Signalling for Sighnaghi

In case you're wondering, I got my Azeri visa.  I had to return to the same spot and sit outside in the sun for an hour or so listening to a disgruntled American English teacher talk about how much he hated Azerbaijan and how awful the process of queuing to get a visa was.  I was really excited to go.

So I figured it was time to leave Tbilisi and actually get to Baku.  There was a main train line but I was told that if they even suspected you of being a journalist, or having visited Nagorno Karabakh, or having an Armenian last name, or having even watched two full seasons of Keeping Up With the Kardashians* in the summer of 2009 when there was a heatwave in Vancouver and it was actually too hot to continue living, then they would through you off the train in the middle of the night and make you fend for yourself in no-man's land.  So I decided I would beat the Azeris at their own game, and I would walk across the border so that if they didn't let me in I would be less disoriented. 

This was a pretty good idea on my part because it gave me a chance to see a bit more of Georgia and visit the eastern countryside.  For example, Sighnaghi.  Unfortunately I didn't make it to Sighnaghi but I did enjoy a spirited argument with my marshrutka driver at a turnoff a few kilometres outside the city.  We agreed on rate that made neither of us happy, which ultimately made me happy because if I can't win then I will take down every Georgian transportation worker with me.

Somewhere near Sighnaghi.

At this turnoff in what seemed like the middle of nowhere was a group of pensioners waiting at a bus stop.  I hung out with them for a bit, coyly standing to the side and waiting for them to make a fuss about what I was doing there and how I would get to Sighnaghi.  Instead some mode of transport came, they all piled in and there was room for everyone but me.  I said, "Oh, hey, don't worry, guys.  I'll catch the next one and meet up with you later!  Okay?!"  I'm pretty sure none of them were interested or listening as they shut the door and sped off.  We never did reconnect.

The old gang.

What there was nearby was some sort of campground where they did not sell water.  Across the road was an outbuilding for some sort of farm commune that had some farm workers taking a lunch break.  What there wasn't was water.  But what there was was an acceptable Gerogian alternative--iced sweet red wine.  While my family has been overheard saying that we only save sweet red wine for those days when we're really down in the gutter, I felt like today was one of those days.  So they invited me to share a meal of bread, cheese, salad, hot dogs and glass after glass of icy red. 

This area is not nearly as exciting as my retrorespective Google imaging of Sighnaghi has led me to believe.

They told me about Stalin (their way-fav), how they beat the Germans (apparently the Germans had come as far as the Caucasus, or had seriously thought about it because peak oil had hit Ploiesti first) and how Georgia produces the best wine in the world, then France.  They also insisted I drink more of this sugary nectar but I put my foot down on Georgian hospitality and said, "Stop!  Look, it's all very well for you to be drinking, you only have to work.  I have to try to get to Azerbaijan."  With that they informed me I had come the wrong way and that Sighnaghi was not a through-street.  They pointed back in the direction I had come and bid me adieu. 

*Okay, look, just as a warning I am going to make reference to the Kardashians a lot while in the Caucasus.  I have no idea who they are or why they are famous but they have the most Armenian name I have ever heard.  I probably won't talk about Dr Kavorkian, or Kasabian, or Kirk Kirkorian at all, but there is just something about the Kardashians.