“Arie, Arie!” the man called out to Coen, and “Harie, Harie!” to Nico, motioning both to join his party. However, Coen remained in the front seat of the Land Cruiser, engrossed in a phone call, while Nico was wrapping up tasks in his vehicle. The fact that Joska and I were sitting next to the man, who had taken a seat at our camp table, seemed of no importance; it was all about Ari and Harie. While these are two regularly used names in Dutch, only later did we come to understand that this was a Georgian word frequently used by the locals, meaning: “Come, come on over!”
Half an hour earlier, the man had driven up to our little camp in his Lada Niva, admiring our two Land Cruisers. Hands were shaken, smiles exchanged, and Coen practiced his limited Russian, after which the man left abruptly.
“He’s going to get some booze and will return,” was Coen’s guess.
Indeed, within half an hour, he reappeared with half a gallon of beer and called out to Ari and Harie to come and have a drink with him.
“Drink!” he insisted and burst out laughing, and gulped down yet another glass of beer. This happy guy was full of stories of which we didn’t understand a word, but the company was enjoyable, and we all laughed along.
“Come to my place, I’ll slaughter a sheep for you, and we’ll drink more beer,” he cried out, but we had had our share of drinks and thanked him for his kind offer. The bottle empty, he got up, laughed once more, and left.
We were camped at Lake Paravani, the largest lake in Georgia. We had known Nico and Joska for a number of years, and luck had it that our paths crossed in an area with some proper off-road adventures to be tackled. According to Oun Travela’s Explore Georgia—24 of the Best Off-road Routes, we were about to take on one of the toughest level-5 roads in the country. Our journey started across undulating hills with vast grasslands shaped by the movements of thousands of sheep and goats. They are tended by shepherds who move to these higher grounds (approaching 8,000 feet) during the hot summers. The landscape alternated with explosions of wildflowers, a kaleidoscope of yellow and purple hues, with the occasional red poppy bursting through and plains of soft blue flowers. To our right, the Didi Abuli volcano (“Great Abuli”) was reaching for the sky. At 10,840 feet, it is the highest peak in the Lesser Caucasus, while to the left rose its smaller counterpart, the Patara. In the distance stood the remains of the Abuli fortress, a Bronze Age structure with sixteen-foot-high walls built of basalt rocks stacked without mortar.
As we turned a corner, a vehicle was blocking the path with one front wheel hanging in the air and a rear tire off-track. Nico and Joska were the first to reach the old man, who was elated with the help. Joska unspooled the winch, and Nico pulled the van back onto the trail in a breeze. Back on the paved road, we traversed villages with worn paths, square houses topped with zinc roofs, gardens with tall weeds, wildflowers, or vegetables, as well as tractors and broken cars—some were just missing wheels, others had turned into rusty carcasses. A van served as a mobile vegetable shop, giving us the opportunity to stock up on melons, tomatoes, bananas, and apples. The women seemed amused that I declined plastic bags, while men leaned against a wall or wooden fence, smoking cigarettes and observing the scene.
The landscape unfolded with worn tracks, tilting the Land Cruisers. The villages were long behind us when we halted at what seemed a large pond overgrown with tall grass. On the right side was something vaguely reminiscent of a trail, an uneven surface of rocks and boulders. We discussed the options, moved stones, and had cameras at the ready as Nico confidently took on the first stretch. His Land Cruiser has more ground clearance but is slightly wider than ours. After he succeeded, he stepped out to guide us.
“If you get stuck, we have the winch ready,” he remarked with a grin.
More stones were moved around, and Nico successfully guided Coen through the boulder field. Our confidence grew. After a handful of such intense sections, we reached Levani Lake and set up camp.
“Fortunately, at least we managed to cross the toughest sections of the trail, with levels 4 and 5. From here, I estimate an hour to the lake,” Nico concluded.
“No way,” Coen replied, having studied the map more closely. “We have barely scratched the surface of the toughest section. Take a look at the map.”
I decided to climb the slope to see what lay ahead of us. I spotted hundreds of white, roundish stones. Would we have to slalom among them? I took another look. The stones were moving; they turned out to be sheep, which was a relief. However, beyond them lay imposing collections of rocks and boulders across the width of the slopes, which raised questions about our route.
Back at the camp, the sky suddenly closed in with dark clouds. A deathly silence prevailed as mist moved through the valley like some ghostly appearance, only interrupted by the sharp cries of a bird of prey. Being closed off from any view, we felt the strong energy of this incredible, remote landscape as well as the power of the elements, and we felt fortunate to be here. The sound of barking shook us out of our reveries. Four large dogs came running down the slope, initially threateningly but then each took up a position on the slope and lay down, like sentinels. They quietly waited for the hundreds of sheep to scurry down the slope, taking a bite of the grass here and there along the way. Their shepherd called out to keep them moving but remained at a distance from us. Temperatures plummeted, and a first few raindrops fell. We retreated to the warmth of our vehicles for dinner and some board games. By the time we went to bed, a storm was raging.
By morning, the clouds had cleared, and we woke up to a blue sky.
“Shit, I have a problem,” Coen cursed, “the alternator voltage is way too high, I think the regulator is fried again!”
The two men dove under the hood and disconnected the alternator’s lead. As long as the sun was shining, the solars would provide enough power to keep the batteries topped up. However, any winching would be out of the question. Up and down, we drove across the hills, forever searching for a possible path among the uncountable rocks and boulders. We spotted traces of motorcycles, not trucks. Surely we weren’t the first; at least, I hoped so.
“Let’s send out the drone to use for reconnaissance,” I suggested.
With a messed-up gearbox and gears three and four not working properly anymore, I hardly ever drive the Land Cruiser. But since this trail required only 1st and 2nd gear, I now took the driver’s seat while Coen stepped outside, getting the drone up in the air. Bouncing through the fields, I spotted Nico driving in the distance, searching hard for yet another passage. At last, he took a sharp turn and skillfully maneuvered across a sketchy collection of rocks, finally parking on a tussock of grass. I engaged low gear, and with simple but clear hand instructions, Nico guided me through. The last few feet were particularly tricky, requiring some rearranging of the landscape to create some traction for the Toyota’s tires. After Nico and Joska put the necessary stones in place, Nico signaled me once more to start driving.
Before I knew what had happened, the Land Cruiser hit a stone on the right, resulting in a dent in the muffler, a broken muffler mount, and the exhaust pipe sticking out beyond the body. With the next push, the front wheel left dove into an abyss after rolling over a big rock, putting me and the truck on a terrifying slant.
“You’re doing great,” Nico said with confidence, his grin betraying how he loves doing this.
With my nerves somewhat on edge, I did the job—a great boost for my confidence—and with the Land Cruiser back on the flat ground on all four wheels, we had high fives all around. The tricky part now was behind us. Across wide, empty grasslands, we descended with Lake Paravani beckoning in the distance.
“Hey, Joska, come and ride in our Land Cruiser for a bit,” I yelled and honked to get their attention, driving alongside.
“Switch with Coen; let’s have a men’s car and a women’s car.”
Coen got in with Nico, keeping the drone in the air as they drove ahead of us. A bit further down, Coen jumped out and walked back. Assuming the drone had crashed, I continued following Nico down the steep descent. Why wasn’t Coen coming back? The drone couldn’t be that far away. Joska and I walked up the hill, searching all around for him as well as the drone, but to no avail. Just as we were about to return to the Land Cruisers to drive back, I saw him waving on the top of a hill. He had found the drone! It turned out that it hadn’t crashed, but the battery had nearly been depleted, so it had automatically flown back to home base, which was where we had stopped earlier for coffee. Fortunately, Coen had tracked our trail on his iPhone and could walk back to the right spot.
Soon, our new friend would join us with his jug of beer at our campsite on the shores of Lake Paravani—one more happy ending for both man and machine in nature’s remotest landscapes.
Images: Coen Wubbels
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