I already had considerable experience traveling by hitchhiking, mainly in Western and Eastern Europe. European hitchhiking is predictable in most cases and therefore even a bit boring, since people are used to it. Many of those we rode with had hitchhiked themselves in their youth. And this "sport" is wonderful there: interesting, cultured people, a sense of good neighborliness and support...
But Georgia exceeded all expectations. First of all, there is no hitchhiking here at all. We didn't meet anyone else who tried to stop a car on the road. Nevertheless, we moved very quickly.
I should note that beforehand we only theoretically considered options for hitchhiking on the longest distances. There weren't many of those, but we hitched much more. And we deliberately left some routes for minibuses to save time.
First, we went from Tbilisi to Mtskheta, the ancient capital. It's only half an hour away; we got almost to the very center of the town, where the famous Svetitskhoveli Cathedral is located. We planned to visit another church, Jvari, which is nearby on a hill. The minibus took us only to the fork on the highway. Further on, there is no public transport.
That's where we first saw a minibus driver refusing to take money. No, he took ours. But the bus was almost empty; a few women got in and offered payment. But he wouldn't take it...
With two rides, we quickly got up the hill to the church. At Jvari, many weddings were being celebrated; several couples and their guests had arrived. One of them immediately took us back to Tbilisi, were glad to meet Ukrainians, promised to take us to restaurants, exchanged contacts. Time on the road flies by in pleasant conversation; before we finished talking, we were already in Tbilisi.
Compatriots and close relatives
The next day we took a minibus from Tbilisi to Kazbegi. We walked to the Tsminda Sameba monastery. Along the way, we accidentally stopped by someone's house, sat, drank, "back and forth"...
In short, it was hard to climb; the buzz was wearing off. Then a jeep. I wave my hand – it stops... We go up to it, and there are Ukrainians. And a Georgian. The compatriots were on an "exclusive tour." The Georgian was driving; the Ukrainians were riding, not knowing where they had been or where they would go next – a kind of lazy tour. The compatriots, however, weren't very happy to see us and give us a ride at their expense. But the Georgian driver had his own opinion: he was glad for guests, whether they paid or not. In Georgia, we often noticed this distinctive trait of our Caucasian brothers and even envied them a little.
We rode back with a wonderful elderly couple. It's a pity that you don't often remember the names of the "drivers." Conversations with them are so fleeting, but almost always incredibly emotional and fun. They were just as joyful: the woman was Polish with modest knowledge of Russian, her husband was an Englishman on a long-term assignment in Azerbaijan. We talked about everything under the sun: a little in Polish, in Russian, and in English. Within an hour, she was calling us her children. It was a pity to say goodbye, but we didn't go all the way to Tbilisi with them; we got out at Ananuri, near the fortress on the Georgian Military Road. They offered to wait, but we didn't want to delay them. We hugged tightly in farewell, the woman almost crying.
The evening on the Georgian Military Road made us nervous. It got dark quickly, and traffic was dwindling. Evening was falling. We reached the capital not too late on an old rattling KamAZ with a not very talkative Georgian who dropped us off in the city center.
Hitchhiking without cars
A couple of days later, we found ourselves in Kakheti, barely making it to the village of Tsinandali on a minibus without brakes in the literal sense. For the last tens of kilometers, the driver braked with the engine and handbrake, so the brake pads were burning. Then we thought: who knows what's safer – minibuses or hitchhiking.
We came to Tsinandali to see the estate-museum of Alexander Chavchavadze. Prince Chavchavadze, the son of a Georgian ambassador to Russia, was the first Georgian Euro-integrationist and participant in an anti-Russian uprising, for which he was exiled to Russia. In Tsinandali, the prince left a beautiful, huge estate, the first winery with cellars where century-old wines are still stored.
But we were unlucky – the estate was under renovation; the most we could hope for was a glass of modern but expensive wine. After that, we decided to head to the next point – Sighnaghi. But we ended up in a village where there were almost no cars, much less minibuses.
I stood on the shoulder of an empty highway for a whole hour, feeling like a complete idiot. My wife lay on the grass, filming videos and joking. I wasn't in the mood for jokes: rare motorists whizzed by without giving us a chance. I was ready to look for a taxi. Suddenly, a young couple stopped, but even they, with the words "no, not to Sighnaghi," sped off into the distance.
Standing on an empty road is the most dreary thing for a hitchhiker. It's much worse than when a huge stream of cars passes and none stop. One of the main tenets of hitchhiking says: your car is on the road; you just have to wait for it. But what if there are no cars on the road?
Suddenly, déjà vu: I've seen this couple somewhere. Yes, those are the ones who said it wasn't on the way... They stop next to us and say: "We're driving around with nothing to do anyway; get in, let's go to Sighnaghi." Dato and Nino – lovers from Telavi. They don't speak Russian at all. Dato only Georgian, and Nino chattered with us in English, trying to shout over the music in the car. But we could barely hear anything. Dato, with the calm confidence of a horseman, drove at crazy speed, smoked, and managed to cross himself when he saw a church outside the window.
We quickly reached Sighnaghi; the guys instantly found us accommodation; we walked around the city with them and had coffee. That evening we gained two more Georgian friends.
To be continued.
Dmitry Stakhovsky,
«Focus»