My Summer Journey

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My Summer Journey

Text and Photo by Armen Sevag

 

The following is a journal of my journey with my mother from New York City to Amsterdam to Armenia from June to mid-July, 1999. Although this was my fifth time visiting Armenia, it was the first since 1987. My mother was born and raised just outside of Yerevan, and her brother and family live in Yerevan. I hope this journal gives an informal flavor of the cultural climate and contradictions of Armenia.

 

 

In sweltering NYC heat, passing "Quality Cleaning" in Queens, we arrived at JFK. After the ticket agent informs us that we're overweight, we frantically repack our numerous bags. We take off, and during our flight, the yerakouyn horizon becomes a gorgeous sunrise over Dublin.

 

We arrive to the dull, immaculate fields of Amsterdam. The airport is packed with people, but eerily quiet. After walking through high-class ritzy shops, with everything from Rolexes to Romeo Y Julietas to diamonds, we sit for several hours. McDonald's comes in handy, and Heineken is served to everyone. The Armenian Airlines setup includes no representatives of their own and broken computers. The gate had buses outside and I was waiting for them to grow wings, but we got in the bus and rode to the plane, called an "airbus."

 

I struck up a conversation with an odar woman who was interested in Armenian music. Married to an Armenian, she was going to Armenia for two months to learn the language. We board the plane and we note the Armenian aromas. It's a strange feeling being in a plane full of Armenians. In true Armenian fashion, we sit for an hour and a half after scheduled takeoff, not moving, with no explanation. I was impressed that everyone was so patient. I was waiting to hear the dice of some spontaneous tavlou, but everyone was relaxed.

 

We take off, rumbling, with people walking around, regardless of the "fasten seatbelt" rules. Next comes the longest five hours of my life. Time stood still, it seemed. Finally we arrive, and the dim lighting of Armenia awaits us. The people packed outside the windowed baggage claim make the airport feel like a prison, but I couldn't decide whether the prison was inside or outside. I spot our family, especially my niece, angelic Asdghig, who is six years old. After our ridiculous baggage is stacked, we're wheeled over to "customs," who apparently invent rules on the spot. They cut us a break, claiming to be doing us a favor by only charging a hundred bucks in "taxes." We tell them that we know well that it has nothing to do with rules, but their need for money, whatever the source. As soon as we start loading our luggage into the cars, a young aper jan beggar appears. We drive to the apartment, after passing endless "casinos." After chatting and staying up far too late, I enter an exhausted sleep.

 

The have/have not disparity is apparent as we go through Yerevan, based on the cars people drive. Mercedes S600's or Russian "Lada" Festiva-lookalikes with slapped on Benz grills. German or junk. The police force is driving brand new Hyundais. How ironic, the cops are given cars that have no chance of catching the Benzos and Beemers.

 

We eat kebab, listening to Aravod, and I watch Asdghig and Sona, who's three, sing along to Disney's "Fantasia." I wake to mom announcing that I can take a shower if I hurry. In our part of the city, water is only available from 6:00 to 8:00 in the morning and a half hour at night if you're lucky. This means buckets full of water for the parts of the day when there is no water. Gas and electricity seem to be available all day, though.

 

My cousin and I go wandering to music stores and then to the music conservatoire. I was fortunate enough to sit in on a final exam. Two tars, two doudouks, an oud, three kanouns, a shvi, and a dhol. The students were in their late teens and early twenties, and they were incredible. They performed a medley, and once it was over, the dancing and feasting began. Vodka, oghi, and food everywhere. While being toasted by an obviously intoxicated teacher, I pretend to understand his strong Haiastantsi dialect. Later, we walk past the empty upscale stores and the ubiquitous bars, and even a "Yum-Yum Donuts." I see the "American modas" everywhere, with people wearing fashions I've never seen anywhere in America. We get home and I'm tired. Paree keesher eleeh.

 

Yesterday the teacher toasts me and I gulp down some oghi. Today it was beer, Kotchnak, and Kilikia. It's considered an insult not to drink: An-normal. We went to Khor Virab today, and I saw Masis. That's the image which stays with you, because it represents the calm, quiet dignity amid the chaos. When no snow remains on Pokr Masis, the watermelons are said to be ripe in the valley. The road to Khor Virab was like a post-Soviet industrial wasteland. Half-finished projects everywhere.

 

One thing that is sticking with me is that the people have a very high regard for art and culture. The artistic level of the people seems much higher than at home. The Soviet system produced and supported all kinds of intellectuals and artists, who are now struggling, while the few business-savvy individuals are doing much better in post-Soviet Armenia. We return from Khor Virab and go to Peppino's pizzeria. Funky stuff, they had mayo and eggs on their pizzas. The ketchup here is spicy too. Upon returning home, I learned how bad I was at tavlou/nardi. Even in Armenia it's shesh besh. One of our friends tells me that the HIV drug Armenicum isn't household news everywhere because news organizations don't believe that Armenia would discover such a drug, and Armenians can't keep their mouths shut until real evidence is gathered. The former KGB chief apparently broke the news, instead of the Health Minister.

 

We came home and watched the president of Artsakh speak. Armenians here are very animated. Also, the outdoor cafes are very nice, except for the Aper jan, tsavut danehm beggar kids coming to you and sticking like glue. The more aggressive ones are obviously not legitimately poor. You can usually tell who is for real or not. I heard of some beggars saying that if they don't get 20 bucks a day, it's not a good day.

 

Awoke and showered with a bucket of water. Garni and Geghard awaited, and on the way I saw some of the most breathtaking and gorgeous scenery. Especially from the Yeghishe Charents memorial on the way up the mountains. Geghard was awesome. The walnut bobok trees at Garni smelled wonderful. The soujoukh made from those walnuts was also very good. You could taste the grape juice. Two dadeegs were selling the sweets outside the gate. One wouldn't bargain, so we bought a bunch from the other, who felt bad and asked us to buy from the other dadeeg too. Unselfishness is apparent everywhere.

 

The entire setting was amazing. Yerevan sits in the valley of a ring of mountains. Ararat on one side, Alakyaz (Aragats) and the Ara Ler on the other. There are scattered towns and kiughs all over the outskirts of Yerevan. Dinner was kufteh and baby potatoes drowned in yiugh. Now it's time for tavlou, and then a good rest. It seems that nardi reflects life here, a mixture of skill and chance. It's one of the few things here that has remained rigid and structured, hence perhaps its continuing appeal. The traffic laws certainly aren't.

 

Today I went to play "billiard" at a park up toward Arabkir. The pockets are tiny and the billiard balls are huge. A kemanchist was sitting playing away. The view from the park and the balcony are wonderful, Yerevan smack underneath you, Masis again as a frame and backdrop for the city. We stop across the park for kebab and Aram Asatryan's "Pizza Pizza" was blasting. We got home and I force-fed myself sarma and dolma.

 

After dinner I saw the Russian Wheel of Fortune. It seems more like Wheel of Misfortune. One beggar boy yesterday had a good line: "Ehsor undzee dolar das, vaghuh ashkharhuh kez goudah."

 

Vernisage began the next day with an art exhibit near the apartment. Mostly starving artists. Beautiful stuff, including a "real" Van Gogh, if you believe the merchant. Then we took the trolly to the big shougah. All sorts of artistic handiwork. There was so much talent and personality packed into that space. Top notch musicians too. Of course, I was surrounded by pickpockets who pinned me to a table, but my hands were firmly over my pockets. You feel bad bargaining, because the sellers are the artists, and they are dedicated craftsmen and women. One told me how his sons were in Artsakh, and he was selling goods to make money to send to them. Every artisan said that their stuff was hadoug and varbedee kordz. One doudouk seller tracked me down after a conversation and gave me a shvi as a gift. A man also offered his seat to my mother.

 

Mom said that when I was a four year old kid at the customs line in Moscow, I turned and announced to the people waiting, "Heemah beedee uhsen, 'Nyet Nilsyah' (No, that's not allowed)." The people cracked up. Also, there are few things more adorable and fascinating than an adorable child like Asdghig or Sona speaking Arevelahayeren in their squeaky little voices.

 

Sunday arrived, so we ventured to Etchmiadzin. This past week, Catholicos Karekin I passed away after only five years as Catholicos, and Etchmiadzin was quiet. We returned to Gayane Chapel where I was baptized. That affected me more so than Etchmiadzin. Then we went to my gnkamayr's apartment. I had a khorovadz and luleh kebab feast, complete with homemade (strong) wine.

 

We got the customs papers for the kanoun, tar, and other things we bought, then returned to my mother's home outside Yerevan. It still has peaches, dzirans, toot, khaghogh, and cherries in the garden. I'm learning the doudouk and zourna quickly, and I have already purchased 50 cassette tapes. I visited with Mikayel Matevosian at the conservatory, met his father Rouben, the renowned singer, and some varbeds. They showed me some tricks of the trade. Later I went to look for cigars. R&J Coronas are about 8-9 bucks apiece.

 

Went again to the conservatory studio and spent time with Armen, who is a varbed on shvi, doudouk, and "glarnet." Mikael came, we met a few others. One woman asked questions about America, as if she was in love with the place. We had mango juice and marojnee. Then Mikael took me to Varbed Carlen's apartment to get a fine doudouk. I saw a spectacular doudouk he made for Vatche Hovsepian, covered in abalone and mother-of-pearl inlay. He is a true master, with a sincere love for his craft. He will be moving to Glendale later this year. Mikayel is a very nice guy, very helpful. CD muh khpetsee, eench anem.

 

Kebab for dinner, but I felt a cold coming on. I was going on five days with no shower. Also, you haven't been to Haiastan until you bite into fruit and see living things in it. The key is to break it in half before you eat and sdougel. We went to the cemetery to pay our respects to our family, and light khoung. We also saw the grave of Hrair Maroukhian. One of the caretaker dadigs was a touching sight. Later I went to try and find some cold medicine, preferably the American kind, but Yerevan's stores seem to close at 7:00. Except, of course, the night clubs or "discoteks," bars, and casinos.

 

I woke up real early to take a shower. Gorgeous tavlou tables run 40 to 150 bucks. We went to a food market or shougah. The tarm mees butchers' places have flies everywhere, but they say it's natural or pnagan. You can buy roosters and hens for an old-school kiugh-style dinner. There's food everywhere and no money. The cops invent reasons to pull you over. One pulled us over by waving his hand. Basically, he saw money in the car, actually US dollars, and made up something to get it.

 

The entire country, government, and people seem to be learning as they go, with money, or the lack of it, as the main driving force. We are very fortunate materially in America. Time here goes by much more slowly than at home, the pace is slower. There's been an exodus to California, and the villagers have come into the big city, making things tough for those who have remained in Yerevan.

 

For once, I won at nardi: 5-4, then it was three mars's in a row...6-0...jamanagov…

 

I finally felt better after taking American medicine. My uncle Mihran says, "Shuhran es! Tourk es!" and Sona gets angry. "Che! Che! Shuhlan em pats Douk chem!" We watched Russian and Armenian talent shows on television, which were star-search type programs. I saw a Russian rock group's video, which was all Clinton and Lewinsky news clips. The commercials and cartoons translated to Armenian with a voice-over are a trip. Pari lotto is a major happening. Everyone seems to win something.

 

Later we went out for pizza. Today was the Vartavar holiday. Supposedly the idea is kids toss water on you on the sidewalk from their balconies, and it's supposed to wash away your sins. We went to Pizza Di Roma near Hotel Armenia and the Hrabarag. Sil Group has a building of high-class stores, and what's more Armenian than the Adidas store in this building. The pizza was good, but Ashtarak ice cream (marojneeh) is the best I've tasted. We walked around the Hrabarag, the square. It's a great place to wander, with the yerekhek in the fountains in their vardeegs. All is great, except dodging buckets of water.

 

We visited the Biochemistry building and I saw the library dedicated to my grandfather. The dingy darkness of the academic buildings was depressing, as the money for academia has been cut drastically. Then off to Dzidzernagapert. Meghk, not enough gas, so the eternal flame is on pause on weekends. The effect remains, as do the many flowers. The burning hot sun gives a taste of what our martyrs endured.

 

We drive from one mountaintop to another around Yerevan. During the entire visit I only saw two female drivers. Watched a concert on television from Stepanakert. Mostly various "I'm singing like American R&B soul seengurs," but Nune Yessaian came on and sang and danced with the Artsakhtsi soldiers. She's like the Armenian Madonna. Zaz and I went to an Armenian Philharmonic hamerk of Ravel and Bizet, for French Independence Day. The ambassador was there. A 13-year-old Armenian violinist from St. Petersburg performed, and he was embraced like a family member. The hall was packed. Armenians are certainly appreciative of culture. The sculptures on the walls of the hall are gorgeous. On one side was a kanoun and doudouk, and on the other was a davoul and zourna. "Mer Hairenik" played by the orchestra was stirring and touching. There again is that quiet, patient, yet fierce dignity ever present. Until work is available and money flows where it should, times will be tough in Armenia. It's a country crawling away from communism, learning to take its first capitalistic steps, so that she may walk and run into the future. It is a journey I hope every Armenian has the chance to experience. Armenia is all you've heard about and more.

 

Each day, I would write down some characteristic words and phrases. Here's what I had after a couple of weeks for "Haiastantsi Words":

 

Heemar, Baless, Balkee, mazalou, eleeh, geozal, andour, vai koh dounoushen, dzidzaghel, Dochnee, Uhdents, Chamadan, Vapshe, Vopshum, Ara, Vai koranam yes, Syoh, Dzio Dzia, door kal, ba vonts, ohjar, eleeh, azziz, koukourouz, benzene, element, ay mart, kouyrig/aper jan, mayrig/hayrig jan, dadeeg/babeeg jan, srah, drah, nrah, Dnaz, vegalah, khi?, eenchee? yarab, blouz, eench es?, akhr, ghalat, dnashen, Da, kharasho, sounkeh, shupurdel, kyaseeb, geghtsee, rabiz, zuzveleeh, kedeenuh mudneeh, and of course, nardi counting:

 

1-Yeg, 2- Doo, 3- Seh, 4- Dort or Jahar, 5- Penj or Besh, 6- Shesh 1,1-Hapyeg, 2,2- DooBara, 3,3- Jutseh, 4,4-Dortjahar, 5,5-Doobesh, 6,6-Dooshesh, 1,2- Ikibeer, 1,3- Sehyeg, 1,4-Jaharyeg, 1,5- Penjyeg, 1,6- Sheshyeg, 2,3-Sebaydoo, 2,4-JaharooDoo, 2,5- Panjoodoo, 2,6- Sheshoodoo, 4,3- Jaharooseh, 4,5-Beshdort, 4,6-Sheshjahar, 5,3-Penjooseh, 5,6-SHESHBESH...

 

For translations you can email me at armensevag@webcombo.net, or you can just ask someone who's been there.