In the ex-Soviet Republic of Georgia, Daniel Kunin balances life as a diplomat, a passion for fly fishing, and lust for a convivial table. Gaumarjos!
Daniel Kunin wants to go trout fishing. After several hectic weeks of official business, interrupted briefly by a rocket attack on Georgia from neighboring Russia, he could use a little time off. “I’ll get a helicopter and the best guide in the country,” he says over a late-night pizza. When Kunin plans an adventure, all his friends have to do is show up. As an American adviser to the government of Georgia—that’s former Soviet Georgia, not the Peach State—the 38-year-old political operative is seriously connected. To prove it, two days later, he has a pilot, crew, and a Russian-made Mi-8 chopper (on loan from the Georgian military) ready for liftoff.I first met Kunin in Washington during one of his frequent diplomatic missions. Why would an American be working for the Georgian government? The short answer: They offered him the job. The long answer involves a political revolution and a friendship with the people who came out on top. In any case, Kunin soon had me convinced that in all my visits to Georgia, I’d somehow missed the country’s best attractions. So when a business trip to Eastern Europe came up, I turned it into an opportunity to find out if he was right.
Kunin and I rendezvous outside Tbilisi, the lively Mediterranean-style capital of Georgia, and while other members of the fishing party arrive, veteran mountain guide Nick Erkomaishvili, founder of local tour company Explore Georgia, double-checks the gear: rods, maps, sunblock, hunting knives. “You never know what you might run into up there,” he says. “Up there” is the eastern Caucasus, 12,000 feet above sea level and less than 25 miles from conflict-torn Chechnya, some of Europe’s most unpredictable high country. The 1991 collapse of the Soviet Union created 15 new nations, including Georgia, sandwiched between Europe and Asia and surrounded by Russia, Turkey, Armenia, and Azerbaijan. Long an area of political unrest, the Caucasus region lately has become the focus of new tensions, especially for democratic Georgia, whose bid to join NATO has angered Russia. So in addition to the geographic challenges, we have to be ready for the possibility of an errant Russian air strike.
ACCESS
Every Georgian adventure begins with getting there, which can take the better part of the day when flying from the U.S. Austrian Airlines, British Airways, and KLM, offer one-stop flights, starting at $1,500 from New York. Americans do not need a visa for stays under 90 days.
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As soon as the Mi-8 levels out, Kunin, relishing his role as host, pulls out a bottle of chacha. Georgians regard the potent beverage, a close relative to grappa, as a breakfast drink, as well as a good remedy for hangovers. “To our success,” toasts American-educated businessman Lasha Shanidze, Kunin’s regular fishing buddy. Everyone downs a shiver-inducing shot, and the trip is off to an intoxicating start.
“I was hooked right from the beginning,” Kunin recalls. He first visited Georgia as a Williams College exchange student in 1990, when the soon-to-be-independent republic was on the verge of civil war. Following a stint as a strategy consultant in Milan, he got a job advising the government after the 2003 Rose Revolution put Columbia Law School grad Mikheil Saakashvili in the presidency. Kunin was fascinated by the country and its history—Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin was from Georgia—and helping to turn it into a democracy appealed to his New England sense of civic duty. “To see a nation literally transform itself is a pretty incredible experience,” says Kunin, who grew up in Vermont, where his mother served three terms as governor. When he was offered the post, Kunin, who learned to speak Georgian during his study-abroad days, jumped at the chance: “When I got the call, I was in Moscow and caught the next plane.” He says he requested three perks: a car, a driver, and a bodyguard for political emergencies; so far, he’s needed only the first two.
Since Kunin took the job, reforms have turned tiny Georgia into something of an emerging-markets success story. The country ranked 18th on a recent World Bank survey measuring economic competitiveness—up from 112th in 2005. In Tbilisi, it’s not uncommon to run into stray tourists convinced they’ve discovered Eastern Europe’s next hot spot. Georgia, with its breathtaking scenery and great food, could easily qualify, once its infrastructure catches up with its ambitions.The chopper gathers speed as we cross the Alazani Valley, famous for its medieval churches and earthy wines. Down below, carefully tended vineyards stretch for miles in every direction. Georgian winemaking dates back thousands of years, and Alazani, which from the air looks a lot like Napa Valley (minus the manicured lawns and swimming pools), may produce the finest. Once we begin to climb, green foothills give way to rocky cliffs and shadowy gorges.
Our first stop is a mountain village to pick up a few guys who should know where the fish are biting. The helicopter’s arrival is an event. Whole families, with children spinning in circles like propeller blades, are waiting on a hillside as we land. To locals, helicopter pilots are larger-than-life heroes—part daredevils who brave the treacherous heights, part good Samaritans who bring supplies—and when ours emerges from the cockpit, they crowd around to exchange greetings.
Back in the air, the Mi-8 sweeps low over an alpine meadow that could be a country-club fairway were it not for the abrupt 500-foot drop-off. A narrow pass, which the pilot negotiates at a 45-degree angle, opens to an expanse of sun-drenched grassland and the Tusheti Alazani River. The locals think this could be the place to get lucky. Erkomaishvili, our guide, motions to a herd of horses grazing on the slopes and, higher up, a flock of sheep tended by Kalashnikov-toting shepherds.
Georgians have not only a proud tradition of welcoming strangers but also a long history of fending off enemies. While it’s easy to become friends with a Georgian, it’s said, particularly over food and wine, betraying a friendship can result in a centuries-long feud. And if you’re a suspected troublemaker—like someone who steals livestock (a major offense in this part of the world, where animals are still a measure of wealth)—you can expect a rude reception. Kunin is the first one out of the helicopter. “I love it here,” he declares, taking a deep breath of sweet-smelling air. After weeks of nation building, it’s time to put his fly collection to work. Before anyone else gets unpacked, Kunin, decked out in khaki shorts and a fishing vest, is already in the water flexing his Sage 6 fly rod. Rushing over rocks and into crystal-clear pools, the glacier-fed river is ice cold. Trout are wary creatures, and Erkomaishvili predicts that these rainbows, used to a daily smorgasbord of juicy insects, will be difficult to fool. That, of course, is both the attraction and frustration of fly-fishing: tricking one of nature’s most selective eaters into getting hooked on a fake version of its favorite snack.
Twenty minutes later, with plenty of trout spotted but none caught, Kunin moves farther upstream. The rest of us stay behind, letting our lines drift with the current and taking in the craggy view. Erko-maishvili, 37, who’s built like a tightrope walker, has been exploring in mountains like these most of his life. He tells a story about his parents bringing him to Tusheti on a camping trip when he was a little boy. They met a herdsman who lent him a horse to ride, and he remembers galloping across a grassy field. He’s been coming back ever since.
When Kunin returns empty-handed, Erkomaishvili says he knows another place to try. Inside the helicopter, men from the village are all smiles after netting a half-dozen trout in brilliant shades of blue, green, and red. They offer to lend us their net, but we politely decline.
The short flight takes us into a winding canyon where dark crevices harbor layers of snow from past winters. We set down near a strip of rocky shore, where the river divides into a series of shallow runs—perfect hideouts for trout. Kunin and Erkomaishvili wade in the direction of a massive snowbank we passed while coming in for the landing. Sunlight slanting across the canyon is so bright that every time they cast, their lines disappear in the glare. The trout population here shows immediate interest in Kunin’s made-in-Vermont stone fly. Two or three pass by for a closer look, then one gets too curious, and Kunin has a ten-inch rainbow. Erkomaishvili quickly hooks another, and the rest get suspicious and swim away. That might have been frustrating elsewhere, but being in Tusheti—knee-deep in a pristine river surrounded by spectacular mountains—is its own reward.Our last stop is the village of Shenako, near the Chechnyan border, where Kunin is having a house built. He’s been fishing and riding horses in the area for years but only recently decided to build a second home here. Residents are naturally suspicious of outsiders, but Kunin’s diplomatic skills and thorough understanding of local customs seem to have erased all mistrust. “It took me years to convince the guy in charge to let me live here,” he says. Forget to be a good neighbor, according to Kunin, and you could wear out your welcome.
After circling a line of ancient stone towers, once used as a defense against invaders, the helicopter lands on a hill next to a church; the pilot kicks blocks of wood behind the wheels to prevent the chopper from rolling backwards. Everything in Shenako appears to be on a slant, even the local soccer field, which puts the team defending the downhill goal at a distinct disadvantage.
The head of the village leads us on a quick town tour, then invites us for something to eat. Georgians have an expression: “Every guest is a gift from God.” Stuffing newcomers with food is a tradition. On the menu are the trout we brought with us and platters overflowing with tennis-ball-size dumplings, called khinkali, filled with spiced goat meat. Pitchers of amber wine are served, followed by a succession of toasts to our high-altitude adventure and the hospitality of our host.The midafternoon repast is a complete gorging, but it’s only a warm-up for tonight’s feast. Centuries of wars and foreign occupation, by everyone from the Mongol hordes to the Soviet Union, have taught Georgians that the best defense is to treat foreigners as esteemed guests, feeding them and flattering them with toasts until everyone becomes friends. The practice can bring out the rowdy side in anybody. On a state visit three years ago, President George W. Bush, under the influence of Georgian food, music, and high-concept schmoozing, stayed up partying hours past his bedtime. Georgians were so impressed that they named the highway to Tbilisi’s new international airport after him.
When we arrive at the Tsinandali estate of Prince Alexander Chavchavadze, a 19th-century aristocrat, more than 20 friends join us. The prince, who wrote romantic poetry and entertained Russian revolutionaries, obviously knew how to live. His sprawling estate, now being developed into a resort by Kunin’s pal Giorgi Tsagareli, has a dungeonlike wine cellar, where I find a bottle dated 1804, and a sprawling dining room designed for parties like the one we’re about to have.
ACCESS
Every Georgian adventure begins with getting there, which can take the better part of the day when flying from the U.S. Austrian Airlines, British Airways, and KLM, offer one-stop flights, starting at $1,500 from New York. Americans do not need a visa for stays under 90 days.
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Georgians would never think of sitting down to a big meal without having a designated tamada, or toastmaster, and this evening Nugzar Ruhadze, a former Atlanta television reporter and now a media personality back in his native country, is officiating. “Dinner in Georgia is a form of show business,” he tells me. “The tamada’s job is to make each guest feel like he or she is part of the show.” Every five minutes Ruhadze gets up to make a toast, each one ending with “Gaumarjos,” Georgian for “victory.” As the evening wears on, he toasts families, parents, children, past generations, future generations, peace, love, and new friends. Gaumarjos! Glasses clink around the table every time, and more wine bottles are popped open.
A trio of singers begins chanting in quintessential Georgian three-part harmony. The effect is hypnotic, and when the music ends, Ruhadze pulls out a curled antelope horn filled with red wine. The horn is for men only. “Drinking from it,” he says, “reveals all of a man’s inner qualities.” Members of the fishing party take turns draining it to much applause. Kunin polishes it off, refills it, and gives it to me. Before I drink, Ruhadze raises yet another toast.
“Friendship is a noble obligation fulfilled by the typical Georgian with great pleasure and enthusiasm,” he says. “It’s not an exaggeration to say that once you have a friend in Georgia, you have a friend for life. Gaumarjos!”
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