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INTRODUCTION
I never thought I would have either the facility or opportunity
to visit Armenia. The trip from America always seemed too much trouble: too
costly and time-consuming considering the sparse vacation days we get in that
country. Life in Dubai has changed my perspective, however, with Armenia
situated only 3 hours away. I owed it to my ancestors to visit what I have
always thought of as hallowed land.
I grew up in a hybrid household of German-American and
Armenian influence. Unfortunately, my dad Peter never learned to speak Armenian,
and obviously, by default, I did not learn it either. I remember being very
young at my grandfather Archie’s rug store on Madison Ave. in New York, and hearing
this strange “gibberish” for the very first time. Archie had taken over the rug
business started by his father, Mugerdich, who had established it in the early
1900’s after fleeing his birthplace, Palu, Turkey (part of ancient Armenian
homeland) in 1895. Mugerdich fled Turkey to escape the “mini” massacres of
Armenians that, now as history tells us, came to presage the better-known
Armenian genocide of 1915.
Still fresh in my memory, at the turn of the decade in 1969-70,
are the sights and smells of rugs piled high in the store and spread
unmethodically on the dark, bare-wood floor, strong cigarettes and Turkish
coffee, and the blurred murmurs of adult Armenian conversation and negotiations
for the best price. I never understood a word, but I did not care. I felt safe
within those walls. Elizabeth Montgomery of Bewitched fame was among the many
celebrities who bought from Chamalian and Son.
After he retired, Archie moved his most treasured leftover
pieces to his home in Leonia. (Peter, my dad, did not follow in the family
business.) He kept them piled neatly on his chilly porch in case of moth
infestation, the scourge of anything made from wool. We would often go through
the pile together to reshuffle the rugs, spray for the tiny pests, take a peak once
again at their brilliant colors and designs, recount a story or two, or if a
former associate or customer came by to look or simply sought a cup of authentic
coffee and conversation. Archie was a master negotiator and often the visitor
would leave empty-handed. I don’t think he really wanted to sell the rugs anyway.
They were his most beloved possessions, and he loved them with the greatest
passion I have ever seen in my 47 years. In 1919 he failed out of Cornell
engineering school because his father Mugerdich would send him rugs to repair,
preventing him from concentrating on his studies. Years later, after my dad
passed, the same scenes were replayed in my house in Cresskill when Archie and
Ethel, his wife, moved in to raise us.
I learned as much as any kid could want to learn about his heritage
growing up. The German-American part of me was easy to grasp, as I lived it in
every aspect of my life at school, with friends, etc. The Armenian part
required more work; it meant I had to be more proactive, more inquisitive, even
be a pest by exploring further. Archie left me many memories, but there was
much about his childhood and his parents and heritage that, now upon further
reflection, I realize he chose to forget and therefore resisted burdening me
with. At this point in my life I understand how this was both a shame and yes, a
mistake: both by him for neglecting to share important aspects of his past or not
sending me to Armenian school, and by me for being more concerned with my next
pick-up baseball game than making the effort to question why I was who I was
and what it meant to be Armenian. Lucky for me I have a second cousin that knew
Archie and even remembers his parents, and she has enlightened me on so many
things I had always wondered about. These insights prepared me very well for
the second half of this discovery: my recent trip to Armenia. These last few
months of reflection and connecting with family have helped rectify these
errors a bit. They opened windows to my heritage that I thought had been permanently
painted shut. It exposed someone in me that I never believed existed.
Now for my perspectives on this journey…………
THE PEOPLE
We learned something very quickly about Armenians when
checking in for our flight to Yerevan. 99% of the people on line looked
different than the typical Dubai resident and were obviously Armenians. Each of
them was checking in at least two large flat screen tvs, which told me that
electronics were expensive in Armenia and residents of that country found it
necessary to come to Dubai to do their heavy-duty shopping. One guy had several
bags filled with Zatar bread and seemed confused about how to manage his overweight
luggage. This was our first insight into what awaited us.
After landing we met passport control. The agent was a pretty
blond Russian woman who looked more like a famous actress than anything like
the pictures I had seen of Armenian people, nor did she have facial features
even closely resembling any of the passengers we had just flown with. Our first
interaction in Armenia and we get a Russian? She looked at my passport and then
looked at me for verification. “Where is your Armenian nose?” she inquired. I
asked her how to say “thank you” in Armenian and after a brief pause she said, “Shnorhakalem.” I thought the whole
scene was odd but, as we would learn later, it presaged some of the experiences
that awaited us.
The Sudanese cab driver who took us to our hotel explained to
us that Armenians are racist against blacks. I was taken aback by this comment, as I had never heard this before; however, he was obviously speaking from experience. He had been there now 16
years but it was difficult for him at first due to this issue. He fought a lot when he felt
threatened but through time and age he came to understand that it was just
ignorance. Now he lets it roll right off his shoulders and doesn’t experience
it much anymore, as people have come to know him around town. He married an
Armenian girl years back, which caused him problems as well. Armenian women are
discouraged from associating with black men, argued our driver, and they can
be ridiculed and chastised for it by their male family members and
acquaintances. Nevertheless, he finished, Armenia is very safe for women to
walk around at night without fear of harassment. This despite what a good
friend told me before my trip, that men could even be aggressive. Nonetheless, I didn’t see
any evidence at all of racism nor maltreatment of women in Armenia.
People stared at us in Armenia. I could even see them
snickering. Perhaps because they all wore black—they love black—and we
westerners cannot resist the use of color in our wardrobes. Not only this,
Yetty being Asian and me being a giant white guy may have contributed to the quirky
fixations. We did not see one Asian during our trip and it being March, tourist
season had not yet started and the European and American tourists were not yet
strolling the streets. We obviously stood out like sore thumbs. I observed that
the people did not seem to make their way in a carefree manner. There's a
stress in their eyes as they strut purposefully on their paths. Their facial
expressions reminded me of the Russians I observed on my trips there in the 80’s.
Another common denominator of the Armenian collective countenance is that they
look pleasingly, yes, refreshingly homogeneous. I hadn’t seen that quality in a
people in quite some time. “The women are pretty but the men are ugly,” said a
friend of mine, and I have to agree. It’s not that the men are naturally ugly;
it’s more that they wear their hair flat, almost dorkishly, with very straight
bangs hanging down their foreheads. An odd fashion statement, to say the least.
Armenians seems to be quiet people—not a lot of loud talking
like in some other cultures. They do like to huddle in groups, however, and
chat and smoke and stare at others (us). You learn a lot about people, their
similarities to yourself despite linguistic differences, when you observe their
movements, their gaits, their facial expressions, their laughter, their tears.
They do like their vodka, and they drink it like water…..definitely a by-product
of the Russians who ceded power only in 1991. Russian is also widely spoken
language and even in everyday Armenian, Russian words are used.
Armenians are wonderfully hospitable after they get past the
initial shyness. Actually they are noticeably unfriendly until you get to know
them. One day, Yetty and I wandered into a café in Dilidjan. The hostess was
stone-faced and irritated by our presence. We ordered 2 Armenian coffees, some gata (sweet bread), and a piece of cake.
She brought the food and drink displaying nary a glimmer of pleasure. Then we
ordered a cappuccino, which seemed to further roil her. A local guy came in to
order some food, and we took comfort in the fact that she was no more gracious to
him. When we finished she walked over and barked the price at us. When I asked
her for a bill instead she turned away in a huff. Oh well. Definitely a one-off
as regards our interactions with people. Many of the people we met were very
musical and could play several instruments and sing. I remember one guy who
played a lovely guitar and had the voice of smooth, aged cognac. Deep lines in
his face were testimony to the permanent smile he wore. When I felt the
relationship was such that a gentle kiss on a woman’s cheek was appropriate as
a display of gratitude or respect, they’d pull back as if this was not commonly
done in their culture.
One of the drivers we hired, an older gentleman, Ashot, was
especially courteous and pleasant. He was very enthusiastic in escorting us to
a sampling of the many medieval monasteries still standing in Armenia. He took very
well to Archie and walked him around like his grandson, arm around his shoulder.
He took special pride and pleasure in telling us about the many offerings of
his hometown, Dilidjan. Later in the evening, at his invitation, Ashot arranged
an unbelievable spread of local culinary delights for us served by the ladies
of the home (I cannot fail to mention that in a typical Armenian home, women do
all the cooking, cleaning and otherwise, while men come and go as they please).
One night, in a public square, a girl was seated high up the
base of a statue that adorned the park. Three policemen strolled over, saluted
her casually and apparently reminded her that sitting so high on the pedestal
was prohibited. It seemed such a polite exchange with smiles and a thank you. I
was impressed with this well-mannered exchange and couldn’t help but think of
how a NY police officer would have handled that situation…….not nearly as
courteously, I'd imagine.
THE LANDSCAPE
The views above the Caucus Mountains as we flew over Iran en
route to Armenia were breathtaking, and I couldn't keep my eyes off the snowy,
treacherous peaks. Yerevan, Armenia’s capital, is a city similar to many others.
The cable car was a surprise, though we didn’t try it. The city itself appears
quite clean but there’s an unmistakable layer of soot everywhere, perhaps from
pollution. No doubt it’s a 2nd world place with many leftovers from the Soviet
era, and there's an eerie similarity to Cuba there…….but with an upgrade. The
major difference with Cuba is that the buildings here are, for the most part, well
maintained, but with the two having lived under the shadow of the former Soviet
Union, the parallels are unmistakable. The Russian Lada is widely popular and
many people convert their Ladas to run on propane gas, which is 5 times more
economical than gas, according to a friend. While filling the car with propane,
it’s required that all passengers step out of the vehicle as a safety measure.
The Vernissage, Erevan’s open-air market, is a
place where you can find anything Armenian, from cheap chichi’s to antique,
hand-woven rugs. I had my eye on two brilliant rugs there that practically
jumped off the rope they hung from. I bargained, walked away, bargained some
more, kept walking away, in the best way I know how. In the end I didn't buy. I
carry a sense of guilt bargaining with people who, I imagine, have less than I
do. You never know, though. Maybe they have more than I!
Garni is a village outside Yerevan and the location of our
first excursion. The town has ancient roots and is best known for its Hellenistic, 1st Century AD temple.
The fortification at Garni was erected, they say, around the 3rd century BC as
a summer residence for several Armenian dynasties but was destroyed by the
earthquake of 1679 along with the temple. Down below the fortress and pagan
temple lies the Garni Gorge carved out by the Goght River. It was chilly up there on top of the
canyon, and the snow-covered mountains on the horizon were magnificent. We
bought some local apricot and walnut snacks, and I took the opportunity to kiss
the ground there, something I promised I’d do. Not entirely sure that that was
the most appropriate place to do so, but it seemed like the moment for it. From
there on to Geghard, a monastery built into the mountains. The main chapel was built in 1215, but the monastery
complex was founded in the 4th century by Gregory
the Illuminator, who is credited with bringing Christianity to Armenia. The name Geghard refers to the spear that wounded Jesus at the
Crucifixion and supposedly brought to Armenia by Jude, the apostle. Some of the
churches within the complex are entirely dug out of the cliffs and others are
simply caves. Others are more elaborate structures. We froze our fannies off
there but what a wondrously unforgettable and picturesque place. Old ladies sold giant
loaves of thick, round gata, and who
can resist sweet bread anyway. We bought half a massive disc.
Back in Yerevan we ate at Ararat restaurant and saw the
Armenian National Show. We were the only guests in the entire place but the
performers went on anyway like true professionals. Very enjoyable and festive
traditional music and dancing. Some might even say the dancing is similar to
that found in Bulgaria. The food was decent but not spectacular, as it wasn’t
required to be due to the dazzling spectacle of dance and music. The birav (beer) was cold, and that was half
the battle. Republic Square, especially at night, is where the young and "need-be-seen" go. Great for people watching and one can sit for hours there just breathing the life of the place and soaking in the history of the cozy, lamp-lit square.
The ride out of the capital toward eastern Armenia for the
second half of our vacation took us through some of the most impoverished areas
of Yerevan. The conditions some people live in can only be characterized as base
and ignoble. A friend said that 35% of Armenians live below the poverty line.
I'm also told that the mafia control their fair share of things in Armenia, but
they do not bother the local people in general. Armenia has a small middle
class, my friend continued; the remainder are either very wealthy or very poor.
Outside Yerevan we hit the pictorial snowy mountains. The roads
were teeming with potholes, and I can imagine it’s difficult to repair them
with the extreme heat of summer and cold of winter wreaking havoc on them. We
saw a lone wolf on an abutting mountain slope walking in the snow. We knew it
was a wolf because we had inquired earlier if there were any wild animals in
Armenia and were told that wolves, bears, deer and even a few leopards walked
the hills. Only a wolf would be out there like that. Young boys with
wind-burned faces in mismatched, woolen hand-me-downs sold little purple flowers
called snowdrops on the side of the
road (the first flowers that emerge from the earth during the spring thaw), and
as we approached majestic Lake Sevan, fisherman with skin severely weathered by
the sun and wind stood roadside outstretching their hands to indicate the size
of the fish from their most recent catch. Lake Sevan is the largest lake in Armenia and
one of the largest fresh-water
high-altitude lakes in the world.
Check-in was simple at Tufenkian’s Old Dilijan
Complex in Dilidjan, and the room was quaint like a country village inn but
with modern facilities. The whole place smells like a fireplace, and we knew we
were definitely in the mountains. I had taken a big chance booking this place
way out in the middle of nowhere. Sure, it was a bit of a trek back to Lake
Sevan, but the “old world” charm of the place, its friendly staff, and the cozy
accommodations turned out to be well worth the gamble. Armenians love to
build with stone, by the way, as their soil is very rocky, so maybe one day I
can get my dream stone house built there!
Dilidjan is
like a valley town located in the
northern province of Tavush.
The place is mostly forested and reclusive but many Armenian artists, composers, and filmmakers
live there. The Complex we stayed in represents a preservation of “older
times,” complete with craftsman's workshops, a gallery, a bakery, and a museum. The Armenian Central Bank is located in
Dilidjan. One afternoon, Yetty and I took a casual walk through town. We saw a
herd of cows on a small hill by the side of the road and one of them had obviously
gone astray as he was wandering the street making what seemed to be desperate
and confused cow noises. As we approached I decided to respond in deep “cow” to
see what it would do. When the cow turned its head, I noticed it was actually a
bull! He trebled my “cow,” as he was far more fluent than I, and in doing so he
got so angry that the grass he was chewing came flying out of his mouth. So
there we found ourselves……..in between a large wall on one side of the road and
a fierce, provoked bull on the other………what to do……..Yetty grabbed me and we
darted down along the side of the stone wall but only when cars passed to
serve as a buffer. Whew! One of those scary, funny, and exciting moments you
just do not expect in life……..
While
in Dilidjan we visited two
monasteries: Goshavank and Haghartsin. The former is a 12th/13th-century
monastery founded by Mkhitar Gosh, a medieval Armenian ruler, and the latter dates
to the 13th century. Neither is really being maintained as they should, but the
latter one is currently being renovated thanks to the generosity a sheikh in
the UAE. What a chilly, brisk day among the ancient rolling hills.
The following day our driver took us up the windy rode from
Dilidjan back to Lake Sevan to see the Sevanavank Monastery. As vistas and
locations go, this one was a favorite of ours. The views of this majestic body
of water bookended by snow-capped peaks were nothing short of artistic. The
monastery stands high on a bluff that requires some steep stair-climbing, and
we absolutely did not want to come down! The driver waited an hour and a half
for us at the base in the chilly air. Back in the car we made our way toward
Kecharis monastery in Tsaghkadzor. We passed a town whose buildings look like
the work of the Russians. There was even a nuclear power plant. The monastery
was impressive, as they all are, thanks to their age and the history buried in
the stone. You cannot help but conjure romantic visions of a time lost forever.
Tsitsernakaberd, our last stop in Armenia, is that
country’s memorial dedicated to the victims of the Armenian Genocide. Located on
a bluff overlooking Yerevan, this is one of the most moving few hours I have
ever spent. The museum is filled with photos, videos, and accounts of the
events of the 1915 massacres that took place in the Ottoman Empire and carried out by the Turkish government. What I found most
interesting and enlightening were the perspectives
of the contemporary world leaders on the planned exterminations, in their own
words, and how repulsed they were at the events taking place. Outside the
museum there are rows of small pine trees planted or donated by leaders all
over the world who visited and acknowledged this horrible moment in history. I
will omit further personal feelings and perspectives on this subject from this
blog.
FOOD
Bread, bread and more bread. Armenians love bread. There’s
the guy I mentioned before with the extra baggage filled with Zatar bread from
Dubai. Za’atar is actually a generic
name for a spice mixture that is applied on flat bread here in the Middle East made
up of oregano, basil, thyme savory, sesame seeds, dried sumac, salt, etc. I
guess he wanted to introduce his friends back in Yerevan to his new discovery. Gata, also explained before, was my
favorite of all the breads I tried in Armenia. Nearly every meal we had there was
accompanied by the freshest bread you can imagine and lavash, which is Archie’s (my son) favorite and an Armenia staple. Lavash is a soft, thin flatbread popular in the
Caucuses. Normally it is baked in a clay oven and can be stored for 6 months to
a year!! It can get hard and brittle fast, however, but nothing a few sprinkles
of water can’t cure. In the US I believe it is called lahvash or cracker bread.
As we waited to board in Dubai for Yerevan, let me tell you
the food choices were miserable: McDonald’s or a deli serving food with crust all
over it……. We had to wait for an Arabic place to open, so there I was, mister bacon
and eggs himself, ordering kebabs and white rice at 6am. Our first meal in
Yerevan was at the Green Bean Café, a local organic food spot. What a great,
wholesome meal of delicious soups and sandwiches.....great service....and local
beer, Kilikia. It’s more of a tourist joint than anything else, but we needed
to have a stable meal, and one we could fully trust, before getting
adventurous.
Later that same evening we strolled into the Yerevan Tavern,
admittedly with mixed feelings of trepidation and courageousness. What we got,
however, was staggeringly sensational. Besides the lovely food, the experience
brought back a hidden memory of mine from my early teens. The waiter, Sarko,
brought Archie a glass of fresh apricot juice, which I had never had before. What
it reminded me of, however, were the apricots my grandfather Archie used to buy
at the Armenian store in NJ. Now, I've had dried apricots before from all over
the world, but honestly they have never had the same silky smooth texture and
flavor as those I remember as a kid. Something in the apricots of Armenia—maybe
the soil or the sun or the water—that make them, in my opinion, the best in the
world, and I could not get over the unexpected emergence of this treasured
memory.
At first the menus came entirely in Armenian, and Yetty and Archie were
looking at me like I could tell them what to order. I didn’t have a clue, save
for the pictures next to each dish description, which made the food look and
sound scrumptious. At least I knew we had stepped into the right place, despite
it being by chance. Later we would find out that that place is considered by
many locals to be one of Yerevan’s best meals. So now it was time to order, and order we did!
Lamb and chicken soup; a spicy, tomatoey lamb and beef dish, dolma, bbq
chicken, the fresh apricot juice, a few Kilikias, all finished off with some “Armenian”
coffee. There is no coffee grown in Armenia; they simply import and package it.
In fact, they call it Turkish coffee, ironically enough. Turkish coffee is named for its special method of preparation. After
roasting, the coffee is ground very finely and boiled in a pot, often with sugar, and
served in a small cup, similar to an espresso cup. The difference here is that
before drinking, you MUST wait for the coffee grounds to settle. If you cannot
wait, you will definitely regret it! Good to the last drop…..almost! This is
not your typical “bottoms-up” type of coffee we drink in the States or Europe,
nor is it coffee made in machines where the grounds and water pass by each
other like two strangers in a dark alley. Time and attention is required. For
the entire meal we paid an equivalent of US$25, or about 10,000 Armenian drams. What
a deal! The people at the tables around us were drinking vodka, chatting, laughing
and enjoying life....we would definitely go back!
Breakfast in Yerevan was usually Segafredo’s, a European
chain. On our first try, our Moscow-born, half-Greek, half-Armenian waiter
brought us an array of delicious bruschetta covered with tomatoes, mushrooms
and cheese, an omelet with tomatoes and some wonderful coffees, teas, and fresh
carrot-apple juice. The background music in Segafredo’s was very varied. We
even heard bachata! That evening, at a friend’s house, our host made us some of
the best dolma man has ever known. This
was the meat dolma variety and served warm with garlic-yogurt sauce. This tasty
treat combined with some other dishes, guitars, piano, singing, discussing
religion and politics and history, and drinking vodka…….can’t forget the
vodka…….made for a very special evening. I met my friend (we’ll call him Jacob)
in Tappan, NY, several years ago. He had emigrated to America back in the 70’s
and was now retiring back to Armenia. He had invited me to visit him one day in
Armenia, and I told him I would try, knowing how hard it would be to live up to
any commitment of doing so…………….but here I was, several years later, in his
home, enjoying his food and company………let this be a lesson to all: cherish the
contacts you make in life; you never know what can happen.
Something else I remember eating often as a kid were lachmajuns. If you’ve never had these
Armenian-style pizzas, you are missing out. Lachmajuns,
simply put, are meat with dough. The thin dough is topped with minced lamb,
beef, and a variety of vegetables with herbs including onions, tomatoes, and
parsley. After baking, some people sprinkle it with lemon. I remember my
grandfather coming back from the Armenian store, and the first thing I’d do was
dive into the lachmajuns. As
wonderful as I remember them, however, the ones we had here in Yerevan were
better.
On the long and windy road to Dilidjan, car-sickness got the
better of Yetty. But as it turned out, she was more hungry than anything else.
Dinner, then, at our Complex restaurant, Hay Kanoush was a feast: mushroom-apricot
soup (yes, you’re reading this correctly), lachmajuns,
beef stew with okra, a delicious salad of chick peas, olives, green pepper and
tomatoes, rice pilaf and of course some fresh bread and lavash. On another dinner occasion there, we ate lamb bbq, trout
with spinach, assorted cheeses, and lentil kufta. Breakfast here consisted of a
variety of cheeses, breads, lavash,
black cherry or cumquat preserves, pancakes, tomato or yogurt/honey omelets
(Yetty liked but did not love……), some sort of Armenian cookie/cake with yogurt
that I forgot to ask the name of, fried potatoes, harisa, which is a porridge made from previously stewed and boned chicken (or lamb) and coarsely ground soaked wheat and considered Armenia’s
national dish, and souboreg, which consists of
very thin layers of pasta filled with cheese and herbs. Extremely tasty.
In fact, one of the most pleasant dishes I have ever tried in my life. We’re so
lucky to have found this place!
At another friend’s house in Dilidjan (actually our driver,
Ashot), we were invited to a special dinner to share some of their local,
homemade dishes. We did not expect such a huge spread, however, and regretted
having eaten a hardy meal a few hours prior. Everything they served was either homemade
or grown/made right there in Dilidjan, and our hosts were so proud of this fact.
Rightly so, as it was a meal like no other. Fresh bee honey (not your
supermarket variety), raisin jam, peach preserves, cheeses, breads/lavash, green beans exactly like grandma
made!!, beet and kidney bean salad, homemade fruit juice, lentils/rice, apricot
cake, and Armagnac. Emma, Ashot’s daughter-in-law, was the only one who spoke
some but not much English, but it did not remove any enjoyment of the evening.
We talked about a lot of things over the meal using the broken Armenian we had
learned and the broken English they already knew. They were great hosts and
wonderfully kind to us. Ashot gave Archie some deer antlers from a deer he
shot, and his wife Nvar gave us some tea from her garden, extra peach preserves
and her delicious fruit juice.
Ashot had taken us to another restaurant in Dilidjan—Tavoush—over
the preceding days. There we gorged on
what else but fresh bread/lavash,
pickled cabbage/pickles/scallions, cheese, a pile of fresh herbs, beer, cognac
and roasted lamb. On another occasion Yetty was craving trout, and I guess
Ashot had called ahead without us knowing because when we arrived, the chef was
walking outside to his open air grill with stacks of the marinated river fish.
Their grill set up would make even the most passionate grill master blush. It
was a grand brick structure with stacks of local, seasoned woods crawling up
the sides of a covered huddle. Above the smoky embers the trout lay crisping before
our eyes. Lunch on this day was another great feast!! There was so much trout
leftover that I asked the hostess to wrap it up, which she did in a swath of lavash. I gave it to Ashot but he
refused out of courtesy. I had to force it on him!!
Our last memorable meal in Armenia was back at the Yerevan
Tavern. I told you we’d make it back! Jacob joined us for dinner, which
consisted of lamb and pork bbq (the latter for Jacob only), spicy beef liver,
which I tried by accident, fresh peach juice, and Jacob and I shared a bottle
of dry Armenian red wine. The gents at the next table were drinking beer,
vodka, and tan, which is a watered down yogurt drink people have to wash down
their meat. Another great meal served by Sarko.
So on this trip to Armenia, I ate my three most despised foods:
beets, liver and honey. I figured that since they were all home grown and
prepared, I might stand a chance of not being repulsed by eating them. I was
right!
JUST BEFORE YOU GO….
After this latest meal at the Yerevan Tavern, we walked a
good 3/4 mile through Yerevan to Liberty Sq. where sat Raffi Hovannisian, 12
days into a hunger strike. As we approached Raffi's entourage, we saw him
sitting on a bench next to a tent while an Armenian poet recited emotively to
the gathered crowd. We listened to her intently, understanding nothing, but
knew her words held deep meaning to the attentive onlookers. Jacob, a huge Raffi
supporter and friend, squeezed his way through the crowd to get closer to him
and pled for a personal audience. His goal was to introduce me. I stood back cautiously,
in case Raffi balked or was otherwise discouraged from doing so by his security
detail.
Who is Raffi Hovannisian? He is an American-born (1959) Armenian politician, descendant of
genocide survivors, and the founding leader of the Heritage party. He moved from his home state of
California in 1990 with his wife and children and was appointed as the first
Minister of Foreign Affairs of the newly independent Republic of Armenia. In
this past February’s national election, Raffi was
one of seven candidates for president and received, by official tally, 37% of
the votes. Claiming mass election fraud, Raffi, along with other
opposition leaders, declared themselves the true victors, and he spends his
days living in a tent in Liberty Square having initiated a large-scale national
movement called the "bare"volution to "return power to the people."
Thousands of people on a daily basis stop by to see his encampment, greet him,
hear him speak, sing with him and show, by their very presence, their unwavering, around-the-clock support.
The authorities are steadfast in their refusal to compromise with
Hovannisian–and thus the people–to hold a second round of presidential
elections and to bring election violators, namely public servants at various
levels, before the law.
Security and police walked about the park just in case of any
disturbance. Raffi made his way over to the opera house steps where more of his
young supporters were gathered with guitars and the excitement of their cause.
It was a balmy early evening in Yerevan and only light jackets and maybe a
scarf were required. Raffi sat and waited as the crowd now built around him on the
steps and cameramen readied their equipment. All eyes were on this man
as he sat humbly, perhaps weakly after 12 days
with no food, and he threw glances and winks and smiles at his followers.
Jacob
weaseled a seat next to his daughter who was adjacent to the presidential
hopeful. He motioned and called for me. "David, come and sit; Raffi called
us over!" I could hear the excitement in his voice. I declined, however, understanding
that my role in that scene was to lay low and not take the spotlight away from
Raffi. I was getting plenty of stares as it was, and I didn’t want to cause any
further distraction from the man of the hour. Finally, the singer/guitar player seated behind Raffi began to
strum softly. Only when he broke into song did the small crowd of a hundred or
so hush and listen. The singer was entertaining, and you could sense that this
joyous celebration of the cause of Raffi Hovannisian was going to continue for
a few hours. According to Jacob it was a scene that replayed night after night.
Yetty managed to snap a quick picture of me finally speaking with Raffi, and Jacob
relished the fact that he introduced me to the man who could be the next
president of Armenia.
When
Raffi and I finally met, he reached out his gigantic hand and smiled brightly
into my eyes …….
"What is your last name?" he said in a very deep
voice.
“Chamalian,” I said confidently.
“Where are you from?” he continued.
“New Jersey.”
“Where is your family from?” He seemed genuinely
interested.
“Palu,” I replied, “which is in Turkey.”
“That's actually Armenian territory,” he corrected.
“What part of Palu?”
“I honestly don't know,” I muttered, feeling foolish.
“Is it the northern or southern side of Palu? he
persisted.
“I honestly don't know." By then I felt too embarrassed not knowing these things that I had to deflect and close the conversation. "Jacob has told me so
much about you. All the best.”
“Welcome to the motherland,” he bellowed. And in
me awoke someone I had never met before.
My friends, it gets no better than banana pancakes for breakfast in Bali. That and some sweet tea and the silence of a beach bungalow morning gets the day started right. I met two of the cutest little girls in the world at my homestay. They must have been 3 and 5, and they were playing with makeshift toy cars made from a water bottle and a beer can, hand-carved wheels made of scrap wood, and "driven" by a bamboo stick that was tied to a string. Dad tends to them all day, and after having 3 already he now desperately wants a boy. When he is old and the girls are all married and have their own families there will be no one to care for him like he cares for his widowed father. He dreads the thought of it. His wife works all night in a hotel kitchen then comes home after a 12-hour shift and cooks and cleans. No time for anything. Life is paradise here for a foreigner with a couple of bucks in his pocket, but there are real people here, struggling to survive day to day to make ends meet. But you'd never know this unless you take the time to get to know them.. 
Japanese when they invaded Indonesia in the '40s. Have to say, it was a bit disappointing.....the waterfall soon after, however, was astounding. It shot down from about 100ft and swimming beneath it was as exhilarating an experience as I've had in quite some time. The power of falling water is an awesome force.
