Ararat Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

Head Soup

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

deeper musings

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

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

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

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

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

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

postally absurd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

volcanic adventures

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

conferences, meetings and macaroni

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

enjoying the slow life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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