Batumi, Georgia, city of psychedelic architecture and questionable morals. More casinos than hotels, and more empty skyscrapers and restored colonial-style houses than actual residents. But the change in scenery was unmistakable, the abstract line between Turkey and Georgia creating real differences and visible changes to the style, the people, the language, the religion. But our goal was still the mountains, where people are not so different.

After a couple of days in town, from Batumi we decided to take a Marshutka, the small public transport minibuses, to Zugdidi, a town just under the border with the separatist region of Abkhazia, the beginning of any journey into Svaneti.

As we reached the square where all the marshutkas left for the other towns in Georgia, we were directed to an empty one and told that it would leave within an hour. We left four hours later, after lunch and beers with our driver and coffee in the Turkish quarter, in an empty bus except for ourselves and three Russian women. We were finally on our way to Svaneti. From Zugdidi the Russian women bargained with a taxi driver to take all of us to the mountains. Crammed in a taxi driven by a small Georgian with a hunchback and a severe squint, we made our way up into the valleys of Svaneti. The road was dotted with potholes and fallen rocks which our driver avoided swerving left and right. For three hours we went on like this, the girls speaking Russian and listening to iPods as we gazed at the mountains on both sides.

Giacomo and I had both read extensively about Svaneti, the highest inhabited region in Europe, and its fascinating landscape and history. I had first come across the name ten years ago, skimming through the travel section of an Italian magazine. I remember gazing at the photos of the medieval stone towers and the Caucasus mountains in the background, and being awe-struck by the fanciful claim that in these regions time had stopped in the middle-ages. People still lived according to a centuries-old code of honour, and even the language itself was markedly different from the rest of the country, retaining a medieval dialect of Georgian. Giacomo had become enthralled by the story of Aaron, a young American who had reached the region as a backpacker twenty years ago, one of the first travellers to do so, and had been adopted by a local family, taking their photos and documenting their lifestyle, and, upon his return, had become a renowned National Geographic photographer.

We reached Mestia in the evening, Svaneti’s largest town, and our first impression did not match the expectations. The Georgian government has concentrated much of its efforts in promoting tourism, opening ski resorts and a small airport to boost the number of travellers to the region. The medieval fantasy world we had constructed in our head had been a foolish dream, but the disappointment was short-lived.

That same night we explored the town, and within minutes were invited to drink with the local baker and his friends in his shop, toasting on chacha, Georgia’s infamous grape-brandy, but in Svaneti distilled from fermented wheat, making it barely drinkable. The baker was a tall, loud man with a shaven face and no sense of humor, eager to show us Svan hospitality.

We quickly learned how to drink with Georgians: every round requires a toast: “to friendship”, “to love”, “to women”, “to Georgia”, “to Italy”, “to Russia”, “to family”, “to mothers”, “to fathers”, “to siblings”, “to peace”, “to nature”, “to Svaneti”. And before every toast, every cup had to be slightly refilled with new brandy. I almost deeply insulted our host as I took a sip absent-mindedly without toasting. He was drunk and wanted to shout. I apologized and raised my glass to his kindness, defusing the situation quickly.

 

We planned to make our first hike towards Zhabeshi, a small town further up the valley. During the initial climb we zigzagged through a forest of fir trees until we emerged in the open and could see the pass ahead. We joined forces with an enthusiastic Dutch couple we met on the hike, and decided to continue together. The descent into the valley kept us mostly high up on the north bank of the river, giving us breathtaking views of the towns and the towers below, the cattle grazing in the fields, the scent of blooming flowers, and the incessant croaking of frogs and toads mating in the puddles left behind by the snow. We passed a couple of villages in the Zhamushi community where piles of dung were stacked against the stone houses and the crumbling towers. A group of men sporting heavy coats and bushy moustaches called us over and shared their wine: “Please stay with us” they asked. “People never stop in our village, the always go to Mestia, to Zhabeshi”. We seriously considered staying, knowing the hospitality would be incredible. But we had only walked a few hours and we wanted to see and explore much more. So, we reluctantly declined the offer and instead of disappointment we were met with more smiles, wine and recommendations for a guesthouse in Zhabeshi.

 

In the village we found our guesthouse, run by a young fiery Svan woman. She invited us to stay in the large room on the ground floor where we sat watching her family baking bread and preparing dinner, as usual mostly sulguni (the Svan cheese), puri (flat bread), potatoes, eggs and fresh vegetables from the garden.

Her English was excellent although she had never been abroad, and had barely ever left the valley in her life. Charismatic, her face striking but not beautiful, and extremely proud of her heritage, she sat staring at us intently waiting for our approval as she decanted the virtues of the Svan. But it did not make us feel uneasy, instead we listened as she talked about the life in the mountains, how she resented her husband’s passion for hunting, and politics. In the stories we had heard, the people in the mountains of Georgia were meant to live out of time, unaware of the politics and changes of the last century, barely conscious of the rise and collapse of the Soviet Union. Of course, reality is completely different. Even here, in the most remote corner of the Caucasus, we listened intently to a Georgian fiercely defending the many great accomplishments of Stalin, the man from the Caucasus who defeated Hitler, as their rhetoric goes.

 

Shkhara Glacier

The following day we accepted our hosts’ offer of a guided tour to the Shkhara Glacier. To reach it we first had to drive for 3 hours to the village of Ushguli, Europe’s highest inhabited village. Our car broke down on the muddy unpaved road, and we were lucky to get picked up by yet another Dutch family who had rented a private 4×4. From the village we began our hike to the glacier. We were considerably higher than the previous day, and often had to wade through deep snow. This time, the path was hard to follow, and water rushed down from all sides of the valley. The sky was grey and heavy, the mountain sides bare, the dark rock in stark contrast with the snow patches clinging to it. The eerie landscape and the solemn silence in the air created an uncanny atmosphere during the hike. The scenery’s effect was overwhelming, but the peak of Shkhara Mountain stayed hidden in the clouds. We eventually reached the glacier’s limit after 4 hours hiking, and rested at the top of a small hill overlooking the waters rushing out from under the ice. Our return was considerably faster and as we approached the village the sky finally opened up, presenting us with the glorious sight of Shkhara’s peak, 17000 feet above sea level, the highest in Georgia. The feeling was indescribable, but we knew the long hike had been worth it.

That same evening we were back in Mestia, most of the passes still closed as the winter had drawn on later than usual.

Svaneti is transforming, the government’s efforts are bearing fruit as many travellers find it easier to reach the region, and the carefully planned and maintained network of trails allow hikers from all backgrounds to find a suitable path. Families have turned their homes into guesthouses, and the valley is developing, although many of the villages out of the tourist loop are left behind. Most of the Svans are still leaving the valley, moving to the cities or abroad for work, investing their savings in the booming tourist industry. How long this may last I cannot say, I sincerely hope the Svan way of life will manage to benefit and make the most of this newly found treasure, without forsaking the natural and historical treasures that have made this place what it is. The resilience, strength and pride of the people we met makes me hopeful that they might find the necessary harmony between their traditions and the modernity arriving on a 4×4.