The Monastery

I was slightly lost after Tim left. He headed for Georgia, where he was presumably going to continue his campaign to ask as many strangers as possible for directions. But I was so enthused by his indefatigable Insta tourism, that I decided to follow his lead and go somewhere interesting. At the glowing recommendation of the staff in my hostel, I planned a trip to Geghard Monastery and Garni Temple in the mountains outside of Yerevan. They sound like destinations from a Tintin book, right? Well that’s pretty much what they were. This was far and away the most gap yah day of my life so far…

The good old internet told me that, to get there, I needed to walk to the junction between two roads near my hostel, get a bus from there to ‘Mercedes Bus Station’, and then get a coach to Geghard. Ta-dah!

I’m sure you’ve guessed it already, but it wasn’t that easy. Writing this now, when – even eight thousand kilometres from the UK, everything is overshadowed by Thursday's election – those instructions were about as accurate as Jo Swinson’s claim that she could be Prime Minister.

Getting to the crossroads was easy enough – I just had to walk in a straight line for twenty minutes. The problem, though, was that there were three different bus stops at the junction between those two roads. Two on one road, and one on the other. I picked one at random and waited….

and waited…

and waited…

I was there for about half an hour, watching the same buses come and go. But my laziness prevailed against my fear that I’d picked the wrong one of the three stops. And just as well, because eventually, a battered old minivan crammed to the gills with passengers screeched to a halt and gave out a feeble puff of black smoke. It was my bus, and I figured waiting for the next one could be an all-day affair, so I got in. The screeching of the brakes was even worse on the inside of the vehicle, somehow. It sounded like somebody had sellotaped a small but tough cat to one of the brake pads, and sandpaper to the brake rotor. After ten minutes or so, feeling (and hearing) the bus turn back towards central Yerevan, I asked the driver if he was heading for Mercedes Bus Station. He just looked at me. The woman in the seat next to the driver looked at me too. She scrutinised me carefully. Then her eyebrows rocketed upwards in a reassuring look of recognition and understanding. She nodded at me. ‘Yes.’ She said.

The woman next to the driver made eye contact with me again after another ten minutes, and nodded towards a big Mercedes garage across the road. I was dubious, but I got off because I didn’t have any better ideas. There was no bus station. I wandered around for a bit. It was a street. A very un-special street. Then I consulted the internet again. It told me that there was no ‘Mercedes Bus Station’ in Yerevan. I did a Tim, and asked an old man on the street. ‘Do you know where the… *clears throat with a deep sense of dread*... the Mercedes Bus Station is?’ He nodded towards a road which went off in the exact opposite direction from the Mercedes garage. I took a breath, calmed myself, and walked down it.

And you know what? There was a bus station there. Well… not a bus station. There was a minibus. With nobody in it. In a dusty little lay-by. I paced back and forth for a bit and then opened the door of the minibus. There was a guy in the front passenger seat wearing khaki and a military cap. He didn’t turn around. ‘Ummm. Sorry to… bother… hey are you alive?’

The military cap nodded.

‘Is this the bus to Geghard?’

It nodded again. I got in.

It wasn’t.

Half an hour later I was sitting in a big old school bus which had been repurposed as a semi-functional rollercoaster to Geghard. Or so I was told. I was beginning to get sceptical. An hour of waiting on the empty bus didn’t make the prospect of getting to Geghard seem any more likely. Eventually, the gruff driver (who’d been spending the last hour outside the bus smoking) got in, slammed the door, and did an eighty-seven point turn to point us towards the motorway that got us to the mountain pass that got us to a village that wasn’t Geghard. It was called Gogh, it was ten kilometres from Geghard, and it was the final stop. I was frankly relieved to have made it (almost) there alive, though. The bus definitely wasn’t designed for mountain passes, and the driver was giving it full throttle in first gear at every slight incline. I’m astonished that it didn’t give up the ghost. Astonished and grateful.

I’m glad that I had that walk, because it was an eye-wateringly beautiful road up to the monastery. To my left were snowy mountains, and to my right a valley shrouded in fog. I could just make out hazy peaks in the distance, and hear a gurgling river at the bottom of the valley. The best bit was that there were absolutely no other people. Not a soul, not a car. Just dogs and the odd roadside cage full of chickens. I reckon it took about two hours, and all that time my imagination was running riot with images of Tibetan-style monasteries nestled against the peaks of mountains and sheltered by breathtaking cloisters and soaring spires. But for perhaps the first time ever, my wild imagination didn’t do justice to the reality. Geghard monastery is quite literally carved into the side of the mountain, with cavernous chambers hewn from the rock, totally unlit, and supported by intricately decorated pillars. That specific monastery has been there since the thirteenth century, but some claim that a monastery on that site dates back to the time of St Gregory the Illuminator, who brought Christianity to Armenia in the fourth century. Back in the day, the monks used to live in caves in the cliff face, totally exposed to the icy elements, even facing into the prevailing wind. Those caves are still there, and now they’re filled with small piles of balancing stones built by visitors in memory of loved ones.

The more architecturally complex bit of the monastery starts with a large archway, through which you can see a domed church in a high-walled courtyard. The inside is lit entirely with candles, and there are three small chapels within. The main altar is simple and grand, decorated with a metal Armenian cross and lit by a dark iron chandelier. The chapels on the left of the altar are truly filmic. With large intricate depictions of crosses and mythical creatures carved from the black rock. There are little hidey-holes around every corner, just big enough to fit a person, and a crack in ceiling which affords a glimpse into an ancient chamber above the monastery. This low-roofed chamber is supported by four columns hewn in solid rock, and was the tomb of two princes. It’s awfully dark in there, and very echoey.

As you can probably tell, I liked it a lot. Another little chapel of the side of the main church had a little spring rising in the corner and running through a furrow straight down the centre of the room. It’s the same spring that the monastery was supposedly founded on, and was once worshipped by pagans. On the roof, hanging from some of the monastery’s domes were large, menacing stalactites.

It was just an incredible space. It felt so ancient.

On the walk back down towards Gogh, I noticed a house by the side of the road where two women in traditional clothing were baking flatbread. I’m sure they were just doing it for passing tourists, but it worked on me. I bought a loaf for twenty-four pence(?!) and happily munched it on the path back to Gogh.

Then I overshot Gogh by another five or so kilometres to get to Garni. Most people think of Garni as the real attraction in the area. It’s a Roman temple which was destroyed by an earthquake, but was since reconstructed, and has been excellently preserved. But it was almost too pristine for my liking. It certainly didn’t feel like a building from the first century AD! Plus the view here was a bit less impressive than from Garni. And also they charged for entrance.

In fact, the highlight of my visit to Garni has got to be finding the bus stop. I asked some old men standing at the corner of the road (I’m becoming a true Tim-style traveller now), and they were so pleased to hear an Englishman speaking Russian that they gave me some of their home-grown apples and chatted with me while I waited for the bus. It turns out the bus stop was just across the road from the corner where they were standing. I honestly can’t think what all the old people in Armenia standing at the corners of roads are doing there. I mean, do they just leave their houses every morning and go ‘right, better get back to the corner of that road in case anyone needs bus advice’? Anyway, they were very sweet and very interesting to talk to. They were adamant that life was better in the USSR – they said that at least everybody had jobs then, and you didn’t have to work too hard. It’s not the first time that I’ve come across that opinion, but they were certainly the most vocal proponents of it so far.

I was pleased and disappointed to hear English as I got off the bus back to Yerevan. It was two Australians who joined Jimmy (I should mention that Jimmy from Taiwan has been travelling more or less permanently since he was just twenty-five!) in the ranks of semi-permanent travellers. They were actually headed back to Australia soon, but they’ve dedicated the last couple of years to travelling around Europe, working in London to fund their travels. Big respect for that. I’m just getting ready for a Russian New Year, which is exciting and sad in equal parts. I’ll miss mince pies.