We have now been in Georgia for a few days, have already driven through a few kilometers of countryside, made our first acquaintances with the local (and immigrant) population and settled in for two days in Sulfur, but we do not yet feel really close to this country. Nino and Nico wave us into their simple dwelling as a matter of course when they discover our tent on their terrace the next morning in a good mood. “Modi modi!”, Nico calls out to us and soon we are sitting with them around the warming stove with a piece of cake. After another night on the terrace we leave in the pouring continuous rain. Camping is out of the question and to endure the coming cold rainy days we head for a cheap accommodation only 30 kilometers away. Despite the short distance we reach Dimi completely soaked and frozen. The simple room becomes our home for three days! The rain turns into a storm, the drops into hail, the temperature is around zero degrees. Gaga and his mother Nana invite us every few hours for tea and snacks in their warm room downstairs and we use the unexpected break days to write blogs, do Iran research, watch pointless Youtube movies, take naps and explore the nearby uneventful town of Bagdati. We search in vain for a café or perhaps a restaurant. The small stores hide inconspicuously behind house facades and offer rubber boots from China, second hand clothes from Europe and vegetables.
After three days the clouds have finally cleared and the wind has lost its strength. Highly motivated, we load our bikes and ride out into the rain-soaked landscape as if reborn. The sun is shining, the cold is bearable and there is still old snow on the left and right of the road. As evening approaches and with it darkness, we still haven’t spotted a possible campsite and our water bottles are unfilled. In summer Georgia must be a wonderfully grateful country for camping tourists, but now in winter there is absolutely nothing to find except mud and snow. We fall back on the last possibility: Asking a home for a dry corner. At the roadside, an older man looks at us with astonishment and interest, and due to a lack of choice, he quickly becomes the first “contact victim”. Via translation app we ask for drinking water and a place for our tent. After a confusing back and forth, we are finally directed through a garden gate and we can fill our bottles at a fountain. Of course we are also invited for a schnapps in the warm parlor. The warm parlor sounds quite tempting, but what about a place for our tent? Little Nina, strong as a bear, appears on the scene and resolutely clarifies this unspoken question: With laughter and words we don’t understand, she helps to hoist the loaded bicycles up some icy steps and to stow them in the storage room between pickled vegetables, grain sacks and all kinds of other food. Through an anteroom we enter a simple central room with a wooden floorboard, a low ceiling, a stove and a table strewn with all kinds of food. Shyly we sit down at the stove, but immediately we are beckoned by a younger woman to the richly set table. “Wine?” We both get poured a glass. A second one joins us, filled with a deep red liquor. Communication is a bit bumpy today, as the family members are not really familiar with translation apps and the general alcohol level might have reached a certain limit already. Fortunately, we have already read a bit about the table customs in Georgia and so we realize that we have snuck her into something like a Sofra – “light”. It is January 5, just before Christmas, which may or may not have an impact on the food prepared; Georgians are people who like to get together at any time for extended drinking and eating. At the table sits a friendly neighbor with his rugby-playing son and various family members. Every few minutes Ivan – the head of the family – makes a toast and a little speech, whereupon everyone at the table raises their wine glass and empties it in one go.
There’s a little less pressure on the women to pull along on these rounds, but Theodora laughingly holds out the liquor bottle to me and says in English, “Get drunk!” Fortunately, Ivan strongly encourages us to help ourselves from the food. From aperitif to dessert, all the food is stacked on plates and in bowls on the table. The cake is under the chicken, the fried pork skin pieces next to the jellied grape juice, the cornbread can be found somewhere in the top center and next to it shine a white salty cheese, pickled pears, homegrown mushrooms in a delicious sauce, sausages and fermented vegetable cookies. What a self-catering feast for the palate!
We have the throaty names of the dishes told to us, and forget them seconds after our parroting attempts. Chomi, Badrijani, Chashushuli, Khinkali, Mchadi, Pkhali, Shkmeruli and Tkemali*… finally we guess them: The culinary delights of Georgia.
There is drinking and laughing and for lack of language we try to connect with photos and show our gratitude. Louie’s mother fishing in New Zealand, New Zealand cow herds, a family photo from Switzerland, the mountains in Ticino. The wine flows, Louie is hugged and kissed and showered with rough love by Nina, and we are pleasantly warm. We are allowed to sleep in an empty room in two badly sagging feather beds.
The next morning the table is loaded again with the many plates from the night before, supplemented by freshly fried potato slices from the wood-burning oven, and there’s even a coffee to go with it. Nina downs three glasses of liquor with her morning meal and tells us that she started smoking as a child. The drinking culture here is a bit shocking and the living conditions in this house seem warm and uncomplicated, but also a bit rough.
Well fortified, we say goodbye to our spontaneous hosts and set off in the direction of Chiatura. After some detours we pitch our tent today on the covered terrace of a closed tourist information office near an ancient church. In the small store across the street there is not much to buy except alcohol and bad chocolate bars, so we cook ourselves a simple meal from our supplies. It is Christmas today in Georgia, but we notice little of that. In front of the small store the usual group of men hangs around, single cars come and go and soon it becomes nightly quiet. Suddenly, groups of teenagers are strolling around, cars pull up, people are laughing and chatting, and it takes us a while to figure out that Georgians obviously go to church in the middle of the night on Christmas. Until three o’clock in the morning the many noises keep us more or less awake.
But kindly we are left in peace in our tent. Not even the teenagers complain, although we have clearly taken over one of their favorite meeting places. So Merry Christmas!
Tkemali: plum sauceTranslated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)
*Chomi: Georgian polenta
Badrijani: fried eggplant with nut-coriander paste
Chaschuschuli: Georgian goulash
Khinkali: Georgian giant ravioli with mushrooms, cheese or meat
Mchadi: dry corn bread
Pkhali: raw vegetable pouches
Shkmeruli: chicken in butter and garlic sauce