I am now intimately acquainted with every pothole between Yerevan and Tbilisi. On the twenty-second, I made the 15-hour marshrutka ride to find my friend in Samtredia, Georgia. It was my first true impression of the region.
First, a primer: the marshrutka system is what keeps this region going.Reliable and inexpensive, the marshrutka is a large passenger van—usually driven by a chain smoker—that is more nimble than a bus and safer feeling than a car. However, the safe feeling is elusive, the questionable driving reminds you that there are no seat belts or air bags and the door doesn’t quite shut. Much like riding the rickety, wooden roller coaster on Staten Island, the marshrutka is a unique adventure.
The marshrutka system confounds me. There is seemingly no central operator, there are sometimes ticket windows and sometimes you just pay the driver’s friend. For the most part they run on time, and they have a standardized pay scale based on distance traveled. I’ve never paid more than anyone else on the marshrutka, which lends a level of honesty to this ad hoc yet entrenched Soviet system of transportation. It also doubles as a postal service, which I have witnessed work but understand even less.
My marshrutka to Tbilisi was supposed to leave at 8 AM. The driver, who had a Near-Eastern Hunter S. Thompson vibe, wrote in the dirt on the hood “11:00.” Imagine my surprise and disappointment when I realized the 8 AM had been cancelled for lack of interest and so I would wait until 11.
This marshrutka was the most technologically advanced I saw; it had a DVD player, a TV screen and needlessly loud speakers (I think they went to 11). The driver’s son (?) took full advantage of this technology to blare Russian pop. He made sure that the music was loud enough so he could hear the music from a distance—unfortunate for all of us next to the speakers. His CD had 6 songs and he was only interested in 2 of them. Of those two videos which I witnessed ad nauseam over 8 hours, I can safely report back that even in the Caucasus adolescent boys love sequins and cleavage as much as Americans. Oddly, the other video had a lot of shower imagery. Not sexy showers ala Jennifer Lopez videos from the 90s, but functional shower footage ala a Home Depot commercial. The symbolism was lost on me.
Finally, at 11:05 we left the station and the trip had begun. It was then I saw Mount Ararat for the first time which was great surprise. The mountain seemingly rises out of nowhere and looms large over Yerevan. It is also where Noah’s Ark supposedly landed. One can understand how a guy in an ark would just be going along and then out of nowhere you catch their rudder on some rocks and now they've got to repopulate the planet.
As we wrapped our way out of Yerevan, a city I haven’t really explored yet, it really hit me that I was in the Caucasus. The Yerevan I live in is upscale and modern. These aren’t the same adjectives I would use to describe the rest of the nation, which is struggling to get by.
The road to Tbilisi is euphemistically referred to as a “highway.” In actuality, it’s a moderately dilapidated, two lane, mountain road. But the views are gorgeous. It feels like you could take in all of Armenian history from that road. The ancient churches high above and the defunct, Soviet Era industry that has stood idle for a generation encapsulate Armenia’s long and torrid past, and it is on full display for those that travel this road.
At about the halfway point, we stopped at an isolated building along the road to reenergize with soorch (Armenian Coffee) and a kebab. I declined the offer for both, I intentionally dehydrated and starved myself not knowing fully what this trip entailed. And I wanted to avoid an embarrassing situations. The stop was another reminder of the rugged terrain and the even more rugged toilets I will need to build up some courage to use.
Shortly after this break, we made it to the border. Tucked away in the lesser Caucasus, the guard post is a small lot with a few buildings and a sign wishing you a “safe journey” in English and Armenian. I took a few pictures of this sign, because it looked so out of place in the middle of nowhere (I suppose by definition anything would look out of place in the middle of nowhere). After walking through the checkpoint we hopped back in the van. At that moment, one of the Armenian border guards stopped the van and demanded my “photo.” Thinking that this is that nightmare when I’m detained at a mountainous, isolated, ex-Soviet border, my stomach sank and I began to sweat. I handed over my passport. The guard didn’t like this either and was now in the van yelling. Finally, it was revealed that I’m not allowed to take photos of border checkpoints, which should have been common sense to me, yet here we are. After deleting the photos, pleasing the guard and being chuckled at by those in the van, we were off to the Georgian checkpoint.
The Georgian border was much less dramatic than the Armenian one. While the woman guard was confounded to why I had three first names, I wasn’t too concerned that my dad’s penchant for multiple, ostentatious middle names would keep me out of a Southern Caucasian nation. And it didn’t. Like and old friend, the two guards I spoke with were nearly ecstatic to see me. They also spoke English, which was a nice change from the Armenian guard whom even without the prerequisite English to ask for my camera wouldn’t engage in a game of charades to clarify his demands.
Now in Georgia and after a few near head-ons and a rough conversation with the driver, I was taken to the train station in Tbilisi to catch the next marshrutka. This was my last leg of the trip and it was a lot like riding the Local. It was a 22-person van with 26 passengers, and the Georgian version of the Situation sat next to me on a makeshift bench. Unable to speak English, he kept throwing trash out the window I sat next to until he forced me out of the seat to get some air, only to demand the van pull over to be sick on the side of the road.
At one point, the Situation and his friend tried to ask where I was headed, but I had reached a different plane of existence and couldn’t remember where I was headed, who I was or what I was doing. The boys tried to tell the driver I was lost, but luckily the woman next to me remembered I was headed to Samtredia. Out of this minor fiasco, a young boy at the front of the marshrutka took note of me and—proud of his English—decided to spark up a conversation. His name was Dato (all Georgian men are named either Dato or Giorgi) and he said that meeting me would make it into his journal that night. I explained to him I was trying to find my friend in Samtredia and he offered his phone so I could call.
A few short hours later, without much trouble, there was James on the side of the road. I was embraced by my friend’s Georgian host family and fed a meal straight from their garden with, as I was warned, a handle of the family’s wine placed on the table. A perfect way to end a 15-hour trip.
From the start of my trip, I was met with nothing but friendly and helpful people. All of my expectations were far exceeded by the genuine hospitality of the region. While the roads were unforgiving and rugged, I found that the exact opposite was true of the people that inhabited the region. I made it to Georgia.
First, a primer: the marshrutka system is what keeps this region going.Reliable and inexpensive, the marshrutka is a large passenger van—usually driven by a chain smoker—that is more nimble than a bus and safer feeling than a car. However, the safe feeling is elusive, the questionable driving reminds you that there are no seat belts or air bags and the door doesn’t quite shut. Much like riding the rickety, wooden roller coaster on Staten Island, the marshrutka is a unique adventure.
The marshrutka system confounds me. There is seemingly no central operator, there are sometimes ticket windows and sometimes you just pay the driver’s friend. For the most part they run on time, and they have a standardized pay scale based on distance traveled. I’ve never paid more than anyone else on the marshrutka, which lends a level of honesty to this ad hoc yet entrenched Soviet system of transportation. It also doubles as a postal service, which I have witnessed work but understand even less.
My marshrutka to Tbilisi was supposed to leave at 8 AM. The driver, who had a Near-Eastern Hunter S. Thompson vibe, wrote in the dirt on the hood “11:00.” Imagine my surprise and disappointment when I realized the 8 AM had been cancelled for lack of interest and so I would wait until 11.
This marshrutka was the most technologically advanced I saw; it had a DVD player, a TV screen and needlessly loud speakers (I think they went to 11). The driver’s son (?) took full advantage of this technology to blare Russian pop. He made sure that the music was loud enough so he could hear the music from a distance—unfortunate for all of us next to the speakers. His CD had 6 songs and he was only interested in 2 of them. Of those two videos which I witnessed ad nauseam over 8 hours, I can safely report back that even in the Caucasus adolescent boys love sequins and cleavage as much as Americans. Oddly, the other video had a lot of shower imagery. Not sexy showers ala Jennifer Lopez videos from the 90s, but functional shower footage ala a Home Depot commercial. The symbolism was lost on me.
Finally, at 11:05 we left the station and the trip had begun. It was then I saw Mount Ararat for the first time which was great surprise. The mountain seemingly rises out of nowhere and looms large over Yerevan. It is also where Noah’s Ark supposedly landed. One can understand how a guy in an ark would just be going along and then out of nowhere you catch their rudder on some rocks and now they've got to repopulate the planet.
As we wrapped our way out of Yerevan, a city I haven’t really explored yet, it really hit me that I was in the Caucasus. The Yerevan I live in is upscale and modern. These aren’t the same adjectives I would use to describe the rest of the nation, which is struggling to get by.
The road to Tbilisi is euphemistically referred to as a “highway.” In actuality, it’s a moderately dilapidated, two lane, mountain road. But the views are gorgeous. It feels like you could take in all of Armenian history from that road. The ancient churches high above and the defunct, Soviet Era industry that has stood idle for a generation encapsulate Armenia’s long and torrid past, and it is on full display for those that travel this road.
At about the halfway point, we stopped at an isolated building along the road to reenergize with soorch (Armenian Coffee) and a kebab. I declined the offer for both, I intentionally dehydrated and starved myself not knowing fully what this trip entailed. And I wanted to avoid an embarrassing situations. The stop was another reminder of the rugged terrain and the even more rugged toilets I will need to build up some courage to use.
Shortly after this break, we made it to the border. Tucked away in the lesser Caucasus, the guard post is a small lot with a few buildings and a sign wishing you a “safe journey” in English and Armenian. I took a few pictures of this sign, because it looked so out of place in the middle of nowhere (I suppose by definition anything would look out of place in the middle of nowhere). After walking through the checkpoint we hopped back in the van. At that moment, one of the Armenian border guards stopped the van and demanded my “photo.” Thinking that this is that nightmare when I’m detained at a mountainous, isolated, ex-Soviet border, my stomach sank and I began to sweat. I handed over my passport. The guard didn’t like this either and was now in the van yelling. Finally, it was revealed that I’m not allowed to take photos of border checkpoints, which should have been common sense to me, yet here we are. After deleting the photos, pleasing the guard and being chuckled at by those in the van, we were off to the Georgian checkpoint.
The Georgian border was much less dramatic than the Armenian one. While the woman guard was confounded to why I had three first names, I wasn’t too concerned that my dad’s penchant for multiple, ostentatious middle names would keep me out of a Southern Caucasian nation. And it didn’t. Like and old friend, the two guards I spoke with were nearly ecstatic to see me. They also spoke English, which was a nice change from the Armenian guard whom even without the prerequisite English to ask for my camera wouldn’t engage in a game of charades to clarify his demands.
Now in Georgia and after a few near head-ons and a rough conversation with the driver, I was taken to the train station in Tbilisi to catch the next marshrutka. This was my last leg of the trip and it was a lot like riding the Local. It was a 22-person van with 26 passengers, and the Georgian version of the Situation sat next to me on a makeshift bench. Unable to speak English, he kept throwing trash out the window I sat next to until he forced me out of the seat to get some air, only to demand the van pull over to be sick on the side of the road.
At one point, the Situation and his friend tried to ask where I was headed, but I had reached a different plane of existence and couldn’t remember where I was headed, who I was or what I was doing. The boys tried to tell the driver I was lost, but luckily the woman next to me remembered I was headed to Samtredia. Out of this minor fiasco, a young boy at the front of the marshrutka took note of me and—proud of his English—decided to spark up a conversation. His name was Dato (all Georgian men are named either Dato or Giorgi) and he said that meeting me would make it into his journal that night. I explained to him I was trying to find my friend in Samtredia and he offered his phone so I could call.
A few short hours later, without much trouble, there was James on the side of the road. I was embraced by my friend’s Georgian host family and fed a meal straight from their garden with, as I was warned, a handle of the family’s wine placed on the table. A perfect way to end a 15-hour trip.
From the start of my trip, I was met with nothing but friendly and helpful people. All of my expectations were far exceeded by the genuine hospitality of the region. While the roads were unforgiving and rugged, I found that the exact opposite was true of the people that inhabited the region. I made it to Georgia.
