My new apartment is shaping up quite nicely – a clothes line has been hung, water nozzle rigged so I have a proper standup shower, a tool devised to help match-light my gas hot water heater without the back-draft inferno which scared me so much I was taking cold showers for the past month, a thin runner in the hall way keeps the dirt and dust at bay that we track in from renovations still going on upstairs, large three liter glass jugs hold cereal, rice, trail mix, etc…kitchen utensils line up along hooks in my walls, a map of the world hangs in the living room, some books are aligned along the floor nestled between two Coke bottles filled with water for bookends – it is slowly becoming a cozy and livable little Peace Corps apartment.
The building is the most decrepit structure I have every stepped foot in. Five stories and a block in length, utilitarian in its most minimal inputs. Some PCV’s and I were talking about how we don’t have to fear a house fire because nothing in this entirely concrete structure would burn and someone said, “Yeah, but the asbestos might get us.” to which I replied, “We’d be lucky to have asbestos up there as insulation for winter!” Yes, it looks to be a frigid winter – not just from cold and snow, but from living in an un-insulated concrete slab with the likelihood of very little heat – I’m mentally preparing for the worst.
Right now the weather is a very pleasant transition in to fall. Food abounds in the Ferghana Valley still and we’ve been making some incredible meals with ingredients sent from home. Olive oil and parmesan have enabled delicious pastas, babaganoush, and hummus. Thai green curry and other savory Asian dishes are thanks to mom and a friend in Singapore. My house guest has a constant supply of peanut butter, macaroni and cheese, and M&M’s. DVD’s of sitcoms and movies have given us much needed entertainment, and hanging out more with other PCV’s relieves some nostalgia for home as well as provides a nice respite from the pressures of trying to speak another language all the time and being under the curious inquisition of insular Uzbeks.
So it sounds as if the past months have been an inward retreat towards all things familiar and American, a bit of isolation from the culture I came here to serve in. True. And it may be true for quite some time as a survival strategy. The novelty of cultural integration has worn thin. More and more, daily frustrations from being an object of curiosity for every person in my path has been trying my patience. At least four times a day and sometimes more, I constantly answer, “No, I’m not Uzbek. I’m American…Yes, I know I look Uzbek. Ok, I’m actually Thai. Yes! I AM American. Yes, I work here. In an NGO. NGO, non-government, you know, like aid work. No, I don’t teach. No, I don’t get paid, I’m a volunteer. Volunteer. That means I don’t get a salary, just enough money for food and living expenses. No, I can’t teach you English, I have a different job to do here. Uh, no I don’t have a telephone (I lie). At work? Oh, the telephone there is broken (another lie). How to find me? Oh, you will see me. Andijon is a small town. Oh, I don’t have time to come guesting at your house now, maybe another time.” It doesn’t sound like much, but the volume of stares and questions per day accumulate like a Chinese water torture – slow drips on your forehead can drive you crazy. It invades the simplest liberty to walk down the street, to sit on a bench, to buy food, to ride the Damas home after a rough day, to doing just about anything in the public eye.
This is why I am happy in my new digs – a little nest of privacy and freedom, a respite from the daily grind, a nest of things I like and reminders of people I love – a home, finally.
