week 8 : Youngest world record holder in the oldest country
I left Georgia with a vicious cold but a warm heart, as Shota is now undoubtedly a brother. Such kindness, generosity, and love—it’s a real privilege and an honor to be able to call him a friend.
Onwards from Tbilisi to Armenia for a long-awaited meeting with my old friends Kane, Lucy, and their newest addition, Max. Nate had advised me to avoid the eastern border crossing, as it’s the main transit route and often clogged with transport trucks and tourists. Instead, he recommended the less-used eastern border crossing in Guguti, sitting at 2000 meters in altitude—a forgotten road leading to a barren border crossing. The Caucasus were experiencing unexpectedly heavy rain, causing unpredictable landslides and difficult riding conditions. Poor visibility, coupled with the occasional clump of mud being flung onto my already clogged visor, made for a challenging ride. As Tara and I approached the mist-shrouded outpost, we stopped. Having learned my lesson from my entry into Georgia, I was keen on not repeating the same unpleasant experience. So, equipped with a serious but non-threatening demeanor, I approached the barriers, respectfully and somewhat apprehensively. The experience could not have been more different—smiling, unbothered Georgian guards and even friendlier Armenian ones. I was even offered fresh peaches by an Armenian customs officer as we went through my paperwork. All in all, a wet and muddy entry followed by a warm and sweet welcome.
My fears diminished, I was now free to enter Armenia, the oldest Christian country in the world. Armenia has had a tumultuous history, once being the largest Caucasian Christian empire, stretching from the Caspian Sea to the Black Sea. Descendants of the Eastern Roman Empire and later the Byzantines, it is an ancient culture steeped in Christian mythology. The country is replete with ancient monasteries dating back to the very birth of Christendom. However, its history is also marked by suffering, most notably the Armenian Genocide of 1915-1921, during which up to 1.5 million Armenians were killed by the Ottoman Empire. In 1991, Armenia regained its independence with the dissolution of the Soviet Union.
During the Soviet era, Armenia was transformed into the industrial and engineering heartland of the empire. It became a hub for manufacturing and technological development, with numerous factories and plants built across the country. This industrial boom played a crucial role in the Soviet economy. However, with the collapse of the Soviet Union, many of these factories were abandoned, left as relics of a bygone era. Today, these abandoned factories stand as a testament to Armenia's significant role in the industrial prowess of the Soviet empire and the dramatic shifts in its economic landscape. Despite the challenges, Armenia is a resilient nation, continuously striving for stability and growth amidst ongoing regional conflicts.
From the outside, Armenia feels more Russian, with architecture and military uniforms reflecting Russian influence. Yet, the faces of the people are rounder and darker, resembling Persian features, with warm brown eyes and bright white smiles. Being French seems to be an advantage here; the word for thank you has been replaced by “merci,” as the Armenian version, “Shnorhakalutyun,” is deemed too long and difficult, even for Armenians.
The bond between the French and Armenians is rooted in a shared history and cultural connections. France was one of the first countries to welcome Armenian refugees fleeing the Ottoman Empire during and after the Armenian Genocide. This gesture of support created a lasting friendship between the two nations. Additionally, France has a significant Armenian diaspora, with many Armenians contributing to French society in various fields. The two countries share a commitment to human rights and cultural preservation, further strengthening their relationship. This deep bond is reflected in everyday interactions, with French customs and language subtly integrated into Armenian society.
The Armenian plateau south of Georgia resonates with the spirit of Kars, an expanse of lush green plateaus strewn with wildflowers and caressed by fresh winds—a stark reminder of its Armenian roots, along with the towering presence of Mount Ararat, which, despite its religious significance to Armenians, lies incongruously within Turkish borders. Prior to reaching Kars, I decided to take a solitary night at a mountain lodge to recharge, a necessary respite after the fulfilling yet exhausting stay at Shota’s. The lodge perched precariously atop a canyon cliff provided a breathtaking overlook of Alaverdi, a town shadowed by its industrial past as a copper mining hub. Dominating its skyline, a massive 80-meter chimney stands as a monument to what was once a thriving factory town, now just a skeleton of its former self. The ghostly remains of a telecabin swing silently above, witnessing the decay. Encircling the town, three ancient monasteries dating back to the 7th century speak of a time when spirituality prevailed, now contrasted sharply against the crumbling relics of the Soviet era.
Amidst the visceral rush of navigating treacherous mudslides and rediscovering my own limits, I couldn't help but be drawn to the somber beauty of the surroundings—a landscape marked by the fading echoes of a bygone Soviet era. The old Soviet architecture, with its characteristically stark pink and dark volcanic stone buildings, stood as a haunting vestige of past power and strength. These structures, once symbols of robust ambition and control, now languish in neglect, slowly being reclaimed by the encroaching arms of nature.
As I wandered the streets, the contrast was striking. The buildings, designed during an age when strength and durability were paramount, now showed their vulnerability. Cracks in the formidable stone facades allowed creeping vines and flowers to take hold, softening the harsh lines with bursts of wild, untamed life. The pink hues, faded from decades under the harsh sun and punishing rains, told stories of a time when these buildings were more than just shelters—they were statements of an empire’s might.
Yet, here they were, slowly crumbling, their imposing silhouettes disrupted by broken windows and peeling paint, standing as relics of a time when ideological rigidity dictated architecture. The beauty of these structures in their prime could only be imagined, as nature continued its relentless reclamation. Amidst this decay, there was a profound beauty—an emblematic reminder of how even the greatest powers are eventually humbled by time and nature.
Arriving at the hotel’s GPS coordinates only to find myself at the canyon’s base with the lodge taunting me from 100 meters up the cliff was less than ideal. The hotel owner nonchalantly directed me to a “suitable” road—clearly an understatement. Overnight rains had transformed the path into a series of mud trenches reminiscent of war-torn landscapes. The last time Tara and I faced such a challenge was in Bosnia, which ended in a precarious crash. Nevertheless, armed with Philosopher tires fitted in Greece, I steeled myself for the ascent. Thirty adrenaline-fueled minutes later, after weaving past stranded 4x4s embedded in the mud (stopping wasn't an option unless I wanted to join them), Tara and I skidded triumphantly into the lodge’s embrace, splattered in mud but exhilarated by the conquest.
I woke up to the sounds of birds singing and steel grinding against the tracks from the old train line that snakes across the canyon floor, linking Yerevan to Alaverdi. A bit apprehensive about having to take to the muddy tracks again, I gave Tara a vigorous wash to kick the mud off. The owner of the lodge, the old mayor of Alaverdi, Sansuun, a towering and imposing middle-aged man with kind blue eyes and a crew cut of white hair, shared a coffee with me. I discovered that he was a colonel in the Armenian Army. We shared our views on life and the necessity for calm and understanding. It was a magical moment of comprehension and exchange, all done on Google Translate. I promised him we would meet again and hope I can fulfill this promise.
Thankfully, the mud had been baked by the sun by the time I left, making for a fun off-road ride all the way to Kane’s, only forty-five minutes down the valley. I first met Kane 4 years ago on the Malle rally, a seven-day motorcycle rally across the UK from Lizard Point in Cornwall to John o' Groats in Scotland. We were both marshals for our mutual good friend Rob, who organizes the mad event. 1500 miles over five days crossing England, Wales, and Scotland, only using B roads. The participants are put into groups of five and only given their route the night before, encouraging cohesion and joint planning. Rob has managed to create an event that blends style, adventure, class, and pure fun. As Charles Bukowski once wrote, “A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing. To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it. To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.” Rob is certainly an artist; the events he puts on manage to combine the raw, visceral experience of wild motorcycling with classic British sartorial style and understated class. As marshals working for Rob, our job was to get up an hour before all the racers and race to each checkpoint, clear the route and man the checkpoints. With the constant fear of embarrassment of being caught by the racers, we had to race twice as fast to get to the checkpoint. Leaving at dawn, engine roaring as a team of 10 marshals riding in pairs, peeling off at each checkpoint and checking in with Rob to let him know if the route is cleared and ready for the racers to rip through them. A far more fun way to do recce than in my military life.
Kane is as cool and collected as he rides. Our connection sparked instantly during the rally, and I later discovered that he held the Guinness World Record for the youngest person to solo circumnavigate the world on his trusted Triumph Bonneville. His adventure unknowingly set the stage for my own. Although I embarked on my journey at twice his age, with no records in sight, our friendship endured. He now lives in Armenia with his Armenian wife, Lucy, and their newborn son, Max. Lucy is a dynamo, leading a medical charity that brings crucial training to underpaid doctors throughout Armenia.
Nestled in the quaint village of Debet, sixty kilometers from the Georgian border, my journey there was rejuvenated by long, sweeping bends in the road. After a refreshing ride, I mistakenly took a wrong turn based on Kane’s directions and found myself navigating gnarly, muddy tracks. Twenty minutes later—what should have been a mere two-minute drive—I arrived at Kane's home, exhausted but greeted warmly by him and his son Max. My arrival wasn't graceful; I clumsily tipped my bike right in front of his house.
The following days were filled with camaraderie: sipping wine, river swimming, and exploring Armenia’s rich landscapes. We ventured to Yerevan, the capital, set in a dusty valley near the Turkish border. The city, opulent and bustling, contrasted sharply with the rural tranquility we’d enjoyed. Yerevan, brimming with chic cafes and streets echoing the latest fashion trends, seemed a world apart from the quieter parts of Armenia. The city's affluence, bolstered by Armenians returning from abroad to invest in property, starkly differed from the countryside's simplicity. Furthermore, the aftermath of the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict has swelled the city with over two hundred thousand internally displaced persons, stirring tension and reshaping community dynamics.
I bid farewell to Lucy, Max, and Kane in Yerevan and set off for Georgia the next day, cruising the Armenian Plateaux. The route unfurled beneath Mount Ararat’s towering silhouette, a majestic backdrop to the flower-dotted valleys. This mountain, a profound emblem of Armenian heritage, watched over the landscape, a silent guardian of the nation's storied past.
Back in Tbilisi, it was time to attend to Tara, my trusty bike, needing repairs after our rigorous travels. With a few spokes mended and her vigor restored, we were ready for the next chapter. Excitement brewed at the prospect of Emily’s arrival; she was joining me for a photojournalism endeavor across Georgia. Together, we anticipated a fusion of adventure and creativity, set against the backdrop of this vibrant land.
