Thanksgiving this year was a huge success, and this is, in my opinion, a hundred percent due to the fact that we did not kill the turkeys ourselves.
I think people forget how much work goes into killing and cleaning and preparing an animal for consumption, but last year the process was excruciating and exhausting. Plucking the feathers off of two seven-kilo turkeys is just NOT FUN.
So even though some people opposed to this idea, I paid a nice old lady about a dollar to kill and clean those suckers for us this year.
It was PERFECT.
We threw some spices on those bad boys, stuck them in the oven and four hours later we were eating some awesome turkey.
Unfortunately to get this deal I had to promise the other volunteers that we'd kill one for Christmas...
It'll be another adventure.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Rules
In my house we have a few rules…
No one is allowed to touch the water pump except host mom. This is because it’s about a hundred years old and constantly breaks with the slightest misconduct.
Don’t dump the dishwater into the garden. Soap can harm the roses.
Don’t cook eggs in the white pan. Always use a metal one. Don’t ask me about the reasoning behind this rule, I have NO IDEA.
And most importantly:
No one is ever to re-light the fire for the banya heater except host mom. NO ONE.
Unfortunately for me, I’ve broken all of these rules…
It happened last Saturday when no one was home. I was excited and in a hurry to get into Mary City to see my friend Elliott from Lebap. I really wanted to take a shower but when I looked into the hole there was no flame above the gas vent.
What should I do?
The options were simple: Take a lukewarm shower in a slightly cool banya or try and re-light the fire myself and take a warm shower in a nice, warm banya.
I figured it can’t be that hard, so I rolled up some newspaper, turned the gas on, and stuck my arm into the hole.
What happened next left me in a state of shock (and pain) for the next seven hours.
BOOM! The flames burst out of the hole and into me instantly and I fell back in shock. My right arm was stinging in pain and I was covered in black.
It was pretty much the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life…and I sat and cried as my poor arm soaked in a bucket of cold water.
Finally I wrapped my incinerated arm in wet, cold towels, found a taxi and made him allow me to sit in the front seat with my poor burnt arm hanging out the window all the way to Mary.
“Angela, you need to take better care of yourself,” the driver told me. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to set the flame down, stand back, and then slightly turn the gas up?”
“I do now,” I groaned in pain.
It’s been a week so far and I’ve managed to hide my scarred arm from my host mother but it’s only a matter of time before I’m found out.
Some rules are NOT meant to be broken.
No one is allowed to touch the water pump except host mom. This is because it’s about a hundred years old and constantly breaks with the slightest misconduct.
Don’t dump the dishwater into the garden. Soap can harm the roses.
Don’t cook eggs in the white pan. Always use a metal one. Don’t ask me about the reasoning behind this rule, I have NO IDEA.
And most importantly:
No one is ever to re-light the fire for the banya heater except host mom. NO ONE.
Unfortunately for me, I’ve broken all of these rules…
It happened last Saturday when no one was home. I was excited and in a hurry to get into Mary City to see my friend Elliott from Lebap. I really wanted to take a shower but when I looked into the hole there was no flame above the gas vent.
What should I do?
The options were simple: Take a lukewarm shower in a slightly cool banya or try and re-light the fire myself and take a warm shower in a nice, warm banya.
I figured it can’t be that hard, so I rolled up some newspaper, turned the gas on, and stuck my arm into the hole.
What happened next left me in a state of shock (and pain) for the next seven hours.
BOOM! The flames burst out of the hole and into me instantly and I fell back in shock. My right arm was stinging in pain and I was covered in black.
It was pretty much the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life…and I sat and cried as my poor arm soaked in a bucket of cold water.
Finally I wrapped my incinerated arm in wet, cold towels, found a taxi and made him allow me to sit in the front seat with my poor burnt arm hanging out the window all the way to Mary.
“Angela, you need to take better care of yourself,” the driver told me. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to set the flame down, stand back, and then slightly turn the gas up?”
“I do now,” I groaned in pain.
It’s been a week so far and I’ve managed to hide my scarred arm from my host mother but it’s only a matter of time before I’m found out.
Some rules are NOT meant to be broken.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Winter Blues
This morning my shampoo was frozen. I had to pour hot water over it to get it to come out of the bottle.
Seriously, it went from jacket and socks weather to heavy coat-scarf-gloves-boot weather in a matter of hours.
I forgot how much I loathed winter.
And I forgot that I threw away my boots last year after they snapped in half.
It’s going to be a long 2 months.
Seriously, it went from jacket and socks weather to heavy coat-scarf-gloves-boot weather in a matter of hours.
I forgot how much I loathed winter.
And I forgot that I threw away my boots last year after they snapped in half.
It’s going to be a long 2 months.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Marriage Proposals in Taxis
October 30, 2009
“You’re American!” the man in the front seat of the taxi yelled at my friend Halley and I.
“Yes, that’s right,” we said.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” Halley said.
“How old do you THINK I am?” I asked with a smile as Halley rolled her eyes.
“Uhhhh…twenty-three?”
“Great job! You’re absolutely correct!” I laughed.
“You’re such a liar,” Halley said in English.
“I have a son!” the man announced. “Let me call him now. Will you meet him?”
“Of course!”
He got on the phone with his son and explained the exciting news: Two American girls were sitting in the backseat of his taxi. Would he meet them? One of them is 23 and looks Turkmen. She has black hair and dark eyes. She’d be perfect for him, and she speaks Turkmen. She already has agreed to marry him.
“Beh!” he said as he got off the phone. “He’s too shy.”
“Awwww, that’s too bad,” I said. “I really wanted to marry him.”
“You’re American!” the man in the front seat of the taxi yelled at my friend Halley and I.
“Yes, that’s right,” we said.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” Halley said.
“How old do you THINK I am?” I asked with a smile as Halley rolled her eyes.
“Uhhhh…twenty-three?”
“Great job! You’re absolutely correct!” I laughed.
“You’re such a liar,” Halley said in English.
“I have a son!” the man announced. “Let me call him now. Will you meet him?”
“Of course!”
He got on the phone with his son and explained the exciting news: Two American girls were sitting in the backseat of his taxi. Would he meet them? One of them is 23 and looks Turkmen. She has black hair and dark eyes. She’d be perfect for him, and she speaks Turkmen. She already has agreed to marry him.
“Beh!” he said as he got off the phone. “He’s too shy.”
“Awwww, that’s too bad,” I said. “I really wanted to marry him.”
Two Years
October 25, 2009
Twenty five months have passed and I’m still in Turkmenistan.
I never thought I wouldn’t make it, but I didn’t know exactly how it would pan out.
Two years ago I could barely tell you that the weather was crappy. Today I sit with my friends and gossip and share stories and give advice and so on.
Two years ago I was freaking out about being sick and so careful about everything I ate. I complained about food being too oily and made fun of the way Turkmen cooked. Today I couldn’t care less…if it looks good I’ll eat it, and that includes ridiculous amounts of fat.
Two years ago I didn’t understand how people lived without vacuum cleaners. How did they clean their carpets? Today I actually enjoy sweeping the carpet with straw brooms. It really does work.
Two years ago I cried when people made fun of me. Today I laugh with them. They think I’m funny and weird, well I think the same thing about them so who the hell cares?
Two years ago I didn’t understand how delicious tomatoes are. Today I remain obsessed with them and will probably continue to be this way for a long time.
Two years ago I was scared of the bazaar. I didn’t like the way people stared at me and was afraid of asking people how much stuff was for fear of them making fun of me. Today I stroll through the bazaar constantly talking with all the sellers individually because we’ve gotten to know each other so well over the past two years. They tell me what’s just in, what’s freshest, and ask me about other things I bought the previous week.
Two years ago I was afraid of teaching English. I didn’t know what I was doing and was weird and awkward. Today I work with some of the smartest kids I’ve ever met and have worked with them on a huge variety of topics. They have become my light, my life and the reason why I’m here.
Two years went by so fast.
Twenty five months have passed and I’m still in Turkmenistan.
I never thought I wouldn’t make it, but I didn’t know exactly how it would pan out.
Two years ago I could barely tell you that the weather was crappy. Today I sit with my friends and gossip and share stories and give advice and so on.
Two years ago I was freaking out about being sick and so careful about everything I ate. I complained about food being too oily and made fun of the way Turkmen cooked. Today I couldn’t care less…if it looks good I’ll eat it, and that includes ridiculous amounts of fat.
Two years ago I didn’t understand how people lived without vacuum cleaners. How did they clean their carpets? Today I actually enjoy sweeping the carpet with straw brooms. It really does work.
Two years ago I cried when people made fun of me. Today I laugh with them. They think I’m funny and weird, well I think the same thing about them so who the hell cares?
Two years ago I didn’t understand how delicious tomatoes are. Today I remain obsessed with them and will probably continue to be this way for a long time.
Two years ago I was scared of the bazaar. I didn’t like the way people stared at me and was afraid of asking people how much stuff was for fear of them making fun of me. Today I stroll through the bazaar constantly talking with all the sellers individually because we’ve gotten to know each other so well over the past two years. They tell me what’s just in, what’s freshest, and ask me about other things I bought the previous week.
Two years ago I was afraid of teaching English. I didn’t know what I was doing and was weird and awkward. Today I work with some of the smartest kids I’ve ever met and have worked with them on a huge variety of topics. They have become my light, my life and the reason why I’m here.
Two years went by so fast.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Notebook Crazy
October 15, 09
Last month at our Close of Service conference the topic of readjustment in America was brought up and we all laughed at silly stories that people heard. We had a nice chuckle about the girl who cried when she couldn’t decide which cheesecake to choose at the Cheesecake Factory, and the lady who stood frozen in shock in the produce section at Whole Foods Market.
We’re aware that Americans have gazillions of things to choose from, where as out here your standard product is it, but it’s hard to get the full feeling until you’re in the situation.
“I just don’t see that happening to us,” my friend Halley said.
“I know! I can’t see myself in a situation like that,” I replied. “I mean that’s just weird.”
Then this week I received a package from my fabulous aunts in Ohio full of wonderful surprises. And among the granola bars and instant oatmeal were two composition notebooks. TWO.
I sat on the floor of my room and stared at the notebooks.
One was green, and one was black. Which one did I want for my Russian vocabulary? Green or black?
The green one is more beautiful. But the green notebook was “wide-ruled” and the black notebook was “college ruled”.
Did I want wide-ruled or college ruled? What was better? Wide or College?
Okay, I thought…maybe one has more pages than the other. So I sat there and counted the pages. Both notebooks had 100 pages.
Okay…maybe there’s more lines in the black notebook than the green notebook. So I sat there and counted the lines. The black notebook had 32 and the green had 25.
But the green notebook was “wide-ruled”! Was that better?
Okay…maybe the pages in the green notebook are thinner than the pages in the black notebook.
So I sat there and individually felt the pages in each notebook, trying to decipher if one’s were flimsier than the other.
And then I realized forty minutes had passed and I was crazy.
In the end, the green notebook’s pages really were thinner.
I chose the black one.
Dear America People: when I return to your lovely country, please don’t ask me to make any decisions.
Thanks.
Love, Angela
Last month at our Close of Service conference the topic of readjustment in America was brought up and we all laughed at silly stories that people heard. We had a nice chuckle about the girl who cried when she couldn’t decide which cheesecake to choose at the Cheesecake Factory, and the lady who stood frozen in shock in the produce section at Whole Foods Market.
We’re aware that Americans have gazillions of things to choose from, where as out here your standard product is it, but it’s hard to get the full feeling until you’re in the situation.
“I just don’t see that happening to us,” my friend Halley said.
“I know! I can’t see myself in a situation like that,” I replied. “I mean that’s just weird.”
Then this week I received a package from my fabulous aunts in Ohio full of wonderful surprises. And among the granola bars and instant oatmeal were two composition notebooks. TWO.
I sat on the floor of my room and stared at the notebooks.
One was green, and one was black. Which one did I want for my Russian vocabulary? Green or black?
The green one is more beautiful. But the green notebook was “wide-ruled” and the black notebook was “college ruled”.
Did I want wide-ruled or college ruled? What was better? Wide or College?
Okay, I thought…maybe one has more pages than the other. So I sat there and counted the pages. Both notebooks had 100 pages.
Okay…maybe there’s more lines in the black notebook than the green notebook. So I sat there and counted the lines. The black notebook had 32 and the green had 25.
But the green notebook was “wide-ruled”! Was that better?
Okay…maybe the pages in the green notebook are thinner than the pages in the black notebook.
So I sat there and individually felt the pages in each notebook, trying to decipher if one’s were flimsier than the other.
And then I realized forty minutes had passed and I was crazy.
In the end, the green notebook’s pages really were thinner.
I chose the black one.
Dear America People: when I return to your lovely country, please don’t ask me to make any decisions.
Thanks.
Love, Angela
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Into the Wild
I've been sitting in front of this computer trying to figure out something to write today and nothing's coming to mind.
It could be because my brain is so fried from sleeping outside in the freezing cold mountains in Chuli last night...
Or it could be because of Alp Arslan. It tastes more battery acid than vodka.
What I learned:
Meat from Yimpash really is better
Never even think about camping without an axe
Climbing uphill at 3am with no shoes in the dark is always a bad idea
Smartwool from REI is beyond awesome
Boys fart a lot.
The end.
I'm glad I did it though...my last camping trip in T-tsan, and one of the most memorable ones.
I need a shower like never before.
It could be because my brain is so fried from sleeping outside in the freezing cold mountains in Chuli last night...
Or it could be because of Alp Arslan. It tastes more battery acid than vodka.
What I learned:
Meat from Yimpash really is better
Never even think about camping without an axe
Climbing uphill at 3am with no shoes in the dark is always a bad idea
Smartwool from REI is beyond awesome
Boys fart a lot.
The end.
I'm glad I did it though...my last camping trip in T-tsan, and one of the most memorable ones.
I need a shower like never before.
Friday, October 02, 2009
A Little Help from My Friends
Wednesday was up there with one of the worst days ever out here, and after the day was over, after the taxi pulled into my home, after my day of wandering around Mary City arguing with migration officials about my new visa, getting all my problems straightened out, I needed one thing, and one thing only.
To vent.
So I hurried to the nearest shop, purchased a bag of cookies and two Baltika 5s and showed up to one of my local friend's house with a smile.
"ANGELA!" She said as she opened the door.
"Ohhhhh you are not going to believe my day," I began and we sat and talked and gossiped and after about twenty minutes I felt loads better.
And then I realized something...how incredibly lucky I am that I have friends here, people who I can just sit and talk with about anything and everything for hours.
She may not understand a word of English, and my Russian still blows but the friendship is real.
Man what a crazy week this has been...
What's next?
To vent.
So I hurried to the nearest shop, purchased a bag of cookies and two Baltika 5s and showed up to one of my local friend's house with a smile.
"ANGELA!" She said as she opened the door.
"Ohhhhh you are not going to believe my day," I began and we sat and talked and gossiped and after about twenty minutes I felt loads better.
And then I realized something...how incredibly lucky I am that I have friends here, people who I can just sit and talk with about anything and everything for hours.
She may not understand a word of English, and my Russian still blows but the friendship is real.
Man what a crazy week this has been...
What's next?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
English Woman Teacher
September 30, 2009
I was correcting one of my student’s notebook’s yesterday during my break and I came across this:
“My an Engish woman teacher Angela
I wanted to describe my an Engish teacher. Her is name Angela. Her is name was named her exactly because she looks like a angel.”
Oh these kids.
I was correcting one of my student’s notebook’s yesterday during my break and I came across this:
“My an Engish woman teacher Angela
I wanted to describe my an Engish teacher. Her is name Angela. Her is name was named her exactly because she looks like a angel.”
Oh these kids.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Boys Boys Boys
September 17, 2009
“So what’s up with your boyfriend?” I asked my dressmaker tonight.
“He’s dead,” she said.
“WHAT? HE’S DEAD? ARE YOU SERIOUS?”
Everyone in the room started laughing.
“No, he’s probably not really dead,” she said. “He just hasn’t called for three months, which means he’s dead to me.”
“That’s horrible! Well, don’t worry you can do better. In fact I’ll help you!” I said, and started going through all the names of boys I knew in Yoloten.
“What about Ahmed? He has a car and he’s not bad looking,” I asked her.
“Ahmed is MARRIED, Angela!” she said.
“Oh that liar! He told me he was single!” I said angrily.
“Yeah, don’t they all? Eh, I wouldn’t want to marry him anyway, he’s my cousin.”
“Alright I’m going find you an American boyfriend then, okay?”
“Perfect!” She laughed.
Any takers? She’s pretty awesome…
“So what’s up with your boyfriend?” I asked my dressmaker tonight.
“He’s dead,” she said.
“WHAT? HE’S DEAD? ARE YOU SERIOUS?”
Everyone in the room started laughing.
“No, he’s probably not really dead,” she said. “He just hasn’t called for three months, which means he’s dead to me.”
“That’s horrible! Well, don’t worry you can do better. In fact I’ll help you!” I said, and started going through all the names of boys I knew in Yoloten.
“What about Ahmed? He has a car and he’s not bad looking,” I asked her.
“Ahmed is MARRIED, Angela!” she said.
“Oh that liar! He told me he was single!” I said angrily.
“Yeah, don’t they all? Eh, I wouldn’t want to marry him anyway, he’s my cousin.”
“Alright I’m going find you an American boyfriend then, okay?”
“Perfect!” She laughed.
Any takers? She’s pretty awesome…
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Journey to the Caspian Sea
After almost two years of living in this country I finally made it out to the Caspian Sea...Turkmenistan's proud vacation destination.
Yet, being a tourist town in a country that has virtually no tourists can cause a bit of problems...especially if you LIVE here and know that pretty much no citizen of this country can pay these outragous prices.
Example:
"Excuse me," I said politely in Russian to the DJ at the disco on Tuesday night.
"Yes?" he asked.
I smiled sweetly and asked if he had a couple of songs. Naturally "Single Ladies" by Beyonce and "Poker Face" by the one and only Lady Gaga.
We looked through his computer database and found "Poker Face".
"YESSS!" I exclaimed. "Can you please play it for us?"
Keep in mind that this disco is pack full of the following people: Peace Corps volunteers, two Russian prostitutes, and a fat old Russian dude who probably works at the hotel.
"That'll be 50,000 manat," the DJ said. About $3.50.
"Are you freaking out of your mind?" I asked in Russian, again. "You have GOT to be kidding me!"
"That's the price, girl," he said. Literally.
"But that's crazy! This dance floor is only full of Americans! If we leave you'll be playing music for nobody! Why the hell would you charge that much for ONE SONG?"
"It's our rule. That's how it is here," he said rudely.
So of course I decided to boycott the disco after that, but when all my friends were dancing to crappy techno and I was pouting outside, complaining about the dj I realized that I was not making things better.
"THIS IS RIDICULOUS!" I yelled to a random guy outside. I didn't know if he worked there or not, but he looked shady enough so I figured what the hell.
"Talk to that guy then," he said, pointing to another guy with a bad mullet.
I explained my problem, that it was ONE SONG, and he walked with me back to the DJ booth.
"Just play the damn song," he told him.
What I didn't like about Turkmenbashy:
Everything is more expensive
There are absolutely no trees or grass anywhere
Not one single person had change for large bills
Instead of looking for change for large bills, sellers just scoffed in my face and refused transactions
What I loved about Turkmenbashy:
The Caspian Sea is absolutely gorgeous
I could wear a mini skirt and it was no problem
The airport consisted of one x-ray machine, a table, and a couple dudes in uniform.
I'm glad I went though...it was an amazing vacation.
COUNTDOWN: However days from now until December 23-ish. See you soon!
Yet, being a tourist town in a country that has virtually no tourists can cause a bit of problems...especially if you LIVE here and know that pretty much no citizen of this country can pay these outragous prices.
Example:
"Excuse me," I said politely in Russian to the DJ at the disco on Tuesday night.
"Yes?" he asked.
I smiled sweetly and asked if he had a couple of songs. Naturally "Single Ladies" by Beyonce and "Poker Face" by the one and only Lady Gaga.
We looked through his computer database and found "Poker Face".
"YESSS!" I exclaimed. "Can you please play it for us?"
Keep in mind that this disco is pack full of the following people: Peace Corps volunteers, two Russian prostitutes, and a fat old Russian dude who probably works at the hotel.
"That'll be 50,000 manat," the DJ said. About $3.50.
"Are you freaking out of your mind?" I asked in Russian, again. "You have GOT to be kidding me!"
"That's the price, girl," he said. Literally.
"But that's crazy! This dance floor is only full of Americans! If we leave you'll be playing music for nobody! Why the hell would you charge that much for ONE SONG?"
"It's our rule. That's how it is here," he said rudely.
So of course I decided to boycott the disco after that, but when all my friends were dancing to crappy techno and I was pouting outside, complaining about the dj I realized that I was not making things better.
"THIS IS RIDICULOUS!" I yelled to a random guy outside. I didn't know if he worked there or not, but he looked shady enough so I figured what the hell.
"Talk to that guy then," he said, pointing to another guy with a bad mullet.
I explained my problem, that it was ONE SONG, and he walked with me back to the DJ booth.
"Just play the damn song," he told him.
What I didn't like about Turkmenbashy:
Everything is more expensive
There are absolutely no trees or grass anywhere
Not one single person had change for large bills
Instead of looking for change for large bills, sellers just scoffed in my face and refused transactions
What I loved about Turkmenbashy:
The Caspian Sea is absolutely gorgeous
I could wear a mini skirt and it was no problem
The airport consisted of one x-ray machine, a table, and a couple dudes in uniform.
I'm glad I went though...it was an amazing vacation.
COUNTDOWN: However days from now until December 23-ish. See you soon!
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Cross Cultural Exchange
August 20, 2009
As if the Kazakh wedding wasn’t enough celebration for me for one week, I got roped into another birthday party tonight.
I had sworn off liquor after I spent last Sunday vomiting the entire contents of my stomach so I was feeling good when I walked into my dressmaker’s home tonight.
Armed with a coffee cake (they don’t know it’s a breakfast dish in America) I smiled widely and said, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” in Russian.
“Great! You’re here! Go sit down!” she said enthusiastically.
After all of us were seated around the tablecloth on the floor she ran out of the room and returned second later with a huge smile on her face. My stomach turned as I saw she had smuggled in a bottle of vodka.
“My father didn’t see me!” she laughed and winked at me. “It’s my birthday and we’re going to party!”
Ohhhhhhhhh nooooo…I thought. Not again. No more vodka…
To live in a country where it’s incredibly rude to refuse food or drink is usually no problem for me. I typically enjoy eating and have always enjoyed alcohol.
But as the final rounds of toasts were made and my cup sat on the tablecloth unfinished they all pointed at me.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU DRINK?” they said in accusation.
“Okay that’s it!” I yelled. “You’re all pointing at me but look at YOU! You didn’t drink! And neither did you! AND LOOK! Your cup is half-full!” I accused right back at them. “This is NOT FAIR. You guys all like to pick on me because I’m American and it’s easy. But if you’re not drinking, I’M not drinking.”
With that the whole party erupted with laughter and the two girls sitting next to me told me okay, that’s fine. Let’s just take this last one together.
So we did and when the next round of toasts were made I happily raised a glass of Turkmen orange soda.
Sometimes you just have to draw a line.
As if the Kazakh wedding wasn’t enough celebration for me for one week, I got roped into another birthday party tonight.
I had sworn off liquor after I spent last Sunday vomiting the entire contents of my stomach so I was feeling good when I walked into my dressmaker’s home tonight.
Armed with a coffee cake (they don’t know it’s a breakfast dish in America) I smiled widely and said, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” in Russian.
“Great! You’re here! Go sit down!” she said enthusiastically.
After all of us were seated around the tablecloth on the floor she ran out of the room and returned second later with a huge smile on her face. My stomach turned as I saw she had smuggled in a bottle of vodka.
“My father didn’t see me!” she laughed and winked at me. “It’s my birthday and we’re going to party!”
Ohhhhhhhhh nooooo…I thought. Not again. No more vodka…
To live in a country where it’s incredibly rude to refuse food or drink is usually no problem for me. I typically enjoy eating and have always enjoyed alcohol.
But as the final rounds of toasts were made and my cup sat on the tablecloth unfinished they all pointed at me.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU DRINK?” they said in accusation.
“Okay that’s it!” I yelled. “You’re all pointing at me but look at YOU! You didn’t drink! And neither did you! AND LOOK! Your cup is half-full!” I accused right back at them. “This is NOT FAIR. You guys all like to pick on me because I’m American and it’s easy. But if you’re not drinking, I’M not drinking.”
With that the whole party erupted with laughter and the two girls sitting next to me told me okay, that’s fine. Let’s just take this last one together.
So we did and when the next round of toasts were made I happily raised a glass of Turkmen orange soda.
Sometimes you just have to draw a line.
Till Death
August 18, 2009
Love is in the air and now is the best time ever to get married.
The Turkmen government has created a new law that states that any couple who gets married will receive a gift of 16 million manat ($1120).
The downside?
This law also states that any couple who wishes to get divorced must pay a fee of 30 million manat ($2100).
I hope this causes more people to get married. I need more weddings to go to…more excuses to wear my awesome new hot pink dress.
That’s not a misprint guys. HOT PINK. For real.
Pictures coming soon…
Love is in the air and now is the best time ever to get married.
The Turkmen government has created a new law that states that any couple who gets married will receive a gift of 16 million manat ($1120).
The downside?
This law also states that any couple who wishes to get divorced must pay a fee of 30 million manat ($2100).
I hope this causes more people to get married. I need more weddings to go to…more excuses to wear my awesome new hot pink dress.
That’s not a misprint guys. HOT PINK. For real.
Pictures coming soon…
Party Like You’re in K-stan
August 17, 2009
Oh what a weekend…
Saturday was the Kazakh wedding. Two people I barely know were joined together in holy matrimony.
Decked out in a hot pink dress (yes, that’s right guys. HOT PINK) I sat in the corner with some other people I barely knew and toasted with them and swallowed the small shot glass of horrible Turkmen vodka.
And then everything started burning.
I know I was warned about Turkmen vodka before I came here and I usually try to stay away from the benzene-like substances, but I can’t refuse a toast.
Unfortunately I’m so damn polite that I continued to take shot after shot of awful Turkmen vodka and before I knew it I was taken out of the wedding celebration, stumbling through a dirt field and put in my friend’s car to be taken home.
“She’s totally trashed,” they announced to my host mother at the door.
Holy crap, they couldn’t just drop me off and go? Ugh.
“Angela why did you drink so much?” my host mother complained the next day.
“The toasts,” I moaned. “They just kept making me make toasts.”
“Do you know you could hardly walk last night?” I was informed later.
“Oh shut up,” I grumbled. I had just thrown up the entire contents of my stomach and was not in the mood to hear it. “You guys are making this all up.”
NEVER DRINKING AGAIN.
Oh what a weekend…
Saturday was the Kazakh wedding. Two people I barely know were joined together in holy matrimony.
Decked out in a hot pink dress (yes, that’s right guys. HOT PINK) I sat in the corner with some other people I barely knew and toasted with them and swallowed the small shot glass of horrible Turkmen vodka.
And then everything started burning.
I know I was warned about Turkmen vodka before I came here and I usually try to stay away from the benzene-like substances, but I can’t refuse a toast.
Unfortunately I’m so damn polite that I continued to take shot after shot of awful Turkmen vodka and before I knew it I was taken out of the wedding celebration, stumbling through a dirt field and put in my friend’s car to be taken home.
“She’s totally trashed,” they announced to my host mother at the door.
Holy crap, they couldn’t just drop me off and go? Ugh.
“Angela why did you drink so much?” my host mother complained the next day.
“The toasts,” I moaned. “They just kept making me make toasts.”
“Do you know you could hardly walk last night?” I was informed later.
“Oh shut up,” I grumbled. I had just thrown up the entire contents of my stomach and was not in the mood to hear it. “You guys are making this all up.”
NEVER DRINKING AGAIN.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Boredom Sets In
August 11, 2009
Today I started class like any other day.
“Hey everyone! What’s new?”
Silence.
“Alright come on…somebody give me some news. Something. Anything that has happened to you recently.”
Silence.
“DOES NOBODY HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY?” I asked again, exasperated.
“I bought a new pen,” a student said with a smile.
Everyone started laughing immediately and applauding him for his purchase.
“Wow that’s so great!” one student said.
“Congratulations!” another said.
Not a lot to report from Yoloten at the moment…
Today I started class like any other day.
“Hey everyone! What’s new?”
Silence.
“Alright come on…somebody give me some news. Something. Anything that has happened to you recently.”
Silence.
“DOES NOBODY HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY?” I asked again, exasperated.
“I bought a new pen,” a student said with a smile.
Everyone started laughing immediately and applauding him for his purchase.
“Wow that’s so great!” one student said.
“Congratulations!” another said.
Not a lot to report from Yoloten at the moment…
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
DJ Smash Foreva
August 6, 2009
“Angela, did you know who Dima Bilan was before you came here?” my friend asked me the other day.
“Nope,” I replied. “I didn’t have a clue who he was.”
“YOU DIDN’T KNOW WHO DIMA BILAN IS? But how is that possible?”
Seriously, how is that possible? How did I never know the glories of Russian pop music before I came here?
Keep in mind that I have since accumulated the biggest Russian pop music collection out of any other volunteer out here. And don’t get me started on how awesome these music videos are.
What will I do without RUTV in five months?
Maybe I should extend…
“Angela, did you know who Dima Bilan was before you came here?” my friend asked me the other day.
“Nope,” I replied. “I didn’t have a clue who he was.”
“YOU DIDN’T KNOW WHO DIMA BILAN IS? But how is that possible?”
Seriously, how is that possible? How did I never know the glories of Russian pop music before I came here?
Keep in mind that I have since accumulated the biggest Russian pop music collection out of any other volunteer out here. And don’t get me started on how awesome these music videos are.
What will I do without RUTV in five months?
Maybe I should extend…
Nightmares and Cookies
August 5, 2009
My new best friend in Yoloten and I were sitting in her bedroom today talking about superstitions.
“People aren’t superstitious in America?” she asked.
“Ehhh…I guess some are and some aren’t. It’s really not that big of a deal out there.”
She leaned over and asked me if I ever have nightmares. I told her it was pretty rare.
“Whenever I have a nightmare, I go buy a kilo of cookies and give them to children in the streets,” she said. “Then I won’t have any more nightmares.”
“You do WHAT?” I laughed.
“It’s true!” she said. “You don’t believe me?”
I couldn’t stop laughing.
“Oh man I have to write this down. Wait till my friends and family hear this one…”
“Okay,” she said. “Next time you have a nightmare just try it out.”
“Alright, I’ll get back to you on this,” I said, still laughing.
My new best friend in Yoloten and I were sitting in her bedroom today talking about superstitions.
“People aren’t superstitious in America?” she asked.
“Ehhh…I guess some are and some aren’t. It’s really not that big of a deal out there.”
She leaned over and asked me if I ever have nightmares. I told her it was pretty rare.
“Whenever I have a nightmare, I go buy a kilo of cookies and give them to children in the streets,” she said. “Then I won’t have any more nightmares.”
“You do WHAT?” I laughed.
“It’s true!” she said. “You don’t believe me?”
I couldn’t stop laughing.
“Oh man I have to write this down. Wait till my friends and family hear this one…”
“Okay,” she said. “Next time you have a nightmare just try it out.”
“Alright, I’ll get back to you on this,” I said, still laughing.
America! Heck Yeah!
August 5, 2009
Last Friday night on my ride back into the city I was stuck in a taxi full of boys.
“Wait, you’re AMERICAN?” one of the guys in the car asked. “I have a relative who lives in America. He’s a singer! Do you know him?”
The boy was Beluch, from our neighbor to the south in Afghanistan and as great as my Afghan music collection is, I couldn’t say I recognized the singer’s name. I was tired and irritated, and not in the mood to make random conversation.
“Come to the bazaar tomorrow!” the boy said as he was getting off in a small village outside Yoloten.
“Yeah, sure whatever,” I replied. I always tell people I’ll come around and visit after I meet them but it’s all talk and no action. Especially for a Saturday morning. The summer heat really adds to my laziness.
But then the next morning as I was doing my laundry there was a knock on our gate. I opened it up to find my new Beluch friend standing there with a big smile on his face.
“You didn’t come to the bazaar today!” he exclaimed.
How the hell did he find my house? He doesn’t even live in Yoloten.
“Angela, I want to go to America! How can I go?”
Standing there in shorts and a tank top (the most possible inappropriate clothes to be talking to boys in a conservative Muslim country) holding a pile of wet clothes I stared at him in disbelief. Did he really track me down and find my house on a Saturday morning to ask me how he can go to America?
“Uhhh…I’m just an English teacher, dude,” I replied. “I don’t actually work for the consulate and have no freaking clue how you would even begin to do that. I guess you need to apply for a visa or something.”
“I really wanted to see you!” he said. “I want to talk with you! I want to go to America. My relative lives there. He’s a singer!”
“Yes, yes you already told me this. Do you know any English?” I asked politely.
“I can learn English!” he said.
“Well let’s start with that and then work on you getting to America,” I said.
That was five days ago, and he’s proceeded to call me every day since.
“Angela! This is my phone number!” he said the first time he called.
“Yeah okay cool, dude. See ya.”
Two hours later:
“Angela! Do you know who this is?” he asked happily.
“Uhhh…who is this?”
“Hassan! Wait, you didn’t save my number?”
“Okay, okay I’ll save it now,” I said.
One hour later:
“Angela! Do you know who this is?”
“Yes, yes Hassan. I have your number.”
“Great! I really want to go to America!”
Ohhh boy.
“Good luck with that, yo.”
Last Friday night on my ride back into the city I was stuck in a taxi full of boys.
“Wait, you’re AMERICAN?” one of the guys in the car asked. “I have a relative who lives in America. He’s a singer! Do you know him?”
The boy was Beluch, from our neighbor to the south in Afghanistan and as great as my Afghan music collection is, I couldn’t say I recognized the singer’s name. I was tired and irritated, and not in the mood to make random conversation.
“Come to the bazaar tomorrow!” the boy said as he was getting off in a small village outside Yoloten.
“Yeah, sure whatever,” I replied. I always tell people I’ll come around and visit after I meet them but it’s all talk and no action. Especially for a Saturday morning. The summer heat really adds to my laziness.
But then the next morning as I was doing my laundry there was a knock on our gate. I opened it up to find my new Beluch friend standing there with a big smile on his face.
“You didn’t come to the bazaar today!” he exclaimed.
How the hell did he find my house? He doesn’t even live in Yoloten.
“Angela, I want to go to America! How can I go?”
Standing there in shorts and a tank top (the most possible inappropriate clothes to be talking to boys in a conservative Muslim country) holding a pile of wet clothes I stared at him in disbelief. Did he really track me down and find my house on a Saturday morning to ask me how he can go to America?
“Uhhh…I’m just an English teacher, dude,” I replied. “I don’t actually work for the consulate and have no freaking clue how you would even begin to do that. I guess you need to apply for a visa or something.”
“I really wanted to see you!” he said. “I want to talk with you! I want to go to America. My relative lives there. He’s a singer!”
“Yes, yes you already told me this. Do you know any English?” I asked politely.
“I can learn English!” he said.
“Well let’s start with that and then work on you getting to America,” I said.
That was five days ago, and he’s proceeded to call me every day since.
“Angela! This is my phone number!” he said the first time he called.
“Yeah okay cool, dude. See ya.”
Two hours later:
“Angela! Do you know who this is?” he asked happily.
“Uhhh…who is this?”
“Hassan! Wait, you didn’t save my number?”
“Okay, okay I’ll save it now,” I said.
One hour later:
“Angela! Do you know who this is?”
“Yes, yes Hassan. I have your number.”
“Great! I really want to go to America!”
Ohhh boy.
“Good luck with that, yo.”
Exploding Poop
August 2, 2009
This week one of our town watch repairmen decided he was going to paint his shop. Doing what any normal person would do he mixed the paint with benzene and finished the job as he liked.
Not doing what any normal person would do, he decided to dump the remaining benzene he didn’t need down the toilet.
Unfortunately, he later proceeded to smoke a cigarette while using the toilet…forgetting the hole was full of flammable gasoline.
“You could even hear the explosion from my house!” one of my host brother’s friends said. “I live over 200 meters away!”
The poor man suffered from some severe burns but is apparently doing alright.
“Those poor doctors,” my host brother laughed. “Can you imagine how covered in crap he must’ve been when he got to the hospital?”
Word to the wise: Smoking and gasoline don’t mix.
This week one of our town watch repairmen decided he was going to paint his shop. Doing what any normal person would do he mixed the paint with benzene and finished the job as he liked.
Not doing what any normal person would do, he decided to dump the remaining benzene he didn’t need down the toilet.
Unfortunately, he later proceeded to smoke a cigarette while using the toilet…forgetting the hole was full of flammable gasoline.
“You could even hear the explosion from my house!” one of my host brother’s friends said. “I live over 200 meters away!”
The poor man suffered from some severe burns but is apparently doing alright.
“Those poor doctors,” my host brother laughed. “Can you imagine how covered in crap he must’ve been when he got to the hospital?”
Word to the wise: Smoking and gasoline don’t mix.
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