Slowly Emerging from Winter

Well, my little host brohan lost his first tooth today. I thought this was an awesome opportunity to tell him about the Tooth Fairy. So there we were, sitting on the couch, and I was doing my best to provide him with a comprehensible character sketch of this nocturnal spirit, but, I didn’t have my dictionary, and somehow, back in July when I was in Armenian language classes, I must have missed the Tooth Fairy chapter. So, the best I could do was to say that “in America, when children lose their teeth, they put them under their pillows when they sleep. Then, as they are asleep a tiny little person with wings flies into your bedroom and steals your tooth from under the pillow and leaves a small amount of money.” His responses (and my subsequent responses) are as follows:
How small are people in America?—What? No, the small person with wings isn’t American.
What country is it from?—It’s not from any country, Edik.
Do all small Americans have wings?—No. (But you can’t imagine how badly I wanted to tell him yes, yes they do, and fangs, big viscous fangs.)
What does it do with the teeth?—I can’t tell you that. It’s a secret.
Did you know that she builds a really big tooth out of all the teeth she steals?—How do you know? She is very secretive little person with wings. No one really knows what she does with the teeth.
It builds big teeth out of them.—Sure thing. Do you want to put your tooth under your pillow tonight?
No. I don’t want small people with wings in my room.
At this point, mom comes in the room and I learn that they take the teeth and bake them into lavash (flatbread, kind of like a tortilla, and by kind of, I mean exactly) for good luck. I think it’s kind of like the bay leaf in the pot of soup, but instead of having to do the dishes, you get 40 virgins when you die or something like that. I don’t know. I prefer to have tiny little people with wings leaving money in my room while I sleep. At this point Edik gave me a toothless grin and said he didn’t want to help her build a big tooth and handed his tooth to his mother to go bake…so much for cultural exchange.

Things around here have been pretty slow, hence my blog silence. But, that’s also partly because my hands have been too cold to type very well. I tried typing with gloves once, but it just made me feel like I had real chubby fingers that were too stupid to move. Last week we (the volunteers) had a big conference that is geared towards project design and management. Each volunteer was allowed to bring one counterpart (an Armenian who lives at site and with whom you frequently work) to the conference. During the conference each pairing works on designing a sustainable project to implement in their community. My counterpart and I are going to try to get a pre-school up and running. I think it’s possible, but the toughest part of the entire thing will not be the actual work. The work is easy. The hard part is motivating the people to take action, and not give up at the first moment of difficulty. I have the moral support of the mayor’s office, which will likely be the only support I get from there. So, we’ll see I suppose.

The schools are what they are. I realize that that phrase is circular, and offers little to no insight, but, it’s important to remember, that circular phrases are, in fact, completely right…although also completely worthless. But, I’m at a loss for another way to describe the state of the schools. The best I can say is that I’m trying to stay positive.

I have recently been given an assignment from the country headquarters to make a full video about what volunteers who teach English actually do in Armenia as volunteers. They are hoping to use this in volunteer training, as well as PR tool. Often times when the Peace Corps calls up new schools and new towns to ask them if they are willing to host a volunteer, they school directors have no way to understand what exactly a volunteer is, or what said volunteer will do within their school. So, hopefully this video will help. I’m pretty stoked about putting it together. I get to travel around the country (although on my own buck) to gather field footage of volunteers at work in the classroom, which means I’ll get to see a variety of different work environments as well as some of the countryside. I also have the freedom of completely designing and editing the format of the video itself. It’s a project with almost complete self-direction, which is definitely my style.

A month ago, or so, I started private English tutoring lessons with my little brother. We study for about one hour every day of the week. He is fairly enthusiastic about learning English, with the exception of a few days here and there where he just wants to go play games and not study. But hey, he’s eight, so I’ll cut him some slack. If nothing else, he is learning a good work ethic, as I facilitate a class that meets every day, and that requires him to push himself to remember to study every day. (Please don’t think I’m cracking a big nasty bull whip here, by study, I mean practice counting on his own maybe once a day.) The concept of continual learning is something that is absent within the culture here. At best, a subject in school is only taught twice a week for a 45-minute session each time. And then, each session is disconnected from previous sessions, no building upon concepts, review of previous material, etc. The result is incredibly disjointed learning that is nearly impossible to wrap a head around. The other day he told me that he likes having to remember things from day to day, rather than waiting until the end of the week to remember things. So that’s a success. Even more enthusiastic about these English lessons is his father. Every day he calls home to ask if Edik did well in his English lesson for the day. It makes me happy to see familial involvement in the learning process. But then again, I do have quite a bit of respect for this family.

In other news, I’ve recently solidified plans to come home for the first two weeks of June. I’m getting pretty excited about the trip, even though it’s still several months away. Sadly, despite having maintained radio silence on my blog for so long, this is all I have to say for now. Live it, son.

Holiday Special on Aisle Armenia

The holiday season is upon us once again. And, as this is my first holiday season in Armenia, I’ll do my best to catalogue my experience with Armenian culture during such a typically happy and culturally unique time of the year.

Religious Holidays
The Republic of Armenia is, officially, a Christian nation. In fact, they were the first country in the world to declare Christianity as their national religion, and they did this in 301 (AD of course). They have their own church, which is called Apostolic Armenian Orthodox. (This means homogeny, once again…surprise. So, if you were hoping for Hanukah, Kwanza, or really, anything other than Christmas, don’t hold your breath. It’s simply not tolerated.) Over the years, and based on who has been in control of this region of the world, Armenia has had to make a few concessions when it comes to faith. The most recent example of such concessions would be during Soviet rule (ended officially in 1992) when all religion was ousted from Armenia. But, if you ask the Armenian people, their faith never really died. In fact, the church is currently taking on massive efforts to re-educate Armenians about the church because for so long, nothing related to religion was allowed. Much of this re-education process comes from Armenian priests who live overseas. The church currently has a recall on all of these priests to come back to Armenia for a one year period of time (in rotation of course) to reconnect with the country. Countless priests will come from the states. But, getting back to a more pointed focus…

Armenia has a different church calendar than the overwhelming majority of Christian denominations in the rest of the world. And, within this calendar, Christmas falls on January 6. And, it seems that the holiday’s celebration is masked, in a large share, by the magnitude of excitement that consumes the country in respect to New Year’s. I would guess that a part of the belittlement that has befallen the celebratory practices of Christmas is due to the Soviet attempts to minimize religious traditions.

New Year’s
In the states we all get excited for a wild bash on New Year’s Eve. But here, the actual tick of the second hand at the stroke of midnight is not really that important. There is a message from the high priest, followed by a message from the president broadcast on national television. But, the parties don’t start until January first. Certainly people stay awake for this nocturnal moment, but the party leading up to it is usually small and restricted to family. But that’s alright, because starting on January first, every home will have a massive table laid out for all of the neighbors, friends, and family to pillage. Essentially, it is a non-stop feast with traditional foods such as dolma, kyufta, pastries, cognac, vodka, dolma, and cognac. And these parties will last until January 6. It’s wild.

Santa who?
Yes, Santa Claus does exist here, but he goes by another alias…that crafty s.o.b. Here he is called something in Armenian that I can’t type because I have a western keyboard…and because dollars to doughnuts, you don’t speak Armenian. But, the literal translation of his name is “Winter Father”. And he comes to give presents to boys and girls who have been well behaved. But, they don’t have fireplaces here, just free standing wood stoves. Now, I haven’t asked, but I’m assuming that this means he has to forcibly enter the front doors to all of the homes. None of that sneaking around on rooftops like some kind of morbidly obese, red nosed burglar stuff. Also, because I’m the only man in Armenia who has a red coat (men only wears black or dark brown here) I now confuse a bunch of small children, which is fun for me.

What did I do?
With my English club, I helped the students practice and perform the Christmas pageant, many different carols, and a few different poems. I have it on disc, and if you’re lucky enough to be my friend, next time I come back we can watch it. For Christmas I went up to Gyumri where I spent time with several other volunteers. We had a potluck Christmas feast that had a massive turkey, tons of different salads, and lots of pies. I made mulled wine for the party. We also had a gift exchange. I got an air horn. Now I can finally honk back at the cars (and mule carts for that matter). I stayed in the city for a few days, and then went back to my village. But, for New Year’s Eve I went back into the Charentsavan/Bjni area where I visited other volunteers and my first host family. While there, we had a massive snow storm (see picture). Although it made any form of transportation unreliable and risky, I was incredibly impressed with the absolute beauty of the village covered in snow. Until now, I had only seen it in the summer time, but this trip afforded me to see its winter views.

General update
As for life in my village, work has come to a halt. We will not go back to school until the end of January, possibly February. The village doesn’t have gas, which means we have no heat. So, if you’re quick, you’ve figured out that this means that we can’t heat the schools. So, I get a month off. Neat. Ultimately what this does is give me ample time to make my new apartment liveable. It has no water or heat, but that’s ok. There’s a well outside, and I have blankets. The real pain is that there are no counters or elevated surfaces of any kind anywhere in the place. This makes food preparation incredibly difficult. In the states, I’d just go get some wood and build a counter or two, maybe a bookcase. But here, that’ infinitely more difficult because there is simply nothing to buy. So, I’m currently using the floor as my counter. I hope to have pictures of my new digs up at some point, but I can’t say when that will actually happen. Until now, I hope this update sates you.

German: still at large

I wrote this without revision...so take it for what it's worth

Well, another American holdiay has come and gone. In the few days before Thanksgiving I did my best to explain the concept of the holiday to my host family and a few various community members with whom I have frequent cause for interaction. But, it was quickly made apparent to me that unless you are an American, or have the chance to see the holiday as it is celebrated with a lot of Americans around, it is a very tough holiday to understand. To us (that is, Americans) it seems simple. Sure, it's a day to give thanks. Easy enough, right? But for some reason or another the holiday doesn't translate very well.
"So, it was a bunch of really dirty people that had no food?"
"Yes."
"And then the Native Americans gave them food?"
"Yes."
"And then they killed the Native Americans?"
"No, they ate dinner with them."
"And now it's a holiday?
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To say thank you."
"Do the Native Americans still give you food?"
"No, we killed them?"
"After you ate dinner with them?"
"No, well, yes."
At this point in the conversation every single Armenian, without exception, beat their hand against their mouth while making a whooping war cry reminiscent of some movie they had seen.

So, rather than allow the conversation to repeat itself for my students, I did my best in the English clubs I run to explain the Tanksgiving Story via hand drawn comic strip on the chalkboard. But, that wasn't too successful, probably because I was relying heavily on stick figures as means for communications, and contrary to popular belief, stick figures are not ideal for conveying complex emotions. I don't know. I guess some things were just meant to be mysteries. But, Thanksgiving evening my grandpa did bust out the homemade vodka to celebrate. He didn't really grasp the full concept, but he understood that it was important to me. I swear, my grandpa is the man.

On a slightly different note...

Ever since I moved to my village, I've heard rumors whispered around the streets for some mythical German that supposedly lives in the village. And having lived in Germany, I thought, "Well, wouldn't it be dandy if I could meet this person. Maybe sit down and have a nice little conversation about the West." But, my efforts to locate this person up until now have been fruitless. Everytime I ask people directly, they just look at me like I'm an idiot. (Sidenote, that is usually the look I get from them anyways.) So, for the past few weeks, I've abandoned my quest to locate this fellow foreigner within the village...until two weeks ago.

There I was, walking home from work, and what should I hear, but the frightened sound of a small child screaming for his mother about the German. So, my ears perked up and my eyes did a quick swivel to finally put a face to this person. But, alas, I am the only one on the street. And, as I walked past the child, who was now clinging to his mother's dress in fear, I hear the kid say, "Does it speak Armenian?" to which the mother replied, "No, it speaks German." to which I replied, "Nice weather we have today." in Armenian...ah to be German. Nothing makes sense anymore. I advise to just give in to lunacy.

I wrote this without revision...so take it for what it's worth

Well, another American holdiay has come and gone. In the few days before Thanksgiving I did my best to explain the concept of the holiday to my host family and a few various community members with whom I have frequent cause for interaction. But, it was quickly made apparent to me that unless you are an American, or have the chance to see the holiday as it is celebrated with a lot of Americans around, it is a very tough holiday to understand. To us (that is, Americans) it seems simple. Sure, it's a day to give thanks. Easy enough, right? But for some reason or another the holiday doesn't translate very well.
"So, it was a bunch of really dirty people that had no food?"
"Yes."
"And then the Native Americans gave them food?"
"Yes."
"And then they killed the Native Americans?"
"No, they ate dinner with them."
"And now it's a holiday?
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To say thank you."
"Do the Native Americans still give you food?"
"No, we killed them?"
"After you ate dinner with them?"
"No, well, yes."
At this point in the conversation every single Armenian, without exception, beat their hand against their mouth while making a whooping war cry reminiscent of some movie they had seen.

So, rather than allow the conversation to repeat itself for my students, I did my best in the English clubs I run to explain the Tanksgiving Story via hand drawn comic strip on the chalkboard. But, that wasn't too successful, probably because I was relying heavily on stick figures as means for communications, and contrary to popular belief, stick figures are not ideal for conveying complex emotions. I don't know. I guess some things were just meant to be mysteries. But, Thanksgiving evening my grandpa did bust out the homemade vodka to celebrate. He didn't really grasp the full concept, but he understood that it was important to me. I swear, my grandpa is the man.

On a slightly different note...

Ever since I moved to my village, I've heard rumors whispered around the streets for some mythical German that supposedly lives in the village. And having lived in Germany, I thought, "Well, wouldn't it be dandy if I could meet this person. Maybe sit down and have a nice little conversation about the West." But, my efforts to locate this person up until now have been fruitless. Everytime I ask people directly, they just look at me like I'm an idiot. (Sidenote, that is usually the look I get from them anyways.) So, for the past few weeks, I've abandoned my quest to locate this fellow foreigner within the village...until two weeks ago.

There I was, walking home from work, and what should I hear, but the frightened sound of a small child screaming for his mother about the German. So, my ears perked up and my eyes did a quick swivel to finally put a face to this person. But, alas, I am the only one on the street. And, as I walked past the child, who was now clinging to his mother's dress in fear, I hear the kid say, "Does it speak Armenian?" to which the mother replied, "No, it speaks German." to which I replied, "Nice weather we have today." in Armenian...ah to be German. Nothing makes sense anymore. I advise to just give in to lunacy.

Trick or Treat Obamarama

It is no secret that Halloween is possibly my favorite holiday, and having been absent from the consumer driven markets and media of America for some time now, it sneaked up on me quite quietly. In fact, it was not until a few days before the actual holiday that I realized that it was almost Halloween. However, when I finally awoke from my stupor of celebratory neglect, I decided that this would be an excellent opportunity for my students in Armenia to learn a little bit about American culture.

The federal government here has banned any discussion (or mention) of Halloween within the confines of any school. According to them, Halloween is a holiday invented by the Americans as a day that pays tribute to the worship of Satan. I will not address the numerous points upon which this statement is incorrect. If I were to do so, my peace of mind would be permanently dislodged from its state of peace. So, instead of trying to take on an unfounded ideology within the confines of its limitations, I chose a different route. Unfortunately for the powers that be that design curriculum, their jurisdiction falls well short of my path. I am not paid. While this does provide many undesirable obstacles in everyday life, in this instance, it is a blessing. Because I am not paid, they have no power over what I do, so long as it does not interfere with the learning that goes on within the confines of school. Now, as many of you know, I have an English club once a week, outside of school hours. This club is my opportunity to work with children without fear of any interference. So, being the “Satan lover” that many officials would want you to believe that I am, naturally, this jumped out at me as the perfect time to talk about Halloween.

In my English clubs, we did horrific things like talk about trick-or-treating, and read a story about two little pumpkins who had trouble deciding on a costume (yeah, I penned that one myself…hello Caldecott award). It was terrible. But that’s not even the worst part. After club, I sent the kids home so that they could eat dinner and tell their parents about what a crazy American I am. And then, we reconvened in order to carve, get this, Jack-o-lanterns. It’s official, I am the most immoral person in the world because I have taught children about a holiday that involves carving crazy faces into oversized squash. What’s even worse is, I’m pretty sure that the children all had fun. OH NO!!!!!! Trick-or-treat.

Now for a housing update.

I’ve spent the past few days in contract negotiation for my apartment. These things have proved a bit more difficult than I had anticipated. Fortunately, I’m able to follow most of what goes on during the discussion. Currently, we are trying to work out the water situation. I’ll spell it out for you in brief. Right now, a water situation doesn’t exist. I want that to change (a.k.a. I want to not have to haul water from the well to my apartment on the 3rd floor, bucket by bucket). Negotiations on this subject seemed to be productive, but only time will tell if they work out. If any of you have ever moved in your life, you know how stressful and trying these things can be. Now picture that same situation in a language and culture you barely understand. But, as afore mentioned, things seem to be working so far. But, I’ll only be comfortable after the contract has been signed, changes enacted, and residence acquired. I was able to talk to the neighbors in the new apartment building, and they are really excited to donate furniture. This is awesome, because right now, the furniture in the apartment has an enumerative value of precisely zero. (Please note that this also includes any type of counter surface for food preparation.) I’m hopeful.

My host family has been remarkable throughout this whole experience. I had been dreading the day of conversation on this topic. But, eventually, I just bit the stick and decided to have the talk with them. They were visibly disappointed that I have decided to move, but I am convinced that it will be best for both parties if I am no longer in their way within the confines of the home. However, they have repeatedly told me that they expect me to come over and hang out, if for nothing else other than to talk with people. For this I am incredibly grateful. I think that things are going to work out.

In other news, the asinine president campaigns have come to an end, and we have a brand new president elect. I would say that that’s good, but unfortunately I have a sneaky suspicion that regardless of who was elected (McCain, Obama, Joe the plumber, you name it), their presidential tenure is doomed by the state in which they receive it. Unfortunately, the severity of the problems that face our country are too severe to change over night, and possibly even within four years, and Americans have a tendency to need an immediate response because our attention spans are so brief. Does anyone actually still play with Tickle Me Elmo or the Cabbage Patch Kids?

The reaction here to the election is fairly positive. The majority of the population seems to support Obama. The thing that gets me, is that now anytime they see a black politician or news reporter on television, they insist that the individual is related to Obama…

My reaction? The people called for change, and voted for change. But, unfortunately the stray dogs that roam the streets are still homeless. They are still kicked. They are still hungry. They are still cold and dying in the winters. And, odds are, that after Obama’s presidential tenure expires, they will still have the same problems.

I’ve Decided That Meat Over an Open Fire is the Best Meat

So here I am, sitting in my room, messing around on my ukulele when I come up with this catchy little blues hook.  So, I push it around a little bit, and start to hum a melody line as I develop a chord progression.  And after a while, the humming gives way to words, and wouldn’t you know it, now I’m addicted to writing blues songs on my ukulele.  Now, I know what you all must be thinking.  “Scott, you are a skinny white boy, playing an ukulele.  You expect me to believe that anything bluesy can come of that?  Last I checked, if you wanted to sing the blues you needed to be a big burly guy with a smoky voice and a steel guitar.  And, if the guitar isn’t steel, there at least needs to be a lit cigarette stuck in the strings up by the tuning pegs.”  Well, my only response is that, yeah, you’re probably right.  But hey, there’s got to be a first for everything, no?  The way I see it, I’m living in a place that insists on calling this thing a small guitar, and I’m not playing it for anyone anyways, so who’s to say I can’t play the blues on it?  Are the lyrics lame?  Probably.  But honestly, unless you’re B.B. King or Jimi Hendrix, what blues lyrics aren’t lame?  If nothing else, it passes the time and usually makes me laugh…at myself, which is probably for the best.

 

And honestly, learning ways to pass the time seems to be the best thing that I can be doing at this moment.  As I am still fairly new to country, I still have much to learn, and am reminded of that with each passing day.  One thing that has been on my mind as of late (and perhaps you’ve heard my grumblings about this already) is the threat of winter as it swiftly makes itself known.  As of yet, all I know about the winter is what I have been told, so my knowledge is, at best, second hand.  So, I am left to imagine what my life during winter will be like.  I’ve heard horror stories of waking up in the middle of the night with your sleeping bag frozen around you.  Not having anything to eat but potatoes for months on end.  Being holed up in an apartment with nothing but a bottle of vodka and loneliness to keep you warm.  Now, I’m willing to bet that some of these things are exaggerations, but I’m also willing to bet that they aren’t wild exaggerations. 

 

Winter comes at a time when I am allowed to move out onto my own, no longer under the care of a host family, which would be a first for me in Armenia.  This, of course, offers me a new sense of freedom and independence.  But, it also offers a host of obstacles.  How will I heat wherever I end up living?  Where will I get food? (Remember, grocery stores don’t exactly exist here, and I have not been pickling.)  How will I avoid becoming that volunteer that keeps himself warm with a bottle of vodka and a single light bulb suspended from a wire dangling from the ceiling?  In the winter, because heating does not exist here, the schools shut down.  Apparently, 0 degrees at home is warmer than 0 degrees at school…So, if I’m living on my own, I will now be battling boredom as well.  I know, things just keep getting better, right?  Needless to say, the development of hobbies is a must…cue ukulele and blues.

 

Now, some of these problems can be avoided if I decide to stay with my host family through the winter.  It’s weird.  For my service in Armenia thus far, I have always been of the mindset that I would get my own apartment as soon as possible.  But, as that day approaches (December 15), I find myself unintentionally leaning towards staying with my host family.  Maybe it’s just doing things like cutting my own hair and having them laugh at me, but then asking me to cut theirs too.  Or sitting on the new couch (which they bought with the money from a cow slaughter) reading a book while my uncle’s three year old son holds my elbow like it were my hand and we were crossing the street.  Or just having a plate of potatoes dripping with oil waiting for me when I get home from work, when I wake up, when I don’t wake up, or when I otherwise turn around, breathe, etc. (yeah, there really are a lot of potatoes here).  Or maybe, I just can’t fight that primordial instinct that humans really are pack animals, and we stick with the pack.  I mean, it’s just what we do…unless you’re weird…which I am.

 

But, come December, my host dad moves back home because it’s too cold for him to work until spring.  And, mom is due to have a baby pretty soon.  (On that note, I’m not exactly sure where people go to have babies around my village.  And, I don’t know anything about midwifery [midhusbandry?].  In fact, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night scared to death that it’s going to be time for the thing to fall out and I’m going to be the only one around.  So, I know that a few of you reading this are nurses.  Any words of advice are more than welcome.  I’ll tell you what I know.  There’s something about breathing.  The thing needs to have a cord cut.  Odds are the mother will probably hate me just because I’m standing near her.  And I think I saw a doctor slap the baby once in a movie.  But that’s it.  Seriously, what do I do?)  Now, as the apartment stands, with mom, boy, grandma, grandpa, and me, we are at full capacity.  Add two, and that makes for one awkward feeling.  “Hey guys, don’t mind me.  I’m just going to hang out and take up room that you could be using to be comfortable.”

 

What do I do?  Move out and risk becoming fond of a hermitage to the point of becoming an alcoholic, growing a nasty beard, and writing a manifesto?  Or, stay in the pack, but constantly feel emotions of guilt?

 

[At this point the topic changes without any attempt at segue.]

 

One of the things I’ve found myself thinking about often is me as a little boy.  I wonder what I would have thought of myself, if I had had the ability to see me now, then.  I remember back in the day when I just wanted to be the weatherman, then the garbage man, then back to the weather, then on to sillier things like writing.  Never, really ever, did I imagine that I would be where I am, or dealing with the things I’m dealing with now. I just finished reading this book, and I think it relates to my own situation quite nicely.  It’s non-fiction, but that doesn’t mean that metaphor cannot be read into it.  It’s all about this guy who has this grand idea to walk the Appalachian Trail, and so, without much hesitation (you know, aside from waiting for winter to pass), he sets out to do just that, starting down in Georgia, with every intention of hiking all the way through to Maine.  Needless to say, he, like 90% of the other hikers that start out with intentions of completion, did not end up hiking the entire trail.  But, that’s not to say he didn’t give it a good try.  Anyways, there’s a quote that I really like from it:

 

“All I know is that from time to time I end up a long way from where I want to be.  But it makes life interesting, you know.”

--A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson

Armenian Nights

As many of you know, nightlife is not really something that I get on a regular basis. Really, unless I’m in Yerevan, there isn’t much of what we would call in the states a “nightlife”. But, that’s not to say that there aren’t exciting things that happen at night. So, I’ve decided to sketch out a few nocturnal events that have happened recently. I’ll warn you, this writing is sloppy and lazy, but entertaining none the less.

1.
Wolves! In a daring effort to reclaim the land for nature’s original tenants, a pack of wolves deftly sneaked into the city of Gyumri under the cover of night’s darkness. The citizens of the city awoke to the terrified sounds of cattle being slaughtered and devoured by the hundreds. When morning dawned, a total of 300 head of cattle had had the likes of life removed from their bones, courtesy of countless encounters with the vengeful jaws of relentless wolves, who incidentally turned out to be fairly efficient at what they do. Now, I do not live in Gyumri, but, I don’t live too far away either, and I’m pretty sure we share the same hills, so this news story was topping the headlines of the local news in my town, and I’m fairly sure that this is the first time an urban cow has topped the news since the Chicago fire. So that’s exciting.

2.
This is a true story, and took place in another volunteer’s host family.

So there’s this cow, right? And this family has cared for this cow pretty well, right? Every day the cow is up with the rooster and released from his holding pen to join the other cows just like it as they mindlessly climb up the mountain to graze under an Armenian sun. And usually, they just walk the cattle trails chewing grass as they go. And if they are unlucky enough to be a wanderer, or stupid enough to linger near the dogs, they get a not-so-friendly nip on the ankles to remind them where they belong, both on the terrain and in the hierarchy of intelligence. But this cow, holy cow, this cow was not cut out for humdrummery. This cow was ambitious. What’s more, is that this cow had the amazing subtlety to be able to carry out his ambitions undetected.

Maybe it was the chickens all cooped up adjacent to his pen at night, telling old hens’ tales of days when they were a free-range creature, talking about a mythical potato patch high up in the mountain passes. Or maybe it was just the smell of subterranean spud on the morning breeze. We will never quite know how this noble bovine brain came across the knowledge of a potato patch in the vicinity of the herd. But somehow, he did. And that’s all that’s important. So, when the other cows were mindless chewing the cud that their first stomach was too lazy to digest, and the dogs were all busy showing off for the one human superintendent who would never like them, this cow moseyed on over a few gentle rises in search of a destiny never known by any cow.

The herd moved on, ignorant of his absence, so ignorant, in fact, that none were aware of this departure until the cow didn’t show up at home that night. So, the family decided to wait until morning before sounding any sort of alarm. Maybe the cow was just loafing. But, by the time rooster o’clock rolled around, there was still no cow. So now, the family decides to take to send out a search party. They searched all over, in the churchyard, in the streets, down by the water, anywhere a cow might be. But, alas, no cow was to be found carousing about within the city limits. So, a brief meeting took place, and the family decided to take to the hills. And there, low and behold, was their cow, with a happy low and a content cow grin, laying in the grass stuffed to an extant that told his body that it was better off laying on the ground.

So there was this cow, right? And it had eaten so many potatoes that it couldn’t walk back down the mountain for the evening. In fact, it had eaten so many potatoes that it couldn’t even be coerced into moving with the help and agitation of its family. In essence, this cow had just pulled a Roger Maris. He had broken the single season record for potatoes eaten by one cow. A record formerly held by one of the greatest cow legends in the history of the game. A record no one ever thought to be breakable. So there was this cow, right? And there were these people, determined to not abandon their cow, right? This cow had been a major investment for them, right? So now there’s this problem, right? How do we get the cow down the mountain? (Note to the squeamish: skip ahead to the next story, this ending is not for you.) So there was this axe, right? Then there were a lot of cow pieces, right? Because everyone knows it’s easier to carry small pieces down a mountain is easier than carrying one big, cumbersome piece, right? No other possible solution. Now there is a lot of cow soup. Talk about being put out to pasture…

3.
Necessary vocabulary for this reading:
Counterpart- work associate to whom I am assigned my two-year partnership
Cowboy- what my host uncle calls me because I have a tendency to whistle softly while I think
Dog- a viscous beast that is not to be loved, but kicked, disdained, and feared to the point that many towns have a season to hunt them within city limits, much like deer (assuming deer were viscous)
Tahteek- Armenian word for grandmother (cultural note, usually come with a complimentary moustache)
jan- an ending affixed to names that means sweety

The other night I went over to my counterpart’s house to visit and work on lesson plans for the upcoming week’s lessons. So, we worked, chatted, and coffeed until about 9:30 in the p.m., at which point I decided it was high time for this cowboy to hit the road. However, the sun has begun its annual trend of laziness, and 9:30 is no longer a time deemed worthy of extreme solar luminance. In fact, I’ll be so bold as to say it was dark outside, pitch dark. But, being the forward thinker that I am, in anticipation of the possibility that this meeting was not just going to be a business call, but rather a forced social call that had the potential to last for hours (which it did), before I left my room I stashed a dinky little flashlight in my bag to help light my way home. So, when my counterpart asked me if I wanted her to call my home to send someone to get me since it was so dark, proud of my foresight, I proceeded to pull out my flashlight and declare that I think that somehow I’ll be able to make it home all right. I was then promptly warned to beware of the dogs on the street at night, to which I replied, “It’s ok, I’m an American.”

Off I went, into the night, proud that maybe someone finally understood that I did not come with a warning label advising constant supervision. And oh, how glorious the night was. The beautiful thing about living in a village is that there are no lights. So, when I got to a point on the path where the footing was good enough to not need a light, I turned my light off and turned my eyes upward. Unreal. I tell you what, boy, if I had a dollar for every star I saw, I could bail out Wall Street, and maybe still have enough to independently finance Michael Moore to invent a ludicrous documentary about the causes for its demise. (It just felt like a good place for a jab at Michael Moore. I don’t actually know if this is a project he’s working on, but it seems like the kind of thing he gets uppity about.)

So there I was, taking my time, enjoying the splendor of the skies, taking in a quiet moment that I so desperately needed, when, out of nowhere, a tahteek pops out from behind a rock. “Oooh Scott-jan!” (pronounced skote-jahn) HOLY HELL BATMAN! What’s a tahteek doing out at this hour? More importantly, why are there tahteeks hiding in the rocks? Wait, is this my tahteek? Yes, it is. “Uh, Zeena (tahteek’s name) what are you doing walking around at night?” “Oooh Scott-jan, there’s a dog right there!” At this point, I’ve finally caught my breath from the tahteek ambush, and have turned my light on, expecting to see a rabid carnivore, and ready to reenact an old yeller scene. But, as I should have known, it was nothing more than a 3 month old pup. Someday these unnecessary fears of animals will abate (must I remind you all of Snake Mountain). But, for now, these fears generate grand delusions, and tahteek made sure I was safe. Good old tahteek. She picked up a few rocks and chucked them at the dog, which didn’t move, because the rocks fell well short of their mark. So, Zeena grabbed my shoulders and whisked me away to the safety of our apartment. While being whisked, I asked her, once more, what she was doing walking around at night, and she told me that my counterpart had called her when I left her house, and that it had been so long (reality check: five minutes) that they thought for sure I had fallen and broken my leg. Ahh, to be a five again. One of these days it will be understood by all here that I am an adult.