Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Christmas in T-Stan

Old habits die hard so although I haven’t been to church in over 3 months, I’m writing this while sitting in a church, or sorts. Actually, it’s the Vatican Embassy in Ashgabat, a house-like building behind a normal-looking gate with a plastic Christmas wreath on the door. Inside looks like a loved but under-funded home with walls painted the same yellowish beige that seems so universally chosen for religious interiors that it may be truly God’s will for the walls to make worshippers slightly queasy. The walls are covered with prints of Mother Theresa, a random Spanish saint, several Virgin Marys (including one that looks vaguely Turkmen and another vaguely Hispanic), a large glowing Jesus, and two carefully decorated but slightly bare Christmas trees. As is usually the case when I’m sitting in churches of any denomination, I feel slightly conflicted. On one hand, in my hand is a hymnal filled with “Amazing Grace,” “Lord of the Dance” (tune of “Simple Gifts”), “Joy to the World,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” as well as many other old and beloved favorites, but on the other hand, I’m sitting in a Catholic Midnight Mass that’s entirely in Russian (do you cross left to right or right to left? And why do they keep ringing the bell?). The only English was at the part when they served communion and the really hot priest (seriously, all of us are going to Hell) reminded us that it was “only for Catholics.” Eh. In general it was a lovely service. We sang “Silent Night” and “O Come All Ye Faithful” about eight times at different points before, during, and after - just the first verse of each, sung first in English, then Russian, then Polish, the German. By the end of the service the entire congregation (parish?) basically said “screw it” and we all sang it in our own language at the same time. The highlight of the experience -- the part that made leaving the debauchery in the hotel all worth it -- was the walk and cab ride there and back when the five of us belted out Christmas carols and hollared "Jingle Bells" to our driver's infinite amusement.

Across the world in about 10 hours when the 24th passes to the 25th, my parents, and whatever family decides to stay awake, will be at the midnight service lighting candles one to the other until the hall is lit only by several hundred small flames. The entire sanctuary will glow while the Stevensons’ operatic voices sing “Silent Light” and all the kids (and a few adults) play with the dripping wax of their candle and see how much they can tip it without wax getting on their bright red clothes. Still bursting with enthusiasm, we will clean up communion (raspberry juice so it will look bright red and Christmas-y – Mom’s theatrical touch to Christmas communion preparation) then run home to get lots of sleep for the long day of intense merriment ahead.

Written Christmas morning -
Last night ended watching "Secret Garden" with two good girlfriends (none of us brought X-Mas movies, but it has the same feeling) and getting the first full night of sleep after three days of clubbing and general debauchery (nothing serious, I'm still more crazy sober than drunk).

Christmas began at the PC Director's house where we were wined and dined on bread and juice and gave out our Secret Santa gifts. I received several blank notebooks and two really nice pens as my writing fetish has gotten around. After doing some shopping around with Andrea (who I will not see until April after we ship out tomorrow), I hung (am hanging) around the Peace Corps office playing Taboo with 15 other PCV, drinking two liters of Coke, and generally trying to enjoy the day and forget that tomorrow at 9am I'm leaving the world of pampered Americans. Baharly Here I Come.

Other important news, as of two days ago I am an official Peace Corps Volunteer, sworn in by the American ambassador while wearing a really nice dress (forgot to put the photos on the flash drive to post, oops) and wearing enough make-up to cause two friends to squint at my face and go "Annie?" Fun times. Hopefully I can put up a photo later the next time I have access to the internet - in a month. Write letters.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year (Taze Yyl)!!!!!!!

Sunday, December 16, 2007

A darker side


Hearing the threat of “if you don’t eat your dinner you can’t have dessert,” even in Turkmen, is a very familiar sound. Children around the world from suburban Maryland to Lamu, Kenya, to Godkepe, Turkmenistan know that phrase so well they don’t really have to pay attention to catch the meaning. When staring at a heaping plate of unexciting dinner food, children hear that warning tone and they know they need to eat it or that pile of chocolate candy next to the teapot will remain only a frustrating mirage. In the past few weeks I’ve picked up a few new threats that I never learned in my sheltered home in Silver Spring, MD: “stop crying or I’ll hit you again with the rolling pin,” “wake up now or I’ll get the stick,” and the blindingly hypocritical, “stop hitting your sister, hitting is bad, if you do it again I’ll hit you harder.” Corporeal punishment extends to the classroom as well where I saw a teacher berate and beat seven boys (one got a knee to the crotch in front of the entire class) for a half hour when their offense was showing up five minutes late to class. Among other volunteers we joke about starting a program called “the pointer is only for the map.”

I’m sitting in the living room watching my host sister make the cat increasingly annoyed and I feel inspired to return to the topic of dogs and animal care in Turkmenistan. If you remember from one of the first entries, there was one truly affectionate loyal and friendly dog in Godkepe formerly living at my Turkmen language teacher’s house. I say formerly because a little over a month ago my teacher’s host mother gave the dog away to the near-by military base – presumably to be eaten – leaving three adorable golden puppies who were the highlight of our days until they similarly disappeared last week. The dog-apathetic host mother apparently gave them away to the electrician who expressed a passing interest in them when he came by to fix the TV. We hope Wily, Basca, and Goofy (the puppies) are dead, as the alternative fates for dogs here are all excessively depressing.

Another exciting cultural lesson of the past week was a Turkmen funeral ceremony. It seems strange to say that I’m looking forward to finally attending a funeral for an old person who lived a full and eventful age and died in their bed surrounded by loved ones. So far during my life I’ve attended the funerals of a suicidal 15 year-old (USA), a cholera-victim 12 year-old (Kenya), and now in Turkmenistan I attended the funeral of a tortured and murdered 22 year-old. The exact circumstances aren’t meant for mass distribution, but four days ago I went with my site-mates to sit quietly and chew bread with a mother so exhausted from weeping that all she could do was shake and whisper that she was glad we’d come. It’s the sort of day when you feel gloom is puddling in your bones.

I have a cold (partly the reason for the dark turn in this blog), and I wonder how much of it is a psychological reflection of the weather. For the past two weeks the sun has been only a hypothetical presence hidden behind a thick iron-gray curtain of cloud. With the gray mud combined with the dirty white-washed buildings (read: gray) and the gray-filtered light, the entire town looks like a faded coloring book no one has filled in yet. I wish I could take a bucket of red and green paint and literally paint the town to liven up the generally dismal winter scenery. I never thought I’d miss the over-decorated streets of suburbia in the Christmas season.

And on those cheerful notes, training draws a close with only one week to go. To review, Peace Corps service is two years and three months long, with that extra three months spent in intensive four-hour a day language training, three-hour a day technical training, and “Hub Days” where all the trainees spread around the capitol at their training come together to receive safety, health, and teaching methodology training (plus find out all the funny stories of what’s going on at the other sites). It’s strange to think that my entire study abroad semester in Kenya was roughly the length of training and I will stay here 24 additional months (or more, if I choose to extend). It seems like several life-times although intellectually I know two years is half of high school or college and a small fraction of a life-time. And in terms of the people I meet here, I will appear and disappear as suddenly as a change in the weather.

Although prospects of my permanent site fill me will equal parts of excitement, dread, and anticipation (like all new endeavors), my thoughts this week really aren’t as depressed as my choice of meditations would seem to illustrate. I’m truly looking forward to going to Baharly and beginning a 2 year adventure that will supposedly shape my future professionally and personally. I am especially looking forward to learning how to make carpets and becoming inducted into an artistic tradition some books describe as the key to the Turkmen soul. Carpets cover every floor and often the walls as well and they tell pictorial symbolic histories of tribal ancestors, inspiring heroes, and cultural values. (In the photo I’m learning my first carpet lesson at a Godkepe carpet factory) During my three months here I have found myself increasingly drawn to thread and its myriad of uses and forms in T-stan. I just finished crocheting an elaborate shawl using a flower-like pattern I learned from my Godkepe host sister. It even has fringe. Compared to the yards to simple easy lines I used to do at home, I feel like I’ve graduated into a new world of thread manipulation. It’s amazing how many uses they have for yarn here: knitting beautiful socks called “cheshkas,” crocheting their own sweaters and shawls, weaving carpets and rugs, and even braiding bracelets and necklaces with yarn and camel hair to ward off the evil eye. It saturates every aspect of life. When I’m busily occupied in the living room combining single threads together to create a beautiful shawl, hat, or scarf, I feel like I’m not only creating an intricate piece of craft, I’m also weaving myself into a part of an ancient art form and profession. I don’t wonder why so many of the heroines of Greek mythology were weavers (Arachne, Penelope, Helen, etc) and why multiple cultures have envisioned the Fates as weavers. It may sound overly poetic or cliché, but there is something truly magical about how a long strand of rolled cotton knotted together can become something beautiful and functional. And thus creation, occupation, and art help distract and lighten thoughts about the darker side of life here.