Armenia Decides

(published in the Kalgoorlie Miner on election day)

I have just recieved a frantic pigeon-mail from Michael Gorey, advising that an ‘Australia Decides 2007’ feature piece is needed from my out-station. “Get out and about,” he directs from his red-brick tower, “I want the opinion of the man on the street”. The editor’s oft-criticised decision to post a foreign correspondent in Kapan, southern Armenia, will now bear fruit, most likely a lemon.

I decide immediately that to connect with the man on the street, I need to become the man on the street. I dye my hair black – if you’re blonde, you’re a hooker – and pencil in a monobrow, then don trousers, a jacket, and pointy shoes, all in black leather. The thought occurs to me that it might have been easier to meet men on the street if I’d left my hair blonde. Too late now. The finishing touches on my disguise are a packet of long, peach-scented cigarettes and a Kalashnikov assault rifle. Right to go.

My trusty donkey, Alby Mangels, bucks as I drag him from his pile of cabbage stubs and cast an Iranian tapestry across his midriff. It takes three quick shots of vodka to settle him down - one more than usual. I jump on side-saddle, in observance of Armenian traffic regulation 1.1(a), and begin the ride to town, lighting up a cigarette and pop-pop-popping a few birds with the Kalashnikov, just to show I’m one of the boys.

The ride takes me down a pot-holed concrete footpath, past a crumbling concrete apartment building, through a damp concrete tunnel, and beside a long concrete wall, pocked-marked with bullet holes from Azerbaijan. “We showed them though,” a local once told me, aiming his imaginary AK-47 at the mountain side, “Three years ago, the nearest Azeri was up there. Now, he is 200 kilometres away.” I laughed for five minutes – any less would be considered un-Armenian.

The central markets are abuzz when I arrive. The local currency, the ‘Cucumber’ (CBR), has strengthened against the greenback in recent times, and inflation – long the enemy of former Soviet states – has steadied, with a standard basket of pickled green tomatoes only CBR 2.15 more than this time last year. So men and women and transvestites are spending Cucumbers like there’s no tomorrow, which may well be the case if Iran, just 30 kilometres away, goes nuclear.

Amongst the throng I spot my language coach Cher, named after the singer Cher, the greatest living Armenian. She is a pretty young thing (this Cher, not that Cher): facial desiccation – the curse of Armenian women – has not yet taken hold, and her moustache is fashionably styled. I slither through the crowd and reveal myself to her, and by that I mean reveal my identity. With a little encouragement, in the form of a cabbage leaf dipped in vodka, she agrees to follow and interpret for me.

I canvas several market-goers, and most seem to favour the Coalition. In a country where brides must be virgins, and flatulence brings shame to you and your family (as I discovered during dinner at the mayoral palace), it is natural that Armenians favour the Howard Government’s social conservatism. I discover that WorkChoices is also revered: earning AUD $5.00 (approximately CBR 12.00) an hour is a dream here, where most take home less than twelve Cucumbers per week.

Moving across to the stalls, I meet Armen (after Great Armenia), a greying, 50-something vendor who specialises in cabbages and vodka. I show him pictures of John Howard, Kevin Rudd, and Bob Brown. I’d show him a picture of the Democrats leader but I don’t know who it is. Slapping each photo in turn, Armen speaks with great animation.

“In Armenia, we call these men The Shun, The Esh, and The Katu,” Cher translates, “That is The Dog, The Donkey, and The Cat. Howard is The Shun because, like an Armenian dog, he is rabid and wiley, but will whimper and lay down when cracked with a cane. Rudd is The Esh because, like an Armenian donkey, he is painful to listen to, and will bite off your fingers if provoked. Brown is The Katu because, like an Armenian cat, he pisses on all of your favourite things.”

I nod in agreement with Armen, and continue pushing through the crowd. At the far side of the market square I spot a group of old men – good for political comment in any culture - enjoying a traditional lunch of boiled cabbage and vodka. I greet the men, and reveal photos of some prominent candidates.

At the sight of Barry Haase, the men, all called Armen (after Great Armenia), giggle and mock his baritone voice. I show Alexander Downer and they laugh for a solid half-hour, stopping only when I fire a few warning rounds from the Kalashnikov. When everyone has their breath back I show Julia Gillard, and things suddenly get crazy.

The Armens descend upon me, tearing Gillard’s image from my hand and nailing it to a length of two-by-four. They parade it through the square, bouncing to the beat of spontaneous gunfire, and the crowd ascends into frenzy. As I flee the dizzying scene, leaving Alby Mangels behind, I remember that in Armenia, ginger hair is considered a virtue, a sign of The Chosen One. I sense a strong swing to Labor.

On the way home, I stop on the bridge and peer into the Kapan river. The water is a vivid azure blue, not because it’s sourced from melting alpine glaciers, but because it runs through the local mine, and contains enough copper sulphate to kill a man. A rotten cabbage races an empty vodka bottle through the eddies, and I am reminded of the local proverb: “In Kapan, look up - don’t look down”.

That wisdom, I decide as I wander off, applies equally to this election: we shouldn’t look down into the poison torrent of fear, we should look up at the brilliant mountain and aspire to reach its summit. We’ve been slipping down the slope for the past ten years. Now is the time to stick the ice-pick in, and claw back some national pride. I’m just sorry I won’t be on the ground to see it. I was gonna have a sick election party.