Armenia: In the shadow of Ararat / In die skadu van Ararat

(Rol af vir Afrikaans en foto’s)

The altitude and mass was unexpected: more than five times the height of Table Mountain, clearly visible, rising above the other mountains. There are two peaks, Great Ararat and Lesser Ararat just a few kilometres away.

I always maintain that your point of entry in a new country determines how you will experience that country. It started well. For some reason they decided (was it my black walking stick?) that I was a diplomat and I was ushered ahead of the other passengers. Visa applicatioin and customs was a breeze. Aha, a very good start! Someone from the car rental agency was meant to be waiting for us at the exit. No-one. I must admit that the flight had landed a little early. We hung around in the slightly dilapidated arrivals hall, watching out for a man with our names on his board.

The appointed hour arrived. No-one. We waited. And waited. An hour passed. We grew concerned. We ran into a wall of officials and police who didn’t understand us. Anuta sought help at Info. I tried other rental companies. One hour became three. The only option was to rent a comfortable, spacious Fiat from Europcar in order to get to our accommodation 40km away. And then we could continue the fight to get a refund from the first company.

Over to Anuta, our designated driver, for her version of what followed:

‘Imagine the following: apart from a few short shopping trips under the watchful eye of Anna, I had never driven a car on the wrong side of the road. Jerevan’s traffic, even according to its residents, is crazy. It was peak hour…

‘ We got into the car, left the parking garage and straight into the heaviest and most chaotic traffic imaginable. G monitored the GPS and gave instructions, but somewhere it became confused and the next thing we landed in the back streets where there is almost no tar left and manics with highly charged testosterone driving at breakneck speed through clouds of dust. I was paralized by panic and fear, every second. We drove around like this in circles, didn’t understand where or how to drive, didn’t know that U-turns are allowed at certain points even on highways, everyone hooting at us (me) and nerves shot! By some miracle we managed to put the city behind us and eventually reached our destination. But, Jerevan hadn’t finished with us. The cross border permit for the car to cross into Georgia would take another day or two involving two return trips back to Jerevan…’

With Mount Ararat always watching over us.

Firstly, something about Jerevan. Madness. Brutality. Nothing to understand about the city. It’s like Khayelitsha on hormones with lots of trees and different architectural styles. In the city centre every model large, black Mercedes Benz, black Galanderwagen, Porsche and other expensive models, with black windows. Like in mafia movies. The area around the Huge Freedom Square is cold and Sovietesque. Fortunately the side streets are lined with trees and every expensive name brand is to be found here. In the midst of all the strangeness. We walked about for a while and realised that it wasn’t for us. Too cold and soulless. Yet, certainly attractive overall.

On arriving in the town of Artashat where we were to stay, the GPS took us through dreadful poor districts full of dongas, poverty, dogs and little children. All in a crumbling state. You have reached your destination. A dark street ending in dark dead ends. Surely not, we said to each other. Children came running towards us. We asked: Gregory? (the name of our Booking.com host) One boy ran off through a dark hole in a wall and brought with him a young woman with a child on the hip. She was Maria, Gregory’s wife. She pointed us back into the misery.

Behind a high wall and a large entrance stood a palatial house. Brand new. Well, our bedroom stepped right out of 1001 Arabian Nights, but without bedside lamps, chair or table. But, everything a-glitter. The embossed wallpaper shone like golden waves.

In the bathroom, marbled as if for Nefertiti, I almost succumbed to my fear of wet bathrooms. I froze. Became seasick. The marble patterns started to swirl around me. My fear and phobia for wet bathrooms began 23 years ago when I slipped on ice and broke my leg. I had to call Anuta to lead me, dripping, out of the bathroom.

We were hungry. Gregory accompanied us to his friend’s restaurant a couple of hundred metres from the house. We were the only guests in a large hall with cheap decorations, ready for a balloon wedding. The harsh neon lights were switched on. No-one could speak English and one dish followed another until the table groaned. Some of the food was strange, some very familiar. We enjoyed everything with gusto. It seems that at the heart of Armenian cuisine is dough in all its forms. Flaky pastry as light as a feather, bread that I could eat all day, every day, bread nests filled with cheese and eggs… The accent on cheese, fresh vegetables, and fruit.

The following day we took on the 40km to the city right to Freedom Square. Arrived at Europcar’s head office. Pleasant people. Even gave us a photo book on all the monasteries of the country. But, the permit would need another day. (A new arrangement required as a result of the Ukraine war and no-one quite understood yet how it worked) But, the fight to get our deposit on the car rental was ongoing. No-one could assist us.

Returned to Artashat for a rest and then on to Khor Virap. This is the iconic monastery that features as foreground to all the photographs of Mount Ararat. It was really hot and we realised that I wouldn’t be able to make it up the steep hill, even with my walking stick. We were already tired after another morning of walking in the city. We hung around a very strange cemetery for a while and then returned to the friend’s restaurant for a light supper.

We got up early to take photos of Ararat and Khor Virap before the heat of the day created a haze. This time we were too early to be allowed to drive to the top. No choice but to take on the challenge of returning to Yerevan for a third visit. Anuta was a little more confident and even did the U-turns on the highway. She learned to ignore the traffic with a curse and then to edge forward, nosing into the traffic until they made way for her. Finally, permit in hand, we were done within an hour. Then we took on the city centre with our confused GPS and after circling and backtracking, eventually made it to the Cascade Complex. Grotesque soviet art and architecture at its best (worst?). Dawdled about for a while and then headed back into the countryside. We travelled on roads so bad that they knocked your breath away to reach the lovely Garni Temple – the only Greco-Roman collonaded building left in Armenia, in fact in the entire erstwhile Soviet Union. Built in the Ionian style it is the most well-known structure and symbol of the pre-Christian period in Armenia. It is also regarded at the most eastern Greco-Roman building in the world. We spent an unhurried couple of hours taking it all in and allowing our imagination run free.

We were hungry and stopped for a late lunch just before the Gebhard Monastery in a traditional restaurant perched dramatically over the ravine of the Azat River.

There we could experience first hand how they bake bread against the inside walls of a huge heated clay pot. The very thin dough is slapped against the side using a baking pillow! We didn’t know yet that this would become our staple for the next ten days. See photos.

Very replete, we continued to the Gebhard Monastery, a UNESCO protected area higher up the valley. Everywhere were shiny crosses mounted in inaccessible spots. How did they even get up there? We also saw many hollowed out caves in the sandstone canyon walls where ascetic monks once lived. The monastery is one of the most important for Armenians on pilgrimages. The first structure was already built in the 4^th C. We looked around, peeped inside and lit a candle or two and just absorbed the antiquity.

This was our first visit to an Armenian monastery and the soberness was quite a shock. Visually not attractive like the monasteries of e.g. Serbia and Romania. The belief system is Orthodox and the church is known as the Armenian Apostolic Church. The oldest Christian church recognised by a state after it had become active in the area by 40 AD. Later we would realise that owing to poverty and hard times these churches had never been restored and the original murals had disappeared. We didn’t enjoy the monastery that much and even less the men who keep caged white doves to ‘sell’ to you to release for good luck. Also found the few musicians playing false flutes and drums outside the walls to entertain the masses of Oriental visitors irritating.

We were tired out after our return trip across strange and very high mountain passes with Ararat still on the horizon. We had become aware of how intensely fruit is farmed. One  orchard after another. And, of course, vineyards. We didn’t feel like dinner and fell into bed – tired and satisfied. By this time I had learned to walk about the bathroom holding onto the wall! Tomorrow awaited a new region and adventures.

In the evenings we had to reassure concerned friends that we had seen no signs of the war between Uzbekistan and Nogoro Karabaksh (province of Armenia that is an island within the borders of Uzbekistan). No-one spoke about it. Life continued.

The following morning we got up before breakfast to return to Khor Virap. Fortunately there was a friendly monk sporting the longest and broadest moustache we have ever seen and which he had to steady in the wind. We showed him the walking stick and he opened the gate and allowed us to drive to the top! The same feeling of remoteness and detachment as with the previous monasteries. No atmosphere – dark and soulless. But, I lit another candle and we stayed a while before starting the journey to the south, direction Iran. Two old travellers on the move.

***

Dit het ek nie verwag nie, maar toe ek op Zvartnots-lughawe in Jerewan afklim, kyk ek om asof ek geroep word. Daar lê Ararat. Groter as lewensgroot. Die berg van die Kinderbybel. Die berg van soveel verhale en fabels . ‘n Berg wat in die mensdom se bestaan ingeskryf is. Dít het ek nie verwag nie. Meer as vyf keer die hoogte van Tafelberg. Daar is twee pieke, Groot-Ararat en Klein-Ararat ‘n paar kilometer verder.

Ek sê mos altyd your point of entry in ‘n land bepaal hoe jy die land gaan ervaar. Dit begin goed. Ek word met my swart kierie as ‘n diplomaat aangesien en ons word vinnig en moeiteloos deur die doeane begelei. Aha! Goeie begin. By die uitgang moet iemand op ons wag van die maatskappy van wie ons ‘n motor vir drie weke gehuur het. Niemand. Die vlug wás ‘n bietjie vroeg. Ons hang rond in die groot saal wat al bietjie gehawend is.

Die ontmoetingsuur breek aan. Niemand. Ons wag. En wag. ‘n Uur gaan verby. Ons begin bekommerd raak. Ons loop ons vas teen ‘n muur van amptenary en polisie wat ons nie verstaan nie. Anuta gaan kerm by Info. Ek gaan klop aan by ander verhuringskantore. Later verloop drie ure. Al genade is om by Europcar ‘n gemaklike en ruim outomatiese Fiat te huur om by ons blyplek te kry en die geveg met die verhuringsmaatskappy te begin.

Nou moet ek oorhandig aan Anuta wat die motor moes bestuur om te vertel:

‘Verbeel jou die volgende: behalwe vir ‘n paar kort inkopieritte onder Anna se wakende oog in België, het ek nog nooit aan die verkeerde kant van die pad motor bestuur nie. Jerewan se verkeer is volgens selfs sy eie inwoners gek. Dit was spitstyd…

Ons klim direk in die motor en ry uit die parkeergarage reguit in die swaarste en chaotiese verkeer denkbaar. G het die GPS gemonitor en aanwysings deurgegee, maar êrens raak die ding deurmekaar en die volgende ding beland ons in die agterstrate waar daar amper nie eens teer oor is nie, maniakke met hoë testosteroonvlakke jaag dat die stof so staan. Ek was elke oomblik lam van angs en vrees. So ry ons in sirkels, verstaan glad nie wanneer en hoe om te ry nie, weet nie dat U-draaie sommer op snelweë toegelaat word op sekere plekke nie, almal toet vir ons (my) en die senuwees knaag! Op die een of ander wonderbaarlike manier skud ons die stad af en kom uiteindelik by ons slaapplek uit. Maar Jerewan was nie verby nie. Die permit om met die motor oor die grens na Georgië te ry neem toe nog twee dae en ons is telkens terug…’

Met Berg Ararat wat heeltyd oor ons waak.

Eers iets oor Jerewan. Waansin. Brutaliteit. Ons verstaan die stad glad nie. Dit is soos Khayelitsha op hormone met baie bome en verskillende boustyle. In die middestad is daar elke model swart en groot Mercedes Benz, swart Galanderwagens, Porsches en ander duur modelle. Met swart vensters. Soos in Mafia-movies. Die gebied om die groot Vryheidsplein is kil en Soewjetterig. Gelukkig is die systrate boomryk waar elke duur handelsnaam en hotel pryk. So tussen die vreemdheid. Ons het bietjie rondgestap en gou besef dit is nie vir ons nie. Ons het ook met die breë voetgangers-boulevard op en neer gestap. Kil, inspirasieloos, sonder siel. Tog mooi op die oog as ‘n geheel.

In die dorp wat ons tuisgaan, Artashat,  stuur die GPS ons deur skrikwekkende agterbuurtes vol dongas, armoede, honde en kindertjies. Alles is aan’t verkrummel. You have reached your destination.  ‘n Donker straat wat in donkertes doodloop. Dit kan nie wees nie, sê ons vir mekaar. Kindertjies kom aangehardloop. Ons vra: Gregory, die naam van ons Booking.com-gasheer. Die een kind hardloop ‘n donker gat by ‘n muur in en bring ‘n mooi jongerige vrou met ‘n kind op die heup terug. Sy is Maria, Gregory se vrou. Sy beduie ons moet terug tussen die miserie.

By ‘n groot ingang staan ‘n paleis van ‘n huis. Splinternuut. Wel, die slaapkamer kon uit die 1001 Arabiese nagte kom, sonder bedlampies, ‘n tafel of ‘n stoel. Maar alles glitter. Die gebosseerde muurpapier skyn soos goue deinings.

In die badkamer, gemarmer soos vir Nefertiti, slaan die angste vir nat badkamers my amper neer. Ek vries. Word seesiek. Die marmer patrone begin om my draai. My vrees en fobie vir ‘n nat vloer het 23 jaar gelede begin toe ek my been in gladde sneeu gebreek het. Ek moet Anuta roep om my druipnat uit die badkamer te lei.

Ons is honger. Gregory neem ons na ‘my friend’ se restourant ‘n paar honderd meter verder. Ons is die enigste gaste in ‘n groot saal wat goedkoop opgemaak is, soos vir ‘n  ballontroue. Die harde neonligte word aangeskakel. Niemand kan Engels praat nie en die een gereg na die ander word ingebring tot die tafel later kreun. Vir ons is alles vreemd, maar eet heerlik en smaaklik. Die klem van die Armeniese cuisine val op deeg. Blaardeeg so lig soos wolke, brode wat ek dag en nag sal eet, broodnessies met eier en kaas in… Groot klem op kaas, vars groente en vrugte.

Die volgende dag waag ons weer die 40km in stad toe tot by die Vryheidsplein. Kom by Europcar se hoofkantoor aan. Gawe mense. Kry selfs ‘n kloosterfotoboek as geskenk, maar die permit om die voertuig oor die grens na Georgië te neem is nog nie reg nie. Moet more weer kom. (Nuwe reëling met die oorlog in die Oekraïne en eintlik weet hulle nie hoe dit werk nie.)  Maar die geveg om ons deposito terug te kry vir ‘n kar wat nooit afgelewer is nie, duur voort. Niemand kan help nie.

Dan maar terug huis toe, bietjie gaan rus en dan na Khor Virap. Dit is die ikoniese klooster wat op byna elke foto van Ararat in die voorgrond staan. Dit is warm en ons besef ek sal nie met die kierie die steil berg uit kan klim nie. Nogal verlig nadat ons die oggend ver in die stad gestap het. Ons hang vir ‘n rukkie in die vreemdste begraafplaas rond en gaan eet weer in my friend se restourant.

Ons staan vroeg op om foto’s van Ararat en Khor Virap te neem voor die hitte van die dag die lug deinserig maak. Ons is egter te vroeg om met die motor tot bo by die ingang te ry. Toe durf ons weer die verskrikking van Yerevan aan. Anuta is nou behendig en doen die gevreesde u-draaie op die snelweg. Sy leer om haar oë met ‘n swets of twee toe te druk en waaghalsig die kar se neus in die verkeer in te druk. Met die permit in ons hand neem dit ons seker ‘n uur heen en weer, sirkels binne sirklelpaaie en op en af en baie getoet om parkeerplek naby die Kaskade Kompleks te kry. Groteske Soewjetkuns en -argitektuur op sy beste. Sien maar die foto’s. Ons is te moeg om die plek behoorlik te verken.

Nou is dit tyd vir die platteland. Met baie slegte paaie wat jou laat hik is ons na die skoonheid van die Garni Tempel – die enigste Grieks-Romeinse kolonnadegebou in Armenië. Altans in die hele voormalige Soewjet Unie. Dit is in die Ioniese -styl en die bekendste struktuur en simbool van die pre-Christelike tyd in Armenië. Dit word ook beskou as die mees oostelike Grieks-Romeinse gebou ter wêreld. Ons het baie rondgedwaal, gekyk en verbeel.

Toe is ons honger en stop vir ‘n middagete net voor die Gebhard Klooster by ‘n tradisionele restourant wat dramaties oor die ravyn van die Azatrivier hang.

Daar kon ons met ons eie oë sien hoe bak hulle brood teen ‘n warm put se muur vasgeklap! Binne sekondes vorm die baie dun deeg borrels en verbruin dit. Toe het ons nog nie geweet dat lavash ons stapelvoedsel vir die volgende tien dae sou word nie. Sien foto’s.

Dikgeëet is ons na die Gebhard-klooster, ‘n UNESCO Bewaringsgebied, dieper in die kloof in. Oral teen die hange blink groot kruise wat ons nie weet hoe hulle daar kon kom nie. Ons sien ook uitgeholde grotte in die sandsteenwande waar asketiese monnike gewoon het. Die klooster is een van die belangrikste vir die Armeniërs vir pelgrimstogte. Dit is alreeds in die 4de NC vir die eerste keer gebou. Ons staan rond, loer in, steek ‘n kers of twee aan, en drink die oudheid in.

Dit is ons eerste besoek aan ‘n Armeniese klooster en die nugterheid slaan ons nogal tussen die oë. Visueel nie aantreklik soos die kloosters van byvoorbeeld Serwië en Roemenië nie. Die geloof is Ortodoks, en staan bekend as die  Armeniese Apostoliese Kerk. Die oudste Christelike kerk wat deur ‘n staat erken is nadat dit alreeds teen 40 NC aktief in die gebied was. Die afstandelikheid van die klooster staan ons nie aan nie, ook nie die manne wat duiwe in ‘n hok aanhou nie wat jy kan ‘huur’ en binne die kerkgronde loslaat vir good luck. Ook nie die paar musiekmakers wat vreemde musiek op fluite en tromme buite die mure maak om die massa Oosterse besoekers te vermaak nie.

Ons is moeg na ‘n terugrit oor vreemde en baie hoë bergpasse met Ararat steeds op die horison  Ons kom ook onder die indruk van hoe intensief vrugteboerderye bedryf word. Dit is die een groot vrugteboord na die ander. En natuurlik wingerd. Ons is nie lus vir uiteet nie en val moeg en tevrede in die bed – teen hierdie tyd het ek al geleer om met my hande teen die muur in die badkamer te loop! More wag ‘n nuwe gebied en avonture op ons.

Saans moet ons bekommerde vriende gerusstel dat ons geen teken van die oorlog wat tans tussen Oezbekistan en Nogoro Karabaksh (provinsie van Armenië wat binne landsgrense van Oezbekistan lê) sien nie. Niemand praat ook daaroor nie. Die lewe gaan aan.

Die volgende oggend staan ons voor ontbyt op om weer na Khor Virap-klooster te gaan. By die ingang is daar gelukkig ‘n gawe priester met die grootste platgestrykste snor wat hy vashou as die wind effens roer. Ons wys vir hom die kierie en hy laat ons deur om tot bo te ry! Dieselfde gevoel as die vorige dag. Geen atmosfeer nie – donker en sielloos. Maar ek steek weer ‘n kers aan en ons dwaal rond voor ons die pad vat – in die rigting van die grens met Iran. Twee ou reisigers op reis.

Standing in front of our accommodation in the dilapidated Charleroi en route for our flight to Armenia. I felt more like a refugee from Armenia. Charleroi is south of Brussels and falls in the poor Wallonia region – the French-speaking part of Belgium.

Mount Ararat. Majestic! I wasn’t expecting it. Five times the altitude of Table Mountain.

Our accommodation in Artashat for the next couple of days. And the Fiat that took us across the highest mountains.

The bathroom gave me motion sickness. I learned to navigate my way by holding on to the walls.

But next door…. We learned very fast that this is the real Armenia.

We were the only patrons in the restaurant. You really feel silly and you don’t know what to say to each other. You just sit there and stare.

Then the traditional food came. When last did you eat vienas?

Back home, our lounge a wannabe Versailles… Anuta is holding a sheet of lavash, the staple bread.

Yerevan, Capital of Armenia

We went back to Yerevan and Anuta had to navigate through aggressive traffic and around the huge Republican Square. The buildings on the left and right mirror each other. Strange. Does it work? You decide.

A closer look at the pink granite.

Pure Soviet style.

And what is this? Ornate silver-like lamps against blackish concrete….

Some more Stalinist architecture. Somehow it works, nè.

Armenian carpets. Wouldn’t mind the red one.

A mix of different styles. Luckily the city has many trees which softens the visual impact.

The Armenian Dmitri Dmitrievich Shostakovich was a Russian composer of the Soviet era. Shostakovich had a complex relationship with the Soviet government; His music was twice officially condemned, in 1936 and 1948, and his work was banned from time to time. The Armenians boast that Charles Aznavour was Armenian as well.

Remains of the Soviet Union at flee markets

I couldn’t resist this one. How many styles?

A happy Anuta draws money from Noah’s bank.

Grotesque. Huge. The Cafesjian Center for the Arts is dedicated to bringing the best of contemporary art to Armenia and presenting the best of Armenian culture to the world. It was too hot to walk all the way to the top, to the huge statue of Mother of Armenia.

Now we know what happened to our springbokkies in Joubert Park In Johannesburg!

Vulgar? I do not have the refinement to appreciate such art.

Geghard Monastery

The road out of Yerevan to Gebhard Monastery had its difficulties. with potholes and huge lorries. But the mountains and valley made up with their beauty.

Armenia was the world’s first country, to adopt Christianity as a state religion in 301 AD.
The historical records around the earliest days of the Temple of Garni are somewhat limited, yet, probably, the temple was first constructed upon the orders of King Tiridates I of Armenia sometime around 70-80 AD. We spent an hour or two here just drinking in the beauty.

Pizza twirling is not a patch on the art of stretching dough for lavash! When thin enough it is spread over the baking pillow in the foreground and then slapped onto the inside wall of the baking pot where it bakes at a high temperature. Anuta watches in amazement at the deftness of the baker.

Not only lavash… Notice how the bread doesn’t fall into the fire below.

Finally, the lavash is on the table and you can eat it with salads, cheese, dips or whatever. It is almost like wraps, but once you have tasted this, you will never ever buy a wrap at the Caltex garage again.

We had lunch on the balcony of a restaurant hanging over the cliffs of the Garni Gorge.

Fruit is a very important commodity in the lives of Armenians. Most Armenians have orchards with fruit and sometimes you see fruit trees as far as the eye can see in small orchards. We bought some of the nuts on strings, dipped in a fruit-flavoured rubbery coating. We only bought it once… On the left is the thinnest fruit roll you have ever seen.

Closer to the Geghard Monastery we saw the huge silver crosses against the cliffs and on the peaks. How they got it there remains a riddle. One can see the caves of the hermit priests who never left their caves and spent a lifetime in solitude. I guess other priests would have brought them food and water. in baskets and ropes.

Gebhard Monastery. Although it is an important monastery it didn’t offer much. As a contemplative order, the Cistercian monks live in silence and barely speak during the day, even to each other. Complete example of medieval Armenian monastic architecture and decorative art, with many innovative features that had a profound influence on subsequent developments in the region.

I lit many candles in a contemplative mood.

Good examples of khachkars(cross-stones) with elaborate almost filigree rock chiseling used as tombstones or memorials.

Khor Virap Monastery

Khor Virap

We got up early to capture this photo of Khor Virap with Mount Ararat as backdrop.

This gentle lay worker at the monastery couldn’t speak a word of English, but he understood us and took us by car through the gates right to the top and the entrance of the monastery. No need to walk to the top in the heat.

Very simple in contrast to the orthodox churches we have seen in Serbia, Romania, Russia and Bulgaria. Originally the walls would have been covered in frescoes.

Deep in thought and a serious moment.

A little choir chants a hymn, waiting for the procession to start.

Priests were busy with rituals in front of the altar. The abbot was a very young man.

A close-up of the stonework. Left is the raw stone, and on the right is the intricate stone carving.

No mortar is needed between the stones. Precise craftsmanship.

Mt Ararat is everywhere.

In amazement.

A bizarre mausoleum for a fallen soldier alongside the road.

War of is ever-present in the psyche of the Armenians. We saw many tombstones depicting soldiers and their weapons.

Seven soldiers died for their fatherland. They will be remembered.

One moment the mountains were green, and then they became amber on the other side. Notice the orchards in the valleys.

We kept stopping to look at this strange landscape. On very bad roads.

Armenia is a poor agricultural country. The farms are small and they mostly farm fruit and grapes. The small farmers keep bio-diversity in mind for bees and the production of honey.

Friends from all over were worried about our safety traveling to a country at war with Azerbaijan over Nagorno-Karabakh. We saw very few military movements and none of the thousands of refugees.

The soldiers look al at ease and happy.

We were more worried about the monster camions in their thousands en route from and to Iran. They have no respect for civilians in little rental cars. That is when you prefer the pavement!

Our lasting impression will be the aggressive male drivers with super testosterone levels pushing you out of the way.

And then, one morning, we left Artashat to travel southeast. on a highway. Sometimes the highway was perfect up to a point, and then full of potholes again and with all those heavy trucks… We couldn’t pass this slow truck on a mountain pass at 20 km per hour as the oncoming traffic was constant. We didn’t mind, the views were breathtakingly beautiful.

Valleys and more valleys on either side.

Areni! Always a dream to visit the oldest wine region in the world – 4000 BC! Remember Noah? Armenian winemaking is believed to be at least a thousand years older than the winery unearthed in the West Bank in 1963.

Decorated clay jars for maturation of wine. We tasted the wine and it had strong mineral undertones, but too sweet for our palate.

A smallish solitary church against the enormous mountains

Noravank Monastery

The dramatic gorge and pass on the way to Novorank Monastery.

One photo can’t capture the beauty and majesty of the complete complex. Manmade structures enhance the natural beauty.

The outside artwork is more impressive than the inside.

The setting is perfect with the blending of colours and the majesty of the mountains. The khachkars stand row after row.

The gorge again. It feels as if the rocks are about to touch.

Pass after pass and always higher until we were above the tree line. Meeting this horseman and his sheep was unexpected.

Now we know why all Ladas are skew They are not only for passengers.

Vorotan Pass is the route that takes you to the most ancient Bronze Age sites of Syunik and all of Armenia. The pass is located at 2344 meters above sea level where landscapes change, revealing all the beauty and diversity of nature.

Sarnakunk. A small village with a lot of traffic. The blue lorry is the faithful Soviet Kamaz, still doing its job after all this time.

The GPS led us through the backstreets of a very poor settlement. And here it says: You have reached your destination! Anuta couldn’t even make a U-turn… We were completely lost.

At last we worked out that we must be on the other side of a steep and busy pass on the other side. It was nerve-wracking with all the pantechnicons and tankers from Iran with their heavy loads of fuel

Tatev

Sometimes you find a shelter that you will treasure forever. The vine is called Isabella.

The sumptuous traditional breakfast. Everything is home-grown and homemade.

Take a guess! It is a walnut in a thick syrup.

Anoush is showing us that nothing goes to waste. She harvests seeds, fruit, flowers, and even wild rosehips that will eventually end up in the teapot.

The iconic Ta’tev Monastery is located on a large basalt plateau and was built in the 8th Century. The views from there were breathtaking. We came down the road from the opposite side which is in a shocking condition.

Just wish we could have done this route on Silver and Blue…

Photogenic Ta’tev Monastery

Impressive dome with a huge simple candelabra.

Having served as a university in medieval times, the monastery has extensive buildings.

Simplicity, with no orthodox frills. And yet, it was a place that gave one inner-peace.

How I wished I could take this carpet home! So delicately woven with blending colours

The old kitchen with its own charm.

In the 14th and 15th Centuries, the monastery hosted one of the most important Armenian medieval universities, the University of Tat’ev, which contributed to the advancement of science, religion, philosophy, the reproduction of books and the development of miniature painting.

An ancient country with ancient mountains.

After the stay at Ta’tev, it was time to move to the northern parts of the small country. We drove from one mountain pass to another. Beautiful landscapes. You feel and know that you are in an ancient land.

At last, we reached the shores of Lake Sevan with a majestic cloud burst.