A Day of Devastation

Day 42 in Shusha and Agdam, Nagorno-Karabagh

NOTE: This post is often in the plural as I spent the day with the Welshman and Norwegian. On another note, I’ll be writing summaries of each region I visited once I return, i.e. on Kurdistan, the Caucasus and Balkans.

We went to the same restaurant around the corner this morning for coffee made by the friendly Russian-speaking cleaning lady. After properly waking up, it was off to the bus station for a minibus to nearby Shusha (or Shushi in Armenian) an Azerbaijani city in ruins down to its last 5,000 people. It was decimated during the war with very little having been rebuilt. Only 9km away, it sits atop a hill overlooking Stepanakert, a position well suited to artillary. Needless to say, Stepanakert was bombarded from there during the war until the Armenians finally succeeded in taking it. Shamil Baseyev, of Chechen fame and most likely behind the Beslan massacre in Russia, fought here against the Armenians. While it’s no secret that many radical Islamic fighers flock to Iraq and Afghanistan, Karabagh attracted them as well back from 1990-1994. Former Afghan mujahadeen were even brought in to fight. I thought over all of this in Shusha’s deathly silence. Unlike Stepanakert, Shusha hasn’t changed much since the war.

We were dropped off next to a few stone arches whose building lay in rubble. A mosque with a broken minaret was on the next block. We poked around the rubble and headed through a back alley by two massive burned out apartment buildings. Turning the corner, the shell of an armoured vehicle sat in front of the remains of another mosque. It was a great picture, one that will have to be uploaded in Armenia. We searched for the stairs and quickly found them through some bushes and broken concrete. They led up to the minaret. The stairs were broken and pretty difficult to climb, luckily I’d brought a lighter which had a little light on the bottom side. They both have come in handy many times walking at night, exploring abandoned buildings, walking to the bathroom and more.

I carefuly climbed the stairs walking towards the light. Finally blue. A look around revealed devastation in every direction. Rubble, pieces of houses, burned apartment blocks and emptiness. Shusha is striking, a stark reminder of what happened. Next came the former communist party headquarters, of which only the facade stood. The doorway opened into broken pieces of concrete and a view of the hills. A few people walked the streets, most of whom gave us confused stares. We found the central church rebuilt and restored, perhaps the only new structure in the city. Chickens wandered through trash and rubble while sheep grazed next to the rusted shells of buses and cars. Fences were strung together with everything from car doors to pieces of washing machines. It was a nightmare. It’s easy to see Roman and Greek ruins and imagine what one day may become of our civilization, but for most of the world, Shusha’s future is a far more likely one.

After a few hours, we’d seen all the city, or the remains of what was Shusha and caught the bus back to Stepanakert. Looking for food, we headed to the university in hopes of finding out about English classes we could visit and possibly meeting students who could double as a guide. We quickly found two internet cafes, a restaurant and a stand with two older ladies making tasty hot dogs covered in fried dough, sugary pastries and other treats. We ordered as many as we could carry and headed up the university stairs while a crowd gathered to stare. Eventually, we walked in the university and two ladies approached speaking to us in Russian. I started with the usual response “ja ne panemayu rooskie” which means I don’t understand Russian. “Ingleski, nemetski” I said, indicating English or German would work. A third lady approached and figured out what we wanted. She motioned us to follow her and brought us to a young girl who worked in an office that spoke English. English classes were in the next building we were told. She walked outside with us and pointed it out.

Heading up the stairs past throngs of staring girls, I felt like a rock star. Stepanakert does that too you. When we were about to open the door, a group of people walked out, three of which were blatantly foreign. I guessed Americans. It was a father and two sons who asked where I was from and quickly handed us religious leaftlets. You just can’t escape these damn preachers, even in war torn Karabagh. They turned out to be Canadians, preaching on their 2 week holiday.

“Then you came to the wrong place didn’t you?” I asked.
“Why’s that?” he said looking confused.
“Well, Armenia is Christian, shouldn’t you be next door in Azerbaijan?”
“No, these people have god in their minds, but not their hearts” he said and gave me another leaflet in Russian.I handed it back saying that Russian wasn’t going to help me much. We asked about Agdam. They’d been a few years back and gotten caught. The military erased all their pictures but let them go. An Armenian chimed in in excellent English. He was the local English teacher and was guiding these religious nuts. I felt sorry for him. He said going to Agdam was possible but a bad idea as you could get arrested, go to jail etc and related stories of a Japanese and German who’d been busted. THe moral of the story was don’t go. Our confidence was shaken.

The Canadians went their own way as did the English teacher but a second Armenian continued talking to us in slow, but good English. He, on the other hand, told us Agdam was no problem and said he’d served nearby during his military service. We offered to help us find a cab there. We quickly went back to our house to hide our memory cards as we didnt’ want them confiscated should we get arrested. Afterwards, we walked the mains treet and settled on a beat up Russian Lada, the typical car that about 70% of the people here have. It had a broken sign an no writing ont he sides. Perfectly low profile we thought.

Vahe, our new friend, explained we wanted to take the road to Agdam, maybe stop along the way, and then go into teh city, look around quickly and head back. He seemed hesitant but asked for 5,000 drams, abotu 10 EUR. That was less than the English teacher had told us. Satsified but nervous, we hopped in and Vahe decided to come with us. He wanted to see Agdam too. All the better for us, I said, in case we get arrested, we have an interpreter and can say that not only other tourist, but he also, said we could go and that it was no problem.

The taxi set off and although we were very happy to get a good price but still nervous. We passed a junk filled former train station on the outskirts of town. Owain, the Welshman, and Marius the Norwegian chatted with him in the back and I rode shotgun. Agdam was only 30km away, it wouldn’t take too long.

Before we knew it, large medieval walls rose in the distance. “It must be Askeron” I thought. That meant 10km to go. We drove through the walls and passed a tank not long after, unlike the previous day, this one was in good condition and was some kind of memorial. Ruins began appearing. Agdam was close.

Occasionally, cars passed and we looked straight ahead, trying to not be obvious. More rubble, lonely walls standing on piles of conrete blocks. We were almost there. A military truck appeared a head and my pulse quickened. It swerved back and forth on the road avoiding pot holes, same as us. We passed each other. The ride was uneventful so far. In the distance, Agdam appeared in the surrounding green fields.

The road north to Martakert passes through Agdam so traffic isn’t unusual on most of the stretch, however, once you turn off into the city, you’re in a ghost town save a few soldiers. We stopped at a rusted gate not far from Agdam’s infamous mosque, the only structure still standing. Vahe told the driver we wanted to go to it. They exchanged a few sentences in Armenian and the car started again. Turning a corner, a group of soldiers sat outside a concrete building smoking.

“Fuck, it’s over” I thought. We started driving right at them in a taxi, there’s no way we’ll make it. We looked straight ahead, playing it cool. Nothing. Eyes looking forward, I asked “Are they following us?” We waited a bit and Marius slowly turned. Nope. We were clear. Phew!

We approached the mosque and parked in front of a broken wall. Cameras ready, we jumped out and dashed into the mosque not wanting to be in the open any longer than necessary. Our driver stood near the car and lit a cigarette. He probably wondered what we were doing in this hell hole. We walked around inside, stepping over broken concrete, animal feces and some trash. The stairs to one of the two minarets were around the side. We climbed carefully as many were broken or completely gone. I used my lighter and after a minute, made it to the top.

Broken roads stretched out flanked by twisted metal, shells of houses and blackened walls. It was surreal, otherwordly and completely silent. I snapped off pictures but stayed low, didn’t want to be seen up there. After going down, we looked around a little and then got back in the taxi to drive through a few other areas. So far so good. Still nervous but with renewed confidence, I set my camera to the movie function and filmed the devastation.

And then we were out. The ruins faded into the distance and eventually signs for Askeron appeared. Everything seemed ok. Before we knew it we were back in Stepanakert, thinking of dinner and congratulatory beers. It couldn’t have been a better day.

Unsure as to whether I’ll head to Goris tomorrow in Armenia. There’s a bit more to see but not much. Amazing pictures away as soon as I get to decent internet.