No rain in the night, but even so, somehow the tent was still a bit damp in the morning. Hope that was nothing to do with the cows we saw being herded through our lovely bush camp by the river yesterday evening.
"So, guys," Will announced. "Today we're driving into Armenia (country no. 11), for two nights at the Envoy Hostel in the capital, Yerevan."
This part of Georgia is spectacularly beautiful. The lush, green, steep-sided river valleys we drove through - complete with strategically sited watch towers and castles, now romantic abandoned stone ruins - reminded us of the highlands of Scotland. However, as we got a little further along, and closer to Armenian, we saw a rather different side of Georgia: that of unromantic, all but abandoned, very much run down, ex-soviet towns and industrial complexes.
By the time we got to the border - which, though surrounded by high walls, is in the middle of nowhere - we were driving through a wide-open, half scrub, half pastural landscape. The border post, or rather the first border post you go through to leave Georgia, is tiny compared to one we came through on the way into Georgia: barriers in and out, a couple of small buildings to their sides and a rather unappealing, but clearly identified, WC. All fairly informal, we just needed to get our entry stamps over-stamped. Then we all got back on the truck and drove about a kilometer across no-man's land to the second border post: the way in to Armenia.
This is where things get a bit more confusing. First you have to complete a form with your passport details, home address and phone number, occupation, durration of stay, where you're staying, etc, etc, etc. (There's a space for a passport photo, but they didn't seem to bothered about it.) You hand this in together with your passport, the guy gives it a cursory glance, you give an enquiring thumbs up and receive a noncomital shrug of the shoulders, which seems to say: 'might be okay. I dunno. Why're you asking me? I only work here.' Then you need to buy your visa, which can only be bought in Armenian currency (Drams, by the way)Fortunately they have an automatic currency exchange machine, a neat bit of kit that recognises, not only the denomination, but currency of the notes you feed in, does the math and dispenses an equivalent quantity of local money, with which, in theory, you buy your visa. I say in theory because the dam thing ran out of cash just as we got to it. Fortunately, Karen was on hand to bail us out with some of her stash. So, cash in hand, the next stage is to give some of it back to another guy, who gives you a reciept. Next you take your receipt to someone else, and somehow you end up with a new sticker in your passport, which just has to be stamped and signed (maybe by the first guy, but I'm not really sure by now) and your done. That's basicaly the proceedure. Not much to it, but the thing is, end to end, it takes about three hours, which, I understand, is one of the quicker ones. Will, who has himself and the truck to get through, has even more hoops to jump through, including buying more insurance for the three or four days we're in Armenia, from some guy in a hut for something like nine dollars, so not even a money making opportunity really, just an added bit of burocracy. Hey ho.
[By the way, one kilometer between in and out border posts is nothing: according to Karen, later we'll pass through borders with 20 or so kilometers of no-man's land, and one crossing between Argentina and Chile they use on another trip they do, involves a day's drive between the two country's borders.]
Once clear of the border, we carried on through the high (2,100 metres) alpine plateau, covered in wildflowers and with scarcely another soul in sight. Until, that is, you pull-over for a pee stop - the second border post had an unidentified shack set away from everything else which the locals used, but was frankly too scary for me to approach, and was, according to those of the group who were brave enough (or desperate enough) to try it, truely horrendous - when six cars (decorated with balloons for some reason) and various lorries go by, all of whom sound their horns and slow for a really good look as they do.
Along the way, we saw loads of beehives; mud, straw and cow dung fuel bricks drying in the sun; and a couple of cemetries, where many the headstones were engraved with images of the deceased, sometimes just their face, but also larger images showing something of their lives and/or occupations. (We'd seen this in Georgia too, but I forgot to mention it then.)
Soon it was time for lunch, but with no currency, we had to borrow from truck mates Adam and Corine, the only other couple on the truck - married (ten years), 'in IT', 30 somethings from Nottingham, but on their way to a new life in Melbourne, by the way. Funds secured, we bought some delicous fresh bread plus local cheese and sausage to go in it. I also tried a tin of 'young' coconut juice: actually quite refreshing, but probably less local.
Continuing through a poor landscape, along some shocking roads with added man-made potholes (repairs started but awaiting filling and arranged across the full width of the road) we eventually found the main road to Yerevan, labled 'M1': still fairly shocking and only one lane plus a rough verge in each direction. (As we got closer to the city, the road became a dual carriage way, though not as you'd know it, and no busier.)
Yerevan (sometimes spelled just 'Erevan') is a large, noisy, dirty and, on first impressions, unremarkable city. Driving through, I saw maybe four buildings worth photographing, including a very modern interpretation of a cathedral from an earlier age, currently under construction. The truck was parked and secured and we made our way on foot to the hostel. It was a hot afternoon and I was not looking forward to another crummy hostel in another sweltering city. However, much to my surprise, the hostel turned out to be clean and airy with A/C in the four-bed rooms - we're sharing with Adam and Corinne - and, best of all clean western-style toilets in the well appointed shower and washrooms. Things were looking up.
That evening, after crepes from a nice little corner cafe not far from the hostel and almost next door to a bureau de change in a supermarket, we took a free walking tour of the city aranged by the hostel. It was a very pleasant to be given an orientation in the cool of the evening. We were shown the opera house, very many smart pavement cafes and taken up to The Cascades, a monumental complex of open spaces (complete with valuable sculptures) surrounded by smart apartment buildings, leading to a great many fountains on several levels connected by broad and deep steps, in turn leading to a huge statue, formerly of Stalin, but now of Mother Armenia. From there we walked to Republic Square, which has some very grand public buildings on its four sides and more fountains that dance and change colour to music - including songs sung by French-Armenian, Charles Asnovore - in the centre. All very lovely, and topped off by the news on our return to the hostel that truckmate Feng - British-Chinese from Liverpool - had been awarded a first in English and French law from Oxford. (Cue drinking and dancing 'til dawn.)
"So, guys," Will announced. "Today we're driving into Armenia (country no. 11), for two nights at the Envoy Hostel in the capital, Yerevan."
This part of Georgia is spectacularly beautiful. The lush, green, steep-sided river valleys we drove through - complete with strategically sited watch towers and castles, now romantic abandoned stone ruins - reminded us of the highlands of Scotland. However, as we got a little further along, and closer to Armenian, we saw a rather different side of Georgia: that of unromantic, all but abandoned, very much run down, ex-soviet towns and industrial complexes.
By the time we got to the border - which, though surrounded by high walls, is in the middle of nowhere - we were driving through a wide-open, half scrub, half pastural landscape. The border post, or rather the first border post you go through to leave Georgia, is tiny compared to one we came through on the way into Georgia: barriers in and out, a couple of small buildings to their sides and a rather unappealing, but clearly identified, WC. All fairly informal, we just needed to get our entry stamps over-stamped. Then we all got back on the truck and drove about a kilometer across no-man's land to the second border post: the way in to Armenia.
This is where things get a bit more confusing. First you have to complete a form with your passport details, home address and phone number, occupation, durration of stay, where you're staying, etc, etc, etc. (There's a space for a passport photo, but they didn't seem to bothered about it.) You hand this in together with your passport, the guy gives it a cursory glance, you give an enquiring thumbs up and receive a noncomital shrug of the shoulders, which seems to say: 'might be okay. I dunno. Why're you asking me? I only work here.' Then you need to buy your visa, which can only be bought in Armenian currency (Drams, by the way)Fortunately they have an automatic currency exchange machine, a neat bit of kit that recognises, not only the denomination, but currency of the notes you feed in, does the math and dispenses an equivalent quantity of local money, with which, in theory, you buy your visa. I say in theory because the dam thing ran out of cash just as we got to it. Fortunately, Karen was on hand to bail us out with some of her stash. So, cash in hand, the next stage is to give some of it back to another guy, who gives you a reciept. Next you take your receipt to someone else, and somehow you end up with a new sticker in your passport, which just has to be stamped and signed (maybe by the first guy, but I'm not really sure by now) and your done. That's basicaly the proceedure. Not much to it, but the thing is, end to end, it takes about three hours, which, I understand, is one of the quicker ones. Will, who has himself and the truck to get through, has even more hoops to jump through, including buying more insurance for the three or four days we're in Armenia, from some guy in a hut for something like nine dollars, so not even a money making opportunity really, just an added bit of burocracy. Hey ho.
[By the way, one kilometer between in and out border posts is nothing: according to Karen, later we'll pass through borders with 20 or so kilometers of no-man's land, and one crossing between Argentina and Chile they use on another trip they do, involves a day's drive between the two country's borders.]
Once clear of the border, we carried on through the high (2,100 metres) alpine plateau, covered in wildflowers and with scarcely another soul in sight. Until, that is, you pull-over for a pee stop - the second border post had an unidentified shack set away from everything else which the locals used, but was frankly too scary for me to approach, and was, according to those of the group who were brave enough (or desperate enough) to try it, truely horrendous - when six cars (decorated with balloons for some reason) and various lorries go by, all of whom sound their horns and slow for a really good look as they do.
Along the way, we saw loads of beehives; mud, straw and cow dung fuel bricks drying in the sun; and a couple of cemetries, where many the headstones were engraved with images of the deceased, sometimes just their face, but also larger images showing something of their lives and/or occupations. (We'd seen this in Georgia too, but I forgot to mention it then.)
Soon it was time for lunch, but with no currency, we had to borrow from truck mates Adam and Corine, the only other couple on the truck - married (ten years), 'in IT', 30 somethings from Nottingham, but on their way to a new life in Melbourne, by the way. Funds secured, we bought some delicous fresh bread plus local cheese and sausage to go in it. I also tried a tin of 'young' coconut juice: actually quite refreshing, but probably less local.
Continuing through a poor landscape, along some shocking roads with added man-made potholes (repairs started but awaiting filling and arranged across the full width of the road) we eventually found the main road to Yerevan, labled 'M1': still fairly shocking and only one lane plus a rough verge in each direction. (As we got closer to the city, the road became a dual carriage way, though not as you'd know it, and no busier.)
Yerevan (sometimes spelled just 'Erevan') is a large, noisy, dirty and, on first impressions, unremarkable city. Driving through, I saw maybe four buildings worth photographing, including a very modern interpretation of a cathedral from an earlier age, currently under construction. The truck was parked and secured and we made our way on foot to the hostel. It was a hot afternoon and I was not looking forward to another crummy hostel in another sweltering city. However, much to my surprise, the hostel turned out to be clean and airy with A/C in the four-bed rooms - we're sharing with Adam and Corinne - and, best of all clean western-style toilets in the well appointed shower and washrooms. Things were looking up.
That evening, after crepes from a nice little corner cafe not far from the hostel and almost next door to a bureau de change in a supermarket, we took a free walking tour of the city aranged by the hostel. It was a very pleasant to be given an orientation in the cool of the evening. We were shown the opera house, very many smart pavement cafes and taken up to The Cascades, a monumental complex of open spaces (complete with valuable sculptures) surrounded by smart apartment buildings, leading to a great many fountains on several levels connected by broad and deep steps, in turn leading to a huge statue, formerly of Stalin, but now of Mother Armenia. From there we walked to Republic Square, which has some very grand public buildings on its four sides and more fountains that dance and change colour to music - including songs sung by French-Armenian, Charles Asnovore - in the centre. All very lovely, and topped off by the news on our return to the hostel that truckmate Feng - British-Chinese from Liverpool - had been awarded a first in English and French law from Oxford. (Cue drinking and dancing 'til dawn.)
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| Karen, hard at work, having an admin day |
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