The Armenian chihuahua is already taking lessons on how to use a netbook. It's been an exhausting day....
Photos by instructor Gohar Khachatrian
Labels: Armenian Dogs, Personal Experiences, Photography
At first she wanted a Pekingese, which is what her family owned when she was growing up. But when I expressed my displeasure, since I think they resemble skittering mops with punched-in snouts, she backed away from the idea. There was discussion about keeping a Labrador Retriever as well. My family back in Boston has kept two Labs—the black one we have now is 12 years old suffering from arthritis and total deafness. One of Anush’s cousins promised that they would give us their puppy, which was nearly completely white in color, but that fell though when they abruptly traded it with a shop owner for merchandise of some sort. Then I thought having a Dachshund would be great but she wasn’t crazy about that option.
A cat was certainly out of the question since I find them to be too independent, moody and unpredictable. Besides, there are too many feral cats running around the city, more than enough. They’re good for catching and eating rats as I have personally witnessed, so at least they serve a valiant purpose.
Due to various circumstances we ended up indefinitely postponing the acquisition of a dog. That is, until three weeks ago.
Our first stop was the Vernisage where many small dogs are plentiful at an average price of $200, including certification paperwork and vaccinations. However, depending on the breeder they are not necessarily well cared for. I’ve seen one woman for instance picking up her puppies for sale by the neck rather than under the front legs across the chest, so that was a discouraging sign. Another woman had several breeds of puppies all wanting out of there cramped cardboard box to go home with someone. There were two Dachshunds too, one of which took an active interest in us but Anush refused to pick her up. She already had a Chihuahua in mind, the smallest dog breed in the world. Since we didn’t find any there and would not ever, we walked away.
Chihuahuas are difficult to find anywhere, let alone Armenia. But Anush's mother knows a pet store owner who has contact with an experienced breeder of Chihuahuas, located in Yerevan’s Erebuni district near the “auto market (avtoshuga) of all places. We were able to get his number and arrange a time and place to meet. He had three puppies to show us.That same afternoon we met the breeder, Armen, at Karekin Njdeh Square. In a small dog carrier made of heavy blue cloth that he held by one hand was a Chihuahua mix. It was only a few months old and belonged to a friend of his. The puppy was shaking a bit, which apparently is normal for a Chihuahua regardless of whether it is feeling a chill or is simply excited. I inspected the dog and found several small scabs in the back of his ears and what appeared to be bite marks at the tips. She was adorable, but I didn’t recommend that Anush to consider taking it home, and Armen also discouraged her. We asked to see his own puppies, so we sat in a Lada 2107 taxi driven by an absolute lunatic and were off.
The very second after Armen opened the door to his single-level house about 20 small dogs charged at us, all of them frantically excited and yapping. There were several Chihuahuas of various sizes (a difference of perhaps only a half-inch in height and length at the most), at least three Shitzus and one or two Pekingese. It was so chaotic in there that I couldn’t actually get an accurate count. One of the Chihuahuas, a pint-size guy (the father of the puppy we now own), was frantically barking at me, while two larger black ones were licking my hands with their miniature tongues enticing me to caress them. Eventually every dog there took turns to greet us at some point.
Two female puppies were available from two different mothers, with about a four-week age difference between them. The shade of the one that Anush chose, the younger of the two, reminds me of cappuccino, although her coat color is identified as “cream” in her “passport.” It seemed odd to me that at only three weeks both Chihuahua and Lab puppies are nearly identical in size and general appearance. The puppy, who we named Chi Chi, was understandably very reserved at that time, but after finally bringing her home on Friday we soon realized how rambunctious and crazy she can be when she feels like it. This afternoon she had a sparring session with the knuckles of my right hand. She repeatedly leaped onto my hand to gnaw on my fingers and joints, and she was really biting down at one point. I found that by closing my hand it was more of a challenge to grab hold of something and the experience wasn’t as painful. Yesterday she started barking a little bit and sort of growling when she was trying to play rough… hilarious.
Chi Chi loves to be cradled in someone’s arms. Her favorite sleeping position seems to be across the shoulder--she bolts up my left arm nearly every time I place her in my lap. Per Armen’s recommendation we are feeding her basic vittles for now—shredded boiled chicken breast along with the broth and non-fat cottage cheese, which Anush has been hand-feeding her. We’re trying to figure out the right time to start potty training—she’s small and it’s getting fairly chilly outdoors, so we don’t want her to catch cold, since they cannot tolerate windy weather well. For the time being we make sure Chi Chi scoots towards the linoleum floors in the foyer and kitchen when we sense that it’s time.
We’ve already checked out four pet supply stores in central Yerevan. They are all tiny but the selection varies from one to the next. Today I purchased a special dog carrier imported from the US --a pink braided cotton basket lined with a fine mesh that we’ll use to tote her around in easily since she’s too tiny to be walked on a leash attached to a suitable harness. We’re hoping she won’t mind it—she hates the cardboard box that we lined with blankets and old shirts for her to sleep in. The last two evenings she cuddled up to Anush in bed under the covers, and they slept that way all night. I’m hoping that’s only temporary….
Labels: Armenian Dogs, Personal Experiences, Photography
Tonight Anush and I saw Armenia's legendary Artur Meschian perform in the Opera House, in Spendiaryan Hall. It was the second performance in a series he will give as part of a comeback tour.
He was in Moscow a couple of weeks ago playing there in a packed concert hall, and he’ll be off to Los Angeles before long. A second Yerevan show is scheduled for Tuesday night at the Karen Demirchian Sports Complex. He last performed in 2006, having played in Gyumri, Vanadzor and Yerevan at the Opera House once again.
Meschian had his usual band with him, with the superb drummer Levon Hakhverdian, Arthur Molitvin, who is hands down the best electric bassist I’ve heard in Armenia, and Meschian’s disciple Vahan Ardzuni on rhythm guitar playing just beside him. Unfortunately, due to scheduling conflicts Ara Sarkissian was not onstage to play keyboards, and for me at least it felt like something was missing as the last three times I saw Meschian perform Ara was in the band. Very few people, Ardzuni among them, can fully grasp the nuances and intricacies of Meschian’s music—Ara was around when Meschian was writing and recording most of it while he was living in Boston, and Ardzuni of course grew up learning and playing alongside him. The musician standing in for Ara, Madat Avanesov, was certainly capable enough on the synths but it wasn’t a perfect fit, it didn’t always sound right the whole time, often yielding a muddled sound. He is one of these performers who after every 24 bars or so has to dramatically lift his hand high off the keyboard to show that he’s doing something. Ara was missed, but it didn’t detract from the intensity of the performance. At one point I saw two young woman during the show’s second half shouting out the words and dancing in the aisle to the far right of the hall, not far from we were sitting. Both of them were in the zone. They were just doing what the remaining uptight audience members should have been. After all, he’s a rock musician.
The music was fantastic as it always is. His voice sounded better than I have ever heard, very natural and vibrant, and it was obvious that he has been practicing. He stuck to acoustic guitar and left his own keyboards at home—the duels he had with Ara on stage are long gone. Aside from his usual repertoire which he’s performed at the other shows I’ve attended he debuted two brand new, yet to be identified songs to his audience, one of them being a fast tempo blues played in a way only Meschian could. The second song, which closed the show, was as dramatic and powerful as could be expected, with the chorus being a simple blaring, drawn out cry of “Hey!” as if to awaken the world with his message.
It was a remarkable concert for sure, but my favorite is still the one he gave by invitation only at the Gomidas Chamber Hall back in November 2005, which I wrote about on this blog. It was the first time either of us saw him play live. Anush and I were both there, but we didn’t know each other at the time or hadn’t even seen one another. Neither one of us will ever forget that extraordinary, intimate performance.
Of all the tunes in Meschian’s catalog only one of them is a love song. The lyrical themes of his songs are philosophical, even poignant, laced with psychological angst, and, sometimes they issue a plea for caution. “Where Can You Escape From Yourself,” and “The Rest Is For Sale / In This Godforsaken World” are lyrics that come immediately to mind. There’s a tinge of turmoil and certainly a fair amount of dismay expressed his songs—two of his best are titled “I Am Amazed” and “I Am Crazy… Maybe.” And he’s always trying to let his listeners know that something isn’t quite right in the world. When you first hear the lyrics the message doesn’t immediately sink in, it is absorbed very slowly over several years of listening to the music.
Each time I hear his songs—the same that I have heard hundreds of times—I learn something new, I realize the underlying meaning of a passage that I had previously just skipped over in my mind again and again. And most of his listeners arguably don’t fully comprehend what he is singing about. It’s what makes him a genius of modern Armenian song.
Labels: Arts and Entertainment, Social and Cultural
I just published an entry on the Footprints blog about how to go about making tax payments in Armenia. The process is fairly straightforward in my experiences with paying vehicle and land taxes. Unfortunately, not enough people are doing the same.
Here's an excerpt:
So long as you pay some kind of tribute to the authorities, you can basically avoid having to pay taxes on your earnings. Virtually all of these oligarchs and big businessmen are able to get away with it one way or another. Some even report losses to avoid paying them. It’s just small businessmen and ordinary citizens that are essentially required to pay.
Labels: Personal Experiences
The term "jazz-fusion" has traditionally been used to describe any music that blends jazz with motifs of rock music. But in all honestly, I don't feel comfortable placing that label on Katuner's music because I think it's unclassifiable. Miles Davis was the first to mesh the two genres in the late sixties by incorporating electric guitars, pianos and basses into his arrangements. Katuner on the other hand uses mainly acoustic instruments, with an electric bass and a battery of synthesizers that surround Hayrapedyan used to compliment them. Last night, however, a young guitarist from the Boston area sat in with the band.
Influences of Monk, Miles and Mingus are recognized in the compositions by people who know the music of these legends, with subtle hints of Armenian harmonies weaved in to the songs' melodies. As far as I am aware, all compositions performed are originals written by Hayrapedyan, and each of them is phenomenal in intensity and drive to lure in the listener into his world.
Katuner seems to be his main artistic outlet which Hayrapedyan uses to best convey the intent and meaning of his work as a premier musician in Armenia. As I've noted on this blog in previous posts, Hayrapedyan is undoubtedly the best jazz piano player in Yerevan and he regularly plays around town at places like Poplovok with a bassist and drummer performing mainly jazz standards. He also plays with the Armenian Navy Band.
Katuner incorporates mainly instruments that are typically associated with jazz--trombone, trumpet, saxophone. Familar faces in the band are trumpeter Tigran Suchian, bassist Artyom Manukyan and David Minasian on trombone, all of whom perform with Nooz. Norayr Kartashyan plays various wind instruments, including soprano saxophone, zurna and another long, thin metal instrument that resembles a flute in sound but air is blown to the side of the mouthpiece, not directly into the instrument. I didn't have a chance to ask him what it was, unfortuantely. Hayrapedyan plays various keyboard instruments, on which he manages to create uniquely weird, cosmic sounds that always tend to make me smile. In all, eight musicians managed to cram into a tight space on the lower level of the club where the "stage" is found. I don't know how they managed but it didn't affect their playing one iota.
The band just released a new CD called "Red Sun" and played three shows at Club 12 to celebrate the occasion. You should be able to find it in music shops in downtown Yerevan, but as far as I can tell it's not yet available for purchase online.
More about Katuner can be read on their MySpace page.
Photos of Katuner and Vahagn Hayrapedyan courtesy of Katuner's Albums.
Labels: Music
While growing up my father used to occasionally break out into Armenian song. You never knew what he was going to start singing, there was no lead-in humming or forewarning.
From time to time we would here him blare out (transliterated), "Hey jan, ghapama! Hamov, hodov ghapama..." This translates as, "Hey, dear, ghapama! Delicious smelling ghapama..." When I finally asked him several years ago what ghapama actually was, he replied, "Ghapama is... it's ghapama, I don't know..."
He first heard the song on a Soviet-era record he had purchased in Beirut of music from Armenia, mostly folk songs and some instrumental pieces. Several years ago I ran across the exact same recordings on CD. One of the songs was "Ghapama," and I understood why he took such a liking to it since the melody is very catchy and the guy who's trying to entice listeners to eat the ghapama sounds very jovial but ancient, too, like he's singing with toothless gums. The song is actually hilarious, I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
Naturally during my travels in Armenia, whenever I bothered to remember I would make inquiries about the significance and meaning of "ghapama," in other words what it was and how I could eat it, assuming it was a food. Most of the time I was met with shrugged shoulders and bewildered faces. Very few people actually know what it is.
Finally I asked my mother-in-law a few months back if she happened to know what ghapama was, having remembered my interest in it when I glanced through an Armenian cook book that was lying on the table. She said she had never eaten it but only knew it involved a pumpkin and rice. She didn't know exactly if they were mated with one another, or eaten separately or anything else about whatever it was supposed to be, but she recalled seeing a recipe for it in the book and promised she would prepare it for me some day.
To my surprise that day came on Friday. She placed on a dish a quarter portion of a pumpkin, which had been roasted in an oven, filled with a pilaf of short-grain rice, cinnamon, sliced apples, raisins and dried apricots. She cautioned me before I sampled it that she made it according to the instructions and didn't improvise, so if I didn't fancy the ghapama it was not the fault of her cooking.
I didn't know what to expect of it quite honestly, I figured it wouldn't be very tasty, rather bland and lacking pizazz. I grew up eating various varieties of squash prepared in different ways, baked, boiled, even sauteed. My grandmother used to make pumpkin pie once a year, and I always seemed to enjoy it. So I delved into the ghapama without further thought of her warning and was rather pleased, it was light tasting and delicate. The pumpkin flesh was naturally sweet and supple, and the pilaf with the swollen, warm white raisins was fantastic. Simple food, that if prepared properly (and most of the success was due to the quality of the pumpkin, undoubtedly) can be quite satisfying.
Too bad no one knows what the hell it is.
Photos by Gohar Khachatrian
Labels: Food and Drink
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