when I ran away with the cow herders
'Come and rest,' they called to me and into their hut I went, planning to stay for an hour or so. Light from the window lit up a cheese on an aluminum plate that dripped into a bucket. Cloud flowed in through the door like smoke. An edge was sliced off the cheese and put on the table. Out came another fresh cheese, salted, and piles of lavash wraps. I sat on one of the carpet-covered beds while flies buzzed in cow-y air. Two hours and then two nights passed, cocooned in this smokey hut in the Armenian mountains.
Sergo, 64, green-blue-brown speckled eyes, and Aram, 11, big ears and beautiful skin, work together during the summer in the herby mountainscape. Both speak good Russian. Their herds of cows and horses are protected by terrifying dogs, whose ears have been clipped from birth to make them hear the wolves and bears better.
Herding cows
We run with sticks to gather the cows while thunder claps us and ice pelts our cheeks. Wild strawberries, pink daisies and orange star flowers cover the steep slopes. The peppery smell of crushed herbs hangs in the mist as we go up and down the mountain, hooting all the way home.
Fresh milk
Sergo and Aram milk two cows twice a day at 6am and 6pm on the dot. Aram loves to put my mug under the udders and milk directly into it, and then hand me the frothy warm milk. I stand, drinking the richness and staring at the lengthening shadows on the mountains, thinking thank god I'm not squeamish and wondering what the world is up to below.
Sergo was a chef during his military service in the Soviet Union in Novosibirsk and often made delicious meals on the little metal stove. Its smell of wood smoke will forever remind me of home, of the cosy sitting room, of finding a squashy bag of dachshund under a cushion (or up your jumper), of playing backgammon with a glass of brandy. This smell is the nostalgia of childhood, Christmas tree needles, security, tea, jam tarts, scones, love. Especially the smell of love.
Sergo puts aubergines and peppers onto the hot metal. We then peel and chop them up. Slices of salted potato go on next, 'I like them slightly raw,' says Sergo. The weather is nasty and wild, but it feels good to be safe and warm inside.
Wake up and falling asleep
I wake to the scrape of coals coming to life, the snap of burning wood, then a flush of warmth. Just a few birds can be heard outside, it's too early and cold yet for the mad spray of crickets and butterflies. It's a shock to go out and collect water from the minty fountain. All around is pure silence.
Now we're going to sleep, the flies finally settle, the cows groan and huff outside, a pig honks. Everything slows, closing up, shutting out the dark, while the stars shake themselves out like flour from a sieve, impossibly infinite above the velvety slopes. It's a different type of rain now, watery drops exchanged for pricks sharp and dry, reigning over on the borderless kingdom of Transcaucasia.
Art of waiting
Whether it's waiting for a bus that will never come or waiting for the rain to pass in a mountain hut, I'm slowing learning from my Caucasian elders the art of doing absolutely nothing. Learning to savour it. Wifi/data/phone-less, we crack away the minutes with sunflower seeds, nap, stare into space, try to pronounce difficult Armenian letters, eat various crusty wafers from the cupboards. Often I braved the raging weather and visited the piglets with Aram. Such silky, shivery, roly-poly little lumps they were, piling themselves on top of each other for warmth. It was lovely to just be, exist, in the simplicity of the mountains.
