Chronicles of Armenia
Part 1.1
by Alessandra McAllisterSouthwards from Georgia the land dries up, green depletes and the mountains become jagged muscles of rock. We drove through these cragged valleys on a minibus that was blasting American pop music from a mini T.V. screen. The male passengers gaped at tanned bottoms gyrating on Californian beaches. Better for them than the stooped figures on the roadside, grey haired women in black headscarves turning shwarma on the grill… They call this land Haiastan, adopting the ancient Persian word for ‘state’, ‘Hai’ being the Armenian people.
The name is taken from Haik Nahapet, the 3rd century B.C. founder of what would become Armenia. Unfortunately for the modern nation, the large majority of Hai people have abandoned their stan. Eleven million ethnic Armenians constitute a global diaspora reaching from neighbouring Georgia to far flung Argentina. Of the remaining 3 million on Hai soil, over a million are found in the Soviet built capital, Yerevan. Explaining this to me, one first generation American-Armenian said that her Russian-Armenian uncle described the country as ‘the nation’s office’; they go in routinely to do business and then leave again to live their lives and spend their money elsewhere. This leaves the countryside largely untouched by enterprising hands and people’s construction ideas; damaging to economic development, but beneficial to the sensory experience of the passersby. The land left in its natural state is lush and diverse, ranging from the dry jagged rocks to the snowy peaks and green undulations surrounding Lake Sevan. The wind blows uninterrupted through overgrown valleys and after the rain, a scent rises from the land like washed herbs left out in a warm kitchen. I became familiar with this landscape and with Yerevan over the course of four weekend visits to Armenia. My first trip was dictated by spontaneity. My snap decision to leave on the last minibus out of Tbilisi got me to Yerevan just before midnight. I alighted the bus in the backwaters of the city. I had no currency and there was no sign of life around the bus station. A fellow passenger, a journalist returning to attend a march being held in remembrance of students who were shot dead by government forces at the 2008 presidential election protest, offered to take me to the centre in a taxi. From there I found myself wandering aimlessly down Pushkin St. I knew there was a hostel somewhere nearby, but I was not sure where. Music and the sounds of joviality floated down the road and I went in search of their source. Beatles Bar, Underground Bar, a pub, and what was this place with no name? I descended the stairs into a smoky multi-coloured and crowded basement. A dark, tubby young man wearing a flamboyant waistcoat and Elton John orange-tinted glasses turned around from the bar as if he had been expecting my entrance, flung open his arms and cried, "Hello! You want whisky? Where are you from? I’m so glad for you to join us!" Younger, darker Elton John spoke in a high-pitched Korean-esque accent. "Korean?! No! I’m Iranian!" He was one among a group of Iranians, all long-haired, thick-lashed eyes and flamboyant in gesture and speech. "Come and dance and drink whisky with us!" They took me to a small tightly packed club where soles stuck to wet tiles and the sound system crackled and hissed. Nobody cared. Everybody was dancing and drinking and kissing. Women stood languidly in jeans and t-shirts whilst men bumped and grinded their hips up against them, arms flailing carelessly, chests bared, glistening. There seemed to be a surprising gender role reversal unfolding in the little club and everyone was enjoying it. Over in a far corner a circle of red jackets bobbed modestly. It was the Iranian ski team. They were making a whistle-stop here on the way back from Sochi. "How did it go?" I asked. I was met with a shrug, "It was O.K.," one replied moodily before turning away. Dark-haired Elton clattered towards me for the umpteenth time. In the whisky haze his speech had become a slur of inaccurate English vowels and missing articles. Now he said, "You are butterfly that came to me in dream I had last night." I shook my head and fluttered away into the fading night. Click here for Part 1.2
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Pamphlet. Magazine - 2014 -