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Published: August 23rd 2010
My options of getting to Armenia from Iran were somewhat limited. I could either take an overnight bus from Tabriz which would involve the extended bureaucratic bollocks at the border and twenty seven hours without sleep. The alternative in my head was to cross into Turkey and then quickly into Armenia - but their borders are closed (what with the rather silly argument over the Armenian Genocide 100 years ago). The only other viable option was to take a bus back down to Tehran and get on a plane to the Armenian capital - that also might be my last (the previous summer a flight on the Tehran-Yerevan route had fallen out of the sky killing everyone on board). I opted for the coach which I knew would be a test of endurance.
In Tabriz, the coach picked me up on the side of the road out of Tabriz at around 8.30pm and the dying light. At about midnight we arrived at the border just in time to catch the last extra time goal of the final of a turgid World Cup. After the final whistle the TV was then abruptly switched off - so I didn’t get to see
'Bangladesh'
Room with a viewthe Spaniards lift the cup.
Iranian-Armenian border
Anyway, the Iranian border facility was grotty and the toilets filthy - which is what I’d come to expect. The customs ‘inspection’ was a solitary man with a large belly and in no uniform who sat on a chair disinterested whilst slovenly stopping random people with bags. Luckily I didn’t look like I was smuggling anything too important - just the usual Iranian porn; hot off the press.
I was unsure how the actual ‘queuing up and showing passport’ process was going to work out on the Iranian border - in my experience queuing is an alien concept here. And so it proved to be; instead of queuing orderly the passengers just chucked their passports in a bundle to the sole Iranian border guard and then queued or rather sneakily nudged past me. I didn’t realise this ‘process’ and I wouldn’t have done it anyway as I allowed myself the conceit that my British passport is a little bit more important than theirs.
After an hour of this I gave up standing in line amongst the Armenian Iranians and waited till the line had ended to get my
passport stamped. The slight worry was having read (in a Lonely Planet, where else?) that sometimes the buses leave before you’ve come through immigration. But this soon turned into truculence - if I was gonna miss the bus because the border is run like a free-for-all then I was gonna be the victim that proved it. These places really make me lose it sometimes! However, it didn’t come to pass in the end. The bus driver/assistant came to collect me and hurried the Iranian border guard up. By the time I got back on the bus at 2am everyone was waiting for me. Bollocks to ya I thought, I’ll keep you all waiting if you refuse to conduct yourself according to polite society! Meh!
Busman's Holiday it ain't
We next drove the short distance to the Armenian border. A stout man with a crimson-alcoholic face and the sly eyes of a
Communist Commissar barked at each of us to stand in front of his machine for what we presumed was a test of high temperature. It is the bizarre nature of these borders that they are still doing this stuff for a flu epidemic that was years ago but also
this same man also got on out coach as a passenger - presumably homebound.
At the Armenian visa desk I filled out a form, handed over a passport photo and about 20 US Dollars and watched as my passport was passed over to the next kiosk. At borders you’re never really sure what’s going on - you are in No Man’s land when it comes to information and you are at the mercy of the
Byzantine rules and regulations of a foreign state! So it was doubly surprising to notice that a flag of Russia was hanging behind what looked like uniformed Russian immigration guards (yes, they are here for some reason) who then checked over my passport and at the visa the Armenian bloke had issued and pasted into it; but the Russian border guard - resplendent with a garish gold watch - looked confused; the visa appeared to be printed in black. The Armenian shrugged and pointed at the printer - his toner was clearly wayward. My passport was handed back to me where I made sure that the dates were correct - unorthodox but so is having Russians guard your borders twenty years after the demise
of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
It was now in the wee hours and after putting our bags back in the stowage of the coach we were trundling off again. The winding roads of southern Armenia prevented me from catching some shut-eye because of the swaying of left and right so I simply gritted my teeth and focussed on the only thing that kept me from delirium; the buxom young ladies of the bus.
By early afternoon the snow-capped and Mount Fuji-lookalike
Mount Ararat loomed in the distance from the Turkish side of the border - I knew that we had finally arrived in Yerevan. At 1.30pm I wearily got off the bus, collected my bags and tried my best to wiggle past the persistent taxi touts. I didn’t have a guidebook but I had made contact with someone on couchsurfers who had promised to let me stay at his place so I decided to walk to the city centre and to get to a computer. As usual it was boiling hot and carrying a heavy backpack I sweated "like a bastard".
Couchsurfing in Armenia
I found a cafe with free wireless internet and
contacted Kaspers - my Latvian couchsurfing host who gave me details of how to get to his place in the city. So after a well-deserved although completely enervating couple of beers I got in a taxi to a place called ‘Bangladesh’. Fifteen minutes later and I’m in a post-Soviet mass of dilapidated tower blocks and pot holes - just what I wanted! However, Kaspers showed me where I would be sleeping - my own bed, my own room and free wifi!
Kaspers was doing volunteer work with a European NGO (non-governmental organization) for a few months over the summer. It seems there are many NGOs and volunteers in Armenia - Kaspers’ Spanish housemate was helping to make/edit films for an Armenian charity. He had been here for 10 months already and with the aid of paid-for language lessons had even mastered the Armenian language.
This was impressive as Armenia was the first country on my trip where English was not really spoken and it was not even the second language - in fact an overhang from Soviet days - Russian is. This is a problem if you don’t speak either Armenian or Russian. Added to this is the
Armenian script - looking more like Thai than Latin that I’m used to. It’s at times like this on the road that you realise that the world is both wonderfully diverse and frustrating!
My couchsurfing host Kaspers was very easy-going and easy to get along with; he also allowed me to stay for an unlimited time in Armenia - something which I was extremely grateful for; I could take my time and not be rushed into doing touristy shit - in fact I’d become considerably tired of doing sights and things that were ‘recommended’. So I took in the local area of ‘Bangladesh’ with its decrepit Soviet tower blocks, gloominess and complete
juxtaposition with luxury cars such as Mercedes and BMWs everywhere. Yes, despite seeming to live in run-down flats in rotting blocks with fickle hot water supply people they still managed to buy luxury cars from Germany - I was told that this is the way it is here in Armenia where image is everything.
I was ‘down’ with the locals not in BMWs as I caught buses from the kitchen sink estate to everywhere. Buses here are called ‘Marshrutkas’ - or rather Ford Transit vans
with seats fitted inside and driven by the worst drivers in the world - most of whom I was told were drunk. But there are many of them around and you can hail them anywhere for a straight 100 dram which is about 25 British pence.
Journeying on these buses I noticed that the women were mostly very good looking with fantastic figures that were also very revealing. Paradoxically it’s also very conservative place where women don’t drink or smoke in public and I don’t recall seeing any women driving a car; shorts are seen as risqué for men to wear and where public drunkenness is completely taboo. I witnessed a terrific effort by some middle-aged man who was drunk-as-a-fart-and-stank-of-shit but who managed with extreme control climb into the cramped Ford Transit and get to a (donated) seat. Whilst all around him looked at him with disgusted eyes; I simply smiled to myself.
Fortunately my visit to Yerevan coincided with one of its cultural highlights - that of the annual
Apricot International Film Festival ; I also had the company of two lovely Spanish lasses from
Astorias who were visiting the country on behalf of their charity as well as checking
on the Spanish bloke Kaspers lived with. The price was very cheap for a movie - something like 1 GBP - and the programme was interesting enough. We watched a film which was was half-set in London - "
">She a Chinese " and screened in the Moscow Cinema - a wonderful Soviet era building - a luxurious space to see a film. Afterwards we entered a big hotel in the square for a drink and somehow gained access to a festival hosted event - free booze and canapés - cue Borat impersonation:
When I did make it into the city during the day I found it immediately to my liking and in direct contrast to Iran which I now know to be shockingly decrepit in comparison. I visited the Cascade a ‘vast flight of stone steps and flower beds leads up to a monument commemorating the 50th anniversary of Soviet Armenia.’ It’s rather strange-looking thing - international sculptures occupy the grassy knolls below and escalators took me upstairs up through the belly of the building, passing recessed fountains and the panorama view from the top was very cool.
it all rather terrific. The newly opened art gallery at the base - with collections of international glassware - which only the week before had been visited by US Secretary of State Hilary Clinton made it all seem very European. Not only that but the imposing Soviet buildings, the wide boulevards, the statues of poets and writers along with its outdoor bars and cafes - all surprisingly European; and the women didn’t wear any headscarves either - in fact the women were quite possibly the best-looking and with the best figures I’ve seen anywhere.
Over the next two weeks I took it easy in the flat and only occasionally did touristy things.
Before I got here there were two things that I knew about Armenia- firstly that of the
which was carried out during the last years of the Ottoman Empire by the Turks - killing somewhere like 1 and a half million people (or thereabouts). So, I had to visit the Armenian Genocide Museum and Memorial - which commemorates this grim episode. I wanted to find out about what had happened and to fill in a gap in my knowledge but unfortunately
bad lighting, poor display, tiny incoherent display notes as well as any narrative - let alone any kind of two-sides-of-the-story type deal impartiality made it a wasted effort; I simply didn’t know any more about it then when I entered which is sad really - because it is a massive element of national identity - of one people trying to actually exterminate you as a people.
The second thing I knew about Armenia was that it was the world’s oldest Christian church - having been converted way back in
before literally seeing the light. Armenia therefore has some seriously old churches (and monasteries) which alongside its unique architecture and ancient rites and liturgy - I felt would be like looking into the past of the Church.
Because of the language barrier I thought that visiting some of these churches and monasteries by
and buses would not be worth the effort (or presumably the hassle). So I gave up on visiting on my own but what made this pusillanimous decision a little less shameful was
the fact that I could see all the highlights of Armenia with very cheap daily tours; the country was small enough meant I could also do the majority - so that’s what I did.
which was also hosting a mass that morning. It seemed to be a relaxed yet holy affair - the priest had his back to the congregation dressed in his green vestments, square hat and surrounded by altar boys throwing lit incense around whilst the locals milled about quite freely lighting candles and standing by the doorway. Interestingly all of the women covered their heads with veils (they are looser than Islamic headscarves in Iran). It also appeared that over the centuries things haven’t changed much in Armenia’s rites and rituals so there was plenty of incense, singing, call and replies; a genuinely captivating affair all in all and at two hours long they could afford to be.
My favourite moment - was a sung prayer and then the priest turned around suddenly and made the sign of the cross to the
congregation - the drama of religious faith is alive and well in Armenia. However I was lagging in that department. My recent antipathy to religious faith was courtesy of Christopher Hitchens in his polemical book,
Eric
non-member comment
Armenia
Hey John, Just finished reading your blog in Armenia. I still haven't been to my country of nationality, but I was interested to read about your experiences. I could of told you a few things you could of told the Armenian women in Armenia to help you out there, lol! Eric