Place of silk and splendour,

From pasha’s palaces and minarets to genocide memorials, the ancient Silk Road route is a compelling mess of contradictions

It was an offer I couldn’t refuse: a chance to explore a fascinating corner of the Near East at this momentous time in its history. Every August, a CanadianSouth African company conducts a three-month self-drive journey in Land Rovers along the Silk Road from Europe to China. The trip is led by an intrepid Chinese woman, Yue Chi, who manages to thread her way through the complexity of border crossings, tetchy police and opaque bureaucracy across the length of Asia.

Some guests do the whole journey, others fly in for sections. I was most interested in the western end: the silky road from Turkey to Azerbaijan.

It’s an awkward time to be travelling in these parts, particularly with a tidal wave of refugees heading west, PKK (Kurdistan Workers’ Party) rebels operating in the hills and Islamic State insurgents along the borders. We would be avoiding strife-torn areas, but the shadow cast by conflicts old and new would prove a defining feature of our journey.

I flew into eastern Turkey, where I met the group as it passed through the city of Van. Hot off the plane from South Africa, Yue whisked me straight to a boat for a ride to Akdamar Island, a yellow lump in the waters of Lake Van. A 10th-century Armenian cathedral stood atop a promontory, painted in rosy light.

We climbed its steps to view the basrelief carvings of biblical scenes on its walls and waited for the sun to set. Ringed by stark mountains and pewter water, the church looked like a lost Christian ark in a Muslim sea.

As is often the case in these parts, the church was vandalised by Turkish forces during World War I. And after the genocide of 1915 to 1917, Armenians lost a large tract of their homeland to Turkey, including Lake Van. The borders between the two countries remain closed.

A Muslim bride arrived by boat to have her photograph taken beside the funny old building. As she lifted her skirts to mount the stairs, I noticed the Nike running shoes under her perfectly white dress.

North we drove, through honeyed Kurdish lands tense with recent conflict and brewing rebellion. We passed half a dozen burnt-out trucks, attacked and torched by PKK rebels. “The vehicles were carrying military cargo,” said our local guide. “It’s as though the Turks are an occupying force in their own country. Kurds are restless for autonomy.”

The hills were dotted with watchtowers, police posts ringed with barbed wire, sandbags and armoured cars. “Things are very complicated in this zone where Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Iran and Armenia come together,” explained Yue. “And in the middle of it all are the Kurds, who have no homeland. [The Islamic State] is sometimes supported by Turkey against the Kurds, Syria’s Assad is backed by Russia and Iran, the United States is bombing [the Islamic State] as well as supporting the Kurds, and Iraq … let’s not even talk about Iraq. It’s a mess.”

Tanks, military bases, then a mountain-top pasha’s palace with 17thcentury central heating, a harem, a library, a hamam (Turkish bath) and a fountain that once gushed water and milk from separate spouts. Not a bad pad, even for a pasha.

Next came a godly landscape prickled by poplar trees and minarets. Mount Ararat, where Noah is said to have grounded his ark, dominated the scene. Its snow-capped cone towers 5 137m above the plain. Once an Armenian mountain, it’s now part of Turkey — a symbol of all that Armenia has lost in the wars of the early 20th century.

Nearing the border, we came to the walled city of Ani. Once a Silk Road hub and home to dozens of fine churches, it now lies in ruins. Only a handful of shattered buildings remain. The vandalised murals of one church tell the story of St Gregory bringing Christianity to this region.

Swallows glided through gaps that once held stained glass windows, a dome that now holds only sky. Across a narrow gorge stood Armenian watchtowers. The signboards along the river were punctured with bullet holes. Ancient animosities were clear and present.

We skirted the border to enter Armenia through Georgia. “In the past, the Silk Road followed many different routes,” said Yue. “The caravans were constantly making detours to avoid wars or bandits. It’s just the same today.”

Armenia’s capital, Yerevan, was a revelation: a stylish city with treelined boulevards, neoclassical architecture, dog parlours and fabulous restaurants. Confident young women looked like ramp models as they strutted down avenues lined with every couturier and designer shop under the sun.

But on a hill overlooking the city stood a vast, grey genocide memorial — much tended and much revered to remind the citizens of protracted hates. And Mount Ararat sat brooding on the horizon, taken by the Turkish foe a century ago: in itself a call arms, if ever one were needed.

We drove southeast through rugged Caucasus to visit a series churches, cave chapels and monasteries, some of them dating from fourth century. Unadorned interiors were lit by candles. The devout poured through cavernous spaces that echoed with the chanting of priests. Faith seemed most fervent here, a bulwark against Islamic Azerbaijan, a grenade’s throw away.

At times, the road followed the frontier and we drove behind an earthen dyke, built to protect vehicles from sniper fire. This area regularly sees border clashes, with Azerbaijan claiming that Armenia stole vast swaths its homeland. Since the dissolution