The border crossing is quick, simple and unremarkable. A woman tries to jump me in the queue. Oh no you don’t. She gets my tactical elbow. I’ve been to Mongolia missus. Don’t think you can get past me that easily.
Rolling into a slightly crenulated dry and winter-grotted landscape finally we arrive at the outskirts of Tbilisi.
Reassembling my bike I roll into the heaving city. It’s busy dirty and smelly. It’s like being in London at rush hour.
I spend the next nine days (so far) hiding in a hostel room doing nothing but reading and nursing my green rubber snot-filled nostrils and throat back to normality eating approximately twenty satsumas a day. Pretty much hibernating, surfacing only for the toilet and go out to stretch my legs and replenish satsuma stocks it finally dawns on me that I don’t want to ride my bike back to Europe now.
Needing to look after myself, I am keenly aware that riding west anywhere now is going to be cold and horrible. I bury myself in reading and calling friends back home in order to avoid thinking about whatever it is that I am supposed to do now. I don’t know.
All things have their time. I have been on the road for nearly a year. I’ve had a number of weeks spent in hostels deliberately doing nothing to give myself breaks when I feel I need them, but now somehow I feel like I’ve unexpectedly had the rug pulled from under my feet. I had anticipated needing to do the ‘ What Next?’ decision-making process somewhere in the middle of Europe.
But gradually, I realise now, things have been winding down. All my floating community of cyclists have either gone to warmer countries or gone home. The weather in Uzbekistan looked like it was going leave me hypothermic or dead in a desert. Three weeks hanging around; at the Kazak border, in Aktau and on the Mercury. Continued exhausting cold and a frozen mud-encrusted bike. Nasty dog attacks in quick succession. Without noticing, I’ve become ground down. I have hit the dreaded novelty plateau. I’m feeling increasingly like I’ve seen it all before, like I’ve had enough. And on top of that, I have a historical tendency to not handle Christmas well.
I’m old enough fortunately to recognise that something has finished. The temptation is to get into a big drama with myself over this, but really, what can that achieve?
Instead, I will keep my head down, treat myself comfortably, and listen for what themes bubble up of their own accord in my mind and that will tell me what to do next I hope. All my life I have mentally chased my future trying to figure it out. It’s about as exhausting and futile as a dog chasing round in circles snapping at its own tail.
With some rest and plenty of satsumas and reading nice books, some notions have started to percolate between it all. My hostel is 2.30 a night, the cheapest paying place I have ever stayed, outside India. I can stay in Georgia for a year so there’s clearly no time pressure.
I’m comfortable, and I think I may have the sproutings of a plan…
When I first arrived in Tbilisi I didn’t like the place. It was roaring with traffic. The fumes, caught in Tbilisi’s valley setting seemed to just hang around making the place feel dirty smelly and a uniform dull winter grey. It felt like being in London after the last few thousand miles of comparative open space.
If I had still been in the full mobile swing of things I would have maybe stayed a night and then carried right on out the other side having given the city probably 2 out of 10 for style and effort.
Now that I have been here for three weeks, I have had a chance to encounter the city’s not-so-hidden appeal. Once off the shop-filled main drag, a random walker will inevitably climb (or stagger) upwards towards the tantalising freedom of green-tree’d high hillside that encircles the place.
Rising upwards across tarmac then old rounded cobble roads that then branch out into fingers of winding steps and concrete stairways that corner their way up past hotch-potch houses, colonial-style roccocoed fading verandas, seeming impromptu wooden add-on bits that look like every variation on a shed that you could possibly imagine. Rust-coloured sheets of iron bridge gaps in roofs, the seemingly soviet stamp of concrete fills any remaining gaps and in places the ensuing collage of textures is held together with now-sleeping grape vines and patrolled by cats. Tbilisi is another city of cats. This I am glad about.
It occurs to me that maybe like in Britain, the cities are ruled by socialists and the countryside by the right wing, that perhaps in some countries, the cities are ruled by cats and the rural areas by dogs. I suddenly feel myself re-aligned as a city person…
Hmmm. India. India is all dogs and no cats. So it clearly doesn’t apply there.
Down at street level, the city boasts a fine style in its architecture. Its taste for high repetitious archways puts me in mind of certain surrealist painters of the early twentieth century (whose names I forget).
In some shop doorways and in stonework details, art deco stylings remain. I find myself a subterranean cafe, with shiny brown paintwork; it’s as if I have magically found myself in 1930.
Families flock to this place, which I later discover when talking to the cafe’s owner, was opened in 1932.
Parents and their children drink tall glasses of chocolate-flavoured carbonated mineral water. I have always wondered what chocolate-ade would taste like and now I know… it’s kind of weird, even by my eclectic tastes.
Another popular drink served here lends the place a peculiar Stanley Kubrik-esque appearance. Contrasting distinctly with the cream and chocolate brown decor, more tall glasses, this time filled with the bright green liquid I had tried in Azerbaijan. Previously thinking it to be fennel flavoured, the drink (called ‘Lagasi’), is actually flavoured with tarragon. Being a herb that only adventurous Brits would only ever associate with certain fish sauces, tarragon is a herb that we know but don’t know how to use. Go and find out how to make Lagasi. It looks like washing up liquid and tastes like a non-alcoholic Jagermeister (but nicer). It’s not only delicious but also my new favourite drink.
The owner is proud to inform me that the drink was invented in this very cafe by the original cafe owner. This may or may not be true, but I am happy to go with it. Besides, the manager is a very nice guy.
When on my bike and going places, my bike is my steed; a work-horse, an ally and a friend.
When I stop for any length of time it seems that the pair of us become disorientated… wheeling it into barely accommodating hostel lobbys ceases to be a badge of traveller’s honour and feels more like needing somewhere to park a baby elephant.
After a period of undirectedness, India seems to be calling. Numerous people on the way to getting to Tbilisi had openly questioned my sanity in trying to cycle through the winter. Me for better or worse tending to choose to invariably fly in the face of advice, discovered the hard way that everyone else was right.
Just because something is possible it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s a good idea. Following my ego into a vast frozen desert almost killed me.
Friends I have met twice in the ‘Stans mail me telling me they are on their way to sunny bravado-free India. Hmm… I had been enquiring already about a voluntary project somewhere in India (but no replies)… anyway; a seed is sown.
So far, a walk up in the hills overlooking the city has revealed a potential place to stash a bike for a few months. Find somewhere deep in bushes where nobody walks, wrap the bike in black plastic and bury it in dirt and leaves. Unless I come up with a less rust-inducing solution.
There is no Indian embassy in Georgia; the nearest one is in Yerevan in neighbouring Armenia. Oh goody, I get to box-tick another country in my vacuous ‘visit-as-many-countries-as-possible’ sub-mission.
Yerevan is a 300km 30 lari (10 quid) four hour journey by mini van. Apart from an attempt by some averagely de-scrupled taxi drivers to travel with them for the allegedly bargain price of only 250 lari (I can’t believe I even bothered to argue with them about it), the journey was pretty painless.
For a country with an ongoing history of war and disruption, the border crossing was surprisingly easy.
The road out from the border followed a river gorge which should have been lovely but somehow seemed to be populated by a string of quarries caked in grime and snow.
Climbing up eventually out of the gorge we surfaced on a rich pristine snow covered landscape. The sky hung pregnant with snow and the skyline was barely visible. All things leached of colour, fencelines and farming villages stand like silhouettes on a minimalist Turner canvas of off-whites and ice blues.
Arriving in Yerevan, the city seems hung in a dense freezing fog. Its minus 7 and approaching twilight. Tall uncharactered buildings loom. A park space lightens the load with ice-rimed tree branches vividly reaching into the fog. A flock of semi-roosted restless crows fill the air with their mild complaints, wishing it was spring.
Upon my attempts at filing my visa application at the Indian embassy, after having already bought and paid for a flight to Delhi (as per their own instructions the day before) I find myself bombarded with a suspicion-loaded ‘twenty questions’ when they realise that I am not a resident of Armenia. I now discover that non-residents are not allowed to apply for Indian visas.
This of course is the point where I have the opportunity and excuse to become very upset. Thankfully my nerves today are in good order despite being obliged to come up with a stack of paperwork in almost zero time.
Pointing out to them that at no point was I made aware either by website or in person that I not eligible; I had made no fault. And now I have seemingly wasted 300 pounds. The consul sniggered at this. I pointed out to him that ‘ this might be funny to you, but it really isn’t funny at all for me.’
I can’t believe how well-behaved I was… maybe my brain was going into some kind of numbed-out disbelief.
Mutterings were exchanged between staff, phone calls were made. I was told to wait. After an hour I was summonsed to the counter to press my fingers and thumbs onto a green-lit glass plate and asked to hand over 77000 Armenian Diram (130 quid- ouch).
Now it’s down to the Edinburgh office to say either ‘nay’ or ‘aye’. In a supermarket cafe I write this and wait…
Two days later I am the proud recipient of one six month single entry visa for India. And I got it from an embassy I not even eligible to apply from. How smug am I?!
Arriving back at my hostel and checking out my plane ticket, my stomach churns when I discover that in my hurry to fulfill the consul’s paperwork requirement, instead of booking my return from India as May 28th I have accidently booked it as February 28th.
Bollocks.
Contact the travel agent. Can I change the return date? Yes. For the price of a new ticket.
Can I cancel the booking. Nope.
Bastards.
I did pretty much the same thing when I bought my original ticket for India and japan a year ago. Clearly plane tickets I am not very good at. I should stick to just eating chocolate. I can do that like a pro.
In a way, I sort of don’t mind. I resign myself to the fact that coming back to Georgia is going to cost me an extra 300 quid. At least my return is open ended and I am not quite so beholden to a ticket date. Then again I might end up totally drifting sideways from the cycling to Europe mission.
Up until my thirties, I seemed to never be able to complete anything. I would always bail out for some reason. Now, not sticking to the plan freaks me out a little. Generally I want to finish what I started, regardless of how difficult or inappropriate sticking with the plan might have turned out to be.
This, coupled with not knowing quite what to do with a 600 euro bike has left me in a bit of a mental tangle. Ho hum.
Having achieved full visa status rather than just high- tailing it back to Georgia I choose to have a bit of a look round Yerevan.
I carefully trudge up an icy track in a park next to the city to visit the Armenian Holocaust Memorial.
Its another of those times when my personal worries are plainly put in check.
The memorial and its museum are understated, as would be appropriate to a place documenting the history of the massacre of 1.5 million Armenians over a number of years leading up to 1915.
I freely confess that I knew nothing whatsoever about Armenia before arriving here…
Now a very small mountain plateau region, Great Armenia once stretched across most of what is now Turkey and as far as Aleppo in what is now Syria.
Over the course of about forty years, sporadic pogroms purges and isolated village massacres accelerated their course by the Turks, implementing the wildest most evil forms of systematic brutality anyone dare to imagine. In the run up to the first world war, Germany had forged an allegiance with Turkey that was crucial to their progress in the war. Whilst the rest of the world openly condemned the crimes committed by the Turks, the Germans made token gestures of condemnation but on the whole merely sat by, watched and took notes…
Reading the accounts of the methods and level of systematic violence perpetrated by the Turks it is plain that this was a blueprint for the next generation of German Nazis.
The following day, I took a mashrutka 20 miles out of the city to Edjmidzian, home to Armenia’s oldest church which was built between 315 and 600AD.
Original carved crosses are wreathed in the same Celtic knot work we find on early Christian monuments in Britain.
Christmas day falls on January 7th in Georgia and on the 6th in Armenia. Today is the first Sunday after Christmas, and (quite by accident) expecting a museum, I find myself attending a lush service in the old church.
High arches are painted in burgundy overlaid with green and gold swirling vines. A choir of mostly women dressed in sky blue dresses with cream coloured shawls upon their heads sing.
After yesterday’s visit to the holocaust museum, I am full of both my own wobbles and a sense of the deep scar of history.
The singing reaches through the rafters, into the congregation and into the hearts of the assembled. Voices call out the song of tragedy, consolation, faith and hope in equal measure.
I don’t really do religion as words, but I melt somehow and find myself streaming tears without effort.
I feel like I have met something crucially Armenian, and for that I feel grateful.
From what I had first encountered as a cold and turgid city, I see Yerevan now through other eyes. It is place of resilience and survival. It’s people have rebuilt their centre and continue to thrive.
Back in Georgia, the hostel where my bike is is not the best place to get good nights sleep, with its occupants up chatting until the wee small hours. I have two weeks to fill my time before flying to Delhi. I visit an English cyclist, and also local Warmshowers host with a view to storing my bike (with whom we both seem to have a slightly awkward time with each other).
I ride my bike for the first time in a month. Being back in the saddle is a revelation; suddenly I feel normal and grounded again. I feel 150 percent more healthy and alive. My wheels roll effortlessly. This is so much easier than walking. I have a momentary feeling of reclaiming my own destiny. Well that’s what it feels like anyway. Never underestimate the power of a bicycle.
I cycle up to a lake on top of a hill just outside the city. Pitching my tent, also for the first time in a month, and the sense of being a proper human being is complete. My shelter, in a place of my choosing. Peaceful and free.
I wonder how I will be in India without my bike. Maybe the sheer warmth and spectacle of India will relegate such concerns deep into the background. I am slightly worried that my time may just become another round of train and hostel surfing with the occasional tourist event thrown in. The last month without my regular dose of simple prescribed exercise has left a hole; the need for fulfilment shifts its focus. Now would be a good time to actually DO something. A voluntary project, maybe even just learn about teaching English. I need an edge.
January rolls on… almost hitting a bored to frustration at one point, like a low-flying aircraft threatening to crash, in my time back in Tbilisi things turn out to be sufficiently engaging after all. I meet a few fellow cyclists also over-wintering in the city, which manifests itself as one booze-fuelled dinner party ( full English breakfasts all round) and an invite from a thoroughly decent chap called Louis to stay in his newly rented flat and paint arty pictures and watch movies, thus filling my time most satisfactorily.
I take a weekend to escape Tbilisi’s gravitational pull. I take a supremely inexpensive train (80kms for 50p) to visit Gori the birthplace of Stalin. Fittingly, it’s a dry brittle ice-cold day. The night’s snow blows up and down streets lost and aimless.
I spend the night in the tiny Hostel Kalifornia, the home of a supremely buxom matriarch whose hostel also doubles as a hairdressers.
The town’s Stalin museum is housed in an opulent 19th century building. Thankfully the museum concentrates mostly on images of Stalin’s rise from a young revolutionary plotting to seize control of Tbilisi through to his more well known later life. This is his home town; the locals are clearly proud of their little homie; according to this museum, Stalin plainly never put a foot wrong.
Even so, I find the images very interesting, particularly the photos of him as a young adolescent and of the paintings depicting Tbilisi at the time.
In my short excursion I manage to squeeze in an extra side trip to Uplistsihke.
By some deft bus manoeuvrings find myself at an ancient site standing strategically at the edge of a sandstone escarpment overlooking a broad river surrounded by fertile plains. Clearly a prime spot to build an enclave. Up on the hill, an inter-joined cave system has been carved inside enormous bulbous outcrops of rock. The largest of the caves is marked as being dedicated to Queen Tamar. Although she was strutting her stuff in the tenth century, the whole system dates back 3000 years to Hellenic times. And of course never ones to like feeling left out of sacred sites, there’s a much more recent little Christian church sat in the middle of it all like a conquerer’s flag.
The place feels special. It’s an isolated spot in a grand setting. The river Mtkvari gently roars over a billion stones and the whole location is contained by two ridges of snow-capped mountains. A lone rook gockles and glucks its way across a pale sky, the sun glares weakly through a cloud-filled sky.
As is usually the way with pagan sites, the vista is stunning. After a month of city noise, just sitting here quietly amidst softly falling snow is exsquisite.
Returning to Tbilisi I manage to get resolved my biggest anxiety about going to India; what on earth do I do with my bike?
I had posted a picture of a particularly spectacularly wonky Tbilisian house and an English friend Mick had responded telling me that a friend of his lived in the city. I contacted him, Nathan, and it transpired that we had met each other 8 years previously whilst volunteering to help build an iron-age style roundhouse in some woods in Wales. Nathan is a classic chap; a serious food lover, seemingly a walking encyclopedia, informed about any subject we spoke about. Running a restaurant he treats me to the lovely free meals in his restaurant and I never go restaurants cuz they’re out of my lifestyle bracket. He is a total gentleman and his kindness is such a warm welcome right now. To extend the coincidence factor further, it so turned out that Nathan had the use of a ‘country retreat’ in a picturesque tourist village called Signali 120kms away which belongs to the very same people whose roundhouse we had helped with. And yes, I was very welcome to stash my bike there for as long as I liked. So! Now I have a really secure place to stash also most of my other stuff too… looking forwards to roaming India super lightweight! Yahoo! Also if I need to get the bike posted back to England or some other tricksy arrangement I now can… doing that through a local would have been very difficult indeed. So now all my personal bases covered…. except…
During this time Donald Trump took office.
A combination of too much free time, morbid fascination and concern results in my becoming a total Facebook junkie.
I have over the last fifteen years found myself resisting owning a mobile phone, then resisting owning a smartphone, resisting using the cat-photo and what-I-had-for-dinner fest that Facebook usually is. Now I am obsessed, soaking up every little dread report of the ensuing apparent collapse of the United States.
So here I am about to go footling about in India whilst considerable parts of the world is aiming at resisting attempts of others to drive world order into the ground… Yet again I’m wondering what the heck I’m doing and what really ought to be doing…
Richard Terry 