RIGHT HAND (MY) GREEN (PANTS)

The first time I heard the word marshrutga (public minibus) I instantly pictured an amusement park ride: "The Rotor," "Matterhorn," "Marshrutga." In reality, I suppose, I was not so far off. "Step right up!! Only 100 dram for the ride of your life! Your choice of the 20, 12, 22, 26… A little wary? Scared of zipping over potholes at an alarming rate? Ride the 28!! Slowest shrut of them all…you'll NEVER get where you're going on that one! All others…taking you all the way to Sayat Nova and back...Step right up! (Watch your head!)"

When I first got to Armenia I missed the security of seatbelts. I soon realized, though, when you're packed like sardines in a tin can (literally) you really can't get hurt because there's no where to fall.

The marshrutgas to the villages where I teach are like endless, sweaty, bouncing games of Twister at a crazy party where people play holding purses, children and buckets of varungs. Dinner invitations fly toward me, as do people, as the bus lurches forward and people grab for the nearest shoulder, knee, head (or other available body part) they can find.

At times when I feel cramped or in need of oxygen I contort my neck and try to raise my head to catch a modicum of breeze or air movement of any kind. Most of the time, I'm met with the hot exhalation of an adjacent passenger…I've learned to take what I can get. Even at 100 degrees and counting, somehow the people on these transports are perfectly happy to keep every window closed. Just this afternoon, I asked the woman in front of me (in a breathless, raspy hot voice—to convey the level of my discomfort) if she wouldn't mind opening the window a bit: she nodded and I got three-quarters of an inch.

Three-quarters of an inch is a lot though, especially in terms of space. For example, just when you think there is no possible way another soul can fit into the place, the driver stops (my heart sinks) and three more people get on (my legs cramp) to fill the one-and-a-half remaining empty laps (I breathe as many breaths as I can before the door closes again). The maze of people is so thick, in fact, that I can't tell whose breast my head is resting on (because I literally cannot move it to look), whose child I have in my lap, or whose bag is slung around my arm or dangling from my pinky finger (in the case of extra-crowded days when my arm is being used as a seat-belt).

For the first month of so, I found this mode of transportation devastatingly uncomfortable and the fact that I was forced to use it for hours at a time, daily, was like the one, cruel reality of life you want never to face. I found that my body would actually tense up and begin to ache at the mere mention of the word marshrutga.

As I'm getting into my third month here, things are starting to feel differently to me. Some things have been happening, besides the everyday wonderful amusements and amazements, that have been bringing things into perspective for me. The other day, for example, an old tatik was sitting next to me and telling a story to all the passengers on the shrut (except me, really) and was using my leg to emphasize all her most important points—smacking and whacking and stroking all in harmony with the emotion of the story she was telling, that I might have understood but couldn't quite because of the toothless barbar she was speaking.

Just yesterday, Noushig and I were sitting on the Meghrashen shrut waiting to leave when some of the vendors came up to the door to (block our air supply, and) peddle some random stuff (termite repellent, socks, plastic bags, rulers and tape) and one man kept trying to push this prissy fan on the old, villager woman across from us. "What do you want me to do with that" she asked, "sit underneath the cow and fan myself?" An argument broke out—she began to cry silently and as she wiped her eyes with the old sock that was her handkerchief I realized how lucky I am to have these awful bus rides in my life. Every day here I can feel like I'm a part of something, no matter how small. It's really easy to feel alone in America. In the city, sometimes it seems like the more people I have around me the lonelier I feel; the masses just leave me isolated and wanting. It's so different here…it's hard to feel isolated at the end of the day.

But as I step down at the end of my ride (whack my head) and inhale my first breath of fresh air, like a baby from the womb—raw and impressionable—I realize how sincere it all is and how genuinely amazing it is that I actually like it. I can walk onto these marshrutgas and be known by 20 people and instantly feel loved. Every one needs a little some of that in their life. I ride with the heart and soul of this country everyday.

Elyssa Karanian (USA)
AVC volunteer and BR/DH participant