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© 1997
Mountainous Republic of Ngorno-Kharabagh, August 22-24, 1997.
(for the geographically/world politically-challenged: NG is the small spot of land and source of the existing war between Armenia and Azerbaijan and the place of thousands of deaths.)
I love the fact that we can make trip arrangements so quickly. I had talked with Rousanna a week earlier about the possibility of doing a Kharabagh trip sometime in the future, but it wasn't until Friday morning that I finally get through to her again and we are on the road by 11:00 a.m.
Karlen's mid 5O's Lada (Russian copy of a Fiat) is in great shape (and only suffered one tire blowout later in the Lachin Corridor). Rousanna explains that she picked Karlen up as a driver two weeks earlier through his listing in the newspaper. He passed the trial period with flying colors and is now hired full-time. Rousanna is careful in her explanation how she is using and paying him, knowing well my monitoring role in her knitwear micro-enterprise that pays some transportation costs. And Karlen drives like a racer--at high speeds between police checkpoints and with a wild swerving to miss potholes that sometimes takes us completely off the road fishtailing.
It feels so great to be zipping through Ararat Valley--a real road trip in a decent car headed to a place that's been off limits to us for two years while Peace Corps volunteersi (Our official PC service only ended the previous day.) Mt. Ararat looms over the Armenian-Turkish border patrol towers, which ironically line the Azat (free) River only a kilometer away. About four hours later we arrive in the southern village of Sisian where we meet our buddy John. We rest and eat for an hour while he finishes some work in the business center. Then he joins Christiane and me in the back seat and we are off.
We stop briefly in Goris at a viewpoint overlooking the village. At the viewpoint, a band of military vehicles and soldiers are posted, the first ones we've seen. I'm careful to only point the camera down on Goris, which is nestled in a green canyon backdropped by phallic rock formations full of ancient caves. Some other friends had gone to Kharabagh a few weeks earlier and deliberately left their cameras behind on rumor that they would for sure be confiscated at the border.
I have difficulty writing a good description of the road that then takes us through Azeri territory and into Kharabagh. Without doubt, it is the worst road I have ever been on, ever. The Lachin Corridor, the umbilical cord that attaches Armenia to this mountainous oasis, weaves its way through totally bombed out villages. The road has obviously been hit hard and is now receiving a lot of doctoring. But, with the exception of only a few smooth stretches, the road construction actually seems to make the way much more challenging.
We get a bit confused at dusk driving around in the mountain-top village of Shushi. Shushi is the town that overlooks Stepanakert, Karabagh's capital, and no, there are no sushi bars. It was a stronghold controlled by Azeris for a long time while they shelled down both day and night on unprotected Stepanakert. We finally ask a lone guy standing in the central square and instead of giving directions, he says follow me and starts walking. We find the dark road down and descend into the lights of the city.
Rousanna worked here during 1993 as an interpreter for Medicin sans Frontiers, apparently visiting every part of the region. She does a good job of patiently answering all our questions. (There are only a few organizations here currently, like Intl Red Cross, due to the continued instability.) We find our way to Nora's house in the back part of Stepanakert where we meet many of her relatives and friends who are awaiting our arrival. During the initial small talk in the courtyard, I notice Nora (who's 50 but looks 70 except for her 20 year-old eyes) showing Rousanna around and their huge smiles when they return tell me that we'll be well taken care of here.
The small talk is challenging, given their Karabagh dialect. It's Armenian sure enough, but when they speak with each other we can barely pick out anything. Nora now lives here in the big house alone. Her husband died five or six years ago at the beginning of the war. She is the supreme matriarch in every sense of the word. The men who are here may do some showy drinking and toasting, but she presides and orchestrates everything, down to even the seating assignments. We are soon gathered around a long table inside that has been laid and waiting in classic form--absolutely no square inch is empty.
The toasts are clearly more specific to the region, centering on peace and freedom and posterity. And of course on these strange American visitors who speak their language.
Afterwards we are shown spotlessly clean bedrooms upstairs. We clean up under an honest to goodness hot shower. Then, sleep comes instantaneously in this clean mountain air, but it also causes me to wake up in the morning totally disoriented not knowing where I am.
We go to the market early and buy food for the evening meal. Most everything seems much less expensive but some things hard to find. A whole bucket of blackberries costs the equivalent of 25 cents. We finally find fresh pork to barbecue and buy about ten pounds for five dollars. Lavash, the Armenian flat bread, doesn't exist here.
We then spend the whole day seeing as much of the country as possible. We first pay our respects to the Papik u Tatik monument, the giant Karabagh grandparents carved from orange stone just outside of Stepanakert. We drive straight up through the heart to a northern part called Ganzasar. We visit a beautiful but completely remote church called Vank. In fact, my feelings of such remoteness surpass any I've ever had, even in Alaska. We had in mind to do a bit of hiking in this beautiful place, but the idea of land mines keeps us sticking to the traveled roads. The cemeteries here are especially moving, knowing the small size of the population and the relatively large tragedy of losing even one healthy son or brother.
Like anywhere, it's hard to generalize about the people given such a short exposure and small sample. In the capital, there are both very well dressed people and those with homemade wrappings for shoes. Some now get around in new Mercedes or Jeeps, while others only on crutches. Everywhere, lots of animals are used, especially donkeys burdened with work. Many have those beautifully woven saddle bags I had until now only seen in Yerevan's flea market and shops. I am impressed more than ever with the sheer amount of physical labor, human labor, evident everywhere. There's more than just alot of it, it is how everything exists--it is everything--and that makes life here seem both more rough and more real at the same time.
The people do not refer to themselves (or those from Armenia) as Armenians (Hayer), but as Kharabaghtsiner (and those from Armenia as Hayastantsiner). They're proud of their independence and autonomy and their culture that goes way, way back, beyond an American's ability to comprehend.
The big feast on our second night includes even more relatives and friends and lasts late since it is our last night here. The next morning Nora asks me what kind of life is this, that we zip here and zip there? Why come to her Kharabagh for only two days? For that matter, why leave our homes in America in the first place? I quickly respond that zipping around of course has its dark side, but if we never leave America we don't experience Armenia, and if we don't come to Kharabagh we don't get to meet her and see her life. The explanation only partially satisfies her, and she gives us good-bye hugs and kisses with a pleased but still puzzled look.
We go back through Shushi, but now take time for a bit of exploring. There is a new cathedral nearing completion, but across town a small, old, atypical church still stands because the Azeris thought it was Russian orthodox. In it, we happen upon an inspiring Armenian mass. There are a few visiting priests in their black coned hoods--part of a touring group of Armenians from Lebanon and Syria. To the right is a great female choir, whose lead soloist's voice is incredible. Those in the congregation seem more involved in the service than usual, the women all in veils, some prostrate on the floor. There is a noticeable majority of women, the young wives, widows, sisters or mothers of soldiers. Outside there is a group of local soldiers acting as proud as any heroes could.
Most of the buildings in Shushi are terribly bombed or burned out. For some reason, I didn't picture there would be so much damage here from the stories I'd heard that the Armenian recapture of the town was a clever and swift surprise from the rear. Here in the towncs tough streets, the people appear very poor. Almost a ghost town for nothing else to do but to hang on, the scarce inhabitants fill in a room or two here or there in the otherwise abandoned buildings. We find a couple of kiosks on the main corner and while John buys bread, tomatoes and Snickers for the road, I play with a group of very shy but curious six to eight year-olds.
In the middle of no-man's land between Kharabagh and Armenia, we stop at the village of Lachin. The three kids at the water spout still haunt me. Our conversation started harmlessly enough, they were so cute: two sisters and a brother. I've seen poor, but these were among the worst, wearing rags. The twelve year old boy was wearing old white plastic women's sandals. They were part of a family of nine, not from Lachin but from Yerevan. Their one bedroom apartment in Yerevan just wasn't big enough and it is so expensive to live in Yerevan without work or land. They've come here and live in one of the bombed out buildings, subsisting totally off of what vegetables they can grow.
Some form of cease-fire obviously exists. But the positions of the two sides have not changed and I dan only imagine that a very angry Azerbaijan is busy preparing for further conflict. Unlike Armenia, they have plenty of oil and other natural resources to finance more weaponry. Everywhere we went I felt that it is a war that could flare up again anytime, anywhere. I was glad to get back on Armenian soil.
Between the border and Goris, we detoured on a side road south to the old village site of Xhnzoresk. Located down in a ravine that is now uninhabited, the ruins comprise hundreds of caves and even an old rectangular church. We ran around exploring and spent time chatting with an old guy on a horse who was born and had lived here. Locals had lived in the caves for perhaps thousands of years, moving out only during the 1950's or 1960's. New Xhnzoresk village is further up the road, and I suspect very little has changed here with the agriculture-based lives.
Back in Sisian we stop at the only hotel (where John takes a weekly hot shower for a dollar). It is also the only place in town you can find any food at night. Good 'ol Greta fixes us a quick meal and teaches us a new phrase "gyiankis gerav" (he has eaten my life) when she describes an old geezer that insists on buying us a bottle of vodka and toasting with us.
To some extent, Armenia has eaten a part of my life. More than two years have disappeared, spent here in this unique place. But I think the teeth marks--the many experiences and lessons, will last throughout my life and have most definitely enriched it. I can't help but believe I am the beneficiary of much more than the collective good I've done for others here.
© 1997- No reproduction without authors permission. e-mail me to contact the author for you.
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