Tbilisi, Georgia. We're on the approach to the Georgian capital. All the way along one side of an entire town, people are sitting on the pavement selling hammocks. 'Diversify, you retards,' says Steve. He's in subtle mode. 'War-zone!' he shouts, pointing to our left towards South Ossetia. We are Brits abroad.
There are no roadsigns whatsoever in Tbilisi. We have to use complete guesswork to get where we want to go. Steve slots right into rally mode - watching everything, sliding into gaps, creating gaps when you need to. And performing blatantly illegal manoeuvres to spin it left and follow Jeff's direction when the signs are saying he has to turn right.
The driving here is mental. Cars fly everywhere, a violent free-for-all set among leafy and elegant streets that have been left to die. The place would have been stunning in its day, and it is still gives out a vibrancy, but the stonework is now so dilapidated it provides an odd and sad backdrop for the people's doings.
We find our way to a recommended homestay, the local form of budget accommodation, half-way to being a hostel but with more of a personal touch. It turns out to be absolutely ideal - we can park the car in the mellow courtyard, covered with people's washing and shaded by vines. The place is run by a lovely little pensioner called Dodo. She's a favourite among backpackers.
Meet Alan, our first American. He is in his mid-60s, and travels alone every summer. 'I have an exploding ego,' he warns us, before pointing out he's been to 133 countries. That explains the permanent beatifik smile he has on his face. He reminds me of football pundit Ian St John, but an Ian St John who still likes to spin yarns about his time at Woodstock. It's great to meet people out there living life in their own way.
I love talking to Americans about football. Alan's face erupts into one of utter amazement as he describes watching Christiano Ronaldo doing a diving header, when Man Utd played Tot-ting-ham.
Later we go out to grab some food. It's our first glimpse of the city proper and it is hectic. Dodo is unfeasibly helpful and has written down the name of a decent Georgian restaurant down the road. We head down there with Alan and Philip, a young German dude. We go in, it's full of Georgians, which is a good sign. Jeff likens the place to Nandos.
At least the food turns out to be decent, if unnaturally weighted towards meat and dumplings. That's once we suss out how to order off a menu that has even more ridiculous alphabet than Bulgaria:
'I'll have a pint of Kazbeci please.'
'Kazbeci? How do you spell that?'
'Uhm, Y, J, ampersand, door key, backward C, duck showing me his arse, N.'
I say suss out how to order, but that did involve some members of our group actually using the Lonely Planet to pick their dinner. Later I overhear Alan talking about a stunning place he's visited. Then he cites the Good Book's verdict on it. Not having a pop at him - he's an ace bloke - but The Book has a lot to answer for. Put it down for a minute.
On the way back we stop to buy wine. There's a tiny old woman in the shop, and Jeff offers her a dumpling from our doggy bag. She's reluctant at first but soon tucks in, working her toothless face around the dough. She's unfeasibly smiley. It's ace.
We end up back at Dodo's, and get into a session of wine and speech. One highlight is Jean-Claude, a Frenchman who's been living in New Zealand the past 20 years. I am addicted to Corrie,' he says, with the slightest French accent. 'Although I have my own reasons for that.' Does this mean some twisted masturbatory fixation on Jack Duckworth? Dunno. Someone apologies that they don't speak French. 'That's ok,' he says. 'I do.'
I talk a lot to a Japanese girl called Marika. She tells me that five rally teams stayed here last week. Didn't go down too well apparently - they came in hammered and shouting in the early morning, and one even managed to puke on Dodo's bed. This explains her blatant lack of enthusiasm when we showed up. She admits as much when I point it out.
She's an interesting character, a freelance translator who travels alone for two months every year. Last year it was Lithuania - she's thinking of moving there next year. That's the strange thing about Japan - it's hugely conformist, but those who get out tend to be more open-minded than anyone. She used to live in Bristol. I assume, from the fact she looks my age, that it must have been recently. Turns out it was in 1986. Jesus.
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