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ARMENIAN RHAPSODY
by Andrew Renton, North Shore News
Canwest News Service
August 7, 2011 Sunday 12:00 PM EST
Canada
STALIN once said: "Churchill worries more about his shipment of
Armenian brandy than he does about the war!"
Travelling overland from eastern Turkey to Armenia is a chore. Maybe
one day the Turks will admit to the Armenian genocide and the border
between the two countries will open again.
First, I must take a bus over the mountains into Georgia where regular
marshrutkas (minibuses) make the six-hour run from Tbilisi to Yerevan.
I wrap my long legs around a pile of overstuffed plastic bags.
Truckers and traders grow rich hauling Turkish goods through Georgia
to sell in Armenia.
Crossing the border here is a snap. Fill in the form - hand over $20
and bingo! We are soon heading for the driver's favourite lunch stop.
A reasonable looking place offering freshly grilled kebabs. I visit
the kitchen, a shack just large enough for a BBQ and an unmade bed.
Two cats purr optimistically from the dirt floor. I settle for an
ice cream.
Armenia is a small, landlocked country with a big heart and a tough
history. Sandwiched between Georgia, Russia, Turkey, Azerbaijan and
the breakaway state of Nagorno Karabakh, it was the first country to
adopt Christianity in AD 301. It has fought losing battles with most
of its neighbours and declared independence from the USSR in 1991.
Yerevan, the capital, is an odd mix of delapidated Soviet apartment
buildings, modern stylish hotels, office blocks and trendy pedestrian
walkways. Water and gas pipes zigzag through the city like fat strings
of spaghetti, arching over intersections then dropping back to street
level - another tasteless Soviet touch.
Chic young women compete for shabbily dressed young men, but with a
ratio of four to one - well it's an unfair world. Clothing stores
cunningly plant coolly clad mannequins on the sidewalk to tempt
passersby. It's hot and water sellers do a brisk trade. The "enthroned"
toilet attendant knits socks between customers.
After dark, couples stroll around Republican Square. Floodlit fountains
"dance" in sync with piped-in music. A crescendo in "Land of Hope
and Glory" manages to soak the crowd. Chi chi restaurants, discos,
and outdoor cafes do a roaring trade. I grab an ice cold beer from
a sidewalk cooler, pay the vendor and continue on my way.
Across Haghtanak Bridge, the Ararat Brandy Company has been an
iconic institution since 1887. I'm on a mission to sample Churchill's
favourite tipple - he was so impressed with Stalin's gift of a few
cases that he committed to an annual shipment of 300 bottles. I hope
he shared them!
I hand over 2,500 Armenian drams - Around $6, and join a tour in the
tasting room. Each participant receives a snifter.
"We will start with a five year old," announces the official pourer.
My glass is liberally filled - a definite triple. I follow the crowd
and swirl it around in my sweaty outstretched palm before taking the
obligatory sniff. Then - Glug. Yum. Pretty darned good!
A 10 year old follows, but of course the piece de resistance is the
20 year old. By this time I am feeling dizzy and, noting the lack
of a spittoon or a convenient potted plant, I surreptitiously donate
the rest to my neighbour, an ample, red-faced Bulgarian.
I find Anan through Sati Tours, a travel agency chosen at random
from my guidebook. He has a black belt, a pregnant wife, and a Ford
SUV. I have negotiated his services for a three-day allinclusive trip
to the countryside.
Small towns, once humming with industry in the Soviet era, have become
derelict junkyards filled with tangled steel and lifeless brick
chimneys. Houses are boarded up, abandoned to the elements. Owners
have either drifted into the capital or left the country.
Armenia's churches, dating back 1,000 years, are the real highlight
of the countryside. After years of communist rule, religion is on
the rise. We find majestic monasteries in picture perfect villages.
Stonemasons and roofers volunteer their services for free.
Making a living is tough here and only the enterprising survive. The
rocky northern plains are dotted with wildflowers and small
settlements. A cluster of tents is the summer home to a group of
herders who have cunningly hooked a wire into the hydro pole and
enjoy the luxury of free lighting and TV.
An isolated beekeeper stacks his hives well off the ground - away
from meddlesome wolves, he says. Are they after him, in his tiny
fetid bunkroom, or his bees? His wife drops by with supplies from
time to time.
We drive into the Kurdish village of Rya Taza. Anan is in a bad mood.
His wife has called for the third time begging him to come home. He
turns off his cellphone and floors the car - without noticing the
deep pothole that cracks our heads on the roof.
Neat piles of cow dung patties dry in the sun - fuel for baking
flatbread. Freshly shorn wool hangs on a line. Newborn calves peer
forlornly through an iron-barred stable gate. Chickens and ducks are
on the loose. I note to avoid the outhouse with a serious lean. The
best views of Mount Aragats are from the cemetery where homes for
the dead outshine shacks for the living.
Three laughing ladies invite us in for tea. My favourite has a
permanent giggle, even when she is showing off her father's military
medals. Which war I wonder?
Anan eyes the gas gauge nervously. No sweat, the ultimate entrepreneur
is parked just around the corner with an ancient Soviet tanker truck
sporting two gas pumps on the side. Will it be Regular or Premium?
Our bed and breakfast is in the mountain resort of Dilijan. Calling
itself the Switzerland of Armenia is a bit of a stretch but the air
is fresh and cool and it's a favourite spot for burned-out Yerevanites
to hike, camp or just chill.
We zig-zag up the hill passing tiny wheezing buses, powered by rooftop
propane tanks. Our hostess, a young widow with three sons, produces
a massive stack of delicious cabbage rolls for dinner and I start
to relax. "What more churches? But we've just arrived," I plead,
but Anan is already heading for the car.
"Ski Armenia" is not necessarily at the top of every aficionado's
bucket list when dreaming of a winter paradise. Pretty Tsaghkadzor,
a resort boasting four lifts, was built to train Soviet skiers for
the 1988 Olympics - hey, you can even check the web cams online. Most
summer tourists at the Hotel Russia are here to see the 11th century
Kocharis Monastery, rent an ATV or hike the mountain trails.
Mount Ararat appears through the mist as we approach Yerevan.
I return Anan to his anxious wife. No, he will never leave Armenia. It
is his home. The place where his heart lies. He lifts his shirt to
show off a bullet wound from the war with Azerbaijan. He is ready to
fight again should his country need him.
Armenia has shed many people over the years but most of them remain
passionately patriotic. $5 billion in annual remittances is a serious
part of the economy. Contributions from the likes of billionaire
Armenian/American Kirk Kerkorian have helped to rebuild the country's
infrastructure. Armenian/French singer Charles Aznavour was given
the title of "National Hero," a free bus pass and a barrel of Ararat
brandy for his charitable donations.
I spent six rewarding days in Armenia and a week in Georgia. Two
small Christian countries carrying lots of emotional baggage. Both
trying to rebuild after decades of Soviet rule.
IF YOU GO:
Getting there: The easiest way is to fly direct from London Heathrow
on BMI.
Safety: I never found any problems. Costs: A little higher than
Georgia. I paid $80 for a good central room in Yerevan. My three days
with Anan cost $300 including accommodation and food.
Why go: Yerevan is a modern happening city with great restaurants and
nightlife. The countryside is beautiful. The churches are spectacular.
The people are kind and friendly and many speak English. For a truly
unique holiday combine Georgia and Armenia.
From: Baghdasarian
by Andrew Renton, North Shore News
Canwest News Service
August 7, 2011 Sunday 12:00 PM EST
Canada
STALIN once said: "Churchill worries more about his shipment of
Armenian brandy than he does about the war!"
Travelling overland from eastern Turkey to Armenia is a chore. Maybe
one day the Turks will admit to the Armenian genocide and the border
between the two countries will open again.
First, I must take a bus over the mountains into Georgia where regular
marshrutkas (minibuses) make the six-hour run from Tbilisi to Yerevan.
I wrap my long legs around a pile of overstuffed plastic bags.
Truckers and traders grow rich hauling Turkish goods through Georgia
to sell in Armenia.
Crossing the border here is a snap. Fill in the form - hand over $20
and bingo! We are soon heading for the driver's favourite lunch stop.
A reasonable looking place offering freshly grilled kebabs. I visit
the kitchen, a shack just large enough for a BBQ and an unmade bed.
Two cats purr optimistically from the dirt floor. I settle for an
ice cream.
Armenia is a small, landlocked country with a big heart and a tough
history. Sandwiched between Georgia, Russia, Turkey, Azerbaijan and
the breakaway state of Nagorno Karabakh, it was the first country to
adopt Christianity in AD 301. It has fought losing battles with most
of its neighbours and declared independence from the USSR in 1991.
Yerevan, the capital, is an odd mix of delapidated Soviet apartment
buildings, modern stylish hotels, office blocks and trendy pedestrian
walkways. Water and gas pipes zigzag through the city like fat strings
of spaghetti, arching over intersections then dropping back to street
level - another tasteless Soviet touch.
Chic young women compete for shabbily dressed young men, but with a
ratio of four to one - well it's an unfair world. Clothing stores
cunningly plant coolly clad mannequins on the sidewalk to tempt
passersby. It's hot and water sellers do a brisk trade. The "enthroned"
toilet attendant knits socks between customers.
After dark, couples stroll around Republican Square. Floodlit fountains
"dance" in sync with piped-in music. A crescendo in "Land of Hope
and Glory" manages to soak the crowd. Chi chi restaurants, discos,
and outdoor cafes do a roaring trade. I grab an ice cold beer from
a sidewalk cooler, pay the vendor and continue on my way.
Across Haghtanak Bridge, the Ararat Brandy Company has been an
iconic institution since 1887. I'm on a mission to sample Churchill's
favourite tipple - he was so impressed with Stalin's gift of a few
cases that he committed to an annual shipment of 300 bottles. I hope
he shared them!
I hand over 2,500 Armenian drams - Around $6, and join a tour in the
tasting room. Each participant receives a snifter.
"We will start with a five year old," announces the official pourer.
My glass is liberally filled - a definite triple. I follow the crowd
and swirl it around in my sweaty outstretched palm before taking the
obligatory sniff. Then - Glug. Yum. Pretty darned good!
A 10 year old follows, but of course the piece de resistance is the
20 year old. By this time I am feeling dizzy and, noting the lack
of a spittoon or a convenient potted plant, I surreptitiously donate
the rest to my neighbour, an ample, red-faced Bulgarian.
I find Anan through Sati Tours, a travel agency chosen at random
from my guidebook. He has a black belt, a pregnant wife, and a Ford
SUV. I have negotiated his services for a three-day allinclusive trip
to the countryside.
Small towns, once humming with industry in the Soviet era, have become
derelict junkyards filled with tangled steel and lifeless brick
chimneys. Houses are boarded up, abandoned to the elements. Owners
have either drifted into the capital or left the country.
Armenia's churches, dating back 1,000 years, are the real highlight
of the countryside. After years of communist rule, religion is on
the rise. We find majestic monasteries in picture perfect villages.
Stonemasons and roofers volunteer their services for free.
Making a living is tough here and only the enterprising survive. The
rocky northern plains are dotted with wildflowers and small
settlements. A cluster of tents is the summer home to a group of
herders who have cunningly hooked a wire into the hydro pole and
enjoy the luxury of free lighting and TV.
An isolated beekeeper stacks his hives well off the ground - away
from meddlesome wolves, he says. Are they after him, in his tiny
fetid bunkroom, or his bees? His wife drops by with supplies from
time to time.
We drive into the Kurdish village of Rya Taza. Anan is in a bad mood.
His wife has called for the third time begging him to come home. He
turns off his cellphone and floors the car - without noticing the
deep pothole that cracks our heads on the roof.
Neat piles of cow dung patties dry in the sun - fuel for baking
flatbread. Freshly shorn wool hangs on a line. Newborn calves peer
forlornly through an iron-barred stable gate. Chickens and ducks are
on the loose. I note to avoid the outhouse with a serious lean. The
best views of Mount Aragats are from the cemetery where homes for
the dead outshine shacks for the living.
Three laughing ladies invite us in for tea. My favourite has a
permanent giggle, even when she is showing off her father's military
medals. Which war I wonder?
Anan eyes the gas gauge nervously. No sweat, the ultimate entrepreneur
is parked just around the corner with an ancient Soviet tanker truck
sporting two gas pumps on the side. Will it be Regular or Premium?
Our bed and breakfast is in the mountain resort of Dilijan. Calling
itself the Switzerland of Armenia is a bit of a stretch but the air
is fresh and cool and it's a favourite spot for burned-out Yerevanites
to hike, camp or just chill.
We zig-zag up the hill passing tiny wheezing buses, powered by rooftop
propane tanks. Our hostess, a young widow with three sons, produces
a massive stack of delicious cabbage rolls for dinner and I start
to relax. "What more churches? But we've just arrived," I plead,
but Anan is already heading for the car.
"Ski Armenia" is not necessarily at the top of every aficionado's
bucket list when dreaming of a winter paradise. Pretty Tsaghkadzor,
a resort boasting four lifts, was built to train Soviet skiers for
the 1988 Olympics - hey, you can even check the web cams online. Most
summer tourists at the Hotel Russia are here to see the 11th century
Kocharis Monastery, rent an ATV or hike the mountain trails.
Mount Ararat appears through the mist as we approach Yerevan.
I return Anan to his anxious wife. No, he will never leave Armenia. It
is his home. The place where his heart lies. He lifts his shirt to
show off a bullet wound from the war with Azerbaijan. He is ready to
fight again should his country need him.
Armenia has shed many people over the years but most of them remain
passionately patriotic. $5 billion in annual remittances is a serious
part of the economy. Contributions from the likes of billionaire
Armenian/American Kirk Kerkorian have helped to rebuild the country's
infrastructure. Armenian/French singer Charles Aznavour was given
the title of "National Hero," a free bus pass and a barrel of Ararat
brandy for his charitable donations.
I spent six rewarding days in Armenia and a week in Georgia. Two
small Christian countries carrying lots of emotional baggage. Both
trying to rebuild after decades of Soviet rule.
IF YOU GO:
Getting there: The easiest way is to fly direct from London Heathrow
on BMI.
Safety: I never found any problems. Costs: A little higher than
Georgia. I paid $80 for a good central room in Yerevan. My three days
with Anan cost $300 including accommodation and food.
Why go: Yerevan is a modern happening city with great restaurants and
nightlife. The countryside is beautiful. The churches are spectacular.
The people are kind and friendly and many speak English. For a truly
unique holiday combine Georgia and Armenia.
From: Baghdasarian