My Town, My Guy, and Me
Written May 20, 2009
I read in a Newsweek before budget cuts at Peace Corps Washington annihilated our subscription, that Obama means “little beach” somewhere in Japan. I didn’t know I remembered that until outside events brought it to the forefront of my mind. But, before I can explain, here’s a quick lesson in Turkmen and the wide world of suffixes. This may seem like an abrupt transition, but it ties back in eventually.
In Turkmen nouns, verbs, and just about any other grammar construct can be possessed by adding the appropriate possessive ending. There’s a possessive pronoun that can be used in conjunction, but because the endings are specific to each pronoun, they are usually omitted when speaking. ‘Your pen’ in Turkmen is Seň ruchkaň. (ň in Turkmen is pronounced with an ‘ng’ sound). ‘My walking’ is meň yöremegim’. The -ň and the –m endings indicate possession.
Most prepositions in Turkmen are also suffixes attached to words. To say that I bought something from the store, I would say that it was ‘dukandan,’ where dukan means store and –dan means from the. To say in or at, the suffix –da is used, and to say to, as in I am going to, it is simply –a.
I mention this because the third goal of Peace Corps is to educate Americans about foreign peoples and places, but also because the world for village in Turkmen is ‘oba.’ (I hope this is coming together for some of you by now.) When oba is possessed by me it becomes Obam, and if someone were traveling to my village, they would be going obama.
This came to my attention rather belatedly, given all the press and campaign insanity coupled with the frequency with which I use say obama in Turkmen not in reference to the president. But, the other day, I was telling a co-worker (in Turkmen) that Obama went to Kenya. My colleague then asked me if the whole country came and then started laughing. It took me a while, but I got it. Because Kenya already ends with a, the directional ending is much more subtle. I depending on context and interpretation, either said, “Obama (my president) went to Kenya” or “Kenya went to my village.” Maybe it’s my own context and interpretation, but I’m still smiling.
And, if Peace Corps is reading this, can we get our Newsweek back when the new budget is approved?
Friday, May 22, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Dream about how to make your life better written May 14, 2009
Dream About How to Make Your Life Better
Written May 14, 2009
I back from a mini-break as the Brits like to say. Last weekend I decided that I needed some mental health days, and I made my way to Balkan. It is the most western region of Turkmenistan, bordering the Caspian Sea and best known for its oil and natural gas. One of my good friends lives in Balkanabat, which is the welyat capital. Before it was known as Balkanabat, it was Nebit Dag, which literally means Gas Mountain. There are actually a few foreigners floating around the city, all employed by the various gas firms in the area.
While it is no doubt good in some respects to have a little cosmopolitan crowd, most of the volunteers in the area are annoyed because they cause inflation. For those on foreign salaries, paying a dollar per kilo of tomatoes is cheap. For the little country bumpkin from Mary, it almost caused a heart attack. (I should mention that my welyat is the breadbasket of Turkmenistan. Our tomatoes are always the cheapest!)
For the most part my friend and I were lame Americans. We hung out in her “cockroach infested Soviet crackden” or apartment. This spring it rained an abnormal amount in Balkan, which is probably good for something besides mosquito breeding, but I can’t really think what. The apartment was infested, and I’ve got the battle scars to prove it. Aside from the bugs, though, great fun was had. We made lots of food. Highlights include chocolate cupcakes with icing made from condensed milk, pasta al diabolo, fajitas with home made tortillas, and a proper Sunday lunch of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy. I also brought a puzzle, and we spent a lot of time sprawled on the floor trying in vain to piece together Van Gogh’s Irises in photo mosaic.
It was really fun to travel and see another part of Turkmenistan. My friend and I did all the silly tourist things that one has to do when going to a new Turkmen city. This includes obligatory photos with the statues. I have to say that the camel statue is one of the better ones I’ve come across. Small, strange children only add to its appeal. And, even though my eyes are closed, the view from the health walk was pretty cool. Once Balkanabat ends, the desert begins and that’s all she wrote. It doesn’t really come out in the picture, but the desert in the distance looks almost like water when the sun hits it. I finally get the desert mirage thing.
Now I’m back in sweet Mary, with renewed enjoyment of my low-cost produce, easy travel between other volunteers, and my routine. Like they say in Kansas, there’s no place like home.
Written May 14, 2009
I back from a mini-break as the Brits like to say. Last weekend I decided that I needed some mental health days, and I made my way to Balkan. It is the most western region of Turkmenistan, bordering the Caspian Sea and best known for its oil and natural gas. One of my good friends lives in Balkanabat, which is the welyat capital. Before it was known as Balkanabat, it was Nebit Dag, which literally means Gas Mountain. There are actually a few foreigners floating around the city, all employed by the various gas firms in the area.
While it is no doubt good in some respects to have a little cosmopolitan crowd, most of the volunteers in the area are annoyed because they cause inflation. For those on foreign salaries, paying a dollar per kilo of tomatoes is cheap. For the little country bumpkin from Mary, it almost caused a heart attack. (I should mention that my welyat is the breadbasket of Turkmenistan. Our tomatoes are always the cheapest!)
For the most part my friend and I were lame Americans. We hung out in her “cockroach infested Soviet crackden” or apartment. This spring it rained an abnormal amount in Balkan, which is probably good for something besides mosquito breeding, but I can’t really think what. The apartment was infested, and I’ve got the battle scars to prove it. Aside from the bugs, though, great fun was had. We made lots of food. Highlights include chocolate cupcakes with icing made from condensed milk, pasta al diabolo, fajitas with home made tortillas, and a proper Sunday lunch of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy. I also brought a puzzle, and we spent a lot of time sprawled on the floor trying in vain to piece together Van Gogh’s Irises in photo mosaic.
It was really fun to travel and see another part of Turkmenistan. My friend and I did all the silly tourist things that one has to do when going to a new Turkmen city. This includes obligatory photos with the statues. I have to say that the camel statue is one of the better ones I’ve come across. Small, strange children only add to its appeal. And, even though my eyes are closed, the view from the health walk was pretty cool. Once Balkanabat ends, the desert begins and that’s all she wrote. It doesn’t really come out in the picture, but the desert in the distance looks almost like water when the sun hits it. I finally get the desert mirage thing.
Now I’m back in sweet Mary, with renewed enjoyment of my low-cost produce, easy travel between other volunteers, and my routine. Like they say in Kansas, there’s no place like home.
Tell me: are you a badfish too? Written May 13, 2009
Several weeks ago, I was kidnapped. Well, that’s a bit dramatic, I went to a town south of Mary to visit with another volunteer. She had, before my arrival, told some of her local friends that another American was coming to visit. They invited us out. The assumption was that we would eat in the town.
Five minutes later, we found ourselves on the road to Afghanistan. Fear not, though, we didn’t make it quite that far south, although I was wondering. We drove about an hour south to a place in the desert where there was a pretty large canal. In short order, our hosts were identified as frequent patrons, and the red carpet, or at least the gowy klionka (sheet of plastic), was rolled out. Platters of tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, and herbs were brought out. Fresh bread and bowls of yogurt shortly joined them. Soda, juice, and other beverages were plentiful and fun.
The best part though, was the fish. It was fresh. Generally, at these little roadside fish restaurants fish are caught throughout the day and then kept alive on a line in the canals until customers arrive. The fish was still flapping when it was beheaded. It was fried perfectly, crunchy on the outside and melt-y and white on the inside. Compared to other Turkmen fish, the one that we ate was far less boney than any others I’ve eaten. Delicious! For a while we were the only patrons, but after about an hour of eating we were joined by several other Turkmen. At this point, the management rigged up the stereo to turn the restaurant into an impromptu disco. We danced the kush depe and laughed.
After about three hours we made our way back to the town, slowly driving along a desert road at dusk. We saw the Chinese gas company lights in the distance. We stopped at another nightspot in town, smoked sheesha, and drank instant coffee. Drinking instant coffee at 12:30 was not the best decision I ever made, but it was the right one at the time. It was just a great night. I spoke Turkmen with a mistake-laden fluency, but no one cared. I learned how much it costs to keep a son out of the army. I learned and forgot promptly the local names for the various species of catfish. I sat and watched the desert as the sun set.
Five minutes later, we found ourselves on the road to Afghanistan. Fear not, though, we didn’t make it quite that far south, although I was wondering. We drove about an hour south to a place in the desert where there was a pretty large canal. In short order, our hosts were identified as frequent patrons, and the red carpet, or at least the gowy klionka (sheet of plastic), was rolled out. Platters of tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, and herbs were brought out. Fresh bread and bowls of yogurt shortly joined them. Soda, juice, and other beverages were plentiful and fun.
The best part though, was the fish. It was fresh. Generally, at these little roadside fish restaurants fish are caught throughout the day and then kept alive on a line in the canals until customers arrive. The fish was still flapping when it was beheaded. It was fried perfectly, crunchy on the outside and melt-y and white on the inside. Compared to other Turkmen fish, the one that we ate was far less boney than any others I’ve eaten. Delicious! For a while we were the only patrons, but after about an hour of eating we were joined by several other Turkmen. At this point, the management rigged up the stereo to turn the restaurant into an impromptu disco. We danced the kush depe and laughed.
After about three hours we made our way back to the town, slowly driving along a desert road at dusk. We saw the Chinese gas company lights in the distance. We stopped at another nightspot in town, smoked sheesha, and drank instant coffee. Drinking instant coffee at 12:30 was not the best decision I ever made, but it was the right one at the time. It was just a great night. I spoke Turkmen with a mistake-laden fluency, but no one cared. I learned how much it costs to keep a son out of the army. I learned and forgot promptly the local names for the various species of catfish. I sat and watched the desert as the sun set.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Radio's playing a tune from the country written April 29, 2009
Radio’s Playing a Tune From the Country
Written April 29, 2009
There are some things that are just great about America, and with out them, my country would just kind of suck. Avocados are one of them because we had the great foresight to invite Mexicans to our land. Among other things, this immigration has improved our culinary lot in life. The interstate highway system is another. It was a Department of Defense undertaking, and I still think if we want to keep American safe from any kind of threat, we should improve at home before going abroad. But, the entire point of this blog, rambling though it is, is NPR (National Public Radio…please mentally say this to yourself with the same diction and intonation as they say on the radio.)
NPR has always sort of been background noise in my life. On so many car rides, going places I don’t even remember, I listened intently to All Things Considered. I probably didn’t consider them all, but I did think about one or two. When I needed white noise in my dorm room to study, it was This American Life. Somehow the quiet cadences were mellow enough to work through. But, when I needed a mental break, all I had to do was tune back in and hear stories of shopping malls and blood banks.
A fellow PCV passed along a huge collection of pod casts of This American Life and RadioLab. I didn’t realize how much I had missed a real sense of public life. They debate, discuss, and inform on topics of policy and importance. They also explain the sexual reproductive systems of ducks. I am now the proud owner of over 150 episodes of each, and tickled pink. I basically can have 4 days of NPR on my iPod at any given moment. It’s awesome.
Being here, where access to NPR is a real gift, I am sort of ashamed to admit that I was (and still am actually) a free rider. NPR depends on the support of listeners who value the service enough to pay for it voluntarily. I should have, and I didn’t. But, when I get back to a land where I can access my bank information online, I am donating enough to get that travel mug and tote bag they keep talking about. To all others out there, who listen to NPR with the same giddy thrill and excitement that I do, donate $20, more if you can.
Written April 29, 2009
There are some things that are just great about America, and with out them, my country would just kind of suck. Avocados are one of them because we had the great foresight to invite Mexicans to our land. Among other things, this immigration has improved our culinary lot in life. The interstate highway system is another. It was a Department of Defense undertaking, and I still think if we want to keep American safe from any kind of threat, we should improve at home before going abroad. But, the entire point of this blog, rambling though it is, is NPR (National Public Radio…please mentally say this to yourself with the same diction and intonation as they say on the radio.)
NPR has always sort of been background noise in my life. On so many car rides, going places I don’t even remember, I listened intently to All Things Considered. I probably didn’t consider them all, but I did think about one or two. When I needed white noise in my dorm room to study, it was This American Life. Somehow the quiet cadences were mellow enough to work through. But, when I needed a mental break, all I had to do was tune back in and hear stories of shopping malls and blood banks.
A fellow PCV passed along a huge collection of pod casts of This American Life and RadioLab. I didn’t realize how much I had missed a real sense of public life. They debate, discuss, and inform on topics of policy and importance. They also explain the sexual reproductive systems of ducks. I am now the proud owner of over 150 episodes of each, and tickled pink. I basically can have 4 days of NPR on my iPod at any given moment. It’s awesome.
Being here, where access to NPR is a real gift, I am sort of ashamed to admit that I was (and still am actually) a free rider. NPR depends on the support of listeners who value the service enough to pay for it voluntarily. I should have, and I didn’t. But, when I get back to a land where I can access my bank information online, I am donating enough to get that travel mug and tote bag they keep talking about. To all others out there, who listen to NPR with the same giddy thrill and excitement that I do, donate $20, more if you can.
Other people's mail written April 28, 2009
Other People’s Mail
Written April 28, 2009
The mail races are sort of in their marathon stage. I care less about how fast a letter arrives and more that it is written. Most of the sprinters have dropped out, finding that pen and paper in an electronic age is just too complicated. I applaud their efforts and to the best of my ability, have tried to remain in contact through e-mails. Now, it’s the endurance correspondents remaining. I have a strong core, and I have no doubt they will pull me through the finish line with their upbeat missives about life, the universe, and, well, everything.
In particular, I must thank Anne from BC who has responded to every letter I sent, Kathy from BC who takes time from med school insanity to encourage me, Kat from BC who rejoins the pack just when I think she’s out of the race, Father Keenan from BC who sends fantastic Christmas cards, Norm from GS because it’s rare that after 7 years we still have so much to say, Moses who is gone but hasn’t forgotten, Sarah who e-mails to tell me there’s a letter in the mail, Aunt Elaine who is generous with photos, family news, and granola bars, and of course the parental all-stars. I think I can count the number of times there hasn’t been a letter from one or both of them in the mail box on one hand.
In addition to my gratitude, there’s another mail race update! Sudan not only joined the mail race, but also did so successfully. After nearly two months of planes, trains, and camel caravans, a letter mailed by my father in Juba (February 13, 2009) arrived at the post office in Mary (April 23, 2009), with a layover in Karachi. I’m accumulating quite the collection of postmarks. No pages were missing, and it didn’t even look to be open. So, faint-of-heart, fear not because wherever it’s from, the mail will go through.
Written April 28, 2009
The mail races are sort of in their marathon stage. I care less about how fast a letter arrives and more that it is written. Most of the sprinters have dropped out, finding that pen and paper in an electronic age is just too complicated. I applaud their efforts and to the best of my ability, have tried to remain in contact through e-mails. Now, it’s the endurance correspondents remaining. I have a strong core, and I have no doubt they will pull me through the finish line with their upbeat missives about life, the universe, and, well, everything.
In particular, I must thank Anne from BC who has responded to every letter I sent, Kathy from BC who takes time from med school insanity to encourage me, Kat from BC who rejoins the pack just when I think she’s out of the race, Father Keenan from BC who sends fantastic Christmas cards, Norm from GS because it’s rare that after 7 years we still have so much to say, Moses who is gone but hasn’t forgotten, Sarah who e-mails to tell me there’s a letter in the mail, Aunt Elaine who is generous with photos, family news, and granola bars, and of course the parental all-stars. I think I can count the number of times there hasn’t been a letter from one or both of them in the mail box on one hand.
In addition to my gratitude, there’s another mail race update! Sudan not only joined the mail race, but also did so successfully. After nearly two months of planes, trains, and camel caravans, a letter mailed by my father in Juba (February 13, 2009) arrived at the post office in Mary (April 23, 2009), with a layover in Karachi. I’m accumulating quite the collection of postmarks. No pages were missing, and it didn’t even look to be open. So, faint-of-heart, fear not because wherever it’s from, the mail will go through.
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