I had only been in my host family’s home for 10 minutes or so when they started asking me where in Armenia I was looking forward to traveling and when I would be free to sightsee with them. I said the first place that popped into my head, which was the Temple of Garni. It’s a Hellenistic pagan temple from the 1st or 2nd century, one of the only ones left in the Caucasus region. Little did I know, it was only a 45-minute drive away from our village. My family was immediately excited at this idea and insisted that the upcoming weekend they would take me there.
After a long first week of PST with a lot of ups and some downs, I soon found myself smushed into the backseat of my host brother’s Mercedes Benz on our way to Garni. The landscape reminded me of the familiar drive from Seattle to Spokane. I pictured myself as a giant and imagined laying my hand over the mesas and mountains so I could feel their grooves on my skin. As we passed through rural villages, small smoke plumes rose up across the valley. Farmers were burning weeds and sticks to make room for the new crops. The smell crept in through the open car window and our family’s little cousin who had tagged along made an exaggerated gesture to plug her nose. I could tell when we were close to Garni because the signs for restaurants and stores began to read more and more touristy with English translations reading; “Luxury Garden Resort” and “Garni Temple Restaurant.” When we entered the village itself, pedestrians were milling about in the road, and parking attendants were barking orders at the arriving drivers.
The Temple stood alone at the top of a slightly sloping hill. The area surrounding it was cleared of trees so its looming frame stood out against the blue sky. The columns reached up stoically and the 24 steps leading to the entrance (to symbolize 24 hours in a day) were bathed in warm sunlight. We wandered around, dodging the many other tourists who had the same idea of how to spend a Sunday afternoon. I wondered if, with my sunglasses and ankle-length skirt, people might assume that I really was related to my host family. But I had a feeling that I was still easily clocked as an outsider here, at least for now. After we had our fill of picture-taking, we walked back to the car past the stands selling dried fruits, sugar syrup-coated walnuts, sweet bread, and of course kitschy souvenirs. My host sister told me that next, we were going to church. I assumed this meant we were going to go back to our village to attend an afternoon service. But when we began driving again, the car turned right instead of left and plunged deeper into the valley.
About 20 minutes later, we turned around a bend in the road and I saw a large stone monastery peaking out from the cliffside. I realized quickly that we were not in fact about to attend a service but were continuing our day of sightseeing. This was Geghard monastery, founded by the much beloved Gregory the Illuminator in the 1200s. Surrounding the main building were numerous caves on the side of the mountain. When I scanned the hills towering over us, I could see a large metal cross nestled in the crooks of the rock about halfway to the peak. We lit candles inside the sanctuary and explored the many enclaves within the compound. At one point, a local tour guide broke out into song to demonstrate the natural acoustics of the high-arched ceilings. The entire room of people hushed to listen as he sang what sounded to me like an Armenian version of a monastic chant.
In one of these cool cramped rooms, there was a trickle of water flowing across the floor. My host family ushered me into a dark corner where the source of the trickle revealed itself to be a natural spring emerging from the stone. After my host sister explained that many Armenians believe this specific water has healing powers, I followed my family’s lead and crouched down to take a small sip using my hands as a cup. I guess I will have to update later if any part of my body or soul starts to feel particularly healed.
We made our way over a bridge to the other side of the river to check out a larger cave in the mountain that was filled with small towers of stacked rocks. My host sister again assumed the role of translator and told me that people would stack these rocks as a way of manifesting their hopes and dreams. She and I each knelt down and created our own stacks to add to the collection. On our way back to the car we again passed a line of vendors. My host brother and sister-in-law insisted on buying me a little trinket, even after my protests. I conceded to their generosity and picked out a wooden pomegranate magnet. Someday when I have a fridge of my own, it will be granted prime real estate. At the car, my host mother cut up pieces of the Gata (sweet bread) she had purchased from a vendor and passed them around for us to snack on before we began our journey home.
On the way, we stopped at a small picnic shelter on the side of the road for lunch. We had passed by many such shelters earlier in the day. Inside there were 3 women preparing lavash, a special kind of Armenian bread. They would roll out the dough onto a big pillow-like instrument (the one they were using amused me because it was wrapped in Lightning McQueen patterned fabric), spritz it with water, and then slam the dough against the wall of a narrow oven built into the ground. We bought a couple of loaves and unpacked the cheese and herbs that we had brought from home. I lost count of how many times my host mother got up from the picnic table and returned with more fresh lavash. She would toss the hot sheet right onto the table in front of us and we’d all jump to rip into it with our hands before it began to cool. The phrase “don’t fill up on bread” must not translate into Armenian.
We made one more pit stop for a photo op before returning to our village. Up a small hill, there was a large stone arch overlooking a scenic view. This was The Arch of Charents, built in remembrance of Yeghishe Charents, a 20th-century Armenian poet who was killed during the Great Purge under Stalin. His poems centered largely around his love and pride for Armenia. He wrote frequently about Mount Ararat, which would have been visible through the arch if we were there on a clearer day. But still, even with the haze, you could see for miles across the valley all the way into Turkey. I wish that my Armenian language comprehension was advanced enough that I could read his poems in their original form, but I have had to settle for the English translations that I can find online. Even translations of the same poem vary somewhat, but I’ve been able to find a few that seem faithful to Charent’s voice. He writes,
“I love the sun-baked taste of Armenian words,
the lilt of ancient lutes in sweet laments
our blood-red fragrant roses bending
as in Nayiran dances, danced still by our girls.
I love the deep night sky, our lakes of light,
the winter winds that howl like dragon's fire.
The meanest huts with blackened walls are dear to me-
each of the thousand-year-old city stones.
Wherever I go, I take our mournful music,
our steel-forged letters turned to prayers.
However sharp my wounds or drained of blood,
or orphaned- my yearning heart turns there with love.”
My time in Armenia so far feels like I am hovering around the precipice of a massive cave. Everything that I see or experience draws me in further and beckons me to continue exploring. As I continue venturing deeper, I will pay close attention to listen for the “lilt of ancient lutes” and savor “the sun-baked taste of Armenian words.”
(P.S. I have finally added a photo gallery page to this page, so go check that out to see some of my photos from Garni and Geghard!)
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