USHBA 1: Mestia

I rushed to the village center through the muddy roads to catch the bus. The roads were covered with manure from the cows. I trudged through snow as I approached the bus to make sure my boots were clean in order to get on. I am going to Mestia.

To my surprise, yet at the same time it was exactly what I expected, the bus left two hours behind schedule. I got on at the original departure time and got a window seat. While I waited for the bus to leave, I got off the bus and stood on the icy road, looking at all the people, trying to find something unique, and trying to understand the conversations. Unfortunately my Georgian is terrible. Even more unfortunate, I was in Svaneti, and they weren’t even speaking Georgian. They were speaking Svan.

A Niva zoomed by the bus but then slowed to a stop. A man with something flung over his shoulder jumped out of the passenger seat and headed in the direction of the bus, in other words, my way. The strap around his chest was light brown, and something like a black stick stuck out at an angle at his side.

Men were gathered on the opposite side of the street, talking and probably drinking Araqi, the local grain brew. I tried not to make too much eye-contact with anyone in order to avoid any sort of suspicion about anything at all.

The man from the Niva soon crossed the road to where the men were. Some women got into the Niva, and it took off. I saw the thing that was strapped around the Niva man. He carried it much the way I carry my camera, in order to keep it out of sight. It was a Kalashnikov, also known as an AK-47.

My first thought was that he was a paramilitary, perhaps part of Kvirtsiani’s “rebel” group, formerly a Georgian military battalion. (But once this group began making unwarranted raids on Abkhazia, the government stopped their funding. What else was there to do? Well, aside from rising up against the government—which ultimately failed—they have dedicated themselves to criminal activity. In some cases these crimes are robbing, in other cases kidnapping).

So I stood there, wanting to take a picture, just incase I was about to get kidnapped. Other people who were surrounding me noticed that I was slightly preoccupied about this man who carried an AK-47. “He’s a police officer,” someone told me.

[He was not wearing a police outfit, nor did he appear in any way to be a police officer, for reasons that I will not, nor cannot, nor should not say at this time…]

It’s now two hours past 9AM, the time of our tentative departure, and the bus has not left. This is quite normal. I’m in no rush anyway. Don’t hurry, be happy.

Now I recognize some of the men across the street, in the circle. I met a few of them at a funeral earlier this week. I wave my hand and say a silent “Gaumarjos.” Another man I recognize, he’s in his camouflage jacket, with a Svan hat, and a pair of sunglasses. He’s probably in his fifties. He ends up being the bus driver.

Finally we’re on our way. The bus is full. By full, I mean full. This bus is from the 60’s and has the luxury of interior exhaust. It fits 20 people seated. In Georgia though, you can always fit one more. In Svaneti there exists an unwritten rule: If you are driving a vehicle in the same direction as a pedestrian is walking, you must pick the person up.” So we had a packed bus, about forty people, body to body, with fresh exhaust. Did I describe the road yet?

Let me explain. Some parts of the road have snow and ice. No problem. It has been rather warm lately, any where from -1C to 1C. So the snow could be melting melting, and we have packed snow, which can, in many cases, function in the same fashion as ice. Oh, yes, and the tires have not been changed for a number of years. But do not fret, they are winter tires. Really, they are. You wouldn’t know, but they are! The image of an inner tube comes to mind.

The roads loop around, up, and down the mountains, following the Enguri River. Well, at least I think it does. Usually the river is not visible. It lies somewhere in that deep crevice several hundred feet down from the road.

Before you even get to the enormous crevice, where the river flows, you would have to fall off the side of the mountain, which is probably a simple task, but a lengthy task.

There are several sections along the road that are in severely bad condition. One mountain seems to be completely falling apart on one side, the side the road was built on. So, the road needs to be made over and over as rockslides and mudslides take over on a daily basis. The road there is made of gravel which could potentially slip off the mountain at any moment, sliding into the deep abyss of the Enguri River.

But, if you’re not looking at the road, its condition, of the vehicle’s direction, there is a lovely view. Just on the other side of the valley are enormous snow-capped mountains, week-old avalanches, small villages near the base of the mountains, and sometimes one can spot the famous Svan Watch Towers.

These Watch Towers are hundreds of years old, and clearly a party of Svaneti’s landscape and cultural identity. Many people live in the towers, or at least build their homes around the watch towers.

After the traumatizing bus ride to Mestia, one of Svaneti’s main towns, also home to dozens of watch towers (somewhere around sixty-five), I victoriously walked off the bus.

My first visit was to a watch tower, because it was Monday and the local Museum was closed.

After walking through some back roads, I arrived at a friend’s tower. Around it was built a beautiful house, with windows plastered everywhere on the house. Inside was the work of an expert carpenter. The wood work was intricate, artistic, and everywhere. On the second floor were ram and goat skins, as well as one huge brown bear skin. Next to the bear skin was a small door, the bear skin guarding it perhaps. It was the door to the tower.

It was dark and you couldn’t see much. Plus I got black dust all over me and my clothes which haven’t been washed in over ten days. To be entirely honest I don’t really keep track, but my clothes haven’t been washed in probably over a month and a half.

The watch towers are quite majestic from the outside though.

Did I mention that the man with the AK-47 rode on the bus? Right behind my seat? With the AK-47 propped right behind my seat?

The way back from Mestia to my village seemed much quicker. The driver still wearing the sunglasses.

All the men on the bus were drunk, or at least it seemed so. I think that getting drunk for men here serves two purposes, one is to share a time of patting each other on the back by toasting with words that one man would not say to another in any other situation other than a toast. And the second reason, I submit, is to cope with a frightening ride through the Svaneti Mountains on such a dangerous road.

The bus stopped at a halfway point to let a few passengers off. I got off to take some pictures, a.k.a. to get fresh air. It was cloudy and hazy and there was nothing to take pictures of. As I got back on the bus I looked over at the ‘bus stop’ and saw a man emerging from behind a wall. He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and stomped his feet on the street to get the mud off his shoes. He was dressed in a camouflage jacket, wore a Svan hat, and covered his eyes with a pair of sunglasses.

THE END