In October 2004, I took a flight destined for Yerevan, Armenia, the capital city of my ancestral homeland. After a thirteen-year hiatus during which Armenia had gained its independence, I was visiting my homeland for the third time in two years. During previous visits to Armenia in the Soviet years, I had felt that the country was shackled, that it would take decades to clean up the mess caused by Soviet rule. Luckily, my countrymen do not have that much patience. The country is quickly moving toward a free and prosperous economy. Numerous cafés and restaurants have sprung up everywhere: strong testament to the new economic strength.
Armenia’s beauty lies in the majestic mountains and highlands to
the north and south of the capital. The landscape is dotted by monasteries
carved into solid rock, craggy cliffs, Alpine lakes, prehistoric stone structures
older than Stonehenge itself, and emerald hills marching to the horizon. There
are 40,000 churches, monasteries, fortresses, and monuments sprinkled across
a country slightly smaller than Maryland. No wonder Armenia is called
an open-air museum.
This travelogue highlights a four-day portion of my trip, starting in Yerevan
and heading south, first into the fertile Ararat Plain, then into Vayots
Dzor (the Valley of Sighs), followed by the picturesque and mountainous
Syunik Region of southern Armenia, and finally, Nagorno-Karabakh, a region
of breathtaking scenery and a history of struggle and heroism.
October 6, 2004
Stepan, who was to be my guide for the next four days, arrived as early
as his body clock would allow him, about three hours later than I'd preferred. Bags
in the car, mileage set to zero, we headed out of Yerevan, beginning a four-day
jaunt into southern Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh.
At our first stop, just on the outskirts of Yerevan, we filled up the feisty
Lada Niva 4x4 with gas, and took the opportunity to buy two potato piroshkis
and some water for a late morning snack. Fast food is nonexistent
on the roads outside Yerevan, as each meal turns into an hours-long feast,
and we had no intention of stopping for any reason other than travel photography
until we reached our destination later that evening.
The view south was dominated by Mt. Ararat, the quintessential symbol of
Armenia, cruelly placed just beyond Armenia's present borders. At
our closest approach, just past the turn-off to the Monastery of Khor Virap,
Mt. Ararat peeked its head out of the clouds long enough to warrant a photographic
stop.
The first pleasant surprise of the day occurred 90 km (55 miles) into our
journey. Stepan turned the Niva onto a dirt road just beyond the village
of Zangakatun, stopping at a small lake surrounded by reeds. We had
been climbing out of the plains of Mt. Ararat for a while, but were reminded
of its presence as it peeked between the sun-drenched hills surrounding
the lake. There were just enough puffy clouds to make this a travel
photography shot of the day candidate.
We descended into Vayots Dzor and passed by Areni village, the wine-making
jewel of the region. We turned left onto the old road to Jermuk, 159
km from our starting point, and entered the narrow valley carved by the
Gndevaz River. The eastern wall of the valley was covered by giant
basalt crystals reminiscent of Devil's Postpile in California. As
we approached a giant parapet of basalt, the cassette player, which had
up to now made its way through a medley of popular classical tunes, blasted
out Carmina Burana. Even our Niva knows majesty when face to face
with it.
As we approached Gndevank, a monastery about halfway up the valley, Stepan
recited a poem (originally in ancient Armenian) written in the 10th Century
by Queen Sophia, builder of Gndevank
"Vayots Dzor was a ring without a stone
I created Gndevank and set that stone in the ring."
Gndevank is indeed the stone adorning the ring, the jewel in the crown
that are the hills of Vayots Dzor. The church itself is rather small,
and much to my chagrin, had run out of candles on our visit. The walls
and parapets surrounding the church are impressive, but need to be photographed
from a higher vantage point than ours, perhaps from the new road to Jermuk.
One brief diversion on the way back proved fruitful. There are two
now defunct springs that used to serve travellers on the road to Jermuk. The
first of these is next to a portion of the Gndeghaz River that is relatively
calm and flows by two boulders slowly, creating a pool ringed with moss,
and bardis (poplar trees). Not only is this a serene picnic
spot, but it also makes for a good composition with two basalt cliffs above
the pool. This green patch, alive despite the onrushing autumn, was
a respite from the burnt yellow of the rest of the canyon.
Leaving Gndevank, we realized that we had little chance to reach Kapan,
our final destination that day, before nightfall. Our speed increased
until I yelled 'stop!' to bring the car to a screeching halt for a photographic
opportunity. There, to our right, was a hilltop cemetery, silhouetted
against the afternoon sun partially obscured by a cloud. The Spendarian
Reservoir sparkled below.
We reached Karahundj, also known as Zorats Karer, a Stonehenge-like formation
from 3000 BC. It was very cold and windy, and the grassy plain provided
no shelter from the wind that gave this place its name. Leaning against
one of the rocks, was a shepherd, his flock nowhere to be seen, his clothes
the hue of the rocks themselves, silently observing me as I photographed
the ancient monoliths. I struck a conversation, asking permission
to photograph him.
Soon after, the fog that played such an important role in my Karahundj
photos enveloped us and accompanied us through the town of Goris and to
our destination of Kapan in southern Armenia.
October 7, 2004
The morning started at Vahanavank Monastery, a 10-km jaunt up the mountainside
from Kapan. Queen Sophia, of Gndevank fame, is buried here. Efforts
to rebuild the church have been abandoned, giving the monastery an eerie
feel. Khatchkars, stones carved with crosses that sometimes served
as gravestones, some hewn in two, others covered in moss lay strewn on the
monastery grounds.
The setting sun found us at Ditsmairi, an ancient forest of 400 – 1000
year old trees. We had entered Nagorno-Karabakh earlier in the day,
and had been negotiating the muddy roads as best as we could. The
low clouds refused to yield even as the sun went down, limiting the photographic
potential at this awe-inspiring location. The road from Ditsmairi to Berdzor
(Lachin) was treacherous at best, testing our Niva at every turn. The
highlight, after darkness fell, was a porcupine strutting happily by the
roadside. After Berdzor, it was a 45-minute dash, in fog, to Shushi.
Shushi, the second largest city in Nagorno-Karabakh, is the quintessence
of the region. Built atop a nearly unscalable cliff called Jdrduz,
it offers spectacular vistas interspersed with newly rebuilt churches and
Soviet era blocky apartment buildings still bearing the wounds of war. We
spent the night at the Shushi Hotel, a recently renovated 15-room hotel
overlooking the main square.
October 8, 2004
I woke to a sweet voice on the phone, announcing that it was 6 a.m. Though
it was still two hours to sunrise, my first glimpse out the window filled
me with hope. No trace of the fog in sight… Ghazanchetsots
church, across from the Shushi Hotel, was gleaming under the floodlights
aimed at its walls.
Waking Stepan before 7 a.m. is a feat accomplished by no one, including
myself, despite my best efforts. We finally set out toward Shushi's
gorge, the edge of the plateau called Jdrduz, minutes before sunrise. The
entire gorge was filled with thick fog, with nary a hint of rock or stone. Then,
as if by magic, the fog drew itself in, as if a giant had inhaled, revealing
the golden dawn on Jdrduz and the valley below. This awesome sight
lasted 15 minutes. The giant then exhaled, covering everything in
sight with more fog than before.
Like the day before, the fog and rain only subsided with the last rays
of the sun. Undaunted, we sped the Niva toward the plateau opposite
Jdrduz. “Ho jeiran ho!” we egged on the Niva,
willing it out of ditch and hole, on toward the edge of the precipice. The
view here was breathtaking. On one side rose a forest in the first
throes of autumn. Below us, the Karkar River roared downstream, and
Jdrduz rose in front of us in all its majesty, as I had never seen it before.
We spent the next several hours perched here, watching the breathing sighs
of the fog filling the valley, then receding. Shushi was hidden from
view, and then revealed, countless times. At last, with the light
failing, we unwillingly left our perch to spend the night once again in
Shushi.
October 9, 2004
The morning began with an interesting twist. At 7 a.m., instead of
a lilting voice on the phone gently coaxing me out of sleep, I awoke to
a pounding on my door, a pounding of which Thor himself would have been
proud. This was today's version of the wake-up call. As we ate
breakfast, the sun began to peek through the melting fog, and, for the first
time, blue patches of sky appeared above Shushi. Leaving for Yerevan,
we stopped several times in the first 15 minutes to photograph the fog-filled
valleys west of Shushi, then drove on.
Passing Berdzor, we decided on a spur of the moment side trip to Tsitsernavank,
a recently rebuilt monastery 14 km up the Aghavni river valley from our
present location on the Stepanakert-Goris highway. On that hot October
day, the valley was a contrast between the tree-lined, green skirted Aghavni
River running downstream and the barren hills surrounding it, in the throes
of autumn at best, scorched to death at their worst. Rocky spires
rose on both sides of the road.
Four kilometres from the Stepanakert-Goris highway, our number became three. I
spotted what turned out to be a Transcaucasian land turtle on the roadside. We
gave the turtle a ride with a promise of a home in a terrarium which would
ensure protection for this endangered species. After some thought,
I named the turtle Smbat, in honor of a nearby fortress that I had not been
able to reach as it required a much sturdier 4x4 than our Niva.
As we entered Goris, at precisely 800 km, we crossed the road we had taken
to Kapan two days earlier. Twenty-three kilometres later, we zoomed
by Portakar, a smooth ceremonial stone, some say in the shape of
a navel, hence the name, that is at least 3000 years old. Portakar
is supposed to have the power of 'healing' barren women.
We reached Yerevan having clocked 1,041 km (650 miles) and already
planning a return trip. Attending a concert of the National Chamber
Orchestra of Armenia that evening was the perfect way to end this voyage,
as each movement of Grieg's Violin Quartet, Orchestral Version, filled my
mind with images of the wonders I had seen.
About the Author
Space scientist by profession, Vahé Peroomian is a self-trained photographer who has taken every opportunity to pursue his fascination with photographing the beauty of the Gaian landscape. More of Vahé’s work, including several other travelogues, can be seen at www.vahep.com. He can also be contacted at vahe@vahep.com.
