Going on a picnic, Armenian style

by Maria Titizian

Published: Friday July 10, 2009 in Living in Armenia

Arthur's Resort in Aghveran.

Yerevan - Aghveran is a recent discovery. Nestled among lush, green mountains, with an abundance of aromatic wild flowers scattered throughout rolling hills, Aghveran, with its mountain streams winding their way along narrow inlets, is one of the most beautiful vistas in Armenia.

It is even more beautiful this year, as with the climate change in Armenia, we've been experiencing strange weather cycles. For the last nine summers, I can't remember having had as much rain as we've had this year, and hence the countryside is gloriously green, in every hue imaginable.

I visited Aghveran for the first time last summer and was astounded by this hidden gem, a half hour's drive north of Yerevan. So when a group of our local friends invited us to go on a picnic to Aghveran, we jumped at the chance of getting some fresh air, and eating barbequed pork kebab with old friends and some new ones.

Even though we had agreed to be on the road by 10 A.M., by the time we headed out of the city it was about 11; everything about this day was as Armenian as you could get, including punctuality, or the lack thereof.

We were about 40 people, including a whole slew of children, in nine cars. As we drove north of the city, the bright, blue sky started clouding over, but no one seemed too concerned about the impending rain.

Once we turned off the highway at Charentsavan, our journey took us along narrow dirt roads until we came to a final turn, where a wooden sign had been affixed to a tree that read, Kefi Kodi (Party zone). I had heard of Hankstian Kodi (Relaxation zone), but this was a first.

We came upon a clearing by the slopes of a mountain, surrounded by trees with a river running just below us. There was a volleyball net, long, covered picnic tables called besedkas in Russian, and a huge grill. A party from our group had arrived earlier and had already begun preparations.

Preparations should not be understood lightly. Cases of soda, beer, and vodka were cooling under running water, bags of tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, and eggplant were placed under the shade, a large covered pot holding live crayfish was set by the table, several balls were scattered around, and an extremely large pot was on the grill, boiling and bubbling away. Just my luck: it was khashlama. Khashlama, simply put, is boiled lamb, and obviously comes from the word khashel, which means to boil.

I don't eat khashlama. But one can always find cheese at Armenian gatherings, so I had a back up.

While I was contemplating my culinary dilemma, the adults almost immediately formed two teams and began playing volleyball with a soccer ball. This group was very serious about its volleyball game. While the khashlama was boiling, and the children were running around, the volleyball game was getting more intense. I decided to make coffee. I found a couple of jazzves, turned on the portable gas tank used for cooking, and enjoyed watching the coffee slowly come to a boil, hoping that the aroma would overtake the smell coming from the boiling lamb on the grill. Well, at least I can dream....

T-shirts were coming off, hair was being tied back, borders were being negotiated and finally drawn, arguments were arising about supposed penalties, and kids were being warned to stay away as the star athletes got really serious about their volleyball game. I continued watching the coffee rise up into soft bubbles and then recede as I would take the jazzve off the gas, all the while anticipating a scuffle or an injury on the volleyball court.

Alas, just as I was pouring the coffee, one of the star athletes fell to the ground, clutching his stomach because said stomach had stopped the ball. Well, when you use a soccer ball to play volleyball, that's what happens. Really? After a few minutes of writhing on the ground, he was up and back at the game. I drank my coffee and tried to ignore the smell of the boiling lamb on the barbeque.

My husband was neither playing volleyball nor making coffee. He was playing a serious game of backgammon, totally oblivious to the commotion around him.

Just as quickly as the game began, it was over, as the call to a breakfast of khashlama was made. In the meantime, sheets of lavash (Armenian flat bread) had been placed on the picnic table, and then each sheet was carefully rolled up and piled on top of another until there were mountains of rolled lavash, which were then carefully cut up into smaller pieces with a knife and placed along the picnic table.

Everyone eventually sat down and began eating. Some people began noticing that I was not eating the khaslama. I ignored them, smiled, and looked away. Others began noticing the lack of boiled lamb on my plate, and lo-and-behold, a nice, juicy piece of boiled lamb was placed before me.

That was only the beginning. After the khashlama, there was rak (crayfish), and barbequed liver. I was happily eating lavash and cheese and drinking vodka.

And then it began to rain. And then it was a downpour. And then there was hail. And the beautiful clearing, surrounded by trees, turned into a large muddy mess. All the children ran into the cars for cover as the adults sat along the long, covered picnic tables. With nothing else to do, they drank and drank and drank.

And then the sun came out. And then the children came out of the cars and began running around. In a few minutes they were covered in mud.

And then there was Armenian music playing and the Sassountsis among us began dancing around in circles on the few patches of grass that had not turned into a muddy mess. But to get to the patches of grass, you had to walk across muddy patches, which in turn made a muddy mess of shoes and feet.

Had this motley crew been our repat friends, we would've packed up at the first sign of rain and headed home, happy to have averted any muddy mess. But the party kept going on.