Vaytavor the water holiday

Today, Artur tried once again to kill me. This time with a bicycle. It was only a 35 kilometer ride (we are guessing) but none of it was flat and over half was off road. I was thrilled to be on a bicycle again and even happier to realize that I haven’t forgotten how to mountain bike. I was not, however aware of how far we were going (perhaps neither was he) and we were without water, food or sunscreen. Fortunately (and also unfortunately) it was vartayvor—an Armenian holiday where kids throw water at everyone in the streets, and also at passersby on bicycles… I was the proud recipient of a 5-gallon bucket at point-blank range. I suppose I should feel fortunate that only my sunglasses ended up in the ditch rather than all of me. Artur was protected by his video camera around his neck, but the American girl behind him was far more interesting anyway. Come to think of it, I must have been quite a site. An American in a tiny village past Ashotsk that rarely sees foreigners, let alone a woman clad in shorts riding a bicycle with an Armenian man who looks like he might as well be a foreigner with a little blond boy sitting on the luggage rack behind him.

It was somewhat of a wild goose chase that we had embarked upon. We were in search of an old (possibly 10,000 years) village called Astaditaran that had recently been rediscovered. Artur had heard about it and knew "approximately" where it was located and suggested we take his newly acquired mountain bikes (bought from a peace corps volunteer who recently finished her service) and try to find it. I thought that sounded like a good idea… During the ride Artur told me that during the genocide the Turks knew there was a village around there but couldn’t find it to destroy it, and thus it remains an ancient piece of history.

We made our way off the main road, passing through successively smaller villages until we arrived at a tiny old church and graveyard that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. There was a group of people there slaughtering a sheep and the children had smudges of blood on their foreheads. Artur asked around and it was determined that the remains of Astadiataran, the village we were search of was on top of/behind the large mountain looming directly in front of us. As we had already been riding for two hours without food or water we decided to turn back and try it again another day. Maybe with a jeep.

It was on the way back that I ran into water the troubles (namely being drenched), which felt good at first but as the wind picked up started to get a little chilly. Fortunately it was easier going than coming and minus the head wind and the last long gradual climb, it felt like we were back in no time. Which was good as I had just enough time to change clothes and drink some water before I was whisked off to a vartayvor picnic with Artur’s family. His mother and sister and her family were there as well as a relative from Tblisi, and it was really quite an enjoyable time to hang out with the family in what almost seemed like a normal family holiday celebration. It was relaxed, the kids all played together (and threw water on each other and their parents at times), the grown-ups talked a prepared food and talked. I was a guess and wasn’t allowed to help with preparation, so Artur’s mother walked me around her garden and showed me all her fruits and vegetables and flowers. Turns out a lot of the Russian names are the same as English.

After eating I took a much hard-earned nap and then enjoyed coffee and fruit and pastries in a kitchen that in many ways reminded me of my own grandmothers’. Later Artur’s sister brought out the Peace Corps cookbook that an old volunteer had left behind and I translated recipes into Armenian, which was, well, interesting. Apparently it worked because that evening Alla made oatmeal cookies from memory of the translation and they turned out pretty good.

This trip was the first time I had been to Ashotsk alone without the benefit and companionship of fellow volunteers (who have studied Armenian longer than I have). I was a bit nervous about the conversation aspect, wondering what we would talk about, how well I would understand, etc. It turned out to not be an issue. Artur is a very patient man who is content to tell stories and ask questions that drive the conversation without me having to say a whole lot. He knows when he is using a word that I don’t perhaps understand and is able to explain it and he understands what I am trying to say when I am using the wrong word in the wrong tense in the wrong place.
Language is a funny thing—an equalizer and a divider. I think of this a lot, especially when I am speaking to Alla whose first language is Russian. She learned Armenian as I did, living here and trying to figure it out. Thus when we speak to each other we are speaking in a common language that also happens to be a second language to both of us. Sometimes I know the word she is searching for, sometimes she helps me, and Russian and English end up scattered everywhere in between. This seems to be an experience not many Americans encounter and yet it is so common here and I am assuming the same of Europe, Asia, etc.

A few weeks ago I was riding with Artur and Alla on their way to pick up their new bicycles. We passed a few cyclists on the road near Dilijan, honked and waved, and then suddenly Artur slams on the brakes and jumps out of the car. "I know these guys," he says in Armenian "They road through Ashotsk a few days ago." Sure enough. Turns out Artur knows a bit of German as well, which I realized as he began to speak to one of the riders. I began speaking to the other in English (our common language), and when Artur had trouble with a word he said it to me in Armenian, I translated it into English to the guy I was talking to, and he translated it into German to the guy who was talking to Artur. Later that same week in Gavar an Armenian man walked up to me and my friend Katy and started speaking Spanish. Having both learned Spanish in high school we were able to understand what he was saying (miraculously perhaps) but having spent so long studying and speaking Armenian, only Armenian words would come out of the foreign language department of our brains. And thus we conversed—the man speaking Spanish and us responding in Armenian.

Artur and Alla are resilient, flexible and driven. They know multiple languages, they are talented athletes and accomplished coaches, and above all they are kind, compassionate people who only want to see their kids (both their own and the ones on their teams succeed.) It saddens me to see people with such a passion for something and such a willingness to share be beaten down time and time again by a government and fellow countrymen with little foresight or appreciation for things such as sport in their country. This weekend I watched a group of pre-teenagers and teenagers training twice a day on roller-skis on the main highway that runs through Ashotsk. They get up early in the morning and train for an hour and half and then come back and do it again in the evening. In between they train on a homemade circuit training station that Artur welded out of scrap metal. These are some of the top athletes in the country and they get no support, many of them hardly have tennis shoes to wear on their runs.

Artur starts telling me stories. He shows me a video of a huge party thrown by another family, the tables laden with expensive food and drinks. The he tells me that their other son needs ski boots because Artur doesn’t have the right size for him but the family says they can’t spend the hundred dollars because they don’t have any money. Artur estimates that they spent at least several hundred dollars on the party for the other son. They also have a computer that the kids only use to play games, but ski boots are not a priority. Skiing is probably the one constructive things these kids have going for them. I have seen it with my own eyes and yet somehow the values of exercise, hardwork, competition, and healthy lifestyles slip by unrecognized. Artur will probably end up buying the boots for this kid like he does for many of them. Not because he is rich, but because he believes in them.

He tells me of another girl who arrived at their door step for training knock-kneed and so out of shape she could barely run 100 yards. They worked with her, helped her, and she became a champion. In response the parents took their daughter, moved away and told everyone about how they themselves had made their daughter into a champion. Artur and Alla never got any credit. Time and time again, and yet they continue. Kids stay at their house before competitions so they can train properly and maybe more importantly eat properly and get a good nights sleep.

I want to help them, to give them everything I can, to shove them into my suitcase and take them to America. Of course the best I can do right now is to spend time with them, help them to get the equipment and supplies they need, and maybe someday find Artur a job somewhere else….