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| Irene in the shadow of the ancient fort town of Kotar, Montenegro |
I think that travel comes from some deep urge to see
the world, like the urge that brings up a worm in an
Irish bog to see the moon when it is full
–Lord Dunsany
My team mate , Olly, and I had been driving for about six days as part of 200-odd teams taking part in the fifth annual Mongol Rally from London to Ulan Bator in Mongolia when our trusty, 1971 sky blue Renault 4 called Irene, spluttered across the border at 1 in the morning into the world’s newest country, Montenegro. It always seems a shame to arrive in a new country at night whether by plane, train or rusting antique of a car as ones’ first impressions are impeded by darkness and only really take shape the next morning. However Montenegro proved to be an exception and was to set the standard for our impressions of this relatively unknown country.
On pulling up to a small beach side bar in order to reignite the dying embers of our energy with a couple of espressi we were greeted by a beautiful young waitress bursting with honest playful smiles who invited us to make camp on the beachfront besides the bar for the night. So with the espressos swapped for beer we lay under the Montenegrin stars with soft sand beneath and the sweet sound of the gentle Adriatic lapping at our toes.
The next morning we arose with the sun breaking over the horizon. Welcoming in the day, a solitary fisherman stood on some rocks down the beach at the base of the giant rocky mountains we had crossed the night before. After performing the routine checks on Irene we headed on down the coast to the harbor town of Kotar, an ancient fort of a town with winding alleys in between stone buildings, small hidden churches, quaint little houses and a thriving market which sat at the base of steep rising mountains. The coastal road heading down from Kotar towards Albania is truly breathtaking, both for its natural and ancient beauty and for its hair-raising drivers that navigate the winding road.
There are two things I discovered whilst in Montenegro that are worthy of mention, the first being the unparalleled sounds of the countries foremost HipHop group called the Monteniggers, who are like a mix between Cypress Hill and Vanilla Ice; and the second being the mind-boggling beauty of Montenegran women who in tune with the beauty of the countryside appear every which way you look. So with both my team mate and I being in relationships we turned on the Monteniggers, slipped on the shades, pushed Irene to the max, looked straight ahead and sped on into Albania.
Next up: Albania
In many richer European countries where Albanians go to work, they are often perceived in a negative light, as many immigrant workers tend to be. We were therefore unsure of what to expect, so on crossing the border and being confronted by miles and miles of derelict military bunkers set within a dry, arid landscape we become more apprehensive.
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| In Greece we learnt that Irene means “peace” in Greek. |
However we were soon struck by the honest sincere nature of these misrepresented people and their stark yet impressive country. I had seen poverty in Africa, in Asia and in Latin America and it moved me each time; but these faces looked like mine and that of my family. I remember seeing an old lady who resembled my grandmother, sitting by the side of the road in a broken wheel barrow, clothed in a torn grubby dress that may have once been bright and floral, selling watermelons. It was a sobering experience for both of Olly and I, and we were left feeling humbled by this impoverished country. So having successfully navigated their pothole ridden roads we rolled onto the smooth tarmac of Greece, for two days of recharging batteries, both ours and Irenes, with some old University friends in the sea side town of Kavala.
Then on to: Greece & Turkey
Once Irene was fit and healthy again we proceeded to bumble along, and clog up, the Greek motorways into Turkey leaving Europe behind us and to where the adventure would truly begin. We hit Istanbul at 4am accompanied by a Romanian hitchhiker we had picked up at the border. She helped us navigate Irene through the many snaking streets of this vast city towards a hostel where we were both fed and allowed to camp on the roof free of charge. We had originally planned to visit the many mosques and bazaars of this highly significant city, yet on waking to the resounding calls to morning prayer we felt invigorated and itched to get back on the road, so decided to leave Istanbul to be discovered another day and fired up Irene’s gurgling engine.
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| The grand mosque in Istanbul |
As with Albania, we were struck by both Turkey and its people. Every car we passed heading east along the dramatic, awe inspiring black sea coast had smiling faces, beeping horns and waving cheers. Everywhere we stopped, be it for a pee break or petrol we were proffered tea and food by generous strangers. In one small nondescript village called Piraziz, the mayor emptied his holiday home of its occupants to allow us to bed down for the night and his son and friends then got us drunk in a small empty disco whose sole occupants were two bored ladies of the night. One buxom and loud and the other skinny and averse to deodorant, both of whom thought it was payday when Olly and I walked in. However they soon realised that that kind of romance was not our cup of tea, so left us alone to woo a smiling old potbellied Turk sitting in the corner. The next morning after a hung-over breakfast with the mayor, tea at his office and a photo shoot at the local petrol station, we proceeded to will Irene up and down the winding roads that hug the beautiful rocky coastline of the refreshingly cold Black sea.
And then: Georgia & Azerbaijan
There are three border crossings from Turkey into Georgia, the main one leading to the old Soviet holiday resort of Batumi on the black sea and two almost deserted checkpoints deep within the Kakar Mountains. Much to Irene’s dismay the urge for adventure led us to steer clear of the more mundane Batumi crossing and to head up into the breathtaking mountains towards the bleak and dilapidated crossing at Posof. As soon as you head up into the Kakar mountains it feels as though one is already in a new country as not only does the scenery change almost instantly but also the physical characteristics of the people. It was high up in these mountains that we were invited in by a particularly hospitable family that seemed to keep growing by the minute as from every corner popped another sister, brother or nephew. Here we spent the night discussing politics, religion and the decline of family values in the west all through sign language and drawings.
Georgia had been for me relatively unknown aside from having allegedly invented wine and been the birthplace of Stalin I knew next to nothing. Yet its stunning natural landscapes and welcoming people would without doubt entice me back again. We had read that driving in Georgia was not advisable and as Irene was hurled to and fro between the bottomless potholes we realised the gravity of this understatement. It was after having visited the ancient fairytale like city of Varzia carved romantically, yet painstakingly within the cliffs of a canyon like gorge, that we heard of the Russian invasion and bombing of our host country.
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| The Optimistic Fools, Oliver and Christoph, fight to stay sober in Azerbaijan |
We met a young man who in broken English informed us that all the men from the area had taken their hunting rifles and headed north to fight off the invasion, and that the president had promised the people the support of 2,000 U.S. troops the following day. Hearing this we thought it best to bade farewell to Georgia and leave the world’s two superpowers to battle it out once again over someone else’s oil and gas. So we finished our coffees wished the man and his country good luck and sped on to Azerbaijan.
The entry into Azerbaijan turned out to be a 3½ hour long farce of sweet-talking officials, befriending the guards and allowing the military to scribble their names on Irene. However once we were finally allowed into the country the Azeris proved to be some of the most hospitable of all. The only problem was that their hospitality came hand-in-hand with a bottle of vodka, regardless of the time of day: be it breakfast-drinking with a giggling old retired policeman, to afternoon-drinking with a rifle touting bear of a man to evening drinking with expat oil workers in the capital Baku. So by the time we eventually caught the elusive ferry to Kazakhstan our livers were pickled like gherkins.
To find out more about this foolish adventure, click here to read their previous posts or visit the Optimistic Fools over at their own website: www.optimisticfools.co.uk
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