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Posted below is an article i found on groong. it is very interesting and funny. i always find the way that foreigners view Armenia very interesting but this one is really really good but it doesnt look like the whole thing is there, hopefully groong will post the rest of hte article and ill put it up for you guys. but if you can find the article please do so and post it as i would love to read the rest.
TRAVEL: ARMENIA: WELL, IT WAS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ST GREGORY!
by GEOFF HILL
Belfast News Letter (Northern Ireland)
January 10, 2004, Saturday
RETREAT: Haghartsin monastery, surrounded by green forest near the
town of Dilijan; MYTHIC: Mount Ararat, where legend has it Noah's Arc
finally came to rest; HELLENISTIC: Garni temple, symbol of the
greatness of Tigra the Great
Once a vast empire, now almost derelict after centuries of invasion
and genocide, Armenia is still loved by its people. Our man Hill
finds out what the attraction is - and has dinner with the bishop
THE time: any morning for the past 1700 years. The scene: two old men
sitting on a park bench, in a cobbled square.
First man: "Well, we've had invasions, massacres, occupations,
genocides, wars, starvation, refugees, emigration and poverty. At
least nothing worse can happen."
Second man: "What's that noise?"
If countries were people, Armenia would be a black nun living in
Mississippi: one who's just been mugged by a bunch of skinheads
who've run off with her Vatican Gold credit card.
Then, just as she's getting up and dusting off her wimple, she's run
down by a truck driver delivering a load of burning crosses down the
road.
After becoming the first Christian country in the world in 301AD, for
a thousand years it was a vast empire taking in much of what is now
Iran, Turkey, Georgia and Azerbaijan and leading the world in
architecture, literature, music, mathematics and astronomy.
Then came the Mongols, the Safavids, the Ottomans and the Russians.
In 1915, the Young Turks of the Ottoman Empire slaughtered 1.5
million Armenians living in eastern Turkey, an act for which Turkey
has, to its eternal shame, refused to apologise to this day.
A few short years later, the Russians arrived, killed all the priests
and banned religion. In 1996, the war with Azerbaijan flooded the
country with refugees. Two years later, an earthquake killed 50,000
and, just as Armenia turned to the Soviet Union for aid, it fell
apart.
Today, half of the population is living below the poverty line, and
another third are living on less than a dollar a day. Many have fled
to the States, and send what money they can.
I arrived by plane in the middle of the night, sitting beside a man
in a multicoloured jacket and an even more multicoloured shirt, in
the open neck of which hung a large gold and crystal cross. He looked
like the Pope on his way to a Saturday Night Fever audition.
Yerevan Airport, the shape of a giant sputnik, was populated entirely
by statuesque women in military uniforms, and a small cat. Had I been
James Bond, I would have felt obliged to seduce at least half the
women before passport control, but as it was, my charms only worked
on the cat, who wrapped itself around my ankle as I queued for a
visa.
If the drive from the airport was anything to go by, the entire
economy was based on casinos and flower shops, and at the hotel, the
receptionist was telling a Japanese man that he could not have a room
without confirmation of his arrival.
"You want confirmation?" said the man, spreading his arms as wide as
they would go, which in truth was not very far. "Here I am! I confirm
that I have arrived!"
He got his room, and celebrated by going immediately to the bar and
ordering a brandy.
It, and religion, are, of course, the country's two most famous
exports.
The brandy is famous because Churchill was introduced to it by Stalin
at the Yalta conference and, when asked years later for the secret of
his long life, said: "Never be late for dinner, smoke only the best
cigars and drink Armenian brandy."
And the religion is famous because of buildings like the fabulously
frescoed cathedral of Echmiadzin, home to services once more since
the departure of the Russians.
Since the Bishop of Armenia was paying a visit, we arrived to a
flurry of genuflections and were forced to decamp temporarily to the
nearby chapel of St Gayenne, a persecuted virgin who is buried in the
7th century crypt, below a portrait of her looking glum, although
whether from persecution or virginity is unclear.
Outside, a small boy was selling Orthodox crosses emblazoned with the
pagan evil eye, as a sort of two for one insurance policy which was
entirely appropriate in a country where they still regularly
slaughter sheep before mass.
Anyway, that was quite enough culture for one day. It was time for
dinner, at a traditional restaurant in Yerevan where I had a vast
feast for about 5p, while in the corner a stern triumvirate of
elderly men played joyful airs on violin, flute and qiyamancha, which
looks like the offspring of a guitar and a short-sighted giraffe.
We left the city the next day, bouncing south on rutted road across
the fertile plain past vast, deserted Soviet factories and crumbling
blocks, with cows grazing in their courtyards as the former workers
attempted to make a desultory return to subsistence farming.
"You know," said Nouneh, the guide, "under the Soviets, everything
was planned. You knew what you were doing every day for the rest of
your life, so we had food, but no tomorrow. Now we have all our
tomorrows, but no food."
And no roads: it took us to noon to bounce our way to the spot where
Gregory the Illuminator brought Christianity to Armenia in 301, then
got thrown down a well by King Trdat III for his trouble.
When he wasn't persecuting virgins, Trdat would pop by from time to
time and take a look down the well to make sure the saint was
suitably miserable.
Of course, Gregory had the last laugh, and Khor Virap, the 13th
century monastery built on the spot, celebrates his success in
converting the country.
Today, it is the holiest spot in Armenia, and the most poignant, for
only a few miles south is the divine mountain of Ararat, supposed
home of the Ark.
Armenians can see its mighty peak from everywhere in the south of the
country, and yearn for it, but they can never go there, for it is
just across the closed border with detested, unforgiven Turkey.
Nouneh gazed at it for long minutes, then turned away.
"Come. Lunch," she said.
Lunch, at a nearby farmhouse, was a groaning table of breads,
sweetmeats, sorrel, lamb, beans, soup, fruit and yoghurt, served by
Seda, the 68-year- old grandmother of the house. Three years before,
her sister had invited her out to Los Angeles to live. She had lasted
six months, before declaring the place an uncivilized madhouse and
returning to the farm.
"When she came back, she complained that we'd got an inside toilet,"
said her grand-daughter Meline. " 'That filthy thing inside the
house? How disgusting!'," she said.
On the balcony, a geranium sprouted from an American Blending
Corporation powdered milk tin, the sole reminder of her visit to the
Babylon of the West.
For a gentle post-prandial walk, we staggered to our feet and climbed
the 7,500ft to the mountaintop fortress of Smbataberd, which was
built in the 5th century and sacked by the Mongol 800 years later.
More power to the Mongols, I thought as I collapsed onto the ruined
walls. After a climb like that, they deserved all they could lay
their hands on.
Still, at least the way down was easier, stumbling through the golden
evening into a flock of sheep who surrounded us with the mutter of a
thousand tiny feet.
At one stage we were joined by a man and his horse, whose foal walked
along behind, occasionally investigating my pocket shyly with her
nose.
We regained our car and came at last by moonlight to a large grey
building by a river. Two large dogs sat drooling gently on the
doorstep, and in an upstairs building, a single light burned.
"Nouneh, what is this building?" I said, as one of the dogs politely
nibbled my knee.
"It is the bishop's summer orphanage. But all the orphans have gone,"
she said.
At length, a small dark man opened the door. It was the bishop, and
we dined upstairs on reluctant mutton while he drank tea from a large
mug emblazoned with the words Earl Grey, named after a British
Nobleman, is renowned in International Circles.
I slept on a small bed, in a large dormitory, while somewhere deep in
the bowels of the building, our driver played Bach long into the
night.
TRAVEL: ARMENIA: WELL, IT WAS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ST GREGORY!
by GEOFF HILL
Belfast News Letter (Northern Ireland)
January 10, 2004, Saturday
RETREAT: Haghartsin monastery, surrounded by green forest near the
town of Dilijan; MYTHIC: Mount Ararat, where legend has it Noah's Arc
finally came to rest; HELLENISTIC: Garni temple, symbol of the
greatness of Tigra the Great
Once a vast empire, now almost derelict after centuries of invasion
and genocide, Armenia is still loved by its people. Our man Hill
finds out what the attraction is - and has dinner with the bishop
THE time: any morning for the past 1700 years. The scene: two old men
sitting on a park bench, in a cobbled square.
First man: "Well, we've had invasions, massacres, occupations,
genocides, wars, starvation, refugees, emigration and poverty. At
least nothing worse can happen."
Second man: "What's that noise?"
If countries were people, Armenia would be a black nun living in
Mississippi: one who's just been mugged by a bunch of skinheads
who've run off with her Vatican Gold credit card.
Then, just as she's getting up and dusting off her wimple, she's run
down by a truck driver delivering a load of burning crosses down the
road.
After becoming the first Christian country in the world in 301AD, for
a thousand years it was a vast empire taking in much of what is now
Iran, Turkey, Georgia and Azerbaijan and leading the world in
architecture, literature, music, mathematics and astronomy.
Then came the Mongols, the Safavids, the Ottomans and the Russians.
In 1915, the Young Turks of the Ottoman Empire slaughtered 1.5
million Armenians living in eastern Turkey, an act for which Turkey
has, to its eternal shame, refused to apologise to this day.
A few short years later, the Russians arrived, killed all the priests
and banned religion. In 1996, the war with Azerbaijan flooded the
country with refugees. Two years later, an earthquake killed 50,000
and, just as Armenia turned to the Soviet Union for aid, it fell
apart.
Today, half of the population is living below the poverty line, and
another third are living on less than a dollar a day. Many have fled
to the States, and send what money they can.
I arrived by plane in the middle of the night, sitting beside a man
in a multicoloured jacket and an even more multicoloured shirt, in
the open neck of which hung a large gold and crystal cross. He looked
like the Pope on his way to a Saturday Night Fever audition.
Yerevan Airport, the shape of a giant sputnik, was populated entirely
by statuesque women in military uniforms, and a small cat. Had I been
James Bond, I would have felt obliged to seduce at least half the
women before passport control, but as it was, my charms only worked
on the cat, who wrapped itself around my ankle as I queued for a
visa.
If the drive from the airport was anything to go by, the entire
economy was based on casinos and flower shops, and at the hotel, the
receptionist was telling a Japanese man that he could not have a room
without confirmation of his arrival.
"You want confirmation?" said the man, spreading his arms as wide as
they would go, which in truth was not very far. "Here I am! I confirm
that I have arrived!"
He got his room, and celebrated by going immediately to the bar and
ordering a brandy.
It, and religion, are, of course, the country's two most famous
exports.
The brandy is famous because Churchill was introduced to it by Stalin
at the Yalta conference and, when asked years later for the secret of
his long life, said: "Never be late for dinner, smoke only the best
cigars and drink Armenian brandy."
And the religion is famous because of buildings like the fabulously
frescoed cathedral of Echmiadzin, home to services once more since
the departure of the Russians.
Since the Bishop of Armenia was paying a visit, we arrived to a
flurry of genuflections and were forced to decamp temporarily to the
nearby chapel of St Gayenne, a persecuted virgin who is buried in the
7th century crypt, below a portrait of her looking glum, although
whether from persecution or virginity is unclear.
Outside, a small boy was selling Orthodox crosses emblazoned with the
pagan evil eye, as a sort of two for one insurance policy which was
entirely appropriate in a country where they still regularly
slaughter sheep before mass.
Anyway, that was quite enough culture for one day. It was time for
dinner, at a traditional restaurant in Yerevan where I had a vast
feast for about 5p, while in the corner a stern triumvirate of
elderly men played joyful airs on violin, flute and qiyamancha, which
looks like the offspring of a guitar and a short-sighted giraffe.
We left the city the next day, bouncing south on rutted road across
the fertile plain past vast, deserted Soviet factories and crumbling
blocks, with cows grazing in their courtyards as the former workers
attempted to make a desultory return to subsistence farming.
"You know," said Nouneh, the guide, "under the Soviets, everything
was planned. You knew what you were doing every day for the rest of
your life, so we had food, but no tomorrow. Now we have all our
tomorrows, but no food."
And no roads: it took us to noon to bounce our way to the spot where
Gregory the Illuminator brought Christianity to Armenia in 301, then
got thrown down a well by King Trdat III for his trouble.
When he wasn't persecuting virgins, Trdat would pop by from time to
time and take a look down the well to make sure the saint was
suitably miserable.
Of course, Gregory had the last laugh, and Khor Virap, the 13th
century monastery built on the spot, celebrates his success in
converting the country.
Today, it is the holiest spot in Armenia, and the most poignant, for
only a few miles south is the divine mountain of Ararat, supposed
home of the Ark.
Armenians can see its mighty peak from everywhere in the south of the
country, and yearn for it, but they can never go there, for it is
just across the closed border with detested, unforgiven Turkey.
Nouneh gazed at it for long minutes, then turned away.
"Come. Lunch," she said.
Lunch, at a nearby farmhouse, was a groaning table of breads,
sweetmeats, sorrel, lamb, beans, soup, fruit and yoghurt, served by
Seda, the 68-year- old grandmother of the house. Three years before,
her sister had invited her out to Los Angeles to live. She had lasted
six months, before declaring the place an uncivilized madhouse and
returning to the farm.
"When she came back, she complained that we'd got an inside toilet,"
said her grand-daughter Meline. " 'That filthy thing inside the
house? How disgusting!'," she said.
On the balcony, a geranium sprouted from an American Blending
Corporation powdered milk tin, the sole reminder of her visit to the
Babylon of the West.
For a gentle post-prandial walk, we staggered to our feet and climbed
the 7,500ft to the mountaintop fortress of Smbataberd, which was
built in the 5th century and sacked by the Mongol 800 years later.
More power to the Mongols, I thought as I collapsed onto the ruined
walls. After a climb like that, they deserved all they could lay
their hands on.
Still, at least the way down was easier, stumbling through the golden
evening into a flock of sheep who surrounded us with the mutter of a
thousand tiny feet.
At one stage we were joined by a man and his horse, whose foal walked
along behind, occasionally investigating my pocket shyly with her
nose.
We regained our car and came at last by moonlight to a large grey
building by a river. Two large dogs sat drooling gently on the
doorstep, and in an upstairs building, a single light burned.
"Nouneh, what is this building?" I said, as one of the dogs politely
nibbled my knee.
"It is the bishop's summer orphanage. But all the orphans have gone,"
she said.
At length, a small dark man opened the door. It was the bishop, and
we dined upstairs on reluctant mutton while he drank tea from a large
mug emblazoned with the words Earl Grey, named after a British
Nobleman, is renowned in International Circles.
I slept on a small bed, in a large dormitory, while somewhere deep in
the bowels of the building, our driver played Bach long into the
night.