Monday, 16 October 2017

 

Start: Stepantsminda 10:00

Arrival: Tbilisi 20:00

Total: 190 km

 

On which I

 

got into a snowstorm

saw the home of the patriarch of Georgia (from the outside, at least)

got into a bigger snowstorm

and got safely back to Tbilisi

 

 

 

When I awoke the next morning, it was chilly in the bedroom. With half-closed eyes, I drew back the curtains to see whether it was still raining. One look outside, and I had my eyes wide open: the whole landscape was draped in a white blanket. It had been snowing overnight!

 

When we left the motel, the snowflakes were still coming down thick and dense. Gingerly, I made my way to the car and asked Goga to get the windows clean while I warmed up the motor. The perks of having a guide.

 

There was no breakfast service at the motel, so our first stop was at last night's restaurant in Stepantsminda. We sat at the large windows and watched the world disappear behind a blanket of snow. I wondered whether it was such a smart idea to drive back to Tbilisi in this weather. On the other hand, it looked like winter had arrived in the Caucasus, and it was likely to stay for the next six months. And I had a plane to catch in two days.

 

"We need snow chains," I said, remembering the mountain passes that lay between me and the Georgian capital. "I need to think. Can you get us another cup of coffee, please?" Goga got up and went to the bar. At that moment, the light flickered and the music stopped. A minute later, he came back. "No electricity. No coffee." Right, better get going then.

 

 

 

After a hard look at Google maps (which, luckily, still worked), I decided to drive on to Darial Gorge after all. The road to the border seemed rather flat, and it didn't really matter whether we tackled the mountain passes an hour earlier or later. We stopped at several gas stations and repair shops on the way, asking if they were selling snow chains, but this seemed a strangely rare commodity here, given the wintery environment. So I decided not to worry anymore and, like our Jeep driver yesterday, put my faith into Saint Frances.

 

The Darial Gorge marks the border between Georgia and the Russian state of North Ossetia-Alania. With 13 kilometers of huge towering granite walls on both sides, the gorge is known as one of the most romantic places in Georgia. The Russian poet Mikhail Lermontov immortalized the place in his wonderful poem Demon, in which a demon, haunted by his powers and immortality, wanders through the Caucasus, falls in love with the beautiful Georgian princess Tamara, only to lose her, when, bravely kissing him to relieve his solitude, she dies and leaves him even more alone and despairing. In short, I wanted to see the gorge.

 

Driving northward, the sky cleared up somewhat. There was barely any snow on the road and the landscape was simply surreal in its black-and-white beauty. On the twelve kilometers to the Russian border, we hardly met any cars. It was sublime.

 

Just before the border, one side of the road was cordoned off for ongoing roadworks and the other half was covered in unpleasant gravel and pieces of broken tarmac. When the rose-red silhouette of Dariali Monastery appeared on the rock face to the right, the street in front of us ended in a large, untarmaced road construction site. Strangely enough, there was no sign telling us that the road was closed. I stopped the car. Soon after, another car passed us in a cloud of gravel and dust. Seems the road wasn't closed after all.

 

I parked the Suzuki in the huge parking lot of the monastery and we got out to have a look around. It seemed deserted. Maybe it was not a good idea to intrude on the solitude of the monks? There was loud hammering coming from behind an open door. I told Goga to go have a look. He soon returned with a monk in a leather apron and work boots. He told us, in Georgian, that the monastery was closed for tourists, but that we were of course very welcome to look around everywhere. Not sure what to make of these contradictory statements, I madloba'ed him and we admired the awe-inspiring architecture of the monastery from the courtyard. Nodding friendly, the monk returned to his hands-on occupation and was soon again covered in a cloud of dust.

 

 

 

It had started to snow again. We got back into the car and, with one sorrowful look back to Russia, I steered the car back towards Stepantsminda. We passed through the town and drove on. "So do you still want to go to Shatili?", asked Goga. Shatili - the picturesque mountain village on the border to Chechnya, separated from us by deep valleys and high mountains. On a beautiful summer day, it would take us about 5 hours to get there. I smiled at him: "I think we'll skip Shatili."

 

So we drove on. The road was clear and it had practically stopped snowing. Saint Frances was smiling on us. Or maybe laughing at us. "The next exit is to Sno," Goga said. Sno? Didn't we have snow enough right here? "It's the home of our patriarch," he explained. Seriously? I wouldn't know where the archbishop of Luxembourg was from, but then I'm not a religious person.

 

Goga, it seemed, greatly admired the patriarch and was able to tell me all about him. His name was Ilya II, he was very old and revered, and, according to my guide, he was a great diplomat and mediator in political and social affairs. If this was so, there was of course no way we could bypass Sno without paying the village a visit.

 

We entered the small town. "Whereto now?", I asked. I had never before been looking for a church dignitary's private home, so I wasn't too sure how to go about it. Goga made me stop the car and asked for directions. Soon we were standing in front of a sumptuous cast-iron gate, with a beautiful, though unpretentious stone house behind a pleasant front garden. We had found the home of Ilya II, or at least what Goga took for it. It's not like there was a sign at the front for tourists. "Look, this is a private home, I'm not sure we should be lingering about," I said. "Besides, it's freezing cold." Goga agreed. On his insistence, we took a couple of pictures and selfies as proof that we had indeed been here, and headed back to the highway. We found it without incident and, after waiting patiently for an endless herd of cows to clear the way, got back on the road to Tbilisi.

 

 

 

 

Back on the highway, the light snow quickly turned into a fullblown snow storm. I had trouble seeing anything in front of me, and the road climbed mercilessly higher. "Do you want me to drive?", Goga asked, when I slowed down to a crawl. I shook my head. If anything happened to this car, at least I didn't want to have anyone to blame but myself.

 

With hardly any traction on my tires, I desperately squinted out into the snow, hoping for a roadsign announcing a gas station. I needed to get off this road. I gently pressed down on the gas pedal and suddenly the tires started skidding. As in slow motion, I saw the car glide closer and closer to the bank of snow and rocks on the side. No, please, don't let this happen, I thought, begging any deity that would care to listen. None did, or at least none of them saw fit to intervene. Saint Frances, it seemed, had taken the day off. The car gently came to a halt when the front hit the snow. There was a very soft, barely audible, smack.

 

I took a deep breath. This did not seem so bad. It couldn't be more than a few ugly scratches. Goga and I got out and, ignoring the howling wind and snow, we took a look. It was horrible. Never having been in a real car accident, I couldn't believe that such a soft landing had caused so much damage. The grille was lose and the number plate was hanging at a very odd angle.

 

I got back into the car and checked for a cellphone signal. No internet connection, and no phone connection either. Halfway up Jvari Pass in a snowstorm, with no way to ask for help.

 

A car stopped next to us and a man got out. He talked to Goga and looked at our car. Goga came to my window. "He has snow chains. He offers to put them on for us and drive behind us in case we run into any more problems. He wants 100 euros for it. Upfront." That seemed a fair price for snow chains, given the circumstances. Besides, I didn't really have much of a choice, had I? In retrospect, of course I had another choice, namely stopping a car myself and asking for a lift to the next gas station to call the rental agency and let them deal with it. Strangers who offer their help and immediately ask for money are, in my life experience, never helpful. That is why, normally, I reflexively say no, non, nein, нет, οχι, لا to any unasked-for proposals. I have become very good at saying "no" in very many languages. But with the snow and cold, my brain cells appeared to have gone into hibernation. So I agreed to the deal.

 

With the snow chains on, I carefully drove up Jvari Pass. The road became more and more congested with cars and lorries standing at odd angles in the road, unable to move on. I knew I had better not slow down too much, if I didn't want to get stuck behind them, too. Finally, we reached the summit of the pass and our helper blinked at us to exit at the gas station.

 

Goga got out to talk to him. After a minute or two, he returned into the car while the man busied himself with my tires. "What's the matter?", I wanted to know. "He is taking the chains off," Goga explained. "What?! We paid for them. And we need them to get off this pass!" Goga just shrugged his shoulders. A discussion with a tall, strong and determined guy was over his paygrade. I got out and tried to reason with the man in English and Russian. He ignored me. Goga pulled me back into the car, explaining that the chains had only been for hire and the man wanted to make more money with the other cars stuck on the pass. He advised me not to make a fuss and to let it pass. Ok. My guide did not have my back. I gave up. "So I'll drive down the pass without snow chains", I said, determinedly, to no one in particular. "I can drive," Goga offered. No, thank you.

 

When I had been about 14 years old, I had played in a table tennis competition against a guy who was much older than me and a much, much better player. In normal circumstances, I wouldn't have stood a chance. But he made the mistake of joking and telling my father that I'd better give up right away, to spare me the humiliation. I never said a single word, fought like a lionness for every single ball and won, I don't know how, by a hair's breadth. To this day, I remember the surge of adrenaline, determination and concentration when I played. That's how I felt when I drove down that mountain pass, rocks to one side, steep slope to the other. Saint Frances seemed to like my stubbornness, or more likely I was just lucky. When we were halfway down, a snowplow passed us, slowly moving up the street and clearing the road. From then on, it was a blast. Soon we were back in the valley, where snow and ice were only a bad dream. Winter made room for autumn and finally for a beautiful late summer evening.

 

At a roadside café, we had khinkali, khachapuri and tarkhuna, and I texted the rental agency to let them know about the mishap. In less than 5 minutes, I had a kind and helpful answer. This rental agency was really outstanding! Of course it would have been much better to simply stay put at the pass and let them call the insurance company. But that couldn't be helped now.

 

 

 

By nightfall, we were back in Tbilisi. I told my guide that the rest of the trip was cancelled, I had to get the car back to the rental agency and then I would think about how to spend the last two days in Georgia. With that chapter closed, I drove back to the British House Hotel and was overjoyed that they had a room for me. Entering the hotel felt like visiting a trusted old friend. I cannot recommend that hotel warmly enough.

 

Later in the evening, I met with Irakli who seemed less concerned about the car than about my well-being. "Do you know what you want to do tomorrow?", he asked. "Not yet," I said. He nodded. "I have to pick up two rental cars from Kutaisi. Want to come along as my driver?" I stared at him, speechless. I had just wrecked one of his cars, and here he was, offering me the chance to wreck another one! "Are you sure you trust me with that?", I asked, not sure that I was trusting myself. He nodded. And life was good again.