land. Pigs snuffle about in water-filled
channels; ducks push their way
through long grass but the cows seem
to prefer the warmth and companion-
ability of the road.
Finally, after Poti, we turn east,
inland again, and towards the moun-
tains. The road narrows, towns be-
come villages and traffic fades.
Needing to discard our road tyres
and fit the knobblies we have been
carrying across Bulgaria and Tur-
key, we stop in the mid afternoon
at a guest house. Hillda, the owner,
is a small man sporting some gold
teeth and a handful of English words
which he practices on us. His wife, a
homely-looking woman with white
hair and a bulbous nose, fusses about
preparing food. She wears sorts and
slops and, like Hillda, has some gold
teeth.
Hillda leads me into the dark
interior of their house, a dilapidated,
rambling, lived-in place that they
share with a few paying guests. He
shows me the bathroom, attempt-
ing to explain how to encourage the
shower to work and the toilet to flush.
On the wall, a Gorgon's head of wires
sprout, eventually making their way
into old-fashioned, porcelain contact
breakers.
Once we have unpacked, the wom-
en tell us they have provided food.
Their generosity is similar to that we
have experienced from rural Rus-
sians on previous trips. Rough, dry
porridge, bread, strong white cheese,
bits of dry chicken meat and a bowl
of tomato and cucumber are placed
in front of us; we are encouraged
to eat with gestures. Hilda provides
glasses and offers an open bottle of
his home-made wine. He smiles his
gold-capped teeth at us and uses his
handful of English words.
Rested and replete, we balance the
bikes on rocks and spare fuel con-
tainers, remove the wheels and road
tyres and fit the new knobblies. It will
be a relief no longer to have to carry
TRAVERSE 39
them. Later we shower in the antique
bathroom, coaxing water from the
pipes.
The next morning we say a reluc-
tant farewell to our lovely German
lasses who converse at the breakfast
table in Russian to Hillda, German to
Wolfgang and English to us. We leave
behind our four road tyres; Hillda
seems happy and doesn't regard them
as left refuse.
Now the fun begins. The heavily
wooded foothills of the Caucasus
Mountains enclose the road, trees
sometimes meeting overhead so we
ride through a leafy tunnel of foli-
age. The road is tar and good; we are
children again, playing. Gone are
the days of enduring mindless roads
through heat and rain, the clogged
arteries of cities and coastal towns,
the pain from stiff muscles... The Ri-
oni River follows the road (or perhaps
the other way round), translucent and
pale with sediment but it has none of
the threat of the turbulent, deadly riv-