I have been a terrible writer lately, but don’t worry, I have plenty of excuses. For one, I think things just plain stopped being funny or surprising and I started to think that nothing worth writing about has happened to me lately. Not true….I mean just the other day I sat in on a sexual education seminar that some of my fellow volunteers had put on in Yeghegnadzor, where we were asked in complete seriousness if someone could get a disease from NOT having sex (of course, only if they had been having sex already because they were married and then their husband died or something). The seminar was given to room full of young women, aged 16-30, all very eager for information. We passed a condom around the room for demonstration purposes (wrapped, of course) and it went around like a hot potato as if holding it too long would take away ones virginity. We had asked if they wanted to see it prior to passing it around…the answer was a resounding yes. Virginity is very important in this culture and throughout the entire seminar and older women kept admonishing the younger to “remember that you are Armenian” which was all that needed to be said. Still, one young woman wanted to know if there was a way to have sex and still be a virgin. This led us into a very giggly conversation about the different types of sex and about one’s personal definition of sex. One might imagine how that went. In fact, our translator refused to translate part of the conversation. When talking about the birth control pills we were asked what the different colors meant. One of the volunteers explained that during the menstrual cycle the pills are sugar pills to mark the days. This was translated as “during the menstrual cycle the pills have a sweet taste.” Maybe that is to help the chocolate cravings….
In addition to sex education seminars, I have had my hands full in Vayk lately. Suddenly everyone has figured out all at once that I exist, and I am literally being chased down the street by people asking for help or for grants, etc. Even my counterpart seems more into working with me. Maybe she has figured out that I more than half done already. We are currently working on a grant for (much needed) trash cans on the streets and near parks, schools, etc. We still have a few more obstacles to tackle…i.e. can we actually get the trash truck guys to pick the garbage up? How do we make sure that they aren’t stolen? (we are cementing them to the ground) How do we ensure they are actually used? And so on. Still it is a start, and with some added education and city clean-ups we might actually make a small dent in the enormous trash problem in the city.
Another teacher in the community asked me help with a project that she is interested in getting started in Vayk. As it turns out, her boyfriend is the proud new owner of an empty room (old store), which he has renovated and is looking to put to use for the community. What I was able to deduce from our meeting is that she wants a center. I don’t think she really cares what kind of center, just a center, maybe a youth center, maybe an information center, maybe a fitness center, you know, whatever grants are out there, she’ll do that one. Normally I would run away screaming, but for some reason I have decided to try and help her. I think she has a genuine interest in doing something good, she just has no idea where to start or how to go about it. I can help her with that. Her boyfriend sold his father’s car, which he had inherited, to purchase and renovate the room, so that shows me he is dedicated and has already made a serious contribution. So, now we have to decide what kind of center and start the grant writing process. What fun!
My sitemate decided that Peace Corps wasn’t for her and early terminated her service last week, which has led to whole new slew of interesting interactions with community members. It took me about 30 minutes to perfect my speech about why she left, that it wasn’t anyone’s fault locally, that it was her decision, blah, blah, blah. The host family has taken it especially hard as this was their third volunteer and they don’t understand why this time should be any different. They are a little worried about having extra food now stored for winter. I told them not to worry…I would come and eat it. They seemed to accept that. If anything, I hope that this experience allows people to think a little more seriously about the potential difficulties of being a Peace Corps volunteer in their town. I have to travel a little farther to find American friends now, but I am no worse for the wear.
The person who is fast becoming my closest friend in Vayk is an Armenian named Zara who had been an LCF (Language and Cultural Faciliator) for Peace Corps before going to the Netherlands last year to study for a masters in TEFL. She is back now, more westernized than ever, with impeccable English. She has become my new Armenian tutor and we are having a lot of fun with lessons and with talking about cultures in Armenian and English. She asked me to find a movie for her the other day because there was a phrase that she wanted to remember. Turns out that the phrase was “I busted my butt,” to which Joe suggested that maybe we should be using different movies to introduce her to American culture. Hmmmm.
Vayk is quickly cooling down…I turned on my heater on for the first time last week. Winter approaching means a lot more time inside huddled around the heater, and maybe, just maybe, a few more blog entries. I’ll see what I can do.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Saturday, September 30, 2006
camp recap...a little late
Wow. It dawns on me that the summer is over, September is nearly upon us, and I have hardly written a thing….in fact, I think the last camp I managed to write about was the first one. My apologies. Here is the catch up blog (sorry if it is boring…you can always skip).
The second camp was held in Gavar at the local special school (A special school is a boarding school for kids with various disabilities. Interestingly enough, the school was in no way accessible…but that is a tangent for a different day). The staff was kind, helpful and grateful to have a camp in their city. The kids were very well behaved and arrived with a multitude of talents that were displayed throughout the week. One boy was a very accomplished singer and would randomly start singing opera or the national anthem and everyone would stop to listen. Another brought his tin whistle and literally led the other children around like the pied piper, a third decided mid-week to bring his dudook (a double-reed Armenian instrument) and he and the tin-whistle boy started doing duets. Then, a violin showed up. By the end of the week kids were dancing and singing and playing instruments as if this were music camp instead of ecology camp. Not that it matters a whole lot—the kids get a lot out of the lessons and leave with new ideas of how to respect and care for the environment, but more importantly they get a summer camp experience and new friends and adults who care for them and attention from foreigners. That makes a little go a long way.
The next camp was in Martini, where the kids were equally as well-behaved, if not better, although perhaps not quite as musically talented. They were pretty good at belting out the camp song: boom chicka boom…most likely familiar to American camp-goers out there. Every week as I watch these Armenian kids sing the same American camp song twice a day, and beg for it even at the end of the week, I think about American children of the same age, most of whom are way too cool for boom chicka boom. These camps are difficult, cumbersome things to organize, especially in another language and a culture not used to what we are doing. And yet the kids as a whole are so grateful, so well-behaved, so interested in what we have to say and what we are going to do next that the camps become easy….or at least that much more worthwhile.
Martuni was not easy. We earned our sense of satisfaction and every single movie-star moment at the end of the week. It was somewhat of a murphy’s law camp where if there was even the remotest possibility of it going wrong, it did. Some of this was due to miscommunication, some to people not doing their job or not showing up, some to people not taking things seriously, and some to just simple bad luck. I expect for things to go wrong, just not so many things and not all at once. I spent good deal of time actually yelling at people in Armenian who were trying to rip me off or wriggle out of some commitment or who were simply not doing their job and didn’t really seem to care. Unfortunately for me, my Armenian gets really bad when I get angry and I start using all the wrong tenses in all the wrong places. This does not help my case.
I was thinking I could enter this into my tutoring regimen. My tutor could give a topic to be angry about and I could practice yelling at her. Of course I would then have to hope for these annoyances to reoccur but the reality is that they probably will anyway. According to a neatly organized little graphic the Peace Corps handed out to us during training in our first or second month we are currently in a “negativity stage.” The actions of my colleagues and my feelings seem to corroborate this statement but I can’t help but wonder if there is more to it than just the fact that we have been here for a full year and are perhaps starting to get a little sick of it.
It has been an interesting month of what can perhaps be best described as getting too comfortable here and letting my guard down. A series of incidents (of the fairly non-threatening kind that can be mostly laughed about after the fact) have lead me to this realization, and also to the process of putting my guard back up…however one does that. I am still comfortable here, and happy in that fact, but in getting to know my community and learning the language and being known to many people where I live, I have perhaps forgotten that I look like an orange in a sea of apples. Now that tourist season is upon us, I look like any other unsuspecting foreigner, and unless the perpetrator is to strike up a conversation before, say, stealing my wallet, then he/she doesn’t know any difference. Not that said perpetrator would necessarily care if I were an unsuspecting peace corps volunteer instead of an unsuspecting tourist. Although, an unsuspecting tourist probably would have a bit more cash….
The last two camps went equally well, especially considering the level of burn out that was upon those of us who spent the whole summer in this rewarding yet exhausting pursuit. The good news is that the camps are now over!!!!! And were wildly successful in all senses of the word. We were fortunate enough to collaborate with the Birds of Armenia project in two of the camps and took the kids on bird watching excursions after experiencing an interactive bird identification course the day before. I have to say I was skeptical at first. I couldn’t imagine 40 5th and 6th graders getting into sitting quietly and watching birds for hours, but then again I was thinking about kids from the US. It works great in Armenia. The kids loved it and so did the adults. We saw water birds in Martuni and forest birds in Dilijan, and in both cases the kids were correctly identifying them by the end of the day.
Hrazdan and Dilijan (the last two camps) certainly were not immune to the bumps in the road of the other camps. In Hrazdan we had to kick out a boy on the first day after repeated bouts of not listening (blatantly ignoring, actually) his counselors. As was our luck (or misfortune) his grandmother worked for the school and was helping in our kitchen. We asked her to come talk to him and he told her to “shut up.” After a few more similar incidents it was decided that it was time to go. At this point nearly every Armenian adult was in an uproar over our decision. We had already told the boy “one more chance” enough times to render our words ineffective and yet all the adults were begging for “one more chance and then he’ll go home….but he’ll behave this time.” The only reason he had stayed as long as he did was the contradictory messages he was being sent. We were firm even as we were begged every day, by new people each time until the camp ended.
As it turned out, the boy came every day anyway with his grandmother and hung on the outskirts and watched and occasionally helped us run errands. In this capacity he was very helpful, getting the one on one attention he needed, and not having to participate in organized games with other kids, which was not his strongpoint. Unfortunately, these points were lost on many of the adults we were working with, partly I am sure due to the utter lack of discipline for boys in this country, and partly due to an unawareness of any type of behavior modification other than verbal and physical abuse. Since we don’t allow either at Green Camps, our resources were a bit more limited. Maybe he would have responded to being smacked upside the head, but I wasn’t willing to find out. I can hope that he walked away from the week thinking that consequences for actions may exist after all, but who can say.
Now I am back in Vayk catching a few minutes of rest before my parents arrive for a visit. I am swamped in paperwork but welcoming the opportunity to sit and breath…. Soon I get to start thinking about what my next project(s) will be, but for now I am looking forward to showing mom and dad around Armenia and to our upcoming trip to Prague. More later…peace!
The second camp was held in Gavar at the local special school (A special school is a boarding school for kids with various disabilities. Interestingly enough, the school was in no way accessible…but that is a tangent for a different day). The staff was kind, helpful and grateful to have a camp in their city. The kids were very well behaved and arrived with a multitude of talents that were displayed throughout the week. One boy was a very accomplished singer and would randomly start singing opera or the national anthem and everyone would stop to listen. Another brought his tin whistle and literally led the other children around like the pied piper, a third decided mid-week to bring his dudook (a double-reed Armenian instrument) and he and the tin-whistle boy started doing duets. Then, a violin showed up. By the end of the week kids were dancing and singing and playing instruments as if this were music camp instead of ecology camp. Not that it matters a whole lot—the kids get a lot out of the lessons and leave with new ideas of how to respect and care for the environment, but more importantly they get a summer camp experience and new friends and adults who care for them and attention from foreigners. That makes a little go a long way.
The next camp was in Martini, where the kids were equally as well-behaved, if not better, although perhaps not quite as musically talented. They were pretty good at belting out the camp song: boom chicka boom…most likely familiar to American camp-goers out there. Every week as I watch these Armenian kids sing the same American camp song twice a day, and beg for it even at the end of the week, I think about American children of the same age, most of whom are way too cool for boom chicka boom. These camps are difficult, cumbersome things to organize, especially in another language and a culture not used to what we are doing. And yet the kids as a whole are so grateful, so well-behaved, so interested in what we have to say and what we are going to do next that the camps become easy….or at least that much more worthwhile.
Martuni was not easy. We earned our sense of satisfaction and every single movie-star moment at the end of the week. It was somewhat of a murphy’s law camp where if there was even the remotest possibility of it going wrong, it did. Some of this was due to miscommunication, some to people not doing their job or not showing up, some to people not taking things seriously, and some to just simple bad luck. I expect for things to go wrong, just not so many things and not all at once. I spent good deal of time actually yelling at people in Armenian who were trying to rip me off or wriggle out of some commitment or who were simply not doing their job and didn’t really seem to care. Unfortunately for me, my Armenian gets really bad when I get angry and I start using all the wrong tenses in all the wrong places. This does not help my case.
I was thinking I could enter this into my tutoring regimen. My tutor could give a topic to be angry about and I could practice yelling at her. Of course I would then have to hope for these annoyances to reoccur but the reality is that they probably will anyway. According to a neatly organized little graphic the Peace Corps handed out to us during training in our first or second month we are currently in a “negativity stage.” The actions of my colleagues and my feelings seem to corroborate this statement but I can’t help but wonder if there is more to it than just the fact that we have been here for a full year and are perhaps starting to get a little sick of it.
It has been an interesting month of what can perhaps be best described as getting too comfortable here and letting my guard down. A series of incidents (of the fairly non-threatening kind that can be mostly laughed about after the fact) have lead me to this realization, and also to the process of putting my guard back up…however one does that. I am still comfortable here, and happy in that fact, but in getting to know my community and learning the language and being known to many people where I live, I have perhaps forgotten that I look like an orange in a sea of apples. Now that tourist season is upon us, I look like any other unsuspecting foreigner, and unless the perpetrator is to strike up a conversation before, say, stealing my wallet, then he/she doesn’t know any difference. Not that said perpetrator would necessarily care if I were an unsuspecting peace corps volunteer instead of an unsuspecting tourist. Although, an unsuspecting tourist probably would have a bit more cash….
The last two camps went equally well, especially considering the level of burn out that was upon those of us who spent the whole summer in this rewarding yet exhausting pursuit. The good news is that the camps are now over!!!!! And were wildly successful in all senses of the word. We were fortunate enough to collaborate with the Birds of Armenia project in two of the camps and took the kids on bird watching excursions after experiencing an interactive bird identification course the day before. I have to say I was skeptical at first. I couldn’t imagine 40 5th and 6th graders getting into sitting quietly and watching birds for hours, but then again I was thinking about kids from the US. It works great in Armenia. The kids loved it and so did the adults. We saw water birds in Martuni and forest birds in Dilijan, and in both cases the kids were correctly identifying them by the end of the day.
Hrazdan and Dilijan (the last two camps) certainly were not immune to the bumps in the road of the other camps. In Hrazdan we had to kick out a boy on the first day after repeated bouts of not listening (blatantly ignoring, actually) his counselors. As was our luck (or misfortune) his grandmother worked for the school and was helping in our kitchen. We asked her to come talk to him and he told her to “shut up.” After a few more similar incidents it was decided that it was time to go. At this point nearly every Armenian adult was in an uproar over our decision. We had already told the boy “one more chance” enough times to render our words ineffective and yet all the adults were begging for “one more chance and then he’ll go home….but he’ll behave this time.” The only reason he had stayed as long as he did was the contradictory messages he was being sent. We were firm even as we were begged every day, by new people each time until the camp ended.
As it turned out, the boy came every day anyway with his grandmother and hung on the outskirts and watched and occasionally helped us run errands. In this capacity he was very helpful, getting the one on one attention he needed, and not having to participate in organized games with other kids, which was not his strongpoint. Unfortunately, these points were lost on many of the adults we were working with, partly I am sure due to the utter lack of discipline for boys in this country, and partly due to an unawareness of any type of behavior modification other than verbal and physical abuse. Since we don’t allow either at Green Camps, our resources were a bit more limited. Maybe he would have responded to being smacked upside the head, but I wasn’t willing to find out. I can hope that he walked away from the week thinking that consequences for actions may exist after all, but who can say.
Now I am back in Vayk catching a few minutes of rest before my parents arrive for a visit. I am swamped in paperwork but welcoming the opportunity to sit and breath…. Soon I get to start thinking about what my next project(s) will be, but for now I am looking forward to showing mom and dad around Armenia and to our upcoming trip to Prague. More later…peace!
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Vaytavor the water holiday
Today, Artur tried once again to kill me. This time with a bicycle. It was only a 35 kilometer ride (we are guessing) but none of it was flat and over half was off road. I was thrilled to be on a bicycle again and even happier to realize that I haven’t forgotten how to mountain bike. I was not, however aware of how far we were going (perhaps neither was he) and we were without water, food or sunscreen. Fortunately (and also unfortunately) it was vartayvor—an Armenian holiday where kids throw water at everyone in the streets, and also at passersby on bicycles… I was the proud recipient of a 5-gallon bucket at point-blank range. I suppose I should feel fortunate that only my sunglasses ended up in the ditch rather than all of me. Artur was protected by his video camera around his neck, but the American girl behind him was far more interesting anyway. Come to think of it, I must have been quite a site. An American in a tiny village past Ashotsk that rarely sees foreigners, let alone a woman clad in shorts riding a bicycle with an Armenian man who looks like he might as well be a foreigner with a little blond boy sitting on the luggage rack behind him.
It was somewhat of a wild goose chase that we had embarked upon. We were in search of an old (possibly 10,000 years) village called Astaditaran that had recently been rediscovered. Artur had heard about it and knew "approximately" where it was located and suggested we take his newly acquired mountain bikes (bought from a peace corps volunteer who recently finished her service) and try to find it. I thought that sounded like a good idea… During the ride Artur told me that during the genocide the Turks knew there was a village around there but couldn’t find it to destroy it, and thus it remains an ancient piece of history.
We made our way off the main road, passing through successively smaller villages until we arrived at a tiny old church and graveyard that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. There was a group of people there slaughtering a sheep and the children had smudges of blood on their foreheads. Artur asked around and it was determined that the remains of Astadiataran, the village we were search of was on top of/behind the large mountain looming directly in front of us. As we had already been riding for two hours without food or water we decided to turn back and try it again another day. Maybe with a jeep.
It was on the way back that I ran into water the troubles (namely being drenched), which felt good at first but as the wind picked up started to get a little chilly. Fortunately it was easier going than coming and minus the head wind and the last long gradual climb, it felt like we were back in no time. Which was good as I had just enough time to change clothes and drink some water before I was whisked off to a vartayvor picnic with Artur’s family. His mother and sister and her family were there as well as a relative from Tblisi, and it was really quite an enjoyable time to hang out with the family in what almost seemed like a normal family holiday celebration. It was relaxed, the kids all played together (and threw water on each other and their parents at times), the grown-ups talked a prepared food and talked. I was a guess and wasn’t allowed to help with preparation, so Artur’s mother walked me around her garden and showed me all her fruits and vegetables and flowers. Turns out a lot of the Russian names are the same as English.
After eating I took a much hard-earned nap and then enjoyed coffee and fruit and pastries in a kitchen that in many ways reminded me of my own grandmothers’. Later Artur’s sister brought out the Peace Corps cookbook that an old volunteer had left behind and I translated recipes into Armenian, which was, well, interesting. Apparently it worked because that evening Alla made oatmeal cookies from memory of the translation and they turned out pretty good.
This trip was the first time I had been to Ashotsk alone without the benefit and companionship of fellow volunteers (who have studied Armenian longer than I have). I was a bit nervous about the conversation aspect, wondering what we would talk about, how well I would understand, etc. It turned out to not be an issue. Artur is a very patient man who is content to tell stories and ask questions that drive the conversation without me having to say a whole lot. He knows when he is using a word that I don’t perhaps understand and is able to explain it and he understands what I am trying to say when I am using the wrong word in the wrong tense in the wrong place.
Language is a funny thing—an equalizer and a divider. I think of this a lot, especially when I am speaking to Alla whose first language is Russian. She learned Armenian as I did, living here and trying to figure it out. Thus when we speak to each other we are speaking in a common language that also happens to be a second language to both of us. Sometimes I know the word she is searching for, sometimes she helps me, and Russian and English end up scattered everywhere in between. This seems to be an experience not many Americans encounter and yet it is so common here and I am assuming the same of Europe, Asia, etc.
A few weeks ago I was riding with Artur and Alla on their way to pick up their new bicycles. We passed a few cyclists on the road near Dilijan, honked and waved, and then suddenly Artur slams on the brakes and jumps out of the car. "I know these guys," he says in Armenian "They road through Ashotsk a few days ago." Sure enough. Turns out Artur knows a bit of German as well, which I realized as he began to speak to one of the riders. I began speaking to the other in English (our common language), and when Artur had trouble with a word he said it to me in Armenian, I translated it into English to the guy I was talking to, and he translated it into German to the guy who was talking to Artur. Later that same week in Gavar an Armenian man walked up to me and my friend Katy and started speaking Spanish. Having both learned Spanish in high school we were able to understand what he was saying (miraculously perhaps) but having spent so long studying and speaking Armenian, only Armenian words would come out of the foreign language department of our brains. And thus we conversed—the man speaking Spanish and us responding in Armenian.
Artur and Alla are resilient, flexible and driven. They know multiple languages, they are talented athletes and accomplished coaches, and above all they are kind, compassionate people who only want to see their kids (both their own and the ones on their teams succeed.) It saddens me to see people with such a passion for something and such a willingness to share be beaten down time and time again by a government and fellow countrymen with little foresight or appreciation for things such as sport in their country. This weekend I watched a group of pre-teenagers and teenagers training twice a day on roller-skis on the main highway that runs through Ashotsk. They get up early in the morning and train for an hour and half and then come back and do it again in the evening. In between they train on a homemade circuit training station that Artur welded out of scrap metal. These are some of the top athletes in the country and they get no support, many of them hardly have tennis shoes to wear on their runs.
Artur starts telling me stories. He shows me a video of a huge party thrown by another family, the tables laden with expensive food and drinks. The he tells me that their other son needs ski boots because Artur doesn’t have the right size for him but the family says they can’t spend the hundred dollars because they don’t have any money. Artur estimates that they spent at least several hundred dollars on the party for the other son. They also have a computer that the kids only use to play games, but ski boots are not a priority. Skiing is probably the one constructive things these kids have going for them. I have seen it with my own eyes and yet somehow the values of exercise, hardwork, competition, and healthy lifestyles slip by unrecognized. Artur will probably end up buying the boots for this kid like he does for many of them. Not because he is rich, but because he believes in them.
He tells me of another girl who arrived at their door step for training knock-kneed and so out of shape she could barely run 100 yards. They worked with her, helped her, and she became a champion. In response the parents took their daughter, moved away and told everyone about how they themselves had made their daughter into a champion. Artur and Alla never got any credit. Time and time again, and yet they continue. Kids stay at their house before competitions so they can train properly and maybe more importantly eat properly and get a good nights sleep.
I want to help them, to give them everything I can, to shove them into my suitcase and take them to America. Of course the best I can do right now is to spend time with them, help them to get the equipment and supplies they need, and maybe someday find Artur a job somewhere else….
It was somewhat of a wild goose chase that we had embarked upon. We were in search of an old (possibly 10,000 years) village called Astaditaran that had recently been rediscovered. Artur had heard about it and knew "approximately" where it was located and suggested we take his newly acquired mountain bikes (bought from a peace corps volunteer who recently finished her service) and try to find it. I thought that sounded like a good idea… During the ride Artur told me that during the genocide the Turks knew there was a village around there but couldn’t find it to destroy it, and thus it remains an ancient piece of history.
We made our way off the main road, passing through successively smaller villages until we arrived at a tiny old church and graveyard that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. There was a group of people there slaughtering a sheep and the children had smudges of blood on their foreheads. Artur asked around and it was determined that the remains of Astadiataran, the village we were search of was on top of/behind the large mountain looming directly in front of us. As we had already been riding for two hours without food or water we decided to turn back and try it again another day. Maybe with a jeep.
It was on the way back that I ran into water the troubles (namely being drenched), which felt good at first but as the wind picked up started to get a little chilly. Fortunately it was easier going than coming and minus the head wind and the last long gradual climb, it felt like we were back in no time. Which was good as I had just enough time to change clothes and drink some water before I was whisked off to a vartayvor picnic with Artur’s family. His mother and sister and her family were there as well as a relative from Tblisi, and it was really quite an enjoyable time to hang out with the family in what almost seemed like a normal family holiday celebration. It was relaxed, the kids all played together (and threw water on each other and their parents at times), the grown-ups talked a prepared food and talked. I was a guess and wasn’t allowed to help with preparation, so Artur’s mother walked me around her garden and showed me all her fruits and vegetables and flowers. Turns out a lot of the Russian names are the same as English.
After eating I took a much hard-earned nap and then enjoyed coffee and fruit and pastries in a kitchen that in many ways reminded me of my own grandmothers’. Later Artur’s sister brought out the Peace Corps cookbook that an old volunteer had left behind and I translated recipes into Armenian, which was, well, interesting. Apparently it worked because that evening Alla made oatmeal cookies from memory of the translation and they turned out pretty good.
This trip was the first time I had been to Ashotsk alone without the benefit and companionship of fellow volunteers (who have studied Armenian longer than I have). I was a bit nervous about the conversation aspect, wondering what we would talk about, how well I would understand, etc. It turned out to not be an issue. Artur is a very patient man who is content to tell stories and ask questions that drive the conversation without me having to say a whole lot. He knows when he is using a word that I don’t perhaps understand and is able to explain it and he understands what I am trying to say when I am using the wrong word in the wrong tense in the wrong place.
Language is a funny thing—an equalizer and a divider. I think of this a lot, especially when I am speaking to Alla whose first language is Russian. She learned Armenian as I did, living here and trying to figure it out. Thus when we speak to each other we are speaking in a common language that also happens to be a second language to both of us. Sometimes I know the word she is searching for, sometimes she helps me, and Russian and English end up scattered everywhere in between. This seems to be an experience not many Americans encounter and yet it is so common here and I am assuming the same of Europe, Asia, etc.
A few weeks ago I was riding with Artur and Alla on their way to pick up their new bicycles. We passed a few cyclists on the road near Dilijan, honked and waved, and then suddenly Artur slams on the brakes and jumps out of the car. "I know these guys," he says in Armenian "They road through Ashotsk a few days ago." Sure enough. Turns out Artur knows a bit of German as well, which I realized as he began to speak to one of the riders. I began speaking to the other in English (our common language), and when Artur had trouble with a word he said it to me in Armenian, I translated it into English to the guy I was talking to, and he translated it into German to the guy who was talking to Artur. Later that same week in Gavar an Armenian man walked up to me and my friend Katy and started speaking Spanish. Having both learned Spanish in high school we were able to understand what he was saying (miraculously perhaps) but having spent so long studying and speaking Armenian, only Armenian words would come out of the foreign language department of our brains. And thus we conversed—the man speaking Spanish and us responding in Armenian.
Artur and Alla are resilient, flexible and driven. They know multiple languages, they are talented athletes and accomplished coaches, and above all they are kind, compassionate people who only want to see their kids (both their own and the ones on their teams succeed.) It saddens me to see people with such a passion for something and such a willingness to share be beaten down time and time again by a government and fellow countrymen with little foresight or appreciation for things such as sport in their country. This weekend I watched a group of pre-teenagers and teenagers training twice a day on roller-skis on the main highway that runs through Ashotsk. They get up early in the morning and train for an hour and half and then come back and do it again in the evening. In between they train on a homemade circuit training station that Artur welded out of scrap metal. These are some of the top athletes in the country and they get no support, many of them hardly have tennis shoes to wear on their runs.
Artur starts telling me stories. He shows me a video of a huge party thrown by another family, the tables laden with expensive food and drinks. The he tells me that their other son needs ski boots because Artur doesn’t have the right size for him but the family says they can’t spend the hundred dollars because they don’t have any money. Artur estimates that they spent at least several hundred dollars on the party for the other son. They also have a computer that the kids only use to play games, but ski boots are not a priority. Skiing is probably the one constructive things these kids have going for them. I have seen it with my own eyes and yet somehow the values of exercise, hardwork, competition, and healthy lifestyles slip by unrecognized. Artur will probably end up buying the boots for this kid like he does for many of them. Not because he is rich, but because he believes in them.
He tells me of another girl who arrived at their door step for training knock-kneed and so out of shape she could barely run 100 yards. They worked with her, helped her, and she became a champion. In response the parents took their daughter, moved away and told everyone about how they themselves had made their daughter into a champion. Artur and Alla never got any credit. Time and time again, and yet they continue. Kids stay at their house before competitions so they can train properly and maybe more importantly eat properly and get a good nights sleep.
I want to help them, to give them everything I can, to shove them into my suitcase and take them to America. Of course the best I can do right now is to spend time with them, help them to get the equipment and supplies they need, and maybe someday find Artur a job somewhere else….
Monday, June 12, 2006
catching up
So much has happened in the past month or so since I have managed to produce an entry that I hardly know where to begin. Time is flying by now, and is marked by milestones such as the first camp of the summer, the arrival of the A14s (the new group of volunteers in Armenia) and the beginning of the departure of the A12s. It is hard for me to believe that I have already been here a full year. It seems like so long ago that we stepped off that plane and met a mass of cheering volunteers and staff members, and yet it seems like just yesterday, I remember it so clearly. Now suddenly I am a part of that mass, and have knowledge and wisdom to offer the next generation. In some ways it is difficult to let go of our status as "the new volunteers" and in other ways it is a refreshing reminder of just how far we have come in such a relatively short period of time.
I have spent much of the last week working with habitat for humanity and helping to translate for a global village group that came to work in Armenia from one of my sitemates’ family’s church. It was rewarding work, albeit tiring, and at the end of the week, not only did we have a finished house to corroborate our efforts, but also a number of new friendships and exchanges between Armenians and Americans. Suddenly I feel more Armenian than American in ways as I am looked to by the Armenians for help and assistance in communication.
The homeowner began talking my ear off as soon as he figured out that I spoke Armenian, and in many ways reminded me of my host father—a joy to be around. I arrived at the work site towards the end as I had been occupied with the first Green camp, and found myself painting trim for the better part of the day. The homeowner asked me if I had ever done that sort of work before and gave me a quick lesson. Then he told me that if I did a good job he would take me to Russia with him to work there. He ended up giving me a "5" (the equivalent of an "A") but I don’t think I have to go to Russia…. Later when the cement was poured for the sidewalk, he drew small figures of us working and we signed our names in the wet cement. He explained to me numerous times that in ancient cultures they drew pictures of animals and of their lives in the rocks….we are doing the same in front of his house. I am about to go down in Armenian pictograph history as Jill, the stick figure with the paintbrush.
The group’s stay ended with a joyfully tearful house blessing ceremony, in which an Armenian priest blessed the home, the family and the workers. Emotion was high as the family, who had lived in a metal temporary housing unit not much bigger than a bus for
the past ten years, finally had a home for themselves and their two children. Toast after toast was given to the foreigners who had left their own homes to come across the ocean to build someone else’s home, to people who are not workers, but are here working for people they don’t know, are not related to, were not previously friends with. I have never seen as much physical gratitude, as when the woman homeowner accepted a gift of a photo album commemorating the week of work on her new home.
This, in combination with the completion of the first week of Green Camps, has effectively made up for any lack of productivity I have felt during my time here. I had spent so much time and energy preparing for the camps that I had forgotten what I was preparing for. Going back through the photos and looking at the smiles on the kids’ faces is enough of a reminder, but actually being there to listen to the singing, to join in on the soccer games and to watch the activities taking place gave me the high I need to make it through 14 more months here. The week was hard, really hard, and by the end of it I was so deliriously tired that I hardly knew what end was up, but the sense of accomplishment was enough to override anything.
The first camp was held in a small village of Ijevan, comprised of ten or so apartment buildings. There was not a single separate house in the village—an oddity in a country where villages are usually defined as being exactly the opposite. This particular village was a factory village at one point—constructed exclusively for the purpose of housing the factory workers. The factory has long-since closed and the village has become one of poor pig-farmers.
The camp drew crowds every morning of villagers curious about all the singing, chanting and shouting. The school director and some of the teachers stood on the front step of the school in the heat of the afternoon, watching us for hours on end. The kids arrived for camp two hours early every day to play with each other and with their counselors. The shopkeepers and adults in the village thanked us for coming and for giving this opportunity to their children. The mayor brought ice cream for all of the campers one afternoon and expressed his gratitude to the counselors and staff.
Each camp day begins with the children lining up in their groups and chanting their group names. We do some announcements and then sing "boom chick a boom," an old-fashioned American camp song that is now sung in villages all around Armenia. To someone who is familiar with American summer camps, this all seems very routine, but in Armenia just getting the kids in a line goes against everything they have ever learned. By the end of the week however, they do it without being asked. Seeing big American men singing boom chick a boom at the top of their lungs while acting like a flaky girl might have something to do with it….
The children of the village have rarely had an opportunity to go anywhere else, and although the village boasts a nice school, educational opportunities have been limited. The scheduled field trip for the camp was to Lake Sevan and to several well-known monasteries in the northern region. Sevan is considered a national treasure and is much talked about, but these children had never actually seen it in person. Excitement was high as we boarded a large tour bus for the long day ahead. Long bus trips, being another first, mixed with children, tend to result in motion sickness. We stopped almost ten times in what should have been a 2 hour trip at the most for someone to get off the bus and throw up. Along the way, our route took us through a long tunnel that has recently (in the past few years) been constructed. Some of the kids had heard from their parents that there was a tunnel, and one child even brought a flashlight. Their eyes were open in awe through the darkness, and the whole bus erupted in applause when we entered into the daylight once more.
The rest of field trip was full of more firsts. Many of the kids had never been to monasteries or churches…only heard about them. We saw jet skies, and a ship on the lake, BMWs and jeeps and tour busses full of foreigners. But, perhaps the most excitement of the day was a soccer game with a 5-liter plastic bottle…sometimes it doesn’t take much. We returned the kids to their village after 12 hours of pure exhaustion and they practically sleep-walked off the bus (the counselors weren’t faring much better).
The camp ended in celebration and a ceremony for parents, figure heads from the village, and other people associated with the camp. The kids had prepared skits and then brought flowers for all of their counselors and the camp staff. On my way out I was asked if Peace Corps would be back next year to do this camp again. I deferred to the local organization we were working with, who happens to be doing their first camp on their own later this summer (this was the second camp they had done with Peace Corps). Our goal is training every organization we work with to be as self-sufficient as this one and to be able to do camps without our assistance in the future. The woman who was asking sort of shrugged and said "we want the Americans to come back." It is nice to be wanted.
I have spent much of the last week working with habitat for humanity and helping to translate for a global village group that came to work in Armenia from one of my sitemates’ family’s church. It was rewarding work, albeit tiring, and at the end of the week, not only did we have a finished house to corroborate our efforts, but also a number of new friendships and exchanges between Armenians and Americans. Suddenly I feel more Armenian than American in ways as I am looked to by the Armenians for help and assistance in communication.
The homeowner began talking my ear off as soon as he figured out that I spoke Armenian, and in many ways reminded me of my host father—a joy to be around. I arrived at the work site towards the end as I had been occupied with the first Green camp, and found myself painting trim for the better part of the day. The homeowner asked me if I had ever done that sort of work before and gave me a quick lesson. Then he told me that if I did a good job he would take me to Russia with him to work there. He ended up giving me a "5" (the equivalent of an "A") but I don’t think I have to go to Russia…. Later when the cement was poured for the sidewalk, he drew small figures of us working and we signed our names in the wet cement. He explained to me numerous times that in ancient cultures they drew pictures of animals and of their lives in the rocks….we are doing the same in front of his house. I am about to go down in Armenian pictograph history as Jill, the stick figure with the paintbrush.
The group’s stay ended with a joyfully tearful house blessing ceremony, in which an Armenian priest blessed the home, the family and the workers. Emotion was high as the family, who had lived in a metal temporary housing unit not much bigger than a bus for
the past ten years, finally had a home for themselves and their two children. Toast after toast was given to the foreigners who had left their own homes to come across the ocean to build someone else’s home, to people who are not workers, but are here working for people they don’t know, are not related to, were not previously friends with. I have never seen as much physical gratitude, as when the woman homeowner accepted a gift of a photo album commemorating the week of work on her new home.
This, in combination with the completion of the first week of Green Camps, has effectively made up for any lack of productivity I have felt during my time here. I had spent so much time and energy preparing for the camps that I had forgotten what I was preparing for. Going back through the photos and looking at the smiles on the kids’ faces is enough of a reminder, but actually being there to listen to the singing, to join in on the soccer games and to watch the activities taking place gave me the high I need to make it through 14 more months here. The week was hard, really hard, and by the end of it I was so deliriously tired that I hardly knew what end was up, but the sense of accomplishment was enough to override anything.
The first camp was held in a small village of Ijevan, comprised of ten or so apartment buildings. There was not a single separate house in the village—an oddity in a country where villages are usually defined as being exactly the opposite. This particular village was a factory village at one point—constructed exclusively for the purpose of housing the factory workers. The factory has long-since closed and the village has become one of poor pig-farmers.
The camp drew crowds every morning of villagers curious about all the singing, chanting and shouting. The school director and some of the teachers stood on the front step of the school in the heat of the afternoon, watching us for hours on end. The kids arrived for camp two hours early every day to play with each other and with their counselors. The shopkeepers and adults in the village thanked us for coming and for giving this opportunity to their children. The mayor brought ice cream for all of the campers one afternoon and expressed his gratitude to the counselors and staff.
Each camp day begins with the children lining up in their groups and chanting their group names. We do some announcements and then sing "boom chick a boom," an old-fashioned American camp song that is now sung in villages all around Armenia. To someone who is familiar with American summer camps, this all seems very routine, but in Armenia just getting the kids in a line goes against everything they have ever learned. By the end of the week however, they do it without being asked. Seeing big American men singing boom chick a boom at the top of their lungs while acting like a flaky girl might have something to do with it….
The children of the village have rarely had an opportunity to go anywhere else, and although the village boasts a nice school, educational opportunities have been limited. The scheduled field trip for the camp was to Lake Sevan and to several well-known monasteries in the northern region. Sevan is considered a national treasure and is much talked about, but these children had never actually seen it in person. Excitement was high as we boarded a large tour bus for the long day ahead. Long bus trips, being another first, mixed with children, tend to result in motion sickness. We stopped almost ten times in what should have been a 2 hour trip at the most for someone to get off the bus and throw up. Along the way, our route took us through a long tunnel that has recently (in the past few years) been constructed. Some of the kids had heard from their parents that there was a tunnel, and one child even brought a flashlight. Their eyes were open in awe through the darkness, and the whole bus erupted in applause when we entered into the daylight once more.
The rest of field trip was full of more firsts. Many of the kids had never been to monasteries or churches…only heard about them. We saw jet skies, and a ship on the lake, BMWs and jeeps and tour busses full of foreigners. But, perhaps the most excitement of the day was a soccer game with a 5-liter plastic bottle…sometimes it doesn’t take much. We returned the kids to their village after 12 hours of pure exhaustion and they practically sleep-walked off the bus (the counselors weren’t faring much better).
The camp ended in celebration and a ceremony for parents, figure heads from the village, and other people associated with the camp. The kids had prepared skits and then brought flowers for all of their counselors and the camp staff. On my way out I was asked if Peace Corps would be back next year to do this camp again. I deferred to the local organization we were working with, who happens to be doing their first camp on their own later this summer (this was the second camp they had done with Peace Corps). Our goal is training every organization we work with to be as self-sufficient as this one and to be able to do camps without our assistance in the future. The woman who was asking sort of shrugged and said "we want the Americans to come back." It is nice to be wanted.
moldy moldy moldy
My lovely new apartment, which has been a haven for me despite its obvious character flaws, has lately become haven for other things, namely mold. Just as I thought I was running out of things to go wrong with this particular apartment, I returned from Yerevan a few weeks ago to find a coffee table covered in murky water and a roof that was leaking in no less than 8 different places. Acting as any competent peace corps volunteer would, I quickly straightened things up so as not to bear witness to the wrath of my landlord and crossed the hall to see if my neighbors were having the same troubles as I was. They weren’t. They did however gasp in horror and parade one after the other into my apartment to gape at the damage as well as at my computer, guitar, exercise ball, dvd collection…well, enough said.
After I herded them all back out, the father of the family called my landlord for me. My phone wasn’t working (surprise, surprise), and even if it was, my landlord doesn’t have a phone, but he knew what to do. Pretty soon, my neighbors had called my landlord’s neighbor, who sent their son to tell my landlord that my roof was leaking and within a half hour she showed up at the door. Gotta love the village grapevine—at least it comes in handy sometimes. She arrived with a homemade ladder and work clothes under her going-out clothes, lest anyone know that she was about to do some work. After stripping off the first layer, and taking her own shoes off in exchange for my Birkenstocks without my noticing (still a little bitter) she climbed up on the roof. Just like that, I didn’t even know where she had gone as my neighbors were insisting that I eat, eat, eat.
After my meal I followed her up the ladder and found her scurrying around on the actual rooftop. There is an open space between my roof and the roofing of the building where one can walk around, and little exits to the actual roof, which is where I found her, rearranging the shingles. Apparently somebody moved them to install a satellite dish. Go figure. The first thought that entered my mind when I climbed into the open area above my apartment was "there’s an awful lot of daylight up here." I helped my landlord to fix some of that, but I can only wonder how long it will take to become a problem again.
We returned to my apartment where I got a brief lecture about how I should have called sooner (apparently 10 minutes off the marshrutnie wasn’t soon enough). Not that she listens to a word I have ever said. Then she left me her daughters cell phone number and took off, leaving me with a very damp apartment. I opened windows and ran fans and prepared to leave for Yerevan again in two days, very concerned about what I would find upon my next return.
My worries were justified.
What I found was an apartment just as damp as I left it, and a brand new colony of mold about 2 feet by one foot. It had grown into a white fluffy carpet on the ceiling and had begun to fall on the floor and furniture, creating a thick layer of dust around the room. So, being a self-sufficient volunteer, I decided to clean it. I tied a handkerchief around my face and put on my sunglasses and brushed it all down, scrubbed the ceiling with bleach, swept up the dust and mopped and bleached the entire room. I was feeling pretty good about my efforts and then two days later it grew back. Feeling slightly less self-sufficient, I went to my neighbors house and asked them to call my landlord (phone still not working). They, of course, wanted to know why, and I was able to fairly successfully explain it to them so that they understand. A few minutes later, after the grapevine had taken effect, my landlord called back, demanding to know what the problem was. I did my best to explain it again and eventually ended up handing the phone over to my neighbors who told my landlord what I had told them.
Upon arrival, she took one look at the mold, began laughing and told me that it was not mold. Then she became very condescending and told me "not to be afraid, mold is only green." I had no idea what to say to this logic, and while I stammered, she began knocking it down from the ceiling, creating a huge dust cloud and white layer all over the room once again. Not what I had in mind. While she swept she told me her husband was coming back from Russia soon (she didn’t know when soon was) and that he was going to remodel the apartment when he returned.
Having exhausted my options in Vayk, I went to Yerevan, researched mold on the internet, and talked to our doctors. I showed them some digital pictures I had taken, and they agreed with me that it was mold. We arranged for one of the PC staff members and a driver to come to my house this week and talk to my landlord. This was one of my more brilliant moves. I called my landlord to tell her they were coming. "You told them?!?!" She says in shock. "Ok, fine, I’ll be there."
I rode in the PC land cruiser to my landlord’s house to pick her up. After the obligatory offers of coffee and fruit, we managed to get her into the vehicle and buckled in. It can be struggle to get people who are not used to seatbelts and never use them in day to day to life to understand that they are required in PC vehicles. We arrived at my apartment where the spiel began
"whenever Jill calls I come and fix the problem, there aren’t any problems here, just this one little one, that’s it."
"This isn’t mold, you are Armenian, you will understand, she doesn’t. Mold is only Green."
"maybe she just doesn’t want to live here. She wants to move."
Fortunately, there was someone with a bit more fluency in the language than myself to combat all of this. She was eventually convinced (or simply gave in) that it was mold and that she needed to fix it or I was leaving. She was given two days to find a worker and until the end of the month to have it fixed. She is here right now methodically knocking chunks down off the ceiling, so I think we are off to a good start.
Before she left, she decided she had one more issue to attend to and dragged me into the back bedroom. I knew what was coming and asked the program manager to accompany me. Sure enough, she had decided once again to make a big deal out of the fact that the blankets were wrinkled on the beds. At this point I started yelling at her, which was probably quite amusing as it does nothing good for my language skills. Then I turned to our staff member and switched to English. I explained that she always asks this question whenever she comes and that I don’t understand what the problem is. She says to him "you are Armenian, you will understand (the theme for the day, I suppose) we are Armenian, we like things to be pretty." Apparently large colonies of mold growing in your living room is okay, but wrinkled blankets are just out of the question. My staff member savior told her that I live here now (novel concept) and that when she lives here again she can make the blankets pretty. Then he told her to leave.
After I herded them all back out, the father of the family called my landlord for me. My phone wasn’t working (surprise, surprise), and even if it was, my landlord doesn’t have a phone, but he knew what to do. Pretty soon, my neighbors had called my landlord’s neighbor, who sent their son to tell my landlord that my roof was leaking and within a half hour she showed up at the door. Gotta love the village grapevine—at least it comes in handy sometimes. She arrived with a homemade ladder and work clothes under her going-out clothes, lest anyone know that she was about to do some work. After stripping off the first layer, and taking her own shoes off in exchange for my Birkenstocks without my noticing (still a little bitter) she climbed up on the roof. Just like that, I didn’t even know where she had gone as my neighbors were insisting that I eat, eat, eat.
After my meal I followed her up the ladder and found her scurrying around on the actual rooftop. There is an open space between my roof and the roofing of the building where one can walk around, and little exits to the actual roof, which is where I found her, rearranging the shingles. Apparently somebody moved them to install a satellite dish. Go figure. The first thought that entered my mind when I climbed into the open area above my apartment was "there’s an awful lot of daylight up here." I helped my landlord to fix some of that, but I can only wonder how long it will take to become a problem again.
We returned to my apartment where I got a brief lecture about how I should have called sooner (apparently 10 minutes off the marshrutnie wasn’t soon enough). Not that she listens to a word I have ever said. Then she left me her daughters cell phone number and took off, leaving me with a very damp apartment. I opened windows and ran fans and prepared to leave for Yerevan again in two days, very concerned about what I would find upon my next return.
My worries were justified.
What I found was an apartment just as damp as I left it, and a brand new colony of mold about 2 feet by one foot. It had grown into a white fluffy carpet on the ceiling and had begun to fall on the floor and furniture, creating a thick layer of dust around the room. So, being a self-sufficient volunteer, I decided to clean it. I tied a handkerchief around my face and put on my sunglasses and brushed it all down, scrubbed the ceiling with bleach, swept up the dust and mopped and bleached the entire room. I was feeling pretty good about my efforts and then two days later it grew back. Feeling slightly less self-sufficient, I went to my neighbors house and asked them to call my landlord (phone still not working). They, of course, wanted to know why, and I was able to fairly successfully explain it to them so that they understand. A few minutes later, after the grapevine had taken effect, my landlord called back, demanding to know what the problem was. I did my best to explain it again and eventually ended up handing the phone over to my neighbors who told my landlord what I had told them.
Upon arrival, she took one look at the mold, began laughing and told me that it was not mold. Then she became very condescending and told me "not to be afraid, mold is only green." I had no idea what to say to this logic, and while I stammered, she began knocking it down from the ceiling, creating a huge dust cloud and white layer all over the room once again. Not what I had in mind. While she swept she told me her husband was coming back from Russia soon (she didn’t know when soon was) and that he was going to remodel the apartment when he returned.
Having exhausted my options in Vayk, I went to Yerevan, researched mold on the internet, and talked to our doctors. I showed them some digital pictures I had taken, and they agreed with me that it was mold. We arranged for one of the PC staff members and a driver to come to my house this week and talk to my landlord. This was one of my more brilliant moves. I called my landlord to tell her they were coming. "You told them?!?!" She says in shock. "Ok, fine, I’ll be there."
I rode in the PC land cruiser to my landlord’s house to pick her up. After the obligatory offers of coffee and fruit, we managed to get her into the vehicle and buckled in. It can be struggle to get people who are not used to seatbelts and never use them in day to day to life to understand that they are required in PC vehicles. We arrived at my apartment where the spiel began
"whenever Jill calls I come and fix the problem, there aren’t any problems here, just this one little one, that’s it."
"This isn’t mold, you are Armenian, you will understand, she doesn’t. Mold is only Green."
"maybe she just doesn’t want to live here. She wants to move."
Fortunately, there was someone with a bit more fluency in the language than myself to combat all of this. She was eventually convinced (or simply gave in) that it was mold and that she needed to fix it or I was leaving. She was given two days to find a worker and until the end of the month to have it fixed. She is here right now methodically knocking chunks down off the ceiling, so I think we are off to a good start.
Before she left, she decided she had one more issue to attend to and dragged me into the back bedroom. I knew what was coming and asked the program manager to accompany me. Sure enough, she had decided once again to make a big deal out of the fact that the blankets were wrinkled on the beds. At this point I started yelling at her, which was probably quite amusing as it does nothing good for my language skills. Then I turned to our staff member and switched to English. I explained that she always asks this question whenever she comes and that I don’t understand what the problem is. She says to him "you are Armenian, you will understand (the theme for the day, I suppose) we are Armenian, we like things to be pretty." Apparently large colonies of mold growing in your living room is okay, but wrinkled blankets are just out of the question. My staff member savior told her that I live here now (novel concept) and that when she lives here again she can make the blankets pretty. Then he told her to leave.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Miracles Happen
First of all, a huge thank you to everyone who helped out, or thought about helping out. An amazing thing happened this weekend...I met an Australian Armenian at the hostel where I was staying in Yerevan. He heard our story and agreed to fund the rest of the project. The website is not reflecting the donation yet, but we are fairly certain that it will go through. Sometimes things just work out....
I am very excited to know that this project will get off the ground this year. Repeatedly, volunteers have cited camps as some of their most meaningful work during their service, and thus far I completely agree. We completed a succesful training this past weekend and were able to send full sets of camp supplies to five communities in Armenia. Camps will begin in less than a month! I'll keep you updated on our progress over the course of the summer.
Once again I appreciate everyone's help and support both in the project and personally. I wish you all the best!
I am very excited to know that this project will get off the ground this year. Repeatedly, volunteers have cited camps as some of their most meaningful work during their service, and thus far I completely agree. We completed a succesful training this past weekend and were able to send full sets of camp supplies to five communities in Armenia. Camps will begin in less than a month! I'll keep you updated on our progress over the course of the summer.
Once again I appreciate everyone's help and support both in the project and personally. I wish you all the best!
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Please Help!
I am in the throes of preparing for 5 separate ecology-based day camps for Peace Corps Armenia. The camps will begin in June and we have already completed the trainings and started purchasing supplies etc. Half of our funding comes from a Peace Corps Partnership Grant, which I wrote and was posted to the web earlier this Spring. We have still have approximately 1500 dollars left to raise and we need to do so in the next two weeks. I am starting to get a little worried... Any amount of money that you would feel comfortable donating would really help to ensure that these summer camps make it off the ground this year. As part of each camp, 40 children are provided with education about the environment in a novel setting (camps aren't very common here) and they are provided activity materials, nutritious meals and t-shirts (also not always so common).
Donation, is quick and easy, web-based and tax deductible. You decide how much to contribute and do it yourself via credit card.
Go to www.peacecorps.gov
Click in the lower left corner
Select
Select "Green Camps, Armenia"
Thank you in advance for your generosity. Please let me know if you have any questions. There is an additional write-up about the camps on the website, and I am happy to send more information your way.
The following is a copy of the Concept Sheet:
Green Camps
Peace Corps Armenia
The Green Camp program is an annual summer camp for Armenian children focusing on the exploration and study of the natural world. Camps are conducted in the Armenian Language and are located in traditionally underserved regions of the country. Through structured environmental education activities, Peace Corps Volunteers and local organizations provide children with:
· a safe and positive outdoor experience
· exposure to the local natural environment
· an introduction to basic ecological concepts
· new methods to explore the environment
· an opportunity to practice environmentally-conscious critical-thinking and decision- making skills
· team-building and leadership skills development
The program also serves as a training in which Peace Corps Volunteers teach local organizations how to design and implement a summer camp. These local organizations in turn commit to providing continuing environmental education in their communities. This year Green Camps will reach over 200 Armenian children, and over 40 adults.
Mission
To raise awareness of the diverse relationships between human beings and their natural environments, with the intent of increasing appreciation for and understanding of the flora, fauna and natural systems of Armenia, thereby creating a heightened sense of personal and community responsibility towards the protection of the natural environment.
Goals
1. To raise awareness about local environmental problems and inspire communities to find appropriate solutions.
2. To educate children about local ecology and increase their appreciation for the environment.
3. To provide local organizations and community members with skills and knowledge to conduct effective environmental education.
4. To encourage and show the benefits of volunteerism within local communities.
5. To reach out to traditionally underserved communities in rural regions of Armenia.
6. To develop friendships between Peace Corps Volunteers, local volunteers, and children.
Camp Specifics
Size: 40 children, 17 staff
Age Group: Campers 11-13 years old, Counselors 18 and up
Duration: 5 days, 6-8 hours per day
Number of camps: 5 per summer (including 1 training camp)
Short History:
Green Camps have been in existence in Armenia as a Peace Corps project since 2001, when the program was started under the moniker of Eco-camps. The first year there were three camps held in a 3-day/2-night overnight format. In 2002 the number of camps was increased to four, one of which was carried out as a day camp. In 2003, there were four fully-funded sites and one partially-funded site. Beginning in 2004, Peace Corps began working with a Yerevan-based environmental NGO called Women for a Green Way for Generations, and the name was changed to Eco-Adventure Camps. This partnership lasted 2 years, with five camp sites each summer. With this organization well-versed in the management of a summer camp, we have shifted our focus this year to locally-based environmental NGO’s, with the intent of providing training and guidance this year so that next year these organizations can carry out youth-focused environmental activities in their own communities. Once again, the change in structure has brought a change names--hence, 2006 Green Camps.
In an effort to reach as many young Armenians as possible, Green Camps have been located in towns and villages throughout Armenia. These locations have included: Martuni, Dilijan, Yegheghnadzor, Sevan, Tatev, Vanadzor, Voratan, Berd, Stepanavan, Urtzadzor, Gharusali, Goris, Akunk, Ijevan, Artik and Navor. This year, camps will take place in Martuni, Harzdan, Dilijan, Gavar, and Ijevan.
How you can help:
We need to raise $3,265 by May 10, 2006. This sum is in addition to $2,000 already pledged in support from the Center on Agriculture and Rural Development in Armenia (CARD), formerly USDA. Approximately $3,000 worth of support is also coming from the local communities themselves. The camp budget goes toward nutritionally balanced meals for the campers, activity and sports supplies, training materials for local organizations, including a comprehensive camp manual in English and Armenian, and t-shirts for each camper.
Donations can be made through the Peace Corps Partnership Program, located at www.peacecorps.gov
Choose the link for the Peace Corps Partnership Program, from there you can search by country (Armenia) and project name (Green Camps). The link should be active by mid-April, 2006.
Donations are accepted via credit card, are tax deductible, and a transmitted via a secure forum. Once our goal is reached, a check will be sent to the Peace Corps Volunteers managing the program.
Your help is greatly appreciated as we strive together toward a brighter future in Armenia!
Contact:
Jill Overholt, PC Volunteer, 2006 Green Camp Director
jroverho@yahoo.com
“Eco Adventure was one of the most satisfying experiences I’ve had as a Peace Corps Volunteer. This was one of a few times during my service that I was sure we were making a difference; I know our campers learned so much about their environment and changed their attitudes about nature. I really hope the directors of Eco Adventure focus on capacity building at the local level so that these camps will become sustainable. With the experience they gained at Eco Adventure, my counterpart organization would love to conduct camps on its own. Peace Corps can participate in the creation of environmental camps all over Armenia. Let’s take advantage of this opportunity!”
Morgan Ruelle, A12 Peace Corps Volunteer
Peace Corps Armenia
The Green Camp program is an annual summer camp for Armenian children focusing on the exploration and study of the natural world. Camps are conducted in the Armenian Language and are located in traditionally underserved regions of the country. Through structured environmental education activities, Peace Corps Volunteers and local organizations provide children with:
· a safe and positive outdoor experience
· exposure to the local natural environment
· an introduction to basic ecological concepts
· new methods to explore the environment
· an opportunity to practice environmentally-conscious critical-thinking and decision- making skills
· team-building and leadership skills development
The program also serves as a training in which Peace Corps Volunteers teach local organizations how to design and implement a summer camp. These local organizations in turn commit to providing continuing environmental education in their communities. This year Green Camps will reach over 200 Armenian children, and over 40 adults.
Mission
To raise awareness of the diverse relationships between human beings and their natural environments, with the intent of increasing appreciation for and understanding of the flora, fauna and natural systems of Armenia, thereby creating a heightened sense of personal and community responsibility towards the protection of the natural environment.
Goals
1. To raise awareness about local environmental problems and inspire communities to find appropriate solutions.
2. To educate children about local ecology and increase their appreciation for the environment.
3. To provide local organizations and community members with skills and knowledge to conduct effective environmental education.
4. To encourage and show the benefits of volunteerism within local communities.
5. To reach out to traditionally underserved communities in rural regions of Armenia.
6. To develop friendships between Peace Corps Volunteers, local volunteers, and children.
Camp Specifics
Size: 40 children, 17 staff
Age Group: Campers 11-13 years old, Counselors 18 and up
Duration: 5 days, 6-8 hours per day
Number of camps: 5 per summer (including 1 training camp)
Short History:
Green Camps have been in existence in Armenia as a Peace Corps project since 2001, when the program was started under the moniker of Eco-camps. The first year there were three camps held in a 3-day/2-night overnight format. In 2002 the number of camps was increased to four, one of which was carried out as a day camp. In 2003, there were four fully-funded sites and one partially-funded site. Beginning in 2004, Peace Corps began working with a Yerevan-based environmental NGO called Women for a Green Way for Generations, and the name was changed to Eco-Adventure Camps. This partnership lasted 2 years, with five camp sites each summer. With this organization well-versed in the management of a summer camp, we have shifted our focus this year to locally-based environmental NGO’s, with the intent of providing training and guidance this year so that next year these organizations can carry out youth-focused environmental activities in their own communities. Once again, the change in structure has brought a change names--hence, 2006 Green Camps.
In an effort to reach as many young Armenians as possible, Green Camps have been located in towns and villages throughout Armenia. These locations have included: Martuni, Dilijan, Yegheghnadzor, Sevan, Tatev, Vanadzor, Voratan, Berd, Stepanavan, Urtzadzor, Gharusali, Goris, Akunk, Ijevan, Artik and Navor. This year, camps will take place in Martuni, Harzdan, Dilijan, Gavar, and Ijevan.
How you can help:
We need to raise $3,265 by May 10, 2006. This sum is in addition to $2,000 already pledged in support from the Center on Agriculture and Rural Development in Armenia (CARD), formerly USDA. Approximately $3,000 worth of support is also coming from the local communities themselves. The camp budget goes toward nutritionally balanced meals for the campers, activity and sports supplies, training materials for local organizations, including a comprehensive camp manual in English and Armenian, and t-shirts for each camper.
Donations can be made through the Peace Corps Partnership Program, located at www.peacecorps.gov
Choose the link for the Peace Corps Partnership Program, from there you can search by country (Armenia) and project name (Green Camps). The link should be active by mid-April, 2006.
Donations are accepted via credit card, are tax deductible, and a transmitted via a secure forum. Once our goal is reached, a check will be sent to the Peace Corps Volunteers managing the program.
Your help is greatly appreciated as we strive together toward a brighter future in Armenia!
Contact:
Jill Overholt, PC Volunteer, 2006 Green Camp Director
jroverho@yahoo.com
“Eco Adventure was one of the most satisfying experiences I’ve had as a Peace Corps Volunteer. This was one of a few times during my service that I was sure we were making a difference; I know our campers learned so much about their environment and changed their attitudes about nature. I really hope the directors of Eco Adventure focus on capacity building at the local level so that these camps will become sustainable. With the experience they gained at Eco Adventure, my counterpart organization would love to conduct camps on its own. Peace Corps can participate in the creation of environmental camps all over Armenia. Let’s take advantage of this opportunity!”
Morgan Ruelle, A12 Peace Corps Volunteer
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Georgia, The Country
Georgia is different enough to be considered a vacation and yet similar enough to be familiar. The joys of being in a larger, more developed, more colorful, more modern city, mixed with the realities of increased petty crime and a decreased sense of security. I wavered between jealousy of the Georgian peace corps volunteers and an actual sense of appreciative longing for my home away from home.
I left for Georgia from Gyumri, after spending the weekend in Ashotsk. I had discussed my impending vacation with Artur, who managed to sufficiently scare me about the security situation in Tbilisi. With an immediate look of concern, he began interrogating me.
“Are you going alone?”
“No,”
“Who are you going with?”
“Another volunteer.”
“A boy?”
“Ummm…..yes,”
“Oh, good.”
That seemed to settle matters, but he still warned me to carry my backpack on my front because people will cut it open with razor blades and steal the contents as they fall out. I didn’t actually witness any crimes of this or any other nature, but I did meet a few Georgian volunteers who had been the victims of petty crime in the capital. It turned out to be no different from any other large city I have been to, only with the small exception that I couldn’t speak the language or read any of the signs… Still, basic city sense and some guidance from the PC Georgia office got us safely through the trip.
We traveled via marshurtnie—it took us about 5 and a half hours to get there from Gyumri, the return trip proved much longer. The scenery was enjoyable, and the trip itself was relatively painless. When we arrived at the border, we (the Americans) were told to get out and walk to a small white house located in the border no-mans land. The road was mostly deserted, and feeling like we should have some Deliverance music to accompany us, we slipped into the little white shack. Once inside we began speaking Armenian and simply became a point of interest…what are we doing in Armenia? Where do we live? Why are we going to Georgia? We got our stamps and were quickly across the border in Georgia.
The marshurtnie drivers, although Georgian, spoke Armenian, and were kind enough to find us an Armenian speaking taxi driver once we arrived in the city. This is where our language luck ended. We had made reservations at a guesthouse in advance, fortunately, but had banked on the taxi driver knowing where it was, or at least knowing the street. Bad assumption. After driving around the city in a few different wrong directions, James was able to direct him using the small, poorly-drawn map from our guidebook. We found the place, but it had no sign or any indication that it was a guesthouse. We knocked anyway, and a nice woman who spoke nothing but Russian ushered us inside. James had studied Russian for a few months in Vayk and managed to have a very basic conversation with our host, which reminded me quite a bit of conversing with my host family during PST.
Our next task of the day was to find the Peace Corps office, which we had planned to visit first except that the taxi driver didn’t know that street either. We knew that it was very close to our guest house and decided to ask. The directions we received involved hand gestures, grunting, and the word mountain, from which we ascertained that we needed to turn left, left, and then right, and something about a mountain… We thought maybe we should call the Peace Corps and have them give us directions, so we asked for a phone. The woman thought we were asking for the phone number and kept saying she didn’t have it. Eventually she called her nephew, who spoke just enough English to tell us that we needed to turn left, left, go up some stairs (this must be our mountain), and then turn right. We decided to try it. We had to ask for directions twice (enter James and minimal Russian skills), and we discovered that the next door neighbors of the Peace Corps didn’t even know that the building existed, but we found it successfully without too much more adventure.
After jealously oogling their nice, big office, with showers for the volunteers, we headed out to dinner with a few Georgian PC volunteers. They took us to Korean barbecue (a Georgian specialty…right). We get enough Georgian food in Armenia that we didn’t mind too much to be missing out on Georgian food in Georgia. For the sake of principle, we did eat Georgian on our very last night at the Hingali House. The rest of the time was everything else that we can’t get in Armenia—McDonalds, good beer, Korean food, etc. After all, we were on vacation. I never thought I would be that excited about McDonalds, but we want what we can’t have, therefore, I wanted McDonalds. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that we actually ate there twice in three days. Just pretend you didn’t read that part—two visits to McDonalds in 10 months isn’t so bad…right? They just happened to be two days in a row.
Three days was just enough time to see the sights of the city, do a few walking tours, and see a lot of churches—Georgia and Armenian both have more churches than most normal people can stand to visit. I think we went inside 9 churches on the first day before we decided to just look at them from the outside and move onto other things. Ironically, one of my favorite churches to visit was the Armenian church (like I don’t get enough of that). As much of a sight as we were to begin with, simply being American tourists in Georgia, we were even more of a sight as Armenian-speaking American tourists in Georgia. Needless to say, the woman at the little candle booth was just thrilled with us when we began to speak to her. Possibly, we were just as thrilled to finally be able to speak to someone with relative ease. When speaking in Armenian becomes the thing I do with relative ease, I know I am outside of my league…. We also visited the Turkish sulfur baths, which are not Turkish, they are Georgian. Regardless of their nationality, it was an enjoyable, relaxing experience. We opted for the private room over public nudity, but maybe next time I will be braver.
On our last full day we decided to go to the train/marshurtnie station to try and find our marshurtnie. We were told the Yerevan marshrutnie leave every morning, from 8-1 when they fill up. We wanted to make sure we could find it so that in the morning we weren’t frantically running around the city trying to explain in broken Russian that we wanted to go to Armenia. It was a good thing we went early. The station was huge. We wondered around for almost an hour looking for a marshrutnie with a Yerevan sign (in Russian, of course) until we decided to ask someone for help. We picked out an older woman shopkeeper, because she looked friendly, and James began to prep his Russian. He explained that we wanted to go to Yerevan. Somehow, in the midst of their stilted Russian conversation I picked up that the woman spoke Armenian! I am still not sure exactly how I figured that out, but I began to speak in Armenian and she began to get very excited, and she told us exactly where our marshurtnie was located and to come find her if we had any more problems. Then the questions…why are you here? Why do you speak Armenian? What do you do there? I have never been so relieved or happy to be answering those questions.
The next morning we arrived bright and early at 9am ready to head back to Yerevan. We were promptly informed that that marshrutnie would not be leaving until 1pm. Great. Four more hours to sit in the marshrutnie without it even moving. We were also informed that the ride was more expensive than we had been told. Since we had wanted to leave without exchanging money, we spent everything except the exact marshutnie fare. At least a trip to the ATM would help pass the time. While withdrawing money we found ourselves surrounded by a group of women who had obviously never seen such a profound thing as a machine that gives you money (this makes me wonder if they have been walking around Tblisi with their eyes closed, but that is a different story). I have accepted the fact that ATM etiquette is not what it is in the US on this side of the world (i.e. if you give the person using the machine any space at all other people will assume you are not waiting and will cut in front of you) but I have never had an actual audience of people all craning their necks to see what will happen next. A funny thing happened...I entered my pin code, and money came out. Just like magic.
The remainder of the ride home (once we got started) was slow, but not too painful. That is, with the exception of a random hour long stop for the drivers to eat dinner, without informing anyone in the marshutnie that they were doing so. Border crossing was actually more difficult going back into Armenia than leaving, possibly because we were at a bigger border crossing than the small village station on a dirt road where we entered. While waiting in various lines to give people my passport repeatedly, I entertained myself by watching the bird flu “precautions.” By precautions, I mean a man in a white haz-mat suit with no gloves or head protection, spraying some sort of substance on the outsides of each tire. Thorough, I know. Its okay though, Armenia has people stationed at the borders shooting the birds as they fly in—there’s no bird flu here.
I left for Georgia from Gyumri, after spending the weekend in Ashotsk. I had discussed my impending vacation with Artur, who managed to sufficiently scare me about the security situation in Tbilisi. With an immediate look of concern, he began interrogating me.
“Are you going alone?”
“No,”
“Who are you going with?”
“Another volunteer.”
“A boy?”
“Ummm…..yes,”
“Oh, good.”
That seemed to settle matters, but he still warned me to carry my backpack on my front because people will cut it open with razor blades and steal the contents as they fall out. I didn’t actually witness any crimes of this or any other nature, but I did meet a few Georgian volunteers who had been the victims of petty crime in the capital. It turned out to be no different from any other large city I have been to, only with the small exception that I couldn’t speak the language or read any of the signs… Still, basic city sense and some guidance from the PC Georgia office got us safely through the trip.
We traveled via marshurtnie—it took us about 5 and a half hours to get there from Gyumri, the return trip proved much longer. The scenery was enjoyable, and the trip itself was relatively painless. When we arrived at the border, we (the Americans) were told to get out and walk to a small white house located in the border no-mans land. The road was mostly deserted, and feeling like we should have some Deliverance music to accompany us, we slipped into the little white shack. Once inside we began speaking Armenian and simply became a point of interest…what are we doing in Armenia? Where do we live? Why are we going to Georgia? We got our stamps and were quickly across the border in Georgia.
The marshurtnie drivers, although Georgian, spoke Armenian, and were kind enough to find us an Armenian speaking taxi driver once we arrived in the city. This is where our language luck ended. We had made reservations at a guesthouse in advance, fortunately, but had banked on the taxi driver knowing where it was, or at least knowing the street. Bad assumption. After driving around the city in a few different wrong directions, James was able to direct him using the small, poorly-drawn map from our guidebook. We found the place, but it had no sign or any indication that it was a guesthouse. We knocked anyway, and a nice woman who spoke nothing but Russian ushered us inside. James had studied Russian for a few months in Vayk and managed to have a very basic conversation with our host, which reminded me quite a bit of conversing with my host family during PST.
Our next task of the day was to find the Peace Corps office, which we had planned to visit first except that the taxi driver didn’t know that street either. We knew that it was very close to our guest house and decided to ask. The directions we received involved hand gestures, grunting, and the word mountain, from which we ascertained that we needed to turn left, left, and then right, and something about a mountain… We thought maybe we should call the Peace Corps and have them give us directions, so we asked for a phone. The woman thought we were asking for the phone number and kept saying she didn’t have it. Eventually she called her nephew, who spoke just enough English to tell us that we needed to turn left, left, go up some stairs (this must be our mountain), and then turn right. We decided to try it. We had to ask for directions twice (enter James and minimal Russian skills), and we discovered that the next door neighbors of the Peace Corps didn’t even know that the building existed, but we found it successfully without too much more adventure.
After jealously oogling their nice, big office, with showers for the volunteers, we headed out to dinner with a few Georgian PC volunteers. They took us to Korean barbecue (a Georgian specialty…right). We get enough Georgian food in Armenia that we didn’t mind too much to be missing out on Georgian food in Georgia. For the sake of principle, we did eat Georgian on our very last night at the Hingali House. The rest of the time was everything else that we can’t get in Armenia—McDonalds, good beer, Korean food, etc. After all, we were on vacation. I never thought I would be that excited about McDonalds, but we want what we can’t have, therefore, I wanted McDonalds. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that we actually ate there twice in three days. Just pretend you didn’t read that part—two visits to McDonalds in 10 months isn’t so bad…right? They just happened to be two days in a row.
Three days was just enough time to see the sights of the city, do a few walking tours, and see a lot of churches—Georgia and Armenian both have more churches than most normal people can stand to visit. I think we went inside 9 churches on the first day before we decided to just look at them from the outside and move onto other things. Ironically, one of my favorite churches to visit was the Armenian church (like I don’t get enough of that). As much of a sight as we were to begin with, simply being American tourists in Georgia, we were even more of a sight as Armenian-speaking American tourists in Georgia. Needless to say, the woman at the little candle booth was just thrilled with us when we began to speak to her. Possibly, we were just as thrilled to finally be able to speak to someone with relative ease. When speaking in Armenian becomes the thing I do with relative ease, I know I am outside of my league…. We also visited the Turkish sulfur baths, which are not Turkish, they are Georgian. Regardless of their nationality, it was an enjoyable, relaxing experience. We opted for the private room over public nudity, but maybe next time I will be braver.
On our last full day we decided to go to the train/marshurtnie station to try and find our marshurtnie. We were told the Yerevan marshrutnie leave every morning, from 8-1 when they fill up. We wanted to make sure we could find it so that in the morning we weren’t frantically running around the city trying to explain in broken Russian that we wanted to go to Armenia. It was a good thing we went early. The station was huge. We wondered around for almost an hour looking for a marshrutnie with a Yerevan sign (in Russian, of course) until we decided to ask someone for help. We picked out an older woman shopkeeper, because she looked friendly, and James began to prep his Russian. He explained that we wanted to go to Yerevan. Somehow, in the midst of their stilted Russian conversation I picked up that the woman spoke Armenian! I am still not sure exactly how I figured that out, but I began to speak in Armenian and she began to get very excited, and she told us exactly where our marshurtnie was located and to come find her if we had any more problems. Then the questions…why are you here? Why do you speak Armenian? What do you do there? I have never been so relieved or happy to be answering those questions.
The next morning we arrived bright and early at 9am ready to head back to Yerevan. We were promptly informed that that marshrutnie would not be leaving until 1pm. Great. Four more hours to sit in the marshrutnie without it even moving. We were also informed that the ride was more expensive than we had been told. Since we had wanted to leave without exchanging money, we spent everything except the exact marshutnie fare. At least a trip to the ATM would help pass the time. While withdrawing money we found ourselves surrounded by a group of women who had obviously never seen such a profound thing as a machine that gives you money (this makes me wonder if they have been walking around Tblisi with their eyes closed, but that is a different story). I have accepted the fact that ATM etiquette is not what it is in the US on this side of the world (i.e. if you give the person using the machine any space at all other people will assume you are not waiting and will cut in front of you) but I have never had an actual audience of people all craning their necks to see what will happen next. A funny thing happened...I entered my pin code, and money came out. Just like magic.
The remainder of the ride home (once we got started) was slow, but not too painful. That is, with the exception of a random hour long stop for the drivers to eat dinner, without informing anyone in the marshutnie that they were doing so. Border crossing was actually more difficult going back into Armenia than leaving, possibly because we were at a bigger border crossing than the small village station on a dirt road where we entered. While waiting in various lines to give people my passport repeatedly, I entertained myself by watching the bird flu “precautions.” By precautions, I mean a man in a white haz-mat suit with no gloves or head protection, spraying some sort of substance on the outsides of each tire. Thorough, I know. Its okay though, Armenia has people stationed at the borders shooting the birds as they fly in—there’s no bird flu here.
Monday, April 10, 2006
thirsty?
We were sitting in the living room, relaxing after a hard morning of skiing. The television was tuned, as usual, to some European sports channel, and we had just been served coffee and fruit. Artur brought out a number of wines and liqueurs he had made, the most recent sample including a bouquet of fruits, herbs, nettles and garlic. It was good, really. Suddenly, out of the discussion of these interesting blends of home brews, came the question:
"Would you like to drink some blood?"
I turned to Morgan with his superior language skills. "Did she just say what I think she said?" Morgan was asking the same question.
Yup, we were just asked if we would like to drink some blood. Before we could protest Alla had disappeared into the cellar and returned with a glass bottle of a very dark red liquid. I had been warned about this….
"It’s good, it’s sweet," she said, grabbing a few glasses.
"No, no, that’s okay," Morgan and I stammered in near unison, choking back nervous laughter and exchanging meaningful glances that only two Americans who have just been offered blood as a refreshment can appreciate. Our protests worked, and somewhat disappointedly I am afraid, Alla gave a small drink of the blood/fruit mixture to her five-year-old and returned the bottle to the cellar.
Alla is very knowledgeable about home remedies and has a lot of different teas and concoctions on hands for various ailments. Some probably work better than others. The remedy in question was one for women, especially, who have "thin blood" (low iron, I am assuming). I am sure it probably works, but a bit relieved not to know first hand.
In addition to home remedies, and cross-country skiing, which was probably the last of the skiing for the season due to warm, slushy snow, we were treated to a tour of Ashotsk by Artur. This was partly due to a lack of other options as skiing was only possible in the mornings, and partly due to Artur wanting to show us around and maybe show us off (just a little). We had spent the first morning repeatedly falling through the snow, so a walk was a welcome change. We visited Artur’s mother, and enjoyed the traditional Armenian spread, complete with Sea Buckthorn jam—a new one to add to the list of fruits I didn’t know the name of in English before I knew them in Armenian. We walked the streets and looked at some of the sights in the earthquake shattered town, with a current population of probably less than 1,000. Artur estimated it between 6 and 7,000 before the earthquake. The majority of residents are still living in the small "domeeks" that were provided by European nations over 15 years ago as temporary housing. Some have been added onto, reinforced, or remodeled—this is the case with Artur and Alla’s home—others are merely small dilapidated looking wooden shacks.
As it was April fools day, we entertained ourselves by telling the locals that we were from china (none of us were) and that our eyes had become round from eating too much dolma. As expected, this drew some confused looks, with lots of people pulling at the corners of their eyes to make them squinty. This was the manner in which they informed us that we did NOT look like "chinamen." Okay, so cultural sensitivity is perhaps a bit lacking… This was entertaining in its own rite, but the highlight of the day was visiting the nesting storks—there are five pairs in Ashotsk, with giant nests perched atop telephone poles. We were able to get very close to photograph them, and even saw one pair mating.
Ironically, not even including the magnificent storks, I think I saw more wildlife in the snow around Ashotsk than I have in most of the rest of the country combined. Animals and flowers alike were just beginning to poke out of the melting snow, and we were witness firsthand to a mouse, a dragon fly, a number of birds and some insects. We were also able to track a wolf kill—the footprints first led us to the fur outline of what we determined to be a small goat perhaps, and then on to the horns, and later the jaw. Artur is very knowledgeable about the local wildlife, and even more excited about sharing his knowledge. This, of course, was a stretch of my language skills, but a welcome relief from the simple ignorance and fear that prevails among most Armenian citizens, especially where wolves are concerned.
Once again, the trip to Ashotsk was wonderful and wonderfully relaxing. I certainly never thought that staying with another Armenian family for a weekend, and speaking nothing but Armenian would seem like a vacation, but I leave feeling refreshed, relaxed and healthy—three things that aren’t so common in Vayk. The new apartment helps, but I am still constantly tackling new challenges as I try to do new things. For example, today I flooded my bathroom. Turns out, the drain in the floor is decorative. On the bright side, the electronic agitator works, one of the few things in the apartment that has worked on the first try. After learning how to use it and doing some of my laundry, I decided that I could empty the water out of the machine into the floor drain. After waiting about thirty minutes, I started bailing with buckets. Lucky for me, my bathroom floor is half caved in and holds a good deal of water easily. My new six dollar mop finished the job. That investment pays more dividends every time I use it.
I was treated to another visit from my landlord yesterday. She brought me chocolate and retrieved some old clothes from a suitcase in my spare bedroom. Then came the meat of the visit. She told me, with great seriousness, that I am not to open the door for the water man, who comes every month to collect the water bill. Every apartment in Vayk is now required to have a water meter and she can’t afford to put one in, so the solution is to look through my peephole and if I see the waterman, not to let him in. It seems a little wrong, but she says that she will bring a water meter and install it. Of course, she didn’t say when….
"Would you like to drink some blood?"
I turned to Morgan with his superior language skills. "Did she just say what I think she said?" Morgan was asking the same question.
Yup, we were just asked if we would like to drink some blood. Before we could protest Alla had disappeared into the cellar and returned with a glass bottle of a very dark red liquid. I had been warned about this….
"It’s good, it’s sweet," she said, grabbing a few glasses.
"No, no, that’s okay," Morgan and I stammered in near unison, choking back nervous laughter and exchanging meaningful glances that only two Americans who have just been offered blood as a refreshment can appreciate. Our protests worked, and somewhat disappointedly I am afraid, Alla gave a small drink of the blood/fruit mixture to her five-year-old and returned the bottle to the cellar.
Alla is very knowledgeable about home remedies and has a lot of different teas and concoctions on hands for various ailments. Some probably work better than others. The remedy in question was one for women, especially, who have "thin blood" (low iron, I am assuming). I am sure it probably works, but a bit relieved not to know first hand.
In addition to home remedies, and cross-country skiing, which was probably the last of the skiing for the season due to warm, slushy snow, we were treated to a tour of Ashotsk by Artur. This was partly due to a lack of other options as skiing was only possible in the mornings, and partly due to Artur wanting to show us around and maybe show us off (just a little). We had spent the first morning repeatedly falling through the snow, so a walk was a welcome change. We visited Artur’s mother, and enjoyed the traditional Armenian spread, complete with Sea Buckthorn jam—a new one to add to the list of fruits I didn’t know the name of in English before I knew them in Armenian. We walked the streets and looked at some of the sights in the earthquake shattered town, with a current population of probably less than 1,000. Artur estimated it between 6 and 7,000 before the earthquake. The majority of residents are still living in the small "domeeks" that were provided by European nations over 15 years ago as temporary housing. Some have been added onto, reinforced, or remodeled—this is the case with Artur and Alla’s home—others are merely small dilapidated looking wooden shacks.
As it was April fools day, we entertained ourselves by telling the locals that we were from china (none of us were) and that our eyes had become round from eating too much dolma. As expected, this drew some confused looks, with lots of people pulling at the corners of their eyes to make them squinty. This was the manner in which they informed us that we did NOT look like "chinamen." Okay, so cultural sensitivity is perhaps a bit lacking… This was entertaining in its own rite, but the highlight of the day was visiting the nesting storks—there are five pairs in Ashotsk, with giant nests perched atop telephone poles. We were able to get very close to photograph them, and even saw one pair mating.
Ironically, not even including the magnificent storks, I think I saw more wildlife in the snow around Ashotsk than I have in most of the rest of the country combined. Animals and flowers alike were just beginning to poke out of the melting snow, and we were witness firsthand to a mouse, a dragon fly, a number of birds and some insects. We were also able to track a wolf kill—the footprints first led us to the fur outline of what we determined to be a small goat perhaps, and then on to the horns, and later the jaw. Artur is very knowledgeable about the local wildlife, and even more excited about sharing his knowledge. This, of course, was a stretch of my language skills, but a welcome relief from the simple ignorance and fear that prevails among most Armenian citizens, especially where wolves are concerned.
Once again, the trip to Ashotsk was wonderful and wonderfully relaxing. I certainly never thought that staying with another Armenian family for a weekend, and speaking nothing but Armenian would seem like a vacation, but I leave feeling refreshed, relaxed and healthy—three things that aren’t so common in Vayk. The new apartment helps, but I am still constantly tackling new challenges as I try to do new things. For example, today I flooded my bathroom. Turns out, the drain in the floor is decorative. On the bright side, the electronic agitator works, one of the few things in the apartment that has worked on the first try. After learning how to use it and doing some of my laundry, I decided that I could empty the water out of the machine into the floor drain. After waiting about thirty minutes, I started bailing with buckets. Lucky for me, my bathroom floor is half caved in and holds a good deal of water easily. My new six dollar mop finished the job. That investment pays more dividends every time I use it.
I was treated to another visit from my landlord yesterday. She brought me chocolate and retrieved some old clothes from a suitcase in my spare bedroom. Then came the meat of the visit. She told me, with great seriousness, that I am not to open the door for the water man, who comes every month to collect the water bill. Every apartment in Vayk is now required to have a water meter and she can’t afford to put one in, so the solution is to look through my peephole and if I see the waterman, not to let him in. It seems a little wrong, but she says that she will bring a water meter and install it. Of course, she didn’t say when….
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Spark column: unabridged
The following is a column I guest wrote for the 100th issue of the Spark, my high school newsmagazine. I owe much to the time I spent in the cramped lab of Lakota East High School, and I am pretty sure that I wouldn't be writing this blog right now if it weren't for that influence. As journalism goes, quite a bit was cut from the original piece for space. Here is the article in its entirety.
Here I am again. My bedroom is a balmy 34 degrees, I unpacked my suitcases while wearing my hat, scarf and new winter coat. There is a thin layer of ice on the bathroom floor and the water is so cold it hurts. Washing my face will have to wait—I am not that brave yet. I am jet-lagged as hell and have arrived smack in the middle of the most Armenian week of them all…the six-day New Year’s celebration. Yes, six days…actually, seven. The parties begin on New Year’s Eve and continue until the Armenian Christmas, January 6. Every day repeats itself right now. I arrive at some Armenian’s house and sit down to a table laden with types of food that never appear except for this one week. With the traditional diet in the regions consisting mostly of potatoes, rice, and bread, I think I have eaten an Armenian year’s worth of meat in the past 4 days. People yell at me to "eat, eat, eat…try this, have one of these…you don’t want it, why not?" It has been one never-ending dinner ever since I stumbled off the plane in Yerevan.
I had tried to mentally prepare myself for this as I sat in a Viennese café, three fourths of the way back to my temporary home in the developing country of Armenia. I have lived there for the past 7 months as a Peace Corps volunteer, and now, after a brief Christmas visit to the states, have 20 more months to go. As I savored one last cup of good coffee, with real milk, one last opportunity to sit in warmth and comfort and watch the snow fall gently outside, one last moment of "civilization" before the final plane departs, I took some time to reflect on my experience thus far.
It was good to be home, difficult to depart. And yet, amidst the thrill of hot showers, a house warm enough to be barefoot (sometimes), a car available to take me places, and all the Chinese take-out and Mexican food I could ever want, I remembered why I made the decision to join the Peace Corps in the first place.
It began as a romantic vision of living in a straw hut near some tropical rain forest, surrounded by giggling children and working toward the ever idealistic goal of peace on earth. As it turns out, that’s not exactly what I signed up for. Instead, I am living with a host family in a stone house with electricity and running water. I am in the middle of the desert, high in altitude, with cold winters and scorching summers. The only people giggling are those laughing at me and my clumsy speech, and the notion of peace on earth has been shunned for immediate monetary relief and movement towards Westernization. I am supposed to be an Environmental Education volunteer, but before I make any progress in that department I have to figure out how to convince these people to take some responsibility for the land outside of their front gate.
I am often simply seen as a rich American with a fancy car and more money than I know what to do with. This is a difficult position, given my volunteer status. At this point in my life I have no car, and a lot of college debt, but I am still rich compared to these people who are lucky to make 100 dollars a month. My work is different than that of traditional relief organizations that often fund projects and provide grants. Very little money is ever involved in my work, unless the people raise it themselves. We are helping them to help themselves; at least, that’s the theory. The people I work with are strong-willed and capable, but reticent to try new things and pessimistic about their future. I often ask myself "who can blame them?" In the last century they have endured genocide, Soviet rule, Soviet collapse, war, trade blockades, a disastrous earthquake, and finally a "democratic" government that doesn’t seem to have totally left the old system behind. Corruption abounds and the people feel helpless to do anything about it and seem content to leave it that way. It is a sort of learned complacency that is difficult to break through, especially as a young single female who has single-handedly defied all traditional gender norms.
During my vacation, people have repeatedly asked me "is it worth it?" The short answer is, yes, of course. The longer answer involves me reevaluating the way I take in new experiences, the way I view the world, and the way I see success and accomplishment. It has been a tremendous growing experience to find myself virtually dumped in a foreign land where I had to start from scratch: a new language, a new alphabet for that matter, a new social code, a new job, new friends, and a new family to live with…who speak no English. Even if I were to pack my bags right now, I think I would approach things differently than I would have a year ago. I have more confidence, more empathy for others, improved communication skills, and a less ego-centric view of the world.
Of course, I can’t always view my experience this rationally or philosophically. There are times when I simply need a release or a break from this world that I now call home, at least temporarily. I have found that one of the best ways to cope with my nearly unrecognizable lifestyle is to write. It is not only cathartic for me, but also allows others to share in my joys, frustrations and discoveries. Writing has always been important to me, but as with many things, it wasn’t until I began my tour in Armenia that I truly appreciated its value.
It was this very magazine that gave me that start nearly eight years ago. Writing for the Spark gave me a broader perspective of the world. It allowed me, at a relatively young age, to see beyond the finite opportunities of high school romances and teenage soap operas. And, while acknowledging that these too are an important part of growing up, I was able to enter the adult world with more grace and poise than that of the typical 17-year-old. I credit the Spark in many ways for opportunities that have opened up well past these formative years. Never before have I appreciated freedom of speech as much as I do now, and never before have I been as concerned about the level of apathy and disconnectedness currently present in the United States. It is comforting to me to know that entities such as the Spark exist to educate young people and to empower them to take an active role in the future. In the United States, as in Armenia, it is the action of the people and the education of the youth that determine our eventual destination.
Here I am again. My bedroom is a balmy 34 degrees, I unpacked my suitcases while wearing my hat, scarf and new winter coat. There is a thin layer of ice on the bathroom floor and the water is so cold it hurts. Washing my face will have to wait—I am not that brave yet. I am jet-lagged as hell and have arrived smack in the middle of the most Armenian week of them all…the six-day New Year’s celebration. Yes, six days…actually, seven. The parties begin on New Year’s Eve and continue until the Armenian Christmas, January 6. Every day repeats itself right now. I arrive at some Armenian’s house and sit down to a table laden with types of food that never appear except for this one week. With the traditional diet in the regions consisting mostly of potatoes, rice, and bread, I think I have eaten an Armenian year’s worth of meat in the past 4 days. People yell at me to "eat, eat, eat…try this, have one of these…you don’t want it, why not?" It has been one never-ending dinner ever since I stumbled off the plane in Yerevan.
I had tried to mentally prepare myself for this as I sat in a Viennese café, three fourths of the way back to my temporary home in the developing country of Armenia. I have lived there for the past 7 months as a Peace Corps volunteer, and now, after a brief Christmas visit to the states, have 20 more months to go. As I savored one last cup of good coffee, with real milk, one last opportunity to sit in warmth and comfort and watch the snow fall gently outside, one last moment of "civilization" before the final plane departs, I took some time to reflect on my experience thus far.
It was good to be home, difficult to depart. And yet, amidst the thrill of hot showers, a house warm enough to be barefoot (sometimes), a car available to take me places, and all the Chinese take-out and Mexican food I could ever want, I remembered why I made the decision to join the Peace Corps in the first place.
It began as a romantic vision of living in a straw hut near some tropical rain forest, surrounded by giggling children and working toward the ever idealistic goal of peace on earth. As it turns out, that’s not exactly what I signed up for. Instead, I am living with a host family in a stone house with electricity and running water. I am in the middle of the desert, high in altitude, with cold winters and scorching summers. The only people giggling are those laughing at me and my clumsy speech, and the notion of peace on earth has been shunned for immediate monetary relief and movement towards Westernization. I am supposed to be an Environmental Education volunteer, but before I make any progress in that department I have to figure out how to convince these people to take some responsibility for the land outside of their front gate.
I am often simply seen as a rich American with a fancy car and more money than I know what to do with. This is a difficult position, given my volunteer status. At this point in my life I have no car, and a lot of college debt, but I am still rich compared to these people who are lucky to make 100 dollars a month. My work is different than that of traditional relief organizations that often fund projects and provide grants. Very little money is ever involved in my work, unless the people raise it themselves. We are helping them to help themselves; at least, that’s the theory. The people I work with are strong-willed and capable, but reticent to try new things and pessimistic about their future. I often ask myself "who can blame them?" In the last century they have endured genocide, Soviet rule, Soviet collapse, war, trade blockades, a disastrous earthquake, and finally a "democratic" government that doesn’t seem to have totally left the old system behind. Corruption abounds and the people feel helpless to do anything about it and seem content to leave it that way. It is a sort of learned complacency that is difficult to break through, especially as a young single female who has single-handedly defied all traditional gender norms.
During my vacation, people have repeatedly asked me "is it worth it?" The short answer is, yes, of course. The longer answer involves me reevaluating the way I take in new experiences, the way I view the world, and the way I see success and accomplishment. It has been a tremendous growing experience to find myself virtually dumped in a foreign land where I had to start from scratch: a new language, a new alphabet for that matter, a new social code, a new job, new friends, and a new family to live with…who speak no English. Even if I were to pack my bags right now, I think I would approach things differently than I would have a year ago. I have more confidence, more empathy for others, improved communication skills, and a less ego-centric view of the world.
Of course, I can’t always view my experience this rationally or philosophically. There are times when I simply need a release or a break from this world that I now call home, at least temporarily. I have found that one of the best ways to cope with my nearly unrecognizable lifestyle is to write. It is not only cathartic for me, but also allows others to share in my joys, frustrations and discoveries. Writing has always been important to me, but as with many things, it wasn’t until I began my tour in Armenia that I truly appreciated its value.
It was this very magazine that gave me that start nearly eight years ago. Writing for the Spark gave me a broader perspective of the world. It allowed me, at a relatively young age, to see beyond the finite opportunities of high school romances and teenage soap operas. And, while acknowledging that these too are an important part of growing up, I was able to enter the adult world with more grace and poise than that of the typical 17-year-old. I credit the Spark in many ways for opportunities that have opened up well past these formative years. Never before have I appreciated freedom of speech as much as I do now, and never before have I been as concerned about the level of apathy and disconnectedness currently present in the United States. It is comforting to me to know that entities such as the Spark exist to educate young people and to empower them to take an active role in the future. In the United States, as in Armenia, it is the action of the people and the education of the youth that determine our eventual destination.
cross-country paradise
I am still walking with a bit of a limp, but the fact that I earned it through physical exertion makes it somewhat of a badge of honor. I spent the weekend in Ashotsk, a small town north of Gyumri, near Arpi Lake where I had participated in a camping trip this summer. Ashotsk is the home of two Armenian cross-country ski champions, who are trying to turn their home into a bed and breakfast/cross-country ski resort with the help of some Peace Corps volunteers. My role was to go spend the weekend there and see what I thought of it in terms of accommodations, pricing, etc. A weekend of cross-country skiing? With Olympians? Fine. Twist my arm into it.
Artur and Alla are the owners/teachers/coaches/skiers. Alla was the soviet union cross-country ski champion. They both participated in the Olympics as recently as Nagono. In addition to starting the B&B and giving ski lessons to foreigners, Artur coaches two youth cross-country ski teams in which his two sons participate.
From the minute I entered their home, they immediately stole my heart. Here was an Armenian family that was laughing and smiling and enjoying each others company. They sat on the floor (!) and watched sports together, the father played with the kids, and they interacted easily with the four Americans who just walked through their front door. Granted, they had already spent two years with a volunteer living across the street, and enjoyed a brief stint as a host family earlier this year, but I felt as if I had always known them after the two and half days I spent in their home. Beside the fact that these are well-traveled people, and that Alla is Russian, I couldn’t figure out what made them so different from the Armenian families I interact with everyday. Then it dawned on me. These people have passion. They are passionate about skiing and sports, and they are actively pursuing that passion every day. It shows in everything they do, from the way they interact as a family to the way they decorate their house, to the things they eat. What a difference having purpose in ones life can make.
The first evening we arrived late and spent our time hanging out and chatting. I had brought my laptop, as our weekend was going to be a joint ski retreat and Green Camp summit, and had pulled it out to check on something. Artur was sitting next to me and
was immediately attracted to the picture I had as my desktop background—snowshoeing with CORE in Utah. Before I knew it we had gone through hundreds of my pictures from CORE, IUOA and other outdoor excursions. He was not only interested, but he understood the things that I was showing him! I discussed ice-axe self arrest with him (in Armenian of course, with some Russian and English scattered about). I can’t do that with many Americans. When we finished looking at pictures of caving, mountaineering, winter camping, rock-climbing, snowshoeing, and paddling, he brought out a few of his photo albums. He and Alla showed me pictures from Russia and from Armenia, of places they had hiked, camped, skied and run (yes, they run…and they are the only Armenians I know who do). For that matter, they are the only Armenians I know who do any of these things, and it was so refreshing to see and to discuss and to make such a deep connection so quickly.
Alla began asking me how I trained in the US, and I did my best to explain in broken Armenian. Then I told her that I have gotten weak since coming to this country because it is so hard to exercise here. She told me to flex. I did and she felt my weak little bicep and then showed me up. On a number of occasions I felt like I needed to just start doing push-ups and begging mercy. I love that Armenians can make me feel like that instead of telling me that muscles are unsightly (not pretty) and that water will make you fat. She did tell us that we couldn’t drink water during or after meals (only before), but I don’t think it had anything to do with fatness. I am not sure what it did have to do with, other than the very weird perceptions of water in this country…but that is a different story.
The next morning we hit the slopes. Yes, I know we were cross-country skiing, but Ashotsk is big country, and it is certainly not flat. On more than one occasion I was definitely convinced that I was about to kill myself. Artur, impressed with all my outdoorsy pictures (none of which, by the way, had any skis in them) gave me the very skis that Alla had worn in the Nagono Olympics. I was impressed until I put them on my feet. After about the fifth time on my rear-end, I was frightened. That morning we worked on the very basics and then took off to a nearby mountain. The fundamentals were done on a ski course that Artur has set up for the teams he coaches. This included a loop, an up-hill section and then a very long down-hill. I am 100% positive that I have never gone that fast on cross-country skis. The journey to the mountain was nice, and after some pictures and goofing around, we headed back to the course. The last leg of the journey involved another steep hill, this time without a clean-run out and tracks to steer us in the right direction. We were told to make S-turns, like in downhill, a skill that I had not yet mastered on XC skis. Then we were told to snow-plow, another skill that was eluding me on the long, fast skis I was wearing. I ended up going painfully slowly side-stepping all the way down. That evening I switched to some slower skis.
The evening ski was a beautiful journey into the sunset, towards a river and a natural mineral water spring. We brought plastic cups and enjoyed the naturally carbonated water against the orange and purple backdrop. This trip also required a downhill portion, and being tired and sore from the morning’s festivities, I was still having trouble turning and stopping. Not to worry—Artur linked his arm under mine, we both lifted our poles off the ground, and he steered both of us down the hill. It was one of the most impressive feats I have seen in quite a while. This was the first time Alla had skied with us and she was enjoying skiing circles around us while mildly taunting us (we were enjoying it too). After all that, she beat us all home and managed to have dinner on the table by the time we walked through the door. Olympian. Must remember the operative word here. Olympian. Mother of two. Maybe I should do some more push-ups.
Meals were traditional Armenian salads, pasta, potatoes, soups, etc., but they were healthy, cooked with very little oil and well-balanced. Once again, a refreshing change. That night I nearly fell asleep in my soup. But the day wasn’t over. We still had hot showers (!) and time to socialize and watch more sports. I learned all about the ski and shoot biathlon. The next morning we woke early to a healthy breakfast and then hit the ski course, but only after the youth team had finished practicing at 10am (they started at 8—now there’s dedication). At that time they had finished skiing and were putting on tennis shoes to begin running. My heart went out to these kids and this family. I wanted to give them everything I have, and probably will give them a significant portion of my stuff when I leave.
I was pretty sore in the morning. I had trouble making it to the breakfast table, and I wasn’t sure if I would ski that day. At the last minute I decided to go out to the course and ski a little. If the rest of the group wanted to ski somewhere, I would go back to the house. I ended up staying out on the course with Morgan, Nick and Artur nearly three and a half hours. We spent the entire time working on technique. Artur would work one-on-one with us and then we would practice while he worked with the next person. I learned an amazing amount about cross-country skiing, including the fact that everything I had ever done was pretty much all wrong. Shows me. I will be returning in a few weeks before the snow melts, but after my body has mended, in a desperate attempt to not forget everything I have learned.
I know where I will be next winter.
Artur and Alla are the owners/teachers/coaches/skiers. Alla was the soviet union cross-country ski champion. They both participated in the Olympics as recently as Nagono. In addition to starting the B&B and giving ski lessons to foreigners, Artur coaches two youth cross-country ski teams in which his two sons participate.
From the minute I entered their home, they immediately stole my heart. Here was an Armenian family that was laughing and smiling and enjoying each others company. They sat on the floor (!) and watched sports together, the father played with the kids, and they interacted easily with the four Americans who just walked through their front door. Granted, they had already spent two years with a volunteer living across the street, and enjoyed a brief stint as a host family earlier this year, but I felt as if I had always known them after the two and half days I spent in their home. Beside the fact that these are well-traveled people, and that Alla is Russian, I couldn’t figure out what made them so different from the Armenian families I interact with everyday. Then it dawned on me. These people have passion. They are passionate about skiing and sports, and they are actively pursuing that passion every day. It shows in everything they do, from the way they interact as a family to the way they decorate their house, to the things they eat. What a difference having purpose in ones life can make.
The first evening we arrived late and spent our time hanging out and chatting. I had brought my laptop, as our weekend was going to be a joint ski retreat and Green Camp summit, and had pulled it out to check on something. Artur was sitting next to me and
was immediately attracted to the picture I had as my desktop background—snowshoeing with CORE in Utah. Before I knew it we had gone through hundreds of my pictures from CORE, IUOA and other outdoor excursions. He was not only interested, but he understood the things that I was showing him! I discussed ice-axe self arrest with him (in Armenian of course, with some Russian and English scattered about). I can’t do that with many Americans. When we finished looking at pictures of caving, mountaineering, winter camping, rock-climbing, snowshoeing, and paddling, he brought out a few of his photo albums. He and Alla showed me pictures from Russia and from Armenia, of places they had hiked, camped, skied and run (yes, they run…and they are the only Armenians I know who do). For that matter, they are the only Armenians I know who do any of these things, and it was so refreshing to see and to discuss and to make such a deep connection so quickly.
Alla began asking me how I trained in the US, and I did my best to explain in broken Armenian. Then I told her that I have gotten weak since coming to this country because it is so hard to exercise here. She told me to flex. I did and she felt my weak little bicep and then showed me up. On a number of occasions I felt like I needed to just start doing push-ups and begging mercy. I love that Armenians can make me feel like that instead of telling me that muscles are unsightly (not pretty) and that water will make you fat. She did tell us that we couldn’t drink water during or after meals (only before), but I don’t think it had anything to do with fatness. I am not sure what it did have to do with, other than the very weird perceptions of water in this country…but that is a different story.
The next morning we hit the slopes. Yes, I know we were cross-country skiing, but Ashotsk is big country, and it is certainly not flat. On more than one occasion I was definitely convinced that I was about to kill myself. Artur, impressed with all my outdoorsy pictures (none of which, by the way, had any skis in them) gave me the very skis that Alla had worn in the Nagono Olympics. I was impressed until I put them on my feet. After about the fifth time on my rear-end, I was frightened. That morning we worked on the very basics and then took off to a nearby mountain. The fundamentals were done on a ski course that Artur has set up for the teams he coaches. This included a loop, an up-hill section and then a very long down-hill. I am 100% positive that I have never gone that fast on cross-country skis. The journey to the mountain was nice, and after some pictures and goofing around, we headed back to the course. The last leg of the journey involved another steep hill, this time without a clean-run out and tracks to steer us in the right direction. We were told to make S-turns, like in downhill, a skill that I had not yet mastered on XC skis. Then we were told to snow-plow, another skill that was eluding me on the long, fast skis I was wearing. I ended up going painfully slowly side-stepping all the way down. That evening I switched to some slower skis.
The evening ski was a beautiful journey into the sunset, towards a river and a natural mineral water spring. We brought plastic cups and enjoyed the naturally carbonated water against the orange and purple backdrop. This trip also required a downhill portion, and being tired and sore from the morning’s festivities, I was still having trouble turning and stopping. Not to worry—Artur linked his arm under mine, we both lifted our poles off the ground, and he steered both of us down the hill. It was one of the most impressive feats I have seen in quite a while. This was the first time Alla had skied with us and she was enjoying skiing circles around us while mildly taunting us (we were enjoying it too). After all that, she beat us all home and managed to have dinner on the table by the time we walked through the door. Olympian. Must remember the operative word here. Olympian. Mother of two. Maybe I should do some more push-ups.
Meals were traditional Armenian salads, pasta, potatoes, soups, etc., but they were healthy, cooked with very little oil and well-balanced. Once again, a refreshing change. That night I nearly fell asleep in my soup. But the day wasn’t over. We still had hot showers (!) and time to socialize and watch more sports. I learned all about the ski and shoot biathlon. The next morning we woke early to a healthy breakfast and then hit the ski course, but only after the youth team had finished practicing at 10am (they started at 8—now there’s dedication). At that time they had finished skiing and were putting on tennis shoes to begin running. My heart went out to these kids and this family. I wanted to give them everything I have, and probably will give them a significant portion of my stuff when I leave.
I was pretty sore in the morning. I had trouble making it to the breakfast table, and I wasn’t sure if I would ski that day. At the last minute I decided to go out to the course and ski a little. If the rest of the group wanted to ski somewhere, I would go back to the house. I ended up staying out on the course with Morgan, Nick and Artur nearly three and a half hours. We spent the entire time working on technique. Artur would work one-on-one with us and then we would practice while he worked with the next person. I learned an amazing amount about cross-country skiing, including the fact that everything I had ever done was pretty much all wrong. Shows me. I will be returning in a few weeks before the snow melts, but after my body has mended, in a desperate attempt to not forget everything I have learned.
I know where I will be next winter.
landlord woes
I am the proud new owner of a new, used toilet that has no seat and still doesn’t flush. How lucky am I? I bought the three-dollar toilet seat in Yeghgeghnadzor and installed it myself a few days later. You would think they were scarce or expensive or something with the lack of them in this country. I had already had enough of the "hovercraft" as one of my brilliant sitemates so aptly put it. But this was only the beginning of my weekly excitement….
Last week I was graced by a visit from my landlord, who has some "business." An hour or two is what she said on the phone. I agreed, and was home at 2pm, a little weary of what my landlord wanted to do in my apartment for 2 hours. After wandering around for a few minutes noting out loud every change I had made to the place since her last visit (and there were a lot), she pulled two candles out of her purse. Large, tall candles. She also removed two pictures—one of her and one of her husband, who is in Russia, and pulled an old plate out of one of my cupboards. She placed the pictures on my table, the plate on top of the pictures and then the lit the candles and stood them on the plate. Then, she explained that the candles must burn all the way down to the plate for good luck and success. Did I mention that these were big candles?
I resigned myself to an afternoon with my landlord and sat down to do some work while she read a book (For the record, the first Armenian I have ever seen read for pleasure, but that is probably because I don’t have a television). The quiet lasted a few minutes until she started wandering around again. She wanted to see the new toilet, so we went to the bathroom and after glancing at the new toilet (of which I had paid for the installation and advanced her the money for the toilet itself, and the new wall, which I also paid for), she promptly began freaking out about how it was an old toilet. Well, yes, its old. That’s what happens when you tell me that a new toilet is 50 dollars and then say that you will pay up to 20 dollars. I actually had nothing to do with the arrangements, as James’ landlord did most of that and explained to me the terms of the deal. Now my landlord is saying she didn’t agree to that. This, for the record, is why I went to her house four times in one day to try and confirm the situation before going out of town. She doesn’t have a phone, which is so convenient. I never did get a hold of her and finally decided that it would be fine—Varton had it under control
After being reminded that she had, in fact, agreed to the old toilet, she says "well, Varton said maybe you would help me." Lets rewind to me paying to have it installed and paying for the new wall and advancing her the money for the toilet. Not to mention all of the other things I have installed, replaced, fixed, cleaned and paid for in this apartment. Oh yeah, and I am paying rent at more than double what any Armenian would pay. If only I could help... I tried to talk to her about it for a while, but she just kept saying "no, I understand, you don’t understand." So, I gave up and called James. He talked to her and then later talked to Varton, who nearly spit out the food in his mouth when he heard the story. At least I have some supporters.
This blew over within an hour, at which point I realized that we were nowhere near being done with the good luck candles. In fact, my landlord ended up sitting in my apartment for seven hours. Seven. Can we say awkward? After four hours of just me and her, I called James to help cut the awkwardness and give me something to do. We decided to make some dinner and watch a movie. We started dinner around 7pm, made French onion soup and blue cheese pasta, while checking on the candles waiting for them to finish. About halfway through, we were joined by the landlord’s daughter, who also came to watch the candles burn. At 8 we finished making dinner, but couldn’t eat because I still had Armenians and candles in my living room. We reheated dinner 3 separate times (false alarms) before the candles finally burned out and we were left alone. Towards the end, the landlord began to see some humor in the situation (thank god) and we were talking a bit about Armenia, this apartment etc. We were joking about the candles never going out, when I said "after the candles go out the plate will start burning, and then table, and then floor," as a joke, of course. My landlord took me very seriously… "no, we can’t do that. That’s what the plate is for, so only the candles will burn." You think? Oh well, I am just a dumb American.
Last week I was graced by a visit from my landlord, who has some "business." An hour or two is what she said on the phone. I agreed, and was home at 2pm, a little weary of what my landlord wanted to do in my apartment for 2 hours. After wandering around for a few minutes noting out loud every change I had made to the place since her last visit (and there were a lot), she pulled two candles out of her purse. Large, tall candles. She also removed two pictures—one of her and one of her husband, who is in Russia, and pulled an old plate out of one of my cupboards. She placed the pictures on my table, the plate on top of the pictures and then the lit the candles and stood them on the plate. Then, she explained that the candles must burn all the way down to the plate for good luck and success. Did I mention that these were big candles?
I resigned myself to an afternoon with my landlord and sat down to do some work while she read a book (For the record, the first Armenian I have ever seen read for pleasure, but that is probably because I don’t have a television). The quiet lasted a few minutes until she started wandering around again. She wanted to see the new toilet, so we went to the bathroom and after glancing at the new toilet (of which I had paid for the installation and advanced her the money for the toilet itself, and the new wall, which I also paid for), she promptly began freaking out about how it was an old toilet. Well, yes, its old. That’s what happens when you tell me that a new toilet is 50 dollars and then say that you will pay up to 20 dollars. I actually had nothing to do with the arrangements, as James’ landlord did most of that and explained to me the terms of the deal. Now my landlord is saying she didn’t agree to that. This, for the record, is why I went to her house four times in one day to try and confirm the situation before going out of town. She doesn’t have a phone, which is so convenient. I never did get a hold of her and finally decided that it would be fine—Varton had it under control
After being reminded that she had, in fact, agreed to the old toilet, she says "well, Varton said maybe you would help me." Lets rewind to me paying to have it installed and paying for the new wall and advancing her the money for the toilet. Not to mention all of the other things I have installed, replaced, fixed, cleaned and paid for in this apartment. Oh yeah, and I am paying rent at more than double what any Armenian would pay. If only I could help... I tried to talk to her about it for a while, but she just kept saying "no, I understand, you don’t understand." So, I gave up and called James. He talked to her and then later talked to Varton, who nearly spit out the food in his mouth when he heard the story. At least I have some supporters.
This blew over within an hour, at which point I realized that we were nowhere near being done with the good luck candles. In fact, my landlord ended up sitting in my apartment for seven hours. Seven. Can we say awkward? After four hours of just me and her, I called James to help cut the awkwardness and give me something to do. We decided to make some dinner and watch a movie. We started dinner around 7pm, made French onion soup and blue cheese pasta, while checking on the candles waiting for them to finish. About halfway through, we were joined by the landlord’s daughter, who also came to watch the candles burn. At 8 we finished making dinner, but couldn’t eat because I still had Armenians and candles in my living room. We reheated dinner 3 separate times (false alarms) before the candles finally burned out and we were left alone. Towards the end, the landlord began to see some humor in the situation (thank god) and we were talking a bit about Armenia, this apartment etc. We were joking about the candles never going out, when I said "after the candles go out the plate will start burning, and then table, and then floor," as a joke, of course. My landlord took me very seriously… "no, we can’t do that. That’s what the plate is for, so only the candles will burn." You think? Oh well, I am just a dumb American.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
declaration of independence, part II
Two days ago I gained my independence for the second time in my life. It was reminiscent of my 18-year-old foray into college life, and yet far more people seemed convinced that I would survive as a newly independent 18-year-old, than as a 24-year-old who is much more well-versed in life’s little intricacies. Of course, I was certainly greeted with a number of new challenges that dorm life doesn’t come close to matching, starting with trying to communicate with a landlord in a language that I have only studied for 8 months. This, only to be compounded by the fact that the landlord has never been a landlord before, is very nervous about all of her belongings spontaneously breaking, and has never really interacted with an American before. The day I moved in ended with her seeming very frazzled, and me wondering if I had made the right choice in apartments. That question arose over and over this weekend.
I was fortunate to have the assistance of four other volunteers, and James’ landlord, Varton, who allowed me to use his jeep—his son drove and he also helped moved stuff. I had no idea how much stuff I had actually accumulated in this country until I packed it all up. It was almost embarrassing but I am assured by my friends it is normal… Miraculously, everything fit in the back of the jeep (the back seat was out) and we only had to make one trip across town. Approximately 15 yards from my host family’s house, the jeep broke down. After lots of fiddling it was determined that it was out of gas. Someone found some gas and we were on our way again, the volunteers on foot and Varton and his son in the jeep.
My landlord, Manik, met us at the apartment and promptly began freaking out about her stuff and her list of things she had counted. Landlords are supposed to write down what they have provided in the house for later reference in case things break, etc., etc. Well, Manik wrote a book—literally—she bought a school copy book and wrote pages and pages of everything she owns. She even counted her Armenian books, which are safely in a cabinet, and I had already assured her that I wouldn’t touch them, let alone read them. She then asked if I would like to check it. Reading Armenian handwriting is near impossible for me, and I had no concern about being cheated by her, so I told her that I trusted her and I would sign the list and she could hang on to it for later. That’s where the trouble started. She got upset and I started to say “its okay, I know what I have and I know what is yours and if I break anything, I will replace it.” I managed to get to “I know what I have” when she interrupted me and starting freaking about this being about her things. Thankfully Cat was there with her super Armenian skills to translate because frustration does not aid my language abilities. We finally got things straightened out and Manik out the door after about an hour, at which point I started wondering if I dare touch anything in the apartment for fear of the aftermath.
It didn’t take me long to get over that and I was soon scrubbing every corner of the place with bleach. One word…disgusting. Manik said she would clean before I moved in, but if that happened I have no idea what it was that she cleaned. Not only were shelves and cabinets carpeted in dust and dirt, but all the dishes needed washed, floors cleaned, rugs shook, and the kitchen and bathroom needed complete top to bottom scrubbings. I spent an hour on my hands and knees in the bathroom with a sponge and a scrub brush, and after the fourth time through, gave up…at least the sponge had stopped coming up black. I managed to get it clean enough that I felt comfortable leaving my toothbrush in there and hanging up my towel. Of course, in addition to all the dirt, I was gifted with all of the belongings that the family decided they didn’t need when they left for Russia—old toothbrushes, used razor blades, clothing tags, empty candy boxes displayed on shelves, 5-year-old opened bottles of vodka, old slippers, nasty stuffed animals, you name it. I moved through the house throwing all of this randomness into boxes, mentally preparing myself to explain WHY I didn’t want these things as I had already done with a lot of other ridiculousness that was more prominently displayed on move-in day.
Manik had made a big deal on more than one occasion of walking through the apartment and asking do you need this? How about this? You only need this little pot right? Finally I just started to tell her to leave everything and made a mental note to go through it later. Did I ever get my wish. Of course, my favorite, is when she would pull something out of a cabinet and say “do you need this? Because if not, I am going to just leave it right here,” and then put it back where it came from. As it turned out I ended with almost everything except for closet space, which was a point of contention.
I have a three room apartment (two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and two balcomies, one enclosed) and only one closet. Actually, wardrobe is a better term for the free-standing piece of furniture with three doors. Two doors open into a typical closet space with a shelf at the top and a bar across the width, and of course very few hangers, the other door opened to a series of shelves. First, Manik wanted to lock the closet part and leave the shelves for me. When I protested, she said she would put her stuff in the shelf side, lock it and give the other side to me. This wasn’t much better but I could see that if I didn’t agree to this, she would lock an entire room so I compromised. The next time I visited, she showed me the closet, first the locked side and then the other. On the floor of the other side was stacked two suitcases and a large cardboard box, which were taking up more than half of the available space. She points to the items and says “I am just going to leave these here. Don’t disturb then, okay?” I became so frustrated I couldn’t speak and finally yelled to James to help translate. He did, and the suitcases were moved to a cupboard in the living room—one of the few she had emptied in there, and as it turned out, the only one tall enough to accommodate my books and manuals. I eventually moved them under a bed and Manik hasn’t said anything so I am going to assume I am safe.
Of course, the dirt and the landlord’s belongings were only the beginnings of my struggles. The Thursday before I moved I visited the apartment to find James’ landlord and Renee’s landlord installing my peephole, new locks and light outside my door. They also turned on the water to the toilet and we checked the phone, which wasn’t working. I was promised Friday. On Saturday, when I moved in it still wasn’t working, I was told Monday. On Monday morning, when my landlord arrived because my toilet was leaking, it still wasn’t working. Finally, Monday evening it was turned on, and the water to my toilet was turned off to take care of the large puddle that had formed on my bathroom floor. As it turned out, the toilet bowl was cracked, quite visibly, but because the light had stopped working in the bathroom we couldn’t see it. I later come to find out that the landlord knew this, and didn’t say anything when the water was turned on, thus creating a constant trickle of water over the back of the toilet bowl and eventually leaking onto the floor. Now that the water is off, I am flushing with a bucket until I get my new (used) toilet installed on Saturday. I think there is a market here. Additionally, I am personally paying for the workers to close off the top part of the wall between the water closet and the room with the sink and the tub. As it turns out, not being able to flush your toilet paper creates quite the aroma in any room it has access to. Not so pleasant when you are brushing your teeth.
I will also be receiving my peace corps gas stove on Saturday. I was told that the electric stove and oven worked (they don’t) and that there was also a gas stove that I could use if I had any problems. The day I moved in, I sent James and his landlord to fill up the gas canister for the gas stove, only to find out when they returned that the gas stove also didn’t work. So, we took a trip to the bus stop/shops and bought a small single burner stove on top of a propane type canister—sort of a camping stove on steroids. We also bought some food and proceeded to make some lunch. The next day, while making dinner, the new stove stopped working. Well, it actually turned into somewhat of a flame thrower. I took it back to the store and exchanged it for a new one (fortunately we bought it from my language tutor’s mother, so there were no questions asked) and so far that one is doing okay, although I am not holding my breath. In the mean time I borrowed a new regulator from James and we hooked up the landlord’s gas stove again, but one of the burners leaks gas. Sigh.
I also bought some new light bulbs to replace the one that promptly burned out the day after I moved in and to install in the fixture in the second bedroom where there was no bulb. By fixture, I mean bare socket hanging from a wire in the middle of the room. The light works now, but only if you stand in the doorway and hold the switch halfway between on and off. Convenient, no? In the same trip I purchased a kilo of sugar, using the word for sugar I had learned in PST. I am pretty sure that I will now never forget that the word we learned for sugar in PST actually means sugar CUBE. Not quite sure what I am going to do with a kilo of sugar cubes….guess I will be drinking a lot of tea. Of course, it would be helpful if my kitchen sink were working properly. Right now I have a trickle that I can’t turn off or on any higher. Maybe later.
On the bright side, Manik seems to be coming around quite nicely and has relaxed considerably from our first few meetings. Now that I have unpacked she is beginning to realize that I actually do need all of the space I asked for things like books and clothes and desk space. I think she is also realizing that many things in this apartment are being upgraded on my bill on account of me being here. I am additionally fortunate to have Varton as my go-to man if anything goes wrong. He has consistently been on top of making sure everything works as it should. Renee’s landlord is the one who does the electrical and plumbing related things and he seems happy to help as well.
As I write this, my phone has once again stopped working, but all in all I think I have made a good choice in my apartment search. I managed to get some posters and pictures up the other day and it is really starting to feel like home. And, I am pretty sure that no amount of inconveniences can trump the feeling of freedom I have now that I cooking my own meals, making my own decisions, and not feeling guilty whenever I decided to do something that didn’t involve staying at home with my family watching Russian television.
I was fortunate to have the assistance of four other volunteers, and James’ landlord, Varton, who allowed me to use his jeep—his son drove and he also helped moved stuff. I had no idea how much stuff I had actually accumulated in this country until I packed it all up. It was almost embarrassing but I am assured by my friends it is normal… Miraculously, everything fit in the back of the jeep (the back seat was out) and we only had to make one trip across town. Approximately 15 yards from my host family’s house, the jeep broke down. After lots of fiddling it was determined that it was out of gas. Someone found some gas and we were on our way again, the volunteers on foot and Varton and his son in the jeep.
My landlord, Manik, met us at the apartment and promptly began freaking out about her stuff and her list of things she had counted. Landlords are supposed to write down what they have provided in the house for later reference in case things break, etc., etc. Well, Manik wrote a book—literally—she bought a school copy book and wrote pages and pages of everything she owns. She even counted her Armenian books, which are safely in a cabinet, and I had already assured her that I wouldn’t touch them, let alone read them. She then asked if I would like to check it. Reading Armenian handwriting is near impossible for me, and I had no concern about being cheated by her, so I told her that I trusted her and I would sign the list and she could hang on to it for later. That’s where the trouble started. She got upset and I started to say “its okay, I know what I have and I know what is yours and if I break anything, I will replace it.” I managed to get to “I know what I have” when she interrupted me and starting freaking about this being about her things. Thankfully Cat was there with her super Armenian skills to translate because frustration does not aid my language abilities. We finally got things straightened out and Manik out the door after about an hour, at which point I started wondering if I dare touch anything in the apartment for fear of the aftermath.
It didn’t take me long to get over that and I was soon scrubbing every corner of the place with bleach. One word…disgusting. Manik said she would clean before I moved in, but if that happened I have no idea what it was that she cleaned. Not only were shelves and cabinets carpeted in dust and dirt, but all the dishes needed washed, floors cleaned, rugs shook, and the kitchen and bathroom needed complete top to bottom scrubbings. I spent an hour on my hands and knees in the bathroom with a sponge and a scrub brush, and after the fourth time through, gave up…at least the sponge had stopped coming up black. I managed to get it clean enough that I felt comfortable leaving my toothbrush in there and hanging up my towel. Of course, in addition to all the dirt, I was gifted with all of the belongings that the family decided they didn’t need when they left for Russia—old toothbrushes, used razor blades, clothing tags, empty candy boxes displayed on shelves, 5-year-old opened bottles of vodka, old slippers, nasty stuffed animals, you name it. I moved through the house throwing all of this randomness into boxes, mentally preparing myself to explain WHY I didn’t want these things as I had already done with a lot of other ridiculousness that was more prominently displayed on move-in day.
Manik had made a big deal on more than one occasion of walking through the apartment and asking do you need this? How about this? You only need this little pot right? Finally I just started to tell her to leave everything and made a mental note to go through it later. Did I ever get my wish. Of course, my favorite, is when she would pull something out of a cabinet and say “do you need this? Because if not, I am going to just leave it right here,” and then put it back where it came from. As it turned out I ended with almost everything except for closet space, which was a point of contention.
I have a three room apartment (two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and two balcomies, one enclosed) and only one closet. Actually, wardrobe is a better term for the free-standing piece of furniture with three doors. Two doors open into a typical closet space with a shelf at the top and a bar across the width, and of course very few hangers, the other door opened to a series of shelves. First, Manik wanted to lock the closet part and leave the shelves for me. When I protested, she said she would put her stuff in the shelf side, lock it and give the other side to me. This wasn’t much better but I could see that if I didn’t agree to this, she would lock an entire room so I compromised. The next time I visited, she showed me the closet, first the locked side and then the other. On the floor of the other side was stacked two suitcases and a large cardboard box, which were taking up more than half of the available space. She points to the items and says “I am just going to leave these here. Don’t disturb then, okay?” I became so frustrated I couldn’t speak and finally yelled to James to help translate. He did, and the suitcases were moved to a cupboard in the living room—one of the few she had emptied in there, and as it turned out, the only one tall enough to accommodate my books and manuals. I eventually moved them under a bed and Manik hasn’t said anything so I am going to assume I am safe.
Of course, the dirt and the landlord’s belongings were only the beginnings of my struggles. The Thursday before I moved I visited the apartment to find James’ landlord and Renee’s landlord installing my peephole, new locks and light outside my door. They also turned on the water to the toilet and we checked the phone, which wasn’t working. I was promised Friday. On Saturday, when I moved in it still wasn’t working, I was told Monday. On Monday morning, when my landlord arrived because my toilet was leaking, it still wasn’t working. Finally, Monday evening it was turned on, and the water to my toilet was turned off to take care of the large puddle that had formed on my bathroom floor. As it turned out, the toilet bowl was cracked, quite visibly, but because the light had stopped working in the bathroom we couldn’t see it. I later come to find out that the landlord knew this, and didn’t say anything when the water was turned on, thus creating a constant trickle of water over the back of the toilet bowl and eventually leaking onto the floor. Now that the water is off, I am flushing with a bucket until I get my new (used) toilet installed on Saturday. I think there is a market here. Additionally, I am personally paying for the workers to close off the top part of the wall between the water closet and the room with the sink and the tub. As it turns out, not being able to flush your toilet paper creates quite the aroma in any room it has access to. Not so pleasant when you are brushing your teeth.
I will also be receiving my peace corps gas stove on Saturday. I was told that the electric stove and oven worked (they don’t) and that there was also a gas stove that I could use if I had any problems. The day I moved in, I sent James and his landlord to fill up the gas canister for the gas stove, only to find out when they returned that the gas stove also didn’t work. So, we took a trip to the bus stop/shops and bought a small single burner stove on top of a propane type canister—sort of a camping stove on steroids. We also bought some food and proceeded to make some lunch. The next day, while making dinner, the new stove stopped working. Well, it actually turned into somewhat of a flame thrower. I took it back to the store and exchanged it for a new one (fortunately we bought it from my language tutor’s mother, so there were no questions asked) and so far that one is doing okay, although I am not holding my breath. In the mean time I borrowed a new regulator from James and we hooked up the landlord’s gas stove again, but one of the burners leaks gas. Sigh.
I also bought some new light bulbs to replace the one that promptly burned out the day after I moved in and to install in the fixture in the second bedroom where there was no bulb. By fixture, I mean bare socket hanging from a wire in the middle of the room. The light works now, but only if you stand in the doorway and hold the switch halfway between on and off. Convenient, no? In the same trip I purchased a kilo of sugar, using the word for sugar I had learned in PST. I am pretty sure that I will now never forget that the word we learned for sugar in PST actually means sugar CUBE. Not quite sure what I am going to do with a kilo of sugar cubes….guess I will be drinking a lot of tea. Of course, it would be helpful if my kitchen sink were working properly. Right now I have a trickle that I can’t turn off or on any higher. Maybe later.
On the bright side, Manik seems to be coming around quite nicely and has relaxed considerably from our first few meetings. Now that I have unpacked she is beginning to realize that I actually do need all of the space I asked for things like books and clothes and desk space. I think she is also realizing that many things in this apartment are being upgraded on my bill on account of me being here. I am additionally fortunate to have Varton as my go-to man if anything goes wrong. He has consistently been on top of making sure everything works as it should. Renee’s landlord is the one who does the electrical and plumbing related things and he seems happy to help as well.
As I write this, my phone has once again stopped working, but all in all I think I have made a good choice in my apartment search. I managed to get some posters and pictures up the other day and it is really starting to feel like home. And, I am pretty sure that no amount of inconveniences can trump the feeling of freedom I have now that I cooking my own meals, making my own decisions, and not feeling guilty whenever I decided to do something that didn’t involve staying at home with my family watching Russian television.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
chickens
Today I sat down to dinner in front of a cast iron skillet full of organs. An organ medley if you will—hearts, lungs, and livers, if I’m not mistaken. It has been a good way to learn the Armenian words for organs anyway… My host family got scared recently about bird flu and decided to slaughter their chickens, all 19 of them, yesterday. While still on the small side, they all seem in good health so I am not too worried. We had a big chicken feast last night and then tonight they ate all 19 of the chickens’ organs, sautéed with onions. There was also a plate full of chicken necks. I stuck to the relatively safe chicken with noodles. I kind of feel like Forest Gump….chicken, baked chicken, boiled chicken, chicken soup, chicken hearts, chicken lungs, chicken wings, chicken necks. Well, you get the picture. The remaining 17 or so chickens are being preserved with solidified fat and salt. I have eaten beef preserved in this manner and it looks pretty gross, but doesn’t taste too bad—somewhere between beef jerky and pot roast.
Just to put everyone at ease, as of now there have been no reported incidences of bird flu in Armenia. Of course, with Turkey being our neighbor people are getting a bit concerned. Now every time the news covers the bird flu my host family all stops what they are doing and turns up the volume. I have a sneaky suspicion however that it was the Jehovah’s Witness magazines that convinced them to slaughter all of their poultry in one day. No more eggs for me. Regardless, the Peace Corps has issued a travel advisory: we are no longer permitted to travel to Turkey. I am still not sure if was only my family that took this measure, but it is comforting to know that there is at least an awareness and a desire to comply with measures to prevent the spread.
All chicken business aside, the New Year is officially over—all 7 days, and the old New Year too, and it back to work for everyone except the teachers and administrators at the schools. Snow began falling steadily soon after the New Year. We have been getting several inches at a time on and off for the past few weeks, with quite a dumping over the last several days. I spent a few days in Stepenavan working on the eco-camp manual and then attempted to return to Yerevan this past weekend for some initiative meetings. The weather had other plans, and even nestled in our 4-wheel drive Niva taxi, the ride was, shall we say, harrowing. We made it safely, although we missed our meeting, thanked our lucky stars that we hadn’t tried to travel via marshurtnie and camped out in Yerevan that night. The roads were clear down south the next day, so I headed home, and I am now snowed-in down here.
Even the Vayk desert has turned into a winter wonderland. The snowcapped mountains are quite pretty, especially at twilight as they reflect the setting sun. Fortunately for me, that time of day is getting later and later. It is completely dark around 6:30 now. The icy sidewalks have had me quite thankful for my newly acquired yak-traks, which allow me to get around with relative ease. There is no salt, no snowplows, and very few shovels, which usually consist of a square board attached to a stick, or a dustpan. Sometimes people sweep snow with brooms as well, but usually only in front of their own house, rather than on the sidewalks.
Kids have been out by the dozens with their sleds and their friends. There are a number of runner sled that look like they would do fine job of impaling a small child in just the instant. Of course, if the sled doesn’t do it then the busy roads they sled into and on might just do the trick. Traffic is scarce right now, but cars don’t slow down when trying to get up icy hills or sometimes when trying to stop…. My new favorite winter pastime however has to be the pointy-shoe slide. School-age boys seem to have this down to an art form. They squat and slide down hills on their little pointy shoes—they can even turn and sometimes stop. I can hardly squat standing still on a sunny day!
I learned a new interesting fact yesterday: if you drink tea and then drink cold water, you will get sick. My host father (who is sick right now) asked for a glass of water after we finished tea last night, and he was denied. He and my host mother argued and finally deferred to me. I said that it is okay to drink water after tea. “What are you, a doctor?” says my host mother. I figured this was as good of a time as any to tell them I was an EMT in the US. Soon thereafter my host father has a glass of water. Hopefully he doesn’t get sick….at least they listen to my advice.
I don’t want to jinx myself, but I have some leads on a few possible projects for Vayk and I am feeling good about their prospects. It just suddenly all came together today. I have youth development background, I work for a primarily youth development related organization, and my counterpart wants me to work with these two youths that she brought to our meeting today. Hmmmm… Ironically, I was thinking about approaching these two youths on my own to see if they wanted to work with me. I am thinking that maybe we can start a youth group and focus on English, and easy thing to do that everybody wants to be involved with and then also do environmental and health related lessons.
Other than that, I have been keeping myself entertained while counting down the days until I get to move out into my own apartment (two weeks as of right now). I bought a guitar from another volunteer this weekend, which thus far has been the highlight of my week. Finally I have the time and I am developing the patience to actually teach myself how to play. My previous attempts in the states were often thwarted by impatience. In other words, if I can’t play well NOW, then I am just not going to do it. So there. I am hoping that by the time I leave here I will be able to play well, and for now it provides a wonderful creative outlet that only music seems to be able to fulfill.
School will be starting again soon, I will be moving out, we have some upcoming conferences, and eco-camp stuff is getting more pressing, so I am thinking I will be busy in short while. Until then I am enjoying the reminder of my time with my host family and working on my language skills while I still live with people who can help me out.
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