The mountainous regions and the endless snow took a brief turn when a small town came into view. I don't know how to read Armenian yet, the language is insanely difficult, but I did notice in English certain references to a place called Gyumri along the way. I had heard of this place here and there during my four months in Armenia, mostly hearing of it due to its beer and being one of the other cities Armenia holds -- which isn't actually a lot. The small nation is mostly villages and small towns, old locations in which they heavily relied on the factory jobs the Soviet Union once provided. Now mostly ghosts of their former selves, these towns hold a lot of unique locations that speak of that past. That pride that once was, and it still somewhat felt. Albeit under a different tone these days with the economic struggles that came with the collapse of industry and reliance on factories for work. Gyumri was such an interesting space that I didn't really believe it was the city I had heard so much about, I assumed at first that this was just a normal town along the way.
I had heard that Gyumri had suffered from an earthquake which crippled a lot of the homes and buildings in the area. Driving through, this event was still visible; buildings left untouched since. Some with huge cracks which ran down from the sides, but still used. Others had suffered higher levels of damage as they had entire sides completely coated in debris. Certain buildings had rooms still visible, clear signs that these were homes that were lived in at the time. The city had the feeling of absence to it. Nothing quite like Yerevan, which is a small city that itself has a lot of decay, with much of the city seeming like it isn't even used by anyone. Void of foot traffic entirely. Though through the drive of Gyumri, it seemed as if it had isolation in its core. A few old cars and aspects of public transport passing through, but shops seemed closed. Few people in the streets. I wondered why this may have been. A strange feeling to be passing through what was supposedly a city, but void of life in all aspects.
Like much of the areas around Yerevan, Gyumri was mostly residential. Old apartment buildings from the Soviet era, rundown and with their own additions over time that gave certain homes a little more personality to others. This is the norm from what I have seen. People that have lived in these apartments for decades, generations passed down as families keep the homes they have. Even the most Soviet of apartment buildings in Yerevan have unique colours on each floor, almost resembling something like a huge block of Jenga. People adding balconies to their homes in the sketchiest manner, washing lines dangling from the windows to save space and money; but the most interesting thing to me is always how the windows look. The ways in which the architecture finds a way to remain unique. Each having a very different style, some very brutalist, some a little more modern. But as always, it's always clear where the development stopped, or where the family either died out or moved on out of the area. Certain buildings clearly mostly empty.
Looking cold in appearance, metallic forms pushing out of the stone walls as they are clearly unkept throughout the years. Rustic walls and faded paint. Here and there you'd see a huge apartment building with its block number still painted on, I recall one with a massive '4' present. Something I hadn't seen before, other than in photographs of the much-known 'city of Hell' in Russia: Norilsk.
One major difference, however, was the presence of Armenia's black stone, which gave older buildings a near total black appearance, aside from large white columns; the Union loved those columns in architecture, something even Hitler had borrowed with much influence in Europe.
And it wouldn't be a pass through a former Soviet Union city without the presence of Soviet structures. Unfortunately I didn't have time to stop and see what this one was pertaining to. But it did tower over all else, with a wall that held some sort of Armenian and Soviet pattern to it. Again, the norm for this sort of area. And odd how such structures of importance are just left ignored. I look back at England where even in the most remote of places, it's empty. Rarely a sign of anything dedicated to anyone outside of a park bench somewhere. I admire the passion the Soviets had for preserving the names of individuals with importance to the Union. Of course, much of it served as propaganda, but much of it also paid homage to those who really had paid their dues to humanity. Scientists, poets and writers, those who had given their lives in the Second World War.
I wasn't sure how to feel about going through the city. It had its moments, but the aforementioned hardships gave it a sad appeal. The struggles one after the other with the decay and disasters. The few people outside seemed old, struggling. A bit tired. Roads were bumpy and without order, as the few cars in the road still couldn't seem to find structure, horns beeping, people pushing in front of each other. Near misses occurring despite the space. I don't think this will be my last trip through the city of Gyumri, however. I feel it only makes me more interested in visiting it, more curious over how its population feels and what stories they have to tell. It is certainly a place in which its people have many things to tell you over the years, many conflicting opinions, I'm certain. For many in such an area, the collapse of the Soviet Union was nothing short of a catastrophe, leading to a suffering and poverty that the areas never grew out of, with capitalism taking over and moving out into the more larger, promising cities.
The bus didn't care, however. It pressed on, forward through the city without a care for its history and struggles. Disinterest in hearing of its stories. It took us in and out within a few short moments, leaving little time to process it all. And soon enough, the landscape again changed. More farmland, more mountains and snow. As if Gyumri was a mere forgotten place in time.