After spending a few weeks in Georgia and putting a lot of effort into learning the Georgian writing system, to the point of being mostly able to read place names on signs, we arrived in Armenia and became analphabets once again. It’s quite remarkable how the small region of the Caucasus is split between four countries, two unrecognized independent states, and four languages from three different families written in four different alphabets. Thankfully, the fourth of those, Russian, is quite universal and spoken by most people — in Armenia more so than in Georgia. It seems to be a really bilingual country, with most signs in both languages. I’m not sure why Russian survived so well here but I’m very glad that it did.
We got stuck in Yerevan for a few days, not because Yerevan is so fascinating but because my stretched neck and back were in a pretty bad condition — I could barely move, and couldn’t even imagine putting a backpack on. We stayed in a hostel, the first real backpacker hostel in weeks, after a long string of homestays. Our room was windowless and the common room was in a cellar, which makes one lose track of time, and a long stay in there is rather discomforting, but we did meet some characters. In our room was an Indian fellow who met an Armenian girl on a previous visit, and corresponded with her over the Internet afterwards; now he’s here again to meet her family, with the final goal, supposedly, of marriage. He’s such a young, naive and helpless fellow, he wasn’t really prepared for the proceedings here. Most of the family seemed to accept him, except the key person, the father, who told him quite simply to go back to India. During our stay he was holed up in the room most of the time, waiting for the father to change his mind. We felt really sorry for him, that he got himself into such a mess. Alas we don’t know how the story ended.
On the second day I decided to see a doctor. The helpful girl at the hostel’s reception directed us to a medical center; we took a taxi and went inside. It felt like a different world — everything so clean and organized, we didn’t expect anything like that at all. An orthopedist checked me but unfortunately there’s not much one can do with a stretched muscle, except heating it and resting. He recommended a capsicum plaster, which is a big sticker that contains an extract of the hot stuff from chili peppers that is released into the skin, increasing blood circulation. It did help somewhat but was a real bitch to remove later. The strange thing was that we left without ever being required to pay anything. It looks like this is a medical center for rich people in which the service is free.
One of the things Yerevan is known for is its cafe culture — the amount of cafes in the city is staggering, rivaling I think even Tel Aviv. It’s a pity that the coffee itself is, for the most part, disastrous. It’s not clear to me how cafe culture develops around Nestle packets of instant coffee mixed with powdered milk. We didn’t spend much time outside, anyway, because even a little walking got me tired quite quickly. After three days, when I felt that I could at least wear Dana’s lighter backpack, we decided to move on.
In the morning we made a small trip to Echmiadzin, the cradle of Christianity in Armenia (the world’s first Christian country) and the site of it’s oldest and holiest church, as well as the Armenian Patriarch’s residence. The church contains a treasury with such items as the spear that was used by a Roman soldier to pierce Christ’s chest when he was on the cross, a small piece of the cross itself, and relics from various apostles inside arm-shaped golden reliquaries.
In the evening we made our way north-east to Dilijan. Situated in the mountains of the Lower Caucasus, this town’s clear water, fresh air and scenic location have been noted a long time ago for their healing effects on body and soul. The Soviets built sanatoriums here, as well as collective houses for the writers and cinematographers unions, to which said professionals retired on vacations to rest the mind and receive inspiration. In the era of Soviet tourism, which consisted of busloads of factory and office workers sent in for a week of organized recreation, the town was bustling; after a few tough years international tourism has now started replacing that extinct industry. The old Soviet buildings are still standing, and some have been converted into more modern hotels. The grotesque concrete monument commemorating 50 years of Soviet Armenia is still there, too, and the grass around it is being carefully manicured by passing herds of cows. It is not quite clear why Soviet architecture is so consistently nasty — it seems that no matter what was being constructed, it always had to have an unfinished gray concrete exterior.
Nevertheless, Soviet architecture aside, Dilijan is indeed a magical place. We stayed with Nina at her homestay, and she cooked delicious meals as is customary. We spent the next day doing pretty much nothing at all, except for a short trip to the town’s local museum. Surprisingly it turned out to be very pretty, well-maintained, welcoming and interesting: a young woman, apparently a fresh art history graduate, took great care in guiding us through the exhibitions, even though we didn’t ask for it, and explaining all about the Armenian, Russian and European artists whose works are on display. This little gem of a museum, absent from the guidebooks, was a delightful discovery.
The next day we took a car to Parz Lich, a lake in the thick woods around Dilijan. From there a marked path leads to the village of Gosh and the monastery of Goshavank; the markings are sometimes missing, sometimes ambiguous, but the views make up for that. The monastery is a popular tourist spot but the village around it has not changed in decades. Of course when we pass through such places we’re always the attraction of the day. As we were passing through Gosh, a villager called to us. “Brother, a 100 grams?” Such a proposition is hard to refuse. He led us into his yard, where he and his friend were sitting on the grass with a bottle of vodka and some snacks. We toasted, and went on to see Goshavank. From there our driver took us to Haghartsin, another monastery in the area, and we returned back home to Nina.
The next day’s destination was a newly discovered waterfall within walking distance from Dilijan. The trail starts at Dilijan’s train station, now the terminal station of the line, which earlier continued north-east to Ijevan. After a series of landslides covered the tracks, that part of the line was abandoned, and now it mainly serves as a thoroughfare for herds of cows. Local women from the surrounding villages come to collect wild plants by the derelict tracks, while their husbands rest in the shade and watch over them. The tracks provide a route for a great walk with very nice views. The waterfall is located in a beautiful canyon that branches away from the railway, but after a short walk in the canyon without any path we hit unpassable vegetation, and gave up the idea of finding it.
Our next and final stop in Armenia was Alaverdi, located in the Debed canyon in northern Armenia, on the way to the Georgian border. This canyon has been important since ancient times, when monasteries were built on its rims; due to its role in connecting Georgia with Armenia, the Russian Tsar Nikolai built a railway here after annexing the trans-Caucasus region in the 19th century. Soviet times saw rapid development, when copper mines and factories filled the canyon, power lines crisscrossed its slopes and the towns expanded. These days the factories are mostly dormant, except for one especially nasty smoke stack still belching thick white smoke. Current development, as everywhere else, concerns tourism. We stayed with Irina, who opened her B&B two years ago, the first budget option in the region. Irina and her husband Stepan are exceptionally warm-hearted people. Their place is one of those which you visit for one day and staying at least two, and this is precisely what happened in our case.
We made a three-day plan for visiting the monasteries around us. The first day included a number of distant places that are reachable only by car; Irina set us up with Misha, who drove us first to Kobayr, a ruin on a steep slope behind a village which seems almost as ancient as the monastery, and then to the Odzun Church, an ancient and important basilica from the 6th century that is still used for worship. The local pope, the church’s custodian, volunteered to guide us through the unusual features of the church, and even demonstrated its acoustics by singing a prayer. It was quite an experience. He was very excited to receive guests from Israel, the Holy Land, and was delighted to hear that about the Armenian quarter in old Jerusalem.
The next stop after Odzun was Ardvi, a small monastery. As we approached we saw smoke coming up from near the church; a little while later we heard chatter, laughter and singing. Then we saw the people, clustered around a couple of barbecue grills and some tables, and at the same time they saw us; we were immediately invited to join them, and they wouldn’t take no for an answer. As we learned later, we happened upon a feast, centered around a sacrifice. Some people were involved in an accident, and walked out of it unhurt; to celebrate, they organized a feast and brought a ram. The ram was circled three times around the church, and then slaughtered and barbecued. By Armenian custom, an assembly of at least seven families is required for a celebration, and there were indeed many people there in various stages of drunkenness. We were seated by a table and copiously fed and toasted. It only ended when we said that Irina, our host, would be offended if we arrived at dinner already full.
After seeing the church, Misha invited us to his dacha, located in the village near the monastery. His mother and brother were there, and of course food was on the table again. The brother is a walking encyclopedia, and knows quite a lot about Israel. He amused us with his knowledge during our drive back to Alaverdi; among others, he’s familiar with the Wailing Wall as the place where Jews bang their heads against the wall for atonement. He used to work in one of the factories in the Alaverdi area, which since has closed. Armenians, more than any other nation so far, really lament the fall of the Soviet Union. This is a sentiment echoed by many people to whom we talked here. Things never really picked up here since then, and people miss the jobs and the stability that the Soviet regime provided.
Among the many monasteries in the area, two are on the UNESCO World Heritage list, and they are located within walking distance of each other. In order to reach Sanahin, the first of the two, we took a cable car from Alaverdi at the bottom of the canyon. From Sanahin we walked through villages and grass fields to Haghpat. We were accompanied for a small part of the way by a duck, which, when we turned to look at it, inquiring as to its intentions, shyly looked aside and pretended to be leisurely strolling, immediately picking up pace and following us again as we resumed walking.
For our last night in Armenia, Irina and her husband decided to treat us with khorovats, the traditional Armenian barbecue. Every house has a barbecue place, some inside the house next to the fireplace, some outside like Irina and Stepan’s. The skewers are huge, and so are the pieces of meat. It is seasoned thoroughly and is very tasty. Stepan makes his own wine, and we washed down our meal with it, following a starting glass of fruit vodka, toasting many times in a tradition which I have almost forgotten — long, elaborate toasts precede every sip, and mutual toasts follow each other endlessly. It was great fun.
The next day, we managed to squeeze the monastery of Akhtala into our schedule, and after that Misha drove us to the border, where we said goodbye to Armenia and hello again to good old Georgia.
May 31, 2011