Kazbegi, Georgia
In this blog: hiking to a glacier, drinking cheap wine with some Ukranians, and cycling to the Russian border.
Whilst Tblisi was nice, there were two problems for me:
1. It was stinking hot
2. It was a city
There was only one solution, to head to the mountains, the Greater Caucasus mountains to be precise, a three hour minibus (or marshrutka as they call them) to the north. From the hostel, I took the metro a few miles north to the bus station - one of only four metro systems built by the former USSR, an extravagant decision given the relatively small size of Tblisi but apparently swayed by the fact that Stalin was born in Georgia. The bus station was chaotic, with hundreds of minibuses haphazardly parked in no particular order, people wandering everywhere, and with the destination signs written in Georgian script and therefore totally illegible to me, a lot of asking around ensued. Eventually I squeezed into a very sweaty red Ford Transit van, the tool of choice for Georgian public transport, and half an hour later off we went. We passed heaps of fruit stalls on the roadside, many selling huge watermelons which are very popular throughout the country, and cows wandered along the verges and often onto the road. The roads themselves were bumpy and the driving a bit fast and erratic for my liking, and as we passed churches or crucifixes many people closed their eyes and did the sign of the cross, touching their their chest, head and stomach. The Georgian Military Highway as it's known, climbed through hundreds of turns up into the big green mountains, and eventually a few snowy peaks started to emerge. The area looked beautiful.
Arriving at the village of Kazbegi at 1750m altitude the temperature was more manageable, and the scenery not unlike Switzerland, but I had a bit of a nightmare finding accommodation since strangely few of the many guest houses actually had signs outside. A couple of teenage girls touting for business in the town centre tried to get me to stay at their family's place nearby. I rarely take up the service of touts but reluctantly had a look inside and decided against it. As I left the house onto the street, the two girls and another friend worked hard to pursuade me their friend's place next door, and to my suprise together physically pulled me in through the gateway, saying 'just look, just look!' They were doing it playfully but I really wasn't impressed with their style and walked off. If you're pushy it mean's you're desperate, and if you're desperate what you're selling probably isn't much good. An hour later I ended up at the unfortunately named but fairly pleasant 'Nazi's Guesthouse', named after it's owner, a lovely lady in her fifties called Nazi Chkeruli. She was born post war so I really don't know what were her parents thinking with that name! By now the day was all but done since I'd set off late originally, so after briefly chatting to an Aussie, an American and a Polish lawyer I hit the hay.
Gergeti Glacier
The guesthouse was actually more of a homestay and all the home cooked meals were eaten communally, which is where at breakfast the next day I met Rebekka from Germany and Stijn (Stein) from Holland, a former kindergarten teacher and medical technology student respectively. They had a day of walking planned which sounded good, and kindly let me tag along. We headed up through the fairly dilapidated concrete and rusty steel village, and climbed up a path in some steep woods until we reached Tsminda Sameba church an hour later, perched right on top of a hillock and a local attraction of sorts. After a look inside walked on and up steadily for another four hours, across open mountainous land above the tree line, eventually reached Gergeti Glacier at 3200m above sea level. The glacier was impressive and shaped a bit like a bumpy ski slope, though didn't have the steep crumbling edge like some I've seen before, and even though it appeared to be covered in stones it was deceptively slippery on the few metres we dared venture. A number of people had crampons and ice axes and were carrying on right above to reach the top of Mt Kazbeg a couple of thousand metres higher up. I felt a touch of jealousy, but now wasn't the time. We chatted briefly to a Czech guy who was waiting by the glacier's edge for his friends and fondling a beer - 'beer is the only thing Czechs do well!' he joked when I questioned why he'd carried it so far. The glacier cooled the air significantly so we didn't stay long before heading back, and with the day coming to a close the low sun made the scenery look quite spectacular, especially when we saw the church from earlier seemingly float amongst the clouds below.
That evening at the guesthouse I met a hilarious group of Ukrainians who had just finished a four-day mountain ascent, and were sat around a table with huge plastic bottles of cheap Georgian wine in a merry ol' state, and they invited me to join them along with some other French, Dutch and American folks. One was a 13 year old lad who they let him have a bit of wine, another was surprisingly a lawyer and they were all as mad as each other. My glass seemed to refill itself constantly, and a hilarious evening followed of toasts, daft questions and generally tomfoolery.
Bike to the border
The next morning my hiking partners from the previous day were keen to move onto another town, and I debated whether to join them since it was a good opportunity. Being on a two week holiday they were keen to make the most of their time, but I'd long since had enough of moving fast from place to place so decided to stay another day. I hired a mountain bike for the day and realised it was the first time since in Bangalore, three months ago so therefore some sort of personal record of time spent away from two wheels I reckon. The guys in the hire shop spoke barely a word of English, but with some pointing at the map and a waving of hands I had both a ride for the day and some ideas of where to go. Disapointingly, despite what I'd been told the mountain biking in the area simply meant the act of riding a mountain bike on roads in the mountains and not actually riding off-road as one might expect, but it was better than nothing.
We were just ten miles from the Russian border, a fact which sounded quite exciting, so I took the road there which to my suprise it was downhill the whole way. I groaned at the thought of the ride back up later, something I'd never have done this time last year whilst cycling across Europe - my former fitness is nothing but a memory now. After so long since the last ride it felt great to be back on an iron horse again, and heading down through the high sided green and rocky valley the scenery was quite spectacular. Riding through a dark tunnel which had no lights was a little hairy though, and when cars came I had no choice but to stop and squeeze tightly against the tunnel wall. Nearing the border the road turned to dirt briefly and went through a construction site for what I guess was a hydro electic plant, though given it's proximity to Russia and the mysterious tunnels full of constuction traffic heading into the mountain, it seemed more like a real-life James Bond set. I neared the Russian border and stopped a hundred metres or so away, having a rest and a drink of water. A minute or so later a border guard wandered over.
Guard: What are you doing?
Me: I just cycled from Kazbegi and now I'm heading back
Guard: Why you waiting?
Me: I just had a rest and drink
Guard: Go back to Kazbegi
Me: (casually) OK
Guard: GO BACK to Kazbegi!
Me: (hastily) Sure!
It was a blunt though not exactly scary exchange, but I wouldn't have wanted to argue with him. The ride back up was predictably a right old slog, and I passed back through Kazbegi to ride up the nearby Sno valley, the odd lorry driver beeping and waving at the rare sight of a cyclist as they passed. Sno valley was flat, quiet and lovely to ride along, the road weaving through meadows, past crumbling concrete houses with overgrown gardens, and a beautiful old stone defensive tower. As you do, I looked and smiled at people I passed to acknowledge the time of day but no-one smiled back, and one guy sternly even shouted out a load of stuff. I later learnt a simple nod suffices, but even then might not be reciprocated - Georgian's aren't always the most friendly. I reached a very poor village with dirt roads, crumbling buildings, gas and water pipes running overhead, and rusty old Russian cars sat around. A sight typical of poor rural Georgia. It was bleak enough already, and when it started raining I took that as a sign to call it a day.
Back at the guesthouse I had plans to get on with writing but they were put on hold when I got chatting to a 60 year old Californian guy; a maths teacher who had a slow dreamy drawl and seemed to have travelled a lot to off-the-beaten-track places over the years, including Sudan, Djibouti and Ethipoia - the latter a place where he's partway through what I thought was quite a specific personal challenge to hike all the mountains over 4000m high. At dinner that night I met a pleasant Swedish couple at dinner from Stockholm, and we compared notes on our respective countries. Whilst many people outside the country don't know where Georgia is, it sure does see quite a few tourists.
In some ways there was probably more to do at Kazbegi, but whilst the location in the centre of a mountainous valley was beautiful, the village was pretty run down, information on hikes lacking and the guesthouse and food a bit basic so early the next morning I moved on back to the plains.
In this blog: hiking to a glacier, drinking cheap wine with some Ukranians, and cycling to the Russian border.
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| Caucasius mountains |
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| View of Kazbegi, Caucasius mountains |
Whilst Tblisi was nice, there were two problems for me:
1. It was stinking hot
2. It was a city
There was only one solution, to head to the mountains, the Greater Caucasus mountains to be precise, a three hour minibus (or marshrutka as they call them) to the north. From the hostel, I took the metro a few miles north to the bus station - one of only four metro systems built by the former USSR, an extravagant decision given the relatively small size of Tblisi but apparently swayed by the fact that Stalin was born in Georgia. The bus station was chaotic, with hundreds of minibuses haphazardly parked in no particular order, people wandering everywhere, and with the destination signs written in Georgian script and therefore totally illegible to me, a lot of asking around ensued. Eventually I squeezed into a very sweaty red Ford Transit van, the tool of choice for Georgian public transport, and half an hour later off we went. We passed heaps of fruit stalls on the roadside, many selling huge watermelons which are very popular throughout the country, and cows wandered along the verges and often onto the road. The roads themselves were bumpy and the driving a bit fast and erratic for my liking, and as we passed churches or crucifixes many people closed their eyes and did the sign of the cross, touching their their chest, head and stomach. The Georgian Military Highway as it's known, climbed through hundreds of turns up into the big green mountains, and eventually a few snowy peaks started to emerge. The area looked beautiful.
Arriving at the village of Kazbegi at 1750m altitude the temperature was more manageable, and the scenery not unlike Switzerland, but I had a bit of a nightmare finding accommodation since strangely few of the many guest houses actually had signs outside. A couple of teenage girls touting for business in the town centre tried to get me to stay at their family's place nearby. I rarely take up the service of touts but reluctantly had a look inside and decided against it. As I left the house onto the street, the two girls and another friend worked hard to pursuade me their friend's place next door, and to my suprise together physically pulled me in through the gateway, saying 'just look, just look!' They were doing it playfully but I really wasn't impressed with their style and walked off. If you're pushy it mean's you're desperate, and if you're desperate what you're selling probably isn't much good. An hour later I ended up at the unfortunately named but fairly pleasant 'Nazi's Guesthouse', named after it's owner, a lovely lady in her fifties called Nazi Chkeruli. She was born post war so I really don't know what were her parents thinking with that name! By now the day was all but done since I'd set off late originally, so after briefly chatting to an Aussie, an American and a Polish lawyer I hit the hay.
Gergeti Glacier
The guesthouse was actually more of a homestay and all the home cooked meals were eaten communally, which is where at breakfast the next day I met Rebekka from Germany and Stijn (Stein) from Holland, a former kindergarten teacher and medical technology student respectively. They had a day of walking planned which sounded good, and kindly let me tag along. We headed up through the fairly dilapidated concrete and rusty steel village, and climbed up a path in some steep woods until we reached Tsminda Sameba church an hour later, perched right on top of a hillock and a local attraction of sorts. After a look inside walked on and up steadily for another four hours, across open mountainous land above the tree line, eventually reached Gergeti Glacier at 3200m above sea level. The glacier was impressive and shaped a bit like a bumpy ski slope, though didn't have the steep crumbling edge like some I've seen before, and even though it appeared to be covered in stones it was deceptively slippery on the few metres we dared venture. A number of people had crampons and ice axes and were carrying on right above to reach the top of Mt Kazbeg a couple of thousand metres higher up. I felt a touch of jealousy, but now wasn't the time. We chatted briefly to a Czech guy who was waiting by the glacier's edge for his friends and fondling a beer - 'beer is the only thing Czechs do well!' he joked when I questioned why he'd carried it so far. The glacier cooled the air significantly so we didn't stay long before heading back, and with the day coming to a close the low sun made the scenery look quite spectacular, especially when we saw the church from earlier seemingly float amongst the clouds below.
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| Gergeti Glacier with Rebekka from Germany and Stijn from Holland |
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| Gergeti Glacier |
That evening at the guesthouse I met a hilarious group of Ukrainians who had just finished a four-day mountain ascent, and were sat around a table with huge plastic bottles of cheap Georgian wine in a merry ol' state, and they invited me to join them along with some other French, Dutch and American folks. One was a 13 year old lad who they let him have a bit of wine, another was surprisingly a lawyer and they were all as mad as each other. My glass seemed to refill itself constantly, and a hilarious evening followed of toasts, daft questions and generally tomfoolery.
Bike to the border
The next morning my hiking partners from the previous day were keen to move onto another town, and I debated whether to join them since it was a good opportunity. Being on a two week holiday they were keen to make the most of their time, but I'd long since had enough of moving fast from place to place so decided to stay another day. I hired a mountain bike for the day and realised it was the first time since in Bangalore, three months ago so therefore some sort of personal record of time spent away from two wheels I reckon. The guys in the hire shop spoke barely a word of English, but with some pointing at the map and a waving of hands I had both a ride for the day and some ideas of where to go. Disapointingly, despite what I'd been told the mountain biking in the area simply meant the act of riding a mountain bike on roads in the mountains and not actually riding off-road as one might expect, but it was better than nothing.
We were just ten miles from the Russian border, a fact which sounded quite exciting, so I took the road there which to my suprise it was downhill the whole way. I groaned at the thought of the ride back up later, something I'd never have done this time last year whilst cycling across Europe - my former fitness is nothing but a memory now. After so long since the last ride it felt great to be back on an iron horse again, and heading down through the high sided green and rocky valley the scenery was quite spectacular. Riding through a dark tunnel which had no lights was a little hairy though, and when cars came I had no choice but to stop and squeeze tightly against the tunnel wall. Nearing the border the road turned to dirt briefly and went through a construction site for what I guess was a hydro electic plant, though given it's proximity to Russia and the mysterious tunnels full of constuction traffic heading into the mountain, it seemed more like a real-life James Bond set. I neared the Russian border and stopped a hundred metres or so away, having a rest and a drink of water. A minute or so later a border guard wandered over.
Guard: What are you doing?
Me: I just cycled from Kazbegi and now I'm heading back
Guard: Why you waiting?
Me: I just had a rest and drink
Guard: Go back to Kazbegi
Me: (casually) OK
Guard: GO BACK to Kazbegi!
Me: (hastily) Sure!
It was a blunt though not exactly scary exchange, but I wouldn't have wanted to argue with him. The ride back up was predictably a right old slog, and I passed back through Kazbegi to ride up the nearby Sno valley, the odd lorry driver beeping and waving at the rare sight of a cyclist as they passed. Sno valley was flat, quiet and lovely to ride along, the road weaving through meadows, past crumbling concrete houses with overgrown gardens, and a beautiful old stone defensive tower. As you do, I looked and smiled at people I passed to acknowledge the time of day but no-one smiled back, and one guy sternly even shouted out a load of stuff. I later learnt a simple nod suffices, but even then might not be reciprocated - Georgian's aren't always the most friendly. I reached a very poor village with dirt roads, crumbling buildings, gas and water pipes running overhead, and rusty old Russian cars sat around. A sight typical of poor rural Georgia. It was bleak enough already, and when it started raining I took that as a sign to call it a day.
Back at the guesthouse I had plans to get on with writing but they were put on hold when I got chatting to a 60 year old Californian guy; a maths teacher who had a slow dreamy drawl and seemed to have travelled a lot to off-the-beaten-track places over the years, including Sudan, Djibouti and Ethipoia - the latter a place where he's partway through what I thought was quite a specific personal challenge to hike all the mountains over 4000m high. At dinner that night I met a pleasant Swedish couple at dinner from Stockholm, and we compared notes on our respective countries. Whilst many people outside the country don't know where Georgia is, it sure does see quite a few tourists.
In some ways there was probably more to do at Kazbegi, but whilst the location in the centre of a mountainous valley was beautiful, the village was pretty run down, information on hikes lacking and the guesthouse and food a bit basic so early the next morning I moved on back to the plains.
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| Caucasius mountains |
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| Gergeti Glacier |
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| Floating church |
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| Border |
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| Sno valley |
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