Sunday, May 6, 2012
My Swing Perch
My Spring Perch
My swing sits in the northwest corner of my house’s extended concrete foundation, perhaps a yard away from the little trench canal that separates our property from our neighbor’s. The canal runs between the two houses and is lined with diminutive but well-yielding pomegranate trees. A small white plank, more piece of wood than board, connects the two properties, as it probably has for many years.
The swing itself consists of a painted white iron frame supporting nine pieces of tired and flaking wood that make up a seat and seat back. Its size corresponds to that of a true love seat: too big for one person but too cramped for all but the most intimate pair. Lacking a partner myself, I usually spread out facing the southward sun.
Frankly it’s a rather uncomfortable seat, with a metal ridge that juts out into your back and iron side poles that leave no position unpunished.
Still it’s my favorite spot in my little village world. Since early February I’ve hoped for the right amount of heat, sun, and wind to make the spot a viable option for my morning breaks. That way I can get out of my dark room and into the sunlight.
The swing also allows for a strange sort of privacy. Strange and surprising, because the swing itself is perched between two properties, and I usually receive quite a bit of attention whenever people catch sight of me in the village. From my swing, though, despite the fact that I can observe all the comings and goings of two households, and even though I can be observed by any of the house members, people mostly leave me alone. They probably leave me alone for many reasons, but I think they leave me alone for one reason in particular: I read on the swing, and someone reading in public is a unique sight in my village. Even though few people spend much time reading in the village, everyone seems to have the highest respect for the practice. So, as my thinking goes, when they see me perched on the swing reading, almost everyone simply nods and moves on with their business.
There is, however, one exception: the elder son of my next-door neighbors. Probably about six, the kid loves talking to me, even if our conversations regularly produce more confusion than understanding. When he notices me he always creeps on over to the edge of his property between the house and the raised platform that covers their well and begins questioning me.
There is a definite pattern to our conversations. First, he tries to comprehend why I don’t speak Russian even though I appear, for all intents and purposes, to be Russian. After I try and fail to convince him of my American-ness, he curtly moves the conversation on to describe the exploits of his friends. After a few minutes caught up in his own story and just as I’m beginning to get the hang of the story, he will again switch the topic back to me and my strange desire to read. And no matter how I try to convince him, he remains suspicious of this reading activity. I just can’t seem to convince him that staring at a book for a while is pleasant. Usually at this point his little silent brother wanders up or his mother begins to call him away. At first he resists these pressures from the outside world to end his spirited, rather one-sided discussion with me. Eventually he relents, though, and leave me in peace, amused and exhausted by the weight and surreality of our worlds’ meeting, but, more importantly, content because, for a few moments, I’ve met a fellow traveler in this perch between two worlds.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Ringing In The New Year!
Catching Up
Happy belated holidays to all. It’s safe to say that quite a bit has happened since new words last graced this page. Half a year has passed, and with it a good chunk of my service:
- In August I vacationed with my family in Germany and France. I estimate that we spent about 60% of our time in local cafes or restaurants sampling the local delicacies and enjoying each other’s company for the first time in ten months. The rest of the time we spent wandering ancient castles or looking for said restaurants and cafes.
- In September I began teaching my second full semester at School #16 in Sakarchage. My semester schedule has included co-teaching four regular English classes and teaching five English club groups. Also, in September Peace Corps celebrated its 50th anniversary with a big shindig in Ashgabat that was well attended by the international community.
- In October I traveled to Balkan weleyat (think “province”) to visit my friends in the western part of T-stan and then (kind of) witnessed T-stan’s 20th anniversary of independence.
- In November everyone threw their coats on and prepared for an extraordinarily cold winter as it began snowing at the beginning of the month. I celebrated the Muslim holiday of Gurban Byram (“Eid-al-Adha” for Arabic speakers) with my family in the village and Thanksgiving with the American community in Ashgabat.
- In December I celebrated getting yet another year older with my students, friends, and family in Mary. The last week of my semester culminated in yet another “English Week”, this year’s aptly themed “Christmas and New Year’s Celebration”. And, of course, it has come with another story to tell.
“Kevin!” and Other Selections
In America the Holiday season opened with a two-way glut of Thanksgiving eating and Black Friday shopping. In my little village in T-stan, the holiday season opened with a dearth of Holiday-themed materials and ideas. As a post-Soviet Muslim-majority country the people of Turkmenistan don’t celebrate Christmas. Instead, interestingly, the people of Turkmenistan enthusiastically celebrate New Years’ with many of the same symbols and traditions that Americans associate with Christmas. For example, last year’s New Year’s celebration concluded with what appeared to me as Santa Claus and his granddaughter dancing around a Christmas tree. In fact, the scene would directly translate into English as Grandfather Frost and the Ice Princess dancing around a New Year’s tree. This unique mixture of holiday traditions likely first arose when the Soviets decided to continue celebrating a winter holiday without its previously religious connotations, thus reversing the ancient Roman’s incorporation of the then-new Christian religion into the pagan winter solstice celebrations. All of this combining and separating has resulted in a wonderfully post-modern winter celebration in Turkmenistan: a majority-Muslim country celebrates a secular holiday, New Year’s, with an avowedly Christian main character, Santa Claus. So while the students of my village do not know much about the Christian history of the holiday, they do recognize many of the same symbols, songs, and traditions as their own.
As a result, though my school community was enthusiastic about celebrating the holidays, we had few Christmas-themed materials to work with at first. Luckily, the unlikely combination of the internet, my mother, and Macaulay Culkin came to the rescue. In early December I copied dozens of Christmas songs from my friends and then scoured the internet for their lyrics. In the end, students performed hits ranging from the Chipmunks’ “Christmas Don’t Be Late” (with yours truly as Dave) to Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “Jingle Bells”. In yet another lifesaving package my mother sent me gads of decorations to hang all around my school. My own students added to the atmosphere with dozens of their own drawings and decorations.
With songs and decorations under control, my advanced club needed a play worthy of ending the “big show”. We found the answer in the holiday movie that crosses all cultures, Home Alone. Whereas my students knew very little about Christmas, they all immediately recognized Home Alone, or “Kevin!” as they call it. It turns out that one of the national Turkmen channels plays Kevin! every holiday season, and all of the kids love it. So we went about casting and rewriting the classic for a small stage and intermediate English speakers. What we ended up with was a stark reproduction that left a lot (including the fire) up to the imagination. Hoping that hundred rowdy students in attendance would recognize our efforts we began in haste. Kevin’s loneliness proved difficult to reproduce with no house or even curtains to hide the backstage actors. However, the audience really enjoyed the final battle sequence, with Marve (played by Lukman) and Harry (played by Sherip) hamming it up with fake ice and nails. When Kevin’s family finally returned home (from across the stage) we all let out a sigh of relief as we led the crowd in a final rendition of “Jingle Bells”. My school had withstood yet another riotous English Week, and I escaped to Ashgabat with my dignity and nerves intact.
My Swollen Holiday Hand, or The Gift That Kept on Giving
My holiday in Ashgabat started out auspiciously with good Chinese food and another American football victory against the marine/embassy team. However, as the weekend progressed, my right hand began swelling quicker than the Secret Santa bag. Earlier in the week I had noticed a small bite on my right middle finger, but it had escaped my attention until it began to noticeably swell on Christmas Eve. By Monday, my whole hand looked as though it might float away. Instead of going back to my village I went to the Peace Corps doctor. She opened up the wound, and found a huge infection. I’ll spare you the details, except to say that there was not a nest of baby spiders in there as some people had suspected.
All told I spent the next week and a half in Ashgabat nursing my hand back to health and its original size. Unfortunately I missed the last school week of the year with all of its parties and good cheer. Still, I lived pretty well in Ashgabat alongside my friend Tim who was hobbled with a sprained ankle. We played host to several other friends and had a memorable New Year’s. It was an unexpected but much appreciated break from village life. I was also able to get to know Ashgabat much better. I ate at some of the best restaurants in the country and soaked in the incredibly over-the-top holiday decorations across the city. There really is no city like Ashgabat anywhere else in the world.
The Beginning of the End
The time away from my village has also allowed me to begin thinking about the future. I will finish my service in about ten months. Time moves in two very different registers here. In many ways life in my village is timeless. Everything has a rhythm and that rhythm rarely changes. Class schedules never change, and every Turkmen toy (“party”) begins to look the same. Sometimes days just never end. Every time I leave the village, however, another week has slipped into the past, and the world has changed in some fundamental way. The clock of my service does not tick and slide, it readies itself and leaps forward. Before I know it this clock will leap with me around the world again, and my life here will be like a dream.
Happy belated holidays to all. It’s safe to say that quite a bit has happened since new words last graced this page. Half a year has passed, and with it a good chunk of my service:
- In August I vacationed with my family in Germany and France. I estimate that we spent about 60% of our time in local cafes or restaurants sampling the local delicacies and enjoying each other’s company for the first time in ten months. The rest of the time we spent wandering ancient castles or looking for said restaurants and cafes.
- In September I began teaching my second full semester at School #16 in Sakarchage. My semester schedule has included co-teaching four regular English classes and teaching five English club groups. Also, in September Peace Corps celebrated its 50th anniversary with a big shindig in Ashgabat that was well attended by the international community.
- In October I traveled to Balkan weleyat (think “province”) to visit my friends in the western part of T-stan and then (kind of) witnessed T-stan’s 20th anniversary of independence.
- In November everyone threw their coats on and prepared for an extraordinarily cold winter as it began snowing at the beginning of the month. I celebrated the Muslim holiday of Gurban Byram (“Eid-al-Adha” for Arabic speakers) with my family in the village and Thanksgiving with the American community in Ashgabat.
- In December I celebrated getting yet another year older with my students, friends, and family in Mary. The last week of my semester culminated in yet another “English Week”, this year’s aptly themed “Christmas and New Year’s Celebration”. And, of course, it has come with another story to tell.
“Kevin!” and Other Selections
In America the Holiday season opened with a two-way glut of Thanksgiving eating and Black Friday shopping. In my little village in T-stan, the holiday season opened with a dearth of Holiday-themed materials and ideas. As a post-Soviet Muslim-majority country the people of Turkmenistan don’t celebrate Christmas. Instead, interestingly, the people of Turkmenistan enthusiastically celebrate New Years’ with many of the same symbols and traditions that Americans associate with Christmas. For example, last year’s New Year’s celebration concluded with what appeared to me as Santa Claus and his granddaughter dancing around a Christmas tree. In fact, the scene would directly translate into English as Grandfather Frost and the Ice Princess dancing around a New Year’s tree. This unique mixture of holiday traditions likely first arose when the Soviets decided to continue celebrating a winter holiday without its previously religious connotations, thus reversing the ancient Roman’s incorporation of the then-new Christian religion into the pagan winter solstice celebrations. All of this combining and separating has resulted in a wonderfully post-modern winter celebration in Turkmenistan: a majority-Muslim country celebrates a secular holiday, New Year’s, with an avowedly Christian main character, Santa Claus. So while the students of my village do not know much about the Christian history of the holiday, they do recognize many of the same symbols, songs, and traditions as their own.
As a result, though my school community was enthusiastic about celebrating the holidays, we had few Christmas-themed materials to work with at first. Luckily, the unlikely combination of the internet, my mother, and Macaulay Culkin came to the rescue. In early December I copied dozens of Christmas songs from my friends and then scoured the internet for their lyrics. In the end, students performed hits ranging from the Chipmunks’ “Christmas Don’t Be Late” (with yours truly as Dave) to Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “Jingle Bells”. In yet another lifesaving package my mother sent me gads of decorations to hang all around my school. My own students added to the atmosphere with dozens of their own drawings and decorations.
With songs and decorations under control, my advanced club needed a play worthy of ending the “big show”. We found the answer in the holiday movie that crosses all cultures, Home Alone. Whereas my students knew very little about Christmas, they all immediately recognized Home Alone, or “Kevin!” as they call it. It turns out that one of the national Turkmen channels plays Kevin! every holiday season, and all of the kids love it. So we went about casting and rewriting the classic for a small stage and intermediate English speakers. What we ended up with was a stark reproduction that left a lot (including the fire) up to the imagination. Hoping that hundred rowdy students in attendance would recognize our efforts we began in haste. Kevin’s loneliness proved difficult to reproduce with no house or even curtains to hide the backstage actors. However, the audience really enjoyed the final battle sequence, with Marve (played by Lukman) and Harry (played by Sherip) hamming it up with fake ice and nails. When Kevin’s family finally returned home (from across the stage) we all let out a sigh of relief as we led the crowd in a final rendition of “Jingle Bells”. My school had withstood yet another riotous English Week, and I escaped to Ashgabat with my dignity and nerves intact.
My Swollen Holiday Hand, or The Gift That Kept on Giving
My holiday in Ashgabat started out auspiciously with good Chinese food and another American football victory against the marine/embassy team. However, as the weekend progressed, my right hand began swelling quicker than the Secret Santa bag. Earlier in the week I had noticed a small bite on my right middle finger, but it had escaped my attention until it began to noticeably swell on Christmas Eve. By Monday, my whole hand looked as though it might float away. Instead of going back to my village I went to the Peace Corps doctor. She opened up the wound, and found a huge infection. I’ll spare you the details, except to say that there was not a nest of baby spiders in there as some people had suspected.
All told I spent the next week and a half in Ashgabat nursing my hand back to health and its original size. Unfortunately I missed the last school week of the year with all of its parties and good cheer. Still, I lived pretty well in Ashgabat alongside my friend Tim who was hobbled with a sprained ankle. We played host to several other friends and had a memorable New Year’s. It was an unexpected but much appreciated break from village life. I was also able to get to know Ashgabat much better. I ate at some of the best restaurants in the country and soaked in the incredibly over-the-top holiday decorations across the city. There really is no city like Ashgabat anywhere else in the world.
The Beginning of the End
The time away from my village has also allowed me to begin thinking about the future. I will finish my service in about ten months. Time moves in two very different registers here. In many ways life in my village is timeless. Everything has a rhythm and that rhythm rarely changes. Class schedules never change, and every Turkmen toy (“party”) begins to look the same. Sometimes days just never end. Every time I leave the village, however, another week has slipped into the past, and the world has changed in some fundamental way. The clock of my service does not tick and slide, it readies itself and leaps forward. Before I know it this clock will leap with me around the world again, and my life here will be like a dream.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
The Last Bell, Structure of a Turkmen Dance Party, & Summer Fruits
An Explanation, Not an Excuse
OK I admit it: I'm not very good at this whole blogging thing. Blogging just doesn't fit neatly into the guiding forces of my life. Three forces guide me through life (aside from love and all that mushy stuff): guilt, deadlines, and laziness. (A few people may want to add or subtract from this list, but it will do for my present purposes.) Freud may have had his eros and thanatos forever battling within us, but I have my guilt and laziness. My laziness arises in large part from an essential contentedness with life and its wonders: I have lived a charmed existence (knock on wood) and the people I know continue to astonish me with their creative thoughts and passionate deeds. As a result, I often want to simply lull about in the better parts of life. However, the other part of me realizes that I have done little to earn the contentment that I feel with life. (In fact, I often find myself doing my best to sabotage what I have.) From this part arises the guilt, the duty to do right so as to feel that I can earn my keep on this planet. Deadlines then exist on the axis between the settled resistance of laziness on one hand and the unsettling duty of guilt on the other. If I have a deadline I know what I need to get done and when it needs to be finished so as not to disappoint anyone. Deadlines produce a harmony between my spheres, and a purpose in me.
This blog doesn't have any fast-and-hard deadlines. There are no professors to enforce the deadlines, no referees to blow the whistle. It's just me, this old laptop, and a world of ideas floating around in my head. I know: an explanation, not an excuse.
The Last Bell and the Structure of a Turkmen Dance Party
Spring has turned to summer here in Mary, and school is out til September. Classes finished a couple weeks ago with a "Last Bell" ceremony and an afternoon dance party in the school courtyard. The Last Bell ceremony was an all-school assembly that primarily celebrated the graduation of the tenth form (think 'grade)' students. After the teachers asked, prodded, and forcibly moved the rest of the school into place, each of the three tenth form classes paraded in with their teachers in tow and made a circle surrounded by the rest of the school. A village elder and local police commissioner as well as many retired teachers attended and presented awards to different students and teachers. First form pupils (i.e. students but smaller) then presented flowers to the tenth formers, and the tenth form students gave a ceremonial big key to the first form pupils. Then a couple of first formers grabbed bells, the biggest tenth formers lifted the kids with bells onto their shoulders and the whole form ceremonially exited the school grounds. Once outside the school gate each class released a dove and the assembly broke into chaos/celebration.
In the heat of the afternoon most of the kids returned for a school-sponsored dance party. In the six months that I have lived in the village I have attended quite a few of these dance parties, and there are a couple of constants involved. First and foremost, there is always monotonous Turkmen dance music interlaced with impromptu speeches about favorite educators. Turkmen dance music usually involves a tacky techno beat overlaid with repetitive love lyrics. The song may change, but the beat doesn't. Although all of the music is recorded, there will always be a young man lip-syncing the performance, more interested in dancing than in accurately reenacting the lyrics. I can't be sure when or where this ubiquitous lip-syncing tradition arose, but I suspect that it may have arisen during the years that recorded music performances were outlawed by the Turkmen government. Whatever its genesis, the lip-syncing can be quite entertaining, especially when the music switches from Turkmen to Russian or some other sampled language.
The second constant: there is always a surplus of bulky 90s-era video cameras hovering about the crowds capturing every last moment from multiple flattering angles. Four such cameras hovered around and dove through the Last Bell party, one rented by each tenth form class and a fourth of unknown origin or purpose. The raw footage of this three hour dance party will not be so much edited, but more spliced, repeated, and montaged so that every brilliant dance move may be analyzed, every shining smile framed, and every poignant moment captured for years to come. This "editing" process will result in VHS tapes with three hours' worth of footage sold to the students and watched marathon-style by family and friends (and poor English teachers) alike. On a personal note, this lack of editing configures the cameras as my enemies or, more specifically, as opposing spies: entities to be avoided at all cost, except when directly confronted. If confronted, one must put on a show of confidence and coolness to surpass all shows of confidence and coolness. Thus, I tend to hide in the shadows during these parties only to emerge momentarily to throw down some underappreciated dance moves and retreat to the shadows before the cameras can get a second shot. Still, the cameras almost always find me in some cringeworthy pose with eyes half shut or sweating like a pig. Maybe I need to become better friends with the cameramen.
The third constant: there are always girls dressed to the hilt in shiny koyneks (full length dresses) and big hairdos. Traditionally, long hair is synonymous with beauty in Turkmen society, so Turkmen girls receive one very short hair cut when they are young, and then they let their hair grow for the rest of their youth. So there's a lot of hair to work with. Many of the girls spend the entire preceding night waiting for one of the few village hairdressers to do their thing. The result is something akin to the big hair of the 1980s (not that I was there to see it), with much more hair. The girls also spend significant amounts of time finding mata ("dress material") and choosing a tikimchi ("seamstress") to make their dress koynek. The koynek is the standard piece of clothing for all village women in Turkmenistan. It is always full length and has short or long sleeves. All koyneks tend to be colorful, but dress koyneks are straight up bright. This year's most popular colors were mustard yellow and scarlet red, usually in a silk or cashmere-like material. Though they spend hours getting ready, the preparations do not stop them from dancing Turkmen-style in a circle under that afternoon sun.
The whole thing is quite a sight. And the thing is, even if I forget, somewhere there's a VHS tape that has the whole experience.
Summer Fruits
I finished school a month ago, and teaching has been wonderful ever since. I started three new clubs this summer, which brings me fifty new students. I do all of my teaching in the morning because the afternoon's are so hot that everyone sleeps the day away. As a result, I have a lot of personal time to read books, watch movies, and do yoga. A couple health volunteer friends turned me on to yoga, and I still do it most days. If I can make it through the morning classes, the rest of my day is pretty relaxing.
Better still, I have become a lot more comfortable in the classroom, especially with younger students. Part of it is time: I've now been teaching for the last six-month full time, and I've learned an awful lot. I know how to teach better, and, more importantly, I know how to act like I can teach much better. Secondly, I'm teaching three of my clubs the same beginner material that I have taught to the older groups. As you can imagine, going back through the second time is much easier, especially with a full set of customized lesson plans. Most interestingly, I have found that I real enjoy teaching younger students. My favorite classes are my two young groups, with kids ranging in age from ten to thirteen. They are eager to learn, and easily amused with the same set of grammar games. Of course, it's always more rewarding to work with beginners, because you can actually see their progress. Whatever the reasons, I am really enjoying teaching for the first time in country.
I'm also looking forward to my vacation to Germany and France in a couple of weeks. I'll meet my family in Frankfurt, and then we'll tour the vineyards and beer-yards (?) for a couple of weeks. Luckily, I've been able to speak with my family almost every week (they skype my home phone). However, nothing can replace actually seeing them for the first time in ten months.
OK I admit it: I'm not very good at this whole blogging thing. Blogging just doesn't fit neatly into the guiding forces of my life. Three forces guide me through life (aside from love and all that mushy stuff): guilt, deadlines, and laziness. (A few people may want to add or subtract from this list, but it will do for my present purposes.) Freud may have had his eros and thanatos forever battling within us, but I have my guilt and laziness. My laziness arises in large part from an essential contentedness with life and its wonders: I have lived a charmed existence (knock on wood) and the people I know continue to astonish me with their creative thoughts and passionate deeds. As a result, I often want to simply lull about in the better parts of life. However, the other part of me realizes that I have done little to earn the contentment that I feel with life. (In fact, I often find myself doing my best to sabotage what I have.) From this part arises the guilt, the duty to do right so as to feel that I can earn my keep on this planet. Deadlines then exist on the axis between the settled resistance of laziness on one hand and the unsettling duty of guilt on the other. If I have a deadline I know what I need to get done and when it needs to be finished so as not to disappoint anyone. Deadlines produce a harmony between my spheres, and a purpose in me.
This blog doesn't have any fast-and-hard deadlines. There are no professors to enforce the deadlines, no referees to blow the whistle. It's just me, this old laptop, and a world of ideas floating around in my head. I know: an explanation, not an excuse.
The Last Bell and the Structure of a Turkmen Dance Party
Spring has turned to summer here in Mary, and school is out til September. Classes finished a couple weeks ago with a "Last Bell" ceremony and an afternoon dance party in the school courtyard. The Last Bell ceremony was an all-school assembly that primarily celebrated the graduation of the tenth form (think 'grade)' students. After the teachers asked, prodded, and forcibly moved the rest of the school into place, each of the three tenth form classes paraded in with their teachers in tow and made a circle surrounded by the rest of the school. A village elder and local police commissioner as well as many retired teachers attended and presented awards to different students and teachers. First form pupils (i.e. students but smaller) then presented flowers to the tenth formers, and the tenth form students gave a ceremonial big key to the first form pupils. Then a couple of first formers grabbed bells, the biggest tenth formers lifted the kids with bells onto their shoulders and the whole form ceremonially exited the school grounds. Once outside the school gate each class released a dove and the assembly broke into chaos/celebration.
In the heat of the afternoon most of the kids returned for a school-sponsored dance party. In the six months that I have lived in the village I have attended quite a few of these dance parties, and there are a couple of constants involved. First and foremost, there is always monotonous Turkmen dance music interlaced with impromptu speeches about favorite educators. Turkmen dance music usually involves a tacky techno beat overlaid with repetitive love lyrics. The song may change, but the beat doesn't. Although all of the music is recorded, there will always be a young man lip-syncing the performance, more interested in dancing than in accurately reenacting the lyrics. I can't be sure when or where this ubiquitous lip-syncing tradition arose, but I suspect that it may have arisen during the years that recorded music performances were outlawed by the Turkmen government. Whatever its genesis, the lip-syncing can be quite entertaining, especially when the music switches from Turkmen to Russian or some other sampled language.
The second constant: there is always a surplus of bulky 90s-era video cameras hovering about the crowds capturing every last moment from multiple flattering angles. Four such cameras hovered around and dove through the Last Bell party, one rented by each tenth form class and a fourth of unknown origin or purpose. The raw footage of this three hour dance party will not be so much edited, but more spliced, repeated, and montaged so that every brilliant dance move may be analyzed, every shining smile framed, and every poignant moment captured for years to come. This "editing" process will result in VHS tapes with three hours' worth of footage sold to the students and watched marathon-style by family and friends (and poor English teachers) alike. On a personal note, this lack of editing configures the cameras as my enemies or, more specifically, as opposing spies: entities to be avoided at all cost, except when directly confronted. If confronted, one must put on a show of confidence and coolness to surpass all shows of confidence and coolness. Thus, I tend to hide in the shadows during these parties only to emerge momentarily to throw down some underappreciated dance moves and retreat to the shadows before the cameras can get a second shot. Still, the cameras almost always find me in some cringeworthy pose with eyes half shut or sweating like a pig. Maybe I need to become better friends with the cameramen.
The third constant: there are always girls dressed to the hilt in shiny koyneks (full length dresses) and big hairdos. Traditionally, long hair is synonymous with beauty in Turkmen society, so Turkmen girls receive one very short hair cut when they are young, and then they let their hair grow for the rest of their youth. So there's a lot of hair to work with. Many of the girls spend the entire preceding night waiting for one of the few village hairdressers to do their thing. The result is something akin to the big hair of the 1980s (not that I was there to see it), with much more hair. The girls also spend significant amounts of time finding mata ("dress material") and choosing a tikimchi ("seamstress") to make their dress koynek. The koynek is the standard piece of clothing for all village women in Turkmenistan. It is always full length and has short or long sleeves. All koyneks tend to be colorful, but dress koyneks are straight up bright. This year's most popular colors were mustard yellow and scarlet red, usually in a silk or cashmere-like material. Though they spend hours getting ready, the preparations do not stop them from dancing Turkmen-style in a circle under that afternoon sun.
The whole thing is quite a sight. And the thing is, even if I forget, somewhere there's a VHS tape that has the whole experience.
Summer Fruits
I finished school a month ago, and teaching has been wonderful ever since. I started three new clubs this summer, which brings me fifty new students. I do all of my teaching in the morning because the afternoon's are so hot that everyone sleeps the day away. As a result, I have a lot of personal time to read books, watch movies, and do yoga. A couple health volunteer friends turned me on to yoga, and I still do it most days. If I can make it through the morning classes, the rest of my day is pretty relaxing.
Better still, I have become a lot more comfortable in the classroom, especially with younger students. Part of it is time: I've now been teaching for the last six-month full time, and I've learned an awful lot. I know how to teach better, and, more importantly, I know how to act like I can teach much better. Secondly, I'm teaching three of my clubs the same beginner material that I have taught to the older groups. As you can imagine, going back through the second time is much easier, especially with a full set of customized lesson plans. Most interestingly, I have found that I real enjoy teaching younger students. My favorite classes are my two young groups, with kids ranging in age from ten to thirteen. They are eager to learn, and easily amused with the same set of grammar games. Of course, it's always more rewarding to work with beginners, because you can actually see their progress. Whatever the reasons, I am really enjoying teaching for the first time in country.
I'm also looking forward to my vacation to Germany and France in a couple of weeks. I'll meet my family in Frankfurt, and then we'll tour the vineyards and beer-yards (?) for a couple of weeks. Luckily, I've been able to speak with my family almost every week (they skype my home phone). However, nothing can replace actually seeing them for the first time in ten months.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Spring Has Come to Mary
Spring Has Come to Mary… and other adventures with a little help from my friends
Spring has come to Mary (which means that hot, hot summer is not far away). My backyard has transformed from a gray dirt pile to a multi-crop farm with blossoming trees and a wonderful series of canals. Few people know this, but I have always had an interest in canals. Wherever my love of water management comes from (perhaps the film noir classic Chinatown), organic waterworks are on fine display in my village now that spring has come. Somehow everyone knows when the waters will come. A few weeks ago my family began reconstructing and extending their existing trenches across the backyard. They even excavated and shaped a new bed for peppers. The next day all of the backyards around my house were lined with sparkling, flowing water. The sight of water is surprisingly refreshing around my usually parched village. People seem to have more energy now that planting season has come. And all of the canals are so well organized and designed. Size decreases almost uniformly as the water reaches the crops. Curves and under-bridge pipes are constructed sturdily with great care in order to hold and direct the great current. A great current it is too. The main canals that bring water into the village actually look like little rivers, not stagnant ponds.
The complexities of the water delivery system are interesting, of course, but the best part is that flowing water means flowing fresh fruit and vegetables. My family grows strawberries, peppers, apples, apricots and tons of pomegranates. I would estimate that we have around three-dozen nar (pomegranate) trees on our property, and some are already beginning to show blossoms. Don’t get me wrong: I really have enjoyed the canned fruits and vegetables that we have eaten all winter. The apricot campot (pulp-filled juice) has been the best. It tastes just like a Fruit Roll-up. In fact, I’m looking forward to learning the trade of canning this coming fall. However, nothing beats harvesting your own dinner. Most importantly to Turkmen culture, spring means that melon season is soon to begin. Melons are one of the national foods of Turkmenistan, and the country even has a national melon holiday. The melons are pretty wonderful. The quintessential Turkmen melon tastes similar to a cantaloupe with more juicy sweetness, and is white on the inside. I plan on eating them by the cartful this summer.
In other news, I returned last month from a stay in Ashgabat. I was attending a conference devoted to grant-writing and project development. All thirty-three (now thirty-two) volunteers attended, and it proved to be quite the reunion. It’s safe to say that we burned the candle at both ends, at conference all day and holding our own court all night. There was quite a bit to catch up on, and not all of it was positive. Several of my good friends here are having some difficulties involving their school, community, and/or other things. I was again reminded how charmed I have been in my service so far. One thing should help everyone out a little though: we all have cell phone numbers once again (after a three month hiatus). However, the local network we joined is overworked and overextended. It certainly isn’t ready to be the only mobile company in T-stan (as it has been since the last Russian company left in frustration). Still, even the possibility of a little more outside contact will likely help those of us who are more isolated.
More positively, bringing everyone together after three months at site proved constructive in working on challenges at site and developing new ideas for teaching. We were able to spend hours discussing lesson planning and curriculum development strategies. The circumstances vary widely between volunteers, from new sites with only beginners to developed sites with expert speakers and even some American culture. However, all of us had something helpful and something challenging to share. One of our goals for service will be to encourage and facilitate cooperation and collaboration between volunteers, an element that has at times seemingly fallen by the wayside. With a little help from my friends, I left the conference with a renewed confidence and energy to continue improving upon my teaching and curriculum development.
This place keeps me surprisingly busy, whether with my primary teaching duties or the more cultural aspects of my experience. I say this as an excuse for my (sometimes extreme) tardiness in replying to cards, letters, and packages from the States. Each piece that I receive reminds me how wonderful all of you are and how lucky I am to be included in your lives. I really do appreciate everything, and I promise that I will get back to you soon.
Spring has come to Mary (which means that hot, hot summer is not far away). My backyard has transformed from a gray dirt pile to a multi-crop farm with blossoming trees and a wonderful series of canals. Few people know this, but I have always had an interest in canals. Wherever my love of water management comes from (perhaps the film noir classic Chinatown), organic waterworks are on fine display in my village now that spring has come. Somehow everyone knows when the waters will come. A few weeks ago my family began reconstructing and extending their existing trenches across the backyard. They even excavated and shaped a new bed for peppers. The next day all of the backyards around my house were lined with sparkling, flowing water. The sight of water is surprisingly refreshing around my usually parched village. People seem to have more energy now that planting season has come. And all of the canals are so well organized and designed. Size decreases almost uniformly as the water reaches the crops. Curves and under-bridge pipes are constructed sturdily with great care in order to hold and direct the great current. A great current it is too. The main canals that bring water into the village actually look like little rivers, not stagnant ponds.
The complexities of the water delivery system are interesting, of course, but the best part is that flowing water means flowing fresh fruit and vegetables. My family grows strawberries, peppers, apples, apricots and tons of pomegranates. I would estimate that we have around three-dozen nar (pomegranate) trees on our property, and some are already beginning to show blossoms. Don’t get me wrong: I really have enjoyed the canned fruits and vegetables that we have eaten all winter. The apricot campot (pulp-filled juice) has been the best. It tastes just like a Fruit Roll-up. In fact, I’m looking forward to learning the trade of canning this coming fall. However, nothing beats harvesting your own dinner. Most importantly to Turkmen culture, spring means that melon season is soon to begin. Melons are one of the national foods of Turkmenistan, and the country even has a national melon holiday. The melons are pretty wonderful. The quintessential Turkmen melon tastes similar to a cantaloupe with more juicy sweetness, and is white on the inside. I plan on eating them by the cartful this summer.
In other news, I returned last month from a stay in Ashgabat. I was attending a conference devoted to grant-writing and project development. All thirty-three (now thirty-two) volunteers attended, and it proved to be quite the reunion. It’s safe to say that we burned the candle at both ends, at conference all day and holding our own court all night. There was quite a bit to catch up on, and not all of it was positive. Several of my good friends here are having some difficulties involving their school, community, and/or other things. I was again reminded how charmed I have been in my service so far. One thing should help everyone out a little though: we all have cell phone numbers once again (after a three month hiatus). However, the local network we joined is overworked and overextended. It certainly isn’t ready to be the only mobile company in T-stan (as it has been since the last Russian company left in frustration). Still, even the possibility of a little more outside contact will likely help those of us who are more isolated.
More positively, bringing everyone together after three months at site proved constructive in working on challenges at site and developing new ideas for teaching. We were able to spend hours discussing lesson planning and curriculum development strategies. The circumstances vary widely between volunteers, from new sites with only beginners to developed sites with expert speakers and even some American culture. However, all of us had something helpful and something challenging to share. One of our goals for service will be to encourage and facilitate cooperation and collaboration between volunteers, an element that has at times seemingly fallen by the wayside. With a little help from my friends, I left the conference with a renewed confidence and energy to continue improving upon my teaching and curriculum development.
This place keeps me surprisingly busy, whether with my primary teaching duties or the more cultural aspects of my experience. I say this as an excuse for my (sometimes extreme) tardiness in replying to cards, letters, and packages from the States. Each piece that I receive reminds me how wonderful all of you are and how lucky I am to be included in your lives. I really do appreciate everything, and I promise that I will get back to you soon.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
ENGLISH WEEK IN T'STAN
Howzit? I apologize for the long silence. Blogger may or may not be blocked in Turkmenistan so I will be having my parents post my blogs from here on out. I get to the internet café about every week, so their postings should become more frequent.
I’ve been teaching fulltime for about a month now, and I am beginning to get into the swing of it. No longer am I terrified before every lesson I teach. Now I just have the normal persistent guilt that accompanies everything I do (thanks Catholicism). I teach five classes and four clubs every week. That adds up to about twenty-five hours of classroom teaching a week and another twenty-five or so hours of preparation. The job keeps me pretty busy. I spend most of my day teaching, preparing to teach, or taking a break from preparing to teach with 30 Rock, sudoku, or Aha’s classic “Take On Me”.
I may be busy but I am certainly lucky to have the supportive community I have here in my village. Both my students and my colleagues have been nothing short of wonderful. Despite the limits to our communication, my fellow teachers have made me feel like a real teacher. I’m included in the teacher room discussions (and gossip), and all the men teachers go out of their way to shake my hand and inquire into my life. (Men and women from different families never shake hands.) The teachers and administrators have shown interest in my life here and my projects at school. Many of the teachers have students in my classes, and they are always interested in how their child is doing.
Some teachers even want to learn English themselves, so I teach a once-a-week English class for teachers. I’m always glad when teachers attend, because village life is very busy, especially for the women teachers. Many effectively have two full-time jobs: one at school and the other at home taking care of their husbands, their children, and their other relatives. There is always more to do: animals to feed, bread to bake, meals to cook, toys (weddings) to ready. During the class we all share our knowledge of English, Turkmen, and Russian with each other. The language learning is quantitatively slow, but we have fun trading words and stumbling over the different pronunciations of each language.
This last week we had “English Week” at my school. The other four English teachers and I organized sayings, skits, songs, and plays to be performed before school everyday and at a big show at the end of the week before the Turkmen Flag Day holiday. (Yes! No school on Saturday for once.) Students decorated the front hall of the school with English-themed posters (sometimes quite loosely themed as with the wordless pictures of Snow White). For the last couple of weeks we spent hours and hours preparing both in class and after school for the performances. On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday before school students performed short numbers (like “If You’re Happy and You Know It Clap Your Hands”) as students waited in the school courtyard before starting. Despite a few problems with the microphone and those always noisy 9th Form boys, the mornings went without a hitch.
Then came the “big show” on Friday. We were to perform several numbers including renditions of Snow White, Cinderella, “Yesterday” and the crowd favorite “Hello Goodbye”. As with mock trial, up until the last minute I was increasingly worried that the whole thing would fall apart. The somber “Yesterday” of Paul McCartney fame would descend into a shouting match between the girls and boys. Cinderella would break her ankle instead of her glass slipper. Snow White would play the diva card and demand her own trailer. There would be only one way to get the performances right, but there would be dozens of ways for the entire shebang to descend into chaos.
At first, chaos seemed tipped for victory as hundreds of students began pouring into the tiny auditorium instead of into their classrooms. The original plan was to allow only the older and more talented students out of class to watch the performances. However, the student body seemingly outflanked us by sneaking into the auditorium en masse between periods. Luckily, the administrators present were able to muster enough force to get all of the students out of the auditorium as quickly as they came. They then organized a brilliant blockade allowing only qualified students into the much quieter auditorium. The next battle lay with the sound system. First, the microphone wouldn’t work, then it worked too well. When the musical numbers needed to be lined up, we had to skip through one hundred random Turkmen songs before finding those loveable Liverpudlians. The side curtains were only a few feet wide, not quite enough to obscure the dozens of actors and singers who insisted on backstage access. (Oh, those actor unions and their strange powers.) However, while the chaos of the crowd and the lack of professional amenities such as curtains or lights continually threatened to overwhelm the little stage and your humble narrator, we ultimately pulled the whole thing off, all the while making the director happy and many more students interested in English (even if only because they would like to hand others poisoned apples, and despite your narrator’s appearance approximating more Keith Richards than Paul McCartney).
1) I’m glad we did it: it is a great way to showcase your students’ talents in English and cultivate even more interest among the other students. 2) I’m also glad it’s over: the stress combined with my oil- and fat-heavy diet could have been lethal. (Hey, I’m not that young anymore.) Next English Week: bouncers, scalping, Ibsen, and “Like A Rolling Stone”.
Sag Boluñ!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Going to Mary, Oh Mary
Hello everyone. I apologize for the long silence. Training has been very busy and internet access is rare in Turkmenistan. I am posting this from a hotel in Ashgabat. It is the night before our swearing-in as Volunteers. Tomorrow we get sworn-in, I give a speech in Turkmen, and then we all get sent out to our permanent work sites. My permanent site is in a small village outside of Mary city in the southeast of the country. I visited my future site last month, and was very happy with both my living situation and my workplace. I live with a family down the road from the only school in the village. I have two host teenage siblings who I will also teach in class. My family seems incredibly warm and welcoming. My counterpart (the teacher I will be working with) speaks wonderful English and is very enthusiastic about working with me. The entire community was very welcoming. I am excited to get to site and settle in to my life for the next two years.
So far, my time here has been good, though not without its challenges. Still, I have been lucky in almost every facet of life. I trained for the last two months in Anew, a small town to the southeast of Ashgabat, the capital. Anew may be a dusty little town by our standards, but it does have a café and a bazaar. I lived down the block from mekdep #16, the school where I spent fifty hours a week learning Turkmen and training to become a teacher. My training group consists of four volunteer trainees and a language and cultural instructor from Ashgabat. My instructor was wonderful, and our group has gotten along well. Even better, there is another training group of five volunteer trainees at the other school in Anew, and they live right next to us, so we hang out all of the time at the café, bazaar, and each other’s houses.
My own training host family was wonderful, though only my teenage host brother spoke (a little) English. I lived with my host mother, father, brother, and two younger host sisters. The family got along very well. Many friendly wrestling matches broke out in our main room. Wrestling matches were encouraged by the fact that the only furniture in the room was a television in the corner. Otherwise, the room consisted of one beautiful red Turkmen rug that was very comfortable. After getting home from the school (or café), I usually spent my evenings on this very rug watching Turkish soap operas, reading, and studying. Oh, and of course drinking tea (çay), lots of çay. About five or six times a day. The tea itself is nothing special, but the break and sociality underlying the çay make my day.
Over the last couple of months I have been on many adventures. I have swam in an underground lake, I have seen Turkmen horse races, and I have seen the second largest flagpole in the world and the second largest carpet in the world.
Perhaps my favorite event so far was my first Turkmen toy. Toys are traditional all-day celebrations that include a lot of food and a lot of entertainment. The toy I attended was for a young boy. My training family and I left our house at 9 in the morning and didn’t get back until the eleven o’clock curfew that night. There was a lot of greeting and dancing, but the most interesting part of my day was when I got pulled in to help prepare the food for lunch. I turned the corner into this small apartment room completely filled with a dozen people seated around a huge pile of breadcrumbs and steaming goat meat. Everyone seated around the pile was furiously working away at mincing the entire goat into tiny pieces. And I mean the entire goat: meat, fat, and any organ you can think of. So I crouched down and joined the smelly preparations. After about an hour, my arms were covered in goat, and the mincing was complete. We then collectively raised the edges of plastic holding the pile, and two young men threw themselves entirely into mixing the goat and the bread bits. Within fifteen minutes I had steaming bowl of this mixture drenched in oil. This is how you make dograma, one of the national dishes of Turkmenistan.
It hasn’t always been easy. The language learning has been arduous. I passed my language exam, but I have a long way to go before I feel comfortable with Turkmen. Integration has proven surprisingly difficult In large part because of how close I have become to my fellow volunteers. Still, these are challenges I came here for, so they are the ones I can live with day-to-day. Otherwise it’s the dust. For some reason, Turkmen put an emphasis on proper clothing and shiny black shoes. Even though my walk to my training school was less than fifty yards, I had to spend a couple of minutes every day cleaning and polishing my shoes at the entrance of the school before I entered. The dust always wins here.
Fall and the cold have come here, but the weather here has nothing on America. I definitely miss the burnt oranges, bright yellows and dark reds of falling leaves in the Midwest. One nice trade-off: I can see the mountains every morning when I walk to school, and these mountains separate T-stan from Iran. I feel both right next door to America and a world away. We’ll see what adventures the next few weeks bring. Until then, may those leaves keep falling.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Countdown to Turkmenistan
Salam!
I will arrive in Ashgabat in eight days. So... I have just a few things to do before I leave: last minute shopping with my mom, hanging out with my sister, family, and a few friends, and learning Turkmen! So far, the Turkmen has been slow, but I do think that I can handle the pronunciations fairly well. We'll see if this holds true when I find myself on the other side of the Caspian.
For all those reading, I hope you are doing well. If you are reading this blog and know me personally, you have already provided me with support and love before and during this whole Peace Corps process. Thank you. Sag bol. I can only hope to provide a bit of an entertaining distraction for those who continue to read. I am a notoriously inept and inconsistent writer, so your patience and understanding are appreciated.
Ashgabat is Turkmen for "city of love". In that vein, I will consider this a "blog of love". That it is all.
I will arrive in Ashgabat in eight days. So... I have just a few things to do before I leave: last minute shopping with my mom, hanging out with my sister, family, and a few friends, and learning Turkmen! So far, the Turkmen has been slow, but I do think that I can handle the pronunciations fairly well. We'll see if this holds true when I find myself on the other side of the Caspian.
For all those reading, I hope you are doing well. If you are reading this blog and know me personally, you have already provided me with support and love before and during this whole Peace Corps process. Thank you. Sag bol. I can only hope to provide a bit of an entertaining distraction for those who continue to read. I am a notoriously inept and inconsistent writer, so your patience and understanding are appreciated.
Ashgabat is Turkmen for "city of love". In that vein, I will consider this a "blog of love". That it is all.
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