Roshka Isn’t Remote. It’s Just Not Online.
And that’s the magic. They don’t need to leave, and don’t seem to want to. There’s no longing in their words, no talk of better somewhere else. The road to the city is open for most of the year now, but they rarely take it.
Imagine rocking a baby to sleep, ironically in a highly modern stroller, in a mountain valley where bears roam at night, where the roads are built by helicopters and by horses, and where your morning begins not with a smartphone alarm, but the low hum of bees and the bubbling of home-brewed beer. Welcome to Roshka, a remote Georgian village where five families under the same name carry their own tradition. Where your mother is your teacher at the local, warn down school. Where access to civilization is often blocked – but that’s the thing, there is no need for it…
Meet the Family
Same last name, high in the Khevsureti mountains, fiercely individual in their stories and identities. It’s not something you see very often—not when the mother is out showing herbs to her grandchild, the daughter-in-law is knee-deep in cow dung, cell phone in hand, and the son is pacing the yard pushing a modern baby stroller back and forth until his son slips into slumber in under five minutes.
The Father – Shota
He welcomed us, standing next to a big cauldron, long stick in hand, almost a wizard and his potion at first sight. Only speaking Russian, he welcomed us with a warm smile and explained whet he was doing. From what we understood, it was beer he was brewing – Barley boiling at precisely 62 or 63 degrees that he measured with what I assumed was a DIY hand thermometer but looked like a part rolled out of a car engine. But it really did work, and he even showed us how to moderate the fire. In ten days, the bubbling pot would become a fresh batch of homemade beer, truly local, served to whoever passed through the village and knew to ask.
The Mother – Tina
While he brewed, she was nearby – no toys in sight, only a handful of wild herbs and a toddler’s attention span to guide the play. There was no rush – something I admired. This was the woman who I was told run the household. Just two generations under a sky that can turn electric with storms at night. (Believe me, I was in a tent when one of them rolled in, and let’s just say peaceful is not the word I’d use for that moment.) But for now, there were just freshly washed (in the stream I presume) sheets and covers, hanging by their handmade system. It made me realize how we forget things can be so easy.
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The Son
I didn’t exactly catch his name, but what he told us was so fascinating. He spoke fluent English, and when we asked him he chuckled: “I just watched a lot of Friends and other shows”. Not only English, German too. And Georgian and Russian of course. Using a bit of all of them, he’s the one tourists talk to when they find the guesthouse online or stumble across it by word of mouth. But what was interesting as well: “Booking is quite old and you know you must pay just for being on there. No, we hardly struggle with empty rooms here. All the guides around this area know us, and well – just look on Google Maps – how many guesthouses are around here?”
Born and raised here, he only left the village for school, and even then, only part-time—the family of four children moved temporarily for the ten years or so, so they could have a basic education – just a few kilometers downstream. He said their mother was a teacher there, and they were one of her few pupils. When we passed the school he was talking about on our way down, it was scary to even think about coming here every day, not to mention the journey they had to undertake.
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Now, he’s back for good, married, and running a guesthouse of his own with his wife. Somehow, none of the children even thought about not coming back – they didn’t seek the city life at all. His wife on the other hand…
The Wife
From Kakheti, she brought warmth and a love for people. Here, she milks cows and shovels manure with one hand while answering calls with the other. It’s a different pace from what she knew—but she’s adapting, shaping this life into something that fits. I’ve been told Kakhetians are wine-makers, leading Supras until dawn. Their social life is very important to them and they like people – contact. That’s why I was surprised to hear she came from this region. “There’s work, but there’s peace too,” she might have said, if she’d had a minute to talk.
The Twins
The younger generation is already preparing to build onto what exists. Twin sisters, now in Tbilisi, are studying agro-tourism. Their dream? Not just beds for travelers, but experiences—homemade cheese, bread, maybe workshops on traditional farming and food. To make money in a different way – smarter way – with the beauties of their everyday village life. How they make honey, milk cows daily, their own cheese, butter, beer, traditional food… They’re on a mission to find the smartest ways of turning their everyday work and jobs on the “farm” into experiences and stories that tourists who wander here will gladly share with others. They’ll be back soon from their studies. Everyone seems to be coming back.
This family has chickens. Horses. Cows that give milk, and some they raise for meat, roaming around somewhere close by – near the snowy peaks. Beehives hum quietly. Everything is handmade, from the food to the guest beds. Bookings? Unnecessary. Locals know them. Guides bring people. Google Maps does the rest.
And then there are the bears—visible sometimes, mostly at night to keep shepherds company – but they don’t attack humans at all, as we found out. “They don’t come near the village,” someone told me casually, as if describing a lost dog – it really seemed normal in this type of Caucasian life.
I left Rushka with a wet tent, a dusty backpack, and a full notebook. But mostly, I left with this quiet thought: what if the life we’re all rushing toward in cities is, in some way, already perfected here?
