Why Armenia? I did not even know how to find it on the map. I only listened to that special voice inside that tells me where to find the next biking adventure. It has not been wrong yet.
I discovered that the internet knows more than I do, so I started by typing "bike trip Armenia" on Google. Only one travel agency popped up. It was called AdvenTour and I figured it was a promising name so I wrote. That was the beginning of a delightful correspondence with Hasmik.
We arrived in Yerevan at midnight and were met by a delightful young man named Vrezh who was to be our driver for the trip. The look on his face when he saw two elderly ladies that would be in his charge for 10 days on the road could not be compared to his expression when he met us the next morning in our lycra biking shorts!
Our bikes, loaded on a small Land Rover, were waiting for us outside the hotel. Vrezh advised us NOT to bike through Yerevan, and after seeing the worst drivers I have ever seen on any of my travels, I knew he was right. After we cleared the city we biked through villages and gardens towards Mt. Ararat and Khor Virap Royal Prison. It was the first of many remote monastic sites we visited, with secret pathways and underground chambers - fascinating parts of Christian history.
Armenia was the first country to have Christianity as the state religion (311 AD) and those ancient monks sure could find the most inaccessible sites on mountain tops to build their monasteries. If their purpose was contemplative prayer in safety, it was achieved.
I had prepared some talking cards with phrases like "Where is the toilet? " and "Your country is so beautiful " and "Thank you for helping me", etc which I asked Vrezh to translate into Armenian. They were much appreciated by the Armenians, not so much for the content but for the respect they showed.
Let me state that our driver was NOT just for taking our luggage from one point to another. We learned that he had been engaged (at no extra cost to us!) to take care of us 24 hours a day for 10 days - and he did. He left us to bike alone as long as we wished, but magically appeared whenever we needed him.
Our first evening dinner on the road was one of several things we could never have done on our own. We were having our first dinner at a remote goat cheese farm. With the bikes on the back of the Land Rover we bounced up a dirt track for nearly an hour, finally arriving at an old stone farmhouse at the top of the mountain . We were welcomed by mother and her daughter Katrik, who greeted us proudly in school-girl English but could not converse. Grandfather was perched on a little stool near the door, dressed for the occasion in knickers, a shirt and jacket, heavy knitted brown kneesocks with short knitted grey socks over them, thick-soled slippers and a cap. His broad smile showed his gold tooth and we sipped welcoming cups of thick Armenian coffee.
Dinner was a feast. A table had been set in the garden under the heavy boughs of a nut tree in deep grass. There were platters of fried chicken, fried potatoes, goat cheese, sliced cucumbers, whole green chili peppers, a bowl of chopped greens and herbs mixed with yogurt, and freshly-baked soft flat Armenian bread wrapped in plastic bags as individual servings beside each place. Dessert was thick sour cream topped with homemade honey and our beverage was ton, a ubiquitous Armenian drink made with plain yogurt mixed with water until it looks (and tastes nothing) like milk.
It turned out that the mother taught German to school children in her home. Ingrid managed to keep the conversation going with her limited German and I kept patting my stomach and waving my " The food is delicious! " talking card. There were hugs all around as we left and I thanked God (and Hasmik) for these new friends.
Biking the next days was often at 4000 - 6000 feet, so we were grateful for our strong lungs - and legs. Sometimes the roads were so steep and winding that, when flying down, we were "biting ourselves in the tail" as they say in Norwegian. Sometimes the road was so narrow that there was no room for two cars and a bike to meet at the same time, yet the hairpin turns were so tight one could not see what was coming. We checked our brakes many times a day!
The fields of wild flowers with intense colors were everywhere, the most spectacular I have ever seen. We always brought a picnic lunch of bread, cheese fresh tomatoes and apricot jam (my favorite) along the roadside, washed down with gallons of water. It is hot and dry in southern Armenia at this time of year (July) and dehydration can be dangerous for bikers.
Perhaps the most unforgettable occasion for us was one no one could not have programmed. I had read in my book before the trip that Armenian hospitality was legendary and that total strangers might invite you into their homes. Well, it happened to us! We were standing on a village street when two little boys popped out of an old stone house and were fooling with our bikes. The boys' mother came out and asked if we would like to come in for a drink of ton.
Naturally I was thrilled and Vrezh accepted for us. He stayed in the background, but Ingrid and I were escorted through an old kitchen with loaves and loaves of bread cooling on the table and into a small living room. We were seated on a sofa with a little table in front of us.
Well, it was just like the book. First came the glasses of ton, and then the platters of cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh herbs and bowls of yogurt, loaves of the newly-baked lavash, bowls of sour cream for dessert and a plate of chocolate. I had good use of my "Your country is beautiful" and "The food is delicious! " and "Thank you for your friendship" cards! When we left we discovered that they had given Vrezh a bag of bread and a huge hunk of cheese for us to eat later. I will never forget that spontaneous and loving hospitality.
The most moving occasion on the trip was our visit to the memorial for the Armenian genocide in 1915. Until I started reading some Armenian history I did not know of the dreadful holocaust in which 1.5 million people were murdered or sent off to die in the desert. The memorial and the garden in which trees are planted by people from many countries in memory of those who died touched me deeply. I will never forget what happened to the people of this magnificent country.
I almost forget that I knew nothing about Armenia a few months ago. I now know where it is on the map, I know that it is full of Christian history, gorgeous scenery, bumpy roads and great food. But most of all I know it is full of warm, wonderful hospitable people who are proud of their heritage and their country.
Connie, Norway
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