Touring in Turkey, travelling between small towns and villages, inevitably meant becoming familiar with the dolmuş, a minivan, or shared taxi. The word means “full”, and originally that meant they left when they were full-up. Nowadays, they mostly go according to a set timetable. If the route is busy, it is wise to turn up a little early to be sure of a place, and to avoid having to sit on a stool between the seats. Generally, they are a bit old and grubby, but I usually found them OK. And they are cheap. Drivers were usually helpful and, despite the language barrier, endeavoured to oblige by dropping me exactly where I wanted, pointing out the next bus I needed to take in case I had to change in order to reach my destination.
A peculiarity of travelling by bus or dolmuş in Turkey, at least in the north-east, is that unacquainted men and women are not allowed to sit next to each other. This adds to the complication of finding a place, as I was obliged to sit in a row of seats with other men. Sometimes, when new passengers were taken on board, people had to be shifted around, to keep the balance of the sexes right.
In more remote places, the dolmuş often transports goods as well as people. Travelling from Yusufeli to the village of Barhal, along a rather rough road, on the roof we had stacks of wooden panels, to line the walls of someone’s house, as well as a mattress. Inside, between the seats, was a television set, as well as sacks of bread and boxes of eggs.
My one really bad dolmuş experience was travelling from Kars to Ardahan. Sometimes, one finds oneself sitting near some rather unwashed people, and one just has to get used to it. But on this journey, there was an individual who was beyond the pale. The pungency of his stench, whose constitutive elements I do not even want to think about, made me retch. I do not believe he had washed either his clothes or himself for months, possibly years. Sitting behind me, he repeatedly murmured to himself in a low, gruff voice. He seemed to be beyond society. I spent most of the journey with a hand tightly clenched over my nose and mouth, in misery. When he finally got out, I thought I sensed a collective sigh of relief.
In Georgia, and around the former Soviet Union, the dolmuş is known as a marshrutka (a Russian word), but it is the same thing. Except that the Georgians have invented added thrills to the business of travel. Georgian driving can be eye-poppingly scary. The disregard for traffic lanes, the habit of swerving from one side to another, of gaily crossing over the central road markings into the line of oncoming traffic, all astonish visitors from countries with more staid driving practices. Then there are the testosterone-charged races I have witnessed down the long boulevards in central Tbilisi. Crossing the road is an adventure in that city. The impatience of Georgian drivers is such that they often cannot bear to wait in the right-hand lane at a road junction, and jump the queue, pulling over into the left lane, scooting ahead when the lights change, just in time to avoid the oncoming traffic. I saw a bizarre example of this in Batumi, when waiting at a railway crossing for a goods train to pass. Impatient drivers on both sides pulled into the left-hand lane, hoping to give themselves an advantage. The result, once the train had passed? Complete blockage, obviously.
I had only one previous experience of riding in a marshrutka, a journey from Tbilisi to Gori and back in 2004, to visit the Stalin museum. Some international organisations ban their staff from travelling by marshrutka, given their drivers’ reputation for extreme recklessness. I learned the reason why during my marshrutka journey from Borjomi to Vardzia, a winding road much of the way, often not metalled, and with steep drops in some places. The driver drove at such a speed that when he was flagged down by would-be passengers he had to slam on the breaks, usually coming to a halt much further down the road, having to back up (also at speed) some way in order to take them on board. He seemed unconcerned for life or limb. How he had made it to middle age driving like that is a mystery. Several times I found myself closing my eyes, unable to watch as he tore into another sharp bend. On two occasions he appeared on the verge of losing control as he hurtled into a bend that was just too tight, slamming on the breaks and struggling with the steering wheel. Once, as we stopped to pick up a party of Ukrainians, I relaxed the grip of my hands on the seat in front of me, and realised that the muscles in my arms were tightly clenched, such was the tension of the journey. Setting off again at the same manic speed, the Ukrainians and I exchanged worried glances. For the Georgian passengers, all was apparently completely normal. What a relief to arrive back in Borjomi in one piece (to change on to another marshrutka for the journey on to Tbilisi).
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