Life Is Calling is a series of reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories and experiences about life as a recent college graduate conquering the real world. If you would like to submit a story to this series, shoot me an e-mail or leave a comment with your e-mail. Today’s post is by Jenna, a Peace Corps volunteer serving in Azerbaijan.
Life is Calling...
Azadlıq’ is my new favorite word. It means ‘freedom” and it’s what I’ve begun to yell- William Wallace style- back in the faces of all the women who tell me “toy olsun,” (may you have a wedding). I hear about this subject more often than I drink tea in this country. Usually, though, the words come a bit more direct. For example: “You will marry an Azeri boy while you are here, yes?”
Or, my favorite thus far: “I want to buy her for my son,” said one neighbor to another as I passed on my way home from the school. I’m not sure when she intends to propose this idea to my host family. I am sure, though, that once she sees that my dowry currently consists of a giant brown sleeping bag, my GI medical kit, and a mosquito net, she’ll probably decide I’m not worth too many manat after all.
I never thought I could ever be misconstrued as “exotic.” Especially not while wearing flannel. But, three months into my service in Beylagan, I maintain my empathy for the National Zoo pandas. It’s always fun to get into staring contests with kids on the streets. Even more fun when I’m in a market and, after a good 20-second-staredown from a fascinated woman, I startle her and make her drop her bag of sweets by saying “Salam.” (Oh my god, the foreigner…it talks!) Usually, the first question I get is “are you Russian?” I’ll say ‘no’, and then they’ll ask, “But you speak Russian, right?” Again, I’ll say ‘no,’ (or ‘nyet’ just for fun). Since Beylagan was one of the regions that were more secluded from Soviet influence, not everyone here speaks Russian, as most do in Baku. But, because the only foreigners they usually come into contact with are Russian, it is only fair to assume that the 5’11”, light-haired newcomer is visiting from Moscow. Currently, though, my only Russian knowledge consists of borrowed words (words adopted into the Azeri vocabulary throughout the Soviet occupation). I can say “Pesok” (sugar), “Rakovina” (sink), and “Kalonka” (shower water heater). Obviously, my Russian communication gets me far.
I never thought I could ever be misconstrued as “exotic.” Especially not while wearing flannel. But, three months into my service in Beylagan, I maintain my empathy for the National Zoo pandas. It’s always fun to get into staring contests with kids on the streets. Even more fun when I’m in a market and, after a good 20-second-staredown from a fascinated woman, I startle her and make her drop her bag of sweets by saying “Salam.” (Oh my god, the foreigner…it talks!) Usually, the first question I get is “are you Russian?” I’ll say ‘no’, and then they’ll ask, “But you speak Russian, right?” Again, I’ll say ‘no,’ (or ‘nyet’ just for fun). Since Beylagan was one of the regions that were more secluded from Soviet influence, not everyone here speaks Russian, as most do in Baku. But, because the only foreigners they usually come into contact with are Russian, it is only fair to assume that the 5’11”, light-haired newcomer is visiting from Moscow. Currently, though, my only Russian knowledge consists of borrowed words (words adopted into the Azeri vocabulary throughout the Soviet occupation). I can say “Pesok” (sugar), “Rakovina” (sink), and “Kalonka” (shower water heater). Obviously, my Russian communication gets me far.
My site mate, Myriam, and I were recently discussing an analogy I would love to share with you folks at home so you can better understand the joys of Azeri language acquisition as a Peace Corps Volunteer: It’s like teething. It’s painful and you’re at a stage in life when you have a lot of complaints, but you can’t express yourself. You can make strange sounds and gestures, but you just have to bear it while you sit silently in the corner and your family giggles about how cute and funny you are when you miss your mouth with your spoon full of rice. But, eventually, your teeth come in. (New vocabulary, that is). You can point to things and say their names. You can even begin to say what you want instead of whining in the direction of your most beloved possession (the shower). And, one day, you finally grow even more and can construct sentences. No longer having to rely on interpretive dance, you can say, “Mən sabah dərsim yoxdur. Mən bakıya gedəcəm.” (I have no lessons tomorrow. I will go to Baku.) You start to feel like you’re all grown up and it’s time to go to A.M. kindergarten. But then, an extended family member asks you to explain America’s position on the Qarabağ conflict, and, because you haven’t yet graduated to dancing in political language, you’re back to teething, kicking, and whining in your high chair again, feeling a dunce cap looming over your head. That is, linguistically, where I am now- somewhere between the six-year-old who doesn’t always make sense but talks a lot anyway and the fourteen-year-old who just wants to be understood.
The first day of Novruz is in mid-March, and is every Azeri’s favorite holiday. Think of Halloween, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Captain Planet rolled into one epic spring kick-off. On the three Tuesdays leading up to Novruz, then the final Tuesday that begins the holiday, Azeris return to their Zoroastrian roots by honoring the 4 earth elements with a bonfire. You jump three times over the fire; it is said to be an act of cleansing and a symbol for leaving troubles behind in the previous year. There is Torpaq Çərşənbə, or “Earth Tuesday.” After my lessons, I helped Sevinj, my host Mom, lay out the Novruz table, which will stay out and be refilled over the next 12 days. It includes fruit, nuts, paxlava (Azeri baklava) and other assorted national treats, eggs dyed red, and, finally, the Səməni- a round, dinner plate-sized mini garden of newly-sprouted grass. This is the symbol of Novruz, and the mark of spring’s beginning.
Throughout the day guests come and go, stopping long enough for tea, or just to leave more paxlava and wish their family and friends ‘Bayramınız Mübarək’ (happy holiday). When dusk falls, children hit the streets for the Azeri version of Halloween. They run up to each house, throw their hats the door, and sing Novruz jingles until the family hears them and fills their hats with treats. When we had our final bonfire and Vidadi, my host Dad, brought home fireworks to launch in the backyard. To close out the night, as with every other event of any kind in Azerbaijan, there is a feast: a giant pot of rice flavored with saffron, sheep and chicken kebabs from the backyard, peach nectar, and, of course, paxlava, tea, and more paxlava. And this, friends, is the “small holiday.” The big holiday happens on March 20-21, the first official days of spring. This has already been one of my favorite experiences in Azerbaijan, and I know I will definitely be bringing Novruz back to the States. It’s so much fun that I’m quite possibly just as excited about Novruz as I am about St. Patrick’s Day.(We all know that’s saying a lot about Novruz!)
For those of you who may be able to visit me in Azerbaijan over the next 21 months, I have one important piece of advice: come hungry. There are some wonderful folks here who are eager to share their lovely culture…and send you into a series of food comas that will put turkey tryptophan to shame.(That’s a hint- come visit me :) )
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