Mt. Aragats

During the first three days of being in Yerevan I went from being weary of drinking tap water to filling my water bottle from a pipe sticking out of the side of Mount Aragats.

It was a bold move, and a necessary one and I don’t regret it. I anticipate needing to make several such adjustments in the coming months.

Every day we have been here has been full of adventure and intrigue. This is often due to a combination of my mother’s extremely impressive international connections and our general fortuitous nature as a pair of world travelers.

Hiking Mt. Aragats was an excellent, if exhausting way to be introduced to the land, climate and people of Armenia. It is the highest point in Armenia at somewhere around 4000 meters elevation. We began at 3200 meters and made our way to the top from there. This might not seem very impressive but mountains are probably the last thing you should underestimate.

Our guide started us at a pace which I would describe as meandering. If you have ever walked with me you will know that this is not my style but I did not complain as I was acutely aware of how thin the air felt at only the beginning of our hike. It was at least a solid ten degrees cooler here than in the city and I knew that if I pushed myself too hard I might burn out before making it to the top.

And so we meandered.

Our guide had told us that it would take three hours to reach the peak and two to return.

No trees grow on Aragats, indeed nothing taller than a few bunches of flowers could be found in the way of plant life and so there was nothing to block my view of the top of the mountain from where we started. I was skeptical as I could see our destination clearly before me and could not understand why it would take so long to get there. I didn’t voice this feeling and kept it moving.

Soon I was sucking air in through my mouth and my heart was beating twice as fast as usual despite our sluggish pace. The sun beat down on us though I couldn’t feel the heat for the cool breeze that actually was giving me goose bumps. This would later give way to a nasty sun burn on my arms which I left uncovered, like a fool.

The mountain, like much of the surrounding landscape, is made of varying types of rock. Volcanic rocks, specifically, and in places where lava once flowed there are rocks that have been broken up and lie stacked upon one another which makes for very hard climbing. Every step you take could result in an avalanche of shards of rock.

Through the rocks poke the heads of dandelions that insist on growing despite the harsh circumstances. They are fed by snow melt, of which there are two dirty spits left on the mountain. The older flowers have petals peeled back, cowering beneath the relentless sun.

The peak, which looked so close at the beginning of our hike, does not seem any closer as I stop to drink water. I put my head down and hike farther, look up, and it still isn’t any closer.

The mountain is not to be underestimated.

In my mind I repeat the same refrain:

I’m a goat, I’m a goat, I’m a goat...

If they can do it, I can. The mountains and hills in Armenia are full of mainly sheep, but I prefer the random goats. They seem more resilient to me.

And all of a sudden I’m at the top.

I can see for miles in every direction and if I had any breath left, the view would take it. From this height everything is cloaked in a haze that gives the earth a surreal and dreamy appearance. The valley where we began is a spread of muted yellows and greens, the colors of the scrubby brush that covers the ground. Lower peaks seem like gigantic waves, frozen at the crest and ready to submerge everything below. Mountains in the distance are a misty blue that melt into the sky.

At the top of Aragats there is a silence so complete that when I close my eyes I feel like I’m in space. The air is clean and sharp and I breath it in deeply as I try to focus on the heat of the sun contrasting with the now cold wind.

This sensation lasts for about three minutes until our fellow hikers burst out into Armenian folk songs. I am then coerced into a circle where I mumble along to the national anthem, having forgotten half of the words.

The descent is almost more challenging than the climb as I have to fight the urge to just let all my muscles relax and tumble down the boulder garden that slopes down to our car.

I take my boots off as soon as we arrive at the car and struggle to regain feeling in my toes. I settle in for the hour drive back to Yerevan and am horrified when, after having driven only 20 meters we pull to the side of the road. I’m afraid I’m going to be made to walk again when I realize we’ve just come to fill up our water bottles at the aforementioned pipe sticking out of the mountain.

Once we rehydrate we are back on the road and I relax into my seat.

It isn’t far before we’re stopping again, this time for something much more vital than water. A boulder on the side of the road is painted with the word ‘honey’ in Armenian, French and Russian.

I find myself staring at a trailer parked next to twenty beehives, all humming with production. There are no other buildings anywhere in sight. The woman who ushers us into the trailer has blue eyes and blond hair, a combination I have never associated with Armenians but she is undeniably Armenian. If not from her language, then from the way she herds us like sheep, the way she insists that we sit around her table and eat, eat, eat and do we want tea? No tea? Oghi, then. And she brings out shot glasses and fills them with clear, mulberry liquor that she made herself, 61% alcohol, and you have to shoot it, and why are you sipping? Is something wrong? No need to sip...my blood, still rushing from the altitude and the hike is now saturated in oghi and I can do nothing but chew on some honeycomb and wait to be dismissed.

We left Aragats and the trailor with several kilos of honey and a nice little buzz.

Armenia At Last

I’m quite enamored with Armenia.

I’ve experienced a feeling here which I’ve had no where else in the world and it isn’t déjà vu but that’s the closest I can come to describing it in a word (or rather, two). It’s the feeling that I am in a foreign place and yet am vaguely familiar with a little bit of everything.

This happens with the language and the food but most notably with the faces. I keep seeing people that I feel I must know somehow. Like when you start to wave at someone across the street and then realize you don’t know them at all… I keep having that sensation of excitement of recognition and then mild embarrassment at having mistaken a stranger for a friend. Yet I continue to think that I know the people around me.

The dark eyes and thick eyebrows and long hair that I associate with looking Armenian surround me and it’s overwhelming and exciting and oddly comforting.

I can’t help but feel a surge of happiness when I look around and think: they’re all Armenians!

Growing up in West Hartford and working in Hartford the only Armenians I’ve encountered on a regular basis, aside from my mother and medzmama, were at church. I’ve attended various programs for Armenian youth over the years and it has always been exciting to meet other Armenians but it isn’t the same as actually living among them.

There has always been this notion that I have to go to where the Armenians congregate, like some type of queer watering hole where only Armenians hang out, in order to be with other people who share my culture. Now I don’t have to go anywhere, I don’t have to seek them out; they are all around me.

Kopreevcheetsa (Little Nettle)

We drove out of Plovdiv on our way to a Bulgarian folk music festival call Kopreevcheetsa.

We had booked rooms at a monastery which was supposedly 7km outside of town on a "manageable" road. Manageable is really a relative term, relative to your vehicle and relative to your perseverance.

The sturdy Opel (a German car which might be my next pick if I can find one in the states) bounced along at 20km an hour for quite a while. I watched the landscape shift from fields of sunflowers to mountains and back to fields again as we dipped into the valley. I vaguely wondered if our 3 cylinder car would make it back out of the valley but kept my thoughts to myself.

The road was lined with fruit trees, mainly plum and cherries mixed in among the blackberry bushes. As soon as we arrived, we dropped our bags and went to pick as much fruit as we could eat along the road. We picked our way to a cafe which looked out of place tucked, as it was, into the side of a mountain. A dog barked at us as we approached but it was really more of a formality as he was too lazy to come out of his dog house.

We drank beer and ate fried potatoes with cheese and I watched VH1 classics on the tv in the corner. How strange to be surrounded by the beauty of the mountain and still be absorbed by Queen and Macy Gray videos.

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The music festival itself was an amazing production with three separate stages and over 15,000 people in attendance. Located in the mountains above the town of Kopreevcheetsa, it felt like crashing a party for wood nymphs.

Though the music was exclusively Bulgarian folk, people came from all over the world to listen to groups of old men and women, dressed in the customary garb of colorful wool pants, skirts and blouses, sing and dance on the stages.

Off the stage festival attendees linked pinkies with strangers to create a long chain of dancers. Bulgarian folk dancing involves a lot of hopping and skipping in time with your neighbors and often back tracking a few steps before springing forward again. There is a leader at the front of the line, but as the line grows you sometimes end up far behind the leader or else across from her and are unable to follow her feet any more and must trust that your neighbors have got the right beat. It's like a very complicated game of telephone with your feet.

I've had to rush this post a bit as I have no been in Armenia for five days and am quite far behind on my entries so I apologize for leaving out several details and descriptions...

Ancient Artifacts And Abundant Arbors

Every building in Plovdiv has a grape arbor attached. This is beneficial not only because there is an abundance of grapes, but also of grape leaves so that we may never worry about a shortage of dolma.

Speaking of dolma, if I eat anymore I will need to throw my suitcase out the window and start draping myself in a bed sheet. Armenians can eat.

Last night I was told that when a group of Bulgarians get together they’ll have liters of liquor and one small plate of cheese. When Armenians get together they’ll have a table of food and a few sips of liquor. When you get Armenians and Bulgarians together, you’ll have a great time and never want for food or drink. Luckily my family is made up of Armenians living in Bulgaria, and exhibit both tendencies regularly.

Today, after eating only peaches and coffee for breakfast, we went out to explore Polvdiv and the surrounding country.

Plovdiv is the oldest living city in Europe, perching atop ruins predating the Thracians that once inhabited the area. You can hardly turn a corner without discovering some active or else abandoned archaeological site littered with the remnants of ancient civilizations. The city is set to be named “European Capital of Culture” in 2019.

After a treacherous drive up into the mountains we arrived at Assen’s Fortress which was built in the 9^th century and had since been repurposed and renovated and restored by each new conquering peoples. The walls inside are speckled with brilliant frescos that reflect the incomplete faces of mournful saints. Swallows have built nests in the corners of the alters and swoop and dive over head, ambivalent to the centuries of history they are pooping on.

A short and winding ride away is Bachkovski monastery where I slacked the persistent thirst I’ve felt for three days now with the mineral water fountain that bubbles up from the spring beneath the ground. Inside, visitors are clad in typical modern clothing, and due to the heat, many women wearing short shorts and tank tops. They must borrow pieces of cloth to wrap around their indecent shoulders and collar bones before entering the chapels. Monks wearing yards of black vestments shuffle back and forth, casting angry glances at girls who either don’t care or don’t know to cover up. 

In the courtyard I make friends with a sheep until my mother reminds me that he will be sacrificed and his days are numbered.

In the village outside of Plovdiv, the family has a plot of land where they have a small orchard of peach trees. Among the roots of the trees they’ve also planted potatoes which poke through the earth like little bald headed gnomes peeking to see if it’s safe to come out.

The corners of the plot are alive with the buzzing of several bee hives. Bees in Bulgaria seem smaller than American bees and the relatives laugh about how our people are bigger, our cars are bigger and now our bees are bigger too. I enjoy watching them work and listening to our cousin explain the process of harvesting the honey and wax. He tells me you can’t go into the hives angry or else the bees will know it and they will eat you (it’s a rough translation). I do believe he’s right about how the bees are very sensitive to the person who is collecting their honey. Think of every person you know who loses their mind and starts running around, screaming and swatting at the air the moment they see a bee. Doesn’t the bee seem to follow them? This has more to do with the fact that visually they are stimulated by the movement of your flailing limbs and screaming lips than anything, but I like to think it’s because they’re laughing at you. Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.

Lost In Translation

We’ve been in Bulgaria since Sunday and I have spent a lot of time listening to other people’s conversations.

I don’t think it’s considered eaves dropping if you can’t understand what they’re saying.

As a child I lived in Bulgaria and spoke the language fluently. Now, as an adult, I can politely order coffee.

It can be frustrating not being able to understand what’s being said around me but in some ways it is relaxing. For the most part, once people find out you don’t know the language, they will leave you alone. For an introvert, this is a gift. Of course there are those people who will continue to speak to you as if you were either lying about not speaking the language or else will catch on if they just keep badgering you.

I’ve begun to piece together certain words from my incomplete knowledge of the Cyrillic alphabet. I can make out “hotel” and “café” and “cucumber” (the later because it is a staple in the Bulgarian diet and one of the few words I remember from my childhood here). 

Now, visiting relatives in towns outside of the capital of Sofia, I am able to practice my Armenian and I find that it comes much more readily than I had expected. I think it has to do with the fact that I’ve spent several days in relative silence and now that I have the opportunity to express myself, my mind is much more willing to call upon the words that are stored somewhere in the recesses of my brain.

That being said, there are some words which just don’t translate.

I sat today at lunch, stuffing my face with dolma (grape leaves, tomatoes and peppers stuffed with meat and rice) and listened to my mother talk to one of our elderly female relatives in Armenian. She was talking about a friend and the conversation translates roughly into this: 

Tanti: “Your friend is a woman?”

Mom: “A man.”

Tanti: “Is he married?”

Mom: “He’s…happy.”

It takes me a few seconds to process what’s been said before I start laughing into my dolma. Tanti is staring blankly at my mother who is looking at me half smiling and shrugging,

“I don’t know what the word is.”

I’m still giggling to myself as I think about the train of thought that brought us to this incomplete translation. Once I regain control I turn to Tanti,

“He likes men…I don’t think the word exists in Armenian”.

Tanti shakes her head “No, I don’t think it does…”

I still find this exchange amusing, although the reality is there is a somewhat depressing underlying message.

Language is influenced by many things, most especially by the culture of the people who speak it; so if a word does not exist, it is because there is no use for it.

With that in mind, what does it say about Armenian culture that we don’t have a word that describes people who are gay? Not only is homosexuality not accepted as a fact of life rather than a choice, it is not acknowledged as a state of being at all. How better to deny a person the freedom to be who they are then by denying them the language with which to express it?

I like to play devil’s advocate with myself when writing and that makes it very difficult to make my point sometimes. As I wrote the previous paragraph, the following thought occurred to me: I suppose the argument could be made that we don’t really need language to label people based off of their sexual orientation and maybe it’s more progressive to avoid it altogether. Maybe if everyone did away with these labels we’d all be more accepting of one another and you could describe a person based off of their character rather than who they prefer to sleep with.

However, I think that I could count the number of openly gay Armenians I’ve met on one hand, and I’m inclined to believe it’s because our culture and elders tend to discourage it. Then again, I haven’t really grown up with a lot of Armenians in my life, so maybe I just am ignorant and uniformed.

I’m sure that in the past few decades a word has come about for gay. I’m sure that this younger generation of Armenians is more progressive than the previous generations and more accepting of homosexuality, among other things. 

I was reminded of a YouTube skit called Lousine Lesbian Matchmaker to the Straights.  You can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dR9Ox3W9Gd4

Lousine comes out to her mother and as her mother tells her, it may take 100 years for Armenians to “understand this thinking”. I hope it doesn’t take quite so long.