Subject: Yo-yos

Dear friends,

Fall Break!! Independence Day is October 27 and to celebrate we have

a week off school. I'm still crazy busy with tying up loose ends, but I came up to the city this afternoon for an evening with friends and cold beers. I'm having a pizza party for my younger students this Friday

and a big going away party on Halloween. It'll be lots of fun -- some

other volunteers are coming, the women teachers were all invited, and

we're going to have dancing and a videographer so I can show all of

you a little Turkmenistan.

Anyway. I don't have any deep thoughts on culture this week; ran out

of time. I'll try to get at least one more email out before I leave.

Instead, I hope you'll be satisfied with a note on the erratic Turkmen

weather and my concerns about leaving my desert home.

Lots of love,

Jess

My life in Turkmenistan has been that of a yo-yo: I've been jerked

around by my emotions and I've been jerked around by the environment.

I know I sound like I'm stuck on repeat about this, but you would not

believe how sudden the weather changes here. Yes, we have had a few

autumnal days in the past month, but for the most part, October felt

like September. Which is to say, cool in the morning (60 degrees or

so) and hot in the afternoon (over 80). I could walk outside in the

middle of the night in a t-shirt and cropped pajama pants and not feel

chilled. There was nothing that prepared us for yesterday morning –

no wind storm, no subsequently cooler days, nothing. Instead, I woke

up and it was 50 degrees outside. And I thought, well it'll warm up

this afternoon. It did not. The whole day was breezy and cool. I

had to sleep in socks, pants, and a long sleeved t-shirt. This

morning I was hit in the face with cold when I walked outside. I saw

my breath when I yawned. Garagoz was feeling super frisky as cooler

weather suits his thick pelt. I threw a stick for him, went to the

outhouse, peeked at the temperature, and returned inside rosy cheeked

and marveling at the fact that a mere two days ago I was putzing

around outside in a t-shirt and shorts and now I would have to bust

out my fuzzy slippers and pack my shorts because 40 degrees is too

cold for bare feet and knees.

40 degrees. 40 degrees. The morning temperature dropped 20 degrees

in two days. Does that happen at home? Does it? In the desert –

places similar to my Turkmen environment? It must; certainly this

can't be a global anomaly, but I come from a place where the

temperature gracefully rises and falls with the changing seasons. The

sudden yank of the yo-yo string that is Turkmenistan's temperature is

unsettling.

Anyhow.

I've gotten a lot of emails recently that say, "It sounds like you're

ready to come home!" And I suppose I am to an extent. I mean, yeah,

it'll be nice to start my next adventure – I'm going back out to

Colorado (where I will suffer shock at the low temperatures, I'm sure)

and applying to graduate school. But I'm also sad to leave. I have

established a life here and it's not one I'll be able to recreate ever

again. I would love to return to Turkmenistan in the future, but that

depends on the visa gods and their whimsical benevolence.

October has felt like an hour glass: you know those sand timers you

get in board games? The grains of sand always seem to be moving

slower when you first turn it over, but as the sand runs out, the

grains go faster and faster? October started out slow as molasses

and now it's the end of October and I think, "Gosh, where has the time

gone?"

How does it make me feel? I don't know. I don't feel anything. I'm

not bored anymore and that has quenched most of my deepest longings to

come home. And I'm comfortable here. Despite all the quirks in

Turkmenistan, and often because of them, I like it here. It's a

simple life, but there's so much to learn and see. What will I have

to write about when I get home?

Obviously I'll be comfortable at home, too. Of course I'll like it (I

hope so anyway). And I am so looking forward to picking up my

friendships that have been put on pause due to slow mail delivery, my

lack of access to communication devices, and high long-distance

prices. It'll be great to talk to my parents more than once a week.

It'll be nice to dry my laundry in a dryer and not have it freeze

overnight. And, ooooh, the cheese.

Yet, I worry: Visions of home dance through my head – of going to the

library, of buying organic greens at the grocery store, of driving

back roads, of walking through crunchy fall leaves in Masonic Homes,

of driving the back roads I know by heart. I yearn for these memories

to become truth once again, but today as I was squatting in the

outhouse, I began to wonder if I wouldn't be disappointed when I got

home. We have this image of "America" that we hold and cherish and

idealize for two years; I worry that it won't live up to our

expectations. I worry it won't live up to my expectations. I'll go

to the grocery store and think, "This is it? I imagined this moment

for two years and this is it?" And really, what should I expect?

It's just a grocery store after all. I am trying to be realistic. I

want my homecoming to be this bombastic affair, but I have a feeling

that my return to my oft dreamed about motherland will be much more

whimper than bang.

Sigh. I don't have a choice though; my visa expires on December 5 and

no one in our group has been allowed to extend for a third year. And

it could be worse, right? I mean, I am going home after all. Even if

it's boring, I'll still have access to uncensored internet, libraries

stocked with books, seatbelts, and mozzarella.

Oh, America. May you live up to all my hopes and dreams.

I will be home. It's nuts. And I have OODLES to do before I leave.. The bright side is that when I procrastinate these days, I usually end up working on my personal statements for graduate school.

Anyway.

Hi.

So, it's Saturday afternoon. It's hot -- well, warm, anyway. We've all escaped our villages to hang out at Collin's tonight, which won't be the last time, but could be the second-to-last time. In truth, I feel kind of guilty about leaving my host family since I've only got 4 weeks left with them. On the other hand, I need cheese.

Suddenly craving mozzarella,

Jessica

And here we go:

"Miss Manners"We all leave Turkmenistan changed. On the whole, I think I'll leave this country an improved person: I'm more patient and flexible, an astute problem solver, and I'm slowly getting over my perfectionism. However, this country has not exerted a totally positive influence on me. Some things have changed for the worse. Here's a run-down of the bad-habits I've adopted over the past two years:1. Table manners – forget asking anyone to pass the salt and pepper, if we need something in Turkmenistan, we just reach across the table and grab it. Got something on your plate I want to try? Please don't mind if I help myself to your food. Double dipping? No one bats an eye. And I just might eat ice-cream out of the carton, too.2. Queuing – there is no such thing as standing in line in Turkmenistan. When we're in a situation where there would be an ordered line in the US, we merely ask who is last and remember who we're behind and who came after us. We can sit or walk away or hover, it doesn't matter; the verbal standing reigns. In a hurry? Butt. It works most of the time. Not in a hurry? Butt. Especially waiting to board planes. Don't join in the back of the throng of waiting people but enter the mass of bodies directly at the front. No one will say anything. 3. Posture – two years of sitting on the floor and eating off six-inch-high tables wrecks one's posture. My posture is dreadful; I consistently remind myself to keep my shoulders back and my head held tall, otherwise I'll return to America shorter than I left it. 4. Lying – I have given in to lying, especially when fatigued. After two years of admitting that I didn't have a boyfriend at home, I had enough of people trying to thrust themselves or their sons on me. Now, I just lie. Why, yes I have a boyfriend. Yes, he is waiting for me. And yes, we're going to get married. He was born in 1983 and we've been together for four years. I can't wait to see him. My host family thinks my new found deceitfulness is hilarious and more proof that I've fully integrated into Turkmen culture (they lie a lot). The sad thing is I've begun lying more and more. A few days ago as I was leaving my classroom two students approached me and asked if I had a chalkboard eraser. I did. I said, "No." Erasers are hard to come by. They're hand-made. I had a few disintegrating rags with which to erase my board and had only just the day before sewn a new one with my host sister (rather, she sewed and I watched). I knew if I said yes, those girls would take my new eraser and I would never see it again. So I lied, and my eraser is still in my possession.

"I'm ignoring you because I respect you"As a sign of respect, it is customary for newlywed Turkmen brides to remain silent in front of their mothers and fathers-in-law. The bride can speak with her husband of course and can speak with her brothers and sisters-in-law after a few days, but she must wait anywhere between 10 days and a month before talking with her mother-in-law. And even then, she cannot speak with her father-in-law. The family determines when the silence can be broken: my host mother didn't speak to her father-in-law until after she and my host father moved into their own house – five years after they were married. If it happens that no one but the father and daughter-in-law are home, they still cannot speak. Bagul told me that when our neighbor, Nuretdin, and his daughter-in-law, Shayda, were home alone together, he would often come to our house and tell my family to relay messages to her. She would do likewise if she needed to communicate with him. Lest you forget, they live in the same house. So deeply held is this tradition that they could not speak to each other and had to go in search of a middle man to communicate! I ask you, is this respect or stupidity? Well. If there's anything I've learned over the past two years, it's that it's unfair to call the customs of other cultures "stupid." People, of course, have their reasons for everything, even if no one can recall what they are. So instead of "stupid," let's call this practice "impractical". Because showing respect is one thing, but if the house is on fire and I need my father-in-law to call 911, I sure as hell am not going to run to the neighbor's first in order to avoid speaking to him. "The civilized breast"Forgive me if public sentiment has changed over the past two years but, as I recall, we Americans are prudes about breastfeeding. Women shyly drape shawls or other contraptions over their shoulders to feed their babies in public. Those forgoing said cover-ups incite outcry and national debate over the right to breastfeed in public. The great irony is that boobs, as an organ, are not taboo in Turkmenistan. Though culturally more conservative than we – recall that women cover their hair and their ankles – Turkmen recognize the practicality and necessity of the breast. I have observed countless nursing mothers whip out their breasts to feed their infants. They do it at home in full view of immediate family and/or guests. They do it in taxis and in train cars surrounded by strangers. Women or men, it doesn't matter who is present; if the baby is fussing, it is fed and no one covers their eyes and whines about public indecency. The first time a woman breastfed in my presence I didn't know where to look. The action was so nonchalant and the other women in the room didn't seem to notice the exposed appendage, but I felt awkward and had to fight the impulse to stare by consciously reminding myself, "Look at her face! Not the boob! Face! Not boob!"Now, boobs are as mundane for me as for the Turkmen. Like them, I am able to delineate between breasts as sexual objects and breasts as tools. These days, when I observe women peacefully breastfeeding, I am left wondering about our own culture. Why are we such prudes? Why can't Americans behave as the Turkmen do and recognize a mother's need to nourish her child? Why should something so natural have to be kept hidden? (Yes – I can see the parallel here: we don't go to the bathroom in public. At least, not without doors. And yet, I maintain that breastfeeding is different.) Why can't we look past the silicon-implanted, sexualized object and see the breast for what it really is? Why don't we appreciate the utility of the boob? The only theory I've been able to come up with is that our priggishness serves to set us apart from our animal kin. Mammals breast feed their young with no shame. Teats are flashed and no one rushes to cover them. Animal boobs lack sex appeal. We don't even use the same word – animals have teats or udders. Women have breasts. In nomenclature alone we are already announcing ourselves as different from them. Perhaps when we say, "Your breasts are disgusting to me," we do so as a way of proving to ourselves that we, unlike our mammalian brethren, are evolved and civilized. We have intelligent, human brains capable of standards of decency. Keeping nursing babies behind closed doors and snuggled under blankets protects society from the painful reminder that we and our vertebrate friends are more similar than we'd care to admit. This same prudery helps us distance our modern, developed selves from women of third-world countries. You've seen the National Geographic pictures: topless mother, baby hanging off the swollen nipple like a tick. Maybe we think, "How primitive! Ah, but our babies are not suckled so! We are more civilized!" We are too good to openly nurse our young.It's snobbery, frankly. I've never contemplated breastfeeding so much before, and I find myself thankful for the breastfeeding-induced examination of my own culture and subsequent conclusion that "developed" doesn't always imply "enlightened."

 

  Dear friends, Our two years’ correspondence will shortly be ending; I’m coming home the third week of November.  I still don’t know the exact date, but I promise you, my feet will be on American soil sometime between November 15 and November 20.  Most likely the latter half of the week, but the third week nonetheless.  And I feel…how?  To be honest, it’s been an interesting emotional switch: before our COS (close of service) conference, I was not overly excited about leaving Turkmenistan.  I didn’t feel ready, whatever ready feels like.  But after our date selection lottery, after getting an idea of when I’d be leaving, I became consumed with thoughts of going home.  Obsessed.  Couldn’t wait.  Time suddenly began to stand still and I thought November would never come. Part of the problem was that I wasn’t working.  After the conference I went back to school, but â€" though it will boggle our western schedule-oriented minds â€" there was no set schedule of classes for the first 3 weeks of school.  This made life difficult for me, as I couldn’t plan my clubs because I didn’t know when I’d be teaching lessons at school.  I spent my days filling in the correct answers to exercises in English books which was mind numbing as well as butt numbing.  I thought my boredom was rooted in my newfound desires to beat feet out of Turkmenistan, but now that I have a regular schedule and have begun teaching I’m immensely happier.  Clearly I am just a creature of habit and don’t do well without a) something engaging to do and b) structure.  My parents can vouch for that (see: Jess’s emotional breakdown day one in Paris). Where do I stand now?  Time has resumed a normal pace which is good.  I don’t perpetually think about leaving anymore, but I do think about it daily, just because I have so much to do before then.  Like pack.  Ugh.  I’ve started the Big Purge already.  Also, my family FINALLY hung the new curtains I bought last spring, and it’s made a dramatic difference in my room; instead of being dark and cramped it’s now bright and it seems so spacious.   Sounds bounce off the walls whereas before the gross, sun-shredded curtains muffled everything.  I love it.  And â€" I don’t know â€" having an updated room makes the time seem like it will just speed along by. My host sister and I made a list of things she wants to learn to make before I leave.  Our peaches are nearing the end of the season now and we’ve been making peach cobblers nearly weekly â€" she really likes them.  Anyway.  That’s what’s up with me these days.  Busy and happy and looking forward to coming home.  I don’t have a single story for you today â€" I have a post-it of ideas that I have yet to elaborate upon â€" but I do have a several shorter observations I’ve made over the last few weeks.  I hope you find them entertaining :) Hugs, Jessica   From September 13: ™    At the bazaar this morning Zohre purchased a kilo of grapes for 4,500 manat (or.90 new manat or approximately 32 cents) from a very rotund woman presiding over her wares in a manner strikingly reminiscent of Jaba the Hut.   From September 15: ™    Baby chicks are a little bit like lemmings.  I guess you can’t blame them â€" what baby thinks its mother will steer it wrong?  We’re totally dependent on our mommies when we’re young.  We rely on them to keep us safe.  Unfortunately for our new baby chicks, this thinking has not served them so well.  Or, I should say, it hasn’t served one of them well.  For while there used to be 11 fluffy peeps, there are now ten.  The mother hen, ever in search of greener nibs of grass, led her cheeping entourage to the field yesterday, whereupon one of them fell into an irrigation ditch and drowned.  Thanks a lot, Mommy.   ™    I took a ride in the car with Gapur today, and marveled at the fact that in Turkmenistan, I really don’t go anywhere.  Unless I have to travel to Ashgabat for business, most of the time I don’t leave my village.  You could draw a circle with a 2.5 km radius around me and 95% of the time you’d find me in it.  Heck, you could probably even make the circle smaller.  Going to the bazaar and going for runs take me the furthest distances from my home.  Except, of course, every two weeks or so, when you’d find me about 200 km away from home.  Which is a pretty big jump, when you think about it. Of course, this all makes my lack of automobile accidents more understandable.  Yes, there’s less safety when I am in a car, but I am so rarely in cars that I suppose the chances of anything happen don’t go up by any significant amount.  Or maybe not.  Either way, I’m trying to avoid taxis from here on out. ™    Turkmen babies, in general, do not wear diapers (called “pampers†in Turkmen).  But not for environmental reasons.  It’s economics.  Diapers are expensive; single diaper costs 5,000 manat, or roughly 30 cents.  f the baby must be taken somewhere â€" a relative’s house, a wedding â€" moms can buy single diapers from the various shops around the village.  But at home, no diapers.  Instead, they wear pants.   These pants are made of the world’s clothing scraps. They in all colors and patterns for all seasons.  And, they, like diapers, cost 5,000 old manat a pair.  The savings are obvious.  The pants can be and are reused.  When the baby pees, take off the pants and put on a new pair.  Most of the time they don’t even bother wiping the baby or even washing the pants; they just dry them for the next use.  The pants are, however, washed for number two.   This seems like an economical and environmentally friendly way to deal with baby waste.   Great idea, right?  There is, however, a drawback.  Yhlas, the one-year-old from next door, was visiting this afternoon, having fun taking all my spice containers out of my cabinet and handing them to me.   After he left, I noticed a wet spot on my floor.  Puzzled, I looked around for my water bottle thinking maybe it had spilt, but we hadn’t been playing with it.  In fact, we hadn’t been playing with anything liquid.  Then it dawned on me.  Yhlas peed on my floor and the pants didn’t really do a thing.  Yes, they are cheap, environmentally friendly, and plentiful, but they sure don’t keep in the mess.   At least wasn’t not smelly.  It could have been worse.   From September 17: ™    Remember those anthropological studies about the universalities between humans.  You know, we all cry when we’re sad and smile when we’re happy.  That kind of stuff.  Well, I’ve discovered another trait that crosses cultural and continental boundaries: baby talk with animals.  One need only listen to my father cooing to our cat to comprehend that treating our animals like infants is not American or Western.  It’s human.  From September 19: ™    In what might be considered a slightly ironic regression, I have, as of late and despite the fact that my family has a functioning shower, begun taking bucket baths.  You see, we recently turned on the hot water heater since the temperature’s been dipping so low at night.  The hot water heater is tremendously powerful and when the water level is low, as it is now, it heats all the water such that only the tiniest trickle comes out of the cold faucet.  The hot water side has no regulation between warm, warmer, and hot, only near-boil.  Even turning on both faucets results in a steady flow of water hot enough to turn shrimp pink â€" certainly too hot for a person to shower in.  Ever the astute problem solver and never to be deprived of my post-run showers, I’ve begun filling up ¾ of a bucket with cool water from the faucet in the back yard.  I take it into the bathroom and let it fill the rest of the way with the scalding water from the shower faucet and am thus left with a bucket of water at a most pleasant temperature.  The heat from the water heater also heats the bathroom; despite the fact that there is no steady shower of warm water atop my head, I do not shiver.  The added benefit is that I am forced to use less water â€" this bucket holds less than 5 gallons.  Showering takes a little longer, but I’m still squeaky clean and glowing when I leave the bathroom.  From September 24: ™    One of my students gave me a pomegranate today in class.  Sometimes life in Turkmenistan is really fun.

From September 25:

™ I made the mistake of saying hello to an old man as I ran past him today.  He wanted to talk so I slowed to answer his questions.  He knew who my  host father was, so I thought he was  innocent enough, but them he put his  arm around me, kissed me cheek, and copped a feel.  I deftly removed his roving fingers from my left butt cheek and got the heck out of there.  Lucky for me I’m faster than the average octegenarian.  Perv.        




--

Greg

Subject: God = mosquito?

Hi gang! Well, you are in luck: since I have reading ennui, I've taking to writing a lot more.  I'm not especially happy about the lack of interest I have with books now, but I'm hoping that if I take a few days off, my concentration will return.  In the meantime, I've been napping, tidying up my room, cooking a lot, and, of course, writing.  There are a number of stories I could send your way today, but I'll be going to Ashgabat at the end of this week, so I'm going to save a few for this coming weekend. What's going on in Ashgabat?  Well, we have our COS (Close of Service) conference the first week of September.  I got permission to go a few days early to do some desperately needed graduate school research.  During this conference we will all find out our exact dates of departure.  I'll keep you posted. I know it will be hard to say good-bye, but as November draws nearer and nearer, I find myself becoming more excited about coming home.  I look forward to seeing all of you and sharing my experiences with you. Lots of love, Jessica   1. God = mosquito? My host-sister, Bagul, and I were alone at dinner a few weeks ago.  The mosquitoes were in rare form – biting through my dress and even nibbling on the areas where I'd applied bug spray..  I told her that we have a saying in English – nowhere is safe – and explained that it meant that we couldn't hide anywhere from the mosquitoes.  Not inside.   Not out.  There was no safe haven anywhere.  This description reminded her of a Muslim parable which she proceeded to tell me and which I'll try to reproduce as true to her recitation as I can (granted with my own literary stylings): There once was a group of Muslim pilgrims who were studying to be Imams.  The pilgrims had reached the end of their schooling, but their teachers had one more task for them before they were sent to all corners of the Earth to share the knowledge they had gained with willing listeners.  Each pilgrim was given a chicken with which to prepare a meal for the next morning. There was, however, a catch.  The chickens had to be slaughtered in total secrecy – there could be no witnesses to the fowl death.  The pilgrims scattered about and began the neck wringing.  And all but one were able to safely abscond and kill their hens unseen.  The lone pilgrim searched and searched but eventually gave up, unable to find a proper hiding space.  The next morning the pilgrims arrived to meet the teachers, steaming chicken dishes in tow.  One pilgrim was missing.  The others waited and waited, yet still the pilgrim without the hiding space didn't appear.  Finally, just as the others exhausted their list of conjectures as to his whereabouts, he arrived with his chicken, still very much alive, in his hands.  "But where is your meal?" the teachers asked. "I couldn't kill the chicken," he replied.  The others looked on, baffled. "Why ever not?" "Well," he explained, "I couldn't find a good place to hide." "But the others managed to kill their chickens in secret.  Why couldn't you?" The pilgrim, truly a wise man, explained thus: "Everywhere I went, even if there was no one was around me, God could still see me.  I was never able to hide from the eyes of God and so I could not kill the chicken." The teachers rejoiced that their pupil had displayed such keen powers of discernment and the pilgrim lived to become a very wise and respected teacher himself. Bagul finished telling me this parable and remarked that it reminded her of what I had said about the mosquitoes.  For, just as we can never hide from the mosquitoes, the pilgrim was unable to conceal himself from the eyes of God.   (Since then, the mosquitoes have not abated.  It seems not an evening goes by that I escape un-sucked.  Indeed, the only refuge I have found is hidden under my mosquito net, and even then there are occasions when one lucky sucker will sneak in and bite me during the night.  The worst is when they bite the bottoms of my feet or the palms of my hands.  On the plus side, I think I'm beginning to develop a resistance to the itch.  At least there's no malaria in Turkmenistan.)  2. A day in the life I know I've spoken vaguely about what I've been doing this summer – certainly I've complained of boredom – but just what is it that occupies my time?  Well, I am pleased to present to you the most enthralling reading of 2010:  A day in the life of Jessica Hoover, August 20, 2010. I woke up at 5:25 to use the bathroom and decided that it was a good a time as any to go for a run (rather than go back to sleep for another hour or so).  Ran for 45 minutes, did some crunches, and around 7:00 took a shower. After my shower I made scones for breakfast.  Scones were ready at 8:30 and I sat down to a quick breakfast before rushing off late to school.  I got to school at 9:05 but of course none of my kids had arrived yet.  They sauntered in a few minutes later..  I taught for about an hour and then went home. At home I talked to my host sister and host mom – got some very interesting insider insight into village politics and the double-talk nature of several women I know – almost until lunchtime.  I reheated the eggplant curry I made for dinner the night before.  My youngest sister, recently returned from her summer in Ashgabat, scrambled some eggs and tomato, and we all sat down to lunch together.  We ate and talked until after 1:00 at which point I got sleepy and went to my room to take a nap.  I didn't sleep right away but sat and typed a bit first.  Eventually I lay down and slept for about 40 minutes. I woke up at 3:00, went outside, came back inside, read a chapter in the book I'm currently reading, and decided to watch a movie.  Watched the movie, went to the kitchen and got a bunch of grapes to eat, and at 6:00 started doing arm exercises with resistance bands.  I did that for about an hour and at 7:00 pm I began to copy several recipes I have floating around on loose leaf paper into my recipe notebook. I didn't last long though, because I was getting hungry. I wandered into my host-sister's room and asked what they were going to cook.  Hearing that my host-mom planned to make eggplant again, I decided to make my own dinner and set about preparing.  At 8:30 my host mom sent my younger host sister and I to Akbike's (the fortune teller) house where we sat until 9:30.  After we managed to escape her yarns, we walked home and had dinner.  I reheated the peach cobbler I made the day before and we sat eating cobbler drinking tea until about 10:30.  Then, the mosquitoes got to be too thirsty and we all dispersed to relax before going to bed.  Approaching 11:00 my host-sisters were watching TV and I was back at the recipes.  At 11:15 I went to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth and crawled into bed at 11:30.  Truth be told, it was a pretty busy day for me and I felt duly exhausted.    




--

Greg

Friends!

I'm back from vacation and ready for action!!!  Which consists of me lying in my room and reading all day.  I do lead a stimulating life.  So, here we go for today:

Zohre and I went to (fortune teller) Akbike's last week so she could tell us what the deal is with my host sister Bagul and her boyfriend Nuryagdy.  Everything was going well, as far as phone based relationships can at any rate, but all of a sudden he accused her of having a boyfriend in Kerki and told her that he "didn't need her."  Despite the fact that she is not attracted to him and has only been in this "telationship" for 5 months, she's been pretty upset about the whole business – lying around in the mornings with the curtains drawn, crying, not eating, typical break up behavior.  I tried to be supportive but after a few days the whole, "I don't feel like eating anything" got old, especially since Bagul has had health issues in the past due to the fact that she doesn't eat enough.  I started going for the tough love route, "I don't care if you're not hungry, you've got to eat!!", and my host mom started going to see Akbike a few times a week.  And because I never had anything better to do, I went with her.

Akbike gave us daily updates according to the salt: first Nuryagdy was coming home, then there was no road, so he was either delayed or already home, then he wasn't going to come home.  Each time Zohre was like, "okay, okay" and I kept thinking, but that's not what you (Akbike, "fortune teller") said before!  My confidence in her abilities began to wane.  She did, however, predict that I would find my keys.  Couldn't locate them when I got back from vacation – thank goodness I keep a spare under the carpet square outside of my door.  Anyway, she told us I'd find them the following day and what do you know, my friend called me from Ashgabat to inform me that'd I'd left them in my box there.  Akbike predicted they'd be in my house.  When we told her the keys were located, she said she considered Peace Corps to be a sort of house.  I guess I can accept that.  I do sleep there on occasion.

Anyhow, during these salty sessions, I finally got the reading promised to me.  It was not, unfortunately, what I was expecting.  I had thought that this "reading" would mean Akbike would read what the salt said about me – what I would do in the next year, when I would find a boyfriend, you know, stuff she tells other people.  Well, there was confusion regarding this word, "read."  In Turkmen, the word for "to read" (as in books) is the same as the word for "to pray."  So what Akbike really did for me was pray.  Which, of course, was nice and well intentioned, but I still want to know what I'm going to do when I go home.

Of course, Akbike praying for me was unlike any prayer I've ever experienced, so it wasn't a total wash.  I sat in front of her on the floor.  She asked me to wish for something and that she would pray for it to come true.  I'm a pretty practical wisher; I don't ask for money or fame or whatever.  I usually stick with stuff that's more likely to come true, like happiness.  Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have told you – what if it doesn't come true now?  Just kidding.  I'm already happy!  Which, now that I think about it, makes me wonder if should have wished for something better. . . Wish made, I concentrated on being happy and leading a fulfilling life while Akbike took a machete and with it tapped my head three times, my shoulders three times and then ran the knife from my shoulders to my hands three times.  Knife business finished, she blew air on my right hand (three times), my heart (three times), and my forehead (guess how many times?).  Then she spit on my right hand (I think it's a sort of warding off evil gesture).  She prayed and repeated the process a few more times (maybe three, I stopped counting).  After everything was finished, she told me she'd pray for me a few more times and if she did, I would be a government minister or some other equally important person.

We went the next day, but Akbike had gone to a wedding, so I haven't been able to ensure my future with back up prayers.  We need to go back soon though; we've eaten all the grapes that Akbike gave us.  Just kidding.  Well, okay, not really, the grapes are indeed gone, but I don't like going to her house only because she gives me fruit.  Although I do like that.  But no, no, I actually like Akbike.  She's interesting and talkative and I still have nothing better to do than go along with Zohre when she visits.  And also she gives me fruit.

Government minister – woo-hoo!!

Well, another woman – a relative of my host father – came over the other day to talk about guesting plans with my host mom.  It turns out that she, too, is a seer of sorts.  She can read cards.  My host mother, ever desirous to know what the future holds, whipped out a deck of Turkmen cards (different from our 52-card decks) and had her see what she could for my host brother in Turkey, my host sister, and myself.  She informed me that the cards show her what happened one week in the past and what will happen one week in the future.  This is what the cards said about us: My host brother was "thinking" about whether or not to come back to Turkmenistan.  My host sister was "thinking" about what to do about her boy troubles, and I was "thinking" about some boy I wanted to talk to.  She also told me that I would come into money this week (I got my salary on Monday) and that I was bored.

My host brother has been telling my host parents for at least the past 4 months that he'd come home soon and then always changes his mind and stays (or never really made up his mind in the first place).  That he is contemplating "to go home or not to go home" doesn't take a wild stretch of imagination to figure.  My host sister is obviously brooding over her troubles – what 22 year old wouldn't?  And me?  Well, I still have no idea what boy I wanted to talk to, but it doesn't matter because she said I wouldn't talk to him anyway.  She was right about the money situation, though, and about being bored.  But on the other hand, we're all bored.  We live in a village.  There's nothing to do but gossip and wedding crash.  I mean, come on.  Who isn't a little bit bored?  Bottom line, I was unimpressed. 

Love, Jess

P.S. I've decided my official countdown will begin September 1.  We have a conference the first week of September during which we'll find out our leave dates.  Stay tuned!!!




--

Greg

The Village at Dawn

If I get out before 6 am, I don’t usually see anyone until I turn around and make my way back home. After 6, there are occasionally a few people outside working – opening

up the mud dams that control water flow into the cotton fields from the canal or mixing mud to make bricks. There are mulberry trees stripped of their leaves lining the dirt road leading to the desert, and on each side, cotton fields. The road stops at the canal.

Essentially a border crossing, on one side of the bridge that spans the canal are the cotton fields growing greener every day, while on the other side, only desert.

The desert, acting as Turkmenistan’s official trash heap, is dotted with piles of, well, trash. Glass bottles, broken shoes, and stiff goat carcasses mark the landscape. The banks of the canal itself are covered with long wild grasses that look like cattails but aren’t.

This early in the morning, birds are waking up and greeting the day with song. The

weather is pleasant – almost cool. The rising sun casts a warm glow over the

landscape. It’s a lot better than running laps around the school.

When I reach the canal, I turn left. I run past more cotton fields, orchards I didn’t know existed until recently, and an apiary. I knew that there were beekeepers around – Elliott was interested in learning how to keep bees and my family buys honey by the kilo, there have to be beekeepers somewhere – but I didn’t know where. I was quietly excited when I found these bee hives.

Further up and I pass a gas distribution line and come to a fork in the road where the road disappears and the desert begins in earnest. I turn around.

Reaching the bridge again, I continue straight. The road to the right of the bridge is hard packed stone in some places and sand in others. If tractors have passed by, the sand is firm and easy to run on. If a herd of cows has passed, the sand is soft and running is a challenge. On this half of my run, there are only cotton fields. A motor in the canal occasionally hums, drinking up water to irrigate a nearby garden.

When I get to the big gas pipe that hovers above the water, I again turn around and head back to the road to the village.

I hit the village road and start back into town. Usually by about this time in my run, people have begun stirring. Girls head out to the cotton fields to weed or thin the plants. Little boys on donkeys drive herds of their family’s or neighbors’ cattle and goats to the desert for a day of grazing, socializing and calf-making – a veritable bovine/caprine day care service. My neighbors are out tending their gardens, taking advantage of the low sun and cool weather before the heat of the day sets in.

Occasionally, I see a white donkey taking itself for an early morning stroll, plodding alone out towards the canal.

Garagoz

Garagoz always liked me. I hug and pet him and remove his ticks – that means a lot to

a dog, especially one who isn’t hugged or petted very often. Recently he started joining me on my morning runs. After the first time I took him with me, our relationship reached a whole new level of devotion. Now he follows me nearly everywhere. My neighbor, Jumabike, and I went to a wedding last week, and he followed me almost the whole way there – until Jumabike tired and we got into a passing car and the dog lost my scent. I’m attached to him, too, and worried about him all evening – would he find his way home alone? Would he get into a fight with another dog? Would he chase a motorcycle and have another accident? We were both tail waggingly happy when I arrived home and saw him lying in the yard, waiting for my return.

My host dad isn’t thrilled about Garagoz running with me. He worries about him getting into fights with other dogs. With this in mind, when he started following me out towards the road a few mornings ago, I tried to send him home. Garagoz doesn’t understand much, least of all the word “stay” so I quickly relented. Besides, he was so frisky; I think he really enjoys running with me and who am I to deprive him of an early morning frolic? Especially when it’s the only real exercise he gets. So together we ran. He swam in the canal and peed on stacks of hay. And then, much to his delight I’m sure, we came across a very dead smell. All animal carcasses must have similar rotting smells because, whatever it was, it sure smelled a heck of a lot like dead groundhog – an odor I know very well thanks to my own “we love to roll in dead stuff!” dogs. Unless, of course, it was a groundhog. I didn’t bother to investigate. The first time we passed the gruesome aroma I managed to keep Garagoz away from it. On our way back I was not so lucky. I noticed the shadow at my feet had strayed and when I turned around, I only saw his white, bushy tail waving from behind a sand dune. He came right when I called, but as he approached, I was hit full on with the musk of decay. And oh, was he happy! He pranced and wanted to jump on me. “No!” I said, pushing his smelly paws off my pants. We do not share the same taste in eau de perfumes.

We continued on our merry way. He swam in the canal again before we turned on

the road back to our house, but the dip did nothing to lessen the funk emanating from

his pelt. Once we returned home, Bagul noticed at once that Garagoz had run afoul

of something dead. “Go away!” she told him. He looked at us with his deep, brown

eyes and floppy ears, head cocked to the side. Dogs are experts on tugging on human

heartstrings: probably a trait evolved over the years of interaction with humans. The

doggy gaze worked its magic on me; despite the stink, I wanted to reach out, hug him,

and thank him for being such a loyal companion. I resisted and tried to give him a bath instead. Turns out Garagoz is not one for baths. He ran away and couldn’t be coaxed back. Well, let him savor the smell, I thought. He’s a good dog; he deserves a roll in something stinky every now and then.

Watermelons

Call me unobservant, but I never really considered the provenance of the

word “watermelon” before coming to Turkmenistan. Sure, okay, they’re juicy. But not

until this afternoon in late June, the inaugural day of watermelon-as-late-afternoon-

snack in our household, did I, dehydrated and hung-over from a long nap, seriously

consider the watermelon. As I bit into the crisp pink flesh, as the fruit gushed sweet water with each successive bite, I was struck with the thought: “Of course, it makesso much sense now.” Watermelons are refreshingly hydrating, especially chilled from the refrigerator – a perfect pick-me-up for the transition from scorching afternoon to pleasant evening. Watermelons are such a quintessential part of summer in Turkmenistan that, for the rest of my life, I don’t think I will be able to eat one without thinking fondly of my Central Asian home.

The Vibratone

For many village Turkmen the TV is the apotheosis of truth. Any information imparted

via happy satellite beams streaming across the atmosphere and captured for broadcast

in their homes is accepted as the ultimate truth; if they saw it on TV, surely it must be real. This blind belief can be frustrating to the worldlier American in the village when she runs into resistance trying to dispel TV inspired myths, but gullible people exist the world over – not just in Turkmenistan. I realize this and try not to judge them for holding the TV’s word sacred, despite the many stupid things the TV reports.

My neighbor, Jumabike, is no exception to cult of the holy TV. On the heavy side of

zaftig, she realizes it would behoove her to lose weight. And, fortunately for her, she has seen the infomercial for the weight loss miracle (ahem: gimmick) called “Vibratone.”

(Are those commercials broadcast in America? I can’t remember if I saw them at home

or just here.) “Vibratone” is advertised ad nauseam on the Russian TV stations. It’s a belt-like device that you can Velcro around your thighs, butt, hips, stomach – wherever you carry a little extra heft. It vibrates and the idea is that this vibrating will melt away all your excess fat. There are also a few magnets tucked inside for some other unnamed health benefit, you know, whatever magnets do.

Jumabike, intrigued by the idea of such an easy way to lose weight, asked one of her

relatives to give her one. The people in the infomercials were svelte and muscular,

so it obviously works. She came over recently so I could translate the poorly written

English instructions for her. She and her daughter were both very excited with this new acquisition – how often could they do it? How much time? Could they eat after they finished? They looked at the pictures and tried to mimic the exact positions the models were posed in, as though the pictures showed the only correct posture for “Vibratone’s” use – seated, legs gracefully bent at the knees and angling to the side, toes pointed, one foot slightly in front of the other. Careful! If you don’t sit just so, you won’t lose the weight! “It’s just a picture,” I said.

Jumabike proudly commented that this will help her to lose weight. I made a face.

“Jessica doesn’t believe it,” my host mom said. “No,” I replied. “In America our doctors tell us the main way to lose weight is to eat less and to exercise.” “Well,” Jumabike retorted, “I don’t feel like exercising.” I sighed and launched into my spiel about diet and exercise – you should elevate your heart rate for at least 30 minutes 3 times a week I told her. If you walk to the canal and back that is enough. And, I continued, the Turkmen diet is very bad. You should eat less oily food. You need many fruits and vegetables. Less bread. Too much bread will make you fat. Too much oil will make you fat. Too many sweets will make you fat. And you should drink lots and lots of water. “But water is fattening!” was her response. I cringe every time I hear this. “No, it’s not,” I said. “Maybe you think that because your belly swells if you drink a lot of water, but it will go away. It’s just water. It has no calories. Do you know what calories are?” She asked if was okay to drink tea. Of course, I said. After all, tea is just leafy water.

Jumabike won’t lose weight. She eats for two, sometimes three, and doesn’t have

a healthy diet. Nutrition is not a Turkmen concept. They eat to be full and it doesn’t matter what fulfills that requirement – gastronomy, the slow foods movement, these are alien ideas here. The Turkmen diet is very fat heavy. Children are plied with candy as soon as the first baby teeth come in and the sweet tooth habit isn’t kicked until the bucket is. High blood pressure is a matter of course. Heart attacks are a common cause of death, often among people in their 50s or 60s.

I have been interested in eating well for several years, probably since I read Fast Food Nation in high school. I’m a big fan of Michael Pollan. Here in Turkmenistan, I started following his “no dessert except on days that start with S” rule (…okay, okay, I cheat sometimes). I monitor the amount of fat I eat as much as I can here, even if it means tediously picking out chunks of animal fat from my food. I pay lots of money to buy olive oil. I planted my own vegetable garden. Back at home I devour Bon Appetit magazine and love the challenge of making delectable desserts, but it was in Turkmenistan that I became a gourmand (as state of mind which will begin in earnest upon my return home). I think it’s the privation of quality nutrition and really good food I’ve experienced these last two years that inspired me to take up an apron and get into cooking. That and all the heart attacks.

Of course, obesity is a problem in America. There are people whose diets are far worse in American than Turkmenistan. All the fast food, the processed foods – none of it is good for us.

We’re lucky in Turkmenistan that we don’t have any fast food chains.

Yes, there is food served quickly at restaurants, but it is real food. And yes, there are processed foods, but they’re expensive and so they don’t eat a lot of it – except for candy. But we in America are lucky because, despite the fact that we too have problem with heart disease and obesity, we are at least aware of the problems inherent in poor diets. We know that we should avoid excess. We recognize the importance of diet and exercise. And we have the food pyramid! The food pyramid!

Turkmen have a bizarre relationship with weight. The girls are generally stick thin

and most likely have eating disorders. The idea is that men want to marry thin girls.

I don’t know why – maybe because historically it showed the girl wouldn’t use up a

lot of resources (food) after the marriage and the ideal stuck. Who knows? But we

have a society of waifs here that, after getting married and having kids, begin to do

less work around the house, let themselves balloon and invite the health problems in.

The pathetic thing is that exercise is so easy. Anyone can walk. But it’s so strange a concept here and thus few people exercise for fear of being talked about. Jumabike

could easily take daily walks, but chooses not to because it’s not the societal

norm. I try to set a good example. I run and I tell people who ask about running

and exercise. I get a lot of, “Well, I’m too old to start,” or other half-assed excuses.

I’m glad Jumabike wants to lose weight, though I don’t think the “Vibratone” is the

way to go. But what do I know? I am not a TV; my words are not blessed. Maybe I

shouldn’t be such a skeptic. Maybe there will be a miracle and her picture will be the next one you see on the box.

The Hajj

Akbike is the fortune teller my host mother favors. Her name means “white lady.” She’s in her 60s but could pass for at least 70-something due to a car accident she was in last year that both aged her and left her right arm totally lame. She came over the other day to read salt for my host sister and left saying that she wanted to take me to Astanababa – the holiest place in Turkmenistan, about 15 minutes from our village. It was agreed that we’d go today, as early as possible so there would be fewer people around.

Well, we weren’t early. I refused to miss my morning run, although I did shorten it

by 10 minutes, and my host father was hung over after a whole day of marathon

shot taking. We didn’t leave until 7:20; she’d wanted to go at 5:30. When we picked

her up, she remarked that she’d been waiting since six and we were so late it was

almost noon. I looked at my watch; it wasn’t even 8:00. Great, I thought, another nag.

My host dad had a few errands to run before we set off in earnest. Akbike asked my

host sister all sorts questions as we cruised the oba: Who’s that? Whose house is that? What’s that bus doing? Do you think it works? She turned to me and asked me if I would hang out with her son (or grandson, not sure which) if he ever went to Germany. Confused, I said, “Maybe.” More questions directed at Bagul. Then, again to me, “How is life in Germany?” My host sister said, “No, she’s from America.” Once Bagul clarified I understood Akbike’s previous request about hanging out with her kids in Germany.

It was odd nonetheless; she knows – or at least she’s been told – that I’m American.

I began to wonder if she wasn’t as sharp as I’d thought. Akbike continues to play her

question game, turns to Bagul and says – and mind you, I’m sitting right next to her – “Has she gained weight?” She’s referring to me. I’d seen her only 3 days before. I somewhat testily and more than a little pedantically explain to her that a person cannot perceptibly gain weight in a matter of a couple days. Bagul chimes in that I have, in fact, lost weight.

I used to like Akbike, but this comment pissed me off – I have been told countless times that I’ve gained weight since arriving in country. And you know, just this morning I was wondering what pushed me to become so calorie conscious here – more than in America. It’s such a paradox! I miss good food and dream of gourmet cooking, yet I carefully measure the amount of bread I eat every morning, pick the animal fat out of my meals, and seriously consider whether or not to eat sweets when they’re placed in front of me. Well, I think I’ve found the culprit. If you were told on a nearly weekly basis that you had gained weight, you might become a little self-conscious and calorie paranoid, too. I decided to cross Akbike off my friends list.

After a few minutes though, I started to feel bad. She was, after all, taking me on this mini hajj of sorts. Were it not for her, I would have never visited Astanababa. And technically, I shouldn’t have. It’s in Atamyrat Etrap. I’m not allowed to go there – to close to the Afghan border or some other threatening thing the Turkmen government wants to keep me away from. But the mosque is on the near side of Kerki. I figured I’d be safe. Besides, it seems bad form to heckle someone at a holy site – shouldn’t arrest a hajji, even if she is American, it’s probably bad luck. Allah would frown on it.

We arrived at our first stop. It was a small mosque. An imam was sitting inside and

saying prayers for whoever wandered in. I didn’t know what to do, so I followed

Akbike’s lead and circled the tomb inside, placing my head on each end briefly, and

waving my hands back and forth from the cool cement to my forehead. After three

revolutions, the imam invited us to sit down. Akbike told him to wish both Bagul and

I luck in work. He chanted in Arabic and then said some prayers for us in Turkmen.

Akbike told him I’m a foreigner and that I came on an airplane. He asked if I flew

it myself. I said no, and then he asked if I’m a stewardess. I briefly worried that

Allah would take this seriously and grant me luck in work in the form of being a flight attendant. Which isn’t a bad job at all, really, I could see some interesting places, it’s just not what I want.

We exited the cool of the mausoleum and headed for a well. Supposedly sacred or

filled with special water or I don’t know what, we first had to drink from the well water and then wash our hands and face. I hesitated drinking the water. The imam informed us that foreigners generally don’t drink it. I wasn’t worried about the water quality – I’ve been here long enough that I think my stomach has adjusted to any happy water-borne bacteria – but I was feeling pretty skeptical about the one cup that everyone who visited the mosque used to drink said water. I tried to find the cleanest looking place on the rim and took a swig. Then we washed our hands and faces – I don’t know if it was the heat of the morning or if the water really was special, but my face did feel pretty good after that.

The next stop was Astanababa proper, further up the road. Here we were greeted

by yet another imam who said a few prayers for us outside. Then we entered and

encountered rooms with more tombs. Again, I mimicked Akbike and placed my head

on door frames, walked around tombs, did the hand waving bit – I wasn’t sure what the

proper etiquette was: is it better to politely stand by and watch but not join in since I’m not Muslim? Or should I go along with it because I was there and that’s what people do? No harm joining in, I thought. Just another step towards cultural integration. With so little time remaining, I’m trying to experience as much local flavor as I can. Who knows when I’ll be back?

Akbike showed me a rock that she said is a piece of the Ka’bah in Mecca. She told me

to pray in my own language, doing whatever was appropriate for me, and to tell Allah

my wishes. I said I didn’t have any wishes, which is partly true, but nonetheless, I stood and offered up a little Christmas list of a prayer.

From what I’ve observed, the Islam most commonly practiced in the village is mainly

cultural and steeped in superstition. Turkmen who go to Astanababa and other holy

sites routinely ask for jobs or luck or babies or husbands. Frankly, I don’t think life works that way and so I felt kind of awkward asking for stuff, but I did what I was told.

If I get into grad school, I guess I’ll know Allah was listening.

We left the main mausoleum and walked towards a smaller crypt where an imam is

buried. On the way, we stopped to scatter grain seeds for pigeons who, Akbike claims,

can discern those who truly believe from those who don’t. In the crypt, Akbike lit a

wad of cotton doused in cotton seed oil and mumbled a few prayers. I had a hard time

concentrating; to me the burning cotton smelled an awful like barbeque chicken, and by this time, having woken up at 5am for my morning run, I was feeling tired and hungry.

My mouth watered at the thought of once again biting into my Dad’s deliciously juicy

grilled chicken. Mmmm…

Akbike said ‘amen,’ we wiped our hands across our faces, stood and left. Now that I’d

visited the holiest of holy site in Turkmenistan, she rattled off a list of places I needed to see before I leave. This will not happen. However, there is one more place in Halach – not as powerful as Astanababa, but holy enough – that I can check off the list before November rolls around. In the meantime, we’re going to her house for dinner tomorrow night.

A while ago, she told me that I needed to visit Astanababa before she could read

my future in her salt. I look forward to learning what she sees in the crystals for me.

Hi friends! Happy Father's Day!

Have I mentioned it's hot in Turkmenistan? Well, I've got a good experiment for you all to try. Find a hair dryer, turn it on high, and aim it towards your face. Instant Turkmenistan!

I had a revelation last week about napping. I wrote this last Wednesday, so "today" in this text isn't actually today in time. Anyhow, here goes:

What's the great thing about napping in the afternoon? It means I need less sleep at night. The sleep cycle that I currently find myself in is one that I actually enjoy, despite the disparaging remarks I've made about sleeping mid-afternoon. Indeed, these afternoon naps serve a purpose. I mean, what else can you do, really? There's no air conditioning. There are no soothing breezes. The air is hot and still. The only thing worse would be humidity. The heat lulls you to sleep; it's like a coma – you're body says, "F this man. Wake me up when it's a few notches less than sweltering outside." It's a coping mechanism and it makes perfect sense. A few weeks into the summer and I think I'm finally overcoming my Western aversion to sleeping away the afternoon – or at least an hour or so of it. The naps get you through the hottest part of the day, but like I mentioned, they also have altered my sleeping rhythm. During the school year (a period of no naps), I would go to sleep around 11:30 and wake up at 7:30. Once the sun started rising earlier, I did too – first 7:15, then 7:00, 6:45, 6:30. Waking up earlier and going to bed at the same time decreases the amount of sleep a person gets, obviously. But by taking an hour nap in the afternoon, I can maintain a schedule of going to bed 11:30 and waking up anytime between 6 and 6:30. Which is nice. It makes me feel like I'm making full use of my days. Today, however, I woke up at 5:00; I had to pee. I've woken up at 5 before to go to the outhouse, but usually I say to myself, "This is way too early to be up, I'm going back to sleep." But this morning I didn't have a sleep hangover. In fact, I felt pretty damn perky. I emerged from the outhouse with a few new flea bites and ready to take on the day. But what is there to do at 5:30 in the morning? I thought about it and decided that a morning stroll would be a pleasant way to bide my time. I did my kickboxing routine last night and didn't feel obliged to do any cardio today, especially because that would entail showering afterwards. Even though we have plenty of water, I still have the irrational impression that a shower every day is excessive. A nice, leisurely walk before breakfast would be great. It wouldn't make me super sweaty and it would kick start my metabolism, a bonus since the heat has made me lose my appetite, and I haven't felt like eating most mornings lately (although I do, just less). I put on some light clothes, grabbed my ipod, slipped on my running shoes, and walked to the front of the house. Then I stopped. I really was feeling great and the weather at (now) 5:30 was ideal. What's the big deal about taking a shower two days in row anyway? If I got sweaty, all I'd need was a quick rinse. And these days it's not like I do anything but throw my hair in a ponytail anyway. I went back into the house and put on a sports bra. And I ran. It was so relaxing. What a great way to greet the morning. One of the few lovely things about summer in Turkmenistan is the fact that there are more daylight hours here than in Pennsylvania. The sun was rising when I went outside at five this morning and it doesn't fully set until well after 8:00 in the evening. If it just weren't so damn blistering hot, summer here would be ideal. After living in Turkmenistan for over a year and a half, making new discoveries is a real joy. I found a new place to run a few weeks ago when I did my first run of the season. I travel out the road towards the desert and then run along the sand road next to the canal. It's a lot more interesting than doing laps around the school. Usually I feel the need to listen to fast music in order to keep my cadence up. Today though, I didn't feel like I had to push myself, I just wanted to enjoy the morning. So instead of putting on my "workout" play list, I listened to an episode of This American Life. Have you ever listened to This American Life? It's broadcast on public radio on Sundays. Before coming to Turkmenistan, I didn't listen to it much, just whenever Mom and I happened to be driving somewhere on Sundays when it came on. Mom invariably listens to NPR in the car; I generally listen to WXPN – both public radio stations, just different programming options. She likes WITF's Sunday lineup of shows. I do, too, but I always preferred Car Talk and Wait Wait Don't Tell Me to This American Life. Well, all that has changed in Turkmenistan. When we T-17s moved to our permanent sites in Lebap, we joined a community of NPR loving Peace Corps Volunteers. My former site mate, Elliott, gifted me with hundreds of episodes of TAL, beginning from the very first when it wasn't even called This American Life but Your Radio Playhouse. Personally I think This American Life is a much more suitable name; Your Radio Playhouse just makes me think of Pee-wee Herman. Anyway, Elliott was such a fan that he even had a drawing of Ira Glass, the shows host, taped to the wall next to his computer. In the 21 months that we've been here, the rest of us have become fans, too. We talk about our favorite episodes, make each other listen to particularly poignant pieces that had us in stitches or in tears or both. We listen to music from the show – Penguin Café Orchestra anyone? Good stuff. We talk about what the contributors might look like. We fantasize about one day having our own pieces performed on the air, or even performing them ourselves (okay, I don't know if that's a "we" so much as an "I." I fantasize about it. A lot.) We half-jokingly talk about sending Ira fan letters from Turkmenistan – wouldn't that be a hoot? I bet he doesn't have a clue that he has fans in Turkmenistan. And then one day, a small letter from some far away forgotten Central Asian Republic will find its way to WBEZ in Chicago and inform the staff there that not only do they have fans in Turkmenistan, but also that they're probably some of the most dedicated fans in the world. Or at least in Central Asia. Why do we like This American Life so much? I've been thinking about this all morning. I should note that not all volunteers are TAL aficionados. We're mostly from the Lebap province of Turkmenistan. Even within Lebap not everyone is a devoted listener, but the majority of us are. There are a few factors that contribute to our enjoyment of the show. Obviously we have a lot of time on our hands and we're media starved – that helps. Moreover, this show is such a quintessential aspect of home that when I listen, I almost forget that I'm in Turkmenistan. It's easy to close my eyes and imagine I'm in the car with my mom, maybe driving home from a hike in Mt. Gretna, dogs in the back seat and bellies full of root beer floats. As much as I've grown to love Turkmenistan, you can, I'm sure, understand the pleasure to be had in being transported away for small chunks of time. And, really, the show is tremendously entertaining and intellectually stimulating, which helps when the closest English speaker lives 45 minutes away from oneself. But there's more. I invite you to consider for a moment where we are – far, far away from home, almost completely cut off from the outside Western world, and, in a country of six million host country nationals (give or take), the only representatives present of our own culture. There is no expat community to speak of, no crappy international fast food chains, virtually no visible reminders of what life in the United States is like. Maybe TAL fills that void. It keeps us connected to all that is wonderful, quirky, and even tragic about life back home. It's our oasis of Americana in the Garagum desert. TAL episodes are an hour long and, for me anyway, listening to radio shows requires active concentration in order to stay involved with the stories. But I can't just sit still in my room for an hour and listen. I need to do a relatively mindless activity simultaneously so I'm physically as well as cerebrally occupied. Listening while making cards or writing letters doesn't work. Listening while doing laundry, cooking, cleaning or lifting weights does. And of course, radio shows are perfect for long car trips to and from the city when there's nothing else to do but sit. I can get four episodes done during one round trip as long as I don't fall asleep on the way. Until today however, I'd never listened to the show while running. I'd contemplated it, but always thought I needed fast, thumping drum beats to maintain a quick pace – dance music, rap, rock and roll. Listening to conversation, stories or poems doesn't exactly inspire one to run one's fastest mile time. Today, however, wasn't about personal bests or how far I could go. I just wanted to get my blood flowing and work up an appetite for breakfast. I hit play on episode number 81 ("Guns") and set out on what I intended to be a short twenty minute jog. Before I knew it, twenty minutes had come and gone, but I was so engrossed in the show that i decided to run for 30. And then 30 minutes passed, then, 35 and so on before I finished at 51 minutes, feeling rather proud of myself and also quite excited. This American Life makes running a breeze. The discovery that I can run and at the same time listen to Ira and friends, becoming so involved in the show that I barely pay attention to the chronograph on my watch has made me very happy. I had been suffering from running ennui – the same 10 laps and the same music, week after week. Whereas lately I'd been finding all means of excuses for not running, now I'm eager to run so I can get through more episodes! As of this morning, I resolved that I will gladly snooze the afternoon away if that's what it takes in order to wake up at five a.m. I just hope I feel the same way when the sun comes up tomorrow. Which isn't going to happen as early as I'd like unless I take a little siesta right now – it's past my nap time.

Lots of love,Jess

P.S. I think I'll send this to Ira Glass and we can consider it his fan letter. And yes, I have been keeping up with the morning runs.P.P.S. My host dad bought an air conditioner on Friday!!!!!!!!!!! Now we just have to hook it up. It am desperately hoping that by the time I return to the city, our house will be noticably cooler.

Hello, friends.

No long missive from me today. It's been too hot to write lately.

It's too hot to do anything, really. The only pleasant time of day is

from when we wake up around 6:00 to about 10:00. I dug potatoes for

an hour yesterday and then weeded my lettuce crop for two and a half

more hours. I finished at 11:30 sweaty, sunburned and exhausted, and

had to take a long nap after lunch to recover. When my friend,

Collin, told me that his thermometer maxed out the other day, I didn't

believe him. That would have meant the temperature was over 50

degrees Celsius – 120 degrees Fahrenheit. I thought, no way. I mean,

it's hot. It's really, really freaking hot, but 120 is ludicrously

hot. Surely it wasn't that hot.

Well, I was wrong. When I came home from a fellow teacher's birthday

party Saturday afternoon, I happened to notice the thermometer that I

bought last year (for just this purpose of tracking how perspiringly

hot it can be here) read over 105 – and that was in the shade. So, I

plucked up some courage, took the thermometer and stood in the sun for

about 5 minutes, watching the red dye creep up incrementally towards

the 50/120 mark. I got too hot around 114 degrees, admitted that it

was entirely likely that the temperature reached 120 degrees recently,

and decided to go back inside to the relative cool of my 86 degree

room.

I shouldn't be surprised. It's been so hot that you sweat just

sitting. I spend most days glistening with perspiration. Last year I

got really bad heat rash around my bra line, so this year I've given

up on wearing bras. Most Turkmen women don't wear bras unless they're

at work anyway, so I'm not creating scandal by not wearing one. It's

nice and breezy going bra less, and I briefly contemplated keeping the

practice up at home until my neighbor came over. Faced with her

pendulous, sagging bosoms, I decided that I probably won't sweat as

much in America and heat rash won't be an issue so therefore going

bra less won't be a necessity. In any case, these days I wear as

little clothing as I can get away with. I've contemplated shaving my

head. I knock back liters of water like shots.

So yeah, it's hot. It gives summer a whole new meaning. It makes you

wonder why people settled here. And totally makes me understand and

feel less bad for joining in the afternoon nap phenomenon, which I've

been doing instead of writing emails to you all.

I would, however, like to plug a little project my mother and I are

working on. Mom's collecting used children's books and kid-friendly

DVDs to send to me (which I'll give to my school). If you have any

books no one's reading anymore or DVDs you'd like to donate (no

specific genre necessary, just fun books or movies that kids of all

ages would enjoy), please feel free to pass them on to either of my

parents.

Also, and please note that I feel awkward saying this and there is no

obligation whatsoever, if you would like to contribute to the shipping

costs, which will most likely be on the low end of outrageous, that

would be lovely, as Mom and Dad will be fronting the bill. Please,

please, please, no obligation, but if you feel so inclined, you can

pass on whatever amount you would like to my parents. Mom said that

if she gets more money than she needs, she'll just buy a few more

books/DVDs to put in the box. If you'd like to know how much they

need or if they've gotten enough already, you should talk to them. I

am out of the loop on the whole shipping business. Also, if you don't

live in the greater Elizabethtown/Lancaster County area, don't worry

about it.

No pendulous, sagging bosoms for me,

Jessica

Hello friends!  Here are a few updates from the oba:

 

It's May and that means potato digging time!  On Friday my host

parents spent all day in their field and harvested over 370 kilos of

spuds, which they sold for 1 manat/kilo – about 35 cents – making a

little over $100 in the deal.  Families the village over are digging

up their potatoes now and selling them to middle men who will in turn

sell them to other, not so potato-rich provinces.  Although everyone

uses the Russian word for potato – kartoshka – there is a Turkmen

word: yer alma.  Literally it means "ground apple."  Rather a lovely

image, don't you think?  As you might suspect, my diet this week has

been heavily potato based, which can induce culinary ennui, but

freshly dug Turkmen potatoes are surprisingly tasty and not at all

starchy like the standard Idaho variety.  They are sweet and delicate

and impel volunteers to wax poetic about the subtle flavor and the

excitement that a pan of frying potatoes brings. It's not just potatoes that are ripening now.  Strawberries appeared

at the bazaars a few weeks ago and now sour cherries are coming into

season.  My family's tomatoes and peppers haven't produced anything

yet, but people with greenhouses are harvesting theirs.  I planted

green beans and zucchini again this year, and my beans are steadily

climbing and my zucchini plants look very healthy.  They've even begun

flowering!  I should soon be up to my ears in squash and I can't wait!

 

My parents (my real parents) recently purchased their plane tickets

for our summer vacation, my last as a PCV!  They bought the tickets

sooner than I'd anticipated and as such, the last time I was in

Ashgabat (the only place one can purchase westward-headed tickets), I

didn't have sufficient funds to by my Ashgabat-Frankfurt ticket.  By

the end of April, all economy tickets to Bangkok had sold out though

August, so although Germany isn't the hot Russian tourist destination

that Thailand is, I was worried that if I waited there would only be

business class left, or nothing at all.  Of course, business class

isn't a big deal.  Because of a lack of economy tickets we flew

business class to Bangkok in December, but I'm saving money to buy

carpets and purchasing a business class ticket would have broken my

shoebox bank.  A number of tickets are set aside for acquaintances,

too, so even if there are tickets left, you might not be able to buy

one without knowing the right people or crying.  It can be a headache.

Thus, when mom told me that they had their tickets in their hot

little (electronic) hands and I was faced with waiting another month

before I'd be able to purchase mine, I began to look for alternative

solutions.  Enter: Bagageldi.

 

Babageldi is the son of one of my counterparts.  He's in university in

Ukraine but he came back to Turkmenistan a few weeks ago to apply for

a visa at the American Embassy.  I helped him practice for his visa

interview and actually set up the appointment for him.  And then I

thought…hey, Babageldi is going to Ashgabat, and since he flys to

Ukraine all the time, he knows where the ticket office is and how to

buy tickets.  So during our last meeting, I gave him my passport and

ALL my money and asked him to buy a ticket for me.  He agreed.  A few

days later he returned, with an American visa (yay!  If anyone is in

Ocean City, New Jersey this summer, let me know and I'll tell you how

to find my Turkmen friend!  While visas are usually different for

Turkmen to obtain, he applied to go to the States through some program

via his university and therefore had a much easier application

process) and my airplane ticket and all my leftover money.  I was

thrilled!

 

The practice of buying tickets for other people is commonplace in

Turkmenistan.  I didn't bat an eye handing my passport and savings to

him.  Turkmen are tremendously trustworthy and it's a trait that I'll

miss in people when I return home.  I don't know that I'd ask a casual

acquaintance for such a favor in the States, which is unfortunate,

because it was wonderfully convenient.

 

We're looking at less than six months left in Turkmenistan.  It's

mindboggling to think that I've already been here over a year and a

half and time only seems to be speeding up.

 

 Leaving is going to be difficult.  I've grown very fond of my Turkmen family, friends and

neighbors, but it will be nice to see all of you again, too.

Hello all,

Hope you're doing well. Spring has sprung in Turkmenistan -- we've had several days in the high 70s this past week. It's been quite lovely, but unfortunately the spring-like weather doesn't last long before the sweltering summer heat kicks in. We had our 18th month anniversary on April 1st. It's hard to believe so much time has already passed and so little time remains.

6 more weeks of school! Woo-hoo!!

Take care,

Jessica

And now I give you this:

"Where are you going?" Jumabike shouts to me across her green onion patch."Elliott's!"I shout back."But he's not there!" she reminds me. As if I'd forgotten.It was the first time I'd ridden my bike since he'd left. It was a gorgeous day, the wind in my face was refreshing and I smiled as I navigated the pot-holed road, much like playing a game of connect the dots, only trying to avoid the dots instead of go through them. I was riding in a dress which made me proud of how much I've integrated; these days I could care less about wearing pants except for when going to Ashgabat. Riding a bike in a dress makes me look super Turkmen! Lately I've been wearing a quilted Turkmen vest and the locals just love that, too. They coo over me and remark what a genuine Turkmen girl I've become. Last year it would've pissed me off. This year I laugh and agree.As usual, as I'm riding my bike through the village, all the kids in the street say hello or shout my name as I pass. I wave, smile, and say hello right back. Sometimes this celebrity is annoying, especially when people openly stare at you and whisper as you pass, but I don't mind when the kids greet me. It's cute. It's become so natural that I expect it's going to be a shock moving from a place where everyone knows your name and wants to know you to a place where most people could care less. Spring is such a lovely season. If pressed to pick a favorite, I think living in Turkmenistan has convinced me that spring reigns supreme. At home winter is a fun season – there's snow, skiing, Christmas, roasting marshmallows in the fireplace… Winter in Turkmenistan is boring. There's nothing fun to do and there's often no heat and no gas for cooking. Once spring comes I think, "Well, thank goodness that's over." It occurred to me that spring is probably a beautiful season all over the world. Summers can be too hot, autumns too rainy, winters too long and cold, but I bet spring is just right wherever you go.A leisurely bike ride affords a person with the opportunity to contemplate pleasant things like this. Also, it gives ample time to compose witty come-backs that you couldn't think of at the appropriate moment. To wit: on the Saturday before my bike ride, I went to Kelsey's house for her birthday party. I stood talking with the taxi drivers in Halach while we were waiting for more passengers to come. And, as always, the conversation turned to my marital status. When I replied truthfully that I was single, one of the men said, "If you stay in Turkmenistan, I will buy you!" And what did I say, strong, independent American female that I am? I said, "No thank you." Really, though, what else can you say? I'm pondering this about halfway to Elliott's, and I thought of a few other options. I could have said, "I'm not for sale." Or I could have said, "Okay, but my bride price is 80 million…DOLLARS!" (Have I mentioned that families must pay for their brides? Girls in my village typically go for about 80 million manat or rougly $5,628.) But rather than pick fights, I'm content to politely decline. Although I have decided that I need to start lying and say that I have a boyfriend in America. At Elliott's house I had a very nice visit with his host family. He'd sent them three packages and they showed me the contents, his letter, and asked me what they should send to him. An hour or so and several cups of tea later, I got back on my back and began the 20 minute ride home. Though I consider this whole area my site and though Elliott's house is not at all far from mine, once I reached the limits of my village, I felt like I'd arrived back home – the houses are familiar, the faces are familiar, the spacing between the potholes is familiar. After 18 months, it's a wonder to realize that this place really has become home to me.The following Monday we (finally) went to the desert. Let me tell you what, it was not all it was cracked up to be. In fact, it was pretty boring. And not very pretty – no flowers! Apparently the poppies bloom elsewhere. All we saw were scrubby bushes and some grass. Gapur slaughtered a chicken and make chicken soup over a fire which was tasty enough. Still not worth the trip though. Or maybe it was, just to see what the big deal about going to the desert is all about. It's probably more fun with close friends – our group was my two host sisters, my host dad, our relative Sabay, his wife, their infant son, and some other kid they're related to, and a police officer and his wife. Not the most fun crowd for us three young women. We all squeezed into Sabay's car which is an SUV, so it's big, but not that big. My host sister, the young kid, and my host dad all had to sit in the jump seats. For a while, the police officer's wife was riding in his lap, but that was too scandalous for her, so she squished beside me in the back at which point there were four of us in the back seat. The police officer brought a rifle which he never shot, and the barrel of the gun was pointing directly at my uterus the whole trip. I kept imagining a scenario wherein we hit a dune the wrong way, the gun gets jostled, shoots, and boom! it's curtains for my ovaries. Obviously it didn't happen like that; I think the gun was unloaded. Nonetheless, it was more than a little unsettling. We stopped to stock up on supplies, including a 1.75 liter bottle of vodka, and once well equipped, drove about 30 minutes into the desert. There, we proceeded to cook the aforementioned soup and eat the other goodies we'd brought. The men proceeded to get drunk, which is why they like going to the desert so much. And again, it's probably more fun drunk with your friends than sober with a bunch of drunken Turkmen men. One of the snacks they'd brought was chocolate candy. It seems innocent enough, but the bonbons turned our trip into a lesson in cultural differences. Oguz Khan, considered the father of the Turkmen race, is quoted thus: "One who harms the land in the slightest degree is not a Turkmen." In general, I have found this not to be the case. Real Turkmen liter like it's their birthright to besmirch their beloved motherland. And so, true to fashion, we're enjoying our afternoon in the untouched desert, and those around me were enjoying their chocolates and tossing the wrappers into the breeze for some sheep to find later and eat. I bet Oguz Khan was crying somewhere in the great Turkmen beyond. And who was the one running after the wrappers somersaulting in the wind? Who was the one who couldn't stand to see others harming the land? Not the Turkmen. It was the American. I busied myself picking up their trash and countered their protests to my labor by explaining that littering is illegal in America, and it's especially frowned upon in pristine places like the one in which we were picnicking. Nothing gets my goat like a litter bug.The men tired of their shot taking and I moseyed around the dunes for a while, waiting for them to sleep (some of) it off. After an hour, we were able to rouse them enough to say we'd had enough of this party and wanted to leave. At the time I was reading a book called The Female Brain. There's a chapter on the cerebral changes that pregnant woman and mothers undergo. The discussion about mothers feeling aggressively protective of their children was especially pertinent to this outing. Remember the infant who tagged along? Well, his mom held him in her lap for the trip, and this is not at all unusual. I've never seen a car seat here. If a baby has to travel, it travels in mommy's lap, and mommy herself isn't wearing a seat belt. Totally safe. But, okay, we weren't going that far, and it's not like there's a lot of traffic in the desert, right? Well, his father, our driver, was drunk too (or at the very least very tipsy). And before you get on my case about getting in the car of a drunk driver, think of the baby! No seat belts + inebriated driver = wait, you mean this doesn't happen everywhere? I was beginning to think it was normal! Are the moms in the audience cringing yet? It gets worse: baby was given sips of vodka. I KNOW! Jeeze. I can't stand the stuff they drink so I have no idea what the baby thought when the offending liquid was offered up to his lips. And, okay, they didn't give him a lot – it's not like he took a shot – but he's a BABY. Baby + vodka = are you out of your mind??? Well, then, after we'd arrived back to the village, baby was handed off to an extremely sloshed relative to hold while they were unpacking the car. Said relative could barely stand, and yet there he is responsible for not dropping a child. Now, I am not a mother and so I don't have protect-at-all-costs hormones coursing through my veins. In fact, I have marveled at the fierce protection I've seen some parents display when it comes to their own children, but even I was flabbergasted. And it left me wondering: Where are these mommy hormones in Turkmen women? Why don't they worry about their children riding in cars without seatbelts at breakneck speeds? Why do they let people give their 8 month old babies vodka? Why do they hand their children to men so drunk they end up talking like babies themselves? It's a mystery. Overall, I think Turkmen are good parents, though I am glad I wasn't raised here. Not enough physical affection for me – I don't think I'd be nearly as close to my mother if I were a Turkmen girl. But, the population is growing, so whatever they're doing is working. And thus ended another riveting day in Turkmenistan.

The contents of this web blog are mine and do not reflect any positions of the US Government or the Peace Corps.

Seasons of FoodIn the musical Rent there's a song called "Seasons of Love" that poses the question, "How do you measure a year?" The chorus offers up various suggestions – daylights, sunsets, laughter and strife, cups of coffee, and so on – until deciding on love. Measure the year in seasons of love. It works for the characters of Rent, but that's not the way I measure my life these days. If I measured in love, I supposed I'd be having on long, stifling, dry summer in the desert (not unlike summers in Turkmenistan), relieved by the oases of love that I find in friends and family back home.I often have this song pinballing around in my head, and it's made me wonder how I measure the seasons of my life these days. And I've realized that it's come down to a much more tangible passage of time: I measure the year in fruit and vegetables.Mandarin oranges are in peak season now – you can buy a kilo for a little less than a dollar. Lemons are also in season, though not for much longer. Pumpkins are still available and have become my favorite food (pumpkin and thyme is a fantastic flavor combination, by the by). Spinach is ubiquitous and cheap; Pop-Eye would weep for joy at the sight of bags upon bags of fresh spinach at the bazaar every Sunday. And now it's time to begin planting potatoes again. My family has been spending mild days in the garden creating rows in which to plant their saved spuds. Come June apricots will ripen and that kicks off the summertime cornucopia of fruits and veggies from the garden straight to my mouth. My diet here is much more in tune with the earth than it's ever been. And I feel a greater connection to the seasons as a result. Of course, it's possible to think of the year in terms of fresh produce at Home; I bet most farmers do. But does the wax and wane of ripe fruits cross the mind of the average American more than once or twice a year? Certainly we know that foods have seasons: rhubarb in early summer, watermelon, strawberries, cantaloupe, tomatoes and sweet corn in midsummer and pumpkins in the fall. Living in a rural area and shopping at road sides stands help cultivate a sense of seasonality. And with people becoming increasingly involved with their food – where it comes from and how it's grown –we're experiencing a welcome shift to awareness of seasons. But we still have lemons and apples and oranges available every time we go to the grocery store. And the best way to develop an appreciation for tea with lemon is to only have lemons four months of the year. We can always cheat. Buy something out of season if you really need it. In Turkmenistan we don't have that ability – I would call it a luxury but recently I've come to view it as an impediment – and it has changed the way I think about food. Here everything is seasonal. Fruits and vegetables come and go with the months. The meals you eat depend on what is available in the garden. It's a way of life that I hope I don't lose sight of when I return back to the land of refrigerated trucks bearing foods from afar. Now, will I stop buying avocadoes? Well…no. But I do hope I'll garden. I hope I'll invest the time and money into feeding myself seasonally. Maybe I'll even build a greenhouse. As long as I want fruits and vegetables year round (and I do, my current winter diet is way too monochrome), they may as well come from my backyard rather than a country thousands of miles away.Making foods from scratch is another good habit I've picked up. Homemade spaghetti sauce is so much more satisfying than red stuff from a jar with questionable ingredients. And in an effort to cut down on the number of granola bars my dad sends me, I made my own recently. Not only do I know all the ingredients that went into them, they were a) ridiculously easy to make and b) delicious. Too delicious even. And the granola that goes into those granola bars? Holy cow. I will never, ever buy granola again. My granola paired with my family's homemade yogurt is now my favorite dessert.Who needs seasons of love? I choose seasons of fruit. It's a simpler way of thinking about the world, it's eco-friendly, and encourages us to pay closer attention to the earth that feeds and sustains us.

Hi all, Tomorrow is the first day of Turkmen spring! And the weather? Overcast and cool. I am in Ashgabat -- got here on Friday morning to attend a concert given by the American embassy to celebrate Black History Month. It was awesome. Culture shock within Turkmenistan -- there was a jazz band! They were great! Anyway, about my host sister: I shot from the hip. My emotional discourse about Bagul was made in good faith, but as with most things in Turkmenistan, issues are often many layered and convoluted. Nothing here is cut and dry. So what's the deal? Well it turns out that a) admission into bank school is three thousand dollars but students must pay an additional $100/month on top of that and b) the teachers institute is only two thousand dollars but it's located in a different region and she'd need to "buy" a new license to be able to move there. This whole license business is a complicated mess. Once it became apparent that paying for school could be a major headache I talked to Bagul about her options. She's really interested in moving to Ashgabat or somewhere nearby and finding a job. She's got a well-connected relative in the city that has told her that he can get her a job if she moves here. And she's got relatives with whom she could live. The only problem is that Turkmen can't move around freely. You need this license and getting a new one is only possible under the table. Moving to Ashgabat involves at least $5000. Moving to a "suburb" costs less – about $2000. So my idea was to give Bagul money to move in with her aunt outside the city. That way she'd be able to work in the city and save money and get out of the village. Then I learn that her aunt's house is set to be bulldozed to make room for a new road and Bagul doesn't know where they're going to move or what their own license situation is going to be. Further complicating issues, Collin, Summer and I had lunch with our former Turkmen language teacher on Saturday. She lives in Ashgabat, but her family doesn't have the license so she can't get a job and has to sit at home. Her husband is able to work because of some special permission. She told me that they tried to buy the license and offered ten thousand dollars and were turned down. I don't know if that was for her whole family of four or just the husband. And she told me that people living in villages near Ashgabat can't work in Ashgabat, which would totally defeat the purpose of Bagul moving. UGH. Is there a pea at the bottom of this ever growing pile of mattresses? We need to do some sleuthing and get answers, but we're likely to continue hearing different answers from every source we talk to. And I guess that's what it all boils down to: you have to find the right people. If not? S.O.L. Anyway, that's the latest on that story. I'll keep you posted as we clear away the cobwebs of confusion and bureaucracy. In the meantime…more on food! Enjoy :) Love,Jess

The contents of this web blog are mine and do not reflect any positions of the US Government or the Peace Corps.

I love both my host sisters. They both have added love and laughter to my life in Turkmenistan. The youngest, Gulalek, makes me laugh but my bond is stronger with Bagul, the eldest. Bagul is 22 and studied at bank school a few years ago. She was supposed to grandfather into university, but whatever loophole they were going to use closed the year she finished. She returned home and that was that.

Bagul is not cut from the same cloth as most of these village girls. She is bright, determined, and worldly. She wants more from her life than to be someone's daughter-in-law. She wants to fall in love and not be married off to some random village kid. We've had discussions about homosexuality and Bagul serenely states that she thinks it's natural – a rare point of view among Turkmen. When I tell her that girls in America are able to date openly, that we can kiss boys and not be viewed as tainted goods, that we can wait until we are 30 or 35 to get married or never marry at all, she sighs and wonders aloud why she was born in Turkmenistan.

We've had a lot of discussions about her future. I know she's been trying in vain to get a job. There's just no work in the villages or in the larger towns nearby. If she had the chance she'd go to university... but there's no way she could ever afford the $30,000 price. Her more realistic goal is to study to be a teacher or do a few more years at bank school, but even then she can't scrounge together the two or three thousand dollars she'd need for tuition.

Her sister needs to study. The family is now saving money for Gulalek's tuition. The eldest son needs to pay two thousand dollars to get out of his compulsory military service. Then both brothers must marry and that costs another few thousand dollars. So while Bagul shows great promise, her mother simply says that there is no money for her. She already studied. Money is needed elsewhere. And, her mother adds, all Bagul's friends are getting married and having babies, so she should start thinking about that, too.

Bagul has been trying to save her own money. She sews dress after dress and yet still can't save enough. And as a job has been impossible to find, she's resigned herself to the fact that she probably won't get to study anymore. Now she tells me, "hopefully my children will have more opportunity."

It kills me. Especially now since she's given up on her dreams. And I get it. What good is hope when all odds are against you? When you've already tried and gotten nowhere? I understand her need to protect herself and shut down. Maybe it doesn't make her cry anymore, but after we had this discussion again last night, I left the room with angry tears stinging my eyes.

I spent a thousand dollars on my Thailand/Cambodia vacation. A thousand dollars would be a windfall for her. I had plans for the six thousand dollar readjustment allowance Peace Corps will give me when I finish service. I'm beginning to amend those plans. Sure, it wouldn't be sustainable to give her some money and if the village found out it would set a horrible precedent for future volunteers, but how can I sit here in my position of privilege and just watch this girl give up on her modest dreams? I know we can't help everyone, but what kind of person am I if I don't help those who I have the ability to help?

Hi. PC USA wants it known that I've posted the following correspondence AFTER receiving the story in an email from Jessica. This posting is solely my responsibility.

All extraordinary things become mundane after awhile. Remember that Pluto used to be a planet? Yeah. I think we're all used to its relegated status of "rock" by now. And cell phones? I mean, I didn't even have one until my sophomore year of college – that was only six years ago. Now they're ubiquitous – even Turkmen in tiny tucked away villages have them! Novelty is ephemeral; after the shiny luster and new smells disappear, it seems as though all this new stuff was always a part of our lives. It takes conscious effort to remember back to a time pre-innovation when cell phones were big and boxy, the internet didn't exist, computers had only one color and games like "Grover in Space" were all the rage. If this is the way of the world these days, is it any wonder that I feel the same way about Turkmenistan? My existence here, which once seemed so bizarre, has become very routine and ordinary. I wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, eat lunch, go back to work, come home, read/exercise/watch movies, eat dinner, read/exercise/watch movies, go to bed and do it all over again. I'm merely another hamster running on the wheel, like so many others. My wheel just happens to be in Central Asia. Other than that, is my life so different from yours? Of course there are occasions when I'm walking in the village and all of a sudden it hits me that I'm in my second year of Peace Corps service in Turkmenistan. It always leaves me amazed for a few seconds. Wow! Peace Corps! Turkmenistan! Then I hurry on my way and the thought doesn't occur to me again for another few weeks.The other day my dad remarked to me that it had been a while since I'd sent an email about my life here. He said he missed all the character descriptions of emails past. I'd introduced people to him via my emails only to leave him hanging for more information. He had a point. I've been remiss. I just don't know what to write about anymore. Although I do realize that while life here seems pretty quotidian to me, it's still new to all of you. So the challenge for me now is to file through events in my mind and decide what would be interesting for you all to read, no matter how normal it might seem to me. Hey, if Erma Bombeck can make every day life New York Times Bestseller worthy, it shouldn't be that hard.We have a kitten, a tabby named Boris. He's really sweet – loves to catch flies, climb the curtains and curl up in laps. He's learned where meat comes from and stalks the kitchen, going as far as climbing into the refrigerator when it's opened. It's amusing, but unsanitary for sure. A few days ago he was nosing around on the middle shelf, mewing for food and deciding whether or not the butter would be a good substitute for beef. It was not.The car – it's an early 90-something – is on its last legs. My host dad wants to buy a "new" one, but my host mom tells him that he drives too fast to buy a new car. Our village road is too pot-holed to get any real speed, but many drivers do take advantage of space between pot holes to go fast. They speed for about 50 yards before they have to slam on the brakes and negotiate the pocked asphalt and then they're off speeding for another 25 yards. The stretch of road between my village and the next is fairly clear of obstruction and that quarter of a mile is where drivers fulfill their need for real speed – I swear they get up to highway speeds for that brief time (or maybe it just seems that fast because the car is shuddering and feels on the verge of falling apart). My host dad is no exception and even takes the pot holes too fast. So I understand my host mom's objections: why get a new car? He doesn't drive far and the car, while a piece of crap, does the job. On the other hand, I understand his side too: The car isn't going to last much longer. Every now and then it won't start. When this happens, we have to push it to the end of the driveway and then push it as fast as we can back down the driveway and hope that by doing so the engine will start. If it doesn't, we push until it does. I get a kick each time I watch my host mom in her long dress and head scarf bearing down on the car. Hilarious.I continue to be amazed at the lack of general geographical knowledge people display. When asked where I went on vacation I'm usually met with quizzical looks when I reply, "Thailand." I don't even mention Cambodia. People are further surprised when I tell them that it's hot there now and that it never gets cold. My counterpart was convinced that Thailand was actually China until I got a map and showed her that they are in fact different countries. But does it really matter that Turkmen don't know the capital of Djibouti? And does it matter that I do? Only in quiz games… The shoe of cultural disbelief was on the other foot this week when I walked into my host sister's room wearing my workout outfit – running shorts and tank top. Bagul was talking to my host mom, and while I know Bagul wouldn't bat an eye at my near nudity (by Turkmen standards), I was unsure of how my host mom would take it. I asked her if she minded and she was like, "I don't have a problem with it, but don't walk in front of Gapur like that. He's a man." And then she asked if I wore similar outfits on vacation and could scarcely believe my affirmative reply, though she'd already seen my pictures. "You wore shorts? In public? In front of men???" Why, yes I did. And it was remarkably normal.Which brings me to the vacation: It was fun. It was adventure. It was escape, renewal, inspiration, sensory overload, Culture and delicious food. I apologize that all I can offer are platitudes, but I'm still awe struck by what an amazing trip it was. Here are some of the hightlights:Clogging the toilet of our hotel room in Ko Samui and clandestinely borrowing the hotel's plunger and getting it past hotel staff in order to plunge the toilet ourselves because I was too embarrassed to tell them we'd clogged it. I maintain that if they want people to throw away their toilet paper, they should be up front about it rather than suggestively putting a trash can next to the toilet. Taking a Thai cooking class.The government bus ride to Ko Samui on which we were the only Westerners and during which we were treated to a free lunch wherein I was instructed in the proper method of eating (use your fork to push food onto the spoon, eat with the spoon). Also wherein I'm pretty sure we ate snail because whatever it was, it tasted exactly the way you'd expect snail to. Eating grasshoppers.Angkor Wat. Angkor Wat. Angkor Wat. Absolutely magnificent.Undergoing a traditional Cambodian treatment for illness which involved being rubbed repeatedly with a metal disc such that our skin bruised and we were left with tiger stripes all over our backs. It was hardcore. Enduring a harrowing car ride with friends from the hostel en route to a floating village where we were the first Westerners some of the residents had ever seen. Seeing Avatar in IMAX 3D in Bangkok. Holy cow.Thailand was fantastic, but, oh, Cambodia. The quiet magic of Angkor Wat, the solemnity of the Killing Fields, the NGO on seemingly every block in Phnom Penh, the friends we made at our hostel, the first kiss I'd had in over a year – all of it made it hard to leave and convinced me that I had to go back as soon as I could. Particularly the NGOs. What a wake-up call. Did you realize that other countries have active NGOs? That development work can happen unimpeded by government intrusion? There are oodles of volunteer opportunities in Cambodia! Volunteers are wanted! They don't have to jump through hoops for the Cambodian government! AND there's an expat community!! After living in Turkmenistan for a while I'd decided that maybe I didn't want to live abroad anymore. Being in Cambodia reminded me that Turkmenistan is unique. Turkmenistan is certainly interesting, but it's also kind of soul draining. Cambodia restored my spirit to overflowing.You can imagine how difficult it was to leave that NGO paradise for a place where I can't motivate my teachers to help me write the grant for remodeling their classroom and getting decent grammar books. (It's supposed to be a group effort!) The confiscation of my American toothpaste at the Bangkok airport only made me angrier. (I forgot that other countries have carry-on restrictions. Oops.) Needless to say, I was in a funk for a few days after we got back. Little Miss. Happy-Go-Lucky had to eat the words of her last email – I was in the thrall of the dreaded and inevitable mid-service blues. It's true that most of the time I feel positive about the work I do, but there are certain realities about Turkmenistan that most of us choose to ignore lest we become too bitter to go on. And once you get sucked into that sticky pit of unhappy reality, it's hard to break free again.However these things pass and after a few days of sleeping a lot and wistfully thinking of Cambodia, I resumed the spring in my step and the happy attitude of denial that gets me through. I'm feeling good again, although I'm still anxious about this grant – right now my students are my main motivation for getting it done but I still feel very Little Red Hen about the whole thing. Well, it's a few days later and I've lost my train of thought… we're in Ashgabat now for our Mid-service Conference. It's fun being back together as a group again – we haven't all been together since the Fourth of July. I updated my computer for the first time in a year – woo-hoo! I tried uploading photos from my vacation but the connection is too slow for that right now…Oh! And the hotel has BBC and I got to watch the State of the Union this morning! What a treat!So yes, life in Turkmenistan has resumed its ebb and flow. I'm healthy – no TB, got my test result today – and happy and in disbelief that my time here is another month sooner to ending.Lots of love,JessP.S. Remember my friend Enejan? Well, she's about six months pregnant and if you do the math, it works out to her getting knocked up a month before she was married. Which explains a lot.

Hello, friends!

Wow, it's been so long since I've written that I hardly know where to begin. I don't even remember when I last wrote an email home. Yikes. So, I suppose it would be best to submit a flurry of updates to you today:

1) The T-18s did not come. And it looks like we will not get another group until (hopefully) March and then again next October. What happened? As best as we can tell, there was some miscommunication.

2) The Pit of Hell was a) cool and b) not the crater of lava that I had imagined. Not surprising, no one ever said it was a lava pit, but I had visions of Mt. Doom dancing in my head. It was a crater of burning rocks. But still cool. And it's been burning for over 40 years! (Cue: "We Didn't Start the Fire" or "Ring of Fire") I'll try to post pictures.

3) I finally got my computer back! Woo-hoo! Try living for 5 months without a computer - not having internet is bad enough but no computer, egads. As a result, I'm exercising more (thanks to my yoga and P90X workout videos) and reading much less (I'm so addicted to TV series. I don't watch a lot of movies, but give me an interesting TV series and I can't stop watching. Current favorites: Top Chef, Glee (wow, great show), season 5 of The Office, and of course, the latest season of Lost (which I know I'm way behind in watching, but at least I finally got to see it. And OMG what a cliff-hanger.

4) My program manager Rahman came to visit a few days ago and was really pleased with my work and my idea for a classroom remodel/creation of an adjacent resource room. It was most gratifying to get some positive feedback because it's the only feedback I get. Ever.

5) My counterpart and I are finally getting an idea of where above project is going. I'm hoping to have my grant application written by January. Which she's already told me that I will have to do by myself because she "doesn't understand" even though we both attended the same seminar and the seminar was given in Turkmen. Sigh. Oh well, If I don't do it, it won't get done. Not a very sustainable attitude, but these days I take heart in the saying "Is it better to be right or effective?" I'm going for effectiveness here.

6) And that reminds me: around my year mark I was pondering ways in which I'd changed over the past 12 months. And you know, from my perspective, I don't think I've changed all that much. However, I think I am a heck of a lot more patient. For a while I was wondering if I've just become resigned to dealing with things that frustrate me, but then I thought, well, if that's not patience, then what is? Also, I think I'm definitely more mature. Case in point: when I was preparing to come to T-stan, I remember being very frustrated with the clothing, long skirts/dress issue. I was ticked that I had to conform to another culture's norm. Hah. Such naivete. Now, I could care less. In fact, I've taken to only wearing my Turkmen dresses to work because it cuts down on time spent deciding what to wear and, also, Turkmen love it when I wear their clothes. It's honestly the only time anyone has called me beautiful, so there you go. And I used to attempt to match outfits. Now, that's a forgotten notion. Friday, I wore a purple and white checkered sweater, a giraffe print dress, blue argyle socks, and floral shoes and I liked it! And no one batted an eye. I'll miss this back home. And adopting cultural norms? Well, it makes total sense.

7) I'm traveling to Thailand and Cambodia! I'm going with a few other volunteers. We leave on December 27th and return January 14th. of course, being here hasn't cured me of my over-active guilty conscience and I feel bad about the few days of work I'll have to miss (we do get 2 weeks off school, but the flight schedule didn't leave us with too many options for going and returning). Rahman aforementioned Program Manager, didn't have a problem with my plans and as such I am feeling less guilty. Well, really, not at all.

8) I have reached my quarter century mark. We celebrated my 25th birthday a few weeks ago, Turkmen style. It was fun, actually. Lots of Turkmen ladies came and gifted me totally useless stuff that I'll never be able to take home (glasses, plates, etc.) but the thought we nice and we had good food. I made a carrot cake with cream cheese icing! Delicious.

9) Is it just me, or did this year go by wicked fast? Jeeze. I can't believe it's almost December. It's scary how quickly I perceive time passing. I suppose it's because I'm really busy this year, which is a good thing, but I'm also worried. Before I know it, I'll be grey haired and retired. Not ready for that.

10) And yes, with December, that brings an end to Elliot's Peace Corps service. He's leaving December 6th, so I'm on my own after that. The closest person to me will be Kelsey, and she's 35 minutes away by car. I'll be okay. But I'm going to miss Elliott for sure.

11) It's Thanksgiving! It could possibly be my last Thanksgiving in Turkmenistan. Did I send out a list of things I am thankful for last year? I can't remember. Well, in any case, here are a few more: lunch meat, dogs in the house, affectionate parents, books, USPS, appreciation of good food (Twinkies-like food isn't a delicacy at home), common sense and logic, good education, competent health care, and a culture of good dental hygiene. We celebrated Thanksgiving as a group yesterday. It was the last time to see several of our friends. After eating, we watched a Will Ferrell comedy routine lampooning former President Bush (43). And we all marveled that that sort of routine was okay at home. That one can say just about anything without facing persecution, jail time, exile, or worse. It's a pretty amazing concept and something we all agreed that we're thankful for...free speech.

Happy Thanksgiving! And don't forget to floss :)

Love,

Jessica

This blog is solely the responsibility of Jessica Hoover and does not reflect the views of Peace Corps.

Hi gang :) Fall weather has hit Turkmenistan and boy, it's made me long for home. We don't have quite the array of colors to admire here, just yellows and browns. However, there's a lot to look forward to: I'm going to a wedding tonight. My friend Annie's counter part is getting married and invited us all! It's unique a) because Jennet is 31 (not the typical 20-23) and b) she's hired an Uzbek singer and dancer! Not the kind of wedding I'm used to! This coming weekend, I'll be traveling to the "Pit of Hell" in the desert north of Ashgabat. It's a giant gas crater in the desert that was lit on fire years ago and has been burning since. Should be interesting. THEN, the following Sunday we're having a Halloween party at Elliott's and on November 8th I've invited all the volunteers and several Turkmen from my village to my birthday party. It's shaping up to be an eventful 3 weeks!

In my last email I alluded to the fact that the next group of volunteers was not going to arrive when expected. Well, it turns out they're not coming at all. No one is exactly sure why, but PC was informed last minute that T-stan didn't want volunteers this year. It even made the news back home! Here's are a few articles: http://www.rferl.org/content/Turkmenistan_Denies_Entry_To_Peace_Corps_Volunteers/1849867.htmlhttp://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/10/09/ap/asia/main5373489.shtml

And, on to the good stuff:

In countries with cell-phone plans consisting of an alloted number of minutes and free nights and weekends, the toque isn't necessary. But in Turkmenistan and, I'm assuming, other countries where you pay-per-call (and here you also pay more when you call rather than when you are called) the toque reigns supreme. A toque: when one doesn't want to spend money calling another person, but wants to speak with said other person, one dials the number, listens for the call to go through, and upon hearing the first ring immediately hangs up. This says, "I don't want to use my money to call you, so please call me." Toque is not Turkmen -- it's Spanish (it means "touch"), but there is no cute, concise way of expressing this idea in Turkmen. They use the verb "aylanmak" which means "to turn." You could call it a "turn around" I suppose, but I prefer toque.

In Turkmenistan, where entertainment is lacking, toques have become a game. To wit: the other day an unknown number kept calling Bagul's phone and hanging up right away. Were it me, I would not have cared and put my ringer on silent. But Bagul was intrigued. "Who is it?" she wondered outloud. And so she began calling the number back and hanging up on the first ring. It went on like this for hours -- I watched as she kept her finger pressed to the green answer button, wating for a call to come through so she could try and pick up before the caller hung up. I imagine the person on the other end doing the same. It didn't matter that the identities on either end were unknown to each other. It had become a competition: who can pick up fast enough? Eventually Bagul pounced and answered the phone before the caller had time to hang up. "Allo?" she said. No one was there. All the same, she was pleased. "I ate their money," she said triumphantly.

That does it for me this week. I hope you are all well and enjoying the fruits of the season (mmm, apple cider!)

Lots of love,Jessica

Hi folks! Just a quick reminder that tomorrow is my one year anniversary! And if you find yourself thinking that it doesn't seem that much time has passed, well, I agree. I'll try to send out a longer email next time I'm around the internet -- I intended to tomorrow because Elliott and I were going to go to Ashgabat to greet the newbies but problems occurred and the newbies will not be coming tomorrow....but eventually, hopefully -- anyway, I squandered my internet time looking for zucchini recipes and I've got to dash. BUT: ONE YEAR IN TURKMENISTAN!!!! One more to go :) Hugs, Jess

Love? ... and marriage

Enesh doesn't love Kemal. Not really. Not from the heart. And certainly not in the romanticized way I think two people should love each other when they're about to get married.I've never met Kemal, though I've seen him across the crowded, too loud dance parties (aka walk around in circles waving your hands back and forth) that pass for weddings here. He doesn't have much to recommend him as far as looks are concerned. She's definitely a lot more attractive than he is. But she says he's a good buy and believes he'll treat her right.Bagul isn't so sure. She heard he's slept with other girls -- taboo in the oba. Whether or not it was before he began dating Enejan, I don't know. But he's a guy, so it doesn't hurt his reputation as much.I ask Enesh if she's happy and she says yes. But she says shes' scared and she doesn't want to leave her house and family. She'll be moving in with his family the next town over. She says to be sure to visit because she'll miss me.I tell her not to get married. I know she's only dated Kemal for about 9 months and in that time, they've only seen each other at parties and nights when he comes over and she sneaks out of her home to meet him, telling her parents she's coming to our house. It sounds like behavior more appropriate for teenagers. Enesh is 23. But, in a village culture where even the most innocent brush of fingertips can set the gossip mill running, the cover of darkness is the only time young couples have to spend together. I don't know what Enejan and Kemal do or if they talk. I don't know how well they know each other. I know that Enesh's friends, many of whom are already married, pressured her into marrying, saying, "When are you going to set the date? Set the date!!"So I tell her, don't get married. And she looks at me and says, there is no other option. Really, there is. She could wait and see if someone better comes along. Someone she could really fall in love with. But she fears the likelihood of that happening around here is slim. So she settles for good enough. Besides, at 23 she's getting up there in age as far as Turkmen are concerned. At 24 going on 25, most women cluck their tongues at me when, in answering their inevitable question, I divulge that I am not married. Their jaws drop as they try to regain their grip on reality. The next question is, invariably, WHY? I reply that in America, I am still young. That many people wait for love, steady jobs, and/or a place to live before they marry. When I tell people that I probably won't get married until I'm at least 28 it a) scares me (so soon!) and b) sends them spitting down their dresses, hoping their daughters don't follow suit. I explained this all to my neighbor Gozel (Enejan's mother) after she encouraged me -- not for the first time -- to stay here and marry a Turkmen. When I finished, she shook her head and told me I have a "different head." I suppose the correct translation would be "different mindset", but somehow the literal "different head" seems more appropriate.Now, some girls do wait. Maybe their boyfriends are studying or working abroad. Bagul's cousin fell in love but the boy left her for another girl, now his wife. She waited until she was 30, casting away undesirable suitors until she broke down, tired of waiting, and settled for just being in like.After marriage, Enejan's next order of business is to get knocked up. Soon. If she isn't pregnant within the first two years or so of her marriage, suspicions arise. Her in-laws might take her to a doctor to undergo tests and determine if she's at fault. If the girl is infertile, the husband has grounds to divorce her and take another wife. If he's sterile the can "adopt" by buying a baby from a family member who already has enough children. If the women is infertile, she's of no use (although some men are more understanding and will still adopt). If it's the man, well, it's not really his fault. He couldn't help it.Women can be tossed from their married homes for less than that. The husband might decide that he doesn't need her. Or, maybe the mother-in-law thinks she's lazy or she sews too much or leaves the house too much. Grounds for removal. Of course, it's much more difficult for a woman to leave a man. And in either case, the man can easily re-marry. It's harder for the girl, who many will regard as second-hand goods. Friday night is Enejan's vecher -- the girl's wedding party. Two larger trailers are set up in the road. Inside one is a table for the bride and groom to sit at. The other, about 50 yards away, reveals a small stage with a a keyboard and ginormous speakers. The guests are invited to a meal at the bride's home after which they exit to the street for an evening of dancing. The musical entertainment consists of a couple of guys up on the stage playing a predictable line-up of music. Sometimes they even play the same song 3 or 4 times in one night! -- a big no-no at Home. The vocal tracks have all been altered so it sounds like the same nasal whine singing them all. There's a guy playing the keyboard and another singing. Although, if they walked away from the stage, the spectacle would go on without them. The whole act is just that -- an act: they're lip-synching and pretend playing their instruments.The bride and groom descend every now and then to dance among the crowd, but mostly they just watch, faces revealing no real emotion -- Enejan barely smiles. The women and men dance separately, for the most part. If they do dance together, it's a circle of men within a circle of women. Male dancing is particularly boisterous. They look like their doing a cross between the chicken dance and a River Dance. Not very attractive, and when they bust into the girls' circles, the girls generally drift away...The bride doesn't dance with her father or relatives. The wives don't dance with their husbands. And when the bride and groom do dance, they maintain a respectful distance between their bodies -- no slow-dance here. The following day has two separate parts: in the afternoon, the boy arrives at the girl's house to take her to his. In most cases, the couple moves into the boy's parents' home and the new bride immediately takes up the lion's share of the house work -- cooking, cleaning, and washing clothes. I'm not sure what happens when a family has multiple sons. I suppose the younger brothers have to find their own houses.The taking of the bride is so ritual that it is easy to ignore the video cameras and honking car horns and imagine the yurt-dwelling, nomadic society that began these customs. The bride eats one last meal with her friends and awaits the groom's arrival. She wears a traditional dress, her hair in braids, a scarf wrapped around her head. After the meal, she sits in a corner and cries.At first, I thought the crying was lame. A fake show put on by the brides because that's what they're supposed to do because it's been done that way since before anyone can remember. I thought, come on! This is so contrived -- weddings are supposed to be HAPPY! Then I realized that these girls are not as independent as my female compatriots and I are. They didn't go to college or summer camp. The most they've been away from home maybe is spending the summer with family in the city or other villages. If that. Now, they have to move into a strange house with people they barely know, filling a role they're totally new to. Of course they're sad. Of course they're scared. More than anything, this move signals the end of childhood for them.But Enesh doesn't just cry. She bawls, so much so that the doctor gives her a sedative. It is heartbreaking. I've been told many times that yes, the brides cry, but really they're very happy. Really. Frankly, I don't buy it. A happy woman's body doesn't collapse into sobbing while she waits for her husband. It looks the very opposite of the blushing bride to me. Enesh cries more than I did leaving my family, friends, culture and country to come to Turkmenistan, and she's just moving to the next village. A five minute car ride. A 10 minute bike ride. A 30 minute walk.The groom arrives for the bride flanked by family members cheering and the sounds of men playing drums and accordions. He enters the room where the bride cowers in the corner. A large embroidered coat is draped over her head and she's led out through the awaiting crowd to the car. (Can't you just picture this happening hundreds of years ago -- the arrival of one family to another's yurt, probably on horse-back, taking a much younger bride to a new home and to a husband she's probably never seen before? No wonder the women cried.)Kemal picks Enejan up. He frets that he has no flowers to present to her, but when someone locates a bunch of fakes, he just passes them off to someone else to carry. The jacket obscures Enejan's tear streaked face as they leave the room, wade through the on-lookers, and get into the car. They'll spend the next few hours driving around, honking the horn, announcing the marriage.Then Enejan heads to the salon in Kerki in order to be made-up for the boy's wedding the same evening. The ceremony is the same, only this time she wears a Turkmen rendition of a white wedding gown -- a gaudy outfit more appropriate for a Barbie than a real woman, studded with rhinestones and layers of sparkly cascading polyester. More food. More dancing. And then it's all over. Husband and wife. No crushing a glass, no exchanging of vows or rings. They don't even sign a paper until about 2 months later.Now her new life beings. And I hope that she's made a good decision. I hope that he is decent to her. I hope she is comfortable and content in her new home. I sigh and consider myself lucky. This way of marrying off daughters works for the Turkmen, and I know other cultures marry their girls at even younger ages to complete strangers, but I'm relieved that I don't have to face the same future Turkmen village girls do. I can wait as long as I want. Or, I never have to get married if I chose not to. And I can pick and be picky. I can find someone who shares my interests -- someone who skis, loves to read, and wants to travel the world with me. I have options and for that I cannot give enough thanks.Lots of love,Jess

Melon Day was Sunday, August 9th

Hey folks! Well, I'm back into the swing of things in Turkmenistan. The last week went well and everybody missed me so it wasn't too bad. I still miss my Mom and my daily gelato, but that's the way vacations go -- they end. Anyway, yesterday was Melon Day in Turkmenistan. Supposedly there are many varieties of melon in T.stan, but truthfully, I've only seen two: watermelon and another football shaped honeydew-like melon. And, in fact, at my family's home, we've only eaten watermelon. It's really popular -- tractors with wagons teeming with watermelon trawl the streets honking their horns to attract customers. You can buy however much you want right in front of your home. It's like our equivalent of an ice-cream truck -- only watermelon! In my family, we eat watermelon every afternoon somewhere between 4 and 6 depending on when my host mom gets up from her nap. And, because they're Turkmen, they eat their watermelon with bread. My host mom thinks it's very strange that I don't each much bread at all, and since I came back I've been eating even less. And I would definitely not eat bread with watermelon -- weird taste combo. That's culture for you. So yesterday, as usual, I sat down to my afternoon snack and she offered me bread and I declined. Then, she started telling me about a group of doctors from T.stan who visited the States two years ago. They were impressed by our hospitals and our hospital beds (they go up and down at the touch of a button!), our cities, our "bazaars," our hotels -- everything. They said it was amazing -- you could get anything you could possible want ... EXCEPT Turkmen bread. They missed their bread and no rye or pumpernickel or zucchini or banana or pumpkin or foccacia or French loaf would suffice. The wanted Turkmen bread cooked in a Turkmen tamdor (clay bee-hive shaped oven). Turkmen are serious about their bread. Now, I would argue that it's not very open-minded -- just because we aren't ritual bread eaters doesn't mean our bread isn't good. But hey, what do I know? Zohre (host mom) told me that these people were also surprised that there are poor people living in the streets in America. She said, "We don't have that in Turkmenistan!" Which I guess is true -- I haven't seen any except for the beggar kids at the bazaars in the city who burn grass in your face and try to get money for you (the grass is supposed to be good for you somehow -- same stuff my host sister burns at home -- but I hate the smell.) In T.stan, I have a feeling that if anyone finds themselves homeless, someone in the extended family would take them in -- one of the benefits of ginormous family circles. I've also heard that the government "hides" them, so there's that possibility, too. But it got me thinking, how is it that Turkmenistan does homelessness better than we do? (assuming the destitute aren't "hidden") And then I remembered that their population is only about 5 million people (the government says 6 million -- it's debatable) and that seems like a much more manageable figure than 330 million (give or take). Anyway, it was an interesting conversation and I actually enjoy talking to my host mom when she's not nagging me (a lesson well learned: I hate it so much that I will strive in my life to never be a nag ... or at least not as bad as she is -- she nags me about stuff weeks after the fact. AH!) However, she ran out of stuff to say and by the third time she started repeating the story I got up and left. So yeah, that's Melon Day for you. There was a party last night that I decided not to go to -- I asked my sister if they'd have all sorts of melon to eat and she said no. It's just like any other party: same food, same people, no melon. In honor of melon day, make a nice fruit salad. Know what melon they DON'T have here? Cantaloupe. Mmmmm, I love cantaloupe. Enjoy your week!Hugs,Jessica

Love? ... and marriage

Enesh doesn't love Kemal. Not really. Not from the heart. And certainly not in the romanticized way I think two people should love each other when they're about to get married.

I've never met Kemal, though I've seen him across the crowded, too loud dance parties (aka walk around in circles waving your hands back and forth) that pass for weddings here. He doesn't have much to recommend him as far as looks are concerned. She's definitely a lot more attractive than he is. But she says he's a good buy and believes he'll treat her right.

Bagul isn't so sure. She heard he's slept with other girls -- taboo in the oba. Whether or not it was before he began dating Enejan, I don't know. But he's a guy, so it doesn't hurt his reputation as much.

I ask Enesh if she's happy and she says yes. But she says shes' scared and she doesn't want to leave her house and family. She'll be moving in with his family the next town over. She says to be sure to visit because she'll miss me.

I tell her not to get married. I know she's only dated Kemal for about 9 months and in that time, they've only seen each other at parties and nights when he comes over and she sneaks out of her home to meet him, telling her parents she's coming to our house. It sounds like behavior more appropriate for teenagers. Enesh is 23. But, in a village culture where even the most innocent brush of fingertips can set the gossip mill running, the cover of darkness is the only time young couples have to spend together. I don't know what Enejan and Kemal do or if they talk. I don't know how well they know each other. I know that Enesh's friends, many of whom are already married, pressured her into marrying, saying, "When are you going to set the date? Set the date!!"

So I tell her, don't get married. And she looks at me and says, there is no other option. Really, there is. She could wait and see if someone better comes along. Someone she could really fall in love with. But she fears the likelihood of that happening around here is slim. So she settles for good enough.

Besides, at 23 she's getting up there in age as far as Turkmen are concerned. At 24 going on 25, most women cluck their tongues at me when, in answering their inevitable question, I divulge that I am not married. Their jaws drop as they try to regain their grip on reality. The next question is, invariably, WHY? I reply that in America, I am still young. That many people wait for love, steady jobs, and/or a place to live before they marry. When I tell people that I probably won't get married until I'm at least 28 it a) scares me (so soon!) and b) sends them spitting down their dresses, hoping their daughters don't follow suit. I explained this all to my neighbor Gozel (Enejan's mother) after she encouraged me -- not for the first time -- to stay here and marry a Turkmen. When I finished, she shook her head and told me I have a "different head." I suppose the correct translation would be "different mindset", but somehow the literal "different head" seems more appropriate.

Now, some girls do wait. Maybe their boyfriends are studying or working abroad. Bagul's cousin fell in love but the boy left her for another girl, now his wife. She waited until she was 30, casting away undesirable suitors until she broke down, tired of waiting, and settled for just being in like.

After marriage, Enejan's next order of business is to get knocked up. Soon. If she isn't pregnant within the first two years or so of her marriage, suspicions arise. Her in-laws might take her to a doctor to undergo tests and determine if she's at fault. If the girl is infertile, the husband has grounds to divorce her and take another wife. If he's sterile the can "adopt" by buying a baby from a family member who already has enough children. If the women is infertile, she's of no use (although some men are more understanding and will still adopt). If it's the man, well, it's not really his fault. He couldn't help it.

Women can be tossed from their married homes for less than that. The husband might decide that he doesn't need her. Or, maybe the mother-in-law thinks she's lazy or she sews too much or leaves the house too much. Grounds for removal. Of course, it's much more difficult for a woman to leave a man. And in either case, the man can easily re-marry. It's harder for the girl, who many will regard as second-hand goods.

Friday night is Enejan's vecher -- the girl's wedding party. Two larger trailers are set up in the road. Inside one is a table for the bride and groom to sit at. The other, about 50 yards away, reveals a small stage with a a keyboard and ginormous speakers. The guests are invited to a meal at the bride's home after which they exit to the street for an evening of dancing. The musical entertainment consists of a couple of guys up on the stage playing a predictable line-up of music. Sometimes they even play the same song 3 or 4 times in one night! -- a big no-no at Home. The vocal tracks have all been altered so it sounds like the same nasal whine singing them all. There's a guy playing the keyboard and another singing. Although, if they walked away from the stage, the spectacle would go on without them. The whole act is just that -- an act: they're lip-synching and pretend playing their instruments.

The bride and groom descend every now and then to dance among the crowd, but mostly they just watch, faces revealing no real emotion -- Enejan barely smiles. The women and men dance separately, for the most part. If they do dance together, it's a circle of men within a circle of women. Male dancing is particularly boisterous. They look like their doing a cross between the chicken dance and a River Dance. Not very attractive, and when they bust into the girls' circles, the girls generally drift away...

The bride doesn't dance with her father or relatives. The wives don't dance with their husbands. And when the bride and groom do dance, they maintain a respectful distance between their bodies -- no slow-dance here.

The following day has two separate parts: in the afternoon, the boy arrives at the girl's house to take her to his. In most cases, the couple moves into the boy's parents' home and the new bride immediately takes up the lion's share of the house work -- cooking, cleaning, and washing clothes. I'm not sure what happens when a family has multiple sons. I suppose the younger brothers have to find their own houses.

The taking of the bride is so ritual that it is easy to ignore the video cameras and honking car horns and imagine the yurt-dwelling, nomadic society that began these customs. The bride eats one last meal with her friends and awaits the groom's arrival. She wears a traditional dress, her hair in braids, a scarf wrapped around her head. After the meal, she sits in a corner and cries.

At first, I thought the crying was lame. A fake show put on by the brides because that's what they're supposed to do because it's been done that way since before anyone can remember. I thought, come on! This is so contrived -- weddings are supposed to be HAPPY! Then I realized that these girls are not as independent as my female compatriots and I are. They didn't go to college or summer camp. The most they've been away from home maybe is spending the summer with family in the city or other villages. If that. Now, they have to move into a strange house with people they barely know, filling a role they're totally new to. Of course they're sad. Of course they're scared. More than anything, this move signals the end of childhood for them.

But Enesh doesn't just cry. She bawls, so much so that the doctor gives her a sedative. It is heartbreaking. I've been told many times that yes, the brides cry, but really they're very happy. Really. Frankly, I don't buy it. A happy woman's body doesn't collapse into sobbing while she waits for her husband. It looks the very opposite of the blushing bride to me. Enesh cries more than I did leaving my family, friends, culture and country to come to Turkmenistan, and she's just moving to the next village. A five minute car ride. A 10 minute bike ride. A 30 minute walk.

The groom arrives for the bride flanked by family members cheering and the sounds of men playing drums and accordions. He enters the room where the bride cowers in the corner. A large embroidered coat is draped over her head and she's led out through the awaiting crowd to the car. (Can't you just picture this happening hundreds of years ago -- the arrival of one family to another's yurt, probably on horse-back, taking a much younger bride to a new home and to a husband she's probably never seen before? No wonder the women cried.)

Kemal picks Enejan up. He frets that he has no flowers to present to her, but when someone locates a bunch of fakes, he just passes them off to someone else to carry. The jacket obscures Enejan's tear streaked face as they leave the room, wade through the on-lookers, and get into the car. They'll spend the next few hours driving around, honking the horn, announcing the marriage.

Then Enejan heads to the salon in Kerki in order to be made-up for the boy's wedding the same evening. The ceremony is the same, only this time she wears a Turkmen rendition of a white wedding gown -- a gaudy outfit more appropriate for a Barbie than a real woman, studded with rhinestones and layers of sparkly cascading polyester. More food. More dancing. And then it's all over. Husband and wife. No crushing a glass, no exchanging of vows or rings. They don't even sign a paper until about 2 months later.

Now her new life beings. And I hope that she's made a good decision. I hope that he is decent to her. I hope she is comfortable and content in her new home.

I sigh and consider myself lucky. This way of marrying off daughters works for the Turkmen, and I know other cultures marry their girls at even younger ages to complete strangers, but I'm relieved that I don't have to face the same future Turkmen village girls do. I can wait as long as I want. Or, I never have to get married if I chose not to. And I can pick and be picky. I can find someone who shares my interests -- someone who skis, loves to read, and wants to travel the world with me.

I have options and for that I cannot give enough thanks.

Lots of love,Jess

To my adoring fans,I have two stories to share with you today.  I suppose a better term would be essays or commentaries, but whatever.  They are what they are.  Before I copy and paste however, a few tid-bits: ·        I had a fascinating discussion with my host sister Bagul the other day on Turkmen folklore.  She also told me about Noah and the Ark, the Crucifixion, Creation and Adam and Eve which amazed me.  I have a copy of the Koran at home and now I’m curious to read it (this is not a hint for you to send it to me, Dad, as my bookshelves are stocked).  Apparently she read all these stories in the Koran and other Muslim books.  Please don’t think me totally naïve when I say I had no idea we shared those stories (if indeed they are in the Koran).  Interestingly enough, her versions of these stories concluded with things like this, “And that’s why the snake has a forked tongue,” etc. (There’s a word for stories like these but I can’t remember it). ·        I ate tofu this week and liked it.  Shocking! (And no, it was not purchased here).·        Still happy, still healthy and still rainyPresenting:  “Fake Plastic Flowers” and “Dogs.” On Fake Plastic FlowersFlowers are the choice gift on Women’s Day – March 8.  Turkmen are incredibly confused about the fact that we American’s don’t celebrate Women’s Day because it’s actually called “International Women’s Day.”  How can’t we celebrate it?  It’s international!  (Which really just means more than one country celebrates it but they don’t get that).  Women’s Day, according to my encyclopedia, is “an important occasion for promoting women's issues and rights, especially in developing countries.”[1]  Well, I don’t know about how other countries celebrate, but Women’s Day in Turkmenistan was just another day of TV specials.  I didn’t hear any talk about women’s issues or rights.  I didn’t hear anything about trying to get more Turkmen girls about of the restricting village life and into institutes and universities.   No one said anything about men helping around the house.  There was no talk about equality.  Nope.  The government gave each school girl 200,00 manat – about $14 – to share with their mothers and that was it.   Congratulations on having a vagina, now have lots of babies.  Girls who aren’t in school or who don’t work don’t get any money.  Suckers! Oh, but wasn’t receiving dozens of flowers just fabulous?  I stashed mine in a corner of my room.  I pretend I’m a celebrated opera star and my adoring fans can’t help but heap flowers upon me.  I have four dozen.  That’s right: four dozen flowers.  And they’re all FAKE.  Some are okay replications, some aren’t, none are passable, some are perfumed, some aren’t.  But I am now the proud owner of 48 fake plastic flowers.  Fake flowers are a nice gesture, I suppose.  And I don’t know where Turkmen would find real flowers in March except in the cities, but I still think they’re tacky.  Turkmen like them.  They keep their fake flowers in vases tucked in shelving units – they’ll be there forever.  You don’t have to buy more.  They’ll never lose their beauty, never turn brown or lose their petals.  Frankly, I remain unconvinced.  At least now I have lots of flowers to re-gift!  And now a change of pace:On DogsI write this as someone who loves dogs.  I mean, I love cats too, (What’s up, Bangu! [like the cat reads my emails and understands this]) but this piece in particular pertains to dogs.  Turkmen don’t have the same relationship with dogs as we Americans do (well, most Americans that is.  Certainly there are people in the US who mistreat their animals.  Shameful.) In your average Turkmen village, dogs are outside animals.  They aren’t bathed or groomed or otherwise taken care of.  Some are kicked and angrily yelled at.  I’ve yet to come across a dog that had been spayed and/or neutered (although I hear there are vets in Turkmenistan).  I don’t know if they get their rabies and distemper shots like they should.  From what I gather, dogs are primarily for guarding the house.  As puppies, Turkmen Alibis (their “National” dog – unsure of that spelling, really) are removed of their ears and tails because they get into fights and of course ears and tails are easy targets.  This has probably been a tradition for a long time because I haven’t seen or heard any real dog fights.   And I think it’s probably a learned behavior.  They might not have to remove the ears and tails if they a) didn’t kick or otherwise abuse dogs b) fed the dogs and c) didn’t encourage fighting.  I think dog fighting may have been sport before.  I don’t know if it’s practiced in my village but nonetheless, ear and tail removal has stuck and so you see a lot of funny looking dogs.  Russian dogs and dogs of other unknown descent are left intact (apparently they’re pacifists and eschew fighting).  Garagoz is a Russian dog and that’s why he has ears.  My host father likes dogs and so he feeds Garagoz.  This has made Garagoz friendly and loyal to our family.  The other day, I opened my window and he trotted over and jumped up, putting his paws on the window sill and wagging his tail hello.  He hangs out at home most nights.  Or, if my father is on sleeping duty at school, he goes to school with him.  Awww.  Not all families feed their dogs.  There were skinny dogs in Magtymguly left to fend for themselves, finding what trash and scraps they could in the desert.  Not something a Westerner can easily grow accustomed to. Unfortunately, because dogs aren’t neutered here, there are a great deal of unwanted pups.  Particularly girl dogs.  Why? Because girl dogs get impregnated.  Boy dogs can do it all they want and they don’t have to deal with the consequences of having puppies (SUCH a double standard).   Last month, a stray ended up on our door step.  My sister gave it some bread. Garagoz left it alone, presumably because it was a harmless puppy.  My host father, when he came home, scared it away because he doesn’t want another dog, especially not a girl dog (which she was, I checked).  She came back a few more times but I haven’t seen her anymore.  I have no idea what happened to her and can only hope someone took her in.  But that’s the thing.  Turkmen don’t feel the same way about strays as I do.  Or most Americans, I assume, based on the fact that we have organizations like the SPCA and the Humane Society.  Granted not every animal taken to the Humane League is rescued, but some are.  And that makes a difference.  Here, strays are just a nuisance.   At home in the States, two of our pets were taken in as strays. (Does Stumpy count as a stray if Mom found her under a soybean leaf?) Turkmenistan isn’t easy on man’s best friend but eventually, a person becomes hardened to seeing dogs without ears, skinny dogs, aggressive dogs, trash-eating dogs, stray dogs, and dead puppies in trash piles in the desert who couldn’t find enough to eat.  That’s life.  But not today.  No, today was a day for tugging on heart strings.  I had just returned from Kelsey’s village where we spent a lovely afternoon with two other volunteers.  We made amazing food and played cards.  It was super.  I had a decent taxi ride back to my village which was a relief because the taxi driver on the way to Kelsey’s village kept inviting himself to eat with us and told me he wasn’t married and needed a wife.  Thus, it was in a good mood that I disembarked from the car.  The driver dropped me off on the side of the road and I started the 40 minute walk to my village (hoping, of course, to be picked up along the way).  As I crossed the bridge over the canal, I heard whimpers.  Ever curious, I walked towards the sound to investigate.  A fatal mistake.  There I saw four small black and white puppies, huddling together.  I looked around and saw no mommy.  Maybe she was nearby.  Maybe someone didn’t want them and dropped them off to fend for themselves.  I have no idea how to guess how old they were, but one would have fit in my cupped hands.  I sighed, chided myself for looking and went on my way.  I was not alone.  One intrepid puppy decided to take fate into its own hands, to leave the pack and endeavor for a better future.  It followed me.  I tried quickening my pace.  It kept up.  It whimpered.  I couldn’t lose the damn thing.  Every now and then I thought maybe it had turned back, had returned to its brothers and sisters.  Yet every time there it was; right at my feet, tripping over my shoes, tripping me.  I started to cry.  I wanted so badly to take it home with me.  I also knew that the house I live in is not my true home.  I cannot simply show up with a dog and say, “We have a new pet!”  What would happen in two years when it’s time to leave?  And I cannot in good conscience own an animal without taking it to a vet for shots and neutering.   I didn’t know what to do.  I hoped for someone to pick me up so I wouldn’t have to see it anymore.   A woman stopped me and told me it was following me. When it went over to her feet she kicked it.  It stumbled over itself as it ran after me.  It almost got hit by a car.  And I was complicit.  I left it.  Finally, it stopped following me and began trotting after two other ladies.  I was relieved.  I looked over my shoulder every few steps to make sure it wasn’t there.  A car came and picked me up.  I didn’t look back again.  Sitting in the car, I prayed for the first time in a long while.  I fervently prayed for that little puppy and it’s siblings that they wouldn’t end up in a garbage heap like so many others.   Until next time!Hugs,Jessica

*among other things.

Hello friends!  I hope this email finds you well and eagerly anticipating the arrival of spring!  It’s been a long time, eh?  Well, totally out of character, I had nothing to impart the last time I came up to the city.  And it was a Sunday so the internet café wasn’t open either.  But you know what they say … no news and good news go hand in hand.  I mean, theoretically, of course.  I could have been kidnapped by Afghani hoodlums and held for ransom in a dark cave near some treacherous border lines – hungry and dirty but not too smelly.  It would’ve been difficult to send email in such a situation.  Fortunately for you, I wasn’t kidnapped!  No indeed!  Happy-go-lucky as always, here I am, yet again, with some scribbling straight from my Central Asian abode.  Today I present thoughts on rain, cows and cardboard (etc).  So a few weeks ago, Mommy[1] says to me, “How’s the weather?”  And I respond something to the effect of, “Blech.  Last week was beautiful, warm and sunny and now it’s gross and rainy.”  Mom says, “Rain?  I thought you lived in the desert.”  Au contraire!   It’s rained at least once a week for the past month or more!  Once it rained so much our back yard became a pond and algae began to bloom!  If it had been warmer, I would have wondered about malaria and things.  Surely this can’t be desert! Time for a geography lesson! Turkmensitan: indeed, much of the country is occupied by the Karakum (or Garagum) Desert – one of the world’s largest sand deserts! According to my Encyclopedia Britannica 2009 Deluxe Edition (woo-hoo!) desert makes up nine-tenths of Turkmenistan’s territory. However, due to my relatively close geographical situation to the Amu Darya river, Halach and the surrounding areas are considered to be an oasis of sorts.  No palm trees or anything here, but we do have an extensive canal system that diverts river water to our villages. I live in one of the most fertile and verdant areas of the country (if not THE most fertile and verdant).  This is a great advantage because we have fresh veggies (more or less) year round (I think some are imported, but a lot of food is stored as well).  Now, interestingly enough, the swath of oasis is not very wide.  The river lies to the east of me (5 miles?) and the desert is just west – just another couple of miles.  When we took the train to Halach, we were travelling through sand and scrub brush.  When we drive up to Charjew, we drive through sand and scrub brush.   Because of our close proximity to the river, we don’t have water shortage issues, either – also a plus. Now, compare this to the Balkan region in Western Turkmenistan.  Balkan has a diminished water supply.  As in nearly zero water.  The ground is not especially fertile.  Things just don’t grow.  In fact, it’s so depressed for vegetation that I’ve heard tell of people feeding the cows cardboard. Let’s just consider cows for a moment.  Currently at home (America, that is) there’s a movement afoot regarding cows and what they eat.  Thanks to Michael Pollan and books like The Omnivore’s Dilemma (which I thoroughly enjoyed), people are beginning to question why cows eat so much corn when they’re not biologically equipped to be corn eaters.  It turns out that corn isn’t as good for cows as fresh sweet grass and that grass fed cows are better for us humans than corn fed cows.  Damn you, government subsidized corn!!! Anyway, as I was attending to business in the outhouse this morning, I wondered: What would we prefer our cows ruminated upon? Corn or cardboard?  And though I know corn is bad for their bellies, I can’t imagine cardboard is any more nutritious.  In which case, I suppose we should be lucky that our American cows are at least eating food stuffs and not paper.  This does beg the question, however: would I rather eat cows fed on paper or rendered cow bits?  I’m undecided on this one.  Wasn’t that outlawed though?  Cows can no longer eat other cows for dinner, no?  Luckily, I do not live in Balkan and our cows do not eat cardboard.  As best I can tell, they eat hay and the occasional food scraps. Including garlic, which may explain the sometimes sour taste of our dairy.   Anyway, by March 12 the rainy, muddy transition from Winter to Spring ceased and a warm weather pattern has settled in.  The fruit trees flowered and are now budding leaves.  Bees are busying themselves will pollen collection.  And best of all, the air has that dry, fresh, almost chlorinated scent that I love so much about the air in Southern California.  Having no thermometer, I don’t really know what the temperature is.  But I no longer need to wear long underwear beneath my skirts and I can play outside in a t-shirt, capris, and sandals quite contendedly.  High 60s maybe?  70s?  Spring here really seems like early summer for us back home in the Northeast.  We kinda skipped right over all that 40s and 50s business.  Celebrating this lovely weather, I ventured to school one day wearing my beloved Teva flip-flops.  After all the stares from students and teachers commenting “Oh, Spring has arrived for you!” I got the hint that Tevas aren’t going to cut it at work.  That and my counterpart said “No” when I asked her if I could wear them.  Sigh.   Teachers are supposed to dress “professionally” and that includes wearing closed-toed shoes.  According to my counterpart, they’re not even allowed to wear open-backed shoes, but they do anyway because no one from the Ministry of Education comes to check.  I still can’t wear my flip-flops though. Or my Chacos.  Well, just not to school, that is.  I’m not really a shoe person.  As I write this I realize it’s a blatant lie.  I suppose it would be more appropriate to say I’m not a summer shoe person.  I’d much rather be barefoot in summer than wear shoes.  On the other hand where shoes are required, I do have quite a collection of cute footwear to prance around in.  I’m not quite sure how to reconcile these two sides of my personality into a witty comment.  You know what else spring in Turkmenistan brings?  Ants.  Lots of ‘em.   Recently, the ants have been marching in full force.  Around our “dining room” table, ants come out of the woodwork searching for food.  Attempts to thwart them are in vain.  Shoving tiny rocks in the cracks makes more work for the little black guys, but soon, they remove the obstructions and venture forth freely again.  It would be interesting to lift our house up and have a look at the ground underneath.   I wouldn’t be surprised, but I’d be kind of disgusted, to find one ginormous ant hill.  My host mom brought out a bag of cookies recently and offered me one.  I don’t care for these cookies and I declined.  Boy was that a good move.  She removed one for herself and it was covered with ants.  Upon further inspection we realized that the whole bag was teeming with the little buggers.  So what did she do?  Shook them out and ate the cookies.  I gagged.  Despite this recent resurgence of ant activity, my ant problem began weeks ago.  In a box I received for Christmas was a book covered with crushed bits of candy cane that didn’t quite survive the trans-Atlantic crossing.  Nothing thinking much of it, I placed the new book on the shelf.  A few days later, I noticed a great increase of ants in my bedroom and upon investigation realized they were going for the pepperminty goodness of those miniscule candy cane crumbs.  Bah humbug indeed.  I took the book outside, shook off all the ants, cleaned the cover, put it in a zip lock bag and stashed it in my suitcase.  Unfortunately, the ants didn’t take the hint and the following few weeks were marked by a steady ant presence in my boudoir.  At first I killed them with abandon, but I started to feel guilty.  They weren’t hurting anything, right?  Just looking for some tasty food to take back to the hill.  They had a route – come in through the crack in the door way, climb up the wall, traverse the wall towards the window, sniff around and return.   Then I started finding ants in my clothing.  I got bit by ants at the breakfast table.  I would feel a tickle on my neck and scratch and an ant would be on my hand.  Ants crawled across my computer while I was watching movies.  My counterpart picked an ant out of my hair once.  And twice, I was woken up in the middle of the night to a strange sensation on my face only to discover that, yes, there was an ant scaling my nose.  Then I became upset.  I moved my bed away from the wall, tightly packed all my food, and kept vigil on the ant situation.  Over time, they began to lessen.  Then spring came and with the warmer weather, more ants came out to play.  Out in our main room, they use the molding as their main highway.  In a line, too many to count, they make their way to the table and back to all the cracks in the walls.  My room became of interest again.  I watched them come out of a crack in the door frame.  I nervously fell asleep at night, not wanting another ant disrupting my dreams.  Mom called and told me to try cinnamon.  I dusted it around my door, shoved cinnamon into the cracks with a Q-tip.  It turns out the ants do not like cinnamon.  They wouldn’t walk across it.  They didn’t emerge from cracks sprinkled with the spice.   A few days ago, I found a number of ants clamoring for a piece of noodle that was on my bedroom floor, presumably from my clothing.  I sprinkled cinnamon on them.  They cowered.  For the time being, I have won. Every now and then I still find a few ants roaming about my walls, searching for most delicious treats.  But it’s rare now.  As I am writing, I don’t see any travelers.  A few weeks ago, I could count dozens walking the path towards my window.  I am at peace. Ironically, my family finally bought some “medical chalk” at the bazaar last week.  Apparently ants don’t like it.  I have a hunch it’s lyme.  Anyhow, they drew on the molding, on the floor, around my door jamb.  The ants, wily creatures that they are, walked all over the lyme.  The other day I watched an ant struggle to carry a large crumb across the carpet.  You have to admire a creature so tenacious and determined.  To haul such an awkward and heavy load must be one heck of a workout for an ant.  It reminds me Sisyphus and his rock.  Only unlike Sisyphus, the ant is certain to succeed.   An ant haiku:Middle of the nightAn ant crawls across my faceI wake up, annoyed.   Well, I hope you have enjoyed this week’s tale of daring and adventure from Turkmenistan!   Happy spring and Happy St. Patty’s Day! And remember, if you’re not going to go barefoot, wear cute shoes! Love,Jess

[1] Yes, I still occasionally call my parents Mommy and Daddy.  Got a problem with that?  Nope?  Good.

My Dear Jess-turk,

Have you received any boxes yet from Dawn and I or were they "Lost".--in a time traveling loop? "Lost" is on tonight, the show with the movable island. The show is really getting interesting now as it dabbles into quantum physics. I love Jack and "Freckles" but Sawyer is okay. I do hope the boxes of materials arrived safe and sound. More stuff to pile in the desert--or you could find ways to help the locals reduce, reuse and recycle.

Dawn said she misses you and hopes you had a happy Valentines Day. You did exchange Valentine's Day card in your clubs, right? Maybe not. But that was fun when I was in primary school in Pennsylvania and Texas. Hey, I learned to Square Dance in elementary school. Maybe you could teach some Square Dancing to your club students? So much time. So little to do. Keep busy "Popeye" and stay confident. Your shape is perfect regardless what you weigh. I could use a hooka (sp?) pipe, for decorative purposes only, if they are permissable to ship or bring home. Aunt Jenny's mother in law, and Mike's mom died, which was a relief as she had agressive cancer and was in hospice. Charlene was more upset by Hedwig Barnes passing than dad's--but familiarity can breed contempt in a wife.

Love,

Billy--Dawn and the Hondo Pack

PS. You should have received four boxes. If, or when, they arrive we have six more to send you, you foxy Turkwoman. I do find the Turkwomen to have beautiful smiles, complexions and figures, which is no small feat in your part of the globe.

Alright:  I have made all my photos public so if you've been unable to access them, hopefully it will work now.  I'm trying to upload some more but it's rather slow and this time isn't free, so there will only be a few new photos.  

Here's the link:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/11696456@N08/

Horray!

Please don't be Turkmen and tell me how much weight I've gained :)

Airplanes are missing from my night sky.  At home we live under a flight path for planes landing at the Harrisburg International Airport ("International").  Planes are a part of life.  Sometimes they're so low coming in you can tell what airline the plane belongs to.  Sometimes when we fly home from travelling, we can spot our house from up in the air.  And in the States, on any given evening, you can look up and see small white pseudo-stars traversing the night sky and imagine the people inside being ferried to all sorts of destinations –adventures, work trips, or romantic rendezvous.  I often contemplate the constellations at night.  In my village there are only 2 street lights about a quarter mile apart.  The light pollution isn't very great and the stars and planets are brilliant.  I can easily find Orion, the Big Dipper and Delphinus.  Venus is really bright right now, too.  But I can see other groupings, too, that I'm sure are constellations and if I only had my star chart, I'd be able to name them all.  I have, however, never seen a plane.  It can be very isolating to realize that no one is flying over my airspace. ----- It was the Russian dance music that brought back memories of my semester in Madrid.  Well, the Russian dance music and Shakira.  Sitting down to lunch, my favorite Russian song of the moment came on.  My sister turned up the volume and we bopped our heads in time as we ate.  Once it ended, Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" began. I smiled and sang along under my breath.  Shakira's pretty popular all over the world, I suppose, if even Turkmen kids know who she is.  She was a staple in the Spanish bars and clubs I frequented during my four months in Madrid.  Madrid has oodles of bars and clubs and pubs.  I went to many of them.  My friends and I would flirt with European tourists, drink pints (pints!  I think I had my first pint in Madrid [and yes, it was probably cider because I hadn't yet developed a taste for beer]), take shots of tequila and dance the night away until some awful hour when either the metro was about to close or the night buses were soon departing.  Other evenings, I followed Santiago (professor/friend/mentor) around the crooked streets to some hole in the wall bar or restaurant that I could have never found on my own.  Listening to Shakira this afternoon, I remembered how liberated and independent and cosmopolitan I felt in Spain.  How I could navigate the city streets on my own (most of the time without becoming lost) and how I had enough command of the language to be entirely comfortable.   How I felt that, after four months, I belonged in Madrid.  I could survive there; live there happily, be a madrileña.   It was home. My experience in Turkmenistan is outrageously distinct.  Now, it makes me laugh to think that just three springs ago, four months was an eternity.  As much as I loved Spain, I was ready to go home after those four months were over.  I had a boyfriend at the time which complicated things, of course.  But I was in awe of the students who studied abroad for a whole school year!  And who didn't go home for Christmas!   Who doesn't spend Christmas at home?! Tomorrow is February 1, 2009, my four month anniversary.  I can't imagine going home tomorrow.  The time has not caught up to me yet; I still feel like I've just arrived.  I guess this just means my subconscious knows that I'm here for the long haul and so I'm adjusting accordingly.  That's relativity for you, right?  And, of course, the Turkmen kids don't even know who Einstein is… After four months in Turkmenistan, I certainly don't feel very cosmopolitan, but that's hardly surprising because I live in the boondocks of the boondocks.  Certainly I can survive here and while I had a huge linguistic advantage in Spain having already studied the language for 6 years before I went, I can communicate (more or less) effectively in Turkmen.  And most of the time I'm content.  But I miss the feeling of absolute freedom – the feeling that anything is possible, the options endless.  What do I mean?  Knowing that the world is small and large at the same time. Knowing that more exists outside of my small town, my state, my country. Understanding that there is much more to life than what I see on a daily basis.  Waking up and decided to go to Europe or Australia or Colorado or just the mall and being able to do so.  Having my own money, knowing how to buy a plane ticket or being able to plan and successfully complete a road trip.  But I don't really miss these things for myself – I miss it for all the girls I know who will never have these experiences.  The feeling of total freedom this knowledge gives me is something few of them will ever experience.  And they will be happy and their lives will go on, they'll get married and pump out babies, but for most of them, travelling to the other side of the country is as exotic and foreign as they get.  They think Ashgabat is the most beautiful city in the world because it's the most beautiful city in Turkmenistan and the only real city they've ever seen.  I still blows my mind to think that every week I took an art history course in the Reina Sofia museum and so many people here wouldn't even know a Picasso or Dali if they saw one.  God, I miss Spain.----- I gave my first test this week.  It was an exercise in patience, that's for sure.  There is no word in Turkmen (that I have in my dictionary) for cheating.  Going into the test, I knew that in school cheating is rampant – although is it really cheating if it's accepted?  I told the students no talking, no peeking, no looking in notebooks.  I split them into small groups and tried to give each student his/her own desk.  I threatened low scores.  And still they cheated.  Blatantly.  And repeatedly, even after I'd caught them.  So I took off five points for every student that I saw cheating and told them that in the end, it doesn't really matter if they cheat or not, but it does mean that they're not learning English.  Some students didn't even bother to answer the test questions and I wonder why they even come to club?  But on the other hand, why do I bother to give tests?  Luckily the students haven't figured out that the tests are pointless; the school isn't worried about their grades, only me.  There's no real incentive though, except for the students who genuinely want to learn English.  And there are some exceptional students, and I want to help them as best I can.  Jobs are so scarce here that if I can help someone get a leg up, I'll feel like I've achieved something good. I've also noticed in clubs how many kids are unable to think independently.  They incessantly ask me in which notebook they should be writing.  They copy from the blackboard exactly what I've written.  If I've run out of room and continued on another area of blackboard, they'll do the same, even if their notes are disjointed and unorganized as a result.  Some of them think that because I print, they must print, too. It makes a teacher want to bang her head against a wall sometimes.  Or drink beer, which is what Elliott did last Sunday to my great relief.  Still, it's pretty pathetic and thus it's another goal of mine to show them that they can in fact make their own decisions and that it's okay to deviate from what I do.  I don't think it will be easy, especially if this is the way their teachers expect them to behave in school.  Have I mentioned before that they all write exactly the same way?  Everyone forms their letters exactly the same way.  Everyone writes in cursive.  Turkmen don't print. This school is so normalizing!  And all the schools are the same.  I've started readingLenin's Tomb which I got for Christmas and though I'm not very far along, reading about all the normalization that was carried out during the Soviet Union makes me wonder if this uniformity is left over from the Soviet school system.  I would feel so stifled!  But if I were Turkmen, I probably wouldn't know any better!    -----A few days ago I learned that all our non paper trash gets taken out to the desert and left there.  I can't stand the idea of adding to a pile of non-biodegradable stuff.  Guess who's going to come home in two years with a suitcase full of empty plastic bottles and toothpaste tubes?  Hugs from the other side of the world,Jess

The Rape of the Sheep Head and Other TalesIt's been a while, friends, since I regaled you with a story of gastronomic delicacy,and now I think the time has come to revisit this beloved topic.  The following incident occurred on January 4, 2009 at about 6:00 in the evening.  It is now 7:00 on said night; the events are still very, very clear in my mind and, as a result, I'm still feeling a bit, um, grossed out.This afternoon, my host father was telling me about the wonderful dish he would be helping to prepare for dinner tonight: liver, kidneys, and lungs.  While it sounded fabulous, I informed my family that I would gladly cook my own meal because organs just aren't my fav.  I watched as my host sister and mother cleaned said body parts. And then I saw them again as they were brought out from the kitchen:  carefully wrapped and sewn up in fat.  And to think I turned my nose up at this. 6:00 rolls around, the smell of cooking sheep organ begins to waft into my room and it's time to eat.  Much to my initial chagrin, one of my host sisters had gone ahead and cooked for me.  I had been looking for making some yummy food of my own with my private olive oil stash, but alas.  Thing is, I know she did it because she wanted to be nice and she likes me and blah, blah, but I was still a little bummed.  Next time…next time.  Anyhoo, they have a pot of stuff boiling on the electric griddle in our eating area, and my host pop, Gapur, fetches a slotted spoon and begins extracting various sheep parts.  While I knew of the bound organs, I was wholly unaware of the sheep head and sheep hoofs also in the pot.  Yum!He places all the food on a plate and they begin to eat.  And Gapur, man, he is really digging in.  He tackles the head first – the poor, sad sheep head that still looks like a little sheep with its seemingly empty eye sockets, little nose and nostrils still intact, and sheepy smooth ears still there but no longer sheepy smooth.  And, oh, the littlepatas.  Small and sweet and you can just imagine a sheep prancing happily on its stewed hoofs.  Sigh.  The next thing I notice, after wistfully looking at the still cute sheep snout, is that one of the ears is missing.  What?  Oh, wait, no.  It's being chewed on.  Yes, Gapur has sawed off the ear, which I can only imagine is entirely cartilage, and is rapturously chewing away. I'm eating my milky rice dinner (rice cooked in milk served with a few pats of butter too many for my taste: basically tapioca with rice instead of whatever tapioca is) and thinking that it's rather fortunate that I'm not eating what they are, when Gapur puts one of the organ bundles on a plate for my sister Bägul (pronounced "baaah" [like a sheep] ghoul – it means "rose."  It you accidentally mispronounce it like "bagel" they don't understand for some reason. ß Just kidding. Not about the bagel part, though, I really did that).  Bägul then proceeds to cut open the packet of yummy and extracts whatever organ is inside.  I don't know if she ate the fat casing or not.  It mysteriously wasn't there at meal's end.  The boiled organ reminded me a lot of Murcia in texture – that's what I thought anyway, just looking at it.  Then, THEN they say, "Jess!  Iý! It's healthy!  People eat this for health!"  Oh, my least favorite Turkmen word: Eat!  Eat! But, if I'm not here to challenge and stretch myself, then I don't know why on earth I'm here, so I very carefully put a tiny, tiny, miniscule bit on my spoon, hope I don't die, and eat.  And it tastes like organ.  Or, what I imagine organ would taste like.  Very earthy and rich (but not a rich that I particularly like).  There's a perfect adjective for earthy and rich that I can't think of at the moment (liverish?) …anyway, not to my liking.  I satisfy myself by eating my milky rice and watching the destruction of this poor sheep continue.After Gapur satisfies himself with the ear, he picks up a hoof.  And eats the hoof.  And probably the foreleg, too, I missed that part of the show.  Lest you begin to think it's all over, oh no, the best part is yet to be consumed: the head.  Gapur grabs a knife and starts gnawing at the nose.  I worry that he's going to cut it off and eat the nose! Except, then he changes course and begins to cut elsewhere, the objective being just removing the skin from the skull.  Once achieved, it's a free for all.  Every piece of available meat is searched out and eaten.  Fingers and knives are used to push and prod and pull.  Those "seemingly" empty eye sockets?  My mistake.  He locates an eyeball, tries to get it out of the socket.  This proves to be a little difficult and he has to poke from a variety of angles.  Finally, the eye is freed.  He gingerly removes the pupil and the iris and some of the nerves in the back.  He pops the white and a few remaining nerves into his mouth and chews.  And swallows.  And appears to be enjoying the taste explosions in his mouth.Once all the meat has been excavated from the surface of the skull, it's time to smash that mother open.  Knife in hand, a few good bashes are sufficient to break open the skull.  Then, the knife is inserted in the cranial cavity, and the brain is scraped out into Bägul's plate.  It looks like chunky paté I think, looking at it and again thanking my lucky stars that I don't have to eat it.  I am met with expectant stares and again they say, "Eat!"  I hold up my hand and say, "No," because I had learned my lesson the first time.  But he says, "Try, try!" and I think, well, what kind of story teller would I be if I didn't at least try the brain?  Trying it gives me more credibility and I'm all about being an informative and factual journalist.  They say it needs salt; they add salt.  I again take a very, very miniscule amount onto my spoon and pop that sucker into my mouth. I can tell you that in fact, it is the texture of chunky paté (I think I've eaten paté?).  I consider the brain and take another very small piece onto my spoon and eat that, too (I may have eaten a quarter of a teaspoon total.  I know, I know, I strive to be adventuresome, but I'm a long way from hosting Bizarre Foods).  The brain, I decide, tastes like wet cat food.  And yes, I know what wet cat food tastes like.  Or rather, I did some 19 years ago and frankly, the brain brought those memories flooding back. Feeding the cats, helping myself to a bit of their food…it happens.Seeing that I am not overwhelmingly put off by the salty cat foodesque brain, they encourage me to take another spoonful, and a big one this time!  However, I decline because I've had about all the brain I can stomach for one evening.  In fact, I can't rid my palate of the brain taste and I grab an apple for some taste bud cleansing.  The raping and pillaging of the head continues; scraping and scratching all remaining dregs of meat/fat/cartilage available.  Gapur sucks the bones like a straw in order to get the marrow out.  And finally, there's nothing left to eat.  The organs are gone, the head is naked of meat.  All that's left is bone.  Job well done, really.  Gapur orders more water boiled for tea.  They are sated.  I am thinking how wonderful it is that I'm virtually a vegetarian here – I rarely eat meat anymore and this is why.  Now, if only they'd serve fish more often…Gapur invites me to have another käse of tea, but I'd been guzzling them down during the whole dinner event and I decline.  Instead, I jump up, eager to write down all the thoughts about this meal whizzing about my head which, thankfully, will (most likely) never be tossed in a pot to cook. The thing is, I have to respect them for eating parts of animals that I wouldn't dream of eating even in the most desperate situations.  In some cultures, they eat and/or use everything out of respect for the animal (Eskimos, right?).  I doubt that's why Turkmen scavenge their animals so.  Rather, I speculate that it's related to a tradition of scarcity many, many years ago.  People had to eat everything or they wouldn't eat.  And so the taste preference is learned generation after generation.  I mean, I don't even know if there was scarcity of meat but most of Turkmenistan is desert.  I think it's a pretty safe assumption.  I've also heard that meat is expensive so maybe it's just a matter of getting the most bang for your buck.  Or, in our case, the sheep that we slaughtered was ours.  So perhaps we're just getting the most out of the labor that went into raising that sheep.  Whatever the case is, there is no waste.I mean, it really takes simple living to a whole new level, doesn't it?  I don't know though…I'm all for being as sustainably minded as I can but I'm not an organ eater. And I'm neither a brain eater nor a marrow sucker. Meanwhile, the house still smells of boiled sheep matter.  In other news…I shouldn't complain; I'm healthy and have been since I moved to Lebap.  That is a definite plus.  And they have caught on to the fact that I don't like fat – I don't eat butter on my bread (because it tastes sour), I pick fat off my meat, and I try like hell to avoid eating all the grease in soup.  As a result, my food's been less fatty and greasy. And I am running again!  I feel healthier and skinnier already!  Amazing!  Now, if they'd only let me cook for myself sometimes, life would almost be perfect.I have, by the by, gotten over the whole outhouse thing.  Now every time I have to pee, which is frequently due to the large amounts of tea I imbibe, regardless of time of day/night and/or weather, it's off to the outhouse I go!  And the only hitch in the otherwise normal event of voiding one's bladder is the talkative sheep.  I read in National Geographic that sheep can recognize faces and so maybe this is a sweet sheep and he just knows my face and wants to be friendly.  But this sheep, he is a wily sheep.  The sheep pen abuts the outhouse and this sheep likes to squeeze in the small space between a stack of hay and the outhouse.  And so there I go merrily inside to conduct business and all of a sudden I hear, "blaaaaah."  It has on more than one occasion made me jump, as much as a person can jump whilst squatting.  Nearly every time I go to the outhouse now it says hello, "blaaaah."  Maybe it knows they just ate a friend – it does remind me an awful lot of that stewed head.  Silly sheep, I think it gets a kick out of bleating when I least expect it.On January 3, we had an earthquake!  My host father was spending the night at school (guard duty) and the shaking of his bed woke him up.  The next morning they asked me if I felt anything during the night, but I slept right through.  My first earthquake and I totally missed it.Someone told me that many of the cars in Turkmenistan are stolen cars from other countries.  This may or may not be true, but I have seen a number of cars with American university stickers on the windows/bumpers.  The other day I saw a car with a Brown sticker.  I've seen scuba diving symbols, honors student stickers…  So cars definitely make their way here from the U.S.  Maybe they're just used car lot rejects? Turkmenistan is where cars that no one wants go to die. Over break, I was carted off to a teachers' conference in our regional center. Boooring, but they asked me questions about our American educational system and what I thought about the Turkmen education system.  I was quite diplomatic in my response, not wanting to offend anyone (when I was really thinking, um, yeah, I'm so glad I didn't go to school here).  Anyhow, a man approached me during a break and said, "My friend's car is showing this and we don't know what it means.  Can you tell me?"  He had written, "MAINT REQ'D" on a piece of paper.  I said, "It means something is wrong with the car and it needs to be fixed."  And then it occurred to me that I don't even know if there are auto-body shops here.  I mean, I would assumethere are by the simple fact that there are cars here and sometimes cars need to be fixed.  And then I wondered if the guys working in said hypothetical shops would know how to fix whatever maintenance bug the car has.  But I guess a car's a car, right?  All the same stuff more or less under the hood.  Might just need oil. During my little speech, a man asked me how many days a week we study in the U.S. When I reiterated that we have a 5 day work week (I had already mentioned it), he got really ticked and started telling our methodologist (the region's head of English teachers) that he wanted another free day.  I hadn't meant to incite a protest; I was merely telling the truth.   I have two free days here because I'm no dummy.  A six day work week sucks!  And I need a business day free to run errands.  But then I started adding up the hours: Turkmen teachers don't have to be at school unless they're teaching and that's a perk we don't have.  And really, they give maybe 10 minutes of homework a night which means they don't have to spend a lot of time grading. Furthermore, the tests are a joke.  In English class I've seen tests that are only about 5 questions and the teachers practically walk the students through the whole thing.  They don't assign papers; there are no worksheets to correct.  So, one can only assume that they don't have a lot of outside grading to do.  In which case Turkmen teachers probably work far fewer hours than American teachers despite only having one day off.  If only he knew…One of the teachers expressed her frustration to me that some students just aren't interested in school. Of course this is a universal problem, but if you sat in on a Turkmen class, you wouldn't blame the students. The teaching straight from the book style is dry and dull.  Even I, miss "I love school!" would be bored.  I get bored observing classes.  But how do you say that to a room full of teachers?  It's best to show by example and that's why I'm here.  It was nice that this woman showed such concern.  In fact, I got a little jealous on our way home from the conference because it seems like she would be very receptive to new teaching styles – were she my counterpart, I'm sure she'd be all about co-planning, co-teaching and trying new things in class.  My counterpart has never expressed an interest in co-planning with me.  Her idea of co-planning is telling me that I'm supposed to coach the Olympiad (like Quiz Bowl) students tomorrow.  On what?  "Grammar."  What grammar?  "Just grammar." Oh, right.   On the bright side, I have two years with her – with a little patience we should be co-planning by the time I leave.  New Year's!  How could I forget!  The anticipation leading up to New Year's Eve was tremendous – everyone antsy and talking about how they can't wait for "täze ýyl" (that's New Year in Turkmen).  And New Year's Eve roll around and I'm gearing up for a huge celebration and it turns out they celebrate New Year's just like every other Turkmen holiday of importance.  What a let-down.  Here's what we did:  We went to people's houses and ate food.  Now this is slightly different because for Gurbanchylyk, the holiday we had in the beginning of December when I first got here, it seemed like only a few people had parties.  For New Year's, everyone had food out in case people stopped by.  And that's just what you do, drop in on people and they feed you. Gulaýlek and I went to her friend Jemal's house where we sat and ate.  Jemal is kind of annoying.  She kept making me take pictures with her and would place my arms where she wanted them.  Ugh.  I need to stop hanging out with 14 year olds.  She practically begged me to go to her party though and she gave me a present, too, so I felt obliged. After Jemal's I went with my other sister Bägul to yet another house where we sat and ate some more.  And whether it be a birthday party, New Year's, a wedding, or other big events, the food is largely predictable.  A Turkmen party spread consists of homemade pickles, peanuts, rasins, candy, vanilla wafers and chocolate covered tea cookies, homemade juice, soda, tea, tomatoes if in season, palow (rice, carrots, meat), and cake.  Cake in Lebap, while not nearly as good as what yours truly can make, is oodles better than cake in Ahal.  New Year's, being the most important holiday of the year, had a few culinary surprises.  In addition to the food above, we also ate fish! From the Amu Darya!  And it was huge!  And delicious!  In fact, the first house I went to baked the fish in a skillet with diced tomatoes and onions and other yummy stuff.  It was probably the best food I've eaten in Turkmenistan thus far.  My family fried our fish, which was also tasty.  And we also barbequed!  They made a fire out of sticks, skewered the meat, and then set the skewers on bricks over the fire.  We had barbecued pork and gazelle.  Really.  Both were also very tasty.  I didn't think Turkmen ate pork but my family does.  I asked my family if they eat fish a lot and they said yes. However, this was the first time I'd been served fish here, so I remain skeptical.  I would LOVE to eat fish more often.  We'll see.After Bägul's party we came back home.  My host father poured me a shot of vodka and we took one shot together.  Then I went to our uncle's house and ate some more food and took another shot of vodka.  At home around 10:30 I fell asleep.  Then some other relatives came over and I had to do another shot of vodka.  Each time you drink, someone gives a toast and I ended up giving 3 or 4 toasts that night (in English). Everyone who's drinking takes a turn giving toasts.  With each shot, someone else takes a turn.  By the end of the night my host father was pretty drunk.  I was just tired. At midnight we watched fireworks on TV and then at 12:30 I went to bed.  More people came over the next night, but I didn't have to drink.  My host father got drunk again.  But he's just a sloppy drunk, not aggressive or mean or angry or whatever. So that was New Year's.   Yay!  Happy New Year!  I miss pork, sauerkraut, and mashed potatoes.  My host sister made crepes!  Not the prettiest crepes ever because she had to scrape them out of the skillet with a fork, but crepes nonetheless!  In Turkmenistan!  Who knew?  As I was standing in the kitchen watching her make them, I couldn't for the life of me think of what we call them.  It was frustrating; I'm too young for these senior moments.  But, at last, it "crepe't" up on me.  Haha, I had to tell that story just because of the pun J I thought of that myself, thanks.January 15, 2009.I learned how to make carpets!  I was invited to a carpet making studio where four teenaged girls were squatting on pillows making a carpet.  It's tedious work; they showed me how and let me weave a few strands.  Let me tell you, those people do not sell those carpets for near enough money for the amount of work that goes into making just one carpet.  It takes more than a month!  And you weave each individual strand!  Ay!  A person wanting to set up a carpet export business to the U.S. would make a killing.  The carpets sell in Turkmenistan for the equivalent of a couple hundred dollars but people in the States would pay at least $1,000 if not more, for the same carpet.  I was, of course, appallingly slow but the girls assured me that with more practice, I'd be speedily weaving along, just as they did.  They seemed to be having fun and it'd be a great bonding experience: spending hours in a dark studio, talking and making a carpet.  I spoke to my mom yesterday and she asked me, "Is running water the only modern convenience you don't have?  Do you have electricity?"  Well, I think Mommy KNEW that I have electricity, but she was just double checking.  Her question was a wake-up call for me:  as tough as I think I am living here without my favorite foods, hot showers every other day, and flush toilets, I realized that I'm not really roughing it as much as I imagined.  I was taking my electricity for granted!  In Turkmenistan!  How dare I? Now, according to other volunteers, the electricity can be unreliable and randomly go out for hours at a time.  When I first visited Lebap, Elliott gave me a candle for these very situations (and for its good smell, too).  But since I've been here I've only experienced outages a handful of times.  And if it's dark, well, sleep is always a good past time.  If the laptop is charged, watch a movie!  Daytime – read!  Play outside!  It would be much more difficult living without electricity.  I'd have to learn how to make solar cookers and rig a way to charge my laptop battery by bicycling or something. And though that could be pretty fun, I'm quite pleased with and thankful for my electricity.  My clubs started this week!  This morning, 50 students showed up for the 6-10 grade club and another 50 came for the 4 and 5 grade club (some second and third graders snuck in).  Now, 50 kids were manageable in the 12-16 age group, but 50 fourth and fifth graders was rather tiring.  Not sure yet how I'm going to proceed with this "dilemma." And finally, I absolutely adore my neighbor, Gözel.  She's the school librarian; her husband is a Russian teacher.  He speaks to me in a mix of Turkmen and Russian and then throws his hands up when I don't understand and admonishes me to learn RussianJ  Anyway, whenever Gözel sees me, she gives me a great big hug.  It's amazing. Being a person who enjoys frequent hugs, it's a relief from my otherwise hugless life. No other Turkmen hug me, except PC staff and my LCF Maisa (well, and Gözel's daughter in law).  I bet the English teachers would if I initiated it, but the great thing about Gözel is that she hugs me first and she means it.  She likes me a lot.  I had dinner with her and her daughter-in-law last night (like I said, the daughter in law always hugs me and she gives me a kiss on the cheek, too!)  Gözel told me to come to their house everyday – I don't know if she meant it or was just being nice.  But, if she's sincere, I think dinner once a week would be lovely.  I told her I liked her because she hugs me, and she told me she'd be my mother.  Now, of course, no one, no matter how they endeavored, could ever replace my own mother to me, but it was sweet and I'll admit, it's nice to have a doting mother figure around. I apologize for the length of this email; brevity is clearly not my strong suit.  Writing these rambling entries is relaxing and therapeutic for me, so I thank you very much for reading J I'll be back in Turkmenabat (or Charjew as its more commonly called [it means 4 roads in Farsi!!]) in two weeks (with, most likely, a much shorter email).Hope you're all healthy and happy, Love,Jessica

Hello hello! I posted new pictures today!  Link below!  Hooray!!! Okay, brace yourselves.  This will be my last email for an indefinite period of time.  Please, please, hold back your tears.  I'll be back before you know it.  Here's the deal:  tomorrow at 5:30 am I am getting into a mini-van and 5 of us are heading east to Lebap.  The van will be packed because although we only came with 100 pounds of luggage, the amount of stuff we have has grown exponentially in the two short months we've been here.  Sigh.  Can't get away from stuff.  So we've been in the city since Thursday.  I have been in awe of the fact that in my hotel room, there is a toilet not 15 feet from my bed!  Indoors!  Ah, it's heaven.  Paradise.  Pure happiness.  I will miss that.  And running water.  And hot showers.  But, enough. Small sacrifices.  I get to come home eventuall, after all.  Thursday evening, we went out to dinner at a place called "City Pub."  This restaurant has soccer paraphernalia all over the walls.  They played English language music.  I had pizza -- it was so-so, but it was pizza.  Afterwards, we went to the "Zip bar."  Had a beer and smoked a hookah with several other people.  Then, we decided to go to a disco.  I didn't even know Ashgabat had discos, but it makes sense.  The Russian population here is pretty western and they have just as much desire as anyone to get their grooves on.  It was deserted when we got there around 10:30.  And, the DJ wasn't there so the music wasn't very danceable.  Around 11:00 more people came, the DJ came, and the music got better.  They played Kanye West (for those of you who know who that is) and I jumped onto the dance floor to shake my booty.  It was a lot of fun.  Then the turned on the green strobe light which was fun at first but a bit dizzying after while.  The fun thing about this disco was that, other than the Americans, the other patrons were Turkmen men and prostitutes.  They were scantily clad and danced mostly with themselves or with potential clients.  Prostitution is not uncommon in the city.  And I hear they don't make a lot of money which is unfortunate.  I mean, if you're gonna sell your stuff, at least make some bank.  IMHO.  What was cool about the whole evening was how un-Turkmenistan it was.  We really could have been anywhere -- we could have been home.  It was a very "normal" night out.  It was also a lot of fun :)  Yesterday, we woke up, gussied up, and headed to our swearing in ceremony.  Our host families, counter parts, Turkmen government officials and US Embassy folks were all invited and present.  Our CD spoke, a representative from the Turkmen Edu. Ministry spoke, and the Ambassador spoke.  He administered our oaths to us and presented us with our certificates stating that we are now all official Peace Corps Volunteers.  The oath said that we would do our best to protect the constitution of the US while here and things like that.  Not very Peace Corps if you ask me, but I have a feeling all government employees take this oath (or something similar).  Even though we're not "technically" gov't employees.  After the ceremony we had more information sessions at Peace Corps.  We got our first month's salary and settling in allowance.  I got 4.16 million manat which is about $250 dollars.  Not too shabby.  I've never had a million of anything before, so that's pretty cool.  But it doesn't go very far, unfortunately.  For dinner last night, a HUGE group of us went to a Karaoke bar (again -- Turkmenistan?).  It was a fiasco really  -- too many people for the kitchen to handle and well-intentioned people trying to make life easier by limiting our orders but ultimately being obnoxious by limiting what I could order. Grr.  The evening was saved by singing Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer."  Bon Jovi makes everything better.  Today our CD had us over to his apartment for breakfast.  His apartment building is beautiful inside and out.  It was so crazy to see his house -- it was so American!  A sofa!  Hardwood floors!  A flat screen TV! Oh, and he and his wife have a gorgeous kitchen.  The plumbing is still weak -- can't flush paper-- but still, he has a very comfortable living situation.  And, because we won't be in the city for Christmas, he had a Christmas tree for us.  My training group and I took a picture in front of the tree -- I haven't uploaded them yet but I will as soon as I can.  It's great -- we look like a happy group of siblings :)  But you may not see it until January :) After brunch, I went shopping!  I spent 740,00 manat.  Ugh.  I bought soap, a trash pail, cooking supplies, a bread pan, a water pitcher, a plate (for monitoring how much I eat), a plastic mug, shoe polish, shout for stain removal, fabric softener (this was a mistake: I meant to buy liquid laundry detergent but it was in foreign languages I don't know...), soap, soap dish, a cup, candles, more minutes for my cell phone... It adds up quickly.  I headed back to the office by bus, dropped my stuff off, and went shopping again!  I bought olive oil :)  This makes me very happy. So, it's been a busy day.  A busy few days.  We have a friend who had to go to Thailand for medical reasons -- she got a rectal infection of all things and needed minor surgery.  She's back but still not 100%.  Anyhow, she had a great time in Thailand despite being in pain and in the hospital for a week.  She met PCVs from Thailand and she says that they all have internet and indoor plumbing in their homes.  Ah, well...  Indoor plumbing is for weenies.  Real PCVs squat :) I've posted several more pictures today, so look at those when you get a chance :)  Here's the link again in case you need it: http://www.flickr.com/gp/11696456@N08/8Dt169  Also, I gave you all my address in Lebap.  I've talked to several PCVs there and it sounds like the post office in T-bat is just as reliable as Ashgabat's, so you can send your letters there, too.  Here it is again, just in case: US Peace Corps Turkmenistan                  TürkmenistanP.O. Box 46                                                    Lebap WelayatyCentral Post Office                                      Türkmenabat – 22, 746100Turkmenabat – 22, 746100                         Merkezi poςta, abonent 46Lebap Welayat                                            Korpus MiraTürkmenistan                                               JESSICA HOOVER                            JESSICA HOOVER                                      TÜRKMENISTAN        TURKMENISTAN  This address is slightly different from the one I gave you before.  In Turkmen, write "Korpus Mira" instead of "Parahatcylyk Korpusy."  Korpus Mira is Russian and is the name the postal workers know Peace Corps as.  I'm sure I had more I wanted to tell you -- I know I mentioned a cultural discussion last email, but we'll leave that for another time.  I hope you're all doing well.  Only 19 more days until Christmas!  Happy Holidays!!  Feliz Navidad!!  Love and hugs,Jess P.S. My Country Director reads Junot Diaz.  If you know who that is, you won't be surprised know that I freaked out when I saw the books on the bookshelf and had to tell him that I read Junot, too :) P.P.S.  There is a dusting of snow on the mountain tops now.  It's beautiful :)

Loved ones, These two items are, in fact, unrelated.   I appreciated all the Happy Thanksgiving wishes.  What's Thanksgiving like in T-stan?  Well, kind of a blip, really.  It's not a holiday celebrated here.  Some groups took it upon themselves to cook a "real" Thanksgiving dinner.   We just kind of let it go – there are only 4 of us and one is a vegetarian.  Not thatTurkey is a total necessity but it just seemed like a lot to take on.  We were going to mooch off of some volunteers hosting T-giving dinner for themselves at the office, but most of them are about to leave the country  and we don't know them very well, so we didn't crash their party because of anticipated feelings of awkwardness.  (We did happen to be in the office during their festivities and they brought us a plate of food:  real salad, turkey, stuffing w/gravy, sweet potatoes!  oh, it was heaven!  I ate a ton, my second lunch that day.  Worth every calorie).   On Thursday we each taught in the morning.  Went to lunch where we had our cook's version of pizza.  We'd gotten a can of cranberry sauce from PC the day before so we had that, too.  Only we didn't have a real can opener.  So we got this ghetto one from the cook and she tried to open the can from the wrong end.  In the end, we managed to get a bit pulled back but the thing looked like a case of tetanus waiting to happen.  We also had gummy bears, courtesy of my loving daddy J  And…. yes, I made a pumpkin pie!  It was alright; probably could have cooked the pumpkin a bit more. But even Summer ate some, and she says she never eats pumpkin pie.  I have pictures; I'll try to post them.            On Saturday we took the day off and went to the city.  We went to a shopping center called "Yimpash" (the 'y' is silent) which was incredible.  It was like a department store and a grocery store all in one.  Three floors – food court on the third floor.  We had cheeseburgers and sodas for lunch and then the 5 of us shared a banana split.  Heavenly.  After eating, we shopped and I dropped 111,000 manat on baking supplies: butter, powdered sugar, corn starch, whipped topping mix, baking powder.  It was amazing.  It was a little slice of Western decadence right in Ashgabat and it was as comforting as a mother's love.  I'm sighing a little sigh of happiness now.   Arms laden with cooking supplies, I left Impash with the ladies and we headed to a salon to have our eyebrows done. Rather than wax, threading is the common method of hair removal here.  Basically, the lady twists a piece of thread together, holds on end in her mouth and the other in her hand, and runs the twist along the hair.  Somehow it gets pulled out.  I'm not exactly sure how it works because my eyes were closed and I was trying hard not to flinch the whole time, but she did a good job.  For 30,000 manat ( a little over $2 ) I am a new woman.  Or, at least one with shaped eyebrows. From the salon, it was off to Peace Corps.  Briefly checked mail, ate tons of food as I mentioned, and then with happy hearts we headed home.  On the way back, I stopped at a bazaar to buy 4 kilos of apples for my apple pies.  THE APPLE PIECan't get much more American than that, right?  So, we're discussing pie last week at home and I am telling my host sister about the different pies I can make.  She was particularly intrigued by apple pie so I told her that rather than go to the city, I would stay home on Sunday and teach her how to make it.  I bought all the requisite ingredients.  My friend's were trembling with the thought of eating fresh baked apple pie.  Mmm… I even have cinnamon!  And nutmeg! (also thanks to my dear father)  Amazing! This will awkwardly tie together eventually: Sunday rolls around and I need to do some laundry.  And by some I mean probably a load and a half/two loads worth in a washing machine.  But, I can't get into the banya to do my washing because it's occupied the whole morning.  So, resigned to waiting, I sit and begin to read an American newsweekly.  My host sister comes in and says we're leaving to her aunt's house.  It's nearly 11:00 and I'm moderately upset because I want to do my laundry!  But I trudge along because that's what a good anthropologist would do.  Sit with a bunch of young girls around a plastic table cloth laid on the floor.  Admire the celing – exposed wood beams!  How log cabin quaint!  How familiar! Eat fried bread.  And more fried bread.  And tons of pickled veggies.  Every time I try to stop eating, someone sees and says, "Jess, eat! Eat!"  Damn those Turkmen and their incessant hospitality.  I'm gaining weight here!  Argh!  Anyhow:  then lunch comes out.  Steaming, hot bowls of… goat soup!  My favorite!  Luckily, my host sister explains that I don't eat goat and I'm spared the discomfort of having to sip at the goaty broth.  And really, the "soup" was goat broth and goat.  Not just meat, but tongue, cheek, gross, squishy white chunks of either fat or brain (or both).  So I gorged on pickled veggies and it was good.  Don't get enough veggies anyhow.  And I'm satisfied that this family, with whom I will be living only another 3 days, understands that I do not like goat.  We head home and I do my barge load of laundry.  I can definitely forsee developing carpal tunnel because after 2 hours of washing and wringing, I was in pain.  I need a wrist brace for that kind of manual labor.  Laundry hung, it's time for pie. As a baker, I am very attached to my measuring cups.  Cooking without measuring scares me.  Out of necessity, I cooked for myself all last winter, and I must say, I made great strides in "winging it".  Nonetheless, for this pie I had to measure three cups of flour with a tea cup and it made me slightly anxious.  But then I thought that the home bakers of yesteryear probably did without measuring, so maybe I could to.  My host sister and I each made a pie.  It was hard to describe to her how exactly to make pie crust – she's used to making dough for bread and at one point, started kneading her dough!  Big no-no in pie crust making!  She ended up not using enough liquid but whatever.  It worked. My crust turned out beautifully much to my surpise – no measuring and no food processer.   My dad would be proud: he cuts his butter into the dough with his hands and now I can to.  I'm quite pleased, actually.  Things are going swimmingly.  The random fly is buzzing around, landing on my arm, my face, my head,  as wantonly as though I were a dead puppy [there is, by the by, a dead puppy in the no man's land outside our town, decaying in a trash heap.  Sad.]  Then one landed on the dough and Towus (my host sister) tried to brush it away.  The fly wasn't going for it.  So she PICKED IT UP and tossed it aside.  Seriously.  These flies are freakin' domesticated. Nothing scares them and I so loathe them and their audacity.Next comes peeling and slicing 4 kilos of apples.  No sweat, except my hands turned orange.  But the apples smell and taste so wonderfully delicious that looking like an oopma loompa is totally worth it.  Roll out the dough -- little difficulty with her dough here but no biggie --  and we're in business.  Assembling the pies – rolled the dough too thin and the bottom layer's leaking all the juice and the perfectionist in me is screaming bloody murder – but then I think, "hey, I'm in Turkmenistan, who says I have to make a perfect apple pie every time?  It'll still taste the same."  Feeling good about not being overwhelmed by my temporary baking shortcomings and sit back as Towus puts the pies in their brick oven. Not even 2 minutes later she calls my name and both pies are out of the oven, top crust layers scorched.  Huh. Apparently there were flames.  I didn't think to check the temperature on the brick oven.  Which is total sarcasm because there is no temperature to check!  It must have been mighty hot to burn the crust so quickly.  I entertained thoughts of Hansel and Gretel and Sweeny Todd.  So she turns the gas waaaay down and we put the pies back in.  I try to explain that they need to cook for a long time, but she stood there anyway, waiting for them to cook.  And took them out nearly every 5 minutes for me to check.   I stood with her, enjoying the heat radiating from the bricks, listening to the juice in the pies bubble.  That oven would be an amazing marshmallow roaster.    So, lah-dih-dah the pies are done and I slice one up into 9 pieces for everyone to try.  One plate for me, 8 pieces in the pan for everyone else to eat out of. Now, I could have only made one pie, but silly me assumed that it would be a big hit and two would be best.  Besides, that way Towus would learn by doing!  Alas, as I devour my piece of pie, I am met with sheepish grins and giggles and spoons being lowered to the plastic tablecloth.  They don't like spice it turns out.  The cinnamon was too much. But frankly I bet the results would have been the same sans cinnamon.  My host mother said, "Turkmen don't like spices.  We use salt and pepper and that's all."  Which is true and highly unfortunate for them, IMO.   And rather remarkable, considering the close proximity of such spicy empires as, say, India.  She also said, "We only eat Turkmen food."  My heart breaks for them.  So they don't like my pie which is fine.  My feelings aren't hurt.  It's a damn tasty pie.  My host mother made me eat two pieces (yes, she made me.  You seriously do not understand how important it is for you to have food in your mouth at all times here.  She wanted me to eat three pieces but I put my foot down there. )  But them not liking my pie is good because now they understand me not liking goat (I told you there was a tie-in!)  This makes it easier for me to refuse gross food for the next 3 days.  Then I'll have to make another apple pie for the next family to turn their noses up.  The only problem was that I had a pie and a half left.  My fellow Americans happily ate our homemade slices of America  yesterday and today.  And burnt though it was, my crust was flaky and delicious.  I learned my lesson: when cooking tasty American food for Turkmen, underestimate the amount of food needed.  I wrote a rousing journal entry on (the lack of) diversity in Turkmenistan and its cultural implications but I'll leave that for another time when I'm not waxing poetic about apple pie for 2 pages.  It just occurred to me that very shortly I will be without internet for an indefinite amount of time (as of Dec. 7 – the big move!)  So, keep that in mind. I'll be in Ashgabat until Saturday so I'll try to get in another email before then.  I still fit into my skinny jeans,

Jess 

Hi! Okay, I spent some time and figured Flickr out today.  I'm sorry I sent you all the invite; it turns out I can send guest passes!  So here's the link.  PLEASE let me know if this works!  There are 21 pictures for you to see so far.  Yay photos!Jess http://www.flickr.com/gp/11696456@N08/E38769

Hi guys, So after sending my email yesterday, I started to feel kind of guilty.  Maybe I was a smidge culturally insensitive regarding the whole cleanliness/hand washing issue?  I guess the point that I was trying to make is we (Americans and Turkmen) have different ideas about what constitutes clean.  And that I think it's ironic that my host mother would scold me for being a grubby little girl (my words, not hers :) ) when I come from a culture that considers my current life style somewhat primitive. Undeveloped.  But, I did not intent to imply that the U.S. is better.  Certainly there are sanitation issues in Turkmenistan and for those reasons alone I would venture to say that perhaps our US preoccupation with cleanliness is "better."  In terms of health and hygiene and sanitation, yes.  But does having toilets make us better people?  Not really.  I am most thankful for my outhouse.  It's a place where I can do my business privately. It serves its purpose. So, while I won't be eating any raw ground beef anytime soon (ewwww) and I'll keep trying to wash with soap every time (not always available, however) I would never say that my US culture is better or that we're better people because of our lifestyles.  Just wanted to get that off my chest.   It's a beautiful 73 degrees in Ashgabat today.  I went to a "Mashine Toy" this morning -- a party celebrating the purchase of a new car!  There were lots of people and lots of food.  Including Dograma.  It was the first (and last) time I had Dograma.  After one bite I decided it was not for me.  It's crumbled bread, onion and... goat meat.  Yep.  Not my fav. Photo update:  Sorry I invited you all to Flikr.  I didn't want to make my photos public but upon further thinking, I guess I will because it'll be a pain in the butt for you to all sign up for some  photo service you won't use just to see my pictures.  I'm working on it.  Happy Sunday!Jess

Dear friends,

 Greetings from sweaty Turkmenistan.  Seriously.  Last week I could see my breath each morning as I made my way out back to the outhouse.  Now, I'm sweating in my koynek (dress).  It's been quite mild the past few days.  Today had to be in the 50s at least.  Maybe 60s?  Warm enough for a light dress and a sweater.  Unfortunately, the heat is still on in our house.  And I get the feeling that it's either on or off, no happy medium.   As such, it's really, really hot in here.  I was talking to my mom today (oh the wonders of skype! ) and it came to my attention that she was a little confused re: my current living situation.  Perhaps you are, too.  Let me clarify:  Yes, my new house is nicer.  There are more rooms, it's better decorated, there's a TV antenna, a phone, a car, and I have a sofa to sleep on.  The walls in the house are painted.  [Turkmen house painting is well, different.  Maybe something that only pictures would do justice to, but I'll try to explain anyway.  There's a base color, usually light blue, and then beginning a third of the way up the wall, there are fake painted pillars (or, pillar-esque things).  The bottom half is painted to look like crown molding.  In our house, there's also a floral motif on the ceiling surrounding the "chandelier."  Quite decorative.  In my room, there's a mural.  It's a forest scene with two deer, what look like aspen trees, a creek, and mountains in the distance.] Each room in the house is connected to another room – my room has two doors, one into each adjoining room.  The kitchen is in a separate building.  It's also nicer than the previous kitchen.  There's a stove and a small food prep area.  There's also a gas heater (very hot – we use to heat the water for bathing) small cabinet and refrigerator.  Bathtub and sink in the bathroom, but still no running water. And yes, still an outhouse.  Although this one has a light, which is a definite plus when one wakes up at 6:00 in the morning to use the facilities.  Which I've been doing on a nightly basis since I've moved.   Which basically means I've been eating way too much watermelon. Why do I eat so much melon?  Well, not only is it tasty, but this family has a thing for carbs.  For dinner the past three nights in row, I've eaten one main dish that was purely carbohydrate.  For example, tonight was potatoes and bread.  Yummy potatoes, but just potatoes nonetheless.  And yes, I know watermelon isn't the most nutritious of all the fruits, but it's not brown and so it makes a difference.  I eat quite a bit.   I would like to call to your attention the fact that in Turkmen, there is no word for "weekend."  That's because in Turkmenistan, there is no weekend.  There is only Sunday, "Dynch Gun," (not prounounced "gun," but "goon") or "Rest Day."  The work/school week in Turkmenistan is Monday – Saturday.  TGIF doesn't hold quite the same meaning here, I'm afraid.  Unless you're a Peace Corps Volunteer – we go fun places on Saturdays but we're special. You might think, then, that Sundays must be the time for kicking back and relaxing.  Nope.  On Sunday, we wash all the dirty laundry by hand and clean the house.  Washing machines? For sissies with running water who don't wish to spend all day scrubbing and squatting!!  All the carpets are swept and the molding wiped down with a damp cloth.  Sunday is the day you have time to do all the work you didn't get to during the week.  So friends, be glad for Saturday.  Take heart in Friday evening.   This makes me chuckle:  My new host mother – whom I like more this week than last – seems to think I don't wash my hands.  I think she was spying on me the other day when, at 6:30 as I was coming back to the house from the toilet, I bypassed our small carafe of hand washing water.  Then, as I was again going to the toilet before breakfast, she asked me if I wash my hands admonished me to do so once I'd finished in the toilet.  She demonstrated with her hands how I should do it.  I agreed and gladly washed so she could see.  Now, what she doesn't know is that after my early morning bathroom visit, I used hand sanitizer in my room.  And that before breakfast, I had also doused some sanitizer on my hands.  I didn't feel like making an issue of it, so I didn't say, "But I did wash my hands!" Rest assured, I do always wash my hands.  Especially here.   So, why does this make me chuckle?  Well, because she thinks I'M dirty, even though: a)     I wash my hands with soap, which is more than I can say about some people… (*cough, most Turkmen)b)     We don't have flies all over our kitchen at home.  Furthermore, we don't have flies waltzing all over our dinner at home.c)     We cover our mouths when we hack up mucous at home.  Or, at least I do.d)     We flush at home.e)     We don't lick raw ground meat off our fingers at home.  (Again, I don't.  You might.)f)       And lastly, but probably most importantly, I've never gotten giardia at home.  So there! It's not upsetting or frustrating.  I just think it's funny – clearly our concepts of personal cleanliness are not the same.   That's all I have for now – healthy and happy for the time being,  albeit a little sweaty J  Happy Thanksgiving!  Eat some extra pumpkin pie in my honor!  (I want desperately to make a pumpkin pie but while we have an endless supply of pumpkins, I'm having a hard time finding heavy whipping cream, let alone a functioning oven...)  Thankful for the magic of Friday evenings, Jessica P.S. Here's my new address as of December 7 – remember that it's best to always use both the English and Turkmen versions, but if you only write the English, your letter/package WILL arrive (just maybe not as quickly).  Also, Summer had a pair of gloves stolen out of a small padded envelope, so if you send anything bigger than a letter, make sure it's got a lot of tape on it (the Thieving Post People are less likely to mess with stuff that's taped really well esp. if it's red, white, and blue USPS tape).  Happily, I have not had anything stolen out of my packages thus far.  If you're nervous, you can always use the Ashgabat address.  I'll get whatever you send, but just not right away because I'll have to go to A-bat to get it (or ask someone else to). US Peace Corps Turkmenistan                  TürkmenistanP.O. Box 46                                                    Lebap WelayatyCentral Post Office                                      Türkmenabat – 22, 746100Turkmenabat – 22, 746100                          Merkezi poςta, abonent 46Lebap Welayat                                             Parahatςylyk KorpusyTürkmenistan                                               JESSICA HOOVER                            JESSICA HOOVER                                     TÜRKMENISTAN        TURKMENISTAN  P.P.S.  I'm working on uploading a few of my photos to my old Flikr account but it's taking ages.  I'll send out a link when I've finished.  There may only be a handful because it really is taking decades to upload a few pictures at a time. 

Hello faithful readers! Just another friendly update coming straight from the heart of Turkmenistan.  Last week I visited my permanent site in Mashpaya village (formerly Stalin) in the Halach etrap, Lebap welayat.  It's a very lovely area.  The Amu Darya River is close by and so there's a lot of vegetation.  They've diverted the river into several canals which help with growing.  Lebap is supposed to be one of the few areas of T-stan where there are fresh veggies year round (or at least for most of the year).  Arriving in Halach, I almost felt that I was at home; there were actually trees with fall colors and plenty of farm land.  Very green.  Also, extremely muddy.  Stalin/Mashpaya is part of a daihan birleshigi – collective farm.  This is a remnant of the Soviet days.  It means that people own land to farm on but they must give a certain percentage of their harvest to the government.     The new host family is nice enough although I can't foresee really bonding with the host parents.  They're not mean or anything, just not my type.   I'll start shopping for a new family once I get back.   Sounds kind of awful, huh?  But most volunteers do not live with their originally assigned HF for the whole two years.  And besides, I figure I'd rather be with a really great family since it is two years, than be with a mediocre family just because I'll feel guilty moving out.    Both the host parents work at the school doing janitorial work.  There are two host sisters.  One is a student and the other works at home doing embroidery.  She spent two years in an institute studying accounting but there's no work for her.  There are two sons as well.  One works in Ashgabat, the other in Turkey. I visited my school – it's bigger than our school in Magtymguly.  There are two floors, no heat.  A few "real" black boards but the majority are just painted blocks of wood.  The floors used to be tiled but now the tiles are broken and/or missing and much of the cement base layer is showing through.  No computers.  No phone.  Nice courtyard though, and they actually have gym and drawing classes which is new for me.  Magtymguly does not offer these courses.  I took a train to and from Halach.  From Ashgabat, it's 800 kilometers but the trip took 18 hours.  (I'm not sure if it's 800 km as the crow flies or from A-bat to T-bat and then down to Halach, which is the route the train went.)  That's right; you could fly from JFK to Istanbul faster than that.  But, I guess it was a fun experience.  Sleeping on the train, bonding with the other Lebap trainees, chatting with the random old Russian men who shared our compartment.  We can't figure out why PC didn't fly us – other trainees who will be closer to Ashgabat than we flew.  Maybe there weren't enough tickets – who knows?  There is an airport in Turkmenabat so it's possible to fly there and then take a taxi to Halach.  Halach is 180 km from T-bat.  Our train tickets cost 73,000 manat.  About 5 dollars.  A plane ticket is 250,000 manat, or a little less than $20.  Peace Corps does not have an office in Turkmenabat, but we do have a P.O. Box.  My address will be changing once I move and I'll give you an update ASAP.  I want to verify that what I have written is correct before I give it out.  The current PCVs in my area gave me a site description that I'll attach – the girl who wrote it is just about to complete her two year service so she should know more than I do J  I am concerned about what she wrote concerning the T-bat post office, so again, I'll ask PC staff and keep you posted. My mom sent an email asking several questions which I'll answer now… 1.       Will I live in my own apartment? Like I said, I have a HF.  It is possible for some volunteers to live alone in apartments, but it's more frequent in the city.  In the village, it's cheaper and safer to live with a HF.  Volunteers, unless they are married, are not allowed to live together because PC thinks it will prevent them from fully integrating into their communities.  2.      Besides camel head, grease soup, fake cake, gristle and fat what do I eat?Breakfast is most often bread with butter and/or homemade jelly.  Sometimes milk.  Always tea.  Lunch we eat at Collin's.  His host mom usually serves: tea, bread, carrot salad, sliced tomatoes served (sometimes) with onions, apples, bananas and mandarins if we're lucky along with any of the following common Turkmen meals:Gutap – "pie," dough filled with spinach, mushrooms, or meat, shaped like a half moon and friedChorba – soup.  Anything goes really, usually with carrots, potatoes, and meatUn ash – one of our favorites.  Basically like homemade chicken noodle soup Today at lunch we had soup with cabbage dumplings.  Another popular dish is quite similar to ravioli: small dough hexagons filled with spinach and boiled.  Served with yogurt.  Collin's host mom also makes a "turkmen pizza:"  like a pizza only there is dough on top and bottom and it's filled with meat, pumpkin, and onions. Dinner is bread, tea, and a Turkmen dish or two.  We've been eating a lot of watermelon recently.  There's also a lot of dill, parsley and basil here, which they consider vegetables and eat straight up. Familiar veggies: tomatoes, cucumber, pumpkin, onion, eggplant, carrots.  They do a lot of canning and pickling for the winter. Fruits: watermelon, a melon similar to honeydew, grapes, bananas (imported), pomegranate, mandarin oranges (also imported), apricots, apples, peaches, persimmons (I think) 3.      Common "farm" animals?These live in our back yards: camels, cows, chickens, sheep, goats, ducks.  Because many families have cows, there's often fresh dairy of varying degrees of tastiness. 4.      Gardens?Yes, nearly every family has veggies and some fruit trees/bushes.  In Halach, it's safe to say that EVERYONE has a garden. 5.      Common means of transportation?Bus (near Ashgabat or other cities) or marshurtka (public mini-van), train (not local), taxi.  In T-stan, any car is a taxi.  You flag someone down and ask if they'll take you where you need to go, negotiating the price before getting in the car.  And women do not sit in the front seat unless they're offering a little somethin' somethin'.  One of the Turkmen PC staff visited the US and tried to ask random people to take her places.  Didn't work quite the way it does here and she was most offended. 6.      What do people wear?Depends.  Ethnic Russians and other Third Country Nationals tend to be more modern in their dress.  In cities you'll see jeans and miniskirts.  Traditional Turkmen women wear dresses to their ankles with embroidery around the neckline and usually going down the middle of their chests and ending near the belly button, kind of horseshoe shaped.  Modern Turkmen women will dress as the Russians do.  I don't know if Russian women wear shorts in the summer.  There's a lot of Russian TV here and therefore heavy cultural influence.  In more liberal places, the dresses don't have to be ankle length. 7.      What's your HF like?Funny you should ask.  Upon arriving back in Ashgabat, I was informed that I would immediately be moving out of my HF.  There is a 2 year placement in Magtymguly and my family was chosen to host the volunteer for her time of service.  Apparently during her visit, my host father kissed her hand, told her she was very beautiful, and tried to kiss her face.  PC decided I had to move ASAP.  FYI, he never did any of that to me.  This was rather disappointing, because I really liked them.  My mother was warm and open, the sisters all friendly.  We got along swimmingly.  They gave me space but we still spent a lot of time together.  My former host father is a lab assistant at the water treatment plant in A-bat.  My host mom stayed at home to cook and watch after the animals.  The 4 sisters and 1 brother were all students.  We lived in a compound so I had my own door to the outside which was awesome.  Alas… My new HF (for the next 2 weeks):  The house is nicer.  My room is large and I have a sofa to sleep on.  There's also heat, which is nice (last house = no heat in room).  It's a lot brighter, too.  Nicer kitchen, bathroom, toilet.  But…the host mom is tough to deal with.  She's pretty rude, in fact.  I showed them photos on my laptop today and she said, "oh you must be rich.  Buy us a computer.  Tell your mom to buy us a computer as a present"  I flat out told her "no"…not sure if that was appropriate or not, but whatever.  She talks about me to her children right in front of me, too.  And it's not all glowing either.  But they can get away with it because I don't understand a lot.  My other family had a lot more respect for me and never would have done that. So now, it's awkward because I have to start all over acclimating this family to what it's like to live with an American – for instance, my independence is strange to them.  I want to go to a friend's house or to the city rather than spend time getting to know them.   Not that I don't want to know them, but having been here a month, I've earned certain freedoms that it doesn't seem fair to have to give up because a new family might not understand.  Oh well.  It's only two weeks. This family has 5 children: 3 older sons and 2 daughters.  2 sons are married.  The unmarried son was pushed on to me the first night I was here (I got winked at by the host mom).  The daughters are nice, one is my age.  The dad's an engineer, the mom stays home.  One of the married sons lives here with his wife.  Every room in the house is a bedroom, including the foyer.  Two weeks.  Two weeks.   A few brief tidbits:There's a dearth of hugging here.  Of course, it's culturally inappropriate to hug a man in public if you are an unmarried girl but I haven't even seen displays of affection between parents and their children.  It makes me sad because I can't imagine my parents not hugging me and telling me they love me.  And that's another one:  I haven't heard parents tell their children that they love them, either.  There was no gas the other evening.  We had to cook our dinner over a fire outside – no biggie but it did get pretty chilly in the house.  This is only interesting because Turkmenistan exports something like 90,000,000 (there may be an extra zero needed there; I forget the exact figure) cubic meters of gas/year.   Well, that's it for now.  We're going to Ashgabat today to drink beer and have bad (but good enough) pizza J  Hope you're all doing well; I'll send my new address out ASAP but until then (and after, too) the Ashgabat address will always work.  Happy Sunday!Jess