The T-18s Make the News

I know that I am a month behind, but I wanted to see if the T-18s had made the news and because Turkmenistan isn't such a hotspot for news stories, they actually did make national news!

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/10/09/ap/asia/main5373489.shtml

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091009/ap_on_re_as/as_turkmenistan_peace_corps

We are now hearing all kinds of rumors about why the T-18s weren't allowed to come and about when the next group will arrive. I am just hoping for the best, but trying to prepare myself to never get a site-mate, and to have to deal with isolation for another year. The T-16s start leaving in two weeks, and Turkmenistan is already beginning to feel emptier as we begin to say goodbyes. I am burying myself in work and running around trying to start a youth development project in my town. No matter if another group comes or if we are the last Peace Corps group in Turkmenistan, I am determined to do all that I can here until my last day of service. The T-16s have told me that time will speed up again after the new year and that the second year goes by even faster than the first. This is hard to believe, but considering that the past year has flown by, I can forsee that the count down until closing of service will speed it all up even more!

Pumpkins and hedgehogs

I guess that I should backtrack to Turkmenistan’s Independence Day (Happy 18 years Tstan), which I spent in Ashgabat.  While our apple carrot muffins were baking, the apartment walls shook before we heard the bangs of the fireworks.  We bundled ourselves and went out to the street to watch.  The Turkmen driving by and walking with friends didn’t seem at all interested in the fireworks. As for me, there was a moment when it felt just like the Fourth of July.  My favorite fireworks are the big white kind that explode and then trickle down until they fade.  They remind me of the fairy dust I once had for a Halloween costume.  As I gazed up at the sky, and gasped and applauded at the ones I liked, I felt like I was home.  It is amazing how something familiar can trigger so many memories and make you feel transported elsewhere.  It only lasted a moment, but for that brief instant it was me, fireworks and the feeling of home.

Back in the classroom after my trip to Ashgabat made me remember how unpredictable and hilarious my teaching experience can be.  I was teaching one of my sixth grade classes a Halloween song.  I was singing the song and pointing to the lyrics on the board.  The song went like this: “Halloween is coming soon, coming soon, coming soon.  Halloween is…Oh my god, what is that?”  The last sentence isn’t part of the song, but my reaction to a tiny critter that I saw scurry across the back of the classroom.  One of my students had decided to pack his hedgehog in his backpack and bring him to school.  The student scooped up the hedgehog and plopped him on his desk, where the little animal politely remained for the rest of the class and didn’t attempt to escape again.

Most of my students are familiar with Halloween from seeing it in movies.  They know about pumpkins and scary costumes, but I promised them a Halloween party to show them more of the holiday traditions.  I asked each student to bring a little pumpkin and I had parents come to ask me why their children needed a pumpkin for English club.  We played pin the eyes on the jack o’ lantern and decorated pumpkins.  I taught them about trick or treating and they went around the school to knock on a few doors where I had teachers stationed with candy.  They brought lots of candy, cakes and cookies and I completely underestimated how much junk food 22 young children could devour in a short amount of time.  When all of the little ones were out the door, leaving behind a mess of feathers and crumbs, my older students arrived for their Halloween party. 

I haven’t tried bobbing for apples in over ten years, but I got it in my head that this was a worthwhile American tradition to teach.  Their first attempts at feebly poking at the apples, trying not to get wet, were not successful.  I decided that I should demonstrate, and quickly dunked my head in the water and came up with an apple.  I was soaking wet, dripping all over my floor but my students had got the idea.  In the end each student got at least one apple and we took a photo of all of us triumphantly soaking wet.  Teaching about this American tradition and some others of equal absurdity make me wonder what people would think if that is all they were exposed to of American culture.  A people who catch apples in tubs of water, dress up in weird costumes and demand candy from strangers…really?  Take it all out of context and it starts to sound bizarre; I suspect that is true of many traditions.  Bobbing for apples was definitely something that took my students out of their comfort zone, but in class I often ask them to try to think outside the box and to take risks.  Practicing this odd tradition was another opportunity for them to see that there isn’t only one way of doing things and that acceptance and tolerance are important parts of learning about anything new.  Teaching about my culture is an opportunity to teach my students about a different way of life.  Even if it is silly to them, they are being exposed to a new culture and I believe learning about cultures is invaluable on an individual level and salubrious to the overall development of a country.

How to be a Turkmen bridesmaid

Everything happened so fast. The entire day was hectic and I barely had time to breath. I ushered the bride here and there, lifting up her dress so that she did not fall, trying to be one step ahead of everything, but not understanding half of what was being said. The day started off with a much-needed cup of coffee to get me up and out of the house. I put on my Turkmen housedress and my headscarf and I walked to Jennet’s house where all of the wedding preparations were well underway. Several women from her family and from her fiancé’s family were seated on the floor with huge bowls of vegetables and meat in front of them. They talked to me while chopping and slicing, never glancing down at their hands. The only thing more numerous than vegetables in that room were the flies that swarmed around as the children lightly waved scarves over the bowls to keep them from landing in the food. Jennet and I went to the ‘toy salon,’ an all in one locally run business that organizes everything from wedding dresses to wedding cake and makeup. Through the hairspray haze I could see maybe ten other brides and bridesmaids already in the hair salon. Every bride is told to bring three cans of hairspray, and from the smell of the room it seemed to me like every ounce of hairspray was being used. Jennet had her hair done first in an up-do with a fake ponytail attached to supplement her own hair. She had fake nails put on which left her unable to do anything with her hands, and therefore put me in charge of answering her phone, lifting up her dress, and doing any other action that would involve using her hands. I took a chance and also had my hair done. What started out looking like a beehive ended up as a French twist, kept in place with a bottle of hairspray. Despite feeling like I was wearing a helmet, the hairdo looked good from afar and went well with my dress. I escaped to the dressing room after dodging the makeup artist who insisted that I needed my eyebrows penciled in. A group of women ever so gently slipped on Jennet’s wedding dress and the hairstylist attached her veil. Her fiancé arrived with flowers and so began the daylong photo shoot. They filmed me gingerly laughing while pretending to fix her veil. Then she had to look longingly into the mirror and smile coyly, because Turkmen brides are supposed to be shy, but really nothing about Jennet says timid. The cameraman announced me to be a “super model” and so beautiful that he forever wanted to film me, and he continued to be that creepy though out the day. The cameraman wanted more photos, but Jennet demanded that we go because we were already so late after spending almost four hours in the salon. The bride, groom, bridesmaid and best man traveled in a decorated new model Toyota to the café where the wedding ceremony would take place. The woman from the wedding registration office recited a little speech about “independent and eternally neutral Turkmenistan and the respected president, Gurbanguly Berdimuhammedov declaring” the bride and groom married on October 19, 2009 and they exchanged wedding bands. I got to sign the wedding certificate as Jennet’s witness, and they opened a bottle of champagne and cut the cake to celebrate. It is tradition to drive in a long line of decorated cars to various monuments and parks to take photographs. We drove to the neighboring district to take photographs on the “catamaran” as it was beforehand described to me. The “lake” turned out to be more like a puddle and the “catamaran” broke down while we were on it. The boat captain pushed us back to shore with a piece of wood. It would have all been very funny except for that at the same time the wedding singer canceled without any notice. This left us sitting on the inoperative boat as Jennet furiously dictating to me how to use her cell phone to call another singer to see if they were free to come immediately. I held the phone to her ear as she arranged for the new singer to go straight to her house where the wedding would start in less than an hour. Except for a few of us in the wedding party, nobody noticed that anything went wrong and the singer was setting up the stage as we arrived back at Jennet’s house. The best man and I held a fringed piece of fabric over the bride and groom’s heads as we walked out of the house and onto the street. The bride and groom walked out from under the protective fabric hand in hand to go dance. It was still early and there were only a few people standing on the street. In village and town weddings on the street people come and stand on the side of the road to watch, and go to the center when they want to dance. In less than an hour it felt like the entire town had shown up and was staring at us. The four of us were seated on a little stage decorated with frilly ribbons and gauze. Being the bridesmaid, I had to say my toast first and I struggled to remember my trilingual toast as I started to tear up and get emotional. Jennet had dared me to say a toast in three languages and half way through the Russian portion I started to cry and had to abandon the rest of it. I made Jennet cry too, but we were both wearing waterproof mascara so it was not too serious. When I got to the part about Jennet being my Turkmen sister, I couldn’t hold back the tears and I think the Turkmen are still confused as to why I was crying. Everyone except the bride is supposed to be really happy at the wedding and I broke tradition by crying. Maybe they will blame it on an unknown American wedding tradition. Throughout the evening the music was interrupted by guests making toasts to the couple and presenting gifts. A total of eleven Peace Corps volunteers attended the wedding. As a group we made a big toast to the couple and this time I didn’t cry. We danced with Jennet’s family and found out that her mom can shake it better than Shakira. It was quite the spectacle for my town to have eleven Americans there. Hundreds of students and teachers came and it was by far the most people I have ever seen at a Turkmen wedding. Jennet’s sister handed out the little sachets of two sugars wrapped in lace, which symbolize a sweet life together. Whenever Jennet and her husband, Tolkun, got up to dance people would give them money and wish them prosperity. One of Tolkun’s sisters followed them around with a bag to collect the money. The wedding at Jennet’s house ended with a Turkmen tradition that consists of covering the bride in a large shawl so that her face and arms are covered. The groom is dressed in a Turkmen robe and traditional Muslim hat. The groom’s friends throw him up into the air three times and then he leads the bride into her house to say her goodbyes to her family. Like most Turkmen young women, Jennet has lived with her parents for her entire life and will be leaving her parents’ house forever. The Turkmen verb ‘to get married’ for women literally translates to ‘go out for life.’ It refers to the tradition that the new bride will move into her husband’s parents’ house, and take on the demanding role of a new bride that includes housework, cooking and cleaning. This final moment of the wedding is really emotional for the bride and her family. The couple stands in a room as a group of older women sing and pray for them and a final prayer is said before the daughter leaves the house forever. The veiled bride kisses her parents goodbye and is ushered to the waiting wedding car that will take her to her new home, and to another wedding party that will last long into the night. Two of her sister in laws and I accompanied Jennet to the neighboring district where her husband lives. A smaller, more intimate wedding party was already set up and the singer and dancer were already entertaining when we arrived. At this point we were exhausted and it was beginning to get cold. We had kept ourselves warm dancing, but were now too tired to get up much. We listened to toasts and accepted presents much like the first wedding party. Around eleven thirty I ushered Jennet into the house to prepare her for the wedding night. All of her possessions and new bedding and linens her mother prepared were already set up in their room. We were not allowed to be alone in the room and somebody from each side of the family had to be present at all times, but we finally got a little time to relax and eat something. I opened up the back of Jennet’s dress and took down her hair. We were both so tired, but still giddy because it had all gone so well in the end. I waited with Jennet until it was time for her and her husband to be alone. I had been so preoccupied with the wedding for the past few weeks and all of a sudden I had nothing else I had to do. It was all over. Up until this point I had done everything with Jennet, but now she was living in a different town with a different family—it is going to take some getting used to. This entire wedding experience was a once in a lifetime chance and I was involved in every aspect of the wedding. This was my first time as a bridesmaid and it was possibly the most unique first experience I could have. I was honored to be her bridesmaid and I have already invited her to be one of my bridesmaids in my wedding. Luckily for me, I can have more than one bridesmaid because I couldn’t pick just one of my friends to do the job. I am sure of two things after this wedding—1.) I will definitely have all of my best friends at my wedding and 2.) I will definitely not be wearing fake nails.

Big things and differences in values: Families

What is family for you?

I believe that the answer to this question will vary drastically according to your culture and heritage. Recently I discussed family with my advanced students. We are reading a book about an American family, and while pre-reading it, I realized that the family in the book is very different from what a family consists of in Turkmenistan. I asked my students to do a fifteen-minute creative writing assignment about what family is for them. One student wrote, “Family is such a difficult word to write about because it is the most important thing in our lives.” Family is everything in Turkmenistan. Sons may live with their parents their entire lives, raising a family under the same roof where they grew up. Daughters typically live at home until they marry and then move to their husband’s house and become part of a new family unit there.

My students were shocked to hear that I hadn’t lived at home for longer than a three-month period since I was eighteen. And more importantly, that this was my choice. Many families want their daughters to stay at home rather than to enroll in university because they need help with the domestic work. I told my students that my parents supported my decision to do Peace Corps, but if they hadn’t, I could have defied them and come anyways. Disobeying parents is viewed as a huge loss of face in this culture. There is a huge amount of respect for elders, and rebelling is rarely heard of. A friend of mine got married recently because her parents had decided it was time and quickly arranged a husband for her. She told me that it was her parents’ wish and that she could not confront her parents because then the entire community would gossip about her parents’, especially her father’s, lack of authority in the house.

Another of my students wrote, “I think that family is my mother, father, sisters, brothers, grandparents, aunts and uncles. My cousins are also my brothers and sisters.” Typical families in Turkmenistan are very large compared to the average American. My host-father has nine brothers and one sister. Family in Turkmenistan means extended family members and not just the nuclear family. When I speak about my family I will list my mom, dad, sister and my dog. My entire family consists of many more people, but my instinct is to talk only about the family members with whom I lived. When I ask my students about their families, they will attempt to list out every single family member they can remember (and most often they can’t remember all of them because the families are so large). One student wrote, “Family for me are the people I can’t live a day without seeing. If I don’t see my mother for one day, I am very sad.” Turkmen families tend to live in the same community, so they see each other often. My students couldn’t believe that I hadn’t seen my mother’s side of the family for seven years, because they are constantly seeing family members float in and out of their houses.

My student, Chynar, wrote that she believes “family is more than just a mother, father, sister or brother. Family can be friends or, I know this may sound silly, animals too. Family is anyone or anything that you love very much.” What Chynar wrote was controversial in our class. Most of my students believed family consisted of only people you were related to. Chynar argued that it was how much you loved someone or something that should deem it family. I mentioned that I considered my friends at college as family because we lived together and were each other’s family when we were all away from home. I also argued that my fellow volunteers here are like family because we are all in this situation together and have to support and help each other so much. More than friends being considered family, it was animals being included that sparked some heated discussion. Animals in Turkmenistan are mostly kept outside and dogs are abused so much that they are either scared of everything that moves or want to bite everything that moves. Some students said they had pets they loved, but thought they were too dirty to be in the house and part of the family. I told my students that my dog is the best listener in the family because she will listen to you forever and snuggle if you pet her. They thought this was funny. But I have seen children kick dogs way more often than pet a dog. All in all, animals are not considered part of the family, or even close to it.

I believe that a distinction in family values is one of the biggest cultural differences between America and Turkmenistan. The family unit in both cultures is important, but defining exactly what family is unveils cultural values that run much deeper than just family. We value individuality, independence and personal success much more than Turkmen. Whereas Turkmen prefer to do things in a group, among family, Americans are more likely to want to distinguish themselves individually. If we fail, then it is our personal responsibility, but in Turkmenistan, if you are a disappointment to the family, then this will reflect poorly on your entire family in the community at large. But I believe that family here is less likely to allow something bad happen to one of their own than in America. The extended family is the social support network in Turkmenistan and if you need something, family will be there for you. I think that many families in America do not help support each other emotionally and financially like Turkmen families.

For me, a traditional Turkmen family meal is the perfect expression of the communal and family centered life-style. Sitting on the floor around a rectangular shaped mat, families will often share food off of the same plate. The entire family will sit down to eat together and the meal will last one or two hours until the teapots runs dry. There are so many families in America who don’t eat together, and this daily act of coming together as a family has been replaced by each individual’s hectic schedule that make family meals too inconvenient. Sometimes I think that American families would benefit from just sitting down together and drinking some tea. We focus so much on our individual pursuits and the fastest way to do things, that the need for a strong family foundation based around communal meals and conversation is more and more being seen as a waste of time. It might be wise to learn a little from Turkmen about family. With stronger families, there are more connected communities and a system of support and assistance when you need it. In Turkmen culture, the beginning of a relationship always starts with a cup of tea. Slow down and drink some tea!

Little things and differences in values

I would have to write a blog post everyday in order to fully describe my life here. And the honest truth is that I don’t have enough time each day to sit in front of my computer and write a recap of my day. This being said, I feel that lots of little things are being left out that I feel just as compelled to share as the big things. Sometimes the subtle details in my day are the most moving and have the biggest impact on my life.

There is one little boy in my sixth form class who is more interested in playing with his ruler than ever learning English. He fidgets and stares out the window until my counterpart yells at him or the other students call him “stupid” and “an animal.” This little guy would be a lost cause for most Turkmen teachers and would sit in the back of the class and never learn a word of English in ten years. When I am teaching, I consider all students equal no matter how the Turkmen teacher would treat them. I call on the students in the back and I immediately stop any snickering when the slower students stutter over new words. We were learning the days of the week and I throw a hack sack that I made to each student to drill them on the new vocabulary. I tell them to pay attention because it might come flying at them at any moment. Once again this particular student was giving all his attention to his ruler when I threw the hack sack at him and it slid onto his ruler in front of him. He looked up at me wide eyed like he was under the impression that nobody could see him. I asked him how to say “birinji gun” and after a brief pause he said “Monday.” Correct. So, he had been listening. I gave him a huge smile and said good job and he grinned back at me. Now, he had put down his ruler and was watching me. We played a memory game after this and he didn’t win. But he got second place and was so excited that he did a little dance in the aisle. This was a brief moment of celebration that I wish could have lasted longer; I was so proud.

My Turkmen tutor got married last month and she informed me ahead of time that she wanted me to make a toast. At Turkmen weddings the music and dancing are periodically interrupted by various family members and friends taking the microphone and making toasts. Ever since going to my first wedding back in training and being forced to say something in front of several hundred Turkmen, I promised myself that I would learn how to say an extraordinary toast that I could repeat at every wedding from there on out. But, I had failed to do this and still resorted to saying my toasts in English because I had yet to memorize anything past “congratulations…”

For Gowher’s wedding I sat down and actually memorized all of the toasts she had taught me six months earlier. At the wedding I was just asking my friend about how I would know when to go up there when the master of ceremonies announced that Gowher’s friend from America would come up to make a toast. Okay, so that is how I know when to toast. The wedding reception was in a large converted movie theater, and as I walked down the stairs to the stage in the front, my hands began to shake I was so nervous. Another English teacher from my school was making a toast after me, and a few of us lined up on the side of the stage. The cameraman stuck his camera 3 feet from my face and the bright light made me sweat even more than I already was from the nerves. I began my toast with the pedestrian line “congratulations on your wedding” but then continued in Turkmen with every congratulation that I still remembered. A few words into my second sentence, the English teacher behind me elbowed me in the ribs and hissed “In English, In English!” Through the entirety of my toast, she didn’t let up. I grabbed her arm and held it at bay so that I could continue until my final congratulation and wish for my friend.

Most people actually want me to toast in English at their weddings because they want me on film as proof that there was an actual real blooded American present, but Gowher had asked me to say it in Turkmen since she is the one who has taught me almost everything I know. The older women in Turkmenistan feel no shame in telling you what to do, and this 60-something year old teacher felt that it was completely acceptable to elbow me until I conceded. For me, this was an intrusion into my personal space and right to say what I want, but just like the babushkas in Russia, the older women here have been through enough, and have been around long enough, to have the authority to tell anyone what to do—even what language to speak, I guess.

Classes and cotton

The school year is off to a chaotic start. But I had expected this. The piles of handwritten documents, schedules, grade books and curricula have yet to be completed and everything is at a standstill until they are signed and stamped by the director. The Soviet system of "spravki" (paper documents) for everything from permissions to equipment requests is still very much alive. When I lived in Russia we spent a few months studying "spravki" in all its forms, and how to properly write them. After months of learning about "spravki" I never wanted to see one again, but they are asked for everywhere still in former Soviet countries. The schedule for all 10 grades had to be hand written. There are four groups of each form, so a total of 40 schedules were painstakingly written in cramped letters. With each change, a new schedule was written out. The schedule covered 12 pieces of 8" by 11" white paper. Of course it had the director’s stamp of approval as well. I too have gotten used to handwriting everything for classes because of a lack of a copier. If I don’t have time to individually handwrite all of the exercises or texts, I will write them out on the chalkboard and the students will copy them into their notebooks. My chalkboard doesn’t work very well and I must first wipe where I want to write with a wet cloth and then write. If I try to write on it dry, the words are barely visible. I appreciate the efficiency of technology and the convenience of whiteboards more and more.

It is cotton season now in Turkmenistan. During the Soviet Union, the government basically drained the Aral Sea by diverting the two biggest rivers in the area, the Amu Derya and the Syr Derya, to make Central Asia fertile cotton country. The Syr Derya runs west through Tajikistan, Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan until it empties into the Aral Sea. The Amu Derya runs north-west from Turkmenistan to Kazakhstan and also empties into the Sea. The fields around where I live are still watered by the Amu Derya. From about 1960 the Aral Sea’s water level was drastically reduced because of the diversion of water from the rivers for agricultural irrigation. The Soviet government converted large acreages of untilled land in Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan into irrigated farmlands. By the 1980s, during the summer months, the two formerly great rivers dried up before even reaching the lake and the Aral Sea began to quickly shrink due to the evaporation of its unreplenished waters. The increased irrigation on the hot, dry regions around the Amu Derya has resulted in evaporation that has left salt deposits that make the soil infertile. Also, surface runoff has transported the salts to the river, increasing the salinity of the Amu Derya. The farms in my region water using a flood technique. They will open up the canals that come off of the Amu Derya and completely flood their fields. When the huge amount of excess water evaporates, there is a white blanket of salt on the surface. The water in the region north of Lebap, Dahoguz is too salty to drink and entire communities are suffering from health problems related to the salinity of the water. The salt is slowly leaching down to northern Lebap and I first noticed the salt left over after irrigation last fall when I was out on my usual running route. I run on the small dirt roads that weave through the fields, and with each step my shoes would break through a thick crust of salt that had formed after a routine flood irrigation. My town has been ripping up the streets to lay pipes for fresh drinking water, but the smaller villages have no such luxury. The Aral Sea is of great concern to environmental scientists, but the leeching of salt into the surface water in Turkmenistan has the potential to cause great health problems and is not being addressed. This entire environmental catastrophe began with the vision of creating a vast area of fertile cotton fields that would supply the Union with cotton enough for everyone. To this day, Turkmenistan is still very proud of their cotton. When the school children learn about the "riches of Turkmenistan," gas, oil and cotton are included. My sixth grade class learns the verb "to pick" before they learn the verb "to study." They learn the word "cotton" before they learn "family." The cotton season began last week and will continue for two months. There are some cotton-picking machines, but the majority is picked by hand, and not by choice. The teachers at my school are required to pick cotton each day after classes. Under the old president, children were allowed to skip school to go pick cotton, but this has since been prohibited. Still, I have seen a drop in student attendance in the last week (and this is even more true in the smaller villages that are still collective farms). At the end of a shift, they must weigh the cotton and fill out a "spravka" that states how much they picked. For each kilo they are given 1,000 manat (7 cents). My counterpart told me that she picks about 17 kilos in a four-hour afternoon shift (17,000 manat =$1.20). For those who don’t have time or don’t want to pick cotton, they pay someone to pick their quota of cotton. As long as the quota is met, it doesn’t matter who is actually out in the fields. No matter who collects the cotton, it is loaded onto huge trucks that take it to the cotton plant on the edge of town. The government owns the cotton. The entire cotton industry is government owned just like the gas and oil industries. Fittingly, it is called "Turkmen Cotton" and the green government trucks all share the same logo showing a cotton boll with white fluffy cotton fiber inside. For now, cotton picking is the priority and all of the fields must be emptied of "ak altyn" (white gold). During the Soviet Union the comrades were required to pick cotton as a collective, to gather it all together and to send it off somewhere. Now, the only difference is that they are paid a few cents for their work, but not much else has changed in the white gold industry.

"…and the only way to endure it all was the perfection of irony."

-Lenin’s Tomb, David Remnick

Although this quote refers to the tumultuous last years of the Soviet Union, it seems to somehow embody my life here. I wish that I could find all of the irony humorous, but sometimes it translates into frustration before I look back on it and see the actual absurdity of what happened. Sometimes I need to laugh at myself. Sometimes I need to turn my back and walk away to hide my laughter over situations that Turkmen find completely normal. Sometimes I laugh when everyone else does just because I have no idea what is really going on. Sometimes I laugh with my students about something that we know we couldn’t talk about anywhere else.

There is irony in my everyday life. I believe that it happens because of the incongruity between how I am as an American, how I want to be seen in my community, and how Turkmen actually see me. Also, the irony stems from my expectations and pre-assumptions as an American and the way things actually work here. I think that the best way to illustrate the irony that often escalates to ridiculousness in my life is by example:

"Get out the doctor’s alcohol."

One is often pressured into drinking shots of vodka while guesting but when the vodka runs out you can always have "doctor’s alcohol." There is already a room full of drunk Turkmen, one slightly displaced and confused American and no more alcohol. Oh, wait, there is some more! Get the wife to fetch the rubbing alcohol and continue toasting. See, there was never any problem to begin with. The gamble here: do you drink and wake up blind the next morning or do you not drink and hope that nobody remembers in the morning?

"Permissions"

I changed houses. It has already been two months. I got permission from Peace Corps, the local police did a background check on the family to make sure there weren’t any suspicious characters, and I got the approval to move. Within three days of moving, I need to notify immigration of my new address. In my policy and procedure book the explanation of this process spans a few sentences. In reality, two months later, and four trips to the immigration office, it has not been successful. First, I had to track down my counterpart who has no cell phone and no house. She lives in the back of this farmer’s bank in the village and it took me a week to just find this random building. Turns out she had gone to the city with her family, so there was no way to contact her. I waited and waited. She turned up at school and I explained that I needed this registration similar to what we did when I first arrived. Easy enough, right? Wrong. We drafted a letter to the immigration. First trip—the address for the immigration office was wrong and they needed a new letter. Second trip—they need a copy of my host mother’s passport and a copy of the host family contract. Third trip—the letter doesn’t have the director’s signature or stamp. My counterpart tried to ask the director to sign the letter, but he refused because I did not ask his permission to move. I had told him about moving, but I didn’t think to ask his permission because since when does one ask permission from their boss to move? Even Turkmen teachers wouldn’t ask the director for permission. It all culminated at the local education ministry in a meeting with me, my counterpart, the director, the Etrap methodologist and the Etrap head of education. I tried to stand up for myself, but in the end the director refused to sign, stating that I needed to ask his permission before I moved and that I shouldn’t have moved. The conversation was in such fast Turkmen and I tried to keep up but ended up just going home and crying by myself. Fourth trip—the immigration guy said that the letter still needs the director’s signature since he is my supervisor. When my counterpart said that the director refused to sign, the immigration guy, who gave all of the new volunteers such trouble with the initial registration back in December, said, "why does he refuse when she has the right to move?" Even this guy supports me! Why is nothing as easy to accomplish as stated on paper? Two months of trying to deal with this and it has all ended with no registration and the director now not even acknowledging my "hellos" or basic existence at school.

"A PCV on vacation"

You can take the PCV out of Turkmenistan, but you can’t take Turkmenistan out of the PCV. We would like to think that we can still go back to the developed world and abide by the social norms, but when one PCV’s family had to extract her from the produce aisle after she had spent copious amounts of time fondling all the vegetable and voicing her great affection for the wild berries, this assumption turned out to be incorrect. We spend large amounts of time thinking about what we miss from home, mostly food and decent alcohol, and then when we come face to face with our fantasized Guinness beer or dark chocolate bar, we tend to overreact. This starts a cycle of wondering about exactly where we belong. Most people at home haven’t even heard of Turkmenistan, but they wonder exactly what goes on there when they see the weird habits we brought back. Don’t you tap the bubbles in your tea on your forehead for good luck? Don’t you spit several times into your shirt after something scares you? Right, that is in Turkmenistan. We go on vacation, but we have to stay on the middle of the bridge, not totally reintegrating at home in order to make returning to Turkmenistan easier. We want to throw ourselves into western culture, but only this is when we realize just how "Turkmen" we have become.

"Back from vacation"

One PCV told me that there is nobody who needs a vacation more than a PCV who just came back from vacation. Sadly, this is true. Coming back from vacation is a practice of difficult reintegration and a personal struggle with how badly you actually want to be here. The PCV boards the plane from London, Delhi, Bangkok, Istanbul and wonders if anybody has ever not returned from vacation and just gone home. Getting back to site is like dipping your toe in a hot bath—you can’t just get in all at once. The PCV tells and retells about the fabulous time "across the border," but also tries to forget how nice it was to have a shower and sharp cheddar cheese. Now we feel like we have a long ways to come back to our simple life in the village. After feeling worn out, tired and frustrated at site, we have spent the vacation trying to get a break from Turkmenistan, and once back it feels like that respite hasn’t made anything easier.

"2 years"

It seems like a long time. It felt daunting when I left, but now I have already been here for almost a year and I am starting to feel like I don’t have enough time to accomplish everything that I would like. I know that a year is still a decent amount of time, but when I look at it in terms of vacations (since that is a PCV way of telling time) I only have 2 vacations left. The new group is coming and the old group is headed out and I feel like I am still just getting to know them. I am in a mid-service crisis and I want some project to work on other than my clubs. But staying true to the grassroots philosophy, I am still trying to do community assessment to create the best project for them. Really, I just want to start something…but then I would feel like a Peace Corps traitor. Two years in grassroots time is enough to sit down and drink some tea. I have time, but things do seem more pressing than 8 months ago when I felt like I had all the time in the world.

"Intravenous drip"

I was over at my friend’s house and we were hanging out and talking when the nurse came over. It was time for my friend to be hooked up to an IV for her saline drip. Her mom got out the T shaped mop handle, used a scarf to tie it to a chair, and the nurse hung the IV on the mop. As I watched around the door as all of this happened in less than five minutes, everybody forgot I was there or didn’t know what to do with me and considered ignoring me the best option. The nurse asked for vodka and cleaned my friend’s arm. Then I watched as she inserted the needle and started fiddling with the IV drip to make it work. I don’t know if it ever started working because I went over and told my friend that I was leaving and the nurse gave me a look of surprise like I had jumped out of nowhere. It was another moment where I was watching all of this and analyzing from an American point of view, finding it all a bit strange and then realizing that it was all completely normal for them and that I was the most out of place thing in the room.