Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.

My new hobby

My new hobby is village popping.  I show up in a village that's never been visited by anyone from outside of Armenia, start talking to people, play with the kids, tell them I'm from America, show them pictures of New York on my cell phone, practice my Armenian, get invited to spend the night, get introduced to the daughters, marry, settle down, have a flock of kids in a 250-person town in the middle of the Caucasus, become a patriarch of the town, die and get buried in the local cemetery while everyone gets drunk at my funeral.

Well, the first half of that, anyway.  Today I stopped by a little village on the outskirts of my small town that had a fast-moving cement irrigation ditch in it that the kids liked to jump into.  No one has bathing suits, so the boys just strip down to their skivvies.  Whenever a woman walks by, they hide behind the bridge.  Here's a picture of my site-mate Scott taking the plunge.

And here's one of my host-dad doing some beekeeping

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I’ve been at my permanent site a week now.  Things move slowly here in the desert, and that’s a good thing for now.  The adjustment to site is harder than the move from America to my training village. I need to learn to deal with the harsh desert heat, the rusted metal outhouse, made hotter by the decomposing shit below it, the flies in my bedroom and the kitchen, moving over the food and my body.  Dozens of tiny itchy bug bites have appeared on my hands and feet and seem to be working their way towards my torso.  Meals here are variations on bread and cheese with potato, yogurt or egg.  Meat is for a special occasion.  On the night my arrival, I was given a ribby quarter of a small chicken in the broth of my potato soup in honor of the special occasion. I was feeling sick at the time, so I made excuses to avoid picking the meat from the ribs and wing. 

I haven’t eaten as much as my host family wants me to.  Last night, I picked at the potato pieces cooked in a pan with oil. 

Eat! Encouraged my host father

Eat! Demanded my host nephew, a 14 year old who tells his elders what to do.

Ok, ok. I said.

My host father dumped a spoonful of potato pieces on my plate. 

No, thanks, I’m good. I said

My host father dumped another spoonful of potato pieces on my plate.

I squeezed on some more of the ketchup I bought on my last visit to the nearby town with a supermarket, and kept picking.

Yogurt. Said my host mother

No thanks. I said

She ladled the watery yogurt into a bowl for me. 

Sugar. Said my host mother.

I don’t want any.

She poured sugar onto the yogurt.  Flies started landing on it.

I finished picking at the potato pieces. 

Thanks for dinner.

Eat! Said my host father.

Eat! Demanded my host nephew.

I’m full. I said

This is yogurt! Said my host father

I know.

It’s good!

Yes.

Eat! Demands my host nephew

I’m full.  I say. Yes, this is yogurt.  I know this is yogurt.  It is good. I know it is good, but I’m full. I don’t want it now.  Thank you.

I haven’t yelled or screamed, but I’ve told them directly that I’m not eating their food.  The table is tense.  I get up, and go into the house for my bottle of filtered water.  I think about Richard Shweder, an anthropology professor I had at the University of Chicago, an academic battleship who assigned the books he regularly published with names like “Thinking Through Cultures.”  He had done his fieldwork in a Hindu Temple town and taught “Cultural Psychology,” the point of which was to disabuse undergraduate students of the idea that any set of moral order could be considered universal.  “In the Hindu Temple town where I did my fieldwork,” he would open the first class, “it is considered a greater moral offense of a man to eat chicken after his father dies than it is to refuse medical care to a person who cannot pay.”  The rest of term would be spent examining the culturally-appropriate justifications for excising the clitori of pubescent African girls, executing tribal ne’er-do-wells for witchcraft, abstaining from or indulging in contact with the opposite sex, certain foods, certain bodily fluids and many other anthropologically relevant cultural practices.  For my final project for the class, I crashed a party of tipsy Singaporeans and interviewed them on how they would divide a family with six children, three boys and three girls into two beds.  I found that “the moral grammar of Singaporeans places a high value on The Sacred Couple but is unconcerned with the incest taboo.”  The moral I took from the class was that most of our customs and values are cultural, and quickly change amongst other peoples.  

The Armenians are very concerned about the welfare of their guests.  They’re also quite certain that this young, unmarried guy who can’t even speak properly is completely unable to take care of himself, and if left to his own devices would soon get lost, starve and die of cold, in dirty clothes.  If I don’t eat this food that they love and have eaten all their lives, something must be wrong with me, and that would be terrible, and would require much worrying and home-remedies. 

I need to release the tension.  I return to the kitchen.  My host father has finished his bowl of yogurt, after pouring sugar and torn up chunks of bread into it.  

Ahhh.  He says.

Eat! I say

I did! He says

This is yogurt! I say

I know he says, and my nephews and host Mom crack up.

I force the bowl towards my cousin.  Eat!

No, no, thanks, and my host father starts laughing.

This is good! This is yogurt!

By now they’re in hysterics.

Eat! Eat! Says the 7 year old nephew to the 14 year old

You Eat! He says

No, no, you must eat! I say.

No! no thank you!

Ok, I’ll eat then.  I take some bites of the yogurt.  The family is wiping their eyes from laughing so hard.  I eat about half the bowl.  I’m getting used to the taste.  It will take time, but I’m getting used to it. 

So here I am...

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.

A conversation between myself and my host brother:

Him: How can America be strong when you let in Muslims? Aren't you worried that they'll betray you? 
Me: Immigrants come to America because they want to be there, and because of that we become loyal to America. But American society also founded on the notion that all religions are equal within American society. We can be members of different religions and ethnic groups and full members of American society at the same time. My best friend was born in a muslim country, and our president's father was born in Kenya. 
Him: We had a king once. He built a city, and brought in people from other countries to live in the city. Then there was a war. The other people opened the gates of the city and let in the enemy, and the king was killed. 

Also-Bananas here cost 50 cents, and women's haircuts $2.50.  Bananas in New York cost 25 cents and women's haircuts $50.  Discuss.

It's been awhile since I gave you something to step to...

I haven't had it in me to sit down at my laptop and write a coherent post.  Here's some notes on village life while I'm at the I-Cafe.


My family has been harvesting hay for the winter, to feed their cows.  My host brothers spend their days in the fields with scythes, getting sunburned.  My uncle spends his days working on his Belorussian tractor.  When the tractor is working and the hay has been scythed, he drives it around to the fields and bales it with a hay-baler-trailer.  By the time I get home, there is a pile of hay bales in the backyard as tall as the house.  I help my family lift them into the attic and the barn to store for the winter.  "Thanks for helping us," they tell me.  "Thanks for the yogurt and cheese," I tell them.

A blond young man, much too pale to be a villager, stopps me in the street.  "Your teacher, she is Ms. L?" He asked me in English.  Yes, she is.  "What is her number?"  Are you her friend? He cannot answer the question.  "This is where she lives, yes?"  She does live there.  One of the other PCVs goes to get her.   "Tell him I am not home.  He likes me.  I do not like him. We were in school together."  she says.  The young man parks the green car with two of his buddies in it in front of the house I'm in with some other PCVs.  He comes in.  "Where is she? What is her number?"  She's not here, we tell him.  Maybe she went to Hrazdan, a 40 minute drive away.  He doesn't believe us.  We don't have her number.  "Maybe you do, you just don't want to tell me."  Well, if you're going to lie, lie big.  I directly confront him.  She's not here, I tell him, and we don't have her number.  Intimidating body language. Stand tall, cross arms. Wearing mirrored Sunglasses.  No more friendliness, no clueless American abroad. Careful, measured, direct speech.  Suddenly I'm glad I weigh so much more than everyone else, that I'm a head taller than him.  "You do, you're just not saying," he says.  But as he says it, he laughs, and looks away, and I've won.  We don't have her number, She isn't here.  Go home.  Do you understand me?  He's not going to go home right away, he doesn't want to lose face that much.  But he stops bother us, sits in the car for 15 minutes while I watch him, then turns and drives the three hours back home.  

Teaching model school in the village, we expected eight or ten kids to show.  Instead we got fifty or sixty.  One boy begins to disrupt the class.  I pick up his chair to move him away from the disruptive group of boys and to a studious group of girls.  "Ganatsi, Ganatsi," I tell him, using the imperative.  He runs out of class.  "What happened?" I ask my PC trainer, observing the class.  "You told him to go.  You meant to say, 'Ari,', come. Don't worry, he'll be back tomorrow."

In the city where I come to use the internet, I run into Mormons! They're wearing white shirts and silk ties from Hong Kong, carrying the book of Mormon in Armenian.  One is from Utah, the other Washington.  I'm surprisingly enthusiastic to meet them, trying to preempt the creepy friendliness of the missionary.  But they've been in the country 6 months and are starting to stray.  They thought they would be going to Latin America and learning Spanish.  They've lost the enthusiasm for their work, and are just going through the motions.  In a way, I'm dissapointed.

I walked through stinging nettles two hours ago and my legs are still tingling...

Here's a little game that Peace Corps likes to play with new volunteers.  First, they tell them to plan and implement a community project by their fourth week in country.  The new volunteers will be given no financial resources, except for a lesson on Community Organizing tools like, "find out when everyone's schedule is, so that you won't be weeding fields in the middle of the winter" and "Make a map of your community so you'll know where things should go" and "figure out what your communities highest priorities are by making a neat little matrix."  They'll tell the volunteers to make sure that our projects meet the community's wants and needs and have a sustainable impact.  The volunteers will be encouraged to meet the mayor and plenty of other strangers and to ask their help in designing and implementing a project.  Because they've only been studying the language for a month, they're not going to be able to say much, but some major points will get across. Some mayors will ask the Americans to repair the roads, others will ask for a new irrigation system.  Ours encouraged us to teach the children English and said that she really loved sports, so maybe we could do something with that.
So we planned a sports day, and put up a sign at the school inviting the children of the town to the football field, where we'd repainted the goalposts a brilliant white, the sustainable part of our project.  We painted a map of town on the sheet, and had the kids sign it and mark the locations of their home as a gift to the town.  Some of us played football with the kids, always a winner, and some of us taught Yoga, which was a surprise hit, even with the 14-year old boys.  I got ambitious and set up an orienteering course, drew a map, translated "Orienteering" into "Depee" which literally means "Towards," gave a quick lesson on English words for cardinal directions, gave them some compasses to use and pointed out the first flag, at the top of a hill.  The kids were superexcited to find a flag, but had no idea how to use a compass or find the next flag.  So I ran up to the top of the hill, and yelled for them to go West.  They had completely forgotten the lesson on directions.  "Aravmooq!" I yelled, and pointed to the west.  They ran west, and found the next flag.  I led them around the course, and they had a great time.  Three more times, with three groups of kids, I ran up the hill, pointed them towards flags, then ran them down.  At the end of the day, we played a 30-person football match with all the kids in town that remained.  With no language skills and only a few dollars out of our pocket, we had a pretty good community project.  By the time it was presented in Powerpoint to the other volunteers, it was a pretty great community project. 
Peace Corps will then play the second round in the game.  They'll tell the volunteers to host a July 4th party for their families.  They'll tell them to share their American culture.  The volunteers will get excited.  Burgers! Hot Dogs! Fireworks! They'll think of all the things they love from home.  They'll think of beers by the grill, watermelon seeds and water balloon fights.  Here, Peace Corps will say, is all the money you need to make this happen.  Don't buy booze with it, but spend it however you see fit.  Go for it, have a blast.
But here the difficulties will start.  Where to have the party?  50 people is a big crowd.  There's no public space in a small village to accomadate that many people.  One of the families agrees to let us use their storage room on the 1st floor.  A little carpentry on some tables, and appropriation of furniture, and there is enough space for everyone.  We hunt around the main town for food and supplies.  The butcher provides ground beef for the burger.  We find watermelon, we find Cokes and ice cream for floats, we find water balloons and sparklers.
The 4th finds us missing a few essential resources.  There's no grill to be had, so we put the patties on a chickenwire fence laid over wood that has been burned down to coals.  The water's off in most of town, so Kathryn and I walk to the other end of town to a house with water to fill the waterballoons, then carefully lug the bucket back.  The grills not quite ready yet, so we play waterballoon toss with the kids, a big but quick succcess.  We notice that mostly women and children have come, and few men.  The ones that have come seem to be searching around for something.  One of them finds a bottle of beer someone has brought.  Aha! He says, and cracks it, pouring a round.  But it is just one bottle of beer, and it's not a drinking kind of party.  Dissapointed, they retreat upstairs to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes.  We cut the burgers into sliders, because Armenians are usually wary of new foods.  They politely try them, then eagerly devour the Chicken Khorovats in an American Glaze that we've also made.  We've made a few side dishes, but nothing like the decadent spread of yogurts, salads, breads, and cakes at a typical Khorovats.  There's little time for us to sit and enjoy the meal.  We're running around bringing in different foods and shooing the chickens away from our grill.  At the end of the feast, we wash 50 sets of dishes in a bucket-assembly line.  By the end of it, we're exhausted, our host families have tried a bit of hamburger, listened to American music (we dance with the kids to Elvis and the Beach Boys) and watched their kids run around with sparklers.  They politely thank us and head home.
Here's the lesson Peace Corps likes to teach with this little game.  If you come into the country, listen to their needs and give them what they want and what you can offer, things will be surprisingly easy for you and they'll appreciate it.  If you come into the country with plenty of money and give them what you want, with resources they don't have, you'll end up stressed and exhausted and they'll politely thank you and head home.