Woke Up, Chiaroscuro Morning

This morning deserves a few words. It's 11:22 and I've already been up for 6 hours and counting. I can't say it was the smartest idea to catclaw out of bed at 4:45 am, but it certainly was beautiful. As I blindly pulled on shorts, wearily weasled my perma-dirt covered feet into dustier and dirtier sneakers, I sat on the living room floor tempting my eyes to stay open with early morning CNN. There was no light in the sky- just glow of the city. It's a glow not at all like NY, there's nothing "bright lights" about it, no "tripping the light fantastic" in Yerevan. The night light of Yerevan is more akin to the smoky, faded puffs of yellow that slither through the small crack under the door. Running up to the Cascade, face flush to the floor, trying to peer under the door, I can't see much. In the lowlight, the potential for imagination to carry aaway and kidnap reason in great. I was glad to be joined by fellow nightriders at the base of the monument.

We climbed. We arrived. We sat at the top of the monument, lying around waiting for the elusive sunrise. While we spend all day at internet-equipped internships, a few clicks away from finding out the exact minute the sun surges up past Mama Armenia, none of us knew exactly when that beast would rise. We didn't want to risk missing it. A miscalculation of an hour or so had us sprawled on the ledge waiting for the sky to warm. We spit out words in spurts like popping gum or tapping pens. For the most part, it was silent.

And finally, on her schedule, certainly not ours, the sky hit an apex of beauty. We turned around and saw the moon on our right, our Ararat to the left. A sky that grew in gradation from pale yellow to pink to blue. The sun pushing the color palate deeper.

I'm a little tired now. But hey, did you know that a young, robust supreme court judge was hospitalized in Maine last night and a robbery gone wrong left three dead? Not only was this morning beautiful, but thanks to the CNN newsbrief that repeats on the half hour, decidedly informative.

Certain that a cup of MacCoffee and Anderson Cooper can eradicate exhaustion,

Samantha

Everywhere in Armena, the Crowd Cheers On

Last Wednesday, as previously mentioned, I attended a soccer match between Hayastan’s Pyunik (translation: phoenix, how poetic) and Derry. What I failed to mention was the unbelievable number of men at the event. I mean, I get it. Boys like sports; this is a general assumption similar to many others such as: housewives like vacuuming and fathers like leaning back in a chair after dinner and undoing a few links from their belt. If I were to continue, I’d say all Irish have perfected the car bomb (I’m talking in the bar, not on the streets) and all Greeks have whole lambs marinating in their basement fridges (I confess, this last one may be closer than not to the truth.) Suffice it to say, I was still surprised when I got to the stadium and looked around to find myself one of only a handful of women at the event. I cheered louder to compensate.

Last Friday, we snuck out of our Havak on “Economic Development and The Diasporan Factor,” to attend a reading hosted by Setta’s Women’s Center. As we shuffled, shucked and slid our way into the crowded back room at The Club, we noticed nothing particularly unique about the setting. A bunch of people crowded into one room, chattering away. Add a little haygagan surjch (Armenian coffee) and it’d look like any other restaurant and café around. Ah, but here’s the rub: the room was filled with women reading their literary creations out loud, en haut-voix, bartsiats-tsyn. In Armenian, in English, in French. The women formed a vortex of words as they passed a talking wand around the room. What a feminine space-dominating with words- how contrary to my every day assumptions. The applause at the end rattled the room, cornered the few men observing on the periphery.

This is what it’s been like here, lately. Lot’s of surprises. Most of them pleasant. We are sneaking away, in mouse steps and pirouettes, from the tourist reality. Cab rides are getting cheaper as our Armenian improves. Haggling makes more sense. Yesterday, a Shark’s Tale was on T.V. in English- that was pleasant, too.

Placing cornerstones from the ATDA office,

Samantha

I'll End with Etimology

Last night I had the long awaited meeting with a representative from the field hockey league here in Armenia. There are 11 teams, two of which play in Yerevan. There is a girl's league and a men's league. This meeting was a triumphant moment. So triumphant, in fact, that few things bothered me at all. I didn't care that the grass in Republic Square was being watered by a level 5 rapid-strength stream of water (so Armenians have the tendency to use as much water as they can during the six hours of flowing water a day, so they choose to water he grass in the blazing sun). I didn't care at all that the air stood still last night as I lay in my twin sized bed with Looney Tunes sheets, a big plastic yellow moon glowing eerily above my head. I had found field hockey in Armenia- the attainment of a month long goal. Triumphant.

Other triumphs: Hayastan beat Derry in a Champion's league soccer match last night. Armenians love when their team wins. I understood my landlady when she called to ask what time I would be coming home from work yesterday evening (i told her five because i couldn't figure out how to say 5:30 on demand).

Now, the words: In Armenian, Khoti Hoki is the transliterated translation for grass (or field) hockey.

I don't know about your ears, but every time I hear someone say Khoti Hoki, my mind begins to make connections. For example, doesn't Khoti Hoki sound an awful lot like hottie hockey. Do a little switcharoo and you've got a hockey hottie!

The subtitlies of languages here are constantly tricking me into thinking that I'm hearing english when someone's speaking armenian, french when someone's speaking russian. I go bonkers. But this is one slippery language slope i'm happy to slide right down.

To all the hockey hotties playing khoti hoki in Armenia. I can't wait.

Samantha

photos from the weekend

Dear Friends,

Here are some of the shots from this weekend's jaunt. There are many faces, fewer places than before. Shushi and all of Karabakh was about the people. I don't think that it has ever been any other way.

Enjoy.


http://oberlin.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2022231&l=b6a35&id=4300033

(copy & paste action required)


All my love,

Sam

For Friday's Sake- what didn't get said.

Looking out the window last night, totally kusht (full) from a dinner made by friends, I saw homogenous Armenia at its finest. Windows open to let in the damp air of after-rain, my eyes scanned the apartment building parallel to our friends' flat. I looked over and saw a few good men, one watching t.v., another tidying a bookshelf. They looked like fair and fine Armenians. And, if there was any chance of my questioning their heritage, it flew out that open window the moment I noticed that they were dressed in identical shirts. Same black and gray vertical stripes paired with a polyester collar and elastic arm bands. Classic and classy Armenia.



Armenia is diverse in similarities. There are stone monasteries carved out of cliffs peppering the countryside by the dozen, there are more white and boxy Soviet Ladas than I can count driving by our office every hour. I have eaten more khatchapuri than I care to count and my hair is getting redder from all these tomatoes. There is comfort in consistency, yes. However, tedium drives many to extremes. Currently, I am living on the extreme end of sensory consumption. I am constantly looking around like an infant ogling at his first flash of green, a toddler who just discovered the alluring incline of stairs.


More on this later.

Best regards from 12 Amiryan Apt.54,

Samantha

Ever the Observer

Yesterday was something of a study in indulgence. After a meeting with the deputy mayor, (I must qualify “meeting”: late middle-aged man telling us how glad he was that we were here to meet him, how we had the ability to see Yerevan through outside and observant eyes, how he had so enjoyed meeting the AAA interns last year. Primed with questions and curiosities about the status of Yerevan City we stood. At the end of his speech, he bid us an enjoyable visit to the museum on the second floor and sent us on our way. The moment where he asked if we had any questions, if we had uncovered any fraudulent activity going on in the city, if we had discovered a solution to the small apricot harvest this year, must have been lost in translation), we were a bit deflated.

We found a solution. We used our observing outsider eyes for personal pursuits. Walking down Tumanian St., we observed L’Orange, a “cafeteria and bar” near the famous schwarma eatery. After eyeing the menu, we observed the cornucopia of choice desserts situated behind a big, glass panel. In observance of the hour (5 pm) and our stomachs (empty), I ordered something delicious with apples and whipped cream. There was also tiramisu, magia mocco and black forest cake on the table. In quiet observation, we sat and ate our decadent desserts, proud to have put our observational skills to use.

My eye on you from the ATDA office,

Samantha

Encounters with Octogenarian Athletes

I was reaching the midpoint in my run- the last few stairs until the plateau giving way to a panoramic view of Mt. Ararat and all of Yerevan. I wondered if I would be able to see Ararat clearly today, if her peaks would cut through the morning haze. I pumped my arms, climbing higher, full of anticipation. There she was, sitting close and far just across the Turkish boarder. The summit was delighting, what stood (or rather, girated) beneath it not 20 feet in front of me, however, was an entirely different matter.

To my right stood an elderly early-riser, one foot up on a water fountain, lurching his pelvis back and forth- his version (I finally realized after a few seconds of utter disorientation) of the soaz stretch. I laughed to myself and looked left toward sword-wielding Mother Armenia. This time, another man getting up in years stood with his hands on his waist, thrusting his hips every which way, circular motions that, to me, implied salutary Hawaiian dance.

Not much to report about the background. Ararat sits majestic, the highest mountain in the world in absolute height (Mt. Everest is measured in ft. above sea level, Ararat from the ground up). Mother Armenia’s head is securely fastened (after having replaced the head of Stalin which once looked down on the capital city) and her eyes, ever watchful over her teenaged Yerevan. The more glorious discovery is that I now have proof of everything Efa and Eva taught me during those late night cheerleading sessions; Calisthenics die hard in post-Soviet countries.

Thankful for air conditioning in the ATDA office,

Samantha

p.s. still searching for field hockey

Little Armenian Kids Playing with Guns Again

For the second day in a row, I walked by a little boy- no older than 6 or 7- twirling what I can only hope was a very real looking toy gun. Walking around unkempt and unholstered, he strutted around seeing what kind of looks he could get from passersby. Or, rather, that's what I would have hoped his face said as I eyed him- a dangerous endeavor while crossing a busy street- on the corner of Amiryan and Republic Square. The truth is he was just walking along, gun in his right hand, his left tucked deep into Grandma's bear paw, as she pulled him down the street. Gimme a break, I thought, how can this country start them on guns so young!

Walking from lunch yesterday, my co-worker Christina and I were appalled at the sight of two red-shirted boys running with traffic along side the careening taxis and Soviet Lada's. It looked as if they were running with the bulls in Pamplona right here on Nalbandyan. (A side note: the googleBeta translator considers "cow chasing in Pamplona" to be an accurate translation for this Spanish spectacle). As the boys turned around, heading toward the next group of cars who chose (because it is a choice here) to stop at the red light, we were granted understanding. Coca-Cola, it said on their backpacks. The boys were walking (or more accurately running) advertisements. There they were: 15 year old boys hawking their wares up and down the median.

This was my first look at hot summer solicitation. Odds are things will continue. My instinct is to berate anyone and everyone about the dangers of running through traffic and playing with guns. But what kind of example is my country setting? Our guns may be neon instead of silver colored, but we have video games where car theives can drive into a dark alley and have their way with hookers. Sometimes I find "car chasing" a more constructive pasttime. But that's just me.

All the best from the ATDA office,

Samantha

Late Gait Assimilation and the Intercontinental Jig

Sidewalks here are one very large game of Chutes & Ladders. You’re either stuck, broken (and empty) cookie jar, tearful on the kitchen floor or you’re chomping down on Tatik’s (Grandma’s) finest underneath the breakfast nook. No one gives reprieves. No “Get out of jail free” cards in Yerevan, my friend.

An example: I was walking to a café yesterday after work with grand plans: study Armenian and complain about the noxious fumes of indoor smoking. Passing the small French restaurant that hides hazelnuts in their chocolate mousse, I was pushed back by a cloud of smoke as Pedestrian #1 turned black to blow his nicotine buzz into my face. If I knew how, I would have thanked him, but I’m still figuring out if, in fact, sarcasm exists in Armenia. My toes started to tingle with the need for speed and I walked faster only to be blindsided by Pedestrians #2 and #3 as they turned backward and strolled into me head on. A block from the café, I was ready to make turtle soup of “slow and steady” #4 and #5. New York feet move faster. Hell, in Ohio, France, everywhere, anywhere, feet are on the go. I am a late assimilator to the Armenian gait.

This morning, however, I got the foot fire I was so desperate for the day before. I met a native Breton- full on Celtic French fellow. After learning I’d studied in Brittany, he picked up my pinky and started dancing through the Tourism Office. Pour rire, he said, just for fun. As our toes tapped around the front office, it came me: Armenians do their fair share of the quick foot shuffle. For that matter, so do the Irish and the Greek. Ah-ha, divine realization, Armenians don’t use their “moves” downtown but on the dance floor. So, in the future, I’ll lay off the pedestrians but you can be sure I’ll be walking just as fast while I do it.

Toe tappin' at the ATDA office,

Samantha

Ani, Tea Toils and My Row in the Shower

Our weekend excursion led to some recalibrating of my idea of the road trip. The roads to the ruins of Ani are poshi (dust). Not dusty or dry, we’re talking straight-up, out of the dust bowl dust. After hours in the hot sun, a jaunt through the buffer zone between Turkey and Armenia, even madzoon (Armenian yogurt) couldn’t cure what ailed. My honest truth is this: as we lined up at the Turkish border, struck by the distance between us and this historical Armenian beacon, scanning with binoculars the land that once was ours, in crept this fear of whether or not we would get home before water hours ended at 9 p.m. It was clear to me that the shedding of my bus dust was the first step forward toward creating a freer, more democratic Armenia. Global recognition of the Genocide? Just pass the loofa, a little soap and it'll be done. I was taking my diasporan position of agency seriously- I had taken Ani to heart. We were jostled home in minibus, tour bus, and it was 8:45 - 15 minutes left until we had to rely on our tank for water. My roommate showered, it was 3 minutes until 9 p.m.

I peeled off my bus apparel, pulled my fingers through straw-hair in one last ditch effort to detangle. I shrugged off this failure, figuring the conditioner would work its magic shortly- how wrong I was! As I stepped into the shower, I was hit by a cold (not so bad, considering the heat), trickle (egads, trickle?!) that dripped slowly, but surely, to the speed of a running nose. I was desperate, stark naked in the shower with the sniffling showerhead suffering from post-nasal drip above me. I stood, begging for water like a street dog following a khatchapuri- toting pedestrian. Just a crumb, a drop, I’ll roll over if you’ll just oblige (you damn, unholy excuse of a shower). Alas, the music died. I managed a paultry wash & rinse with the shampoo, a first layer of dirt descended. I gave into the poshi reality.

Tea, Yanina suggested. Yes, tea! We had our own store-bought Costco-size water jugs. We would drink our tea, get our bearings, create an effective solution for the hair-raising traffic situation in Yerevan, and change the face of Armenia as we knew it! After tea. Dressed, sinking swift and fast from a day of sun, marinating in dreams of great benevolence, we put the kettle on (more accurately, it was a pot with water) and zoned out in from of Armenia Music Television. Here’s the trouble- if there’s no kettle to call the pot black, there’s also no whistle to call out the tea hour. And the water boiled on to dry. So, for the second time that night, we ran out of water. Tomorrow, Ani, we’ll be clean and tomorrow we’ll look back toward you as we march on forward.

Still Poshi from 12 Amiryan Apt.54,

Samantha

Perfecting the Parasol at 105 in the shade

I brought my umbrella to work this morning. There is no chance of rain because three news channels this morning (the Armenians, the Russians and the CNNs) assured sunny skies and could-fry-an-egg-on-it noontime heat. I hear there are websites were I can type in 39°C and find out what I already know: that because Yerevan is in the valley, surrounded by peaks on all sides, the heat smacks down on us like warm towels straight from the dryer, producing heat that produces heat that leaves me eyeing my umbrella longingly.

I brought it to the beach (do I dare not qualify? the beach= Lake Sevan, Armenia’s waterfront paradise of sorts) yesterday, too. I tell people that I’m bringing it along to ward off the rain. If I don’t bring it, it will rain. If I leave it home, along comes a downpour. This is sounder logic than it should be. But I lie; I’m not tempting the rain gods. I’m simply waiting from the right moment. I could eat ice cream every day until the cows come home but true hayastansi status cannot be realized until I open up my umbrella. The parasol: ultimate expression of summer assimilation. I watch young and old women walking down the street, parasols poised and elegant on their shoulders. To be one of them would be like joining the ranks of the ladies who lunch, those gloriously lock-jawed, blue-haired denizens of tact, style and femininity (a l’Armenienne, of course). The temperature is rising; my thumb worries the umbrella’s button and I wish I were walking 105° in the shade.

Wishing Happy Independence from the ATDA office,

Samantha

Some Pictures

Click on the link below to see a smattering of pictures from my past two weeks in Armenia:


http://oberlin.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2021567&l=375b4&id=4300033

Happy Tuesday!

My Internal Alarm and the Extended Wash and Spin

I haven’t set an alarm since arriving in Armenia- this from the girl who pressed the snooze button every 9 minutes between 8 and 9 a.m. almost every day last semester. The button became an on-again, off-again lover of sorts, always returning no matter how many times I jammed, smacked, prodded and threw it away. Of all my triumphs, this is the most satisfying, the most surprising. It is no wonder that I have jumped and ran around- but an internal alarm? I really have changed. (Although no so much that I didn’t just knock on the wooden table at work, just in case).

Upon rising, around 7:15 a.m., just 15 minutes after our water hours began (we can only use water in the house between 7 am-10am and 6 pm-9pm), I loaded some intimates and essentials into our front load washing machine. Step 1, check. I picked up the detergent, shook some into the “right-looking” side-compartment on the machine. Step 2, check. Wash day was going swimmingly. But, as I looked over at the buttons, ready to tear open my Armenian dictionary and translate with my new, emboldened language skills, I realized that they were written was Russian. Russian, I did not sign up for this. Conveniently, I live with a Russian speaker who was, however, inconveniently sleeping. I was on my own- no language skills, no turning back. I was trailblazing new paths right there in my modest kitchen next to the fruit basket and portable stovetop. I guessed at a few buttons, shrugged, let go and let God (right, Ma?).

Finally, two + hours later the sucker starting spinning away, wildly, sending the cereal boxes (oh what wonder it is to once again start the morning with cereal and milk and tea) teetering. My laundry was done. Ah, but the door wouldn’t budge. Since when are there locks on washing machine doors, I asked myself. A little more prodding got the porthole open and I pulled out my hot (so that’s what 60°C meant?) and wet (no spin cycle?) and clean (aha, success) clothes.

Anoush (sweet/fresh) from the ATDA office,

Samantha

Please locate Nagorno Karabakh on the map...

A short history (if you’d like): This weekend the AAA interns traveled to war-torn Karabakh, a country seeking independence and recognized only by Armenia. As best as I understand it, after the dissolution of the Soviet block, Karabakh tacked on to Azerbaijan- not fun for the over 90% Armenian population there. The six-year war left the country in shambles- what WWI was for Europe, the NKR war was for the Karabakh-hays (Karabakh Armenians). The Halo Trust (with whom we met) is currently working to demine area all over the country to make it safe for this largely agricultural people to continue on with their lives. The war is not over- Azerbaijan, Armenia and Karabakh have signed a ceasefire. The Foreign Minister was hopeful, enthusiastic, batting diligently at independence like a cat trying to catch a string. “You are a serious girl,” he told me, “you have a bright future.” His pride is uplifting, his determination astute. Karabakh and I share a few things: an undecided future, a mind determined to define that future, and a foreign minister encouraging us forward. I wish the best for the both of us.

A word about us: We have this habit of talking about SOS insurance like we’re second graders with a headache from too much subtraction, assured that with just one phone call somebody will be on their way to shuttle us to safety. We climb up monasteries, down gorges, jump in mineral springs, jump down from steeples. We are an enthusiastic bunch. Curiously enough, I feel safer in Karabakh where fewer speak English, land mines pepper the undergrowth and our bus breaks down on the road upward.

And our hotel: Though religion is abound and faith strong, in our hotel, during our first Karabakh night, there is no looming religiosity. The walls are filled with art of every creed. In lieu of the bible, strategically placed by the bedside, there is a shoehorn, urging us to get up and go. Cover our feet, these people tell us, and find whatever faith you can outside of this place.

Revived from the ATDA office,

Samantha