Saturday, August 23, 2008
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.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
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!
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!
Friday, July 11, 2008
All Apologies: written July 6 2008
So there’s been a bit of a delay in blogs. Apologies—profuse ones—I’ve been a bizarre combination of lazy and busy. The busy came about because I had to create about 7 posters for my clinic. The president of Turkmenistan has declared a war on drugs, alcoholism, and cigarettes. As a result the nurses in my clinic needed to have posters, and enter the otherwise marginally occupied PCV. Actually the marginally occupied is a lie; I was really stressed with the posters and the English lessons that are going swimmingly. The lazy was when I came home, I just wanted to crash and ignore my computer. I’m also in the midst of some good books, but that will be another entry later. So this is my solemn promise to try and do better with the updates.
Come Together Right Now July 8, 2008
I’ve recently returned from my second in-service training, which was the All-Volunteer conference in Ashgabat. This is the only time that all the volunteers in country in a given year will be in one place at one time. Well, there were a couple who were absent; there were some vacation extensions and cancelled flights. It was socially fabulous. I was able to see friend that I hadn’t seen since we left for site back in December. There were also a few people that I had never met at all. Outside of welyats and border zones, we are actually quite spread out. It was funny to be introducing ourselves to each other after being in country for 9 months.
This was also deeply exciting because I had a shower with a real faucet and water poured down without the aide of a bucket. I hadn’t had a real shower since the middle of April. I averaged about 3 per day. We got to stay at the Ak Altyn hotel, which is fabulous mostly because of its breakfasts. They have delicious Iranian cream cheese. Delicious things in Turkmenistan tend to come from Iran—pistachios, long grain rice, and cheese.
Day 1 (May 30th) was actually just the evening. I left work a bit early and went to see another volunteer. She trimmed my fraying ends from my hair. It was rather frightening; I hadn’t cut my hair since September. My ends are looking far tidier. Then we went to a restaurant to wait for the train. The 9 Mary volunteers who weren’t on vacation decided to take the train, and ostensibly we all bought tickets together so we could be in the same compartment. But, the joys of developing world travel obstructed those plans. Three people got on the train at a town before Mary. We got on to find that one of our cabins had been occupied by some renegade Dyzas. We were told by the conductor to just find seats other places, but we were ejected from the other cabin we found by a slightly intoxicated pair. Eventually, we convinced the conductor that the women in our compartment didn’t have tickets and needed to leave. He was shocked that his suggestion of sleeping 9 in a cabin for 4 was not met with approval. Crazy Americans and our insistence that we get what we pay for!
Day 2: We rolled into Ashgabat the next morning two hours late, but not really the worse for wear. We made it to the Peace Corps lounge where we ran into about half of the PCVs in country. The Dashoguz train had arrived at 6 am. They had a 20 hour train ride. As annoying as the 11 hours I had to spend was, I’m glad not to be them. I went to the Russian bazaar for my levash. It’s sort of like a gyro, but less delicious. As far as the street food of Turkmenistan goes, it’s probably the best thing out there. I also tried ineffectually to find a travel agency, but did go on a crazy trek of the city which the taxi driver didn’t charge me for. He felt bad that I didn’t get to where I wanted to go. I also spoke to my parents. At night we ordered pizza and watched a bootlegged copy of Sex and The City that someone had procured from Thailand. At this point, I’d like to give a huge shout out to the people on the American Embassy 4th Floor room. They were fantastic, and let us watch the movie on the projector even though it meant staying open late.
Day 3 was the official start of the conference. It started like most do with the ubiquitous ice breakers and team building exercises that are fun until they start getting annoying. I mostly stood there, but as most others were doing the same thing, I was in good company. We had I’m sure very informative sessions on important Peace Corps things, but I don’t really remember them. I did like the health session. My table team won the Jeopardy game and I got an honest to god root beer. It was deliciousness in an A&W can. That night was the Embassy 4th of July party. I think the PCVs are invited out of pity. It was fun in that sort of fourth grade field trip kind of way. We were all told to be on our best behavior, surreptitiously watched, and bused in and out. We were also told not to make a beeline to the buffet until the dignitaries ate. I did my best, but it was taco night.
Day 4 was called open space, and it was probably the best part of the conference. We got to meet in small groups with PCVs presenting on a range of topics that were pertinent to their work in the field. I attended two on social marketing because a lot of what a health volunteer does is market healthy and lifestyle behaviors. The first session was more theory; the second was the practical applications. Then I went to a session on Turkmen health beliefs. It was also fun! I wish I could have gone to working with health counterparts and the beginner’s English curriculum. Too much I need to know, and so little time.
Day 5 was traveling back to site. We were kicked out of the hotel early because of the Russians. The new president was doing his official state visit to Turkmenistan and apparently the Russian media outranks PCVs. We had to check out by 8 am. Pretty much everyone went to the PC lounge, so that was rapidly overrun, and the three computers seemed paltry. I did make it to a travel agency, so nesip bolsa (god willing) my parents will have their visas and will visit! 6 of the Mary volunteers all decided to leave in the early afternoon. We decided to try for a marshrutka, and did get one. For 80,000 manat per person, we were able to get a minivan to take us to Mary. Ultimately I think the 30,000 more is worth the 7 hours we didn’t have to be traveling. I have to remember that in the future.
So, now I’m readjusting to life in the oba again. After a week of shaved legs, constant showers, and no koyneks, it’s harder than I thought it would be. I am a little bit worried about how I’ll fare after a real vacation!
This was also deeply exciting because I had a shower with a real faucet and water poured down without the aide of a bucket. I hadn’t had a real shower since the middle of April. I averaged about 3 per day. We got to stay at the Ak Altyn hotel, which is fabulous mostly because of its breakfasts. They have delicious Iranian cream cheese. Delicious things in Turkmenistan tend to come from Iran—pistachios, long grain rice, and cheese.
Day 1 (May 30th) was actually just the evening. I left work a bit early and went to see another volunteer. She trimmed my fraying ends from my hair. It was rather frightening; I hadn’t cut my hair since September. My ends are looking far tidier. Then we went to a restaurant to wait for the train. The 9 Mary volunteers who weren’t on vacation decided to take the train, and ostensibly we all bought tickets together so we could be in the same compartment. But, the joys of developing world travel obstructed those plans. Three people got on the train at a town before Mary. We got on to find that one of our cabins had been occupied by some renegade Dyzas. We were told by the conductor to just find seats other places, but we were ejected from the other cabin we found by a slightly intoxicated pair. Eventually, we convinced the conductor that the women in our compartment didn’t have tickets and needed to leave. He was shocked that his suggestion of sleeping 9 in a cabin for 4 was not met with approval. Crazy Americans and our insistence that we get what we pay for!
Day 2: We rolled into Ashgabat the next morning two hours late, but not really the worse for wear. We made it to the Peace Corps lounge where we ran into about half of the PCVs in country. The Dashoguz train had arrived at 6 am. They had a 20 hour train ride. As annoying as the 11 hours I had to spend was, I’m glad not to be them. I went to the Russian bazaar for my levash. It’s sort of like a gyro, but less delicious. As far as the street food of Turkmenistan goes, it’s probably the best thing out there. I also tried ineffectually to find a travel agency, but did go on a crazy trek of the city which the taxi driver didn’t charge me for. He felt bad that I didn’t get to where I wanted to go. I also spoke to my parents. At night we ordered pizza and watched a bootlegged copy of Sex and The City that someone had procured from Thailand. At this point, I’d like to give a huge shout out to the people on the American Embassy 4th Floor room. They were fantastic, and let us watch the movie on the projector even though it meant staying open late.
Day 3 was the official start of the conference. It started like most do with the ubiquitous ice breakers and team building exercises that are fun until they start getting annoying. I mostly stood there, but as most others were doing the same thing, I was in good company. We had I’m sure very informative sessions on important Peace Corps things, but I don’t really remember them. I did like the health session. My table team won the Jeopardy game and I got an honest to god root beer. It was deliciousness in an A&W can. That night was the Embassy 4th of July party. I think the PCVs are invited out of pity. It was fun in that sort of fourth grade field trip kind of way. We were all told to be on our best behavior, surreptitiously watched, and bused in and out. We were also told not to make a beeline to the buffet until the dignitaries ate. I did my best, but it was taco night.
Day 4 was called open space, and it was probably the best part of the conference. We got to meet in small groups with PCVs presenting on a range of topics that were pertinent to their work in the field. I attended two on social marketing because a lot of what a health volunteer does is market healthy and lifestyle behaviors. The first session was more theory; the second was the practical applications. Then I went to a session on Turkmen health beliefs. It was also fun! I wish I could have gone to working with health counterparts and the beginner’s English curriculum. Too much I need to know, and so little time.
Day 5 was traveling back to site. We were kicked out of the hotel early because of the Russians. The new president was doing his official state visit to Turkmenistan and apparently the Russian media outranks PCVs. We had to check out by 8 am. Pretty much everyone went to the PC lounge, so that was rapidly overrun, and the three computers seemed paltry. I did make it to a travel agency, so nesip bolsa (god willing) my parents will have their visas and will visit! 6 of the Mary volunteers all decided to leave in the early afternoon. We decided to try for a marshrutka, and did get one. For 80,000 manat per person, we were able to get a minivan to take us to Mary. Ultimately I think the 30,000 more is worth the 7 hours we didn’t have to be traveling. I have to remember that in the future.
So, now I’m readjusting to life in the oba again. After a week of shaved legs, constant showers, and no koyneks, it’s harder than I thought it would be. I am a little bit worried about how I’ll fare after a real vacation!
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