A note on style...

Because this blog deals with a lot of bilingual confusion, here's the style I use to give quotes in various languages:

"" Quotes are more or less the exact words in the original language as I remember them
"Barev," said the boy.
"Բարեվ," said the girl.
"Hello," I said.

[] brackets are translations of a foreign language.  They may or may not be accompanied by the original language
[Hello], said the boy.
"Բարեվ," [Hello] said the girl.
"Hello," I said.

- dash captures the gist of what was said, if not necessarily the exact words or original language
-Hey, said the boy.
-Hey, said the girl.
-Hi, I said.

The Face of a Killer?

Halfway along the ride to Yerevan, the marshutney from my village stops in the regional capital still referred to by its Soviet name so the driver can smoke a cigarette and wait to fill the empty seats in the van.  A strange looking woman hangs out around the marshutney stop.  Once, on a particularly long wait, I went out for a soda.
[Wow, look at you!] said the strange marshutney woman [Look how big you are! You're a real American, alright!].
-Yup. I said.
Today, I'm staying in the van with headphones in and my mind in a book.  Mentally, it's a decent substitute for personal space, my own little nirvana where nothing can touch me.  Through a pause in the "Legend" album, I hear someone shout "Hey Amerikatsi" (Hey, that's the title of this blog!) I take off my headphones. It's the strange looking marshutney woman.  "Hey Amerikatsi!" she yells.  I wave. She turns to her friend [That's the American! He rides this marshutney!...] she whispers to her. I put the headphones back in.
Behind me, a passenger asks, in English, "Where you from?"
I don't want to leave Nirvana.  He asks again "Where you from? USA?" I take out one of the earphones and turn around. His face is the shape, smoothness and color of a brown chicken egg.  I nod.
"Osama Bin Laden" he says.
okay...
"Osama Bin Laden hero."
"huh?"
"hero, Osama Bin Laden hero."
"I don't understand you. Հայարեն հոսում ես? [Do you speak Armenian]"
"Osama Bin Laden hero. I killed American soldiers in Afghanistan."
"Yeah, I don't need this."
I put my headphones back in and try to go back to nirvana.  But I can't concentrate on my book.  The guy has me freaked out.  Sure, he's probably just a nutjob, but then how does he speak English? Plus he didn't understand Armenian.  We're near the nuclear powerplant, what if he's a terrorist? But then why would he be on a marshutney? And he wouldn't want to give himself away.  You shouldn't take this, man, you were there on 9/11, are you really going to let him get away with this? But you can't start throwing punches inside a marshutney. Maybe he's armed and dangerous. But you can't let him get away with this.  Should you tell someone? What if he is dangerous? Shouldn't you do something? Shouldn't you show him you're not scared of him.
I reach into my bag and take out my camera.  "This is what you'll do," I tell myself, "you'll turn around really slowly and calmly, smile, and take. his. picture. It's completely non-violent, but it'll freak him out, make him think he'll get in trouble. He's not going to do anything to you in the marshutney with all these people around."
I turn around slowly and calmly with a smile on my face and my camera out.
He's fast asleep.
I take a picture of him.  The woman next to him looks at me funny.  I realize she's a head taller than he is.  And he's a little silly looking.  Sortof pudgy with a plum-colored sweater.  He doesn't wake up until we're in Yerevan.  He gets out of the van.  His pants fit loosely, and he carries a handbag with a flower pattern.  He walks in a sort of stumbling rolypoly way to a city marshutney, and he's gone.

Daily Life

At my school, students start learning English in the 3rd grade.  As I was walking out of the village yesterday, I passed the home of one of my 4th-grade students and his 2nd-grade sister.
"Barev [Hello] Mr. Dolgin." They said.
"Barev Dzez [Hello, plural/formal]" I said
[[How do you say 'Barev' in English]] the little sister asked her brother.
[[ummmmm....'Hello']] he whispered back
"Hello!" They both yelled
"Hello." I said
They both broke down giggling.

On Nowruz, the traditional Persian New Year, Imogen and I find ourselves self banging along in a marshutney towards Garni, a pagan temple built by Greek and Roman immigrants, dramatically located on a Gorge.   A few hundred Iranians and Armenians have gathered around.  A group of Armenian boy scouts have arrived in uniforms with a Zoroastrian eagle badge.  We follow them through a hole in the fence around the complex and pose on a rock outcropping overlooking the gorge. 

When we’re finished taking pictures, we go back to the temple.  The boy scouts are being forming a ring around the steps, linking arms to keep the crowd back.  Three priests step out in ceremonial robes emblazoned with the Caucasian rose, a circular symbol of the sun and the infinite.  I notice the same symbol tattooed on the neck of the Iranian in front of me, just below his right ear.  They have daggers in their belts.  A fire is lit in a brazier, and the names of the gods are called upon.  Vahagan, Anaheit and Anuhei, the Armenian trinity.  At the sound of each name, the crowd gives a stiff armed salute and chants “Hark!”

When I get close to the priests, I notice their clothes are adorned with Swastikas.  I drink homemade wine out of a ceramic mug.  When I drain it, I see the swastika in the bottom.  These are symbols that the Nazis appropriated to form a mix of occultism and orientalism, just as the Masons took Arabic symbols and New England summer camps adopt the themes of Indians who haven’t been in those parts in 200 years.  It’s still disturbing.

After the service, we sit on a portico of the temple eating the pieces of traditional Armenian cake that the boy scouts are handing out.  I twirl a twig with new buds and shoot pictures of the crowd that’s now dancing around the brazier where the priest is sticking a dagger into the coals then pressing it to the forehead of worshippers.  A Persian in a bright purple shirt comes up and asks me where we’re from in passable English.

America, we tell him. 

“You are welcome, I’m very glad you are here, it is good to meet you.”

Imogen and I have been living here for months.  We both speak passable Armenian, work in Armenian institutions, have dozens of friends, acquaintances and contacts in country and know dozens of bars and restaurants in Yerevan.  But neither of us mind being welcomed by an Iranian tourist. 

“Are you pagan?” I ask him.

“No, my family is actually Jewish, but we’re not very religious.  I’m just here for the culture.” He says.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s good to meet you too.  Have a good day.” And he is gone.