My Trip to India

My first visit to India was 3 years ago as a member of our meditation group in Sacramento.  Like many first-time visitors, I was overwhelmed by the poverty, the garbage on the streets, the overcrowded conditions and still fell in love with the country. India has a way of offending all your standards for living and still gently reaching your heart. 

 

One that first trip 3 years ago, our group had arranged to meet in Bangkok first and then together travel to India.  Coming from a country where 75% of Americans are Christian (was 85% in 1990), it was amazing to see images of Buddha everywhere.  One day we visited the famous Reclining Buddha, a gold-plated statue that stands 50' tall and 150' long.  Little did I realize that this would not be the case when we arrived in India, Buddha's birthplace.  For while 95% of the population in Thailand is Buddhist, 80% of the India's population are still Hindu with less than 1% Buddhist.  Much like Christ 2500 years later, Buddha's message was one of equality and compassion was not well-received by those in power who wanted to preserve the existing caste system in India.

DELHI

             The first city I had chosen to visit this time was the historic city of Delhi and India’s 2^nd largest city after Mumbai. I was a little restless when I arrived having inadvertently created a 20 hour layover in my layover at the Dubai airport from Armenia. This city in the Arab Emirates has undergone incredible construction in the past decade thanks to the world’s demand for oil. Yet I really didn’t have the funds or the desire to explore the Arabian version of Las Vegas.  I was amazed to see the amount of electronics equipment tourists carried with them that it even required a shrink wrap machine right in the airport. But I was content to take a short bus ride for much simpler fare: a sandwich, baseball cap and a cheap pair of sunglasses.  I was ready for India.

 

            The first thing I noticed on my taxi ride from the Delhi airport was the flurry of construction projects as they prepare to host the upcoming Commonwealth Games in October.  The growth in the computer world has been good for India’s economy and like China at the Olympic Games wants to use this opportunity present a more modern face to the world.   

 

Where I had chosen to stay was the opposite of “modern” but was conveniently located next to Old Delhi and the train station that I would depart from in 5 days.  It did have the advantage of cheap hotels and the presence of many foreign tourists.  My arrival on my street was at first a little shocking as I re-entered the world of controlled chaos that is normal on the streets in India. The first day is like being in a 3-D movie theater, dodging and moving as all the sights and sounds attack your senses.  But once you have acclimated, you just take your part in this fast-flowing river and find yourself carried along with all the other amphibian life.  I lived off Main Bazaar Road which is like a narrow alley 100 yards long with storage units every 10 feet.  Of course you have to mix in several hundred tourists on foot, a couple dozen rickshaws, a handful of honking motorcycles and the occasional full-size taxi who decides to clog up the whole area with his vehicle. It was quite a change from the quiet country lanes I had been walking down in Armenia.

 

As I had discovered previously in my trip to Istanbul, I enjoy my time most when I can find a balance with sightseeing and just hanging out with the locals.  So the next morning I found a cozy Internet cafe two minutes from my hotel that offered delicious chai for 25 cents a cup and surfing for 50 cents an hour.  It was also a great place to run into fellow travelers from around the world.

My days in Delhi were spent just chatting with the various store owners along my street as I slowly wandered out to the main drag for some adventure I had selected from Lonely Planet. My outings into greater Delhi took me to a shrine for Gandhi, the Railroad Museum and a couple historical temples and mosques.  The large bronze sculpture of Gandhi in front of his spinning loom was especially moving.  He and Mother Theresa had been my idols since my youth.  I also enjoyed looking at the development of the trains in India over the past 150 years.  What may have started as a practical way for Britain to manage a rather unwieldy colony has become such a vital link for people throughout India.  As I was to soon find out it in Gaya, waiting for trains has evolved into an extended social ritual as well.

 

            During one of my outings in Delhi, I was in need of some relaxation between stops and found the Lotus Garden Park on the map.  Sitting in front of a lotus pond, it seemed like a perfect occasion for a brief meditation.  But after about 10 minutes I started to notice some vibrations from the other end of the park bench I was sitting on.  Assuming that it was someone reading a book I thought I would just continue.  Then I started to hear muffled whispers.  When I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by a handful of 9^th grade boys, their eyes wide with curiosity.  Their desire to have a conversation was apparent.  Once the unofficial leader of the group had introduced himself, I began to ask him questions about his classmates.  Who was the best cricket player in the group?  The best dancer?  The fastest?  Each answer came with the person’s nickname and much laughter.  Before long our group had tripled in size as others on the same school trip joined in as their female classmates kept a respectful distance.  Their energy and interaction with each other was delightful to watch and I offered to take their photo before leaving.  Hesitantly the smaller group of young girls approached as well to have their photo taken.  Standing there in their school uniforms I could feel the energy for India’s bright future.

My evenings in Delhi were usually spent along Main Bazaar Road near my hotel, having dinner or sitting around chatting with locals and tourists I had met.  One evening our little international group included two young men from Canada (who lived within an hour of each other but had never met before), a young man from France and a young store keeper from Nepal. They had all be traveling for at least 6 months and some for over a year. One of the Canadians had gotten his degree in Finance and then came to Mumbai to explore possible career options. But finding out his salary would be less than he could make at a McDonald's back home, he decided to start researching products he might import to Canada.  His current plan was to import prescription glasses which could be made in India for a 1/3 of the cost.   The other Canadian was just finishing up a year on the road make possible by the snow removal business he started during college and sold upon graduation.  His plan upon returning was to work with a friend who was opening a restaurant in a new snow-boarding resort in British Columbia.   The French student had started traveling after high school and recently finished a couple years stay in Barcelona. Now 26, he was pursuing a career in art and particularly creating sculptures. Our “ringleader” that had brought us together was a young storekeeper originally from Nepal. He had an infectious sense of humor and spent the evening at the end of the table drinking Coca Cola and translating the Indian songs that played in the pub.  The night went longer than I would have chosen but was filled with much interesting conversation.

 I also spent a couple evening with was a group of young men from Kashmir.  Since the 15^th century the Himalayan goats in their region have been famous for producing the wool used in cashmere sweaters and pashmina scarves. The photos my young friends showed me on their computers also portrayed a land of forests and mountain lakes.  But all this history and beauty has unfortunately been overshadowed of late by its border with Pakistan and the periodic incidents of violence.  Without the usual flow of tourists, these young merchants have been forced to bring their handcrafts and soft goods to Delhi for sale.  It was apparent how difficult it was to be away from their families and friends for extended periods of time.  As they tried to sell me on a mini-vacation on their families' houseboat, I sensed it was less for the profit than an excuse to return home for a week or so.  As Muslims, some of them are also subjected to verbal abuse from Hindu merchants in adjacent stalls. My personal take was that it had less to do with religious differences than business competition.    These men were much more confident and engaging with passing tourists and thus did more business than most of the reticent Hindi owners just standing in front their stalls waiting for business.

 

            So after 5 days in Delhi, I boarded a 10pm train and headed out for my next destination:

BODHGAYA

  This little city of 30,000 residents made a good next stop on my vacation for several reasons.  For one thing, Kolkata (as Calcutta is now spelled) was an 800 mile train ride away and Bodhgaya was close to a mid-point.  It was also now the site of a famous Mahabodi Temple built to honor the bodhi tree where the Buddha first “awoke.”  And since we had visited here 3 years ago on our Sacramento pilgrimage, I had a couple friends to re-visit.

 

            After I checked into my hotel, I walked down probably the only street in the whole country that felt familiar. It was easy to find my friends since their businesses share the same hallway.  One has an Internet Café and the other carves Buddha statues from wood and stone.  The young internet owner was in the flush of success as this past winter had seen the most travelers to visit the city. He was the first one to have Wi-Fi in the city thanks to the generosity of one of our members from Sacramento upon returning.  In a country where power outages were common, he felt this gave him an advantage over his competitors. With a big smile he told me: I’m Number 1.   My other friend’s business seemed to be enjoying the additional foot traffic of tourists the internet brought as he had three apprentices working on carvings on the floor of the corridor.

As usual it was something unexpected that turned out to be the most memorable part of my brief stay here.  As I was having supper at an outside café that first evening, I met a bright young man who had started a new school. He was offering free education for underprivileged and handicapped children.  He invited me to see his school.  At 7:45am his motorcycle pulls up in front of my hotel and we were off for a very heartfelt excursion. The children were just lining up for morning prayer in front of the school when we arrived. Standing there in the little school uniforms, hands folded and eyes closed, they were a vision of sweetness. This was followed by a brief period of meditation in the classroom and then their regular lessons in Math and English. My friend and his wife both teach at the school and live there with their new child.  The behavior of the children mirrored the kindness and respect they were given by all their teachers.

       The next morning I arrived early for my train departure at 9:40am.  As I mentioned at the beginning, I was to spend the next 7 hours waiting for the train.  The Indian families were obviously much wiser about the train schedules.  As they like to say: India great but everything late. Many families came prepared with tarps and blankets to spread out on the platform and enjoy their time together.  As the lunch hour approached, jars of food appeared, food was rolled up in bread and cucumbers were sliced and passed around.  Eventually the children got sleepy and were fanned by aunts and grandmas as they slept next to their parents.  And the train eventually arrived.

 KOLKATA

         My original plan to leave Bodhgaya in the morning was to avoid arriving in the dark for my first visit to India’s third largest city.  As they say, be careful of what you resist.  As a result of the 7 hour delay, our train pulled in about one in the morning.  A young Japanese tourist and I were happy just to find a flophouse 5 minutes from the station to await the next day’s sun.  In the morning I took a cab ride to the mid-range hotel I had picked out from my 2007 edition of Lonely Planet.  As the cab pulled away, I discovered that since the guidebook was printed, the hotel had been demolished and was currently being re-built.  Fortunately, an older man about my age showed up at my elbow and directed me to a nearby hotel.  My guide explained to me later that he had pulled tourists around for over 20 years on rickshaws and finally got too old for the work.  He obviously found it easier to pull tourists around now “standing up” to stores and hotels for a baksheesh (kickback) from the businesses. 

It’s funny how things turn out. The hotel he led me to had everything I needed: a fan,  private toilet, and best of all a cold shower.  It was a bargain at $7 a night and centrally located for everything I needed to do over the next week. Yet if I had followed my usual procedure of following Lonely Planet reviews I never would have selected the Capital Plaza Hotel.  In their  review for budget hotels in the Sutter Street area, it was the very last one and began with the phrase… As charming as a prison.  I could only laugh later that night when I finally ran across the review.

 

One of the main reasons I choose Kolkata as part of my trip was to visit one of the Houses for the Dying founded by Mother Theresa.  I tried to find out about volunteering over the Internet before coming but couldn’t find much information.  But the next day, one of local street guides told me that 3pm on Mondays is when the Missionaries of Charity meet with visitors seeking to volunteer. When I was arrived, I was surprised to find a room filled with at least 75 people and presentations in 3 different languages. A couple hours later I was signed up for Prem Dan, one of the facilities for men with mental or physical handicaps.

The next morning all the volunteers met at the Mother House at 7am for a light breakfast (a banana, slice of bread and chai) and then made our ½ hour walk to the facility.  Our work detail started with clothes washing and then hanging them out to dry on the ceiling.  We looked like a well-organized fire brigade as we passed the buckets of wet clothes along on their way up to the roof. I had forgotten how refreshing it can be on a hot morning to walk slowly under a clothesline of dripping clothes.  After that a couple of us would gather up our shaving kits and offer shaves to the men sitting around in the courtyard.  It didn’t take long to figure out that it wasn’t about the quality of the shave. It was just a wonderful opportunity to provide a little kindness and respect to men whose physical and mental problems had taken away so much of their dignity.  When finished I liked to take the towel and gently remove any water or shaving cream left on their faces.  As I held one man’s face in my hands, I could sense that it had been a while since anyone had held his face with any tenderness.

 Later there was a meal for the men and we helped in whatever way was needed from carrying metal plates to those who couldn’t walk or even helping to feed them.  I remember seeing one young Japanese volunteer in his mid-twenties wearing a black shirt saying: Doesn’t Play Well with Others.  Ironically enough, he sat there for a half-hour patiently feeding this one man. I asked him later if he know what his shirt said.  He had bought it on a recent trip to California and had no idea what it meant.   

After the first day, the time working not only became easier but more meaningful from previous contact with the men.  They would be lined up sitting on benches in the morning and always had a way of recognizing our arrival.  For some it was that little waggle of the head so common in India and for others it was just a nod or look in the eye.  Some even extended hands on arms that were not fully functional.  It didn’t take long to realize that we were the ones being blessed by our daily interactions.  I can only hope to be as gracious should my life require me such dependence on others.

             During the first orientation day, I happened to meet a mother and daughter who had just arrived from Seattle.  It was a very special trip for them both.  Nancy had adopted her daughter Katie from Kolkata almost 21 years earlier and this was their first trip back to her city of birth.   Since volunteers did not work on Thursday at Mother Theresa’s, they asked me if I would be interested to visit a business created to help get prostitutes off the streets: freeset (www.freesetglobal.com).   (If you have seen the documentary Born into Brothels, you know how this lifestyle becomes a economic necessity and then a trap for many women.) There were now 120 women working at freeset there making journals, bags, shirts and other handicrafts to be exported. All the profits went back to the women. I thought it would be great to visit this remarkable enterprise.

It wasn’t until they handed me a roller and a 5 gallon bucket of paint that it dawned on me that I had really signed up for another volunteer work project.  Oh, well I had nothing better to do with my day off!  So for the next several hours my new friends from Seattle and I sanded the cement walls and applied an undercoat in preparation for the next day’s painting.  Of course, the Old Navy shorts and polo shirt that I wore will never be the same with all the paint splatters.  Some day when they join my wardrobe of gardening clothes, I will remember with fondness my unplanned day as a painter.  

Looking back at my days of volunteer work in Kolkata, I can see there was something special that is lacking for me in Peace Corp work, except for the summer camps. Here there was a strong sense of community not present in my usual days in Armenia. Working shoulder to shoulder in service surely deepened my connection with my fellow volunteers. I will remember: the two ladies from Milan who I walked with to that first orientation; the rowdy group of Irish lads whose hearts were even larger than their voices; the shy Japanese student accepting the awkwardness of shaving others when he barely shaved himself; and the German couple who would return later to their advertising work in Munich.  The generosity with which all these people shared themselves, doing whatever was required was inspiring for me.

When I finally stood at the baggage carousel in Armenia, I realized the strap binding my back pack had been cut.  It wasn’t until that evening that I would discover that someone had stolen my camera and with it, all my photos from my week in Kolkata.  Fortunately for me, all the memories were already safely tucked away in heart.

   

Back to the Future

When I first came to Armenia almost two years ago many thing seemed surprisingly familiar.   Having grown up in the Midwest in the 50’s, I felt a little like Michael J. Fox in  Back to the Future.  But it was also very clear this was not a Hollywood movie and my role would have very little impact on anyone's future.

My work site for the two years had many similarities to the city of my birth: tree-lined streets, hard-working neighbors and very traditional values.  And from my background reading before arrival, I knew I was about the experience my first winter in 30 years since moving to California.  My mind was not dancing with sugar plum fairies but more like six foot snowdrifts on frozen tundra with bone-chilling winds.  Fortunately my imagination was more intense than the weather which proved to be milder than my Midwest experience.  The only real challenges were the occasional times in winter when the pipes froze and you had to wait a day for water.

Probably the most difficult thing about my new country was the language with its own unique alphabet and sounds.  There are six letters that look like “n” in English and another half-dozen that are variations of our “u.”   And then there were the sounds of the words.  Six letter words that had five consonants are still difficult for me to pronounce.  I knew I was in trouble when I asked for an "onion" and he handed me a bottle of Fanta.   For many of the 20-something Volunteers recently out of college, it was just another challenge for their agile brains.  But for my 60-something year old brain, what I learned on Monday was not always there when I looked for it on Tuesday. The eleven weeks of PST (Pre-Service Training) are considered by many to be one of the real hurdles of our service, similar to boot camp in the Army.  When our four hours-a-day of language training was complete, I was greatly relieved and happy to be assigned to a work site.  My ability to speak the language was minimal but I also knew that communication between people is as much a matter of intention as it is vocabulary. 

            Fast-forwarding ahead to last weekend, I was assisting at a Youth Leadership Conference in Yerevan, the capital of Armenia.  During one of the breaks, a young Armenian college student whom I had worked with before asked me a rather direct question:  “What don’t you like about Armenia?”  Obviously noticing the shock on my face, she clarified that this is a question she often asks visitors to get a different perspective on her homeland which she has never been outside of.  I was still feeling a little cautious.  It’s like when a female friend asks you: “Do these pants make my butt look fat?”  It’s at this moment you understand the old adage that “caution is the better part of valor.”

The next week I received an email from a young Armenian college student in California who had read my blog.  She posed hypothetical question: What would say to young college students in California who have never lived in Armenia?  So what follows is my attempt to answer both of these questions, based on the obvious limitations of my time in the country.

            When I thought about my response I realized that there were several different aspects of Armenia one could discuss.  One is the cultural legacy that goes back many centuries.  There are the medieval churches that I have seen throughout my region as well as the poets, composers and musicians that I only know through the statues populating the capital and the parks of major cities. And of course there is the proud legacy of military leaders who have given their lives in the cause of Armenian independence.  It is their photos that tend to populate the walls of the schools and government buildings rather than any notable Armenians from the 20th century.

Then there are the people of Armenia themselves.  Looking at the faces of the older members of society, you can easily see the difficulties they had to endure during the last 50 years.  One publication I read before coming to Armenia spoke of the widespread depression that affects the citizens.  After my first couple months in country, it seemed more accurate to describe it as a sense of resignation. In the 20^th century alone, there were many tragic events from the Genocide of 1915, to the earthquake of 1988, and finally the economic collapse that resulted from the dissolution of the Soviet Union. These were circumstances beyond their control, their fate that they have been asked to endure.  The one bright spot seems to be their children.  While all societies take delight in their young, it seemed especially important for Armenians to usher in the next generation. 

Which leads me to my major concern for Armenia: What is the future of the coming generation?   Having worked with the young people of the country for the past two years, my major concern is for their future.  What opportunities will they have?  On my trips to the capital, one cannot help but notice the thousands of students who attend college there.   The same question always crosses my mind: Where are all these graduates going to find jobs?  Will they be happy as taxi drivers and sales clerks?  Do they really need a degree in International Business to run their family convenience store?  The only companies of any presence in the country seem to be the cell phone providers.  I was told that Armentel had a monopoly on the phone business until Viva Cell arrived. And now recently the French based corporation Orange has made it a three way fight for their share of the very lucrative cell phone revenues.  But even this thriving sector of the economy, I don't see any career opportunities but only a few salaries for the sales clerks at the retail outlets.

       

At my work site the fathers with technical skills in engineering or construction are often required to work in Moscow or other cities in Russia to find decent salaries.  Their children that I have spoken with see their fathers only during the Christmas season and some less often than that.  And in the meantime where is the economic activity in Armenia?  The most visible sector of the economy is the construction of new high rise office buildings and apartments in the capital.  One would like to believe that such activity is an indicator of an economic resurgence in Armenia but the reality that many of these buildings stand vacant would suggest otherwise.  An actual developer would need a return on his financial investment that a vacant building does not provide.  Some have suggested that these projects are often a convenient place to launder money from less than reputable businesses in Russia.  For Armenia to recover economically, much more is needed than for Yerevan to become a showcase of new buildings.  Unfortunately this reflects the former Soviet system that was more concerned about the appearances of success than the actual quality of life for their citizens.

The United States has made a concerted effort during the past eighteen years of Armenia independence to stimulate the economy with aid. Almost $2 billion has been invested here during that time, the highest per capita amount given to any of the 12 former soviet states. Some programs have specific targets, like the Millennium Challenge that is seeking to strengthen the agricultural economy by improving the water delivery system throughout the country.  This program has worked hard to establish a new level of transparency in the use of the funds in a former soviet system where corruption was a way of life.

Other programs have attempted to improve the quality of life by funding a myriad of social programs.  These are always more difficult if the money has been well-spent.  In the United States, a welfare program was established during the Depression in the 30’s and then expanded during the 60’s. The goal of the program was to assist families in serious need to “get back on their feet.”   But finally during the mid 90’s it became necessary to re-evaluate if was actually working as a transition to future self-sufficiency.  For many it had actually become a way of life that encouraged greater dependency.  So it was re-designed around “Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity” that required job-training and eventual self-sufficiency.   I see a similar pattern in Armenia where thousands of people created NGO's (called Non-Profits in the US) so they could tap into this large revenue stream coming into the country.  And unfortunately many of these organizations have become more skilled in writing the grants than in creating social programs that are self-sustaining.  And this problem is not unique to Armenia.  Many aid programs around the world today from Africa to South America are being criticized for their failure to foster self-sufficiency.

The final aspect of the Armenian society that concerns me is the educational system.  As a former high school teacher in the States, I am not naive as to the problems with our own educational system.  Yet the system that I have witnessed makes very little efforts made to develop the minds of the students.  As other volunteers in schools have noted, it is as if the information in the books is sacrosanct and the highest form of learning is memorization.  This must be a hold over from the Soviet days when loyal citizens were expected to adhere to the information provided by the State.  To solve the problems of the future, Armenia's future leaders will need to have the abilities to analyze and evaluate information and then develop creative solutions.  Today's educational system is not encouraging students to question and reflect on the material they are reading.  Instead their heads are being filled with information they have little interest in.  A Roman philosopher once said: “Education is not about filling a vessel but lighting a fire.”  The fire of interest and curiosity is surely not being lit.

And while today's youth puts in their time in today's classrooms, the Oligarchs tighten their grip on the Armenian economy that they took over when they purchased the State-run businesses eighteen years ago.  There is little that those of us who are volunteers can do about these harsh realities except provide today's youth with some new skills and experiences in Summer Camps and other trainings.  Armenians have demonstrated their ability to excel on the world stage in both sports and music as individuals.  But to create a society where opportunity and democracy are a reality, the country needs many more who have developed skills in the in the areas of leadership and teamwork.  One young man tried to explain to me that chess in Armenia was really a team sport because they rode together in a van.  For Armenians who have been fiercely independent for centuries, this might seem like teamwork.  But a much greater level of collaboration will be required to create a society where real opportunities are available for the next generation.

Walden Revisited

       I was sitting in front of my laptop, listening to some music given me by a new Volunteer, and wondering how to start this month’s blog.  The song came on, “Slow down everyone, you’re moving too fast/ Frames can’t get you if you’re moving like that.”  It is not exactly a new bit of advice for Americans but one that seems to keep showing up.  Before I left for the Peace Corps the self-help shelves had plenty of titles like, Slowing Down to the Speed of Life.  And of course we can go back another century to the writings of Thoreau.  As he declared in his memoir of the two years alone at Walden Pond: “I went into the woods for I wished to live, deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life! To put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”    And yet these romantic views of the “simple life” seem to leave something important out of the discussion.

And I think I found that missing piece this month in Armenia:  boredom.   It’s the ghost that chases many Americans to invest in their plasma televisions and other state-of-the-art entertainment devices.  And that art keeps changing so quickly.   I remember back in the 90’s that I had barely figured out what a Walkman was when it was already passé to own one.  And from what I read in the business news, the improvements in the iPads and iPhones just keep on coming.  Maybe before I pass, I will actually get to see a consumer version of Dick Tracy’s watch-phone.  But for right now, I am feeling more like Fearless Fosdick with some holes in my psyche.  

I know part of my discomfort comes from the loss of my primary hobby in the States: gardening.   No matter how difficult my week had been as a teacher or a consultant, there wasn’t anything so bad that a weekend of “playing in the dirt” couldn’t fix.   I would disappear in my backyard Saturday morning and re-appear renewed sometime Sunday evening.  In fact, I can still hear my dog, Angel, barking to remind me that the sun was setting.  She was real clear when my gardening time was over and her walk was to start.  I tended to become involved in renovating some area of the backyard and just lose all track of time.  Life’s major problems disappeared as I searched for the best location for my little handful of seeds. 

My first year in Armenia, I did find myself collecting flower seeds out of habit during my afternoon walks.  The problem was I had no garden to plant them.  When I arrived in my current village last August, I did discover two sections by the fountain downtown that had nothing but foot high weeds.   It was my first introduction to the socialist system.   Government jobs here seemed to be more about titles, salaries, and status in the community but not necessarily responsibilities.  After a couple of weeks I was able to find out who was responsible for the garden that nobody was tending.  The assistant was supposed to be assuming the title since the boss left for a better job in Moscow.   After a week I was advised to wait a little bit since one of the judges in town was lobbying to have his nephew be given the position instead.   Unfortunately, all this makes perfect sense in a village where jobs are very scarce.  If you are not a taxi-driver, a teacher or own a mini-market, you better hope to have a relative with connections.

After a couple weeks the “dust settled” and I was able to arrange a meeting with the person who had inherited the title.  Our conversation was a little bit like a scene from a Woody Allen movie that humorously illustrates miscommunication.  Apparently the idea of a “volunteer” is still a strange concept in Armenia.  I kept offering my services to weed and cultivate a flower garden near the fountain and he kept asking how much salary I needed.  After three attempts to communicate that Peace Corps Volunteers get no salary, “voch pogh,” he finally seemed relieved and was happy to have me do his work.   I am sure Tom Sawyer would have been proud of me.

            And so this past summer I enjoyed a couple nostalgic weekends of playing in the dirt.  Of course I did draw some strange looks from passer-bys, wondering why someone was working over the weekend.  But in the end, they probably just figured it had something to do with the fact that I was an American.  It would have been too hard to explain that I was having fun.  This May I will find out whether I planted the right type of seeds for the area or whether they even survived the Armenian winter.   However it turns out, it was a wonderful physical outlet and a place to direct some creative energy.

By this time the cooler weather had moved in and I returned to what has become my primary form of relaxation: reading.  Our Country Director here once commented that she never read more books during any two years of her life that when she was a Volunteer.  I know that is true for me.  I was surprised how much I started to enjoy reading books about history.  When you don’t have to memorize a bunch of dates (when was the Battle of Hastings, again?) and can work from your interests and experience, the whole thing seemed to change.  Seeing all the churches in Armenia from the 9^th and 10^th centuries, I started reading about the construction of cathedrals in the medieval ages.  This led me to biographies about Michelangelo and Galileo who both had their hands full dealing with the popes of their times.  Next thing I know I am wandering through the Dark Ages and all the wars fought over religion.  (Spending a little time with The Crusades can make the events of 9/11 and today’s terrorism a lot more understandable.)  By the time I got to the 20^th century, I decided to check out the Darth Vader vs. Luke Skywalker saga of my childhood: Communism vs. Catholicism.  I had been plowing through this rather large book on the fall of the Soviet Empire when the book arrived on Pope John XXIII, one of my heroes from the 60’s.  Reading them both at the same time added an interesting perspective.  When I finished I wasn’t sure who had a more difficult job trying to change their particular organization.   Gorbachev had an impossible job trying to wrestle control away from the KGB and the old guard of the Communist Party.  But then again Pope John had to deal with the Cardinals and the Curia.  It was kind of a toss-up.  And what will future history books say about Obama's struggles to improve the healthcare of our country?  He surely has his work cut out for him, haven taken on the Titans of Profit in the Health Industry:  the insurance companies, the pharmaceutical manufacturers, and the AMA.   I guess that’s where a large plasma screen comes in handy, as a good diversion from those painful growing pains on in our society. 

            For the next couple months, I think my wide-screen TV is going to be the sidewalks and paths of my village where I can check out the Mother Nature Channel.  And as you can see from the photos, she’s put on a pretty good show lately.

Holiday Reflections

 Last year I was like a tourist at the station with the train schedule in his hand.  I had been told that the Christmas Train arrived a little late in Armenia.  The Orthodox Church had settled on January 6^th instead of December 25^th. "Problem chica," no problem, as they say here.  I just needed to be a little patient and this special holiday would  arrive a little late.  As I waited during the two weeks prior to the Armenian Christmas, I did notice that the street decorations were a little sparse and the stores were missing that festive spirit.  I wrote it off to the financial crisis Armenia was still recovering from. But then January 6^th arrived and nothing happened.  Christmas as I knew it never arrived.  And like most confused tourists, I walked away from the train station shaking my head.

 As I later discovered the date is not the only thing that makes Christmas in Armenia different.  I was looking in the wrong place. The celebration here doesn't really show up in the stores, the streets, or even under a Christmas tree.   The Armenian Christmas takes place around the family table.  This year I was more prepared and had a wonderful time.

 In fact, I even got a couple "warm-up" events as two of the young ladies I tutor had birthdays in December.  And birthdays are like a mini-Christmas where the mothers get to practice their skills at stacking plates of food.  It's not time to sit down to eat until the second tier of plates has been stacked on top of the first.  For like Christmas, it is the sharing of a wonderful meal and not the giving of presents that is central to the celebration. And when the eating has slowed down, someone usually turns the music system up as loud as possible and the dancing starts.  There is a real art to the hand movements for dancing in Armenia and one I don't expect to master anytime soon.   But there are plenty of home-made fruit juice, wine, bottled water and Coke to keep the dancers refreshed.  (For male celebrations you can also expect to find plenty of cognac and vodka.)

In America the holiday season gets started with Thanksgiving and is pretty much completed by New Years. Here, the season doesn't begin until January 1^st, Nor Tari, and continues until January 11^th.  Their world of work stops and everything is set aside for visiting friends and relatives.   This is not possible for some families that have been forced to relocate to Russia or Ukraine to find work. (One teen I visited hadn't seen his father for almost a year and a half.)  For others, it means driving to a nearby town or just to the other side of their village. 

This is also the time when your neighbors "drop in" at all hours.  What might drive an American hostess to distraction is considered an expected part of Armenian hospitality.  While we often prepare a rather large meal for Christmas Day, the Armenian families keep a banquet table ready with food for the whole week.  No visit would be complete without toasting your guests with at least one shot of vodka.  On New Year's Day one father "made the rounds" to his neighbors' homes and returned about an hour and a half later.  It would a fair assessment to say he was "rather toasted" when he returned!

Having lived in Armenia for over a year now, I felt very much a part of the local network of relationships. I used part of the time to re-connect with some of the teens I worked with at camps last summer.  I was also invited to spend a couple days living with various families.  Remembering how much some of the children last year enjoyed the strange man with the white hair and beard, I chose not to shave for a couple months.  Although I wasn't wearing a red suit or riding in a sleigh, many kids still thought I might be "Dzmare Papek" or Winter Grandfather as they refer to Santa here. 

One family had these two little girls who decided it would be fun to comb out my beard.  Their mother was a little embarrassed by their behavior but I found it a small price to pay for my ride this year on the Christmas Train. Being 7,000 miles from home, it was pretty sweet to be taken care of by a couple of Angels. 

 

The Other Side of Disappointment

Last weekend a new Peace Corps Volunteers from another village stayed at my apartment. His sense of discouragement after the first four months in his village was truly déjà vu.   He came to Armenia to make a difference but the apparent lack of planning and specific goals at his worksite was making him crazy. This can be very frustrating for Americans with our focus on achievement and results.  I should know.  I spent the first six months of my service trying to get two Tourism organizations in my village to work together.  I was not successful.  As I saw my own attitude starting to sour, I switched from business projects to community development.

This past spring I become involved with a youth development program.  And then my Armenian tutor introduced me to some other young adults wanting to improve their English skills in the hopes of finding a better job . . .   and maybe even a better life.  I also helped her tutor a couple  high school seniors preparing for their college entrance exam in English.  By the time summer ended, I was ready to find more full-time work at a local K-12 school.

 My hopes were high as the director of my Non-Profit agreed to introduce me to his buddy who was the Principal of the one of the four schools in town.  I was excited to "be doing something" again, a favorite American pastime.   And the students seemed enthused and excited to have a new face in the room, to do something besides rote memory.  My only concern was my fellow teacher.  She seemed to be pretty set in her ways.  I had been told that English teachers in Armenia made half their money outside the classroom with tutoring.  I had been warned not to speak better English than her which might threaten her image.

Well, after a couple days of working at the new school, my NGO Director stuck his head in my office and said in a dead-panned voice: "Your teaching assignment is now complete.  The kids were too noisy."  He then walked away.  I was stunned not just by the rather cryptic method of communication but the fact that the "problem" had never even been discussed.  I decided that I was now living in the Post-Soviet world.  Otherwise, I might have gotten an invitation to a train ride to a labor camp in Siberia, as I had read about in Soviet history.

 It was at this point that my “relationship network" so central to village life came to my rescue.  My Armenian tutor called the Principal of another K-12 and two days later I was team-teaching English again.  This time I was fortunate to be matched with three teachers who enjoyed having help with their lesson plans.  One even admitted that her English had gotten rusty during two years of maternity leave and was looking forward brushing up her skills.  I was excited, again.

But then the country’s fears around the Swine Flu stepped in. The Armenian Ministry of Health decided to close all the schools in the country for a month until mid-January. While there had been less than fifty cases in Armenia, they lacked the needed vaccinations to respond to a potential outbreak.  Disappointment again raised its ugly head and I was again back to Square One with just a couple tutoring classes.

So this morning seemed like a good time to regain my perspective for the holidays.  I had no place to go so I grabbed my camera and started off on a tour of my street. It was perfect that one of our two local busses would appear.  In my experience the bus drivers are the backbone of normal life for our village, especially in the coming weeks when the snow becomes an issue. In a country where “punctuality” is hard to find, one cannot but be impressed by their reliability.  Each of the drivers goes from one end of the village to the other all day long.  You "can set your watch" (if I still had one) by their arrival on the half-hour. And like two hands of a clock they tend to cross at the same place in the middle of town.  And then there is the community aspect of taking the bus.  The busses have seating for 20 passengers and yet every morning they arrive at my bus stop with 40 adults and students already packed in.   Even as an American, you can't help but feel like part of the community as they figure out how to make you the 41^st person wedged into the back of the bus. 

Once the bus had pulled away, I noticed a couple of my favorite people in the village: the ladies who sweep the curbs of the streets everyday with their traditional home-made brooms.  Somehow for me they represent the part of Armenia that just “keeps on keeping on.”   One was busy making little piles of dirt along the curb.  The other had stopped to chat with my barber in front of his shop.  It is not too hard to see the past two decades of struggle for independence in their faces. 

 

But this morning as I continued the walk along my street, I passed a handful of storefronts where residents sell a variety of fresh vegetables and fruits in front of their houses.  Some have even built a little room in front and added a window for transactions so they could include a small sampling of packaged goods and ever present convenience items like cigarettes and phone cards. Our daily interactions are limited (by my language skills) but sweet.  It takes just a simple greeting or a friendly word to bring a smile to their faces.   Sometimes we might even share a reflection on the snow that we both know is coming soon.  But today our butcher had his axe out so I kept moving.

It’s a simple life they live and one I share with them on some level.  Their joys and hopes are simple and tightly bound up with their families.  Not much will happen this week despite the fact that this Friday is the 25th.  This week is one of preparation for the New Year, Nor Tari. The New Years is not about champagne and Times Square.  Rather the first 10 days of January are for visiting family and friends.  Almost nobody “goes to work” during that time.  As my loved ones are 7,000 miles away, I will be spending time with my Peace Corps family.  And along the way I will surely enjoy some time with my local Bus Community.

Enjoy your holidays.......... and your Families!