The last two weeks of school, there isn’t much to do. I go to a party for the village boys who will go to the army. The old men sit around toasting with vodka, the old women serve the food, the boys dance together and the girls watch them shyly from behind curtains in darkened rooms. Some of the boys are my students. We dance the military dance, leaning back and slapping our palms together. The smallest boys I push over when we clap hands. The bigger boys are strong, and want to test me. We clap our hands together three times, then slap palms. Clap, clap, clap, SLAP. Clap, clap, clap, SLAP. Clap, clap, SLAP. The last one is the hardest and it feels like my palms are about to bleed, but another boy wants to challenge me. Clap, clap, clap-he feints away and laughs. From then on each boy gets two slaps and a feint, to protect my hands.
An NGO has agreed to give my school 2000 English language textbooks. The textbooks are beautiful English language-arts books that encourage critical thinking and practical language usage. An SUV from the NGO was supposed to deliver them, but it’s the last week of school and I want those books. “Don’t worry,” I tell them, “I’ll hire a truck from town, just pay me back sometime.”
I explain the situation to my school director. [Go see the mayor.] She tells me. The mayor is not in his office. He’s outside in the town square, wearing his usual sportcoat, standing under a tree with his buddies/aides. The school director has explained the situation. [You want a car?] he asks.
-No, I explain, a truck or a van. There’s 500 kilos of books there. It’s too big for a Lada, or even a Volga.
(A Lada is the standard Soviet-era car, about as sizeable and powerful as an ’84 Civic. The Volga is the Soviet luxury car, similar to a ’84 Chevy Caprice, but smaller.)
-Okay, he says, be here at 3 o’clock.
At 3:00, I’m standing outside the mayor’s office with Scott. A green Soviet panel van, the kind that’s used for everything from ambulances to prisoner transport, pulls into the town square.
“That’ll do nicely,” I tell Scott, my sitemate. But it’s delivering supplies to the town store. A man drives up in front of the mayor’s office in a tan Lada whose rearend has been replaced with a little camper arrangement.
[Come on, come on.] The driver says.
-Are you sure you can haul 500 kilos of books?
-Yeah, no problem.
-How much do you want for the trip?
-Just take care of the gas.
There’s two seats in the cab, and a gearshift.
“Well Scott,” I say, “better grab a marshutney and meet us there.”
-No, no, come, come, he can sit. Says the driver.
Scott squeezes in next to me. It’s the last day of school, the first day of summer. I’m wearing a sleeveless tee. There’s barely enough space in the cab for the three of us. I put one arm over Scott’s shoulders, the other over the driver’s.
“I can feel a wet spot on my shoulder.” Says Scott.
“Toughest job you’ll ever love.” I tell him.
We make our way to the village where the books are. By the time we get there, my left leg has fallen asleep from trying to keep my armpit off Scotty’s shoulder. The school’s assistant principal is on hand. She opens up the storage room. It contains shop machines, Soviet-era computers, hundreds of gas masks in green canvas bags and somehow, in the very back of the room hundreds of boxes of English language arts books with mailing labels from places like Michigan and Missouri. I grab a few of the bigger, sturdier looking boys hanging around the schoolyard and have them pass the boxes out the window to the driver waiting below. In 15 minutes, the little Lada is carrying thousands of books. We pat ourselves on the back. The Lada squats on its haunches. The driver and I get in. Scott stays behind.
The weight is almost entirely on the underinflated back wheels. The nose of the car wobbles as the front tires lose traction. The driver compensates by keeping a steady, creeping pace.
-You said 500 kilos, he tells me.
-Well, we have 2000 books. Each book is about a fourth of a kilo.
-This is more like 600 or 700. Did you bring the gas with you?
-Well, no, but I have money for the gas.
-Oh, that works too. We’ll stop for gas then.
We stop at a filling station and get out while the attendant refills the car’s propane tank, a cigarette dangling from his lips. In Armenia, most cars are modified to run on propane, which, for geopolitical reasons, is far more abundant and cheaper than gasoline or diesel. The fillup costs $6. I buy the driver a coke. [You shouldn’t drink too much of this,] he says, [it’s full of chemicals.]
We get back to the school, where I’ve asked the English teacher to round up some boys to help move the books to the 3rd floor. I’m expecting a contingent of 10th and 11th grade boys eager to prove their strength. Instead, I’ve got two of the scrawnier 9th graders and half-a-dozen 6th graders. They go write to work, jumping in the back of the car and tossing out boxes.
“Kamatz-kamatz!” [Bit-by-bit!] I tell them,
“Kamatz-Kamatz!” they parrot, “Kamatz-Kamatz! Kamatz-Kamatz!”
The boxes are moved out of the truck to the school’s entrance, then from the schools entrance to the staircase.
“Kamatz-Kamatz! Kamatz-Kamatz!” say the boys.
I divide the boys into teams, each headed by one of the ninth graders. The first team carries the books from the first floor to the second, the second team carries them from the second story landing to the classroom on the third floor. A few boys playing in the schoolyard watch the excitment, then climb through an open window to help.
“Kamatz-Kamatz! Kamatz-Kamatz! Kamatz-Kamatz!” Say the boys.
By the time we’re finished, I’m panting and sweaty. “Thank you, guys,” I say. “Shorakatultsyun, akbarjan” [Let’s go to the store, I’ll get you ice cream.]
The boys and I head the store in the town square and pick out ice cream bars. Total cost for ice cream: $2.50. Total cost for moving 500 (or maybe 600 or 700) kilos of books to my school: $8.50
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