A Day in the Life

GYUMRI, ARMENIA, February 6, 2001-When the lights go out in Armenia there is no great public outcry. What good would it do? Instead, somebody calls the guy who owns a pair of wire cutters and up he goes to the roof. Herewith, my day begins as a Peace Corps volunteer.

The Armenian arrives in typical gear for a cold early morning: untucked button-up shirt, warm-up pants, and dress shoes without socks. He knocks on my door, we engage in the usual why-is-an-American-living-here repartee, and then I find out that there has been an explosion in the electrical center. Naturally, the only way to the electrical center is through my ceiling.

At one time I might have thought it inconvenient to have electricity emanating from the roof of my home. But now I'm not complaining. My neighbors who bake bread-and sell it for ten cents a loaf-will lose the day's living if their ovens will not turn on. The American in me is happy for them because they work seven days a week and could use the time off. As I walk past their house, I notice the men sitting under a tree smoking cigarettes while the women are cleaning the ovens.

Though Gyumri is a small town, my route to School 15 is often more menacing than a Central Expressway commute. In a country where laws are rarely enforced, drivers move freely in and out of oncoming traffic and think nothing of red lights. I once thought that Dallas must be the worst walking city in the world. But here I encounter several dozen stray dogs as I walk the several blocks to school. Scars on their bodies indicate brutal turf wars and limps mean they have lost battles with moving automobiles.

My school is a charming place but it neighbors a tragic eyesore. A short stroll away, the remains of a building litter adjacent streets like so many junked sedans thrown in a heap. The building was ravaged twelve years ago by a devastating earthquake and subsequent looting. Then last October a bulldozer began the task of razing it-from the bottom up! Recently, a child from School 15 was killed when a live load from that wreckage tumbled down upon him.

I arrive at school early and go looking for people I know. My language skills are suspect still, and conversation is really just a lot of smiling and nodding on my part. I find several teachers in the lounge drinking sootch, and one of them gets up immediately to pour a cup for me. I tell her no sugar, but she proceeds to put three spoonfuls in a cup the size of a shot glass. Like most Armenians she doesn't think that there is such a thing as too much sugar, and her mouthful of gold teeth speaks to this conviction.

My third form class is known as "the zoo," and today they live up to the moniker. I enter to find children running around the room, climbing on desks, shooting spit wads and hitting each other over the head with notebooks. I spend the forty minutes of class time trying to persuade them to sit down. I am relieved to find that my seventh form class is better behaved. Because I'm teaching conversational English, I have asked my students to call me "Jeremy" when we speak. Most of them refuse, and instead call me "Comrade Haile."

When classes are over, I enjoy rock star status. Children grab onto my arms, legs and torso as I try to leave the school. Finally, a teacher sees my struggle and escorts me the rest of the way out to the street. I arrive home and find that the lights come on but the water does not. "Vochinch," I say, which is a wonderful Armenian word that means "whatever."

Jen, my wife, walks in shortly after. She has spent the day visiting several factories that haven't been operational since Armenia achieved its long-awaited independence in 1991. Jen tells me that, oddly, the managers and several workers continue to show up every day, even though there is no work to do. They seem to believe that their presence at work remains time well spent.

Tonight I brush my teeth, using water out of a bottle and trying to wash dishes with the runoff. I think about where I was six months before, and remember being tired of the predictability of it all. Indeed, how boring to have running water for two years straight.

But here I am in a country where the only thing predictable is the unpredictability. For several years, I was always looking forward and always looking back. There has always been a tradeoff. Living in Armenia, I have been spared a miserable Cowboys season, but have missed the glory of my beloved Mavs. I cling to the hope that no matter where I am, I only have today.