Week 4
This morning I woke up. No one was in the kitchen. No one was in the living room. I sat down quietly. I ate my raspberry Poptarts Eric gave me, sent from his mom. I drank my Nescafe with powdered cream and sugar. It was overcast. It reminded me of donut days with Grandma and Grandpa.
In burst Sevinj, alert and alarmingly apologetic. My Azeri is not as quick as she. I want to tell her not make my breakfast, that I was fine alone for a day. But I do not have these language or persuasion skills. And so she whips out the bread and butter and sour yogurt. Within three minutes she has thrown four eggs in the pot to boil, and they are not finished when she hands the scorching things to me. Soft-boiled eggs dribble down my throat. It is time to go, but she insists I have a cup of chai, so she repeats the house mantra: “Chai ichirsen?” “Do you want tea?” Of course I do, I cannot refuse this woman. I blow on the drink, unusual as it is here.
I step to the curb outside, and realize the time: 9:03. Shoulda been at school for review by 9. But here it stands: a cow chomping away on my mother’s flowers. I watch for a bit, wondering why two gentlemen are watching me watching the cow and are not being very neighborly.
I go back inside where Sevinj is resting on the couch. “Sevinj!” I whisper. “Gel! Gel!” (Come! Come!) “Inek var!” (There is a cow!) “Ne?!” (What?!) “Inek var! Terevezda!” (There is a cow! In the vegetables!) And there she goes, throwing rocks at this cow, the same way Azeris throw rocks at cats and dogs to shoe them away. “Sag ol, Sag ol, Sasha, get.” (Goodbye, thank you (yes, Goodbye and Thank you are one in the same), Sasha, go.)
Off to mekteb (school) to encounter only the tens of children who await my departure every day. “Hello Sasha! Hello Sasha! What is your name?!” I placidly remind myself that soon I will be teaching these children English.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Wolf Man, Cat Girl
Week 3
There is this Turkish soap opera, which airs on Azeri TV, called “Wolf’s Den.” It comes on every night at 7 p.m. and it is the only activity my 13-year-old brother is fully engaged in. From what I can tell there are three main characters in this serial: a lawyer, a police man, and a Mafioso in disguise. Somehow they are all linked to the Turkish mafia.
Often the lawyer and the Mafioso are shot out of helicopters or encounter near-death experiences in expensive hotels. And the hit man is like the thief’s grandfather or something.
My favorite character is the Mafioso whose disguise includes a bushy mustache, a trench coat, and thick black shades. Peace Corps warns us about unwanted attention from community members: stares, rude comments, even sexual assault. Eric and I have decided we will conceal ourselves by dressing like this man. It should keep those curious brats far from thinking we can entertain them.
There is this Turkish soap opera, which airs on Azeri TV, called “Wolf’s Den.” It comes on every night at 7 p.m. and it is the only activity my 13-year-old brother is fully engaged in. From what I can tell there are three main characters in this serial: a lawyer, a police man, and a Mafioso in disguise. Somehow they are all linked to the Turkish mafia.
Often the lawyer and the Mafioso are shot out of helicopters or encounter near-death experiences in expensive hotels. And the hit man is like the thief’s grandfather or something.
My favorite character is the Mafioso whose disguise includes a bushy mustache, a trench coat, and thick black shades. Peace Corps warns us about unwanted attention from community members: stares, rude comments, even sexual assault. Eric and I have decided we will conceal ourselves by dressing like this man. It should keep those curious brats far from thinking we can entertain them.
Barely Surfacing
Week 1
We melt on the polluted beach on the way to the Internet café. Soviet factories sour this beach that is not far from Baku, the capital. Much like the system that maintained these buildings, the structures have dissolved. Now the buildings are just the skin, and are often crumbling concrete walls that have slipped into the ocean.
We pass burning trash and the smell of rotten eggs, which stretch every bus route in Azerbaijan. Today it is intensified by the heat, made less tolerable by the humidity.
A mile or so down, we expect to make a left: we’re beat, we need water without bubbles, which can be found at few stores in this country. Most Azeris do not understand the bottled-water phenomenon. To make it worth the purchase they carbonate it.
David insists we move on. Apparently in this dead heat we’ll find something with walking for.
We pass one man, and I wonder if he wonders what the hell we’re doing in this country, on his beach. I feel like we need to move quickly—forgo the rocks and skate on smoothness, away from struggle and weird men.
These walls act as piers, so several men fish from the tip of them. From Soviet-era waste to oil dumping and leaking, these fish are not made for eating. But then again I eat the cows that eat the trash my neighbors burn to the ground.
We skip rocks, then climb a wall that is barely surfacing. The boys pretend to push each other onto jagged pieces. Between rubbish, David grabs a seashell, and Eric does the same. All the shells are rubbed with a peachy color. “I have something to say that’s really lame.” Sweating, land illuminated by the cans that fill it, David says the three of us should trade these shells, as a promise to stay the whole two years.
We do, and jump up to the Soviet train track covered in weeds. I realize then, that there are whole seashells on this beach. Unlike the grinded rocks that form the beaches of California, the sand here is made up of infinite crushed seashells.
Past the teenage troublemakers in Speedos, we make it from the shore to the convenient shop where we grab dondurma (ice cream) and the world-renowned Fanta. We relish in sun we cannot avoid.
We melt on the polluted beach on the way to the Internet café. Soviet factories sour this beach that is not far from Baku, the capital. Much like the system that maintained these buildings, the structures have dissolved. Now the buildings are just the skin, and are often crumbling concrete walls that have slipped into the ocean.
We pass burning trash and the smell of rotten eggs, which stretch every bus route in Azerbaijan. Today it is intensified by the heat, made less tolerable by the humidity.
A mile or so down, we expect to make a left: we’re beat, we need water without bubbles, which can be found at few stores in this country. Most Azeris do not understand the bottled-water phenomenon. To make it worth the purchase they carbonate it.
David insists we move on. Apparently in this dead heat we’ll find something with walking for.
We pass one man, and I wonder if he wonders what the hell we’re doing in this country, on his beach. I feel like we need to move quickly—forgo the rocks and skate on smoothness, away from struggle and weird men.
These walls act as piers, so several men fish from the tip of them. From Soviet-era waste to oil dumping and leaking, these fish are not made for eating. But then again I eat the cows that eat the trash my neighbors burn to the ground.
We skip rocks, then climb a wall that is barely surfacing. The boys pretend to push each other onto jagged pieces. Between rubbish, David grabs a seashell, and Eric does the same. All the shells are rubbed with a peachy color. “I have something to say that’s really lame.” Sweating, land illuminated by the cans that fill it, David says the three of us should trade these shells, as a promise to stay the whole two years.
We do, and jump up to the Soviet train track covered in weeds. I realize then, that there are whole seashells on this beach. Unlike the grinded rocks that form the beaches of California, the sand here is made up of infinite crushed seashells.
Past the teenage troublemakers in Speedos, we make it from the shore to the convenient shop where we grab dondurma (ice cream) and the world-renowned Fanta. We relish in sun we cannot avoid.
Getting Cozy Here
Where my Peace Corps cluster trains, the grass is patched across the playground like stains on a carpet. The paint is chipped and the gutters spill over. We suck in the unfinished sewer system. Boys and girls skip and jump over garbage that is their playing field. In the U.S. many assume that inside the homes of Hunter’s Point, San Francisco, the living rooms are just as unaesthetic as the splintered, littered front porches. But here the homes are displayed with ceramic plates and cups, glazed armoire and bright red Azerbaijani carpets. In every house a chandelier dangles in the family room.
My host family’s unit is in a four-building apartment complex. There are five people who live here, and I have one of the two rooms. There is a living room and a small bathroom, which is tiled and only stinks of sewage sometimes. The kitchen is cozy, but has enough room for Ana (Mom) to lay ingredients around for fresh bread. The entire apartment is about the size of mine in San Francisco, but it holds triple the amount of people. After my second night I asked Narin if she would like to stay with me in my room to conserve the space we share. She translated this to her mother, to which she responded: “We used to share our home with two other families. We only had one room for ourselves. When the Soviet Union fell the government gave us this entire house. We welcome you.”
My host family’s unit is in a four-building apartment complex. There are five people who live here, and I have one of the two rooms. There is a living room and a small bathroom, which is tiled and only stinks of sewage sometimes. The kitchen is cozy, but has enough room for Ana (Mom) to lay ingredients around for fresh bread. The entire apartment is about the size of mine in San Francisco, but it holds triple the amount of people. After my second night I asked Narin if she would like to stay with me in my room to conserve the space we share. She translated this to her mother, to which she responded: “We used to share our home with two other families. We only had one room for ourselves. When the Soviet Union fell the government gave us this entire house. We welcome you.”
The Village I am From
“What village are you from?”
“San Francisco…It’s in California. You know where California is?”
“Um, yes. Yes.” Narin’s hair is pulled back. She wears a dress, khaki-colored, collared, which hangs slightly below her knees. It reminds me of a dress I could find at H&M. Her skin is pale, calm like her.
“What does your father do?” translates Narin for her mother, Sevinj.
Thumbing for the answer, I point to the screaming televised soccer game. Except when the electricity is out, the television is on, usually with a Turkish serial or a dubbed American cartoon. “Television.” Whether he is a small-time producer or a famous actor, I can’t explain. But it doesn’t matter. “Yaxşı.” This, I know, means “Good.”
“What does your mother do?”
“She is a housewife,” I say, to reduce the length of the explanation. This satisfies her mother who is also a housewife. Narin opens her eyes widely and says, “She likes you.”
The boys, seven and 13, are shy and don’t make eye contact with me until their father Saiq says I should ask them questions in English. “How old are you?” “What’s your name?” “Where are you from?” Narin answers them all in perfect English sentences. “My father wants to know how’s my English.”
“Amazing,” I tell Narin. And like my oldest host brother’s fear to speak English I do not want to say, “Belli,” the word I think means excellent. I haven’t yet spoken a word of Azerbaijani, and she asks me what I know in her language. I can only remember a quarter of the words I’ve learned language class and I can’t yet muster a word.
Three weeks later and I am formulating sentences on my own. They are slow coming: “Men…yeti…yox,…Men… sahar sәhәr… palter…paltar… yumaram—yox.” “Tomorrow, I will wash my clothes,” I try. “Yumaceyem,” corrects my host mother. Damn future tense. She understands. Today Saiq told me that my Azeri accent is good. This gives me confidence and motivation to really focus on my four-hour daily language lessons. I feel like a two-year-old: frustrated, unable to communicate the food I need. But holy Hell, I am speaking Azeri.
“San Francisco…It’s in California. You know where California is?”
“Um, yes. Yes.” Narin’s hair is pulled back. She wears a dress, khaki-colored, collared, which hangs slightly below her knees. It reminds me of a dress I could find at H&M. Her skin is pale, calm like her.
“What does your father do?” translates Narin for her mother, Sevinj.
Thumbing for the answer, I point to the screaming televised soccer game. Except when the electricity is out, the television is on, usually with a Turkish serial or a dubbed American cartoon. “Television.” Whether he is a small-time producer or a famous actor, I can’t explain. But it doesn’t matter. “Yaxşı.” This, I know, means “Good.”
“What does your mother do?”
“She is a housewife,” I say, to reduce the length of the explanation. This satisfies her mother who is also a housewife. Narin opens her eyes widely and says, “She likes you.”
The boys, seven and 13, are shy and don’t make eye contact with me until their father Saiq says I should ask them questions in English. “How old are you?” “What’s your name?” “Where are you from?” Narin answers them all in perfect English sentences. “My father wants to know how’s my English.”
“Amazing,” I tell Narin. And like my oldest host brother’s fear to speak English I do not want to say, “Belli,” the word I think means excellent. I haven’t yet spoken a word of Azerbaijani, and she asks me what I know in her language. I can only remember a quarter of the words I’ve learned language class and I can’t yet muster a word.
Three weeks later and I am formulating sentences on my own. They are slow coming: “Men…yeti…yox,…Men… sahar sәhәr… palter…paltar… yumaram—yox.” “Tomorrow, I will wash my clothes,” I try. “Yumaceyem,” corrects my host mother. Damn future tense. She understands. Today Saiq told me that my Azeri accent is good. This gives me confidence and motivation to really focus on my four-hour daily language lessons. I feel like a two-year-old: frustrated, unable to communicate the food I need. But holy Hell, I am speaking Azeri.
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