Sitting in a bungalow in Scotland the wine growing region of Kakheti, which reaches as far east as Newfoundland is west, now feels like another world. The furthest point I could see from the watch tower on the battlements was the peaks of the Caucuses on the way to Dagestan which stood as two layers of silhouettes almost beyond the horizon. Stretching out bellow me was a continuous flat plain reaching as far as I could see either direction with small clusters of houses and vineyards sheltered at the feet of the range of small but serrated hills which Signagi commands.
At night the landscape twinkles peacefully like some forgotten holy land but during the day it's charming tall buildings face a grave future. The government have recognised the outstanding beauty of the town and as a result had decided to redevelop it for western tourists in a the most incompetent way possible. Simultaneously every house in the town is to be ripped apart, reconstructed and refurnished. The streets have been up lifted and over an inevitably prolonged time scale will be replaced with a squeaky, half finished and possibly deserted monstrosity.
Of course I'd like to be wrong and I wish the best of luck to the Georgian government in their projects but they would be better of developing their transport infrastructure and information offices than engaging in intervening soviet style face lifts. The evidence was there in Bakuriani - a town of colourful chalets surrounded by misty forests and another designated tourist hot spot; a tourist information sign in German style right next to the bus stop but no building or personnel.
However, in the same town, wandering a few meters down the street we drawn to a sound of a hundred Georgian men chatting. Peering through the gate way we were insistently placed at the head of a long table next to the host and the tamada. From somewhere at the far end beyond where we could see ladies brought plates of freshly slaughtered lamb, sturgeon caviar and lobio as the feasting was punctuated regularly as the tamada, as his role demands, proposed toasts to mark some tragedy seventy years ago that day probably attributed to Stalin. The glasses of wine, emptied each time, were soon replaced by chacha - their potent grape based vodka - which made way for a very hazy period which some how contained a local who was sure we were Russian spies...
Similarly, wandering through a park back in Signagi had led to us been invited for drinks and sausage with what turned out to be the mayor (drunk) and some superb young singers who treated us with traditional harmonised melodies. No organised tourist route or project can hope to provide you with such spontaneous hospitality.
Our return journey West took us to the desert region on the Azeri border where six thousand cave dwelling monks had been slaughtered by Tamerlane, over the Trans-Caucasian Oil Pipeline which runs through the thousands of deserted factories once operated by the inhabitants of the soviet blocks unceremoniously plonked at Rustavi. We sat in a restaurant hidden in the back streets of Tbilisi at a table next to three absolute master singers from three distinct regions of the Caucuses and their apprentices who filled every corner of the room with diverse sounds and textures.
Our £4 mini bus trip the length of Georgia returned us to the, what now appeared to be, incredibly affluent and modern port of Batumi. Under a different light, we traversed the lush, mosque studded, subtropical Black Sea coast full of healthy and openly warm Turks. And before the hoards of tourists accompanied by the draining continental mid-summer had arrived we had circled the Byzantine walls of Constantinople and were gone.
Wednesday 27 June 2007
Saturday 16 June 2007
Snap shots from the mountains to the sea
We sat nestled between Chechneya, South Ossetia and Russia. The angular rock with seams of ice began above us, vibrant streams cutting through the soft greens and browns of a late spring and the shallow peat breaing small simple but intensely beutiful flowers with blinking eyes smiling up at us.
After two days without seeing another person, we clambered across mountains passes and skated down glaciers to come to the highest permantly inhabitted village in Europe at 2300 meters. In Juta we were welcomed into the most homely of farmhouses and were provided with home grown produce while we met the local mayor and a completely hammered Soso who had recent lost his son in the Georgian army.
The house of Vano in Kazbegi sits high on the Russian Military Hiughway which is now completely shut at the frontier. Above it is the snow capped volcanic peak of Mount Kazbek - a national symbol - which is hidden much of the time in the clouds. On an outcrop with it rounded spire reaching towards the sky is the divine silouet of a monestry which has returned to full use since the departure of the Soviets and their monstorous chair lift.
Following the ancient communication towers only a couple of valleys down the scenery could hardly have been more different. The valley narrows to a trecherous pass accessible only by foot. It passes through ancient stone villages which still contain a few shy mounted cattle herders. Streams pouring down from surrounding glaciers cover the wide valley floor and out from the sides of the valley suphur escapes into marshy pools bubbling up and sterelising the water before spilling over to form solid flowing structures.
The beautiful ancient capital of Mstkheta is still the heart of Georgian culture. From the fourth century church and weaping tree, which overlook the town sitting in a series of peaceful vine covered dwellings between two rivers, to the castle and fortified monastries, large groups of children fill every corner with their beutiful dark eyes pearing at us with interest and ocassionally having a go with their English.
As you head out from the court yard at Nassi's you are hit by the a constant stream of traffic crawling up the road lined with French style appartments with iron balconies on the upper story. At street level ladies sell groceries, kachapuri and other fresh produce as internet cafes, piano bars and cobblers make brisk trade. New Tbilisi is a European capital.
It was only into our third day that we experienced our second power cut. The three powerful male voices in close harmony filled the darkness as the flicker of a few candles picked out the faces of surrounding dinners. Each table bearing huge jugs of thick local wine and piled high with food - hot bread, veal entrails, a Balti like dish... Smiling young people in traditional dress and merry old men danced to diatonic cycles of fifths.
To the west Georgia opens up into a wide lush valley and Kutaisi has been at its head for centuries with a colourful bustling market place at its heart. The winding ramshakle streets stretch for miles in every direction with typical georgian houses which sits on two levels. In the house of Giorgi, we feasted on delicious local dishes and wine made from grapes grown in the garden before playing the popular local pass time of counting dominoes and discussing Georgian history and current events into the night.
At the border control we were welcomed into the country with smiles. Our first impression from a crowded mini bus on the way to Batumi of cows wandering freely across roads and along bridges as cars wove around them simultaneously avoiding potholes sent us into laughter. Now such things are normal.
After two days without seeing another person, we clambered across mountains passes and skated down glaciers to come to the highest permantly inhabitted village in Europe at 2300 meters. In Juta we were welcomed into the most homely of farmhouses and were provided with home grown produce while we met the local mayor and a completely hammered Soso who had recent lost his son in the Georgian army.
The house of Vano in Kazbegi sits high on the Russian Military Hiughway which is now completely shut at the frontier. Above it is the snow capped volcanic peak of Mount Kazbek - a national symbol - which is hidden much of the time in the clouds. On an outcrop with it rounded spire reaching towards the sky is the divine silouet of a monestry which has returned to full use since the departure of the Soviets and their monstorous chair lift.
Following the ancient communication towers only a couple of valleys down the scenery could hardly have been more different. The valley narrows to a trecherous pass accessible only by foot. It passes through ancient stone villages which still contain a few shy mounted cattle herders. Streams pouring down from surrounding glaciers cover the wide valley floor and out from the sides of the valley suphur escapes into marshy pools bubbling up and sterelising the water before spilling over to form solid flowing structures.
The beautiful ancient capital of Mstkheta is still the heart of Georgian culture. From the fourth century church and weaping tree, which overlook the town sitting in a series of peaceful vine covered dwellings between two rivers, to the castle and fortified monastries, large groups of children fill every corner with their beutiful dark eyes pearing at us with interest and ocassionally having a go with their English.
As you head out from the court yard at Nassi's you are hit by the a constant stream of traffic crawling up the road lined with French style appartments with iron balconies on the upper story. At street level ladies sell groceries, kachapuri and other fresh produce as internet cafes, piano bars and cobblers make brisk trade. New Tbilisi is a European capital.
It was only into our third day that we experienced our second power cut. The three powerful male voices in close harmony filled the darkness as the flicker of a few candles picked out the faces of surrounding dinners. Each table bearing huge jugs of thick local wine and piled high with food - hot bread, veal entrails, a Balti like dish... Smiling young people in traditional dress and merry old men danced to diatonic cycles of fifths.
To the west Georgia opens up into a wide lush valley and Kutaisi has been at its head for centuries with a colourful bustling market place at its heart. The winding ramshakle streets stretch for miles in every direction with typical georgian houses which sits on two levels. In the house of Giorgi, we feasted on delicious local dishes and wine made from grapes grown in the garden before playing the popular local pass time of counting dominoes and discussing Georgian history and current events into the night.
At the border control we were welcomed into the country with smiles. Our first impression from a crowded mini bus on the way to Batumi of cows wandering freely across roads and along bridges as cars wove around them simultaneously avoiding potholes sent us into laughter. Now such things are normal.
Thursday 7 June 2007
Salam
Nothing had prepared me for the subliminal meeting of the Karadeniz with the sky, as it curls over the edge of the horizon. The sky and endless matt pastel reflected in the near flawless surface of the water where the difference is only betrayed by the finest and most harmonious ripple. The pure and forgiving white of the sun providing for the tiny boats hauling by hand their catch, which could barely scratch the expanse.
Today we had found it difficult not to profit as we became aquainted with an entire valley of Turks to the west of Trabzon. Frequently someone would stop and pile us into their mini busses full of locals. The first driver returned our fair, the second refused it in the first place and the third bought us a drink under the mosque at the head of the sub tropical valley through which we had climbed. A simple "salam" leading to a somehow comprehensible mix of German, Dutch, English and Turkish, complete with body language, which in one case lead to a coffee with milk straight from Asan's own cow and a trip down the valley to share a beer with his brother in his lakeside restaurant where we would camp for the night.
By the time we had awoken to a huge traditional turkish spread and been taken for a row across Lake Sera, I had alost forgotten about the third most important pilgramidge site in christianity nestled somewhere above the city or the various other ancient monuments hidden somewhere amongst the appartments and bazzars which stretch for hundreds of kilometers along the smooth but irregular shoreline.
Today we had found it difficult not to profit as we became aquainted with an entire valley of Turks to the west of Trabzon. Frequently someone would stop and pile us into their mini busses full of locals. The first driver returned our fair, the second refused it in the first place and the third bought us a drink under the mosque at the head of the sub tropical valley through which we had climbed. A simple "salam" leading to a somehow comprehensible mix of German, Dutch, English and Turkish, complete with body language, which in one case lead to a coffee with milk straight from Asan's own cow and a trip down the valley to share a beer with his brother in his lakeside restaurant where we would camp for the night.
By the time we had awoken to a huge traditional turkish spread and been taken for a row across Lake Sera, I had alost forgotten about the third most important pilgramidge site in christianity nestled somewhere above the city or the various other ancient monuments hidden somewhere amongst the appartments and bazzars which stretch for hundreds of kilometers along the smooth but irregular shoreline.
Monday 4 June 2007
Europe
Flying in over Asia minor I had my first glimps of the baren soil which on first impression contrasted to the green we are used to in North Western Europe. However, for Istanbul this illusion was soon shattered, since despite being at my furthest point from Scotland the city appeared at the same time central and familiar.
We headed from a retaurant hidden in the old town through the Blue Mosque and Aya Sophya, which directly compete with each other in stature and in their calls to prayer, through the uselessly extravagent palace, which was abandoned due to a change in European platial fassion, to look out from the innermost courtyard at the long suspension bridge from Europe to Asia and the shipping terminals at the head of the Sea of Marmora. I felt reorientated.
To the north the banks of the Bosphorus Straight consistend of a series of commecial hubs featuring modern glass towers, palatial embassies, historic market villages and costal mansions averaging in the €10´s of millions (as any self respecting turkish or international CEO has snapped up a home here). The commercial spirit of the likes of the spice market in the Egyptian Bazzar was kept alive late into the night with men fishing from the bridges over the Golden Horn and serving them up on barbeques to passers by whilst white gulls circled the minarets of Mosques washed in a blue light.
We headed from a retaurant hidden in the old town through the Blue Mosque and Aya Sophya, which directly compete with each other in stature and in their calls to prayer, through the uselessly extravagent palace, which was abandoned due to a change in European platial fassion, to look out from the innermost courtyard at the long suspension bridge from Europe to Asia and the shipping terminals at the head of the Sea of Marmora. I felt reorientated.
To the north the banks of the Bosphorus Straight consistend of a series of commecial hubs featuring modern glass towers, palatial embassies, historic market villages and costal mansions averaging in the €10´s of millions (as any self respecting turkish or international CEO has snapped up a home here). The commercial spirit of the likes of the spice market in the Egyptian Bazzar was kept alive late into the night with men fishing from the bridges over the Golden Horn and serving them up on barbeques to passers by whilst white gulls circled the minarets of Mosques washed in a blue light.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)