Dominic in Armenia

vsyo

2008-08-05T16:41:00.000-07:00

It’s finished. My 27 months in Armenia has wound to a close. The goodbyes were difficult but I think I’m ready to be back. It’s been long enough. In the end I didn’t “change the world” as I initially had expected/hoped; merely nibbled around the edges a bit.

I hated all the clichés attached to the Peace Corps before I left, but some of them do ring true as I reflect initially on my service. I truly did learn a lot more from the people with whom I lived. I learned much from the people surrounding me, but also a great deal just by living in a different culture and thus gaining a different perspective on things. I hope to retain and remember this as I wade back into American life.

I won’t drone on for too long... I’ve already been doing it on this blog for 2+ years. At my core I'm not a sentimental person, so this transition feels easier than perhaps it is for other volunteers. It was a good time and I will certainly miss the lifestyle of a volunteer. What better than to wake up every morning and in a very basic sense attempt to help people. That always made up for whatever ‘hardships’ living in a developing country might have posed. I will also miss the friends I made during this time, both Armenian and American.

Lastly, I love being associated with an organization such as the Peace Corps that is putting forth the best face of America in some of the most difficult corners of the world.

Thanks to all those who read this blog. I appreciated all the comments and interest.

Most sincerely,

Dominic Monley

Mi amis h@l@

2008-07-15T02:32:00.000-07:00

1 month left. 2 things are setting in; senioritis and nostalgia. Maybe nostalgia is not the right word, but more the anticipation of the impending nostalgia that my return to America is sure to bring. Sorry, I ain’t no word-ologist.

There has been this interesting arc of thoughts throughout my service. The first year was filled with surprise at different cultural Armenian quirks as I compared this country to America. The middle portion of my service was filled with a basic callousness to all things cultural as I gained a pretty full level of comfort in an Armenian lifestyle. Now I find myself comparing things in Armenia to what I will soon be experiencing (or not experiencing) back in the states. I’ve caught myself numerous times bursting forth with platitudinous remarks like, “wow, I’m gonna miss this”, “I wish we had this in America” or “this is something I hope to bring back with me when I return to the states”. Oftentimes they aren’t so positive, and leave me longing for the next few weeks to fly by so I can once again command the comfort of my own culture.

A few random examples:

I was in the fruit market (more an open air bazaar) last weekend in a random city I had never visited. The fruit vendor who vaguely knew a friend of mine instantly invited us behind his stall where we sat and he treated us to fresh fruit, homemade wine and good conversation. His hospitality probably cost him more than the small amount of money we spent on buying fruit from him. This is a very common occurrence in business here, and one that I’ll miss.

There’s this thing I love to do here when I have a few minutes to kill before a meeting, class or other engagement. It is failsafe, I swear. Leaving the main road a block or two I walk around looking a bit lost and confused. Inevitably someone will ask me where I’m going, what I’m doing etc… Replying in the local dialect will always, and I mean always produce an invitation to come to their house for coffee, vodka or a meal. It’s awesome. What better way to pass a quick bit of time before an event than meeting new friendly people who are curious about you and can’t wait to ply you with any food or drink they may have lying about?

There’s something wonderful about being abroad for a while and coming together as a group of Americans. It’s just so fully comfortable. One thing that I’ve grown to enjoy immensely here in the Peace Corps is gathering as Americans and playing old-timey American folk tunes. We’ve been blessed to have a banjo player, a harmonica guy and a couple of fiddlers. I’ve always loved music but was never exposed to much classic American folk music. Wherever our “musicatin’ weekends” take place, whether it be in the relative comfort of a hotel in the capital city or some mountain shack miles from civilization, they are always so much fun and refreshing. I will miss these pockets of America shared with other Americans in a foreign land.

I suppose I should stop here before I fall off the cliff into a sea of sentimentality.

Manr@ chuneq?

2008-05-19T01:10:00.000-07:00

Change is hard to come by here in Armenia. No one, from shopkeepers to taxi drivers ever seems to have any. Either that or (as is my suspicion) they just harbor a distain for distributing it to foreigners.

The local currency (the Armenian dram) is denominated in a normal way. A coke costs around 200 dram and the smallest bill is the thousand, with various denominations of small coins. The 1000 dram bill is relatively easily used to purchase goods in stores… but it is when you attempt to utilize larger bills that things become a bit dicier.

The 5000 dram bill presents a challenge. As I have outlined numerous times in this blog, people in shops (outside of the westernized capital city) oftentimes don’t care whether they sell you something or not. No matter how willing a purchaser you are. It is something, in my opinion, that this society will need to get over if they plan on becoming a full partner in a capitalist world. I have gone to many a shop and tried to buy… let’s say 1200 dram worth of vegetables with a 5000 dram bill, only to be thwarted by the stores lack of change. The more enterprising among us, might run next door to find some change, or even…oh I don’t know…. keep a bit of petty cash on hand everyday to alleviate this problem. But it’s not just the lack of change. It’s more the distain with which they always stare, eyes boring into me with disgust as if asking who in the world do I think I am bringing a 5000 dram bill into this store (keep in mind 5000 = approx $16).

Heaven forbid that you ever receive a 10000 dram bill. Then it gets maddening. I have gone hungry because I couldn’t purchase food at establishments with such a bill. I monthly approach the ATM machine with much trepidation, hoping beyond hope that it is not stocked with 10000 bills. Once the bank machine gave me a 20000 dram bill and I was poor for a month as I waited to use it to pay my monthly rent. You can imagine my landlords were none to happy.

Again it is not a lack of liquidity or wealth in country, but a lack of preparation to have the change on hand to give to customers, or (when on hand) an incomprehensible unwillingness to use it to complete a transaction. I always enjoy the conversations that ensue when I can actually view the requisite change sitting in the cardboard box that inevitably every shopkeeper keeps their petty cash in. The conversations usually proceed a little something like this…

Shopkeeper: Do you have change? That 5000 dram bill is too big.

Me: No, this is all I have.

Shopkeeper: Well I don’t know what to say. I can’t help you. You may have to go to another store.

Me: But why don’t you just use the change you have in your box?

Shopkeeper: I don’t have change in my box.

Me: Yes you do, I can clearly see it. It’s right there behind you sitting on the counter.

Then the shopkeeper (always with a look of annoyance) does one of two things: more often than not grudgingly completes the transaction, or goes off on some rant about me not understanding because I am from America. As if we count differently in my homeland.

Nor is this a problem of the ‘rich ugly American’ with too much money for his/her own good. Oh no. The problem of change is also present in the use of the small coins of this economy. Even the most minute of denominations the 10 dram coin (equal to less than a penny) is often in short supply. In my first few weeks in country I was always confused as the shopkeepers handed me books of matches after most small purchases. Upon closer examination I learned that the lack of change has led to the acceptance of matches in place of actual money.

So I suppose my recommendation for foreign visitors would be to only withdraw money from the ATM in 4000 dram increments or bring lots and lots of matches.

futbolutsyun

2008-05-10T07:19:00.000-07:00

In my previous blog I referenced a soccer tournament that was organized for children from different orphanages across Armenia. With sponsorship from the largest importer of chicken to Armenia (interestingly a majority of whole chickens come all the way here from Brazil, while the majority of legs and other dark meat parts come from America where we discard them in favor of boneless breast meat) we were able to provide jerseys and other accessories for the people playing in the tournament.

All in all it was a huge success. We were able to expose the boys on our team to an organized team sporting experience (in my opinion something that is sorely missing in many lives of Armenian youth), and as the games took place in the national stadium it added much legitimacy and excitement to their experience (and nice grass too). Our orphanage squad was soundly trounced by every opponent, but the boys seemed to enjoy themselves.

As a bonus there was a concurrent tournament between different groups of internationals living and working in Armenia. I played for the Argentinean side and savored the opportunity to get out and do something active for the first time in a while. The best thing about this side tournament was the Armenian women’s national team who showed up and gave a good solid beating to many quality men’s teams. The girls were very skilled and impressive. The looks on the numerous men’s faces that were soundly ‘schooled’ by these women in a sport normally reserved for men in this society was priceless. Though the young boys on our team would never admit it, they were a bit awestruck and intimidated (and hopefully informed) by women in such a position of….dare I say… equality.

A few photos of the event:

Here is our team lined up for opening ceremonies. Ours is the team on the right (the sign reads 'Gyumri'). Notice how small we are compared to the other teams.

Our star player Samvel

Our goalie Arsen in action.

Our Argentinean team vs. the female national team.

Notice the reddish hue of my face while I get worked over by this girl. I almost died of exhaustion due to two full years of relative inactivity in the Peace Corps.

Cvas Tanes… Khuntremg@!!!

2008-05-05T03:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking about interviewing for jobs lately back in the states. This process led me to brainstorm skills that I’ve acquired or honed here in the Peace Corps. As I sat at my little desk by the heater (still), I kept coming back to the word ‘patience’. In fact, as I returned from my work at the orphanage today I looked down to see it circled and emboldened numerous times with tens of passes of the pen.
I didn’t have much experience or patience with children prior to my time here in Armenia, but I sure have been thrown to the wolves here. I work with possibly the most overly energetic and wholly inattentive group of youngsters to ever grace God’s green earth. These kids are absolutely crazy.
We’re currently working with the teenage boys in the home to prepare them for an inter-orphanage soccer tournament to take place in the national football stadium in the capital city. One would assume an easy sell, but unfortunately this is not the case. This ‘carrot’ has not proved adequate to squeeze even a modicum of civil behavior out of the group. At times during practice it’s like an out of body experience for me. I sometimes just float outside myself and survey the chaos swirling about me. Ignoring any sort of direction, the boys just run around aimlessly, yelling at each other, hitting each other, gathering various sharp and/or dangerous jabbing implements, smoking cigarettes, screaming in my ear just to see if I react and other such nonsense. I truly don’t have the words or ability to fully describe the chaos.
If I or the other volunteer (a Polish guy from a European organization) are able to finally wrangle the group into some semblance of a line it is bound to digress into some sort of pandemonium. Our practices, for the most part consist of an unfailing but never successful attempt to start some sort of organized activity. Our one success has been our post practice meetings where we review the activities that we attempted to begin that day. We, the coaches, are usually able to bring together most of the participants in a semi-recognizable group and bestow upon them a nugget or two of wisdom or observation. But even this has lately run into problems as some of the boys have taken to standing 15 feet outside the group and kicking the balls as hard as possible directly at the gathered group… and unfortunately they’re pretty good at it, often times hitting the younger kids in the head, inducing fits of crying. It’s really quite inexplicable (the kicking not the crying). It seems as soon as we take the balls away from one group, another bunch of boys is willing to grab rocks and start throwing them at the group. Our initial reaction was to ask them why in the world they are kicking balls and/or throwing rocks at the group. The answer inevitably is ‘vorovhetev’ (because). So we tell them that they can’t do it, that it’s ‘not allowed’. The answer, again inevitably comes back ‘Karili e’ (it is allowed). How is one to deal with this lack of rationality?! It’s as if we’re speaking different languages (which according to the score on my last Armenian language exam, I may well be). We’ve tried to ignore it all and not give them the attention we assume they’re seeking, but when balls and rocks are glancing of your head… at some point you have to put a stop to it.
Though their behavior necessitates the muttering of the serenity prayer under my breath nearly every practice, these young men are at their core wonderful kids who have merely caught innumerable tough breaks throughout their lives. They betray their tough facades with their need for contact and attention. They are trying so hard to do something for which we can praise them or merely acknowledge their existence that it clouds their ability to think or surely pay attention to my poorly formulated and slow Armenian. My patience has been pushed to the limit, but just as I want to physically accost these kids I’m always thankfully reminded that this is probably the reaction they’ve received their whole lives and are probably accustomed to. If I, a carefree American with nothing to worry about can’t come here and show them patience, then who can.
So I guess I have gained a little something here in the Peace Corps. Now If I ever have really crazy subordinates or a boss who won’t listen and prefers to kick soccer balls at my head… I’ll know what to do.

Yev aylen…. Yev aylen…. Yev aylen….

2008-04-15T02:59:00.000-07:00

I’ve been struggling mightily as of late to come up with new fodder for this blog. As I sat in a meeting today and lectured a new NGO on how they must always keep their audience in focus when writing a grant, I realized that maybe I too had lost sight of such an essential. As I’ve lived here and become more accustomed to Armenian culture, I have naturally become more callous to things that you, my humble and patient audience may find interesting. So here are a few tidbits:

Random dance party outbreaks:

Armenians love to dance. You can literally be anywhere, and if the music starts playing you can be sure that the moving of tables, chairs and other obstructions will soon follow. Today for example I was sitting in a meeting with an organization, alongside a Canadian volunteer who has just arrived in country and someone turned up the background music a bit. Next thing I know we’re shoving tables aside and whooping ‘dashiiiiii’ while forming a circle to allow for the more qualified dancers to show off. The reaction to the music was nothing short of reflexive. Grant writing cast aside midsentence, others started streaming in from adjoining offices to join in the revelry. On one knee and clapping rhythmically to allow 3 women to complete a traditional Armenian dance around me, I glanced over at the bewildered face of the newly arrived Canadian volunteer (a very accomplished 50 year old man) still sitting at the computer; I remembered that this wouldn’t really be considered normal in western business culture.

In no way was this an isolated event. At most dinner parties there is almost always a late night dance portion. These can go on torturously for hours. If there is an eligible young girl of marrying age then the dancing/talent portion is all but guaranteed.

I am awkwardly atremble as I type this, recalling the 2 hour solo karaoke show that was put on by one unwed 18-year-old village girl for yours truly. Her father sat beside me, constantly requesting my affirmation that she was indeed a ‘wonderful singer of incomparable beauty’. On the first count at least, I can say with all confidence that she was not. This show only began after 3 hours of dancing.

Straight Shooters

I have always thought that we possess an appreciation for ‘straight shooters’ in America. People who tell you what they think and don’t equivocate or hold back their thoughts are often seen as doers, people without the time or inclination for niceties in the cause of clarity or other such things. After nearly 2 years in Armenia I challenge that notion. We’ve got nothing on the Armenians.

Armenians generally tend to be true straight shooters. While our American version is still beholden to a certain level of decorum, this place is the Wild West (or East as it were). Nothing is off limits. This is probably one of the largest cultural clashes that Americans (especially in the villages) encounter.

I was reminded of this today when I walked into my office with a new haircut. Reactions from coworkers included; ‘Dominic why did you cut your hair?’ ‘That looks very bad, did you cut it yourself? Couldn’t you have at least used a mirror?’ ‘It will grow back soon.’ Etc… I have grown so used to this country that it didn’t even affect me. Though this has only come after much time immersed here.

In my first week in Armenia, upon meeting my village grandmother, she grabbed my stomach and stated loudly to the gathered that I was so skinny I looked sick. Bear in mind that I had known her for all of 3 seconds, and she was in fact holding a good chuck of my stomach in her hands (betraying her statement outright). As I left the room in the morning, (looking admittedly a bit unkempt) she would often tell me that I was shameful and not as good-looking as the previous volunteer that had lived with them. But this was nothing compared with a fellow female volunteer who lived across the street from me. Nearly everyday when she returned from Armenian language classes her host mother would tell her she was fat and naughty (a loose translation). Already grating against the self-conscience of an American female, it was followed up daily with the statement that she was fatter than the day before. Admittedly the men receive but a small fraction of the unintentional disparagement heaped upon them that the women receive.

Guard Dogs

Guard dogs are normally employed to keep intruders or other unwanted guests out of private spaces. Here oftentimes they are used outside of public establishments like stores and offices. There is a specific store near my work that would be so convenient for me to visit, but for the vicious dog that patrols the entrance. It strikes me as bad business practice to put obstacles, especially ones that threaten immediate bodily harm, in front of a customer’s access to the establishment.

Walls of Walkers

When walking in Armenia it is usually in groups and nearly always arm in arm or holding hands. Normally only intra-gender (boys hold hands and lock arms as much as the girls here), these chains of people walking together down the street can reach breadths that are debilitating to the average pedestrian. In America it’s common courtesy to move aside to let others pass when blocking a path. Not so here. These walls of walkers NEVER move or break rank for the lone pedestrian! It frustrates me to no end. Add to this the various other obstacles on the streets (fruit stands, burned out car carcasses, etc…) and you have a confounding mix.

Often one is forced to walk inordinate distances around them if passing from behind, but it’s when they are approaching you that it becomes interesting. My first year, as I was more concerned with integration, I would cross the street or move aside if the path allowed (one time I even gave in, turned around and went home), but now I’ve taken to the more direct approach. Some of you may have played the game Red Rover during your formative years. It’s kinda of like that. I get a nice head of steam and head for the weakest looking pair/portion of the wall. I’m always sure to say excuse me as I burst through their grasps. It’s probably not regulation Peace Corps behavior, but it’s good for my soul.

These are but a sampling of these things. I will try to keep my eyes peeled for more as my service winds to a close.

khreloq mna

2008-03-14T03:53:00.000-07:00

I chalked up another point on my cultural integration/man card today. There was a huge snow storm and as the snow abated we all (meaning the males in the neighborhood) headed outside to shovel our way out. Being from California I had never shoveled snow before and thus zealously took to the task. Maybe with a bit too much relish as it turns out. As I seized the shovel from the clutches of a leisurely moving neighbor’s hand and started shoveling frantically (determined to show these people what real ‘American’ elbow grease smells like) the gathered crowd of men looked upon me disapprovingly.

There seems to be a certain code of conduct when it comes to the work ethic here in Armenia. Unlike America, speed is not really all that important. (Actually that last sentence was maybe the understatement of the year.) As far as I can tell the joy is in the process. Though not a purveyor of the culinary arts, in any way shape or form I assume that it equates to a chef cooking a great meal. He/she doesn’t enjoy the food so much as the making of said food. The act is there to be savored.

My initial recognition of this cultural quirk may have been the first time one of the Marshutnis (mini-buses) that was transporting me between cities broke down in the middle of nowhere (an occurrence that seems to happen on more trips than not). As we stopped, and smoke began billowing forth from the hood, every man of child-rearing age jumped out, and went to take stock of the situation alongside the driver. As cigarettes were lit and wholly uninformed initial diagnoses were exchanged, the natural ‘tinkerers’ and experts amongst the group forced their way to the front to pop the hood and initiate the process. A universally understood pecking order was quickly established. In this case the problem was quickly identified and one of the lesser-tinkerers was sent to a trash heap beside the road. He returned with a small scrap of metal wire. The wire was ceremoniously passed to each of the observers and all comments and opinions were duly voiced. Then the men stepped away from the hood, a few of them squatting and started talking and smoking. Now to an American’s analytic mind it was simple. The problem had been identified and a means/material for fixing the problem had been found. So obviously one would want to execute the solution as quickly as possible and be on one’s way. But not so here in Armenia. As I sat in the marshutni (feeling somewhat emasculated by this point) cursing and complaining about the delay along with all the female passengers and children, the men rose and again approached the hood. They bent the wire every which way, discussing every contortion in detail. After 15 minutes the wire was put in place and the engine started right up**. The men returned to the cabin visibly satisfied and reeking of cigarette smoke and unproductivity (not a word I realize).

Finally stopping my frantic shoveling one old man laid his hand on my shoulder and asked me why I was in such a rush to accomplish this modest task. I told him that I had much work to get back to (a bald-faced lie… I’m a Peace Corps volunteer after all). He said that there would always be work to do, and that if I rushed through the work I was doing now I would never enjoy it, and that would be a wasted opportunity. I suppose this is something that we’ve lost a bit of in America. I remember rushing around so much that I never really enjoyed/appreciated the act of working. The Armenians, in general seem to retain a greater appreciation for the ‘process’. This is one of the things I’ve learned in the Peace Corps and hope to take back with me to America. (potential future Employers please disregard last paragraph, when considering my application)

**Other fascinating fixes include a large piece of cardboard shoved somewhere into the back of the hood, or bubble gum and tape used to fix a hole in some tubing. And my personal favorite; the driver going into a house by the side of the road and returning with a box of powdered laundry detergent. The detergent was then poured into the radiator (possibly lowering the boiling point??? I can’t be sure). I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that all the aforementioned repairs were successful.

the politics of pictures

2008-03-03T11:39:00.001-08:00

It has been quite a while since my last post. The news/excitement here in Armenia has been all about the recent presidential election. Unfortunately I am strictly forbidden from commenting on such things publicly, as I am but a humble servant volunteering at the behest our great nation. But it's been interesting and I encourage you to look up some articles on recent events here in this country.

So instead of political comment I thought I'd post some pictures that a photographer friend of mine recently took of Armenia.

This is a photo of Noravank, in my opinion the most beautiful church in Armenia. With numerous empires washing over Armenian territory for the last 2000 some odd years, many Armenian churches were built in inconspicuous areas, to avoid plunder and destruction. Some atop mountains, others in the small shallows of plains. This particular church rises from almost out of nowhere as you drive through a spectacular gorge. The stone was quarried from the adjoining mountain and makes it almost camouflage. This photo is taken from an adjoining mountain.

This statue has always been one of my favorites in Armenia. It sits just outside of my city (Gyumri) just in front of a run-down and abandoned Soviet-era glass factory. There's something about the communist ideal embodied in these young workers marching forward in solidarity, which makes the now rotting reality somehow eerily symbolic of the decay that the Soviet Union loosed on Armenia.

This picture was taken in a village called Getk, just outside of Gyumri. The village life here is so much different than in the city.

Surch Khmesg@

2008-01-22T02:41:00.000-08:00

I had heard about the challenges of working in a foreign culture before coming to Armenia. The Peace Corps provides us with numerous trainings in this regard. The language, the customs, the differing modes of work, etc… I came to Armenia fully steeled to face these challenges. But after living in Armenia for a while, I find that my biggest challenge regarding my daily work is how to function with ludicrous amounts of caffeine constantly coursing through my veins, making my head feel as if a pinball machine, a hundred balls simultaneously being played.

As outlined too many times in this blog, Armenians are a hospitable people. Sometimes this hospitality borders on militant. Armenians also love their coffee and the act of sitting over a cup and discussing work, life… pretty much anything. The confluence of these two things means that I drink a LOT of coffee.

Armenian coffee (also served in Turkey … but I would never blasphemously refer to it as such) is a thick, overly-concentrated brew served in tiny cups. It is not filtered, and thus the fine grounds sit in the bottom of the cup ensuring maximum caffeine intake. Most preparers of coffee here in Armenia infuse their coffee with huge amounts of sugar, increasing the impact of its consumption.

My daily routine usually consists of meeting with various people, community groups and different Non-Governmental Organizations. Every encounter inevitably begins with a cup of the aforementioned potent concoction. The first cup is a nice little pick-me up initially. Then the creeping starts… I can feel the first movements in my mind. At first it’s kinda nice. As the wheels in my mind start turning a bit faster I feel more of alive and aware, and I can still manage to engage in focused conversation. It’s usually on the second or third cup that it reaches the tipping point (haven’t read the book, but hopefully I’m using the word in proper context, probably not).

Upon consumption of the 3^rd (certainly the 4^th cup) It feels as though my eyeballs are pushing up against the top of my head in an attempt to fly right out of my skull. Everything I see takes on a certain haze. Not a fog so much, but it’s as if I can’t focus on any one thing for more than a millisecond, and thus everything is seen through a sort of super strobe-effect. I’m constantly trying to shake it, never with much success. By the fifth cup it’s nearly unbearable. My thoughts feel like palpable things violently swarming around my head that I cannot properly grasp at any one time. I find myself grasping in vain to try and wrangle my disparate ideas and trains of thought in the hope that I can give voice to something in a passably concise manner, inevitably failing.

I suppose these sorts of adverse conditions are just part of the job, but I would never have guessed that my days would have a sort of productivity arc to them, based mainly on my caffeine intake. I will admit that generally, meetings I have near the end of the day are scattered and usually much less productive. I arrange my schedule accordingly.

For any new Peace Corps Armenia volunteers who may happen upon this blog, I suggest that you start upping your Starbucks intake now in preparation. It will truly make you a more productive volunteer.

Other suggestions of tolerances to increase before disembarking upon the shores of Armenia… potatoes and vodka.

yerazi mech apren

2007-12-08T03:14:00.000-08:00

I can’t quite be sure where it started, but I’ve always held out the dream of being some sort of pop star. The opportunity to be the “cute younger brother type” in an up-and-coming boy band has surely passed me by as I’ve gone from being a Joey and aged into a Donny (Please recognize the NKOTB reference). The genesis may well have been my love of the Von Trapp family singers and how easily that name could be tweaked into the ‘Von Monley’ Family singers, but more likely it was my frustration at watching young ladies coo over pop stars like Jordan Knight, Justin Timberlake or Joey Fatone. Really Joey Fatone? I imagine that guy wasn’t sitting at the cool table in High School. But I could never figure out how to parlay my subpar looks and subpar talent into a life of shopping mall concerts filled with various young women throwing their undergarments at me.

Well I finally figured it out. Be born in Armenia.

For a country of maybe 1.5 million people and geographically the size of Maryland, this place has a BOOMING pop music business. I’ve pondered the reasons for this… and I’ve got nothing. Really it is shocking, just shocking. Pop stars are everywhere! And what is more, most of the pop stars have subpar talent (a worldwide phenomenon I realize) but in Armenia they aren’t even necessarily good looking. The women tend to be a bit more to behold, but many, if not most of the male pop stars are of portly stature and plain of face. There is not a washboard stomach to be seen, though I suppose in a climate this frigid there aren’t a lot of extremities exposed, let alone midriffs.

What I love most is that because the country is so small you run into these pop stars everywhere. I can hardly go to any medium sized event without a murmur breaking out amongst the younger women in the crowd. Inevitably I end up being excitedly informed that ‘such and such’ is sitting in the front row. Dumbfounded, I always require supplemental information like, ‘oh you know, the guy from the video… you know… the one where he is dancing in a fountain with the five newer model BMWs parked in the background’. But even if you aren’t lucky enough to run across the cream of the crop pop stars, there is inevitably a group of newly post-pubescent, pimple-faced teenagers making their ‘world debut’ somewhere. I recently went to teach a class at a local orphanage and instead of walking into the normal melee of 10 children running around and attempting to do each other bodily harm with any available semi-sharp object, I entered to find the ‘debut concert’ of a group called yotitz-mek (see picture below). I’m no expert, but I have to imagine that there are better places to debut than an under-heated, poorly furnished room of penniless orphans.

My introduction to Armenian pop music was blessed from the beginning. When I first arrived at my permanent site, I learned that my host-family’s brother was the manager of the Armenian equivalent of Latin America’s ‘Menudo’. For those of you who do not know, ‘Menudo’ is a boy band that rotates out talent just when singers reach puberty and thus maintains the groups high-pitched vitality (Ricky Martin got his start in Menudo). My second week living in Gyumri I was able to attend the 25^th anniversary of this ‘Armenian Menudo’ (the bands actual name is ‘Dexanik’). It was a parade of all the talented singers who had gotten their start in this band. Most of the hottest pop stars in Armenia came out to pay homage to this pillar of pop-star production. After 3 hours spent listening to various catchy tunes and the ear rending screams of adoring young fans, I was escorted backstage to meet all the stars. (It’s good to be an American sometimes.) My friend dragged me around and posed me with nearly every performer. At one point she had to literally rip two young fans off of this guy (see below) so I could take a picture.

She kept assuring me that I would appreciate these pictures later…. And I have. I’m amazed at how impressed people are that I have actually me these stars! Again, I have no still have no idea who any of them are, but I did get to meet: this guy (again, not sure who he is, but he's big)

And this guy. They call him Mr. X and he never takes off his Zorro-esque eye-band in public (it’s quite mysterious).

Or these ladies. You may recognize the singer second from the left as the Second place finisher in Armenia’s version of ‘American Idol’ called ‘Hay Superstar’.

I suppose that this high concentration of pop-music is a healthy thing for a country of this size. It again displays an entrepreneurial spirit of which I’ve already written plenty, and also I think it shows that an inordinate of people here have big dreams and are willing to pursue them endlessly. It’s kind of inspiring. How easily my pop-star dreams faded as the pressure of college-loans and responsibility built-up. Hmmmm… I’ve still got a coupla months left here to procure an Armenian fan base. If I can parlay that into a groundswell among the Armenian Diaspora community in Glendale and Moscow, then on to the larger LA scene and after that….. Who knows… Watch out Joey Fatone…

Oh my Darlins'

2007-11-29T00:21:00.000-08:00

I just finished up one of those oft sought after projects during Peace Corps service… the type that provides that fuzzy feeling deep in the cockles of one’s heart. I suppose working with kids will do that to you.
In tandem with another volunteer from Poland, we worked with some wonderful children from a local orphanage to practice and then perform a play/musical in a national children’s theater festival. It was a foolishly ambitious plan (and not mine). The play, ‘Oh my Darlin’ Clementine’ was acted out and sung all in English. This presented a challenge as none of the children spoke English (save for our narrator, thank goodness). But the largest problem was the rampant learning disabilities and ADD present in nearly every child. Readers can imagine how difficult it was to get these 6-13 year olds to memorize their lines in an unfamiliar language. But the kids worked really hard and in the end came through. We certainly didn’t win any prizes but at the very least the kids got a great experience.

(The group after rehearsals)

Many of these children had never been to the capital city before, performed in a theatre festival, or been in a play for that matter. The real success of the project was providing these kids with a sense of accomplishment and some exposure to the larger world (even if that exposure was merely a trip to the capital city, a 2 hour drive away).

(More rehearsals)

Their excitement was evident on the bus ride down. I sat down in the front seat to guard against any wayward children falling out the only exit point of the vehicle. Before we had even left the orphanage, one of the young boys came running up to me and asked if he could sit on my lap for the ride to the capital. I assented; glad that I’d be able to keep an eye on this particular boy who is perhaps the most overly active and ADD stricken young person since Robin Williams was an adolescent. In the course of our conversation I asked him why he wanted so badly to sit by me (I was probably just subconsciously fishing for a compliment). He looked up at me with a look of exhilaration, leaned in and whispered in my ear that he wanted to be the first one to arrive in the capital city. I was confused, until he explained (quite succinctly) that if he was at the front of the bus when we pulled into the city limits he would be the first one there. It was one of the cutest things I’ve ever experienced. It was obvious he had been hatching this scheme for some time. I was proud of him.
As we entered the city, it was awesome to watch him stare out the window in wonder at all the large buildings, streets congested with traffic and people milling about. The scale of the Capital city, Yerevan is not comparable to anything else in the country and this kid was impressed and intrigued. His eyes were like saucers, and he kept leaning over and would begin to ask me a question only to become distracted by something else more interesting to look at outside of the bus. For a kid with this degree of ADD, it was joyous overload. I had thoughts of taking my keys out of my pocket and jangling them behind his head as my own little self-indulgent behavioral test, but then thought better of it, fearing that his head might explode.

(our narrator during the final performance. Unfortunately we don't have any good pictures of the play itself)

The play went off without a hitch (we even had the Polish Ambassador in attendance, which was a big deal). But more than that, the kids had an awesome eye-opening experience and seemed to feel a real sense of accomplishment. It was a cool thing to witness. I’ve said it before, but this Peace Corps gig ain’t all that bad.

eench kooz es?

2007-10-23T22:39:00.000-07:00

The ‘up-sell’ is a staple in most developed economies. In stores, shops and restaurants all across the great liberty filled expanse of America things like; “would you like fries with that”, “buy two more and the fourth will be free”or “for just 2 more dollars you can buy the higher quality version or this or that widget” etc… are uttered nearly every second. Just the thought of employees who are willing to consistently attempt to wring the last few pennies out of malleable customers brings a certain comfort and warmth to this young capitalist’s heart.

This sort of enterprise does not generally apply in Armenia… At least not where I live.

At times this lack of assertive capitalism is appreciated. The lady at the store who tells you that the bread you asked for is actually not fresh and thus you’d be better served to try this or that loaf instead is great. It smacks of some 1940’s mid-western general store, of which stories I was raised on by my mother. It’s nice to have shop keepers who are looking out for the customer and not always the bottom line. It is when this sort of ‘thoughtfulness’ is combined with the assumption (of seemingly all shop keepers in my city) that young men (especially Americans) cannot take care of themselves, that it adversely affects my life and becomes a real pain.

There are so many examples that pop up in my life that I will merely lay out a few to give my readers a basic idea.

I went into a store the other day to buy an umbrella. A simple task one would assume. Not so. I approached the lady behind the counter and asked to see the umbrellas. She brought out an odd assortment of umbrellas. I, not being much of a shopper or overly concerned with fashion, pointed to the first medium-sized black umbrella that I saw. The shopkeeper told me firmly that, “certainly I didn’t want ‘that’ umbrella”. She punctuated her statement with the all too familiar tongue clicking (somewhat akin to our ‘tisk-tisk) of Armenian women when they are disgusted with the lack of knowledge of foreigners. She reached beneath the counter and produced a pink umbrella with pictures of circus animals dancing on it. Seriously, it was one of those long skinny numbers with a curved wood handle. I thought she was joking (obviously) and laughed a bit. She looked up a bit confused and proceeded to extol the value of this umbrella as opposed to my initial choice. The conversation continued;

Me: thanks, but I would really just prefer the black one

Her: but the black umbrella costs 250 dram more (which is the equivalent of $0.75)

Me: Oh I realize, thanks for your concern, but I’d like to purchase the black umbrella. Here is my money (thrusting forth the proper amount).

Her: I’m sorry but I don’t think you understand. Where are you from?

Me: I’m from America, here is the money please give me the black umbrella.

Her: America? You don’t understand. Are you married?

Me: I’m not actually married.

Her: (again the reproachful tongue clicking) well then let me assure you from a mother and a wife that certainly you want this one (pointing to the pink dancing circus animal covered umbrella).

Me: thanks so much for your help, but I’ll just take the black one. Here, here’s the money… take it!

Her: I’m not selling you the black umbrella. You must trust me, this one is better. Do you have a mother and a father in America? What city are you from?

Me: Really…please… this is how it works. I give you money and you give me what I ask for. Seriously, just give me the umbrella… Take the money…. TAKE IT!

…This verbal jousting continued for sometime. Finally as other patrons piled up behind me (all adding their own opinions), they collectively came to the conclusion that the pink umbrella was a no-brainer for a no-brainer from America. I realized it was a loosing cause and walked out, uncovered into the down pouring rain, returning to my apartment soaked and once again emotionally battered.

Another favorite was when I needed super-glue for an important task. Really if you’re going to the trouble to buy super glue it must be an important task that calls for some hard-core adhesion. I went to the hardware stall in the market and asked for the name brand super glue prominently displayed on the wall. The guy of course reaches beneath the counter and produces some knock off brand and brags that it only costs 100 dram (about $0.33 cents) for the whole tube. I asked if he had anything of maybe more reliable quality and maybe a little more expensive... like say, that one I just pointed to prominently displayed on the wall. He replied in the affirmative, but told me that this one only cost 100 dram so there would be no reason to pay the extra $0.75 for the name brand trustworthy stuff. We went back and forth for sometime (reference above ‘umbrella’ conversation, but replace the questions about marriage with more unseemly inquiries). This time I bought the cheap glue, and needless to say I was disappointed with the results.

But these are almost understandable, as price considerations, combined with concern for hapless foreigners leads shopkeepers to be overly fretful and protective of proper purchasing. It’s when obvious matters of taste come into play that I am just baffled.

Example:

I am a huge fan of the peaches here. They are leaving the market soon (as winter approaches) so I am attempting to consume as many as humanly possible while I still can. I often buy from this nice lady who sells fruit by my house. That was until last week…

Me: Hi. Nice to see you again. I hope your family is well, and that your life is going well. My family both in America and in Armenia are doing well. Also my work and life in general is really great. I’m still not married, but I did enjoy meeting your daughter the other day. I agree that she is wonderful and will obviously make a wonderful wife someday. You should be very proud. (I always try to shorten conversations by preemptively answering the obligatory and chronic questions, before they are inevitably asked.) May I have 2 kilos of your peaches?

Her: ah Dominic Jan, I have these wonderful pears now. How about I give you 2 kilos of the pears… or what about 1 kilo of the pears and a kilo of these lovely blood oranges. They just came in today and are so fresh. My cousin grew them in Varamaberd village… Do you know where Varamaberd village i?(beginning to fill my bag with pears and blood oranges.) Dominic jan, you aren’t still living alone are you? You really need to find a wife. How old did you say you were?

Me: Varamaberd is a lovely place… but actually, though the pears look great, I’d really just like the peaches. You know how much I love peaches, and I want to eat as many as I can before they are gone for the winter. So I’ll take 2 kilos of the peaches. Here is my money (thrusting forth the proper amount).

Her: Dominic jan, you eat far too many peaches. It’s not healthy. Why don’t you come to my house tonight and I’ll cook you up a nice meal. You really are far too skinny. Women don’t like skinny husbands. They don’t provide as well for their families. It’s decided then! You will come to my house tonight and we’ll eat fresh blood oranges. I’ll call my cousin from Varamaberd. He grew the blood oranges you know. Did you know that Varamaberd is the name for the great fort that our great Armenian king Varam helped to defend?

Me: Wow. I did not know that. I would love to come to dinner, but I have to teach a class tonight. Maybe another time. Actually I’m kind of in a rush to get to said class… so can I just get the two kilos of peaches. Here is the money.

Her: Eating so many peaches is not healthy. Peaches make you skinny. It’s not safe to be skinny with the winter coming. I’ll give you a kilo of pears and throw in the blood oranges for free. They’re really quite fresh.

Me: (realizing that I was hopelessly outmatched partially conceded defeat) How about I take 1 kilo of the peaches and then I’ll also buy 1 kilo of the pears. I’ll take 1 blood orange to try and if I like them I’ll come back and buy more. With my health and future nuptial prospects in mind I promise to share the peaches with my class tonight, so I won’t be eating them all myself. Deal?

Her: Well I suppose. I don’t like it, but if you like the blood oranges you have to promise to come back…

The conversation concluded with some discussion about the health and girth of married men in their mid-twenties in relation to those who remain single.

Though these episodes (and many others like them) might give the impression that the market economy at the street level in my town is a bit immature, I tell you there is hope. I was relieved to walk to the fruit stand on the next block and have the lady there not only sell me all the peaches I wanted, but attempt to charge me a higher price because I was from America. Now comfortable in the knowledge that capitalist greed was at least beginning to take hold here, I gladly paid the premium.

Vacation

2007-10-01T00:19:00.000-07:00

I just returned from my first real vacation during the Peace Corps. A few friends and I climbed Mt. Ararat and visited eastern Turkey. All in all a really cool trip.

The symbol of Armenia is Mt. Ararat. The only thing is that this coveted mountain sits just over the border (closed due to a war in the 1990s) in Turkey. This perceived denial of land, especially the ultimate symbol of Armenia makes this mountain a huge part of the national consciousness. With our American passports in hand we were able to make this trip, and fulfill the dream of many Armenians. Needless to say upon our return we have acquired a huge store of “street cred” with Armenians.

I’m no climber, but the mountain is kinda tall. Almost 17000 feet. All the guide books claim it is “the tallest mountain in Europe”. But if eastern Turkey is in “Europe” then I’ve got hopes that Mongolia will be an ascension country to the EU in no time. We had been warned about altitude sickness and the like, but our group seemed to do ok. There were certainly a few headaches at the top.

So below you'll find some pics of our vacation, if interested.

This is a photo of Mt. Ararat from the capital city of Yerevan.

The 5 days spent climbing the mountain were fairly uneventful, as there's not much to look at nature wise, as evidenced by this picture.

Our summit hike began at two in the morning so we could reach the top at sunrise, which we accomplished. This was the view out over Armenia from the top of the mountain as the sun was rising. Unfortunately it was hazy and we couldn't make out the capital city in Yerevan.

This is the group of us that made it up to the top of the mountain. It was very, Very, VERY cold on the top of the mountain.

I lost a bet to a buddy of mine from Boston and have been wearing a Boston Red Sox hat ever since. Go Giants!

On our trip we were also able to see a bit of Eastern Turkey, which is really quite a beautiful and developed place (reletive to what I was expecting). It was certainly the most militarized place I've ever been, as 4 pretty hot borders meet in a small area and the Kurdish inhabitants of this part of Turkey are a bit restless. There were tanks, armored vehicles and men with automatic weapons everywhere. I d

My favorite place that we went was the abandoned ancient city of Ani. In short (and this does the history no justice) it was the capital of Armenia when the culture was at its Zenith in the mid 10th century. It was a great walled city that has since sat untouched, except by earthquakes and time. The Turkish government doesn't keep it up really at all so it is this crazy eerie ancient city where the churches are the only things still standing. At one time it was known as the city of a thousand churches.

This church was damaged in an earthquake in teh 14th century and then struck by lightning in the 20th century, which caused half of it to fall down.

Another example of an Armenian church in Ani fallen into disrepair.

We also stopped off at an old Turkish fort on the way. It was interesting to compare the two architectural styles.

All in all it was a good trip.

Summer reca(m)p

2007-09-01T00:07:00.000-07:00

Peace Corps service is shot through with down time. Winters are book reading bonanzas spent sitting by heaters in Armenia and outside of huts in Peace Corps Africa. But summers… well summers are for camps. In Peace Corps Armenia we’ve got a camp for just about everything. We’ve got eco camps, girls camps, boys camps, international camps, sports camps, human rights camps, computer camps… you name a cause and we’ve probably got a camp.

I and the other volunteers yearned for the chance to be productive and busy for extended periods of time; planning games, chasing kids around campsites at 4 in the morning and other such nonsense. I was personally able to head up one camp myself and be a counselor and planner for many others. Below is a recap of some of the highlights (complete with nifty pictures).

IOC camp 2007

The IOC camp was the first of many international camps I was to be a part of. With Armenia being relatively isolated, one of the big things is to try to expose Armenian youth to other cultures and ideas. We had participants from a few other countries, but most interestingly was that we were able to get participants from Turkey to come. With a closed border and animosity of both sides, it was a great to see all these participants from Turkey and Armenia getting along swimmingly.

This is the arrival of one or our Turkish Participants. It was awesome to see how they were embraced by all the Armenians.

Three guesses what the American counselors are singing here….? Yes that’s right…. Lean on me. Being campy = Cliché.

This is a cool photo of our camp director Lusine looking out over the crowd of our participants. The participants had so much energy. It was impressive and as a teacher it was great to be able to tap into.

A big part of this camp was cultural exchange. This is a pair of Armenians performing a traditional dance.

This is another of our Turkish participants doing a traditional dance. It was explained that these Turkish dances sometimes mimic animals. This particular dance was mimicking an eagle.

The Armenians at the camp greatly outnumbered the internationals. This photo shows the Armenian contingent performing a song for the final day talent show. The group of Armenians we had at this camp was really quite impressive. I was so blessed to meet so many bright driven young people.

The group of Peace Corps counselors at the IOC camp was awesome. Because we live in pretty remote areas, we really don’t get to know the volunteers from other parts of the country all that well. This camp gave me a chance to get to know a great group of PCVs from other parts of the country. This picture shows us in the typical Caucasian squatting stance (not as easy as it looks), surely talking about something important like…. The current price of eggplant in the market, or maybe green beans.

Youth Without Borders / Under the Same Sky Camps

The names of these two camps quickly betray that they were European Funded camps that no right thinking American funder would ever give money to. Unlike the IOC camp, the European Commission is all about straight cultural exchange. Whereas the IOC camp actually had curriculum and classes that taught things, these two camps bring together people from many different European nations to exchange their cultures. There was a service element during the camps, meaning that every morning the participants would wake up and go do something with an orphanage or some old peoples home. But besides those three hours of the day it was basically sitting around talking and hopefully exchanging cultures. For people who know me personally, these camps were certainly not my idea, but this is the bread and butter of an organization that I work with, so I swallowed my tongue and exchanged culture for a few weeks.

Here is a group of us (Latvians, a Georgian, an Englishman and yours truly) culturally exhanging while taking a break from one of the work projects.

This is my counterpart (who is awesome) and another Armenian participant after a long bout of cultural exchange. This time the cultural exhange took the shape of the singing of “Winds of Change” by the Scorpions numerous times. By numerous I mean about 26. They love that song.

This is a photo of a few of the participants culturally exhanging by a wall overlooking the unfinished Soviet buildings that surround the city where I live. Notice the Headband. There’s a cultural exchange for you.

At the end of one of the camps we had a talent show, and a few of us created a musical/play that mocked the cultural clash between the very forward Latvian male participants and the very conservative Armenian females at the camp. It was a hilarious play. What was less hilarious was watching the horrified conservative Armenian females fend off the Latvian advances. That was some cultural exchange.

BRO Camp 2007

BRO camp has been my baby since I got to my site. BRO stands for Boys Reaching Out. It was the offshoot of a similar young womens camp done in many other Peace Corps countries. That camp was called GLOW (Girls leading our world) but for obvious reasons the name had to be adjusted. Merely replacing the “G” simply wouldn’t suffice.

The camp brought together the best and the brightest boys aged 11-15 from all over the country to learn about leadership and other important topics relevant to the life of young men. The most useful parts I felt were the lessons we had on Health/Knowing your changing body/STDs/and gender. We were able to create an atmosphere where the boys felt comfortable asking any questions they may have had. In this way we were able to dispel many many many many many misconceptions and traditional wivestales. Though I had to stand in front of a crowd of pubescent boys and answer some of the most awkward questions ever posed, it was well worth it. We blew some minds at this camp.

Here is a group of the young men after climbing a mountain. The camp was set in a fairly scenic area, just near the Georgian border in the north and the Turkish border to the west.

A camp isn’t a camp without the shirts. A few of the participants with their shirts.

Here I am during our “we’ll answer any question you ask” session. It lasted for almost 3 hours. They boys really felt comfortable asking about absolutely anything. And by anything I mean any taboo awkward subject that you can think of they asked about. It was wonderful to be able to talk frankly with them about things that they may never be able to discuss openly again.

One the boys. I love this picture.

This is Jamie (another PCV) teaching the kids about gender. This was the hardest lesson for the kids.The gender roles in Armenia are so set that it was rough to even crack the façade. But hopefully we were able to at least get a few of the boys thinking about why gender roles in Armenia are the way they are.

The future leaders of Armenia.

In conclusion… with the summer done and all my camps over with, I get to settle in and wait for winter to come. But first I’m off to climb Mt. Ararat. It’s real tall, so hopefully I’ll make it down off the mountain in order to post a blog with some pictures from the top.

Musings on a year past

2007-08-21T06:59:00.000-07:00

The Peace Corps just brought together the A-14 group (Armenia - 14^th year) of volunteers to celebrate the half-way point of our service. It was a great time to relax, discuss and compare experiences with other volunteers. On top of that they put us up in a pretty nice hotel/dorm that had clean sheets and intermittent hot water. Thank you taxpayers. Mostly the Peace Corps Administration let us just relax and reflect. It was really quite useful and enjoyable.

At the half-way point I’m struck by how much different my experience has been from what I expected when I flew out of Sacramento Int’l airport over a year ago. I came to the Peace Corps drunk on stories of riding motorcycles across Sub-Saharan Africa in the 1960s and photos of squatting mid-westerners teaching some feeble farmer a different way of scattering seeds in order to increase the harvest. Thus far my experience has been nothing like that. Not at all.

But it’s not a bad thing necessarily. Of course I’m sure all the former volunteers with whom I talked before I decided to apply to the Peace Corps had romanticized their experiences as they drew farther from the present. And I can appreciate the need to show glossy romanticized pictures in the PC brochures. How else would you sell something like this to potential volunteers?

Upon reflection I’m currently concluding that my life isn’t all that bad. I get to at least attempt to be helpful to many people (usually unsuccessfully). I have learned a lot about Armenian culture and can communicate on some level with locals in their language. I’ve been able to successfully represent America to people who might not have had positive exposure to our country. I’ve not only made amazing Armenian friends, but also amazing friends of the other volunteers living here in country. Though frustrations abound, I’m learning to cope with them so much better than when I first arrived, and in the upcoming year I figure I’ll be so much savvier as to become more successful than before with my projects and relationships.

Conclusion at the half-way point: Not all that bad of a gig really.

Conclusion 2: easily the sappiest and most boring Blog I've ever posted. And that's saying something. Sorry. Please don't stop reading my blog.

of cows and contentment

2007-08-05T04:50:00.000-07:00

My host brother and I just herded the cattle up to the mountains for a few days to feed. Guess I can check that off the Man Card.
A few weeks ago I received a call from my host brother from the village. He informed me that my host father had gone to Russia to work for a while and that he needed a little help tending to the cattle. I being a professional volunteer after all, and possessing an affinity for the movie City Slickers, excitedly agreed. I asked him what it entailed. He informed me that basically, we were taking the cattle to the mountains to eat grass. Growing up in the breadbasket of California and having some milking experience myself, it made sense.
I asked him what I needed to bring. He said maybe a jacket. I asked about water. He informed me that it wasn’t necessary because he was bringing vodka. I wondered aloud about the wisdom of going 3 days hiking without water. He repeated (with a tinge of annoyance in his voice) that he was bringing vodka. And that was that.
My permanent site in Armenia is in a large city. I suppose one could say that relative to most other volunteers in country I live a terribly cosmopolitan existence. I looked forward to getting “back to nature and spending some time with my host brother with whom I’d lost touch since moving out to the “Big City”, as he so disdainfully refers to it.
The weather was very damp and the clouds were ominously grey as we set out from the house. I hadn’t really packed well (besides the water hidden beneath my summer change of clothes) and was pretty worried about rain coming, but as we reached the top of one of the large mountains, we came upon this large camp/community of makeshift shacks and old train cars. Apparently the people from the village all come up here to live during the summer as their cattle graze. It reminded me of border town Mexico, with car doors and chicken wire laid out in rows denoting property lines and serving as fences. There were traffic jams of livestock all over the place, the cows and sheep cutting each other off in much the same way as I used to do back on the mean freeways of California. Eager to show me the lay of the land, my host brother grabbed some cheese, vodka and some friends from the village and we set out on a hike around the top of these mountains.
Armenia has great contrast in flora, fauna and weather in different areas of the country even though it is a small place. Not four hours before, I had been in my dry hot arid home in Gyumri, but as we hiked even further up the mountain it almost seemed tropical. The mist was swirling around us, sometimes opening up to give us amazing views of the valley and villages below. The plants were looked thick and lush like something you’d find in the tropics. It was truly shocking. There were waterfalls and springs, flowers and foliage that was just amazing. It was like we had climbed this mountain and ended up in a different world.

Along this trail there were numerous benches and lookout points where the herders had built makeshift benches and tables. At each stop we would sit and partake of some cheese and vodka and toast the nature and how good life was. These people were truly content to be on this mountain with their cattle.
We rounded up a few stray cattle along the way and headed back to the makeshift community down the mountain a ways. We penned the bulls, and led the cows into the barn (more properly just labeled merely a covered area) and began the milking for the day. As we brought in pail after pail of milk, the women of the house began running the milk through various machines and boiling it on an open fire to pasteurize it. The men finished up and sat down to have yet more vodka and cheese and watch the women produce so many different things from this milk. Truly nothing was wasted. I watched as they produced cheese, yogurt, drinking milk, tan, sour cream, and other marvelous things that would cause a lactose intolerant person to throw caution to the wind. We finished the night off with a large bar-b-que and still more vodka and cheese.

(My host brother on his horse)

I arose early the next morning to the smell of cooking meat, dressed and did the whole thing again. The mist never fully parted to allow me to take in the full beauty of the landscape, but for all the glorious explanations I received from all the herders I believe it must have been beautiful. I was just stoked to be able to spend some time with people as genuinely happy as content as these.
The volunteers here often talk about “Peace Corps moments”. Those times when you truly feel that the brochures and stories that convinced us to join up for 2 years were not just a fraud. My experience had previously been utterly devoid of these, but I have to say that this experience was one for the brochures.

(a group of us standing by one of the fountains, and sitting at one of the makeshift tables)

A few photos

2007-06-27T02:02:00.000-07:00

My Peace Corps crew from Gyumri. This is pretty much our life after work. Clockwise. Me, Brian, Scott, Bob and Peggy.

We had a Peace Corps photo contest and this picture won. Birthdays are big events around here.

The fruit is back in the markets now. My life is so much better now that I'm off the "all potato" diet. No more scurvy scares.

Cramped

2007-06-27T01:56:00.000-07:00

My leg cramped up in a marchutnie yesterday. It was quite a scene.
Public transportation in Armenia is made up of small mini buses known as “marchutnies” or “marshutkas”. These medium sized vans are not as big as the short bus used in American schools but not as small as my family’s Ford Aerostar minivan that I recall so fondly from my childhood. I imagine that the picture you may be formulating in your head regarding the size of this vehicle is probably about right… except for the fact that you’re probably mentally filling this van with what… say 11 or 12 comfortably seated passengers? Or maybe you’re picturing some sort of hand rail running along the roof that allows excess passengers to stand in the aisles during peak hours. Let me assure you that you’re terribly mistaken.
The long haul city-to-city marchutnies across this great country do offer seats, but the intercity kinds are quite different. I have nary been in one where an actual seat is available. Usually as the vehicle approaches and stops in front of the awaiting customers all that is to be seen is a number of dark pant clad rear-ends pushing up against the window of the sliding door. Inevitably an arm slithers through the crowd of butts and disengages the latch of the door and suddenly the door pops open and the rear-ends tumble out followed by their respective bodies. The hope is that someone will be getting off at the stop and that more room will be freed up for the new passengers. If this is the case then all the layers of bodies barrel off until the person leaving is exposed. During the summer months this rider tumbles out breathless and sweating profusely, but with a look of joy indicative the joy of recently acquired freedom. As everyone shoves back into the vehicle, the waiting passengers wait till the end and then charge headfirst into the fray, somehow managing to close the door behind them. Their butts now pushed up against the sliding door window.
The inside of a marchutnie can not really be measured properly in number of passengers but is more justly measured in some unit of volume. Bodies are contorted and smooshed together in such a way that nearly every available space is filled. Oftentimes the taller will be hunched down bending over the crouched body of a squatting old lady, protecting her sack of produce with her body. The personal space of any passenger lucky enough to have found a seat is shamelessly violated. I’ve sat on many a lap, or cursed the breath of many a passenger with whom I’ve had to press my face up against. My main strategy is to avoid the armpits of all, chancing the rest to fate. As the marchutnie rushes over pot-holed streets and quickly taken turns the collective mass of bodies serves to absorb the centrifugal forces. Children and the elderly for obvious reasons are usually shuttled to the center of the vehicle to avoid injury.
It was against this backdrop that I foolishly entered a marchutnie the day after completing a long run and having tight sore legs. I was already late for a meeting across town and figured that taking public transport would save me a few minutes. The marchutnie was packed as usual. I pushed my way in and several stops later had been shoved towards the back of the aisle. I was bent over a shorter old man who was taking the brunt of my weight on every turn. That’s when I felt it. The brief tug of thigh muscle, followed by the clinching and buckling of said muscle, then immediate intense pain. (Those of you who have driven home from an intense day of skiing may be able to sympathize.) I was able to somehow squelch the urge to cry out, but couldn’t stop my leg from spasming and straightening. I had greatly upset the inner stasis of the marchutnie. There was nowhere for the surrounding people to go. As I tried to move my leg into a more comfortable position I kept kicking a bag of tomatoes sitting at the feet of an elderly lady hunched down. She understandably took offense to this and started yelling at me and pushing my leg away, protecting her produce. This had the obvious affect of increasing my own agony. I fell forward onto the old man and pushed him headlong into a seated lady who cried out as his head rammed into her chest and lap area. With only one leg working I had no leverage with which to straighten myself up and remove the weight of my body from this poor guy. As I crushed this old man into probably the most compromising position of his life, the old lady with the tomatoes continued hitting my thighs and butt with her purse, while others joined in, by collectively shoving me away from themselves in an effort to protect their produce. By this time the whole of the marchutnie was realizing that they had a kicking, unbalanced American on their hands. Many were yelling out profanities, others were just throwing disgusted looks that I could feel burning into the back of my agony filled body. I was finally able to roll off the old man and slither onto the floor of the marchutnie. Thankfully I ended up rolling over onto a sack of potatoes (a vegetable of a more hearty structure) and was afforded a slight bit of relief.
Gathering myself I meekly told the driver to stop, and was helped out of the vehicle by a few of the more kindly riders. They dropped me on the side of the road and I was left to hobble home and stretch. It’s a shame there’s no way to stretch one’s pride and make it feel better.

Khanutoom

2007-06-27T01:48:00.000-07:00

Being an American in Armenia, people are interested in you. Say a couple of words in an Armenian (especially the local dialect) and they’re proposing that you marry their first born.
Example; The picture above shows me with some employees of a local store. I walked in, asked for some eggs and some bread (my cooking skills are limited) and next thing I know the owner/butcher (the guy in the middle) who was visibly drunk, is pulling me to the back of the store to introduce me to his daughter (far left). This was all a front though, as I believe he truly just wanted to drink a bottle of Vodka with me. People who have gone through some sort of alcoholic recovery would refer to my role as an “enabler” I believe.
After many shared toasts and good tidings exchanged, he showed me how to butcher a cow carcass. I had already learned this from my previous host family (they were the local village butchers) but of course I didn’t let on. Employees and customers interested by the stranger in their midst were coming and going, sharing shots of vodka, coffee and local news. Inevitably they all asked me the same questions, over and over again. After explaining for the 10th time that New York and Los Angeles are not really that close to each other and that I was not a Mormon, I was finally able to pry myself loose of the crowd. I left with not only my eggs and bread but also a large bag of cow innards (with which I have no idea what I will do) and some homemade jams and cakes. Not a bad deal if you ask me.

Picture

2007-05-30T02:48:00.000-07:00

It's green and warm in Gyumri now. here is a picture of one of my english classes. A far cry from where our classes were held during the winter.... i.e. a freezing cold classroom.

tarberutsyun chka

2007-05-29T04:08:00.000-07:00

I suppose life is really just a series of events to look forward to. I know that I’ve always kept my sanity through boring stretches of work or school by looking forward to the next fun event. These events are relative… in my previous life I would look forward to the golfing weekend with my college buddies, or the beginning of the Woodland City League basketball season… You know…. Big Things like that. I think I can gauge the descent of my life by what things I look forward to now. Things like the eggplant (which is phenomenal here) coming back into the market next month or finding a roll of paper towels in the market can set off a rush of endorphins shooting through my body. It’s sad really.
But one event will occur this week that is the mother of all events in the life of a Peace Corps volunteer. Bigger even than the eggplant… seriously. The arrival of the new group of volunteers.
47 new American, English-speaking, Freedom loving, pop-culture informed human beings will be flying into Armenia on June 1st. They will bring with them glorious things like new DVDs, new stories and new books. They will also be bringing way too much stuff, from which many useful things can be instantly plundered by the more experienced volunteers.
Some of the current volunteers are looking forward to the infusion of new friends, others to potential life partners (tons of these fools get married over here), still others to being in a more “expert position” no longer the “new” volunteers. I… I just look forward to having some sort of concrete threshold, some marker to have passed. Technically I’m not even halfway done with my service yet, but with the arrival of these new volunteers I feel like I’m finally summiting and on the downward slope of my service. Secondarily I am looking forward to a much needed infusion of unfounded and uninformed idealism. I hope it is refreshing to all the older volunteers. I should also mention that there is a cool party that accompanies the night before arrival.
I remember vividly meeting the new group of volunteers last year. After such a long trip from New York the group of volunteers was bleery-eyed and sleep deprived. The Peace Corps shoved down our throats the idea that we needed to get off the plane dressed professionally, as that is how everyone in Peace Corps Armenia dressed. As we disembarked our bus (all dressed in suits, ties, and dresses) we approached the most rag-tag bunch of scruffy Americans I may have ever seen concentrated in one area. It was almost like they had done a sweep of the underbelly of the overpasses of San Francisco and collected all the sodden and downtrodden and plopped them down just outside of Zvartnots airport in Yerevan, Armenia. It’s been a long time since I read “the Lord of the Flies” but approaching this scene I must admit that my mind leapt immediately to this story. I wasn’t quite sure if I wanted to be on this island.
This year I’m sure it will be no different. I sure as hell ain’t wearin’ a suit. What a difference a year makes.

do asa

2007-05-17T00:23:00.000-07:00

The curiousity of Armenians is oftentimes terribly tangential. Chalk it up to a broad curiosity about all things… well everything if you like, but I gotta tell you I’ve never had so many random and unrelated questions thrown at me in quick succession until I arrived here. The initial questioning upon gaining acquaintance with someone new is pretty standard and lays out (with surprisingly few exceptions) in this way;
· What is your name?
· Where are you from?
· Is that near Glendale, California, because you know there are a lot of Armenians there?
· How much money do you make?
· What is a volunteer…? No really… How much do you get paid?
· Why in the hell would someone work for nothing?
· Are you married? Why not? You are old, you know that you’re quite old to be single right? Do you want to marry my daughter? She’s very nice and speaks wonderful English…
It’s at this point that things usually get dicey. There’s no telling what will come next. Sometimes you’re saved by some sort of nationalist ranting about the “old country” or a rehashing of the laundry list of Armenian poets and playwrights who, “you absolutely must read.” These interrogators can be easily sated with a few knowing nods of the head and a mention of “the damn Turks” or “William Saroyan” respectively. But even though these situations are “more common” than the others, they are in no way “common” or can be anticipated. Usually the questions come out of nowhere and follow no train of thought whatsoever. This peculiarity became glaringly clear with a recent experience of mine.
I was recently invited to be interviewed on a radio talk/music show. The show was to be about American folk/popular music, and how it has changed over the years. I was told I would play a few songs and take a few calls from listeners. I had prepared myself with a stock of American songs that I felt would give the audience a real feeling of what American music was like, from some basic blues standards on through some John Cougar Melloncamp, and ending with some of those tunes that “the kids are listening to these days”. I also asked two other volunteers to join me, one from the south (Alabama) and well versed in the blues, and the other a man who lived through the 1960s and 70s (a subject that I was sure would come up). The fact that he only “remembers parts” of the aforementioned decades seems to add more credence to his insight and knowledge of the time period. The show was only in Russian so I, knowing only rudimentary Armenian, also brought along a friend as a translator.
When we arrived and the studio the DJ was pretty excited to see us. She is this strange Armenian anomaly. She dresses in bright colored clothes, is outgoing and gregarious and could only be compared to a burnt out hippy that is still holding on to the early 70s. I had met with her once previously and she had told me in the most certain terms that I must go to the mountains (pointing to a specific range in the distance) before the show, because there is “good energy” in those mountains, and that I must take this energy from the mountains and bring it to the show with me. Obviously I had not done this, but of course lied when she inquired about it. She was ecstatic that such “good energy” would be present in the studio.
I should know better than to go into any situation in Armenia with expectations of how things will go… because they never pan out, but I was expecting to introduce myself, the Peace Corps (I’m all about PR) and then talk a bit about the growth of American Folk/popular music while supplementing some points by performing some songs acoustically as examples. Maybe even take a few questions from callers. As the show got underway I did get a chance to introduce myself, as did Brian and Bob (the other PC volunteers) and Brian was able to tell the story about selling one’s soul at “the crossroads” in Mississippi to become a better blues guitarist. But after one quick rendition of a blues standard, the DJ had had enough. She wanted to know about us. She had Questions…
The DJ would speak (in Russian) to our translator, who would then turn to us and relay the question in English. My knowledge of Russian is non-existent, save for a few colloquial words used in our regional Armenian dialect, so I had no way to follow the conversation before our translator turned to our unsuspecting group and spluttered forth possibly the most disjointed and unexpected questions ever strung together. There was no way to anticipate these questions. How could we. We were in Armenia...

Translator: Bob, she wants to know if you believe in Angels?
Bob: I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, “angels”? Well I am not quite sure.
Translator: How about God Bob. Do you believe in God? Do you have faith in God Bob?
Bob: Well I suppose I do, I just hope that he doesn’t loose faith in me. (Bob’s a witty guy)
Translator: Brian, She wants to know why do you think people in America are fat? For instance Tom Cruise married Katie Holmes.
Brian: I’m not quite sure how Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes factor into this, but I think that maybe in America the food has more preservatives and we don’t walk as much, because it is more common for people to drive cars. America is very spread out, so we need to use cars. But I’m no expert in this area.
Translator: Brian she’s asking if you believe in… oh I don’t know the word… those things that fly and have lights and are shaped like a plate, or maybe a bowl…?
Brian: You mean UFOs?
Translator: Yes! That’s it. She wants to know if you believe in UFOs and how many you have seen?
Brian: Well I think that… Actually I really don’t know. I mean… there are people who believe that they’ve seen them, but I really don’t know about it… ummm… I can’t say really…. I suppose there’s no real reason that there couldn’t be other life out there in the Universe.
Translator: She wants to ask, if you had to choose one single word as “the sweetest word” in the whole entire world what it would be.
Brian: Wow, well there are so many words out there… That’s a tough one… I think that Dominic would be best equipped to handle this one… (Passing the mic to me)

I would hope that my humble readership gets the idea. This went on for 2 hours with minimal commercial interruptions. Other highlights included;

Me admitting that yes, I would die for true love
A lengthy discussion on the differences of people on opposite sides of the Iron Curtain, where I ended up (in a desperate attempt to get the show back on track) selling out and using platitudes like, “I think that things like music and love are examples of how we’re all just people, no matter if you were in Armenia or California during the Cold War. Really we’re all just people, no matter where we live, we all love our families, we all want the best for our children.”
Brian eventually realizing that “love” was the correct answer to the “sweetest word” question, and randomly blurting it out during some conversation about Yoga or some other nonsense.

All in all it was a mess, but pretty cool nonetheless. The feedback from the show was overwhelmingly positive. I suppose people really are more concerned with whether or not I would die for true love, than the intricacies of American folk music.

Yerkee

2007-05-17T00:19:00.000-07:00

The kids here sing. In the spirit of transparency I should add that I didn’t spend much time around children when I was in the states, but I think I spent enough to be able to make a proper comparison with Armenian youth. The young people here don’t feel self-conscious at all about busting out into song in any situation. The wonderful thing is that nearly every time this happens many others join in. There seems to be this vast pool of well-known traditional songs (mostly about the capital city Yerevan or Mt. Ararat) that everyone knows the words to.
I was recently on a bus with a bunch of young orphans that I’m involved in a project with currently, and what would be a normally mundane bus ride in the states was instantly converted to a revelrous celebration of singing. It began with one kid singing to himself and then his neighbor hearing him and joining in. In no time, we (I was humming along only) were all singing song after song after song. There were no pauses between songs. As soon as one would end someone from the opposite end of the bus would begin with another. We were clapping and whooping it up like crazy. There were kids dancing in the aisles, hanging from the ceiling. Frankly it was a zoo (another difference here is the acceptance of a lack of order). The Bus Driver was on board too, singing and dancing in his seat, while paying a disturbingly small amount of attention to the mountainous road.
The ride was a long one and we began rehashing previously sung songs. I was surprised at how the 2nd time around they were just as excited to sing the song as before. I guess that’s the cool thing that I haven’t witnessed with youth in the states, is this freedom to enjoy the mere act of singing. The songs only serving as the vehicle. There seems to me to be a lack of self-consciousness among the youth here that I find refreshing and awesome.

2007-05-10T06:50:00.000-07:00

ov eh hamov

2007-05-10T06:47:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday was the “Genocide Memorial Day” in Armenia. This day stands in commemoration of the massive number of Armenians murdered at the end of the 19^th and beginning of the 20^th centuries amid the crumbling of the Ottoman Empire and the shifting national boundaries, allegiances and nationalist suspicions that went along with the beginnings of WWI . This event still looms large in the Armenian psyche and its full recognition is still a sticking point between Armenia and its neighbors. Naturally, the day of recognition April 24^th is a big deal here.

There is a massive remembrance event in Yerevan (the capital) where thousands upon thousands of people rest flowers at the National Genocide memorial. But there also exists numerous regional ceremonies as well. I and a fellow PC volunteer (my boy Scott) thought that it might be more authentic, more worthwhile to take part in our own regional ceremony that takes place every year, 15 miles outside of my city. During the previous 7 months spent living in Gyumri I have driven by this regional genocide memorial many times as I traveled to the neighboring regions, and had listened intently to many stories from locals about, “how wonderful it is on Genocide day when all the locals from Gyumri come together and travel the vast expanse from the city to the memorial by foot talking about memories of relatives lost during those dark days”. The memorial site sits in a high valley in the mountain range that separates my region of Shirak Marz from the neighboring region of Lori.

I awoke that morning to a light dusting of snow on my window sill. The grey hue visible outside and the wind-rattled window panes did not bode well for our trip. As I rolled out of bed and sprinted to engage and hug my heater, I dug down mentally to the depths of myself grasping for the sort of resilience that Peace Corps volunteers are supposedly known for, steeling myself for the difficult day ahead.

How does one dress for such a day? I knew it was going to be cold, and my limited, shamelessly pieced together winter wardrobe meant that if I wanted to ensure my warmth and wellbeing I would look disrespectfully unkempt. But this was an important and somber day… and I have plenty of Business casual clothing in country. Siding with what I assumed to be properly solemn protocol I dressed in slacks and a dress shirt (a layer of long-underwear beneath), but decided to forgo the suit jacket, and grabbed my thin shell of a rain jacket. An umbrella would have been a phenomenal idea, but under these cold conditions, who can blame such a seemingly small mistake.

Mile 0: Approaching the main square I expected to see a huge mass of people all holding flowers, fathers leaning over and sensitively explaining the events to their children, all ready to brave the elements and trudge up to the memorial. Alas, I only saw Scott there waiting for me. As we began walking out of the city we passed one area with many buses lined up and tons of people piling on to make the trip up to the memorial. Our trip just barely underway, Scott and I breezed past with an air of superiority, looking forward to discussing this lazy lack of proper deference for the event with the hundreds of “real” walking mourners we planned to meet on the road ahead. As we exited our city and the sidewalk turned to ice and mud we saw none of the multitude of walkers we had been promised by so many stories and other sources. In fact we saw nothing, except miles of steadily climbing road ahead and ominous grey clouds.

Mile 3: Scott is a trooper. I used to be a trooper, but since my enlistment in the Peace Corps my verve for life has diminished greatly. I’ll admit, that as the first storm cloud broke and snow started blowing upwards in our faces, I realized that walking into the strong wind as we were, this trip was going to be difficult. As passing vehicles began splashing mud all over us and the snow started sticking to the ground and soaking our clothes, I was the first to suggest going back. We were only 3 miles out of the city by then, but hadn’t seen any of the previously promised throngs of people. In fact we hadn’t seen a single other person walking, save for the Sheppard quickly herding his sheep towards shelter. We should have known.

Mile 5: We came across our first known landmark. The little village of Shirak. We had held out hope that the hearty village folk along the way would certainly not be taking buses up the mountain for the activities. These were people chiseled from the hard earth of the Eastern Anatolian Steppe. As we passed walked through the village, we asked a few of these “hearty” folks how far the memorial site was. In classic Armenian fashion we received answers ranging from 30 kilometers downwards to 4 kilometers. We, being woven of optimistic fiber (one has to be to sign up for this gig) chose to believe the 4 kilometer guy. He was wrong.

Mile 7: As we started ascending the mountain the weather turned angry. I suppose it didn’t so much “turn” angry, more that we were just walking directly up a mountain into a pretty crazy pass where a storm was raging. As we crossed the snow line we came across three young kids and asked them how far the memorial was. Immediately they suggested that we allow them to accompany and show us. Scott saw it as nice gesture, being that they were likewise underdressed for such a harrowing journey, I on the other hand thought they might just be waiting for us to freeze to death so that they would be well positioned to take our wallets. Scott accepted willingly, I less so, our spirits buoyed for a second push. As the slope increased and the pain in my legs began to stem more from the build up of lactic acid than the freezing cold, visibility dropped and I began loosing faith in our chances of success/survival. I started cursing the fact that these local kids had come along. With them in toe there was no way that we could use our better judgement and turn back now. We were here representing America Damn It, and American Don’t Quit! I suppose they were thinking the same thing about their representation of the motherland also. Ah… how nationalism can turn men into utter fools.

Mile 11: The storm did not let up, in fact it got worse as the snow turned to hail. Not willing to fully let down my country, I began working for a compromise. I suggested that we try and flag down a bus, a common enough occurrence in Armenia. For some reason, maybe the visibility, maybe because people couldn’t believe that there would actually be pedestrians in these mountains, none of the buses would stop for us. It was absolutely ridiculous. There were tons of buses passing us filled with mourners going to the exact same place that we were. I saw numerous open seats through the fogged up windows. As we took turns running out into the road to flag down buses, every one just swerved and avoided us, splashing a healthy dose of mud and ice all over our frozen bodies. I learned a few new Armenian curse words that day. Finally, in exasperation we decided to have a rest on a roadside barricade (see above picture, that’s me in the back). The rest was risky, not so much because of the cold, as most of us had lost feeling in all our extremities, but I could tell that we were all looking around Donner-Party style for who looked the weakest/tastiest.

Mile 13: After leaving the road to take a straight shot up the mountain (as opposed to the switchbacks that the heartless drivers of the buses were using) we crested a ridge and saw our prize. I remembered it being bigger, better, more worth it.

Mile 14: We arrived just in time to see everyone filing away from the memorial site. The ceremony had just ended. I suppose it was a fitting end to our journey. As I turned to head towards the buses all heading back to Gyumri free-of-charge, Scott inquired as to where I was going. I told him the buses. He suggested that we go back by foot, “after-all it’s all down hill now.” Did I mention that my boy Scott is an idiot sometimes.

Tapakatz Gatoshka

2007-04-22T23:41:00.000-07:00

There are a few things that I am perpetually thankful for in the Peace Corps. As my city slowly climbs out of winter I thought it a good exercise to forcefully be thankful for a few things. The Peace Corps’ depression handbook recommended it. The suggestion came right after the section on sitting cross-legged in the middle of your room, arms raised, fingers pursed, head tilted back whispering the serenity prayer over and over again. There was also a footnote that referenced some sort of “happy place”.
Many of the new experiences, cultural differences, quirks, etc… in Peace Corps are great, but tend to loose their luster fairly quickly. In this category I would place things like… doing laundry by hand. Sure, initially it was great to have such an invigorating task to complete that produced such tangible results. I felt like one of those volunteers that you see in all the marketing materials the Peace Corps produces. But inevitably the joy of this act faded quickly, leaving me dreading my Sundays, with all the preparation of mass amounts of hot water, the scrubbing and wringing, wringing and hanging. Other things in this category would include bucket baths, snow in April, taxi-drivers constantly attempting to cheat you, etc…
But I am eternally grateful that I have been blessed with an indefatigable love for fried potatoes and that the draw of a free few hours and a book (not even necessarily a good one) still remains so attractive to me.
I’ve always loved potatoes. Fried, mashed, scalloped, twice baked, just baked once, and all other forms. In fact, when I got my placement in the Caucasus I specifically checked to see what the staple food was here in Armenia. Knowing that in many Peace Corps countries there is some sort of millet or rice, I was relieved to know that in this cold arid climate, the potato was king. And lo and behold I was placed in a potato producing part of the country, Shirak Marz. Never mind that some farmers are apparently still using soviet era pesticides like DDT. They still taste great!
What I am thankful for though is that my love for fried potatoes in particular has never left me, nor even waned for that matter. I still find myself rushing home, greatly looking forward to a plate of my golden-fried friends. Strangely “golden-fried” is a bit of an overstatement as my many attempts at preparing them has in no way made me proficient at it. In fact, it’s kind of sad that I am not better at it by now. But nonetheless, I am able to eat a cheap meal, that is available year-round (of the utmost importance here during winter) and enjoy it immensely and equally every sitting.
This “Peace Corps experience” also allows for much free time, spent… say sitting by your heater trying to stave off frost bite, or… sitting by your heater trying to stave of frost bite. I am also quite thankful that my love for reading has also not diminished. Mostly my weekends are spent sitting around my house, doing pretty much nothing except reading books. This may sound to many not ideal, but again I still look forward to my weekends nearly as much as I did in the states, (when there were so many other options for stimulation… things like say… not sitting by your heater trying to stave off frostbite.) Again, I am thankful that my excitement for incessant reading has not lessened. The book selection here is limited (the Peace Corps library is awash with mostly trashy novels) but still I romanticize the experience of just sitting, reading and relaxing just as much as when I first arrived.
Of all the ways to stave off depression, I suppose that I’ve been blessed with a few little things that allow me to skip the recommended hippy modes of stress reduction and sanity maintenance (see above.) Guess I’ll be saving the cross-legged serenity prayer chanting for next winter.

Becka. Dave wants me to give you a “shout out”. Though I am well versed in the youthful parlance of our generation, I’m not quite sure how to transfer a “shout out” textually to this blog post… so I hope this will suffice.

Varsaveeranotz

2007-03-18T01:50:00.000-07:00

The Peace Corps is not known as an arena where style is a priority, but a person still has to have their hair cut every once in a while. Since coming to this country I have been known to hold out for a good long time before cutting my hair, even though the bushiness is very uncommon here in Armenia. Because of the cold I can’t wear Birkenstocks and so this hippie-hair makes me feel, at least a little like a real textbook Peace Corps volunteer.
The first time I was at site I asked a friend from work to take me to his barber. He said no problem and set me up an appointment. As I arrived I started feeling nervous, glancing around for any male friends who may have seen me walk in the door to this place that could only be referred to as a “Salon”. There were posters of beautiful people with what I assumed to be beautiful hair, and flashy looking, well-packaged goops, goos and sprays in shimmering glass cases. The man who greeted me could only be referred to as a “stylist”. After performing a surgically precise hair procedure on me that lasted some 45 minutes (using various tools and spray bottles of liquids for which I could only guess at their contents) he beckoned me to follow him into a back room. Glancing at my hair in the mirror (strangely it looked the same as when my buddies in college used to cut it after a few beers, only scissors) I followed. I was horrified at what I saw. It looked like some torture machine chair. As he reached up to the top of it and turned on some water spigot at the top of the chair he told me to sit. Being out of my element (at a salon in a foreign country) I followed his order and sat down, thoughts of Chinese water torture running through my head. Drip…drip….drip…drip… As he wrapped a fluffy towel around my neck (the first time I’ve felt a “fluffy” towel since being in country) he pulled my head backwards and held it fast. I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. Apparently at some places (salons) they wash your hair after cutting it. The feeling was rather pleasant as he massaged my scalp and rinsed my hair clean. But as I rose and paid the man (an exorbitant amount of money) I left the place with a sinking feeling rising in my stomach. What had I just done? Thousands of years of male evolution; hunting and gathering, fighting wars, wrestling, etc… had just been sullied. I had spit in the face of my genetic code and manly responsibility. I vowed to never again engage in such an egregious affront to masculinity.
As my hair once again reached culturally unacceptable lengths I asked some old men playing chess on the street where they got their hair cut. Surely these men, veterans of great wars, the fall of the Soviet Union, and years of hard labor would not be caught dead in a “Salon”. As they pointed me in the correct direction (actually 4 different directions) they finally decided on the best place and I set out, hoping to make some incremental jump in the pecking order of men. As I walked, thoughts raced through my head. I envisioned walking into the sacred establishment and sitting down in an old chair with ripped upholstery, striking up some conversation about local politics or nagging wives. I imagined them (most not being barbers, but just locals hanging out to shoot the breeze) inviting me to stick around (my neck still itchy from the residual hairs recently trimmed) to share some coffee, or vodka and salted meat. This would be my return to that most comfortable of places, the fraternity of men. What I found when I arrived was something quite different.
As I entered the barber shop, through the haze of cigarette smoke I made out a group of grizzly men wearing stained white jackets and lazing in their chairs (the upholstery was ripped at least.) The television was booming out an Iranian music channel at a deafening level, to which no one seemed to be paying any attention. No one reacted to my entrance. I finally approached the first chair and tapped the man on the shoulder and asked if I could get my hair cut. He grunted something incomprehensible to me and motioned with his head to the next chair. I approached the next chair in line to the same reaction. This continued until I got down to the second to last chair. (Didn’t these people realize that I was an American in a foreign country; easily taken advantage of and willing to unquestioningly pay an improperly high amount of money for a service, merely to avoid a run in with the locals?) The ancient man rose to greet me and bade me sit. Reaching into his little drawer he produced the thickest glasses I have ever seen. I would venture to say that they were thicker than a half-deck of playing cards. As he leaned in to inspect my head, he asked the obligatory, “how do you want your hair cut” and I replied tersely, “shorter everywhere, sir” full well knowing that he was going to have his way no matter what I requested.
He reached into his drawer and pulled out a pair of rusted, soviet era electric clippers. As he plugged them in and started on the side of my head I felt the first sting of what was to be a very long and painful episode. The clippers didn’t so much “cut” my hair, as the motion of the blades (probably due to age, lack of oil, and a poor and intermittent electric supply) is better explained as “gripping and pulling” my hair out. If any of my humble readership remembers the “flobee”, it was kind of like a terribly rusty version of that. As “clippers” gripped and pulled out uneven chunks of my hair and follicles, he finished the first side of my head and proceeded around to the back. But much to my chagrin he had to pause as the cord ran out of length. It wouldn’t even come close to reaching the other side of my head. Instead of the normal slight tilting of the head so common in all hair cutting establishments, he bid me to lean up out of the chair and slump my whole body towards the outlet from which the clippers were plugged. As he continued to work on the further, previously unreachable parts of head, I was afforded plenty of time to think about how many others had bent over in this same position and wished they kept a $.75 extension cord on hand at all times.
I’ve heard that as one receives a tattoo the pain lessens as the process moves forward and the nerves numb. My viciously violated hair follicles were beginning to thankfully sink into this stage when he finished and told me to sit up straight. I felt a fear similar to being at the dentist as he rifled through his drawer for some other cutting implement. As he pulled out the rusty straight razor and began rubbing it with a band of leather I thought to myself… this is it, this is where I purge myself of all the embarrassment of my trip to the stylist. After all isn’t this how they cut “the doughboys” hair in the trenches of WWI or the hair of “our boys” flying the B-52s in the next?
I was expecting some sort of shaving cream or some other lubricant… but I was sorely mistaken. As he leaned in close to inspect the nape of my neck, I came to the instant realization that with the sub-zero temperatures in the room (true with all buildings here in winter) this action, combined with my goose bumped neck was a recipe for excruciation. As dread overtook me, he began dragging the dull, freezing cold blade up the length of the back of my neck. I wanted to cry out, but in such a testosterone filled arena as this it was simply out of the question. As one can imagine the blade didn’t do its work in merely one pass. The man’s focused determination to rid me of all my hair (and top layers of skin) was impressive as every pass would become more and more rough and excruciating. As he finished half of the back of my neck he paused. Maybe thinking that this straight razor had a absurdly short cord attached to it also, he pulled up my chin to start with the face shaving portion (Again, keep in mind there is no shaving cream or even heat in this room.) I knew I had to end it. I had to surrender. I pulled away and told the purveyor of my pain that, “I didn’t mind a little stubble, now and again.” Though with my language skills it would probably have been more properly translated as, “me short hair like back neck face my.”
I assumed this statement would lead at best lead to an ending being brought to this episode or at worst to a civilized dialogue, but as his reply (from which I understood few words) lead to a raised-voice excoriation of my audacity, the other “barbers” began moving in to see what was afoot. As he pushed my head back down into position I resisted. There was a bizarre back-and-forth battle between the strength of his pushing motion and that of my neck. The absurdity of the situation was only heightened when another barber reached in to help his colleague. I was finished. With two men holding me in position now, I had no choice but to concede. They finished their devils work on the back of my neck, but were good enough to forgo the face shave (the shaving of my hereditary Irish neck beard would have been difficult to endure… I don’t think I would have made it.) I didn’t even wait around to see if my previously dreamed about post-haircut vodka, dried-meat, and brotherhood of man would materialize. I threw down the same amount of money I had provided the stylist for his distinguished services and left. The cold air was not so cold that day as it mixed with the warmth of regained my masculinity.

More pictures

2007-02-26T23:25:00.000-08:00

This is a group of us after a Peace Corps conference. It was fun. The hotel was fancy! thank you tax payers.

dramadrootsyoon

2007-02-26T23:08:00.000-08:00

It’s funny how quickly my mood swings here in Armenia. I’ve spoken to many other Peace Corps Armenia volunteers and everyone else seems to concur. I wish there was a word that better represented what I mean more than “mood”. My mood is included in these swings but there other things like my outlook on life (probably similar) and my confidence in my decision to spend 2 years of my life as a “professional volunteer”. There may well be a better word, but due to my lack an English thesaurus here in Armenia, I’ll have to stick with what I’ve got.
There’s really no telling what will loose the pendulum of my mood and send it throttling downwards. Today strikes a good example. Indeed it was the impetus for this post. Started the day off with some Pilates (don’t tell my guy friends… I’m pretty sure they don’t read this thing), a coupla fried eggs and a nice dog-attack free walk to work. Work went well. I felt relatively productive, got some things done etc… Walked out of work on a high note, feelin’ good about my life. Next thing I know I go into buy something at a shop and a store keeper starts yelling something at me that I don’t understand. I come to understand that he doesn’t like Russians… and apparently I look enough like one to be the receptacle for his angst. Not a big deal, and I weather the storm and get my bread and head out. My language skills have advanced enough that I can now understand most of the pretty consistent heckling spewing from the mouths of young punk kids as I walked down the street. They’re everywhere. I should be used to it. Even the snowball that glanced off my back (thrown by the aforementioned) didn’t set me off.
The tough part for me is that, since coming to Armenia there is really no telling when my mood will change or what will set it off, but when it turns, it turns sharply. In this particular instance it was an old lady cutting in front of me in the line to buy potatoes. The fury came flooding in.
In a normal situation this old lady would merely be a sweet, hunch-backed granny, but my mood now had gravity mercilessly pulling it downwards . I didn’t just want to say something to her… I wanted to yell at this old thoughtless hag… Make her understand the injustice of her actions. This is always the first stage of my mood swing… The righting of the wrong.
The second stage is inevitably the unfounded self-righteous indignance. If my language had allowed it, I may well have grabbed this old lady and explained to her that I did not come from the other side of the world to be subjected to such nonsense as this… Did she have any idea of how much money I could be making in the states…I’m teaching your grandchildren to speak English and love democracy and the rule of law….and then on to ranting about how the very action of cutting in line is just a microcosm of her country’s problems and how dare she cut in front of me of all people. But again I was able to hold back the fury bubbling up inside me, and go to that quiet place in my head. My “happy place” as some of the Peace Corps’ more ridiculous training told me to refer to it as.
As I got my coupla of kilos of potatoes and exited the store the third stage set in. The questioning on my motivation for being here and my value to this country… The wondering if I didn’t just make a huge mistake by coming here in the first place…etc… But as I walked with my doldrums, just wanting to be back at my apartment with the Peace Corps Armenia equivalent of a quart of ice cream and a rented movie (a bottle of cheap Russian vodka and a gas heater) one of my friends saw me on the street and excitedly explained to me that she had just done well on an interview that I had helped coach her for. If she passes 1 more round then she’ll be on her way to the states on a full scholarship. It was so neat to see her excitement and anticipation of opportunity. It was one of the few tangible successes I have felt a part of in my time here.
I suppose that just as the pendulum of my mood can plunge so quickly downward it just as forcefully has the momentum of to hurtle back up again. I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Hell, maybe it’s what my cousins refer to as the “Seattle Syndrome” meaning when a lack of sunlight and warmth screws with you (especially for people from sunny warm climates.) Or maybe I’ve always possessed a latent bitterness and self-righteousness that has finally been loosed upon the unsuspecting inhabitants of Armenia. Whatever it is, this certainly is an emotional rollercoaster of an experience. I just hope I can hold back any public fits of vitriol until the sun and warmth of spring gets here.

I finally figured out how to post pictures

2007-02-13T01:01:00.000-08:00

Thanks to a little conversation with a friend of mine I finally figured out how to post pictures (It was really quite easy.) So thank you to Sarah Zaenger. Check out her blog (linked on my page) if you're interested in another perspective of Peace Corps Armenia. So i have a real backlog of pictures to put up but for now I'll just throw up one because they take a long long long time to load. The first is Kelly and my family from Gyumri. A wonderful wonderful group of people. Cute kids too.

tsoort e

2007-02-10T04:06:00.000-08:00

The Peace Corps brought us to some resort area for a few days and let us stay in a nice hotel for a few days while we completed a conference. (Your tax dollars at work.) The hotel was heated, and well heated at that.
Waking up this morning in my own bed I’m impressed at how quickly one can forget how terrible it is waking up in a completely freezing cold room, under a mass of blankets that is more aptly counted in pounds rather than in number. I guess it only took a few days to once again be surprised at the strep like feeling in my throat as the last embers of heat from my heater die, and the manageable (relatively speaking) heat of the evenings in my house reach equilibrium with the freezing cold surroundings. Struggling through intakes and exhalations of air (which feels like pushing and pulling a cactus in and out of one’s throat) the other senses begin taking hold also. The piercing of the alarm clock is usually next. Not a big deal… until you realize that the motion of reaching to calm its angry exhortations entails not only an exposure of naked flesh to the outside climate, but more importantly a breach of that sanctuary of warmth (again relatively speaking) beneath the blankets that has been mercifully built up throughout the night. But alas it must be done. The motion inevitably does produce the undesirable outcome and gives me a taste of what’s in store when I finally do muster the vigor to the dash from my bed across the room to where I foolishly left my robe (now freezing cold I might add) the night before. The dash is a thing of beauty, as the human body shows itself an impressive thing while faced with adversity and impending death. The blind sliding of feet over the frozen concrete floor in search of slippers while rubbing furiously at ones upper body (to produce some modicum of heat) leading to a seamless grabbing and putting on of the robe (that first shock of freezing fabric is horrifying) and onwards towards the heater. Lighting the heater is an art in and of itself, but in these conditions I am usually blessed with a certain focus and steely-eyed determination that to the outside observer would appear to be panic, but is truly just the body working in concert with the mind doing all it can to facilitate survival. The outside observer would be justifiably confused upon seeing me with my shivering body wrapped around the heater in a bear hug, literally gripping it for dear life. It usually takes 20 minutes or so before the steel around the life preserving goodness being produced inside the heater starts to actually radiate itself to the outside world. It is an agonizing length of time, but man is it a sweet pay off. Appreciation for things of this nature is of a relative nature and with my desired body heat sitting well above the frigidity of the outside room this is a sweet moment in my morning. As my body takes on more heat and my robe becomes toasty and insulating I am able to reach up to start boiling a kettle of water for that thing that I previously felt was “the” life-sustaining necessity during my mornings in America. Coffee. I guess it’s kinda neat to think of how much more basic my life has become. There’s something calming about this greater degree of simplicity. I just wish there was a warmer way to achieve it.

PS... Paul Thorne-Keziah's mother (if you're still reading this blog) THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE BOOK!!! I didn't have a chance to pack it when I came and since its arrival in country have re-read it numerous times. It was very thoughtful of you.

Vuoy?!?

2007-01-17T23:35:00.001-08:00

My spirit was officially broken today. As a California kid I’ve never really dealt with cold before, and have been struggling in the frigid temperatures of my site for some time now. But only today, when my toilet was frozen over solid, was I faced with such a soul-rending and seemingly insurmountable obstacle that I couldn’t deal with it. My toilet is inside my house for Pete’s sake.
I haven’t been able to feel all my toes simultaneously for well over a month now… no big thing. I’ve grown accustomed to the slight haze that envelopes my head as every exhalation I take turns to fog and floats up over my face. My schedule has adjusted to allow for the 15 minute pre-departure preparations that include such things as the wrapping of scarves, the pulling on of absurd amounts of layers of underclothing, adjustment of fold down flaps on my hat and checking for any potential exposures to the outside frigidness. But the toilet did me in.
As I stared down at the layer of ice thwarting my most basic human necessity, I should have known that trying to flush it down was a poor idea, but who can be blamed for mental lapses in these conditions. The lid of ice didn’t flush down, oh no…in fact it formed an impenetrable barrier. My normally cat-like reflexes, numbed by the below freezing temperatures inside my own home only allowed me to watch as the receptacle filled and overflowed. The frozen nerves in my toes made no mention to the proper mental authorities that the wool socks surrounding them were taking on water. It wasn’t until I felt the water on my lower ankle that I snapped back to reality. And a cold reality it was. After cleaning up what I could, leaving the rest to freeze until the spring thaw, I dried myself by my heater for the requisite 45 minutes. Redressed, refreshed and ever the resilient volunteer, I started heating water and found something to use as an icepick.
As if the Peace Corps’ experience didn’t provide enough gastrointestinal issues already.

Americakan Despaunatoon

2006-11-25T00:35:00.000-08:00

The American Embassy in Armenia…
I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got nothing but wonderful things to say about the people there. All those that I’ve met have been personable and desire to put forth the best American face possible while helping this country as much as possible. I have had a wonderful time and enjoy their free beer and sympathetic gifts of peanut butter and Fritos… but as dedicated American tax payers I feel it my duty to tell you what it’s like over here.
Many times these “pork barrel” policies within the US government are only able to survive because they are out of the public eye enough to not draw any attention to themselves. By flying under the radar their existence is preserved. I would categorize the American Embassy in Armenia as under said “radar.” Maybe the millions upon millions of dollars spent on the embassy compound and lavish housing for its employees is all made of that stealth bomber material. Whatever it is, it all seems a bit much. And damn it, I’m here to expose it! (All this time around former hippy / 1972 Berkeley grads who organized protests in “their day” and are now PC volunteers has gotten me all fired up about having “a cause.”)
My drive from Gyumri to the capital city rolls past many impoverished villages. Some of which sprouted up around soviet era factories that now sit unused and broken down. As one might imagine the loss of the major (almost singular) employer in the area has led to a severe lessening of their financial well being, and one can imagine how these villages look. What they do not look like is coastal Orange County California. But lo and behold as I approach the outskirts of the city of Yerevan I can look to my right and see just such a coastal Californian scene. The eye can sneak peaks through the protective walls to strips of manicured green grass and well kept streets with what look like gutters. I always expect to see Land Cruisers or other such vehicles, but I think they’re all kept in their garages. For my local readership; garages are things attached to houses that hold cars to protect them from the elements and prying eyes of bitter Peace Corps volunteers.
But the wall is not extensive enough to shield the eyes from the two and three story monstrosities inside the complex. These houses are ridiculous! I haven’t been in many of them, but the few I have been in are nonsensically nice. We’re not talking MTV Cribs here (for my older readership, ask a youngster, they’ll know) but they are way more than is necessary, prudent and culturally sensitive (I can’t believe I just used that buzz-word seriously.)
I am in no way downplaying the job that these Foreign Service officers do, only saying that there is no shortage of qualified people fighting tooth-and-nail for these Foreign Service jobs. Though I can attest that it is definitely difficult to work in a foreign country, there is no need to incentivise (according to MS Word this is not an actual “word”) these people in such a way. I happen to know that with free housing, mostly tax-free status, and life in a place with a low cost of living, the financial incentives are present. I suppose I forgot to mention that the government of our fair country (America) pays them pretty handsomely too. The demand for these jobs coupled with a small number of positions available would lead any amateur economist to the simple conclusion that excessive pay and incentives are not necessary. But this is only half of my gripe, or cause if you will.
We come to the issue of cultural sensitivity. I realize that the Embassy is not Peace Corps (an organization that wants us to live at the level of our surrounding neighbors and beneficiaries) but I do think that there is something to be said for being inconspicuous. Projecting this sort of effusive wealth to the local population does no favor to the organizations trying to convince people that they really do want to help, just because. I have a helluva (another example of an MS Word “non-word”) time convincing anyone here that I’m a volunteer. Their exposure to the excess of America that many see as a byproduct of her capitalist greed foments bitterness and distrust of Americans countrywide. I would assume worldwide also.
It just all seems so insensitive, imprudent and again… Ridiculous. It would seem obvious that it would behoove the United States Government to scale back their flashy and excessive provisions for Embassy staff. Even if it was necessary to incentivise the Foreign Service employees in this way (which I find hard to believe) it could be done in a more unobtrusive way. Maybe try and fly under the radar of the Armenian people and not the decision makers in Washington.

Post-disclaimer: In the spirit of transparency I should admit that the posting of this does coincide closely with the defeat of the Peace Corps Football team in the first annual “Embassy vs. Peace Corps Thanksgiving Football classic.” Take that as you will.

Photos finally

2006-11-19T07:47:00.000-08:00

Hey for friends and family (and anyone interested I suppose for that matter.) I was finally able to get a good connection and post some photos. So if you want go to www.photobucket.com
login as: dmonley
password: dominic

I think the slideshow is a good way to view things

If anyone has a better way to display these photos on the internet let me know. They posted in alphabetical order, so there's no rhyme of reason to the order.

Nor Yeregha

2006-11-16T03:40:00.000-08:00

My cousins had a baby yesterday. Michael Patrick Monley! The addition of another Monley to the earth was a big deal in pockets of the west coast and Minnesota for sure, but who could have known that a house in Gyumri, Armenia would erupt in celebration.
After receiving a call from the new uncle discussing the details of the birth, I exited my bedroom to talk with my family over dinner. I truly didn’t think that they would be too interested in the new addition to the Monley clan half a world away, but as the conversation slowed and I, always feeling awkward in times of silence (even when I don’t really speak the language) realized that I could formulate a sentence describing my new relative, burst forth with it. As my mother (who speaks some English) reformulated my word order and translated from my Armenian to actual comprehensible Armenian the family understood and the table exploded in congratulations. Hugs were spread around and the liquor cabinet was cracked. This normal Tuesday night dinner turned into a celebration of Michael Patrick.
My new host family (in great contrast to my first) doesn’t drink. In fact, I’ve never seen any one of them so much as drain a full shot glass full of wine over the course of a party, but apparently this was different. As my host brother reached to the depths of the liquor cabinet he kept producing these amazingly old bottles of cognac. I’ve a bit of knowledge regarding alcohol costs. My time spent as a bartender at a fancy establishment made me aware of the basic going rate for a decent bottle of well aged cognac. Bearing this in mind I can’t even begin to imagine how valuable the bottle of 60 year old bottle of cognac was, let alone the 85 year old one, both from which we were partaking and comparing.
As the cognac continued to flow so did the toasts. Young Michael Patrick was celebrated in proper Armenian fashion. After a couple too many toasts we came to the conclusion that indeed he would make a fine Armenian!
For me this just served as not only a way to curb my loneliness at missing such a momentous family event in America, but also another example of how gracious and genuinely caring this culture is. I’m really quite lucky to have received a Peace Corps placement in a country with such wonderful people and tradition.

Khash jasheeapse

2006-11-08T01:59:00.000-08:00

Every sport has its finale. The World Series in baseball speaks for itself. The NBA finals is coming into it’s own as of late, as dynasties are broken and more parity takes hold. What can hold a candle to those first two days of the NCAA college basketball tournament, leading to 3 more blissful weeks of the narrowing of the field of 64 to the final 4. And college football… well, I guess not every sport has its finale.
On a much more micro level the Peace Corps in Armenia has their own little finale of sorts. I guess it’s more of a rivalry than a finale and the initial paragraph of this blog should have more fittingly talked of the Iron bowl, Kings-Lakers, Yankees-Red Sox, and Woodland vs. Davis back in the day (my apologies to all non-Yolo county residents.) In Peace Corps Armenia we draw our Mason-Dixon line somewhere around scenic Lake Sevan. This is the separating line of the volunteers from the North and the South of the country.
The Khash Bowl was explained to me as a “not so friendly” flag football game for bragging rights within PC Armenia. With all the pre-weekend discussion and trash talk I believed it. The south won last year and thus had the honors of hosting the event somewhere south of Sevan. They, being a spiteful bunch placed the game far down in the south of the country. By subjecting us to an arduous journey I’m sure they hoped to dampen our spirits and stiffen our shamefully out-of-shape bodies. Frankly, I think it worked pretty well. By the time I rolled out of the 4 hour ride on a cramped and crowded mini-bus I was a bit stiff, to say the least. I have to imagine that my fellow teammates felt the same.
The rules of Khash Bowl are simple; basic flag football. The rules are pretty much interpreted by the referees arbitrarily. My readership might imagine this a problem as the pool of qualified and unbiased American football refs in Armenia, and the Caucasus for that matter is very small (in fact, non-existent.) Thus the referees are taken from our own ranks. Since “our ranks” all live in either the north or the south (how could it be any other way) this also brings up issues. But fate is a fickle and sometimes friendly beast who afforded Peace Corps Armenia quite possibly the most over-qualified volunteer ever. Our referee was a retired Federal Court judge. And from a relatively corruption-free nation like the US, we couldn’t ask for much more.
We (the north) jumped out to a quick lead. I don’t think the south was really prepared for the grittiness of the recently-arrived volunteers from the north. The south began clawing its way back slowly. Two huge plays turned the tide. One being a questionable kicked ball on a fumble that led to a 75 yard touchdown. (Someone who knows these things should tell me if kicking is legal.) When all was said and done two and half hours later, we were left battered and broken and the south had a two touchdown margin of victory, and that portion of the Khash Bowl weekend was finished.
Only a portion of volunteers actually play in the game. Most come to the event just to watch and partake in the after party. Every year someone is foolish enough to agree to host this event at their site and completely ruin their reputation and standing in the community for the rest of their service there. When 60-70 Peace Corps volunteers descend upon one village of people who has seen nary a foreigner, let alone the panoply of ethnically mixed volunteers that the Peace Corps brings, the actions of every visiting volunteer is sure to effect the community’s opinions of the volunteer(s) who hosting the event. And make no mistake, Americans in this culture are always seen as shameful.
We rented out a restaurant (to keep everyone contained and off the streets) and had a helluva a time. One of the volunteers had prepared some amazing chili, and there was a “straight out the village” homemade vodka tasting. Being that I live in a large, very developed site (you might even say a city) I haven’t had the pleasure… or let’s say experience, of tasting the variety of witch’s brews that are produced in various bathtubs, old soda bottles, and random vats in villages across this great country. They were all pretty potent, and I supposed resembled vodka (mostly in color only.) As one might imagine the night descended into debauchery, and was enjoyed by all. Maybe less-so by the hosting volunteers who have to face this community for the remainder of their service.
As my wracked body and those of my teammates piled into our mini-bus for the cramped, uncomfortable and miserable all-day trip home I couldn’t help but be excited for the next Khash Bowl and some redemption for the North. Mostly though I just hope I never have to host this event in my site and subject my reputation to the battering of such a large group of Peace Corps volunteers.

Juicers anyone

2006-10-26T23:54:00.000-07:00

I am fond of my father for so many reasons. One of which is the stories he tells of his youth. Oftentimes they are informative and serve as vehicles with which to convey a message or moral, like the numerous stories of the “rodbuster” Lance Alley, who defended the honor of his wife at all costs and in all circumstances, because… well… she was his wife after all. Often they are merely a glance into his past and what sort of child he was. But some of my favorites are the ones that shed light on a certain period of time from a personal perspective. His stories of being in the seminary in the early 70’s in Berkeley are interesting to say the least. One of my favorite pieces of Americana he conveys is his youthful affinity for Jack Lelane. Now I don’t pretend to be an expert, and many readers may shiver with disgust at my explanation of a man so revered and remembered, so my apologies to those who do have knowledge of the aforementioned. But for my younger readership (or those not in possession of a juicer) he was one of the first, if not “the” first fitness guru in America. Hell, maybe anywhere. My father’s description of the mythical man always involved big baskets of fresh vegetables, lots of push-ups and doses of wheat germ oil in the morning. Apparently he was a “crazy in shape guy” (to use the youthful parlance of today.) I believe his thing was to keep a good diet and good exercise regimen. I couldn’t help but wonder what ole’ jack is doing today as my Armenian host grandfather, holding aloft the 1 kg. weights, completed numerous squats and gyrations in front of me while continually saying, “ice pesce” or in English, “like this.”
I can’t quite be sure what made my host grandfather think that this morning was any more important to my own physical health than any of the other previous 90 I have spent in his house. Maybe he was trying to raise my level of hardiness as the snow creeps down from Mt. Aragats as winter approaches, or perhaps he had noticed that I had begun refusing 4th helpings of dinner. Whatever it was, there he was, completing these strange motions with locked, outstretched arms all holding some absurdly small amount of weight. I’ve read a coupla fitness magazines and tried to mix up my work-out routine from time to time, but have never seen anything even in the universe of what he was doing. One of my favorites was when he would spread his arms straight out to his sides, squat, and complete the motion by bending at the waist, touching his chest to his knees, then returning painfully to a standing position. An impressive move for a man of well over 70 years of age. After completion of each repetition he would always hand me the weights with a look that said, “there you are youngsta, you just try and see if you can do it.” I must admit this hybrid of weight-lifting, yoga, and utterly uniformed fitness foolishness was difficult to complete. My host grandfather looked upon me approvingly, satisfied that his obvious years of perfecting this movement were all paying off now, as they must be instilling a desire in me to learn this strange new art, thus imbuing upon (to?) me the means of achieving a life of health and happiness. His look convinced me that he was certain he was extending my life expectancy by a good piece.
I, ever straining to fulfill Peace Corps’ second goal of exchanging American culture with another country, took this opportunity to show my Grandfather how we exercised in America. Grabbing a heavier weight (by that I mean maybe 5 lbs.) I began with a simple curl. My choice of exercises seemed perfect; classic and hopefully universal. I was wrong. My Grandfather looked down on me like I was a Tango dancer at a disco party. Wagging his finger and clicking his tongue, he told me that I was doing it all wrong. He grasped my elbow pulled it away from my body and upwards and told me to twist my wrist, “ice pesce.” It was definitely a difficult move, in the same way that cracking a walnut with your eyelid would be difficult, and maybe as useless.
I was under the impression that the cardio workout came before the weights, but apparently not here. The Cardio portion was a mix of jazzercise without the music and speed bag boxing without the coordination. I do not have words to explain it, only to say that it lasted a good half hour. I tried to join in but my father kept looking at me disgusted with my possession of basic coordination and motioned for me to sit down, “Ice pesce, ice pesce, spece, spece.” When the display was over my grandfather, sweating profusely through his wife-beater and Adidas workout pants told me to meet him in the living room the next morning at 8:00. I’ve been sleeping in ever since.

Ameena Deszhvar

2006-10-04T03:51:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: The thoughts and opinions here laid forth are mine and mine alone. They in no way represent the thoughts or opinions of the Peace Corps or the United States Government.

Disclaimer #2 This post was written a month after I arrived in country. I thought I had lost this post, but just found it today.

I haven’t changed my underwear in 8 days. It is not for lack of want. I’d love nothing more than to feel the coolness of fresh cotton, but currently I find myself trapped in quite a conundrum.
It is not traditional for males here to do much of what Americans would categorize as “daily housework.” The washing of one’s clothes definitely falls into the aforementioned category. I wanted to wash my clothes upon arrival. There was something kind of romantic about getting out the wash basin, throwing in some soap (the most popular brand here is called “BARF” strangely enough) and going to it. I kind of relished the exercise. My first attempt was headed off in its infancy by the females in my house as they saw me enter the washroom and came running to stop this affront to tradition. The second time I was a bit slyer and waited until all the females were indisposed in the garden or performing other tasks. I snuck in that sanctum of feminine production and was able to complete all the soaking and scrubbing necessary. I wrung out my clothes and headed for the wash line. My luck continued as there was no one in sight of the clothes line. As I pinned the last leg of my jeans (turned inside out to not fade in the sun) my host grandmother (or tateek) came around the corner and gave me a look which conveyed that she thought I truly was a foolish and willful young man. Brushing me aside she proceeded to take down all my clothes from the line, turn them back right side out and headed straight for the washroom. The rewashing of my clothes admittedly didn’t take as long, due to my host tateek’s years of experience, but as she re-hung all the clothes, I saw no appreciable difference in their level of cleanliness. On to the dilemma…
When you first meet your new host family the Peace Corps is kind enough to provide a translator for an hour or two as you work out the details of the new living arrangement. As myself, the translator, and my family were sitting around discussing things like smoking in the house, times of meals and the like, there began a whispering between the ladies of the house. After much hushed discussion my blushing mother leaned over in the translator’s ear and told her something. After nodding her understanding the translator pulled me aside and explained to me that they will wash my clothes but it is shameful for them to wash my underwear, and they don’t feel comfortable discussing it any more. I, being too distracted by other things like how late I could stay out on weekends to think through this statement to its proper end, just nodded and said, but of course. Now I don’t know if this aversion to foreign boxer-briefs is only present in my family, or if it is a culturally thing, but I do know that it has made things difficult for me.
So here is my conundrum; I am not allowed to wash my own clothes, but the only vehicle I have for washing my clothes will not wash my underwear. Thus, I sit here in 8 day old underwear perplexed.

Roll over Comrade

2006-09-26T04:29:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: The thoughts and opinions here laid forth are mine and mine alone. They in no way represent the thoughts or opinions of the Peace Corps or the United States Government.

The communist experiment is officially dead. I witnessed its final gasp just this evening. The death nail was not hammered home with Reagan wielding the handle, nor Sakarov, nor the purveyors of Perestroika. No my friends it was Simon Cowell of American Idol fame.
Tonight I watched Hay Superstar the Armenian version of American Idol complete with the same intro music, stage and visuals. I knew this show begun in England and transferred well to the US, but I had no idea it had been bottled up and sent overseas like this. If it’s in Armenia I gotta believe it’s in many other former Soviets also. I can’t imagine the gyrations that Lenin must be performing in his exposed tomb right now.
I’m laying myself a bit bare here… but I watched the last 2 seasons of American Idol. In my defense it initially started as a way for me and my buddies to have yet another way to bet on things. After watching the first show of performers we would all draft our horses for the upcoming season and place wagers ranging from different sized packages of imported beer to a guaranteed performance of some embarrassing and foolish act in the presence of many friends and strangers. We usually didn’t watch the show, mostly just checked up to see who had been thrown off each week. Afterwards, we would ceremoniously cross off the latest casualty.
The American show was terrible. The “talent” was not talented, being just a springboard for the most marketable person. Things like… oh I don’t know… vocal ability… or… I don’t know… vocal ability… played about 15th fiddle behind things like teenie-bopper appeal or being from the middle of America where all the 12 year old girls had more than enough time to lob forth ludicrous amounts of votes by text message. For those of you who watched, think Bob Ice.
America is a big place made up of 50 states. The current Republic of Armenia is the size of Maryland, not a particularly large state. (Interesting sidebar; apparently if you cut Alaska in half Texas would be the 3rd largest state(a little shout out to my Peace Corps A-14 readership))… If from this great ocean of talent in America decent performers for American Idol cannot be found, one can imagine what is brought up from the relative kiddy pool of Armenia after the nets are cast. It’s not pretty. Add to that poorly pronounced songs in English and you’re left with a potent brew. The screeches are shocking.
But of course, everyone loves it and its popularity is comparable to the US show. This penultimate exemplar of Western capitalism (there still aren’t any McDonalds here) is chalk full of advertisements as the performers sing, and commercials between nearly every song. The push for consumption is nothing short of gratuitous. The Evil Empire has been transformed into a teeming mass of consumers… and God bless it! I wonder if Stalin could have appreciated the sway this show and its ilk have on the masses, or if he is rolling over in his grave too?

Apparently...

2006-09-23T03:05:00.000-07:00

Oftentimes I have no idea what’s going on in my life over here. My daily schedule is fairly regimented when I work but on weekends it’s a free-for-all. In fairness it is usually my fault as my family tries to explain to me what is going on but I can’t fully comprehend with my current language proficiency. But nonetheless…
Today for instance is a good example. I woke up at my normal time. Not too late not too early. Upon exiting my room I found the house abuzz with preparations. Apparently about 30 people were coming over for a party that morning. Apparently it was some sort of holiday. By the lengths being gone to in the aforementioned preparations I could tell it was gonna be a big one too. So I threw on some decent clothes (gleaned from my extensive wardrobe I brought here all in one backpack) and prepared myself for the conversations I hoped to have. As I sat in my room reviewing phrases like; “do you live here also” “are you related” “I am glad to meet you” “where do you work” or if the spirit hit me right “what do you think about the current government administration?” the guests began pouring in. Most of them had been briefed on the reasons I was there and didn’t seem too shocked by my presence. After sitting and quickly eating some small items everyone got up and began leaving. I not knowing what to do, followed them out of the house. There were many cars there and we all piled into them. I had no idea where we were going and ended up in a car with 4 people in the back seat and no one I had ever met before. In a caravan we proceeded to drive way out of town (making some random stops to pick up various items) everyone chattering to me (assumedly explaining what in the heck was going on) but at such a verbal pace that I understood none of it. When we finally stopped someplace very near Turkey, we all piled out and headed off to a cemetery. Apparently to commemorate some relatives who had died. The cemetery was packed with other people doing the same thing. We went through some service, burning incense, and then stood around starring at each other for an awfully long time. We then piled back in the cars, this time with 5 different people I had never met and headed home.
When we returned there were more people than before and the table was festooned with a feast. We had a huge meal with much food and drink and as things started winding up (4-5 hours later) my family started kicking people out very rapidly. After a painfully difficult conversation with my mother, it was understood that the family was all going to the capitol city to watch some sort of concert. I had had enough. I did not feel like making the trip, and mustering up all the cultural insensitivity I could, I told them so. This, as one might imagine caused some consternation, but fearing the wrath of a youthful American scorned, my family gave in. More truthfully, they were just very late and didn’t have time to browbeat me into going. I realized that maybe, just maybe I would be left home alone for the first time since I arrived. Trying to remember if I had brought a bath-robe with which to walk around in, front shamelessly untied, my family filed out.
The simple pleasure of solitude was short lived. The first visitor was someone hoping to borrow some sort of foodstuff… I never quite figured out which though. She burst past me to retrieve it from our fridge with such speed that I couldn’t tell. The next was what appeared to be some sort of bill collector or perhaps a salesperson. Then it was someone who I never figured out what they wanted. Something having to do with coffee and a fork, I can’t quite be sure. They all spoke very fast. Understand that with every visitor I spat forth a long and poorly formulated explanation in Armenian of where my family was. Most people, not wanting to piece together the vast array of words spluttered from my mouth into some sort of informational exchange, just nodded and walked away. Then came the children. There are many neighborhood children around my home. Not fathoming that my two younger siblings could have gone to the capitol city they all decided to stop by to look for the little buggers. I am often amazed at the surprising patience of these children. As I tried to explain to them where my family was I wished they would just turn and walk away frustrated. I gotta believe that they just enjoyed listening to me butcher the language with such audacity. They were finally dispersed when some mother came to relieve me of this burden and tell them to stop making fun of me. One of the kids explained to this mother that my family was not home. She gasped at such an affront to hospitality and offered to cook me dinner. I said that I was grateful but that I had just eaten. She, like all other Armenians when things of this nature are mentioned, paid my statement no heed and headed off. 5 minutes later, having been informed of my impending starvation, a relative of mine was at the door insisting that dinner be prepared immediately. I have been here long enough to know that resisting this sort of thing is completely futile. With a recently honed ability to restrain my gag reflex and put down ungodly amounts of food, I put down another huge meal.
After the dishes were completed and coffee consumed, I convinced the relative that I would somehow find a way to muddle through on my own until my family returned. She didn’t like it but after much hinting and hectoring left me alone.
Settling in to watch some Russian variety show (a favorite past time of mine) I dozed off on the couch completely confused by the dancing bear and obese man dancing and singing on the screen before me.

Walkin'round

2006-09-14T22:36:00.000-07:00

I walked around Gyumri, Armenia with a 6’6” African American man today. For the first time since my arrival no one stared at me and whispered to each other as I passed.

The US Embassy was kind enough to pay for a traveling American music trio to come up to Gyumri last night. They sung opera, medleys of Ray Charles, and other upbeat tunes recognizable to any red-blooded American. Being that Gyumri sits in the northwest crook of Armenia, near a closed border in the west with Turkey and a closed border crossing with Georgia in the north, it goes without saying that there aren’t a lot of shows that get up this way, nor large African Americans with dread lochs. It was strange but kind of nice to feel a bit more a part of the society here as the eyes bored into my guest, to whom I was giving a tour of the city, instead of me (as you might imagine there also aren’t a lot of blond haired pointy-nosed white kids around here either.)
During the whole of this tour I was acutely aware of the fact that the term used for darker skinned people in Armenia is one which we in the United States find utterly unacceptable and repulsive. The use of the “N” word in English is tied to a history stained with repression and atrocity, but here it does not possess that same connotation. Just as we refer to people as Caucasians or Asians, the “N”-word is dropped around these parts obviously without concern for English language sensitivities. I was not relishing having to explain the nuances of history and location’s effect on the meaning of words to my guest, but was nonetheless preparing my dissertation as we left mumbling crowds of locals in our wake throughout our walk. Fortunately I think the power of such a dissimilar person (or perhaps that he kept saying hello to strangers, which is not done here) evoked such surprise from the Gyumretsi that we were always well past earshot by the time categorization and the vocalizing of this took place. I was left to gladly explain the eventful history of this place and its environs, as the group of curious children following us grew.
It was nice to finally begin to feel the first pangs of localism as I explained my new home to “an outsider.”

Yerazhshtyuin

2006-09-08T03:33:00.000-07:00

I hadn’t realized that for the last 4 months the only real music I had been listening to was Russian techno. The beat blasts out from shops as I walk to work, is played from the computers of nearly every place I visit during working hours, and videos of the same ilk are often on the television of my host family when I return home. I didn’t think much of it, only tried to tune it out but still subconsciously caught myself tapping my feet at random times. In an attempt at integration and hyper-cultural sensitivity (impressed upon us by the Peace Corps’ training) I do not play my music in my host family. In fact I hadn’t really listened to any of my music since I have been here, save for an inter-cultural karaoke celebration at the end of training where a terrible rendition of “We are the World” sung, arms slung about haphazardly, evoked tears from many. I appreciate the money that project raised and I’m sure there are many now late teen-aged Ethiopians without swollen bellies who are in better health because of it, but that song is Terrible!
I was amazed at how soothing familiar music was to me when I decided to throw caution to the wind and turn on a couple songs on my lap-top today. (For those surprised I have a lap-top I should tell you I also have a cell phone. Yeah, this ain’t yo Mamma’s Peace Corps.) The recognizable language, more relaxed rhythms and sounds were a welcome break for my ears. I had forgotten how much I like my music. I can’t wait to move into my own place (in 3 months) and come home and turn on songs of my choice to fit my mood. Maybe relax and just stare at the wall while listening to some soft singer/song-writer. Or turn on something more upbeat and happy as I prepare to go out on a weekend. Hell, even the yearning and angst of that emo stuff when I want to feel sorry for myself. I miss how familiar music can effect and adjust my mood.

Shooner

2006-09-04T03:34:00.000-07:00

When I signed up for this gig I knew it might entail a little more danger than my previous life in Northern California. Indeed I kind of relished the idea of a little excitement to break the monotony. I didn’t know what form this new danger might take… maybe typhoid fever, angry Muslim anti-American nationalists, or the new hot death toll of international politics; The Bird Flu. Well I’ve figured out what my challenge will be. Being placed in one of the most advanced Peace Corps countries with little to no Muslim presence, my most pressing danger (save for the pretty consistent insurgency waged by my bowels) is undoubtedly the dogs. They are crazy here! Wandering around, many strays have learned the ropes of respecting the normal pedestrian, and keep their distance. But the house trained pets (if one can refer to these crazed beasts as such) have an overly developed sense of property and protection (guess the Soviet imposed socialist ideal of communalism didn’t filter down to the K-9 kingdom.) A foreigner need only walk within sniffing distance (my father swears Americans smell differently) of some dog’s house and furious comes the onslaught. I keep my Nalgene hooked always on my finger to wave about as the dog, or normally pack of dogs inevitably surrounds me and barks menacingly. Waving it in front of me like Indiana Jones and his flaming torch in Raiders of the Lost Ark usually does the trick and I can safely back out of the pack surrounding me. This has proven to be kind of a quaint game that gives a certain life and vitality to my otherwise monotonous walk home.
But the real fun starts when get I back to my house, or near it should I say. Specifically when I approach the outskirts of my group of buildings where the first whiff of my American-ness catches the proficient nose of my neighbors dog. Steven King’s Kujo was not necessarily so frightening merely because of his size, but more so due to the unpredictability and aggressiveness of his actions. I can only compare this dog as such. The initial week of my visit we had a great relationship. That is to say he didn’t bark or even snarl at me as I walked past him in the tiny pathway that leads to my home. But the last two weeks he has been like a dog possessed. Maybe as is so often the case, he initially thought me a friendly and harmless Canadian traveler (I’d guess we smell similar even with our government’s differing foreign policies) but upon finding out that I was American became incensed. Whatever it was, leaving or returning to my home has now become quite an interesting process.
He first attacked me unexpectedly and I was able to fend him off with a smarting blow to his snout from my trusty Nalgene bottle. As I left the next morning he and a friend of his, a mangy looking mongrel of a thing, waiting for me around a corner, caught me by surprise. Surrounding me, I was able to reach down for a rock and raise my arm to throw it and they scattered. This strategy worked for a few days, until they got hip to the fact that I really didn’t want to throw the rock, only pass safely by. The next day the dog lunged at me and I drilled him with a rock in the face again (a one in a million shot if I do say so myself.) This kept him at bay for a good 3 days as he nursed his wounds. Becoming afraid that I may have really pissed this thing off, I returned home yesterday to find that the dog had brought even more friends with him, a motley crew of neighborhood K-9 riff-raff. They blocked any chance I had to pass. I, having gone through many a painful Peace Corps’ trainings on resiliency decided to take a new approach. Tossing a rock over their heads past my door I rushed by them as they turned to see the commotion behind. I figure that ticket is only good for one ride. So on to today….
I’m currently gathering a group of other volunteers from the area to come to my house and face these dogs. I figure with a few sturdy Americans and a whole lotta rocks we can convince these beasts that there’s a new top dog on the block. Maybe teach them a thing or two about the righteous wrath of the good ole’ U.S. of A! Or at the very least sacrifice one of the other less-fleet-of-foot volunteers to the dogs and hope to satiate them until I move out of my host family’s home and find some safer lodging.

New address

2006-08-21T22:38:00.000-07:00

To family and friends...my new address is

Dominic Monley
235/035 Nzhdeh
Gyumri 377501
Republic of Armenia

I hope to write more very soon.
Thanks again for all the emails and comments.

ps. if sending things only use the US postal service (nt DHL, FedEx, etc...)

New Stove, New %^&* (Part 3)

2006-08-08T03:09:00.004-07:00

Sitting down in my chair the dinner party proceeded as normal. In an attempt to avoid redundancy I would direct all interested parties to review my previous post about “the life of a party” to see my take on such social matters. The toastmaster was chosen and began espousing his love for the family, friends and specific people whose birthdays either just passed or were coming up. Glasses were filled, emptied and refilled many times. As the food began diminishing and some voices became slurred, one brave soul stood up and tilting his glass towards me gave a long toast to me, my country, and America. Thinking to myself something great about the brotherhood of man, how cultural barriers are so pliable in the face of humanity, and other such nonsense, I arose and we embraced heartily and downed our drinks. Sitting down I couldn’t help shake these large thoughts, ever the derivative of a good buzz. Searching the cockles my mind I realized that I lacked the basic faculties of the Armenian language to properly express my love for such a country, her appreciation for family, her beautiful woman and the valiant warriors which have fought off foreign invaders for over 3000 years. Reaching in my pocket for my pocket sized English/Armenian dictionary hoping to find some page explaining the proper way to conjugate the phase “you are all my Cold War brothers” I realized that no one had yet toasted to the impetus of this party… the new Stove. The stars were aligned that night my loyal and patient readers!... Unfortunately they were not aligned in my favor. I thought to myself, how lucky am I to have come upon such a gross oversight! I flipped slyly to the “s” section. Not finding it there I moved on to the “o”, glancing quickly down at the first translation of the word for “oven.” I gathered myself, excited to remember that the verb “to want” is an exception, and conjugating it properly in my head rose to speak. alas I glanced a little to briefly at the dictionary and apparently not appreciating the plain font of this version didn’t fully appreciate the ever so slight bend at the bottom right of the character. In the Armenian this changes the sound completely and can make all the difference in a words meaning.
Motioning for the glasses to be refilled, I launched into my toast. Someone great at some point in time said that brevity is the soul of wit. I, not one to normally subscribe to this sort of nonsense have been lately forced by my poor language acquisition abilities to justify my terse speech with this sort of thing. Seeing the Americatsi rise to speak the audience of Armenians present quickly became quiet, waiting to hear some other phrases butchered, and find some humor to take home to their neighbors. Raising my glass I thanked my mother and sister for the food, Armenia for her wonderful Vodka, which is so much better than any American whisky (they love that one), and raising my glass high finished with, “here is to your new oven!”
Or at least I thought I did. By the sharp intake of air and shocked faces I suppose I should have realized that either it was a cultural faux pas to toast to newly acquired American engineered appliances, or I had just badly butchered some word. Instead I continued to try and drive my point home by continually raising my glass and saying “new oven, to your new Oven. New Oven, NEW OVEN!” Feeling my host father firmly grasp my arm and pull me downwards, he quickly launched into some toast about the newly married couple who had just arrived at the party. I was perplexed.
Still baffled by my ill-fated toast, the party ended and I went to bed. Awaking the next day I approached my host sister (who speaks pretty good English) and somehow forgetting about the previous reaction of native speakers, asked how she enjoyed her new oven. She turned sharply to me and said, “why you keep say that word? It is bring great shame to family, great shame!” Returning to her task obviously disgusted with me, I went to language class very confused with the situation. While walking to class with other American volunteers I told the story to not much reaction. We enjoyed ourselves reliving stories of prophylactics and ice cream from the first two weeks of our service.
The first 15 minutes of each day of class we are free to ask any cultural or language questions of our very able trainers. As my turn came round I began telling of my doomed cheers, never actually saying the word. Inevitably my teacher laughing (hoping to have another fun story to tell the other trainers later over lunch) asked what it was that I said. I, repeating word for word from the previous night said, “I want to toast to your new oven.” I swear that her gasp almost caused her to faint. Regaining her composure she looked around to see that no one with any sort real knowledge of the Armenian language was around. Lowering her voice she informed me of the proper Armenian word for oven and said, “please Dominic, promise me that you will never say that word again. It’s not safe.” Inevitably we asked her what the word meant. She said she couldn’t tell us. We asked her to motion what it was, she refused. Someone asked her what would happen if they called a girl on the street my version of “an oven.” She made it clear that any right thinking and mildly chivalrous Armenian man would be forced to defend her honor and at the very least maim me severely.
After many awkward interviews with local youths who I though might divulge this translation, I have gathered that my word for “oven” actually is something closer to the Armenian version of the English “c” word. I won’t go into details (I’m sure the kids know what I’m talking about) but apparently my mispronunciation of “oven” was like the “c” word but much more offensive. I know what you may be thinking… how is that possible. I must say that I don’t know, I thought there was nothing worse than that word too. I have deduced that this word combines the “c” word with a reference to experienced “ladies of the nights” while being suggestive that many generations of the person’s family has a long history of this sort of work. One teenager’s particularly insightful explanation made me aware that there also is a very physical and dirty element to it.
Thinking back to how mortified my immediate family must have been at my offensive outburst, as I repeatedly accused all present of such horrible things, I can’t help but thank my lucky stars for my host families ever present patience and lack of even the basest respect for my language abilities.

New Stove, New %^&* (Part 2)

2006-08-08T03:09:00.003-07:00

We’ve all heard the stories. A foreign speaker’s mispronunciation of a word leading to an awkward or funny situation. I often think back to my Swedish cousin Simon refusing to accept that his name while in America was “Simon” and not the Swedish version, which values “e” much more than “i” or “o”. If the unwitting foreign speaker is lucky the mishap will come off as charming, making for a fun story for the native speakers to laugh about later with their friends. It’s all part of the cultural exchange and often times breaks the cultural barriers that can often seem so insurmountable. The pronunciation of “ice cream” in Armenian is but a hairs breath away from a word for a common prophylactic, understandably leading to some interesting situations during the first few weeks of our service, as the prevalence of inexpensive and ever-so-tasty ice cream mixed with the conservative social sensitivities of an established and staunchly monogamous nation like Armenia. These sorts of things were explained to me by my current language teacher as a way to gain a common ground of humanity and share in the international appreciation for small misunderstandings. At the time I truly understood and agreed.

New Stove, New %^&* (Part 1)

2006-08-08T03:09:00.002-07:00

Getting a new stove in the villages of Armenia is a very big deal. My family just got a new stove. It was a very big deal. At first it didn’t function correctly so the inevitable gaggle of male neighbors came by to watch as the one person, who apparently was an oven repairman during soviet times, worked his magic. While watching him work, constantly asking for random tools to aid him like a darning needle or some butter, I concluded that it was more likely that he worked at a factory fashioning quality door hinges. I’ve seen it many times already, but after close to an hour of tinkering and consultation with the group, they huddled up one last time and turned to me. Swallowing their pride, and more so any nationalist sentiment gained within the last few years of independence since the fall of the Soviet Union, my host father turned and handed me the directions, written only in English.
I never realized how absurd and counterintuitive most child proofing measures are until I began rubbing the West’s cold war victory, and concurrently the victory of the English language in the faces of innocent Armenians. After quickly scouring the table of contents and flipping to the appropriate page, I held down a button on the front of the oven pushed down the knob with the oven door open and finally was able to outsmart the childproofing, loosing the natural gas from its previously straining state at the intake of the oven. Finally finding its purpose, its home, the flames of the burners jumped to life. Feeling quite satisfied, I turned to greet the seemingly impressed intake of air, only to hear numerous comments about the complications with Western appliances and how if they had gotten a stove from the Ukraine we would have been eating dinner by now. Holding back my indignant urge to expound the positives of capitalism and other such Western ideals, I swallowed my tongue and made space for my host mother and sister to begin cooking the aforementioned meal, retiring to the table to drink Vodka and discuss the quality of Russian beer as opposed to that “poor and tasteless American stuff.”
The mood was festive and the word was spread that the party, celebrating this new oven was afoot. Sending out the children to various corners of the village to collect certain specialty items found only in that corner of the village, the women of the family began producing various tables and chairs I had no idea existed. The phone bank was set ablaze and the attendance of all the extended family was secured. As the children returned exhausted from their various missions, special cheeses and/or mulberry vodka in toe, they were put to work connecting all the flat surfaces available into one large table. Less than an hour later the guests began arriving. I gathered that the obligation in this sort of situation is to look at the new stove, gasp, inspect it closely (lightly commenting if desired) and step back and discuss with the new owner for a minimum of 3-4 minutes. As one might imagine, the line to partake in the formalities began stacking up rapidly.
With the backlog of new guests lining up to see the new stove and the table being covered beautifully with all types of fare, the excitement for the party began rising. As I pulled out my chair to sit down to eat with the 20 some-odd guests I was able to appreciate the beauty and excessiveness of an Armenian dinner. Having such a great spread of food and drink and sharing it with the whole family is really quite a cool cultural trait of the Armenian people. Being the only non-blood relative at the meal, I couldn’t help but feel honored and blessed to have been included.

Game Set Match

2006-07-17T03:02:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: I tell stories. Oftentimes long and verbose stories. If you are one who would normally leave the room or tune out as the first syllables of “did I ever tell you about” burst forth from my mouth, then do not waste your time with the following. I do not take offense. In fact, I very much understand. But for those of you, who work in front of a computer and are paid hourly (carpet dealer employees withstanding) or those who enjoy the occasional Dominic story (time intensive as they may be) I think you’ll like this one…

I had some bad meat last week. That came as no surprise. Gastrointestinal issues due to inadequately prepared meat are an inevitability in the Peace Corps. So much so that the organization devotes a full hour-long training session to its prevention and treatment. I will not horrify you with the gruesome details of my body’s defensive strategy in regards to this unwanted intruder (a sausage foolishly purchased from a fly-by-night street vendor) only say that it was multi-pronged and persistent. In the parlance of today’s military tacticians one would certainly categorize it as bodily “shock and awe.” None of this was a surprise though. What was a surprise was the concurrent battle of accepted western medical strategy and traditional Armenian opinions on such matters.
I will begin by stating that Caucasian women are of hearty stock. Don’t let western gender roles fool you. This fight was evenly matched. Especially when one considers my lack of communicative skills and relative cultural timidity. She definitely had “home court advantage” so to speak.
It began with my sprint to the bathroom at 3 o’clock in the morning to orally relieve myself of the aforementioned sausage (and seemingly every other food stuff I had consumed since my arrival in country.) My Tateek (or Armenian grandmother) who is the unchallenged head of the household, heard this mad rush to the bathroom. Out of concern, or I suspect fearing that the integrity of her own cooking was being questioned by this amerikatsi, she proceeded to camp out near the bathroom and listen in to my vomitous revelry. But stand idly by she could not. Maternity is an urge ground deeply into the fiber of all female kind, western feminism be-damned. The battle lines were drawn.
After what felt like hours of lying on the cool tile floor of the bathroom and thanking my lucky stars that I did not get placed in Africa, and so had a flush toilet and these oh-so-cool ceramic tiles to press my face against, I emerged from the bathroom battered, broken, and in dire need of water and place to lie down. But my Tateek had other plans. I will not try to explain the reasoning behind her methods, only put them to paper (or the 21st century blog informed equivalent) for my humble readership.
She had prepared a large wash basin of scalding hot water with laundry detergent in it. The reader may be understandably asking themselves why? I would caution that these sorts of questions emanate from a western paradigm not understood by the antagonist, and are best left unasked. She proceeded to forcibly (which was not difficult in my state) sit me down and place my bare feet and hands in this basin. Hopefully one can envision this scene, aware that I’m a full grown man! It took me a few seconds to realize the damage that was being done to my skin by this devil’s brew as I had other things on my mind (namely the sensation of 13 teenagers playing with BB guns inside my steel drum of a stomach). As my body’s natural protective measures took precedence and informed me that the skin of my four extremities was being done irreparable harm, I naturally tried to pull away. That was when I realized my Tateek had placed herself, face down, on top of my slumped body, and placed all the weight of her sizable body on top of my slumped-over back. She did her best to forcefully hold my hands in the water. At this point she began splashing the water up onto my legs, arms and body. Some might be picturing me in the proper night attire, or maybe a pair of boxers. But no, due to capacity constraints I had packed nothing of the sort. Conforming to societal norms and refusing to leave my room without the proper body parts covered I was wearing slacks and an untucked dress shirt, both of which were now soaking wet.
Round 1: Tateek
It was quite the struggle. As my fighting spirit gained traction more of my senses came to the fore and I became aware that not only was she lying on top of me but she was screaming strange Armenian things at me simultaneously. I, not willing to afford my enemy modes of attack that I didn’t have, began yelling back. The tide of battle was turning. I did not yell the sort of fluent Armenian phrases one might imagine after well over a month of intensive language training, but opted for well traveled English blaspheme. As I gained the advantage of the removal of my second hand from this tiny scalding hot bucket of hell, I realized that my head had been forced below my body by her left forearm for far too long. I could feel the bile swiftly rising, and hear that the whole house was awake due to the screaming.
Fully aware of the consequences I mustered all my strength for one last attack. This was not going to be some sortie, some flanking maneuver, but more closely associated with Hitler’s last European thrust. And my bile-induced watering mouth was not going to allow it to be remembered as just some “Bulge”, but a victory.
I exploded upwards and obviously caught my Tateek off guard. How could she have expected someone of my stature to detonate with such force? But such is the story of battle. Ordinary men doing extraordinary things. Her body was flung against the wall and fell, mercifully on some unfolded towels. I made my dash for the washroom door. I nearly made it unscathed, only her outstretched arm managed to grasp my left ankle which I was easily able to shake.
Round 2: America
I made it to the bathroom in time to not only fulfill my the lately held fantasy of my stomach to be rid of what ever else it possessed, but to lock the door. My Tateek was at the door screaming before the dry-heaving even began. The force of her “knocking” if it could be so categorized, made me convinced that the hinges were going to break. But if there is one thing that Soviets were good at fabricating it was metal hardware. And thank goodness. I stayed in my coolly tiled fortress until I believed the whole house to be asleep. How foolish was my faith.
As I exited the bathroom, only desiring my water bottle so as to drink, my Tateek appeared with a tea of some sort. I asked her what it was and she motioned that it would help settle my stomach. Preferring whatever she would offer to the currently prevailing flavor in my mouth, and ignoring the pungent scent or the tea, I obliged and took it down only to find a mush of grass and leaves at the bottom of the cup. I looked at the kitchen counter and noticed her ingredients. They were instantly recognizable as the grasses from the pens of our cohabitating cows and pigs. It’s a very small pen. I gotta think that the herbs she wanted were just out of season, or she is writing her own blog about this event and she, and many Armenian diaspora are laughing heartily at the gullibility of Americans.
Round 3: Tateek
This predictably caused a new batch of vomiting. I emerged to find that I could not locate my Water bottle. My Tateek noticed my search and (referring to the specially filtered water that all Peace Corps are mercifully given) informed me that “your water is bad”. As she offered me more tea, I realized that she was more than capable of stealing my water bottle and hiding it. I decided that this sort of insurgency warranted more covert action. I retired to my room, graciously declining the tea.
Round 4: Tateek
I lay in my bed for 45 minutes, but it seemed so much longer. The taste of bile, grass, and the manure of various animals in one’s oral cavities definitely extends the perception of time passing. Flashlight in toe, I finally snuck out of my room and stealthily moved to the kitchen area. After searching numerous cabinets I finally found it. She had hidden my water bottle behind the crock pot, inside the large colander. I suppose I should have looked there first. The sweetness of the first drink was only lessened by the flicking on of the Kitchen lights. I didn’t even look to see who it was. I just scurried to my room and locked the door. I still had the colander. I needn’t tell you how important that became when my stomach revolted again less than an hour later.

Game…Set…Match……..AMERICA!!!

update

2006-07-08T23:30:00.000-07:00

To my devoted readership (well reader might be more appropriate (thanks mom.)) I'd like to apologize for being so remiss in posting to this blog. Internet access has, of late been sketchy at best. I figure the best way to catch up is to dump information and avoid all the verbose "crap" that I usually fill my posts with.
On Thursday I finally was told of my job placement (location and description) for the next two years. The Peace Corps does this cool thing where they draw a huge map of Armenia on a parking lot out in front of the school where we train. They get all the trainees (or PCT's) in a group and call us out one-by-one. As we are called out, they announce the job, and site where the trainee will be working. The trainee then walks to that spot on the map of Armenia. It's really neat because you got to see who is near your site, and how everyone has been dispersed across the country.
I will be working in Gyumri in the Northwest of Armenia, fairly close to the Turkish border. Gyumri is the second largest city/town in Armenia. My primary job will be with an NGO called "Youth For Peace and Development" or "YFPD". The Peace Corps loves acronyms. I don't know what I will be doing as of yet, but apparently Gyumri will afford me numerous opportunities to explore different avenues of work and volunteerism.
Though I only know the title my future job and the name of place I will be living, just having some shape to my expectations has been a wonderful breath of fresh air.

The life of a party

2006-06-24T01:35:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of attending an Armenian birthday party last evening. It was not held in an Armenian’s honor, (rather a Peace Corps volunteer from Huntington Beach) but it was Armenian nonetheless. There were similarities to an American birthday party and many, many differences. Because of my deep well of experience with Armenian birthday parties (or party as it were) I feel it proper that I generalize.

Similarities:
-As at all parties (I’m assuming it’s a worldwide phenomenon) the first 15 minutes are spent moving through formalities like “how are you?” “how is the job going?” “What are you up to?” et cetera. In summation; talking about things that no one cares about, but feel obligated to ask.
-People bring gifts
-years ago someone on that specific day of the year was born. In this case it was 26 years, but it obviously varies according to age.

Differences:
-The Armenians are toasting machines. They give the most lengthy, lavish, well thought out, impressive toasts ever. At weddings, oftentimes someone will be specifically hired to be the “official toaster”. Not joking, I saw a wedding video (which, on a tangent, is just as boring in Armenia as it is in America… go figure) and there was a professional toaster who toasted consistently for well over 7-8 minutes. It doesn’t sound that impressive…. But you try it. I, feeling the pull of constant public attention being directed somewhere other than myself, felt obligated to give numerous “amerikatsi” toasts. I fit in well. Not in the “lavish, well thought out, impressive” realm, but certainly in the length department. I probably needn’t even inform you that the “Irish Blessing” was in full affect that night.
-The Armenians love to dance. The Music is very different and the dancing looks to be a fair mix of middle eastern wrist action and Russian footwork. No one is conscious of their dancing, and the whole of this crowd chose to participate (which is a definite difference from an American party).
-Though the women prepare all the food, and do a heck of job of preparation, they don’t actually sit at the table with the men. It really pushed the bounds of my social sensitivities. It’s all part of the cultural adjustment and acclimation I realize, but difficult to put up with regardless.

But overall the party had quite a life of its own. John Steinbeck in “Canary Row” (which I recommend to anyone) does the greatest job of describing the life of a “typical party” I’ve ever come across. This party made me think of that passage. Though I don’t have the book here to reference…. He talks about how a party has waves. How a party begins slowly, grows to a crescendo (in the book a fight breaks out/or in this party’s case the alcohol takes ahold) and then the party fades a bit. But once the music begins it is revived with a new fervor, more powerful than the first…. Just like in Steinbeck’s story this party kept taking on new life as new guests kept arriving and departing in a random manner. With every new wave of neighbors or family (seemingly every family in the town was invited) glasses were refilled, food was offered anew, and the dancing revived. Pretty cool.
Similar to the United States, I’m trying to convince my host family that the celebration of my half-birthday is a completely valid/ and necessary reason to throw a party. As in the US they don’t seem to be buying it.

Cov

2006-06-24T01:24:00.000-07:00

Slaughtered my first cow today. She was beaut! Guess I can cross that one off the man card. I don’t have it with me but I believe it’s right there between the “wrestling a bear” and the “simultaneously driving a truck (manual transmission), scratching oneself, singing a country song about a girl and a dog, shooting a shotgun out the window, while excoriating one’s wife for ‘gettin’ outta line’”. I could be wrong, as I haven’t referenced it as of late.
It’s interesting to, after killing something, be eating its choice parts 15 minutes later. Interesting… yet tasty. I’ve heard that Armenians have a special “cow’s hoof soup” that they make. I’m not looking forward to the actual consumption of said delicacy, but am looking forward to the fodder it may give me for an upcoming “www.dominicinarmenia.blogspot.com” post. Is it Kosher to shamelessly plug your blog on your blog?

Chandeliers in the outhouses

2006-06-20T03:43:00.000-07:00

The interiors in the homes here are confusing and crazy. Armenia was previously one of the richest Soviets in the USSR. After a huge earthquake, the crumbling of the Soviet Union and the disintegration of their economy, Northern Armenia (where I am located) is a hodgepodge of shells of shaken down buildings, quickly constructed Soviet buildings (built in the brief period between the earthquake and Soviet collapse)and those homes that withstood the earthquake and are still precariously standing. New buildings built with western money withstanding, the villages are an interesting sight to behold. But the interiors are the truly informative and haunting things.
Instead of wallpaper the interior walls and ceilings of most homes are painted with intricate designs and patterns. Most done by hand and with a high level of craftsmanship. From almost every ornately designed ceiling hangs a fancy chandelier.
Beyond the chandeliers, in most homes you have this amazing mixture of very high quality items like dishware, intricate rugs, finely carved furniture, etc... But nothing of quality or worth is less than 15 years old.
The walls are all severely cracked (some poorly-patched), the chandeliers mainly hang precariously from exposed sockets with few functioning bulbs, and many of the rugs are matted and fading.
With this said, it has been my experience that most homes are meticulously kept up and these older items are cherished and kept up as well as possible. The pride of ownership shows through, but much like this country, the slouch into decay has been inevitable.
But in the cities I have found a much different scene. Many new buildings not only have every modern convenience, but show the first signs of comfort and excess... an eye towards being stylish. Hopefully this is a sign of things to come, and it will only be a matter of time before some degree of wealth transfer from the cities to the villages occurs.

Armenian Legends

2006-06-10T22:19:00.000-07:00

I've been moved from my previous training barracks to a host family in an outlying village.
Prior to my arrival in Armenia I had heard tales of the legendary kindness and excessive hosting of Armenians. All true. My host mother wears glasses, and I truly believe that they must have some special tint on their lenses that makes all 26 year old american men look emaciated and in need of 13 meals a day. I do not use the term "meals" loosely. I'm talking full on feasts. Within 4 minutes of arrival in my village I had a bowl of bread, cherries, apricots, cucumber, tomatoes, Lavash, 3 types of cheese, some sausage wrapped in cabbage, a big bowl of soup and the enormous shank of some unidentified animal thrust in front of me. Just coming off 5 days of training on how to adapt to a new culture I partook in all that was offered. I have not stopped partaking. Nor has my host mother stopped offering.
The village I live in is small and everyone is very close to one another. Last night my host father, brother and I visited various neighbors and friends. At every single home I am treated as the guest of honor. With this catagorization comes certain responsiblities, namely the consumption of all food offered. This food has thus far included A bowl of bread, cherries, apric...... (see above)...and I forgot to mention ice cream.
For a community that has so little, to offer me so much is very touching, and it speaks to the kindness and hosting prowess of her people.

Arrival

2006-06-06T04:10:00.000-07:00

We have arrived! Our flight got into Yerevan very early in the morning allowing for a wonderful sunrise ceremony @ this temple built in the 7th century that had a wonderful view of Mt. Ararat. All the currently serving Peace Corps volunteers had come in from all over the country to greet us. They were very, very excited. I hadn't really thought much about it but they were instantly acquiring a group of 50 new friends. Our arrival brings the total to almost 100 volunteers spread out across the country. They seem like a cool bunch. We've just been shipped off to an old barracks building where we will begin our language, cultural, and job training. I've much more to write about but I'm going to give it at least a little more time to soak in... and the jet lag is getting me down. Thanks to all of you who have already emailed. It was so nice to open up my inbox and see so many replies.

Vienna (and no sausages in sight)

2006-06-05T12:45:00.000-07:00

We've been delayed in Vienna for a few hours and apparently this airport has free wireless. What a pleasant surprise to open up my laptop fully expecting to merely engage in a few rousing games of minesweeper and POW! There is that network connection screen. Very cool.
We’ve been traveling steadily for a day or so, and weariness is starting to wear on the group and your humble narrator. But as I searched the cockles of my mind for anything to write for my (I assume) awesomely large and devoted readership, I struck up a conversation with an American/Armenian traveler. She is an opera singer who had her Armenian home bombed out by the Russians in the 80’s and immigrated to Ecuador, got a visa to Mexico and came across with some coyotes, and currently lives in Fresno. She truly had quite a compelling story. We discussed things from the current border issues in California to her family history and strife. She was also kind enough to give me an impromptu Armenian language lesson. Apparently (and rather bluntly I thought) I have terrible pronunciation. It kind of stoked my fire for the upcoming adventure, at a time when it had been waning. My nerves seem to be gone and I can’t wait to get to Armenia and get this thing started!

Dollars and sense

2006-06-04T08:18:00.000-07:00

The Federal Goverment gave me $300 a few days ago for tips, travel and incidentals. I'm assuming that "incidentals" is a broad term that includes exploring the social opportunities that Philidelphia (my place of staging) has to offer. I'm also assuming (maybe hoping is a better word) that this same government will provide me with more money soon. I'm currently staring down at a my wallet buried, maybe covered is a better word, with 1 ten, 2 fives, and 7 one dollar bills all waded up in a shamefully haphazard manner. I'm no mathematician, but that ain't much. I'll just chalk it up to the cost of living being so much higher in a big metropolis like this one.
It's fun to be a part of a group of people (all having been given $300 from the federal government) go out and celebrate a final night before going oversees for 2 years and giving up many of their comforts. I, forced by professional obligations, have spent much time in bars and observed many different group dynamics. Last night was probably one of the neatest dynamics I've witnessed. Our group was drawn from different parts of the country, different backgrounds, and wildly varying degrees of social assertiveness. We had a wonderful time together. I guess it speaks to the comfort and excitement of being surrounded with people with the same fears and aspirations. The night came off without incident. I suppose I'll just have to tip less.

Hippies and housewives

2006-06-03T15:33:00.000-07:00

Hippies and housewives
06/03/06

Apparently the Peace Corps allows more “mature” ladies to only serve in the few countries where Pap Smear and breast consultations are readily available.  Apparently Armenia is one of those countries.  Long story short, our group is teaming with 65 year old, busy-bodied ladies.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that (see Seinfeld season 2) but I must admit I’m surprised.  In no way is this bad, as I have under-packed and plan on shamelessly throwing myself upon their maternal mercy whenever necessary.  I’m assuming that at least some of them have retained a healthy sense of their now retired motherly instincts.  Beyond “the ladies”, I find myself surrounded by idealistic, overly excited recent college graduates.  It appears that both the Portland Oregon and Portland Maine school districts do quite a job imbuing their pupils with a healthy sense of idealism and adventurousness, as most of my group is originally from one of those two locals.
Training has been an interesting mix of fuzzy feel-good thinking, team-building exercises and governmental red-tape.  As we wade through learning vignettes like the “pyramid of safety” and spend an inordinate amount of time drawing pictures about both our fears and aspirations I realize that I may be a bit out of place.   Many of “the ladies” are former elementary school teachers, and as one might imagine the all-stars of the team drawing exercises.  I would probably be considered more of a third stringer.  I never owned a pair of hiking boots, a tent or a VW bus before I came here, nor am I from either of the Portlands, nor do I need or desire Pap Smear and/or Breast Exams.  I don’t even know what a Pap Smear is.  I may well be screwed.

departure

2006-06-01T17:56:00.000-07:00

Sacramento (airport lobby/mid-flight)
June 1, 2006

I’ve always been a nail-biter. Any chance to rip away any portion of superfluous, opaque cream-colored upper nail has always been quickly taken up. But as I look down at the now pained and bleeding cuticles on my right hand (which I have been recklessly gnawing into for the past hour) I realize that this is not similar to the eve of a big exam or job interview, this is genuine deeply felt fear?/apprehension?/Trepidation? “Terror” would seem to carry with it too negative a connotation, and thus I have employed my delete key to rid this post of it. It’s a strange feeling….. I guess I’m excited…?... or I suppose I’m more looking forward to being excited in the near future about my current self imposed situation. Current thoughts (in chronological order):

-What in the Hell am I doing?
-What have I gotten myself into?
-What in the Hell am I doing?
-Could I have squeezed out a few more going away parties?
-Two years is a long time?
-Will the Welcome back parties be nearly as good?
-I had such a good thing going?
-What in the hell am I doing?
-Damn! (sorry mom if you’re reading this, I’m freakin’ out here)

But as my plane taxis out to the runway, and I feel that awesome force of the accumulating speed of the plane flinging us into the air, I glance around and notice everyone else in suits, or with briefcases, or much other paraphernalia that screams out responsibility and habit, and I realize that I’ve been blessed with an opportunity to go experience. I’ve literally just been catapulted into a something so very new. I just pray that it is fruitful, bearable and worthwhile. Cause if not I’m truly an idiot and… I just realized I’ve now moved on to my left hand . I’m pretty damn freaked out! Sorry mom.

2006-06-01T17:40:00.000-07:00