By that time we had left the Tbilisi apartment, so there was nothing left but to continue the journey. The distance was considerable, and losing an hour each time, we risked spending the night on the highway. But we needed to recover from the evening wine with chacha. And the best way to do that turned out to be fatty kharcho and khinkali at our favorite little restaurant. Reborn, we headed to the Didube bus station and took a minibus to some village half an hour from Tbilisi.
To Zugdidi Irish-style
Experienced hitchhikers know that the hardest part is getting out of the city. Usually in an unfamiliar place you need to orient yourself by map, find a spot to start heading in the right direction. And you still have to get there, which is not always easy given unfamiliarity with the area, language, transport specifics, and so on. But even at a seemingly 'correct' spot, you can stand around all day.
In Georgia I solved this problem simply: I found a minibus leaving Tbilisi in the right direction, so that I could just get off on the highway and hitchhike from there. Actually, I didn't have to hitchhike. We had just crossed the road when an enormous jeep stopped, followed by a police patrol. Confused, I didn't know which one to approach. I had no experience dealing with local police, and I couldn't figure out who the police had stopped for — the person hitchhiking in the wrong place or the driver who stopped in the wrong spot...
They started asking who we were, where from, and where to... Seeing my military-style pants they asked, 'Why are you in military clothes?' I said, 'Why are you?' They looked at their own camouflage uniforms and burst out laughing. Waving a hand, they drove off, leaving us in complete confusion. Later I learned that the police, simultaneously performing patrol and traffic police functions, essentially check all unfamiliar individuals within their patrol area. We encountered this a few times, but we were calmer about it.
The huge Land Rover waited patiently for us to approach. Inside were Irish specialists who were also heading to Zugdidi, and they gladly picked us up. Along the way they asked about certain post-Soviet nuances they couldn't figure out, savoring the experience of riding in 'marshrutkas.' For us these were everyday things, for them something from another planet. We stopped to eat a sweet juicy watermelon right on the road, to buy local ceramics at a little market. We drove as if we had been traveling together in this car for a long time.
We arrived in Zugdidi late in the evening, checked into a hotel, and slept in. Early the next morning we left for Svaneti.
Svan Police
Walking around Mestia, the center of Svaneti, we looked for a way to get to Ushguli, a beautiful and in its own way unique high-mountain village. But no minibuses go there; you can get there by jeep, for example rented or as a 'tour' with a driver. It's not cheap, so we decided to leave it to fate. We had been lucky so far, maybe we'd be lucky again.
The ride was interesting. As soon as we left the village, a KamAZ truck stopped near us. The driver stuck his head out and asked, 'Where are you from?' 'From Kyiv,' we said. The driver broke into a smile: 'Ah, Kyiv... When I remember, I feel sick! Get in! I don't care where I drive, it's my lunch break!'
We understood that he felt sick because he had things to remember. We squeezed into the cab, drove a long way up a mountain; the driver reminisced about Ukrainian friends more than he thought about the road, until suddenly we arrived at a ski resort. The driver apologized that he wasn't local, drove us back, never stopping to recall adventures in Ukraine. He dropped us off where he had picked us up, hugged us farewell, saying 'you are my compatriots.'
Realizing we would have to walk, we decided to head to the village of Mulakhi, about ten kilometers down the road. We didn't make it. A police jeep stopped right away. A bit confused, I asked if that was the road to Mulakhi. 'Of course,' they said, 'but why walk? Get in, we'll give you a ride.' I climbed into the cargo bed, sitting next to an old Svan, while my wife found a seat in the cab. I was happily bouncing around in the back over the rough dirt road when suddenly the jeep stopped. One of the guys stuck his head out: 'So you're going to Ushguli?' 'Uh, well, yes,' I said hopefully. 'Why didn't you say that right away? Let's go!'
The hefty, muscular guys turned out to be Batumi special forces. They were here on assignment, patrolling the Mestia–Ushguli road in shifts. At the same time, they transport supplies for locals and give rides to anyone going their way, even if not asked. That's the kind of police they are. We were in no hurry, stopping several times along the way: to take photos, to help some lost Poles.
The guys drove us to Ushguli, arranged a meeting place, and went off to locals to pick up puppies, which they promised to take to Mestia along with cabbage.
We had time to look around, have lunch, take a walk, and even chat with some Israeli tourists we already knew. They were touring Svaneti in a jeep rented in Tbilisi and were very surprised to see us there. We showed them, not without pleasure, the police jeep we had arrived in. The Israelis' eyes widened even more.
We returned to Mestia. We had dinner, walked around, and suddenly the familiar police jeep with the special forces guys stopped near us; they invited us to have a beer together.
Such strange hitchhiking.
Dmitry STAKHOVSKY,
Focus