I am a little bit obsessed with decaying beauty, faded grandeur, and the feeling of nostalgia that old buildings evoke. This is a big part of why I have chosen Georgia as my adoptive home – there is literally an endless supply of this on my doorstep.
I don’t often write dedicated articles about my urbex experiences, but I am making a special exception for my first urbex of 2025: the abandoned (for now) Sanatorium Libani, a 1920s-built tuberculosis treatment facility in the lush Borjomi Gorge.
This post brings together my favourite photos of Libani plus the information I could find about the building online. I would have loved to talk to someone about the sanatorium – but alas, on a crisp January morning, we had the place almost all to ourselves. If you have any information about the sanatorium, corrections or details to add, I would love it if you left me a note in the comments below.
An important note: Sanatorium Libani is privately owned, but as far as I could see, there are no rules against entering the site. This could change at any point, especially since renovation works are clearly already underway. One day I am sure I will be back to retitle this article and write about the ‘new’ Sanatorium Libani. But in the meantime, this is a construction site. I do not endorse trespassing.
You should exercise extreme caution when exploring the building, especially in winter when open holes or sheer drops might be hidden under the snow. Should you choose to visit, I bear no responsibility for your safety.
Please note: This post contains affiliate links, meaning I may earn a commission if you make a purchase by clicking a link (at no extra cost to you). Learn more.
Piecing together the history of Sanatorium Libani
Most people associate Soviet-era sanatoriums with the spa town of Tskaltubo. In reality, there were dozens of sanatoriums built all over Georgia – from the mountains of Lower Svaneti to the Black Sea Coast and all across mineral-rich Western Georgia, from Abastumani to Menji.
This presentation from the National Archives has a great collection of old photos from Georgian sanatoriums and health resorts, including this image of Libani.
Like all such facilities, Libani was chosen as a location for a sanatorium because of its special microclimate. The area sits at an altitude of 1,300 metres above sea level on a densely forested plateau in the Borjomi Gorge, roughly halfway between Borjomi and Bakuriani, and is known for its clean air.
The Sanatorium at Libani was built in 1926, meaning it was likely one of the first facilities of its kind created in the Georgian USSR.
The project architect was a man named Mikhail Kalashnikov (alas, not the Mikhail Kalashnikov of AK-47 fame). This Mikhail Kalashnikov was born in Dagestan in 1887 and relocated to Borjomi with his family as an infant. He went on to train as a civil engineer before working for the Caucasian Historical-Archaeological Institute from 1922-1931. During his tenure, Kalashnikov drew up plans for more than 100 buildings, only 18 of which were realised. In Tbilisi, he designed the so-called ‘Eleven-Storied Building’ on Heroes Square and the Balneological Resort in Abanotubani. But Sanatorium Libani was surely one of his biggest and most ambitious works.
Another name associated with Libani is Nikoloz Gegechkori, a scientist and the Sanatorium Director who is said to have made significant contributions to the building design. The facility was specifically established to treat patients suffering from tuberculosis.
Any time tuberculosis is mentioned in the context of Georgia, one has to assume there is some link to the Romanovs.
Grand Duke George Alexandrovich Romanov, the younger brother of the last Russian emperor, Tsar Nicholas II, was diagnosed with the White Plague in 1890 and sent to this part of Georgia to aid in his recovery. He spent time in nearby Likani, where the Romanovs kept a summer palace, before he sadly passed away in 1899 whilst receiving treatment in Abastumani.
One source I found says that the land Sanatorium Libani is built on was an estate that belonged to the Grand Duke. Perhaps the spot had been earmarked for a summer dacha? Or the family was intending to set something up for other sufferers?
I am also curious to know more about the name ‘Libani’, which is the Georgian name for the country of Lebanon. The only possible connection that comes to mind is the Lebanese cedar tree.
In 1816, 460 families from Ukraine were settled in the Borjomi Gorge. They were predominantly woodworkers who earned a living by fashioning musical instruments to sell on the German market. This area is associated with coniferous pine and spruce trees – but I did read that Lebanese cedar trees were introduced to Georgia in the second half of the 19th century, their wood used for furniture and shipbuilding. (There are more than 100 ancient cedars on the Boulevard in Batumi, for example.) Perhaps they were also planted around Borjomi, perhaps even on the directive of the Ukrainian craftspeople? I didn’t notice any Lebanese cedars, but then again I wasn’t looking.
One thing that is certain is the TB connection. At this time in history when tuberculosis was incurable and the best thing patients could hope for was to manage their symptoms, the most popular therapy for TB was known as the ‘Sanatorium Treatment’, which involved being confined in a carefully controlled environment. Fresh air was obviously an important part of this.
Records tell us that TB was a huge problem in the former Soviet Union at this point in history. In 1920, the mortality rate in Moscow and Odessa was four-times higher than in New York City. In the 1930s, there were 100,000 sanatorium beds across the USSR for TB patients.
People from all over the USSR must have come to Libani for their Sanatorium Treatment. The facility has a huge footprint, and could have easily accommodated 80 patients or more. Doctors, nurses and staff were accommodated on the sanatorium grounds in special quarters that had a similar design to the sanatorium building itself.
Libani was not the only facility of its kind in the Borjomi Gorge. When I shared some photos of Libani on Facebook, someone wrote to me that their grandmother had worked in a nearby children’s sanatorium for her entire life.
It’s incredible to think of the stories held within this building. The hope people must have carried with them as they walked through the doors for the first time; the hundreds of doctors, nurses and staff who dedicated their professional lives to this place. If only they could see it now.
Libani was likely abandoned in the 1990s after the collapse of the USSR. In 2017, it was granted Cultural Heritage Monument status by the same body the architect Kalashnikov went on to work for in the 1940s.
In the mid-2000s, the Georgian government launched a program to sell off such monuments to private investors. The auction price was often symbolic, but the buildings were signed over on the proviso that the buyer would invest a certain dollar amount into their rehabilitation. In March 2018, Libani was snapped up by a private investor for a little over one million GEL.
The new owner is the same investor who purchased Akhtala Resort in Gurjaani, Kakheti. This facility is nearing the end of its renovation – when I was there last spring, work was still ongoing at the sanatorium and bathhouse where volcanic mud treatments are administered to treat skin issues.
Plans for Libani 2.0 include a 70-room hotel with a restaurant and indoor swimming pool. A rumoured 8 million GEL is needed for the project.
Work has definitely already begun – comparing photos from a couple of years ago with what I saw recently, the interior has been stripped back to its bare block frame, and the area is noticeably clear of debris.
Exploring the abandoned Sanatorium Libani
After seeing photos of this building online not long after I moved to Georgia, I couldn’t wait to get up to the plateau and see it in person.
We almost didn’t make it, though. It was snowy January when we set off from Kutaisi, and at some point on the windy village road out of Borjomi our car started to slip and slide. We decided to turn back and try again in summer – but then we saw a car pass us so we decided to press on, hoping the worst part of the road was already behind us. I’m so glad we did.
The first thing that strikes you about the sanatorium is its massive scale. The road into Libani – a tiny village of no more than 12 houses – approaches the building from behind, so you don’t get to see its full volume or perfect symmetry until you are up close on foot.
I rounded the west portico and all 153 metres of the building slowly revealed itself. The sanatorium’s two outstretched wings are gently curved inwards, finished with squared-off rooms. In some ways the design is reminiscent of Shaktiori, the biggest sanatorium in Tskaltubo, built by Nikolai Severeov in 1939.
I started wading through the knee-deep snow towards the front of the building. A line of deciduous trees was planted perfectly parallel to the facade – in winter you can see right through their leafless, spiny branches. It occurred to me that there was probably a decorative water fountain somewhere in front of the building (there always is), and I suddenly felt paranoid that I was about to fall into a big hole. Eventually I discerned the outline of the fountain through the snow, and I was able to give it a wide berth as I made my way towards the front door.
Near the entrance, I spotted a toppled plaster urn lying in the snow. I am always on the lookout for poignant details like this – the image of the upset urn, discarded and left to rot on the ground, couldn’t have been more apt.
The front facade of the sanatorium extends three storeys tall, and like the squared-off structures at the ends of the wings, it has Neoclassical features. The windows and doorways are topped with triangular pediments supported with fluted pilasters and decorated with elegant Beaux-Arts garlands. Each balcony is lined with a row of vase-shaped balusters topped with urns.
Of the three arched portals on the front of the building, only one of them was open. Surely the scrap wood barricades are designed to keep animals – not urbexers – out.
For a building of this size, the ground floor entrance hall is very diminutive. I had to remind myself that this is not Tskaltubo. This building was not built to impress the vacationing elite – there was no need for chandeliers or expensive ornamentation. This was a health facility.
Still, there are some hints as to what the interior decoration would have looked like. As I stepped inside, a sunbeam touched the word ‘Salve’ stamped in terrazzo on the threshold, just visible under a thick layer of dirt.
Two columns with only fragments of their plaster capitals intact guard a shallow staircase, with low partitions on either side. As I ventured up the stone steps to the second floor, I noticed the cast-concrete balustrades stamped with circles and concentric moulding, bound together with decorative belts. They are robust and sturdy, as if they were designed to support a heavy load – perhaps someone on the stairs who suddenly felt short of breath.
On the second level, a vacuous hall space is illuminated by sunlight pouring in through a trio of triple-storey openings. Seeing this, I was instantly reminded of the hospital architecture course I took at uni. You can just imagine that this was once a big airy atrium, perhaps where patients laid on their beds pointed towards the open windows to soak up as much sunlight and fresh air as possible.
Climb up to the third floor to look down on the space for an atrium level. You can access two small landings for a side-view of both wings, and walk out onto the larger terrace that sits on top of the entrance portico, overlooking the fountain.
Up one more flight of stairs, and I could walk out onto the flat roofs of the two patient wings. At this point I was a little nervous as to what kind of surface exactly I was walking on – but I was encouraged by the presence of relatively fresh footsteps in the snow. I tried to follow them precisely so as not to unwittingly fall into a void.
In archival photos of Sanatorium Libani, you can see that there were originally wooden canopies here covering both the long terraces. No doubt this was another open-air space for patients.
I was walking along the eastern roof when a group of people pulled up to the front of the building on an ATV. Instinctively I went to hide – but they were obviously tourists too and had no interest in us. Instead of heading towards the door, they turned away from the fountain and made off into the forest. I have no idea where they went.
As you can see in my drone photos, the sanatorium has a separate annex building at the back that is invisible from the front, but connected to the main building by an elevated walkway. It has a rounded end and could have been a concert hall or a theatre. Or maybe it was the dining hall.
Both of the two-storey wings have been completely stripped back to their bare stone. The middle floor is missing, so when you look down the corridor from the second level, you are peering out into a double-decker void.
Another thing that struck me about Sanatorium Libani is that it has none of the usual hallmarks of a pillaged building. There are no empty wall niches where radiators have been jimmied out, no long gouges in the walls where someone has picked out the copper electrical wiring. It didn’t click at the time, but I am sure the building was looted at some point – the evidence was probably erased by the first stages of the renovation process.
Sanatorium Libani has changed majorly in the past few years. In these photos taken in May 2019, the upper atrium still had its sky-blue walls with white plaster trim, and even the upper parts of the wooden window frames were still intact. I can also see painted ceilings in the hallways – those are long gone. Elsewhere, you can pick out the building’s wet spaces by white tiles on the walls (I had the exact same ones in my house in Kutaisi!). The huge amount of wood debris you see in those photos has been removed, which does make it a lot easier to move safely around the space.
Ironically, at this point it’s probably the decorations on the buttercream-coloured facade that are best-preserved. Juliette balconies that extended from every second arched opening on the upper floor have been unceremoniously hacked off, but you can see the old ornamental plasterwork, including garlands draped above the windows. A few urns – the lucky ones – remain in position, perched on the corners of the balustrades. I could have spent hours studying the perfect patina of the peeling paint.
How to get to Libani
Libani Sanatorium is located in the Borjomi Gorge in southern Georgia’s Samtskhe-Javakheti Region, around 40 minutes by car from Borjomi town.
Before 2020, it was possible to get to the village by train from either Borjomi and Bakuriani by alighting at Libani Railway Station, 900 metres down the road from the sanatorium. But sadly the Kukushka Scenic Railway is still out of service, so the only way to get to Libani is by road.
I recommend following the main Borjomi-Bakuriani-Akhalkalaki Road then turning off at this point towards the village of Tsemi. Make sure you stop at the turn off (in a safe place) to photograph the famous Eiffel Bridge, visible in the gorge below (pictured below right). It was built in 1902 on the orders of the Tsar and designed by Gustave himself.
Continue on through Tsemi and Tba, but instead of following Google Maps (it will lead you to a dead end), take this turn-off. This road will bring you directly to the sanatorium. There is plenty of space to park behind the west wing.
It is possible to get to Libani by ATV/snowmobile in winter. Snowshoe hiking expeditions also visit this area. Both are available from Bakuriani.
More travel resources for Bakuriani & Borjomi
- A complete guide to the best things to do in Borjomi
- The best day trips from Borjomi
- Essential things to know before you visit Bakuriani in winter
- More things to do in and around Bakuriani in winter
- Bakuriani vs Gudauri vs Mestia – which ski resort is best?
- How to get to Borjomi from Tbilisi
- How to get to Bakuriani from Tbilisi