Transit Adventures

The Marshrutka.

Ted, as he named himself, must have been at least 75 years old. I met him in the midst of being yelled at in Russian by the driver for the marshrutka (a large van) taking us from Yerevan, Armenia to Tbilisi, Georgia. I had handed the driver money but was coming to understand that he wanted more. When I handed him another 1000 dram note (about three dollars) he angrily waved me off. Having spent some time now in cash oriented economies (I had to learn to stop thinking I could use a debit card for my 3 dollar coffee at Starbucks) I understood the problem to be the classic exact change issue- which I did not have.

Enter Ted in his tweed suit, plaid tie, and a flat cap (or something close to it). When he spoke I could barely catch his quiet words. For a moment I was unsure if he was actually trying to join the driver and my wild conversation of two people flailing arms yelling past each other in totally different languages. The driver was convinced that I spoke Russian and could understand him.

“Miss? Miss?” Came Ted’s voice from the side. “Do you speak English?” He said very slowly, like his words came from an old engine that had not been started for some time.

Finally my brain registered the sentence coming from my side. “I do speak English.”

“Ahhh, you’re American.” The old man smiled. I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment, an insult, or a mere observation. You never can tell. “He wants you to give him 500 dram more.”

Ted was quiet and seemed unsure of his English- but it emerged slowly and in perfectly formed sentences. He was fluent but obviously had not spoken in a long time.

I answered. “Yes, but I don’t have exact change. I have been trying to communicate this. I have this 1000 dram bill left. That’s it.” We wouldn’t get into the other currencies I had with me- dollars were usually welcome anywhere but they guaranteed you to get ripped off. Plus, I was trying to work my Armenian dram so that I would barely have any left over when I made it to Georgia.

Finally the situation was rectified by a youth who traded me some coins for my 1000 and I was able to take my place standing with the other passengers aimlessly waiting until the marshrutka had reached full capacity. I knew it would not leave until every seat was filled. I was a curiosity for the rest of the passengers- Armenians and Georgians.

I am not sure when it was over the years of solitary travels that I lost consciousness of the fact that a lone female making her way through such countries is generally an oddity. It is probably because I have embraced it. A single female is not threatening, and even more, everyone feels some sort of desire to guide and protect her while she is visiting their strange land. I am never lacking for conversation and hospitality.

The previous few days I had crisscrossed nearly every corner of Yerevan on foot. I love to walk cities- you experience them much better that way. I would return to the apartment in the evenings to a smiling Armenian version of a bo’ab. “Hello bootiful girl.” Was all he ever said to me. I had been a bit nervous the first time he jammed himself in the small elevator with me as I made my way to the 8th floor of the old Soviet concrete building. After a couple days I got used to it, realizing he meant escorting me as a courtesy- and of course he was curious.

Yerevan.

But back to the marshrutka- it was nearly an hour before we left. Sixteen people jammed into a van flying down a road toward Tbilisi. We would have to go the “long way” since the route could not longer go through Azerbaijan. It was quite impossible for Azeris and Armenians to enter each other’s countries these days. The last time I had traveled in such a style was with my brother the past summer. I laughed out loud when I recalled a vision of him crammed into the middle of one row of the van, all 6 feet 3 inches of him, nearly in the laps of the Egyptian men around him. I had been the only woman on that particular trip- we were headed from Cairo to the Western desert oases towns. I had been vaguely amused see to my “little” brother assume responsibility for “protecting” me from the penetrating stares and comments from the men on the journey.

This trip had no such issues. Besides, Ted had already assumed the role of my guide and protector. At each town he told me details- here in 1988 nearly 25,000 people were buried in an earthquake. Entire families disappeared. This church was built in memory of them. In this town there is a stone bridge that is 750 years old and still in service. He beamed with pride. Ted, it turned out, was born in New York and had learned his English in his youth though he couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken it. He reminded me of my grandfather on road trips every time he mentioned details about each village we transited. In fact, they are probably the same age.

The marshrutka traveled into terrain I hadn’t expected. We followed a river after we made our way though a snow covered mountain range. The scenery was almost heartbreakingly beautiful. Perhaps my infatuation with snow and the cold had come from recently finishing Orhan Pamuk’s novel of the same title.

The river stop.

Finally, on a stop by a river, we took a mid-journey break. Ted took me by the arm to escort me- something I only ever see in old movies- to a table near a flowing fountain that overlooked the river. “Share my breakfast with me. And you can wash here- this is pure, clean, water.”

He told me about his family. He was going to Tbilisi to visit the graves of his parents. He did so once or twice a year. For some reason his wife lived in Moscow. His children lived in Europe and the US. His granddaughter had just finished her medical degree. As we split the bread stuffed with spiced potatoes and cheese I thought to ask why he had left the US long ago or why his family was scattered across the globe. But my American reserve made me think this was too personal of a question. He wrote the name of a town and church I should visit outside Tbilisi- the best church in all of Georgia, he said. I told him I lived in Cairo. He wanted to hear about the revolution. I wondered how many things he has seen and been a part of in his long life. I wondered what it had been like to live under the Iron Curtain.

The trip to Tbilisi took only 6 hours. The Georgian immigration officer lit up with delight when he saw my American passport. Apparently Georgia was one of the places in the world still thrilled with the US.

“How long will you stay?”

“I am afraid only 4 days.”

“Ohhh…” He wagged his finger scolding me, “You must stay longer!”

Tbilisi reminds me vaguely of Budapest. It might be the bridges and the river. Unlike Yerevan, it has a great deal of baroque. Yet it is still most evidently poor and has rough edges. It has a bit of a wild feel about it. I look forward to further exploration.