Cheers!

Author's note: I leave Azerbaijan November 23 and go to Southeast Asia where hopefull I will keep blogging until I get home. Maybe I will blog about re-entry too, who knows.



Goranboy is a place where everybody knows my name. Well, mine or Kate’s. Most of the time the people in our community call me Kate half the time, but that’s okay. When our friends get off the bus at the taxi stand, all the taxi drivers see Americans and ask “Are you going to Kate and Amy’s house?”. They all know where we live and who is likely to be trying to get there. I can’t walk down the street without seeing someone I know, which is mostly a good thing. If Kate or I have to tell our students something, we walk right into the school without anyone questioning why we’re there to give them the message, or we tell their mother. That works most of the time. If I want dinner out, there’s no restaurant in town so I go to someone’s house who’s bound to feed me.


As my time is winding down in Azerbaijan, I have been going to different regions to say goodbye to people as they themselves leave the country. The funny thing about visiting people in their communities is that it’s the same. People know “their” volunteer. If they had a Peace Corps volunteer in the region, a visiting volunteer is sure to hear about him/her. I went to a small village called Lahij, and it is a BEAUTIFUL village full of copper artisans. It is a tourist spot of the country, and a volunteer had served there who left a year ago, a YEAR AGO, and we still heard all about him (we’ll call him T). As soon as we walked into the village we were hailed with shouts of “Do you know T?”, “How is T doing?”, “When is T coming back?”. It’s often heartwarming to me that the people of a region miss their volunteer so much when he/she leaves.



It’s much the same when I go and visit host families of other volunteers. “My daughter is the best Azerbaijani speaker”, “My son is the nicest person ever!” It’s very endearing to me to see this bond that volunteers form. It’s not like living in a normal community in the States. Sure, in Merrimack I can’t get a quick trip to the grocery store in without someone seeing me in my sweats. Here, if I went to buy groceries in my sweats everyone I know would be asking about it the next day. Why on earth would an unmarried girl leave the house in sweatpants?! We have the whole community watching what we do, and at first, many volunteers try to be the perfect person. In Azerbaijan, that would be wearing black clothing, wearing clothes that cover up, keeping your shoes perfectly clean (even in the mud) and just being as inconspicuous as possible. As I got on in service, I started to be “me” more in the streets. I listened to my Ipod and sang and danced as I walked down the street. I wore bright colors and waved at everyone I knew (waving is not particularly common here). I noticed that people liked it more when I was being me. They liked that I wasn’t putting on airs, acting like something I wasn’t. I got friendly with all the bazaar ladies and even Kate’s host mom told me that she likes the way I act now, because I am more at ease with her. I realize that we are expected to maintain a tricky balancing act. Volunteers have a special spot in their community because they are different, not the same. They show their community what Americans are like, and that Americans are not aliens (in the extraterrestrial sense), but human beings like them. We are the same, but different. I am showing people in my community who I am really, and now they have gotten to know more than just my name.




Volunteers belong to their sites. I am Goranboy’s volunteer. I belong to them. In other regions, it’s the same. I get stopped by people on the streets and asked if I am a Peace Corps Volunteer. It’s a common question because a huge majority of the foreigners in the regions (there aren’t a lot of us) who speak Azerbaijani are Peace Corps. The person on the street then tells me all about “their” volunteer. EVERYTHING about their volunteer. I could be told anything from what projects they are doing to who came and visited this person’s house last. The communities take pride in us as much as we take pride in them, and the as the learning experience continues on, a trust forms. I have talked with people on the street for two years, sharing my story. I have guested, played soccer and visited schools. I have taken kids on overnights. So, after a long journey, I am leaving this place where everybody knows my name… and my cell phone number… and where I’m from… and where I live… and what I had for lunch… and the last time I went running…



Picture 1: Part of my family that I have formed here.
Picture 2: Me in Lahic
Picture 3: The overnight softball tournament that parents trusted us to take their pre-teens to.
Picture 4:To be a part of a community, you have to dance funny I guess.

A Poem

My friend wrote a beautiful poem a while back, and I wanted to share it with all of you, just never got around to putting it up. I keep going back to it as I end my service, and I think it's wonderful. The words not in italics are my own translation of Azeri, everything else is by the hand of Jackie Dent, a Youth Development worker in a tiny village called Zayam.

"Why I'm Here"

Ay qız (Hey girl)
Hara qaçırsan? (Where are you running?)
Nəyi axtarırsan? (What are you looking for?)

Funny you ask, because I’ve
just found it.
I found it yesterday
when my landlady flicked
out her bottom dentures with
her tongue
just to make us laugh.

I found it when
a package came from
my mom, from Amerikastan, and
I absentmindedly handed the bubble wrap
to my host mom
so she could pop it like the
sweet child she is.

I found it again when later that day
I saw her sitting on her
feet,
10 inches from the TV,
singing muğam at the top
of her lungs and popping
that same bubble wrap.

When it didn’t go away
I started becoming wary,
braced myself for the blow, the
rapid descent into the mundane,
the uncomfortable, that slow
nagging like a dripping faucet
or an incessant tap tap tap on
the shoulder,
reminding you that you’re not really home.

But hey, I found it again when
I remembered that I don’t
have a faucet from which
anything
can drip because I don’t have
running water.
But I DO have a house
all to myself.

I found it when i stepped out of my
communal tin can toilet
to an aggitated male turkey that was
either trying to intimidate me
or mate.
Either way.

So dear xanim,
I’m always running, always
searching.
But it always seems to creep up on me
when I’m not even looking.

23 months. And it still comes and
goes.
It is nameless, but when it’s here,
it’s here.
And i can then recall the simple reasons why
I’m here.

The Bizarre Bazaar

The Bizarre Bazar

Over the last two years, I have had the pleasure of doing my shopping in the Goranboy Bazaar. It’s probably the smallest market of all the region centers that I have seen, and I rarely visit it. However small, I can get my basic needs there, and within the city I can find a plethora of odds and end that make up my daily diet.

In my second week in Azerbaijan, my host dad Adigozel asked (in Azerbaijani) if I wanted to go to the bazaar with him. In Tagiyev, the village that I lived in for the first two months, the bazaar was only open on Sunday mornings, like a farmers’ market. As we made our way to the bazaar, Adigozel told me to stick close to him and let him do the talking. I laughed to myself as I nodded in agreement because I had a vocabulary of maybe 40 words at this point, and I wasn’t confident enough to use them outside of my host dad and mom, so I wasn’t going to go anywhere.

As we entered the bazaar, I was taken aback. There was produce everywhere. Freight trucks full of cabbages and “vintage” Soviet cars stuffed full of apples. Ladies bundled up in scarves and robes lined the streets selling bunches of cilantro, parsley and basil. Potatoes were sold on every corner, and each type of potato had a different price. I couldn’t tell what the difference between a good potato and bad potato was, and I guess that is why Adigozel didn’t want me talking. People were shouting at me from all different directions, and I had no idea what they were saying, but I assume that it couldn’t have been anything too bad, because my host dad would have had someone’s head on a platter.



As we walked through the bazaar, Adigozel bought up the store, to put it proverbially. He bought the produce for the week, and as we were walking, I realized the reason he had brought me along. I was the pack horse. I had thought he invited me because he had been helping me practice my food vocabulary at the house and I figured he wanted to give me some “experiential learning”. This may have been the case, but he knew exactly what my real purpose would be. As he made his purchases, he handed me bag after bag. He and I carted all the vegetables and fruits home, each of us hunched over Quasimodo-style with the weight of our groceries (apples are friggin’ heavy!). We must have been a sight to see for my host mom, a proud old man and a young American woman walking side by side hunched over with the groceries in tow.

As I moved out to my region, I did not have too much experience with the bazaar until I moved out of my host family’s house. When I saw the Goranboy bazaar for the first time, it looked okay to me. It was open every day and had the fruits and vegetables that were in season. However I didn’t know any better. Two weeks later I ventured to Mingechevir where the bazaar is HUGE. I gasped when I saw the out-of-season vegetables and my mouth dropped when I learned it was open until 5pm! That is three hours later than our bazaar and a better time for people who work to buy their produce. I had bazaar envy.

“Bazaar envy?” you question, but yes, there is such a thing here. If I go to the bazaars of the big cities, I can find almost anything, including the very elusive broccoli. There is not even a word for broccoli in Azerbaijani. We showed our neighbor once a picture of broccoli and asked what the name is, and he said he had never seen it before, and his father is a farmer. But in Ganja, you can get broccoli at the bazaar. Village PCV’s also have this bazaar envy problem. In many of the village bazaars, like Tagiyev, they are only open once/week and you have to do your shopping for the week. God forbid it rains before one of these days because then you are walking through mud up to your knees buying muddy veggies to cart home to your house, which then becomes muddy. There’s no escaping it. While I was in Turkey, I got a chance to visit the Grand Bazaar there. It was incredible. Colors everywhere, anything from hookahs to scarves, bananas to artichokes were available to me. We spent about 3 hours walking back and forth and went back there two days later for two more hours of looking. That was bazaar envy.



My bazaar in Goranboy dictates what kind of dinner Kate and I eat. If we can’t get to the bazaar in the afternoon, we are stuck without any type of produce. Usually one or two of the shops sell a limited amount of vegetables until 5pm, but these are on the other side of town. However, our bazaar is only 3 minutes or so from our house, so if we can get the time, it’s really easy to cart our vegetables back. Why don’t we buy veggies for the week? you ask. Well, we don’t have a fridge. Last night we really wanted some chicken soup, but our house was empty, and neither of us wanted to walk the 15 minutes it would take to get vegetables for soup. We had hot chocolate for dinner (sorry mom).

The bazaar isn’t only about going and getting your food, it’s also about building relationships. I have a herbs lady, an onion lady, a flatbread lady, a butcher, a carrots and cabbage lady, etc. Kate and I are “their” Americans. We have built these relationships within our community. So when I walk through the bazaar, I have nice conversations with each of my vendors, even if I don’t have to buy anything from them that day. If I ever had a problem or needed anything, I know these people would help. On Thanksgiving, we needed a live turkey. I asked around at the bazaar and got it for pretty cheap from the village. They made sure that I didn’t need anyone to kill it for me (the men offered to help) and then offered to carry Tom back to my house. We got him back alive and well, our own pilgrim experience on Thanksgiving was a success.

All in all, I am pretty lucky. For as much complaining I do, I get really cheap, delicious fresh vegetables all year round. I get to eat pomegranate, apricots and persimmon out of my back yard for free, while it costs like $3 for one pomegranate in the states (that’s a COMPLETE guess). I have learned to cook things from scratch and definitely figured out how to be creative with the ingredients I have.
So to sum up, I will give you a list of things I can find in Goranboy in each season to give you all a taste of what living “locally grown” is like.

All year: Parsley, cilantro, dill, bananas (imported), onions, tomatoes (but they go from $.30 to $4/kg in winter), garlic

Fall(late September-late November): Apples, pomegranate, quince, persimmon, spinach, carrots, cabbage, green beans, squash and pumpkin, nuts

Winter (late November to early March): cabbage, carrots, onions, spinach, green beans apples (although they are less delicious), squash, mandarin oranges and beets

Spring (March to late May): early spring is the worst, because winter vegetables are going out, and summer vegetables are coming in but late spring we get alchas (unripe plums), apricots, cucumbers, mulberries, and carrots

Summer (late May to September): Peppers, eggplant, figs, apricot, cherries, strawberries, watermelon, yemish (a type of melon), peaches, grapes, and plums

Never: Broccoli, fresh peas, artichokes, avocado, lettuce, cauliflower, asparagus, zucchini, and summer squash

Picture 1: What Adigozel does with his loot from the bazaar
Picture 2: The Grand Bazar in Istanbul
Editor's note: I will put pictures up of the Goranboyu bazaar when I take them! :)

I'm On A Marsh

I'm on a Marsh

If I had to think of something that all Peace Corps volunteers share around the world, it is a scary transportation system. Just crossing the road in your host country is enough to make you buy up that Peace Corps life insurance ASAP. It isn’t limited to the villages either. Baku and Ganja, the two biggest cities in Azerbaijan, are actually probably the two worst places in Azerbaijan to cross the street. In two years here, I have seen more accidents than I can count. To my complete horror, I even once saw a little old lady get hit by a car while crossing one of the main streets in Ganja. She must have eaten her Wheaties that morning, because she was fine, but it was a scary moment.



I have even been hit here. When I first got out to site (a year and a half ago) I was walking through Goranboy one day with a young Azeri girl, and we were crossing a side street, parallel to the one main street in our town. A car was coming off the side street, and I was paying attention as to not get hit by it. I crossed in front, and a tuk-tuk (little motor scooter) came flying around the corner from the main street and swiped my kegs out from underneath me. I went flying up in the air and landed flat on my back. The Azeri girl screamed and all the men standing around and in the cafes came to pick me up and make sure I was okay. The only thing that hurt was my pride, and my knees a little. I brushed myself off and hurried away. Alas, in Azerbaijan it isn't that easy to escape your embarrassment. The Azeri girl still calls it my "catastrophe", and I got into a taxi a few months ago and the guy in the passenger seat asked the taxi driver who we were. He called Kate the "girl who runs everywhere" and me "that girl who got hit by a motorcycle". I really hope that's not how I am remembered here!

The many form s of transportation in Azerbaijan can overwhelm a person. At any normal Avtovagzal (bus station) one may find buses, mini-buses, taxis, van-taxis, motorcycles, tuk-tuks and the ever scary marshrutka (marsh). Ah, the marshrutka,. The simultaneous God-send and devil machine. It is bigger than a mini-van and smaller than a mini-bus. It seats about 16-18 people and will drive anywhere. They are 99% percent rust held together with industrial duct tape. I don’t know if they come with mufflers from the manufacturer, but by the time they hit Azerbaijan, the muffler is long gone. Only half of them still have the shock pads. So when you board one of these things, you are looking at a long, loud, bumpy ride. We Peace Corps volunteers get used to it though. When Jessica came to visit Azerbaijan, we got on a marsh to get from Georgia into Azerbaijan it was a 4 hour ride and we were both EXHAUSTED by this point. I told Jess she could sleep on the ride over.

The ride from Tbilisi to Zaqatala (Georgia to Azerbaijan) is a windy, bumpy one. As soon as we set out, my head hit the side window and I zonked. I woke up 3 hours later, looked back at Jessica and said “Did you have a nice nap?” She looked at me like I was a crazy person. She hadn’t slept a wink. She said that no normal person can sleep on a ride like that. I chuckled to myself and realized my amazing adaptation. I wonder now if adaptation is why my father can sleep anywhere at any time. His sleeping abilities are incredible and well renown in the King family, and I suppose now that it is because of his many years in the Army and Army Reserve finding decent places to sleep on the road.



There are many dangers to choosing a marsh as your method of transportation. Marshrutkas that are going short distances turn into clown cars. I have stood for as long as an hour to get places. As a person who lives on a main route between Ganja and Baku, the cars are often full when they get to my stop, so I have to push everyone like a left tackle to even get on. The 16-18 passenger vehicle turns into a 25 passenger death trap. People are standing in the aisles, the doorways and between the seats. Not only that, but when you get the privilege to sit next to a old xanim, 9 out of 10 times the xanim takes up her seat AND half of yours. In the winter, this is fine for warmth, those women are like heaters! But in the summer, for me personally, all I want to do is push the xanim out the window, if she could fit.

When someone needs to get off the marsh, everyone must get off to let him/her out of the car. The worst and best part about it is that people haven the marsh stop whenever they want. This is terrible because many times it takes twice as long to get to your destination. People will ask for a stop in the middle of nowhere, nothing around but cows and fields as far as the eye can see. I have thought about it a lot, and I still have no clue where these people are going. They walk off into nowhere like Shoeless Joe Jackson in “Field of Dreams”. This is why the long rides vary greatly. My ride to Baku can take from 4.5-6 hours, depending on how often it stops for people. On the other hand, I have stopped the marsh for my own purposes countless times, and have stopped it to get on in some remote places. I have used it to my favor. I work the system so that when I am worked over by this same system, I don’t get as frustrated.



Another peril on the marsh is letting anyone know you are different at all. I am a complete failure in this category just from appearances alone. I get stares up and down the aisle and there’s no way to avoid them. Some of my fellow colleagues are a little better at blending in than me, and they will pretend they are Azeri so they will not have to spend 6 hours on a bus telling people who they are. I am all for describing my experience here, what I am doing, why I came and where I come from. This is actually one of the goals of the Peace Corps and I like doing this in a controlled setting. But to be with a stranger for 6 hours straight who will not let you sleep because you are different is a bit much. It’s like that guy on the airplane who takes up the arm rests and talks to you incessantly. There’s a point where my politeness hits its limits. I have actually woken up on a marsh to find a cell phone in my face and a guy taking a picture of me, sleeping. CREEPY.

Overall, the travel in Azerbaijan is risky but worth it. I appreciate the public transport here. It brings me all over the country and to my fellow volunteers. Marshtrukas are dirt cheap, run quite often, and go all over the country. I may bet my life every time I get on one, but I believe I am playing with pretty great odds. In America, we have perils to our public transport as well, with way fewer interesting stories to come home with at the end of the day.

Picture 1: The perils of crossing the streets in Goranboy.
Picture 2: We are stopped by sheep just as often as people.
Picture 3: Somewhere this kind of photo is out there on an Azeri's phone.

The "New" Place

The "new" place

When Jessica and I reached the driving age, we bought a very old Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera. We called her Cici for short. She may have been the worst car I have ever owned, but she had style and character. Her nameplate had fallen off and she had a hula girl stuck to her dashboard and her AC didn’t work. She made Jessica and I independent though, and for that she still holds a place in my heart.

A few months ago (maybe a year ago) I wrote a post about my apartment in Azerbaijan. “The Money Pit” was home to Kate and I for 6 months. It was a real mess, but I loved that apartment the way a person loves their first POS car. It was my first time on my own, my first time in a place that wasn’t paid for by my parents or on university property. There were a lot of life lessons learned in that apartment. I learned how to be a small-time plumber, a big-time housekeeper and how to ventilate a hybrid apartment/oven in 1000 degree weather.



Alas, a crazy lady was our downfall, and Kate and I were forced to move. After collecting our next month’s rent, she asked for 50 AZN (manat, the Azeri currency) more than our normal rate of 100AZN/month. She told us that the rent would be going up by 50%, and Kate and I decided to start looking for a new place. As much as we loved our neighborhood (the free meals were endless), we couldn’t justify paying 50AZN more for a place that wasn’t worth 50AZN alone.

With that, we went on a search for a new place. We asked everyone we knew, and even reached out to people we didn’t know. When two single American girls ask for a new place, the questions are endless, but they usually are “You want to live alone?!”, “You don’t have a family here?!”, and the granddaddy of ‘em all, “Who will cook your food?!”. You see, for some reason nobody thinks we can cook here. So they always assume we have someone cooking and cleaning for us. I am here to say, we do it ourselves folks!

So even though we were VERY CLEAR about wanting to live alone and not with a xanim, we were shown many places with old ladies living in it. Sometimes in Azerbaijan, there are old ladies around who, for some reason, don’t have anyone living with them, and they get scared. They want someone to live with them to protect them. Apparently Kate and I look like two bad asses, because we were shown these houses. Either they were showing us the houses that no one else wanted (those women can be crotchety!) or they really didn’t believe we wanted to be by ourselves. Either way, we finally found our new place when a guy at the bazaar told us he knew someone who knew someone (it’s a mafia bazaar) and we could take a look at the place. Well, it was a huge house with a nice yard with persimmon, apricot and pomegranate trees in it. And a barking dog. So we asked when we could move in, and we packed our apartment up that day.



Our old landlady (I have mentioned she’s crazy, right?), heard wind that we were moving, and as we were getting ready, she came over to the neighborhood. She got up in our faces, yelling things we couldn’t understand, and making a huge scene only proper for Jerry Springer and the taxi guys at the bus stops. I caught “animals”, “didn’t give me my money” and “filthy” in the rant, but before we had a chance to respond, our neighbors were at our side, defending us from the crazy xanim from hell. In all the chaos and references to donkeys, it was touching to see our neighbors take up our battle when they didn’t even need to get involved. They went to the mattresses for us.

Anyways, we ended up at the new house without any other incidents. We have at the house internet, heat, hot water a stove and a big kitchen. It’s not dusty, it’s cool because of the awning over the porch, and we have two cribs just in case Kate and I want to start a family. And the beds are way more comfortable. The only problem is our landlady is right across the street. I will direct you to a post by my colleague Aaron McKean about landlords/ladies in Azerbaijan: http://aaronmckean.wordpress.com/2011/04/03/landlord-invasion/. In a nutshell, landlords have all the rights in Azerbaijan, it is still their house, and they can walk in any time they want. So our landlady, being very interested in us Americans, walks in all the time and inspects our cleaning and the way we live. No privacy.



This house has been the source of headaches and laughter. Kate and I had to share the living room and sleep on the floor for all of winter because our gas stove only heated one room. We have been able to plant a garden, but not able to grow anything. The landlady’s dog is kept in our backyard, but he barks ALL THE TIME and does not want to be patted. What’s the point in being a dog if you don’t want to be patted?
Our most recent excitement with the new place was that a family moved in next door. By next door, I mean in our compound, in the formerly closed off part of the house. We would be sharing a bathroom, shower room and yard with these new people and we were nervous.

The Peace Corps gods smiled upon us the day they moved that family into our house. The mother and father are about our age and they have two kids, a girl who is 6, Guller (pronounced gool-air), and a little boy of 4, Habil (prounounced Hab-eel). Guller is very smart, in a devious way. She has her brother follow her around all over the place, and when she gets bored with him, she gets rid of him by hanging ou with her mom (which Habil would never do) or get rid of him in more creative ways. One time she hid one of Habil’s toys on our porch and he was searching all over for it. When he asked his sister where it was, she said it was in the dog house and proceeded to go watch to see if her brother was eaten by the mean dog. I saved Habil from being an appetizer, but I saw something in Guller that day that I once saw in my big sister Lisa (go hide and I will find you). The boy Habil is a crack-up. He’ll do anything for a laugh and laugh at anything. He insists on being called “Habil Muellim” (Habil teacher) and conducts lessons daily in how to ride a tricycle (which he falls off of constantly). The parents give us stuff from their garden all the time, and the fruit on the trees is never-ending.



The “new” place is great. Kate and I are comfortable in our surroundings and have a house that stays under 95 degrees when the thermometer outside hits above 100. We get free fresh food, fun time with funny kids and have spaces to ourselves. However, we still go back to the old neighborhood to visit the xanims that stuck up for us a year ago and hang out with the neighborhood kids for old time’s sakes. While the new house is shiny and fun, the old house still holds a place in my heart. Like Cici.

First picture: The bathroom a our old place.
Second picture: Me all packed up and ready to go with all our worldly possessions.
Third picture: The kitchen at our new place.
Fourth picture: Habil Muellim playing soccer in our patio.

My Last Novruz

This is a post I wrote a few months ago, but didn't post it. Here you go, more to come soon, I promise.

So this past week everyone in Azerbaijan got the week off for a holiday called Novruz. It is the celebration of spring here, and my favorite holiday in Azerbaijan.

Novruz is a mixture of Halloween and Easter with a ton of tradition, celebration and food. Each table is supposed to have certain things on it including candles, special types of cookies, grain, baklava and a big ol’ heap of grass. Kate and I did bought not a single one of these items, but somehow, most still ended up on our table through gifts. Our neighbors, host families and even store owners have given us things to put on our table. Since Kate and I don’t really have Azerbaijani guests over (I think people are afraid of what we may serve them), we have been eating the gifted sweets for about two weeks now. I am seriously thinking about how I am going to lose my “Novruz 15”.

So I have talked about guesting a lot, I actually think I did a blog post on it. But for those of you who can’t figure it out, guesting is going over somebody’s house and having them fill you to the brim with food. To be an American living in her community for over a year, Novruz is guesting on steroids. On the Tuesday before the holiday (which is actually also a holiday) I ate two dinners and have never been so stuffed in my entire life.

My Every Thanksgiving, I warn my darling twin sister about the dangers of eating too much too quickly. I usually council her on portion control and taking it slow, and she usually ends up in pain, still eating a slice of pie. This Novruz, I did not follow my own advice. I definitely overate and was in pain for most of the week. The traditional food at Novruz is plov (a delicious rice dish), kebob (chicken, sheep, cow, whatever you can get your hands on), dovga (a sour milk with greens dish that is mostly gross to Americans but I actually don’t mind) and Russian salad which is a bunch of vegetables covered in mayonnaise. After dinner, comes dessert with a delicious treat called shekerbure. This is a traditional Novruz cookie filled with nuts and sugar. Actually, most of the sweets are filled with nuts and sugar. Also eaten is baklava, which is probably my favorite part of Novruz. Kate and I were gifted a few plates of baklava and a week later were still eating the stuff.

During Novruz, there are specific customs that are celebrated. Here are a few of the traditions I celebrated with my community some I know the reason why they do it, some I do not:
• Papaq atmaq: In “Throwing the hat”, kids creep up to your door so as not to be noticed, knock and throw their hat at it and run away. They are not supposed to be seen by the person in the house or their hat will not be filled. The person in the house fills the hats with sweets, eggs and/or candies.
• Egg game: I have no idea why they do this at Novruz r what it means, but the egg game is when you take an egg and hold it up on its end, hit it against another egg’s end and whomever’s cracks, that person must give up their egg. I apparently am not so good at this game because I always lose.
• Listening at the door: During Novruz, you are supposed to listen at the door of a neighbor’s house and whatever you hear, that will be your fate for the next year. Last year I heard a mother screaming at her kid, which I guess meant that I would have to discipline kids a lot in the year (which I did). This year I heard the Television and didn’t understand a thing. That makes me nervous…
• Reading tea leaves: You are supposed to read the tea leaves at the bottom of your cup during Novruz.
• Hopping over fires: It is customary to hop over fires during this time so that your troubles fall into them and the fire burns them away. I was surprised I could even hop my butt over the fire because I was weighed down with food.

The festivities were wonderful this year. In each region, the city normally holds a huge celebration in the city center. Goranboy had a small but wonderful celebration where there were traditional costumes, horses, dancing and a huge bonfire. I also went to the bigger city of Mingechevir to see what they had to offer. They also had girls and boys dressed in traditional clothing but they had a ton of kids participating. They also had food vendors and a tightrope walker. People had to stand crowded around the circle of activity, but as foreigners, we received special treatment and actually got to walk amongst it all taking pictures and talking with the kids.

Overall, I will miss Novruz celebrations. It is by far my favorite holiday to spend here (even though we slaughtered a turkey for Thanksgiving this year). It is a time of traditions, coming together, and eating as much as humanly possible, and that is what every holiday should be about.

Just call me Skywalker

Just Call me Skywalker

This past week I ventured into the capital city here in Azerbaijan, Baku. We had our Mid-Service conference (that’s right, I am OVER half way done!) and I got a chance to be there for a week and really thought about what this city means to me and my service.



You see, Baku is like the force, there are two sides to it. There is the light side that helps me through my service and is the center of the Peace Corps world in Azerbaijan. The dark side is the one that keeps you drinking all night in the city instead of doing your work out in the regions. We, as Peace Corps Volunteers are all Skywalkers, but we are forced to choose the Anakin way or the Luke way of handling Baku because the force is a powerful thing. It can chew you up and spit you out before you know it.

The light side of the force is Baku as the land of plenty. The reason I call it this is that in Baku, one can find and do things they normally can not do in the regions. I often visit to buy food supplies like parmesan cheese, soy sauce and syrup. I can go out for dinner and get Thai, American, Chinese, Lebanese, Wookie (JK!) and many other types of food. I can go out and have a drink with my fellow Jedis, and I can actually encounter people who speak English and can help me in my quests for different items. It can present me with opportunities to obtain funding, meet with officials, and gather ideas for my projects. In Baku, I have met many ex-pats who have been more than gracious in housing homeless, moneyless volunteers and with whom I can play ultimate Frisbee or soccer. Also in Baku, you can find the most obvious symbols of Azerbaijani culture including the old city and Maiden’s Tower. This collides wonderfully with the modernity of a European city and a youth population that is coming into their own contemporary views on politics, culture and the role of Azerbaijan in the world. It is a fascinating place to be while at the same time rest and respite from day to day life in the regions.



Nonetheless, the other side of Baku is a dark one. It is a city that drains you of money, exhausts you to the inner core, and traps you to stay for longer than you intended. In Baku, I will spend 20-40 AZN per day on food and transportation. In the regions, I spend about 4 AZN or less. Baku is the only time I let loose my sins. I go out until late at night, drinking and partying. I can get a lot done in Baku with all its resources, but it takes me twice the time it would in the regions. In regards to culture, Baku may have a lot, but it is a rare Azerbaijani who says they are actually from Baku. Many times they will claim a region as their cultural heritage even if they are born in Baku because each regional culture is passed down to children. In Baku, the regional culture in modernity and Azerbaijanis want a past to hold on to, not an ever-changing city. The new city landscape even includes a hotel that will eventually look like the Death Star!!! (http://www.treehugger.com/files/2008/03/baku-deathstar.php) With all that there is to do and the accommodating nature of the wonderful ex-pats, I have a propensity to stay longer than I originally intended. If I go for a weekend, I may stay an extra Monday. This may not sound terrible, but it means I am speaking in only English for one more day, working in a community that isn’t mine for one more day, and spending WAY WAY over my budget for one more day and these days add up.



When I get back from Baku, it is like I have been in limbo, struggling between the sides of the force. One part of me is glad that I went. I had gotten to see my fellow volunteers and catch up over a few beers, restocked my cabinet full of American goodness, and reconnected with my Baku contacts. The other part of me is ecstatic to be back in Goranboy. I rest up, recuperate, get to speak in Azerbaijani and work on my projects within my community. I actually feel like a Peace Corps Volunteer again, and this is the light side of the force at its best.

Just call me Luke I guess.



Pictures: View from Martyr's Ally overlooking Baku, Some PCV's at the Maiden's Tower, Me fighting the Death Star hotel before it gets built

Back in the USSR

Back in the (former) USSR
Well, about a three weeks ago, I returned from my trip to America and resumed my second year of two in my stint as a Peace Corps volunteer. America was a great vacation, but it feels good to be back. Things have gotten crazy over there! There are pregnant teens on TV and kids from a place called Jersey Shore going crazy all over the place. I had to ask what was with the fist pump multiple times. I caught myself pretentiously saying “Well in Azerbaijan…” a few times, and felt like a little alien while adjusting back to American culture. I could not speak my thoughts openly because people actually would understand what I was about to say, and getting used to the front seat of a car, or even driving, was a step. I did adjust to good wine pretty quickly though.
The time flew by, and finally it came to say goodbye to my family again. Saying goodbye this time was harder than the first time. I was trying to say bye to my little muffin of a niece and all she had interest in was her new dinosaur walker. My poor father drove me to JFK and saw me off through the security gates while I was teary-eyed the whole time. He was a trooper. But as soon as I got to the gate and boarded the plane, I got excited to come back. I like to travel, and even my eight hour layover in Moscow wasn’t too bad. I got off the plane in Baku and immediately met up with another volunteer to go back to the Peace Corps office to sleep off my jetlag.
The next day, I found out from my sitemate Kate that I couldn’t go home because our landlady needed to use our house. I was homeless, so I spent time readjusting in Baku. A few of us had come back from a trip to America at the same time and we spent time together getting reacquainted with Azeri life. I went from Baku to Mingechevir and it took a total of 4 days to get back to Goranboy. I was uncomfortable the whole time I was travelling and unsure of myself. The minute I stepped back into Goranboy I felt at home again. I got a huge hug and Salam from Kate’s host family and all the kids were excited to see Kate and I (she had gone to America too). I haven’t really fell back into a routine as of yet, but since being back, I have met up with some of my Azeri friends, my counterparts and played soccer with the kids. I have been relieved to realize that I actually haven’t forgotten my Azeri language skills and have conversed all about America and my time away with the people I have grown to love to have a part of my daily life. I have also been able to see my Peace Corps family. They are an incredible comfort and it is great to see them after a while. I know I was only gone for two weeks, but it was a long time to be away!
Now it’s nose back to the grindstone. I have a bunch of projects I would love to do in my community while the kids are pushing to get clubs back up and running. I’ve got less than a year left, and I intend to make it count. The first year went by so fast that I feel rushed to make everything happen RIGHT NOW. And of course, I will write about it.
Okay, per accordance with a friend, I will keep this under a page, and write more often. Expect to hear from me weekly (inshallah) and with shorter, more manageable stories.
Till next time,
AK

One Year Down

One Year Down

On October 1, I passed my one-year mark in country as a volunteer. This year has been a rollercoaster, from meeting awesome people to living in the Money Pit. I have changed my language, dress, daily schedule and the way I go to the bathroom from what I am normally used to. I have celebrated weddings, mourned deaths and welcomed new lives into this odd country all while trying to figure out what the heck is going on. I have missed very important graduations, engagements, holidays, deaths and births of my family and close friends back home. I have learned that you can love someone you have never met, that people of the world are generally willing to help someone who is lost (physically or mentally), and the only thing you really need to be happy is the company of good people.
Kate and I just had a trainee come and visit us at site, and she was telling us of all the awkward situations that she has encountered in her short three weeks in Sumqayit. She told of the excruciatingly painful first night at your host family’s house, where you are not able to converse with your new family and you look for cues about how to act from anywhere you can take it. Many followed the ways of their small host brothers and sisters, and therefor behaved like little kids. My first day was full of highs and lows. I was greeted by a man who was smiling ear to ear (my host dad Adigozel) and felt relieved. I then was shuffled into my new bedroom, where I was served grapes with HUGE pits in them and left along to unpack. I did not know whether to eat the pits or spit them out, so I spit them out and put them on the plate. I then spent an hour sitting on my bed not knowing whether to come out of my room and face the trials of pantomime or wait until I was called. It was an intense hour of trying to remember what our language teachers had taught us in the three days of orientation (I could get through about 30 seconds of conversation with hello, how are you?, my name is Amy). After the hour, my host mom came in to gather my dishes and she looked at me as if I had three heads. I thought I had set up everything wrong or was not following some secret protocol, I came to find out that Azeris eat those huge pits in the grapes and no one spits them out. It was her first realization that I was an alien. The rest of the night was spent watching TV and shaking my head yes and no to questions I didn’t understand. “Are you a spy?” “Yes.” “Do you like to take showers?” “No.” I am surprised I didn’t get into serious trouble that night.



Our trainee also talked of the budding friendships that she and the other trainees are forming. She has informed us that they have all just settled down and gotten to know each other, and are spending time at each other’s houses. She texted people the whole time about what she was doing in Goranboy, and it made me happy that the trainees are getting so close. I wouldn’t have made it this far without the crazy cast of characters that have entered my life on this journey. My fellow YD volunteers have been the support that I have needed throughout service and I like to think that I have been theirs. We were a weird group from the beginning, from Jackie wearing her nametag upside-down on purpose, to Eli telling us all he did sex in a bucket (he used to work at a Salmon fishery). We were close in Tagiyev, and are still, while being physically far apart, very close to each other. We have supported each other in clubs, camps and Toga parties. There have been housewarmings, bitching sessions and football games. Life in Azerbaijan has been enriched by my colleagues, and we are always each-others cheer-leaders.



So as Kate and I await the Peace Corps to tell us who our new site-mate is, I am particularly reflective of Kate and my big move out to site. I remember being the ONLY ONE of the YD's who cried as I left, and Kate telling me I made her look bad, because she didn’t cry. I remember my counterpart leaving me at my new family’s house and saying he would be back in a few days. In those three days, I remember being trampled by xanims in a celebration of the former president, getting to know my host sisters, and finding out I could talk to Kate for free on the house phone. I would hear my host sister’s giggle when they answered the phone and immediately know it was Kate trying her best to get her off the phone and me on it. Those first few months I learned a lot about being in the regions, about my site, and basically learned how to be a volunteer through experience.



Since moving out with Kate, time has moved at a deafening pace. I have done clubs, special events and training sessions. My favorite time has been just hanging out with the kids. They treat us like we are one of them, and sometimes I think I am 12 years old again. Peace Corps is supposed to be a growing experience, but I seem to be growing backwards. I found myself the other day after a computer lesson throwing the acorn-like seeds of the trees at one of my students and then hiding behind another as he retaliated. At soccer, I forget that I am in a foreign country, because the kids remind me so much of the kids I used to coach every summer. I forget they live halfway across the world, and just play for two hours. I hang out with the kids in the neighborhood playing catch and talking. Kate and I stay out there for so long that we don’t realize that it is dark out, just like Jessie and I did when we were kids. This time it is a little worse, because then we have to ask a 14-year-old boy to accompany us home, but you get the gist.
So Kate and I have moved into a new house. We are cleaning and taking care of it and our newly adopted puppy (who is actually the neighbor’s, we just take care of it). We budget out every month so that when pay day rolls around, we aren’t begging xanims to feed us. We go guesting and take pride in the way we host people. We are acting like grown-ups, but at the heart of it all, we are still kids. This past year I have learned many new things, and really learned to be on my own, but the best times have been when I am still a kid.


Pictures: My first host dad and his wonderful smile, some of the YD's in Baku, me playing the kids at chess on "Youth Day" in Goranboy

The GOATS

Goranboy GOATS

So I have written about softball in Goranboy before, but the most epic event since the addition of our two stop lights in spring (with countdown clock action!) has happened in this small-time town. This past weekend we hosted the kick-off tournament for the Peace Corps Azerbaijan Softball League (PCASL?). It was a fight to get this tournament on the agenda because at the time games were being scheduled, Goranboy hadn't had what critics would call a “real team” yet. However, in full faith of the two experienced managers of the Goranboy franchise, the date was set and funds were allotted for a Sunday Fall Spectacular in G-Town.

The date was set three weeks in advance of the game. Kate and I panicked a little hearing that. After we had put up so much of a fuss about not having a tournament in Goranboy, they were giving us the kick off tournament, and we didn’t even have a team put together. We had also had trouble in the past to gather kids even to play pick up. We dropped our other projects for a week and just went on a recruiting spree. I went to school number 2 and tried to pick up some of our club kids, put up signs at my work and then I pleaded my soccer kids to try a new sport, concentrating on the weaker links who maybe be looking for a change anyways. I struck out on three swings (forgive the pu!). Kate was the Theo Epstein of recruiting. She went into the Russian school, a school we have previously avoided because many of the English teachers don’t know English and we unfortunately don’t speak Russian, communication has been an issue. But Kate got 8 young men to sign on to participate in the start-up team.

Our first practice was one week before the tournament. We taught the kids how to field the ball and what to do with it after you had it in your hand. We taught them about half of the rules of softball. I am now convinced softball and baseball are the most complicated sports in America. They have about a million rules and some of them make no sense. I began to fear the question “Why?” from these kid because I honestly did not know the answer. I remember some of my first softball moments, and one of them is playing catch with my older sister Lisa. She told us never to catch the ball underhanded when it is near our face. I asked “Why?” and she replied: “Because you will break your nose”. I thought my sister was so experienced in the ways of softball because I had seen her break her nose that fateful day when she tried to snag a line drive with her glove underhanded. It made perfect sense to do the OPPOSITE of that. But try telling a bunch of kids with no reference to the game that they will break their nose if they catch like that, they will put the glove down and walk away. Who wants to break their nose for a game that makes no sense?

After a week of practices and an Azeri ringer brought in from Baku as a translator (Dice-K watch out, the new field of international stars is coming from Azerbaijan with translators!) we were as ready as we could ever get for the tournament. The kids were excited to play, but after the last practice before we played, I was cooking dinner when I heard Kate shouting from her room “Tell the other coaches to bring their bench players!”. We weren’t too confident that the kids could even play the game, never mind go up against the 3-year veteran giants of the PCASL: Mingechevir
and Ganja.

So game day comes and it is raining. I made the executive decision to PLAY BALL! and amazingly all the kids showed up. We had 12 kids wanting to play that day. Kate and I had the great idea to call the kids the Goranboy Goats. We had sheep and goats grazing on our practice field all week, and it sort of just rolled off the tongue. I also reminded Kate that like LL Cool J, Michael Jordan and Muhammad Ali; we were the G.O.A.T.s. Mr. Cool J is known as the Greatest Of All Time, and that is what Goranboy was soon to be known as. So when Kate informed the kids that our team name was the Goats on game day, they naturally asked what that meant. She told them “Kishi”. The actual name for goat is “Kechi”, Kate was a little confused and neither I nor the translator were there to correct her. “Kishi” is the word for “men” in Azerbaijan. So the 12-13 year old boys puffed out their chests, called themselves the men and proudly cheered GO GORANBOY GOATS!

We saw their tiny chests deflate when the other teams walked into the venue. The Mingechevir and Ganja teams consist of university students, while Tovuz is all 15/16 year olds. They were all huge compared to our goats. We really had a bunch of kids (hehe). We got crushed by all the teams, but the other teams learned a lot too. They learned to teach while taking the goats under their wing. The older kids taught the younger kids the ways of the game, like my older sister taught me how not to get my nose broken (even though years later on a Fourth of July my dad would slightly break my nose with an epic pop fly). When our guys would run past second base into centerfield, the player out there would gently remind him that there is a crucial 90° turn to third base. When our tiny player (7 years old swimming in his uniform) got up to bat, the pitcher would fumble the ball to give the kid a chance, and when our guys made a good play, they would cheer for the goats.

After one week of learning the game, their fielding skills were amazing. They did not allow too many balls through their legs, the pop flies were caught and they knew to throw the ball to first base. Unfortunately, they did not know to throw the ball to second, third or home. They concentrated so much on first that the other runners were still in sight, but out of mind. I tell you, just getting the out at first is not a winning strategy. Also, for as good as they were in the field, they could not compete at the plate. Their arms were ½ the size of the Mingechevir kid’s arms. They also did not have a great eye for hitting. Our 7-year-old had the best contact with the ball on the whole team!

Our guys impressed me that day. They took the other team’s instructions in stride, and were inducted into the PCASL culture of inter-region friendship and fun rivalry. After being crushed every game, they are ready for practice on Wednesday and want to play all of these teams again in the near future. With all this enthusiasm, natural talent and perseverance Kate and I think that by the end of our time here, we will really be the managers of our the G.O.A.T.s.

Katherine the Great

Katherine the Great

Okay, so I have written a lot about my life here, the stuff I do, the things I learn, and the people I meet. However, I have not yet talked extensively about one of the most important people in my Peace Corps life. My site mate Kate is one of the most unique individuals in all of Azerbaijan; people ask me how she is with a big smile and the expectation of hearing a hilarious story. It proves for an interesting life.

Kate and I are what the rest of our peers call “Peace Corps married”. This is an arranged marriage through the Peace Corps and only happens in rare instances. We have been grouped together since the beginning. We were roommates in Philadelphia the night before we left for Azerbaijan, we are in the same technical group (Youth Development) and we were in the same Azerbaijani class during training, which meant we lived in the same development outside of Sumqayit. At the end of this training, we found out that we would be at the same small site, as site mates. We have been through every stage of the Peace Corps together, so far.



During Pre-Service Training (PST), I formed bonds with the people around me. My peers were my support network, and we were together so often that we would laugh about stuff together without acknowledging it aloud. Kate would be the one who would ask “what are you laughing about?” She's tattoed, i have my ears pierced. I stayed on the beer wagon for a month, she fell off the first week. During class, I had vocab lists mapped out, she had great stories as to why hers weren't. She doesn’t care what people think, I am very aware of the rumor mill and try to avoid it. Kate used to like to sneak out of her host family’s house, and one night I was sitting quietly in my house with my host family when Kate’s family called. My host dad asked me where Kate was, and I had no idea. I told my host dad I had not a clue but I was sure she was fine. I guess she had told her host family that she would be out with me and when she was late they got worried and called my family. Rule 101 of sneaking out: tell your accomplice that she is your accomplice, or your cover is going to get blown. There are a lot of differences on the surface between Kate and me.

Therefore, when our project manager, Tarana, told us that we would be going to the same site, I had my reservations. While I had formed close bonds with the rest of the people in my Azeri class and many in my technical training group, Kate was aloof and we hadn’t really gotten to know each other very well. I liked her enough, but was nervous about the person that was about to become my site mate. Recently, I have talked to the other people in our technical training group, and they said (laughingly) they had the same reservations I had. To my knowledge, Kate didn’t overthink it as much as I had. So we entered the next two years together on completely different pages.




Our first month was a time of getting to know each other. We were able to hang out pretty much every day because, let’s face it, there’s not too much else to do here. We went to each other’s work and home all the time, went on walks, talk about the frustrations of our life without internet, than visited the creepy internet club we found together. We quickly realized, to borrow Rick Blaine's words, this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

We have had many crazy adventures together, and I will highlight a few of them here. The first big adventure was when in February when we went into Baku for a GLOW meeting and the Superbowl. We got caught in a snowstorm visiting our former host families, but neither of us wanted to stay in the village for another night. We made the terrible decision to take a cab to Baku because the buses refused to go to Baku (the roads were too bad for the bus, but a cab can do better, right?).

Well, the whole way down I was clinging to the seat, my knuckles must have been white. We spun out three times on the road, which wasn’t a big issue because there wasn’t anyone else on it! The car got about 6 miles within the place we were going to and hit traffic that was going into Baku. The taxi driver decided to turn around, because the road was closed. Kate and I looked at each other and made the decision to walk the rest of the way, hoping to find a Good Samaritan who would take us the rest of the way when the roads opened up. Well, we trudged in the snow for the entire six miles while cars inched along. If the drivers got even a few feet of room, they would gun their gas and slip and slide all over the road. I wasn’t in New England anymore; these people don’t know how to drive in the snow. We eventually got to our destination after many static panic filled phone calls (WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU ALIVE?) and on time for the meeting to boot.

Another classic adventure would be our attempts to find a house. I have written about our apartment in a previous blog post, but I will repeat myself a little here. For as bad as our apartment is, we have been shown worse. Our apartment has no hot water, no gas heater, no refrigerator and no chairs (we had 5, but since living here we have broken two, it’s getting desperate!). We are the only PCV’s I know that have to borrow spoons, forks, and plates if someone other than us eats at our house. We decided upon this house because unlike the bigger cities, the small Goranboy does not have a huge housing market. We also have a new infestation of bedbugs (we think) in Kate’s room which we have been battling vigorously (I mainly make sure they don’t go into my room!).

We didn’t even intend to live together at first, but couldn’t find two apartments/houses in our price range, so we decided to live together. It was the best decision we made. Even though the apartment is awful, we enjoy living together and our neighbors are amazing! We have kids outside to play with, xanims to ask our silly questions to, and people who are willing to stick their necks out for these two crazy Americans if we need it. We also have a system for living now: I cook, Kate washes dishes. It’s pretty awesome. If one of us is ever gone, it is pretty lonely. For example, when I went out for two weeks to do my soccer project, I got a text from Kate saying “I just ate pasta with Ketchup on it, I miss you. Come home soon!” When Kate recently went to Germany for 10 days, I got really lonely and went guesting every day to have company. I didn’t want to cook if I had to eat alone and no one was going to tell me how good of a job I did!

Outside of the adventures, we work well as a team. Kate makes things relaxed and comfortable, I help with the communication. When Kate gets frustrated, I calm her down, when I get frustrated, Kate helps me let it out. We do many things together, but have our separate groups too. Kate likes to have actual conversation clubs with the better English speakers, and I like to hold computer classes. Kate wants to work with disabled kids and I want to work with girls in sport. Kate works with all women, I work with all men. Both have their unique difficulties which Kate and I are trying to work out. We have been doing softball together and are trying to write a grant together. I get called Kate at least 10 times per day, and Kate gets called Amy. Some people even think we are the same person. Even Peace Corps volunteers treat us like we are attached at the hip. If people can’t get ahold of us, they’ll call the other to find the one they’re looking for. Kate’s host mom had to explain to a few Azeri’s that we are TWO people, that there are TWO American girls living in Goranboy at one time. Remember the twins and Lord of the Flies, SamnEric? Well, Kate often refers to us as KatenAmy. I don’t have a problem with it, I have been dealing with being confused with another person all my life (I can’t get away from it Jess!). Kate is fine with it as well, she is confident enough that there is no danger of her losing herself.



Life is good with a great site mate. Where I had reservations before, there is nothing but relief that Kate is with me. I have great friends here, but she is the first one I would go to if things were to go wrong. In a situation where it’s hard for people who know you well to know what you’re going through, Kate knows exactly where I’ve been, what I’m doing and where I want to go. While she and I are different people, I would trust her to give sound advice on counsel I am seeking. It makes my life easier here to have someone to share the everyday things. The frustrations when people don’t understand me, the small successes (like finding cheap cheese!) and the bizarre are all shared and discussed.


So here’s to Kate
(this is a little late)
she’s my site mate.
We can relate
when frustrations won’t abate
living in a different State.
It must’ve been fate
because she really is great!

Pictures: Kate at our Thanksgiving celebration, Kate and I in Baku, Kate and I at our Swearing in Ceremony

Positively GLOWing!

Positively GLOWing


Many children have memories of summer camp they look back on and see all the different things they did with all those new and interesting people. Going to a majority-populated Jewish university (shout out Brandeis!), I heard tales of Jewish camps and saw many people meet over the phrase “Did you go to camp with so and so?... She went to my school!”. Being one of a few token Christians at this school, I always felt left out of these conversations. I never went to an overnight summer camp. I distinctly remember being a terrible Brownie, meaning Girl Scout camp was out. I hated camp Sargeant, a day camp in Merrimack, so I cannot blame my parents for not sending me to overnight camp. I can’t even remember ever asking my parents to go to one. Why go when you have a built in play buddy in the form of a twin sister and an activities director in the form of an Auntie Carol? My summer camp included bubbles, cookies, blueberry picking and hanging with Rosie, the dog. When I got older, sports camps became the theme of the summer. Then my first overnight camp was an overnight soccer camp with my teammates from high school. This wasn’t a summer camp; this was a kick-your-butt into shape, triple-session exhaustion fest. It was still fun, even though it wasn’t traditional.

This is why, a few weeks ago when I was asked to be a summer camp counselor in charge of activities, my immediate response was “What?”. You see, in Azerbaijan, there is a camp called G.L.O.W. The acronym stands for “Girls Leading Our World”. It’s a camp that is run in many countries around the Peace Corps, but the curriculum and set-up is the brain-child of the PCV’s of the host country. The camp’s purpose is to empower young women and show them that they can do whatever they want to do, and show them examples of women in their community who are successful. This is an especially important topic for women in Azerbaijan because most of the people that this country looks up to are men.

The camp took a lot of man power and hours to put together. Our first meeting for the camp was in February during the Super Bowl. Baku was in the midst of a blizzard, and my site-mate Kate and I walked 10km (a little over 6 miles) on the empty icy highway to the Peace Corps office to make it to the meeting. We were the most extreme case, but some spent 3 hours in a taxi to make it. Needless to say, people were dedicated to the cause from the start. Myself and 5 other female PCV’s worked on the curriculum part of the camp for months while other groups worked on finance, finding host country counterparts, finding a place, applications and advertising the camp. The camp took many PCV’s to make it happen and it was a huge group effort pulling it off. Six PCV’s were chosen from my year (AZ7, the newbies coming in September will be AZ8) to be counselors, and when I got that call I was super-psyched.



The problem was, I had never been to a camp like this and another PCV and I were in charge of activities for the week. I thought about all the camp references I had ever seen (Friday the 13th, Wet Hot American Summer, Heavy Weights) and realized they did not help me at all in this situation. Luckily, my mother is a crafty genius and she had done tons of fun stuff with the kids from church. I also took from my team-building memories from soccer and just summer inside fun I had with Auntie.

Activities were a success! We tie-dyed shirts, did team-building (trust falls, human knot), made friendship bracelets and popsicle stick picture frames, did a hand-jive competition, and Olympic events such as a water balloon toss, Frisbee throw, blind-fold maze and three-legged race. The girls were thrilled with these new games and we had a lot of fun doing them. Each night we had a different event. The skit and talent show were a lot of fun (especially since the Spice Girls showed up, yours truly as Baby spice). I was the smart pig in our version of the Three Little Pigs. It was the Three Little Sheep, because pigs-themed plays don't really hit home in a Muslim country.



The best event was the dance party. We had “Club Glow” and tied ties around the girls’ wrists to say who was under 21, even though there was no alcohol. We had lights, a sound system and every girl up and dancing til 11pm, lights out time. At the bonfire we taught the girls how to make s’mores. I believe the counselors liked them better than the campers, but the girls liked the marshmallows, something that is not present in this country. One of my esteemed colleagues hid a package of Hershey Bars up her skirt for the counselors cabin later that night. We were so tired we forgot to eat them. :)



Activities were the sideshow to the main event, however, Our curriculum was great as well. The girls had two lessons a day and a guest speaker to listen to each day. The lessons consisted of things like community development, gender empowerment and how to be a leader. The guest speakers were successful women from Azerbaijan telling their experiences and how they succeeded in this country. The lessons were taught by Azerbaijani counterparts who learned the curriculum, made their own adjustments and taught the lesson in Azeri. They were the real rockstars of the camp. They did the most challenging work; the PCV’s got to play. :)




The girls were amazing as well. They listened to what everyone had to say, participated in every discussion and had really good ideas for development in their own communities. Any high school teacher in America would kill to have these girls in their classes based on participation alone! They loved going up to the front of the room and presenting their own ideas (something they don’t often get to do) and we got at least 20 hands for each question asked. I was ecstatic with the girls creativity and opinionated ideas.

The only problems we had were that the girls were scared in their cabins at night. I do not blame them, considering one of my references to summer camp went immediately to Jason Vorhees' mom. The six AZ7 counselors were in charge of 2 cabins each. We had to go around doing nightly checks and our cell phones were on us 24/7 to deal with problems. Examples of my problems: heard a rat in the room, toilet overflowing and key stuck in the door. I felt like a glorified landlord. I was lucky though. The other PCV’s got the girls who snuck out at night, the ones who missed their mothers and were up crying all night and the ones who stole off to the cabins during lessons. I had the drama-less 14-year-olds, if there is even such a thing as one of those in today’s world. I may have just been the Barney Fife of the group and was a terrible camp-cop and my girls just ran wild all over the camp!

We also had to eat bad Azeri food all week, but they served us watermelon at every meal, so we went on a watermelon cleansing diet! One of the counselors and I one night waited for the girls to leave the mess hall and stole all the left over watermelon and ate most of it. We regretted it immediately after, and even further into the night at our cabin...

All in all, it was a great first overnight summer camp. I enjoyed the experience thoroughly and cannot wait for next year!




Pictures: Me walking on the highway to our first meeting, Three Little Sheep performance, Katie hiding the Hersheys up her skirt, Club Glow dance floor and the counselors nearly singeing their eyebrows off roasting marshmallows on shish kebabs over a waaay too hot fire!

A Week of Normal

A Week of Normal

So last month I spent what has probably been my favorite week in Azerbaijan, doing what comes naturally to me: coaching soccer. For the past eight summers, I have been travelling all over Southern New Hampshire coaching at a soccer day camp. It was the same schedule every Monday through Friday: 9am-3pm spending all day with kids 2-18 years old. It has been an experience that has taught me patience, not only with children but with my adult co-workers too. I learned humility as well, because let’s be honest, I make a fool of myself easily, and when all kids’ eyes are on you, it’s easy to embarrass yourself. I have made great friendships and learned a lot while having a good time doing my job. This summer has been the first summer where “Week 1, Day 1” never came. I didn’t get to see the familiar faces of the regulars and I wasn’t greeted with Fritz’s morning song. No ball pumping, handing out shirts, shouting reminders about drinking water and putting on sunscreen or teaching the awesome game we call lightening. This summer was going to be drastically different, or so I thought.

At the beginning of June, I went to Baku to swim a leg of a triathlon (I was abysmal, by the way. I thought I was in shape, but alas, soccer does not work on arm muscles at all!). While in Baku, my friends and I went to a reception for American Citizens at the Ambassador’s House. There, I met a man who works at the Embassy, and closely with the Peace Corps volunteers. He was looking for soccer players to help with a project. I said “Perfect! I am a soccer player/coach, what do you need?” He then told me the best news ever.



There is a program in the US State Department called “Sports United” that sends famous athletes all over the world, promoting the United States and also promoting a healthy lifestyle. One of these programs was being held here in the form of soccer. The famous people who were coming were former US Women’s National Team player Cindy Parlow (if you don’t know her, look her up!) and MLS coach and US Soccer goalie coach John Cone (the two are married). I was so excited when I found out. She has been one of the players I looked up to in my career, who played on the 1996&2004 Olympic Gold Medal teams, and the 1999 Women’s World Cup winning team. The only catch that the Embassy worker told me was that the program started in a week and a half, and I would have to be away from site for 2 weeks. I said “No problem!” and threw my hat into the ring.

My job for this program was to help Cindy and John in whatever they needed. They first day, they didn’t need much, so I just played around with the kids, what I do best. I was able to speak with them and play games, do a few parlor tricks to gain some street cred, and I even got a group of girls playing in front of a group of boys. Let me tell you what a difference it is to have a soccer session with a group of Azeri girls vs American girls playing in front of a group of boys. If my Merrimack High School girls are playing in front the boys, they play 10 times harder and more aggressive than what they normally do. Their favorite practice has to be when we scrimmage the Freshman Boys team. It’s mine too because I love to see them beat up the young guys. I have shamefully debated internally on whether or not to pay some of the “cutest boys in school” to come out to the games and cheer my girls on. They thrive on the attention to their athletic abilities. The Azeri girls, however, do not like playing in front of boys. They do not like to show the boys they are sweaty, and they do not under any circumstance play WITH boys. Boys don’t play with girls here either. You could argue that the same is in the United States, but I have coached girls who play with boys, and those are some of the best players. Even at a young age they will play together. At camp one year, I had a portly boy of about 7, Chris, who was forced to play with a bunch of 5 year old girls. These girls were extra-girly, talking about unicorns and chasing butterflies whenever we had a water break. This kid was our joker of the group, making the coaches laugh at every turn, and he was a great sport. We were playing “World Cup” and the teams had to choose their own team names. I asked Chris what his team name was: he sighed and dejectedly said, “Pink Flamingoes”. The girls had obviously chosen the name. Well, in this game the kids have to shout the team names before they score, so we had these kids running around shouting “Terminators!”, “Killer Bees!”, and “Thunderbolts!”. Well, you know who the first one to score was? Chris was served a ball, and with no help from his flower-picking teammates, he lunged after the soccer ball, doing a split I had no idea pudgy kids could accomplish, and put the ball in the back of the net, shouting “PINK FLAMINGOES!!” While he had to work with girls who ultimately didn’t help at all, he was a great sport about it and won the game in the end. I think that boys and girls are encouraged to work together a lot more in America than in Azerbaijan, so getting these girls out there on the field in front of the boys felt like a big accomplishment.

Over the next few days in Baku, I accompanied John and Cindy on a tour of Baku, to the AFFA (Azerbaijani Football Federations Association) headquarters where Cindy lead a talk on how to incorporate women’s soccer into this country. I was also able to talk to a few women’s coaches and ask them about coaching in this country and starting up women’s soccer in the regions. Soccer is only available to women in Baku and maybe Ganja and Lankaran. The regions do not have the assets to sustain women’s soccer out here, and AFFA needs to be the organization to promote soccer for the girls in the regions. Anyways, after Baku, we headed on a trip up to the north part of Azerbaijan. Cindy and John got to see what the other half lives like in this country (Baku vs the regions is a stark contrast. Baku is like a normal European city while the regions have a distinctly different village feel to them). They were also able to see what the Soviet influence has done to development here, even 20 years later. The coaches here stress playing over having fun, and training sessions are very regimented. It was interesting to see how the outside world views the kids here. There were, just like in the States, kids who behaved and misbehaved. It is exponentially worse for someone who has no clue what the kids are saying. When kids are laughing at every word you’re saying, it is hard to know whether they are laughing at your accent or laughing at you in general. You have to have a certain amount of self-confidence to do work with kids out here. Lucky I have embarrassed myself so much in my past; things just roll off my back now. Most of the time I was asking the kids to calm down or to stop talking so that Cindy or John could talk and the kids didn’t listen very well. It was chaos for a lot of the trip, but the good points were worth the chaos.

My favorite part of the trip was in Guba. I was given my own set of girls to work with, no translator or anything. I ended up playing some games from my repertoire and they had a great time. However, it started to rain and the girls were shuffled under an overhang to get shelter from the weather. A note on water in Azerbaijan: girls hate to get wet, and even more so, women and children are terrified of getting sick. Water from the sky will get you sick in the eye of every old woman in this country. Hell, everybody here believes that drinking cold water in the winter will get you sick. Also everybody thinks that drinking a lot of water after a workout makes you fat. They usually tell me this after I have gone on a run in the dreadful heat and am chugging out of my water bottle, Are they insinuating something…? Anyways, the women at the field who was there to specifically look after the girls yelled at them to stay out of the rain or else they’d get sick. Meanwhile, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer and I told the girls, “Get out there and play, when is the next time you will be able to play with a US National Team player? Rain won’t hurt you!” Well, we got the girls out on the field playing in the rain, a HUGE deal, but I think we made a mortal enemy out of that old woman. She was shooting daggers at us the whole time.

While all this soccer was happening, my favorite sporting was going on as well (no, not Wimbledon!). Yes, I was able to watch the World Cup, and cheer for the US in all their games. Not to mention watch the games with two people who know Landon Donovan and Jozy Altidore personally. No need to mention I was floating on cloud nine the whole time. I remember last summer when the Confederations Cup was playing, all of us coaches would show up to training sessions at the last second trying to make excuses. The boss knew exactly why we were late: Howard and company were making their best international tournament appearance ever, and we didn’t want to miss it! Up until about two weeks before the 2010 World Cup began, I thought I would be missing most of the cup, but here I was watching every game! I got to see the Yanks get two goals taken away by referees and come out atop the group anyways. I got to discuss who was better, Brazil or Spain. I was in my element.



That week of soccer felt normal and extraordinary at the same time. I was able to do something that I have been doing for almost the last decade, while meeting a hero of mine and working as her peer. I still miss daily routine of 9-3 laughs at soccer camp, but I got a taste of it here in Azerbaijan with an extra kick! (Pun intended, yukka yukka) Between English lessons, computer courses, guesting and weddings, I have been able to dig out a soccer niche for myself. One week of normal was as abnormal as could be in my new life in Azerbaijan, but I realized soccer will always help me bridge cultural gaps.

So I have decided to make this an interactive blog, because I want to hear from you all too. Since I talked about being embarrassed a lot in this blog, I want your best embarrassment stories of yourself or an embarrassing moment of mine that you witnessed.

Pictures: First one is of me and my American soccer camp co-workers, miss you guys! Middle picture (from left): Kate, Sierra and I after the triathlon. Last picture (from left) John Cone, Cindy Parlow, Myself, Tim the Embassy intern, and Brent the US Embassy worker in the back.