A Georgian Road Trip

 

      Arriving back in Russia on the twenty-fifth of September was a bad idea as it meant I had to leave on the 24 of December. Now I guess that in itself is not a bad thing as winter is a little harsher in Anapa than Vancouver but as it was our first anniversary and Inga’s parents couldn’t really fly all the way to Vegas for our wedding we had decided to stay this winter. December brings birthdays, our anniversary, and the general festive celebrations shared with many around the world. Russia is no exception, but it does come with some changes.

Traditionally Russians celebrate the Winter season, as a festival, and only recently have started celebrating Christmas like North Americans.  Now like at home they celebrate Christmas each to their own level of Christian belief. They also still celebrate the old festival too, with old man winter and all the traditions that go along with it. Then comes New Years, followed by Russian New Year. All in all, this makes it a very busy time as Russians love to visit and mingle. So we added a little more to this festive season getting married in December. So we have plans for some big parties at home in Anapa and then in Ossetia before going to Moscow to celebrate Russian New Year. After that the warmth of South East Asia beckons, and will be home for a few months.
 
So I once again found myself needing to do a visa run to allow enough time to do this and not have to fly on Christmas Eve. Inga is still waiting for her external visa to be renewed so I didn’t want to go anyplace far without her so we decided to run home to her parents little village outside of Vladikavkaz and her brother Jim and I would go to Georgia for the day.

 
The trip to Georgia is only about an hour from the big city and is a wonderful drive. The road is very modern and reminded me of the Sea to Sky highway of the 80’s but with much more beautiful scenery. Growing up in British Columbia kind of jaded me for beautiful mountains, or so I thought. This area of Russia is truly beautiful, and barring the bloody history and Ministerial warnings I’ve already talked about should really be on a person's bucket list.
 
The white clouds circle the area around the city as the highway snakes out of the Soviet style buildings south towards the border. The wide road is new and shiny black with dew and mist that seems to be a constant blanket over the area. Watching the road and looking up the hills, turned golden with winter's approach, my eyes are drawn to a sharp, jagged cloud. Only then to I realize that the clouds the ring the city stop and are replaced by a majestic crown of white peaks.
 

These peaks seem to float on top of the clouds themselves and it is difficult to see exactly at which point they intersect. The gold of the autumn hill the shiny breastplate of armor on Saint George himself. That would make the black ribbon we were traveling on the Snake or devil depicted in so many paintings and coins of the realm. This road, while wide and for the most part in Russia freshly paved was a true snake of a road and dangerous. The closer we got to Georgia the steeper the elevation and frequency of switchbacks.
 
We arrived at the border proper and it was a relaxed sort of affair. The mountains were very close together here and mixed. By mixed I mean, coastal style hills with interior mountains slammed up against The Rockies, all in the course of five kilometers. It was surreal for me having lived my whole life in the coastal mountain range.
 
The Russian machine was in full swing and moved those of us that could follow lines and directions along in an efficient and quick manner. Many, unable to follow directions, were yelled at by a bear of a man that seemed completely amazed that Russians have challenges with lineups. Having traveled and lined up with Russians, I found this hard to believe as even as a newcomer this challenge was not lost on me.
 
Unlike at home you and your passenger get out of your car and approach the booth on foot under the watchful eyes of border officers. They then check your car as a person in the booth checks your paperwork. I had Jim with me so I didn’t try to interact and just relaxed and played the dumb tourist, and in ten minutes we were on our way.
 
The “no man's land” or border zone between the Georgian and Russian border is vast. I didn’t check the odometer to get an exact number, but it was close to five kilometers. This part of the road was in poor repair and made the going slow along the river. In the hills along the journey I saw large bunkers with obvious camouflage and “scope flashes” from more concealed watchers. This reminded me that tensions between the two countries, that used to be one, were far from relaxed.
 
We arrived at the Georgian border and Jim told me that I had to go inside and pass customs as only drivers were allowed to remain in the car. He smiled, at my obvious nervousness, and remarked that I need not worry they’d speak English.
 
They did not speak any English. They were not as nice as their Russian counterparts either. They had picked up that rather annoying American habit of saying something louder when it was obvious the person speaking with you didn’t understand the language, as if by raising your voice would suddenly make the person fluent in your tongue.  I pulled a Canadian habit, smiled widely and said sorry for not being able to speak Georgian. This was understood and relaxed the situation a bit and the officer asked if I spoke Russian. I smiled wider still and replied that I spoke a little Russian but better hand signals. This actually brought I smile to the officer's face and he said, “back” in Russian while gesturing to a web camera style device on his desk. I stepped back and he moved the camera gesturing me to remain still.
 
Picture took he asked if I had any guns or weapons and these gestures were entertaining the people behind me bemoaning their decision to get in my line. Then he made the international sign of money, fingers rubbed together, and I was a little confused if I was being asked for a bribe so obviously or if the visa on arrival policy had changed and now cost money.  I said I didn’t understand in Russian, and he thought for a second and said; “You how vino buy?” I had told him earlier we had come to Georgia to try their world famous wine. So I pulled out my wallet and from it my black Visa card and his eyes showed surprise and he nodded, stamped my passport and handed it back saying; “Welcome.”
 
I met Jim on the other side of the border and he said his experience was fine and looked surprised when I said they didn’t speak English.  We maneuvered through the throng on people trying to re-board busses and mini vans and I thanked my luck at having a private driver.
 

We drove into a little town with money exchange kiosks and wine huts clustered together on a parking lot overlooking the mountain valley and river. A flood had come through this area recently and the road was a mess and construction was everywhere. The signs apologizing for this were in English and Georgian as were many of the store signs and advertisements.
 
  Jim had discovered that the border closed at four so we didn’t have much time to sightsee as planned, but still made the time to drive through the first town to the countryside to see the view. It was an incredible view and worth the trip, but Gori and the Inga’s birthplace and family village home would have to wait unless we, as Jim suggested, wanted to spend the night. I had been away too much as of late and really wanted to be “back home” in Russia and my beautiful wife so that part of the trip and your story about it will have to wait till August next year.

Wanting what you have and not what you don't. Ossetia and perspectives!

I have tried my hand at doing a bit of travel writing. It's not really my style. The first person perspective is the way I write so that part is easy and we all know I like rich descriptions. I guess for me the challenge is capturing the emotion or feel of the area I am trying to capture for you. In a story, I have the character to give you passion, but lacking this emotional vehicle I find I struggle.

So when we struggle, we get stronger. If this is true then struggling through a little travel style writing should give me a better perspective and ability when I write fiction. This is at least the premise, as faulty as it might be, that I am going to go on. So come along for a short journey into a quaint little town a few miles from the Georgian border. Only a few short years out of a very disturbing war that no one really heard about.

 The ribbons of asphalt lead out of the big city of Vladakavkaz, past railway lines that are the lifeblood of the communities. The other vehicles sharing the road actually share it. Instead of competing for space a few meters closer to their destination they seem to all understand that the road is narrow and the wide variety of cars and trucks force cooperation. No one gets angry when being passed and all are aware of what is beside, behind, and in front of them. Horns are used to say hello, a short beep, or it's clear to pass, two short beeps. A long single horn is a signal to pay attention and is used very infrequently. It is as close to aggression as Russian drivers get.

The cars range from very old Ladas to new Mercedes.' While I believe it is the law to wear a seatbelt, no one does. Believing instead that being thrown from the car a better alternative than trapped. Car seats are very rare and children are free to sit in the back like I did as a child. This seems a little reckless bordering on careless even, but it is the way things are and as it was the ways things were when I was a child it's hard to put into perspective. Does the relatively false sense of safety a car seat provides support people to drive with less care? Perhaps it is better explained this way. Back in the day, before drinking an driving laws were so strict, if you had a few and had to drive home you did so knowing you were a little pissed and as such corrected your driving style accordingly. I get not everyone did this, and some people fueled on liquid courage just tossed caution to the wind, and in doing so their lives and usually someone else's as well.  But I remember personally driving slower and with far more care than my usual "I'm sixteen and invincible" style. I don't want to encourage debate over drinking and driving, rather I am comparing what was to what is.  Struggling to find this view, as the corn and fields of wheat flow past the window.

The short off ramp removes us from the highway and onto a gravel road. This reminded me of Alberta as did the rural countryside. Driving now takes on the challenge of men's giant slalom. Pot holes threaten to rip an axle off or remove a wheel entirely.  So drivers now engage in a synchronized collection of movements to traverse the new side road. Cows and goats are tethered along the way like Olympic judges bored by the progression. Children of all ages play games only they understand and yet take time to wave at the familiar vehicles they see. Drivers all respond with a polite, short beep and together they enjoy life in this quiet and challenging small town.

 This area is officially listed on the Canadian Foreign Affairs website. Warning travelers not to go as it has a high risk of kidnapping, and other nefarious behaviors. There is a train station in the actual town and I thought we'd get off there and avoid the thirty minute drive from the city, but the train doesn't stop unless it needs to. This gave some substance to the Canadian warning and had me paying attention.

Going into this region I had, of course, done some research. My own threat risk assessment had uncovered some facts and issues that while old could still affect my trip. I knew that only ten years ago a horrific event had taken place in Beslan a short twenty minute drive from where I would be staying.

 On September first, the traditional start of school for children here in Ossetia and in Canada, a hostage crisis took place. Unlike Canada, Knowledge Day or "First Bell" is a celebration that is attended by children and their families. Islamic guerrillas from Ingushetia and Chechnya attacked these festivities and took 1100 people hostage, including 777 children.  334 hostages lost their lives that day including 186 children. This kind of wound never heals. Answers no matter how accurate can never fulfill the questions asked by those suffering from this kind of act. In a community already displaced by war, this compounded the suffering already faced by many of these families. As horrific as this event was very few people outside of Russia know anything about it. The memorial got very few visitors from outside of Russia and had I followed my countries less than up to date or accurate advice, I too would know very little past the talking head CNN coverage.

This may be the reason that in the town, wherever I walked, people seemed to hold their children a little closer. Adults stopped and played if only for a moment with children that may have been a relation or just a member of their community. What I do know is that sense of community, the connected feeling was something visceral. Eyes identified me as an outsider, and people made the time to struggle through the language barrier to discover who I was. Then they invited me with open arms to share a coffee or a meal. Being a farming community this included fresh produce and local delicacies like Cha Cha.

 When I had discovered the train didn't stop in Inga's parents town, I had asked the train attendant why. She had tried her best to answer. I hadn't understood much of that exchange past it wasn't because of any danger and the words Cha Cha.

Cha Cha is a slang word for homemade Ossetian vodka. It is made from various leftover items past what is consumed, canned, or pickled. It is good! So good, in fact, the Russians in Moscow will often ask for friends to bring back Cha Cha. This was so popular that the people in charge of where trains stop, forbid the train from stopping in the very town I found myself in. I have some experience with homemade booze. I have made my own and sampled friends and even passed on some home cooking tips. Now I found myself in Ossetian JCha Cha. Mecca, and it was being offered continuously. This is not to suggest drinking is rampant. It is like any other city in the world. But culturally when guest arrive they don't do so empty handed and the hosts are equally gracious. Combine this with the first person, anyone could remember, visiting from Canada and you have an occasion. Occasions call for Cha Cha., as despite being very humble they know this is the best it gets anywhere.  Cha Cha. ranges from 35 to 75 percent pure and takes on a bouquet of scents and flavours as varied as the cooks. I tasted light pear to peppery garlic. Subtle cherry that changed to anise and finished with black pepper while the initial sip slashed your tongue like a straight razor. Other sips left me wondering if there was any alcohol content at all until the light burn in the tummy confirmed the deception. Like proud fathers, these hosts poured their Cha Cha. from large containers for themselves and me. Should you fail to finish the shot in one sip, they think you don't like it. Something akin to not accepting a baby thrust at you by his or her mother and upturning your nose. So my apologies to the Canadians that follow me and lack the Irish genes and years of trading alcoholism for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I set a pretty high bar in consumption. The locals now all believe Canadians can drink enough Cha Cha. that language barriers become invisible.

 This being a farming first community the fancy big city things are absent or go unnoticed. My limited edition Robert Graham shirt was commented on only because it resembled Russian Spetnaz camouflage. One person noticed my Sea Dweller and commented he had the same, presenting an Invicta with a similar style. I smiled and slapped his shoulder and said he had good taste. We all laughed and tapped some sliced tomato into a communal salt dish and ate. I thought this is really the life, not yearning for things you want, but wanting what you have. These people were truly blessed in that they had all that they wanted. Family was their focus and unlike some religious fanatics that share that moniker, they honestly were happy and content with life despite all the horrors that had befallen them. Some of the people I was enjoying this meal with were of the age to have been at Belsen, some the Georgian war, and all gathered knew off it. Yet here they are enjoying a meal with a stranger laughing and giving me the gift of their community and friendship.

To say things are fresh here is stating the bloody obvious. But things are fresh and different at the same time. I am not sure why, but familiar things taste so different. Perhaps different is the wrong way to say it. If you go into a McDonalds and look at the pictures and pointed to something what you receive would look far different. So different that unless you were aware of this fact you would probably send it back. Fruit and vegetables here are like that. Tomatoes and peaches and everything are like that. They taste like your brain thinks they should taste. At home, they taste like they came out of some sort of replicator  or were space food made to taste like what you think you're eating. Organic foods are everywhere, in fact, trying to describe this difference is impossible for the locals to understand. Even potatoes taste different. Everything is fresher and realer than what we eat at home. I am not sure if it is because so much of our food is genetically modified or travels such a long way, but the end result is eating back at home will be hard.

Meat, dairy, and eggs are the same way. It is one thing to know the farm the provided the food it is an entirely different thing to know the name of the creature gracing your table, or produced what your eating. Let's take chicken as an example. Inga's Mom makes a special cooked food for the chickens in a coop, when they got sick she personally gave each one of them medication for this common illness. The eggs they produce are rich and full of nutrients. So much so that two eggs is more than enough for breakfast and the shells are hard to crack. As I write this negotiations are ongoing for a pig named Dmitri that is currently running about on several meters of land, doing what small pigs do. Tomorrow, if negotiations go well, Dmitri will be barbecued for our and several families enjoyment. At issue is if I can find some maple wood to show them what maple smoked bacon tastes like. This is the life…