This summer, the bestselling travel author is deep in the Georgia Caucasus, with family in tow. This is part of a series:
For two weeks we have travelled by foot – a pack horse carrying our gear, and us carrying the children – just south of Russia. A wall of peaks, glistening ice and snow, mark the border, and the alpine highlands below these summits are alive with wildflowers and beekeepers. Honey is produced en mass here, by ragged men carrying hives to high meadows. Along with bread and salty cheese, honey has become a staple of our diet. We buy it by the litre, filling discarded soda bottles by funnel, and drenching our oatmeal, tea and bread at every meal.
Yesterday, we stumbled upon a well-worn trail leading down to the valley below, and followed it through old growth conifers, past a small memorial shrine, complete with a half-full bottle of liquor resting beside, for passersby to toast to the dead. Beyond lay the town of Adishi, accessible only by foot.
Eight watchtowers rose amongst the stone homes; some crumbling and blackened from fires, with mature trees festooning their roofs; others immaculate despite being 800 years old. A pair of sheepdogs with clipped ears raced towards us with teeth bared, but our determined clattering of ski poles drove them back. A barefoot man in soiled working clothes met us beside the first home. His visor – reading "Germany 2006 - World Cup" – was conspicuously out of place in what otherwise appeared a medieval setting.
Omar welcomed us, and asked of our plans, our route, our families, our health. With the sun already high and scorching, and our faces blotched with sweat and sunscreen, he insisted we stop for a rest, leading us through a maze of narrow pathways between stone walls.
Stinging nettle sprang up everywhere. Ducking through a short, dark (and blessedly cool) passageway, we entered a small courtyard. While Christine, Bodi and Taj were lead inside, I worked with Omar to repair our pack saddle, which had been damaged in the mountain crossing. Bodi soon reappeared, lead by two younger girls, one holding each of his hands as they chased piglets and hens around the courtyard.
The main room in Omar's house was so short I had to stoop to enter, but not Omar's mother who followed closely behind. No taller than four feet, she was dressed in the customary black of elder women, and upon spotting Taj, snatched him and kissed him over and over, eventually taking a break to light a fire in the stove. Soon water was boiling, and Omar's mother dropped a sprig of fresh mint into the kettle. Khachapuri (the ubiquitous treat of cheese baked inside thin bread) was being prepared, and the smell of baking bread filled the room.
Generosity to guests is possibly Georgians' most defining trait. And downright impossible to refuse. Shota Rushtaveli, Georgia's famous poet from the 12th century, captured the national sentiment in his enduring words: That which you give away is yours forever; that which you keep is lost forever. We have brought a collection of ball caps, sunglasses and shawls with us, small but meagre gifts to offer in return.
I sat and quietly contemplated the simplicity of life in Adishi. The walls of Omar's house were bare apart from one "Jesus" clock and a faded calendar. Three suit jackets hung on nails. A cat slept on a sagging bed beside the fire. Then a phone rang. It looked like a 1980s desk model, and was apparently attached to a satellite dish mounted on the stables outside. The ringtone: the theme from Flashdance, in techno dub.
Special to The Globe and Mail
Bruce Kirkby