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What I do
March 2016 marked ten years since I began working in International Development focusing primarily on local economic development. So I thought this a good time to put down a few insights that I have found useful or which I think in development we would do well to talk more about.
1/ Put People First: Local Economic Development in the context of international development is, in my view, just community development with an economic lens. Just as business development is human development with a business lens. We need to put people first, whether that is our staff or the people we are working with and for; and putting structures, strategies and material assets a clear second. Many NGOs have a history of putting these elements the other way around to the detriment of all concerned.
2/ Consistency: that all of the parts of the development process are in essence the same throughout the whole process.
- I must believe that we can make a measurable difference,
- I must believe that the management in the Country Office can make that difference,
- They must believe that their field staff can actually make that difference, that they can be the catalysts of change,
- and those in the communities we work with must believe that they can bring change in their own circumstances and in their own communities.
It doesn’t work if our staff say to people in communities “you should challenge your dysfunctional environment, you should take risks, you should be creative, you should believe in yourselves …” if we in the NGO are not challenging our environments, if we are not taking risks, if we are not challenging dysfunction in our workplaces, and when we do not believe we have the power to be great catalysts of change; if we settle for being victims of the system we are in. Consistency in this context means the parts of the development process, at all places in the system, are the same as the whole.
3/ Subsidiarity: is a key development principle which proposes that all decisions and activities should be undertaken by the smallest, lowest and least centralized group of people in a system. This means that as many decisions and actions as possible should be taken at a the lowest local level rather than by a higher authority somewhere else. We are inclined to put log frames and time frames ahead of subsidiarity; our system is designed to spend money and undertake activities whether people who are poor in a community are ‘ready’ or not. But at the heart of our problem is that while we preach unassailable development principles like subsidiarity to the communities we work in, we tend not to practice them in our own workplace community. We primarily operate with, and are complicit in, a hierarchical system. So as development practitioners, we need to take every opportunity to ‘walk the talk’ and practice subsidiarity within our own organisation, with the staff we engage, to take risks and to build in flexibility to our timeframes so that we can all grow and become stronger through the process that we are advocating to others.
4/ Culture: “Culture eats strategy for breakfast”, said renowned business scholar Peter Drucker. I believe we should never underestimate importance of the way people think and see the world when we are making any plan. A strategy or plan is only ever as enlightened as those who put it into practice. Many NGOs talk about taking risks to do good work, but the culture is often risk averse, rules driven even when a situation demands flexibility and at the same time tend to happy-clappy in our relationships with others reluctant to challenge and nimbly negotiating a raft of organisational taboos built up over decades. By taboos I mean those things that if discussed in the organisation are seen as letting the team down.( “Are we being hypocritical? Have we lost our way? Is our plan bad? Is this meeting a waste of time? Should we exclude certain sectors in our discussion so we can stay focused?”) If we really want to understand who we are, we need to begin talking about the taboos of our organisations, get a sense of our true diversity, and begin to make strategies and plans that are authentic to who we really are – beyond the clichés and rhetoric.
5/ Maintaining our options: In negotiation, our ‘position’ is only as good as our best alternative to an agreement. That is, if things don’t work out as we hope, have we created a good Plan B? If not, we tend to find ourselves locked in to loosing situations and we become unhealthily dependent on something that is not working: The project hasn’t really worked out, but we have talked about it so much, spent so much time and money on it, helped donors believe in it, that we think we can’t let it fail; we become locked into propping things up and effectively telling lies.
To combat this I have learned to try to do projects in threes. If we only have one project in an approach there is probably a 50-50 chance of good results. If we do two projects then it is still likely that one will succeed and the other will fail. But if we do three projects in one approach the chances seem to be that two of the three will be successful, and as Meatloaf famously sang “two out of three ain’t bad”.
6/ Timeframes: I have learned that the ideal project life for most R&L projects is four years.
Figuratively speaking, this is
- one year to cultivate the land, that is get things set up,
- a second year to sow the seeds, implementing the project,
- a third year to nourish the crop and bring in the harvest.
The fourth year is to make sure the other three years work.
Having four years allows us to work more effectively with human dynamics. If a project lead is really good and the project is only 3 years, chances are they will leave or be promoted by the end of the second year, as they don’t have a secure future. And in a three year project that doesn’t leave us with a good situation in which to recruit a great replacement. If the lead is not working out, we probably don’t really know until about 18 months in, and if the project is 4 years there is still enough time to offer another candidate an attractive employment proposition.
7/ Peripheral Vision: Almost everything that I have done in the last ten years that is worth more than two glasses of water and a look up the road, has come from noticing something that was outside the main area of focus. Listening to people I didn’t much like or respect, or to a small shy voice somewhere, paying attention to inconvenient truths, and trying to notice the parts of a process that seemed to worked … or not at all.
These things lead to innovation as well as providing exciting opportunities for those actually doing the work on the ground. I found that my role, as often as not, was to wait with anticipation for the non-obvious to emerge, and this, once discussable, would change a project – often in ways beyond anyone’s imagining. It is much easier to have space for the value of noticing and supporting opportunities if we try to anticipate the emergence of exciting new paths for our designs, right from the beginning. Once, in Kenya, I got drafted into a project log frame that the field office needed to record ten great community initiatives which the field office itself wasn’t directly involved with. This encouraged the staff in the field office to support the community groups’ actions without being so focused on exactly what the group should do. In turn the community took complete ownership and both the community and the field office learned more about what was really important.
8/ Everything as development: My expression is “to fold everything into the path”. To me this means whether something works or it doesn’t, it is part of the human development path. If we are paying attention, every step can be a step forward, every fall, a fall forward. But we need to have the time, the design, the attention and the presence to reframe and transform setbacks and side steps, both for ourselves and others. Our internal commitment is to turn these things into very intentional learning and reflection processes. In other words we need to take unconditional responsibility.
9/ Trust the process: By this I mean the development process; I don’t mean the plan, the logframe or the design, I mean the process of trying to put into place the elements above. If we are:
- putting people first,
- believing that we are personally an instrument of change,
- recognising that our actions and belief in our power should be no different from the empowerment and actions we are hoping for from in people in communities
- if we apply the subsidiarity principle,
- challenge organisational taboos, or at least be clear about what they are,
- always have a plan B,
- are realistic with timeframes and allow in our designs for emergence,
- are present to new developments and have given ourselves the flexibility to implement them ,
- and take unconditional responsibility,
then the likelihood is that we will be embracing the future as it comes to meet us and good will be done.
Old Town Tbilisi
Mid February in Tbilisi and it was cold. Liezel had come with me on a work trip and we had driven up the five hours from Yerevan on Saturday morning to spend the weekend together before my days in the office. We were staying at the ZP Hotel on the left bank, on eof the staff said that it was owned by the mother of a Georgian basketballer who had made it big in the States and was sending money back. Our balcony window faced Mtatsminda, the Holy Mountain and I watched as a grey cloud of mist got lower until, the ferris wheel and TV tower became invisible and then the mountain itself disappeared. I watched the swirling snow flurries and the wind moving the tops of the grey green Cyprus pines now looking haunted and unfriendly. It was snug to be in the room, to look down on the wet cobblestones of the street below and people in long coats and strained umbrellas bent forward against the wet and wind.
The first morning after breakfast we went to the Russian Orthodox Church, just down from our hotel, white with green and blue domes and spires. We entered just as something had finished and entering we were pushed this way and that by the stream of people leaving. Mostly elderly hard faced people, men in dark baggy suits and stocky women in black with shawls over their heads. Seated women in near the doorway rustling through pieces of paper with handwritten notes on them. More elderly women sitting to one side black with black scarves soliciting coins for a row of tall tins with coin slits with different handwritten labels on each. The main worship area was cloudy with frankincense and the smoke from beeswax candles lit in trays of hope. Beside a massive stone pillars the tallest priest I have ever seen, white hair, deep red cassock, leaning into the earnest whispers of a women in her thirties and nodding. There were rows of gold framed pictures chest height and people jostled to kiss each one and mothers holding babies touched their babies heads against the pictures and icons. There was one under glass with a black Madonna and baby, and the figures were outlined in gold.
We took a taxi to the old city and walked from the domes of the Abanotubani old Turkish bathhouses, smell of sulphur, and some gaudy signs to tempt bathers. We went into one and a group of men stood around in the entrance way in black leather jackets smoking cigarettes. A blond Russian looking woman showed us a small private room with a steaming spar tub with broken dirty tiles. I said we would be back another day.
We walked up the hill through a maze of lanes toward the botanical gardens. There is renovation happening to most of these traditional houses perched on the side of the hill in the shadow of the Narikala castle which overlooks the Mtkvari River and much of Tbilisi. Coming down the other side of the hill we went past one church with strong iron doors locked and guarded by an noisy black mastiff with pointy ears that looked like it belonged in hell. And then passed that into the thirteenth century Armenian Cathedral of St George on Orbiri St the sign outside said that it was restored by donations of Armenians. The dome was lavishly painted in pastels in a way I haven’t seen in Armenian churches in Armenia. I wanted to sit on a chair near the alter and think or pray, but the black hatted priest shooed me away to seats at the back and the women who was dusting the alter gave me a sympathetic look.
We ate lunch of hot meat dishes, fresh wood oven bread and long beers at Machakhela and watched the snow flurries in the square in front of Metikhi Bridge. A young woman in a down coat paced up and down to keep warm talking on her mobile and handing out tourist brochures.
We walked up Kote Afkhazi to Freedom Square followed by two olive skinned Roma boys perhaps ten and twelve years old in dirty jeans and ragged coats. It was a school day but no school for these kids. I was watching them and letting them know that I was. I learned in Nairobi to make sure you always know who is around you. Liezel told me not to let them know I was watching them stalk us as it would provoke them, I looked anyway. She was right, young as they were I felt like prey.
We went into a shop selling icons to avoid an attempted bag snatch, you could feel them sizing up all the opportunities around them on the street and we were one of them. A little bit further up the hill was a blond teenage busker fierce on guitar and singing hard into the cold. The older Roma youth had moved into a doorway one side of him and the younger, mischievous and alert just a few metres up the hill on the buskers other side. I said to Liezel that the Roma kids were going to snatch the buskers coins. We passed and looked back just in time to see the younger one gab a handful of coins a sprint 20 meters up the hill. The busker sang on. There was nothing he could do, to leave in chase would have left his bag and the rest of the coins free for the other youth. It was so easy, so predictable, his hunters knew the odds.
The few days in the office went well, me trying to doing development of our staff in the way I hope they do in the communities we work in. Which means that you don’t know your usefulness at the time and hope to see things happen that you recognize might have had something to do with your passing, but can’t be sure. And if done well no one remembers that it was your words and thoughts that set off seeds in them and they did it on their own. And it worked or they learned more because they did it on their own.
And so driving back on the road to Yerevan, though the border and the waits from the border police who have Russian supervisors. The wondering if there is something in my passport or Liezel’s that might mean we end up in an office with bored men smoking cigarettes who don’t speak English trying to find some reason why they should make things easy or hard. But it was fine.
And we take a good sealed road back through Noyemberyan. It used to be called Barana but was renamed by the Soviets in the 1930’s after the November Revolution in Russia, It is just a few kilometers from the border with Azerbaijan. Climbing higher and then we are above the snowline. It had snowed the night before and was pristine. The beauty was breathtaking. A landscape of softness snug under heavy soft grey clouds. Trees decorated in ice baubles, fields of fresh pure white snow and the mountains beautiful retainers. And who would every know that beneath were rocky fields and hard won lives of tough skinned villagers who barely survived even when the sun was shining.
About six months ago, Mr. Kibani found himself in a taxi going to a dowry wedding with Mr. Morongo who at around 62 was getting married for the third time and then going to jail. The men were both Kikuyu, they taught in the same primary school until each retired and they had remained neighbors and friends. Mr. Morongo had helped start the Kasuku primary school almost thirty years ago and stayed on teaching until three years ago. Kasuku village is surrounded by the rolling, mostly green hills of Kikuyu heartland. In Swahili Kasuku means parrot. Mr. Morongo taught Mr. Kibani’s seven daughters and two of his three sons and now, except for the youngest son who was still at college, they were all grown up and married. Mr. Kibani was happy with his children, they showed respect and contributed to family projects like buying him a new suit and his wife a new bed and even funding church projects that he lead. They both went to the Helicopter of Christ Church on the Gilgil road in Kasuku.
If you left out the churches Prophet and the congregation, the Helicopter of Christ was actually just a corrugated iron shed, some of its corrugated iron walls had been painted sky blue and it sat on a large dusty plot surrounded by prickle bushes. Above the entrance door, painted straight on the iron there is a red cross and to one side a vinyl banner with Helicopter of Christ in large red flaming letters and then the opening hours and a cell phone number for private appointments and underneath a picture of Prophet Gilbert Gatonga in a white suite and the Prophets wife and another lady. Inside the church were rows of wooden bench pews, the windows had no glass but welded reinforcing mesh for security which had timber plank shutters which were only opened on Sundays. During the week it was dark and lonely inside. Beads of bright light made shafts through stray nail holes in the tin sheet walls in in the roof. And there was bright daylight surrounding the door and window frames like the second coming was in full fling outside. On the alter were plastic doilies and plastic flowers in Chinese vases all looking so sad. But on Sundays they were resurrected, a true celebration of life and nature and all that is good.
On Sundays the church was alive, and the service might go on for four full hours if Prophet Gilbert Gatonga was particularly filled with the Spirit. On Sundays the church was filled with heart and voice and people sang so loud and danced and were seized by the Holy Spirit and fainted into eager arms and it all got mixed up with polyester best shirts and suits and body sweat and cheap perfume and new do’s of braided hair extensions and colors so if you didn’t know a women so well you wouldn’t recognize her straight off. It was here that Mr. Morongo had married his second wife.
As Mr Kibani tells the story, “Mr. Morongo was married with five kids but there were issues. It was said that the wife was a devil worshiper. It was said that she was sending people to the husband with letters written in blood telling him funny things. And there was a time when he was walking back from the small shabby town nearby and he passed some people who were sitting on the side of the road, they asked him “Did you receive our letter?” But before Mr. Morongo could even think it, the guys were gone. Well that’s the story and there were some other things happening as well. So Mr. Morongo and his wife parted ways and got divorced, well actually she fled. That was in 1996 and really this was the only solution.”
Mr Kibani straightened the brim of his hat and continued “Soon after, Mr. Morongo married again and they had another 6 children but this wife was sick and in the last 3 years before her death she was always in and out of hospital and people were wondering why is she always sick. And they were saying it was maybe HIV but no one had the proof and people were wondering how come she was sick but the husband never showed any signs of sickness. So she passed on last year around May leaving Mr. Morongo with their sixth child who was just 3 months old.
So my wife you know and my daughters, we were all feeling for him, him being their teacher and with all the things that had been happening to him with all the small kids. He was a man of the people, people liked him, even though when it came to teaching, everyone said he wasn’t that good. But he was very knowledgeable and had all kinds of different stories that were really of interest to the students, but when it came to teaching itself he was not that good but still everyone liked him so much. As soon as the wife died he remarried again for the third time to a woman who already had two kids. So they married but it was not formalized and so that was why I had to go to the dowry wedding. He probably has HIV” whispered Mr. Kibani, “because people were saying that before the second wife even got sick that Mr Morongo had HIV. And later on the baby that he had been left with also died. But the other kids are fine.”
Mr Kibani’s rubbed his forehead hard and continued “Just before the second wife passed on he had retired, and taken his pension. He tried to become a local councilor but he lost at the election, which was a big blow to him as he had spent about half of all of his pension money on the attempt. If he had he been elected then his future would be secure as there was always money for roads and community projects and lots of ways to keep some of the money for the councilors involved. His election attempt had been an investment in his future. It is just what the politicians are doing all over Kenya, they invest their money in the elections and if elected they can pay themselves back tenfold. So he lost. Most people who take a pension invest the money in improving their home or their land but he didn’t do any of that. So it hit him very hard with the loss and the loss of the money. At some point he became involved in a nearby flower farm. There was a time when a local guy was stealing stuff from that farm and bringing it to him and he would sell the things in the town. And he was caught. It was not that he was so dishonest but the thing with losing all that money he got a bit funny. And he wasn’t feeling himself and the condition of the wife and of the money. So he went to remand and then to prison for around 4 months. So the new wife now has seven children to care for. But a few are old enough to take care of themselves. Mr. Morongo is 62 or 63 and his hair had gone grey from the stress and he is bound to die young as he has left so much trouble behind. The third wife has started a simple little day school but no one seems to know how it is going or how she will survive. So that is the story of Mr. Morongo, poor fellow.”
Postcard from the Black Sea
It was towards the end of summer. Liezel and I drove towards the Georgian boarder, it was before we were married and she had to leave Armenia and then re-enter with another four month tourist visa. We decided to make the trip a holiday and stay a few nights on the Georgian Black Sea coast near Batumi. On the way to the border we pass through small Armenian roadside towns’ boxy cinderblock and concreate houses with cracked walls and broken roofs and windows and doors with angles from a kids drawing and now beyond care and hope. They are on dirt potholed side roads with drainage making muddy patches even though its dusty summer. And on chimneys and the tops of electrical poles stork nests the size of truck tires made from sticks. These are the baby delivering white storks, I saw them in the spring standing in their nests often with one or two grown babies of their own, their wings and bodies tipped with black. Now they are just in ones or twos waiting to return to India. In Western Europe these storks fly up from sub-Saharan Africa and some of those arriving in Germany have been found nesting with African arrows still in them. The Germans call these Pfeilstorch or “arrow stork”. I can’t quite put my finger on it but for me there is something very moving about a bird that flies thousands of miles with an arrow in its neck to nest. I think it is something about the choicelessness of doing that thing that must be done. And that maybe too often I think I am too clever to do that thing and find a way to do another more comfortable or distracting thing instead.
So we get to the flat land desolate border crossings at Bavra, its hot and dry, exit Armenia enter Georgia, they stamp us through. On the Georgian side we go on to pass through few towns over the next hour, old Russian looking yet chaotic and lonely as a bag lady’s shopping trolley.
Then out of Akhalkalaki, winding decent and driving with a valley of Ash and Birch, Oak and Dogwood random and perfect along the banks and river flats of the fast flowing rock jumping stream. And around a corner on the other side of the stream, a mediaeval stone castle on a high cliff. And I feel like a stranger and part of it all the same; somehow big for being there and small as a grain of sand when I think of the lives and lives that a thousand years ago lived in the castle or grew grapes on the long abandoned terraces on the hills opposite and of this dust of their important lives. And the 50,000 people who lived in the now abandoned cave city of Vardzia just off to the west, gone.
We take a detour about four kilometers up the steep valley wall to the little village of Saros. And high on an overlooking cliff we find the 7th Century monastery of The Archangel. In the churchyard are a couple of young nuns with cheeks the color of robin breasts , long black hair and flowing black habits wielding big grim reaper scythes through long yellow dry grass. Leaning back they carry stacked armfuls of straw to stone stables behind. I want to take their photograph but they motion me no.
We go the edge of a cliff amongst stacked stone fortress walls some stone blocks three meters long, built by giants maybe a thousand years before Christ. Looking out, as high as eagles into the deep hazy valley below, I feel I am passing through life faster and faster, racing headlong towards death. Beyond boxes of books, thrift shop clothing ad bric-a-brac, what I will leave and for whom. And even now after all these years I think I should know what my legacy should be and I don’t. Maybe it was the scythes that got me thinking. They open the church for us and we can smell the damp of a thousand years and a thousand years of footfalls on the step and a thousand years of fingertips stroking the monk carved crosses in the stone walls and we light candles and gaze at ancient icons of the Archangel Michael in the half light.
That night we stay in the fortress town of Akhaltsikhe and next day head off to the Black Sea across the mountains though the Goderdzi Pass in Ajaria on an unmade creek bed road. We forded small rivers from roadside mountain waterfalls, hung on to the sides of forested mountains far above a rushing mountain river. We stop, all around mountains, a carpet of thick dull green conifers and there in the middle, maybe a kilometer away in the valley a red leafed tree, crazy beautiful for its difference. Our location is just near the border of Turkey and was settled by Greeks 2500 years ago. The red tree bothers me, if this was a person in the developed world, we would put them in a mental institution.
We reach Kivariati on the black sea coast in the afternoon, grey sky, grey misty sea, raining and humid.
Next morning is sunny and clear. The ocean is sky blue and throwing up a small surf. The beach is a billion rocks most are oval and smooth the size that fits in your palm and you want to take it because it feels precious and unique but so is the next and the next and they are green and gray blue, deep red, white and black and with contrasting veins and soon I have a bag full. We hire umbrellas and plastic beds for the day and watch the beach life. A Russian woman lying like a sow in the waves is too heavy and unstable to get up by herself and laughing joyously and is helped up by her family. A tough looking man with short cropped black hair has some kind of military tattoo between his shoulder blades that looks like a set of gun sites on a sniper stand. He stands with his back to me, feet planted, legs apart, hands on his hips, like he is daring the sea to take him on, He turns around and there is a thick 12 inch scare across his stomach. Hawkers are selling bright colored inflatable water wings and slip on plastic shoes to make walking on the rocks more comfortable.
Midafternoon and its hot. I go down to the water’s edge and sit right down with those millions of colored stones at Kiviriati where Russians and Ottomans, Turks and Greeks, Armenians and Georgians have landed, fought, died or started new lives for thousands of years. I sit down and this playful joyful sea tugs at me, and pushes me, friendly and unpredictable as a puppy and I am thinking there is nothing more than this, nowhere to go or not to go, no past or lack of past and no legacy or its lack. I feel between myself and think there is nothing more than this moment forever and nothing to do or that needs doing. Just the presence of the thing and me in it, and for once knowing that I am there.
Postcard from Armenia
I paid for our rooms at the Hotel Basen in Sissian and got directions for the road ahead. We arrived in the dark last night and I had no clue where we were. At first we couldn’t find the hotel as all the lights were off and I drove around in circles on roads like creek beds like a bat with a GPS. It was about minus 2 Celsius, dark, and no one was around. When we found it, it didn’t look like a hotel, more like small blocks of old soviet cold stone accommodations. Which is what it turned out to be. Apparently alongside the airstrip that didn’t get built before the Soviet Union collapsed. It turned out we were close to the centre of town. Sissan is about two and a half hours north of the Iranian border. It’s been a city since around 800 BC.
Makes you think it was here 2800 years ago, no Buddhism, no Christianity no Islam. In principle things should have gotten better in the last 3000 years or so. And in those days when the Arabs or the Turks were not invading, there were earthquakes and when there was peace there is just dry ground and stones, rocks and stones and hot as hell in summer and rocks and snow and ice in winter. Not far from Yerevan there are the ruins of an old stone church which in 650AD stood 45 meters tall and they say maybe it was the tallest building in the world. There is a sign on it that says it was destroyed by either Arabs or earthquakes around 1000 AD. There was a replica built in the Armenian town of Ani but that apparently collapsed about 900 years ago as well. Ani sits on the border with Turkey and was supposed to be returned to Armenia at the end of the First World War but never was. Around 1000 years ago Ani was a city on the Silk Road with over 100,000 people known as the city of 1001 churches it rivaled Damascus, Bagdad and Constantinople. Now it is just piles of stones some of which have parts of churches and fortresses rising out of them and not even in Armenia anymore.
No wonder the Armenians invented wine; where there is wine there is hope. And as an aside Armenians also invented carpets, kind of ironic. Like “hey this wine is great stuff, now let’s create something to make us miserable when we spill it”.
I scraped the ice of the car windows which had fine ice crystals all over it, like it was decorated for Christmas and paid for the rooms. I asked the woman there how to get to the main road and if there was anything we should keep our eye out for on the way to Goris and then she mentioned the Armenian Stonehenge, just on the right after the petrol station. Well the main road out was hardly a road, and the petrol station was an LPG refill station, and the track wasn’t on the right but on the left. But there pretty much in the middle of nowhere is a muddy track and down that road we now journeyed to Քարահունջ which is also called Zorats Karer or Karahunj.
Driving slow on a stony dirt track across the rocky hills and then there was a section of deep muddy bog and I could see us stuck up to our axles in it, so I parked on top of the hill and we walked down a slope towards the stone circles. In the centre of a patch of sticky muddy ground, we passed a recently constructed rough stone hut with a metal door that had a sign “Information and Souvenirs” it was closed and uninviting. By now it was about 9 in the morning and still colder than a grave diggers arse. But the valley below in the shadow of the snow covered mountains was literally awesome and if before you didn’t believe in Yarweh or Bahama or Buddha then you sure as hell had to believe in something now. And the stone circles as we walked in on them were madder than a paisley shirt, every which way but a kind of to them all at the same time. There were was a large stone circle with these kind of tentacles coming out from the centre. On the sign that was paid for by USAID (a gift from the American people) it said something about stones that talk and that maybe under them were buried fallen warriors. I did see some long ago looted tombs so who knows. And many of the stones had holes in them big enough to put your arm through. The sign said they were used to observe the galaxies and now because the galaxies have shifted or we have, the circle can be dated to between 7500 and 12,000 years old.
I said to my mate who was visiting from Australia, “I wonder why they built it here?”
“Well they had to build it somewhere” he said
“So okay but why here?”
And I look around and though we are high it seems we are also surrounded by mountains on all sides, but it was hardly a plateau.
So we wandered around being artistic. Taking pictures and making poses from behind rocks, on top of rocks, rocks in the foreground, the background, flanked by mountains, by sky, by other rocks. And it was icy, with snow on the peaks and white powder on the near hills.
As we wandered back there was loud stock engine car roar and this old while Russian Volga with a mismatched blue door wallowed through that bog like a battlefield tank, music blaring, it was rap but in that moment it sounded like the Star Wars theme.
They skidded to a halt at the end of the road where we were and then with only three cylinders firing and the muffler gone, much revving and wheels spinning they reversed up the steep little slope next to the Info centre. Three rangy youths in wool hats and hoodies out jumped and put rocks under the wheels to stop it rolling. I thought maybe they were shepherds or bandits or escaped convicts but it turns out they ran the Info Center and were building a chain mesh fence between the adjoining fields. I guess to separate this bit of rocky ground from the bit of rocky ground next to it. They offered us cans of iced coffee and we followed them up the treacherously uneven crazy paved stone steps into the center. Turns out one of them had worked with a famous German archeologist and knew a lot about Karahunj. Like it was constructed at least 2500 years before Stonehenge and that the word Hunj and Henge are very similar and Karahunj, Stonehenge and the Egyptian Pyramids form an equidistant triangle. Go figure that. And it turns out that just over the range is a field of prehistoric carved stones at a place called Navasar and they showed photos and graphics of a 7500 year old carving depicting two stick figures and a serpent a tree with one fruit in it, one of the stick figures had a prong between his legs and they told me that was Adam. They sold tee-shirts, postcards and other souvenirs with the carving on it. Makes you think too that the bible crosses a fair bit or landscape. Also you have to admit that stones are pretty good at preserving history. Like 7500 years ago some guy who thinks the world is flat and doesn’t know where he is on it except he is on a hillside and he makes a rock carving of a story he heard somewhere. Then in 2014 someone in Armenia makes a tee-shirt out of it.