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EVEN NOAH'S ARK IS EMPTY IN THIS DRAMATIC LAND
By Simon Duncan
Independent
http://www.iol.co.za/travel/world/europe/even-noah-s-ark-is-empty-in-this-dramatic-land-1.1371330
Aug 28 2012
South Africa
Istanbul - "And there is Noah's Ark." Silence greeted the prophetic
scene. "I can't see it," I said eventually. More silence. But I knew
the rest of the tour group staring at the hillside, in the shadow of
Mount Ararat, couldn't see it either. Our guide, Denis, outlined the
contours of the hill again trying to make us see a boat shape while
we willed him to succeed.
"You can see better on the photos," he said, conceding defeat. We
ventured inside to a makeshift museum, a stale, round room looking over
the hillside and protected by a white-haired man who sat at a table,
smoking. The yellowing aerial photographs showed the outline of a boat,
but archaeologists continue to survey and argue the provenance. What
struck me even more was that here were the apparent remains of one
of the great stories of the Bible and we were the only visitors. It
had been a recurring theme of my trip.
Part of the allure of visiting this part of eastern Turkey, was that
10 years ago it would have been near impossible to do so. Much of the
area was heavily militarised, with relations tense along the border
with Armenia and Iran. Tourists were vetted and chaperoned. Now,
with only the presentation of passports at occasional checkpoints to
bother us, we had the freedom to move about. Nevertheless, this part
of the country has been slow, or unwilling, to cash in on the European
tourist market. Guests at the busy hotels we stayed in appeared to
be fairly local; Iranians on a weekend break or Turkish families on
a trip to the seaside.
>From our starting place, Lake Van, we spent a week travelling north
via minibus, running parallel with Turkey's eastern border, winding
our way across extinct lava fields in which the black rock had churned
the vast green emptiness. The land is rich in minerals, and zinc has
turned the soil blood-red. We would stop for tea and to stretch our
legs on the plains and feast on endless watermelons.
On a hillside overlooking the town of Dogubeyazit, a few miles from the
Iranian border and Noah's Ark, stood the proud 17th-century Ishak Pasha
Palace. The Sultan was apparently so pleased with this creation that he
had his architect's hands cut off to prevent him designing another. We
were the only people there to appreciate the Ottoman architecture and
panoramic scenery. As we left, a tribe of schoolchildren appeared from
nowhere. "Hello! Hello!" they shouted, pleased with using their one
English word and giggling when we repeated it back. Their teachers
insisted on taking a photo as the children gathered around the exotic
strangers. When we drove away we were waved off like royalty.
Further north, we came to Ani, a grand, desolate city, at the
end of a nondescript road to the Armenian border. It had served
as an important stopping point on the original Silk Road and at
its height nearly 200,000 people lived here. Again we were alone,
walking within 20m-high sand-coloured walls that provided respite
from the sun. The once grand monuments were now forlorn buildings,
ruptured by earthquakes and neglect. No signs told us which route to
follow or what we could or couldn't touch. Like unruly school kids
we traipsed through shops in the agora, clambered over toppled marble
pillars that once supported roofs of grand churches and investigated
a vast broken monastery while swifts darted above.
At the far end of the site an earthquake had shifted some buildings
on to Armenian territory. "You could be shot if you go there," Denis
warned; a reminder of its recent past. We saw clearly the orange-topped
lookout posts on the other side of the hills and I couldn't quite
shake the fanciful feeling that I was being watched through crosshairs.
On our final days Denis navigated us and our minivan across mountains
drenched in tea plantations and cloud, and over roads that were
still being built to connect east to west. Our last excursion late
one afternoon took us to the Greek Orthodox Sumela monastery, founded
in the fourth century and carved out of the cliffs.
According to Denis this was normally a busy tourist attraction,
but the snowmelt that poured across the approach road and down into
the valley had put off visitors. Inside the complex, mist and rain
rendered the scene ethereal, while the views across the valley were
wrapped in thick cloud. Two-hundred-year-old fresco s appeared almost
freshly painted in the torchlight of the chapel. As we set off back
down the precarious track in the dwindling light, I noticed that we
were, once again, the only visitors there.
From: A. Papazian
By Simon Duncan
Independent
http://www.iol.co.za/travel/world/europe/even-noah-s-ark-is-empty-in-this-dramatic-land-1.1371330
Aug 28 2012
South Africa
Istanbul - "And there is Noah's Ark." Silence greeted the prophetic
scene. "I can't see it," I said eventually. More silence. But I knew
the rest of the tour group staring at the hillside, in the shadow of
Mount Ararat, couldn't see it either. Our guide, Denis, outlined the
contours of the hill again trying to make us see a boat shape while
we willed him to succeed.
"You can see better on the photos," he said, conceding defeat. We
ventured inside to a makeshift museum, a stale, round room looking over
the hillside and protected by a white-haired man who sat at a table,
smoking. The yellowing aerial photographs showed the outline of a boat,
but archaeologists continue to survey and argue the provenance. What
struck me even more was that here were the apparent remains of one
of the great stories of the Bible and we were the only visitors. It
had been a recurring theme of my trip.
Part of the allure of visiting this part of eastern Turkey, was that
10 years ago it would have been near impossible to do so. Much of the
area was heavily militarised, with relations tense along the border
with Armenia and Iran. Tourists were vetted and chaperoned. Now,
with only the presentation of passports at occasional checkpoints to
bother us, we had the freedom to move about. Nevertheless, this part
of the country has been slow, or unwilling, to cash in on the European
tourist market. Guests at the busy hotels we stayed in appeared to
be fairly local; Iranians on a weekend break or Turkish families on
a trip to the seaside.
>From our starting place, Lake Van, we spent a week travelling north
via minibus, running parallel with Turkey's eastern border, winding
our way across extinct lava fields in which the black rock had churned
the vast green emptiness. The land is rich in minerals, and zinc has
turned the soil blood-red. We would stop for tea and to stretch our
legs on the plains and feast on endless watermelons.
On a hillside overlooking the town of Dogubeyazit, a few miles from the
Iranian border and Noah's Ark, stood the proud 17th-century Ishak Pasha
Palace. The Sultan was apparently so pleased with this creation that he
had his architect's hands cut off to prevent him designing another. We
were the only people there to appreciate the Ottoman architecture and
panoramic scenery. As we left, a tribe of schoolchildren appeared from
nowhere. "Hello! Hello!" they shouted, pleased with using their one
English word and giggling when we repeated it back. Their teachers
insisted on taking a photo as the children gathered around the exotic
strangers. When we drove away we were waved off like royalty.
Further north, we came to Ani, a grand, desolate city, at the
end of a nondescript road to the Armenian border. It had served
as an important stopping point on the original Silk Road and at
its height nearly 200,000 people lived here. Again we were alone,
walking within 20m-high sand-coloured walls that provided respite
from the sun. The once grand monuments were now forlorn buildings,
ruptured by earthquakes and neglect. No signs told us which route to
follow or what we could or couldn't touch. Like unruly school kids
we traipsed through shops in the agora, clambered over toppled marble
pillars that once supported roofs of grand churches and investigated
a vast broken monastery while swifts darted above.
At the far end of the site an earthquake had shifted some buildings
on to Armenian territory. "You could be shot if you go there," Denis
warned; a reminder of its recent past. We saw clearly the orange-topped
lookout posts on the other side of the hills and I couldn't quite
shake the fanciful feeling that I was being watched through crosshairs.
On our final days Denis navigated us and our minivan across mountains
drenched in tea plantations and cloud, and over roads that were
still being built to connect east to west. Our last excursion late
one afternoon took us to the Greek Orthodox Sumela monastery, founded
in the fourth century and carved out of the cliffs.
According to Denis this was normally a busy tourist attraction,
but the snowmelt that poured across the approach road and down into
the valley had put off visitors. Inside the complex, mist and rain
rendered the scene ethereal, while the views across the valley were
wrapped in thick cloud. Two-hundred-year-old fresco s appeared almost
freshly painted in the torchlight of the chapel. As we set off back
down the precarious track in the dwindling light, I noticed that we
were, once again, the only visitors there.
From: A. Papazian