The Path to Pankisi

Standing at Kilikia bus station in central Yerevan, I was ready for a Georgian adventure. I anticipated the remote mountains, the sweet wine and the unique language whisking me into a new and exciting world. However, before even setting off, reality plucked me from my daydream and into the trivial problems of a stranger. Two people had slid into the seats in front of me, and judging by their aggressive pallor and radiant ginger hair, they were either Scottish or Irish. The man, scurrying around like some anxious water vole, was producing squeaks of distress regarding the safety of the van. As I watched in an emotional no-man’s-land between frustration and amusement, the first words out of his mouth were, ‘This is so unhinged, I need a whisky’. Irish, he was very Irish. Now, on many of my travels over the last few years, there have been situations that would warrant such a sweat-soaked panic, but this reasonably comfortable minivan was not one of them. Once his clammy hands had found the seatbelt and he had adjusted his bumbag, everyone could retire to their own world once again.

The journey was a long one but comfortable enough and I read my book until we passed through the border. However, from then on, I decided to glean as much understanding of this new country as I could from what passed my window. I was seeking out cultural insights and the unnoticed subtleties of rural Georgia, but instead just found rows upon rows of corn.

I, of course, assumed that everyone in this strange corn utopia must either be:

1. Rabidly addicted to corn on the cob (least likely) or…
2. Be part of countrywide conspiracy to get a stranglehold on the world’s corn supply, giving Georgia a monopoly on those sweet golden nubs that fuel the important global trade in poor pizza topping choices. With this power there’s no telling what Georgia could do. But you know the old adage as well as I do… first it’s corn, then it’s nukes. (most likely)

With these terrifying ideas swirling through my head, I spent three full days in Tbilisi, trying to rid myself of corn-related existential angst but also trying to get a feel for the place.

Tbilisi

Undoubtedly the best thing about Tbilisi is all the old stuff. Don’t get me wrong, new stuff is great, you know for sanitation, the internet and Bop It, but old stuff just has some serious style.

Side note: Is ‘Bop It’ still a thing? Am I old? And does anyone want to play Bop It with me?

Some of the drippiest old things out there (yes, I’m still cool and know all the slang. No cap) were the cathedrals. Sioni Cathedral has been around in some form or another for around 1500 years, with the current building being a hodgepodge of 13^th, 17^th and 19^th century sections. I took in the outside while munching on some hot, buttery bread then shoved the remnants in my bag for later while I ventured inside. It was dark and atmospheric like most orthodox places of worship.  A priest was swinging incense and almost solid shafts of light stabbed diagonally from the small windows in the dome to the grasping tendrils of smoke. Priests came and went, as did worshipers doing their candle lighting, icon kissing duties. All the while I gazed upward and around the space, still and silent.

As I left, and turned to get one final glance, I noticed one of the lads who had just gone in had a cheeky Georgian beer hanging out of the side pocket of his rucksack. I like to think he was there to sink a cold one with our creator. According to scripture, He usually only materialises for big cans of Stella but I bet he’s gasping for a pint, Georgian or not, after all his hard work.

The other worthwhile cathedral is the one that rises from the hilltop, majestically announcing its authority over the city with its golden roof. It’s the Trinity cathedral, and it becomes more and more impressive with every step towards its front door. To get there, I walked through tumbledown backstreets, where fruit shops and bakeries seemed to abound. The unfinished and derelict buildings bustling with commerce only made my sudden arrival at the cathedral grounds the more jolting. Through a gate, I zigzagged through fragrant evergreens, startling birds into song and catching glimpses of the sand-coloured edifice. Eventually, I got it squarely in my view. Each section of its impeccably clean stone was stacked symmetrically on the last, helping it rise with pyramidic grace high above the city. I took in the view for a long time, reading and relaxing in the shade before I went inside. Unfortunately, it was utterly boring and bare. I couldn’t believe how unremarkable it was, so I stormed through the one-way system and resumed my city walking.

Walking along the older streets of the city, whose architecture was a crumbling peeling cousin of Georgetown in Penang, I loved peering into dark and unlit doorways, mysteriously open to the street. Often, they led to cold, empty, but stately staircases. They were unlit but from the ambient light seeping in from the daylight at my back. Along one street where occasional new builds were trying and failing to replicate the almost irresponsible grandeur of the original architecture, my gaze fell on a single doorway. The door was bare metal with a single pane of glass below which there was a handwritten sign saying, ‘Homemade wine and chacha’. It was clear this was no bar, restaurant or café so my interest was piqued. Before I had time to see inside, I heard the skittering of dice and then, readjusting my position, I saw that two men took up the entire space behind the door. They were sat at a small plastic table playing backgammon without a care in the world. I’m still perplexed as to whether the sign was an invitation to buy black market alcohol or to find drinking/backgammon pals for two vest wearing Georgian men, but I hope it was the latter.

While those men will be remembered for embodying the secret life of old Tbilisi, the “underpass babushka” struck a strange dystopian fear into me. Passing below a busy road, the graffitied underpass walls absorbing most of the jaundiced glow from the strip lights, I spotted an old lady. She was wearing a sort of black robe with a hood that obscured her face, and she was looking into the far corner. Hunched and haggard, she faced a crudely made but brightly lit, neon pink, claw grabbing machine. A fence with visible grime clinging to its lattice lay between her and the pool of prizes. I never got to see her face or understand what brought her to this dirty Tbilisi underbelly to be faced with an unpleasant imitation of fairground fun, but as I passed her unmoving figure, I hoped that the shiny claw would do her an unlikely favour.

As my time in Tbilisi grew to a close and I focussed my energy on getting back out to the wild, I reflected on my time in the city. And to be honest, I was mostly disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, Tbilisi can be gorgeous, eclectic, humble, brash, authentic and did I mention gorgeous? Like seriously, ancient forts, imperial monasteries and iconic modern architecture in a beautiful green valley bisected by a river, you’re doing things right, Georgia. But firstly, why do your bakeries only open after 10am? What kind of nonsense is that? If I had my way, bakeries would be open 24/7 like petrol stations, they are after all supplying hot, soft, unctuous fuel to the masses. Secondly, your dumplings (khinkali) are just not up to scratch. You’re telling me that a soup dumpling (already not a fan – just give me more filling) with only salt for seasoning is a good meal? Y’all need some chilli sauce and/or some garnish; toss some fried shallots on there for goodness sake… Basically, just be Asian dumplings. And before you get on me that Asian dumplings can also have broth, get on with your day. I know this and will happily relegate all tasteless, scold your mouth bundles of mediocrity to the realm of hateful foods. On this blog there’s no discrimination based on geography, only based on broth.

Away from my food complaints, the more I walked around, the more I got the impression that, bit by bit, Tbilisi was being lost. Kitschy restoration, tourist tours and tat, unpleasant bar/restaurant combos and floods of tourists made seeing any of the sights unbearable. I understand that it’s tough to get a real understanding for a place after such a short amount of time (see my post on Amman for a slow awakening to the positives of a city). But when you’re a tourist, wanting to see the real side of a city and you’ve spent days looking up the best things, the most authentic things, only to visit them and realise you’ve been sold a lie, then you have a right to be disappointed. Many blogs piece together a false parallel universe of photographic and atmospheric perfection, and even someone as cynical as I can be drawn in. But some of us want the truth, as dirty, uncomfortable and saddening as it can be.

During my stay, I had found no one to talk to except a severely boring Norwegian fisherman and an awful, lip smacking, skinny rat of an Aussie, so I found myself happily preparing for the next day of travel. I was heading to Telavi, the main city in Georgia’s most famous wine region and my gateway to further adventure, however, I had no idea how to get there. So, I sidled up to the reception desk and asked the girl behind it for the best way to get to Telavi in the morning. She seemed taken aback by the question saying, “Oh, I don’t know,” as if she was shocked that I had even bothered to ask her. Then she just went back to whatever she was doing. This was the icing on the cake, get me to the mountains.

Telavi

After being waved onto the modern, efficient buses of inner-city Tbilisi with a roll of the eyes because I had offered the driver cash and not used contactless, I arrived quickly to the bus station. From there it was a surprisingly long journey to Telavi on a mashrutka. This was made five times longer thanks to the man with the most jarring ringtone ever created. It was a horrible, obviously poorly recorded, keyboard instrumental rendition of that Justin Bieber song ‘Let Me Love You’ and it came on at agonising volume and regular intervals throughout the journey.

Telavi is a quiet and beautiful little city. From its slightly odd centre, characterful red brick houses creep up the hillside, their hidden terraces and courtyards occasionally spilling fruit, laughter, flowers, and occasionally, singing onto the street. One of my favourite roads in the city was Chokokashvili street. It was lined with traditional houses, some with tastefully restored elaborate balconies and some showing their age through the warping of wood and walls. As I walked around the city I tried to be just as friendly as I was in Armenia, throwing out ‘Gamarjoba’ and a smile to people as I went. However, people weren’t replying at all. In Armenia, you might be met with a surprised stare initially, but everyone always said ‘hello’ back…

I didn’t have many plans for Telavi so got down to eating. I spent one evening out for dinner at Doli, a lovely restaurant with incredibly good buffalo meatballs and a local red wine (so good in fact that I decided to have it for dessert too). As I sat, silently enjoying my civilised meal, I did end up eavesdropping on the only other diners. Although is it eavesdropping if you could’ve heard them from the neighbouring town? This American woman, who was eating with two of her friends, was so obnoxiously, conspicuously Californian. She exclaimed loudly about the evil of GMOs, the ‘anxiety-stricken chickens’ and most annoyingly by far, she kept repeating how good the food is. Now, declaring your food opinions during a meal is something I wholeheartedly endorse. Nevertheless, after hearing, ‘this is totally one of my favourite spots’ for the 10^th time, in a wannabe Kim Kardashian voice, I did start to lose the will to live.

I had another great meal in the beautiful garden of Bodia restaurant which looked like a large house from the street. For lunch I ate liver, cornbread and enjoyed the fact that, while I was sat in this gorgeous setting, there wasn’t a single inkling that I might poo myself. I had been feeling really dodgy for a few hours but the sit down for lunch had been a wonderful respite from my grumbling lower intestine. As I stood up and began walking back up the hill to the guesthouse however, it became a battle of mind over faecal matter. Once I made it back, the horrible stomach pains set in alongside my frequent trips to my en-suite. The rest of the day was a painful, unpleasant write off.

Pankisi Valley

Telavi had largely been an interlude on the way to the Pankisi Valley for me. This remote valley lies between the warm, dry, wine region and the isolated mountain region of Tusheti on the Russia/Dagestan/Chechen border. It had piqued my interest weeks earlier due to its physical isolation but also, more interestingly, its cultural isolation from the rest of Georgia. In the valley, not only are they practicing Muslims in a Christian dominated country but also an ethnic subgroup of Chechens called Kists. The Kists arrived in the Pankisi valley in the 19^th century, pushed out of their homeland by the expansionist power of Russia that was fighting to control the Caucasus region. This military drive into the Caucasus region, fuelled by imperialism and anti-Islamic sentiment, ended in annexation of the northern Caucasus but also a genocide of the Circassian people who were from the modern-day area of Abkhazia/north-western Georgia. Estimates say that around 1.5 million Circassian people were ethnically cleansed (in some of the most horrific ways imaginable). Those that escaped into the Ottoman empire were shipped to the Middle East, many finding a home in the nascent city of Amman. After almost two centuries of resistance to their occupation by Russia, Chechnya became the only federal subject to refuse to sign a treaty with the newly formed Russia (after the dissolution of the Soviet Union). This tension deteriorated into a full-scale conflict in the early 90s when Chechnya declared independence and Russia moved troops into the region. As Russia fought an unpopular war, rife with human rights abuses, against stiff resistance (especially to capture the capital Grozny – which they shelled to rubble), many Chechens fled. Some were civilians, others were fighters and many of them came to Pankisi where their fellow Chechens lived just across the border. This made Pankisi a dangerous place to be as the first war ended and a new guerrilla one began. It’s only been in the last few years that Pankisi has been considered safe and stable.

On my way to the valley, I was very conscious of my intestinal distress from the day before and begged for superior sphinctal control during the journey. So, when I only had to double over with stomach pain and dizziness twice on my way to the unpaved, dirty square behind the bazaar (the bus station), it was considered a great success. The mashrutka took me to Akhmeta, a town near to the valley of Pankisi but not near enough to walk (especially in my condition). I half-heartedly entertained the approach of a taxi driver but then decided that no matter how excitable my bowels, there was no chance I was going to do a U-turn on my moral position of general antipathy towards taxi drivers. So, I found a bit of shade, waited fifteen minutes and hitched a ride onwards.

Once we left Akhmeta the road became straight and empty. There were no lamp posts, houses or pavements. The road was heavily potholed and lined by trees. It was a beautiful, silent separation between Georgia and Pankisi.  

The Guesthouse

Nazy’s guesthouse in Jokolo is up there with the best places I’ve stayed in the world. Not only is it run by a local family who encourage engagement with the local culture and community through activities (like making Chechen hats from felt with an old lady, cooking lessons, and horse tours) but the building itself is stunning. It felt like I was staying in a hotel in terms of cleanliness and comfort, but the community feel brought another element to the stay. In the evenings, everyone in the guesthouse sat down together for huge Chechen feasts, with incredible homemade dishes, made from their own ingredients and animals. We were a community of disparate people brought together by incredible foods we couldn’t have imagined, chatting the night away in a remote Georgian valley. The best hostels/guesthouses are those that foster the feeling of community, in whatever form that may take. And while I ate soft flatbreads filled with a pumpkin, black pepper and honey puree, stuffed my face with garlicy dumpling twists and scooped up worrying volumes of hot cheese curds, I was constantly inspired by those around me. Whether it was by a wholesome adventurous Danish family, an entertaining mother and son travelling together or even the weird Swiss man who was obsessed with watermelons. This man didn’t just like watermelon, he knew all their varieties, he could (and did) share with us the detailed synopses of old watermelon-based films and talked at length about a Russian facility dedicated to studying and storing the genetic varieties of watermelon. I guess everyone has their hobbies.

The Valley

The plan for this Pankisi trip was to immerse myself in the surroundings, to learn some of the culture and generally just chill before one of the craziest five days of my life.

So, I set off to explore the villages of Pankisi by foot. From the village of Jokolo, I headed first to the almost fort-like amphitheatre on the hill with views over the entire valley. After being moved on by a cow, I started to head back down the hill, sweating buckets. Suddenly, to my left I heard a cry. Swivelling to see what atrocity that cow had committed (we all know cows have an unspoken agenda), I spotted the source of the cry. Two teenagers were racing horses across a meadow, their skill at such speed was amazing and the manes of the horses streamed back into the humid air along with the screams of joy. Into Duisi, I was loving walking along the narrow gravel lanes. Flowers and fruit trees populated gardens, children played, and grape vines constricted wrap-around balconies and shuttered windows. Finally, I saw what I had been searching for, the old mosque of Duisi, with its stunning patterned brick minaret.

Back on the main paved road I passed a tiny bungalow, hardly taller than me. It must’ve had only a couple of rooms inside but surrounding it was a huge lush garden full of flowers and a few old trees. Under one tree at the front of the bungalow was a lady in a traditional dress of blue and yellow patterns, sat on a hanging chair suspended from the tree’s largest branches. From the tree hung a slightly drooping washing line, where many brightly coloured clothes swayed gently in the breeze only enhancing the vibrancy of the garden scene. I couldn’t think of a more simple and beautiful way of life.

Not long after this I was walking on the opposite side of the river, heading back to the guesthouse and it was scorching. Walking on hot black tarmac in that heat, with my water stewing in its bottle was deeply unpleasant. Most of my brain was hoping someone would see me melting and invite me in for some water but the rest of my brain was just trying to get back to the guesthouse. Despite feeling like the heat might make my skin slough off me like the wax from a candle, I was slightly buoyed by the sight of horses and their foals playing and cooling off in the river.

The Brewery

On my last day in the valley, I knew I wanted to check out the “brewery”. Being a Muslim community, with other ancient Caucasian folk religious elements intertwined within it, the beer was non-alcoholic, but I was interested in seeing what it was like.

Side note: The ancient Vainakh religion of the Chechen people has a large pantheon of Gods, heroes and creatures much like in Greek mythology but one stands out above the rest for me and that’s Khagya-Yerdi a.k.a the Lord of Rocks. While all the other gods are out there fighting, stealing, protecting, transfiguring and providing, I like to think this dude is just sat around with his hand lens looking at a particularly nice crystal of Orthoclase Feldspar (of which there is no such thing, unless 1. You’re the biggest Geology nerd ever to grace the earth 2. You’re the Lord of bloody Rocks)

The son from the mother/son duo decided to join me on my brewery outing and we set off for our tipple. After a decent walk we arrived at what looked a lot like someone’s house with a Kisturi brewery sticker on a nearby telegraph pole. We wandered in and sure enough an old lady came and collected us. We wandered through the kitchen/sticker making room and started the tour of the various brewing rooms. She spoke to us in Georgian instead of Chechen and we peered in all the vats while deciphering parts of what she was saying through her actions (but also through our considerable experience with the very important, consumer-led back end of a standard brewing process).

We then headed to the garden to try the beers. They were made with rosehip, blackthorn, sugar, hops and water and tasted something like a mix between a kombucha and Schloer. We sat there in a rainstorm getting absolutely blitzed on rosehip while fighting over walnuts because the other snacks laid on the table were churchkela (nuts surrounded by a hardened fruit syrup/leather). In Armenia these snacks were a sugary boost during our hikes and nicknamed ‘Armenian snickers’, however, in Georgia the sugary fruit leather was proudly unsweetened and disgusting.

With a belly full of fizzy juice, we headed back, and my mind began to swim with thoughts of the morning to come. Back in Tbilisi, under the heavy weight of subpar company and poor dumplings, I had dreamed of the mountains and decided to head to Tusheti, the most remote mountainous region in the country. However, I had also discovered that Nazy’s Guesthouse offered the opportunity to ride a horse from Pankisi through the wild, untamed mountains and into Tusheti. It would take five days in the saddle to reach the remote villages of Tusheti, whose ancient towers still watch over the swaying meadows, scything rivers and forested peaks.

Final Thoughts

From my introduction to the much loved, much praised country of Georgia it may seem like the country is a bit of a damp squib. But, while Georgia’s capital may have disappointed, and I may have been horribly ill for a day, visiting the Pankisi valley was the foot up into the stirrup of adventure that I craved, and soon it was time to slide into the saddle.

* * *

This is my 100^th post. Fifty posts ago I was scoffing horse dumplings in Kazakhstan, doing an ironic playground workout and completely unaware of the life changing adventures to come. When I think back to that James, to his outlook on life, not too much has changed. Nowadays, I may drink less and read more, I may have a clearer understanding of what lurks ahead in the coming months (as much as it pains me), but what I want and what I’ll strive for is the same. Time. I want time to appreciate who and what is important. I want time to be inspired and learn. I want time to be understand and to be understood. That’s much of what this blog is for me, giving myself the time to appreciate and understand what I’ve experienced but also to understand what comes next. Whatever it is, however it needs to happen, I’ll make the time.