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, Hungary 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 the 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 7 continents. He is based in Chicago and is currently planning his next trip.
The book (ISBN 9780983928904, Color, hard cover; ISBN 9780983928911, Kindle) is available via all major internet retailers. Ten percent of profits will be donated to Armenian Volunteer Corp and Manana Youth Group. For more information, visit www.7000kmtogo.com.
Below is an excerpt.
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I have been very fortunate. I have traveled to 80 countries on 7 continents. I have a bit of wanderlust. I have seen, tasted, smelled; well, you get the idea. I was constantly striving to broaden my horizons when it came to learning about different cultures. A new adventure.
I was in Yerevan, Armenia in September of 2009, strolling through the city center and I happened upon a Soviet-esque depicted banner… “The Caucasian Challenge.” The banner was draped on the outside wall of one of the ubiquitous outdoor cafes in the capital. It grabbed my attention. When I visited an internet cafe; I recalled that name and promptly Google-ed: “The Caucasian Challenge.”
This was the response it generated: “The Caucasian Challenge is a minimal assistance motor rally—a drive your own vehicle adventure that takes you through mostly unknown yet tumultuous regions you may have only heard about on the world news.”
The Caucasus lay at the crossroads of Asia and Europe. This ancient, fought-over land was surrounded by Turkey, the Black Sea, Russia, the Caspian Sea, and Iran. The Silk Road snaked its way through these territories, acting as a bridge between Europe and Asia. The Silk Road derived its name from the silk trade with China. These routes dated back to before Christ. This region has been an arena for political, military, religious, and cultural rivalries and expansionism for centuries. The northern Caucasus was comprised of a handful of present day Russian provinces including the infamous Chechnya. In the south lay Armenia, Georgia, Nagorno-Karabakh, and Azerbaijan.
As I read the description of this driving rally, I was immediately smitten. I needed to do this. The Caucasian Challenge was not your standard Mickey Mouse charter vacation to Orlando for the week. This would be an amazing, dirty, sweaty, challenging, and possibly even dangerous journey that would take me to nine different countries over two weeks. It appeared to be a fusion of the Cannonball Run, the Amazing Race, and a dollop of Midnight Express. But hopefully, not too much Midnight Express. How could this not be fun?
What sealed the deal was that the race ended in Yerevan. My home away from home. I was born in Boston to Armenian parents. My grandparents (both paternal grandparents and my maternal grandfather) escaped the Armenian Genocide. The Armenian Genocide was the deliberate and systematic destruction of the Armenian population of the Ottoman Empire during and just after World War I. It was implemented by the Turkish government through wholesale massacres and deportations. The deportations consisted of forced marches under conditions designed to lead to the death of the deportees. One and half million Armenians were slaughtered during this period, resulting in a mass exodus that created Armenian communities throughout the world (as varied as Ethiopia, Singapore and Argentina). A large Armenian community flourished in Boston, where my grandparents settled to create a new life. My grandparents fled their cities and villages (in present day eastern Turkey) of Harput, Marash, and Madan. Their fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, and cousins were butchered in the first genocide of the twentieth century. Yerevan held a special place in my heart. In addition to yearly visits starting in 2003, I have stayed there twice as a volunteer. Once in 2004 for four months and a second time in 2009 for two months. I volunteered at Zatik orphanage and Manana, an after-school group.
During my time there, I developed a strong affinity to both the people and the country. Zatik cared for 120 children between the ages of six and eighteen on the outskirts of Yerevan. Many of these children were designated as “social” orphans. War, poverty, or social woes resulted in their placement at the orphanage, not necessarily the loss of both parents. While a volunteer at Zatik, I was responsible for teaching English and organizing games for the children. At Manana, over 100 children participated in extracurricular activities after the school day ended. Classes were taught in journalism, photography, debate, and English. The Manana students also developed an expertise in film. This was demonstrated in multiple awards at international film festivals.
While partaking in the Caucasian Challenge, I planned to raise money for these charities: Zatik, Manana, and Armenian Volunteer Corp (diasporan Armenian volunteers for Armenia).
This driving rally started in Budapest, Hungary; intersected the newly formed countries of the Balkans, darted across northern Greece, and sprinted along the Turkey’s Black Sea coast, looped through Georgia, cruised through Nagorno-Karabakh, and ended in Yerevan. Nine countries in fourteen days (which was to become eleven countries). Not a scenic cruise down the Seine. The Caucasian Challenge would be spending the bulk of their time in the Caucuses; hence, the name of the race.
My team competed against ten other teams. Yes, this was a rally, and there was a winner. While this rally was a race, it was not the Indianapolis 500. Speed was not the name of the game. Every day the organizers of the race established multiple GPS challenges. Rally participants needed to rush to these locations and answer questions that could only be solved by finding the coordinates. You earned points by solving these riddles and then you needed to “check in” by a certain time at the evening rally site.
This was easier said than done. Recent war zones of Serbia, Kosovo and Georgia were part of the route. I envisioned multiple challenges of dealing with surly border officials, unexploded ordinance, getting lost on numerous back roads, and not speaking the native language. And, of course, our car was not exactly new.
We had 7000 km to go …
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.
Thank you Weekly Staff for this excellent book review. It is obvious, despite some typos, that Eric Ghazarian writes beautifully. I shall kindle-down the book. We sponsored 2 female (non-Armenian) drivers from Ottawa in the 2011 Caucasian Challenge and they were also very pleased with this car-rally. They also donated funds to an Armenia-based charity.
I wish to congratulate Mr. Ghazarian for directing his collected funds to the Armenian Volunteer corps (AVC http://www.armenianvolunteer.org/ ) which is also a registered charity that attracts young and young at heart volunteers to work in Armenia. They do a marvelous job, as it is evident with Eric.
Dear Eric,
I noticed the title of your book in Armenian Weekly, I dowloaded to my Kindle and read it all the way to the end (in one night). I congratulate you first, for your very pleasant narrative and interesting car-rally all the way to Yerevan. I congratulate you also for your patriotic and noble feelings by donating part of the income to Armenia based charities. Bravo and good lack.
Arto and Antoine–Thank you for the warm and positive feedback.