After a week visiting the SPFA in Khatchen and Khnabad, Rosane offered us a touristic day to discover the wonders of Karabakh. With two of her friends, Advid and Gahen, we piled into the small Lada 4WD with a voluminous picnic basket and left to go to the monastery of Dadivank.

We drove to the lake of Sarsang, in the north of the Karabakh. After that, there was the gold mine of Drmbon. So the car left the impeccable back road to drive towards the west on a road full of potholes that wound its way along a small river.

          The lake of Sarsang

We arrived at the monastery of Dadivank. Nestled in the bend of a mountain, it dominates the whole valley. We were the only tourists that day. An old lady from the next hamlet came to sell us ritual candles (to buy and light in the religious buildings that people visit). She strived to speak to us in Russian, despite our many ‘ruski niet’s. And she seemed disconcerted that we could not understand a word of Russian.

          Dadivank

The visit there was over and the car left for the west. It was after 2pm and we were patiently waiting for Advid to park the car in a nature spot for the promised picnic, but he kept on driving…

The road entered an ancient tunnel, cut directly in the rock, and changed into a path running at the bottom of a narrow canyon. We crossed the river on a bridge made of reinforced concrete (so old that the steel rods seemed to want to escape). The car crossing made the rods clink together with a metallic noise. We slowly went deeper towards the unknown while enjoying the beauty of the landscape surrounding us.

We had left the theoretical borders of the High Karabakh for two hours. And now, we were in this little part of Azerbaijan that separated Karabakh and Armenia during the war. We were in a country that does not exist, and we were driving in the middle of nowhere… 

          Landscape in the middle of nowhere

At last, we arrived at a large clearing. To our great surprise, despite the kilometres covered in almost virgin nature, we were not the only ones there. Two other cars were stopped there, and their occupants were bathing in a crater where bubbling water spurted out from the depths of the Earth.

When the boot opened, we discovered what the word ‘picnic’ means for the Armenians. Nothing was missing, not even the bundle of sticks provided for the cooking of rolovatz (Armenian skewers). 

          Gahen checking the cooking

We had never seen skewers cooked so carefully (but was the word ‘skewer’ enough to translate what was to come?).


 Armenian picnic

After the meal: bathing in the thermal spring that was giving us the eye since our arrival. We dipped ourselves slowly into the deliciously scalding water…Life is beautiful!

We left at the close of the day. This time, Gahen was driving. Despite all the potholes, which were hard to avoid at night, some fell asleep and the others became absorbed in their thoughts after this beautiful day spent together.

François
(Translation: Yolene Dabreteau)