December 30, 2004

Skiing, Georgian style

Bakuriani, Georgia

As part of the complete Georgian Christmas experience Tbilisi-local Kate suggests a trip to the ski fields of Bakuriani. Gun skier that I am I'm quite looking forward to hitting the piste.

Things don't start well at the bus station. We arrive at 11:40 to find our "12 o'clock" marshrutka full and our reserved seats gone. "Take the next one", the driver helpfully suggests, indicating a vacant minibus beside his, "it'll leave in 40 minutes".

An hour and a half later the second driver finally climbs in and starts the engine. At last we're away. My mind races with thoughts of powder snow and apres-ski drinks by the fire. The magic of Bakuriani beckons.

But first we have to get there. The driver is driving as if he's just remembered that he left the gas on. In between hair-raising overtaking manoeuvres he's adjusting the volume on the stereo and answering his mobile phone. Often all three at once. He tut-tuts as we pass another marshrutka crashed on the side of the road. A clearly less capable driver. As I alternate between white-knuckle fear and mental anguish from the painfully loud "comedy" tape. Kate sleeps. She's obviously more experienced in these trips than I.

It's after dark when we finally reach Bakuriani. Kate pulls out a hand-drawn map for the place we're staying at. The map shows one street with a restaurant at one end and the house at the other. Bakuriani, it turns out, has more than one street. Nevertheless we find the place and are soon back looking for food.

My heart lifts on seeing a Casio keyboard as we enter the restaurant. Always the sign of a class establishment. With my Australian gift for languages I'm sent to look for a menu. Georgian only. A drunk looking guy stumbles over and offers to help but with my trained eye I've already spotted a pizza and salad on an adjacent table and I order those. Plus some beer of course.

We're about to tuck in when the Casio keyboard springs to life. It's the drunk guy, playing like a magician, singing like a forty-a-day'er, and at a volume that makes the windows rattle. He's soon joined by a couple of even drunker friends who provide a brief bit of respite when they stumble in to the speaker cable and sever the sound.

They soon manage to plug it back in though so that's our cue to leave. We pop next door for some vital supplies then, beer in hand, stagger in the dark back to the house. Ready for an early start tomorrow.

At 10:30 we emerge from the house. I'd been directed to turn right for the Grand Master ski slopes. Kate had been told to turn left for some kiddie park. Left we turn. After meandering through town we find ourselves at the baby slopes. A handful of rope tows with a cluster of ski-rental booths at the bottom. I look wistfully at a distant chairlift climbing high to the top of Kokhta-Gora as Kate announces that this looks a fine place to ski. We find a cheerful lady with a haphazard collection of skis and boots. I find a set that looks half-decent and head for the longest of the rope tows. I'm intrigued to find that, rather than buying an all-day pass, I just pay the lift attendant a couple of lari (about one dollar) and he writes my name down on a piece of paper and marks me as having paid for three circuits.

The queue is short so I'm soon clutching the poma tow. They've ingeniously ensured that each tow is covered in snow, by having them drag through the snow all the way down from the top, so I find myself desparately trying not to sit on the seat in my jeans but just haul myself up with my arms. Eventually I make it to the top. I turn, adjust my sunglasses, bring my skis together, and thirty seconds later I'm back at the lift queue. The liftie remembers me easily enough as he marks off my second time around.

On my third trip the climb to the top was enlivened by the inch thick metal cable jumping the pulley wheels above me and whacking me on the head. As I check for blood flow or signs of concussion it occurs to me that this never happened in Switzerland. Clearly a regular occurence here as the top liftie comes down with a special stick to put the cable back on.

I head down and across to convince the never-have-never-will-ski Kate to give it a whirl. With skis on she patiently listens to my instruction on snow ploughs and Stem Christies, travels for about three metres across the snow, then suggests that maybe we should just go for a beer instead. Sounds like a plan to me.

Posted by David at December 30, 2004 02:59 AM