19th May - To Tblisi, Georgia

The dogs snarled and yelped at each other, paws frantically scrabbling for a hold as their wide eyes and flashing teeth aimed for the throat. Small Georgian boys, baseball caps wedged on their heads, clapped and shouted encouragement. They had tempted each dog with raw meat, holding it in front of their noses and pushing them around until they barked and drooled. Then they grabbed them by the scruff of their neck, slapped them, shouted at them and ran the dogs into each other.

The dogs were now a flurry of fur and spit, rolling and scratching in a coil of gnawing and fury. Howling and barking filled the air. One dog had blood pouring from its ear. The boys laughed and clapped with glee.

The dogfight had been staged for our welcome by the locals. We had pulled into their field with a limping Penelope (our truck.) She had broken a spring on the difficult winding road towards Mistia, a tiny village towards the Russian border that can only be reached be a precarious narrow road. The road teeters on the edge of 1000ft gorges and is surrounded by vast forested sides that loom over the path in folds of shadowy green. I had spent the day staring from the right side of the truck into the dark precipices below, grabbing the seat sides and swearing under my breath as the wet rocks scattered from under our tires and spiraled into the gloom. It had been raining all day and we had crawled up the mountain side for over four hours. My mind was filled with images of 13 tons of metal and flesh careering, smashing and spinning into blackness. Ever the optimist.

The spring had broken around three quarters of the way up, and had banged and clunked until we reached this spot. Ringed by snow-covered mountains, 1200ft up, the sun setting over the ruined stone walls, it seemed like a good place to stop and camp. Tamuna, our local guide, and Pete, our leader, organised with the owners of the farm our stay for the night. The truck was hoisted up so the boys could work their mechanical magic on Penelope's insides.


The dogs had moved further down the field and were tiring. One had hold of the other's ear and had half mounted it. The loser was half-growling, half-whining, stood as still as possible and staring out of one crazed eye at the victor, looking for an opening. Suddenly the pose was broken and they fell to again, each gashing the other in a vortex of teeth and claws.



I turned to C who had arrived next to me astride a local horse. Grinning from ear to ear she raised her arms at the absurdity of the situation and we laughed in amazement. Where else can you experience this kind of surreality? All of this "entertainment" (horse riding, dogfighting, football game against the children, groups of locals staring, Police and Army coming and going to check on the situation,) had happened spontaneously and were testament to the unbelievable amounts of generosity within the Georgian national character. C's friend had arrived bareback on a horse with a foal in tow, galloping over the fields and looking, at times, like he was going to fall. After fetching a saddle he had led C around the farm as the dogfight began. Now we stood in wide-eyed amazement - We had been told that things got weird after Turkey. If this is the beginning, what else is to come? I ran off to the corner of the field to play the local children at football as the sky darkened and the wafts of beef curry drifted from the kitchen at the side of the repaired Penelope.



The curse was back in full force that night. Over 8 hours of rain had turned the field into a marshy bog any festival would have been proud of. Disaster! The fixed Penelope had sunk deep into the wet ground. Wheels span and flung wet earth. Waterproofs were donned. Spades were grabbed. Sand mats (long pieces of ribbed metal to give the tires traction) were unfastened and placed under the wheels. We stamped hard into the boggy ground, flip-flopped and booted feet finding holds. Our steaming soaking bodies flung themselves at the rear of the truck, trying to shift the 12 tons of metal. The engine roared. Wheels span. Mats bent under the strain. Panting and swearing.

At the bottom of the field the Army had arrived and were attempting to get their enormous Russian truck over the marshy lip of the field. It failed, roaring like some angry beast. Tow ropes were put away - we would have to do it ourselves.

Trenches were dug to pool the water. More mats were applied. Again we returned to the rear. Steaming now with exertion. Backs bent. Hands on. One. Two. Three! She jilted forward! Movement! She shifted back on the mats. We pushed again, eager now. She rocked backwards and forwards, gaining height every time, engine, metal and people in some harmony of effort. Straining muscles. Shouting voices. Revving engine. Success! We clambered aboard soaked to the bone, grinning and slapping each other. Team effort and adventure. This country is amazing.

We had arrived in Georgia on the 14th across the Turkish border. I followed Pete through the delicate customs routines. Highly amused at the lack of queuing: memories of Pete stood like a rock amidst a jostling, shouting crowd of men, all waving papers, jabbing and pushing towards the customs window, bakshish (bribes) offered over his head for preference, Pete's eyes flashing amusement with a grin, anger with a grimace. Light punches in the back. Voices raised.



That night was an interesting introduction to Georgia. Batumi is a coastal town and we drove up to the harbour, all smiling about the promise of our hotel. The smiles increased as we realised that the hotel was some kind of pirate galleon built only for comfort, complete with bar and showers. We clambered aboard with much joy and mock piracy (Ahoy! Arr! Roger the Cabin Boy Seaman Staines!) Rooms were allocated, wine and vodka appeared, the sun set across the deck. Showered and dressed we ambled round the coast road to a Georgian feast (in another boat, this time built on land.)



And it was a feast really beyond anything we could have hoped for. If you ask a child what a "feast" is they'll describe something like some Elizabethan banquet: hundreds of plates of different foods amazingly presented. Meats, cheeses, veg, sauces, breads, flagons of wine, toasts to friends and family and good health. Its just like that in Georgia. Followed by dancing. Lots and lots of dancing. (My foot, it seems, is vastly improved.)

After dragging and pushing out Penelope on that rainy day the crew decided to save our soggy souls and put us in a guesthouse run by the intensely maternal Nemo. The woman is wonderful, but quite rightly assessed as a "feeder" by one of the group. She spent two days cramming enough food into us as army might eat in a week. Cakes you've never dreamed of. Tea. Coffee. Wine. Cheese breads. Meat breads. Soups. Noodles. Rice. Honey, Fried potatoes. Salads. We gorged ourselves the first night, not realising the extent that breakfast would extend to.

Georgian hospitality is best appreciated by the stomach.

Thanks to this food fest, and my foot being better, I decided to join Carolyn and Terry on an 8 hour hike up to the peaks of Ushba on the Russian border.



With our guide Daniel we sweated and grunted up a two-hour near-vertical assent followed by wading through snow drifts, enduring blazing sun and light hail we reached the final plateau to stare into the void - through those steep valleys lay Russia.




Around us giant peaks pierced the sky with their vast snowy forms, forcing gasps from the throat. We had climbed 1500ft to a height of 2700ft. Large birds, (eagles or falcons) glided above us in silence.


And then an awesome sight - the sun above us cleared the mists and two giant peaks loomed above us like the arms of some ancient god's throne. This shocked us all - they towered at least 2000ft more from our position. We hadn't seen these through the cloud and imagined ourselves conquerors of the mountain.

Humbled, but happy, we skipped and ran back through the drifts to the humid valley below. Another feast awaited us, but this time we had earned it.


It is now the 19th and we are heading for the Georgian capitol Tblisi through tree-lined valleys. Last night we camped by water and dined on an amazing pork bbq. In typical Georgian fashion the police came to investigate our presence and ended up staying the night in their car as "security." Georgian police are the friendliest in the world - they stayed and chatted by our fireside until retiring to their car seats. Everywhere we go we are treated like kings in this country.