In with the East Wind: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life - Lake Sevan: A Night of Shashlik, Samogon, and Surprises
Lake Sevan, perched high in the Armenian highlands, is one of the largest freshwater alpine lakes in Eurasia. Its shimmering blue waters, framed by mountains and monasteries, have long been a source of spiritual and cultural sustenance. For Armenians, Sevan is more than a scenic retreat—it’s a place of gathering, gratitude, and ritual.
Almost as soon as we arrived and
checked into the hotel, our bus driver brought the sheep and vegetables from
the market down to the beach. When we joined him, we witnessed the slaying of the sheep—not a casual act, but a traditional Armenian ritual known as matagh.
It’s a gesture of thanksgiving, often performed after surviving hardship or in
anticipation of a journey. The animal is slaughtered respectfully, with a
prayer, and the meat is shared among families as a blessing.
That did not sit well with me. Even
though I was farm-raised and our animals served as both companions and food,
the eating of “someone” I knew—or had just met—was unpleasant. I’m not a
complete vegetarian today, but I don’t eat much meat. The memories preclude
enjoyment.
After the butchering, our driver
pulled out sticks and threaded the meat alongside eggplant (a shashlik
essential) and other vegetables—likely tomatoes, onions, and peppers. Then came
the samogon, Russian moonshine, in several bottles. We sat in a circle,
enjoying our meal and each other’s company. Lilya, our guide, seemed resigned
to our preference for “native” rather than tourist experiences, but she sat at
a distance.
As the sun went down and the moon
came up, several of us—slightly inebriated—headed for the lake. Our swimsuits,
if we had any, were back in the hotel. So we stripped and jumped in. Yes, mixed
genders.
The first thought that hit us: OMG,
how could water be this cold? Would we survive or become floating ice cubes?
Actually, it took only a few minutes before our bodies acclimated.
The second thought: Where is Lilya?
She was our guide and guard, and we’d taken to keeping track of her. Seeing her
sitting alone in a clump of grass not far from the lake stirred some empathy.
How difficult it must be to keep an eye on crazy Americans swimming nude in a
chilling lake, let alone understand their enthusiasm for such “naughtiness.”
A third thought, a wicked one,
crept into the minds of one of my colleagues, Larry, and me. “Let’s invite
Lilya into the water,” we both said in one breath. The honor fell to me as one
of the two females in our group.
I approached her and asked if she’d
join us. She was surprised. “The water must be terribly cold,” she said. “Nah,
just takes some getting used to,” I assured her. She wasn’t so sure, but she’d
had a nip or two of samogon. Maybe her thinking was a little off. Or maybe she
was curious. Or lonely. KGB agents weren’t popular.
She hesitated. Then, with a little
more encouragement, she followed me to the lake’s edge, where everyone crowded
around. “Come on, Lilya. Just for a little bit. You have to let down and have
some fun sometime.”
To our astonishment, she calmly
removed her clothes and jumped in with us. We played in the water for perhaps
an hour. Then, as the sun disappeared, it really did become way too cold. We
dressed quickly, shivering, and dashed back to the hotel. Lilya with us. Part
of us.
In the morning, we got back on the
bus and headed to Yerevan. Lilya was once again a sentinel, but she was not the
same. Though she said little, we knew—and she knew—she had been compromised. I
doubt that any of the details of the market visit, sheep bartering, shashlik
and samogon on the beach, and especially our nude swim in the dark made it into
her mandatory final report.
We learned from Lilya that KGB
agents had a job that we very much did not like. Neither did Russians we knew. But
we also learned that even those tasked with surveillance have a heart. And
sometimes, that heart lets them be vulnerable. That can be endearing—despite
the trappings of the job. We learned that, but it would remain submerged,
unexpressed, and inexpressible knowledge. We parted company with Lilya without
a word, not on the bus, not when we are arrived back at the dorms, and not when
we, in a few days, left for home. Words, in those days, were not allowed. Lilya
did not allow herself words, and we did not allow ourselves words. We all
understood now much more but would be loathe to share it.
by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver
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For more posts by and about Betty Lou Leaver, click HERE.
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