Ashley Corinne Killough

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to visit the village of Verin Getashen and get a taste of the Peace Corps experience through the eyes of Danny Lovell. To listen more about his life and see photos, watch an audio slide show here.

Well, I’m home.

I spent the first half of the week saying goodbye to my friends in Armenia and getting packed. The night before I left, I hosted a dinner at Caucasus Tavern for some of my closest Armenian and American friends. We had our own room, where we had so much fun laughing and talking and even doing a little singing. (Thanks, Mike, for starting the singing part.) I parted ways with my Armenian friends afterwards and it was hard to say goodbye, but I knew deep down that we would stay close and in touch over the years.

The next morning, Danny and Mike helped me get to the airport with my luggage. This is when I made a mistake:

Me: Danny, I can’t believe how smoothly everything has gone in the last few days.

Danny: What do you mean?

Me: I haven’t had any problems with my landlord. I haven’t had any problems closing out my bill with the Internet company and returning my modem. I paid my utilities. I’ve said goodbye to everyone. I gave away all the gifts I wanted to give. I haven’t lost anything or hurt anything. I even did some traveling less than a week before I left and nothing went wrong. I finished the projects I was working on. It’s just been a totally stress-free week.

Danny: You know, Ashley, you still haven’t even gotten to the airport. You have a 23-hour trip home. There’s still plenty of time for things to go wrong.

Me: Yeah, you’re right. Oh my, I hope I didn’t just jinx my trip.

Fast forward to two hours later, and you’ll find me sitting by the gate watching the words “DELAYED” flash across the monitor.

It was all-downhill from there.

One thing after another

My flight from Yerevan to London was supposed to leave at noon but instead left at 1 p.m. Knowing I had less than a two-hour layover in London on my itinerary, I was worried the entire flight about making the next plane. Thank goodness the two-year-old Armenian boy in front of me provided some entertainment for the trip. Every half hour he would peer over the chair to talk to me in Armenian, asking me what I was doing.

However, because I don’t know how to say in Armenian, “I’m sitting here in a chair on an airplane,” I simply replied, “What are YOU doing?” And he answered with, “No, what are YOU doing?” And I would say, “No, what are YOU doing?” This would go on for a few minutes until he got bored and sat back down.

Once we landed in London, we once again hit another setback. The airport workers couldn’t get the hallway thing attached to the airplane, so we sat waiting for 25 minutes to get off the plane. Most of the passengers had to get to connecting flights, so many of us were on edge, breathing anxiously or tapping our fingers on the seats.

Finally, we got off the plane and I sprinted through the maze that is Terminal 1 at Heathrow airport. I went through security and sprinted again down to my gate. The ticket guy, in his British accent, was so nice. “We appreciate your running, madam,” he said. “We were waiting for you. But don’t worry, we weren’t going to leave without you.”

With only a minute or two to spare, I made it onto the plane where I went through the embarrassing routine of finding an empty overhead bin to store my giant carry-on, as everyone watched from their seats. Finally, a flight attendant took it somewhere and I sat down in my chair.

Looking back, I don’t remember what I did for the next eight hours. I had hardly slept the last few days—maybe two to five hours each night—so I was feeling exhausted, but I never fell asleep on the plane. Plus, the audio on my seat-TV didn’t work, so I couldn’t watch any of the movies. I pretty much just read and listened to my iPod. I think I actually might have drifted into a short, five-minute nap, because I do remember having a dream that my dog came back to life and I threw nativity scene figurines at her. (I’m telling you, I can’t make this stuff up.)

Losing it in Chicago

Once I landed in Chicago, I again rushed off the plane because I knew I had only two hours to get my three bags across the airport, check in, go through security and hop onto my plane to Dallas. As I was standing at the baggage claim and watching everyone grab their bags, I began to worry. Then, the rotator stopped, and no more bags come out the chute. I asked one of the workers, and she scanned my luggage tickets. They never made it onto the plane in London, but they were put on a different plane to Washington. Terrific.

I rushed to switch terminals and went through the longest security line of my life, only to find out that my flight to Dallas would be delayed by an hour. I was so bummed—and hungry. That’s when McDonald’s showed its beautiful self. I don’t really like McDonald’s, but for some reason, it sounded like perfection. I ordered a hamburger and a root beer and then fumbled with my money as I tried to pay with American cash for the first time since I left home.

I walked over to the gate with my McDonald’s bag and started to pull out the burger. Then I looked at the monitor and paused: my flight was back on time. Crap. I put the burger back down and tried to find my phone to check the time, because I knew it was getting close to the original flight time.

But my blackberry—my newly turned-on blackberry that I had greatly missed this whole time—was nowhere to be found. I pulled out everything in my bag. Nothing. I was about to have a meltdown. I rushed back to the security line. They didn’t have it. I stood there, trying to figure out where it could have been, when I felt the McDonald’s bag crumpling in my hand. Oh my gosh. I rushed back to the McDonald’s counter, praying that it might still be there.

Me: Hi, did someone leave a phone here?

McDonald’s Girl: Oh yeah, hold on one second.

Manager Man: Oh hey, girl!! I knew you would come back! Here ya go, sweetie.

Mr. Manager Man handed me not only my blackberry, but my passport AND my boarding pass. I had left all three of those things on the counter and someone turned them in. Thank goodness for honest people, or else I might still be in Chicago with no phone, no ID and no ticket home.

I grabbed my things and rushed to the gate to board the plane to Dallas. I found my seat and struck up a conversation with nice, older Pakistani man sitting next to me. We talked the entire time. He’s living in Toronto now, but he was Pakistan’s badminton champion during the 1960s before he went to the states to get his degree at MIT. We talked about family, Armenia and Pakistan. He was surprisingly open and mentioned how hard it’s been for him and his brothers to travel since 9-11. Tears were welling up in his eyes. I’m really glad I met him.

A long awaited reunion

Finally, around 11 p.m. the plane landed. To be honest, by that time, I had lost a lot of the nervous, excited energy I had about seeing my family again, and instead, I was simply ready to get this trip over with. After going to the bathroom, I apparently walked out the wrong gate because there was no one in sight. Huh? But I turned to my right and noticed that the rest of the passengers were all at two baggage claims away, and I started walking in that direction.

That’s when I saw the balloons and the signs. My parents were there, along with two of my closest friends, Kristin and Lauren. But I was shocked to also see two of my other close friends, Carolyn and Andrew, who I didn’t know where coming. They definitely surprised me and it was such a treat. I missed them all so much.

We drove to my house and talked and ate some of the beautiful cake that Carolyn made for me. Around 1 a.m., they left and I crawled into my bed—my wonderful, twin-size bed that I’ve had since I was a kid—and I slept like I had never slept before.

If you would have told me last year that in a year I would go on a six-hour road trip in Armenia with four men I had never met, that we would get lost for 30 minutes near an old chemical plant, that we would take breaks to pick funny-looking fruits off of trees and eat them, that we would weave between and around Iranian semi-trucks on the highway, that we would get blockaded on the road by numerous herds of cattle and sheep—and that I would do the same thing all over again the following day—I would have said that you have quite the imagination.

Actually, if you had told me all of that last week, I would have said the same thing.

And I would have been wrong.

Cooling towers and cherries

Goris is a town located in southeast Armenia, about 20 kilometers from the Nagorno-Karabakh border. It’s folded into the vast, green mountain ranges that define the bottom half of the country. For months, I’ve wanted to visit some Peace Corps friends who live down there, and last week I finally found some time to take a quick trip.

While Goris is only 150 miles from Yerevan, it takes between 4-6 hours to make the journey because of the mountainous, pot-holed roads. Also, people typically travel to Goris in shared taxis instead of marshrutkas. This may sound more comfortable than a marhrutka, but actually, these taxicabs are tiny, old and stuffed with five people.

Thursday morning, I showed up to the bus station to find a cab. I was the second passenger to arrive, and the driver picked up two more men who had already reserved a seat. However, it somehow took us more than an hour to get out of Yerevan. We got lost over and over again and ended up driving around on some barren dirt roads at Nayirit, a giant chemical plant on the outskirts of Yerevan with several cooling towers. Excellent.

The men were all on their phones, calling their friends to find a way out of the plant. After running into a dead end, we got out of the car, and the driver drove off somewhere, leaving us for 20 minutes. In the meantime, the rest of us kicked around the dust, watching fighter jets do flyovers in the sky, listening to the sonic booms and eating fruit off the trees (which, now that I think about it, was probably not a good idea).

Finally, the driver came back and we got in the car. He had gone to ask for directions (still not sure why we needed to get out of the car for that—but oh well). So, off we went and out came a bag of the most delicious cherries, courtesy of one of the men, Ashot.

A nation of what?

As we drove near the Turkish border, staring at Mt. Ararat, I accidentally told my new taxi friends that I was a tourist. Perhaps it was the fact that I was sardined in a cramped backseat with two other men. Perhaps it was the fact that they didn’t speak much Russian and I didn’t speak much Armenian. Perhaps it was the fact that I was about to cross the country with four guys I didn’t know. But I was feeling a bit intimidated, and in my nervousness, I started sputtering one lie after another: I’m a tourist. I’m a theatre student. I’m still in university. I’m from California. I studied Russian in school for one semester. I’m only here visiting friends for a month. I have a fiancé back at home. What was I saying?

As we continued driving across the flat, dry climate of the Ararat region, I listened to the men talk to each other in Armenian. Their ages ranged from 30-50, and combined, they probably had more gold teeth than real teeth. They were kind, though, and that’s all that mattered.

Before entering the Vayk region, we stopped at a gas station. One of the passengers bought me an ice cream bar, and I tried to politely refuse but the gas station manager suddenly interjected—in English.

“He is an Armenian gentleman! Let him pay,” he said. I was shocked. He speaks English? We then talked for a few minutes while the other guys stared at us, eating ice cream. He was so nice, and he told me all the things about Armenia that people love to tell foreigners: Did you know that Armenia used to be bigger, but now much of it is behind Turkish borders? Did you know Mt. Ararat is the symbol of Armenia? Have you tried our apricots? Did you know that Los Angeles is full of Armenians? Armenia has its own alphabet. No one else has one anything like it. Did you know that?

And then, he said something that made me smile.

“Also, Armenia is a nation of Christmas,” he said.

“…of Christmas?” I asked.

“Yes, Iran has Muslims. Azerbaijan has Muslims. Turkey has Muslims. Georgia is half-Muslim,” he said. (I don’t think the part about Georgia is true.) “But Armenia has Christmas.”

“Oh…you mean Christians?“

“Yes,” he said. “Christmas. We are the oldest nation of Christmas.”

Final destination

The Vayk area of Armenia in the Vayots Dzor province is dry like the flat Ararat region, but it’s shaped by sharp, rocky valleys. Actually, “Vay” in Armenian means “Woe.” So Vayk (pronounced “Vike”) means “The Valley of Woes.” We then crossed into the Syunik region, which is much more green and humid. Within a few hours, I felt like we had gone from “Out of Africa” to “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” to “The Sound of Music.”

Ashot kept feeding me cherries while he entertained the rest of the car. He talked the entire time, letting the other men chime in occasionally. We stopped once more, where again, I was force-fed ice cream. The rest of the trip to Goris was spent dodging potholes, sheep and cattle. The herdsmen drive their animals down the narrow highway, so whenever we came across a group, we would go off-roading and around the cattle. It was great.

In Goris, six hours after we started, the guys dropped me off at my friend’s building and we said our goodbyes. They were all very sweet, and I had become more comfortable with them throughout our journey. I guess tight spaces and getting lost make people bond.

I spent the night in Goris with my friends, Patrick and Megan. They’re a married couple who have been in Armenia for two years, and because they’re doing so well, they’ve signed up to stay for another year. I walked around with Patrick that night, and he showed me St. Gregory Cathedral. The church has shell scars from the war between Armenia and Azerbaijan in the early 90s, which is still in a cease-fire.

The next morning, we walked around Goris some more and went to an art exhibit. It really is a cute town. Everywhere we went, people stopped Patrick to talk to him. He and his wife have obviously become an integral part of the community.

Deja vu with a twist

I had to get back to Yerevan that day, and when the taxi showed up, I knew I was in for another adventure. This time the cab was full of mostly young guys, probably 30 years old and under. I greeted them and then stayed pretty quiet for a while. At our first stop, I stood outside and took photos while they had coffee. They invited me in to drink with them, but I politely refused so I could take photos. After a few minutes, the youngest guy who was probably 18, came out and handed me a juice box, insisting that I drink it.

I laughed and thanked him. I tried talking to him in Russian, but he didn’t understand what I was saying and walked away, shyly.

A couple of hours later, we stopped at a beautiful garden. They invited me to pluck some cherries off the trees with them. We also pulled off some other kind of fruit that I had never seen in my life. I later came to find out they were called mulberries.

After snacking, they invited me to sit down at a table with them, where a lady brought out horovats (Armenian barbecue). One of the guys then opened an expensive bottle of Armenian brandy and started pouring it into our shot glasses. Once again, I lost the battle and allowed him to pour me some. They first made a toast to me, which was too kind, and then toasted other people throughout the meal. At one point, I apparently agreed to some beer because the next thing I knew, one of the guys was pouring an ice-cold bottle of beer into my glass.

I hate beer. I just can’t stomach it.

But I didn’t want to be rude, so I drank as much as I could. And, actually, it surprisingly hit the spot. Sitting in that garden, drinking cognac, eating horovats, eating fruit, and then capping it off with a few sips of beer? Apparently it was just what I needed, because I felt great after that. Perfectly refreshed after a night of four hours of sleep. Who knew?

And of course, they refused to let me pay.

The rest of the trip was entertaining. Our driver drove twice as fast as the guy from yesterday, and we listened to a lively mix of Brittney Spears and Armenian rap. To make things even more interesting, one of the guys took a beer from lunch and drank the entire bottle in the car. He was having a good time until he practically passed out when we got to Yerevan. But, of course, we stopped two more times before that, where I was given iced coffee at one stop and ice cream at another. I gave up on trying to refuse things earlier in the day. I knew I would never win.

In Yerevan, the guys dropped me off at my apartment and shook my hand. I was so thankful for their patience and kindness. I was just a quiet, awkward, tall foreign girl scrunched in the back of their car, but they treated me like a princess and asked for nothing in return. I found this astonishing.

I’ll never forget my 30-hour trip to Goris, 11 hours of which I spent with eight guys I didn’t know. I’ll never forget their generosity. I’ll never forget their golden smiles–literally. And I’ll never forget their penchant for fruit picking and ice cream.

They truly were Armenian gentlemen.

All year, I had been wanting to do a story on the khachkar workshop near the institute. Khachkars, large stones with elaborate cross designs engraved in them, are a hallmark of Armenian culture and a tradition that dates back more than a thousand years. I passed by the workshop all the time and was amazed by the beautiful job the workers did on those cross-stones.

A couple of weeks ago, I got the chance to interview the khachkar master, Varazdat, with my other friend Nune, who translated. Varazdat invited us into his home for coffee, and we learned all about his work with the cross-stones, a career that spans more than two decades. I asked a talented photojournalist and friend of mine, Emily Haas, who’s also a Peace Corps Volunteer, to take the photos. It was a great experience, and Emily did a wonderful job.

You can see the slide show here on ianyan.

A couple of weeks ago, I was able to walk outside without my coat for the first time in months. Spring had given us a few beautiful days in April, but most of the month it rained, leaving a stronger splash of green hue across the city in its wake each time. But now that it’s mid-May and people are walking around in short-sleeves shirts, I feel confident that Spring is here to stay…at least until summer.

It’s amazing how a change of season can change so many other things. The population in Yerevan seems to have doubled overnight. The days are longer, and more people are out in the evenings. More tourists are in town. The outdoor cafes have re-opened, and the parks and scenic sights around the city are awash with hoards of families and friends. Not only have the trees changed colors, but the clothing styles are also more varied, now that people can cast away their dark winter clothing. I hear more laughter. I see more children. Ice cream stands, popcorn machines and flower vendors can be found at almost every corner.

While this winter was considered mild for Armenia, it was still the coldest time period in which I’ve lived. In Texas, I don’t think I put on my coat more than 10 or 15 times throughout the season. But this year, I wore some sort of coat nearly every day from November to the end of April. Living through an actual winter season really makes you appreciate the arrival of spring. Don’t get me wrong, I loved springtime in Texas, too. I loved the bluebonnets and the laying out by pools and the walking around in shorts.

But this is a whole new feeling. I find myself soaking up every ounce of this weather. My mind feels empty as I gaze at the strikingly blue sky and the full, luscious green trees. I see a bed of roses and stop in my tracks to marvel at their beauty, at their rich color. I feel the gentle touch of sun on my skin and melt inside with satisfaction. I wake up early in the day just to walk around and revel in the quiet morning air.

Needless to say, I am drunk with springtime bliss, and I’m glad that my final weeks in Armenia will be blessed with such magnificent weather.