vsyo

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@

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?

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

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@!!!

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….

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

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

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@

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

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'

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?

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

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

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.