Finishing What We Started

Saying good-bye to Dmitri, felt as if we were saying good-bye to all our previous hosts in Georgia. His sense of duty towards a guest, his Christian outlook on life, the ability to share with others even in times of hardship, seemed to be typical characteristics of all our Georgian hosts. He, like most we had the privilege to meet during our walk across this beautifully intricate country, was a man of little words, with a calm disposition and a tough appearance, yet a passionate, kind heart beat in his chest…one that could love two complete strangers as if they were his brothers… “Thank you Dmitiri,” I spoke as we exited his village and made it to the main road that would lead us to Tbilisi, “Thank you for everything…you are our last host and we won’t forget you.” “Thank the Lord for bringing us together…”, our host replied, “and may you go in peace my brothers…”

 

Again we were blessed with magnificent blue skies and exceptionally warm weather during our last day’s walk towards Tbilisi and again we felt as if things were all in their place…our walk was about to end and we enjoyed each minute of our day as much as we could. I felt, as I did the previous few days, that there was still so much to tell my companion, to think about, to resolve, decide…yet we soon found ourselves in Mtskheta, Georgia’s former capital, and the sign above us read “TBILISI – 4 km”… We passed the ancient churches overlooking Mtskheta and walked along the Mtkvari River, marveling at the beauty of the city and how orderly it was – cobblestone roads, street lamps, and freshly painted houses decorated with flowers… “This doesn’t look Georgian at all!” I excitedly exclaim. “I can only imagine what Tbilisi looks like!”

 

 

As we approached the outskirts of Tbilisi, the road widened and for the first time since Ankara, Tim and I found ourselves on a four-lane highway. The pollution was heavy due to the old Russian cars that dominate Georgian traffic and my nose and throat were even more sore than the day before, yet I did not care. I was excited and I knew nothing could stop me now – I would walk to Tbilisi that day no matter what…

 

The four-lane highway soon made its way through a short mountain pass and the city of Tbilisi opened up in front of us. Although exhausted from the 20 km or so we had already crossed that day, and still ill from the barn experience, our step quickened. Five months of pushing our bodies, minds, and spirits to their outmost limits would soon come to an end and both Tim and I could barely contain our excitement…

 

After 15 km of never-ending highway – a sea of grey asphalt, shopping malls and exhaust fumes, we had entered Tbilisi proper. A “Tbilisi City” sign in a strip of grass dividing the mundane highway was our first indication that we had made it to the city and Tim and I hugged, congratulating each other, yet we still had quite a distance before reaching the center and finishing our journey the way we had intended. As we pass one of the many gas stations at the entrance of the city, a large, ferocious, yellow dog starts barking at us wildly. Unlike most of the menacing canines we had come across he does not hesitate in running towards us. One of his hind legs is lame yet he moves fast, gnarling and drooling as if rabid. Without any time to think I take a step towards the beast, lifting my walking stick and a loud, fierce roar bellows from somewhere deep inside me. The mongrel stops instantly and turns away…Shocked at the power of my own voice I turn to Tim, who is standing behind me – I had apparently taken a step in front of him as he had done for me when we had met the dark stranger by the graveyard the day before… “That was weird,” Tim comments. “Yeah…I don’t know where that yell came from…I never took a step towards a dog attacking us before. You’re usually the one who handles them better than me…I didn’t think, I just reacted.” “That was the worst-looking dog we have ever seen. I was sure he would attack us.” “Yeah, Tim, there was something evil about him, you know?” “I know nigger, I know…”

 

 

“I feel nothing!” I began to yell at myself, trying to persuade my body to continue, my feet screaming with pain. It seemed that we had walked more than 40 km from Dzegvi yet I was not sure. We had both stopped counting kilometers, and time meant nothing now. All we could focus on was finishing what we had started. “This is insane,” Tim began, “I don’t think I could ever walk like this again. It is too much, too bad for my health…” “I know, Tim, I know, but you’ll see, we’ll both miss this and we’ll both want to do this again.” “But you know Vjeko that you should stop after this. That’s what you’ve been telling me the whole time, that you want to settle down…” “That’s right nigger, but it won’t be easy. How am I supposed to get used to living a “normal” life again? It’ll be much harder to stop than to keep going…Azerbaijan is close…Kazakhstan…” “The right thing is often harder to do, you know that. You’ll have time to think, don’t worry, we won’t be making any fast decisions.” “You know I’ve always hoped you would stop walking, Tim. I’m your friend, a true friend, and that means I wish the best for you…I know what walking further will do to you, and I hope you don’t do it. I hope you settle down too, that you find your place in this world.” “I know, nigger. No worries, any decisions we make will be the right ones…”

 

 

“Ahhhh!” I yell again, trying desperately to keep my mind focused and my body moving yet I was in bad shape. I was in absolute pain from head to toe  - my legs cramped, my feet worn out, my nose and throat throbbing with pain at each breath of polluted air I took, beads of cold sweat dripping from my forehead due to the fever plaguing me since the barn fiasco…yet again the mental strain was more difficult…so close yet so far… “You made it, you can quit now, QUIT NOW!!!” raced through my mind as we finally entered the center of Tbilisi…but I would not listen…I was deaf to my thoughts, to the pain, to everything except my goal…

 

We took little notice of the inhabitants of Tbilisi and the cars whizzing by. The grand 19 century architecture which dominated the city meant little to us then, nor did the grey Mtkvari River or large birch trees which lined the well-paved streets…all we cared about was finishing…

 

“That church up ahead,” I point to Tim, “lets end it there.”

As we approach an ancient church in the center of Tbilisi, not far from Rustaveli Street, the most luxurious place in all of Georgia, a wave of emotion starts to pass over me. I look at Tim, my brother, who is walking next to me and I see him flushed with the same emotions – his face red, tears bulging in his eyes…

It is Orthodox Christmas Eve and the church is crowded for mass as Tim and I enter, tears streaming down our cheeks…People turn to look at us – two battered travelers, in worn out shoes and jeans, diesel-smudged  faces…crying, shaking with emotion…

 

I hug my brother and we cry on each other’s shoulders. We had made it… Hundreds of faces flash through my mind…Umer the Baker, Onur, Halil-bey, Irakli the Philosopher, Erdem, Levani, Giorgi, Fathers Ermolaus and Basili, the men of Samtredia, Omar, the watermelon men, gas station attendants, muhtars, the hundreds of tea shop proprietors, the warm smiles, the words of encouragement…those supporting me at home - my family, friends…I felt their love in me, I felt the love of the world in my veins…it was they who pushed me, who carried me to this church, to my goal, to myself…in a single moment I felt everything I had felt during our voyage, each emotion a bolt of lightning shooting through my soul – the desperation, loneliness I had successfully controlled, bottled down inside, finally allowed to resurface…the love for my brother Tim, the understanding we had felt for each other, the patience, the memories of hard times, words of kindness, the joy of knowing a kindred spirit…the happy memories I cherished – warm fires built, feasts shared, glasses lifted, the triumph of reaching each town, of each shelter, the hundreds upon hundreds of adventures we had lived…the pride and love I felt for myself, now knowing what I was made of and what I was to strive for, what being a “good” man meant to me… the multitude of new revelations and an unimaginable capacity to love my fellow man…but above all I felt that which I still find hard to explain – the presence which had followed us all the way since that first starry night in Taksim (Istanbul), the hand which had so often snatched us out of our misery and placed us in the mercy of a kind stranger, that which comforted me when I thought all was lost. Both of us knew we were never alone, both of us knew we were meant to reach Tbilisi, to reach this exact church…each desperate situation playing out in our favor, the thousands of “accidental” encounters and events which were the backbone of our success. Call it what you will but at that moment, amongst the church-goers and their burning candles, my brother and I were at one with the universe, with that which men have struggled throughout history to name, and I was thankful, more humble than I had ever been, words of praise passing softly from my lips. We had been true to ourselves, never compromising our walk, never turning against our belief in the goodness of man, sowing the love we had so often reaped and putting our faith in the righteousness of our journey. We felt protected, as if something was guiding us, like the Biblical story of the Magi, we too had walked towards a burning star. We were led to our goal, not only the physical, Tbilisi, but more importantly, the inner goal, the lessons we needed to learn. 

Although the “journey” never really ends, we had reached an important crossroad. From now on we would follow our paths with a new sense of confidence, with a greater understanding of ourselves, of this beautiful world we live in. We could now face any challenge life may bring us knowing that we would give it our best. In the end that is all one can do, and often nothing less than everything is needed to reach one’s goal…be it a 2200 km walk to Tbilisi, a career, being a good husband, a father, friend…I would leave the church that day ready to take on new roles, challenges, decisions I had never thought I could face…I would continue to put my feet forward no matter how hard things got…I would continue to walk towards my goal…

 

THE END

 

So ends our adventure, friends. Most of you already know what happens to Tim and I next but I will try to write at least one more entry about our escapades in Tbilisi and how our paths separated…I ask for your patience and understanding – it is not always easy to write about such personal matters and my life has been nothing less than a whirlwind since ending the walk…I am tired and in need of rest but I will try my best to share…

 

At this time I would like to thank everyone for their encouraging comments and e-mails and especially those without whose support my trip would not have been possible - the kind souls who helped me financially and logistically as well as those who in their special way kept me going…I will never forget your generocity and know that this was your trip as much as mine:

 

Miljenko Radovic, Danijel “Gigo” Brekalo and Viki del Valle, Leo Simic, Branko Previc, Ivan “Ziga” Zivkovic,  Franz von Bodelschwing, Baris, Toni Bosnjakovic, Kazimir Mikulic, Martina Tomasevic, Oli, Goga and Rasoul, Danijel Milicevic, Robby Sczech, 

 

and above all to my brother Timothee Desgraupes, who taught me how to walk…you will always be in my prayers…till our roads meet again…

 

THANK YOU

 

and as always….

 

peace

Devils and Saints..........Guests No More

Our last day before reaching Tbilisi...so much to tell each other, to think about, many questions left to ask ourselves, still so much to learn yet our adventure was almost finished...

After our morning discussion, Tim and I spent the day walking together, side by side, enjoying the beautiful landscape that was laid out in front of us - green hills and valleys which quickly turned into high flat plateaus, much like those we enjoyed in central Turkey...

"I must be crazy, but I m going to miss this...I m going to miss you too Tim." "Me too, nigger, me too, but Tbilisi will be good. You ll see how great it s going to feel when we make it there, when we finish." "I know, but to tell you the truth I m scared of finishing, of going back to the civilian life...I m not sure if I can do it..."

"It s wrong again," I inform Tim as I fold the German map in disbelief. “We should have been in Dzegvi already. I have no idea where we are...” We had walked all day along the quiet country road and we hadn t come across many people. We were hungry, tired and I felt myself getting sick. The stressful night in the dusty, drafty barn had taken its toll. My nose and throat were sore and I was weak from a fever as we continued to make our way across the Georgian countryside. After 5 months of perfect health (except for the massive cramps, painful blisters and other walk-related ailments) I had fallen ill on the last day...as if I now knew I could afford to do so...the line between mental and physical had become so thin after walking more than 2000 km that I could hardly tell the difference between the two...

“What do these people do here?” Tim asks as a bunch of men stare at us while we eat our salted pork and cucumbers in front of a local grocery store. "They stand on these crossroads, and just look at the muddy road all day?” “I don t know nigger. They like to watch people pass by I guess. Maybe they re hoping someone will come; that something will change...” The small village was not even on our map and everyone I asked kept telling me that Dzegvi was far away...the sun would be setting soon...

“I don t think 2 cars passed us on this road today,” Tim observes . “It s nice though. This is what I imagined walking would be like. An open quiet road, with beautiful landscape...where you can hear your thoughts clearly...” “There were a few places like this along my trip from Spain," Tim replies, “But this is special, its really beautiful here...like there s something out there that wants us to enjoy our last day...” “Yeah, it feels good to be here....it feels right...”

The blue skies which had accompanied us our final day shortly turned grey as we passed the last houses on our way towards Dzegvi. We come across a large communist statue of a worker, a proletarian wielding a massive hammer, in the middle of an abandoned settlement and I stop to take a better look. The comic book-like figure, with his massive muscles and rigid features, looked nothing like a Georgian - no dominant nose, short height, etc. His eyes were deeply set and cold. The once proud figure was surrounded by tall weeds and chunks of a building which had collapsed near by, and if I hadn t known better I would have thought that the large pieces of concrete were part of the monument, as if this proud man of the masses had destroyed the buildings himself. I head back towards the road and a cold gust of wind blows across my neck. I shiver and pull my collar up before turning around to look at the monument again...the eyes seemed to be following me....and I shiver again...for some reason I was feeling something I had not felt in a long while...fear...

“Please be careful today and tomorrow Tim, I ve been feeling like we re in danger, that something could go wrong these last two days...” “I ve been feeling the same, lets just keep our eyes open.” “And lets keep walking together, side by side.” “Yeah, good idea.”

We must have been close to Dzegvi by the time the sky became completely grey and the cold wind sharp yet there was nothing in sight - no houses anywhere on the horizon, and not a single car on the small road we were following. We approach a bend in the road in front of a small hill with a grey, branchless tree on top of it. I look at the hill and to my amazement a man appears from the other side. A small black-haired man, with a bushy black unibrow shaped into an angry V, makes his way towards us and for some reason Tim and I stop dead in our tracks. With his hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched forward, the stranger stares us down and I shiver for the second time that day. I was afraid of this man. Barely able to look at the man s cold, deep black eyes, I manage to ask in a broken voice: "Excuse me, how many kilometers to Dzegvi?” The man continues to stare me down and I notice Tim taking a step in front of me, as if to protect me from some danger (as we had done for each other numerous times while fighting off dogs and such). Without lifting his paralyzing stare from us, he replies in a low, ghastly voice: “You can not walk there.” and a car pulls up exactly when he steps onto the small village road. He enters the blue Lada, not once lifting his gaze from us and drives off with a driver with whom he does not exchange a word...

“Do you know what he said Tim? Do you know who I think this man was?” “I do nigger, I do...” Tim replies as he rubs the goosebumps from his arms...“How did he know we are walking? Where the hell did he come from? The driver...from where...”, I begin to question out loud. “Lets not mention this man again....we know what he is...” As we make our way around the bend we come across an old rusty graveyard, from which the stranger must have come from. I shove my hand in my pocket and tightly clench a rosary Father Basili had given me back in Ozurgeti...“Lets walk faster,” Tim says, "but stay at my side...” “Unbelievable,” I whisper...

We make it to the village of Dzegvi as the sun bleeds a dark red above the beautiful Georgian countryside, the grey clouds seeming to have disappeared as we put some distance between ourselves and the isolate graveyard. Still shaken by our encounter with the dark stranger we approach a grocery store and ask if anyone knows of a place to sleep. We show our letter but the grocer doesn t seem interested in our story. I feel myself sweating hard, the fever getting stronger and I worry about not finding a place. “Maybe we should keep going to Mtskheta, we know there s a hotel there.” “That s 10 km from here. We re not going anywhere,” Tim firmly replies, “We will sleep in this village, there is no choice.” After explaining our story to some customers in the store, I ask if somebody could call a priest but nobody knows his number. A small unshaven man approaches me and begins to ask why I wanted to talk to a priest. “We are on a walking trip...we are pilgrims in a way...today is our last day, we just need a place to sleep...no food, nothing...we can pay...” The man reads the letter and tells us that we could sleep in his house. “I am learning to be a priest but I already know what it means to be a Christian. You will sleep in my house and eat with my family. Welcome.” Dmitri, the future priest, puts my bag on his shoulder and shows us to his small house in the village of Dzegvi...we enter and take a seat at his warm fire. His grandmother, a small toothless woman, gives us a warm smile and even says a few sentences in French. We meet the rest of Dmitri s family, his father, sister and nephew and we soon share a meal in their humble, cozy home...“You are gifts from God, you know that?” “We have been told that by many good hosts in Georgia”, I reply. “But what you have done for us is truly a gift from God...you are our last host Dmitri and we couldn t have picked a better one.” “There is something wiser than us out there,” Dmitri answers, “and we have met for a reason...we have become friends for a reason...and you have walked all the way here for a reason...”

After Dmitri showed us around the village church (around 800 years old) and after lighting a few candles of thanks in front of the church s icons, Tim and I found ourselves sleeping in the last bed of our walk...“This is it, eh?” I ask Tim as we settle in under the heavy quilts on our bed. “Our last night, Vjeko.” “This was the perfect last stop...” “I agree....good night man,” “Good night, brother...”

And so we would be guests no more, yet Tbilisi, the “Jewel of the Caucasus” still lay ahead...

Barn Betrayal.............The Beginning of the End

"Of course, it has to rain here," I mumble to myself as we make our way out of Gori. We were sore from the last few days and our stay at the "gulag" homestay did little to help. We were close to Tbilisi, so close we could see ourselves there already. We had no desire to stop before finishing and we had already done around 100 km in the last 3 days...

Choosing to abandon the main road and walk down a narrower, village road, seemed like a good idea at the time. According to my German map it was supposed to save us around 15 km and there would be plenty of villages along the way for us to find a place to sleep. We hoped to finish the trip on a quiet road with lots of beautiful landscape. It turned out that our assumption was only half-right - the German map had failed me again...

As we left Gori we tried in vain to find a place to have a cup of coffee but as in most other parts of Georgia it seemed easier to buy a bottle of vodka at 8 a.m. The secondary road from Gori (south) got narrow pretty quickly. The first 5 or so km were aligned with the same old Russian- styled houses typical of Gori but to our amazement we soon found ourselves deep into the countryside. We passed one or two tiny villages and by the afternoon we were having a hard time finding something to eat, let alone a place to sleep...it felt that we were far, far away from the slightest sign of civilization. Not many cars passed along the bumpy, muddy, country road and we felt isolated from the world - left alone to walk and listen to our thoughts...which were becoming darker and darker...

After a silent meal in front of the only village store we found along the way, Tim and I decided to sleep anywhere we could. According to my map, we should have made it to the village of Khatveti already but the locals warned me that it was still 15 km away and that the local church was another 5 km off the road. We were sullen but the thought of how close we were to Tbilisi kept us putting one foot in front of the other.

"Ben, Caroline!" Again we had come across our French bicyclist friends in the middle of nowhere! We hugged and inquired about each other's adventures the last few days. They too had opted for the small village road, hoping for better scenery and a quieter setting. Seeing them was comforting. Knowing that we weren't alone on the road meant a lot and seeing a familiar face warmed our hearts, giving us precious motivation to keep going...after a few minutes, we departed again..."See you in Tbilisi!"

"Voda? (water)", Tim asks a man unloading a van of flour in front of a house in the small village of Sirtredi. "No problem," he replies and disappears into his house. "Ask him if we can sleep in his house," Tim tells me, "Explain our situation, show him the letter." Reluctantly I abide and show the man, Mamud, the bishop's kind words. "I'll try and call the nearest church," he explains, "but come in for now, warm up." It was cold, and had been ever since we passed Rikhoti pass. I was wearing all the layers I had with me but the sharp wind was still chilling and we were glad to sit next to his fire and warm our bones. "Here, have some coffee, have some chocolate." I smile at our cheerful middle-aged host. "Madloba (thank you in Georgian)." "No need for thanks. We're Christians too."

Mamud was generous and we shared a hearty meal with him and his brother who joined us after hearing that two foreigners had walked to his village. Mamud had two beautiful children and a kind wife. We toasted and drank some chacha and wine during our dinner. "Mamud, my friend Tim and I are tired and if we stay any longer here we will have to sleep in your house. Is that OK?" "Sure," Mamud smiles, "of course you can sleep here. Drink, drink more my friends!"

"Whooooo! Lets go!!!" Mamud was drunk and in the mood for dancing. His brother, Tim and I joined him in his kitchen and were all dancing to some Georgian music that oddly had a kind of Reggae beat to it. His 12 year old son took some pictures of us as we hugged, laughed and hopped together to the rhythm now blaring from his speakers. Mamud's father, an old grumpy man enters the house and upon seeing us, exits right away. We were having a really good time, too good maybe... "You guys are great," Mamud tells us as we sit to drink another glass of wine. "To our guest, gifts from God! Gaumajos! (cheers!)"

Tim and I were pretty drunk and tired but we didn't care that it was already past midnight. We had a warm bed to sleep in and only two more days to go. We could handle one night of drunken fun...

"Good night nigger," "Good night, man."

An hour later there is a knock at the door and Mamud enters the room. "Sorry guys....errr.....My father, you know, he's an old man...er....and this is his house after all. I'm really sorry but he wants you to leave....there's nothing I can do about it..." Shocked, I shake off the cobwebs of sleep already in my mind and ask him to repeat himself. "I'll drive you anywhere you want, anywhere...but you need to leave...there is nothing I can do," he replies with his head low, barely able to look at us.

"What the fuck do we do now?! What the FUCK!!! Son of a bitch!" I was furious with anger as I put on my boots and packed my gear hurriedly. "We walk, nigger, there's nothing else we can do." "Son of a bitch, son of a bitch!" I was losing it. As we leave the house, Mamud is at our side, begging us to go with him by car to the nearest city..."You can walk another day...the nearest hotel is only 60 km from here...." "We can't take a car!" I reply angrily, and I spit on the ground from anger..."I could punch him in the mouth," I tell Tim, "Son of a bitch! We're going to die in this fucking asshole of a place..." Tim surprised to see me so angry, tries to calm me down and to think rationally. "Ask if we could sleep in his car."

Mamud's van was full of flour so our only option was to sleep in his barn. "We'll be fine here, no worries," Tim says as we enter the drafty, dusty barn. Mamud soon leaves us, ashamed that he had to turn out two guests the way he did, ashamed that even at the age of 45 he had to listen to his father like a schoolboy. I climb the pile of hay and start plucking away pieces making us two flat places to sleep on. It was not my first time sleeping in a barn and I knew how to make a bed of hay. We stretch out our sleeping bags and try to make ourselves as comfortable as possible...

"Move a little, would you." Tim says, waking me up right after I had finally fallen asleep. "I don't have any room to stretch my legs, nigger." "You have the whole fucking barn to stretch your legs," I reply and remain in the same position. "Move man, my legs are killing me, there's no place for me to stretch them!" I don't budge. "Bullshit, look around you." "What the fuck is your problem, just move your legs a little would you?!" "Make yourself another place to sleep, you have the whole damn barn full of hay...leave me alone!" and again, I don't move an inch. "Damn it!!!" and Tim begins to rant and yell in French as he jumps to his feet..."Asshole!!!!!" "Here damn it, here!!!" I was up now and began grabbing hay from the large stack above us..."Here son of a bitch, take the fucking hay and make yourself a God damn place to sleep!!!!" "$%!#@#$$@%!!!! (swearing in French!)" ..."Fufufufu," I reply, mocking Tim as he grabs some hay and makes himself a better spot...

We get up at dawn the next day, my nose and throat painful from the dust in the barn and from the cold air that came from the cracks in the wooden walls...Without saying a word we pack and leave...

"What happened last night?" Tim asks me after we walk our first 15 minutes in silence. "You didn't want to listen to me, that's what happened." "I didn't want to listen to you? That's what you think happened? Why didn't you move your feet after I asked you to?" "I told you to make yourself another spot, didn't I? You had the whole barn of hay to do it." "But I didn't know that. I thought the hay was all one piece. Id never slept in a barn like you before. Why didn't you show me?" "I just thought it was easy...you should have figured it out yourself," I coldly reply. "What's wrong with you Vjeko? Nobody is forcing you to be here, to walk." "What do you mean?" "If you don't want to be with me, if you don't want to walk, then quit." "Who's talking about quitting and who says I don't want to be with you?" "You are, with your actions. You couldn't even move over when I asked you to. You know I wouldn't have been so stubborn about it if I knew what else to do. You know me." "I know..." I slowly reply, beginning to realize how the situation must have been from Tim's point of view. "It felt like you were torturing me by not moving...fuck, you know how it is when you can't stretch your legs after walking all day...and the way which you talked to me...I never yell at people like I yelled at you last night..." "OK, so maybe I should have moved. I made a mistake, I thought you were just being lazy and didn't want to make yourself another place to sleep." "You know that's not true, you do!" "Ok, I should have just moved, I should have known better, sorry...I'm not perfect what can I say?" "If you're not into this all the way, then go home. I don't need to walk with someone who doesn't want to be in the walk all the way. If I can't trust you, if I don't know you are with me all the way, then I can't walk with you." "I'm not perfect!" I reply loudly, "You're always pushing me, expecting me to do everything the right way, to never make a mistake. I'm not a saint!! What the hell do you want from me?!" "I want everything!!" Tim yells, " I want everything our nothing! Either you are my brother all the way or just go! You know we can't do this walk half-way. We don't do things that way, we never have, that's how we got here! Even with two days left, you should stop if you're not into this..." I realize Tim was right...his expectations of me, were in fact, my own expectations of myself. I had learned during our walk what it was to be a brother, to put someone in front of yourself, to love another more than yourself...I had betrayed him and I was sorry...again it seemed like my brother had a higher opinion of me than I did..."I chose you to come on this walk with me...I couldn't have done this with anyone else..." "I know Tim...I know...I couldn't have done this with anyone else either...I am grateful....please forgive me. I was so full of anger last night...I thought I would punch Mamud, but it was really myself I wanted to punch...I am mad at myself for being in such a horrible state...I'm falling apart nigger, I have been for a long time...I'm so tired...I don't know if I'll even make it these next two days..." "You will, nigger, you will...we will...together..."

A Happy Hashuri, Turkish, Stalin New Year

"How is it possible that a city this size doesn't have a hotel? Not even a damn internet cafe?!" Hashuri was just a larger version of Zestaponi, Chohatauri or any other town we had come across in Georgia: muddy streets with wandering cows, rusty gates and abandoned buildings between which walk the local men dressed in fake black Armani jackets and the women in their knee-high black boots, thick stockings and short skirts - gorgeous yet univiting...

After failing to find a church open at night on New Year's Eve, I ask a man in a grocery store named Zura if he knows of any homestays. He soon invites us to the gas station where he works.

Our New Year's celebration was modest yet memorable. Seven of us packed into a tiny room at the gas station and sharing a meal we had all contributed to. One brought the roast chicken, the other the wine, Tim and I some cheese, salami and pickles and so on. Although we were tired and went to sleep before midnight Tim and I spent the evening as we had hoped to - in the company of good Georgian people. A colleague of Zura's showed us to an empty shack behind the gas station where we could sleep - an abandoned train wagon with some tin plates welded onto it. We had two cots and a good firing burning in a metal wood stove which kept us warm till the morning.

After a meaningless argument about building a fire (I had opted for sleeping an extra 30 min.), Tim and I greeted our hosts and left for Agara. It was New Year's Day and after realizing we had forgotten to wish each other a happy new year, Tim and I stopped at a bus stop on the road and drank a beer left over from last night and given to me by Zura. This memory is precious to me: Tim and I drinking a 1 l of beer at 8:00 a.m. in the middle of the Georgian countryside on New Year's Day - the most unique way I have ever celebrated the holiday- who needs a parade?!

"(singing) Reggae nights, we come together when the feeling's right..." "Stop that nigger! I had that stupid song stuck in my head for a year!" "Sorry Tim. It's amazing how a song so irritating stays with you." "You know they torture people that way in Guantanamo." "Yeah, I heard about that. What song do you think they use?" "I'd like to know, but I don't think it really matters. Just hearing the same song over and over again makes you insane." "I bet it was something by Aerosmith....that, that, dude looks like a lady....that, that, dude looks like a lady....(Dancing and singing)" "Hahaha, you're crazy nigger!"

After a cheerful day of walking under blue skies and after some horrible but strong mandarin chacha with a rail technician along some railroad tracks, our physical and mental problems seemed less serious as we entered the ghost town of Agara.

"This is crazy!" A tall glass monstrocity of a hotel in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing in Agara except for a few scattered houses. There weren't any stores, businesses nor was there much traffic along the road, yet the hotel receptionist showed us no mercy and unable to pay $50 a person we leave.

"What now?", I ask, starting to worry about our predicament, " There aren't even any churches here. We've only got an hour of daylight left!" "This gas station here is Turkish, lets try here." Tim's nose for finding a place to sleep was impressive. After a few sentences in Turkish, the owner feeds us some soup and shows us to a prayer room, much like the dozens we slept in in Turkey.

"Good old Turks," I smile as we stretch our sleeping bags across the prayer rugs on the floor, " even here they help us."



"What's this?" Tim asks as we approach a settlement of 30 or so identical houses near Gori. "It's a refugee camp," I answer solemnly, "Ive seen too many of these..." The simple concrete houses were new and a sign told us they were financed by USAID. An elderly woman with one arm carries a bucket of water as some children run past in the mud...Tim and I quicken our step, no hospitality would be shown to us here...

When thinking of Gori only one word, or one person that is, comes to mind - Stalin. The birthplace of the brutal dictator is still proud of its son. The city boasts a museum dedicated to him, and a large statue of the grizzly man who sent millions to their deaths in the gulags of the former USSR (including many of his fellow Georgians) overlooks the central square. Georgians needed someone to worship I guess, a hero, and Stalin was it...
I would later ask a local man why they liked Stalin so much and got the explanation that "he was a good man....he saved the world from fascism..." and I would leave it at that. It was not my right to tell others which heros to worship...

Finding a place to sleep in Gori was surprisingly tough. We were beat by the time we reached the city and the last thing we needed was to walk around looking for a cheap hotel, but that's exactly what we did. The locals were not very friendly and I had a hard time getting rid of a drunk man who "really really liked us" and insisted we stayed at his place. The town, full of aging Russian- style buildings, Stalin monuments and large birch trees was dead - not a shop open due to the holiday season. We finally found a taxi driver who knew of a place which turned out to be affordable - probably because it was just a bunch of concrete block rooms on the first floor of a house. There was also a half-decent outhouse and grey concrete sink outside. The rooms consisted of two army-style metal spring cots and a wood stove. As I made my way back from doing my laundry in the sink, it struck me how the place resembled a prison...fitting for Gori..."I don't like this place, Tim. Gori is an asshole of a city. Fuck Stalin." "No worries nigger, only three more days, three more days..."

Omar the Angel

With Tim's words still fresh in my mind, we approach a small restaurant along the road right before Rikhoti pass. A man outside asks me something in Georgian and instead of continuing with my head lowered as I had done the past few days I struggle to smile and greet him. He waves me over and I enter the restaurant with Tim following shortly behind.

"Sit my friends, sit! Where are you from?" After the same old routine of explaining where we were from and what we were doing, the young owner of the restaurant brings us a plate of fried eggplant with walnut sauce, some homemade cheese, bread and shredded cabbage. Soon a small group of young men are around us and are asking us the questions we have been answering for the last five months. I try to find delight in our replies and I smile, at first out of politeness but the men are all cheerful and keep patting me on the back saying "Molodec (Young man!)" which sort of means, "way to go young man" and soon I find myself actually enjoying myself and their company. They bring over a bottle of chacha, the potent grape brandy and Tim fills our cups quickly. First, as always, we toast to God and gulp down our entire glasses. The owner, proud of his strong cuncoction, throws a glass into a small fire we are all huddled over and the chacha bursts into a colorful flame. We all laugh - it's a tough drink, and we are all tough men, or at least crazy men. I drink another shot, and then another and I feel my cheeks getting warmer. "To your hospitality, may God give you health!" I toast, already knowing the right words for the right moment. The men are touched by my toast, as are most of the Georgians who discovered that I had learned their tamada tradition, and they stand on their feet out of respect towards me. Tim fills my glass as soon as I set it down to the ground. "Keep drinking, nigger, you need it." The smoke from the fire was burning my eyes but I didn't mind anymore. I didn't mind the cold, grey weather, I didn't mind how tired I was, how I longed to be elsewhere. The chacha was doing its trick and the men were exactly the company I needed at the time - happy, tipsy Georgians. After a few more shots I tell Tim its now or never if we want to make it through Rikhoti pass. We kiss the men on one cheek and leave...

Rikhoti pass turned out to be a 2 km tunnel through a mountain, and I detested tunnels as much as anything during the trip - they were cold, dark, drafty and often dangerous. This tunnel was no exception - with barely enough space to walk on the side, Tim and I often had to cross into the road and feared getting hit by a car. It was very cold and dirty water dripped on us from above the entire time. Somehow though, I didn't mind. Maybe it was because I was drunk, maybe it was because of Tim's words, but I was in relatively good spirits. We exit the tunnel and to our surprise the grey sky which had hovered above us for almost the entire time we were in Georgia started to be speckled with bright blue spots....and we could almost see the sun through the clouds...we had entered a new region of Georgia, a new climate, a new world....and I couldn't have been happier for it...

I smile at an old man selling honey from a tiny wooden shack and he too waves me over...

Omar ("war" in Turkish, since he was born at the beginning of WWII), was what I would describe as the perfect host. Much like Halil-bey, the kind old man who saved us in the mountains of Tamdere before we reached the Black Sea, was so peaceful, so gentle and thoughtful, that I would not be surprised to discover he was an angel and not of flesh and blood. He took us into his little shack and offered us a humble meal of everything he had in a small refridgerator above the two small chairs in the wooden box he used to sell his homemade products from. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and his hands were large and worn with work on the land. His manner was too gentle for his appearance, so much in fact, that I had to mention it to him. "I might be big, and my name does mean "war" but I prefer peace. I like friends. I like to meet new people and you know that in Georgia guests are gifts from God." Omar smiled, and each time he did Tim and I followed. His kindness was contagious and his smile intoxicating. He poured us some chacha and Tim asked for some wine. "Drink as much as you want, my guests. Don't feel that you have to drink out of politeness. I don't drink much, since I have a bad heart, but I will drink some with you." We drank and Omar was the tamada. His toasts, probably the wisest I have ever heard, filled our hearts with passion and even brought tears to my eyes on a few occasions. He knew - how I do not know - what it meant to do what we were doing and he knew the right words to say. "For your patience...to your parents who are worrying for you at home, and for you who worry about them and wish them peace of mind...to your hopes and dreams, for you are both dreamers...may you not give up, no matter how tired you are, no matter how difficult it is, stay together and make it to your goal...for the lessons you have learned, may you always respect them and never forget them, may you never forget me and this day we met in Rikhoti..." How could I forget this man? To me he is not a simple honey vendor, or a former economist who travelled throughout the former USSR (as I he later explained), but he was a mentor, a spiritual guide....a great man I will cherish....

Our time with Omar was short, perhaps only a few hours, but the experience moved me. "You gave me the strength to go on, Mr. Omar, bless you..." "You always had the strength. You and your friend are strong men, don't think otherwise. What you are doing is beautiful and only strong, good men can do what you are doing...don't worry, you will be fine, you are not alone..." And I believed him...I still believe him...

Tim and I looked at each other as we walked away from Omar. We both knew we had experienced something special, and my brother and I were now so connected that we didn't need to say a word, all was understood...


Surami, was ahead of us, a beautiful landscape of snow-capped mountains with houses and old churches spread out across them. We stop to eat some "piroshke" (fried dough with mash potatoes and cheese) at a stand along the road and we notice some people waving at us - Ben and Caroline! They had found a hotel nearby and were also looking for something to eat. It felt good to know that others, friends, were along the road, and each time we would bump into them "accidentally" along our way (which will happen often), made me feel less lonely. We talk with them shortly and continue towards Hashuri....

The large green pine trees along the road towards Hashuri seemed more beautiful then the ones we past previously, and the sky was now blue with bright, fluffy white clouds...I was happy to be on the road...Tim and I made our way towards Hashuri, joking around the same we always had - quoting "The Big Lebowski" and "The Chappelle Show" and retelling the same old inside jokes we shared, yet that day they seemed funnier than before....as the sun set we stopped to marvel at the sky turning red and I took a deep breath...I looked down at the valley before us, Hashuri, and the purpose of the trip seemed to be coming back to me - I felt like my self again...

Losing Purpose

Ben and Caroline's blonde hair, and Ben's goatie, really stuck out amongst the black-haired and dark-clothed Georgians we encountered. They were a breath of fresh air. Over our bowl of soup at the road-side restaurant I quickly grew to like them. Although they had not gotten to know Georgia as intimately as we, they had arrived slowly enough to know where they were and to get the local mentality. I could not communicate easily with Caroline because she didn't speak much English and I spoke no French but Ben's sense of humor was great. They had experienced Georgian hospitality too and had drunk many tamadas on their way. With a lot of laughter we all recalled being forced to get drunk with the locals and how we had found ourselves toasting and being toasted. They had discovered the same Georgian hospitality as well as irrationalities as we. After our lengthy meal, we headed towards Khetvi, the last village before the dangerous Rikhoti pass.

"This must be a record, nigger!" I had found us a place to sleep in less than five minutes. All it took was one short conversation with a man in front of a grocery store in Khetvi. He showed us to an old woman's house where we could sleep. A skinny eldery, yet wirey woman, named Nuna popped up behind a wooden gate wearing a marihuana bandana over her head and wielding a pair of clippers. She was toothless but smiled from ear to ear, happy to have us as guests. She barely spoke any Russian but the man explained what we were up to and she soon showed us through her garden to her humble home. I told the man we could pay 20 lari in total which is the equivalent of around 12 dollars! She agreed and we put our bags and equipment in our spacious rooms.

Nunu was a comical character and constantly kept joking with us in Georgian, which Ben tried to understand with the help of his guide book. Her daughter on the other hand was not as cheerful. Leyla, a 35 year old, fair-skinned yet hardened woman, barely smiled at all. Her eyebrows were constantly in a V shape and I could tell right away she was not happy to share her home with four foreigners. She was happy to receive 20 lari though, which is a pretty penny in these parts...

"Gas is expensive!" Leyla yelled as Tim tried to boil some water for coffee on a gas heater. "No problem," I replied, "we'll wait for it to heat up on the wooden stove in the living room." Perhaps Ben and Caroline, nor Tim for that matter, were aware of the poisonous manner of our young host but it was bothering me. Nunu drank coffee with us and even ate some cookies we had bought at the local store (our only source of food for two days) but Leyla didn't want anything to do with us. Tim, Caroline and Ben spent the day joking around in French and were cheerful for the most part. Each time they would laugh outloud I noticed Leyla giving them a dirty look. I felt she resented their happiness. They (and I for all she knew) were from the West, and life was perfect for us. We were privileged and I knew she resented us. I spent my day writing away quietly and helping Tim cook our humble dinner of pasta and cheese. I was ready to leave the next day but again fate had different plans.

"We can't go in this rain, it's not smart man." "Damn it Tim! I told you not to get rid of your rubber shoes, I'm fine with walking in the rain." "Really?! You'd walk in this weather? What's the big deal with spending one day here? We have a cheap, warm place to be, we should take advantage of it." Tim didn't know what I was going through. Spending another day under the dirty stares of Leyla - being in a place where I didn't feel wanted seemed like torture. I would have left, I would have walked in the rain, I would have run as far as I could have from that place...

"She wants more money," a neighbor of Leyla's tells me in Russian. Leyla was not happy with us staying another day and she didn't even try to hide it. "She'll get her money," I reply, yet I don't manage to keep myself from swearing outloud in Croatian. I understood why Leyla resented us, I understood why she disliked us, but I knew it was wrong. If she despised us so, she should not have taken us in...money was more important to her than her pride...but in a way I felt guilty too...

"What's the matter," Tim asks, after I spend a silent morning writing. Ben and Caroline were busy making lunch and we had some time to talk. "It's getting to me, Tim. I can't stand wasting another day like this. I don't want to be here...she doesn't want us here..." "Don't worry about it, nigger, we'll be out of here before you know it."

Getting to know Ben and Caroline better helped shake away my blues somewhat but I was still in a miserable state. Tim noticed something was wrong and he was worried as we said our cordial yet cold good-byes to Nunu and Leyla. New Year's Eve was tomorrow (now you know how late the blog is, SORRY!!!) and we wouldn't be celebrating with Ben and Caroline. They would be in a hotel in the small town of Surami while we would head further for the larger town of Hashuri and try to find another homestay. As we walked away from the small wooden house in Khevi I turn around to look at Leyla one more time and her look gives me goosebumps...so much hate...

"Tell me what's wrong, what's the matter with you? I saw the way you passed those people without even looking at them. You don't even smile at the people anymore." We had crossed 7-8 km and were about to enter Rikhoti when Tim approached me. "I don't know Tim. I just don't see the point in this anymore. We just take from these people. I felt like I was exploiting Leyla and Nunu. They didn't want us there but needed the money, it just feels wrong. I don't want to take anymore." "You're wrong! Nunu wanted us there, she was happy we were there. We did nothing wrong. We gave as much as we could, we always do, you know that. It was Leyla's fault. She's the one who should feel sorry. She could have been open towards us, towards our good intentions, our love. You know that's all we felt towards them." My brother was right as he had been so many times along our way. We had in a way given back to the people who hosted us, who showed kindness towards us. We tried to love them as much as we could and to share with them, if nothing our experiences, our thoughts, our good intentions. I was confused though, everything was foggy like the weather that day. Walking without a clear purpose is impossible...walking such distances without a firm mindset was also impossible...I knew if something didn't change soon, I wouldn't make it to Tbilisi...

The Most Random Encounter

"Five months of washing my clothes like this? I must have lost my mind...." The cold water in our hotel's common bathroom was numbing my hands and I could barely feel the small scentless complimentary bar of soap. "I can't wait for the day when I'll have a washing machine again, at least more than two pairs of underwear and socks," I think to myself as I finish up my daily routine...

We had only walked 10 km from Maho's house but it was raining hard and we had no will to continue that day. In general, will was becoming our biggest problem. We found a cheap hotel in the center of Zestaponi and spent the day sleeping and watching Georgian television - not very entertaining at all! I was nervous and felt that I was wasting another day. All I could think about was the hundreds of things I would rather have been doing at the moment...

The next day was grey but dry so we crossed our 25 km and reached a 13 century monastery called Ubisa. After reading our letter a silent black-bearded monk simply showed us to a small empty room with two metal cots in a building adjacent to the church. Again tired, we went to sleep early, around 5 p.m. and again I was miserable...I tossed and turned all day and night thinking of the things I was missing out on...going out with my friends, talking with my father, playing with my little nephews - simple things like going to the movies or enjoying a good book in a familiar bed...Time had stood still for Tim and I those five months we walked and towards the end of our trip I had an unbearable desire to make it flow again...I knew I had to see this 'project' through and I knew I would do nothing else till I did, but it was difficult...

We had been warned many times about Rikohti pass - a tunnel through a mountain peak around 2000 m above sea level, and we knew we should find a place to sleep in one of the small villages before it. Tim and I slowly made our way from the monastery and we were solemn. I hadn't sung a single song since Kutaisi - a method I had been using all along to keep myself cheerful, and Tim and I rarely talked anymore...all we could do was focus on putting one foot in front of the other...our hearts were as gloomy as the grey winter weather....

"Hey!!!! Salut!!" I turn back and see Tim waving down a couple on a tandem bike! Right away I notice the French flag on the back and I know something special was about to happen. I head back and introduce myself to Benjamin and Caroline, a French couple who had rode their bike from Strasbourg on their way to Nepal! We began swapping stories and explaining to each other what we were doing and where we were headed when I notice two more bicycles heading from the opposite direction. Another couple, Americans, riding their bikes from China!!! There we were the six of us on a small road in the middle of nowhere hugging and listening to each others amazing stories. Call it what you will, but this meeting was more than 'random'....

Sam and Erin, the American couple told us about their journey through Pakistan, Mongolia, Kazakstan and other exotic destinations and Ben and Caroline told us of their amazing trek through Italy, the Balkans, Turkey and now Georgia. "We must spend some time together," Tim began excitedly, "there is a reason for this guys. Can you fucking believe that all of us met like this in the middle of Georgia?!" Tim was wise and he was right. I knew, there would be some purpose in our meeting, and luckily the French couple knew as well. Unfortunately, Erin wanted to hurry and make it to Batumi by New Year's, so Sam and she departed shortly..."They rode their bikes from China and they're in a hurry?" I thought to myself, "They should have taken a plane!" Ben and Caroline joined Tim and I for lunch in a small restaurant along the road and decided to find a place to sleep with us...and as we ate our Ostri soup together I realized Tim and I were smiling...perhaps for the first time in a week...and the purpose of our encounter was becoming clearer...