I found the land border crossing from Georgia to Azerbaijan a little intimidating, especially as we were separated and had to pass each check-point individually. First, I had to exit Georgia. When the guard saw my passport, he picked up the phone, and said something about “Australian”. Georgia had just changed its visa rules about 10 months ago, so while I would have needed a visa to enter in 2009, I no longer needed one in 2010. I held my breath and hoped that his superior was looking at the most recent rule book. Happily he was, and with a nod and a stamp, I was permitted to leave Georgia and wander through no-mans land.

I crossed a bridge, looking down at the cows of ambiguous nationality grazing below me, and walked towards a twelve year old boy carrying some sort of large rifle. In front of me I could see a very large “Azərbaycan” sign in front of me, but I decided not to take the risk and get a photo. Happily, not all on the internet are so risk averse.

Photo from wikipedia.

Once I was across the border, I surrendered my passport with its visa, and all our bags were searched for anything Armenian – postcards, maps, even the Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan Lonely Planet. They carefully examined our water bottles to ensure that the writing on it was Georgian and not Armenian. There was some debate over some Georgian postcards, but finally we were all returned our passports and permitted to enter the Republic of Azerbaijan for the next chapter of our adventure through the Caucasus.

One of my favourite days in Georgia was our day trip to Kazbegi (ყაზბეგი), a small town high up in the Greater Caucasus mountains of Georgia. Our bus spent a few hours winding zigzagging the Georgian Military Highway, and we watched the cows grazing on steep slopes like dozens of tiny ants across undulations still dappled with snow.

When we reached the base of the mountain, our guide NeNe gave us a choice: we could hike up for two hours, or we could ride up in a Soviet-era jeep. I felt as the youngest members of the group we should trek up the mountain, but John and Adrian were fans of motorised transport. The rest of the group mocked us for our slothfulness. Even NeNe chastised us, telling us with a smile that we were very lazy and we should hike up, and we will miss out on many amazing sights. Adrian asked if there would be bears, and she told us with a straight face that there would be hundreds of them.

I was convinced to take the jeep, and we chose a little purple 4×4 AvtoVAZ Lada to take us to the top of the mountain. Our driver knew the rocky one-way path very well, expertly manoeuvring across the rocks and the mud, and even reversing down the hill to let another car pass us. Abundant wilderness and emerald foliage trees embraced the car as it tackled the precipitous incline.

After a bumpy but beautiful 40 minute trip, we reached the top and saw the Gergiti Church ahead of us. We strolled through a vast field of wildflowers, passing through a heard of cows munching on the flora. I wasn’t able to enter the church (no dress, no entry), but I was able to run through a massive meadow of millions of marigolds. We then perched on top of an old stone wall to enjoy our picnic lunch of potato salad and coleslaw.

An hour later, we saw the first members of the hikers emerge from over the crest, looking red, sweaty and exhausted. I greeted NeNe brightly, and asked her if she had seen any bears. “I hate you”, was her exhausted reply. Suddenly the weather changed, and the blue sky disappeared behind gloomy grey clouds. We decided to return back to the village in our Lada, and the hikers had to turn around too, in order to make it back by 3pm. As soon as we hopped in our car, it started to hail, and I am ashamed to admit that we might have waved to the hikers as they trudged through the mud on the way down.

As we drove through the village, our chauffeur stopped to talk to a farmer with six spotted piglets. I hoped for a second that we were going to give all the wiggly piglets a ride in the jeep, but sadly we kept on driving without taking on any porcine passengers. While the rest of the group limped back into town, we spent the afternoon in a very low-frills café and its shrill Georgian pop music. The end of the tape would bring short-lived relief, until our hostess would emerge from the other room to turn over the cassette to ensure the performance was repeated.

On our penultimate day in Georgia, we visited the walled city of Sighnaghi, now completely reconstructed as a tourist town. For me, the highlight of this town was a little puppy that we called Sluppy. This small chocolate brown dog soon adopted us as we stepped off the bus, and guided us up and down the main street. She showed us the park at the top of the street, and waited for us outside as we perused the shops. She was distracted for a moment when she had to chase a car away, yapping happily, but then she came trotting back up to us, looking proud of her accomplishment. As a reward for her loyalty, we treated her with some salami from the local supermarket, and she happily snapped it all up. Unfortunately, it was soon time for us to get back on the bus, and she watched us with some confusion as we drove away. Soon though we saw her scampering off, with the smug smile of a puppy with a full belly of salami.

I am attaining a much deeper understanding about the impact of the collapse of the Soviet Union on this area of the world. In Australia, we learned about the Berlin Wall coming down, the fall of the Iron Curtain, the liberation of millions of people from communism. However, the reality for Armenia and Georgia was quite different.

In 1990, this region was full of enormous factories, such as those for extracting copper and producing steel. Along the coast and in the mountains, huge Intourist resorts were under construction, and the Georgian mountains were the training grounds of the Soviet Olympic skiing team. Nuclear power provided electricity across the region, and cheap gas was supplied from the Russia SSR.

After the collapse of the USSR in 1991, the simmering discontent in the region plunged into civil war, rife with ethnic cleaning and countless refugees. Armenia went without electricity for five years, and without gas for ten years. All construction stopped, and the factories shut down. Each country had been specialised to perform a specific function, and now that the supply lines had been cut, everything was paralysed.

Driving through the Caucasus, it is hauntingly easy to imagine life immediately after 1991. The giant factories still stand as monoliths on the outskirts of the cities, and the concrete skeletons of giant holiday resorts still ring Lake Sevan.

Now these countries must slowly rebuild themselves, redefine their identity and find a way to sustainability and progress, all while dealing with internal and external conflicts. Belarus has done an amazing job, and Minsk glimmers with promise and affluence. Armenia still bears the deepest scars of poverty and conflict, and has allied itself with Russia, its major acceptor of its exports.

Georgia has lost much from its war with Russia, and now looks to the West for its future, with many signs in English and Council of Europe flags visible throughout the city. Tbilisi has a very pleasant feel to it, with streets lined with cafes and wide boulevards for evening promenades. Georgia has a way to go before it is eligible for EU membership, but it is encouraging to see it inching away from war and slowly towards open communication and dialogue.