Seeing all Armenia has to offer

Last weekend my running buddy, Dave, and I took a day trip to Armenia.  Armenia is a small, landlocked country that borders Iran to its south, Georgia to its north, Turkey to the west, and Azerbaijan, with whom it has troubled relations, to the east.  We went to Armenia to get Dave’s visa renewed.  When we arrived in Georgia in November 2011, each of us got a 365-day work visa.  If you don’t get it renewed after a year you have to pay a $300 fine.  Fortunately, you can renew the visa simply by leaving the country and having your passport re-stamped when you come back in, even if you just leave the country long enough to have lunch.  So, when I came home for R&R in September, my visa was renewed for another 365 days.  Dave, however, has never left the country, so his visa was due to expire the first week in November.  So, we needed to get out of country for a day or so, and Armenia is the closest foreign country, about an hour’s drive from Tbilisi.

I have been lucky enough to have visited 25 countries on five continents.  I have been to countries where I would be happy to live and I’ve been to places that look like Hell opened a branch office (I’m looking at you, Rwanda).  While Armenia isn’t as bad as some places I’ve been, it doesn’t make my “recommended visit” list.  Like all of the countries in the Caucasus, Armenia used to be a Soviet republic.  It looks it.  Georgia has worked very hard to leave that part of their history behind while Armenia seems to have embraced it.  The Armenians still maintain Soviet type memorials (here’s one remembering Armenia’s contribution to the Red Army’s effort in World War II), the signs are still written in both Armenian and Russian (in Georgia the second language is English), and the only vehicles on the road are Russian-made Lada cars, ErAZ vans, and Kamaz trucks, all of which seem to have a maximum speed of 30mph and a propensity to break down every 200 miles.

Our adventure started at the border crossing itself.  We drove to the border post between Armenia and Georgia and waited about 20 minutes before being waved forward.  Which is weird because there were no other cars in line.  Right then we knew were going to see Soviet efficiency at its finest.  And make no mistake – Soviet bureaucracy is about as efficient and effective as Bob Dylan’s tuning fork.  Once we were waved forward, the highly trained clerk flipped through our passports and told us we needed an entrance visa which could be obtained at the small shed to our left. 

After filling out the paperwork and paying our 3000 Drams (about $7.50; 408 DRM = $1) to the visa office, we got back in the vehicle lane to enter.  Another ten minutes later (and we were the ONLY car in line), we were waved forward where the same clerk examined our visa and said we needed to pay the 3000 DRM fee.  I’ve seen this kind of guy before.  He’s barely qualified to run the tilt-a-whirl at the traveling carnival.  He’s the guy on “Wheel of Fortune” who asks, “Is there an F as in pharaoh?”  He thinks “genealogy” is when Barbara Eden visits her ob-gyn.  I told him, no, we had already paid the other guy.  Mr. Clerk shrugged and said, that was his 3000; I need my 3000.  I said, no, we ain’t paying twice.  Clerk shrugs and says, OK, 2000.  I say no again, and he says, OK, OK, 1000 and that’s my final offer.  When I said I wanted to see his commander, he glares and waves our car through (all of this is happening in English, of course, since the Armenian language did not originate on this planet).

So it’s on to the closest “city” – Alaverdi.  Alaverdi has three claims to fame:  1) the Sanahin monastery, built in the 10^th century, part of which is the Queen Tamara bridge constructed in 1100; 2) the largest copper mine and smelting plant in the former USSR and that is still the largest employer in Armenia; and 3) the only functioning sewage treatment plant in Armenia.  It’s hard to figure out which one gives the locals the most pride.

We started by visiting the Queen Tamara bridge.  This bridge, still functional almost 1000 years after it was completed, has a local legend.  There are four stone lions on the bridge; the legend says when Armenia’s hero crosses the bridge the lions will come to life and follow him.  I crossed that damn bridge four times and nothing happened; so much for local legends.  The bridge is also guarded by a stone figure that the locals call the “commissar.”  Why?  No one seems to know, but they insisted we take our picture with it.  Not sure if they’re just not screwing with the tourists; God knows they don’t get many opportunities.

We also visited the Sanahin monastery, accessible only by a cable car.  This cable car is an acrophobic’s nightmare.  It’s steep, slow, rocks back and forth all the way up, and creaks with sounds that make you sure you’re only about a half-second away from plummeting to your death.  It’s run by an operator who has been running this cable car since 1983.  He speaks to us in Russian, which is interpreted into German by another tourist on the car.  So the conversation goes like this:  the operator says something in Russian.  It’s interpreted by another tourist into German.  I translate the German into English for Dave.  Dave asks a question which I have to translate into German for the other tourist who translates it back into Russian.  What’s scary is, the cable car moves so slowly we can do this interaction 5-6 times before we arrive at the top of the mountain.

While we’re riding the car, the operator insists that I take a picture of the sewage treatment plant.  He’s very proud of it and tells us that before the plant was opened, everyone dumped their waste into the river which, naturally, doubles as the source of the town’s drinking water.   We declined his offer to visit the plant which disappointed him a great deal. 

The monastery’s just that – one more monastery of the dozens we’ve seen in Georgia.  Nothing to significant except for the graveyard that abuts the monastery grounds.  There is a tradition, not only in Armenia but in Georgia as well, of intricately carved headstones.  We found one that had a carving of four teenagers, all of whom died on the same day.  Upon closer examination of the headstone, you can see in the upper right corner a depiction of the accident that claimed their lives:  they drove their car over a cliff.  Is that morbid or what?  Showing the cause of death on the headstone itself.  Sheesh.

So, having seen all that Alaverdi can offer in the way of tourist entertainment, we decided to grab a bite to eat and then head home.  We can’t resist eating at the Marley and Che restaurant. 

I have no idea what the relationship is between those two, but you have to admit you’re curious, too, so we went in.  You enter the front of the restaurant, and walk straight through to the back where we’re seated at a table that overlooks an open meat market.  The meat has a strong, musky smell which I have learned by sad experience means the meat has been hanging a while.  After ordering the daily special, we see our waiter cross over to the meat market and ask the butcher to hack off a hunk of meat which, I’m sure, is destined for our table.  We toss a couple thousand Drams on the table and leave quickly, satisfying our hunger with a Snickers bar and Coke from the local market. 

On our way home, we pass the copper mine and plant.  There is not an EPA in the Caucasus, nor are there any pollution controls.  I’m sure this mine and plant has been slowly poisoning the population over the last 50 years.  We fill up our car at the local gas station and head for home, making one more stop at a museum dedicated to a local boy made good, Artem Mikoyan, one of the principal designers of the MiG aircraft, still used by Russia and many other former Soviet clients.  A MiG-21 dual-piloted fighter sits in front of the museum which is, naturally, only open for visitors from 1-2:30pm on Tuesdays. 

That about explains Armenia – it’s dirty, inefficient, and difficult.  It’s also interesting and depressing – interesting if you know you can leave at the end of the day; depressing if you can’t.  Armenia is the fat, ugly, and stupid friend you take with you to bars because you know next to him you look good.  My visit helped me understand the unofficial Georgian state motto – Thank God for Armenia.  As I said, can’t recommend it as a tourist location.  Stay in Tbilisi instead.

Thanks for reading.

It's the bachelor life for me!

Hello again, faithful readers.  I’m back in Tbilisi after a month of R&R at home.  The biggest changes as we start the second year of this contract are the downsizing of the team from 12 to three and the new living arrangements.  I am now living in a one bedroom, one bath apartment in the Vake (vah-kay) neighborhood, one of the more elite sections of town.  I’ve added some pictures of the place at the end of this posting. 

What was fascinating was the process you have to go through here in Georgia to rent an apartment.  Apartment buildings are not owned by a single entity here.  Instead, each apartment is individually owned.  The big problem with that is, since no one “owns” the outside of the apartment, no one takes care of it.  In the past, and I’m talking about in the old Soviet days, the state owned the whole building so they took care of the outside.  Not anymore.  In most cases, literally no one owns the building itself; therefore, the exterior of the building is ignored.  Parking lots are not maintained, the building shell is never painted, graffiti is allowed to bloom on any flat surface of the building, cracks in the steps and sidewalks are someone else’s problem, and the elevator and interior lighting maintenance is left to the kind ministrations of an apartment owner who is simply too tired of stumbling over cracked stairs with no light. 

So here we are, being shown apartments to rent.  As you drive into the parking lot of 68 Irakli Abashidze Street, you’re greeted by a handful of stray dogs and cats rummaging around the dumpster, the parking lot is full of weeds and trash, and the building itself is multicolored with graffiti (who is Salome anyway, and does her mother know what she does in the alley?).  You walk into a darkened hallway after being cautioned by the apartment owner to watch your step, especially where there are steps missing.  The hallway is dark and smells strongly of cigarette smoke, stale beer and urine (I have immediate flashbacks to the Beta fraternity house in college where I lived for two years).  The elevator doesn’t work so we have to walk up four floors of steps in the gloom to apartment #23.  My trepidation is high already and I’m not too eager to see what the apartment looks like after seeing the rest of the building. 

Surprisingly, I walk into a well-lit, bright, semi-clean apartment.  It’s furnished with all the amenities, a hard wood floor, plenty of windows (albeit lousy views – directly into the neighboring apartment buildings), and fairly new furniture.  I express my surprise and satisfaction with the apartment – my first big mistake.  After inspecting all four rooms, I tell Niko, our interpreter and in-country logistics manager, that it’s the best place we’ve seen so far – my second mistake.  Niko and my soon-to-be landlady, Olya -- who speaks pretty good English and fluent Russian, begin negotiating the price of the apartment.  Listed initially at $600 a month (for some strange reason, all major purchases in this country are done in dollars, not Lari, the local currency.  If you want to buy a used car, for instance, you negotiate, and eventually pay, in dollars – not Lari, not Euros, and especially not Rubles.  It’s a bit weird, but typically Georgian.), at my first statement the price went up to $1000 a month and at my second statement to $1200.  Now comes the theater part of the negotiations – my favorite part.  Niko throws his hands in the air and asks why the landlady thinks he’s stupid.  The landlady counters by asking why we’re trying to steal money from her grandchildren.  Niko responds by telling the landlady she’s a terrible Georgian for trying to take advantage of the childlike Americans who don’t know any better (he means me).  Olya fires back with the statement that she’s doing us a favor – she doesn’t have to rent to Americans at all since there are at least 17 people who will rent the apartment today.  Niko tells her to go ahead and call them then since he’s not paying a dime over the listed price of $600 a month.  Olya argues that single Americans only want to rent apartments so they can hold parties, bring in single Georgian girls, and take drugs (how come I never get invited to those apartments?).  Niko’s answer to this is to simply point at me and say, “Look at him.  Single Georgian girls in the apartment?  Really?”  That wins the argument.  I’m not sure if I should be happy that we won, or insulted about how we won, but anyway, I have the apartment at the newly negotiated price of $700 a month plus utilities and a two-month rent deposit for possible damages (despite my looks, she’s still not sure I won’t find some desperate Georgian woman somewhere).  I move in the next day.

It really is a nice apartment.  It’s quiet, convenient, abuts Vake Park (the Central Park of Tbilisi), and the neighborhood has everything I need – corner markets for staples and groceries; excellent produce stands (yes, Debbie, I’m trying to eat more vegetables); a dry cleaner; tons of cafes, restaurants, and clubs; and the main street of Chavchavadze Blvd. is only three blocks away.  It is not, however, the cleanest apartment you’ve ever seen.  Olya, who lived in the apartment for several years before deciding it was time to retire to Spain with her son, is not the most thorough of house cleaners.  I had to hire one of the women who worked for us in the Alamo to come and clean the place after I moved in.  I thought it would take about a half day to get the place spic and span.  It took two days of hard labor and about $100 worth of cleaning supplies to pass inspection.  But it’s home, at least for the next eleven months. 

And, of course, you’re all invited to the house warming party.  You’ll have to bring your own Georgian girls, though.

Thanks for reading.