Gori and Borjomi, Georgia
In this blog: Stalin's birthplace, a forest hike, dinner with some Poles and a cave city
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I left the mountainous town of Kazbegi on a packed minibus, the guy beside me constantly leaning on me as he fell asleep much to to my annyance. Luckily the scenery was a good distraction as we drove through dramatic huge green valleys and the occasional rusted old Soviet military vehicle.
Because of the shape of Georgia, I had to go back to the capital city Tblisi again to change bus, and waited around a while in the packed and confusing bus station until the people carrier to my destination filled up. The journey to Gori was for once straightforward and fast, and the first time I'd been on a proper dual carriageway for about six months meant it was refereshing not to just be plodding along for once. As we passed filling stations I noted petrol was just 63p per litre, surely some of the cheapest in Europe, as well as seeing road signs for both Tehran and Istanbul; a firm reminder of how far south Georgia actually is.
The bus dumped me off at Gori, but with no map of the town I had little idea how to get to the guesthouse I'd picked out in my guidebook. I took a stab anyway and started walking north in the midday sun, but arriving in a fairly poor neighbourhood I relised I had no idea where to go next. I pointed at the address in the guidebook and showed it to a local, who grunted to his mate sat in a nearby car, sat idle with his shirt open and his gut hanging out. This guy then went and asked a friend, made a phonecall and to my suprise ushered towards the car to say he'd take me. Sat in the car I realised it felt a a bit dodgy since Georgian men all look dodgy, but thankfully he took me there without problem and wanted nothing for his help. The homestay was run by a lovely couple, who's three three daughters spoke excellent English and welcomed me in, wanting to chat for a while to improve their skills further.
Stalin museum
After an hour or so I set out for the Stalin Museum, a short walk away, and waited for the guided tour to commence which is where I got chatting to Luke, a touring cyclist from Texas. The museum was a grand old place, little changed since it's last re-fit in the seventies, and is now described as a 'museum of a museum' since it's still full of the sort of Soviet propogranda that was used during USSR times, not so effective on the population these days funnily enough. The fact the museum was preserved as-is is not necessaily a good thing though, and I learnt barely anything about Stalin or the Soviet era during my visit, bar the fact he was a very powerful leader who lay responsible for a famine that killed millions.
Once the tour had finished Luke and I had a wander across Stalin square and down Stalin Street but didn't find much so retired for an ice cream. He was nearing the end of a two month cycle trip from Lubjuana, Slovenia to Tblisi, Georgia, and after eight days since his last shower (which strangley enough, was quite noticable) and a proper bed he decided to fork out and stay at the same homestay that night. At that point it bucketed down, so we relaxed under a parasol for an hour chatting away and comparing cycle touring notes, as well as talking to a passing tour guide and a local boxer who stopped for a chat, his face and ears covered with scars from a life of beatings. The only other sight in town worth a look was the old castle, set on a small hill in the middle of town and a very apt place for us to discuss US gun laws, and how the gun culture there makes sense to no-one but Americans themselves. According to Luke it's the gun-totting, power-tripping Police that you should fear most.
Back at the guesthouse we met some other guests from France who had shown up, and after a while I invited two of the lads out for dinner with us - it's amazing how quickly these little groups form sometimes. At a small restaurant in town we all shared a fairly traditional Georgian meal of cheeses, bread, salad, meat salad, beans, bread and chicken, then sunk a couple of beers in an outdoor cafe back in Stalin Square. Luke was gracefully self-aware of both himself as an American and the shortcomings of his nation, and the French guys who's names I forget were really interesting , one of whom had lived in Cornwall for six months in the past, and the other an in-house journalist for Marsaille FC. It was a fascinating evening, the sort of which don't happen often enough, chatting in this square 'til late with a group of well educated guys, about American culture, travel, Islam and the recent Air Malaysia crash.
The next morning I said goodbye to the others who were all heading off, and spent the morning catching up with uploading pictures and writing. Staying in a family home as I was, it was a good insight into how real Georgian life ticked by, and I was invited to watch their Mum making khachapuri - a stuffed cheese bread which they let me try afterwards. At 4pm it was time to leave, and they kindly offered to drive me to the bus station where I headed on to the town of Borjomi a couple of hours away. We passed alongside the main dual carriageway that passes through the country being built, people selling huge piles of melons by the road, heaps of people selling hammocks, men everywhere stood around looking dodgy even if they weren't, and lots of fields on the plains laying to waste whilst a few grew wheat. Borjomi struck me well on first appearance; a spa town nestled in a wooden valley, and with little left of the day I relaxed and read.
Hiking
The next day was a walking day. Borjomi has a beautiful national park on it's doorstep and I was keen to take a look inside, so after breakfasting with a friendly young German couple, I headed to the park office to get a map. Thankfully unlike in Kazbegi there was information galore, and I was soon on my way a couple of miles along the road to the park entrance. I walked along a narrow wooden valley before climbing steeply to a ridge from which you could see for miles, then down to another wide grassey valley. Nothing much happened, but it was a very pleasant walk through forest and I saw just a couple of people all day making it pretty tranquil. After seven hours on foot I was tired though not shattered, and found myself at a main road where I managed to flag down a passing minibus heading back to Borjomi for a well earned rest.
Vardzia
Fourty miles south of Borjomi lies the ancient cave city of Vardzia, first built in the 12th century and at one point home to up to 2,000 monks in the form of a monestary. In fact, a handful of monks still live and worship there in the caves today. I enquiring for a minibus to get there at the nearby tourist information centre in Borjomi, but not before the exceptionally helpful main man Artur shook my hand, gave me a CD of local folk music, and pointed out the local sights before I'd barely even said hello. The next morning, along with three friendly couples from Holland and Poland, we headed there for the day, stopping briefly at a small local monestary for a quick look before spending an hour or two at the huge castle at near-unpronouncable Akhaltsikhe. The castle dates from the 12th century and has a curious mix of styles, but sadly has recently been so over-restored that it now looks straight out of the Disneyland school of fakeness, which it might as well be given the hotel and restaurants they've built from scratch in the grounds.
A few miles south we stopped again at Khertvisi Fortress which was much more like it - an imposing fort on a hillock in the valley which has been all but abandoned, save for some cattle who now appear to call it home, and it was intersting to have a poke about for a few minutes, though not so nice to discover possibly the worst toilet on this whole trip nearby. And that takes some doing. At lunchtime we finally reached the afformentioned cave city of Vardzia, and after a nice lunch by the river went for a look inside. Over four hundred rooms had been carved into the soft rock of the cliff, along with paths joining them together, wine cellars and a number of churches. Over the years the caves have been invaded by raiders and destroyed by earthquakes so they're not exactly pristine, but were very intersting to look around. Having visited Cappdadocia in Turkey a few years ago though which are much more extensive and striking, I wasn't quite as blown away as I could be. Probably the mark of a jaded travel snob who should probably go home soon!
The final stop for the day was at what we were told were hot springs, an excellent end we thought, but in reality we found before us a crumbling concrete building. We all questioned it with the driver but alas it was true, and inside was little better - a building barely suitable for cows and sheep. It was only a quid to go in the baths though so we went for a bathe, finding it to be about a quid too expensive. With no swimming gear I went in in just my boxers, and consequently spent ten minutes outside drying in the sun whilst getting bitten by every big fly around, who apparantly like skin marinated in sulphuric waters. Neither of which was a pretty sight. The journey back to Borjomi was beautiful, driving through a lovely river valley in the 28° evening sun. The driver was quite a nice guy but a scarily fast driver though, especially given that we was driving a right-hand drive car in a country where they drive on the right. Meaning any time he wanted to overtake, which was most of the time, he had to lean across the car to check for traffic and jerkily swerve out. The third near miss that day came when we rounded a corner to find an arctic truck coming towards us on the wrong side of the road, andafter braking hard and skidding briefly off onto the dirt hard shoulder, I shouted at him to slow down, to get the response that 'that was his fault, and these things are just normal here'. Thanks, reassuring.
Back in Borjomi, everyone went their seperate ways except for Justyna and Lukasz, a lovely couple from Poland who were very clever and spoke excellent English. They met whilst working for Microsoft in Wawsaw, and he now works as a sales manager for Samsung and she for an NGO that helps put disabled people into work. They were really engaging to talk to and gave me a new insight into Polish society, since most of the Polish people that we encounter in Britain generally just work in menial jobs and keep themselves to themselves. Being 35, Lukasz was old enough to just remember living under Soviet rule, and recounted tales of queing up for rations, paranoia about spying during communist times, as well as Poland's relationship with Russia today and a brief history of the Ukraine, all of which led to a compelling evening and me being brieflfy locked out of the homestay for getting back too late.
Borjomi is known throughout the former USSR states for it's drinking water, a hit with former Soviet leaders thanks to it's rather different, slightly salty and mildly sulphuric flavour. The following morning I filled a bottle from a fountain in the park and tried it - nice to try but I won't be an addict. The park is popular with holiday makers from all over the region and it was intersting to see how much money was being thrown at redeveloping it. Though seeing that they'd copied (I reckon) architecture from Cornwall's famous Trago Mills should be enough to put anyone off visiting. Trago's influence travels far it seems.
In this blog: Stalin's birthplace, a forest hike, dinner with some Poles and a cave city
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Whilst people naturally associate Stalin with Russia, the controversial former Russian leader was actually born in Georgia in the town of Gori, and there remains the house he was born in as well as a shrine-like museum on his life. Before visiting Gori I must admit I knew little about him bar the controversy so thought it might be an interesting stop for a day. |
| The Stalin museum, Gori |
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I left the mountainous town of Kazbegi on a packed minibus, the guy beside me constantly leaning on me as he fell asleep much to to my annyance. Luckily the scenery was a good distraction as we drove through dramatic huge green valleys and the occasional rusted old Soviet military vehicle.
Because of the shape of Georgia, I had to go back to the capital city Tblisi again to change bus, and waited around a while in the packed and confusing bus station until the people carrier to my destination filled up. The journey to Gori was for once straightforward and fast, and the first time I'd been on a proper dual carriageway for about six months meant it was refereshing not to just be plodding along for once. As we passed filling stations I noted petrol was just 63p per litre, surely some of the cheapest in Europe, as well as seeing road signs for both Tehran and Istanbul; a firm reminder of how far south Georgia actually is.
The bus dumped me off at Gori, but with no map of the town I had little idea how to get to the guesthouse I'd picked out in my guidebook. I took a stab anyway and started walking north in the midday sun, but arriving in a fairly poor neighbourhood I relised I had no idea where to go next. I pointed at the address in the guidebook and showed it to a local, who grunted to his mate sat in a nearby car, sat idle with his shirt open and his gut hanging out. This guy then went and asked a friend, made a phonecall and to my suprise ushered towards the car to say he'd take me. Sat in the car I realised it felt a a bit dodgy since Georgian men all look dodgy, but thankfully he took me there without problem and wanted nothing for his help. The homestay was run by a lovely couple, who's three three daughters spoke excellent English and welcomed me in, wanting to chat for a while to improve their skills further.
Stalin museum
After an hour or so I set out for the Stalin Museum, a short walk away, and waited for the guided tour to commence which is where I got chatting to Luke, a touring cyclist from Texas. The museum was a grand old place, little changed since it's last re-fit in the seventies, and is now described as a 'museum of a museum' since it's still full of the sort of Soviet propogranda that was used during USSR times, not so effective on the population these days funnily enough. The fact the museum was preserved as-is is not necessaily a good thing though, and I learnt barely anything about Stalin or the Soviet era during my visit, bar the fact he was a very powerful leader who lay responsible for a famine that killed millions.
Once the tour had finished Luke and I had a wander across Stalin square and down Stalin Street but didn't find much so retired for an ice cream. He was nearing the end of a two month cycle trip from Lubjuana, Slovenia to Tblisi, Georgia, and after eight days since his last shower (which strangley enough, was quite noticable) and a proper bed he decided to fork out and stay at the same homestay that night. At that point it bucketed down, so we relaxed under a parasol for an hour chatting away and comparing cycle touring notes, as well as talking to a passing tour guide and a local boxer who stopped for a chat, his face and ears covered with scars from a life of beatings. The only other sight in town worth a look was the old castle, set on a small hill in the middle of town and a very apt place for us to discuss US gun laws, and how the gun culture there makes sense to no-one but Americans themselves. According to Luke it's the gun-totting, power-tripping Police that you should fear most.
Back at the guesthouse we met some other guests from France who had shown up, and after a while I invited two of the lads out for dinner with us - it's amazing how quickly these little groups form sometimes. At a small restaurant in town we all shared a fairly traditional Georgian meal of cheeses, bread, salad, meat salad, beans, bread and chicken, then sunk a couple of beers in an outdoor cafe back in Stalin Square. Luke was gracefully self-aware of both himself as an American and the shortcomings of his nation, and the French guys who's names I forget were really interesting , one of whom had lived in Cornwall for six months in the past, and the other an in-house journalist for Marsaille FC. It was a fascinating evening, the sort of which don't happen often enough, chatting in this square 'til late with a group of well educated guys, about American culture, travel, Islam and the recent Air Malaysia crash.
The next morning I said goodbye to the others who were all heading off, and spent the morning catching up with uploading pictures and writing. Staying in a family home as I was, it was a good insight into how real Georgian life ticked by, and I was invited to watch their Mum making khachapuri - a stuffed cheese bread which they let me try afterwards. At 4pm it was time to leave, and they kindly offered to drive me to the bus station where I headed on to the town of Borjomi a couple of hours away. We passed alongside the main dual carriageway that passes through the country being built, people selling huge piles of melons by the road, heaps of people selling hammocks, men everywhere stood around looking dodgy even if they weren't, and lots of fields on the plains laying to waste whilst a few grew wheat. Borjomi struck me well on first appearance; a spa town nestled in a wooden valley, and with little left of the day I relaxed and read.
 |
| Mrs Luka making home-made Khachapuri - stuffed cheese bread |
The next day was a walking day. Borjomi has a beautiful national park on it's doorstep and I was keen to take a look inside, so after breakfasting with a friendly young German couple, I headed to the park office to get a map. Thankfully unlike in Kazbegi there was information galore, and I was soon on my way a couple of miles along the road to the park entrance. I walked along a narrow wooden valley before climbing steeply to a ridge from which you could see for miles, then down to another wide grassey valley. Nothing much happened, but it was a very pleasant walk through forest and I saw just a couple of people all day making it pretty tranquil. After seven hours on foot I was tired though not shattered, and found myself at a main road where I managed to flag down a passing minibus heading back to Borjomi for a well earned rest.
Vardzia
Fourty miles south of Borjomi lies the ancient cave city of Vardzia, first built in the 12th century and at one point home to up to 2,000 monks in the form of a monestary. In fact, a handful of monks still live and worship there in the caves today. I enquiring for a minibus to get there at the nearby tourist information centre in Borjomi, but not before the exceptionally helpful main man Artur shook my hand, gave me a CD of local folk music, and pointed out the local sights before I'd barely even said hello. The next morning, along with three friendly couples from Holland and Poland, we headed there for the day, stopping briefly at a small local monestary for a quick look before spending an hour or two at the huge castle at near-unpronouncable Akhaltsikhe. The castle dates from the 12th century and has a curious mix of styles, but sadly has recently been so over-restored that it now looks straight out of the Disneyland school of fakeness, which it might as well be given the hotel and restaurants they've built from scratch in the grounds.
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| Akhaltsikhe castle, part old, part over re-built |
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| Khertvisi Fortress |
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| Vardzia cave city |
Back in Borjomi, everyone went their seperate ways except for Justyna and Lukasz, a lovely couple from Poland who were very clever and spoke excellent English. They met whilst working for Microsoft in Wawsaw, and he now works as a sales manager for Samsung and she for an NGO that helps put disabled people into work. They were really engaging to talk to and gave me a new insight into Polish society, since most of the Polish people that we encounter in Britain generally just work in menial jobs and keep themselves to themselves. Being 35, Lukasz was old enough to just remember living under Soviet rule, and recounted tales of queing up for rations, paranoia about spying during communist times, as well as Poland's relationship with Russia today and a brief history of the Ukraine, all of which led to a compelling evening and me being brieflfy locked out of the homestay for getting back too late.
Borjomi is known throughout the former USSR states for it's drinking water, a hit with former Soviet leaders thanks to it's rather different, slightly salty and mildly sulphuric flavour. The following morning I filled a bottle from a fountain in the park and tried it - nice to try but I won't be an addict. The park is popular with holiday makers from all over the region and it was intersting to see how much money was being thrown at redeveloping it. Though seeing that they'd copied (I reckon) architecture from Cornwall's famous Trago Mills should be enough to put anyone off visiting. Trago's influence travels far it seems.
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| American Luke, cycling from Ljubljana to Tblisi. Probably just cause both names sound weird! |
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| Scenery on walk |
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| Farm shed full of calves |
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| Ojapuri - typical Georgian dish of basically fried pork and chips |
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| Khertvisi Fortress |
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| Vardzia cave city |
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| Polish Lukasz and Justyna |
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