Today was a good day. I woke up at 7:30AM and lounged around in bed for a while. Last night, I had requested an extra duşek (a thin mattress), saying that my back is in pain, which I had learned to say yesterday. That was kind of true, but I actually just wanted to be more comfortable. I didn’t even know that I could ask, since all the family members just use one. However, a Peace Corps staff said that it was OK, since families usually store a bunch in the house. I did feel spoiled and inept when I asked for one and my host sister did give me a strange look, but this morning…ahh…it was worth all the prior awkwardness. The first night sleeping on one thin duşek on the floor – I couldn’t really sleep. At home in the states, my bed is so comfy and soft in comparison, but after a couple of days, it was easy to get used to, but the extra padding is luxury. So the sleeping situation here is just that: you sleep on the duşek, and you have one pillow and one blanket which is just a carpet. And I think there’s a correct direction to place the pillow because the first night, my host sister corrected me, but since then I have switched sleeping positions, so I don’t really know. Also, every morning you have to make your bed, which means that you have to fold everything up and put it in a neat corner. Sometimes when I am in a hurry in the morning, I quickly shut my door and leave my bedding there, which looks ever so inviting when I come home in the afternoon, begging me to take a nap.
My room is actually huge; it takes up 1/3 of the house. There are two bedrooms in the house and a living room. I feel bad because since I take up one of the rooms, my host mom sleeps in the living room, which means that every time I make a run for the outhouse in the middle of the night, she knows. And most of the time, she stands in the doorway and waits for me, and when I walk back, sheepish and red-faced, she smiles a knowing smile. Drat.
The first time I saw my room, I was amazed at the size and neatness of the room. It was also beautiful, covered in luxurious and bright carpets. However, as I walk across the room, I nearly twisted my ankle. When I lifted up the carpets, I realized that there are holes spaced every other foot apart in the floor, so in the past few days, I have charted out how to skip across the room. Regardless, I am very satisfied with my living situation. I have a closet, which most of the other volunteers in this town don’t have. I also have running water, which, I found out today, is not the norm! I have two tap water sources, which I totally took for granted. I use them to wash my hands, fill my water filter, and also to fill my shower buckets. Ok. The outhouse toilet. The first time I went in there, it was so pungent the smell shot straight up to my brain, and I kid you not—I lost consciousness for a moment then. I was momentarily paralyzed, which sounds silly and just indicates how spoiled and inexperienced I am, on hindsight. However, I hadn’t prepared myself and had just walked in there. After that episode, I dreaded going to the bathroom, but then I had diarrhea. That meant I had a five-second time span to sprint to the tualet. In the hurry I forgot about the smell and forgot that I was in an outhouse. My bodily functions were more urgent then. I think the smell eventually grew on me, since I spent so much time in that outhouse that night. My host mom had to wait a long time at the doorway.
Regarding the shower situation, I don’t mind the change that much. I consider myself very fortunate and blessed. There are big buckets there all the time, filled to the brim with clean water from the tap sources. And on the gas heater/stove, there is always a metal bucket filled with hot water. So for my bucket showers, I fill my bucket with an appropriately warm mixture of both cold and hot water. It just takes a bit of getting used to. Actually, I had spent the first ten years of my life living in China, and I had used bucket showers then too. The absence of showers definitely brings back many childhood memories. I was surprised at how natural using the buckets had come to me, although I didn’t remember how to watch my hair. I guess the only thing about the shower room is that it’s so hot and stifling that sometimes I can’t breathe in there. I sweat while taking a shower.
I also use the buckets to wash my clothes. Oh how I long for a washing machine. On the second day there, my host sister taught me how to hand wash. When I was living in China, my relatives had also hand washed my clothes, but at least I wasn’t involved then! Now, I gotta scrub every inch of my clothes. Sigh. I think I will wear clothes over and over again just to not wash them, although the underwear situation is a bit more complicated. That day I hand washed my clothes, it took me forever, since I wanted the clothes to be clean, but the stains still weren’t coming out, and I could understand now when veteran volunteers say that their knuckles bled in the winter from hand washing. Why can’t we just ship some washing machines to this part of the world?! After I finally finished washing, I didn’t know where to hang my underwear. My host sister just hung them out in the open. I was too tired to protest and just escaped into the house. Here is another chance for me to comment on how amazed I am at the young girls here. They are all trained in the domestic arts and could feed and take care of themselves. It’s so easy to compare just how much I depend on my mom to cook for me and wash my clothes in the states. I had gone to college with no knowledge of even how to operate the washing machines and how much detergent to put into my clothes. And the first time I washed my clothes, it wasn’t a pretty experience: most of my clothes came out pink. Now, I feel like a young child again, being taken care of by a 14-year-old. Even worse, when my host sister has to go to school in the morning, she calls over a 10-year-old to watch over me and serve me breakfast. It is humbling, to say the least.
However, I and the rest of my group have learned to laugh at the cultural differences and the faux pas that we make. For example, another volunteer shared a recent experience today. He was in the outhouse, and he had thought that he had bolted shut the door. Apparently, it wasn’t, and his 10-year-old host brother opened the door. And in that frantic moment, the first Turkmen words that came to his mind were “Hawa! Hawa!” Unfortunately, that meant “Yes! Yes!”
As for my own faux pas…today, I was spending some time with my medical counterpart, who I am supposed to learn the Turkmen healthcare system from. However, there was going to be a huge wedding tonight, so no one was really thinking about work, and everyone was just chatting and socializing. I was just using my limited language capabilities to ask her what her husband did for work, but I didn’t know the word for “husband,” and I ended up acting out a marriage in her office. She still didn’t understand. Anyways, a male doctor walked in, and he caught sight of me in an awkward charade pose. I immediately looked down, having been taught that this is how Turkmen women are supposed to behave in the company of strange men. Anyways, he started to ask me a series of questions, and I demurred. I told him that I was 22 years old, and then he started to say a bunch of things that I didn’t understand. However, he kept smiling, so naturally I nodded and smiled back. He exited the office in high spirits. I looked to my counterpart with a questioning look. I had agreed to wed his 20-year-old son. Apparently. “Don’t worry. He said that a dowry wasn’t necessary,” she assured me.
It’s actually very eye-opening to come to this country and be Chinese at that. Many people have pointed to my face and said “Turkmen.” I will take their word for it. Turkmenistan is very interesting in this aspect. I have found many of the people here looking Asian, which presumably is due to the proximity of this country to China, India, and other Asian countries. A Peace Corps staff also told me that you could find people here looking like every other culture, and she said that she has found Turkmen who have Negro features. My nurse counterpart, for example, looks Vietnamese, and when I commented on it, I think she was a bit offended, as she put her hand on her chest and said “Turkmen” indignantly. I have also found one of the language teachers to look exactly like one of my Korean friends and the safety and security coordinator here to look a bit like my dad. That was fascinating for me, and it actually made me feel a bit less strange in this new land. Like one of them.
Also, I have fallen head over heels in love with one of the girls here. She’s 7 years old, and she’s absolutely delightful. I love kids, and every day she gives me a huge hug, and that is sure to brighten my day. She’s a neighbor’s child, and one of the volunteers actually lives with that family. She has the most beautiful brown eyes, and her smile is wide and beautiful and shows some missing baby teeth. Anyhow, I was thinking what I would think her nationality is if I were living in the states. At first glance, she looks Latina and Asian to me. I have realized that there are certain people here that look distinctly Central Asian, with dark skin, big eyes, and certain features. However others, like this little girl, looks like a blend of different ethnicities. This fascinates me. This eclectic-looking group of people who shares the same language and culture.
At first, when I learned that I was coming here, I was like, “Where is Turkmenistan? And what is it?” I vaguely remembered reading the name when I took a class on the Middle East. But now, I increasingly find it amazing and full of so much history and distinctive culture. For example, most of the people in this country are bilingual, speaking both Turkmen, the national language, and Russian (a residue of being part of the Soviet Union). Also, it’s now mandated that English to be taught at every level in all the schools. Furthermore, due to prior Soviet laws and influences, there are little pockets of Uzbeks, Russians, and Koreans sprinkled throughout the land of Turkmenistan. It’s said that where the Uzbeks and Russians live, the people there are more liberal (i.e. the women don’t have to wear long dresses that cover them from head to toe). It completely boggles my mind that there are Koreans here, and for some weird psychological reason, it makes me feel more accepted here. It’s even stranger to me that the Koreans here mainly speak Russian with each other. Back in the states, I have many Korean friends (who speak their native Korean language), and this concept of Russian-speaking Koreans is absolutely astonishing. There are just so many layers and depths to this country. In addition, I learned that there are Chinese people here too. They are building oil pipelines to China, so for many Turkmen, the sight of a Chinese person is not so strange, and there are actually many people, either on busses or on the streets, that tell me that I am Chinese. And it takes them a while to understand that I am also American and that I live in California. Nonetheless, in such a strange and foreign land, there is yet something so familiar and close to home as such.
I have found that I draw on much of my Chinese culture and background to adapt to living here. When I moved to the US from China, I had to adapt and change my behavior to adapt (i.e. be more outspoken and opinionated). In Turkmenistan, I once again find myself searching within myself to adapt. I become more quiet and demure, and I always cast my eyes down when I am walking and especially when I am approaching a man. I speak only when spoken to, and I once again become a child, seeking approval from the adults. It is so very interesting (I know that’s getting repetitive) to see the overlap between this culture and the Chinese culture and what I know. I had joined Peace Corps in hopes of a cross-cultural experience, and cultural exchange is definitely taking place. I am very glad to be in Turkmenistan at this time. Many people speak of how in 5 years, the country would be very different, as it contained much untapped oil and gas. Besides that, to come here and immerse myself into such a historic place (Turkmenistan has some of the oldest structures in the world, as it used to be a stop on the Silk Road) is an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Sorry. I was supposed to be talking about today, but I find myself once and again analyzing everything. Don’t even get me started on the beauty of the nearby, looming, absolutely stunning mountains of which lies Iran on the other side. Every morning when I walk to school, they just take my breath away. Not to mention the clean, fresh air that I breathe every morning.
I had known that joining the Peace Corps would provide a different environment and culture. I had anticipated the differences, but the similarities are equally immense. Just the other night, I was hanging out with a bunch of 16-20 year olds. And certainly, they were interesting in chatting about boys, just like my friends back home would be. My language skills are limited, but I contributed my share of the giggling and pillow throwing. And the speaking intonations are the same. For example, I take it as my cue to nod or shake my head when the pitch of their voices lowers or rises. That’s my main way of communication. In such drastically different places, so much is the same. This reminds me of one certain psychology study that was done. The researchers had sought out a tribe that was untouched by what we consider “civilized societies.” The scientists were interested in the similarities between the rest of the world and this group of people and found that most of the emotions are universal (i.e. anger, happiness, sadness, surprise). This cultural part just blows me away: there is so much inherent already in our human make-up.
Ok. So what did I do today? I woke up, got ready, and got served breakfast by my 19-year-old neighbor. My host sister had already left for school, and I had a new, albeit older, babysitter today. My host mother wasn’t here last night, and I didn’t understand where she went for the night. Then at 8:30 AM, I picked up another volunteer on the way to school. We live very close together, and it’s a comfort to me that I could run to her house if an emergency arises. Also, my favorite person in Turkmenistan aka the 7-year-old lives there.
(Ok. This strange man just came in and sat down and started talking to me. And my host sister is not helping and is off giggling. He had called before, and it was weird. He’s not married, and it’s not appropriate in this culture for unmarried men and women to associate. I hope I am not encouraging any kind of inappropriate behavior through my limited language capabilities. I only said hi to him when he waited outside the door the other morning when I was walking to school. Dang it! I should’ve retreated to my room when I had the chance after dinner. Now I am trapped, typing in the hopes that he will leave.)
So it took 20 minutes to walk to school, and we had language lessons for an hour. Then we actually went to one of the host families and learned how to cook palow! That was the most amazing part of the day. Palow is a stir-fried dish of meat (usually chicken), carrots, rice, salt, and water. It’s mouth-watering every time I eat it. Thankfully, it’s a very popular dish here. Today, we had a cooking lesson, hopefully to help us better adjust to this society and be better able to take care of ourselves, should we live by ourselves later on. The host mother cooks for us every single lunch, and it’s usually the best part of the day. She’s absolutely wonderful, especially at cooking. However, during this cooking lesson, I only chopped one onion and botched the job of chopping one carrot. It was basically the mother cooking and adding various proportions of the ingredients and us talking in English amongst ourselves. However, it was still nice, and I did learn how to chop vegetables, although I smelled like onions the whole day.
After that lesson, we went back to the hospital room where we have our daily language lessons and worked on the booklet that helps us integrate into the Turkmen society. It asks us different cultural questions, and we try to answer them based on our interactions with the host country nationals (which sounds weird and too official sounding). Then, we left to spend some time with our medical counterparts or English-teacher counterparts (for the volunteers who are English teachers in Turkmenistan). That was really fun, but not really educational. I really like my nurse counterpart: she’s young and fun to talk to. My family doctor counterpart had already left for the wedding.
Ok weird guy just asked me if I had a boyfriend. WEIRD. When will he leave? He’s also 30 years old! He also asked when I was going to marry. This is becoming weirder and weirder, and gauging from the shriller volume of my host sister’s laughing and her friend’s laughing, I don’t think this situation is improving. He’s also coming closer and closer to the computer…and reading over my shoulder. Thank goodness he doesn’t know I am writing about him.
Anyways, after the practicum with the counterpart, we went home to spend the rest of the Saturday evening with our host families. I really like my family. They are very kind, although they think I am a man carrot aka someone who’s not domestic at all aka someone who cuts carrots like a man. Since no one was in the house, I stayed in my room and typed and here I am now, after dinner and chilling out with my host sister, and being rudely interrupted by the weird man. My host mother had left for the huge wedding that the whole community is participating in…well except me. I had really wanted to go, but it turns out that my sister doesn’t want to go, which means that I don’t get to go. I could hear the music and festivities, but I can’t go off by myself. I think I will retire soon and finish some letters to my friends and family. I would also like to finish the first complete entry and detail what has happened thus far, to do the hard task of conveying all that I feel and see into words that don’t do complete justice.
Thank goodness, one of the respectable neighbor moms dropped by. I am saved.
