Return from the Netherworld

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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