Stranded in a Georgian guesthouse: My fidgets in the Caucasus

It was a sheer drop off the cliff face the whole way. Wherever we went, pot-holed shite roads snaked along sure-death drops. The driver, bent over the steering wheel and narrowly missing collisions with all upcoming traffic (including stray cows), was transfixed on the road ahead and getting us to Khulo as quickly and (un)safely as possible. Of course, he allowed time for his several cigarette breaks, and to pick up a wooden milking stool for a standing passenger.