Written April 7, 09
So, technically its not really a new year, but I figured now would be a good time to describe some of the changes in my world. Having been here for 18 months (yes, I am 2/3rd done…how weird is that?), I have finally figured out what is normal and routine, just in time for it to change. From new money, cell phone plans, and transportation the foundations of my existence are shaking, but mostly in a good way.
We got new buses in Mary. The president came for a visit in the beginning of March, and he gave a public transportation system to the welyat. There is a system of buses that runs from practically every oba to etrap and regional center. From my village the buses run to Mary City every half hour and cost about $0.20 each way. This is cheaper than the old taxis or mini buses. The buses, though, take a lot longer and stop a lot more. There are always downsides, I suppose.
My clinic got a new ambulance. This is another gift from the president, and it’s pretty cool. I am delighted because I think my clinic is moving towards greater prominence. It used to be a district hospital in the Soviet era, but it fell into disrepir and disuse since independence. In the time that I’ve been here, the government built a new family health clinic, gave them an ambulance, and sent out an engineer to draw up plans to build a new birthing ward. My director and I are working on a second grant to remodel a few rooms to improve the children’s ward. I guess I like feeling like the work I am doing is in conjunction with an integrated plan. I don’t feel as isolated in my projects as some volunteers do.
We got new money. On January 1st, Turkmenistan introduced a new currency. It is much prettier than the old currency. 5,000 old manat is worth 1 new manat. This is slightly annoying for me because not only do I have to do a lot of math on a daily basis, I now earn 500 manat a month. This is psychologically devastating, as I used to earn 2.5 million. Wa Hey (Turkmen expression of regret and commiseration). For the duration of this year, both currencies are accepted legal tender. On December 31st, 2009, the old currency will become worthless.
Our new volunteers have settled into their little worlds, which on occasion (usually Fridays) connect with mine. In Mary, 7 new volunteers came, though 1 left. Peace Corps isn’t for everyone, and I think there are quite a few of us (myself included) that would probably be happier and better adjusted people if we considered ET-ing with more seriousness.* Anyway, the other 6 are doing fine, operating the new buses, currencies, and language with more savvy than me most of the time.
Spring has arrived and summer is taking its time arriving (I still wear sweaters and it’s APRIL!!!!!!!!!!!!! This time last year I was already dehydrated).
*I recently got a letter from my father, and he described being torn between wanting to be supportive when I was struggling and just telling me to come home. I am glad in the end that he chose the former. And, while I am happy being where I and with what I’m doing, it took a lot of heartache, struggles, and diarrhea to get to this point. I hope it will be worth it, but I’ve still got nine months until I’m sure.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Everyone's Changing And I Don't Feel The Same
Written April 11, 09
The president visited Mary in early March. This was when I didn’t have a flash drive so couldn’t describe the festivities. Most school children and nurses had to go to various locations to wave flags and stuff. As part of his trip, the President gave the welyat a public transportation system. There is now a system of buses that links most obas to the regional and district centers. This has some serious pros and cons.
On the pros, its cheaper. I can go from my village to the city for about 20 cents. It used to cost 50. Also, as a result of the cheap buses, the Marshrutkas (personally operated minibus taxis) lowered their prices to be competitive. They cost about 35 cents. It is safer. The buses are big, new, and well made. They drive at reasonable speeds and because they aren’t competing with each other for passengers, they aren’t taking stupid risks to overtake each other.
On the cons, there is an unemployment problem in Turkmenistan. For a lot of people working as taxi drivers is an important source of income, and the buses have seriously undercut them. I doubt that the government has some sort of program to transition these people into this new economy. It also takes a lot longer on the bus. A 40 minute marshrutka ride can take an hour because the buses stop more and don’t take those stupid risks. (they are dangerous, but they do get you to your destination faster.) Finally, the number of people I interact with is exponentially increased. A marshrutka fit at most 15 people, the buses can cram at least 30-50. Most of the time I know someone one the bus who wants everyone else to know they are talking to an American. This in turn incites curiosity in everyone else.
On the plus side, people have recently become slightly less interested in my name, year of birth, salary, and marital status. Those are generally the first 4 questions a Turkmen will ask you. Now, they want to know about Obama. This is a transcription of a conversation I have had more times than I want to count.
Turkmen: Are you really American?
Me: Yes, I lived in Washington DC
Turkmen: Your president lives there.
Me: Yes. Obama lives there. He lives in a white house.
Turkmen: Your president is a (politically incorrect term for African American)
Me: Obama is a black man. We don’t say (politically incorrect term for African American) because it is very rude.
Turkmen: Interesting. Is he Muslim?
Me: No, but his father was Muslim
Turkmen: He is young.
Me: Yes, but he is smart. He studied at ‘Garvard’ (The ‘h’ sound often becomes a G in Turkmen)
Turkmen: really? Where is little Bush? (as opposed to big Bush—the father)
Me: I don’t know.
Turkmen: What year were you born?
The president visited Mary in early March. This was when I didn’t have a flash drive so couldn’t describe the festivities. Most school children and nurses had to go to various locations to wave flags and stuff. As part of his trip, the President gave the welyat a public transportation system. There is now a system of buses that links most obas to the regional and district centers. This has some serious pros and cons.
On the pros, its cheaper. I can go from my village to the city for about 20 cents. It used to cost 50. Also, as a result of the cheap buses, the Marshrutkas (personally operated minibus taxis) lowered their prices to be competitive. They cost about 35 cents. It is safer. The buses are big, new, and well made. They drive at reasonable speeds and because they aren’t competing with each other for passengers, they aren’t taking stupid risks to overtake each other.
On the cons, there is an unemployment problem in Turkmenistan. For a lot of people working as taxi drivers is an important source of income, and the buses have seriously undercut them. I doubt that the government has some sort of program to transition these people into this new economy. It also takes a lot longer on the bus. A 40 minute marshrutka ride can take an hour because the buses stop more and don’t take those stupid risks. (they are dangerous, but they do get you to your destination faster.) Finally, the number of people I interact with is exponentially increased. A marshrutka fit at most 15 people, the buses can cram at least 30-50. Most of the time I know someone one the bus who wants everyone else to know they are talking to an American. This in turn incites curiosity in everyone else.
On the plus side, people have recently become slightly less interested in my name, year of birth, salary, and marital status. Those are generally the first 4 questions a Turkmen will ask you. Now, they want to know about Obama. This is a transcription of a conversation I have had more times than I want to count.
Turkmen: Are you really American?
Me: Yes, I lived in Washington DC
Turkmen: Your president lives there.
Me: Yes. Obama lives there. He lives in a white house.
Turkmen: Your president is a (politically incorrect term for African American)
Me: Obama is a black man. We don’t say (politically incorrect term for African American) because it is very rude.
Turkmen: Interesting. Is he Muslim?
Me: No, but his father was Muslim
Turkmen: He is young.
Me: Yes, but he is smart. He studied at ‘Garvard’ (The ‘h’ sound often becomes a G in Turkmen)
Turkmen: really? Where is little Bush? (as opposed to big Bush—the father)
Me: I don’t know.
Turkmen: What year were you born?
A Thing Called Rain
Written April 14, 2009
First, this is a major thank you to the fantastic parentals (and sibling) who mailed me a new flash drive to replace the one that fried. I will take good care of it, and as a result, the blog is back in business. So here we go…
When I first researched Turkmenistan, I was pretty sure that it was most (up to 90 percent) desert. As I continue my time here, I am coming to doubt that information. This spring has been constantly damp, cool, and most assuredly not desert-like in the least. Since February it’s rained at least once a week and usually more than that.
My Turkmen friends are mostly excited because it bodes well for their tomatoes, eggplants, and cucumbers. Also, it means their gardens will be in better shape this summer when most of the water is diverted to the cotton fields. The Soviets planted huge fields of cotton during their reign, and the logic behind this baffles me. While cotton does well in sandy soils, it is very water intensive crop. To grow it here, the Soviet created the Garagum canal, which basically drained the Aral Sea. The legacy remains; the Aral Sea shrink more every year, and cotton is a major part of the Turkmen economy.
While all this rain is no doubt good for farming, my experience of the village is not much improved by the water. The rain transforms the thick layer of dust that covers everything from the roads to the small children into lethally slick muck and puddles. For someone like me, with no innate grace or balance, this is a very bad thing, especially as I walk just about everywhere. When it rains, most of the roads are impassible on foot. The mud and puddles are just to deep. This leaves just little raised paths on the sides of the roads. They are very narrow and with every step I take, I slide down towards the mucky-muck.
I’ve been waiting for this day for a while; I finally fell. It was cartoon-animation worthy; the only thing missing was the banana peel. I confidently stepped forward, only to find the ground unstable. Both my feet slipped out from under me, and I scissor kicked the air in a futile effort to halt the inevitable. All I thought with my back perpendicular to the ground was “this will suck.”
I land with a massive splat, of course in front of an audience of small Turkmen children. The children were clearly torn between laughter at and concern for the fallen American. To give them credit, they held off the laughter until I had picked myself and my bruised dignity off the ground. It took about an hour to wash all the mud from my hair, and at least that long to wash my dress. The dress will never be the same again.
So, I find myself thinking something I will kick myself for later. Please summer with your unceasing heat and merciless sun, come quickly. Because, while I might be dehydrated and dusty, I’m not washing what might very well be cow poop from my hair!
First, this is a major thank you to the fantastic parentals (and sibling) who mailed me a new flash drive to replace the one that fried. I will take good care of it, and as a result, the blog is back in business. So here we go…
When I first researched Turkmenistan, I was pretty sure that it was most (up to 90 percent) desert. As I continue my time here, I am coming to doubt that information. This spring has been constantly damp, cool, and most assuredly not desert-like in the least. Since February it’s rained at least once a week and usually more than that.
My Turkmen friends are mostly excited because it bodes well for their tomatoes, eggplants, and cucumbers. Also, it means their gardens will be in better shape this summer when most of the water is diverted to the cotton fields. The Soviets planted huge fields of cotton during their reign, and the logic behind this baffles me. While cotton does well in sandy soils, it is very water intensive crop. To grow it here, the Soviet created the Garagum canal, which basically drained the Aral Sea. The legacy remains; the Aral Sea shrink more every year, and cotton is a major part of the Turkmen economy.
While all this rain is no doubt good for farming, my experience of the village is not much improved by the water. The rain transforms the thick layer of dust that covers everything from the roads to the small children into lethally slick muck and puddles. For someone like me, with no innate grace or balance, this is a very bad thing, especially as I walk just about everywhere. When it rains, most of the roads are impassible on foot. The mud and puddles are just to deep. This leaves just little raised paths on the sides of the roads. They are very narrow and with every step I take, I slide down towards the mucky-muck.
I’ve been waiting for this day for a while; I finally fell. It was cartoon-animation worthy; the only thing missing was the banana peel. I confidently stepped forward, only to find the ground unstable. Both my feet slipped out from under me, and I scissor kicked the air in a futile effort to halt the inevitable. All I thought with my back perpendicular to the ground was “this will suck.”
I land with a massive splat, of course in front of an audience of small Turkmen children. The children were clearly torn between laughter at and concern for the fallen American. To give them credit, they held off the laughter until I had picked myself and my bruised dignity off the ground. It took about an hour to wash all the mud from my hair, and at least that long to wash my dress. The dress will never be the same again.
So, I find myself thinking something I will kick myself for later. Please summer with your unceasing heat and merciless sun, come quickly. Because, while I might be dehydrated and dusty, I’m not washing what might very well be cow poop from my hair!
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