week 6: The mountain and the warrior

Thanks to my altercation at the border, I lost three hours on my initial plan to enter Georgia. There's a lesson here for any traveler crossing multiple borders: Start your crossing early. You never know what might happen—slow procedures, grumpy guards, lines of traffic, and sluggish administrations. Be the early bird and even dedicate a full day to the crossing. Make it an event rather than an inconvenience; it will alleviate any frustrations that may arise. Nonetheless, hindsight is great, but in my case, I still had 300 kilometers to cover to get to Tbilisi and finally reunite with my long-lost friend, Shota, whom I had last seen in the parking lot of Old College at Sandhurst 14 years ago, the day after our commissioning parade and officially becoming 2nd Lieutenants.

Shota was a pillar to our platoon, a typical Georgian in appearance—short, stocky, built like a cross between a mountain goat and a bull. Our platoon was a good one, but there was a lot of rivalry and competition among our tribe; however, Shota was unanimously loved by all. He always volunteered for the worst tasks. I later found out that this was his way of showing value as he could barely speak English when he joined the academy as a foreign student. I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for him; it was hard enough as a native speaker to take on this new identity and military vernacular. Added to this, the subdued discrimination from British cadets toward foreign cadets, who are referred to as FLOPEs—Future Leaders of Potential Enemies—was palpable. The academy hosts a full range of FLOPEs; when I was there, we had the third in line for the throne of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, who at 18 owned a Ferrari, two Land Rovers, and had no license to drive. On the other end of the spectrum was Shota, who was barely making it with the small stipend of five hundred pounds a month from the Georgian state. The FLOPE program is a form of British soft/hard power projection aimed at building alliances. The academy has a global standing, and many leaders want to send their turbulent and spoilt offspring there to teach them some leadership and get them out of trouble at home. For others like Shota and the Georgians, this is a golden opportunity to strengthen links with the West and build stronger bonds within NATO.

As I dodge and weave through the manic traffic of Tbilisi and encounter the outright crazy drivers—confirmed by Shota later, as Georgians are self-admittedly bad drivers—my mind is flooded with memories of RMAS and the excitement of seeing Shota again. Last we saw each other, we were both in our late twenties, and now we're both in our forties. Will he have changed? What has happened in his life as an officer in the Georgian Army? Before arriving at the academy, he had fought to defend Georgia against the 2008 Russian incursion. In a funny moment at the academy, an instructor was telling us about the theoretical fear of being under artillery bombardment; Shota put his hand up and silenced the room with his accounts of the invasion.

As I draw nearer to Shota's house, the traffic intensifies. Georgian drivers seem to have an uncanny knack for driving with both eyes on their phones and no care whatsoever for their surroundings—a biker's nightmare. It's dark, and I have broken my rule of no night riding, but I made a promise to Shota that I would be there tonight.

Finally, I make it to his block of flats, located in a working-class area of Tbilisi, part of what looks and feels like a Soviet-type grey tower block. Shota comes down to meet me with his stepdaughter, Anna. In a sense, he hasn’t changed in 14 years, still the same warm and caring eyes and stocky build but with a massive beard. We have a long bear hug; it's good to finally see my Georgian brother again—that’s a promise I needed to fulfill!

He takes me to the 8th floor of the tower block, where he lives in a small two-bedroom flat with his mom, dad, pregnant wife Nino (a sniper in the Georgian army!), his son Demeter, and his stepdaughter Anna. The flat is immaculate, warm, and welcoming. I can't quite believe I made it. We sit down, and instantly he brings out the wine, and we get into sutra-style drinking and toasting. We talk all night, catching up on the past and planning the week to come. Since we last saw each other, Shota's life has been nothing short of a modern-day Georgian hero's story. He deployed three times to Afghanistan with his unit and was blown up as many times, fortunately with no severe injuries, other than possible concussion issues and possibly some PTSD for good measure. We joke that we have both grown our beards, put on a bit of muscle, and have to take our pills at night. When he left the army, he was at a bit of a loss and went into private contracting, so redeployed to Afghanistan another two times. With his son on the way, he knew it was time for a change and less deployment; he needed stability, so he became a paragliding instructor and high-altitude mountain guide, where he was involved in one of the most tragic and gruesome paragliding accidents in the history of Georgia. After his first son was born, he decided to stop the crazy stuff and became a bodyguard to a notorious and very successful Georgian businessman. Ensuring he has stability and the ability to spend more time at home with his growing family. As we down more and more horns of wine, we delve a little bit into Georgian history and what it means to Shota and Anna to be Georgian. Shota is a fierce patriot and so is Anna, his stepdaughter. The recent corruption allegations and attempts by the government to align the country with Russia have not gone down well with the younger generation of Georgians born post-Perestroika. They do not have an affinity with Russia and want to be closer to Europe; they see themselves as Europeans, as seen by the graffiti all over the city. European flags with Georgian flags painted on almost every wall. Georgia’s history is fascinating—a small, ancient mountain people that have always been in the way of bigger empires, a story of David and Goliath. To the north, the Russian empire; to the south, the Ottoman empire, the Caucasus as their ramparts; they have managed to maintain their culture, language, and history alive throughout history by being a brave and warrior-like people. With a population of only 5 million, they remain fiercely free and independent, a literal stone in the boot of empires that all wish to conquer this small bit of land that makes the link between Asia and Europe. Good luck to anyone that tries; there is a real fierceness in Georgian eyes—they seem to share this golden, flame-like tint. Fierce and warrior-like, the region is so mountainous and difficult to navigate it would be another graveyard of empires much like Afghanistan has been to so many. The lesson here for power-hungry empire builders is simple: Leave mountain people alone. They are forged in difficulty and hardship and value the freedom of being on the mountain more than anything else. Just let them be.

 I instantly feel at home in Georgia, with brave, independent warrior-like mountain people who like to drink wine, shoot guns, and climb mountains—what's not to like? As the wine flows, we decide to maybe not head to the mountain the next day as planned and might need one day to recover and prepare our kit. I need it; the last few days of riding have been intense, and adding a hangover to the accumulated fatigue before setting off to climb a 5054-meter mountain might not be such a good idea. I remind Shota that we might be all tough-looking with our cool beards but we're not in our twenties anymore and certainly not the racing snakes we used to be at Sandhurst. The next day we hit the gym and go watch Georgia play the Czech Republic for the football on a big screen at the Tbilisi stadium, this is the first time Georgia has made it to the competition the excitement is palpable, flags everywhere kids hanging out of cars singing, bus drivers bantering with clients. Anna who is 18 and full of idealism is on the point of imploding with excitement, that her small country is finally on the map. She has been demonstrating a lot lately with her university against the proposed pro-Russian laws that the government has tried to pass through parliament. She is a young activist and a bright spark on her way to becoming a lawyer in a few years time.

Gym done, football done, a few more beers downrange, it's time for kit packing and route planning, the next day we drive to the mountains for a 3 to 4 day trek, up Mount Kazbegi. On the way there Shota recounts all the mishaps and accidents that have happened on the mountain, at least 5 people a year die there, due to poor weather, landslides, falling in crevices disappearing never to be found, etc…Sobering accounts, I keep my mask on, it will be fine, and I trust Shota with my life anyway, whatever he says goes. Nonetheless, I’m still apprehensive and slightly shitting myself. The excitement grows as we draw nearer the start point and can see the summit dominating the horizon. Kazbegi sits on the Georgian/Russian border, not far from North Ossetia. In order to reach the summit, we are going to have to cross into Russia, Shota reminds me to take my passport just in case we cross a patrol and get caught.

We make it to the car park after an agreeable ride up in the mountains, passing huge construction sites with Chinese flags, the Belt and Road initiative is everywhere, where is European money? Where is US money? NATO expects Georgians to side with them but where's the investment in these brave people, the world is changing, the global south will soon tip the balance of power, hopefully by then I’ll be living as a hermit somewhere.

At the car park we unload the gear, crampons, ropes, ice picks, food, water, warm gear, altitude sickness medication, radios, and GPS’s, we are good to go, a two-man inspection worthy of our colour sergean (Csjt)t at RMAS, Csjt Jones, one of the men I have feared and loved most in my life, Stockholm syndrome is real, can’t say the same for my platoon Commander, a typical American, no sense of humor, PTSD from too much combat and just a lack of nuance in his character made him a bit of a bore. Csjt Jones on the other hand was a terrifying mess, short, aggressive with a deep Gloucester accent he reigned with terror and respect in the platoon. Even after I managed to get him on restrictions of privileges for two weeks for having incorrectly polished boots on the passing of the square reshoe. I had injured my knee a few days before the passing of the square event, which is a milestone drill event at the academy. As a result of my injury, I had to do the test a week later with the biff (injured peoples) platoon. Unbeknownst to be all the other biffs had been told to bull (polish) their boots fully, mine were only bulled on toe caps and heels, as we had been instructed. The biff platoon lined up on the main square to be inspected by the academy sergeant major, most senior soldier in the British army, a very short, white-haired, red-faced angry Northern Irelander, with a piercing high-pitched shriek of a voice. He instantly ignores all the biffs and marches straight over to me, to the biffs' relief. Starts shouting and cracks a relatively funny joke, I know I should not react but I laugh. His skin turns redder than his parade uniform and calls Cjt Jones over from the other side of the square and verbally demolishes him for not having inspected me, the Academy Sergeant major has his back to me and is facing my colour sergeant, who stares right at me as he's being told he won't go home for two weeks due to being put on guard duty. His Afghan scars twitching, I’m fucked. I, of course, fail the test and then have to march around the academy calling out all my movements while the remaining 299 cadets can march silently, added to that Csjt Jones promised me he would fail me on the course and he means it…God I hated RMAS.

Thoughts of RMAS come back flooding my mind as Shota and I head off from the car park to conquer the mountain. I haven’t really socialised much with the guys from my platoon, they say you make friends for life in your platoon, but at this stage half are out and the other half are bored staff officers, waiting for retirement or desperately trying to climb the greasy pole to become Colonels. Our bonds as a platoon were never that strong or at least they weren’t for me, notwithstanding my relationship with Shota. We start the climb, the scheme of maneuver is the following, day 1- 7-hour climb via the first glacier to the base camp at a converted weather station at 3700m, day- 2 climb to 4000 for some acclimatization, day -3 summit 5054 leave it 0100hrs 8 hours to the top from the weather station and another 4 hours to get back to the weather station. So with the plan in mind, ropes, crampons, and ice picks in our backpacks we slowly make our way up from the green cover filled valleys to the first bit of snow line. All along the way we cross other guides and climbers, Shota knows them all, he greets them with warm hugs, he clearly is a respected figure on the mountain. Everywhere we stop we are invited for tea and a chat, breaks our rhythm a little but still a welcome break. Shota is kind to include me in all the conversations and introduces me as his British Army friend, jiu-jitsu champ, blah la bal, as if these credentials are necessary to earn the respect of the wild mountain people we cross.

We make it to the glacier, the weather freshens up a little, we've been walking for 5 hours, the backpacks are starting to cut into our shoulders the deeper the pain goes the higher our spirits rise as we get closer to the refuge. The mountain is a free space, no traffic, no people, no bullshit, just you and your thoughts, one step at a time walking your way to your destination, it hurts and isn’t easy but it's fulfilling, nourishing for the soul and the air is just so clean and pure. Once we arrive about 3500m the air gets thinner, suddenly our steps become shorter and demand far more energy. The last climb from the glacier to the Meteo station is a lick out but we make it just in time for sunset above the Caucasus.

The refuge, an old converted weather station nestled on a rocky spur overlooking the glacier, can house up to fifty people and is run by a team of mountaineers who are there throughout the season, prepping food for hungry climbers, providing shelter, water and more importantly providing a base location from which to coordinate any mountain rescues. The mountain takes about five to ten people a year, accidents, landslides, falling down crevices and not being found. In the guides' hangout area of the refuge which we have the privilege to be welcomed into thanks to Shota we are regaled by the stories of the other guides, there's Tite the ex-SF guide who loves museums and especially Churchill’s bunker in London, Goria from the east who speaks with a funny accent, Mika who is up in the refuge for a 3-month stint smokes weed all day to keep the insanity at bay and Georgie, a true mountain man, hunter, alpine skier and all-around wild man.

We sit with them in the smoky, warm room, the walls are adorned with pictures of mountains guides that have passed away on the mountain over the years. We share a bottle of cognac and some rollies and exchange stories. Shota is a great orator and launches into the Atomic burger story, how he and I first bonded truly at RMAS. On a cold wet dark night in the Brecon Beacons, Shota and I were sitting back-to-back trying to warm up. We had been in the field for over a week now and not a single day had we managed to stay dry or warm. With another week to go morale was starting to sink as deep as our boots in the surrounding mud. So I promised Shota that we would go to Oxford, where I lived, after this was over and go to a place called Atomic Burgers and gorge ourselves on triple patty greasy burgers. Shota who rarely got invited by the colder more reserved members of the platoon had never been to Oxford. Not only was I desperate for a burger myself but I wanted to show my town to my friend and provide him some respite from staying at the academy every weekend. So with some renewed energy in our step and warmed at the thought of the feast to come we endured the remaining week in quiet expectation. The exercise ended and we set off to Oxford in our chinos and blazers (RMAS civilian uniform…) We went for a cultural visit of the city, chiefly the Pit Rivers Museum, to see the shrunken heads or “Tsantsa” a cultural practice of the Shuar and Achuar people of Ecuador and Peru. These heads were traditionally made by removing the skull and shrinking the skin through a specific process involving boiling and heating. Tsantsas were believed to capture the spirit of an enemy and harness their power, often used in rituals and as trophies of warfare. We then visited the  samurai's sword displays, crossbows, all the stuff that I knew my Georgian warrior friend would love to see, once we were well nourished on culture it was time to go eat! So off to Atomic Burger we went, the only thing I hadn’t told Shota was that there was a food challenge on at the time. The Godzilla burger, three burgers, three portions of chips and three drinks to be doused in the hyper spicy Godzilla sauce, to be eaten in under an hour in order to have your name inscribed on the wall of fame and get the meal for free. What more could two hungry cadets want? So after signing the health disclaimer form stating that in the case of a health-related incident due to the food the consumer waived all responsibility from the restaurant the challenge began. What could be so hard about eating three burgers with some chili sauce we both thought? The Godzilla sauce. The moment it hits your lips it burns through the skin before it even has time to reach your palate, once it does it destroys all sense of taste and burns you all the way from your throat to your insides. Each bite was the equivalent of having a flamethrower being blasted in your mouth. Shota starts shivering with cold sweats and pain, I try and keep it together but I’m crying. Other customers are cheering and laughing at us. I can't lose face in front of Shota so I endure and keep eating, we try and alleviate the pain by downing milkshakes, no use. We finish the challenge with 2 minutes to spare and make it on the wall, the record was 8 mins at the time held by an American. Relieved the experience is over, or so we thought, we retreat to my flat. The next morning proved to be the real challenge, crying through the bathroom door, I apologize to Shota for having brought him here, tears running from my eyes and spice exiting my body…

The mountain guides are roaring with laughter at Shota’s story and we drink more cognac, the altitude and the booze soon get the better of me and I retreat for an average low oxygen sleep. The next day is acclimatization day, which meant that we would just climb up to 4000 meters, breathe the air up there, see how our bodies cope and head back for an early night. Ready for the summiting the next day at 0100 hrs. On the way to the acclimatization climb I notice some dogs roaming around the refuge. Having done a few summits in the past I never had seen dogs at this altitude it’s a rare sight, even in Nepal. I ask Shota why there are so many, and he tells me the story of Naprali (crevice in Georgian)

Naprali, a short sausage dog bastard, was rescued on the mountain in a crevice by some fortunate mountaineers, they brought him back to the weather station to nurse him and feed him. He recovered after a few days but decided to stay at the weather station and accompany all the climbers going up and down the mountain, herding them to safety in bad weather and in the process saving some lives. In the process, Naprali started accumulating a following of dogs that followed his example. Sadly Naprali passed away a few years ago but his followers have remained and continue to escort climbers up and down the mountain. Acclimatization walk down, we head back to the station to get some rest before attempting the summit, Shota tells me “in the end, we will make it if God wants it and if the mountain lets us” There is no ego on the mountain; you are at the mercy of the weather, the environment, and providence. Just wanting something because you think you deserve it or can own it here doesn’t work, the mountain humbles any ambition, if it doesn’t let you there’s no point fighting it, you will lose and most likely disappear.

So with that positive thought in mind we prep our ropes, crampons, ice picks, head torches, and cold weather gear. Altitude sickness pills at the ready and GPS SOS sat phone charged we head to try and get some nervous sleep.

Not before I go out to smoke my last cigarette, as I walk out to find a quiet spot overlooking the glacier for sunset I hear the sound of a cello, I follow the music and find a lone cellist is sat on the edge of a cliff playing a somber and dramatic melody. Gorgi is sitting watching her, I sit next to him, he hands me a joint. I hesitate, should I, I’ve been good with my abstinence lately but this moment is too good to say no to. A few drags on this nice non-hydroponic weed, and I’m sent into a mellow cello otherworld, I’m sat on a mountain at 3700 meters surrounded by clouds listening to beautiful music, what a pleasant dream, I snap out of it, this is not a dream this is real and this is my life! I can’t quite get over it, a year ago I was sat immobilised in my sofa, snorting ketamine alone in my flat and dosing up on Valium to stave away the anxiety, incapable of managing my social anxiety. Hallucinating and talking to ghosts of my past life. Today I’m on a mountain with my best friend about preparing to climb to the summit of the highest peaks in continental Europe watching a cellist play for us at sunset. The player is the daughter of renowned mountaineer Toutsi who earned his name after having been lost for 3 days on a 7000m summit in the Pamir and survived. He was found by a search and rescue team on the edge of a cliff “Toutsiing” jangling and about to jump, hence the nickname. His daughter and him, 70 years old now, were going to summit in two days and play a small concerto for his youngest's birthday, tough family.

Mellowed out by the rehearsal and maybe a bit more by the weed I fell into a half apnea type of rest in our frozen room. 4 hours later the alarm goes off, it’s 0100hrs and time to go. Groggy and a bit nervous we ready ourselves and set out into the clear dark night, the moon and headlights illuminate our slow climb up the mountain. This is Shota’s 21st time summiting he's been coming here since he's 14 years old, he knows how to pace himself and more importantly keep my exuberance in check. The key to successfully summit is not getting to the top it’s getting back safely. So we walk a steady slow short-paced climb. As we gain altitude the steps become harder and harder. So do our thoughts, we climb in complete silence, just the sound of the snow crunching under our crampons and our breathing becoming harder and harder as the air gets thinner. The effort intensifies as we draw nearer to the summit, at one point Shota turns around and says, now we are in Russia! A spark of excitement makes me forget the pain in my lungs and legs, but it's short-lived. The effort to lift each limb becomes excruciating, I’m suddenly stuck in a negative thought pattern, I want to quit, I want to stop, why did we decide to climb this stupid mountain with no prep and a heavy hangover. What if I fall and drag Shota down? What if he falls and I can't save him, all this doubt and shit negativity floods my mind. The more presence it takes the harder it becomes to breathe, fuck, I’m about to have a panic attack on the mountain if I don’t do something to change my mindset. Just think of the next step, just think of Emily, her warm embrace, enlaced in each other's arms, just think of something good. Think about dad how we had promised to climb Mont Blanc together before he got sick. He can’t be here with you so you have to do this for him, even if when you come back he won’t know what you mean, where you’ve been and there might be a chance that he won’t recognise who you are, but fuck it, do this for him, the man he was before this shit illness took his mind. Do it for the love you have for him, make him proud and share this moment with him. The pain diminishes and so does my heavy heaving, I can control my breath if I choose my thoughts, if I focus on the negative I won't make it, I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and choose to focus on the good things in my life. But not all things are psychological, some are physiological too, the extra cheese I had before leaving is making its presence known. Despite Shota warning me to not eat too much I still destroyed a huge block of cheese before departing. I tried holding it in for the last two hours but right now if I don’t relieve myself I’m going to do a Paula Radcliffe. The issue is, I’m roped onto Shota, on the edge of an ice cliff edge in Russia semi-legally and it's -15 degrees. No option when you have to go you have to go, I tell Shota he just smirks, tells me to lean into the cliff and let it go. So I do in the most undignified and terrifying position, if I slip not only will I fall in a crevice 60 meters below but I will be found by Russian search and rescue with my pants down…Can you imagine the news headline…The operation is a success, but unbeknownst to me, as I found out a week later in a bar in Tbilisi, Shota had photographed the whole ordeal! What a bastard, fair revenge for the Atomic burger!

Relieved of the extra weight we pursue the summiting, step by step painful thoughts dissipating as we draw closer. Ice picks out we start the final climb, both of us going a bit delirious with fatigue, we finally make it, side by side, Shota collapses and starts throwing up, the altitude got him. Take all his gear off and let him breathe, I can't imagine what has been going through his mind, he's had such a tough few years, this is his body purging the shit out. He recovers fast, we have a big embrace on the top. From the summit you can almost see the Caspian, Russia, Dagestan, Chechnya, Georgia are all beneath us, we are on the top of the Caucasus, we made it!

Now the descent, 12 hours of painstaking downhill to make it to the car parks amidst falling boulders, crevices and increasingly painful feet and knees. We finally make it to the car, 19 hours of walking, it’s 2100hrs the sun has set, it’s time to get home and have a beer.