Hitchhike to India legs 38/39: Trabzon to Batumi to Gori
By
This mission has been getting so ridiculously easy that I’ve been lumping a couple of them together in an attempt to not spam your already overloaded news feeds and other social media with people vying for your attention. Yes you. Quality over quantity in’ it? Anyway the past two hitches have gone with..erm…without a hitch.
Batumi. Obviously
We’re leaving Trabzon leisurely in the morning because we’re only going three hours up the road, along a stretch where pretty much everyone is at least heading to the border. It makes a change from our crack-of-dawn starts. A rule of (sorry) thumb when it comes to hitching is, if you want to make it before dark; start early. Recently though that’s gone out the window. People here are good.
And true enough, we’re on our way complete with some cold cans of juice bought at a gas station by our driver. We’re left only a few miles from the frontier around an hour or so in. The usual border town traffic is heavy here, as it appears both Turkish and Georgians are popping to and from each country to take advantage of whatever’s cheaper on the other side of the hill. It’s going to be no problem at all.
We’re picked up in a creaky old thing by a dark-skinned smokey dude. You know the kind of car. Wires hanging out. Bit of thin plastic where an airbag should be. Puke coloured fake sheepskin on the back sill. Some alien make logo stamped on a steering wheel you wouldn’t use on a go-kart. He speaks fluent Spanish.
Yards from the border crossing, he pulls in, and a couple of guys scurry to the car. He flicks open the broken glove compartment. Inside are stacks, and I mean stacks of cigarettes. He does the deal, then drops us a few hundred yards further down the tarmac.
Olivia and I speculate what else he’s into. I’m guessing there were other compartments in that motor that you could only imagine. Animal heart with diamonds hidden in ice. His fake leg stashes a ton of coke. Surely he could have taken us closer to the border, but I reckon he’s a wanted man by customs. He’s beating a hasty retreat as we wait for our third ride.
And after a coffee break, it comes in the form of a top-notch Mercedes-Benz. From the ridiculous to the sublime. He takes us to the border, and we fall out to walk through on foot.
GEORGIA!
The Sarp border crossing is one of the most unusual you’ll ever see. Another Atlas Obscura content, it’s a strange, arty squiggle designed by a German architect. Certainly not to be forgotten, it was only tarnished by the attentions of a strange man who would not leave Olivia alone. Right up to passport control, he was edging closer and closer to her, invading her personal space. Even as she’s getting her new stamp, he’s hanging right off her left shoulder, pressing himself in. We march over and think nothing more of it, until he’s hurried to catch her up, staring her up and down, creepy, searching eyes. This is until the point I call him a cunt.
Having shed the weirdo, we’re amazed to discover our Mercedes driver is waiting for us on the other side. For a foot crossing, it was faster in a car, but we’re eternally grateful as he speeds us to our first destination of Batumi.
Batumi is worth a mention. It’s a strange town undergoing something of a tourist boom. It reminded me of Skopje. The town centre is getting a serious makeover as they prepare for their summer season, which for a town without a sand beach, appears to be extensive. A bizarre mixture of botanic gardens, brand new promenades, theme park buildings and good weather brings in the Russian holiday makers. You don’t know why you like it, but you do.
Caption competition
Day two is barely worth mentioning. Stand on the side of the road, hold out thumb, get a ride all the way to Gori, our next port of call before the capital Tbilisi. What really baked my noodle was the left hand drive car, which just so happened to be my mum’s old motor, a Honda 4×4. It certainly felt a little strange to be in that passenger seat again, same upholstery, same dash, same side-door pocket I used to stash empty packets of pork scratchings. If you believe in such things, in that moment, perhaps she was watching over us.
Didn’t even need this one
Our driver is a jolly sort of fellow. He’s on his phone more often than not, always heaving great belly laughs. This is all very well, considering he’s taking mountainous corners at breakneck speed, while attempting to negotiate the vast amount of cow on the roads. The cows here don’t give a fuck. They seem to wander aimlessly on the highways and byways, chewing the cud over crash barriers, sticking the hoof up at oncoming traffic. Of course this doesn’t do my heart any good with memories of my chicane car accident that killed a roadside sheep. No wonder they have “Bovine Eyes” on the menu.
We’re drinking Georgian wine by sundown. Two fun and adventurous days toasted at length by our homestay host family in Gori. It’s safe to say I’m/we are going to like it here.
Hitchhike to India legs 38/39: Trabzon to Batumi to Gori
This mission has been getting so ridiculously easy that I’ve been lumping a couple of them together in an attempt to not spam your already overloaded news feeds and other social media with people vying for your attention. Yes you. Quality over quantity in’ it? Anyway the past two hitches have gone with..erm…without a hitch.
Batumi. Obviously
We’re leaving Trabzon leisurely in the morning because we’re only going three hours up the road, along a stretch where pretty much everyone is at least heading to the border. It makes a change from our crack-of-dawn starts. A rule of (sorry) thumb when it comes to hitching is, if you want to make it before dark; start early. Recently though that’s gone out the window. People here are good.
And true enough, we’re on our way complete with some cold cans of juice bought at a gas station by our driver. We’re left only a few miles from the frontier around an hour or so in. The usual border town traffic is heavy here, as it appears both Turkish and Georgians are popping to and from each country to take advantage of whatever’s cheaper on the other side of the hill. It’s going to be no problem at all.
We’re picked up in a creaky old thing by a dark-skinned smokey dude. You know the kind of car. Wires hanging out. Bit of thin plastic where an airbag should be. Puke coloured fake sheepskin on the back sill. Some alien make logo stamped on a steering wheel you wouldn’t use on a go-kart. He speaks fluent Spanish.
Yards from the border crossing, he pulls in, and a couple of guys scurry to the car. He flicks open the broken glove compartment. Inside are stacks, and I mean stacks of cigarettes. He does the deal, then drops us a few hundred yards further down the tarmac.
Olivia and I speculate what else he’s into. I’m guessing there were other compartments in that motor that you could only imagine. Animal heart with diamonds hidden in ice. His fake leg stashes a ton of coke. Surely he could have taken us closer to the border, but I reckon he’s a wanted man by customs. He’s beating a hasty retreat as we wait for our third ride.
And after a coffee break, it comes in the form of a top-notch Mercedes-Benz. From the ridiculous to the sublime. He takes us to the border, and we fall out to walk through on foot.
GEORGIA!
The Sarp border crossing is one of the most unusual you’ll ever see. Another Atlas Obscura content, it’s a strange, arty squiggle designed by a German architect. Certainly not to be forgotten, it was only tarnished by the attentions of a strange man who would not leave Olivia alone. Right up to passport control, he was edging closer and closer to her, invading her personal space. Even as she’s getting her new stamp, he’s hanging right off her left shoulder, pressing himself in. We march over and think nothing more of it, until he’s hurried to catch her up, staring her up and down, creepy, searching eyes. This is until the point I call him a cunt.
Having shed the weirdo, we’re amazed to discover our Mercedes driver is waiting for us on the other side. For a foot crossing, it was faster in a car, but we’re eternally grateful as he speeds us to our first destination of Batumi.
Batumi is worth a mention. It’s a strange town undergoing something of a tourist boom. It reminded me of Skopje. The town centre is getting a serious makeover as they prepare for their summer season, which for a town without a sand beach, appears to be extensive. A bizarre mixture of botanic gardens, brand new promenades, theme park buildings and good weather brings in the Russian holiday makers. You don’t know why you like it, but you do.
Caption competition
Day two is barely worth mentioning. Stand on the side of the road, hold out thumb, get a ride all the way to Gori, our next port of call before the capital Tbilisi. What really baked my noodle was the left hand drive car, which just so happened to be my mum’s old motor, a Honda 4×4. It certainly felt a little strange to be in that passenger seat again, same upholstery, same dash, same side-door pocket I used to stash empty packets of pork scratchings. If you believe in such things, in that moment, perhaps she was watching over us.
Didn’t even need this one
Our driver is a jolly sort of fellow. He’s on his phone more often than not, always heaving great belly laughs. This is all very well, considering he’s taking mountainous corners at breakneck speed, while attempting to negotiate the vast amount of cow on the roads. The cows here don’t give a fuck. They seem to wander aimlessly on the highways and byways, chewing the cud over crash barriers, sticking the hoof up at oncoming traffic. Of course this doesn’t do my heart any good with memories of my chicane car accident that killed a roadside sheep. No wonder they have “Bovine Eyes” on the menu.
We’re drinking Georgian wine by sundown. Two fun and adventurous days toasted at length by our homestay host family in Gori. It’s safe to say I’m/we are going to like it here.