Written March 25
Weddings are a major part of Turkmen social, political, and economic culture. Socially, everyone loves a wedding. They love to get out the nice koyneks, to shine shoes, and see neighbors resplendent in finery. Politically, marriages are family affairs. Parents often arrange marriages and the bride price paid can sometimes double or triple a yearly income. Money is always political. Economically, it seems like one out of ever three businesses is some how connected to weddings. There are the banquet halls that are rented. The seamstresses that make the cupcake confection-like wedding dress. There are the wedding singers that will roll up into your oba and make a concert arena out of a flat bed truck. There are the caterers, the emcees, and of course the hordes of photographers and other media experts. No wedding would be complete without a souvenir photo with the bride and groom!
I went to the wedding of a college’s daughter on Saturday (March 22). Practically my whole clinic showed up, and we all rode together. The bride was beautiful, and she was the first Turkmen bride that I saw in a Turkmen wedding ensemble. It was red and embroidered. Most brides opt for western style dresses that wouldn’t look out of place on Barbie.
It was really nice to socialize with my clinic staff outside of the clinic. We got to talk about yakas (embroidered collars) and the cost of our dresses. The men got to smuggle vodka from the restaurant as they left. (The women don’t drink.) And, it was also a “water cooler” or “cay (pronounced chay) chat” subject this week. We get updates on how she’s settling in as a married woman and details on how the bride price will be spent.
I’m told that in a few months I will never want to attend another toy again. I will stand fast against bad chorba (soup) and mysterious meat dishes. I will reject the dancing and the poorly sung renditions of Turkmen pop. Maybe that’s true, but for the moment, it’s still a good time.
Friday, March 28, 2008
A Lady Doesn’t Wandering All Over the Room and Blow On Some Other Guy’s Dice
Written On March 22, 2008
We are in the midst of a byram (holiday). It’s the spring holidays. It is three days, well two days and a Sunday, and surprisingly refreshing. The sun is shining, edging to hot (but it’s a dry heat)! Flowers are blooming, the onions and spinach are ready for harvesting.
I went into Mary on Friday to play backgammon with a fellow volunteer. He’s the closest volunteer to my site (about 20 minutes by death cab), and a good person to have in close quarters. He’s sophisticatedly crude and erudite, plus he can play backgammon, which is AWESOME!
I’ve been a fanatic backgammon player since my dad taught me to count points. I baffle and amaze because I don’t have to count the points anymore. I like backgammon because, while it’s best to have some skill, it often depends on the roll of the dice. It’s a heady combination of strategic risk and stupidity.
Friday, though was my day. We played 10 games, 7 in my favor. I was on a hot streak. I had a massive run on doubles, particularly 5s, that made it really hard to mount a defense. I was particularly pleased because when I played him before (in December), I couldn’t catch a brake. It was an embarrassing set of defeats, but I have redeemed myself.
9 of the games we played were of the strategic ones. We both tried to make points, to block boards, to well, win. But the last game was way more fun. We were both a bit like the black knight in the Holy Grail. We were sacrificing limbs, hobbling around, and still demanding that our victory was iminient. Any open man was a target, regardless of how vulnerable a position it left you in. It got to the point where both of us had more of our men in each others’ back board than we did in our own. It was pure ridiculousness and way more fun!
I also ate chicken! And apologies to people who don’t play backgammon, but it’s a highlight of my life.
We are in the midst of a byram (holiday). It’s the spring holidays. It is three days, well two days and a Sunday, and surprisingly refreshing. The sun is shining, edging to hot (but it’s a dry heat)! Flowers are blooming, the onions and spinach are ready for harvesting.
I went into Mary on Friday to play backgammon with a fellow volunteer. He’s the closest volunteer to my site (about 20 minutes by death cab), and a good person to have in close quarters. He’s sophisticatedly crude and erudite, plus he can play backgammon, which is AWESOME!
I’ve been a fanatic backgammon player since my dad taught me to count points. I baffle and amaze because I don’t have to count the points anymore. I like backgammon because, while it’s best to have some skill, it often depends on the roll of the dice. It’s a heady combination of strategic risk and stupidity.
Friday, though was my day. We played 10 games, 7 in my favor. I was on a hot streak. I had a massive run on doubles, particularly 5s, that made it really hard to mount a defense. I was particularly pleased because when I played him before (in December), I couldn’t catch a brake. It was an embarrassing set of defeats, but I have redeemed myself.
9 of the games we played were of the strategic ones. We both tried to make points, to block boards, to well, win. But the last game was way more fun. We were both a bit like the black knight in the Holy Grail. We were sacrificing limbs, hobbling around, and still demanding that our victory was iminient. Any open man was a target, regardless of how vulnerable a position it left you in. It got to the point where both of us had more of our men in each others’ back board than we did in our own. It was pure ridiculousness and way more fun!
I also ate chicken! And apologies to people who don’t play backgammon, but it’s a highlight of my life.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Because It's Root, Root, Root for the Home Team
Written March 10
Missing, I think from my blogs of late, so focused as they are on Turkmenistan, are the other volunteers. I may mope about being alone and lonely in my oba (and at times I am), but I am far from alone or lonely in the country. There are probably about 60 or so volunteers at the moment. I could get a specific figure, but I’m lazy.
Fifteen of them are in Mary, and we are at most 2 hours away from each other. We are inconveniently connected by marshrutka routes and the first of the month (we all get paid at the same bank). Peace Corps warned (occasionally harped) on the need for balance between the time spent in your communities with the time spent with other volunteers. But, even they acknowledged that cultural immersion cold turkey is a recipe for failure.
The point of all this, is of course (American) FOOTBALL.
On Sunday, 12 of the 15 gathered to watch the Patriots snatch defeat from the jaws of victory (shameless stolen from a New Yorker column I think…I like it’s literary aspirations). Someone’s mother sent them a TiVo of the game, complete with beer commercials and other nifty doodads. There was a feast of Mexican food—or as close an approximate as can be expected given the lack of avocadoes—American cookies, and just being normal. SO FANTASTIC!
Some of the volunteers that were there I hadn’t seen since the fateful December van ride that took me here. We’ve all weathered the winter, dealt with the nuances of Turkmen work and culture, and had great stories to share. Most of the stories included taxis because that’s just where stuff goes down.
It was also great to have some time to chat with various voices of experiences. It put my emotions, paranoia, and vulnerabilities in perspective. Also, it soothed fears and gave me something to look foreword to in the future. WooHoo camping in the most ancient and impressive city of Merv.
Oh, and the game was cool too!
Missing, I think from my blogs of late, so focused as they are on Turkmenistan, are the other volunteers. I may mope about being alone and lonely in my oba (and at times I am), but I am far from alone or lonely in the country. There are probably about 60 or so volunteers at the moment. I could get a specific figure, but I’m lazy.
Fifteen of them are in Mary, and we are at most 2 hours away from each other. We are inconveniently connected by marshrutka routes and the first of the month (we all get paid at the same bank). Peace Corps warned (occasionally harped) on the need for balance between the time spent in your communities with the time spent with other volunteers. But, even they acknowledged that cultural immersion cold turkey is a recipe for failure.
The point of all this, is of course (American) FOOTBALL.
On Sunday, 12 of the 15 gathered to watch the Patriots snatch defeat from the jaws of victory (shameless stolen from a New Yorker column I think…I like it’s literary aspirations). Someone’s mother sent them a TiVo of the game, complete with beer commercials and other nifty doodads. There was a feast of Mexican food—or as close an approximate as can be expected given the lack of avocadoes—American cookies, and just being normal. SO FANTASTIC!
Some of the volunteers that were there I hadn’t seen since the fateful December van ride that took me here. We’ve all weathered the winter, dealt with the nuances of Turkmen work and culture, and had great stories to share. Most of the stories included taxis because that’s just where stuff goes down.
It was also great to have some time to chat with various voices of experiences. It put my emotions, paranoia, and vulnerabilities in perspective. Also, it soothed fears and gave me something to look foreword to in the future. WooHoo camping in the most ancient and impressive city of Merv.
Oh, and the game was cool too!
If I Could Change The World
Written March 7, 08
I’m in the Peace Corps; questions of poverty, of development, of change, and of well, saving the world are part and parcel of my existence. And, when I came, I thought I had a handle on them. If a liberal arts degree is good for anything, it must be saving the world, right?
Maybe it’s the time, the place, or perhaps even me, but the longer I’m here the less I feel like I know. Poverty for me has largely been defined as Africa. Dire poverty—defined as a person living on less than a dollar a day—is readily apparent in the sweeping slums of Kibera and in the subsistence farms with its maize and mchicha. There is a decided lack of things—health care, electricity, water, food, and education.
The poverty that I am discovering here is no less dire, in the sense that people are still living on less than a dollar a day, but it’s masked in some ways. The government provides free natural gas, electricity, salt, and flour. Gasoline is heavily subsidized as well. The health care and education systems may not be perfect, but they are here. On Thursday, a child came into my clinic after drinking gasoline. The children’s specialist at the clinic was able to flush his system, and he’s doing fine. I’m not sure that would happen in Africa.
These things, though good (I wouldn’t have wanted to spend this past winter in the absence of free heat), mask a lot of problems. In Turkmenistan, a person living on less than a dollar a day, will live in a house, probably of pretty strong construction; they will likely have a television and satellite dish; and they may even have a car. What they probably don’t have is a job because they don’t have the connections to get one or they don’t live where the moneys going. It’s frustrating and a bit sad.
In terms of development, the ideas are stuck in concepts of toys and trappings than in meaningful sustained growth. My director, for example, has told me repeatedly that the only thing the clinic needs is a computer (no one in my clinic knows how to use one and the power surges frequently). I had almost discounted him, thinking I’d have to work around him rather than with him. Then, on my programming site visit, my program manager gently and gracefully steered him away from the computer. She asked him what was needed, and he laid out a very thoughtful proposal for a water system that would bring running water to the maternity ward. My director is smart, observant, and knows what’s needed, so why did he prioritize the computer first?!?!
Of change: A fellow volunteer is fond of this joke. ‘How many Peace Corps volunteers does it take to change a light bulb?’ ‘None, Peace Corps Volunteers never change anything.’ I hope that’s not true, but at the ground, where I am, so much seems impossible. I know I’m not supposed to change things, I am supposed to empower others to change (sustain), but that seems much harder.
In rereading, I find myself coming off as discouraged, marginally depressed even. I’m not; I’m mostly taking stock of where I find myself almost 6 of my 27 months in this country. The rose colored glasses may be fading, and that’s probably even a good thing. They make things pretty, but they make it hard to see clearly.
I’m in the Peace Corps; questions of poverty, of development, of change, and of well, saving the world are part and parcel of my existence. And, when I came, I thought I had a handle on them. If a liberal arts degree is good for anything, it must be saving the world, right?
Maybe it’s the time, the place, or perhaps even me, but the longer I’m here the less I feel like I know. Poverty for me has largely been defined as Africa. Dire poverty—defined as a person living on less than a dollar a day—is readily apparent in the sweeping slums of Kibera and in the subsistence farms with its maize and mchicha. There is a decided lack of things—health care, electricity, water, food, and education.
The poverty that I am discovering here is no less dire, in the sense that people are still living on less than a dollar a day, but it’s masked in some ways. The government provides free natural gas, electricity, salt, and flour. Gasoline is heavily subsidized as well. The health care and education systems may not be perfect, but they are here. On Thursday, a child came into my clinic after drinking gasoline. The children’s specialist at the clinic was able to flush his system, and he’s doing fine. I’m not sure that would happen in Africa.
These things, though good (I wouldn’t have wanted to spend this past winter in the absence of free heat), mask a lot of problems. In Turkmenistan, a person living on less than a dollar a day, will live in a house, probably of pretty strong construction; they will likely have a television and satellite dish; and they may even have a car. What they probably don’t have is a job because they don’t have the connections to get one or they don’t live where the moneys going. It’s frustrating and a bit sad.
In terms of development, the ideas are stuck in concepts of toys and trappings than in meaningful sustained growth. My director, for example, has told me repeatedly that the only thing the clinic needs is a computer (no one in my clinic knows how to use one and the power surges frequently). I had almost discounted him, thinking I’d have to work around him rather than with him. Then, on my programming site visit, my program manager gently and gracefully steered him away from the computer. She asked him what was needed, and he laid out a very thoughtful proposal for a water system that would bring running water to the maternity ward. My director is smart, observant, and knows what’s needed, so why did he prioritize the computer first?!?!
Of change: A fellow volunteer is fond of this joke. ‘How many Peace Corps volunteers does it take to change a light bulb?’ ‘None, Peace Corps Volunteers never change anything.’ I hope that’s not true, but at the ground, where I am, so much seems impossible. I know I’m not supposed to change things, I am supposed to empower others to change (sustain), but that seems much harder.
In rereading, I find myself coming off as discouraged, marginally depressed even. I’m not; I’m mostly taking stock of where I find myself almost 6 of my 27 months in this country. The rose colored glasses may be fading, and that’s probably even a good thing. They make things pretty, but they make it hard to see clearly.
You'd Better Get Right Before You Get Left
Written on February 21th
Last Friday, it was brought to my attention that I was in the midst of Lent. In the absence of faux Mardi Gras parties and ash crosses on foreheads, Ash Wednesday was just another day. At George School, the day would be marked by countless people asking me if I knew there was something on my face. At BC, there would be 200+ masses and a sea of students and professors anointed. Dust we were, and dust we will become.
In Turkmenistan there is one Catholic church 400 km from where I live. There was no morning mass, no prayers, and I mostly forgot about the whole thing until another volunteer mentioned it on Friday. I usually do try to give something up for Lent. In America, it seems amazing now the amount of things that I thought I couldn’t live without, that would be a sacrifice. I gave up make-up, Late Night Chicken Fingers, vending machines, and VH1. The shocking part was how easy it was, after about a week, to live without those things.
I am not in America now, and there are two interrelated problems. While my life isn’t stoicly hermetic, it isn’t rife with unnecessary frill. Secondly, to sacrifice the few frills I do have, is to court insanity. I would give up coffee, but I only drink it when I am inches from tears and homesick. I would give up my iPod, but that’s the daily connection I have with English. I would give up alcohol, but I’m an unmarried girl in a Muslim country and it’s a bit of a mute point anyway. I can’t even do, as was suggested by some Archbishop somewhere to give up carbon emissions because it is cold and my only source of heat is currently a natural gas flame.
I am welcoming of suggestions…
Last Friday, it was brought to my attention that I was in the midst of Lent. In the absence of faux Mardi Gras parties and ash crosses on foreheads, Ash Wednesday was just another day. At George School, the day would be marked by countless people asking me if I knew there was something on my face. At BC, there would be 200+ masses and a sea of students and professors anointed. Dust we were, and dust we will become.
In Turkmenistan there is one Catholic church 400 km from where I live. There was no morning mass, no prayers, and I mostly forgot about the whole thing until another volunteer mentioned it on Friday. I usually do try to give something up for Lent. In America, it seems amazing now the amount of things that I thought I couldn’t live without, that would be a sacrifice. I gave up make-up, Late Night Chicken Fingers, vending machines, and VH1. The shocking part was how easy it was, after about a week, to live without those things.
I am not in America now, and there are two interrelated problems. While my life isn’t stoicly hermetic, it isn’t rife with unnecessary frill. Secondly, to sacrifice the few frills I do have, is to court insanity. I would give up coffee, but I only drink it when I am inches from tears and homesick. I would give up my iPod, but that’s the daily connection I have with English. I would give up alcohol, but I’m an unmarried girl in a Muslim country and it’s a bit of a mute point anyway. I can’t even do, as was suggested by some Archbishop somewhere to give up carbon emissions because it is cold and my only source of heat is currently a natural gas flame.
I am welcoming of suggestions…
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