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Haber 27, Turkey
The ghost town between two rivers Anı
Were there to be a prize for the most romantic ruin in Turkey, Ani,
the old Armenian ghost town squeezed in between two rivers on the
border between Turkey and modern Armenia, would have to be up there in
the running. At the very least one might expect to
12 Ekim 2008 Pazar 17:00
Such, though, is the bleak power of history to overshadow even the
most innocent relics of the distant past that in reality Ani
languishes in relative obscurity, admired by foreign groups on their
whirlwind tours of eastern Turkey and by the occasional adventurous
individual traveler, but never overrun with visitors in the way that,
say, Ephesus, with its safer Greco-Roman heritage, is.
To be fair, Ani is pretty much out on a limb in terms of geography,
lying as it does 45 kilometers east of Kars, itself already a long way
from anywhere. The good news is that visiting it has become a whole
lot easier. Not so long ago anyone who wanted to see somewhere
overlooking such a contentious border had first to visit the security
police to get permission, then go to the tourist office to have the
permit endorsed, then go to Kars Museum to buy a ticket and only then
set off for the site itself, leaving their camera behind in their
hotel room since all photography was forbidden. Fortunately all that
rigmarole is now past history, its only relic the absence of public
transport to enable solo travelers to visit Ani without having to take
out a mortgage to pay a private taxi fare.
No matter. It's all worth it anyway as soon as you see the lovely
golden-brown walls of the old city soaring up on the plain just past
the village of Ocaklı. Those walls are vaguely reminiscent of
the ones ringing the medieval castles of Wales, except that once you
step through them you find yourself confronting a vast expanse of
nothingness with just the occasional earthquake-damaged ruin jutting
up on the horizon. Hard, then, to imagine that Ani was once a city
which was home to some 100,000 people in its heyday.
The early history of Ani is closely entwined with that of nearby
Kars. Back in the 10th century when this corner of Turkey was part of
the Bagratid Kingdom of Armenia, King Ashot III (r.952-77) decided
that Ani would make a better capital than Kars and moved his court
here in 961. For almost 100 years Ani flourished under the Bagratids,
but then in 1045 it was seized by the Byzantines, only to fall to the
Seljuks in 1064. Under their control it enjoyed a second spring with
plenty of fresh new buildings going up inside the walls. But then the
Seljuks were driven out by the Georgians, the Georgians by the Kurds
and the Kurds by the Mongols. Finally, in 1319 a huge earthquake
felled many of the remaining buildings, and the city fell into
terminal decline.
Newly cleared paths through the undergrowth make it easy to explore
the site in a clockwise direction, which brings you quickly to the
half-tumbled ruins of the 11th-century Church of the Redeemer, built
to house a portion of the True Cross. Interestingly, it was not the
earthquake that did for this building so much as a far more recent
bolt of lightning that struck it in 1957.
The second church you'll come to is perhaps the most exquisite
building at Ani, which makes it all the more worrying to see the
restorers moving in. Dating from the 13th century, the Church of
St. Gregory the Illuminator is externally very similar to the churches
of the Georgian valleys that stretch between Tortum and
Yusufeli. Inside, however, it's festooned with wonderful frescoes that
cover almost every surface, hence its Turkish name -- the Resimli
Kilise, or Church with Pictures.
A short walk further round brings you to the scant remains of a Seljuk
bathhouse, after which you need to look carefully for a path down
towards the Arpa �ayı (Barley River) that separates
Turkey from Armenia. Perched precariously on a bluff above the river
is the diminutive but utterly perfect, clover-shaped Convent of the
Virgins, a prize-winning church inside a prize-winning site. From here
you will be able to see the brooding hulk of the early 11th-century
cathedral of Ani, its dome long since collapsed although reuse as a
mosque in Seljuk times ensured the survival of its soaring arched
interior.
Between the cathedral and the 11th-century Seljuk
Menüçer Camii with its striking, if damaged, octagonal
minaret, lie the relatively inconspicuous but nonetheless evocative
remains of a street of shops. For many people it's strolling along
this street that will make it easiest to envisage how this was once a
bustling city, most of whose remains still lie unexcavated beneath the
uneven ground. Immediately opposite stand the remains of a sizeable
and well-appointed house looking towards the castle, the one part of
Ani that remains off-limits to visitors.
Walking back towards the exit you'll pass the remains of a truly
enormous 10th century building, another Church of St. Gregory, this
time completely circular. Much also survives of the 11th century
Church of the Holy Apostles, reused as a caravanserai in Seljuk
times. Scant remains of two more churches also linger on, one of them
propped up by unsightly metal girders. Then finally there's the Seljuk
Palace, so horribly "restored" that it was described in a newly
published book about Turkey as resembling a large public toilet block.
But you come to Ani as much for the exquisite beauty of its location,
with the rivers running along ravines on either side. The silence here
is glorious, and the site breathtaking regardless of whether you visit
in the spring, when the interior is a rash of emerald-green grass, or
in the winter, when the snow lies deep on the ground.
For most people, that's it as far as a trip to Ani goes, although
several other ruined Armenian churches lurk unvisited in nearby
villages. Midway between Kars and Ani lies the village of Subatan,
where a turn to the left leads eventually to OÄ?uzlu and the
ruins of a 10th century church, standing forlorn in a farmyard. Even
more impressive is the church of Karmır Vank, also in a
farmyard, in the nearby village of YaÄ?kesen; not only does this
church still retain its dome, but it was built out of wonderful red
and black checkerwork, hence its Turkish name, the Kızıl
Kilise (Red Church).
A turning on the right-hand side of the road from Kars to Ani leads
eventually to the village of Kozluca, which has the remains of a
further two churches on either side of a valley. One is a by now
fairly familiar small domed structure, the other a huge 11th century
building in a shocking state of collapse, but interesting nevertheless
for its Seljuk-style maqarna (stalactite) carvings and copious
Armenian inscriptions. You'd need a lot of energy to take in all these
sites on the same day as a visit to Ani, and forget a trip to nearby
MaÄ?azbert Castle altogether since the gendarme will not let you
past their checkpoint.
The ghost town between two rivers Anı
Were there to be a prize for the most romantic ruin in Turkey, Ani,
the old Armenian ghost town squeezed in between two rivers on the
border between Turkey and modern Armenia, would have to be up there in
the running. At the very least one might expect to
12 Ekim 2008 Pazar 17:00
Such, though, is the bleak power of history to overshadow even the
most innocent relics of the distant past that in reality Ani
languishes in relative obscurity, admired by foreign groups on their
whirlwind tours of eastern Turkey and by the occasional adventurous
individual traveler, but never overrun with visitors in the way that,
say, Ephesus, with its safer Greco-Roman heritage, is.
To be fair, Ani is pretty much out on a limb in terms of geography,
lying as it does 45 kilometers east of Kars, itself already a long way
from anywhere. The good news is that visiting it has become a whole
lot easier. Not so long ago anyone who wanted to see somewhere
overlooking such a contentious border had first to visit the security
police to get permission, then go to the tourist office to have the
permit endorsed, then go to Kars Museum to buy a ticket and only then
set off for the site itself, leaving their camera behind in their
hotel room since all photography was forbidden. Fortunately all that
rigmarole is now past history, its only relic the absence of public
transport to enable solo travelers to visit Ani without having to take
out a mortgage to pay a private taxi fare.
No matter. It's all worth it anyway as soon as you see the lovely
golden-brown walls of the old city soaring up on the plain just past
the village of Ocaklı. Those walls are vaguely reminiscent of
the ones ringing the medieval castles of Wales, except that once you
step through them you find yourself confronting a vast expanse of
nothingness with just the occasional earthquake-damaged ruin jutting
up on the horizon. Hard, then, to imagine that Ani was once a city
which was home to some 100,000 people in its heyday.
The early history of Ani is closely entwined with that of nearby
Kars. Back in the 10th century when this corner of Turkey was part of
the Bagratid Kingdom of Armenia, King Ashot III (r.952-77) decided
that Ani would make a better capital than Kars and moved his court
here in 961. For almost 100 years Ani flourished under the Bagratids,
but then in 1045 it was seized by the Byzantines, only to fall to the
Seljuks in 1064. Under their control it enjoyed a second spring with
plenty of fresh new buildings going up inside the walls. But then the
Seljuks were driven out by the Georgians, the Georgians by the Kurds
and the Kurds by the Mongols. Finally, in 1319 a huge earthquake
felled many of the remaining buildings, and the city fell into
terminal decline.
Newly cleared paths through the undergrowth make it easy to explore
the site in a clockwise direction, which brings you quickly to the
half-tumbled ruins of the 11th-century Church of the Redeemer, built
to house a portion of the True Cross. Interestingly, it was not the
earthquake that did for this building so much as a far more recent
bolt of lightning that struck it in 1957.
The second church you'll come to is perhaps the most exquisite
building at Ani, which makes it all the more worrying to see the
restorers moving in. Dating from the 13th century, the Church of
St. Gregory the Illuminator is externally very similar to the churches
of the Georgian valleys that stretch between Tortum and
Yusufeli. Inside, however, it's festooned with wonderful frescoes that
cover almost every surface, hence its Turkish name -- the Resimli
Kilise, or Church with Pictures.
A short walk further round brings you to the scant remains of a Seljuk
bathhouse, after which you need to look carefully for a path down
towards the Arpa �ayı (Barley River) that separates
Turkey from Armenia. Perched precariously on a bluff above the river
is the diminutive but utterly perfect, clover-shaped Convent of the
Virgins, a prize-winning church inside a prize-winning site. From here
you will be able to see the brooding hulk of the early 11th-century
cathedral of Ani, its dome long since collapsed although reuse as a
mosque in Seljuk times ensured the survival of its soaring arched
interior.
Between the cathedral and the 11th-century Seljuk
Menüçer Camii with its striking, if damaged, octagonal
minaret, lie the relatively inconspicuous but nonetheless evocative
remains of a street of shops. For many people it's strolling along
this street that will make it easiest to envisage how this was once a
bustling city, most of whose remains still lie unexcavated beneath the
uneven ground. Immediately opposite stand the remains of a sizeable
and well-appointed house looking towards the castle, the one part of
Ani that remains off-limits to visitors.
Walking back towards the exit you'll pass the remains of a truly
enormous 10th century building, another Church of St. Gregory, this
time completely circular. Much also survives of the 11th century
Church of the Holy Apostles, reused as a caravanserai in Seljuk
times. Scant remains of two more churches also linger on, one of them
propped up by unsightly metal girders. Then finally there's the Seljuk
Palace, so horribly "restored" that it was described in a newly
published book about Turkey as resembling a large public toilet block.
But you come to Ani as much for the exquisite beauty of its location,
with the rivers running along ravines on either side. The silence here
is glorious, and the site breathtaking regardless of whether you visit
in the spring, when the interior is a rash of emerald-green grass, or
in the winter, when the snow lies deep on the ground.
For most people, that's it as far as a trip to Ani goes, although
several other ruined Armenian churches lurk unvisited in nearby
villages. Midway between Kars and Ani lies the village of Subatan,
where a turn to the left leads eventually to OÄ?uzlu and the
ruins of a 10th century church, standing forlorn in a farmyard. Even
more impressive is the church of Karmır Vank, also in a
farmyard, in the nearby village of YaÄ?kesen; not only does this
church still retain its dome, but it was built out of wonderful red
and black checkerwork, hence its Turkish name, the Kızıl
Kilise (Red Church).
A turning on the right-hand side of the road from Kars to Ani leads
eventually to the village of Kozluca, which has the remains of a
further two churches on either side of a valley. One is a by now
fairly familiar small domed structure, the other a huge 11th century
building in a shocking state of collapse, but interesting nevertheless
for its Seljuk-style maqarna (stalactite) carvings and copious
Armenian inscriptions. You'd need a lot of energy to take in all these
sites on the same day as a visit to Ani, and forget a trip to nearby
MaÄ?azbert Castle altogether since the gendarme will not let you
past their checkpoint.