We’re The Kids in America written July 13

It was like entering the twilight zone. The oba seemed the same. The streets still ran uneven and a little bit crooked. There was still the faint acrid smell of burning from the tamdors along the way. I was walking to a Turkmen friend’s house because earlier that day, a small child had invited me to dinner. I was expecting perhaps a family dinner of some persuasion. Instead there were Americans eating palow in my village.

There is a definite comfort in expectations, in the familiarity of routine. I like knowing that my life and the oba is much the same day to day. On the way to Atajan’s the man at the little dukan still said hello to me in Russian, and we had the same 5 minute discussion on why I don’t speak Russian. Although this conversation annoys me—I have it every time—it represents continuity. If he says “kakdela,” clearly the sky is not falling and the sun will rise tomorrow.

Still expecting a family dinner of some persuasion, I screamed as a dog ran up behind me. I hate Turkmen dogs. I entered the compound and took stock of the company. Three man plus Atajan stood in a circle by a minivan. Two were clearly Turkmen, as expected. They were chatting in Turkmen, and I salaamed accordingly. The third was not Turkmen—maybe Russian I thought—until he responded to my Salam with a southern accent and a hello. He was a former institute teacher from ’94 back for a visit.

The rule governing foreigners and the oba had always been outlined as such: all Americans in the obas are PCVs; if Americans are in the oba, they must be PCVs. Faced with what I had assumed impossibility, my mind warped. We chatted outside in English for a few minutes. Periodically, I would have to glance around to reconfirm that yes; this was still my village. That was a clearly a chicken coop, and I was clearly speaking English with a native speaker.

We went into the house to eat. This was another deviation from routine. I made to sit with the women outside because I’m a girl. Turkmenistan can be pretty gender separated, and while it can irk, I’ve become used to that. So, off I went to be the lone creature in a koynek amidst these men. Inside I was thrown for another loop. There were three other Americans, students from universities in Tennessee watching Al Jezeera. I think I just stood in the entry for a minute blinking—once then twice. Four Americans—not volunteers—were eating palow in my oba. OK, so I took this in as much stride as I could handle, and had a great time.

Food was Turkmen spectacular. I loved the salads and soups. I did make the faux pas of eating my palow with my hands. Apparently in such company I was supposed to eat it with a spoon, but everyone knows that it tastes better from the hands. I gave the why I was in Turkmenistan speech, which is much easier to give in English than Turkmen. There is a joy in saying what I mean rather than what I can. Who knows, maybe there will be three more applicants in the next few years?

There were two moments of interesting comparison in where I was versus where I am now. First, one of the students brought up the subject of religion. Actually, I accidentally brought it up in discussing the swinging away of sins on Gurban Byram, but it was continued into an interesting debate on personal relationships with God in Islam and Christianity. Or, it would have been interesting if I wasn’t inwardly cringing. I was sure the KNB was watching this unprecedented event and that in a few days I would get a call from Steve about proselytizing. I laugh now and say it was paranoia, but I’m still going to be jumpy when my cell phone rings. The second was during the prayer at the end of the meal. The teacher and I quickly broke off conversation and into the routine. The students looked a bit confused and didn’t react. It’s a reminder that the life I have now is a life that I learned. 9 months later, I’m still making mistakes, but I’ve got some things down.

And, I wonder a bit what the other Americans made of me. What did they think of this girl in a koynek who ate with her hands? Were they told about me or was I as much of a surprise to them as they were to me? Paths cross for these weird instants in this country. If you guys are reading my blog; this totally made my month. I have the awesomest story to tell the other PCVs when I see them on Friday. Thanks, and don’t forget to e-mail the photos!