Svaneti

It’s 9:00 in the evening, and I’ve just finished a light evening snack of bread (never absent from any meal), cookies, and kisiri. This cousin of Jello is a gelatinous concoction made from a powder, but thin enough to be drunk from a teacup. It is made in Russia, and apparently prized enough by Georgians to be smuggled across the border from Abkhazia, which explains why we haven’t had it until now.

This, however, is not the main reason for my writing. As the title of the post suggests, I want to tell you about our trip to Svaneti! On Friday fifteen teaching volunteers, plus two of our hosts (both named Dato and therefore distinguished in speaking as “Big Dato” and “Little Dato”) hired a minibus to take us the approximately 150 kilometers to Mestia, the nearest major town in Svaneti, the remote and mountainous region to the north. This journey, despite its relatively short distance, took us about six hours, and included stops to change a flat tire and to move the debris from a recent rockslide out of the road. The road itself was in horrible condition, and in many places we found ourselves plowing through mud six inches deep, if not more. Once in Mestia, we checked into a hotel, where we celebrated our safe arrival with a large dinner that included, among many other dishes, the famous kubdari (stuffed break like khachapuri, but with meat instead of cheese inside).

On Saturday morning, despite our hopes, the rain that had persisted all through our drive up to Mestia was still coming down, and for a while it was unclear what we would actually be able to do without putting ourselves at risk of being killed by an avalanche or flood. Eventually, however, we were cleared to go on the hike many of us had been looking forward to, up to the edge of the nearby glacier. This hike took us six hours, almost entirely in the rain, and involved crossing several streams, only some of which had stepping stones or logs to assist with the process. If you look at my pictures, though, I think you’ll agree that it was definitely worth the trouble. Through the rain and mist we had stunning views of craggy snowcapped mountains, and when we got to the end of the trail, we saw that the rive we’d been following actually flowed out from underneath the glacier. By the time we got back to town it was getting dark, and I was incredibly grateful that (a) I had dry clothes to change into, (b) there was a space heater in my room, and (c) I could eat dinner in the hotel and thereby avoid going out again for the rest of the night.

Sunday morning I got up early and went for a walk around the old part of town, which is dotted with centuries-old stone towers. The area around the hotel, by contrast, is a flurry of construction activity (including the hotel building itself), all aimed at making Mestia a skiing destination for tourists. Before that happens, though, they’re going to have to do something about the road. It had gotten even worse over the weekend, and at several points the prospect of our making it back to Zugdidi that day seemed somewhat dubious. In one spot a big tanker truck had gotten stuck, and we had to wait while a tractor essentially plowed a new road through the mud, one that cut even closer to the cliff edge than the original route had done. In another spot a large tree had fallen across the road, and we teamed up with the drivers of several other vehicles to roll it off the cliff, then watched as it fell several hundred feet to the river below.

Despite all these obstacles, however, we did in fact make it home, tired, wet and sore, but entirely satisfied with our adventure. Since then several people have asked me how my trip was, and my standard answer has been: “K’argi! Bevri tzvima, magram dzalian lamazi” (“Good! A lot of rain, but very beautiful”). It’s not much, but it’s all in Georgian, so I’m proud of it.