The last stop in Georgia was Tbilisi, the capital. Dating back to the 6th century, Tbilisi represents the rapid change that the nation has experienced in the last decade. A symbol of Georgian power throughout the centuries—in all actuality Georgia’s heyday was in the early 12th century—Tbilisi is now the political, economic and social hub of an empire long forgotten.
I started my tour from Freedom Square down the Europeanish Rustaveli Avenue. I was in awe of how far the city had come. When I was in 3rd grade, Rustavelli was literally a war zone. The street’s buildings, including hotels, music halls and parliament hosted no guests, concerts or bill signing ceremonies. The street was littered with snipers’ nests and explosives and the hotels were used as refugee camps. Freedom Square by 1991 laid in complete ruin. Accustom to traveling to areas where the most recent war was fought by my grandparents, it was astounding how much had happened so recently.
Perhaps the most drastic change in Tbilisi has been the decrease in violence and crime. Once well known for both, Tbilisi has shaken that unfortunate mantel. Among other things, the police reform under Saakashvili has acted as the bulwark of a new Georgia. Graft and corruption were rampant in Georgia, especially among the police. One Georgian recounted a trip he took with his father in the late 90s to the countryside. As they drove back to the city, a police officer pulled them over for an out taillight. The car did have a damaged taillight. The police office said that the fine was $15 or he could just take $10 on the spot. In a nation where the average, annual income at the time was $700, either way it was steep. Paying the $10, his dad pulled forward and less than a mile down the road, another police office, another traffic stop, another bribe for the same out taillight. This was life in Georgia.
After coming to power in 2004, President Saakashvili disbanded the Department of the Interior and fired every police office in Georgia. The nation remained without a single police officer for two weeks. After the rehire and an increase in pay, very few police take bribes for fear of a quick sacking. Another aspect to the reform has been ostentatious police stations positioned all over the country. Some worry about the possibility of the rebirth of a state specter; others are happy with being able to go about their day and not be harassed by the police. Personally, I’m OK with the latter. We’ll likely not find out about the former until the presidential election heats up in 2013.
Beyond these institutional changes, the urban landscape has also modernized. A new presidential palace with a large glass dome—perhaps the Panopticon?—has been built overlooking the Mtkvari River, which now has a flamboyant glass and steel footbridge across it. There are cranes that dot the landscape
Even amongst the rebuilt buildings on Rustaveli and the gaudier additions to the Tbilisi skyline, the best part of the city remains the Old Town. The emphasis here is on “Old.” Unlike Yerevan, Tbilisi kept its Old Town and it remains a dilapidated homage to the past. While the outside of the buildings give an impression of a high-end slum, the insides are renovated and impressive. Amongst forgotten Armenian churches, abandoned buildings and souvenir shops, the Tbilisi Old Town has not lost its post-decadent charm, and from what I understand it will not. There are no plans to raze the Old Town, but to simply bring it up to code.
In many Soviet nations—both during and post—, as soon as the government had money they would lay waste to their old town as a sacrifice to “modernization.” I find this approach to urban renewal and gentrification misguided and unfortunate. Ceausescu in Romania, perhaps best embodied this. Making room for his ironically named “People’s Palace” in Bucharest, Ceausescu—who was a cobbler by trade—wrecked nearly Bucharest’s entire old town in the name of grandeur and modernization. I’m grateful that the Georgians are able to see their history as beautiful and not some stain to be covered up by development.
After a quick few days of meandering Tbilisi’s twisted streets, it was time to go. Nearly two weeks in Georgia had flown by. In five days, I had a new job to start and a non-recognized country to visit, but first I had a train to catch back to Yerevan.
In Soviet times, all rail routes lead to Moscow. At least the rail routes in the USSR. Now, with the closed border between Russia and Georgia all that’s left is an every-other-day, night train that heads to Yerevan from Tbilisi. The train ride is nearly twice as long as the Matrushka and twice as expensive for a second-class ticket. (It took me awhile to catch the irony, but having three distinct classes on a Soviet train left me pretty amused.) The 11-hour ride is more about enjoying East German engineering from the 1960s than it is about traveling efficiently. Our train dated to Brezhnev’s tenure and there is a joke here about the temperature of the cabin, the “Thaw” being over and Brezhnev, but I don’t know what it is.
Later, we found ourselves at another isolated, mountainous border checkpoint on the way out of Georgia. After my photographic flub entering Georgia, and all of the movies I’ve seen incorporating isolated borders, I remained jumpy. I think if border control would just smile, even a little bit, then my fear of being ripped shoeless from the train would be assuaged. After 100 minutes without incident, our passports were returned and we trundled towards Armenia.
It was nearly midnight and completely dark by the time we reached the Armenian checkpoint. A woman in a white lab coat came to our cabin to take down our information and told us to wait. After a few minutes a fatigue-clad, cherub-faced Armenian border guard took our passports and moments later we were escorted off the train by the military. If being hauled out of an East German train at midnight by a military escort in the Caucuses doesn’t scream awesome-post-Soviet travel experience, I don’t know what does. We were taken into a small run down office that was dotted with live sparrows nests and flickering halogen lights.
James was told they would not issue him a visa because his passport is impressively full. However, after a conversation with the fattest border guard, which actually started with the guard shamelessly asking James how much he weighed, they decided to cover up some Turkish stamps with his second Armenian visa—still smarting from the genocide, Armenians, I think, relish in wiping away signs of Turkey. We were taken to a second room where four or five guards sat around a few computers where I was asked “Why are you coming to Armenia?” I told them that I was working there for the summer, he just nodded not understanding or caring, stamped my visa and moved me a long. A whimpering, Russian TV program played in the background.
We were put back on the train and headed onwards to Yerevan. Sleeping poorly on account of the chill in the car, we were awoken about six hours later. I stumbled blurry eyed out of our compartment to find a pink, early morning sky and Mt. Ararat in the distance. We were back in Armenia.
While my travel time in the Caucasus was not quite over, I had only a few days to explore Armenia with no other obligations. So, like any reasonable traveler, James and I put into motion our trip to the unrecognized Artsakh Republic. Popularly referred to by Europeans and Americans as the “Conflict Zone,” Artsakh isn’t even recognized by Armenia—officially. While only gracing the borders of Abkhazia and South Ossetia, this was going to be the most off beat adventure yet. And to say the least, I was nervous.
I started my tour from Freedom Square down the Europeanish Rustaveli Avenue. I was in awe of how far the city had come. When I was in 3rd grade, Rustavelli was literally a war zone. The street’s buildings, including hotels, music halls and parliament hosted no guests, concerts or bill signing ceremonies. The street was littered with snipers’ nests and explosives and the hotels were used as refugee camps. Freedom Square by 1991 laid in complete ruin. Accustom to traveling to areas where the most recent war was fought by my grandparents, it was astounding how much had happened so recently.
Perhaps the most drastic change in Tbilisi has been the decrease in violence and crime. Once well known for both, Tbilisi has shaken that unfortunate mantel. Among other things, the police reform under Saakashvili has acted as the bulwark of a new Georgia. Graft and corruption were rampant in Georgia, especially among the police. One Georgian recounted a trip he took with his father in the late 90s to the countryside. As they drove back to the city, a police officer pulled them over for an out taillight. The car did have a damaged taillight. The police office said that the fine was $15 or he could just take $10 on the spot. In a nation where the average, annual income at the time was $700, either way it was steep. Paying the $10, his dad pulled forward and less than a mile down the road, another police office, another traffic stop, another bribe for the same out taillight. This was life in Georgia.
After coming to power in 2004, President Saakashvili disbanded the Department of the Interior and fired every police office in Georgia. The nation remained without a single police officer for two weeks. After the rehire and an increase in pay, very few police take bribes for fear of a quick sacking. Another aspect to the reform has been ostentatious police stations positioned all over the country. Some worry about the possibility of the rebirth of a state specter; others are happy with being able to go about their day and not be harassed by the police. Personally, I’m OK with the latter. We’ll likely not find out about the former until the presidential election heats up in 2013.
Beyond these institutional changes, the urban landscape has also modernized. A new presidential palace with a large glass dome—perhaps the Panopticon?—has been built overlooking the Mtkvari River, which now has a flamboyant glass and steel footbridge across it. There are cranes that dot the landscape
Even amongst the rebuilt buildings on Rustaveli and the gaudier additions to the Tbilisi skyline, the best part of the city remains the Old Town. The emphasis here is on “Old.” Unlike Yerevan, Tbilisi kept its Old Town and it remains a dilapidated homage to the past. While the outside of the buildings give an impression of a high-end slum, the insides are renovated and impressive. Amongst forgotten Armenian churches, abandoned buildings and souvenir shops, the Tbilisi Old Town has not lost its post-decadent charm, and from what I understand it will not. There are no plans to raze the Old Town, but to simply bring it up to code.
In many Soviet nations—both during and post—, as soon as the government had money they would lay waste to their old town as a sacrifice to “modernization.” I find this approach to urban renewal and gentrification misguided and unfortunate. Ceausescu in Romania, perhaps best embodied this. Making room for his ironically named “People’s Palace” in Bucharest, Ceausescu—who was a cobbler by trade—wrecked nearly Bucharest’s entire old town in the name of grandeur and modernization. I’m grateful that the Georgians are able to see their history as beautiful and not some stain to be covered up by development.
After a quick few days of meandering Tbilisi’s twisted streets, it was time to go. Nearly two weeks in Georgia had flown by. In five days, I had a new job to start and a non-recognized country to visit, but first I had a train to catch back to Yerevan.
In Soviet times, all rail routes lead to Moscow. At least the rail routes in the USSR. Now, with the closed border between Russia and Georgia all that’s left is an every-other-day, night train that heads to Yerevan from Tbilisi. The train ride is nearly twice as long as the Matrushka and twice as expensive for a second-class ticket. (It took me awhile to catch the irony, but having three distinct classes on a Soviet train left me pretty amused.) The 11-hour ride is more about enjoying East German engineering from the 1960s than it is about traveling efficiently. Our train dated to Brezhnev’s tenure and there is a joke here about the temperature of the cabin, the “Thaw” being over and Brezhnev, but I don’t know what it is.
Later, we found ourselves at another isolated, mountainous border checkpoint on the way out of Georgia. After my photographic flub entering Georgia, and all of the movies I’ve seen incorporating isolated borders, I remained jumpy. I think if border control would just smile, even a little bit, then my fear of being ripped shoeless from the train would be assuaged. After 100 minutes without incident, our passports were returned and we trundled towards Armenia.
It was nearly midnight and completely dark by the time we reached the Armenian checkpoint. A woman in a white lab coat came to our cabin to take down our information and told us to wait. After a few minutes a fatigue-clad, cherub-faced Armenian border guard took our passports and moments later we were escorted off the train by the military. If being hauled out of an East German train at midnight by a military escort in the Caucuses doesn’t scream awesome-post-Soviet travel experience, I don’t know what does. We were taken into a small run down office that was dotted with live sparrows nests and flickering halogen lights.
James was told they would not issue him a visa because his passport is impressively full. However, after a conversation with the fattest border guard, which actually started with the guard shamelessly asking James how much he weighed, they decided to cover up some Turkish stamps with his second Armenian visa—still smarting from the genocide, Armenians, I think, relish in wiping away signs of Turkey. We were taken to a second room where four or five guards sat around a few computers where I was asked “Why are you coming to Armenia?” I told them that I was working there for the summer, he just nodded not understanding or caring, stamped my visa and moved me a long. A whimpering, Russian TV program played in the background.
We were put back on the train and headed onwards to Yerevan. Sleeping poorly on account of the chill in the car, we were awoken about six hours later. I stumbled blurry eyed out of our compartment to find a pink, early morning sky and Mt. Ararat in the distance. We were back in Armenia.
While my travel time in the Caucasus was not quite over, I had only a few days to explore Armenia with no other obligations. So, like any reasonable traveler, James and I put into motion our trip to the unrecognized Artsakh Republic. Popularly referred to by Europeans and Americans as the “Conflict Zone,” Artsakh isn’t even recognized by Armenia—officially. While only gracing the borders of Abkhazia and South Ossetia, this was going to be the most off beat adventure yet. And to say the least, I was nervous.
