In the south

I think this Arto and I will be pretty great friends. The entire weekend there, I think he was always smiling, must have uttered the phrase “problem chka! (problems there are not!)” to me dozens of times, and more than once even moved in on me for a gigantic man hug/kiss that caught me totally off guard. This is my new host father I’m talking about by the way. His stature, even at 61 years old, is still pretty imposing. He’s just shy of 6 feet tall, with a heaving chest and gut and kind eyes. He greeted me as I exited my 8 hour taxi ride from Yerevan, ears still ringing with pressure from the repeated altitude changes, and bear hugged me with all his mass. To be greeted so warmly by someone you’ve never met before is something you don’t get used to, and it’s a great feeling.

We walked together from the village’s social epicenter with its two shops and the school where I’ll be working for the next two years, all eyes now fixed on the new American walking with Arto, and ambled up the village road to his home. The deep south is set upon two sides of a valley, the homes and each home’s accompanying garden rising up on either side, and the grade is steep enough that I should be in damn good shape during my service. At the moment Arto was panting pretty heavily, but mostly because I think he was trying to talk so fast that I don’t think he was giving himself proper time to breathe fully. He talked rapidly, waved his arms as he spoke, and chuckled and patted me on the back when he realized I wasn’t understanding more than 5% of what he said. At first I thought it might just be nervousness that made him speak so rapidly, but as my stay drew to a close I still had yet to see it subside.

He opened the green, slightly rusted gate to his home and ushered me in. Passing a garden with cherry trees, cucumbers, and tomatoes growing among other things, I stepped onto a large, long patio area with wooden rafters overhead. Seated at the dinner table was a welcoming party comprised of Arto’s wife, Carmen, his son-in-law Vahram, Dayna, the currently finishing up volunteer I will be replacing, and Varsik, the 51 year old Armenian English teacher who I’ll be working with side-by-side with during my service. Perhaps most anxiously awaiting my arrival were two of Arto’s grandchildren, Artur and Vahe. “Hello,” they greeted me with deeply inflected English. These were two of the three boys belonging to Arto’s daughter Armine, married to Vahram. Three more boys, belonging Arto’s other daughter Haikoor, live in the village as well, bringing the grand total to six male grandchildren for Ardo. It was plain to see that they were his pride and joy. Couple that with the fact that he had had only daughters himself, and that, particularly in Armenian culture, boys are so prized as future bread-winners and defenders of the country’s borders, and the man was stoked on them beyond all measure.

I was shown my shower, complete with wood-burning water heater, which was across the patio and to the left, through another small garden area of pomegranate trees and grape vines hanging overhead in the rafters. I’d now been here about 10 minutes, I hadn’t even gone inside yet, and this seemed to me like the most beautiful home I’d been to in Armenia so far.

We ate together, a formidable meal of dolma (grape leaves or cabbage usually stuffed with rice, greens and beef), tomato and cucumber salad, lavash, and other delightful stuff. Dinner was rounded off by tea and sweet bread with apricot jam and chocolate butter. Stuffed and feeling very, very lucky, I showered up and hit my bed.




Flies are pretty prevalent in my new village. And if you eat your meals outdoors, which my new family does, you are open to attacks. Fortunately, Arto has a time-tested method for dealing with this problem which I discovered during my first breakfast in the deep south. At each meal, the table is set also with a long, fresh branch from one of the garden’s grape vines. Throughout the meal, Arto continuously picks up the branch, and while talking in his usual animated, rapid manner, waves the branch with surprising grace above the food, generating small puffs of wind and scattering the flies asunder. He also will often use the branch to swat one or two his grandchildren on the head each time (very lightly). Not as any sort of reprimand really, but just because he for whatever reason seems to get a huge kick out of it.

After breakfast Arto and I got ready to take a walk to his larger garden that lay across the highway on the other side of the valley. Once there we rolled bales of hay over to let them dry in the sun, picked apricots off his trees and ate them on the spot, and picked some green beans for our lunch later on. On the way home, I figured I had now seen two things in his life that fill him with pride, his six healthy grandchildren and his garden. I felt much obliged.

Arriving back at his home, it appeared a bit of rain was coming in. Arto spoke with assuredness that rain was indeed coming later in the day and that it would be a very welcome shower. When I mentioned something about looking the weather up on the internet, he responded simply, “I am the internet.”

After a quick lunch with the new family I headed over to meet Danya, who had called a taxi for the two of us to get down to the nearest substantial town, which I’ll refer to as “the town,” with a population of over 5,000 people, a cell phone dealer, Marshutni service to Yerevan, and lots of other amenities one needs every now and then. It took us about 10 to 15 minutes to get there by taxi. A currently serving volunteer, was having me, Hannah, a few other currently serving volunteers from farther north and their Fulbright friend over for tacos. Basically, I think she had wanted to have a little get together for Hannah and I, seeing as we were the new American blood in the deep south of Armenia. And I gotta say it was great. We had some drinks, and the amazing tacos that she made for us. I inhaled the tacos as we listened to The Band and The Kinks playing off of another volunteer’s iPod and for a moment there I felt almost like I was back at home. That is until I went out onto her balcony, looked out, and saw what were unmistakably some of Iran’s mountains in the background. They weren’t too far away.

A final important item for the weekend was the visit to my school the following morning. The school where, once again, I’ll be working at for the next two years is almost brand new. I’m no connoisseur or anything, but the place is impressive. There is a computer lab with apparently working internet, a printer, an assembly hall with a piano, P.A. speaker and a snare and hi-hat in the far corner for what reason I cannot possibly imagine, soccer nets, basketball hoops, the works. For a village of around 600 people, such a nice learning environment hadn’t registered to me as a possibility. I’m stoked on it.

Before the school visit, I had been a bit apprehensive. I had woken up late, thrown on my best shirt and pants and told my host mother I’d be back for breakfast after the meeting. Right now there was no time. I walked down to the school with Varsik, the Armenian teacher I’ll be working with or my “counterpart” who also happens to live right next to my host family. When we shuffled into the director’s office (Jora is his name), he was waiting patiently. After showing me the school, they seemed surprised that I wanted to have a quick Q and A with them about what my responsibilities would be, but I insisted. We sat back down in his office, and all they had to say about their expectations of me was that I should always “work hard, be active” and that’s about it. Nothing more specific was said, and they seemed totally comfortable with that, so I guess I was too. This meeting, like everything else I had been anticipating during the weekend, ended up being far easier than I thought it might be. This place was laid back. Hangist.

The night before I left, I got a phone call from Vahram, Arto’s son in law who I had met the first night I arrived. We had exchanged numbers over dinner but I had not expected him to call me so soon, much less at 11:30 pm at night just as I’m hitting the sack. He said he just wanted to call to wish me safe travels back to Yerevan the next morning, he had been very happy to meet me, was excited for me to return for good in August, and also said something that I’m pretty sure translates roughly to “God will bless the work you do here.” What a nice guy. The deep south is alright.

About how I'll be living on the edge of the map for the next two years

I’ve just come back from visiting my site, or the village that I will be living and working in for the next two years, and I can say I’m not totally let down. In fact, I’m downright giddy about it. Let me begin…

This particular adventure began last week when they took the 41 of us volunteers-in-training out to the large local community school/current PST headquarters and led us to a large, freshly painted map of Armenia on the parking lot blacktop. Red dots with corresponding cities written in Armenian were marked like coordinates waiting for their payload. We gathered around the map, names were called out, applause filled the air, and volunteers began occupying the dots one by one. This was how the Peace Corps – after at least a year’s worth of work culling volunteers-to-be, choosing appropriate work sites, and double checking on the safety and suitability of each location—had chosen to reveal the results to us. It was quick, a bit messy and came with an intense rushing sensation that left me pretty dazed or excited or something else I’ve never felt before. My name was called last, as the fates had it, and I found myself in a very small village that is very close to Armenia’s southern border. For safety and protocol reasons, I’ll be referring to my site as “the deep south” in this blog from here on out.

So the countries that will be my close neighbors in the deep south may be mildly shocking to some people. It certainly took a good deal of reflection on my part for me to get a bit more comfortable with the idea. The night after the announcement, I lost substantial sleep for the first time in a long time (I don’t mean to brag, but I’m normally very good at sleeping). I called a good friend, a fellow trainee, and felt loads better.

What’s frightening about this placement is that it’s extremely close to a border that our country is not on any sort of good terms with. There’s also that horror story of those hikers who recently got mistaken for spies and abducted after accidentally crossing the border. The village itself is also remote, around 600 or so people live there. I’ll be the only American in town for sure.

What’s good about this placement is that Iran is actually one of the friendliest, if not the friendliest border Armenia has. With Turkey and Azerbaijan being closed off, hostile borders (particularly the latter), Armenia apparently relies on their southern neighbor for the trade of just about every sort of good imaginable. This placement also means an adventure in every sense of the word, sort of the essence of the vague ideas I had in the back of my mind when I first decided to apply to be a volunteer abroad. It’s a tiny village, it’s a totally foreign place, it’s a dramatic landscape, it’s on the edge of the map, and so I think it suits me just right. It’s also beautiful.

After receiving the news, I had about 24 hours to digest it, pack my bags and prepare for a weekend-long visit to see what it was actually like. Departing on a Saturday morning, it took us about seven and a half hours to get from Yerevan to the deep south, which is actually very, very good time. Our cab driver hauled ass the entire way, passing cars in a two-lane during tight bends, seemingly playing chicken with trucks far more massive than us in the oncoming lane of traffic, and just pulling generally insane moves whenever possible. Anyway he had an air about him that made me trust him completely, that all great drivers have I think. The landscape changed drastically and often. After passing through large iron gates marking the beginning of Armenia’s Syunik Marz, we went from the relatively flat and arid fields laying in front of Ararat’s gigantic peak to rolling alpine meadows. I had a cold, and the frequent elevation changes were making my ears build and release pressure like mad but the view made it all alright. As we went deeper into Syunik Marz, we passed treeless meadows filled with wildflowers, then lakes, then forests, all while climbing up one mountain and then coasting back down into an adjacent gorge more times than I can remember.
Myself and Hannah, the other volunteer who actually got placed a bit farther and closer to the border still, bless her, chatted excitedly and ran the conversational gamut of where you went to school, how many significant others you’ve had, why you decided to be a volunteer in the middle of nowhere etc. for just about the entire time.
Finally arriving in the southern extremity of Armenia, the landscape now resembled semi-desert, with green shrubs and trees coloring the dry, rocky hills and valleys. We pulled into my village and I exited the cab to find my new host-father, Arto, waiting impatiently to meet me.

Dsenund

Yesterday was easily one of my favorites in this country so far. But not due to how it started. A more grueling than average Armenian class lasted from the morning until 1pm, during which I was at one point falling briefly asleep, then being suddenly called upon by the teacher in Armenian to answer “what day of the week Tuesday is” I would force the wheels in my head to turn and respond “Tuesday is the third day of the week,” (Yerkooshabtin shabatva yerord orn e) and then slowly drift back out again. Dono know why I was so tired. It comes and goes here like the tide rolling up and down a beach and tries to swallow you in. After classes a discussion with the other volunteers about what to do for the Fourth of July finally made some headway. There was enough positive energy in the room to determine that we’d be buying 10,000 drams worth of fireworks (i.e. the entirety of the budget the Peace Corps gave us to hold this event), have cake and candy and games for the village kids, do some American factoid trivia and then give a speech about what Fourth of July means to us before firing off our modest explosions into the night. Should be pretty great. Two volunteers who have been a bit overwhelmed of late were being consoled in the next room and were not part of the discussion. Hopefully our shenanigans the coming evening will cheer them up.

I came home and started trying to help my family out a bit in preparing for Harutyun’s big dsenund (birthday), for which a ton of family would be coming over in a couple hours. The large, open concrete room which usually houses only Parandzem’s small shrine of Christian icons in a far corner was now filled with tables and benches draped with linens. They were set with cold salads: one of cabbage, corn, carrots, another of cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers, and another fresh dill, basil, green onions. Bottles of vodka, mineral water and soda were being set. Really, all I needed to do at this point was kick back. They had done all of the leg work while I was at class.

Folks started showing up around four and five. One of Harutyun’s uncles brought over a huge, plastic sword with lights and sound effects, but no batteries, or as they call them “element.” Eager to help/communicate/do anything at all really, I ran up to my room, grabbed to double A’s and a screwdriver (which has come in handy multiple times already) and placed them in the sword. It now lit up and made obnoxious laser sounds at the slightest push of a button, and Harut went nuts with it. A good deed done, I think.

The men who had shown up so far and I played cards with my American deck, which they commented on as being very, very nice. I’m pretty sure I picked it up in the checkout lane at a walmart right before I left, for mad cheap. Geras, a man who I had just met, schooled me in Doorak, a game which I’m still picking up the finer strategical points on. I shook his hand and accepted my defeat. The men then attempted to show me another “Haikakan” game to me to no real avail. There was a round of some sort of out of turn wagering before each hand, a number would be written down, and then cards would be laid down in a fashion similar to Hearts, but this was totally not Hearts. I was baffled by it, but the way I see it, I’ve got two years in this country to get awesome at whatever it was.

Finally, we all shuffled inside to start eating. As seems to be customary, I sat at one table with the men, while the women populated another. Around me were Andranik’s sisters’ husbands (he has five) and their sons. Tonya and Parandzem came around with dishes of lamb and potatoes. We feasted, and we toasted.

I should mention that the toasting of vodka shots is an affair that happens multiple times at almost every dinner I eat with my family, and the nuances of the toasting, while always there, are particularly pronounced on occasions like this. Before taking a single bite of food your shot glass is filled for you by one of the men at the table. This continues happening until the meal is over or you make it absolutely clear that you do not want to drink anymore. A man will raise his glass and begin uttering his two cents, and all others follow his lead and raise their glasses in unison as he speaks. All then clink their glasses together, each one making sure to touch everyone else’s glass to his before drawing his glass back toward himself. At this point another man will often pipe up, offering his piece on something that he feels should not be forgotten. Glasses are then clinked once again in approval and drawn back in. A general muttering ensues, finally someone puts the glass to their lips, and all see this and take down the shot together. A quick, one speech, one clink and then take the shot toast almost never occurs. At least two and some times three or four rounds of speaking and clinking the glasses before drinking them is more common.

A really great part of Armenian drinking culture is that these toasts, whether they are with wine, beer or vodka, are pretty much the drinking that is done, and they are only done during meals. In other words you can only get as drunk as the length of the meal allows, during which time you are also stuffing yourself with lamb and chicken and greens and potatoes and lavash and other absorbent stuff. And then you’re done. By the end of the meal you should feel a little light headed, maybe buzzed, but not sloshed by any means at all. And that’s exactly how I felt on Harut’s birthday.

I exited out into the fresh air and sat down for a long, hilarious conversation in broken language with three of Andranik’s nephews around my age. We were brought coffee and one of the nephews, Geras, started very excitedly asking me what coffee was like in America and how I drank it there. I told them I drank it black, and they nodded in approval. This conversation sounds like it would last about 30 seconds, but it actually took about 10 minutes or longer because of repeated miscommunications and laughter. We were getting pretty silly. A lot of other side talk ensued and they complemented me on my improving Armenian skills. I told them it was because of the vodka, which was totally true. Drinking, to a point, is probably the most effective language aid I know of.

A godsend showed up now in the form of Vrooyr, Andranik’s neice’s husband. A man of about 30, he manages two hotels in Yerevan, had lived in California for four years, and spoke perfect English and Armenian. He came over, sat across from me, introduced himself and then in so many words asked me what the hell I was doing in Armenia. I’ve gotten pretty good at answering this question. We got to talking and he pretty quickly warmed up to me, to the whole idea of this American living and learning amongst the people in this village, picking up their language and becoming a teacher in the fall.

Since more family had now arrived, we headed back into the dining hall for round two, not even two hours after finishing the previous meal. The tables had been re-stocked. I ate a bunch more lamb and lavash and greens and cheese, and drinks were poured. Andranik made one toast to the men of the Armenian military, past and present. For another one, I took advantage of having Vyooyr next to me and had him express my gratitude –much more eloquently than I would have been able to—to Andranik and to his family for being so blindly welcoming to this wandering American. We toasted to my translated words and I have to say it was a great feeling. I wasn’t with any Americans at the time. I had no one to relate with really that had had any similar life experiences at all. I just felt like I was actually at home in Armenia and immersed and content. I was proud of myself, I guess.

Arevik, Andranik’s 21 year old niece who has multiple times dropped some really unsubtle hints about getting married (I was warned this sort of thing would happen here) was smiling at me coyly from across the room at the women’s table. She had no idea that there was matsun (Armenian yogurt) on the outer edge of her bottom lip. I smiled back, almost laughing, deciding not to let her know.

I exited the food kingdom again for the fresh air and started chatting it up seriously with Vrooyr. I don’t usually take a liking to a guy so quickly, or vice versa. I told him he was a smart dude for mastering English so completely without much formal instruction at all. He told me I was smarter, but I think he was just being Armenian. We had more coffee, of course.

The night rolled on. I was in a deadly good mood. We were done drinking, which was just as well because any more and I would have passed on from the “I’m actually better at speaking Armenian right now” phase and moved into the “I sound pretty dumb right now” phase. We drank coffee and chatted, Vroory translating for me flawlessly. The stars came up. The pleasant wind that hits Nurnus every night during the summer nights like clockwork came in like clockwork. Arevik kept giving me looks, except that without yogurt on her face it made me a bit more uncomfortable. I danced with the kids for a song and as some of the last guests were leaving I said my goodbyes and said goodnight, saying something to Andranik that sounded along the lines of “This Birthday…very good!”

I wanted to hit the sack, but not before calling someone from my own family. Michael picked up, and we rattled away about our lives for 700 dram or so’s worth of time, which was something like 40 minutes. The nice day with my Armenian family had left me pining for my own, and talking to Michael really rounded me out. He’s having a good summer. I think I am too.