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!

A Day in the Life

Something I am elated about: I have a routine.

During my first month or so here, I was still learning the ropes of my new home. One of my sharpest deisres was to settle in and establish a routine. Today the realization has come to me that this has been achieved. Let me regale you all with the details.

I get up in the morning, and fortunately the pech (our iron gas-burning stove/ heater) has already been lit by Rubabe, who gets up early for morning prayer (she works everyday at 9). I go to the kitchen and fill a small plastic container with cold water (from a bucket, that previously had been taken from the well, because lately the pipes have been frozen), and hot water from a kettle on the pech. I take the water to the hamam, the tub room, and wash my arm pits and my feet, and change my socks, because they can get real clammy.

I come back in the house, pour myself a cup of tea, and have breakfast. Always bread, but the condiments vary: homemade crumbly white cheese, homemade whipped plain yogurt (susme), homemade stawberry preserves, Shokki Mokki (cheaper version of Nutella), and peanut butter from America. Usually a combination of two. I try to remember to take my vitamins and probiotics.
Somewhere along the lines I put my clothes next to the pech in order to get the Artic chill out of them. I have to make sure my host brother is either securely asleep, or gone to his college prep courses, before I change, hovering around the pech. It takes a frustrating amount of time because of all the layers I put on.

Every day, other than the days right after a shower, I powder my hair so I don't look like a big greaseball. I wrap my scarf around my neck, put on my hat and coat, grab my bag and my boots (which also get put by the pech to warm up) and head out the door, stopping to stick my feet in plastic bags before I put on my boots, because water always gets through and I HATE having wet feet.

I walk to school on terrible village roads (completely icy as of late) with my wedge-heeled boots. I always try to listen to my iPod, but sometimes my "zone" gets inturrupted by fellow teachers walking to school or acquaintences who offer me car rides.

Once at school, I make my way up to the teahcer's room on the second story (first story is 1st through 4th grade classroms and canteen, second is 5th through 9th, third, 10th and 11th), giving greetings to anyone I pass. I have four counterparts at school, the English teachers I have chosen to work with and to whom I am supposed to be passing new skills.

I have 5th and 8th grade with Ruqiyyet, who went to University in Baku and is by far the best English speaker; she has the adorable British-Azeri accent that teachers here develop. She is twenty-five and a natural beauty with honey-colored eyes and pale skin. I know she has the language skills to become a phenomenal teacher, but she is very accustomed to the traditional style of teaching (as all of Azerbaijan is).

I share a 4th and a 2nd grade with Aynur, the girl who came to the conference in Baku, and also to pick me up when I arrived in Muxax. Now Aynur is an interesting girl. She's pretty dopey but doesn't know it. Yet she's the only teacher who doesn't speak to me in Azerbaijani, which I give her mad props for. She's very comforatable speaking English (although it's kinda bad), which is a big obstace for any ESL learner to overome. She had a job at the airport as a translator, but her father didn't want her working there because she would be the only female employee, and he told her to be a teacher instead. (This is a very typical story in Azerbaijan.) He might have had half a right mind to do that, because Rubabe insists Aynur has a bad reputation. This is most likely exaggerated village rumors; the only thing I know for sure is that she has an intuitive sense of fashion, and the body to back it up. She also has shaped her eyebrows, which is traditionally held off on until a girl is engaged.

Anyhow, the next teacher is Esbet, who I have the other 4th grade class with. Let me tell you this: she looks like a female Snape, but attractive. Some say this is impossible, but I will get a photo one of these days to show you all. She is a pretty stict teacher, too: never cracks a smaile in the classroom, but is friendly with the teachers and such. I'd have to say her English is the poorest, and even the one tutoring session I've had with her on Unit 1 of an Essential Grammar book has broken new ground for her. BUT, for that class I had made a story board for the text we had, and two texts later, she brought her own home-drawn storyboards to class! I was so happy that she had taken an idea so easily and quickly, without me even telling her about what it is and how to use it.

Last is the sweet Zenfira. She's a year younger than me, with a one-year old son (it freaks me out a little, over here, all these girls who are actually younger than me but have a more mature countenance because they are mothers, and have had household responsibilities since young ages, due to the culture and environment here). Her English isn't too strong, either, but she is very eager to learn, and also has already recreated a prop that I have used: flashcards.

I see potential in all my counterparts, and, Inshallah (God willing), I will do a good job of empowering them and they will teach these children a thing or two about English!

Back to my routine: on Tuesdays after lessons, I have conversation club with the teachers and any other adults who want to join us. More details on this in another post. Otherwise, I head home and begin my afternoon vegetation. Upon arriving home, I promptly change into my houseclothes, get another cupful of water and wash my pits and feet again. (I get a shower approxiametly once every 4 days; it was once every 3 days before all this freezing nonsense started, which is really good for Azerbaijanis; I am lucky that my host moms value a shower as much as I do.)
I always enjoy a cup of tea, and have lunch with my host mothers (Rubabe and Nefset). I wash the dishes. After that, I try to lesson plan, make visual aides, write blog posts, and do other productive things. Usually I just read a book, study Azerbaijani, watch episodes of Seinfeld on the computer, play Bejeweled, or stare out the window or at the tv. At least every other evening, I go next door to use the internet, and when I'm lucky, get to Skype with somebody.

Dinner gets eaten somewhere along there. I help out when I can. At about 9 to 10, I get ready for bed by washing my face and brushing my teeth. I fall asleep no problem, usually have stupid dreams, and wake up the next day to do it all over again.

So those are weekdays at least. For now. A separate post will regale you with details about Saturdays and my site mates. Until then!

Uşaq kimi

You'd think that during a Peace Corp Volunteer's first month of service at site, she or he would feel like a badass, like a lean, mean world traveler, dropped off alone in some random location in a forlorn corner of the world, forced to utilize the 10 weeks of language and culture learning to her or his best ability, and also have to continuosly emit the diplomatic and politically correct air of an embassador.

Well, technically I am doing all those things, but actually I've been feeling like I did, twelve, fifteen years ago. Yes, feeling exactly how I used to as a child. Let me explain.

I've lost most of my independence. For starters, I don't have a car, and don't know where most things are (I can get to the city, Danachi, and the school by myself, although relying on the public transportation's schedules); if I need to get somewhere I need help arranging a ride via a taxi, or a grandpa, uncle, brother, etc. who has a car.

I get toted around, more like a doll than a finely cultivated human being, to people's houses who I don't know and have never been in before. I can't participate in the "grown-up" conversations because I can't understand the language. I have to stay until the adults decide it's time for me to go.

I don't have intellectual conversations anymore. I get asked the same questions over and over again, as a child does. "How old are you? Do you have a mother, father? How many brothers and sisters? Which is better, America or here? . . . " etc.

I have to deal with other people's kids. I'm not talking about about at school--because that's one place where I get reprieve because I am clearly in an adult position over my students--but in the home. I used to babysit a lot, and being trapped in a house with unruly children is nostalgic, not in the good way, but in the oh god, why is this happening to me again, I thought I got past this way.

I have to hide my "naughtiness" and lie to my mom: "Yes, of course the boys at the party slept in the other room . . . No, I don't drink, I don't like it . . . Yes, we're engaged, in fact I want to have my girl's wedding at Terane Soray (the village wedding hall)! . . . " etc. (Although the last one isn't a full lie, I am playing with the idea of having a wedding here. It would be so fun! But probably won't be able to afford it.)

My adult relationship with my significant other has been reduced to texting and Skyping.

Like when I was a teenager, I am unhappy about my figure and feel the nagging need to do stupid little exercises, and also to eat less food.

I eat the food that my mom prepares for me, have to get up early every week day for school, and endure the constant badgering of a younger bother.

Worst of all, it is winter, and a freakishly snowy one at that. So all I ever feel like doing is burrowing myself in the house and hibernating like a fat bear. Give me warm milk and let me watch Cartoon Network all day! (one of the few English channels we have)

So yes, these are the situations that are creating in me emotions that I haven't had in a long time. It's a litle bit surreal, like having a chance to be a child again. Although I didn't particulary want to relive childhood (I was a perfectly happy young adult), it's still an interesting experience nonetheless.

I'm not really complaining; after all, Peace Corps duly warned us about this exact problem. We're in the community entry stage, at the mercy of our towns and villages to be shown how life is here. And thus far my community has truly been great, I've experienced no harrassment, spy accusations, or roadblocks in my workplace. And the hospitality that this country takes great pride in has helped my transition so much.

Spring is, thankfully, just around the corner, and it is my light at the end of the tunnel. At least, that's how I envision it. Is it my final emergence through the Azerbaijani birth canal? The passage towards community development enlightenment? Or just a reprieve from the cold? I don't know, but either way I am so ready to be done with this snowed-in feeling.