The last stretch in Turkey

I made my way through Kars, slowly seeing more and more snow again as I headed east. The last stretch through Turkey ended as it had started, cycling through landscapes with immense agricultural fields in all directions, and receiving tea from people working at gasstations. Close to the border I finally headed away from the highway to cycle along lake Cildir, feeling like offroad cycling would be better than it was close to Erzurum, not to mention getting some reprieve from the traffic. And it was. While I was heading to Cildir around that lake the wind was whipping around me, roughly in the same direction I was heading, and creating waves that audibly crashed on the northern shore. I stopped at a gasstation to call some friends while sheltering from the fierce winds, and once more got offered tea and a place to warm my hands. I got asked what I was doing in "this snowy wintery apocalypse land", and answering that I was heading to Georgia bought me a little snack for on the road. I was still warm when I said goodbye and returned to the bike. As I got there the wind managed to pick up one of my gloves that was carelessly placed on the back of the bike and dropped it in the nearest puddle while I was frantically chasing it, yelling: "noooo, nope, nope, no". Those words meant nothing to the wind. I already had visions of a single painfully cold and numb hand for the rest of the day, but luckily the inside of the glove was mostly dry.

Excitedly I made the last climb and descent towards the border between Turkey and Georgia. The wind was still playing around on the serpentines during the descent. When we were heading in the same direction it seemed windstill, but after turning a corner I would be cycling at an offset of 30 degrees, or would be pedaling in order to get downhill instead of being blown uphill. What followed was a long straight stretch where I seemingly had to pass a couple of kilometers of trucks in order to arrive at the border station. Crossing the border was simple and easy. Yet another half-assed attempt by customs to check my bicycle bags, they always give me a little chuckle. They probably want to do their jobs but really don't want to go through eight bags improvisationally strapped to a bicycle. I don't blame them, sometimes I'm too lazy to get something out of the bottom of one of my bags myself. As the day was nearing its end I used the facilities to stock up on water and headed out for my first kilometers in Georgia.

I headed to Sulda, somehow surprised that the landscapes of Georgia and Turkey looked somewhat the same on both sides of the border (apart from the fact that the Georgians do not cut down all of the trees on their lands), and from there headed northward towards a valley that I had planned my route through. As I made those last kilometers of the day the snow in the valleys had almost disappeared, but the higher mountains and hills were still whitecapped. Some of the most northern-facing natural alcoves protected their little stash of ice or snow. The tracks I was rolling on were rather muddy because of all the meltwater. I headed northwards towards that aforementioned valley, but before reaching that place I made camp for the night next to some pines.

Georgia

That campingsite would be a campingsite I will remember for many days to come. Firstly because the winds that were blowing in Turkey were at work in undiminished intensity throughout the night and the subsequent day, and secondly because, well, I'll talk about that later.

I headed northward over dirt roads and through various villages. The houses were simple, some ruins scattered about, and all lined with rough low walls made from large boulders. One was able to see as many houses as one was able to see bales of hay stacked in the gardens. I also noticed the first church again, realising I wouldn't be hearing the minarets anymore for the coming month. It didn't take long before I reached Gogasheni, where I descended 500 meters into the valley created by the Kura river. Several people tried exchanging some words with me, but I wasn't able to communicate with them. A new country, a new alphabet and a new language that were all alien to me again. I awkwardly pointed to myself saying "Holland", hoping that that would be the name they used for "the Netherlands". I think the message came across at least half of the time.

The valley I had reached looked breathtaking. Completely different from all that I had seen so far. And it probably looks even better in spring and summer! That was a feeling that would persist throughout Georgia and Armenia. An impressive landscape lined with deciduous trees that all had lost their leaves, giving these countries a rough and dark characteristic that probably changes to fairylike sceneries once all flora regains their leaves. As I made my descent I saw more of those cavedwellings like in Ilhara and Kapadokya, and castles on the tops of the valley's hills and cliffs. Here and there I came close to the pines. It is no exageration that I let out a sigh of relief once I was among them and could smell them again. One of the lessons I've learned on the trip is that there's something ingrained in me (or all humans?) causing instant relaxation once amongst green trees. Perhaps a natural impulse? Another one of those little mysteries that I won't be able to unravel.

I spent the entire day following the Kura river along a reasonably busy road until I made a turn eastward just before reaching Akhaltsikhe. A steep little climb, and a little hesitation as it appeared I was skirting alongside a military area. But in the end it was nothing to worry about. And as the sun was setting the distant mountains were bathed in a golden glow, and cast shadows on the hills nearby.

I found a nice place to camp amongst some ruined buildings. Initially believing I could at least shield myself a bit from the winds. They weren't that strong anymore, but sleep is easier to catch when you don't have a tarp flapping right above your ears.

Go back a couple of paragraphs. Remember the aforementioned second reason I wouldn't forget my first camping spot in Georgia? That is because it was the place where I forgot to pack my tent's stakes. You can imagine my face and the things I said to myself as I was unpacking the tent. There I was, evening rolling in, with no way to set up my tent. I looked around for a bit, cursed myself a hundred times, considered sleeping under the skies hoping for the absence of rain, until I realised I was amongst ruins. Fortune in misfortune! So I gathered some of the heavier rocks, remnants of what were once walls, around me and used those to pitch the tent. It was a shitty pitching job, I wasn't protected from the wind, but at least I had a tent. It taught me a valuable personal lifelesson: should anybody ever ask me along for some adventure where life depends on equipment (say a trip to Antartica or a mountaineering expedition) then I should answer with a definitive "no" to protect everybody's lives from my forgetfulness.

The next morning I woke up to rain, that turned to hailstones, that turned to snow.

I had decided to keep following the Kura until Borjomi. I had already seen online (while I was still in Turkey and had an internet connection) that I could buy a simcard there, and I supposed that morning that I'd be able to find an outdoorshop of some kind there as well to buy new stakes. It kept on snowing all the way to Borjomi. I was riding on the one road that led there and trucks kept dumping slushy ice over me and my bicycle, which would freeze brakes and derailleur.

But my clothing was good, and the overshoes and raingear prevented me from getting too wet. My mood wasn't too affected by the troubles, and after some 40 kilometers I reached Borjomi. I managed to quickly find a simcard, but after some internet sleuthing and asking some locals I figured out I wouldn't be getting any tentstakes in Borjomi. As I was shivering outside of the phone shop I realised I had two options. One, take the route I prepared earlier over the mountains eastward, potentially encountering more of the sticky mud on unpaved roads, passing only small villages while carrying a nearly useless tent. Or two, follow the busier roads northward along larger settlements with hotels, and using the Kura river to guide me all the way to Tblisi where there would be some outdoor shops.

The decision quickly landed on option two. Certainly I could always ask people if I could sleep in their house because of the cold, but better safe than sorry. And who knows, perhaps I wouldn't even have to dish out money for hotels if I could succeed in finding heavy rocks to pitch my tent.

The road there was somewhat uneventful. Well, I did have some fights with the local mud, the worst fight I've had so far. A bit stupid too, because before entering that muddy road I had already considered making a detour to avoid clogged fenders and wheels that refuse to spin. Lets just say that I looked properly camouflaged after walking and pushing my bike for a couple of kilometers, and my drivetrain sounded rather unhappy about the experience as well. Gladly I found a little fountain at the end of the day to clean of myself, the bike, and the drivetrain.

I made it to Tblisi in three days, and to my surprise managed to find rocks to put up the tent in all of the days heading there. I spent a day in Tblisi doing nothing more than buying stakes, going for a walk, and cleaning the tent and clothing. Afterwards I set off for Armenia over quite a busy road again.

It's a bit sad that I wasn't able to see more of the natural beauty that Georgia had to offer. I had spent most of my time along rather busy roads where you're paying more attention to the road and the traffic than your surroundings. On the other hand, considering my altercations with the mud, perhaps I saved myself some though days by losing my tent stakes and, as a result, taking the alternative busier route.

Armenia

Who knows. No crying over spilt milk. I managed to reach Armenia that same day I left Tblisi. Now I found myself riding along the river Debed, it being the natural border between the two countries. I would've loved to put a nice picture here with the Armenian flag, but one of the border guards said I had to remove it.

In Armenia the landscape changed quite suddenly. While slowly making my way to the border, still inside Gerogia, the mountains along the plains seemed to push their way inward, forming a valley. The cars made way for trucks from transport companies. In the distance I saw a mist hanging in the center of the valley. As I got closer I smelt burning wood, and realised that it wasn't mist but the chimney exhaust from wood fires that heated hundreds of homes. As soon as I crossed the border the mountains made their last push and formed a narrow valley along the Debed.

Again the ominous atmosphere of leafless trees, black and brown rock, and a lot of abandoned factory buildings made out of dark stone. But when the skies were clear, a clear winter blue, the bright beauty of the place became apparent.

I was in for a little bit of a setback when, on that first night in Armenia, I became ill. Some stomach flu or perhaps a bout of food poisoning (although I really don't see how). Not nearly as bad as in Macedonia though, but not making it easy to cycle around. I spent one day doing nothing, a day traveling a short distance, and then another day doing nothing.

I was a bit annoyed, as I had planned to cross Armenia in a specific amount of time (in order to, after crossing Iran, catch a flight back to the Netherlands around mid-january). But plans never seem to survive the first pedalstroke. And so, that third day, the plans were readjusted. I would be spending two days recovering in a tiny appartment in Vanadzor and afterwards take an alternative route into Iran, not stopping in Yerevan anymore for any restdays. At the moment I seem to be getting better again. There's a couple of mountains to climb ahead of me, and I'm looking forward to cycling them!