Varsaveeranotz

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

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

dramadrootsyoon

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

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

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?!?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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)

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)

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.