…can turn pretty slow sometimes, especially in these parts. I’m not usually one to complain about my conditions, especially my transportation options. After all, they’re not that bad here in Armenia. After all, I could be riding next to livestock, or even worse, on livestock. We have three main options to get to and fro Noyemberyan – shared taxis, public mini-buses (called “marshutnis”), and the bus. Shared taxis are the best option, and let you ride through the hills in a comfortable, yet stylish, 1980s Lada; they also the most expensive. Marshutnis are the main option, offering a good balance between cost and comfort. Think of the conversion van you or your parents might have had in 1986 and cram 18 people in it – still not that bad, right?
Today I returned from my second home, Vanadzor, and decided to “treat” myself to the third option, the public bus. The Armenian bus looks like a giant orange Tic-Tac – they are actually old Soviet buses which have not been painted/cleaned/maintained since 1989. Come to think of it, riding in one is a lot like riding on the aforementioned livestock – it goes about as slow – but without the benefits of the leg room or normal conversation. One of my favorite travel writers, Bill Bryson, gives a pretty good description of public buses in his book, “The Lost Continent”:
You only go on a long-distance bus in the United States because either you cannot afford to fly or – and this is really licking the bottom of the barrel in America – you cannot afford a car. Being unable to afforda a car in America is the last step before living out of a plastic sack. As a result, most of the people on long-distance buses are one of the following: mentally defective, actively schizoid, armed and dangerous, in a drugged stupor, just released from prisons, or nuns. Occasionally you will also see a pair of Norwegian students.
Substitute “Peace Corps Volunteers” for “Norwegian students”, and you’ve also captured the Armenian bus system. Most people who have the money take their cars, cabs, or marshutnis; those who don’t take the bus. These buses have seats for 24. In reality, they can hold 73 people, 12 chickens, 28 bags of potatos, 6 screaming children, and at least two people playing their cell phone music outloud for everyone to hear (at the same time).
Our Noyemberyan bus is first-on-first-sit, and since we were only 30 minutes early today, we were left standing. I assumed my usual position by the rear door, standing on the first step, as this is the only spot where I have enough a) leg-room and b) head-room. You also get to meet-and-greet the people getting on and off. This average person can either be an older farm woman, wearing a tattered men’s sport coat and carrying a bag of spinach and empty bottles, or a 22 year old boy, dressed in various shades of grey head to toe, muttering “tsavd tanem” to himself. However, each has a very unique smell, which can change the aroma from old cheese to homeade vodka from stop to stop. Alex chose the aisle. Being a little over 5ft tall, he was quickly swallowed by the crowds; come to think of it, I’m not sure he actually made it off the bus today.
The ride itself takes 3.5 hours, or 133% longer than the marshutni ride of the same distance, and served no less than 120 people. For me, it is a humbling experience and reminds me I really am in the Peace Corps, that I really will be able to go back to America and live through anything, and that I really am rediculously tall. We finally made it home, and I was so thankful to be back. So, next time you’re stuck stranded on the Greyhound (Lukin?), remember it could be a lot worse. I know I will.
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P.S. Don’t let this rather insignificant post bump what I wrote about below – if you haven’t read it yet, please scroll down!
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