Sunday was another day for the Peace Corps Brochure. The town was celebrating a feast day, a regular occurrence whose schedule condones and controls the slaughtering of precious livestock for meat. Before I woke up, my host brother had slit the throat of a ram, tied it up by its hind feet, skinned it and disemboweled it. “I didn’t want to wake you. It’s too cruel to see,” he said. When I got to the house of my host uncle, these pieces were laying on the side of the path, and the muscular bits of the ram were being cut into chunks and skewered for Khorovats, the Armenian Barbeque[1]. I cut some potatoes, which are physically, morally and gastrointestinally benign.
“Come, we go to church,” said my host brother. We walked to Maggie’s farm, where her host grandfather was behind the wheel of the town’s Marshutney. Ordinarily, he’s friendly, but will occasionally turn on an intense temper, especially on other drivers and disobedient children who get into the milk. Afterwards, he’ll be friendly and charismatic again, as if nothing happened. Inside the van are Maggie-jan and her extended family and my 9-year old cousins. There’s grandmother, her sister, the son, the daughter-in-law, their three children, several sets of cousins and their broods. We drive through the center of town and turn left at the post office. We are now on the dirt road leading to the mountain. The van’s windows are covered with black velvet, and I push it back to see pilgrims climbing the steep dirt road the van is now bouncing up. None of the windows in the back of the van open, and there are no air vents, so we pilgrims endure the four seats in the back, feeling each other’s body heat and smelling each other’s smells as we look towards the front window to keep from getting carsick. As we come to a particularly steep and slippery grade, the van starts sliding backwards. Some of the men jump out. The van tries again, and fails again. I see my chance, and jump out the door. The air is cool and clean. The van tries again, stops in the middle, tries again, stops 2/3rds of the way up, tries again, and clears the hill.
At last we make the church and the van is descended on by a horde of four-foot tall grandmothers bearing thin yellow candle sticks. Noticing the Americans, they glom onto me. Maggie’s grandfather urges me to just wade through them, but I trade a 100 dram coin for a roll of candlesticks, then wave my 25-cent talisman to keep the others away. The church is a small stone structure, built into the side of the hill, with a slanted metal roof to keep off the rain and snow. I step inside, and the bright warmth of the day is replaced with a cool moisture of a stone room, lit by hundreds of small yellow candles stuck to the walls and placed in braziers dripping wax on the floor. I light my candles and stick them to the walls, and my host brother points out a stone cross that was carved by his uncle to commemorate a relative who was killed. “Was this in the war?” I ask. “No, by neighbor” my host brother replies. “When did this happen?” “2006.” Oh.
I could stay in the church a long time, examining the icons and elaborate models of other, larger churches, but Maggie’s grandfather wants to get back. Getting back in the van, I graciously let the other pilgrims in first, and grab a seat near the front of the van and the open driver’s window. Two minutes later, I am justly rewarded when the six year old girl sitting on a lap behind me ejects whitish vomit onto my shoe.
We go to my host uncle‘s house, where the skewers of lamb meat have been roasting in the pit oven used to cook lavash. In the smokefilled kiln, men pull out the skewers and taste the lamb. The meat is ready. We bring the meat to the women in a tub lined with lavash. They put the meat into bowls, set the table, put out the salads and juices that they have made. The men sit and pour vodka into each others glasses, toasting Armenia, the noble sheep, each other, and the pleasure of good company and good spirits. The women bring the bowls of meat, and offer me the first choice. I pick a rather squishy offering and cut into it. The inside is white and fatty. I take a bite. It’s oddly creamy, almost like butter, and not chewy like fat. “Inch e sa?” I ask. The men laugh and grab their pants. I’ve just taken a big bite of sheep balls. “It’s good for you!” I’m told “and it’s tasty too!” Well, I don’t want to be greedy. I cut the ball into eighths and pass them around the table. A fine solution. I offer up a toast, and the sweet warmth of Russian vodka gently burns away the slick of prairie oyster in my mouth. Soon I’ve eaten all the Khorovats and salad that I can, and am having trouble moving off of the deep couch. But not to worry, the women have brought out pastries and cookies. Not even a strong cup of Sourch can help me as I stumble home, into my bed, and fall into a deep and satisfied sleep.
6/16/2010 10:30 PM
A storm knocked the electricity went out as I finished that last piece typing on my notebook in the living room. My host family has brought me four candles in elaborate holders to type, so I work on my laptop by candlelight. “Just like when the neanderthals sat around the fire and surfed the internet” says my host father. In return, I shined my headlamp on the cows as they were milked and as the milk was poured through a coffeecan strainer into a vat. I have about 30 minutes of battery life left. Should I waste it on playing music or save it in case I need the computer before the electricity returns. When will the electricity return anyway?
[1] Traditionally, Armenians believe a man is as rich as he need be if he can eat Khorovats at least once a month.
These stories are nothing short of fantastic. Just remember the wisdom of the old edict: we are what we eat.
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