the first week of September. My living room is now a fetching shade of pink. (Oh well.)
I took the opportunity to single-handedly rearrange the furniture one evening. (I guess I am my mother’s daughter.) I have moved a table out into the large central room and set up a ‘study area’. (It’s amazing what you can do when you realize that an outlet you thought was dead is in working order.) There is another table in my living room now for meals. No more constantly sitting on the sofa or eating on the floor. I’m not quite sure how I feel about this, but I’ve been told it’s an improvement.
Now if only I could get one of the neighbours to build me a bookcase. My care-package boxes do not make the sturdiest of makeshift bookshelves.
This Week In History
It’s genuine milestone time.
This time last year I was trying to fit two years of my life into two suitcases (Never again will I boast about my packing prowess), and attempting to load stuff onto my external hard-drive. (I’m not as technologically savvy as I pretend to be.) In hindsight, my final days in Texas were rather hectic, and I spent far too much time in Target.
I would try to pinpoint the exact hour of the exact day I got on a plane to Philadelphia to start this Peace Corps adventure, but to be honest I can’t remember what the date was was. (For a history buff, I am shockingly bad with dates.) Let’s just say in the early part of next week this time last year, I walked through security with a Peace Corps passport and got on a plane.
Before you lose all faith in my ability to commemorate important life events properly, I CAN tell you when I arrived in Azerbaijan. OCTOBER 1, 2009. And whilst next weekend is closer to October than this one, I feel like jumping the gun a little bit.
Forgive me.
Sometimes, it has felt like time has moved as slowly as molasses going uphill in February. But most of the time, I can’t believe I’ve been in Azerbaijan a year. I’m nearly halfway through my service.
Here’s to hoping the next 15 months are as remarkable as the last 12 months were. J
AZ8: Enjoy Orientation! Azerbaijan is not as scary a place as it may seem right now. I promise. Yashxi Yol! (Bon Voyage!)
This time last year I was trying to fit two years of my life into two suitcases (Never again will I boast about my packing prowess), and attempting to load stuff onto my external hard-drive. (I’m not as technologically savvy as I pretend to be.) In hindsight, my final days in Texas were rather hectic, and I spent far too much time in Target.
I would try to pinpoint the exact hour of the exact day I got on a plane to Philadelphia to start this Peace Corps adventure, but to be honest I can’t remember what the date was was. (For a history buff, I am shockingly bad with dates.) Let’s just say in the early part of next week this time last year, I walked through security with a Peace Corps passport and got on a plane.
Before you lose all faith in my ability to commemorate important life events properly, I CAN tell you when I arrived in Azerbaijan. OCTOBER 1, 2009. And whilst next weekend is closer to October than this one, I feel like jumping the gun a little bit.
Forgive me.
Sometimes, it has felt like time has moved as slowly as molasses going uphill in February. But most of the time, I can’t believe I’ve been in Azerbaijan a year. I’m nearly halfway through my service.
Here’s to hoping the next 15 months are as remarkable as the last 12 months were. J
AZ8: Enjoy Orientation! Azerbaijan is not as scary a place as it may seem right now. I promise. Yashxi Yol! (Bon Voyage!)
Monday, September 13, 2010
On The Home Front: Being A PCV's Family
On The Home Front: Being A PCV’s Family
When Peace Corps sends out your pre-departure paperwork, a little booklet entitled: On The Home Front is included. Unlike everything else in the packet, this is NOT meant for the Volunteer-To-Be. It is for the family – just in case they felt like they were being left out of proceedings. Although I can’t imagine how: Mom felt like my secretary/chauffeur, Dad was vaguely distressed about credit card bills and my younger sister was told she had to come home for a visit for the first time in six months in honour of my impending departure.
So…
What does being the family of a Peace Corps volunteer really mean?
I couldn’t tell you. I’m the volunteer. J
But I can tell you about some of the things my family does that I appreciate; some of the things about my life that confuse them and the bragging rights they enjoy.
Three examples of how my family stay involved in my life even from thousands of miles away. Yes, these are the humorous ones instead of excerpts from difficult days. But I think it’s more important to show how we can still enjoy each other’s company from opposite ends of the world. And in all honesty, the laughter outnumbers the tears.
Exhibit A: Mom, Care Package Sender Extraordinaire
I have to admit my Mom sends some pretty awesome care packages. And she sends them frequently. The second aspect is probably due to the fact that she gets bored very easily, but that doesn’t change the fact that the contents of my monthly shipment from America is the envy of my site-mates. And I really do appreciate them. (I don’t hold the AWOL Thin Mints against you. I promise.) Sometimes she gets a little over-zealous though.
Melissa: I am attempting to make egg-less sugar cookies.
Mom: I can send you powdered eggs in the next box.
Melissa: That won’t be necessary. I have a dozen chickens in my yard. It is just too dark to go out and hunt through the coop.
Mom: Oh. That’s right. Oops.
Exhibit B: Dad, Putting My Mind At Ease 1 SMS At A Time
I have this habit of sending my Dad text messages about the state of international football, requesting tennis updates and demanding reassurances that the TV show I have become addicted to will be back for another season. He replies with a doctor’s note about Beckham’s feet, commentary about the Williams sisters’ latest fashion faux pas and season premiere air date and list of spoilers off of IMDB. You know, the important stuff in life. Occasionally, he attempts to off-set my bewildered questions about the state of the world.
Melissa: Chelsea is the top of the table.
Dad: You can tell me the Premiership standings before I watch the game. And you found out about Beckham’s foot before I even woke up. But it takes you an entire summer to realize that there is a new UK Prime Minister?!
Melissa: Um. Yeah. Football is universal. It’s on TV here. The ins and outs of UK politics are not. Besides I’m sure someone did tell me about that in May, I just forgot because of…um…the massive flooding.
Exhibit C: Sister, The One More Likely To Be A PCV
I’m sure that if anyone had asked my parents which one of their daughters was more likely to join the Peace Corps. I would have been the bottom of the list. But then again my sister is terrified of flying, so maybe I underestimate my parents’ ability to foretell the future. But I think my sister is happy to live vicariously through me from the comforts of her off-campus apartment at UC Boulder.
My birthday card (a month late, naturally)
Front of Card: Along with global warming and what to make for dinner you’re on my mind.
Note inside: I tell everyone my sister’s with the PeaceCorps! You’re very badass, especially in the crowds I run in! Come home and visit soon!
Finally…
It’s been almost a year since I’ve been in the same zip code as my parents. (It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen my sister). So I just want to say that I love you and I miss you - even if I don’t seem all that anxious to come home. (My reluctance is mostly due to flight time. I promise.)
Oh and I miss everyone else too! J
When Peace Corps sends out your pre-departure paperwork, a little booklet entitled: On The Home Front is included. Unlike everything else in the packet, this is NOT meant for the Volunteer-To-Be. It is for the family – just in case they felt like they were being left out of proceedings. Although I can’t imagine how: Mom felt like my secretary/chauffeur, Dad was vaguely distressed about credit card bills and my younger sister was told she had to come home for a visit for the first time in six months in honour of my impending departure.
So…
What does being the family of a Peace Corps volunteer really mean?
I couldn’t tell you. I’m the volunteer. J
But I can tell you about some of the things my family does that I appreciate; some of the things about my life that confuse them and the bragging rights they enjoy.
Three examples of how my family stay involved in my life even from thousands of miles away. Yes, these are the humorous ones instead of excerpts from difficult days. But I think it’s more important to show how we can still enjoy each other’s company from opposite ends of the world. And in all honesty, the laughter outnumbers the tears.
Exhibit A: Mom, Care Package Sender Extraordinaire
I have to admit my Mom sends some pretty awesome care packages. And she sends them frequently. The second aspect is probably due to the fact that she gets bored very easily, but that doesn’t change the fact that the contents of my monthly shipment from America is the envy of my site-mates. And I really do appreciate them. (I don’t hold the AWOL Thin Mints against you. I promise.) Sometimes she gets a little over-zealous though.
Melissa: I am attempting to make egg-less sugar cookies.
Mom: I can send you powdered eggs in the next box.
Melissa: That won’t be necessary. I have a dozen chickens in my yard. It is just too dark to go out and hunt through the coop.
Mom: Oh. That’s right. Oops.
Exhibit B: Dad, Putting My Mind At Ease 1 SMS At A Time
I have this habit of sending my Dad text messages about the state of international football, requesting tennis updates and demanding reassurances that the TV show I have become addicted to will be back for another season. He replies with a doctor’s note about Beckham’s feet, commentary about the Williams sisters’ latest fashion faux pas and season premiere air date and list of spoilers off of IMDB. You know, the important stuff in life. Occasionally, he attempts to off-set my bewildered questions about the state of the world.
Melissa: Chelsea is the top of the table.
Dad: You can tell me the Premiership standings before I watch the game. And you found out about Beckham’s foot before I even woke up. But it takes you an entire summer to realize that there is a new UK Prime Minister?!
Melissa: Um. Yeah. Football is universal. It’s on TV here. The ins and outs of UK politics are not. Besides I’m sure someone did tell me about that in May, I just forgot because of…um…the massive flooding.
Exhibit C: Sister, The One More Likely To Be A PCV
I’m sure that if anyone had asked my parents which one of their daughters was more likely to join the Peace Corps. I would have been the bottom of the list. But then again my sister is terrified of flying, so maybe I underestimate my parents’ ability to foretell the future. But I think my sister is happy to live vicariously through me from the comforts of her off-campus apartment at UC Boulder.
My birthday card (a month late, naturally)
Front of Card: Along with global warming and what to make for dinner you’re on my mind.
Note inside: I tell everyone my sister’s with the PeaceCorps! You’re very badass, especially in the crowds I run in! Come home and visit soon!
Finally…
It’s been almost a year since I’ve been in the same zip code as my parents. (It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen my sister). So I just want to say that I love you and I miss you - even if I don’t seem all that anxious to come home. (My reluctance is mostly due to flight time. I promise.)
Oh and I miss everyone else too! J
Housing Allowance = Home Improvement
I don’t think I have ever described my current living situation in detail other than to extol its many virtues in comparison with my first house and its geographic location in relation to the rising floodwaters. I live approximately the same distance from school as I did when I lived with a family – just in the opposite direction. My landlady lives across the street. (But her turkeys and chickens live in my yard.) We share a water source and washing facilities (human and clothing).
My house is actually the house that my landlady’s husband built for his family when he got married. It is a spacious two-storey structure. (There are 3 kids and a grandmother in the family too). I have access to three rooms on the ground floor: a big great room that has a kitchen (sans sink) off to the left side, a bedroom and a cozy living room. The upstairs floor is unfinished and currently inhabited by a family (or six) of pigeons who occasionally fly downstairs or fall onto my kitchen table.
My house is more than adequate accommodation for me - but it is still a work in progress for the family. Usually they ask when I am going to be away for a little bit of time, and when I return something has been transformed. In June it was ceiling tiles. I looked up from the sofa, and was startled to find I was no longer staring at rafters and straw. In July I returned from a hot, dusty road-trip and opened my front gate into a cool, shaded courtyard. They had erected a steel roof over the yard in front of my house to protect from rain and sun. I didn’t need to buy a fan after all and I no longer had to wear sunglasses just to go to the bathroom.
But this weekend I returned from an overnight in Salyan to paint cans by my door, and a strange man standing on the table in my living room. Apparently they’ve decided to paint the walls. It should take three days. Oops. Poor planning. But I can’t really fault my landlady for a scheduling conflict. For most of August every time I said I was going into Salyan I would be gone for three or four days instead of 24 hours. So I just made spaghetti with the contents of my fridge, filled a book-bag with useful work to do and a change of clothes and caught the early morning bus back to Salyan.
I’m not going to lie this most recent home improvement episode did sabotage my plan for a lazy Sunday of an organizational master-class and school preparation. But I do the same stuff in my site-mate’s living room. In fact I should be grateful her heat is more reliable than mine. (I had to heat the water for my shower last night. Summer has officially ended.)
Besides I would like to think that this proves that I am having a positive impact on members of my community. I know my rent money is being put to good use. These DIY projects usually get underway about a week after I pay my rent - enough time to order supplies and cajole the neighbors into helping.
My house is actually the house that my landlady’s husband built for his family when he got married. It is a spacious two-storey structure. (There are 3 kids and a grandmother in the family too). I have access to three rooms on the ground floor: a big great room that has a kitchen (sans sink) off to the left side, a bedroom and a cozy living room. The upstairs floor is unfinished and currently inhabited by a family (or six) of pigeons who occasionally fly downstairs or fall onto my kitchen table.
My house is more than adequate accommodation for me - but it is still a work in progress for the family. Usually they ask when I am going to be away for a little bit of time, and when I return something has been transformed. In June it was ceiling tiles. I looked up from the sofa, and was startled to find I was no longer staring at rafters and straw. In July I returned from a hot, dusty road-trip and opened my front gate into a cool, shaded courtyard. They had erected a steel roof over the yard in front of my house to protect from rain and sun. I didn’t need to buy a fan after all and I no longer had to wear sunglasses just to go to the bathroom.
But this weekend I returned from an overnight in Salyan to paint cans by my door, and a strange man standing on the table in my living room. Apparently they’ve decided to paint the walls. It should take three days. Oops. Poor planning. But I can’t really fault my landlady for a scheduling conflict. For most of August every time I said I was going into Salyan I would be gone for three or four days instead of 24 hours. So I just made spaghetti with the contents of my fridge, filled a book-bag with useful work to do and a change of clothes and caught the early morning bus back to Salyan.
I’m not going to lie this most recent home improvement episode did sabotage my plan for a lazy Sunday of an organizational master-class and school preparation. But I do the same stuff in my site-mate’s living room. In fact I should be grateful her heat is more reliable than mine. (I had to heat the water for my shower last night. Summer has officially ended.)
Besides I would like to think that this proves that I am having a positive impact on members of my community. I know my rent money is being put to good use. These DIY projects usually get underway about a week after I pay my rent - enough time to order supplies and cajole the neighbors into helping.
Latifa Visits Baku
As I have written about before I periodically have to go to Baku for meetings and training workshops. There was one held at the very beginning of September for TEFL volunteers, but this one was unique because we got to bring our counterparts – the Azerbaijani teacher we work with on a daily basis – with us. It was a very interesting and informative two days. PCVs were able to hear straight from counterparts about what the expectations associated with our roles are at a local level. PCVs were able to demonstrate activities and share ideas, thus able to show our counterparts that our some of our ideas – although they may sound crazy – are valid educational tools encouraged by Peace Corps. A win-win situation.
I brought my primary counterpart – Latifa – with me to the conference. It was a big deal for her to attend. She doesn’t usually leave the village. She hadn’t been into the center of Baku since her days as a university student twenty years ago. Ergo, she had an eventful 48 hours, although she complained that the meetings were a little too long. (I agreed.)
Here are some of the things Latifa did while in Baku:
took the metro
ate in a restaurant
stayed in a hotel
took a shower in the morning
drank coffee with breakfast
All of which are things Americans take for granted. Things Americans (probably) do without a second thought. But which were very out of the ordinary for Latifa (and in some cases culturally inappropriate). I joked with her over breakfast that this was all OK, she was an honorary American for a few days. Cultural exchange, anyone?
In the professional sense she also got to talk to the other teachers who work with PCVs in different regions and hear about the sorts of things they are doing, which was beneficial for her. For me it was a little less so as I had to field questions about why I wasn’t doing certain things like other PCVs. (Answer: I was busy doing my own things. My brain is only so creative.) Oops.
Two things I learned while at the conference:
how to make a whiteboard out of plastic and tape
a classroom activity that involves nothing but a coin
One thing I did:
ate McDonalds and a McFlurry for dinner (for the first time since Frankfurt Airport almost a year ago)
I brought my primary counterpart – Latifa – with me to the conference. It was a big deal for her to attend. She doesn’t usually leave the village. She hadn’t been into the center of Baku since her days as a university student twenty years ago. Ergo, she had an eventful 48 hours, although she complained that the meetings were a little too long. (I agreed.)
Here are some of the things Latifa did while in Baku:
took the metro
ate in a restaurant
stayed in a hotel
took a shower in the morning
drank coffee with breakfast
All of which are things Americans take for granted. Things Americans (probably) do without a second thought. But which were very out of the ordinary for Latifa (and in some cases culturally inappropriate). I joked with her over breakfast that this was all OK, she was an honorary American for a few days. Cultural exchange, anyone?
In the professional sense she also got to talk to the other teachers who work with PCVs in different regions and hear about the sorts of things they are doing, which was beneficial for her. For me it was a little less so as I had to field questions about why I wasn’t doing certain things like other PCVs. (Answer: I was busy doing my own things. My brain is only so creative.) Oops.
Two things I learned while at the conference:
how to make a whiteboard out of plastic and tape
a classroom activity that involves nothing but a coin
One thing I did:
ate McDonalds and a McFlurry for dinner (for the first time since Frankfurt Airport almost a year ago)
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Starting September: Back-To-School
According to my calendar there are still a few days left before September starts. (By the time I post this it will have already arrived.)
But summer is coming to a close. It rained for three days early this week. I don’t think I’ve ever been so appreciative of overcast skies. Then it brightened up again this past weekend long enough for me to do one more load of quick-dry laundry. But temperatures are falling. On Wednesday I traded my summer shift-dress for comfy pants for around the house.
The teachers are already back at school for meetings that I am not required to attend - one of the fringe benefits of not being a fully-fledged staff member. School starts September 15th - officially I still have two weeks of laziness left
However, my primary counter-part and I are due to travel to Baku for a Peace Corps sponsored conference next week to talk about stuff with other volunteers and Azerbaijani English teachers. (I use ‘stuff’ in the technical sense of the word, of course.) It will be good to catch up and trade methods and ideas with other teachers (and movies and TV with other PCVs.)
Of course - Being the master procrastinator that I am I haven’t really made any of the classroom preparations I promised myself I would at the start of the summer. Oops. But yesterday I got a wonderful package from my parents containing all sorts of classroom supplies: construction paper, markers, picture flashcards and jigsaw puzzles. God Bless Wal-Mart.
I am starting to get suitably excited for the start of the school year. Sorta.
But summer is coming to a close. It rained for three days early this week. I don’t think I’ve ever been so appreciative of overcast skies. Then it brightened up again this past weekend long enough for me to do one more load of quick-dry laundry. But temperatures are falling. On Wednesday I traded my summer shift-dress for comfy pants for around the house.
The teachers are already back at school for meetings that I am not required to attend - one of the fringe benefits of not being a fully-fledged staff member. School starts September 15th - officially I still have two weeks of laziness left
However, my primary counter-part and I are due to travel to Baku for a Peace Corps sponsored conference next week to talk about stuff with other volunteers and Azerbaijani English teachers. (I use ‘stuff’ in the technical sense of the word, of course.) It will be good to catch up and trade methods and ideas with other teachers (and movies and TV with other PCVs.)
Of course - Being the master procrastinator that I am I haven’t really made any of the classroom preparations I promised myself I would at the start of the summer. Oops. But yesterday I got a wonderful package from my parents containing all sorts of classroom supplies: construction paper, markers, picture flashcards and jigsaw puzzles. God Bless Wal-Mart.
I am starting to get suitably excited for the start of the school year. Sorta.
10 Things I Am Going To Miss About Summer-Time
I present the things I will remember fondly about Summer 2010. (And with luck will be able to repeat in 2011…or 2014).
- The World Cup
- daylight until 10 PM
- daily showers
- the fact that my laundry dried before lunch – mere hours after I’d washed it
- watermelon for 10q a kilo (7 cents a pound) and the fruit from my yard
- 4 hour nap-time
- it being totally acceptable to watch 8 hours of TV or read 300 pages a day
- the freedom to travel from one end of the country to the other to visit and help out
- working with kids who want to learn English so much, they knocked on my door at 8AM (ok…I enjoyed the enthusiasm; the wake-up calls not so much)
- my awesome 18 egg cake birthday cake
- The World Cup
- daylight until 10 PM
- daily showers
- the fact that my laundry dried before lunch – mere hours after I’d washed it
- watermelon for 10q a kilo (7 cents a pound) and the fruit from my yard
- 4 hour nap-time
- it being totally acceptable to watch 8 hours of TV or read 300 pages a day
- the freedom to travel from one end of the country to the other to visit and help out
- working with kids who want to learn English so much, they knocked on my door at 8AM (ok…I enjoyed the enthusiasm; the wake-up calls not so much)
- my awesome 18 egg cake birthday cake
Baku
I have spent more time in Baku this summer than I have in the previous seven months of my service combined. Oops. (It still totals less than a week.)
Sometimes it feels like cheating to be serving as a PCV in a country that has a capital city teeming with oil expats, and not one but two McDonalds. Not to mention the American style supermarkets that stock peanut butter, tuna, soy sauce and familiar dental hygiene brands. Plus Heinz baked beans, Pot Noodles and digestive biscuits. Granted most of the items stocked are priced out of PCV range. But almost everything IS available if you are in desperate need and/or want to splurge. There are three international hotel chain premises under construction downtown, and shopping mall has just opened complete with a food court and an Apple Store.
Starting to forget I am serving in the Peace Corps? That’s OK. Sometimes when I am wandering past Levis and Mango stores and I hear English being spoken around me by women in short skirts or when I am sipping a latte at an outdoor café while using WiFi on my laptop, I have to remind myself too. But then I realise the coffee I just consumed cost as much as I spend in a week in the regions. Or I have the sudden epiphany that the bus I am riding in has come to a complete stop not because it has broken down but because there is a traffic light controlling traffic flow.
The reason I am PeaceCorps volunteer in Azerbaijan is because the rest of the country has not had the benefit of investment in the same way that Baku has.
I live 100 miles away from Baku – less than two hours by car. The average salary is comparable to the 200 AZN living stipend I receive if not less. My village has no landline telephones. The main form of transport is WWII-era buses. There are a handful of people that can speak in full sentences in English. I have never seen a woman in a skirt that hits above the knee in public. There is one restaurant within a 30-mile radius that can be patronized by women and it does not have the option of outdoor seating.
Ergo, I understand exactly why I have been asked to spend two years working for and with the people of Azerbaijan. Sometimes the luxuries of Baku can be overwhelming to my village school-teacher self. But the American in me is grateful for the hot showers on demand, bacon cheeseburgers and early release DVDs.
Also, I have recently come to the realization that there is a negative correlation between the time I spend in Baku and my Azerbaijani comprehension skills. Oops.
Sometimes it feels like cheating to be serving as a PCV in a country that has a capital city teeming with oil expats, and not one but two McDonalds. Not to mention the American style supermarkets that stock peanut butter, tuna, soy sauce and familiar dental hygiene brands. Plus Heinz baked beans, Pot Noodles and digestive biscuits. Granted most of the items stocked are priced out of PCV range. But almost everything IS available if you are in desperate need and/or want to splurge. There are three international hotel chain premises under construction downtown, and shopping mall has just opened complete with a food court and an Apple Store.
Starting to forget I am serving in the Peace Corps? That’s OK. Sometimes when I am wandering past Levis and Mango stores and I hear English being spoken around me by women in short skirts or when I am sipping a latte at an outdoor café while using WiFi on my laptop, I have to remind myself too. But then I realise the coffee I just consumed cost as much as I spend in a week in the regions. Or I have the sudden epiphany that the bus I am riding in has come to a complete stop not because it has broken down but because there is a traffic light controlling traffic flow.
The reason I am PeaceCorps volunteer in Azerbaijan is because the rest of the country has not had the benefit of investment in the same way that Baku has.
I live 100 miles away from Baku – less than two hours by car. The average salary is comparable to the 200 AZN living stipend I receive if not less. My village has no landline telephones. The main form of transport is WWII-era buses. There are a handful of people that can speak in full sentences in English. I have never seen a woman in a skirt that hits above the knee in public. There is one restaurant within a 30-mile radius that can be patronized by women and it does not have the option of outdoor seating.
Ergo, I understand exactly why I have been asked to spend two years working for and with the people of Azerbaijan. Sometimes the luxuries of Baku can be overwhelming to my village school-teacher self. But the American in me is grateful for the hot showers on demand, bacon cheeseburgers and early release DVDs.
Also, I have recently come to the realization that there is a negative correlation between the time I spend in Baku and my Azerbaijani comprehension skills. Oops.
A Mini-Break in the Mountains
At the end of August I was invited to join some family friends for a bit of rest and relaxation at their family house in the mountains. An offer I gratefully accepted – the heat in Salyan had worn me out. I made my way north via Baku – with a little bit of a detour to visit a PCV friend in Sheki for the night. It was about a 9-hour journey. (Without the detour it would have taken 5 hours).
I arrived in Qebele in one piece. Although there was a little bit of a transportation hiccup when my bus dropped me off in the centre of town instead of the bus station. Who’s ever heard of an inter-regional bus that drops passengers in the middle of the market instead of the station? Odd. But I was promptly rescued and we traveled to the house in a near-by village.
It was sort of like summer camp. We ate dinners at a picnic table. One night we built a campfire to cook dinner. We ate huge slices of watermelon in the afternoons before settling down for nap-time. We drank ‘samovar’ tea in the evening, and the air was just cool enough to necessitate a sweatshirt. I slept in a room with five other relatives and a baby – dorm-style. There was an outhouse –– but the rustic charm of that particular aspect is no longer a novelty to me. In fact, it was nicer than the one I have at home (and stocked with toilet paper!).
The landscape Qebela is well-known within Azerbaijan. When I told neighbours I was headed there, they were jealous and full of praise for the scenery. And I can’t say that I disagree. The house I was staying in was surrounded by green and a huge orchard. Qebela is famous for its hazelnuts. Yum! I was able to pick ripe pears straight off the tree. I think I consumed a half-dozen daily. There were a surprisingly large number of cows aimlessly wandering the streets. I also took the opportunity to play tourist and paid a visit to the near-by ‘Seven Beauties’ water-fall. But.ll the stairs up to the second-storey viewing platform made me realize just how flat Salyan really is.
It started to rain midway through the weekend, so we decided to cut our visit short. But I was quite happy to wake up to the sound of rain on the roof, and stand outside under the trees for the duration of the few hours it took to prepare two toddlers and all their accessories for departure. I think my hosts thought I was crazy, but I was quite content to sit and watch the rain. I hadn’t seen any since the flooding in May. (I’m weird. I know.)
I arrived in Qebele in one piece. Although there was a little bit of a transportation hiccup when my bus dropped me off in the centre of town instead of the bus station. Who’s ever heard of an inter-regional bus that drops passengers in the middle of the market instead of the station? Odd. But I was promptly rescued and we traveled to the house in a near-by village.
It was sort of like summer camp. We ate dinners at a picnic table. One night we built a campfire to cook dinner. We ate huge slices of watermelon in the afternoons before settling down for nap-time. We drank ‘samovar’ tea in the evening, and the air was just cool enough to necessitate a sweatshirt. I slept in a room with five other relatives and a baby – dorm-style. There was an outhouse –– but the rustic charm of that particular aspect is no longer a novelty to me. In fact, it was nicer than the one I have at home (and stocked with toilet paper!).
The landscape Qebela is well-known within Azerbaijan. When I told neighbours I was headed there, they were jealous and full of praise for the scenery. And I can’t say that I disagree. The house I was staying in was surrounded by green and a huge orchard. Qebela is famous for its hazelnuts. Yum! I was able to pick ripe pears straight off the tree. I think I consumed a half-dozen daily. There were a surprisingly large number of cows aimlessly wandering the streets. I also took the opportunity to play tourist and paid a visit to the near-by ‘Seven Beauties’ water-fall. But.ll the stairs up to the second-storey viewing platform made me realize just how flat Salyan really is.
It started to rain midway through the weekend, so we decided to cut our visit short. But I was quite happy to wake up to the sound of rain on the roof, and stand outside under the trees for the duration of the few hours it took to prepare two toddlers and all their accessories for departure. I think my hosts thought I was crazy, but I was quite content to sit and watch the rain. I hadn’t seen any since the flooding in May. (I’m weird. I know.)
Istrahet-ing In August
What-ing? You may ask. Don’t worry. It’s not English. Or not wholly English. It is merely another entry into the multi-lingugual mish-mash lexicon that is my own personalized language. It is derived from the Azerbaijani verb istrahet etmek translation: to rest, to relax or in this sense to vacation, to go on holiday. In the English grammar’s gerund form. All of which makes me sound a whole lot more pretentious than I actually am. Or maybe just linguistically challenged.
I should explain that it came to my attention by the second week of August that August in Azerbaijan is akin to August in France. Everyone who can manage it high-tails it to the mountains or sea-side for at least two weeks if not the entire month. Which is only mildly inconvenient.
I got on with life. To be honest I was too busy working with the people who stuck around Salyan to notice. That’s a lie. Every phone call to Ata and Ana in the last six weeks has included some variation on the following:
M: Hi. I am coming to Baku this week. Are you home?
A: No we are on vacation in the mountains/ staying at the sea-side.
M: Oh OK. I miss you. But I’ll see you soon.
It was a little disheartening. But I survived.
And eventually did a little istraheting of my own. (See next post.)
For those of you worried about the summer AWOL status of my defacto in-country family or my mental health after more than seven weeks without Ata and Ana, fear not. Last Thursday at midnight Ata called to inform me that they were home in Xirdalan again and they expect me to visit ASAP. (With luck I am posting this from their living room.)
I should explain that it came to my attention by the second week of August that August in Azerbaijan is akin to August in France. Everyone who can manage it high-tails it to the mountains or sea-side for at least two weeks if not the entire month. Which is only mildly inconvenient.
I got on with life. To be honest I was too busy working with the people who stuck around Salyan to notice. That’s a lie. Every phone call to Ata and Ana in the last six weeks has included some variation on the following:
M: Hi. I am coming to Baku this week. Are you home?
A: No we are on vacation in the mountains/ staying at the sea-side.
M: Oh OK. I miss you. But I’ll see you soon.
It was a little disheartening. But I survived.
And eventually did a little istraheting of my own. (See next post.)
For those of you worried about the summer AWOL status of my defacto in-country family or my mental health after more than seven weeks without Ata and Ana, fear not. Last Thursday at midnight Ata called to inform me that they were home in Xirdalan again and they expect me to visit ASAP. (With luck I am posting this from their living room.)
Teaching Teachers
Recently, the Ministry of Education has decided to introduce a new primary school language curriculum. This new curriculum is proving to be a challenge for language teachers to adapt to.
1st and 2nd form students have only just learned to write and read in their mother tongue, they cannot be expected to read and write in English yet. Thus, speaking skills are the focal point and the textbooks include lots of illustrations. But in a country where emphasis is placed on written tests and the reading and recitation of texts, this newer methodology is an alien concept to many of the teachers.
One day earlier in the summer I was at the Salyan Library and was approached by two teachers who will be responsible for teaching the 1st and 2nd grade during the upcoming school year. They wanted some suggestions and guidance about how to teach the younger students. So I spend my Friday mornings explaining interactive teaching methods tailored to seven year olds. Or at least that was the plan….
In reality our sessions became more of a conversation club. We read excerpts from newspapers and National Geographic. We talked about movies and music and shared family recipes. I learned that one of the teachers I worked with has a twin sister; the other teacher works at the boarding school in Salyan. If they weren’t teachers, one would want to be an interior designer and the other dreams of owning a bakery. I also discovered that the Salyan librarian (on a recent trip to the United States) has been to the Boston Public Library. I was SO jealous!
Maybe I should have been more forceful about staying on task for the benefit of the children they will teach next year. But I also think that if teachers feel more comfortable speaking English, they will feel more inclined to use English in the classroom and hearing English non stop for an hour will benefit the students more than visual aids. (Not that visual aids aren’t worth their weight in gold.)
Besides, at the end of our final session I was asked if I could provide one of the teachers with an application for a Peace Corps volunteer. Success!
1st and 2nd form students have only just learned to write and read in their mother tongue, they cannot be expected to read and write in English yet. Thus, speaking skills are the focal point and the textbooks include lots of illustrations. But in a country where emphasis is placed on written tests and the reading and recitation of texts, this newer methodology is an alien concept to many of the teachers.
One day earlier in the summer I was at the Salyan Library and was approached by two teachers who will be responsible for teaching the 1st and 2nd grade during the upcoming school year. They wanted some suggestions and guidance about how to teach the younger students. So I spend my Friday mornings explaining interactive teaching methods tailored to seven year olds. Or at least that was the plan….
In reality our sessions became more of a conversation club. We read excerpts from newspapers and National Geographic. We talked about movies and music and shared family recipes. I learned that one of the teachers I worked with has a twin sister; the other teacher works at the boarding school in Salyan. If they weren’t teachers, one would want to be an interior designer and the other dreams of owning a bakery. I also discovered that the Salyan librarian (on a recent trip to the United States) has been to the Boston Public Library. I was SO jealous!
Maybe I should have been more forceful about staying on task for the benefit of the children they will teach next year. But I also think that if teachers feel more comfortable speaking English, they will feel more inclined to use English in the classroom and hearing English non stop for an hour will benefit the students more than visual aids. (Not that visual aids aren’t worth their weight in gold.)
Besides, at the end of our final session I was asked if I could provide one of the teachers with an application for a Peace Corps volunteer. Success!
A Week In The Life Of A Youth Development Volunteer
Due to some unfortunate circumstances that necessitated a site transfer, the youth development volunteer, (PCV B) who had been working at the central library for almost a year left Salyan at the end of July. It was very upsetting. Salyan lost an incredibly hard-working and ambitious volunteer. And I lost a site-mate. L (PCV B has since moved to the opposite side of the country. L L)
Ergo, my summer plans had to be reshuffled. For most of August I spent at least four days a week in Salyan, working at the library. I worked with my other TEFL site-mate (PCV L) to cover the clubs and sessions that had been scheduled prior to the untimely departure. In practice this meant three hours of conversation clubs with various ability levels every morning of the week. The turn-out was incredible in comparison to what I was used to the village. I was grateful that there were two of us to manage sessions. I am not quite sure how one person could do it all. I am in awe of PCV B’s organizational skills and stamina. You did some incredible work with the students in this community, PCV B. Thank you.
Given that I actually spent most of August in Salyan helping at the library, this post should really be entitled: A Month in the Life of a YD Volunteer. But really one week was the same as the next: a rinse and repeat sort of cycle. PCV L and I quickly settled into a routine. I would arrive at 9:30 AM Tuesday, deposit my bag of stuff by my bed and put whatever contributions I could make to the fruit and vegetable tally for the week in the fridge. Then PCV L and I would go to the library and work until 12 noon. After a morning of lessons we would come home, change into our house clothes and divide a watermelon in half for lunch.
Then PCV L and I would retire to our respective sides of the room for three or four hours of siesta time. This time was usually spent doing some combination of reading, napping or watching a DVD. (It was extremely convenient that PCV L has two fans.) Then at 5:30PM, PCV L would sit down to do some lesson planning for the next day, while I made dinner. (I had to earn my keep somehow.) It was quite a good system. PCV L likened it living in a dorm with a roommate again. I agree.
I would usually head home on Saturday morning before the day’s heat set in. I would be home long enough to necessitate a single trip to the vegetable store and do two loads of laundry. For an entire month the only people in my community that saw me on a regular basis were my landlady and the shopkeeper. But it wasn’t like I meant to fall off the radar. I was hard at work in other places within my region.
As a direct result of my experiences this summer, I have acquired a new respect for the work that Youth Development volunteers do.
Ergo, my summer plans had to be reshuffled. For most of August I spent at least four days a week in Salyan, working at the library. I worked with my other TEFL site-mate (PCV L) to cover the clubs and sessions that had been scheduled prior to the untimely departure. In practice this meant three hours of conversation clubs with various ability levels every morning of the week. The turn-out was incredible in comparison to what I was used to the village. I was grateful that there were two of us to manage sessions. I am not quite sure how one person could do it all. I am in awe of PCV B’s organizational skills and stamina. You did some incredible work with the students in this community, PCV B. Thank you.
Given that I actually spent most of August in Salyan helping at the library, this post should really be entitled: A Month in the Life of a YD Volunteer. But really one week was the same as the next: a rinse and repeat sort of cycle. PCV L and I quickly settled into a routine. I would arrive at 9:30 AM Tuesday, deposit my bag of stuff by my bed and put whatever contributions I could make to the fruit and vegetable tally for the week in the fridge. Then PCV L and I would go to the library and work until 12 noon. After a morning of lessons we would come home, change into our house clothes and divide a watermelon in half for lunch.
Then PCV L and I would retire to our respective sides of the room for three or four hours of siesta time. This time was usually spent doing some combination of reading, napping or watching a DVD. (It was extremely convenient that PCV L has two fans.) Then at 5:30PM, PCV L would sit down to do some lesson planning for the next day, while I made dinner. (I had to earn my keep somehow.) It was quite a good system. PCV L likened it living in a dorm with a roommate again. I agree.
I would usually head home on Saturday morning before the day’s heat set in. I would be home long enough to necessitate a single trip to the vegetable store and do two loads of laundry. For an entire month the only people in my community that saw me on a regular basis were my landlady and the shopkeeper. But it wasn’t like I meant to fall off the radar. I was hard at work in other places within my region.
As a direct result of my experiences this summer, I have acquired a new respect for the work that Youth Development volunteers do.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Achieving Goal 3.5
In a recent post, I mentioned how the fact that I ‘speak’ two
‘Englishes’ can sometimes be a bit of an occupational hazard. Lately, I have also paused to consider the other ways that I have been influenced by 8 years ‘across the pond’.
Some of these things are fairly straightforward and obvious. I say ‘zed’. I spell with extra ‘u’s and fewer ‘z’s. I have first-hand experience with the landmarks and situations discussed in the textbooks: I have been to The British Museum; Shakespeare’s Houses, Warwick Castle and Hyde Park multiple times; I have bought a train ticket in Waterloo Station. I have more photographic evidence of London than I do of Houston. Truthfully, these are linguistic adjustments that can be easily made and experiences that any tourist can have. I don’t deny that.
Instead, I mean the cultural implications of spending my adolescence in England. Simple, everyday things: the newspapers I read; the sports I watched, the places I lived and where I went to school. And now, some of the words I use and the way I interpret the weather. Understandably, my experiences don’t exactly compliment those of the other PCVs around me and occasionally baffle Azerbaijanis. It has led to some hilarity and good-natured confusion.
Thus, I present some anecdotes that best illustrate the trend I have started to categorize as Goal 3.5: Explaining British-ness.
The Ways I Baffle PCVs:
B: You never went to an American high school?
M: No. I was in England. I left when I was 13 and came back for college.
-
M: Smithsonian Magazine is awesome. Where has it been my whole life?
L: You’ve never read it? It’s been around for forever.
M: I didn’t come back until I was 21.
-
M: *hangs up after phone conversation with British friend and returns to a room full of PCVs*
PCVs: Your accent is awesome. Can you speak like that for the rest of the night?
M: I can’t do it on demand. I have to hear it.
PCVs: If we watch Love Actually tonight will that work?
The Ways PCVs Baffle Me:
My site-mate had the new Mandela movie lying around her house.
M: Can I borrow this?
L: Sure. But they play this really weird game in it. That I just DIDN'T understand. (If you haven't seen or heard about it - the plot centers around the fact that South Africa hosted the Rugby World Cup in 1995).
M: What? You mean rugby? (Imagine my good-natured bafflement that this is in fact a foreign sport to some people)
L: Is that what it's called? It had no logic to it.
M: Of course there is - you have to throw the ball backwards or sideways. Not forward.
L: Well one of the teams did this really weird dance too. Like Samoans or something.
M: (I burst out laughing at this point) You mean the All Blacks? They're the NZ team. It's a Maori war dance. An intimidation tactic. They're really famous for doing that. It's like their signature. They do it at the start of every game.
L: Huh. I learned something new today.
-
Or just last week – and the primary reason I decided to write this blog post now –
M: So there’s this AZ8 that wants to bring a thermometer.
L: I have one.
M: Yeah. But it’s not really necessary. I told her not to worry, the temperatures are on TV constantly.
L: Yeah. In Celsius. Which Americans don’t understand.
M: Oh. I didn’t think of that. Oops.
It honestly didn’t occur to me until my site-mate mentioned it. I think nothing of the fact that the TV temperatures are in Celsius; it makes sense to me. I grew up with Celsius; I just took it for granted that everyone else did too. So, on second thought: Bring those Fahrenheit thermometers. ☺
Apologies. This was long. And largely pointless. I hope it was at least a little bit entertaining, even if it was only comprehensible to those of you who spell funny, watch rugby and ‘speak’ Celsius.
‘Englishes’ can sometimes be a bit of an occupational hazard. Lately, I have also paused to consider the other ways that I have been influenced by 8 years ‘across the pond’.
Some of these things are fairly straightforward and obvious. I say ‘zed’. I spell with extra ‘u’s and fewer ‘z’s. I have first-hand experience with the landmarks and situations discussed in the textbooks: I have been to The British Museum; Shakespeare’s Houses, Warwick Castle and Hyde Park multiple times; I have bought a train ticket in Waterloo Station. I have more photographic evidence of London than I do of Houston. Truthfully, these are linguistic adjustments that can be easily made and experiences that any tourist can have. I don’t deny that.
Instead, I mean the cultural implications of spending my adolescence in England. Simple, everyday things: the newspapers I read; the sports I watched, the places I lived and where I went to school. And now, some of the words I use and the way I interpret the weather. Understandably, my experiences don’t exactly compliment those of the other PCVs around me and occasionally baffle Azerbaijanis. It has led to some hilarity and good-natured confusion.
Thus, I present some anecdotes that best illustrate the trend I have started to categorize as Goal 3.5: Explaining British-ness.
The Ways I Baffle PCVs:
B: You never went to an American high school?
M: No. I was in England. I left when I was 13 and came back for college.
-
M: Smithsonian Magazine is awesome. Where has it been my whole life?
L: You’ve never read it? It’s been around for forever.
M: I didn’t come back until I was 21.
-
M: *hangs up after phone conversation with British friend and returns to a room full of PCVs*
PCVs: Your accent is awesome. Can you speak like that for the rest of the night?
M: I can’t do it on demand. I have to hear it.
PCVs: If we watch Love Actually tonight will that work?
The Ways PCVs Baffle Me:
My site-mate had the new Mandela movie lying around her house.
M: Can I borrow this?
L: Sure. But they play this really weird game in it. That I just DIDN'T understand. (If you haven't seen or heard about it - the plot centers around the fact that South Africa hosted the Rugby World Cup in 1995).
M: What? You mean rugby? (Imagine my good-natured bafflement that this is in fact a foreign sport to some people)
L: Is that what it's called? It had no logic to it.
M: Of course there is - you have to throw the ball backwards or sideways. Not forward.
L: Well one of the teams did this really weird dance too. Like Samoans or something.
M: (I burst out laughing at this point) You mean the All Blacks? They're the NZ team. It's a Maori war dance. An intimidation tactic. They're really famous for doing that. It's like their signature. They do it at the start of every game.
L: Huh. I learned something new today.
-
Or just last week – and the primary reason I decided to write this blog post now –
M: So there’s this AZ8 that wants to bring a thermometer.
L: I have one.
M: Yeah. But it’s not really necessary. I told her not to worry, the temperatures are on TV constantly.
L: Yeah. In Celsius. Which Americans don’t understand.
M: Oh. I didn’t think of that. Oops.
It honestly didn’t occur to me until my site-mate mentioned it. I think nothing of the fact that the TV temperatures are in Celsius; it makes sense to me. I grew up with Celsius; I just took it for granted that everyone else did too. So, on second thought: Bring those Fahrenheit thermometers. ☺
Apologies. This was long. And largely pointless. I hope it was at least a little bit entertaining, even if it was only comprehensible to those of you who spell funny, watch rugby and ‘speak’ Celsius.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Harry Potter Turned 30
And I turned 24. (Also in Azerbaijan: a fellow PCV, a family friend, a neighbour’s daughter and postal employee’s sister were a year older on the same day.)
It was an eventful day.
I discovered that there is bus in from my village that goes directly to downtown Salyan. Nothing says Happy Birthday quite like the gift of convenient transportation.
I had three packages waiting at the post office for me. The contents was definitely something to celebrate: recipes; new clothes; chocolate cake and frosting mix; books about my favourite things; recordings of the Vancouver Olympics and an oven mitt. Plus the standard shipment of magazines, candy and food stuffs.
I was able to buy a Magnum ice cream bar at the grocery store, and it didn’t melt while I walked home.
I made Mexican lentils for dinner on Friday, and made pancakes for breakfast on Saturday morning.
Upon my return to the village: the neighbours also out-did themselves. Even though the festivities were slightly delayed due to a power outage. (Clearly, the universe wanted me to have an authentic Peace Corps birthday experience.)
My former host family hosted the party. They made all the traditional celebration fare, but they were also mindful of the fact that I am not particularly fond of the typical main dish; ergo, my host brother barbequed a whole chicken for my benefit. It was very tasty!
A neighbour graciously made me an awesomely delicious cake on very short notice. Although I am still mystified by the fact that the recipe called for 18 eggs!
I would also like to acknowledge the generosity of my summer camp students. I threw them a party at the end of the week as a thank you for attending two months of ‘English school’ during the summer. I did NOT mention that it was going to be my birthday at the end of the week. But somehow word got out and each of my students brought me a birthday gift and they sang Happy Birthday (in English!).
So I would consider it a success, and definitely the most enjoyable birthday I’ve had in the last few years.
Also, it’s officially been 3 years since my family repatriated. I haven’t spent a consecutive 12 months in Texas yet. Oops.
It was an eventful day.
I discovered that there is bus in from my village that goes directly to downtown Salyan. Nothing says Happy Birthday quite like the gift of convenient transportation.
I had three packages waiting at the post office for me. The contents was definitely something to celebrate: recipes; new clothes; chocolate cake and frosting mix; books about my favourite things; recordings of the Vancouver Olympics and an oven mitt. Plus the standard shipment of magazines, candy and food stuffs.
I was able to buy a Magnum ice cream bar at the grocery store, and it didn’t melt while I walked home.
I made Mexican lentils for dinner on Friday, and made pancakes for breakfast on Saturday morning.
Upon my return to the village: the neighbours also out-did themselves. Even though the festivities were slightly delayed due to a power outage. (Clearly, the universe wanted me to have an authentic Peace Corps birthday experience.)
My former host family hosted the party. They made all the traditional celebration fare, but they were also mindful of the fact that I am not particularly fond of the typical main dish; ergo, my host brother barbequed a whole chicken for my benefit. It was very tasty!
A neighbour graciously made me an awesomely delicious cake on very short notice. Although I am still mystified by the fact that the recipe called for 18 eggs!
I would also like to acknowledge the generosity of my summer camp students. I threw them a party at the end of the week as a thank you for attending two months of ‘English school’ during the summer. I did NOT mention that it was going to be my birthday at the end of the week. But somehow word got out and each of my students brought me a birthday gift and they sang Happy Birthday (in English!).
So I would consider it a success, and definitely the most enjoyable birthday I’ve had in the last few years.
Also, it’s officially been 3 years since my family repatriated. I haven’t spent a consecutive 12 months in Texas yet. Oops.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Packing List
I have to admit: I over-packed.
Having said that, as long as it fits (and you can carry it), bring it – especially if it’s clothes. Make room in those winter care packages for the more important things: peanut butter, food, magazines and books
Clothes:
3 weeks’ worth of underwear and socks/tights = less time spent doing laundry
thermals: YES! If you get cold bring heavy stuff, if you don’t mid-weight is fine. (I brought cold gear and have yet to wear it. I DID wear the mid weight stuff though. But I live in the South.)
3+5 Rule: I brought 5 tops and 3 bottoms (trousers or skirts) each for winter and summer + 2 heavy-2 mid- 2 cardigan sweaters
School: 4 black skirts w/ patterns; ѕ length blouses; thermal-weight turtlenecks, black cardigan; black pants (you might not be allowed to wear pants at school)
a special occasion outfit
house clothes: pj bottoms, sweats or comfy clothes x 2-3. You will LIVE IN them
Shoes: BLACK BOOTS! (I almost didn’t bring these), 2 pairs of flats, sneakers, sandals (I forgot these!), ‘wedding shoes’, flip flops; shoe polish
Coats: wool pea coat; Columbia fleece, light weight jacket; scarves, gloves, hats
DON'T BRING TOO MUCH THAT IS LIGHT COLOURED - white or pastel. You won't be able to keep them clean. :)
Other Stuff:
A backpack or weekend bag; 2 x collapsible eco-friendly bags (shopping, laundry hamper)
a quick dry towel - useful for travel
I DIDN’T bring a sleeping bag – a sleeping bag LINER takes up less space
A light-weight blanket; a yoga mat if you are yoga-inclined
A decent water bottle – Nalgene-Sigg
I brought ONE 32-oz bottle of shampoo. It lasted me until April
A Diva Cup – seriously awesome
You can get over the counter meds, band-aids, sunscreen, bug spray, body lotion + girly stuff from PeaceCorps – so don’t overload your bags
Peeler, can opener; a leather-man tool; duct tape
measuring cups (I wish I’d brought these!); ziploc bags
a French press if you are a coffee drinker
markers, scissors, crayons, construction paper, stickers, blu-tack – raid Walmart
PC/MAC; 2 USB sticks, external HD (YES!), camera; iPod+speakers
2 or 3 books (newer releases, please J ); photos of America
Host Family Gifts: I brought jolly ranchers and a calendar. It worked well.
That’s all I can think of for the moment. I hope it helps. If you have any questions, ask
Having said that, as long as it fits (and you can carry it), bring it – especially if it’s clothes. Make room in those winter care packages for the more important things: peanut butter, food, magazines and books
Clothes:
3 weeks’ worth of underwear and socks/tights = less time spent doing laundry
thermals: YES! If you get cold bring heavy stuff, if you don’t mid-weight is fine. (I brought cold gear and have yet to wear it. I DID wear the mid weight stuff though. But I live in the South.)
3+5 Rule: I brought 5 tops and 3 bottoms (trousers or skirts) each for winter and summer + 2 heavy-2 mid- 2 cardigan sweaters
School: 4 black skirts w/ patterns; ѕ length blouses; thermal-weight turtlenecks, black cardigan; black pants (you might not be allowed to wear pants at school)
a special occasion outfit
house clothes: pj bottoms, sweats or comfy clothes x 2-3. You will LIVE IN them
Shoes: BLACK BOOTS! (I almost didn’t bring these), 2 pairs of flats, sneakers, sandals (I forgot these!), ‘wedding shoes’, flip flops; shoe polish
Coats: wool pea coat; Columbia fleece, light weight jacket; scarves, gloves, hats
DON'T BRING TOO MUCH THAT IS LIGHT COLOURED - white or pastel. You won't be able to keep them clean. :)
Other Stuff:
A backpack or weekend bag; 2 x collapsible eco-friendly bags (shopping, laundry hamper)
a quick dry towel - useful for travel
I DIDN’T bring a sleeping bag – a sleeping bag LINER takes up less space
A light-weight blanket; a yoga mat if you are yoga-inclined
A decent water bottle – Nalgene-Sigg
I brought ONE 32-oz bottle of shampoo. It lasted me until April
A Diva Cup – seriously awesome
You can get over the counter meds, band-aids, sunscreen, bug spray, body lotion + girly stuff from PeaceCorps – so don’t overload your bags
Peeler, can opener; a leather-man tool; duct tape
measuring cups (I wish I’d brought these!); ziploc bags
a French press if you are a coffee drinker
markers, scissors, crayons, construction paper, stickers, blu-tack – raid Walmart
PC/MAC; 2 USB sticks, external HD (YES!), camera; iPod+speakers
2 or 3 books (newer releases, please J ); photos of America
Host Family Gifts: I brought jolly ranchers and a calendar. It worked well.
That’s all I can think of for the moment. I hope it helps. If you have any questions, ask
Friday, July 23, 2010
A Note About Language
My Azerbaijani language skills have been quite a talking point this summer.
I have been told on multiple occasions that my Azerbaijani is quite good. It is a statement that makes me uncomfortable on multiple levels.
But:
I speak Azerbaijani 90% of the time I am at site. It is far from grammatically perfect, and I still have to mime or over-simplify multiple words in every conversation. But I can express myself. I have to. It is a survival technique. I’ve got to buy food and maintain friendly relations with my neighbours. Besides: I like to talk. A lot.
Other Observations:
I have been told repeatedly during my travels this summer that I speak Azerbaijani with an instantly recognizable Salyan accent. Awesome. I sound like the cultural equivalent of a country bumpkin. I suppose it is inevitable though given that I live in a village.
It has also come to my attention recently that I speak Russian like an Azerbaijani, and English like someone from Sheki. Excellent. It’s comforting to know that my vocal chords have schizophrenic tendencies in multiple languages.
Concerning My Mother-Tongue:
Do you know how confusing it can be to teach the fine points of grammar and colloquialisms when you have two forms of English attempting to co-exist in your brain? It makes my head hurt. I have to ask other volunteers to explain some things simply because I can’t differentiate between the two. PCVs find this entertaining. Azerbaijanis don’t understand the difficulty. I maintain I am bilingual (in English).
This post is not meant to come across as boastful. My language ability – despite what others may think – still needs a lot of work. I don’t consider it nearly as advanced as I think it should be. But I know that it has improved – one word at a time – every day that I have spent in country. And I hope it will continue to do so.
Thus, A Note to AZ8:
Don’t worry about the language. You will hear it every day for the next 27 months. You will pick it up. Don’t stress if the language CD you get in the mail is incomprehensible. You will master enough to survive within the first week. And don’t kill yourself trying to learn every detail in your PST language lessons. A lot of stuff won’t make sense until you use it regularly.
I have been told on multiple occasions that my Azerbaijani is quite good. It is a statement that makes me uncomfortable on multiple levels.
But:
I speak Azerbaijani 90% of the time I am at site. It is far from grammatically perfect, and I still have to mime or over-simplify multiple words in every conversation. But I can express myself. I have to. It is a survival technique. I’ve got to buy food and maintain friendly relations with my neighbours. Besides: I like to talk. A lot.
Other Observations:
I have been told repeatedly during my travels this summer that I speak Azerbaijani with an instantly recognizable Salyan accent. Awesome. I sound like the cultural equivalent of a country bumpkin. I suppose it is inevitable though given that I live in a village.
It has also come to my attention recently that I speak Russian like an Azerbaijani, and English like someone from Sheki. Excellent. It’s comforting to know that my vocal chords have schizophrenic tendencies in multiple languages.
Concerning My Mother-Tongue:
Do you know how confusing it can be to teach the fine points of grammar and colloquialisms when you have two forms of English attempting to co-exist in your brain? It makes my head hurt. I have to ask other volunteers to explain some things simply because I can’t differentiate between the two. PCVs find this entertaining. Azerbaijanis don’t understand the difficulty. I maintain I am bilingual (in English).
This post is not meant to come across as boastful. My language ability – despite what others may think – still needs a lot of work. I don’t consider it nearly as advanced as I think it should be. But I know that it has improved – one word at a time – every day that I have spent in country. And I hope it will continue to do so.
Thus, A Note to AZ8:
Don’t worry about the language. You will hear it every day for the next 27 months. You will pick it up. Don’t stress if the language CD you get in the mail is incomprehensible. You will master enough to survive within the first week. And don’t kill yourself trying to learn every detail in your PST language lessons. A lot of stuff won’t make sense until you use it regularly.
The Six-Month Mark: A Time To Report And Reflect
Every six months volunteers are required to submit a report to headquarters in Washington detailing their activities and reflecting on their service so far. In the past, this involved writing responses in longhand in triplicate. In the 21st century this means filling in an Excel spreadsheet - definitely a welcome technological advance. A target for the next improvement: Make it MAC-compatible.
There were the obligatory number-crunching statistics: grade levels taught, numbers of students, hours spent lesson planning, number of extra-curricular activities and special events. I had to list the ways I have encouraged a cultural exchange and dialogue between Americans and Azerbaijanis (Goal 2 and Goal 3). I had to reflect on the most challenging aspects of my life in Azerbaijan. Most of the incidents that qualify for that category can be found on my blog in some form. Similarly, it should come as no surprise to anyone who has been reading my blog that my relationship with Ata and Ana took center-stage as the success story of my service so far.
It was quite rewarding to see a list of everything I have done in one place. It made me realize how much I achieve on a daily basis – every hour I spend in the classroom; every cup of tea I drink and every letter I send helps me to fulfill my role as a Peace Corps Volunteer. During the summer, in particular, it sometimes feels like I don’t do a lot of teaching or community development work – so it was nice to take a step back and consider what I have done in the last six months.
There were the obligatory number-crunching statistics: grade levels taught, numbers of students, hours spent lesson planning, number of extra-curricular activities and special events. I had to list the ways I have encouraged a cultural exchange and dialogue between Americans and Azerbaijanis (Goal 2 and Goal 3). I had to reflect on the most challenging aspects of my life in Azerbaijan. Most of the incidents that qualify for that category can be found on my blog in some form. Similarly, it should come as no surprise to anyone who has been reading my blog that my relationship with Ata and Ana took center-stage as the success story of my service so far.
It was quite rewarding to see a list of everything I have done in one place. It made me realize how much I achieve on a daily basis – every hour I spend in the classroom; every cup of tea I drink and every letter I send helps me to fulfill my role as a Peace Corps Volunteer. During the summer, in particular, it sometimes feels like I don’t do a lot of teaching or community development work – so it was nice to take a step back and consider what I have done in the last six months.
July 4th: A Breakfast Picnic on the Beach
I opted not to return to the north to partake in the PCV festivities for the 4th. I am lazy and just a little bit anti-social. These are well-documented character traits that are easy scapegoats for my lack of patriotism. The truth: I wanted to be near a TV for the Wimbledon Final. Cue second trip to Xirdalan.
But Ata and Ana’s summertime breakfast ritual complemented this mid-summer holiday in such a way that I felt like I was observing the aforementioned holiday in spite of the foreign country I happen to be living in at the moment.
Breakfast on a beach on the shores of the Caspian Sea - complete with portable, collapsible, fold-away into a briefcase shape picnic table. I was quite in awe of this picnic table. It went from a non-descript two-foot square of wood with a handle to fully functional picnic table for four in less than a minute.
Breakfast was good too.
I drew a flag in the sand. Ana built a rather impressive sand castle including moat and flag with the grandkids. I took a walk in the sand and seashell pieces along the water line in an attempt to salvage my sandal-scarred feet. Ata taught me the Azerbaijani word for sea-shell: balıq-qullaq (Translation: fish-ear. No lie.)
Then Ana and I took a quick swim in the Caspian Sea, and I remembered why I dislike the beach.
Happy 234th Birthday, America!
Congratulations Rafa!
But Ata and Ana’s summertime breakfast ritual complemented this mid-summer holiday in such a way that I felt like I was observing the aforementioned holiday in spite of the foreign country I happen to be living in at the moment.
Breakfast on a beach on the shores of the Caspian Sea - complete with portable, collapsible, fold-away into a briefcase shape picnic table. I was quite in awe of this picnic table. It went from a non-descript two-foot square of wood with a handle to fully functional picnic table for four in less than a minute.
Breakfast was good too.
I drew a flag in the sand. Ana built a rather impressive sand castle including moat and flag with the grandkids. I took a walk in the sand and seashell pieces along the water line in an attempt to salvage my sandal-scarred feet. Ata taught me the Azerbaijani word for sea-shell: balıq-qullaq (Translation: fish-ear. No lie.)
Then Ana and I took a quick swim in the Caspian Sea, and I remembered why I dislike the beach.
Happy 234th Birthday, America!
Congratulations Rafa!
“Tell Them I’m Buying A Watermelon”, Or The How To Cope With A Family Reunion
I have been spoiled this month. I got to visit Ata and Ana twice in ten days. Both stopovers were during the weekend, so the extended family members were all present and accounted for. It felt like I was the out-of-town relative home for the obligatory summer family reunion. It was a little over-whelming. But true to form, Ata was up to his usual unintentionally comic antics to keep me sane.
Allow me to present the Ata-approved Family Reunion Coping Strategy.
The Scene: Ana is at work. Both sisters and their children are in the living room. The AC, a fan, the computer and the TV are contributing to the noise levels. The sisters are competing to be heard over their children’s loud protests and tears. Ata has momentarily relocated to elsewhere - the bathroom, the garden, Mars…
I decide that it is time to go buy a Snickers.
I open the door to the corner store. Ata is there with his hand in the ice-cream freezer. He looks surprised to see me and a little guilty.
A: Melissa. What are you doing here? Do you want an ice-cream?
M: Hi. No, thanks. I came to get a Snickers.
A: Oh. Ok. *continues to dig around in the freezer*
M: *picks out a candy bar and pays*
A: *selects his ice-cream*
M: OK. Let’s go home. *looks expectantly at Ata*
A: *sits down in the chair next to the freezer and peels the top off his ice cream* Tell them, I’m buying a watermelon. *takes a nonchalant bite of ice cream*
M: *goes home alone, marveling at Ata’s avoidance tactics*
Ata returns home more than an hour later, watermelon in tow and grins at me. The sisters are none the wiser, and the kids have finally fallen asleep for their afternoon nap.
Allow me to present the Ata-approved Family Reunion Coping Strategy.
The Scene: Ana is at work. Both sisters and their children are in the living room. The AC, a fan, the computer and the TV are contributing to the noise levels. The sisters are competing to be heard over their children’s loud protests and tears. Ata has momentarily relocated to elsewhere - the bathroom, the garden, Mars…
I decide that it is time to go buy a Snickers.
I open the door to the corner store. Ata is there with his hand in the ice-cream freezer. He looks surprised to see me and a little guilty.
A: Melissa. What are you doing here? Do you want an ice-cream?
M: Hi. No, thanks. I came to get a Snickers.
A: Oh. Ok. *continues to dig around in the freezer*
M: *picks out a candy bar and pays*
A: *selects his ice-cream*
M: OK. Let’s go home. *looks expectantly at Ata*
A: *sits down in the chair next to the freezer and peels the top off his ice cream* Tell them, I’m buying a watermelon. *takes a nonchalant bite of ice cream*
M: *goes home alone, marveling at Ata’s avoidance tactics*
Ata returns home more than an hour later, watermelon in tow and grins at me. The sisters are none the wiser, and the kids have finally fallen asleep for their afternoon nap.
A Working Vacation In The Mountains
The last week of June I headed up north to help out with another summer camp. The weather was about 15 degrees cooler, there were mountains and greenery, the opportunity to play tourist and spend time with one of my good friends. Honestly, it was more vacation than work.
Sheki is about six hours north of Baku, which means I got to take my first ‘long-haul’ inter-regional trip. Fortunately, the destinations that are more than four hours away tend to graduate from mini-bus standard to the relative luxury of air-conditioned coach. It was a pleasant trip, although my bum went numb some time during Hour 4.
I spent a week in Sheki helping with Environmental Week of the summer camp there. This camp was quite different from the one in Neftchala, even if the theme was the same. The first difference was the size of the group: 60 students (!). There were also English-speaking Azerbaijani teenagers to help with translating. I didn’t have to speak a single word of Azerbaijani during the camp-day. Some of the activities included: a talk about ‘Reduce, Re-use, Recycle’, a nature hike, a trash pick-up and the planting of a garden in a local park. There was also a ‘how to use a compass’ exercise – that I failed miserably at executing (cross-reference my sense of direction – or lack thereof).
Sheki is one of the larger cities in Azerbaijan. It is one of the places that tourists travel when visiting the country. (There were some Germans on the bus I took.) This means that there are hotels and restaurants and lots of people that speak English. I had a hamburger and French fries for dinner one night! I attended a concert in a picturesque mountain village. I visited the famous ‘Khan’s Palace’, which is noted for its stained-glass windows. I have to admit the windows were pretty impressive, especially since egg-whites were somehow involved in the construction process. (There may have been a translation barrier – but it was built in the C15th. Nails weren’t an option.)
I stayed with another volunteer, who still lives with her host family on the outskirts of the city. It was nice to come home to a family at the end of the day. Her mother was an incredible cook. There was freshly made strawberry jam for breakfast. I also discovered there is a suitable substitute for cream cheese in Azerbaijan. (Now if only I could figure out how to make bagels…) The fact that there was ripe fruit available was very exciting for me. The fruit is scarce in my region this year due to the flooding.
Speaking of water… my friend is able to drink her water straight out of a well without any health concerns; my filtered water was difficult to come home to after a week away. I also learned the Azerbaijani word for ice cream during my travels (I usually cheat and use the Russian) because I had some at least twice a day. My bag was two kilos heavier on the return trip: I had been instructed to bring Sheki Halva back for my neighbours. Halva is a sweet nut and sugar layered dessert that Sheki is famous for.
Yes, I realize that more than half my entry about Sheki pertains to food. The rest of the trip was equally as enjoyable, I promise – just not as memorable.
Sheki is about six hours north of Baku, which means I got to take my first ‘long-haul’ inter-regional trip. Fortunately, the destinations that are more than four hours away tend to graduate from mini-bus standard to the relative luxury of air-conditioned coach. It was a pleasant trip, although my bum went numb some time during Hour 4.
I spent a week in Sheki helping with Environmental Week of the summer camp there. This camp was quite different from the one in Neftchala, even if the theme was the same. The first difference was the size of the group: 60 students (!). There were also English-speaking Azerbaijani teenagers to help with translating. I didn’t have to speak a single word of Azerbaijani during the camp-day. Some of the activities included: a talk about ‘Reduce, Re-use, Recycle’, a nature hike, a trash pick-up and the planting of a garden in a local park. There was also a ‘how to use a compass’ exercise – that I failed miserably at executing (cross-reference my sense of direction – or lack thereof).
Sheki is one of the larger cities in Azerbaijan. It is one of the places that tourists travel when visiting the country. (There were some Germans on the bus I took.) This means that there are hotels and restaurants and lots of people that speak English. I had a hamburger and French fries for dinner one night! I attended a concert in a picturesque mountain village. I visited the famous ‘Khan’s Palace’, which is noted for its stained-glass windows. I have to admit the windows were pretty impressive, especially since egg-whites were somehow involved in the construction process. (There may have been a translation barrier – but it was built in the C15th. Nails weren’t an option.)
I stayed with another volunteer, who still lives with her host family on the outskirts of the city. It was nice to come home to a family at the end of the day. Her mother was an incredible cook. There was freshly made strawberry jam for breakfast. I also discovered there is a suitable substitute for cream cheese in Azerbaijan. (Now if only I could figure out how to make bagels…) The fact that there was ripe fruit available was very exciting for me. The fruit is scarce in my region this year due to the flooding.
Speaking of water… my friend is able to drink her water straight out of a well without any health concerns; my filtered water was difficult to come home to after a week away. I also learned the Azerbaijani word for ice cream during my travels (I usually cheat and use the Russian) because I had some at least twice a day. My bag was two kilos heavier on the return trip: I had been instructed to bring Sheki Halva back for my neighbours. Halva is a sweet nut and sugar layered dessert that Sheki is famous for.
Yes, I realize that more than half my entry about Sheki pertains to food. The rest of the trip was equally as enjoyable, I promise – just not as memorable.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Yox, O Altmuş-Altı Idi, Or How Melissa Found Somewhere To Watch South Africa 2010
A week or so before the start of the World Cup, I was sitting in a neighbour’s living room watching the Eurovision Semi-Final. I wasn’t really paying attention to what was happening on the screen. I was more pre-occupied with trying to eavesdrop on the conversation that the father and son were having. It’s not that Eurovision wasn’t absolutely riveting entertainment. It’s was more that the self-respecting pseudo-Brit that I am was distressed by the prospect that my World Cup viewership might go the same route was Vancouver 2010. (See February.) And the conversation in question was about the upcoming tournament in South Africa.
Let me explain my predicament. I don’t have a TV. I am female. It isn’t exactly culturally acceptable for me to spend my evenings in the equivalent of the ‘local pub’. Time zones aren’t exactly in my favour on this occasion (When are they ever?), so I needed somewhere I could walk home from safely in the middle of night. Ergo: the eavesdropping.
And then I found my opening:
S: England has won the tournament once. And Brazil has won 5 times.
F: England won in 1962.
M: No. It was 1966. And I think Brazil has won 6 times.
F: * quick mental recount*. She’s right. How does she know that?
S: I don’t know.
M: I lived in England for 8 years.
S: I think England might win this year.
M: I want that too. But Beckham is injured. And so is Ferdinand. And I don’t think Owen is going to play either. So it’s going to be tough.
S: Yes. But there is still Rooney. And Crouch and Gerrard.
M: And Wright-Phillips. And Cole. And Lennon.
F: Wow. She can name the players. How does she do that?
M: Football is like a religion in England. The World Cup is the ultimate prize. The whole country stops for the tournament. I am sad I will have difficulty watching it this year.
F: But why? You can come watch it with us.
M: Are you sure that’s OK?
Mom – interjecting: Yes. Of course. We all watch it here.
M: OK. I will.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!
Let me explain my predicament. I don’t have a TV. I am female. It isn’t exactly culturally acceptable for me to spend my evenings in the equivalent of the ‘local pub’. Time zones aren’t exactly in my favour on this occasion (When are they ever?), so I needed somewhere I could walk home from safely in the middle of night. Ergo: the eavesdropping.
And then I found my opening:
S: England has won the tournament once. And Brazil has won 5 times.
F: England won in 1962.
M: No. It was 1966. And I think Brazil has won 6 times.
F: * quick mental recount*. She’s right. How does she know that?
S: I don’t know.
M: I lived in England for 8 years.
S: I think England might win this year.
M: I want that too. But Beckham is injured. And so is Ferdinand. And I don’t think Owen is going to play either. So it’s going to be tough.
S: Yes. But there is still Rooney. And Crouch and Gerrard.
M: And Wright-Phillips. And Cole. And Lennon.
F: Wow. She can name the players. How does she do that?
M: Football is like a religion in England. The World Cup is the ultimate prize. The whole country stops for the tournament. I am sad I will have difficulty watching it this year.
F: But why? You can come watch it with us.
M: Are you sure that’s OK?
Mom – interjecting: Yes. Of course. We all watch it here.
M: OK. I will.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!
A Book A Day Keeps Boredom At Bay
One of my favourite things about being a PCV is how much time I have to read every day.
There is no Internet to surf aimlessly for hours at a time. There is no English-language television to distract me. In fact, some days there’s no television at all for hours a time if the electricity is out. Thus, I have had the time and inclination to return to the written word for entertainment purposes.
Indeed, now that summer has arrived it is encouraged because it is too hot to move from the couch between the hours of 11AM - 4PM. In fact, I have been told that during the summer heat, it is not uncommon for PVCs to average a book a day.
What am I reading, you may ask? In short: anything - everything. All those books I’ve been meaning to read since I was fifteen.
Most of my choices have been the popular bestsellers from the last few years, which I missed because I was too busy trying to make sense of 19th century Russian literature tomes. Although there has been a fair amount of non-fiction too, usually of the save the world, human interest variety. Occasionally, there has also been a nonsense novel that can be categorized as ‘Chick-Lit’ to help with morale on those difficult days.
A Top 5 (So Far…)
Water For Elephants: S. Gruen
A Tree Grows In Brooklyn: B. Smith
The Story of Edgar Sawtelle: D. Woblenski
Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society: M. A. Shaffer
Like Water For Chocolate: L. Esquivel
What are YOU reading? Suggest something. Send something. Go wander around a bookstore so I can live vicariously through you.
There is no Internet to surf aimlessly for hours at a time. There is no English-language television to distract me. In fact, some days there’s no television at all for hours a time if the electricity is out. Thus, I have had the time and inclination to return to the written word for entertainment purposes.
Indeed, now that summer has arrived it is encouraged because it is too hot to move from the couch between the hours of 11AM - 4PM. In fact, I have been told that during the summer heat, it is not uncommon for PVCs to average a book a day.
What am I reading, you may ask? In short: anything - everything. All those books I’ve been meaning to read since I was fifteen.
Most of my choices have been the popular bestsellers from the last few years, which I missed because I was too busy trying to make sense of 19th century Russian literature tomes. Although there has been a fair amount of non-fiction too, usually of the save the world, human interest variety. Occasionally, there has also been a nonsense novel that can be categorized as ‘Chick-Lit’ to help with morale on those difficult days.
A Top 5 (So Far…)
Water For Elephants: S. Gruen
A Tree Grows In Brooklyn: B. Smith
The Story of Edgar Sawtelle: D. Woblenski
Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society: M. A. Shaffer
Like Water For Chocolate: L. Esquivel
What are YOU reading? Suggest something. Send something. Go wander around a bookstore so I can live vicariously through you.
Malaria Mondays
I am one of the handful of volunteers serving in Azerbaijan that has to take preventative malaria medication. Whether or not volunteers have to take malaria meds is determined by the Medical Office at the start of the mosquito season, and depends on the malaria statistics from the previous year. If the region you live in has had a malaria case in the last twelve months, you are required to take the medication. Given that my village is surrounded on three sides by water, I made the list. Although I should be grateful I only have to remember to take it once a week instead of every day.
For the most part of I have been very lucky with side effects. Fortunately, the particular form that Peace Corps has provided for us does not have any of the ‘trippy’ side effects stereotypically associated with malaria pills. And I haven’t had the nausea or gastro-intestinal problems that my sitemates have complained about.
My main point of contention with the malaria meds is a phenomenon I have recently christened: Malaria Mondays.
It is more difficult to get out of bed on Monday morning because of joint pain and general achy-ness. But this is easily rectified with an extra cup of coffee. The side effect that proves to be immune to the healing properties of caffeine are the mood swings. I get tired, grumpy and mopey every Monday until mid-afternoon. It’s akin to having the Monday morning blues, PMS and homesickness simultaneously blindside you every single week like clock-work. It is not fun.
But I manage. I hope that as my body adjusts to the meds my Monday temperament will improve.
For the most part of I have been very lucky with side effects. Fortunately, the particular form that Peace Corps has provided for us does not have any of the ‘trippy’ side effects stereotypically associated with malaria pills. And I haven’t had the nausea or gastro-intestinal problems that my sitemates have complained about.
My main point of contention with the malaria meds is a phenomenon I have recently christened: Malaria Mondays.
It is more difficult to get out of bed on Monday morning because of joint pain and general achy-ness. But this is easily rectified with an extra cup of coffee. The side effect that proves to be immune to the healing properties of caffeine are the mood swings. I get tired, grumpy and mopey every Monday until mid-afternoon. It’s akin to having the Monday morning blues, PMS and homesickness simultaneously blindside you every single week like clock-work. It is not fun.
But I manage. I hope that as my body adjusts to the meds my Monday temperament will improve.
Would You Like Some Green Stuff With That?
I am fortunate to have a well-stocked general store in my village. It is a dusty, dimly lit establishment with a slightly surly shopkeeper. Also, it is usually the men and the young boys that are dispatched to do the shopping in my community, so it doubles as a predominantly male socializing space. Understandably, I was a little bit wary of patronizing it in the beginning. But a girl’s got to eat.
This would be the appropriate time to admit that my meals are usually made up of some variation of the same 5 ingredients: carrots, onions, tomatoes, some form of leafy green stuff and another vegetable that remains a mystery until I see what the store has in stock. Usually a half-kilo each.
(For anyone channeling the old ladies in the village who are convinced I am not eating enough: I DO eat more than this. I just buy it in town where the selection is better).
Thus, facilitated by my utter predictability, the shop-keeper and I have a system. I come in, survey my options, and then proceed to root around in the vegetable bins in an entirely unladylike manner. He waits patiently for me to deposit my selections on the scale, various plastic sacks at the ready. I am 100% sure this is not the way that everyone else shops. But it works.
Quite frankly, the shopkeeper scares me a little bit. However, we are making strides towards a decent shopkeeper-customer relationship. He defends the obscene amount of spinach (or green leafy spinach-like stuff) that I buy to the other men in the store who question my purchases. He wondered where I went (and what I ate) the week I was on flood-watch. He patiently decodes the charades I occasionally have to employ to convey that I need something not on the usual list.
The best moment: Last week he gave me a banana for free!
Perhaps I should explain that bananas are a serious luxury item here. The price of a single banana never falls below 75 cents. (In the winter it can be more than 1AZN each).
So there you have it: How Melissa Does Her Grocery Shopping.
Now I’m hungry, and it’s almost time for the fresh bread delivery. (Yes, I have my oven and my baker’s yeast now, but I have yet to tackle making my own bread) So I’m going to head up to the store now.
This would be the appropriate time to admit that my meals are usually made up of some variation of the same 5 ingredients: carrots, onions, tomatoes, some form of leafy green stuff and another vegetable that remains a mystery until I see what the store has in stock. Usually a half-kilo each.
(For anyone channeling the old ladies in the village who are convinced I am not eating enough: I DO eat more than this. I just buy it in town where the selection is better).
Thus, facilitated by my utter predictability, the shop-keeper and I have a system. I come in, survey my options, and then proceed to root around in the vegetable bins in an entirely unladylike manner. He waits patiently for me to deposit my selections on the scale, various plastic sacks at the ready. I am 100% sure this is not the way that everyone else shops. But it works.
Quite frankly, the shopkeeper scares me a little bit. However, we are making strides towards a decent shopkeeper-customer relationship. He defends the obscene amount of spinach (or green leafy spinach-like stuff) that I buy to the other men in the store who question my purchases. He wondered where I went (and what I ate) the week I was on flood-watch. He patiently decodes the charades I occasionally have to employ to convey that I need something not on the usual list.
The best moment: Last week he gave me a banana for free!
Perhaps I should explain that bananas are a serious luxury item here. The price of a single banana never falls below 75 cents. (In the winter it can be more than 1AZN each).
So there you have it: How Melissa Does Her Grocery Shopping.
Now I’m hungry, and it’s almost time for the fresh bread delivery. (Yes, I have my oven and my baker’s yeast now, but I have yet to tackle making my own bread) So I’m going to head up to the store now.
Graduation: Son Zeng (Last Bell)
May 31st is the last day of school in Azerbaijan. It is also graduation day for students in the 11th form. So this year I spent Memorial Day watching the festivities in the schoolyard from my seat next to the director. (Do you sense a trend developing about the strategic placement of the ‘Prize American’?)
It was a simple ceremony. The graduating students wore sashes and had little bells pinned to their lapels. The class was a small one - education is only compulsory through the 9th form in Azerbaijan. Traditionally it is only the students who want to attend university that continue after age 14. Only three girls wore sashes this year. After the national anthem, there were speeches by the school director and two representatives of the 11th form.
Then it was time for the exchange of flowers and teddy bears. It is a tradition in Azerbaijan for the students who have just finished the 1st form to present the graduating 11th formers with flowers to mark their accomplishment. This is done with much fanfare and dancing. In exchange, each member of the graduating class presents a 1st former with a teddy bear to acknowledge that they have successfully completed the first year of school. I guess it signifies a ‘changing of the guard’ of sorts. I thought it was sweet.
After this there was much music and dancing, that was only briefly interrupted by a power-outtage. I got permission to head home after Song 8.
So I was home, enjoying lunch in my culturally inappropriate shorts and tank top by early afternoon. What better way to mark the end of my first Azerbaijani school year and the beginning of what I have been warned will be a blistering hot Azerbaijani summer.
It was a simple ceremony. The graduating students wore sashes and had little bells pinned to their lapels. The class was a small one - education is only compulsory through the 9th form in Azerbaijan. Traditionally it is only the students who want to attend university that continue after age 14. Only three girls wore sashes this year. After the national anthem, there were speeches by the school director and two representatives of the 11th form.
Then it was time for the exchange of flowers and teddy bears. It is a tradition in Azerbaijan for the students who have just finished the 1st form to present the graduating 11th formers with flowers to mark their accomplishment. This is done with much fanfare and dancing. In exchange, each member of the graduating class presents a 1st former with a teddy bear to acknowledge that they have successfully completed the first year of school. I guess it signifies a ‘changing of the guard’ of sorts. I thought it was sweet.
After this there was much music and dancing, that was only briefly interrupted by a power-outtage. I got permission to head home after Song 8.
So I was home, enjoying lunch in my culturally inappropriate shorts and tank top by early afternoon. What better way to mark the end of my first Azerbaijani school year and the beginning of what I have been warned will be a blistering hot Azerbaijani summer.
The Alphabet Holiday
Were you ever as confused as I am by the modern concept of a kindergarten graduation? Or maybe just a little bit jealous that such an event was not the cultural norm the year you lost your baby teeth and learned to tie your shoes?
Guess What…They have a kindergarten graduation in Azerbaijan too. In fact, I’d venture to say that Alphabet Day was celebrated with more pomp and circumstance than the ceremony a week later for the school leavers.
My new landlady is a 1st form teacher, so I received a personal invitation of the festivities. Xala’s grandson was one of the ‘graduates’ this year, so I got a first hand look at the preparations. It was quite an afternoon.
The first form classroom as rearranged to look more like a dinner theatre restaurant with a space cleared in the centre to act as the stage. Two students were assigned to each table. The parents of the students appeared with shopping bags full of sweet things, fruit, soda and cakes. Each table was nicely turned out with a lace tablecloth, dessert towers and fruit bowls. The whole set up resembled a wedding in miniature. I was given the seat of honour at the head of the room between the school director and the vice-principal.
Before the students were allowed to enjoy everything on the tables, there was about an hour of speeches and skits. Each of the 3 R’s was present and accounted for. The students performed a few of the fairytales they had read that year in their Azerbaijani literature class. A few students recited poems. There was also something involving quasi-flashcards to commemorate the fact that the students had learned basic math.
I was able to stick around for a cup of tea and a slice of cake before I had to dash off to my next class.
Guess What…They have a kindergarten graduation in Azerbaijan too. In fact, I’d venture to say that Alphabet Day was celebrated with more pomp and circumstance than the ceremony a week later for the school leavers.
My new landlady is a 1st form teacher, so I received a personal invitation of the festivities. Xala’s grandson was one of the ‘graduates’ this year, so I got a first hand look at the preparations. It was quite an afternoon.
The first form classroom as rearranged to look more like a dinner theatre restaurant with a space cleared in the centre to act as the stage. Two students were assigned to each table. The parents of the students appeared with shopping bags full of sweet things, fruit, soda and cakes. Each table was nicely turned out with a lace tablecloth, dessert towers and fruit bowls. The whole set up resembled a wedding in miniature. I was given the seat of honour at the head of the room between the school director and the vice-principal.
Before the students were allowed to enjoy everything on the tables, there was about an hour of speeches and skits. Each of the 3 R’s was present and accounted for. The students performed a few of the fairytales they had read that year in their Azerbaijani literature class. A few students recited poems. There was also something involving quasi-flashcards to commemorate the fact that the students had learned basic math.
I was able to stick around for a cup of tea and a slice of cake before I had to dash off to my next class.
“You Can’t Cook” (Or Culture Shock, Month 9)
One of the reasons I was looking forward to moving out on my own was the prospect of being able to cook for myself.
The first time my landlady brought me dinner I assumed it was meant as a housewarming gift. I also able to rationalize the fact that I was presented with kebabs the next day – it is hard for a single family to consume an entire sheep; it is normal to share the wealth with the neighbours. (I was also given some raw mutton and kidneys as well – which I promptly took over to Xala for her to enjoy instead.) But then it got a little bit more difficult to explain the plates of food that appeared at my door every day.
By Day 5 of meals prepared by someone other than myself I could no longer contain my frustration. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful for the free food and hospitality, I was grateful. But after eight months of fried potatoes and stuffed grape leaves I was desperate for something that tasted familiar (not to mention something that I could recognize all the ingredients in).
Moreover, this food had a habit of appearing at one of two times during the day: either just after I had finished eating something I’d made myself or while I was in the midst of cooking. Which leads the second source of my discontent. I am not one to throw perfectly edible food away. Inevitably I would end up eating twice as much as usual. Or as equally as wasteful as throwing prepared food away, the vegetables I bought would end up going bad before I had a chance to cook with them.
Finally, I decided that the situation was affecting my mental health enough that it would a good idea to talk to my counter-part about it. (Don’t judge me. I was desperate for a burrito. I have mentioned that I subsisted on fried potatoes all winter, yes?) Moreover, every neighbor I visited that week asked me repeatedly if I knew how to cook. Or just automatically assumed that I did not. So I broached the subject during my next Azerbaijani lesson.
And as a result had a conversation that sent my cultural sensibilities into a tail-spin even more so than the fact that I was desperate for some Tex-Mex. It went something like this:
M: Listen. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. But I’ve noticed that my landlady has been bringing me food every day.
L: Yes. I know. The director told her to do that.
M: But why? It isn’t necessary. I can manage for myself.
L: But you don’t know how to cook. You went to university. You were busy studying. You never had time to learn to cook for yourself.
M: *tries to grasp the logic of this statement and sputters incoherently for a minute of two*
Seriously. I was stunned into silence. First of all I resented the fact that the entire village seemed to be under the impression I didn’t know how to cook – including the one woman who seemed to take all my foreign idiosyncracies in stride without question. Moreover, I was confused by the concept that a college education ‘exempted’ me from a culinary one. University was where I learned to cook!
I ranted to everyone who would listen about this situation that particular fortnight. So I apologize if this blog post causes a bizarre sense of deja-vu for anyone. But I thought the episode deserved to be documented here because of the trauma it caused me. Culture Shock can take unlikely forms.
Note: Even in the midst of the drama I could appreciate the humor in the situation.
Eventually the situation was successfully resolved. I played the “But I’m Homesick For American Food” card. I was shot down. It wasn’t until one of the old ladies pointed out that I was of marriageable age and “needed to learn to cook for the benefit of my future husband” that I was left to my own devices. I have further cultural issues with the fact that that was the argument that won the debate. But you have to pick and choose your battles sometimes. And even if that logic is slightly flawed it did achieve the desired result so I shouldn’t complain.
My landlady and I have reached a happy medium as well. She gives me fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, eggs and cherries and berries. I give her sugar cookies and chocolate cake.
The first time my landlady brought me dinner I assumed it was meant as a housewarming gift. I also able to rationalize the fact that I was presented with kebabs the next day – it is hard for a single family to consume an entire sheep; it is normal to share the wealth with the neighbours. (I was also given some raw mutton and kidneys as well – which I promptly took over to Xala for her to enjoy instead.) But then it got a little bit more difficult to explain the plates of food that appeared at my door every day.
By Day 5 of meals prepared by someone other than myself I could no longer contain my frustration. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful for the free food and hospitality, I was grateful. But after eight months of fried potatoes and stuffed grape leaves I was desperate for something that tasted familiar (not to mention something that I could recognize all the ingredients in).
Moreover, this food had a habit of appearing at one of two times during the day: either just after I had finished eating something I’d made myself or while I was in the midst of cooking. Which leads the second source of my discontent. I am not one to throw perfectly edible food away. Inevitably I would end up eating twice as much as usual. Or as equally as wasteful as throwing prepared food away, the vegetables I bought would end up going bad before I had a chance to cook with them.
Finally, I decided that the situation was affecting my mental health enough that it would a good idea to talk to my counter-part about it. (Don’t judge me. I was desperate for a burrito. I have mentioned that I subsisted on fried potatoes all winter, yes?) Moreover, every neighbor I visited that week asked me repeatedly if I knew how to cook. Or just automatically assumed that I did not. So I broached the subject during my next Azerbaijani lesson.
And as a result had a conversation that sent my cultural sensibilities into a tail-spin even more so than the fact that I was desperate for some Tex-Mex. It went something like this:
M: Listen. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. But I’ve noticed that my landlady has been bringing me food every day.
L: Yes. I know. The director told her to do that.
M: But why? It isn’t necessary. I can manage for myself.
L: But you don’t know how to cook. You went to university. You were busy studying. You never had time to learn to cook for yourself.
M: *tries to grasp the logic of this statement and sputters incoherently for a minute of two*
Seriously. I was stunned into silence. First of all I resented the fact that the entire village seemed to be under the impression I didn’t know how to cook – including the one woman who seemed to take all my foreign idiosyncracies in stride without question. Moreover, I was confused by the concept that a college education ‘exempted’ me from a culinary one. University was where I learned to cook!
I ranted to everyone who would listen about this situation that particular fortnight. So I apologize if this blog post causes a bizarre sense of deja-vu for anyone. But I thought the episode deserved to be documented here because of the trauma it caused me. Culture Shock can take unlikely forms.
Note: Even in the midst of the drama I could appreciate the humor in the situation.
Eventually the situation was successfully resolved. I played the “But I’m Homesick For American Food” card. I was shot down. It wasn’t until one of the old ladies pointed out that I was of marriageable age and “needed to learn to cook for the benefit of my future husband” that I was left to my own devices. I have further cultural issues with the fact that that was the argument that won the debate. But you have to pick and choose your battles sometimes. And even if that logic is slightly flawed it did achieve the desired result so I shouldn’t complain.
My landlady and I have reached a happy medium as well. She gives me fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, eggs and cherries and berries. I give her sugar cookies and chocolate cake.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Second ‘Salyan Su Gelir” Slumber Party: Life Without Peanut Butter
The second ‘Salyan Su Gelir’ slumber party was much less light-hearted then the first. There was water bailing and dam construction. There were anxious phone calls to my village and reports from my site-mate’s neighbours.
In retrospect 4 days later, it would have been nice if I had had the presence of mind to pack my current book and some peanut butter in my emergency bag. In three days, I read 400 pages and created two new play lists. I showered. It took me two hours to send a single email one afternoon. At which point I decided to decamp to Baku for the weekend.
And that’s where I am now – sitting in my pyjamas in my room at Ata and Ana’s, typing this up. There was a Snickers bar and two kilos of fresh strawberries waiting for my arrival, and there was hot dogs and mashed potatoes for dinner. I may never leave.
After almost a week away from site – I am worried about the status of my village and the contents of my life contained therein. But for now I am content to decompress in Xirdalan especially since I think there is going to be eggplant for dinner.
In retrospect 4 days later, it would have been nice if I had had the presence of mind to pack my current book and some peanut butter in my emergency bag. In three days, I read 400 pages and created two new play lists. I showered. It took me two hours to send a single email one afternoon. At which point I decided to decamp to Baku for the weekend.
And that’s where I am now – sitting in my pyjamas in my room at Ata and Ana’s, typing this up. There was a Snickers bar and two kilos of fresh strawberries waiting for my arrival, and there was hot dogs and mashed potatoes for dinner. I may never leave.
After almost a week away from site – I am worried about the status of my village and the contents of my life contained therein. But for now I am content to decompress in Xirdalan especially since I think there is going to be eggplant for dinner.
Flooding II: Let Them Eat Cake
Water moves. This is a simple fact. It was just a matter of time before the water from the north moved further south towards my village. Being the good Girl Scout that I am, I never unpacked my emergency bag and kept asking the villagers about the status on the coming water.
On Monday afternoon it was decided that the water would probably arrived in about 3 or 4 days. They were wrong. It arrived that night while I was at a birthday party in the village next door with nothing but a photocopy of my passport and 20AZN. Awesome.
And the most frustrating part was that I found out that the water was coming by asking Xala what was in the big orange bag next to her at the table. Her documents. I had asked repeatedly in the hours up to the party about the status of the water. She had told me not to worry. But then I discover that she brought her documents to the party. And didn’t think to tell me to take mine. I was so upset.
We proceeded to eat dinner. For two hours. Peace Corps called me five times, trying to convince my host that I needed to go home to collect my documents and move to higher ground. Xala assured me that I would be able to get to Salyan that night. But I was antsy and anxious because I didn’t have my important papers with me nor was anything prepared at home (See I Live in a Flood Plain for how I coped with the first threat of flooding). It was also getting late, and I was worried about traveling on the road into Salyan in the dark. (It’s against PeaceCorps rules). Not to mention that my site-mate in the city was staying up until I arrived safely.
Eventually I was able to return to the village long enough to grab my bag, unplug the fridge and take out the trash. I was in my house for about 10 minutes. Then I handed my landlord my keI y, and prayed that the water would not rise to the predicted three feet because everything I own was on the ground floor and very little of it was packed in a way that would withstand water damage.
Then I was on my way to safety. Or so I thought. Instead we went back to the party for an hour. To eat cake. And take pictures with the token American. An endless 60 minutes – especially since I knew that that was about how long it would have taken me to prepare my house properly. But the cake was tasty.
I was grateful that another party guest offered to drive into Salyan. I was in my site-mate’s living room before midnight. I didn’t turn into a pumpkin after all.
On Monday afternoon it was decided that the water would probably arrived in about 3 or 4 days. They were wrong. It arrived that night while I was at a birthday party in the village next door with nothing but a photocopy of my passport and 20AZN. Awesome.
And the most frustrating part was that I found out that the water was coming by asking Xala what was in the big orange bag next to her at the table. Her documents. I had asked repeatedly in the hours up to the party about the status of the water. She had told me not to worry. But then I discover that she brought her documents to the party. And didn’t think to tell me to take mine. I was so upset.
We proceeded to eat dinner. For two hours. Peace Corps called me five times, trying to convince my host that I needed to go home to collect my documents and move to higher ground. Xala assured me that I would be able to get to Salyan that night. But I was antsy and anxious because I didn’t have my important papers with me nor was anything prepared at home (See I Live in a Flood Plain for how I coped with the first threat of flooding). It was also getting late, and I was worried about traveling on the road into Salyan in the dark. (It’s against PeaceCorps rules). Not to mention that my site-mate in the city was staying up until I arrived safely.
Eventually I was able to return to the village long enough to grab my bag, unplug the fridge and take out the trash. I was in my house for about 10 minutes. Then I handed my landlord my keI y, and prayed that the water would not rise to the predicted three feet because everything I own was on the ground floor and very little of it was packed in a way that would withstand water damage.
Then I was on my way to safety. Or so I thought. Instead we went back to the party for an hour. To eat cake. And take pictures with the token American. An endless 60 minutes – especially since I knew that that was about how long it would have taken me to prepare my house properly. But the cake was tasty.
I was grateful that another party guest offered to drive into Salyan. I was in my site-mate’s living room before midnight. I didn’t turn into a pumpkin after all.
What Came First? The Chicken Or The Egg
I share my yard with three turkeys, almost a dozen chickens and one very vocal rooster. This makes getting to the outhouse a bit of an obstacle course. I routinely have to sweet-talk the sunbathing turkeys and sidestep chicken poop. (A speed-agility-quickness routine adapted for Azerbaijan, perhaps.) It also means that I am informed that it is light outside long before I get out of bed.
But it is a small price to pay for fresh eggs every other day. In fact these eggs are so fresh I find them lying about the yard as I go about my daily life.
In the last week I have found a freshly laid egg:
- lying on the floor of the outhouse
- next to a washtub on the counter in the shower-room
- on my front door step beside my shoes
If I had an oven I would make some cookies with the loot. I’ll have to settle for pancakes this weekend instead. (Note to Self: Move oven up on the To Buy List)
But it is a small price to pay for fresh eggs every other day. In fact these eggs are so fresh I find them lying about the yard as I go about my daily life.
In the last week I have found a freshly laid egg:
- lying on the floor of the outhouse
- next to a washtub on the counter in the shower-room
- on my front door step beside my shoes
If I had an oven I would make some cookies with the loot. I’ll have to settle for pancakes this weekend instead. (Note to Self: Move oven up on the To Buy List)
A Single Sun-Bleached Sock (Or The Hazards of Hand-Washing)
Now that I live on my own (and have a working water heater) I am solely responsible for the process that makes my dirty clothes clean again.
Yes, you read that correctly: I haven’t done my own laundry in eight months. During training, I was too preoccupied with language lessons and the whole cultural adaptation process to argue when Ana insisted on doing my laundry for me. I didn’t feel too guilty about that though – they had a washing machine. In the village - I was allowed to assist with the washing of a single load of laundry before I was told to cease and desist. This ban may in part have been due to that fact that I had Mom send me some rubber gloves. I was laughed at. But you try plunging your hands into alternately hot and cold water in December and see how well you cope. I rest my case.
On my first morning in my new ‘new’ house, my landlord noticed me in the yard and rushed over to tell me that the ‘hamam’ was hot. Within ten minutes of waking up, I was told I could shower, shown which tap to use for laundry and where to hang my clothes to dry. After twenty days without reliable drinking water, I felt like a desert traveler who stumbles upon an unexpected oasis.
So exactly how does one go about this hand-washing business? It’s a ten-step process – in two parts.
Act I
1. Put clothes in 20 litre washtub.
2. Fill with hot water.
3. Shake approximately a half-cup of detergent into tub. (Can I mention how happy it makes me that my clothes smell like Persil again?)
4. Swirl clothes around until bubbles form.
5. Leave to soak for an hour or so.
Act II
6. Swirl clothes around some more. Focusing on stains and other indications of dirtiness.
7. Rinse each piece of clothing under the tap. Wring out soap. Place clothes in a second empty washtub.
8. Empty detergent water from first washtub. Rinse clothes again. Wring out excess water.
9. Take washtub of clothes out to clothesline. Hang each piece of clothing to dry. Shield delicates from view with a strategically placed t-shirt.
10. Curse the fact that you don’t have enough clothespins. Arrange socks on the rim of the washtub and set on a table in the sun.
Finale: Pray it doesn’t rain.
It’s not a terribly difficult enterprise. But washing a week’s worth of clothes is a time consuming process. The first two hours of my average Sunday morning is spent bent over a washtub, wringing out waterlogged button-downs and delicates. Perhaps because of this I have adopted the village habit of wearing the same outfit to school all week. But the fact that a colourful array of my socks and under-things takes up three-quarters of the clothesline mystifies my neighbours. Cultural assimilation only goes so far.
Speaking of socks - the title of this entry promised an anecdote. It started to rain Sunday night – so I hurriedly collected my dry clothes from the line. But in the process a sock dropped into the mud. Thus, needed to be re-washed and was still wet, so I left it outside. And then promptly forgot about it until this afternoon. (It is Wednesday).
It has been particularly sunny these last few days. So I now have one neon green sock and one that is a few shades closer to pastel. Oops.
Yes, you read that correctly: I haven’t done my own laundry in eight months. During training, I was too preoccupied with language lessons and the whole cultural adaptation process to argue when Ana insisted on doing my laundry for me. I didn’t feel too guilty about that though – they had a washing machine. In the village - I was allowed to assist with the washing of a single load of laundry before I was told to cease and desist. This ban may in part have been due to that fact that I had Mom send me some rubber gloves. I was laughed at. But you try plunging your hands into alternately hot and cold water in December and see how well you cope. I rest my case.
On my first morning in my new ‘new’ house, my landlord noticed me in the yard and rushed over to tell me that the ‘hamam’ was hot. Within ten minutes of waking up, I was told I could shower, shown which tap to use for laundry and where to hang my clothes to dry. After twenty days without reliable drinking water, I felt like a desert traveler who stumbles upon an unexpected oasis.
So exactly how does one go about this hand-washing business? It’s a ten-step process – in two parts.
Act I
1. Put clothes in 20 litre washtub.
2. Fill with hot water.
3. Shake approximately a half-cup of detergent into tub. (Can I mention how happy it makes me that my clothes smell like Persil again?)
4. Swirl clothes around until bubbles form.
5. Leave to soak for an hour or so.
Act II
6. Swirl clothes around some more. Focusing on stains and other indications of dirtiness.
7. Rinse each piece of clothing under the tap. Wring out soap. Place clothes in a second empty washtub.
8. Empty detergent water from first washtub. Rinse clothes again. Wring out excess water.
9. Take washtub of clothes out to clothesline. Hang each piece of clothing to dry. Shield delicates from view with a strategically placed t-shirt.
10. Curse the fact that you don’t have enough clothespins. Arrange socks on the rim of the washtub and set on a table in the sun.
Finale: Pray it doesn’t rain.
It’s not a terribly difficult enterprise. But washing a week’s worth of clothes is a time consuming process. The first two hours of my average Sunday morning is spent bent over a washtub, wringing out waterlogged button-downs and delicates. Perhaps because of this I have adopted the village habit of wearing the same outfit to school all week. But the fact that a colourful array of my socks and under-things takes up three-quarters of the clothesline mystifies my neighbours. Cultural assimilation only goes so far.
Speaking of socks - the title of this entry promised an anecdote. It started to rain Sunday night – so I hurriedly collected my dry clothes from the line. But in the process a sock dropped into the mud. Thus, needed to be re-washed and was still wet, so I left it outside. And then promptly forgot about it until this afternoon. (It is Wednesday).
It has been particularly sunny these last few days. So I now have one neon green sock and one that is a few shades closer to pastel. Oops.
ET Phone Home: Parental Edition
My parents are used to receiving infuriately brief messages about potentially hazardous situations from far corners of the world.
One of Dad’s favorite dinner party stories is the time I sent I sent them this e-mail: “Hi. Got arrested and escorted off the Great Wall last night. I’m OK. Don’t worry. Will email details when I can.” They didn’t hear from me for four days. Oops.
I didn’t want to bother them with the imminent risk of flooding until absolutely necessary. So I waited until after I was out of the village to inform them of the threat. But I did have our family friends in Baku send them details about the situation, so that they weren’t entirely in the dark. I thought it was very responsible of me for once rather than remiss. I even sent them daily texts.
However, there was a minor flaw in my thought process. I failed to remember that I have two sets of parents to keep in the loop now. I forgot to tell Ata and Ana about any of this. In fact, the last month has been so hectic that I haven’t talked to Ata and Ana at all. Cue admonishing phone call on Saturday morning.
Ata: Melissa. Where are you? You haven’t called.
Me: I am in Salyan. The village is next to the river. Peace Corps wanted me to be safe.
Ata: Ah. The river! Why didn’t you call us? You are our daughter. You should have come to stay with us.
Me: Sorry. I was very busy calling PeaceCorps often. I didn’t want you to worry. Peace Corps wanted the volunteers here to stay together. I will call when I return to the village.
The slightly awkward sentence structure is due to the fact that I was saying all of this in Azerbaijani. Needless to say, I felt properly chastised and called (as promised) upon my return to the village.
The Final Consensus:
Ana wants to know when I am coming to visit.
Mom couldn’t believe that I had been out of the village for four days.
One of Dad’s favorite dinner party stories is the time I sent I sent them this e-mail: “Hi. Got arrested and escorted off the Great Wall last night. I’m OK. Don’t worry. Will email details when I can.” They didn’t hear from me for four days. Oops.
I didn’t want to bother them with the imminent risk of flooding until absolutely necessary. So I waited until after I was out of the village to inform them of the threat. But I did have our family friends in Baku send them details about the situation, so that they weren’t entirely in the dark. I thought it was very responsible of me for once rather than remiss. I even sent them daily texts.
However, there was a minor flaw in my thought process. I failed to remember that I have two sets of parents to keep in the loop now. I forgot to tell Ata and Ana about any of this. In fact, the last month has been so hectic that I haven’t talked to Ata and Ana at all. Cue admonishing phone call on Saturday morning.
Ata: Melissa. Where are you? You haven’t called.
Me: I am in Salyan. The village is next to the river. Peace Corps wanted me to be safe.
Ata: Ah. The river! Why didn’t you call us? You are our daughter. You should have come to stay with us.
Me: Sorry. I was very busy calling PeaceCorps often. I didn’t want you to worry. Peace Corps wanted the volunteers here to stay together. I will call when I return to the village.
The slightly awkward sentence structure is due to the fact that I was saying all of this in Azerbaijani. Needless to say, I felt properly chastised and called (as promised) upon my return to the village.
The Final Consensus:
Ana wants to know when I am coming to visit.
Mom couldn’t believe that I had been out of the village for four days.
The Salyan ‘Su Gelir’ Slumber Party
I stayed in Salyan for four days. It was kinda like a mini-vacation. Sorta of.
The corners of the living room were stacked with emergency food supplies and water. There was obsessive checking of the news every two hours and calls at regular intervals from PeaceCorps to check in. Neighbours periodically stopped by to give us updates about the water flow. Any trip to the bathroom was a stone-hopping obstacle course. Not to mention a fleeting visit from my site-mate’s landlady’s son, who was in town with the army to build dams.
But…
We also made peanut butter and banana cookies. (Nothing fits the emergency ration bill quite like peanut butter). We watched the entire first season of Glee – four episodes at a time. We slept late and spent an inexcusable amount of time in our PJs. There were also variously long-winded conversations about the meaning of life and the hazards of life as a PeaceCorps volunteer. We even managed to do some work: finalizing our summer plans and discussing lessons plans. There are worse ways to spend an extended ‘house arrest’.
It was also convenient that my site-mate’s neighbour works in my village. He was kind enough to keep me abreast of developments of the village. Finally, on Saturday morning he had good news: It was safe for me to go ‘home’.
In the end - my region was lucky. There was only some (relatively) minor flooding. My village is fine - just a little bit soggy. My house stayed dry, although the chickens have been flooded out. But there are other parts of Azerbaijan that are still under water. Villages have had to be entirely evacuated and people have died. The pictures on the news are quite shocking.
It has not been a good year for natural disasters.
The corners of the living room were stacked with emergency food supplies and water. There was obsessive checking of the news every two hours and calls at regular intervals from PeaceCorps to check in. Neighbours periodically stopped by to give us updates about the water flow. Any trip to the bathroom was a stone-hopping obstacle course. Not to mention a fleeting visit from my site-mate’s landlady’s son, who was in town with the army to build dams.
But…
We also made peanut butter and banana cookies. (Nothing fits the emergency ration bill quite like peanut butter). We watched the entire first season of Glee – four episodes at a time. We slept late and spent an inexcusable amount of time in our PJs. There were also variously long-winded conversations about the meaning of life and the hazards of life as a PeaceCorps volunteer. We even managed to do some work: finalizing our summer plans and discussing lessons plans. There are worse ways to spend an extended ‘house arrest’.
It was also convenient that my site-mate’s neighbour works in my village. He was kind enough to keep me abreast of developments of the village. Finally, on Saturday morning he had good news: It was safe for me to go ‘home’.
In the end - my region was lucky. There was only some (relatively) minor flooding. My village is fine - just a little bit soggy. My house stayed dry, although the chickens have been flooded out. But there are other parts of Azerbaijan that are still under water. Villages have had to be entirely evacuated and people have died. The pictures on the news are quite shocking.
It has not been a good year for natural disasters.
I Live In A Flood Plain
One of the longest rivers in Azerbaijan runs alongside my village. The road into my village is next to a lake. I have to cross a large canal to visit my counterpart. My house it a two minute walk from the aforementioned canal. I should also mention that it rains frequently in my region. Not a misty drizzle or a Texas thunderstorm, but the kind of steady rain that pours for a day or so and saturates the ground.
It rained a lot last week. There were large puddles and standing water around the village, including a flooded orchard and henhouse in my yard. April was over. But the showers were still out in full force without a flower in sight. I was desperate for some wellies as I slipped through the mud to school on Monday and Tuesday. (I managed to stay upright!)
The rain didn’t stop.
At 10PM on Tuesday night my landlord comes over – wearing his yellow wellies – with a grim announcement: The water is coming: ‘su gelir’; move all your important possessions upstairs and prepare your important documents. (See note about how close my house is to the canal.) I called PeaceCorps to let them know of my predicament, promptly repacked everything I own, did the dishes and prepared a backpack in case of emergency. Then I called my site-mate in town and told her to expect company.
I was also too hyped up on adrenaline to sleep much so I read the entire Emergency Action Plan manual. In the fine print beneath ‘Flooding’ it reads: this is usually limited to the south-central Azerbaijan. Guess where I live?
The next morning my director’s husband drove me into town, although half the village was grumbling about the over-cautious nature of the American. I was drinking tea in my site-mate’s living room by 10AM
It rained a lot last week. There were large puddles and standing water around the village, including a flooded orchard and henhouse in my yard. April was over. But the showers were still out in full force without a flower in sight. I was desperate for some wellies as I slipped through the mud to school on Monday and Tuesday. (I managed to stay upright!)
The rain didn’t stop.
At 10PM on Tuesday night my landlord comes over – wearing his yellow wellies – with a grim announcement: The water is coming: ‘su gelir’; move all your important possessions upstairs and prepare your important documents. (See note about how close my house is to the canal.) I called PeaceCorps to let them know of my predicament, promptly repacked everything I own, did the dishes and prepared a backpack in case of emergency. Then I called my site-mate in town and told her to expect company.
I was also too hyped up on adrenaline to sleep much so I read the entire Emergency Action Plan manual. In the fine print beneath ‘Flooding’ it reads: this is usually limited to the south-central Azerbaijan. Guess where I live?
The next morning my director’s husband drove me into town, although half the village was grumbling about the over-cautious nature of the American. I was drinking tea in my site-mate’s living room by 10AM
A Renter’s Return Policy
In early April the agreement that my host family in the village made with Peace Corps expired and I wanted to move out on my own. I started discussing the possibility with my counterpart in March. Usually it is very difficult for PCVs living in villages to find independent housing (or even to be allowed to do so by their community). So I was prepared for a long, drawn out process. But it only took a week!
It turned out there was an empty house next door to my current host family. The owner was working in Russia, and his sister was looking after the house. There were three rooms, all the necessary furniture, an entire stock of dishes and pots and a fridge. (Plus an outhouse and a shower-room). It had everything BUT a kitchen sink. This seemed like the perfect arrangement. The village would have no problem with me living alone if I was within shouting distance of my host family. I already knew all the neighbors. I was still only two minutes from school and a quick walk to the store and the post office.
But the house hadn’t been lived in for fifteen years. It needed some repairs. These were simple things that could be fixed with a trip to the hardware store and an afternoon of work. The wallpaper was peeling and needed to be re-hung, window-glass needed to be replaced, light-fixtures needed to be installed and the water tank needed to be cleaned and filled. My landlady had assured PeaceCorps that she would do these things before I moved in.
It was too good to be true.
Move-in Day came and went without any DIY being done. I went to Baku for a conference and returned to the village with a Baku-based friend in tow. I went to make us some tea only to discover that the water tank had never been re-filled. Then the electricity went off during the daytime for four days. Come to think of it, many of you have probably recently received letters detailing the trials and tribulations of these few days. Flammable incidents with the glorified camping stove included. So let me skip ahead.
As an aside: Dad was stranded in London due to the volcano during this week. He kept sending me texts wanting sympathy. But in my world a week of bad hotel food and British weather beats having no water or electricity. Needless to say I won.
But I digress. My counterpart and the school director each approached my landlady on two separate occasions. Interestingly, these were the only times I actually saw my landlady. She was given a week to do the repairs (although she had already had a month given that she had been told in March I intended to move in April). My school director followed up the next week. Nothing had been done. My director decreed that I needed to move. This was a Wednesday.
On Friday afternoon I moved to a house two minutes from school in the opposite direction. It took two hours. Priority Mail boxes were my packing materials of choice, and a few of the village schoolboys who had the misfortune of loitering outside my director’s house that afternoon were my moving men. It wasn’t the most organized of re-locations but it was the quickest I’ve made yet.
It turned out there was an empty house next door to my current host family. The owner was working in Russia, and his sister was looking after the house. There were three rooms, all the necessary furniture, an entire stock of dishes and pots and a fridge. (Plus an outhouse and a shower-room). It had everything BUT a kitchen sink. This seemed like the perfect arrangement. The village would have no problem with me living alone if I was within shouting distance of my host family. I already knew all the neighbors. I was still only two minutes from school and a quick walk to the store and the post office.
But the house hadn’t been lived in for fifteen years. It needed some repairs. These were simple things that could be fixed with a trip to the hardware store and an afternoon of work. The wallpaper was peeling and needed to be re-hung, window-glass needed to be replaced, light-fixtures needed to be installed and the water tank needed to be cleaned and filled. My landlady had assured PeaceCorps that she would do these things before I moved in.
It was too good to be true.
Move-in Day came and went without any DIY being done. I went to Baku for a conference and returned to the village with a Baku-based friend in tow. I went to make us some tea only to discover that the water tank had never been re-filled. Then the electricity went off during the daytime for four days. Come to think of it, many of you have probably recently received letters detailing the trials and tribulations of these few days. Flammable incidents with the glorified camping stove included. So let me skip ahead.
As an aside: Dad was stranded in London due to the volcano during this week. He kept sending me texts wanting sympathy. But in my world a week of bad hotel food and British weather beats having no water or electricity. Needless to say I won.
But I digress. My counterpart and the school director each approached my landlady on two separate occasions. Interestingly, these were the only times I actually saw my landlady. She was given a week to do the repairs (although she had already had a month given that she had been told in March I intended to move in April). My school director followed up the next week. Nothing had been done. My director decreed that I needed to move. This was a Wednesday.
On Friday afternoon I moved to a house two minutes from school in the opposite direction. It took two hours. Priority Mail boxes were my packing materials of choice, and a few of the village schoolboys who had the misfortune of loitering outside my director’s house that afternoon were my moving men. It wasn’t the most organized of re-locations but it was the quickest I’ve made yet.
Earth Day: Azerbaijan
There is a lot of trash along the roadsides and sidewalks here. There are no community- sponsored trash bins. When trash is collected, it is more often than not burned. There are also issues with air quality and industrial pollution in Azerbaijan (just like any other post-industrial nation). The 7th grade English textbook has an entire unit that focuses on the environment, pollution and recycling. It is a problem that the government is trying to address.
Therefore, in celebration of Earth Day, a site-mate and I decided to stage a community clean up event. We developed a presentation on “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle”, and collected plastic bags of various shapes and sizes, including some American-size Hefty sacks kindly donated by a Peace Corps staff member. We decided that because of the emphasis in their textbooks on this topic, that the 7th grade students would be our target audience.
It definitely wasn’t my standard Wednesday morning 7th grade English lesson. The students worked together to make a list of things that they could do to help the environment. After our ‘recycling presentation’, the class discussed the things they already do in their everyday lives that help the environment. They separate their trash. They reuse glass jars. This year the government had a scrap metal collection campaign that students took part in.
After such a serious discussion (in English no less!) it was time for some fun. We spilt the students into teams of three. Each team was given a large trash bag and a few plastic produce bags to use as gloves. Then we set the students loose in the school-yard to fill their bags with the litter and trash around the school.
It was an incredible success. There were six bags! The students were still picking up trash as we walked back to the classroom after the bell had rung. I was particularly proud of the fact that the students who don’t have the best class participation record were so involved and enthusiastic that morning.
The next day I traveled to my site-mate’s school, and we did the whole thing again.
In the three weeks since Earth Day, I have become quite the environmental advocate. I have recently agreed to help with the environment week at three PCV-run camps in various parts of Azerbaijan this summer. Closer to home, I have been approached by one of the larger businesses in my village interested in sponsoring a similar environment themed event in the future. Progress!
See I was listening to all those childhood lectures after all, Dad.
Therefore, in celebration of Earth Day, a site-mate and I decided to stage a community clean up event. We developed a presentation on “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle”, and collected plastic bags of various shapes and sizes, including some American-size Hefty sacks kindly donated by a Peace Corps staff member. We decided that because of the emphasis in their textbooks on this topic, that the 7th grade students would be our target audience.
It definitely wasn’t my standard Wednesday morning 7th grade English lesson. The students worked together to make a list of things that they could do to help the environment. After our ‘recycling presentation’, the class discussed the things they already do in their everyday lives that help the environment. They separate their trash. They reuse glass jars. This year the government had a scrap metal collection campaign that students took part in.
After such a serious discussion (in English no less!) it was time for some fun. We spilt the students into teams of three. Each team was given a large trash bag and a few plastic produce bags to use as gloves. Then we set the students loose in the school-yard to fill their bags with the litter and trash around the school.
It was an incredible success. There were six bags! The students were still picking up trash as we walked back to the classroom after the bell had rung. I was particularly proud of the fact that the students who don’t have the best class participation record were so involved and enthusiastic that morning.
The next day I traveled to my site-mate’s school, and we did the whole thing again.
In the three weeks since Earth Day, I have become quite the environmental advocate. I have recently agreed to help with the environment week at three PCV-run camps in various parts of Azerbaijan this summer. Closer to home, I have been approached by one of the larger businesses in my village interested in sponsoring a similar environment themed event in the future. Progress!
See I was listening to all those childhood lectures after all, Dad.
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