When you mention Armenia, most people know two things, Kim Kardashian and genocide. Two words that seem to fit together like Ham and Cheese.  I hope there is more. Armenia was once huge.  Unfortunately being stuck between the Persians, Ottomans, and Russians has never been a place where you are guaranteed a quiet life. At various times in between rising and falling empires you were left alone, but that was more the exception than the rule.  Slip  forward a couple of millenia, after everyone has had a bit of a go at wiping you off the face of the earth, we get to now.  A small landlocked country, Iran, and Georgia on opposite sides, Turkey and Azerbaijan on the other. By the way your not talking to last two. As soon as you get independence from Russians, you invite them back again to keep your neighbours at bay. Cheap oil and Borsch, is the up side.

    Another day another border crossing. We meet our guide, and driver. As we drive through the hilly countryside, huge abandoned factories rust away, and sit vacant beside decaying blocks of soviet flats. Armenia was a producer of high tec  products when it was a part of the soviet union. Like all messy breakups, the fun stopped, and the local standard of living dropped like a stone. During the dark years of the 90's people left for anywhere else. Empty houses are plentiful here. It's not long before we get to our first church.  It is the world's first christian nation, and has the oldest christian religion. I think there might be a few more on the itinerary. We spend most of the day driving to the capital Yerevan. Being a small country, we are going to spend most of our nights here, doing day trips out. Yay no packing fo a couple of days.  Yerevan is a modern safe spacious city, thanks to the odd earthquake and soviet planning. It has nice parks, squares and restaurants. We spend our first day walking around, the best bits being Churchill's favorite brandy factory and the Yerevan Cascade. An unfinished grand statement that runs a mile from the war memorial to the city. Don't worry about the odd unfinished section here and there, the walk down the thousands of steps gives you great views of the city, and Mount Ararat. Modern sculptures, non working fountains, and a museum, are there to check out on the walk down. At night we walk into town to the  main square, and it's musical fountains. Followed by  beer, and organized dinner with a bit of folk music. 

    The next couple of days are a blur of monasteries, museums, and mountains. Throw in the odd roman temple, and a 6KM cable car ride built by a rich american to attract people to his hometown. When we get close to Iran we see huge sanction busting trucks selling black market gas on the side of the road. Check out the pics, there was a lot of stuff there. My highlights were the evening barbie that our driver organized with his relatives, the veterans day parade, and our last night where Maria found a great outdoor restaurant. The meal started with a classical orchestra playing, followed by several singers and a band over the next couple of hours. Fine wine and three courses, fifty five bucks, split three ways. We left the locals boogying to doof doof as we had an early start the next day.

    On our last day we head back out the way we came in. After all the only other option was Iran, maybe next time. 

 

 

      A new passport stamp, driver, guide, language, doesn't matter I didn't understand much in the last country either. Pretty much all I know about Georgia is from watching a 90's movie called powertrip. It was about an American company trying to run an electricity  company in the chaos of the collapse of the Soviet Union. Our new guide shows us Georgia has its priorities right. We speed past a huge old crumbly castle to a bomb proof cave that used to be a cold war base. Seven miles long, drilled through a mountain, and fourteen degrees all year round.  The Khareba wine cellar now uses its seven miles of tunnels to store of wine.  The Azerbaijanis proudly told us the had 29 winerys, Georgia has that per mile. They have been making wine for 8000 years in big clay pots buried in the ground. The export wine all over, and it's pretty damn good. Next stop  more wine.tasting followed by lunch with you guessed it , more wine. We arrive at our magnificent hotel  stuffed. We have just enough time to check out our view of the snow covered mountains before dinner. We don't do it justice. 

    Next stop Tbilisi, via a couple of churches .Somewhere here is the dividing line between asia and europe.  We also have a new alphabet, new money, and a new religion. Georgian kings loved to build churches, and every hill top has four or five on it. Georgia has no shortage of mountains, wedged in between the greater and lesser caucasus mountain ranges with another one splitting the country in two.  The churches are mostly ruins, they have a lot of earthquakes here. The best job in Georgia is being a stonemason, as soon as you rebuild all the churches the next earthquake knocks them down again. Perpetual work with a brief holiday in between. The capital Tbilisi sits on a river, surrounded by hills. Old forts and soviet tv towers sit side by side. There is an old town full of restaurants, and the main streets full of modern shops. Of course we can't miss the huge cathedral of Tbilisi which at only 25 years old still looks a bit like work in progress. The stayfree bridge and the interesting unfinished concert hall round out the tour. The old town is also famous for its thermal baths and beauty treatments, but I delegated  them to Maria. 

           After the big smoke, we headed back to the country, continuing our tour of church relics, fine dining, fine wining ,and a couple of nights in a ski resort. Driving along we pass big mounds of dirt on one side of the road. Our guide tells us they are there to make life hard for the russians during their ocasional bits of road target practice. Things have been pretty cool for the last few years, but there are still large russian occupied bits of Georgia that the exiled locals can't return to.  We didn't quite make it to Batumi which they say is Georgia's classy version of the gold coast on the Black Sea. Always next time. Uncle Joe (Stalin) was born in Gori, and I couldn't miss his childhood home, personal armoured railway carriage, and museum complete with a unapologetic view of his benevolent rule. Pose beside the life sized statue then, head for good coffee just across the  street. On our way back to drop Ern off in Tbilisi we finish with a few more petroglyphs, a cave trip and a canyon cruise. Our guides dump us at the hotel just in time for another dinner. No rest here, tomorrow we are off to Armenia.

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     The Caucuses, I can't even spell them, let alone tell you where they are. Three small countries jammed between two huge mountain ranges, surrounded by three of the worlds historical great powers.Throw in three distinct, languages, religions, and alphabets , what could possibly go wrong. It may surprise you to learn that they all have had turbulent histories. I the brief moments of time when the Otermans, Russians or Persians were not invading them, they were slaughtering themselves, or their neighbours. God knows why, but I'm spending three weeks here, If I survive that long.

    Twenty two hours via Doha is Baku. It's the capital of Azerbaijan, and I am pleased to find they have an airfield  here, along with a modern terminal building. Already they get more brownie points than Cuba or England. Always nice to find a bloke with a sign holding your name at the airport. A Nice freeway runs past a couple of huge olympic stadiums lit up in pulsating colours. Giant office buildings  built by some of the world's best architects glow in the twilight. The only building that seems derelict is the 40 story Trump tower. It has no lights on and stands in the middle of nowhere. Apparently it's even caught fire a couple of times recently. Presidential stocktake any one.

            My driver, who thinks he is Ayrton Senna, speaks Azerbaijani, me english, we settle for Russian.  У тебя есть кошка? Do you have a cat? My russian is not very useful. When we get into the middle of town it's a bun fight as several of the main roads have been closed off. The place looks civilised, and my hotel is not bad in a sort of golden soviet style. Of  course they haven't got my name, or the name of my companions on the desk but a quick whatsapp call sorts it all out. Mick emegers  like a bear with a sore head from an afternoon lagar frenzy,to rescue me.  

        Next day with thick heads we start the tour for good. Bubbling mud, flaming mountains and the obligatory COD (church of the day), or two, or three. We check out life in an traditional village, nothing fake here. Life is hard. The locals are pressing cow pats mixed with straw against the wall to dry for winter heating fuel. We eat a beautiful traditional lunch, Babushka cooked, in a crumbly old village house.  There is a small Museum in town full of stuff from the Soviet times. Ah the good old days. Like everywhere the kids are on their phones. We stop at an old quarry where there are some of the oldest petroglyphs in the world. The soviets thought they made excellent road base. Now they are appreciated for their tourist trap potential. Now I now know more about petroglyphs than most anthropologists.   Every night time Maria finds us a spectacular restaurant to eat at. The local potato dumplings, and khachapuri  are cheap and magnificent, but not low cal. We spend most of the days trying to make  room for more food. A couple more of days of churches, palaces, restaurants, and I'm feeling like I'm being made into foie gras. For our last couple of days we head towards the Georgian border and "Sheki" Naira's home town. The market is a highlight, they have everything except shoes in my size. Naira's mum even sells us some socks. The next morning we say our goodbyes to the guides, and walk across the border. We push our way through the Canadians filling out visa forms, and trying to get Minats out of the non functioning atm. They must of upset someone, because we don't need them. A quick stamp, Georgia here we come.

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 Tokyo, the land of drunk salary men, used school girl knicker vending machines and giant fire breathing radioactive lizards. For a people so polite and reserved there is definitely some weird stuff going on in there. Walk past a doorman, buy a drink,swipe you rail pass at the gate, and you can be sure the nearest official will bow and say Arigatōgozaimas (Thank You) . In Akihabara (Electric town) I walk down a little lane full of shops selling electronic bits, the shops are at the best a couple of square meters. Ones full of thousands of tiny switches, the next lightbulbs, then weird electronic boxes. the walkway is a meter wide at the best, you can touch the roof. Hundreds of them jammed in like sardines. I stop and look at something, the bloke behind the counter who is about the same age as me, and has probably spent sixteen hours a day in that dim 4 square meters for the last forty years bows. " Arigatōgozaimas". I would have gone mad with the samurai sword about 30 years ago. I need to know more.

 

 I have an admission to make, I have never been to Bondi Beach. Home of such TV hits like Bondi Indian Surf Rescue and, Bondi dog poo patrol. I don't know how I have missed it. I'm working in Sydney and have Sunday off, so its time to tick the box. They even had a Sculpture by the sea walk to check out , once you got sick of watching tourists getting sucked out to sea by the rip. 

 

 

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The Camino de Santiago on a second hand bike.

   I walked a bit of the Camino backwards about ten years ago. It was way too hard so how could I complete my pilgrimage in a more suitable style? A flight from Pamplona to Santiago de Compostela is under 25 Euros, sounds like my style. I check my pilgrimage rules. Pilgrims must walk at least 100 KM and finish in Santiago. Pilgrims can also travel more than 200km via horse or bike. A pilgrimage must be for religious or enlightenment purposes. Pity, that seems to rule out the plane. Not a lot of free horses around here, so I guess that leaves bike and enlightenment. My trusty steed is a 60 Euro second hand bike from Cash Converters, marginally cheaper than the one they wanted to rent me for seven hundred .

    According to  Google maps the Camino is 719 KM long and you can cycle it in 42 hours. That shows you Google doesn't know everything. My friends have a few weeks, like being organized, so we choose to use an agency that will book our rooms in advance. Our journey is scheduled to take 17 days, with our longest leg 77 km, and most rides about 40 to 60 km a day. They have given us a guide book which describes the walk in detail. Note word "Walk". A day in Pamplona buying Mick a bike, and waiting for the other guys to rock up on their bikes from France we are ready.

    Bikes do not like stairs, rocks, muddy tracks, and steep trails. If we had forgotten, we discovered this on the first day. Day one has all of this as we struggle up to the Camino Del Vento (path of the wind) a ridge covered in wind turbines. The top has a great view, but the trail down looks terrible so we take the old highway into town. It's 4 lanes wide in good condition, and thanks to the new autopista unencumbered with traffic. Fifteen minutes of flying down hill brings us to our accommodation, after taking four hours to get up it.

    And so we settle into our routine. Mick discovered to or horror that our bag pick up is at eight am. The same Mick who when running for the house of reps made the mistake of telling the ABC he never got up before eight thirty. We set the alarm for seven thirty, push stuff into our bags half asleep, then head off for breakfast. Most of the peregrinos start walking early, as they have to find accomodation as they go. When on the path we pass them in the hundreds, mumbling a quick "Buen Camino" to get them out of the way as we go past. Most don't mind, but the odd ones give us dirty looks, as if we are cheating. We don't care, because apart from the odd wierdo walking 60K a day we will never see them again. Michael and Peter start a comp a of guess where they are from. They have about a ten percent success rate. The numerous Italians get grilled as guys both speak Italian, along with the Brazilians as they are generally female and guapa.

     A huge storm is covering France, so it's much cooler than I expected.  I had traded my windcheater for an airline blanket in Doha, they were both the same colour, not a problem in the Caucasus but here I'm feeling it. My fellow cyclists are firm disciples of the cult of the blue line. They have downloaded conflicting suggested bike routes and follow them with a zeal that makes even the most pious of pilgrims look like unbelievers. This is fine until we leave a quite serviceable road for a goat track, then stop for a five minute navigation conference in the drizzle, where it splits into two half goat tracks. Once back on the road they stop again as it starts to rain. I take off and 300 meters over the hill is a bar. I chat to the locals, and do beer, coffee, and tapas as it pisses down. An hour later it stops, the boys are probably still in the jungle, so I spend a pleasant arvo riding the backroads to our next destination. 

   There are all sorts walking. We see pilgrims that look like Charles Manson/David Koresh walking very slowly, one distinct step at a time in a religious rapture, with their little band of followers behind. Many are dealing with some sought of trauma, drugs, breakups, mental illness, loneliness. There are Mothers and daughters, church groups, and lots of solo travelers. Since they all walk at the same speed they quickly make friends after a few days and become little groups.  

    Burgos and Leon are big cities, with night life, and bars full of tapas. Somewhere in the center there are a couple of days of riding though flat boring fields.Somewhere around here I had a vision of Jesus emerging from a church being followed by a brass band. I need to drink more water. Mostly we stay in small towns and live on the ubiquitous "Menu Peregrino". Three courses, for lunch or dinner, with wine for about ten euros. Great bike riding stoge. 

    The last bit is the hardest, my trip description only had a vague mention of hills. We spend four hours going straight up after a 50km ride one day. Then Mick and I abandon the blue line cult only to get lost in the forest and rained on the next. If I had wanted to get wet I would of gone to England. Sarria is one hundred kilometers from Santiago, the minimum walk for a pilgrimage. Here the crowds really pick up, and the trail is covered with school kids and limping hardened peregrinos.

           The last day is not looking good. A bad forecast, the weather radar is showing lots of rain, and there is lots of hills in our path. We get going early (for us) and get a good twenty k in while watching the rain fall all around us. It rains while we have morning tea. When it stops we head off again. Only thirty klicks to go. I'm thinking I could just about handle thirty kilometers riding in the rain, when it starts again. It was a thought not a invitation. A bar appears, more coffee.  We walk outside, its bucketing, we go back inside. A team conference decides its going to get heavier the longer we wait. As I get on my bike it seems to have slowed to a light drizzle, then it stops. Twenty to go I'm still dry, but the road is wet. I'm happy I got the bike with the mudguards. We are riding up ten kilometers of hill. Ten to go. It starts pouring. I duck into a Pandaria and get a torta de manzanas, while the others hide in the bus stop. Five to go It's all downhill.  We get to our hotel after annoying the locals by following the blue line the wrong way down a one way street. It's a miracle, I'm still dry. Must have been something to do with all those churches I visited in the Caucasus. I get my final stamp in my Pilgrim pass.

     If you don't have the time the bike is a good way to go. The up side is it's about twice as fast as walking. The down side is you don't get as much of the people experience that is really what the Camino is all about. Booking your rooms in advance, means you can't choose to ride more or less, take a rest day, stop somewhere that takes your fancy, or avoid the bad weather. It also saves you the hassle of fighting with the hordes to get a room at the end of the day. The upside is they cart your luggage from hotel to hotel.

           I'm at the cathedral, I have completed my pilgrimage. I take the pic and donate my trusty bike to a local charity. Thanks to Mick the organizer, Peter and Michael for the company. Raw travel booked the hotels. For the last time "Buen Camino".

 

     There is nothing better when you are traveling than a good church . Who could forget the Sistine Chapel, or the gold covered La Compagnia de Jesus. The Caucasus, three different religions, in three different countries, this is going to be great.

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    The West Bay Movenpick hotel is nice and in the business district, on the other side of town. They let me check in 5 hours early and check out 4 hours late, gotta give them a plug for that. Quick shower, and it's off to the mall to buy a bus pass. They have every franchise known to man here making food so bland that you can't really tell the difference between it and the napkins. At least you can find good coffee and cake. Feeling fatter and sicker, I head off to the LG store to buy a bus ticket. Interesting concept, no signs to tell you, but it's the only place apart from the main bus station that sells them.  Air Conditioner, 60" telly, or ten dollar bus pass from under the counter., The museum is 5 miles away and the bus goes right past the front of it. I mean that literally. I start pushing the button 500 meters before the museum, but the bus cruises on till the next stop 1.5KM up the road beside a chain link fence guarding a whole lot of sand..

    The national museum is great. Some one spent a pile of cash, on a great looking building, and an interesting layout. It tells the story of Qatar. Just in case you missed it I'll fill you in. For most of history no one really wanted a 12,000 square km sand pit. The 25,000 locals spent the winters watching their goats freeze in the desert, and their summers getting the "Bends" diving for pearls. Diet mainly consisted of dates  and frozen goat. This went well until someone discovered 51 trillion cubic meters of gas under the place. Add another 3 million Indians, Nepalese, and Filipinos, to look after the locals. Then build a whole lot of big empty things out of concrete for some unknown reason, and you are here.

    Well that killed 4 hours, not wanting to repeat the walk, I ask various guards, shuttle drivers and information desk people where the nearest north bound bus stop is. It's obvious no one here catches the bus. Even the tourist information had no idea there was a bus. I walk out front to the express way, a click up the road to cross it and another one and a half till I spot a bus stop on the other side of the road. The whole time busses have been whizzing past  me. What goes up must come down so they say, I give up cross the road again and catch the bus south past the museum and into town. The center of town isn't that exciting, but it is where the main bus station is. I get off the bus, walk across the station then back onto the same bus. The same guys who built Myki must have been here. Back around more of town, was that the museum again. Up the express way, no stops, then get off a couple of blocks from my hotel. Good points, It's cheap, it's killed a couple of hours, and I have seen a lot of town.

     Next morning I'm awake at five, breaky not for another two hours, so I watch half an hour of American crap, then try to have another quick nap. It works, I wake up at five past ten. Bugger breakfast finishes at ten. I race downstairs, as they are turning the bain maries off. Fortunately they leave all the stuff out for another half an hour. Book, Swim and Shower, it's time to get outa here. The 777 bus stop is right out the front of the hotel. It shoots past the museum, and straight to the airport. At least they have their priorities  right.

There may be other highlights in town. The Museum of Islamic art is meant to be pretty good. For a couple more pics of the place click here.

Cheers 007.

 You know how I love a family holiday. Not with my family, there is only one of them left, and he doesnt ski to well with a new hip and dodgy knees.  Skiing in Japan with the goddaughter and family, I jumped at it. The fact that I only been skiing twice in twenty years didn't cross my mind. Until I got here.  Madero s two hours  on the train from Tokyo, and covered in meters of powder snow. Two Hundred mm of powder is pretty good in oz, meters of it is unheard of. Throw  in the fact that every time I go skiing, the technology has totally changed, and here I'm a senior citizen. (cheap ski passes).Time to dig out the Sorrells and Ventile Jacket  This could be interesting.

 

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