As we say goodbye to Tbilisi and our fellow ralliers the sun is already burning the inside of our eyeballs when we head south towards the Armenian border.
Getting closer to the Georgian/Armenian border
After a couple of hours of smooth roads we get to the border itself. It goes relatively well, although the border guard that checks us out of Georgia is the first one we’ve come across who doesn’t flash us a smile, but instead keeps his scowling bureaucratic mask intact.
We blame the heat, which has ramped up to a few degrees short of the surface of the sun, for his less than friendly demeanor.
About 100 meters down the line we get our first proper meeting with the border crossing machine of the east. The line of cars in front of us numbers no more than 10, but inside the border area are parked cars and trucks placed in a pattern that would make M.C. Escher proud.
We get through the first check within half an hour and without too much hassle by the guys in the largest official hats you’ve seen this side of North Korea. Afterwards we’re directed towards a building another 100 meters down the road. Why we have to go there is a mystery to us, but we oblige, as you do with people who can shoot you dead and get away with it.
Inside is a big room with about 20 other people running around like headless chickens, plus 4 sitting behind desks.
These desks are lined up in the middle of the room. Requests as to where we should start the procedure (WHAT procedure?) and what documents are needed are met with impatient grunts and hand gestures of the meaningless kind.
So we get in line at the shortest queue at desk nr. 1 as in our minds eye, we see the famous skit by Monty Python about having an argument.
We try to suppress the feeling.
After about 25 minutes of waiting and imagining all kinds of things we could have used 25 minutes for, it’s finally our turn.
The person at desk nr. 1 shakes his head and points to desk number 3 in an imperial manner.
Desk 3 is where the fun starts, apparently. Nice of them to let us know.
A few minutes later, it turns out that the proper order of the progression of the desks is: desk 3, then 1, 2 and 4.
We should have known this.
When we get inbetween desk 1 and 2 we suddenly are made to understand that we have to pop around the corner to a bank (which is more like a hole in the wall) to pay the fee of 20 000 Armenian Dram for all this paper pushing.
As we just have entered the country we don’t have any of the currency on us, but the banker in the wall is more than happy to take some Euros to exchange into Drams. At a rate beneficial to him, of course.
50 Euros later we are back at desk nr. 2 – only to find out that the official wants 2 000 Dram in cash for the service they provide. This is in addition to the fee we just paid to someone sitting in a hole in a wall.
Since $5 seems reasonable for the quality of the service provided, and we’d like to get out of there before the big lightswitch in the sky gets flipped again, we are happy to oblige.
So it’s back to the queue for the hole in the wall to get some more local currency. After another hour of waiting we get our paper.
Which turns out to be a 40 day road tax.
Which was the minimum amount of days available.
Then we are told to go outside the final gate to buy Armenian insurance for the car.
Oh goody.
This is outsourced to private companies, probably to help the flailing Armenian economy. The current unemployment rate in Armenia is around 18%, so it’s no wonder we are swarmed with insurance agents (I am using the term incredibly loosely here) as soon as we get out of the gate. After ignoring the ones that look like extras from Pirates of the Caribbean, we get to a respectable looking fellow (he wears something resembling a shirt – our standards have slipped quite a bit during this trip) and manage to haggle the minimum 20 day car insurance from $100 to $8.
45 minutes and some more documents later and we are on our way into Armenia. The road standard is not as good as in Georgia, with everything around us having a more rural and poor feel to it.
After a few kilometers we get hungry and start looking for a place to eat. There is a sign that says «Restaurant» by the side of the road, so we decide to follow it.
We end up in what looks like a mafia-wedding.
The restaurant at the end of the universe
The place is quite nicely situated, with a view of the beautiful Armenian countryside, but all that is forgotten, when Igor shows up.
He is the only one of the guests to speak English, and he does so at length. First he takes our order («iz no prroblemm, what yu want?») before treating us to a social commentary of Armenia in general and his hometown in particular. Apparently, the number of people in his town has shrunk from 150 000 to 50 000 in only 15 years.
He is not optimistic, sitting there, chainsmoking what smells like pure tar.
After leaving us with our food, which we wolf down gratefully in our little cabana, we are presented with the bill. Although we kind of know what to expect, we are still surprised as we count all the numbers.
In spite of the crap roads, we move southward relatively fast. Today’s goal is Mt. Aragats, Armenias highest peak at 4 090 meters. There is a paved road going to a Cosmic Ray Research Station near the top (we’re not making this up), but before we get that far we are being pulled over by the police just after the best piece of road we have come across so far.
A candid camera shot of Snorre talking to the man in charge
The speed limit has been 90 kmh most of the way, but on this lovely piece of road it was 60. Funny thing, the Armenian Highway Patrol having their speed trap just here. Not only did we do a hefty 101 kmh, but we also had crossed the white line in the middle of the road.
Oh dear.
In the face of fines and police officers, our Armenian is about as good as the officers’ Norwegian, so we try to make som headway by using terms like «Da», «Niet», «Babushka» (grandmother) and «Nazdorovie» (cheers) in Russian, which they apparently understand. Additional words in English that these fine officers have learned include «Yes», «No», «Bad» and «Hotline».
After a bit of confusion, we learn that «Hotline» in their minds describes the white line in the middle of the road.
Also, the German word for punishment – «Strafe» – is being used.
A lot.
The fine we are presented with in the end is at an impressive 130 000 Dram ($315), but using our common vocabulary of «bad», «grandmother», «cheers» and the frequent «Niet» for about half an hour, we manage to get it down to 5 000 Dram ($12).
As we’re about to pay, we are told that we don’t get a receipt and are supposed to NOT hand the money directly to the officer. It is to be put in the front seat of the police car, as this apparently doubles as some type of Armenian wallet.
This is standard bribery procedure and we are quite happy to do it, if it means we can continue breaking the speed limits as we go.
Ah, right. Also, we had to promise to never, ever drive fast again! Since this seems like a good point to agree on, we do indeed promise that no such thing will ever happen again as long as we live.
Some handshakes later and we are free to go.
Imagine our lack of surprise, when half an hour later we are being pulled over by some other police officer for doing 71 kmh in a 50 kmh zone.
These guys have advanced radar guns with video capabilities. Nice.
So there follows yet another wavedown, and we pull up on the side of the road for some more bri- I mean fines, before we finally get to start zigzagging up the mountain road.
Cosmic Ray Research Station, here we come!
We get there, just before it gets completely dark.
This is another thing: when the sun goes down in these parts, there is no lingering light. There is nothing to shed brightness on the land. It’s like the world’s largest light switch has been flipped by someone who has decided that NOW it’s bedtime, and the monsters under your bed don’t need any light by which to eat you anyway!
After getting up here, we decide to celebrate by sharing a bottle of beer at this, the highest point of our trip yet (3197 meters).
There are a couple of other tents up here, and after saying hi to the French couple next to us we tell them all about the Mongol Rally and what we are doing. The response from the two is one we’ve come to expect, although this time it is with a French accent («Mon Dieu, yu guys ar crazee, haha, look zis leetle car, haha»).
After saying goodnight and putting up our very handy pop-up tents in the dark (you basically unzip them, throw them away from you and wait for them to go «ploink»), we crawl into our home away from home. Sleep comes real fast, amid a few night noises («did you see, cherie? Ze leetle car? haha»). We fall asleep quickly, only briefly awakened around midnight by what seems to be werewolves prowling around the tents, but turns out to be simply huge cowherders’ dogs following a scent.
We have only covered 294 km, but it’s been a long day driving through Georgia and Armenia.
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