Margus Photos...yeah they've been a long time in coming
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Wasting My Time in The Waiting Line Written August 1, 2008
The Aero Kassa or Howa Yollary brings the strongest volunteer to their knees. A trip to there creates that sick ball of dread that lodges uncomfortably under the diaphragm. It is a miraculous combination of every bureaucratic inefficiency, unnecessary obstacle, and waste of time. It is also the only (affordable) way out of the country.
The Aero kassa is the ticketing office for Turkmen Air. Turkmen Air is heavily subsidized, particularly internationally. For $500 or fewer volunteers—who pay local prices—have their choice of destinations: China, India, Thailand, England, UAE, Turkey, Russia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and even Mecca during the Hajj. The last one is not, of course, for infidels. We rationalize that the Aero Kassa is a necessary evil; it is the purgatory before paradise. Its only saving grace is the air conditioning.
I had my first experience there today. I bought my ticket to Turkey! I’m really going on vacation! And, while I’m delighted and excited now, the actual purchase was an ordeal. It began with the disruption of my master plan. The Aero kassa is first come, first serve, so I hoped to get there as the doors opened at 9. Unfortunately, my director needed to sign something for my grant. I told him I would meet him at 8 at the clinic. He rolled in at 10. This put a monkey wrench in my timing. I didn’t make it to the kassa until about ten past eleven. I was somewhere between 13 and 15 in line.
Like many developing nations—and even some developed ones—Turkmenistan has never fully grasped the queue. The ‘line’ in front of the international window was a jumbled mass of dyzas, students, Russians, and people planning to work abroad. Everyone is carrying large bags of money because you pay for the tickets, between 3 to 6 million manat, in cash. People are jostling, arguing, kidney punching, cutting, and describing—forcefully—where they belong in line. People wander in and out of line as the mood strikes, content that they will be able to return to their spot, behind the boy in the white shirt.
The line moves incredibly slowly. The tickets are written out by hand, each page stamped individually, and passport copied in triplicate. I stood, uncomfortably, for 2 hours, and that’s way below the record. I was afraid to get out of line because my queuing without a queue skills are sadly lacking. I met some nice people who yelled as people tried to cut in front of me.
I was handling it well, I thought. I wisely brought my iPod and even made a soothing and relaxing play list for the occasion. I brought a big book of Sudoku. I didn’t fidget overmuch, and I made every effort to be civil and courteous. When it was almost my turn at the window, only one man ahead of me, a dyza pushed her way to the front. She insisted that she had been here at 9; the boys she was behind, she said, had obviously left. She further explained that she had been waiting for three days for her ticket; broken computers thwarted her earlier attempts.
The line rallied around me, explaining that I had been there for two hours, that I was the nice visitor from America that I knew Turkmen, and that no one believed her story. The woman behind the window was annoyed and fed up with the disruption. I’m sure she was also a bit catty because it was almost lunchtime. The dyza sensed her cause was not being well received, so she moved to the next window…the manager’s window.
She began gesticulating and crying. She was sick! He son was a brilliant student in Turkey! She had been to the hospital, which was why she had left her place in line! The man counting the money recognized her! Her mascara smeared and ran down her cheeks in crocodile tear tracks. Low and behold, right as I’m placing my passport in the window, the manager demands that the dyza be helped first. Those were the 15 minutes when I was sure I was going to lose it. To be so close to victory and have to wait was brutal. I wanted to cry, even felt by eyes burn in frustration, but I kept it together.
I got my ticket at 1:45 and booked it to the café where I was meeting friends for lunch. I had intelligently called one of them and asked them to order food in advance. I stopped to get a coke because I needed a pick me up. I walked slowly, trying to release the tension in my lower back and balls of my feet and forget the whole experience. Despite the anger, bitterness, and frustration, I told myself, I had the power to leave. Just when I was making peace with the situation, I opened the door to the café and the first person I saw was that dyza. IRKSOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The Aero kassa is the ticketing office for Turkmen Air. Turkmen Air is heavily subsidized, particularly internationally. For $500 or fewer volunteers—who pay local prices—have their choice of destinations: China, India, Thailand, England, UAE, Turkey, Russia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and even Mecca during the Hajj. The last one is not, of course, for infidels. We rationalize that the Aero Kassa is a necessary evil; it is the purgatory before paradise. Its only saving grace is the air conditioning.
I had my first experience there today. I bought my ticket to Turkey! I’m really going on vacation! And, while I’m delighted and excited now, the actual purchase was an ordeal. It began with the disruption of my master plan. The Aero kassa is first come, first serve, so I hoped to get there as the doors opened at 9. Unfortunately, my director needed to sign something for my grant. I told him I would meet him at 8 at the clinic. He rolled in at 10. This put a monkey wrench in my timing. I didn’t make it to the kassa until about ten past eleven. I was somewhere between 13 and 15 in line.
Like many developing nations—and even some developed ones—Turkmenistan has never fully grasped the queue. The ‘line’ in front of the international window was a jumbled mass of dyzas, students, Russians, and people planning to work abroad. Everyone is carrying large bags of money because you pay for the tickets, between 3 to 6 million manat, in cash. People are jostling, arguing, kidney punching, cutting, and describing—forcefully—where they belong in line. People wander in and out of line as the mood strikes, content that they will be able to return to their spot, behind the boy in the white shirt.
The line moves incredibly slowly. The tickets are written out by hand, each page stamped individually, and passport copied in triplicate. I stood, uncomfortably, for 2 hours, and that’s way below the record. I was afraid to get out of line because my queuing without a queue skills are sadly lacking. I met some nice people who yelled as people tried to cut in front of me.
I was handling it well, I thought. I wisely brought my iPod and even made a soothing and relaxing play list for the occasion. I brought a big book of Sudoku. I didn’t fidget overmuch, and I made every effort to be civil and courteous. When it was almost my turn at the window, only one man ahead of me, a dyza pushed her way to the front. She insisted that she had been here at 9; the boys she was behind, she said, had obviously left. She further explained that she had been waiting for three days for her ticket; broken computers thwarted her earlier attempts.
The line rallied around me, explaining that I had been there for two hours, that I was the nice visitor from America that I knew Turkmen, and that no one believed her story. The woman behind the window was annoyed and fed up with the disruption. I’m sure she was also a bit catty because it was almost lunchtime. The dyza sensed her cause was not being well received, so she moved to the next window…the manager’s window.
She began gesticulating and crying. She was sick! He son was a brilliant student in Turkey! She had been to the hospital, which was why she had left her place in line! The man counting the money recognized her! Her mascara smeared and ran down her cheeks in crocodile tear tracks. Low and behold, right as I’m placing my passport in the window, the manager demands that the dyza be helped first. Those were the 15 minutes when I was sure I was going to lose it. To be so close to victory and have to wait was brutal. I wanted to cry, even felt by eyes burn in frustration, but I kept it together.
I got my ticket at 1:45 and booked it to the café where I was meeting friends for lunch. I had intelligently called one of them and asked them to order food in advance. I stopped to get a coke because I needed a pick me up. I walked slowly, trying to release the tension in my lower back and balls of my feet and forget the whole experience. Despite the anger, bitterness, and frustration, I told myself, I had the power to leave. Just when I was making peace with the situation, I opened the door to the café and the first person I saw was that dyza. IRKSOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Away We’ll Go Sailing in a Race Among the Ruins Written June 24, 2008
There is a rich and varied history in Turkmenistan. Going backwards, there has been the invasion of Afghanistan—launched from my very own sweet Mary. There was the valiant stand at Gokdepe, where the Russian forces finally brought the Turkmen tribes of the desert to heel. There were the countless acts of banditry and violence that kept the Russians out until the last stand of Gokdepe. There were the Silk Roads and the pashas, shahs, and merchants that commerce brings. This was the age of the later versions of Merv and the Sultan Sanjar. Earlier still was the conquering by Alexander the Great. He, too, built at Merv back when the Ama Daryia flowed to the Caspian. Before this still, when the Sumerians were experimenting with cuneiform, there was Gonor Depe.
Gonor Depe is the ruin of a city that is 5,000 years old. There are mysterious allusions to it in less ancient history text, but it remained unknown until 1979. I went with another volunteer and some of his English students. It was carefree and careless, but incredible. It is an ongoing excavation, and the ground is littered with pottery shards and metal tools. They—an amorphous collection of scholars—believe that Gonor Depe is a civilization rather than a settlement, and I’m inclined to agree.
The king’s palace had indoor plumbing. They have uncovered a series of ceramic pipes that run through the palace. There was also advanced metalworking, both for tools and for pleasure. We were taken around by an excavator, who proudly showed us both ax heads and hairpins. They also had massive pottery kilns capable of great heat. They had copper based glazes, whose remains are still caked in the inside of the kiln. The pots they made where everywhere, and stunning. They also had an advanced and possibly monotheistic religion. They—again amorphous scholars—see links between the religion practiced in Gonor Depe and Zoroastrians. The role of fire—eternal and sacred flames—was prominent. Water was also sacred. They had an advanced filter system to purify water to be used in religious rituals. Traces of a hallucinogenic drink, along the lines of Absinthe have also been found. They were found in a massive brewery. It is speculated that this drink was used in religious rituals.
The coolest thing, though, and the most awe-inspiring was the burial of the king. Like the Egyptians, the king was buried with all of his worldly goods. They have found the bones of a horse, decorated with silver amour. Also with the king were gold and silver chalices and plates. There was a chariot; the oldest wheeled cart ever found in Central Asia.
It was fantastic to be there, but the trip was an ordeal. We left from Garagum at 7 a.m. and spent 2 hours driving through the desert in two soviet mini-vans. There was less of a road than tracks in the sand. Both minivans got stuck on several occasions, and we were left wondering how we were going to get out. Never underestimate the strength of young Turkmen when faced with such ordeals. We were routinely pushed free. The desert is spectacular in its sparse way. There is more aliveness here than in the deserts I’ve seen in Namibia, but it’s still not somewhere I want to be indefinitely.
We hike around the site for about 2 hours. It was HOT! But completely worth it. I drank 3 liters of water in those two hours. We went back to the excavators’ station to have lunch. The girls of Garagum had prepared a feast for us. There were somsas, cakes, cucumbers, and tomatoes. I don’t think I will eat a tomato like an apple anywhere else in the world. There were also, at the station, of all things, Americans. There were tourists. The kids were excited because they got to practice their English. The Americans were excited because they got to speak it and interact with real Turkmen. We laughingly jested after the fact that they would return to America thinking all Turkmen could speak English.
Gonor Depe is the ruin of a city that is 5,000 years old. There are mysterious allusions to it in less ancient history text, but it remained unknown until 1979. I went with another volunteer and some of his English students. It was carefree and careless, but incredible. It is an ongoing excavation, and the ground is littered with pottery shards and metal tools. They—an amorphous collection of scholars—believe that Gonor Depe is a civilization rather than a settlement, and I’m inclined to agree.
The king’s palace had indoor plumbing. They have uncovered a series of ceramic pipes that run through the palace. There was also advanced metalworking, both for tools and for pleasure. We were taken around by an excavator, who proudly showed us both ax heads and hairpins. They also had massive pottery kilns capable of great heat. They had copper based glazes, whose remains are still caked in the inside of the kiln. The pots they made where everywhere, and stunning. They also had an advanced and possibly monotheistic religion. They—again amorphous scholars—see links between the religion practiced in Gonor Depe and Zoroastrians. The role of fire—eternal and sacred flames—was prominent. Water was also sacred. They had an advanced filter system to purify water to be used in religious rituals. Traces of a hallucinogenic drink, along the lines of Absinthe have also been found. They were found in a massive brewery. It is speculated that this drink was used in religious rituals.
The coolest thing, though, and the most awe-inspiring was the burial of the king. Like the Egyptians, the king was buried with all of his worldly goods. They have found the bones of a horse, decorated with silver amour. Also with the king were gold and silver chalices and plates. There was a chariot; the oldest wheeled cart ever found in Central Asia.
It was fantastic to be there, but the trip was an ordeal. We left from Garagum at 7 a.m. and spent 2 hours driving through the desert in two soviet mini-vans. There was less of a road than tracks in the sand. Both minivans got stuck on several occasions, and we were left wondering how we were going to get out. Never underestimate the strength of young Turkmen when faced with such ordeals. We were routinely pushed free. The desert is spectacular in its sparse way. There is more aliveness here than in the deserts I’ve seen in Namibia, but it’s still not somewhere I want to be indefinitely.
We hike around the site for about 2 hours. It was HOT! But completely worth it. I drank 3 liters of water in those two hours. We went back to the excavators’ station to have lunch. The girls of Garagum had prepared a feast for us. There were somsas, cakes, cucumbers, and tomatoes. I don’t think I will eat a tomato like an apple anywhere else in the world. There were also, at the station, of all things, Americans. There were tourists. The kids were excited because they got to practice their English. The Americans were excited because they got to speak it and interact with real Turkmen. We laughingly jested after the fact that they would return to America thinking all Turkmen could speak English.
And Was Everybody Dancing On The Casket Written July 29, 2008
DABDA lingers in some shady corner of my memory as the stages of death and dying. As far as I recall, the acronym stands for Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and finally Acceptance. These stages are though are for the individual dying. I wish I had at some point learned the stages for grief and mourning.
Although death is universal, I’m coming to discover that the way people approach dying and the dead is culturally specific. I’ve found myself getting frustrated and annoyed even at the way a death in Turkmenistan seems to linger on. For the first 40 days there are weekly gathers to mourn; after 40 days the gatherings are monthly; after a year the gatherings are held indefinitely on the anniversary of the death. I’ve been to a 6-month anniversary and an 11-year anniversary to remember people that I’ve never met. I resented the time that I had to dedicate to people no longer living.
The social organization surrounding death in Turkmenistan is just so foreign. Widows don’t remarry if their husbands die. To remarry is to “forget” their first husband and to dishonor the family. A widow who remarries must leave behind any children from her first marriage. I contrast that in my head with the lines from American movies where the widow’s family tells her that “it’s been (some amount of time); he wouldn’t want you to stop living your life.”
This resentment did give me the opportunity for a learning experience, though. I suppose I should be grateful; that’s ostensibly one of the reasons I came. I was sitting with my host grandfather discussing the differences between Turkmenistan and America. I, still annoyed, brought up how we deal with death. To him, my description came off so callous and unfeeling. We put a body in the ground, and sometimes we simply burn it and throw the ashes to the wind. There is no ceremony to recall and remember.
It’s impossible, though, with my Turkmen to explain that the memory of the dead exists outside of these ceremonies. I remember my grandmother every time I sign my name. I may never go to her gravestone and pray there, but I won’t forget her. I don’t really know where I’m trying to go with this, but its strange and obviously made and impression. I’m still thinking about it.
Although death is universal, I’m coming to discover that the way people approach dying and the dead is culturally specific. I’ve found myself getting frustrated and annoyed even at the way a death in Turkmenistan seems to linger on. For the first 40 days there are weekly gathers to mourn; after 40 days the gatherings are monthly; after a year the gatherings are held indefinitely on the anniversary of the death. I’ve been to a 6-month anniversary and an 11-year anniversary to remember people that I’ve never met. I resented the time that I had to dedicate to people no longer living.
The social organization surrounding death in Turkmenistan is just so foreign. Widows don’t remarry if their husbands die. To remarry is to “forget” their first husband and to dishonor the family. A widow who remarries must leave behind any children from her first marriage. I contrast that in my head with the lines from American movies where the widow’s family tells her that “it’s been (some amount of time); he wouldn’t want you to stop living your life.”
This resentment did give me the opportunity for a learning experience, though. I suppose I should be grateful; that’s ostensibly one of the reasons I came. I was sitting with my host grandfather discussing the differences between Turkmenistan and America. I, still annoyed, brought up how we deal with death. To him, my description came off so callous and unfeeling. We put a body in the ground, and sometimes we simply burn it and throw the ashes to the wind. There is no ceremony to recall and remember.
It’s impossible, though, with my Turkmen to explain that the memory of the dead exists outside of these ceremonies. I remember my grandmother every time I sign my name. I may never go to her gravestone and pray there, but I won’t forget her. I don’t really know where I’m trying to go with this, but its strange and obviously made and impression. I’m still thinking about it.
I know that You’re Leaving, You Must Have Your Reasons written July 26, 2008
It’s always sad to say goodbye because while the world is small, it is also fickle. There are some people who seem to live their lives alongside mine. They appear constantly in the same restaurants, schools, and airport lounges. I never fear losing touch because they will be ordering a cappuccino ahead of me in some starbucks at some point. Then, there are those people that vanish. Saying goodbye for the first time is hard because I never know if I’m saying it for the last time.
A volunteer from Mary ET-ed this week. He had 4 months left of his service but a better offer for a job. This brought the total of old volunteers here to 3. I feel sort of strongly that is a low number, and I hope the T-16 struggle on with a bit more valiancy and fewer diseases that get them medically separated. I didn’t know the boy who left very well, and I regret that a bit now. I think he would have been a great friend. So, it goes…if he’s ever bored in The America where internet is fast and largely free and finds my blog, I wish him all the best for whatever comes next. If you ever need anything, let me know.
Before the descent into the maudlin gets too steep, the point of this blog is the send off. The bon voyage extravaganza almost made me wish more people left early. There were burgers, sloppy joes, barbeque sauce, green bean salad, Greek salad, nominal oversight from the man, and delicious deserts. We also made a watermelon punch that was out of this world.
Turkmenistan has this thing about melons. They have an entire day to celebrate them. Right now, by the side of the roads, there are piles of melons for 2,000 manat per kilo. At that price, I can practically eat my weight in watermelons weekly. Sometimes I do. They are juicy and bursting with seeds. Unlike the America ones, they kept the seeds and the flavor. Another volunteer brought lemons back from her vacation, so all was set for the punch. The hardest part was the juicing of the watermelon. We didn’t have a blender. We had a hand held masher and dedication. We didn’t even have a t-shirt or cheesecloth to squeeze the pulverized flesh. Tragic! But, it was worth the effort expended.
Beyond the food, which is always amazing at volunteer gatherings, it was nice just to get together. I hadn’t left my sight for an overnight since coming back from the conference. Plus, because someone was leaving for FOREVER, people came from all over. The only welyat not being represented was Dashoguz. The ache of missing friends that are far away is kind of constant. I push it aside and ignore it because I do have great friends in Mary, but it’s there. It was just so relaxing and so rejuvenating to be with other PCVs again.
Again, to the dearly departed, I hope your travels where safe, and you will be missed.
A volunteer from Mary ET-ed this week. He had 4 months left of his service but a better offer for a job. This brought the total of old volunteers here to 3. I feel sort of strongly that is a low number, and I hope the T-16 struggle on with a bit more valiancy and fewer diseases that get them medically separated. I didn’t know the boy who left very well, and I regret that a bit now. I think he would have been a great friend. So, it goes…if he’s ever bored in The America where internet is fast and largely free and finds my blog, I wish him all the best for whatever comes next. If you ever need anything, let me know.
Before the descent into the maudlin gets too steep, the point of this blog is the send off. The bon voyage extravaganza almost made me wish more people left early. There were burgers, sloppy joes, barbeque sauce, green bean salad, Greek salad, nominal oversight from the man, and delicious deserts. We also made a watermelon punch that was out of this world.
Turkmenistan has this thing about melons. They have an entire day to celebrate them. Right now, by the side of the roads, there are piles of melons for 2,000 manat per kilo. At that price, I can practically eat my weight in watermelons weekly. Sometimes I do. They are juicy and bursting with seeds. Unlike the America ones, they kept the seeds and the flavor. Another volunteer brought lemons back from her vacation, so all was set for the punch. The hardest part was the juicing of the watermelon. We didn’t have a blender. We had a hand held masher and dedication. We didn’t even have a t-shirt or cheesecloth to squeeze the pulverized flesh. Tragic! But, it was worth the effort expended.
Beyond the food, which is always amazing at volunteer gatherings, it was nice just to get together. I hadn’t left my sight for an overnight since coming back from the conference. Plus, because someone was leaving for FOREVER, people came from all over. The only welyat not being represented was Dashoguz. The ache of missing friends that are far away is kind of constant. I push it aside and ignore it because I do have great friends in Mary, but it’s there. It was just so relaxing and so rejuvenating to be with other PCVs again.
Again, to the dearly departed, I hope your travels where safe, and you will be missed.
I know that You’re Leaving, You Must Have Your Reasons written July 26, 2008
It’s always sad to say goodbye because while the world is small, it is also fickle. There are some people who seem to live their lives alongside mine. They appear constantly in the same restaurants, schools, and airport lounges. I never fear losing touch because they will be ordering a cappuccino ahead of me in some starbucks at some point. Then, there are those people that vanish. Saying goodbye for the first time is hard because I never know if I’m saying it for the last time.
A volunteer from Mary ET-ed this week. He had 4 months left of his service but a better offer for a job. This brought the total of old volunteers here to 3. I feel sort of strongly that is a low number, and I hope the T-16 struggle on with a bit more valiancy and fewer diseases that get them medically separated. I didn’t know the boy who left very well, and I regret that a bit now. I think he would have been a great friend. So, it goes…if he’s ever bored in The America where internet is fast and largely free and finds my blog, I wish him all the best for whatever comes next. If you ever need anything, let me know.
Before the descent into the maudlin gets too steep, the point of this blog is the send off. The bon voyage extravaganza almost made me wish more people left early. There were burgers, sloppy joes, barbeque sauce, green bean salad, Greek salad, nominal oversight from the man, and delicious deserts. We also made a watermelon punch that was out of this world.
Turkmenistan has this thing about melons. They have an entire day to celebrate them. Right now, by the side of the roads, there are piles of melons for 2,000 manat per kilo. At that price, I can practically eat my weight in watermelons weekly. Sometimes I do. They are juicy and bursting with seeds. Unlike the America ones, they kept the seeds and the flavor. Another volunteer brought lemons back from her vacation, so all was set for the punch. The hardest part was the juicing of the watermelon. We didn’t have a blender. We had a hand held masher and dedication. We didn’t even have a t-shirt or cheesecloth to squeeze the pulverized flesh. Tragic! But, it was worth the effort expended.
Beyond the food, which is always amazing at volunteer gatherings, it was nice just to get together. I hadn’t left my sight for an overnight since coming back from the conference. Plus, because someone was leaving for FOREVER, people came from all over. The only welyat not being represented was Dashoguz. The ache of missing friends that are far away is kind of constant. I push it aside and ignore it because I do have great friends in Mary, but it’s there. It was just so relaxing and so rejuvenating to be with other PCVs again.
Again, to the dearly departed, I hope your travels where safe, and you will be missed.
A volunteer from Mary ET-ed this week. He had 4 months left of his service but a better offer for a job. This brought the total of old volunteers here to 3. I feel sort of strongly that is a low number, and I hope the T-16 struggle on with a bit more valiancy and fewer diseases that get them medically separated. I didn’t know the boy who left very well, and I regret that a bit now. I think he would have been a great friend. So, it goes…if he’s ever bored in The America where internet is fast and largely free and finds my blog, I wish him all the best for whatever comes next. If you ever need anything, let me know.
Before the descent into the maudlin gets too steep, the point of this blog is the send off. The bon voyage extravaganza almost made me wish more people left early. There were burgers, sloppy joes, barbeque sauce, green bean salad, Greek salad, nominal oversight from the man, and delicious deserts. We also made a watermelon punch that was out of this world.
Turkmenistan has this thing about melons. They have an entire day to celebrate them. Right now, by the side of the roads, there are piles of melons for 2,000 manat per kilo. At that price, I can practically eat my weight in watermelons weekly. Sometimes I do. They are juicy and bursting with seeds. Unlike the America ones, they kept the seeds and the flavor. Another volunteer brought lemons back from her vacation, so all was set for the punch. The hardest part was the juicing of the watermelon. We didn’t have a blender. We had a hand held masher and dedication. We didn’t even have a t-shirt or cheesecloth to squeeze the pulverized flesh. Tragic! But, it was worth the effort expended.
Beyond the food, which is always amazing at volunteer gatherings, it was nice just to get together. I hadn’t left my sight for an overnight since coming back from the conference. Plus, because someone was leaving for FOREVER, people came from all over. The only welyat not being represented was Dashoguz. The ache of missing friends that are far away is kind of constant. I push it aside and ignore it because I do have great friends in Mary, but it’s there. It was just so relaxing and so rejuvenating to be with other PCVs again.
Again, to the dearly departed, I hope your travels where safe, and you will be missed.
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