Weekend Adventures

I’m sorry for my blogging absence, it’s been a very busy last few weeks!  Two weekends ago I needed to renew my visa, which means leaving the country for neighboring Georgia.  Why must it be Georgia, you say?  Well, the borders with Turkey to the east and Azerbaijan to the west are both currently closed (more on that in a bit), and my American passport won’t help me get into neighboring Iran to the south.  So that leaves Georgia!  It just so happened to also be a four day weekend so my friends and I had a spontaneous adventure to the Black Sea and the city of Batumi.  (I’ve been four months without an ocean so the withdrawals were beginning.)  Here are a few of the highlights:

•  Of three nights away, two were spent in a moving vehicle (bus and train).  Everyone should at least take one overnight bus trip during their life.  It’s serious character building.

•  My mom taught me from a young age that free stuff is great.  This inspired us to sneak ourselves into a tourism conference at the Sheraton, Batumi.  The man dishing out coffee samples knew we were frauds so he made us pay, but we did manage to score some awesome free food samples. 

•  We scaled an old Roman fortress.

And I posed with the weapons.

•  I got my feet wet in a new body of water!

 •  We took part in the age old tradition of the Tbilisi sulfur baths.  This experience involved getting naked, soaking in the scalding hot water while enjoying the rotten egg aroma.  Then we got scrubbed down by an old Georgian woman.  My skin has never been so soft.

Then last weekend I went on a four day trip with Birthright to Nagorno-Karabakh, or Artsakh, as Armenia calls it.  If you plug Nagorno-Karabakh Republic into Google Maps you’ll be taken to the western part of Azerbaijan, but after years of war in the early ‘90s, Armenia now claims the territory as its own.  The war is the reason for the current border closures with Azerbaijan and Turkey.  At present, a ceasefire signed in 1994 rules the region, but all peace talks in the last 20 years have thus far failed.  Today both sides play the waiting game and it’s difficult to imagine them reaching a compromise in the near future.  I’ve had my own established opinions of the conflict, but it was an important experience to visit the region myself, interact with people who had fought in the war, see the destruction which took place, and walk in the trenches (literally).  I can’t say that my opinions have changed, but I feel I have a better idea of where Armenians’ motivations and views stem from, which feels good.  Here are some other highlights from the weekend:

•  Did you know?  Armenia is home to the world’s longest reversible aerial tramway.  Now there’s an important fact!  But really, this cable car is an incredible feat of engineering (thank you, Switzerland) which allows for year-round access to Tatev Monastery.  I’ve seen my fair share of monasteries in Armenia, but this was by far the most impressive!  Perched amongst the mountains it’s easy to think that when the monastery was originally established in the 9th century the builders felt closest to God at this location.

•  I almost lost my Red Sox hat.  Twice.  Both times I was reunited with this prized possession by my friend’s dad who had come along on the trip.  I had found peace in knowing that Red Sox Nation had made it to an unrecognized republic, but it certainly was good to get it back.

•  I almost had a panic attack on the shakiest shaky bridge ever!

•  I was short enough that I could stand up straight while walk through the trenches on the Armenian front line without the fear that an Azerbaijani sniper would see my head over the top.  I spied through a tiny crack past no man’s land to the other side.  (Birthright has a longstanding relationship with the military in Artsakh to allow us to visit the front lines.  Sorry, no pictures allowed.)

It’s certainly been an eventful last few weeks.  Last week I finished work at AUA because the semester is over and there are no longer students to tutor.  So now I’m splitting my time between AEN and another environmental organization, FPWC (Fund for the Protection of Wildlife and Cultural Assets).  They’ll be a test on these acronyms upon my return!

Contrary to what these pictures might show, I do have more than one pair of pants...

"What are you?"

“What are you?”  In reality, this is a really strange question, but in our melting pot of America we ask this of each other fairly often.  One might respond, “Well, I’m German, British, Norwegian, Irish, and I’m even 1/32 Native American!”  But what does that really mean?!  This is a question I’ve been struggling with recently.  As people, it seems like we have this innate need to categorize ourselves.  There’s something comfortable and convenient about sorting everyone into a box.  In terms of our DNA, the very core of our being, every human on this planet is 99.9% similar to the next (according to Wikipedia), but for some reason we always feel the need to go back to the safety of our boxes.  Now you’re probably wondering what has brought me to this philosophical question, especially on a Monday, and there are a few reasons, one of which I’ve been thinking about practically since I arrived, while the other reared its ugly head last week.

As a “Diasporan Armenian” living in Armenia, I’ve often asked myself what it really means to be Armenian.  When I get the “What are you?” question, one of my responses is “Armenian”.  I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t “Armenian”.  Someone decided that after examining both of my great-grandparents’ death certificates and finding the words, “Place of Birth: Armenia”, it was therefore my “Birthright” to visit this country on someone else’s dime.  But what does being Armenian really mean?  And is it really all that different from being anything else?  Is it about eating dolma?  Is it about speaking the language?  Is it about going to the Armenian Church?  Is it about living here?  On occasion I’ve been asked, “Well, how Armenian are you?” or “What part of you is Armenian?” as if the answer could be my big toe.  In these rare situations I feel judged for identifying in some way with my Armenian identity, despite the fact that I don’t look as Armenian as the next (however it is that an Armenian is supposed to look), I didn’t grow up in an Armenian community, or even go to Armenian summer camp.  I don’t think I’ll ever land on an answer to what it means to be Armenian, but maybe that’s okay.  I don’t want to have to stay in the box.

The second thing that’s got me thinking about cultural identity was last weeks' Genocide Remembrance Day.  On April 24, 1915, notable members of the Armenian community in Istanbul were banished from the city.  Many mark this day on which Armenian scholars and community leaders were deported to the deserts of Syria as the beginning of the systematic killing of approximately 1.5 million Armenians by the Ottoman Turks.  So, every April 24^th hundreds of thousands of Armenians visit the Genocide memorial and lay flowers around the eternal flame in memory of their ancestors and loved ones, the victims of the Genocide.  It is a somber day of remembrance and reflection, but for me, there was an ugly side to this tradition.

On the eve of Remembrance Day, we joined a candlelit march to the memorial.  Prior to the event, a few people asked me with enthusiasm, “Are you ready to burn the flag?!”  To this I asked, “What flag?”  Silly me… We gathered with the huge crowd in the center of Yerevan in front of the Opera.  After a few speeches, the flag took center stage.  I opened my mouth practically to the floor in awe as I witnessed the Turkish colors go up in flame to the cheers of the crowd.  I’ve learned from the Navy man and the Boy Scouts of the family that a flag is sacred.  I have fond memories of retiring the colors before sunset with my grandfather at our family’s cottage in the summer.  He taught me the right way to fold the flag, and he insisted that it never stay up overnight.  So for me, watching the Turkish flag disintegrate to ashes while an enthusiastic, cheering crowd looked on, this was the ultimate act of hatred towards a country and everything it stands for – its government, its politics, and most importantly its people.  I have gathered during my time in Armenia that many Armenians have strong feelings against Turks.  I’ve heard people say they would never speak to a Turkish person in their life, and worse.  This stems from the Turkish government’s continual denial of the Genocide, but at a certain point 99 years later it begs the question, why?  Although the massacre of Armenians was motivated by religious differences, I’m under the impression that Armenians and Turks have much more in common than they acknowledge.  But again, we force ourselves to dwell on the differences, sorting each other into our little boxes.  Watching this flag burning was probably one of the most shocking things I’ve ever witnessed.  But what’s more distressing is to think that every day around our world, people are expressing their hatred towards others and fighting battles over differences.

To close this extensive rant, I want to share a story from my semester abroad in Kenya.  I think it’s part of the answer of what we can do to help get ourselves out of our boxes.  During the semester I had the opportunity to visit the home of Pete O’Neal, member of the Black Panther Party.  During the 1960s he was arrested for transporting a gun across state lines.  He sought exile in Algeria, and later settled near Arusha, Tanzania where he and his wife run an amazing community and education center.  He hasn’t stepped foot on American soil since.  If he returns, he’ll immediately be sent to jail.  He has no American passport, nor is he a registered citizen of Tanzania.  One of my classmates asked him which country he considered he belonged to, and Pete’s answer stuck with me.  He said, “I don’t consider myself a citizen of the US or Tanzania.  I’m a citizen of the world.” 

Under the Sea (in a landlocked country)

Well I’ve had one of my most unproductive days in a while, so I figured I’d try to redeem myself by at least writing a new blog entry.  Today was a holiday, essentially Armenia’s Day of the Dead.  On this day it is tradition that people visit the graves of their loved ones.  For me, it was nice to have the day off from work and participate in Boston’s annual Patriot’s Day tradition and watch the Boston Marathon.  (Thus my lack of productivity.)  I’ve got plenty to do these days as I now have four volunteer placements, but procrastination has its ways.  Four hours of marathon coverage later, here I am.  But it was time well spent.  Here I was in Yerevan texting finish line updates to my parents along the racecourse.  Our world certainly seems small sometimes in this digital age. 

Today I want to share a video I took last week on my walk home from language class one day.  It’s a classic snapshot of Yerevan.  One of the many signs of spring in the city (in addition to outdoor cafes popping up out of nowhere, flower stalls on every corner, and that fresh spring smell after an overnight rain) is the nightly fountain show in Republic Square.  (Think Disney World dancing fountain, but not quite the same level of Disney magic.)  Usually when I walk through the square on my way home from language class they’re playing classical music and the fountains are dancing and everybody gathers to watch the show.  On this particular evening Yerevan decided to up their Disney magic level with this musical selection. 

There’s something about walking through the central square of Yerevan circled by the country’s government buildings, while hearing a Disney classic on the loudspeakers.  You just never know when Armenia will surprise you next!

Hummingbirds in Hayastan

Today's blog post is published on the Armenian Environmental Network's blog.  I wrote this a few weeks ago for them during a slow day at the office.  You can find the post by clicking here!

And for those of you who think I've escaped this harsh winter on the East Coast, think again.  This happened on Sunday.  Rumor has it that anywhere from 80-90% of the year's apricot harvest has been destroyed as a result of the storm.  It is sure to be a hard year for the farmers whose livelihoods depend on the harvest.  Mother Nature certainly has her ways.

The Country Bumpkin Loves Yerevan

After living in Beijing and Nairobi, both large, overcrowded cities, I resigned myself to the fact that I am not a city person.  I’m a country bumpkin who is happiest just sitting, staring at the ocean or marsh watching the birds fly by.   So, before leaving for Armenia, I was a little nervous about Yerevan.  Would living in the city be a cause of stress as it had been before?  Would I reach the point where I’d do almost anything just to get away?  The answer is no.  So far I’ve loved living in Yerevan, and here are some reasons why.

•  You can walk just about anywhere in the central district in 30 minutes.  This makes for a nice commute, however if I walk to work I usually arrive as a sweaty mess so I often opt for the metro.

•  Speaking of the metro, the one line system is easy to navigate and never too crowded.

•  On clear days, Mt. Ararat’s snow-capped peaks tower over the city from the horizon.  No photo I’ve taken thus far has come close to capturing the beauty of this mountain.

•  Yerevan has its fair share of traffic and crazy drivers, but in my opinion it’s no worse than Boston.  (Perhaps this isn’t saying much considering that many feel drivers from Boston are certified crazy.)

•  Because the city is so small, it’s easy to run into a friend by chance while you’re out and about.  In a sense, Yerevan is just one big neighborhood.  I imagine this could get pretty old when you’ve lived here all your life and there’s nowhere to hide.  But for me, living in an unfamiliar place, it provides a sense of community that I haven’t experienced in a city before.

•  You can drive just an hour from the city and find yourself in a different world of small villages and big mountains.  One of my favorite weekend activities has been hiking, because although I’m loving the city, I still like to escape every once in a while.

Here are some photos from some recent hiking adventures.

 At Smbataberd, an old fortress in the mountains

 Selfie in a cave at the summit of Mt. Hatis (2530 m).  It was mighty chilly.

 Birthrighters fording a river.

 Mt. Ararat + me + a horse = magical afternoon

 Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, Lizzie made a surprise trip to Yerevan!

Food is Love

I’ve been telling my host family for a while now that I’d cook dinner for them sometime, and it finally happened this week.  The kitchen in my home belongs completely to my host mother, so this was somewhat of a feat that she allowed me so far into her domain.  She wouldn’t completely give up the reigns and I could tell she had little faith in my cooking skills.  But I think I convinced her I knew what I was doing.

On the menu for the evening was chicken with mushrooms and onions in a white wine sauce served over my great-grandmother’s pilaf.  I thought it would be a symbolic gesture to prepare my Armenian grandmother’s rice pilaf for my host family here in Yerevan.  Her recipe would come full circle, returning to its origins.  This all seemed great in my head, until I was at the grocery store and couldn’t find any chicken broth.  This could be because A) I had no idea where to look; B) I didn’t really know how to ask; C) I still only know half of the Armenian letters so I couldn’t read the labels; or D) they don’t sell it because people just make their own.  I’m leaning towards D, but A-C are also valid answers.  Luckily, my friend was able to find the bouillon, so I settled for that instead.  This was all well and good, except it left the pilaf smelling and tasting like Top Ramen.  How could my grandmother’s pilaf which she probably first learned to make as a girl living in Turkey now taste like cheap college food here in Armenia?!  This didn’t seem right to me and I was overall disappointed in the meal.  But from the eyes (or stomachs) of my host family, the meal was a success.  I received the ultimate Armenian compliment from my host dad. “It’s delicious.  Now you can get married.”  Watch out Yerevan!

"From the American People"

This is a story about international aid and a trip to the bathroom.  First, I have to tell you a little bit about AUA’s two buildings.  The main building of the university is an old Soviet government building and AUA leases the building from the current Armenian government.  When you enter the main building there is a large foyer where students will sit and socialize.  On the back wall the Armenian and American flags hang side by side as a gentle reminder of the countries’ partnership.  And just so the students don’t forget who helped make their education at AUA possible, there are multiple signs around the foyer with the words “USAID: From the American People.”  But I digress.  The second building at AUA is attached to this one and is clean, new, and bright.  This is where I go to the bathroom.

The toilets in the AUA bathroom struck me on the first flush.  These toilets weren’t like other toilets I had used in Armenia.  Upon pushing down the lever there was a monstrous roar as the water forcefully ensured everything was gone in a flash.  This was so unlike many of the other “flush and pray” toilets I had experienced here.  It only took a quick glance behind the bowl to realize why this was the case.  American Standard.  1.6 gal/flush.  I’ve taken comfort in going to the bathroom at AUA, knowing I can have confident in the plumbing.  But today I had a new epiphany: my bathroom comfort is just another example of flawed international aid.

During my time abroad I’ve seen the fingerprints of USAID all over.  They love leaving their little stickers on everything proclaiming “From the American People.”  I remember seeing them on desks at a community center in Nairobi, on an old can of vegetable oil in my home stay family’s house in a rural village near Mombasa, and I’ve seen them here as well.  This seems all well and good (and oh so generous of “the American people”) until we take a look behind the curtain.  Here’s just one example.  According to The Guardian, in 2011 two-thirds of the food purchased by the 1 billion dollar US food aid program was bought from three of America’s largest agribusinesses.  Our taxpayer dollars are supporting large American businesses while the people in need suffer.  American food aid doesn’t help stimulate local economies in developing regions, and local farmers often can’t compete with the imported staples.  Sure, we’re all about giving, but by giving on our own terms we’re really only taking an opportunity to help ourselves, and consequently we’re hurting others.

Back to the bathrooms.  This morning at AUA I made a trip to the loo after finishing my coffee.  (Yes, I’m drinking black coffee fairly regularly.  Who would have thought?!)  Well you know what happens after coffee, so I was thankful for those powerful flushing machines.  But today while sitting on that porcelain throne, I thought more about how these toilets actually got to Armenia.  This new building at AUA is also no doubt made possible by “the American people.”  But how could we let the builders do the easy thing and buy the toilets in Yerevan?  Did American Standard make a generous toilet donation?  My guess is no.  These toilets were likely purchased with US aid money, sending that money back to the US.  Now I’m no expert on the workings of public toilets but I also wouldn’t doubt that any needed replacement part is nowhere to be found locally, as I’ve never seen another lever flush model here, which is standard in any US public restroom.  So next time I’m thankful for the forceful flusher at AUA, I’ll also be thanking “the American people.”