Hazelnuts

When most Americans think “hazelnut,” it’s in the singular and is a delicious flavoring for coffee. When Zaqatalians think “hazelnut,” it’s findig, a bounteous nut crop that’s wonderful for eating and profitable for selling.

            Azerbaijan is the world’s 4^th most hazelnut producing country, behind Turkey, Italy, and the US. Zaqatala and its neighboring regions along the Caucus mountains are where you’ll find the most findig in Azerbaijan. As you drive up the major highway, you will see groves of the short tree that consists of many long shoots all originating from the base. My host family has about 10 trees in our yard on the way to the outhouse, and about 50 trees in the Soviet-allotted family plot, a 15 minute walk away.

Trees and fallen cobs in our yard.

            Late summer is harvesting season, and here in Muxax we like to do it the old fashioned way. Gather up willing members of the family, pack a lunch (including a big thermos of hot tea), bring your buckets and sacks, and head out to the grove. Get a man, or the strongest member of your company, to shake the branches and get all the ready nuts in their cobs to blanket the ground. Drop to your knees or haunches, and pick, pick, pick. When your bucket’s full, empty it to a sack, and repeat until there’s no more left to pick. (My host mom calculated they get about 8 kilos (17.6 pounds) of cleaned nut from each tree.) Find somebody with a truck to take the sacks back home. Pour out the bags in a covered area. Start to husk the nuts out of their cobs by hand, or use the husking machine and pay its rental fee with a percentage of the nuts (4%). As you will not likely finish all this in one day, remember to churn the pile of nuts and cobs with a pitchfork at least once a day or the nuts could rot from moisture. Sell as many nuts as you think you won’t use till next season. Consider the baklava, kete, and other sweets you’ll bake, the party mix you’ll toast, and the bags you’ll give away as gifts to out-of-towners. You can sell at numerous shops around the village and roadside buyers. This year you’ll fetch 1.30-1.50 manat a kilo ($2.86 a pound). My host moms sold 90 kilos, my neighbors around 300. To get perspective, my host mom made a little over her monthly salary from the nuts.

 Pile of uncleaned nuts under the loft

When I went to harvest hazelnuts it rained after just two hours of working. 

            Whether you know them better in Nutella, Sokki Mokki, Ferrero Rocher, or Tutku, there’s nothing better than a fresh hazelnut picked off the ground, and cracked open with your teeth. Try it if you get a chance. 

For this blog post, I'd like to share a Peace Corp Volunteer profile I wrote up for the Southeast Regional Office recruitment. I put a lot of thought into it and think it sums up how I'm feeling right now.

1)                What one particular experience/moment highlights your Peace Corps service? 

I also love to hear poignant tales about volunteers’ where they have an epiphany, or when all their hard work pays off, or a local does something exceptionally kind. I’ve experienced all these things, but when I reflect on my 23 months, no one moment shines above the others. I am very happy here, don’t get me wrong, but also don’t go into Peace Corps expecting one breathtaking moment to sweep you off your feet. 

2)                How have your values shifted, if at all? 

My values are now a solid blend of American and Azerbaijani, modern and traditional. I now have the mindset that family is one’s roots and the building block of societies. I’ve focused my future plans around my family, rather than spending too much time on friends or acquaintances. I’ve always had the conviction that money isn’t important, but now I’ve lived a life with little money and seen how much farther kindness, generosity, good manners, respect, reputation, and relationships can take you. Americans tend to think that if they’re throwing dollars around for a good or service, they can behave however they want.

3)    What have you accomplished for the people in your country?

“Accomplished” is a strong word. It implies tangible results and touching stories about people whose lives have been changed by something I did. Accomplishing is something Peace Corps hopes for us to do, but it is the most difficult thing to do in your service. Without a counterpart (local who you work with) who is super inspired and resolute, accomplishing anything takes immense personal strength and effort. I’ve “accomplished” setting a good model as a young woman. I’ve “accomplished” representing the USA in a positive and humble way. I’ve “accomplished” giving people hope that there is more to this world than they can see.

Also, I have written a grant for an English Resource Cabinet, providing our school with laptops, books, and other materials for diversified learning. InshAllah (God willing) children who are usually “swept under the rug” academically, will have a chance to learn and thusly improve their quality of life.

4)                Have you made local friends?  Share a ‘friendship’ moment. 

I get a little teary already thinking about having to leave my Azerbaijani friends. I have two friends in particular who I’m very close to; we meet every week for conversation club and no topic is off limits. We talk about news and politics, science and religion, dating, relationships, and family. I’ve probably learned more from them than they from me. We walk around town and get lunch at our favorite cafes or ice cream from a market, in a country where most women are encouraged to stay in the home.

5)                What local customs drive you crazy? 

The “fact” that every ache or illness is due to the person being, or having contact with something, cold. “Oh, Kaylee, your throat is sore cause you drank that cold water a few days ago; don’t sit near the fan, you’re going to get ill; you took a bath with cool water? Are you crazy?!”

6)                How does technology fit into your experience? 

I imagine that Peace Corps service must be so psychologically taxing for those without internet (or telephone) access. Not knowing how your loved ones are doing, or what is going on with them; lack of enjoying your own culture’s language and arts; plus simple boredom could have tolls on one’s mental health. I imagine that relationships would fade without Skype or Facebook (although I have learned that PC service shows you the friends you’ll keep forever). Technology is especially important to me because my boyfriend, now actually my fiancée, and I have not only survived 2 years of internationally-distant communication, but have gained levels of closeness and trust that perhaps would not have happened without my PC experience.

7)           Why should more Americans apply for PC service? 

It makes you a better-rounded person. It gives you a set of eyes and a heart on the other side of the globe. You break from the world of “America” and lose the distortions you developed while growing up. Physically, it makes you need less stuff and less luxury. It increases your patience and ability to see the potential in people.

8)                Describe your village site….in detail: what is attractive / difficult about it? 

My village actually is considered to be attractive among Azerbaijanis and PCVs. It’s set alongside the foot of a mountain in the Greater Caucasus range. There are former rivers with long exposed beds through which a tenacious stream still manages to run despite many years of poor resource management and major pollution. Trash is littered everywhere along the stony streets and the acrid smell of more trash burning rises in smoke behind tall stone and mud walls that surround every yard. Fruit and nut trees grow everywhere, including blackberry brambles and hazelnut groves. I’m often invited to tea if a family spots me walking past, but usually I’m in a hurry to catch the bus or a taxi to town, just 15-20 minutes away.

9)                How will you move your service forward upon your return to the US? 

Although I do not work with agriculture in Azerbaijan, I want to use the interpersonal and community development skills I have strengthened here to pursue a career in gardening. Keeping up with Peace Corps’s Third Main Goal, to inform Americans about my host country, I’d love to do presentations in classrooms or libraries or clubs, or whoever will have me, about Azerbaijan, the gorgeous and fascinating country that no one knew existed. 

Always at Weddings

It’s toy (wedding) season here in Muxax. Parades of cars decorated with red ribbons can be heard blaring their horns down the street as they pick up brides from their mother’s homes and transport them to wedding halls, to wifehood, to motherhood.

Thusly a lot of engagement parties are going on too. Six to twelve months in advance of the wedding, the bride’s family hosts a feast for the groom’s family, who, in turn, bring the bride the ring, gold jewelry, and a heap of clothes. Someone bakes a huge cake with the couple’s names written on it, which gets cut in half, and the name pieces get parceled out to the opposite family (bride’s name’s side to the groom’s family, and vice versa).

Weddings are such a big deal here that there are two separate weddings; one for the bride and her guests, and another, the day after, for the groom and his guests. At the “girl” wedding, the bride wears a colored dress. Sometimes the groom comes to the “girl” wedding, otherwise she sits at the head table with a close friend.

On the day of the “boy” wedding, the groom’s family comes to take away the bride. The groom’s brother ties a red ribbon around her waist as a symbol of unbroken chastity. Sometimes a spoonful of honey is given to the couple as a sign of good luck.

On this day all precious memories are immortalized by the eye of the cameraman. He even films the drive from the bride’s house to the wedding hall, with the camera looking out the back windshield. This part is usually fast forwarded when we sit at home watching the tape.

Nowadays most weddings are done in a saray (wedding hall); before, they were done in the yard, with a tent and band and everything. There’s one saray at the top of our village, and another at the bottom. It’s cute how homely they can be, and going to a wedding in the city is a posh affair in comparison.

In comparing nuptial ceremonies ‘cross countries, the most obvious difference is the uniformity of Azerbaijanis’ versus the fierce individuality of Americans’. Here, I’ve been to about 15 weddings and they all had the same food, same music, same style dresses and makeup, and same location (at a saray). Stateside, we can be fanatical about making sure our special day is OUR SPECIAL DAY: absolutely unique and even tailored to our personalities.

In addition, in Azerbaijan the wedding is more about the family as a unit than about the couple (or, just the bride, as our modern culture dictates). My case in point is a wedding I went to that the couple never even showed up to. I asked the bride’s mother where they were, and she says, “Oh, they’re sitting at home.” I thought that something sketchy was going on, and I asked my host mom about it. She said no, it’s normal; they don’t have to come.

I feel like I’ve got weddings here all figured out, but I’ll probably get thrown a curveball down the line (seems to be a theme of my service). At the end of it though, I’ll cherish my memories of walking through the stony village streets in black velvet heels with my host mom, avoiding cow pies and taking along tissues to clean off our heels when we make it to the road to catch the chartered wedding party bus or a taxi. As with other specific occasions, Azeris have a traditional salutation. On the way to a wedding, they wish you, “Həmişə toylarda!” Always at Weddings!

Transitions

As I sit here on our front porch, elevated above the ground level of our nature-y domain, cool under the trellis covered in lush grape foliage, its sensual fruits one by one darkening purple, I am passing my time in the usual way: staring, letting a few scarce thoughts surface, observing the chickens mostly, and differentiating the sounds of various bugs passing and associating them with an aircraft: the delicate model-airplane whir of a mosquito, the agile fighter jet buzz of a housefly, and the fear-inducing low rumble like a large blimp, the insect from which I don't know, but instinctively run away from. On this particular day, I'm snacking on plums (from the tree) and coffee (from the corner store), in an effort to get my bowels moving with foodstuffs that were available within an aching-person's walking distance. I talked to the doctor this morning and she said I have the symptoms of a parasite rather than food poisoning: fatigue and lightheadedness after eating, stomach cramps and constipation. My mind immediately flies to the most extreme situation: being Medevac'ed to the States where I get to lay in a hospital for a month and see my boyfriend. I am an optimist, after all.

A month or so later, I’ve pooed my way back to health and daydreaming has switched back to Tbilisi in winter. Summer is passing. Signs of autumn fall one by one from branches and vines, and the wind tells so too.

School has started and I had to kiss my sweet lazy summer goodbye. It’s been replaced with my sweet students’ smiles, “Hello teacher.” Seeing their faces light up when I walk into the classroom makes me giddy.

October has waltzed on in along with its evenings that remind me of trick or treating. Pomegranates, persimmons, pears, apples, and grapes are weighing down the branches like it’s the Garden of Eden. I stumbled out into the yard today for my morning pee to see a ram in the barn: a new addition for the upcoming Gurban Holiday, where, guess what, is traditionally killed and parceled out to neighbors as gifts of goodwill. He’s been blaaaaahing constantly all day long.

I guess I should make a shout-out to the fact that I’m one year in. Woo! Not much else to say about that. In December the Az10’s are coming to site, and word is, Zaqatala (my region) is getting two, but in separate villages. The region north of us, Balaken, is getting two as well. I’m excited to be a big sister PCV and help them out. But I’ll have to say goodbye to my Az8 friends, flying away from Azerbaijan for forever. Oh, the bittersweetness of the Peace Corps Circle of Life!

Now the sun is setting and the chickens are slowly gravitating towards their coop. I, however, will remain right where I am, for about a year, until I return to my coop.

A Visit to the Homeland

So it’s true, distance does make the heart grow fonder, but it’s also true that the grass is always greener on the other side. In fact, during my ten-day vacation in June to the Great States of America, I found myself missing tandir bread, crumbly cheese, and cups of tea.

Within thirty minutes of touching down in Florida, it was as if the last ten months of my life had not passed in some forlorn Islamic country in the Caucuses. It felt exactly the same as before: I was in a car on a wide, smoothly paved highway, lit up neatly with endless individual reflectors. Air-conditioning blasting full-force on my face while the air outside was wet and heavy. I was on the right-hand side of my man. We went to a Denny's. I had a milkshake. There were no feelings of specialness, no nostalgia at all. Why weren’t the paved roads, air conditioning, and Oreo milkshakes of my Azeri fantasies as thrilling and wonderful as I’d made them out to be?

Because I'd been living with this shit for 22 years. Ten months in the Land of Az is just a drop in the bucket (I did the calculation; it’s 3.8% of my life) when I consider American Kaylee versus Azerbaijani Keyli. Sixteen more months (the remainder of my service) in the land of Az is sure to bring me down with a more acute case of reverse culture shock for when I return. For now, it’s interesting to see how this little drop has changed things.

I joined Peace Corps to experience new things, to get out of the ordinary. And it has fulfilled that desire. My days in Azerbaijan scarcely resemble the ones at home: the pace, language, food, customs, indoors and outdoors, everything is exotic. Exotic doesn’t necessarily mean pleasant, however, and it comes at the expense of familiarity, plus all the great stuff we have in the States. PCVs have the habit of romanticizing together about the things we enjoyed back home that are absent here. It’s another fun way to compare and contrast our countries, and we shouldn’t make it more than that, into a self-pitying commiseration of poor Americans in a (poorer) foreign land. But it is easy to build up Denny’s into a perpetually welcoming heaven of homestyle food, when it’s just a 24-hour restaurant with cheap food (cheap as in poor quality— I couldn’t believe the prices at that place!). Our deprivation of American stuff doesn’t turn the actual American stuff into super star-spangled gloriousness; rather, it gives us a simple, humble appreciation of it. A quiet buzz that doesn’t effect the senses, just the spirit. And I don’t think it will ever fade.


Americans love cold stuff. Refrigerated fruit, ice in every drink, and air conditioning set around a chilly 68°. This is something that even before I came to Azerbaijan I had problems with. I was so cold all the time! But my intolerance to the cold has only multiplied because Azerbaijanis have an outright phobia to all things below a toasty warm. Tea must be served with boiling water, and if you let it sit for a while, rendering it comfortably hot, they will tell you your tea is cold and you need a refresher (in summer it is served this way too). Forget about finding relief in a nice breeze. If the windows on a bus are open wide, you will be hastened to narrow them, lest you catch a cold. Same with the oscillating floor fan. They refuse to sit in front of it and implore me not to, for fear that I will incur aches-a-plenty from its debilitating whooshes. Now cold drink is the grandpappy of all tickets to illness. At the least, it will make your throat hurt, and at the worst it will bed rid you till you die of pneumonia. (By this point, I am exaggerating for satirical purposes, but you get the picture.)

In my position of diplomacy, I offer these words to the warring Heat and Snow Misers: Azerbaijanis could use a little more tolerance to cold things, and also Americans should give heat a chance too. A message to my fellow citizens! If walking into your home from the sweltering outdoors doesn’t give you the same refreshment as walking into a refrigerator might, it’s ok. If you choose to dance around your house like a maniac (like me), don’t expect your home’s a/c to help you maintain a comfortable cool. Sweat it out!

On my side, I encourage the Azeri nation to drink cool water when they’re hot. I keep my window open on the marshutka, practically hanging my head out of it like a dog. I make skeptical faces when advised to wrap my belly when I’m ill, or told by someone that her neck is sore because last night she rode in a car with the windows down. It’s all about moderation, folks.

Americans love to joke about their “personal bubble.” But when it’s popped, it’s no joke. It’s very important to them. Azerbaijanis, on the other hand, would never even consider coining such a term. Because there are no “personal bubbles” here; all area around your body, and even your body itself, are open fields for bumping past, squeezing between, sidling up, and even huddling against (for warmth). I’ve become accustomed to this body culture. Before, I’d get huffy when someone “rudely” shoves past me at the market, and when it came to waiting my turn, I’d serenely stand in my place as if when I arrived mattered, not if my face is the next to be seen, and thusly addressed.

This Middle Eastern closeness I’ve developed clashed with Western distance while I was home, in a Target, where a particularly crabby and vocal American was upset by the fact that I walked in front of her shopping cart, leaving only a couple of feet to spare, to enter the aisle to her right. She thought that was cause for a private exclamation. I just smiled amusedly to myself. I do the same thing with cars over here.

Pedestrians and moving vehicles have just as intimate a relationship as bodies do in Azerbaijan. We weave serenely amongst each other, yields calculated only on whim and emotion. On the Baku episode of The Amazing Race, the racers were scared to death by this proximity, but there’s a system to the seeming chaos. I wish so badly I could drive here, because there are so few rules to stop you on your way (but there are cows and flocks of sheep that may). This more casual manner of road etiquette rubbed off on me when I got home. I parked my car lazily at the end of Eder’s long driveway, not particularly tucked away, because of the large amount of space available. As soon as I got out, Eder told me I should move it, maybe down the driveway more, or into the yard where it’d have a nice pocket of protection. In its current spot, the neighbors across the street might be hindered while backing out of their driveway. I told him there’s nothing wrong with it there, there’s plenty of space, why do Americans have to be so anal about where cars go? After a while of dealing with my stubbornness, he let it go. Later in the evening, we got a call from his dad telling me to move my car, the neighbors might get angry. I gave up. I’ve learned it’s much easier to do the simple things that oblige people’s arbitrary cultural preferences rather than defy and try to change them.

To change a culture, phew, now that’s one thing I know needs monumental force. A rag-tag group of 100 or so Americans, starry-eyed and charismatic as we are, will never change a culture that’s been rooted since, literally, the Stone Age. Likewise, as progressive and open-minded as we Americans think we are, the Peace Corps doesn’t alter the tide of our nation’s lifestyle. In reality, it’s the PCVs ourselves who change the most, pretty substantially in fact. I feel so fortunate to be one of these people, a part of the very special and very spread out community of Denny’s believers and Azeri dreamers.

American gız in the Great Caucasus

First train ride, friday night, to pick up Lynnsey in Baku. I am frequently blowing my nose because I am ill. Every time I do, the mother and daughter across the bunks giggle insanely. Whether they are simply insensitive to my pathetic condition, or I am being too (culturally) insensitive by blowing my nose in public, I don't know. But I sure as hell am not getting up every minute and teetering my way to the end of the wagon in order to dejam my breathing facilities.

Eating breakfast at the cafe at the train station. I have until midnight-30 to pick up Lynnsey from the airport, all day to kill. Suddenly my phone rings. I see that it's Jeyhun, Peace Corps Safety and Security Coordinator. A man famed among volunteers for being able to tell off any Azeri baddy, through the phone. I pick up. "Kaylee, where are you now?" "Baku," (exactly where I should be). "Kaylee, I just recieved a call from your friend Lynnsey Norris. She's been at the airport waiting for you for 13 hours!"

I knew that once we met up with Rashad everything would be ok. And it was. We got on the right bus, walked down the right streets. The whole night was just right: a homecooked meal, great conversation, music sharing, tea, and dinosaurs.

Standing on the bus to Qobustan, I see that a freakishly tall young man has taken special interest in me and Lynnsey. He seems helpful enough, telling us he's getting off at Qobustan too, and can show us where the taxis are. He's neatly trimmed and nicely dressed in a starched white shirt and matching fedora. He's attractive and he knows it.  This boy, I can tell, is a natural born opportunist. He has all the talent to spot an opportunity, take advantage of it, and, with luck, ride it out til the end. He hops in the taxi with us and buys us an orange Fanta. He rides along to the museum with us. He tags along with us through our English tour of the petroglyph mountain. He politely took his leave, though, after I made it clear to him that today wasn't his lucky day; this opportunity is denying you. But thanks for trying.

Second train ride to Tbilisi. Our compartment mates are a friendly Georgian pair of Judo sportsmen.  They of course have brought an entire roasted chicken, loaf of bread, and package of fatty smoked ham slices (oh lordy so delectable) and insisted on sharing with us. The man, 30-something and kind like a father, but mischevious and playful like a brother, shared a generous portion of cha cha, Georgia's underground home-brewed liqour, out of his flask with us. The girl was the image of vivacity, and wrote in her journal with those curly Georgian letters; I like to think it was about the two american girls on the train.

Tbilisi, ah! Land of grape vineyards, Christians, cha cha, beautiful people, art gallerys, Churches, mountains and valleys, the Stalin museum! I laugh at myself for wondering how similar it would be to Azerbaijan. Pretty similar, I had thought. In reality, nothing similar. The only evidence of them being neighbors are the Azeris that we ran into: in the sulfur bath house (scrub downs and massages left us pretty), and a random taxi driver (kind old man who helped us find our way home).

We found our way, home, after some expensive setbacks. But we made it in time for Lynnsey to meet my host family, but not time for anything else! Back to the train, back to Baku!

Happy Holiday

As any good holiday should pass, we got a nice fat break from school; bounties of cookies, bars, and pastries; and family gatherings, cross country. Peace Corps also skillfully slipped a TEFL Conference into our time off school, providing the perfect getaway for us teacher-PCVs going stir-crazy with cabin fever from winter and culturally exhausted from the reportedly hardest first 4 months of service.

Early Service Training (EST) for us TEFLs was held in Baku on March 15th and 16th. We ladies in Zaqatala (MaryEllen, Annette, and I) are a 6-8 hour bus ride away, so we opted to take the night train to get there in time. We boarded with excitement, just a bit wary, because you never know what to expect in this country. Although cramped and stifling warm like the bowels of a dragon, the train proved to be a comfortable and convenient way to get to Hogwarts, I mean, Baku. There are four bunked beds to a compartment, and we got lucky with our 4th travel partner, a true Azeri gentleman, an engineer from Zaqatala who bought us all tea and went straight to bed without any fussing around.

The part I was most excited about for the trip was just staying in a hotel. The first thing I did upon arrival was take a piping hot shower, and it felt like I was being born again. Truly orgasmic. I shaved my legs, listened to my music out loud, lounged about the room naked, reconnected with the Kaylee I left behind in Florida. But I felt sharply the part of me that is missing: the yang for my yin, that is, my man. It's easier in the village when I'm living a life so different from my last one, but being in the hotel as if I were on another trip to Miami, I really missed my boo.

The conference passed normally as expected; I learned exactly what I needed in relation to my work, and got stories and perspective from my fellow PCVs.

Saturday was St. Patrick's Day, and we weren't going to let such a good reason to go out and drink  pass unacknowledged. A group of us booked a room at a hostel, which was in Inner City, the oldest and coolest part of Baku. We were able to walk to Fountain Square, the funnest part of Baku, complete with English-catering restaurants and bars, including good ol' McDonald's. After mingling with just a few ex-Pats, I called it a night early cause of the deathly cold I had caught earlier, and managed to eat two dönər, the succulent Turkish masterpiece of a sandwich, before crashing.

Although completely exhausted (and completely sick) at this point, our elaborate plans were only half accomplished. Next, Mellen and I headed to my very first Azerbaijani household, that of the Lezgi family in Xirdalan.

Sticking to promises frequently and previously made, we accompanied Rasmiyya to her family's homeland, the rayon called Gusar. It runs along Azerbaijan's northeast border with Russia, is the coldest in the country, and also hosts the largest ethnic minority (the Lezgis, of course).

They have an expression here, "When the sword is drawn, blood is drawn," in reference to the quarrelsome nature of Lezgi  interactions. Playful arguement is just how they communicate, how they show their love, and definitely how they express their opinions. Mellen and I's awkward American habits, combined with my obnoxious cold, combined with Rasmiyya's secret love interest meetings (don't judge: this is way more innocent than it may appear. Think high school courting procedures: meeting in the park to talk and maybe hold hands, whispering on the phone late at night in bed, etc. It was really cute, and entertaining to be her support system during this little episode) made for an interesting visit indeed. Plus grandma's foot was broken, so, confined to the couch, she could only bark out orders to anyone around her about what to do at the current moment. The best part, though was when Mellen and I found the kitchen to be full of dirty dishes from supper, and only grandma and grandpa home. Not 30 seconds into running the water, grandma starts yelling at us not to, but we playfully insisted, and she could do nothing to stop us cause she couldn't physically force us away from the sink (as an able-bodied Azerbaiajni woman would probably do in this situation).

We took our leave of Gusar early Wednesday morning, and enjoyed the gorgeous bus ride back to Baku, all rolling hills and spring greening, wheat fields, collosal rocks begging to be explored, charming hamlets colorful and old as Azeri culture itself, the whole nine yards.

After that, in Baku, we managed to get doctor-prescribed medicine for myself, a cup of coffee, salad, a handful of clothes in exchange for a dress, friuts for our train ride, and of course, more dolma, plov, shekabura, baklava, gogal, badambura. Despite the dread I felt having to face the night train with my plegmy lungs, I actually slept like a baby and even had the energy to take some hazy photos out the window in the morning. Once again we got lucky with our cabin mates (this time just M and I): a 40-something sober-humored lady who was a lit professor from Baku, nostalgic for Soviet times, yet a true patriot. And another dude from Baku who's a musician and whose personality reminded me of my uncle. He's the first Azeri guy I've seen with hair not closely cropped, instead he let his curls run free and even further breaking from the mold, he doesn't drink tea. Interesting stuff.

It's more than wonderful being back home in my village. I feel more than ever like I'm settling in for the long haul. Before, the "abyss" of two years was too vast to even concieve. Now I can see myself passing the months by at school and in my community. Please wish me all the inspiration and enthusiasm I need!