THE ROAD TO KAZBEGI

The bus lurched around a hairpin bend and came to a juddering halt behind an old Soviet Land Rover.  Lashed to the roof were a couple of jerry cans, a parasol and a semi cognizant ram, hooves bound lying on its side. Day three in Georgia and our group of ten travellers had left Tbilisi in the early morning to journey up the old Russian military highway to Kazbegi, a small town close to the Russian border.

The rain poured down. It hadn’t stopped raining since we’d arrived, casting a Soviet pall over the trip so far and a gloomy atmosphere in the bus.  Beyond the Land Rover, back-to-back vehicles snaked ahead towards the foothills of a mountain, its peak shrouded in mist.  Black dots streamed down its sides as if spilling out of an anthill.  Upon reaching the asphalt the dots peeled off to circumvent the stationary vehicles.  We inched forwards into a Glastonbury festival for the Middle Ages, minus the music.  Pressing my face against the smudged bus windows I could see cars and trucks sliding in muddy rivulets on the banks either side of the road.  Makeshift tents and awnings had been set up, beneath which groups of women and children huddled around cauldrons and pots over fires. Men chopped wood or crouched drinking from jugs.  Shepherd dogs threaded their way through the quagmire and policeman blew whistles to direct the chaos.  People trudged past, some stopping to peer in at us with vacant eyes.  Most looked exhausted, and all were filthy, caked in dirt.  Some of the men carried sheep alive or dead slung across their backs, a leg held tightly in each hand around their necks.  Pairs of stooped elderly ladies in mud-splattered black shuffled along, black veils framing pale faces.  Couples in ripped jeans and hooded tops walked by, slumped on one another.   All wore dark clothing and assorted footwear from gumboots to sandals, once-smart heels or even bare feet.

Our guide Anna explained we were in the midst of a religious festival. Lomisoba is a centuries-old pagan festival celebrated once a year in this remote part of northeastern Georgia. The 9th-century Church of St George of Lomisi sits on a ridge at 2200m. Throughout the night people had been tramping up and down the steep mountainside to pay their respects to the saint. Saint George is the most venerated in the country and devotions date back to the 4th century.  Ancient tradition dictates that you must do the three-hour walk up the mountain to reach the church, perhaps wearing an 8kg chain around your neck, and you could go barefoot if you felt really repentant.  After the liturgy is performed, you must sacrifice an animal - either sheep, calf or chicken.  It appeared that paganism was still flourishing here despite the disapproval of the Georgian Orthodox church.  ‘It is believed that St George will help families, particularly women with fertility issues,’ explained Anna.  ‘So they have to make this sacrifice.  And afterwards, they drink.  A lot.’  ‘Meat is murder’ chanted the sole vegetarian on the bus, before reluctantly admitting that she did enjoy the occasional sausage roll.

‘Querido Dios, are we going to be stuck here all day then?’, my Spanish guest fumed.  This is the only road, I’m sorry’, Anna shrugged.  I closed my eyes, briefly praying to St George to let us pass, to stop the rain, and to get to Kazbegi before nightfall.  As if in response, our driver started up the engine and we haltingly crept forward.  The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and spirits had lifted until we got to the bridge and stopped. Not far below us a ravine opened with a ghoulish scene from a Bosch painting on display:  a truck piled high with animal skins was parked next to a gallows. Men with long knives held struggling sheep between their thighs, the killing ground awash with blood. Anna apologised for the barbaric scene: ‘We’re not proud of this, there have been many demonstrations but these are rural pilgrims…’  The vegetarian moved to a seat across the aisle.  Another declared himself hungry.  We crossed the bridge and passed a car parked on the pavement. Two children hanging out of the passenger window waved at us as an aproned woman tossed a couple of live chickens into the boot.  As we sped up, passing more pilgrims making their way to the site, I saw a man tied to a makeshift stretcher being hoisted into the back of a van and wondered if he might be heading for the gallows too.