Public Shame=Productivity

Well, I seem to have finally kicked this nasty habit of taking transatlantic flights, and can once again call myself a resident of Armenia. My trip back to the states had its pluses and minuses. On the one hand I got to see my family and several good friends, eat some good food, and recharge my battery. But, obviously the necessity for the trip was not a happy one, and forcing myself to readjust to an American way of life was exponentially harder than I could have ever anticipated. But, I’m back in action in Armenia, which is good news for you, the reader, because it means that there are new and exciting things to catch up on…or be indifferent about. You choose.

My return trip to Armenia via five different airports was fairly uneventful until I reached my final destination of Yerevan. It always seems that the worst parts of a trip happen when you are the most tired. So, true to suit, instead of just being able to go crash (at that point I had been in travel mode for 36 hours), I had to deal with the public shame of having my bag stand me up. As I stood at the baggage claim I had to watch all the other travelers as they were joyfully reunited with their luggage, while I slowly came to the realization that my bag had decided to ditch me in lieu of an extended European vacation. I’m pretty sure it took its own sweet time in a certain Parisian airport. So, feeling like an ug-o waiting for a blind date to not show, I gave up all hope and decided to leave the airport, but the customs agent had other thoughts on the matter. Apparently, he didn’t want to let me into the country because he believed that I look nothing like my passport photo…which was taken in February. I suppose I’ve lost a bit of weight, but I still don’t think it gave him the right to call his buddies over from all the other booths to look at my photo and then look at me and laugh, only to repeat the process multiple times. However, I think he was pretty embarrassed when I told him (in Armenian) that he was shaming himself by acting like an immature little boy. He promptly apologized and said that he didn’t think I could speak Armenian…I maintain that he just didn’t think.

I managed to get out of the airport and into the city around 10 pm, and then went to the only hostel in Yerevan and crashed. The next morning we had meetings all day at the office, so that was neat… The plus side to this was that all the volunteers were in Yerevan for the weekend, so I got to see my friends upon my return to the country, which made the transition back a little easier. But, eventually, we all said our goodbyes and I hopped on the train and went my own way…which seems to be what I do best.

When I got back to my village on Sunday (don’t worry, the airline got my bag back before I left the city…but I had to pay a 5000 dram fine since they lost it…oh business sense, what are you?). Anyways, when I got off the train in my village, there was a sizeable group of Armenians waiting for me at the station, which was odd, because usually it’s just my grandpa and my little brother. Apparently the people in my town had set up a commemorative slaughter for the memory of my grandmother. So, it felt pretty good to know that my village was there to support me. In fact, it was the first time that I really felt like the village had reached out to me to include me in the parameters of the village. Their normal standing operating procedure is to point out all the ways that I am different from them (aka every thing about me), and how those differences make me wrong (says scott, ‘thanks’).

The next day, I went back to work at the school, where I have been every day since. I only work at the schools in the mornings (about 20 hrs a week), but in the afternoons I teach myself Armenian, economics, and read. Soon I will begin my “secondary project”, which amounts to nothing less spectacular than an English club. But, right now I spend quite a bit of afternoon time helping my family get ready for winter. Because I am a man (I’m talking Y chromosome baby), I’m prohibited from helping with things like preserving or pickling, but I do get to hit things with an axe! My family recently had 6 cubic meters of wood delivered to their garden in log form. In case you were wondering, 6 cubic meters is the metric measurement for what we in the states call a “shit ton”. So, since my host dad works in another town, and my grandpa is not exactly able to lift an axe with much might, I’ve decided to help out with this. It gives me a bit of socially acceptable exercise, and after a day of school, it’s fairly cathartic to split things apart with brute force and a sharp object. But, today my progress in the quickly diminishing pile was halted when my American brawn became too much for the axe. I felt kind of like a jerk when the axe head broke off in a log. I mean, here I was destroying the family’s only tool that would help keep them warm in the approaching villainous winter. But my uncle came over and said it was no big deal, that they had another axe in the shed. I said something like oh that’s great. You know? Really meaning that’s great. I felt like less of a jerk. But then I thought to myself, if you’ve had two axes this whole time, why haven’t we both been doing this…whatever.

I think this Sunday I’m going to help my uncle dig a 70 meter irrigation ditch and lay the pipe in and then fill it back in. We started the planning for it before I took off for the states for the funeral, and we want to get it done before it starts getting cold. Plus, they just tore out all of the tomato and pepper plants that were refusing to grow in their garden, and now they have four new apple trees in their place, and they need the water. Again, with winter just around the corner, it is important for them to be able to firmly establish themselves in the earth before frost sets in. So, I suppose it can’t help to lay the pipe quickly.

The News Meets the Booze Meets the Snooze

Well I suppose it’s only fair that I admit right off the bat that I am having trouble finding something worthy of writing about. If I try to write about anything topical, odds are 100% (which aren’t really odds at all but rather a certainty…) that whatever it is that I have said has already been said at least three days ago, thereby making my comments stale and obsolete. So, I have tried to turn to my classic standby for blogging, which is to write about some new experience in my life. But alas, I have nothing. Well, that’s a lie. I’m sure that I have plenty to say on the subject of new cultural experiences, but at the moment (and please note that by “moment” I mean the past week, as I’ve been trying desperately to conjure up an idea worthy of extended pontification via blog post) I have very little. So I’m going to do my very best to talk on things both “topical” and cultural in this post, because let’s be honest, campaign season is always ripe for commentary, and Armenia is always sure to provide some interesting stories. So, if you don’t like one, just skim through until you find the other, I’m sure there’ll be something you like here. I mean let’s be honest, it’s me writing about me and/or my opinions, and I’m kick ass.

Topical is only an r away from paradise

John McCain selected Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate, so that is what it is. She seems to be a good selection for the GOP, as she is someone who supports all the things a grand ol’ member of the grand ol’ party should, a.k.a. pro-life, the 2nd amendment, “stickin’ to those good ol’ fashioned values”, maintaining the nuclear family at all costs, and making Marker’s Mark the drink of choice at the Republican National Convention for the second convention in a row. She is from small town Alaska, and that seems to jive well with McCain’s stance on drilling domestically, and her pro-life position seems to jive well with the dying supreme court justices. Also, I think it’s necessary to have at least one person on the ticket that is in support of living, as Johnny is only breaths away from epitomizing the opposite. I guess it seems a bit nerve racking casting a vote for the oldest person to run for a first term in the history of the U. S. of A….oh did I mention he has skin cancer…I guess I can’t help but wonder who a vote for McCain is for? Why doesn’t Palin just go ahead and run? Speaking of pro-life, isn’t it neat that she gets to demonstrate her stance on the subject with her own daughter? Way to go Levi, you really married into the right family…oh, what’s that? You’re not married…wow, now I feel silly. What’s that? You’re the first baby daddy to be on a campaign trail? Well, I suppose that’s the only thing this campaign season is missing…on both sides.

Obama performed as usual, stirring up excitement in a crowd drunk on idealism. Is that a bad thing? Not necessarily, ideals are what drive a nation to move forward, to persevere. But, the thing about an ideal is often times it is the moon you shoot for only to land among the stars. Cliché? Sure. But the point is that the ideal is something that you aim for, only to not achieve it and end up somewhere else unanticipated. Now, saying that you will land among the stars is a positive way to spin the scenario, but I implore you to remember that a star is nothing but a ball of searing hot, burning gas, and for the life of me, I can’t remember NASA ever intentionally making a mission to land on a star. I hear the sun is hot this time of year. I guess what I’m getting at, is that this whole campaign would be easier to get behind if it had some sort of concrete element behind it. Also, there is another major player in the realm of international politics who is known for being an idealist: Vladimir Putin, and let’s be honest, if he could dress every citizen of mother Russia in the stylish gray and red uniforms that were only too popular 17 years ago, I’m sure he would. I hear his favorite song is track one off The Beatles White Album.

Basically what it boils down to is that this campaign season has done nothing but reaffirm my decision to be a bleeding independent. Less pedantically (and let’s be honest, that was not pedantic in the least, but I feel like every political commentary, shotty as it may be, needs to use the word pedantically, and that was as good a place as any), I think that a bipartisan system has no opportunity to be anything but silly when both parties are inherently silly. Whoa. Calm down. Take a breath you GOP’s and Donkeys, I am not saying that the candidates are silly. In fact, I believe just the opposite. I think that the U.S. of A. is very lucky this election season, in that both tickets have an incredible amount of integrity running. Has McCain voted with Bush 90% of the time? Yes, but the difference is he can spell his own name. Evidence, he doesn’t have to go by his initial. Has Obama had a brief and unrevealing political career? Yes, but given the situation in Washington right now, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. Is that sad, maybe, but it might be true also. That said, I know who I’m voting for, and depending on who you are, I will give you a hard time about who you are voting for just to get your goat. So if I’ve been pro Obama with you, it’s probably because I know you’re voting for Palin. And if I’ve been pro McCain, it’s probably because I know you like to plan holidays to the sun. I like to go into the booth knowing that no one knows who I’m voting for. I’ve found this is the easiest way to avoid unwanted shankings upon exiting the booth.

Moving on to the cultural…

I had an interesting conversation with my grandfather the other evening. We were discussing the value of learning a language, and we came to the general consensus that the more languages you know, the richer you are. He maintains (and I think it’s right mostly…) that if you know a language, you know a people, and that is a very valuable thing. After he said that, I didn’t really know what to say. After all, that’s not exactly something that begs a response. So, I did what I do best here, which is to sit and say nothing. And as he watched me “think”, he expanded on the different languages he knows. He said that if he wants to speak Chinese, all he has to do is drink two bottles of vodka. He then sad that if he wants to speak Georgian, all he has to do is put an entire hot potato (note the spelling Quail) in his mouth. Then he went on to say that Armenian was the most beautiful language in the world. And I must admit, there is a certain beauty to it. But I’m not sure how it stacks up against Sanskrit. I’ve heard that sounds gorgeous…also, later in the conversation my grandpa threatened to cut the head off of anyone who threw rocks at me while I run. It’s nice to know someone’s got my back.

This past week was the fist week of school. September 1st marks the first day of school for the entire country of Armenia, and let me tell you, it was something. I remember waking up on my first day of work buzzing with an internal excitement that rivaled that of the 6 year old children going to school for their first day. I was finally going to see how these schools worked. I walked to school with my books packed up and my shoes tied tight (Billy Madison don’t sue me), not really knowing what to expect. And when I got to school and walked in the teachers’ lounge, I must say, I was glad I didn’t come with a closed mind. There on the table sat several bottles of cognac and champagne, accompanied with boxes of chocolate. Needless to say, I think if we had been teaching in the states we all would have lost our jobs within 5 minutes. But we aren’t, and we didn’t. I must admit, I was a bit uncomfortable with the presence of booze in school, especially when it was the principal (remember, the principal is my pal, ah timeless spelling adages) who was “encouraging” me to take shots. But, after the first week (that’s right, so far there have been fresh bottles every day) I like to think of these things as teaching accessories. When in Rome I suppose…please don’t think that teachers get drunk at work. They merely take a few tasteful shots before/during the day…I don’t get it. Work is going well, however. Right now it’s slow, but I’m hoping things will pick up as I begin to plan my teacher training workshops for the entire teaching community. But, I don’t want to get into this too much, as I don’t really know too much about it yet. I promise I’ll fully explore every aspect of my work in a later post. As for now, I still need to experience.

This is the snooze
I debated heavily on whether or not to release this, as it makes the possibility to change it difficult. But, I’m pretty content with it for now. Also, I’d like to say shame on you for scrolling to the end if you have skipped the entire article just to read the big snooze. However, if you are here only after a patient reading of the above nonsense, congratulations, I suppose I owe you some sort of hair ribbon or maybe a stale hard candy prize next time I see you. Anyways…I’d like to announce the title of my book: Waking. What a let down, I know. Where are the bells and whistles? I don’t know. But, I put a lot of thought into it (no shit Sherlock) and I’d like to think that it highlights a nice little duality that the story works hard to expose, and probably does a poor job of it. So, as Hans Solo always said about the wookie sitting on a chair, “Chew on it.” Somebody punch me hard for that.

Conrad Meets Paris, Patraeus, and CNN...OMG!!!

FORWARD: I realize that some of this stuff is now outdated… a bit, but I just got to a computer and didn’t feel like changing anything. So, deal with it. When it was written, it was topical, so now it’s just like a time machine.

Living abroad has its difficulties. I can’t precisely communicate my thoughts in this language yet, meaning, I can only communicate through approximations. I don’t have the immediate comfort and support of my close friends and family. My joys, like my disappointments, are things I must deal with in solitude. I now live in a place that only has running water for about two hours every two or three days (yeah, I get it, the implication here is that I probably smell, as showers and laundry are luxuries). And, I wasn’t home when one of my best friends died.

But, living abroad also has its benefits. Sure, you can insert things here like gaining a global perspective, understanding a new culture, or meeting different types of people, and you would be correct. These are all pluses, so to speak, of living abroad. But, thus far, the biggest benefit to living in a culture, more or less, completely dissimilar to my own, is a better understanding of my native culture. If you have read Joseph Conrad, my situation is vaguely similar. Joe wrote books that examined the British Empire (usually not too favorably). But, one of the reasons his insight was so significant, was that he was able to write about Britain from an outsider’s perspective, while everyone in Great Britain thought he was a grand ol’, tea lovin’, Brit. In reality, he was polish. (He took a new name when he moved to England so that he could blend in/get published, kind of like George Eliot pretending to be a man, or me pretending to be intelligent.)

However, unlike Joey, I am not pretending to be a U.S. citizen to gain readership and/or credibility (trust me, I was born and bred a freedom lover). And, unlike bro-seph, my intentions here are not to criticize the United States, although early November might afford me that opportunity, and I do in fact lightly critique certain aspects of the culture later…stay tuned America. But, like Jo-Co, I am privileged enough to have the unique experience of being both inside of and outside of the same culture simultaneously. Oh to live and breath a paradox…(don’t try to understand, it’s too deep, like an ocean trench, I get it because I’m intelligent and I’ll tell you that anytime you want (or don’t want) me to…like right now. I’m smart. And a paradox. A smart paradox? Maybe it’s a paradox that I am and I am smart…) More or less, this has been a classic Scott Moore circumlocution, but, to summarize, living overseas has given me an opportunity to see my culture in a new light, a light that I believe to be more focused, while at the same time, less filtered?

Although I have neither interactions with Americans or access to the internet where I live (the irony here is that this is published on the internet, but let’s not get hung up on that…we’ll just put it in our box of paradoxes (and subsequent rhymes) and forget about it until time brings about its decay…like nuclear waste in the American South West), I am still able to learn about my own culture simply by not being in it. At this point, I could begin to expound on grand conceptions of global communities and international humanity and blah blah blah. Go read Mitch Albom if you want to hear about that…and waste $15 on a book. If you’ve been reading my stuff for a while, you know that’s not the cut of my jig. Plus, we all know I’m not anywhere close to being one of the five people you’ll meet in heaven. At this point, I’m still crossing my fingers for an admissions ticket. But…I do want to touch on a few things on my mind about the good ol’ U.S. of A.

1—Paris says the Cold War is HOT!!!
Ok, so Paris Hilton didn’t really say that. In fact, she probably doesn’t even know what the Cold War was…or should I say IS. (Dramatic music should be playing in your minds right now. I’m thinking Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana.) That’s right folks. Things with the Russians (or as Charlton Heston would call them, damn dirty apes…sorry Allison/Russia fans) are heating up. Here’s the way I see it:

—Fade in—
Georgia: Take off Russia. South Ossetia’s our turf.
Russia: Take off Georgia. Stalin designed this system…kind of, and it kicks ass and we’re keepin’ it.
Georgia: Whatever. We’ll just declare war.
Russia: Well, we won’t declare war, but we will bomb the hell out of you.
(IRONY BREAK!!! Russia doesn’t declare war, but does lots of damage to Georgia. Georgia does declare war, but just gets damaged. Hmm…)
USA: Go Georgia!
Russia: Ugh. These guys again. Go away USA.
E.U.: Go Georgia!
Russia: What is with these people?!
Georgia: G-funk step to this I dare ya!
Olympics: Hey, what’s going on back there? Do I have to pull this car over?
Georgia + Russia: Nothing mom…
USA: Hey Poland, you’re lookin’ good. How’s about lettin’ me put some missile defenses in your neighborhood
Poland: Hey yourself there cutie. Stop on by.
Russia: Whoa, whoa, whoa, I thought we were cool Poland.
Poland: Oh…uh, hey. See the thing is…
Russia: But what about Warsaw? And those summers on the Black Sea? Was that nothing to you?
Poland: I found a new man.
Russia: Whatever. Hey Syria. You wanna piss off my parents?
Syria: Hells yeah baby.
Georgia: Hey. Wait. This was supposed to be about me.
South Ossetia: Can’t you all just leave me alone?
Georgia + Russia: Who are you again?
USA: (Texan giggle)
Russia: What’s so funny?
USA: Now we get to finish what we started…but this time it’s nuclear baby.
—Scene—

Sound familiar? Just as soon as we seem to be making significant headway towards pulling out of an insane “finish what we started” mission in Iraq, we are once again, laying plans (or so it seems) to finish what we started. What, do we have a quota that constantly needs to be sated? I realize that they’re only missile “defense” systems, not actually aimed at anyone, just there for the protection of the heartland. And don’t get me wrong, I’m all about protecting the heartland. But still, this sends a message to a very scary, very smart, and very freedom-hating Putin (let’s be honest, he’s never going to not be in charge over in his neck of the woods). So let me be the first to overreact and welcome in the newest Hollywood blockbuster, Cold War Part Deux, tagline—This we finish what Sputnik started. Speaking of Iraq, that leads me to point deux.

2—War and Peace, together at last, Tolstoy please don’t sue me.
General Patraeus said something in an interview about leaving Iraq on CNN the other day (I do get CNN World Wide here, so take that for what it’s worth) that caught my attention. “Our biggest mission is to make things sustainable, and the easiest way for me to see how to do this is to follow advice given to me by General Casey, and ‘walk a mile in their shoes’.” Ok, so maybe he’s not a masterful rhetorician, but I take this to mean that as he is making efforts to withdraw from Iraq, he is at least trying to look at things, not as an American, but as an Iraqi citizen. By doing so, I believe he hopes to see problems that will face them (remember, it’s their country…), and in this way, preemptively strike them (nice right?) as a way to make the progress made thus far sustainable, not just set the scene for destruction in the vacuum created by the exodus of American troops (think balance of power disaster, Europe, post Dubaya Dubaya One).

And, like any rational person, I can’t think that this is a bad strategy. Way to go. But, go ahead and ask me, hey Scott, why is this seemingly mundane comment (and although heartfelt, it was mundane) so interesting to you? Well, I sure am glad you asked. You see, there are a few things that the Peace Corps stresses in every aspect of its operation, and perhaps the biggest point (and one spelled out by JFK himself in the original conception of the Peace Corps) is that all jobs undertaken by volunteers should be sustainable upon the departure of the volunteer. In other words, what good is done by someone who makes changes, if said changes can’t be maintained and independently progress on their own once the person leaves? But, the Peace Corps does this through what they call “grass roots efforts”, meaning that they work from the very bottom up. As for Iraq, it was pretty much a top down operation of shocking and awing the party in power out of power. And, what the hell, let’s throw in a little bit of statue toppling and spider-hole news breaks to kick it up a notch. I’m not saying one way is right, and one way is wrong. I’m not saying one way is good and the other way is bad. I just think it’s interesting that both methods have such similar end goals and dissimilar means…only in America, eh?

3—Putting the CNNicism back in the news where it belongs
So my final comment on what I see about American culture comes from my only source of direct exposure to American culture, CNN. I wish I had the technical savvy to make this whole section appear on a crawl bar or something, but I don’t, so use your imaginations. I was watching CNN the other morning while I ate my runny boiled eggs and bread breakfast and there were two things that I saw that I really feel describe America today. The first came in the form of a plug for a segment on party convention coverage. Now normally, I would love to paraphrase to put my own twist on things, but I feel that a direct quote is absurd enough. “You can count on CNN to bring you two full weeks of Olympic sized coverage of these conventions.” Please stop reading, go back, and read that quote again. Ok, welcome back. First let me say, THANK GOD. How could I ever hope to know what the hell is going on in the elections of the free world (I told you I was a freedom-lover) unless CNN was to cover the conventions with “Olympic sized coverage”. Really? Is this really what the media intends to spin our elections into? I, for one, am happy to know that the elections are no longer seen by mass media as political debate, commentary, and reform, but rather as a large scale sporting event. Sure the presidential election only happens once every four years, but can’t the similarities stop there? Nope, let’s make it into a mini-series, no, a made-for-tv-drama, no, a grand ol’ oprey show if you will…I swear, if they make me stay tuned to see who shot JR I’m going to freak out. I’m still waiting to see who shot JFK.

The second gripe I have with American culture, as reported on, and documented for all eternity, by CNN, ring master of afore mentioned circus spectacular, was a feature piece on ‘Barack Obama’s vice-presidential selection’. Naturally, I assumed that with a headline like that, the topic would be about Barack Obama’s vice-presidential selection. What the hell was I thinking? The entire thing was about Obama’s intention to announce his v.p. running mate, drum roll please, via text message. WHAT?! What the hell has this world come to where the candidates are now making major political announcements via text message? The next thing you know, we’ll see the state of the union address written out on the crawler in Time’s Square with nothing more than emoticons and crappy acronyms like: Sustainability, now, in Iraq makes me lmao…which means laugh my ass off…but more importantly, it’s an anagram for lamo. That’s right. I said it. Lamo. Shame on you CNN. Shame on you Barack. Shame on you text messaging. Shame on me for ranting.

Also, to go on the record, I have lost the hair bet…my new site is too hot for a natural sock hat in August.

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.