A Very Short Story

I'm moving tomorrow, and I'm not sure when my next post will come. I don't have internet access where I'm going, but I'm hoping that I'll still be able to get to a city at least once a week. As I am leaving my host family, friends, and everything I've come to know about Armenia, I thought it would be appropriate to write something on the value of saying goodbye. But, an essay or post just didn't cover it. So, I've decided to post a short story I've written on the subject. It is rare that I will post stories or poems that I write on the blog, so if you don't like this genre, I'm sorry. But, tough luck. It's all you get for now. In the famous words of my 92 year old grandmother, "Life's a bitch and then you die." I think that means deal with it. But, she's still kicking, so who knows. Anyways, here it is.

And My Dog

Sometimes the easiest way to say goodbye is when a person leaves too fast to actually say goodbye. Then, if you’re the type of person that would have to say, “I’m no good at goodbyes,” you don’t have to worry. You don’t have to worry if you never know what to say. You don’t have to worry if you know you always cry. You don’t have to worry if you don’t know whether to shake, hug, or something in between. You don’t even have to worry about saying goodbye only to realize that you’re going the same way a little longer. But I don’t think dogs know this.
My dog walks me to school every day. Every morning when I go through the gate, he is on my heel. And as we walk, he paws out a zig-zag pattern of excitement, a non-linear trail of sniffing here, peeing there, and charging after things that move—geese, cats, leaves, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes he will chase down other people walking on the street, but he’ll only do this if he knows I’m watching. He’ll draw a bead on them and then run them down with a chorus of snarls, barks, and snaps. And at some point, he’ll look back at me because he knows he is small; he’ll look back at me to say, “Did you see me being brave? I was brave right there.” And if no one had been hurt or offended, which is usually the case, I will continue walking, trying not to praise this kind of behavior, but secretly being proud of his devotion. And he will come tearing after me with his tongue hanging out and his tail beating furiously. And together we will continue on to school, where I will say goodbye at the door, and he will play outside my window until it’s time to go home.
Today I did not have school. Though I did leave on foot, and in the same direction, and at the same time; I did not have school. My dog did not know this until we stopped just short of the final hill. Here I would wait for the bus, and my dog would sniff the others’ bags on the ground as they waited patiently too, returning to me every so often for a pat down. When the bus finally arrived, I waited until my dog was away at a bag, and slipped into the bus, not knowing how to tell him, “This time I won’t be back.” When my dog returned to where I had once been, his nose hit the dirt and he sniffed his way to the door. I had made it to the back of the bus, and though his two front paws were on the bottom steps, his scanning eyes couldn’t see me through the crowd. The doors closed, the bus pulled away, and he sat in the dirt. And as I was thinking, “It was probably for the best,” my neighbor tapped me on the knee and pointed out the back window over my shoulder. And there was my dog, running as hard as he could, trying to keep up with the bus. And he did for a while. He ran hard for about three fourths of a kilometer. And I watched him. I watched him until the bus rounded a curve. And then he was gone.

In case you were wondering...

I would like to start this entry by formally dedicating it to my habitual readers. Many of you have expressed some interest in knowing what I do on a day-to-day basis, aside from going to class and teaching. Well, as I have neglected to discuss many of these smaller details of my life in Armenia thus far, I would like to take a moment (a.k.a. this entry) to spell out some of the more minute moments of my day that get me by.

1— Get born. Having a birthday party is a great way to pass an evening. I recently had one, and it worked out pretty well. About 15 Americans and 10 Armenians came into town to have what’s called a “khoravats”, or an open-flame barbeque. This type of cooking is pretty standard for any celebration, and my family and I decided it was best to just buck up and have one to celebrate my birth. Great idea, right? I thought so. Anyways, we cooked a bunch of chicken and prepped a bunch of veggie dishes and threw back a bunch of vodka. Although there were many epic moments, I believe the high point of the night was when 16 Americans around the dinner table around about midnight belted out the Start Spangled Banner.

2— Get twisted up. You all know that I have language class everyday for 3.5 hours. Although these are incredibly helpful/important, they have a tendency to get a tad bit tedious. 3.5 hours is a long time for anyone to sit still and be attentive, especially when there is a fabulous view of Snake Mountain (I’ve decided to stick with it…for irony’s sake) right outside the classroom window. So, when I’m not taking notes (98% of class time falls in this category), I have to think about things to keep me from going insane. One thing that has been fairly popular with, well, me, has been to come up with nonsensical tongue twisters in Armenian. I work pretty hard on these in my head, and then, when my teacher calls on me for an answer on whatever it is that she’s talking about, I proudly recite one (much to the pleasure of my classmates…or so I like to think), thereby successfully derailing class for at least ten minutes. I have decided to type the translations of my two favorites here. I would type them in Armenian, but I don’t have the right kind of keyboard, nor can any of you read Armenian…unless you can, and then you would know what they sound like. A: Spicy cat secretary
B: Accountant counts cow-leg soup
Awesome, right? Yeah, I’m mature, I get it.

3— Enter an obscure bet. Jay, a close friend of mine here, and I decided early on that the best thing to do would be to not get a haircut while in country. My last haircut was about the third week in May. Lest one of us should wimp out, or Peace Corps administration should intervene, “Hello August 2010.” It’s the return of the curls.

4—Keep track of obscure English phrases that many think are proper English. Although English classes begin in the third grade here, not many people really know English. (I guess when the Russians were in charge they didn’t take kindly to that kind of talk.) Anyways, even the kids learning English in school seem to know an amalgamation of interesting English phrases. For example, when I walk down the street, I am frequently greeted with a friendly “Hello Moto,” not as a joke, but in sincere belief that that is a proper greeting in the English language, which it is.

5— Influence small children. My family currently has extended relatives that have been staying with us for about two weeks now. The father is away on work, but the mother has three boys: 12, 11, and 2. Although the 12 and 11 year olds are entertaining to watch beat each other up, the 2 year old seems to be my main source of familial entertainment. I have recently taught him to growl like a bear every time he takes a bite of food. It’s pretty awesome. Also, we hunt flies in the house with matching fly swatters. This is entertaining and practical, as 5 pigs and a passel of chickens (and a nameless rooster) live directly below the house, and our 10 goats live in an adjacent pen.

6— Get a dog. My family has a dog named Alex, and he is stellar. I love the little bugger, and wish I could take him with me to my permanent site. But, as I am living in an apartment there, I cannot. So, I have to get all of my dog time in now. However, now is probably a good time to mention the Armenian outlook on dogs. I am the only one in the house who doesn’t kick the dog. This is not to say that they don’t like the dog. But it is to say that their outlook on animal treatment is different. It’s a tough life for Armenian canines. The result of this type of treatment is obedience, but not affection. Because I feed, pet, scratch, and play with the dog, the dog returns affection, and, as of late, protection. I don’t need protection, but Alex has taken it upon himself to walk me everywhere (kind of like Mary’s lamb). However, if he is the lamb to me, then he is the tyger (see William Blake’s “The Lamb” and “The Tyger”) to anyone near me. The result of this is that my host parents have started to tie him to the tree in an effort to prevent him from attacking neighbors, whom he believes intend to do me harm.

7— Get a deadline. After much reflection, I have decided that I need to give myself a deadline in order to ever finish my book. I intend to have a completed manuscript by Spring. As a method of holding myself accountable to this deadline, I have decided to make it publicly known. So, if I do not have a completed manuscript by Spring of 2009, feel free to mail me a brown paper sack of burning fecal matter. Or, if you happen to be in Armenia, just leave it on my doorstep, knock real loud, and run away. I made this resolution about a month ago, and since it’s implementation, I have been fairly productive. So, so far, so good. (60% of the words in the last sentence were identical.) I’m excited at the idea of finally getting it finished, but nervous about sending it off for review. But, stay tuned for an update on that.

If you have any suggestions for day-to-day activities, please leave them in the comments. Also, Allison, shoot me an email with your blog address so that I can find you. These computers won’t let me search.

I Got Really High in Armenia

So, every single day since I have been in Armenia (with the exception of my site visit), when I wake up, I get dressed, eat my breakfast, pack my bag, and step across the threshold of my front door into the cool Armenian morning air. On most occasions (July seeming to be the overwhelming exception), I can still see my breath drift away from me in a relaxed, but confident fashion. And as I watch my breath slowly dissipate into the greater body of air that is the outdoors, my eyes have never been able to help but refocusing on the highest peak of the mountains that cradle my town in their nurturing lap. Every morning, this sight has dominated my vision, regardless of whether it is placed on a backdrop of sunshine, rain, fog, or mist, and every morning I have the same thought. What’s it like on the top?

Because I have a pretty good view of the mountain from my front stoop, I’ve had ample time to study the intricacies of the slopes, saddles, and ridgelines of this particular mountain. And, over time, I’ve been planning my own way up to the top, I say my own way, because people here are deathly afraid of snakes, and the mountain is where snakes are imagined to be. The result of this paranoia, is that much of the mountain illustrates the antithesis of trails.

[Side note on snakes: If the people of Armenia are asked, killer snakes inhabit almost every square foot (should this be in meters?) of land that is not inhabited by people, and the mountain consists of all of said land. In fact, there are so many snakes, that one is lucky to find a patch of ground to tread on that is not seething with venomous motion. What is more, is that these snakes are mad (think Fred Phelps in San Fran). So, even if you manage to pogo your way through the snake-knotted ground, the snakes themselves will actually get together in a meeting (similar to those town hall meetings you hear presidential candidates talk about every four years, you know, full of meaningful questions, little old women dying of something, coal mine workers coughing all over the place, and community leaders talking about some need for jobs) in order to devise a plan more devious/complicated/top secret/intricate than the Manhattan Project, that will result in the downfall of any bi-pedal intruder on their turf (just try and diagram that sentence grammar gurus). They will stalk you for days, only to wait until your most vulnerable moment, and then they’ll strike with a more deadly force than any Shock and Awe, and more surprise than any Tet Offensive. Then, after you’ve been injected with a serum that is a SARS-Anthrax-Polio combination by about a million snakes, the king snake (you know the one that was formed by the powers of five super snakes combining into one mega-tron snake) will unhinge his jaw and swallow you (yes, the entire body of a human) whole. If you have ever seen Anaconda or Python (and if you’ve only seen one, trust me, you’ve seen both, and if you’ve never seen either, know that I envy you) you have seen an example of this. Ahem. If an encyclopedia is asked, you will find that there are very few poisonous snakes in Armenia. And, the only venomous snakes in country live in arid, rocky terrain (a.k.a. the very definition of not where I am right now). But you must be asking, ‘Ok Scott, maybe there aren’t any venomous snakes in them there hills. But, there could still be a lot of snakes, right? And, if there are snakes, they could be pretty big, right? And even if they aren’t venomous, they could still be pretty dangerous, right?’ Well, for all of those curious cats, I have but one response: stay tuned for the report of the snakes encountered in field. Side note FIN]

Welcome back. I believe I left you with my description of the mountain from afar. To quickly recap, pretty steep, lots of bluffs, and a bunch of scrub oaks (those pesky low growing trees that are thicker than any grandmother’s mustache, and harder to get through than War and Peace written in Sanskrit). Now that were back on track…Last Saturday night, I decided that enough was enough. Tomorrow (that would be this past Sunday) was the day I was to make that there mountain my grandmother goat, that is to say, I was going to climb on top of it in order to gain a better perspective. As I was standing on the front step looking at the mountain, I decided it might be a good idea to mention my intentions to my host father, who was enjoying a cigarette with one of our neighbors. Upon hearing my plans, both men proceeded to insist (quite loudly) that I not go because of the killer snakes, whose bellies are at least three feet across (no joke that was the hand motion indication) that run rampant on the mountainside. I kindly thanked them for the warning, and got stubborn. Tomorrow was to be the day.

My buddy Sean (who lives in another training village) came into town to join me on the hike. Although I had decided to be fairly irresponsible about the planning of the hike (not having an actual, map planned route in mind and ignoring the warnings of killer jungle snakes that have taken more muscle growth enhancers than Barry Bonds and Mark McGuire combined…and have military science degrees), my instincts to never go hiking alone would not allow me to fly this one solo. Plus, every Maverick needs his Goose if he wants to do something as legendary as buzzing the tower. Like me, Sean is an Eagle Scout, plus, he spent a couple summers rangering down at Philmont. So, naturally, he made a great hiking companion. Plus, he is one of the better friends I have here.

When he got into town about 10 (a little later than I would have cared to started…but oh well), we topped off our water bottles, bought a Snickers each at the store, and headed for the mountain. Our route, as was determined very much on the fly, was varied for sure. We climbed the lower portions of the mountain by going up creek beds, still very much with water, as a means to cut through the thick brush. I mean, this stuff would have been challenging for a machete. However, after a while, our impatience convinced us to abandon the meandering creeks in favor of a more direct route. Though we were each only dawning flimsy t-shirts, we decided to brave the brush and start to head strait up the hill. Once we got used to being bombarded by the thorns, briars, and webs of branches, this plan was fairly agreeable. However, it was short lived. After about an hour, there were rock walls that we couldn’t seem to get around. At this point, we both looked at each other with the same stare. We had come too far to turn back, and there was no feasible way to go around. So, up we went. The rock wall was only about a 20 ft. (meters aren’t real) climb, but without equipment there were plenty of opportunities to second-guess. But, as I am here, writing this in the past tense, you can assume that we made it out just fine. Once on top, we found ourselves standing upon a vast alluvial fan (rocks that had taken it upon themselves to fall from there greater rock bluffs and slide down the side of a mountain, thereby creating a slope of loose top soil/gravel). Although the ground ahead of us was clear of brush and bluff alike, the grade was incredibly steep. So, we ascended, slowly but surely, sweating in the stern sun.

We could see our goal; only one more strip of scrub oaks (again, really…groan) lay between the final ridgeline and us. We pushed onward and upward. Once we hit the trees, some sort of deraignment had set in, not permitting us to even think about rest. Through the trees and up to the final ridge. At this point, we were Rocky in the midst of a montage. In fact, our monomania seemed to only be disrupted by the stiff wind that let us know that we were on the absolute top of the ridge. Gusts whipped up the far side of the mountain and over the ridge, hitting us with force enough to make our steps falter. In fact, the topsoil on the ridge was so thin because of the wind erosion that the rock was exposed in most places. Summited, we had nothing to do but sit, take in views, and slug away our Snickers each. A Snickers has never tasted so good. We stayed on top for a while, giving our legs a breather, and our eyes an even better breath of the view of Mt. Ararat, Mt. Aragats, and the shores of Lake Sevan, (do a wikipedia search because this post is running too long to tell about them) all in the same place. I got plenty of pictures, and as soon as I can find some decent bandwidth I will get them up online.

After a good rest, we began our descent. All in all, we were gone for about seven hours, hiked about 11 miles, and climbed roughly one mile higher into the sky. As for the field report on actual killer snakes that hate babies and kick dogs, we were able to document an empty set. So, you (as I) will have to keep holding your breath…so much for a mountain made of snakes. And here I was, hoping to be able to name that mother ‘Snake Mountain’. Oh well, another place, another time I suppose. I did manage to get quite a bit of sun, and am now the proud owner of an Armenian sunburn. But, by the time bedtime rolled around, I was only too ready to pass out.

Now, each morning that I wake up, I poke my head through my front door, and look up at that mountain, and I know. I know that I owned that mountain. That mountain (and its maybe snakes) are mine…and Sean’s too I suppose. Also, as my name for the mountain didn’t pan out, I’m taking suggestions. Leave them in the comments.

Still here, no worries

I suppose it has been quite some time since my last post. For this, I apologize. However, because of work related activity, I have not been near a computer with Internet access in a few weeks. But, I’m here now, and your fears of my death can be abandoned. If my memory serves me correctly, my last correspondence was pre-July 4th. So, I would like to wish all those Freedom Lovers out there a happy 4th. I trust that everyone celebrated with an appropriate amount of patriotism. In case you were worried about my American spirit while living overseas, please know that I too celebrated the 4th. The Peace Corps was kind enough to donate $200 to my village for the sole purpose of hosting a 4th of July celebration. While I am supposed to be learning and living another culture, part of my mission is to share my culture while I’m here. Naturally the 4th is a great time to do this. So, the few other trainees living in the village put our heads and energies together to host a killer party. We made American foods (deviled eggs, chips and salsa [no those don’t exist here], chocolate chip cookies, potato salad, etc.) and invited our families and fellow community members (who made even more Armenian foods). We had water balloon tosses and face painting. Despite our best efforts, there were still no fireworks, and for this reason, the 4th of July seemed to come and go for me. It was a bit weird. This is not my first 4th of July living overseas, but for some reason it is the first 4th of July where I felt incredibly disconnected.

This past week has been incredibly new, busy, and exciting for me. If you have been reading my blog for even a little while, you know that even though I have been informed of my permanent site location, quite a bit of mystery has surrounded it, as no one has been there, thus affording me no opportunity to learn about its ins-and-outs, so to speak. (Was that sentence grammatically correct?) However, I can now say that a bit of the dense fog that lay heavy on the identity of my future site has been lifted. I have spent the past week living in my new town on what is appropriately called a “Site Visit”. During this visit, my responsibilities included getting to know a.) my family, b.) my town, and c.) my work.
A.) My new family seems to be incredible. For the first four months of my life in my permanent site, I will be living in an apartment that houses grandpa, grandma, dad, mom, and boy (circa 2001). Two stories up, dad’s brother lives with his wife, and two boys (circa 2005 and 2007). I can say that I feel quite at home. Mom and dad met me in Yerevan and escorted me to the town. Within the first 3.47 seconds of arrival, their son was on my heels with a huge grin, which never left his face for the entirety of my stay. When we got to the apartment, the rest of the family was waiting to welcome me. I quickly learned that my new uncle is a history teacher at one of the schools in which I will be working. That’s great. After a brief introduction to each family member jockeying for position, I was sent into the family room and told to sit down on the couch. This is where I met grandpa. Grandpa is a man of few words, and an abundance of smiles. He was watching soccer, which he told me he was a big fan of. I watched soccer and read. I think grandpa and I are going to get along just fine.
B.) While my current town is mountainous, green, cool (that’s a temperature, not a judgment), and has occasional rain, my new town is flat, green, hot, and dusty dry. But, my family does have a garden within the city. There, they have about 6 apricot trees, a hedge of raspberries, tomatoes, beans, and other things that I’m sure I missed. They also have two cows, a bull, a bunch of chickens, and a little black pig. The pig is not quite as rambunctious as the piglets at my current home, but I still wouldn’t turn my back to it for too long. The town itself doesn’t have too much. There are anywhere between 6,000 people and 10,000 people depending on whom you ask. Despite this population, there is nothing in the way of recreation: no restaurants, bars, youth centers, leisure activities, Internet cafes, etc. So, it looks like I’m going to have to make friends quickly, even though no one in town speaks English. In a way, this is good. Such circumstances will help me build stronger Armenian language skills, as well as focus more attentively on my work.
C.) There are two schools in town, each of which housing grades 1-12. Each building has about 40 teachers. So, for all of you math wizzes out there, I will be working with about 80 teachers in an attempt to help construct new teaching methods and strategies. Currently, the country is going through a nation-wide teacher re-training. So, my schools are scheduled to attend the federally facilitated teacher training sessions in late August. So, I will be going to those almost immediately upon entry into my community. While this might seem to abandon any sort of gentle transition into my workplace, it will serve as a wonderful starting point for the teachers and me. I’m hoping that having this at the very beginning of my work with a new faculty will help create a mutual starting point for both parties concerned. However, there are an infinite number of differences between the current Armenian school system and where it seems to want to go. Now, throw cultural and language barriers into the mix and I’ve got a nice little challenge ahead of me. I know I am going to be busy, and I am excited about it.

My morale seems to be holding up just fine. I have made several wonderful friends in my fellow Peace Corps Trainees, and this helps. The truly tough part will come when we all go our separate ways, bound for our permanent sites. It seems odd that I am looking forward to and dreading the end of training On the one hand, I will be done with redundant and non-applicable meetings, but on the other, I will be leaving everything that I have come to know. My language learning is coming along quite nicely. I passed my midterm in a grand flourish of anticlimactic action. Now, I am continuing to plug away in a second half that seems remarkably similar to the first half. I miss baseball.

There are three generations of goats in my family’s goat pen, and when the oldest generation gets tired and lies down to sleep, the youngest ones climb on top of their backs to eat some of the lower hanging branches of trees and weeds normally out of reach.

Mid-term Exam Tomorrow...

Much has happened over this past week, and I feel as though they can easily be summed up in three simple sections I have entitled: loneliness, marriage, and seemingly obscure holidays. Before I proceed, I feel as though I must provide the disclaimer that although I have begun by presenting some semblance of an organizational pattern, I still reserve the right to type in a tangential fashion. So, don’t think I have forgotten about a topic if I appear to stray off the given topic. Also, now I don’t have to pretend like transitions are important.

LONLINESS :-( [Everyone’s a sucker for an emoticon.]
As many of you know, and some of you don’t, the living arrangements I currently have are only temporary. The village in which I live is only to be my home throughout my training (language classes, cultural classes, and not developing strategies for not dying). Upon completion of my training (mid-August) I will be moving to my permanent assignment. From the moment each of my fellow volunteers accepted their invitations, the country director for Peace Corps has been working hard to finish up our final placements. Last week, the afternoon half of our large group training session was completely devoted to the announcement of our final placements. Allow me to build the suspense for those of you who are currently unimpressed, nonplussed, or otherwise apathetic. Because, like many of you, until I was told that this was a big event, I was unaware that I was supposed to be nervous/anxious/giddy like a schoolgirl.
Upon walking into the training center, we (the trainees that is) were greeted by a big map of Armenia taped off on the floor with masking tape. Each marz (Armenian for state or region) was sectioned off, and the whole thing was humorously denoted as “Not to Scale”…All morning the trainees and the staff were buzzing with excitement and energy. I was still trying to figure out what all the hubbub was. The afternoon was to run as such: everyone stands out in the lobby as each name is read off, marz by marz. As each marz was read, all of the trainees were to go stand in their new home on the LIFE SIZE MAP!!!!! Once there, they were to be greeted by volunteers who are currently serving there and were brought in for the day to tell all of their new best friends all about the grand old time they would all have together forever. Neat. That conversation was supposed to last for two hours. Let’s fast forward to the “Scott Moore” announcement.
Yeah, my name was called! And I’m the first one in my marz to be announced! Cool. Let me just hustle on over to my part of the map. Hey wait, where are the current volunteers to welcome my in their warm and cheery arms? Wait, why are you not calling anyone else’s name? Wait, which marz are you now saying? Wait, that’s not my marz. Um, excuse me, you forgot to name the other people in my marz. What’s that you say? I’m sorry, speak into my good ear. Oh, there aren’t any other volunteers going there? That’s ok…I suppose. I’ll just get to know the volunteers that are already there. What? Oh, there aren’t any of those there either? Wait, there’s never been any there? Cool…Ok then, I’ll just stand over here by myself for a while then
Yup, the rumors are true. Although I can’t tell you the name or location of my town, I can tell you that I’m the only one in my entire state…for two years. I go on a five-day site visit here pretty soon. So, stay tuned for updates on that. I’ll get more detailed information about my next host family and job as a teacher trainer.

MARRIAGE ;-) [Who doesn’t like a good wink?]
The burning question here (as I’m hoping you’re hoping) is: did Scott get so preemptively lonely that he went out and got hitched? No. But wouldn’t that have been dramatic? I’ll see what I can do by next post. But, my host mother’s nephew did get married. And let me tell you. If you want to have a good time, go to an Armenian wedding. I arrived late to the reception because we (the trainees, not the people) had been on a cultural journey to a place named Echimazeen. As you probably know, Armenia is renowned for being the first country to declare Christianity as its national religion. Ever since then, the country has served as the seat for the Armenian Orthodox Church. Makes sense, right? Anyways, Echimazeen is to the Armenian Apostolic Orthodox Church as the Vatican City is to the Catholic Church. And it was pretty impressive. I plan to go back in September when they are having a huge ceremony for the brewing of holy ointment that only happens once every seven years. (This has been an example of a tangent, but you loved it, don’t worry.)
Anyways, I believe we left off with me arriving to the wedding a bit late. When I walked in, everyone had already been there for some time, and most of the eating had taken place. However, they had saved a place at a table for me, with several plates full of food. More importantly, they had saved me two glasses, one for water, and a smaller one for shots. As with American ceremonies of such pomp, many toasts are given throughout the event. However, unlike American tradition, you don’t drink your drink unless a toast is being given…and if you’ll permit one more “however”. However, the sheer number of toasts seems damn near exponential in comparison, plus the only toasting drinks present are vodka and cognac. More or less, this fueled the best part of the wedding, which was traditional dancing. I know that earlier I boasted having learned how to dance, but I now know that I know nothing. It was incredible to say the least. I guess I have two more years to buff up my dancing skills.

SEEMINGLY OBSCURE HOLIDAYS :-D [I promise this will be the last emoticon ever.]
The day after the wedding was a national holiday, the name of which I still don’t know. However, I do know the rules of the holiday, and they are as follows. 1) Throw water on anyone you see. 2) Anyone is fair game if they are outside, regardless of age, sex, or socio-economic status. That’s it. According to a celibate priest (that’s an actual rank in the clergy hierarchy, not a judgment on my part), this holiday has its roots in the pagan times, and was melded together with a holiday celebrated by the church once the country adopted Christianity. But, because of time constraints, I didn’t get a great description of what the holiday now celebrates. And, 70 some years of Communism (school and government sanctioned atheism) in the country more or less purged most knowledge of religious culture from the majority of the communities in the nation. So, no one in my family could really explain it to me either.
But, I do know that there were armies of children roving the streets with and endless supply of water to douche passersby. So, my neighbor, a fellow trainee, armed up with water balloons and buckets and we took to the footbridge in an effort to defend our turf. I hung back about one hundred meters with my camera. The way I saw, if Josh didn’t make it, someone needed to tell his tale. So as he taunted the local ten year olds into a water battle on the bridge (at this point you should be thinking the Jets and the Sharks), I snapped photos. It was intense, and it ended with both of us running for, what at this point felt like, our lives. Fortunately we made it back to my house in time to avoid a thorough drenching. The important part is that we learned several valuable lessons on this day. Next year. Next year these children don’t stand a chance.

The Finer Things and Goats

6/24

Bari galust, faithful readers! Things are going pretty well here. It’s been raining almost everyday. So, our normally clear little river is neither clear nor little, but rather a bit milky with sediment brought down by runoff from the mountains, and swollen like an annoying blister—not enough to pop, but enough to be aware of. Anyways, from what I’ve been reading in e-mails from everyone back home, it pales in comparison to the rivers of Iowa. I think Dan Eigenberg said it best when he wrote the “Iowa seems to be trying its best to return to the sea”. If this is true, I do believe it will be the most ambitious thing that the state of Iowa (or any other land locked state for that matter) has attempted in, at least, the millennium. But, it sounds as if everyone has found a relatively high place to hide out from the rising tides.
I myself have been doing my best to maintain some semblance of normalcy in my life here. I must admit that it feels a bit weird to be this far along in life (which I realize isn’t that far, but stay with me on this), and still be waking up to a mother who insists on packing my lunch for the school day. If only I had a pair of red Reeboks to sport on my walk to school. Yeah I walk to school, got a problem with that? But, if a routine is determined by anything, it is determined by my morning rituals. Every other morning, I go running. I think the old men in the village have started a club to watch the “amerikatsi” cross the bridge at an unusual pace, because every time I go across the bridge in the village “center”, there are always a bunch of old men who are standing with no other intention than to stare. But, as soon as I say good morning, they grow more talkative than a hen house (I’m allowed to use that analogy because we have a hen house, and it’s chatty). I think they take bets on what I now know how to say, because they seem to get a kick out of testing my knowledge as I run past them. I can’t help but think that I am disappointing them so far. However, I think I’ve gained a certain amount of street cred, because today, two of the village boys (circa 1996) were standing at my gate, wanting to go running with me. That’s right, I’m in good with the locals, and may have unintentionally started a running club. However, after observing their performance (although enthusiastic), my suspicions about aerobic exercise not being a part of their culture were confirmed. On the other hand, I recently learned what is part of their culture.
Who here has read Lord of the Flies by Sir William Golding? Who here remembers what the “Lord of the Flies” was? Three nights ago, two friends of mine were invited to a cookout, and guess what greeted them at the gate. Mounted on a large metal pike was a goat fresh goat head. I’ll give you about 10 seconds to figure out where the goat was. I, myself, am jealous, because I have not yet gotten to see this cultural gem. However, I have come close. Yesterday, it was raining pretty hard, and I had been sitting inside reading. All of a sudden, my host dad is calling me to come outside quick. So, fast action Scott grabbed his jacket and went outside. What was discovered will forever be remembered. My host dad grabbed my shoulders and walked me over to the fence and pointed in the neighbor’s yard. There, in the midst of a, now, gentle summer shower, hanging from a tree was a goat, strung up by one hoof. This goat, as it hung, was the most remarkable goat I have ever seen. I guess, if we are to continue the literary analogies, while the afore mentioned goat could be considered the Lord of the Flies, this goat would be known as the Headless Horseman. Although I sincerely doubt that this goat will ever be riding a horse. Let’s go ahead and get out the To Do List and check off “Observe a headless goat mass hanging from a tree”. Great.
On a lighter side, a few of my friends from another village came to visit me this weekend. That was great because I got to play tour guide to my town. I took them on a hike in the mountains with three stops: two churches and one castle ruin. I got some pretty phenomenal pictures, and will try to put some on the site when I get a chance to shrink them down a bit. But, for now, you will just have to use your imaginations (which are probably full of goat blood right about now). Life is good, on the whole. And, as language class progresses, I feel less and less like Helen Keller every day. My one great disappointment is that I still have yet to ride a donkey. But, the way I see it, two years is a long time, and I am determined. Feel free to drop a comment.
Much love.

Cultural Differences, Every Step of the Way

6/16

Well, the rumors are true. I’ve been to dance class, and can now proudly inform you that I can perform two—that’s right, two—Armenian dances. Who’s jealous? If you aren’t, you should be. Dancing over here is pretty important to large social events. However, you cannot simply dance as we do in America, a.k.a. get out there and shake it. Here, physical contact is not emphasized during dancing. In fact, people don’t even face each other. Normally they dance side by side, with pinkies locked, often in a circular pattern or line formation. Regardless, dancing is still pretty fun, especially if you’re that awkward foreigner in the middle of well seasoned dancers…not that I know what that would feel like. I must admit, though, that after dancing for thirty minutes or so in class, I was pretty tired. One of the fundamental concepts (or so it seemed to me) of Armenian dance is that the feet should be off the ground as frequently as possible, and when they are on the ground, they should be light. Needless to say, dancing can be physically taxing at times. But, it felt good to exercise a bit I suppose, which is something that is not heavily emphasized in Armenia. But, it really reminded me of how little I’ve been doing in the ways of activity (beyond walking everywhere). So…(yeah it’s a weak transition, but you’ll just have to deal with shotty segues at this point)
I woke up an hour earlier than usual and strapped on my running shoes. Well, I suppose I woke up two hours earlier than usual thanks to the rooster that lives beneath my bed, but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve been dying to go for a run, but as afore mentioned, exercise is not a concept present in Armenia. Sure, they have gyms in larger towns/cities, but I don’t live in said location(s). So, running in public, as I was informed by my trainers (academic, not athletic), is an activity that is sure to draw stares, or at the very least, gossip among the huddles of corner-talking men and women. But, I was dying. I haven’t had as much energy lately, and I attributed this to the lack of exercise I have been getting (or not getting) in Armenia. So I decided to be bold. The way I saw it, I have been living in my village for about two weeks now, and everyone here either knows me, or knows about me. Let’s be honest, I don’t exactly blend in…yet. I formulated a plan that, in my mind, was sure to smooth things over. I would leave my headphones at home in order to hear people if they spoke to me, and I would make a conscious effort to say hello/good morning to ever person I passed on the street (which is customary anyways—think small town mid-west). I figured that if I did this, even if my actions looked a bit weird, I could soften them through brief moments of interpersonal communication. And let’s face it, who doesn’t like to get interpersonal every now and then? Right?
Well, for the cynics in the crowd who are waiting to hear me drop the “boy did that plan fail miserably” bomb, I’m sorry to inform you that your sinister outlook will only be partially sated. On the whole, my plan was successful. Although most people I passed gawked at me with an expression that seemed to beg, “where are you running to, and why are you running”, their tumult of confused emotions was calmed when I greeted them in passing. However, for about 20% of the people I passed, my Armenian greeting only seemed to be fertilizer to their growing seeds of bewilderment. Now, not only was some crazy American running to an undisclosed destination for an unknown purpose, but he was greeting them in their language. Weird, I know. But, I felt great after my run, so that’s good. I’m hoping that in time this will become more normal for all parties involved. But as for now, I suppose I have to be content having gorgeous morning runs along the river that tumbles through pastures and over stones in our picturesque mountains. Darn. Speaking of exercise…
The other night, I had a great opportunity to exercise my current knowledge of Armenian party etiquette (yeah, the transitions just keep getting better). My neighbor’s son just got back from his two-year, mandatory service in the military. So, of course that means you have to slaughter an entire cow in your basement. No joke, no exaggeration. The day before the party my neighbor brought me over to his home and took me down in the basement to show me party preparations, and amid the cases and cases of vodka bottles (which I thought to be a bit excessive) and cartons of vegetables, were tidy little piles of cow, ripe and ready for cooking. I don’t eat beef, but I couldn’t help but think that this was cool. Anyways, the party was out in the family’s garden, and there must have been 75 people there. I quickly realized that the number of bottles of vodka that were purchased for the party had not been purchased in excess. Needless to say, I did not even pretend to be able to keep up with anyone sitting at the elongated feasting table. But, despite the consumption of booze, I couldn’t shake a slight feeling of being at a middle school dance. Although men and women were both present at the party, there was a distinct table for men, and a distinct table for women. Not once during the night did either table interact with the one another, nor did the women’s table consume alcohol. Sorry women, you can’t do that in public. But, I think everyone had a good time.
The next morning I got up at 7 and went to a neighboring village for a fellow volunteer’s birthday. It was good to meet up for the birthday, as many of the volunteers I have become good friends with were there. But now, it’s back to school, six days a week…
I’m really digging life right now. There have been thunderstorms about every other night here, which makes for good sleeping. Now, if I can only find a recipe for rooster stew…

Much love