week 9: Wolves, Flowers, and Kiki the Kawasaki

Returning to a familiar place when your heart is set on riding around the world can feel like a setback, or even a failure. The very word "set" becomes a problem on a long journey that has a direction but no defined path. Nothing is set in stone—from the gear you pack to the ideas you harbour. The impermanence of things is revealed the further you stray from your original plans. This was the case for me when I returned to Tbilisi to meet Emily. We had agreed to meet there for a few weeks while she was on a photography assignment in Georgia. I was to be her driver, splitting our time between capturing images and simply enjoying each other's company.

I had left Emily on her doorstep in Istanbul, full of fears and anxieties about what was next. Was our connection just a Bosphoric dream? Had we been swept off our feet by Istanbul’s charm, or was our connection real? Doubts swirled in my mind as I dove back into the manic traffic of Tbilisi. Was reconnecting with her the right move, or would she turn from Penelope into Medusa, stalling my journey? Many friends, vicariously living through my journey on Instagram, suggested I ride on. Adhering to my ego and set itinerary would mean changing my plans; the time perceived as lost would prevent me from reaching Mongolia and Vladivostok by September as I had envisioned. The realization that my race around the world was perhaps overly ambitious was dawning on me, blending frustrations and doubts into one magnificent ball of neuroticism.

On the eve of Emily's arrival, I found myself restless amid a sudden heatwave—an unsurprising event for the locals, given that Tbilisi translates to "the hot place."

Emily was due to arrive that afternoon, which gave me some time to prepare our little nest in Tbilisi’s old brothel district, near the sulphur baths. According to legend, one of Georgia's early kings (likely named George, as so many Georgians are) founded the city around these warm springs, which led to the establishment of what is now the old centre.

One urgent matter before her arrival was attending to Tara, my motorcycle, which had taken quite a beating in Armenia. The farther east you go and the further you are from the Western comfort bubble, the harder it is to find a mechanic who has the knowledge and, importantly, the parts to fix a modern motorcycle. This is not to dismiss the skills of mechanics in remote parts of the world; their ability to adapt and improvise is unparalleled compared to Europe. However, the more modern the bike, the more challenging it is to apply this mechanical versatility without the right parts. Georgia, being the last bastion of Europe in a sense, was always the plan for giving Tara a thorough service.

Thankfully, Tbilisi is home to Laguna Motos—a haven for adventurous, skilled, and wild mechanics. Nestled in an old abandoned post-Soviet Olympic swimming pool, it’s a hard place to find despite its central location. The garage, owned by a man named George (as are his two mechanics), is where all business flows. George, a tall Slavic-looking man in his early thirties, runs the place with a calm authority, strolling among the carcasses of old and new bikes, followed loyally by his German Shepherd, Roxy.

After a thorough inspection, George noticed some missing spokes on Tara's rear wheel—a dangerous issue that could threaten the wheel's integrity and lead to serious problems and costs down the line. Parts would take two weeks to ship to Georgia. In the meantime, he offered me a 1984 Kawasaki KLR 650 cc that a French actor had ridden to Georgia and gifted to him. It was half the power of Tara and almost half the weight, but with no alternative and a promise to Emily that we would explore the country on a bike, I accepted, hoping it would suffice.

With everything set, I headed out in the sweltering mid-afternoon heat to collect Emily. Chain-smoking cheap Georgian roll-ups, I waited anxiously by her drop-off point. When she stepped out of the taxi in her Iranian gilet and long, soft orange dress, all my doubts evaporated. Lifting her into my arms, a cool breeze swept away the fog clouding my mind and heart—it was real.

The following days were a time of reconnection. Transitioning from solo travel to exploring a country together can be challenging, but not with Emily. Her seasoned adventurism and unphased demeanor made it easy. After lounging in Tbilisi for a couple of days, we decided it was time to head to the mountains in western Georgia to Ushguli, the highest settlement in Europe and a UNESCO-protected site.

As we prepared to set off, a dark reminder of my past surfaced, plunging me into a state I hadn’t experienced since departing. Bob Marley’s words rang true—you can't run away from yourself. Many travellers leave seeking something or escaping their past. The latter was my case, but the past often catches up, no matter how far you go. Being free isn’t about roaming the world or distancing yourself from pain; it’s about learning to let go. For many soldiers our deepest desires are often being told what to do. It’s the ultimate freedom. Freedom from thought. This new type of freedom, freedom of choice and direction meant learning how to accept it and enjoy it. Unbeknownst to me, the next phase of my journey would be crucial in accepting my past and setting boundaries to build a healthier and saner future. The journey is about what you allow yourself to let go of, not just the places you visit.

Before we could set off into the mountains, we had to pick up Tara's replacement, a 1984 Kawasaki KLR 650cc, at George's garage. Losing half the packing space due to her replacement not having any luggage racks meant we could only bring our small backpacks. There’s something freeing about that; in the military, there's a saying that the more pouches you have on your gear, the more tempted you are to fill them, and consequently, the heavier your gear is. The same is true for any type of travel; remove the options to take superfluous stuff and you will focus on the essentials, and lo and behold, the hoarder in you will soon relax when you realize you don’t need much. It may be a cliché to say that material things tie us down, and off course I’m not advocating for a life of asceticism however there is something about owning less and living more. George is a stereotypically horizontally laid-back Georgian, so after waiting around for a few hours before getting the call to go pick up the Kawasaki, we head over to his place on the outskirts of Tbilisi. By then, we had missed the window of cool morning fresh air. Sweating and a bit frustrated, we finally make it out of the city with 400kms to make in the sweltering heat before we reach the hills. Kiki, the Kawasaki as we would later name her, weighs 120kgs of no-thrill, two-cylinder beautifully simple Japanese engineering, with a top speed of 120 km/h on the motorway and very little torque. Riding two up along the Georgian motorway was not the most pleasant of experiences, often being overtaken by large Russian transport trucks.

The road from Tbilisi to Ushguli goes along the Russian border from east to west and past North Ossetia. The contested region of Georgia currently under Russian occupation since 2008. It's a barren piece of land that extends as close as 100kms from the capital Tbilisi. It's sort of a no man's land, peppered with police checkpoints. The majority of Georgians have been displaced from there, but some still remain in the occupied territories with their families living in Georgia; one can't imagine the difficulties of day-to-day life for these people.

 After we pass North Ossetia, we arrive in Kutaisi. The forgotten part of Northwestern Georgia, rolling hills of rich sedimented soil, covered in small patch vineyards and sprawling vegetation interspersed with abandoned post-Soviet buildings. The first 100 miles are tough; the heat, the new bike's dodgy brakes, the dust, the vodka fuelled lorries drivers. Emily, and I struggle to find a comfortable riding groove. Internally, I’m in turmoil, my past won't let me be in the present, I can't let go. I’m riding across Georgia with a beautiful woman living my best life, yet I can’t seem to get out of my head; it's all boiling up inside of me and I feel so egotistical and narcissistic for not being able to just be present. I struggle to enjoy the moment and hate myself for it.

The motorway ends and we head deeper into rural mountainous Georgia, a cross between Borat's village and 'The Hills Have Eyes' at times. Desolate abandoned villages, lush green rolling hills, and desperately bored-looking villagers lurking outside of their homes doing nothing. It seems a common scene to see groups of men just sitting in the shade, doing absolutely nothing. Then again, what is there to do? A failing economy centered around the cities, sweltering heat and lack of foreign investment and 20% of the country under occupation leads to a sense of desperation and lack of dynamism in rural areas.

 The road starts twisting and turning, as if coming alive, and takes us out of the monotone torpor we had set into. Not only is the road becoming more lively, but so is the world around us. Bustling farms start appearing, the roads now are teeming with all sorts of free-roaming cattle that just seem to enjoy running across the road at any given moment, completely oblivious to the two of us and Kiki's underwhelmingly satisfying Kalashnikov-sounding engine, Tatatapop! We trundle on dodging and weaving huge, mud-covered pigs laying in shady ditches to avoid the heat. Cows stare at us as vacuously as some of the old men we cross in this desolate, strange place.

 Riding two up is a welcome change from my solo riding, offering less speed and risk, more casual cruising through the landscape, and, more importantly, a shared experience. As we navigate through the Caucasian hinterlands, past small dacha-style farmhouses and sprawling cattle, we finally settle into a rhythm. Emily sits snugly behind me, one hand on my shoulder, the other on her phone, ready to snap the opportune picture or simply texting. We focus on different things: as the driver, my attention is on the road, while as the pillion, she has the freedom to let her gaze wander, taking in the smells, sights, and sensations. Sitting pillion is about trust; riding a motorcycle is dangerous enough for the rider, but entrusting your life to someone else is rarely as palpable as when sitting on the back of a bike. One must relinquish control and submit to trusting the rider. In that regard, Emily excels, being relaxed, chatty but not overly so, stoic, and calm—a breeze of a passenger. We develop a code: each time I spot a wild pig or a strange sight, I tap her leg on the side to look at it. Thus, we cruise along, occasionally tapping to observe an oversized pig playing in the mud or a grumpy Georgian old man sitting on his porch, much the character of the former...

 Suddenly, a flurry of movement catches our eyes on the road ahead, two taps on Emily’s leg. A few cows and a cowering calf dart across the road from right to left and take refuge in a nearby ditch beside a derelict-looking garden fence. From the other side appears a large white sheepdog, ears and tail pointed up, chest and hackles puffed up; it slowly crosses the road in a defiant posture, his attention firmly focused on something on the other side. We both instinctively look in the direction of this alert hound. To both our surprises, on the other side of the road from which the cows had come, we see two giant wolves staring calmly though golden eyes at the dog. We can't quite get over it. The scene is unmoved by us riding through the middle of it on our loud motorcycle. By the time we realise what has happened, it's already too late, and the scene has disappeared. We are both jubilantly shouting at each other through our helmets, "Did you see that!!!" we howl all the way down the road Re-enthused by the sight of the wolves, we press on to Kutaisi, the largest city in Northwest Georgia, on the edge of the Caucasus mountain range. A heteroclite city mix of downtrodden post-Soviet building, pre-Soviet Georgian architecture; aside from the decrepit and crumbling post-Soviet tower block, the skyline is very low, the streets cobbled, and many little wine and dumpling restaurants scattered across the city.

 We pause for a cigarette and some water to cool off from the ride to get there and set our sights on getting to our BnB. We crash as soon as we arrive and prepare to leave the next day to start our ride to Mestia, 300kms uphill on long and twisting half off-road half-tarmacked roads. Emily is sad, she knows I’m not there, caught in my never ending anxious ruminations about the past, I find it hard to connect, I’m still not free of my guilt, shame and self loathing. Depression still has its hooks in me I cant open up to her, I just feel withdrawn and irate. All this milage and still stuck with the past, when will it end? I suffer in silence and feel ashamed and cowardly for not being ablke to share my pain with her, I want to protect her from my darker thought, I’ve failed to many relationships due to depression, I own it and will deal with it. I don’t want to corrupt what we have due to my failings.

 Mestia is the last town in the mountains, our next step for the following day before starting the real ride up to Ushguli. Kiki was still giving me reservations; the long ride from Tbilisi had been a chore, and I was a bit apprehensive about getting back on her in the morning, but didn't want to share my doubts with Emily. I missed Tara and felt like I was double cheating on her with a beautiful English woman and a robust Japanese two-stroke. Nonetheless, we set off early for the ride up the mountains 300kms of uphill twists and turns following rivers and mountain passes, the scale of the Caucasus was really brought alive to us, makes the Alps seem like a cute little clump of hills. This is where Kiki came into her own, her light weight, high ground clearance, and relentless engine meant that no road was inaccessible. We cruised past struggling 4x4s on dirt tracks and through river beds without even batting an eyelid, pure off-roading joy! We make it to Mestia for nightfall covered in dust and beaming smiles under our helmets.

 Mestia, nestled in the heart of the Svaneti region of Georgia, serves as a gateway to the rugged peaks of the Caucasus Mountains. This historic town is not only a hub for adventurers, climbers, trekkers, mountain bikers seeking to explore its breathtaking landscapes but also a guardian of the unique cultural heritage of the Svan people. Svaneti stands out due to its distinct language and ancient traditions, which have been preserved over the centuries, partly because of its remote and inaccessible location.

The region is famed for its medieval defensive towers, built between the 9th and 12th centuries, which dot the landscape, serving as silent sentinels of the past. These towers, often attached to family homes, were used historically as protection against invaders and feuding families. Today, Mestia is both a reminder of a fierce, independent history and a beacon for trekkers, skiers, and historians, drawn by its wild beauty and rich cultural tapestry. As we settled for the night, a massive storm broke over the Caucasus, a dramatic backdrop fitting for such a storied place. We set off the next day to Ushguli, climbing higher into the Svaneti mountains.

 The storm from the night before had subsided, leaving the air fresh and cool—a welcome change from the stifling heat of recent days. Kiki, our trusty Kawasaki, proved her mettle, effortlessly navigating over rocks and boulders, unphased by mud and river beds. Light enough to avoid getting bogged down and powerful enough to pull us over challenging terrains, she carried us past slower travelers, allowing us to reach the village in record time. Ushguli is perched at the base of Mt. Shkhara, which towers at 5,218 meters, known as the "nine peaks" for its distinctive silhouette. This village, a UNESCO World Heritage site, is celebrated for its altitude and unique medieval architecture. Legend holds that it is the final resting place of Queen Tamar, the revered Georgian monarch whose reign marked the golden age of Georgia. During her rule, which extended from 1184 to 1213, Tamar presided over the zenith of the Georgian Golden Age and was later canonized as a saint of the Georgian Orthodox Church. Her death brought about a wave of reverence and mystery, with myths surrounding her burial claiming she was interred with great treasures. To protect her final resting place, it is said that her most loyal knights killed themselves after burying her, ensuring that the exact location would remain secret forever, lost to anyone seeking to disturb her peace or plunder the royal treasures.

However, Ushguli’s tranquility was disrupted during the Soviet era when the party, driven by legends of hidden treasures in Tamar's grave, began excavations around the village. This search for gold, driven by greed rather than respect for cultural heritage, led to tensions with the local community. A defiant Georgian artist stood against these exploitations, only to be confined to a mental asylum for four years as punishment. Despite this, he spent his remaining years in the village creating surreal, Dali-esque paintings from his studio, inspired by the imposing view of the nine towers.

Today, Ushguli is at a crossroads. The pressure of modernization threatens its historical fabric with the construction of new hotels and roads aimed at boosting tourism. These developments, while changing the village’s landscape, are met with mixed feelings by the locals. The younger generation is drawn away by the allure of easier city life, leaving behind the harsh, labor-intensive lifestyle of their ancestors. For those remaining, the promise of tourism offers a lifeline—a means to sustain the village economically, even if it risks altering its character. The results for the villagers are tangible. 10 years ago the village numbered 600 people, not it precariously has stabilised at 200, this is solely due to the influx of tourism. As ever the balance between authenticity and survival of rural communities remains a dilemma.

 From a European perspective, the unchecked growth might seem regrettable, a loss of aesthetic and historical integrity. However, for the villagers living with the realities of isolation and economic hardship, these changes are a path to survival, a way to prevent their community from fading into oblivion.

As we plan our return to Tbilisi, we discover from one of the villagers a hidden route over a disused 3000-meter mountain pass. The temptation is irresistible. We decide to take it the next morning, spending the rest of the day exploring nearby valleys on Kiki, ripping through rivers and up disused paths to the base of a giant glacier. There, under the shade of birch trees beside a roaring ice river, we find quiet rocks to sit on and engage in deep meditation, allowing the river's sound to reset our nervous systems. Rejuvenated from our meditation, consumed by a fiery passion for each other that springs from deep within, we return to Mestia. We feel content and at peace, serene on the back of Kiki, excited for the next day's adventure over the hidden mountain pass.

Early the next morning, we start in the cold mountain air, heading to the pass. The path, more a dirt track than a road, climbs through some of the most ecologically diverse and lush landscapes. Flower-covered spurs merge into bright white snow-capped peaks. Ice waterfalls feed into torrential snow-water rivers that cascade into the valleys below. The air, filled with the scents of yellow, blue, violet, pink, and red flowers, creates a psychedelic haze of colors and odors penetrating our helmets. The track narrows, and suddenly we're on a single track, feeling like bees humming around the flower beds. The air is so clean it rejuvenates our lungs with life and energy. We're no longer merely on a motorcycle; we're flying through a landscape of pure, raw, untouched wilderness.

As we near the pass, movement on a ridge line catches my eye. It’s a white 4x4, navigating a hidden path. Inspired, I tap Emily on the thigh, "You ready for this?" Her scream back, full of joy and excitement, "I love this, let's go!" energizes me. "Hold on then!" I shout, and off the track we go, straight up the hill. I shift Kiki into second gear and pull the throttle down, aiming for the summit. The air thins, and Kiki's little twin-stroke engine struggles for air; we start losing power and she stalls on a steep climb. We bail off as she softly lands in a bed of flowers. Checking on Emily, I find her giggling with adrenaline. "You okay?" I ask. She gives me a thumbs up and lies down in the flowers. "Let Kiki rest, she's okay there!" we both laugh as I get Kiki back up, and we set off again. We finally make it to the ridge line next to the now unoccupied white 4x4. We dismount, curious about the whereabouts of its occupants.

As we scramble the last few meters to the top, we meet them—two Georgian Border Force guards in full camouflage gear, armed with AK47s, sporting curious smiles. They greet us, bemused by our sudden appearance. After a few questions and an exchange of cigarettes, we sit together exchanging stories and admiring the beauty of the valleys below. Emily picks two pink mountain flowers and playfully places them on the men’s camouflaged hats. They laugh and allow her to proceed. They explain they're monitoring for wildlife poachers and possible incursions from neighbors. One guard then starts picking flowers, gathering them, and offers them to Emily.

This exchange, simple and pure, requires no extensive conversation. There's a soothing calm when faced with the infinite beauty of nature, where words become unnecessary and the analytical mind ceases to dominate. Just being is enough. We bid farewell to the mountain's gatekeepers and continue our descent. As we do, the air warms, and soon we're back on tarmac. The transition back to civilization feels odd after the peace of high altitudes. The freshness of the mountains is replaced by the oppressive heat and fatigue of the sun. Fortunately, we find a secluded river pond, deep enough for a swim under the shade of some trees, where a semi-wild Kangal dog decides to shepherd us. She tags along and even joins us for a quick dip in the river, acting as our guardian against any unexpected movements in the surrounding bushes, her barks echoing like alarms. Reminded of the wolves we saw earlier, I keep my concerns to myself, relieved to have such a vigilant companion.

Back in the surrounding area of Kutaisi with a day to go before returning to Tbilisi, we explore the Prometheus Cave, renowned for its stunning stalactites and stalagmites. The cave takes its name from the Greek myth of Prometheus, who, according to legend, was chained to a mountain in the Caucasus as punishment for stealing fire from the gods to give to humanity. This story resonates deeply here, enhancing the cave's enigmatic and mystical aura.

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, when the region was rife with uncertainty, a local man and his faithful dog became guardians of the cave, protecting it from looters and preserving its natural treasures. This duo's vigilance helped maintain the integrity of the cave until formal protections could be reinstated, turning them into local legends.

Later, we visit the nearby abandoned spa town of Tskaltubo, once celebrated for its grand Soviet-era sanatoriums and therapeutic mineral waters. These facilities drew thousands, including Joseph Stalin, to seek healing in their waters. Now, the town is a ghostly echo of its past, with the majestic buildings crumbling and nature reclaiming the once-manicured grounds. The juxtaposition of these once-magnificent structures against their current state of decay provides a poignant reflection on the transience of human endeavours and the relentless march of time. The eerie beauty of these abandoned sanatoriums, alongside the stories of their former grandeur, underscores the profound impact of historical shifts on places like Tskaltubo.

Eventually, we make our way back to Tbilisi, the city seemingly pulling me back time and again. After a few uninspiring days touring the city, we spend most of our time sequestered in our Airbnb. Tbilisi, under a depressive veil, feels unwelcoming at first. Georgians can seem dismissive or even hostile, an attitude possibly inherited from Soviet times—a regime of constant surveillance that taught people to guard their curiosity and joy. Such wariness of foreigners isn't entirely unjustified, but as travelers, it casts a somber tone on our stay. So, we retreat to our apartment, finding solace in cooking healthy meals, countering the constant indulgence in khinkali, the local dumplings.

We hit the gym, reconnect with jiu-jitsu, and I catch up on much-needed rest with Emily by my side, her presence a soothing force allowing me to lower my guard. As the time for Emily to leave approaches, a pit forms in my stomach. I've grown comfortable with our routine, and the thought of resuming solo travel fills me with dread. The road ahead through Russia, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, and Nepal looms large—fraught with both dangers and wonders.

Yet, I find it hard to regain my enthusiasm for the journey. Maybe Emily has turned my self-proclaimed heroic ambitions to stone, not as the Medusa I feared but as someone I genuinely want to spend more time with and have started to fall in love with. We make plans to meet again soon, perhaps in the Pamirs or Iran, and discuss managing our time apart. Emily reminds me of the healing I still need to undertake—her clarity and understanding nudging me back on track. Our farewell is bittersweet. As she returns to Istanbul to ground herself after years of nomadic life, I prepare to continue my journey, the call of the road still too strong to ignore. The allure of Istanbul's streets, the cool air of the Bosphorus, and the fresh swims in Bebek Harbor beckon, but the promise of seeing Emily again in a distant land keeps me moving forward. There will be cyclops’s, sirens and storms ahead but I know that she will be there to return to.

I just have to keep going with my moral compass set and let life do it’s work. In the days to come, I'll prepare myself and my gear, get Tara fixed up, and say goodbye to Shota, gearing up for what will undoubtedly be the wildest part of my adventure yet.