ghaz goes global

images of india

2011-01-31T12:01:00.004-05:00

why taxi drivers are my favorite

2010-12-17T00:45:00.008-05:00

if you read any of my old posts from other countries, you'll see a pattern of political engagement with the local communities that always begins and ends in a taxi cab. being as how most of my transport has been provided by our shy office driver, i thought i might miss out on my chance to do the same here in tanzania. but lo! on my way home from work yesterday i got off at the local shopping complex (to do a lil souvenir hoarding) and had to catch an independent cab on my way back.

as i slid into the front seat, the driver gave me the once-over and guessed (incorrectly) at my italian heritage. when i politely corrected his assumption and revealed my persian background, his eyes came to light. "so what do you think about this ahmadinejad guy?" he asked (no time wasted by this one). here we go, i thought: "hmm, interesting, why do you ask?" and that's all it took.

he promptly launched into an extensive soliloquy, punctuated by references to recent events and historical facts, about the domination of western influence in the arab world (many tanzanians like himself, he explained, are muslim and thus feel a kinship with those in the middle east) and the inability of anyone to stand up to the great satan and its cronies. until ahmadinejad, that is. the driver explained the extreme satisfaction that he (and, by extension, others like him) felt at the continual pricking of iran's thorn into the us's side. "it's about time somebody stood up to those guys!" he exclaimed, as he deflty weaved through the complex of dar afternoon traffic.

what was fascinating about this exchange wasn't his political bent (which is pretty common outside the western world), but rather the way he articulately laid out his thesis, carefully citing past events (the recent political events in iran - including correct names of all players - references to the 1982 invasion of lebanon, the war of attrition, and on and on) and making, in the span of a 12-minute ride, a clear and resolute argument for the demolishment of western power.

as we approached the hotel, i thanked him for the thoughtful conversation and quickly squeezed in a question about his own, tanzanian, government...to which, this well-read and eloquent man responded: "bah!"

"real men get circumcised"

2010-12-15T12:38:00.018-05:00

i know my work can be a bit mysterious to those of you outside the development world, but suffice it to say there are some aspects of what i do that are pretty clear cut. take male circumcision (pardon the pun there ha): whereas in the states it's purely a cosmetic/religious/cultural preference, here in tanzania (where an estimated 1.5 million live with hiv), circumcision can be a matter of life or death.

male circumcision is thought to dramatically decrease the likelhood of hiv infection among men (i don't want to get too scientific-y here, so feel free to investigate my claim on your own), and one of the programs i support here is aimed at providing circumcision among at-risk populations. this week i had a chance to travel to a field site and see our project in action (well, um, all but the sensitive bits, of course). in a remote district in northern tanzania (where circumcision rates are about 25%), we started offering procedures (along with hiv testing and counseling) to any/all males over the age of 18 months.

now, i know what you're thinking: who in their right mind and of their own free will would sign up to get snipped? i thought the same thing. which is why i was shocked to learn that not only is there demand for circumcisions in this area, but men's desire to fling off their lil turtlenecks is so great that the tiny 4-bed surgical center we set up is filled to capacity every day. in less than one month, more than 300 brave volunteers have offered themselves up (so to speak), and the project is racing to scale-up. all this without so much as a community-based ad campaign.

so what's the deal? the very mention of circumcision makes most men wince and clutch at their jewels. so what is it that's driving the demand here? well, i got to talking to some of the boys milling around outside the health center one morning and, it turns out, the answer is very simple: "real men get circumcised".

from what i was able to learn, the process of male circumcision is seen by these boys as a masculine affair, only to be undertaken by the most courageous of souls. once the ball got rolling (sorry again, puns, terrible..), it seems the whole community was caught in a high-stakes game of chicken. the social pressure is particularly strong among the younger ones (conveniently, also our target group), with adolescent boys taunting, almost daring, one another to lay their manhood on the line (geez, seriously, i'm not doing this on purpose).

now this is all i could gather from my brief, non-scientific-y chat with folks at the health center, but i'd say the phenomenon lends itself to closer inspection, which i'll hopefully get to do soon (research i mean..not..inspecting penises...geez...). until then, i'll leave you with some shots of the brave little warriors i met that morning. in case you were wondering, this is what real men look like:

the silence of the hens

2010-12-14T15:54:00.006-05:00

[scene: in the dead of night, Ghazalrice Starling enters remote guest house room in rural Bariadi District, Tanzania, where she is doing a field visit. She lays her head down to sleep, and as she hovers the line between consciousness and dreaming, she’s jolted awake by a piercing cry. The excerpt below is an exchange between Ghazalrice and her antagonist]

Hannibal Lecter: I will listen now. After your posting to a remote area of Africa, you were lonely. You were thirty years old. You went to stay in a low-rate guest house in Bariadi. And...?

Ghazalrice Starling: [tears begin forming in her eyes] And one night, I just almost ran away.

Hannibal Lecter: No "just", Ghazalrice. What set you off? You started at what time?

Ghazalrice Starling: Early, still dark.

Hannibal Lecter: Then something woke you, didn't it? Was it a dream? What was it?

Ghazalrice Starling: I heard a strange noise.

Hannibal Lecter: What was it?

Ghazalrice Starling: It was... screaming. Some kind of screaming, like a child's voice.

Hannibal Lecter: What did you do?

Ghazalrice Starling: I went to the window, looked outside. I crept up to the curtain. I was so scared to peer outside, but I had to.

Hannibal Lecter: And what did you see, Ghazalrice? What did you see?

Ghazalrice Starling: Hens. The hens were screaming.

Hannibal Lecter: They were slaughtering the dinner hens?

Ghazalrice Starling: And they were screaming.

Hannibal Lecter: And you ran away?

Ghazalrice Starling: Um, no. First I tried to free them. I... I knocked on the window to distract the butcher, but they wouldn't run. They just stood there, confused. They wouldn't run.

Hannibal Lecter: But you could and you did, didn't you?

Ghazalrice Starling: Well, kinda. I took one look at the screaming hen, and I turned away as fast as I could.

Hannibal Lecter: Where were you going, Ghazalrice?

Ghazalrice Starling: I don't know. Back to my bed, I guess. I thought of leaving, but I didn't have any food, any water and it was very cold, very cold. I thought, I thought if I could save just one, but... I was so sleepy. So sleepy. I didn't get more than a few steps to the bed when I decided to call the guest house manager. The manager was so angry she sent me to live at the Lutheran orphanage in Bozeman. Actually, scratch that…she was pretty apologetic so she told the butcher to move his operations to the other side of the building.

Hannibal Lecter: What became of your hen, Ghazalrice?

Ghazalrice Starling: They killed him. And then I guess I ate him for lunch the next day.

stone soup

2010-12-11T14:08:00.002-05:00

so you may remember (assuming you have nothing better to do than memorize my blog entries) that in a post from india i noted my amazement at the way colleagues at the office in delhi do lunch. there, everyone brings left-overs from home, and sits around a big table (sometimes in shifts), sharing everything with one another.
it fosters a sense of unity, comraderie and openness that i have yet to see in any US office (we're lucky if we eat lunch somewhere other than at our desks).

in tanzania, they take the ritual one step further, and really make lunch a community affair: each day, every employee brings some grocery item (tomatoes, rice, meat, whatever they have)and adds it to the community pot - literally! taking the daily produce haul, the office attendant (they have a lady who basically does the cooking/cleaning in the office) adds a few spices, maybe some other left-overs from previous days, and creates a meal for everyone to enjoy together. and when i offered to bring in something to add, i was promptly informed that guests (like me) are instructed only to enjoy themselves. now that's lunch!

Name that Expat!

2010-12-09T06:34:00.010-05:00

as i ate my muesli and watery yogurt to the slow crooning of julio ilgensias' greatest hits this morning, i took a look around the dining room and played a game of "name that expat". from what i've been able to observe (with my highly untrained, non-anthropological eye), aside from the occassional german vacationer, there is a strange cast of characters that always accompanies me at the hotel's complimentary breakfast buffet in "developing" countries. here are some pointers to help you "name that expat" next time you're on the road:

the young ngo consultant: let's start with the (ahem) obvious. these people work for "the poor" and, as such, see fit to dress the part. you can identify the women by their messy pony tails, lack of make-up, cargo-ish pants/cotton rayon stretch skirts (sometimes with asymmetrical hemlines for added flair), basic tops and teva-inspired sandals. the men will be wearing the male equivalent, with cargo pants, linen button-down tops (always with one too many buttons undone) and "dress shoes" supplied by skechers.

the old ngo consultant: after years of "toiling" on behalf of the indigent, salt and pepper hair is not the only clue to their identity. if you see a white woman wearing a dashiki/kurta/other local garb with an anaconda of bauble-beads around her neck, you've caught one! and for men, just look for a local-print top, indiana jones-stlye safari hat and (they being more daring than their younger counterparts) sandals.

the boogey men: these are the gaggle of smartly-dressed white business men, gathered around black coffee and laptops, conspiring to pillage the very land and souls the ngo consultants are here to save. they're usually the only good-looking men in the hotel.

the asian invasion: as chinese commerical and industrial developers flip the script on old colonial hegemony, you'll see more and more of their business men also huddled together at breakfast, around tea instead of coffee and with business casual clothing consdeirably less smart than their more established white counterparts.

the oil looters: especially here in east africa, where there's a new oil discovery seemingly every day, you'll doubtless encounter this unsavory co-star at your morning debut. i kid you not, they ALL wear company polo shirts tucked in to blue jeans with cowboy boots/shit-kickers. the older ones sport mustaches and, if you're lucky, you'll catch one in a cowboy hat (i swear that's not my bias talking).

the military man: i'd rather not imagine what they're doing here, but they always come to the "mess" in a crisp uniform, terrible haircut and exclusively eat egg-whites or breakfast meats.

and, finally, my favorite one of all...

the "lifer": this is the moniker i've given to those expats who have committed the better part of their adult lives to working/living in the non-west and have basically been "in the field" a little too long. they're usually women with no-nonsense crop cuts as bad as the military men's, rough leathery skin, outdated ngo clothes, and a crazy glint in their eyes. she may be old, but she's got attitude and considers herself one of the "people," so don't get between her and the omlette station!

and me? i try to throw them all off by wearing linen pants, business casual tops, cute (but sensible) shoes and my ten-gallon hat to every meal.

Beep! Beep! BEEEEEP!

2010-10-26T12:47:00.006-04:00

that’s all i have to say. because that’s all i hear all day. out of every window of every building at every hour of the day or night: Beep!Beep!Beep!

traffic here is...how shall i say?...interesting. honking is a way of life and the only form of communication between members on a shared road - in fact, people insist you blow your horn at them:

lights are suggestions, lane lines are mere decoration and anything that has wheels and some form of horsepower (literally) is a valid vehicle.

you think your morning commute is bad? check this out:

Reservations on preservation

2010-10-25T10:50:00.016-04:00

This past Sunday, I had the rare pleasure of traveling to Agra and viewing one of the 7 wonders of the world: the Taj Mahal. While it was a breathtaking experience (seriously, I had a rapid-fire gasp reaction upon first sight), the uncontrollable crowds, the random graffiti and the putrid smell of urine wafting from odd corners got me wondering about a conversation we recently had here in the Delhi office. Over a shared meal, a group of us (including myself, another white lady, and a handful of locals), waxed philosophical about the sad state of monument preservation in India. The gist, to boil it down, was that having so many historical sites, and so many other pressing needs (economic development, health, environment, etc), what is a country like India to do with its monuments?

- Do you (wealthier, so-called developed country group) just come in and preserve it yourself, having the time, the money and the know-how?

- Do you instead invest in “capacity-building” of local preservation groups at the risk of erosion in the mean time?

- OR, is there a third, perhaps controversial, option where you let nature take its course, for better or for worse? (Meaning, is there really a point to preserving something if it can’t be naturally be preserved in its home environment? Could erosion or historical sites just be part of the natural evolutionary process of societies?)

Now, I won’t expound too much on my thesis – to be honest, I’m not sure what I believe – but I did see an interesting parallel in this discussion and one which I often have with myself or colleagues regarding development work. What responsibility does a wealthier, more experienced group of people have to assist those in a less stable position? And does this assistance in some way hinder (or even harm) those on the receiving end?

When you’re talking about monuments, which occupy a clear physical space and can easily be categorized in terms of developmental stages (e.g., $1 million = power-wash of all pee-pee), the thinking is somewhat simpler. But when you start talking about “humanitarian” assistance (e.g., improved health and welfare of mothers and their children, improved service delivery to needy populations, “systems strengthening”, etc), the picture suddenly becomes a whole lot more fuzzy.

I know, I know I know – somehow I get to talking about this sort of thing, every single time. But I can’t help it – it’s important, particularly in my current moment. And if you take the example of the monument as a paradigm, perhaps we in the development world haven’t fleshed out our own options:

- Do we come in, heavy-handed and with guns blazing, and take over the whole damn show?

- Do we patiently hand-hold and provide technical assistance, all the while watching progress move at a snail’s pace?

- Or do we just let things evolve as they may, and trust that in the absence of interference, the natural course will right itself?

The first option was exercised through many of the early development years – by peace corps and USAID, through all their invasive early measures – resulting in total rejection by those waving the “cultural competence” and “sustainability” banners. Who do we think we are, landing in foreign countries and asserting our own ideas of health and welfare without so much as conferring with local authorities? (in a way, the legacy of those days remains)

The second option is the train we’re currently riding, on which, if this project is to be an example, it takes nearly half the project’s 5-year life span just to get programs up and running (and even then we don’t have nearly enough information to be able to tell if we did anything of use anyway). By now, we’ve spent millions and billions and dollars on “development”, yet we haven’t the systems in place to even tell us if what we contributed amounts to anything more than what would have happened in our absence. (despite this, even I get a warm fuzzy feeling when I think about all the “good” we’re doing)

And the third option, as ghastly as it may seem, has been implied by more than one development (so-called) expert/article, which I’ve alluded to in earlier posts. Maybe the best option really is to rip off the floaties, throw the baby in the end and let it struggle until it finds its way. (think of all the natural political movements that aren’t happening because the mother [development aid] keeps the hungry baby [recipients] placated with a pacifier that soothes but doesn’t rectify anything.)

So what’s the answer? I don’t know – but if you’ve read this far, I’ve given you enough to think about, so the least I can do is reward you with a few snaps from my trip to Agra :)

Thanks for letting me vent!

it's the little things

2010-10-20T12:46:00.007-04:00

if by now you haven't noticed: i'm an observer. and though i've been here less than a week, i've spent a lot of time processing the new sights/sounds (read: when i travel i'm kind of a creepy loner who lurks in the shadows and stares). as such, i've noticed that in delhi there are a lot of things that are familiar, but stare long enough and little differences start to emerge.

for example:

we have bronzer; they have skin lightener

they have campaigns that tell you to hurry up and get to it; we have campaigns that advise us to slow down and relax

at work (at least at mine) they eat lunch around the table together, sharing food and stories; we sit in our cubes, dribbling overheated lean cuisine on the keyboard as we try to squeeze in just one more task

they have more beautiful temples/historical sites than they know what to do with; we erect velvet ropes and overkill signage around any piece of rock some old white guy crapped near

they have sidewalks (optional); we have sidewalks (mandatory)

we have big macs made with 100%(*cough*) beef; they have "mc aloo tikki", made of potatoes and peas

aside from a select sliver of society (celebrities and skanks), our women do their best to cover their mid-sections; their women let any and all belly hang out, no matter the occasion

mustaches were hip here before hipsters were even a twinkle in our collective cultural eye

(i'm sure the list will expand as i skulk about the country some more)

and while we may have our differences, there are a few things that are universal: everybody loves coke more than pepsi, shiny hair is better than dull hair and no one can resist some good bollywood choreography (no. one.)

inside the sleeping tiger

2010-10-20T02:45:00.005-04:00

friends!

here i am, on adventure again! this time, it's india - delhi to be exact. i'm here on a 2-week assignment with my company's "vistaar project" (a multi-faceted health and nutrition program that i'll have to explain in a later posting).

at first, i didn't think i'd have enough time/news to share during so short a period. but, true to mine self, i've already dreamed up a host of topics, so brace yourselves :)

back soon!

g

until we meet again...

2010-08-31T14:26:00.023-04:00

so this is it. my final night in kampala. i can't believe how quickly the month has come and gone and yet how impactful this short time has been. i'll miss a lot of things about uganda; the friendly people, the warm weather, the beautiful landscape. and i'm grateful above all else for the much-needed humbling i've received.

as a farewell, i'd like to share photos of some of the amazing things i've seen and the extraordinary people i've met.

thank you so much for following me on my journey...and stay tuned for my upcoming travels to tanzania!

all love,

ghazaleh

safari!

2010-08-30T11:12:00.017-04:00

i'll let the pictures speak for themselves (only to say, i nearly cried when i spotted my first giraffe...)

this was the most fun i've had in recent memory...maybe i'll pursue a new career in nature photography... :)

i heart ugandan tv

2010-08-30T10:59:00.002-04:00

yeah, yeah, i know…it’s a shame to admit that i’ve been watching a lot of tv since I’ve come here. even worse to tell you that i’ve actually enjoyed it. but i strive to give accurate accounts of my experiences, and i’d be remiss in excluding the hours spent in my hotel room lazing in front of the tube (in this case you really can’t blame me—since the bombings of july 11, everything in kampala’s dead at night anyway).

but why, you may ask, do i so thoroughly relish an otherwise mundane activity i could do in my own home? i’ll tell you: 1) the incredibly in-depth coverage of world news; and 2) the really really bad entertainment programming.

let’s start with the first – the news. there are no fewer than 5 channels dedicated to global news coverage - and i’m not talking about skewed partisan pandering (*ahem*fox*ahem*) or glorified celebrity fluff talk (i’m lookin at you, cnn) – i’m talkin old-fashioned, down and dirty, hard-hitting news…like the kind your grandpa used to mutter and shake his head at. not only is the coverage refreshingly raw, but the breadth is beyond anything we ever get in the states. did you know war, famine and natural disasters lead to actual death and destruction?? it’s true – i’ve actually seen it with my own eyes, thanks to the news here.

now on to the next – entertainment tv. where do i even begin? is it the movie channel dedicated exclusively to lifetime made-for-tv movies made circa 1998 i love? or is it the telenovelas that are horribly dubbed into english (example from a recent episode of “la tormenta” where a mob of villagers is chasing a suspected witch to the outskirts of town: “you are mistaken, dimitrio. you want to burn maria-teresa on a stick, but do you not remember how you felt when the townspeople wanted to hang you by the neck only last year? this was not a good feeling, no?”)? or perhaps it’s the local programming, which consists of such shows as “trickstars”- an african candid camera dedicated solely to swindling unsuspecting victims out of money, jewels or property. ahh, but why chose? i can love them all…and i do!

(the only thing i don't get is the national obsession with big brother africa - there is an entire channel dedicated to watching the contestants 24-hours a day!)

but i digress from my original sentiment: thank you, ugandan, tv…you’ve livened my stay beyond what I can express…

utterly otherly

2010-08-30T10:48:00.001-04:00

to all those who have traveled to far off places and felt like an alien landing from outer space: i totally get you now. sure, i’ve been an “other” plenty of times before (from being dubbed the “exotic princess” in college, to being ridiculed by my own people in iran for my manner of speech and system of beliefs), but never have i felt so completely different than i have during my trip to uganda.

on the one hand is the peculiar interest that i have garnered all over the countryside, simply for being “white”. adults stare, little children trail me rubbing my skin or yanking my hair, and everyone everywhere raises the alarm that “mzungu!” (ugandan for “whitey”) has arrived the minute i touch down in the villages. a talking dog would have caused less curiosity. although strange, and in a way reminiscent of what life as a b-list celebrity might be like, this type of attention has been harmless for the most part.

what’s really bothered me is the elevated status i’ve been awarded next to my own peers, for lack of any qualification other than my appearance. during my work travels, it was a given that i would always be offered the front seat, the largest hotel room and first consideration for times to rest, eat, whatever. this, in spite of being in the company of much more senior personnel (both in age and professional standing) from the ministry of health and partner organizations. while ugandans are quite a friendly and hospitable people, i have a hard time believing that was the true origin or sole motivation of this behavior (maybe they thought i expected even demanded such treatment? and there were times i could swear that even my companions were reluctant to be seen with me, loathing the added attention i brought to every mundane task.

i have no deep, sweeping commentary on the whole thing. i can only say that i’ve been disturbed by it, and can now sympathize with all my fellow sideshow freaks. sorry, bearded lady, i never knew you had it so tough…

It’s the economy (or, rather, development), stupid!

2010-08-23T14:27:00.003-04:00

For the past three weeks, I’ve been traveling the Ugandan countryside, meeting with workers in the most remote rural health posts. Our job (to keep it simple) is to assess whether interventions aimed at improving the recruitment and performance of health care workers in these resource-poor areas are actually taking effect. While the results of the evaluation are yet to be tallied, one thing is for certain: the work we do, though sound in intention and application, is like trying to fill the ocean one bucketful at a time.

Now, I’m not trying to undermine the value of service in public health (lest I render myself obsolete); but during these journeys I’ve come to realize that at the heart of everything we’re striving for, every health target at which we aim, is a rotting core of economic underdevelopment. To say the conditions here are poor, abject, wretched, whathaveyou, would be to vastly understate the case. A quick run down the list of lacks will include anything from basic needs (food, water, shelter) to basic services (sanitation, electricity, transportation)…and let’s not even concern ourselves with luxuries such as clothing, education, or employment. In this context, you soon come to question the impact of narrowly focused health interventions. In other words: What good is a dumb ol’ program on health workers when the very foundation of human subsistence is so precarious?

So, ah-ha! I’ve got it! It’s all about broad-scale development, right? Not so fast... Despite the decades-long infusion of foreign aid in every area of development (which recently passed the half trillion mark), Africa maintains the dubious distinction of housing the most corrupt and ineffectual governments; governments which preside over the biggest slice of the world’s impoverished populations. It has widely been argued in scholarly articles (letmegooglethatforyou) that the very concept and content of foreign aid is what lies at the epicenter of Africa’s reverberating wave of poverty, underdevelopment and economic dependence.

And yet here I am, a product of just such aid, wandering the Ugandan countryside marveling in horror at the raw display of indigence and wondering to myself: What am I really doing here?

the mountain pub

2010-08-16T14:45:00.006-04:00

hot, stone enclosure seething with smoke…blazing flames reaching up to lick splattered grease off the walls.. barely visible are dark, sweaty figures moving in the thickness … no light anywhere except that provided by millions of stars and the cloudy milky way reaching across the expanse of the sky…and in front of you, with what little bit of dim is broken by the firelight, rests a plate of the most celestial fried pork. Mouth-size pieces of ribs from the cut of your choosing, chopped by machete on the hollowed out bowl of an old tree trunk, are sent swimming into a bubbling cauldron bath, steeped in the juices of all the pieces that came before it…crisped inside and out by the boiling oil, but made tender by the shock of heat…bone, fat, flesh…all merge in a blissful sensory confluence…

…and that, my friends, is the mountain pub. jealous?

the texture of africa

2010-08-14T15:10:00.008-04:00

it’s hard to explain what it feels like to be here. i’ve traveled all over the world, and each place i’ve seen has its distinct flavor. but africa, africa has a texture. everything about it is rich in a way that’s new and more intense than anything i’ve felt prior.

its sounds: the chorus of wildlife singing its never-ending score outside my window; the squeal and giggle of the ubiquitous children; the clamor of the kampala bustle; the low rhythm of drum beats seeping out from every car, house and shop…

its sights: the throngs of brightly draped ugandans crowding all corners of my vision; the verdant landscape, unfurling in lush waves across miles of horizon; the expanse of sky, deep blue by day, at night an inky black, teeming with stars…

its smells: the ripe tang of human bodies; the saccharine drip of syrupy watermelons and mangoes; the toxic mingling of exhaust and burning trash that pierces straight to your inner brain...

and its feel: the temperate breeze swirling through my hair; the gritty coat of clay dirt on my eyes, my skin, my teeth; the warmth of each sincere smile and lingering handshake; the contrast of multiple realities layered one on top of the other…

at every moment i am utterly awash in africa, taking it in from all senses, on all levels. and i am gradually beginning to understand the binding spell its cast on so many others...and falling victim…

pineapples don’t grow on trees (and other things i've learned this week)

2010-08-13T11:28:00.007-04:00

don't laugh. i really didn't know. i mean, i guess i never thought about how pineapples grew in the first place. well anyway, now i know... and here are some other things i've learned during my first week in uganda:

it’s pronounced wah-tah, not water (learned after numerous perplexed expressions and one particular waiter who brought me a plate of mashed plantains…?)

outside is better than inside for every activity

you can slow it waaaay down and still get it done somehow (less the stress of rushing)

silences are not awkward, it is only you who is akward

peanuts (called g-nuts) make a purple stew when you grind them up, eating with your hands is an acceptable form of fun (for me anyway), and real fish actually come with many many bones

childhood may just be a figment of our social construction

the only thing more annoying than mosquitoes (or, rather, mo-sqweetos) is mo-sqweeto nets

if you keep your wants simple, you will rarely be disappointed

the reason everyone comes back from africa with pictures of smiling children is because the children are constantly following you, smiling

people are willing to sit through anything you want to teach them, long as you give them a certificate at the end

and, most importantly:

everyone is your seestah or your bruthah, and that’s how you keep the love flowing…

Afield I go...

2010-08-07T16:39:00.002-04:00

Friends,

Please pardon my delay in posting...I've been busy working with our local counterparts to prepare an in-field assessment for launch early tomorrow. I'll be travelling to some more remote areas of Uganda, so will likely be out of internet's reach until the end of the week (*gasp*).

Don't worry, though, I'll be taking dutiful notes on my experiences and will report back as soon as I am able.

For now, I'll leave you with the contradiction I awoke to this morning: Beautiful clear sunlight...cool, dewy air...the sound of cranes whooping in the distance....and the smell of burning trash searing my lungs....

...and away I go!

welcome to africa, my sister!

2010-08-06T13:37:00.006-04:00

it took 22 hours to arrive, but merely ten minutes on ugandan soil to engage in my first political discussion. as we trotted along the dark, dusty road from entebbe to kampala, kasim, the cab driver, described the sad state of affairs as he saw them: yes, uganda is a wonderful place...my family, my life is here...but let me tell you, there is no system here that works. you want an education? you have to know somebody. you want a job? you better know somebody. you get sick and need help? well in that case, you better start praying.

kasim lamented the interminable reign of their leader, yoweri museveni, and described "first-hand" accounts (i have seen it, i swear to you!) of government corruption and greed. what started as a promising rebirth from the suffering inflicted under idi amin, museveni's once-heralded economic and social stability have slowly given way to a regression to the lowest political denominator. mutiple violent fronts (in congo and against the lord's resistance army in the north) and the leader's rapacious appetite for control have eroded uganda's hard-fought gains. and with the abolishment of term limits in his own favor, museveni became, in kasim's words, "just another african leader."

but not to worry, kasim assured me: despite all this, we still care for our families, we still love life and we still dance...that is the only way forward. welcome to africa, my sister!

farewell, phnom penh

2007-08-03T00:18:00.000-04:00

this it is, folks... time has finally caught up with me and i'm relishing my final moments in cambodia. it's befitting that i should end this brilliant trip with a weekend of birthday revelry (please forward all gifts to my parents house in rockville, thanks) and the celebrations will also be the reason why this is the last entry i'll make from my little desk here in cambodia.

worry not, though...i promised i would regale you with more tales of my travels and regale i shall! just not now. it's my last day of work and i've got to finish two major reports and then pick up a friend from the airport and rush home to get ready for tonight's extravaganza (full of good food, great cocktails and karaoke, by decree of the birthday princess) and...and...and...

with time having flown the way it has, i've barely had a second to absorb the impact of my impending departure, but i'll ruminate on the 30+ hour trip home and be sure to wrap it all up with a neat, insightful bow.

oh! and don't let me forget to tell you about india, hanoi, diving in ko tao, the work i've done, the friends i've made...and on and on...

i promise your patience will be well-rewarded. ok, maybe not well-rewarded .. or even really rewarded...just...well...you know...i'm gonna write some stuff and post some pics..whatever...

gotta run now...love and kisses from phnom penh!

movin' on up!

2007-07-12T23:07:00.000-04:00

like a gift sent from up on high, i received an email from a friend two days ago asking if i wouldn't mind house-sitting for an acquaintance of hers. "it's a nice place," she assured me, "you should check it out."

as it turns out, nice doesn't begin to descibe it. behind a private gate, monitored by a 24-hour guard, lies the 4-story villa of a spanish u.n. employee and her family. beautifully designed and tastefully appointed, this is the kind of house you imagine a proper high-end expat occupying. so what am i doing there? and where did i even come from?

i didn't take the time to explain earlier, but in my first weekend in phnom penh, i secured a sweet little apartment for myself in a neighborhood endearingly referred to as "ngo-land." the area consists primarily of development organizations and the homes of the people who run them, but it is still dotted with khmer enclaves. i happened to find just such a building: a slightly run-down three-story structure with a top-floor apartment available for rent. none of that frilly expat business for me, i thought. i was gonna live the way khmers in my neighborhood did. the apartment had no air conditioning, only basic furnishings and was on a block with no other foreigners in sight. i was comfortable enough there, but a few of the bonus features started slowly to wear at my resolve.

first there was my neighbor's prize-winning cock-fighting rooster, who was given free run of the grounds. all day and all night (NO EXAGGERATION), the lil pest would strut about proclaiming his champion status to all. even when miles away, out with friends or busy at work, his prideful crow would still be ringing in my ears.

then, there were the noodles. on the corner, right at the bottom of the building, was a popular moto driver hangout that started frying up khmer eats at 6 in the morning and continued til all hours. the first week or two, it was kind of nice waking up to the aroma of noodles crisping in a pan. but once the novelty wore off, all i was left with was a closetful of clothing that smelled like week-old chinese take-out.

worst of all, though, were the ants. oh, the ants. tiny in size but impressive in number, they marched all about the apartment in constant search of any thoughtlessly discarded crumb. everything with even a hint of edibility was kept in the fridge and the after-dinner sweep became a necessary ritual. the back-breaking straw came three days ago during my morning face wash. i had just rinsed off and, with eyes half-shut, groped for my washcloth and gave my mug a good wipe. leaning into the mirror to survey the results, i noticed a single teeny ant smushed on my cheek. confused, i looked down at my once-blue washcloth only to find that it was now a mottled brown--swarming with ants! if a girl can't even complete a simple skin ritual in peace, then you know it's time to go.

but who am i to complain? that apartment provided me shelter from the rain, plenty of room to store my things and a safe(ish) place to rest my head at night (albeit on a bed with craters so big you could sit in them). compared to most, i was sitting pretty. oh by the way, did i mention that to counteract the heat, i had to open the windows, which let in mosquitoes that made a ghazaleh buffet out of me every night? yeah, there was that too. but i digress...

point being, when i got the offer to housesit for someone in a much better position, i jumped at the chance. within ten minutes of the email, i was making copies of the housekeys and running off to pack my things. i moved in yesterday and have wasted no time in making myself at home. the great thing is that the owners will be returning on my last night in town, so i won't ever have to go back to my old place.

despite my obvious glee, there is a tinge of sadness to this story. i'll miss the two little girls next door that hung around practicing their english with me, i'll miss the simplicty of the place (that went rather well with the "development chic" style that i'm sporting these days) and i'll even miss the stupid rooster and his incessant cawing (um, maybe). but i'll do my best to be strong and not cry myself to sleep in my new huge, comfy bed.

taste of bangkok

2007-07-09T05:53:00.001-04:00

the two weekends' sandwiching my trip to india (to be detailed in a later entry) were spent in bangkok, fulfilling the pent-up consumer hunger that had built over my month in cambodia. it's true phnom penh has plenty by way of restaurants, bars and the like, but when it comes to familiar flagships of good ol' material life in the states, it's a vast empty terrain. no mcdonald's, no starbucks and no multiplex cinemas.

in some ways it's been refreshing to live a life devoid of any monuments to western capitalism (besides, i eat mcdonalds once a year, don't drink coffee and see about one movie a season), but there's something strangely comforting about being in the presence of those familiar symbols. while in bangkok i succumb to my every material want and was astonished at the city's ability to satisfy, no matter the level of my rapacity. from the chaotic chachutek weekend market to the refined siam paragon mall (with stores so high end i dared not even enter them), bangkok was my greedy respite from the "development" life in phnom penh. i shopped to the point of fatigue, i took in a v.i.p. showing of shrek three (you pay extra bucks to enjoy the film from a love seat with blanket at all) and i helped myself to some burger king fries. and my, how good it felt!

not to be overlooked: i also visited a few famous spots (like the reclining golden buddha and chinatown), did my fair share of gay clubbing with a good friend and got the most exhilirating traditional thai massage (complete with elbows, knees and spine-twisting maneuvers).

best of all was the street food. in cambodia i shy away from most food served off wheels or in alleys, but in thailand i couldn't take the variety of offerings down fast enough. every kind of satay, fried noodle dish, curry and soup was at my disposable and you better believe i ate it all. hands-down best thai food i've ever had was in some back alley of chinatown (see photo below). mm-mm!

being as enraptured by the sights and commodities as i was, i again failed to concentrate my photographic efforts ( i swear i'll have to make the rounds again someday solely to capture everything on film), but here are a few shots i managed to snap amid the frenzy.

chinatown

wat arun temple

bangkok nightlife

the reclining buddha (notice the size compared to the doorway)

buddha face

spirit house

chinatown alley

street food

bangkok taxi

behind the docks

street curry--MMM!

and the count-down begins...

2007-07-06T04:23:00.000-04:00

i could hardly believe it when i realized that today marks my one-month count-down back to the states, which means: not only will i be leaving here in 30 short days but i've already been here six weeks!

in the time that i've spent in and around cambodia, i've grown to really love the region. it is admittedly a little ignorant of me to refer to a complex array of peoples, cultures and histories as "a region," but i think you gather my meaning. there's a warmth and ease to life that's refreshing - albeit unique to my situation (i am well aware that i'm on a glorified vacation here) - and i'm not so certain that come august 6th, i'll be ready to be back on u.s. soil. there's still so much to learn, so much to see and (surprise) so much to eat!

not every day is sparkling; some days i could do without pushy moto drivers, the incessant crowing of my neighbor's rooster and the thin layer of sweat and dirt that encases me wherever i go. and being the sap that i am i miss my friends and family dearly. but were i an island unto myself i wouldn't mind drifiting through southeast asia for a few more months (or even years). the "lifers" i've met around here all have the same soft spot in their heart and caution against the infectious allure of this part of the world.

i know there are still many things to be seen and experienced in the remainder of my time here, but i can already feel the calendar gaining on me. ready or not, it'll soon be time to go so i guess the best i can do is enjoy every unconsumed moment as it comes my way. and, of course, share it with you.

angkor what? (i'm sooo original)

2007-07-03T02:58:00.000-04:00

as it's been quite some while since i've written a proper entry, you'll notice that i'm on a bit of a time delay. today i'll be recounting for you my breathtaking trip to siem reap (home of the ancient angkor temples) , which took place over three weeks ago. oops.

to make up for my tardiness, i'll keep the writing to a minimum (lucky break!) and instead cram it full of pictures.

here's a brief summary: back in mid-june i made a solo journey to the north of cambodia where the intricate system of temples reside. though there are numerous sites to see (each king having tried to outdo the one before him), i had only time to take in the dazzling top picks: angkor wat (the largest and most famous), angkor thom (the one with all the mysterious smiling faces), banteay srey (the meticulously detailed pink temple) and , of course, ta prohm (known to many around the world as the "tomb raider" temple). each temple had its own form of beauty; angkor wat's is its symmetry and scale, angkor thom in the sly expressions of the scores of statues, banteay srey in its intricacy and ta prohm in the eerie creeping of nature over man's creation. by some stroke of luck i would arrive at a site minutes before the busloads of tourists and had at least a few peaceful moments at each location before being overrun by the noisy crowds.

though the temple visits themselves were awe-inspiring, the real beauty of the trip came in the form of my guide, mr. thy. on the advice of those who'd tread there before me, i hired a personal tour guru to take me around and explain every exhausting detail (you can only imagine what nerdy glee it provided me!). the information was nice, the personal attention even better...but the most edifying piece was in talking to mr. thy about his life in cambodia. over the course of two 8-hour days he described in great detail the struggles, fears, hopes and joys that he and his kin face in modern times.

in the shadow of angkor wat, he recounted tales from the dark years of pol pot; he told of how his parents were forced to marry in the labor camps, how dozens of family members were killed and how the legacy of that pain is still carried by many cambodians today. he beamed with pride at the glories of old kampuchea and emanated a resilient optimism for the future. we talked about corrupt governments, the burden of history and the capacity for the human spirit to thrive in even the most dire of situations.

as a bonus (at my insistence), mr. thy taught me a spate of khmer phrases to use during the rest of my time here. we covered all the basics: i'm hungry, i need a nap, i love to eat, etc...and i can even count to 999,999! i've impressed many a taxi driver with my budding language in the days since my trip but of all the information mr. thy gave me, the glimpse into his personal life has been the most rewarding.

and on that sappy note...some pics!

(i apologize if they're a bit on the generic side. i was so engrossed in our discussions that photography became almost an afterthought.)

ta prohm (tomb raider temple)

ta prohm doorway

ta prohm entryway

outside angkor thom

faces of angkor thom

more faces of angkor thom

bridge to ankgor thom

praying at angkor thom

apsara dancers at ankgor wat

statue at angkor wat

doorway of baneay srey

banteay srey detail

angkor wat

sneak preview

2007-07-01T23:38:00.000-04:00

hello! hello!

i'm finally back from a ten-day stint outside of cambodia and am gearing up to write a host of entries for you.

here's a lil sneak preview of what's coming up:

- weekend at angkor wat temples
- gay nightlife in bangkok
- 3-day wedding celebration in india
- 12-hour whirlwind tour of bombay
- and some day to day happenings here in phnom penh

i've taken a few pictures here and there as well (though not nearly as many as i would have liked) and i'll be sure to post some of those soon too.

get excited!

where in the world is...

2007-06-22T06:24:00.001-04:00

readers,

forgive my lack of diligence in maintaining the blog! this past weekend i travelled to the ancient temples of angkor wat and, with barely a moment to catch my breath, am off again tonight for bangkok and india.

yes, i do actually work here (tho i'll be gone to a wedding in Indore all next week) and i promise to fill in the gaps for you just as soon as time permits. you deserve a quality account and quality takes time.

check back again soon!

much love,
ghazaleh

the weekend away

2007-06-13T03:04:00.000-04:00

it may seem a bit premature to have already taken a "vacation" having only been here two weeks, but what can i say? that's just how i do.

as i mentioned in my brief farewell note, i spent the whole of last weekend with my friend, guy, on the southern coast of cambodia.

day1 and 2 were spent in a tiny seaside town called kep. with a jungle as a backdrop and the gulf of thailand at our feet, to say the setting was breathtaking would be an understatement. the better part of both nights were spent lounging on our oceanfront veranda, sipping wine and gazing at the stars. by morning we toured the cambodian country-side and in the afternoon took a fishing boat to a secluded island where we swayed in shaded hammocks and ate fish so fresh it tasted as though it leapt straight onto the grill from the sea.

on day 3 we made our way to sihanoukville, a touristy spot that's more popular with the beach-seeking backpackers and gap year kids. were it not for the constant stream of beggars and junk peddlars, it could be considered cambodia's version of paradise, replete with white sand and warm aqua waters.

the highlight of the day was meeting pub, a cheeky lil boy who introduced us to the cambodian children's painting project - a nonprofit designed to give beach (homeless) kids a way to be creative while safely earning the money they would otherwise get through begging. (http://www.artcambodia.org/ ) i couldn't resist pub's masterpiece, "penguins on sihanoukville beach" and have now hung it proudly in my apartment back at phnom penh.
it's only a matter of time before the international art dealers come knocking.

i could go on and on about the trip (verbose as i can sometimes be), but i think a few snapshots should wrap this entry up nicely. hope you enjoy seeing them as much as i enjoyed being there (or close to it, anyway!).

the beach

our boat to rabbit island

sunset the first night

my friend guy at breakfast in kep

coming back from rabbit island

the weekender

2007-06-08T04:20:00.000-04:00

my dear readers,

i'm off for my first weekend excursion outside of phnom penh! i'll be spending the next three nights in the sleepy seaside town of kep, on the southeast coast of cambodia. i hear there isn't much to do besides eat, relax and soak up the sun (perfect!). while i won't have access to the internet down there, i promise to take copious mental notes and deliver a full report upon my return early next week.

much love and appreciation,
g

btw: here's a quick link so you can get an idea of where i'll be...picture me chillin' ;)

http://kampot.sihanoukville-cambodia.com/mainpages/kep.html

love at first bite

2007-06-05T06:32:00.000-04:00

anyone who knows me knows that of all the pleasures in life, food is my paramount source of joy. my gourmandizing ways often lend heafty definition to my experiences of a place or a people, and such is the case with cambodia. much to my delight (and surprise), i have found that phnom penh not only offers a veritable buffet of choices (pun TOTALLY intended ), but it is an incredibley delectable city. just about anything you could possibly want to eat is available at dirt cheap prices (most restaurant meals are under $5 and 6 of us ate dinner for a total of $10 the other night!) and it's all delicious.

though burgers, pizzas and all other manner of cuisine are readily accessible, traditional khmer food is the most abundant (and so far my favorite). makeshift "restaurants" (a lady with a few pots of food, some plastic chairs and a sidewalk) are set up on almost every corner and a variety of food "carts" (that offer quick snacks like fruit shakes or dumplings) can be seen wheeling up and down the busy streets. i have to admit, i haven't yet had the courage to try anything that comes from one of those greasy lil carts, but soon as my stomach builds up the necessary microbes, i'll be the first in line.

i have the added bonus of working in an office full of cambodians who love to snack even more than i do and every afternoon is filled with some new and curious treat (like khmer beef jerky or fresh lychee). everyone gets a kick out of watching the "foreign girl" try to figure out how to eat something (i had to follow my colleague's lead on cracking into a lychee and i could have sworn the beef jerky was a bag of dried bark) and i don't mind being the spectacle so long as i reap the yummy reward.

of the khmer food i have tried (from fresh spring rolls to coconut cury fish to noodle soup), i've loved it all. but nothing has blown me over quite like the mangoes. now look, i know some of you are from or have been to indigenous mango regions of the world, but this is my first time and the only way to describe that first bite of fresh, ripe mango is to liken it to giving a blind man sight. no, wait, better than that. it's like positioning a blind man right beneath the sistine chapel and THEN giving him sight! mmm...i think i just drooled on my keyboard thinking about it. haha
my love of the mango has turned into a full-blown obsession and you can find me stalking the streets of phnom penh at all hours of the day, hunting for mango vendors. my mother says i should ease up because too many mangoes will give me zits. but peak mango season is almost over and if it's one thing this addict won't be doing is quitting her habit anytime soon!

(ps: i could dedicate a whole blog just to my gustatory experiences here and promise to expand on those experiences soon)

second chance at a first impression

2007-05-30T03:25:00.000-04:00

now that i've been here almost a week, i've got an impression of phnom pehn that extends beyond what little i had gathered by my initial blog entry. just as i first deemed, there are still heaps of people, cars and trash. but with my newfound acclimation to my surroundings, i'm better able to discern the fine subtleties that are starting to endear phnom pehn to me.

first, the people:
true there are a good amount of people everywhere, some scuttling to and fro, others just languishing in the heat. but the cambodians i've encountered thus far have all been gracious and helpful, despite my sometimes painful inability to communicate my needs. take for example my arduous attempt at acquiring a pack of matches the other day. i approached the streetside vendor on the corner of my block in need of a case of water and some matches. the water was easy enough: i pointed to a stack of bottles and smiled. the matches weren't quite as visible, so i spent the better part of the next few minutes doing my best impression of lighting a match. i kept miming a little box, stricking the side of it with my other hand and making a "ffsshhh"sound to indicate my imaginary match had been lit. in a game of cranium, i would have easily won the charades round. but in the streets of phnom pehn, i just looked like an idiot. thankfully some nearby kid eventually recognized my gestures and, laughing, pointed to a bag of matches that were (embarrassingly enough) hanging right in front of my face. the vendor couldnt help chuckling too, but when he saw my cheeks flush pink he quickly righted himself and offered to carry the crate of water all the way up to my apartment. most others i've come across have been just as friendly (and forgiving) and have made my transition smoother than expected.

now for "cars":
the city of phonm pehn is overrun by a gaggle of "vehicles" ranging from your standard western-style SUV to bicycle-driven carriages and everything in between. the most common mode of transport, though, is the moto - a smaller version of a motorcylce that can (somehow) fit up to 5 passengers (trust me, i've seen and counted). to say that crossing a street full of lil bikes zipping around is challenging would be like saying the choking heat and humidity is just a minor bother. every pedestrian trip from point A to point B is like a high-stakes game of frogger. except instead of a lil frog crossing a few lanes of traffic that all moves in the same direction, you've got a lil ghazaleh jerking back and forth across an indeterminate number of lanes (no discernable dividing lines that i can see) full of vehicles that move in whatever direction best suits the driver. i would need at least three heads to properly gauge the safest crossing maneuver, but having only the one, i just clench my purse close to me, take a deep breath and hope for the best. so far so good (and actually some fun), but i should stay alert, as a splat in this game of frogger would take more than just a few more quarters to restart.

and finally, the trash:
i would be remiss in my full description of first impressions if i failed to mention the trash in this city. if there's a system for its collection, i've yet to determine it and and the prevailing method is that of tossing it on the side of the road. sure, it's usually bundled up in trash bags (before the stray dogs get to it), but it can accumulate to heaping proportions by the time the guys with a small truck and woven baskets come around to scoop it up. and there's no limit to where you can drop your garbage off. in front of your house, in front of someone else's house, a random street corner...it's all fair game. of course, there must be some perspective in this matter: a corrupt government with a weak/nonexistent tax base can hardly be relied upon to efficiently deliver essential services. and as a "resident," it's pretty convenient to just walk out and drop my trash wherever. but as in the middle of the day, when the sun bears down on the pile of trash outside my apartment and send it's sickly aromas wafting my way, the last thing i can think about is the convenience.

so there you have it, my friends. my second first impression of phnom pehn. and for those of you who know my gastronomic tendencies don't despair at the lack of food descriptions. that one merits it's own forth-coming entry!

the uneasy expat

2007-05-28T02:28:00.001-04:00

while it's only been a few days since i've arrived in cambodia, i'm already feeling uneasy about my position as "expat." granted, this is not the first time i've travelled to a locale wherein i did not immediately belong, but never before have i sensed myself as being so separate from the local population as i do here. in phonm pehn there are two distinct worlds in parallel operation: khmer(native cambodian) and baraang (foreigner). and the only nexus at which the two meet is in the procurement or provision of services. expats want, cambodians provide. otherwise, it's all separate. restaurants, bars, clubs, shops, are in large part all for one or the other. (a key exception must be notd here for PSI (the org where i am working) that i will touch upon in a later entry)

ok, so maybe this isnt the most novel of occurences. there are plenty of places in the states and all over the world that operate simliarly. but it's perhaps the first time the difference has been so stark for me personally. despite my attempts to appear inconspicuously demure (you would laugh if you saw the drab outfits i purposefully assembled for this trip), i am under constant surveillance: as a curiousity (if i try to eat a local khmer restaurant, as i did today), as a potential boon (by every moto taxi driver that passes), or simply as one of "them." and of the friends i've made so far, none include a cambodian and (as i've been made to understand) none ever will. as another "expat" put it to me: "they have their world and we have ours."

so what's the big deal? it's hard to articulate. i suppose i don't feel comfortable in the notion that i occupy an inalterably prescribed role, having come from an urban environment in the states where social strata maintain a degree of fluidity. but more than the limited pliability, it's the privilege of the position (relative to my host population) that leaves me with a certain sense of disquiet. here, i am seen as being at or near the top of the socio-economic structure that started with french colonization and continued with the onslaught of the "development" folks. and with that, i will never feel at ease.

interminable transit

2007-05-25T14:08:00.000-04:00

it's one thing to say you're going to the other side of the world. it's a very different thing to feel like you actually did.

my journey to phnom pehn took over 36 hours (watch this: dc-->nyc--->frankfurt--->singapore--->phnom pehn) and by the time i arrived i wasn't even certain of the planet i was on anymore. with back mangled, hair mussed and clothes in near-tatters, i reached pochentong international airport, where a driver was waiting to take me to my hotel (my first ever "driver"!). on the ride i got my first helping of phnom pehn and all i could see through the blur of exhaustion were heaps of cars, people, run-down stalls and trash. the heat was oppressive as expected, and my hair grew a full 3 feet from the humidity.

i filed away my first impressions as we pulled up to the hotel (it's hardly fair to judge a city by a half-conscious ride from the airport), and within a few minutes of settling into my blissfully air-conditioned room, i passed clear out. the next morning i awoke to the sound of buddhist chanting echoing down the street and as i oriented myself to time and space, it finally registered: i'm in cambodia!

Coming Soon to a Cambodia Near You!

2007-01-27T23:21:00.000-05:00

Dear friends, fans and the like,

I'll soon be hitting the road once more, this time bound for the far east.

Stay tuned for updates on adventures to come.

Your readership is my purpose.

g

ps: as promised, i will continue to expound intermittently on my experience in iran. it was too rich for me to understand at the time and hindsight is bringing things into focus. in the meantime, feel free to browse and comment on old entries.

"atomic energy is our undeniable right!"

2006-04-16T11:55:00.000-04:00

in the past six weeks I’ve kept my eyes and ears open for any information regarding recent developments between iran and the us. on the one hand I keep myself updated with western news media through nytimes and the economist headlines, and on the other hand I do my best to catch local news briefs and pick up on general sentiment among the people here.

the other night I had a chance to watch as president ahmadinejad presented the latest development in atomic energy to his parliament and his country. the session started with some chanting (“down with america, down with england, down with people who oppose religious rule”) and continued with a brief performance by a group of men dressed in all manner of traditional garb and chanting prayers as they lifted a mock rod of enriched urnaium up to the heavens. very cheesy, but very effective. later, during his speech, ahmadinejad touted iran’s recent developments as a means of keeping peace in the region and vowed that “the powers” would not be able to stop what is the right of every sovereign nation to produce atomic energy for peaceful use. he sounded very convincing and in a way I was happy to see someone, anyone, stand up against global bullying, but what do the people of iran think of the government, atomic energy, and conflict with the US??

that is a question as complex and varied as the people themselves.

the majority of those I’ve met absolutely abhor the government and everything it does. as one person described it to me: “it’s a matter of black and white. if the government says black, we say white.” after years of blatant corruption and ever-increasing economic woes, few have any faith left in the powers that be. in fact, I’ve yet to get into a taxi and not have the foul distaste for the government at least garnish the conversation (if not be the main dish). officials are seen as rotten, one worse than the other, and as a rule people distrust and dismiss anything they say.

now, for atomic energy. from what I understand, the enrichment program has been under way for almost 20 years and has only now (in the wake of current world climate) grabbed global attention. since all eyes are on iran, they are taking the opportunity to enlarge their status and stir up more of a ruckus than might otherwise have existed. the government has spun the issue in such a way so to appeal to iranians’ already feverish nationalism. governement-sponsored rallies, television shows and radio programs have all been dedicated to rousing support and the slogan “atomic energy is our undeniable right” is spray-painted across town and peppers every discussion on the topic. the problem is, because no one cares much for the government, it’s all become a big joke. people mock the government by evoking their right to atomic energy every chance they get, in jest among friends, while bargaining for lower prices in the bazaar or any number of other places. believe me, I’ve heard it with my own ears.

as for the conflict with the US, there have been rumblings among people here that a war is possible, but no one really believes it. the US is overwhelmed on multiple fronts and iranians don’t believe themselves to be as vulnerable as their neighbors to the left and right. on top of that, tightly-monitored papers only report iran’s benevolent intentions in developing nuclear technology and play down the possibility of an attack by either expressing their surprise at such a notion or implying that their military might is not one to be tested lightly. either way, the people of this bruised and battered country are no strangers to conflict, particularly the violent bloody kind, so when you dangle the premise of foreign invasion in their face, most just shrug and say, maybe at least then we’ll get something to work right.

a funeral

2006-04-10T07:00:00.000-04:00

it is with regret that i report on a death.
i am sitting in the FPA office on a monday morning when our director hurries out of her office, shaking her head and wiping tears from her eyes, and runs out the front door. within minutes we are informed that her father has passed away and she will not be returning to the office that day or any soon thereafter.
we are all stunned and saddened by the news, not having known the deceased but feeling the palpable sorrow of our director. by the afternoon we are updated on the funeral ceremonies to follow and we arrange our attendance with one another.

as with everything else, funeral ceremonies in iran differ vastly from those traditionally held in the states (by traditional i mean the open-casket, funeral home scene i’ve seen in the movies). firstly, there is not one, but five separate ceremonies held the day of or right after the death, on the 3rd, 7th, and 40th days after the death, and again on the one-year anniversary. the day of/after is the burial ceremony. though it is largely for close family and friends, a few of my coworkers decide to attend and because my director as been so good to me since my arrival, i feel my presence will be a small way in which to return the kindness.

we arrive at the hospital where the body is collected by the family and everyone is driven to the nearby home of the lost loved one. we wait inside the apartment, shoes off, heads down, women in one room men in another. when the ambulance hearse arrives, a group of pallbearers carry the deceased’s body, in a simple metal gurney, bound tightly in a white sheet and covered with a traditional paisley shroud (known as a termeh), up the stairs of the apartment building and into the middle of the living room where we are all standing. they place the body on the ground and our director, the first child and only daughter of the dead, falls to her knees next to the body. lost in agony, she wails and tears at her face, beats her head and chest with her hands. she places her hands on the body and cries out, desperately explaining between heavy sobs what a good and decent man has been lost, what a tragedy has befallen the family. all the women, upon seeing this raw display, begin to sway and howl in unison, weeping openly to exhibit their sadness. the bold show of emotion is so overwhelming that I too begin to cry.

after a few minutes, the pallbearers return to remove the body and place it back in the hearse, ready to be taken to the cemetery where it will be washed, blessed, and wrapped in sheets for the final time. we stay behind for a while and are served dates and halva, traditional funeral food. some women read prayers from the Q’uran and blow into a jar of water that will later be sprinkled on the body as it lays in the grave. when word reaches us that the family is heading to the gravesite with the prepared deceased, we board a rented tour bus and head an hour outside of tehran.

the cemetery is a large and well-kept space, lush with grass and weeping willows. it is the cemetery of iran’s most prominent artists and while we await the arrival of the body, i tour the grounds looking for the grave marker of the great poet, shamlou. unsuccessful on my own, I request the help of a groundskeeper, who takes me to a square plot with no stone or any identifiable markings. “no matter how many times we replace the gravestone, they always come and steal it,” he shrugs.

by now the family is heading through the cemetery gates, and we all gather near the entrance. the hearse backs in to the driveway and the deceased is once more lifted up by prayer and pall bearer, to be carried around the mosque in the center of the cemetery before being taken to the plot. the men holding the gurney lead the procession, repeating a single prayer to god as they circle the grounds. as per iranian tradition, they rest the body on the ground three times before taking it to its grave so that the dead are not afraid when they are finally placed beneath the earth. the women follow behind, grieving openly and murmuring their own personal prayer for the dead.

at the plot there are more prayers and as the body is lowered into the ground, the entire assembly bursts into tears. gravediggers quickly seal the hole and the men and women take turns kneeling at the site, placing their hands in the dirt and whispering their final goodbyes.

when this first of many ceremonies is through, we head to a local restaurant where the family provides lunch as a way of showing their gratitude for all those present. we offer our condolences to the family and promise to continue the support by attending the ritual on the 3rd day of death, a much tamer service held in a mosque three days later.

at the end of the day i am worn from all i have seen and can only imagine the sorrow that will continue to shroud the family as they put their grief on display over and over in the year to come.

pics pics pics

2006-04-05T17:51:00.000-04:00

here are some more pictures i've taken along the way. most of them (with the exception of the picnic) were taken in ardabil, a region in the northwest near the border with azerbeijan, from which my mom's side of the family originates.

sheikh safi castle entrance

sheikh safi door

leftover new year's goldfish

ancient bathhouse

the elborz mountains of ardabil

family picnic in the forest of light (near the caspian sea)

my great uncle avaz

caspian sea? more like crapsian sea

2006-04-01T11:28:00.000-05:00

what was supposed to be an edifying 4-day tour of the historic cities of Esfahan and Shiraz turned into a nightmare express trip to the caspian sea.

the night before our excursion, my mother (who’s visiting) and I pack all our necessities and swear that no matter what happens (i.e., no matter which of our other family members stalled or complained) we will be on the road by no later than 11am.

alas, that’s just not the way my family works.

the morning of the trip we grab our bags and head over to my uncle’s house, where several other of my relatives are staying during the holidays. the intention is to either pick them up and take them along or bid them farewell and be on our way. instead, we wind up sitting pitifully beside our luggage for the following NINE HOURS while this or that person hums and haws about where to go and what to bring and etc. etc. after about the 7^th hour, i tune out completely and so don’t realize that at some point it is decided that instead of Esfahan/Shiraz, we will go north to the caspian sea. heartbroken and despondent, with no power over the elder council that has made the choice, I shove my things into one of the four cars in the caravan and go, with 22 of my cousins, uncles, aunts and other familial bits and pieces, to the caspian sea.

if only the change in plans were the beginning and end of my sorrows. when we finally arrive, close to 1am after numerous tea stops, we still have to resolve the matter of where to sleep. no problem, my uncle assures me, in Shomal (“the north”) you can drive down the street at any time of day or night and find roadside peddlers of upscale villa rentals. sure enough, even at the late hour of our arrival there are dozens of young men (of questionable repute) lining the streets holding tattered signs with the word “villa” scribbled on them. one by one, we take turns loading strangers into the lead car and winding up and down the desolate alleys, looking for an empty villa. I have the best in town, top quality, right by the ocean, one of them promises. upon delivery we find nothing more than a dilapidated two room shack swarming with flies and covered in mysterious stains. on and on we go like this, stranger after stranger until at 3:30 am we can no longer stand our own sleepiness and settle on a passable little villa a few steps from the sea. there aren’t enough beds or blankets to go around so we sleep in rows, all on one sheet with our own jackets as pillows.

sounds like the worst trip ever, huh?

well guess what: by the following night we’re all dancing and laughing and feeling like we’re in the most prized location in the world. in celebration of my aunt’s birthday we buy an enormous cake and I do a belly dance in front of the whole crew before we head out onto the beach to build a bonfire. all up and down the shore are groups of young people, free of hejab, warm with moonshine and dancing to the music blaring from their cars. we party til 4am and for the next two days we eat and dance and laugh and eat, never minding that the villa is covered in ants and our necks ache each morning from the lack of bedding. and as we head back towards tehran i add one to the plus column for my relatives who are able turn the most horrible circumstances into a memorable experience.

why i'm here

2006-03-28T18:06:00.000-05:00

in all my entries thus far i’ve barely mentioned the reason that i’m here, so allow me a moment to expound. my primary purpose in coming to iran was to offer my services as a volunteer for the Family Planning Association of the Islamic Republic of Iran, one of the country’s most effective NGOs working in the areas of reproductive health, adolescent health, and HIV/AIDS. led by a progressive and intelligent director, FPA (for short) has been able to make progress in areas never before dreamed of (like lobbying for the successful amendment of the abortion law to expand eligibility and make the decision solely the woman’s). an organization of barely 10 fulltime employees manages nearly 2,000 volunteers working all across the country and they work their magic under one of the most bureaucratically complex government systems. kudos.

my role been one of a jack of all trades. within my first week at work, i revised their annual budget, edited a grant proposal, assisted on a project for a post-positive HIV/AIDS club, and advised on the development of a premarital reproductive health curriculum. currently, i’m drafting a pamphlet on unsafe abortion (the first of its kind in the country) that will be distributed to both private and government-run hospitals throughout tehran and neighboring towns. they’re even gonna give me author credits!

while the work itself has been challenging, it’s the atmosphere that’s been of most interest. seeing the amount of good work that such a small organization in a “developing country” setting can accomplish has been both inspiring and motivating. the employees, working on meager salaries, exhibit an awesome level of dedication, treating each issue with as much care as they would were the recipients their own friends and relatives. over the weeks that I’ve been here, I’ve also developed relationships with the five main staff members (all women within a few years of my own age).

we sit around in the afternoons and compare notes on our lives, both professional and personal. they tell me about the difficulties they face in their careers, a combination of both a lack of general upward mobility within the country and a specific barrier to professional growth for women. they explain the intricacies of familial obligations and bemoan their premature stunting at the hands of forced marriages. they look at me with wide eyes as I insist that not everyone in the states sleeps around and some people actually do get married. they worry that everyone in the west sees their homeland and as nothing more than a dumping ground for backwards terrorists and haters of all things western.

tell them we’re not like that, they implore. tell them we want to work with them, we want to learn from each other, we’re not like they say we are. as I listen to them complain of the hardships, I can’t help but feel sad for all the promise being stifled. and I can’t help but think that were it not for circumstance, it would have been me sitting on the other side of the table sighing and wishing I had the same opportunities as this eager visitor from the west.

happy belated new year

2006-03-24T08:42:00.000-05:00

welcome to 1385, everybody! sorry for the belated greetings (it was last monday), but i’ve been busy partaking in new year activities. in the states, ringing in the upcoming year consists mainly of throwing a giant party during which you have two main goals: stay coherent enough to be able to count backwards from 10 and find someone cute to kiss at midnight. once the party’s over, so the new year celebration.

not so in iran. as i mentioned in my previous post, the festivities last the duration of several weeks and there are many traditions to uphold. on the actual eve of the new year, everyone wears brand new outfits from head to toe (including socks and underwear). they sit around a special table spread called a haft-seen that contains seven items, each starting with the letter “s” (like vinegar, sumac, and coins), and each representing some aspect of fortune and well being for the year to come. every family stays in its own home as the new year turns and eats a dinner of white fish and rice with noodles.

once the countdown is over, there are 13 days to do what’s called eid-deedani, where people visit the houses of all their friends and relatives one-by-one. and the ritual is the same in each house. wear the new outfit, sit around in the parlor and get fed nuts and pastries, hand out crisp new money to the kids, and eat a virtual feast of every special dish the host can manage to prepare. imagine thanksgiving happening every day for two weeks straight. the ceremony is so ubiquitous that pastry shops around town are cleaned out and all the banks run out of cash. the streets are filled with masses of families, dressed to the nines, on their way to and from their loved ones’ homes. i myself have been shuttling back and forth from place to place each evening, smiling politely and giving my requisite well-wishes as the tea is poured and the pistachios shoved in my face.

back home, the iranian new year is barely a blip on my americanized radar, but here the whole country stops to herald the coming of spring. it’s been fun, but tiring and hard on the hips (after my fifth straight night of feasting my pants have started to plead for mercy). i still have a few more houses to go, but i hope to make it to the other side soon, sanity and figure intact.

let the festivities begin

2006-03-17T04:52:00.000-05:00

for iranians, the vernal equinox signals the coming of the new year and the beginning of a long holiday period that starts on the last tuesday night of the old year (that was this past tuesday). they call the night chaharshambeh soori and it is replete with traditional events, both exciting and bizarre. probably the most prominent of all the rituals is bonfire jumping, which dates back to zoroastrian times and signifies the cleansing of the body and mind. as a child growing up in the states, our small band of iranian expats would gather together, light some sticks on fire, and leap over the sad little flames a few times before the fire department would show up and threaten fines. I’ve now seen the way real iranians do it in the homeland and i only WISH the fire department would come.

instead of setting a small pile of wood aflame here and there, EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the whole city spills out into the streets lighting everything and anything on fire (ex: my aunt torched an old armchair while her neighbors burned some old cabinets, pieces of a downed telephone pole, and a flat truck tire). as if four-alarm bonfires weren’t enough, people set the night ablaze with a torrent of firecrackers and homemade grenades (made with a special blend of tnt, gunpowder, and shrapnel, and usually tossed into the fire). and instead of following the carefully calculated safety directions on the firecracker box they toss the explosives directly at one another. it’s a sight to be seen. of course, for me, it is a sight seen mostly from behind my aunt, where i cower for most of the night. my cousins poke fun and exclaim that america has turned me into a sissy, but i say the threat of permanent bodily damage is something only someone born and raised here can appreciate. amidst the explosions the youth blast their favorite persian pop songs and dance in the streets, some being even so bold as to thrust their hejab aside. my family says this is the first year such daring has been displayed and my younger cousins hope it is a sign of more to come.

when the we run out of firecrackers and the ruckus subsides, everyone heads back up to my aunt’s apartment where we carry on with the remainder of the night’s customs:
we eat rice pudding followed by reshteh poloh (rice with noodles) with white fish, we mark the palms of our hands with a dot of hennah, we read fortunes from ferdowsi’s hafez (the book of iran’s best-known poet) and we consume a special blend of nuts and dried fruits from a try with a burning candle and mirror in it.

when I ask what the meaning of these rituals are, few have the complete answer. it all relates to good fortune for the new year they say, but to me it speaks of something far greater than that. this is the one time of year when everyone in the country, regardless of faith, class, and education comes together to celebrate traditions thousands of years old. the new year celebration is the ultimate expression of one’s “iranianness” and despite the regime’s attempts to dampen these “pagan” rituals by threatening arrest and issuing official mourning periods, the party rages on.

life at the back of the bus

2006-03-12T11:37:00.000-05:00

of all the adjustments i’ve had to make since being here, nothing has been more difficult for me than having to wear the mandatory hejab (covering of the hair and body). it is not only a nuisance to have to put a scarf on my head and wear a coat over everything, but hejab has for me become a symbol of iran’s lop-sided gender roles. every time i step out of the house i am, as a matter of law and culture, at an extreme disadvantage as compared to my male counterparts.

women are treated with less regard, have lower salaries, are harrassed mercilessly, sit at the back of the bus, and are the equivalent of 50% of a man under the regime’s interpretation of islamic law. for instance, say you need two witnesses for the signing of a contract. there is only one man available to help you that day, so in place of the second individual you have to find two women. similarly, if i got in a motor vehicle accident and was in the right, my insurance company would “reward” me $1,000 but only pay me $500. what does half a person need with the full payout?

in some ways, the women of iran are extremely progressive. over half of all college graduates are female, and iranian women have long been known for their involvement in feminist movements and human rights causes. but on the other hand, every battle is a bloody one and the fruits of their efforts are at times hard to see. though many women are highly educated, their unemployment rate is double that of men (almost 23%), and as in many other societies their primary value is thought to be as a child-bearer and home-maker. some things, such as attending stadium sports events, are strictly forbidden to women and at the beach women have only a small separate area of the shore to enjoy (even then, in the water, they have to maintain full hejab).

when speaking to women i’ve met here about their views on life under such restrictions, many seem unruffled. it’s been this way for almost 30 years and most people have adjusted. some women even see advantages to the status quo: when wearing the hejab, one person told me, the man has only your ideas to deal with. i see that point, and respect anyone who makes the decision to observe hejab according to their own beliefs, but many of us who do not share those beliefs are forced to comply regardless of our will. and no matter how complacent women might seem, there are rumblings of discontent. the youth have become especially vocal and find unique ways to rebel (some hejab has become so risque it’s almost worse than wearing no hejab and recently non-married couples have begun to display affection in public).

when frustrations do bubble up, as they did outside a soccer game last week, women organize themselves and state their claims in peaceful protest. while the uprisings are often quashed with extreme force (according to some reports, dozens of women were arrested and possibly beaten the night of the game), they never cease.

at least it’s good to know there’s always someone fighting for something better than life at the back of the bus.

whether i love it or hate it, you shut up

2006-03-10T02:20:00.000-05:00

some of you have been asking me to pen entries on topics of interest, such as the political climate here or the perception that iranians have of americans. i beg your patience, as i slowly and carefully gather details with which to present as fair and full a picture as I can. in the meantime, i have gotten a good sense of the people’s relationship to their own situation and i trust you’ll find it fascinating.

bear in mind, that a lot of the input i receive is from my family, but with my nascent work relationships, the sphere is expanding and i’m finding echoes of the same issues throughout. maybe it’s a culture thing, or a coping thing, but the only way to describe how an iranian feels about iran is love-hate. let’s start with the hate.

life in iran is not easy, by any means. you constantly have to scramble just to eek out a meager existence, all the while having your freedom and sensibilities under siege by a forceful and oppressive (to put it mildly) regime. years of struggle in such an environment have hardened most people, and despair seems to be the prevailing sentiment on the future of the country. everyone is out for themselves in a way that would put american individualists to shame, money is below even the bottom line, and you never know which of a person’s many faces you’re dealing with. inevitably something will go wrong, and when it does you always hear “it’s iran, what do you expect?" to be fair, there are some individuals who believe that with time and persistence, things will change. for eight years, under khatami’s rule, small victories were won and it seemed like something might finally give. but with the new regime and new rhetoric, the future has never been so uncertain. even those who work for change are being stifled with a zeal reminiscent of the early days of the regime. so to recap: freedom is minimal, opportunity even more scarce, and life generally sucks. iran? HATE IT.

simultaneous to the above: iranians love iran. no, i’m serious, they really do. there is a certain culture, a common history, that binds the people together in a way you would never see in the states. you can relate to just about anyone who passes you on the street and wherever you go, you have 3,000 years of a glorious history following behind you. everyone talks to one another like friends, and living life is the most important thing. you go to work at 8 in the morning, get a break from 12-4 (when you eat the most delicious food and nap alongside your loving family), and return to your easy-going job for just a few more hours before calling it a day. when friends and family gather, laughter punctuates the conversation and in a matter of minutes half the crowd is up and dancing. the food is plentiful, the warmth is palpable, and there’s a unique enthusiasm about every experience. the women are beautiful, the men are hard-working and no nation in the world can ever be compared. iran? LOVE IT.

now don’t get confused, because it’s not confusing. it’s just the way things are. iranians hate iran and love iran, hate their fellow iranians and love their fellow iranians, would rather escape to any corner of the world but only feel at home on iranian soil. does it seem like a bi-polar disorder? it probably is. but you better watch yourself. bad-mouth iran to an iranian and she’ll stare you down with her laser eyes til you’re a whimpering puddle of your former self. because no matter how an iranian feels about her country or her people, no matter how much she complains and condemns it, in her heart of hearts there’s an inexplicable love, so it’s best you just shut up about it.

the way i see it

2006-03-08T15:02:00.000-05:00

a couple pics of the sights i've seen so far...

mountain gathering

market

street kid on mountain

view from the apartment

window cleaner

pardon my farsi

2006-03-06T08:54:00.000-05:00

anyone who knows me will tell you that speechlessness is a problem i rarely face. whether opinionated, gregarious, loquacious, or simply long-winded, the words have always been there.

until now.

here in iran, i find myself trapped in a language limbo where i understand 90% of what i’m told, formulate a 100% response in my mind, and can conjure only 75% of the words i need to convey my thoughts. i laugh at jokes only when other people start laughing, i nod my head and smile to circumvent any direct comment i’ve misunderstood and for the most part my once happy flapper remains shut.

to call it frustrating would grossly underestimate my feelings on the matter.

“but ghazaleh,” you say, “i thought you spoke fluent farsi.”
well, i do. kind of.

from the moment i learned to speak the language, right here on native soil, it has been the primary mode of communication between myself and my parents. buuut, being a small unit, far from a core of iranian speakers needed for good practice, and diluted by years of life abroad, my family’s persian tongue has lost its edge. even the farsi my parents use to speak with their expat counterparts in the US is generously sprinkled with english words. so much so that I am at times confused as to which don’t actually belong (some words like “kite” “hot dog” and “online” have been adopted by in-country iranians).

besides that, farsi has two distinct modes of speech as far as an outsider can tell: the casual and the formal. ask me how to say “clean your room!” “leave me alone!” or “i’m starving, where’s dinner?” (common phrases used in my childhood) and i’ll sing like a parakeet for you. but should you need me to translate the news, read a line from a romance novel, or politely ask for someone over the phone, you’ll mostly get muffled mutterings. sure, all languages have formal phrases and advanced vocabulary, but in farsi the difference is particularly acute. so until my tongue “opens up” (as they say here) my main coping mechanism has become to insert the word “thing” at the weak spots in each of my sentences.

thus,

“i went to the office building for some files and the director said they didn’t have enough publications to distribute”

becomes

“i went to the thing for some thingies and the thing said they didn’t have enough things to thing.”

hey, it works for me. in fact, i can’t help but chuckle at the sound of myself, barely able to keep pace with a five-year-old.
oddly, my lingual deficiency has also yielded some unexpected enlightenment. i finally understand what the millions of non-native english speakers in the US must feel as they conduct their everyday business. no matter that i’ve had years of formal education, that i succeed at a job that requires some degree of intelligence and adept communication, and i am the biggest bookworm this side of the library sciences; when my words fall short and my accent reveals itself, people automatically discount my capabilities as a whole. how do i know? from looks i’ve gotten, from comments i’ve overheard, and from interacting with my cousins who, albeit in jest, never let me forget that my farsi just doesn’t measure up.

it’s been tough, but don’t worry about me…as soon as I start thinging, you better believe that my thing's gonna thing the thingies!

or something like that.

slumber party, persian style

2006-03-03T16:29:00.000-05:00

in iran, the weekend begins on thursday night and lasts through friday. you've got approximately 24-hours to make the best of it and for me and the cousins this weekend it meant a slumber party, persian style.

all of us have gathered, at one point or another, with our little friends and had our sweet little sleep-overs replete with rented movies, board games, pranks phone calls, and the junkiest of junk food. but they were only whispers of a slumber party compared to how it's done over here.

first of all, no need to invite any friends, they already come built-in as cousins (in my case there are 6 of them, ranging from 15-30). and where else would we all crash but at auntie's house? done.

next, comes the entertainment. sure, people in iran love dvds (they usually have the same bootlegs of current hollywood blockbusters that you would find on the streets of new york, plus a VAST collection of bollywood favorites), and we could sit around and gossip all night (no one does it quite like persians do), but oh, my dear readers, there is SO much more to be done!

for us it began with an improptu dance party, though not the kind you're thinking of. in this case, someone throws on a cd (usually some persian pop) and the bravest takes the floor, rolling his hips and twisting his hands in the air, as the rest of us, in a circle around the room, clap and hoot to the beat. the most savory part is when someone grabs hold of the shyest of the bunch and mercilessly drags them into the center to dance (this is usually me).

we transition with improv comedy courtesy of the most rascaly cousins, who, with unbelievable precision, imitate our ridiculous distant relatives, sending us all into a tizzy of laughter.

as the night drags on, a deck of cards (which are “illegal”, by the way) eventually materializes and we once again circle up to play one or all of three games: 21, the animal game (heyvoon bahzee), or bonjour madam (salaam bibi). 21 is pretty much blackjack infused with smack-talking, alliances, and cheating. the other two are a bit more complicated, so I’ll cover only my favorite, the animal game.

players select an animal sound that for the rest of the game is associated only with them. for instance: i am out-muscled by my cousin to be the donkey of the bunch, I have to settle for being a sheep, so my sound is “baaaaaah.” The deck is distributed evenly and one-by-one we flip cards over in front of us. at some point, your card will match another’s in the circle and the goal is to imitate the other player’s animal before they get yours. a simple “baaah” or “meow,” in our desperate haste to be first, winds up a frenzied barrage of noises that no earthly animal would ever produce. in other words, it’s hilarious. for my family, it’s a full-body-contact sport as each person flails wildly and lunges across the floor at her opponent in an attempt to, if not conjure the appropriate animal sound, then at least to shock the other player into forgetfulness. man, i love the animal game.

aside from the fun-making, food also features prominently in the night. forget pizza and popcorn. we have tokhmeh (sunflower seeds), shirini (persian pastries), pohfak (cheese puffs), dried sour cherries, and lots and LOTS of tea.

at the end of it all, we lay out blankets and huddle together on the floor (boys and girls in separate rooms, of course) talking and giggling into the early morning hours and as we drift to sleep we are sound in the knowledge that we have made the best of our one weekend night, slumber partying like persian rock stars. ;)

that's miss millionaire to you

2006-03-01T08:26:00.000-05:00

my mother is following the blog and, while she enjoys it, she wants my next entry to be about something i really like about iran. i've thought long and hard about it and realize that so far i've loved nothing more than the FABULOUS exchange rate. perhaps it's not exactly what she meant, but if there were ever a good reason to visit (aside from the thousands of years of history, rich culture, and hospitable people) the chance to live like a queen is it! $1 USD is the equivalent of approximately 910 toman (iranian currency) and that probably means absolutely nothing to you so let's go over the cost of a few everyday items:

1 Kilo of Oranges = 800 toman ($0.88)

1 bus ticket = 20 toman ($0.02)

1 nice dinner for 2 = 10,000 toman ($11)

1 month's rent for a spacious 2-bedroom apartment in the city = 300,000 toman ($330)

and, most importantly,

1 gallon of gas = 350 toman ($0.38)

that means a person like me, who makes a decent monthly US wage of around $2,000 USD, brings in almost

$2,000,000 a month in iranian money. hooray! i'm finally a millionaire!

but, while American Ghazaleh can wave a few bucks around and gain access to just about anything she likes, the rate of items as compared to local wages reveals a bleaker picture. in this regard, unfortunately, achieving millionaire status for Iranian Ghazaleh is much more difficult. the average wage of a city dweller in Tehran can range from 100,000 - 200,000 toman a month. a quick calculation of some above items and you can see that it is no easy feat for the locals to survive. in fact, getting by in iran, according to people i've spoken to here, seems only to get harder and harder. not just because of global inflation rates and continued trade sanctions, but also because there are simply too many people and not nearly enough of anything to go around.

of course, as in any nation, there is an upper class with plenty of disposable income (and plenty to dispose of it on...you're never seen so many cell phones, shopping centers, and cars), but for the vast majority, scraping by is a way of life.

hmm...i guess this blog isn't very cheerful after all. sorry, mom, i'll try harder next time. i promise.

the demolition derby

2006-02-26T15:49:00.000-05:00

there is one mission for this day and that is to exchange my money. it may seem like a simple task, but as i learn with each passing minute, nothing is that easy here. my cousin and i head out early in the day towards the nearby market area known as tajreesh. it's a 20-minute walk from my uncle's house, but she's lazy and opts for catching a cab. or should i say "catching a cab." the way it works in tehran, just about anything on wheels can become a makeshift cab. all manner of
people, looking to make a few extra bucks, will pick up passengers along their way to wherever and take them as far as their paths are one. a man on his way to work, a couple going out for dinner, a family taking an afternoon ride, every car that passes is a potential ride. what you, the passenger, must do is stand by the side of the road and as each car passes, lean down and state your destination. if you are in luck and there is a match, someone will eventually slow to a halt and let you in.

then the real fun begins.

driving in this city, in this country, is unlike anything in the states. take new york, multiply it by boston and raise it to the 27th degree: this is driving in iran. the wide boulevards become improvised demolition derby tracks, with rusted peykans (the national car), sparkly pegeots and pieced-together franken-cars weaving in and out of each others way, racing towards some unmarked finish line. traffic lights are mere suggestions and lane lines nothing more than decoration.resolute drivers squeeze five cars side-by-side in a three-lane road and at intersections vehicles careen violently toward one another, jerking to a stop with barely a breath's space between themselves and utter disaster. all the while, pedestrians dart across the road, never bothering even to glance at the oncoming traffic.

this is where i find myself first thing in the morning.
after 10 minutes and barely 10 meters worth of gain, my stomach, already delicate from inhaling the world's third most polluted air, is on the verge of turning. one more slam of the brakes or one more thick, sweaty passenger added to the cab and my breakfast of feta cheese and lavash will be making an encore appearance. by the grace of allah, we finally arrive at our destination and my cousin leans forward to hand the driver the equivalent of 50 cents. we slide out of the car and i peer out at the money store sitting across the six-lane (or should i say 10-lane) boulevard we must now navigate.

"how about a cross walk?" i ask.

my cousin laughs, grabs my hand and says "close your eyes, it'll be over in a minute."

the american cousin arrives

2006-02-26T02:05:00.000-05:00

after what seems like months of planning and preparation, i finally arrive in tehran's mehrabad international airport late on a thursday night. as the plane descends, the passengers begin bustling about; the men rummaging for their cell phones and passports, the women dutifully donning the mandatory hejab (usually a mid-thigh overcoat and head scarf) that will cover their hair and bodies from now until the they're back on a plane to wherever they came from. the packed flight consists mostly of iranians (with the exception of a german couple, a group of african businessmen, and the french wife of an iranian man on board) and as we deboard the plane and climb into the shuttle bus that carries us to the terminal, each turns to the person next to her and strikes up the kind of conversation you would hear between distant acquaintances.

once inside the terminal, the crowd simmers down to a hush, all nervous for the next stage of the journey: passport inspection. even though the government has made it much easier in the past few years for expatriots to come spend their foreign currency in the country, the sour queasiness - a learned reaction to facing any government official of the post-revolutionary regime - never truly fades away. i avert my eyes and smother a smile as my iranian passport is inspected and scanned (it is obligatory for any person born in iran or born of two iranian parents to be a citizen in order to enter the country). relief! i make it through without a hitch, and just in time to snatch up my luggage, now greasy from the multiple transfers during the 16-hour trip, and wheel through customs. "do you have any gifts, food, electronics?" "no, no, no," i lie, and i'm through.

the way the mehrabad airport is designed, as a passenger approaches the exit, they are encased in a glass hallway that widens into glass doors that are perpetually open and lead into the main airport lobby. i don't know how international visitors are greeted in any other place, but here, EVERYONE comes to welcome you home. there are rows of bodies, ten layers deep, pressed up against the glass and swarming the exit doors. as i part the crowd with my baggage cart, i'm struck by a strange sense of familiarity. most of the men resemble my father and the women all echo my mother. just then, i spot my uncle blowing kisses at me through the last bit of glass and i see my aunt waving a bouqet of flowers at me from the back. i push past the anxious greeters, all disappointed that i'm not someone else, and am encricled by no less than nine of my family members (the number is "small" because my last visit was just over this past summer). they bustle me out of the airport and package me, my bags, and five cousins into a prideB (think, hyundai's poor little brother) and send us on the path to my uncle's house. along the way, the cousins (all within range of my age by five years) roll down the windows and blast a mix cd of black-eyed peas, tupac, and the latest in LA persian pop. they hang out of the windows, singing and dancing to announce my return. but wait a minute: didn't we in the US hear about a crack-down on "western" music in iran? won't we be stopped by the morality police and questioned on our religious sensibilities?

no matter, the american cousin has arrived!