THE KAKHETIAN ROAD—TIFLIS TO SIGNAKH.
A few days after my return from Vladikavkaz, I made preparations for leaving Tiflis. It was near the end of June, and the unbearable heat had driven away nearly all those who were free to go; all the highways leading out of the city were crowded with carts and carriages of every description, carrying household goods and passengers. My friends had contracted with some Molokans (Russian heretics), belonging to the colony of Azamburi, for the removal of their furniture to Signakh; the carriers had promised to come to our house at four o’clock in the morning, but it was nine o’clock before they put in an appearance, and then their carts were half full of other people’s goods, a direct violation of the agreement. If any man ever needed the patience which is proverbially ascribed to the patriarch Job, it is the man who has business dealings with the Muscovite muzhik. You may assail him with all the abuse which your knowledge of his language will permit, you may strike him, you may calmly endeavour to persuade him with the most lucid logic—it is all to no purpose; taking off his cap to scratch his head, he looks at you with an assumption of childlike simplicity, and replies with a proverb more remarkable for its laconism than for its applicability to the matter under discussion. In this case we wrangled for a long time, and then, being unwilling to risk a stroke of apoplexy by getting into a rage, appealed to the majesty of the law, represented by a stalwart policeman, at whose command the carts were emptied forthwith, the contents being deposited on the roadside, and our effects were soon put in their place, and the whole caravan rattled down the hillside about two hours before noon. An hour later a four-horse carriage with springs arrived, and the four of us, my Georgian host, a Russian lady and gentleman, and myself, set out for Kakheti.
After descending through the narrow streets which lie between the Erivan square and the river, we crossed the busy bridge, and mounted the steep bank on the other side, passing through the liveliest part of the Persian quarter. By the time we had got clear of the suburb called the Dogs’ Village, with its camels and caravanserais, we had overtaken the waggons; exchanging friendly salutations with our volunteer baggage-guard, we were soon rolling along the smooth, dusty road in the direction of Orkhevi. On our right, down by the side of the Kura, lay Naftluk, with its beautiful vineyards and orchards, and beyond it the road to Akstafa and Erivan; on the distant southern horizon were the blue mountains of Armenia. On our left hand rose a range of bare-looking hills of no great height.
The region through which the Kakhetian road passes is a flat, waterless, almost uninhabited steppe; the winds which sometimes sweep across it are so violent that it is the custom to seek shelter from them by building the houses in the ground, with the roof on a level with the road. Twenty years ago the “Society for the Re-establishment of Orthodox Christianity in the Caucasus” obtained from the late Tsar a large concession of land near Kara Yazi, and spent 370,000 roubles on the construction of a canal for irrigation (Mariinskii Kanal); the scheme was never completely carried out, and the results obtained have not hitherto been such as to encourage the society, although a few Nestorians, Assyrian Christians, have been induced to settle in this unhealthy land. There are still unmistakable signs of the fact that in ancient times all this steppe was watered from the Kura by an elaborate system of irrigation, which must have made the country very fertile; now the whole tract is an almost unbroken wilderness, where the antelope wanders, unharmed by any hunter.
At Orkhevi there is nothing but the station-house, and those whose only experience of posting has been derived from the military road between Tiflis and Vladikavkaz, are likely to be unpleasantly surprised at the primitive appearance of this traveller’s rest. A bare, dirty room, with two wooden benches and a table, the walls tastefully decorated with official notices, among which the most prominent is one in four languages warning farmers against the phylloxera, thereon portrayed in all the various phases of its development. Such is my remembrance of Orkhevi. The only refreshment obtainable is a samovar (tea-urn) of boiling water, from which you can make your own tea if you have the necessary ingredients with you. A former journey along this road had already made me familiar with all the little discomforts and privations which must be undergone by the visitor to Kakheti, so I was not disappointed. None of the stations are any better all the way to Signakh, and he who does not bring with him his own food for the journey is likely to have a very good appetite by the time he reaches his destination.
AN ARBA
Page 73.
The sun had now reached the meridian, and beat down upon us with terrible force, for our carriage was an open one; we were half-choked with the dust, a thick white layer of which covered us from head to foot; on either side lay bare, brown fields, baked hard as stone, and deeply fissured; no water anywhere; the only thing which broke the monotony of the scene was the occasional passage of a train of arbas, laden with huge, bloated-looking ox-skins, full of wine. The arba is the national vehicle of Georgia, and is said to have been used as a chariot by the ancient kings; it is constructed entirely of wood; there is not so much as a nail or pin of metal in it; the wheels are generally made of one piece of timber, and for this reason the arba is allowed to travel on the highways without paying the tolls which are imposed on carts with tires; a pair of oxen draw the cart, and the creaking of it may be heard afar off. Parched with thirst, and almost stifled with dust, we were glad to reach Vaziani, where we spread our cloaks under an oak-tree by the side of a spring, and proceeded to make a good lunch, after which we slept for a while.
In the afternoon we left Vaziani, and soon passed through the prosperous German colony of Marienfeld, with its neat, homely cottages, shaded by fine poplar-trees. The vicinity of the river Iora makes this a very fertile spot, cool and inviting even in the middle of summer. A little before reaching Marienfeld we saw, on the left, the road to Telav, and the Kakhetian hills now seem to slope down very quickly to meet our road, but we know that we shall have to travel many a weary verst before we reach them. In the evening, at about six o’clock, we arrived at Azamburi, a Russian village not far from the station of Sartachali. It had been agreed that we should spend the night here, so we alighted at the postoyalii dvor, or inn.