Back in the USSR - Armenia Part I

---

It’s been three years now since I departed my life from deep behind the Iron Curtain: Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan…and over a year since I departed my life in the Balkans….they seem like only distant dreams to me now. But it took roughly three seconds to revert to the behavior necessary to survive in this place. My first sign that I was back was the contingent of soldiers waiting for us at the bottom of the air-stairs which allowed us to de-board the plane—despite the presence of unused jet-bridges just 300 meters from my now parked 737. The deplaning Czech Airlines staff didn’t have the horrified look Lufthansa staff sometimes had at realizing their new temporary existence in Tashkent Airport, but these guys didn’t waste any time site-seeing either. The other usual suspects greeted us below. Complementing the soldiers in full fatigues, who were resting Soviet-era Kalashnikovs in their grasp, were 3-4 policemen and the usual contingent of burly men in faux leather black jackets, smoking, looking restless, and doing utterly nothing except trying to look intimidating. I smiled when I saw their square toed shoes. For aspiring shady people, the term “Captain Almost” comes to mind for these guys. Four or five Soviet-era Ladas and Volga’s sat idle nearby, their windows tinted and reflecting the pre-dawn moon, exhaust pipes vomiting black soot into the night. I was looked over by each and every one, left unmolested, and boarded the bus, a donation of some European government, for the 11 second ride to the terminal. Yak-40s and Tupulov-154s, of which many nauseating flights I have endured, sat parked along the airport perimeter. I shook my head thinking about how many crazy near-death experiences I have felt in these things over the years. I’d go into more detail, but I’d rather forget.

My surroundings exploded my old reflexes into action, and I did the 4am Soviet Airport Sprint to the immigration line to avoid the imminent zero-sum traffic jam that awaited. I was the third or fourth in line, behind some people from the flight before me. I stood there, grinning to myself that I had remembered to do this, and, distracted by my accomplishment, forgot to keep an open stance, luggage strategically placed around me…so then 3 people used this opportunity to cut in front of me. Exasperated for a split second, I realized my futility and re-focused on preventing any further queue-breakers from defeating my position. Yes, sometimes I digress into British English.

After wading through about 45 taxi drivers (in black leather jackets) hounding me in the Arrivals Hall like a pack of starving wolves, my friend picked me up and we drove into town. “Mister! Taxi!? (Spoken in hushed tones as though they are offering an illicit substance) Hello! Hotel no problem!! America!! Exchange? You give me money!!” God I did not miss this scene. We passed the US Embassy which is gynormous in Armenia because of the huge Diaspora in the U.S. Well, that’s what I’m told. Maybe Armenia holds a strategic position, given its stake in Iran, the Trans-Caucus pipeline, ever-present Russia, and the Turkish Genocide questions. Maybe because there are more Armenians in Los Angeles than in Yerevan? I’m told that the embassy is the second largest, after Baghdad. This could be part of the ubiquitous, global ex-pat barroom rumor mill, but, looking at the compound, I kind of believe it. It’s huge.

As we weaved through the potholed streets the sun came up and I saw the beautiful mountains which surround the city. It was, unfortunately, the extent of the beauty to the city. Yerevan is very much a Soviet city, with decaying infrastructure, dilapidated socialist apartment blocs, dour, official-looking municipal buildings, and tired, somewhat skinny citizens making their way to and fro. Many people have that steely, broken look about them that characterizes Central Asia, but Yerevan is different in a big, big way—the influence of the Diaspora is strong. Most Soviet capitals have quasi-Western businesses—but few actually deliver the products or services they advertise, and most have embarrassing English mistakes or only get their marketing half-right. You see that here, too, but Yerevan is also full of surprisingly good coffee shops, Tex-Mex restaurants, and smart marketing campaigns tempting you to buy honest to goodness Western amenities—nothing amazing, but of the sort that my friends and I used to fly to Baku or Almaty to buy, in more desperate times, like Heinz Ketchup, Barilla pasta sauce, and Big Macs. It’s a little weird to see these things here, juxtaposed against such a Soviet-styled city, but…refreshing. The young people who frequent these places appear much healthier and happier than anyone I ever saw in Central Asia, and more relaxed than in Russia. And they wear the same cheap, ill-fitting dark suits, low cut dresses, and square-toed leather shoes. And they all smoke.

I arrived on Saturday morning and, because of a long weekend, my friend and I decided to go to Georgia on Sunday. We departed with some US Embassy staff and a Marine, and began the journey through precarious mountains roads which twist and turn across the Caucasian mountains. The mountains are dramatic, rugged, placid, and right now, filled with snow. Lone farmers keep watch over their livestock, and, as if the giant unmarked holes in the road, the sheer cliffs without lights or signs or sometimes even guard rails, and randomly parked/stalled cars in the middle of the road weren’t enough, occasionally herds of sheep and cows raced across the freezing road right in front of us. At times they were accompanied by a frantic looking farmer, other times they seemed to rule their own destiny. We stopped at least once for a spur-of-the-moment snowball fight. Not with the animals, just amongst ourselves.

In low-lying areas there was no snow, and the green hills rolled on forever, meeting a perfectly clear blue sky. The mountains were pierced in places by giant utility lines and dotted with crumbling, impoverished villages, smoke pouring out of otherwise abandoned-looking homes. When we stopped in a town to get water or gas I recalled with uneasy nostalgia all the things I had forgotten about life in the former USSR. I had forgotten how strange it is to look at forlorn old shops with bright, happy Coca-Cola ads affixed to them. I forgot how little kids run around unsupervised, how young men fight at bus stops everywhere; how impromptu bazaars pop up with people selling anything, everything, anywhere they can. I forgot about the street beggars who sit on the broken pavement with their broken scales (which if they worked, people wouldn’t use anyway…therefore it is just a thinly veiled attempt to hide the indignity of their impoverished lives—an ineffective ploy obviously), begging for 3 cents, and staring solemnly, distantly into nowhere. I forgot the old women who, stricken by polio in an unimaginable era, and forever limping, fight their way through the crowded markets and carry pound after pound of life’s necessities on their backs. Probably more than I could carry. I forgot about the burning rubbish and the smells of burning plastic, wood, and kebobs that waft through the streets with olfactory cacophony. I forgot about the hopelessly inebriated men slamming through liter upon liter of vodka, morning, noon, and night on the sides of the road. I forgot about how strange it was to see little kids playing hopscotch and laughing, smiling, and going to school in a building that looks like a victim of a nuclear winter. I forgot about the half-built buildings that sit vacantly in city center and along the roads. I forgot how many times in a single day you can almost die prematurely, for any number of reasons. I forgot about the little kids who smoke, who lay passed out in the stairwells from sniffing glue; the ironically giant, defiant, stoic monuments to Soviet strength and military heroism; the military lorries which lumber through the streets, packed to the gills with emaciated young men in ill-fitting fatigues, hands on their Kalashnikovs, minds on their warm homes, their girls, and probably anything except the present. I forgot about the crazy mazes of utility lines, wires, and pipes which weave everywhere, having been spliced and stolen, re-routed, re-fitted, and re-tooled to fit the needs of everyone, at the expense of everyone. I forgot about the power failures, the insistence of people to work in the dark, even when the electricity is on. I forgot how many times phones ring just once, and then stop. I forgot about the giant open pits in sidewalks which sit silently in the dark, waiting to digest anyone who dares walk under the lifeless, unlighted night sky. I forgot about the manhole covers which collapse upon stepping on them. I forgot about the wide boulevards that divide the cities, where the individual dies, and the collective mass blasts through, exhaust fumes spewing with contemptuous disregard for the peons in the street. And, I forgot my admiration for these people who, despite all their hardships, still bond with friends and family in a way that is rare in my country. There is bond of hardship and pain in this place, and everywhere in the former USSR, that is virtually indescribable, but palpable even to the casual observer. Maybe they should take it upon themselves to fix their reality. Maybe they can’t. But at least they still cling to what is most important in life—love for friends and family.

---

Photos

Abandoned Car
But I guarantee you not for long!