My first 48 hours at site. How did it go? There are some accomplishments. My site-mate, Scott, and I rode the marshutney one way to get to the nearest town with an ATM, a shuka, an airconditioned supermarket and a sit down restaurant, then read the Russian train schedule to catch the Soviet-era train back into town. This felt like an accomplishment. The six-car train seemed to carry as many people as a single marshutney. In my car was a middle age Armenian lady and two long haired dudes passing a bottle of Armenian wine. Long haired dudes with sandals. And beards. Armenian men keep their hair short, their beards trimmed and their shoes black and pointy. "Hey, what's going on fellas?" They look a bit stunned. "Francais?" "Espangol?" I try the other two languages I know. "Paval Ruskie?" They ask. "Nyet. English and Hayeren and Francais." "Oh! English! Good! We are Slovakians! We are hitchhiking! We were in Iran, and we met an American, he was from California, his father died and left him a date farm. What do you think of this country? It's just like Slovakia was when we were young."
We sit with them, pass the bottle. I break out the extra-fancy cheese I bought at the air-conditioned supermarket. It's the kind that comes wrapped in individual triangles. "Oh! Cheese! We are starving!" Say the Slovaks. They share their sunflower, and we pull the seeds of out it. I open up one of the seeds and find a maggot. "Oh! That is gross!" they say, "Throw it out the window! We will try to hitchhike to the Georgian border tonight! We need to be back in school next week!" We jump off the train at my village. It's a real jump, at least a vertical meter to the platform. "Goodbye! Good luck living here for two years!" call the Slovaks as the train pulls out towards Gyumri.
When I get home, my family is worried. Where were you? They ask. I explain that I had gone to town to do banking and shopping, like I had told them this morning. Yes, but we didn't know when you would be back. I took the train. You have my cellphone number right? Ah, yes, well, you know our nephew is a little touched in the head. He ate the paper you wrote your cellphone number on. Oh, well, let me give it to you again then. Ha ha ha, isn't this funny.
At the air conditioned supermarket, I buy two lemons. I want to prepare "Ice Tea" I tell my family. What is "Ice Tea" asks my family. It's tea with lemon that you put in the refrigerator. It's very American. Okay, if you want, they say. While the water boils, I slice the first lemon and squeeze the juice into a canning jar. My host mother provides a tea bag. I'll need three or four I tell her, but she only has one. We add an herb that's used in medicinal "teas" instead. This is good, I tell her, do we have sugar? She reaches for the sugar bowl on the table, and dumps the entire content into the canning jar. I taste. It's good. Host mama puts out the teacups. No, we have to wait. It will be ready in four or five hours. Oh. Okay. Five hours later is 3 pm, the hottest time of the day. My sitemate is visiting. I break out the Ice Tea, pour it into cups for myself, host Mama, each of my host nephews and Scott. mmm....That's good ice tea. Scott and I agree. The nephews are happy. Mama doesn't want to try it. Ice tea is not for her, she says. Papa walks in from working on a truck. Here Poppa, try some "Ice Tea." Hey, that's really good. Well, maybe I'll try a little, says Mama. She tries a sip. By this time, Scott and I have drained the canning jar. We'll make another one, says Mama, only this time, we'll put some sour cherries in it. Okay.
No comments:
Post a Comment