SEVEN USES FOR A TEXT MESSAGE IN THE PEACE CORPS
These are just a few of the uses the Peace Corps has for text messages. There are other ‘official business’ uses that I don’t want to mention in cyberspace.
- to communicate with the medical office.
My favourite: Good Morning Melissa. What is your temperature today?
- to request medication refills and paperwork.
Typically: Hi. I need some cough drops, a box of tampons and a copy of the tutoring form, please.
- to check-in with my program manager
Such as: Hi. Why is it: ‘on a bus’ but ‘in a car’? I have no idea, and I am standing in front of students that would like an answer.
- to chat with other volunteers:
Basically: We’re on a tight budget. We’re too cheap to call each other.
- to talk to people I haven’t actually met yet:
6 Degrees of Separation: She met someone I went to high school with at university. We both work in Azerbaijan now. Hi Tasha! ☺
- to reassure my parents that I am still alive:
Reader’s Digest: The last 48-hours in 160 characters or less.
- to keep in touch with friends ‘back home’:
Needed: a SIM-card friendly network or the Skype SMS function.
Needless to say, the text message is put to very good use here. I can’t imagine how isolated PCVs felt before the advent of mobile phones. Sometimes there are perks to ‘roughing it’ in the twenty-first century.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Pomegranate Has Two Many Syllables
Back in November I wrote a blog post about pomegranates. Pomegranates are plentiful in Azerbaijan in the autumn. I would even go so far to say that pomegranates are the national fruit of Azerbaijan. This fruit is such an intrinsic part of the national psyche that its picture is on the posters schoolchildren use to learn the alphabet. A is for ‘Alma’. N is for ‘Nar’.
Which brings me to the reason I’ve started to talk about pomegranates in February when pomegranate season ended in December. Pomegranate has too many syllables
‘Nar’. It trips off the tongue effortlessly and is instantly understood by anyone here, host country nationals and Peace Corps volunteers alike. But if I am talking to someone ‘back home’, I have to make a conscious effort to say pomegranate. Which just takes too long, and is usually met with a confused silence as whoever is on the other end of the line wonders exactly what a pomegranate is. In contrast, in Azerbaijan, anyone can tell you immediately.
This rather elaborately extended metaphor is my way of trying to explain how difficult it is sometimes to ‘translate’ the Peace Corps experience for friends and family back home. I have to make a conscious effort to sit down and type up a blog post. I have been known to give up halfway through and call a fellow PCV instead. It is easier to share my enthusiasm or frustration with someone who understands the conditions I am working in and the obstacles I face.
This difficulty is probably exactly why the third goal the Peace Corps is what it is: To share the knowledge gained about another country with Americans. It is just as much a part of my job as a Peace Corps volunteer to explain Azerbaijan to Americans as it is to explain America to Azerbaijanis.
It is hard work. I am trying my best. Having said that: I would love for this blog to become a worthwhile resource rather than a straightforward journal. I would like to think I know what life is like in Azerbaijan as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I plan to live here every day for the next two years, and I don’t think I will ever forget this experience. Case in point: For the rest of my life I will refer to pomegranates as ‘nar’.
But: What can I tell you?
Click that comment button. Send me an e-mail.
Which brings me to the reason I’ve started to talk about pomegranates in February when pomegranate season ended in December. Pomegranate has too many syllables
‘Nar’. It trips off the tongue effortlessly and is instantly understood by anyone here, host country nationals and Peace Corps volunteers alike. But if I am talking to someone ‘back home’, I have to make a conscious effort to say pomegranate. Which just takes too long, and is usually met with a confused silence as whoever is on the other end of the line wonders exactly what a pomegranate is. In contrast, in Azerbaijan, anyone can tell you immediately.
This rather elaborately extended metaphor is my way of trying to explain how difficult it is sometimes to ‘translate’ the Peace Corps experience for friends and family back home. I have to make a conscious effort to sit down and type up a blog post. I have been known to give up halfway through and call a fellow PCV instead. It is easier to share my enthusiasm or frustration with someone who understands the conditions I am working in and the obstacles I face.
This difficulty is probably exactly why the third goal the Peace Corps is what it is: To share the knowledge gained about another country with Americans. It is just as much a part of my job as a Peace Corps volunteer to explain Azerbaijan to Americans as it is to explain America to Azerbaijanis.
It is hard work. I am trying my best. Having said that: I would love for this blog to become a worthwhile resource rather than a straightforward journal. I would like to think I know what life is like in Azerbaijan as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I plan to live here every day for the next two years, and I don’t think I will ever forget this experience. Case in point: For the rest of my life I will refer to pomegranates as ‘nar’.
But: What can I tell you?
Click that comment button. Send me an e-mail.
The Village Barber To My Rescue
The fact that I walk from the village center to the highway to catch the bus is quite the village taking point.
It is only about a 20-minute walk. Granted the road is often muddy, and I have to circumvent large potholes and dodge the occasional oncoming cow. Not to mention the half dozen villagers that stop to ask me exactly where I am going and why I am going alone. Generally it’s a nice walk (and good exercise) that is largely uneventful.
But earlier this week when I had to come into town on Peace Corps business a rather comical incident occurred. The highway was around on last bend. I had successfully dodged three large potholes filled with muddy water and two cows. I had not been run over by three large delivery trucks. Two of my students said ‘Hello’ to me. I was feeling pretty good about myself. With luck I would be able to catch an earlier bus than planned. I was one song away from a 45-minute bus ride into town.
Those of you that know me well know I regularly trip over my own feet. So it was only a matter of time before I ended up in an ungraceful heap on the village roadside. It turns out that Wednesday was the day of choice.
The next thing I know I’m sprawled on the ground. My entire left side (purse and iPod included) covered in mud. Fantastic. Just as I scramble to my feet a ‘xanim’ (old lady, babushka) turns the corner and stares at me. I attempt to dust myself off. But honestly, I look like a half-dipped chocolate covered strawberry from the waist down on my left side. But I need to go into town. There is no way I am going to walk all the way home and change. So I continue towards the highway; as the ‘xamin’ walks past she grumbles: “Where do you think you are going? Looking like that.” Just loud enough for me to hear.
I know I look like a mess, and that there is no way I will be allowed on the bus. But there is a store by the highway and a taxi stand. I figured I could either ask for help or get a ride back to the village. As I am walking to the store I hear a voice behind me: “Teacher! Teacher!” I turn around.
The village barber has come out of his shop and is frantically motioning to me. I limp over and attempt to explain what happened. He nods helpfully, telling his friend to stand guard at the door. He shows me a bucket of hot water and a sponge and tells me to stand still. He proceeds to spend the next ten minutes giving my jeans a sponge bath and uses a hair-dryer to dry them. If I hadn’t been so grateful, I would have been mortified.
I leave his shop just in time to see the bus drive past. He whistled for it to stop, and I was able to catch it a few hundred meters further up the road.
In conclusion, I should start carrying around candy in my pockets to give to the people that take pity on the hapless American; and help me out of the ridiculous situations I occasionally find myself in.
It is only about a 20-minute walk. Granted the road is often muddy, and I have to circumvent large potholes and dodge the occasional oncoming cow. Not to mention the half dozen villagers that stop to ask me exactly where I am going and why I am going alone. Generally it’s a nice walk (and good exercise) that is largely uneventful.
But earlier this week when I had to come into town on Peace Corps business a rather comical incident occurred. The highway was around on last bend. I had successfully dodged three large potholes filled with muddy water and two cows. I had not been run over by three large delivery trucks. Two of my students said ‘Hello’ to me. I was feeling pretty good about myself. With luck I would be able to catch an earlier bus than planned. I was one song away from a 45-minute bus ride into town.
Those of you that know me well know I regularly trip over my own feet. So it was only a matter of time before I ended up in an ungraceful heap on the village roadside. It turns out that Wednesday was the day of choice.
The next thing I know I’m sprawled on the ground. My entire left side (purse and iPod included) covered in mud. Fantastic. Just as I scramble to my feet a ‘xanim’ (old lady, babushka) turns the corner and stares at me. I attempt to dust myself off. But honestly, I look like a half-dipped chocolate covered strawberry from the waist down on my left side. But I need to go into town. There is no way I am going to walk all the way home and change. So I continue towards the highway; as the ‘xamin’ walks past she grumbles: “Where do you think you are going? Looking like that.” Just loud enough for me to hear.
I know I look like a mess, and that there is no way I will be allowed on the bus. But there is a store by the highway and a taxi stand. I figured I could either ask for help or get a ride back to the village. As I am walking to the store I hear a voice behind me: “Teacher! Teacher!” I turn around.
The village barber has come out of his shop and is frantically motioning to me. I limp over and attempt to explain what happened. He nods helpfully, telling his friend to stand guard at the door. He shows me a bucket of hot water and a sponge and tells me to stand still. He proceeds to spend the next ten minutes giving my jeans a sponge bath and uses a hair-dryer to dry them. If I hadn’t been so grateful, I would have been mortified.
I leave his shop just in time to see the bus drive past. He whistled for it to stop, and I was able to catch it a few hundred meters further up the road.
In conclusion, I should start carrying around candy in my pockets to give to the people that take pity on the hapless American; and help me out of the ridiculous situations I occasionally find myself in.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
An Azerbaijani Snow Day
I was ten during the Blizzard of ’96. I went to college in Boston. I have a love-hate relationship with snow - especially when there is a lot of it. Fortunately, Peace Corps had the foresight to not place me in a region where there would be a lot of the ‘white stuff’ every year. But this past weekend – it felt like the whole country shut down for a few days due to snow.
On Friday I woke up to a few centimeters of snow on the ground in our courtyard. Rumor had it that in Baku more than a few feet of snow had fallen overnight. There was no immediate way to verify this ‘hear-say’. The power went out at 10 AM.
I wasn’t particularly worried. The lights often go out during the day in the village for a few hours at a time. (The power grid isn’t big enough to meet the demand; there are rolling black outs.) I was still battling a cold. I was grateful for the day off. Moreover, the postman had just delivered a care package (See post below.) I had plenty to keep me occupied.
But the lights stayed off. We are lucky we have a gas source for cooking and a wood-burning stove for heat. So staying well-fed and warm was not a problem. Although by dinner time my phone started to protest its lack of charge. Oops. I gave up on any evening entertainment – no TV or computer and flashlights in use to complete more important tasks – and went to bed ridiculously early.
But there were still no lights the next morning. I wrote six letters to pass the time. Finally, in mid-afternoon, Xala and I took a trip to a relative’s house in a larger near-by town that had had their power restored. I was able to charge my phone. I also got to shower. (It was a Sunday). Xala bought some bread: the village store hadn’t gotten a shipment since the snow started because there was no power to fire the ovens.
Shortly after Xala and I returned home, the power came back on. The pictures on the television from Baku proved that the capital was not as lucky as the village in its brush with a late winter storm. There were feet of snow: car accidents, downed power lines and interrupted gas and water services. So it could have been worse.
The snow has since melted, school has resumed and I have made a conscious effort to not late my phone battery get less than half full.
On Friday I woke up to a few centimeters of snow on the ground in our courtyard. Rumor had it that in Baku more than a few feet of snow had fallen overnight. There was no immediate way to verify this ‘hear-say’. The power went out at 10 AM.
I wasn’t particularly worried. The lights often go out during the day in the village for a few hours at a time. (The power grid isn’t big enough to meet the demand; there are rolling black outs.) I was still battling a cold. I was grateful for the day off. Moreover, the postman had just delivered a care package (See post below.) I had plenty to keep me occupied.
But the lights stayed off. We are lucky we have a gas source for cooking and a wood-burning stove for heat. So staying well-fed and warm was not a problem. Although by dinner time my phone started to protest its lack of charge. Oops. I gave up on any evening entertainment – no TV or computer and flashlights in use to complete more important tasks – and went to bed ridiculously early.
But there were still no lights the next morning. I wrote six letters to pass the time. Finally, in mid-afternoon, Xala and I took a trip to a relative’s house in a larger near-by town that had had their power restored. I was able to charge my phone. I also got to shower. (It was a Sunday). Xala bought some bread: the village store hadn’t gotten a shipment since the snow started because there was no power to fire the ovens.
Shortly after Xala and I returned home, the power came back on. The pictures on the television from Baku proved that the capital was not as lucky as the village in its brush with a late winter storm. There were feet of snow: car accidents, downed power lines and interrupted gas and water services. So it could have been worse.
The snow has since melted, school has resumed and I have made a conscious effort to not late my phone battery get less than half full.
Postman Pat
He doesn’t drive a red truck and he doesn’t come around every day. But my village postman deserves 15 minutes of fame. If only because I’m pretty sure that his trips into the central post office have tripled since I moved to the village.
I should have known I was in good hands. He got the village post office its first ever supply of international envelopes and stamps within a week of my arrival. And since then he has continued to make my life just that little bit easier.
He brings my mail to my compound gate. Given that this often includes a 10-pound care package of goodies from America, I appreciate his efforts. He has also been known to stop by twice in one day if letters and packages arrive at different times. Once on a Saturday, he came to my door to apologise that he wouldn’t be able to go get the package that had arrived that day until the following Monday.
And then there was the package he delivered at 10AM in the morning in the middle of a snowstorm. So very much appreciated because the lights went out shortly after that, and I would have been bored to tears without the excitement of pop-tarts, cupcake mix and half a dozen magazines (some more intelligent than others) to keep me entertained.
He also gets brownie points for being one of the few people in the village that does not seem to think my habit of replying in Azerbaijani to questions posed in Russian odd.
So take comfort in the fact that your letters and packages are in very capable hands on this side of Europe. Now if only I could work out exactly when the post office is open; I would be ecstatic.
I should have known I was in good hands. He got the village post office its first ever supply of international envelopes and stamps within a week of my arrival. And since then he has continued to make my life just that little bit easier.
He brings my mail to my compound gate. Given that this often includes a 10-pound care package of goodies from America, I appreciate his efforts. He has also been known to stop by twice in one day if letters and packages arrive at different times. Once on a Saturday, he came to my door to apologise that he wouldn’t be able to go get the package that had arrived that day until the following Monday.
And then there was the package he delivered at 10AM in the morning in the middle of a snowstorm. So very much appreciated because the lights went out shortly after that, and I would have been bored to tears without the excitement of pop-tarts, cupcake mix and half a dozen magazines (some more intelligent than others) to keep me entertained.
He also gets brownie points for being one of the few people in the village that does not seem to think my habit of replying in Azerbaijani to questions posed in Russian odd.
So take comfort in the fact that your letters and packages are in very capable hands on this side of Europe. Now if only I could work out exactly when the post office is open; I would be ecstatic.
In Which Ata And Ana Visit The Village
It was shaping up to be a standard Sunday afternoon at home. I was curled up next to the stove - wrapped in a blanket to combat my cold - reading. Suddenly, a noise outside caused me to look up from my book. Clearly I had a fever after all; there was no reason that Ata (and his rather musical car horn) would be in the village.
Xala came barreling through the doorway a minute later: Melissa! Come! Quickly! Mama and Papa! At this point I’m not 100% sure what’s going on. But I do as I am told, and dutifully stumble around the corner into the yard. Only to come face-to-face with Ata and Ana, who stand with their arms full of gifts and matching grins.
I was wrong. Apparently, it’s entirely natural for Ata (and his rather musical car horn) to be in the village on a Sunday afternoon. What a fantastic surprise!
Post-reunion - there was a quick round of introductions and gift giving. ( I will explain the etiquette of guesting in Azerbaijan in another upcoming blog post). Ana had made a giant bowl of my favorite Azerbaijani salad. Ata handed me two Snickers bars and a pay-as-you-go phone voucher. Candy and kontur are the true way into a PCV’s heart. After a quick reshuffle of plates and teacups, we sat down to lunch. (Ata is always hungry!)
Everyone was very happy to meet each other and had plenty to talk about. There were conversations going on in three languages. Ana played with the grandkids, and Ata admired the gardens. I took Ana on a tour of the village and showed her my school. Ata stayed in the warm, and fixed my water filter. I was nagged about not wearing a hat and scarf. My host sister was given the recipe for what has become known as Melissa’s salad. I gave Ana the recipe for pumpkin pie.
It was a wonderful visit. The perfect antidote for those mid-winter blues!
I feel very blessed to know such wonderful people.
Xala came barreling through the doorway a minute later: Melissa! Come! Quickly! Mama and Papa! At this point I’m not 100% sure what’s going on. But I do as I am told, and dutifully stumble around the corner into the yard. Only to come face-to-face with Ata and Ana, who stand with their arms full of gifts and matching grins.
I was wrong. Apparently, it’s entirely natural for Ata (and his rather musical car horn) to be in the village on a Sunday afternoon. What a fantastic surprise!
Post-reunion - there was a quick round of introductions and gift giving. ( I will explain the etiquette of guesting in Azerbaijan in another upcoming blog post). Ana had made a giant bowl of my favorite Azerbaijani salad. Ata handed me two Snickers bars and a pay-as-you-go phone voucher. Candy and kontur are the true way into a PCV’s heart. After a quick reshuffle of plates and teacups, we sat down to lunch. (Ata is always hungry!)
Everyone was very happy to meet each other and had plenty to talk about. There were conversations going on in three languages. Ana played with the grandkids, and Ata admired the gardens. I took Ana on a tour of the village and showed her my school. Ata stayed in the warm, and fixed my water filter. I was nagged about not wearing a hat and scarf. My host sister was given the recipe for what has become known as Melissa’s salad. I gave Ana the recipe for pumpkin pie.
It was a wonderful visit. The perfect antidote for those mid-winter blues!
I feel very blessed to know such wonderful people.
Infant Mortality Rate
INFANT MORTALITY RATE
This story has a happy ending.
Winter is flu season. This is a universal truth. So when the baby, two year-old and I started feeling a little under the weather last week no one thought anything of it. Until the two-year-old hadn’t eaten for 3 days. There were trips to the doctors in both the nearby towns. It was decided that his teeth coming in were to blame. But a few days later, he wasn’t even able to keep down water or tea. At this point my host family took him to see a doctor in Baku. They returned with a much bleaker diagnosis than they were expecting. Parasites.
Suddenly, there was a table full of antibiotics and syringes, and an army of relatives and neighbors in the living room. It took 3 people to decode the doctor’s two-page prescription and mix the appropriate cocktail from the dozen different drugs to put in the IV. (I wish I was exaggerating these numbers – I am not).
When you’re a foreigner with a deep chest cough, it’s difficult to blend into the background. But I tried to stay out of the way as much as possible. This was clearly a family in crisis. And the situation got worse before it got better. But it did get better. After a very long 48 hours, there were signs of improvement. And the two year-old has since made a full recovery: his new favorite hobby is to drag me away from whatever I am doing to play blocks with him.
I am supremely grateful that this story has a happy ending. But it made me acutely aware of the fact that infant mortality is a still very real reality in our world today. Fortunately my host family had the resources to get the appropriate care. But it was a considerable cost - definitely not available to most Azerbaijani village families. But even with the doctors and antibiotics, there was no guarantee. It was only after the two year old was fully recovered that my host family admitted their very real fear about what could have happened.
It was a very difficult weekend. But a new month brings second chances and new beginnings.
This story has a happy ending.
Winter is flu season. This is a universal truth. So when the baby, two year-old and I started feeling a little under the weather last week no one thought anything of it. Until the two-year-old hadn’t eaten for 3 days. There were trips to the doctors in both the nearby towns. It was decided that his teeth coming in were to blame. But a few days later, he wasn’t even able to keep down water or tea. At this point my host family took him to see a doctor in Baku. They returned with a much bleaker diagnosis than they were expecting. Parasites.
Suddenly, there was a table full of antibiotics and syringes, and an army of relatives and neighbors in the living room. It took 3 people to decode the doctor’s two-page prescription and mix the appropriate cocktail from the dozen different drugs to put in the IV. (I wish I was exaggerating these numbers – I am not).
When you’re a foreigner with a deep chest cough, it’s difficult to blend into the background. But I tried to stay out of the way as much as possible. This was clearly a family in crisis. And the situation got worse before it got better. But it did get better. After a very long 48 hours, there were signs of improvement. And the two year-old has since made a full recovery: his new favorite hobby is to drag me away from whatever I am doing to play blocks with him.
I am supremely grateful that this story has a happy ending. But it made me acutely aware of the fact that infant mortality is a still very real reality in our world today. Fortunately my host family had the resources to get the appropriate care. But it was a considerable cost - definitely not available to most Azerbaijani village families. But even with the doctors and antibiotics, there was no guarantee. It was only after the two year old was fully recovered that my host family admitted their very real fear about what could have happened.
It was a very difficult weekend. But a new month brings second chances and new beginnings.
Extended Family
Family is very important in Azerbaijan. It dictates social structure and dominates life in the home. Extended family members routinely drop by for tea or to help with the latest DIY project.
Some days it feels like everyone who comes through the door is a relative of some description. During the weeks that my host brother is working off-shore, the food shopping and trips to the butcher fall to other male relatives. Sometimes an aunt will stop by with vegetables or fruit or to help out with the weekly baking. I have lost count of how many cousins there are. They show up to chop wood or baby-sit. I can’t keep track of who is who. In fact, they might not all be directly related to my host family – but they are around so often it feels like they are.
I know this phenomenon isn’t unique to Azerbaijan. But it the first time I have been exposed to it. I grew up on the opposite side of the country (or the ocean) from most of my relatives. I have never lived in a world like this. The way that everyone looks out and cares for each other is really nice. Although there are definitely some days when I am entirely overwhelmed by the number of people in the house.
Having said that, I am acquiring an extended family of my own here, and for that I am very grateful.
Some days it feels like everyone who comes through the door is a relative of some description. During the weeks that my host brother is working off-shore, the food shopping and trips to the butcher fall to other male relatives. Sometimes an aunt will stop by with vegetables or fruit or to help out with the weekly baking. I have lost count of how many cousins there are. They show up to chop wood or baby-sit. I can’t keep track of who is who. In fact, they might not all be directly related to my host family – but they are around so often it feels like they are.
I know this phenomenon isn’t unique to Azerbaijan. But it the first time I have been exposed to it. I grew up on the opposite side of the country (or the ocean) from most of my relatives. I have never lived in a world like this. The way that everyone looks out and cares for each other is really nice. Although there are definitely some days when I am entirely overwhelmed by the number of people in the house.
Having said that, I am acquiring an extended family of my own here, and for that I am very grateful.
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