Mail racing is an endurance sport, much a long the lines of a decathlon or a spelling bee (It’s aired on ESPN; it qualifies). It crosses continents, yet at the same time, seems impervious to the logical dictates of distance. For example, a letter from Afghanistan (4 hours south) takes between 10 days and 2 weeks to arrive. The same is true of a letter from Kenya, South Africa, Italy, and America. A letter from Dashoguz Welyat in Turkmenistan can arrive in as few as 2 days or as many as 2 months. At the moment, Nigeria is still in the lead of the international mail races. The
8 day is hard to beat, and it makes me wonder what scam the Nigerians could possibly be running in Turkmenistan. America and Afghanistan are tied for 2nd place with 10 days, although the American 10 day was a package. It is worth some brownie points that way.
In a side event, I ran a trial to see if Via Istanbul was really faster than Via Moscow. We were told that sending letters with Via Istanbul written under the airmail would make the letters travel faster. I send two letters on the same day to two friends sharing an apartment. Imagine my surprise when both letters arrived on the same day! I doubt that would have happened had I sent them both via Istanbul or Via Moscow. So, at least for me, writing Via Istanbul seems a bit irrelevant, but I will continue to do so. First, it’s only been one test; that could have been a fluke. And second, I like writing Via Istanbul on my letters. I even do it on the domestic stuff. Via Istanbul sounds like a sticker you see on a steamer trunk about to depart on the Orient Express; even Via Moscow has a Siberian gulag sort of charm about it.
Finally, in a sweet victory of me over the world, I got a package from Africa. So far letters have been making their way here, but the packages got lost in the mysterious byways and highways of international parcels. It arrived a bit battered and bruised, with torn corners and a missing customs declaration, but I am now the owner of new Woolies tanks (vests as they say in RSA) and a Hello! Magazine because I somehow fell behind in my peerage gossip. (Lord Jones is dead…when was he alive?!?!) THANK YOU MOMMY!
So loyal readers and letter writers who read this, keep writing. Letters, post cards, and the occasional package keep me sane and connected. I decorate my walls with the owadan (beautiful) things you send to me. Also, Brock Kramer is currently the (mail) MAN!
Friday, May 30, 2008
‘Cause That’s My Fun Day! Written May 25, 2008
In general I live the oba-riffic life 5 and sometimes 6 days a week. The oba life is village, and should be spoken when that same mixture of pride, resignation, and toughness with which one says, “I live in the ghetto, the projects, or northern New Jersey. The oba life without running water and other amenities. It is shockingly familiar with livestock. (A baby cow appeared in my compound and the stork did not deliver it, I assure you.) The oba is Turkmen in language and mentality, and to keep sane, sometime I have to leave.
Thankfully, there is Friday club. It was dubbed Freedom Friday by another volunteer, but that sounds a like a Homeland Security program, so Friday Club we remain. It is between 4 and 6 volunteers that go to Mary City on Friday to do all those things that can’t be done in the oba—internet, post office, bank, and lunch. It is rejuvenating to speak in English, to wear western style clothes, and to talk to people who grew up with the same cultural cues and tendencies. It all goes beyond the language. Even if my Turkmen were flawless, I would still need to interact sometimes with people who understand the sarcasm, the difference between American Apparel and American Eagle, and the sad decline of SNL since the 1990s. I am so lucky to have them!
All Fridays are memorable, but last week was particularly so. In addition to the general Friday brilliance, I saw TOURISTS! They flooded the internet café, typical Germans with their knee socks and sandles, fanny packs, and ruddy cheeks. In the midst off the germans were 2 brits and a Dutchman. There were 30 something of them all together and they were driving 17 campers from Venice to China and back. Boggles the mind, right? We were dazed and giddy with this onslaught of English and foreigness that was Peace Corps. It was also nice to feel like we were slowly getting it. We suggested restaurants to eat at, gave general taxi prices, and costs for things at the bazaars. We spoke about our experiences in the villages and generally had a good time. They unfortunately did not treat us to a fantastic meal, but they were great fun nonetheless. At the end I passed on a copy of Three Cups of Tea*, wished them the best and then had a beer.
*This will probably get its own blog in a little bit. Everyone under the sun thinks I need to read it. I have 3 copies. At this rate it will beat out the Ruhnama as the most common book in Turkmenistan.
Thankfully, there is Friday club. It was dubbed Freedom Friday by another volunteer, but that sounds a like a Homeland Security program, so Friday Club we remain. It is between 4 and 6 volunteers that go to Mary City on Friday to do all those things that can’t be done in the oba—internet, post office, bank, and lunch. It is rejuvenating to speak in English, to wear western style clothes, and to talk to people who grew up with the same cultural cues and tendencies. It all goes beyond the language. Even if my Turkmen were flawless, I would still need to interact sometimes with people who understand the sarcasm, the difference between American Apparel and American Eagle, and the sad decline of SNL since the 1990s. I am so lucky to have them!
All Fridays are memorable, but last week was particularly so. In addition to the general Friday brilliance, I saw TOURISTS! They flooded the internet café, typical Germans with their knee socks and sandles, fanny packs, and ruddy cheeks. In the midst off the germans were 2 brits and a Dutchman. There were 30 something of them all together and they were driving 17 campers from Venice to China and back. Boggles the mind, right? We were dazed and giddy with this onslaught of English and foreigness that was Peace Corps. It was also nice to feel like we were slowly getting it. We suggested restaurants to eat at, gave general taxi prices, and costs for things at the bazaars. We spoke about our experiences in the villages and generally had a good time. They unfortunately did not treat us to a fantastic meal, but they were great fun nonetheless. At the end I passed on a copy of Three Cups of Tea*, wished them the best and then had a beer.
*This will probably get its own blog in a little bit. Everyone under the sun thinks I need to read it. I have 3 copies. At this rate it will beat out the Ruhnama as the most common book in Turkmenistan.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Incompetent blogger forgot to add titles for photos, Nairobi May 16
I think this is fun!
Photo 1: PCVs destroying nature
Photo 2: Expat brats do Peace Corps
Photo 3: The mervolous walls
Photo 4: the resting place of Sultan Sanjar
Photo 1: PCVs destroying nature
Photo 2: Expat brats do Peace Corps
Photo 3: The mervolous walls
Photo 4: the resting place of Sultan Sanjar
Not so proficient blogger fails to upload photos with correct post, in Nairobi on May 16
Here are the photos that go with the previous post.
The Battle Outside Raging Will Soon Shake Your Windows and Rattle Your Walls
Last Saturday was the inagural Merv camp out. Well it was inagural for the T-16s. Merv is one of those cultural heritage type places, and rightly derserves to be. It was sacked by all manner of mauradering hordes including Ghengis Khan, the Mongols, and the Russians. It was strong hold of Sultan Sanjar who used to dictate the Persian caliphat from his desert. Even though it now stands in ruins, the place is awe inspiring. The old walls of the city loom up like mountains. The area where towns and houses used to be look like immense valleys, and it is littered with thousand year old pottery shards. Conservation is a bit behind.
We rolled up, 19 altogether, in two vans with carpets to sleep on, kilos of meat to cook, and a burning desire to “destroy some nature.” We had to hack our own firewood with axes whose heads were liable to fly off the handle and clear the sleeping area of vicious desert thorn plants. When that was done, we toasted the night (Merv bolsun), and cooked shashlik. I overcame my distates, fear, and repugnance of raw hamburger in order to make beautiful skewers.
As I stood on top of one of the walls, I saw a tour bus in the distance. Turkmenistan is wary of foreingers being in their country unsupervised. Generally to travel here, you need to be on a tour or have an approved travel ‘minder’ at all time. As we waved from our sentinel positions on the wall, I was really that I have this chance to see Turkmenistan at a different level. Those on the bus were guided among the stones, while I slept among the ruins!
We rolled up, 19 altogether, in two vans with carpets to sleep on, kilos of meat to cook, and a burning desire to “destroy some nature.” We had to hack our own firewood with axes whose heads were liable to fly off the handle and clear the sleeping area of vicious desert thorn plants. When that was done, we toasted the night (Merv bolsun), and cooked shashlik. I overcame my distates, fear, and repugnance of raw hamburger in order to make beautiful skewers.
As I stood on top of one of the walls, I saw a tour bus in the distance. Turkmenistan is wary of foreingers being in their country unsupervised. Generally to travel here, you need to be on a tour or have an approved travel ‘minder’ at all time. As we waved from our sentinel positions on the wall, I was really that I have this chance to see Turkmenistan at a different level. Those on the bus were guided among the stones, while I slept among the ruins!
The Line It is Drawn, the Curse it is Cast
This is a testing of the indirect blogging system. Access to blogger has been denied for the past month or so from the internet café in Mary. So, everyone should give a big shout out to my mom who grandly offered to post my blogs and photos from Kenya. THANK YOU MUMMY!
“Restraints shan’t hold me. Power is nebulous. Control is an illusion.”
~~some dead philosopher!
“Restraints shan’t hold me. Power is nebulous. Control is an illusion.”
~~some dead philosopher!
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