Week 3: Weekly Report from the Saddle

14th day: 14 Aug - Erzurum to Dogubayazit, Turkey

We left early from the Dedeman. The first customers in the breakfast room, we stuffed stuffed on goat cheese and Turkish teas, and got on the road with full energy. The ride to Doguibayazit was speedy and easy, our minds were set for Iran. Just one more overnight in the border town and across and Yeehaw!! We’d be visiting Iran’s culture and treasures. Fantastic! With butterflies in my stomach, I imagined beautiful gowns on ladies with large eyes and perfect make up and immaculate mosaics in huge halls of the emperors and handmade carpets of shahs, desert towns with labyrinth corridors brazen with cool wind cooling the passages. 

A dusty border town - Dogubayazit. The Tehran Boutique Hotel, though, is kinda cute and clean - accommodating. A bit unwell over all the excitement, I needed rest and possibly a couple of Tylenols (the cure for everything). When the sun threw its shadows over the shop house across the street, we descended from the room to check the action in town. The streets were upside-down from construction and most of the action - oh well, was at the ATMs. Many were depositing the week’s pay, but those who wanted withdrawals, turned away from the machine disappointed. As did we. There was no sign of Dollars or Euros, promised by the stickers glued to these machines. No Turkish Liras either. Counting carefully the remaining cash, we pointed to raw beef and lamb kebabs, and took seats on the only table street-side with embroidered tablecloth and bench cushions to wait for our kebabs to get grilled. The meat was delicious and cost a total of 8 bucks. They arrived with fresh large steak tomatoes, fresh salad and yogurt. Dry, as  no beer or wine were available. Well, good for us to stay dry a little bit. 

15th day: 15 Aug - Dogubayazit, Turkey - Maku, Iran

The morning air lingered sweet in front of the Tehran Boutique Hotel. Paolo walked to the Oto Parking across the street. He took his time to return from the underground garage. Had something gone wrong? Did the bike not start? Had something gone missing? But no, he appeared from the shaded tunnel with lights blinking and parked next to the tomato baskets of the fruit shop. But had found another bike next to his, also Italian. I wanted to leave a message for this biker, but seeing his Uzbekistan stickers, he must be on his return journey and would not join us for Iran. Yes, Iran!!

We made it to the border in minutes. A lots of Mount Ararat pics later, we were bursting of anxiety. Iran was every riders dream. Mount Ararat gave a well-timed distraction. It felt important as the Noah’s Arc was said to be somewhere there in that mountain; as well as the world’s second largest creator canyon. Nearer to the border, like an unspoken message, endless lines of trucks greeted us, parked toward the Iran. Hossein waved us over at the border. Under his breath, he mentioned that we were an hour late. Oh sorry. At the immigration on Turkish side, we were jammed into a red iron cage with lots of other passengers and their cargo.

One channel to the immigration opened and people pushed. Hossein’s slim body squeezed easily through the cracks in the crowd. Paolo kept falling behind the pressing people. It was hot. Breathing was not easy. Men smoked in that small cage. We squashed against the iron bars of the cage, as some men climbed over the cage and pushed their luggage dropping them into the crowd in the cage, and others pushed themselves through the bars of the gate into the cage. How did their heads even fit through? They smoked all the while, taking away the remaining air. Others held their luggage and packages overhead so that they banged into the heads of the tightly packed passengers. The sentiments heated, voices were raised. Some guys cut the line. Suddenly the immigration officer pointed at me. He was opening a new lane and invited me and another woman to go through first, and then Paolo got to come through next. Needed to tell the bike’s license plate number to the immigration officer and to … wait for the husband … (!) and that was it for Turkey. Or so we thought. 

Go back to Turkey to pick up the bike. Hossein and I walked to Iran through a long corridor to the immigration officer’s booth. Paolo had been whisked to stay with the bike in the no-man's land. Just when my passport was placed into the electronic reader, a fully veiled woman began wailing bloody murder, visibly enraged. I am sure I would have sympathized, but could not understand what she was on about. Next to me, a man was held back by the security guys. They strengthened their hold to keep him away from the screaming woman. More forces rushed to hold him down and push him back to Iran. Alot of shoving, drama and volatility followed. Some roaring instructions. Un-uniformed security arrived from everywhere, or was everyone involved just by being there? The immigration officer with my passport joined the struggle. The security sat the captured man down at the X-ray machine, while my immigration officer returned, and stamped my passport. I ended up outside to wait for the ‘chauffeur’. 

Hours passed at the bike, while Hossain was in the customs office building. Paolo joined him and they even invited me to add to the force. The customs boss from behind his desk kept talking on the phone. Hossain interpreted to my ear: “The civil service is at standstill. Like the customs official, everyone competes by impressing one another with Qoran’s verses. The government doesn’t work”. A delegation of municipal big shots passed and Hossain cringed: “No one knows their jobs, the people are desperate, losing their incentives and hope for a better life.” He told me there is a lot of addiction in the country, and that some 80 percent of households have an addict in the family. His own son had died of an overdose and this had led to a disintegration of his family. At his 79 years, Hossain did not want to leave Iran but to see it get off to a better path. He explained that the women in the country had staged an internationally recognized protest, but that the ‘West’ gave it a deaf ear. 

At 2:30pm, the customs closed. We were instructed to come back in the morning. We took our luggage, a taxi for a couple of Turkish Lira and then Hossain’s car to Maku. We settled in the room at the Maku Tourist Hotel. The reception held our passports for police inspection, which would happen at night. Bare and set against a rock of a mountain, we laid down on the twin beds and began guessing how this would end up. The bike had not made it and remained in the no-man’s-land between Turkey and Iran. Later, Hossain joined us for dinner, although he did not eat, as he explained that at his age he needs to watch his diet and not go to sleep with a heavy meal. He slept in his van. In his youth, Hossain had joined foreign ‘hippies’ in their Volkswagen tours of Iran, smoked joints and partied. Those were the days, he sighed. He used to arrange temporary vehicle entry permits to Iran as an official of the Ministry of Tourism, which he now did as a private guide. By the time we finished dinner, Hossain was 50 percent sure that we could also do our tour in Iran. 

16th day: 16 August - Maku, Iran - Kars, Turkey

The bathroom got a wash. The shower, still refreshing, showered more of the bathroom than me. Like in the olden days in Southeast Asia, you need to point the shower to the toilet for it to flush. Hossain met us at breakfast and picked out fried eggs, cucumber, tomatoes, goat cheese, bread and tea. He refreshed us on our strategy for the customs office. “We will be very straight to the eye”. The reception returned our passports, charged for the water in the room in addition to the $20 for the stay. We packed into Hossain’s van to go to the border. 

Back at the border, seated at the custom’s director’s office. After his first phone call, he got up from his desk and pointed us to the Director General’s office in town. A tall man with a strong frame, the DG sported a handsome salt’n pepper beard. A stockier version, something like a deputy, flanked by two other men, occupied the oversized white faux-leather couch. Once the DG picked up his phone, the other two left the room. We watch every move to get clues as to whether, we’d get our bike through. It seemed to be a pleasant conversation. The DG smiled often. Meanwhile, Hossain emerged from his arm chair and began pleading with the stocky deputy. The deputy made at least two references to Shariah - the law - I deciphered. The deputy finally pointed Hossain to his seat to wait for the DG to get off the phone. Once he did, the DG turned to Hossain and put his hands together and told him in Farsi that Tehran had said no. “So, there is no way” Hossain got up. At the door he let out a strong swear. We rode quitety back to immigration. Now, there was only one thing to do: to go back to Turkey and devise a plan B. 

Stamped out of Iran. The stamp was placed on a separate paper, which stayed with the immigration. This meant that the passport would never show our stay in Iran. Better so, as the tales of getting barred for entrance to other countries with Iran’s stamp in the passport were many. In the exit line, we met some Tabriz ladies, very beautiful, with nice makeup and beautiful jewelry and scarves. I spotted some Bulgari. The women translated the customs officers’ final advice to us “Yes, it's a pity indeed that the motorbike could not enter Iran. But, in all fairness you should have paid a deposit at the value of the bike at the customs”. This would have been $20,000 in cash. Well, we did not have this in cash and might not give it, even if we had it in the pocket. The custom’s officer quickly jumped in again to assure that the money could be returned to us at the Turkmenistan border, when we’d leave. 

We rode the bike around the immigration building to the exit line. This was a gated area. In the beaming sun, everything waited for two hours for the "chef", responsible for opening the gate to arrive. The Tabriz women were ahead of us in a car and offered us delicious pastries. After several tries to yank the iron gate open, we were in Turkey. 

Formalities here were clumsy on the re-entry to Turkey as well. You need to get your entry stamp from the immigration by cutting into the pedestrian line. My passport caused some curiosity and a higher ranking officer was call to inspect it. The line of pedetrians grew longer. Kids rolled on the cement floor and began to whine in the heat, people and perspiration. We eventually got my entry stamp and were on the bike. But not for long. Next we opened the panniers for an inspection: ‘Did you bring any drugs? Do you have cigarettes? Only clothes and make up?’ Back on the road to Dogubayazit, we were back to photographing Mount Ararat. 

Forking North toward Kars, the scenery changed to moonlike rough volcanic rock hills. In the East, Iran and Mount Ararat disappeared to the horizon. New mountains arose ahead. Urals? Ahead fields and finally Kars. It did not look like much from the distance. But the town got friendlier closer. Kur stream led to the Seljuk fortress and inviting cafes and cheese shops, the pride of Kars, soon surrounded us. Katarina Serei Hotel stood majestically at a tree-lined road alongside the stream. Lush in red royal velvet furnishings and flanked by a pretty bourgeois garden, the hotel changed our moods. We were welcomed immediately as we drove to the front of the hotel. We parked right at the steps to the entrance and left the bike for all guests to see. Soon Mariella from France came over from her table of her friends to bonjour us.  Her friends joined and all clustered around us and the bike and asked to know our story. Chatting about Paris, where our daughter - Angelica lives and works, connected us. Later, we closed the day, after some cheese shopping, with a couple of Turkish Efesses and stew at the Pushkin Cafe and Restaurant. While pretty and delightfully babbling, a strange odor wafted from the stream that filled the air time to time with more than just cheese.

What was the Plan B actually? Now that the Iran story was behind us, we were a bit lost There was an upside. I’d not need to wear scarves and worry about the clothes all the time; we would not need so much cash; and we saved a lot of money not having to pay Hossain. Also, Iran was very hot at the time and distances would have been very long. Fatigued from the heat and constant riding,  we had already planned to take more stops and stay a bit longer. For now, we’d course our route through Russia, Abkhazia, Ossetia and Kazakhstan to Uzbekistan and yet to arrive on time for our Turkmenistan tour, entering the country from the North rather than the South. This was going to be cooler in temperature and all would be fine. 

17th day: 17 Aug - Kars, Turkey – Tbilisi, Georgia

It’s basically going downhill from here. We climbed and descended around the mountains. We also argued just about all the way. That can really zap your energy. Was the road shorter in distance, but longer in time as it was more curvy, and other useless arguments went through our communicators. At the 26km, with our heads spinning from the round and round of the curves, we were rewarded with an unbelievable view of Tbilisi and stopped to take photos. Against a majestic backdrop of rocky mountain wall, the city carpeted the valley floor with its urban humanity. It seemed to lie in a crater. . 

We cruised to Liberty Square, a core to Tbilisi. Got the first glasses of Georgian Tsinandali white at the Radisson Cafe overlooking the valley to fix our orientation, and pick a hotel.  We settled at G.Vino City Hotel, on the right side of the Ministry of Defence. Ran by two young women, with new age clothes, hair and makeup, the hotel seemed safe with its pontific neighbor. The two young ladies were friendly and accommodating, and came to show us how to unlock and lock the door (making sure that we got the modern technology) and how the aircon was turned on. The Parisian Mariella from Kars had told us about the Shavi Lomi restaurant and we headed there on foot, giving our legs a stretch. Passing old buildings under the leafy shades of city, Lening could have easily passed the corner lighting his pipe. The walk to the restaurant had been long, we were hot and downed two liters of water that the waiter with a o kept hauling to us. We spent the evening at the restaurant in the company of amphora wines. A dry lamb shank was too tough for us to eat. Walking back was a treat. 

18th Day: 18 Aug Tbilisi - Telavi, Georgia

At breakfast in the G.Vino City Hotel, we went through the options: via Russia or what? At some point the frustration rose to the level of leaving China out and losing the payment we had made to Jah of Ride China. With no commitments, the choice was open. Well, we had paid our Jah for the tour and the rider group had set up a WhatsApp Group and everyone was on their way and texting. We headed to the Russian Embassy. Confusing the Diplomatic Mission with the Russia Visa Center, I sat into a taxi to get to the actual visa center downtown Tbilisi to get there as fast as possible. That was a good idea as we had ran out of WIFI and were blind in terms of finding it. Nowadays, nobody sells you a paper map. Walking up and down Belesi Street and asking every other person for Number 4, the visa center appeared in front of us in a business tower. Again we read the instructions too literally and arrived at the second floor, just to be guided back to the first floor for the Center. There were plenty of people waiting there. 

Quickly though, the official called out: ‘The Transit case!” Others that had arrived before us were still waiting. We marched over hopeful to seek visas. It dawned on us that we had none of the required documents and would need to spend a few days collecting all sorts of documents. Next door in room 103, there was a service to help with all of that and guide us through what seemed like a mountain of paperwork for a 3-day transit pass through Russia to Kazakhstan. 

At the business center, two young ladies prepared our application and insurance documents for submission and took 120 Lati ($46) and another 20 for the insurance.  Paolo got the translation going in in another office on Rustavi Street, the main drag of Tbilisi, which should be ready on Monday. We left to wait for Monday for the translations. On Rustaveli, we got fresh orange juices to plan the weekend. So delicious! Surprisingly, the service is super slow in Georgia. Kind of very relaxed. The people carry themselves with a visible confidence, but also a relaxed calm posture. Most easily to be recognized in this cafe. 

In these situations, there is not much to do than go for wine regions. We hopped on the bike and headed for Telavi, a wine region in Georgia. The ride to Telavi took us through a high pass of the beautiful Gombori mountain range of grace lands at almost 2,000 meters. Without entering Telavi itself, we arrived at the Hestia Wine Hotel, actually an AirB&B. 

Every morning, the hotel selections take a bit of time. It would be such a great idea, if someone selected a hotel beforehand and we’d just arrive to enjoy a beautiful place. Hotels are always a bit of a risk. Sometimes you get rewarded by a great place, consisting of excellent services, facilities, food, location, wonderful bed for a good night sleep, amenities, activities, etc, or at least one of these items. But then, you can also end up with none of that and feel a bit put off. In the case of Hestia, it was a room in a house in a quiet neighbourhood. There was no-one at the house, but the gate to the garden was open and so was the door to the house itself. Hollering did not fetch any results. Slightly annoyed, we finally called the number and made a big effort to understand how we could find our room as it was a non-refundable, as these things usually are. The room was actually exactly like in the photos on the website, was downstairs, facing a pretty garden setting. Yes, the key was in the lock and all the necessities were in place. Even better, a small carafe of Saperavi waited for us in the fridge. We were in no time at the garden chairs, sipping the carafe away and thinking of dinner plans. 

Just a short walk away, we found Giorgi Mosashvili restaurant. Two young guys guided us to the garden and answered yes to all our questions: Food? Yes. Wine? Yes. Outdoor seating? Yes. Again, in no time, we were fronted by a litre carafe of dark red wine, Saperavi, for sure. It was the best. Slightly young, but soft. Just perfect for our grilled pork dish that also exceeded our expectations. Wonderful garden environment, all for us. Such a treat after a discordant day!!

19th Day: 19 Aug - Telavi - Sighnaghi, Georgia

In the morning, and in just two hours, we rode to Sighnaghi, the country’s wine capital and a neighbour to Telavi. Curvy roads had made us hungry and we gobbled up a Adjaruli Khachapuri and Palavi, both local dishes loaded with cheese. After these delicious, but heavy dishes, a wine tasting at the Pheasant’s Tear was just right. 

The Pheasant’s Tear is an American-Georgian-Swedish venture. We booked a flight of horizontal introduction to Georgian wines and went through the 4 main varieties of the 500 that Georgia boasts with. Italy has some 1,500 autochthonous varieties, Finland none, which puts Georgia’s varieties into context. The wines were excellent and had benefited from excellent wine making, with a Georgian wine maker, Gela Patalashvili, in the helm. With Tamara from the Pheasant’s Tear, we got the basic terminology of Georgian wine. Our wine experience was topped with a beer at our the terrace of our accommodation, which made us ready for a nap at the tent. 

Beautiful Glamping Signagi! With a bathroom, terrace of its own and aircon, so welcome. Our brief rest was met with a roaring thunder somewhere across the Caucasus that decorated the horizon with flashing lights and quickly moved closer overhead the tents. Soon lights went out, the hum of the air-con silenced, and the rain fell on the tent and the terrace. When the rain took a breather, we clambered to the hotel terrace for a…you guessed it..a glass of wine and a meal. Amro, the hotel manager, came over to tell her story. 

25 years old, Amro had left his semi pro basketball team. The going joke was that the team got an upgrade to pro once he left. Amro laughed warmly. He had done lots of different jobs before landing the manager role at the Glamping Siganagi, which had been opened just two months ago. After medical school, he had joined a religious philosophy camp in the mountains and excelled as a mountaineering guide. This was his passion. He could tap on his microbiology background from med school. Still he had moved on and gotten worked as an engineer’s associate before the Glamping opened. 

Amro harbored a lots of doubts about Georgia's ambitions to join the EU. He doubted whether the information given to Georgians about Europe and the United States was truthful and equated this lack of information with the limitations of the education system and subsequent Georgian’s capacity for critical thinking. He explained that the recent history of Georgia makes the people suspicious of new influences like the EU. Prior to the Soviet rule in the country, various occupiers stomped through Georgia, leaving scars to the psyche of the people. As the influences of the Arabs, Ottomans, and Iranians left their marks on the culture, the Russians in two guises had critically colored today’s Georgia. The Georgians were built with mixed blood, Amro related us, with deep doubts about the future. That’s a lot of worry for a 25-year old basketball player. 

Amro father is 78-year old and married to a 10-years junior, mother of Amro. They had seen the Soviet regime and what had happened in Georgia after the USSR fell apart. His recited the story of his friend, who, after the Soviet regime fell, as a pre-teen and had attended kindergarten with a learned and a respected teacher.  Once the Soviets left, Georgia was governed by disparate cavalries, roving pacts of men that took what they pleased from the citizens and pillaged houses, when they wanted. Once the cavalry arrived at kindergarten, the teacher locked the kids in the kitchen. As the men looted the school, she had protected the children, begging the men not to scare and hurt the kids. This was an everyday event, Amro got serious. Insecurity and uncertainty was the daily bread, with constant power cuts giving a way to criminality for 12 years. Progress has been challenged and views about the future are not ambitious. Everyone was waiting and seeing. 

20th day: 20 Aug Sighnaghi - Tbilisi Georgia

While Amro left us with a sad and melancholy impression of the Georgian personality. But from the saddleback it seemed that things were looking up for Georgia. Also Georgia has a lot to offer Europe and the World. At least in terms of wine. Surely, joining the union will give a great boost to the economy, real estate and a demand for everything Georgian, inside and outside of the country. 

Back on George Bush Street, we did the usual u-turn to Freedom Square. Strange that when you really want to get to a place quickly, GPS finds the most convoluted routes through streets that are so narrow that the bike could hardly make it through the corridors. Behind these the narrow cobbled streets peaked the St George golden horse that demarcates freedom indeed and independence of Georgia of 2006. We checked in at the Monograph Freedom Square.

The Monograph Freedom Square Hotel offered a fantastic deal. Large room with a superb view of the Square with breakfast. This was the downtown of Tbilisi and Georgia. As the evening filtered in through the window, a small local group came to tune their guitars. Soon the beat flowed into the room from the street. Lots of people began to gather, and the band sounded rock ballads in Georgian sunset. People began dancing to the tunes. I detected that melancholy tone in the raspy ballad voice of the burly singer. We proceeded by a Bolt (read want to be rally driver), a new uber-like service, to the Vera Italian in the hope of a true pasta. 

The Vera Italiana is set in a garden, but without Italians. The Pizza was very tasty and the Negroni’s were refreshing.. To digest all that cheese, we walked back to Freedom Square, down shadowy tree-lined residential streets to the Kura River that splits the city into two halves. We came over the bridge at the Merheb family monument, up to the bright lights of the Square and St. George’s golden horse, where the same street band was banging their rock out to the cheering audience. We fell asleep despite that racket outside.