#Gyumri

[babylon-crashing]

MANKATUN

1.

Of all the babies, Moses

was the biggest – being

almost eight. He would

crawl down the hall on

thick forearms

spidery legs

until a nurse would

scoop him up,

leave him with

Hamlet, the Annahiet

twins, Emmella, Syrope -

they all had names -

crying in wooden

chairs for hours.

Some of the nurses

referred to these babies

as things.

As things. As things.

There was no ointment

for the back of the baby

girl's head rocking

back and forth

on the plastic mat – in

the sun for six hours

a winter sun

surrounded by 2 year

old hair.

2.

The spoon

you held was just a spoon.

Spoon, do you have magic

or are you just a spoon?

The bowl of warmish chicken

noodle was oily, was

revolting, was all you had.

Soup, do you have magic

or are you just watery

broth, a noodle?

There is a photograph

in the nurses' office,

of the city dump.

Crosses, made of sticks

dot the mounds of garbage.

Faded strips of black

cloth tied here

there blow about.

There is a dog in

the photograph, too.

It sniffs at

a freshly dug

mound.

][][

Notes.

In the Armenian language, "mankatun" (մանկատուն) is the term for orphanage, where I worked in Gyumri and where the disaster played itself out. Back then I spelled everything phonetically, so I pronounced it "manga'toon," but that doesn't matter much here.

What am I trying to achieve with these posts? I am beginning to lose memories. I am terrified of forgetting. So I'm posting poetry and stories that I wrote almost twenty years ago as a way of saving this silly little world in my head. Even if one day my head stops being mine I hope some essence of this story lives on, somewhere, somehow.

I wrote this poem in 2002 and at the time was trying to work my way through the story of my psycho'vac, the Peace Corps term for being emergency evacuated, up to the point when I wandered out into a blizzard with the dull wish of never returning. The suffering of my children broke me. And it was a single photograph that did it, in the nurse's room, where these children would end up: the city dump. It was the realization at the time that it didn't matter what I did. I was 26. That absolute sense of powerlessness broke me.

[ilcontephotography]

Abandoned theatre. Renovated few years after my visit, it is now an educational tech centre.

Gyumri, Armenia.

© Roberto Conte (2015)

Follow me on Instagram.

[postcard-from-the-past]

View of Alexandropol, modern-day Gyumri, Armenia

Russian vintage postcard, mailed in 1913 to Reims, France

[harminuya]

Providing medical assistance to orphans - victims of the Armenian Genocide, Alexandropol, 1916. Rostov Regional Museum of Local Lore.

[awidevastdominion]

[dougielombax]

Today marks 35 years since the 1988 Spitak earthquake in Armenia.

25,000 people were killed and many more injured.

The picture shows the ruins of the Holy Saviour’s Church in the city of Gyumri. It has since been repaired and has been undergoing renovations.

[dailystreetsnapshots]

Gyumri, Armenia

[globeskidder]

Extraordinary Armenia: An Underrated Country with Plenty to Offer

Here is my Armenia trip report from when I visited in October 2022

I visited Armenia in the fall of 2022 with few expectations. At first glance, tourism in Armenia seemed limited to the Armenian diaspora or Russians who were coming in by the droves to escape the Ukraine war draft. I hadn’t expected it to be such a delightfully easy country to travel around, and I didn’t plan to fall in love with it. Although I had initially planned on visiting in 2008, what…

[armenian-tourism-ru]

Такси из Гюмри в Ереван, Тбилиси, Батуми, Зугдиди!

[nonesuchrecords]

Tigran Hamasyan performed for ARTE’s Piano Day Concert in celebration of the international day honoring the instrument. For this solo recital, filmed in Opéra Comique’s Salle Bizet in Paris on March 8, Hamasyan performs songs from throughout his repertoire, including his 2017 album, An Ancient Observer, and his 2018 EP, For Gyumri. 

[babylon-crashing]

the psycho'vac

I. ��      In a glass case                in the dark                         in an alcove                                in the dark                in a church in Rome,        in Sienna, in Florence,                                bits of saints mummified like the monkey's paw or                        Daniel Dravot's withered head                                                sat in the dark                        waiting for the faithful                                                to pass by, tourists to gawk at, for children of archeologists                to be terrified by.        Outside the Uffitzi                        one could buy postcards                                        fragments of Bosch's                                                        Last Judgement (1504)                                        reaction against sexuality                        that was creeping        back into the faith – every where lusty, fleshy figures                        were being torn apart, swallowed whole by frog-eggs,        tossed into pits of fire and snakes,                                        onto pitchforks and trees of thorn                while the saved, the fleshless,                                desiccated, loosely built creatures                        closed their eyes and lay upon the ground to pray.

II.

It starts while you sit in an outdoor cafe near the great clock in the ex-Lenin Square, forever at 11:45, while swallows who nest in the ruined eaves dart low, dark sickle-flashes, sweeping, skimming. Your notebook is open, pen cast down. You sip at the tiny cup of bitter coffee-sludge (when you are at a friend's house the old tatik takes the finished cup from your hands and reads the ground-stains, having you press your thumb into the hot residue, always with the curious shapes rimming the inside lip.) There is a smell thunder in the air. It starts when you walk down one of the city's mud streets, the rain coming down for four days nonstop. You stand in a crumbled doorway, a truck rumbles past full of cabbage heading for the market, spraying mud and gravel into the air. The wave-like clouds come down off the nearby mountains, things urgent and low to the ground, overwhelming the ruined factories and caved-in apartments, the one-room emergency boxes families of eight or twelve had been living in for the last seven years. It starts as you walk down the street. Under your boots, laying in unmarked graves, thousands of bodies, crushed and buried, their calls bubbling to the surface. Waiting for someone to hear.

III.

After the first baby in the orphanage you work at dies, then the second and finally a third, you go on a walk. It has been lightly snowing. Behind the city lays the broken rail yard. Even though there is no penicillin at the rail yard and none of the doctors who refuse to come to the orphanage to heal "things" as they call your babies will be there, you walk without a hat in the late afternoon gusts. You climb up through an abandoned cab engine, the iron sticking slightly to your gloves, its wooden passenger carriages trapped under a fallen wall. The train - its olive green and chrome and red 1940s Soviet art deco - slightly covered in wet-powder. At your feet, in the lee of the cab engine, dozens of empty hypodermic needles. Beyond the cab, the twisted rail lines; toppled buildings and other ruins; open pits of crude oil sunk in the ground; a whole roundhouse with the roof caved-in. It looks like a temple. Something holy, but you who never believed in the sacred or the holy, who saw ghosts as simply cultural abstractions. When you reach the roundhouse you find nothing inside but rubble and years and years of snow.

IV.

Humor. An US Embassy worker, an American working for a Foreign Aide organization and a Peace Corps Volunteer run into each on the street. Soon an Armenian friend walks by.

"This morning for breakfast," the Armenian said, "I had Frosted Flakes with milk."

"You had Frosted Flakes?" cried the Embassy worker, "How did you get Frosted Flakes in Armenia?"

"Oh, I bought them at the black market store near my house."

"You had milk?" cried the Foreign Aide worker, "How did you get milk?"

"Oh, I mixed the powdered milk with water."

"You had water?" cried the Peace Corps Volunteer, "How did you get water?"

V.

All winter long you were in isolation

watching it grow. You had given up

on the poetry brought in the 40-pound

box from home. You had not spoken

English in over three months, ever since the first

frost coated your pillow – there was no heat

in your hut, the rains turned to ice.

You wore your jacket and thermals and gloves

to bed and gave up on poetry. Reading

a poet writing about wasted sex no less

in San Francisco was a hateful thing.

Reading a poet, in Berkeley, where they

have everything, speculate on her fat

soul was a hateful, too. Under your floor

boards the dead called out your name, until

vodka, Russian water, kept the their

voices at bay. Intolerable, how clear they

came in. All of them complained,

griped, belly-ached in a language

untranslatable until your perception:

It was a cross between Armenian

and Russian that the old women spoke

down in the market.

VI.

It is sad to see these old people one, two, three generations apart from their children. These haughty, thin old people unable to speak of these things anymore, needing always to speak around them, as if at the dinner table to speak with clarity would make the magic happen all over again. To listen to them submerge their magic, to protect their children. There was a woman, nearly a hundred, who lived in a nearby village. As a baby she had escaped the Young Turks' Genocide in 1915, had witnessed the USSR rise and fall and had lost eighteen children and grandchildren in the earthquake. You visit her, she speaks in the ancient language, the old Armenian words, "God has forsaken the Armenians" – and spends her time looking for her god among the graveyards where 50,000 of her people died in 4 minutes in 1988. You will be leaving soon, returning on a 32-hour flight. Numbers. Something is inside you. Parasite. You will be leaving soon, and she has no more use for the living. Her words drop away, become muddled, confused, a lexicon of secrets, you pass by gravestone after gravestone on the way to the surface, thousands of them, until there is no more room for air.

VII.

Of course, you

take it with you.

It grows hideous

inside you, even

after the Peace Corps'

doctors arrived and demanded

that you are Medically

Evacuated -- the ol' Psycho

Vac -- three days before your

twenty seventh birthday, you

take it with you. You have

grown thin now, fleshless,

desiccated. They do not

even let you say good-bye

to your babies, such is the state

they find you in. On the flight

back to DC you sit next to

a woman, Dutch ex-missionary,

who explains that sometimes,

the young men God has sent

to do his bidding go crazy.

They, who fear for the safety

of their souls above all else,

do not know how to take

care of themselves so far from home.

She knows this, she assures you,

she has seen it happen. As

the stewardess pushes the cart

for the evening's meal by your seat

the thing that rests inside you

gurgles once in agreement

and then is still.

][][

Notes.

This is it, my grand attempt back in 2002 to put words to my nightmare.

The poem starts out in Italy because that is where I learned, for the first time, about the religious fever dream that is Hell, when I accidentally saw the LSD-madness of Hieronymus Bosch's art and it blew my little brain at the implications of such a concept. It didn't seem like much of a stretch to link the mummified bodies of Bosch's righteous in that painting with the babies dying under my care.

The, "the one-room emergency boxes," are called "domiks" and are basically railroad boxcars used to house the vast homeless population suddenly needing protection from the cold. Gyumri was never really rebuilt and 30 years later there are families still living in their rusted-out boxes.

[carrentalgyumri]

Reasons to Opt for Car Rental Services in Gyumri

Exploring high-altitude cities with thriving tourism scenes presents a compelling motive to journey to Armenia, especially when the destination boasts vibrant musical and theatrical historical events like Gyumri. Gyumri welcomes you with serene surroundings, breathtaking mountain vistas, fresh air, and amiable locals. In addition to these charms, car rental Gyumri offer the key to unlock even more adventures, facilitating the exploration of ancient Armenia at your own pace.

Initiating your adventure seamlessly, renting a car at Gyumri airport emerges as the most dependable and convenient option, ensuring a hassle-free start to your journey.

Variety of Cars Available for Rental in Gyumri

Selecting the ideal vehicle in Armenia may pose a challenge due to the limited presence of major international rental companies and the variable offerings of local agencies. However, opting for car rental in Gyumri presents a satisfactory compromise. The economy hatchback reigns as the favored choice in these parts, though sedan, SUV, and convertible options are also accessible for online reservation. Short-term rentals may serve as a viable alternative for budget-conscious travelers.

Considerations for Rental Pricing in Gyumri

The absence of prominent international rental chains in Gyumri influences both pricing and vehicle availability, rendering car hire in Gyumri relatively less budget-friendly compared to European or American standards.

Securing the Best Rental Deal

To optimize your rental experience:

Steer clear of peak summer tourist seasons to avoid inflated prices.

Opting for a one-day rental can prove cost-effective.

Prioritize online bookings to bypass local providers with dubious reputations.

Economy-class rentals offer the most economical choice for budget travelers.

Exploring Additional Rental Options

Despite the limited vehicle selection and higher costs, Gyumri car rentals offer an array of convenient options, including WiFi, child seats, free cancellation, additional drivers, and fuel options, among others. The costs of these add-ons can be viewed during the booking process, with options for CDW insurance, deposit waivers, and credit card payments available.

Guidelines for Selecting Extra Options

A well-defined travel itinerary aids in discerning the necessity and value of supplementary add-ons for your vehicle. While essentials like child seats are indispensable, exercise discretion to avoid unnecessary expenses.

Rental Companies in Gyumri

Sixt and Hertz stand as the sole international rental companies operating in Gyumri, reflecting the relatively closed nature of the Armenian rental market. While local agencies dominate the market, exercising caution is advised when considering rentals from individual owners, with online reviews serving as valuable resources for vetting reputable providers.

Insights from Rental Reviews

User experiences offer valuable insights into the Gyumri car rental landscape, emphasizing the need for early reservations, thorough contract scrutiny, and appreciation for the region's natural beauty. Positive testimonials outweigh negative feedback, underscoring the potential for a fulfilling rental experience.

Document Requirements for Rental

An International Driver's Permit isn't obligatory for Gyumri rentals, with a valid passport and driver's license typically deemed sufficient. Documents must be in English or Armenian, and securing booking confirmations or discount certificates can yield favorable rental terms.

Embrace the Ease of Car Rental in Gyumri

Seize the opportunity to embark on a memorable journey through Gyumri's enchanting landscapes and historical marvels by securing your car rental today. With our services, your exploration of Armenia promises to be both seamless and rewarding.

[formeryelpers]

Old Gyumri Restaurant, 4441 San Fernando Rd, Glendale, CA 91204

Old Gyumri is an Armenian restaurant that was recently given a luxe remodel. The ownership is the same and the food too. The menu includes appetizers (e.g., hummus, ikra, sarma, lebni), salads, sandwiches, kabobs, fish, dolmas, soups, kibbeh, soups, sides, late night entrees, drinks, and a full bar.

They probably have more chandeliers than any other restaurant in Glendale, including chandeliers on the outside, a chandelier for each of the private dining rooms, and chandeliers in the main dining area. The lobby has marble floors, a piano, roses, mirrors, and gold accents. The outdoor seating area has private cabanas – very fancy.

BBQ sturgeon ($20): Two pieces of sturgeon marinated, skewered, and flame-broiled, served with spinach and basmati rice. Mr. Froyo enjoyed the simplicity and the hearty, meaty fish.

Garni fish stew ($45): Famous fish stew served in Garni. I wasn’t sure what to expect but I was told that they serve a fish found only in a lake in Armenia. I figured it would be pieces of fish and veggies. It was actually a whole freshwater fish (maybe 4 pounds) cooked in a tomato cream sauce and no veggies. The fish is a type of trout – white flesh, mild, medium firmness. The sauce was too salty but eating it with rice helped.

I realized after receiving my order that the food is meant to be eaten family style. So, order a few appetizers and salads, not just entrees. We weren’t given any pita. And except for a few raw spinach leaves, the dishes didn’t have any vegetables.

They have live music on some nights. Expect to hear Armenian and Russian pop. Valet parking is available.

Service was very attentive. He even gave me a complimentary cup of hot Armenian coffee.

3.5 out of 5 stars

By Lolia S.

[harminuya]

19th c. Armenian women's costume from Gyumri, The State Historical Museum of Russia.

[389]

Iron Fountain Location: Gyumri, Armenia Completed: 1982 Architect: Artur Tarkhanyan

[canadiandogteeth]

The iron fountain in Gyumri is a striking example of Soviet-era Armenian architecture. Designed by the celebrated architect Artur Tarkhanyan, this fountain stands as a testament to the blend of functionality and artistic expression characteristic of his work. Tarkhanyan, known for his bold use of materials and innovative designs, created this fountain to reflect the industrial spirit and resilience of Gyumri. The iron construction not only highlights the era's utilitarian approach but also serves as a lasting symbol of the city's rich cultural heritage.