of it all , we reached a run-down wooden bridge with only pedestrians and horse-drawn carts on it . We figured the bikes could easily make it across . On the other side we were greeted by rolls of barbed wire across the road and a soldier : “ Passports please !” How drunk were we ? We couldn ’ t possibly have reached Russia already . Confused , we handed over our passports . The soldier flicked through them , looking for something , then handed them back disapprovingly . “ No permit !” “ What ? Where are we ?” he bemusedly entertained Aidan searching the maps , then firmly sent us back the way we ’ d come .
Much later we learned that Abkhazia , the area we had been trying to enter , had declared independence from Georgia . Russia provided military support and accepted the declaration of independence . All but a select few UN countries still consider Abkhazia part of Georgia and so most maps , including ours , show it as such . To enter the area , we would have needed to purchase a permit from the man in the ramshackle hut .
We finally found some food at a little supermarket and hatched a new plan over bread with salami . Aidan recalled reading about a tiny village lost in time up in the Svaneti area of the Caucasus Mountains to the east . To our surprise it was marked on the map and looked wonderfully remote . On the busy main road through endless maize fields , we learned all about the Georgian ‘ chicken lane ’. During my motorcycle lessons my instructor had always advised me to ride in the middle of my lane to discourage dangerous overtaking . Not so here . All traffic moved over to the side , one wheel on the hard shoulder , creating a single ‘ chicken lane ’ in the middle . Both sides used it for overtaking , effectively playing chicken to see who would pull in first to avoid the imminent crash . It worked remarkably well , so when in Rome …
As the traffic petered out and the road began to climb the foothills , we discovered another thing so vastly different from the European world we know . It seemed here livestock would roam freely , and fences were put up to keep them out of certain areas , not to keep them in their field . We shared the road with cows , donkeys , and pigs as it followed a river into the mountains with lush green slopes rising to the sunny sky either side .
As the day ended , we didn ’ t have the energy for more Chacha and animated conversation with the wonderfully friendly people of this country but finding a hidden place to camp where no invitation would reach us was difficult on the steep slopes . A rickety wooden bridge without railings led across the
foaming river and we found a tiny field with some boulders that hid us from the gravel path we ’ d come down , if not from the main road on the other side . Predictably people honked and waved as they drove past , but none crossed the bridge .
The rays of the early morning sun warmed us up as we swept around bends hugging the rocky hillsides . In the fields farmers were making hay the old-fashioned way , turning it with pitchforks and piling it into tall mounds . The road was in surprisingly good condition all the way up to Mestia , a townlet upgraded to harness tourism dollars and the last place to fill up on petrol . A short way out of town we caught up with the construction crew laying down large concrete slabs , literally paving the way as we rode it . It seemed we would reach Ushguli just in time before it was no longer off the beaten path .
When the concrete ran out , the
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