EXPAT LAMENT: WHAT HAVE WE GOTTEN OURSELVES INTO NOW?

As an expat, have you ever wondered what you got yourself into after you arrived in a new country? No? Then you’re a better person than I am. Let me tell you about our move to Armenia. Armenia? Yes, I know, I had to find it on the map myself, and as a globetrotting person I should be ashamed of myself. Armenia is located in the Caucasus Mountains, east of Turkey, north of Iran. Go look it up. And after you read the story below, do take note of the comments at the end.

DIED AND GONE TO ARMENIA

We’re going to Armenia! We’ve read and heard wonderful things about the country. The mountains are majestic, the wildflowers spectacular, the fruit yummy delicious. The photographs we’ve seen are stunning. I’ve heard other things too, regarding public toilets, cow-feet soup and winter, none of these majestic, spectacular, or yummy delicious. I ignore these tales of doom. I’m an optimist and why allow negativity to interfere with my happy expectations?

Besides, I should worry about public toilets? Please, I’ve been places, seen things. And cow-feet soup? I’ve eaten, well, never mind. And winter? I just spent three-and-a-half years in the muggy tropics; I want winter!

Going to Armenia is an interesting new adventure. It will be. Just think about it: I’ll be living in the former Soviet Union! Armenians used to be bad guys: Soviets. Now they’re good guys: Armenians – magically transformed by independence in 1991 after Soviet communism collapsed around them. Now, years later, there’s still a lot of work to do. Democracy and capitalism are wonderful. Just not right away and instantly. First you have to crawl out of the mess you’re in before you can see the beauty beyond. My spouse will be of assistance in furthering the Armenian businessmen’s grasp of the joys of capitalism and consumerism. The fine points are not always easily understood, we’ve been told. Things like competition, labeling, advertising. In communist totalitarian times there were no such things to worry about. A product was either available or it was not available. This does have a certain appeal: It makes life more simple that way. No coupons to cut for one thing.

So, one Sunday in the middle of January we find ourselves on the last leg of our journey to Yerevan, the capital of Armenia. The small plane is full of people who look like former communists, swarthy men wearing heavy black coats, huge fur hats, and no smiles. There are some others as well, foreigners like ourselves. We don’t smile much either: The emergency exit rows are stuffed with luggage, the fur hats are smoking forbidden cigarettes and the aircraft has seen better days, like in 1965.

But not to worry. The plane lands safely at Zvartnots airport, then ejects us straight into a moonless, arctic night onto what appears to be a cracked and uneven tarmac surface with patches of frozen snow tempting us to stumble and break a few bones. Shocked by a blast of polar air, we follow a vaguely visible uniformed person into a dark tunnelish corridor like sheep to the slaughter. I don’t know where that image came from, but there it is.

All I see is dark stone, dirty cement, grimy black glass, and the ghostly shapes of the other passengers. Nobody says anything. Perhaps I’m merely having a Kafkaesque episode. These things happen. I look at my husband, or at least I think it’s him. It could be a former KGB agent turned kindergarten teacher for all I can see in the dark.

Why are there no lights? Why is there no heat? Where are we, really? Siberia? Apprehension creeps through me as I drag myself deeper into the tunnel, breathing cold dead air, shivering in my down coat. Sinister scenarios slither through my head. I’ve seen movies. The chilly kind. You know what I’m talking about.

I’m gripped by an odd, primal feeling. Is this death? But no, it cannot be: there is no light at the end of the tunnel.

Armenia is at the end of the tunnel.

We finally emerge into a frigid, lugubrious dungeon lit by one and a half light bulb. We line up in front of a glass cubicle where two grim men in uniforms check our passports and visas. They do not speak or smile, wishing us a warm welcome to their icy country. Their frozen faces would crack. So I forgive them.

We descend further into the stone bowels of the cavern, to a claustrophobic, gloomy area to claim our luggage. I know good writers don’t use too many adjectives, but in this case, trust me, no amount of adjectives is enough to describe this creepy catacomb.

We have six suitcases between us, packed with things to help us get going in Armenia before the rest of our stuff arrives from warm, cheerful Ghana. Which may take a while, especially if the shipment has been mis-routed through Shanghai. Don’t think it can’t happen.

What to do if we don’t get our suitcases? Our thermal underwear is in them. Just being here has plummeted me into instant pessimism and I must apologize.

All six suitcases come rolling down the belt. But not until we’ve stood around for one hour, twenty-two minutes and fifteen seconds, slowly freezing to death. Almost.