Five weeks in Latvia

At the end of my five-week stay in Latvia, I visited the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia, in Riga, which commemorates the Soviet and German occupations of the country from 1940 to 1991. I had been there five years earlier, during my first visit to Riga. I found it moving then. The story of a small nation, caught between two much larger powers led by wicked regimes, struggling for survival.

During my visit this time, a controversial issue that raised its head again and again was the Latvian Legion; Latvian Waffen SS units formed to fight with Nazi Germany against the Soviets. It was impressed upon me that most of the young men drafted into the legion were not volunteers, that they had no real choice. For Latvian men who refused service in Germany’s war effort, the alternative was labour camps. Yet I felt uncomfortable with the fact that the legion is widely celebrated.

On 16 March every year, the date of a battle against Soviet forces, ceremonies mark the legion as national heroes. While Latvia was part of the Soviet Union, Latvian émigrés, many of them ex-legionnaires, marked the event abroad. And following the restoration of independence, it was marked in Latvia itself. 16 March was an official national remembrance day in the late 1990s, although that official status was removed in 2000, under international pressure.

But the day is still marked. Young men from far-right organisations, one of which, All for Latvia, has just secured six seats in the 100-member Latvian parliament, line up with Latvian flags. Even some mainstream politicians visit the cemetery where members of the legion are interred.

I think Latvians who mark 16 March have got the balance wrong. One Latvian American who had moved to Latvia in the 1990s told me of his admiration for an uncle who had been in the legion, who had inspired him to be a Latvian patriot, and to return to the country. That Latvia found itself in such an impossible situation, occupied by the brutal Stalinist regime in 1940, which eradicated its independence and murdered or deported many of its people, and then by Nazi Germany the following year, was a national tragedy. Latvians were traumatised by the events of 1940 to 1991, when their land was colonised, their language and distinctiveness threatened with extinction as they came close to being a minority in their own country.

In 1941, many Latvians welcomed the Germans as the lesser of two evils, and saw in Germany the hope of greater respect for Latvian culture, and even for restored autonomy. It was a misplaced hope. The Nazis’ long-term aim was to deport much of the Latvian population to Russia, colonise the country with Germans, and Germanise the remaining Latvians. And what of Latvia’s Jewish population, sent to death camps, with the involvement of some Latvians, some of whom later joined the legion? Even though there is no suggestion that most legionnaires subscribed to Nazi ideology, is it really right to commemorate them as national heroes, as freedom fighters? Some did, it is true, carry on the hopeless struggle in the resistance for years after the Soviet return to the country.

Like all those, Latvian, Jewish and others who suffered at the hands of the appalling Stalin and Hitler regimes, the legionnaires should be commemorated as victims. For half a century, Latvians had no control over their own destiny, buffeted as they were by the forces of geopolitical affairs. Like in some other occupied countries, Latvians sometimes found themselves fighting on opposite sides. Some had been drawn into the Red Army in 1940, and others were committed communists. What I liked about the Museum of the Occupation was that it acknowledged all sides, and the tragedy that afflicted all Latvians, those who found themselves fighting for the Soviet Union and for Nazi Germany, the massacred Jews and the long-suffering civilians caught in the middle. Latvians were tragic victims in the war, and that is what should be marked. There was nothing heroic about the legion. Martial celebration of the legion’s military prowess on behalf of Nazi Germany is out of place. I found the Museum of the Occupation moving this time too, because it gets the balance right.

Zagreb's Dolac market

Strolling in Zagreb. Walking without any particular purpose, just for the pleasure of being there and the things around me. Walking slowly, quite often meeting someone I know, stopping for a chat, or joining them at one of the many street cafes, being introduced to the people they are sitting with. Slowly wiling away the time. Coffee at Pif, on Preradovićeva, with all the other thirty and forty-something wannabe intellectuals, or in the garden of the archaeological museum; Ice Cream on Bogovićeva; beer at Mali Medo, on Tkalčićeva, or on Kaptol, opposite the cathedral.

Dolac

For a feeling of general well-being, ambling up to Dolac market, past the flower sellers, and up the steps. Visiting Dolac was one of my most striking impressions of Zagreb when I first went there 24 years ago. Walking among the stalls, with the peasants from the surrounding Zagorje region selling their own produce. The fresh cottage cheese and soured cream (delicious with garlic); the filthy eggs (the dirtier, the better is a good rule); little bundles of vegetables and herbs, all you need for the base of a great soup; the seasonal fruits – lots and lots of plums at the moment; the Dalmatian section, with figs, and olive oil. In the autumn there are piles of chestnuts. In spring, it is wild asparagus. In years past, there used to be wild mushrooms, including ceps (vrganji). Unfortunately those have gone, apparently due to the annual toll of poisonings (which I suspect were mostly suffered by people who picked their own, rather than buying them on the market). Although I am told they can still be bought under the table.

And there are some nice little restaurants around the periphery of the market, selling fresh, wholesome produce. Especially worthwhile is the little seafood place next to the fish market. On my first trip to Zagreb in 1986, I was enthralled by the tanks of live fish, even quite large carp. My landlady from student days, the inestimable Sonia Bićanić, told me that when they bought a carp, they used to keep it alive in the bath for a few days to get all the mud out of its system. Sadly, the tanks have gone. But the fish is fresh and good. The little restaurant is well supplied from the market. Its food is simple and unpretentious, low-priced and satisfying. You can eat anything from the market, but most people take sardines, and bakalar (dried codfish) on Fridays. I love bakalar. At this place, it is a thick soup, heavily laced with garlic. Why do Zagreb restaurants only sell it on Fridays?

Dolac is still an invigorating place. Twenty years ago, staying in Zagreb with my dear, late friend, Darka, I told how in England such markets had found it hard to compete with the large-scale distributors of mass-produced, homogeneous, tasteless fruit and veg. I feared the same would happen in Croatia. “No”, she said confidently, “we like our markets”. I was partly right. New hypermarkets have indeed sprung up around the outer rings of the city. And much of Dolac is now taken over by commercial sellers rather than peasant producers. Finding a tasty tomato on Dolac is no longer so easy. But some of the peasants cling on, smiling faces and delicious produce. I hope there continues to be a place for them. With the spreading fashion for farmers’ markets, there is surely hope.

The old town of Tbilisi

I love wandering the streets of the old town in Tbilisi. Not the streets which have been smartly renovated, and are now crammed with cafés. Rather those that have not been renovated, with their uniquely Georgian style and charm. With their often brightly coloured facades and balconies, sometimes going right the way round the building, and the colourful plants that twine among them, they give the streets a feel of romance. Many of the streets are shabby and dilapidated, the houses cracked and broken, beyond repair in some cases. If to the outside visitor they appear picturesque, to the residents they probably seem draughty and uncomfortable, images of poverty rather than of charm.

I find it peculiar that these beautiful, albeit rundown streets of central Tbilisi are not more attractive to better-off residents of the city. Rather, it is the Vera, Vake and Saburtalo districts, with their modern apartment blocks, that are favoured by the smart Tbilisi elite. In some cities, such as Zagreb, it has been the newly prosperous, the advertising executives and bankers, moving into the older central districts, buying up from impoverished residents who could not afford the maintenance or renovation of their buildings, that has been an important dynamo for restoration and repair. Not so Tbilisi.

For all the charm of the ramshackle dwellings in Tbilisi’s old town, they must of course be renovated, and in some cases, unfortunately, the only solution is to tear them down. The main hope is that the rebuilding will be done sensitively, in keeping with the style and traditions of these neighbourhoods; that there will be the same attention to detail, for example in the often ornate trellises around the balconies.

Some recent constructions give cause for concern about the aesthetic taste of the current leadership. The gaudy footbridge over the Mt'k'vari river is placed right next to the old town, below the castle, and surrounded on all sides by fine old churches. Some modern constructions built among older buildings, such as the pyramid at the Louvre, seem inspired. This bridge seems horribly out of place. When I first saw it, I thought it looked like a sea monster, or a giant slug. More disrespectful Tbilisi residents dubbed it “the tampon”. And then there is the president’s residence, a rip-off of the Reichstag. Perhaps the policeman who tried to stop me photographing the residence was actually motivated by embarrassment.

The president's residence, behind the giant slug bridge

There is a place in Tbilisi for larger, more monumental buildings, around Rustaveli and the squares at either end. The beauty of the narrow streets of the old town is in their small-scale simplicity. For now, I am grateful I can enjoy walking those streets, aware that they will not for long be as are now.

Post-industrial wastelands

Tbilisi nowadays is a scene of feverish construction and renovation work. Spending time there, a visitor can easily be seduced by the obvious progress being made. Over recent years, the city has visibly changed for the better, even if not all the new landmark constructions are to everybody’s taste. It is not only the appearance. Chic new cafés have appeared, and new restaurants appealing to more exotic tastes, such as Japanese and Thai. In spite of problems, and despite the nearby Russian threat, Tbilisi is a city on the up.

And the same can be said for one or two other towns in Georgia. Central Batumi is a building site, with tall buildings going up along the seafront that seem to be more Dubai than Black Sea. As in Tbilisi, perhaps even more so given that it is concentrated in a much smaller town, the gardens and fountains, the cafés, all give an impression of rising prosperity.

But travelling across Georgia, the country in between Batumi and Tbilisi presents a different picture, which reminds of how much hardship the country has endured, and continues to endure. Following the end of the Soviet Union, and the collapse of the Soviet market, most of Georgia’s economic base was wiped out, almost at a stroke. The series of wars, civil strife and near anarchy of the early 1990s, and the decent of the country more or less into a failed state, added to the woe. The visible legacy of this is the industrial wasteland around several towns across Georgia, industrial zones that no longer have any industry, just the skeletal remains of industrial buildings. On my first visit to Georgia, at the end of 2003, I was told one of Georgia’s main exports was scrap metal from its abandoned factories. Another major export has been its people, who left in droves in the 1990s, unable to make any kind of living in their homeland.

Six years ago, as an election observer, I spent a few days in the western town of Samtredia, the ugliest town in Georgia I was informed by our interpreter, who hailed from Tbilisi. Yes, our driver, a native of Samtredia, agreed readily, smilingly, almost proudly, Samtredia was indeed the ugliest town in Georgia. Driving through the town’s former industrial zone, we passed acres of decay and decrepitude; tumbled-down warehouses and factories, their windows smashed, ceilings falling in; twisted, rusted metal and old bits of machinery. And among all this were people, somehow scratching a minimal living in this de-industrialised wilderness.

And yet I and my colleagues enjoyed wonderful hospitality in Samtredia. Right there, at polling stations in amongst that wasteland, we were offered food and wine, coffee, and, on a couple of occasions, even marriage (surely a sign of desperation, even if delivered with a smile). One evening in Samtredia, we were invited to a party at a local restaurant. There we were treated to a typically Georgian, gargantuan spread, complete with the obligatory toasts, to which I was able to respond with genuine warmth and emotion, so moved was I by our welcome.

And there are many other towns depressing to visitors, much like Samtredia. This trip, I stopped briefly in Khashuri, a town in central Georgia, a grim, dusty, dilapidated place, with almost nothing I could see to provide relief and give its residents cheer. The obligatory fountain, almost identical to ones placed in towns around Georgia under President Saakashvili, designed, no doubt, as a simple, quick measure to brighten places up and make their people feel a little better, seemed out of place to me, as if mocking its dismal surroundings. What can it be like to live in such a place?

And yet, as I found in Samtredia, some do manage to keep their spirits alive. But the people of Samtredia, Khashuri, and other towns in a similar plight deserve better. The spending being lavished on Tbilisi and Batumi should be shared around a bit more evenly.

Vardzia cave monastery

A western European travelling in Georgia is again and again struck by the wonders of a cultural heritage which, despite its rich achievement, is almost unknown to the rest of the world. In the middle ages, when the great gothic cathedrals were being built in Europe, marvellous basilicas were also being built in the Caucasus, in their own, distinct style.

On this trip, I travelled for the first time in southern Georgia, visiting the spa town of Borjomi, from where the celebrated mineral water comes. From there I travelled on to the 12th century cave monastery at Vardzia. Founded by the great Georgian Queen Tamar, it is said, in its day, to have had thousands of apartments hewn into the cliff face, as well as a complex irrigation system. Severely damaged by an earthquake a century later, it was ransacked by Persians in the mid-16th century.

So what we see today is an echo of its one-time glory. But it still impresses. Wandering around the caves, neatly carved, with arches, ornate doorways, shelves and alcoves where icons must once have stood. Exploring the tunnels dug deep into the rock brings back the boyish spirit of adventure. The church is well maintained, its frescos vivid and with a liveliness and sense of movement that one often sees in Georgian churches, in marked contrast to the rigid forms of Byzantine religious art that one finds throughout most of the Orthodox world.

A few monks live there now, in a small section of the monastery, their caves fronted by wooden walls, with doors and windows. I watched as a monk rinsed his frying pan, leaning out from the ledge in front of his cave.

Leaving the monastery, I walked down through a long, steep tunnel. At one time, the complex was accessible only by such secret passageways. They did not in the end protect it. But Vardzia is still a marvel to see today.

Travels by dolmuş and marshrutka

Touring in Turkey, travelling between small towns and villages, inevitably meant becoming familiar with the dolmuş, a minivan, or shared taxi. The word means “full”, and originally that meant they left when they were full-up. Nowadays, they mostly go according to a set timetable. If the route is busy, it is wise to turn up a little early to be sure of a place, and to avoid having to sit on a stool between the seats. Generally, they are a bit old and grubby, but I usually found them OK. And they are cheap. Drivers were usually helpful and, despite the language barrier, endeavoured to oblige by dropping me exactly where I wanted, pointing out the next bus I needed to take in case I had to change in order to reach my destination.

A peculiarity of travelling by bus or dolmuş in Turkey, at least in the north-east, is that unacquainted men and women are not allowed to sit next to each other. This adds to the complication of finding a place, as I was obliged to sit in a row of seats with other men. Sometimes, when new passengers were taken on board, people had to be shifted around, to keep the balance of the sexes right.

In more remote places, the dolmuş often transports goods as well as people. Travelling from Yusufeli to the village of Barhal, along a rather rough road, on the roof we had stacks of wooden panels, to line the walls of someone’s house, as well as a mattress. Inside, between the seats, was a television set, as well as sacks of bread and boxes of eggs.

My one really bad dolmuş experience was travelling from Kars to Ardahan. Sometimes, one finds oneself sitting near some rather unwashed people, and one just has to get used to it. But on this journey, there was an individual who was beyond the pale. The pungency of his stench, whose constitutive elements I do not even want to think about, made me retch. I do not believe he had washed either his clothes or himself for months, possibly years. Sitting behind me, he repeatedly murmured to himself in a low, gruff voice. He seemed to be beyond society. I spent most of the journey with a hand tightly clenched over my nose and mouth, in misery. When he finally got out, I thought I sensed a collective sigh of relief.

In Georgia, and around the former Soviet Union, the dolmuş is known as a marshrutka (a Russian word), but it is the same thing. Except that the Georgians have invented added thrills to the business of travel. Georgian driving can be eye-poppingly scary. The disregard for traffic lanes, the habit of swerving from one side to another, of gaily crossing over the central road markings into the line of oncoming traffic, all astonish visitors from countries with more staid driving practices. Then there are the testosterone-charged races I have witnessed down the long boulevards in central Tbilisi. Crossing the road is an adventure in that city. The impatience of Georgian drivers is such that they often cannot bear to wait in the right-hand lane at a road junction, and jump the queue, pulling over into the left lane, scooting ahead when the lights change, just in time to avoid the oncoming traffic. I saw a bizarre example of this in Batumi, when waiting at a railway crossing for a goods train to pass. Impatient drivers on both sides pulled into the left-hand lane, hoping to give themselves an advantage. The result, once the train had passed? Complete blockage, obviously.

I had only one previous experience of riding in a marshrutka, a journey from Tbilisi to Gori and back in 2004, to visit the Stalin museum. Some international organisations ban their staff from travelling by marshrutka, given their drivers’ reputation for extreme recklessness. I learned the reason why during my marshrutka journey from Borjomi to Vardzia, a winding road much of the way, often not metalled, and with steep drops in some places. The driver drove at such a speed that when he was flagged down by would-be passengers he had to slam on the breaks, usually coming to a halt much further down the road, having to back up (also at speed) some way in order to take them on board. He seemed unconcerned for life or limb. How he had made it to middle age driving like that is a mystery. Several times I found myself closing my eyes, unable to watch as he tore into another sharp bend. On two occasions he appeared on the verge of losing control as he hurtled into a bend that was just too tight, slamming on the breaks and struggling with the steering wheel. Once, as we stopped to pick up a party of Ukrainians, I relaxed the grip of my hands on the seat in front of me, and realised that the muscles in my arms were tightly clenched, such was the tension of the journey. Setting off again at the same manic speed, the Ukrainians and I exchanged worried glances. For the Georgian passengers, all was apparently completely normal. What a relief to arrive back in Borjomi in one piece (to change on to another marshrutka for the journey on to Tbilisi).

A visit to Kars

My image of Kars had been formed by Orhan Pamuk’s “Snow”, a dismal novel, in my view, that portrayed it as a bleak and dismal town with almost nothing to tempt one to visit. My reason for visiting was that Kars is the base for trips to nearby Ani. But while I was in Kars, I took the opportunity to wander its streets.

Kümbet Mosque, formerly the Church of the Holy Apostles

Like many places in this region, Kars has multiple influences, handed down from its complicated history. In medieval times, it was for a while the Armenian capital, before it moved to Ani. The tenth-century Church of the Holy Apostles is a lasting monument to the Armenian presence. It has been a church when Kars has been in Christian hands, and a mosque when controlled by Muslims. The building was locked when I was there, but peaking inside, it looked a fine mosque, serene and peaceful.

Although for centuries an Ottoman city, the period in the late-19th and early 20th century when Kars was part of imperial Russia is especially evident in the grid street pattern and the presence of many fine buildings from that era. Or rather, once fine buildings. For while a few of them have been renovated, most are in a dilapidated or completely derelict condition. And that is the picture for most of Kars, the air of decay and abandonment over several decades, the streets crumbling and pitted with potholes, dirt and poverty all around. I was struck by the many little cafes, where, like everywhere in Turkey, men sit and drank tea and play backgammon or card games. Except here many of these cafes have a griminess, a depressing dinginess, I had not seen anywhere else. In some ways they were reminiscent of the state-owned cafes I remember from communist times in Yugoslavia, plain and drab, tables covered with shabby table clothes, and no effort made with the decor. The pictures of Atatürk on the walls remind of the once ubiquitous portraits of Tito. But I never saw anything like the squalor of these places in Yugoslavia. Had these walls ever been repainted? Had the floors ever been cleaned? Had the table clothes ever been washed? These table clothes looked almost fragile, they seemed so old, as if they might fall apart if touched. This is the way some people live in Kars.

The problems of Kars partly stem from the general neglect that most of eastern Turkey has suffered for decades. But there was an extra reason. During the Cold War, Kars was at the end of the road, next to the closed border with the Soviet Union. Cut off from neighbouring Soviet Armenia (its own Armenian population had fled following the Turkish capture of the town in 1920), economic life was stifled. Kars was of no interest, except as a military base facing the Soviet border. And that isolation has not ended, as the border has been closed owing to Turkey’s objection to Armenia’s seizure of Nagorno-Karabakh from Azerbaijan.

There is some evidence of the present Turkish government’s greater interest in investing in the east, its realisation that the country’s Kurdish problem is partly due to the poverty and hopelessness of those regions (Kars also has a Kurdish population). Infrastructure is being improved, new roads built, and even in Kars streets are being dug up and repaired, and some effort is being made to make it look a little bit prettier. And to be fair, Kars does have some better points. There are some nicer cafes and some decent places to eat. It is not altogether bleak. But overall, it is a depressing town, and not a place to linger. Pamuk wrote about Kars during winter, cut off by snow. I was there in summer. But I could recognise the dreariness and decrepitude he described.

Georgian and Armenian remains

The eastern Black Sea region has for centuries been marked by repeated invasions, shattering civilisations and populations, leaving behind ruins. Romans, Byzantines, Persians, Turks, Mongols and Russians vied for control, while the indigenous peoples clung precariously to their patches of land. Yet Georgians and Armenians, as well as the Black Sea Pontic Greeks, all had their periods of ascendency in the middle ages, before their kingdoms were swept away by the next wave of invaders. Those kingdoms and empires left scattered remains that attest to their past glory.

Medieval Georgian church at Barhal

Leaving the Hemshin valleys, I went back to the coast, and then skirted around to the southern side of the mountains, to the little village of Barhal, along a windy, crumbling road from Yusufeli. Barhal is developing as a base for rafting trips along the rapid rivers of these parts, which is the main pull for visitors to the area. The whole region is dotted with medieval Georgian churches, in a greater or lesser state of decay, dating from an era when what is now eastern Turkey was at the centre of Georgian political and cultural life. Many of the churches are in remote places, difficult to access without transport. In Barhal, the 10th century Georgian church is close to the village, and it has survived intact thanks to its longstanding use as a mosque. There is a modern mosque in the village now, so that the old church is used only for Friday prayers. Although still intact, with its roof in place, it is in a sorry state. The conversion for use as a mosque was half-hearted (a cross is still visible on the outside), and it has not been maintained. Along the side aisles, corrugated iron has been placed, presumably to catch falling masonry. Yet it still impresses. The dimensions show that it was once a significant place of worship. Standing at one end of the nave, I find my imagination taking flight, thinking of the civilisation that once thrived here, which has now gone, leaving this magnificent thousand-year old building as its lasting memorial.

From Barhal, I journeyed east to Kars, through a landscape that changed along the way, from lush green mountains and steep valleys, to rolling hills and broader, more open spaces. From Kars, itself an Armenian city as recently as 1920, I visited the medieval Armenian capital of Ani. At its height one of the world’s great cities, with a population of over 100,000, it is now a desolate plain, surrounded by ruined, and partly (crudely) renovated walls, and dotted with ruined churches that have survived the centuries of neglect. It is an eerie place, a ghost city. Some streets have been preserved, with the lower walls of what are thought to have been shops. As at Barhal, walking the streets, or standing inside the churches, I found myself dreaming of the people who were once here, trying to imagine them, listening for their echoes.

Church of the Redeemer, Ani

Apart from Armenians, Ani was at different times in the middle ages taken by Byzantines, Seljuk Turks, Kurds, Georgians, Mongols and Tamarlane, before finally falling to the Ottomans. Falling into decay, it was rediscovered and excavated when the region was incorporated into imperial Russia in the 1870s. In the 20th century, Ani, situated right up against the river that separates Turkey from modern-day Armenia, has become part of the enduring controversy between the two countries. In 1921, the Turkish authorities ordered the military commander to erase all trace of its monuments, an order that was thankfully not carried out.

Church of St Gregory, Ani

Armenia accuses Turkey of chauvinistically neglecting Ani. In fact, it is opening up to tourists now. Some effort is being made to preserve the monuments, and some renovation, notably of the walls and of a Seljuk palace, is taking place, unfortunately in such a way that looks too much like new-build. One of the striking things about visiting Ani is the absence of any reference, in the explanatory notices in Turkish and English, to the Armenian origins of the place. As one enters the site, a potted history refers to Ani as the capital of the Bagratid dynasty, but with no mention of the fact that the Bagratids were Armenian. Walking around the site there is a persistent, exaggerated and distorting emphasis on the, relatively minor, Seljuk Turk heritage of the site (the Seljuks sacked Ani, and slaughtered its population in 1064). A mosque, claimed as the earliest Seljuk mosque in Anatolia, is thought by some originally to have been a palace. The only reference to Armenians that I saw related to a ruined mosque, which, it was noted, had been dynamited by an Armenian priest. So that is the sum of Armenians’ contribution to Ani? Such vulgar nationalist abuse of an important archaeological site demeans Turkey.

By contrast, there appears to be no problem with acknowledging medieval Georgian monuments. Indeed, a ruined Georgian church (in fact just part of one wall) at Ani is acknowledged as such. But Turkey has a peculiar blind spot when it comes to anything Armenian. The earliest monument on the site is the remains of a 2,000 year-old Zoroastrian temple, a group of four columns. Its presence, among the later churches and mosques, further emphasises the layers of civilisations, one replacing another, in this most fought over of regions.

Laz and Hemshins

The allure of north-east Turkey, with its rich Greek, Armenian and Georgian, as well as Turkish heritage, is further enhanced by the region’s ethnic diversity. Its Greeks and Armenians were evicted or massacred nearly a century ago. But the presence of two small minorities, the Laz and the Hemshins, is a reminder of the ancient kingdoms that once held sway in these lands.

This, with western Georgia, was Colchis, the land to which the Argonauts sailed in search of the golden fleece. The land of the Laz, a small people nowadays, inhabiting a stretch of Turkey’s eastern Black sea coast. Their language is part of the same family as Georgian, as well as Megrelian and Svanetian, which are spoken in western Georgia. The Hemshins, who, like most Laz, are Muslim, speak a dialect of Armenian, and inhabit the mountains and valleys just inland from the Black Sea town of Pazar.

The Hemshin valleys

I travelled up to the spa resort of Ayder, in the heart of Hemshin country. Having read that the modern Turkish state, with its insistence on the indivisibility of the Turkish nation, discouraged any manifestation of non-Turkish identities, I was interested to see what evidence of the presence of these two minorities would be apparent. They did not appear shy about their identities. Checking into a hotel in Ayder, I noticed a calendar on the reception desk, with the months and the days of the week in three languages. The first, in big, bold type, I did not recognise. The second, in smaller type, I recognised as Turkish, while the third, in still smaller type, was English. When I asked what the first language was, the receptionist replied proudly, “Lazuri”. It turned out that several of the staff in that hotel were Laz. Trying to communicate with the young receptionist in her limited English, I asked her if she could speak any French or Russian. She answered “no, I speak Lazuri”.

Hemshin women in Ayder

Hemshin women look very fine in their distinctive dress, with a light scarf around their heads, and a second, often brightly coloured, tied around it, with strings of beads hanging under their chins. This appeared to be their day-to-day dress, often even for quite young women, a rare example of folk costumes that have not yet passed into folklore. Hemshins spend a few months each summer in their high mountain villages. Walking in the lush green mountains, swathed in cloud much of the time, with their extraordinary abundance of wild flowers, through our Turkish guide, I asked some of the women we met (and it was mainly elderly women) whether they could speak Hemshin, and in each case they replied that they could, one of them smilingly greeting us with a few phrases, which none of us, including our guide, could understand. Even a young girl who served us tea while we waited for the dolmuş back to Ayder, who was dressed in modern clothes, told us she could speak Hemshin.

So for now the languages and cultures of the Laz and the Hemshin survive, albeit kept alive by a very small number of people. The forces of integration and obliteration threaten. With even small villages in eastern Turkey often having internet access, and with education and media in Turkish, how long can they hold out?

Trabzon, past and present

I had longed to visit Trabzon and Turkey’s eastern Black Sea region since reading Neal Ascherson’s marvellous “Black Sea: the Birthplace of Civilisation and Barbarism”. The historical significance of the Black Sea had barely registered in my education. That crucial trading hub, and the great civilisations that grew up around it. The Greek communities that thrived around the Black Sea for nearly three millennia until the onset of the nation state in the 19th and 20th centuries made their presence an anomaly and finally an impossibility. Medieval Trabzon, renowned for its wealth and splendour, derived from its position on the Silk Road, seemed impossibly enticing.

Today, the city and its surroundings are mainly remarkable for monuments from better days. Most notably, the cliff-hugging Sumela monastery, in the hills about an hour’s drive away from the town. Hastily abandoned by the monks following Greece’s defeat at the hands of the emerging Turkish republic after the First World War, the monastery, which had been left to decay for decades, is now being carefully restored as a museum. Seen from across the valley, it is a magnificent sight, nestled into the verdant cliff face. Inside the grotto where, in the fourth century AD, a Greek monk is said to have found an icon allegedly painted by St. Luke, following a revelation by the mother of God, the frescoes, many in good condition, appear to float on the cave walls and ceiling.

Sumela Monastery

When I was there, almost all the other visitors were Muslim Turks, most of the women wrapped in head scarves. I wondered what they made of this magnificent example of the Greek, Christian heritage of the region? Like me, they marvelled at the frescoes. They took their photos. Perhaps for them, visiting the remains of a vanished civilisation in their country is akin to us admiring Roman remains in Western Europe; too far removed by time to be worrying today. While I was in Trabzon, there was a visiting party of Greek clergymen and nuns. Their visit must have been heavily tinged by regret for their loss. But their presence seemed uncontroversial, as Turkish waiters smilingly served them tea at a cafe next to Aya Sofia, a medieval Greek church in the outskirts of Trabzon.

Aya Sofia, Trabzon

Close to the sea, Aya Sofia has survived intact, thanks to having been for centuries a mosque, and despite having been for a while an ammunition depot. Now a museum, its frescoes uncovered, many of them still in good condition, Aya Sofia is a very beautiful example of a medieval Byzantine church. Less inspiring is the former cathedral in the centre of the old town, where Trebizond emperors were once crowned. Squat and unimpressive from the outside, the addition of a minaret did nothing for its harmony. Inside, its transformation into a mosque was hardly accompanied by any serious attempt at conversion, and it lacks the cool serenity one so often finds in Islamic art and architecture. Of greater interest is the Yeni Cuma Mosque, formerly the Church of St. Eugene, where Mehmet the Conqueror, who went on to capture Constantinople, offered his first Friday prayers after taking Trabzon.

Trabzon today is rather a sorry, dilapidated place. Its crumbling medieval city walls are surrounded by poor neighbourhoods of broken houses and rubble. Perhaps the mess will be cleared away. Indeed, a start appears to have been made, with pleasant gardens planted by one section of wall. Trabzon long ago lost its place as a key Black Sea port, and with the rise of Samsun, along the coast, it looks unlikely to regain it. After the fall of the Soviet Union, the city was flooded by traders from Russia, Ukraine and Moldova, and became known for its “Russian Market”, as well as for the profusion of ex-Soviet prostitutes, known locally as “Natashas”. Both appear to be on the wane now, perhaps due to the dire economic climate, which has affected Turkey too.

Trabzon has never made anything much of its position on the coast, except for its utilitarian value as a port. The old walled city is set back from the sea, on a plateau, with deep gullies around it. Nowadays, like other towns on Turkey’s eastern Black Sea coast, the coastal highway passes along the seashore, cutting it off from the city. Next to the highway, by the dolmuş station, is a grimy stretch of seedy hotels (some of them certainly used by the Natashas). There is no attempt at a seaside promenade (even allowing for the relative lack of interest in beaches in a conservatively Muslim town), no seaside cafes or restaurants. Rather, the life of the city is up the hill, away from the sea, notably at the large square, or “Meydan”, where, throughout the day men, and some women, sit and sip tea, and count their prayer beads.