Borderline

                                                                                  

11 May 2009

Got to the Georgian Border before noon, and out of it at 2:30. Super fun times there. I recommend it for your next party or festive occasion. Until now, our borders have been EU and Turkey, which at least borders the EU, and Tim & Cheryl have dealt with the boring bits for us. Georgia is the first where we had to walk across the border ourselves, with our own passports in hand. Getting out of Turkey was fine. Georgia however herds you into yellow metal chutes, similar to those last seen in North Korean Re-Education Camps and/or your local abattoir. Then to the border booth, where extremely rude Georgians shove themselves in front of you to the appreciable distress of our UK people especially (they really do like to queue, some stereotypes are there for a reason). We got all the way up, only to find that in fact we had to go back and get Swine Flu forms filled in promising that we haven't been in Mexico in the last two weeks. And then...we got to start all over again with the pushy Georgian grannies.

          

All through eventually, and lunch handed through the bars of the border area by our waiting guide Zaza. Georgian food may make up for the grannies and swine flu paperwork—first meal was a lightly fried pastry thing filled with potato and dill and deliciousness. Up to Batumi, a Beaux Arts port on the Black Sea, to stay on the Hotel Old Ship. Which, cunningly, is a hotel on an old ship. Decked out as a pirate ship. Fun! Crap showers, though. Again, what a more optimistic girl might call a shower room, but which in fact is a handheld shower over the toilet. Whatever, we're clean. Dinner at a restaurant built to look like a ship (theme!), with Georgian music (including some celebrating the Russian victory over Germany on 9 May 1945—very Soviet, wanted to get up and march, possibly have soul of thwarted communist?) and a feast of local foods. Cheese, bread, cheesy bread, fried fish, veggies in dill, bready cheese, and lovely Georgian wine. And khachapuri--bread with cheese, a fried egg, and enough butter to tide over 19 Alden Avenue for a good week. See below.

                                     

Yesterday was not my favourite—10 hours on a shite road from Batumi to Mestia, a lovely village of 2500 people high in the Caucasus mountains, which is famous mainly for scenery and hiking. I am of course still in bed at noon, as these are not really my sort of thing. Staying in home-stays, really bed and breakfasts, with extremely lovely hostesses who fed us like a returning army at 10pm when we got here, and promise better tonight (we got here a day early, and only gave them an hour's warning). Everyone else has gone up to a higher village, supposedly the highest permanently occupied one in Europe, but another 6 hours return on that road was doing nothing for the tourist in me. So much for adventure and exploration—I'm taking a nap.

                                                                  

Did manage to call the Mutti for Mother's Day from said shite road clinging to mountainside in Georgia (did I mention the police escort?) because I am the Best. Child. Ever. Take that, Brian John.  

               

To sum up, Georgia is a place that reveres a king called David the Builder, has laundry detergent called Barf, and also thinks Stalin is extremely cool (He's from here. But still.)