International7000 km to go: a book of travel from Budapest to Yerevan
Published: Tuesday November 29, 2011
Cover of the book.
Chicago - In his new book, 7000 KM To Go, travel expert Ric Gazarian and his team race across the Balkans and the Caucasus in an 11-country, 17-day car rally.
The rally begins in Budapest, Hungry and ends in Yerevan, Armenia, Gazarian's ethnic homeland. This non-fiction account is described as a cross between Cannonball Run, Amazing Race, and Midnight Express, and in it Gazarian recounts the challenges - from mundane to potentially life-threatening - that his team faced racing through these foreign lands.
Adventures include an accidental visit to a country not on the itinerary, a visit to one of the newest countries in the world, breakfast with mafia/special forces soldiers on the Black Sea, and a police escort out of No Man's Land in a country that does not legally exist.
"This book shares my love of travel and adventure, "says Gazarian. "The rally provided an excellent opportunity to cover a lot of ground, especially off the beaten path."
7000 KM To Go is Gazarian's first book and includes more than 100 color photos. Gazarian has traveled to more than 70 countries and seven continents. He is based in Chicago and is currently planning his next trip.
Ten percent of profits will be donated to Armenian Volunteer Corp and Manana Youth Group.
For background, interviews, photos, and media copies of 7000 KM to Go, contact Ric Gazarian at 617.901.928, or ric@7000kmtogo.com.This book (color hard copy and Kindle, both with over 100 photos) is available via all major internet retailers. For bulk purchases please contact the author.
ISBN 9780983928904, Color, hard cover
ISBN 9780983928911, Kindle
Book excerpt:
Day 9
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Start: Batumi, Georgia
End: Batumi, Georgia
KM driven: 0
A very special breakfast. We had met the Georgian Special Forces soldiers the night before at the Hotel Marie bar, and they greeted us the next morning. We sipped tea sitting outside, shaded by the umbrella. They shared with us that they were on a secret mission. They couldn't share the details with us. I was suspect of their claims of Special Forces pedigree. Potential mafia? I delicately quizzed them, but made little headway with the one English speaker. I could not draw a definitive conclusion.
The captain/translator for the group informed me he was born in Abkhazia, a popular tourist resort area. This northwest Georgian province on the Black Sea was torn from Georgia into the Russian sphere by the Russians during their invasion in 2008. Abkhazia was a semi-independent country, but only recognized by four countries: Nauru, Nicaragua, Russia, and Venezuela. You could feel the captain's anguish when he shared with me he couldn't return to his birth home.
Their white Land Cruisers sat outside of the hotel. We surrounded the table, they in their high and tight haircuts and a smattering of camouflage clothing. A striking dark haired girl entered the outdoor patio. The captain verbally ushered her over to our plastic table. She was from Uzbekistan. Her model-like body was clad in white from head to toe. She had finished work and had just risen in the late morning. We discovered she was one of the many prostitutes working the disco at the back of the hotel. She puffed on her cigarette, and in her surly Soviet fashion via our captain-translator offered to sleep with me for $100. I graciously declined.
We decided to switch hotels. They were charging above market prices and we were far from the city center. My negotiations had been unsuccessful with the receptionist for a lower rate. We headed to the city center navigating the potholes to find a more appropriate hotel. We settled in and then began our walking tour of Batumi.
No offense to any Georgians, but Batumi was no South Beach. Batumi, on the Black Sea, was a summer destination for people of the Caucasus. There was no sand on the beach, it was entirely stones. We were somewhat surprised to see sun bathers strewn across the crowded beach cushioning their bodies with a simple beach blanket over the ubiquitous smooth stones. The first several blocks from the sea have been gentrified including a pleasant boardwalk. But watch out after that. Zgyush! Stalinist buildings reigned over the town. The streets were torn to shreds.
A panic suddenly overtook us. Who had the car keys? One of us, let's call him Mark O. left the keys dangling in the lock of the driver's door of our truck on a busy street in front of our hotel when we went for our impromptu walking tour of Batumi. When we realized our mistake, we rushed back to the truck, the keys were missing. A cold despair ran down our sweaty backs. A nearby shopkeeper waved at us and smiled. Her electric smile beamed. Her dark hair waterfalled down her back. She stepped out of her shop dangling our keys, her arm stretched out, her eyes twinkled. She didn't speak any English, and we couldn't tell if she was 15 or 25. But right now, she was our heroine. A regular Hero of the Soviet Union. We said a giant "didi madloba"- thank you! We hurried off with our keys to the open market across the street. We purchased a colorful mixed bouquet of flowers and presented them to the embarrassed woman in front of her coworkers.
We began the evening at an outside ocean side café. We slurped down cold Natakhtari beers. They went down easy. Khachapuri, one of the national dishes was ordered. Khachapuri was the pizza of Georgia. It was a hot cheese-filled bread that was popular throughout the country with regional differences with corresponding names. We eagerly anticipated our dinner while watching the fresh bread bake in an open wood fired oven. It was a tasty treat.
We traced the boardwalk after the sun set. We randomly came upon some local Georgians enjoying the summer evening. Mgelika and his son Otto invited us for a seat and a cold Georgian beer in front of his friend's shop on this Sunday evening. Mgelika had propped two plastic chairs on the edge of the sidewalk. We conversed a butchered Russian-English smorgasbord, while Otto waited on us, bringing us new cold beers. The bottles sweated in the humidity. We made continued toasts to the health of our nations and families.
We decided to recharge our batteries briefly at the hotel and prepare for the evening's festivities. Olsen excitedly shared with me he met a taxi driver who would escort us for the evening for $10 per hour. Being novices to Batumi, and being a quiet Sunday evening, this sounded like a fair proposition to get a local's insight. A rail thin Georgi ushered us into his late model Mercedes.
Very quickly we knew something was wrong with our new lanky friend, Georgi. He took us to a hot new spot, a cavernous club, where we were the only ones present. We asked for the beer menu, there was none.
"How much for a beer?" I asked.
"Six Lari," the waitress responded. I did the math, a couple of dollars.
After two beers, we decided to go. The bill came. Twenty-six Lari. A little bit more than the 12 Lari we had calculated. We argued, more staff appeared. A heated argument ensued; the staff surrounded us in the lobby. Frustrations and tempers flared. We were ready to take a beating. We were finally encouraged to pay the bill. The bill was settled in their favor. We lost.
We had a stern conversation with Georgi. We shared with him our expectations were slightly higher than what he has demonstrated so far. Georgi did not raise the bar for our second stop. He brought us to the most popular hotel in Batumi and led us to the club in the basement. This was not exactly what I had envisioned by hiring an "insider." I could have made it to the Sheraton on my own volition without having to pay a local fixer.
We informed the worthless Georgi that his services were no longer needed. Another argument erupted. I declared a Trumpian: "You're fired." We gave him 20 Lari and left a fuming Georgi alone at the table. Our guide had demanded 50 Lari ... in other words, highway robbery on the Black Sea. We enjoyed our evening sans faux guide and then made our way back to the hotel, late at night.
Much to our inebriated shock, not only was Georgi an ad hoc taxi driver, he was also the night manager of our hotel.
"Fifty Lari," he stated, "or I call the police." His ice cold eyes bored into me.
Georgi had won the first round. Defeated, we paid and went to bed. We barricaded the door with a table, a chair, a couch, and a hope and a prayer.
