Winnipeg Free Press

I drove, yesterday, along possibly the most spectacular stretch of road that I have ever driven  in the world; it was through the Gorge de Galamus, tucked away in the southwest of France.

The gorge is only about seven kilometres, but this extraordinary geological fault is over 200 metres, and the road precariously built along the top offers views that will stay in one’s memory for ever. If one has the time to explore by foot, there are paths deep in the gorge that lead to a remote and mysterious Hermitage, through ancient caves and past a wide and magical array of flora. For the particularly brave, the sport of “canyoning” in practiced here, and involves hurling one’s self in at the top of the canyon and hoping to appear at the other end relatively unscathed; actually, it looks like a lot of fun!

The reason for being there was that the Tour de France whizzed along the main Perpignan to Foix road about three miles south, and I wanted to watch. Actually accessing the tour is not an entirely simple matter as roads are blocked and closed in every direction for hours before. I chose to get to St. Paul de Fenouillex to watch, and thus had to drive through the gorge to get there.

Watching the tour is an interesting exercise; there is a long build up. Starting two hours before the actual race arrives, the “caravane” passes through; this is a long parade of vehicles and wonderfully decorated floats speeding by at about 60 kph, and tossing souvenirs out at the spectators. Key-rings, hats, samples of washing powder, pretzels and t-shirts all flew out causing an almost unseemly scrum of folks rummaging for pillage. Fortunately the Vittel folks who were distributing water did so very slowly!

This lasts for the best part of an hour, with the vehicles spread well out (they do, after all, have a 200 kilometre parade route) and interspersed with an astonishing number of support vehicles.

Finally the crowds start buzzing and the leaders come into sight and speed by with a dozen camera-crews perched on the back of motorcycles giving them no room at all; zipping along at about 50 kms through ancient villages with helicopters buzzing overhead and motorcycle crews within 1 metre of you must be a touch daunting, but nothing compared to the Peleton. The bulk of the riders swarm through in about two minutes in a fast-moving scrum, followed by dozens of vehicles with extra wheels, frames, water, security, bells and heaven knows what strapped onto the tops and sides.

It is amazing just how many support staff are needed for le Tour. It is also astonishing just how fast this parade moves; determined, sweaty and fast. Very fast indeed; these are immensely strong cyclists, and they move.

And as soon as it began, it was over again, A long build up to a very intense climax, and then quiet.

So we drove back through the gorge, past the ancient Cathar castles at Perypertuse and Qeribus to Esperaza, and a well deserved glass or two of the local Cabernet Rose.  

Tbilisi is rather wonderful; picturesque, busy, interesting and comfortable.

It is impossible to imagine that a scant twelve years ago the city was in the grip of civil war and a complete economic distress. Unemployment sat at 80%, electricity worked for, perhaps, two hours each day and water supplies were sporadic. Now, only a decade or so later the city hums, construction is everywhere, markets are full and the city clearly has a purpose. I love it.

This was my second, and I am sure not my last visit, to Tbilisi, and yet again I was captivated by the collection of eighteenth century buildings being beautifully restored in the old town, the parks soaring high above the city offering an easy respite from the 35C heat and the magnificent public buildings.

And did I mention the food? Such artistry with the freshest of ingredients; as a friend apoligised on the first evening, Georgians are too poor to be able to indulge in pesticides and fertilizers and so all of their food is organic. Eccentrically shaped tomatoes bursting with flavour, cucumbers, aubergines and every other vegetable one could imagine vied for space on the groaning tables. Their masterful use of walnuts, mixes into a hummus-like paste with garlic and a hint of spice defies description; and Georgian wine, of course, grown in the Eastern Telavi district close to the Azerbaijan border was magnificent.

Which all led to the bath. In the centre of town are a number of odd, beehive-looking structures spread over the area of a city block. These are, in fact, the individual rooms of the bath houses. One rents a private suite comprising of a bath and massage area along with a room with couches for relaxing for 50 - 100 Lari ($30 - 60) per hour; the larger rooms will easily accommodate six to eight people. Additionally, one can book a massage - in fact, a rough “loofahing” that brings one’s skin down to a pink, tingling bedrock - for a supplementary 10 Lari ($6) per person. Great value, and a marvelous way to pass a couple of hours with friends.

The bath was, in fact the last event of a fabulous journey through Armenia and Georgia other than a fine dinner with friends that evening. Now it is time to look at the next odyssey, perhaps flying to Baku in Azerbaijan, and then heading across the Caucuses by train to the Black Sea? A side trip to the remote mountain region of Svaneti is possible and interesting. And finally, I would still like to take the ferry across the Black Sea to the Ukrainian a journey that was abandoned due to terrible weather a couple of years ago.

The only certainty is that I will be back to the Caucuses.

There are few places in the world where Stalin is regarded as a Local Boy Made Good, but Gori, in central Georgia is such a town.

Stalin’s birthplace is now home to the large and interesting J. Stalin’s State Museum. This is no ordinary museum, but the facility also houses an “institute” where Stalin is endlessly studied; these studies, we were told by a young and rather earnest guide centered on three issues: firstly whether Stalin was, in fact, a Great Leader and what those qualities of leadership might be, secondly his role as a military strategist and thirdly the concept of a cult figure in history. And so to the museum; an interesting collection of memorabilia starting from his early involvement in the Georgian revolutionary movement in the early twentieth century all the way to an odd interpretation of his role in the development of the Soviet Union (almost single handedly, one is left to believe) and the prosecution of the second world war.

History, as we know, is always written by the victors, and here was a microcosm of that principle. The history of a region and an important political movement displayed through the peculiar prism of the few remaining Stalinophiles. It was a time and belief-warp that was well worth a couple of hours; a curiosity of history that left one almost questioning the “truth” as told by European and American text books. 

It is easy to understand how warped and distorted historical writing can become, and this reinforcement alone was a reminder that the occasional brush with the Other Side can only reinforce one’s own appreciation of historical reality, and the importance of questioning everything that is purported to be political or historical truth.

I am glad it was a sunny day.

The journey was rather interesting in a number of ways; driving from the Turkish border with Armenia in the south directly north to the Russian border with Georgia in the north was instructive in the arcane squabbles of the region and as an exercise in comparative geography and food.

I like borders, particularly remote land crossings. I have done it a lot, and never tire of the process. These borders, however, are a bit different. The Turkish/Armenian border is locked up tight, and the Russian/Georgian frontier bears a sign saying “Border Locked”. It is a reflection of the tensions within the region, and grudges dating back centuries.

Suffice it to say that Armenia does not get on well with its neighbours; Azerbaijan to the East prohibits any traffic with Armenia mostly as a result of a difference of opinion regarding the territory of Karabakh. As a result, one can only enter from Georgia. The Georgian’s problems with Russia stem from a difference of opinion regarding the status of the territories of Abkhazia and South Ossetia.

The issues are complex, of course, but all have at least some of their roots in the history of the middle of the last century when Stalin forcibly moved populations around the USSR for any number of purposes; added to the centuries of regional conflict, there are a lot of folks living on land in the Caucuses who either don’t want to be there or who want the land that they occupy to belong to someone else. 

With all of this history ringing in our ears we headed north. Georgia is an absolutely magical country. From the dramatic mountain scenery to the rather quirky and whimsical architecture of its capital, Tbilisi, I love it all! But our first order of business was to drive north along the “Georgian Military Road” (or საქართველოს სამხედრო გზა as it is referred to locally), was constructed by the Russian military in 1799, and to this day offers the primary north/south link through the region.

The road passes through some magnificent countryside, and past the ancient church site at Ananauri, through the ski resorts at Gaudari (by now we have climbed to over 2000 metres) and finally to the end of the road at Kazbegi, and the four kilometre hike up to the Tsminda Sameba church. Well worth the effort!

The views are awe-inspiring, the villages remote and secure, the people hospitable and the local, Georgian wine wonderful. All in all, a fine destination to explore, and a political and cultural mosaic that will keep conversation flowing for hours.

Tomorrow, Stalin!

Once outside Yerevan, time seems to slip back into some series of distant pasts. Village life has changed little in the last hundred years, and looks self-contained; crops in the fields, villagers working the land and using horses and carts to get around; little worry there about the price of gas.

And ever present are the remarkable churches and monasteries of the Armenian church. Church life is strong here, the country became the first officially Christian kingdom in AD 320, and since then the church has become an embracing and powerful tool that unites both the three million Armenians living in the country and the ten million Armenians in their global diaspora.

We visited several stunning sights including the “Holy See” of the church at Etchmiadzin where the Catolicus resides, and the sprawling campus houses the government of this mighty organisation. We also visited the remote and stunning monastery at Geghard and happened upon a baptism.

Now I am not conversant with the Armenian orthodox sacraments, but I am reasonably sure that contemporary baptisms do not include a sacrifice; however, this one did, and once the baby had been accepted into the church, a sheep was ritually sacrificed in the grounds outside, and off everyone went to a party. A fascinating scene, and a wonderful opportunity to become a flake of Armenian life.

It would be churlish not to mention the Yerevan Brandy Company (in Armenian: Երևանի Կոնյակի Գործարան). An obligatory visit to this hallowed organisation is followed by a lavish tasting opportunity, and the chance to learn about some of this brandy’s more loyal fans. Winston Churchill was so keen on the stuff, that he consumed a bottle a day for many years. Stalin himself shipped over 350 bottle a year to London for the statesman to imbibe; now when one considers that brandy wasn’t Churchill’s only tipple, the man’s alcoholic consumption was epic.

The only other fact of interest, and a degree of wistfulness on the part of our guide, was that this venerable institution is now part of the giant French group Pernod Ricard. 

So back to the city, and yet another astonishing dinner - this part of the world is not short of fine food for visitors.  

Nobody could accuse Yerevan of being a particularly beautiful city, but it is actually rather interesting, and well worth a couple of days of any travellers’ time.

The city’s history dates back millenia, but the current Yerevan (the name was changed from Erevan under the Soviet regime for some reason I could not quite grasp) was laid out in the 1920s, and has the characteristic wide boulevards, large squares and circles common in cities of this genre; unlike Canberra and Delhi, other examples of this style, however, Yerevan is punctuated with wonderful examples of Over The Top Soviet street art.

Giant Heroic Workers, monumental stars and strikingly posed defenders of the faith/country/poetic style abound, and I love them! The are a passe art-form, I will concede, but there is nothing like a thumping great, concrete Heroic Bus Stop with an attendant statue of a smiling Quota Exceeder to send the old pulse racing.

Not to mention, of course our dazzlingly beautiful and fascinating guide Marina, who introduced us to the charms and curiosities of Yerevan. And they are many and varied, among them a most moving monument to the Armenian Genocide that started in 1915, and whose savagery and legacies resonate to this date. There is a marvellous depositary of ancient manuscripts, the Matenadaran, and wonderful streets to stroll and find old churches and the odd building from the 19th century hidden away peacefully in some quiet square.

The real joy of Yerevan, however, is the accessibility of the magnificent heritage sites that lie within a couple of hours drive (this is only about 31 kms on the startlingly potted Armenian roads), of which more tomorrow.

Well, I am in Yerevan and, oddly enough, so are my bags.

It is an interesting city - built mostly after 1924 in the early Soviet style, with little attentioin to budgets, and much attention to dramatic buildings and street art; I like it, but it is a bit dusty, and there are quite a lot of unfinished projects around - rather a building site in ways, but a friendly one. I was here about eighteen months ago with a friend, and while I would not say that it is unrecognisable, the pace of development has been really quite staggering.

There is a great cafe culture in the city, and the coffee is good; many street cafes where one can sit with a coffee and bottle of water ($1.50 for the two) and sit people-watching for hours. It is a sunny day today, and Mount Ararat is visible just across the border. With a bit of concentration, the locals say, one san see the place that Noah’s Ark came to rest; I could n’t wuite see the site, but I can only assume it was the haze.

Now I am off to ride on the Metro (15cents per ride) and visit some outlying suburbs - always an interesting indicator of a city. Tonight I will dine with a couple of Armenian colleagues and pepper them with questions!

All in all a good place to be, and a strategic base to explore the Caucuses from.

The world’s airlines are falling into very deep trouble as the price of oil reaches uncharted levels. Despite people from Steven Forbes to Saudi Princes trying to talk down the price it keeps rising.

A report last week in the travel trade journals was worrying. At $130 per barrel, the world’s airlines face a $30 billion increase in their fuel costs. The industry feels that the maximum revenue they are able to raise is $5 billion.

This leaves a large $25 billion hole. How can it be filled? Realistically there are few options as the banking industry itself is reeling from its own economic issues and are unlikely to be in a position to help much. There are certainly limits to the fares that can be charged, and the nickel and diming practice that airlines have embraced so enthusiastically has its own limits.

Governments are the only institutions with both deep enough pockets and the absolute requirement for a strong and reliable transportation infrastructure. It is ludicrous to expect individual and institutional shareholders to bear this cost; it is also difficult to understand why any institution should lend money to airlines to underwrite an operating expense that is out of control.

It is simply time to debate whether the industry should be assisted with massive, and probably endless round of subsidies to shareholders or if airlines should be taken back under governments’ control.

There will be different answers in different countries. The USA’s distaste for regulation in any transparent form will lead it to regulate through the back door of Bankruptcy Protection; some European governments will simply nationalise or stop their slide to privatisation, and other governments around the world will make their own choices within the scope of regulatory control.

It is a stark fact however, that there are too many seats in the skies chasing too few passengers. The cost of oil is rising beyond the ability of individual shareholders to finance and change must happen. The only questions are how, when and where.    

I am flying to Armenia tomorrow, and wonder if my baggage will make it this time. Transiting both Chicago and Heathrow offers enough problems for passengers, but seems to be quite beyond the capability of luggage.

We will see; and should my bags make it to Yerevan I shall let you know!

The Caucuses are great; I was fortunate to spend a few days there a couple of years ago and am now heading back with my wife to explore Armenia and Georgia for ten days in a little more detail. Ancient villages, fabulous urban architecture, stunning countryside, good wine and friendly people all conjuring up a memorable experience. 

I will keep posting!

Well, where to begin? Last seen, I was heading south to explore the beach and coastal towns to the south of Perpignan, and this I did. I have also been caught up peripherally in the Spanish gas protests, spent a few hours in hospital in Barcelona, started my journey back to Canada, and (miracle of all miracles) had my bag returned to me. Nine days after it went astray.

The beaches were interesting; not really the sort of place that I would head for a vacation, except for Collioure which is wonderful. As I moved south through Port Vendres (a naval presence), Banyuls (possibly fun in the seventies) and Cerbere (border towns often have this air of latent smuggling), I was mesmerised by the coastline, blown over by the wind and reflected on how much I enjoyed the ride. However, with nothing much to keep me there, I headed on into Spain.

The Costa Brava is the name given to the most northerly collection of resorts on the Spanish Mediterranean, and they are really quite pleasant. Randomly I ended up spending the night in Saint Feliu de Guixols; a beautiful location with some fine restaurants, a broad and open beach, crystal-clear water and an amusing street market. The language, Catalan, is odd to an untrained ear, and sounds much as I would imagine Martian to sound, however, this didn’t really cause any impediment, and a fine evening was had.

Arriving at dusk, and trapped in a web of one-way streets, it was not simple to find accommodation with somewhere to park; however, I am not unduly fussy, and stayed at the Hotel Coral. A simple hotel, well located in the town cost EUR 30 for a single room with a shower, and it was clean, comfortable and met my modest dwelling requirements. I noticed some considerably more upmarket hotels as I wandered around later, and may well look at them further, but for now, this suited me well.

In the morning, it was off to Barcelona, one hundred kilometres away. Unbeknownst to me, however, it would also be a day that increasing discomfort led me to a clinic, an EKG test (all is fine with the ticker I am pleased to report), an ambulance ride to a hospital and a couple of hours lying round wearing nothing but one of those rather unflattering blue semi-smocks so loved by the medical profession. Pronounced fit enough to travel home, I was discharged, but not without an undying admiration and respect for the Spanish Medical system.

For a total outlay of EUR 52, I was seen in the clinic and shipped to hospital; there, I was advised that the treatment would be EUR 200, or possibly a little more depending on what they found; as it happened, when I was discharged in the evening, there was no cash register in sight, and the attending physician simply shrugged and sent me on my way. I fully expect a bill to arrive in the mail, and will happily pay it, but the level of care and attention provided was impeccable, and the disinterest in payment refreshing.

And so home, but not without a stop at the Barcelona luggage “tracing” office where, you may recall, my bags went astray on July 1st. One had caught up, the second had not, and nine days later there was still no sign of it. Perhaps it was my insistence, perhaps they were genuinely interested in the mystery of nine-day old luggage, but whatever happened, some four hours later, I received a phone call from them telling me that the bag had been located in security (?) where it had been impounded some days earlier.

Because of the Spanish fuel strike, however, they can’t deliver it to my house in France due to the border blockade. Their solution? Fly it via Madrid to Toulouse, and then deliver it. I only wish that I could have the frequent flyer miles that my bag logs, and fervently hope that it won’t get lost in Madrid en route.

And now it is Tuesday morning, and I am sitting at Oporto airport waiting for a flight via Newark and Chicago to Winnipeg; looking at the mid-West weather reports and running over my own O’Hare experiences wondering when on earth I may get home. Never mind, I am sure that it will be sometime this week.