My Host Family

After being sworn in as an official Peace Corps volunteer, I finally moved into the big city (Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan) in the fall of 2002 and took up residence with my permanent host family.

Now, I'm sure just about every Peace Corps worker loves their host family members. But, even among the other volunteers, it was widely accepted that I had won the lottery.

The above picture shows five of the family members: Yakub, the petro-chemical engineering student who had spent two summers at Oxford University; Gulshat, the piano-playing imp who was the youngest of the three daughters; Selbi, the next oldest sister who was attending boarding school in Mary; Russell (I have no idea how he got that name) who was the son of the eldest, married daughter (who did not live at the home); and Djeren, the medically trained mother.

Djuma, the father, was in St. Petersburg, Russia, at the time.

Now, if your personality doesn't mesh well with your host family, I can imagine that two years of Peace Corps service would seem very long, indeed. But, I want to take this post to just begin to try and explain how incredibly nice my family was.

First off, they took me into their home without reservation. From the moment we met, I was part of their family. We laughed together, ate together, and drank an awful lot of green tea together.

I became particularly attached to Yakub, who, at 20, was just a bit older than my son. He seemed to accept me as an equal, unlike many people that age who aren't sure exactly what to do with someone in their 50s.

Shortly after I moved in, he introduced me to his buddies, and we went out for a night on the town. For some reason, his friends had taken on American-styled nicknames and were known as "L.A.," "Biggie," and "The Fist."

We went out to the "ABC" nightclub (that didn't even get going until midnight) and drank and danced until dawn. When Yakub and I wandered in about 8 a.m., Djeren gave us a look that didn't need translation -- both her children had been naughty.

One thing that was a constant in the household was the love of learning.

The home was literally littered with books -- all topics, all languages. And, above the breakfast table, there was an erasable whiteboard always filled with English/Russian words and phrases to help all of us communicate better.

Every mealtime was an opportunity for language lessons, and it was not uncommon for someone to start a sentence in one language and finish it in another.

Poor Yakub was often hijacked by Djuma and I to be our translator as we talked for hours about science, politics, culture, and the arts.

It's important to remember that discussions like that were rare in Turkmenistan, where open conversations with foreigners, or even fellow country members, were discouraged, to say the least. But, my talks with Djuma were about as honest and direct as you could get.

The second war with Iraq was going on while I was there, and I remember talking with him at length about Russian television newsmen reporting that U.S. forces were deliberately targeting hospital, mosques, and schools.

I probably should mention at this point that the family members were Suni Muslims. Pretty much all Turkmen are. But, never once did I feel excluded or shunned because I was of a different faith.

In fact, Yakub took me to the largest mosque in Ashgabat, where I prayed according to my custom.

As for Djeren, I have nothing but respect. And, aside from my mother, she made the best soup in the world.

When I told her I had to cut my stay short and return to America, she cried, and so did I.

Communication with them (I'm pretty much an e-mail type of guy) has been difficult since my departure.

If you ever see this post -- I love you guys and will never forget you.

P.S. Thanks Selbi for the cool picture of Turkmen family life. As you can see, I've kept it as a remembrance of my time in Ashbabat.