Vashlovani Disaster: When a Mountain Trip Goes Wrong
Spoiler: We were caught in a hailstorm and ended up at a police station
Vashlovani is a beautiful nature reserve on the Georgia-Azerbaijan border. It varies from green hills to quiet valleys to a complete desert. So when my friends invited me there to test drive their new car, I was thrilled. However, as this experience taught me, improvisation is not compatible with mountain trips.
Spoiler: We were caught in a hailstorm and ended up at a police station. I thought I would have had to spend the night there.
So, this is how it happened.
My friend calls me out of the blue and invites me to join them for a weekend ride. She and her boyfriend just bought a car and can’t wait to travel to an exotic location. Vashlovani Park sounds ideal.
“We’re driving there on Saturday, finding a motel, and walking around on Sunday.” My friend says.
The weather forecast doesn’t look good. Thunderstorms are common in Georgia during June.
“We’re feeling lucky. If it rains, we’ll just stay in the car.”
My friend’s confidence calms my inner paranoid, and I agree.
The next day we start in the early afternoon because our driver, a night owl, decides to sleep till noon. “We have a car; we can start whenever and stop wherever.”
When we finally reach a country road, I realize I’m the only one with snacks and water. “We’re in a car; we can stop anywhere.”
Right. However, we’re not in the US Georgia, there will be no supermarkets or kiosks down the road. Two hours later, we find a tavern and dine. We have no idea that this is going to be our last meal of the day.
Juicy pkhali, amazing liver barbecue and Georgian salad, and... we are staying at the tavern for an extra hour. Not because we decide to have a dessert (Georgians prefer meat, it’s not a dessert-friendly country), but due to a hailstorm.
Even this doesn’t deter our driver. So we buy water and carry on.
The closer we get to the reserve, the rainier it gets. We arrive at one of the entrances around 6 p.m., only to realize we don’t have a map, and Google Maps doesn’t display the reserve’s navigation and trails.
“We’ll just take some pictures and find a motel.” Decides our driver.
To take the pictures, we must drive down the muddy hill. The hailstorm has left many traps for us. All the puddles we’re driving through appear to be much deeper than they seem.
As you can see, the photos are incredible. But we barely get out of the car, avoiding getting stuck in the sticky mud.
As we struggle to find a proper route, our driver finally chooses to get back. When we stop to wash the car, I dream of a nice bed.
“We’ve gotta go to the police now.” It’s not what I expect to hear...
All three of us are staring at the car — the front car plate is missing… We lost it somewhere during our muddy rally, and driving without car plates is illegal in Georgia.
We arrive at a police station around 9 p.m. I begin checking the nearest guest houses, but my friend stops me:
“We will drive there and pay right away. We’re in a car, remember?”
At this point, I wish I took public transport. To my surprise, we’re not driving to any guest houses. The Georgian police officers persuade our driver to go look for a car plate. Now. In the dark. So they drive into the darkness in their Hillux, leaving me and my friend totally lost.
A half an hour later, they get back. Predictably, without a plate.
“Fancy coffee?” Asks one of the officers.
“Can I have tea?” The officer leaves for a minute without responding before returning with a bouquet of fresh mint.
This is one of the dissonances I have about Georgia and its people. The police officers are extremely generous in sharing tea, coffee, and cookies with us. At the same time, we lost an hour because they seemed bored and wanted an evening ride.
While my friend and I drink mint tea, our driver and the officer prepare a statement.
“How long is it going to take?” Asks my friend an hour later, losing her temper.
“We’re almost done.” Replies the officer and... drives to the village.
He returns 30 minutes later with a lady translator. They need a certified translator to help our driver, who doesn’t speak Georgian (like all of us).
My friend and I try to cheer ourselves up but quickly fail. The lady translator doesn’t really know the language. So, after a while, the officer comes back to help her translate. They still need her to sign the statement, so we’re all having tea now. People say mint calms you down.
The clock strikes 11 p.m. when we leave the police station. We’re on our way to a hotel, dreaming of a nice rest. The first one we drive to is full. At least that is what the front desk lady says. The second and third don’t show any signs of existence. Or maybe Google gives us the wrong address.
When we finally find a place that looks like a hotel, it is almost midnight. Starving, we ask for food, which pisses off an old lady who works there. “You didn’t book, so I didn’t cook for you.” Georgian hospitality can be, well, authentic. She demands $100 per room, so our driver freaks out and suggests driving straight home.
Three hours, zero traffic, and no food later, we’re getting back to Tbilisi. We got some incredible photos, and the truth is that we wouldn’t have gotten them if we had driven to Vashlovani in the morning. Still, I wish I could hike and stay overnight there.
Next time, I will do my homework properly.
Inspired by
Mario López-Goicoechea and his Andalusian adventure
Craig K. Collins and his Moroccan adventure
Dr. Casey Lawrence and her Escaping the Airport story
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