Across Continents

Ken's Blog

European question

May 9th, 2010

Not just a potential stumbling block for Nick Clegg and David Cameron, but my own curiosity. Was Azerbaijan Europe or Asia? Back in neighbouring Georgia the responses had been mixed. Early days, but here people seem to have less polarised views, suggesting instead that they have much in common with Europe, but with a strong Asian influence. What the question does is expose historically shifting borders, migrating ethnic groups, a never ending state of flux. Georgia had the breakaway region of South Ossetia to contend with, Azerbaijan has Nagorno-Karabach.

Back in the saddle, the linguistic implications of all this is very much a mixed bag. Azeri shares the same origins as Turkish, remaining sufficiently close for them to be mutually intelligible. Or so I’m told. I’ve tried Turkish here. Just get blank looks. But to be fair, it was often the same in Turkey. Russian is widely spoken, to the extent that I find myself widening my albeit limited vocabulary by blending it with Azeri in the same conversation. Seems to work.

My mastery of languages remains a definite case of enthusiasm over ability. And I’ve a long, long way to go to even equal that of Silvana and Johan and their children. I’d met them in the Azerbaijan town of Sheki, enjoying a short break from their home in the country’s Capital Baku. Between them, fluent Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch, English, Russian and, I’m sure, a pretty good grasp of Azeri.

I take some comfort from the fact that whilst English is not a numerically superior first language, geographically it is widely spread across the world. And the fact that I can readily explain where I come from by mentioning the words ’Manchester United’. Usually elicits an enthusiastic response. I’m guessing this Ronaldo chap is some sort of footballer? My turn to look blank.

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A little bit of Italy?

May 9th, 2010

Balcony in Sighankhi from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.

 

Ken describes the Italian styled Georgian town of Sighnakhi, close to the Azerbaijan border.

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At the Caravanserai

May 8th, 2010

Caravanaserai

It’d fellow English cyclist Bill to thank. He’d told me of an old Caravanserai – roughly the Silk Roads equivalent of the British Drovers Inns – in Sheki that had been tastefully converted into an atmospheric hotel. Sounded much more appealing than some Soviet era concrete monstrosity, the prices – they apparently vary randomly from room to room – quite reasonable.

Emma at the Caravanseria

Even by Sheki’s standards, where everywhere is uphill, there was a tough final section, although by now I’d the relative cool of the evening in my favour. But no certainty of somewhere to stay. Fortunately there was a room available, tucked away inside its own archway, simply furnished but in keeping with the character of the place. I liked it. Rest at last.

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Road less travelled

May 8th, 2010

Progress was slow, carefully picking a path through the multitude of potholes. Despite the heat, the track still muddy from thunderstorms the previous night. I’d opted for the direct route – the old road – from Zaqatala to the small town of Kakh (also known as Qax). Started well enough. I’d contemplated turning back as the road surface deteriorated, having hoped for quicker progress to my eventual destination, the town of Sheki. But then there’d be a teasing stretch of tarmac, suggesting the worst was over. So I kept going. And then Kakh. Not so bad after all, just slow.

Thirsty, I’d stopped at one of Kakh’s small shops. The road outside was unmade, but inside it was modern, smart, and but for a few less familiar items on its shelves, I could have been back in the UK. Enquiring about the road ahead – forty or so kilometres to the town of Sheki – a small committee formed, the debate intense. Roads, I learnt, were described as narrow or wide, which also, it seemed, equated to unmade or made. The outcome was that I should return to the main road, rather than take the direct route. It’d be much quicker.

In the midst of the discussions one man had offered to take me to his house for food, indicating I should leave Emma inside the shop. A generous offer, and I’d liked the young, helpful couple that ran the place, but leaving everything I had with strangers was out of the question. So, I explained the banana I’d just eaten was sufficient when cycling, anything more and I might be sick. Just hoped he didn’t misinterpret my various animations.

Seven hours later I reached Sheki, forty kilometres from Kakh by the direct route. True, it was fairly swift riding, the roads good. But what had appeared to be twenty or so kilometres longer on my map was actually more like a hundred, little shade, hot, uncomfortable. Long, drawn out climbs, gentle but subtly sapping your energy.

Realising I was in for a long, steady haul, not the relatively short day I’d hoped for, I stopped in the late afternoon for a decent snack at a roadside cafe. A few tables neatly arranged in a grove of trees, welcome shade. Unsure of what was on offer, I wandered into the kitchen. In the dim interior the cook showed me various pots simmering on the stove. I plumped for one, indicated just a small serving, and waited to see what turned up.

Back outside in the relative cool beneath the trees, I was joined at my table by the enthusiastic owner. I’d not long been explaining my venture when the food arrived. Tasty liver and potato stew, generous side order of fresh vegetables, bread and a glass of some sort of set yoghurt. Thought I’d give dairy a miss, but otherwise an impressive spread. Payment was emphatically refused, and I left with a bag of small cakes and a stash of chocolate to boot.

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Imaginary friends

May 8th, 2010

Soviet era hotel. At least that’s what the guidebook said. And that’d be the euphemism that explained the brackish water out of the taps. I’d reached the rural Azerbaijani town of Zaqatala, thirty or so miles over the border from Georgia. Staff were friendly enough and the room clean. Price was reasonable, although for a country that appeared noticeable poorer than the one I’d just left, value for money was a bit questionable. Sighnakhi and eastern Georgia were already beginning to seem a world away.

Greenery

Earlier, once over the border, I’d made for the town of Balakan. The scenery along the way had been much greener than I’d expected. Heading into the centre, the signs, the billboards, the shop fronts, all had a strong Turkish feel. Hardly surprising, as Azeri and Turkish are both Turkic languages, originating centuries earlier from Mongolia.

I’d stopped briefly in Balakan for some lucky-dip – first trip to the cash point in a new country – hesitant to see if my bank’s automated anti-fraud measures would block the withdrawal. But no, success! In just a few moments I’d drawn a small crowd. One man spoke good English. Where had I come from? What did I think of his country? I’d just arrived, I explained. Was I travelling alone? Not exactly, I’d often meet up with some fellow touring cyclists – had they come past yet I asked? New country, new cultural norms to pick up. Until then, safety in numbers. Even if they are imaginary.

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At the border

May 8th, 2010

Border sign

Rapport. “Salam Aleykum!” – welcome in Azeri – I exclaimed. Handed my passport to the Azerbaijani border guard, deliberately opened on the photo page. “Manchester!” I said, pointing to my place of birth written on it. “Manchester United!” he replied. Seemed to be working. Not that I’d anything to hide. Documents all in order. Just wanted to avoid undue hassle, unexpected taxes to pay and the like.

The Customs Officer felt obliged to inspect my luggage, opening one of the smaller front panniers. For the unwary, a bit like opening up a self-inflating life raft. Well, maybe not that bad, but enough to deter him from prying any further.

With a nod I was permitted to pass, my visa stamped. Past an array of civilians milling around the fairly dilapidated border post. Off into Azerbaijan. Tenth country en route, first of the ’Stans. Here we go.

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The Prisoner (Swansong in Sighnaghi)

May 5th, 2010

Just a question of time before they caught up with me. You had to admire their tenacity. “Watchtower?” she asked. I declined, politely. Besides I’d plenty of other English language reading material to be getting on with. I’d been interrupted chatting with Ruby and Mike, a couple of serious Canadian motorcycle tourers. They too were off to Azerbaijan, but first were going to enjoy a bit of luxury, a change from their normal staple of budget stays. An admirer of fluffy duvets and warm towels, I couldn’t fault their logic. And Ruby had a helmet camera to capture footage for their website. I wanted one.

Fountain

I’d arrived in the small Georgian town of Sighnaghi the previous night, a lofty vantage point offering a distance glimpse of Azerbaijan forty or so miles away across the plains below. Much of the centre has been renovated in an Italian style, and although quite tasteful, it does give the place a slightly surreal feel. Not quite Portmerion, but large opaque spheres bouncing along the streets wouldn’t exactly look out of place. And you have to cross the ’Happy line’ to enter – conveniently painted in English in large letters across the road.

Signs

The town has been deliberately re-developed with tourists in mind. There were the usual clues. No-one comes up to offer help when you pull up in the town square looking lost. Street lights along the road in. Plentiful signs in English. And what seemed like a demand for money from a man with a large stick. But I liked it no less for all this.

Guesthouse

And I really appreciated Sighnaghi that seemed, so far at least, to have resisted the temptation to exploit visitors. Prices seemed very reasonable, about ten pounds a night for a superb home stay (bed & breakfast), and the same amount in a local restaurant buys you a very decent meal. Funny though that prices in shops all seem to add up to whole Lari (about forty pence), a convenience you don’t see in the small villages.

Wall

A few people had suggested I stop in Sighnaghi, ten miles or so off my intended route towards the Azerbaijan border, and deep into wine making territory. I’d ridden from Tbilisi, about eighty miles, frequent downpours and some lengthy climbs, but worth it all the same. Spectacular views they said. Imposing fortified boundary wall too.

Must have been pretty tired by the time I eventually arrived, precious little daylight remaining. I’d not left Tbilisi until around noon, largely the result of a few last minute good ideas, but still leaving a good seven or so hours solid riding. I’d found a room in a home stay, had quickly showered and then gone in search of a decent meal. Found a place close by, even had a menu in English. Went for the ’Chicken live cooked in crockery’. Seemed a bit cruel but I was famished, and was curious how exactly they got the reluctant bird into the chicken brick. Still, it would be fresh. And best not to think about the feathers.

[The author stayed at Nana Kokiashvili’s guesthouse – Tel 899795093 or kkshvl@yahoo.com or http://nanahouse.ge.iatp.net (not checked) – 25 GEL (Georgian Lari) about £10 at the time of writing – head up the hill along the left hand road from the town centre fountain, then take the left fork up the no-entry street and you’ll find it on the corner – great value, very homely, and they speak pretty good English. Oh yes, the ’chicken live’ was in fact ’chicken liver’. Nice all the same. And you can catch up with Ruby and Mike’s motorcycle adventure at www.unusvita.com. And no men with large sticks were harmed in the making of this blog post. Tempting though, he was pretty menacing]

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Georgia on my mind

May 4th, 2010

“Other arms reach out to me
Other eyes smile tenderly
Still in peaceful dreams I see
The road leads back to you
Oh Georgia”

Ray Charles

Georgia is a unique, complex country. And a rapidly developing one. Not so many years ago you needed an escort to drive from the Turkish border along the Black Sea coast. Today there’s just potholes and cattle to contend with. In Batumi I’d seen international hotels opening up, entire new water infrastructure being installed. But it’s still a relatively poor nation, a typical monthly salary perhaps just a few hundred pounds. There’s quite a bit of unemployment, and begging does occur, although its not as commonplace as in some countries I’ve passed through.

People seem pleased that state institutions like the Police, those can have real impact on daily life, are now regarded as free of corruption. Municipal elections take place shortly, with international observers present. I’ll await their verdict with interest. After all, its not just about being able to put a cross on a ballot paper, you have to believe you can place it wherever you want.

I’d noticed parallels with the Balkans. Shifting borders, difficult, sometimes antagonistic, relationships with neighbouring countries. A varied ethnic mix. Almost unfathomable to an outsider. But if the politics seems difficult to grasp, there’s Georgian economics to contend with. Incomes for most are low, almost paltry, yet expensive cars are relatively commonplace. True, in the transition from Communism, the State has given people the houses, the apartments, they occupied. For free. In Tbilisi property values have typically risen by a thousand percent in just a few years. But, for the most part, these are paper increases, unrealisable for most.

A badly distorted free market economy, or just a gigantic property bubble? Whatever the answer, the practical, if slightly bizarre, implication is that houses in some of the Capital’s most expensive districts – quite unaffordable to most Westerners – are in need of much repair or renovation, but the owners simply lack the funds.

Europe or Asia? A question that has often evoked very passionate responses, compelling arguments on both sides. The most persuasive answer reflects the uniqueness of Georgia, a nation separated from undisputed Europe to the north and the certainty of Asia to the south, by, respectively, the Greater and Lesser Caucasus Ranges. Neither quite Europe or quite Asia, perhaps best described as simply Georgian. And of the different ethnicities, broadly split between European and Asian in appearance? Being one of the most invaded nations in history probably accounts for that.

Whatever the politics, the economics of Georgia, the people are immensely warm and hospitable, their generosity humbling. And justifiably proud of their nation. I’d met someone who’d been educated in western Europe, intelligent, very articulate, and had asked if she’d like to return there? No, she said, life here could be tough, but this was her home, where she belonged. I admired her for that.

Georgia is also a very beautiful country, the truly impressive Greater and Lesser Caucasus Ranges bordering the country to the north and south, steep wooded mountainsides contrasting with wide open plains sandwiched between them. Vast tracts of unspoiled countryside.

A unique, complex country. And one I plan to return to once my venture is complete, to explore more, intrigued to see how much it has changed politically and economically. But, much as I’ve hugely enjoyed my time in Georgia, there’s no getting away from the fact that the driving here is the most appalling I’ve ever seen. Breathtakingly terrible.

[The author would like to thank the countless individuals who have made his time in the Republic of Georgia such an enjoyable, interesting and rewarding experience. Thank you]

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All in a (couple) of days work..

May 3rd, 2010

Visa montage

Ever wondered what it’s like to delve into the Byzantine world of visa collection in foreign countries? Probably not. Ever tried it yourself? Even less likely I think. Before you do, maybe sit back and enjoy a bit of armchair adventure as I wander around Tbilisi in the rain. And if you are doing this for real here in Georgia, suggest you read my notes at the end. Here goes…

First stop the Azerbaijan Embassy. About half an hour’s walk away. Opens at 1000 for a couple of hours, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I think. Have my Letter of Introduction, inviting me into the country, completed visa application form, couple of passport photos, and my passport. And I’ve a map. Latin script, whereas the street signs are mostly in the Georgian alphabet. This delays me a little, but the small queue outside the Embassy appears to confirm the Consular section is open for business.

A police officer ensures only one person at a time is admitted into the Consular section – actually it’s a doorway with a heavy steel grill through which you pass your paperwork. Raining. Should have borrowed an umbrella. I queue for about twenty minutes. Bit fraught – everyone else seems to be Turkish and waiting in an orderly line doesn’t come naturally to them – need to be assertive. Then it’s my turn.

I hand my documentation to the Consular official. Visa will be ready in three days. I explain I need to press on to Azerbaijan as soon as possible. Return tomorrow afternoon at four he advises, and gives me a slip to pay the visa fee at a local bank.

Bank - web version

So far so good. Sort of. The bank is nowhere near the Embassy. Probably. There are three streets in Tbilisi that share the branch address on the payment slip. I make a bit of a guess and, it turns, out, get the right one first time. I don’t realise this straightaway, as it takes a while to find the bank. Not exactly a High Street name in Georgia, the place is barely recognisable as a bank. Forms to be signed in triplicate. Twice.

Next stop should be the Kazakhstan Embassy. Searching the web for an address yields at least three possibilities. All of which, it turns out, are wrong. After a while I begin to wonder if they really do have a Diplomatic Mission here. The Georgian Ministry of Foreign Affairs website’s list of overseas representations in Tbilisi makes no mention of it, suggesting this to be the case. But I remain convinced I’m right.

You’d think a half decent taxi driver would know where the Embassy is, but they also seem to be new in town. Still raining. I hit on a plan to visit a local travel company, guessing that they might have dealings with the Consular staff. They don’t, but Nino and her team does quite a bit of phoning around and comes up with an address.

I head off up a steep, muddy road, climbing up above the city. Seems an unlikely location for an Embassy, but I’ve confidence in Nino and her team. I spot a Police post. Success. Or at least, I’ve found the right place. Turns out to be less than a kilometre from where I’m staying. The Consul is unfortunately absent, explains his very helpful assistant, so I should return at eleven the next morning. I leave with an application form to fill in. And a few leaflets about Kazakhstan to read.

Eleven the next day. Back at the Kazakhstan Embassy. Still raining, but there’s a canopy to stand under. I wait a while, soon joined by a surly woman who fiddles constantly with her umbrella. The door opens. My turn to enter. But no. Would I mind letting the woman go first? She is with child apparently. I doubt this very much, but concede because the Consular official has asked politely. I wait a little while longer, then its my turn. I explain my endeavour, the need to make several entries into the country, and, in turn, he helpfully explains the visa options. I pay the fee and leave.

Next, back to the Azerbaijan Embassy. I arrive a little before four. Still raining. A few people, Turkish I think, are hanging around outside the locked gate into the Embassy compound. There’s no recognisable queue as such, so I make my own. By the gate. A policeman opens it up at four precisely and, after a bit of jostling, I’m admitted. I hand over my passport and the visa fee receipt from the bank. Bit nervous – whilst waiting outside I’d noticed the fee shown on the noticeboard was over a hundred dollars. I’d paid considerably less. Would I have to repeat the whole process? No, I’m given a visa, its validity a bit more generous than I’d expected. Success. Think I’ve earned a coffee, a respite from the rain, before I contemplate collection of my Kazakhstan visa. But that’s for another day…

[Whilst the process of visa collection can be time-consuming, sometimes a bit fraught, a little bureaucratic, the author found the Consular staff to be very understanding and helpful. And they all spoke very good English.

For anyone coming to Tbilisi in search of visas for the ’Stans, the Azerbaijan Embassy can be found in Kipshidzis Street in the Vake district of Tbilisi. Look for the main Chavchavadzis I. Gamziri thoroughfare on any half-decent map, the street is a little to the north of the western end of the road.

English Tea House

The bank where you should pay the visa fee is on Marjanishvilis Street, almost directly opposite the English Tea House, close to the bridge across the River Mtkvari that runs through the city. The correct street has a Metro station on it with the same name. Incidentally, the Tea House offers Whittards teas in rather quaint teapots, but you do need to ask for milk. I mention this because at this point in the visa hunt you’ll be in need of some refreshment.

The Kazakhstan Embassy can be found at 23 Shatberashvilil Street 0179 Tbilisi. I’m very confident of this because I’ve been there. And I’ve copied the address off the very helpful Assistant to the Charge d’Affaires’ business card. So ignore anything else you read on the web. Or in supposedly very reputable guide books that advise there’s no Diplomatic Mission here. Funny, because it looks like it’s been here a while… For more information please feel free to get in touch via the Contact page]

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Pancakes and maple syrup

May 1st, 2010

We’d agreed to meet at a familiar US fast food outlet on Rustaveli, Tbilisi’s main thoroughfare. Easily recognisable. Sort of. My efforts getting directions to it by drawing a large ’M’ in the air caused a great deal of confusion. A case of mistaken identity. They seem to think I wanted the Metro, although how they thought I’d be able to get a fully laden touring bike on it I’m not sure.

M signs

Eventually finding the right place, coincidentally next to a Metro station, I caught up with my host. It all seemed rather apt, Austin being a US citizen, but from Iowa rather than Georgia. Fortunately the outlet wasn’t a drive-through. Dreaded to think what the Georgians would make of that sort of thing. Carnage probably.

P1010836

The next morning breakfast was traditional American homemade pancakes and maple syrup. Seemed only fair to continue the theme and grab lunch in the nearby ’Donut Stop’ cafe.

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