David Gareja - A Treasure in Isolation

In the summer of 1987, a group of Tbilisi students began protesting Russian troop movements that were happening far away in the deserted Kakheti region of Georgia. The country was still controlled (occupied would be a better word) by the Soviets, who were fighting the last, losing stages of a war in Afghanistan. The Kakheti wasteland - a world of treeless slopes, sheep, rock and hardened people - was being used as a training area because of its supposed resemblance to the hills of the war zone. The Georgian youth weren't protesting the war, though, and they were only nominally protesting Russian rule.

The group was trying to save one of the great treasures of the Caucasus.

David Gareja cave monastery (also called "Davit'garejis," "Keşiş Dağ məbədi" and "დავითგარეჯის სამონასტრო კომპლექსი") is among the most unique, hauntingly historic and beautiful places we've been on the trip. It further proves a point - if you want to see amazing things with very few other tourists around, come to Georgia. This is a country of astounding history.

In the sixth century, a small sect of Assyrian monks arrived in Georgia. They split up when they reached the Caucasus, with some settling further east, near present day Tbilisi, and some heading to the foothills. A monk named St. David, drawn to the desolation and purity of Kakheti, decided to build a monastery there, high up on a bluff overlooking present-day Azerbaijan. For three centuries, it grew slowly - the few devotees who kept up the site lived very simply in small hollows dug into the rock. Then, in the 9th century, the Georgian kingdom began to flourish, and the monastery took on a special role in the religious lives of the monarchy.

With royal support - from such notables as David the Builder and Queen Tamar - David Gareja expanded and thrived in the 9th to 13th centuries. It was during this period that the most notable caves were cut into the rock, and when the monastery's extraordinary frescoes were painted.

The wall paintings are especially important because of where they are and what they’ve endured – nearly one thousand years of graffiti has taken its toll on some of the images, not to mention the wind and sand. Most of the frescoes lie just a few feet within cave walls, unprotected by doors, open to the elements. Some are even on exterior surfaces. The biggest threat, though, came not from exposure, but from Russian artillery fire.

In the 13th century, the entire population of David Gareja was massacred by the invading Mongols. Some two hundred years later, a small contingent of Christian Georgians had reoccupied the monastery, but the place remained sparsely and sporadically populated – there were regular attacks by both Persians and Ottomans. A new height was reached at the end of the 16th century, but in 1615, six thousand monks were killed here by the Persian Shah Abbas. Then, the Bolsheviks arrived and banned access to the entire area. The caves deteriorated some simply from disuse, but it was when military training began in Kakheti, in the 1970’s, that things really got bad. Russian tanks ran shelling sessions along the ridge, and frequently targeted the church caves. Huge amounts of damage were done. Some chambers were lost forever.
From Tbilisi or Signaghi – the two most logical starting points for tourists visiting the monastery – it takes about 1 ½ to 2 hours to reach the site by car. There are no buses or other public transportation options. For the last 45 minutes of driving, the road is extremely rough and the landscape becomes increasingly barren and empty.

We watched hawks and eagles skim the low grass. Men on horseback herded cows and sheep across the brown earth. There were no other cars. The road was washed out to bare rock in some places.
David Gareja is enormous - there are several hundred caves spread over a few kilometers - but there are two main, accessible parts. The first section is called Davit Lavra; the immediate group of buildings just beside the "parking lot," this is a fairly compact warren of caves and ancient walls. It has been re-inhabited by monks, who have closed off the majority of the chambers. There are a few visitable caves and a recently refurbished, uninteresting chapel. It's worth about twenty minutes of your time - the views are excellent, the structures are fun to look at. There's a little shop that sells icons and candles, and nothing else (plan on bringing your own food and water, if you need it). Our taxi driver tried to convince us that this was the complete monastery.
In fact, it's just the beginning. A twenty minute hike up the hill from Davit Lavra (find the trail immediately next to the shop) leads to the the back side of the ridge, just above the border with Azerbaijan, and to Udabno. The lower desert stretches into the distance. The trail gets rougher, and a little scrambling is required. There are no guardrails - a fall would likely be deadly.

At first, there are only a few small hollows in the rock, with no adornment and rough-hewn walls. As the trail continues, though, the caves become more elaborate. Frescoes begin to appear on the inner walls, then on the outer faces. Near the end of the ridge, the caverns become truly engrossing, the painting more intricate. One of the most famous paintings, this 10th century depiction of the last supper, graces the wall above the old monk's cafeteria - the strangely carved rock along the floor was once a low table.
A visit to Udabno won't be forgotten. It is truly a magical experience, coming face to face with these frescoes - a thousand years old, unprotected, painted on cave walls in the desert. One feels a rush of discovery, and a sense of utter loneliness. There are no signs, no guides, no admission fee, no opening times, barely any other people. If you can get there, you are simply there.

Emerging from the caves into the light, the emptiness of the landscape is captivating. This part of the monastery feels ancient in a way few other places can - there is not a single mark of modernity in sight, there are no voices. On the day we visited, there wasn't even a gust of wind. It seemed that we had stepped back a millennium.
The student group was successful, in 1987, in putting an end to the Soviet military maneuvers at the monastery. This kind of effective protest was almost unheard of in the USSR, and some historians mark the event as the genesis of the Georgian independence movement. Sadly, ten years later, the Georgian military began training at David Gareja, and it took another popular protest to put an end to the shelling.

Because the Georgian international border with Azerbaijan technically runs along the ridge-top of Udabno, there is currently a low-grade dispute between the two countries over who owns the monastery. There is another part of David Gareja that is some 2 kilometers into Azerbaijan, and several other, more inaccessible compounds on the Georgian side.

Of all the places we've been, I can't say that there are any more striking or moving than this one. Driving back through the bare nothingness, we couldn't think of anything to say - the taxi driver pointed at huge eagles, young boys sat motionless on tall horses, the sun got very low in the sky, the rocks turned blue and red. We sat in the car both melancholy and excited, feeling that we'd made a discovery - one of the greatest triumphs of traveling.

Sighnaghi - Ready, Willing and Able

Sighnaghi is a beautiful town. Its location can't be scoffed out. Up over the Alazani Valley facing the Caucasus, it takes your breath away upon arrival. Tourist literature touts its virtues and charm. Adjectives like "Italianate" are used and its squares are called piazzas. Sighnaghi is sort of like the most beautiful daughter in a brood, being dolled up and thrust forward at a debutant ball. Obviously, we should all be clamoring to fall in love with her... but the poor girl can't change out of her gown until a suitor has presented himself. And it's been five years.
In a country that is undergoing construction and modernization all over the place, Sighnaghi stands out as a job completed and well done. In 2007, the small town received attention and thoughtful renovation. The goal was to take this undeniably attractive town and spiff it up, then welcome hoards of tourists. It was rebranded as " the city of love and art." Hotels popped up, it became the location for the biggest annual wine festival in the country. The clean up prompted many people - including early guide book assessors and a contact we have here - to say that Sighnaghi had become "too tidy and soulless," too "plastic."
Arriving in town ourselves, five years after that facelift, we can't say that we agree. First of all, the most gorgeous aspects of Sighnaghi, its views and its 4.5km defensive wall (with 28 towers) are as they have been for at least 240 years. Our first evening there, we walked along a section of the wall and looked out at the sherbert dusk. The fortifications are all original and absolutely impressive. Below a stretch of the tourist walkway, a chunk of land was fenced off. Its owner, an old man, worked away. There is authentic, local life bristling right up against the tourist "sites" in Sighnaghi. Even the brightest of paint jobs couldn't render it plastic to me.
This doesn't mean that the town ignores its "resort in waiting" status. The cobbled street leading down toward two old churches and the closest scalable tower was lined with knitwear for sale. Sweaters, gloves, socks and papakhi, circular wool caps worn by men in the Caucasus. When I did a quick wikipedia-ing of the small town's economy, the production of wine, traditional carpets and mcvadi (skewered meat) were counted as the most dominant moneymakers. It's not hard to see why the promise of tourism, bolstered by government investment, has created an air of excitement and expectancy.
The main town square has a tourist information center and souvenir shop, with one of the few postcards displays I've come across in the country. There are more vehicles branded as taxis than otherwise. The drivers all hang out in the far corner of the square, waiting. There are at least three hotels and numerous guesthouses. When I was too lazy to unclip my backpack and made my way through town in full tourist regalia, a woman waved hello out her window and then asked, "room??"
This is Georgia - the land of hospitality. So, unlike other places where an eagerness to benefit from tourism can feel off-putting or even aggressive, Sighnaghi just feels like a lonely hostess with frozen pigs-in-the-blanket in her freezer and a table with leaves she's never had to fold out. They are proud of this beautiful place and want to show it off. They have an unyielding knack for welcomes and take absolute pleasure in having guests.
The taxi driver who drove us out to Davit Gareja Monastery invited us into his home for coffee and an abundance of homemade treats before returning us to our hotel. He showed off his son, Luca, as well as his motorcycle with a dual sidecar- used to show tourists around in warmer weather. In town, we'd seen another presently curbed tour vehicle - a flatbed of a bus, complete with picket fence walls, wooden seats and canvas canopy roof. It didn't look like it'd been used for a while.
The thing is - none of this made the place faceless, like we'd been warned. I'll remember Sighnaghi. The views and George, the taxi driver. Maybe it'll be so popular in a few years that I'll be able to say "I remember it when." I hope so. For now, I'm pretty sure that the town in Kakheti will remain ingrained in my memory because of these. Grilled eggs. Grilled eggs brought to the table on a massive skewer. They were not hardboiled and then heated up. They were kebab'd raw and cooked in their shells. Riddle me that, Batman.

Merry Second Christmas!

As some readers may remember from last year, Christmas comes a little later in Russia. The same is true here in Georgia, where the Georgian Orthodox church celebrates the occasion on the 7th of January. It's actually not that big a deal - businesses remain open, life goes on as usual. Still, it's exciting to see Christmas trees!

This stunted little thing was in the house of a family in Mestia, where they seemed a little confused about its purpose.
Eastern Orthodox churches use the Julian calendar for the dates of their feasts and holidays, though the countries themselves use the Gregorian calendar. There is currently a difference of 13 days between the two, so things happen a little later here.

This is the national Christmas tree, in front of Parliament on Rustaveli Avenue, in Tbilisi.
We've tried to wish people a Merry Christmas, but have mostly received blank stares. Even when we use the rough Georgian translation - "gilocavth shoba" - it doesn't seem to register. New Year's Eve is a much more widely celebrated event - the biggest holiday of the year, in fact.

The tree in Signaghi is placed not in front of the town hall, but in front of a more prominent landmark - the casino.
Santa Clause has come to Georgia, slowly displacing the older, communist-issue "Grandfather Frost." One cell-phone company made all their employees dress in fluorescent orange suits, complete with beard and boots.

For some reason, we're still laughing about this picture from Belarus. In that officially religion-less country, Santa (despite appearances) isn't really Santa, but just a red-wearing Grandfather Frost (how appropriate!). He tends to be accompanied by his granddaughter, the "snow maiden."

Bodbe Monastery

It was a beautiful day for a pilgrimage. No longer in the Svaneti region, where mornings were bleak and afternoons were brilliant, we awoke to a blue sky and bright welcome. Our current home is Signagi, a town in the Kakheti wine region of Georgia with charm all its own and close proximity to one of the most important pilgrimage sites in Georgia - Bodbe Monastery.
The walk afforded gorgeous views over our awesome location, perched on a hillside overlooking the Alazani Valley. The Greater Caucuses stretch across the sky, a string of snowcaps. A restaurant at the entrance of the nunnery was closed and construction work could be heard in the distance.

Not able to read Georgian, we only surmised that we'd made it by familiar tourist attraction decor: the universal "no cell phone" and "no flash photography" signs. Soon after we arrived, a car pulled up with four other visitors. Just as I did at the gate, the women pulled their hoods over their heads and wrapped scarves around their waists for knee coverage. The youngest girl in the group tied a gift shop handkerchief as best she could around her forehead.

Saint Nino is buried at Bodbe Monastery and she's one important lady. Along with Saint George, she is the patron saint of the country and is credited with converting the pagan king Marian III, who then declared Christianity the official religion of the land. It was he who then ordered this monastery to be built at the site of Nino's death, circa 340.
I found it appropriate that a site dedicated to a female evangelist now functions as a nunnery. Though, during Soviet rule, the monastery was converted into a hospital. Before that, through the centuries, it was a monastic chanting school, a haven to religious writers and painters and the home of one of Georgia's largest collection of religious books, among other things.
Throughout its life, it has been renovated and added to and, even today, appears to be getting a facelift and large, new building. Most of what is here now was built in the 18th century and refurbished at the beginning of the 21st. One thing that has remained relatively unchanged since the 4th century, though, is the view.
About 3km downhill, along a leaf covered trail with sporadic stairs, we found the Holy Spring. Locals come to drink from the water here, which is said to have sprung up when Saint Nino knelt down to pray on the spot. The small building housing the spring was constructed in the 1990s.
There were sandals and towels there for bathers and a small cup for those preferring only to take a sip. Next door, smoke rose from the chimney of a small house. Laundry hung outside and I wondered if that was the person taxed with watching over the spring or simply a resident who predated the construction. Bodbe Monastery is simple and impressive. It feels lived in, but also open for exploration and reflection. We were happy to be pilgrims for the day.

Castle Hunting: The Svaneti Towers

During the last decade of the 12th century and the first decade of the 13th, under the rule of the beloved Queen Tamar, Georgia prospered, grew and was peaceful. During her reign, Tamar often made the long voyage into the upper reaches of the Svaneti valleys, spending summers there and helping to found metalworking and painting schools – she supposedly loved the green pastures and imposing glaciers, the simple people and the restful quiet. It was a golden age for Georgia and, for a moment, it seemed that the isolated Svan people were on the brink of becoming more integrated with their neighbors.

Tamar died in 1213. In 1220, the Mongols made their first contact with Georgia. A few years later the country was conquered, the military massacred, the aristocracy killed or in hiding, the entire region overrun by Genghis Khan’s horsemen. It would take hundreds of years before Georgia could claim true independence again – after the Mongols left the Persians and Ottomans fought over the scraps, then ceded the area to the Russians.

Only the Svans were able to repel the Mongols, and were never overtaken by Turkey or Persia. They sealed themselves in their mountain hideaway, secure in their towers, never quite trusting the outside world.

These towers are among the most unique and fascinating fortifications in the world. Instead of entrusting the defense of a town to a large fortress or castle, each family built their own tower. Most of them were erected between the 9th and 13th centuries, though the foundations of some have been shown to be much older - perhaps even dating from the 6th century.

In total, there are some 175 towers surviving, with large concentrations in Chazhashi and in Mestia, where there are 47. At one time, however, there were as many as 500 of these buildings in Svaneti, with nearly 100 in Mestia alone.

From a distance, they prickle the hillsides and look - somewhat pessimistically - like smokestacks.

Many of Mestia's towers have been preserved and are - if not lived in - at least still attached to domestic quarters built around their base. Completely integrated into the town, the defenses rise everywhere. As recently as the 1970's, there were still many occupied towers, and during civil conflicts with the Russians, they were supposedly even employed as gunning positions.

There are also some Svaneti strongholds that have been miraculously preserved. This is the main room of a large, intact tower-house. Once belonging to the Margianis, an important family in the town - the woman who showed us the house used the Russian word for "king" - the building is part of a complex that included three towers and this residency.

The woodwork is all, amazingly, original. It dates mostly from the 12th century, and is intricately carved and worked. The holes that you can see in the far wall are actually cattle stanchions. The animals stood on a lower floor, feeding from a trough along the ground. The human inhabitants slept in long, communal beds in the space just above their cows - the animal's body heat helping to keep the family warm in the winter.
The towers were used for food storage as well as defense, and their interiors - though narrow - are many layered. It's unusual to find such slender holds with five or six stories, but this was the pattern that nearly every family followed. The interior dimensions remain constant; the slight slope of the walls is created by thinner stones at the top and a wider foundation.

The Margiani tower that's open to the public is a narrow, difficult-to-climb structure with extremely shoddy ladders. Like many keeps and strongholds, the door is some twelve feet above the ground, with a ladder or staircase below that can be destroyed to increase defensibility. Inside, large, flat rocks lay beside the ladder holes, ready to be employed as seals. Unlike a few other, similar towers in these mountains, the Svan versions have crenelated tops and roofs.

The medieval Svan families were just as worried about being attacked by neighbors as by invading armies. After all, the high Caucasus form an imposing natural barrier between the towns and the rest of the region, meaning that contact with foreigners was very rare. The Svan people are notorious for their blood feuds and for their internal, familial standards of law. The Margiani family, after all, had three prisons in their compound.

Another interesting facet of this particular family defense is that the three towers were never connected by a wall. There were tunnels, though, that linked the buildings. Recently, it was discovered that there was also an escape tunnel, that led up the hill into the woods above.
In all our travels, I've never seen anything quite like these citadels. They accent this wild, independent place beautifully. Seven hundred years after the Svaneti valleys were sealed off from the rest of Georgia, the immediacy of the isolation is still gripping.

We had a feeling of discovery in these mountains, as though we had stumbled upon a place that was only just waking up from a long hibernation.

Welcomes in the Svaneti Region

The Svaneti region of Georgia – in the most remote valleys of the Caucasus mountains – is a land of contrasting welcomes. We have been invited into the homes of strangers and nearly forced to drink and eat at their tables. In every house, we are sat at the best seats, directly in front of the stove. One man invited us home to meet his mother; the two of them wouldn’t hear of us leaving until we’d finished a bottle of her blueberry liquor.

Another man – his face brought threateningly close to mine – asked if I had ever been to Alaska. I told him that I hadn’t.

“Ah,” he sneered, “this is like Alaska.” He swept his hand behind him, gesturing at the white crags. “Very dangerous.” He gave his head a strange tilt and turned away, spitting on the ground.

Indeed, guidebooks warn against hiking alone in the mountains, as armed robbery is common.

Until about a year ago, getting into the Svaneti meant taking a series of “marshrutka” vans across the country, then a long Jeep ride one hundred miles up a bad road. The journey from Tbilisi typically took about fifteen to twenty hours.

Now, there’s a tiny airport and occasional flights. We took a little prop plane on New Year’s Day, the only passengers; the Tbilisi airport was absolutely devoid of travelers, the security guards were drinking champagne and singing. The flight took about an hour, and was spectacular. The pilot leaned back from the cockpit to shout the names of different peaks and to point out tiny villages below. We skimmed above the summits, then came in low over Mestia, the capital of the region and its largest town. A woman in high heels came out onto the snowy tarmac to greet the plane. “Your hosts are a little late,” she said. “But you can wait inside.”

The Caucasus mountains are the highest in Europe, soaring to over eighteen thousand feet. The people here have lived in isolation for centuries, and have never quite gotten used to the idea of a larger nation. In the mountains immediately to the west, the South Ossetians have effectively seceded from Georgia, and live a hemmed in, militia life. A few miles to the northeast, Chechnya is still fighting for independence from Russia. Here, the Svan people speak their own language, a fifth-century branch of Georgian that has evolved into a unique tongue. One of our hosts said that he speaks modern Georgian only a little, and that he prefers Russian. In the past year and a half, a better road has been built to the outside world, and the marshrutka service has gotten faster (about seven hours to Tbilisi, in good weather) – but this is still a region apart.

Mestia is an ancient town, bristling with stone towers built a millennium ago (these towers are so interesting that they deserve their own post, to be put up soon). As recently as the mid-19th century, explorers in Svaneti found villagers wearing chainmail and carrying broadswords. The locals are fond of saying that they have never been conquered by anyone.

The mountains have been the real defense, for they themselves are nearly unconquerable. This was one of the very few areas of central Eurasia that was able to repel the Mongolian raiders, and Svaneti became something of a safe house for Georgia - many treasures from Tbilisi and Mtskheta were stored here when the capital region was threatened by invasion.

Like much of Georgia, Mestia is being spiffed up and made “modern.” Like in other places - especially the towns that Tbilisi considers potential attractions – the first thing to be built was a large, gleaming police station. Though there is still some danger in remoter areas, Mestia is mostly safe. There are handpainted signs everywhere advertising rooms for rent and “hostels,” though tourists are still an oddity. We stayed with this family, known in the village simple as "Alexi," the first name of the patriarch.
The Svan children are uniformly open and friendly. Two little girls walked with us for a while yesterday, laughing at our cameras and pointing at different buildings for us to photograph. Before they ran off, they gave us each a few pieces of candy from their pockets. Packs of boys out sledding waved and say hello, some introduced themselves, practicing their English. Two young boys, perhaps having exhausted their store of foreign words, yelled “I love you!” once we had exchanged names and basic pleasantries.
The mountains are stunning in a pure, white-lined, unreachable way. The landscape of Mestia is one of roaming cows, deserted buildings and litter. Broken and rusting cars line the roadside. Roofless buildings crumble. Dogs sniff and dart in the ditches, hoping for a scrap of food hidden under the beer bottles and candy wrappers.

There are hairy pigs running wild, and men smoking cigarettes. When we first arrived, the mud and rubble in the streets portrayed only poverty. Snow came, and Mestia felt ancient and pastoral.
In many guidebooks, for many countries, it's suggested that the only "real" way to experience a culture is to be invited to dinner at someone's house. In most places, this is much more difficult than it sounds - we've only rarely been successful. In Georgia, and particularly in Svaneti, there are more invitations than can be accepted.

Grigol, above, and his mother wouldn't let us leave - we literally had to back our way out the door, zipping up our coats and waving as we went.
We ate at this little bar for three lunches in a row - there was really nothing else appealing or open in Mestia. On the first day, we were greeted with suspicious looks and given curt service. The locals moved aside to allow us access to the fireplace, but their faces were very hard. On the second day, the waitresses smiled when we came in, and there were some grumbled "hellos." One man asked where we were from. On the third day, a cheer went up when we opened the door, and the owner came to shake my hand and kiss Rebecca's cheek.

Happy (New) New Year!

December 31st is a special day in Georgia. For us, it signals the end of the holiday season – the time to officially stop spending money on things you don’t need, eating things you shouldn’t. Time to start thinking about throwing out that Christmas tree. Here, though, it is just the beginning. You see, December 31st is a fairly new holiday for Georgians. According to the Russian Orthodox calendar, Christmas is January 7th and New Year is January 13th. This second date is often referred to as “Old New Year,” and has more significance to most Georgians. Never ones to shy away from celebrations and rounds of toasts, though, they have embraced (New) New Year's Eve as a kickoff party of sorts. As far as we can tell, the festivities center solely on feasts and fireworks.
The afternoon of New Year's Eve had the buzz of preparation. All through the city, you could almost here people crossing things off their to do lists. Families left their apartments with bundles veiled in foil, loading the trunks of their car with their contribution to the feast. This little piggy went whee whee whee all the way into the back of a Subaru Forrester. He was generously seasoned with ajiki (a Georgian hot sauce that also comes in a green variety) and was the obvious pride of the man who carried it.
People rushed around with grocery bags and bakeries opened earlier and closed later than usual. This bread cellar is usually pretty sleepy. When we’ve gone down before, there were maybe one or two customers chatting with the floured bakers. On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, though, there was a line all the way up the stairs to the sidewalk. Past the congenial and patient queue, the shop was packed. More workers than we’d seen before were pushing and pulling dough in and out of the immense clay ovens. As orders were completed, the lucky customer would leave everyone else in the flour dust, going up and out to parade their bounty. The fresh, steaming towers of bread never fail to seduce passersby with its come hither scent.
It’s a night for the supra, a grand multi-course meal named after the Georgian word for tablecloth. Possibly because it’s the only thing that is left uneaten? Unlike other capitals on New Year’s Eve, Tbilisi became sleepier in the hours leading up to midnight. Small restaurants shut down in the early evening, so people could go home and dine with family. No doubt everyone was toasting with relatives and eating traditional dished like satsivi, cold chicken in a cinnamon-y walnut sauce with raisins (pictured above and much tastier than it looks).

There’s a carnivalesque vibe to the small holiday markets set up in Tbilisi. Lots of masks, wigs and big felt bows affixed to headbands. Balloon animals, face painting, cotton candy and glitter explosions. The children are officially off from school for holiday break and tourists from around Georgia and elsewhere flash their camera at the lit up city. Tbilisi is beautiful at night, with the mud and dust of transition blacked out and the sheen of finished projects illuminated.
We saw on television the next day that a huge crowd amassed in the New Town for a concert. Somehow, we never found it. Instead, we walked around and took in the gradual crescendo of fireworks. All week, we’ve heard a crack here and a pop there. When the sun went down on December 31st, flashes of light flew and fizzled steadily. Then, in that all important last hour before midnight, it really picked up. It was hard to tell if any of the display was city sponsored or all the collective work of the residents of Tbilisi. Young kids, old women, just about everyone did their part painting the sky. Out on the street or out their window, their firework was shot off. The Christmas season has begun! Happy (New) New Year!