Within 100km of us in all directions, things were happening that made our mothers worry.
Yet we found the Kurdish areas to be some of the most hospitable
and fascinating places in our travels so far...
Yet we found the Kurdish areas to be some of the most hospitable
and fascinating places in our travels so far...
The Eastern region is Turkey is more densely populated by the ethnic Kurds and one which, to Western eyes, elicits an aura of uncertainty and fear. It was around this time Turkey firmly stamped its foot in neighbouring Syria, although it wasn’t clear who exactly they were fighting, for what reason, and who the allies were. And that was before Russia flexed and joined the fray.
Politics aside, this region formed one of the most vibrant, enjoyable, varied and photogenic areas of our journey, despite the undercurrent of worldly affairs. Eastern Turkey is the only place we were basically adopted by a family for a few days. The fascination was mutual.
In fact, we found Eastern Turkey to be so underrated and misunderstood, that we wrote a quick article celebrating the top 5 destinations, which forms the basis of what we have written below.
But the region is vast, dusty and no amount of juicy apricots can help make sense of a part of the world that’s too close to worrisome neighbours like Syria, Iraq, Iran, Armenia and Georgia. Even if they aren’t so worrisome at all. Except maybe Syria and Iraq.
Politics aside, this region formed one of the most vibrant, enjoyable, varied and photogenic areas of our journey, despite the undercurrent of worldly affairs. Eastern Turkey is the only place we were basically adopted by a family for a few days. The fascination was mutual.
In fact, we found Eastern Turkey to be so underrated and misunderstood, that we wrote a quick article celebrating the top 5 destinations, which forms the basis of what we have written below.
But the region is vast, dusty and no amount of juicy apricots can help make sense of a part of the world that’s too close to worrisome neighbours like Syria, Iraq, Iran, Armenia and Georgia. Even if they aren’t so worrisome at all. Except maybe Syria and Iraq.
Where we went
Interested in the practical information for Eastern Turkey? Skip to the end - we’ve answered everything there, and even included our itinerary.
Interested in the practical information for Eastern Turkey? Skip to the end - we’ve answered everything there, and even included our itinerary.
Malatya
"Where’s my shoes? Who’s stolen my shoes? Where’s my village? Who’s stolen my village?"
Ok, it might not be a direct translation of what he actually said, but when an 80-year-old man decides to wake up the entire train carriage by ranting every 15 minutes until 3:00am, our sleep-deprived brains start finding any way to make light of a situation.
It was a long journey from Ankara, the capital of Turkey, to Malatya, the capital of Apricots. And despite our hallucinogenic sleep, watching the sun come up over the meandering hills through the Turkish-flag-imprinted windows of the train carriage was a harsh reminder that we were going to be firmly in dusty landscape territory until we crossed over into Georgia. We were to make many friends over the next week and a half - sunscreen being one of them.
Malatya has a fruitful (pun intended) air about it. Where a kilogram of fresh apricots costs 4 lira (just under £1), we found it to be a surprisingly clean, modern and welcoming city. Clearly the industry has done the region well, as apricot emblems decorate everything from lamp posts to rubbish bins. With gigantic apricot sculptures at the centre of roundabouts, we half expected the street lights to bathe the nighttime city in a warm apricot hue.
But it was the market which left the biggest imprint on us. We wandered through the ‘animal parts for sale’ section (far more than mere meat was on offer) and eventually found ourselves hurdling the gauntlet of apricot salesmen. With a couple of the juiciest and sweetest apricots in our possession, we attempted to escape - but still had salesmen sneakily slipping extra apricots into our bags, pockets and hands as we walked through the labyrinth of stalls.
We emerged from the market a good two kilograms heavier and headed straight to the nearby mosque to soak up the sunset. It didn’t take long to be surrounded by moustache’d old men, while chatting/gesticulating/Google-translating and sharing our prized apricots around.
The whole afternoon inspired what we call The Apricot Experience - that in the future, you’ll more fondly remember sharing apricots with strangers than the big sights you came to see.
"Where’s my shoes? Who’s stolen my shoes? Where’s my village? Who’s stolen my village?"
Ok, it might not be a direct translation of what he actually said, but when an 80-year-old man decides to wake up the entire train carriage by ranting every 15 minutes until 3:00am, our sleep-deprived brains start finding any way to make light of a situation.
It was a long journey from Ankara, the capital of Turkey, to Malatya, the capital of Apricots. And despite our hallucinogenic sleep, watching the sun come up over the meandering hills through the Turkish-flag-imprinted windows of the train carriage was a harsh reminder that we were going to be firmly in dusty landscape territory until we crossed over into Georgia. We were to make many friends over the next week and a half - sunscreen being one of them.
Malatya has a fruitful (pun intended) air about it. Where a kilogram of fresh apricots costs 4 lira (just under £1), we found it to be a surprisingly clean, modern and welcoming city. Clearly the industry has done the region well, as apricot emblems decorate everything from lamp posts to rubbish bins. With gigantic apricot sculptures at the centre of roundabouts, we half expected the street lights to bathe the nighttime city in a warm apricot hue.
But it was the market which left the biggest imprint on us. We wandered through the ‘animal parts for sale’ section (far more than mere meat was on offer) and eventually found ourselves hurdling the gauntlet of apricot salesmen. With a couple of the juiciest and sweetest apricots in our possession, we attempted to escape - but still had salesmen sneakily slipping extra apricots into our bags, pockets and hands as we walked through the labyrinth of stalls.
We emerged from the market a good two kilograms heavier and headed straight to the nearby mosque to soak up the sunset. It didn’t take long to be surrounded by moustache’d old men, while chatting/gesticulating/Google-translating and sharing our prized apricots around.
The whole afternoon inspired what we call The Apricot Experience - that in the future, you’ll more fondly remember sharing apricots with strangers than the big sights you came to see.
Mt Nemrut
Giant stone heads toppled over on top of a mountain is always going to be an impressive sight. They mightn’t be as big as you think, but the fact they’re even up here is incredible. Throw in some 360-degree sunset and sunrise views as far as the eye can see, and it has all the ingredients for a pretty special place.
At 2,134m’s, it’s nice to find a quiet spot and observe the world. This is a place to think of all the things going on, of all the people who have been and gone. There is an introspective stillness, a timelessness here. Mt Nemrut is where it’s easy to get all gooey about us feeble humans.
The now UNESCO site goes back to 62BC when Game of Thrones-sounding King Antiochus I Theos of Commagene built his tomb, complete with statues of Gods, lions, eagles and a few star/planet arrangements as a timestamp for future generations. Fast forward a good 2,000 years and his tomb has, strangely, never been found and the statues have all been beheaded.
Perhaps it was all the disembodied heads, or just the neat way they are positioned below their former owners, but once the sun had set and we were alone, Mt Nemrut took on a far more sinister feeling. The horror-movie-esque metal cage around the head of King Antiochus didn’t help, nor the cracked, ghostly faces of his entourage.
…and wasn’t that dragon/snake guardian thing facing the other way just a moment ago…?
Time to head down for dinner.
The following morning, we trundled up the rocky, winding road, happy to see the statues still in their original positions. We found a spot with a few local tourists and were offered sweet bread and fruit from a man and woman - they pointed to their village as the sun’s first rays crept across the valley floor. It was her first time up here.
We ended up chatting to a concerned Australian couple for a while - they were cycling across Turkey and were worried about the militarisation occurring in the region. Their main problem was speed - being on bicycles meant they could only cover 60-100km a day in the heat and hills.
Perhaps that impacted our next decision - to skip a few really interesting towns and instead jump on a bus to faraway Lake Van.
Giant stone heads toppled over on top of a mountain is always going to be an impressive sight. They mightn’t be as big as you think, but the fact they’re even up here is incredible. Throw in some 360-degree sunset and sunrise views as far as the eye can see, and it has all the ingredients for a pretty special place.
At 2,134m’s, it’s nice to find a quiet spot and observe the world. This is a place to think of all the things going on, of all the people who have been and gone. There is an introspective stillness, a timelessness here. Mt Nemrut is where it’s easy to get all gooey about us feeble humans.
The now UNESCO site goes back to 62BC when Game of Thrones-sounding King Antiochus I Theos of Commagene built his tomb, complete with statues of Gods, lions, eagles and a few star/planet arrangements as a timestamp for future generations. Fast forward a good 2,000 years and his tomb has, strangely, never been found and the statues have all been beheaded.
Perhaps it was all the disembodied heads, or just the neat way they are positioned below their former owners, but once the sun had set and we were alone, Mt Nemrut took on a far more sinister feeling. The horror-movie-esque metal cage around the head of King Antiochus didn’t help, nor the cracked, ghostly faces of his entourage.
…and wasn’t that dragon/snake guardian thing facing the other way just a moment ago…?
Time to head down for dinner.
The following morning, we trundled up the rocky, winding road, happy to see the statues still in their original positions. We found a spot with a few local tourists and were offered sweet bread and fruit from a man and woman - they pointed to their village as the sun’s first rays crept across the valley floor. It was her first time up here.
We ended up chatting to a concerned Australian couple for a while - they were cycling across Turkey and were worried about the militarisation occurring in the region. Their main problem was speed - being on bicycles meant they could only cover 60-100km a day in the heat and hills.
Perhaps that impacted our next decision - to skip a few really interesting towns and instead jump on a bus to faraway Lake Van.
Lake Van
Like any large body of water, Lake Van has its fair share of myths and tales. Home to a Loch-Ness-esque monster and cats that swim in the water, we weren’t really quite sure what to expect. It’s a messy area for history; borders were different 1,000 years ago when Armenian kingdoms went on a building spree, and nowadays there were two things we were actively discouraged from discussing - Kurdish relations, and the not so delicately put ‘Armenian Genocide’.
Such is life around Lake Van - or rather, Van, the eastern-shore city we stayed in. Only it’s not by the shore - the modern city was rebuilt post 1920 and moved 6km inland with the ruins around the ancient citadel of Van Castle left to overgrow, frequented now by shy groups of Turkish men, waving us over to show that they were drinking a cheeky little can of beer like schoolchildren (alcohol, although available, is far less in-your-face in Eastern Turkey).
With our heads spinning from history, we had one saving grace: A Kurdish family which effectively adopted us on our visit to Akdamar Island, a tiny rocky outcrop, home to an iconically picturesque 10th Century Armenian Church. The family extended the kind of legendary hospitality reserved for travellers in, say, the deserts of the Sahara; A genuine welcoming warmth and acceptance (with a generous scoop of curiosity, no doubt). We even met for a seaside dinner the following evening, and probably would have settled in for the long term, had we not a schedule to (roughly) stick to.
But we had to go our separate ways, if even just to explore yet another famous side of Van - Breakfast Street. Here’s how it works:
And all for a couple of dollars.
Luckily we had a nearby bus to roll onto for the hour-long trip to the dilapidated mud-brick walls of Hosap Castle, yet another journey chatting to locals via our English-Turkish dictionary, much to the amusement of half the bus. Meandering up a small hill, we rested against some rocks to take in the sheer vastness of the dusty landscape, and this massive castle that attempted to dominate it.
We had a pretty amazing time around Lake Van and yet one thing still eluded us: the mythical Van Cat. Well, something more than the gigantic, slightly-weathered statue by the road leading into town.
It was only on our last day, on the way to the bus station, did we take a wrong turn and happen across a tiny pet store with even tinier kittens. Holding up a soft, bewildered little feline, we looked at each other with curiosity.
Two distinctly differently coloured eyes gazed back.
Like any large body of water, Lake Van has its fair share of myths and tales. Home to a Loch-Ness-esque monster and cats that swim in the water, we weren’t really quite sure what to expect. It’s a messy area for history; borders were different 1,000 years ago when Armenian kingdoms went on a building spree, and nowadays there were two things we were actively discouraged from discussing - Kurdish relations, and the not so delicately put ‘Armenian Genocide’.
Such is life around Lake Van - or rather, Van, the eastern-shore city we stayed in. Only it’s not by the shore - the modern city was rebuilt post 1920 and moved 6km inland with the ruins around the ancient citadel of Van Castle left to overgrow, frequented now by shy groups of Turkish men, waving us over to show that they were drinking a cheeky little can of beer like schoolchildren (alcohol, although available, is far less in-your-face in Eastern Turkey).
With our heads spinning from history, we had one saving grace: A Kurdish family which effectively adopted us on our visit to Akdamar Island, a tiny rocky outcrop, home to an iconically picturesque 10th Century Armenian Church. The family extended the kind of legendary hospitality reserved for travellers in, say, the deserts of the Sahara; A genuine welcoming warmth and acceptance (with a generous scoop of curiosity, no doubt). We even met for a seaside dinner the following evening, and probably would have settled in for the long term, had we not a schedule to (roughly) stick to.
But we had to go our separate ways, if even just to explore yet another famous side of Van - Breakfast Street. Here’s how it works:
- Walk down a narrow street that’s so short it’s barely marked on maps
- Get accosted by gigantic Kurdish men who will threaten you (and your mother) if you even consider eating your breakfast somewhere else
- Graciously admit you are in fact, hungry, and slide into a waiting chair
- Give the menu a quick glance and nod. Try not to make eye contact with anyone.
- Watch as small saucers slide onto your table, each one containing a generous serving of cheeses, olives, nuts, clotted cream, honey, egg, spiced ground meat, etc.
- Exclaim ‘Ooh!’, as it does, in fact, look good.
- Watch as every inch of space on the table is filled with food
- Exclaim ‘Ahh!', as it does in fact, taste as good as it looks
- Watch as somehow, despite the table being full, room is still made for the ubiquitous tea and bread
- Try act natural when tea is refilled and more freshly-baked bread is brought out every few minutes
And all for a couple of dollars.
Luckily we had a nearby bus to roll onto for the hour-long trip to the dilapidated mud-brick walls of Hosap Castle, yet another journey chatting to locals via our English-Turkish dictionary, much to the amusement of half the bus. Meandering up a small hill, we rested against some rocks to take in the sheer vastness of the dusty landscape, and this massive castle that attempted to dominate it.
We had a pretty amazing time around Lake Van and yet one thing still eluded us: the mythical Van Cat. Well, something more than the gigantic, slightly-weathered statue by the road leading into town.
It was only on our last day, on the way to the bus station, did we take a wrong turn and happen across a tiny pet store with even tinier kittens. Holding up a soft, bewildered little feline, we looked at each other with curiosity.
Two distinctly differently coloured eyes gazed back.
Dogubeyazit
There are only two reasons to visit Dogubeyazit, and neither of them justify the squalor of the town itself. A classic border town, it is as shabby as it is strategic, home to a ready-to-roll military base that’s large enough to take on the whole neighbouring Armenian army, should they have any qualms about reclaiming land.
Needless to say, the border is closed, and relations remain tense.
In fact, new recruits stationed here have drawn the short straw: Dogubeyazit is so damn far away from anything that it takes too long to go home to visit relatives on short breaks from military duty.
Hence why the town has that certain je ne se qois which says ‘don’t walk around here at night’, especially if you don’t want to fall into a pot-hole along a darkened street. Or be attacked by a menagerie of mangy mutts.
The main drawcard for visitors is snow-capped Mt Ararat, the highest mountain in Turkey, and one which claims to have been the resting place of Noah’s Ark. Floods aside, it’s a remarkably photogenic mountain, and one which attracts climbers and mountaineers from all over the world. We even met a guide who arrived from Armenia (via Iran, naturally), to accompany a troupe of European summiteers.
But we had our eyes set on a more earthly pursuit - the fun-to-say Ishak Pasha Palace.
A short drive up a hill out of town sets Ishak Pasha Palace (see, it does sound cool) with a commanding view over the neverending plain. Glowing sunsets here is the stuff of legends, and as the rays of light filtered through the atmosphere of dust, the sheer magnitude of yet another Eastern Turkey landscape made us feel very small indeed.
And after a quick breakfast, we were off on a rumbling bus to our next destination. No point sticking around here. Total time in Dogubeyazit (including sleeping): 16 hours.
There are only two reasons to visit Dogubeyazit, and neither of them justify the squalor of the town itself. A classic border town, it is as shabby as it is strategic, home to a ready-to-roll military base that’s large enough to take on the whole neighbouring Armenian army, should they have any qualms about reclaiming land.
Needless to say, the border is closed, and relations remain tense.
In fact, new recruits stationed here have drawn the short straw: Dogubeyazit is so damn far away from anything that it takes too long to go home to visit relatives on short breaks from military duty.
Hence why the town has that certain je ne se qois which says ‘don’t walk around here at night’, especially if you don’t want to fall into a pot-hole along a darkened street. Or be attacked by a menagerie of mangy mutts.
The main drawcard for visitors is snow-capped Mt Ararat, the highest mountain in Turkey, and one which claims to have been the resting place of Noah’s Ark. Floods aside, it’s a remarkably photogenic mountain, and one which attracts climbers and mountaineers from all over the world. We even met a guide who arrived from Armenia (via Iran, naturally), to accompany a troupe of European summiteers.
But we had our eyes set on a more earthly pursuit - the fun-to-say Ishak Pasha Palace.
A short drive up a hill out of town sets Ishak Pasha Palace (see, it does sound cool) with a commanding view over the neverending plain. Glowing sunsets here is the stuff of legends, and as the rays of light filtered through the atmosphere of dust, the sheer magnitude of yet another Eastern Turkey landscape made us feel very small indeed.
And after a quick breakfast, we were off on a rumbling bus to our next destination. No point sticking around here. Total time in Dogubeyazit (including sleeping): 16 hours.
Ani
Ani, the former capital of Armenia may be located on a particularly contentious side of the country’s border (noticing a theme here?), and given its remoteness it understandably doesn’t feature on most Turkish itineraries. Which means we shared this windswept, apocalyptic ghost city with barely another soul.
Which makes it one of the worst places for Pete to pretty much break his foot*.
Which he did.
Pete decided that hopping on a low wall would give a better camera angle of the hulking remains of the 11th century Church of the Redeemer.
Naturally the wall had other ideas and decided to fall apart, sending Pete to the ground. Not long after the adrenaline had worn off, Pete’s foot had doubled in size and took on a rather curious shade of purple.
Limping and hobbling around the flat grasslands, gawking at the hulking remains of stone buildings made us appreciate the size of the site. Centuries of conquests and a giant earthquake in 1319 ensured that only a dozen or so ‘feature’ buildings remain in their toppled states.
Ani simply hasn’t changed in hundreds of years.
But signs of renovation are beginning, perhaps in a bid to increase tourism to an incredibly unique and historical area. One that (surprisingly) is only now being considered for UNESCO membership.
* As a scan in Tbilisi, Georgia confirmed, Pete didn’t quite break his foot. But the damage ensured he couldn’t walk on it for a week, and took around 2 months to be back to normal. At that stage, we were in Mongolia. He since perfected his zombie-walk impressions.
Ani, the former capital of Armenia may be located on a particularly contentious side of the country’s border (noticing a theme here?), and given its remoteness it understandably doesn’t feature on most Turkish itineraries. Which means we shared this windswept, apocalyptic ghost city with barely another soul.
Which makes it one of the worst places for Pete to pretty much break his foot*.
Which he did.
Pete decided that hopping on a low wall would give a better camera angle of the hulking remains of the 11th century Church of the Redeemer.
Naturally the wall had other ideas and decided to fall apart, sending Pete to the ground. Not long after the adrenaline had worn off, Pete’s foot had doubled in size and took on a rather curious shade of purple.
Limping and hobbling around the flat grasslands, gawking at the hulking remains of stone buildings made us appreciate the size of the site. Centuries of conquests and a giant earthquake in 1319 ensured that only a dozen or so ‘feature’ buildings remain in their toppled states.
Ani simply hasn’t changed in hundreds of years.
But signs of renovation are beginning, perhaps in a bid to increase tourism to an incredibly unique and historical area. One that (surprisingly) is only now being considered for UNESCO membership.
* As a scan in Tbilisi, Georgia confirmed, Pete didn’t quite break his foot. But the damage ensured he couldn’t walk on it for a week, and took around 2 months to be back to normal. At that stage, we were in Mongolia. He since perfected his zombie-walk impressions.
Practical Information
We covered Istanbul, Western Turkey and Cappadocia in other articles, so we’ll consider ‘Eastern Turkey’ as beginning on our overnight train from Ankara, to our border crossing into Georgia.
Our Itinerary
Day 1: Arrive Malatya
Day 2: Malatya, jeep to Mt Nemrut for sunset
Day 3: Sunrise at Mt Nemrut, bus to Van
Day 4: Van
Day 5: Van
Day 6: bus to Dogubeyazit
Day 7: bus to Kars
Day 8: Kars (day trip to Ani)
Day 9: bus to Tbilisi, Georgia
There is far more we wanted to see, but given the mobilisation of the military, we chose to skip through the area more quickly.
Is Eastern Turkey ‘safe'?
There were public demonstrations (which we avoided) in the cities we stayed, and (very isolated) military activity in nearby towns. The Kurdish people and their role in modern Turkey is a contentious issue and one that’s unlikely to be resolved anytime soon.
Always check the ‘safe travel’ websites before visiting.
How did we get around?
The bus network around Turkey is well developed and reliable. Large companies like MetroBus make it super easy to plan and book tickets online. There are also a plethora of smaller companies which don’t have a presence online. Simply turn up to the bus station and a tout will be eager to sell you a ticket.
We referenced our Lonely Planet for the ‘getting there and away’ sections at the end of each town. We found the departure and travel times to be accurate and immeasurably helpful.
How did we find accommodation?
We often booked ahead a day or two in advance using Booking.com. Our rooms were often dated and smelly. There wasn’t a lot of choice at a budget end as Turkey doesn’t really have hostels and guesthouses outside the big cities - just lots of stale hotels.
How much did we spend?
Prices were lower on average than Western Turkey, but not enough to make it feel like Eastern Turkey was noticeably better value. Quality dropped accordingly.
How did we get to Georgia?
We chose the ‘Posof’ border crossing on a bus from Ardahan, which turned out to be quite an adventure. Our ticket apparently ensured us travel through to Tbilisi, but in reality, we were dumped at the border with a firm ‘Bus finish!’ as we crossed into Georgia (after waiting for 3 hours).
The bus staff disappeared and we were left stranded. Other passengers, familiar with the game, paid for a taxi and were long gone before we knew what was going on.
We ended up paying the local taxi mafia to take us to the next town and book us a ticket to Tbilisi. Although it didn’t cost a lot by Western standards, it was about double what we should have paid. Unbeknownst to us then, transport within Georgia is extremely cheap.
The crossing closer to Batumi on the Black Sea coast is far more touristed and (probably) more regulated.
We covered Istanbul, Western Turkey and Cappadocia in other articles, so we’ll consider ‘Eastern Turkey’ as beginning on our overnight train from Ankara, to our border crossing into Georgia.
Our Itinerary
Day 1: Arrive Malatya
Day 2: Malatya, jeep to Mt Nemrut for sunset
Day 3: Sunrise at Mt Nemrut, bus to Van
Day 4: Van
Day 5: Van
Day 6: bus to Dogubeyazit
Day 7: bus to Kars
Day 8: Kars (day trip to Ani)
Day 9: bus to Tbilisi, Georgia
There is far more we wanted to see, but given the mobilisation of the military, we chose to skip through the area more quickly.
Is Eastern Turkey ‘safe'?
There were public demonstrations (which we avoided) in the cities we stayed, and (very isolated) military activity in nearby towns. The Kurdish people and their role in modern Turkey is a contentious issue and one that’s unlikely to be resolved anytime soon.
Always check the ‘safe travel’ websites before visiting.
How did we get around?
The bus network around Turkey is well developed and reliable. Large companies like MetroBus make it super easy to plan and book tickets online. There are also a plethora of smaller companies which don’t have a presence online. Simply turn up to the bus station and a tout will be eager to sell you a ticket.
We referenced our Lonely Planet for the ‘getting there and away’ sections at the end of each town. We found the departure and travel times to be accurate and immeasurably helpful.
How did we find accommodation?
We often booked ahead a day or two in advance using Booking.com. Our rooms were often dated and smelly. There wasn’t a lot of choice at a budget end as Turkey doesn’t really have hostels and guesthouses outside the big cities - just lots of stale hotels.
How much did we spend?
Prices were lower on average than Western Turkey, but not enough to make it feel like Eastern Turkey was noticeably better value. Quality dropped accordingly.
How did we get to Georgia?
We chose the ‘Posof’ border crossing on a bus from Ardahan, which turned out to be quite an adventure. Our ticket apparently ensured us travel through to Tbilisi, but in reality, we were dumped at the border with a firm ‘Bus finish!’ as we crossed into Georgia (after waiting for 3 hours).
The bus staff disappeared and we were left stranded. Other passengers, familiar with the game, paid for a taxi and were long gone before we knew what was going on.
We ended up paying the local taxi mafia to take us to the next town and book us a ticket to Tbilisi. Although it didn’t cost a lot by Western standards, it was about double what we should have paid. Unbeknownst to us then, transport within Georgia is extremely cheap.
The crossing closer to Batumi on the Black Sea coast is far more touristed and (probably) more regulated.