Life After Peace Corps -
  Olive Tree

 

 

September 18, 2018

I found two Oliver trees in Shirlington, Virginia by the river bank of the Four Mile Run.  Someone intentionally planted them there long time ago to memorize an event, I suppose, for finding an olive tree in Virginia is rare.  Early September, the fruits begin to ripen and they bring me back to the time when I lived in Sumgayit, a small village where I served the Peace Corps in Azerbaijan.  The olive trees are everywhere.  By end of summer, all the olives turn black and ready to be harvested. 

 

Picking olive is a family event.  Grandmother lays a big piece of cloth underneath the tree, the youngsters climb up to the highest branch to pluck the darkest ones, Ana (mother) uses an aged wooden stark banging on the tree trunk, in no time, all the shinning black and green olives hitting the ground where grandmother and little girls are eager to collect them.  Grandfather is the oldest member of the family, he does not do much, just looks up to the tree with his hands behind his back, watches his grandchildren laughing and picking the fruits.  Occasionally, he guides his grandchildren to find the biggest ones.  When his grandson hands him a handful, he smiles with an appreciative nod.    One late autumn day, I walked home and found an old man collecting a few olives left on the ground.  I picked up a big one and handed it to him, he gave me a big smile with a “sağolun” and I said “Dəyməz”. 

 

 

Nowadays, I can only remember a few Azerbaijanis, most have already been forgotten.  But the time I spent there, the life I lived, the ancient cultures I witnessed, and the people I encountered, still live deep inside my heart.  The Morning Prayer I contemplated every dawn, still haunts me, still lingers in my head…..

 

 

 

Ku Fu Tea

Ku Fu Tea

 

Growing up, watched my father and uncle to prepare the “Ku Fu” tea with elaborated ceremonial procedures.  First, cleaned the drinking utensils, heated the cups warm to touch, drained the tealeaf three times, boiled the water to the right temperature and poured the steaming water quickly to the tealeaf.  Sat and waited for a minute or so, gingerly picked up the teapot, tilled it to a right angle and poured the tea slowly and steadily to a tiny drinking cup. 

 

What came out is this golden liquid with a light but pleasant fragrant.  I watched my father sipped the tea, kept it inside his month for a few seconds, put down his teacup, swallowed the tea and let out an appreciative sound.  For a young child, this seemingly painstaking process is an amazement and puzzlement.  I observed intensely how the whole saga repeated itself.  I once asked my father to let me taste the tea, it was so bitter than I never asked for a second. 

 Now, whenever I have time, I perform the same ritual with enjoyment.  Remember my aging father, passed away uncle, my culture, my roots……I have finally grown up to value things that matter to me and dear to my heart.

 

Old Adventure Books

 Browsing through my Blog, I am thrilled to re-read some of my old writings.  They are not the perfect essays, but they honestly and happily chronicled my life from year 2009 to 2012 when I was living in central Asia.  Since I moved back to the States, my daily life is cluttered with monotonous events.   Hardly could I find time to relax, to contemplate, to take walk and more importantly to read and to write.  What I miss the most is to indulge myself in adventure stories of faraway places.  I could easily spend hours on an old adventure book and be happy.  Back in old days, unspoiled wilderness was still possible to find.   Hi-Tec, hiking and backpacking equipment did not exist, and explorers had to rely on their skills to reach remoted places.  Their incredible adventure stories were full of excitements, hardships and wonders, they were real escapade and not fabricated travelling tale.   

 Maybe that is why I love backpacking.  Only through hardship one can see untamed beauty.