By Anoush Kocharyan

Mt. Ara, located several miles northwest of Abovyan, rises some 2,575 meters above sea level.

The three of us decided to seek some rest in one of the now abandoned houses at its base. This one had glass windows reminiscent of a catholic church.

A child definitely lived in this particular house. There were toys strewn across the floor. A crib and some ripped clothes. We spent the night in the house.

The following morning, I was the first to wake. I roused my two friends and we had a spot of breakfast. It was already about noon.

Today, we have to make it to Varvara Monastery. They say it's a great place.

I look at David. It's about a 20 kilometre trek and we don't know the way.

We prepare some water bottles and a few biscuits for the road and set out.

Luckily, the road was level and we eventually reached the half way point. We stopped outside a lone cabin. A woman of about 70 wearing a clean white shawl came outside.

- How can we get to Varvara Monastery?

Before she could answer, her husband appeared from behind some beehives.

- Dear guys, you've started out too late

- But there's not much left to go...

- OK. First you go this way, and then go that way. But move quick befor night falls and the wolves come out.

So we started walking. It was already 5 and the monastery was nowhere in sight.

My friend Alik recently won the 7th Annual Aram Khachaturian International Competition. As we continued walking, he said that he regretted the fact that, here in Armenia, no one really cares if he won or not.

I try to answer with some words of comfort.

- You know. It's probably best to leave Armenian all together. It's like I've grown tired. The last time I went home to Vanadzor, I prepared this great breakfast but no one noticed. It's as if the time for appreciating beautiful things has past - said Davit, who just finished culinary school.

According to the directions, we had almost reached the monastery. Just around the next hill and we were there.

You could see melted candles on the stones alongside the path. I thought to myself that those who couldn't make it all the way probably said their prayers and lit their candles down here instead.

We spotted the monastery not too far away. And then my eyes did a double-take.

Next to Varvara, a monastery with a 1,700 year old history, was a giant red Coca-Cola umbrella, a pop icon of our millennium.

We traversed the last few meters and heard voices. There were four individuals standing by the monastery door.

- We've been living here since 1960, says grandma Yertchanik. We live in this cave. Sometimes we go down into the town.

The cave is at the bottom of the mountain holding the monastery.

It's damp, dark and mystical. There are holy pictures all around; dried botanicals and a non-working refrigerator.

Further up, along the monastery steps, is a man in his 40's selling his trinkets. It's Agul from Etchmiadzin. With his nicotine-stained fingers he proudly shows us the wooden crosses he's made.

Granma Yeranouhie escorts us to the monastery. She lives in the cave with Yertchanik and her husband, Toukh Manouk (Dark Manouk).

Water is dripping in the church. They say it is holy water with miraculous healing qualities. We stop. The cold water drips on my face and hands. I run my hand over a grave stone that embodies the wisdom of past centuries.

Agul tell us that St. Varvara, the daughter of a prince, was persecuted for her Christian faith. She took refuge in these mountains but was found and tortured.

Silence reigns inside the monastery, only to be shattered by the occasional cry of the local cuckoo bird with a nesting brood.

It's 7pm and we have a long way to go before returning home.

The three of us remain transfixed by what we have just experienced.

A scenario totally unexpected but quite real nonetheless.

We exchange no words for several miles on the way back.

It will take time to process what we have just seen and to make some sense of it all – the Coca Cola umbrella, the monastery and the friendly "cave" people.