Happy Holidays!

It is dawning on me that nearly a month has past since I began writing the previous entry. Oops, guess I kind of forgot to get it posted. Time really does fly, in an insidious sort of way. I am headed to America tomorrow and can’t wait to see what my country has in store for me. The countdown to Christmas vacation has been both painfully slow and unbelievably quick. A direct reflection, I suppose, of my Peace Corps service as a whole.

In some ways I am still groping for things to do, in other ways I have become quite busy. Language tutoring continues to go well and I have begun to teach some lessons in the local region (still not in Vayk, but we are getting closer….slowly). I think my counterpart has gotten a bit jealous that I have branched out and has become more diligent about finding things for me to do. Of course, this happens at the same time that I suddenly become very busy with eco-camps. When it rains it pours…

But enough about that. I AM GOING TO AMERICA!!!!!! And I am a little excited about it. I have been in Armenia over 6 months now, strange, I know, and I am ready for a well-deserved break and some decent coffee (among other things). For those of you I will see during my short stint home, I am very much looking forward to it. For those you I won’t, I wish I could….

I want to wish you all a warm and wonderful holiday season, a Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and a joyous and successful New Year. Thank you all for your support, even if it has just been keeping up with my adventures through reading my blog, it has meant a lot and has gotten me through many of the rougher times in my adjustment.

Yesterday, as I waited an hour for a non-existent internet connection, I began to think about the multitude of things I am thankful for. There are so many and being far away in a developing country has really helped to emphasize and accentuate the list.

I am thankful for:

Having fathers, husbands, and brothers who are able to live in work in the same country, rather than being forced to chase down seasonal jobs in a distant land.

My good health and strong teeth, the knowledge to maintain health and hygiene, and competent healthcare for when more than maintenance is necessary.

A government that we may not always agree with, but are given the right to disagree and the power to exercise our opinion through various channels.

The freedom of speech and culture, and the ability to be ourselves rather than the impetus to be one of the masses.

Having the means to live comfortably and to buy items that enhance our quality of life.

Warm houses, hot showers and a variety of nutritious foods.

The ability, as a woman, to make my own choices toward who I will marry and when, and the freedom to date and explore my options.

For learning independence and critical thinking as a child and having the ability to apply those concepts to my daily life.

For the opportunity to travel and learn about other cultures and ways of life through first hand experience, and for the knowledge that at the end of two years I have a secure country and life to return to with multiple opportunities for jobs and further education.

For my friends and family and their invariable support.

The best of the season to you all….

Return from the Netherworld

I have found the difficulty in leaving site, even for a week in Yerevan, which is still technically Armenia, although a world apart from the place we live as Peace Corps volunteers. A week of hot showers, warm bedrooms, good meals and freedom to come and go and make my own decisions without having to check in with my “parents” was a welcome a relief. And very difficult to leave behind again. On the one hand it is good practice for my return from my upcoming trip to America, on the other hand it is a sure sign of what is to come once back in Vayk….

More than ever I have found myself questioning my purposes and intents and this country and the actuality of accomplishing anything truly worthwhile. Nothing has changed really, the people are doing the same things, I am doing the same things, my host family continues along their trajectory and my counterpart continues to be around off and on. The lack of change coupled with a reminder of how I use to live my life—meetings, multi-tasking, conversations, things to do, places to go, an alarm clock set with a purpose—brought me back to my American life. Something that I need to let go of at least for the time being. I am certain that my memory has been tainted by a case of the “good memory” syndrome, that is to say, I only remember the good parts of the life I left behind and not any of the number of “American” things that used to drive me nuts. Hell, I even find myself craving McDonalds from time to time (usually after seeing a Russian McDonalds commercial) but I really have no desire to eat or have anything else to do with McDonalds. Like it or not, it is simply an etched symbol of my culture.

My culture, a short-lived hodgepodge of so many other ways of life, brought together in one country that has slowly developed its own over-arching pace and style of life. One that so much of the world looks to, whether that is good or bad is left to personal decision, both in the way it is looked upon and the end result of that deference.

I find myself alternately hating Armenia and loving it. Alternately hating my own culture and loving it. I miss it, but I am reminded of our over-indulgence, greed, and self-centeredness as I watch our ideals spill over into developing nations such as Armenia. I watched in disgust as a brand new hummer drove down the road in Yerevan the other day. The driver smug in his power and luxury, refusing to choose a lane, to obey ordinary traffic laws (not that anyone does). The last things Armenia needs right now is Hummers, and yet the bigger is better mentality has made it across the ocean. This country needs trash cans and trash trucks. It needs landfills. It needs suitable housing for it’s residents in the regions. It needs people to take responsibility for their own lives and begin to change the backwards ways that have become entrenched parts of life. It doesn’t need Hummers.

I settle back in slowly, a repeat of the process many months ago of slowing down, finding a routine. I remember that when I walk down the streets I will be relentlessly chased by children saying “Hello, vat is your name?” over and over….and over. The other day I said hello to a group of a girls and they said hello back. Because I was in a hurry I continued walking and one of them followed me and said “Good Morning.” It was 2:30 in the afternoon. I said “good morning.” I was in a hurry. I got about 300 yards away and I head “vat is your name?” Not wanting to scream my name across all of Vayk, I kept walking. They kept following. And every time I was about 300 yards away…”vat is your name?” Finally I turned around and waited for them to catch up. When they were near I said (in Armenian) “what do you want? What?” They stared. Mouths hanging open. Silence. I waited, and then continued walking. About 300 yards later… “vat is your name?”

This is my routine. I forget sometimes to embrace it. I enjoy learning a new language, trying to adapt to a new culture, learning more about myself. Life is good, really. It is. The time creeps, but when I look back it flies. The days seem to extend infinitely, and yet the weeks tick by. Already 3 and a half months in Vayk…soon I will living on my own in an apartment with considerable more freedom over myself and my diet. What a difference that will make.

Until then I want to continue to immerse myself in this culture, to learn the language, to make friends. I went to an army party the other day—the traditional celebration held before a young man begins his mandatory military service for the country. Hundreds of relatives, friends and neighbors had gathered. The women were crying, the men dancing and singing. Tables were piled high with dolma and meat and potatoes, pickled vegetables, strong cheese, lavash (the traditional flat bread), olives, cakes, cookies, soda, mineral water, and of course, bottle after bottle of vodka. The tables extended all the way around the large hall. Every place set, food spread out all along the tables, plates stacked on other plates, everything within arms reach. Giant speakers towered in the front of the room, microphone ready for toasts and speeches and singing, stacks of audio cassettes, all rewound or fast forwarded in advance to one particular song. Waiting for the masses to begin dancing in the middle of the room. When the music starts men and women, boys and girls find their way to the middle, arms up, hands waving, feet keeping the beat. Somebody yells “uppa.” Its My Big Fat Greek wedding right here in Vayk.

Before I know it I am dancing, my host father has my coat and my camera, he keeps a watchful eye. Some host nieces and nephews are escorting me through the maze of pin-striped young men with pointy shoes and their well-dressed female counterparts. My Birkenstocks are certainly out of place, but I still can’t embrace the pointy shoes, that part of the culture will have to simply be observed. And I am dancing. Hands up, on my toes, the beat gets faster, we evolve into a circle dance. I think about learning these dances with Peace Corps. I hated it, but am glad I did. The Armenians are impressed, small children watch with interest. A young man somehow related to my family, a nephew I think, about my age, tells me I dance well. Beautifully, in fact. Before I know it we are dancing to a slow song and having a conversation. We are screaming over the music, which helps when I don’t understand, I can just pretend I didn’t hear, and yet I am realizing how much my language is improving, even when it seems it isn’t. I feel comfortable suddenly and I am enjoying myself. I think, this doesn’t usually happen at Armenian parties, but the support and care of my family made it possible.

These are people who truly have my best interests at heart. The men take care of me and make it clear to other men who I belong to. This helps as interactions with men is such an enigma in this country. I am not supposed to even look men in the eye whom I don’t know, which just feels rude to me as I walk down the street. I am used to having men as my equal and it is nice to have some who can joke around with me and converse with me freely. My host father even guards my shot glass for me when other men are over. Mostly to humor him, I drink about a quarter shot of homemade vodka at dinner if he is drinking. We toast, drink and then that is it for me. He knows, doesn’t even ask anymore and always fills my glass only a quarter full. This, by the way, is very un-Armenian, but very appreciated by me. Other men, who don’t understand the routine, will always try to refill my glass after we do the first shot. Usually my cries of “no, no, no” are ignored, but Gero wills sternly say no, and they will put the bottle down. How useful.

Life as Usual

I could see my breath as I stepped into the bathroom, and shuddered at the thought of taking off any of my layers (let alone all of them) to bathe. But I needed to, I wanted to…even though I didn’t. The hot water caused my skin to steam, even as I soaped and shampooed and filled the bathroom with such a thick haze that I could barely see my feet. Isn’t winter fun? I stepped out and hastily toweled my hair, ever the more thankful that I had finally gone ahead and cut a good six inches off. Actually, one of the other volunteers did the cutting, probably the first home haircut I have had since I was six or seven years old. It looks quite nice and even more important, I didn’t have to feel it wet and cold down my back as a struggled to get dressed enough to move back into the warm part of the house.

Last night we headed up to the village above Vayk. This is the village my host mother and father grew up in, as well as my counterpart. The small car was to come at 6, and at 6:30 we all piled in—7 full grown adults and a toddler. The ride up was more pleasant than the ride down, me with a headache, crammed into the back seat with three other woman and the squirmy toddler, who had entirely too much chocolate (and a little vodka, licked off of fingers), my host father in the passenger seat, with his nearly six foot tall son in his lap, very drunk and talkative, and the driver who kept stopping for various reasons…to chat, to look at the city in the dark and so on. At least, I reasoned, if we were to get an accident, it is very likely that it would be physically impossible for me to move, let alone get thrown though the windshield or something. This was comforting.

Still, I am settling into my life here, and things seem normal. I realize I crave things, not because they don’t exist in this country, but simply because they exist in this family. Simple things that remind me of home, but are beyond the means of this simple life. These people are isolated from the rest of the country, the part with wealth, and it is easy to forget about each respective world when living in the other. It is easy to forget that I view 1000 dram (about 2 dollars) in a starkly different way than the vary family that I live with. I enjoy the simplicity but I miss the freedom that seems to be mutually exclusive when living with a family, even one was wonderful as my own.

I have finally summoned the courage to begin making my own breakfast (oatmeal…extravagant I know, but better than bread), after battling fears of insulting them, shaming them, or embarrassing myself. I have done quite a bit of the latter, which I am much easier able to accept than the former…I have had quite a bit of practice at this point. Still, I look forward to the day when I don’t have to sneak around making oatmeal when the family isn’t home so as to perfect my technique to avoid eliciting the much unwelcome “help.”

Freedom will increase and my health will certainly improve with some control over my diet, and over all I think I will be happier, but I will also very much miss this family. I catch myself often nowadays in some sort of a waking daydream mixed with reminiscence. It is as if I briefly forget that I am not at home. I am sitting here and it is finally warm, the new heater silently casting blue light and much welcome warmth throughout the living room, and we have just moved Gevorg’s bed in here (he sleeps in the warm room in winter), and Gero and Alvard and watching television, and tea is boiling on the stove, and things seem normal. Like next week will be Christmas break and we will put up the tree and make cookies and bake a ham. But it isn’t normal. There will certainly be no ham, and all my interactions are in Armenian, and the television is speaking Russian, and my sheets are dirty because I don’t know how to wash these giant things by hand in a tiny little plastic basin, and the family is taking their weekly bath (if that often for some of them), and we just had beet soup for dinner. But it still feels like home. And that is the bottom line. And I am really, truly learning the meaning of home and family, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the building or the city, or even the country, and blood relations don’t really matter in the end. I have lost quite a bit of independence (although I have gained a considerable amount since PST if that tells you anything), but this time I consider it to be a worthwhile trade, at least for a while. My language, my cultural knowledge, my ability to eat strange meat, my confidence….these things have all improved while living here. We don’t always understand each other, in fact we often don’t understand each other, but we laugh and laugh, and dance and sing, and eat and drink, and badger and pester, and laugh some more, and slowly I feel a part of something bigger than me, more important than me, and ultimately representative of my mission here in the first place.

My muscles are sore, and although it hurts to move my head around too fast, or to lift my arms, I am happy because I know I have done something. I don’t think the Armenians really understand sore muscles—they would probably be busy smearing yogurt all over the skin, soaking bandages in vodka, and drinking tea. I, on the other hand, know the true cause—productivity. A day of working at a Habitat for Humanity site in a nearby village. Although my work consisted of merely passing metal buckets full of rocks down an assembly line (a full discourse on Armenian building techniques to come later…), for the first time, I felt that I was really doing something useful. An important project, with a tangible project at the end—a house.

Certainly this is important, but the reality is that truly any Armenian over the age of six could be doing the work I was. There is no reason for me to fly half-way around the globe to pass buckets in someone else’s country—at this point there is more than enough work of this type at home (unfortunately). The difference, or what makes the difference, is that volunteerism is a foreign concept here (literally in many cases…). The importance of my work lay not in the actual house, although the home-owners were certainly grateful, but instead in lay in the example we set as Americans in our willingness to help, to perform hard, physical labor, simply because we want to help and feel that is the right thing to do. More and more I see that the best thing I can do here is teach the Armenians how to help themselves, they have the resources, they just need to figure out how to work together for the greater good, to rearrange their thought patterns, and to exchange complacency for self-directed betterment.

Sometimes our American ideals get the better of us, plunging us into greed and gluttony, but it is there same values—hard work, efficiency, independence, strength of character, resolve, desire to improve, initiative, that have so quickly launched our country to the powerful leadership position it is in. Perhaps now we find ourselves with too much of a good thing in terms of the state of our international affairs (I am still somewhat connected via Newsweeks and news in Russian—the former more helpful than the latter). Simultaneously I find myself in a place with too much of a different style of government.

One of the best things we are doing right now is encouraging young Armenians to get involved in their communities and to begin volunteering their time towards productive entities. Rapid change in a country like Armenia can be good and bad—we have to try to steer the urban explosion and mass migration to Yerevan back towards the good end of the spectrum. I am pretty sure the only way to do this is to make other places in Armenia appealing in terms of a place to live rather than a place to escape from.

Yesterday the volunteers (peace corps) outnumbered the Armenians, but there was a small showing from the local university, and we did our best to make it a fun day in hopes that these few students would spread the word. Habitat for Humanity Armenia, is a little different from that in the US (as you might imagine). Instead of starting from scratch, they use housing structures that already exist…there are lots of shells of houses to choose from, salvage what they can, and rebuild the rest. This means that houses can be built relatively inexpensively (by US standards anyway), often a “new” home is finished for $5000. Of course, all of the typical Armenian building techniques are employed—cement floors, single pane glass windows, no insulation (I must be thinking about the cold). And hence, the buckets of rocks--we filled the entire house with a layer of large gravel, upon which the cement will be poured.

Meanwhile I have managed to get involved in a few other micro-projects and I learning more about what I need to do here and how I can possibly go about doing it. Some of this has come through deeper interaction through my Armenian friends (who speak English and thus enable me to have a conversation of some depth). I have spent some time with some of my LCF’s in Yerevan, and interacting with them outside of PST, in what constitutes their day-to-day life had been enjoyable and educational. It is nice to be able develop friendships with host country nationals on this level. These, however, are people who are used to working with American, who understand the Peace Corps very well, have traveled outside of Armenia themselves, and who in general, have a positive outlook for the future of their country. They are certainly the exception rather than the norm.

Through these LCF’s I have had the opportunity to work with some English language clubs in Yerevan, and to actually teach a lesson on the environment for one of the clubs. Due to the fact that an American was coming, 44 students, ages 17-18 showed up for the lesson (I was told “I don’t know how many, but probably more than 20”) more than 20 indeed. Fortunately, we were able to start with a 30 minute question and answer session about why I was in Armenia, what I think about the country and what exactly I am doing here. I am not sure of all the answers myself, but I guess I made stuff up pretty well. Then we discussed the environmental problems of Armenia (there are many) and what we can do about them as individual citizens.
This group of students taught me about the way their generation thinks about Armenia and about the problems that plague their country. There is an obvious recognition of the problems, but also an underlying resignation to the inability to do anything about it. How can I give these kids hope while at the same time instilling the message that they are the hope? I did my best to convey this message and provide some optimism (although one of the two male students in the room did his best to do the opposite). I am planning to go back in the future to do more lessons with this group and hope to bring them information about places where they can get involved and hopefully impel them to do so.

Ararat Dreams

The sun rose spectacularly this morning, casting the clouds in brilliant shades of red, orange and purple… The rolling hills of desert and stark land formations staunchly contrasted the colors of the morning sky. I watched the scene unfold from the back window of a marshutnie as we stiffly bounced along scantily paved highways, plowing our way through the occasional herd of farm animals—sheep, goats, cows, old Armenian men with sticks, who vaguely alternated between chasing their charges off the road in the face of oncoming traffic, and idly chattering about whatever shepherds have to chat about in the early morning chill.

As I was contemplating the subject matter of Armenian shepherd conversation, my eye was caught by a break in the sun-bathed clouds. There, in the distance, stood the newly snow-covered flanks of Mt. Ararat, magnificently aglow in a burning shade of yellowish orange. The scene was startlingly crisp, and sent a small chill down my spine—half out of sheer the awe, the other the return of the itch to climb. To experience, first-hand, the cold searing my lungs, the ice crystals stinging my face, the morning sun creeping through the shadows, turning the ice crust into soft, wet mush. Communing directly with nature and thus feeling directly its brutality and harsh realities somehow makes it that much more beautiful.

The two white cones dominated the landscape—the large monstrosity and the smaller replica, rising serenely above the cloud layer, basking in the rising sun. It was one of those scenes that resonates in memory, that can be matched by something different, perhaps, but never replicated. That, in one simple glance, defies those who lack appreciation and understanding, and for the rest of us, creates an excitement about the natural world that can only be quelled through direct interaction.

Perhaps I will never again see Ararat in today’s glorious form. I have no pictures to commemorate the event—they would have merely distracted from the experience anyhow. Only a memory sharply etched into my mind as tangible proof of creations true glory.

Nature is a strange entity—separate in its existence from our day-to-day lives, and yet intrinsically and inextricably intertwined in everything that comprises the amalgamation of civilization. At its gentlest it is a time-marker, ticking off the years in snow accumulation and thaw, autumn color changes, spring blooms and summer breezes, at its most menacing, a force well beyond the scope of human control. Perhaps a well-needed reminder of forces greater than ourselves and an opportunity for introspection towards the state of humanity. A poignant opportunity for selflessness and a simultaneous invitation to the malicious, but which prevails?

I find I am given the opportunity and the catalyst to contemplate such issues while in Armenia, where the snowfalls mark more than just passing time. They mark a time that is better than the last, but still not good enough. The snow-crested mountains signify the end of the canning season, the final harvest, the last chance for laundry to dry before it freezes. They signal the beginning of cold nights, poor nutrition, short days, layers of clothing, evenings passed drinking tea and huddling around the heater. An experience I am sure not to forget. Normally the new snow falls are exciting for me, but now they linger with a newfound sense of a dread, and perhaps a newfound sense of respect for the power of nature over the human condition. This time I can’t some home from my camping trip to a nice warm house and a long hot shower. I am living it, a two-year commitment regardless of the season and the lack of pizza delivery.

Head Soup

What a week it has been. James left for America, and I was entrusted with the key to his apartment—and the responsibility of letting his land-lord’s wife in to clean, because (and I quote) “James doesn’t clean, his apartment is very dirty, but it’s okay…he’s a boy.” And so I sat, reading a book, listening to this woman shuffling around a muttering under her breath about the dust bunnies and filthy corners and the unswept floors. In addition to being the bearer of the key, I was also a translator of all things American. In her quest to find something to clean the bathtub with, she brought me sunscreen, odor eaters foot powder, cockroach traps, and shampoo. Not knowing the words for these items, I could only say “for the sun,” “for your feet,” “for big bugs,” and so on. I guess she eventually found what she was looking for.

No less that seven hours later, I was back home, feeling less than stellar. My plan was to eat and go to bed, but my stomach was not so excited about the eating part. After fending off pleas to eat more for several minutes, I broke down and said I was a little sick. There was some gasping and looks of panic, and then my host mother and father sprung into action, brining me blankets and pillows and tea and honey and jam and vodka. Yes, vodka. Vodka cures everything. I managed to get away with only one sip of the vodka, one spoonful of honey, one bite of quince jam and one cup of tea. Although, the tea conversation went something like this:

Gero (father): bring jill a cup of tea
Gero (a minute later): bring jill two cups of tea
Me: no, bring jill one cup of teaGero: bring jill two cups of teaMe: bring jill one cup of tea
Gero: bring jill three cups of tea
Me: bring jill one cup of tea
Gero: bring jill three cups of tea

I ended up with two cups of tea, although I was saved by my host brother, who came home also feeling sick. I gave him my second cup of tea and told him it was for him.
After answering repeated questions about why I was sick, where I got sick, when I got sick and whether I mersoomed (got cold), where I mersoomed, if there were windows open at James house, if I got sick at the Halloween party, if my bedroom wasn’t warm enough, and on and on, I went to bed and slept a good long time.

I woke up this morning feeling a bit better, although not one hundred percent, and went to the kitchen to make my breakfast. Where I was greeted by a tongue. A big, long, fatty tongue, sitting on the counter. I did my best to ignore it and continued making my tea. I was enjoying my tea, when I turned around to see my host mother roasting a head over the open flame of the burner. A big head--cow head I think. I tried not to look to close and decided this was cue to take my leave. We will be having Khash again soon, although this time instead of being hoof soup it is going be head soup. MMMmmmm.

The tongue, on the other hand, was served for lunch, in little tongue slices on a platter. I felt obligated to a least try one little tongue slice. I don’t like tongue. Later, I got the opportunity to try seom brain—served on a lisce of bread. Brain is kind of a browninsh paste, strange tasting and nopt really something I ever want to eat again, to be honest. At least I tried it. As I was leaving for yerevan this weekend, I got a peek at the still cooking khash (head soup, with vodka). My host mother lifted the lid of the pot for me to look, and there, sitting in the midst of boiling broth, was a giant skull. MMMmmm skull soup. I am happy to be Yerevan eating pizza, thanks.

I was thinking about all the strange encounters I have had while in Armenia the other day, and perhaps more importantly, about how normal these things have become. It makes me wonder what will happen when I get back to the states.

I was thinking that when I come back to America I will start chasing people down the streets and screaming their nationality at them, and perhaps, just for good measure, I will throw in a few other similar nationalities. For instance, I could be walking through campus and see someone from China—I would take off running behind them yelling “Chinese, Chinese, Chinese, Chinese,” and then maybe throw in “Japanese” every once in a while…just in case.

I also think that I will point to pimples and blemishes on people’s faces and ask “what is that?” And, if people are really lucky, and they have shown any sign of weight gain, I will tell them that they have gotten very fat. When I see people who I don’t know, or who are different than me, I will get right in their face…and stare. Intently, like I am examining a new specimen, or a species thought to be extinct. Then I will ask my friends questions about this person—in their presence as if they don’t understand what I am saying.

When my friends come over to my house, I will ask them if they would like something to eat. If they say no, I will pile huge helping of it on their plate and insist that they eat. If they tell me don’t want it, I will say “why? You don’t like it?” When I talk about people I know, I will refer to them as the “the fat one” or “the ugly one,” or whatever other defining characteristic they may have—nice or not.

On the other hand, I am getting used to being able to talk about how obnoxious a person is while they are standing a mere five feet away (or less). This is going to get me in trouble some day, I know it, but for now it is just so easy to turn to my fellow English speaking friends and say exactly what is on my mind. Of course, the Armenians often do this even when they are aware that you speak their language, so I suppose I shouldn’t be too concerned. What will I do in the US where people actually understand the things I am saying and I am expected to be polite? I am in trouble.

These things have just be come so indicative of life here that have begun to be an accepted part of the way I live. The best I can do is laugh…and write about it so you can laugh, and think that maybe someday there will have been enough foreigners in this country that we cease to be as curious of an object as we are now.

deeper musings

Today was one of those days where almost nothing went right and instead of a mound of frustration and fruitlessness, I am left with the realization of how my patience and perspective have grown. Markedly. I have left the world of the instantaneous, and in many cases, the sensible, and slowly I am learning to function in the realm of the deliberate, and sometimes, the insane. I came to the Peace Corps with Dalai-Lama-esque ideals and thoughts of deep meditation and learning of values through local people. Instead I have stumbled upon a region that has been ransacked by communism and then hung to dry by a desire to be somewhere else, where life is easy and the money flows. Western desires meet communist tendencies. Greed takes over. Idealism is eclipsed by the need to put bread on the table. There has been way too much waiting and false promises—of new hope and a wealthy future. These people have to think critically and work together to get out of this situation and yet critical thinking and teamwork have been learned out of entire generations. Rote memorization is the rule here.

I do not want to waste my time or the time of others in a two-year stint on this side of the world. And I know that it is not a waste of my time, no matter how slowly things seem to move at times. The intellectual and spiritual growth afforded to me here is beyond compare. Never again will I have the time and opportunities that I have now. My reading and writing have never been as prolific, but I need to focus my energy. This is the contribution that Armenia makes to me—there is no cosmic teahouse, no Buddhist monks, the people themselves do not necessarily inspire me to greatness or any sort of transcendentalism. However, my position in this country and my ability to reflect on my American life from a new position and new perspective have granted to me that which I ultimately search.

In testing my patience on multiple levels, in the startling realizations of what post-soviet really means, in the daily struggle, in the rut of seed-chewing and squatting and cat-calling, in the everyday monotony and redundancy of a culture-deprived republic, where even the name of the culture house uses a Russian word, I have found new life in myself, and an ability to appreciate that which heretofore was simply too a minute a detail to have time for.

I want to be yogic, to be deliberate and meditative and peaceful. I have bought books and taken classes and filled my home with candles and plants and nice music, and now without candles or plants or even running hot water, I find that I have spent too much time trying and not enough time doing. I crave the comforts of home and then have to ask myself ‘why?’ Deprivation is an integral part of the PC experience. It is one of the reasons I came—a part of this existential quest. And desire is a part of deprivation, in fact it is definitive of deprivation—necessary for the full experience. But I have to ask what type of experience I am trying to cultivate, and further, why I can’t simply let this one be. Be. I need to be.

A strange lesson to learn from the country of Armenia, but perhaps the country isn’t important. PC is different everywhere, but is it the same too? Certainly it elicits similar feelings of hope, desire, frustration, gratitude, indulgence, martyrdom, fortitude and even defeat. There must be a greater sense of humanitarianism coupled with wanderlust. A strong recipe for self-improvement through introspection, or simply a clean slate. A new lens on life. And yet the first thing that comes flooding back is everything old. It clings to me, defines me. Nobody knows me—the old me—the only know the now me. And this only comes though observation as I stutter through “please pass the potatoes” at dinner. My actions are so important—they don’t require tenses or affixes or definite articles. Still, I am not totally understood and possibly I never will be. I have to take that chance. Besides, it isn’t what I am here for. My growth and that of my community will occur simultaneously and most likely neither will be very evident, perhaps for a very long time. This is one of the lessons of the Peace Corps—to be conscious of and happy with my own strides. It is possible I will be one of the only ones to notice, certainly the only one who truly knows the blood, sweat and tears behind even the mildest of accomplishments. Celebrate. Victories like this don’t happen every day, and like a stone in a pond, the ripples will continue—well after I have gone. At least I can hope.

This is the interconnectedness of our actions and in a deeper sense, it is why we are here as volunteers. We are the role models—for ourselves, for each other, for the countries we serve. It may take the countries a very long time to figure that out. That’s okay, our personal growth will surface more quickly, and this we will be able to apply to those things we interact with for a long time to come. This is the timelessness of the Peace Corps. An organization as effective in its own country as it is in those it services overseas. It is a thankless job. It is an important one. And it takes a certain strength of character and personal resolve to make it work, to get through the slow times, and to derive benefit from the most peculiar inanities of a foreign land.

postally absurd

Today, I would like to start with a story. Once upon a time…

I went to the post office yesterday (one of my favorite pastimes…let me tell you) with explicit instructions from my sitemate James to pick up any packages that may arrive for him. James was in Yerevan, taking the GRE, and planning to return on Friday. Being the Michigan State football fanatic that he is, his parents actually send him every televised MSU football game on DVD so that he can watch them on his computer. It was especially important that I get him this week’s game because the post office would be closed upon his return, and the game had to be watched. He had even gone so far as calling the post office to specifically tell them to give his packages to me or our other sitemate because he would be in Yerevan. He had also told me, no less than 5 times, to make sure to get the package. Dually noted. I was on it.

So, there I was, at the post office, and there was his package, sitting on the desk. The temperamental post lady was back sorting mail somewhere. Some other guy gives me James’ package, at which point, the temperamental post lady came running out to tell me, on no uncertain terms, that I could not have James’ package. I argued. The answer was no. I reminded her that James had called about this. “You may not.” I told her James was in Yerevan. “You can’t sign for it.” I got fed up, threw my hands up in the air, and left. Angry.

The very next day my host mother receives a phone call…from the post. “Jill has a letter here and a small thing (the small thing turned out to be a post card…I guess they don’t have a word for that one)…and she needs to come pick up James’ packages.” What? James’ packages? What happened to you may not, you can’t sign for it? So I went, ID in hand to get my letters, my small thing, and James’ packages. When I arrived, the temperamental post lady asked me where James was. OK, for like the 17th time this week…he is in YEREVAN. “oh, so I guess you want to take his packages,” as she heaves a big sigh, as if this was the most inconvenient thing to happen in months.

As it turned out, all of the fuss was because SHE would have to fill out a small form, instead of James, and the day before she had a headache. So much for customer service, as if such a concept ever existed here in the first place. This small form consisted of James’ name and his address. Then I signed and was on my way. How taxing. What a wonderful example of Armenian business practices.

Meanwhile on the home front, other new and exciting things were taking place. This morning I was home alone, studying and enjoying the peace and quiet. This was a fleeting existence as before long my host brother came home and while I was on the phone with jams (who had just gotten back from…you guessed it, Yerevan), noticed that one of his parakeets was missing. Suddenly we had an emergency on our hands. He asked where his mother was and I told him she wasn’t home. The next thing I knew he was running around the garden area yelling for his mother. Hurriedly, I hung up and told him where his mother had gone. He called her, but like me, she had not noticed the missing bird. We looked for a while and pretty soon, thinking it was a lost cause, I went back to studying.

A few minutes later, my host brother was yelling for me. He had found the small yellow parakeet at the very top of the tallest tree in the garden. He asked me what we should do (I was at a loss) but before I could come up with an answer, he picked up a clump of dirt and threw it at the bird (bad idea for those of you scoring at home). Small pieces of garden soil rained down on us, and the bird took off (I would too if someone was throwing clumps of dirt at me). We watched it fly right out of the garden and then promptly lost track of it. It was then that I learned that this is the third time...the third parakeet that has flown away. One would think they would fix the cage. Oh well. Now we have one parakeet to keep us company, which cuts down on the noise factor considerably. Lets just say that I am not too sad. Fortunately, my host brother doesn’t seem to be either.

To add to the strange comings and goings of the week, the annual harvest festival was held in Yegheghnadzor this past weekend. It was an enjoyable event, but not the festival that the A12’s had attended last year, and thus a bit disappointing. None-the-less, I got to experience my first Armenian festival, replete with a parade and a ferris wheel. The ferris wheel is always in Yegheghnadzor, but is typically not running. I was excited to finally have the chance to ride it, but after about five minutes standing in the blob (Armenian version of a line) getting elbowed, pushed, and shoved by unruly Armenian teenagers who desperately needed a bath….like last week, I decided the ferris wheel wasn’t worth it. I am sure the opportunity will arise again. The parade, on the other hand, involved the majority of Yegheghnadzor and the neighboring villages….sitting in an amphitheater type thing. First there were some lengthy introductions by important people, some dancing by local children and some poetry screaming by a local poet. He seemed like a cool guy, very un-armenian, very creative, but I still don’t understand why Armenians yell their poetry. Maybe if I understood the language better…maybe. Next was the parade: about 10 old cars and trucks, one from each village represented in the festival. The villagers had decorated them by piling baskets of fruits and vegetables and random vines, pumpkins and other harvesty type things on the hoods, trunks and roofs. I am pretty sure they were in no way fastened or secured to the vehicles in most cases. Then, one by one, the vehicles drove into the amphitheater, made two slow circles around the cement stage and then left. That was the parade. At some point there was also a wedding party running around the stage. I am still not sure where they came from, when the actual marriage was, etc., but there was some throwing of rice or some type of grain and some dancing with a loaf of bread. Wedding complete.
We were able to buy wine by the liter (if we brought our own plastic bottles). I also bought some goat cheese, which is an exciting alternative to the non-descript, salty, white, Armenian cheese. Very salty. The remainder of the evening was spent as a volunteer get-together, with homemade pizza, and of course, wine.

volcanic adventures

I know I promised a day or two before this entry, but, well, the internet just really sucks. There is no pretty way to put it. I have been to the internet every day (either in Vayk or Yegheghnadzor) and every day there is some problem. Usually just no connection, but sometimes no power, or it simply randomly closed. Anyway, here is another late entry. I plan to be in Yerevan this weekend and I hope to have another up by then...but no promises!

It has been eventful week, replete with adventure, Armenian tutoring, and cold bedrooms. Yup, its cold now. Well, at least in my bedroom, I was actually wearing gloves earlier today. I have to take OFF layers to go outside—its sunny and warm out there. This worries me. I finally broke down and turned on one of my heaters this afternoon. It seems so illogical, when it is still so nice outside but I had to do it. I have also been trying to get myself used to the cold and to conserve electricity. When the bedroom temperature dropped below 60, however, I decided it was time. What I learned through this exercise is that one of my heaters makes so much racket that you can hear it throughout the entire house, and the other on consistently smells like something is burning. Tough choice.

On a happier note….this weekend I climbed a volcano!!! And then learned exactly how out of shape I have become while sitting around in Armenia eating bread. Regardless, I made it, and was only minorly sore the next day. We started the day at an old Armenian church, with the dome of our volcano looming in the distance. The closer we got to the actual cone, the bigger it seemed. Located near Vayk, the vegetation was similar, but with the addition of volcanic rocks, giving the area a moon-like essence. The weather was crisp and breezy, more so the higher we climbed. I strated the day with a t-shirt on while hiking and ended up with a fleece and stocking cap.

Once above the villages on our approach hike, we were awarded with spectacular views of nearly all the neighboring villages, towns and cities, as well as the mountains of Karabagh (a disputed area claimed by Armenia, but located in Azerbaijan to the East) and the newly snow-capped Mt. Ararat (located in Turkey to the west). Here, more than ever, it was evident that winter was on its way.

On the way to the summit we stopped for a rest break near some hay fields and grazing lands below the cone proper. Fresh haystacks dotted the landscape, and it soon became evident exactly how comfortable it is to lounge in the hay…and so warm. We snacked on power bars and commented on our newfound understanding as to why cartoon characters lounge in haystacks and smoke pipes. (and yes, this is representative of the educational discussions had by all peace corps volunteers in the midst of their service…)
We reached the summit by mid-afternoon to discover a huge crater, nearly the depth of the exposed cone. We circled the top, marveling at the views and the cold winds, but decided against descending into the cone via an established trail due to the late hour (and the fact that if we go down we have to come back up! Something none of us wanted to do after the grueling climb). The crater itself was mostly uninteresting, save for the remains of a church built inside the volcano. Strange place for a church if you ask me, but then, nobody did.

The descent was supposed to be an uneventful downhill walk back to the village we started from. Little did we know that in a land of seemingly rolling hills and scattered farmland, we would get cliffed out—repeatedly. Finding our way up was fairly simple compared with trying to get back to the village that we could always see but never quite reach. We finally made it to the outskirts of the village near dark, only to find ourselves on a road that paralled the village but had no connector roads with which to enter the village. We ended up walking the entire length of the village (which, mind you, is much longer than it is wide) until we were able to get to the next parallel road and walk back into the village. I’m not so sure about the engineer that designed this one…. I had nearly resigned myself to walking in zig-zag patterns up and down village roads until we were able to find the center, when we stumbled across a house with a Lexus SUV in the driveway and a satellite dish! Nice cars show up from time to time in the big cities, but to have one in a village is a completely different story. We decided that this was our house—we chose our best Armenian speaker and sent him in to ask if we could use their phone to call a cab. Low and behold, not only did this particular house have a Lexus and a satellite dish, but it had a fluent English speaker who had lived in Washington state for a while. Even more bizarre for a village. Before we knew what was going on we were drinking coffee, eating pears and walnuts (both heavily in season right now) and being offered free rides back to Vayk. Free? Are we still in Armenia?

We finished up our coffee break, much to the delight of our newfound audience (one or two Armenians sat and talked with us, the rest—nearly 10 I’d guess—lined up on the balcony above us and watched). Not only is drinking coffee a national pastime, but it is a spectator sport as well…who knew? I suppose seven Americans is a sight, especially ones who had just wandered into a village after climbing that rather large thing looming in the distance. Not only that, but we were dirty and covered in hay from our afternoon breaks. Like monkeys we hastily groomed ourselves in an attempt to look presentable…

Finally, we loaded into a Russian Jeep and a Niva ( a Russian 4-wheel drive hatch-back car thingy) and headed into Vayk. There we learned that not only did we get free rides, but we were left with grocery sacks full of walnuts and fruit. What a wonderful reminder of the capacity for hospitality and kindness in Armenia. It is not often that it comes out in a display such as this, especially for those of us who live in cities and towns (it is generally more common in the villages). This is the part of Armenian that keeps me here.

Beyond the occasional excursion up the flanks of a volcano, the past few weeks have been fairly uneventful. I have tried unsuccessfully for ten days in a row to access the internet, both in Vayk and in Yegheghnadzor. I finally had success today, but this particular entry was not ready yet. Figures. Maybe tomorrow (here’s wishing).

I have started meeting with my counterpart a bit more frequently, although I am realizing that our meetings are fairly fruitless until my language is better (she hasn’t yet grasped the concept that if she speaks slowly and clearly and uses common words I am more likely to understand…) Lord only knows what all I have agreed to lately. “Just smile and nod” has become my new philosophy in life. And, strangely enough, it usually works. I have learned when to insert the obligatory nod, uh-huh, and hmmm, in order to feign understanding. It is often easier than looking confused or saying that I don’t understand—then the speaker will launch into a rapid explanation of the word I don’t understand, using at least 6 more words that I don’t understand. It is sort of an otherworldy experience to be involved in a conversation and yet have no idea what is going on. Of course, this backfires when the statement I nodded yes to turns out to be a question, or I am asked if I understand and I haven’t followed the last twenty minutes of the conversation, save for a few words here and there. That can be awkward…. With any luck my understanding of the language will catch up with me soon.

Tutoring is actually going fairly well, now that I have two marathon sessions under my belt. We are learning the things I need to know, only at a rapid pace and for 2 to 2 and a ½ hours at a time. Its rough—especially the last half hour—but I already notice improvements. My teacher speaks English fluently and is used to working with Americans, but is also intensely demanding. In our last lesson we covered simple past, past progressive, past perfect and present perfect, all of the exceptions for each tense, and we used new verbs to boot! I walked out feeling like I had been kicked in the head. I have another lesson tomorrow, but am still working on sorting out the last one. Perhaps I can convince her to slow down a smidgen…

At least it gives me something concrete to work on. I can schedule my days around studying shifts and lessons. Throw in a few meetings with the counterpart, a trip or two to the post-office, some daily yoga and/or work-out sessions and of course, the obligatory reading, and I pretty much have a full week. Time is flying by now. I’m not sure how, but it is. I have now officially been at sight for almost as long as I was in Margohovit. PST seemed so much longer. Light years longer. Of course, I still have the winter to contend with, but I am content with my newfound schedule and ability to ease slowly into some more meaningful work while still being able to tend to myself and my personal growth. And hopefully I’ll be able to crank out a few more of these entries…if you’re lucky and the internet cooperates (that can be a big “if”)…..

conferences, meetings and macaroni

I'm not so sure about the macaroni part....

Hello! Sorry it has taken me so long to get around to posting again. Amazingly enough, I have been busy...and when I finally got this thing together there was no internet connection....for 10 days. So frustrating. Anyway, the next one is nearly done as well, so hopefully in a day or two there will be more new material. Hope you are well. J

I spent my first night in Yerevan this weekend. A new experience indeed. All the places PCVs normally stay were full so I ended up at a "bed and breakfast" with four other volunteers, which was actually someone’s apartment that had beds, and you guessed it, breakfast. The apartment had two bedrooms—the hostess slept on a couch—and I even got the luxury of a bucket bath in the morning, which was good because I love bucket baths. Right. Our host did have CNN in English, which allowed us to see some of thee hurricane coverage in a language that I could understand (most international news in this country is in Russian). My host family will translate the Russian into Armenian for me, but even then, my understanding of their understanding is sketchy at best. That, I am not sure how comprehensive Russian coverage of American news actually is....

The reason for my venture to the big city was a host of meetings for projects or potential projects that I am involved in (or potentially involved in). I now have more opportunities, seemingly unlimited time, and a language barrier. I have still not heard from my tutor, and am about to start the search for a different one if I don’t start something soon. My language continues to get better, but I am anxious to be able to actually communicate with my counterpart and to stop having conversations with people like the one that follows:

Neighbor: Will you get married in Armenia?
Me: A little later.
Everyone: Laughter
Neighbor: You speak Armenian badly.

Of course, the neighbor talks like he has a mouth full of marbles and I can’t understand a word he says. This conversation was later related to me, in Armenian of course, and I understood everything that was said. Perhaps after some tutoring he will stop coming over here to tell me how poorly I speak. Its not really that motivating.

What was motivating was the time I spent in Tsakhadzor for a post-PST counterpart conference. Not only was my counterpart able to see me interact with peers who speak at the same level as I do (I think she finally realizes that I actually speak pretty well for four months of studying...), but we were also able to come to a mutual understanding in terms of work schedules and goals, with the help of a few translators and my Program Manager. The event also functioned as a nice reunion with my LCF’s and some extra motivation to study a little harder.

I am, of course, still waiting for tutoring to begin. I have now spent six weeks trying to establish this relationship. I was waiting for her to call me and set something up, but today I received a call from one of the other Vayk volunteers, relaying the message that I should call her. Getting closer. Slowly.

It is a good thing I am patient, but perhaps I am too well trained. Armenians do not know how to wait in lines. Their preferred method is to mob whatever it is they want, while elbowing women and children out of the way until they have reached their goal. Never is this more evident than when trying to catch a marshrutnie from a bus station. While trying to get to Gyumri, I stood at a bus stop for over three hours watching over and over the same scene: a marshurtnie pulls up, loaded with people coming to Yerevan, the people literally start chasing it through the parking lot until it stops, at which point the door is ripped open and people start stuffing themselves in. Notice I didn’t mention the people already on the marshutnie getting off…that’s because it hasn’t happened yet. Elevators are the same way, people rush in without letting those already on to get off, which is not only inconvenient, but greatly minimizes the amount of room available for new riders. Hmmm. I am becoming better at aggressively pushing myself onto public transportation, but I am so trained to wait my turn that I am often stuck waiting and waiting and waiting. My new technique, developed while trying to get off the subway in Yerevan, is to check people with my backpack as they force me farther back onto the train instead of allowing me off. It works pretty well.

I am happy to report that I have finally gotten busy enough to necessitate a calendar! I have still not begun regular meetings with my counterpart but am becoming involved in more community events, meetings, committees, etc. Yesterday I had the privilege of attending the opening of the new maternity ward at the Vayk Hospital. For a small no-name town like Vayk this was a big deal, and resulted in the presence of the American Ambassador, his wife and others from the embassy, as well as several NGO’s, Yerevan based news crews, and of course citizens of Vayk (and the Peace Corps Volunteers).

I did not have the privilege of viewing the hospital before the renovation, but I have seen other floors of the hospital as well as the before and after pictures of the ward in question. I think it is safe to say that we were all astounded by the shiny white walls, new tile floors, flushing toilets and generally cleanly appearance. There is still a ways to go in terms of sanitation of sheets, blankets, etc., but this was a huge step in the right direction, funded in part by a community self-help grant through the embassy. The hospital transformed from a place that I would be reluctant to camp in, to a place that I might consider going to as a hospital…if I was in dire need ....or something.

Not only was it nice to see facilties slowly rising to western standards, but also it was encouraging to see the community and staff involvement in such a large project. The unfortunate flip side is that this tends to be the only type of project many Armenians are interested in—the kind that gives them money. I am fortunate to be paired with a counterpart who is very influential in the community (and happens to be the director of the hospital ward in question). It is my hope that through her influence and eagerness to produce change we will be able to have impact without the aid of thousands of dollars of grant money. I suppose time will tell.

enjoying the slow life

Most likely by the time I get around to posting this entry I will have been at site for a month. Time passes slowly and yet the weeks fly by. With an obvious lack of work right now (so far I have met with my counterpart once…she is very busy right now, of course, I find myself wondering when she won’t be busy, but that is a story for another time) I have been doing quite a bit of reading, writing, and even some studying and working out from time to time, although not nearly as much as I should, especially with the amount of time I have on my hands.

I finished reading Into the Wild the other day (my fifth book in this country…two were during PST—I am now on my sixth). The book somehow works its way into my soul and strikes a resonating chord within. It reawakens the part of me that brought me here in the first place, the part that searches for meaning apart from materialism, that longs to commune directly with nature, to wipe out all of the distractions of the modern world. As Peace Corps Volunteers it is my sense that we all share this longing, this wanderlust, in some form or part and all have tucked away somewhere a romanticized version of our lives abroad.

And yet, here I am, typing on my computer, enjoying electricity and hot water the majority of the time…wandering what exactly it is that I am here for. What kind of good will I actually be able to do in this society? Patience is a crucial element in this delicate phase. I am “integrating” and learning about my new community, practicing my language (lord knows it needs it), and perhaps the thing I am doing the best right now: getting to know my site mates.

I am pondering this element of my service as I once again find myself packed into the back of a hot marshurtnie, squeezed between my American sitemate and an old Armenian man who keeps spreading his legs out, thereby taking up half of my already tiny seat. We bounce and swerve as only marshutnies can, the back door, only half-closed rattling about, threatening to spill the burgeoning pile of luggage onto the winding mountain road behind us. A heavy cloud of exhaust hovers over the back seat. I think I might be sick. I drown out American pop-star hits of the early 90’s with my headphones and drift into another intellectual mini-battle in my head.

The desert landscape and the mountains looming in the distance remind me of past jobs. Fulfilling, meaningful experiences with concrete expectations and defined goals. And then I think of the amorphous, ill-defined task that lies ahead of me now. I wonder if I can do it. My supporters say yes, in fact they have unnaturally high hopes for me. I wonder what they would think if they saw me this weekend driving an old-fashioned bumper car, gleefully ramming into my fellow volunteers. Or perhaps during one of my ill-fated encounters with the post office employees. Contrary to popular belief, no matter how many times you yell something rapidly in another language…I will still not understand.

It amazes me how such a little bump in the road, such as not being able to mail a simple letter….makes me question my existence in this country. It is as if I am going along just fine, collecting all of these insanely frustrating experiences, and then when the most minute inanity of them all pops up, I lose it.

Not to worry, the day got better. I actually met with my counterpart for the second time. Now I have met for one and a half hours!! Again, my language skills are less than desirable. Although she did figure out that if she spoke slower (quite a bit slower), then I could understand and actually participate in the conversation rather than simply nodding my head to everything that was said.
“Jill, how are you”
“yes”
“How is you host family treating you?”
“yes”
“What are your ideas for vayk?”
“yes”

So it’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not much… We did have a good meeting, and I got the chance to see the orchard and garden run by the NGO. Children work in it to raise saplings and grow produce to give to the poor. It is, at the very least, a viable platform to do something with in the future. Once I figure out how to say something besides ‘yes.’

Which brings me to another accomplishment for the week—getting further in my quest to start Armenian tutoring. I have now had two meetings with my potential tutor to try to establish this relationship and now we have gotten to the point where she will call me and set something up. Sigh. Things do move slowly here.

But in the process of learning to live in Vayk, I have learned to live more deliberately, to be more patient and not to expect instant results. Sending three emails and making one phone call takes three hours. That’s all there is to it. Which, in some ways is good, as it eats up the hours in my otherwise not so busy day. I am also learning to be unproductive. A skill that heretofore I have not possessed. And really, a good one for me to practice. What is the point in being constantly busy and overworked my entire life? Slow life means more time spent with friends and family, fresher more whole foods rather pre-fab stuff, and the ability to pursue various interests in terms of books and hobbies. The lack of English television also can’t hurt here.

As I adapt to life here I can understand the difficulty that many Peace Corps volunteers face when trying to reintegrate into US society. But for now, I am going to enjoy it as I figure out how to fit my job into the equation and learn more about this society and culture. And I do think things will pick up in the future. Until then I will continue to hike, explore the region and enjoy a lull in my schedule that I don't think I have ever experienced before....

eco-camps and other assorted horrors

The past week and a half or so has been awash in new experiences, opportunities, craziness and sometimes general ridiculousness. The latter is mainly in reference to the time I spent at Eco-camps working with an NGO from Yerevan. I suppose that is as good a place to start as any….although I must add the disclaimer that because this is a website I must temper my thoughts and opinions (as well as the truth in some cases) so as not to cause trouble.

With that said, I have never witnessed the level of pettiness and mismanagement that I was privy to this week. At least not in a “professional” setting. This was mainly a problem of the Armenians from Yerevan not be able to play well with the Armenians from the village. This is not entirely surprising due to the huge dichotomy between the very separate capital of this country and everywhere else, but one would think there would still be some level of respect for ones fellow countrymen. Wrong.

The problems also extended to me and my fellow volunteers, or at least a couple of us. I managed to get myself kicked out of the kitchen and nearly out of the camp on the morning of the second day for the mere (vulgar) suggestion that if dirty water was boiled it would kill the germs… “Who are you? What is your background? Well, I’m sorry, but that’s just wrong.” Oh yeah, and I’m a terrible guest, didn’t belong at the camp, wanted to poison all of the children and blame it on the NGO, overcame my responsibilities, etc., etc., etc. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth as I had already witnessed some of the arguments these women had put forth, but as I just carried at least 40 liters of water and was watching people argue about whether or not they could use it to wash dishes, I thought I would be helpful and make a suggestion.

I spent the remainder of the week (outside of the kitchen….) watching complete chaos ensue as grown adults fought like children and one woman struggled for power over all the rest, demanding “subordination” and repeatedly outlining the power structure and indicating her status as “in-charge.” Names were called, threats were made, bridges were burned, someone was accused of throwing hotdogs….as far as we know this was a flase accusation, although hotdogs were placed on the table with a considerable amount of force at once point. Somehow, miraculously, the children still had a good time and the camp was a success in that one respect. I also spent the week with my first real case of, shall we say, intestinal problems. In a village with nothing but squat outhouses. Yes, if you are picturing an outhouse with a hole in the floor and a giant pit underneath, you are entirely correct. This was, of course (knowing my luck) compounded by the fact that I had managed to take a spectacular fall down about three stairs and sprain my ankle. Well, actually the ankle rolling cuased the fall…details. The important aspect lies in the inability to squat without pain. Ahhh…village life.

I also had the distinct pleasure of heating water in a tea kettle so that a fellow volunteer could pour it over my head on Charlie’s front porch while we pretended that it was sort of like showering. Charlie, as you may have guessed, does not have running water. Or a bathroom. He takes bucket baths in his living room, which was made difficult by the fact that there were eight of us living at his house for a week. I settled for washing my hair a couple of times and called it good.

Tatev is a true village (far more village-like than margohovit): very remote and without many of the amenities of the developed world. In places that were equipped for running water, it came for about 2 hours a day, usually 11-1. At this time people stop what they are doing to walk with buckets to the nearest water source and fill up all of the empty containers in their homes. Hot water is made on the stove and bathing, dish washing, and laundering is all done with buckets. Toilet flushing too if one is fortunate enough to have indoor facilities. I can only imagine what winter life is like in this region that certainly gets its share of cold weather. I am worried enough about winter in Vayk, which is supposedly very mild. Washing clothes by hand in below freezing weather just seems like severe punishment…

In a lot of ways I enjoyed the week-long stint in Tatev. I really felt like I was in the Peace Corps that week, living somewhere really remote and having to do everything by hand. It was also nice to cook some familiar meals with my fellow Americans-oatmeal for breakfast, quesadillas, spaghetti, and lentil soup for dinners, and no mountinas of bread, or hotdogs! Still, I was happy to return to Vayk which suddenly seems a lot more civilized. I mean, I can actually sit down to use the toilet inside of the house. I still have to fill a bucket up with water to flush it, but hey, how difficult is that?

Today I did laundry for the first time in Vayk. I had been putting it off due to fear of host family over-involvement, but all went beautifully. All they did was show me the buckets and bring me some hot water and then they left. I was so surprised, I actually waited for them to come back. My independence has been so much easier to gain here and for that I am eternally grateful. Still, my luck has not entirely changed. In Margohovit it seemed that no matter what day I did laundry, by the time I hung it on the line it would be getting ready to storm. I attributed this mainly to the fact that it was the rainy season and we were in the mountains. Now that I am living in the desert and it hardly ever rains it should be better right? Guess again. I have not seen a single raindrop or even in cloud in Vayk the entire time I have been here. This afternoon, almost immediately after I hung my clothes on the line…it started raining. I give up. The rain gods hate me.

Life in Vayk is picking up pace, although I don’t have any real work yet. Fortunately I was prepared for this and it is nice to have some time to unwind and settle in. My counterpart called the other day to say that when is extremely so we will meet next week. The schools start tomorrow (sept. 1), so I am going to go see what that is like. My tutor is also busy until next week, because of school starting, so I don’t have that to do either. Instead, I have mostly been hanging out with the Americans, doing some exploring of the natural wonders of the area, and getting organized in my room. Now, I have lots of pictures and maps on the wall, which makes it feel more like home, and since it is night 98% humidity in here, it is fairly nice to hang out in.

Anyhow, things are going well now that I settling back into Vayk again, and I should have more interesting things just around the bend. Hope all is well in the states.

Vayk, Vayk, Vayk!

I have lived with my new host family for two days now and I think it is safe to say that it is a million times better here! I had no idea that living with a host family could be so enjoyable…

On Monday the A13’s (my class) swore in as official Peace Corps volunteers. So there you have it, I started my application for the Peace Corps last September, and now almost an entire year later, I have the esteemed status of volunteer. The ceremony was very formal and official, and included all of the Ministers from the areas we will be working-education, health, environment, and business. We were also joined by the honorable ambassador John Evans, who is a big supporter of the Peace Corps (and rumor has it came back from his vacation a day early for swearing in). The rest of the audience was all of the PC staff, current volunteers, LCF’s, counterparts, etc. That, and just about every cameraman and news station in Armenia. The press coverage was impressive. All of these people to shake hands with, have pictures taken and to officially declare the end of the hazing!!! I couldn’t be happier or ready to begin my new life in Vayk.

I left Yerevan early Tuesday morning, but not before first concocting an elaborate scheme to buy a floor fan at the shuka (street market, basically). We had gone looking Monday evening (we being me the married couple that will be living in Yeghegnadzor-my neighboring town and internet point), but in over an hour of walking, looking an attempting to act out the word fan, we found ONE. And it was 21,000 AMD, which is like 50 dollars. Not exactly in the Peace Corps volunteer budget. We actually found two, but when we asked about the second one, a saleswoman jumped in front of it as if it were matter of life and death and told us, in no uncertain terms, that it was not for sale.

Since the married couple and I were the only ones traveling to our marz-Vayotsdzor, for those of you scoring at home-I thought maybe we could talk the marshrutni driver into stopping at the shukas so we could look for fans. At this point we knew that in mid-august this was a bit of a desperate mission and also a bit late in the season as most stores were soold out and most likely not getting any more. Additionally, I still did not know the word for fan, although I had learned that the Armenian word is very long, so they use the Russian word. Very common, but not so helpful considering I didn’t know the Russian word either. So, I managed to run into one of the LCF’s, who happens to live in Vayk, and was going to see us off in the morning because she had a bag she wanted to send with us. I asked her to ask the driver if he could stop for fans. Not only did the driver stop, but he got out of the vehicle, walked us through 8 or 9 different shops, priced the fans for us, explained to the clerks what we wanted, made the salespeople check the fans for working order (as you might imagine, there is not exactly a return policy in Armenia…) and helped us to carry them back to the marshrutnie. Not only that, but he acted as our own personal crossing guard, helpful, considering crossing the street in Yerevan is probably one of the most dangerous things I do (or have ever done). I am pretty sure I will never, ever have a marshutni driver as good as this one! At least I have a fan to remember him by.

Now I am here, in my new, dry, mold-free, and fairly cool (thanks to my new fan) bedroom. It is also quiet, and I have a real closet. Hangers, of course, are a different story. Its enough to make me wonder if there is a trade embargo on hangers…I bought four hangers today, cost me almost 2 dollars, which is far more than an average days pay for an Armenian. They are experts at putting at least 5 items of clothing on each hanger. I have also seen some interesting homemade ones…

I already feel much more a part of this family than I ever did in my previous situation. They take the time to actually talk to me and I have managed real conversations, even about abstract topics like religion. These are often fairly one-sided, with them talking and me nodding and saying yes when I understand, but it is enjoyable, and it is helping me with my language tremendously. I already feel like I speak much better. Of course, it helps that I really want to be a part of this family and genuinely enjoy spending time with them and helping out around the house. Life is more traditional here-the mother does not work, they have an average amount of money (or maybe even above average, but not like in margahovit), and daily activities are a little slower and involve a lot less MTV. They do have a television, but it comes on briefly in the evenings at a normal decibel level.

When I arrived I got the tour of the garden: apple trees, pear trees, apricot trees, grape vines, all sorts of vegetables and flowers, bee hives, chickens, and a turkey. The turkey takes care of the baby chicks so as to scare the cats away. The big chickens are elsewhere, laying fresh eggs. The pears are just in season, and I helped harvest nearly three buckets of them for muraba (like a cross between jam and candid fruit). This is done by one person climbing the tree with a ladder and shaking vigorously. The other three stand underneath with a tarp to catch the pears. I wonder why Peace Corps doesn’t issue helmets for this activity?

Later I got to witness one of the big events of this time of the year in Vayotsdzor: homemade vodka making! I have pictures, but this is an elaborate contraption like one I have never seen before. The vodka is heated up in one end and when it gets really hot, it travels down a long pipe that is inside a bigger pipe. The Bigger pipe has cold water moving through it to cool the vodka. It is strained into a bucket on the other end. I think we sat around for about a half hour waiting for the vodka to come out-the big event. Kind of like watching grass grow perhaps, but the end result is much more exciting. And 78% alcohol, I might add. I sampled a bit of the fresh vodka-approximately a centimeter in the bottom of a shot glass. I nearly died. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I am pretty sure actual flames leapt from my nostrils. I could feel the centimeter of vodka in the bottom of my stomach for the next hour-even after cookies and pears. Note to self. But hey, I had to try it, its part of the Armenian experince for sure.

Now as I am just beginning to fully settle in here, I am leaving. On Friday, with any luck, and pending approval from my Program manager, I am headed to Sevan for a little R and R before heading to Tatev on Sunday. I will be observing the last session of Eco-camps for the summer in preparation for my role with the program next year. Having never been to Tatev, I don’t know what the internet situation is like, so you probably won’t here from for a bit. I have really been enjoying hearing from all of you and promise I will return more emails soon. Life is slower in Vayk and more relaxed, so once I get back from Tatev I should have some more time. Until then, hope all is well stateside!

The last PST entry

The moon is pretty tonight. I have completed the requisite packing of my belongings into giant suitcases, drank wine and toasted with the neighbors, and now I am completing my evening routine for the final time in Margohovit. I am eager to move on and yet I will miss this place and the meaning it holds for this strange and exciting chapter of my life. One hurdle is complete and I can only imagine what lies ahead for me in this crazy country.

I take a few moments to reflect on the experiences of the past week-a fairly representative anecdotal account of my Armenian experience as a whole:
· The centipede that crawled into the shower with me this morning.
· Getting up early to handwash my clothes in the dark because the power was out, and then hanging them on the line only to get rained on…second rinse cycle.
· My host mother taking a break from chopping peaches to scratch her head with the tip of her knife, the same knife that gets wielded around wildly, pointed at people, used to scratch someone’s leg, and so on…knife safety? Food safety? Bah.
· Walking to Hasmik’s house to find my host father, the village mayor and a Peace Corps vehicle in the intersection by her house. To this day nobody knows what the Peace Corps vehicle was doing there. I asked my host father if it was a PC vehicle. He said yes. I asked why it was here. He and the mayor laughed. I left.
· Cleaning my fingernails after eating sunflower seeds with the neighbors. They are practically the national snack, and if you ask me, more of an event than a food item.
· Listening to 50 cent for the hundredth time….the things you never expected to hear in the Peace Corps.

The list goes on...perhaps I can continue to ennumerate at a later date. For now, suffice it to say that one chapter is closing as another begines. I am ready to start a new life in Armenia and excited about what is in store for me.

PST 12

As I watch Tina dance with her father and her cousin at her birthday party, I am reminded of the things that I love about the Armenian culture: the strong familial bonds, the fierce pride and stubborn dignity, the affection children show for their parents, even as teenagers. It is a vivid reminder of the place I really am, even in the world of degenerate housing meets MTV. The underlying strength of this country rests with its people and I firmly believe that they will achieve success. And that is what we are here to help them do.

In the midst of PST craziness it is easy to forget where I really am and why I am truly here. Right now I am living like an American in an Armenian village. This is PST dictated: hours and hours of classes, session after session on central day, projects, tests, homework and presentations. In order to succeed, we have to rely on American values of multi-tasking, efficiency and priority. But, in order to be successful in Armenia we have to be able to balance this American whirlwind with the slower paced, more social atmosphere of Armenia. Yeah, we’ll have our meeting, but first we’ll have coffee and chocolate and talk about the neighbors. The ability to act like an Armenian in Armenia will help narrow the dichotomy of cultures.

Peace Corps in itself is an experience that will probably never be duplicated or mimicked, that I could never have totally prepared myself for, and will keep me guessing for the next two years. My struggles for the past few weeks, well, 9 weeks to be exact, have taken the form of a rite of passage—one that will continue on with me during my next months and years as a volunteer. It is my sense that the Peace Corps experience contains a number of these rites of passage, one being PST in itself. The training has tested my limits in a number of ways and created growth on many planes. I am sure this is of purposeful design, intended to push the envelope and stimulate reflection and introspection towards two years of service and the commitment that entails.

I have done my share of the former and feel renewed confidence in my abilities and priorities while here. Meanwhile, our group members are dropping like flies: we are now up to four early terminations. All have their reasons; PC wasn’t right for them for one reason or another. Watching members of your group leave is difficult, regardless of the reason and has provided plenty of opportunity to reflect on my own commitment and fortitude.

I have found both to be strong, although tested at times. I am grateful to my host family for opening their home to me and taking good care of me while I am here, but I am ready to move along. It is comforting to know, however, that I am not simply being an oversensitive American—many of the Armenian staff members are in agreement that this is a bit extreme. I was actually rewarded today for being “the most patient trainee with my host family,” by the very Armenian who was there to witness me break down in tears over my stress levels last week. Although my stress came from many different sources, my host family ended up with most of the blame due to the fact that they are where I go at the end of the day. And, at the end of this particular central day, I simply couldn’t face the idea of going home to be on display any longer. The wonderful PST staff helped to temper my family’s interactions with me and I am doing my best to remain patient and enjoy the good aspects of my family for the next week and two days (not that I’m counting).

8-09

Today I am enjoying a tremendous sense of relief after completed both my Community Project and my LPI. They both went well, which was especially surprising regarding the community project. I honestly thought that our village was doomed to failure, or at the very least mediocrity. To my surprise (and relief) it was a smashing success. And, much to my dismay, I actually learned quite a bit and can see the underlying benefit of such a torture device. I hate it when that happens! Because our village is all EE volunteers with the exception of one TEFL (our other TEFL ET’d) we decided to do a follow up on our EE lessons that we had done earlier in the summer. We invited a bunch of kinds (nearly 30 showed up—one of the pleasant surprises of the day) and sent them on a scavenger hunt for trash in the village. We had devised a fairly comprehensive list, including a show, piping, a battery, glass and plastic bottles, tin and aluminum cans, items of clothing, food, cigarettes, etc. The kids were totally into it and nearly raced out of the building. They were only allowed to pick up trash from nature and the streets, and I think they ALL managed to find everything on their list, which was quite a testament to the condition of the streams and streets in the village. When the kids returned we talked about each item they collected and how long it takes to decompose, then hey drew pictures about what they learned and made a big poster.

While this is a fairly simple and common lesson in the US, I think it was groundbreaking here. They just don’t have education about the environment and don’t know any better. The kids really enjoyed the lesson and hopefully they will think about other things they can do with their trash instead of throwing it in the river or the streets. Unfortunately, the only options Margohovit currently has are the river, or burning it. People say there is a “landfill” but we have yet to see such a thing. We have, however, seen (and smelled) lots of piles of burning trash and the piles of garbage on the river banks. We have been told that “it is okay because it goes to Azerbaijan.” Hopefully we can begin to instill some environmental values and knowledge that will eventually lead to action….

My LPI was this afternoon, and I really think it well this time (as opposed to last time where I managed to forget everything, including my sisters name…). I don’t know my score yet, but I think I did nearly as well as I could have, so I am happy. Now we have a few central days of wrap-up, a ceremony for our host families, and it is on to bigger and better things! There are things I will miss about PST, but the for the most part, I am ready to move on.

PST 11

I lied, I made it to the internet today instead of next week...enjoy!

I can the whispers before I round the bend…. “Jeeluh, jeeluh” (Jill is coming), and the children momentarily stop all of their important playing on the broken down farm machinery to congregate in front of the wagon. As I come around the corner they are assembled in straight lines, bright smiles on their faces, and in unison “barev jeel, vonts ek?” (hello jill, how are you). I answer that “I am well thanks, and how are you?” To which they take their cue to EACH ask me individually how I am doing. I answer as many of them as I can while I walk and when I am almost out of sight, wave and say goodbye. As this is a daily occurrence, and while endearing, could take my entire day if I were to stick around and greet every child individually, each and every day. It is a small joy in my day to see the children, in an otherwise trying phase of my training and time in Armenia.

It seems that the longer I am here the more often I am reminded that I am here, in a place where nothing can be done simply, easily or quickly, and is often wrought with fraud or at the very least, backwards thinking. That is the thing about this country—it carries a façade of being more developed and forward than it actually is. This is in part due to the fact that it was once a developed nation (with the help of the soviet union). Now with the soviet collapse and the help of a disastrous earthquake, it is a developing nation, with a long way to go. This façade is illustrated beautifully by daily scenes of BMW SUV’s passing pig farmers, the influx of western media to the country and the European feel of the capitol city. Meanwhile, there are villages that remain veritable shanty towns from the earthquake destruction, and there are major social issues that the country is facing. Issues that seemingly don’t belong in this country on the verge of modern civilization and yet are widespread and largely not attended to for one reason or another—mainly financial.

I think the most frustrating thing I am going to encounter is the inability on the part of Armenians to recognize the potential solutions to their problems. They see the need for change but often do not accept a solution unless it is a proven success (which often can’t be proven until it is actually done…). Much of this is due to the Soviet mentality and teaching methods in the schools. People here are used to being given what they need and told how to think. In many ways, although they appreciate their newfound freedom and the idea of democracy, they are still stuck in this mentality. Concepts such as personal responsibility for village streets, trees or trash are virtually non-existent. The people recognize that there is a problem, but don’t identify it as being their problem: it is someone else’e job to fix it. This is a large part of our job as PCV’s--to bring new ideas and then to somehow convince the Armenians to change their thinking long enough to try something new. It is truly a grassroots effort, starting at the village level. This is also what separates PC from other forms of aid and NGO’s that are established in Armenia—the majority of these are concentrated in Yerevan, and although they are doing great work, the people in the villages (who need aid the most) often never see it. Armenia is actually currently the recipient of one of the highest amounts of per capita foreign aid from the US in the world, and is hosting such organizations as USAID, USDA, WWF, Heifer Project, Habitat for Humanity, Unite for Sight, as well as many others from the US, Great Britain, the Netherlands, France, Germany, Norway, Canada and so on. It also receives a large amount of monetary aid from diaspora (mainly people who fled the country during times of persecution and are now permanently living abroad). There are many more Armenian Diaspora than there are people currently living in Armenia. This is exacerbated by the lack of jobs of Armenia—there is also a large number of men who work outside of the country (mostly in Russia, but also the US and Europe for the majority of the year.

We have met representatives from many of these organizations in our endeavors these past eight weeks and have learned quite a bit about what is going on this country. Still, the amount of information coming in right now is obscene, especially with language training on top of it all. I have been studying Armenian for 8 weeks and can actually form complex sentences in past, present perfect, present, future (2 different kinds), imperative and subjunctive conjugations. I am impressed, and overwhelmed. Our first (official) Language Proficiency exam is next week already—this is where all the work for the past two months will be evaluated and recorded for posterity. Yikes!

Last Thursday I got a detailed reminder on the subject of my location. I started my day by receiving a package…without its contents. The Peace Corps was very helpful in the matter, but certainly not very enthusiastic about the possible outcome—I learned why soon enough. The PC logistics coordinator drove me to the post office, where they were very kind and helpful in telling us that we needed to go to the other post office. The other post office was equally kind and helpful in telling us the person we needed was not there, but worked in the main office. By the time we made it to the main office the man that we needed to talk to (who was very busy doing his crossword puzzle) told us that there was nothing he could do…because the package was sent in an envelope. Apparently, according to some strange logic, because it is in an envelope it is a letter, and so it is okay to open it. He is very sorry. But next time, it would be better if it was sent in a box. Note to self. Although this was probably not a huge monetary loss, it was the principle of the matter, combined with the sentimental value of the package that made it very upsetting. Especially when the Armenians shrug their shoulders and say “this happens.” Of course, they also say “not as much as it used to,” which, I guess is comforting…

Add to this the fact that I managed to accidentally delete about 50 songs from my iPod thanks to apple’s ingenious piracy protection, and I can’t get them back until I connect my computer to the internet to register it with iTunes. This is one of those things that sounds a lot easier than it really is. Just hook up to the internet…simple. So, another learning about Armenia: The first time you try to fix a problem and it doesn’t work, you still have hope. The second time, you are frustrated. The third time, downright pissed…”can I get ANYTHING done in this country??” The fourth time, you just shrug your shoulders and ask “why should it be any different this time?” The firfth time…well, I tell you after I ehar back from itunes tech support. I have a strange feeling that this problem won’t be fixed for quite some time. Sigh.

On a lighter note, we just returned from an all EE camping trip to Arpi Leech (Lake) in the Northwest section of the country. For those of you with access to a map it is north of Gyumri and close enough to the border to see both Turkey and Georgia from the tops of the peaks (a short climb form the lake, which is already high in altitude). All in all a nice destination, but truly Armenian in that the scenery was beautiful, but the lake was heavily polluted and there was quite a bit of grazing and misuse of resources. The island in the lake is supposedly a breeding ground for the endangered Dalmatian Pelican, but all we were able to see was a swirling mass of seagulls. A big mass. Regardless, it was a good weekend, and nice to be sleeping outside again under the canopy of stars, which as nothing short of amazing. One type of pollution that doesn’t exist in the majority of Armenia is light pollution, and on clear nights, the skies are mesmerizing. It was also nice to meet the other EE volunteers currently in country and talk about their projects, trials, tribulations and successes.

Actually, we got to bond with them a little too intimately during the obligatory marshrutni adventure. So, just to refresh your memories, marshurtnies are basically minivans, that have been retrofitted with bench seats close enough together to seat 15. They are little longer than our minivans, but certainly not anywhere near as large as a fifteen passenger van. 15 people is already what you might call a bonding experience, especially if anyone is especially large, or hasn’t showered recently (a common problem with riding public marshrutnies….). So, here is today’s quiz: How do you fit 19 people, 19 packs, several tents, a few miscellaneous sleeping bags, a cook stove, a PC water filter (large white bucket like contraption) and a watermelon in one marshrutni? Well, since you asked….you start at the back—4 people sit in the back row and then you pass back as many packs and bag as they can fit under their seat, at their feet, and in their laps. Then you fill the next row, placing a small wooden bench in what used to be the aisle, thus permanently trapping the people in the back row. I got to sit on this small wooden bench with another male volunteer. Fortunately, we were so packed in that the bumping and lurching of the marhsutni resulted in little to no movement of the small bench. Similarly, you pass as many packs and bags into this row as possible. The next row is filled in similar fashion, only there is no small bench for the aisle, so you pile up packs and bags high enough to form a seat. The front row seats as many as possible, and the driver and two more sit in the very front.

Now this, is a clown car. I took pictures, but it just doesn’t do it justice…. The funny thing is, although entertaining, it really doesn’t faze me as much as it probably should. It is simply another part of life in Armenia. Traveling is not simply a means of getting from here to there, it is a complete choose your own adventure novel, replete with suspense, drama, and plot twists.