Inside the cool terminal, the woman at passport control said something that nearly made me cry, as it meant the culmination of long planning and daydreaming, and was said with a politeness that I had forgotten existed while in Turkey: "Welcome to Georgia!"
Some months back, Anna and I had discussed where we would go on holiday once our contracts had finished. Many potential destinations were tossed out - Egypt, Syria, Azerbaijan, Greece, another place in Turkey - because our proximity to the Middle East, the Caucasus, and the Balkans made these options feasible. But eventually, we settled on Georgia. Why?
We had no idea whatsoever about what Georgia was like, and neither did anyone we knew or talked to. Indeed, an internet search about Georgia is more likely to bring up "Atlanta" and pictures of peaches than the stunning landscape or delicious wines. I have no doubt that most people don't know that there is a country named Georgia, so at least in that regard, the trip would make for interesting conversation in the future. But as we began planning our trip, it proved difficult as really, no one seemed to know anything about Georgia. None of our coworkers had gone, and Turks didn't know either. Then again, I couldn't tell you much about Canada if you asked me.
"We're going to Georgia on holiday," we would say.
"Why, teacher?" was the reply with puzzled looks.
"Because I'm curious about that, the same reason I came to Turkey." Silence. "Do you know anything about Georgia?" we would ask. Mumbling.
"No. Georgian people not good, teacher," was the usual response. They can't be worse than you, I thought. Luckily, they couldn't have been more wrong. And that was the exact reason we decided to go to Georgia - because we were curious about this place which no one seemed to know much about. It was a bit like going into to unknown, in its own way. So when we landed in Batumi and walked out of the airport, our excitement was palpable, as we had had no idea what to expect from Georgia and were eager to find out about this mysterious place.
Some months back, Anna and I had discussed where we would go on holiday once our contracts had finished. Many potential destinations were tossed out - Egypt, Syria, Azerbaijan, Greece, another place in Turkey - because our proximity to the Middle East, the Caucasus, and the Balkans made these options feasible. But eventually, we settled on Georgia. Why?
We had no idea whatsoever about what Georgia was like, and neither did anyone we knew or talked to. Indeed, an internet search about Georgia is more likely to bring up "Atlanta" and pictures of peaches than the stunning landscape or delicious wines. I have no doubt that most people don't know that there is a country named Georgia, so at least in that regard, the trip would make for interesting conversation in the future. But as we began planning our trip, it proved difficult as really, no one seemed to know anything about Georgia. None of our coworkers had gone, and Turks didn't know either. Then again, I couldn't tell you much about Canada if you asked me.
"We're going to Georgia on holiday," we would say.
"Why, teacher?" was the reply with puzzled looks.
"Because I'm curious about that, the same reason I came to Turkey." Silence. "Do you know anything about Georgia?" we would ask. Mumbling.
"No. Georgian people not good, teacher," was the usual response. They can't be worse than you, I thought. Luckily, they couldn't have been more wrong. And that was the exact reason we decided to go to Georgia - because we were curious about this place which no one seemed to know much about. It was a bit like going into to unknown, in its own way. So when we landed in Batumi and walked out of the airport, our excitement was palpable, as we had had no idea what to expect from Georgia and were eager to find out about this mysterious place.
Not exactly Hollywood
Our journey began in Batumi, a small city on the Black Sea coast and a popular vacation destination of Georgians. We got our first impression of it while riding the bus back from the airport, the redheaded driver lazily puffing on a cigarette and careening into the curves. Situated on the eastern shore of the Black Sea, Batumi's seaside is lined by long, dark pebble beaches - no sand - and the city is dwarfed by this vast leaden body of water. High green mountains loom to the west, and with seated between this dichotomy of lush earth and infinite sea, the location is idyllic. Batumi's cityscape, however, is a strange anachronism - gleaming new glass and steel high rise hotels tower above crumbling tropical-hued Soviet block apartment buildings. Most of Batumi lacked roads, or, our idea of a road - most streets had been reduced to dirt and pebble tracts with abysmal potholes. It was possible to see this dualism everywhere in Batumi - the brand new grocery store on the decrepit dirty street, the long elegant seaside promenade with the abandoned concrete Socialist mansion. With the help of a Turk we met on the street (they certainly love you if you speak their language), we were able to find the guesthouse we had booked, which, in fact, wasn't really a guesthouse, but a private home with a bunch of rooms the family rented out. Mikheil, the family's son, helped his mother manage the "guesthouse" with his excellent English, and he and his family were very helpful and kind to us during our stay there.
The following day we headed straight for the beach, having not swum for about a year and dying to get in the water. We had been able to ascertain that there was a nice beach 15 km south of Batumi at a village on the Turkish border called Sarpi, so we took the bus there. Indeed, it was a lovely beach - it was quiet, the water was clean, and it wasn't crowded, save the occasional group of Turks fresh across the border who came down to swim, dirty the beach, and lasciviously leer at the Georgian girls laid out sunning themselves on the pebbles. Here too the beach was only pebbles, walnut sized dark green and graphite pebbles worn impossibly smooth by eons of washing back and forth, infinitely rolling over each other. It was nice to lie by the shore on the pebbles and wiggle a bit, giving yourself natural hot massage, and listen to the soothing, rhythmic clicking gargle of the pebbles rolling over each other in the calm surf. The weather was a bit cloudy, but hot, so the cool sea was a welcome treat. We swam in the clear water and sunned ourselves on the rocks, and watched the people coming and going across the border.
Last sign before crossing into Turkey. Apt?
Really, Sarpi is right on the border. On the Georgian side, the border is indicated by a huge, insidious blob of Soviet architecture. The road before is a flurry of activity, police and lorries and beachgoers and beer cafes and moneychangers and sunflower seed-sellers. Opposite is the Turkish border, a menacing tangle of pillbox border control booths, a guard tower, and a seaside bristling iron fence. It appeared to have been built to protect against a deluge of desperate refugees (being Turkey, I can't imagine how or why such a situation would arise). The beach between the two was literally a no-man's land - if you came too close, an armed guard would appear and shoo you back. And of course, just across the border was a huge, ugly, silver-domed mosque. I smiled, lay back on the soft pebbles, and sunned myself, content with the fact that I was on the Georgian side.
Sunbathing on the edge of no-man's land
Glad I'm here and not over there.
The Next day Anna and I headed north of Batumi in search of its famed botanical gardens. We took the bus to the train station, and although we thought we had come to the right place, we found no entrance to the gardens, and more, no one seemed to know anything about it. We doubled back along the road we came on in search of an entrance. The road was nice, following the shore and railroad tracks, and after a while we came to a sign and some concrete stairs leading up the hill. We didn't know if that was the gardens, but we followed the path up. However, all we found was a few grazing cows and a decrepit church. We followed the path further up the mountain and, despite some great views of the city and sea, found no botanical garden, just an old abandoned concrete mansion atop the hill and some great views. We came back down to the road, hot and sweaty, and decided to give up on the botanical garden and head back to Sarpi to swim. On the road before Sarpi, we saw there was a decent sized waterfall, and buying some food in the village, we walked back and had a beer and khachapuri picnic beside the waterfall before cooling off in its crisp, refreshing coolness.
Really refreshing.
Batumi
A note about Georgian cows - I think that there are more cows in Georgia than people. Really, the squat brown bovine are ubiquitous in Georgia - come round the bend in the road and there is a herd of them lying there. They are behind bushes, in yards, roads, abandoned houses and castles, on train tracks...everywhere. They were innocuous and adorable, but they sure did cause some traffic and problems whenever we tried to travel anywhere.
Peek-a-boo!
Although the sea and soft pebble beach at Sarpi was deliciously relaxing, Anna and I wanted to see more of the country. Originally, our plan was to stay one day in Batumi, and then travel to Vardzia, an ancient cave monastery near the border with Armenia, and then double back to Batumi by way of Borjomi, a mountain hamlet famous for its spring water, where we planned to do some hiking. However, once our feet were massaged by the soft pebbles of Sarpi and we swam in its clean, cool sea, we decided to stay another day, and therefore our trip to Vardzia had to be ruled out; Vardzia was quite far from Batumi, and if we were to judge Georgian roads by those in Batumi, then it would be difficult to get anywhere in the country, and hence require a lot of time. Plus, being in Batumi for two days, we weren’t sure exactly how big the country was, and how efficient the transportation was.
So the following morning, quite sunburned, we made our way to the railway station.to take the train to Borjomi. After a ride in a marshrutka, a kind of shared taxi/minibus that was the country’s main form of transportation, we weren’t sure we wanted to go all the way to Borjomi by marshrutka – qualms aside about Georgians’ driving, it was less than comfortable, and it seemed like a gamble with our lives. So that morning we were off on a Tbilisi-bound train in a second-class sleeper.
The train was a good choice; we were already fans of railway travel – and I’m sure that more than anything was why we took the train – and our compartment was comfortable, and empty. And, the most pleasant surprise, our compartment was air conditioned, a welcome luxury on a day that was horribly humid and hot.
As we slowly rolled through the country, we watched the primeval countryside pass outside our window: scythe-wielding peasants tended their fields, ubiquitous brown cows grazed in every hollow and shady dell, and vegetable gardens and pecky chickens surrounded squat humble concrete houses, all of this framed by impossibly steep, green, picturesque mountains. We soaked in the automated cool, and watched the steamy landscape pass by outside. The train passed the flat coastal landscape, and then turned east and began climbing into the hilly inland terrain, following a rolling river with children cooling themselves and old men washing their Ladas in its stony shallows. Slowly, we climbed up into the mountains next to the river, through a long mountain tunnel, and out into a grassy flatland bathed in breathy heat.
Georgian countryside
The train did not go directly from Batumi to Borjomi. Instead, we had to get off at Khashuri, a hot, dusty, empty town, and take a marshrutka to Borjomi, a 20 minute ride down the road. We easily found this marshrutka and leaving the nasty, stuffy heat of Khashuri, we coasted into the cool, tranquil, pine scented folds of Borjomi’s mountains.
Borjomi
Borjomi was a palpably relaxed town. Evergreen mountains rose on all sides, and in the middle of town was a large forested park with beer gardens and children’s rides, in the center of which was an old, abandoned concrete mansion, something that only added to Borjomi’s charm and nostalgia. We found our hostel, situated amongst a crowded courtyard of family houses stacked on top of each other, and entered hesitantly. We were in the right place though, as we were greeted by Vakho, a jolly Georgian of about twenty with flawless English, and Mari, his lovely girlfriend. Vakho was very friendly and proudly showed off the newly-renovated hostel. They had a private room that they hadn’t renovated yet, so we opted to stay there. It had cobalt blue walls, high ceilings, and faded cross marks on the walls next to all the doors. It was reminiscent of days gone by, and this gave it a unique charm.
The next day Vakho had told us about a monastery, the “Green Monastery”, not far from Borjomi, so we decided to pay it a visit. His brother Toco managed to bargain with a taxi driver to take us there for a decent price, so off we went. The monastery was situated deep in the woods, and after a long drive through a dirt road and a short hike beyond that, we reached the monastery, which was smaller than we had anticipated. It consisted of only a small wooden house where we guessed the monks lived and squat bell tower with a shrine beneath, and a small church, decked out with icons and the ceilings of which were decorated with hagiographical frescoes. Anna lit a candle, and I bought a laminated card of St. George, unsurprisingly one of the two patron saints of Georgia. The monastery was quite nice, although I couldn’t figure out why it was called the Green Monastery – perhaps because the nature in which it was situated was so lush and green. Nonetheless it was a lovely excursion off the beaten path and into nature.
The Green Monastery.
The monastery being small, we made our way back to Borjomi and spent the rest of the day in Borjomi’s mineral water park. Now the day before the man at the information office in Borjomi had said that the mineral water park had two fountains from which you could drink Borjomi’s famous spring water, and two pools in which you could swim in this water. So, excited to swim, we set out for the park. The park was very similar to the park near our hostel and the railway station which we had gone through the day before, albeit much larger and it required a small entrance fee: there were seed and honey vendors, carnival rides for the children, a movie theater, and hot dog stands. The man in the information office said there were two springs from which to get water, but we found only one, not far from the entrance to the park. I eagerly filled by bottle, as I had drunk Borjomi water before and liked it, and was eager to drink the stuff from the source. Bringing the bottle to my lips and catching a whiff before sipping, however, made me queasy – the ultra-sulfur water reeked of the rotten-egg water my mother uses to water the house plants. It didn’t taste terrible but being uncarbonated, unlike the bottled stuff, the flatness of it was poignant, and the flavor was heavy and lingered on the tongue after drinking. Well, if nothing else, I thought, it must be healthy, if everyone drinks it.
A more pungent beverage than expected
We wandered on through the park in search of these “thermal pools” in which to bathe. The park was long, and it followed a rushing stream which was flanked by children’s rides and playgrounds and the like. We found an indoor swimming pool, but an entrance fee of 25 laris seemed a bit silly being situated next to a cool stream, so we continued on. We came to the end of the park, but the path continued on along the stream into the wood. The forest was cool and inviting, so we followed the path into its shady depths. We continued on alongside the stream for about 2 km, up mountainsides and over rickety wooden bridges, before crossing a log bridge to a large grassy knoll. Ahead of us we saw a concrete pool with people going in and out of it. The thermal pool! We ran eagerly towards it, only to find it to be a big, empty concrete tub with water trickling in from a large pipe, and children standing lacklustrely under the spilling water, wetting their heads. Families laid half-naked out on the grass, smoking and enjoying a picnic lunch, and the whole setting appeared to us to be, well, quite lame. Disappointed at the discovery of the “thermal pool”, we doubled back and, hot, we found a cool, shady dell under the trees next to a small pool in the stream where we went swimming in the fresh, cool water, the perfect remedy for a hot day of “hiking”.
Before a refreshing swim
Back in the park, we had a hot dog and rode the tiny cable car up the mountain. The view was nice, but at the top there was nothing but a restaurant, a few decent vies, and a tired old Ferris wheel. Tired, we came back down.
That night, back at the hostel, the guys (Toco, Vakho, and their friend “Zanzarone”) had started a “cha-cha party”. No, no dancing – chacha is Georgian for the variety of homemade grappa that is made from the skins of leftover grapes used while making wine. Many Georgians make their own wine and, naturally, their own chacha. Zanazarone had just come from Tbilisi with two bottles of chacha that Vakho and Toco had made. We sat out on the small balcony toasting and chatting about Georgia and telling jokes.
I should make an interlude here and make a note about toasting. In Georgian culture, whenever there are family or guests, it is common to have a supra, or a large feast overflowing with food and drink. At every supra a tamada or toastmaster is elected. The tamada makes lengthy, poetically beautiful toasts repeatedly throughout the supra to God, guests, family, and other values. Other supra guests can make toasts as well, and as a result of this continual toasting, those who attend a supra get properly tanked.
So, during our chacha party, Vakho declared that although it was small, we were having our own supra on the balcony, and Zanazarone was the tamada. So we toasted, and drank, into the night while munching on a delicious cucumber and tomato salad that Vakho had prepared. Everyone proffered their own toast in addition to Zanzarone’s, and after many shots of chacha, laughs about Georgian jokes, and travel stories, we had become properly twisted and had to go to bed.
Chacha toasting
The next day Anna and I were up early to go to Vardzia. Now, although we had ruled it out because of time restrictions, Vakho had told us that the information office in Borjomi arranged day tours to Vardzia for 30 laris a person and booked two places for us to go the next day. We were up and at the “bus station” at 8.30 the next day; however, what we anticipated to be a tour was simply a marshrutka going to Akhaltsikhe, with the driver going ultimately going to Vardzia because of us. We set off at 9, stopping to pick people up and drop others off, and after half an hour we determined that the driver was going to slowly work his way to Vardzia, with us paying the 60 laris and having the opportunity to collect other customers along the way.
When we got to Akhaltsikhe an hour later, the driver handed me his mobile. It was Artur, the man in the information office in Borjomi. He told me that the driver would be unable to take us to Vardzia because his son had been arrested in Tbilisi and he had to go bail him out. If we waited, another marshrutka would be along in a short while that would go to Vardzia. Well, that’s just great. We paid the driver the fare to Akhaltsikhe and waited. It wasn’t long before we were approached by a shark-like taxi driver. “Vardzia?” he asked. We nodded. “Mercedes,” he said, pointing to the parking lot. He punched in some numbers on his phone and showed us – “Pedeset lari,” he said, 50 laris. I looked at Anna, and we agreed that it seemed like a good price, considering I had heard others had paid $60 for the same trip by taxi. Anna bargained him down to 45 laris, and we were off.
The white knuckles are worth it.
Vardzia was 62 kilometers from Akhaltsikhe, although we got there quite quickly. The driver careened around blind hairpin mountain curves and swerved around cows at breakneck speed, a true white-knuckle cab ride. But he was nice. At one point, he pulled over atop a promontory overlooking a valley saying, “Photo, photo!” He was right – the view over the long, deep green valley was breathtaking. Further on up the road, he pulled over beneath a castle atop a hill and, lighting a cigarette, motioned for us to go up. We climbed up the steep gravel path to Khertvisi castle, an old stone castle with no inhabitants save one, a young bleating calf. After taking some photos and savoring the view, we came back down and continued toward Vardzia.
Khertvisi Castle
View from the top
Those cows again!
Not far after the castle, we careened around the bend and were faced with a sheer rock mountain face peppered with holes – Vardzia. Vardzia was – still is – a cave monastery carved into the face of Erusheli mountain about 850 years ago. Constructed as protection from invading Mongols, it was struck by an earthquake in 1283 which destroyed half the city and left its caves exposed to the outside. The view of these caves against the sheer surrounding mountains and big sky was stunning, and we were thrilled to have made it after coming so far. I felt at home in Georgia, but beholding Varzia in its vast nature, I was suddenly keenly aware of how far I was from my home, from anywhere.
Vardzia
Far is good.
We paid a minuscule fee and hiked up the mountainside to the caves. Nowadays part of the caves is still a monastery, and there are still monks living there. There is a church carved into the rocks, and the inside smelled strongly of herby lavender. We spent about an hour wandering about the caves, the narrow-staircased tunnels and vertigo-inducing cave mouths, touching the soft, crumbly sandstone that could be chipped away with a fingernail. We took too many photos, savored the view, and when we got to the bottom, we found our cabbie washing his car with water from a fountain.
On top of the world
On the way back, I was nervous about the cab driver. It is a universal maxim that cabbies are not to be trusted, and especially after living in Turkey for so long, I had the niggling worry that when I would give him the money he would look disgustingly at it and bark in Georgian, “What? No, 50 laris each way!” However, back in Akhaltsikhe when I handed him a 50, he reached in his pocket to give me change (we agreed on 45 laris); seeing his honesty and recalling how nice he had been, I felt bad, and told him to keep the extra five, to which he was very grateful. On that note, let me say – and perhaps only because being in Turkey for so long has made me distrustful – that Georgian people are not only friendly and generous, but honest. We were only cheated once in Georgia, but for 2 laris. Georgians may be poor, but their hearts and consciences are rich.
Back in Borjomi that afternoon, tired, Anna and I drank a beer, happy that we had seen Vardzia, and had done all that we had planned to do while there.
The next day, we headed back to Batumi on a stuffy, butt-pounding marshrutka ride. Should have taken the train, I thought.
Back in Batumi, we did the familiar thing – swam at Sarpi one last time, washed off in the waterfall, and went to “Old Home”, one of the only restaurants we could find that had become our favorite (we went there three times!) because of a sweet kindly waitress and the absolute deliciousness of the food.
Allow me to deviate for a moment about Georgian cuisine. Not only do they have some of the best food I’ve ever eaten, but also some of the best wine as well. Even Anna, an Italian gastronomic snob, was in raptures about the food and wine. Sipping a glass of saperavi our first night, she confessed that it was some of the best wine she had ever drunk. Being a culinarily ignorant American, I had to agree with her. The food was fantastic in Georgia – the vegetables and meat were fresh, the dishes hearty and herby. We tried everything we could while there, from brothy khinkali, the national dumpling, to ostri, a savory beef and tomato stew, to lobio, a hot pottage of beans and onions. If I could have one last meal before dying, it would be khinkali with a walnut sauce appetizer and ostri and lobio. If we had died on that trip, I would have been a very happy man.
One of many orgasmic meals
The next day, waiting for our flight to Istanbul in the tiny airport terminal in Batumi, we were very grumpy – grumpy to leave the delicious food and beautiful nature, grumpy to leave the kindness of the Georgian people, and very grumpy about going back to Turkey, although we would only be there for one day. Boarding the plane in the heat, we swore, and taking off we talked about which places we would visit the next time we came to Georgia. We had made friends, had eaten some of the best food ever, and seen nature of unmatched beauty. It was only logical that we return. We’ll be back, we promised each other. We’ll be back.
I want to thank our Georgian friends who were so hospitable to us. If you are interested, you can see more pictures from our trip at my photo page here.
