True love is the first and last, long and painful
This year we went to Armenia by car. The husband insisted so - and cheaper, and the road is more picturesque. We left Cheboksary on August 7 at 12 noon. The road is already familiar - so we went to the sea, the route Ulyanovsk-Syzran - Saratov - Volgograd. Then they broke through the Internet and compared it with information from friends who had already traveled in the same way. After Volgograd - Elista - Budennovsk - Zelenokumsk - Georgievsk - Prokhladny - Maisky - Vladikavkaz - Upper Lars - Tbilisi - Marneuli - Sadakhlo - Vanadzor. Equipment - video recorder, radar detector, navigator. Car - Mitsubishi Lancer, automatic transmission, there are three of us: me, my husband is an ethnic Armenian, a child. So, the road is familiar to Volgograd, but this year it is busier: people go to the sea, trucks come across in both directions.
My review will be biased towards the everyday side, because when I'm going on the road, I always look at the reviews of those who have already visited these places. What I lack in them is everyday information and the opinions of ordinary people. At the same time, I cannot imagine life without history. But is it really worth mentioning in the report that Armenia is the first Christian state in the world, that 30 years after Byzantium became Christian, and 40 years later - Georgia. Is there really someone else who does not know that Ararat is the non-Armenian name of the mountain, that there are two Ararats: Big - Masis and Small - Sis? To tell in the report the history of the emergence of the temple of Garni and describe in detail the summer residence of the Proshyan kings - Geghard - for this there are excellent books, special sites, this information does not bear the "seal of subjectivity", but I am interested in the personal opinion of those who visited interesting places . I begin to consider my journey from a historical point of view - and I am afraid to hurt someone's feelings. Here, for example, Ararat - its geographical coordinates do not change, but historically this mountain was either in Hayastan, then (after the Russian-Turkish war) on the territory of the Russian Empire, and today - in Turkey. I always think too well about people and it seems to me that it is a well-known fact that Nairi, Akhtamar, Arshak II and Tigran the Great are not only brands of cognacs, but also the name of an ancient Armenian country, the name of a girl from a beautiful legend about love, a monument to which again located in Turkey, the names of the kings, of which one managed to maintain the independence of Armenia from Parthia, and during the reign of another, Greater Armenia stretched from sea to sea. My reference book since school days is “The Tale of the Sasun Bogatyrs”, so in my report I will not intersperse my personal opinion with historical facts and parallels. Someone likes to endlessly watch stupid Malakhov-Malysheva shows, but I just like to read history books. If there is someone who does not know the well-known - you can congratulate Fursenko.
I come to any country according to the principle “Live in Rome like a Roman”, that is, do not violate the laws and customs of the country in which you are a guest, even if the people of this country tell you that “this is your home” - and in Armenia there are guests meet just like that. I can't imagine how you can not learn at least a few simple words and sentences in the language of the country you are about to visit. I had a desire to learn how to read Armenian, no one taught me - I learned it myself with the help of the usual primer of the Soviet times - and the Armenians really like that I can read in their language, understand their speech, I can insert a few of the most common words. However, experience shows that it is impossible to please everyone - well, no, no, we will live like this.
On the first day, we did not reach Saratov 6 km, we stopped at the “Mag” motel, the owners turned out to be Armenians from Karabakh, therefore very black. For a room with two beds, toilet and shower, towels gave one and a half thousand plus 100 rubles for parking. No money is a pity to rest from the road in normal conditions. For me, the main thing was that my husband had a rest, since the path ahead of us was tense and mountainous. On the way, back in Chuvashia, two flies flew into our salon, which the son dubbed Gena and Vovan. Vovan stayed at the motel, and Gena went on with us (overcame all customs without documents, came back and flew out of the window somewhere in Batyrevo, probably was an ethnic Georgian, flew to his homeland, looked and returned to Chuvashia). We got up at 6 am, filled the thermos with boiling water - 10 rubles - and went to Volgograd.
Watermelons and melons are sold everywhere along the highway, in past years they were not there, since we went in July, therefore, you should not buy watermelons at all before August. The price is cheaper on the market. We stopped in some village and bought bottles of condensed milk as a gift - it turned out to be made in the Mari Republic, it is next to us, and it costs correspondingly more than ours. They also took peaches - 150 rubles, blackberries - 100 rubles, tasteless (compared to ours, but there is nothing to say about Georgian).
Next is Volgograd. That's how many times we pass it - and we never stopped at the Monument, we only saw it from the road. This time we drove not according to the navigator, but according to the sign - and ended up right in the city. We did this in vain - the city is very elongated, there were only traffic jams, it was 12 o’clock in the afternoon, and the driving style here is on the verge of stupid, and it’s reluctant to remember about the roads - as after the bombing, even we don’t have such holes in Cheboksary. Right along the way, I had to fill in the route to Elista - we left, spent almost an hour on the city. After Volgograd, the road is unfamiliar to us. On the local radio, they heard about cases of Nile fever and even deaths - they were very surprised, it became creepy. The temperature is plus 37, the air conditioner did not let me feel it, but the bottom of the legs became hot from the heated asphalt. A typical steppe began, which was replaced by an empty Kalmyk steppe of clay-brick color with balls of wormwood and traces of dried-up lakes and rivers. An unusual sight begins immediately after Volgograd - Muslim villages, where signs are in Azerbaijani, the names of cafes are “Dagestan 05”, “Makhachkala”, “Izberbash”, “Madina”, an overnight stay with an aunt with Muslim names, halal meat, belish. Here is a purely Muslim enclave inside the Russian region, against the background of Azeri letters, trucks with Dagestan numbers, women in national clothes, green roofs. Feeling like a stranger in your own land, this is mixed with a sense of anxiety and danger.
From Volgograd to Elista 300 km, you need to refuel in advance, because for a hundred kilometers there is not a single gas station, nothing at all - only a bare flat steppe. Closer to Kalmykia, some lakes came across, there were even people near them. Herds of cows met - and that they only eat here and especially drink, apparently, therefore the cows were without titecs. Still, I had to call at a gas station - they got out of the car, clubs of hot air brought by the hot wind hit my face, a characteristic bitter wormwood smell. We got to Elista and from Elista using the navigator, we filled Cool. The city was struck by the private sector - solid brick houses with pagoda-type roofs. There are only Kalmyks and Kalmyks around with characteristic anthropological features (this is just a fact, not an assessment, the people readily explain the way, that is, they are good-natured).
Before entering the Stavropol Territory no more than 100 km. The same desert road through the steppe with herds of cows. I stopped the exit traffic police raid by car - my husband got out and showed the documents. They began to push overtaking KAMAZ in the field of action of the “overtaking is prohibited” sign. They didn't notice any sign on the DVR, but do they really care about our DVR. All this swarming lasted half an hour under the heat of 50 degrees, the air conditioner was turned on by more than half, the sun is sheer there, and I always worry if something breaks in the car. In general, we drove on, already on the way, my husband said that the Kalmyk traffic cop spoke to him in Armenian: “Inchka poh tour” / Give me money. He also asked in Armenian where he worked. The initial amount was called 2000 rubles. The husband said that he would not give that kind of money, if he wanted to, let him take the rights, and he would eventually go. And the price is red for you - 500 rubles, if you want - take it, if you don't want - take away your rights and write a protocol. Who would doubt that they were not worried about any overtaking - but they gave 500 rubles, since there were only 500 banknotes. After that, I put the stolniki in his bag. However, a Kalmyk who speaks Armenian….
After the steppe, something like a fork with a pointer to Divnoe and Prokhladny suddenly appears out of nowhere. And the navigator matches the pointer to Cool. This is already Stavropol, but there are no border markers. Climate change is immediately visible - trees appear, traces of the harvest from the fields. And where does such a barren piece as Kalmykia come from in this area of the same latitude? Gradually, there are more trees along the roadsides, but there is also anxiety, anxiety - the events in Budyonnovsk are recalled, through which we also go. You can drive along the highway in trucks with weapons, tanks, guns - anything - complete desertion, there are not even traffic police posts that we had previously passed without any pleasure. We reach Budennovsk - an ordinary small town, a lot of the private sector. The difference with neighboring Krasnodar is immediately striking - Stavropol is much poorer in comparison with it. Refueled, then kept on Zelenokumsk and Georgievsk. It began to get dark - and it gets dark here quickly, immediately and very much. We thought about stopping - the most difficult mountainous part of the route is ahead. More precisely, I thought about the stop - I'm worried about my husband so that he has a fresh head, and he says that he can also get to Armenia like that. I was surprised by the absence of everything along the highway - motels, eateries for food, just gas stations, the impression is that the whole Stavropol region lives in anxious expectation of the next raid of the Chechens and therefore does not provide any services to passers-by. Their mood is directly felt: it is difficult for us, but we live. The people themselves are very friendly and kind.
In Georgievsk, they asked the locals about the hotel - they stopped at Yubileinaya. Guarded parking is locked with a guard-grandfather - 100 rubles, we have a triple room for 550 rubles per person. In the room there is an old Soviet refrigerator, a color TV, a sink with cold water, glasses, towels, a wardrobe, a toilet on the floor - shabby and old, like the walls of the entire hotel, well, we just need to sleep and wash. The price includes breakfast, but we got up at 4 in the morning. Grandfather in the parking lot first asked - who are they, why, only then he opened the gate. Georgians from the Mari Republic spent the night in the same parking lot in two BMW jeeps, they overtook us on the road. Apparently, they give the money they save on an overnight stay to traffic cops. They said we would go on together. It turned out that they didn’t turn off the headlights at night and their battery simply ran out - naturally, my husband went to help them (by the way, this is just the beginning of my discoveries about the talkativeness of Caucasians - what was at home !!!! ). It was worth getting up at 4 in the morning to leave the city at 6.
Somehow we imperceptibly drove into Kabarda - there seemed to be concrete letters on the road and a flag - of course, with a green color - at the top. Let's go, everything is calm. There are many walnut trees along the roads. The air is fresh and cool - the proximity of the mountains affects, even damp. We passed the town of Prokhladny itself - its population is mostly Russian. The road along Kabarda is 80-100 km, I was already glad that I left Islam. We drive into Maisky - the post is called Dzhulam or Dzhulab, the birdhouse itself with a ladder, like two floors, everything is lined with sandbags. We are stopped by a red-faced Russian fellow with a machine gun, on which he holds his hands. Asks for documents, open the trunk. And then the beginning of what the entire Internet writes about, and what I also read about. Really rejoiced. We open it, another representative comes up - a Kabardian in the face, vodka attracts his attention - 8 bottles as a gift to Armenia: “Do you have permission for vodka? ” I immediately recall Pushkin’s lines from his Journey to Arzrum, when an Asian-looking inspector asked him for a travel pass, Pushkin handed him a soiled sheet of the Message to a Kalmyk Woman, which the Asian held upside down with an important look and pretended to read. That is, rams consider everyone else to be rams. His husband directly and impudently: “Does it seem to you that my car is a truck, or what? ” Next: what's in the canister, alcohol? There is water in the canister - to wash our hands on the road, but, apparently, in Kabarda they wash their hands only before prayer, and since we do not pray, they think that we do not need water. Come with us. The husband goes to the birdhouse. A healthy Russian remains on the road - this is his business. Starts to get bored. He tells me: “Why didn’t you turn off the car? ” - "Yes, I'm not driving, " - "So you turn the key, otherwise we are tired of breathing these x * azy all day here, " - "H * azy? " “Well, that's how we talk here. Do you want coffee? " - Which? - Soluble. No, it's not coffee. “What about three-in-one cream? ” - No thanks. - I would also drink grain, but there is no place to cook and no time. Oh, poor thing, you've worked hard here, inhaled exhaust gases, you don't even have anywhere to make coffee. Well, change your place of work - why don’t you go into the field (this is what I think to myself, I barely audibly say to the child).
Let's go further. He simply told them: “Well, for a long time we will brainwash each other. You have 500. " - "Okay, okay, take your documents and leave. " That's the price of their knowledge of violations of the rules of DD. While we stood and waited, the gas victim stopped all non-local cars - mainly from Ossetia 15 and Stavropol 26. My husband said that they just went into the birdhouse, threw five hundred on the table and left. And one driver of the Gazelle, when he was stopped, simply said: “Chief, I am empty today, ” and drove on.
We run into one more post in some village: Where are you going - We walk around the Caucasus - And yet, if it's not a secret - It's not a secret, to Armenia, to our homeland. - Open the trunk, what is vodka? What, no vodka? - Probably not. - Have a good trip. Wow, he didn’t promote it, he also said that there would be a place where you can eat next (the time is 8 o’clock, there is a hunt). Apparently honest. By the way, he is also a Kabardian. We saw some cafes - but where those who work in them - did not understand. What are we supposed to do, go into their tavern and look for them, tear them from their sleep? Yes, in FIG.
Of the entire road along Kabarda, 40 kilometers are gravel, chalk is in the air, the windows are closed and the air conditioner is turned on. But there are signs - road work is underway, a brigade number, etc. Nonsense - on paper, probably, repairs have already been done here, and the road is all asphalt, and if you don’t like it, don’t drive. Apparently, Arsen Kanokov and his whole company think so. My opinion: and that Stalin did not send them all along with the Circassians.
Further Elkhotovo - a lot of stories are connected with this name. No posts, already glad that they left. Suddenly, from a car parked on the side of the road, a characteristic black muzzle runs right under our wheels, while indignantly waving as many as two hands, in which - none of them - there is a cherished striped stick. Previously, with these hands, he pulled up his pants so as not to let his legs get tangled. What was he doing there in the car that he didn’t even have time to grab a stick? And yelling: "Stop, stop. " Well, get up. The husband leaves, not understanding anything, but ready for anything. It was like an appeal to the conscience of a negligent loser: “What kind of sign is this, eh, dear? ” - In such a tone, intonation and at such heights, dads talk to their guilty sons. It seemed that the Kabardian would burst with indignation - how is it that the driver dared to break it? There was no sign in sight other than a warning about video recording. The previous sign - overtaking is prohibited - but there was no one in front of us to overtake. Long story short, get in the car. There, the matter turned its main side: “Well, Arthur, let's get down to business. You violated - give me a ruble (1000). “I didn't break anything. If you want, draw up a protocol, but if you don’t want to, here’s 200 rubles for you. And I wouldn't give it, but I don't want to linger. If you want - take the right, if you want - 200 rubles. After the bribe, the car disappeared from the spot - apparently, to finish what, because of which he did not have time to grab the stick, namely, to scratch his burdock. We also drove Elkhotovo, a Muslim village in Ossetia. On the way, a convoy of military Urals came across, all from the 21st region - they waved their hands and honked, it’s nice to see our own for 2000 kilometers.
Then the road to Vladikavkaz - construction is underway in the city, the city itself is quite in colors, there are not very many cars. The private sector is striking - two-story large houses made of red brick, high brick fences, metal gates with patterns, in some places the gates are open and yards laid with tiles are visible, in the yards - foreign cars. I saw similar houses in the Krasnodar Territory - in Anapa, Supsekh. And they scream on TV that they don't have enough money, that their school in Beslan was shot down, that they have unemployment? Yes, these Chechens let their own - fathers, brothers, uncles - shot children, who pay - and they turn a blind eye to everything. This is blasphemy on my part, this is not allowed, is this wrong? And I don’t want to understand this and I don’t even give a damn about their opinion. Yes, Stalin was right - if you don’t want to work, I will send you to where you will die without work. And nothing, got into the cars and drove off. In the Caucasus, they understand only money and power, but they don’t respect money for money, but yes, for power. And the stricter Russia is with them, the more accommodating they are. And nothing will happen to them. Have you ever heard of a Caucasian grain grower, a seamstress, a weaver, just a worker? What about black holes? About budget injections to all these Chechens-Ingushetia-Karachais-Circassians-Kabards-Ossetians? And it has nothing to do with the fact that Ossetians are Christians. They are the same Christians as Muslims. . . In general, mountains are already visible in Vladikavkaz. There are cars from South Ossetia with the letters SOR and their own flag.
After Vladikavkaz, the names came across - Michurino, my husband joked that my mother-in-law works nearby in the country, we have a summer house in Michurinets, some kind of village on A... with a more or less Russian name. There we went into the store - the saleswoman is surprisingly talkative: where are we from, where, how do you like us, don’t think badly about our cops, still, you with non-local numbers, not all of us are like that. They took baklava - she assured that home-made, on a walnut, a nut grows here in every yard (in Armenia, neither the mother-in-law nor the husband's sister recognized the nut in it), home-made cheese, some sausages in the package. Prices are lower than those in Cheboksary, but by their standards, we took the most expensive.
We are approaching the Upper Lars, we drive into the Darial Gorge. I read everything about it on the Internet and imagined it as a terrible road with rocks hanging from above and a cliff on the left, beyond which the Terek is noisy. In reality, everything is not so scary: the road goes downhill, there are markings in two lanes, along the edge there are fence posts, apparently, since the time of Pushkin’s passage here, the road has been rebuilt and expanded, secured by communist forces. We passed the place "Bring me, Lord" - indeed, the road seems to be driven into the rock, and its top hangs over a passing car. Passed, thank you, sir. I have already mentally set myself up that I will not admire too much, so as not to jinx my luck on the road. But the feeling of admiration still overwhelms me, I look, I turn my head to the left - there is a cliff below, to the right - sheer cliffs with sharp or gentle peaks, everything is covered with forest. The rocks, as it were, grow out of one another, they can be seen ahead, they part to let us through. But such tightness, as Pushkin described, is not observed. The Terek flows along a fairly wide valley between the rocks.
We drive into Chmi - the view of this village is unsightly, I wonder if there is gas here? Here we were waiting for the final action from the performance "Give me money. " From the left, a white shirt in a cap comes out, waving a stick. We stop, the husband goes out as usual. I hear: "Go, dear, we'll talk to you. " I hear a few words in fragments, then my husband opens the door with a laugh on his face, takes out a bag with money, sits down and cannot help laughing: “I have never seen anything like this. Even surprising. He says, don’t look at the sign in front of the customs office, drive in the middle, if you take it to the right, they will fine you, this is for trucks. Ride in the middle. - Understood. “Well, Arthur, won’t you give at least 100 rubles for such information? ” Dal. We stand in line at customs. The checkpoint itself is not yet visible, they stood up tightly. Around the rock, on the left is the Terek. Guess how people from the road stand in line for at least 2 hours if there is not a single toilet around, even a birdhouse type, but you need to go to the toilet? Of course, the stones lying on the left are saved - you can hide behind them.
The shore of the Terek, which is not very fast here - for example, an ordinary river - is littered with traces of people, as well as all kinds of cellophane papers and gaskets. To the right of the road you can’t pass - the road rests on sheer cliffs. We also walked towards the river, touched the water - ordinary cold water. Surprisingly fresh, the breeze back and forth, is there really barren Kalmykia somewhere? We stood for two hours, slowly advancing towards the signs. There were no signs. Moreover, it is simply impossible to drive in the wrong place, the line of cars itself directs, and on the right everything is occupied by trucks. Flags flutter - Russia, Ossetia and customs. The signs above the entrances symbolize the type of transport - either a passenger car or a truck. We are stopped even before entering under the shed, asked to take out our bags and go under the roof with things, where there are even benches (there is no toilet). We trudge, we sit down. The husband stays behind in the car.
Even those cars that were after us are passing in front of us - but he is still not there. In front of us, people are pulling their belongings out of the cars, a customs officer in black looks at all the doors, they are loaded and go further than 3 meters to passport control. My husband calls - he needs a passport, and I have it. I give him my passport and wait further. Again, everything starts to enrage me: once again I scold myself that I agreed to go by car, I promise that I will not go anywhere else with him. Finally, he drives up. It was he who was on the x-ray of the car, and there they also needed a passport, which he prudently gave to his wife in Caucasian style - this is not his headache. The customs officer asks to open all the doors, looks into them, once again the question with the canister - Lord, of course, a family with a child on the road for 3 days only needs to suppress alcohol, and indeed - according to the law, everything can be exported from Russia in unlimited volume, but we do not have drugs, weapons and museum valuables. Okay, let's move on to the passport control booth. You can’t understand these Ossetians (they are mostly at customs): they yell at us - sit in the car, we are sitting, then an employee leans out of the booth and: “I’m going to close for a shift change and leave while you are sitting there. ” We jump out, give passports. The seals are slamming.
After 10 meters, the customs officer stops again and asks for passports, “if we have them” - “But how did we get here then, dear? ” - “On my word of honor, only on my word of honor. ” A brilliant answer, if you still knew that this word of honor is stronger than your seals. Everything, in this party a tremendous fresh wind. Three kilometers to the Georgian checkpoint. We drive into the tunnel - carefully, as I read about the pits in it. This territory is a draw and who looks after the state of the tunnel after the communists - no one? We stand in line to Georgia. Flags are already visible - Georgian with crosses and European Union with stars. There are 5 cars before us - a customs officer passes and asks everyone to get out of the car and go inside the building so that things go faster, otherwise there are a lot of cars.
We leave. In front of us is one woman of Caucasian appearance in a headscarf and long clothes, expressing her dissatisfaction with the need to go out. The customs officer explodes, says that this is done for us, so as not to stand in line for a long time. Then he tells her to get back in the car. In general, he did not let her pass, but she ran herself. We go into the building, stand in one of two lines. Inside there is a currency exchange and some text on the walls, but everything is written in letters that look like vomited pasta. Besides, I'm without glasses - I can't make out anything, probably there is something in English. There is also no toilet. Here, carry everything with you (and this is 4 +2 +1 hour + excitement). Everything, as they say on the Internet: you give your passport, you look at the camera, you slap your passport - come in. For some questions - where are they registered. I was even more surprised when some people standing in front of me, after taking pictures on the camera, were asked to go with them - as it turned out, to the exit, they sat there and wrote something on long sheets to which some red serpentine ribbons were attached. The same thing happened with the uncle standing in front of me: where they are registered - the Rostov region - the customs officer went somewhere, left the uncle's passport there, and at the exit we saw him already writing something.
Everything is simple with us: Alik, look here, stamp in the passport, then I, stamp in the passport. We leave, we wait for the husband by car. It all took 45 minutes, everything is calm, decent, and one can feel the breath of strict law: they flipped through the passport from and to, suddenly there is a stamp of South Ossetia. All these terrible thoughts have passed that I will be interrogated whether I consider Abkhazia a part of Georgia or an independent state, and in general - I am with a Russian surname in Georgia... We left the checkpoint. We are going, Stepantsminda and the Cross Pass begin. We look eagerly - Kazbek is there, but the sky is covered with clouds, Kazbek is not visible at all. Warm, fresh, stupefying wind. Who else can boast of relatives and classmates that he had a toilet on the banks of the Terek under his roar and the sight of water boiling from speed (try to fall there - you will die either from speed or from cold). But the Armenian-Georgians have already been here. Probably, the Azeris too, their cars were at the customs.
The most difficult part - the Cross Pass - begins with good asphalt. The husband praises: well done Saakashvili, he built such a road. However, then suddenly a sharp transition to a chalky-gravel surface with pits and heaps of stone. This continues for 40 kilometers, well, 30 for sure. We drive at a speed of 20-30 km, the windows are battened down, the air conditioning is turned on. He no longer praises: Saakashvili is a sheep. Rise-turn-rise-turn, descent-turn, and so on countless times. First, a mountain two km high is visible, then this mountain is already below, and on the left there is a cliff of the same 2 km, or how many of them are there. On the way, we are overtaken by a tall tour bus from Armenia - God, people who know how to drive on SUCH roads deserve to have their hats off to them. On the same gravel, repair work suddenly begins - heavy equipment is on the way, the workers, it seems, they are not at all embarrassed by the narrowness of the maneuver and cliffs with serpentine. The tops of the mountains here are alpine grasses and flowers, there are no trees, I can’t judge the air. There is some snow in the gorges. Herds of cows and, probably, sheep are scattered along the grassy slopes.
Rise-turn steeply 180, again rise, descent, all this is endless. For trucks, there are mirrors on the corners. How do trailer trucks drive here? (There are many of them, mostly with Armenian numbers, there are trucks from Turkey and Ukraine). How do people travel here in winter? Probably, if a hungry family is sitting at home, you will learn to drive on such roads. We passed a yellow narzan waterfall, but did not go out. Further, villages began to come across on -ri, or -ni. New alpine houses for tourists. But it feels empty. Valleys and mountains begin to turn green, trees appear, mountains flatten and lose height, but turns and descents and ascents remain. We stop at a mountain restaurant to eat. We don't have Larry. We ask a woman of 45 years old whether they accept rubles. She is from the USSR and therefore speaks Russian, they accept rubles, 1 lari is 25 rubles here. Menu in Georgian, Russian and English. We sit down, personally I want hot soup. She advises us bowls, we take for everyone + three bottles of Nabegdali water, I have a glass of Saperavi 200 grams and bread. While they are cooking, we take pictures against the backdrop of the mountains, the Georgian church, the mountains here are already green. Our car is covered in white chalk. The restaurant looks very mountainous - the walls and columns are made of local large stones cemented together, a very ethnic look, shelves and tables made of wood, something local is on them - cannons, jugs. A solid European toilet with water and a toilet bowl, even soap is available - this is at an altitude of 2000, how does water get here? At the next table, black Karabakh Armenians are chewing, they speak Russian. There is a plasma panel on the wall, they show some kind of show, which is full in Russia - a Georgian says something cheerfully and jumps into huge panties painted with flowers to the laughter of the public. I did not think that such stupidity is possible in the Caucasus. They bring bowls in cast-iron wide bowls - pieces of beef in vegetable gravy, 300-400 grams for each. They paid 700 rubles for everything.
Much has already been said about Georgian cuisine, so I will manage with a simple word - it is delicious, so that nothing remains on the plate. A large glass of cold saperavi is not bad for me, but I expected more from Georgian wine, and even in Georgia (the best wine of my life is Kindzmarauli, but when was it... ). Georgian children came in and sat down at the table - apparently, their parents work here. When leaving, she said “muggled” to everyone, and they apparently told me please in Georgian. The children added "buy" - they are no longer from the Union and have no idea about Russian. We ate and drank and moved on. We pass an emerald-colored reservoir against the backdrop of grassy mountains. We stop to look at hats from Georgian women - they also take rubles, but my husband does not like the dressing of hats, they just removed the skin from a ram and sewed a hat, even the smell remained. There are a lot of cows along the way - they stand with smart muzzles - lie - rest right on the road. Smart because they know that no one will knock them down on the road. Signal them to let them pass.
Georgian villages look poor, but they are richer than Armenian ones, probably because of the abundance of vegetation. The houses are unprepossessing, on the second floor there is an obligatory veranda under the roof. The skeletons of some buildings are visible - only walls, without roofs. I wonder if there's gas in here or what? We drive up to Tbilisi - then we go to Marneuli, but the signs show only the streets and districts of the city. The air immediately changes - it is hot here, there are surprisingly few people on the street, there are cars - mostly foreign cars, but this is far from Moscow. There are no traffic jams, but a special bold-free driving style is felt. During the journey through the city - and this is about 40 minutes - I saw two women driving, this is progress compared to Armenia. There are - both on the road and in the city - Lukoil gas stations, many Azerbaijani SOCAR gas stations, gasoline is more than 50 rubles. We passed the famous wall above the Kura with a church and houses right in the wall - it seems Mtatsminda.
On the way, we stopped, asked for directions to customs - surprisingly, everyone we contacted speaks Russian, they explain. We were lucky - we met an Armenian car, signaled to it, explained what was the matter, then drove on after them. Then the Armenians had to stop in the city, but they showed us the way. The navigator does not operate in Georgia or Armenia - this is due to military security. Roundabout - there is a pointer to Sadakhlo, this is the name of the checkpoint. We drive there through the villages of Marneuli and Muganlo. We ask Razik if we are going in the right way - they tell us in Russian what is right. The people seem to treat us well. In the villages they sell figs, tomatoes, peaches, even cucumbers and apples on the road. There is a cafe. A sense of security and calmness - the Chechens will not reach us here, the police will not follow us to shake off the dough, and if suddenly we even have to spend the night here on the street, the locals will not allow this, they will invite us to their place. I was surprised by the meeting of women at some tap with water - all with canisters, apparently, there is no running water. The Georgians are all in black tights and long, at least mid-calf skirts.
We drive up to Sadakhlo - the customs officer looks into the salon, asks to turn off the registrar, lower the rear window, sees his son, greets him with a wave of his hand and the word "hello". We drive up to the window - we don’t get out of the car, no one is looking at things, they call us by name - Alik - a seal, Arthur - a seal, Elena - a seal, we just look towards the window, pick up our passports and leave. The inscription on the lawn in Latin letters - Georgia. Not a word in Russian. Yes, who pays, he listens to his music. Although, probably, the salvation of Georgians by Russia from being cut out by the Persians and Turks is also worth something. Well, okay - let them live as they want. We don't lose anything from this. I have no nostalgia and regret about the past - everyone got what they got. Immediately turn to the Armenian checkpoint Bagra. Here you immediately feel that Armenia is nearby - the absence of any order, everyone is climbing in a herd, both trucks and cars, my husband met some Armenian, while we were standing, we started talking. It turned out that there are common acquaintances from combat places, and in the war they were generally close by. He gave us some advice - where to pay those same $ 70 for a car at the entrance, even, one might say, passed it from hand to hand, to whom - a broker, a businessman, I don’t know, but his help turned out to be useful, because after spanking the seal in passport - separately for me and the child, we got out of the car, and for him separately - pandemonium began in general, then my husband said that the computer at customs had recently broken, so there was such a queue - and who enters and who leaves, all in the same building with their documents for cars, money, insurance.
In general, I paid the money, then I went to the insurance office, of which there are apparently invisible near the customs. Insurance is issued for at least 15 days and costs $ 70, you can pay in rubles. From the insurer came out already with a long white sheet with seals - the same insurance. Meanwhile, the time is already 21.30 - and this is already complete darkness, and we still have 75 km to Vanadzor, these 75 km can be safely multiplied by 2 - in the conditions of a mountain road and poor visibility, in Armenia they don’t even suspect about road lighting - they drove home yet 2 hours exactly. I was already so tired of everything - not sleeping normally for three days, not eating for the sake of a mythical meeting with relatives - that it was all the same - we would fall off the road into the abyss, whether we would stand here until the morning or just go. I sat in the back seat, and the son forward. Again descent-ascent-turn - how tired it all is. Well, in the dark you can not see the height of the mountains and the cliffs below. It began to rain, and there was no light on the road, only oncoming cars sometimes. Husband and here managed to keep the speed under 80-90. Finally, Dzoraget. I thought that we would have a road through the Pushkin Pass - it turned out that the road would go through some part of the Tavush region and Debed.
What they talk about - how they arrived, how are you, but with the grinding of all the details, and the host party is especially talkative. Then movements begin, indicating a close meal. Plates and forks appear on the table, dolma is brought in cabbage and a little in grapes. Cheese, fruit, and of course coffee - how can you talk without it, when your eyes barely open even without sleeping pills. We drank for the meeting, then the sister's family decided that it was time to say goodbye - they departed, the husband's mother told me - go, lie down, but how can I not clear the table. I washed a lot of dishes - it was already 2 am, and in a rustic way, that is, without running water. Washing from the washbasin in the same way in a rustic way, and the husband and mother were left alone.
