Goodbye Lehvaz - Հաջող Լեհվազ

I woke up extremely early the day of my departure from Lehvaz, in part because I procrastinate everything and still had some cleaning to do before I left the house, and also because I can’t sleep during times of big transition anyway. I got the final cleaning done, put all of my boxes and luggage out on the porch, and was about to make breakfast when I heard some people emerging from the village path behind my house. Onto my porch came Varsenik, a “tatik” (grandma) from the village who had always been a good friend and invited me over often, accompanied by Arsen, a little 6^th grade boy I’ve taught during my two years. The unlikely pair wanted to wish me farewell. Varsenik (or “Achik” as everyone calls her for short), started laying out fresh vegetables, lavash, and goat cheese on the table, and instructed Arsen to grab dishes from my kitchen. She said “you can’t just leave without us giving you a proper goodbye.” I nodded. I’d be getting one last bit of Armenian hospitality before leaving whether I liked it or not. We ate, Arsen asked me a million questions about how I would get to America, and Achik said a few toasts to my safely reaching home and having good luck in the future. The taxi that would be taking me to Yerevan pulled up to my house just as we were finishing up at around 9:30 in the morning, and I started moving my stuff to the car. Arsen and even Achik started grabbing stuff too, and we had the car loaded up in no time. I made a quick visit to my neighbor Karen’s, who I hadn’t said bye to yet. He and his family were already out on the porch eating breakfast, and he gave me a big bear hug and said yet another toast to my safe travels to send me on my way. Before getting in the car I gave Achik and Arsen a hug, and then I was off. Suddenly I was pulling out of the village I’d called home for two years, feeling sentimental but also feeling that subtle sensation of excitement you always feel when you’re setting out and making a change. Lehvaz had truly become my home over these two years. I’d have nothing but good memories from this place. 

At Vahram and Armine’s House - Վահրամի Եվ Արմինեի Տանը

Vahram and Armine were some of the first friends I had in the village of Lehvaz. Armine is related to the host family I stayed with during my first two months in the village (one of Artoshya and Karine’s three daughters), and her husband Vahram was there to greet me on the first day I arrived in the village. A memory always sticks in my mind of Vahram calling me the night before I left Lehvaz after my 3-day “site-visit” over two years ago. I couldn’t understand him that well at the time, but the gist was something like “safe travels tomorrow, we’re glad you’re here, and God watch over the work you do here in Lehvaz.” It meant a lot, especially at the time, and we’ve been pretty good friends ever since.

They have three sons, Artur, Vahe, and Monte. I’ve taught Artur and Vahe English at the village school, but during my two years Monte was unfortunately still too littoe to be in school, despite his keen interest. Artur, at 11 years old is eager please but really spacy and often in his own world, which is a lot like I think I was when I was his age. Vahe, 9, is crazy excitable and kind of hilarious as a student. His desire to participate in everything is great, but it’s sometimes so strong that even if he doesn’t know the answer he’ll raise his hand anyway, stand up rigidly straight and then say a bunch of gibberish that is neither English nor Armenian, and then suddenly look surprised that what he’s saying doesn’t make sense. Vahe was also always the one who during my two years would over and over again come up to me on the street after school and say “aisor mer toon kgas!” (today you’ll come to our house!). If it wasn’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have gotten as close to the family as I did. Monte, the youngest, is really smart for his age, and I bet he would have been fun to teach. When we came to teach the Border 2 Border lessons in my village over a year ago, I remember him making all of the girls on the team swoon over how adorable he was. He already seems well aware that he has this effect on people.

I’ve been to Armine and Vahram’s house to chat and have coffee countless times, as well as for birthdays and holidays like Nor Tari (New Year) and Vahravar (the holiday where everyone throws water on each other that I posted about in the beginning of my service), and on my last night in the village, it was most important for me to go see them. The evening weather was really nice, and on their big picnic table outside we had dinner together under a light bulb that Vahram had strung onto an overhanging Persimmon branch. Vahram had been working at the mine in Agarak all day and was clearly pretty tired. The boys too seemed a little bit subdued, maybe because they knew I was leaving. We took some photos, and I let Artur take charge of the camera after giving him some quick instructions on how to use it. We had the usual coffee after dinner, and then I said my goodbyes and headed home to finish packing. Below are some pictures of the evening. I’ll miss these guys.

Vahe, Monte, and I

Vahram and I

The Brothers

 

Armine, Vahram, and sons

At Slavik's House - Սլավիքի Տանը

One of the final – and also unplanned – house visits I made before leaving Lehvaz was to my friend Slavik’s place. During my goodbye barbeque with the village teachers, as we were packing things up, he told me I should come over to his house in a couple hours, after he was finished taxiing people around in his forest green Lada for the evening (he works primarily as a driver). I said I’d come over for sure, and just to call me when he was done working. I went home and chipped away at packing for a couple hours. Finally, around 10pm, Slavik gave me a call saying “ari!” (come!). Slavik lives directly across the valley from me, and we can see each other’s balconies, which makes it particularly entertaining to talk to him on the phone sometimes. Both of us can stand looking at each other, able to barely hear our muffled voices from that far away and at the same time hearing our voices crystal clear through our phones.  I said I’d be over in a minute, waved to him, and got on my way.

At Slavik’s, I was also greeted by his wife, Natasha, their daughter, and their two grandchildren, Artur and Ani. I sat at a small coffee table facing Slavik, which was already set with some cold salads (salatner), cakes (tkhvatskner), and bread and cheese (hats u panir). Before we started eating, Natasha and Slavik asked their grandson Artur, who is not even in the first grade yet, to sing “that American song” to me to see what I thought. He started without an ounce of shyness, and at first I had no idea what the song was. About half way in, I realized he was singing the old folk song “Oh Susana,” which I don’t even know most of the words to, but recognized the melody. The little boy was singing it pretty much perfectly, pronouncing words like “banjo” and “Alabama” without hesitation. The fact that he can recite so many words with near perfect pronunciation without having the slightest idea as to what any of them mean is a testament to both how impressive and how absurd the soviet-style rote learning system can be. He’s clearly a really smart boy, but I can’t help thinking that his time would be better spent doing something more creative than just memorizing words that to him and his grandparents are mostly pure nonsense. Anyway, Artur was on a roll now, and I was probably boosting his confidence by giving him a “maladyetz!” (bravo!) or two after “Oh Susana.” He started singing more songs, some of them in Russian and some in Armenian, until Slavik told him that was enough and it was time for bed.

Slavik asked if I wanted any vodka, but I thought I’d better not after the horrendous stuff we’d drank at my goodbye barbeque. He seemed to be on the same page, and actually looked relieved that I didn’t ask for any. I think Natasha was too. We ate our salads and fresh baked bread and cheese, and Natasha brought out some tea and coffee. We chatted for a while, and at one point Slavik started proudly pointing to different things on the table, like the vegetables and bread, and saying “sepakan, sepakan, sepakan,” (meaning roughly “my own, my own, my own”). He was making a point that none of this stuff was bought in a store, that it all came from his garden and he and his family’s hard work. I asked him if he knew how to do any of those things, like grow a garden and make your own food, before he came to Armenia. He said he didn’t, and so maybe for him it’s particularly a point of pride, or at least more of novelty, that he can live off of the work of his own hands like this. It’s a lifestyle he’s adopted well, but not by choice. Slavik and his family, like many people now living in Lehvaz, actually grew up in Baku and had to flee as refugees once the war started. Having lived in the city of Baku their whole lives, they had to start over and learn the ways of rural life. Because of this he often likes to tell me jokingly that he too is a “kaghakatsi,” (city-dweller) now living in a “gyugh” (village), just like me.

The conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan, like many conflicts, displaced a lot of people. Azeris fled lands they had lived in for ages that were suddenly considered to be strictly Armenian territory. Armenians in turn also had to flee the areas around Baku and Nakhijevan where they had lived for perhaps countless generations, surrounded by a predominantly Azeri population that was suddenly threatening to harm them or worse if they didn’t leave. The result was a sort of separation and re-homogenization of these two peoples that had lived peacefully with each other during the Soviet Union and maybe before then as well. Before the war, Lehvaz and many other villages in the far southern region of Armenia had had a considerable Azeri population. When the Soviet Union collapsed and war broke out soon after, they fled and were replaced by refugee Armenians. The fleeing Armenians moved into the now empty Azeri homes in Armenia, and fleeing Azeris moved into empty Armenian homes in Azerbaijan. People like Slavik arrived in Lehvaz through some system of correspondence with distant relatives and friends (the way he tells it doesn’t sound like the house-swapping was very organized at all), and suddenly Lehvaz consisted of Armenians who had lived there for generations, and refugee Armenians from foreign territory, most of whom had never lived in such a rural place and didn’t speak Armenian that well either.

On this last night I’d spend with Slavik, he and Natasha told me a piece of their story I hadn’t heard before. When the conflict was starting to escalate over 20 years ago, his Armenian friends were starting to leave left and right and the situation was getting dangerous. “I told him every day that we needed to leave now,” said Natasha. Finally, Natasha and their two daughters did leave, while Slavik stayed to make a little more money and tie up some loose ends. He remained in Baku until they stopped letting him come to work. Seeing that as a definite sign, he gathered all of his money and got on the old soviet train that used to connect Baku to Nakhijevan, another territory of what is now Azerbaijan. Slavik’s plan was to hop off in Meghri, in southern Armenia, which was also a stop on the train. The way Slavik tells it, after the train started moving, he noticed Azeri guards coming around asking questions to people who looked Armenian, and “removing” them from their seats to some other location. They approached Slavik, questioned him thoroughly, and he told them that he was Azeri. His spoken Azeri was perfect, since he was from Baku, and apparently he didn’t look all that Armenian to them, so they moved on. The train eventually stopped in Meghri, and Slavik suddenly got up and got off. From the train, the guards started yelling at him and asking why he was getting off in Meghri if he was Azeri. Slavik claims that he then gave them a good cussing-out in multiple languages and then turned away. He was on Armenian soil. He was safe. The train pulled away.

 I’m not sure what would have happened if Slavik had been “discovered,” on that train, but he claims that they would have killed him. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Slavik and the countless refugees like him on both sides that suddenly found themselves in a very dangerous and unwelcoming environment, an environment that they had grown up in and called home. I don’t think there’s really words to describe what that must have felt like. Slavik told me that he misses Baku and his friends from there, some of which moved to Russia and he still keeps in touch with. He doesn’t hold a grudge against all Azeris, and remembers the ones who were his friends. “With every race there are good people and bad people,” he said.

We changed the topic off of politics, I finished my third or fourth cup of tea, and then said I’d better get going. It was past midnight. I gave Natasha a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and Slavik jokingly said “don’t kiss my wife!” I responded by giving him a big kiss on the cheek as well, causing him to let out his characteristic wheezy laugh. We wished each other health and good luck and I headed back across the valley to my house. 

Goodbye Feast - Հաջոգության Կեֆը

When my school director and friend, Varsik, called me up and asked where I’d like to have my final going away “kef” (Armenian word for feast/party) with the rest of the teachers from the village, I decided I wanted to do it in true Armenian style, outside in the elements. The rest of the school staff that were still in Lehvaz and weren’t in Yerevan or up in the mountains somewhere at their “dacha” (summer home) at the time comprised mainly older to middle-aged women, and so there was a bit of hand-wringing that doing it outside wouldn’t be comfortable, or that the weather would be too cold, etc. I told them I just wanted to do a traditional khorovats, and reminded them that it was still summer – early August to be exact – so the opposite of cold. It took a little bit of convincing, but I didn’t budge on the issue. After all it was my going away party. Anyway, I’m not too big on going away parties, especially for myself, and I figured a nice simple outdoor khorovats would be as painless and unimposing as possible.  

On the day of, we met up at the village center. Some of the usual suspects were there: Ophelia – the school’s elementary Russian teacher; Valentina – Phys-Ed teacher/Master of soviet-style morning exercises; Rita – something like Biology; Yana – upper-level Russian teacher; Lusine –  the school vice director; and Varsik – school director. Also in attendance were Samvel, Ophelia’s husband, and Slavik, who drove some of us there and is also a good friend of mine from the village. The plan was to head to “Nersesi Aghbyur” in the woods just north of the village, and set up in one of the many khorovats spots there. (Aghbyur means “water source” or “spring,” and there is almost always a nearby spring or fountain in places where Armenians like to cook out and relax).  We ran into an unexpected hang-up pretty quick, though, since all of the good outdoor khorovats spots were already occupied once we got to Nersesi Aghbyur. I guess there were a lot of birthdays that day, or son’s being born, or any of the other myriad things Armenians like to cook out for. This was much to my chagrin, since the whole doing it outdoor in the elements thing had been completely my idea, and now we couldn’t find a space. After some discussion, though, I was told that we could go over to “Simoni Aghbyur” instead, which was apparently another khorovats spot nearby. Despite a slight tone of reservation in their voices when they talked about going to Simoni Aghbyur, they seemed pretty sure that it would be free. I couldn’t imagine what could possibly be wrong with it, and was game.

Simoni aghbyur was definitely free when we got there, the chief reason being that it was directly on the premises of a small strip club. Everything clicked in my head pretty fast when I looked into the shabby little building next to us and saw a single stripper pole and a bunch of creepy mirrors inside. I laughed out loud and so did Yana, the Russian teacher, when she saw my reaction. I’d been asked to come here before by men my age in the village plenty of times, but had always turned them down and never knew exactly where it was. But besides the depressing, shabby looking strip joint right next to us, the rest of the grounds were nice. There were woods nearby, and a nice view of the mountains. There was a fire pit to do khorovats, and a nice big table for us to sit around. Plus, it was a weeknight and the club was closed, which was certainly a good thing.

The women got to setting up the table and laying out cakes and coffee, while Samvel, Slavik and I went over to the fire pit and got the fire going to barbeque the vegetables and meat. I had put an American style barbeque rub on the meat (leftover from a care package my mom had sent me a while back) and had also brought some sweet American barbeque sauce to see what my Armenian colleagues would think of it. The rest of the teachers had brought all sorts of homemade goods, from cakes to fresh bread and cheese, to compote. We had the vegetables and meat done in no time, and were soon seated around the table and feasting. Slavik went over to buy a liter of homemade vodka from the proprietor of the strip club, so that we had something to toast with, and also just to give him some business since we were technically using his property. The food was delicious, and they loved the American barbeque sauce. A couple of toasts to me were said right off the bat, which mostly focused on wishing me a very happy future with a BIG family and lots of kids (Armenians love to give toasts like that to people my age, and I think there’s a not so subtle sub-text going on here of “hurry up and get married!”). I toasted back to the school teachers and staff and thanked them for being great friends and counting me among them for two years. I truly was going to miss them.

The homemade stuff that Slavik got turned out to be a bit on the strong side. I was trying to sip it slow after catching a scent of the fumes. Yana, the only female present who was having vodka, refused to have any more after her first sip. Slavik wasn’t really drinking it either. Samvel, on the other hand, was. The old man downed a full glass after each toast, and after only the first two or three started knocking his glass over. This was surprising; if a wizened Armenian man like Samvel is showing signs like that, you know it’s powerful stuff. He then put his arm around me and was mumbling long winded toasts to me that I didn’t fully understand. His wife, Ophelia, started shouting at him, “speak up! He doesn’t understand you.” It was no use. He was not hearing her, and continued to mumble stuff about “my health,” and how I’ve “done good work.” He’d then raise his glass up as if it was time to toast, but then some other thought would come to  him all of a sudden and he would lower it back down and continue his muttering for a while.

A cold, refreshing wind started to pick up and clouds were gathering in the growing dusk when we decided to get going. As usual, the teachers gave me almost all of the leftover food on the table, even though I insisted that I wouldn’t be able to eat all of it in the remaining 24 hours I was in Lehvaz. “You can just bring it on the road with you then,” said Valentina, as she heaved a giant 3 to 4 liter jar of cherry compote at me to go home with. As we were wrapping up the teachers presented me a small faux stone plaque with an Armenian church on it as a going away gift. Cheesy, but I guess it was a nice gesture. I gave all the teachers a big hug and a kiss, they all gave me one more wish of a happy future and a big healthy family, and we headed out. My first and last experience at “Simoni Aghbyur” had been a good one.

To Kaler! - Դեպի Կալեր

I headed up to the mountain village of Kaler (pronounced Kah-lehr) on a Thursday afternoon to see my good friend Karen for the last time. Thanks to Armen, a man I know from Lehvaz who goes back and forth from Lehvaz up to the mountains often, I got a free ride up. I suppose first off, I should mention that Kaler is situated in a particularly far out, cut-off, way up in the mountains type of area. If you look at a map, and then see where Kaler is, you wonder how on earth a village can thrive there. It’s in the middle of all kinds of mountains, way out from the main highway or any major hub. Despite this, Kaler has been around for a long time, and people go up to live there every year during the summertime. It’s so high up and cold in the winter that everyone abandons the place in the fall.

My friend Karen had taken his hundred or so goats up there for the summer to graze. Apparently the grass up there is good for them or something, plus Karen just loves the mountains, so he moved up there with his family in June. Not wanting to miss out on seeing Karen one last time before I left, and also just wanting to see what this mountain village was like, I decided to head up on August 1^st to celebrate his daughter Tsovinar’s birthday with them.

I rode in the back seat of Armen’s 20 year old, beige Lada Niva with a grandmother and her grandson in the front seat and Armen’s son, Raffik, in the backseat with me. Apparently it was common for him to take passengers to and from the mountains, since people had long since found out that he went back and forth often, and not many Levhaz folk have a car of their own. We turned right off the main road just before a bridge that crosses the Meghri river, and the road right away became noticeably rougher, essentially consisting of a narrow mix of gravel and potholes. We started winding upwards quickly, one hairpin switchback after another, for about 40 minutes. Finally we reached a small village, or hamlet I guess, looking like it consisted of no more than 15 structures, called Vank (translates to “monastery” in English, although I saw no monastery in the immediate surroundings). After Vank we headed up another set of switchbacks for some 15 minutes until finally reaching the high-altitude limits of Kaler. Before entering the village proper, I was dropped off near a small trail that led into the woods, where Karen and his family were already celebrating Tsovinar’s birthday. I headed down the trail and soon found myself in a clearing where Tsovinar and her friend Ani were playing around. They showed me where the rest of the family was, just a little bit further down the path. At the scene of the party/khorovats, I was first greeted by Tsovinar’s grandmother, Varsenik, who gave me a hug and then kissed me profusely on both cheeks before I could finally break free and head toward the table where Karen and the rest of the celebrants were inviting me eagerly. I gave a modest donation of plums from the garden in front of my house to Karen’s wife, Hermine, to add to the well laid out table that already included tons of fruit as well as lamb khorovats and goat cheese, all of which was fresh from right here in Kaler, I was sure. Food and vodka was pushed on me so fast that I didn’t really even have time to introduce myself to Karen and Hermine’s extended relatives at the table. It turned out that I was a bit late, and as one of the brother-in-laws I had just met put it “I had some catching up to do.” Karen was delighted I had arrived, and was in a particularly jovial mood, even for him. I waded through the usual conversation with new acquaintances about who I was and what I was doing in Armenia in between bites of khorovats and toasts to little Tsovinar (she was turning 10), and to all children, to their health, to their well-being, and to their parents, etc. (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned before but Armenian toasts tend to be quite long winded). I sat through it all happily. I guess it’s a sign that I’ve become pretty integrated that neither the rapid string of blunt, personal questions directed at me by Karen’s relatives nor the excessive amount of toasts fazed me in the least. In fact, I said a few toasts of my own, mostly just to “friendship,” and that it’s really a pleasure to meet all these great people (one of my go-to toasts at this point).

After feasting out in the woods like this for an hour or so, we started packing up to head back to the house. Most of the family rode up in a car, while Karen and I rode up on horseback. I wasn’t expecting this, and I guess Karen had figured that it would be something I’d never forget. He was right. The view as we rode the 10 minutes or so up to the village was stunning, with mountains rolling down below us in deep valleys and cliffs as far as the eye could see. 

Back at Karen’s house, we had coffee, and I hung out with the kids taking pictures and collecting my nerves after the horse riding while Karen went to gather his goats back to the barn for the night. I gave Tsovinar a small present, which mostly consisted of the last of some cheap American dollar-store toys that my parents had sent me to give out as gifts a while back, as well as a nice notebook and pen to encourage her to keep working hard at school even after “Mr. Tom” was gone. Karen came back an hour or so later, and we did another round of feasting. Before I knew it the kids had all gone to bed and it was just me, Karen, and his father-in-law still at the table. Karen was trying to teach me Armenian Army songs, which I was trying to repeat with flagging enthusiasm. Soon enough we decided to call it a night. I had been ready to sleep for a while, and I rolled out my sleeping bag and was out in seconds.

Below are some pictures of me, Karen, and family:

Karen and I sipping coffee

Karen's son, Rasmik

Tsovinar the birthday girl (right tree) and her friend Ani (left tree)

Grandma Varsenik, Tsovinar, and Ani 

I woke up early and wasn’t able to get back to sleep. When I say “early,” I mean around 7 am, but Karen and Hermine had apparently long since gotten up, had their morning coffee, and taken the flock out into the fields. Seeing neither of them around and realizing that none of the kids had woken up yet, I decided to walk around and take some pictures of the village. Eventually I spotted Karen in his usual black garb out in the fields across a valley, and headed that way. I passed an old abandoned church, and an old abandoned school (like most villages in the area, Kaler used to have a much bigger population than it does now), crossed a small brook, and found Karen tending to a handful of baby goats big enough to get around on their own but still requiring special attention. The rest of the flock, and Karen’s dogs, “Kotin and Gailuk,” were somewhere farther out not in sight. I chatted with Karen for a while, assured him that this was very likely the last time we would see each other (that reality still didn’t seem to be sinking in with him), and finally gave him a big hug and headed back to the house. Hermine was back and waiting for me with coffee and cake, which I devoured, as well as some things for me to take back with me as a going away gift: three kinds of wild mountain flowers that Armenians use in tea that she had picked that morning, a few blocks of goat cheese, and a giant two liter bottle of goat’s milk which I would never be able to finish before leaving, even if I liked goat’s milk. I thanked her profusely and headed over to where Armen and his son Raffik were staying. They were already loading up the car with a gigantic jug of milk to take back to Lehvaz. We coasted down the narrow, bumpy road back to civilization, relative to Kaler, that is.  

Abandoned School 1

Kaler House

Abandoned School 2

Young goats grazing

Mountain Tea

Second Visit - Varsik’s House - Երկրորդ Այցը - Վարսիկի Տանը

The next visit I made during my final two weeks in Lehvaz was to Varsik’s house. Varsik is the woman who I’ve worked and taught with the most during my time in this country. She was my counterpart during my first year, so I worked with her every day in the classroom. During my second year, she was promoted to school director and my time became split between her and a new, younger English teacher named Lilit, but Varsik and I still taught together for some of the older grades. She’s experienced, sharp-witted, and has taught languages (German and then English) for some 30 years. While we’ve butted heads plenty during my service, she’s always had my back when it counted, and I’ll miss her for sure. I headed across the river and up the village hill toward the “verevi tagh,” (upper neighborhood) where she lives as evening was setting on. When I got there, she had already laid out a simple dinner of bread, cheese, greens, and eggplant and peppers stuffed with rice and ground meat. Delicious! I gave her a little parting gift, a Norton Anthology of American literature in the 20^th and 21^st centuries. A little on the dense side, yes,  and I was partly just trying to get rid of it because it’s too big and heavy to bring back home, sure, but I really do think she liked it and will enjoy it. Plus, I wrote a sappy note to her on the inside cover.

 During dinner, her husband, Martik and I sipped vodka while she stuck to some cherry liqueur that she makes herself. They toasted to my good luck in the future and thanked me for all I’d done over these two years. I toasted to them and to their success in their future endeavors, especially to Varsik’s as school director. Sipping coffee on their porch outside after dinner, we talked about all sorts of things. They asked me plenty of questions about my future plans, and at one point the conversation sort waxed a bit philosophical. Varsik out of the blue asked me a really blunt, difficult question, as Armenians tend to do. She wanted to know, after my two years of living in Armenia, what my opinion was of Armenians as a race. One opinion, for the whole race of people.  My initial response was something like “it’s really hard to describe an entire race of people in any specific way.” This of course wasn’t good enough for her, so I gave it a shot and went with a safe answer. I said I thought Armenians were the most hospitable group of people that I’d ever met. They welcome you into their homes without knowing who you are and open their hearts (and their kitchens) to you without thinking twice about it. This is common not just in the far southern region where I've lived, but all over the country, and probably all over the world wherever you come across them.  I said that a volunteer friend of mine the previous summer was reading this book called Xenophon (he reads strictly Greek classics), about a famous ancient Greek soldier and his travels. In a section of the book chronicling his wanderings in this part of the world, my friend showed me a passage that specifically mentioned “Armenians,” and how they were this incredibly friendly, welcoming group of people that welcomed Xenophon and his fellow troops into their simple homes, fed them, wanted them to stay longer, and were just generally really hospitable. This was some 2000 or more years ago, and while Armenians were definitely around then, it’s amazing to read an account like that, which makes it seem like they haven’t changed a bit in the ways of taking care of foreigners and welcoming others into their homes. After my present day experience with Armenians, I’d say pretty much the exact same thing as this soldier who was writing about them thousands of years ago, and that is truly impressive. My rant now over, Varsik seemed satisfied with my response and the conversation wandered off somewhere else. Once it was totally dark outside I decided to call it a night with them and head home. The second goodbye visit had been a nice one, too. 

First Visit - Samvel’s House - Առաջին Այցը - Սամվելի Տանը

The first house I made a visit to was Samvel’s. They had been asking me to come over for some time just to have coffee or food together, and so I finally obliged seeing as this is my final two weeks here and I’m not really saying no to people. Samvel is a recent friend of mine, and moved to Lehvaz less than a year ago. He’s originally from a nearby mountain village called Varhavar and is contagiously cheerful almost all the time. His wife, Nona, has a wicked sense of humor, and they have two sons, Zhorik and Hakob. They don’t have a lot of money, and live a re-purposed section of the defunct old village school that used to be used in Soviet times when the village population was larger, when Azeris lived in Lehvaz as well. Now the building is falling apart, but they’ve managed to make a small corner of the building their own, with all the staples of an Armenian home installed including a china cabinet, tv, and  a simple kitchen. Outside of their home is the old school courtyard, with a massive “Chinar” tree (massive, broad-leafed deciduous trees that grow here) and ample space for doing khorovats. If I were a small boy, like his sons, I would probably think this huge building with its old hallways and big unkempt courtyard was the coolest place to live ever. If I were Samvel’s age, I’d probably want to move as soon as was feasible. Samvel has a sort of dark history, and had spent the last two years in jail before moving to Lehvaz this year. It’s something he doesn’t really talk about, and which I don’t feel the need to ask about. He’s a nice guy, I can see that right away, and I’m content with that. The first time I ever went to Samvel’s house, his wife Nona gave me a really sweet gift for seemingly no reason at all – a large, hand-stitched cloth square with an image of Mary and the child Jesus sewn into it. Despite how simple it is, it really is quite pretty, and I tried to show as much gratitude as I could for the token of friendship that caught me completely off guard. Since then I’ve come over from time to time, usually just to chat with Samvel and Nona and maybe sip some vodka or coffee with them. On this final occasion, we had a simple Armenian dinner of green beans fried with eggs, fresh tomatoes, and homemade bread. We said plenty of toasts, and Samvel and I ended up finishing the remainder of a small bottle of lemon flavored vodka that was on the table. I said a toast thanking him and his family for their friendship, he said a toast wishing me good luck and told me earnestly “I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but I’ll always remember you without doubt.” I told him that I’d remember him too, which I’ve actually been needing to tell a lot of Armenians lately, since for some reason they seem to have a paranoia about being forgotten by me once I leave for good. After dinner we had coffee, and I was surprised when Zhorik, the older son, put on an old Bruce Lee movie they had lying around. I love kung-fu movies, and Samvel found it pretty amusing how intently I was watching the movie once it came on, despite it’s being dubbed into Russian, which I don’t really speak a lick of.  Before it got too late, I headed out into the now quite dark old school courtyard, the outline of the massive Chinar tree still visible, and made my way home. This first goodbye visit had been a nice, quick one. 

Music of My Service - Իմ Ծառայության Երաժշտությունը

Since I've come to Armenia almost two years ago, I've heard a wide variety of new tunes. Some of them I legitimately like, some not so much. But taste aside, I'm sure that not to far down the road I'd listen to any one of them for nostalgia's sake when thinking about my time here. Below is a list of some of the songs that I've either enjoyed, had specific memories attached to, or simply been unable to avoid while here.

The Khorovats Song 

Youtube link

Khorovats is Armenian barbeque, usually cooked to perfection over coals from a simple wood fire. At weddings, khorovats is given its own little ceremony, which involves playing a special song while the wait staff usually hold the freshly prepared meat aloft on shiny platters and spin around to the music. It’s the most elaborate ceremony I’ve ever seen in honor of meat, or rather the only one, and let me tell you, it gets you pumped up to eat it. I have been lucky enough to twice now hear this song performed live at Armenian weddings, while the catering staff bring out endless platters of chicken and pork. The first line of the song is “khorovatse shat lav ben e” which literally means “barbeque is a very good thing.” I couldn’t agree more.

"Meghri Mi Pokrik Hayastan" - by Hapet Khackikyan

Youtube link

This is sort of a love song to the region of Armenia I’ve served and taught in, Meghri. “Meghri mi pokrik Hayastan,” translates roughly to “Meghri, a little Armenia.” The song was written by the late Hapet Khachikyan, who was a local artist, educator, community leader, and also one of the most helpful and affable people I’ve met here. He wasn’t the sort of person you meet very often here, and he will be greatly missed in Meghri. In this video, you can see him performing the song to a group of international students, and then at an anniversary for the local college he worked at as director. At the end, his daughter, Shahane, sings another Armenian folk song.

"Dzyunn ir Yergn e Yergum" - by Ruben Hakhverdyan

Youtube link

“Dzyunn ir yergn e yergum” means “the snow is singing its song.” This is an Armenian folk song about a beautiful, still winter night. I was first introduced to this song when a Dutch biker I was putting up and I visited Hapet’s house in Meghri (the same Hapet mentioned above). He played this song for us, after some coaxing from his wife, Lusine. Even if you don’t understand the words, the melody and phrasing is really nice. The speak-singing style is also unique and not something I’ve really head before. Unfortunately, I don’t hear folk songs like this here very often.

"Sharan" - by Tatul Avoyan

Youtube link

This song might be referred to as a “tuyn yerg,” or literally “poison song” in Armenian male youth culture (meant positively of course). Tatul Avoyan is a very popular Armenian “rabiz” singer, which is a style of music most popular with young to middle-aged men in Armenia, but which can be heard at weddings, birthdays, or pretty much any major celebration. Standard elements of the genre are the rapid, continuous “one-two-three-one-two-three” triplet drum pattern, keyboards, sped-up dduks (a traditional Armenian flute instrument), and very emotive male vocals. This type of song will probably always remind me of Armenian male “rabiz” culture, and its defining elements: old, souped-up Russian Ladas (a classic looking, boxy make of car found all over here), chain smoking of skinny cigarettes, eating of sunflower seeds, knock-off Italian style shoes, track-suits, black leather, and brotherhood.

"Anirakan Ser" - by "Erik"

Youtube link

“Anirakan” translates to “unreal” and the chorus “anirakan, serus anirakan,” just means basically “unreal, my love unreal.” The video, like a lot of pop/dance videos around here – i.e. most Russian pop/dance videos –is heavy on fog, lasers, gratuitous choreography, leather, and women dressed an awful lot like hookers. Video aside, though, after hearing this one or two times it was stuck in my head – for good –and something about that catchy synth noise in the background just gets me…not at all kidding. Last fall, this song became the inspiration for an inside joke between a few of my Armenian friends and I at the school, where we’d refer to everyday things as “anirakan” or “unreal” with the same dramatic intonation as in the song. For example “this coffee is UNREAL,” was one of our favorites. Get it? It was really funny for a few days.

"Hents Hima" - by Armenchik

Youtube link

This might be the most pervasive song I’ve encountered during my residence in Armenia. It’s all over radio stations, music video channels, and taxi drivers’ mixes of pirated music. If there was ever a chance of me liking this song, it was ruined a long time ago by relentless overplay. Armenchik (little Armen) is a very popular Armenian pop singer, based out of the affluent Armenian diaspora community near Los Angeles. I guess the novelty of this song is the appearance of fellow LA -area native, Snoop Dogg. Amid footage of Armenchik and his cronies tooling around in their studio, you can see Snoop himself suddenly roll in, and contribute his brief cut for the song, in which he informs us that when you love a girl, you don’t love her “now,” but rather “right now.” Nail a cameo like that, and you can get airplay all over the Republic of Armenia.

"Happy Birthday" - by Armenchik

Youtube link

This is another Armenchik single ubiquitous here in Armenia, which has all Armenian lyrics besides the English “happy birthday to you” in the chorus. This song is pretty obnoxious, and friends I’ve known here like to play it on birthday parties, or just any odd time they feel like it. On my most recent birthday, I was with my Armenian host-family, celebrating both mine and my host-mothers birthday (hers falls just a day before mine) with a bunch of their friends and relatives from the village. We did the usually feasting and toasting, and then started dancing. At midnight, when my 25th year in this world rolled in, my host-father, Andranik, insisted that we play this song, because of course it says “happy birthday” in English and so was perfect for the occasion. It was no doubt thoughtful of him, and when they played it I swallowed both my pride and musical sensibilities at the same time and danced with my Armenian family, Andranik lovingly hollering “heeeeehpphy berrrday Tooooom” at me during the choruses. Mediocre song. Awesome memory.

"Vay Aman" - by Nuri Serinlendirici

Youtube link

When the weather is bad, I’ll usually take a taxi to the nearest town and regional hub, Meghri, instead of going on foot. And one of the drivers who usually takes me up loves to BLAST this song. It’s vintage, bombastic Russian techno pop and sounds great at full volume when hurtling down mountain roads on the way to town. The version I usually hear in the taxi is even more electronic and driving, but here is a version of it LIVE, or at least it has the appearance of being live... I’m not sure what half of that band is doing. I’m looking at you accordion, guitar, and clarinet players...

"Straight to Number One" - by Touch and Go

Youtube link

A ridiculous song produced by some obscure euro-pop artist that somehow, through some dark process of underground music trafficking, found its way into the regular repertoire of tons of Armenian taxi drivers. I recommend you not listen to this song, but if you do, you’ll notice a woman lists off a very...er...suggestive... list, from 10 to 1, over smooth jazz and clogged trumpet noise. The music seems to belong in an elevator and the lyrics are vulgar and dumb. (Anyone else notice that there are no 2 or 3?) Last time I heard this gem, I was in a taxi on my way to my friend’s village by the Iranian border. I'll just say that something seemed a little out of place as we cruised along that very rugged, very imposing stretch of road.

Feeling at home - Տանը զգալով

I’ve come to feel very at home lately in this country. It’s a feeling that stems from things like being able to walk into various neighbors’ houses in the village without asking in advance, and wind up having coffee or a meal with them. It’s a feeling that stems from things like knowing how to split a piece of knotted would cleanly without getting the axe stuck (or if I still do have trouble, being able to call a neighbor or one of my students over to fix the problem right away). It’s a feeling that comes from not really worrying about my reputation in this small, tight-knit community anymore, but instead being at ease knowing that the people here know who I am and what I do here and that that’s just fine with the majority of them.

A big part of what makes it easier to live here as a foreigner is how open hearted many Armenians are. Armenians have over and over again amazed with their hospitable nature and genuine desire to treat even the most distant stranger as an honorable guest. What follows is a few accounts of times where I think this point is really exemplified. Instances of random hospitality have happened to me many, many times in this country, but here are a few of the more memorable ones to me.

#1 – The Marshutni Driver – Մարշուտնի Վարորդը

In a Marshutni from Yerevan to Lusakert last winter, on my way to my friend Ben’s house, who lives and teaches in the village of Karashamb, I made quick friends with the very friendly driver of the minibus. Or rather, he made friends with me. I don’t know if I ever had much say in the matter. Over the course of the trip, the middle aged, white-haired driver periodically peered at me from the rear view mirror and, despite the fact that I was seated near the back of the min-bus, seemed to be taking a great deal of notice of me. He started joking with me and asking me about where I was from and what I was doing in his country. Then realizing that I could speak some Armenian, he began getting more and more excited as the hour-long trip went on. Finally as all the passengers were getting off at the last stop in Lusakert, he forbid me to get off with them and instead drove the two of us straight to his house, insisting that I would come to meet his family as a guest and get well fed before I could continue on my way. Some of the most gratifying experiences in this country have stemmed from being open to these chance meetings, when your schedule and whatever plans you may have had are essentially hijacked by strangers who want to get to know you and treat you to their hospitality. In Lusakert, at this man’s house (Suren was his name), we shared some glasses of beer and ate fruit, walnuts, meat, potatoes, and finally coffee while he introduced me to his daughters and wife. He insisted that if I ever came back to Lusakert, I’d have a place to stay and rest whenever I needed. Once I began telling him where I was headed, Suren exclaimed that he was a friend of my friend Ben’s landlord (stuff like this starts to become not surprising here), and called him to find out the exact whereabouts of the place I was going. He then called another friend of his to drive me there. After arriving, Ben’s landlord, who was now in on the orchestration taking place, gave Ben a call to confirm that I had arrived safely. Ben tried to confirm in some broken Armenian, responding “ha, ayo, anpayman,” (yeah, yes, of course), which apparently didn’t satisfy the landlord enough, because he then called me directly (having apparently gotten my number from Suren) to confirm that I had arrived and was safe and warm at Ben’s place. “I wasn’t sure if Ben understood what I was saying,” he said to me. “Did you make it to the house alright?” I said I had. Both phone calls happened within a minute of each other, with Ben and I facing each grinning the whole time.

#2 – Qnarik and Robert – Քնարիկ եվ Ռոբերտ

This last summer, on a hot June afternoon, I was on my way back to Lehvaz after doing a test hike for Border 2 Border. I had camped out in Lichk the night before, the mountain village which was to be one of the first stopping points on the journey. I had made it up there with my heavy pack on, discovered a nice, open, mostly flat clearing by a stream and decided to call it camp for the night. In the gathering dark I made a fire as fast as could with some dead branches, put my tent up, and then relaxed, just me and the fire, for how long I’m not sure. I don’t know at what point exactly I realized it, but it suddenly dawned on me that I had never camped out—in the wilderness of America or Armenia— completely by myself. I got tired, started to neglect my friend the fire, and decided to call it a night. I fell asleep as soon as a brief paranoia about bears or wolves or some other beast native only to Armenia passed over me, and slept soundly until waking up suddenly and having to go to the bathroom sometime around midnight. As I unzipped my tent, I was stunned to find the clearing I was camping in fully lit up as if by a massive street light. The clearing I was camping in was drenched in bright white light from a full moon that had risen while I was asleep. I could see the clearing around me and its surrounding trees with amazing clarity. I stood and admired, and eventually remembered why I had gotten up in the first place. The next time I woke up, it was early morning and the sun was just starting to rise. I ate cheese and sausage and bread and maybe an apple for breakfast and got on my way. I’ve never been a fan of hiking downward in general, always preferring to go upward when you can see your goal and you have adrenaline going than downward when there’s not really much of a goal except getting back home. Plus your legs are already tired from having gone up. The hike back from my campsite to my village was tiresome, and somewhere near the village of Vartanidzor, just as the day’s peak sunlight was starting to blaze down on me, I decided to sleep under a giant walnut tree not far from the road, but far enough away that I wouldn’t be bothered by passing cars. There wasn’t much thought that went into the decision. I was simply exhausted and it was hot and the tree provided superb shade, so down I plopped and was out in minutes. I woke up in the middle of the afternoon heat, knew that I had to get moving, and started back on my way. Not long after I was back on the road though, I ran into a big-haired Armenian woman with a husky voice who asked if I was the “American boy who teaches English in Lehvaz.” I said “Yeah!” very enthusiastically I’m sure, and she seemed delighted and told me that I had to come over to her house” right now.” Knowing Armenians well, I knew that it would be hard to refuse her even if I decided to put up a fight, so I gave in easily and followed her down to a secluded, fenced in home just of the road.  Turns out she was Qnarik, the school director in the village of Vartanidzor. Her husband Robert, a veterinarian who loved to drink and loved to talk about the greatness of soviet times in Armenia, was seated on the couch when I came in and was also excited to meet me. I was treated to potatoes, meat, matsun (Armenian yogurt), tons of fruit, tea, coffee, homemade vodka, and cucumbers with honey spread on them, which I had never tried before but which Robert was very, very adamant about me trying. They were delicious. I ended up finishing my trek home hours later completely re-energized. I’ve since been invited to their home multiple times for meals, and have visited the school in Vartanidzor and helped Qnarik fill out an application to have a TEFL Peace Corps Volunteer at her school next year. I consider both Qnarik and Robert to be some of my best friends here.  It’s not often that people invite a sweaty backpacker who just took a nap under a walnut tree off the highway and into their home, and then wind up becoming friends with that backpacker and inviting him over again and again, but that type of thing is starting to not seem so strange here anymore. S

#3—Chris’s Neighbors – Քրիսի Հարէվաննէրը

At night, in the dead of winter, just after New Year’s, in Yerevan. My girlfriend and I were on our way to a friend’s apartment who was not in town but had given us a spare key and was letting use the place for the night. It must have been well below freezing outside. On the cold walk to our destination, we were feeling grateful to have the warm apartment to stay in for the night. However, as we finally reached the place and my girlfriend fumbled for the key to the apartment in her purse, she couldn't find it. This, compounded with the frigid cold outside, was sort of a numbing blow to our moods. We wandered for an hour or so in the streets near the apartment, backtracking our steps along the sidewalks and re-entering the shops we had just been in to ask if they had seen the key. They hadn’t, and it didn’t pop up shining under a streetlight on any of the sidewalks either. The realization that the key was gone for good sank in deeper, and eventually we headed back to the apartment just to double check if it hadn’t fallen out somewhere near the door, before calling it quits and finding other accommodations for the night. We didn’t find the key, of course, but as we searched around, the neighbors who lived next door and rented the place to our friend came out and asked what the trouble was. After hearing the story, they invited us in with persistence (we did at least try to say no a couple of times) and soon we caved in and got warm in their house. Before we could fully thaw out, Nor Tari (Armenian New Year) food started coming at faster than our appetites could keep up with. We were treated to blinchik, fruit, cake, layered vegetable and bean bars, lamb, sausages, and cheese along with tea and coffee. I ate pretty shamelessly, because it was delicious and I was hungry, thanking them profusely. They then offered to let us stay at their place for the night, and once again persisted aggressively, but we felt that we’d be overstepping a little too much if we obliged, and eventually headed back out into the cold an hour or so later to go stay at a hostel. The two ladies had warmed us up and put a bright spot on a night that would have otherwise been quite a bleak one. 

Hike up to the lakes - Զբոսանք դեպի լճերը

Karen said that August was the best time to go up to lakes, and that in fact it was the only time to go up and see them safely, since the rest of the year round the area is frozen solid. I’d been wanting to go up and see them ever since he and his uncle, Retik, had told me about them early in the summer, and when some fellow volunteers from the north told me they were coming to visit me in August, I decided it would be great to all go together.

Karen and Retik were pretty thrilled at the prospect of getting to take not just me, but several other Americans up to see this beautiful place, acting as our local guides, and in the weeks leading up to my friends’ arrival we started planning it all out. Both of the men insisted that we’d bring khorovats (Armenian barbeque) supplies, a few horses, a possible tractor and trailer to bring us up, and even a gun. The gun thing never panned out and, neither of them owned a gun to begin with, but  they looked for one pretty much until the last minute before heading up, calling their friends to see if they could borrow one. I was secretly quite okay with the fact that they didn’t end up finding the gun.

“Sometimes…you’re up there in the wild and you run into a wild ram or boar and you have to shoot it and eat right there. It can happen just like that!” is roughly what Karen said to me every time I asked why exactly we would need to bring a gun on this expedition.

Kelsey, Ashley, Trent, and Ben arrived in my village the night before we’d be heading out. We roasted hot dogs in Meghri at my friend Hapet’s house, which is situated near the top of the big hill that the old neighborhood sits on, and which has a great view of the town and of the sheer mountains in Iran right across the border. After our solid, very American meal, we headed back to my place, made sure to get well hydrated for the high-altitude hike tomorrow and got to bed at a decent hour. Karen had also brought goat's milk for us to drink the night before, which he said would give us an extra "boost" for the hike the next day, but which only I ended up drinking a small half-glass of.

We woke up leisurely, had breakfast and a few cups of coffee, and around 10 I called Karen and told him to come over whenever he was ready. I called two taxis to take us from Lehvaz, my village, to Lichk, the mountain village where we’d be setting out from up towards the lakes. We got our hiking packs, tents, trail food, and water all in order, and as soon as Karen arrived we headed down to catch our taxis. 

After the brief, steep climbing taxi ride up to Lichk, we headed to meet Retik, Karen’s uncle, at his house, where it soon became apparent that he and Karen, our guides on this expedition, were not quite as organized as they had seemed when we discussed plans in the week prior. The horses they had promised were apparently hard to come by, and so we were left with only Retik’s small mare and the mare’s daughter to help bring the 7 of us up there. The tractor/ trailer that they had been talking about was being used by the village mayor at the time, and so was not looking like an option either. Karen left to find more horses or ask people in the village to let us borrow some, came back empty handed, and finally we decided to just do it on foot two horses, one of which was still not big enough to put any weight on. We were losing daylight and everyone seemed just fine with hiking on foot anyway, except Ben. On the positive side, we had an massive amount of raw chicken and other food to bring up for a khorovats when we reached our destination.

We loaded the food, grilling skewers, water, and girls packs onto the horse and began making our way up out of the village and up some very steep hills and tall grass toward our destination. The first part of the trip was, unfortunately, one of the hardest , as we weren’t really walking on a path yet and just climbing up some very steep slopes along the river. No more than ten minutes into this, the muscles in our legs were already burning and our lungs already working over-time. I heard Ben call me from behind, and fell back to see what he wanted. Panting heavily and stooped over with his hands on his knees, he told me he wasn’t going to make it.

“I’m not gonna make it man.” He said in between breaths. “Hand me the keys to your place. I’m gonna head back to your village.” 

Despite the fact that he was wearing hot-red “mountaineering sunglasses,” (his terminology) I could see in his face that an absolute verdict had already been reached. There was no convincing him otherwise. I tried to just as a reflex just the same, giving him the typical words of encouragement like “c’mon man you can do this,” but I knew in reality he wasn’t going any farther. I soon was handing him the keys to my place, made sure he’d be alright getting back there, and told him we’d see him the following evening when we returned.

Fortunately, Ben is one of the most adaptable people I’ve ever known and ended up having a great time despite missing the big expedition. After parting ways with us, he apparently headed back towards Lichk, threw up a couple of times by the river, felt quite relieved and happy with his decision, and then went back to Reitk’s house and had a wonderful time schmoozing his wife and grandchildren. He then got a taxi to my village, cooked excellent meals for himself at my house,  met up with some of the children in my village, got invited to go swimming with them, and spent the next 24 hours catching sun, swimming in the river, reading, and doing yoga in my living room. 

I was sad to see him leave so abruptly, and so was Karen, who offered to let Ben ride on the horse for a bit, but I told him it was no use and that he’d be just fine. We headed onward.

The route gradually changed from steep hills and tall grass to a semi forested trail that wound up higher and higher still. The girls, who were showing signs of being tired, began alternating riding the horse for brief stints, which Karen and Retik had been encouraging them to do for some time, but they had refused to do up until now, due to the massive amount of weight that was already on the mare’s back. Feeling tired, and seeing that she didn’t seem to be struggling terribly with the packs and food already on her back, they finally gave in. I was amazed at the strength of the animal and a bit uneasy, since I had previously never seen a horse, or any animal for that matter, carry so much weight at one time.

As we neared the end of the tree line, we decided to take a break and then started gathering wood, as we’d soon be passing the boundary where we could easily find it. Karen, Retik, and I began foraging for whatever we could find. After a good 20 minutes or so, during part of which Karen decided to lay out against a rock and chain smoke, we had managed to collect a nice couple of bundles, and loaded them onto either side of the poor horse, who I was now feeling increasingly sorry for as we trudged along. Now that she had the extra weight on her, the girls decided to give her a break and walk on foot again.

We left the trees behind us and continued to climb through scattered boulders and tall grasses. The sight of golden, swaying tall grass against the severe slopes in the slowly setting sun was truly, truly beautiful. However we started to get anxious for when we’d reach our campsite for the night and could relax. After another 40 minutes or so of hiking through this landscape, it finally appeared. A set of narrow, rocky streams with water cascading down them ran through two large crevices in the mountain face before us. Beyond the one nearest to us was a swath of semi flat land, and what looked like a make-shift stone shelter sitting in the middle of it. Karen and Retik confirmed that this was where we’d be posting up for the night.

Before actually reaching the campsite though, we were unpleasantly surprised by one last obstacle along the way. After crossing the stream before us and beginning our chants of victory, we carelessly began trudging through a patch of very tall, reddish, fleshy looking weed-like plants that now lay in between us and the campsite. There didn’t seem to be any way around them, and they grew densely near the stream we had crossed, so naturally we just started walking right through them. This was a bad idea. As our hands, arms, ankles, and legs brushed against them, we all started to notice an itching and then burning sensation all over every inch of skin that had made contact with them. By the time we realized what was going on, we were already smack in the middle of giant patch of the evil plants, and had no choice but to power through them. It stung. We hollered and cussed at the hellish plants, whose stings lasted several minutes after we had already cleared them and made it safely to the campsite. They had pretty effectively ruined our moment of glory at reaching camp. Karen and Retik, who had fallen behind us a bit, wisely skirted the patch of devil plants and made it to the campsite untroubled.

The rest of the day made it all well, well worth it. We built ourselves a fire. Trent and I went and filled up water from the far stream of pure, ice cold gushing water, after first satisfying our desire to wash our faces and feet and hair in it. We set up our tent and then set about getting dinner ready. We began khorovatsing the massive amount of chicken we had brought, and setting up a makeshift table out of stray planks and some large rocks. On it we set goat cheese, bread, lavash, apples, sausage, fish in a can, corned beef in a can, homemade vodka with small dixie cup glasses, and finally—when it was fire roasted to perfection by Karen—the khorovats. We feasted. Karen, Retik, and even I said a few toasts, pulled down shots, and we all began to feel more and more at eas in our campsite as the last rays of sunlight fell behind the mountains.

Feasting

So high up, the stars came out so numerous and gorgeous that for a while we all together kept quiet and admired. We sat around the fire, and gradually folks started sacking out, until only Trent, myself, and Karen remained awake. We made coffee and conversed in a three way conversation that often involved me as the intermediary, since my Armenian was more fluent than Trent’s, and during which Karen continually referred to Trent not as “Trent,” but as “Charents,” which he claimed was easier for him to say, since it was a revered Armenian poet. Trent didn’t mind, I thought it was hilarious, and anyways regardless of what we thought, Karen continued to call him Charents for that night and the entire next day as well. As it got later, Karen started to get a little more wily, or maybe we all were. Soon Karen was reading Trent’s coffee cup, which he claimed to be quite good at, and proceeded to go into a half hour or so fortune reading session, which I was stuck translating, during which he referred to Trent as a powerful centaur who’s foes know and fear him and hide away at his approach. A proud beast of a man who despite his strength and strong willpower, needed to watch his enemies carefully. They apparently plotted against him when he wasn’t looking. Karen said much, much more than this, some of which I think I was translating correctly and some of which I was sort of re-interpreting on my own just so that I could keep up with Karen.

When the fortune reading diversion finally got tired, the three of us sat at peace and enjoying the sacred night and the day’s accomplishment. We headed to our tents soon after and before I knew it I was fast asleep.

In the morning, I felt surprisingly fresh despite all the homemade I had drank the night before. Retik and Karen were already up, making coffee in a plastic bottle over the fire while at the same time trying not to melt the plastic. It was a difficult looking process that was moderately successful. That is to say, there was coffee made for anyone willing to drink out of a warped plastic bottle. I obliged, not being one to really ever pass on coffee in the morning.

Being as high up and removed from civilization as we were, we were able to leave our tents and other heavy camping gear safely at the site without worry, knowing that no harm would come to it before we came back down later that afternoon from the lake. We ate and began hiking as quickly as possible.

Retik and our faithful horse led the way, and continued to do so for most of the hike that morning. We followed behind, Trent looking a little rough but not complaining and keeping up just fine. The scenery on the way up grew ever more stunning. We were well past the tree line, and the landscape around us consisted of gushing streams. Fields and rocks covered in green moss, grass, and wildflowers. We followed a deep valley upward and I grew more and more excited to reach the top. Finally, Retik pointed to a slope and said that once we got over it, we’d be at our destination. He’d been doing this all morning, but this time it did actually look like a lake might be sitting just over it, and I believed him.

Sure enough, as we bounded up over the very steep hill, a perfect, flat plain lay before us, with a shining blue body of water in front of us, partially obscured by a large rockface and countless other odd-shaped boulders placed at random around the plain. Karen, who had taken the horse on ahead of us to get lunch ready, was already there with hot coals burning in front of him and raw khorovats meat ready to be skewered. Trent and I rushed toward the lake, and told each other that we’d have to go for a swim. As we approached it, I was shocked by the deep, clear blue-green color that the water held. We dipped our feet in, and immediately took back our intentions of swimming. While it felt refreshing, neither of us could keep our foot in for more than a few seconds at a time. It felt colder than if it were a basin filled simply with ice.

The field in front of the lake was truly gorgeous, and a perfect site to relax and feel at peace. Large, smooth boulders were placed intermittently about the flat, almost mossy plain, as if dropped from the heavens at random. Nudged into one of the crevices of the larger boulders was an empty glass bottle that had undoubtedly been used before and had likely contained homemade. Sitting next to it were a couple shot glasses as well. Whoever had drank from it before had apparently wanted others to imbibe from it as well.

Fortunately, we had our own, full bottle of homemade to drink from in celebration, as well as all the chicken khorovats, cheese, lavash, and apples that we could eat. Retik and I were the only ones that had a celebratory toast – even Karen was tapped out – but everyone enjoyed the food and scenery thoroughly. Retik was sort of giddy, and began telling stories from his past and also Armenian anecdotes. I was having one of those moments that often comes with new language acquisition where a long joke is told to me, I don’t laugh, and I can’t tell if it’s because I misunderstood some key punch line or simply because it’s just a bad joke. I should also mention that I'm bad at understanding long jokes in English as it is. I listened to 3 or 4 of these from Retik, while Karen was riding the horse up and down the slopes around us and the rest of the group were laying out for a nap. Retik started telling me about his days working for the copper mine in Agarak, on the Iranian border. He said the work had destroyed his health, that he had been sickly and depressed and worn-out, until he finally quit and moved to the mountain village of Lichk, where he got healthy again. After listening to his stories, I finally laid down under the partial shade of a boulder next to Kelsey. Trent and Ashley had already found spots to lay out in, scattered across the field at random. Karen had retired from the horse riding and lain down as well. And after losing his last remaining listener, Retik followed suit as well. We all passed out, forgetting about time and about the world below us. 

The destination

Karen and I

Long way back down