We were cycling along a mud track high up in the mountains when a bear of a man called out an invitation:
‘Sit down! Take a rest!’ He was waving us towards him at the side of the road.
We stopped pedalling. It was a relief to have a break, and very pleasant to exchange a few words with a local. We had seen fewer and fewer people that day as we made our way steadily uphill, passing houses with gaping windows, overgrown gardens, and abandoned schools. The last kilometers had traced a precarious line along the cliff face, and we hadn’t seen a soul. Not even the stray dog who had happily run alongside me for a couple of hours around lunchtime had dared to come this far.
It was certainly a change from the cities. Cycling through Tbilisi to the station at seven o’clock on Monday morning had been deceptively calm; Kutaisi, on the other hand, where we left the train, was most definitely not calm. Cars pulled out in front of us without warning, they honked from every direction. We concentrated on remaining unscathed and wondered whether we had made a huge mistake in bringing our bikes to Georgia.
Once out of the city, there was less traffic, but the cars still drove far too fast, emerging out of clouds of dust, bouncing over rocks and potholes. Even more disconcerting: why were the drivers still honking at us? Were we unwelcome here? (We later realised this was normal – in fact, it was intended as a friendly greeting.)
Other people stood in doorways and stared at us silently as we passed. Children leaned over garden walls, whistling and waving, proudly showing off their knowledge of English: ‘Hello! What’s your name?’
Now we were at 1700m above sea level and happy to engage in conversation.
‘Where are you going?’ the man at the side of the road asked us gruffly. ‘To Ushguli? Long way. 20 kilometers. Stay here, I have a hotel. Go to Ushguli tomorrow.’
I told him we were planning to camp further up the road.
‘You have a tent?’ A pause, as he considered us. ‘And when the bears come?’
Another pause, longer.
He laughed at our dismay. ‘Yes, there are bears here. I’ve seen them. Tourists see them too. Other tourists, they camp in the woods. Middle of the night, bear turns up. The tourists, they come knocking at my door.’ He grinned. ‘You can camp in the garden,’ he said. ‘Money – it’s not necessary.’
Later, he and a colleague invited us into his ‘hotel’ (a ramshackle house with spare rooms) for a cup of ‘tea’ (think beer, wine and stronger).
‘How many people live in this village?’ I asked curiously. We were already high in the mountains and even the gravel road had given up on the way here.
‘There used to be a factory in the next village,’ he told us. ‘Thirty-five people lived here, worked in the factory… Soviet Union collapsed, factory collapsed.’ He shrugged. ‘Now there’s only three people… Three people and three bears.’
His colleague crossed himself with unexpected religious fervour and downed a beaker of wine.
That night, I dreamt of bears. I dreamt the bear was prowling around our tent. I heard it growling… Then I rolled over and realised David was snoring beside me.
