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.

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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.

The Hat Off His Head

Azerbaijanis are know for being hospitable, and extending their generosity to their guests at any expense.  This goes way beyond the huge feast that is prepared and served when someone is "guesting."  These feasts can make an American Thanksgiving dinner look like a snack.

Early on during my stay in Xirdalan, a neighbor who noticed I was chilly one morning went into her house and came out with a sweater for me to wear.  I declined her offer of the bright yellow with black polka dots sweater, but appreciated the gesture of her trying to take care of me.
Recently my friend Tom  wanted a certain kind of hat.  A neighbor who speaks English started chatting with us as we walked home from school.   The neighbor was wearing the kind of hat Tom wanted, and Tom asked him where he got it so he could buy one himself.  The neighbor took his hat off and insisted on giving it to Tom.  This was the first time we had seen or talked to this man!  
I don't know if my last clothing related incident is related to the same kind of "caring" but it does show that Azerbaijani's are paying attention to us.   A woman stopped my friend Lindsay on the street today to point out that Lindsay had buttoned her coat wrong.




R

Getting a haircut

I can't really describe the myriad differences between my life here in Azerbaijan, and life in the U.S., but the simple process of getting a haircut  has some good examples.  Sunday afternoon, I decided I couldn't put off the inevitable haircut any longer. 

I put on a sweater and a fleece jacket over the t-shirt and silk long john top I already had on.  Then I put a coat on top of all of that.  I ventured into the yard, and checked the laundry I put out to dry yesterday.  It was wetter than when I hung it up, since it poured overnight.  I have yet to see a clothes dryer here.  

I walked through my neighborhood, and into the bazaar that was bustling with weekend shoppers.  Need a chicken for dinner?  You can buy a live DIY one, or a fresh or frozen one from one of the small stores that line the bazaar.  Or you could buy one from the guy who is selling presumably fresh ones out of the trunk of his car.  I guess refrigeration is not an issue when the temp is in the low 40's anyway.

I walked through the school yard, and headed for the salon.  On just about every corner there is a guy  with an ancient scale set up on the street, selling some sort of produce out of his car.  Apples, chestnuts, and walnuts seem to be what's most available now.

I notice some live chickens out in front of some building supply stores.  Then I notice the chickens are making themselves at home in the stores as well. Maybe you can get dinner along with your building materials.

After walking across town, I get to the salon, where I am greeted warmly despite the language gap.  I make a cutting motion on my hair and I am settled into a chair.  In an elaborate pantomime, it is determined how much I want my hair cut, and the stylist goes to work.   She doesn't seem to mind when I point out the cut is lopsided and fixes it right away.  I'm pleased, and the price is 4 manat.. about 5 dollars.  No tipping in Azerbaijan.

On the way home, I stop in the bazaar to buy some packing tape.  The shopkeeper says it costs a  manat.. but I know better..  so the bargaining starts for something as simple as a roll of packing tape. When your cash allowance is a little over 2 manat a day, every qepik counts.

Finally, my errands are done, and I trudge home in the cold, wondering about the prospects for lunch.   When  I walk into my house, I am greeted by my host mom, who  offers me  hot chicken soup, with mint sprinkled on it.  What could be better?

If They Only Knew...

I often wish that Americans who, in a knee jerk reaction to world events, vilify  Muslims, could meet my host family, and others who live a similar life here in Azerbaijan and in other mostly Muslim countries.

  My host mom is “modern” as they say here.  She teaches at a university, and at a local school, and she tutors more than 20 students  preparing to take the very  difficult University Entrance exam.

Like moms in the U.S. and around the world, she balances her work with organizing and overseeing the household, cooking and doing housework that’s needed.    We often talk about the pressures of doing it all,  as so many of us have. 

But  when the time comes, she slips away from our conversation, to put on her covering and do her prayer at the designated times in a corner of the kitchen.   When we talk about the future,  her conversation is laced with “Inshallah,”.. God willing. She is committed to  her religious practice.  Although her holy book  may be different,  her values are very similar to those held by Americans in most mainstream religions.

No change, no problem

Anyone who has encountered a snarling  driver behind the wheel of a bus in a major U.S. city would appreciate the transit system here in Azerbaijan.  If you want a ride, you can pretty much flag down the bus, and it will stop for you where you are.   It will probably be packed with people standing in the aisle.  No worries, you can get on and off using one of the back doors.    Just say "Saxla" when you want to get off.. and  the bus stops.
If the aisle is too packed for you to make your way to the front to pay, it's no problem.  You just get out,  walk up to the front door, and hand your bus fare (20 qepik) to whoever is standing there.  He or she will hand it to the driver for you! If you don't have change, it's not a problem.  The person standing next to the driver will hand him your 5 manat bill for example, and hand you your change back!  It's all an understood honor system, that seems to work for everyone.