church – One Hell of a Ride

Into the Pit

Armenians are proud people. We are proud with a reason and without. We are proud of our budding democracy, of our chess team, and, above all, of our history. We like to mention that once upon a time our country spanned from sea to shining sea and that we were the first nation to adopt Christianity as its official religion.

This little episode occurred in 301 AD: 12 years before Christianity was even legal in Rome. This change of religion was catalyzed by St. Gregory the Illuminator, now the patron saint of Armenia, curing then-pagan king Tiridates III of insanity, into which he had lapsed after torturing and killing a group of virgin Christian nuns. However, prior to this St. Gregory was imprisoned for 13 years in a deep pit (khor virap) by the same Tiridates III for being the son of his father’s enemy.

So every child educated in Armenia gets this history lesson, but not all of them get to see the actual pit. I had not until very recently. The virap has had a small chapel built over it since the days of St. Gregory, which is now a part of a monastery complex, situated in the Ararat plain, amid vineyards and orchards.

It was a rather short ride from the city, 30 minutes or so, on a boring straight road that didn’t give you much to look at, other than an occasional shanty roughly put together out of metal scraps in the middle of a fruit garden, where a family was laboring together hunched over the earth. The more boring and straighter the road, the more likely you are to speed though, so the highlight of the ride was the roar of the engine, the warm wind in my face, and the meditative state into which I lapse at high speeds. On the other hand, the last short section of the drive up to the Khor Virap monastery was extraordinarily picturesque, one so familiar and dear to the hearts of all Armenians: a church perched on the top of a steep hill with the snow-white Ararat hovering majestically in the back.

The first thing that struck me about the church was I guess the usual sight at most churches in Armenia on a weekend: the wedding conveyer. One somber couple followed the other into the church where the no less somber priest performed the rites and pronounced them united in the eyes of God, after which the couple was free to go and pose for pictures in the yard. And so there was always one couple getting nervous, stepping from one foot to the other in the church doorway, another couple at the altar, and the third looking at the cameras soberly, gravely, as if trying to understand the philosophical repercussions of “in sickness and in health”.

The brides’ mothers looked fussy as they arranged their daughters’ veils clumsily and gave them advices as to how to look their best in these pictures that immortalized the most important day of their lives. Maids of honor tried to present themselves to their best advantage in front of the grooms’ friends. Little girls in white dresses spun around and twirled their taffeta skirts in the church yard, looking dreamily at the brides, hoping that one day they will be marrying their own solemn-looking prince charming. But for now, at least they got the dress all ready…

The main church, St. Astvatsatsin, built in the 17th century, was rather typical, as far as Armenian churches are concerned, built out of smooth orange tufa stone. It sat in the middle of the courtyard contrasted by the rough-hewn stone walls around the whole complex. The back wall of the church was covered in inscriptions: mostly names and dates, some going as far back as 1920’s, making the sense of permanence and continuity real, touchable.

The St. Gregory chapel was smaller, simpler, rougher, the inside walls covered with soot, housing the pit that served as St. Gregory’s home and prison for 13 years. We parked the motorcycle helmets by the altar, hoping that no one would steal from a church, and descended into the pit. The vertical ladder just kept going and going and I started to wonder just where I would find myself when my feet hit solid ground again, somewhat like Alice. The pit was dark, full of tourists, and claustrophobic. I guess those pagan kings back in the day were not to be messed with. Couldn’t imagine someone being trapped there for years and years, without the sad-looking but efficient light bulb hanging lonely from the ceiling.

Inside St. Astvatsatsin numerous candles flickered in the breeze, as people whispered their secret wishes and most coveted dreams to the quivering flames, hoping that God will grant an answer to their prayers.

Outside the church there was a tribute to the Armenian pagan past: a cock was trotting around proudly, as a true Armenian cock would, still ignorant of the the highest purpose he was going to serve.

On the way back to the city we were bombing down the highway, going over 150 km/hr, probably the fastest that I have ridden on a bike (although I used to squeeze more out of my old Corolla), and the boyfriend’s medium-sized helmet was sliding back off my small-sized head, while trying to crack my neck in the process. The chin strap was digging in painfully, totally ruining this amazing experience of the world rushing past me at a (quite literally) breakneck speed. With all this sliding around that the helmet was doing , I realized that it was on my head just for placebo effect: I may have felt better about having my head protected, but it would probably not do much good during the meeting between my head and the pavement.

So the few lessons to be learned from this ride:

Armenia was the first country to adopt Christianity in 301 AD;
Armenians have a lot to be proud of (in addition to the point above);
When you are very low, there is nowhere else to go but up (from the depths of Khor Virap to a patron saint);
And lastly, children, not only is it important to wear a helmet when riding a bike, it is also crucial to wear one your size.

The most beautiful church in Armenia, part 2

First part can be found here, or you can read both together.

After meeting the Azeris at Yeraskh things got even more chilly and so did the weather. We enjoyed our candy bars and started climbing the mountains to finally get to Noravank.

At the final intersection we turned right across the small bridge to the narrow road that is perhaps my most favorite road section to ride in the south. It is a worn tarmac secondary road through a narrow gorge the color of the sun, and while the colors of the scenery resemble those of the Barrens in World of Warcraft (especially around summertime), the blooming trees, the wide expanse of the sky and the light tarmac all add fantastic bright shades, making the road a lot more like fantasy than any zone in World of Warcraft can be.

In Noravank it was already unpleasantly cold and windy. We parked in the small parking lot, locked the handlebar and headed to the churches.

Architect Momik’s masterpieces were magnificent and beautiful as ever!

I insist that the crosses on the following photo signify the number of people who have died falling down the narrow stairs with no handrail. The crosses on each level signify the number of people who fell down the particular stair on that level for the given day. After the day is over, the priest registers the deaths in his statistics journal and carefully wipes the crosses using his Holy Armenian Apostolic Sandpaper. As we can see, higher stairs cause more deaths. I understand that this was Momik’s Evil Plan of Taking Over the World by slow and systematic kills over the centuries. Resistance is Futile!!

Sometimes the sandpaper does not wipe the crosses very well, and the priest has to swap the stones with cleaner ones from the other side of the church!

This is a very awesome illustration of Mary, Jesus Christ and two Angels (I think the one at the left is St. Gabriel) posing together.

After observing the churches and taking photos, we took a rest at the nearby cafe and warmed ourselves up with some tea. There was a heated discussion at the next table where two priests were explaining to some fellows that there is no such a thing as an Azerbaijani nation. Despite the scientific arguments, it sounded pretty odd after our recent encounter.

After a few minutes of walking, we realized that every minute spent at Noravank meant the way back was going to be colder. We headed back to Yerevan. The section from Noravank to Yeraskh was immensely cold, but after Yeraskh the air got warmer. Riding over 140km/h along the Most Boring Highway of Armenia (MBHA, aka M2), I was thinking about launching an awareness campaign for saving the innocent lives taken away by the absent railing of the narrow stairs.

First part can be found here, or you can read both together.

The most beautiful church in Armenia, part 1

Second part can be found here, or you can read both together.

Sunday was the first ride of the Season and it was decided that we were going to Noravank. Comprised of two XIII century churches St. Astvatsatsin and St. Karapet, I consider the whole monument on top of the gorge one of the most beautiful and St. Astvatsatsin perhaps the most beautiful church on the territory of the present Armenia.

Weather.com predicted a high of 16°C for the day and we figured it would be tolerable for a ride of ~260km wearing sweatshirts. There were some morning showers reported, so we decided to head out of Yerevan past noon. The air itself was so chilly in the wind that at some point we contemplated turning right to Khor Virap, which would slash our trip, leaving less than a quarter of the planned mileage. However, at the crossroads to Khor Virap we decided to stick to the plan.

Something that I just discovered near Khor Virap is that along the M2 road there are many stork nests built on top of the lightposts. The nests are huge and they look like hats for the wooden posts, and there is a stork standing in almost every one of them—looks awesome! The storks gave me a pleasant flashback to my childhood when they were somehow directly associated with Armenia in my perception, albeit being a child in Yerevan I had never even experienced a real encounter with a stork!

So we rode all the way to Yeraskh, which is of course the standard rest point where we took a Snickers & Bounty candybar break. I was eager to find an ‘extra large’ Snickers instead of the regular size, so we started traversing through all the local stores (which are really just old cargo containers turned into shops by cutting windows and doors into them).

And here we witnessed something extraordinary! There were other tourists taking a break in the area besides us, who I presumed were from Iran and were returning back after celebrating Novruz in Yerevan. Among these were two tan guys in mid twenties in one of the stores where we were looking for the large Snickers, and as all Iranians do in Armenia they were shopping for alcohol. These two in particular were going for some scotch and a bottle of Armenian brandy. While choosing and checking their goods out, they were chatting to the store owner, an old woman in her 70ies. A foreign speech catches anyone’s ear, especially if you are standing within half a meter of the speech source in a long–lost rural area in Armenia, and so I was trying to figure out how could that old woman speak Farsi so fluently, when it suddenly struck me—the speech sounded a lot more like Turkish than Persian! The guys paid for the goods and left, leaving an atmosphere of excitement in the dirty cabin and a sincere melancholic smile on the old woman’s face who obviously didn’t smile that often. I was already pretty shocked, and so I followed:

“Would you give me a large bar of Snickers?” I asked suspiciously.

After a short pause, the old woman replied with a mildly nostalgic voice, “I don’t have the large ones… You can have these, which are smaller…” At this point I realized the woman had a thick Baku accent. She seemed super nice, too.

“So, what’s up with those guys?” I tried to sound casual and careless.

“Ah, young Azerbaijanis… Came to visit from Iran. I used to live in Baku, before coming here… [pause] Still remember the language… not so well.” The woman too sounded suspicious but casual. “Had to check the amount by writing it down on a paper to avoid a mistake…” At this point she kept smiling like a kid who knows he’s done something wrong and yet enjoyed the experience.

“Thanks!” I replied.

I was feeling pretty confused. We walked out of the container and I told Nariné, although she was standing by me all the way:

“Those guys were Azeris…”

Second part can be found here, or you can read both together.