Jake Winn

Jake Winn

I wake up at 7 a.m. to the sounds of roosters, ducks and goats in the backyard, undoubtedly arguing over who will be the choice for tonight’s meal. My room is freezing. The kitchen is warm because of the stovetop burner that’s constantly left on; I do my best to stay in there. The day begins quickly, with the boys running around the house dressing in their neatly kept school uniforms, my host father grumbling as he leaves for work, and my host mother stuffing fresh milk, bread, and tea down my throat as she lectures me on how I’m not dressed warmly enough. In this country, if your hair is wet, or if you’re missing a layer of clothing, you will get sick, and you will die.

     I make my way down the main road to the local school where Peace Corps has set up a makeshift classroom for us. Five of us have four hours of language instruction in this icebox everyday. As I walk, I keep alert, avoiding trash piles and stray dogs. I give my daily nods to the various shopkeepers: the butcher, the mechanic, the teahouse owner. A bus on its way to Baku city passes by. It’s packed full and all eyes are on me. I give a quick wave to a little boy whose face is firmly pressed up against the window; I’m probably the first American he has ever seen. By this point, I’m used to the daily harassment, the “fishbowl effect” as we like to call it: the pointing, the snickering, the “Hello, where are you from?” 1,000 times a day.

     I’m careful as I cross the street. Occasionally, I have to jump out of the way as a brand new Mercedes flies by, or I help give a push to a broken down Soviet-era car on its way to the market, carrying double its weight in apples in the trunk and backseat. The rift between dilapidated, post-Soviet underdevelopment and new oil wealth is ever-present.

     As four hours of language instruction come to an end, I make my way home for lunch, only to return for another few hours of technical training. In these sessions, we prepare for our new lives as Youth Development Facilitators where we’ll work directly with at risk communities. There are 14 of us. It’s a strong group, and everyone is uncontrollably excited to finish training and begin our service. The city of Khirdalan is only a temporary site for us. We’ll all be sent to different, permanent locations by the beginning of December.

     Following the technical session, I prepare for two conversation clubs with the ninth, 10th, and 11th graders. English conversation clubs are Peace Corps’ fail-proof starter program, a comprehensive way to meet the local youth and integrate ourselves into the community. They’re the building blocks for all other development initiatives.

     The kids took a lot out of me. I get home just as it’s getting dark, and struggle to answer my family’s questions about how my day went as I wash up for dinner. Tonight we eat Yarpag Dolma (ground meat wrapped in grape leaves) smothered in yogurt. As is customary, all meals are accompanied by fresh cucumbers and tomatoes, pickled vegetables, and, the most important of all Azeri foods, bread. Following the meal, my host mother serves us tea and pomegranates as my host father and I play a few games of Nard (Azeri backgammon). The two brothers look on, smiling ear to ear as they watch their father destroy me, over and over again. Very few words are exchanged, especially after I finally manage to win a game.

      As the night winds down, I retire to my room to finish up some homework for tomorrow. I jump rope and do pushups, but there’s no shower for me tonight. There’s not enough water, and the water that we do have is ice cold and would take hours to heat up. Instead, I get by with Russian brand baby wipes and strong deodorant.

     What I wouldn’t give for a morning lacrosse practice on Forbes Field, a quick breakfast in the Shatner Building before class, a study break at Timmy Ho’s in the basement of Redpath, or even a beer at Biftek to celebrate the end of yet another week. At this point, McGill seems so distant.