'Tis the Season..

Tis the season…

The snow is long gone, the sun is out and it’s wedding (toy) season here in Azerbaijan.  Everyone is going to weddings and engagement parties. I went to one of each recently, and they were as different from each other as Baku is from the rest of the country.

First my counterpart, Gulsabeh, invited me to her niece’s engagement party in a settlement outside of Sirvan.  As far as I can tell, a settlement is even smaller than a village, which is quite a bit smaller than a “city” like Sirvan. 

We took a “bus”, that was the  usual decrepit and disintegrating 12 plus person van.    I saw Azerbaijan’s Kur River for the first time as we bounced along country roads heading to the party.  As we rumbled away from the city, the ubiquitous cinderblock houses became more scattered, and there were fields and open spaces between neighbors.

Gulsabeh’s brother welcomed us when we arrived, and as we went into his yard  I spotted three huge pots, simmering on  makeshift cinderblock fire rings, each with a well padded xanim  (older woman) presiding over it.

We rounded the corner of the house, and it looked like a Silk Road Caravan had made a stop at Home Depot.  An obviously long standing grape arbor had been turned into a party tent of sorts.  The  vines on top of the arbor  were covered with blue plastic tarps, creating a  surreal blue ceiling inside.  The sides were made of carpets, or fabric printed to look like carpets.  There were two long rows of white resin tables and chairs inside and scores of women had already claimed places. They ranged from beautifully made up women wearing the hijab, to xanims in their conglamoration of “best” dresses, falling down polka dot socks and broken down keds slip ons.

 The party got into full swing as the groom’s family danced in carrying huge colorfully  packed baskets over their heads.  These baskets held everything from sweets to brushes and shampoo for the bride to be.  They are supposed to have what she needs in the time before the wedding. 

Soon the bride and groom walked stiffly into the tent. I’m sure they were nervous, since this was not only their engagement party, but also probably their first date.   They had seen each other from a distance.  She wore a tight red dress that burst into tiers of red ruffles at the hipline.  Her hair had been piled so high and her make up done so precisely she would have done Barbie proud.

Their entrance was followed by the traditional feast.  I’m learning not to eat too much at the beginning, because just when I think I’ve had enough some of my favorite courses arrive, including the kebabs. 

There were some traditional rituals such as the bride and groom placing rings on each other’s fingers.  The groom’s family buys the rings, presenting them and more gold to the bride at this ceremony.

Then there was the dancing, that went on and on and on.  A man with a piece of red fabric tied onto his arm beckoned dancers onto the “floor” that was really a space in the dirt between the tables.  Periodically someone would sprinkle water on it to keep the dust down.   Things heated up fast with all the dancing on a muggy afternoon so a “wall” of the tent was peeled away to make more room and let the fresh air in.  

Just about anything passes for dancing here, if you at least try to imitate the traditional style.  I was doing my best trying to look like I knew what I was doing.  A short plump woman,with the usual gold toothed smile decided she would be my partner. (women dance with women, the men dance together, but men and women don’t usually dance in the same circle.)  I don’t know if she liked my style or thought I needed a teacher but she wouldn’t let me off the dance floor.  It was fun or a couple of hours until  I decided  I’d had enough.  She wouldn’t give up ,and became my tormentor,  insisting we dance, while I was ready to go home.

After about 6 hours, I really was ready to call it quits. But the party was going strong with no sign of ending.  Finally, after the bride and groom had fed each other pieces of cake, we piled into one of Gulsabeh’s relatives cars and headed back to the city.

The House Hunt...

The House Hunt Update

Below is the chronicle of my house hunt odyssey,  which took way too much of my time and energy  as I struggled to find a place that met Peace Corps standards, and would be covered by the PC housing allowance for Sirvan.    I did finally manage to find a place that fit the first criteria, but was well over the second.  Along the way, I saw the good, the bad, and the ugly.

 The first place I saw was one room, packed with furniture, but no table and chairs.  I would have to sink into one of the bottomless  armchairs, plate in hand if I wanted to eat.  It did have an air conditioner.  Asking price, 150 manat. 

When I turned it down the owner offered to show me another apartment.   It was two rooms, closer to the college, but one room looked as if there had been an explosion inside, with the paint and pieces of debris hanging off a whole wall.  One room appeared to have black mold on all the walls.  The light bulb in one room was hanging on a cord, and in the second room, there was no  light at all!  I took one look at the bathroom, but I couldn’t check it out a second time because there was no handle or door knob so I couldn’t  go into the bathroom..  This place was filthy, you couldn’t open the bathroom door, it  had no furniture, no screens,  and had a whole wall of debris coming down. Asking price, 130 manat.

The next place had two rooms, but no furniture. The bathroom wall was coming down, and there was a shovel full of cement debris that had recently given way. I thought about taking this place and trying to negotiate the price , but the owner decided to sell it instead. Asking price to rent 150 manat.

When I stopped in at a shoemaker’s shack to get some new holes put in my belt (the house hunt is good for something!) , he told me he had a house to rent.  I followed him way out into the country houses, farther from the college than I live now.    I found a cement building with no running water inside, and a shared toilet out in the yard.  The building shared the yard with another house and the whole place was littered with everyone’s stuff. Asking price  150 AZN.

A shop assistant also offered to rent me a country house. Although she said it wasn’t far from the college, I should have been suspicious when it took at least 10 minutes in a taxi to get there. It was in no way walking distance to the college.  There was a one room building in an overgrown yard, no furniture, with the toilet outside.  Asking price, 150 AZN.

Saturday a friend Leman and I started going building to building looking.  We found one apartment with two rooms, paint intact, furnished, close to the college, even air conditioned.  In other words, perfect.  This was  the  apartment I wanted.  Asking price, 150 AZN.  Haggling with the landlord in Baku didn’t help, and I had to walk away because the price was too high.  When I went back 2 days later, it had already been rented.

Sunday, Leman and I went hunting again, and this time it was painful.  There were few people around to ask, and no real good leads.   We eventually found a three room apartment, with a channel for the wastewater from the sink winding its way through the house.  There was no refrigerator, no heat source, and no sink in the bathroom,  but it was otherwise furnished.  Asking price 150 AZN .  I thought maybe I could make it work, but the landlord refused to come down in price or supply a refrigerator, so I had to walk way again. 

We also found a bare bones one room apartment, that had most everything except a skaf  for clothes or anything else. Books, clothes, papers etc  would be piled up or  strewn around the one room.  There was a lumpy dusty  stuffed monkey hanging in the corner and  I knew     I would end up in the same condition as the monkey if  said yes to this place.  Asking price 100 AZN.

Teachers at the college helped me look at two places this week.  One, was a “country house” that was really one room in a bungalow.  The bathroom and the kitchen were shared with students, and they were  in separate buildings. Asking price for this one room 150 AZN.

The second was in a great location, and the owner was such a kind and generous person.  The apartment was in good condition, but so small it didn’t have a chair or sofa to sit on.  It was either sit at the dining table or in bed.  There was no place to put a comfortable chair, or anything else.  I don’t think there was enough  space even to unroll a sleeping bag and  there was no running water or sink in the kitchen. All dishes and fruit and vegetables had to be washed in the bathroom next to the toilet. 130 AZN.

Finally going to visit my site mate,  I saw some people moving out of her building.  I immediately asked for the landlord’s phone number, and Konul, my tutor helped me make contact the next day.  The empty apartment had  three rooms, in  “normal”  for Azerbaijan condition,, asking price 150 AZN.   

I spent another day going building to building, with no success.  I decided to try negotiating for the last place I saw.  The landlady agreed to come down 10 AZN, so now I have to pay 140 a month, while Peace Corps only gives us 120.  The other 20 will have to come out of my living allowance which will limit what else I can do here.  My site mates all have to pay 130,  but Peace Corps has been sticking to the 120 figure. 

 

I Am the Postman...

The USPS is notorious for running in the red these days, and I’ve read that more service cuts are needed (possibly already made by now) in order for it to keep operating.    Perhaps it should take a look at the Azerbaijan mail system (or lack thereof) for some ideas.

The postal system here is personal, with low overhead.  Mail isn’t delivered to homes and businesses.  If  there is a letter for you,  it will be given to a friend or neighbor or colleague who happens to be in the post office.  That person will then pass it along until it reaches you.  For example, a couple of letters came for my site mate, Malaika.    They were given to Alma, the woman who is in charge of the IREX computer center because another American PCV is assigned to the center.  Alma gave me the letters when I came to the center to use the internet  and I brought them to Malaika  because her host mom is my Azeri tutor.  No trucks, no heavy mailbags involved.

When I moved to a new host family, I went to the post office to tell them my address changed.  This was really unnecessary in some ways, since there is no home delivery.  But my mail is no longer given to my old neighbors to pass along.  Now I get it at the College where I work.  When a letter arrives, several  teachers  will text me to tell me where it is.   The last time a cleaning lady spotted me in a classroom late in the afternoon, and  brought me the packet that had ended up in the Deputy Director’s office.

Getting a package is more personal, since I have to pay a small fee and show my passport when one arrives.  The post office man will call me, or more likely my site mate, Carrie  to say I have a package.  When I go to the post office, he spots me at the back of the line and welcomes me, “Elizabeth, where have you been?”  I am then escorted behind the counter to sit down while he finishes with his customer.  Then it takes him about 10 minutes to fill out the forms for me to get the package.  It is weighed to show that nothing is missing since it was mailed, or since it arrived, I’m not sure which.   The last time one arrived it had burst open, so he found a plastic bag and helped me transfer the contents to get them home.  He also checked the contents against the form on the front to make sure nothing was missing.

If you’re in a rush,or you can’t carry your own packages this system won’t work for you.  But it is personal, and  there’s no junk mail!

Willie Nelson and the Mud

 Recently, I had a major reminder of how a day can turn around in a flash.  Chalk it up to Willie Nelson and the mud.

 First, I was really happy with the number of teachers who came to an English teachers club meeting at the college.  I suggested it because they told me they were looking for the opportunity to speak English more often.  Of course, a couple  of them came just to check it out.  They were reserved at first, but one was enthusiastic when she saw one of the discussion suggestions was “Fun” including music, books, etc.  She then told us how much she likes Willie Nelson, and the Beach Boys!  Who knew I’d find a teacher in Azerbaijan who shares my taste in music.

Most of them were excited when we talked about forming a Sirvan chapter of Azeta (the Azerbaijan English teachers Association.)  Several volunteered to help me make contacts  at nearby schools to recruit  teachers there.  One of them even suggested we go to a couple of schools right after the meeting.   Fortunately, it is possible to just drop by at schools  here, so we did.  We were ushered into the directors’ offices and several English teachers were summoned to talk to us.  They were receptive, and promised to share the word with other English teachers.

I was excited, the whole day was going so well.  I said good by to my colleague, and headed home to freshen up before an appointment I had with the Director of the college.

That’s when it happened.  Splat, I slipped and fell in the mud.   My good coat was covered in mud, my pants, my shoes, my purse and my computer bag.  Mud is olmazz in Azerbaijan.  It is forbidden.  You cannot go anywhere with mud on your shoes, not to say your clothing.  A couple of students from the nearby Turkish lycee, helped me up, and insisted on walking me home. 

Then it was a sprint to see if I could get the mud off anything before I had to leave for my appointment.  I managed to salvage my purse and boots, and change my other clothes.    I had to wear a thin rain coat instead of my now muddy wool one.    I hustled back to the college, where the director said something about my clothes.  My language isn’t great, but I think he asked why I was wearing such a thin coat in freezing weather.  I couldn’t begin to explain.

. 

Happy 2012!

Celebrating the New Year..

2012 is here, and I’m back in Sirvan after ringing in the New Year in
Baku.  At first the trip didn’t seem as if it were going to happen, all the places we could afford were booked.  Then my site mate Malaika’s host mom found us an apartment and the weekend was on.

New Year’s Eve we headed to the Fountain Square area, roughly  Baku’s equivalent to Times Square, where a crowd gathers to welcome the New Year.  Even early in the evening, firecrackers were going off around us. It was deafening  and terrifying since there are no prohibitions against throwing them into the  crowd of spectators.   We took refuge in a restaurant for dinner, followed by a walk  down to the Boulvar, a nice park above the seaside that was also packed with thousands of people, out to see the “Yeni Il” decorations which look remarkably like our Christmas trees.  

Although there were families in the crowd, it seemed to consist mostly of young men who didn’t care if anyone got hurt .  Everywhere I looked there were legions of black jackets and black overcoats.  Some of  the locals were  harassing us, so we headed to a well known ex-pat bar. 

Sure enough, there was a trio of fellow PCV’s outside, and more inside.  We had drinks, and a chance to catch up.. and moved on to a smaller less smoky place to welcome  2012.   It was great to experience a Baku New Year, and all the craziness outside.

New Years’ Day I headed to Xirdalan to see my old host family.  It was a quick bus ride, and a good chance to catch up with them.  I was welcomed  “home” and told not to bother calling when I wanted to come because it was after all my home too any time I wanted to be there.

The next day I jumped on a bus back to a major  bazaar on the outskirts of
Baku.  From the highway it looks like a sprawling outlet mall.  Somewhere  around the bazaar, I could find my next bus to Sirvan.  Gunya, my Xirdalan host mom who was worried about me getting lost called to tell the driver where I was going.  When I told her I couldn’t get my cell phone to him, she settled for telling another passenger what I needed.  That person didn’t know where I should transfer, so my route soon became a topic of conversation in the back of the bus.  When I tried to get off at one point, another  passenger restrained me.    At the next stop, he shooed me off  and pointed to a collection of minibuses waiting across the parking lot.  I climbed into a Sirvan bus, and waited for it to fill up.   Marshrutkas don’t leave until they are full. When enough people were herded in, and all seats taken we headed south.