Just the twenty-second person in the 12-passenger bus

I've intended to update for several days, but I've been too busy stuffing myself into Russian-made minibuses, trying to decipher incomprehensible languages, and generally having a good time to write. I am in Kars, a big town in Turkey's far northeast, and for the first time in a week, I have nothing to do. I've just finished two lamacun, a bottle of ayran, and have just started the first of what will be many cups of çay tonight. (That's thin-crust Turkish pizza with no sauce, a yogurt drink, and tea, respectively.) Moments ago, I told a friendly waiter that Barak Obama is çok güzel, and that George Bush has been çok problem. Turkish isn't that hard.

Many of my recent days have reminded me of the classic circus trick ''how many clowns can you fit in a car?'' Except in my case, it's been a question of Georgians, Armenians, me, and 12-passenger vans. The most I've seen was 22--I was the twenty-second. These minibuses are called marshrutka, which I believe is Russian for ''downright terrible.''

Briefly, one memorable marshrutka ride: on the way from Sarpi (on the Turkish-Georgian border) to Tbilisi, I was offered the front seat, which I shared with a chain-smoking Georgian. She smoked those ridiculous thin cigarettes, just like everyone else in the Caucuses, and while smoke curled in front of me and Russian electronica beeped (chorus: ooh. ah. ooh. ah.), all I could think was: your thigh is touching mine. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that. I've been traveling in conservative eastern Turkey for too long.

When we finally arrived in Tbilisi at 11 p.m., I threw myself at the mercy of a gang of taxi drivers, requesting that one of them drive me to an aipa otel. (That's the limit of my Georgian vocabulary: it means ''cheap hotel.'') They let me down. Any place called ''Nadya's'' cannot possibly be decent, and it wasn't. I spent the night in a glorified brothel, complete with a full bar downstairs and yelling until the wee hours. Worse, it was thirty dollars. Oh, how unhappy I was. I should have known bad things were coming when my taxi turned onto George W. Bush Boulevard--yes, that's the name of the highway that leads to Tbilisi's airport. It's signed with an illuminated portrait of Our Fearless Leader.

Yerevan was much nicer. I couchsurfed with Trixi, a delighful German women who has made it her mission to reform the entire Armenian education system. Kidding, she only teaches German at one of Yerevan's universities, but is doing her bit to end Soviet-style rote learning in Armenia.

Armenia's capital is a strange place. The first thing a traveler coming from Turkey notices is how tight everyone's clothes are. Next, one sees the shop windows: full of expensive brands and booze! But eyes finally turn to the old women (dressed in neither expensive nor tight clothes) selling radishes on the corner.

I pointed a lot in Armenia. I want this, the index finger says. How many? A handful of fingers answers that. Thank you is a smile, a nod, and a quiet ''merci.'' (I tried to learn ''thank you,'' but it's five syllables long and full of strange sounds. Luckily, everyone understands ''merci.'')

My four days in Armenia were largely devoted to my project: see my previous post for that. But I also found time to spend way too much on unexpectedly good Indian food and excellent Armenian cognac. A high point: drinks at a jazz club with the Croatian deputy minister of defense and the Slovenian deputy minister of foreign affairs. That was rather unexpected.

My return to Turkey was another marathon of marshrutka rides to the Georgian border, where I hitched a ride with a Turkish trucker for the final 20 km to Hopa, the first significant town in Turkey. I was pleased to be able to speak with him: five days of Georgian and Armenian had made me appreciate just how much Turkish I speak, even if I have no regard for grammar. I was particularly happy to ask him a highly complex question: ''Kaç gün yolda?'' ( How many days on the road?) I only knew how to say that because I had seen the Kerouac novel translated to Turkish.

A man in Hopa invited me to stay at his house and promised to teach me an ''ancient, secret Armenian language.'' He was also a communist, gleeful in the world's recent financial meltdown. He predicted the end of imperialism within five years; I told him I was not so optimistic. I normally would have accepted, but I was way too tired and had to be up early the next morning. I think I missed an opportunity there.

Another day of travel brought me to Kars. If the Armenian-Turkish border were open, I could have made it in four hours, but it took me nearly 24 hours of busing. Thanks a lot, history.

Yesterday, I climbed to the top of a big hill and took in the view. There isn't much to see: the area around Kars is mostly steppe, which stretches all the way to Sibera almost uninterrupted.

I spent the evening in a strangely hip bar, compete with traditional Turkish music, played by a youthful quartet. After a few numbers, tables were shoved aside and dancing broke out. I watched enviously for a bit, then screwed up my courage and joined in. I was quite proud myself: I learned the steps quickly, and few missed cues aside, I held my own. I was even briefly entrusted with a handkerchief, which I was to wave in time to the music. I returned to my hotel sober (drinks were expensive) but happy as hell.

Today, I visited Ani, which is a ruined fortress that has been held by Ottomans, Russians, and Seljuks at various times. It was built by Armenians as their capital city around a thousand years ago, and is just across the border from present-day Armenia. I could have thrown a stone and hit a Russian soldier on the over side. (Yes, Russians still guard the Armenian border.) It is a melancholy place: a reminder of a people long gone.

Ani makes the Turkish government uncomfortable, because it is a very visible reminder that this land was one part of a much larger Armenia. The word ''Armenia'' can't be found on a single sign in English or Turkish. Armenian script is all over, though: I even spotted a bit of Armenian graffiti on one church wall, right below an ancient Armenian inscription.

Not surprisingly, the only real restoration that's been done at Ani is of a single Seljuk mosque: archeology, like history, is used as a political tool here. (The Seljuks were an ancient Turkic people, and modern Turkey traces its lineage to them.) The Armenian Christian monuments are slowly falling down, and I get the feeling the Turkish government wouldn't mind if they disappeared all together. It's beautiful. But the overwhelming feeling is one of intentional neglect and silence.

Now I am on my fifth cup of tea--all included in the price of my meal. It is only 7 p.m., but it's been dark for two hours. This will be a challenge for the next few weeks: how to fill the bitterly cold hours after sundown? I predict many cups of tea, backgammon, and books.