8/3

“Salam, Mahir.”
“Salam, Sasha! Netirsuz?”
“Yakshiyem, sag ol. Yumurta lazamdir, sonra bir kilo pomidor ve yaram kilo badamjan.”
“Sasha, ders yakshidir?”
“Ha, bu il yakshidir. Gelen heft meshkala olajac. Hem de gargadala—“
“Hi, can I ask you a question?”
“What? Yes, what? Wasn’t expecting that. You speak English.” Pinstriped, fitted gray slacks and a mere gold tooth, he is a Baku man.
“Your Azerbaijani is very good. Have you been here for long?”
“Oh, thank you. A year. And I’ll be here for another year. But my Azerbaijani is not very good.”
“But they understand you, and you understand them. It’s good! And what are you doing here?”
“Teaching English.”
“In Baku?”
“No, here.” I point up the short road leading to the medium-sized secondary school where I teach.
“Oh. Why?”
Routinely, I explain that I’m an American Peace Corps Volunteer, that I’m here to serve two years, and that there are tens of us, scattered across this tiny country to help Azerbaijan develop. He nods, with a look of neutrality.
“I haven’t seen you before. You live here?”
“Yes, I live here. I have no reason to speak with you. My brother and sister also speak English but they are also old, have children. They don’t need to speak with you.”
Sabir works for BP Offshore in the Caspian. He is engaged and travels to our community twice a month to visit his family. He was less excited to see me than I him.
“Yes, I understand. I’m just surprised—“
“Why are you surprised?”
“Because there are few people here who speak English. Just the English teachers, and my host sister.”
“No, no, there are many people who speak English, you just don’t know them. They don’t need to speak to you.”
I guess they don’t. Damn, I’m not as famous as I thought I was.
Turning his head as he walks out the door he adds, “It is very strange that you live here.”
“Yes, I know.”

10/22
This blog leads me to
A typical marshrukta conversation, two hours after I have stared at Azerbaijan from my window while ladies in paisley headscarves have observed me like growing fungus.
“Excuse me, where are you from?”
“California.”
“Oooooh, Califoniya. Arnold Schwarzenegger, president.”
“No, governor.”
“Oh yes, governor. Where are you going?”
I fill in the messenger, as women, children, gross boys and the driver clamor behind seats, waiting for the reply.
“Are you Russian?” She asks in Russian.
“No, I’m American, I speak English and a little Azerbaijani.”
“You don’t speak Russian.” Bemusing.
“She doesn’t speak Russian,” she passes up the line of passengers.
“Where do you live?”
Same place, I say.
“You live alone?”
“Yes, I live alone.” It was more difficult when I lived with an Azerbaijani family, as Volunteer, little lone Host Family, is way weird of a concept.
“Your family lives here too?”
“No, they live in California.”
“Do you have a husband?”
“No, I live alone. Just me.”
“Children?”
“No, I live alone. Just me.”
It’s shock value, like skydiving, but they’ve never even heard of skydiving, so this bus ride is a waking revelation.
“Where do you work?”
“I’m an English teacher.”
“Oh, you must make lots of money. How much do you make?”
“About 250 manat a month. I am a volunteer.”
“No, no. 250 manat? That’s a little bit of money. You are American. You have money in America?”
“No. I am a volunteer. It’s just to live, to eat, to travel. It’s just me. I don’t need a lot.”
“It’s still a little.”
“Yes, ok.”
“You must be a guest!” At their house, they mean. “Gonag ol!” “Be a guest!” they say, and I can’t get the 10-foot dancing teapot out of my head.
“Yes, I will try.” If I took up every guesting invitation offered, I’d spend all of what little I make on marshrukta rides to the towncenter. Fortunately old Soviet types haven’t adjusted to the cell phone culture so no whipping out numbers. Only a young nuisance asks on occasion, and I bat him away, fortunate to live in a country where that is expected.
We pull to my stop on the dusty bed and they shout, “You are a beautiful girl! Come visit us!”
Nowadays it’s common that someone has met me, or their cousin or uncle has met me, so they transcribe to the bus my story, while I continue to stare out the cracked window to the oil rigs and dry cow pastures ahead.