Armenia Notes

The weather in Yerevan has been cold and drizzly- all the more reason I don’t feel guilty now for curling up in a corner of my rented apartment, writing, reading, and sipping on Ararat brandy that smells of harvest fruit and late summer. I switched from Nescafe to the world famous brandy at some point between Mario Vargas Llosa’s “Conversation in the Cathedral” and Richard Neustadt’s “Presidential Power.” It is said that Churchill was so impressed by Armenian brandy after he was given a bottle by Stalin that he had regular shipments sent to him in England from then on out. In that case, I had to try it.

Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 is on repeat- it just fits the atmosphere. At some point I’m going to read Lenin’s “Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism.” It gives me some odd pleasure to read it in a former part of the Soviet Union. It gets brought up so much in everything I read I feel rather dumb for having never cracked open the 120 page or so book.

The apartment always smells of spices. The owner, away in Germany, has an obvious fetish for spices- tens of reused Nutella containers are stacked one upon the other, each filled with a different spice and meticulously labeled in Cyrillic letters. From what I gather from the neighbors, he is known as “the doctor.” His brother, who rented the apartment to me for the week, must also be a doctor and happens to work for USAID in Yerevan. From the balcony I can see across into Turkey and Mt. Ararat that is still half covered in snow. Its peak reaches far above the clouds and cannot be seen. It is a rather imposing mountain.

The Armenians consider themselves the descendants of Hyak, the great-grandson of Noah. And Armenia is considered to be the first country to adopt Christianity as the state religion- in 301 AD. Getting here was a small adventure in and of itself. I flew what I will refer to as “Ghetto Ukrainian Airlines” where they had to announce at least three times that yes, this was in fact a non-smoking flight. If you decide to smoke the police will be waiting for you as soon as we land in Kiev. The inflection in the flight attendant’s voice almost made it seem like she ended the sentence with “where you will be promptly taken away to the back of the airport and shot on the spot.” I was taken aback by the vigor and force of the announcement- it exceeded the threats required to keep Egyptians smoking on aircraft. I had 50 minutes to transfer in Kiev and as I entered the congested and smoke filled airport I found what looked like acres of people waiting in line to go through security to make their transfer flights. The backup was caused by a single security point used for all transfer passengers- this was making the Cairo airport look pretty good. Over the course of a half hour I worked my way through the crowd as thick as Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras- perhaps the smoke, dirt and grime of the airport was momentarily taking me back to those New Orleans nights I can’t remember. I was the last person to run to my gate and hop on the bus that was taking passengers out to the aircraft. As far as I could tell, I was the only non-Armenian on the flight.

I knew my arrival in Armenia would not necessarily go as smoothly as I might hope. My tourist passport only had about half a page of room and I was hoping the Armenian visa would be the size of a Turkish visa- slightly larger than a postage stamp. I already had an appointment at the US embassy my second day in Armenia so I could get a new passport or pages. Of course, the Armenian visa is the largest I have seen yet to date- it is nearly the size of an entire passport page. Before long I had my own small crowd of Armenian officials trying to resolve the situation of where to put my visa.

“Can’t you be like Israel and just stamp a page or something?” I asked.

“No. no. We can’t do that.”

“Well there are these two amendments pages in the back. What the hell are these for anyway? Just put it on that.”

“We aren’t sure if that is acceptable.”

“Is that acceptable to you? You are the immigration officer.”

Finally they called someone at the US embassy who promptly told them to put it on the amendments pages. After my hour delay I grabbed my bag and headed through customs. Not so fast- we want to see your baggage tickets. Really? I went searching through my disorganized pockets. I didn’t think my baggage tickets had ever been checked in US customs, let alone Armenia. They were not joking around here in Armenia. I would learn that once again at the library at the American University in Armenia- rules in Armenia are meant to be followed (to use the library I had to put down a 15,000 dram deposit as a foreigner).

The day I arrived was Iranian New Year. Thousands of Iranians were in Yerevan celebrating in manners illegal in their own country. My cab driver made a few complaints about the Iranians in broken English. Then he moved to a few phrases about Obama that included the words “nigger” and “Mickey Mouse.” I couldn’t make any sense of it really- except that he did also make fun of Sarkozy and the French and somehow managed to also associate them with Mickey Mouse. I found it interesting that a people who had been subject to a brutal genocide seemed to be as racist as ever- but alas; he was just one taxi driver. And taxi drivers in all countries are always dynamic, to say the least.

Armenia is a poor country that is still filled with old Soviet architecture and sculptures. I have likened it to walking into a 1980’s B-action movie with the Russians. I went to the local “super market” to get some things for the apartment. I found a small shelf of produce, another of dairy, a small deli set up, and bakery. The food section of the market was about the size of the aisles at 7-11. The other side of the store was Walmart sized aisles. One side was nothing but cartons of cigarettes, the other vodka and brandy. There was one other similar sized aisle with chocolate and panty hose. So, in Armenia, at least at this market, the grocery store is 75% cigarettes, alcohol, chocolate, and panty hose.

I will end my beginning notes on Armenia here…

The Evoked Set

I have been in Istanbul for ten days now. Tomorrow I will head to Yerevan, Armenia- partly out of a conviction that I want to finally visit a country I have never visited before. So far my exile travels have been repeats of the past. And while I do not dislike memories, I am in the mood for something different. I do not know where my mood will take me from Armenia. I think Tbilisi-Jason and the Golden Fleece- might be in my future.

Istanbul has been enjoyable and has conjured up many memories for me- though most of them did not take place in this city. I have noticed some changes since I was last here- there are more prayer beads and more headscarves than I recall from before. The sidewalks are better paved (something that someone inclined towards a general klutziness tends to notice). The hospitality is still not for want, even in the midst of what feels to be a very Western and modern city. Ataturk can still be found in nearly every location. Someone remarked to me today that there must be a special school just for Ataturk sculptors so that there is uniformity in capturing his piercing eyes. I have to say the man looks rather scary.

It has snowed and rained a good portion of the time. The weather made me feel justified about the hours I spent pouring over foreign policy books in the Bogazici University library. This evening my read seemed to be interminable- one more page of a political scientist trying to spell out hundreds of psychological variables that might affect human behavior, so as map the way towards a predictive model of this behavior, might have driven me mad. I find the whole notion of such a predictive model somewhat absurd anyway. I walked out into the cold rain and caught a cab to Levent, the area I moved to a week ago to leave the tourists of Sultanahmet. It was time for my last meal in Turkey- at least this trip. I think food brings back more memories than anything.

The smells and flavors of hot lentil soup, splash of lemon, brought me back to Marash and the days at the excavation. The heat of the afternoons was almost unbearable. We would lie on the woven mats in the shade until afternoon tea, trying to sleep while still sweating. In the evenings, after having sorted the pottery, we would each take our one ice cold Efes, attempting to make it last through dinner if possible. I would watch the sunset and the distant Taurus mountains, thinking of the people who came down from them thousands of years before to begin building the complex web of societies we find ourselves in today. This is why I will never accept the premise that mankind is utterly trapped by structures, be they environmental, economic, or ideational. We built what we live in now- politics, economics, culture are the result of man’s creativity and action. History did not emerge from a vacuum. These sunsets and the mountains, the Anatolian plains, often brought on the same sensations I would feel while staring across empty expanses of ocean that accentuated the details of the sky.

The spiced yogurt blended with lamb reminded me of the kitchen where the Kurdish girls would prepare our meals. I would take my breaks with them, listening to one talk about her imminent marriage to a Turk living in Switzerland. She was scared and exhilarated. They would teach me bits of Turkish and Kurdish- most of which I cannot recall now. I would return to the water and archaic set-up I used to extract plant material (my little paleoethnobotany sidejob) from the samples at the site. As I sorted I worked my way through seven thousand year old pottery, finding small joy each time the mud washed away and revealed a new design. I liked to consider that I was the first person touching this man-made object in thousands of years and wondered if I could sense some sort of connection to the last person who touched it. What were they thinking? What did they care about?

I often still recall the face of the excavation’s driver. I cannot remember his name now- only that he came from Urfa or Diyarbakir and that his eyes always seemed to emanate a happy light. He was a devoted Muslim, never missed prayer. He would quietly and unobtrusively slip away to his tent and I used to watch him ceremoniously washing his feet and prepare himself for prayer. In the nights when we all passed around a horrid bottle of raki he would smile and watch us get drunk- telling us without judgment that he was praying for us all. I would stumble back to my tent still, in the midst of my inebriation, terrified of the ungodly enormous orange spiders indigenous to the area. Even in drunkenness I did not forget my greatest fear. I kept the mosquito net tucked in tightly around the two cots I had put together, one for storing all my clothes in a place where I was convinced that the spiders would never reach- boots included. I never wanted to find one in my bed or in my boots in the morning. I methodically checked for any sign of a gap between the two cots, lest there be an entrance for would be intruders. Then I would drift away into sleep for a few hours and hope no portion of my arm touched the netting in the night. That was always a prize for the relentless mosquitoes.

The TV at the restaurant was showing clips of Libya. Finally the West had intervened and it was not a unilateral American action. I was thankful for that. I mulled over the emotion I felt the day before as the news of US Navy launched Tomahawks broke. I had been exhilarated, proud of having had a hand in the shape of the operational planning, and even tad bit wishful that I was located on one of those warships when they launched. This emotion was quickly joined with guilt and even shame for having felt it. Libya was a tragic situation all around- the fact that it had to come to this. People were dying from those missiles- even if they were Gaddafi’s forces. Was it the violence that brought me this sudden vicious pleasure? Or was it simply organizational pride? I put my raw, unintended emotions aside- they could be evaluated later.

Now is time for a new travel adventure. For the first time in this trip, I find myself excited again…

Istanbul Rantings

My exile brought me to Istanbul- I have been here now for three days. Though I cannot yet return to Cairo permanently I am somewhat comforted by the feeling that I am back in the East- whatever that is or means. It probably means I’m one of those damn orientalists- essentializing everything so that it fits my romantic notions. I am fond of church bells but I am more drawn to the sound of the muezzin- especially at sunset. There is perhaps no better prayer-accompanied-sunset than that seen from a rooftop overlooking the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, and scattered Ottoman domes throughout the old city of Sultanahmet spanning out to the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara. It was seven years ago that I first enjoyed the view.

Turkey, of course, brings back many memories of the past, not the least of which being a whirlwind romance and marriage. I have to say that it still brings a smile to my face to remember. Much of my memories are flashes- being kidnapped by the village Kurdish girls so they could dress me for the local wedding. The heads of families pinning gold coins on us to melt into wedding bands. Wandering though Syria. The Armenian goldsmiths of Aleppo that made my ring. It was a great story- even if life’s mistakes and realities cruelly intervened. But we never question the phrase “and they lived happily ever after” at the end of fairy-tales.

When I arrived in Istanbul it was snowing thick swirling flakes across the city. It thought fit perfectly as I read the first few pages of my accompanying fiction (Snow):

“As evening fell, he lost himself in the light lingering in the sky above; in the snowflakes whirling ever more wildly in the wind he saw nothing of the impending blizzard but rather a promise, a sign pointing the way back to the happiness and purity he had known, once, as a child. Our traveler had spent his years of happiness and childhood in Istanbul; he’d returned a week ago for the first time in twelve years…He was a poet and, as he himself had written-in a poem still largely unknown to Turkish readers-it snows only once in our dreams.” 

The cold cut through my layers of clothes- at least I had checked the weather before packing. Within two hours of arrival I found myself in the corner of a tea-house, laying across various pillows and cushions, covered in blankets, smoking sheesha, and drinking tea from the Turkish glasses that I love. I watched the snow continue to fall outside and tried to stop thinking about Cairo. I was thinking of a recent conversation I had- someone telling me about how, in their second novel, one of the characters included the American ambassador to Egypt- a woman. In the story a vague environmental or some other form of apocalyptic disaster had struck Egypt causing a shortage of water. Throughout the crisis the American ambassador remains in her office, reporting to higher authorities, and never ventures out to understand what is happening outside. The Americans had managed to dig a tunnel between the embassy and Maadi- so that they could come and go without ever really being in contact with Egypt. Astounding. And not far from the everyday truth of official American operations in Egypt- at least as far as I can see. The embassy seems to be plagued by some irrational fear that stems from ignorance. Though I can’t quite draw the connection- it reminds me of the stale and meaningless words Hillary Clinton has spoken recently on Libya. It reminds me of people who suggest that that the modern “globalized” world causes us all, as some sort of “global village,” to experience each other’s sufferings and the consequences of events. No. That is a ridiculous concept that stems from people who have never truly experienced hardship and suffering. It is patronizing- like Thomas Friedman’s portrait in the NY Times. Don’t ask me where that came from.


From my conversations with several people, no one understands the US embassy right now and why they are still behaving as if world war three is occurring outside the embassy walls. Why are the Americans, in an official capacity, afraid to interact with civil society? “Dear Egypt, We support your peaceful revolution but, on the other hand, you are all a bunch of unpredictable barbarians and we expect you to turn your country into something that resembles modern Germany before we have full confidence in you and have all our embassy employees and families return. I mean, you guys are Arabs after all, so we have to be sure. What will make us sure? When the police force, whom terrorized and brutalized you for decades, is able to return in full force to the streets and prevent the minor episodes of theft that have happened at night in Maadi. We can’t have laptops and iPhones being stolen. And when we are confident you won’t head into civil war or a jihad against the West over the price of tomatoes after the economic crisis truly sets in. Not that the majority of people of Egypt haven’t been living in state poverty for quite some time. Why can’t you all just be quiet and obey your military masters for the sake of stability? This peaceful protesting in Tahrir and demand for true civilian-led democracy is just out of hand.”

It’s embarrassing. It is actually comical. I am embarrassed when I try to explain to friends why embassy personnel are still in an “evacuated” status. I still remember the briefs the embassy gave upon arrival to Egypt- don’t ride in microbuses because they are full of (shhhhhh…wait for it…) Egyptians. And don’t buy groceries at the local market because you will surely die. Needless to say, I have always kept my distance from the embassy and their absurd notions about Egypt. But I find it utterly disheartening how disengaged they are with the situation- before and after the revolution.

Before I worked myself into another rage that snowy evening my thoughts were interrupted by the waiter who had been overly attentive to the coal for my sheesha, along with bringing me continual cups of complimentary tea. This time he smiled shyly and handed me a flower and a card. He fled the scene immediately. “My name is Yalçin. I like you.” Was printed above a phone number and e-mail. It was enough to make me laugh and forget Cairo. Seven years ago when I traveled across Turkey alone by bus, I would frequently return to my seat after a stop to find a small flower or, even more creative, napkins made into carnations. One time I swam in local spring and some of the teenage boys swam across from the other side, flowers between their teeth, so that they could then present me with them. I had forgotten those moments until my young waiter decided to present me with his small gift.

I have started working out of the library at Bogazici University, pretending that I am student here so I can read the books I need. My graduate advisor back in Cairo has been gracious enough to let me remain in a class through distance learning. The semester will not be a total loss- and I will have something besides my anger to occupy me throughout my exile. Maybe I will be able to return soon- but I am slowly losing hope in any sort of sensible conclusion to this fiasco.