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.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
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.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Christmas in Armenia
I am finally starting to settle back into the routine that I tried so hard to establish before I left for America. It is hard to believe that nearly a month has passed since I was readying myself to leave Armenia, and here I am, back again. Thanks to the sparse schedule of flights out of Armenia, I found myself booking a flight that put me back in country very early in the morning on New Year’s eve. What I have learned is that this is a terrible week to choose in terms of readjustment. It is hard enough that I am simply coming back from two weeks at home with my friends and family and hot showers, and cars, and good food, and freedom. I had to go and compound that by picking the most Armenian week of them all to return to.
I arrived in Vayk on the evening of the first, still groggy from the jet lag and the long taxi ride from Yerevan. I was fortunate that my host family was thinking I would come on the 2nd and thus had already eaten, taking some of the pressure off of me to EAT EAT EAT! (note to self…) The table, however, was still set with all the New Year’s trimmings, and James and I sat to down what would the first of many New Years dinners over the course of the coming week. Dolma (cabbage or grape leaves stuffed with meat), sliced meats, olives, bread and lavash, a salad of peas carrots, potatoes, and meat diced and covered with yogurt, and fruits, chocolates and pastries for desert with coffee or tea, your choice. The amount of food was really quite overwhelming, not only because I learned that jet lag messes with your appetite as well as your sleep schedule, but because this kind of spread is totally out of the ordinary for the rest of the Armenian year.
Also overwhelming was my bedroom. After running the heater 4 or 5 hours the night I retuned, I was able to raise the temperature to 5 degrees Celsius. It dropped back to 2 while I was sleeping. It was several days until I was able to get a steady 6 at night, 9 or 10 during the day. This alone was enough the shock me into reality, yet there was still the icy bathroom floor, and frigid tap water to contend with. My hands physically ached the first few times I washed them. I think I am getting used to it now. Just yesterday I finally got up the courage to start washing my face with that water. Brrrr. Refreshing. That first night I began to unpack while wearing my coat, hat, scarf and gloves. I have been sleeping in my mountaineering sleeping bag, and tend to wear 3-4 layers in the house. Surprisingly enough, it has just become part of the routine.
It is entirely possible that I ate more meat this week than I have thus far in Vayk combined. For an entire week the normal meals of bread, rice, potatoes and pickled vegetables were replaced with the traditional (and expensive) food of the Armenian people. I shudder to think what kind of debt these people have gone into to feed all of their friends, family and neighbors for this one week.
But it is the idea of feeding everyone you know that is central to the celebration of Nor Tari (new years). Starting on December 31st and going until January 6th (Armenian Christmas), the same foods are prepared in every household and people go from house to house and eat and toast and eat some more. I personally had New Year’s dinner at my own family’s house, my host mother’s sister’s house, James’ counterpart’s house, my counterpart’s house, Renee’s counterpart’s house (and my Armenian tutor), and with the family of one of our LCF’s who is currently studying in the Netherlands. I also managed to get out of going to a few other houses for one reason or another. In addition to what was served at my host family’s spread, I ate goat, beet salad, blinchiks (sort of like a Russian eggroll without vegetables), chicken, chicken salad, mushroom salad, cake, nuts, dried fruits and figs. And then, of course, there were the juices, sodas, sparkling water, cognac, wine and vodka. Being a woman, I was able to get off with toasting with cognac or wine instead of vodka which was a welcome relief.
I am exhausted just from all the eating. My stomach hasn’t been the happiest either, but by the end of the week it had recovered enough from the jet lag and who knows what else to really enjoy the last dinner we ate. Although it was somewhat traumatic to try to readjust to Armenia during this intense week (not to mention to try and remember Armenian again), I am glad to have been here to experience all that I have heard about. I learned that the stories are mostly true, but that it isn’t as bad as I had imagined. It was a good reminder of the friends I have made and the distance I have come in the six months I have spent in this country so far. It took me about 3 days to get my Armenian back to the point where I could actually converse with people rather than simply saying “good” when I was asked how America was. At this point, I think it actually might be better than when I left. A short break combined with a week where I had to talk to people all the time actually helped, I think.
It is now nearing mid-January and people are slowing heading back to work. The kids are still on break. School ended on December 24 and won’t resume until February 15. This is slightly longer break than usual because there isn’t enough money to heat the schools this year. I finally managed to meet with my counterpart today…for the first time since the first week of December. I was actually able to converse with her for almost an entire hour, which I am pretty sure is some sort of record. Not only that, but we actually made some plans for possible projects in Vayk. Whoa. We’ll see how long this lasts. For now, I am going to feel good about the little progress I have made. Baby steps.
I have also been occupying myself by doing some apartment hunting. I have been faced with the mixed blessing of the Peace Corps deciding that we can move out starting at the beginning of January if we like. I would like, but I have told my family that I will be here until February 15, and I have mixed feelings about reneging on that. Now that I see the light at the end of the tunnel, I am more anxious than ever to get the hell out of here and start living on my own. At the same time though, I have been so blessed to have this family and I really enjoy their company, and don’t want to hurt their feelings in any way. That, and I think they could probably use the money. So, I haven’t decided what to do, but if I don’t decide soon, then I will be definitely staying until mid February.
The good news is that I think I have found a good place to live. The search was entertaining…what about my life isn’t right now? First, I should mention that apartment hunting here is nothing like in the states. Duh. Okay, moving on. Apartments are owned by people individually, rather than the landlord owning a whole building with the specific intent of renting to people. The apartments (or houses) in question, come fully furnished, with everything the person who lived there owned…dishes, books, blankets, clothes sometimes, you name it. They are usually vacant because the person who used to live there is either in Russia, Yerevan, or living with other family members in Vayk or elsewhere in Armenia. So, the first step is to locate a vacant apartment, and then locate the owner, heretofore referred to as landlord.
My host father is the gas-man in Vayk (he goes from door to door reading meters and collecting bills), and thus knows nearly everyone in the town and where they live. By default, he also knows a lot of the empty apartments, and has been working on finding me a place to live. The first place he found was a two room apartment (meaning a living room with a nook off the side big enough for two beds, and another room, plus the traditional galley kitchen, and two room bathroom (one for toilet, one for sink and tub). What I didn’t know was that when I arrived to look at it, there would be a young family—mother, father, and toddler—who were not only living there, and going to be kicked out if I moved in, but were present while I walked around the apartment looking at all of their stuff. Talk about awkward. My first concern was of kicking a family out of their home. As t turns out they both have parents with houses in Vayk and are getting ready to buy their own home, but it still doesn’t seem right to kick them just because I am an American, and by default and Peace Corps precedent, will pay more for rent….like more than double. That, and it wasn’t a very nice place.
Next, my counterpart thought I could live in the house next door to her (and somewhat connected). Since she, being married to the vice-governor of the reason, and being a doctor, has one of the nicest houses in Vayk, we thought this might not be so bad. Apparently it was. I never actually saw it, she looked at it and told me it wasn’t good. In the mean time James’ landlord had found a nice three-room place on the fifth floor of a building near the bus station. We looked at it and it looked nice, and I have subsequently decided to live there, but first I wanted to wait and see if anything else would pop up.
Things did: Gero found a two-room place but the landlord was in Yerevan. “I could maybe see it in a week or a month.” Then James’ counterpart found a place: one room, fifth floor, very prison cell-like, with absolutely nothing inside. Nothing. No furniture, no appliances, no telephone, no rugs, no weird Armenian carpet hanging on the wall. Nothing. It was hard for me not to laugh while we looking at it. The landlord said she would put everything in and make it “pretty” in two weeks if I wanted it. Right. Two weeks. I can’t think of anything that happens in two weeks in this country, let alone apartment remodeling. The Gero found another place, three rooms, and gas—a definite plus. Problem was that the mother agreed to renting it but the son didn’t. Strike three. I told Varton (James’ landlord) today that I would the place he found. We’ll see how it goes.
This place needs a few things, like electricity and a phone line, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. The owners have been in Russia, and thus nobody has been living there for the past few years. The wife is back now, but has decided to live with her daughter and rent her apartment to make some extra money. It is a very nice place, although I will be heating all of my water on the stove and it is a long walk from my sitemates. Those are the major drawbacks, but overall I can see myself being very happy there.
I arrived in Vayk on the evening of the first, still groggy from the jet lag and the long taxi ride from Yerevan. I was fortunate that my host family was thinking I would come on the 2nd and thus had already eaten, taking some of the pressure off of me to EAT EAT EAT! (note to self…) The table, however, was still set with all the New Year’s trimmings, and James and I sat to down what would the first of many New Years dinners over the course of the coming week. Dolma (cabbage or grape leaves stuffed with meat), sliced meats, olives, bread and lavash, a salad of peas carrots, potatoes, and meat diced and covered with yogurt, and fruits, chocolates and pastries for desert with coffee or tea, your choice. The amount of food was really quite overwhelming, not only because I learned that jet lag messes with your appetite as well as your sleep schedule, but because this kind of spread is totally out of the ordinary for the rest of the Armenian year.
Also overwhelming was my bedroom. After running the heater 4 or 5 hours the night I retuned, I was able to raise the temperature to 5 degrees Celsius. It dropped back to 2 while I was sleeping. It was several days until I was able to get a steady 6 at night, 9 or 10 during the day. This alone was enough the shock me into reality, yet there was still the icy bathroom floor, and frigid tap water to contend with. My hands physically ached the first few times I washed them. I think I am getting used to it now. Just yesterday I finally got up the courage to start washing my face with that water. Brrrr. Refreshing. That first night I began to unpack while wearing my coat, hat, scarf and gloves. I have been sleeping in my mountaineering sleeping bag, and tend to wear 3-4 layers in the house. Surprisingly enough, it has just become part of the routine.
It is entirely possible that I ate more meat this week than I have thus far in Vayk combined. For an entire week the normal meals of bread, rice, potatoes and pickled vegetables were replaced with the traditional (and expensive) food of the Armenian people. I shudder to think what kind of debt these people have gone into to feed all of their friends, family and neighbors for this one week.
But it is the idea of feeding everyone you know that is central to the celebration of Nor Tari (new years). Starting on December 31st and going until January 6th (Armenian Christmas), the same foods are prepared in every household and people go from house to house and eat and toast and eat some more. I personally had New Year’s dinner at my own family’s house, my host mother’s sister’s house, James’ counterpart’s house, my counterpart’s house, Renee’s counterpart’s house (and my Armenian tutor), and with the family of one of our LCF’s who is currently studying in the Netherlands. I also managed to get out of going to a few other houses for one reason or another. In addition to what was served at my host family’s spread, I ate goat, beet salad, blinchiks (sort of like a Russian eggroll without vegetables), chicken, chicken salad, mushroom salad, cake, nuts, dried fruits and figs. And then, of course, there were the juices, sodas, sparkling water, cognac, wine and vodka. Being a woman, I was able to get off with toasting with cognac or wine instead of vodka which was a welcome relief.
I am exhausted just from all the eating. My stomach hasn’t been the happiest either, but by the end of the week it had recovered enough from the jet lag and who knows what else to really enjoy the last dinner we ate. Although it was somewhat traumatic to try to readjust to Armenia during this intense week (not to mention to try and remember Armenian again), I am glad to have been here to experience all that I have heard about. I learned that the stories are mostly true, but that it isn’t as bad as I had imagined. It was a good reminder of the friends I have made and the distance I have come in the six months I have spent in this country so far. It took me about 3 days to get my Armenian back to the point where I could actually converse with people rather than simply saying “good” when I was asked how America was. At this point, I think it actually might be better than when I left. A short break combined with a week where I had to talk to people all the time actually helped, I think.
It is now nearing mid-January and people are slowing heading back to work. The kids are still on break. School ended on December 24 and won’t resume until February 15. This is slightly longer break than usual because there isn’t enough money to heat the schools this year. I finally managed to meet with my counterpart today…for the first time since the first week of December. I was actually able to converse with her for almost an entire hour, which I am pretty sure is some sort of record. Not only that, but we actually made some plans for possible projects in Vayk. Whoa. We’ll see how long this lasts. For now, I am going to feel good about the little progress I have made. Baby steps.
I have also been occupying myself by doing some apartment hunting. I have been faced with the mixed blessing of the Peace Corps deciding that we can move out starting at the beginning of January if we like. I would like, but I have told my family that I will be here until February 15, and I have mixed feelings about reneging on that. Now that I see the light at the end of the tunnel, I am more anxious than ever to get the hell out of here and start living on my own. At the same time though, I have been so blessed to have this family and I really enjoy their company, and don’t want to hurt their feelings in any way. That, and I think they could probably use the money. So, I haven’t decided what to do, but if I don’t decide soon, then I will be definitely staying until mid February.
The good news is that I think I have found a good place to live. The search was entertaining…what about my life isn’t right now? First, I should mention that apartment hunting here is nothing like in the states. Duh. Okay, moving on. Apartments are owned by people individually, rather than the landlord owning a whole building with the specific intent of renting to people. The apartments (or houses) in question, come fully furnished, with everything the person who lived there owned…dishes, books, blankets, clothes sometimes, you name it. They are usually vacant because the person who used to live there is either in Russia, Yerevan, or living with other family members in Vayk or elsewhere in Armenia. So, the first step is to locate a vacant apartment, and then locate the owner, heretofore referred to as landlord.
My host father is the gas-man in Vayk (he goes from door to door reading meters and collecting bills), and thus knows nearly everyone in the town and where they live. By default, he also knows a lot of the empty apartments, and has been working on finding me a place to live. The first place he found was a two room apartment (meaning a living room with a nook off the side big enough for two beds, and another room, plus the traditional galley kitchen, and two room bathroom (one for toilet, one for sink and tub). What I didn’t know was that when I arrived to look at it, there would be a young family—mother, father, and toddler—who were not only living there, and going to be kicked out if I moved in, but were present while I walked around the apartment looking at all of their stuff. Talk about awkward. My first concern was of kicking a family out of their home. As t turns out they both have parents with houses in Vayk and are getting ready to buy their own home, but it still doesn’t seem right to kick them just because I am an American, and by default and Peace Corps precedent, will pay more for rent….like more than double. That, and it wasn’t a very nice place.
Next, my counterpart thought I could live in the house next door to her (and somewhat connected). Since she, being married to the vice-governor of the reason, and being a doctor, has one of the nicest houses in Vayk, we thought this might not be so bad. Apparently it was. I never actually saw it, she looked at it and told me it wasn’t good. In the mean time James’ landlord had found a nice three-room place on the fifth floor of a building near the bus station. We looked at it and it looked nice, and I have subsequently decided to live there, but first I wanted to wait and see if anything else would pop up.
Things did: Gero found a two-room place but the landlord was in Yerevan. “I could maybe see it in a week or a month.” Then James’ counterpart found a place: one room, fifth floor, very prison cell-like, with absolutely nothing inside. Nothing. No furniture, no appliances, no telephone, no rugs, no weird Armenian carpet hanging on the wall. Nothing. It was hard for me not to laugh while we looking at it. The landlord said she would put everything in and make it “pretty” in two weeks if I wanted it. Right. Two weeks. I can’t think of anything that happens in two weeks in this country, let alone apartment remodeling. The Gero found another place, three rooms, and gas—a definite plus. Problem was that the mother agreed to renting it but the son didn’t. Strike three. I told Varton (James’ landlord) today that I would the place he found. We’ll see how it goes.
This place needs a few things, like electricity and a phone line, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. The owners have been in Russia, and thus nobody has been living there for the past few years. The wife is back now, but has decided to live with her daughter and rent her apartment to make some extra money. It is a very nice place, although I will be heating all of my water on the stove and it is a long walk from my sitemates. Those are the major drawbacks, but overall I can see myself being very happy there.
Christmas in America
My trip to America began at the Yerevan airport baggage check.
“Your bag is too heavy. You have to put it in two bags.”
“But I don’t have two bags,” I said, upset at the inconvenience, but not really caring as I was on my way to America. That sentiment was doing a good job of overriding everything else. At least until I ran into the lovely Armenian customer service.
“Well, its two heavy, it has to be in two bags.” Says the woman behind the counter in stilted English.
“I understand that, but I don’t have two bags. I just have this one.”
“Well, then you have to pay.”
This, I assumed…. “Okay,” I say “How much is the fee.”
“I don’t know, I have to check.”
I guess this doesn’t happen too often, I think as I wait for the woman to saunter back. At four in the morning nobody seems to be in too much of a hurry. Not that they probably ever are.
“The fee is 25 dollars,” says the woman I have been talking to, and then promptly goes back to fiddling with my tickets. I say okay, which is met by a blank stare, and then a few minutes later she asks “so you are going to pay?” No, I am going to put half of this suitcase into my imaginary other bag. Yes, I am going to pay.
“Do I pay you?”
“Hold on, I have to ask,” she says leaving the counter once again. Sigh. All of my traveling companions are finished by now. “You have to go up there,” she says, pointing to a small office door on the floor above us.
“Okay, do I leave my bags here?” I ask, getting impatient now.
“Yes, here are your tickets, your boarding pass is inside.” At this, I leave flustered, only to get 100 yards away to hear “wait, you forgot your boarding pass.”
I head up the stairs to the door that was pointed out to me. The Austrian Airlines office. I enter the small room, resembling a closet, with two clustered desks and a woman sitting at the further one. The room is filled with cigarette smoke and a smaller back room is housing with what I presume to be lost luggage. I offer up a quick prayer that my suitcase doesn’t join the ranks of these. One trip here is enough. Finally it is my turn. The woman at the desk looks at me quizzically.
“I have to pay the overweight fee,” I say, barely masking my frustration.
“Its 25 dollars,” she says, and so I open my wallet and hand her 25 dollars. She looks at the money and then at me. “It has to be in drams.”
“Well, then how much is it in drams?” I ask, my frustration no longer masked. I don’t care. She tells me and I pay the fee and leave, this time nearly convinced that my luggage isn’t coming to America with me.
I join my friends in the line for security and customs. Security was a breeze, and after the woman at customs looked at me and then at my passport and then at me and then at my passport, and then at me…..at least six or seven times, we were ready to sit in uncomfortable chairs for the next hour. We passed the time eating fruit and comparing the airport to a spaceship from Star Wars until we were approached by one the airport employees. Walking directly up to my friend Chris, she says “I need your boarding pass.” I don’t think she even asked his name. When Chris asked why she said “we have changed your seat. Chris says “okay, but why?” She responds “the representative told me to,” gives him his new boarding pass and walks away. We were left to ponder who the representative was….
The remainder of the trip was fairly uneventful, and 24 hours later I arrived in Chicago on the same day…exhausted. The trip was short and sweet, but I managed to see and do almost everything that I had planned. Two weeks, a few movies, a lot of relatives, some Mexican food and a lot of good coffee later, I found myself boarding a plane back to this side of the world. Once again, I had a 13 hour layover in Vienna, giving me time to head into the city. Unfortunately, it was cold, windy and snowy, and after walking for about a block I decided that sitting in a café sounded nice. I sipped a Viennese coffee, ate a fruit torte and contemplated what the next week or so would have in store for me. I am not sure I could have ever fully prepared myself.
I arrived in Armenia at 4:45 am on New Year’s eve. I was blessed to have a fellow volunteer meet me at the airport with a taxi thus negating the need to immediately speak all of the Armenian I had forgotten while in the US. We stayed at the hostel that day and went out to celebrate New Year’s in Yerevan that evening. We found the streets mostly bare, and the few open bars the same. We rang in the New Year at one of our favorite establishments with a total of 5 Peace Corps Volunteers, two bar tenders, and two other Armenians. I left around 1:30 or 2am. I am told that it picked up considerably after that. Apparently Armenians stay with their families and then go out later. We did have the privilege of walking through Republic square, where there was a giant artificial Christmas tree, several people dressed as Santa, about 30 of those machines with the claw where you try to grab a stuffed animal, and pony rides…right through the middle of all the people. Later that evening three Coca-cola trucks with Christmas lights showed up. Eclectic, I know.
“Your bag is too heavy. You have to put it in two bags.”
“But I don’t have two bags,” I said, upset at the inconvenience, but not really caring as I was on my way to America. That sentiment was doing a good job of overriding everything else. At least until I ran into the lovely Armenian customer service.
“Well, its two heavy, it has to be in two bags.” Says the woman behind the counter in stilted English.
“I understand that, but I don’t have two bags. I just have this one.”
“Well, then you have to pay.”
This, I assumed…. “Okay,” I say “How much is the fee.”
“I don’t know, I have to check.”
I guess this doesn’t happen too often, I think as I wait for the woman to saunter back. At four in the morning nobody seems to be in too much of a hurry. Not that they probably ever are.
“The fee is 25 dollars,” says the woman I have been talking to, and then promptly goes back to fiddling with my tickets. I say okay, which is met by a blank stare, and then a few minutes later she asks “so you are going to pay?” No, I am going to put half of this suitcase into my imaginary other bag. Yes, I am going to pay.
“Do I pay you?”
“Hold on, I have to ask,” she says leaving the counter once again. Sigh. All of my traveling companions are finished by now. “You have to go up there,” she says, pointing to a small office door on the floor above us.
“Okay, do I leave my bags here?” I ask, getting impatient now.
“Yes, here are your tickets, your boarding pass is inside.” At this, I leave flustered, only to get 100 yards away to hear “wait, you forgot your boarding pass.”
I head up the stairs to the door that was pointed out to me. The Austrian Airlines office. I enter the small room, resembling a closet, with two clustered desks and a woman sitting at the further one. The room is filled with cigarette smoke and a smaller back room is housing with what I presume to be lost luggage. I offer up a quick prayer that my suitcase doesn’t join the ranks of these. One trip here is enough. Finally it is my turn. The woman at the desk looks at me quizzically.
“I have to pay the overweight fee,” I say, barely masking my frustration.
“Its 25 dollars,” she says, and so I open my wallet and hand her 25 dollars. She looks at the money and then at me. “It has to be in drams.”
“Well, then how much is it in drams?” I ask, my frustration no longer masked. I don’t care. She tells me and I pay the fee and leave, this time nearly convinced that my luggage isn’t coming to America with me.
I join my friends in the line for security and customs. Security was a breeze, and after the woman at customs looked at me and then at my passport and then at me and then at my passport, and then at me…..at least six or seven times, we were ready to sit in uncomfortable chairs for the next hour. We passed the time eating fruit and comparing the airport to a spaceship from Star Wars until we were approached by one the airport employees. Walking directly up to my friend Chris, she says “I need your boarding pass.” I don’t think she even asked his name. When Chris asked why she said “we have changed your seat. Chris says “okay, but why?” She responds “the representative told me to,” gives him his new boarding pass and walks away. We were left to ponder who the representative was….
The remainder of the trip was fairly uneventful, and 24 hours later I arrived in Chicago on the same day…exhausted. The trip was short and sweet, but I managed to see and do almost everything that I had planned. Two weeks, a few movies, a lot of relatives, some Mexican food and a lot of good coffee later, I found myself boarding a plane back to this side of the world. Once again, I had a 13 hour layover in Vienna, giving me time to head into the city. Unfortunately, it was cold, windy and snowy, and after walking for about a block I decided that sitting in a café sounded nice. I sipped a Viennese coffee, ate a fruit torte and contemplated what the next week or so would have in store for me. I am not sure I could have ever fully prepared myself.
I arrived in Armenia at 4:45 am on New Year’s eve. I was blessed to have a fellow volunteer meet me at the airport with a taxi thus negating the need to immediately speak all of the Armenian I had forgotten while in the US. We stayed at the hostel that day and went out to celebrate New Year’s in Yerevan that evening. We found the streets mostly bare, and the few open bars the same. We rang in the New Year at one of our favorite establishments with a total of 5 Peace Corps Volunteers, two bar tenders, and two other Armenians. I left around 1:30 or 2am. I am told that it picked up considerably after that. Apparently Armenians stay with their families and then go out later. We did have the privilege of walking through Republic square, where there was a giant artificial Christmas tree, several people dressed as Santa, about 30 of those machines with the claw where you try to grab a stuffed animal, and pony rides…right through the middle of all the people. Later that evening three Coca-cola trucks with Christmas lights showed up. Eclectic, I know.
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