We stopped in Garni on our way back from Noravank. The temple is located not far from Yerevan and, judging by the large number of tour buses, is one of Armenia's most popular attractions.
The temple was originally built in the 1st century AD and dedicated to the ancient Armenian sun god, Mihr, but as usual, it was destroyed by a strong earthquake and rebuilt only hundreds of years later by Soviet craftsmen.
The temple stands on a high promontory, surrounded by the Azat River. The steep slopes serve as an impregnable barrier, always protecting the temple from enemies.
The structure is impressive, and certainly surprising in its appearance; after all, we are in Armenia, not Greece.
We planned to travel to Batumi the next day. I spoke with the taxi driver about the quality of the road heading towards Georgia from Gyumri. He assured me it was quite decent, perhaps even better than the road from Bagratashen, so we could safely drive.
This morning, we finally made it to Vernissage, which we'd been unable to visit the previous days. There aren't many vendors on weekdays, but you can still buy all the souvenirs you need.
We left Yerevan around 11 o'clock. While the road from Bagratashen winds through mountains dotted with green forests, the landscape towards Gyumri is more deserted, but no less picturesque.
The road really turned out to be in very decent condition, and we reached Gyumri, which at various times was known as Leninakan and Alexandropol, in less than an hour and a half. The Bavra checkpoint is just under 50 kilometers from Gyumri, but the further you drive from the city toward the border, the road changes noticeably, and not for the better. No, it's still asphalt here, but with huge potholes and cracks, so our speed dropped significantly, and we spent about an hour on this stretch.
I pulled up to the checkpoint. The border was quiet, not a single car except us, just the wind blowing tumbleweeds along the road. A border guard sat in a booth near the barrier, half asleep. Not particularly pleased with my appearance, he gestured to the building across the street. I went down to the semi-basement, where two Armenians were sitting in a smoke-filled room. I handed the older one my documents. He began filling out some forms by hand, informing me that I'd need to pay a fee at the bank. Everything was unhurried, but quite friendly. I paid some money for filling out the documents; I don't remember exactly, but I think it was around 20 drams. Then I went into the bank. The bank is a room about two meters by two meters, with an open door through which I communicated with the bank employee. I didn't go into the bank itself, so I stood outside the entire time while the employee processed my payment on an old computer. It cost me another 80 drams, making the total for leaving Armenia about 100 drams. Afterwards, he gave me a receipt and sent me into the next room, where a uniformed officer stamped my passport and my wife's. She had been sitting in the car the whole time, so her presence wasn't required.
The barrier slowly rose, and we entered neutral territory. There was no road, only a direction, and that direction ran along potholes and ruts, fortunately not far.
The Georgian border, by tradition, is more civilized. Passengers are asked to exit the car and go through passport control in the adjacent building. I slowly approach the guard's booth. My documents are checked, my passport is stamped, and I wish you a safe journey. It's worth noting that there's no one else at the border except our car, and the officers are clearly bored. It would seem that all the formalities are over, the entry stamp in my passport is in order, but no such luck. One of the Georgian border guards eagerly checks my trunk, saying no problem. I get out of the car and open the trunk. There's a suitcase in it. I offer to open it, but he says no need. A 10-liter can of gasoline is in a bag tied to the back of the car—just in case, since we're traveling by car, after all. He asks what's in the can? I boldly answer, "Gas." A short pause, and the Georgian replies, "This is a big problem." I'm perplexed. "By law, importing gasoline from Armenia into Georgia in any quantity, even 100 milliliters," the border guard calmly informs me. "So what should I do? Return to Armenia, pour it into the tank, and then you'll be able to pass." I remember that I'll have to pay another 200 drams for entry, and then another 100 for exit, and this is for just 10 liters of gasoline? No way, I explain the situation to him, and he seems to understand. A sizable crowd of bored border guards has already gathered around the car, shouting "Drugs?" and "Weapons?" Someone, learning that all this fuss is about 10 liters of gasoline, says to let me go and save me the embarrassment, but the border guard seems responsible and radios his superior.
A couple of minutes later, the boss arrives and, not quite understanding the issue, lunges like a bull at a red rag at the St. George ribbon tied to the rearview mirror inside the car. He starts yelling, "You can't take that into Georgia, take it off!" The border guards surrounding the car, apparently stunned by their boss's actions, quieted down and began to disperse. I played dumb and stood there, doing nothing. Realizing I was only carrying 10 liters of gasoline, the boss ordered me to leave and quickly left. The border guard who had started this whole mess, apparently not happy himself, told me I could leave.
We crossed the border, but it left a bad taste in our mouths. No, I'm not trying to stir things up, and I'm not saying that crossing the Georgian border is a nightmare, but I had to cross the border ten times in different parts of this country and still run into one idiot.
But today's bad luck didn't end there. At 3:00 PM, we left the Ninotsminda checkpoint, filled the tank with gas, entered "Kutaisi" into the GPS, and, following its instructions, set off. From Ninotsminda, or more precisely Akhalkalaki, there are two roads: one via Akhaltsikhe, where we had been on our first trip exactly a year ago, and the other via Bakuriani. Since we were in Akhaltsikhe, we therefore chose the route via Bakuriani. Moreover, it's also much closer, and this turned out to be a fatal mistake.
A few kilometers after Akhalkalaki, the asphalt suddenly ends, and a fairly tolerable gravel road begins, lasting about 10 kilometers. Small Georgian villages dot the road, and judging by the looks the locals gave us at our car, tourists don't come here often, and certainly not in cars. The gravel road soon ended, too, turning into a track along the green slope of a sizable mountain, between huge boulders. Somewhere on the ridge, a Ural truck was visible, slowly climbing. I drove a few hundred meters further, but the boulders finally blocked my way. I wanted to get to Borjomi; the road from there was excellent, but the GPS said it was still a long way off, and the fuel gauge kept treacherously dipping. I had to admit defeat in this battle and turn around.
We headed to Akhalkalaki. I stopped at the nearest gas station to top up my fuel. I asked the attendant about the road to Borjomi, and he laughed and said there was a road, but it was impossible to get there in a car like mine. I'd already figured that out myself. It was better not to ask the locals and trust the mindless electronics. So if you're driving a car or even an SUV, I don't recommend driving through Bakuriani.
Another reason to travel through Akhaltsikhe is that the route runs past the Khertvisi fortress.
They entered Borjomi just as it was getting dark. They stopped at a roadside tavern for a bite to eat, then, refreshed, continued on toward Kutaisi. But after dinner, they really didn't want to drive that far in the dark, and the tavern owner offered to let them spend the night with her.
For a modest fee of 20 lari, we were given the house to ourselves. In the morning, it turned out to have a picturesque view of the Kura River and the surrounding mountain range.
Next up will be Batumi and a trip to Turkey.
Source: travel.ru