Notes From Hairenik | An Armenian Blog

Areg Laughs at Chi Chi

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 21:43:00 PST

Here's a great video we shot last night. Never heard Areg chuckle so loud. Take a look:

You can see the original "HD widescreen" version on YouTube.

Happy New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 06:31:00 PST

Wishing everyone a happy, healthy and successful New Year!

Who's a Good Boy?

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 09:58:00 PST

Photos by Karen Minasyan

The Sunshine of My Life

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 12:22:00 PST

Areg is the only thing I really care about these days. He perks me up with the beaming smile he shows me every morning just after opening his eyes, and we enjoy the entire day together. All we seem to do is laugh and have fun. I suppose that's all we should be doing.

Photos by Gohar

Pet Peeves on Life in Armenia

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 02:22:00 PST

As some of you know I’ve been living in Armenia steadily since 2004. In that time, a lot of things have changed related to society at large, politics, economy and the landscape (Yerevan has changed dramatically whereas the regions haven’t). There are some pet peeves, however, that are enduring. Here’s a few:

Hearing “aper.” The term “aper,” which is distilled from “akhbar,” a word for brother derived from the Arabic that has been used by Armenians from the Middle East, is used to address seemingly anyone under the age of 60 (once gray hairs set in, a man is addressed by someone far younger as “hopar,” which is slang for “uncle”). Its usage is epidemic. When a man has to get another’s attention, say on the sidewalk, he would yell, usually at the top of his smoked-out lungs, “Aper!” repeatedly until the person he wishes to speak with finally turns around (naturally, everyone turns to look at the guy yelling, thinking he’s talking to them). Guys call each other aper, used in the context of “dude,” although another term, “ara,” which is first and foremost a popular male name, is used interchangeably (perhaps it would be more accurate to delineate ara as “yo” in American English). The grating usage of aper is not only irritating, it has changed the way people call one another, from a formal approach to animalistic, as if apes were trying to stand out in the jungle. The Armenian equivalents of “sir” or even “mister” don’t even seem to be used anymore (although if you’re lucky you might be addressed as “my respectable one,” usually by a traffic cop). I must hear aper being either shouted or spoken at least a hundred times a day, and half the time I don’t realize it’s spoken. You can hear it when a male, young or middle-aged, is talking on his cell phone, or when he’s chatting with his buddies on the sidewalk. You hear it when you obtain a good or service, at the grocery store or the gas station. Honestly, if I know the person and he calls me aper, I am not offended since it’s a casual form of address between acquaintances. Nevertheless, this blunt method of stating presence at inappropriate moments and places has long gotten out of control, and the more frequently aper is used, the more people are sounding idiotic or disrespectful to each other. Even women call strangers aper. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the Catholicos of All Armenians addresses his business associates or archbishops the same way.

Noise pollution. All clanking, crashing, grinding, banging, sawing, and growling associated with construction and transportation have pushed me to the point where, at least for the time being, I hardly leave my apartment if I don’t have to go outdoors. Yerevan is noisier than ever--I actually don’t remember it being so loud as it is now--and much of that cacophony is coming from cars and trucks with faulty exhaust systems (or a performance muffler that magnifies the sound 10 times) and police sirens installed in place of car horns. Unfortunately my apartment is situated at an intersection with a traffic light, so when one motorist is late by a split second to engage in first gear when the light turns green, everyone waiting behind him lets him have it. Usually they hold their hand down on the horn for no less than three long seconds (some people hit the horn in short bursts, like their playing the dhol.

Mafiosos and wanna-bes. The cool thing is for men and adolescents to look and act as though their part of a gang associated with a mafia family. Daily life on the corner downstairs resembles a scene from the beginning of the film “Goodfellas,” when Henry Hill is describing what life was like in the neighborhood, hanging out with Paulie’s crew, waiting for a job to do. The sad thing is that criminal activity does exist in my neighborhood, and apparently it has for years according to what I’ve heard. Last year from my balcony I personally saw someone, a regular who hangs out in the area, deal drugs out of his car window to one of the kids that lives around here. It seemed like a scene from another movie about inner-city life. In fact, use of narcotics by the youth in this part of town is not uncommon. Around the corner in front of the Amsterdam Café a police detail is always there. The cops, usually red berets, are either trying to protect some big shot hanging out inside or busting someone for one reason or another. The beer bellies, sharkskin suits, dark designer sunglasses, slim cigarettes, black Japanese SUVs, Bentleys, BMWs, blinding white pimped-out Nivas and all other gangster-associated material nonsense is everywhere. They continually shout, show off, and annoy. There’s no escape. You can even see the same things in some of the villages just outside Yerevan.

I really don’t know what the solutions are to these societal problems; I can only identify them. Some reading this might ask: Isn’t simply leaving Armenia an option? For foreigners like myself, sure it is. But what should people born and raised here who share the same concerns do? Continue to emigrate? Or keep putting up?

In memory of Andy Rooney.

Back in Armenia

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 00:02:00 PDT

After a two month hiatus in the US me, Anush and baby arrived safe and sound last night. Areg slept most of the time on the flights and never had any major crying fits throughout the journey, even during our six hour layover at Amsterdam Schiphol airport.

I'm still a bit groggy from the jetlag and felt it while walking Chi Chi in a sort of vaguely trancelike state last night, but I noticed two pluses worth mentioning. One is the new terminal at Zvartnots airport, which is quite spacious and impressive. It just opened a couple of days ago according to the taxi driver who took us home, a far cry from the awkward, cramped original arrival hall still in use up to five years ago. Chi Chi along with my sis-in-law and Levon were there to greet us (Chi Chi peed all over the new glossy stone tile floor). Another is the newly paved sidewalks on Hanrabedutyan Street, where we live. The rippled, crevice-ridden pavement has finally been smoothed out, which means there's no chance of tripping for klutzes like myself.

Here's some recent photos of baby.

Christening Areg

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 12:29:00 PDT

Some photos of Areg's baptism at St. Stephen's Armenian Apostolic Church in Watertown, Mass.

We Are Our Mountains

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 07 Aug 2011 08:01:00 PDT

Yesterday I returned from a three-day trip to the Nagorno-Karabakh Republic, known as Artsakh in Armenian, after an embarrassingly five-year hiatus from visiting the area. It was one of the most exciting, pleasant road trips I've taken in the South Caucasus to date.

I asked my father-in-law Levon and Sergey Minasian to accompany me, since both of them have a fondness for exploration and also haven't been to the areas I wanted to visit. Those included Tigranakert, which is located in the Armenian-controlled Aghdam district, and Dadivank, found in the uppermost left corner of the country. I also wanted to visit Amaras in the Hadrut region, housing the first known school where the Armenian alphabet was taught by St. Mesrob Mashdots himself. Time restrictions, however, prevented us from driving south. I dedicated only two nights and three days for our trip so I could rush back to my family. It's becoming increasingly difficult for me to be away from Areg for very long.

The trip got off to a slightly disappointing start when I was pulled over by the traffic police only 100 meters after crossing the Ardashat city border in the Ararat region. The law stipulates that motor vechiles can only drive up to 60 kilometers per hour in small towns and villages, apparently even on four-lane highways where there's hardly a pedestrian around, which I wasn't aware of. I was driving 90 kilometers per hour, but because I am a "guest" in the country they fined me 15,000 dram, a half-price discount, and they wouldn't take away my driver's license as they would supposedly ordinarily do . I had to sign a form in five different spots to make it all look official, shook the police officer's hand, and we were off. Only seconds after we started moving again within the speed limit several cars whizzed by us. Just my luck.

Once every so often we would stop to drink some water fresh from a nearby source. In the Vayats Dzor region we picnicked beside the Arpa River, an area which is one of the most lovely in all of Armenia, situated in a narrow gorge.

Long ago I realized that each time you cross a regional border in Armenia you enter an entirely different world. The mountains transform and increase in girth and height, the fields are blanketed with carpets of golden wheat. The azure sky of the Syunik plains is the widest I've ever seen anywhere on the planet. Not only does the nature and landscape magically change before your eyes, even the general personalities of the people you meet do. The further south you drive, the warmer people generally are from my experience. That applies particularly to the people of Artsakh.

There I find people to be very self-confident and complex-free, especially the youth, who have nothing to prove unlike some of their cocky, obnoxiously delirious counterparts in Yerevan. People speak softly to one another, even on the phone, and you don't hear rabiz music blaring from cafe speakers. Stepanakert is immaculate compared with Yerevan, where thousands of people are still battling the disease of chronic littering. Artsakh's capital city is also more picturesque and vibrant, to me at least. There haven't been numerous changes in terms of construction since I was last there, at least to my eye, although there are new buildings housing the National Assembly and governmental ministries, and the new headquarters of the Freedom Fighters Union is also going up. I also noticed that Stepanakert's central cascading park has been completely reconstructed.

We stayed in Shushi with the sister-in-law of Saro Saroyan, who with his wife operates a bed and breakfast. His gigantic home that was once a boarding home for Russian vacationers, dating back to the 1860s, was overrun with AYF members from California and Stepanakert, so we were redirected to Valentine's house, only a stone's throw away. Her house is also quite old, but it is not entirely clear who exactly built either home, although we know that primarily Armenians and Persians inhabited Shushi in the late 19th century. And according to Saro, a segment of the Silk Road separates their properties -- see the photo down below.

We only met Valentine on the last day, as she had gone to send off her son to Yerevan. Valentine and her children were born in Karabakh but wound up in Georgia to live temporarily when hostilities broke out in the late 1980s. Her husband had been serving in the army as an anti-aircraft gunner, and the army encouraged the family to settle in Shushi. Valentine's husband left for Russia with his mother and extended family in 1997 and never returned. Her son is studying medicine and wants to practice his profession in the military. Her two daughters, Armine and Ilona, were extremely accommodating and friendly. Ilona incidentally is a talented artist and her oil and watercolor paintings are displayed on the second floor, where we stayed. They put up with Levon's quirky, occasionally corny humor very well for two days, and served us light, tasty breakfasts of fresh eggs, homemade bread and cheese.

From the left: Valentine, Levon and Ilona

The remains of the Silk Road

Much seems to have been written about Saro in newspaper articles and travel guides. He has a beaming personality and has lots to say about the region. When he speaks with you it's as if he's known you for years. He moved to Artsakh from Baku in the late 1980s and fought in the war, having been wounded twice. Then he was given an apartment in Shushi, where he vowed he would live for the remainder of his life (unless it would be possible to return to the village where his ancestors were from, under Azeri occupation). Then an opportunity arose for him to move into the home in which he and his family currently live. During our last night there we chatted with Saro mostly about regional politics while downing shots of mulberry vodka (tti oghi). He critiqued me (and Armenians from Yerevan in general) for my "maximalist" views as he put it when I complained that more had not been done to reconstruct Shushi (see below) since the Armenians took control of the town 19 years ago. For instance, in order to get to their homes, you need to drive along a crumbling, pothole-riddled narrow road past the main regional hospital. That hospital serves not only Shushi but the adjacent villages, and it's where surgeries are performed. Although it is visited by European doctors who provide trainings and is supposedly in relatively good shape, the road leading to it is in atrocious shape, and I can't imagine someone wounded enduring the pain endured from all the bouncing in the ambulance. Unfortunately, we only spent a couple of hours with him altogether, which wasn't nearly enough to tap into his storage bank of knowledge. Next time I hope to talk more in depth with him.

The land around his home resembles a campground. Picnic tables were arranged in long rows under an immense walnut tree on his property, which must be several hundred years old.

The Hayastan All-Armenia fund is spending a lot of money in the Shushi, replacing water mains and repairing roads that have been neglected for years. The road leading to the hospital, however, should have been a priority. You can read more about their efforts on the Fund's web site.

Shushi is a special, very scenic town. There are two fortresses overlooking Stepanakert and its surrounding regions in the valley below, one of which dates back to the Soviet era and contains a prison (see below for more information). The magnificent Ghazanchetsots Cathedral, constructed between 1868 and 1887, is found smack-dab in the center of town, and it was renovated several years ago. It was infamously used as an arms depot by the Azerbaijanis during the war.

As I wrote above, Shushi was once a resort area, and to this day there are lovely parks and orchards around town. The Persian mosques are stark reminders of the town's multicultural past; it must have been extraordinary to live in a community where several ethnic groups lived harmoniously in one compact area, when differences in religious faiths were insignificant where community building was concerned. That all obviously changed during the Soviet era and the building tension of clashing beliefs came to a head in the late 1980s when the horrors of senseless war ensued.

I allotted only one full day to see both Tigranakert and Dadivank, which were two and a half driving hours apart from each other. Luckily, we saw both and were even able to stop at Gandsazar Monastery on the way back from Dadivank.

Tigranakert is located to the northwest of Stepanakert, very close to the once thriving city of Aghdam, which has been completely destroyed and is essentially inhabitable. We saw Aghdam from a distance by car, as none of us saw the need to enter a dead city. Tigranakert is still being excavated, and there's a tremendous amount of work to do. On site there is a three-tiered visiting center, which was a former Persian fortress turned restaurant by the Azeris during the Soviet period. The ground floor of the center houses the museum, where dozens of recently artifacts having already been unearthed, some dating back to the 5th-4th centuries BC, are on display. Earthenware, capitals from columns, and trinkets are among the items in the collection. The director of the museum, whose name is Anahit, talked to us at length about the items found and during the conversation politics were eventually discussed. Anahit is originally from the Shirak region, close to Ani, but moved to the Aghdam district nine years ago to do humanitarian work. She conveyed the same thought that virtually everyone living in Artsakh swears by -- not one centimeter of land can ever be returned to Azerbaijan.

Tigranakert is situated on what is technically considered internationally as an "Armenian occupied district." But she makes the valid point that if there was any intention of handing over the district to Azerbaijan, the government of the Nagorno-Karabakh Republic would not go to such lengths to fund the excavations. (I'm going to defer further political discussion for my other blog, Footprints.)

Behind the visitor's center on one site workers were uncovering the floor and foundation of what is believed to have been an Armenian church, which had been destroyed and its bricks removed at some point in history. Most of the citadel, part of which is on the slope of the mountain there, has not yet been discovered, and it appears it will take several years, probably decades, to reveal most of what is buried.

To travel to Dadivank, Saro suggested that we backtrack to the area just outside the Stepanakert city limits and travel north along the North-South Highway. He did not recommend the alternate, westbound road via Martakert as he said the road was rough and the distance actually longer than what the map portrayed.

Artsakh is wild blackberry country. Although it may be known for its plethora of mulberry trees and aromatic vodka, there are wild blackberry bushes everywhere -- on the sides of roads, in tourist sites, and throughout back yards. Strange that the ripe berries vary in flavor from region to region.

A note about the recently completed North-South Highway. The route's construction, a tremendously ambitious undertaking, was completely financed by the Hayastan All-Armenian Fund, which collects funding primarily through an annual telethon held on Thanksgiving Day in the US. Not surprisingly, most of the funds collected are from donors based in the Armenian Diaspora. Although the road is in generally very good condition, several parts of the asphalt, especially north of the westward passage to the village of Vank, is already crumbling. The thickness of the pavement on the sides of the road appears paper thin, and the inferior quality of the asphalt is apparent in areas where it is either buckling or caving into the ground. These are obvious signs of contractors skimming off the top whenever possible and pocketing money that should have been used towards obtaining high quality asphalt. There's no excuse for a road that was completed only a few years ago to be already crumbling, and the Fund's executive board must hold the contractors accountable for the shoddy workmanship and inferior materials used if it isn't already doing so.

The road to Dadivank on the other hand has yet to be repaved, and it's not clear to me what that funding source will be. In order to get there you must follow the North-South Highway to its end, near the Sarsang Reservoir in Drmbon, and bear left. It should go without saying that the lake and its environs are stunning, although I'm a bit concerned about the ecology because there is gold and copper mining going on there, only meters from the lake. Apparently the metals are refined only one time, then they are sent to Germany for further refining and separation, so it's likely that the environment is suffering minimal levels of damage, although the extent still hast to be gauged. The processing facility appears to be newly installed, which I imagine means that it is operating far more cleanly than the one in Alaverdi.

Near the beginning of the road to the monastery we asked a man who was drifting whether we were on the right track. He said we were, and asked if he could tag along. It turned out that our new companion, whose name was Artak, was working at the mining facility, sent there from Alaverdi. Apparently, the parent company of both mining facilities is the same.

Judging from the dozens of roads that I've traveled on during the last ten or so years, I would rate the road to Dadivank as moderately difficult. Some torn parts of the road seemed to have been filled with sand, but in general the ride was far from smooth. Nevertheless, the journey is not unbearable when traveling in an SUV with a decent suspension. My Niva absorbed the shocks from the bumps and crannies just fine. For the last stretch of the road leading to the monastery, which is no more than a kilometer long, I engaged the 4 x 4 just in case, since the pavement was quite gravelly and there was surprisingly no guard rail.

The distant view of Dadivank appearing in focus when turning around the bend is simply shocking. The compound is certainly the most stunning I have ever seen, even more so in retrospect than Tadev (pre-restoration). A kind of stone totally different from tuf had been used during construction, thus there seems to be less wear and tear overall, although recent renovations have been made with funding from Edele Hovnanian. There are at least three churches and one small chapel on sight, along with several buildings to the south partially buried, which seemed to have been used for food storage, a seminary, and probably a guest residence. It was built in the name of St. Dadi, who was a disciple of the apostle Thaddeus. Dadivank resides in the Shahumyan region of Artsakh, as we learned when reading the sign along the side of the road going there.

My photos present a more appropriate description of Dadivank where words simply fail.

The lofty dome of Gandsazar is perhaps the most ornate I have ever seen on any Armenian church. It is adored with remarkable reliefs and carvings on its facade. While we were visiting an end-of-day church service was under way.

The village of Vank down below is home to a factory where wooden flooring is produced (the wood is imported from Russia), a sort of amusement park as well as hotel, and a new regional school, all of which was financed by Levon Hairapetyan, a businessman based in Russia who was born in the village.

That same night we ate the standard fare of pork barbecue and washed it down with mugs of cold draft Kilikia at Shushi's Reda Cafe, found in the southeastern section of town. At the far end of the patio was a mini decorative pond on the edges of which geese were perched. Birdcages were also hanging from the trees. Although the service was generally substandard since there was only one waitress who was swamped and harassed by a guy at the adjacent table, the food was satisfying. It's hard to find bad barbecue in this part of the world.

The following morning just before returning to Yerevan we did the typical sightseeing undertaken by probably everyone visiting Artsakh, namely visiting the Shushi fortress, the "We Are Our Mountains" (a.k.a., mamik-dadik) monument in Stepanakert, and the tank that lead troops into Shushi during the war in 1992 perched on the side of the road.

The construction of Shushi fortress was completed in 1762 by Panah Ali Khan, who was the founder of the Karabakh khanate. The town of Shushi was actually founded in 1750 and named Panahabad -- before that it was apparently desolate. The name was changed to Shushi, which was the name of a nearby Armenian village, by Ali Khan's son after his death. Why Azerbaijan claims Shushi as being so vitally important as a center of its national culture is unclear since it had been inhabited mostly by Armenians after its founding (although in the Soviet era the town's population majority was composed of Azerbaijanis).

I want to stress that Shushi is on the rise. There are new construction projects underway across town, and I counted at least two hotels about to be opened. Much certainly has to be done to revitalize Shushi and it will take years to do so, but once all the new water pipelines are fitted and new housing is constructed, not to mention jobs created, I imagine there will be an influx of permanent residents.

On the way back we lunched at a kitschy hole-in-the-wall restaurant unofficially called CCCP in the heart of Goris, a wonderful, rustic town with gorgeous stone architecture. The walls are completely covered with Soviet-era propaganda, and there are even old radios, helmets, busts of Lenin and Stalin, and odd telephones on display. The food was pretty good -- we ate some lamb khashlama, which is essentially boiled meat that can contain potatoes, depending on the chef (Levon simmers the meat in beer, tomatoes and peppers, simply divine). They also fed us lamb and pork barbecue, surprise surprise, since there was only a half-portion of lamb khaslama left that was split between the three of us. It's located on the right side of the main road that leads to Kapan and can be recognized by a sign showing a photo of a roasted chicken. There's also some old Russian tea pots set atop a table out front.

Artsakh is magical. You feel an unbreakable sense of pride when talking to people there, and that confidence is contagious. Now it's a question of when the world will finally accept it as legitimately being Armenian territory so that the region can strengthen peacefully, with no threat of renewed war. That has proved to be extremely difficult, but one thing is clear -- anyone visiting the country understands that Artsakh belongs to the Armenian people, and nothing can ever change that.

The Invasion

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 23:38:00 PDT

This summer we've seen an unprecedented number of ants marching in file along the baseboards and walls of our kitchen. No matter how much we try to keep the counter and table free of crumbs and miscellaneous food bits, the ants keep coming back to the same spot looking for things that are or more often not there.

As an example, the table cloth that we use is vinyl on the top side, while the reverse is coated with a sort of short, woolly felt. Once in a while we'd see an ant or two exploring the surface of the table and we'd either leave them alone or flick them off the table, landing somewhere on the kitchen linoleum and walking away unscathed. But they keep coming back.

It wasn't until I just happened to lift up the cloth when I saw that the parts that drape across the edges of the table were invested with ants. Seems the intense summer heat is getting to not only people and animals but insects as well. Apparently everyone in Yerevan has problems with hordes of ants in the home, and it seems they were looking for a new, temporary home somewhere cool. Evidently, they like the feel of felt. I noticed the same thing in the spare bedroom -- the underside of the ironing pad which has the same woolly felt as the table cloth was also coated with ants. They were exterminated using a solution of water and vodka (the cheap stuff, vodka lovers shouldn't freak).

In the kitchen, I've been using concentrated white vinegar and water to kill them on contact and supposedly keep them away as they hate the smell of vinegar. But these ants, being as stubborn as virtually all Armenians on the planet, were unphased. I also used Vasoline to blockade the intersections of their roadways, but that backfired. They would come back to carry away or eat their friends who perished in the globules of petroleum jelly, and a chain reaction of ants coming to the rescue was initiated. I've vacuumed thousands of ants in the last couple of weeks, but their buddies always managed to find the way in, and I couldn't necesarily locate the source since they were marching either close to the floor or high on the walls out of reach from the gigantic, noisy predators below.

Online I found other suggestions for keeping the ants away using kitchen supplies, like crushed mint and cayenne pepper (they walked unfazed right across the lines I laid along the counter edges) and black pepper, which they didn't like but would soon find a bypass route to avoid it. Supposedly boric acid works great but I was afraid Chi Chi would take a whiff of some deposited in a corner and get sick or die.

Finally, I stumbled upon one site that mentioned using chalk. I asked Anush to look in the neighborhood shops and she found some that was specially formulated to kill ants and cockroaches. I drew likes along the bottom edges of the rotted wooden double-door windows, having finally realized they were sneaking in from a hole in the lower right corner, and in other hot spots. With 50 dram (14 cents) worth of chalk -- two sticks to be precise -- I managed to eradicate them completely, including those trying to get in. Miraculous.

Anyone reading this living in Yerevan who happens to have ant problems in the home should rush to the local hardware store (transliterated into Armenian as tntesakan aprankneri khanut) and buy some sticks of chalk (kavij). Once you manage to close the gaps through which you suspect the stream of ants are seeping in and draw some lines in the troublesome areas, the problem will be completely resolved in ten minutes. Then it will be time to sweep up all the insect carcasses.

Armenian Porcupine in the Wild

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 13:23:00 PDT

After four weeks of meticulous tender loving care the Armenian porcupine was released into the wild on my property in the village of Jrambar. The area is purportedly loaded with porcupines so he will undoubtedly make some true friends very soon.

My father-in-law Levon had been nourishing the porcupine (he remained nameless to avoid attachment) in his apartment ever since he brought him home from the vivarium. They had told him to feed the critter ground beef and some fruits like apples or apricots. For several days the little guy barely showed himself, apparently still reeling from the fall. Slowly but surely he started to come out of his hiding places -- he liked to move whenever he suspected that Levon found his nest.

Levon would often have difficulty locating him, leaving bits of food in different spots to figure out where he was chilling out. Once in a while the porcupine permitted Levon to "pet" him, which meant the porcupine would drop down his defenses by allowing his quills to recede, making the caressing process a bit easier. This morning at breakfast he decided to bite Levon's hand, perhaps because he was sensing that he was about to be evicted.

We transported the porcupine in a small cardboard box designed for an electric tea kettle, so it was cosy accommodations for the 40 minute ride. In the meantime I was often concerned he would break out and get under my feet while driving; I kept looking down the entire way.

Once he was taken out of the box and put on the ground, he start stiffing around while a spider started crawling across his face. After a few minutes he started to wander off. I was able to follow his tracks only for a short time before he finally disappeared after I turned my back for a few minutes.

There's plenty of shady spots for him to snooze under and bugs galore on which to feast. Something tells me he'll have a blast out there. Better than an unprotected balcony on Sayat Nova Street any day.

My Sweet Lord

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 12:52:00 PDT

Lately Areg has been having trouble falling asleep in the evenings. We don't understand whether it's attributable to the summer heat or stubborn gas bubbles, but certain types of music have proven to work in lullabying him to la-la land.

The mobile that is attached to his crib plays gentle arrangements of famous delicate classical compositions, which even put me to sleep, but sometimes they just don't do the trick. One afternoon George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord" came to mind when thinking of trance-like melodies that may induce slumber. My mother had told me that my uncle used to play it for me repeatedly while rocking me to sleep in one arm when I was about Areg's age.

Whenever I put the song on for him it works without fail. Even if he's complaining, as soon as he hears the guitar strumming during the first few seconds he calms down immediately, and by the time the "Hari Krishna" chorus comes in he's out cold. And to ensure maximum chill out, I enable the repeat cycle in the music player. The efficacious influence of song on the uneasy soul is undeniable.

Dog Trainer, Anyone?

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 12:18:00 PDT

If anyone residing in Yerevan has a mischievous mutt that could use a good dose of discipline, consider calling Leonid Istomin, the Armenian dog whisperer. He is one of the most gentlest, spiritual guys I know and Chi Chi is in love with him.

Due to his efforts Chi Chi can walk alongside me proud, and her behavior in the house has improved immensely, from being dominating to fairly submissive. When we first asked him to help us within minutes he trained her so that she would no longer enter our bedroom, and things only improved thereafter. Incidentally, aside from his clever canine training skills he's also a talented painter.

He has a Facebook page that is mainly in Russian, but if you don't know the language and use Chrome, the browser will translate the text on the fly. You can also view a promotional video on YouTube to see him in action. Leonid speaks Russian and Armenian fluently, but can also hold a conversation in German fairly well. He can be reached at 093-235-110.

Summertime in Yerevan

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 04:34:00 PDT

The temperature in Yerevan is blazing, hotter than I ever remember it being for July. Usually the air is arid and difficult to breath in August. Last year the summer weather was relatively mild, aided by frequent rainstorms and cool breezes. Now it's time to fry.

Luckily Areg doesn't really seem to mind the high temperatures, judging by his usual moody behavior. The weather doesn't appear to faze him in the slightest. But having said that, he can't stand being confined to his jogging stroller for very long and usually starts complaining 10 minutes into our walk. That means either me or my wife have to bounce him on our shoulders during our stroll while the other (usually me) pushes the carriage around. It's nearly impossible to get him back in, even when he has apparently fallen asleep.

Chi Chi should by nature be easily adaptable to this weather, being an ethnic Mexican. But lately her meals are disagreeing with her, and we haven't yet pinpointed the reason. I think it might just be the heat. Strangely enough, her mood doesn't seem affected in any way; she still pines for affection and constant attention.

And although Yerevaners love to complain during the summer about how hot it is, and not much else, they are still lining the streets of the city center in droves. Last night was very challenging trying to find walking space when pushing the stroller down the sidewalk on Sayat Nova Street alongside the Opera House and myriad cafes in the vicinity. Even around 11:00 pm the temperature felt like it was in the mid to high 80s, with a very slight breeze blowing. Since I'm sure most people can't afford air conditioning, it's better to be out than boil at home. We actually just leave the windows open to create an air current that gets the job done of cooling the apartment down.

These days I spend most of my free time in the evenings entertaining Areg. I haven't gone out to hear music in the jazz clubs in well over a year, and I haven't been able to check out the new bars and restaurants opening up at the far end of Pushkin Street, which is turning into a sort of Greenwich Village it seems. On the weekends I water Areg's trees on my land and visit my father-in-law's dacha in Dzorakhpur, which is a village just outside the city limits off the road to Garni, to help out with repairs. Hopefully, opportunities for adventure will arise sooner or later.

But right now, the most important center of my attention is my beautiful boy and making sure my family is happy. I don't care about much else these days.

Beautiful Boy

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 23:18:00 PDT

These days my primary concern is being able to look after the family. Between caring for Areg and entertaining Chi Chi, let alone ensuring that Anush is doing well, I don't have very much time for my personal projects, including updating my blogs as frequently as I would like.

Fatherhood is I suppose nothing like you had imagined while waiting for baby to make his grand appearance. For me at least, I imagined myself being serious and stern in some ways with caring for the child, even in the way I communicated with him. I vowed I would never use "baby talk" for instance, I figured it would be best to speak with the child as an adult and respect him as such. Little did I know that you cannot help but speak baby talk -- it's like a dormant language that comes into fluency as soon as you're in the presence of an infant. I've read that baby talk actually strengthens a baby's communication skills as he prepares to begin talking on his own. But I don't think that assumption really matters much. My main goal in talking with him is not so much trying to make him understand, but to provoke a smile. Watching that grin form on his puffy face is one of the greatest things I've ever seen. It's addictive, I can't get enough of seeing him be amused.

Early this morning when I awoke I noticed that he was playing in his swinging crib, making those cooing sounds he makes when he's excited about something he sees, a pattern, a toy he likes, whatever. Because he is so restless by nature he turned himself around 90 degrees while in a lying position, accomplished by repeatedly kicking his legs in the air and moving his rear end to the right in the movement. That was something new to me, he's turned himself before but not to such a degree. Shortly after I approached I realized that he had learned how to make the animals hanging from the battery-operated mobile affixed to one of the crib's rails shake, simply by moving about excitedly. When I turned on the mobile so that the animals began rotating clockwise above him he began to flail fervently, practically non-stop. He only did slow down when he worked himself an appetite and sounded the alarm.

Areg cries often but I don't know if that qualifies him as being a cry baby. He is not colicky, as there are long periods where he doesn't make a peep, especially when he's being rocked or bounced. I learned that unfamiliar, random sounds can startle him just the other day when I sneezed rather loudly in the bedroom a few inches beside him. He turned bright red and was having trouble breathing for several seconds before the alarm finally started. But when I sneezed just as loud yesterday while holding him he didn't react the same way; he seemed to shrug it off instead. The crying is attributed mainly to being hungry, needing a change or being bored. And there's usually sobbing involved in connection to being bathed -- either he doesn't want to get in or out of the tub, or he is hungry after being pampered, he doesn't like the feeling of whatever clothes his mom and grandma want to dress him with, etc.

I don't know what else to tell about him for now. The photo above I think sums up this post best.

Saving the Armenian Porcupine

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 00:29:00 PDT

Late yesterday morning while taking Areg for a stroll down Yerevan's Sayat Nova Street we saw a few women standing near a tree looking down at something and commenting to one another. I didn't know what to think so I kept pushing the stroller forward, not the least bit interested in whatever they were fussing about. But Anush being curious by nature took a gander and saw a porcupine sitting on the soil of a flower garden, breathing heavily.

The animal seemed dead at a distance but the closer we approached the more obvious it was that it was still alive. One of the gawking women there worked at the khachaburi stand that was perched a few feet away and another operated the neighboring flower shop. Apparently they witnessed this poor animal fall from a second floor balcony, and not only did he not end up on the sidewalk, he landed at the bottom of a staircase leading to a basement-level retail space directly below that happens to be empty. That distance added another seven feet at least to the drop. He was evidently placed in a cardboard box, which he tipped over probably in an attempt to escape, and he must have been disoriented when he finally freed himself, thereby taking the wrong step forward.

Some of the bristles on his back seemed pressed in, which I supposed marked the spot that made contact with the tiled steps in the fall. Anush was busy discussing with the women about what should be done, and they sounded a bit clueless. The animal was lifting his head up and sort of sniffing his environs, which was a very good sign we thought, although he couldn't move from his position on his own. She called Chi Chi's veterinarian, Natasha, who works in a combination animal clinic and pet store on Pushkin Street. After a few tries reaching her she finally picked up the phone and told her that we should take the little guy to the exotic animal vivarium on Mashdots Street as they had professionals on staff that could properly treat the animal. We hastily decided that the best way of transporting him there was in a small box that we would place in the stroller's undercarriage storage basket. The khachaburi lady found a box that was too shallow and large for the stroller to handle. Then the flower lady scoured her shelves and found one that was the perfect size -- see the photos below. Even the security guard at the VivaCell store was on hand to help, who carefully lifted the porcupine into the box. Just as we were about to roll on our way Areg started acting up, which meant that Anush would have to carry him part of the way. The khachaburi seller insisted that she would be able to care for the animal after he received proper treatment, but somehow I didn't think that would have been a very good idea.

Areg enjoys being transported around town in a jogging stroller, which is essentially the SUV of baby carriages. This thing must have been specifically engineered by the manufacturer to withstand Yerevan's bumpy, uneven sidewalks. It utilizes three small bicycle tires that can seemingly handle any road condition, so the porcupine was certainly going to be secure, given that he was immobile in his state of agony. From our position it took us about 20 minutes or so to get to the vivarium, and although we had never been there we found it rather easily, situated in the rear of a modern art museum on the corner of Zakyan and Mashdots streets. As we approached a woman was walking up the stairs to the entrance and Anush asked if she worked there. She said she did and sent someone out to talk to us. A man stood on the landing at the top of the stairs and waved us off, adamant that the porcupine didn't have a chance, but we should find the vet on Pushkin Street anyway to see what could be done. He was dismayed when we told him that Natasha was the one who sent us there.

Anush thought it best that we take the animal to Levon's place were he could look after him until the following morning when the animal clinic opened, but I would have none of that. I went inside and spoke to that same guy myself, asking why they didn't want to care for a vulnerable animal using the proper conditions and their know-how at their disposal. After all, they obviously understood how to take care of the "exotic" animals and reptiles they kept. Then he put a camera around his neck and walked away. When I reminded him that I was talking to him directly, he pointed in the direction of someone wearing some kind of uniform talking on the phone, who was evidently the go-to guy all along. Meanwhile, a middle aged woman sitting behind him was indifferently munching on an ice cream cone, a response that up until a year ago I would have taken for surreal given the circumstances, but I have learned to accept that type of odd behavior as being somewhat normal in Armenia. After he hung up the phone he listened to what I had to say, apparently uninformed about the porcupine. He followed me downstairs to examine the animal. When he lifted the porcupine off the box a puddle of reddish fluid was evident, and he was pessimistic that it would survive, thus reluctant to admit the animal. I was insistent that he was far more qualified in caring for him, and then he mentioned something about payment needed for treatment. After a minute or two we managed to convince him to take the porcupine under his care, and anticipated that the staff would treat him with dignity in his final moments.

Anush exchanged contact information and we were off, satisfied that we had done the right thing and accomplished our goal. Quite honestly, I was not optimistic after seeing the bloody liquid that had been dripping from under the porcupine, and I simply put my trust in that man hoping that he was indeed persuaded to do whatever he could.

This morning we were shocked by the good news. Only a half hour ago Anush called the vivarium to inquire about the animal's health, and she was pleased to learn that he had survived! She was convinced the entire time that he would make it, and I really believe that her stream of optimism was his lifeline. He (or perhaps she, we haven't yet found out) pulled through largely thanks to Anush.

We're trying to figure out what to do for him in the long run. They told Levon how to treat him at home, where he'll recover for the time being until we determine the next steps. I am against taking him back to his "owners" since they were so careless with his welfare to begin with. There's some discussion about taking the animal to Levon's dacha in Dzorakhpur, which has a lovely fruit tree orchard for him to scurry around. Seems that from now on, things can only get better for this prickly fella.

Back From OVIR

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 00:04:00 PDT

I just returned from a visit to the Office of Visas and Registration (known as OVIR, which is actually an acronym for the name of the agency in Russian) to inquiring about extending my Republic of Armenia special residency visa. Although it expires in December, I wanted to begin the process of renewing it as soon as possible so that I wouldn't run into any snags near the date of expiration.

My father-in-law Levon, through an acquaintance, went about finding out what papers we would need to extend the visa. As it turned out, the standard document list applies, including a letter to the president of the Republic of Armenia. I also needed a translated, notarized copy of my U.S. passport and seven passport-sized photos to present them. The adminsitrator told us it was too soon to file, but he helped us anyway. I didn't know what to expect; I figured I would just have to fill out a basic form indicating my name and other personal information, since the visa -- which looks exactly like a passport except for the "special residency visa" stamp on the first page -- already existed.

He sent us downstairs to an agency that has been in business for two years that does all the paperwork, including drafting the letter to the president, for a mere 2500 dram ($6.65 at today's exchange rate). That includes filling out multiple forms by hand, making five photocopies of my U.S. passport and Armenian visa, and all the related processing, which took just over twenty minutes for the clerk assisting us to accomplish. If anyone reading this post happens to be in Armenia and needs a special residency visa, by all means, use that service. If you're missing photos or need some papers notarized, they process photos on the spot and there's a notary around the corner from OVIR. It's located on the first floor at the far left. They are miracle workers for anyone who needs a visa.

OVIR has a very bad reputation for being an obstinate, corrupt institution. In the past they have caused huge headaches for foreign residents, especially Indian migrants working and attending university in Yerevan, often trying to extort thousands of dollars for a basic one-year visa that shouldn't cost more than a few hundred bucks. While we were talking to the visa administrator, a woman entered the office to inquire about what she had to do to obtain a special residency visa for her son. Apparently, he is a Russian citizen who just completed his two-year service in the Armenian army. According to her story, which she told in front of us for some reason as the administrator was reviewing my paperwork, the head of OVIR, very rudely, told her that a special residency visa would be refused for reasons he did not explain. The law that applies to the refusal has not been made clear to her. I'm not sure how that's going to turn out for her son in the end, but ethically, and legally assuming he hasn't done anything in violation of the law, the head has no right to turn him down.

OVIR supposedly went through a major shake up a few years ago, shortly after it was revealed that huge sums of cash was being extorted from ordinary citizens and foreigners alike, but judging from that woman's story, the agency's reform has been tarnished, despite efforts to make the entire process of filing for citizenship or residency more transparent. However, the administrator helping us seemed to be a decent guy, so we can only hope that he will somehow be able to convince the head of OVIR to cut them some slack.

The pricing scheme for visas is not all that logical. For a 21-day visa you have to pay a couple thousand dram, but for a three-month stay in the country the price is 20,000 dram. Dual citizenship supposedly costs 1,000 dram, while I will be required to pay 150,000 dram -- about $400 -- for the special residency visa. But since it is futile trying to make sense of these seemingly arbitrary fees, it's better to just deal with the reality of the situation. Armenian logic is invincible.

Big Boy Areg

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Thu, 19 May 2011 08:14:00 PDT

Photos by Gohar

A Lesson in Broken Fuel Caps

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Wed, 18 May 2011 03:05:00 PDT

One of the quirky things about living in Armenia is the spontaneity of adventure. My daily routine if you could call it that is often disrupted by needing to run unexpected errands, like shopping for wet napkins for babies or having to suffer the grueling process of paying my annual automobile taxes (which I need to do asap). Rarely I find myself having to roll my Niva down to the auto repair garage that I frequent, located behind the circus (where a braying donkey can always be heard).

This morning yet another unexpected challenge awaited me – just over 30 liters of premium gasoline that I purchased from Gagik in Aresh yesterday afternoon were siphoned from my gas tank. The thieves were able to pry off the locking device in place that essentially seals the tank spout, without causing much damage as it turned out (read on).

There are two kinds of devices available to lock the spout of a Lada that doesn't have one already built-in from the factory. There's one that screws onto the spout replacing the standard fuel cap that locks on with a key. These vary in quality and are relatively easy to tamper with, as my experience has proven. The one shown below demonstrates the locking fuel cap's design, but the image is not meant to represent the models of those I have used in the past.

The other is a Russian-made cylindrical device made of hard plastic that you insert into the spout about three-fourths of an inch down, which with the turn of a key fastens to a nub found on the spout pipe – that's what I've been using for about two years now. The trouble with this lock is that it's often tricky to install; it can take some fiddling to get the thing to fasten in place. I've found that it's best to hold it down with my left index finger while turning the key with my right hand, which can be difficult since it's on the key chain and the other keys get in the way when I try to lock it. Also it doesn't seal hermetically, meaning that if the gas cap is not affixed tightly enough gasoline can spill out when making hairpin turns with a mostly full tank.

Somehow the petrol bandits were able to unhinge the latch by breaking off a piece of the bottom of the lock (represented in green in the diagram shown below). The top of the lock where the key is inserted appears unblemished, and there was no immediate way of knowing that it had been fiddled with until I inspected it more closely. Whoever did it was obviously very clever and must have had previous experience in deviously removing these things.

So this morning the search was on for a replacement, even though it still seemed to be working properly but I wasn't all too sure. The cracked corner just below the latch troubled me and I figured it was best to buy a new one. The bandits were sweet enough to leave about a half-liter of gasoline in the tank so I could make it to the gas station down the road. Then I wandered into the Lada auto parts store just around the corner from the station on Nardos Street where I had originally purchased the lock, only to find that they were all out. Apparently the locks are no longer being produced, which is quite strange given the umpteen thousands of Ladas that must be on the road in the former Soviet Union, not to mention all the Nivas owned by fanatics around the world. I visited about five parts stores anyway, most of them being on Kochar Street in the Arabkir district, not far from where I work. All were out of stock. But the owner of the last store I went to told me after inspecting the lock that it was indeed functional, and it was still far better than any of the locking caps on the market, so I'm sticking with it for now.

Nevertheless it seems I'll be taking more frequent trips to Aresh to fill only a half-tank of gasoline at a time. With prices currently set at 480 dram ($1.15) per liter, I can't afford to fill up the tank only to get duped by the gasoline robbers again.

Trees for Areg

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Mon, 09 May 2011 13:06:00 PDT

Five years ago I bought a plot of land just a stone's throw away from a reservoir known as Aparan Lake, about a 40 minute drive from Yerevan. The stunning scenery had me hypnotized the moment I stepped foot there. On the far left was majestic Mt. Aragats with all four summits in plain view, and on the right the legendary, emerald Mt. Ara. Yonder were more modest although no less spectacular mountains sprinkled with evergreen forests, and then there was that amazing lake. It took only a few minutes to realize that I had to be there, that it would be my first tiny patch of Armenian soil I could call my own.

But like my immediate neighbors who are all Armenians from the diaspora, I hadn't decided what to do with the land -- whether to build a home immediately or wait until the time was right (without a clue when the right time would ever be), plant a fruit tree orchard or simply sit on it as an investment and sell it down the road. I knew that the latter was an unlikely option; the location and surroundings were too perfect to ever give up. And I lacked support and the motivation to take a step forward, that is until a few weeks ago.

Levon, my father-in-law, told me that it was time for me to put my responsibilities as an Armenian man in order, which were to get married and have a child, both of which I obviously succeeded in doing, then plant a tree in living memory of the child and finally, build a house to shelter the family (still working on the logistics behind that). He said the only thing I needed to do to get started was decide on the kind of trees I wanted to plant. I told him what I had in mind and he took care of the rest. Two weeks ago about 30 saplings were delivered to us from Ijevan. Among them were willow, linden, green and dark maple, and poplar. Most of them were planted in a single afternoon, as soon as we surveyed the "exact" property borders, which took about ninety minutes for the village mayor, Levon, and Sergey Minasian, the only horticulturist among us, to figure out. I was too busy trying to imagine where the trees would go in relation to the home I will likely build.

Last weekend we decided to plant a fruit tree orchard in the frontmost area. We settled on various sorts of apple, pear, apricot and plum, all of which were purchased from a tree nursery in the village of Karbi, situated quite close to Ashtarak. As a bonus they threw in a cherry tree, which Levon planted himself for his first grandson.

All in all, we managed to put close to fifty trees in the ground in two weekends. I wanted to plant the forest trees around the perimeter of the land but also in random locations in the area I imagine to be the back yard, so that it would be vaguely reminiscent of back home, where thick woods of maple and oak reign supreme behind our house.

Several apple trees had been planted on the site by the village mayor's father about twenty years ago. But for some reason he never pruned them, so they grew like bushes with spider-like branches jetting from the trunk. We decided to coppice them in the hopes that they would eventually turn into proper trees and yield good quality fruit. I have personally never seen apples on those trees, but I have been told they do produce fruit.

Although we're proud to plant so many trees in honor of Areg, we won't know what trees will be able to withstand the climate there until next spring. At an elevation of 1844 meters (6049 feet) the land, being located in such close proximity to the major mountains in the viscidity, is in a sort of open space wind tunnel, and the weather conditions can drastically change in a matter of seconds. The precipitation in the area can be quite overwhelming as we found last week in the middle of planting when were were nearly drenched in a sudden downpour. I inspected the leaves of the fruit trees just yesterday and noticed that the edges of some had turned black, which apparently means they were subjected to freezing or frigid temperatures. Some of the decorative trees already seem to have dried out. We'll have to pray for the next twelve months that they will all make it through the winter.

The richness of the soil was also a bit disheartening. We found at most about 40 centimeters of top soil while digging holes before we hit a layer of curious, black sand and soil mixture. In some spots it was pure sand only 25 centimeters deep. This can mean two things--either the trees will thrive because of decent drainage without the fear that the roots will rot from too much moisture, or they will not be able to adapt to the foreign soil conditions and wither. The topsoil had turned into a thick muddy paste from all the springtime precipitation, and it was nearly impossible to separate it from the roots of the wild grasses and weeds, some of which were twice as think as those of the saplings. Levon went in search for cow dung, not hard to find as cattle along with sheep and have been grazing in the area for years. Sergey believes the trees will indeed grow but having been discouraged by the quality of dirt seems to think they will perhaps not be very tall.

In a few years Areg will be running through the trees and picking wildflowers, loving life, and I hope when he's old enough to realize, he'll be grateful for the miniature park we created in his honor.

Socializing Chi Chi

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Wed, 04 May 2011 12:09:00 PDT

Chi Chi has never been properly socialized. Although she naturally gravitates towards people, even those she has never met, she is repulsed by other canines, no matter the size or shape. Her repulsion can be mistaken for fear. The more I think about it, it's not about being afraid with her, it's more about wanting to be with her own kind. When she is in the presence of another dog, be it tame or a stray, she wants to flee, but not necessarily run for her life. She simply wants to avoid contact.

This behavior may be the result of trauma. About a year ago she was attacked by a street dog while my wife was taking her for a stroll. Somehow she broke away from her leash and ran all the way to the entrance of the apartment building where my my mother-in-law lives (about a 100 meter sprint down Tumanyan Street). When my wife found her she was trying to conceal herself, shaking like an oak branch during a hurricane, afraid to approach even her. After some coaxing she finally went over to my wife, who has protected Chi Chi as an infant ever since.

Now I want Chi Chi to run with the big dogs and behave like a member of her own species. That's proven to be extremely difficult at this stage due to her fragile nervous condition and neurotic nature, which shows clear signs of passive aggressiveness and obsessive compulsive behavior. Sometimes it's nearly impossible to walk her because she can get spooked by an old Volga with a faulty exhaust system driving by or a woman sweeping sunflower seed shells from the sidewalk. Once she is fearful of anything -- it could be a shriveled blossom falling from a cherry tree in the courtyard -- she starts pulling to run for home.

About four months ago my wife at my insistence found a dog trainer, named Leonid, who I refer to as the Armenian Dog Whisperer. Leonid, a tall, lanky man who is very personable and polite, has a magical way with dogs. When we first met, Chi Chi, who is lovable but notoriously obstinate, was obeying his commands within a few minutes. He was coming by two or three times a week for a month, then we took some time off and asked him over on an as-needed basis. At first he was essentially dispelling Chi Chi's bad habits, like entering the bedroom on a whim and jumping up our legs while barking whenever my wife and I hugged each other. Chi Chi also had issues with being dressed and having a collar tied around her neck, where she would bite playfully, but would instantly be overly aggressive, as if it wasn't a game any longer. The power of kibble as a reward completely turned that problem around. Now we're left with the timidity, the fear associated with hearing strange foreign sounds, the paranoia she's about to be snuck up upon.

Last week we met Gucci the Chow Chow and Max the German Shepherd, who Chi Chi seemed drawn to, but was timorous nevertheless. After a while the two of them started walking side by side, which encouraged Leonid as it's definitely a step in the right direction. Seems Chi Chi's pack bound instincts are intact.

In this photo above are Max, Bella the Boxer, who apparently is in heat as Max couldn't stop mounting her, and Gucci the Chow Chow, with owners Armen and Aram, two great guys. Chi Chi is hiding, barely visible (see if you can spot her). Leonid is wearing the red and blue jacket.

Starting today we are moving forward with an intensive, proactive socialization regimen that will last for one week. Leonid is skeptical that we'll see huge improvement in a week's time, but we won't know unless an effort is made. It's all up to Chi Chi now.

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 09:16:00 PDT

Armenians are survivors.

Photos by Christian Garbis

Goofy photos of Areg

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 09:08:00 PDT

Photos by Gohar

More About Areg

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sat, 09 Apr 2011 12:44:00 PDT

Areg is gorgeous. I never imagined how beautiful he could be. Both of us were trying to picture who he would look like, and I kept saying that he would resemble Anushik perhaps in all ways, inheriting her big brown eyes and button-like nose especially. Turns out I was right about that, yet people keep telling us via Facebook or in person that he looks like me. He certainly seems to have my goofy ear lobes and spider hands with long, slender fingers that will form one day to be those that any pianist would die to have. The first week was not without sleepless nights, which goes without saying, although my wife has a lot of energy, being continually recharged by the electricity Areg naturally provides. But I on the underhand, last evening finding myself about to collapse, decided to spend the night on the couch to get a decent night’s rest. If I don’t get a minimum of 6 hours of steady sleep a night I can’t function the next day, which was the case consistently during the week. Now I’m able to finally enjoy spending a maximal amount of time with my son during the weekend.

A few notes about the hospital experience. Areg was born in the "8th maternity ward" located in the Kanaker-Zeytun district of Yerevan. Despite the obvious meticulous professionalism of Anush’s obstetrician, who led her every step of the way from pre-conception to childbirth, the maternity ward was in a horrid state. Their policies about limiting guests to prevent the spread of germs, in parallel with the dilapidated conditions of the place, was the ultimate example of surrealism I’ve ever observed in Armenia. I actually felt like I was being mocked.

Upon my first and only afternoon visit, for sanitary purposes I was given some kind of flimsy fabric shawl to wear on my shoulders, the material of which resembled a cheap dusting cloth found in a home goods store here. It kept falling off my shoulders every few steps that I took. In the corridors I found exposed electrical wiring from seemingly random holes in the stained walls. The walls were noticeably thin and crumbling with chunks of plaster having broken off from the corners. The doors were not hanging on their frames properly, and the glass on some of them had cracked at one time, and rather than being replaced they were repaired using transparent “Scotch” tape. I entered the room to find my wife holding our child sitting on a cot that was giving her no proper support and my wife was barely able to find the necessary posture to feed the child. She was literally sinking into the bed, the mattress having evidently been worn out. The frames of the beds and cradles were deplorable. The room’s walls were also grimy and cracked, with paint at one point sloppily applied to them that had dripped on the filthy linoleum floor, which was also worn out and had not been in one piece when installed, so that there was a strip of exposed cement running across the room. The furniture in kind was also in disrepair, and the room overall seemed dirty. I couldn’t even find a wastebasket for depositing dirty diapers and papers. And after only 10 minutes—although I was supposedly entitled to a full visiting hour to spend with my newborn son—the doctor of the mother sharing the same room as Anushik rudely dismissed me from the room. I never returned during their three-day stay, and there was nothing we could do to have them discharged from that horror show any sooner.

Then there was the birth certificate to deal with. You would think that presenting a note from the hospital to the ZAGS—the governmental department that processes marriage and birth certificates—would be enough to get working on it. Not a chance. Since I am not a citizen of Armenia my US passport had to be translated and notarized. For some reason my special residency visa—which is identical to a passport issued by the Republic of Armenia—did not fly with them, when in fact it should since virtually the same information printed in my US passport appears in it, with the exception of my father’s name (Armenians are obsessed with knowing that, I never understood why). When my father-in-law—whose help and patience with the absurdity of the situation was invaluable—and I returned to ZAGS we realized that the translator use an “m” instead of an “n” in my last name, and he had to do it all over again along with the notarization (which of course is done separately and you have to wait in an chaotic “line” to have a document examined and sealed). When our papers were finally in order after a few hours of running around I learned after we had returned to ZAGS that I had to fill out an application for the certificate. That was when I lost it. The worker there claimed that by law she had no right to fill out the form, which I naturally thought was ridiculous. On top of that--and I can't wait to find this "law on first names"--we could not legally name him Areg Raffi as documenting a middle name is apparently illegal in the Republic of Armenia. All in all it took four hours to receive the certificate, which was given to us after the official there approved the documents as being valid. I couldn’t believe it when I saw that it was filled out by hand by the same woman who refused to fill out the application for us in the first place. They couldn’t have even typed it. Amazing. And all those photocopies of passports, our marriage certificate, and the hospital note attesting to Areg’s birth are just going to either be filed away somewhere never to be seen again or tossed out at some point. In that disorganization I can’t imagine that they would ever be able to process a copy of the birth certificate on request if it was ever needed. I assume we’d have to go through the entire rigmarole again.

In any case, even after a week has gone by since Areg’s birth, I keep finding myself being shocked that I am finally a dad. I’ve wanted to be one for years, but I’m so thrilled it finally happened that I am in disbelief. It’s going to take a little while to get into the groove of fatherhood for me.

Photos by Gohar

Meet Areg

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 11:31:00 PDT

Our son Areg Raffi was born on April 1. I am just getting around to posting about him after finally getting my editor's approval. He was born at 5:20 am, only two hours and twenty minutes after labor started at home. My wife didn't go into active labor until just after we got to the hospital around 4 am. It took us a while to get there because I was in denial about the baby being born on that night for some reason. I still can't believe it happened after nearly a week having flown by.

I hope to write more about the entire experience soon, including the maddening aggravation involved in getting the birth certificate.

Being Empowered

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 12:44:00 PDT

This afternoon Raffi was visited by deputies from the National Assembly, approaching him in party contingents. Toward the end of the day the president of the assembly himself, Hovik Abrahamian (aka, moog, or "mouse") arrived on the scene, to try and convince him to stop his protest, but he refused to stop, which was not unexpected. Apparently, the vanity of mocking and ridicule displayed by Abrahamian's fellow party members is expired.

There was more discussion in public before journalists as always about when the hunger strike would end. He again was making the point that it is up to the people to decide, not him.

RFE/RL quoted Raffi stating the following: "My demand is the people’s demand and I’m too little to put up a banner and say, ‘This is what I demand.’ The demand has already been registered and I join that demand." I think that pretty much sums it up.

When I went to visit him a few hours ago I was glad to see that the tent was still there, and I learned he slept comfortably in it during the night. Two evenings prior he was photographed lying on his bench with a tarp pulled over him to keep him dry under the downpour--it was printed on the first page of Aravot newspaper. Seems some embarrassing letters sent to the president from various ambassadors made a difference. He also has a small electric heater near his legs to keep him warm, which is definitely needed now that the temperature's dipping once again.

Raffi told me again this evening that he finds his Fast for Freedom empowering. He estimated that a minimum of 2,500 people enter Liberty Square a day, basing that figure on the number of newspapers his party publishes are being distributed by volunteers. The nutritional value delivered by a constant stream of personal support is evidently more satisfying than any hearty meal could ever provide. He shows no signs of wearing down. Extraordinary.