week 7: 8000 years old wine and 300 meter targets
Recovering from the mountain is a multifaceted experience. Your body demands rest, and while the sense of accomplishment is uplifting, a subsequent deflation often sets in. What next? The adrenaline and high-risk intensity experienced during the climb aren't easily replicated, similar to the transition soldiers feel returning from operations—loss of purpose, fatigue, and a backlog of insights and experiences to process.
Back in Shota's apartment in central Tbilisi, the city's chaos—screaming cars, relentless traffic, thronging crowds—feels overwhelming. While I have the privilege to rest, Shota's paternal duties are unending; poor Demeter has contracted a nasty virus, necessitating an immediate hospital visit. Exhausted, Shota attends to his responsibilities without complaint. I, on the other hand, collapse onto the sofa, indulging in sugar and copious amounts of traditional Georgian food, which seems to magically appear from his mother’s kitchen. What bliss it is to return to the comfort of a warm sofa and hearty, meat-laden Georgian dishes.
We spend two days virtually vegetating, barely able to do more than sleep, eat, and numbly watch television. As our bodies slowly recover, I begin to feel a creeping sense of depression and angst. Having made it to Georgia, reunited with Shota, and conquered the mountain, I'm now at a crossroads, facing a daunting decision: how to traverse to the Pamirs without getting detained in Russia or arrested in Iran for similar reasons. Despite my concerns, I feel somewhat safer traversing through Russia, where there seems to be more stability than in Iran. Although I'd love to explore ancient Persia, I must weigh the risks carefully. I'm no longer a soldier and have no political affiliations or government ties, but perceptions might not align with reality. The head of Agence Press France in Istanbul has advised against travel to both countries, and my aunt is terrified at the prospect. Nevertheless, I'm drawn to Russia, inspired by my readings of Tolstoy; his works transformed my outlook in my youth. Russia bore an immense burden during WWII, with over 20 million lives lost to defeat the Nazis. I believe, deep down, that people everywhere are fundamentally the same—they love their families, seek a warm bed, and strive to provide for their loved ones.
Now, as a wanderer, I see myself, perhaps naively, as a citizen of the world, disillusioned by the divisiveness caused by nationalism. As a British child born in France within a hippie commune, my sense of national identity was never strong. My parents had moved from London in the 1970s to establish an artistic community in Southern France. With little money, they bought land featuring a dilapidated castle and renovated it themselves. In this artist enclave, identity was rooted in creativity, not nationality. Ironically, the first child born in this community—me—would grow up to reject artistry for the military.
Nestled in the Cévennes, the chateau was almost a paradise of creativity and expression. Songs filled the air, theatrical performances were weekly events, and people from across the globe came to participate in workshops, eager to unlock their creativity. My interests lay elsewhere; I preferred exploring the surrounding hills, imagining myself as a character in epic tales like "Lawrence of Arabia" or "King Solomon's Mines," with sticks as my rifles and bushes as enemy hordes, alongside my loyal four-legged sidekick, Ulysses. This idyllic and secure childhood set the stage for the dramatic shifts my life would later take.
Once Shota and I regained full use of our legs, an online acquaintance invited us out. Nate the Nomad, as he's known on Instagram, is a fellow motorcycle traveler whom I've been following for some time. Coincidentally, we were both in Tbilisi and decided to meet at the aptly named Nomad Bar. Nate, a towering 6ft6 figure with a mix of Native American and Ukrainian heritage, sported a long ponytail and a southern American drawl. His appearance, a blend of Sitting Bull and a Kiev Viking, was striking. We connected instantly, swapping stories and reshaping our worldviews over drinks. Nate had been rejected by the US Air Force for dubious reasons, which led him to become an aviation engineer and later a private contractor in Iraq and Afghanistan. Disillusioned, he eventually decided to travel the world on his custom BMW cross-Aprilia bike. Joining us was Sisi, his vibrant Chinese partner whom he met in Turkey during the pandemic lockdown. Sisi's laughter and energy were infectious; she had spent years in Turkey, learned Turkish, and had even participated in earthquake rescue efforts in Hatai.
When we shared our experiences from Kazbegi, Sisi recounted her own ordeal during a solo trek in the Turkish hills. Caught by nightfall, she slipped down a waterfall, landing on a rock. Isolated and injured, she endured hours in the cold water before a shepherd heard her cries and orchestrated a rescue. Her survival was nothing short of miraculous. We concluded that in the end, you don't conquer mountains; they allow you to learn about yourself, and you survive only if the mountain and God permit.
Nate's farewell drinks that night marked his departure for the Pamirs through Russia the following day, a journey I will be following closely. As the bar closed, we promised to reconnect somewhere on the road, fate permitting. The next day was intended for recovery from the festivities, but life had other plans. As Shota and I cruised through Tbilisi on his unnamed Honda Shadow, we received a call from his special forces buddies hosting a nearby supra—a traditional Georgian feast led by a tamada, or toastmaster, who ensures the wine flows as freely as the lively toasts. With a quick turn, we sped through the streets, racing past approving Hells Angels, to find ourselves at Mika's vine-covered house on the city's outskirts.
The scene at Mika's was like stepping into a fortress of camaraderie: shotgun holes in the veranda (a mishap that once knocked out the street's internet), and tables groaning under the weight of meats, homemade wines, and hearty Georgian staples. The room buzzed with the energy of Mika, Dato from Georgian SF, and other robust figures from the local special forces community, all reveling in the feast. The toasts began immediately, and soon, the drinking horns were brought out, challenging each participant to drink deeply. The night was a vivid celebration of Georgian hospitality and spirited camaraderie.
Amidst the revelry, discussions turned to the exceptional quality of Georgian wine. Known for its 8,000-year-old viticultural traditions, Georgian wine is crafted through ancient methods, including fermentation in qvevri—large clay vessels buried underground. This technique imparts a unique sweetness and robustness to the wine, which, due to its natural processing, often leaves no hangover. As a Frenchman, I must admit that Georgian wine, with its rich history and vibrant production community, rivals even the finest French vintages.
The evening's festivities, however, were not without their lessons. Caught off guard by the sutra's rule of not downing a glass with each toast—a detail Shota failed to mention until too late—I found myself thoroughly inebriated. The night's surreal quality only intensified as the guns came out. In a scene straight out of a movie, we found ourselves singing traditional Caucasian songs, weapons in hand, as we stumbled home from the celebration.
The following day, surprisingly clear-headed, we spent at the shooting range, testing sniper rifles and dodging cows that ambled across the range, herded away by drones operated by our marksman friends. It was a fitting end to a visit that had blended intense physical challenges with deep cultural immersion.
As I prepared to leave Georgia for Armenia, to meet friends old and new, I reflected on the journey. From the highs of mountain summits to the warm embraces of newfound comrades in Tbilisi, this trip was more than just a passage through landscapes; it was a journey through the layers of human connection, resilience, and the timeless spirit of adventure that binds us all, regardless of where we come from or where we're headed next.
