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!
Friday, June 25, 2010
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.
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