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.     

 

 

Traveling the Georgia Military Highway

Hello, again.  This is going to be one my longer blogs so you might want to take a minute and get a beverage, go to the bathroom, kick off your shoes, and get comfortable.  This weekend I drove the Georgia Military Highway from Tbilisi to the Russian border.  First, some background:  The Georgia Military Highway (GMH) was established as a trade route in the 1^st century BCE.  The Russians developed it into a carriage road in 1783 through the labor of over 800 soldiers, an incredible number at the time to be dedicated to simply building a road.  It was the primary trade route from the Black Sea to Russia and north until 1883 when a railway opened from the Black Sea to Moscow.  About 100 years later, the Roka Tunnel opened in what is now South Ossetia and the Gori-Tskhinvali road became the major north-south thoroughfare until the 2008 war. 

The GMH is still an important route from Tbilisi and central Georgia to the northern slopes of the Caucasus Mountains, at least in the summer months.  This is the route, all 138 kilometers of it (85 miles, give or take), that I decided to drive this weekend.  The primary feature of the road, other than the mountains, is the Aragvi (Uh-rug-wee) Rivers and the mountain streams that flow into them. 

The first stop was at a church in Tsilkani, a 5^th century basilica that is one of the oldest churches in the country.  It’s famous for its icon of the Virgin Mary allegedly painted by St. Luke on a board from Christ’s cradle.  I don’t want to appear skeptical, but I think the paint was still wet last weekend.  I’ll let you be the judge.  Whatever you think of the painting’s provenance, the church is impressive and a local point of pride.

A short drive took me to Ananauri (Anna-nor-ee), an amazing church complex on the farthest point of the Zhinvali Reservoir.  The larger church was completed around 1689, and has one of the most unusual carvings anywhere:  a huge cross standing on the back of two dragons, flanked by two vines being eaten by deer above two angels with moustaches and two lions.  The carving is a combination of Christian, Persian, and pagan influence, but is unfortunately situated so close to the outside wall it’s hard to get any kind of framing for a picture.  Here’s the best I could do, and that picture cost me my sunglasses as they slipped off the top of my head while I climbed a short wall, balanced on one foot, and took the picture. 

This picture was taken from the guard tower and overlooks the lake and the two churches.  Finally, the bell tower, also built sometime in the 17^th century, houses a secret underground room, accessed by the steep and narrow stairs shown below, where soldiers hid before rushing out to attack intruders.

The road continues to a town called Pasanauri (Pass-a-nor-ee), a town of literally two streets:  one runs northbound and the other southbound, separated by an island of houses and small markets.  The interesting facet of this town is the confluence of the White Aragvi and Black Aragvi Rivers.  The waters of the Black Aragvi are darker than the waters from the White Aragvi, and the contrast as they flow side by side can be seen from the banks. 

It’s about this time that I started running into the little roadside stands selling everything from local fruit and produce to woolen socks and sheepskin hats.  Many of these mini-entrepreneurs actually live and sleep next to their merchandise, as you can see in the photo below.

This region is also famous for its free-range cattle, which go wherever they want.  They seem to want to spend most of their time chewing their cud on the bridges that span the rivers and streams.  There’s a constant breeze blowing along the stream beds, keeping the bugs off the cows.  Unfortunately, they tend to hog the road, and the only way to get through the herd is to pay a boy a lari (about 60 cents) to walk in front of your car and shoo the cattle out of the way.  Of course, once you’re past, the cattle go right back to what they were doing.  Everyone wins – the cattle are insect-free, the local children make a few bucks, and I get to take interesting pictures.

The streams themselves are fascinating along the GMH.  Take this one, for example:

The water is so rich with iron that it colors the pump and surrounding rocks with a dark red tint.  It also stains red and pink the chins of the local cattle as the iron soaks into their “beards” as they drink.  No picture of that, though, as cows apparently don’t like foreigners shoving a camera in their faces.  That’s another story, and picture, for another time, though, and is going to cost you at least one beer to hear.

 The run-off from the mountain streams and snow melt pours down the mountains, collecting in pools that the locals, both bovine and human, use for drinking and bathing.  The water is filled with sodium in this part of the region, tasting a lot like mineral water. 

There are also a number of waterfalls, all of them ice cold with water so pure you can drink directly from the waterfall.  You’ll also notice in these pictures a large snow bank, still present in late July.

The last metal to make an appearance in the local waters is calcium.  This picture shows the “calcium falls,” formed when the calcium is leeched from the streams.  Yellowstone Park in the US has similar formations.  Don’t drink this water, though; it takes terrible and is warm. 

Leaving the town of Gudauri (good-or-ee) I ran into a local beekeeper selling honey from a semi-trailer which served as home for his hives and his living quarters.  I pantomimed to the man that I, too, am (or at least was) a beekeeper and he gave me a tour of his hives, all amazingly strong and healthy.  We stood in the back of his trailer/hive/home, and discussed the finer points of beekeeping, again mostly through pantomime as the man spoke only Russian even though he is Georgian by birth (not uncommon in this region; Russian is the first language for at least half of the Georgians living here).  After purchasing a kilo of his finest honey ($8 for 2 pounds of the sweetest and lightest honey you’ll ever find), we consummated our deal (but certainly not our relationship) with two shots of chacha (pronounced zha-zha, like the second “g” in garage), a national spirit made from fermented grape skins and similar to Italian grappa.  I’ve had experience with chacha before (to my eternal regret), but this time managed to keep the toasts down to a minimum as I had to drive. 

After a six-hour drive (and remember, the road is only 85 miles long), I entered the town of Stepantsminda (known in Russian as Kazbegi), only 15 miles kilometers from the Russian border.  The drive took so long because I couldn’t resist stopping at every spot that gave me a view of the mountains and valleys.  One in particular will stay with me forever.  It’s a rock that hangs over the sheer side of the valley, about a 1000 foot drop to the streambed below.  You stand on that rock, with the wind blowing, looking down at a positively fatal fall, and the adrenaline definitely flows.   

Stepantsminda (St. Stephens, pronounced Step-aunts-minda), or Kezbegi if you prefer (Kaz-beck-ee), has some of the most awe-inspiring views of the Caucasus you’ll ever see.  The weather was misty, unfortunately, but you still get the idea.  I spent $35 and rented a room with breakfast at the local hotel.  The room was the size of a jail cell, so small that the 10” TV sat on a nightstand since the room was only large enough for a bed and nightstand.  It was, however, clean and friendly (more than I can say for the kitchen staff).  Breakfast was of the European variety – bread, lunchmeat, locally made yoghurt, granola, and smoked fish.  What – you don’t eat smoked fish for breakfast??  Yeah, me, neither.  Since I was obviously identified as American, though, the cook managed to scramble up some eggs and fry some sausages to go along with Russian black tea – very strong and hot.  I’m a fan.

After my filling breakfast, I hiked 7 kilometers to a monastery near Mount Kazbek, the highest peak in the Caucasus at 5100 meters (almost 17,000 feet).  The large, mist-covered peak in the background is Mount Kazbek.  The monastery, as I said, is a 7 kilometer hike, about 4.5 miles.  It takes over 2 hours to hike up and about 10 minutes to sprint down.  It’s one steep SOB, I’ll tell you that.  And at the top is a working monastery, none too friendly it happens, especially to women.  Women visiting are required to change into dresses and are hissed at by the monks if they dare speak inside the church.  I’ve never seen that anywhere else in Georgia, and it was a bit upsetting, so I hiked back down to Stepantsminda for another beer or 12. 

This trip was everything I love about Georgia – historic, quaint, rustic, and filled with warm and friendly people – and I can’t wait until my next roadtrip.  Thanks for reading.

Death rites in Georgia

Sadly, I am now qualified to write on Georgian death rites.  My friend and karate instructor lost his 12-year old son this weekend, struck by a car while crossing the street.  Today was the viewing and I went to pay my respects.  Besides being heartbreakingly sad, it also provided a window into Georgian culture, albeit a window into which I would have preferred never to have peeked.

Georgian viewings are not held in a funeral home or a church.  Funeral homes here have the job of simply preparing the body for burial.  (Cremation is frowned upon by the Eastern Orthodox Church.)  They pick up the body from the hospital (which serves as the morgue), embalm it, prepare it for the viewing, collect the casket from the casket seller, and deliver the casket to the home.  That’s where the viewing takes place – in what 50 years ago we would have called the “parlor.” 

On the way to the viewing, I stopped and bought flowers.  The traditional arrangement for funerals is lilies shaped in a cross.  I then drove to the town of Rustavi, the 3^rd or 4^th largest city in Georgia, about 30 kilometers (18 miles) outside of Tbilisi.  My friend’s family lives in a 40-year old, nine-floor Soviet-style apartment building, without a working elevator, on the top floor.  As I entered the building, I heard wailing echoing down the steps.  Not crying, not sobbing but wailing – heart rending wailing that stirs up emotions thought buried by thousands of years of evolution.  I climbed the concrete steps to the top floor, torn between my duty and desire to pay my respects to my friend and my brain’s reptilian complex telling me to run back down the stairs, leap into the car, and drive away as fast as possible.  At about the fifth floor, flowers have been taped or tied to the handrail.  Both handrails from here to the top floor are covered with flowers.  On the steps lie more flowers, as if someone simply got tired of attaching flowers to the rails.   

At the top of the stairs is a small landing, perhaps 5 foot square.  On that landing are crammed ten or so folding chairs, so close they touch.  On each chair sits a man, each dressed in a black shirt, silently smoking.  They are male relatives of the family.  They greet me with a nod and go back to focusing intently on the end of their cigarettes.  My friend meets me on this landing.  I shake his hand and kiss his cheek, the traditional Georgian greeting.  I express my condolences and he ushers me into the apartment. 

It is a small but well-kept apartment.  The floors, like the walls and the ceiling, are cement.  The floors are covered by worn but brightly colored rugs and the walls by wallpaper that was probably hung when the building was built.  From the ceiling in each room hangs a naked bulb from a wire.  I’m escorted through the foyer, past a very small kitchen with very old appliances, into the parlor.  It takes all my effort to keep from gasping out loud.

In the center of the parlor, on the floor, sits the casket.  It is an adult-sized casket and fills the vast majority of the room.  The entire top of the casket is glass, and inside is my friend’s 12-year old son, wearing his best “school clothes.”  I place my flowers on the floor next to the casket, adjacent to a framed 8x10 school picture of the child.  Surrounding the casket are 20 or so folding chairs on which the female family members sit, all in black with their heads covered by black scarves.  I follow someone else who is there expressing his condolences.  We walk around the casket, expressing our sympathy to each of the women.  The mother is leaning on the casket top, wailing to her son.  This is the sound I heard when I entered the building.  It is a pitiful crying as she calls to her son. 

When the mother tires, another female family member picks up the crying.  It is a constant background sound throughout my visit.  The weeping is constant and very loud, as if Death could be scared away by the sheer force and volume of the heartfelt sobbing.

I move back to the landing, again expressing my condolences to my friend and I leave.  One does not stay long at a viewing unless family.  (Family members are expected to stay at the home during the entire one-day viewing period.)  The lamentations follow me down the steps, guaranteeing a long and sober drive home. 

The funeral, held at the local church, will be tomorrow.  The funeral home will come to the apartment tomorrow morning to pick up the casket, giving the child one more night in his home.  From there it will be delivered to the church.  Funerals are traditionally attended only by family members and very close friends.  After the funeral, the casket will be taken to the gravesite where the family will spread food and drink on a picnic table (Graveyards here in Georgia are all well equipped with picnic tables and concrete benches.) and have a family meal.  The casket sits on a rack, hovering above the open grave.  The headstone is usually black marble engraved with a photo of the deceased.  When the family leaves, workers will come and fill in the grave by hand.  And my friend will take his family back to their apartment and try to make sense of this tragedy.  He will fail, as do all parents who lose children.  And next week he will return to work at the Academy where I work, and his wife will return to her job, and their remaining son will go back to school, and they will try to pick up their lives.  And in that they will succeed because my friend is strong.  It is a strength he would have been happy never to have known he has.