Sixty One Degrees
An occassional journal of an Asia-overland adventure
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Bakuriani, Georgia
As part of the complete Georgian Christmas experience Tbilisi-local Kate suggests a trip to the ski fields of Bakuriani. Gun skier that I am I'm quite looking forward to hitting the piste.
Things don't start well at the bus station. We arrive at 11:40 to find our "12 o'clock" marshrutka full and our reserved seats gone. "Take the next one", the driver helpfully suggests, indicating a vacant minibus beside his, "it'll leave in 40 minutes".
An hour and a half later the second driver finally climbs in and starts the engine. At last we're away. My mind races with thoughts of powder snow and apres-ski drinks by the fire. The magic of Bakuriani beckons.
But first we have to get there. The driver is driving as if he's just remembered that he left the gas on. In between hair-raising overtaking manoeuvres he's adjusting the volume on the stereo and answering his mobile phone. Often all three at once. He tut-tuts as we pass another marshrutka crashed on the side of the road. A clearly less capable driver. As I alternate between white-knuckle fear and mental anguish from the painfully loud "comedy" tape. Kate sleeps. She's obviously more experienced in these trips than I.
It's after dark when we finally reach Bakuriani. Kate pulls out a hand-drawn map for the place we're staying at. The map shows one street with a restaurant at one end and the house at the other. Bakuriani, it turns out, has more than one street. Nevertheless we find the place and are soon back looking for food.
My heart lifts on seeing a Casio keyboard as we enter the restaurant. Always the sign of a class establishment. With my Australian gift for languages I'm sent to look for a menu. Georgian only. A drunk looking guy stumbles over and offers to help but with my trained eye I've already spotted a pizza and salad on an adjacent table and I order those. Plus some beer of course.
We're about to tuck in when the Casio keyboard springs to life. It's the drunk guy, playing like a magician, singing like a forty-a-day'er, and at a volume that makes the windows rattle. He's soon joined by a couple of even drunker friends who provide a brief bit of respite when they stumble in to the speaker cable and sever the sound.
They soon manage to plug it back in though so that's our cue to leave. We pop next door for some vital supplies then, beer in hand, stagger in the dark back to the house. Ready for an early start tomorrow.
At 10:30 we emerge from the house. I'd been directed to turn right for the Grand Master ski slopes. Kate had been told to turn left for some kiddie park. Left we turn. After meandering through town we find ourselves at the baby slopes. A handful of rope tows with a cluster of ski-rental booths at the bottom. I look wistfully at a distant chairlift climbing high to the top of Kokhta-Gora as Kate announces that this looks a fine place to ski. We find a cheerful lady with a haphazard collection of skis and boots. I find a set that looks half-decent and head for the longest of the rope tows. I'm intrigued to find that, rather than buying an all-day pass, I just pay the lift attendant a couple of lari (about one dollar) and he writes my name down on a piece of paper and marks me as having paid for three circuits.
The queue is short so I'm soon clutching the poma tow. They've ingeniously ensured that each tow is covered in snow, by having them drag through the snow all the way down from the top, so I find myself desparately trying not to sit on the seat in my jeans but just haul myself up with my arms. Eventually I make it to the top. I turn, adjust my sunglasses, bring my skis together, and thirty seconds later I'm back at the lift queue. The liftie remembers me easily enough as he marks off my second time around.
On my third trip the climb to the top was enlivened by the inch thick metal cable jumping the pulley wheels above me and whacking me on the head. As I check for blood flow or signs of concussion it occurs to me that this never happened in Switzerland. Clearly a regular occurence here as the top liftie comes down with a special stick to put the cable back on.
I head down and across to convince the never-have-never-will-ski Kate to give it a whirl. With skis on she patiently listens to my instruction on snow ploughs and Stem Christies, travels for about three metres across the snow, then suggests that maybe we should just go for a beer instead. Sounds like a plan to me.
Georgia and Armenia
Travelling in the Caucasus can be quite a challenge. Recent destinations have included Mtskheta, Aghtsk, and (my favourite) Ptghunk.
Trying pronouncing that at the bus station!
Svaneti Region, Georgia
"A land of deep traditions, violent justice and banditry, Svaneti is the ultimate destination for any traveller to Georgia"
So begins the Lonely Planet's introduction to this unsettled but beautiful region in the mountains of the Caucasus. It encouragingly continues:
"Unfortunately Svaneti remains a dangerous and unstable place. Travellers should only visit with the assistance of a travel agency that has good contacts in the region, as banditry is rife and the only protection comes through blood ties and local honour codes. However there is nobody who can guarentee you a totally safe trip."
Stories abounded of travellers and locals alike being held up and robbed at gunpoint on the buses. Several people I met compared it with travelling in Afghanistan. I had to go.
Exhortations to only go with a travel agency seemed a bit overblown. I felt sure I could handle it myself. Okay, so I may not speak Svan, Georgian, or even Russian. I don't know anyone there and I don't even know how to get there but hey, I've got a friendly smile. That's got to count for something.
I began with the overnight train from Tbilisi to Zugdidi. The train had seen better days. Guidebook promises of conductors delivering crisp bed linen went unfulfilled. The four berth kupe had just two pillows, one mattress which smelt like it had first seen service in Stalin's day, no sheets and no blankets. Two of the three lights didn't work and the door latch kept threatening to lock us permanently inside.
I slept well all the same and by morning was in Zugdidi, just on the edge of the civil war engulfed Abkhazia region. A promising start. Reports on transport to Mestia, six hours up a rough road and in the heart of Svaneti, were mixed. Some said there was nothing, some said the bus had already left. The Lonely Planet helpfully described the road as "lawless and deserted" and spoke of whole buses being robbed. In the end, after an hours wait in the dirt-patch bus stand, a minibus rolled up and people appeared from all corners to get on.
I managed to get a space in the back seat. The collapsing back seat that would be. The next six hours of pot-holed hell consisted of me mostly trying not to be projected through the roof or thrown on to the floor. It was with some relief that I saw Mestia finally roll in to view.
I jumped off the bus at the final stop and looked around the town square for a mini-market. I'd been tipped off to stay with Nino, who owns the store. Lots of people milling about but no sign of the shop. Finally a chap comes up to help, he speaks no English but I manage to get my message across. "Nino?", he says, "That's my sister!". He bundled me in to his little 4WD and we headed back down the road to the shop and a welcoming Nino.
That afternoon and the next morning I put all thoughts of wild banditry out of my head and explored the town. The most threatening thing I saw was a few cows. Mestia was a fair sized town so I longed to get further up the road to the small village of Ushguli. Nino organised a car and driver for the three hour journey. "Where can I stay?", I asked. "Why, with my brother, Dato, that brought you yesterday. He lived in Ushguli". Such is the way of things up here.
The drive to Ushguli was excellent. Passing a few small villages and mostly following a steep valley. Scattered all through this region are tall stone watchtowers, built hundreds of years ago for villages to hide in when raiders appear. It seems Svaneti has been unstable for quite some time.
We soon found Dato and I found myself ensconced in the kitchen with six ladies covering four generations and a table laden with food. They were engrossed in "El Clon", a soap opera from Brazil.
The next morning I walk around the village, the frozen mud cracking beneath my boots, admiring the profusion of stone towers, and the solitary mobile phone tower sitting proud at the high point of the village. The old and the new.
After breakfast I head up a nearby valley. Occasional trucks overladen with straw drive past on the small dirt road. Is this where I'll be attacked and robbed? I wondered. But everyone was friendly and just waved.
I continue up the valley, the awesome sight of Mt Shkhara always looming high in front of me. Eventually I reach the glacier coming down the mountainside, it's fifty metre face towering above me. Rocks occasionally fall from the top, as the ice melts, bouncing hard and fast on the valley floor. I see a good potential photo, a deep blue ice cave in the face of the glacier. I line up the shot with my camera. Wide-angled and very close is called for. I drop my backpack at a safe distance and run across the uneven ground to get close to the cave. Small rocks bounce around me. I glance up to see some much larger rocks on the virge of tumbling from above. I feel vaguely like a war photographer, dodging bullets. Quickly I'm in, take the shot, and run back to my safe haven behind a large boulder. That's enough excitement for me.
I start the three hour walk back to the village. Ahead of me the sun is dropping lower in the sky. Every now and then I turn to look at the mountain once more. Each time impressed by the magnificent shape and colours. I set up my tripod and take a photo, or two just to be sure. Walk a little more. Turn again. Colours are amazing. Surely I couldn't have captured that in my last photo. Unpack the tripod again. Another couple of shots. Finally back to the house. Back to the kitchen and the ladies and the cooking. Back to "El Clon".
The next day I decided to head back, completing the loop via the town of Lentekhi. As I headed across the yard to the kitchen for breakfast I saw Dato and a friend hard at work on his 4WD. Just a few minor adjustments, he indicated. We'll be away by 10.
Ten o'clock came and went, then eleven. I wondered if I should consider hitch-hiking. "Bad idea", says Dato. "While you are with me you are under my protection. Out there you are alone." Hmmm. Okay, I'll wait. At midday all was ready. We jumped in and headed up the steep rough roads through the village. At the edge of the village Dato asked me to get out as he took the car for a spin around a field, just to check. He looked under the car, he looked under the bonnet, he looked concerned. The car was "svetch" he said. I assumed that wasn't a good thing.
He went to his cousin's house to find an alternative. He cousin was out but would be back soon. We sat on a rock and had lunch while we waited. As I looked across at the little stone village, the green fields, and the towering snow-laden mountains I reflected that there are worse parts of the world to be stuck for a few hours.
Finally his cousin turned up and we were off, along with a different friend who was apparently just coming along for the ride. The drive was excellent. Over passes and along valleys and deep ravines. There were no villages or vehicles at all for quite a while.
We reach Lentekhi just before dusk. "Ask for Badri, the town doctor", Dato had advised, "Tell him Dato sent you." After a bit of driving around we find the doctors house. The doctor is not in but his wife is. She's never heard of Dato but she takes me in all the same, plying me with food and drink and putting on the TV. "Beverly Hills 90210", with Georgian voiceover, is showing. An hour or so later Badri arrives home. He barely knows Dato but more food and drink is forthcoming all the same. We end up toasting international friendship with cha-cha, the local firewater.
In the morning Badri drives me to the bus station in time for the 8am bus to Kutaisi, second largest town in Georgia. We arrive a few minutes early to find a car ready to go at the same price. I hop in to the spacious Volga sedan and we're off for the two hour journey.
Four hours later we reach Kutaisi. It seems that the old car, and it's even older driver, are adverse to potholes. There are a lot of potholes between Lentekhi and Kutaisi and we carefully drove around each one. But we didn't get mugged, robbed, or kidnapped and my Svaneti journey is over. Now, where's that bus for Afghanistan?
Svaneti, Georgia
Some practical tips for anyone planning on travelling to Svaneti in the near future. Despite all you hear there are not bandits around every corner and it can be done safely if you take a few precautions.
I took the overnight train from Tbilisi to Zugdidi. It leaves at 11:30pm and costs 7 lari. Arriving at 7am I found my way to the marshrutka "station" (just a patch of dirt on the side of the road). I managed to find the one marshrutka of the day (I'm pretty sure) leaving at about 9:30 (13 lari, 5 hours or so). Enough time for breakfast!
The marshrutka trip to Mestia was terrible. Mostly because the marshrutka was so bloody uncomfortable and the roads are pretty rough. In any case, I arrived okay and started looking for a place to stay. Nasi in Tbilisi (I'm sure you know her) recommended Nino Ratiani. Nino owns the little mini-market about 500m before the main square in Mestia. Look for the sign, walk back along the road from where the marshrutka drops you off, or just ask someone. In my case her brother-in-law(?), Dato, found us and gave us a lift back down the road. It's that kind of place. Comfortable bed, hot shower and all meals is $10 a night.
Next day, after checking out the town, which has some pretty cool towers but wasn't "villagey" enough for me, I decided to head up to Ushguli. Nino found a car for us for a price of 100L (about $50). Pretty expensive as I'd heard it was possible for 60 - 80 lari but I thought it better to go with someone she knew than just pick some random person. Nino was pretty sure that that was a fair price.
The drive up to Ushguli is great. About 3 hours passing through some wonderful terrain and a few cool villages. When things are safer this would make a good multi-day hike, staying in the villages each night. Not much (well, any) traffic really. Just a couple of logging trucks on the side of the road.
At Ushguli I stayed with the afore-mentioned Dato, who, it turned out, lives here. It also turned out that he's in the new LP (I've got the old one) but the price isn't $25 as quoted there but the same $10 as at Nino's.
Ushguli is awesome. A great little village, heaps of towers, and some stunning scenery all around with snow-capped mountains. Just pretend to ignore the mobile phone tower on the highest hill in the village.
The following day I took a walk up one of the valleys towards Mt Shkhara. Just head towards the church on the hill (you can climb the tower) then keep going. It's a fairly easy three hours to reach the bottom of the glacier. You can walk right up to it but watch out for falling rocks. The views here are nothing short of sensational.
Next day I decided to try to do a loop rather than go back to Mestia and Zugdidi. Dato's price for the trip to Lentekhi was 140 lari. Ouch! No other way though. In the end his 4WD was out of action though. I thought about trying to hitch whilst he tried to fix it but he recommended against. "While you are with me you are under my protection. Out there you are alone." Hmmm. Okay, I'll wait. In the end he couldn't sort his car out so I ended up going with his cousin (I think everyone is related). The original plan was to get to Lentekhi in time for the alleged 2pm bus to Kutaisi. As it was we didn't get going until about 2pm so I asked Dato if he knew somewhere I could stay in Lentekhi. He recommended a doctor friend. "Tell him Dato sent you", he said.
The trip took about four hours in the end but is really excellent. You go through a variety of scenery. First climbing to an alpine pass, then down in to a gorge. After an hour or so there is a very small village. The gorge eventually opens out a little and some pastures appear on the far side of the river, the mountains reappearing in the distance. Highly recommended.
I got to Lentekhi at about 6pm and found the doctors house but the doctor wasn't in. Eventually his wife appeared and seem a bit puzzled but invited me in all the same and was very hospitable. It turned out that her husband, who appeared later, only really knew Dato's father but they were very nice, giving me dinner and a comfortable bed and expecting no payment.
Next day I headed off for the 8am marshrutka to Kutaisi (5 lari) but ended up in a share taxi for 8L. I think I got the world's most cautious driver and the journey took almost four hours but in the end I made it to Kutaisi and safely completed my Svaneti odyssey.
Safety-wise, the key thing I think is to always be with someone that the previous person knows. If you go from one known person to another you should be fine. Things are definitely much safer in general than they have been and the Svan tradition of honour will ensure your protection if you stick with reliable people. That said, a friend in Tbilisi still thinks I'm crazy to have done this.
But I'd say definitely go! It's fantastic!
Gori, Georgia
Georgia has a strange fascination with Stalin, their most famous export. There is apparently a statue still somewhere in the city of Telavi, I shared my room in my Tbilisi guesthouse with a huge poster of the man, and from the dining room wall in our Kazbegi guesthouse he again loomed large.
This reverence reaches its pinnacle in the city of Gori. Stalin's birthplace and home for his first fifteen years. It features a huge statue of Stalin standing proud before the local parliament and his childhood home has been enshrined beneath a huge museum dedicated to Gori's favourite son.
The museum is mostly a collection of photos. I walk through the large rooms alone in the semi-darkness. No-one is there to turn the lights on. Stalin looks down in all his guises: revolutionary, nation builder, war leader, family man. Strangely no mention of gulags or purges.
I finally come to a small room, shrine almost, containing his death mask. My first reaction was to think how small it looked. After all the photos he seemed so much larger than life yet he was just a man. As I stood there in the dim light it seemed remarkable that one could have so much power over many. That one man could hold the life and death of millions in his hands. Looking at the small peaceful face it just did not seem possible.
The whole place was strangely moving. I guess I have not been before to a museum to such a man, that affected so many others so greatly and so terribly. Most leaders of his ilk never get a museum after death. Stalin is the strange exception.