Road to Tokyo

6 days and 733km (Total: 68 days and 13,607km)

The Turkey-Armenia border has been closed since 1993, so we weren't able to pass into Armenia on our way from Iraq to Georgia. When we arrived in Tbilisi we had yet another biker rave about Armenia so, tipsy from our 90p beers, we spontaneously decided to detour there. Japan can wait a few more days.

We crossed the border from Georgia to Armenia, already acquainted with the next-level inefficiencies you find at these bizarre places, with people handing you pieces of paper which say nothing more than your name on it, for you to then take it to other people, and then back again. It doesn't help when your passport and bike are from an autonomous island which 99.9% of people have never heard of. Once through immigration and customs, we bought compulsory bike insurance from some kids on the other side, and hit the highway in the boiling heat ready for a night's rest.

We arrived at a campsite which was titled “Glamping Tereza” because they had two Decathlon tents you could rent from them (as well as pitch your own tent). The hosts were three generations of a family who brought us over pastries and tea whilst a child’s birthday party played out in the garden.

Our chai relaxation was short-lived as ominous clouds rolled over the mountains in the background and, before I even had time to process what was going to happen next, the universe delivered the answer in the form of one big fat rain drop straight on the table in front of us. At this point, our bags and gear were still sprawled out on the ground in front of us and the tent still packed away in the motorcycle panniers. We knew it was now or never… “Becs, let’s get the tent up!”

We certainly made the kids birthday party more enjoyable, as we flustered and flapped in what was now a formidable downpour. The wrong poles in the wrong holes, the outer shell inside out, the clips unclipping… all whilst our helmets and boots filled with water beside us. Our inefficiencies made border staff look like a Formula 1 pit crew and I had to retract my hypocritical complaints from earlier that day.

Within a few minutes we realised we had to cut our losses. I crumpled the tent into a big wet ball and retreated under a small beach umbrella in the corner — defeated. However their age and language translates it as, I’m sure the kids were thinking something along the lines of “who the fuck are these guys?”

The grandmother and matriarch of the host family, Tereza, felt sorry for us and hugged Becs as if she was her daughter. Seeing our sogging wet heap of a tent on the ground, she asked if we wanted to stay in their Decathlon Glamping tent, but we only had €9 in cash and we knew the “Glamping” experience cost more than that. She said we can use it for no additional cost but we insisted she take the €9 and told her we'd use our own sleeping bags and towels so she didn't have to clean anything in the morning.

We woke to the sun shining and a cat meowing.

We hung up our tent pieces and the family invited us over to their all-in-one kitchen, dining room, kids playroom and lounge to make us Armenian coffee, which tasted like Turkish coffee but smoother and sweeter. We sat around with the whole family communicating with Google translate, hand gestures and mere smiles. A lot of silence that previously I would have defined as awkward but now I find peaceful and wholesome. They invited us to join them for breakfast but they'd already provided enough for us, and we had to leave for our long ride to the capital.

The ride to Yerevan was spectacular and the hours passed by with ease. As we approached the city, the outskirts were filled with buildings either halfway to being built or halfway to falling down. But the centre was incredibly gentrified with kids wearing designer fashion clothes and the coffee shops selling iced-melon frappucinos with western music remixes playing full volume. Becs didn't like the place but the Dune-style architecture won me over.

The next morning we headed to a campsite which several overlanders had recommended. The owner, a Dutch lady called Sandra, greeted and gave us a tour of what she had built — the exemplar of contemporary campsites for overlanders. A garage for bikes and parking lot for camper vans; enough tables such that you can always find one in the sun or shade; three immaculate kitchens with every utensil under the sun (plus free sweets); and hot and spacious showers to fully enjoy that glorious feeling of the days dirt running off your skin. We pitched our tent (early this time) under a tree and setup a little base near one of the kitchens to enjoy a beer.

With my British passport blocking any possibility of going through Iran, we headed back to Georgia via another border and with a small stop at a hostel along the way. The host, an elderly gentleman, insisted we have a few shots of vodka with him before cooking us chicken with the help of a women I could only assume was his neighbour.

The next day we rode back into Tbilisi and had a day off whilst the bike got new tires fitted. This time, they were 50/50 off-road/on-road, in preparation for the next chapter of the trip.

Next stop: Russia and The Stans.