At Tbilisi station one morning we asked for first-class tickets to Yerevan. No chance, said the solemn woman behind the glass. Second-class wasn’t available either. Reluctantly relinquishing our first-class cabin dream of crisp white sheets and cosy table lamps, we booked two third-class tickets for that night. In any case, we concluded, third-class with the locals and backpackers would be much more interesting.
At 7pm we returned to the station; a sour-faced conductor checked our tickets and we were nodded curtly aboard. In third-class were opposing pairs of two-tiered bunks each topped by a platform near the ceiling to store luggage, and, on the other side of the narrow corridor, two seats and a small table. We shuffled along to numbers 39 and 40. Ours were the two seats, not the bunks. My stomach sank. Had we unwittingly booked hard, upright seats for this ten-hour journey? I had a painful flashback to my endless train ride from Bangkok to Hat Yai, wedged upright for seventeen hours in a wooden seat just so I could chase the Malay Peninsula train down to Singapore.
The friendly Ukrainian occupying the bunks across the corridor told us firmly he'd booked all four beds. Our faces must have shown our panic and dilemma - should we sit out the ten hours sleeplessly, or leave the train now and forfeit our ticket? - but he took pity on us. He pointed to our seat numbers, yanked a hidden lever and lowered a hitherto-invisible bunk from the ceiling; he motioned that the seats and table could be transformed into a second bed. We hadn't spotted the cleverly-designed mechanism required for this marvellous transformation. We settled in gratefully. Soon three friends joined our helper and they quickly shared their wine with us: a semi-sweet Georgian red served in South Caucasus Railway teamugs. We shared our Kutaisi market fig leather and churchkhela with them, and they taught us how to say 'cheers' in Ukrainian: 'Budmoh!'
Outside in the darkness, lights flicked past. An empty platform with pale, snow-like gravel was swallowed by an eerie, derelict building. The sour conductor marched through the carriage flinging plastic-wrapped blue blankets at each party; unexpectedly, she offered me a smile. As we trundled on, the passengers started to make their beds, and swayed through the carriage with toothbrushes and railway-issued flannels, mintiness mingling with the cigarette smoke that wisped in from the roaring space between the carriages. The Ukrainians, burly and bearded, sweetly helped each other stuff and fluff the pillowcases, and made their beds as a team. We learned that our helper had served in the army on the Crimean front, but was discharged after a wound to the scalp. Explaining this, one of them stroked the back of his friend's head protectively, where a long scar cut through the short hair. They were travelling together to visit his birthplace in Armenia. Our wine was topped up again, and the tallest man helped me squash my ill-fitting mattress onto the upper bunk, remarking drily, "This is Soviet technology for you. Nothing fits." Even so, I was quietly impressed by our neat beds.
Just after 10pm, the train stopped at a platform bare but for a small concrete hut signed 'Police'. We were at Sadhaklo, inside the Georgian border. An Armenian came through the carriage asking if we had anything to declare. Nobody did. Through the window I saw a group of passengers disembark from the first- and second-class carriages and gather around the police window. Inside, the stationary train became stale with hot air and the odour from unwashed bodies and toilets.
A border official checked our documents, then a second officer collected a stacked chevron of the western European and Oceania passports. We were instructed to follow them, and the Ukrainians watched us go. Outside in the cool air, we waited under the full moon by the border window, while the official called us forward one by one, pronouncing each name with difficulty except mine: 'Sara' rolls off the tongue in every language. Our Georgian exit stamp secured, we returned to the frowsty train and waited. Finally, there was a hoot and a shriek of wheels on steel, and at last, fresh air chased the stink away as we moved along the tracks.
An hour later the train stopped again. We had arrived at Ayrum, inside the Armenian border. The conductor strode down the corridor, rousing the sleepy passengers with a legshake and 'Passports!' Next came a stern Armenian in a white lab coat who pulled back blankets and shone her torch into drowsy faces. Several smartly-dressed immigration officers arrived and perched neatly on the ends of beds, with a small laptop and passport scanner on their laps.
The Ukrainians handed over three blue passports; the fourth was in bed somewhere with its large, snoring owner. His mates issued urgent wake-up calls, but were soon reduced to shaking the sleeping mass. The immigration officer joined in the prodding, and eventually a great, half-naked man-bear snuffled slowly out of sleep. Blinking and grumpy, he sat up in bed in his boxer shorts and large hairy belly, and presented his passport to the upright officer with the brass buttons and polished shoes.
Soon it was my turn. The officer told me to take my glasses off, but because he didn't say when I could replace them, I didn't know when my passport was stamped until it was waved in my face. He moved to the next section where three beautiful Russian women reclined gracefully. One bare, elegantly-arched foot slyly extended behind the officer's bottom and came to rest. The other snuggled up against the thigh. The officer looked down, inspected the feet, scanned the passports and moved on smartly.
Presently they came back down the carriage, neatly marching in unison. Socked feet on legs too long for bunks were withdrawn and then extended, and tousled heads turned to watch them go. A freight train pulled up alongside, and through the window I could see the guards inspecting the undercarriage, torches flashing. There was no fresh air now; it was extremely hot and the putrid stench had reached its peak.
At last, after midnight, the doors slammed, the whistle sounded, and we were on the move. Cool, clean air rushed in. I lay back, my passport under my pillow zipped into my folded trousers. Snug in my pyjamas, I thought of all the border crossings I had taken over the years and all the journeys yet to come. The Armenian countryside whisked past in the darkness outside, and the train sang as it clattered over the sleepers: "Ba-dum ba-dum. From here to there. From here to there". Gathering speed, the full stop soon became a comma - "Ba-dum ba-dum, from here to there, from here to there" - and finally the singing train sailed me from here to there and into sleep.
______
With thanks to the man in seat 61 and all his wonderful information, which I often peruse.
 |
| 'Yerevan-Tbilisi' in Armenian and Russian |
At 7pm we returned to the station; a sour-faced conductor checked our tickets and we were nodded curtly aboard. In third-class were opposing pairs of two-tiered bunks each topped by a platform near the ceiling to store luggage, and, on the other side of the narrow corridor, two seats and a small table. We shuffled along to numbers 39 and 40. Ours were the two seats, not the bunks. My stomach sank. Had we unwittingly booked hard, upright seats for this ten-hour journey? I had a painful flashback to my endless train ride from Bangkok to Hat Yai, wedged upright for seventeen hours in a wooden seat just so I could chase the Malay Peninsula train down to Singapore.
The friendly Ukrainian occupying the bunks across the corridor told us firmly he'd booked all four beds. Our faces must have shown our panic and dilemma - should we sit out the ten hours sleeplessly, or leave the train now and forfeit our ticket? - but he took pity on us. He pointed to our seat numbers, yanked a hidden lever and lowered a hitherto-invisible bunk from the ceiling; he motioned that the seats and table could be transformed into a second bed. We hadn't spotted the cleverly-designed mechanism required for this marvellous transformation. We settled in gratefully. Soon three friends joined our helper and they quickly shared their wine with us: a semi-sweet Georgian red served in South Caucasus Railway teamugs. We shared our Kutaisi market fig leather and churchkhela with them, and they taught us how to say 'cheers' in Ukrainian: 'Budmoh!'
 |
| The Tbilisi-Yerevan train |
Outside in the darkness, lights flicked past. An empty platform with pale, snow-like gravel was swallowed by an eerie, derelict building. The sour conductor marched through the carriage flinging plastic-wrapped blue blankets at each party; unexpectedly, she offered me a smile. As we trundled on, the passengers started to make their beds, and swayed through the carriage with toothbrushes and railway-issued flannels, mintiness mingling with the cigarette smoke that wisped in from the roaring space between the carriages. The Ukrainians, burly and bearded, sweetly helped each other stuff and fluff the pillowcases, and made their beds as a team. We learned that our helper had served in the army on the Crimean front, but was discharged after a wound to the scalp. Explaining this, one of them stroked the back of his friend's head protectively, where a long scar cut through the short hair. They were travelling together to visit his birthplace in Armenia. Our wine was topped up again, and the tallest man helped me squash my ill-fitting mattress onto the upper bunk, remarking drily, "This is Soviet technology for you. Nothing fits." Even so, I was quietly impressed by our neat beds.
 |
| Poster in Yerevan train station |
A border official checked our documents, then a second officer collected a stacked chevron of the western European and Oceania passports. We were instructed to follow them, and the Ukrainians watched us go. Outside in the cool air, we waited under the full moon by the border window, while the official called us forward one by one, pronouncing each name with difficulty except mine: 'Sara' rolls off the tongue in every language. Our Georgian exit stamp secured, we returned to the frowsty train and waited. Finally, there was a hoot and a shriek of wheels on steel, and at last, fresh air chased the stink away as we moved along the tracks.
 |
| Poster in Yerevan train station |
An hour later the train stopped again. We had arrived at Ayrum, inside the Armenian border. The conductor strode down the corridor, rousing the sleepy passengers with a legshake and 'Passports!' Next came a stern Armenian in a white lab coat who pulled back blankets and shone her torch into drowsy faces. Several smartly-dressed immigration officers arrived and perched neatly on the ends of beds, with a small laptop and passport scanner on their laps.
The Ukrainians handed over three blue passports; the fourth was in bed somewhere with its large, snoring owner. His mates issued urgent wake-up calls, but were soon reduced to shaking the sleeping mass. The immigration officer joined in the prodding, and eventually a great, half-naked man-bear snuffled slowly out of sleep. Blinking and grumpy, he sat up in bed in his boxer shorts and large hairy belly, and presented his passport to the upright officer with the brass buttons and polished shoes.
Soon it was my turn. The officer told me to take my glasses off, but because he didn't say when I could replace them, I didn't know when my passport was stamped until it was waved in my face. He moved to the next section where three beautiful Russian women reclined gracefully. One bare, elegantly-arched foot slyly extended behind the officer's bottom and came to rest. The other snuggled up against the thigh. The officer looked down, inspected the feet, scanned the passports and moved on smartly.
 |
| Yerevan train station |
Presently they came back down the carriage, neatly marching in unison. Socked feet on legs too long for bunks were withdrawn and then extended, and tousled heads turned to watch them go. A freight train pulled up alongside, and through the window I could see the guards inspecting the undercarriage, torches flashing. There was no fresh air now; it was extremely hot and the putrid stench had reached its peak.
At last, after midnight, the doors slammed, the whistle sounded, and we were on the move. Cool, clean air rushed in. I lay back, my passport under my pillow zipped into my folded trousers. Snug in my pyjamas, I thought of all the border crossings I had taken over the years and all the journeys yet to come. The Armenian countryside whisked past in the darkness outside, and the train sang as it clattered over the sleepers: "Ba-dum ba-dum. From here to there. From here to there". Gathering speed, the full stop soon became a comma - "Ba-dum ba-dum, from here to there, from here to there" - and finally the singing train sailed me from here to there and into sleep.
______
With thanks to the man in seat 61 and all his wonderful information, which I often peruse.
______
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Or see more posts here: Get in the tuktuk, no time to explain
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