Armenia - two months later
I didn't have regular internet access during my three months of training, so emails were few and far between. Here;'s the next one, from the end of training, early August 2000.
OK, Chicago is a distant memory by now—it all seems so long ago—and so far Armenia’s been a lot kinder to my system. I’m one of the few folks here that’s managed to escape sans digestive tract troubles—actually I’ve had very little trouble with anything so far. To start with, I’ve got a great host family, and a great house to live in—it makes all the difference in the world. I’m not really living the life I always thought of as ‘Peace Corps’. 24/7 water and electricity, a toilet that swallows everything (a rarity here); refrigerator, stove, television. Hot water on demand, a beautiful garden, great food and amazingly plentiful. OK, laundry is a drag (I got blisters one time) and I’ve learned that I relied on the dryer’s amazing shrinkage action (my clothes are getting big—but so am I. Losing muscle mass, but not weight)—but I am truly in the lap of luxury here.
Soon enough I’ll be tossed out of Eden though—we find out our sites (for the next two years) on the 18th, and leave the 23rd. So by the time you get this, I’ll be in much less luxurious digs—most likely in a shenk somewhere. Shenks are these big ugly Soviet built apartment buildings, where things like water and power and elevators don’t work or don’t work well. Think ‘projects’ and you’ve got the concept. Quality construction it ain’t. Not the exotic travails of a thatch hut—more like really bad student housing ( you know, the kind that would be condemned, even in Burlington).
Concrete cracking walls in cheery shades of gray; floor and ceiling the same. Maybe a porch sort of thing—but no green space. Ah, it will be a sad day indeed….and I’ll have to start doing all my own shopping, cleaning, and cooking— o, the quality of living will be dropping right on down. Assuming I’m anywhere close, I’ll be visiting my host family quite a bit. Trust me on that one.
Armenia itself mostly reminds me of sort of a combo plate of America in the depression and the backroads of Vermont now—with all the usual warpage you get in translation. House gardens everywhere, potatoes and beans in neat rows. Women in heels, housedresses, and makeup; men in neatly pressed shirts and pants. Heels on dirt roads, heels everywhere and always. I’m probably the only woman in Armenia that doesn’t shave my legs or armpits. Disintegrating roads—people drive to avoid the worst spots, no matter the right or left side—and open manholes are not uncommon. Broken decaying factories, cranes that haven’t moved for years, broken glass everywhere. Random livestock as well. Lots of missing teeth, lots of gold shining in the smiles. Casual gross mistreatment of animals. People who almost always invite you in for coffee, or for dinner, people who stare at you in the streets and on the marchutneys (minibuses) and buses. Constantly. It’s like being in training for stardom – I’m not quite ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille. Some pretty scary toilets. The tap water runs brown after the rains. People dump their garbage in the river and believe that water will make you fat. Televisions in every home I’ve seen, along with jars upon jars of gleaming preserves. Lots of fat and salt in the food. Lots of sugar. Fairly impressive deforestation. Ruined and semi-ruined churches everywhere, every time you turn around. Highly educated and literate population; a lot of misinformation, a lot of pride. "This isn’t Africa" again and again. Fields hayed by hand, tilled by hand—there are tractors, but there isn’t gas for them, or they’re broken and the factory that made the parts is closed. High unemployment rate, a lot of apathy. The effects of the war of attrition, the closed borders, the embargoes, and the earthquake.
In general I think I’m doing pretty well with the cross-cultural adaptation (and feeling pretty smug about it, I might add—I’m not homesick, I’m not scared of the toilets, I know how to cope with no water, I’ve adjusted to the weekly bath routine, I can deal with people staring, etc., etc., ad nauseum) and then something rises up to smack me between the eyes, and I suddenly realize I’m not in Kansas anymore. It’s not just the language that’s different here. The last time it was my across-the-street neighbor dealing with a stray cat that had been coming into his home*; the time before that it was learning about the kidnappings that are not uncommon here. For the getting of a wife—simply pick your girl (you don’t have to know her) abduct her, beat and/or rape her if you choose, hold her a week or so, and she’s yours for life. No other choice—her honor is ruined, and there’s nothing else to do. No one will interfere, so daylight is fine—you know, after class or something. Great way to start a marriage, don’t you think?
And while the Peace Corps may have it’s official "it’s all cultural differences" stance, I’ve never been able to toe that line. Sure, it’s all cultural as long as your actions affect you alone—after that it moves into human rights issues. Or so say I. With my strong moral stance and absolutely no power.
Meanwhile, I’m struggling through (and with) the last few weeks of language class. As I feared, I am somewhat slow (note the use of gross understatement here). However, on the up side, I’ve been told I have the best pronunciation of anyone in my village—with my 20 words, that’ll get me far. We’re also in the midst of practicums—I’ve been teaching BASIC first aid to a group of young women (ages 13 to 22?) and then, this week, discussion on a wide variety of topics, chosen by the students. The first aid was a bit of a hoot, since I’ve never taken a first aid course myself—o, it’s the Peace Corps way! And this week we’ve got global topics—like "Relationships" (tomorrow) or "Drugs" (today) or "Education" (Tuesday). The best is when the students get here before my translator, and I’m sitting there smiling blankly, no doubt looking like some sort of demented Kewpie doll, and feeling like an utter ass.
I tell you, playing teacher has made me miss Kinko’s like no one’s business—O, for little spiral notebooks! 18x24 laminated paper for that wipe off reality! Multiple copies of everything—now I can’t just rely on handouts and pretty posters of stuff, or even big sheets of paper to draw on. I have to TALK—and since they don’t understand English, and I don’t speak Armenian that presents a bit of a problem. Yet more practice at acting like an idiot--I’m getting a LOT of practice at that here. I think I’ve got a natural talent for it.
Next week is workshops, and then it’s off to the big bad world of reality. Badly dubbed TV et al—seriously, the dubbing here is godawful. Beyond belief. They leave the original soundtrack intact, and just overlay monotone Russian dialogue over it. I think there are maybe 4 people doing the voiceovers—it all sounds the same, and you can hear the original actors relatively clearly under it all.
What else, what else—o, this is really funny, IMHO. My family doesn’t know I smoke (and, yes, I am smoking now—and, as always, am planning on quitting). So I go on a lot of walks. Down behind the school, smoking out behind the school—it’s like being the bad girl teenager I never was. I’m half convinced they really know I smoke (I’m sure I reek of it when I come back from my little strolls), but don’t want to know, and as long as I’m semi-discreet won’t acknowledge my sins. I smoked one cigarette in front of my papa (after I had just found out my aunt was dying, and then had to go to some relative’s party and couldn’t call my mother because you can’t call England collect and my prepaid calling card doesn’t work here) and was shamed that night (they say "amote case!" which translates to "shame on you!", but is a really big deal) and again the next morning. But I figured it was worth it in that case. The men are pretty much pigs here, even the nicer ones. The next 2 years is not going to help my opinion of men in general.
Oh, here’s a tragic example of the knowledge gap I was talking about earlier. My host sister-in-law, 24 years old, English teacher, very bright, did really well in school even when going with the new baby (who is now 3), etc, etc... She’s in her last month of her 2nd pregnancy (which gives her no break in doing housework and taking care of her husband, by the way), and I just found out she didn’t want to be pregnant, that it was an accident. She had an IUD, but found it painful and had it removed. After that they used:
A.) Coitus Interruptus
B.) Douching after sex
And—big surprise!— she was pregnant within 3 months and the big surprise is that it WAS a big surprise for her and her husband—they thought they were being really safe and she wouldn’t get pregnant, that she couldn’t get pregnant. Remember that this woman has been to university, and is well educated.
I’ve also been told (by a nurse, with something like 30 years experience) that you must not mix cold water with hot (for example, diluting tea with fresh water) or it will make you sick. About 3 weeks later, I figured that one out—if you boil water to make it safe, and then add cold water from the tap to cool it, you defeat the purpose, yes? So, adding cold water to hot will make you sick—and it doesn’t matter anymore if it’s clean water, it doesn’t compute. All my water is filtered—the P.C. supplies very good large filters—but that wasn’t the point. The point is adding cold water to hot makes you sick. Period. So that’s the glitch in the machine, that’s the warp in the fabric. And I live with a rich, well educated family—there’s Walker Evans reality within easy walking distance. It’s that kind of hard, and now it is easy.
*he had caught the cat, and was wiring a series of cans around its neck - it was appalling.
OK, Chicago is a distant memory by now—it all seems so long ago—and so far Armenia’s been a lot kinder to my system. I’m one of the few folks here that’s managed to escape sans digestive tract troubles—actually I’ve had very little trouble with anything so far. To start with, I’ve got a great host family, and a great house to live in—it makes all the difference in the world. I’m not really living the life I always thought of as ‘Peace Corps’. 24/7 water and electricity, a toilet that swallows everything (a rarity here); refrigerator, stove, television. Hot water on demand, a beautiful garden, great food and amazingly plentiful. OK, laundry is a drag (I got blisters one time) and I’ve learned that I relied on the dryer’s amazing shrinkage action (my clothes are getting big—but so am I. Losing muscle mass, but not weight)—but I am truly in the lap of luxury here.
Soon enough I’ll be tossed out of Eden though—we find out our sites (for the next two years) on the 18th, and leave the 23rd. So by the time you get this, I’ll be in much less luxurious digs—most likely in a shenk somewhere. Shenks are these big ugly Soviet built apartment buildings, where things like water and power and elevators don’t work or don’t work well. Think ‘projects’ and you’ve got the concept. Quality construction it ain’t. Not the exotic travails of a thatch hut—more like really bad student housing ( you know, the kind that would be condemned, even in Burlington).
Concrete cracking walls in cheery shades of gray; floor and ceiling the same. Maybe a porch sort of thing—but no green space. Ah, it will be a sad day indeed….and I’ll have to start doing all my own shopping, cleaning, and cooking— o, the quality of living will be dropping right on down. Assuming I’m anywhere close, I’ll be visiting my host family quite a bit. Trust me on that one.
Armenia itself mostly reminds me of sort of a combo plate of America in the depression and the backroads of Vermont now—with all the usual warpage you get in translation. House gardens everywhere, potatoes and beans in neat rows. Women in heels, housedresses, and makeup; men in neatly pressed shirts and pants. Heels on dirt roads, heels everywhere and always. I’m probably the only woman in Armenia that doesn’t shave my legs or armpits. Disintegrating roads—people drive to avoid the worst spots, no matter the right or left side—and open manholes are not uncommon. Broken decaying factories, cranes that haven’t moved for years, broken glass everywhere. Random livestock as well. Lots of missing teeth, lots of gold shining in the smiles. Casual gross mistreatment of animals. People who almost always invite you in for coffee, or for dinner, people who stare at you in the streets and on the marchutneys (minibuses) and buses. Constantly. It’s like being in training for stardom – I’m not quite ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille. Some pretty scary toilets. The tap water runs brown after the rains. People dump their garbage in the river and believe that water will make you fat. Televisions in every home I’ve seen, along with jars upon jars of gleaming preserves. Lots of fat and salt in the food. Lots of sugar. Fairly impressive deforestation. Ruined and semi-ruined churches everywhere, every time you turn around. Highly educated and literate population; a lot of misinformation, a lot of pride. "This isn’t Africa" again and again. Fields hayed by hand, tilled by hand—there are tractors, but there isn’t gas for them, or they’re broken and the factory that made the parts is closed. High unemployment rate, a lot of apathy. The effects of the war of attrition, the closed borders, the embargoes, and the earthquake.
In general I think I’m doing pretty well with the cross-cultural adaptation (and feeling pretty smug about it, I might add—I’m not homesick, I’m not scared of the toilets, I know how to cope with no water, I’ve adjusted to the weekly bath routine, I can deal with people staring, etc., etc., ad nauseum) and then something rises up to smack me between the eyes, and I suddenly realize I’m not in Kansas anymore. It’s not just the language that’s different here. The last time it was my across-the-street neighbor dealing with a stray cat that had been coming into his home*; the time before that it was learning about the kidnappings that are not uncommon here. For the getting of a wife—simply pick your girl (you don’t have to know her) abduct her, beat and/or rape her if you choose, hold her a week or so, and she’s yours for life. No other choice—her honor is ruined, and there’s nothing else to do. No one will interfere, so daylight is fine—you know, after class or something. Great way to start a marriage, don’t you think?
And while the Peace Corps may have it’s official "it’s all cultural differences" stance, I’ve never been able to toe that line. Sure, it’s all cultural as long as your actions affect you alone—after that it moves into human rights issues. Or so say I. With my strong moral stance and absolutely no power.
Meanwhile, I’m struggling through (and with) the last few weeks of language class. As I feared, I am somewhat slow (note the use of gross understatement here). However, on the up side, I’ve been told I have the best pronunciation of anyone in my village—with my 20 words, that’ll get me far. We’re also in the midst of practicums—I’ve been teaching BASIC first aid to a group of young women (ages 13 to 22?) and then, this week, discussion on a wide variety of topics, chosen by the students. The first aid was a bit of a hoot, since I’ve never taken a first aid course myself—o, it’s the Peace Corps way! And this week we’ve got global topics—like "Relationships" (tomorrow) or "Drugs" (today) or "Education" (Tuesday). The best is when the students get here before my translator, and I’m sitting there smiling blankly, no doubt looking like some sort of demented Kewpie doll, and feeling like an utter ass.
I tell you, playing teacher has made me miss Kinko’s like no one’s business—O, for little spiral notebooks! 18x24 laminated paper for that wipe off reality! Multiple copies of everything—now I can’t just rely on handouts and pretty posters of stuff, or even big sheets of paper to draw on. I have to TALK—and since they don’t understand English, and I don’t speak Armenian that presents a bit of a problem. Yet more practice at acting like an idiot--I’m getting a LOT of practice at that here. I think I’ve got a natural talent for it.
Next week is workshops, and then it’s off to the big bad world of reality. Badly dubbed TV et al—seriously, the dubbing here is godawful. Beyond belief. They leave the original soundtrack intact, and just overlay monotone Russian dialogue over it. I think there are maybe 4 people doing the voiceovers—it all sounds the same, and you can hear the original actors relatively clearly under it all.
What else, what else—o, this is really funny, IMHO. My family doesn’t know I smoke (and, yes, I am smoking now—and, as always, am planning on quitting). So I go on a lot of walks. Down behind the school, smoking out behind the school—it’s like being the bad girl teenager I never was. I’m half convinced they really know I smoke (I’m sure I reek of it when I come back from my little strolls), but don’t want to know, and as long as I’m semi-discreet won’t acknowledge my sins. I smoked one cigarette in front of my papa (after I had just found out my aunt was dying, and then had to go to some relative’s party and couldn’t call my mother because you can’t call England collect and my prepaid calling card doesn’t work here) and was shamed that night (they say "amote case!" which translates to "shame on you!", but is a really big deal) and again the next morning. But I figured it was worth it in that case. The men are pretty much pigs here, even the nicer ones. The next 2 years is not going to help my opinion of men in general.
Oh, here’s a tragic example of the knowledge gap I was talking about earlier. My host sister-in-law, 24 years old, English teacher, very bright, did really well in school even when going with the new baby (who is now 3), etc, etc... She’s in her last month of her 2nd pregnancy (which gives her no break in doing housework and taking care of her husband, by the way), and I just found out she didn’t want to be pregnant, that it was an accident. She had an IUD, but found it painful and had it removed. After that they used:
A.) Coitus Interruptus
B.) Douching after sex
And—big surprise!— she was pregnant within 3 months and the big surprise is that it WAS a big surprise for her and her husband—they thought they were being really safe and she wouldn’t get pregnant, that she couldn’t get pregnant. Remember that this woman has been to university, and is well educated.
I’ve also been told (by a nurse, with something like 30 years experience) that you must not mix cold water with hot (for example, diluting tea with fresh water) or it will make you sick. About 3 weeks later, I figured that one out—if you boil water to make it safe, and then add cold water from the tap to cool it, you defeat the purpose, yes? So, adding cold water to hot will make you sick—and it doesn’t matter anymore if it’s clean water, it doesn’t compute. All my water is filtered—the P.C. supplies very good large filters—but that wasn’t the point. The point is adding cold water to hot makes you sick. Period. So that’s the glitch in the machine, that’s the warp in the fabric. And I live with a rich, well educated family—there’s Walker Evans reality within easy walking distance. It’s that kind of hard, and now it is easy.
*he had caught the cat, and was wiring a series of cans around its neck - it was appalling.
posted by meg at 6:47 AM
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