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My Greater Caucasus Road Trip——The Best Georgia Travel Guide

Thu, 20 Jul 2023 00:00:00 +0000

Prologue | A Photo of a Church Below the Snow Peaks

When people talk about West Asia, most travelers from East Asia probably picture deserts, camels, wind chimes, and turbaned Silk Road caravans. But one day, as the hiking enthusiast I am, I came across a photo on Xiaohongshu: a magnificent church set against a snow-capped mountain, captioned “I photographed the cover of Lonely Planet in Georgia.” The image lodged itself in my mind: Where is Georgia? And what is this church, up there in the snow?

Say 'West Asia' and many picture deserts and camels — Georgia is something else entirely

As I dug deeper, I found myself entering a region I had never known before, geographically and culturally. I had been to South Korea, Japan, Vietnam, the Philippines, Austria, and Germany, yet Georgia was unlike any of them. Next to the warm, famous islands of Southeast Asia, the snow peaks and gorges of the Greater Caucasus felt far more overwhelming; next to globalized Europe, its culture and history are far less familiar, and so more mysterious; next to the high-rises of East Asia, its buildings of stone and timber seem frozen in a cinematic Middle Ages. Any one of these would have been enough to draw me in.

“I’m going to that mysterious land,” a voice in my head announced.

Unlike my previous destinations, Georgia is a country without highly developed infrastructure and with vast mountainous terrain — which means the public transport that works so well in Japan and Korea doesn’t really apply here. So I decided to travel by car. It was a brand-new challenge: I had little driving experience, and driving in a country far from home, culturally different and linguistically opaque, forced me to take safety seriously — from nature and from personal security alike.

So I had to prepare thoroughly.

To better capture the grandeur of the Greater Caucasus, I sold my Nikon Z30 and bought a used Sony A7C II — a lightweight full-frame camera with a rich selection of lenses. Although I’d held my license for two years, I had no long-distance driving experience, so in the two months before departure I made many long drives; having gotten the hang of it, I even bought my first car 20 days before we left. I systematically gathered trip reports about Georgia — car rental, hiking, lodging, culture, and more…

At last the day of departure came. Beforehand, I arranged leave from school and tied up my work one piece at a time; then I handed my car to a friend, shut off the water and power in my apartment, and — suitcase in tow, backpack on my shoulders — set out from the capital airport as the sky slowly darkened, beginning the journey to Georgia…

Before You Go · A Short History of Georgia

Georgia sits at the crossroads of Europe and Asia. In antiquity, the kingdom of Colchis lay in the west and the kingdom of Iberia in the east. In the early 4th century (around 326 AD), King Mirian III of Iberia, moved by Saint Nino, proclaimed Christianity the state religion — making Georgia one of the earliest Christian nations, and Orthodox Christianity remains central to its identity to this day.

In the Middle Ages, the unified Kingdom of Georgia reached its Golden Age under David IV “the Builder” (who won the Battle of Didgori, mentioned later) and Queen Tamar (11th–13th centuries), its territory and influence at their peak. But the 13th-century Mongol invasions and the strife that followed sent the kingdom into fragmentation and decline.

For the next several centuries, Georgia lay between the two great empires of Ottoman Turkey and Persia, its lands changing hands many times. In 1783, the eastern kingdom of Kartli-Kakheti signed the Treaty of Georgievsk with Russia and became a Russian protectorate — this is what the “Russia–Georgia Friendship Monument” we would later see on the Military Highway commemorates. Yet when Persia’s Agha Mohammad Khan marched into Tbilisi in 1795 and the city was severely damaged in the fighting, Russia offered no help; in 1801 Russia went further and incorporated Georgia into its empire, ending the millennium-old Bagrationi dynasty and abolishing the autocephaly of the Georgian Church.

In 1918, Georgia was briefly independent as a democratic republic; in 1921 the Soviet Red Army entered Georgia, and it soon became part of the Soviet Union. In the Soviet era, this land produced two Georgians of great weight in modern history — Stalin, and Beria, who long headed the Soviet interior and security apparatus. In 1991, with the collapse of the USSR, Georgia regained its independence, and afterward passed through civil war, the separatist conflicts in Abkhazia and South Ossetia, and the 2008 war with Russia. Today’s Georgia leans broadly westward: on one side a deep Orthodox tradition, on the other a younger generation drawn to a European, modern way of life — a tension we felt everywhere on this trip.

Chapter 1 | Landing: The Tbilisi Beyond the Photo

In July 2023, at eight in the evening, we took a BYD Qin ride-hail to the capital airport. The sky had already darkened, but we couldn’t contain our excitement — this was the farthest journey the two of us had ever taken together. Counting the layover in Astana, the whole trip would take nearly 24 hours; for two people in their twenties, the challenge felt thrilling, as if we were setting out on an epic expedition — and Georgia’s culture and landscape truly live up to the word “epic.”

To keep from going hungry on the plane, we bought a fried pork cutlet, pasta, and sandwiches at the airport and ate our fill — who could have guessed this would be the best meal we’d have all week.

Air Astana’s quality and service pleasantly surprised us: even in economy, every seat had a crisp screen — something I’d only seen on Cathay Pacific — and the in-flight meal was good too; I still remember that enormous egg dumpling.

The first leg took five hours; at 4 a.m. local time we landed in Astana, my first time on Kazakh soil, another Central Asian country I’d long wanted to visit.

Here we faced a nine-hour wait. At first we assumed there’d be a fast transit corridor, but this turned out to be a small airport where we had to clear immigration and pass security again — luckily we’d already picked up our second boarding pass back in Beijing, sparing us a second check-in. We’d done our homework: there were supposed to be capsule rooms at Astana airport where travelers could rest, but they were fully booked — grim news at 4 a.m., when we were exhausted and parched (there wasn’t even a free water fountain).

So we decided to find food first, and luckily, on the way, we discovered recliners on the second floor of Terminal 2!

That was a welcome find; we slept like the dead on those chairs — surprisingly comfortable. After waking, we ate a plate of baozi with yogurt and beef jerky over rice at a restaurant that looked authentic. It wasn’t cheap, around US$28. Neither dish quite agreed with us: the beef jerky was astonishingly salty, saltier than anything I’d ever eaten; the baozi weren’t bad, but hardly delicious — lighter than the jerky, yet a touch greasy. At last, having survived the endless nine hours, we boarded the second flight.

The baozi with yogurt and beef-jerky rice we ate at Astana airport

From the plane, gazing out the window at the rolling Greater Caucasus

At 6 p.m. local time, we landed in Tbilisi. At the airport we bought a Magti data SIM and exchanged some local currency. I’d recommend this SIM to anyone — it keeps a steady signal even in the mountains.

In the car from the airport to the hotel, my first impression was that the place felt a little old and worn, much like the feeling I’d had landing in the Philippines, as if time had stopped; outside the window stood old Soviet-style buildings — honestly not quite the ancient capital and medieval houses I’d imagined. The temperature was very pleasant, and the light just past six had the quality of dusk. To our surprise, it didn’t truly get dark until around 8:30.

The LIVA Hotel we stayed at is right across from the Trinity Church — a five-story detached building that looked a bit like a Japanese single-family house. Unlike the street-view room we’d booked on Agoda, our window faced an inner courtyard. But that turned out to be a delight: the walled courtyard was home to a family of four cats — two big, two small, one like a dad, one like a mom. The room was a little cramped, and at about US$52 a night I first thought it wasn’t worth it; but I soon realized it was only a few dozen meters from the church gate, and the free breakfast was delicious. Again and again on this trip, simple food — sausage, eggs, bread — proved how reliable it is in Georgia.

The cats in the walled courtyard outside our LIVA window

Breakfast at the LIVA Hotel — simple but reliable sausage, eggs and bread

That night we walked across the Bridge of Peace and had dinner at a popular restaurant. Misting fans overhead kept the outdoor seats cool enough. Still, the meal really wasn’t to our taste. The Georgian dumplings, like the ones in Kazakhstan, tasted strongly gamey and salty; perhaps it’s simply how the locals like them and we just weren’t used to it. The chicken wings came coated in tomato sauce — a preparation we’d never seen, and one we couldn’t quite get used to. We filmed the whole thing on our Insta360, quietly reviewing the food, grateful the next table couldn’t understand Chinese; as for our expressions, a single glance said it all. The one thing that satisfied us was the Coke Zero — Coke is good everywhere in the world.

On our first day, we went first to the Trinity Church, also known as Sameba Cathedral , standing on Elia Hill on the left bank of the Kura River.

Overlooking Tbilisi from the hilltop, the golden dome of the Trinity Cathedral standing out against the city

Sameba Cathedral is the mother church of Georgian Orthodoxy and one of the largest religious buildings in the Caucasus. The idea to build it emerged in 1989 — the very year national consciousness was awakening in Soviet Georgia — to mark 1,500 years of the Georgian Church’s autocephaly and 2,000 years since the birth of Christ. Years of upheaval delayed the work again and again; the foundation was finally laid in 1995 and construction completed in 2004, nearly a decade in all. The church stands over 100 meters tall to the tip of its cross, its dome sheathed in gold, funded almost entirely by public donations, and dazzling in the sun.

The wind was fierce that day. The grounds around the church are beautifully kept, with small trees and flowers arranged like a great estate; people of every country, color, and faith had gathered here to take photos. I have no religious faith, and my country has no tradition of widespread religious belief, yet when I stepped inside the church, the devout gestures of the worshippers and the soaring dome still filled me with awe.

It seems to me that those who carry a faith must know a certain fullness and calm within — a faith gives you something to lean on, and a place to belong; to dwell inside a belief so vast and so old must bring a quiet steadiness that others don’t come by so easily. At first I assumed the church was ancient, but learning its history made me realize how new it is, and how much political and national meaning it carries.

Coming out of the church, we headed to the Dry Bridge Market . It’s Tbilisi’s most famous open-air flea market, named for a bridge whose riverbed long ago shifted away and dried up. Stalls crowded together, laden with cameras, medals, swords, oil paintings, and silverware. Given that most of those decades-old cameras break easily, I figured that even if I bought one it probably wouldn’t work anymore; what really tempted me was a 20-lari medal from the Great Patriotic War. I paced back and forth in front of its stall, on the verge of buying it. But an AI told me it was very likely a later reproduction, and I found the same one on Taobao, so in the end I let it go — a modern replica, with little commemorative value.

The Dry Bridge Market emerged in the early 1990s. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Georgia’s economy briefly collapsed too, and many families brought whatever they had — valuable or not — here to sell, just to get by. And so a survival stall gradually grew into a permanent flea market, which is why it’s also called the “Market of Memories.” Today it’s managed by Tbilisi City Hall and has long been a well-known cultural landmark in the city.

We then cut through two parks and rode the funicular up to Mtatsminda Park . The park sits at over 700 meters, one of Tbilisi’s highest points and a weekend backyard for locals. The funicular itself was fun — you can look out over the whole city through the windows.

Mtatsminda means “Holy Mountain” in Georgian. This funicular opened in 1905, designed by the French engineer Blanche with the architectural work led by Tbilisi architect Szymkiewicz, built specifically to develop this hilltop plateau; the track runs about 500 meters at a gradient of nearly 30 degrees. Beside St. David’s Church on the mountainside lies the Pantheon — formally established as a cemetery in 1929, where many Georgian writers, artists, and national heroes are buried. The funicular was shut down in 2000 and did not reopen until 2012.

As it happened, we only wanted to try the funicular, so following Xiaohongshu’s directions we went to the ticket office — only to learn that what they sell is the amusement-park ticket, and the way to reach the park is via the funicular. In other words, the funicular is a freebie that comes with the park ticket.

At the top, the most striking sight was still the golden dome of the Trinity Church; our hotel stood right across from it, just meters from the gate. The rides didn’t appeal to us — roller coasters, drop towers, and log flumes exist back home too — so we just ate a hot dog and looked out over Tbilisi from the summit. We’d meant to stay for the blue hour after sunset, but in the end hunger drove us back down early.

An iron tower in the Mtatsminda hilltop amusement park

Back down, we followed Google Maps’ recommendations to two popular restaurants in a row — one closed, one requiring a reservation — striking out both times; after much wandering, it took Google’s third suggestion before we finally sat down to Persian food. It was the first time I’d seen long-grain rice — before this I’d only eaten northeastern Chinese rice. The long, slender grains were soft and suited a Chinese stomach well. The staff here were warm, with live piano to boot; three waiters came by in turn with smiles to ask how we liked the food, and we nodded along with grateful approval.

Here we formally tasted, for the first time, a semi-sweet white wine and a semi-sweet red, and over the wine we talked about the city and how each of us felt. Pleasantly tipsy, we walked back to the hotel, still not ready to call it a night, so we bought soda-flavored cocktails from the shop by the door and carried them up to the rooftop to keep drinking.

The Persian meal it took Google's third try to find

Soda-flavored cocktails from the supermarket

Gazing out over the Tbilisi night, in that moment there was nothing but wind and freedom.

Overlooking the Tbilisi night from the LIVA rooftop

The Kura River after dark

Chapter 2 | The Road Leads to the Greater Caucasus

On the morning of the second day, before picking up the car, we first climbed up to Narikala Fortress — a genuinely grueling trek, not because it was steep, but because the roads here are narrow and often jammed, so we could only inch uphill through the gaps between cars.

Narikala Fortress dates back to the 4th century AD and is one of the oldest structures in Tbilisi, looking down for centuries over the old town and the Kura River, a witness to the city’s rise and fall.

Sadly the fortress was closed that day, and the church beside it turned us away because we were wearing shorts. Here we met many deeply devout people — at the church door, we watched a man step out and, before leaving, kiss the wall of the church and cross himself. A woman also kindly reminded us not to bare our teeth near the church, and we respected the local custom.

Looking out over Tbilisi from Narikala Fortress, the golden dome of the Trinity Cathedral visible in the distance

Afterward we headed down to Meidan Bazaar . Once a place where Silk Road caravans traded and rested, it’s now an underground bazaar selling souvenirs — great for photos, like the black-market scene from Harry Potter — though the goods themselves, I felt, don’t quite match the Dry Bridge Market. At a nearby café we ordered a juice and waited a full 50 minutes — only later did we realize the staff had completely forgotten what we’d ordered.

The Meidan Bazaar, like a Harry Potter black-market scene

Souvenirs galore in the underground bazaar

When it came time to collect the car, we saw the vehicle we’d booked outside the hotel — a four-wheel-drive Subaru Crosstrek — and our Georgian road trip officially began.

I’ve always loved driving, so I was thrilled the moment I got the car; it’s just that the streets of Tbilisi’s old town are so narrow that driving them is nerve-racking. Still, nervous as I was, I had confidence in my driving. The real torment was Tbilisi’s arterial roads — so many tunnels and forking ramps that one lapse sends you the wrong way.

Our four-wheel-drive Subaru

Driving through the Georgian night

Heading north from Tbilisi, the first sight along the Military Highway is Zhinvali Reservoir . Built in the 1980s by damming the Aragvi River, it supplies water for a hydroelectric station and is also an important drinking-water source for Tbilisi. Its blue-green surface, cradled by high mountains, is quite stunning. Farther north, the road burrows almost entirely along the river valley into the Greater Caucasus, flanked on both sides by towering peaks.

Zhinvali Reservoir — blue-green water cradled by high mountains

Continuing north past the reservoir, you come to Ananuri Fortress — a place I’d urge every traveler to stop and see: the scenery is superb, and the parking is cheap. The fortress is wonderfully old, with a church tucked inside; a side path leads all the way down to the riverbank, where there are plenty of activities by the water — though we never made the descent ourselves.

Ananuri Fortress above the Aragvi

Ananuri Fortress stands on the Aragvi River about seventy kilometers from Tbilisi. From the 13th century it was the seat of the dukes (eristavi) of Aragvi, and over the centuries it saw countless battles. Most of the surviving walls and towers date to the 16th–17th centuries. In 1739 a rival duke, Shanshe of Ksani, stormed and burned the fortress, and the Aragvi family was all but massacred; four years later the local people rose up, drove out the usurpers, and invited King Teimuraz II to rule. The Church of the Assumption within the walls, built in 1689, is covered in exquisite stone carvings and cross reliefs — a masterpiece of medieval Georgian church decoration. When the Zhinvali Reservoir filled in the 1980s, the fortress that once stood above the river valley came to overlook a broad expanse of blue water; in 2007 Ananuri was added to UNESCO’s World Heritage tentative list.

As for the fortress itself, it is weathered and unmistakably military, full of details designed for medieval warfare: the walls are pierced with loopholes that are “wide inside, narrow outside” — the broad inner opening lets defenders draw their bows with ease and adjust their angle freely, while enemy arrows can hardly find the narrow outer slit; other vertical shafts open straight downward, which I suspect were for dropping stones on enemies at the foot of the wall — though another theory holds they were ancient latrines. A popular-science book I read as a child described how medieval toilets worked rather like “dumping from a height,” with waste simply falling from the overhanging wall; that’s hard to verify today, so take it as an amusing aside.

The vertical shafts opening downward in the fortress wall

All in all, the fortress is full of details worth savoring, steeped in a medieval atmosphere — well worth a dedicated visit for anyone who loves history or old architecture.

Speaking of this Military Highway, it’s worth a word about China. The Gudauri–Kobi section we passed is often closed by avalanches in winter; Georgia is building a roughly nine-kilometer Kvesheti–Kobi tunnel here to bypass the dangerous stretch, and the winning contractors are two Chinese firms — China Railway Tunnel Group, building the roughly 9 km tunnel, and China Railway 23rd Bureau, building the access road — with the project funded by the Asian Development Bank and others. In recent years, quite a few of Georgia’s roads and tunnels have involved Chinese companies. China–Georgia relations have also grown closer of late: in 2017 the two signed a free trade agreement, making Georgia the first country in the region to sign an FTA with China; Georgia then joined the Belt and Road Initiative, the two established a strategic partnership in 2023, and mutual visa-free travel and direct flights began in 2024; the Anaklia deep-sea port on the Black Sea was also awarded to a Chinese-led consortium. For Chinese travelers today, visa-free entry and direct flights make a trip like this much more convenient.

Along the way, a WWII-era armored vehicle made me stop the car — who could resist a tank parked by the roadside? It may well have actually served in the Soviet army and can still run today. Thinking it belonged to no one, I parked to take photos; unexpectedly, a villager waved me over and led me around the tank — and only then did the yard reveal itself: behind the tank lay a damp, cluttered lot where vintage cars stood in two rows, most of them rusted down to little more than hollow, perforated shells, their interiors in utter disrepair. He walked me slowly along the rows, introducing his collection one by one, like a connoisseur reciting his treasures. The scene was nothing like any museum in most people’s imagination, and so it never occurred to me that this was, in fact, a “museum” — I took him simply for a passionate car enthusiast.

I assumed he was just being kind — until he started pushing jars of honey at 100 lari each; when I politely declined, he pivoted: this was a museum, he said, and I owed a 20-lari admission fee — mind you, never once before that moment had he uttered the word “museum,” let alone mentioned any charge; he only brought it up after showing me all the way around. That was when I realized there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

Honestly, had these cars been properly kept and restored, any one of them would fetch a very good price today — enough, perhaps, to astonish the world; watching them rust away like this in the weeds was genuinely saddening. The sum wasn’t much, and I do believe assembling this collection took real effort, but a fee like that should be stated up front — more than unhappy, I felt resigned.

In the end I gave 15 lari; he called me his friend and shook my hand. My girlfriend didn’t blame me — she only said it was “paying for my dream.” We felt there was a hint of being conned, but in my heart the 15 lari was still well spent; I’m glad to give this collector a bit of sponsorship.

Post-trip research · The “tank” that wasn't

After the trip, while writing this travelogue, I made a point of researching the background: the village is Pasanauri, sitting at the confluence of the Black and White Aragvi rivers — and it is also known as the birthplace of khinkali, Georgia’s famous soup dumplings. The roadside collection belongs to a local named Jimsher Patashuri, who reportedly started with a 1941 Lend-Lease Willys jeep and kept going, the collection eventually growing to include trucks, police cars, and even armored personnel carriers. And the “tank” that made me stop isn’t a tank at all — it’s a GAZ-47, a Soviet tracked snow-and-swamp all-terrain vehicle from the 1950s, which even Georgian media casually refer to as a “tank.” He came across it by chance, and hauling it home alone cost him a small fortune.

Reference: while writing this I found a detailed article about this “scrap metal cemetery museum” — saved here for anyone curious: Pasanauri Scrap Metal Cemetery Museum: Exhibits and History.

Once in the mountains the temperature plunged. Down below we could wear shorts and T-shirts, but the moment we reached the Russia–Georgia Friendship Monument , stepping out of the car left us shivering, and we had to pull on our shell jackets. Honestly, I worried a little then: if the next day’s hike were this cold, would it be dangerous? The two of us had brought only one down liner and two shell jackets. It later turned out that even in the Caucasus, daytime temperatures were fine in a T-shirt — even a bit hot — the result, I suppose, of the mountains’ wide day-night temperature swings.

The Russia–Georgia Friendship Monument was built in 1983 to mark the bicentennial of the 1783 Treaty of Georgievsk between Russia and the eastern Georgian kingdom. It was that treaty which made Georgia a Russian protectorate and opened the two centuries of entangled history that followed. The semicircular viewing platform hangs at the edge of the gorge, its inner wall covered in colorful tiled murals depicting the two nations’ history and legends — especially striking amid the snowy peaks.

Here, for the first time, I saw a gorge so deep — a drop of at least several hundred meters, with water running along the bottom — and it was the first time since arriving in Georgia that scenery so vast and majestic left me standing there, lost for words. The gorge’s edge was cold and windy, with few tourists around; below the monument, some locals were dancing and playing music. Standing at the edge, I didn’t feel weak-kneed — quite the opposite, I was so excited I could think of nothing but how to photograph the view. But it proved that no matter how beautiful the photos — I tried both wide-angle and telephoto — none could capture that awe.

The Russia–Georgia Friendship Monument in full view

The Russia–Georgia Friendship Monument

The gorge and lake below the monument

That force of wind and nature can only be felt when you truly stand at the cliff’s edge — it simply doesn’t come through in a photo.

Gorge scenery near the monument, with paragliders drifting overhead

Hidden beside the Military Highway is a natural carbonated mineral spring — Travertine Mineral Springs . The water, rich in iron and other minerals, flows and settles along the rock face year-round, building up a large travertine-like formation of red and yellow on the slope, as if someone had splashed paint across the grey-white mountain. It reminded me of the sedimentary rock in Cantabon Cave in the Philippines, but here the mineral deposits are larger and rougher, and you can even reach out and touch them.

The red-and-yellow travertine deposits beside the Military Highway

Rock formations inside Cantabon Cave, Philippines — finer and more delicate, though smaller in scale

Our first night deep in the Greater Caucasus, we stayed at T&T Cottages . It’s a lovely wooden cabin on a hillside above the town, where you can park right beside the house — handy for luggage. The owner, a warm local villager, told us he lets his German shepherd patrol the yard after nine. The guesthouse has just three rooms: one for himself, two for guests; downstairs the living room and bathroom, upstairs the bedroom, from whose bed you can see Mount Kazbek — in principle, waking early would reward you with the alpenglow, but we’ve never been early risers.

In fact, we slept especially soundly that night: a full day of driving had worn us out, and the clean, cozy cabin made it easy to let our guard down — even though there were no stars that night. Tomorrow would be our first time hiking abroad, and we were both excited and nervous, afraid something might go wrong, so I packed with unusual care: down jackets, shell jackets, sun-protection layers, even a first-aid kit all went into the backpacks. The woman from the neighboring cabin also planned to go to Juta, so we arranged to go together. Before bed we set an alarm, hoping to rise early and set out on the hike we had been looking forward to most — it later turned out to be very safe, with plenty of hikers along the way.

About the road conditions: once out of Kazbegi, there are highways all the way from Tbilisi to Kutaisi — wide and smooth. The highway passes Gori — Stalin’s hometown — where anyone interested can visit the Stalin Museum . The road from Kutaisi to Batumi sometimes runs along two-way single-lane country roads; smooth enough, slower than the highway, but with a charm of its own. On the way to Didgori, there’s a long but smooth mountain road where we ran into sports cars doing hill runs — watch out when passing oncoming traffic.

A battered old car still on the road in a KFC parking lot — a sign of how tolerant the locals are of old cars

As for the locals’ driving style, I found it quite orderly. On the highway, all vehicles keep to the right lane, leaving the left for faster cars; they signal well before changing lanes; and overtaking is restrained. When an oncoming car borrows the lane to overtake and you slow to yield, the driver nods or waves in thanks. One funny thing happened on the highway: a car pulled in front of us, and as we approached it moved to the other lane; after we passed, it overtook us again and pulled back in front, then yielded once more as we neared — and when we finally passed, we saw the driver and front passenger were a couple, smiling at us, apparently teasing us for fun. So I think that as long as you watch the nearby cars and pedestrians and follow the rules, it’s quite safe. Locals seem to love driving with the windows down, likely due to culture and climate: first, young people here love rolling down the windows and blasting music, often driving BMWs or Mercedes; second, the land is sparsely populated with an excellent natural environment and a cool climate, so the heat-island effect is minimal, and open windows keep things cool enough.

Driving Tips · Road Conditions & Choosing a Car

Inside the city of Tbilisi, I wouldn’t recommend driving to anyone, because the old town is extremely narrow, and driving here means enduring agonizing passing and turning maneuvers. Tbilisi is far better on foot — the old town is interesting enough that every corner offers a new scene. And taxis in the city are cheap, usually under 10 lari.

On the main road from Tbilisi into the town of Kazbegi, it’s a two-way single-lane concrete or asphalt road; if you don’t mind big trucks driving slowly and are content to follow quietly behind at a distance, I don’t think there’s much danger. A regular car is fine for this road.

But on the roads from the main route to the sights around Kazbegi, there’s no more pavement — just dirt track. For roads like these, unless you want to challenge yourself, I wouldn’t recommend a sedan to anyone — not only for the danger, but also because roadside assistance and repair costs can be considerable.

One thing needs special mention: because Georgia’s natural ecology is so good, all kinds of animals may appear on the road — cats, dogs, cows, sheep, and so on. When you see the car ahead brake, brake immediately too and turn on your hazard lights, to avoid rear-ending or being rear-ended. I honestly find it hard to understand why cows would be strolling on a fenced highway — perhaps one of Georgia’s unique sights.

On choosing a car:

For this trip we only went to the mountains around Kazbegi; whether the mountain roads are hard to drive depends on what you’re driving.

On this trip we drove a four-wheel-drive Subaru SUV, with excellent low-speed climbing ability, and I’d recommend every traveler self-driving to Kazbegi rent a 4WD SUV. First, an SUV’s high ground clearance means better passability; on the road from Kazbegi to Juta, the closer you get to Juta the worse it becomes, often with bumpy, uneven sections. Especially when a wheel is left hanging, the 4WD system can help you get unstuck. Second, compared with a sedan, high clearance means less damage to the vehicle itself and greater safety. Finally, on rough roads, an SUV is more comfortable.

With this car, I think even a novice can drive through Kazbegi easily — just stay focused and think calmly.

Honestly, for Kazbegi’s road conditions, if I’d been given a sedan I certainly couldn’t have made it through, because many sections are steep dirt roads — which makes you marvel at the locals’ driving skill; they can tear through the mountains in manual-transmission sedans.

Of course this SUV has its downsides: it vibrates and is noisy at speed, and accelerates slowly on the highway — it feels like a car made for the mountains, not for the motorway.

Chapter 3 | Mountains Make the Church Comprehensible

On the third day, we drove to Juta . It’s one of the most classic hiking trailheads in the Kazbegi area; the trail from here toward Mount Chaukhi is famous for its alpine meadows and glacial lakes. The road from Kazbegi to Juta is terrible — potholes like shell craters the whole way. With my skills, some spots were simply impassable without a 4WD, and it was here that I first truly understood the meaning of a 4WD SUV. Parking the car at the cliff’s edge, we set off on foot. From the parking spot to Juta village is about three kilometers along the gorge, and gazing at the millennia-old glacial meltwater below the cliffs had a charm all its own.

Gorge scenery on the road from Kazbegi to Juta

At Juta village, you face a dull uphill stretch. But the moment we finished that climb and reached the alpine meadow, the view opening up before us, our energy came flooding back — green grass and a riot of flowers, snow peaks in the distance beckoning us onward — we’d never seen scenery this beautiful, and for a moment there was only one voice in our hearts: “This trip was truly worth it, all of it worth it.” The distant peaks look a little like Italy’s Dolomites; it’s called Mount Chaukhi, and on Chinese social platforms everyone calls it “Georgia’s Dolomites.”

Mount Chaukhi is not a single peak but a row of jagged rock spires of granite and diabase, the highest, Chanchakhistsveri, reaching 3,842 meters. Craggy and sheer, utterly unlike the rounded snow peaks around it, it’s dubbed “Georgia’s Dolomites.” The trailhead, Juta village, sits at about 2,200 meters — one of the highest settlements in Europe; crossing the 3,338-meter Chaukhi Pass takes you from the Khevi region over into Khevsureti on the other side, reaching the famous three-colored Abudelauri Lakes.

It was all worth it.

The Juta alpine meadow

The meadow below Mount Chaukhi

Juta's snow peaks and grassy slopes

The pond at the foot of Chaukhi

Walking farther into the mountains, we passed the café famous on Chinese social media. In front of it is a pond ringed with flowers and full of swans, where you can photograph flowers, swans, and Chaukhi in one frame. Something funny happened here too: I ordered a fruit tea, and the server first poured me a cup of hot water; just as I was about to lift it, a fly dropped dead in it; frowning, she swapped it for another. I drank a few sips and found it seemed like plain boiled water — I thought the fruit tea was just too weak, and even savored it a few extra times. It wasn’t until the server brought the tea bag to my table that I realized it was just plain water, and I had to steep the tea myself.

Farther on is a broken bridge; we thought we’d have to wade across, but then found we could inch carefully along the bridge to the far bank; many foreigners simply jumped into the water and waded across — by comparison, we East Asians were indeed far more reserved.

The broken bridge we had to inch across on the hike

The trail ends at a small pond, its water crystal clear. Having walked seven kilometers one way, we were surprised to find we weren’t tired at all — partly because after the one big climb at the start, the path leveled out almost entirely; partly because, walking through scenery like that, you simply forget what fatigue is. By the lake stands a wooden hut left by earlier travelers, a perfect spot to sit and eat something. This pond is something of a celebrity on Chinese social media: countless photos frame it together with Mount Chaukhi — snow peaks mirrored by the water, an impeccable composition — and naturally I pressed the shutter here many times myself. The Juta trail actually has an extended version that continues all the way to the foot of the mountain, but we weren’t inclined to change plans on a whim, so we decided to return the way we came.

A few children were swimming in the lake; back in China, parents would usually warn kids against swimming in the wild.

Just as I was gazing at Chaukhi and daydreaming by the pond, a burst of cheering suddenly rose beside me. I turned to look — someone had just succeeded in a marriage proposal, and everyone was applauding them. Foreigners really are romantic; they seem to prefer proposing in a place of beautiful scenery or special meaning, rather than the “engagement banquet” popular back home.

Watching the crowd celebrate around me, I realized too that the world’s peoples share the same pursuit of love and joy — something that transcends cultural barriers.

After descending, we ate pizza and roast chicken at the Mountain Time restaurant in town — the best and most agreeable meal I’d had since arriving in Georgia.

After the meal, we went to Kazbegi’s Trinity Church — the very snow-peak church from that original Lonely Planet cover photo.

We drove up ourselves. Heading north out of the town of Kazbegi, we turned west at a T-junction and began to climb — first past scattered restaurants, guesthouses, and hamlets, and then up a tight succession of Z-shaped switchbacks. It was a wonderful stretch to drive: a two-way single lane with the occasional oncoming car, yet you could feel a real, responsive connection between the car and the road — something of a spirited hill run, and never frightening. Just be warned that a car can appear around any bend, so never cross the solid line, or an accident comes all too easily.

Gergeti Trinity Church dates to the 14th century, standing atop a 2,170-meter summit at the foot of the Kazbek snow peak; historically the only cross-dome church in the Khevi region, it’s hailed as “the church closest to heaven” for its solitary perch among the peaks. Precisely because it was remote and easy to defend and conceal, in times of war many relics from Mtskheta — including the cross of Saint Nino — were once sent here for safekeeping.

The Greater Caucasus has been tied to myth since ancient times. The ancient Greeks believed that Prometheus, who stole fire from heaven for humankind and angered Zeus, was chained to a Caucasus cliff, his liver devoured daily by an eagle — and this “mountain of the Caucasus,” in many legends, refers to none other than Mount Kazbek (Mkinvartsveri in Georgian, meaning “Ice Peak,” 5,047 meters). Georgia has its own nearly cognate hero — Amirani: he brought humankind fire and the art of metalworking, but for arrogantly challenging the divine he was chained inside Mount Kazbek, an eagle eating his liver by day, which healed by night, day after day. Many scholars believe the Amirani legend is older than the Greek myth, and that the story of Prometheus likely originated in the Caucasus. The Betlemi cave, at about 4,000 meters on the peak, is said to be both Amirani’s prison and, later, a high-altitude hermitage for Orthodox monks and a place to hide relics — echoing the story of the Trinity Church guarding its relics.

We first parked in the lot up the mountain — this is the best vantage for that classic shot of the church framed against the snow peaks. A word of advice, though: you need a long focal length (I used 180mm), or the result falls far short of how grand the cover photo looks. Seeing it in person was, in the end, quite different from scrolling past the photo on Xiaohongshu: it was somewhat overcast that day, which only sharpened the line between light and shadow — the church bathed in light while the meadow before it lay in shadow, a vivid divide drawn between them, and visually striking.

Kazbegi's Gergeti Trinity Church

From the parking lot, a walk across a stretch of alpine meadow brings you right up to the church, the scenery lovely the whole way. Inside the grounds were quite a few dogs, each with a red tag clipped to its ear — a little disconcerting at first, but they turned out to be gentle and friendly to a one; one in particular took to my companion, and we captured many lively photos there — great documentary portraiture, I think.

A photo with the dog beside the church

In the evening, we returned to the cabin, imported the day’s photos into the computer, and color-graded them in Lightroom — a full and free day thus came to an end.

Chapter 4 | Waterfalls, Springs, and a Forgotten Village

On the morning of the fourth day, we first said goodbye to the little cabin — at checkout we even took a photo with the owner’s dog, as warm as ever.

We had originally planned to hike Truso Valley that day — the route we’d set before departure — but in the end we gave it up. There were a few reasons: first, I looked into it, and the road to the gorge runs along cliff edges, beyond my driving ability; second, the gorge is near the border, with some safety concerns; third, we were a bit worn out at the time, and this was meant to be a leisure trip after a long stretch of work. We didn’t feel it was much of a loss, though — there are plenty of interesting sights near Kazbegi, and giving up one just means seeing something better.

So we detoured to see Gveleti Waterfall . Hidden in a valley near Stepantsminda, it’s the most famous waterfall around Kazbegi, in two parts, large and small, reachable by a one-to-two-kilometer hike with some climbing — a light trek.

The valley trail toward Gveleti Waterfall

The river valley on the road from Kazbegi to the waterfall

Gveleti Waterfall

After the waterfall, at a gentler spot downstream there was a small stream where I saw a foreign child climbing a tree, swinging on a rope tied to it, while his parents sat beside him — not only not stopping him, but encouraging him and teaching him how to climb. In China, this would probably earn a scolding from the parents. Honestly, my first feeling was worry, afraid the child would fall and get hurt. Later I thought this might just be the caution and anxiety of Chinese people, who don’t want their children to take any risk, while foreigners seem free of that concern. It made me think that at that age I was probably still preparing for the high-school entrance exam — I believe every child who’s been through China’s exam-oriented education would think that before eighteen you should study every day, weekends included. Back then I couldn’t have imagined this scene: my parents taking me to climb trees in a stream.

Standing by that little stream, it struck me how differently people — and nations — can choose to live; perhaps we ought, now and then, to step outside the small world we know, and go see how those on its far side spend their days.

The child climbing a tree in the stream downstream of the falls, and his parents

Pansheti Mineral Water Spring lies in the village of Pansheti, south of Stepantsminda. Carbonated groundwater has been channeled into a squared-off stone pit hewn from the rock, forming a wild swimming pool; the water keeps releasing tiny bubbles, and the iron-rich deposits turn red as they oxidize. When we arrived, a carful of foreigners was just leaving, apparently having finished swimming. We only took photos and didn’t go in — I felt the water wasn’t very clean; I worried about the water quality and about drowning, while also marveling at their boldness. Beside the pool is a great expanse of grassland, with the town of Kazbegi as the backdrop. As we parked on the grass to take photos, a shepherd passed by driving a large flock of sheep, with several dogs running around them while the sheep lined up and grazed slowly. A pool deep in the mountains, the distant town, and the flock before us all in one frame — both harmonious and wonderful.

The Pansheti natural mineral spring pool

The shepherd and his flock by the spring pool

Today’s last stop was Tsdo Village , a place known as “the forgotten village on the cliff.” Driving about ten-odd minutes from Stepantsminda along the Military Highway toward the Russian border, you can spot this miniature village perched high above the gorge. It’s very close to the Russian border; most residents have long since moved away, leaving only primitive stone-house ruins and a small shrine at the village’s hilltop, with the deep, rushing Terek River below. It’s very off the beaten path, almost devoid of people — I saw no other tourists — yet the scenery is superb, and I’d recommend everyone come see it.

We walked up the village path to the heights, where many crosses overlapped with the village, alpine meadows, ruins, and dilapidated medieval-style stone walls interwoven. That day everything above the summit was fog, which instead gave the whole village the feel of The Witcher 3 or The Hobbit — like a scene from a medieval film where fog rises and demons and evil spirits are about to appear. Looking at the crosses on the hilltop, it was as if they were still keeping watch over the village through the night; amid the wind and the fog, I half-understood why this land has held to its faith for generations.

The valley near Tsdo village

Tsdo village and the crosses on the hilltop

Leaving Tsdo, we circled a long while at the foot of Mount Kazbek before finding our second Kazbegi guesthouse, My Space Kazbegi . The owner, Mary, came out to greet us from afar; she probably guessed from my driving — and the fact that one other guest hadn’t arrived — that we were the ones she was waiting for. Her English wasn’t good, and she couldn’t understand much of what I said, but she always patiently used translation software to communicate. My first impression of her was of great kindness; from that smile and goodwill you could feel she genuinely welcomed us. As she was about to show us the room, I accidentally locked my girlfriend in the car, and only realized when she knocked on the window and I hurried to unlock it; Mary looked back and chuckled, seeming especially gentle.

The guesthouse has four rooms on two levels, with a room on the ground floor set aside just for coffee and tea. Everything was spotless — you could tell Mary ran it with care. The house is like a simple prefab of plywood; the scenery isn’t top-tier and the amenities aren’t as good as the cabin the night before; yet its rating on the booking platform was as high as 9.5, a rare score. Mary’s top-notch service and immaculate rooms make it absolutely deserving of that 9.5. That evening, we ordered her 50-lari breakfast via WhatsApp.

On the morning of the fifth day, we’d planned to watch the alpenglow from Space’s terrace, but found the hotel was itself on Mount Kazbek, so of course we couldn’t see it; add the thick morning fog, and we had to give up. We didn’t feel too much regret, though: for the alpenglow, there’s always another snow mountain; I’ll most likely go to Tibet in the future, and should be able to make it up then.

Dumplings filled with mashed potato — I never imagined mashed potato could be wrapped into a dumpling

The breakfast was huge. The mashed-potato dumplings were startling — I’d never imagined mashed potato could be wrapped into a dumpling; the little sweet cakes were like dorayaki dusted with sugar, nice with coffee; the best was still the egg pancake — a food very common in China, yet here it felt especially familiar and comforting. As we left, Mary bade us a warm farewell. I tried to slip her a tip, but she stepped back half a pace and, with regret and apology, said, “I can’t accept it.” I thought she was truly genuine and unaffected.

Afterward, we drove on toward Gori and Kutaisi.

Chapter 5 | Where Language Cannot Reach

About language: most Georgians aren’t good at English, so aside from restaurants and hotels catering to foreign tourists, communicating with locals can be a bit difficult.

This can lead to a problem: when travelers who speak neither English nor the local language reach some restaurants or shops, the staff can seem unenthusiastic, while being warm to locals. We reflected on this later — it may be that they couldn’t understand our language and we couldn’t understand theirs, so they felt helpless too, and it couldn’t be helped.

This contrast became especially clear after we went from Kazbegi to Kutaisi: Kazbegi is a tourist destination with a large number of foreign visitors, where the service staff are professional, fluent in English, and extremely warm, and we spent a precious, happy time there; Kutaisi, by contrast, is relatively off the beaten path — most travelers treat it merely as a transit hub linking eastern and western Georgia, so tourists are far scarcer than in Tbilisi, Kazbegi, or Batumi, and locals own the streets. So when we wandered near Kutaisi’s White Bridge at ten at night, we met a scene utterly different from those tourist cities: young people gathered in groups outside bars, talking and laughing loudly, the bars bustling; fashionably dressed young men and women brushed past us, and youths raced by in BMWs and Mercedes, windows down, blasting music — the night is when this city truly wakes up.

Yet we two travelers from East Asia felt utterly out of place amid all this liveliness. We didn’t understand their language, nor were we used to bar culture: walking into a bar rated 4.8 on Google, we found a dozen people crowded around a single table, shouting and laughing so loudly we could barely hear each other; several servers watched us come in, but no one came to show us to a seat, and a few minutes after we sat down, someone came to tell us every table was reserved, so we had to slink back out. The whole street was lined with bars, and the others were surely the same — trying another would likely just mean reliving the same embarrassment. In that moment, frustration and intimidation washed over us together, and for the first time we truly realized how hard it was to fit into local life.

Later we went to another restaurant, where the service was warmer. Amusingly, this restaurant had many big, food-loving dogs at its door; they’d nestle at your feet, hoping to be fed, and once you fed one, more dogs would gather around, circling the table, heads raised, staring at the food — a unique experience. In China, for food-safety reasons, animals are barred from restaurants; but here, you can feed the cats and dogs while enjoying your meal.

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At a restaurant in Kutaisi, the dogs gathered around the table, hoping to be fed

This experience was much like the one at a barbecue place in the town of Kazbegi, a restaurant called Relax, widely praised on Xiaohongshu. The place had three people — a cheerful kid, a grill-master uncle, and an aloof owner; that aloof owner looked exactly like Léon, the lead of Léon: The Professional, right down to that silent, detached air. The menu was in the local language, quite cryptic to us; just as we were staring at it, baffled, the owner seemed to sense our plight and said, “OK, I recommend…,” and on his recommendation we had roast pork and the local specialty Chacha. Chacha is a strong liquor, but as you drink it you don’t taste the alcohol — only sweetness; by the time you notice you’re a bit dizzy, you’re already drunk. The owner had two cats, one black and one black-and-white.

Susanna

The black-and-white one, named Susanna, was quite the extrovert; before the food even arrived, she jumped onto my lap for a nap, which built a good rapport between us; when the roast meat came, Susanna hopped onto the window beside the table — at first I didn’t get her meaning, but when she saw me digging in, she’d stretch her right front paw to the edge of the table (very well-behaved, never jumping onto the table), and then I knew she wanted some too. So I’d cut off a small piece of meat and feed her, and she’d take it without ceremony, gobble it in a couple of bites, then keep watching from the window. At that point, the black cat would sidle up to your feet too, shyer, watching quietly from under the table, hoping to be fed. Seeing the two kittens getting on so well with us, the aloof owner smiled and began introducing them to us. At checkout, seeing us digging through our backpacks for change, he said “that’s okay” and undercharged us. So, connected through animal friends, the owner warmed up too, which made me realize even more that sometimes locals’ aloofness or standoffishness may be caused by the language barrier — after all, you can’t expect a Georgian elder deep in the mountains to speak fluent foreign languages.

Back to the itinerary. That day we set out from Kazbegi for Gori. On the way out of the mountains we caught the sunrise, the scenery another flavor entirely from the sunset on the way in. At midday we pulled into a roadside KFC and treated ourselves properly — in my view, KFC is the best food in both Beijing and Tbilisi, bar none. After filling up at a Gulf station, we took the highway and reached Gori at four in the afternoon, planning to see the rock city first, then the Stalin Museum.

Scenery on the road leaving Kazbegi

Scenery on the road to Gori

Uplistsikhe lies on the left bank of the Kura River about ten kilometers east of Gori; its name means “the Lord’s (God’s) fortress.” One of Georgia’s oldest urban settlements, people were carving dwellings from the solid rock here as early as the second millennium BC; as the political and religious center of the ancient kingdom of Iberia (Kartli), at its height it housed nearly twenty thousand people. It declined after Christianity arrived in the 4th century, flourished again from the 8th to 10th centuries when Tbilisi fell into Muslim hands, and was finally abandoned after the Mongol invasion in the 13th century.

Admission was just 15 lari per person. We used Doubao AI as our guide the whole time, having it explain each cave, what each chamber was for, and the history behind it, and we wandered for a long while — the place is huge and easy to get lost in. This meant we had no time left for the Stalin Museum — our car’s headlights were very dim, and we still had to hurry to Kutaisi, since driving after dark would be dangerous — so we hurriedly took a few photos and left, postponing the Stalin Museum to the return trip from Batumi.

Uplistsikhe (the rock city) — an ancient town carved from a single mass of rock

Halls and doorways carved into the rock face of Uplistsikhe

The rock city left an impression that lingered. To fend off invaders — the Mongols among them — the ancients carved an entire city out of the mountain itself and lived in it for generations. It’s oddly like the dwarves of The Hobbit, tunnelling deep into the rock to raise a realm of their own — a real-world version standing right before me. What struck me even more was that, cramped and harsh as it was, they never gave up winemaking: wine cellars hewn from the stone survive in the rock face to this day. It’s a place I’d wholeheartedly urge everyone to see.

Gori’s streets blend Soviet and medieval flavors, as if time had been paused; local students were playing basketball, children’s laughter drifting nearby. It reminded me of Fushun, near Shenyang — both move at a slow pace of time — with the leisurely air of a small town. Then we took a long stretch of highway to Kutaisi, mostly at 110–120 km/h. The Crosstrek has good torque but slow acceleration, so overtaking was painful.

Kutaisi was hillier than expected, but after the training of Kazbegi these mountain roads were no trouble. We checked into Hotel Orange Kutaisi . The owner is a man of fifty or sixty, usually unsmiling; but hearing us praise his house and little courtyard, he’d break into a proud smile. I wanted to park in the courtyard but couldn’t maneuver it around with my poor skills; he took over and parked it neatly in one go, very carefully. As for Kutaisi’s lively White Bridge night that belongs to the young, and the two out-of-place East Asian tourists we were, I’ve written about that above.

Kutaisi is one of the world’s oldest continuously inhabited cities, with over 3,500 years of history. It was once Aia, the capital of the ancient kingdom of Colchis — in Greek mythology, the very place Jason and the Argonauts sailed to in search of the Golden Fleece, and the homeland of the sorceress Medea. In the Middle Ages it was for a time the capital of the unified Kingdom of Georgia; the Bagrati Cathedral on the hill, completed in 1003, is seen as a symbol of Georgian architecture. Between 2012 and 2018, Georgia’s parliament even relocated here.

Chapter 6 | Relics, the Casino City, and the Sea

The hearty breakfast at Hotel Orange

On the morning of the sixth day, the host prepared a hearty breakfast — orange slices, egg pancake, bread, coffee, and jam. After breakfast, we went to Motsameta Monastery , perched on a cliff above a bend in the Tskaltsitela River northeast of Kutaisi. There’s a thousand-year-old story about its origins:

Motsameta means “place of the martyrs” in Georgian, its name tied to two 8th-century noble brothers of Argveti — David and Constantine Mkheidze. When the Arabs invaded, the brothers led an uprising in resistance, but were defeated and captured. The enemy promised pardon if they converted to Islam, but the two refused unto death, and after torture were killed, their bodies thrown into the river below the cliff. Legend says the water turned blood-red, and the river was thereafter named “Tskaltsitela,” meaning “red water”; another legend says lions carried the martyrs’ remains up the hill and laid them where the monastery stands today. The Georgian Orthodox Church later canonized the brothers, and in the 11th century King Bagrat built a church here to guard their relics.

Walking into the monastery, headscarves are provided free at the door for women, and inside, a golden reliquary holds the remains of the two saints. Following the local tradition, we crouched and passed beneath the stone platform enshrining the relics — three times in all — for it’s said this can make a wish come true. On our way out, we each donated 5 lari. The monastery was rebuilt in the Soviet era and is a rather obscure sight; Asian faces are almost nowhere to be seen, and everyone present was very devout. To us East Asians, all of this was truly like a myth: the bones of saints preserved in a monastery for later generations to venerate — it left us in awe; along the way we saw nuns and locals, every face solemn, as if a deity truly kept watch at their side. That quiet certainty in their eyes was something we outsiders could never quite reach; we couldn’t say what it was, yet in that moment a deep respect rose in us unbidden.

Motsameta Monastery atop the cliff

Near Kutaisi are scattered many sanatoriums left from the Soviet era. Most cluster in the spa town of Tskaltubo, famed for its hot springs — once a Soviet health resort, now with many sanatoriums abandoned, Sanatorium Medea among them. We wandered slowly among these empty buildings: mottled main gates, faded walls, shattered glass, and, in the surrounding park, other old buildings likewise forgotten by time.

Tskaltubo is famed for its rare radon-carbonate hot springs, whose water stays at 33–35°C year-round and can be bathed in without heating. In the Soviet era it was one of the most renowned health resorts, with nearly twenty sanatoriums built here, and it was officially made a city in 1953; “Spring No. 6” is said to have been built in 1950 specially for Stalin. After the USSR’s collapse in 1991, the state-run sanatorium system vanished overnight and these grand buildings fell into ruin; when the Abkhazia war broke out in 1992, over ten thousand displaced Georgians were housed in these empty sanatoriums, many living there for decades.

Walking through these sanatoriums, all that hit us was desolation and eeriness, even a little chilling: the air was full of dust, mixed with a damp, moldy smell. What surprised me even more was that, in a derelict building nearby, someone was actually shooting wedding photos.

On the morning of the seventh day, we set out early and hurried to Batumi. The road from Kutaisi to Batumi has many tunnels, and emerging from them often brought a bright, pleasant view, though clearly not as broad as the Kutaisi-to-Tbilisi stretch. Honestly, my first impression of Batumi was of luxury and modernity: we came to Georgia mainly for the natural scenery, but Batumi is like a giant casino city, with huge casino billboards from the outskirts on, and casinos everywhere once you enter. It’s a bustling, lively modern metropolis — it’s just that this kind of urban character didn’t particularly appeal to us, who came for the natural scenery.

Batumi is the capital of the Autonomous Republic of Adjara, on the eastern shore of the Black Sea, in a humid subtropical climate. Built on the site of the ancient Greek colony of Bathys, it was long under Ottoman rule and ceded to Russia after the 1878 Treaty of Berlin, when it was made a free port. The oil boom of the late 19th century transformed it: the Nobel and Rothschild families, among others, invested here, building the Baku–Batumi railway and pipeline (one of the world’s earliest overland sea-to-sea oil pipelines), turning Batumi into the most important oil port on the Black Sea. The young Stalin also worked here at the Rothschild refinery and helped organize the 1902 strike.

The Hotel Dadu we booked couldn’t be navigated to by Google Maps, because some surrounding roads simply weren’t marked, and we circled a long while before finding this owner-run four-story building. The stay was a poor one: plywood furniture, plastic stools, and a broken toilet that wouldn’t flush, which we could only manage with the shower head. The fourth-floor balcony was the only saving grace — yet the view from it was just a parking lot, a construction site, and other buildings. The surrounding high-rises were shabby and Soviet-style, their brightly painted walls peeling off in great patches. But considering it cost only about US$25 a night, I figured I couldn’t ask too much of it.

After dropping our luggage, we drove out to explore, but it was so hot that day that, to escape the heat, we first went to a mall, where we saw Google’s Pixel phone — nice build, feels a lot like an iPhone, with Google’s full suite built in, and reasonably priced — a pity it’s unusable back home, or I’d surely have grabbed one. As for the rest, it felt like malls anywhere else in the world, unremarkable, so we looked around and left.

The weather that day was blazing and hot, with a hint of heatstroke; in such conditions, neither the seaside nor the city was enjoyable, so we sampled delicious ice cream at Luca Polare. Only when the sun grew less harsh did we set out for the Ali & Nino steel sculpture.

The sculpture stands right by the sea. We didn’t linger long at the water, to be honest — to my eye, one coast is much like another. The sea here isn’t as clear as Southeast Asia’s, no “glass water,” but it looks clean enough, and the shore is lined with all manner of amusements. One thing did surprise me: I later read that Batumi has a subtropical climate. By latitude it really shouldn’t — I suppose the terrain rewrote the weather, the Greater Caucasus and its spurs standing behind the city like a wall, sealing the warmth in along the Black Sea coast. In autumn or winter this place must be wonderfully pleasant; come in high summer, and you’ll have to wrestle with the heat.

Batumi's Black Sea shore

These two eight-meter steel figures were created by the Georgian artist Tamara Kvesitadze and completed in 2010. Every evening at seven, they slowly approach and embrace, then pass through each other and gradually separate, the whole process taking about ten minutes. The work draws inspiration from the 1937 novel of the same name: an Azerbaijani Muslim youth and a Georgian Christian girl fall in love during the WWI years, ending in tragedy — the sculpture uses this motion of “forever meeting, yet never able to stay together” as a metaphor for love across religion and ethnicity.

I’d assumed they’d be colossal, tens of meters tall; though the real thing was far less grand than I’d imagined, when we’d traveled thousands of miles to get here and saw the Ali & Nino we’d seen countless times on screens standing right before us, that fact alone was romantic enough.

The Ali & Nino steel sculpture at dusk

Batumi’s traffic also left an impression on me: the jams felt like Beijing’s morning rush, the difference being that in Beijing several lanes jam together, while here only the one-way lane jams. My advice is: don’t drive into central Batumi — park at the hotel and take taxis everywhere.

That evening we went to a halal restaurant, and after eating strolled about for a while.

It’s worth mentioning that the Adjara region where Batumi sits is the birthplace of Georgia’s national dish — Adjaruli Khachapuri: a boat-shaped bread cradling melted cheese and an egg yolk, rich and fragrant, especially delicious dipped and eaten.

Adjaruli Khachapuri — Georgia's national dish

We took a taxi back to the hotel, and as I closed the car door getting out, my right thumb was caught in it, hurting so much I nearly lost feeling. I’d driven all day and was tired and sleepy, and kept fretting: could it be broken? Could I still drive back to Tbilisi the next day? That night I could only soak my hand in ice water, then hold it above my head, alternating like that all night — my companion looked after me the whole time, bought me an ice cup, and even carried the luggage for me. Thankfully, a checkup at the hospital after returning to Beijing showed no broken bone, just a soft-tissue injury.

Chapter 7 | The Return

On the eighth day, we’d planned to leave at six but forgot to set an alarm, and only crawled out at 7:30. My right thumb still hurt badly; driving, I basically kept a thumbs-up posture, as if praising every driver who passed us, though thankfully the road was safe enough. The only trouble was that this car had a mechanical handbrake, which required pressing a button with the thumb to release, forcing me to operate the handbrake with both hands — how I missed an electronic handbrake in that moment. The road back from Batumi was narrow at first, then widened; on the highway we also met some very slow cars — it seems every country has its slowpokes on the motorway — and we could only join the locals in overtaking them one by one.

We returned once more to Gori — last time we only saw the rock city; this time, you could say we came specially for Stalin.

Stalin was born in 1878 into a cobbler’s family in Gori. His birth cabin was turned into a memorial as early as 1937, during his lifetime; the two-story main exhibition hall was begun in 1951 and formally opened in 1957, one of the few Stalin-themed museums in the world. The complex consists of the birth cabin, the exhibition hall, and an armored private railway carriage — that 80-plus-ton green carriage was used by Stalin from 1941, and he rode it to the Tehran, Yalta, and Potsdam conferences. With over sixty thousand items in its collection — childhood photos, personal effects, and gifts from leaders around the world — it’s worth a careful visit.

Many people don’t know that Stalin was in fact Georgian, born Ioseb Jughashvili, with Georgian as his mother tongue — it’s said he spoke Russian with a heavy Georgian accent all his life. As a boy his mother sent him to the Orthodox seminary in Tbilisi, meant to become a priest, but there he encountered Marxism and took the revolutionary road; his early alias “Koba” comes from the outlaw hero in a novel by the Georgian writer Alexander Kazbegi — and the Kazbegi family were a prominent house of the very Kazbegi region we visited on this trip. Yet this “son of Gori” had a complicated relationship with his homeland: many Georgians also perished in the Great Purge during his rule. To this day, Georgia’s attitude toward him remains ambivalent — Gori keeps his museum and statue, while many others hold differing views of this history. (His mother, Keke, was finally buried in the Mtatsminda Pantheon in Tbilisi — the Holy Mountain mentioned earlier.)

We paid 15 lari to enter and saw several famous paintings, though sadly none were originals — the originals are kept in Moscow. Stalin himself never returned to Gori in the end — he died in Moscow in 1953, was first buried with Lenin, and was later reburied beneath the Kremlin wall. The museum also displays the “Boundless Longevity” scroll Mao Zedong gave Stalin, along with the famous painting of Stalin holding a little girl. The moment we saw “Boundless Longevity,” we felt both a pang of familiarity and emotion — to come upon something from our homeland in an exhibition hall in a foreign land — and we made a point of taking photos with them.

Leaving Gori, we drove to Didgori, whose formal name is the Didgori Battle Memorial .

On August 12, 1121, David IV (“the Builder”) led the Georgian army to a victory against the odds at Didgori, defeating the powerful Seljuk coalition — a “miraculous victory” that set Georgia on the path to its Golden Age. The memorial was built in the 1990s; on the hilltop, dozens of giant steel swords are driven into the earth, at once like crosses planted in the ground and a commemoration of the battle and its fallen.

On the road to Didgori there was also a stone tower — Saskhori Tower — with a ladder propped against it, which you had to climb to enter, but the ladder was so unsteady that after a few rungs I lost my nerve and didn’t dare go higher. Afterward I could only glimpse the view inside through photos others had shared on Google Maps.

The stone watchtower near Didgori

The giant steel swords on the hillside

Then we checked into the seventh and last hotel of the trip, Old Gold Anteon . The hotel itself was fine; it’s just that the road at its entrance was narrow and hard to park on.

When returning the car, the staff found scratches on the back, and told us: although we’d bought full insurance, we hadn’t reported it to the police and contacted the rental company right when the incident happened, so that police, insurer, and rental company could handle it on-site, and therefore, per the contract, we still had to pay compensation; we couldn’t even say when or where the scratches had happened, only noticing them at return. The scratch cost 210 lari to compensate, plus 50 lari for a car wash; in the end they asked for 100 USD, and we found a friend working at a bank to change money, plus a 10-USD handling fee, for a total of 110 USD.

This made me appreciate the service of China’s CAR Inc. back home: as long as you buy the worry-free insurance, the staff won’t check for scratches at return, and you don’t have to pay a cent.

Throughout, the staff were professional, pointing us to the contract clause by clause. As a traveler, one should respect local laws and rules; at handover they’d made it clear too — it was I who didn’t understand and didn’t read the contract carefully, blithely assuming full insurance meant I needn’t worry about anything. Call it a lesson learned.

After handling all that, we went to an Indian restaurant, full of Indians and looking quite authentic.

Before we’d even finished eating, the rental company messaged us again via WhatsApp about another scratch, demanding further compensation. This baffled me — what kind of operation is this? I’d already left; how could you prove I caused it (before handover, I’d checked the car carefully and was sure it wasn’t us)? I told him plainly that this scratch wasn’t caused by us. If it really had been, you could charge me when you inspected the car, but you can’t chase after me for compensation afterward. Respect for rules and contracts should be mutual: the money was paid, the deal was done, and if it wasn’t caught then, that’s on them. The back-and-forth dragged on and wore me out, until I said I’d report the situation to the rental platform, at which point they finally admitted it was their own oversight and settled: they ended with a “Good luck,” and only then did I feel the matter was finally behind us.

After the storm, we went to 8000 Vintages and bought two bottles of white wine. After all, Georgia is the birthplace of wine — it would feel incomplete to end this trip without bringing a few bottles home. We wanted a few smaller bottles too, so we went to STIN WINE . Only one woman was there introducing the wines; we opened Doubao AI and asked it, over a video call, to help us pick a few. This woman was very patient and even let us taste each one. In the end we bought eight small bottles and one large, and she was very kind, taking a photo with us before we left. Carrying these Georgian wines, we drew our whole journey to a close.

Wandering the city before and after the car return, I couldn’t help studying the cars here more. Georgia is a paradise for lovers of old cars; many of the vehicles are secondhand from Europe, which means that, unlike the streets full of brand-new electric cars in China, here you can see old cars of every brand and era, many of them quite interesting. As a wagon enthusiast, there were plenty of cars here that delighted me, like a BMW 5 Series Touring, a Golf Variant, and Soviet-made wagons.

In summary, I think the cars here roughly fall into four categories: (1) Japanese cars: a very high proportion, including Mitsubishi, Honda, Toyota, and more — it seems Japanese cars are beloved worldwide for their stable mechanical quality; (2) German cars: mainly Mercedes, BMW, Volkswagen, and Opel, with fewer Audis. Although Audi, Mercedes, and BMW are lumped together as “BBA” in China, clearly in Georgia Audi is a tier below Mercedes and BMW. Local young people especially love BMW. (3) Other old cars: many cars whose badges I’d never seen, which I’d guess were made in the former Soviet Union, Russia, or Eastern Europe — a large proportion, and quite interesting. (4) Teslas: brand-new Teslas stand out conspicuously on the local streets, and I’d guess those who buy them count as well-off locally.

A BMW 5 Series Touring on the street

A beautiful old car

The next day — the day we flew home — we first grabbed a quick bite at a Subway near the hotel, then took a taxi to the airport. We flew from Tbilisi to Almaty, then transferred to Beijing. We landed at 5 a.m. and were home by 7; I didn’t even bother to shower, just collapsed into bed and slept straight through to noon.

Epilogue | Beyond Faith, Within the Journey

Over ten days, I walked into a newly built cathedral, a 14th-century hilltop church, and a monastery preserving saints’ relics, and saw crosses in a near-abandoned village. I still have no religious faith, and I can’t understand prayer, relics, and wishes from the inside as a believer does; but as an outsider, the devotion of the faithful, the sanctity of the rituals, and the quiet power of these places are no longer just exotic images in a photograph. I still stand outside faith, and yet it moved me all the same; toward a devotion I can never quite enter, I am left with a long, quiet respect.

Before I set out, that snow-peak church was just a photo that drew me in; after coming back, I remember the church in shadow, the snow peaks lit by sun, the relics carried up the mountain in times of war, and I remember the dogs, the strangers, and the roads. Faith was a very important part of this trip, but not the whole of it.

To be honest, as I settled into the seat on the flight home, all I wanted was to get back quickly. The country isn’t as comfortable as I’d imagined: the car-return ordeal had worn me down, and I only wanted to be gone, half-dreading another WhatsApp message from them; add to that food that seldom suited us and the fatigue of the road, and it was never as effortless as travelling in Japan, where the days slip by easily. Whenever the language failed, every exchange with a local asked a small steeling of the nerves — not knowing quite what response I’d meet. These, too, are the honest side of the road, and I don’t want to leave them out.

Yet once the dust had settled and I looked back over the ten days, what I found I couldn’t let go of were the alpine meadows of the Caucasus — scenery so beautiful it hardly seemed real. If you ask me, hiking is the very heart of this trip; come to Georgia, and do not miss the chance to measure these mountains on foot. Beyond that — and this is pure personal fondness — I loved the Soviet traces the country has kept: the buildings, the old cars, the air of another era. The Soviet Union was once closely bound up with my own country; the stories we heard as children, the texts we read, the culture we absorbed all carry its shadow, and to stand among these remnants stirred a strange familiarity. And the wine — I’m no drinker, yet tasting what this land distills from an eight-thousand-year winemaking tradition, that richness, and how no two pours were alike, won me over completely.

So looking back, the journey was hardly a smooth one: dangerous enough, thrilling enough, and tiring enough — and for exactly that reason, all the more unforgettable. It wasn’t effortless the way a trip to Japan or Vietnam can be, yet it let me see, firsthand, how wide and varied this world really is. It was, I still think, a most precious and unforgettable journey.

我的大高加索自驾游记——最好的格鲁吉亚旅游指南

Thu, 20 Jul 2023 00:00:00 +0000

引子｜一张雪山教堂的照片

谈起西亚，大多数来自东亚的旅行者脑海中浮现出的大概是沙漠、骆驼、风铃，以及缠着头巾的突厥商旅。然而，作为一个徒步爱好者，小红书给我推荐了一张以雪山为背景的宏伟教堂的照片，配文“在格鲁吉亚拍到了孤独星球的封面”。这张图片勾起了我的兴趣：格鲁吉亚在哪里？这个雪山上的教堂是什么？

提到西亚，很多人最先想到的是沙漠与骆驼——而格鲁吉亚，完全是另一番模样

随着对格鲁吉亚的深入调查，我进入了一片我之前从未了解过的区域（无论是地理还是文化上）。在此之前，我去过亚洲以及欧洲的一些国家，但是格鲁吉亚与他们都不同。相比于以热情海岛而著名的东南亚，大高加索的雪山、峡谷更令人感到震撼；相比全球化的欧洲，这里的文化和历史更不为人所熟知，显得更加神秘；相比于东亚高楼大厦，这里由石头、木头搭建的建筑仿佛停留在电影中的中世纪。无论是上述的哪一个，都令我产生了强烈的兴趣。

“我要去这片神秘的土地”，我的脑海中有一个声音如是说道。

与我以往旅行目的地不同，格鲁吉亚是一个并没有发达基建且拥有广袤山地的国家，这意味着在日本、韩国普遍使用的公共交通在这里并不适用。为此，我决定自驾旅行。这是一次全新的挑战，因为我并没有丰富的驾驶经验，而且在一个远离祖国、文化迥异、语言不通的国家自驾，我不得不将安全性考虑其中——无论是来自自然还是来自治安的危险。

为此，我需要为这次旅行做充足的准备。

为了更好的拍摄大高加索山脉壮美的风光，我卖掉了我的尼康Z30，购买了一台二手索尼A7C2——一台全画幅轻量化相机，有着丰富的镜头选择；尽管我已经拥有驾照两年，但是我并没有长期开车的经历，为此，我在出发前两个月多次长途开车，由于颇有心得，甚至在出发前20天购买了我的第一台车子；我系统性的收集有关格鲁吉亚的经验帖，包括租车、徒步、住宿、文化等信息…

终于，到了出发的这一天。出发前，我提前向学校请好了假，也把工作上的事情一件件安排妥当；随后把车子托付给朋友、断掉了公寓的水电，拉着行李箱、背着背包，从天色渐渐暗下来的首都机场出发，踏上了前往格鲁吉亚的旅程…

行前功课 · 格鲁吉亚简史

格鲁吉亚地处欧亚交界的十字路口，古代在西部有科尔基斯、东部有伊比利亚两个王国。公元四世纪初（约326年），伊比利亚国王米里安三世在圣女尼诺的感化下宣布基督教为国教——格鲁吉亚由此成为世界上最早接受基督教的国家之一，东正教至今仍是民族认同的核心。

中世纪，统一的格鲁吉亚王国在“建设者”大卫四世（他打赢了后文会提到的迪德戈里之战）与塔玛尔女王治下（11—13世纪）迎来黄金时代，疆域与影响力盛极一时。然而13世纪蒙古人的入侵与其后的内乱，让王国走向分裂与衰落。

此后数百年，格鲁吉亚长期处在奥斯曼土耳其与波斯两大帝国之间，疆土多次易手。1783年，东部的卡特利-卡赫季王国与俄国签订《格奥尔吉耶夫斯克条约》，成为俄国的保护国——这正是我们后来在军事大道上见到的“俄格友谊纪念碑”所纪念的。然而1795年波斯的阿迦·穆罕默德汗率军攻入第比利斯、城市在战火中严重受损时，俄国并未出手相助；1801年，俄国进一步将格鲁吉亚并入版图，延续千年的巴格拉季昂王朝就此终结，格鲁吉亚教会的自主地位也被取消。

1918年，格鲁吉亚曾短暂独立、建立民主共和国；1921年，苏俄红军进入格鲁吉亚，它随后成为苏联的一部分。苏联时代，这片土地走出了两位在近代史上举足轻重的格鲁吉亚人——斯大林，以及曾长期主管苏联内务部门的贝利亚。1991年苏联解体，格鲁吉亚重获独立，此后也经历了内战、阿布哈兹与南奥塞梯的分离冲突，以及2008年与俄罗斯的军事冲突。如今的格鲁吉亚整体上倾向西方：一面是深厚的东正教传统，一面是年轻人对欧洲式现代生活的向往——这种张力，也正是我们此行处处感受到的。

第一章｜落地：照片之外的第比利斯

2023年7月，晚上八点，我们乘坐着一辆网约车到了首都机场。彼时，虽然天色已暗，但我们仍然抑制不住内心的兴奋——这是我们俩共同走过的最远的一次旅程。算上在阿斯塔纳转机所需要的等候时间，全程要将近二十四个小时；对于两个二十多岁的年轻人来说，这项挑战足够令人兴奋，就好像我们即将开启一场史诗般的远征——格鲁吉亚的文化和地形确实配得上史诗的名号。

为了避免在飞机上饿肚子，我们提前在机场买了炸猪排、意面和三明治，饱餐一顿——谁会想到这将是我们未来一周吃过最好的一顿饭呢。

阿斯塔纳航空优质的配置和服务令我们感到意外，即使是经济舱，每个座椅上都有高清的液晶屏幕，这样的配置我只在国泰航空上体验过；飞机餐也足够好吃，我至今记得那只超级大的蛋饺。

第一程飞行用了五个小时，当地时间凌晨四点我们落地阿斯塔纳，这是我第一次踏上哈萨克斯坦的土地，另一个令我向往的中亚国家。

在这里要等待九个小时。一开始我们以为这里会有转机快速通道，但没想到这里是一个小型机场，我们必须先出海关，并且重新安检——幸运的是，我们的第二程机票在北京就已经领到了，避免了第二次值机的麻烦。我们提前做了攻略，在阿斯塔纳机场会有胶囊旅馆供乘客休息，遗憾的是，这个旅馆已经没有房间了，这对我们来说是一个非常令人绝望的消息，此时是凌晨四点，我们早已人困马乏、饥渴交加（这里甚至连一台免费的饮水机都没有）。

于是我们决定先找地方吃饭，幸运的是，在我们寻找餐厅的路上，我们发现在T2航站楼的二楼有躺椅！

这对我们来说是一个令人欣喜的消息，我们在躺椅上睡得昏天黑地——那椅子意外地舒服。在睡醒之后，我们在一家看起来很正宗的餐厅吃了一盘包子配酸奶和牛肉干配饭，这顿饭并不便宜，要两百人民币。我们对这两个食物很不适应，牛肉干咸得惊人，比我吃的任何食物都要咸；包子在我看来并不难吃，但谈不上美味，尽管它比牛肉干清淡一些，但是有些油腻。终于，好不容易熬过了度日如年的九个小时，我们登上了第二程飞机。

阿斯塔纳机场吃到的包子配酸奶、牛肉干拌饭

航班上，透过舷窗俯瞰绵延的大高加索山脉

当地时间傍晚六点，我们落地第比利斯。在机场，我们办了Magti流量卡并兑换了当地货币。我会向所有人推荐这款流量卡——它在山区也能保持稳定的信号。

在从机场到酒店的车上，我的第一感觉是这里有些陈旧、沧桑，很像我当年落地菲律宾时的感觉，时间好像定格了一样，窗外都是前苏联风格的旧房子，说实话，这和我想象中的古都、中世纪房屋并不太一样；这里的温度也非常适宜，六点多的光线正是黄昏的感觉。令我们惊讶的是，这里要到八点半左右才真正天黑。

我们入住的LIVA 酒店就在圣三一教堂对面，外观看起来是一栋五层的独栋建筑，有些像日本的一户建。与我们在agoda上预定的街景房不同，我们房间的窗户面对着一个天井。但这也是一个惊喜——窗外是一个四面围墙的天井，天井里住着一家四口的猫：两只大猫、两只小猫，一只像爸爸，一只像妈妈。房间有些狭窄，对于它一晚370人民币的价格，起初我觉得不值；但后来发现它离教堂大门只有几十米，免费早餐也很好吃。此后的旅程反复证明，香肠、鸡蛋和面包这样简单的食物在格鲁吉亚是多么可靠。

LIVA 酒店窗外天井里的猫

LIVA 酒店的早餐——简单却可靠的香肠、鸡蛋和面包

当晚我们走过和平桥，在一家热门餐厅吃晚饭。室外座位上方有喷出水雾的风扇，还算凉爽。这一餐我们依旧不太吃得惯。格鲁吉亚包子和哈萨克斯坦的一样，膻味和咸味都偏重；可能只是当地人习惯这么做、我们一时吃不惯。鸡翅裹着番茄酱，我们第一次见这种做法，也没太适应。我们用Insta360全程录像并现场点评食物，庆幸旁桌听不懂中文；至于表情，彼此一个眼神就懂了。唯一令人满意的是零度可乐——可乐在世界各地都很不错。

第一天，我们首先去了圣三一教堂，它又名萨米巴大教堂（Sameba），坐落在库拉河左岸的伊利亚山上。

从山顶俯瞰第比利斯，圣三一教堂的金顶在城市中尤为显眼

萨米巴大教堂是格鲁吉亚东正教的母堂，也是高加索地区最大的宗教建筑之一。修建它的动议出现在1989年——那正是苏联治下格鲁吉亚民族意识觉醒的一年——目的是纪念格鲁吉亚教会自主1500年、以及耶稣诞生2000年。此后数年动荡令工程一再推迟，直到1995年才正式奠基，2004年竣工，前后近十年。教堂连十字架高逾百米，穹顶通体包金，建造资金几乎全部来自民众自发捐赠，在阳光下格外耀眼。

那天风非常大。教堂所在的园区修得很漂亮，小树和小花错落有致，像一座大庄园，来自各个国家、各种肤色、各种信仰的人都聚在这里拍照留念。我并没有宗教信仰，我的国家也没有大规模信教的传统，可当我走进教堂，那些信徒虔诚的动作以及高耸的穹顶，还是令我肃然起敬。

在我看来，心怀信仰的人，内心大约是丰盈而安定的——有了信仰，便有了依靠，也有了归属；身处这样一种宏大而古老的信念之中，想必也会多一份旁人难有的笃定与安宁。一开始我以为这座教堂建于远古，但在了解了其历史之后才意识到它这么新，其中还承载着一些政治与民族自由的意味。

从教堂出来，我们转去了旱桥市场。它是第比利斯最著名的露天跳蚤市场，因为桥下的河道早已改道、再无河水而得名。这里有相当多的摊位，摆着相机、勋章、宝剑、油画和银器，琳琅满目。考虑到那些几十年的老相机大多容易坏，我猜即便买回去，大概率也已经用不了了；真正让我心动的，是一枚二十拉里的卫国战争勋章。我在它所在的摊位前来回走了好几趟，差一点就下定决心买下。但AI告诉我它很可能是后期仿制，我又在淘宝上翻到了同款，最终还是没舍得买——现代工艺品，没有多少纪念价值。

旱桥市场兴起于上世纪九十年代初。苏联解体后，格鲁吉亚经济一度崩溃，许多家庭把家里值钱或不值钱的物件都拿到这里变卖，以维持生计。就这样，一个求生的地摊渐渐长成了固定的跳蚤市场，也因此被称作“记忆的市场”。如今它由第比利斯市政厅管理，早已成为城中著名的文化景观。

随后我们穿过两座公园，乘缆车上了姆塔茨明达山顶游乐园（Mtatsminda Park）。公园位于海拔七百多米处，是第比利斯的制高点之一，也是当地人周末的后花园。缆车本身就很有趣，可以通过窗户俯瞰整座城市。

姆塔茨明达在格鲁吉亚语中意为“圣山”。这条缆车（Funicular）于1905年通车，由法国工程师布朗什设计、第比利斯建筑师希姆凯维奇担纲建筑部分，当年正是为开发这片山顶高地而修建；轨道长约五百米，坡度近三十度。山腰的圣大卫教堂旁便是名人先贤祠——1929年正式辟为陵园，安葬着众多格鲁吉亚作家、艺术家与民族英雄。缆车曾于2000年停运，直到2012年才重新开放。

事实上，我们只想体验一下缆车，于是按照小红书的指引到了售票处，后来才知道，这里卖的是游乐园的门票，而想要到达游乐园的方式，是通过缆车。也就是说，缆车是游乐园门票的附赠品。

到了山顶，最显眼的仍是圣三一教堂的金色穹顶；我们的酒店就在它对面，离大门只有几十米。这里的设施并没有吸引我们——过山车、跳楼机、激流勇进在国内也有，于是只好吃了个热狗，在山顶俯瞰第比利斯的风景。我们本想等到日落蓝调时分再走，最后还是因为饥肠辘辘，就早早下了山。

姆塔茨明达山顶游乐园里的一座铁塔

下山之后，我们按照谷歌地图的推荐一连找了两家热门餐厅，一家关着门、一家要预约，屡屡碰壁；兜兜转转，最终在谷歌地图的第三次推荐下，我们才吃上了波斯菜。那是我第一次见到长条状的细米——此前我常吃东北大米。长条形的细米很软，挺合中国胃。这里的服务人员态度很好，还有钢琴演奏助兴；三位服务员带着微笑轮番过来问我们吃得怎么样，我们也连连点头、报以赞许。

在这里，我们第一次正式喝了半甜的白葡萄酒和半甜的红葡萄酒，就着酒聊了聊这座城市和各自的感受。微醺着走回酒店，还是意犹未尽，又从门口的超市买了苏打味的鸡尾酒，带上天台接着品鉴。

谷歌地图第三次推荐才吃上的波斯菜

超市买来的苏打味鸡尾酒

看着第比利斯的夜景，这一刻，只有风和自由。

在 LIVA 顶楼俯瞰第比利斯夜景

库拉河的夜色

第二章｜道路通向大高加索

第二天上午，取车之前，我们先去爬了纳里卡拉要塞，这真是一段艰辛的路程——并不是因为多么陡峭，而是因为这里的道路很狭窄，还时常堵车，我们只能从车子的缝隙中艰难上坡。

纳里卡拉要塞始建于公元四世纪，是第比利斯最古老的建筑之一，千百年来一直俯瞰着老城与库拉河，见证了这座城市的兴衰更替。

可惜那天要塞没有开放，旁边教堂也因为我们穿着短裤而被挡在门外。在这里，我们遇到了很多拥有虔诚信仰的人——我们在教堂的门口，看到一位男士从教堂中走出，临走时，他亲吻了教堂的墙壁，并在胸口画十字。也遇到了一位女士，和蔼地提醒我们不要在教堂附近露出牙齿，我们表示尊重当地传统。

从纳里卡拉要塞俯瞰第比利斯，远处可见圣三一大教堂的金色穹顶

之后，下山去了梅丹巴扎（Meidan Bazar）。这里过去是丝绸之路上商队交易、歇脚的地方，如今成了一个贩卖纪念品的地下巴扎，很适合拍照，像《哈利·波特》里黑市的场景——只是商品本身，我觉得不如旱桥市场。我们在附近的咖啡店点了一杯果汁，竟足足等了五十分钟——后来才知道，店员早把我们点了什么忘得一干二净。

像《哈利·波特》黑市场景的梅丹巴扎

地下巴扎里琳琅满目的纪念品

到了交车的时间，我们在酒店门口看到了我们订的车——那是一台四驱的斯巴鲁Crosstrek——属于我们的格鲁吉亚自驾，就此正式开始。

我一向喜欢开车，所以一拿到车就兴奋不已；只是第比利斯老城的街道实在太窄，开起来难免让人紧张。不过紧张归紧张，我对自己的驾驶技术还是有信心的。真正折磨人的是第比利斯的主干道——隧道和各种分岔的匝道太多，一不留神就会走错路。

我们的斯巴鲁

驾车穿行在格鲁吉亚的夜色里

从第比利斯往北，军事大道上的第一道风景是津瓦利水库（Zhinvali Reservoir）。它建于上世纪八十年代，拦阿拉格维河而成，一方面为水电站提供发电用水，另一方面也是第比利斯重要的饮用水源地。蓝绿色的水面被高山环抱，颇为震撼。再往北，公路几乎沿着河谷一路钻进大高加索山区，两侧都是崇山峻岭。

津瓦利水库——蓝绿色的水面被高山环抱

驶过水库继续向北，便会路过阿纳努里要塞（Ananuri Fortress） ——我强烈建议每个人都在这里停下来看一看，这里风景极好，停车费也很便宜。要塞非常古朴，里面还藏着一座教堂；从要塞侧边的小路可以一直下到河边，河边有不少娱乐项目，只是我们当时并未下去。

阿纳努里要塞与阿拉格维河

阿纳努里要塞地处阿拉格维河畔，距第比利斯约七十公里，自十三世纪起便是统治这一地区的阿拉格维公爵（Eristavi）的居城，数百年间历经无数战事。现存的城墙与塔楼大多建于十六至十七世纪；1739年，敌对公爵克萨尼的山舍（Shanshe of Ksani）率军攻陷此地并纵火焚城，阿拉格维家族几乎被屠戮殆尽；四年后，当地百姓起义驱逐了篡位者，迎立国王捷伊穆拉兹二世。要塞内的圣母升天教堂建于1689年，外墙布满精美的石雕与十字架浮雕，是格鲁吉亚中世纪教堂装饰的代表之作。上世纪八十年代津瓦利水库蓄水后，原本立于河谷之上的要塞，便成了如今俯瞰一泓碧波的模样；2007年，阿纳努里被列入联合国教科文组织世界遗产预备名单。

说回要塞本身，它看上去饱经沧桑，的的确确是一座军事设施，处处留着为中世纪战争而设计的细节：墙体上开有许多“内大外小”的孔洞——内侧开口宽阔，守军可以轻松张弓、随意调整射角，敌人的箭却很难从狭小的外侧射进来；另有一些垂直向下的镂空洞口，我猜是供守军居高临下地投掷石块、直击墙下之敌的——当然，也有一种说法认为那是古时候的厕所。我小时候读过一本科普书，说古代的厕所颇有些“高空抛物”的意味，排泄物直接从悬空的高处落下去；只是此事如今已难考证，姑且当作一桩趣谈。

要塞墙体上垂直向下的坑洞

总之，这座要塞里值得玩味的细节很多，中世纪的气息扑面而来，非常适合每一位历史或古建筑爱好者专程来看一看。

说到这条军事大道，也不妨提一句中国。我们经过的古道尔（Gudauri）至科比（Kobi）路段，冬天常因雪崩封路；格鲁吉亚正在这里修建一条约九公里的克韦谢季—科比隧道来绕开险段，中标承建的是两家中国企业——负责约九公里隧道的中铁隧道局集团，以及负责连接道路的中铁二十三局（项目由亚洲开发银行等出资）。近年来，格鲁吉亚不少公路与隧道都有中国企业参与建设。中格两国关系近年也走得较近：2017年双方签署自由贸易协定，格鲁吉亚成为该地区首个与中国签订自贸协定的国家；此后格鲁吉亚加入“一带一路”，2023年两国建立战略伙伴关系，2024年起互免签证并开通直航；黑海之滨的阿纳克利亚深水港，也由中国企业牵头的联合体中标承建。对如今的中国游客而言，免签与直航都让这样一趟旅程方便了不少。

途中一辆二战时期的装甲车让我停了车——谁能拒绝路边停着一辆坦克呢？它很可能真的曾服役于前苏联军队，如今还能开动。我以为它不属于任何人，便停车拍照；没想到一位村民招呼我过去，领我绕过那辆坦克——院子的真容这才在我眼前展开：坦克身后是一片潮湿而凌乱的空地，各色老爷车排成两排，大多已锈迹斑斑、只剩被锈穿的空壳，车内更是残破不堪。他领着我沿车阵缓步走过，如数家珍地一辆一辆介绍着他的收藏。眼前的景象与人们印象中的博物馆实在毫不沾边，我也自始至终只当他是个狂热的汽车爱好者，压根没想到这竟然也是一座“博物馆”。

我原以为他只是热心，直到他开始推销一百拉里一罐的蜂蜜；在我婉拒之后，他才话锋一转，说这里是一座博物馆，我必须付二十拉里的参观费——请注意，在此之前他从未提起过“博物馆”三个字，更没有提过要收钱，是带我转完一圈之后才开的口。那一刻我才意识到，天下没有免费的午餐。

说实话，这些车如果当初能得到妥善的保管与修缮，保存到今天，随便一辆都能卖出非常好的价钱，甚至足以让世界为之惊叹；而如今看着它们以这样的状态锈在杂草丛里，实在令人唏嘘。虽然这些钱并不多，我也相信搜罗这些车耗费了不少心思，但收费的明细总该提前说明——与其说不开心，不如说无奈。

最后付了钱，他叫我朋友，还和我握了手。女朋友说这是“为我的梦想买单”。虽然有些无奈，但在我心里，这笔钱仍然花得值得，我愿意给这位收藏家一些赞助。

后期补充 · 那辆“坦克”的真身

后期在写这篇游记的时候，我特地搜索了相关资料：这个村子叫帕萨瑙里（Pasanauri），位于黑、白两条阿拉格维河的交汇处，还是格鲁吉亚“大饺子” Khinkali 的发源地。那片路边收藏是当地人 Jimsher Patashuri 私人攒起来的，据说从一辆 1941 年租借法案援助的威利斯吉普开始，越收越多，后来甚至包含了卡车、警车、装甲运兵车。而让我停车的那辆“坦克”其实并非坦克，而是一台 GAZ-47——苏联上世纪五十年代研制的履带式雪地沼泽全地形车，格鲁吉亚本地媒体报道时也直接管它叫“坦克”。据说它是主人偶然得来的，光运回来就花了不少钱。

参考资料：我后期搜索到了一篇关于这个“汽车坟场博物馆”的详细介绍，记录在这里，感兴趣的朋友可以看看：Pasanauri Scrap Metal Cemetery Museum: Exhibits and History。

进山之后温度骤降，山下还能穿短袖短裤，可一到俄格友谊纪念碑，下车那一刻我们冷得发抖，不得不套上冲锋衣。说实话，我当时还有些担心：次日徒步如果也这么冷，会不会有危险？毕竟我们两个人只带了一个羽绒内胆，冲锋衣也只有两件。后来证明即使是高加索山脉，白天的温度穿短袖就足够，甚至还有些热——这大概就是山区昼夜温差大的缘故吧。

俄格友谊纪念碑建于1983年，为纪念1783年俄国与东格鲁吉亚王国签订《格奥尔吉耶夫斯克条约》两百周年而立。正是那份条约，让格鲁吉亚成为俄国的保护国，也开启了两国此后两百多年纠缠不清的历史。半圆形观景台悬在峡谷边缘，内壁贴满描绘两国历史与传说的彩色瓷砖壁画，在雪山峡谷间格外显眼。

在这里，我第一次见到如此深的峡谷，落差至少有几百米，谷底有水流经过——这也是我来格鲁吉亚以来，第一次被这样雄浑壮阔的风景震住，久久说不出话来。峡谷边很冷，风很大，周围的游客不算多，纪念碑下面有一些当地人在跳舞、演奏乐器。站在峡谷边，我并不腿软，反而非常兴奋，满脑子只想着怎么把这个风景拍下来。但后来证明，无论照片拍得多漂亮——我广角和长焦都试了——都拍不出那种震撼。

俄格友谊纪念碑全景

俄格友谊纪念碑

纪念碑下方的峡谷与湖

那种风和自然的力量，只有你真正站在悬崖边上才能体会得到，照片里是体现不出来的。

纪念碑附近的峡谷风光，天上还飘着滑翔伞

军事大道旁还藏着一处天然的碳酸矿泉——碳酸矿泉（Travertine Mineral Springs）。泉水富含铁等矿物质，常年沿岩壁流淌、沉积，在山坡上积出大片红黄相间、近似钙华的地貌，像有人把颜料泼在了灰白色的山体上。它让我想起菲律宾Cantabon Cave 里的沉积岩，但是这里的矿物质沉积物面积更大、外形更粗犷，甚至可以直接伸手触碰。

军事大道旁红黄相间的矿泉沉积

菲律宾 Cantabon Cave 里的岩石结构——比矿泉更精致，规模也更小

在大高加索深山里的第一晚，我们住在T&T Cottages 。这是一栋漂亮的木屋，坐落在小镇的山坡上，车能直接停在屋旁，搬行李很方便；老板是一位热情的当地村民，说九点之后会放他的德国牧羊犬在院子里巡逻。民宿一共只有三个房间，他自己住一间，另外两间留给客人；楼下是客厅和卫生间，楼上是卧室，躺在床上就能望见卡兹别克山——按理说早起是能看到日照金山的，可惜我们向来没有早起的习惯。

事实上，这一晚我们睡得格外沉：开了一整天的车，人早已疲惫，而木屋干净温馨，很容易让人卸下防备——尽管那晚并没有星空。明天将是我们第一次在国外徒步，心里既兴奋又忐忑，生怕出什么意外，所以收拾行李时我格外谨慎，羽绒服、冲锋衣、防晒衣乃至急救药品，一样不落地全装进了背包。隔壁木屋的女士也打算去Juta，我们便约好次日同行。临睡前特意设好了闹钟，只盼天亮之后，踏上那段我们最期待的旅程——后来证明，那里其实很安全，一路上游客也很多。

关于当地的路况，出了卡兹别克，从第比利斯到库塔伊西都有高速公路，非常宽广和平整。高速沿途会经过哥里——斯大林的故乡——感兴趣的朋友可以去斯大林博物馆看一看。而从库塔伊西到巴统的路，有时要走一些双向单车道的乡间小路，道路足够平整，相比高速会慢一些，但也别有一番风味。在去圣剑山的路上，会有一段很长但平整的山间公路，我们在这里遇到了跑车跑山，要注意会车时的安全。

肯德基停车场里一辆破损却仍在上路的老车，可见当地对老车的包容

至于当地人的开车风格，我认为还是很守规矩的。在高速上，所有车辆都会靠右侧车道行驶，把左侧车道留给速度更快的车；变道时都会提前打转向灯；借道超车也显得很克制。当对向车辆借道超车、而你减速避让的时候，司机会对你点头或挥手致意。在高速上还遇到过一件趣事：一辆车开到我们车道的前面，等我们一接近，他们就变到另一道；当我们超过他们之后，他们又会再次超过我们、变道到我们前面，等我们接近，又变道避让我们——等我们经过时，才看到这辆车的司机和副驾驶是一对夫妻，正对着我们笑，看起来是在逗我们玩。所以我认为，只要开车时注意观察附近的车辆和行人、遵守交通规则，还是很安全的。当地人似乎很喜欢开着窗子开车，这大概率和当地的文化与气候有关：一是当地年轻人很喜欢开着车窗、大声放音乐，他们开的往往是宝马或奔驰；二是这里地广人稀、自然环境优越，气候凉爽，热岛效应并不明显，开窗也足够凉快。

自驾提示 · 路况与选车

在第比利斯城市内部，我不推荐任何人自驾，因为这里的老城极其狭窄，如果在这里自驾，你要经历极其痛苦的会车和掉头。相反，第比利斯很适合走路，这里的老城足够有趣，每一个街角都可以有新的风景。而且，在城内打车也很便宜，一般十拉里之内就可以搞定。

在从第比利斯进入卡兹别克小镇的主路上，路是双向单车道的水泥或者沥青路，如果你可以不嫌大卡车开的慢，静静地跟在他们后面并保持一定距离，我不认为会有危险。这里的路况使用轿车开就可以。

但是，在从主路到卡兹别克附近的景点的路上，就没有水泥马路了，而是土路。对于这种路，除非你想挑战自己，否则不推荐任何人开轿车——不仅仅是危险，道路救援和修车的费用也足够可观。

但是有一点需要特殊说明，由于格鲁吉亚的自然生态极好，导致路上可能会出现各种动物，比如猫、狗、牛、羊等，当你看到前车刹车的时候，一定也要立即刹车并打开双闪灯，防止追尾以及被别人追尾。其实我很难理解在有护栏的高速上为什么会有牛在散步，这可能是格鲁吉亚独有的风景之一了。

关于车辆选择：

本次旅行我们只前往了卡兹别克附近的山区，对于山路是否难开，我觉得要取决于你开的是什么车。

这次自驾，我们开的是一台四驱斯巴鲁SUV，它有着出色的低速爬坡能力，我推荐每一个想自驾去卡兹别克的旅客都要租一台四驱的SUV。首先，SUV的底盘高，通过性就强——在从卡兹别克到Juta的路上，越接近Juta路越破，经常会走很多凹凸路段，尤其是当有一个轮子悬空的时候，四驱系统可以帮助你脱困；其次，相比于轿车，高底盘意味着对车辆本身伤害更小，安全性更高；最后，对于烂路，SUV的舒适性会好一些。

对于这台车，我认为即使是新手也可以畅行卡兹别克，只要集中注意力，冷静思考就好。

说实话对于卡兹别克的路况，如果给我一台轿车，我一定开不过去，因为很多地方是很陡的土路，这就不得不感叹当地人驾驶技术的强大，他们可以开着手动挡轿车在山地里驰骋。

当然这台SUV也有它的坏处：首先它高速抖动声音很大，高速提速很慢，感觉这台车就适合在山地里开，但是不适合跑高速。

第三章｜山让教堂变得可以理解

第三天，我们开车前往Juta 。它是卡兹别克地区最经典的徒步起点之一，从这里出发通往乔基山的步道，以高山草甸和雪山湖泊闻名。从卡兹别克到Juta的路况很差，一路都是类似炮弹坑的坑洼。以我的技术而言，有些地方不是四驱车根本过不去，我也正是在这里，第一次真正理解了四驱SUV的意义。把车停在悬崖边上，我们便开始徒步。从停车的地方到Juta村大约三公里，这一路是沿着峡谷走的，看着悬崖下的千年冰川融水，别有一番风味。

从卡兹别克到 Juta 路上的峡谷风景

到了Juta村，需要经历一段枯燥的上坡。而当爬完这段上坡，抵达高山草甸、眼前豁然开朗的那一刻，我们都瞬间恢复了动力——我们看到了绿油油的草地和缤纷的花海，远处的雪山引领着我们继续前进——我们从来没见过这么漂亮的风景，一时间，心里只有一个声音：“这次真的来值了，一切都值得”。远处的山峰有点像意大利的多洛米蒂；它叫乔基山（Chaukhi），在国内社交平台上，大家也都称它为“格鲁吉亚的多洛米蒂”。

乔基山（Chaukhi）并非一座孤峰，而是一列由花岗岩与辉绿岩构成的锯齿状岩峰，最高的钱查希茨维里峰（Chanchakhistsveri）海拔3842米。它嶙峋陡峭，与周围浑圆的雪山迥然不同，因而被称为“格鲁吉亚的多洛米蒂”。徒步的起点尤塔（Juta）村海拔约2200米，是欧洲海拔最高的村落之一；越过海拔3338米的乔基山垭口，便能从赫维地区翻进另一侧的赫夫苏列季，抵达著名的阿布德劳里三色湖。

一切都值得。

Juta 高山草甸

乔基山下的草甸

Juta 的雪山与草坡

乔基山脚的池塘

继续朝山里走，我们经过了在国内社交媒体上著名的咖啡店。咖啡店门前有一个周围开满花的池塘，池塘里有许多天鹅，在这里可以拍到花、天鹅、Chaukhi同框的照片。在这里还发生了一件趣事，我点了一杯水果茶，店员先给我倒了一杯热水，我刚要端起，一只苍蝇就死在了里面；她皱着眉，又给我换了一杯。我喝了几口，发现好像是白开水，我以为是水果茶太淡了，还特地多回味了几次。直到店员把茶包送到我的桌子上，我才反应过来那只是白水、茶得自己泡。

再往前是一座断桥，我们原以为要涉水过去，后来发现可以沿着桥小心地挪到了对岸；许多外国人则直接跳进水里趟了过去——相比之下，我们东亚人确实收敛得多。

徒步途中需要小心挪过的断桥

徒步的终点是一方不大的池塘，水面清澈见底。单程七公里的山路走下来，我们竟并不觉得疲惫——一来翻过最初那一大段爬升之后，后面的路都相当平缓；二来人走在这样的景色里，大约连疲劳本身也被遗忘了。湖边搭着一座前人留下的木屋，正好供人坐下来歇脚、吃些东西。这个池塘在国内社交平台上颇有名气，无数照片都把它与乔基山收进同一个画框——雪山倒映水畔，确实是无可挑剔的构图，我自然也在此按下了许多次快门。其实Juta这条步道往后还有一段升级版，可以一直走到山脚下，但我们无意临时起意更改计划，便决定按原定路线折返。

池边有几个孩子在湖里游泳；换作在中国，家长通常都会告诫孩子不要野泳。

正在池塘边望着Chaukhi发呆，旁边忽然响起一片欢呼，我扭过头看去——原来是有人求婚成功了，所有人都在为他们喝彩。老外真浪漫，他们似乎更喜欢在风景优美的地方或者一个有纪念意义的地方求婚，而不是国内流行的“订婚宴”。

看着周围庆祝的人群，我也意识到，世界人民对爱和快乐的追求是相通的，这一点超越了文化上的隔阂。

下山之后，我们在镇上的Mountain Time餐厅吃了披萨和烤鸡，这是我到格鲁吉亚以来最好吃、也最合胃口的一顿饭。

饭后，我们去了卡兹别克的圣三一教堂——它正是最初那张孤独星球封面上的雪山教堂。

上山是自己开着车去的。从卡兹别克小镇一路向北，在一处丁字路口折向西，便开始盘山而上——沿途先是零星的餐厅、民宿与村落，随后山路陡然收束成一连串 Z 字形的回头弯。这段路开起来格外有趣：虽是双向单车道、时有对向来车，却能让人清晰地感到车与山路之间那种默契的操控感，颇有几分“跑山”的意味，倒也不觉得危险。只是转弯处随时可能钻出对面的来车，切记不要压过实线，否则极易酿成事故。

格尔盖蒂圣三一教堂（Gergeti Trinity）始建于十四世纪，坐落在海拔2170米的山顶、卡兹别克雪峰脚下，是历史上赫维地区唯一的十字穹顶式教堂，因孤悬于群山之巅而被誉为“离天堂最近的教堂”。正因地处偏远、易守难藏，战乱年代，姆茨赫塔的许多圣物——包括圣尼诺的十字架——都曾被送到这里保管。

大高加索自古就与神话相连。古希腊人相信，普罗米修斯为人类盗取天火、触怒宙斯，被锁在高加索的悬崖上，任由神鹰日日啄食他的肝脏——而这座“高加索之山”，在不少传说里指的正是卡兹别克峰（格鲁吉亚语称 Mkinvartsveri，意为“冰峰”，海拔5047米）。格鲁吉亚本土也流传着一位几乎同源的英雄——阿米拉尼（Amirani）：他为人类带来火种与冶铁之术，却因傲慢挑战神明，被锁进卡兹别克的山腹，神鹰啄食其肝、入夜复原，日复一日。许多学者认为，阿米拉尼的传说比希腊神话更为古老，普罗米修斯的故事很可能正源自高加索。峰上约四千米处的贝特莱米（Betlemi）岩洞，传说既是阿米拉尼的囚牢，后来又成了东正教修士的高山隐修地、藏匿圣物之所——恰与圣三一教堂守护圣物的故事遥相呼应。

我们先把车停在山上的停车场——这里正是拍那张“教堂与雪峰同框”经典照片的最佳机位。不过要提醒一句：焦距一定要够长（我用的是 180mm），否则拍出来远不如封面那般壮阔。亲眼见到它，和在小红书上刷到照片终究很不一样：当天有些阴，反倒成全了一道清晰的明暗交界——教堂沐在光里，身前的草地却沉在阴影中，中间拉出一条分明的界线，视觉上相当震撼。

卡兹别克圣三一教堂

拍完照，穿过一片高山草甸便能走到教堂近前，沿途处处是景。教堂园区里有不少狗，耳朵上都别着红色的标签，起初让人有些迟疑，相处下来才发现它们个个温顺而热情——其中一只尤其黏我的同伴，我们就此拍下许多生动的照片，我觉得是很棒的人文摄影。

教堂旁与小狗的合影

傍晚，我们回到小木屋，将相机里的照片导入电脑，用Lightroom给当天拍的照片调了调色，充实又自由的一天就这样结束了。

第四章｜瀑布、矿泉与被遗忘的村庄

第四天早上，我们先和小木屋告了别——退房时还和老板的小狗合了影，它一如既往地热情。

这一天原本计划去特鲁索峡谷（Truso Valley）徒步，那是我们出发前就定下的路线，可最后还是放弃了。原因有几个：一是查了查，去峡谷的路要沿着悬崖边缘开，这超出了我的驾驶技术；二是峡谷在边境交界处，多少有些安全隐患；三是当时我们的体力有些不支，这本是我们长期工作后的休闲旅游。不过倒也没觉得多可惜——卡兹别克附近有趣的景点还有很多，放弃了这一个，大可以去看更好的。

于是，我们改道去看格韦莱蒂瀑布（Gveleti Waterfall）。它藏在斯特潘茨明达附近的一条山谷里，是卡兹别克周边最出名的瀑布，分大小两处，要徒步一两公里、有一些爬升，算是一次轻徒步。

通往格韦莱蒂瀑布的山谷小径

卡兹别克到瀑布路上的河谷

格韦莱蒂瀑布

看完瀑布，下游稍缓的地方有一条小溪，我看到一个老外的孩子在爬树，拿一根绳子拴在树上荡来荡去，他的父母就坐在旁边，不但不阻止，还鼓励他、教他怎么爬——如果在中国，这大概是要被家长教训的。说实话，我的第一感觉是很担心，怕孩子掉下来摔伤。后来想想，这可能就是中国人的谨慎和担忧吧，中国人不想让孩子冒任何的风险，但似乎老外没有这种顾虑。我又想到，这个年纪的自己似乎还在准备中考——我相信，每一个经历过中国应试教育的孩子都会认为，十八岁之前就应该每天读书，周末也全是学习。那个时候的我想象不到这个场景：我的家长会带着我在小溪里爬树。

站在小溪边，我忽然觉得，人与人、国与国之间的活法原来可以如此不同；也许正该常常走出自己熟悉的那方天地，去看看世界另一头的人，究竟是怎样过日子的。

瀑布下游小溪里爬树的孩子和他的父母

潘谢蒂天然矿泉池（Pansheti Swimming Pool and Mineral Water Spring）在斯特潘茨明达南侧的潘谢蒂村。带着碳酸的地下泉水被引进凿开的方形石坑，成了一个野生泳池；水流不断析出小气泡，含铁的沉积经氧化呈现出红色。我们到的时候，恰好有一车老外正要离开，看样子是刚游完泳。我们只是拍了照，没下水，我觉得水不太干净；我一边担心水质，一边担心溺水，同时又忍不住感叹他们的勇敢。池边是一大片草地，背景正是卡兹别克小镇。我们把车停在草地上拍照时，一位牧羊人赶着一大群羊经过，几条狗围着羊群奔跑，羊则排成一排慢慢啃草。深山里的泳池、远处的小镇和眼前的羊群同框出现，既和谐又美妙。

潘谢蒂天然矿泉池

矿泉池边的牧羊人和羊群

今日的最后一站是茨多村（Tsdo），一个被称为“悬崖上被遗忘的小村落”的地方。从斯特潘茨明达沿军事大道往俄罗斯边境开十几分钟，就能望见这座高踞峡谷上方的微型村落。它离俄罗斯边境很近，大部分居民早已外迁，在村子的山顶只留下原始的石屋残垣和一座小神龛，脚下便是深邃奔腾的特列克河。这里很冷门，几乎人迹罕至，我没有看到其他游客，风景却极好，我建议每一个人都来看看。

我们沿着村路往上走到高处，看到许多十字架与村落彼此重叠，高山草甸、废墟和破败的中世纪风格的石墙相互交错。那天山顶以上全是雾，反而让整个村子有了《巫师3》或《霍比特人》的感觉，像中世纪电影里大雾升起、恶魔和邪灵即将出现的场景。看着山顶的十字架，仿佛它们仍在为这座村庄守夜；在山风与浓雾之间，我隐约读懂了这片土地何以世代守着自己的信仰。

茨多村附近的山谷

茨多村与山顶的十字架

离开茨多村，我们在卡兹别克山的山脚兜了很久，才找到卡兹别克的第二间民宿My Space Kazbegi 。老板玛丽远远看见我们便迎了出来；她大概是从我的车技，加上当天还有一位客人没到，猜到了我们就是她要等的人。她英语不太好，我说的许多话她听不懂，却总耐心地用翻译软件和我们交流。她给我的第一印象非常和蔼；从那笑容和善意里，能感受到她是真心欢迎我们的。在她要领我们去看房的时候，我不小心把女朋友锁在了车里，直到她敲打车窗，我才反应过来，赶紧解锁；玛丽在一旁回头呵呵地笑，显得格外慈祥。

民宿有四间客房，上下各两层，一层单辟了一间专门放咖啡和茶的房间。处处都很干净，看得出玛丽在用心经营。房子像是用胶合板拼成的简易板房，风景算不上顶级，硬件不如我们上一晚的小木屋；可预订平台上的评分竟高达9.5，这是很罕见的高分。玛丽顶级的服务和一尘不染的房间，让它绝对配得上这9.5分。当晚，我们通过WhatsApp订了她五十拉里一份的早餐。

第五天早上，我们原本打算在Space的露台看日照金山，却发现酒店本就在卡兹别克山上，当然看不到日照金山，加上早晨浓雾弥漫，只好作罢。倒也没有特别遗憾：看日照金山，去雪山总还有机会；未来我大概率还会去西藏，到时应该也能补上。

土豆泥馅的饺子——我从没想过土豆泥也能被包进饺子里

早餐的分量很大。土豆泥馅的饺子很雷人，我从没想过土豆泥会被包进饺子里；小甜饼像撒了白糖的铜锣烧，配咖啡不错；最好吃的仍是摊鸡蛋饼，这种在中国很常见的食物，在这里反倒让人觉得格外亲切。临走时玛丽热情地和我们道别。我想塞给她小费，她却后退了半步，带着遗憾和歉意说“我不能接受”。我觉得她真的很朴实。

之后，我们便驱车前往哥里和库塔伊西。

第五章｜语言无法抵达的地方

关于语言，大部分格鲁吉亚人并不擅长英文，因此，除了面向外国游客的餐厅或酒店，和当地人沟通起来会有一些困难。

这可能会导致一个问题，就是不擅长英语和当地语言的游客到了一些餐厅或商店时，服务员表现的并不热情，而对本地人热情，后来我们反思过这件事，可能是因为他们听不懂我们的语言，而我们也听不懂他们的语言，他们也很无奈，这也是没办法的事情。

这种落差在我们从卡兹别克前往库塔伊西之后尤为明显：卡兹别克是一个有着大量外国游客的旅游胜地，服务人员专业、精通英语且极其热情，我们在这里度过了一段珍贵且快乐的时光；而库塔伊西则相对冷门，大多数游客只把它当作连接格鲁吉亚东部和西部的中转站，游客远比第比利斯、卡兹别克、巴统稀少，本地人才是街头的主角。于是，当我们在夜晚十点晃到库塔伊西白桥附近时，看到的是与上述几个旅游城市截然不同的风景：年轻人三五成群地聚在酒吧门口大声谈笑，酒吧里热闹非凡，打扮时髦的年轻男女不时从我们身边擦肩而过，年轻人开着宝马或奔驰，摇下车窗，放着震耳的音乐飙车——这座城市的夜晚，才是它真正醒过来的时候。

然而，我们两个来自东亚的游客，与这热闹的一切格格不入。我们不懂他们的语言，也不习惯酒馆文化：走进一家在谷歌地图上高达4.8分的酒吧，只见十几个人围在一张酒桌旁大声喊叫、说笑，现场嘈杂到我们几乎听不清彼此说话；许多服务员目送我们走进来，却没有人上前指引座位，落座几分钟后，才有人来告诉我们，这里所有的桌子都已被预定，我们只好悻悻离开。那一片俨然是酒吧一条街，想来别家也是同样的光景——再换一家，大概率还要把这份窘迫重演一遍。那一刻，沮丧与畏难一齐涌上心头，我们第一次真切地意识到，自己很难融入当地人的生活。

后来我们去了另一家餐厅，这家服务员的服务更加热情，有趣的是，这家餐厅门口有很多的大馋狗，他们会依偎在你脚边，渴望你的投喂，当你喂了一只后，就会有更多的狗狗围拢上来，他们围绕在桌子的一周，抬起头，盯着桌子上的食物，这是一种独特的体验——在中国，出于食品安全，动物被禁止进入餐厅——而在这里，你可以一边投喂猫狗，一边享受美食。

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库塔伊西的餐厅里，围在桌边巴望着投喂的狗狗们

这一体验与我们在卡兹别克小镇的一家烧烤店很相似，这家店叫做relax，是一家在小红书上有广泛美誉的餐厅。这家店有三个人——一个爱笑的小孩哥、烤肉大叔和高冷的老板；那位高冷的老板长得特别像《这个杀手不太冷》里的主角莱昂（Léon），连那股沉默疏离的气质都如出一辙。菜单是当地语言写的，对我们来说相当晦涩，正当我们对着菜单犯迷糊的时候，老板似乎看出了我们的窘境，他说“ok，我推荐….”，于是在老板的推荐下，我们吃上了烤猪肉和当地特产Chacha酒。Chacha酒是一种烈酒，但当你喝的时候，你感受不到他的酒精味道，只有甘甜，但当你发现有点晕的时候，你已经醉了。老板有两只猫，一只黑猫和一只黑白相间的猫。

苏珊娜

其中，黑白相间的猫叫做苏珊娜，它相当自来熟，还没上菜的时候，它就跳到了我的腿上打盹，这让我和他建立起了良好的关系；当烤肉端上来的时候，苏珊娜就跳到桌子旁的窗户上，一开始我没理解他的意思，但当它看到我大快朵颐的时候，他就会用右前爪伸到桌子边缘（它很守规矩，不会跳到桌子上），这个时候，我就知道它也想吃。于是我就会切下一小块肉喂给他，他也毫不客气，三两下就吃了进去，然后继续在窗户上望着你。这个时候，那只黑猫也会凑到你的脚边，它更加腼腆，会在桌子下静静望着你，期待着你的投喂。高冷的老板看到两只小猫和我们相处如此融洽，露出了笑容，向我们介绍起了它们。结账的时候，看我们满背包找零钱，跟我们说“that is okay”，并少收了我们零钱。于是在动物朋友的链接下，老板也友善了起来，这也更让我意识到，有时候当地人的高冷、不平易近人可能是语言不通造成的，毕竟你不能要求大山深处的格鲁吉亚老人也说一口流利的外国语言。

说回行程。这一天我们从卡兹别克出发，前往戈里。出山的路上正逢日出，风景与进山时的日落又是另一番风味。中午拐进路边的一家 KFC 好好犒劳了自己一顿——在我看来，KFC 堪称北京和第比利斯这两个地方最好吃的食物，没有之一。在Gulf加油站加满油，我们驶上高速公路，下午四点抵达戈里，本打算先去石头城，再去斯大林博物馆。

离开卡兹别克路上的风景

前往戈里路上的风景

乌普利斯齐赫（Uplistsikhe）位于戈里以东约十公里的库拉河左岸，名字意为“上帝（主）的堡垒”。它是格鲁吉亚最古老的城市聚落之一，早在公元前两千纪便有人在整块岩体上凿石而居；作为古伊比利亚（卡特利）王国的政治与宗教中心，鼎盛时聚居近两万人。四世纪基督教传入后它一度衰落，八至十世纪又因第比利斯落入穆斯林之手而重新兴盛，直到十三世纪蒙古人入侵才被彻底废弃。

门票只需要十五拉里一个人。我们全程用豆包AI当导游，让它给我们讲每一个坑、每一间房子是做什么用的，以及背后的历史，我们转了很久——这里实在太大，又容易迷路。这导致我们没有时间再去斯大林博物馆了——我们这台车的车灯很昏暗，还得赶路去库塔伊西，天黑之后开车会很危险——只好匆匆拍了些照片就出来，把斯大林博物馆推迟到从巴统返程时再来。

乌普利斯齐赫（石头城）——在整块岩体上凿石而建的古城

石头城岩壁上凿出的厅堂与门洞

石头城给我的震撼久久不散。为了躲避外族——比如蒙古人——的侵扰，古人竟在整座山体里凿出一座城，世代居于其中。那情形很像《霍比特人》里的矮人：在山腹深处开凿、垒砌属于自己的城邦——眼前这座，简直是现实的版本。更让我意外的是，纵然空间逼仄、条件艰苦，他们也不曾忘记酿酒，岩壁间至今还留着凿出的酒窖。这样一座城，我非常推荐每个人都来看看。

戈里的街道混着苏联与中世纪的风情，像时间被按下了暂停；当地学生在打篮球，附近传来孩子的笑声。它让我想到沈阳旁边的抚顺——它们的时光都很慢——颇有小城悠然自得的味道。之后我们又走了一段很长的高速去库塔伊西，基本开到每小时一百一十至一百二十公里。Crosstrek的扭矩大，加速却慢，超车很痛苦。

库塔伊西比预想中多山，好在经过卡兹别克的锻炼，这些山路已经不在话下。我们入住了橘子酒店（Hotel Orange Kutaisi）。老板是个五六十岁的男人，平时不爱笑；可听见我们夸他的房子和小院漂亮时，也会露出得意的笑容。我想把车停进院子，却因为车技太差调不过头；他接过去，非常谨慎地一把停好。至于库塔伊西那个属于年轻人的、热闹的白桥之夜，还有我们两个格格不入的东亚游客，前面已经写过了。

库塔伊西是世界上最古老的、有人持续居住的城市之一，历史逾三千五百年。它曾是古科尔基斯王国的都城“埃阿”（Aia）——在希腊神话里，那正是伊阿宋率阿尔戈英雄们远渡而来、寻找金羊毛的地方，也是女巫美狄亚的故乡。中世纪时，它一度是统一的格鲁吉亚王国的首都；山冈上的巴格拉特大教堂建成于1003年，被视为格鲁吉亚建筑的象征。2012至2018年间，格鲁吉亚议会甚至一度迁到这里办公。

第六章｜圣骸、赌城与海

橘子酒店丰盛的早餐

第六天早上，房东准备的早餐很丰盛，有橘子片、摊鸡蛋、面包、咖啡和果酱。吃过早饭，我们去了摩萨梅塔修道院（Motsameta），它坐落在库塔伊西东北方察尔齐特拉河（Tskaltsitela）拐弯处的悬崖之上。关于它的来历，有一段流传千年的故事：

摩萨梅塔在格鲁吉亚语中意为“殉道者之地”，名字与八世纪阿尔格韦季的两位贵族兄弟——大卫与康斯坦丁·姆赫伊泽（David and Constantine Mkheidze）有关。阿拉伯人入侵时，兄弟二人率众起义反抗，兵败被俘。敌人许诺只要他们改信伊斯兰教便可获得赦免，二人宁死不从，遭受酷刑后被杀，遗体被投入崖下的河中。传说河水因此染成血红，这条河从此得名“察尔齐特拉”，意为“红色的水”；又传说狮子将两位殉道者的遗骸衔上山冈，安放在今日修道院所在之处。后来格鲁吉亚正教会将兄弟二人封为圣徒，十一世纪国王巴格拉特在此建造教堂，以守护他们的圣骸。

走进修道院，门口备着免费的头巾供女士佩戴，修道院里面的金色匣子里安放着两位圣人的遗骸。我们照着当地的传统，从安奉遗骸的石台下钻过去，一共钻了三圈——听说这样可以许愿，愿望还会实现。临走时，我们每人捐了五拉里。这座修道院在苏联时期被重建过，是个相当冷门的景点，几乎看不到亚洲面孔，在场的人都很虔诚。对我们这些东亚人来说，这一切真的就像神话一样：圣人的骸骨被保存在一座修道院里，供后人瞻仰，令人感到震撼；在参观的路上，我们看到了修女和当地人，个个神情庄重，仿佛真有神明在侧静静垂视。他们眉宇间那份笃定，是我们这些局外人无从抵达的；说不清究竟因何，却在那一刻，心底油然生出一种敬意。

悬崖之上的摩萨梅塔修道院

库塔伊西附近，还散落着不少苏联时期留下的疗养院。它们大多集中在以温泉闻名的小城茨卡尔图博（Tskaltubo）——那里曾是苏联的疗养胜地，如今许多疗养院都已废弃，美狄亚疗养院（Sanatorium Medea）便是其中之一。我们在这些空置的建筑之间慢慢走了走：斑驳的正门、褪色的墙面、破碎的玻璃，还有周边公园里那些同样被时间遗忘的旧建筑。

茨卡尔图博以罕见的含氡碳酸温泉闻名，泉水常年33至35摄氏度，无需加热便可入浴。苏联时期，这里是最负盛名的疗养胜地之一，先后建起近二十座疗养院，1953年正式设市；其中的“6号泉”据说是1950年专为斯大林修建的。1991年苏联解体后，国家包办的疗养体系一夜消失，这些宏伟的建筑随即荒废；1992年阿布哈兹战争爆发，上万名流离失所的格鲁吉亚难民被安置进这些空置的疗养院，许多人一住就是几十年。

在这些疗养院里走着，扑面而来的只有荒凉与诡异，甚至有些瘆人：空气里满是灰尘，还夹着潮湿、发霉的味道。更让我诧异的是，就在附近的废弃建筑里，竟然有人在拍婚纱照。

第七天一早，我们匆忙出发赶往巴统。从库塔伊西到巴统一路隧道很多，出隧道时常常眼前一亮，风景不错，但明显不如库塔伊西到第比利斯那一段路宽阔。说实话，巴统给我的第一印象是奢华和现代化：我们来格鲁吉亚主要是为了看自然风光，巴统却像一座巨大的赌城，从郊区起就竖着赌场的巨幅广告，进了城更是赌场遍地。它是一座繁华、热闹的现代都市，只是这种城市气质，没有特别勾起以自然风光为目的的我们的兴趣。

巴统是阿扎拉自治共和国的首府，坐落在黑海东岸，属湿润的亚热带气候。它建在古希腊殖民城邦“巴图斯”的旧址上，长期由奥斯曼帝国统治，1878年《柏林条约》后割予俄国，并被辟为自由港。十九世纪末的石油热彻底改变了它：诺贝尔、罗斯柴尔德等家族纷纷在此投资，修通了巴库—巴统铁路与输油管道（世界上最早的跨海陆上输油管之一），使巴统一跃成为黑海最重要的石油港。年轻的斯大林也曾在这里的罗斯柴尔德炼油厂做工，并参与组织了1902年的大罢工。

我们订的HOTEL Dadu ，谷歌地图没法把我们导航到门口，因为周边一些道路根本没被标注，我们绕了很久才找到这栋房东自营的四层小楼。居住体验很差：胶合板家具、塑料凳、坏掉而冲不了水的马桶，只能用淋浴喷头对付。第四层的阳台算是唯一的好处，可推门望出去，也只是停车场、工地和其他楼房。周围的高楼都很破旧，带着苏联时期的风格；外墙刷着鲜亮的颜色，却又大片大片地掉着漆。但考虑到它的价格只有180人民币，我觉得也不应该对它要求太多。

放下行李，我们开车出去逛，当天实在是太炎热了，为了避暑，我们先去了一个商场，看到了谷歌的Pixel手机，质感不错，摸起来很像iPhone，内置谷歌的全家桶，价格也不贵——可惜在国内用不了，要不然高低得带一个。至于其他的，感觉跟世界其他地方的商场都一样，乏善可陈，我们逛了逛就离开了。

当天的天气又晒又热，有一种中暑的感觉，在这种情况下，逛海边和逛城市都不是一种享受，于是我们在Luca Polare品尝了美味的冰淇淋。直到太阳不那么刺眼，我们才出发去阿里与尼诺（Ali & Nino）钢铁雕塑。

雕塑就立在海滨。说起巴统的海，我们其实没有久留——在我看来，各处的海大抵相似。这里的海不比东南亚那样通透，算不上“玻璃海”，但看上去也还干净，沿岸更是布满了各式娱乐设施。倒是有一点让我意外：查过资料才知道，巴统竟属于亚热带气候。单看纬度，它本不该如此——想来是地形改写了气候：身后大高加索及其支脉如同一道屏障，把暖意牢牢锁在了黑海之滨。若在秋冬造访，这里应当格外宜人；盛夏前来，便难免要与暑气周旋了。

巴统的黑海海滨

这两座八米高的钢铁人像由格鲁吉亚艺术家塔玛拉·克韦西塔泽创作，2010年落成。每晚七点，它们会缓缓靠近、相拥，再穿过彼此、渐渐分开，整个过程约十分钟。作品灵感来自1937年的同名小说：一个阿塞拜疆穆斯林青年与一位格鲁吉亚基督徒姑娘在一战年代相爱，最终以悲剧收场——雕塑正是用这种“永远相遇、却始终无法相守”的运动，隐喻跨越宗教与民族的爱情。

我本以为它们会是几十米高的庞然大物，实物虽然远没有想象中宏伟，但当我们不远千里赶到这里，看到屏幕里见过无数次的Ali & Nino真切地立在面前时，这件事本身就足够浪漫。

傍晚的阿里与尼诺钢铁雕塑

巴统的交通也让我印象深刻：堵车堵出了北京早高峰的感觉，区别是北京好几条车道一起堵，这里只有单向车道堵。我的建议是，别开车进巴统市区，把车停在酒店后全程打车。

晚上我们去了一家清真餐厅，吃完又信步闲逛了一会儿。

值得一提的是，巴统所在的阿扎拉地区，正是格鲁吉亚国菜——阿扎拉起司船（Adjaruli Khachapuri）的发源地：船形的面包里卧着融化的芝士与一颗蛋黄，奶香浓郁，蘸着吃格外美味。

阿扎拉起司船（Adjaruli Khachapuri）——格鲁吉亚的国菜

我们乘坐出租车回到酒店，在下车关车门的时候，我的右手拇指被门夹了一下，疼得几乎失去知觉。当时我开了一整天的车，又累又困，心里一直犯嘀咕：会不会骨折？次日还能不能正常开车回第比利斯？那晚只能把手泡在冰水里、再举过头顶，如此交替熬了一宿——我的伙伴一直照顾我，帮我买了冰杯，还替我搬了行李。好在后来回北京之后去医院检查并没有伤到骨头，只是软组织受伤。

第七章｜返程

第八天，我们原定六点出发，结果忘了定闹钟，七点半才爬起来。右手拇指依然很痛，开车时基本维持着竖大拇指的诡异姿势，好像在给每一个路过我们的司机点赞，好在一路还算安全。唯一麻烦的是这台车是机械手刹，需要用拇指按动手刹的按钮才能解除手刹，这使我不得不双手操作手刹——此刻的我是多么想念电子手刹。从巴统返回的路先是窄道，后来变成大路；高速上还碰到一些开得很慢的龟速车，看来各国都有行驶在高速公路上的龟速车，我们只好和当地人一起把它们一一超过。

我们再次回到戈里——上一次只去了石头城，这一回，可以说是专程为斯大林而来。

斯大林1878年出生在戈里一个鞋匠家庭。他的出生木屋早在1937年、他在世时便被辟为纪念馆；两层的主展馆始建于1951年，1957年正式对外开放，是世界上为数不多的斯大林主题博物馆。整座建筑由出生木屋、展馆和一节防弹专列组成——那节重达八十余吨的绿色专列自1941年起为斯大林所用，他曾乘它出席德黑兰、雅尔塔、波茨坦等会议。馆藏六万多件，包括童年照片、个人用品和各国领导人赠送的礼物，值得仔细参观。

很多人不知道，斯大林其实是格鲁吉亚人，本名约瑟夫·朱加什维利（Ioseb Jughashvili），格鲁吉亚语才是他的母语，据说他一生说俄语都带着浓重的格鲁吉亚口音。少年时他被母亲送进第比利斯的东正教神学院，本是要当神父的，却在那里接触到马克思主义、走上革命道路；他早年的化名“柯巴”（Koba），取自格鲁吉亚作家亚历山大·卡兹别吉（Alexander Kazbegi）小说《弑父者》里的绿林好汉——而卡兹别吉一家，正是我们此行到过的卡兹别克地区的名门。然而这位“戈里之子”与故乡的关系始终复杂：他执政时期的大清洗中，也有许多格鲁吉亚人罹难。直到今天，格鲁吉亚对他的态度依旧矛盾——戈里保留着他的博物馆和雕像，更多的人则对这段历史看法不一。（他的母亲凯可最终安葬在第比利斯的圣山先贤祠，也就是前面提到的姆塔茨明达。）

我们花十五拉里进了馆，看到几幅著名的画作，可惜都不是真迹，真迹保存在莫斯科。斯大林本人最后也没能回到戈里——他1953年在莫斯科去世，先与列宁合葬，后来又被迁葬到克里姆林宫的宫墙之下。馆内还挂着毛泽东送给斯大林的那幅“万寿无疆”，以及那幅著名的斯大林抱着小女孩的画。看到“万寿无疆”的那一刻，我们又亲切又感慨——在异国他乡的展馆里，终于撞见一件来自祖国的东西，我们专门和它们合了影。

离开戈里，我们开车去了圣剑山，正式名称是迪德戈里战役纪念地（Didgori Battle Memorial）。

1121年8月12日，大卫四世（“建设者”）率格鲁吉亚军队在迪德戈里以少胜多，击败强大的塞尔柱联军，史称“奇迹般的胜利”，格鲁吉亚由此走向黄金时代。纪念地建于上世纪九十年代，山顶数十把钢铁巨剑直插大地，既像插在土地上的十字架，也纪念这场战役与阵亡的将士。

在前往圣剑山的路边还有一座架着梯子的碉楼——萨斯科里塔（Saskhori Tower），需要爬梯子才能进去，但这个梯子实在是不稳当，我顺着梯子爬了几步就发怵，没敢继续向上爬。事后只好通过谷歌地图上其他人分享的照片一窥其中风景。

圣剑山附近的石砌碉楼

山坡上的钢铁巨剑

随后我们入住了旅程中的第七个、也是最后一个酒店Old Gold Anteon 。酒店本身不错，只是门口的路很窄，不好停车。

还车的时候，工作人员发现车后有剐蹭，他告知我们：虽然我们买了全险，却没有在事故发生时第一时间报警并联系租车方，让警察、保险和租车方到现场处理，因此按合同仍要赔偿；我们甚至说不清这剐蹭是何时、何地蹭上的，直到还车才发现。剐蹭赔二百一十拉里，洗车五十拉里；对方最后要一百美元，我们找了一位在银行工作的朋友换钱，又搭了十美元手续费，合计一百一十美元。

这令我不禁感叹国内神州租车的服务，只要你买了全程无忧保险，还车的时候工作人员不会检查剐蹭，完全不用你赔一分钱。

过程中，工作人员很专业，拿出合同一条一条指给我们看。作为游客，本就该尊重当地的法律和规矩；交车时对方也讲清楚了，是我没听懂，又没仔细看合同，一心以为买了全险就什么都不用管。这算是一个教训。

处理完这些，我们去了一家有许多印度人、看起来很正宗的印度餐厅。

饭还没吃完，租车公司又通过WhatsApp发来另一处划痕，要求继续赔偿。这令我感到困惑，这是什么操作？我都已经离开了，你怎么证明这是我造成的呢（在交车之前，我仔细检查过车子，确信这不是我们造成的）。我明确回他，这道划痕不是我造成的。如果真的是我们造成的，你们验车时提出来可以赔，但不能事后追着索赔。尊重规矩和合同本该是双向的：钱已经赔完、交易已经结束，当时没检查出来，是对方的问题。来回沟通了很久，让我感到很心累，直到我提出要把情况报告给租车平台，他们最终还是承认这是自己的工作疏忽，就此和解：对方以一句“Good luck”收尾，我这才觉得这事儿总算翻篇了。

风波过后，我们去了“八千个年份”（8000 Vintages），买了两瓶白葡萄酒。毕竟格鲁吉亚是红酒的发源地——不带几瓶酒回去，总觉得这趟旅行不完整。我们还想再买些小瓶的酒，又去了STIN WINE 。店里只有一位女士在介绍酒；我们打开豆包AI，用视频通话请它帮我们挑几款。这位女士很耐心，还让我们逐一试饮。最后买了八小瓶和一大瓶，她很和蔼，临走前还和我们合了影。带着这些格鲁吉亚葡萄酒，我们为整段旅程画上了句号。

还车前后在城里走走停停，我也忍不住多打量了这里的车。格鲁吉亚堪称老车爱好者的天堂，这里的很多车子是从欧洲淘来的二手车，这意味着，与中国满大街崭新的新能源车不同，在这里你能看到各种品牌、各个年代的老车，许多都相当有趣。作为一个旅行车爱好者，这里有不少令我惊喜的车子，比如宝马五系旅行、高尔夫旅行版，还有前苏联生产的旅行车。

总结来讲，我认为这里的车子大体可以分为四类：（1）日系车：日系车占比相当之高，包括三菱、本田、丰田等，看来日系车凭借着稳定的机械素质广受世界人民喜爱（2）德系车：主要以奔驰、宝马、大众、欧宝为主，奥迪占比较少。尽管奥迪、奔驰、宝马在中国被统称为bba，但是很明显，在格鲁吉亚，奥迪是比奔驰和宝马低一个等级的。当地的年轻人尤其喜爱宝马。（3）其他老车：有很多的车子我从没见过车标，我猜测产自前苏联、俄罗斯或者东欧，这类车子占比很大，并且相当有趣。（4）特斯拉：崭新的特斯拉在当地的街道上尤为显眼，我猜测买这类车的人应该在当地算是富裕。

街头的宝马五系旅行

一台漂亮的老车

次日，也就是回国这天，我们先在酒店附近的赛百味匆匆填饱肚子，便打车赶往机场。我们从第比利斯飞阿拉木图，再转飞北京。凌晨五点落地，七点回到住所，我连澡都顾不上洗，倒头便睡，一觉睡到了中午十二点。

尾声｜信仰之外，旅程之中

十天里，我走进过新建的大教堂、十四世纪的山顶教堂、保存圣骸的修道院，也在近乎废弃的村庄看见十字架。我仍然没有宗教信仰，无法从信徒的内部去理解祈祷、圣物和许愿；可作为一个局外人，信徒的虔诚、仪式的神圣感，以及这些地点带来的震撼，已经不再只是照片里的异域景观。我仍立于信仰之外，却真切地被它们撼动过；对于那份我无从抵达的虔诚，唯余一份长久的敬意。

出发前，那座雪山教堂只是一张吸引我的照片；回来后，我记得阴影里的教堂、被阳光照亮的雪山、战乱中被送上山的圣物，也记得那些小狗、陌生人和公路。信仰是这次旅行很重要的一部分，却不是它的全部。

说实话，坐上返程的飞机时，我心里只想着快点到家。这个国家并不像想象中那样处处舒适：还车的风波让我心力交瘁，只想尽快脱身；加之一路饭菜不太合口、舟车劳顿，它终究不像在日本旅行那样事事顺遂、轻松自在。语言不通的时候，每一次与当地人打交道，我心里都要先绷一下——因为拿不准会遇到怎样的回应。这些都是旅途真实的一面，我不想略去。

可等尘埃落定、回望这十天，真正让我念念不忘的，还是高加索的高山草甸——那样的风景，美得几乎不真实。若要我说，徒步才是这趟旅行的精华，来格鲁吉亚，千万别错过用双脚丈量群山的机会。除此之外，纯属个人偏好，我也格外喜欢这里留存的苏联痕迹：那些建筑、老车与旧日气息。苏联曾与我们的国家有过密切的往来，小时候听过的故事、读过的课文、接触过的文化，或多或少都有它的影子，置身其间，竟生出一种奇异的亲切。还有这里的红酒——我本不擅饮，可当尝到这片土地以八千年酿酒传统酿出的酒，那份丰盈、以及每一款各不相同的层次，还是让我心悦诚服。

所以现在回想，这趟旅程算不上一路轻松：它足够危险、足够刺激，也足够累人；可正因如此，才格外深刻。它不像去日本或越南那样处处舒适，却让我真切见识了这个世界的辽阔与多样。我想，这依然是一次非常珍贵、难忘的旅行。