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.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
As We Peer Into The Great Unknown
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.
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.
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!
Friday, March 13, 2009
Video Killed the Radio Star
many more apologies from T-Stan. my flash drive has decided that it will no longer work under these conditions, despite my tears, rants, and pleas. This makes it slightly difficult to write blogs because i pay by the minute at the internet cafe. When i figure out a new system, more will come. If anyone wants to know about such exciting events as Flag Day in Lepab, watching a bride sold, the President's visit, the new ambulance, or the mud send me an e-mail or a letter.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Hi Ho the Cheerio
buying meat central asia style...someone's having chorba tonight!
the procedure for camel weighing...
Friday, January 23, 2009
5,025,600
Written January 16th, 2008
I meant to post this blog much closer to Dec. 23rd, which would mark the official end of my first year of service. Unfortunately life and laziness took over, and I find myself somewhat delayed. Apologies.
I’ve passed a milestone, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. Like the Broadway score, I don’t quite know how to measure my accomplishments. Should it be in cups of tea? In tears shed? In camels milked? I probably could concoct a whole Harper’s index on the numbers that have made this year meaningful.
2008: Coldest winter since 1969
14: months I went without seeing my parents
1:5000: ratio of new money to old money now that they’ve introduced new currency
3,000: cost of a liter of gas, up from 300
7,000: cost of a taxi now, up from 4,000 last January
9: number of excellent T-16 Mary volunteers still here
0: number of T-16 Mary volunteers that left
7: number of T-15s who arrived in Mary
3: number who COS-ed
1: marriages in my host family
6: days that I was obligated to do something wedding related
2: vacations I have taken
1: times I’ve had giardia
But, however fun these numbers are to think about, they aren’t real. It doesn’t capture the depression of surviving the coldest winter since 1969, the feeling of numb toes inside 3 pairs of socks, the terror of driving in a Lada on an icy road, or the joy of seeing something, anything, finally turning green and alive. The numbers don’t capture the visceral homesickness that is as debilitating as a real disease. And, there’s no way to explain how fantastic it felt to be hugged after so many months of wanting to be.
There is no number to correspond to the feeling I get when a small child asks to shake my hand on his way to school, when a colleague explains some salacious oba gossip over cookies, when my host brother asks me to play soccer, or when my grandfather lets me watch news in English. I can’t count how many times I took the final curve in my road, saw the water tower in the distance, and thought, ‘thank god, I’m home.’ Equally numerous are the times I saw the same sight and thought, ‘I never want to see this place again.’
I was hoping that after a year I’d have more of a clue, but I don’t really.
I meant to post this blog much closer to Dec. 23rd, which would mark the official end of my first year of service. Unfortunately life and laziness took over, and I find myself somewhat delayed. Apologies.
I’ve passed a milestone, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. Like the Broadway score, I don’t quite know how to measure my accomplishments. Should it be in cups of tea? In tears shed? In camels milked? I probably could concoct a whole Harper’s index on the numbers that have made this year meaningful.
2008: Coldest winter since 1969
14: months I went without seeing my parents
1:5000: ratio of new money to old money now that they’ve introduced new currency
3,000: cost of a liter of gas, up from 300
7,000: cost of a taxi now, up from 4,000 last January
9: number of excellent T-16 Mary volunteers still here
0: number of T-16 Mary volunteers that left
7: number of T-15s who arrived in Mary
3: number who COS-ed
1: marriages in my host family
6: days that I was obligated to do something wedding related
2: vacations I have taken
1: times I’ve had giardia
But, however fun these numbers are to think about, they aren’t real. It doesn’t capture the depression of surviving the coldest winter since 1969, the feeling of numb toes inside 3 pairs of socks, the terror of driving in a Lada on an icy road, or the joy of seeing something, anything, finally turning green and alive. The numbers don’t capture the visceral homesickness that is as debilitating as a real disease. And, there’s no way to explain how fantastic it felt to be hugged after so many months of wanting to be.
There is no number to correspond to the feeling I get when a small child asks to shake my hand on his way to school, when a colleague explains some salacious oba gossip over cookies, when my host brother asks me to play soccer, or when my grandfather lets me watch news in English. I can’t count how many times I took the final curve in my road, saw the water tower in the distance, and thought, ‘thank god, I’m home.’ Equally numerous are the times I saw the same sight and thought, ‘I never want to see this place again.’
I was hoping that after a year I’d have more of a clue, but I don’t really.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)