Kargaaad! An adventure in Georgia: Thursday, October 18th to Sunday October 21st: Kazbegi

Thursday, October 18th to Sunday October 21st

The fifth week of school was over. It was during this week, I watched the film, "Dinner With Andre." The movie is dialogue entire, between two men in a restaurant. A deeply philosophical movie, one of the things they talk about is going to places, to break their routine. I wont go much further into the movie, I only speak of it because it gave me motivation to go on an excursion to Mt. Kazbegi in the North Caucus mountains, even though the other volunteers couldn't make it. Traveling alone, I would have a different experience than traveling in a group.

Having taken Friday off, and having no classes scheduled for me on Thursday, I was free to take the train to Tbilisi, and from there to Kazbegi.

The train ride was another joyful trip, before sleep took over, I spoke with two men who shared my cab. The younger, more talkative one bought some beer at the Kobuleti stop, and we drank to our health and to Georgia and America, and to our families. The older one, a small man in a leather jacket, was going to Tbilisi for surgery. He works in Istanbul. For twenty five years, he has been working as a sailor. I hope the man's health picks up, I enjoyed speaking with him. Soon after drinking and eating chips, I fell asleep. Waking up in Tbilisi, I said my goodbyes to my cab-mates, and stepped off the train.

At the station, a bus was scheduled to leave to Kazbegi, a short walk and a few inquiry's later brought me to the proper minibus, scheduled to drive to Stephantsminda, the village closest to Mt Kazbegi. The bus was piled to capacity, mostly European travelers.

The road to Stephansminda is an ancient rout known as the Georgian Millitary highway. The rout travels through a pass cut by glaciers. The was built by Russian soldiers to connect Georgia to the Russian province of Chechnya, before the highway was only a dirt track. This is the place where Pompey of Rome traveled in conquest. He came, he stopped, and he turned back. Scythia, the steppe north of the Mountains was believed to be the end of the world and not worth the visit.

The day I traveled the Georgian military highway, the hill country's deciduous forest was ablaze with Autumn colors. Up at a higher elevation, the forest advances no further up the steepening slopes, yielding to subalpine grasses and sporadic birch and pine groves. The narrow river valley we are traveling in widens into a broad flat plain, carved from glaciers. From this valley, the road turned into a wide dirt track, designed for tanks and machines of war, whose treads eat asphalt that tires glide over. Our bus bounced past other cars, buses, and semi-trucks. I had read the Russian border was closed, but the stream of traffic indicated otherwise.

Across the river adjacent to the road, a village lies on slope, above a steep drop into the river below. There was no road or bridge from where we were. The only rout I observed into that village was by a cable-car. The car looked like it could fit only two people, and hangs suspended over the river.

Past the isolated village, we drove through more towns before making our final destination to Stephantsminda.

Stepping off the bus, I was struck by the Fall aroma from the beach trees. The thin, cold air seemed to amplify the decaying leaves. Instantaneously, I liked this place more than Mestia in Svaneti.

Having first acquired a guest house, I spend the day exploring the town. I walked up to the pine forest above the town, and was able to read a great deal of Cormac McCarthy's book The Crossing. Sitting in the sun, overlooking the town with a view of the church and Mt. Kazbegi. This first day, I didn't want to go on excursions, but to just enjoy the mountains by simply being in them.

Early the next morning, after eating a home cooked meal of mashed potatoes with cheese, I walked to the town center and rented a bicycle. South along the river, I rode towards Sno Valley. When I arrived at the village of Sno, I stopped to view the town's sole tower, overlooking the city. I parked my bike by an ancient wall, and looked for an entrance. While searching, an old man came by in a cart drawn by a donkey. We spoke, but I couldn't understand him at all, as if he has had a stroke. I held donkey by the reins, as he fetched some water from some spring, for his burro. From there, I found the way up into the tower. I climbed the narrow ladder up to the head. The interior was cramped and dark. The top yielded view of the surrounding town and mountains. Soon after, I was back on the road heading further up the valley.

Past several other villages, I rode on. The land was populated by grazing cows, sheep and horses. The animals were accompanied by either shepherds or their special breed of dog. The dogs were huge, and with cropped ears, with a friendly disposition. In the villages, pigs hung about the muddy streets, scattering when they saw me riding towards them.

The dirt road to the final town of Juta ran up a mountain side. The temperatures fluctuated in the extreme, thanks to the combination of sun, shade and wind; rest and activity. Looking up, I spotted circling birds overhead. In this windswept mountainside of no trees, herds, water, or shelter, I felt completely isolated, almost like I was on a Martian planet. There was no sign of the village, or of any people whatsoever. Quite a unique feeling.

When I arrived at Juta, I came upon a source of water for which I was thankful for, having run out on the road. By then, it was noon and I was exhausted from riding/walking up to Juta. After moving past Juta, I left my bike locked to a fencepost and continued on up the valley. Where the road ends and only a dirt track is there, which is traversed by horse drawn carts or by foot. Wind would gust through the valley, shared by cows and horses.

squat, square structures came into view in the distance, which when I got closer, I could see was a military outpost. A man waved me over, for which I waved back and walked to. They invited me over to speak, curious to see a lone foreigner in the mountains. I was curious why they were there as well. I was told that past the mountain in the north, laid Chechnya and to the south east was Ratcha, accessible after a 8 hour hike through a pass. We had coffee inside their camp, which was occupied by three friendly Georgian military men. I wanted to take more pictures, but I did not think it wise to take pictures of their camp, however friendly my hosts were.

After the hot cup of coffee, I gave my thanks and headed back to Stephantsminda. The bike ride down the mountain was exhilarating. I didn't realize the climb I had made. On the way down, I hardly had to do any pedaling!

Within forty-five minutes, I had arrived back in Stephantsminda. The sun was still high up in the sky, and I still had the energy, so I decided to continue past the town, heading North on the highway. A few kilometers up the road, lay the Georgian Russian border.

Soon after Stephansminda, the terrain becomes rugged, gone is the flat and grass-covered glacial plain that Stephansminda rests on. Here cragged peaks dip down steeply into a narrow and rocky riverbed. Shrubs and Pines cling to the mountains' shanks as the road, built alongside a cliff face winds down in elevation. Aside from one village adjacent to the riverbed, the land along the highway is wilderness.

It was on this rout, that I came across a tunnel. two hundred meters bored through the mountain side created a menacing, unlit gaping mouth. Having stopped at the entrance, I continued down into the tunnel as blackness overtook me. I continued on, picking up speed naturally from gravity until the light was not even enough to distinguish shapes, where the road was and where the stone walls were.

Riding a bike in darkness is an exhilarating feeling. You feel the wind on your face, and can hear the wheels spinning on, yet you are unable to have a sense of direction. As your sight dims to memory of the terrain, you become disoriented, as though your bike stirs itself. It becomes impossible to continue this way, only after dismounting does the spinning wheels respond to your control. Through that thin cool air, you walk along side the road, until your surroundings are lit once again from the end of the tunnel.

Upon reaching the Georgian checkpoint, I knew it wasn't going to get any further. Cars coming from Russia were stopped several lanes in. As I entered the fenced compound guard dogs barked incessantly at my passing. A far cry from the outpost I encountered earlier. Here, the guards were armed with black metallic guns, slung over their shoulder. "Sad Midixar?" One of them asked me, as I approached him.

Tyler: Do you speak English?

Border guard: A little. Passport?

Tyler: I don't have it.

Border Guard: Do you want to go to Russia?

Tyler: No, I want to see the border with Chechnya.

A long pause, the other guard was curious and came over. He replied.

Border Guard: I'm sorry you must go back.

Going back was a two hour bike ride up back to Stephantsminda. By the time I reached the top, my legs were jelly. The bike was returned as the sun was setting, having just slid behind the frosted peaks.

Although I traveled alone on this trip, I was never isolated from other travelers, and had a few beers with them after the daily excursions. I feel that branching out from the TLG group is better than just being with the same people.