Supras lead to dancing
We reached Wine Hostel Sanavardo with the romantic notion that we would spend the next two weeks working long hours in the vineyard, slowly watching our bodies harden with the physical labour and our skin darken with the long hours spent in the sunshine. We had images of conversations held with gold toothed locals about the past year’s harvest and the quality of wine. We thought we would learn to communicate, to become sufficient in our knowledge of Russian.
As is the way with romantic notions, reality was vastly different.
We arrive fresh after a relaxing morning, having decided the previous night to camp at a wonderful river spot about 5km away from the hostel and eat the last of our rice and sausage. We cycle into the small village, already keenly aware that we have made the list for the gossip of the day. Spotting the hand painted Wine Hostel sign, we know we have reached our new home, and knock on the gate, unsure of what to expect. But when that gate opened and the owner, Ucha, greeted us, we knew that no matter what, this would be an enjoyable experience.
We gratefully stepped off the bikes, our bodies acutely aware that we would be able to relax our aching legs for a while, and stepped inside the family home. A little nervous at first, we quickly made ourselves at home, learning all about how the hostel runs, and enjoying the first of many Georgian traditions: toasting with alcohol. That was how we found ourselves still in our dirty biking clothes, enjoying an early afternoon buzz from our three mandatory shots of Chacha, a local (and in this case homemade) 55% or higher spirit made from the remains of the wine grapes. We don’t often drink, so these shots had our knees wobbling, our heads spinning, and sent us straight to bed.
Dinner continued the trend of toasting, bringing about our first, but definitely not last, taste of Georgian wine. Unlike anything you might find in the rest of the world, this wine has been prepared in the same fashion since it began. The grapes are fermented (skins and all) in clay pots for 3-6 months, depending on the flavour desired. Once you get over the difference in taste, and the slight kick, Georgian wine is incredibly delicious, and dangerously easy to drink. We were careful not to overindulge though, despite Ucha’s ingrained hospitality and attempts to keep our glasses constantly full, because the next morning would bring our first day at the vineyard, and we wanted to be fresh and ready to become winemakers.
Turns out that working in a vineyard requires a lot of work, and sometimes that work can be tedious. That is how we found ourselves surrounded by the Caucasus mountains and rows and rows of what would be plentiful harvests later in the year, picking up the branches that had been trimmed. These get bundled and collected, and are then used for barbecues. We spent the day working with Ucha’s father, a man of no English but infinite patience. He insisted we take a quick break, which resulted in us learning that in Georgia, there is a belief that if a woman sits on the ground she will not bear children. As people who love sitting on the ground, we felt very confident that this would not be the last time we horrified the locals. At lunchtime we headed off to the communal table, where we joined some of the other workers from the neighbouring vineyards. The men all talked, laughed, and drank copious amounts of Chacha, always being sure to indicate we should partake. We politely declined to much laughter. As we sat there trying to read the Russian letters of one of the men’s tattoos with our newly learnt Cyrillic alphabet, we were presented with a delicious lunch of boiled potatoes, eggs, and wine. Hearty and filling. Exactly what we wanted for the rest of the day of work. Plus we figured the wine would make collecting branches more interesting. We were correct. For the next few hours of work, we zigged a little more, and our piles became much more artistic. When we returned to the house, we were rewarded for our day of hard work with a well earned shot of Chacha. I sensed a pattern forming.
Working hard at the vineyard. Or hardly working?
The week continued with another trip to the vineyard, which was no less interesting and definitely involved just as much wine. We settled in, and when the weekend rolled around we found out that Ucha’s friends were coming to visit for a barbecue and supra, we were pretty excited. We had heard about the legendary and traditional supra, a feast with friends and family that involved a lot of food, and even more wine and toasting. We thought we were prepared. And then the supra happened. In hindsight, nothing can prepare you for your first supra.
Our evening began with some Armenian cognac, and when his friends arrived swiftly proceeded to immense quantities of food. Anything that could be grilled was put on a skewer and roasted directly above the hot coals. Everything else was laid out on a table that I though would surely collapse under the weight of all that food. And then the 5 litre bottle of wine made its first appearance. We were given a quick lesson on the etiquette of the supra. Traditionally there is a nominated toastmaster called the tamada, though as a group of young and modern people, it was decided the honour of tamada would travel around the table. We were taught that upon the conclusion of a toast, everyone has to add a word or two, glasses are clinked, and then the entire glass of wine is to be drunk and immediately refilled. The first five toasts are given to God, peace, people who have passed away, children and new life and protection of life, and family. From those toasts on, one may toast to anything. Friendship, knowledge, love, etc., so long as the toast contains an introduction, a personal link, a general connection to the world, and a wish for the future. As the 5 litre bottle emptied and our bodies filled with wine, the toasts became more and more wild, which is how I found myself toasting to grapes at one point, or to the international language of music and math at another. The hour grew later, or earlier depending on how you look at it, and the wine flowed even more freely. When it hit about 3 am and we were being treated to semi traditional dancing with the added safety factor of motorcycle and bicycle helmet, I knew it was time to go to bed. I also knew that it was a good thing it was the weekend, because there was no way the next day would be even remotely productive.
And this is how our time at Wine Hostel Sanavardo continued. We were a part of the family. We slotted right in, and as other volunteers arrived, they slotted in as well. Our work varied. Some days we worked in the garden, digging or painting trees to protect them from fungus. Other days we used whiteout pens to unleash our creativity and create what can only be described as one of a kind labels for the ‘hand crafted, artisanal’ wine that they produce. Ucha’s mother came to stay for a few days and put us all to shame. The woman was a machine. When she wasn’t cooking us amazing food, she was cleaning, or gardening, or doing one of a thousand other things. The next weekend a couple other of Ucha’s friends came to visit and we once again feasted and drank our way through the evening.
We really dig it here!
Somehow Sophie and I managed to pull ourselves away from all the wine and food for a couple of small day trips on weekends, heading to the local Ilia lake for a few hours one day, and to Nekresi monastery another day. The monastery is from the 4th century and was definitely worth the kilometre and a half that we pushed the bikes uphill. Ucha also runs an English club for some of the kids in the village, and we got to talk to them all about our countries. So I obviously told them about maple syrup and hockey. I think I did Canada proud.
But the day finally came that we had to leave what felt like it had become our home and our family. We lingered as long as possible, packing slowly and eating all we could. But when the Georgian dance class was set to begin, we took this as our cue and gave our final hugs, said our last goodbyes, and pedalled away very slowly into the unknown, surprised all over again at how heavy the bikes really were.
(Thanks Soph for all the photos!)
