Robin and Gary

I hold a weekly conversation club where I try to bring interesting topics that will stimulate discussion and debate.  On two occasions, though, my students turned what I believed would be thought provoking discussions and opportunities for learning moments into cultural eye-openers for myself.  The first concerned a debate I was preparing about single sex schools.  I wanted to prepare the students for the debate by first discussing the perceived differences between boys and girls in certain subjects.  However, the students continually frustrated my attempts at facilitation by saying that the smart students answer questions or that the student who knows the answer answers.  I changed tactics and asked directly whether teachers sometimes called on boys more than girls.  I was foiled again and even told that girls were better than boys at math.  I finally had to embarrassingly relate how this is an ongoing debate and concern in the US (if you think it isn’t, a Harvard president was fired not long ago for suggesting there was a difference).  Our debate instead focused on different concerns for mixed sex classes: distraction.

The second instance concerned another issue that sadly continues to ignite heated debate in America: creationism vs. evolution.  I didn’t want a debate with my club, merely a discussion and I was doing it partly in recognition of

What these discussions highlight for me is that the help that Turkmen need is not always the obvious ones, perhaps not even the reasons that we are supposedly here.  Peace Corps has three goals, and many times volunteers lament that the first one, about meeting the needs of the host country, are sometimes difficult to meet.  I mentioned this in another post but it is a continuing concern as volunteers try to come to terms with their purpose in country.  The second two goals are basically cultural exchange which I honestly took for granted.  They sound campy and obvious; sometimes they feel like fall-backs, there to rely on when our attempts at goal one are falling short.  However, the other night when Robin and I were guesting at a student’s house, his grandfather cried when he saw us because we were the first Americans he had ever seen.  It is impossible to relate what I felt.   We sometimes feel like we are not treated like people when people on the street expect us to speak English like wind up toys, when we are asked for favors like visas, or when we are paraded around as the American friend.  However, when this old Turkmen man cried in front of us, I think, for the first time, I realized that we represented something a little more.  An ideal?  A myth?  Does it matter?  I am uncomfortable representing an intangible concept, especially one I didn’t choose and I don’t want to take responsibility for the signified: America.  I have to in someway, as a volunteer, but I am not sure what I have to offer or if I can meet whatever expectations there may be.  This old man’s tears: I can’t really know what this man was thinking, but it seemed that goals number two and three were being met in an unexpected way. 

As Turkmenistan goes through its growing pains, and there are many, goal one may be absolutely irrelevant.  It may not matter how many students we teach English to or how successful our preventive health classes are; Turkmen have the knowledge, intelligence and motivation to improve their country without us attempting to supplement those efforts, as my continued discussions in my clubs demonstrate.  It may only matter that

This winter has proved much milder than last year.  So much so am I beginning to wonder if last winter was just a hallucination.  I think that we’ve only had about a week of freezing weather during the days (at night temps drop fast) and the only snow fall we had had melted by the middle of day.  We have less than ten months in country and soon we are going to our mid-service conference where we talk about the successes and difficulties of the past year.  We’re told the second year goes much faster and it seems to be so since we have settled into our sites and routines.

The Turkmen volunteers have a self-published zine that we circulate amongst ourselves that we use to write humorously of our time here in Turkmenistan; nothing too distasteful, though.  I have been submitting a serial story about a Turkmen mutt that I have decided to post here.  I hope that you find it amusing.  Here is a teaser, follow the link to find the rest of the story:

Call me Bezzat.  Those are the syllables I hear, at least, when my deranged master screams her bloody head off whenever she feels I am not acting like a human.  Which you’d think she’d understand, since I am in fact a dog, and those chickens were asking for it anyways.  I’m large and black and white.  I have no ears, no tails, and no spirit, all taken from me when I was a pup still suckling off of my mother.  In fact, that was when I was taken from my mother.  I think I may have met her again later in a casual encounter, if you know what I mean, but there was really no way of knowing.  We didn’t talk, just went through the motions, which is sometimes all you can do.  This is after all not a dog friendly world…

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Seldom does one have a full impression of the impact one has on the lives around them until they leave.  This is perhaps explicit for the Peace Corps volunteer in Turkmenistan where work and progress may seem non-existent and the people sometimes ambivalent to volunteers’ efforts.  Yet, by merely being here as an American, exotic if not romanticized, we are changing people’s lives, and this became evident as we performed the sad duty of sending off those volunteers who have finished their service.  One instance in particular was of a party a host family gave to their departing volunteer.

The volunteer lived in an oba, or village, about a two hour taxi ride down a narrow highway from the large city where Robin and I live.  Most volunteers live in these obas that until recently had no cell phone coverage and still do not have the most reliable water, gas, and electricity.  Most homes are part of a large compound composed of two or three buildings serving as bedrooms and living spaces, surrounded by a large brick or wooden fence.  Several smaller buildings comprise the banya, or bathhouse, kitchen, and stables.  The kitchen is sometimes outside under a porch.  The outhouse, more often than not a hole in the ground covered by wooden planks or metal siding, rests on the opposite side of the compound.  The oba and the city are different in many respects, mostly in way of creature comforts.  However, I have found from the numerous stories of volunteers who live in the obas that they are far more integrated into their communities than city volunteers.  City volunteers experience a form of anonymity, even if everyone knows you’re the American you know no one, that is found in all urban centers, while in the oba volunteers often know everyone in their small village and thus are invited to all community events and parties.  Perhaps this leads to their impact being not from the work they do but from the people they encounter.

The volunteer leaving lived in such an oba in a typical compound.  We arrived at the party after it was already well underway and upon entering the compound I knew that the volunteer would be missed.  Nearly two hundred people crowded around the numerous tables eating, drinking, and talking on a large covered porch.  Later in the evening, the children, certainly many of them were the volunteer’s students, would crowd around the entrance to the compound to observe the party and dancing.

The party itself was a typical Turkmen affair.  Turkmen parties have a pretty standard formula.  In accordance with Turkmen guesting culture, an overabundance of food, including salads, shashlik (shish-kabob), fruits, nuts, candies, soup, palow (rice, carrots, and meat), etc., is served to avoid the embarrassment of not providing for one’s guests.  Copious amounts of vodka are also made available for the never ending series of toasts that will be made throughout the night.  Other beverages include juice and cola, the amount of money spent on the occasion indicated by whether Coca-Cola or a Turkmen derivative is served.  A DJ is always present playing an assortment of Uzbek, Turkmen, American, and co-opted American with Turkmen lyrics music.  Usually conversation is impossible due to stratospheric decibels.  There is dancing and eating punctuated by toasts made on a mike.

This party was no different and after we had our fill of food an MC began to call various members of the community up to give long toasts in honor of their American volunteer.  It was sad, but also uplifting to think that despite the difficulties of working in Turkmenistan, a volunteer was able to touch the lives of so many people.  After the Turkmen had their say, next were us Americans, rumored to have traveled all the way from America for this party, and we did nothing to assuage these rumors.  Departing volunteers had much to say and share on their part having spent the last two years in service together, and we continuing volunteers related the vacuum that would be made when these volunteers left.  After toasts: dancing.

Turkmen dancing is characterized by a slow rhythmic shuffle, with hands in the air snapping or twisting in time with the music.  Those in the center of the dancing, usually in pairs, lean into and out from each other shaking their shoulders.  It is a very peculiar dance, and like the preparation for the party, hardly ever improvised upon.  Yet, there were Americans who requested American music and our random gyrations and flailing limbs were equally looked upon with curiosity and wonder.  If anything highlights the difference in cultures so acutely it may be dancing: the homogeneous communal dancing that gives alternate attention to individuals of the Turkmen contrasted with the nonchalant highly individualistic dancing of the Americans.

The party lasted until quiet time, around eleven, at which point the remaining crowd, mostly children, sauntered home.

This week the last of the T-15s, the fifteenth group of volunteers to Turkmenistan, head home or on to further adventures.  During this time of readjustment we T-16s, as we wait for the T-17s, are somewhat prematurely looking at the impact of our own service.  Sometimes it is hard to gauge your impact and sometimes we are skeptical of our purpose here.  Yet, there are moments when cultural boundaries seem to melt into each other and connections made.  Like most of human experience, our feelings are concealed from view until those emotionally intense moments draw back the curtain of our inhibitions and allow us to view the full truth of our relationships.  At the party, in the moment when the American volunteer was saying goodbye to Turkmen hosts, our purpose here in Turkmenistan was vindicated: Friendship.  We are looking forward to sharing many more parties with our Turkmen hosts.

We have been totally terrible about posting updates on our blog.  We apologize and such shortcomings will be remedied in the future.

Since our last post: We have experienced the Turkmen heat.  Luckily, we skipped town to London and missed the 125 degree day.  However, there were plenty of 110 degree days to go around.  The summer was full of English clubs and health teaching.  We moved into a new apartment and are now on our own.  Living on your own is not like living on your own in

In mid July we headed for Great Britain for a two week vacation. We saw friends we met in Japan and stayed with them in and around London and Cardiff. Two friends got married at the Royal Horseguards Hotel in London where we saw even more people we know from Japan. We went on a bus tour and sawStonehenge, Salisbury Cathedral, and a Roman bath. We visited Shakespeare’s Globe Theater where we saw King Lear, the Tate Modern, Art Museum, British History Museum, and the Natural History Museum. We stormed Cardiff castle, saw a real football match and the Atlantic Ocean, and ate some fantastic Japanese food. Being in the UK reminded us of things we miss like Guinness, cheese that melts, supermarkets, and entertainment. It also reminded us of things we didn’t miss like the week of 130 degree temps here in Turkmenistan.

In a previous post we mentioned that drinking tea, or chai, in the summer is a must.  Here we expand a little on that cultural theme. Chai is an essential part of life here, serving as a means of hydration and more importantly as a way to show hospitality, friendship, and discuss serious matters. I have found that chai is seldom refused since the desire to tend a relationship is more important than any deadline or daily chore. All that’s needed are a kettle, boiled water, black or green tea leaves, perhaps sugar, and milk if you live in a part of Turkmenistan where the water is really salty. Compliments to chai are usually hard candies and cookies. I often enjoy chai with my neighbors or coworkers. The longest I have spent drinking chai is over 3 hours, but I think it could go on for days. Try it some time- have a few friends over and just sit and drink tea. Then tell me what you think.

Speaking of tea, if I haven’t already recommended books, here are two about this corner of the world: Three Cups of Tea and Lenin’s Tomb. Authors escape me at the moment.

The days are finally getting cooler and when we get up in the morning it is cool enough to throw on a light sweater.  The summer is so hot that it is easy to forget that Turkmenistan is at the same latitude as Washington and that last winter the temperature was -5 F. At the moment we are excited about new volunteers. In a couple of weeks a fresh batch of PC volunteers will arrive in Turkmenistan. It is hard to believe that we have been in Turkmenistan for a year already. Next year is sure to go a lot faster. For now, we are looking forward to introducing Turkmenistan to the new volunteers.

The second goal of Peace Corps is to help host country nationals learn about American culture and there is nothing more American than baseball.  A few years ago some volunteers acquired some baseball equipment, started some teams, and after a few month of practice had a tournament.  This year the tradition continued.

The time of most Turkmen is full of cooking, cleaning, hosting, school, or babysitting if you’re female, and working in the yard or school if you are a male.  The free time that Turkmen enjoy is spent watching TV if at home, or guesting, visiting a friend or family home for food and socializing.  Extracurricular activities are nearly non-existent for both students and adults.  There are parks and some empty sports fields.  While the parks are usually modestly filled with families the sports field seem underused.  There are no movie theaters, bowling alleys, sports bar, family restaurants (in the spirit of chucky-cheese), arcades, or any of the other activities that Americans take for granted.  Many of my students claim studying English as their hobby, which means they spend most of their time at my language center.

When I arrived in Turkmenistan I had heard of the baseball games that had happened and was looking forward to getting to my site and starting a team.  I also found out that the Arizona Diamondbacks, upon hearing about the interest in baseball in

Teaching baseball from scratch is not easy.  Baseball is a complex game in which the method of scoring is not intuitive and the rules sometimes seem obscure and selectively administered (after all, how do you explain infield fly, balking, tagging up, and when exactly a foul ball is a foul ball?).  Add to this a group of people who have only a vague idea of what baseball is and you have a recipe for adventures in coaching.  Many in America grow up learning the game, and even if you don’t, you have a basic American instinct for throwing a baseball and swinging a bat.  I had decided for the safety of players and to insure that they wouldn’t get frustrated with the game that I wouldn’t teach them the rules of the game or even let them play a game until they had somewhat grown accustomed to throwing, catching, fielding, and batting.  This of course was met with great confusion—when are we going to play?  what are we doing?  why are we doing this?  The day that all these elements came together and I eventually let them play a game, one player told me afterwards that he now understands why we did all that stuff before.  Until then it was drills drills drills.  We practiced on a small dirt soccer field filled with rocks and glass.  The left field is depressingly shallow, about thirty feet from a little league distanced third base, and bordered by tall grass in which balls lost themselves.  Right field went on forever.  It was the middle of the summer and the temperature was well over a hundred by nine in the morning.  We started at seven-thirty.   I found myself going from player to player and adjusting arms, yelling to use two hands, and trying to figure out why they threw the ball straight up in the air instead of at a lower arc.  But they came.  Slowly I increased the intensity of drills and increased the number of practices, and they still came.  When Robin and I left and the other volunteer took over, he introduced harsher repercussions for not adhering to protocol and still they came.  By the end of the summer the team was starting warm up on their own, teaching new players, and looking fluid enough in some of their fielding and batting plays to pass for someone who had played ball for longer than three months.  It was awesome to see.

Baseball in one sense had become a large part of their life.  They referred to us as coaches even off the field.  Many claimed baseball as their favorite sport and a couple expressed an interest in playing professional ball in the states and given time and opportunity I believe they could.  Some of the boys displayed more respect and discipline as a result of being on the team and the girls grew more confident in leadership skills and self-confidence in sports.  They didn’t want to stop playing.  Soon, though we were in Ashgabat, the capitol, going head-to-head with teams from other parts of the country. 

There were the usual passionate coaches, arguments with the umps (which were the coaches), bad calls, and bad plays.  Yet, what was really fascinating was that thousands of miles from Cooper’s Town, in the middle of the desert, at the edges of the global community, children were playing baseball and loving it.  The transplanting of baseball is not new, after all some of the best MLB players come from Latin American and Japan.  Yet, those countries have a history of cultural exchange with America, and one could almost say that their adoption of baseball was inevitable.  In essence, baseball has no history in Turkmenistan, but these kids played like they had grown up with the game.  Their skill was left wanting, after all they had only been playing for the most a year or so, but their intuition about the game was spot on.  From the impromptu hot box at home plate to tagging up on a pop fly and racing home, they played like they loved the game.  After a still-life demonstration of sliding (us coaches were not brave enough to really slide into the base and scratch up our knees) the players slid into the bases on close plays like it was second nature.  Perhaps these are the first steps towards a long history of baseball in Turkmenistan.

After the tournament in Ashgabat my players continue to practice.  We are having a game with a team from another veleyat at the end of the month, and that is when I plan to end the “season” to coordinate nicely with the ending of the MLB regular season.  The players will not be happy, but hopefully I can explain that baseball just isn’t a winter sport, and that they should rest up for spring training.  If I have my way, there will not just be one team in my region next year, but a whole league.  Of course, they’ll have to want it, but with the interest I’ve seen this year, I don’t think I’ll have any problems rounding up enough players for next year.

Robin in another Turkmen Dress

Originally uploaded by Robin and Gary.

There are more pictures! You should take a look. You’ll be amazed!!!

It is hot.  I mean hot.  Some how hundred degree hot in Turkmenistan is different than hundred degree hot in

So what do people who live in the desert do in the summer?

Near the city in which we live runs a major river.  During the incredibly cold winter we had, there was a fear that when this river thawed it would cause major flooding.  Thankfully that didn’t happen.  Now, though, it, along with the numerous canals that branch off of the river, is one of the major sources of cooling off, much like rivers in Texas.  There is even a beach that we have yet to visit, but plan to very soon.

I haven’t seen a water gun, but I have seen plenty of liter and half plastic bottles used essentially as water cannons by children.  The fill them up at school faucets or public faucets in their neighborhoods, and douse each other in water, fully dressed.  It is a pleasure to watch, as giggles and mayhem ensue, but I don’t get too close, for fear of getting drenched myself.  The smaller children, in addition to the water bottles, also walk around in nothing but their Skivvies.  Imagine my surprise when I walked by a kindergarten and beheld numerous children running around in their underwear.  I have since seen children in underwear walking in my neighborhood, and along the street.  I am a bit envious of this freedom, though I wonder about skin cancer.  That sun is brutal.

Outside many homes, beneath a metal roof there is usually something called a tapchan.  This is basically a raised platform, to about the height of a chair, which has metal railings and is covered by a carpet.  Turkmenistan, as a desert climate with dry air, is blazingly hot during the day, and rather cool, comparatively, at night, so that people sometimes sleep on tapchans.  More often the tapchan is used to host guests for dinner, especially if the home is not equipped with an AC. 

One of the more unusual summer habits is the drinking of tea; not the lemon ice tea of central Texas served in tall sweating plastic cups at texmex and bar-b-q joints, but steaming hot tea, served in small cups without handles called kases (ka sā) (this, combined with the more popular dish being soup makes for pretty hot guesting).  The habit of drinking hot tea stems from a belief that drinking cold beverages will make you sick.  I have many students come to me and say that they got sick (the sickness being the cold or flu) after drinking a cold drink.  However, icecream is very popular, though doctors advise pregnant women to avoid it.  Also, something called gazly suw (gas water) is very popular.  These are bought at small booths, much like taco stands in texas, and come in various flavors.  It is much like a classic American soda fountain, with the flavor syrup added to a glass of carbonated water.  They use real glass cups, so that the patron must quaff his gazly suw at the booth before leaving.  One volunteer when asked what was new in his remote village, delivered, “Well, I’ve started to drink gazly suw.”  It is hard to express how this was big news to us, but it was, and that is a bit of life in Turkmenistan.  There are many more interesting medical beliefs in the nature of cold water making you sick, more superstitions than I have ever been exposed too, and more seemingly benign, yet culturally shocking anecdotes.  More to come in future posts.  For now, stay cool and drink plenty of water.  Peace.

Hauling Water

Originally uploaded by Robin and Gary.

(This is a blog that we had prepared in Jan, but due to difficulties with posting, it hasn’t appeared until now. They will be more frequent in the future)

When we left Ashgabat in a large van for our new home it was snowing. It was the day after Christmas. Who would have thought that the snow was a sign of things to come? Fall and the early part of winter had been mild, with some rain fall and the occasional cold spell, but the snow that day spoke of darker days ahead. The drive was beautiful. We drove through some of the desert parts of Turkmenistan and it reminded us a lot of driving through west Texas. Low brush growing in hard dry dirt spread out across the land. Eventually the brush gave way to true desert sand. The area between cities is not developed at all, and when we stopped to put gas in the van from plastic coke bottles, I had a mild fear we might not make it.

The first couple of weeks were filled with parties at Gary’s work and at home. The weather remained mild. Then one morning Robin came in from outside and said it was snowing. It snowed all that day and night laying almost a foot of snow down. The temperature also dropped to -20F. With in a couple of days the pipes froze. People say it hasn’t been this cold in 40 years. It is quite beautiful but kind of a mess; no cars have snow tires and there are no snow plows. We have been without running water for over two weeks now and our entire block has no water. It seems like everyday another block has no water. Everyday we go a couple blocks down to get water from the neighbors. It takes at least three trips and one hour. To shower we have to boil water since there is no running hot water. The same goes for washing clothes. The outdoor outhouse is pretty nippy in the sub-zero temperatures. Our family says the pipes have never frozen before- it’s just abnormally cold this winter. I guess we didn’t manage to bring the Texas winter with us!

On the work front, Robin is working at the hospital teaching pregnant women about nutrition. She finds it a challenge to teach in Turkmen but Peace Corps has provided many bilingual resources which aid in lesson planning. When it gets warmer she will do home visits with doctors, teach health in schools and kindergartens, and start English clubs for her coworkers and children in the community. She works 6 days a week from 8 am to 3 pm. Gary is working at the language center doing private tutoring and clubs. He enjoys his work environment and is looking forward to helping improve teachers and students’ English ability. He works 6 days a week from 2 pm to 8 pm.

Other than that, we are getting into a pattern and figuring out what our schedules will be. It appears that since the winter is very cold and the summer is very hot, our schedules will vary based on the season. Our host family is great and we enjoy eating with them and watching tv at night. We are helping out by hauling water every day and washing dishes. Once we have running water again we hope to cook for them.

We hope everyone is doing well. Thank you to those of you who have written us or sent packages. We really appreciate hearing news from home by email or by old fashioned snail mail. More to come from our adventures in Turkmenistan!

Training Group

Originally uploaded by Robin and Gary.

and the real work begins. This is a picture of our training group along with our LCF (Language and culture facilitators). One of our LCF’s mom and dad is also included. This was mostly an experiment to see how long it would take to upload one photo. It took awhile, so we will do our best to keep adding photos, but they will be few and far between.

Training is over and we have moved to our new home, and are settling in. We have both started work, and our new co-workers are very eager to work with us. It is very cold here now (-10 C), which us Texans are just not used too. Our home is warm though and our family has given us very warm dons (the older man in the photo is wearing one) to wear. More to come…

In Turkmen, a toý means a celebration of some sort but is usually reserved for a wedding.  Before the wedding is the procession. We were a part of this procession for our host’s father’s second cousin last Sunday.  Our host father woke us at about six in the morning.  I left the room and greeted our host-grandfather, who is always ready with a warm smile and a hardy handshake when I see him.  He was to be the main negotiator in retrieving the bride from her family.  He left in his own car, and the rest of us waited outside for our ride.  It was a cool crisp morning.  The home next door was also having a toý, and revelers were already gathering.  The light of the sun had only just begun to peek over the horizon, outlining the shape of a herder and his sheep walking along the road.  Our host-father called out to him, and he returned the greeting.  Our ride finally arrived and I was directed to sit up front.  Robin got in the back with the rest of the family.  Our driver was a co-worker of my host-father and spoke English.  When the sun had fully risen, the driver was kind enough to point out landmarks, including the large mosque built by and dedicated to the late Türkmenbaşi, the last president of Türkmenistan. 

We drove for about 40 minutes and pulled in behind a line of cars on the side of the road.  We got out of the car and greeted our host-grandfather and the groom.  We soon received word that is was time to go to the bride’s house.  As we approached, all the cars in the procession began to honk their horns, announcing the arrival of the groom.  The lead car, decorated in pastel ribbons, pulled into the driveway of the home. 

Robin went directly into the house with the women and I stayed outside with the men.  The house was a small concrete building.  There was a large vegetable garden in the back and a dirt driveway.  Across the driveway from the house was a wooden shack with loose boards, the outhouse I presume, and an open shed with tin roof where many of the men congregated.  Two men wearing black leather jackets walked around, each carrying large modified video-cassette cameras.  Unlike the rest of the men, they had access to the throng of women that waited outside the house.  My host-grandfather walked up to the women, and heated negotiations commenced.  Soon my host-grandfather walked back to his car and left, and the women went inside.  It seems that the bride wanted a different ceremonial garment that covered her head and body than the one she had, so my host-grandfather had to go buy another one.  

The men talked in the streets, occasionally dodging cars.  A group of boys played a game that resembled solo hacky-sack except they used a piece of flat metal covered in some sort of animal hide and fur.  They jumped, folded one leg under the other and kicked the hide.  They did this over and over again before grabbing the hide from the air.  The camera men asked for congratulations from the men to the couple.  As the American, I gave mine in English. 

(Robin) I was in the room with the bride, her female friends, and other female relatives. The bride sat against the wall, covered from head to toe, crying. The crying is expected of her, as she is leaving her family and will move in with her husband as well as her mother and father in law, whom she has likely never met for more than 5 minutes. My host mother said she was sorry that I did cry at my own wedding. The bride’s friends sat beside her, but no one spoke to her. When is was time to get dressed, family members helped her put new garment on, as well as an elaborate metal headdress, and special wedding shoes. 

After about an hour, my host-grandfather returned, the gift was accepted, and he, my host-father, another second cousin, my little host-brother, and I were invited inside.  We were directed to a small side room.  The house was full of women and small children, and brimming with energy and excitement.  The bride was being carefully kept behind another door.  In the small room we were presented with plates of palow.  The elder man who represented the bride came in and sat with us.  We each had about four bites before we stopped, the bowls looking like they hadn’t been touched.  We said prayers and then returned outside.  The meal was ceremonial, and used to commemorate the joining of the two families, though it is likely they will never see each other again.  The bride often doesn’t see her family except after long intervals. 

Outside my host-father told me to go to the doorway and look in.  My host-grandfather was again surrounded by women speaking excitedly.  He began to give out money in order to gain access to the door that concealed the bride.  His second nephew, the groom to be, was waiting near the car.  He eventually gained permission to enter the room, at which time there was an out pouring of women from the house.  I stood back next to my host-father.  Robin emerged with our host-mother and her daughters.  A carpet was laid on the ground and several men entered the house and came out with the bride’s luggage. 

My host-father turned to me and said, “When I say “go,” grab Robin and run.”  It was then I noticed several young girls picking up handfuls of rocks and scurrying off to the entrance of the driveway.  The bride finally emerged, still surrounded by an entourage of older women.  She was dressed heavily in a reddish garment embroidered with intricate patterns and her face was covered with a white veil.  She knelt on the carpet.  My host-father entered the throng of women and began to hand out more money.  He then turned to me and said, “Run!” and took off.  My host-mother, her daughters, and Robin also took off. We passed the lead car, still unscathed, and then the line of girls, their fists tightly clenched.  Perhaps they were confused with the sudden appearance of the foreigners running, or had not received the cue.  Either way was passed safely through the gauntlet and down the street to our ride, who had moved his car farther down the street to avoid the assault.  We hopped in and took off.  A few blocks away we stopped and waited for the groom’s car.  It had not escaped and it was necessary to clean off a splattering of egg.  We headed to the Peace Corps office in the capital at 9 am while the new bride and groom were headed to a photo-shoot around important buildings, and then on to the state of Mary where the celebration would begin with copious amounts of food and music.