The village of Karashamb went dark for two days after the storm. Cold rain pattered against the windows of the cottage. Like two fools from the desert, we only brought sandals for our feet. I didn’t have a jacket.
I grew up in this type of climate, so I am not sure what I was thinking.
Ilya slept in his green jacket and refused to remove it for two days. We were invited to our hostess’s house to drink tea while she warmed her house with the kitchen stove. She stood and cracked and cracked and cracked nuts for us to enjoy. We had great conversations about culture, identity and motherhood. I feel that we really connected on that dreary afternoon in her kitchen.
We walked in the cold rain to a farm in the neighbouring village. Two strong mothers with strollers climbing a steep hill to the house. There, Ilya got to see some farm animals and swing. We were invited inside for a coffee. The old farmhouse was simply decorated. There was a large dining room with a huge table and next to the table was a portrait of the husband. We sat in the living room with the husband, wife, and her brother. They served Armenian coffee, dried plums, cake, and “Kama” balls—a type lightly sweetened grain ball covered with sour cherries or sesame.
I was able to sit and chat with these people who have seen so much in their country. My friend helped translate. Through this conversation and others, I find Armenians to be very peaceful people.
We walked back to the cottage and read animal stories by candlelight.
musafira 