“Coen? Where are you?!” I yelled. Silence reigned.
I called him on my phone. “Where are you? Back at the Land Cruiser?”
“Here, at the church entrance, waiting for you.”
“Well, come to the other side, down the hill. This is fantastic, a field full of ornamented tombstones as we have never seen before!”
Soon we were both exclaiming, “Look here!”, “Come over to see this!” as we studied old carvings and tried deciphering what was depicted. Some images were eroded, damaged, or partly overgrown; others were in marvelous condition. In admiration, we looked at the detailed carvings depicting men and women in traditional garb. Some included images representing their occupations: a lamb, some tools, a cow, and a wine pitcher.
Cemeteries tell stories about cultures, and we love visiting them. Over two weeks in Georgia (the nation in the Caucasus, not the US state), we had been underwhelmed by the graveyards, which didn’t stand out in any way—ordinary stones surrounded by ordinary fences. Because of a photo on Google Maps of an ornamented tombstone in the wall of a tiny church, I had decided to get off the main road, meander through this village, and walk uphill to check the site out. While strolling around the small church, I spotted dozens of these ornate tombstones, so here we were, spending an afternoon in the warm autumn sun, calling out to each other with each new find. We were over the moon with our discovery.
Our change of plans had turned out exceptionally well. A few days earlier, we had still been driving in the pouring rain in northwestern Georgia. We had been on our way to the higher Caucasus. However, it was late October, and rain on the plains meant snow on the passes, which would probably remain blocked for the winter. I abandoned our itinerary and decided we’d make a beeline for the southern lower Caucasus instead. We had no plan; everything was fine as long as it was dry.
Christianity in Georgia
Georgia (historically known as Kartli) was one of the earliest states to embrace Christianity at the beginning of the fourth century CE. Religion has continued to play an essential role in the lives of Georgians and other ethnic groups that have inhabited the region. Churches, chapels, and monasteries abound. Hills and mountaintops are popular locations for such places of worship or a simple cross that may be lit at night. If you like old churches and frescoes, put Georgia on your list.
In southern Georgia stretches the Javakheti Plateau, a vast alpine steppe bordering Turkey and Armenia. At an elevation of 5000-6000 feet, it is rich in wetlands and lakes. As we were heading there, we stumbled upon the wealth of ornamented gravestones around the tiny church. While this was the most extensive site, we would encounter more of them across the plateau. I now had a reason to figure out how Google Maps worked (thus far, Coen had always been our digital navigator), and I jumped with excitement at each ancient church I found, getting out and circling the area, happy with each find of yet a different carving.
Tourist Trap
The Javakheti Plateau is among the country’s least visited regions but has one important natural attraction: the five-mile-long Dashbashi Canyon in Tsalka. It’s easy to see why: the earth has split, and at the bottom of the vertical walls of rocks colored by autumn vegetation runs a river. On vast, empty plains with howling winds, you are far from civilization and get a sense of driving through an ancient wilderness. This gorge displays a different touch of the wild. Well, it did until recently.
The site has been bought and turned into a Disney-style tourist attraction with rows of apartments for rent along the edge and the Diamond Bridge—a metal crossing of the gorge with a massive glass observatory hanging above the expanse in the form of (you guessed it) a diamond. Tacky doesn’t even begin to describe it. Not only is the diamond lit at night, but the whole area is also, turning it even more into a (glass) eyesore. We arrived around sunset, rough camped in peace at the far end of the canyon, and left in the morning. I imagine there are great hiking opportunities if you follow the canyon farther south to remoter sections, but that will have to wait until we return in summer.
The Wilderness
Back on the plains, the road cut through a barren landscape interspersed with farms. In Soviet times, the government decided to break up the desolate scenery by planting pine forests to make the region more inhabitable, but the patches of evergreens looked out of place. In farming villages, hay was stacked high, ready for the cold coming winter (temperatures may drop to -40℉; hence the Samtskhe-Javakheti region earning the moniker “the Georgian Arctic”). While the houses sported modern metal roofs, some barns still bore testimony to the traditional way of keeping homes warm—their flat roofs were covered with soil and turf for insulation.
Herds of sheep and cows were foraging in the fields, searching for anything edible in the yellow fields, bare after the completion of the potato harvest. The sky was blue, and the sun shone fiercely; the work was done, and smoke rose from chimneys. Only a handful of people were outside. When we passed farmers in woolen vests or winter jackets, their heads protected against the cold by hats or shawls, hands went up in a friendly greeting.
The region is also known as Georgia’s “Lake District,” with vast blue lakes, some with basins for fish farming. As we stopped along the side of the road to take in the views while enjoying a cup of coffee or lunch with homemade soup, the icy wind cut through our clothes, announcing that winter was on its way. The first peaks in the distance were covered with fresh snow.
Change of Plans
We were heading for the border with Armenia; however, sitting at a crossroads in Ninotsminda, I reconsidered.
“The weather is gorgeous; we have some time left. Why not drive another fifty-five miles North and visit the Vardzia monastery caves? It will be bloody hot in summer and possibly flooded by tourists. Right now, in late October, we’ll probably have it to ourselves.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Coen answered, changing the blinker from turning left to right.
This is one of the things we love most in our overlanding way of life: being able to change plans on a whim. We carry our home with us, making it much easier to switch plans than when you depend on public transport.
The Vardzia Monastery Caves
We meandered through the Vardzia valley late in the afternoon, the last rays of the sun shining on the yellow autumn leaves of clustered trees, giving a sense of magic to this ancient place. The pockets of dozens of caves stood out high on a grayish rock. Once home to seven hundred monks, today, only five reside at the Vardzia monastery, in a far corner of the complex, while the rest is open to the public.
Across from the monastery stretched a flat piece of grass along the river, a perfect place to set up camp. To our surprise, we encountered other overlanders—the first in weeks—a family from the Czech Republic that was on the road for a couple of months while homeschooling their two kids. We chatted while standing outside, hopping on our feet to stay warm. Temperatures dropped to freezing after the sun had set. We slept well with our down blankets, but we waited for the sun to hit the valley before we got up the following day.
The six of us bought tickets and walked uphill toward the monastery and its caverns. It was interesting to visit the site with others, particularly thirteen-year-old Andre, who was excited to be speaking English. He shared one story after another, clearly interested in history. He compared the religious past of his own country with what we saw here as we checked out dozens of wine cellars, the former apothecary and refectory, claustrophobic tunnels, escape routes for the monks in times of invasions and a rock-hewn church covered in frescoes.
After cold nights and temperatures that no longer made the rivers particularly inviting for a dip, the many sulfur baths in this country are a blessing. As we chatted with the monastery’s caretaker, he told us where to find one nearby. We followed the Czech truck east, parked and undressed. Situated in the open air, we sank in blissfully hot water, chatting away in the marvelous scenery of the valley in autumn colors. What a fantastic way to end our Georgia trip, under a warming sun, in a splendid landscape, and in the company of enthusiastic fellow overlanders.
We had arrived in Georgia four weeks earlier without a clue about this country. Georgia had lifted its curtains, giving us a peek into an incredibly beautiful, historically and culturally rich country. As we crossed into Armenia two days later, I could already feel the tinges of excitement at the thought of returning in the summer to explore more.
Photos: Coen Wubbels
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