Caucasus Mountains – Georgia

Not for the first time I found myself with my head in the toilet after drinking some godforsaken, transparent, local brew. I hate it, but thankfully it would seem that these events take place rarely and only when I drink what is essentially moonshine in order to fit in with local cultural practice. On this occasion I found myself at our second group dinner, and our first where our hosts brought out the chacha; the local brandy, not the dance. Georgian culture is extremely similar to other Eastern European countries where food, spirits, and oh so many toasts are standard during social occasions. I have no evidence to support this claim, but I guess that similar tough histories, have delivered such a hardened approach to alcohol. And so it was, sat at a table full of varying plates of food like one giant cheese and high-carb mezze for everyone to share, the shot glasses rolled out, and the toasts began to flow from our tour leaders and host. Of course, sensible people started to turn down the chacha after the first or second shot which automatically drives my anxiety because I feel bad for the hosts, thus I drink more. I took onboard five shots during dinner before then heading out for a pre-planned ‘nightcap’ at a wee bar that one of our tour leaders happened to own – what could possibly go wrong? The plan of sticking to the beer went straight out the window as we opted for chacha sours which actually went down well, followed with many more shots of chacha. The Georgians are jolly good fun on a night out to the point that I discovered you can have a lovely chat with two – no doubt armed – bodyguards that were minding some hotshot who had pulled up outside to buy a drink for the most beautiful girl in the bar. It is my hope that one day I’ll get it right, and it will be me talking to the beautiful girl instead of having drunken chat with Eastern European heavyweights. 

Three days later, I found myself lying on green pastures at 2,600 metres under blue skies and a hot sun, adjacent to the highest mountains in Europe peaking at over 5,000 metres. Happy as f*** springs to mind. My memory is notorious at the best of times but I’m relatively certain that this was one of my favourite travel moments of all time, certainly of those I can remember. It’s impossible to have a favourite, but this moment certainly ticked many boxes. For starters, I, and the rest of the team had managed to pull ourselves away from a particularly eccentric nightclub at the end of a village with a population of about 300. Chacha was poured in the name of birthdays, but I feel that was just a coincidence and the shots would have been dispensed regardless; the disco ball lit up, the hardcore blasted out of the speakers, and we all sat there in a semi-circle like some AA meeting that had gone terribly wrong. This was the kind of place where someone wanted to buy a bottle of red wine and the owner advised against it – rightly so, it was vile. The point is, we knew we had a big day of hiking ahead of us, and the memory of hangovers from the first chacha-fuelled night still haunted many. Lying under the sun the following day had been on the back of a steep 700 metre climb through stunning scenery, crossing a river on horseback, with a tormented, active glacier dominating our views the entire morning, and snow-capped peaks flowing down into flower-filled grass meadows in every direction – 20 years ago I could have done it all after a night out, now, a clear head only exaggerated the beauty and serenity of the moment. I would dare say everyone agreed, as we lay and dozed, snapped away, or munched on our standard issue whole tomato, cucumber, and hard-boiled egg. I didn’t really know what to do with a whole cucumber and tomato, so I usually ignored them and ate the piece of bread stuffed with some cheese and the egg; the dinners and breakfasts were so filling I didn’t feel much need for lunch. 

That night, several of us were keen to see some stars in the clear mountain sky but being summer, the sky took an age to darken and then the lights of the village did their best to erase some of the contrast. I have no doubt if I had awoken in the middle of the night and took myself outside, I would have had greater success, but I was tired and it was quite chilly. Also, the mountains fail to provide that vast open sky that the deserts can do so easily, and I still believe the best night skies are to be found in the southern hemisphere. However, what I found saddening was the sheer number of satellites flying overhead. It is the first time for a few years that I’ve had the opportunity to lie down and look up at a dark sky, and I was relatively shocked at the number of bright lights moving overhead. To look up at the night sky, the most ancient of all our natural ‘landscapes,’ and to be reminded of humanity’s incessant desire to dominate everything is quite depressing frankly. 

The tour ended almost like it started with our final group dinner peaking one night early thanks to a wonderful restaurant location nestled amongst the ruined watch towers of the last village we were staying. Which reminds me, the towers. Georgia’s mountain villages are famed for the high towers dotted throughout them, although it’s not an entirely alien concept to me after seeing something similar in Togo a few years back. The towers were built almost 1,000 years ago, by individual families seeking to alert and protect themselves from danger including local feuds, foreign invaders, and apparently, avalanches. Many of them are now falling into disrepair and the fact that they are literally an extremely strong defensive stone tower makes them quite difficult to repurpose into anything else. Still, they make a stunning, and unique backdrop when finally getting to sample some Georgian wine, which, when not purchased from a random village nightclub is actually quite delicious. The chacha and toasts then began for some of us which moved from the restaurant to a café in town. It was at this moment where my night shifted from one of great fun to finding myself sat on a long wooden bench with a wall behind, and long sturdy wooden bench in front of me. Chacha was poured, I saw off the first shot, detested it and decided I needed to leave there and then. I told my mate I was heading home, stood up on the table and hopped off the other side to promptly make my exit, getting a talking to from the owner (and apologising to) about walking on the table as I left. I woke up the next day relatively chuffed I hadn’t stayed on and embarrassed myself one way or another, especially upon seeing the lifeless faces of those that did, but apparently, I hadn’t stepped up and over the table as I had originally thought. No, I had in fact walked half the length of the table to make my exit. Still, could have been worse. 

Our actual final night was back in Kutaisi, on a Saturday night, but as final nights on group tours so often are, it was a subdued affair. People are thinking of home, there are early morning flights to catch, consistent internet, the distractions of a major town, hangovers from the night before, and on this occasion, England playing Norway in the World Cup quarter final at 1am. Nonetheless, it was all planned with a group dinner, cocktails afterwards, and seats at the pub booked for the football. Dinner was awesome, supplemented with a three-man band singing happy birthday and several folk songs to one of our lucky travellers. The search for the cocktail bar was less successful. Actually, finding it was successful, but after a 45-minute walk we found out it was closed until midnight which was over two hours away. We walked back through the bustling city centre finding nowhere we particularly wanted to go until reaching the bridge that crossed a river and would lead us out of town and back up to our hotel. In what can only be described as a desperate last ditch attempt to obtain some drinks and have one last chuckle together, we found ourselves going down some stone steps and into a hot, humid, dank bar beautifully positioned on the riverbank but with the ambience of a drug den. Those of us hardy enough stayed for a can of warm beer poured into a chilled glass, both from the same fridge. It may not have been the cocktail ending we were searching for but sat on the terrace outside with what was most likely blood on the walls, it was just nice to maximise the time with some great people. 

The following day was quite the day, made easier by choosing to watch the football back at the hotel instead of staying in a bar drinking until 4am, and England actually winning. I left for Tbilisi at 10am, dozing in and out of consciousness until arriving at the airport three and a half hours later. I don’t know if it was because he parked in front of a police car or not, but when I tipped my driver he refused point blank to accept it until I insisted. I will never understand tipping and when it is culturally expected, appreciated, or found offensive. I had a one hour and 15-minute layover in Istanbul which for anyone who hasn’t flown on a short layover with Turkish Airlines essentially means I was borderline buggered – the best outcome was me making the flight to London, there was little hope for my bag, but then it didn’t matter as I was going home. Still, the flight to Istanbul was delayed and Turkish Airlines had put me on the third row from the back of the plane meaning I had no choice but to not worry about it. Credit where it’s due, upon arriving into Istanbul, the plane parked opposite my next flight, and staff met us coming off the plane and directed us to a ‘short layover’ security screening area which worked rather well. Before I knew it, I was sat on my flight to London, wedged in between two burley Ray Winstone types, one of which just had to get back up – while the flight was still boarding – to dig a sausage roll out of his bag up in the overhead locker. Arriving in London, my bag never did turn up, but the upside is I did, and my bag was delivered to my door a few days later which saved having to haul it back on the train – small wins. 

So, Georiga. It was always going to be hard to write about. Mountains, hiking, done. Yet, at the risk of sounding repetitive, it’s the people I travel with that make a trip. This group was one of the best. The tour leaders had, let’s say, character, but I love them for it. The Georgians in general are fantastic people, no messing, what you see is what you get, pure genuine hospitality. The country is stunning. The food is original and varies incredibly form region to region to the point I feel I’ve missed out on so much of what I was hoping to eat. Most importantly, I return home and back to work refreshed, motivated, and ready to go, wherever that may be.